Christmas Penny Readings: Original Sketches for the Season

“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 gushes
And the wild fount rushes,
There’s the sound of the roar
That is heard on the shore,
Where the tumbling billows the chalk cliffs bore;
For down from each hill
With 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 day
Has rush’d through the woodlands – no longer gay,
Splitting the branches;
While avalanches
Of melting snow
Bend the pine-boughs low,
And the earth with the spoil of the warfare strow.

And now once again
Comes 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 sounds
On 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,