"I don't know what you call trouble, but on a morning like this I am
without a fire and it seems extremely probable that I shall have to
remain without one."
"No fire!" Even from across the landing I was conscious that that
child's eyes were opened wider. "Why, it's freezing. Haven't you any
coals or wood?"
"Oh, yes, I've plenty of coals and wood, but what's the good of them if
they won't burn?"
"Won't burn? Why ever won't they burn?"
"I don't know why they won't burn--you'd better ask 'em."
I am altogether without a clear impression of how it happened. I can
only say that that child came across the landing, and, as I returned
into my own quarters, she came after me--quite uninvited. We moved to
the dining-room, the scene of my futile efforts. She regarded the
recalcitrant grate with thoughtful gaze. It began to be borne in on me
that she was rather a nice-looking child, with brown hair, and a great
deal of it, and big brown eyes. Presently she said,--
"I have seen people make a fire."
Which was an absurd remark. I snubbed her.
"I don't know that there's anything remarkable in that. I also have
seen people make a fire."
"One would never think it to look at that grate."
"What's the matter with the grate?"
"It's too full of everything. To make a fire you begin with paper."
"Haven't I begun with paper? There are at least six newspapers at the
bottom of that grate; it's stuffed full of paper."
"That's just it; I believe it's stuffed too full. And I feel sure that
you don't want to start with a whole forest full of wood. And it looks
to me as if you had emptied a whole scuttle full of coals on the top of
all the rest."
"I have."
"Then how ridiculous of you. How can you expect it to burn? I think I
can show you how it ought to be."
She showed me. I ought not to have let her; I do not need to be told
that, but I did. I held the scuttle while she put back into it nearly
all the coal; then she removed about five-sixths of the wood and
nine-tenths of the paper, and started to lay that fire all over again.
And she kept talking all the time.
"Have you had your breakfast?"
"I emphatically haven't."
"I haven't had any either."
It struck me that there was a suggestiveness about her tone.
"I'm afraid I can't ask you to share mine."
"Why? Haven't you any food?"
"Oh, I daresay there's food, but--it wants cooking.
"Well, let's cook it! Oh, do let's cook it! I should so love to cook my
own breakfast; I never have; it would be just like a picnic."
"I don't know that I care for picnics; I'm too old."
"I've seen people older than you are." I felt flattered; I am not so
very old after all. "What have you got? Have you any eggs?"
"I shouldn't be surprised if I have some eggs."
"Then, to begin with, we'll say eggs. How shall we cook them?"
"Boil them."
"Couldn't we fry them? I'm rather fond of fried eggs."
"So far as I'm concerned I'm sure we couldn't fry them."
"I'm afraid I might make rather a mess of it. Then we'll say boiled
eggs. What else--bacon?"
"I imagine that there may be bacon."
"Then we'll say eggs and bacon; that'll be lovely. Don't you like
bacon?"
"I don't object to it--occasionally--if it's properly cooked."
"How do you like it cooked?"
"I haven't a notion. I've never even seen anyone cook bacon."
"I don't think I have either. But we'll see what we can do. And cocoa?"
"No cocoa. I doubt if there's any in the place. And we won't say
coffee. I don't believe there are more than half a dozen people in the
world who can make good coffee. And I feel convinced that I'm not one
of them."
"I don't care for coffee. We'll say tea--and toast."
"I think I could make some toast, if pressed."
"I'm glad you can do something. You see; now the fire's going to burn.
Where's the pantry? Let's go and look what's in it."
The fire certainly did show signs of an intention to behave as a fire
ought to. I don't know how she had done it, it seemed simple enough,
but there it was. Feeling more and more conscious that my conduct was
altogether improper, not to say ridiculous, I led that child from the
dining-room, across the kitchen, to the receptacle where Mrs Baines
keeps her store of provisions. She looked round and round and I knew
she was not impressed.
"There doesn't seem to be very much to eat, does there?"
The same thing had struck me. The shelves seemed full of emptiness, and
there was nothing hanging from the hooks. Still, as coming from an
entire stranger, the remark was not in the best of taste.
"You see," I explained, feebly enough, "it's Christmas."
That child's eyes opened wider than ever; I was on the point of warning
her that if she went on like that they would occupy the larger part of
her face.
"Of course it's Christmas. Do you suppose that I don't know it's
Christmas? That's just the reason why you should have more to eat than
ever. Some people eat more at Christmas than they do during all the
rest of the year put together."
This was such a truly astonishing statement to make that, unless I
wished to enter into a preposterous argument, I had nothing to say. I
also realised that it did not become me to enter at any length, to a
mere child--and she an utter stranger!--into the reasons why, at
Christmas, it had come to pass that my larder did not happen to be so
well filled as it might have been. I merely endeavoured to pin her to
the subject in hand.
"There are eggs and bacon and bread, and I believe there's tea--all the
materials for the morning meal. I don't know what else you require."
"That's true--that's quite true. There are eggs in three different
baskets; I expect one basket's for cooking eggs, one for breakfast eggs
and one for new-laid. We'll have new-laid. How many shall we have?
Could you eat two?"
"I have been known to eat two; especially when, on occasions like the
present, breakfast has been about two hours late."
"Then we'll have two each. Then there's the bacon; fortunately it's
already cut into rashers, but--how shall we cook it? I know!" She
clapped her hands. "I'll fetch Marjorie!"
"Marjorie!" As she uttered the name I was conscious of a curious
fluttering sensation, which was undoubtedly the result of the irregular
proceedings. I had known a person of that name myself once, but it was
absurd to suppose that the fluttering had anything to do with that.
"Who's Marjorie?"
"Marjorie's my sister, of course." I did not see any of course about
it, but I had too much self-respect to say so. "She's ever so fond of
cooking; she's a splendid cook. I'll go and get her to cook that
bacon."
Before I could stop her she was off; the child moved like lightning.
What I ought to have done would have been to slam my front door and
refuse to open it again. Who was Marjorie? Extraordinary how at the
mere mental repetition of the name that fluttering returned. Her
sister? She might be a young woman of two or three-and-twenty. I could
not allow strange persons of that description to cook my bacon, with me
in my dressing-gown and soot upon my nose.
I am practically persuaded that I was nearly on the point of closing
the front door, with a view--so to speak--of not opening it again
during the whole of the day, when that child returned, with another
child a little taller than herself. This child had black hair, dark
blue eyes, and was as self-possessed a young person as I ever yet
encountered; grave as a judge--graver! She looked me straight in the
face, with her head inclined just a little forward.
"I beg your pardon. It seems curious that I should call on you without
even knowing your name, but my sister Kathleen told me that you were in
rather a trouble about your breakfast, so I thought I would come and
see if I could help you."
"That's--that's very good of you. Will--will you both of you breakfast
with me?"
I wasn't one quarter so self-possessed as she was; indeed, I was all of
a quiver.
"Kathleen tells me that she has already consented to do so, and I
should be very pleased to join her. Now, Kathleen, where is that bacon
you spoke about?"
They went into the pantry and took matters into their own hands as if
the place belonged to them and as if they had been cooking my
breakfasts for years. I positively felt in the way, and hinted as
much--with an inclination to stammer.
"Perhaps--perhaps you'll be able to do without my assistance."
The young woman was quite clear upon that subject, and did not hesitate
to say so.
"Thank you; I would much rather be without your assistance. I don't
care to have men meddle in domestic matters."
She spoke as if she had been fifty instead of perhaps twelve. I
wondered if she had her sentiments from her mother; I could have sworn
she had them from someone.
"Then in that case I might--I might have a wash and--and put myself
into another coat."
She looked me up and down with something in her air which was not
suggestive of approval.
"I'm sure you might. You don't look at all tidy; not in the least like
Christmas Day. Only please be ready in five minutes."
I was, so was the bacon; everything was ready in that five minutes. I
do not know how they did it, those two children, but they did. There
was the table laid, places for three, and we three sat down to an
excellent meal. Marjorie served the bacon. I have tasted a good deal
worse, mind you, and the plates were hot! Kathleen poured out the tea,
and I ate and drank and looked on, and wondered how it all had
happened. Presently Marjorie asked a question.
"Have you had any Christmas presents yet?"
"No, I can't say that I have, not just yet, but--my goodness!" An idea
occurred to me. "A most extraordinary thing; do you know, I was
positively forgetting to give you two people your Christmas presents."
Both looked at me, their faces notes of exclamation. Marjorie spoke.
"You can't really have presents for us--not really. I daresay half an
hour ago you didn't know we were in the world."
"Can't I? Such an observation simply shows the limitations of your
knowledge."
I rose from the table; I left the room. When I returned I had a parcel
in either arm.
"Now if those two parcels don't contain the very Christmas presents you
want, then all I can say is, I have misjudged your wants entirely and
beg to apologise."
You should have seen their countenances! their looks of wonder when
inside each parcel was discovered a doll, the very finest and largest
article of the kind that could be procured, although I say it. Of
course they had been meant for Popham's girls, but more dolls could be
bought for them and sent on afterwards. In the meantime those two young
women were in a state of almost dangerous agitation.
"Why," cried Marjorie, "mine has black hair and blue eyes!"
"And mine has brown hair and brown eyes!"
"You dear!"
They said this both together. Then they precipitated themselves at me,
and they kissed me--absolute strangers! Then the dolls had breakfast
with us. Each sat on a chair beside its proprietor, and I, as it were,
sat in the centre of the four. I have seldom assisted at a livelier
meal. We laughed and we talked, and we ate and we drank, and we fed the
dolls--those dolls had both a large and an indigestible repast. I felt
convinced they would suffer for it afterwards. And in the midst of it
all I heard a strange voice; at least it was strange to me.
"I beg ten thousand pardons, but I couldn't think what had become of
those children--I thought I heard their voices. What are they doing
here?"
I looked up and there, standing in the open doorway, was a lady; a
young lady, a charming, and, indeed, a pretty young lady. Those two
young women flung themselves at her as they had flung themselves at me;
only, if anything, more so.
"Mamma! mamma! just look at our dolls! Aren't they beautiful? And when
you lay them down they shut their eyes and say good-night."
The lady was their mamma; exactly the right sort of mamma for them to
have. I explained, and she explained, and it was all explained. By a
most amazing coincidence she was in almost the same plight as I was.
She was a Mrs Heathcote; had recently come with her two girls from
India; had taken the flat opposite mine in the expectation of her
husband joining her by Christmas Day, instead of which his ship had
been delayed in the Suez Canal, or somewhere, somehow, and he could not
possibly reach her for at any rate a day or two. And on the previous
day, Christmas Eve, her cook had behaved in the most abominable manner,
and had had to be sent packing, and her sympathetic friend, the
housemaid, had gone with her, so that on Christmas Day Mrs Heathcote
was positively left without a soul to do a thing for her; precisely my
condition. She had gone out to see if temporary help could be procured,
and during her absence those two daughters of hers had slipped across
to me. She had found no help, so that she had to deal with precisely
the same problem which confronted me. She had breakfast with us--and
the dolls!--Marjorie explaining that it was she who had cooked the
bacon, and in an amazingly short space of time we were all of us on
terms of the most delightful sociability.
I insisted that they must all go out with me to lunch at a restaurant.
It might not seem to promise much entertainment to have to go for a
meal to a place of the kind on Christmas Day, but the girls were
delighted. It is my experience that most children like feeding in
public, I don't know why, and when pressed their mother was willing, so
I was charmed.
"Now," I observed, "that it is settled we are to go somewhere, the
question is--where?"
"May I choose?" asked Mrs Heathcote.
"My dear madam, if you only would, you would confer on me a really
great favour. On the subject of the choice of a restaurant I consider a
lady's opinion to be of the very first importance."
That was not, perhaps, the whole truth, but on such matters, at such
moments, one need not be a stickler. She smiled--she had an uncommonly
pleasant smile; it reminded me of someone, somewhere, though I could
not think who. She rested her elbows on the table, placing her hands
palm to palm.
"Then I say Ordino's."
When she said that I had a shock. I stared.
"Excuse me--what--what did you say?"
She smiled again.
"I suppose you'll think I'm silly, and I daresay you've never heard of
the place, and I myself don't know where it is, and anyhow it mayn't be
at all nice--mind I'm not giving it any sort of character. But if the
place is still in existence, since it is Christmas Day and we
are to lunch at a restaurant, if the choice is left to me, I say
again--Ordino's."
"May I ask if you've any special reason for--for choosing this
particular place?"
There was an interval of silence before she answered. Although I had
purposely turned my back to her I had a sort of feeling that there was
an odd look upon her face.
"Yes, I have a special reason, in a sort of a way. When we've lunched
perhaps I'll tell it you. If the lunch has been a very bad one then
you'll say--quite rightly--that you'll never again rely upon a woman's
reason where a restaurant's concerned."
It was--I had to hark back into my forgotten mental lumber to think how
many years it was since I had entered Ordino's door. I had told myself
that I would never enter it again. And yet here was this stranger
suddenly proposing that I should visit it once more, on Christmas
Day of all days in the year. Why, the last time I fed there--the very
last time--it was a Christmas Day.
I should write myself down a fool were I to attempt to describe the
feelings with which I set about that Christmas morning's entertainment.
We lunched at Ordino's. It was within half a mile of where I lived, and
yet I had never seen or passed it since. The street in which it was had
been to me as if it were shut at both ends. If a cabman had wanted to
take me down that way I had stopped him, even though it meant another
sixpence.
It had scarcely changed, either within or without. As the four of us
trooped inside--six with the dolls, for the dolls went out to lunch
with us--I had an eerie sort of sensation that it was only yesterday
that I was there. The same window with the muslin curtain drawn across;
the same small room with the eight or ten marble tables; the same high
desk, and if it was not the same woman who was seated at it then she
was a very decent imitation.
"What a queer little place it seems."
Mrs Heathcote said this as we stood looking about for a table.
"Yes, it does seem queer."
It did--for a reason I was not disposed to explain. I chose the same
table--that is, the table next to the desk in which the woman sat. As
might have been expected, we had the place to ourselves, and the whole
services of the one waiter. I fancy that the establishment provided us
with a tolerable meal; the cooking always had been decent at Ordino's.
Judging from the way in which the others despatched the fare which was
set before us, the tradition still survived. So far as I was personally
concerned I was scarcely qualified to criticise. Each mouthful "gave me
furiously to think;" I thought between the mouthfuls; never before had
I had a meal so full of thinking. My guests were merry enough; those
two young women were laughing all the time.
At last we came to the dessert. "Madam," I began, "have you been badly
treated or well?"
"Excellently treated, thank you. I think it has all been capital, only
I'm afraid you haven't had your proper share."
"Oh, yes, I have had my proper portion and to spare. Is it allowable to
ask you to gratify my curiosity by telling me for what special reason
you chose Ordino's?"
She toyed with a pear which she was peeling.
"You will laugh at me."
"There will be no malice in my laughter if I do."
"Then the story is not mine."
"Whose then?"
"It's about my sister--Marjorie."
I gripped the edge of the table, but she did not notice, she was
peeling her pear. Her daughters were occupied with their dolls. They
were teaching them the only proper way in which to consume a banana.
Judging from his contortions the one waiter seemed to find the
proceedings as good as a play.
"You have a sister whose name is Marjorie?"
"Oh, yes, she is all the relations I have."
"Marjorie what?"
"Marjorie Fleming." Then I knew that a miracle had happened. "My eldest
girl is named after her." I might have guessed it; I believe I did.
"She's the dearest creature in the world, but she hasn't had the very
best of times."
I said nothing, having nothing to say. I waited for her to go on, which
presently she did do, dreamily, as she peeled her pear.
"Do you know that it was in this place--I suppose in this very
room--perhaps at this very table, that her life was spoilt one
Christmas Day."
"How--how spoilt?"
It seemed as if my tongue had shrivelled in my mouth.
"What is it that spoils a woman's life?"
"How should I know?"
"I thought that everyone knew what spoils a woman's life--even you
cynical bachelors." Cynical bachelors! I was beginning to shiver as if
each word she uttered was a piece of ice slipped down my back.
"Different people write it different ways, but it's all summed up in
the same word in the end--a lover."
"I thought that it was a lover who is supposed to make a woman's life
the perfect thing it ought to be."
"He either makes or mars it. In my sister's case he--marred it."
"A woman's life is not so easily spoilt."
"Hers was. All in a moment. It was years and years ago, but it's with
her still--that moment. I know, I know! Poor Marjorie! The whole of her
life worth living is in the land of ghosts."
My heart stopped beating. The sap in my veins was dried. It seemed as
if the world was slipping from me. All Marjorie's life worth living was
in the land of ghosts? Why, then, we were in the land of ghosts
together!
"She told me the story once, and only once, but I've never forgotten
it--never; a woman never does forget that kind of story, and I'm sure
Marjorie never will. I know it's just as present to her now as if it
had only happened yesterday. Dear Marjorie! You don't know what a dear
sister my sister is. Although, in those days, she was only a young
girl, she lived alone in London. Our father and mother died when we
were children. She was full of dreams of becoming a great artist; they
are gone now, with the other dreams. She had a lover, who was jealous
of her artist friends. They had lovers' tiffs. They used often to come
to this place. They came here together one Christmas Day, of all days
in the year. And it is because of what happened on that Christmas Day
that Ordino's Restaurant has been to me a sort of legend, a shrine
which had to be visited when occasion offered. They quarrelled.
Marjorie told me that she never could remember just how the quarrel
began, and I believe her. Quarrels, especially between a man and a
woman, spring out of nothing often and often. They grew furiously hot.
Suddenly, in his heat, he said something which no man ever ought to say
to any woman, above all to the woman whom he loves. Marjorie stood up.
She laid on the table the locket he had just given her--a Christmas
gift--with, in it, his portrait and hers. And she said, 'I return you
your locket. Presently, when I get home, I will return all that you
have given me. I never wish to see you, or to hear from you, again.'
And she went towards the entrance, he doing nothing to stop her. As she
opened the door she saw him stand up and give the locket, her locket,
to the woman who sat at the desk, as that woman is sitting now, and he
said, in tones which he evidently intended that she should hear,
'Madam, permit me to beg your acceptance of this locket. Since it is
associated with someone whom I wish I had never met, you will do me a
great favour by relieving me of its custody.' Marjorie waited to hear
no more. She went out, alone, into the street, that Christmas Day, and
she has never seen him since or heard if he is alive or dead."
I was speechless. I could only sit and stare at the ghosts who stared
at me.
All at once "the woman who sat at the desk," as Mrs Heathcote had put
it, came down from her place and stood beside us.
"Madam," she exclaimed, in what struck me, even then, as tones of
singular agitation, "it is a miracle, a true miracle. You must forgive
me, I could not help but listen; my parents have told me the story many
and many a time. It all happened as you have said. It was to my mother
the locket was given. She wished very much not to take it, but the
young gentleman, he was very excited, and at last, to avoid a scene, my
father said to her, 'At least in your keeping it will be safe; worse
might befall it than to be left in your hands. These foolish young
people will make it up again. Presently they will return; you will be
able to give back the locket to its proper owner.' But they did not
return, neither the one nor the other, never, not once! At last my
mother died; the locket came to me. She wished that when I was in the
desk I should always carry it as she had done, for she believed that,
at last, there would arrive a day when one or the other would return
and the locket would be restored. Madam, here is the locket. I entreat
you to permit me to beg you to return it to your sister, to whom it
properly belongs."
The speaker held out something which I vaguely recognised as the locket
of that eventful Christmas Day, which I had purchased with such loving
thought and tender carefulness, and of which I had rid myself in such a
storm of rage. Mrs Heathcote stared alternately at it and at the woman
who for so long had held it, as a sacred charge, in such safe keeping,
as if its sudden appearance had robbed her of her power of speech. I
was conscious that someone had come into the place. Instantly those two
young persons--who were still instructing their dolls in the proper
manner of eating a banana--tore off towards the door, crying, at the
top of their voices,--
"Father! father! Oh, mother, here's father!"
And all at once Mrs Heathcote went pushing past me, then I knew
that she was in the arms of a man with a beard--I believe she was
crying!--and exclaiming,--
"Robert, have you dropped from the skies?"
"No," he responded, reasonably enough, "I've merely dropped in from the
overland route. I made up my mind I'd get at you somehow by Christmas
Day, and I have. But before I was allowed to go to you, where I
supposed you to be, I was made to come here. For some mysterious reason
of her own that sister of yours, before she went anywhere else,
insisted on visiting Ordino's Restaurant; for an explanation, if you
want one, I can only refer you to Marjorie."
Marjorie! Behind him was a woman whose face, whose form, whose
everything I knew. It seemed that "the woman who sat at the desk"
recognised her also. She held out the locket.
"Madam, allow me to have the happiness to return to you your locket.
That it is yours I am sure because of your portrait which is in it. You
have scarcely altered at all since the day it was taken."