CHAPTER XXVI.

CHRISTMAS IN THE VILLAGE.

“The misletoe hung in the castle hall, The holly-branch shone on the old oak wall, The baron’s retainers were blithe and gay, Keeping their Christmas holiday. Oh! the misletoe bough! Oh! the misletoe bough!”—_Old Song._

The sun was rising when the mail-coach arrived at the little hamlet of Hyde, and drew up before the “Morelle Arms.”

Bright and gay with misletoe and holly was the little inn.

Busy and cheerful was the buxom little landlady. Bustling she hurried out to welcome any chance guests that the mail might have brought her. Evidently she expected some one—probably Lord Dazzleright, for Hyde Hall, so anxious and scrutinizing were the glances she sent into the interior of the coach. Her honest countenance beamed with joy at seeing Lord Montressor alight. Yet still she looked for some one to come after him.

No one followed. The stage-coach drove on.

The little landlady courtesied.

“Welcome back to Devonshire, my lord! Walk in, my lord! This way, my lord! Would your lordship choose breakfast?” she inquired, with busy, respectful solicitude.

Yes, his lordship would take breakfast, and afterward a post-chase to Hyde Hall.

The little landlady bustled out to obey his orders; and then bustled back again to lay the cloth for breakfast. Her cheerful face was now disturbed by anxiety. She cast furtive searching glances into Lord Montressor’s thoughtful, abstracted countenance—and quickly withdrew them in fear of discovery. In fact, the little body would have given the world, or at least her share in it—“Morelle Arms”—to have the privilege of inquiring after her nursling, Estelle. On observing Lord Montressor alight from the coach, she had naturally looked to see him hand _her_ out, thinking that they were both together, and both going to spend Christmas with the lady’s parents up at the Hall. She could not understand why “my lord” should be _en route_ alone, to enjoy Christmas with her family, where she was not. It is true that many contradictory rumors had reached Hyde. But Dame Higgins doubted each and all, and now seeing Lord Montressor, she sighed for Estelle.

When the breakfast was ready she brought it in, and with the hope of hearing something indirectly of her “nurse child,” she remained and waited on the table.

“Do you know, are the family at the Hall in their usual health, Mrs. Higgins?” inquired his lordship, as he received a cup of coffee from her hands.

“Ah, my lord, begging your lordship’s pardon, is it like they should be well? Sir Parke is much broken, and Lady Morelle is not the handsome, youthful-looking woman that she was a year ago,” said the landlady, shaking her head gravely.

Now Lord Montressor had not asked for, or expected this implied reflection upon the family misfortunes, on the part of Mother Higgins. He surmised in himself, a certain indiscretion in having made any inquiries whatever. He now made no comment upon her communication, but continued perfectly silent.

Not so the landlady. As his lordship had set the example of asking questions, she ventured to follow it.

“I hope my lady was in good health when your lordship came away?” said Mrs. Higgins, putting her question in the most polite—that is, in the affirmative, form.

“I thank you—yes,” replied Lord Montressor, in a tone and manner that forbade farther encroachments on the part of his hostess.

The little woman therefore occupied herself with waiting on her guest, and held her tongue until again she was spoken with.

“Can I have a chaise from this place to take me over to the Hall, Mrs. Higgins?” at length asked Lord Montressor.

“Indeed, your lordship, I am very sorry, but the chaise has gone to Horsford, this morning, to take over some Christmas visitors that came down from London last night, and it won’t be back before noon,” replied the landlady, with a look of real regret.

Horsford! How that name recalled the scene of the preliminary investigation. “Ah, Sir George Bannerman, that is a debt that remains to be settled,” thought Lord Montressor.

Observing his lordship’s deepened gravity, and attributing it to his disappointment in regard to the chaise, the hostess hastened to add—

“But, my lord, Jenkins has not yet gone home.”

“Jenkins?—who may he be?”

“Yes, my lord, Jenkins—Sir Parke Morelle’s man, who was sent here from the Hall this morning with the carriage to meet Lord Dazzleright, who didn’t arrive.”

“And Jenkins, you say, has not gone back with the carriage.”

“No, my lord; he is in the kitchen at this present moment, having a rasher and a pot of ale.”

“Very well. When Jenkins has finished his repast, be good enough to send him here,” said Lord Montressor, rising from the table.

“I will, my lord,” she replied, going out to obey.

In a few minutes, the coachman from Hyde Hall entered the presence of his lordship.

Here again was a recognition full of painful reminiscences! Jenkins was the gray-haired old man who had driven the carriage containing the bridal party, from the Hall to the church, on that fatal first of May. Lord Montressor had not seen him since that dark day.

The old man stood respectfully, hat in hand, waiting his lordship’s commands.

“How do you do, Jenkins? I hope the family at the Hall are well?” were Lord Montressor’s first words.

“Hem—m—m, as well as usual, I believe, my lord,” replied the aged domestic, hesitatingly, though respectfully.

Lord Montressor then announced that he had come down to visit Sir Parke Morelle, and would be pleased to have a seat in the homeward-bound carriage.

The horses were feeding; but Jenkins would have them put to the carriage immediately; and bowing low, he went out to attend to the matter.

Lord Montressor then called for a room, paid such attention to his toilet as the circumstances admitted, then went below, settled his reckoning, and entered the carriage that waited to take him to Hyde Hall.

This was a fine, clear, bright winter morning. A light snow, that had fallen during the night, just covered the ground, and added to the cheerfulness of the scene. A slight frost, like the embroidering of fine pearls, just touched the trees.

The little village was already gay with Christmas revelings. Misletoe and holly decked many of the doors and windows of the houses each side of the only street, at the head of which stood the “Morelle Arms,” and down which the carriage now drove. Neighbors hailed each other; children in troops ran gayly, with “Merry Christmas,” from dwelling to dwelling, or came out thence, with hands, hats, or pinafores, full of “goodies.”

The carriage leaving the gay village street behind, passed on down the turnpike road leading through the common toward the park.

Just before turning in the great gate, they passed the little Gothic church, the scene of Estelle’s fatal bridal and subsequent arrest. This was the most painful of all the reminiscences awakened by his return to the neighborhood. The little church was open, and was dressed within and without with mistletoe and holly. And some of the most devout among the parishioners had assembled thus early to assist at Divine worship, and were now walking about and conversing cheerfully in the church-yard, while waiting for the hour of service to arrive. Several of the old men took off their hats to his lordship, as the carriage passed.

But Lord Montressor could ill bear this scene with the graphic pictures of the past that it recalled. So bowing gently to their salutations, he quietly put up the blinds of the carriage, gave orders to drive faster, and then sunk back into his seat until they had entered the park.