Christmas at Thompson Hall: And Other Christmas Stories (Penguin Christmas Classics) by Trollope Anthony

Author:Trollope, Anthony [Trollope, Anthony]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Penguin Group US
Published: 2014-10-07T16:00:00+00:00

SHOWING HOW ISABEL LOWND REPENTED HER FAULT

In spite of her piteous condition and near prospect of death, Isabel Lownd completed her round of visits among her old friends. That Christmas should be kept in some way by every inhabitant of Kirkby Cliffe, was a thing of course. The district is not poor, and plenty on that day was rarely wanting. But Parson Lownd was not what we call a rich man; and there was no resident squire in the parish. The farmers, comprehending well their own privileges, and aware that the obligation of gentle living did not lie on them, were inclined to be close-fisted; and thus there was sometimes a difficulty in providing for the old and the infirm. There was a certain ancient widow in the village, of the name of Mucklewort, who was troubled with three orphan grandchildren and a lame daughter; and Isabel had, some days since, expressed a fear up at the parsonage that the good things of this world might be scarce in the old widow’s cottage. Something had, of course, been done for the old woman, but not enough, as Isabel had thought. “My dear,” her mother had said, “it is no use trying to make very poor people think that they are not poor.”

“It is only one day in the year,” Isabel had pleaded.

“What you give in excess to one, you take from another,” replied Mrs. Lownd, with the stern wisdom which experience teaches. Poor Isabel could say nothing further, but had feared greatly that the rations in Mrs. Mucklewort’s abode would be deficient. She now entered the cottage, and found the whole family at that moment preparing themselves for the consumption of a great Christmas banquet. Mrs. Mucklewort, whose temper was not always the best in the world, was radiant. The children were silent, open-eyed, expectant, and solemn. The lame aunt was in the act of transferring a large lump of beef, which seemed to be commingled in a most inartistic way with potatoes and cabbage, out of a pot on to the family dish. At any rate there was plenty; for no five appetites — had the five all been masculine, adult, and yet youthful — could, by any feats of strength, have emptied that dish at a sitting. And Isabel knew well that there had been pudding. She herself had sent the pudding; but that, as she was well aware, had not been allowed to abide its fate till this late hour of the day. “I’m glad you’re all so well employed,” said Isabel. “I thought you had done dinner long ago. I won’t stop a minute now.”

The old woman got up from her chair, and nodded her head, and held out her withered old hand to be shaken. The children opened their mouths wider than ever, and hoped there might be no great delay. The lame aunt curtseyed and explained the circumstances. “Beef, Miss Isabel, do take a mortal time t’ boil; and it ain’t no wise good for t’ bairns to have it any ways raw.

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