She took us into a very jolly room with velvet curtains and a big fire,
and the gas lighted, because now it was almost dark, even out of doors.
She gave us chairs, and Oswald felt as if his was a dock, he felt so
criminal, and the lady looked so Judgular.
Then she took the arm-chair by the fire herself, and said, "Who's the
eldest?"
"I am," said Dora, looking more like a frightened white rabbit than I've
ever seen her.
"Then tell me all about it."
Dora looked at Alice and began to cry. That slab of pudding in the face
had totally unnerved the gentle girl. Alice's eyes were red, and her
face was puffy with crying; but she spoke up for Dora and said--
"Oh, please let Oswald tell. Dora can't. She's tired with the long walk.
And a young man threw a piece of it in her face, and----"
The lady nodded and Oswald began. He told the story from the very
beginning, as he has always been taught to, though he hated to lay bare
the family honour's wound before a stranger, however judgelike and
gimlet-eyed. He told all--not concealing the pudding-throwing, nor what
the young man said about soap.
"So," he ended, "we want to give the conscience-pudding to you. It's
like conscience-money--you know what that is, don't you? But if you
really think it is soapy and not just the young man's horridness,
perhaps you'd better not let them eat it. But the figs and things are
all right."
When he had done the lady said, for most of us were crying more or
less--
"Come, cheer up! It's Christmas-time, and he's very little--your
brother, I mean. And I think the rest of you seem pretty well able to
take care of the honour of the family. I'll take the conscience-pudding
off your minds. Where are you going now?"
"Home, I suppose," Oswald said. And he thought how nasty and dark and
dull it would be. The fire out most likely and Father away.
"And your Father's not at home, you say," the blue-gimlet lady went on.
"What do you say to having tea with me, and then seeing the
entertainment we have got up for our old people?"
Then the lady smiled and the blue gimlets looked quite merry.
The room was so warm and comfortable and the invitation was the last
thing we expected. It was jolly of her, I do think.
No one thought quite at first of saying how pleased we should be to
accept her kind invitation. Instead we all just said "Oh!" but in a tone
which must have told her we meant "Yes, please," very deeply.
Oswald (this has more than once happened) was the first to restore his
manners. He made a proper bow like he has been taught, and said--
"Thank you very much. We should like it very much. It is very much nicer
than going home. Thank you very much."
I need not tell the reader that Oswald could have made up a much better
speech if he had had more time to make it up in, or if he had not been
so filled with mixed flusteredness and furification by the shameful
events of the day.
We washed our faces and hands and had a first rate muffin and crumpet
tea, with slices of cold meats, and many nice jams and cakes. A lot of
other people were there, most of them people who were giving the
entertainment to the aged poor.
After tea it was the entertainment. Songs and conjuring and a play
called "Box and Cox," very amusing, and a lot of throwing things about
in it--bacon and chops and things--and nigger minstrels. We clapped till
our hands were sore.
When it was over we said goodbye. In between the songs and things Oswald
had had time to make up a speech of thanks to the lady.