NOEL.

Lyttelton Times, Volume CXVI, Issue 16749, 2 January 1915, Page 7

NOEL.

(By MAY EDGINTON, in “The Woman at Home.”)

“ She’s so pompshous,” said the Oldest Inmate cuttingly. The other old women in the workhouse garb, with the clean white caps, sniffed acquiescence to this accusation, and turned virtuously Indignant faces on Auut Eliza. Sfio was a standing grievance with them, yet a grievance ever fresh, to which they turned day by day with new zest, ana which formed a little oasis of interest in the monotonous desert of their lives. I say “ lives,” but their existence was merely vegetable, these old souls, a dreary ‘‘marking time” till they got the marching orders, for which, jf they had not been too dulled for emotion, 1 should say their hearts yearned. Till then, there was Aunt Eliza, and they fell upon her, metaphorically, tooth and nail, day by day, countenanced — nay, cheered into action —by the Oldest Inhabitant, whose years had not taught her to give the mercy she had never received. .

“ An’ Christmas Eve, too, an’ all, an’ peace an’ goodwill,” said the other old women, shaking their heads. “Shockin’!” said the Oldest Inmate. Christmas Eve? No? Yes, Christmas Eve.

Aunt Eliza turned suddenly in her chair in the warmest corner by the lire, so that her old ‘face, contorted with a sudden spasm of tears, was hidden from them. Her pride was the one independent possession left to her, sho told herself, and let Mrs Stubbins see? Not if it was ever so. . . . She poked the fire vigorously. ‘‘Some folks,” said the Oldest Inmate, tossing her white-capped head tremulously, ‘‘ain’t oten satisfied with tho good fires what their betters provides for ’em.”

‘‘lndeed, they isn’t 1” agreed the chorus.

“ And if,” pursued the Oldest Inmate, spitefully, at Aunt Eliza’s stubborn back, “if, in this vale of humiliation. any one ’as a right to a little family. pride, surely it’s me, that ’as a sou in the bakery, an’ a grauddarter that writes to me reg’lar—an’ me ’avin’ Christmas cards this very moruin’.” The chorus sighed enviously. A few apron corners applied surreptitiously to suddenly tear-filled old eyes, paid tribute to the sting in the Oldest Inmate’B remarks. But the poison of them was only for Aunt Eliza, and it stung deep down, and smarted, and quivered. Letters. And relations. And Christmas cards.

It was then that a kindly face and form evolved slowly from tho heart of the glowing lire, hovered vaporously a moment in mid air, wavered, then fixed, and stood by Aunt Eliza—Noel personified. Peace and goodwill lie brought with him and instilled around him. Blessings immeasurable glowed in eyes that lieid tho knowledge of ages. 'I he old women ceased their vituperation, the venom of their tongues stilled, while the radiance of Ids presence diffused itself. Yet to no one was he visible, save Aunt Eliza. They looked at each other like old friends.

“Father Christmas!” said Aunt Eliza, as a little child might. “And a merry Christinas to you!” Old Noel returned genially.

But as ho studied the blank face with his eyes of vast experience, he saw that it would need all Ids skill to bring about tho fulfilment of that wish. ,“Not for me!” said Aunt Eliza. Old Noel asked her very gently: “ And why not for you?” “It’s a Christmas too many!” 6aid Aunt Eliza, smiling drearily. “That’s why. In here they hates me.” She glanced round at her companions, and scowled from long habit. “ And why is that?” said Christmas. ‘ ‘ They says—they says I’m pompshous,” Aunt Eliza faltered, “because 1 can’t forget it’s a come-down to be in the ’Ouse. They says I’m proud an’ sinful, an’ so they can’t abear me.” “Dear! dear!” said Christmas.

“ An’ outside,” Aunt Eliza paused. “ Outside they’ve forgot me. There wasn’t no letters, nor Christmas cards——” “Cardl” said Christmas. “Presents! Now we’re talking. That’s my department. Walk in!” cried Christmas, rubbing his old hands in huge delight, “ and take your choice. A large assortment, Madam.”

“I don't feel to care for nothin’, Sir.” said Aunt Eliza apologetically. “ Nothing?” echoed Christmas. “Nothing, my dear Madam?” “At least,” said Aunt Eliza, bridling a little (she liked to be called “Madam”), “at least I ’avo thought sometimes that I’d like a shawl, Sir, like me red one, ’and-knitted, Sir ” “ Yes?” said Christmas interrogatively, to bridge over the pause where Aunt Eliza’s voice quavered and broke.

“Like trie red knitted one, Sir,” said Aunt Eliza, “ what my daughter made me when she were a little girl at school, Sir.” “Ahl” said Christmas, smiling delightfully. “So high were she,” said Aunt Eliza, measuring an absurd distance from the floor with a trembling hand, “ and knitted somethiiik beautiful.” “ And where is she now?” asked Noel. “I wonder now if I could find P” “Dead!” said Aunt Eliza, her face suddenly changing, and darkening and hardening. “ And I’m grateful for it, Sir.” “Ahl” sighed Christmas. “So that was—l remember her quite well.” “I won’t!” said Aunt Eliza, with passionate pride in her husky voice, “I—Sir—will forget her!” “ Not so,” said Christmas very gently, “but forgive her.” There was silence.

"Yes,” he repeated, "I remember her quite well.” (Indeed he had been the last to apeak to that poor unfortunate but he spoke in vain, for she stood already on the Bridge of Sighs.) “Shall I tell you,” Christmas asked. “of my travels to-dav?”

He leaned forward as he spoke, and took her wrinkled hand, and healed with his magic the old wounds that reminiscence hnd re-opened. So he told her of nis travels that Christmas Eve. Tales of love and hate, of peace and war, king and peasant, _ castle and cottage, land and sea, sick and sorry, happy and blost, city and country, and over all Peace and Goodwill to all men and, Aunt Eliza listened like a little child. * “I’ve no doubt, Sir,” she said, a little timidly, when the enthralling recital drew to a close, “ I’ve no doubt —you seem to ’ave been a great traveller Sir—.that you . knows Devonshire?”

Quite well said Christmas, smiling at her. Indeed, I passed through only this morning. Well, well!” said Aunt Eliza. “To think of it! I don’t rightly know it meself. but I’ve a boy there- I ain’t seen him these? ten year, and’ he’vo stopped writin’.” faitering, “what with bein’ busy, an’ the like. He ain't forgot mo. But I thought may be you’d give me news of hiip.. One o’ tbo finest men in Devon he’ll be,” said Aunt Eliza proudly, “bv this time. You couldn’t help but notice him. Sir.” “Yes,’ said Christmas slowly, “i saw your boy.” “Is he well?” the mother asked anxiously. “Quite well,” Christmas answered.

Aye, quite well 1 But not in the rural peace of his Devon home had lie met Aunt Eliza’s hov; but “on the road a thin form in rags, that lay beside a.frosted hay stack by the wavside, beneath the pale moon that was not more, still and cold thaii he. Quite well now, with the slightless eyes upturned to the deep night sky, and on the gaunt face the Shadow,' the dim mysterious Shadow, but without' tho pain and tho terror—" as the shadow of a great, rock in a weary land.” This had Christmas seen and mourned although many Yuletides had he seen such sad sights—but he could not tell Aunt Eliza.

“ And I dessny,” she pursued, with brightening eyes, “in a tittle place oi' his own, by now. A cottage an’ garden, mebbe, Sir.” “ More, much more,” said Christmas softly. “ One of the many mansions.” ” That sounds good,” said Aunt Eliza. Somewhere in the great silent workhouse a clock struck. “I must go,” said Noel hastily. “Good-bve.” His form was already fading, but he twinkled kindly at the nodding old woman. “ A red shawl, 1 think yoa said ” “ ’ Arid-knitted. Sir,” said Aunt Eliza, rousing herself eagerly, “an’ one yard square it were- - But Noel’s place was empty, and the fire needed replenishing. The old women were looking with disfavour at Aunt Eliza. Tt was an hour later when the Matron announced that the Rectory young ladies had brought special gifts for the old women. One by one they went out. and received them, and returned, critically appraising. Aunt Eliza went last., sleepy with the heat of the fire, utterly devoid of interest. The visitors thought her a singularly ungracious old woman.

“ A merry Christmas to yon, Mrs Jones,” said the Rector’s eldest daughter in her best official manner (it was considered a “bright” manner in the parish, “ For you 1 have a shawl.” she was undoing the string of a bulky parcel as she spoke, “ a red shawl, that 1 know you will appreciate, because it has just been knitted, all by hand, by a dear little girl in my Sunday school class. 'And red is such a cheerful colour, isn’t it? There! Are you the last? Then T positively must .go. . I ntp already late. . Good night, Mrs* Jones, and I hope you will find the shawl useful.”

. Aunt Eliza stood helpless and tonguetied. The Rector’s daughter turned to go. But a shadowy form that had been hovering around the gifts took shape, and !Noel met her at the door, ana turned her back with insistent hands. She stood a monient surprised, hesitant, flushing at the unusual suggestion shaping in her mind. Unusual? Quite unprecedented, of course.. Nevertheless she, turned suddenly, and going up to Aunt Eliza, took the shawl from her Mow hands.

“ Let me put it on for yon,” she said, paying to age—a pauper’s age—an unconscious tribute of girlish deference. “It suits you beautifully. Dear Mrs Jones, how nice you look! A very, very happy Christmas to you. . . . .” And kissed her. Aunt Eliza, pink with pride and pleasure, hugged the red glory to her breast.

Christmas Day. Feast Day in the workhouse. The old women revelled. Aunt Eliza ate her plum pudding, in dignity and a red hapd-knitted shawl one yard square. “ There’s no bearing with her, she’s that pompshousl” said the Oldest Inmate vindictively. “I think,” said Aunt Eliza, strong in the memory of that kiss, “I has reason.” '