_THE GREAT FESTIVITIES._
Duke was resolved not to be baulked in the desire which he had
broached to the mother on the day when he had first come back from
school--the desire to do something to make others happy, to do
something to make the season memorable to his poorer brethren. It
should be, so far as he was able to make it so, a happy
Christmas-tide to them. Not all that had happened to himself, not
all the evil which had come upon his head, could drive the desire
from his mind; rather it seemed stronger because of it.
"Do you suppose," he cried, with mock indignation, when it was
suggested to him that his state of body was scarcely such as would
dispose him to a festive state of mind, and that quietude would do
him more good than jollity, "that I am going to change the firm
purpose of my mind because I happen to have fallen down a hole? that
I am going to relinquish the goal of my ambition because I have made
a gander of myself? Pretty sort of fellow you must take me for! No;
you shall find that where before I was resolved, my resolution is
redoubled now; that where before my word was feeble, it is now as the
laws of the Medes and Persians, which cannot be changed,--in fact,
you shall find that you have caught a Tartar, and that what I said
should be is going to be."
And so they yielded; and it was made known that the fiat had gone
forth that that year there should be festivities at Camborne and
Tregowan, which should put all former Christmases into the shade.
For some time it was a moot-question what shape those festivities
should take. It was discussed morning, noon, and night. It was well
thrashed out. One would have thought that some movement important to
the welfare of the empire was in the air by the way in which it
occupied, almost to the exclusion, of aught else, the mind of every
one concerned. A great council was held--a sort of general meeting.
Lionel came up--by the way, Lionel and Duke were now almost
inseparable; they promised soon to be to each other as Damon was to
Pythias--and Mason, and Eva, and Trevena, and Effingham, and
Penharden, and Anderson--in short, all the boys who were in the
neighbourhood; and in Duke's apartment, round about his bed, the
matter was discussed in all its bearings. Nelly, who was not
reverent to boys, had no hesitation in declaring that she had no
faith in such a conference.
"I have no doubt," she observed, when Duke suggested that they should
be politely asked to contribute their united wisdom to the general
fund, "that they are very nice--boys generally are--it is a
peculiarity of boys; but unfortunately their wisdom is more talked
about than seen. If you want to get everything into a muddle, by all
means ask for their advice. They mean well, I daresay--they mean
well; but they are not the slightest use when it is common sense
which you require."
This she said quietly, in the gentlest of tones, while she busied
herself in the mysteries of some piece of feminine work, whose
purport no man could imagine.
"Nelly," retorted Duke, regarding her with an indignant glance, "it
is plain that one of these days I must take you thoroughly in hand.
It is disheartening to see the low depth of degradation into which
you have allowed yourself to sink. Boys--I said boys," he repeated
it because she looked up as though she seemed to think the word was
new to her, "are as superior to girls as it is possible for them to
be."
"Yes, they are as superior as it is possible for them to be; but do
you think, dear Duke"--she was always most affectionate, Duke
declared, when she was least agreeable--"that that is saying much? I
think it is impossible for them to be superior at all."
Duke was silent. This was such an obvious atrocity that to retort
was in vain. "A girl," as Duke observed to Ria, who sat on the other
side of his bed, deep in the somewhat surprising adventures of Baron
Munchausen, "a girl who would say that would just say anything."
"And so she would," said Ria, though it is to be feared that she had
not paid much attention to what it was which had been said. Baron
Munchausen just then possessed too much interest for her.
But Duke had his way in spite of Nelly, and the boys were summoned to
a conference. They were all asked up to talk it over, and then
afterwards to stay to lunch. It is possible that the prospective
lunch had as much attraction for them as anything. The appointed
morning turned out wet; a doleful drizzle ushered in the dawn, and
threatened to last all day. Had it not been for the lunch, it is
probable that more than half of them would have preferred to stop
away. As it was, they all came up to time. Effingham, who had a
cloth cap drawn over his head and ears and an overcoat which
concealed his chin, of course was full of thankfulness for things in
general.
"Of all the beastly places, I do believe that Cornwall is the worst."
Thus he remarked as he took off his overcoat in the hall. "And this
part of Cornwall is beastlier than all the rest. Horrid country,
horrid people, horrid weather! It is the most miserable hole in all
the world."
This he observed as he went upstairs. Ria, who had come down to
greet the guests, caught his words, and criticised them with
considerable freedom.
"Of course it's horrid. How can you expect it to be anything else
but horrid when horrid people come and stop in it?"
Effingham was dumb; he glanced at Ria and held his peace. This
damsel was a novelty to him. He was only heard to mutter something
beneath his breath about "Remarkable girl---just the sort I should
have expected--this is Cornish manners to a visitor."
The conference, after all, could perhaps scarcely be called a
remarkable success. Opinions differed; it was found almost
impossible to reconcile the various suggestions; and, as Nelly
afterwards declared, as was only to be expected, each one stuck to
his opinion the more obstinately because it differed so widely from
the others. This, though perhaps natural, was certainly
embarrassing. When the conference was over, they were not more
advanced than they had been before: indeed, if anything, their ideas
were mistier than ever.
The proceedings commenced by Effinghan pooh-poohing the whole affair.
"Such nonsense!" he observed, when some idea had been given them of
what it was proposed to do. "Such stupidity and stuff! such
snobbery! such stuck-upishness and pride! They'll never thank
you--it isn't to be supposed they would. They're too wise. They
know well that you do it because you want to make yourself look big,
and not because you want to do any good to them. I hate such
snobbery! You'll do them much more harm than good--you always do.
You've no more idea of how to set properly about a thing than you
have of flying. It's all a pack of balderdash!"
This peculiarly promising speech was eminently adapted to start the
question smoothly. The mother was there, and the girls, but Chandos
paid no heed to them. It was always a rule of his--so, at least, he
usually declared--on all occasions openly to speak his mind. "It
behoved a fellow," he would say, "to speak his mind, unless he is an
ass--and most fellows I know are asses;" and he would look round upon
his audience in scarcely complimentary fashion. He was certainly a
promising young gentleman.
"I think," was the mother's calm reply, "that you do us less than
justice. Do you suppose there is so much happiness in the world that
it is difficult to make it more? I fear that it is at present beyond
our power to attempt any great and lasting scheme for the public
good; but we can give them one bright day at Christmas-time--one day
on which they can afterwards look back and tell themselves it was a
happy one."
Chandos turned and looked round at her. Even he was silenced by the
mother. Whatever else of the same genial kind he was disposed to
say, he kept it to himself for once, and was content to hold his
peace. Noel Penharden, as was his wont upon occasion, broke into
fervid eloquence. He was disposed to take a much more sanguine view
of the occasion than did Effingham.
"It is the duty of the rich to help the poor. Who would be that man
who would scorn the beggar at his door, and, rolling himself in
wealth upon his couch of eiderdown, would refuse his blessing to the
helpless and forlorn? Rather throw aside such husks of selfishness
and greed, and, when you can, and as occasion offers, and especially
at such a time as this, give of your bounty to the poor. As a great
author says"----
"Pardon me!" interrupted Lionel; but Penharden went dashing on--
"In words which shall not die, 'Great is the man whose strings are
loosed, and blessings in his pouch: poor is the wretch who hoards his
fabled wealth alone.'"
He was going on, but Lionel would have his say.
"That is a splendid sentiment, which should be welcome in the hearts
of every one of us. Strange that it should not before have caught my
eye. The English is so fine; he must have been a great--a
particularly great grammarian, far above the ordinary rules of
composition. Shakespeare, no doubt; or Tommy Dodd, or some other
author of equal fame. Would you mind giving me the exact chapter and
verse where the quotation might be found?"
"I don't remember quite," answered Noel, doubtful of his friend's
kind words; "that is to say, I'm not quite certain. I believe it's
Milton."
"At! In 'Paradise Lost,' no doubt, or possibly in 'Paradise
Regained.'"
"No," said Noel, who saw that his hearers began to see the joke of
it, "it's not--it's nothing of the kind. I'm not a fool, so don't
you call me one; and the less of your chaff you give me, Lionel
Pollyon, the better it'll be."
"My dear Penharden! my dear Penharden! The idea of your being afraid
of any chaff from me!--such a bright and promising genius as yours is
universally allowed to be!"
"I'll"---- Noel was about to say, "I'll punch your head," but Duke
broke in before the sentence was concluded.
"That's right, you fellows! go it! hammer and tongs! In the meantime
we're waiting to hear what some one has to say."
"And you'll have to wait. What else do you expect from such a lot as
that?" This was Effingham again expressing his opinion. "If you'd
asked up one or two of us"----
"Or you alone?" suggested Eva.
"And left you out," retorted Effingham, "we might have done. But to
expect to hear anything worth listening to from such a lot as you've
got here--it's like some people's stupidity."
"I've always observed," cried Penharden, in tones which were scarcely
parliamentary, "that when an idiot looks in a glass and sees an idiot
there, he always mistakes it for the likeness of a friend."
"That I should think you have remarked," rejoined Chandos with a
kindly smile, "from personal observation."
Things were getting comfortable. Compliments were on every hand. It
was a delightful gathering.
"Why," asked Winnie, trying to pour oil upon the troubled waters--it
was an edifying spectacle for the ladies there!--"will boys when they
are together always quarrel? Girls never do."
"No," shouted Penharden, with extraordinary civility, "they daren't."
"Look here!" said Pollyon, rising in his ordinary cool fashion, but,
despite his coolness, regarding the speaker with no friendly glance.
"We'll turn you out. You're a cad, Penharden. Are all your manners
left at home?"
"I'm no more a cad than you are," roared Noel, "nor half so big a
one;" and there was every prospect of a lively scene.
"Now then! now then!" cried Duke, for the disputants were regarding
each other like a couple of angry dogs. "This will never do. Come,
Pollyon, what's gone wrong with you? It's not abuse we want, but
argument. A pretty lot we are to talk of lending a helping hand to
others."
"Let them fight it out," suggested Chandos from the fireplace. "They
haven't got an ounce of pluck between them. It's as much as they
dare do to look each other in the face. Don't you put yourself
out--they never get any further than calling names."
"You're the most horrid boy I ever knew in all my life," said Ria;
and Chandos, not for the first time, stared at her. "I can't make
out what is the use of such a boy as you. They ought to keep you
locked up alone all day."
"I am sorry," said the mother, rising and putting one hand upon
Pollyon and the other on Penharden, "that you can do nothing else but
quarrel. It was not for that we asked you here. What foolish lads
you are! Lionel, I am ashamed of you; and, Noel, as for you, I
should have thought that one with your talent would never have
condescended to such pettiness. Put out your hands at once, and
confess that you are sorry."
"He called me a cad," said Noel.
"I'm sure I beg your pardon," said Pollyon grimly. "I had not the
least intention of flattering you. I beg you to believe that I am
sorry for having caused you to suppose anything of the kind."
Noel eyed him doubtfully.
"There he goes again," he said.
"Lionel, I am ashamed of you. How can you behave like this--you of
all people in the world?"
"Really, Mrs. Tregowan, I am very sorry; I am sure I am. I am quite
willing to shake hands with him. Shake hands--here you are. Why
don't you shake hands with me?" And he stretched out his open palm
to Noel.
"It's all very well," began Noel, who still was more than doubtful of
his friend's sincerity, "but you don't suppose"----
"Come," said the mother, prudently cutting short the reconciliation,
"that will do. Let us have no more of it. Let us talk sense again."
"Again?" muttered Chandos on the hearth-rug. "I wasn't aware that
any one had talked sense before." But no one heeded him.
Although the rest of the proceedings were more orderly, and they did
not actually approach again to fighting, as was previously remarked,
they did not in the issue arrive at any definite conclusion. Lunch,
when it came, on every account was hailed as a relief to all. They
did more justice to the luncheon than they had done to the discussion.
"What did I tell you?" said Nelly, as, at the sound of the bell, they
all filed from the room, leaving Duke alone with Nelly and with
Lionel; for Lionel, who was a special and privileged guest, preferred
to have his luncheon there with Duke. "Did I not say that boys are
very wise; and don't you think that I was right?"
"No," was Duke's reply, "I don't. I think that boys are idiots."
"They are not Solons. Wisdom is not in general an accompaniment of
youth," said Lionel sententiously. "Age is needed to make them men.
I don't see," with a glance at Nelly, "why you should expect them to
be less feather-headed than girls."
"Girls are not feather-headed," answered Nelly with dignity, "they
are nothing of the kind; but when did you ever know a boy to be
right?" And she sailed out of the room to see that lunch was brought
to them.
But in spite of the unsatisfactory conclusion of the conference, the
festivities were held. For two days all Camborne was _en fête_. On
the first day the usual court-dinner,* which was held about that
time, was made unusually attractive; not only the tenants of the
estate, but tenants of other estates as well, captains of
neighbouring mines, tradesmen, inhabitants, and all were invited to
the feast; and a real feast it was. There is one thing on which in
true Cornishmen you always can rely--their appetite. Hospitable as
hospitality was understood in the old days of Bible-story, they ate
themselves, and loved to see others keep them company; they did
justice to the feast. And in the evening a ball was given, to which
their wives and daughters came, and that was a sight to see! Duke,
of course, could not be there, but all the boys favoured the
proceedings with their society instead, save Lionel, who stayed at
home to keep nim company; and Duke sent them all sorts of messages to
wish them well. The mother and Winnie went and bore them from the
lad, and all went merry as a marriage-bell.
* Court-dinners = rent-court dinners. A court is held by the
stewards and agents of the estate when rent is due, and the
proceedings wind up with a dinner. On the large estates in Cornwall,
rent is payable, not quarterly, but twice each year.
And on the second day the poorer folk were entertained in turn; to
them the feast was given at Tregowan. There was a large block of
buildings in the grounds which were used as storehouses of various
kinds. These were emptied of their contents, and here the festive
board was spread, or rather boards, for there were twenty at least,
if there was one. The room was decorated in seasonable style at the
cost of no end of trouble and expense, and when the visitors had all
arrived and the word was given to set to, you would have said,
looking at the lads and lasses, at young and old, a pleasanter
company was never seen. And just when the signal was going to be
given, and they already had their knives and forks in hand, there was
a bustle at the entrance, and every head was turned to see the cause.
It was a curious procession which came in, one of a kind seldom seen
at feasts, and little welcomed as a rule when seen. There were five
or six took part in it, but the principal figure was a lad propped up
by pillows upon a sort of couch, which was borne slowly by four
stalwart men. It was Marmaduke Tregowan. There was a smile upon his
face, a merry, sunny smile. To look at him, you would not have
thought that aught was wrong with him; he might be chained down to
his bed, he might not be the athletic lad which he had been of yore,
his deeds of derring-do on field and flood might now be past for
ever, but his head was none the worse, and his heart was better,
perhaps, instead. As he entered, some one rose at the other end of
the room and came down to him; it was the mother and the girls.
"Duke, what does this mean? My darling, how can you be so foolish?
This must not be--to think of venturing here!"
"Mother, it must be because it is, and it is not foolish at all. I
could not stop away while all the fun was going on. You need not
fear for me; it will do me good, not harm; I am strong as a dozen
lions." And then in louder tones, so that all could hear, "Welcome
to Tregowan! A good-day to you all, and first-rate appetites! It is
the first time I have left my bed since Christmas, but I could not
stay in it while you were here, and felt I could not let you go
without saying how glad I was to see you all."
And then a great shout arose, and a chorus of "How are you, sir?" and
"God be with you!" and "May you be as well as you were before
Christmas comes again!" And the women, remembering what a bonny boy
he was, and how lightly he used to move about among them all, put
their kerchiefs to their eyes and heaved a sigh, although their
appetites were very strong. And then the word was really given, and
in good earnest to the feast they fell.