# Comin' Thro' the Rye (Mathers)/Seed Time/Chapter 21

CHAPTER XXI.
Christmas has come with his garment of snow and crown of hollies and icicles, with his jolly red face and lavishly-filled hands, and he has abode with us a little space, wielding his sceptre royally at feast and wassail; but now that the poor old year, the friend out of which he grew, is dying, and the new one in all its pride and pomp is dawning, he sweeps away from us sorrowfully, and we see his face no more. Jack and I, home for the holidays, have been literally obeying the golden mandate that bids mankind "Gather ye roses while ye may," and we have eaten plum-pudding and Christmas cakes galore, reaping the punishment of our unholy gluttony in aches and pains that we have had to take upon our backs and bear in silence, venturing on no complaint; for in the somewhat unique rules of our family there is a stringent one: "Thou shalt not be sick." Ill or well, faint, pain-stricken or bilious, in our places at table we must appear; and if unkind nature, refusing to be tutored, makes our faces pale and anxious, by angry looks and words are we made to feel the shamelessness and iniquity of our conduct. If either of us have a bout of real illness that refuses to be knocked on the head in deference to the governor's will, the culprit is placed under the ban of an awful and crushing displeasure below stairs, that person's name is never mentioned, and when the convalescent makes his appearance in public, white and attenuated, his presence is ignored; he is considered to have disgraced himself past all forgiveness. To call in Esculapius is a dangerous and most ticklish proceeding, and only ventured on in a case of extreme emergency; he knows his peril, and comes with reluctance and departs with alacrity. All things considered, we have had a stormy time of it lately. Over and above ​the perpetual little disasters that will occur in so tightly managed a household (for every one knows that human nature if squeezed in at one place will burst out in another), the long expected difficulty about Alice's and Charles's matrimonial affairs has appeared upon the scene. The six months of probation having expired, Captain Lovelace had pressed for a formal engagement, and hinted at a wedding day, only to be met with contumely and dismissed with insult and mockery. He does not come here now, his place knows him no more, and the rebellious look on my sister's lovely face brings her many a bitter word and hard sneer; but outwardly, at least, she acquiesces in her lot, and says no word on the subject, good, bad, or indifferent. She is growing very thin, our pretty Alice. It might move any man's heart to see how her face pales day by day, how slender her little wrists and waist are. But papa never heeds, never looks; he lays hard burdens upon his children, and does not touch them with so much as the tip of his finger. I think we would deal him out greater mercy than he deals us.
Although I was so faithful a gooseberry to Alice, she never speaks of Charles Lovelace to me. Often I come upon her and Milly in close confabulation, and feel unreasonably vexed; for, after all, is not Milly sixteen, and old enough to understand, while I am but fourteen, and supposed to know nothing whatever on the subject of love and courtship? Ah! they don't know I have got a sweetheart too! That is a secret. I am a good deal puzzled by Miss Alice; I thought her so plucky, and good for any amount of fighting. Can she be going to "lay her down and dee" without a protest? On this point I am speedily disabused, making, in fact, a discovery so astounding and petrifying, that for a while I feel as though some one had rapped me on the head smartly and then run away, leaving me to recover as best I might.
It is on this wise. Diving under Alice and Milly's bed one day after a slippery vagrant orange, I discover the ample space beneath ​the huge old four-poster to be filled with packed and corded trunks—Alice's all, from the imperial down to the bonnet-box.
Is she going away? She has nowhere to go to. An awful thought strikes me, and I sit down on the floor, valance in hand, to follow it up. Can she be going to run away? She has no money. Ah! but Charles Lovelace has, and I read of a couple the other day who, after wasting apart for six months, ran away and got married, and became fat directly. But then their governors weren't a patch upon ours. Alice never can be meditating anything so desperate as that.
As I sit ruminating, she herself comes in and sits down opposite me—a charming figure in her winter gown of dark blue, with the snowy Quakerish kerchief and apron of muslin.
"Alice," I say, lifting the valance and pointing at the assemblage of boxes, "are you going away?"
She looks at me considering.
"I did not want you to know, Nell," she says, "but as you have found it out it can't be helped. I am going to be married."
"Married!" I repeat. "Oh, Alice!"
She looks such a child, as she sits yonder, to wear a wedding ring on her finger and be called Mrs., and order the dinner.
"It is all his fault," she says, nodding towards a distant field where we can see the governor harrying his workpeople. "There is nothing else to be done!"
There is a clouded, sorrowful look in her blue eyes; lovely bits of colour that savants say are becoming year by year more rare,—the dark brown and slate slowly, but surely, hustling the saucy azure off the human countenance.
"Charles says it would have gone on like this for ever, and that we may as well get it over now as in a year's time. If I stayed here much longer, Nell, I should die!"
"Dear love!" I say, jumping up and running to her. "Well, it will be wretched without you—disgusting" (the tears trickle down ​my cheeks); "but I am not sorry, for you will be happy, dear! But Alice, Alice, papa!"
"His capers, you mean?"
"He will kill us!" I say, with conviction. "Do not ever expect to receive any account of what happens after you leave, for there will not be one man left to tell the tale! You may look in the Times for the following announcement: "At Silverbridge, the wife and eleven children of Colonel Adair, the sad result of domestic circumstances over which he had no control."
"Indeed, I do think of you all very much," says Alice: "it makes me very miserable."
"Don't fret, dear; we have weathered storms enough, and why not this! When are you going?"
"To-morrow!"
"Oh, Alice! And you are going to Mr. Skipworth's to-night?"
"Yes; that was why we fixed to-morrow. Charles's man will get all the boxes out of the house, and Tabitha will help him."
"And would you have gone without telling me?" I ask, putting my arms round her neck and raining down a steady drip of tears on her pretty head.
"I should have wished you good-bye, dear, but I did not mean to tell you, for fear he should ask you all round afterwards if you knew anything."
"Milly knows?"
"Yes."
"And mother?"
"Good heavens, no! How shall ever say good-bye to her? She will see you have been crying, Nell."
"Do you think you will ever come back?" I ask piteously. "Do you think you will go away for ever?"
"No, no," she says; "we will come and see you at school, Charles and I, next half, and we shall stay somewhere near here, so as to see mother. Besides, sooner or later, it will be made up."
​"Never!" I say, shaking my miserable head; he will never forgive you for getting out of his clutches."
"Alice!" calls mother in the distance, and with a warm hug and kiss she goes away.
"You do look a beauty!" says Jack, meeting me half an hour later. "Have you torn your last remaining frock to ribbons?"
"Preserved gooseberries," I say, determined to put as bold a face upon matters as I can; "they were very sour you know, and they made my stomach ache, and I howled."
Well, I never knew you cry about such a trifle as that before," he says loftily.
I should like to tell him, but I must not. Eight o'clock has struck. The governor and mother, Alice and Milly, set out for the parsonage, an hour ago; scarcely within our memory has he been known to spend an evening out, but to-night he has really gone. It is to be hoped Charles's man and Tabitha will do their spiriting gently, and not be caught. I wonder if Charles Lovelace is wandering about among the flower-beds keeping watch? We have supper, Amberley, Jack, Dolly, Alan, and I. I am just thinking of retiring to my couch, there to indulge in a good comfortable roar, when Dolly appears bearing a small and elaborately folded note, which she hands to me: "I challenge you to a bolstering match.—Jack." Now, if there is one thing on earth I love more than another, it is a hearty, no quarter-giving bolstering match round the house with Jack, and it is a treat I very seldom get, thanks to the governor's barnacle-like habit of sticking at home. To-night is a splendid opportunity, we are never likely to get such another; but with to-morrow's event impending over me, and with my heavy heart holding me down, I doubt if I should be able to give Jack those vigorous whacks to which he is accustomed, so I take a sheet of paper, write on it, "Can't. I'm ill.—Nell," and fold it as elaborately as his. Dolly goes away with it, but quickly returns ​with another. "You are afraid! you ate enough supper for six.—Jack;" to which I make answer, "I ain't! I didn't! Come on!" I then prepare for the conflict. I take off my dress and upper petticoats and shoes, put on my nightgown, tuck the sleeves well up over my arms; then, selecting my strongest and stoutest pillow, I sling it over my back and sally forth. The dimly lit passage is empty, but I creep warily along, keeping a keen eye to right and left, for behind yonder chest the foe may lurk, or from out yonder half-shut door he may suddenly spring; and if I am not prepared with my weapon, whack! upon my defenceless head will come a blow, heavy in proportion to the skill of the hand that aims it. Gingerly then I go, breathless with expectation, every nerve strung to its highest pitch, but the foe does not appear, and I am just wondering whether he is lazy or meditating a dishonourable attack from the rear, when, whirr! from the oriel window comes a swift well-directed blow that would smite me to earth did I not catch it midway with my pillow, which meets the other in a sound crack that reverberates through the house. Now the engagement is opened, the exchange of compliments is brisk, and ducking, dodging, slashing, backing, retreating, advancing, we have a hand-to-hand encounter, until Amberley appears at the top of the stairs candlestick in hand, meek, scandalized, open-mouthed. Down the corridor I flee, Jack in hot pursuit, showering liberal blows on my vanishing tail; past Amberley, who, being in the line of battle, receives a blow intended for my worthless back, which smites the candlestick from her hand and flattens her, a heap of ruins, against the wall; down the stairs like a flash of lightning; through the nurseries like a clap of thunder, where nurse cries "Shame!" and the youngsters, "Go it!" out on the other side, down the lower staircase, across the hall into the dining-room. . . . but where is Jack? He was at my heels a moment ago; now he is neither to be heard nor seen. . . . Is he listening at the door, or creeping up ​behind me? The room is in total darkness, save for a tiny stream that shows under the half-opened door from the hall-lamp. I wonder what all that commotion in the hall is about? Can Jack have run against Simpkins in his pursuit, and upset the old thing? He is sure to be here in a minute. . . . I mount a chair behind the door. . . . . As he comes in I will deal him a blow that will make him wink. Footsteps are approaching; he is coming. . . . I grasp my bolster convulsively, the door opens, and, bang! with all the strength of my body and soul, I bring it down on the head of—Jack? Scarcely. Does Jack swear like a trooper, and dance like a dervish? Does Jack rush madly hither and thither, vowing when he catches me to "break every bone in my skin?" My heart sinks like lead, the bolster drops from my limp fingers, my feet are glued to the chair, as the awful conviction strikes me that I have been bolstering the governor. Some instinct of self-preservation, as he comes near me in his furious search, makes me leave my perch and dodge him swiftly and noiselessly round and round. Finally, watching my opportunity, I bolt out of the door just as William appears with candles, shoot past him like a meteor, and am up the stairs before you could say "Jack Robinson." Papa, dashing out in hot pursuit, butts head foremost into the out-stretched arms of the footman, and they roll over and over and over, master, man, candles, and all. A confused sound as of Wombwell's menagerie ascends to my ears, as I fly past the maids and fry who are hanging over the stairs anxiously watching the march of events, and having locked myself into my chamber, I sit down on the side of my bed with my eyes fixed upon the door, expecting it every moment to fly asunder and admit my executioner. But though I hear terrible sounds of devastation and fury in the distance, the minutes pass, and still he comes not. After a while, I am able to draw a deep breath, and contemplate the fact of my being still alive without any particular amazement.
​By-and-by a gentle knock comes at the door. "Who is it?" I ask, trembling. Perhaps it is only a trick of my outraged parent?
"Me," says Jack's voice. Why will people persist in believing that "Me" is known of everybody and requires no bush? I open the door, let him in, lock it again, then turn round and face him.
"You sneak!" I say slowly; "you took good care to hide yourself, didn't you? And you took good care not to warn me, didn't you? I'm ashamed of you."
"That's just like a girl," says Jack, sitting down. "Stow your heroics a bit, and listen to me. I followed you as far as the hall, and half-way across I caught my foot in a beast of a mat, and went head foremost. When I picked myself up you had vanished, and I was just wondering whether you had gone into the library or the dining-room, when a ring came at the front-door bell; and I had hardly got behind Venus, when in walked the governor! Quarrelled with Skippy, I suppose, or yearned for his family; at any rate there he was. He went into the dining-room, and the next thing I heard was a fearful whack! then noise enough to lift the hair from one's head. Then out you rushed, the governor at your heels, and bang he went into William's arms, and over they went. Oh! shall I ever forget it!" He stuffs a corner of the sheet into his mouth and rolls. "The candles were squashed as flat as pancakes, and the governor, only too glad to vent his rage on somebody, pommelled William like mad, who was underneath and offered no resistance, merely saying, ' Don't, sir! don't, sir! don't, sir!' without stopping for a single moment. I was behind Venus all the time, and I shook so that I nearly knocked the poor soul over. By the time the governor had finished off William, Amberley appeared, bleating. The governor soon squashed her into a jelly; and after shaking his fist at your door, and muttering darkly about to-morrow, he stormed himself into the library.
"Jack," I say, in a voice that I try hard to make, "don't carish" "do you—do you think he will kill me?"
​"No," says Jack, judicially, "because he knows he would be hung if he did; but if he was sure he wouldn't be, he'd do it like a shot! It's going rather far with him, you know, to bolster him!"
I shudder. Has this wretched hand of mine really dealt him a smashing blow on the head? Perhaps it will wither up.
"What a mercy it is there is a gallows in this country!" I say, with a sigh. "It is such a protection!"
"'Hard words break no bones,"' says Jack cheerfully, "and he won't whip you, you're too big! Don't bother, Nell," he says, putting his arm round my shoulders; "you shall come and live with me some day, and we'll be as jolly as sand-boys."
"Dear old fellow!" I say, rubbing my miserable face against his cool red and white one. "You'll sit next to me at breakfast to-morrow, won't you?"
"All right," he says, and presently gives me a hug and goes away.
Oh, if only to-morrow would never come! If I might go to sleep now, this minute, and not wake up again for five years! Papa would surely have forgotten then? If time would only step over breakfast, even, I should be safe; for by dinner time Alice's elopement will be known, and the one overpowering fact will have cast all other misdemeanours into the shade. But, despite prayer and longing, the cold grey dawn comes at last. Groaning I rise and attire myself for the slaughter. As in a dream, I go downstairs and listen to prayers, and then—I will not write down the details of that breakfast. I must be a hardened sinner, indeed, for when it is over my spirit is not broken, nor my hair grey. I am even able to reflect with complacency on the fact that I still possess my full complement of arms, legs, teeth, etc.; for at one time I trembled for each and all of these valuables. And now I am watching Alice put on her cloak and hat. She is very pale, very trembling, but she does not cry; and when she is dressed, she goes into mother's room and kisses her, saying "she is going to church."
​Ay! she is going "to church," from whence she will come out Alice Lovelace, not Alice Adair—never our own pretty Alice any more. As this thought strikes me, I give a loud sob outside the door, which makes her turn apprehensively; so I cram my handkerchief into my mouth, and choke inwardly. And now we are walking with her across the sodden grass of the dismal, bare garden, towards the postern gate, where Charles Lovelace waits with travelling carriage and greys.
"Good-bye," she says, looking into our faces and weeping passionately. Tears do not matter now; there are no more appearances to be kept up.
"Good-bye," say Milly and I, weeping too, but with a difference. Through her present sorrow the gay bright future looks; we know what we are going back to.
"Good-bye," says Charles Lovelace, kissing our dripping countenances.
"Good-bye, good-bye!" cries Alice, clinging about our necks in turn.
And now she is in the carriage, the valet jumps into the rumble, and they are off; Alice's lovely pale face looking out of the window to the very last moment, away, away, through the cold winter morning. A couple of hundred yards away, papa is walking about, happy in the comfortable belief that he holds all our lives in his own hand, and that he can mete us out happiness or misery, according to his sovereign will. Well, one at least of his white slaves has turned rebel; he will know it by twelve of the clock, and then———
"Dilly, Dilly, Dilly, come and be killed," I say to Milly, as we go heavily back to the house. "After all, we can only be killed once."