Shivers for Christmas

by Richard Dalby

  As little Annie heard this, she rose, and stole up to the Squire’s side. Her pale face was covered with blushes (all her pretty natural colour had not come back yet); she looked softly at Mr Colebatch, for a moment—then looked down—then said—

  ‘Don’t say you’re lonely sir! If you would let me be like a grandchild to you, I should be so glad. I—I always make the plum pudding, sir, on Christmas Day, for grandfather—if he would allow,—and if—if you—’

  ‘If that little love isn’t trying to screw her courage up to ask me to taste her plum pudding, I’m a Dutchman’—cried the Squire, catching Annie in his arms, and fairly kissing her—‘Without ceremony, Mr Wray, I invite myself here, to a Christmas dinner. We would have had it at Cropley Court; but you’re not strong enough yet, to go out these cold nights. Never mind! all the dinner, except Annie’s pudding, shall be done by my cook; Mrs Buddle, the housekeeper, shall come and help; and we’ll have such a feast, please God, as no king ever sat down to! No apologies, my good friend, on either side: I’m determined to spend the happiest Christmas Day I ever did in my life; and so shall you!’

  And the good Squire kept his word. It was, of course, noised abroad over the whole town, that Matthew Colebatch, Esquire, Lord of the Manor of Tidbury-on-the-Marsh, was going to dine on Christmas Day with an old player, in a lodging house. The genteel population were universally scandalized and indignant. The Squire had exhibited his levelling tendencies pretty often before, they said. He had, for instance, been seen cutting jokes in the High Street with a travelling tinker, to whom he had applied in broad daylight to put a new ferrule on his walking stick; he had been detected coolly eating bacon and greens in one of his tenant farmer’s cottages; he had been heard singing, ‘Begone, dull care,’ in a cracked tenor, to amuse another tenant farmer’s child. These actions were disreputable enough; but to go publicly, and dine with an obscure stage-player, put the climax on everything! The Reverend Daubeny Daker said the Squire’s proper sphere of action, after that, was a lunatic asylum; and the Reverend Daubeny Daker’s friends echoed the sentiment.

  Perfectly reckless of this expression of genteel popular opinion, Mr Colebatch arrived to dinner at No. 12, on Christmas Day; and, what is more, wore his black tights and silk stockings, as if he had been going to a grand party. His dinner had arrived before him; and fat Mrs Buddle, in her lavender silk gown, with a cambric handkerchief pinned in front to keep splashes off, appeared auspiciously with the banquet. Never did Annie feel the responsibility of having a plum-pudding to make, so acutely as she felt it, on seeing the savoury feast which Mr Colebatch had ordered, to accompany her one little item of saccharine cookery.

  They sat down to dinner, with the Squire at the top of the table (Mr Wray insisted on that); and Mrs Buddle at the bottom (he insisted on that also); old Reuben and Annie, at one side; and ‘Julius Caesar’ all by himself (they knew his habits, and gave him elbow room), at the other. Things were comparatively genteel and quiet, till Annie’s pudding came in. At sight of that, Mr Colebatch set up a cheer, as if he had been behind a pack of fox-hounds. The carpenter, thrown quite off his balance by noise and excitement, knocked down a spoon, a wine glass, and a pepper-box, one after the other, in such quick succession, that Mrs Buddle thought him mad; and Annie—for the first time, poor little thing, since all her troubles—actually began to laugh again, as prettily as ever. Mr Colebatch did ample justice, it must be added, to her pudding. Twice did his plate travel up to the dish—a third time it would have gone; but the faithful housekeeper raised her warning voice, and reminded the old gentleman that he had a stomach.

  When the tables were cleared, and the glasses filled with the Squire’s rare old port, that excellent man rose slowly and solemnly from his chair, announcing that he had three toasts to propose, and one speech to make; the latter, he said, being contingent on the chance of his getting properly at his voice, through two helpings of plum-pudding; a chance which he thought rather remote, principally in consequence of Annie’s having rather overdone the proportion of suet in mixing her ingredients.

  ‘The first toast,’ said the old gentleman, ‘is the health of Mr Reuben Wray; and God bless him!’ When this had been drunk with immense fervour, Mr Colebatch went on at once to his second toast, without pausing to sit down—a custom which other after-dinner orators would do well to imitate.

  ‘The second toast,’ said he, taking Mr Wray’s hand, and looking at the mask, which hung opposite, prettily decorated with holly,—‘the second toast, is a wide circulation and a hearty welcome all through England, for the Mask of Shakespeare!’ This was duly honoured; and immediately Mr Colebatch went on like lightning to the third toast.

  ‘The third,’ said he, is the speech toast.’ Here he endeavoured, unsuccessfully, to cough up his voice out of the plum pudding. ‘I say, ladies and gentlemen, this is the speech toast.’ He stopped again, and desired the carpenter to pour him out a small glass of brandy; having swallowed which, he went on fluently.

  ‘Mr Wray, sir,’ pursued the old gentleman, ‘I address you in particular, because you are particularly concerned in what I am going to say. Three days ago, I had a little talk in private with those two young people. Young people, sir, are never wholly free from some imprudent tendencies; and falling in love’s one of them.’ (At this point, Annie slunk behind her grandfather; the carpenter, having nobody to slink behind, put himself quite at his ease, by knocking down an orange.) ‘Now, sir,’ continued the Squire, ‘the private talk that I was speaking of, leads me to suppose that those two particular young people mean to marry each other. You, I understand, objected at first to their engagement; and like good and obedient children, they respected your objection. I think it’s time to reward them for that, now. Let them marry, if they will, sir, while you can live happily to see it! I say nothing about our little darling there, but this:—the vital question for her, and for all girls, is not how high, but how goody she, and they, marry. And I must confess, I don’t think she’s altogether chosen so badly.’ (The Squire hesitated a moment. He had in his mind, what he could not venture to speak—that the carpenter had saved old Reuben’s life when the burglars were in the house; and that he had shown himself well worthy of Annie’s confidence, when she asked him to accompany her, in going to recover the mould from Stratford.) ‘In short, sir,’ Mr Colebatch resumed, ‘to cut short this speechifying, I don’t think you can object to let them marry, provided they can find means of support. This, I think, they can do. First there are the profits sure to come from the mask, which you are sure to share with them, I know.’ (This prophecy about the profits was fulfilled: fifty copies of the cast were ordered by the new year; and they sold better still, after that.) ‘This will do to begin on, I think, Mr Wray. Next, I intend to get our friend there a good berth as master-carpenter for the new crescent they’re going to build on my land, at the top of the hill—and that won’t be a bad thing, I can tell you! Lastly, I mean you all to leave Tidbury, and live in a cottage of mine that’s empty now, and going to rack and ruin for want of a tenant. I’ll charge rent, mind, Mr Wray, and come for it every quarter myself, as regular as a tax-gatherer. I don’t insult an independent man by the offer of an asylum. Heaven forbid! but till you can do better, I want you to keep my cottage warm for me. I can’t give up seeing my new grandchild sometimes! and I want my chat with an old stager, about the British Drama and glorious John Kemble! To cut the thing short, sir: with such a prospect before them as this, do you object to my giving the healths of Mr and Mrs Martin Blunt that are to be!’

  Conquered by the Squire’s kind looks and words, as much as by his reasons, Old Reuben murmured approval of the toast, adding tenderly, as he looked round on Annie, ‘If she’ll only promise always to let me live with her!’

  ‘There, there!’ cried Mr Colebatch, ‘don’t go kissing your grandfather before company like that you little jade; making other people envious of him on Christmas Day! Listen to this! Mr and Mrs Martin Blunt that are to be—married in a week!�
�� added the old gentleman peremptorily.

  ‘Lord, sir!’ said Mrs Buddle, ‘she can’t get her dresses ready in that time!’

  ’She shall, ma’am, if every mantua-making wench in Tidbury stitches her fingers off for it! and there’s an end of my speech-making!’ Having said this, the Squire dropped back into his chair with a gasp of satisfaction.

  ‘Now we are all happy!’ he exclaimed, filling his glass; ‘and now we’ll set in to enjoy our port in earnest—eh, my good friend?’

  ‘Yes; all happy!’ echoed old Reuben, patting Annie’s hand, which lay in his; ‘but I think I should be still happier, though, if I could only manage not to remember that horrible dream!’

  ‘Not remember it!’ cried Mr Colebatch, ‘we’ll all remember it—all remember it together, from this time forth, in the same pleasant way!’

  ‘How? How?’ exclaimed Mr Wray, eagerly.

  ‘Why, my good friend!’ answered the Squire, tapping him briskly on the shoulder, ‘we’ll all remember it gaily, as nothing but a STORY FOR A CHRISTMAS FIRESIDE!’

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  THE CITIZEN’S

  WATCH

  by Erckmann-Chatrian

  __________________________________________

  ‘Erckmann-Chatrian’ was the collaborative name of the most successful and popular writing team in France during the latter half of the nineteenth century: Emile Erckmann (1822–1899) and Alexandre Chatrian (1826–1890). Their most famous work, The Polish Jew, was adapted for the London stage by Sir Henry Irving as The Bells; and many of their historical tales became accepted reading texts in British schools. ‘The Citizen’s Watch’ is one of a large number of Erckmann-Chatrian’s thrilling mystery stories originally gathered together as Histoires et Contes Fantastiques.

  I

  The day before the Christmas of 1832, my friend Wilfred with his counter-bass slung behind him, and I with my violin under my arm, set out from the Black Forest to Heidelberg. There had been a deep fall of snow, so that looking over the wide expanse of deserted country we could discover no trace of the way along which we should go, no road, no path. The bitter wind whistled around with monotonous perseverance, and Wilfred, with his knapsack upon his meagre shoulders, his long legs wide-stretched, the peak of his hat drawn down over his nose, marched on in front of me humming a merry tune from Ondine. Once he looked round with a strange smile, and said—

  ‘Comrade, play me the Robin waltz. I should like to dance.’

  A laugh followed these words, and the brave fellow again continued his way. I trod in his steps, the snow being nearly up to our knees, and as I went on I found myself becoming by degrees very melancholy.

  At length the steeples of Heidelberg peeped up in the distance, and we began to hope that we should arrive there before nightfall. As we pressed on we heard the galloping of a horse behind us. It was about five o’clock in the evening, and big flakes of snow were floating down in the grey light. When the horseman came near to us he pulled in his steed, looking at us out of the corner of his eye. For our part we also looked at him.

  Picture to yourself a strongly built man with red whiskers and hair, wearing a fine three-cornered hat, in a brown riding-cloak, and a loose fox-skin pelisse, his hands thrust into furred gloves reaching up to his elbows—an alderman or burgomaster with portly stomach, with a fine valise strapped on the croup of his powerful thick-set horse. Truly a character.

  ‘Hullo, my friends,’ said he, disengaging one of his hands from the mittens which hung to his trunk-hose, ‘you are going to Heidelberg to play, I suppose.’

  Wilfred looked at the stranger, and said shortly—

  ‘What is that to you?’

  ‘Ah, certainly. I have some good advice to give you.’

  ‘Good advice!’

  ‘Yes. If you want it.’

  Wilfred took long strides without making any reply, and I, stealing a sidelong glance, thought that the stranger looked just like a great cat, his ears standing up, his eyelids half closed, his moustache bristling, and his air tender and paternal.

  ‘My dear friend,’ said he to me, frankly, ‘you would do best to return by the way you have come.’

  ‘Why, sir?’

  ‘The illustrious Master Pimenti of Novara is about to give a grand Christmas concert at Heidelberg; all the town will be there, you will not take a kreutzer’

  Wilfred, looking round in a bad temper, said—

  ‘We laugh at your master Pimenti and all his like. Look at that young man; look at him well. You see he has not yet got a single hair on his chin; he has only played in the little cabins in the Black Forest for the bourengredel and the charcoal-burners to dance. Well, this little fellow, with his long fair hair and his big blue eyes, defies all your Italian impostors. His left hand holds in it melodious treasures—treasures of grace and suppleness. His right hand is gifted with the most wonderful command over the fiddlestick, that heaven in its most bounteous mood ever bestowed on man.’

  ‘Ah, ah,’ said the other. ‘Is that so?’

  ‘It is as I tell you,’ cried Wilfred, setting off at his full speed, and blowing on his red fingers.

  I thought he was only making fun of the stranger, who kept up with us at a gentle trot.

  So we went on for about half a league in silence. All of a sudden the stranger said to us, sharply—

  ‘Whatever may be your ability, go back again to the Black Forest. We have enough vagabonds at Heidelberg without your coming to increase the number. I give you good advice, especially under the present circumstances. Take it.’

  Wilfred was about to make a sharp reply, but the stranger, putting his horse to the gallop, was already going down the Elector’s Avenue. As he rode on, a company of ravens flew over the plain, seeming as if they were accompanying him, and filling the air with their clamour.

  We came to Heidelberg at seven o’clock, and we there found on every wall the big placards of Pimenti.

  ‘Grand Concert, Solo, &c.’

  The same evening while visiting the taverns we met many musicians from the Black Forest—old comrades, who invited us to join them. There was old Brêmer, the violincellist; his two sons, Ludwig and Karl, two good second violins; Henry Siebel, the clarionet player; the famous Bertha, with her harp; lastly, Wilfred, with his counter-bass, and myself as first violin.

  It was resolved that we should go together, and that after Christmas we should share like brothers. Wilfred had already taken for us two a room on the sixth floor of a little inn called the Pied-de-Mouton, in the middle of the Holdergrasse, for four kreutzers a night. It was in truth nothing more than a garret, but luckily there was an iron stove in it, and so we lighted a fire there in order to dry our clothes.

  While we were sitting down enjoying ourselves eating chestnuts and drinking a flask of wine, behold Annette, the servant, in a little red petticoat, hat of black velvet, her cheeks red, her lips rosy as cherries—Annette comes creeping up the stair, knocks at the door, enters, and throws herself into my arms overjoyed.

  I had known the dear girl for a long time, for we came from the same village, and I may tell you that her bright eyes and her pretty ways had completely captivated me.

  ‘I have come to talk with you for a minute,’ said she, sitting down upon a stool. ‘I saw you come an hour ago, and so here I am.’

  Then she commenced to chatter, asking me news about this person and that, till she had asked after all the village, hardly giving me time to reply to her. At length she stopped and looked at me with her sweet expression. We should have sat there till morning if Mother Gredel Dick had not commenced to call out at the foot of the stairs—

  ‘Annette! Annette! Where are you?’

  ‘I am coming, I am coming,’ cried the poor child, jumping up.

  She gave me a little tap on the cheek and ran to the door, but before going she stopped.

  ‘Ah,’ she cried, coming back again, ‘I forgot to tell you. Do you know of it?’

&nb
sp; ‘Of what?’

  ‘Of the death of our pro-rector, Zâhn?’

  ‘Well, what is that to us?’

  ‘Oh, take care, take care, if your papers are not in order. They will be here tomorrow at eight o’clock to see them. They have been stopping everyone, all the world, during the last five days. The pro-rector was murdered in the library of St Christopher’s cloister yesterday evening. Last week some one murdered, in a like manner, the old sacristan, Ulmet Elias, of the Rue des Juifs. Some days before, some one killed the old wise woman Christina Haas, and the agate merchant, Seligmann, of the Rue Durlach. Do look well after yourself, my poor Kaspar,’ said she tenderly, ‘and see that your papers are all right.’

  While she was speaking the voice on the stairs kept on crying—

  ‘Annette, Annette, are you coming? Ah, the baggage! to leave me all alone.’

  We could also hear the voices of the drinkers as they called for wine, for beer, for ham, for sausages. It was necessary she should go, and Annette ran away as she had come, and we heard her sweet voice—

  ‘Heavens, madam, why do you call so? One would think that the house was on fire!’

  Wilfred shut the door, and having sat down again, we looked at one another with some uneasiness.

  ‘That is strange news,’ said he. ‘Are your papers all right?’

  ‘No doubt they are,’ and I handed mine to him.

  ‘Good! Mine are there. I had them looked over before I left. For all that, these murders may be unpleasant for us. I am afraid we shall do no good here, so many families will be in mourning, and, besides, the distraction of the others, the worrying vigilance of the police, the disturbance—’