Part 61 (1/2)
--_Midsummer Night's Dream._
It is very close on Christmas; another week will bring in the twenty-fifth of December, with all its absurd affectation of merriment and light-heartedness.
Is any one, except a child, ever really happy at Christmas, I wonder? Is it then one chooses to forget the loved and lost? to thrust out of sight the regrets that goad and burn? Nay, rather, is it not then our hearts bleed most freely, while our eyes grow dim with useless tears, and a great sorrow that touches on despair falls upon us, as we look upon the vacant seat and grow sick with longing for the ”days that are no more?”
Surely it is then we learn how vain is our determination to forget those un.o.btrusive ones who cannot by voice or touch demand attention. The haunting face, that once full of youth and beauty was all the world to us, rises from its chill shroud and dares us to be happy. The poor eyes, once so sweet, so full of gayest laughter, now closed and mute forever, gleam upon us, perchance across the flowers and fruit, and, checking the living smile upon our lips, ask us reproachfully how is it with us, that we can so quickly shut from them the doors of our hearts, after all our pa.s.sionate protests, our vows ever to remember.
Oh, how soon, how _soon_, do we cease our lamentations for our silent dead!
When all is told, old Father Christmas is a mighty humbug: so I say and think, but I would not have you agree with me. Forgive me this unorthodox sentiment, and let us return to our--lamb!
Archibald has returned to Chetwoode; so has Taffy. The latter is looking bigger, fuller, and, as Mrs. Tipping says, examining him through her spectacles with a criticising air, ”more the man,” to his intense disgust. He embraces Lilian and Lady Chetwoode, and very nearly Miss Beauchamp, on his arrival, in the exuberance of his joy at finding himself once more within their doors, and is welcomed with effusion by every individual member of the household.
Archibald, on the contrary, appears rather done up, and faded, and, though evidently happy at being again in his old quarters, still seems sad at heart, and discontented.
He follows Lilian's movements in a very melancholy fas.h.i.+on, and herself also, until it becomes apparent to every one that his depression arises from his increasing infatuation for her; while she, to do her justice, hardly pretends to encourage him at all. He lives in contemplation of her beauty and her saucy ways, and is unmistakably _distrait_ when circ.u.mstances call her from his sight.
In his case ”absence” has indeed made the heart grow fonder, as he is, if possible, more imbecile about her now than when he left, and, after struggling with his feelings for a few days, finally makes up his mind to tempt fortune again, and lay himself and his possessions at his idol's feet.
It is the wettest of wet days; against the window-panes the angry rain-drops are flinging themselves madly, as though desirous of entering and rendering more dismal the room within, which happens to be the library.
Sir Guy is standing at the bow-window, gazing disconsolately upon the blurred scene outside. Cyril is lounging in an easy chair with a magazine before him, making a very creditable attempt at reading.
Archibald and Taffy are indulging in a mild bet as to which occupant of the room will make the first remark.
Lady Chetwoode is knitting her one hundred and twenty-fourth sock for the year. Lilian is dreaming, with her large eyes fixed upon the fire.
The inestimable Florence (need I say it?) is smothered in crewel wools, and is putting a rose-colored eye into her already quite too fearful parrot.
”I wonder what we shall do all day,” says Guy, suddenly, in tones of the deepest melancholy. Whereupon Taffy, who has been betting on Cyril, and Chesney, who has been laying on Lilian, are naturally, though secretly indignant.
”Just what we have been doing all the rest of the day,--nothing,”
replies Lilian, lazily: ”could anything be more desirable?”
”I hope it will be fine to-morrow,” says Mr. Musgrave, in an aggrieved voice. ”But it won't, I shouldn't wonder, just because the meet is to be at Bellairs, and one always puts in such a good day there.”
”I haven't got enough pluck to think of to-morrow,” says Guy, still melancholy: ”to-day engrosses all my thoughts. What _is_ to become of us?”
”Let us get up a spelling-bee,” says Miss Beauchamp, with cheerful alacrity; ”they are so amusing.”
”Oh, don't! please, Miss Beauchamp, don't,” entreats Taffy, tearfully,--”unless you want to disgrace me eternally. I can't spell anything; and, even if I could, the very fact of having a word hurled at my head would make me forget all about it, even were it an old acquaintance.”
”But, my dear fellow,” says Cyril, laying down his ”Temple Bar,” with all the air of a man prepared to argue until he and his adversary are black in the face, ”that is the fun of the whole matter. If you spelled well you would be looked upon as a swindler. The greater mistakes you make, the more delighted we shall be; and if you could only succeed like that man in 'Caste' in spelling character with a K, we should give you two or three rounds of applause. People never get up spelling-bees to hear good spelling: the discomfiture of their neighbors is what amuses them most. Have I relieved your mind?”
”Tremendously. Nevertheless, I fling myself upon your tender mercies, Miss Beauchamp, and don't let us go in for spelling.”
”Then let us have an historical-bee,” subst.i.tutes Florence, amiably; she is always tender where Taffy is concerned.
”The very thing,” declares Cyril, getting up an expression of the strongest hope. ”Perhaps, if you do, I shall get answers to two or three important questions that have been tormenting me for years. For instance, I want to know whether the 'gossip's bowl' we read of was made of Wedgwood or Worcester, and why our ancestors were so uncomfortable as to take their tea out of 'dishes.' It must have got very cold, don't you think? to say nothing at all of the inconvenience of being obliged to lift it to one's lips with both hands.”
”It didn't mean an actual 'dish,'” replies Florence, forgetting the parrot's rosy optic for a moment, in her desire to correct his ignorance: ”it was merely a term for what we now call cup.”