She gave me her hand.
We went down the dark kitchen passages together, across the court, and so to the long room above the coach-house, where the windows were brightly lit.
To the laughing surge of voices and the bright expectant faces.
17
The whole company stood up as we came into the room.
The tables were pushed back, there was shuffling of feet, the murmur of voices hushed; the heads of one and all turned round to look at us.
Rachel paused a moment on the threshold; I think she had not expected such a sea of faces.
Then she saw the Christmas tree at the far end, and gave a cry of pleasure.
The pause was broken, and a murmur of sympathy and gladness at her surprise arose from everyone.
We took our places at our respective ends of the top table, and Rachel sat down.
The rest of us did the same, and at once a clamor of chat and talk began, with clattering of knives, and moving of platters, and each man jostling his neighbor in laughter and apology.
I had for partner on my right Mrs. Bill Rowe, from the Barton, sprigged out to beat all comers in her muslins, and I noticed that Mrs. Johns of Coombe, upon my left, looked at her in disfavor.
I had forgotten, in my desire for protocol, that neither of them “spoke” to the other.
Some rift, dating back to a misunderstanding about eggs on market day, had lasted fifteen years.
No matter, I would be gallant to the pair of them and cover all distress.
Flagons of cider would come to my assistance, and seizing the nearest jug I helped them, and myself, most liberally, then turned to the bill of fare. The kitchens had done us well.
Never, in my long memories of Christmas dinners, had we been offered plenty such as this.
Roast goose, roast turkey, sides of beef and mutton, great smoked hams decorated with a frill, pastries and pies of all shapes and sizes, puddings bulging with dried fruits; and between the heavier fare were platters of that delicate fragile pastry, airy as thistledown, that Rachel had concocted with the Barton maids.
Smiles of anticipation and of greed wreathed the faces of the hungry guests, my own among them, and already great gusts of laughter came from the other tables, where, undaunted by the immediate presence of the “master,” the broader-tongued among my tenants let themselves go with loosening of belts and collars.
I heard Jack Libby, of bibulous eye, utter hoarsely to his neighbor—I think he had already had a glass or two of cider on the road—“By Gor… after this lot they could feed us to the crows and we wouldn’t feel et.”
Little thin-lipped Mrs. Johns upon my left pricked at her wing of goose with a fork poised between her fingers like a quill, and the fellow whispered to her, with a wink in my direction,
“Go to it m’dear, with thumb and finger.
Tear ’un asunder.”
It was then I noticed that each one of us had a small package put beside his plate, the packages addressed in Rachel’s handwriting.
Everybody seemed to perceive this at the same time, and for a brief moment the food was forgotten, in the excited tearing of the paper.
I watched, and waited, before opening my own.
I realized, with a sudden ache in my heart, what she had done.
She had given every man and woman assembled there a present.
She had wrapped them up herself, and enclosed with each a note.
Nothing big, or fine, but a little trifle that would please them well.
So that was the reason for the mysterious wrappings behind the boudoir door. I understood it all.
When each of my neighbors had fallen to their food again I opened my own.
I unwrapped it on my knees, beneath the table, determined that only I myself should see what had been given me.
It was a gold chain for my keys, with a disk upon it bearing our initials, P.A.R.A., and the date beneath.
I held it for a moment in my hands, then put it, furtively, into my waistcoat pocket.
I looked up at her and smiled.
She was watching me.
I raised my glass to her, she raised hers in reply.
God!
I was happy.
Dinner proceeded, uproarious and gay.
Greasy platters, heaped with food, were emptied, I know not how.
Glasses were filled, and filled again.
Someone, halfway down the table, began to sing, and the song was taken up and joined by those from the other tables.
Boots hummed a measure on the floor, knives and forks beat time upon the platters, bodies swayed to and fro in rollicking rhythmic fashion; and thin-lipped Mrs. Johns of Coombe told me that, for a man, my lashes were far too long.
I helped her to more cider.
At last, remembering how Ambrose timed his moment to perfection, I rapped long and loud upon the table.
The voices died away.
“Those who desire to do so,” I said, “may go outside, and then return again.
In five minutes’ time Mrs. Ashley and I will give the presents from the tree.