“It might be a ‘hess’— if you couldn’t write.”
“Or an ‘L’,” I added. Lettie looked over at me imperiously, and I was angry.
“What do you say, Emily?” she asked.
“Nay,” said Emily. “It’s only you can see the right letter.”
“Tell us what’s the right letter,” said George to her.
“I!” exclaimed Lettie. “Who can look into the seeds of Time?”
“Those who have set ’em and watched ’em sprout,” said I. She flung the peel into the fire, laughing a short laugh, and went on with her work.
Mrs Saxton leaned over to her daughter and said softly, so that he should not hear, that George was pulling the flesh out of the raisins.
“George!” said Emily sharply, “you’re leaving nothing but the husks.”
He too was angry.
“‘And he would fain fill his belly with the husks that the swine did eat,’” he said quietly, taking a handful of the fruit he had picked and putting some in his mouth. Emily snatched away the basin.
“It is too bad!” she said.
“Here,” said Lettie, handing him an apple she had peeled. “You may have an apple, greedy boy.”
He took it and looked at it. Then a malicious smile twinkled round his eyes — as he said:
“If you give me the apple, to whom will you give the peel?”
“The swine,” she said, as if she only understood his first reference to the Prodigal Son. He put the apple on the table. “Don’t you want it?” she said.
“Mother,” he said comically, as if jesting. “She is offering me the apple like Eve.”
Like a flash, she snatched the apple from him, hid it in her skirts a moment, looking at him with dilated eyes, and then she flung it at the fire. She missed, and the father leaned forward and picked it off the hob, saying:
“The pigs may as well have it. You were slow, George — when a lady offers you a thing you don’t have to make mouths.”
“A ce qu’il paraît,” she cried, laughing now at her ease, boisterously.
“Is she making love, Emily?” asked the father, laughing suggestively.
“She says it too fast for me,” said Emily.
George was leaning back in his chair, his hands in his breeches pockets.
“We shall have to finish his raisins after all, Emily,” said Lettie brightly. “Look what a lazy animal he is.”
“He likes his comfort,” said Emily, with irony.
“The picture of content — solid, healthy, easy-moving content —” continued Lettie. As he sat thus, with his head thrown back against the end of the ingle-seat, coatless, his red neck seen in repose, he did indeed look remarkably comfortable.
“I shall never fret my fat away,” he said stolidly. “No — you and I— we are not like Cyril. We do not burn our bodies in our heads — or our hearts, do we?”
“We have it in common,” said he, looking at her indifferently beneath his lashes, as his head was tilted back.
Lettie went on with the paring and coring of her apples — then she took the raisins. Meanwhile, Emily was making the house ring as she chopped the suet in a wooden bowl. The children were ready for bed. They kissed us all “Good night”— save George. At last they were gone, accompanied by their mother. Emily put down her chopper, and sighed that her arm was aching, so I relieved her. The chopping went on for a long time, while the father read, Lettie worked, and George sat tilted back looking on. When at length the mincemeat was finished we were all out of work. Lettie helped to clear away — sat down — talked a little with effort — jumped up and said:
“Oh, I’m too excited to sit still — it’s so near Christmas — let us play at something.”
“A dance?” said Emily.
“A dance — a dance!”
He suddenly sat straight and got up.
“Come on!” he said.
He kicked off his slippers, regardless of the holes in his stocking feet, and put away the chairs. He held out his arm to her — she came with a laugh, and away they went, dancing over the great flagged kitchen at an incredible speed. Her light flying steps followed his leaps; you could hear the quick light tap of her toes more plainly than the thud of his stockinged feet. Emily and I joined in. Emily’s movements are naturally slow, but we danced at great speed. I was hot and perspiring, and she was panting, when I put her in a chair. But they whirled on in the dance, on and on till I was giddy, till the father, laughing, cried that they should stop. But George continued the dance; her hair was shaken loose, and fell in a great coil down her back; her feet began to drag; you could hear a light slur on the floor; she was panting — I could see her lips murmur to him, begging him to stop; he was laughing with open mouth, holding her tight; at last her feet trailed; he lifted her, clasping her tightly, and danced twice round the room with her thus. Then he fell with a crash on the sofa, pulling her beside him. His eyes glowed like coals; he was panting in sobs, and his hair was wet and glistening. She lay back on the sofa, with his arm still around her, not moving; she was quite overcome. Her hair was wild about her face. Emily was anxious; the father said, with a shade of inquietude:
“You’ve overdone it — it is very foolish.”
When at last she recovered her breath and her life, she got up, and laughing in a queer way, began to put up her hair. She went into the scullery where were the brush and combs, and Emily followed with a candle. When she returned, ordered once more, with a little pallor succeeding the flush, and with a great black stain of sweat on her leathern belt where his hand had held her, he looked up at her from his position on the sofa, with a peculiar glance of triumph, smiling.
“You great brute,” she said, but her yoke was not as harsh as her words. He gave a deep sigh, sat up, and laughed quietly. “Another?” he said.
“Will you dance with me?”
“At your pleasure.”
“Come then — a minuet.”
“Don’t know it.”
“Nevertheless, you must dance it. Come along.”
He reared up, and walked to her side. She put him through the steps, even dragging him round the waltz. It was very ridiculous. When it was finished she bowed him to his seat, and, wiping her hands on her handkerchief, because his shirt where her hand had rested on his shoulders was moist, she thanked him.
“I hope you enjoyed it,” he said.
“Ever so much,” she replied.
“You made me look a fool — so no doubt you did.”
“Do you think you could look a fool? Why, you are ironical! Ca marche! In other words, you have come on. But it is a sweet dance.”
He looked at her, lowered his eyelids, and said nothing. “Ah, well,” she laughed, “some are bred for the minuet, and some for —”
“— Less tomfoolery,” he answered.
“Ah — you call it tomfoolery because you cannot do it. Myself, I like it — so —”
“And I can’t do it?”
“Could you? Did you? You are not built that way.”
“Sort of Clarence MacFadden,” he said, lighting a pipe as if the conversation did not interest