THE RIOT OF CHRISTMAS For some weeks, during the latter part of November and the beginning of December, I was kept indoors by a cold. At last came a frost which cleared the air and dried the mud. On the second Saturday before Christmas the world was transformed; tall, silver and pearl-grey trees rose pale against a dim-blue sky, like trees in some rare, pale Paradise; the whole woodland was as if in marble and silver and snow; the -leaves and long leaves of the rhododendron were and spangled with delicate tracery.
 
When the night came clear and bright, with a moon among the hoar-frost, I rebelled against , and the house. No longer the mists and dank weather made the home dear; tonight even the glare of the distant little iron works was not visible, for the low clouds were gone, and pale stars blinked from beyond the moon.
 
Lettie was staying with me; Leslie was in London again. She tried to in a sisterly fashion when I said I would go out.
 
"Only down to the Mill," said I. Then she hesitated a while—said she would come too. I suppose I looked at her , for she said:
 
"Oh—if you would rather go alone——!"
 
"Come—come—yes, come!" said I, smiling to myself.
 
Lettie was in her old mood. She ran, leaping over rough places, laughing, talking to herself in French. We came to the Mill. Gyp did not bark. I opened the outer door and we crept softly into the great dark scullery, peeping into the kitchen through the crack of the door.
 
The mother sat by the , where was a big bath half full of soapy water, and at her feet, warming his bare legs at the fire, was David, who had just been bathed. The mother was gently rubbing his fine fair hair into a cloud. Mollie was combing out her brown curls, sitting by her father, who, in the fire-seat, was reading aloud in a voice, with precision. At the table sat Emily and George: she was quickly picking over a pile of little yellow , and he, slowly, with his head sunk, was stoning the large raisins. David kept reaching forward to play with the sleepy cat—interrupting his mother's rubbing. There was no sound but the voice of the father, full of ; I am afraid they were not all listening carefully. I clicked the and entered.
 
"Lettie!" exclaimed George.
 
"Cyril!" cried Emily.
 
"Cyril, 'ooray!" shouted David.
 
"Hullo, Cyril!" said Mollie.
 
Six large brown eyes, round with surprise, welcomed me. They overwhelmed me with questions, and made much of us. At length they were settled and quiet again.
 
"Yes, I am a stranger," said Lettie, who had taken off her hat and furs and coat. "But you do not expect me often, do you? I may come at times, eh?"
 
"We are only too glad," replied the mother. "Nothing all day long but the sound of the —and mists, and rotten leaves. I am thankful to hear a fresh voice."
 
"Is Cyril really better, Lettie?" asked Emily softly.
 
"He's a spoiled boy—I believe he keeps a little bit ill so that we can cade him. Let me help you—let me peel the apples—yes, yes—I will."
 
She went to the table, and occupied one side with her apple-peeling. George had not spoken to her. So she said:
 
"I won't help you—George, because I don't like to feel my fingers so sticky, and because I love to see you so ."
 
"You'll enjoy the sight a long time, then, for these things are numberless."
 
"You should eat one now and then—I always do."
 
"If I ate one I should eat the lot."
 
"Then you may give me your one."
 
He passed her a handful without speaking.
 
"That is too many, your mother is looking. Let me just finish this apple. There, I've not broken the peel!"
 
She stood up, holding up a long curling strip of peel.
 
"How many times must I swing it, Mrs. Saxton?"
 
"Three times—but it's not All Hallows' Eve."
 
"Never mind! Look!——" she carefully swung the long band of green peel over her head three times, letting it fall the third. The cat on it, but Mollie swept him off again.
 
"What is it?" cried Lettie, blushing.
 
"G," said the father, and laughing—the mother looked at him.
 
"It isn't nothink," said David naïvely, forgetting his confusion at being in the presence of a lady in his shirt. Mollie remarked in her cool way:
 
"It might be a 'hess'—if you couldn't write."
 
"Or an 'L'," I added. Lettie looked over at me imperiously, and I was angry.
 
"What do you say, Emily?" she asked.
 
"Nay," said Emily, "It's only you can see the right letter."
 
"Tell us what's the right letter," said George to her.
 
"I!" exclaimed Lettie, "who can look into the seeds of Time?"
 
"Those who have set 'em and watched 'em sprout," said I.
 
She flung the peel into the fire, laughing a short laugh, and went on with her work.
 
Mrs. Saxton leaned over to her daughter and said softly, so that he should not hear, that George was pulling the flesh out of the raisins.
 
"George!" said Emily sharply, "You're leaving nothing but the husks."
 
He too was angry:
 
"'And he would fain fill his with the husks that the swine did eat.'" he said quietly, taking a handful of the fruit he had picked and putting some in his mouth. Emily snatched away the basin:
 
"It is too bad!" she said.
 
"Here," said Lettie, handing him an apple she had peeled. "You may have an apple, greedy boy."
 
He took it and looked at it. Then a smile twinkled round his eyes,—as he said:
 
"If you give me the apple, to whom will you give the peel?"
 
"The swine," she said, as if she only understood his first reference to the Son. He put the apple on the table.
 
"Don't you want it?" she said.
 
"Mother," he said comically, as if jesting. "She is offering me the apple like Eve."
 
Like a flash, she snatched the apple from him, hid it in her skirts a moment, looking at him with eyes, and then she flung it at the fire. She missed, and the father leaned forward and picked it off the hob, saying:
 
"The pigs may as well have it. You were slow, George—when a lady offers you a thing you don't have to make mouths."
 
"A ce qu'il parait," she cried, laughing now at her ease, :
 
"Is she making love, Emily?" asked the father, laughing suggestively.
 
"She says it too fast for me," said Emily.
 
George was leaning back in his chair, his hands in his breeches pockets.
 
"We shall have to finish his raisins after all, Emily," said Lettie brightly. "Look what a lazy animal he is."
 
"He likes his comfort," said Emily, with .
 
"The picture of content—solid, healthy, easy-moving content——" continued Lettie. As he sat thus, with his head thrown back against the end of the ingle-seat, coatless, his red neck seen in , he did indeed look comfortable.
 
"I shall never my fat away," he said .
 
"No—you and I—we are not like Cyril. We do not burn our bodies in our heads—or our hearts, do we?"
 
"We have it in common," said he, looking at her indifferently beneath his , as his head was back.
 
Lettie went on with the paring and coring of her apples—then she took the raisins. Meanwhile, Emily was making the house ring as she chopped the suet in a wooden bowl. The children were ready for bed. They kissed us all "Good-night"—save George. At last they were gone, accompanied by their mother. Emily put down her chopper, and sighed that her arm was aching, so I relieved her. The chopping went on for a long time, while the father read, Lettie worked, and George sat tilted back looking on. When at length the mincemeat was finished we were all out of work. Lettie helped to clear away—sat down—talked a little with effort—jumped up and said:
 
"Oh, I'm too excited to sit still—it's so near Christmas—let us play at something."
 
"A dance?" said Emily.
 
"A dance—a dance!"
 
He suddenly sat straight and got up:
 
"Come on!" he said.
 
He kicked off his , regardless of the holes in his stocking feet, and put away the chairs. He held out his arm to her—she came with a laugh, and away they went, dancing over the great flagged kitchen at an incredible speed. Her light flying steps followed his leaps; you could hear the quick light tap of her toes more plainly than the thud of his stockinged feet. Emily and I joined in. Emily's movements are naturally slow, but we danced at great speed. I was hot and , and she was panting, when I put her in a chair. But they whirled on in the dance, on and on till I was giddy, till the father laughing, cried that they should stop. But George continued the dance; her hair was shaken loose, and fell in a great coil down her back; her feet began to drag; you could hear a light on the floor; she was panting—I could see her lips to him, begging him to stop; he was laughing with open mouth, holding her tight; at last her feet trailed; he lifted her, clasping her tightly, and danced twice round the room with her thus. Then he fell with a crash on the sofa, pulling her beside him. His eyes glowed like coals; he was panting in , and his hair was wet and . She lay back on the sofa, with his arm still around her, not moving; she was quite overcome. Her hair was wild about her face. Emily was anxious; the father said, with a shade of inquietude:
 
"You've it—it is very foolish."
 
When at last she recovered her breath and her life, she got up, and laughing in a queer way, began to put up her hair. She went into the scullery where were the brush and combs, and Emily followed with a candle. When she returned, ordered once more, with a little pallor succeeding the flush, and with a great black stain of sweat on her leathern belt where his hand had held her, he looked up at her from his position on the sofa, with a glance of triumph, smiling.
 
"You great brute," she said, but her voice was not as harsh as her words. He gave a deep sigh, sat up, and laughed quietly.
 
"Another?" he said.
 
"Will you dance with me?"
 
"At your pleasure."
 
"Come then—a minuet."
 
"Don't know it."
 
"Nevertheless, you must dance it. Come along."
 
He reared up, and walked to her side. She put him through the steps, even dragging him round the waltz. It was very ridiculous. When it was finished she bowed him to his seat, and, wiping her hands on her handkerchief, because his shirt where her hand had rested on his shoulders was moist, she thanked him.
 
"I hope you enjoyed it," he said.
 
"Ever so much," she replied.
 
"You made me look a fool—so no doubt you did."
 
"Do you think you could look a fool? Why you are ! Ca marche! In other words, you have come on. But it is a sweet dance."
 
He looked at her, lowered his , and said nothing.
 
"Ah, well," she laughed, "some are bred for the minuet, and some for——"
 
"—Less tomfoolery," he answered.
 
"Ah—you call it tomfoolery because you cannot do it. Myself, I like it—so——"
 
"And I can't do it?"
 
"Could you? Did you? You are not built that way."
 
"Sort of Clarence MacFadden," he said, a pipe as if the conversation did not interest him.
 
"Yes—what ages since we sang that!
 
'Clarence MacFadden he wanted to dance
But his feet were not gaited that way . . .'
 
"I remember we sang it after one corn harvest—we had a fine time. I never thought of you before as Clarence. It is very funny. By the way—will you come to our party at Christmas?"
 
"When? Who's coming?"
 
"The twenty-sixth.—Oh!—only the old people—Alice—Tom Smith—Fanny—those from Highclose."
 
"And what will you do?"
 
"Sing charades—dance a little—anything you like."
 
"Polka?"
 
"And minuets—and valetas. Come and dance a valeta, Cyril."
 
She made me take her through a valeta, a minuet, a mazurka, and she danced elegantly, but with a little of Carmen's ostentation—her dash and devilry. When we had finished, the father said:
 
"Very pretty—very pretty, indeed! They do look nice, don't they, George? I wish I was young."
 
"As I am——" said George, laughing bitterly.
 
"............