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CHRISTMAS AT THOMPSON HALL
[Illustration]
“Cosy Corner Series”
CHRISTMAS
AT
THOMPSON HALL
A Tale
BY
ANTHONY TROLLOPE
AUTHOR OF “DOCTOR THORNE, “CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?” ETC.
ILLUSTRATED
[Illustration: colophon]
BOSTON
JOSEPH KNIGHT COMPANY
1894
COPYRIGHT, 1893
BY
JOSEPH KNIGHT COMPANY
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
PAGE
I. MRS. BROWN’S SUCCESS 1
II. MRS. BROWN’S FAILURE 19
III. MRS. BROWN ATTEMPS TO ESCAPE. 31
IV. MRS. BROWN DOES ESCAPE 46
V. MRS. BROWN AT THOMPSON HALL 67
ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
Thompson Hall Frontispiece
“An English Lady and Gentleman Arrived at
the Grand Hotel” 2
“He was a Thin, Genteel-Looking Man” 8
“She was a Large Woman, ... thought by Some
to be Handsome” 11
“She looked like Lady Macbeth” 16
“There was a Single Lighted Candle on the
Table, on Which He was Leaning with His
Two Elbows” 31
“Then She Took out from Her Bag a Small
Pot and a Patent Lamp and Some Chocolate,
and prepared for Him a Warm Drink” 40
“With a Soiled Pocket Handkerchief in His
Hand” 47
“This has been a very Disagreeable Accident,
Mr. Jones” 55
“Then Mr. Jones Walked in also” 69
“By This Time There had been Some Explanation
as to Past Events between the Two Sisters 77
CHAPTER I.
MRS. BROWN’S SUCCESS.
Every one remembers the severity of the Christmas of 187-. I will not
designate the year more closely, lest I should enable those who are too
curious to investigate the circumstances of this story, and inquire into
details which I do not intend to make known. That winter, however, was
especially severe, and the cold of the last ten days of December was
more felt, I think, in Paris than in any part of England. It may,
indeed, be doubted whether there is any town in any country in which
thoroughly bad weather is more afflicting than in the French capital.
Snow and hail seem to be colder there, and fires certainly are less
warm, than in London. And then there is a feeling among visitors to
Paris that Paris ought to be gay; that gayety, prettiness, and
liveliness are its aims, as money, commerce, and general business are
the aims of London, which, with its outside sombre darkness, does often
seem to want an excuse for its ugliness. But on this occasion, at this
Christmas of 187-, Paris was neither gay, nor pretty, nor lively. You
could not walk the streets without being ankle-deep, not in snow, but in
snow that had just become slush; and there was falling throughout the
day and night of the 23d of December a succession of damp, half-frozen
abominations from
[Illustration]
the sky which made it almost impossible for men and women to go about
their business.
It was at ten o’clock on that evening that an English lady and gentleman
arrived at the Grand Hôtel on the Boulevard des Italiens. As I have
reasons for concealing the names of this married couple, I will call
them Mr. and Mrs. Brown. Now, I wish it to be understood that in all the
general affairs of life this gentleman and this lady lived happily
together, with all the amenities which should bind a husband and a wife.
Mrs. Brown was one of a wealthy family, and Mr. Brown, when he married
her, had been relieved from the necessity of earning his bread.
Nevertheless, she had at once yielded to him when he expressed a desire
to spend the winters of their life in the South of France; and he,
though he was by disposition somewhat idle, and but little prone to the
energetic occupations of life, would generally allow himself, at other
periods of the year, to be carried hither and thither by her, whose more
robust nature delighted in the excitement of travelling. But on this
occasion there had been a little difference between them.
Early in December an intimation had reached Mrs. Brown at Pau that on
the coming Christmas there was to be a great gathering of all the
Thompsons in the Thompson family hall at Stratford-le-Bow, and that she,
who had been a Thompson, was desired to join the party with her husband.
On this occasion her only sister was desirous of introducing to the
family generally a most excellent young man to whom she had recently
become engaged. The Thompsons--the real name, however, is in fact
concealed--were a numerous and a thriving people. There were uncles and
cousins and brothers who had all done well in the world, and who were
all likely to do better still. One had lately been returned to
Parliament for the Essex Flats, and was at the time of which I am
writing a conspicuous member of the gallant Conservative majority. It
was partly in triumph at this success that the great Christmas gathering
of the Thompsons was to be held, and an opinion had been expressed by
the legislator himself that, should Mrs. Brown, with her husband, fail
to join the family on this happy occasion, she and he would be regarded
as being but _fainéant_ Thompsons.
Since her marriage, which was an affair now nearly eight years old, Mrs.
Brown had never passed a Christmas in England. The desirability of doing
so had often been mooted by her. Her very soul craved the festivities of
holly and mince-pies. There had ever been meetings of the Thompsons at
Thompson Hall, though meetings not so significant, not so important to
the family, as this one which was now to be collected. More than once
had she expressed a wish to see old Christmas again in the old house
among the old faces. But her husband had always pleaded a certain
weakness about his throat and chest as a reason for remaining among the
delights of Pau. Year after year she had yielded, and now this loud
summons had come.
It was not without considerable trouble that she had induced Mr. Brown
to come as far as Paris. Most unwillingly had he left Pau; and then,
twice on his journey--both at Bordeaux and Tours--he had made an attempt
to return. From the first moment he had pleaded his throat, and when at
last he had consented to make the journey, he had stipulated for
sleeping at those two towns and at Paris. Mrs. Brown, who, with no
slightest feeling of fatigue, could have made the journey from Pau to
Stratford without stopping, had assented to everything, so that they
might be at Thompson Hall on Christmas-eve. When Mr. Brown uttered his
unavailing complaints at the first two towns at which they stayed, she
did not, perhaps, quite believe all that he said of his own condition.
We know how prone the strong are to suspect the weakness of the weak--as
the weak are to be disgusted by the strength of the strong. There were,
perhaps, a few words between them on the journey, but the result had
hitherto been in favor of the lady. She had succeeded in bringing Mr.
Brown as far as Paris.
Had the occasion been less important, no doubt she would have yielded.
The weather had been bad even when they left Pau, but as they had made
their way northward it had become worse and still worse. As they left
Tours, Mr. Brown, in a hoarse whisper, had declared his conviction that
the journey would kill him. Mrs. Brown, however, had unfortunately
noticed half an hour before that he had scolded the waiter on the score
of an over-charged franc or two with a loud and clear voice. Had she
really believed that there was danger, or even suffering, she would have
yielded; but no woman is satisfied in such a matter to be taken in by
false pretences. She observed that he ate a good dinner on his way to
Paris, and that he took a small glass of cognac with complete relish,
which a man really suffering from bronchitis surely would not do. So she
persevered, and brought him into Paris, late in the evening, in the
midst of all that slush and snow. Then, as they sat down to supper, she
thought he did speak hoarsely, and her loving feminine heart began to
misgive her.
But this now was, at any rate, clear to her,--that he could not be worse
off by going on to London than he would be should he remain in Paris. If
a man is to be ill, he had better be ill in the bosom of his family
than at a hotel. What comfort could he have, what relief, in that huge
barrack? As for the cruelty of the weather, London could not be worse
than Paris, and then she thought she had heard that sea air is good for
a sore throat. In that bedroom which had been allotted to them _au
quatrieme_ they could not even get a decent fire. It would in every way
be wrong now to forego the great Christmas gathering when nothing could
be gained by staying in Paris.
She had perceived that, as her husband became really ill, he became also
more tractable and less disputatious. Immediately after that little
glass of cognac he had declared that he would be ---- if he would go
beyond Paris, and she began to fear that, after all, everything would
have been done in vain. But as they went down to supper between ten and
eleven he was more subdued, and merely remarked that this journey would,
he was sure, be the death of him. It was half past eleven when they got
back to their bedroom, and then he seemed to speak with good sense, and
also with much real apprehension. “If I can’t get something to relieve
me, I know I shall never make my way on,” he said. It was intended that
they should leave the hotel at half past five the next morning, so as to
arrive at Stratford, travelling by the tidal train, at half past seven
on Christmas-eve. The early hour, the
[Illustration]
long journey, the infamous weather, the prospect of that horrid gulf
between Boulogne and Folkestone, would have been as nothing to Mrs.
Brown, had it not been for that settled look of anguish which had now
pervaded her husband’s face. “If you don’t find something to relieve me,
I shall never live through it,” he said again, sinking back into the
questionable comfort of a Parisian hotel arm-chair.
“But, my dear, what can I do?” she asked, almost in tears, standing over
him and caressing him. He was a thin, genteel-looking man, with a fine
long soft brown beard, a little bald at the top of the head, but
certainly a genteel-looking man. She loved him dearly, and in her softer
moods was apt to spoil him with her caresses. “What can I do, my dearie?
You know I would do anything if I could. Get into bed, my pet, and be
warm, and then to-morrow morning you will be all right.” At this moment
he was preparing himself for his bed, and she was assisting him. Then
she tied a piece of flannel round his throat, and kissed him, and put
him in beneath the bedclothes.
“I’ll tell you what you can do,” he said, very hoarsely. His voice was
so bad now that she could hardly hear him. So she crept close to him,
and bent over him. She would do anything if he would only say what. Then
he told her what was his plan. Down in the salon he had seen a large jar
of mustard standing on a sideboard. As he left the room he had observed
that this had not been withdrawn with the other appurtenances of the
meal. If she could manage to find her way down there, taking with her a
handkerchief folded for the purpose, and if she could then appropriate a
part of the contents of that jar, and, returning with her prize, apply
it to his throat, he thought that he could get some relief, so that he
might be able to leave his bed the next morning at five. “But I am
afraid it will be very disagreeable for you to go down all alone at this
time of night,” he croaked out in a piteous whisper.
“Of course I’ll go,” said she. “I don’t mind going in the least. Nobody
will bite me”; and she at once began to fold a clean handkerchief. “I
won’t be two minutes, my darling; and if there is a grain of mustard in
the house, I’ll have it on your chest almost immediately.” She was a
woman not easily cowed, and the journey down into the salon was nothing
to her. Before she went she tucked the clothes carefully up to his ears,
and then she started.
To run along the first corridor till she came to a flight of stairs was
easy enough, and easy enough to descend them. Then there was another
corridor and another flight, and a third corridor and a third flight,
and she began to think that she was wrong. She found herself in a part
of the hotel which she had not hitherto visited, and soon discovered by
looking through an open door or two that she had found her way among a
set of private sitting-rooms which she had not seen before. Then she
tried to make her way back, up the same stairs and through the same
passages, so that she might start again. She was beginning to think that
she had lost herself altogether, and that she would be able to find
neither the salon nor her bedroom, when she happily met the night
porter. She was dressed in a loose white dressing-gown, with a white
net over her loose hair, and with white worsted slippers. I ought,
perhaps, to have described her personal appearance sooner. She was a
large woman with a
[Illustration]
commanding bust, thought by some to be handsome, after the manner of
Juno. But with strangers there was a certain severity of manner about
her--a fortification, as it were, of her virtue against all possible
attacks--a declared determination to maintain, at all points, the
beautiful character of a British matron, which, much as it had been
appreciated at Thompson Hall, had met with some ill-natured criticism
among French men and women. At Pau she had been called La Fière
Anglaise. The name had reached her own ears and those of her husband. He
had been much annoyed, but she had taken it in good part--had, indeed,
been somewhat proud of the title--and had endeavored to live up to it.
With her husband she could, on occasion, be soft, but she was of opinion
that with other men a British matron should be stern. She was now
greatly in want of assistance; but, nevertheless, when she met the
porter she remembered her character. “I have lost my way wandering
through these horrid passages,” she said in her severest tone. This was
in answer to some question from him--some question to which her reply
was given very slowly. Then, when he asked where madame wished to go,
she paused, again thinking what destination she would announce. No doubt
the man could take her back to her bedroom, but if so, the mustard must
be renounced, and with the mustard, as she now feared, all hope of
reaching Thompson Hall on Christmas-eve. But she, though she was in many
respects a brave woman, did not dare to tell the man that she was
prowling about the hotel in order that she might make a midnight raid
upon the mustard pot. She paused, therefore, for a moment, that she
might collect her thoughts, erecting her head as she did so in her best
Juno fashion, till the porter was lost in admiration. Thus she gained
time to fabricate a tale. She had, she said, dropped her handkerchief
under the supper-table; would he show her the way to the salon, in order
that she might pick it up? But the porter did more than that, and
accompanied her to the room in which she had supped.
Here, of course, there was a prolonged and, it need hardly be said, a
vain search. The good-natured man insisted on emptying an enormous
receptacle of soiled table napkins, and on turning them over one by one,
in order that the lady’s property might be found. The lady stood by
unhappy, but still patient, and as the man was stooping to his work, her
eye was on the mustard pot. There it was, capable of containing enough
to blister the throats of a score of sufferers. She edged off a little
toward it while the man was busy, trying to persuade herself that he
would surely forgive her if she took the mustard and told him her whole
story. But the descent from her Juno bearing would have been so great!
She must have owned, not only to the quest for mustard, but also to a
fib--and she could not do it. The porter was at last of opinion that
madame must have made a mistake, and madame acknowledged that she was
afraid it was so.
With a longing, lingering eye, with an eye turned back, oh! so sadly to
the great jar, she left the room, the porter leading the way. She
assured him that she would find it by herself, but he would not leave
her till he had put her on to the proper passage. The journey seemed to
be longer now even than before; but as she ascended the many stairs she
swore to herself that she would not even yet be balked of her object.
Should her husband want comfort for his poor throat, and the comfort be
there within her reach, and he not have it? She counted every stair as
she went up, and marked every turn well. She was sure now that she would
know the way, and that she could return to the room without fault. She
would go back to the salon. Even though the man should encounter her
again, she would go boldly forward and seize the remedy which her poor
husband so grievously required.
“Ah, yes,” she said, when the porter told her that her room, No. 333,
was in the corridor which they had then reached, “I know it all now. I
am so much obliged. Do not come a step farther.” He was anxious to
accompany her up to the very door, but she stood in the passage, and
prevailed. He lingered awhile--naturally. Unluckily, she had brought no
money with her, and could not give him the two-franc piece which he had
earned. Nor could she fetch it from her room, feeling that, were she to
return to her husband without the mustard, no second attempt would be
possible. The disappointed man turned on his heel at last, and made his
way down the stairs and along the passage. It seemed to her to be almost
an eternity while she listened to his still audible footsteps. She had
gone on, creeping noiselessly up to the very door of her room, and there
she stood, shading the candle in her hand, till she thought that the man
must have wandered away into some farthest corner of that endless
building. Then she turned once more and retraced her steps.
There was no difficulty now as to the way. She knew it, every stair. At
the head of each flight she stood and listened, but not a sound was to
be heard, and then she went on again. Her heart beat high with anxious
desire to achieve her object, and at the same time with fear. What
might
[Illustration]
have been explained so easily at first would now be as difficult of
explanation, At last she was in the great public vestibule, which she
was now visiting for the third time, and of which, at her last visit,
she had taken the bearings accurately. The door was there--closed,
indeed, but it opened f to the hand, the hall and on e stairs and o n g
the passages there had been gas, but here there was no light beyond that
given by the little taper which she carried. When accompanied by the
porter she had not feared the darkness, but now there was something in
the obscurity which made her dread to walk the length of the room up to
the mustard jar. She paused, and listened, and trembled. Then she
thought of the glories of Thompson Hall, of the genial warmth of a
British Christmas, of that proud legislator who was her first cousin,
and with a rush she made good the distance, and laid her hand upon the
copious delf. She looked round, but there was no one there; no sound was
heard; not the distant creak of a shoe, not a rattle from one of those
thousand doors. As she paused with her fair hand upon the top of the
jar, while the other held the white cloth on which the medicinal
compound was to be placed, she looked like Lady Macbeth as she listened
at Duncan’s chamber door.
There was no doubt as to the sufficiency of the contents. The jar was
full nearly up to the lips. The mixture was, no doubt, very different
from that good, wholesome English mustard which your cook makes fresh
for you, with a little water, in two minutes. It was impregnated with a
sour odor, and was, to English eyes, unwholesome of color. But still it
was mustard. She seized the horn spoon, and without further delay
spread an ample sufficiency on the folded square of the handkerchief.
Then she commenced to hurry her return.
But still there was a difficulty, no thought of which had occurred to
her before. The candle occupied one hand, so that she had but the other
for the sustenance of her treasure. Had she brought a plate or saucer
from the salon, it would have been all well. As it was, she was obliged
to keep her eye intent on her right hand, and to proceed very slowly on
her return journey. She was surprised to find what an aptitude the thing
had to slip from her grasp. But still she progressed slowly, and was
careful not to miss a turning. At last she was safe at her chamber door.
There it was, No. 333.