Christmas Penny Readings: Original Sketches for the Season

I was so out of breath for a moment that I couldn’t speak.

“Then,” continued my dear friend, “I wanted those card and occasional tables, but couldn’t get them; they bought the dinner-service, too, at six ten, and the china for seven pounds. Then I took a strong fancy to that wool mattress, but of course I wasn’t going to give five guineas for it. It certainly was a beautifully soft and thick one, but one could buy it new for the money, or less.”

“Did you bid for any of the plate?” I gasped in husky tones.

“Well, ’pon my word, old chap, I’m half ashamed to own it, but I really was stupid enough to go as far as eleven and sixpence an ounce for it – which is an absurd price, you know. But there, thank goodness! I’ve escaped, for I haven’t bought a single lot.”

I did not speak for quite five minutes, for the simple reason that I could not. What was I to do, or what was I to say? I wanted to call him names, and take him by the collar to shake him till his teeth chattered. But who could so treat a guest?

“Let’s go up and have some tea,” I said at last, very hoarsely; and then, recovering myself, I stopped him, for I felt sure he would begin talking upstairs, while Mrs Scribe, on the subject being broached, would ask – what as yet she had not had opportunity for – what I had secured.

“Stop a minute, Tom,” I said. “Don’t say a word about the sale upstairs.”

He looked at me strangely, and kept his counsel as well as mine – and not a single word has since passed our lips; but in after days, when dining at our house in company with his wife, I have seen his eyes wander from the Turkey carpet to the dinner-service, and again, in the drawing-room, from the occasional tables to the china tea-cups and saucers; and then he has glanced darkly at me, with the look of a found-out conspirator, and I have looked darkly at him. But, no, not even to the wife of my bosom have I ever unburdened myself respecting the prices I paid for the new acquisitions to our furnishing department. While as to that five-guinea wool mattress, I could almost swear that, whoever stuffed it, stuffed in the miserable sheep’s trotters and bones, for whenever by chance we have slept in the visitors’ room, upon airing principles, I have always felt lumps right through the feather bed.

“No, my love, the price has nothing to do with you,” I said, while being cross-questioned. “You have the things, so you ought to be satisfied.”

“So I am, and it’s very good of you,” said Mrs Scribe; “and now you’ll be good, too, and not tease mamma – now, won’t you!”

“All right.”

“And I say, dear.”

“Well!” (from under the counterpane).

“Don’t, now – same as you did last time – don’t ask poor mamma how long she means to stay.”

“All right,” (very muffled in tone).

“No, dear, it isn’t all right if you ask her such a thing. It looks as if you meant that you wanted to get rid of her again.”

“So I do,” (this time so smothered that it was audible only to self).

“Good-night, dear.”

“Goonight.”

“What a nice, comfortable, pleasant-feeling, long-napped carpet, George. I do like a Turkey carpet above all things; it is so warm and aristocratic-looking, and then, too, so durable. Now, I’m sure, my dear, I am right in saying that you picked it up a bargain at a sale.”

“Yes, that he did, mamma dear,” said Mrs Scribe; “but he won’t tell me what he gave for it. Do tease him till he tells you.”

“Now, how much was it, sir?”

“Another slice of turkey, Mrs Cubus?”

“Well, really, my dear, I don’t think – er – er – well, it really is a delicious turkey. Oh! half that, George. And why don’t you say mamma? Yes, just the least bit of stuffing, and – er – a chestnut or two. That’s quite enough gravy, thank you. Now, what did you give for the carpet?”

“Oh,” I said, “it’s Christmas-time, so I shall make a riddle of it. Guess.”

“Well, let me see,” said Mrs S’s Mamma. “You gave – what shall I say? About eighteen feet square, isn’t it?”

“Very good – that’s it exact.”

“Well, then, my dear, as you bought it a bargain, I should say you gave five pounds for it – or say guineas – but, no, I’ll say pounds.”

“Capital!” I said, with the most amiable smile I ever had upon my countenance; “I did give five pounds for it.”

“Plus seventeen,” I whispered into my waistcoat.

“What, dear?”

“Merry Christmas to you,” I said, bowing over my glass of sherry.

And that was my last bargain-hunt.

Chapter Nine

The Ice-Breaking

Down by the woods in the rocky valley,Where the babbling waves of the river sally,Where the pure source gushesAnd the wild fount rushes,There’s the sound of the roarThat is heard on the shore,Where the tumbling billows the chalk cliffs bore;For down from each hillWith resistless will,The floods are fast pouring their waters so chill,And the West has risen with a cry and a shout,Dash’d at the North to the Ice-king’s rout;Then off and away,For the livelong dayHas rush’d through the woodlands – no longer gay,Splitting the branches;While avalanchesOf melting snowBend the pine-boughs low,And the earth with the spoil of the warfare strow.And now once againComes the pitiless rain,Pouring its torrents from black clouds amain;Till the river is swollen and bursting its bounds,And its muttering wrath sweeps in ominous soundsOn the wintry breeze,Louder and louder by rising degrees.The Ice-king is routed – his reign is past,And the frost-bound river is rending fast;And the West wind sweeps with a mournful sough,And the flood tears through with the force of a plough.Splitting and rending,The ice unbending,As with mighty burrow,It carves out a furrowOf churning wreck;While, as if at its beck,The foam-capped streamsLoose the Ice-king’s beams,And each crystal fragment, with wild weird gleams,Now sinks – now rises,As each stream still prises,Till the loosen’d river in fury rollsAway through the valley; while icy scrollsAre swept from the bank, where the snow lay heavy,And snow-drift and ice joins the West’s rude levy;Which at barrier scouts,At each rock mound shouts;Sweeping along towards the land of the plain,Tingeing the waters with many a stain;Foaming along in an eddying sweep,And gliding in speed where the flood ploughs deep,Rooting the reeds from their hold on the bank,And widening its track where the marsh lies dank.Away tears the riverWith an earthquake’s speed,Over the snow-cover’d lowland mead,Laughing aloud at each reckless deed,As the stricken farmers the ruin heed,Whirling along on its bosom the reedAnd the sharp, jagg’d ice and the harmless bead,With the unchained course of a wild-born steed,Till the hills where it passes quiver.Away and away, and still onward away,And there’s ruin and havoc in lowland this day;For the waters brownIn their rage tear down,Menacing shipping and threatening the town;They’ve beat down the weir,And dash’d at each pier,And swept o’er the bank to the widespread mere,Whose icy sheet,As though torn by heat,Has fallen in fragments where torrents meet;While now for the bridge,There’s an icy ridgeOn the river’s breast,Swept along by the West,Whose might shall the strong beams and deep piles wrest,Till the bridge goes down,By the flooded town,Where the lowing kine and the penn’d flocks drown.But the damm’d stream rages,For naught assuagesIts thirst for ruin;And again undoingThe toil of years,It hurries along till the rocks it wears.And now there’s a crash and a mighty rattleAs a stalwart mound gives the river battle;And soon engaging,The waves leap raging,Where the mound is gash’d,By the churn’d ice dash’d,While from out of the dam,With the force of a ram,Comes each huge, strong beam,On the breast of the stream,With the speed of an arrow,Where the banks are narrow;But the rocky faceStays the furied race,As round it the waters in madness enlace;Lashing and tearingWith rage unsparing,To beat down the stayIn the deadly fray;And then, for more ruin, to hurry away;But the hill stoutheartedThe water has parted,And away in a sever’d stream they tearLike famish’d lions fresh from their lair,Devouring, destroying, and bearing awayEach barrier, bank, or each timber’d stay;Till they slacken their race by the sandy vergeOf the parent sea, whose wild, restless surgeLashes the shore.Towards her breast leap the rivers in eager guise,Lost in the billows that hurrying riseTo welcome the treasures they pour.

Chapter Ten

A Horror of Horrors

“Very, very glad to see you, my boy,” said my friend Broxby, as I reached his house quite late on Christmas-eve, when he introduced me to his wife, a most amiable woman of an extremely pleasing countenance; to Major and Mrs Major Carruthers, a very pimply-faced gentleman, with a languishing wife troubled with an obliquity of vision, which worried me greatly that evening from her eye seeming to be gazing upon me, while its owner wore a perpetual smile upon her lip. Mrs Major Carruthers’ brother was also there, a young man, like myself, of a poetic turn, and troubled with headaches, besides several others, ladies and gentlemen, who occupied divers relative distances in connection with my friend Broxby and his charming wife.

“Why you’re as nervous and bashful as ever, my boy,” said Broxby, in his rough, good-natured way, and I tried to laugh it off, particularly as it was said before so many people in the well-lit drawing-room; but even before the fearful shock my nerves received I always was of a terribly nervous temperament, a temperament which makes me extremely susceptible.

As I am now forty I have given up all hopes of ever getting the better of it, even as I have felt compelled to give up the expectation of whiskers, curling hair, and – well no, not yet, for, as the poet says, “We may be happy yet,” and some fond, loving breast may yet throb for me in the future. I may add that my hair is fair, my face slightly freckled, and that I have a slight lisp, but it is so slight that you do not notice it when you get used to me.

After a long, cold ride down by train to Ancaster, and a six miles’ ride in Broxby’s dog-cart from the station, where I was met by his groom, the well-lit drawing-room seemed so cheering and comfortable, and as I grew a little more at home I began to be glad that I had left my chambers to their fate for the time, and come down to bask awhile in the light of so many lustrous orbs.

I was just feeling somewhat confused from the fact of Mrs Major Carruthers having rested her eye upon me and smiled sweetly, when as a matter of course I felt bound to do either one thing or the other, look angry and suppose that she was laughing at me, or smile sympathetically in return. I did the latter, when, as I said before, I became confused to see that Major Carruthers was frowning fiercely at me, while his face looked quite currant-dumplingified from the fierce hue assumed by his pimples. But just at that moment a servant announced something to my host, who came forward, slapped me on the shoulder, and I followed him out of the room into his study, where a small table was spread expressly for my delectation.

“You see we dined two hours ago, Augustus, so I’m going to chat and have a glass of sherry with you while you freshen up. I thought it would be more snug for you here in my study, so cut away.”

I must confess to having felt hungry, and I directly commenced the meal, while my friend chatted pleasantly about the party I had met in the drawing-room.

“Why, we must find you a wife, one of those fair maidens, my boy. A good, strong-minded, lovable woman would be the making of you. Good people, those Carruthers, only the Major is so fearfully jealous of his wife – simple, quiet, good-hearted soul as ever breathed. And oh, by the bye, I have to apologise to you for something really unavoidable. I would not trouble you if I could help myself, but I can’t. You see the Major is a first cousin of my wife’s, and we always ask them to our little gatherings, while it so happened that Mrs Major’s brother was staying with them, when, as it was either bring him or stay away themselves, Laura, my wife you know, thoughtlessly said ‘Bring him,’ never stopping to think that every bed in the house was engaged. What to do I could not think, nor where to put him, till at last I said to myself why Gus Littleboy will help me out of the difficulty, and therefore, my lad, for two nights only I have to go down on my inhospitable marrowbones and ask you to sleep double. We’ve put you in the blue room, where there’s an old four-poster that is first cousin to the great bed of Ware, so that you can lie almost a quarter of a mile from each other, more or less you know, so you won’t mind, will you old fellow, just to oblige us you know?”

Of course I promised not to mind, and a great deal more, but still I did mind it very much, for I omitted to say that, er – that er – I am extremely modest, and the fact of having a gentleman in the same room was most painful to my feelings.

We soon after joined the party in the drawing-room; and, feeling somewhat refreshed, I tried to make myself agreeable, as it was Christmas-time, and people are expected to come out a little. So I brought out two or three conjuring tricks that I had purchased in town, and Broxby showed them off while I tried to play one or two tricks with cards; but, somehow or another, when Mrs Major Carruthers drew a card, I had forgotten the trick, and she had to draw another card which she dropped; and, when it was on the carpet, we both stooped together to pick it up; and you’ve no idea how confusing it was, for we knocked our heads together, when I distinctly heard some one go “Phut” in precisely the same way as a turkey-cock will when strutting; when, to my intense dismay, I again found that the Major was scowling at me fiercely.

“Then I should go to bed if I were you, Timothy,” I heard Mrs Major say soon after; and, on looking across the room, I saw that she was talking to her brother, but her eye was upon me, and she was smiling, so that I felt perfectly horrified, and looked carefully round at the Major; but he was playing cards, and did not see me.

So Mr T Peters left the room, and Broxby did all he could to amuse his visitors, till the ladies, one and all, declared they must retire, when the gentlemen drew round the fire; and a bright little kettle having been set upon the hob and a tray of glasses placed upon the table, my friend brewed what he called a night-cap, a portion of which I left four of them discussing when Broxby rang for a candlestick, and told the maid to show me the bedroom.

“Did you have my portmanteau taken up?” I said to the maid.

“Yes, sir.”

“And carpet-bag?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And writing-case?”

“Oh yes, sir; all there – that’s the door, sir; you’ll find everything well-aired, and a nice fire;” and then the maiden tripped off and disappeared at the back. But I had left my skin rug in the hall; and, as it was so excessively cold, I went down the broad staircase once more, and fetched it; returned to the bedroom door, opened it to make sure I was right – not a doubt of it: nice fire – the great four-post bedstead with the great blue hangings. No; they were green, and I was about to start back, only a heavy breath from the bed told me that I was right; and, besides, I recollected that blue always looked green by candle-light; and this was the case, too, with the paper I observed.

“Most extraordinary people that Major and his wife,” I thought; and then I wound up my watch, laid it upon the chimney-piece, carefully locked and bolted the door, and then, drawing a chair up to the fire, sat down to give my feet a good warm. The room was most comfortably furnished, and the chair soft and well stuffed; when, what with the heat of the fire, the cold wind during my ride, and, perhaps, partly owing to the night-cap I had partaken of, I fell into a sort of doze, and then the doze deepened into a sleep, in which I dreamed that the Major had called me out for endeavouring to elope with his wife, when it was that strange eye of hers which had run away with me, while her set of false teeth were in full chase behind to seize me like some rabid dog.

The horror became so great at last that I started from my sleep, kicking the fender as I did so, when the fire-irons clattered loudly.

“What’s that?” cried a familiar voice, which sounded rather softly, as if from beneath the clothes.

“Only the fire-irons, my dear sir,” I said, blandly – “I kicked them.” The next moment an exclamation made me turn sharply round; when, horror of horrors! there was a set of teeth upon the dressing-table, and from between the curtains of the bed Mrs Major’s eyes fixing me in the most horrifying way.

“Monster!” cried a cracked voice, which sent me sprawling up against the wash-stand, whose fittings clattered loudly; while at one and the same moment I heard the voice of the Major talking, and the loud, hearty laugh of Broxby upon the stairs.

I was melting away fast when more of Mrs Major appeared through the curtains; in fact, the whole of her head, night-cap, papers and all, and the cracked voice shrieked —

“Monster, there’s help at hand! – Alfred, Alfred, help! help!” and then the head disappeared; when I heard from inside the curtains a choking, stifling noise; and then came a succession of shrieks for aid.

“For pity’s sake, silence, madam!” I cried, running to the door; but the next moment I ran back.

“Open this door, here! – open!” roared the Major, kicking and thundering, so that the panels cracked. “Matilda, my angel, I am here.”

“Don’t, don’t; pray don’t scream, ma’am,” I implored.

“Oh! oh! oh! help, help, help! murder!” shrieked Mrs Major.

“Here, hi! oh! villain! A man’s voice! Break in the door; smash it off the hinges. I am here, Matilda, I am here. Broxby, what is this?” roared the Major; and then the door cracked and groaned beneath the blows thundered upon it.

“Oh! oh! oh!” shrieked Mrs Major.

“What shall I do?” I muttered, wringing my hands and trembling like a leaf. I ran to the bed to implore Mrs Major to be still, but she only shrieked the louder. I ran to the door, but fled again on hearing the thunderings and roarings of the Major, who beat frantically, louder and louder.

“Sir, sir,” I cried, “it’s a mistake.”

“Oh! villain,” he shrieked. “Here, here, a poker; my pistols. Broxby, there’ll be murder done.”

“Madam, oh! madam,” I cried, in agony, “have pity, and hear me.”

“Oh! oh! oh! help! help!” shrieked the wretched woman; when I heard the door going crack, crack; the panel was smashed in, and the sounds of the hubbub of voices entered the room, wherein I could detect that of the Major, more like a wild beast than anything, when, dashing to the window, I pushed back the fastener, threw up the sash, and crept out, lowered myself down till I hung by my hands, when, with my last look, I saw an arm reaching through the broken panel, the bolt slipped, the key turned, and a rush of people into the room; when, losing my hold, I fell crash into a tree, and then from branch to branch to the ground, where I lay, half-stunned, upon the cold snow.

“There he is,” shouted a voice from above me, whose effect was like electricity to my shattered frame, for I leaped up, and gaining the pathway, fled to the road, and then on towards the station, only pausing once to listen for the sounds of pursuit and to tie my handkerchief round my head to screen it from the icy breeze. I ran till I was breathless, and then walked, but only to run again, and this I kept on till I had passed the six miles between Broxby’s Beat and Ancaster, where I arrived just before the night mail came in, at a quarter to four.

One of the porters was very civil, and, supposing that my hat had been blown off and lost, sold me a very dirty old greasy cap for five shillings, and then I once more felt safe as I leaned back in a carriage, and felt that we were going towards London at the rate of forty miles an hour. But I did not feel thoroughly safe until I had gained entrance, in the cold dark morning, to my chambers by means of my latchkey, and having barricaded the door, tried to forget my sorrows in sleep, but I could not, while, as my laundress supposed that I should be away for a week, everything was in a most deplorable state, in consequence of the old woman meaning to have a good clean up on Boxing-day.

I did not go out for a week, for I had to take precautions for my health’s sake, putting my feet in hot water, and taking gruel for the bad cold I caught; but for that, and the nervous shock, I was not hurt, though my clothes were much torn. It was about eight days after that a letter arrived while I was at breakfast, bearing the Ancaster post-mark, directed to me in Broxby’s familiar hand; but I had read it twice, with disgust portrayed on every lineament, before I perceived that my late friend had evidently written to his brother and to me at the same sitting, when, by some hazard, the letters had been cross-played and put in the wrong envelopes, for the abominable epistle was as follows: —

“Dear Dick, – You should have come down. Such a spree. My ribs are sore yet with laughing, and I shall never get over it. I sent old Gus Littleboy an invite. Poor fool, but no harm in him except blundering. The Major was here; quite a houseful, in fact. Gus was to sleep with Tim Peters, and got somehow into the Major’s room while he was down with me finishing the toddy. Murder, my boy. Oh! you should have been here to hear the screaming, and seen the Major stamp and go on. He kicked the panel in, when poor Gus fled by the window, and has not sent for his traps yet. For goodness sake contrive for the Major to meet him at your place when I’m up next week. It will be splitting, and of course I can’t manage it now.

“Yours affectionately,“Joe Broxby.”

I need scarcely tell a discerning public that I refused the invitation sent me by Mr Richard Broxby, of Bedford Square, when it arrived the next week; while when, some months after, I encountered the Major and his wife upon the platform of the Great Nosham, Somesham, and Podmorton Railway, I turned all of a cold perspiration, for my nerves will never recover the shock.

Chapter Eleven

Cabby at Christmas

Rather cold outside here, sir; but of course, if you like riding on the box best, why it’s nothing to me, and I’m glad of your company. Come on. “Ony a bob’s worth, Tommy,” says that chap as drove Mr Pickwick, him as set the old gent and his friends down as spies. The poor chap must have had a bad day, you see, and got a bit raspy; and I’ve known the time as I’ve felt raspy, too, and ready to say, “Ony a bob’s worth, Tommy.” You see ours is a trade as flucterates a wonderful sight, and the public’s got it into their heads as we’re always a-going to take ’em in somehow or other; so jest like that American gal in the story, “Don’t,” says Public. “Don’t what?” says we. “Don’t overcharge,” says Public. “Well, we wasn’t a-over-charging,” says we. “No, but aint you going to?” says Public. Puts it into our heads, and makes us charge extra through being so suspicious. You see we’re poor men, but not such a bad sort, considering. Public servants we are, badged and numbered, bound to do work by fixed rule and charge, so what I say is that you should treat us accordingly. “Civil and pleasant,” says you – “Civil and pleasant,” says we. “Drawn swords,” says you – “Drawn swords,” says we. Peace or war, which you likes, and the Beak for umpire. There’s a werry good sorter clay underneath some of our weskets, if you only takes and moulds it the right way, when you’ll find all go as easy as can be; but make us ill-tempered and hot, why of course we turns brittle and cracks; while, you know, if you goes the other way too far, and moistens our clay too much, why – Well, human natur’s only human natur, is it? and of course the clay gets soft and sticky, and a nuisance. Keep half-way, you know, and then you’re all right, and will find us decent working, when you moulds us up and brings out a model cabby.

You see you calls them black fellows men and brothers, but I’m blest if I think some people thinks as we are; for, instead of brothers, they treat us as if we was werry distant relations indeed, and then sets to and fights it out with us for every sixpence we earns. Don’t believe a word we say, they don’t, and as to thinking we’re honest – bless your heart no, not they! “Oh, they’re a bad lot, kebmen,” says Mrs John Bull, and she says as the straw’s musty, the lining fusty, and the seat’s dusty, and then grumbles at the horse, and blows up the driver and flings dirt at him.