Christmas at Thompson Hall by Anthony Trollope Page B

wife’s mind, and painfully anxious that no word might be spoken which should seem to entrap his guest, strove diligently to talk as though nothing was amiss. He spoke of his sermon, and of David Drum, and of the allowance of pudding that was to be given to the inmates of the neighbouring poor-house. There had been a subscription, so as to relieve the rates from the burden of the plum-pudding, and Mr. Lownd thought that the farmers had not been sufficiently liberal. “There’s Furness, at Loversloup, gave us half-a-crown. I told him he ought to be ashamed of himself. He declared to me to my face that if he could find puddings for his own bairns, that was enough for him.”
    â€œThe richest farmer in these parts, Maurice,” said Mrs. Lownd.
    â€œHe holds above three hundred acres of land, and could stock double as many, if he had them,” said the would-be indignant rector, who was thinking a great deal more of his daughter than of the poor-house festival. Maurice answered him with a word or two, but found it very hard to assume any interest in the question of the pudding. Isabel was more hard-hearted, he thought, than even Farmer Furness, of Loversloup. And why should he trouble himself about these people, — he, who intended to sell his acres, and go away to Africa? But he smiled and made some reply, and buttered his toast, and struggled hard to seem as though nothing ailed him.
    The parson went down to church before his wife, and Mabel went with him. “Is anything wrong with Maurice Archer?” she asked her father.
    â€œNothing, I hope,” said he.
    â€œBecause he doesn’t seem to be able to talk this morning.”
    â€œEverybody isn’t a chatter-box like you, Mab.”
    â€œI don’t think I chatter more than mamma, or Bell. Do you know, papa, I think Bell has quarrelled with Maurice Archer.”
    â€œI hope not. I should be very sorry that there should be any quarrelling at all — particularly on this day. Well, I think you’ve done it very nicely; and it is none the worse because you’ve left the sounding-board alone.” Then Mabel went over to David Drum’s cottage, and asked after the condition of Mrs. Drum’s plum-pudding.
    No one had ventured to ask Maurice Archer whether he would stay in church for the sacrament, but he did. Let us hope that no undue motive of pleasing Isabel Lownd had any effect upon him at such a time. But it did please her. Let us hope also that, as she knelt beside her lover at the low railing, her young heart was not too full of her love. That she had been thinking of him throughout her father’s sermon, — thinking of him, then resolving that she would think of him no more, and then thinking of him more than ever, — must be admitted. When her mother had told her that he would come again to her, she had not attempted to assert that, were he to do so, she would again reject him. Her mother knew all her secret, and, should he not come again, her mother would know that she was heart-broken. She had told him positively that she would never love him. She had so told him, knowing well that at the very moment he was dearer to her than all the world beside. Why had she been so wicked as to lie to him? And if now she were punished for her lie by his silence, would she not be served properly? Her mind ran much more on the subject of this great sin which she had committed on that very morning, — that sin against one who loved her so well, and who desired to do good to her, — than on those general arguments in favour of Christian kindness and forbearance which the preacher drew from the texts applicable to Christmas Day. All her father’s eloquence was nothing to her. On ordinary occasions he had no more devoted listener; but, on this morning, she could only exercise her spirit by repenting her own unchristian conduct. And then he came and knelt beside her at that sacred moment! It was