Kitabı oku: «Christmas Penny Readings: Original Sketches for the Season», sayfa 6

Chapter Eight
Preparing for Christmas

“You want to go to sleep? Well you shall directly, but I want to say just a word about next week and Christmas-Day.”

“Well say away,” I said very drowsily.

“Well, dear,” said Mrs Scribe, “You see mamma’s coming.”

“Sorry to hear it,” I said in an undertone.

“For shame,” said Mrs S. “How can you talk in that way, when you know what interest she takes in you, and how she praises all you write. No, now, it isn’t gammon, as you so politely call it. Well, and if she did say you always introduced ‘the wife,’ or ‘the missus,’ so often, what then? You would not have her flatter you, and say what she didn’t mean, would you now, dear?”

I couldn’t help it, for the wind was easterly and I was very tired, so I only said, “Bother!” But there, I dare not commit to paper all that was said to me upon the subject. A word or two will suffice upon a matter familiar to every Benedict.

“Ah, sir,” said Mrs S, “you did not say ‘bother’ after that walk when we gathered cowslips, and I gave you leave to speak to mamma. What did you say then?”

“Too long ago to recollect,” I said.

“No it is not, sir. You said – ”

“There, for goodness sake, don’t be casting all one’s follies in one’s teeth,” I exclaimed.

“Well then, just listen quietly to what I was going to say about mamma coming.”

“Go on then.”

“Now don’t be a cross old goose, and – ”

“Gander,” I suggested.

“Now don’t be so stupid and tiresome, dear, but just listen. Now, Mrs Parabola’s furniture is going to be sold to-morrow, and you’d better go and pick up a few things.”

“Pick up,” I said, “why they won’t let you have anything unless you pay for it.”

“Dear me, how exceedingly witty,” said Mrs S. “Have you quite finished, sir?”

I felt scorched, so held my tongue, and submitted to the scolding.

“Now I see that Jane has completely ruined that dinner-service: the vegetable-dish covers are all broken but one, and that has no handle; the soup tureen has a great piece out of the side; there are only five soup plates left, while as to the dinner plates, they are that cracked and chipped, and – ”

“If you want a new service, why don’t you say so, and not go dodging about and beating the bush in that way?” I exclaimed viciously.

“Then you know, dear,” continued Mrs S, without noticing my remark, “we want some more glass, and I’d get one of those nice wool mattresses Mrs Parabola was so proud of, and we must have a fresh carpet in the dining-room, for ours is perfectly disgraceful. What? people come to see us and not our carpets? Well I suppose they do, but we need not disgrace them by making believe to be so poor. And let’s see, there’s a very pretty china tea-service that I certainly would get, dear, and a few of those damask table-cloths and napkins.”

“‘Those damask table-cloths and napkins?’” I said. “Why, how the dickens do you know anything about them?”

“Why, I went to see, of course, and the auctioneer’s men were very civil and let us go over the house.”

“Humph,” I said. “Anything else you would like?” When if she did not keep on talk, talk, talk for a good hour about the odds and ends, as she called them, that it would be advantageous to buy.

Now, it so happened that when I married I thought I had properly furnished my house; but year after year I have gone on finding out that this was a complete mistake, while now, at the end of some thirteen years, it seems to me to be as far from perfect as ever. But here, in this case, as Mrs Scribe’s mamma was coming down to spend Christmas, I could of course say nothing, so after faithfully promising that I would visit Mrs Parabola’s during the three days’ sale, I was allowed to go to sleep.

“Going to the sale, Retort?” I said the next day to a friend.

“Well, no,” was the stammered reply; “I never buy at sales.”

“Never mind, walk there with me.” Mr Retort consented, and we strolled on together to where a gaily-patterned hearthrug hung out of a window, bearing one of the auctioneer’s bills. Men were hanging about with porters’ knots, and mostly wearing head coverings composed of Brussels carpet; Abram was there, Isaac was there, Jacob was there, and the whole of the twelve patriarchs, all looking hook-nosed, unctuous, unsoaped, and evidently revelling in the idea of what a glorious “knock out” there would be after the sale. The dining-room was set apart for selling purposes; the long table stood, with all the leaves in, while its telescopic principle was so put to it that in places it was quite out of focus, and the leaves did not meet. The “elegantly-designed genuine Turkey carpet” was ingeniously folded, so that all the worn parts were hidden, and the brighter and unworn portions prominently spread out upon the long table. The scroll fender stood upon the chimney-piece, the plated-ware upon the sideboard, while ranged along the walls were the bureaus and wardrobes out of the bedrooms; at which innovation, or rather intrusion, the large portraits upon the walls gazed down most ferociously.

“Porter, sir?” said a man, touching his carpet-cap to Retort.

“No, thank you, my man,” said my friend, politely, “I never take beer.”

“No, sir, I mean to carry home what you buy,” said the man.

“Oh, dear me, no,” said Retort, “I never purchase at sales.”

The man thrust a ribald tongue into his long lank cheek, while, at the same moment I was earnestly examining the aforesaid Turkey carpet, and wondering whether it would be an improvement upon the one in our own room, when a man, whose name must have been Isaacs or Moss, insinuatingly offered me a catalogue.

“Thank you,” I said: “I have one.”

“Shouldn’t recommend it, sir,” said the new-comer. “The drawing-room carpet would just suit you, for it by rights should have been laid in a dining-room.”

“Thanks,” I said, “but don’t let me detain you.”

No detention in the least. Mr Isaacs was a broker, and for the usual trifling commission he could secure anything in the sale for me at a considerable reduction in the price I should have to give.

“For you see,” said Mr Isaacs, see-sawing the edge of a leaf of the catalogue between two of his excessively dirty teeth, “if you attempt to bid for yourself the brokers will consider that you are taking the bread out of their mouths, and combine against you, and run things up. Couldn’t secure a thing yourself, I assure you, sir.”

“Isn’t this a public auction?” I said, in what was meant to be a dignified way.

“Oh, yes, of course,” said Mr Isaacs; “but you see, sir, these sort of things are always managed for gentlemen by brokers. Gentlemen never bid for themselves.”

I left Mr Isaacs under the impression that I was not a gentleman, since I fully intended to bid for myself, and steadfastly refused to pay attention to the various eligible lots he kept introducing to my notice as I passed from room to room of the mansion, gradually getting better filled with visitors bound on bargain-seeking errands.

“Why, you’ll pay dear enough for what you buy, depend upon it,” said Retort. “What with brokers and buyers, I don’t see much chance for you.”

“Perhaps not, but look here,” I said. “This is how I manage: I get, say in a corner, where I can just see the auctioneer’s face, and then taking care not to make much movement or to do anything that will take the enemy’s attention, I give him a quiet nod for my bid each time, while seeing that I am a buyer, he always looks out for my nods. Don’t you see?”

“Just so,” said Retort, “a capital plan, no doubt.”

The sale began, and having obtained a pretty good place, I bid for several little things. Two or three times over I saw that the brokering clique were running them up, but by a judicious bit of management I let them run on, and then left my friends with the last bid, so that they were quite satisfied and let me bid and buy as I liked.

I had secured, as the day wore on, several undoubted bargains, amongst which was some of the damask linen which had taken Mrs Scribe’s fancy; but the room was insufferably hot and stuffy, and evidently too much for poor Retort, who disappeared.

At length the dining-room Turkey carpet came on, and in spite of various shabby parts, I made up my mind to have it for divers reasons, among which I might enumerate its probably going for a song; secondly, durability; thirdly, its eminent respectability, for no one could find fault with a dining-room covered by a Turkey carpet.

“Five pun’,” said one of the brokers, after the auctioneer’s introductory remarks.

I nodded.

“Five ten – five ten – six – six ten – seven – seven ten – eight ten – nine ten. Nine ten,” said the auctioneer, drawing bid after bid from different parts of the room, while, forgetting my nodding system in the excitement of the moment, I stood confessed. Now I had set ten pounds down in my own mind as the price I would go to, and was rather surprised to find how quickly it had reached to “nine ten,” as the auctioneer termed it. However, seeing that the carpet was pretty good, and my room large, I thought I would go a little farther, for I must confess to feeling a little spite against the party of Jews who now seemed to be running me up again. So on went the bidding again, till it had reached to fourteen pounds.

“Let the gentleman have it,” said Mr Isaacs, with a grin. But, no, “fifteen pounds” was bid from somewhere else – evidently by a confederate.

“Sixteen,” I formed with my mouth.

“Seventeen bid,” cried the hammer-man.

“I will have it,” I muttered, “in spite of the scoundrels, for it would cost twenty for a good Brussels, and there’s no wear in them.”

“Going at seventeen – seventeen —sev-en-teen – sev-en-teen. Going at seven-teen. ‘Eighteen.’ I thank you, sir. Eighteen – eighteen – eighteen. Nineteen is bid,” said the auctioneer, while the Jews grinned and chuckled.

“Not half its vally yet, sir,” cried Mr Isaacs. “Don’t give it away, sir. Orter make fifty pun’, at the least.”

“Thou villainous Shylock,” I muttered to myself, “but I can afford a few pounds sooner than be beaten.”

“This splendid Turkey carpet, fit for any nobleman’s mansion, now stands at nineteen pounds,” cried the man in the rostrum. “Say another pound for you, sir!”

I nodded.

“Twenty pounds – twenty – twenty – guineas – twenty-one pound is offered. It’s against you, sir, at twenty-one pounds.”

I nodded again.

“Twenty-two pounds,” cried the auctioneer. “Twenty-two pounds. Any advance upon twenty-two pounds,” he continued, amid much chuckling, when, as there was no further reply to the challenges, I became the fortunate owner of the carpet at double its worth.

“Name,” cried the auctioneer, and then catching my eye, he nodded, and went on with the next lot.

“I’ll keep out of sight again, I think,” I muttered, and returned to my corner, feeling very hot and bristly, as I determined to reopen the knocking-out discussion in the morning papers, for it was evident that I was the victim of a conspiracy.

But I was warm in temper as well as body, and therefore determined not to be driven away, so I purchased an elegant set of card and occasional tables at about double their value; gave six pounds ten for the damaged dinner-service; seven pounds for the china; five guineas for a wool mattress, and found myself at last bidding twelve shillings an ounce for some of the plate.

The Jews seemed frantic with delight, but I knew all the while it was only to conceal their anger and annoyance; and, though I kept carefully out of sight, I knew the bolts and shafts of their coarse allusions were being directed at me, while their hidden confederate on the opposite side of the room bid furiously. Once or twice I felt disposed to leave off, and let the high-priced lots be knocked down to the Israelitish villain. “But no,” I said, “I’ll have what I want in spite of them, and cunning as they are;” for the rascals kept sending their chaff flying at their confederate as well.

“What a good job Retort has gone!” I muttered; “I shall never have the face to tell anyone what I have given.” And now, as it was fast getting dusk, and our Jewish friends were beginning to be sportive and indulge in such little freaks of fancy as bonneting the porters, and accidentally causing articles of furniture to fall against their fellows, all of which tended to make the confusion worse than before, I left the auctioneer hurrying through the last of that day’s lots, and made the best of my way out; when, to my surprise, I found Retort in the hall.

“Ah, well met!” I exclaimed, hurriedly following his example; and thrusting my pencilled catalogue into my pocket, feeling very desirous not to talk of the day’s purchases until a little softened down by dinner and a glass or two of sherry. However, Retort did not seem at all disposed to speak upon the subject; and, after a little pressing, the touchy bachelor consented to dine with me and take pot luck.

But pot luck that day was nothing to be grumbled at, for Mrs Scribe had exerted herself to have everything snug, as she afterwards told me, in consequence of my having been “a good boy,” and undertaken to get the few things she wanted before mamma came down. So pot luck that day consisted of some well-made ox-tail soup – not at all burnt – caught, as our queen of the kitchen terms it – a nice flakey bit of crimped cod with oysters; boiled fowls and tongue; two species of kickshaws; Stilton and celery. The bottled ale was good, the sherry pleasant, and Mrs S amiability itself; so that by degrees the creature comforts acted like anodyne or unguent to my raw temper; and when my smiling partner left us over our wine, I leaped out of my chair, opened the door, and earned the smile tendered for my acceptance.

“Hem!” said Retort, as soon as we were alone.

“Come, fill your glass, Tom,” I said; “that’s a capital glass of wine, even if it isn’t one of your wonderful vintages. I call that Pantheon Port – fit drink for all the gods – ruby Ambrosia.”

“Hum,” said Retort very superciliously – “Gilbey’s, eh?”

“Now, I do call that shabby,” I said, “to sneer at a fellow because he frankly offers you a cheap glass, and isn’t above owning to it. Now, if you had dined with old Blunkarn, he’d have given you a worse glass, and vowed it was ’20 port.”

“But how did you get on at the sale?” said Retort hastily, so as to change the subject.

“Rascally!” I exclaimed, firing up. “Those confounded Jews!”

“Wasn’t it scandalous,” said Retort.

“The most iniquitous affair I ever saw!” I exclaimed.

“The scoundrels ought to be indicted for conspiracy,” said my friend.

“I’ll show them up, my boy,” I said. “I’ll send columns to the papers if they’ll only put them in.”

“Ah, do,” said my companion. “Now, you see, I bid for a thing or two.”

“You,” I said; “why, what for? Bachelor in lodgings?”

“Well – er – er – yes,” said Retort, stammering, “er – er at present, you know – at present.”

“Why, you don’t mean to say – ” I burst out.

“Hush, my dear fellow! don’t speak so loud.”

“That you’ve proposed to Miss Visite?”

“Well – er – yes, my dear sir, I have,” simpered the great booby.

“Then I congratulate you,” I exclaimed. “Here, Nelly,” I said, running towards the door.

“No, no, no – don’t, don’t, there’s a good fellow,” cried Retort, dragging me back towards the table; “don’t call Mrs Scribe. Let me break it to her gently some other time. I’d rather do it myself.”

“Just as you like,” I said, good-humouredly; and then I toasted the future Mrs Retort’s most honoured name.

“Well,” continued Retort, drawing forth his catalogue, “I was telling you that I bid for a few lots, but those fellows run them up so, that I couldn’t get a thing.”

“Yes, it was too bad,” I muttered, fumbling in my pocket for my catalogue, to find that I had left it in the coat I had taken off.

“Here, Emily,” I said, when the maiden answered the bell, “fetch that catalogue out of my coat-pocket in the dressing-room. Don’t show it to any one else. Bring it straight here;” for I was rather alarmed lest Mrs Scribe should see the figures made beside the lots I had secured.

Emily soon returned, and then, with a somewhat darkened brow, I began to refer to the different items.

“What did you bid for, Tom?” I said to my friend, who was poring over the list, evidently deep in for furnishing. “But I never thought of your getting married, old chap; though I did half fancy that you were sweet after Miss V.”

“Why, you don’t suppose I should have wasted a day at a sale if I had not wanted things, do you?”

“Never gave it a thought,” said I. “And so you didn’t buy anything after all?”

“No,” said Retort. “Did you?”

“Well – er – er – um, ye-e-es; a few things – a few.”

“Things went dear, though, didn’t they?”

“Well, yes, on the whole, they did. But what did you bid for?”

“Oh, I thought that Turkey carpet would just suit us; and as you were going in for the drawing-room Brussels, why, I bid for it; but those Israelitish villains run it up to twenty-two pounds.”

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.