Rebecca was talking now. She called herself Becca and everyone took up the name.
It was touching to see her eyes alight with wonder when the Yule log was brought in and the house decorated with holly, box and bay. Red-faced and flustered, Mrs. Penlock was busy in the kitchen. Rebecca was a special favorite with her and the child seized every opportunity of going down to the kitchen. I did not encourage this because Mrs. Penlock could never resist popping things into Rebecca's mouth for she had a conviction that what everyone needed was "feeding up."
My mother and I decorated the Christmas tree with the fairy doll on top which was to be Rebecca's and the jester in cap and bells beside her which was for Pedrek.
We still made the Christmas Bush, which had been part of the decorations before the coming of the tree. It was two wooden hoops fastened to each other at right angles and the frame was covered in evergreens and apples. It was hung up and any pair of the opposite sex meeting under it were allowed to kiss. We had mistletoe as well as the Kissing Bush in the kitchen, which I believe gave great delight to them all, and the stable men often came in to try to catch the young maids, while Mrs. Penlock looked on, purring and not objecting to a kiss for her own august self, because of the time of the year, she said.
There were the carol singers and the poor who came begging with their Christmas bowls. There was the wassail. We kept up the old Cornish customs because my father—though he himself was not Cornish—took a great interest in the old Celtic ways, and as a matter of fact knew far more about the ancient laws of the Duchy than the Cornish themselves.
He encouraged the Guise Dancers because they had existed before the coming of Christianity, and consequently we had dancers in the neighborhood who visited all the big houses in turns and gave performances during the year. The children clapped their hands with glee to watch them and to see the conflict between St. George and the dragon.
In the morning we went to church and came home to the traditional goose and plum pudding; the tree was stripped of its gifts and there was something for everyone. It was wonderful because of the children and I had rarely seen such contentment as that on the faces of the Pencarron parents and their daughter.
Justin was, as they said, "settling in," but I guessed it was not easy for him to fit in with the quiet country life. It was expecting too much. Gervaise could never have done it. I hoped fervently that it would always remain as it was now for Morwenna and her parents.
When the children, exhausted by the joys of Christmas, could no longer keep their eyes open they went to bed and Rebecca's last words before she fell into a deep sleep were: "Mama, may we have Christmas tomorrow?" And I knew that it had been a success.
So the time passed.
During the winter Jenny Stubbs's baby died. It was a calamity which touched the whole neighborhood. Even Mrs. Fenny was sorry. It always amazed me how people who deprecated others, largely because they were not like themselves, and have little sympathy with their minor predicaments, will suddenly change when real tragedy strikes. Everyone was sorry for Jenny Stubbs. It was so tragic. Her baby had developed a sore throat and in a few days was dead.
Poor Jenny! She was dazed and heartbroken. My mother went to the cottage with a basket of special food for her and to offer comfort.
She took me with her.
Jenny seemed hardly aware of us. Because of Rebecca I could feel deeply, especially deeply for her in her sorrow. I wished I could do something to help her.
She changed after that; the new sensible Jenny retreated; the poor dazed creature emerged. It was very sad. Everyone tried to help. Those for whom she had worked offered her more work. They wanted her to know how they sympathized with her.
"She'll get over it," said Mrs. Penlock. "It takes time."
Mrs. Fenny thought it was the wages of sin. "When all's said and done she was born out of wedlock and that ain't going to please the Lord."
I felt so angry with her that I retorted: "Perhaps He was pleased to see the difference the child made to Jenny."
She gave me one of her sour looks and I knew she would tell the next person who came along that that Miss Angelet should never have gone to foreign parts because if people live among heathens they start to take after them.
There was nothing we could do to help poor Jenny over her sorrow; but everyone continued to be gentle with her and whenever she appeared would call a greeting to her, as they had never done before.
It was spring, the best time of the year in the Duchy where the land is caressed by the south-west wind bringing the warm rain from the mighty Atlantic Ocean. Flowers were blooming in abundance—bright yellow celandines, golden dandelions, pink crane's bill and purple ground ivy. The woods were full of color; the songs of the blackbirds and thrushes filled the air; and the wind which blew off the sea was fresh and invigorating.
Time was passing. Was I becoming reconciled? How often were my thoughts in that shanty township? Winter would be coming on now. I thought of Mr. and Mrs. Bowles in their store. How many babies had been born? I thought of the graveyard. Gervaise and David Skelling lying not very far from each other. I tried to shut out the memory of Golden Hall. How had they spent Christmas? How was Ben faring? How was his marriage? Was the mine as profitable as ever? It must be or he would have come back. I could not believe that he was happy. How could he be? He was a man who liked lively conversation. He had always enjoyed discussion. There were one or two educated men in the township to whom he could talk. But Lizzie? Lizzie was gentle and kind and loving ... but could she give him what he wanted? Perhaps she could. Perhaps a dominating man like Ben was happiest with a docile wife.
And so my thoughts went on. I tried to forget, but although I was in Cador where everything was done to make me happy, and although I had a beloved daughter with me, still I hankered for a crude Australian township ... for the dust, for the dirt, for the flies ... and the discomforts of a two-roomed shack.
You must be crazy, I said to myself.
Then I would play with Rebecca; we would walk in the gardens; I would listen to her amusing comments; I would talk with my mother and father. I read a great deal. My father was making me more interested in the distant past, the history of the Duchy and its quaint customs; he had done quite a lot of research on these subjects and we had some lively discussions. I should be happy.
It was April when there was a letter from Grace. It was so long since she had seen us. Might she come and visit us for a few weeks.
My mother replied enthusiastically that we should be delighted to see her.
Aunt Amaryllis was a constant letter writer and she kept us up to date with what was going on in London. Her letters were usually full of Uncle Peter's clever projects and Matthew's wonderful performance in the House and what good work Peterkin and Frances were doing at the Mission.
So we had learned that Grace gave quite a lot of parties in her house. True, it was not very large but people seemed to find that amusing. Grace was invited out frequently and Peter made sure she was always at their parties. "Peter says she is a born hostess," wrote Aunt Amaryllis. "He feels that she ought to get married again. After all it is a long time since Jonnie died. One cannot go on grieving forever. Sometimes I think Grace herself would like to marry. Perhaps one day some nice man will come along."