Amusement Only Part 46

AN OLD-FAs.h.i.+ONED CHRISTMAS.

CHAPTER I.

THE PROMISE.

"An old-fas.h.i.+oned Christmas.--A lively family will accept a gentleman as paying guest to join them in spending an old-fas.h.i.+oned Christmas in the heart of the country."

That was the advertis.e.m.e.nt. It had its points. I was not sure what, in this case, an old-fas.h.i.+oned Christmas might happen to mean. I imagine there were several kinds of "old-fas.h.i.+oned" Christmases; but it could hardly be worse than a chop in my chambers, or--horror of horrors!--at the club; or my cousin Lucy's notion of what she calls the "festive season." Festive? Yes! She and her husband, who suffers from melancholia, and all the other complaints which flesh is heir to, and I, dragging through what I call a patent-medicine dinner, and talking of everybody who is dead and gone, or else going, and of nothing else.

So I wrote to the advertiser. The reply was written in a sprawling feminine hand. It was a little vague. It appeared that the terms would be five guineas; but there was no mention of the length of time which that fee would cover. I might arrive, it seemed, on Christmas Eve, but there was no hint as to when I was to go, if ever. The whole thing was a trifle odd. There was nothing said about the sort of accommodation which would be provided, nothing about the kind of establishment which was maintained, or the table which was kept. No references were offered or asked for. It was merely stated that "we're a very lively family, and that if you're lively yourself you'll get on uncommonly well." The letter was signed "Madge Wilson."

Now it is a remarkable thing that I have always had an extraordinary predilection for the name Madge. I do not know why. I have never known a Madge. And yet, from my boyhood upward, I have desired to meet one.

Here was an opportunity offered. She was apparently the careworn mother of a "lively family." Under such circ.u.mstances she was hardly likely to be "lively" herself, but her name was Madge, and it was the accident of her Christian name which decided me to go.

I had no illusions. No doubt the five guineas were badly wanted; even a "lively family" would be hardly likely to advertise for a perfect stranger to spend Christmas with them if they were not. I did not expect a princely entertainment. Still I felt that it could hardly be worse than a chop or cousin Lucy; the subjects of her conversation I never cared about when they were alive, and I certainly do not want to talk about them now they are dead. As for the "pills" and "drops" with which her husband doses himself between the courses, it makes me ill even to think of them.

On Christmas Eve the weather was abominable. All night it had been blowing and raining. In the morning it began to freeze. By the time the streets were like so many skating rinks it commenced to snow. And it kept on snowing; that turned out to be quite a record in the way of snow-storms. Hardly the sort of weather to start for an unknown destination "in the heart of the country." But, at the last moment, I did not like to back out. I said I would go, and I meant to go.

I had been idiot enough to load myself with a lot of Christmas presents, without the faintest notion why. I had not given a Christmas present for years--there had been no one to give them to. Lucy cannot bear such trifling, and her husband's only notion of a present at any time was a gallon jar of somebody's Stomach Stirrer. I am no dealer in poisons.

I knew nothing of the people I was going to. The youngest member of the family might be twenty, or the oldest ten. No doubt the things I had bought would be laughed at, probably I should never venture to offer them. Still, if you have not tried your hand at that kind of thing for ever so long, the mere act of purchasing is a pleasure. That is a fact.

I had never enjoyed "shopping" so much since I was a boy. I felt quite lively myself as I mingled with the Christmas crowd, looking for things which might not turn out to be absolutely preposterous. I even bought something for Madge--I mean Mrs. Wilson. Of course, I knew that I had no right to do anything of the kind, and was aware that the chances were a hundred to one against my ever presuming to hint at its existence. I was actually a.s.s enough to buy something for her husband--two things, indeed; alternatives, as it were--a box of cigars, if he turned out to be a smoker, and a case of whiskey if he didn't. I hoped to goodness that he would not prove to be a hypochondriac, like Lucy's husband. I would not give him pills. What the "lively family" would think of a perfect stranger arriving burdened with rubbish, as if he had known them all their lives, I did not dare to think. No doubt they would set him down as a lunatic right away.

It was a horrible journey. The trains were late, and, of course, overcrowded; there was enough luggage in our compartment to have filled it, and still there was one more pa.s.senger than there ought to have been; an ill-conditioned old fellow who wanted my hat-box put into the van because it happened to tumble off the rack on to his head. I pointed out to him that the rack was specially constructed for light luggage, that a hat-box was light luggage, and that if the train jolted, he ought to blame the company, not me. He was impervious to reason. His wrangling and jangling so upset me, that I went past the station at which I ought to have changed. Then I had to wait three-quarters of an hour for a train to take me back again, only to find that I had missed the one I intended to catch. So I had to cool my heels for two hours and a half in a wretched cowshed amidst a bitter, whirling snowstorm. It is some satisfaction for me to be able to reflect that I made it warm for the officials, however cold I might have been myself.

When the train did start, some forty minutes after scheduled time, it jolted along in a laborious fas.h.i.+on at the rate of about six miles an hour, stopping at every roadside hovel. I counted seven in a distance, I am convinced, of less than twenty miles. When at last I reached Crofton, my journey's end, it turned out that the station staff consisted of a half-witted individual, who was stationmaster, porter, and clerk combined, and a hulking lad who did whatever else there was to do. No one had come to meet me, the village was "about half a mile," and Hangar Dene, the house for which my steps were bent, "about four miles by the road"--how far it was across ploughed fields my informant did not mention.

There was a trap at the "Boy and Blunderbuss," but that required fetching. Finally the hulking lad was dispatched. It took him some time, considering the distance was only "about half a mile." When the trap did appear it looked to me uncommonly like an open spring cart.

In it I was deposited, with my luggage. The snow was still descending in whirling clouds. Never shall I forget the drive, in that miserable cart, through the storm and those pitch black country lanes. We had been jogging along some time before the driver opened his mouth.

"Be you going to stop with they Wilsons?"

"I am."

"Ah!"

There was something in the tone of his "Ah!" which whetted my curiosity, near the end of my tether though I was.

"Why do you ask?"

"It be about time as someone were to stay with them as were a bit capable like."

I did not know what he meant. I did not ask. I was beyond it. I was chilled to the bone, wet, tired, hungry. I had long been wis.h.i.+ng that an old-fas.h.i.+oned Christmas had been completely extinct before I had thought of adventuring in quest of one. Better cousin Lucy's notion of the "festive season."

We pa.s.sed through a gate, which I had to get down to open, along some sort of avenue. Suddenly the cart pulled up.

"Here we be."

That might be so. It was a pity he did not add where "here" was. There was a great shadow, which possibly did duty for a house, but, if so, there was not a light in any of the windows, and there was nothing visible in the shape of a door. The whereabouts of this, however, the driver presently made clear.

"There be the door in front of you; you go up three steps, if you can find 'em. There's a knocker, if none of 'em haven't twisted it off. If they have, there's a bell on your right, if it isn't broken."

There appeared to be no knocker, though whether it had been "twisted"

off was more than I could say. But there was a bell, which creaked with rust, though it was not broken. I heard it tinkle in the distance. No answer; though I allowed a more than decent interval.

"Better ring again," suggested the driver. "Hard. Maybe they're up to some of their games, and wants rousing."

Was there a chuckle in the fellow's voice? I rang again, and again with all the force I could. The bell reverberated through what seemed like an empty house.

"Is there no one in the place?"

"They're there right enough. Where's another thing. Maybe on the roof; or in the cellar. If they know you're coming perhaps they hear and don't choose to answer. Better ring again."

I sounded another peal. Presently feet were heard advancing along the pa.s.sage--several pairs it seemed--and a light gleamed through the window over the door. A voice inquired: "Who's there?"

"Mr. Christopher, from London."

The information was greeted with what sounded uncommonly like a chorus of laughter. There was a rush of retreating feet, an expostulating voice, then darkness again, and silence.

"Who lives here? Are the people mad?"

"Well--thereabouts."

Once more I suspected the driver of a chuckle. My temper was rising. I had not come all that way, and subjected myself to so much discomfort, to be played tricks with. I tolled the bell again. After a few seconds' interval the pit-pat of what was obviously one pair of feet came towards the door. Again a light gleamed through the pane. A key was turned, a chain unfastened, bolts withdrawn; it seemed as if some one had to drag a chair forward before one of these latter could be reached. After a vast amount of unfastening, the door was opened, and on the threshold there stood a girl, with a lighted candle in her hand. The storm rushed in; she put up her hand to s.h.i.+eld the light from danger.

"Can I see Mrs. Wilson? I'm expected. I'm Mr. Christopher, from London."

"Oh!"

That was all she said. I looked at her; she at me. The driver's voice came from the background.

"I drove him over from the station, Miss. There be a lot of luggage.

He do say he's come to stay with you."

"Is that you, Tidy? I'm afraid I can offer you nothing to drink. We've lost the key of the cellar, and there's nothing out, except water, and I don't think you'd care for that."

"I can't say rightly as how I should, Miss. Next time will do. Be it all right?"

The girl continued to regard me.

"Perhaps you had better come inside."

"I think I had."