THE BANQUET.
“_Heaviness may endure for a night: but joy cometh in the morning._” The
next day found me quite another being. Even the memories of my lost
friend and companion were sunny as the genial weather that smiled around
me. I did not venture to trouble Lady Muriel, or her father, with
another call so soon: but took a walk into the country, and only turned
homewards when the low sunbeams warned me that day would soon be over.
On my way home, I passed the cottage where the old man lived, whose face
always recalled to me the day when I first met Lady Muriel; and I
glanced in as I passed, half-curious to see if he were still living
there.
Yes: the old man was still alive. He was sitting out in the porch,
looking just as he did when I first saw him at Fayfield Junction—it
seemed only a few days ago!
“Good evening!” I said, pausing.
“Good evening, Maister!” he cheerfully responded. “Wo’n’t ee step in?”
I stepped in, and took a seat on the bench in the porch. “I’m glad to
see you looking so hearty,” I began. “Last time, I remember, I chanced
to pass just as Lady Muriel was coming away from the house. Does she
still come to see you?”
“Ees,” he answered slowly. “She has na forgotten me. I don’t lose her
bonny face for many days together. Well I mind the very first time she
come, after we’d met at Railway Station. She told me as she come to mak’
amends. Dear child! Only think o’ that! To mak’ amends!”
“To make amends for what?” I enquired. “What could _she_ have done to
need it?”
“Well, it were loike this, you see? We were both on us a-waiting fur t’
train at t’ Junction. And I had setten mysen down upat t’ bench. And
Station-Maister, _he_ comes and he orders me off—fur t’ mak’ room for
her Ladyship, you understand?”
“I remember it all,” I said. “I was there myself, that day.”
“_Was_ you, now? Well, an’ she axes my pardon fur’t. Think o’ that, now!
_My_ pardon! An owd ne’er-do-weel like me! Ah! She’s been here many a
time, sin’ then. Why, she were in here only yestere’en, as it were,
asittin’, as it might be, where you’re a-sitting now, an’ lookin’
sweeter and kinder nor an angel! An’ she says ‘You’ve not got your
Minnie, now,’ she says, ‘to fettle for ye.’ Minnie was my
grand-daughter, Sir, as lived wi’ me. She died, a matter of two months
ago—or it may be three. She was a bonny lass—and a good lass, too. Eh,
but life has been rare an’ lonely without her!”
He covered his face in his hands: and I waited a minute or two, in
silence, for him to recover himself.
“So she says ‘Just tak’ _me_ fur your Minnie!’ she says. ‘Didna Minnie
mak’ your tea fur you?’ says she. ‘Ay,’ says I. An she mak’s the tea.
‘An’ didna Minnie light your pipe?’ says she. ‘Ay,’ says I. An’ she
lights the pipe for me. ‘An’ didna Minnie set out your tea in t’ porch?’
An’ I says ‘My dear,’ I says, ‘I’m thinking you’re Minnie hersen!’ An’
she cries a bit. We both on us cries a bit——.”
Again I kept silence for a while.
“An’ while I smokes my pipe, she sits an’ talks to me—as loving an’ as
pleasant! I’ll be bound I thowt it were Minnie come again! An’ when she
gets up to go, I says ‘Winnot ye shak’ hands wi’ me?’ says I. An’ she
says ‘Na,’ she says: ‘a cannot _shak’ hands_ wi’ thee!’ she says.”
“I’m sorry she said _that_,” I put in, thinking it was the only instance
I had ever known of pride of rank showing itself in Lady Muriel.
“Bless you, it werena _pride_!” said the old man, reading my thoughts.
“She says ‘_Your_ Minnie never _shook hands_ wi’ you!’ she says. ‘An’
_I’m_ your Minnie now,’ she says. An’ she just puts her dear arms about
my neck—and she kisses me on t’ cheek—an’ may God in Heaven bless her!”
And here the poor old man broke down entirely, and could say no more.
[Illustration: ‘A CANNOT SHAK’ HANDS WI’ THEE!’]
“God bless her!” I echoed. “And good night to you!” I pressed his hand,
and left him. “Lady Muriel,” I said softly to myself as I went
homewards, “truly you know how to ‘mak’ amends’!”
Seated once more by my lonely fireside, I tried to recall the strange
vision of the night before, and to conjure up the face of the dear old
Professor among the blazing coals. “That black one—with just a touch of
red—would suit him well,” I thought. “After such a catastrophe, it would
be sure to be covered with black stains—and he would say:—
“The result of _that_ combination—you may have noticed?—was an
_Explosion_! Shall I repeat the Experiment?”
“No, no! Don’t trouble yourself!” was the general cry. And we all
trooped off, in hot haste, to the Banqueting-Hall, where the feast had
already begun.
No time was lost in helping the dishes, and very speedily every guest
found his plate filled with good things.
“I have always maintained the principle,” the Professor began, “that it
is a good rule to take some food—occasionally. The great advantage of
dinner-parties——” he broke off suddenly. “Why, actually here’s the Other
Professor!” he cried. “And there’s no place left for him!”
[Illustration: THE OTHER PROFESSOR’S FALL]
The Other Professor came in reading a large book, which he held close to
his eyes. One result of his not looking where he was going was that he
tripped up, as he crossed the Saloon, flew up into the air, and fell
heavily on his face in the middle of the table.
“_What_ a pity!” cried the kind-hearted Professor, as he helped him up.
“It wouldn’t be _me_, if I didn’t trip,” said the Other Professor.
The Professor looked much shocked. “Almost _anything_ would be better
than _that_!” he exclaimed. “It never does,” he added, aside to Bruno,
“to be anybody else, does it?”
To which Bruno gravely replied “I’s got nuffin on my plate.”
The Professor hastily put on his spectacles, to make sure that the
_facts_ were all right, to begin with: then he turned his jolly round
face upon the unfortunate owner of the empty plate. “And what would you
like next, my little man?”
“Well,” Bruno said, a little doubtfully, “I think I’ll take some
plum-pudding, please—while I think of it.”
“Oh, Bruno!” (This was a whisper from Sylvie.) “It isn’t good manners to
ask for a dish before it comes!”
And Bruno whispered back “But I might forget to ask for some, when it
comes, oo know—I _do_ forget things, sometimes,” he added, seeing Sylvie
about to whisper more.
And _this_ assertion Sylvie did not venture to contradict.
Meanwhile a chair had been placed for the Other Professor, between the
Empress and Sylvie. Sylvie found him a rather uninteresting neighbour:
in fact, she couldn’t afterwards remember that he had made more than
_one_ remark to her during the whole banquet, and that was “What a
comfort a Dictionary is!” (She told Bruno, afterwards, that she had been
too much afraid of him to say more than “Yes, Sir,” in reply; and that
had been the end of their conversation. On which Bruno expressed a very
decided opinion that _that_ wasn’t worth calling a ‘conversation’ at
all. “Oo should have asked him a riddle!” he added triumphantly. “Why,
_I_ asked the Professor _three_ riddles! One was that one you asked me
in the morning, ‘How many pennies is there in two shillings?’ And
another was——” “Oh, Bruno!” Sylvie interrupted. “_That_ wasn’t a
riddle!” “It _were_!” Bruno fiercely replied.)
By this time a waiter had supplied Bruno with a plateful of _something_,
which drove the plum-pudding out of his head.
“Another advantage of dinner-parties,” the Professor cheerfully
explained, for the benefit of any one that would listen, “is that it
helps you to _see_ your friends. If you want to _see_ a man, offer him
something to eat. It’s the same rule with a mouse.”
“This Cat’s very kind to the Mouses,” Bruno said, stooping to stroke a
remarkably fat specimen of the race, that had just waddled into the
room, and was rubbing itself affectionately against the leg of his
chair. “Please, Sylvie, pour some milk in your saucer. Pussie’s ever so
thirsty!”
“Why do you want _my_ saucer?” said Sylvie. “You’ve got one yourself!”
“Yes, I know,” said Bruno: “but I wanted _mine_ for to give it some
_more_ milk in.”
Sylvie looked unconvinced: however it seemed quite impossible for her
_ever_ to refuse what her brother asked: so she quietly filled her
saucer with milk, and handed it to Bruno, who got down off his chair to
administer it to the cat.
“The room’s very hot, with all this crowd,” the Professor said to
Sylvie. “I wonder why they don’t put some lumps of ice in the grate? You
fill it with lumps of coal in the winter, you know, and you sit round it
and enjoy the warmth. How jolly it would be to fill it now with lumps of
ice, and sit round it and enjoy the coolth!”
Hot as it was, Sylvie shivered a little at the idea. “It’s very cold
_outside_,” she said. “My feet got almost frozen to-day.”
“That’s the _shoemaker’s_ fault!” the Professor cheerfully replied. “How
often I’ve explained to him that he _ought_ to make boots with little
iron frames under the soles, to hold lamps! But he never _thinks_. No
one would suffer from cold, if only they would _think_ of those little
things. I always use hot ink, myself, in the winter. Very few people
ever think of _that_! Yet how simple it is!”
“Yes, it’s very simple,” Sylvie said politely. “Has the cat had enough?”
This was to Bruno, who had brought back the saucer only half-emptied.
But Bruno did not hear the question. “There’s somebody scratching at the
door and wanting to come in,” he said. And he scrambled down off his
chair, and went and cautiously peeped out through the door-way.
“Who was it wanted to come in?” Sylvie asked, as he returned to his
place.
“It were a Mouse,” said Bruno. “And it peepted in. And it saw the Cat.
And it said ‘I’ll come in another day.’ And I said ‘Oo needn’t be
flightened. The Cat’s _welly_ kind to Mouses.’ And it said ‘But I’s got
some imporkant business, what I _must_ attend to.’ And it said ‘I’ll
call again to-morrow.’ And it said ‘Give my love to the Cat.’”
“What a fat cat it is!” said the Lord Chancellor, leaning across the
Professor to address his small neighbour. “It’s quite a wonder!”
“It was awfully fat when it camed in,” said Bruno: “so it would be more
wonderfuller if it got thin all in a minute.”
“And that was the reason, I suppose,” the Lord Chancellor suggested,
“why you didn’t give it the rest of the milk?”
“No,” said Bruno. “It were a betterer reason. I tooked the saucer up
’cause it were so discontented!”
“It doesn’t look so to _me_,” said the Lord Chancellor. “What made you
think it was discontented?”
“’Cause it grumbled in its throat.”
“Oh, Bruno!” cried Sylvie. “Why, that’s the way cats show they’re
_pleased_!”
Bruno looked doubtful. “It’s not a good way,” he objected. “Oo wouldn’t
say _I_ were pleased, if I made that noise in my throat!”
“What a singular boy!” the Lord Chancellor whispered to himself: but
Bruno had caught the words.
“What do it mean to say ‘a _singular_ boy’?” he whispered to Sylvie.
“It means _one_ boy,” Sylvie whispered in return. “And _plural_ means
two or three.”
“Then I’s welly glad I _is_ a singular boy!” Bruno said with great
emphasis. “It would be _horrid_ to be two or three boys! P’raps they
wouldn’t play with me!”
“Why _should_ they?” said the Other Professor, suddenly waking up out of
a deep reverie. “They might be asleep, you know.”
“Couldn’t, if _I_ was awake,” Bruno said cunningly.
“Oh, but they might indeed!” the Other Professor protested. “Boys don’t
all go to sleep at once, you know. So these boys—but who are you talking
about?”
“He _never_ remembers to ask that first!” the Professor whispered to the
children.
“Why, the rest of _me_, a-course!” Bruno exclaimed triumphantly.
“Supposing I was two or three boys!”
The Other Professor sighed, and seemed to be sinking back into his
reverie; but suddenly brightened up again, and addressed the Professor.
“There’s nothing more to be done _now_, is there?”
“Well, there’s the dinner to finish,” the Professor said with a
bewildered smile: “and the heat to bear. I hope you’ll enjoy the
dinner—such as it is; and that you won’t mind the heat—such as it
isn’t.”
The sentence _sounded_ well, but somehow I couldn’t quite understand it;
and the Other Professor seemed to be no better off. “Such as it isn’t
_what_?” he peevishly enquired.
“It isn’t as hot as it might be,” the Professor replied, catching at the
first idea that came to hand.
“Ah, I see what you mean _now_!” the Other Professor graciously
remarked. “It’s very badly expressed, but I quite see it _now_! Thirteen
minutes and a half ago,” he went on, looking first at Bruno and then at
his watch as he spoke, “you said ‘this Cat’s very kind to the Mouses.’
It must be a singular animal!”
“So it _are_,” said Bruno, after carefully examining the Cat, to make
sure how many there were of it.
“But how do you know it’s kind to the Mouses—or, more correctly
speaking, the _Mice_?”
“’Cause it _plays_ with the Mouses,” said Bruno; “for to amuse them, oo
know.”
“But that is just what I _don’t_ know,” the Other Professor rejoined.
“My belief is, it plays with them to _kill_ them!”
“Oh, that’s quite a _accident_!” Bruno began, so eagerly, that it was
evident he had already propounded this very difficulty to the Cat. “It
’splained all that to me, while it were drinking the milk. It said ‘I
teaches the Mouses new games: the Mouses likes it ever so much.’ It said
‘Sometimes little accidents happens: sometimes the Mouses kills
theirselves.’ It said ‘I’s always _welly_ sorry, when the Mouses kills
theirselves.’ It said——”
“If it was so _very_ sorry,” Sylvie said, rather disdainfully, “it
wouldn’t _eat_ the Mouses after they’d killed themselves!”
But this difficulty, also, had evidently not been lost sight of in the
exhaustive ethical discussion just concluded. “It said——” (the orator
constantly omitted, as superfluous, his own share in the dialogue, and
merely gave us the replies of the Cat) “It said ‘Dead Mouses _never_
objecks to be eaten.’ It said ‘There’s no use wasting good Mouses.’ It
said ‘Wifful—’ sumfinoruvver. It said ‘And oo may live to say ‘How much
I wiss I had the Mouse that then I frew away!’ It said——.”
“It hadn’t _time_ to say such a lot of things!” Sylvie interrupted
indignantly.
“Oo doosn’t know how Cats speaks!” Bruno rejoined contemptuously. “Cats
speaks _welly_ quick!”