More Pages from a Journal | Page 4

when it melts there doesn't go to dirty, filthy slush as it does in
Brighton. But it's the people here I can't bear. I could fly at that Poulter
and that Goacher at times, no matter if I was had up for it.'
'You forget what a hard life you had with Mrs. Wootton at the Hatch.'
'No, I don't forget. She had a rough tongue, but she was one of our set.
She got as good as she gave. She spoke her mind, and I spoke mine,
and there was an end to it. But this lot--they are so stuck- up and
stuck-round. I never saw such folk in our parts--they make me feel as if
I were the dirt under their feet.'
'Never mind them. I have more to put up with than you have. You
know all; you may be sure, if I could help it, I shouldn't be here.'
'I do know all. I shouldn't grieve if that stepmother of yours drank
herself to death. O Lord, when I see what you have to go through I am
ashamed of myself. But you were made one way and I another. You
dear, patient creature!'
'It's half-past eleven. It is time to go to bed.'

They went to their cold lean-to garrets under the slates.
Miss Toller lay awake for hours. This, then, was Christmas Eve, one
more Christmas Eve. She recollected another Christmas Eve twenty
years gone. She went out to a party, she and her father and mother and
sister; mother and sister now dead. Somebody walked home with her
that clear, frosty night. Strange! Miss Toller, Brighton lodging-house
keeper, always in black gown--no speck of colour even on
Sundays--whose life was spent before sinks and stoves, through whose
barred kitchen windows the sun never shone, had wandered in the land
of romance; in her heart also Juliet's flame had burned. A succession of
vivid pictures of her girlhood passed before her: of the garden, of the
farmyard and the cattle in it, of the river, of the pollard willows sloping
over it, of Barton Sluice covered with snow--how still it was at that
moment--the dog has been brought inside because of the cold, and is
asleep in the living-room--her father, is he awake? the tall clock is
ticking by the window, she could hear its slow beats, and as she
listened she fell asleep, but was presently awakened by the bells
proclaiming the birth in a manger. She remembered that Mrs. Poulter
had to be called at seven that she might go to an early service. She
hastily put on her clothes and knocked at the door, but Mrs. Poulter
decided that, as it was freezing, it would not be safe to venture, and
having ordered a cup of tea in her bedroom at half-past eight, turned
round and fell asleep again.
It was a busy day. The lodgers, excepting Miss Everard, went to church
in the morning, but Miss Toller and Helen had their hands full. In the
afternoon Miss Toller was obliged to tell Helen the unpleasant news.
'I don't want to go, but I must not offend them.'
'But you ARE going?'
'I can't get out of it.'
Helen did not speak another word. About half-past six Miss Toller put
on her best clothes and appeared in the dining-room. Helen punctually
served the dinner. A seat was allotted to Miss Toller at the bottom of

the table opposite Miss Everard and next to Mr. Goacher, who faced
Mrs. Poulter. Mrs. Mudge's wine was produced, and Mr. Goacher
graciously poured out a glass for Miss Toller.
'At this festive season, ma'am.'
A second glass was not offered, although Mrs. Mudge's supply was
liberal. Mr. Goacher did not stint himself.
'There are beautiful churches in Northamptonshire, I believe, Miss
Toller?' said the reverend gentleman after the third glass.
'Yes, very beautiful.'
'Ah! that is delightful. To whatever school in the Establishment we
belong, we cannot be insensible to the harmony between it and our dear
old ivy-clad towers and the ancient gravestones. I love old country
churches. I often wish my lot had been cast in a simple rural parish.'
Miss E. 'Why do you not go?'
Mr. G. 'My unfortunate throat; and besides, I believe I am really better
fitted for an urban population.'
Miss E. 'In what way?'
Mr. G. 'Well, you see, Miss Everard, questions present themselves to
our hearers in towns which do not naturally occur to the rustic
mind--questions with which, if I may say so, I am perhaps fitted to deal.
The rustic mind needs nothing more than a simple presentation of the
Gospel.'
Miss E. 'What kind of questions?'
Mr. G. 'You must be aware that our friend Mrs. Poulter, for instance,
accustomed as she is to the