“He’s in earnest at any rate,” said Mr. Moulder.
“No mistake about that,” said Snengkeld.
But Mr. Kantwise spoke never a word.
It was at last decided that John Kenneby should go both to Hamworth and to Bedford Row, but that he should go to Hamworth first. Moulder would have counselled him to have gone to neither, but Snengkeld remarked that there were too many at work to let the matter sleep, and John himself observed that “anyways he hadn’t done anything to be ashamed of.”
“Then go,” said Moulder at last, “only don’t say more than you are obliged to.”
“I does not like these business talkings on Christmas night,” said Mrs. Moulder, when the matter was arranged.
“What can one do?” asked Moulder.
“It’s a tempting of Providence in my mind,” said Kantwise, as he replenished his glass, and turned his eyes up to the ceiling.
“Now that’s gammon,” said Moulder. And then there arose among them a long and animated discussion on matters theological.
“I’ll tell you what my idea of death is,” said Moulder, after a while. “I ain’t a bit afeard of it. My father was an honest man as did his duty by his employers, and he died with a bottom of brandy before him and a pipe in his mouth. I shan’t live long myself—”
“Gracious, Moulder, don’t!” said Mrs. M.
“No, more I shan’t, ’cause I’m fat as he was; and I hope I may die as he did. I’ve been honest to Hubbles and Grease. They’ve made thousands of pounds along of me, and have never lost none. Who can say more than that? When I took to the old girl there, I insured my life, so that she shouldn’t want her wittles and drink—”
“Oh, M., don’t!”
“And I ain’t afeard to die. Snengkeld, my old pal, hand us the brandy.”
Such is the modern philosophy of the Moulders, pigs out of the sty of Epicurus. And so it was they passed Christmas-day in Great St. Helens.
XXV
Mr. Furnival Again at His Chambers
The Christmas doings at The Cleeve were not very gay. There was no visitor there, except Lady Mason, and it was known that she was in trouble. It must not, however, be supposed that she constantly bewailed herself while there, or made her friends miserable by a succession of hysterical tears. By no means. She made an effort to be serene, and the effort was successful—as such efforts usually are. On the morning of Christmas-day they duly attended church, and Lady Mason was seen by all Hamworth sitting in The Cleeve pew. In no way could the baronet’s friendship have been shown more plainly than in this, nor could a more significant mark of intimacy have been given;—all which Sir Peregrine well understood. The people of Hamworth had chosen to talk scandal about Lady Mason, but he at any rate would show how little attention he paid to the falsehoods that there were circulated. So he stood by her at the pew door as she entered, with as much deference as though she had been a duchess; and the people of Hamworth, looking on, wondered which would be right, Mr. Dockwrath or Sir Peregrine.
After dinner Sir Peregrine gave a toast. “Lady Mason, we will drink the health of the absent boys. God bless them! I hope they are enjoying themselves.”
“God bless them!” said Mrs. Orme, putting her handkerchief to her eyes.
“God bless them both!” said Lady Mason, also putting her handkerchief to her eyes. Then the ladies left the room, and that was the extent of their special festivity. “Robert,” said Sir Peregrine immediately afterwards to his butler, “let them have what port wine they want in the servants’ hall—within measure.”
“Yes, Sir Peregrine.”
“And Robert, I shall not want you again.”
“Thank you, Sir Peregrine.”
From all which it may be imagined that the Christmas doings at The Cleeve were chiefly maintained below stairs.
“I do hope they are happy,” said Mrs. Orme, when the two ladies were together in the drawing-room. “They have a very nice party at Noningsby.”
“Your boy will be happy, I’m sure,” said Lady Mason.
“And why not Lucius also?”
It was sweet in Lady Mason’s ear to hear her son called by his Christian name. All these increasing signs of interest and intimacy were sweet, but especially any which signified some favour shown to her son. “This trouble weighs heavy on him,” she replied. “It is only natural that he should feel it.”
“Papa does not seem to think much of it,” said Mrs. Orme. “If I were you, I would strive to forget it.”
“I do strive,” said the other; and then she took the hand which Mrs. Orme had stretched out to her, and that lady got up and kissed her.
“Dearest friend,” said Mrs. Orme, “if we can comfort you we will.” And then they sobbed in each other’s arms.
In the meantime Sir Peregrine was sitting alone, thinking. He sat thinking, with his glass of claret untouched by his side, and with the biscuit which he had taken lying untouched upon the table. As he sat he had raised one leg upon the other, placing his foot on his knee, and he held it there with his hand upon his instep. And so he sat without moving for some quarter of an hour, trying to use all his mind on the subject which occupied it. At last he roused himself, almost with a start, and leaving his chair, walked three or four times the length of the room. “Why should I not?” at last he said to himself, stopping suddenly and placing his hand upon the table. “Why should I not, if it pleases me? It shall not injure him—nor her.” And then he walked again. “But I will ask Edith,” he said, still speaking to himself. “If she says that she disapproves of it, I will not do
