Delphi Works of M. E. Braddon

by Mary Elizabeth Braddon

  ‘I hope you don’t expect gratitude.’

  ‘I only expect the blankets to keep out Jack Frost. And now for the grocer’s.’

  She shook the reins gaily, and drove on to the chief grocer of Beechampton, in whose plate-glass windows a pair of tall Japanese jars announced the superior character of the trade transacted inside. Here Mrs. Treverton ordered a hundred parcels of plums, currants, sugar, spice, and candied peel, each parcel containing an ample supply for a family Christmas pudding. The shopman rejoiced as he booked the order, and was eloquent in his praise of ‘our new fruit.’

  From the grocer’s they drove to the confectioner’s, and there Laura ordered such a supply of plum cake and buns, muffins and tea cakes, all to be delivered at the Manor House on Christmas Eve, that Celia began to be seriously alarmed for her friend’s sanity.

  ‘What can you want with all that indigestible rubbish?’ she exclaimed. ‘Are you going to open a pastrycook’s shop?’

  ‘No, dear. These things are for my juvenile party.’

  ‘A juvenile party — already! I can’t understand your motive, unless it is to get your hand in for the future. Who are you going to have? All Lady Parker’s nursery, of course — and Lady Barker’s grandchildren, and Mrs. Pendarvis’s seven boys, the Briggses, and the Dropmores, and the Seymours. You’ll want dissolving views, and a conjuror; and you might have tableaux vivants, as you don’t seem to care how much money you waste. People expect so much at juvenile parties nowadays.’

  ‘I think my guests will be quite happy without tableaux vivants, or even a conjuror.’

  ‘I doubt it. Those little Barkers are intensely old for their age.’

  ‘The little Barkers are not coming to my party.’

  ‘And the Pendarvis boys give themselves as many airs as undergraduates after their first term.’

  ‘But I have not invited the Pendarvis boys.’

  ‘Then what children, in goodness’ name, are to eat all those cakes?’ cried Celia.

  ‘My party is for the children of the cottagers. All your father’s infant school will be there.’

  ‘Then all I can say is, I hope you have arranged for the ventilation of your rooms; for if you expect me to spend Christmas Eve in an atmosphere at all resembling that of our infant schoolroom you are reckoning without your host.’

  ‘I am not reckoning without a knowledge of Celia Clare’s good nature. I shall expect you to help me with all your heart and soul. Even your brother might do something for us. He could give us a comic reading — Mrs. Brown at the play, or something of that kind.’

  ‘Picture to yourself Algernon Swinburne reading “Mrs. Brown” to a herd of charity children,’ exclaimed Celia, laughingly; ‘I assure you my brother Edward thinks himself quite as important a person as Mr. Swinburne. Would you have him lay aside his magnum opusto study “Mrs. Brown at the play?”’

  ‘I am sure he won’t mind helping us,’ said Laura. ‘I shall have a Christmas tree loaded with gifts, a good many of them useful ones. I shall hire a magic lantern from London; and for the rest we can have all the old-fashioned games — Blind Man’s Buff, Oranges and Lemons, Thread my Needle — all the noisiest, wildest romps we can think of. I am going to have the servants’ hall cleared out and decorated for the occasion; so there will be no fear of any of the dear old furniture coming to grief.’

  ‘If poor old Mr. Treverton could come to life again, and see such goings on,’ ejaculated Celia.

  ‘I am sure he would be glad to know that his wealth was employed in making other people happy. Think of all those poor little children, Celia, who hardly know the meaning of the word pleasure, as rich people understand it.’

  ‘All the happier for them,’ said Celia, philosophically. ‘The pleasures of the rich are dreadfully hollow; as sickly-sweet and crumbly as a meringue from an inferior pastry cook, with the cream gone sour inside. Well, Laura, you are a good soul, and I will do my very best to help you through your juvenile muddle. I wonder if fourteen thousand a year would make me benevolent. I’m afraid my expenses would increase at such a rate that I should have no martin for charity.’

  Before Christmas Eve came a shadow had fallen upon Laura’s life, which made complete happiness impossible, even for one who was bent upon giving joy to others. John Treverton fell ill of a low fever. He was not dangerously ill. Mr. Morton, the local doctor, who had attended Jasper Treverton for twenty years, and who was a general practitioner of skill and experience, made very light of the malady. The patient had got a chill riding a tired horse a long way home through the rain, after his last hunt, and the chill had resulted in slightly feverish symptoms, and Mr. Treverton was a little below par. That was all. The only remedies wanted were rest and good nursing, and for a man in John Treverton’s position both were easy.

  ‘Ought I to put off my children’s party?’ Laura asked, anxiously, the day before Christmas Eve. ‘I should be very sorry to disappoint the poor little things, but,’ here her voice faltered, ‘if I thought John was going to be worse —— .’

  ‘My dear Mrs. Treverton, he is not going to be worse; in fact, he is rapidly mending. Didn’t I tell you the pulse was stronger this morning? He will be well in a few days, I hope; but I shall keep him in his room to the end of the week, and I shall not allow him to take part in any Christmas festivities. As for your children’s party, if you can prevent the noise of it reaching him, there is no reason in the world why it should be postponed.’

  ‘The servants’ hall is quite on the other side of the house,’ said Laura. ‘I don’t think the noise can possibly reach the next room.’

  This conversation between Mrs. Treverton and the doctor had taken place in John Treverton’s study — the panelled room adjoining his bedroom — tile room in which he and Laura had first met.

  ‘Then that’s all you need care about,’ replied Mr. Morton.

  Laura had been her husband’s only nurse throughout his illness. She had sat with him all day, and watched him through the night, taking snatches of slumber at intervals on the comfortable old sofa at the foot of the big old-fashioned four-post bed. In vain had John Treverton urged the danger of injury to her own health from the fatigue involved in this tender care of him. She told him she had never felt better or stronger, and never enjoyed more refreshing sleep than on the roomy old sofa.

  They had been happy together, even in this time of anxiety. It was Laura’s delight to read aloud to the invalid, to write his letters, to pour out his medicine, to minister to all the trivial wants of an illness that caused at its most only a sense of languor and helplessness. Her only regret with regard to the children’s party was that for this one evening she must be for the most part absent from the sick room. Instead of reading aloud to her husband, she must give her mind to “Blind Man’s Buff,” and all her energies to “Thread my Needle.”

  The winter twilight came gently down, bringing a light snow shower with it, and at four o’clock Laura was seated at the little Chippendale table by her husband’s bed, drinking tea with him for the first time since the beginning of his illness. He had been sitting tip for a few hours in the middle of the day, and was now lying outside the bed, wrapped warmly in his long fur-bordered dressing-gown.

  He was intensely interested in the children’s party, and asked Laura all about her arrangements for entertaining her guests.

  ‘I should think the great point was to give them enough to eat,’ he said, meditatively. ‘The nearest approach to perfect happiness I ever beheld is a child eating something it considers nice. For the moment the mind of that infant is in a state of complete beatitude. It lives in the present, and the present only. Its little life is rounded into the narrow circle of Now. Slowly, thoughtfully, it smacks its lips, and gloats upon the savour it loves. Hardly an earthquake would disturb it from that deep and tranquil delight. With the last mouthful, its gladness departs, and the child learns that earthly pleasure is fleeting. Let your children stuff themselves all the evening and stuff their pockets
before they go home, Laura, and they will realise the perfection of bliss.’

  ‘And to-morrow the poor little creatures would be ill and miserable. No, Jack, they shall enjoy themselves a little more rationally than you propose; and every one of them shall have something to take back to the person they love best at home, so that even a child’s idea of enjoyment shall not be utterly selfish. But I shall be so sorry to be away from you all the evening, Jack.’

  ‘And I shall be still more sorry to lose you, love. I shall try to sleep away the hours of your absence. Could you not give me a good dose of chloral now, Laura?’

  ‘Not for the world, dear. I have a horror of opiates, except in extreme cases. I shall contrive to be with you for an odd half hour or two in the course of the evening. Celia is to be my lieutenant.’

  ‘Then I hope you will let her do a good deal of your work, and that I shall see the sweet face I love, very often. Who is coming, besides the children?’

  ‘Only Mr. Sampson and his sister, and Edward Clare. Edward is going to read an Ingoldsby legend. I suggested “Mrs. Brown at the play;” but he would not hear of her. I am afraid the children won’t understand Ingoldsby.’

  ‘You and Celia must start all the laughter.’

  ‘I don’t think I could laugh while you are a prisoner here.’

  ‘It has been a very short imprisonment, and your sweet society has made it very happy.’

  CHAPTER XI. THE CHILDREN’S PARTY.

  THE servant’s hall was one of the finest rooms in the Manor House. It was at the back of the house, remote from all the reception rooms, and had been part of a much older building than the Carolian mansion to which it now belonged. It was lighted by two square latticed windows with stone mullions, looking into the stable yard. There was also a door opening directly into the same stable yard, and offering a convenient approach for the wandering tribes of tramps, hawkers, and gipsies, who boldly defied the canine guardians of the yard, knowing that the stoutest mastiff that ever thundered forth his abhorrence of rags and beggary is only formidable within the circle described by the length of his chain.

  On this Christmas Eve the servants’ hall looked as cheerful a room as one could choose for a night’s revelry. Huge logs flamed and crackled in the wide old fire-place, and shone and sparkled on the whitewashed wall, which was glorified with garlands of holly and ivy, and lighted with numerous candles in tin sconces made for the occasion by the village blacksmith. Two long tables on trestles were spread with such a meal as a rustic child might see in some happy dream, but could scarcely hope to behold in sober reality. Such mountains of plum cake, such mighty piles of buns, such stacks of buttered toast, such crystal jars of ruby jam and amber marmalade! The guests had been invited for the hour of six, and, as the clock struck, they all came trooping in, with shining faces, and cheeks and noses cherry red after their run through the lightly falling snow. It was not often that snow fell in this western world, and a snowstorm at Christmas was considered altogether pleasant and seasonable, an event for the children to rejoice at.

  Laura was ready to receive her young visitors, supported by Mr. Sampson, and his sister, Celia Clare, and all the servants. Edward had promised to drop in later. He had no objection to distinguish himself by a comic reading, but he had no idea of sharing all the fatigue of the entertainment. Mr. and Mrs. Clare were to come in the course of the evening to see their small parishioners enjoying themselves.

  The tea party was a great success. Celia worked nobly. While Mrs. Treverton and Miss Sampson poured out the tea, this vivacious damsel flew hither and thither with plates of cake, spread innumerable slices of bread and jam, tied the strings of a score of pinafores, filled every plate the instant it was empty, and provided at every turn for the pleasure of the revellers, who sat in a happy silence — stolid, emotionless, stuffing automatically.

  ‘You’d hardly think they were enjoying themselves intensely, would you?’ whispered Celia, coming to Laura for a fresh supply of tea, ‘but I know they are, because they all breathe, so hard. If this was a gathering of the county families you might think it a failure; but silence in this case means ecstasy.’

  At the stroke of seven the tables were being cleared, while Celia, in wild spirits, ran about after the smiling housemaids, crying ‘more light, ye knaves, and turn the tables up.’ Then came a merry hour at ‘Blind Man’s Buff’ and ‘Thread my Needle,’ and the silent tea party grew clamorous as a flight of rooks at sunset. At eight Mr. and Mrs. Clare arrived, followed a little later by Edward, who sauntered in with a somewhat languid air, as if he had not quite made up his mind that he ought to be there.

  He came straight to Laura, who had just returned from a stolen half hour by her husband’s bedside.

  ‘What an uproar,’ he said. ‘I’ve come to keep my promise; but do you really think these little animals will care for the Jackdaw of Rheims?’

  ‘I think they will be glad to sit still for a little while after their romp, and I’ve no doubt they’ll laugh at the jackdaw. It’s very good of you to come.’

  ‘Is it? If you knew how I detest infant school children you might say so, but if you knew how I —— .’ He left the sentence unfinished. ‘How is Treverton?’ he asked.

  ‘Much better. Mr. Morton says he will be well in a day or two.’

  ‘I passed a curious-looking fellow in the road just outside your gates, a regular London Bohemian; a man whose very walk recalled the most disreputable quarters of that extraordinary city. I have no idea who the fellow is; but I’ll swear he’s a Londoner, a swindler, and an adventurer; and I have a lurking idea that I have seen him before.’

  ‘Indeed! Was it that which attracted your notice?’

  ‘No, it was the man’s style and manner altogether. He was loitering near the gate, as if with some intention; possibly not the most honourable. You’ve heard perhaps of a kind of robbery known as the portico dodge?’

  ‘No. I am not learned in such distinctions.’

  ‘It is a common crime now-a-days. A country house with a portico is a fine field for the display of -genius in burglary. One of the gang scales the portico after dusk, most likely at the family dinner-hour, gets from the roof of the portico through a convenient window, and then quietly admits his accomplices. In all such robberies there is generally one member of the gang, the cleverest and best educated, who has no active part in the crime. He does all the intellectual work, schemes and directs the whole business; but though the police know him and would give their eyes to catch him tripping, he never tumbles into their trap. The fellow I saw at your gates to-night seemed to me just this sort of man.’

  ‘Laura looked very serious, as if she were alarmed at the idea of robbery.

  ‘Was this man young or old?’ she asked thoughtfully.

  ‘Neither. He is middle-aged, perhaps even elderly, but certainly not old. He is as straight as a dart, spare but broad-shouldered, and with something of a military air.’

  ‘What made you fancy he had some evil design upon this house?’ asked Laura, her face clouded with anxious thought.

  I did not like the way in which he loitered by the gate. He seemed to be looking for some one or something, watching his opportunity. I don’t want to scare you, Laura. I only want to put you on your guard, so that you may have all the doors and shutters looked after with extra care to-night. After all, the man may be perfectly harmless, some seedy acquaintance of your husband, perhaps. A man cannot live in the world of London without that kind of burr sticking to his coat.’

  ‘You do not flatter my husband by such a supposition,’ said Laura, with an offended look.

  ‘My dear Laura, do you think a man can live his life without making acquaintance he would not care to exhibit in the glare of noonday. You know the old adage about poverty and strange bedfellows. I hope there is no treason in reminding you that Mr. Treverton was not always rich.’

  ‘No. I am not ashamed of his having been poor; but it would shame me if I thought he had any acquaintance
in his poverty whom he would blush to own now he is rich. Will you begin your reading? The children are ready.’

  The infants, flushed and towzled by their sports, had been ranted on benches by the joint efforts of Tom Sampson, his sister, and Celia Clare, and were now being regaled with cake and negus. Celia had placed a small table, with a pair of candles, and a glass of water at the end of the room, for the accommodation of the reader.

  ‘Silence!’ commanded Mr. Sampson, as Edward walked to his place, gave a little preparatory cough, and opened his book. ‘Silence for “The Jackdaw of Rheims.”

  ‘The Jackdaw sat on the Cardinal’s chair!

  Bishop, and abbot, and prior were there;

  Many a monk and many a friar,

  Many a knight and many a squire,’

  began Edward.

  A loud peal of the front door bell startled him. He stopped for a moment, and looked at Laura, who was sitting with the Vicar and his wife in a little group near the fireplace at the other end of the room. At the sound of the bell she looked up quickly, and, with an agitated air, kept her eyes fixed on the door, as if she expected some one to enter.

  He had no excuse for leaving off reading, curious as he felt about that bell, and Laura’s evident concern. He went on mechanically, full of wondering speculations as to what was going on in the entrance hall, hating the open-mouthed and open-eyed infants who were hanging on his words; while Celia, seated at the end of the front row, started all the laughter and applause.

  ‘Where did I meet that man?’ he asked himself over and over again while he read on.

  The answer flashed upon him in the middle of a sentence.

  ‘It is the man I saw with Chicot in Drury Lane; the man I talked to in the public-house.’

  The door opened, and the slow and portly Trimmer came in, and softly made his way to the place where his mistress was seated. He whispered to her, and then she whispered to Mrs. Clare — doubtless an apology for leaving her — and anon followed Trimmer out of the room.