FESTIVAL
Now came Christmas night. On Lucifram Christmas Day wasn’t marred by any
subsequent church-going. It was nothing better than a heathen feast; the
Serpent had nothing to do with it.
On that day the children went simply wild, and gave themselves
incredible airs; demanded their best toys, gorged oranges and apples,
made themselves ill with plum-pudding, demanded their full share of
turkey, and got it, and looked with expectant eyes on the iced cake when
it appeared. Just as if they’d been starving all day! The little
wretches!
The grown-up world, unless it was going out to an evening party, yawned,
and ate its customary Christmas fare, and drank it too. Then the old
people played cards, and the young people sang, especially the young men
with untrained voices, and the lovers behaved as if they really were in
love with one another.
Come and watch Rosalie.
Now that day there had arrived two Christmas presents so beautiful that
many an empress might have envied them. The first came early in the
morning, before the postman; a curious and unusual thing. There is no
doubt Santa Claus was on the war-path, for such a lovely ball and
reception dress could only have been made in some magic fairyland. It
was like shining silken _crêpe_, all frosted over with tiny sparkling
jewels, all in white. It shone like soft pure snow in the sunlight, and
fell in folds of simplest grace. It was so very simply, yet so very
wonderfully made, that one wondered what it was that gave it such a
beautiful effect.
“Is it not too dead white to suit me?” said she to Brightcoat, after
going into raptures on its beauty.
“See here, there is a little box below,” said it.
And Rosalie opened it, and uttered the most real cry of delight in her
life.
“It’s my stone, my first stone, that I loved so, all set in gold and
ready to wear. Oh, Brightcoat, Brightcoat, look!”
And she sat down on the bed and hid her face in the pillows, and cried
from different emotions. At last she wiped away the tears and looked up,
her eyes falling on the shining stone again.
“I love them all as if they were my children, and that somehow the most,
because it was the first. And I believe it loves me too. Look how
beautiful a ray of light it sends towards me! And I never hoped to see
it again.”
Rosalie took it up, and kissed it, and shed tears upon it, but the light
from it was never dimmed; one might have thought it was made tear-proof.
“I need no other colour. This is quite enough. And you, Brightcoat.”
“Yes; of course, there’s me,” said the other thoughtfully.
This was the beginning of the day. But when the postman came, besides
bringing letters and cards without end, some of the latter bearing
halfpenny stamps after the style of circulars, he brought a parcel, also
directed to Rosalie, in handwriting that the frog declared was superior
to anything it had ever seen.
It was opened in public, and inside was a pair of slippers as white as
snow, and worked in diamonds. And they were such a curious shape they
looked as if they must really be antique, because they had little square
toes, and gold straps across. They reminded one of the daintiest garden
clogs, so light were they, and when Rosalie put them on she wanted to
dance right away.
“They’re made on the same pattern as the little wooden clog I have
upstairs,” cried she. “Look, Miss Crokerly, they dance of themselves,”
and in excess of spirits she pirouetted round the room, and kissed both
those elderly people from superabundance of excessively childish glee.
Where they had come from she didn’t know. She thought they had come from
the same source as the first, although they came by post. So that
evening she dressed for the real pleasure of the thing. And when it came
to pinning the jewel into the bosom of her dress, her hands trembled
just because she loved it so. It shed just the same soft shades on to
her dress as the light of the moon might shed on to the snow—a passing
green and golden and palest blue that melted into white. And on her
shoulder the ever—present frog, and a new light in her eyes, because the
ice-tears had rolled out of them.
And underneath the shining jewel her heart beat quickly. She went with
Sir John, Miss Crokerly having preceded them in Mr. Barringcourt’s
carriage some time ago.
“Do you know,” said she, “I thought at the last minute you’d change your
mind and stay away.”
“Oh, no,” he replied. “I always go when Barringcourt throws his house
open. There are so many things that interest me there.”
“Yes. It’s quite after the nature of a museum, is it not?”
“Yes. Unlabelled. So that it has an additional charm.”
They took their turn in the long line of carriages, and after a
considerable time were enabled to alight.
There was an awning from the parapet to the door, and the steps were
also covered a deep red.
Rosalie looked for Everard. He was not there. Two powdered footmen
instead. They were not inmates of the Marble House. Neither were any of
those who personally waited upon the guests that night. There was not a
waiting-maid anywhere about to compare with Mariana, and Rosalie could
not have imagined her proud and delicate face amongst that throng. But
how different did the wide hall look that night! Brilliantly lit, and
with huge fires burning at either end. Fires fit for Festival and
freezing weather. And no undue crowding of guests to do away with
comfort and beauty and enjoyment. The wide doors to the southern wing,
leading to the picture-gallery and conservatory, were thrown open. So
also were those to the west, containing the reception rooms—no empty,
echoing fireless places now, but full of life and laughter and vivacity.
A reception was held first; dancing did not begin till eleven, when a
well-known princess was to lead with a gavotte. She was very proud of
her instep.
At twelve supper was to be served in the large subterranean hall, a
place Rosalie had never been in, nor, indeed, anyone else. And after
that dancing began again, and continued till four. Then carriages and
home.
On entering, Rosalie was presented with a programme that explained all
this. It was book-shaped, with a mother-of-pearl back, and in the centre
a perfect little garden clog with a broken string in gold, and
underneath “Christmas 0039”—that being the year as reckoned in Lucifram.
“Oh, how charming!” cried one lady, who had just received hers before
Rosalie. “An old clog for luck! It is delightful!”
Flowers the most gorgeous and tasteful banked every available corner;
truly, the house had been completely altered from darkness into light.
Mr. Barringcourt on these occasions made an excellent host. He had none
of the clumsiness of the bachelor host, being for all the world as much
at home as if he’d been married and had ten children. Now, it was a
dancing night, and thanks to an excellent example, there was not one
smoke-absorbed, or card-absorbed, or billiard-absorbed man present. For
one night everybody made a delightful martyr of themselves, and secretly
enjoyed the process.
Rosalie’s programme did not fill so quickly, for there were many there
who took her to have religious mania, and doubted they might have
something to put up with. Moreover, there were very few persons there
that she really knew. At last she was suddenly accosted by Mr.
Barringcourt.
“The first and last dance, Rosalie,” said he, and they looked at one
another. Then looking down at her programme, he said: “What an empty
list!”
“It’s quite right, thank you. I don’t care about dancing. I’d rather
watch other people, and listen to the music. Find me some quiet old lady
whom I may sit by, and who does not talk too much. It is all I ask of
you.”
“There are not many present. They are all young and frivolous, or old
and giddy. A much easier task would be to find you partners for every
dance.”
“I should be dead tired before supper-time; I can’t talk to strangers,
and I don’t know every dance. And it takes rather a brave man to accost
me; I perceive them mentally screwing themselves up to the pitch as they
approach.”
“Under those circumstances, it was very kind of you to come. Here comes
the Princess. I’ll return later.”
The Princess smiled so condescendingly all round that everyone was
charmed with her. She had a light walk, as one who treads on eggs and
fears to break them, and her admirers said she glided as the spirits do.
As soon as she came—and, of course, she came rather late—the proceedings
of the evening began. She danced the gavotte, and brought her own
dancing-master and fiddler to play, as she was accustomed to be played
up to.
When the real dancing began there was one of the best bands in Lucifram
in readiness, that all the evening more or less had been playing
favourite airs, and another to relieve them when occasion needed.
Mr. Barringcourt sought and found Rosalie.
“Should you not have given the first dance to the Princess?” said she.
“No. My step does not suit her, and she is sufficiently truthful to tell
me of it.”
“I can scarcely believe _your_ step is wrong.”
“No? She is easier to deal with than you. She goes greatly on credit.
It’s a royal failing. Come, let us begin; if this waltz is as it should
be, it will be all too short.”
And no seventh heaven could have surpassed, if equalled it.
“How lovely,” said she suddenly, “if one could die dancing!”
“It would mean company on a lonely road,” said he. “And cheat death of
some of its tragedy, with well-matched partners.”
“Did you—did you send me those slippers that I’m wearing?”
“What makes you think so?”
“The little clog on the back of my programme. It’s the exact fac-simile
of one I used to wear.”
“I had a little story as near as possible to that of Ally Krimjo. For
one morning there was found in the middle of my hall a little garden
clog without owner or companion. It came there through barred doors and
spring-barred doors, and none could make out how it came there. Not even
I. I never learnt it till the night when you came to say your lesson. I
proved it when you wore these little satin-covered skates to-night.”
“You’ll give it back to me?”
“Oh, no! I’m keeping it for luck. That is a lovely stone you’re
wearing.”
“It’s one I told you of. Dug from the garden with a great big fork and
spade, just as a man digs.”
“I believe I’ve seen it before in my father’s house.”
“No, indeed. Unless your father was the Governor I spoke of.”
He laughed.
Then at last the dance was over.
“I’ve found the lady you asked me for,” said he. “Miss Crokerly is my
guardian angel to-night. It is she who discovered her. Here is an
excellent place where you may sit and see everything, and hear the music
to advantage too.”
And then he took her to a seat, and introduced her to a lady sitting
there. She was so charming a companion. Her silences were never awkward,
and now and again she would give Rosalie information about certain
people, all of a good-natured if shrewd kind, that was the highest
entertainment.
At twelve punctually the company descended to supper.
The staircase down was of black marble, and spiral also, like the one
above. It had none of the slippery treachery that characterised its
sister staircase, though, and it seemed altogether of a much more
reliable make. To a spectator the gay colours of the ladies and their
sparkling jewels looked like brilliant multicoloured scales on a
gigantic serpent, reared pillar-wise to support the vast chamber below.
The subterranean banquet hall of Marble House was nothing better,
nothing worse than a crypt.
It had great and massive pillars of hardened, blackened marble; a
fitting support for a fitting house.
Its floors were tiled in marble. Its walls of marble too. But whereas a
crypt, if lit at all, is content with lamps of oil, or the feeble
glimmer of electricity, this place was deluged with light. The most
brilliant candelabra hung from the ceilings, sparkling in the thousand
glintings of diamond glass. The tables were covered with finest
snow-white cloths, and all the decorations were of silver, purest and
brightest and most finely worked. And all the flowers were red.
Here, screened from view, the band was playing gently. A soft and
scented air of luxury arose, as if to show that crypts upon occasion
have finer possibilities than dining-rooms.
The Princess, led by Mr. Barringcourt, descended first, and half way
down stopped to admire.
“Which was the pirate, you or Mr. Todbrook?” said she. “I’m sure you
carted off the plan of a cathedral, and the material too.”
“That is an open secret,” replied he, laughing. “But his was the theft,
not mine. I simply inherited what he had left. But he had gloomy taste.
Now, were I building, I’d fix upon a little bungalow, a whitewashed
place, with a world-wide garden for the summer-time.”
The Princess was not of that simple nature that enjoys simplicity, but
she delighted in anything odd, as she considered it, because it made her
laugh.
“Do you really mean to say you are philosopher enough to grow accustomed
to things?” she asked.
“Till I see a way of escape.”
“And you see none from here?”
The Princess had not such keen eyes as Rosalie; she was not fond of
studying faces, except for what animal beauty they might possess.
“None,” said he. “Although ’tis said Todbrook escaped by the back door.”
“He died,” said she, and looked at him with a vague suspicion of horror
in her eyes. She was of a superstitious nature.
But he laughed.
“You talk of death at a dance?” said he. “One might almost think,
Princess, you were primitive, and scorned the guarded terms of
civilisation.”
The conversation had taken a turn not to her fancy. He had thrown a
shadow over the brilliantly-lit supper-room. She shivered involuntarily,
and looked about her petulantly, and said:
“Are you quite sure this place isn’t damp?”
“Not at all! Not a rheumatic dampness, anyway. Spirits do not count;
they are above it.”
Then their conversation ran into a lighter channel suited to the
occasion, and the feast began right royally, when the plumed peacock was
carried in, to be admired in death, a lasting tribute to its vanity.
The band played, and the people laughed and feasted and talked. In the
whole of Lucifram that night could not have been found a gayer or more
brilliant company.