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Updated: June 18, 2025
It served as a table, and she was spreading a cloth on it In front of the stove stood a young man in uniform, wearing the badges of a fourth class Chaplain to the Forces. This was Mr. Digby. Once he had been the popular curate of St Ethelburga's, the most fashionable of London churches. In those days Miss Willmot would have treated him with scorn. She did not care for curates.
"You and Miss Willmot are all right; but the Major is frightfully shaky over the bass. It won't do to break down to-morrow. By the way, Miss Willmot, there's something I want to speak to you about before the Major comes. There's " "Before the Major comes, Nelly," said Miss Willmot, "give me some tea.
"Now you are here," said Miss Nelly, "you must help us with the carols. The Major's a perfect darling, but he can't sing bass for nuts. You'll do it, won't you? I'm singing, and so is Miss Willmot." Mrs. Jocelyn was generally considered a clever woman. Her husband respected her intellect.
The king, however, not being willing to surprise this worthy man, immediately despatched the Benedictine to make certain of his welcome; receiving due assurances of which he and Lord Willmot set out by night for Master Lane's mansion, where they were heartily received, and where Charles rested some days in blessed security.
He had very early come to regard Miss Willmot as a valuable fellow-worker. "Padre," he said, "I put it to you as a Christian man, is this an evening on which anyone ought to be asked to practise Christmas carols?" "Hear, hear," said Miss Nelly. "We've only had one practice, sir," said Digby, "and I've put up notices all over the Camp that the carols will be sung to-morrow evening.
Afterwards she acted lawlessly, offended against discipline, treated rules and regulations with contempt. Sergeant O'Rorke was sitting in the guard-room playing patience when Miss Willmot entered. He stood up at once and saluted. "Terrible weather, miss. I'll never say again that it rains in the County Galway. Sure, it doesn't know how. A man would have to come to France to find out what rain is."
He was also a little tired of hearing about Tommy Collins. He changed the subject abruptly. "By the way, Miss Willmot," he said, "it's all right about the men's Christmas dinner. I spent an hour this morning strafing everybody in the cook-house. I told them they must try to make the Yorkshire pudding. Heaven knows what it will be like?"
The Yorkshire pudding looked like gingerbread, but the men ate it The plum pudding was heavy, solid, black. The Major, smiling blandly, went from table to table. Miss Nelly, flushed with excitement and pleasure, laughed aloud. Only Miss Willmot looked on with grave eyes, somewhat sad. She was thinking of Tommy Collins in his cell, with the weight of an intolerable accusation hanging over him.
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