‘Slee, sla, slud,
Stuck in the mud,
O! it is pretty to wade through a flood,
Come, wheel round,
The dirt we have found,
Would he an estate at a farthing a pound.’

Lily’s illness interrupted her teaching at the village school for many weeks, and she was in no great haste to resume it. Alethea Weston seemed to enjoy doing all that was required, and Lily left it in her hands, glad to shut her eyes as much as possible to the disheartening state the parish had been in ever since her former indiscretion.

The approach of Christmas, however, made it necessary for her to exert herself a little more, and her interest in parish matters revived as she distributed the clothing-club goods, and in private conference with each good dame, learnt the wants of her family. But it was sad to miss several names struck out of the list for non-attendance at church; and when Mrs. Eden came for her child’s clothing, Lily remarked that the articles she chose were unlike those of former years, the cheapest and coarsest she could find.

St. Thomas’s day was marked by the custom, called at Beechcroft ‘gooding.’ Each mother of a family came to all the principal houses in the parish to receive sixpence, towards providing a Christmas dinner, and it was Lily’s business to dispense this dole at the New Court. With a long list of names and a heap of silver before her, she sat at the oaken table by the open chimney in the hall, returning a nod or a smiling greeting to the thanks of the women as they came, one by one, to receive the little silver coins, and warm themselves by the glowing wood fire.

Dispensing the ‘Gooding.’—p. 156

Pleasant as the task was at first, it ended painfully. Agnes Eden appeared, in order to claim the double portion allotted to her mother, as a widow. This was the first time that Mrs. Eden had asked for the gooding-money, and Lily knew that it was a sign that she must be in great distress. Agnes made her a little courtesy, and crept away again as soon as she had received her shilling; but Mrs. Grey, who was Mrs. Eden’s neighbour, had not quite settled her penny-club affairs, and remained a little longer. An unassuming and lightly-principled person was Mrs. Grey, and Lily enjoyed a talk with her, while she was waiting for the purple stuff frock which Jane was measuring off for Kezia. They spoke of the children, and of a few other little matters, and presently something was said about Mrs. Eden; Lily asked if the blacksmith helped her.

‘Oh! no, Miss Lilias, he will do nothing for her while she sends her child to school and to church. He will not speak to her even. Not a bit of butter, nor a morsel of bacon, has been in her house since Michaelmas, and what she would have done if it was not for Mr. Devereux and Mrs. Weston, I cannot think.’

Lilias, much shocked by this account of the distress into which she and Jane had been the means of bringing the widow, reported it to her father and to the Rector; entreating the former to excuse her rent, which he willingly promised to do, and also desired his daughters to give her a blanket, and tell her to come to dine house whenever any broth was to be given away. Mr. Devereux, who already knew of her troubles, and allowed her a small sum weekly, now told his cousins how much the Greys had assisted her. Andrew Grey had dug up and housed her winter’s store of potatoes, he had sought work for her, and little Agnes often shared the meals of his children. The Greys had a large family, very young, so that all that they did for her was the fruit of self-denial. Innumerable were the kindnesses which they performed unknown to any but the widow and her child. More, by a hundred times, did they assist her, than the thoughtless girls who had occasioned her sufferings, though Lily was not the only one who felt that nothing was too much for them to do. Nothing, perhaps, would have been too much, except to bear her in mind and steadily aid her in little things; but Lily took no account of little things, talked away her feelings, and thus all her grand resolutions produced almost nothing. Lord Rotherwood sent Mrs. Eden a sovereign, the girls newly clothed little Agnes, Phyllis sometimes carried her the scraps of her dinner, Mrs. Eden once came to work at the New Court, and a few messes of broth were given to her, but in general she was forgotten, and when remembered, indolence or carelessness too often prevented the Miss Mohuns from helping her. In Emily’s favourite phrase, each individual thing was ‘not worth while.’

When Lilias did think it ‘worth while,’ she would do a great deal upon impulse, sometimes with more zeal than discretion, as she proved by an expedition which she took on Christmas Eve. Mr. Mohun did not allow the poor of the village to depend entirely on the gooding for their Christmas dinner, but on the 24th of December a large mess of excellent beef broth was prepared at the New Court, and distributed to all his own labourers, and the most respectable of the other cottagers.

In the course of the afternoon Lily found that one portion had not been given out. It was that which was intended for the Martins, a poor old rheumatic couple, who lived at South End, the most distant part of the parish. Neither of them could walk as far as the New Court, and most of their neighbours had followed Farmer Gage, and had therefore been excluded from the distribution, so that there was no one to send. Lily, therefore, resolved herself to carry the broth to them, if she could find an escort, which was not an easy matter, as the frost had that morning broken up, and a good deal of snow and rain had been falling in the course of the day. In the hall she met Reginald, just turned out of Maurice’s workshop, and much at a loss for employment.

‘Redgie,’ said she, ‘you can do me a great kindness.’

‘If it is not a bore,’ returned Reginald.

‘I only want you to walk with me to South End.’

‘Eh?’ said Reginald; ‘I thought the little Misses were too delicate to put their dear little proboscises outside the door.’

‘That is the reason I ask you; I do not think Emily or Jane would like it, and it is too far for Claude. Those poor old Martins have not got their broth, and there is no one to fetch it for them.’

‘Then do not be half an hour putting on your things.’

‘Thank you; and do not run off, and make me spend an hour in hunting for you, and then say that I made you wait.’

‘I will wait fast enough. You are not so bad as Emily,’ said Reginald, while Lily ran upstairs to equip herself. When she came down, she was glad to find her escort employed in singeing the end of the tail of the old rocking-horse at the fire in the hall, so that she was not obliged to seek him in the drawing-room, where her plans would probably have met with opposition. She had, however, objections to answer from an unexpected quarter. Reginald was much displeased when she took possession of the pitcher of broth.

‘I will not walk with such a thing as that,’ said he, ‘it makes you look like one of the dirty girls in the village.’

‘Then you ought, like the courteous Rinaldo, to carry it for me,’ said Lily.

‘I touch the nasty thing! Faugh! Throw it into the gutter, Lily.’

He made an attempt to dispose of it in that manner, which it required all Lily’s strength to withstand, as well as an imploring ‘Now, Redgie, think of the poor old people. Remember, you have promised.’

‘Promised! I never promised to walk with a greasy old pitcher. What am I to do if we meet Miss Weston?’

Lily contrived to overcome Reginald’s refined notions sufficiently to make him allow her to carry the pitcher; and when he had whistled up two of the dogs, they proceeded merrily along the road, dirty and wet though it was. Their walk was not entirely without adventures; first, they had to turn back in the path by the river side, which would have saved them half a mile, but was now flooded. Then, as they were passing through a long lane, which led them by Edward Gage’s farm, a great dog rushed out of the yard, and fell upon the little terrier, Viper. Old Neptune flew to the rescue, and to the great alarm of Lily, Reginald ran up with a stick; happily, however, a labourer at the same time came out with a pitchfork, and beat off the enemy. These two delays, together with Reginald’s propensity for cutting sticks, and for breaking ice, made it quite late when they arrived at South End. When there, they found that a kind neighbour had brought the old people their broth in the morning, and intended to go for her own when she came home from her work in the evening. It was not often that Lily went to South End; the old people were delighted to see her, and detained her for some time by a long story about their daughter at service, while Reginald looked the picture of impatience, drumming on his knee, switching the leg of the table, and tickling Neptune’s ears. When they left the cottage it was much later and darker than they had expected; but Lily was unwilling again to encounter the perils of the lane, and consulted her brother whether there was not some other way. He gave notice of a cut across some fields, which would take them into the turnpike road, and Lily agreeing, they climbed over a gate into a pathless turnip field. Reginald strode along first, calling to the dogs, while Lily followed, abstaining from dwelling on the awkward circumstance that every step she took led her farther from home, and rejoicing that it was so dark that she could not see the mud which plastered the edge of her petticoats. After plodding through three very long fields, they found themselves shut in by a high hedge and tall ditch.

‘That fool of a farmer!’ cried Reginald.

‘What is to be done?’ said Lily, disconsolately.

‘There is the road,’ said Reginald. ‘How do you propose to get into it?’

‘There was a gap here last summer,’ said the boy.

‘Very likely! Come back; try the next field; it must have a gate somewhere.’

Back they went, after seeing the carrier’s cart from Raynham pass by.

‘Redgie, it must be half-past five! We shall never be in time. Aunt Rotherwood coming too!’

After a desperate plunge through a swamp of ice, water, and mud, they found themselves at a gate, and safely entered the turnpike road.

‘How it rains!’ said Lily. ‘One comfort is that it is too dark for any one to see us.’

‘Not very dark, either,’ said Reginald; ‘I believe there is a moon if one could see it. Ha! here comes some one on horseback. It is a gray horse; it is William.’

‘Come to look for us,’ said Lily. ‘Oh, Redgie!’

‘Coming home from Raynham,’ said Reginald. ‘Do not fancy yourself so important, Lily. William, is that you?’

‘Reginald!’ exclaimed William, suddenly checking his horse. ‘Lily, what is all this?’

‘We set out to South End, to take the broth to the old Martins, and we found the meadows flooded, which made us late; but we shall soon be at home,’ said Lily, in a make-the-best-of-it tone.

‘Soon? You are a mile and a half from home now, and do you know how late it is?’

‘Half-past five,’ said Lily.

‘Six, at least; how could you be so absurd?’ William rode quickly on; Reginald laughed, and they plodded on; at length a tall dark figure was seen coming towards them, and Lily started, as it addressed her, ‘Now what is the meaning of all this?’

‘Oh, William, have you come to meet us? Thank you; I am sorry—’

‘How were you to come through the village in the dark, without some one to take care of you?’

‘I am taking care of her,’ said Reginald, affronted.

‘Make haste; my aunt is come. How could you make the people at home so anxious?’

William gave Lily his arm, and on finding she was both tired and wet, again scolded her, walked so fast that she was out of breath, then complained of her folly, and blamed Reginald. It was very unpleasant, and yet she was very much obliged to him, and exceedingly sorry he had taken so much trouble.

They came home at about seven o’clock. Jane met them in the hall, full of her own and Lady Rotherwood’s wonderings; she hurried Lily upstairs, and—skilful, quick, and ready—she helped her to dress in a very short time. As they ran down Reginald overtook them, and they entered the drawing-room as the dinner-bell was ringing. William did not appear for some time, and his apologies were not such as to smooth matters for his sister.

Perhaps it was for this very reason that Mr. Mohun allowed Lily to escape with no more than a jesting reproof. Lord Rotherwood wished to make his cousin’s hardihood and enterprise an example to his sister, and, in his droll exaggerating way, represented such walks as every-day occurrences. This was just the contrary to what Emily wished her aunt to believe, and Claude was much diverted with the struggle between her politeness to Lord Rotherwood and her desire to maintain the credit of the family.

Lady Florence, though liking Lilias, thought this walk extravagant. Emily feared Lilias had lost her aunt’s good opinion, and prepared herself for some hints about a governess. It was untoward; but in the course of the evening she was a little comforted by a proposal from Lady Rotherwood to take her and Lilias to a ball at Raynham, which was to take place in January; and as soon as the gentlemen appeared, they submitted the invitation to their father, while Lady Rotherwood pressed William to accompany them, and he was refusing.

‘What are soldiers intended for but to dance!’ said Lord Rotherwood.

‘I never dance,’ said William, with a grave emphasis.

‘I am out of the scrape,’ said the Marquis. ‘I shall be gone before it takes place; I reserve all my dancing for July 30th. Well, young ladies, is the Baron propitious?’

‘He says he will consider of it,’ said Emily.

‘Oh then, he will let you go,’ said Florence, ‘people never consider when they mean no.’

‘No, Florence,’ said her brother, ‘Uncle Mohun’s “consider of it” is equivalent to Le Roi’s “avisera.”’

‘What is he saying?’ asked Lily, turning to listen. ‘Oh, that my wig is in no ball-going condition.’

‘A wreath would hide all deficiencies,’ said Florence; ‘I am determined to have you both.’

‘I give small hopes of both,’ said Claude; ‘you will only have Emily.’

‘Why do you think so, Claude?’ cried both Florence and Lilias.

‘From my own observation,’ Claude answered, gravely.

‘I am very angry with the Baron,’ said Lord Rotherwood; ‘he is grown inhospitable: he will not let me come here to-morrow—the first Christmas these five years that I have missed paying my respects to the New Court sirloin and turkey. It is too bad—and the Westons dining here too.’

‘Cousin Turkey-cock, well may you be in a passion,’ muttered Claude, as if in soliloquy.

Lord Rotherwood and Lilias both caught the sound, and laughed, but Emily, unwilling that Florence should see what liberties they took with her brother, asked quickly why he was not to come.

‘I think we are much obliged to him,’ said Florence, ‘it would be too bad to leave mamma and me to spend our Christmas alone, when we came to the castle on purpose to oblige him.’

‘Ay, and he says he will not let me come here, because I ought to give the Hetherington people ocular demonstration that I go to church,’ said Lord Rotherwood.

‘Very right, as Eleanor would say,’ observed Claude.

‘Very likely; but I don’t care for the Hetherington folks; they do not know how to make the holly in the church fit to be seen, and they will not sing the good old Christmas carols. Andrew Grey is worth all the Hetherington choir put together.’

‘Possibly; but how are they to mend, if their Marquis contents himself with despising them?’ said Claude.

‘That is too bad, Claude. When you heard how submissively I listened to the Baron, and know I mean to abide by what he said, you ought to condole with me a little, if you have not the grace to lament my absence on your own account. Why, I thought myself as regular a part of the feast as the mince-pies, and almost as necessary.’

Here a request for some music put an end to his lamentations. Lilias was vexed by the uncertainty about the ball, and was, besides, too tired to play with spirit. She saw that Emily was annoyed, and she felt ready to cry before the evening was over; but still she was proud of her exploit, and when, after the party was gone, Emily began to represent to her the estimate that her aunt was likely to form of her character, she replied, ‘If she thinks the worse of me for carrying the broth to those poor old people, I am sure I do not wish for her good opinion.’

Mr. Mohun was not propitious when the question of Lily’s going to the ball was pressed upon him. He said that he thought her too young for gaieties, and, besides, that late hours never agreed with her, and he advised her to wait for the 30th of July.

Lilias knew that it was useless to say any more. She was much disappointed, and at the same time provoked with herself for caring about such a matter. Her temper was out of order on Christmas Day; and while she wondered why she could not enjoy the festival as formerly, with thoughts fitted to the day, she did not examine herself sufficiently to find out the real cause of her uncomfortable feelings.

The clear frost was only cold; the bright sunshine did not rejoice her; the holly and the mistletoe seemed ill arranged; and none of the pleasant sights of the day could give her such blitheness as once she had known.

She was almost angry when she saw that the Westons had left off their mourning, declaring that they did not look like themselves; and her vexation came to a height when she found that Alethea actually intended to go to the ball with Mrs. Carrington. The excited manner in which she spoke of it convinced Mr. Mohun that he had acted wisely in not allowing her to go, since the very idea seemed to turn her head.