# Orley Farm (Serial)/Chapter 22

CHAPTER XXII.
CHRISTMAS AT NONINGSBY.
The house at Noningsby on Christmas-day was puite full, and yet it was by no means a small house. Mrs. Arbuthnot, the judge's married daughter, was there, with her three children; and Mr. Funival was there, having got over those domestic difficulties in which we lately saw him as best he might; and Lucius Mason was there, having been especially asked by Lady Staveley when she heard that his mother was to be at The Cleeve. There could be no more comfortable country-house than Noningsby; and it was, in its own way, pretty, though essentially different in all respects from The Cleeve. It was a new house from the cellar to the ceiling, and as a house was no doubt the better for being so. All the rooms were of the proper proportion, and all the newest appliances for comfort had been attached to it. But nevertheless it lacked that something, in appearance rather than in fact, which age alone can give to the residence of a gentleman in the country. The gardens also were new, and the grounds around them trim, and square, and orderly. Noningsby was a delightful house; no one with money and taste at command could have created for himself one more delightful; but then there are delights which cannot be created even by money and taste.
It was a pleasant sight to see, the long, broad, well-filled breakfast table, with all that company round it. There were some eighteen or twenty gathered now at the table, among whom the judge sat pre-eminent, looming large in an arm-chair and having a double space allotted to him;—some eighteen or twenty, children included. At the bottom of the table sat Lady Staveley, who still chose to preside among her own tea cups as a lady should do; and close to her, assisting in the toils of that presidency, sat her daughter Madeline. Nearest to them were gathered the children, and the rest had formed themselves into little parties, each of which already well knew its own place at the board. In how very short a time will come upon one that pleasant custom of sitting in an accustomed place! But here, at these Noningsby breakfasts, among other customs already established, there was one by which Augustus Staveley was always privileged ​to sit by the side of Sophia Furnival. No doubt his original object was still unchanged. A match between that lady and his friend Graham was still desirable, and by perseverance he might pique Felix Graham to arouse himself. But hitherto Felix Graham had not aroused himself in that direction, and one or two people among the party were inclined to mistake young Staveley's intentions.
'Gus,' his sister had said to him the night before, 'I declare I think you are going to make love to Sophia Furnival.'
'Do you?' he had replied. 'As a rule I do not think there is any one in the world for whose discernment I have so much respect as I have for yours. But in this respect even you are wrong.'
'Ah, of course you say so.'
'If you won't believe me, ask her. What more can I say?'
'I certainly shan't ask her, for I don't know her well enough.'
'She's a very clever girl; let me tell you that, whoever falls in love with her.'
'I'm sure she is, and she is handsome too, very; but for all that she is not good enough for our Gus.'
'Of course she is not, and therefore I am not thinking of her. And now go to bed and dream that you have got the Queen of the Fortunate Islands for your sister-in-law.'
But although Staveley was himself perfectly indifferent to all the charms of Miss Furnival, nevertheless he could hardly restrain his dislike to Lucius Mason, who, as he thought, was disposed to admire the lady in question. In talking of Lucius to his own family and to his special friend Graham, he had called him conceited, pedantic, uncouth, unenglish, and detestable. His own family, that is, his mother and sister, rarely contradicted him in anything; but Graham was by no means so cautious, and usually contradicted him in everything. Indeed, there was no sign of sterling worth so plainly marked in Staveley's character as the full conviction which he entertained of the superiority of his friend Felix.
'You are quite wrong about him,' Felix had said. 'He has not been at an English school, or English university, and therefore is not like other young men that you know; but he is, I think, well educated and clever. As for conceit, what man will do any good who is not conceited? Nobody holds a good opinion of a man who has a low opinion of himself.'
'All the same, my dear fellow, I do not like Lucius Mason.'
'And some one else, if you remember, did not like Dr. Fell.'
'And now, good people, what are you all going to do about church?' said Staveley, while they were still engaged with their rolls and eggs.
'I shall walk,' said the judge.
'And I shall go in the carriage,' said the judge's wife.
​'That disposes of two; and now it will take half an hour to settle for the rest. Miss Furnival, you no doubt will accompany my mother. As I shall be among the walkers you will see how much I sacrifice by the suggestion.'
It was a mile to the church, and Miss Furnival knew the advantage of appearing in her seat unfatigued and without subjection to wind, mud, or rain. 'I must confess,' she said, 'that under all the circumstances, I shall prefer your mother's company to yours;' whereupon Staveley, in the completion of his arrangements, assigned the other places in the carriage to the married ladies of the company.
'But I have taken your sister Madeline's seat in the carriage,' protested Sophia with great dismay.
'My sister Madeline generally walks.'
'Then of course I shall walk with her;' but when the time came Miss Furnival did go in the carriage whereas Miss Staveley went on foot.
It so fell out, as they started, that Graham found himself walking at Miss Staveley's side, to the great disgust, no doubt, of half a dozen other aspirants for that honour. 'I cannot help thinking,' he said, as they stepped briskly over the crisp white frost, 'that this Christmas-day of ours is a great mistake.'
'Oh, Mr. Graham!' she exclaimed.
'You need not regard me with horror,—at least not with any special horror on this occasion.'
'But what you say is very horrid.'
'That, I flatter myself, seems so only because I have not yet said it. That part of our Christmas-day which is made to be in any degree sacred is by no means a mistake.'
'I am glad you think that.'
'Or rather, it is not a mistake in as far as it is in any degree made sacred. But the peculiar conviviality of the day is so ponderous! Its roast-beefiness oppresses one so thoroughly from the first moment of one's waking, to the last ineffectual effort at a bit of fried pudding for supper!'
'But you need not eat fried pudding for supper. Indeed, here, I am afraid, you will not have any supper offered you at all.'
'No; not to me individually, under that name. I might also manage to guard my ownself under any such offers. But there is always the flavour of the sweetmeat, in the air,—of all the sweetmeats, edible and non edible.'
'You begrudge the children their snap-dragon. That's what it all means, Mr. Graham.'
'No; I deny it; unpremeditated snap-dragon is dear to my soul; and I could expend myself in blindman's buff.'
'You shall then, after dinner; for of course you know that we all dine early.'
​'But blindman's buff at three, with snap-dragon at a quarter to four—charades at five, with wine and sweet cake at half-past six, is ponderous. And that's our mistake. The big turkey would be very good;—capital fun to see a turkey twice as big as it ought to be! But the big turkey, and the mountain of beef, and the pudding weighing a hundredweight, oppress one's spirits by their combined gravity. And then they impart a memory of indigestion, a halo as it were of apoplexy, even to the church services.'
'I do not agree with you the least in the world.'
'I ask you to answer me fairly. Is not additional eating an ordinary Englishman's ordinary idea of Christmas-day?'
'I am only an ordinary Englishwoman and therefore cannot say. It is not my idea.'
'I believe that the ceremony, as kept by us, is perpetuated by the butchers and beersellers, with a helping hand from the grocers. It is essentially a material festival; and I would not object to it even on that account if it were not so grievously overdone. How the sun is moistening the frost on the ground. As we come back the road will be quite wet.'
'We shall be going home then and it will not signify. Remember, Mr. Graham, I shall expect you to come forward in great strength for blindman's buff.' As he gave her the required promise, he thought that even the sports of Christmas-day would be bearable, if she also were to make one of the sportsmen; and then they entered the church.
I do not know anything more pleasant to the eye than a pretty country church, decorated for Christmas-day. The effect in a city is altogether different. I will not say that churches there should not be decorated, but comparatively it is a matter of indifference. No one knows who does it. The peculiar munificence of the squire who has sacrificed his holly bushes is not appreciated. The work of the fingers that have been employed is not recognized. The efforts made for hanging the pendent wreaths to each capital have been of no special interest to any large number of the worshippers. It has been done by contract, probably, and even if well done has none of the grace of association. But here at Noningsby church, the winter flowers had been cut by Madeline and the gardener, and the red berries had been grouped by her own hands. She and the vicar's wife had stood together with perilous audacity on the top of the clerk's desk while they fixed the branches beneath the cushion of the old-fashioned turret, from which the sermons were preached. And all this had of course been talked about at the house; and some of the party had gone over to see, including Sophia Furnival, who had declared that nothing could be so delightful, though she had omitted to endanger her fingers by any participation in the work. And the children had regarded the operation as a triumph of all ​that was wonderful in decoration; and thus many of them had been made happy.
On their return from church, Miss Furnival insisted on walking, in order, as she said, that Miss Staveley might not have all the fatigue; but Miss Staveley would walk also, and the carriage, after a certain amount of expostulation and delay, went off with its load incomplete.
'And now for the plum-pudding part of the arrangement,' said Felix Graham.
'Yes, Mr. Graham,' said Madeline, 'now for the plum-pudding—and the blindman's buff.'
'Did you ever see anything more perfect than the church, Mr. Mason?' said Sophia.
'Anything more perfect? no; in that sort of way, perhaps, never. I have seen the choir of Cologne.'
'Come, come; that's not fair,' said Graham. 'Don't import Cologne in order to crush us here down in our little English villages. You never saw the choir of Cologne bright with holly berries.'
'No; but I have with cardinal's stockings, and bishop's robes.'
'I think I should prefer the holly,' said Miss Furnival. 'And why should not our churches always look like that, only changing the flowers and the foliage with the season? It would make the service so attractive.'
'It would hardly do at Lent,' said Madeline, in a serious tone.
'No, perhaps not at Lent exactly.'
Peregrine and Augustus Staveley were walking on in front, not perhaps as well satisfied with the day as the rest of the party. Augustus, on leaving the church, had made a little effort to assume his place as usual by Miss Furnival's side, but by some accident of war, Mason was there before him. He had not cared to make one of a party of three, and therefore had gone on in advance with young Orme. Nor was Peregrine himself much more happy. He did not know why, but he felt within his breast a growing aversion to Felix Graham. Graham was a puppy, he thought, and a fellow that talked too much; and then he was such a confoundedly ugly dog, and—and—and—Peregrine Orme did not like him. He was not a man to analyze his own feelings in such matters. He did not ask himself why he should have been rejoiced to hear that instant business had taken Felix Graham off to Hong Kong; but he knew that he would have rejoiced. He knew also that Madeline Staveley was——. No; he did not know what she was; but when he was alone, he carried on with her all manner of imaginary conversations, though when he was in her company he had hardly a word to say to her. Under these circumstances he fraternized with her brother; but even in that he could not receive much satisfaction, seeing that he could not abuse Graham to Graham's special friend, nor could ​he breathe a sigh as to Madeline's perfections into the ear of Madeline's brother.
The children,—and there were three or four assembled there besides those belonging to Mrs. Arbuthnot, were by no means inclined to agree with Mr. Graham's strictures as to the amusements of Christmas-day. To them it appeared that they could not hurry fast enough into the vorvex of its dissipations. The dinner was a serious consideration, especially with reference to certain illuminated mince-pies which were the crowning glory of that banquet; but time for these was almost begrudged in order that the fast handkerchief might be tied over the eyes of the first blindman.
'And now we'll go into the schoolroom,' said Marian Arbuthnot, jumping up and leading the way. 'Come along, Mr. Felix;' and Felix Graham followed her.
Madeline had declared that Felix Graham should be blinded first, and such was his doom. 'Now mind you catch me, Mr. Felix; pray do,' said Marian, when she had got him seated in a corner of the room. She was a beautiful fair little thing, with long, soft curls, and lips red as a rose, and large, bright blue eyes, all soft and happy and laughing, loving the friends of her childhood with passionate love, and fully expecting an equal devotion from them. It is of such children that our wives and sweethearts should be made.
'But how am I to find you when my eyes are blinded?'
'Oh, you can feel, you know. You can put your hand on the top of my head. I mustn't speak, you know; but I'm sure I shall laugh; and then you must guess that it's Marian.' That was her idea of playing blindman's buff according to the strict rigour of the game.
'And you'll give me a big kiss?' said Felix.
'Yes, when we've done playing,' she promised with great seriousness.
And then a huge white silk handkerchief, as big as a small sail, was brought down from grandpapa's dressing-room, so that nobody should see the least bit 'in the world,' as Marian had observed with great energy; and the work of blinding was commenced. 'I ain't big enough to reach round,' said Marian, who had made an effort, but in vain. 'You do it, aunt Mad.,' and she tendered the handkerchief to Miss Staveley, who, however, did not appear very eager to undertake the task.
'I'll be the executioner,' said grandmamma, 'the more especially as I shall not take any other share in the ceremony. This shall be the chair of doom. Come here, Mr. Graham, and submit yourself to me.' And so the first victim was blinded. 'Mind you remember,' said Marian, whispering into his ear as he was led away. 'Green spirits and white; blue spirits and gray—,' and then he ​was twirled round in the room and left to commence his search as best he might.
Marian Arbuthnot was not the only soft little laughing darling that wished to be caught, and blinded, so that there was great pulling at the blindman's tails, and much grasping at his outstretched arms before the desired object was attained. And he wandered round the room skilfully, as though a thought were in his mind false to his treaty with Marian,—as though he imagined for a moment that some other prize might be caught. But if so, the other prize evaded him carefully, and in due progress of play, Marian's soft curls were within his grasp. 'I'm sure I didn't speak, or say a word,' said she, as she ran up to her grandmother to have the handkerchief put over her eyes. 'Did I, grandmamma?'
'There are more ways of speaking than one,' said Lady Staveley. 'You and Mr. Graham understand each other, I think.
'Oh, I was caught quite fairly,' said Marian—'and now lead me round and round.' To her at any rate the festivities of Christmas-day were not too ponderous for real enjoyment.
And then, at last, somebody caught the judge. I rather think it was Madeline; but his time in truth was come, and he had no chance of escape. The whole room was set upon his capture, and though he barricaded himself with chairs and children, he was duly apprehended and named. 'That's papa; I know by his watch-chain, for I made it.'
'Nonsense, my dears,' said the judge. 'I will do no such thing. I should never catch anybody, and should remain blind for ever.'
'But grandpapa must,' said Marian. 'It's the game that he should be blinded when he's caught.'
'Suppose the game was that we should be whipped when we are caught, and I was to catch you,' said Augustus.
'But I would not play that game,' said Marian.
'Oh, papa, you must,' said Madeline. 'Do—and you shall catch Mr. Furnival.'
'That would be a temptation,' said the judge. 'I've never been able to do that yet, though I've been trying it for some years.'
'Justice is blind,' said Graham. 'Why should a judge be ashamed to follow the example of his own goddess?' And so at last the owner of the ermine submitted, and the stern magistrate of the bench was led round with the due incantation of the spirits, and dismissed into chaos to seek for a new victim.
One of the rules of blindman's buff at Noningsby was this, that it should not be played by candlelight,—a rule that is in every way judicious, as thereby an end is secured for that which might otherwise be unending. And therefore when it became so dark in the schoolroom that there was not much difference between the ​blind man and the others, the handkerchief was smuggled away, and the game was at an end.
'And now for snap-dragon,' said Marian.
'Exactly as you predicted, Mr. Graham,' said Madeline: 'blindman's buff at a quarter past three, and snap-dragon at five.'
'I revoke every word that I uttered, for I was never more amused in my life.'
'And you will be prepared to endure the wine and sweet cake when they come.'
'Prepared to endure anything, and go through everything. We shall be allowed candles now, I suppose.'
'Oh, no, by no means. Snap-dragon by candlelight! who ever heard of such a thing? It would wash all the dragon out of it, and leave nothing but the snap. It is a necessity of the game that it should be played in the dark,—or rather by its own lurid light.'
'Oh, there is a lurid light; is there?'
'You shall see;' and then she turned away to make her preparations.
To the game of snap-dragon, as played at Noningsby, a ghost was always necessary, and aunt Madeline had played the ghost ever since she had been an aunt, and there had been any necessity for such a part. But in previous years the spectators had been fewer in number and more closely connected with the family. 'I think we must drop the ghost on this occasion,' she said, coming up to her brother.
'You'll disgust them all dreadfully if you do,' said he. 'The young Sebrights have come specially to see the ghost.'
'Well, you can do ghost for them.'
'I! no; I can't act a ghost. Miss Furnival, you'd make a lovely ghost.'
'I shall be most happy to be useful,' said Sophia.
'Oh, aunt Mad., you must be ghost,' said Marian, following her.
'You foolish little thing, you; we are going to have a beautiful ghost—a divine ghost,' said uncle Gus.
'But we want Madeline to be the ghost,' said a big Miss Sebright, ten or eleven years old.
'She's always ghost,' said Marian.
'To be sure; it will be much better,' said Miss Furnival. 'I only offered my poor services hoping to be useful. No Banquo that ever lived could leave a worse ghost behind him that I should prove.'
It ended in there being two ghosts. It had become quite impossible to rob Miss Furnival of her promised part, and Madeline could not refuse to solve the difficulty in this way without making more of the matter than it deserved. The idea of two ghosts was delightful to the children, more especially as it entailed two large ​dishes full of raisins, and two blue fires blazing up from burnt brandy. So the girls went out, not without proffered assistance from the gentlemen, and after a painfully long interval of some fifteen or twenty minutes,—for Miss Furnival's back hair would not come down and adjust itself into ghostlike lengths with as much readiness as that of her friend—they returned bearing the dishes before them on large trays. In each of them the spirit was lighted as they entered the schoolroom door, and thus, as they walked in, they were illuminated by the dark-blue flames which they carried.
'Oh, is it not grand?' said Marian, appealing to Felix Graham.
'Uncommonly grand,' he replied.
'And which ghost do you think is the grandest? I'll tell you which ghost I like the best,—in a secret, you know; I like aunt Mad. the best, and I think she's the grandest too.'
'And I'll tell you in a secret that I think the same. To my mind she is the grandest ghost I ever saw in my life.'
'Is she indeed?' asked Marian, solemnly, thinking probably that her new friend's experience in ghosts must be extensive. However that might be, he thought that as far as his experience in women went, he had never seen anything more lovely than Madeleine Staveley dressed in a long white sheet, with a long bit of white cambric pinned round her face.
And it may be presumed that the dress altogether is not unbecoming when accompanied by blue flames, for Augustus Staveley and Lucius Mason thought the same thing of Miss Furnival, whereas Peregrine Orme did not know whether he was standing on his head or his feet as he looked at Miss Staveley. Miss Furnival may possibly have had some inkling of this when she offered to undertake the task, but I protest that such was not the case with Madeline. There was no second thought in her mind when she first declined the ghosting, and afterwards undertook the part. No wish to look beautiful in the eyes of Felix Graham had come to her—at any rate as yet; and as to Peregrine Orme, she had hardly thought of his existence. 'By heavens!' said Peregrine to himself, 'she is the most beautiful creature that I ever saw;' and then he began to speculate within his own mind how the idea might be received at The Cleeve.
But there was no such realized idea with Felix Graham. He saw that Madeline Staveley was very beautiful, and he felt in an unconscious manner that her character was very sweet. He may have thought that he might have loved such a girl, had such love been a thing permitted to him. But this was far from being the case. Felix Graham's lot in this life, as regarded that share which his heart might have in it, was already marked out for him;—marked out for himself and by himself. The future wife of his bosom had already been selected, and was now in course of ​preparation for the duties of her future life. He was one of those few wise men who have determined not to take a partner in life at hazard, but to mould a young mind and character to those pursuits and modes of thought which may best fit a woman for the duties she will have to perform. What little it may be necessary to know of the earlier years of Mary Snow shall be told hereafter. Here it will be only necessary to say that she was an orphan, that as yet she was little more than a child, and that she owed her maintenance and the advantage of her education to the charity and love of her destined husband. Therefore, as I have said, it was manifest that Felix Graham could not think of falling in love with Miss Staveley, even had not his very low position, in reference to worldly affairs, made any such passion on his part quite hopeless. But with Peregrine Orme the matter was different. There could be no possible reason why Peregrine Orme should not win and wear the beautiful girl whom he so much admired.
But the ghosts are kept standing over their flames, the spirit is becoming exhausted, and the raisins will be burnt. At snap-dragon, too, the ghosts here had something to do. The law of the game is this—a law on which Marian would have insisted had not the flames been so very hot—that the raisins shall become the prey of those audacious marauders only who dare to face the presence of the ghost, and to plunge their hands into the burning dish. As a rule the boys do this, clawing out the raisins, while the girls pick them up and eat them. But here at Noningsby the boys were too little to act thus as pioneers in the face of the enemy, and the raisins might have remained till the flames were burnt out, had not the beneficent ghost scattered abroad the richness of her own treasures.
'Now, Marian,' said Felix Graham, bringing her up in his arms.
'But it will burn, Mr. Felix. Look there; see; there are a great many at that end. You do it.'
'I must have another kiss then.'
'Very well, yes; if you get five.' And then Felix dashed his hand in among the flames and brought forth a fistful of fruit, which imparted to his fingers and wristband a smell of brandy for the rest of the evening.
'If you take so many at a time I shall rap your knuckles with the spoon,' said the ghost, as she stirred up the flames to keep them alive.
'But the ghost shouldn't speak,' said Marian, who was evidently unacquainted with the best ghosts of tragedy.
'But the ghost must speak when such large hands invade the caldron;' and then another raid was effected, and the threatened blow was given. Had any one told her in the morning that she would that day have rapped Mr. Graham’s knuckles with a kitchen ​spoon, she would not have believed that person; but it is thus that hearts are lost and won.
And Peregrine Orme looked on from a distance, thinking of it all. That he should have been stricken dumb by the beauty of any girl was surprising even to himself; for though young and almost boyish in his manners, he had never yet feared to speak out in any presence. The tutor at his college had thought him insolent beyond parallel; and his grandfather, though he loved him for his open face and plain outspoken words, found them sometimes almost too much for him. But now he stood there looking and longing, and could not summons courage to go up and address a few words to this young girl even in the midst of their sports. Twice or thrice during the last few days he had essayed to speak to her, but his words had been dull and vapid, and to himself they had appeared childish. He was quite conscious of his own weakness. More than once during that period of the snap-dragon, did he say to himself that he would descend into the lists and break a lance in that tournay; but still he did not descend, and his lance remained inglorious in its rest.
At the other end of the long table the ghost also had two attendant knights, and neither of them refrained from the battle. Augustus Staveley, if he thought it worth his while to keep the lists at all, would not be allowed to ride through them unopposed from any backwardness on the part of his rival. Lucius Mason was not likely to become a timid, silent, longing lover. To him it was not possible that he should fear the girl whom he loved. He could not worship that which he wished to obtain for himself. It may be doubted whether he had much faculty of worshipping anything in the truest meaning of that word. One worships that which one feels, through the inner and unexpressed conviction of the mind, to be greater, better, higher than oneself; but it was not probable that Lucius Mason should so think of any woman that he might meet.
Nor, to give him his due, was it probable that he should be in any way afraid of any man that he might encounter. He would fear neither the talent, nor the rank, nor the money influence, nor the dexterity of any such rival. In any attempt that he might make on a woman's heart he would regard his own chance as good against that of any other possible he. Augustus Staveley was master here at Noningsby, and was a clever, dashing, handsome, fashionable young fellow; but Lucius Mason never dreamed of retreating before such forces as those. He had words with which to speak as fair as those of any man, and flattered himself that he as well knew how to use them.
It was pretty to see with what admirable tact and judicious management of her smiles Sophia received the homage of the two ​young men, answering the compliments of both with ease, and so conducting herself that neither could fairly accuse her of undue favour to the other. But unfairly, in his own mind, Augustus did so accuse her. And why should he have been so venomous, seeing that he entertained no regard for the lady himself? His object was still plain enough,—that, namely, of making a match between his needy friend and the heiress.
His needy friend in the mean time played on through the long evening in thoughtless happiness; and Peregrine Orme, looking at the game from a distance, saw that rap given to the favoured knuckles with a bitterness of heart and an inner groaning of the spirit that will not be incomprehensible to many.
'I do so love that Mr. Felix!' said Marian, as her aunt Madeline kissed her in her little bed on wishing her good night. 'Don't you, aunt Mad.——?'
And so it was that Christmas-day was passed at Noningsby.
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