Speaker 1: Bertie's ride by Lady Dunboyne. Here's a nice state of things.
We have run short of candles for the tree, and
of course the shops will be shut tomorrow and the
day after. What is to be done. Almost anything else
might have been managed in some way, But a Christmas
tree in semi darkness? Can anything more dismal be imagined?
And Alice Chetwin's usually bright face looks nearly as gloomy
as the picture she has called up. What's the row?
Cries schoolboy Bertie, planning two good natured of somewhat grubby
hands on his sister's shoulders. Alice and the dumps. That
is something quite new. Can't you cut some big candles
in two and stick them about? Here's cousin Mildred ask
her she'll be sure to hit upon something. No, don't
bother her, whispers Alice, giving him a warning. Pat As
a pretty girl some years older than themselves enters the room.
She is so disappointed at getting no letter again to day.
I am so sorry for it has quite spoiled her Christmas. Hush,
don't say I told you anything about it? What mischief
are you? Two children? Plodding cousin Mildred tries to speak
cheerily and to turn her face so that they may
not see any traces of tears about her pretty blue eyes.
But there is a little quiver in her voice which
betrays her. In a moment, Alice's arm is round her neck,
and Bertie is consoling her after his rough and ready fashion.
Cheer up, cousin, Milly, I'll bet anything you'll get a
letter tomorrow. I can't do that, Bertie. I'm afraid for
the postman doesn't come on Christmas Day, doesn't he? What
a beastly shame, I declare, I'll speak to father. No, no,
your father knows all about it. It's quite right, and
I'm so glad the poor old man has one day
to spend comfortably with his wife and children. I don't
quite know why Cecil hasn't written, but worrying about it
won't do any good. Now, let us talk about something else, Alice,
When can you be spared from the tree. Mother wants
all the help she can get for the church dressing?
Is she down at the church now? All right, darling,
I'll come in two minutes. Isn't it a plague about
these candles? The shops are sure to be shut in
Appleton the day after Christmas, and the poor children will
be so disappointed if we have to put off the tree,
the poor dear school children. Oh that is a pity.
But candles, oh dear, I don't know how we can
do without them? Is it quite impossible to send to
Appleton to day? Why to say the truth? I asked
father this morning, and he said there was no one
to go. You see, coachman is away for a holiday,
and Sam is as busy as he can be, and
there's no one else who can be trusted with a horse.
And one cannot ask anybody to trudge five miles and
back through the snow, though it is not at all deep,
and there is more snow coming, I fear, says Mildred,
looking out at the gray, thick, wintry sky. It is
awfully cold. Ah, there is a feeble little ray of
sunshine struggling out. Well, I must go back to my
occupation of measuring flannel for the old woman's petticoats. It
is nice and warm for one's fingers at any rate.
And ally, dear, tell mother I'll join her at the
church as soon as ever I can. The keepers have
brought us such lovely holly out of the woods. You
never saw such wealth of berries. The reeds will be
splendid this year. And Mildred goes away, humming a little
Christmas Carol and bravely trying to forget the sore anxiety
that is pressing on her heart for the far away
soldier lover whose Christmas greeting she had so hoped to
receive to day. Isn't she a trump? Cries Bertie, who
can see and appreciate the effort his cousin is making.
I know she has half cried her eyes out when
she was by herself, but she didn't mean us to
find it out. I say, Alice, I'll have another try
for that letter of hers, and get your candles too.
Great Plover has been roughed, and he's as surefooted as
a goat. The snow is nothing to hurt now, and
I'll trot over to Appleton and be back in no
time at all. Oh, Bertie, don't cousin Mildred said there
was a snowstorm coming, and you might get lost like
the people in the Swiss mountains or the babes in
the wood, Eh, you little silly, don't you think I'm
man enough to take care of myself, and Master Bertie,
who is fifteen and a regular, sturdy specimen of a
blue eyed, sunburn curly haired English lad, draws himself up
with great dignity and looks down patronizingly at his little sister. Alice,
of course, subsides vanquished by this appeal, but she cannot
help feeling some very uncomfortable qualms of conscience when it
appears that she is to be the only person admitted
into the young gentleman's confidence. Don't go bothering poor mother
about it. She always gets into such a funk as
if no one knew how to take care of themselves.
And be sure not to say a word to cousin Mildred.
I want to surprise her by bringing her letter by
the second post, and if father asks where I am, Oh,
but that will be all right. I shall get back
before he comes home from shooting, and Bertie is gone
before his sister has time to put into words the
remonstrance she has been struggling to frame. Youw missus dinner,
Poor dear, she thinks compassionately, but is consoled by the
remembrance of an admirable pastry Cook's shop in Appleton, where
the gingerbread is sure to be extra plentiful on Christmas Eve,
of all days in the year. A real old fashioned
Christmas father calls it thanks Alice as she goes to
the window and looks out at the whitened landscape, amongst
which the leafless branches of the trees stand out like
the limbs of blackened giants. The snow, which has been
falling at intervals for some days, is not deep, but
there is a heavy lowering appearance about the sky, betokening
that the worst is yet to come. The little birds
which Alice has been befriending ever since the winter set in,
come hopping familiarly round the window, and one saucy robin
gives a peck to the glass, as if to intimate
that a fresh supply of crumbs would be acceptable. Alice
feels in her pocket for a bit of bread, and,
finding some fragments, hastily scatters them on the window ledge,
promising a better repast by and by then she gives
a last look at the half dressed Christmas tree, shakes
her head over the insufficient candles, and murmuring that Bertie
really is the dearest boy in the world runs off
to aid her mother in decorating the old village church. Meanwhile,
Gray Plover is swiftly and resolutely bearing his rider over
the half frozen snow, and a manner worthy of his name.
He is a handsome, strong belt pony, Squire Chetwind's gift
to his son on his last birthday, and a right
goodly pair they make, at least in the fond father's eyes. Perhaps,
if either mister Chetwynd or his steady old coachman had
been at home, Master Bertie would not have found it
quite so easy to get his steed saddled for that
ten miles ride, with the ground already covered with snow,
and the heaviest fall that has been known for many
a year visibly impending. There is a keen northeaster blowing,
but Appleton lies to the west, so that for the
present it only comes on the back of his neck,
And Bertie turns up his collar to keep out the
flakes which seems scattered about here and there in the air,
and trots bravely along, whistling and talking. By turns to
his pony and to a wiry little terrier which is
really cousin Mildred's property, but in common with most other animals,
is deeply devoted to Bertie. Steady, Lad steady. And Bertie
checks his steed as they descend a somewhat steep bay
incline bordered by high hedges, of which the one to
the north is half concealed by a bank of snow.
I declare, I never thought it could have grown so
deep in the time, mutters Bertie to himself. I hope
it won't snow again before tonight, or I shall have
some work to get home. What's the time? Just too
all right? Two hours more daylight at any rate, more
if a fog doesn't come on good day, John, Merry
Christmas to you. As the village carrier, his cart, heavily
laden with Christmas boxes and parcels, passes him, leading his
old horse carefully up the hill. The same to you,
Master Bertie, and many of them, how be the Squire
and missus Chetwynd and all well, thank you John, But
I can't stop to go through the list. Now I've
to get to Appleton and back as soon as I can.
To Appleton laws Now, Master Birdie, don't you do nothing
of the kind as sure as I'm alive. There's awful
weather coming, and you and that little pony will never
get back if you don't mind little pony. Indeed, John
gray Plover is nearly fourteen hands, and do you suppose
I care for a snowstorm? Old John points to the
wall of gray cloud advancing steadily from the northeast. You
just look yonder, master, If that don't mean the worst
store that we have known for many a long year,
my name's not John Salter. Well, then I must make
all the more haste. If I don't turn up by
church time tomorrow, you and old Moss will have to
come dig me out. Come along, Nettle and whistling to
the terrier, which has been exchanging salutations with the carrier's
old half bred Collie Bertie Canter's on. I don't think
I can find time to go home to luncheon, says
missus Chetwind, casting an anxious eye round the half decorated church,
which presents a one sided appearance, two columns being beautifully
wreathed with glossy dark leaves and coral berries, shining Laurel
and graceful Ivy, and the third as yet untouched mildredd.
When you come back, will you and Alice bring me
some biscuits and I can eat them in the vestry.
The daylight now is so short, and I think to
day is even darker than usual. We shall have to
work very hard to get finished in time. I'll stay
with you, replies her cousin, and Alice shall bring provisions
for us both, and by this means the secret of
Bertie's absence from the early dinner remains unobserved. It is
snowing heavily as Alice, in fur cloak and snow boots,
trips back to the church, some quarter of a mile
distant from her home. The girl is beginning to be
very anxious about her brother, and sorely repents her extorted
promise of secrecy as to his intentions. We are getting on,
says missus Chetwinn, glancing round. I wonder if your father
will look in on his way back from shooting. I
suppose Bertie must have gone to join him, as we
have seen nothing of the boy. I hope they won't
be late. The snow is getting quite deep. A hasty
knocking at the church door makes Alice start and turn
so pale that her cousin laughs at her for setting
up nerves before, however, they can open it. The intruder
makes his way in and proves to be the stable helper,
with a face so white and scared that the alarm
is communicated to missus chetwind Milly. She says, faintly, there's
been some accident. Ask him quick Herbert's gun. No, no,
says her cousin, bent only on reassuring her, speak out, James.
Don't you see how you are frightening your mistress? If
you please, ma'am. Gray Plover has come home alone, and
the pony master Bertie, wasn't riding, Yes, ma'am, he started
to ride to Appleton about half past one o'clock to
ride in such weather, yes, ma'am, he would go, and
the squire are not being at home. I could not
hinder him. And now the pony's just galloped into and
Mary Dearest, don't look so frightened, cries Mildred, fearing her
cousin is going to faint. I dare say he got
off to walk and warm himself, and the pony broke away.
Ferdie rides so well he would not be likely to
have a fall. But the snow. Isn't it quite deep
in some places? James, yes, ma'am, six or seven feet,
they say, in the drifts. Though most part of the
road was pretty clear this morning. But it's been snowing
heavily these two hours and more, and nearly as dark
as night. And grape plover must have been down some
time or other, for when he came in, the saddle
was all over snow. Missus Chepwin gives a gasp, and
for a moment her cousin thinks her senses are going,
But with a brave struggle she rallied her powers. James,
you and the gardeners had better go off at once.
Two of you try eachro to Appleton to meet Master Bertie. Alice, dear,
run up to the house and fill father's flask with cordial,
and see that they take it, and and a blanket,
and tell some one to go and meet your father.
He will know best what to do. I must get
myself to look for my boy. God help me, what
shall I do if he has come to harm? You
cannot walk, darling, and Mildred tenderly leads her to one
of the open seats and strokes her hands in loving
but vain efforts at encouragement. Don't imagine anything bad till
it comes. Bertie is sure to have taken some of
the dogs with them, and they would have come home
to tell us if anything were wrong. There is only
little Nettle at home. Missus Chepwinn answers with a sigh.
Jerry and Nell are out shooting with Herbert, and the
new dog is no use. Oh Milly, my bright bonnie boy,
where can he be? See how dreadfully dark it has grown?
And the cold? Think if he should be lying helpless
in the snow. About the same time on this December afternoon,
the young man is getting out of the one horse
omnibus which the George Hotel, a small third rate inn,
albeit the best in Appleton, usually sends down to meet
the afternoon train from London. He is a tall, soldierly
looking person with bright dark eyes and a brisk, imperative manner,
which ensures a certain amount of attention, even from the
surly landlord. But when instead of demanding luncheon or any
creature comforts for himself, the traveler orders a dog cart
or any sort of trap with a good horse to
take him to mister Chetwin's house, five miles distant. The
host demurs, impossible. The omnibus horse is the only one roft,
and he has been out twice a day already. Besides,
there is likely to be a heavy fall of snow
before night. Even if a horse and trap could get
to Edenhurst, there would be no possibility of getting back
before nightfall. My host is very sorry to disoblige the gentleman,
but it is quite out of the question. The young man,
who is evidently not used to stolid opposition, begins to chafe,
and his dark eyes give an angry flash. However, he
forces himself to speak quietly and persuasively, and even descends
to bribery and his anxiety to spend his Christmas at Edenhurst. Still,
the landlord remains obdurate the fact that he has a
big commercial dinner impending at five o'clock, making him the
less inclined to spare any of his men. Well, hang
it all, cries the young man impatiently. Then I declare,
I'll get there all my own legs. I can carry
my bag, swinging it stoutly over his shoulder as he speaks.
And you must find some means of sending the other
things over tomorrow morning at latest. It would be too tantalizing,
he adds to himself, after coming two thousand miles to
see the little woman, if we could not spend our
Christmas Eve together after all, and turning a deaf ear
to the Landlord's remonstrances and prophecies of evil, he sets
forth briskly on the road well known to him, although
untrodden for two long years. Two little soul, He's saying
to himself as he strides through the snow, what a
surprise it'll be to her? I am half sorry now
I did not write. Perhaps she'll be startled, but I
don't believe in sudden joy hurting anyone. I wonder if
she'll be altered. I hope not. The little face couldn't
be sweeter than it was, And Herbert Chetwyn is a
rare good fellow. What a welcome I shall get from
him and his kind hearted wife. It's almost worth toiling
and broiling for two years in India to come home
for such a Christmas. I wonder if that jolly pickled
Bertie is much grown capital little companion he used to be.
I remember how far have I come. Oh, just past
the second milestone. The snow is getting plaguey deep, and
I can hardly see ten yards ahead. Can't say it
is pleasant traveling. How I shall appreciate the splendid fire
in the big hall fireplace at Edenhurst they will be
burning the Yule log for Christmas. How I shall enjoy
taking up all the old home customs once more. I
wonder if the weights go round? Now? What a brute
I used to feel, lying snug in bed and listening
to the poor little shivering mortals singing outside in the
frosty morning air, almost before it was light. But I
believe Herbert's wife and Milly always took care that they
had a warm breakfast and a toast at the kitchen
fire afterwards. But hello, I say, what little dog? Are
you out alone in the snow in this lonely part
of the road? Lost your master? Have you? Poor little beggar?
Never mind, you had better follow me home to Edenhurst
for tonight. They wouldn't refuse a welcome, even to a
stray dog on Christmas Eve. I say, you are very
pressing in your attentions, my friend. I'm afraid you are
on a wrong track, sniffing and prancing around me. I'm
not your master, nor a I've i the honor of
that gentleman's acquaintance, unless, by jove, if it isn't little Nettle,
the dog I give Mildred when I went to India.
What can she be doing out here alone? And what
does she want me to do? I wonder? As the terrier,
delighted at the sudden recognition, dances round him more energetically
than ever, catches his hand and the skirts of his
coat gently in her teeth, then runs on a little
way ahead, looking back to see if he is following.
Lead on, I'll follow thee. That seems to be what
you want me to say, eh, Little Nettle? All right there?
And the traveler's two long legs contrive to make quite
as rapid progress along the road as the terrier's four
short ones, especially as the poor little animal occasionally lights
on a snowy heap softer and deeper than the rest,
and is nearly lost to sight altogether for some seconds. Presently, however,
and spy of all obstacles, she scurries on ahead and
stops short with a joyful, self satisfied bark in front
of a dark object which is half sitting, half lying
in a bed of partly melted snow under the hedge,
an object which, upon closer inspection proves to be a slight,
curly headed boy clad in heather colored jacket and knickerbockers.
His cap has fallen off and his eyes are nearly closed,
as he leans back on his cold couch with an
expression of half conscious suffering on his young face. Come
this won't do, exclaims the traveler, in a tone of
no small surprise and concern. I see, young sir, have
you forgotten that this is December and not exactly the
season for enjoying life? In gipsy fashion. The boy's eyes
opened dreamily and scanned the keen, brown, mustached face which
is bending over him, But he neither moves nor makes
any response. The traveler lays a hand on his shoulder
and speaks again, somewhat more peremptorily. I say, young one,
get up, do you hear? Do you want to get
frozen to death? If there is some roughness in the tone,
there is none in the manner and gesture with which,
dropping on one knee in the snow, the traveler proceeds
to chafe the cold, nerveless hand, which, in answer to
this appeal the boy slowly tries to lift. He points
to his li left foot, which is stretched out in
an uncomfortable twisted attitude, and his new friend is not
long in discovering that a sprained ankle is the cause
of the mischief. A serviceable, many bladed knife is quickly produced,
and the boot dexterously slid open, to the instant relief
of the injured limb, which is much swollen. The boy
gives a gasp of satisfaction and murmurs thank you as
he makes a still unsuccessful effort to scramble to his feet.
Take care, let me give you a hand, poor little chap,
as the patient collapses again. Here have a pull at this,
taking a restorative from a medicine case in an inner pocket.
That's right, you'll be able to tell me about it presently,
nett a little ass. It's a pity you can't speak,
isn't it. How do you know the dog's name? The
boy inquires, now almost roused into curiosity. How do I
know it? Why? Because she belonged to me for six
months before I went to India, and then I gave
her to the lady who I hope is to be
my wife. Now I've come back. What are you, Cecil Gordon?
The same at your service, cousin sis, as your little
sister used to call me, if as I suppose you are,
my old playfellow Bertie, two years have made a day
difference in your side, my lad, And this snow gave
your face a blue sort of look which prevented my
knowing you at first. And now tell me what pranks
have you been playing to get into such a plight.
I rode gray Plover to Appleton this afternoon to get
some things the girls wanted, and the snowstorm came on heavily,
and it got horribly dark, as you see, and somehow
we stumbled into a snow drift. I'd marked the bad
places as I came, and thought I could keep clear
of them, but the darkness mist led me and the
snow got into my eyes. We rolled over together, and
my foot caught in the stirrup and came out with
an awful wrench. But it's ever so much better since
you cut the boot open. And then I suppose the
pony made off, Yes, I believe, so I felt awfully
sick when I got up, but I managed to crawl
out of the drift, for I just sense enough left
to mind being smothered. I don't suppose I could have
lain here very long when you came, or I should
have been frozen. Well, the great thing will be to
get you home as soon as may be. But the
snow is getting so deep that it won't be very
pleasant traveling. Can you bear to put that foot to
the ground? No, then don't try. My legs must do
duty for two. Oh, I'm too heavy. You'll never be
able to carry me, especially to snow. Nonsense. If you
begin making difficulties, I shall have to treat you as
one of our fellows. So the story goes, did the
wounded sergeant in Zululand oh what was that? Why? The
enemy was close upon them? And be that was The
officer was bent upon rescuing the sergeant of his troops,
who was wounded and helpless, and whose own horse had
been killed. So he told him to get up behind
on his horse, And the sergeant refused and told Bee
to save himself and leave him to perish. And be
answered in peremptory fashion, if you don't obey orders at once,
I shall punch your head. Don't punch mine today, says
Bertie with a rather feeble laugh and feels so queer
and top heavy. I'll give you leave to try as
soon as I'm all right again. All right, but now
about this getting home? Here, you take the bag and
I'll carry you. Will you ride an ordinary pickaback fashion,
or as I've seen soldiers do at what they've called
chummy races, lengthwise across their bearer's shoulders. Bertie prefers the
former method, and with some little difficulty, is hoisted into
the required position. How are they all at home? Asks
Captain Gordon, after they have advanced some little way in silence,
very well and very jolly. Only to day cousin Milly
was out of spirits because well what the tone is
sharp and impatient, because you hadn't written, and she did
so want a letter for Christmas, and I thought there
might be one by the afternoon post. They do come
then sometimes, And that was the reason for your taking
that crazy ride through the snow, My dear little fellow.
And the brisk voice is very kind and gentle. Now
I am sorry to have been the cause of all
this trouble. Oh, never mind, it was partly too to
get Alice the candles she was bothering about for the
Christmas tree by the bye. I hope they've not fallen
out of my pocket. No, here they are, all right.
I'm afraid you found no letter at the post office
after all. You see, the orders for home came to
us rather suddenly, and when I found I could be
in England as soon as a letter could reach I
didn't write. I am so sorry it happened. So you
had lots of real fighting among the Afghans, hadn't you. Yes,
I'll tell you about it some day. Just now, I
want my breath for something more than talking. How deep
the snow is between these high hedges. Yeah, if only
we could get over into the fields it would be better.
And there's a short cut too, Can we find it?
I'll try, but my head is so stupid somehow, don't
I hear someone whistling behind us? As Bertie speaks, a
young laboring man comes up to them, looks with some
surprise at the pair, and answers with a surly grunt
to Captain Gordon's inquiry as to the nearest way to Edenhurst.
Why Jack, you can show us, cries Bertie impatiently. There's
a style somewhere that leads right past your mother's cottage,
and then we can get across Higgins's fields. If there
is a cottage, I shall be glad of five minutes
rest by the fireside, says Cecil, who is beginning to
get decidedly blown. I was just thinking what an awfully
lonely road this was. Jack Brown is a surly fellow,
whispers Bertie in his ear, but not so low, but
that the man catches the last words surly. And who
wouldn't be young master. I'd like to know in my place,
didn't the squire have me up for poaching? And didn't
I get three weeks in jail along of snaring a
few worthless pheasants? Much he or anyone would have cared
if my old mother had starved the for shame. Bertie's
wrath is making him quite energetic, as if mother and
Mildred didn't go to see the old woman nearly every
day and make sure she wanted for nothing, well, well,
interrupts Cecil. Don't rag up bygones on Christmas Eve of
all days in the year, forgive and forget peace and
good will. That's what the bells always seemed to me
to be saying. I say, my friend, I'm sure your
mother will be willing to let the young master sit
by her fire for five minutes after he's nearly got
himself killed and buried too, riding to Appleton to do
his sister and cousin a good turn. A shadow of
a smile lurks on Jack's grim visage at this appeal,
and he proceeds to lead the way across a difficult
hog backed stile, over which he helps to lift Bertie
with more gentleness than might be expected, and striding before
them through the snow which is more even and easy
to wade through in the open field, he presently stops
at the door of a little thatched cottage, which is
opened by a tidy old woman. Bertie is soon established
in her own high backed wooden chair by the fire,
drinking hot if somewhat hascented tea, and obtaining great relief
from the attentions his friend is now better able to
bestow upon the injured foot. Meanwhile, this is becoming a
very sad Christmas Eve to the anxious watchers at Edenhurst.
The Squire has returned home, puzzled and half incredulous at
the confused report of Master Bertie's disappearance which has reached him.
But when the snow soaked saddle and the riderless pony
have been shown him, he too grows seriously alarmed, and,
without waiting to change his wet things, sets off in
the direction of Appleton. Other messengers have already been dispatched,
but the hours pass by and no news is obtained.
No one happening to think of the short cut and
old Missus Brown's cottage. Even the bells are mute. The
villagers cannot bear to ring them when their dear lady
is in such trouble. She is trying hard to force
herself to believe that nothing can be so very wrong.
It is foolish to be so over anxious. No one
has any heart to carry on the joyous preparations for Christmas,
in which Bertie usually bears an active part, But Missus
Chetwood will not let the poor people suffer, and their
gifts of warm clothing and tea and sugar are all
looked over and carefully ticketed by Mildred and Alice. Poor girls,
they have little spirit for the work, but it is
better for them than the dreary waiting which follows. At last,
Alice can bear it no longer. She throws a cloak
round her and steals out into the avenue. The air
is clearer now, and the snow has ceased to fall.
The earth is covered with a brilliant white sheet, and
overhead the wintery stars are shining out one by one
in the deep blue vault. The girl begins to feel
more hopeful as the still frosty air cools her hot cheek,
and the stars look down upon her with their silent
greeting of peace, glad tidings of great joy, the Christmas
message of nearly nineteen centuries ago. Surely it cannot be
that a heart breaking grief is to come on them
on this of all nights in the year. A prayer
is in her heart, on her lips, And even in
that moment, as if in answer, there burst forth the
most joyous of all sounds to Alice's ear, their own
village bells ringing in a merry Christmas peal. It had
been understood that this was to be the signal of
Bertie's being found and safe. Louder and louder it comes,
and eager congratulations are exchanged by the anxious watchers. Missus
Chetwin wants to fly to meet her boy, but is
gently restrained by Mildred, who reminds her that his father
must be with him. Nor is it long before a
happy group or seen approaching. There is Bertie, who has
insisted on putting his injured foot to the ground, lest
his mother should be frightened by seeing him carried bravely
hopping along with the aid of his father's strong arm.
Faithful little Nettle trotting close at his side, and Jack Brown,
with whom the Squire has shaken hands and exchanged a
merry Christmas, slouching behind. But who is the tall figure
on Bertie's other side, ah cousin Mildred knows and well
it is perhaps that the growing darkness throws a friendly
veil over the joyous blushes and the happy, thankful tears
that mark that meeting, and of Bertie's ride by Lady
Dunboyn