A CHRISTMAS DINNER
In the evening, when Joan and Sibyll arrived from the bank, they found the hamper in their back kitchen, whither it had been carried by Tom and Cissie.
On being opened, it proved to contain, as might have been suspected from the weight, a good deal more than holly—a goose, a ham, a plum-pudding, and mince pies.
There were flowers as well from the greenhouses—primulas, Roman hyacinths, azaleas, salvias, and of holly abundance, rich with scarlet berries—sufficient to enable Joan to redeem her promise at the bank. On top of all was a card:
"With Mrs. Beaudessart's warmest greetings for Christmas, and best wishes for the New Year."
"Some of the holly and flowers for the church first," said Joan. "After that a good bunch to every one of those to whom I undertook to give a sprig. I shall add a few flowers, and what is over is for our girls."
Sibyll was pleased at the sight of the good things.
"It is very thoughtful and kind of Mrs. Beaudessart," said Joan.
"Bah! she can afford to be generous, now she has taken everything from us," observed Sibyll.
"You do not know her, or you would put a more charitable construction on her conduct," observed Joan.
"Oh, I do not doubt that it is kindly meant. At the same time it affords a certain amount of satisfaction to be gorgeously patronising."
"For which reason you take up Caroline Grosser."
"Caroline! Oh, she serves to pass the time. She is lively and amusing. I have as much right as have you to choose friends among the lower classes—now that we are debarred from associating with those who are on our level."
"Let her come and take part in our little homely gatherings."
"No, thank you. She does not care for your lot of girls, and it is a relief to me to get out of their way."
To this Joan made no reply. Presently Sibyll remarked—
"What I disapprove of, Joan, is that the girls who come here treat you with familiarity."
"You have not heard them say one rude word."
"Perhaps not, but they do not regard you with the deference that is your due as a lady by birth and education."
"I have no right to expect that. They know nothing of our former condition. I have no complaint to make against any of them. They are always kindly. They are readily swayed by my wishes, and willing to accept my advice, which, indeed, they seek. But it would be presumptuous in me to dictate to them or exact from them what they are not willing cheerfully to accord."
"We are ladies, and, thank goodness, some people are not so dense as to fail to observe that."
"To whom do you refer?"
"To Mr. Mangin, for instance. He has remarked me, and invariably singles me out from the rest. He is most respectful, and never presumes. As he told me himself one day, he knew a lady when he saw her."
"Does Mr. Mangin often go into your workroom?"
"Off and on—and it makes the rest jealous to see how much notice he takes of me."
"Remember what Polly said: Keep the table between you and Mangin. I do not like what I have both seen and heard of that man."
"Oh, those who are not spoken to growl with spite. He is a gentleman, that is to say, as far as a man can be a gentleman who is in trade. He is only manager, but some day will be a partner. The Fennings have a fine country seat, and do not often come in—they leave everything with Mr. Mangin. When he becomes one of the firm I have no doubt he also will buy a place and take on some fellow to look to the business, and himself keep clear of it—except, of course, drawing money out of it."
Joan was uneasy, but deemed it prudent to say no more on the matter.
Sibyll was self-willed in the old days at Pendabury, and now under a reverse of fortune had turned stubborn and contrary. She seemed to derive a positive pleasure from taking up and pursuing a course which did not commend itself to her sister. She was vain, and what Joan dreaded was lest Caroline Grosser should play on this quality, and draw her sister into objectionable society, to the objectionableness of which she would be blind if she were made much of; and she feared lest the attentions of Mangin should be encouraged through this same infirmity.
"I do not see that Cissie Averill is going to be much good to us," said Sibyl!. "She is dreadfully slow, and sits more than half her time mooning over the fire. I really do think that, if we took a servant, we should have engaged one likely to be more useful."
"We pay her nothing," said Joan.
"But she is hardly worth her keep."
"She is suffering from the effects of lead, but this will work off in time. I have been to the doctor about her, and"—
"This tops everything!" burst forth Sibyl!. "We have to pay a doctor's bill for her, and medicines—I have seen the bottles—and you have ordered in a preposterous amount of milk."
"It is required for her."
"Good heavens! Are we to live for our servants, or are they to live to minister to us?" exclaimed Sibyll, boiling up.
"We all live for each other, are bound into one body; if one member suffers all the members suffer with it—that is what an apostle said, nearly two thousand years ago, and the world has not yet taken it sincerely to heart. I know that Cissie is trembling on the verge of a breakdown of the entire nervous system. Unless she be treated aright now, she may become paralysed as is Polly—even worse—and then there would be no chance of recovery. That is why I have taken her. I am going to turn up my sleeves and fight the lead, and rescue her young life."
"And convert this house into a hospital?"
"She will become daily more serviceable to us as we get the lead out of her blood. Now she is a mere wreck."
"What is milk a pint, I'd like to know?" asked Sibyl!, and then, "You have been getting eggs as well, and not for my eating. Are they also for our servant?"
"Yes, but do not be disconcerted, Sibyll. I pay for all out of my own earnings. Cissie shall be made sound, and when this weak member is whole our entire community will rejoice with it."
"I have no doubt but that you are wonderfully humane and Christian, and all that sort of thing; but I cannot go your length. Charity, I have ever heard, begins at home."
"And, never leaving it, becomes selfishness."
Cissie did bestir herself over the preparations for Christmas dinner.
She had Joan to assist her, but the sight, the smell of the goose were enough to stimulate the most languid faculties, and the steam of the plum-pudding to quicken the pulsation of the feeblest heart.
Practically the greater portion of the cooking fell to Joan herself. She had gone to church in the very early morning so as to allow her sister to attend later, and to give herself the house clear for the grand preparation of the midday meal.
She laid the white cloth, arranged knives and forks, placed a glass in the middle of the table with Christmas roses and holly in it—flowers and shrubs, as she said to herself, "from dear old Pendabury."
Tumblers sparkled, all was clean and fresh. As Joan contemplated it with cheerful face and flushed cheek, she thought that the whole set-out had a more attractive appearance, humble though it might be, than if it had been laid by a butler, and the spoons and forks had been of silver instead of being plated.
The room was redolent of roast goose.
She was awaiting her sister and Cissie, looking with pride, now at the table, then taking a peep at the meal that was being cooked, when a tap sounded at the door, and, without any response, Tom Treddlehoyle entered.
"Here I am," said the urchin. "I laid awake all last night kicking myself to be sure not to forget that I was invited to dine with you to-day. I wish yer all the complerments of the season, and an 'appy New Year, and an 'usband, and plenty of them."
Joan laughed, but she was somewhat disconcerted. "I promised you a cut from our plum-pudding, Tom, no more than that."
"Ah!" said the boy, "and me sniffin' goose now. You can't deny me a slice of that. I ain't partic'lar; I'll put up with the breast. To tell yer the truth, now, I've never had a bit o' goose atween my teeth, no, never, and goose and Joan Frobisher will ever be together in my mind from this day."
The little wretch had done his utmost to make himself respectable. He had washed his face and hands, not perhaps as exactly as you or I would perform the operation. As it was, it left the nails ebonised, and grime lurked in the furrows of his face and neck. He had done what he could to fasten his rags together, by darning and pinning, and he had combed his hair as well as was feasible with ten fingers.
The efforts he had made to render himself presentable only brought out into prominence the misery of the boy, his sharp features and the bones of his skull, and revealed how colourless was his face, hollow his cheek, and how sunken were his eyes.
Now and then he coughed. Altogether a pathetic figure, and Joan's eyes became soft and her lips quivered as she looked at him. He glanced up at her—saw what was in her face, and a light, a transforming gleam, passed through his countenance and burnt in his eyes as he smiled in response.
At that moment in came Sibyll, and stood stock still, holding her hymn and prayer book, and stared.
"What is this fiend here for?" she asked.
"Come to dine with you, my dear, by special invite," answered the urchin.
"This is beyond all endurance," exclaimed Sibyll, flushing dark red. "I cannot, and I positively will not, eat my Christmas dinner if this horrible cobbold comes near the table. He is enough to turn any stomach."
"Young 'ooman," said Tom, "a king of creation feeds by himself—and his slaves by theirselves. I reserves to my private use the back kitchen; it's nearer the goose and the pudden."
"He wheeled the hamper from the station," said Joan apologetically. "It is but fair that he should have a taste, and take toll of the good things he brought us."
"Then," said Sibyll sarcastically, "I presume you have invited the stoker and the driver of the train in which they came, and the woman who plucked the goose, and the negroes who grew and prepared the sugar, and the farmer from Corfu, who collected and dried the currants? They have all contributed to our dinner, and have just the same right to share in it."
"Sibyll, he shall sit by the fire in the back kitchen, and Cissie will be only too pleased to attend to his needs. Listen to his hollow cough!"
So it was arranged. Tom was content, and disappeared.
As soon as he was gone, Sibyll's good-humour returned, and the dinner passed off without unpleasantness.
When it was over, Joan put four mince pies into a paper bag, twisted up the corners, and took them into the back kitchen. She had ascertained from Cissie that the youth had eaten as much as. was good for him. These she intended for him to take away and consume as he was able.
She heard him cough, and on entering noticed that he was planted on a low stool by the fire, with one leg over the other, and the foot raised. At once she exclaimed—
"Why, Tom, you poor fellow! You have no soles to your shoes."
He laughed.
"I goes in for appearances, I does. Soles don't show. I've not had a balance at my bankers, so I 'ave 'ad to be savin' in shoe leather. However, times be mendin', and I'm going to indulge in a new pair for the New Year. The gem'man gave me half a yellow boy. Look!" He spun a ten-shilling piece in the air. "All for showing the way here." He coloured. "Blow it, I've let the cat out of the bag."
"What gentleman?" asked Joan.
"I'm not going to say another word—no, not another letter of a word."
"And you clear out of this," said Cissie; "we want the kitchen for washing up."
"I'll hook it, lest by accerdent you put me in the pail."
He stalked through the little parlour.
As he did so, "Joan!" exclaimed Sibyl!. "What does he mean, that horrible imp? Look what faces he is making at you and me."
Tom had his tongue thrust into his cheek, and was making grimaces and winking.
"Oh! ah!" said he, and chuckled. "Relations, of course. There's such a strong family resemblance, ain't there? He's got yer rolling black eye, and you 'ave his clusterin' brown 'air. Oh! eh! wanted, did 'e, to see where 'is young female relations 'ung out? Partic'larly the elder one! Fine!"
And he was gone.