Chapter XIII: Preparing for Christmas

FOR many months, the Pringle family heard no more of Miss Leighton. Spring gave place to summer; and in the early autumn Billy paid his visit to Cornwall, returning, after a never-to-be forgotten six weeks' holiday, with Mr. and Mrs. Tiddy, who spent a short while in London, during which time they went to see Miss Leighton, mindful of the promise which they had made to her.

But, although the old lady received her Cornish acquaintances with every sign of cordiality and pleasure, she never once mentioned Peggy, and when Mrs. Tiddy spoke of her, she quickly changed the conversation, so that her visitors came to the conclusion that her liking for the little blind girl had been merely a passing fancy, and that she had lost the interest she had certainly once entertained for the child. Such, however, was not the case.

It was the end of September when the Tiddys returned to their Cornish home; and shortly afterwards Miss Leighton had a long and serious illness, the result of a neglected cold. When she had recovered and was able to dispense with the services of the trained nurse, who, with Barnes, had nursed her back to health, it was December, and every one was preparing for Christmas.

The season of peace and goodwill never brought much happiness to Miss Leighton nowadays; but it made many calls upon her purse. And when she had written several cheques to be sent to the various charities to which she was a regular contributor, she generally considered she had done all that could be reasonably expected of her for her fellow creatures.

But this year, as she sat by the fire in the drawing-room of her London house, one afternoon about a week before Christmas, a sense of unusual dissatisfaction with herself began to creep over her. Memory was busy with her; and, gazing into the fire, she pictured a little figure clad in a shabby blue serge coat and skirt and a Tam o' Shanter cap, and saw once more a fair face with a halo of golden curls around it—a happy face, beautiful with that inward peace and light which only God can give. Then, in her imagination, she heard a clear, child's voice say:

"But I don't think she can be really charitable, if she isn't kind in little ways and if she's unforgiving!"

Miss Leighton winced as she recalled the words and the decided tone in which they had been uttered. How the child's judgment of her had rankled in her heart! It had hurt her at the time it had been given, though she had never resented it: it hurt her a great deal more now.

"I would have been kind to Peggy, if her parents would have let me," she thought. "There is nothing I would have denied her. I should like to do something to please her—to add to her happiness this Christmas. How I should like to see her again! She was such a bright, contented little girl! When I was ill, she was continually in my thoughts, and one night, I fancied I heard her singing that hymn about light at evening time—she has a very sweet voice. I wonder if Margaret would let the child come and see me? I hardly like to ask her a favour, but I long to see Peggy once more. Ah, here's Barnes!"

The maid had been to match some silks for a piece of fancy-work her mistress was making; but Miss Leighton was not in the mood to look at her purchases now.

"Sit down, Barnes," she said. "I want to speak to you."

"Yes, ma'am," Barnes replied, taking a chair and glancing at her mistress inquiringly. There was a better understanding between these two than there had been formerly, for each had discovered of late, that the other had a heart; and Barnes had nursed Miss Leighton devotedly during her long illness, a fact Miss Leighton was not likely to forget.

"I suppose the shops are very gay?" Miss Leighton questioned.

"Yes, ma'am, they are full of Christmas presents."

"And doubtless you've made some purchases to send to your mother and brother?"

Barnes assented, a pleased flush rising to her pale cheeks at the unusual kindness of her mistress's tone. She was emboldened to give Miss Leighton a list of the articles she had bought to send home to her people.

"I pack up a hamper for them every Christmas," she explained in conclusion, "and my poor brother is always so excited to see it unpacked."

"But would it not be much less trouble to you to send your mother the money you spend and let her buy what she wants herself?" Miss Leighton inquired.

"Perhaps so, ma'am; but that would not be half so much pleasure to mother or to me. I like thinking and planning how I shall fill the hamper with those things which I know will be most acceptable, and when mother receives it and takes out its contents, she knows I've borne her wants in mind. I've knitted her a nice warm shawl, and she'll be much prouder of it, because I've made it, than if I'd bought it ready made."

"I see, Barnes. I wonder what sort of Christmas my little grand-niece will spend."

Barnes started, and a somewhat guilty expression crossed her countenance as she answered hurriedly:

"A very happy one, I expect. Children mostly love Christmas time, and she has a very happy home."

"How do you know?" Miss Leighton asked suspiciously.

"I— I've been there, ma'am. I went to St. John's one Sunday afternoon to hear Mr. Maloney preach at a children's service, and I saw Miss Peggy there with her mother and brother. After the service, outside the church, I spoke to them, and Mrs. Pringle asked me to their house to have a cup of tea—and I went."

"Well?" said Miss Leighton, with repressed eagerness in her voice. "What is the place like?"

"The house, ma'am? It's one of a terrace, very small but comfortable and homely. Perhaps I ought to have told you that I'd been there, but I did not like to mention it."

"Has my niece altered much?" Miss Leighton asked after a brief pause.

"No, ma'am, very little. She inquired for you and looked so sorry when she heard how ill you'd been, and Miss Peggy said—" Barnes paused abruptly in some confusion.

"Well, what did Miss Peggy say? I insist upon your telling me."

"She said, 'Poor Aunt Caroline! How dreadful it would have been if she had died and we had never known! How I wish she would be friends with us all! She used to be so nice in Cornwall.' That's what she said, ma'am, shaking her curly head—you remember how she used to do that? It's natural she shouldn't understand how you feel towards her mother."

Miss Leighton sighed. During her late illness she had been brought face to face with death; and, for the first time, doubts of herself had assailed her, and she had seen her unforgiving spirit in its true light. Pride had always been her stumbling-block through life; and it had been her pride which had suffered when her niece, to whom in her way she had really been attached, had elected to marry the hardworking music-master who was now the organist of St. John's.

Her only reason for objecting to Mr. Pringle as her niece's husband had been because he had been poor. She had always thought so much of riches, but they had never brought her happiness; as a matter of fact, they had stood between her and her fellow creatures, they had warped her sympathies; and sadly and regretfully, the woman of great wealth admitted to herself that though she had given her money to clothe the naked and feed the poor, it had profited her nothing, for the spirit of charity had never been hers.

"I am an old woman, and no one cares for me," she thought. "The love I might have had, I deliberately put away. I should not be lonely to-day, if I had not cast Margaret aside when she married. How she wept when I said I would never willingly look on her face again, and I thought it was my money she was regretting, not me!"

Aloud she said:

"Does Mr. Maloney hold a children's service every Sunday afternoon, Barnes?"

Then, as Barnes assented, she continued: "I have heard high praises of his preaching, and I should like to hear one of his sermons. If I go to St. John's next Sunday afternoon, will you accompany me?"

"Certainly, ma'am," Barnes responded promptly, her face showing the intense amazement she felt. She regarded her mistress with anxious scrutiny, marvelling at the softened expression on her countenance. She hoped she was not going to be ill again.

"Perhaps we shall see Miss Peggy there," she proceeded; "but, if so, I expect her mother will be with her. I suppose you will not speak to them, ma'am?"

"I cannot tell," Miss Leighton answered musingly. "I—I shall be guided by circumstances."

"Oh, ma'am!" cried Barnes eagerly. "Don't be angry with me for saying this; but, if you could bring yourself to forgive Mrs. Pringle—"

"That will do," broke in Miss Leighton with a return of her usual imperious manner. "I can imagine what you were about to say. No, I'm not angry. You're a well-meaning soul, Barnes, but—you may go!"

Barnes needed no second bidding. She slipped quietly out of the room, fearing she had done more harm than good; whilst Miss Leighton leaned back in her easy chair, a prey to anxious thoughts. She had said she would go to St. John's on the following Sunday, and she meant to keep her word, for she really was curious to hear Mr. Maloney preach, and she hoped she might at any rate catch a glimpse of Peggy, though she determined, now, that she would not speak to her. How could she ignore the mother and notice the child?