The Edwardians (24 page)

“What children are they, Lucy, dear?”

“Only the estate children. We have a tree for them, of course, every Christmas. It means that we can never dine in the Hall on Christmas Eve, and I used to be so terribly afraid that Sebastian and Viola would catch something. Really I don't know that it is a very good plan to spoil poor children like this; it only gives them a taste for things they can't have; but it is very difficult to stop something which has always been an institution. “

“In my opinion,” said Mrs. Levison, who had neither estates nor children on them, but had always maintained herself somewhat precariously by her wits, “we do a great deal too much for such people. We educate their children for them for nothing—and I don't believe they want to be educated, half the time—we keep the hospitals for them entirely out of charity, we give them warm old clothes and almshouses: what more do they want? Alfred Rothschild even gives the bus drivers a pair of gloves and a brace of pheasants for Christmas. “

“We always give our beaters a hare and a pheasant each, after every shoot,” said Lady Templecombe, self-righteously.

“They've earned it, too,” said Lord Templecombe, unexpectedly; “how would you like to go plunging through hedges and brambles from morning to night, tearing all your clothes?”

“Now, Eadred, you know they enjoy it,” said Lucy, with her light laugh. “You're as bad as Sebastian: do you know what he has done now? Given every man on the estate a rise of five shillings a week this Christmas. Did you ever hear of such a thing?”

“My dear boy!” said Lord Templecombe, screwing in his eyeglass to stare at Sebastian, “what made you do that? Not my business, of course, but it's a great mistake. A great mistake. Spoils the market for other people less fortunate than yourself. Besides, they won't appreciate it. They'll only expect more.”

They all looked at Sebastian as though he had committed a crime.

Vigeon, followed by two footmen carrying trays, came in to clear away the tea.

“The children are quite ready, when your Grace is ready,” he said in a low voice to Lucy.

“Oh, heavens! then we must go,” said Lucy, getting up off the sofa. “Let's get it over quickly. I always believe in getting boring things over quickly. And I always believe in doing things well if you do them at all. I always change into my prettiest frock for the children; I'm sure they like it. Anyway, their mothers do. Come along, Viola. Come along, Sebastian. You must both support me.”

Teresa took an enormous decision; she knew that none of the other ladies would want to go to the Christmas tree, but partly because she dreaded being left alone with them, and partly also because she so desperately wanted to see the ceremony of the tree, she resolved to abandon her policy of imitating what other people did. “May I come too, duchess? You see, I don't play bridge. . . .”

The roar of voices and the stamping of feet in the hall ceased abruptly as the door opened to admit the duchess and her party. The hall was full of children, and there, on the dais, in isolated splendour, stood the great tree, shining with a hundred candles and glittering with a hundred baubles of coloured glass. Silver tinsel ran in and out of its dark boughs; tufts of cotton-wool suggested snowflakes; the pot was swathed in cotton-wool; and a spangled doll, a fairy queen with a crescent in her hair, gloriously crowned the top-most spike. Toys were heaped upon the table; a hamper of oranges and a hamper of rosy apples stood ready on either side, the lids thrown back. The children seethed excitedly in the body of the hall, even while the Chevron housemaids flitted about, trying to marshal them into order. The mothers sat grouped round the blazing fire, many of them with babies on their knees, but as Lucy entered they all rose, and some of them curtseyed, and a murmur ran round the hall, and some of the little boys, who had been carefully primed, saluted.

Now that Lucy was actually in the presence of her audience, standing above them on the step, all trace of boredom vanished from her manner. She believed, as she had said, in doing things well if you did them at all; moreover, she was not insensible to the favour she was conferring, or to the dramatic quality of her own appearance, backed by the shining tree that cast an aureole of light round her fair head and sparkled on the diamonds at her breast. She paused for a moment, surveying the mob of children, while the last murmurs and shufflings quieted down; then she spoke. Her clear voice rang out, in the formula she had used for the past five-and-twenty years: “Well, children, I hope you have all had a nice tea?”

More murmurs; here and there one could distinguish a “Yes, thank you, your Grace.”

Lucy pursued, after rewarding them all with a bright smile, “And now I expect you all want your presents?”

Here Mrs. Wickenden came forward; she had been hovering in the background, waiting for Lucy to give this signal. The estate children's treat was always a great day in Mrs. Wickenden's calendar. She came forward now with a long list in her hand.

“Should I read out the names, your Grace?”

“Yes, please, Mrs. Wickenden, would you?”

For five-and-twenty years the list had been read out by the housekeeper, whether Mrs. Wickenden or her predecessor, but that little ceremony was never omitted. Mrs. Wickenden would not have believed
her ears had she heard Lucy say, “No, I'll read it myself.” So now, clearing her throat and carefully settling her spectacles, she advanced to the edge of the step and began calling up the children one by one. They were listed in families, from the eldest
to the youngest, and the families were arranged in strict order, the butler's children coming first, then the head-carpenter's, then the head-gardener's, and so down to the children of the man who swept up the leaves in the park. Each child detached itself from the rows and came up to the step as its name was called out; the little boys wore thick suits of dark tweed, the little girls wore frocks of pink, mauve, blue, or green, voile. An elder sister sometimes had a younger brother by the hand. Lucy, stooping very graciously to bestow the present into eager hands, had a kind word for all
.
“Why, Doris, what a big girl you are growing! . . . Now, Jacky, if I give you this lovely knife, you must promise not to cut your mother's furniture. . . . And so this is the new baby, Mrs. Hodder?”—Lucy was very quick at picking up the names—“let me see, how old is he now? seven months? only
four
months! well, he
is
a fine boy, you must be very proud of him, and here is a lovely rattle for him. He must wait a few years before he gets a knife, mustn't he?”—this was a joke that, however often repeated, never failed to arouse laughter. Mrs. Wickenden stood by, beaming; yet she kept a sharp watch on the children's manners:

“Say thank you to her Grace, Maggie; Bob, you've forgotten your salute; now touch your forehead nicely to her Grace,” and Lucy herself in the midst of her benevolence could preserve discipline too, saying, “Well, if you won't say thank you for your knife, Jacky, I shall have to take it away from you.” Sebastian, listening, was slightly embarrassed to hear the children reproved in this way; he tried to tell
himself that his mother and Mrs. Wickenden were probably quite right; his discomfort would have been lessened, however, had he been able to convince himself that his mother did not really enjoy doing it. He and Viola had their share in the ceremony; they presented an apple, an orange, and a cracker to each child after Lucy had given the toy. Here, again, Mrs. Wickenden supervised and intervened, taking the forgetful child by the shoulders and turning it round; “Look, Stanley, his Grace and Lady Viola have something for you, too.”

But every now and then there was no response to the name called out, and after a suitable hesitation there would come a murmur from amongst the mothers round the fire, and Mrs. Wickenden would say, “Not here?” and would turn with the explanation to Lucy, “Mumps, your Grace,” or else, “They live too far out, your Grace, to get here through the snow.”

Teresa was spellbound. She stood modestly to one side, fascinated by the lights, by the great hall, by the rows and rows of faces, by this list of names that never seemed to come to an end. She noticed, too, how many families there were of the same name, Hodders and Goddens and Bassetts and Reynolds. “Feudal!” she kept saying to herself; “really feudal!” It was a source of enormous satisfaction to her to be standing on the dais with Lucy, Sebastian and Viola; she felt privileged and elevated; though had she overheard the whispers round the fire her vainglory might have received a check. The mothers had been so anxious to know who the stranger was, for her Grace was not usually accompanied by a guest, and they had enquired of the Chevron housemaids, who stood amongst them in their quality of part-hostesses, dandling the babies in their arms. But the housemaids had sniffed. “A Mrs. Spedding,” they said; “wife of a doctor,” and poor Teresa had unwittingly provided a disappointment.

The last present had been given, the last apple, the last orange, and the last cracker: Lucy was preparing to make her little farewell speech. A threat of rowdiness had to be suppressed, for the impatient children had already begun to pull their crackers, hob-nailed boots clattered on the stone floor, and one or two of the little boys had loosed off a pistol with deafening caps; so “Hush, children!” cried Mrs. Wickenden, holding up her hand, and the noise subsided. “Well, children,” Lucy began again, “I hope you all like your presents, and now I hope you will all have a good game, and so I'll say good-bye till next year. Good-bye, children, good night, good-bye to you all.”

Vigeon rose very stately in the body of the hall. “Three cheers for her Grace, children!” he cried. “Now lift the roof! Hip, hip . . .”

“Hooray!” they shouted, lifting the roof.

“And again for his Grace. Hip, hip . . .”

“Hooray!”

“And for Lady Viola. Hip, hip . . .”

Teresa blinked the tears back from her eyes.

How beautiful it was! How young, how handsome, how patrician were Viola and Sebastian! How the children must adore them!

“Hooray!”

Bang went a cracker. Lucy made her escape. Sebastian slipped round the tree to his sister. “Shall we stay and play games with them, Viola?”

“But what about Mrs. Spedding?”

“Oh, she can stay too.”

They all stayed. Vigeon had already wound up the gramophone, and its enormous trumpet brayed forth, but the children were in no mood to listen
even to Dan Lena. They wanted to make as much noise as possible themselves. If they were to be controlled at all, regular games must be organised. Sebastian and Viola knew all about this, for they had always been allowed to stay behind with the children, and Sebastian indeed had always been puzzled
as a little boy by “Nuts in May,” because, as he explained to his nurse, nuts grew in September, not in May.

The housemaids were admirable hostesses. They wore their best black dresses; enjoyed their role thoroughly; knew all the children by name; were inventive and competent; could produce enough chairs for “Musical Chairs,” or a clean handkerchief for “I wrote-a-letter-to-my-love,” or a thick honest scarf for “Blindman's Buff”; in fact, anything that was wanted. Mr. Vigeon was a terrible Blindman. He had to be saved a dozen times from falling into the fire. He plunged about, his arms whirling, so that one scarcely dared to creep up and poke him in the back or tweak his coattails, he was so quick on his feet and could nip round so fast. He caught his Grace, who was too daring—he had always been too daring, even as a little boy—and everyone stood round breathlessly while he felt his Grace's head and nose, and finally gave the pronouncement right. There were shrieks of laughter when his Grace blundered into the panelling and caught one of the heraldic leopards; felt its tail very carefully, right up to the tip; and then said, “Mrs. Wickenden.” Then they wanted to play “Hunt the Slipper,” but Mrs. Vigeon said it was too cold for the children to sit on the stone floor. So they played “Musical Chairs” instead, with Mr. Vigeon working the gramophone very ingeniously; his Grace and Mrs. Spedding were left in last, and had an exciting scramble over the last chair, which ended in their both sitting down on it together and trying to crowd each other off. By now everyone was in very high spirits, and even Mrs. Wickenden forgot to reprove the children for lacking in respect to his Grace. They played “Nuts in May,” swaying in two long lines up and down the hall after the invidious business of picking sides had been completed; Mr. Vigeon had picked one side and Mrs. Wickenden the other, as befitted their dignity. Mr. Vigeon had very gallantly picked Mrs. Spedding, and Mrs. Wickenden had retaliated by picking his Grace. So Teresa and Sebastian were ranged opposite to one another, each with their hands clasped by the hot little hands of two excited children. Teresa was conscious of a strange agitation, which in her innocence she ascribed to the general ferment of the evening; Sebastian, just as much troubled but less innocent, watched her closely; this intimacy with her, in the midst of their apparent frivolity, was of the very nature that whipped his taste. Ever since they fetched the shovels out of the bothy, ever since they made the snow-lady, he had been wooing Teresa, not very openly as yet, but still more openly than he had hitherto dared. Now he laughed at her gaily, as his enemy on the opposite side; she saw his laughing face across the gap that separated them. And, since such humours are contagious, the line of children and servants rocked backwards and forwards, taking Sebastian and Teresa as on a tide with them, and as they rocked they sang:

“Who will you have for nuts in May? nuts in May? nuts in May?”

“We'll have Mrs. Spedding for nuts in May, nuts in May, nuts in May. We'll have Mrs. Spedding for nuts in May, all on a frosty morning.”

“And who will you send to fetch her away? fetch her away? fetch her away?”