CHRISTMAS COMES BUT ONCE A YEAR
It was not much after seven o'clock, but early hours are kept in
the country, and there was a six-mile drive between Holly Lodge and
Marrowbone. Betty enjoyed the drive, inhaling the icy, crisp night air
as if it were champagne. Old Whitey did the six miles in less than an
hour, and Betty was in the thick of the arrivals for the party. The
hospitable host, Major Lindsay--for there were many majors and colonels
in Virginia in those days--met his guests on the great portico, with
the big wooden Doric columns.
"How do you do, Miss Betty?" Major Lindsay said. "And where is the
Colonel, pray?"
"Granddaddy sent his compliments and regrets, but he says he is really
too rheumatic to go out to dances," answered Betty, slipping out of the
rockaway.
"Nonsense, nonsense!" shouted the Major, who was big and florid and
handsome. "The Colonel is as able to shake a leg as ever he was, by
George! I hope Cesar has brought the fiddle, because we are reckoning
upon him."
"Yes, sirree," answered Uncle Cesar, with important emphasis. "I got
some rheumatiz, too, same like ole Marse, but mine is in my legs, thank
God A'mighty, and ain't tech my bow arm yet, praise the Lamb!"
Betty tripped up the steps, and Major Lindsay gallantly escorted her
into the wide hall.
Within this great hall were Christmas mirth and cheeriness, and
laughter and bright eyes and gay smiles. The house, following the plan
of most houses of eastern Virginia, had a splendid great hall, big
enough for a ball-room, and always used for dancing; for the people of
Virginia are inveterate dancers, and a house is but poorly provided
which cannot furnish space for balls. Holly wreaths were everywhere,
and over each door was a sprig of mistletoe, causing the ladies to
scamper through the doorways with little shrieks of laughter, while the
gentlemen used strategies to intercept them.
Already dancing had begun, though the orchestra was by no means
complete without Uncle Cesar. But the impatient young feet could
not wait. Isaac Minkins, a saddle-colored person, who combined the
profession of driving a fish-cart in the day-time and fiddling in the
evening, was the director of the orchestra, and his sole assistant,
until Uncle Cesar arrived, was a coal black youth who also helped
on the fish-cart, and who performed upon the concertina, or, as the
negroes call it, the "lap organ." Uncle Cesar, who was quickly hustled
into the hall, promptly tuned up and played second fiddle.
By that time Betty had run upstairs, thrown off her cloak, taken
one hasty but satisfactory view of herself in the mirror, and was
stepping daintily down the staircase. Now, Betty, who was a scheming
and designing creature, knew exactly how to descend the stairs into
the dancing hall. This descent down the fine staircase in full view
of the assembled company was an effective part of the programme, and
the artful Betty, with an outspread fan in one hand and holding up
her filmy white skirts with the other just enough to show her little
white satin slippers, was the prettiest picture imaginable. So thought
Lieutenant John Hope Fortescue of the United States Army, and several
other admirers, both old and new. As Betty came down the stairs with
what appeared to be unstudied grace, but was not, her soft eyes
swept the dancers below, and she nodded and smiled back at those who
recognized her. But she did not see Fortescue until she was almost at
the last step, when he came forward and took her hand. He had been
strikingly handsome in uniform, and he was scarcely less so in his well
fitting evening clothes, although Betty, like all women, had a secret
hankering for uniforms.
"Good evening, Miss Beverley," said Fortescue, and Betty gave a pretty
little start of real surprise.
"Good evening," she said, and then hesitated.
"And how did I get here?" said Fortescue, laughing and answering the
look of surprised inquiry in Betty's eloquent face. "The greatest
streak of luck that ever happened! When I got back to Rosehill, I found
Major Lindsay had come to call--the kindest and most hospitable people
that ever lived are in Virginia, I believe--and he invited us to come
over to this party. We fairly jumped down his throat, I can tell you,
we were so glad to accept."
"And I am _so_ glad you did," said Betty affably.
She had never laid eyes on Fortescue until four hours before, but Betty
was Southern, and a Virginian at that, and readily assumed a tone
of the warmest friendship with every personable young man she met,
immediately after making his acquaintance.
"And now," continued Betty in an imploring tone, as if there were not
another man within a hundred miles, "will you be kind enough to take me
up to Mrs. Lindsay to speak to her?"
"Certainly," replied Fortescue, placing her little gloved hand within
his arm, and improving his opportunities as he did so.
It was not an easy matter for Betty to reach Mrs. Lindsay, standing
at the other end of the hall. Betty was stopped every minute by girls
speaking to her, and by young men asking dances of her. The girls
called her "Betty" and the young men called her "Miss Betty," so
Fortescue promptly dropped the formal "Miss Beverley" and called her
"Miss Betty," as if he had known her for a hundred years.
Meanwhile, the first fiddle and the "lap organ," reinforced by Uncle
Cesar's stout bow arm, were playing energetically "I'se Gwine Back
to Dixie," and Betty's slender feet danced rather than walked up the
hall. At last they were standing before Mrs. Lindsay, stout, handsome,
and florid, like the Major, and receiving her guests with heartfelt
hospitality like her husband. The hostess greeted Betty warmly, and,
above the music and merry chatter, screamed without any punctuations
whatever:
"How do you do Betty so glad to see you sorry your grandfather can't
be here tell him to rub his knees with turpentine every night. Tom's
brought four of his friends from the University and you must dance with
them all so delighted to have Mr. Fortescue and the other officers from
Rosehill go right into the library and get some hot biscuit and coffee
you must be so cold after your drive how do you do," etc., etc., saying
the same kind things to the next arrival.
And then Tom Lindsay, a University of Virginia sophomore, swooped down
on Betty; but just as he caught her hand, Fortescue, who knew both
how to act and to think, put his arm around Betty's waist, and they
whirled off to the strains of "I'se gwine back to Dixie, where the
orange-blossoms blow." Betty, however, managed to put her hand for a
second in Tom Lindsay's and to say, as everybody said to everybody else:
"Oh, so glad to see you! Have just been dying of loneliness without
you;" and when safely out of Tom's hearing Betty whispered into
Fortescue's ear, "Such a nice boy! We used to play together. Of course,
I have to say things like that to the child." By which it may be seen
that Miss Betty Beverley was a most unprincipled person when it came
to dealing with personable young men, and did not have the New England
conscience or any other conscience, where flattering a person of the
other sex was concerned.
When the dance was over, Fortescue, like an able commander, following
up his advantage, mentioned to Betty that they should accept Mrs.
Lindsay's suggestion and go into the library and have the coffee
and biscuits which were always served immediately upon the arrival
of guests at a Virginia party. This did not appeal particularly to
Betty, but when Tom Lindsay came up and told her that he wanted to
introduce his fellow students to her, and they would all go into the
library together for coffee, Fortescue suddenly remembered that he must
introduce his brother officers also to Betty. This was enough to send
Betty rapidly into the library, where she found herself in an Elysium
of University students and second lieutenants. Being a generous soul,
Betty seized upon Sally Carteret, a tall, handsome girl, and divided
her plunder of students and officers with Sally. It was only necessary
to mention that Mr. Fortescue and his friends would stay over Christmas
day, for Sally to invite them to the Christmas hunt and breakfast at
Bendover. Seeing there was no chance of monopolizing Betty, Fortescue
found Sally, with her gypsy beauty, by no means a bad substitute.
Between the dances, raids were made into the library, where from a big
table hot coffee and buttered biscuits, with "old ham" that had been
cured in the smoke from hickory ashes for a couple of years--a great
Virginia luxury--and a round of beef, were served as a mere preliminary
to the big supper which was coming later. By the great fireplace stood
a table with a huge bowl of apple toddy. The older gentlemen, who were
at cards in the drawing-room with prim, elderly ladies, made frequent
incursions upon the apple toddy. The ladies carefully avoided this
seductive brew and kept to weak tea and thin biscuit. Over all was
the true spirit of Christmas gaiety, the heart-whole and heart-given
hospitality of a hospitable people.
The dancing went on gaily until half past eleven o'clock, when the
concoction of the Christmas eggnog began. Every gentleman was supplied
with a silver fork and a plate in which had been broken the whites
of four eggs. They had to be beaten so stiff that the plate could be
held over the head of a lady without dropping upon her. Such was the
tradition, but only a few ladies took the risk, holding out, meanwhile,
their dainty handkerchiefs over their heads to catch the whipped-up
whites in case they fell. Betty was one of the venturesome ones, and
Fortescue was her cavalier, and turned the plate over her head, but
not a drop fell upon Betty's outspread lace handkerchief. Then the
whites of the eggs were mixed with the beaten up yolks and the whipped
cream and the "stiffening" as Major Lindsay called it, who, as host,
did the mixing, and then ladled out the foaming eggnog. At twelve
o'clock exactly Major Lindsay held up his glass and shouted, "Merry
Christmas!" and a great chorus went up of "Merry Christmas! Merry,
merry Christmas!" Then, Isaac Minkins, with a magnificent flourish of
his bow, burst forth into the strains of "The Flowing Bowl." All joined
in the great Christmas song, Major Lindsay's big baritone leading the
chorus:
"For to-night we'll merry, merry be,
For to-night we'll merry, merry be,
For to-night we'll merry, merry be,
And to-morrow we'll be sober."
Then the gentlemen roared out:
"Here's to the man who drinks good ale and goes to bed quite mellow.
He lives as he ought to live, and dies a damned good fellow.
He lives as he ought to live,
He lives as he ought to live,
He lives as he ought to live,
And dies a damned good fellow.
"Here's to the man who drinks no ale and goes to bed quite sober.
He withers as the leaves do, and dies in the month of October.
He withers as the leaves do.
He withers as the leaves do.
He withers as the leaves do.
And dies in the month of October."
Then came the verse in which all the ladies joined with great
enthusiasm:
"Here's to the girl who gets a kiss, and runs and tells her
mother.
May she live to be an old maid, and never get another!"
The chorus pealed out, Betty Beverley's clear and ringing soprano above
all the rest:
"May she live to be an old maid,
May she live to be an old maid,
May she live to be an old maid,
And never get another."
Then the folding doors to the dining-room were thrown open and the
real supper was served, to which coffee, biscuit, "old ham," and the
round of beef were merely the appetizers. An emperor of a turkey was
at the head of the table, with another at the foot, and one at each
side scarcely inferior in imperial splendor. There were cold pickled
oysters, and hot oysters, creamed, steamed, fried, stewed, and in
scallop shells. There were great dishes of terrapin, not indeed the
diamond-back of Maryland fame, but the slider, a dry-land terrapin,
an excellent creature when accompanied with the butter, cream, eggs,
sherry, and brandy which are lavished upon him. There were, of course,
more old hams, rounds of beef, and a gigantic saddle of Southdown
mutton, which Major Lindsay himself carved with a magnificent flourish.
The boned turkey was a gem, the work in the case being done by Dr.
Markham, the cheery, pleasant-faced village doctor, who, it was
popularly reported, in getting the bones out of the turkey used the
identical instruments with which he cut off legs and arms. But the
doctor's services being in demand by hostesses at Christmas time, no
prejudice existed against either the boned turkey or the doctor.
There were pigeon-pie, wild ducks, chicken salad, and a few other
incidentals, to be topped off by ices, custards, jellies, and cakes of
innumerable varieties. It took an hour to get through with the supper,
and when the guests had feasted and left the dining-room, there was
still enough left to feed a couple of regiments.
The musicians had had their supper and a glass of apple toddy, and
eggnog in addition, and were ready again with fiddles and "lap
organ" to start the flying feet once more. Betty had more partners
than she could accommodate, and told each one the same story in
various forms, punctuated by a sidelong glance, which was Betty's
own--that she only wished she could dance with him all the evening.
Tom Lindsay, a handsome youngster, who called Betty by her first name
and assumed proprietary rights over her, was encouraged to do so by
this arch-hypocrite of a girl. But in this Betty only followed the
prevailing fashion. All of the university students and young officers
present, except Fortescue, found themselves involved in at least half
a dozen desperate flirtations, which promised to continue during the
whole week, and then never to be heard of again.
It was four o'clock in the wintry Christmas morning before the
musicians tuned up for the final Virginia reel. The two lines were
formed down the great hall, and extending through the folding doors
into the library. The elders sat around, the card-players in the
drawing-room giving up their games of old-fashioned whist to watch
the dancers. Betty Beverley had the honor of leading off with Major
Lindsay, an agile and graceful dancer in spite of his two hundred
pounds. Fortescue, with the eye of a strategist, took the least
desirable position at the other end of the line, but by this he
acquired the privilege of meeting Betty in the middle of the line,
swinging her around first by the right hand and then by the left, next
by both hands and then _dos-à-dos_, and passing under the arch. The
musicians played with the fire and enthusiasm peculiar to their race.
The fiddlers wagged their heads, beat time with their feet, flourished
their bows, while the youth with the "lap organ" stood up and fairly
danced with delight as the strains of "Forked Deer" and "Billy in the
Low Grounds" rent the air.
When the two ends of the reel were danced, Major Lindsay and Betty
tripped down the middle, the Major cutting the pigeon-wing and taking
many quaint and curious steps, which were followed by Betty's twinkling
feet. Then they danced back again, and began swinging the row of
dancers until they had reached the end of the line again. The march
followed next, Betty leading the ladies, and the Major leading the
men, all clapping time rhythmically with the dashing music. This was
gone through religiously with every couple in the reel, and it took an
hour to be danced. Then, at last, it finished up in the grand chain,
everybody shaking hands with everybody else, and wishing each other
"Merry Christmas."
It was still pitch dark in the December morning, although past five
o'clock. The carriages were brought up to the door, and the ladies were
shot into them, the horses prancing in the freezing air and restless
to take the road. Betty was one of the last to leave, as Uncle Cesar
had to "wrop up" his fiddle carefully, put it in the case, and carry
it tenderly out to the rockaway. Old Whitey came up to the big Doric
portico, stepping high and snorting as if he were a colt. Major Lindsay
escorted Betty down the steps of the great portico, but at the foot
Fortescue, bareheaded in the winter darkness, was waiting. He gave
Betty's slender hand one last pressure, wrapped her delicate feet up
warmly in the blanket, and got a sweet parting glance from the girl's
fair eyes before Uncle Cesar called out:
"Gee up, ole hoss!"
Betty leaned back in the rockaway as old Whitey trotted briskly along
the frozen road. She was in one of those happy dreams that are the
glorious heritage of sweet and twenty. Her mind was divided between
the charms of dashing university students and charming young officers,
together with speculations as to whether her white muslin gown really
would last through Christmas week. There were several alarming rents in
it already, for Betty had enjoyed herself very, very much.
Then her thoughts turned to soberer things, such as the way the brave
old Colonel stood the translation from Rosehill to Holly Lodge, and the
necessity for making both ends meet, and the building of a stable for
their one cow. For Betty's outside and inside by no means corresponded.
On the outside, she was all laughter and singing and dancing, like
a silver fountain in the golden sun. Inside, she was the most
level-headed, the most thoughtful, and the most courageous creature in
the world. Betty was practical and sentimental, tender and cruel, gay
and sad, bold and timorous, and always Betty.