“And have you no suggestions to make, Sage?” asked Irais, turning to the Man of Wrath, who was blowing out clouds of smoke in silence.
“Oh, do you call him Sage?” cried Minora; “and always in English?”
Irais and I looked at each other. We knew what we did call him, and were afraid Minora would in time ferret it out and enter it in her notebook. The Man of Wrath looked none too well pleased to be alluded to under his very nose by our new guest as “him.”
“Husbands are always sages,” said I gravely.
“Though sages are not always husbands,” said Irais with equal gravity. “Sages and husbands—sage and husbands—” she went on musingly, “what does that remind you of, Miss Minora?”
“Oh, I know—how stupid of me!” cried Minora eagerly, her pencil in midair and her brain clutching at the elusive recollection, “sage and—why—yes—no—yes, of course—oh,” disappointedly, “but that’s vulgar—I can’t put it in.”
“What is vulgar?” I asked.
“She thinks sage and onions is vulgar,” said Irais languidly; “but it isn’t, it is very good.” She got up and walked to the piano, and, sitting down, began, after a little wandering over the keys, to sing.
“Do you play?” I asked Minora.
“Yes, but I am afraid I am rather out of practice.”
I said no more. I know what that sort of playing is.
When we were lighting our bedroom candles Minora began suddenly to speak in an unknown tongue. We stared. “What is the matter with her?” murmured Irais.
“I thought, perhaps,” said Minora in English, “you might prefer to talk German, and as it is all the same to me what I talk—”
“Oh, pray don’t trouble,” said Irais. “We like airing our English—don’t we, Elizabeth?”
“I don’t want my German to get rusty though,” said Minora; “I shouldn’t like to forget it.”
“Oh, but isn’t there an English song,” said Irais, twisting round her neck as she preceded us upstairs, “ ‘ ’Tis folly to remember, ’tis wisdom to forget’?”
“You are not nervous sleeping alone, I hope,” I said hastily.
“What room is she in?” asked Irais.
“No. 12.”
“Oh!—do you believe in ghosts?”
Minora turned pale.
“What nonsense,” said I; “we have no ghosts here. Good night. If you want anything, mind you ring.”
“And if you see anything curious in that room,” called Irais from her bedroom door, “mind you jot it down.”
December 27th
It is the fashion, I believe, to regard Christmas as a bore of rather a gross description, and as a time when you are invited to overeat yourself, and pretend to be merry without just cause. As a matter of fact, it is one of the prettiest and most poetic institutions possible, if observed in the proper manner, and after having been more or less unpleasant to everybody for a whole year, it is a blessing to be forced on that one day to be amiable, and it is certainly delightful to be able to give presents without being haunted by the conviction that you are spoiling the recipient, and will suffer for it afterward. Servants are only big children, and are made just as happy as children by little presents and nice things to eat, and, for days beforehand, every time the three babies go into the garden they expect to meet the Christ Child with His arms full of gifts. They firmly believe that it is thus their presents are brought, and it is such a charming idea that Christmas would be worth celebrating for its sake alone.
As great secrecy is observed, the preparations devolve entirely on me, and it is not very easy work, with so many people in our own house and on each of the farms, and all the children, big and little, expecting their share of happiness. The library is uninhabitable for several days before and after, as it is there that we have the trees and presents. All down one side are the trees, and the other three sides are lined with tables, a separate one for each person in the house. When the trees are lighted, and stand in their radiance shining down on the happy faces, I forget all the trouble it has been, and the number of times I have had to run up and down stairs, and the various aches in head and feet, and enjoy myself as much as anybody. First the June baby is ushered in, then the others and ourselves according to age, then the servants, then come the head inspector and his family, the other inspectors from the different farms, the mamsells, the bookkeepers and secretaries, and then all the children, troops and troops of them—the big ones leading the little ones by the hand and carrying the babies in their arms, and the mothers peeping round the door. As many as can get in stand in front of the trees, and sing two or three carols; then they are given their presents, and go off triumphantly, making room for the next batch. My three babies sang lustily too, whether they happened to know what was being sung or not. They had on white dresses in honour of the occasion, and the June baby was even arrayed in a low-necked and short-sleeved garment, after the manner of Teutonic infants, whatever the state of the thermometer. Her arms are like miniature prizefighter’s arms—I never saw such things; they are the pride and joy of her little nurse, who had tied them up with blue ribbons, and kept on kissing them. I shall certainly not be able to take her to balls when she grows up, if she goes on having arms like that.
When they came to say good night, they were all very pale and subdued. The April baby had an exhausted-looking Japanese doll with her, which she said she was taking to bed, not because she liked him, but because she was so sorry for him, he seemed so very tired. They kissed me absently, and went away, only the April baby glancing at the
