“And now for the plum-pudding part of the arrangement,” said Felix Graham.
“Yes, Mr. Graham,” said Madeline, “now for the plum-pudding—and the blindman’s buff.”
“Did you ever see anything more perfect than the church, Mr. Mason?” said Sophia.
“Anything more perfect? no; in that sort of way, perhaps, never. I have seen the choir of Cologne.”
“Come, come; that’s not fair,” said Graham. “Don’t import Cologne in order to crush us here down in our little English villages. You never saw the choir of Cologne bright with holly berries.”
“No; but I have with cardinal’s stockings, and bishop’s robes.”
“I think I should prefer the holly,” said Miss Furnival. “And why should not our churches always look like that, only changing the flowers and the foliage with the season? It would make the service so attractive.”
“It would hardly do at Lent,” said Madeline, in a serious tone.
“No, perhaps not at Lent exactly.”
Peregrine and Augustus Staveley were walking on in front, not perhaps as well satisfied with the day as the rest of the party. Augustus, on leaving the church, had made a little effort to assume his place as usual by Miss Furnival’s side, but by some accident of war, Mason was there before him. He had not cared to make one of a party of three, and therefore had gone on in advance with young Orme. Nor was Peregrine himself much more happy. He did not know why, but he felt within his breast a growing aversion to Felix Graham. Graham was a puppy, he thought, and a fellow that talked too much; and then he was such a confoundedly ugly dog, and—and—and—Peregrine Orme did not like him. He was not a man to analyze his own feelings in such matters. He did not ask himself why he should have been rejoiced to hear that instant business had taken Felix Graham off to Hong Kong; but he knew that he would have rejoiced. He knew also that Madeline Staveley was—. No; he did not know what she was; but when he was alone, he carried on with her all manner of imaginary conversations, though when he was in her company he had hardly a word to say to her. Under these circumstances he fraternized with her brother; but even in that he could not receive much satisfaction, seeing that he could not abuse Graham to Graham’s special friend, nor could he breathe a sigh as to Madeline’s perfections into the ear of Madeline’s brother.
The children—and there were three or four assembled there besides those belonging to Mrs. Arbuthnot, were by no means inclined to agree with Mr. Graham’s strictures as to the amusements of Christmas-day. To them it appeared that they could not hurry fast enough into the vortex of its dissipations. The dinner was a serious consideration, especially with reference to certain illuminated mince-pies which were the crowning glory of that banquet; but time for these was almost begrudged in order that the fast handkerchief might be tied over the eyes of the first blindman.
“And now we’ll go into the schoolroom,” said Marian Arbuthnot, jumping up and leading the way. “Come along, Mr. Felix,” and Felix Graham followed her.
Madeline had declared that Felix Graham should be blinded first, and such was his doom. “Now mind you catch me, Mr. Felix; pray do,” said Marian, when she had got him seated in a corner of the room. She was a beautiful fair little thing, with long, soft curls, and lips red as a rose, and large, bright blue eyes, all soft and happy and laughing, loving the friends of her childhood with passionate love, and fully expecting an equal devotion from them. It is of such children that our wives and sweethearts should be made.
“But how am I to find you when my eyes are blinded?”
“Oh, you can feel, you know. You can put your hand on the top of my head. I mustn’t speak, you know; but I’m sure I shall laugh; and then you must guess that it’s Marian.” That was her idea of playing blindman’s buff according to the strict rigour of the game.
“And you’ll give me a big kiss?” said Felix.
“Yes, when we’ve done playing,” she promised with great seriousness.
And then a huge white silk handkerchief, as big as a small sail, was brought down from grandpapa’s dressing-room, so that nobody should see the least bit “in the world,” as Marian had observed with great energy; and the work of blinding was commenced. “I ain’t big enough to reach round,” said Marian, who had made an effort, but in vain. “You do it, aunt Mad,” and she tendered the handkerchief to Miss Staveley, who, however, did not appear very eager to undertake the task.
“I’ll be the executioner,” said grandmamma, “the more especially as I shall not take any other share in the ceremony. This shall be the chair of doom. Come here, Mr. Graham, and submit yourself to me.” And so the first victim was blinded. “Mind you remember,” said Marian, whispering into his ear as he was led away. “Green spirits and white; blue spirits and gray—,” and then he was twirled round in the room and left to commence his search as best he might.
Marian Arbuthnot was not the only soft little laughing darling that wished to be caught, and blinded, so that there was great pulling at the blindman’s tails, and much grasping at his outstretched arms before the desired object was attained. And he wandered round the room skilfully, as though a thought were in his mind false to his treaty with Marian—as though he imagined for a moment that some other prize might be caught. But if so, the other prize evaded him carefully, and in due progress of play, Marian’s soft
