Chapter VI: A Christmas Eve Adventure

MUCH to the satisfaction of everyone, the dry, cold weather continued for several days. After three nights' frost, the ice on the pond in the lower meadow was pronounced really firm enough to skate upon, and the village lads made a splendid slide from one side to the other. Bob Wills, who had never felt any ill effects from his accident, proved an adept in the art of sliding, and under his instructions, Rupert soon became as proficient as himself. Nellie would have liked to join the boys and learn to slide, too, but she was torn two ways, as there were the church and the schoolroom to be decorated; and finally she decided in favour of her mother and sister's society, and spent long hours in making paper roses, and twining festoons of holly and evergreens.

Great excitement reigned in the village as twilight gathered on the afternoon previous to Christmas Day. And five o'clock found the schoolroom a scene of festivity, full as it was of men, women, and children seated at the long, narrow tables which intersected the room, partaking of a substantial tea. Nearly every one in the parish was there, including the Vicar, a middle-aged bachelor, who, with the family from Haldon Hall, busied himself in waiting on Mr. Coker's guests. The meal was nearly over when it suddenly dawned upon Lilian that she had not come across Nannie Davey, and she inquired of her mother if the old woman was present.

"I have not seen her," was the reply. "No, I do not think she is here; perhaps she has changed her mind about coming."

"Nannie meant to come, ma'am," said a girl who had overheard Lilian's question and Mrs. Coker's answer, "but her rheumatism is that bad to-day she daren't stir outdoors. She's very disappointed, she told me so herself; I live next door to her, ma'am."

"Oh, how sorry I am she cannot come!" Lilian cried. "Mother, don't you think I might take her some bread and cream, and plum cake? Oh, do let me!"

"You will miss the magic-lantern—" Mrs. Coker was commencing, when the little girl interposed eagerly:

"Oh, mother, I shall not mind that! It is not as if I could see!"

"You shall do as you wish, my dear; but get either Rupert or Bob Wills to go with you."

Mrs. Coker packed a basket full of good things, and handed it to Lilian. Then the little girl, basket in hand, passed between the crowded tables in the direction of the door. On her way she encountered, in turn, Rupert and Bob, to each of whom she explained where she was going, and asked his escort to Nannie's door, but Rupert said: "Oh, Bob will go with you!" And Bob said: "I wouldn't bother about the old woman, if I were you. I don't want to miss the fun."

"How selfish they are!" she thought. "Never mind, I'll go by myself."

A minute later, she was crossing the Green. It was quite dark now, for great banks of heavy snow-clouds were gathering overhead; but darkness and light were alike to Lilian, and she made her way straight to Nannie Davey's cottage, which was at the far end of the waste ground. On knocking at the door, Nannie's voice, querulous in tone, bade her come in.

The old woman was surprised and delighted at the sight of her visitor.

"And you've left them all in the midst of their festivity to bring these dainties to me!" she exclaimed, as the little girl placed the contents of her basket on the table.

"I wanted to come," Lilian answered earnestly. "It seemed so hard that you should be spending Christmas Eve by yourself. They are going to have the magic-lantern now, and you know that will be no loss to me. I'm so sorry you cannot join us to-night."

"I meant to be with you, dearie, but I'm dreadful bad; the rheumatism is like red-hot needles running into all my joints, and 'tis agony to move."

"Oh, poor soul!" said the child sympathetically. "I am so very sorry you suffer so much. You'll try to eat some of these nice things I've brought you, won't you? The cake is very good; our cook made it."

"It looks delicious," said the old woman, stretching out a knotted hand and helping herself to a slice. "Yes, it's the best cake I ever tasted," she declared, smacking her lips approvingly.

Pitying Nannie's lonely, suffering condition, Lilian remained talking to her longer than she had intended, and when at last she said good-bye to her and left the cottage, she found it was snowing fast.

However, she set out in the direction of the schoolroom; but she had taken only a few steps across the green when a sudden gust of wind caught her, and it was all she could do to keep her feet; and when the gust had passed, she felt so confused that she could not tell which way she had been going. She walked on, and at last came to a full stop as she realised she had left the Green for the road, and had actually turned her back on the village.

"How stupid of me!" she thought in vexation. "The wind must have twisted me round. Well, all I've to do now is to go back. Why, here's the gateway leading to the pathfields! How Nellie and Rupert will laugh when I tell them how far I wandered out of my way."

Suddenly she heard men's footsteps coming towards her, and unknown voices. To whom could they belong? she wondered. She was not in the least timid, but she was rather shy, and it occurred to her that she might be asked to account for her presence there alone in the snowstorm; so she crept under the shelter of the hedge, and waited for the strangers to pass, shivering as she drew her shawl close around her shoulders.

"You're sure there'll only be the old fellow to deal with?" questioned a man's voice, in a hoarse whisper, as the footsteps drew near.

"Quite sure," was the answer. "The farmer and all his household are in the schoolroom with the rest of the parish. There'll be no one to interfere with our little game after we've settled with the old chap; he's feeble with age, and won't give us any trouble. We'll knock at the door, and old Jeffry—as I've learnt he's called—will open it, then I'll manage him, whilst you set to work and—"

Lilian lost the end of the sentence; but a second later the first voice remarked:

"There's a surly brute of a sheep-dog about the place, so we must be cautious. The farmer's considered stocky; I wonder if he keeps much money in the house."

The footsteps and voices died away as their owners, having passed Lilian unnoticed in the blinding snow, proceeded in the direction of Westhill.

The little girl was horrified at what she had overheard. She shuddered at the thought that the unsuspecting caretaker would most probably open the door to two desperate characters, and, it might be, meet his death at their hands. What should she do? If she returned to the schoolroom with her tale, perhaps Jeffry would be dead before help could be sent to him. No, she must save him herself. She knew the short cut to Westhill, through the fields, and could reach the farm long before any one could do so by road.

To think was to act with Lilian; so, without waiting to consider the matter further, she scrambled over the gate into the field beyond, and ran as fast as she possibly could along the path, heedless alike of the driving snow and the cutting wind. Panting and almost exhausted, ten minutes later, she was hurrying through the orchard into the yard at Westhill. A low growl greeted her ears as she neared the house, and she called softly: "Wolf, Wolf," whereupon the sheep-dog, recognising her voice, changed his tone to a whine of pleasure, and, coming to her side, licked her hand.

Lilian rang the door-bell violently, and almost immediately she heard shuffling footsteps inside the door; and her heart beat with thankfulness as a voice inquired who was there.

"It is I—Lilian Coker. Let me in at once. Be quick, oh, please be quick!"

The door was opened then, and Lilian, followed by the sheep-dog, stumbled, almost done up with running so fast, across the threshold.

"Shut the door again, Jeffry!" she cried, as the old man began to utter exclamations of amazement. "Bolt it! Mind you bolt it! There are thieves about—coming here! Have you put up the chain? Yes. Oh, Jeffry, thank God I am in time!" And she burst into a flood of tears.

When she was somewhat more composed, she repeated to the old man the scraps of conversation she had overheard, and explained how she had run all the way to Westhill through the pathfields on his account. He listened with growing wonderment; and when the little girl had finished her tale, he made her sit down by the kitchen fire and take off her wet shoes, whilst he bustled about and lit all the lamps and candles he could lay hands on, placing them in the various rooms.

"They won't find us in darkness now," he chuckled. "It'll be a bit of a disappointment to them to see the house lit up—they'll hardly dare break in. You're a brave little maid, Miss Lilian!"

"Oh, no, I'm not!" she replied. She was shaking like an aspen leaf now, and straining her ears, listening for the faintest sound out-of-doors. Wolf seated himself by her side, and rested his rough head on her knee. "I'm afraid mother will be anxious about me," she said, with a sigh, "but there only seemed one thing for me to do, to come here and warn you, Jeffry."

"And I am very grateful to you, Miss Lilian," said the old man fervently. "I wonder you weren't too timid to come through the pathfields in such a snowstorm alone. What's that?" he asked, lowering his voice to a whisper, as she lifted a warning hand.

"They're in the yard," Lilian whispered. "I heard them."

Wolf raised his head from her knee as she spoke, then, with a fierce growl, he sprang snarling towards the door. Presently his excitement died away, and he returned to his previous position beside the fire.

"They've made off, you may depend," said Old Jeffrey, drawing a deep sigh of relief, "they fancy they've made a mistake, and that there's something going on in the house. We shall have no robbers breaking in here to-night now. How I should like to know who the rogues are! You didn't recognise their voices, Miss Lilian?"

"No, I'm certain I never heard them in my life before."

The old man warmed some milk, which he insisted upon Lilian's drinking. She was troubled in mind at the thought of the anxiety which her absence from the schoolroom was doubtless causing her parents; but, at the same time, she was conscious she had done what was right under the circumstances. By-and-by, a feeling of intense lassitude crept over her, and, worn out with excitement and fatigue, she fell asleep.