Part 7 (1/2)
Parties! Why, we have parties in Windyridge, and the motherkin and I went to one that evening. We put on our best bibs and tuckers--not our very best, but I wore my blue voile with the oriental tr.i.m.m.i.n.gs which even Rose used to admit set off my figure to advantage, and Mother Hubbard donned the famous black satin, and added to its glories the soft Shetland shawl which I had given her that morning.
Tea was prepared in the s.p.a.cious kitchen, which had room enough and to spare for the fifteen people of all ages who were a.s.sembled there. It is a kitchen lifted bodily out of a story book, without one single alteration. The room is low, so that Farmer Goodenough touches the beams quite easily when he raises his hand, and his head only just clears the hams which are suspended from them; and it is panelled all the way round in oak. There are oak doors, oak cupboards, oak settles and tables, and an oak dresser, all with the polish of old age upon them and with much quaint carving; all of which is calculated to drive a connoisseur to covetousness and mental arithmetic. An immense fire roared up the great chimney, and its flames were reflected in the polished case of the mahogany grandfather's clock, which seemed to me rather out of place amongst so much oak, but which, with slow dignity, ticked off the time in one corner.
On the far side of the room, near the deeply recessed window, was the Christmas-tree--a huge tree for that low room, and gay with glittering gla.s.s ornaments in many grotesque shapes, brightly coloured toys, and wax candles, as yet unlighted.
The younger members of the party were gathered near it in a little group, whispering excitedly, and pointing out objects of delight with every one of which each individual had made himself familiar hours before.
Grandpa Goodenough, a hale old man of eighty, and to be distinguished from Grand_father_ Goodenough, his son, smoked a long clay pipe from his place on the settle near the hearth, and smiled on everybody. His daughter-in-law, who looked much too young to be a grandmother, bustled about in the scullery, being a.s.sisted in her activities by her eldest daughter, Ruth, and her son Ben's wife, Susie, and obstructed by her husband who, with a sincere desire to be useful, contrived to be always in the most inconvenient place at the most awkward time.
Mother Hubbard and I had been invited to step into the parlour, but preferred the more homely atmosphere of the kitchen, so we took our seats on the settle, opposite to that occupied by Grandpa.
By and by tea was ready and we were instructed to ”pull our chairs up”
and ”reach to.” What a time we had! If tables ever do groan that one ought to have done so, for it had a heavy load which we were all expected to lighten, but n.o.body seemed to think it might be necessary to press anybody to eat.
”Now you know you're all welcome,” said Farmer Goodenough heartily, when the youngest grandchild had asked what I took to be a blessing.
”We're not allus botherin' folks to have some more when there's plenty before 'em, an' all they've got to do is to reach out for 't; but if you don't all have a good tea it's your own fault, an' don't blame _me_. 'Let us eat, drink, an' be merry,' as t' Owd Book bids us.”
The way the ham disappeared was a revelation to me. Farmer Goodenough stood to carve, and after a while took off his coat, apparently in order that he might be able to mop his face with his s.h.i.+rt sleeves and so not seriously interrupt his operations. Plates followed each other in unbroken succession, until at last the good man threw down the knife and fork and pushed back his chair.
”Well, this beats all!” he said. ”Amos, lad, thee take hold. Thou's had a fair innings: give thy dad a chance.”
Where the little Goodenoughs put the ham and the sponge cake, the tarts and the trifle, the red jelly and the yellow jelly and the jelly with the pine-apple in it I do not pretend to know. They expanded visibly, and when the youngest grandchild, a cherubic infant of three, leaned back and sighed, and whispered with tears in his voice, ”Reggie can't eat no more, muvver,” I felt relieved.
It was over at last and the table cleared in a twinkling. Ben whisked away the remnants of the ham into the larder. The women folk carried the crockery into the scullery, and whilst they were engaged in was.h.i.+ng it up the boys disappeared into remote places with the fragments of the feast, and Mother Hubbard swept the crumbs away and folded the cloth.
”Now,” said Reggie, with another little sigh, but with just a suspicion of suns.h.i.+ne in his eyes, ”now we'se goin' to p'ay, an 'ave ze pwesents off ze Kwismastwee.”
And so we did. Amos, as the eldest son at home, lit the candles, and Grandpa distributed the gifts, which were insignificant enough from the monetary point of view, but weighted in every case with the affection and goodwill of the burly farmer and his wife. There was even a box of chocolates for me, and with its aid I succeeded in winning the heart of the melancholy Reggie.
Then came the games. I wish Rose and the boarders at No. 8 could have seen the demure Miss Holden of former days walking round and round a big circle, one hand in Reggie's and the other clasped by a red-cheeked farmer, whilst a dozen voices sang, and hers as loudly as any:
”The farmer's dog was in the yard, And Bingo was his name-O!”
Then came the mad scramble of ”Shy Widow” and the embarra.s.sments of the ”Postman's Knock,” though n.o.body had letters for me, except Reggie, who had one--very sticky and perfumed with chocolate--and Susie's little daughter, Maud, who gave me three, very shyly, but accompanied by an affectionate hug, which I returned. After this, crackers, with all their accompaniments of paper caps and ap.r.o.ns, and by the time these had been worn and exchanged and torn the youngsters were clamouring for supper. Supper! Ye G.o.ds!
When this repast was ended and the younger members of the party had been packed off to bed--for only Mother Hubbard and I were to leave the farmer's hospitable home that night--some of the grown-ups proposed a dance.
Grandpa shook his head in protest. ”Nay, nay,” he said in his thin, piping voice; ”I don't hold wi' dancin'. Never did. You were never browt up to dance, Reuben, you weren't.”
”Reyt enough, father,” responded his son, ”but you know things has changed sin' I were a lad. You remember what t' Owd Book says; I don't just rightly call t' words to mind, but summat about t' owd order changin'. We mun let t' young uns have a bit of a fling.”
”They danced in t' Bible, grandpa,” said Rebecca saucily.
”Well, they may ha' done,” rejoined the old man, retiring to the settle; ”but I weren't browt up i' that way, an' your father weren't neither. I were allus taught 'at it were a sort of a devil's game, were dancing.”
However, dance they did, and I played for them, doing my best with the crazy old box-o'-music in the parlour; and as I glanced through the open door I saw that Grandpa was following it all with great interest, beating time the while, in uncertain fas.h.i.+on, with head and hand.
CHAPTER IX
MRS. BROWN EXPLAINS