wandering again and again towards them.
But she also glanced anxiously at the fading daylight visible through the windows, trying to see through clear spaces in the stained glass into the evening, for she feared that it had started to snow again. She had only the small pram for Meg, who did not seem so placid as usual and had shown some disinclination to come. A walk home through a snowstorm with Meg perhaps sickening for something would be very unpleasant, even dangerous, and Alda heartily called herself a fool for having brought her.
As the service proceeded, Meg showed increasing signs of distress; yawning; putting her head down on the front of the pew and even whimpering once or twice. Immediately after the Blessing was spoken and the congregation dismissed, Jenny said in a businesslike tone as they rose from their knees:
“Meg isn’t well, Mother. Her hands are simply burning—you feel,” and she pushed Meg’s ungloved hand into her mother’s. “I believe she’s got a temperature.”
“Me face is burning, too,” said Meg, with some return of the grown-up manner which always deserted her when she was ill. “ Feel , Mudder,” and she lifted up a face unnaturally rosy, with heavy yellowish eyes.
“Never mind, love, we’ll soon have you home,” said Alda with sinking heart, as they slowly made their way with the rest of the congregation towards the door. “Mother will carry you,” and she lifted her up. Meg settled herself comfortably, sighed, and in a few moments was asleep. “If only it isn’t snowing!” murmured Alda.
But as they stepped out into the porch a shower of flakes blew in to meet them, and then they paused to look down on the lights and roofs immediately below the hill upon which the church stood, all veiled in silent, steadily falling snow. Already the roads and distant fields were white, and the footsteps of those leaving the church were muffled as they set off down the paved pathway leading to the village, while their voices as they exchanged “good nights” and wishes for a Merry Christmas were muted in that familiar and unmistakable hush.
Alda opened her thick coat and settled Meg more comfortably inside it. She was wondering what to do. The pram, which fortunately had not been stolen from the porch, was a light, completely open conveyance in which it would be the height of imprudence to wheel Meg home, for the heat from the little slumbering body already came up disturbingly against her own as she rearranged her scarf. Then she looked down, and met the solemn eyes of Jenny and Louise, waiting for comments and orders.
“We must try to get a car,” she said decidedly. “Jenny, you know where Mr. Bolliver’s garage is; run down as quickly as you can and tell him what’s happened and ask him to rescue us. We’ll wait in the porch. Fly, now!”
Off ran Jenny into the snowy twilight, excited by its soft icy touch upon her face and lips and by the transformed world all about her. The rest of the congregation had hurried back to their homes to resume the business of Christmas Eve; through the half-open door of the church Louise peeped in and saw the verger extinguishing the altar candles one by one, and the pale arches, the green Christmas leaves, becoming dim in the dusk. Save for the old man, they were now alone.
Alda seated herself upon the wall-bench and stared unseeingly with troubled eyes at the list of vicars who had held office at St. Wilfred’s since 1356 which glimmered upon the opposite wall. Within the porch it was almost night, but outside it was still possible to discern the outlines of roofs and nearby houses. It grew rapidly darker. Meg was now breathing fast, and Alda began to feel a little frightened.
“Jenny is being ages, isn’t she, Mother,” said Louise, shivering as she sat closely against her.
“I expect Mr. Bolliver is out on a job He’s sure to be busy on Christmas Eve.”
“Mother! I’ve got an idea. If he can’t come we can telephone
But she also glanced anxiously at the fading daylight visible through the windows, trying to see through clear spaces in the stained glass into the evening, for she feared that it had started to snow again. She had only the small pram for Meg, who did not seem so placid as usual and had shown some disinclination to come. A walk home through a snowstorm with Meg perhaps sickening for something would be very unpleasant, even dangerous, and Alda heartily called herself a fool for having brought her.
As the service proceeded, Meg showed increasing signs of distress; yawning; putting her head down on the front of the pew and even whimpering once or twice. Immediately after the Blessing was spoken and the congregation dismissed, Jenny said in a businesslike tone as they rose from their knees:
“Meg isn’t well, Mother. Her hands are simply burning—you feel,” and she pushed Meg’s ungloved hand into her mother’s. “I believe she’s got a temperature.”
“Me face is burning, too,” said Meg, with some return of the grown-up manner which always deserted her when she was ill. “ Feel , Mudder,” and she lifted up a face unnaturally rosy, with heavy yellowish eyes.
“Never mind, love, we’ll soon have you home,” said Alda with sinking heart, as they slowly made their way with the rest of the congregation towards the door. “Mother will carry you,” and she lifted her up. Meg settled herself comfortably, sighed, and in a few moments was asleep. “If only it isn’t snowing!” murmured Alda.
But as they stepped out into the porch a shower of flakes blew in to meet them, and then they paused to look down on the lights and roofs immediately below the hill upon which the church stood, all veiled in silent, steadily falling snow. Already the roads and distant fields were white, and the footsteps of those leaving the church were muffled as they set off down the paved pathway leading to the village, while their voices as they exchanged “good nights” and wishes for a Merry Christmas were muted in that familiar and unmistakable hush.
Alda opened her thick coat and settled Meg more comfortably inside it. She was wondering what to do. The pram, which fortunately had not been stolen from the porch, was a light, completely open conveyance in which it would be the height of imprudence to wheel Meg home, for the heat from the little slumbering body already came up disturbingly against her own as she rearranged her scarf. Then she looked down, and met the solemn eyes of Jenny and Louise, waiting for comments and orders.
“We must try to get a car,” she said decidedly. “Jenny, you know where Mr. Bolliver’s garage is; run down as quickly as you can and tell him what’s happened and ask him to rescue us. We’ll wait in the porch. Fly, now!”
Off ran Jenny into the snowy twilight, excited by its soft icy touch upon her face and lips and by the transformed world all about her. The rest of the congregation had hurried back to their homes to resume the business of Christmas Eve; through the half-open door of the church Louise peeped in and saw the verger extinguishing the altar candles one by one, and the pale arches, the green Christmas leaves, becoming dim in the dusk. Save for the old man, they were now alone.
Alda seated herself upon the wall-bench and stared unseeingly with troubled eyes at the list of vicars who had held office at St. Wilfred’s since 1356 which glimmered upon the opposite wall. Within the porch it was almost night, but outside it was still possible to discern the outlines of roofs and nearby houses. It grew rapidly darker. Meg was now breathing fast, and Alda began to feel a little frightened.
“Jenny is being ages, isn’t she, Mother,” said Louise, shivering as she sat closely against her.
“I expect Mr. Bolliver is out on a job He’s sure to be busy on Christmas Eve.”
“Mother! I’ve got an idea. If he can’t come we can telephone
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