CHAPTER XXX

FESTIVAL

Now came Christmas night. On Lucifram Christmas Day wasn’t marred by any subsequent church-going. It was nothing better than a heathen feast; the Serpent had nothing to do with it.

On that day the children went simply wild, and gave themselves incredible airs; demanded their best toys, gorged oranges and apples, made themselves ill with plum-pudding, demanded their full share of turkey, and got it, and looked with expectant eyes on the iced cake when it appeared. Just as if they’d been starving all day! The little wretches!

The grown-up world, unless it was going out to an evening party, yawned, and ate its customary Christmas fare, and drank it too. Then the old people played cards, and the young people sang, especially the young men with untrained voices, and the lovers behaved as if they really were in love with one another.

Come and watch Rosalie.

Now that day there had arrived two Christmas presents so beautiful that many an empress might have envied them. The first came early in the morning, before the postman; a curious and unusual thing. There is no doubt Santa Claus was on the war-path, for such a lovely ball and reception dress could only have been made in some magic fairyland. It was like shining silken _crêpe_, all frosted over with tiny sparkling jewels, all in white. It shone like soft pure snow in the sunlight, and fell in folds of simplest grace. It was so very simply, yet so very wonderfully made, that one wondered what it was that gave it such a beautiful effect.

“Is it not too dead white to suit me?” said she to Brightcoat, after going into raptures on its beauty.

“See here, there is a little box below,” said it.

And Rosalie opened it, and uttered the most real cry of delight in her life.

“It’s my stone, my first stone, that I loved so, all set in gold and ready to wear. Oh, Brightcoat, Brightcoat, look!”

And she sat down on the bed and hid her face in the pillows, and cried from different emotions. At last she wiped away the tears and looked up, her eyes falling on the shining stone again.

“I love them all as if they were my children, and that somehow the most, because it was the first. And I believe it loves me too. Look how beautiful a ray of light it sends towards me! And I never hoped to see it again.”

Rosalie took it up, and kissed it, and shed tears upon it, but the light from it was never dimmed; one might have thought it was made tear-proof.

“I need no other colour. This is quite enough. And you, Brightcoat.”

“Yes; of course, there’s me,” said the other thoughtfully.

This was the beginning of the day. But when the postman came, besides bringing letters and cards without end, some of the latter bearing halfpenny stamps after the style of circulars, he brought a parcel, also directed to Rosalie, in handwriting that the frog declared was superior to anything it had ever seen.

It was opened in public, and inside was a pair of slippers as white as snow, and worked in diamonds. And they were such a curious shape they looked as if they must really be antique, because they had little square toes, and gold straps across. They reminded one of the daintiest garden clogs, so light were they, and when Rosalie put them on she wanted to dance right away.

“They’re made on the same pattern as the little wooden clog I have upstairs,” cried she. “Look, Miss Crokerly, they dance of themselves,” and in excess of spirits she pirouetted round the room, and kissed both those elderly people from superabundance of excessively childish glee.

Where they had come from she didn’t know. She thought they had come from the same source as the first, although they came by post. So that evening she dressed for the real pleasure of the thing. And when it came to pinning the jewel into the bosom of her dress, her hands trembled just because she loved it so. It shed just the same soft shades on to her dress as the light of the moon might shed on to the snow—a passing green and golden and palest blue that melted into white. And on her shoulder the ever—present frog, and a new light in her eyes, because the ice-tears had rolled out of them.

And underneath the shining jewel her heart beat quickly. She went with Sir John, Miss Crokerly having preceded them in Mr. Barringcourt’s carriage some time ago.

“Do you know,” said she, “I thought at the last minute you’d change your mind and stay away.”

“Oh, no,” he replied. “I always go when Barringcourt throws his house open. There are so many things that interest me there.”

“Yes. It’s quite after the nature of a museum, is it not?”

“Yes. Unlabelled. So that it has an additional charm.”

They took their turn in the long line of carriages, and after a considerable time were enabled to alight.

There was an awning from the parapet to the door, and the steps were also covered a deep red.

Rosalie looked for Everard. He was not there. Two powdered footmen instead. They were not inmates of the Marble House. Neither were any of those who personally waited upon the guests that night. There was not a waiting-maid anywhere about to compare with Mariana, and Rosalie could not have imagined her proud and delicate face amongst that throng. But how different did the wide hall look that night! Brilliantly lit, and with huge fires burning at either end. Fires fit for Festival and freezing weather. And no undue crowding of guests to do away with comfort and beauty and enjoyment. The wide doors to the southern wing, leading to the picture-gallery and conservatory, were thrown open. So also were those to the west, containing the reception rooms—no empty, echoing fireless places now, but full of life and laughter and vivacity.

A reception was held first; dancing did not begin till eleven, when a well-known princess was to lead with a gavotte. She was very proud of her instep.

At twelve supper was to be served in the large subterranean hall, a place Rosalie had never been in, nor, indeed, anyone else. And after that dancing began again, and continued till four. Then carriages and home.

On entering, Rosalie was presented with a programme that explained all this. It was book-shaped, with a mother-of-pearl back, and in the centre a perfect little garden clog with a broken string in gold, and underneath “Christmas 0039”—that being the year as reckoned in Lucifram.

“Oh, how charming!” cried one lady, who had just received hers before Rosalie. “An old clog for luck! It is delightful!”

Flowers the most gorgeous and tasteful banked every available corner; truly, the house had been completely altered from darkness into light.

Mr. Barringcourt on these occasions made an excellent host. He had none of the clumsiness of the bachelor host, being for all the world as much at home as if he’d been married and had ten children. Now, it was a dancing night, and thanks to an excellent example, there was not one smoke-absorbed, or card-absorbed, or billiard-absorbed man present. For one night everybody made a delightful martyr of themselves, and secretly enjoyed the process.

Rosalie’s programme did not fill so quickly, for there were many there who took her to have religious mania, and doubted they might have something to put up with. Moreover, there were very few persons there that she really knew. At last she was suddenly accosted by Mr. Barringcourt.

“The first and last dance, Rosalie,” said he, and they looked at one another. Then looking down at her programme, he said: “What an empty list!”

“It’s quite right, thank you. I don’t care about dancing. I’d rather watch other people, and listen to the music. Find me some quiet old lady whom I may sit by, and who does not talk too much. It is all I ask of you.”

“There are not many present. They are all young and frivolous, or old and giddy. A much easier task would be to find you partners for every dance.”

“I should be dead tired before supper-time; I can’t talk to strangers, and I don’t know every dance. And it takes rather a brave man to accost me; I perceive them mentally screwing themselves up to the pitch as they approach.”

“Under those circumstances, it was very kind of you to come. Here comes the Princess. I’ll return later.”

The Princess smiled so condescendingly all round that everyone was charmed with her. She had a light walk, as one who treads on eggs and fears to break them, and her admirers said she glided as the spirits do.

As soon as she came—and, of course, she came rather late—the proceedings of the evening began. She danced the gavotte, and brought her own dancing-master and fiddler to play, as she was accustomed to be played up to.

When the real dancing began there was one of the best bands in Lucifram in readiness, that all the evening more or less had been playing favourite airs, and another to relieve them when occasion needed.

Mr. Barringcourt sought and found Rosalie.

“Should you not have given the first dance to the Princess?” said she.

“No. My step does not suit her, and she is sufficiently truthful to tell me of it.”

“I can scarcely believe _your_ step is wrong.”

“No? She is easier to deal with than you. She goes greatly on credit. It’s a royal failing. Come, let us begin; if this waltz is as it should be, it will be all too short.”

And no seventh heaven could have surpassed, if equalled it.

“How lovely,” said she suddenly, “if one could die dancing!”

“It would mean company on a lonely road,” said he. “And cheat death of some of its tragedy, with well-matched partners.”

“Did you—did you send me those slippers that I’m wearing?”

“What makes you think so?”

“The little clog on the back of my programme. It’s the exact fac-simile of one I used to wear.”

“I had a little story as near as possible to that of Ally Krimjo. For one morning there was found in the middle of my hall a little garden clog without owner or companion. It came there through barred doors and spring-barred doors, and none could make out how it came there. Not even I. I never learnt it till the night when you came to say your lesson. I proved it when you wore these little satin-covered skates to-night.”

“You’ll give it back to me?”

“Oh, no! I’m keeping it for luck. That is a lovely stone you’re wearing.”

“It’s one I told you of. Dug from the garden with a great big fork and spade, just as a man digs.”

“I believe I’ve seen it before in my father’s house.”

“No, indeed. Unless your father was the Governor I spoke of.”

He laughed.

Then at last the dance was over.

“I’ve found the lady you asked me for,” said he. “Miss Crokerly is my guardian angel to-night. It is she who discovered her. Here is an excellent place where you may sit and see everything, and hear the music to advantage too.”

And then he took her to a seat, and introduced her to a lady sitting there. She was so charming a companion. Her silences were never awkward, and now and again she would give Rosalie information about certain people, all of a good-natured if shrewd kind, that was the highest entertainment.

At twelve punctually the company descended to supper.

The staircase down was of black marble, and spiral also, like the one above. It had none of the slippery treachery that characterised its sister staircase, though, and it seemed altogether of a much more reliable make. To a spectator the gay colours of the ladies and their sparkling jewels looked like brilliant multicoloured scales on a gigantic serpent, reared pillar-wise to support the vast chamber below.

The subterranean banquet hall of Marble House was nothing better, nothing worse than a crypt.

It had great and massive pillars of hardened, blackened marble; a fitting support for a fitting house.

Its floors were tiled in marble. Its walls of marble too. But whereas a crypt, if lit at all, is content with lamps of oil, or the feeble glimmer of electricity, this place was deluged with light. The most brilliant candelabra hung from the ceilings, sparkling in the thousand glintings of diamond glass. The tables were covered with finest snow-white cloths, and all the decorations were of silver, purest and brightest and most finely worked. And all the flowers were red.

Here, screened from view, the band was playing gently. A soft and scented air of luxury arose, as if to show that crypts upon occasion have finer possibilities than dining-rooms.

The Princess, led by Mr. Barringcourt, descended first, and half way down stopped to admire.

“Which was the pirate, you or Mr. Todbrook?” said she. “I’m sure you carted off the plan of a cathedral, and the material too.”

“That is an open secret,” replied he, laughing. “But his was the theft, not mine. I simply inherited what he had left. But he had gloomy taste. Now, were I building, I’d fix upon a little bungalow, a whitewashed place, with a world-wide garden for the summer-time.”

The Princess was not of that simple nature that enjoys simplicity, but she delighted in anything odd, as she considered it, because it made her laugh.

“Do you really mean to say you are philosopher enough to grow accustomed to things?” she asked.

“Till I see a way of escape.”

“And you see none from here?”

The Princess had not such keen eyes as Rosalie; she was not fond of studying faces, except for what animal beauty they might possess.

“None,” said he. “Although ’tis said Todbrook escaped by the back door.”

“He died,” said she, and looked at him with a vague suspicion of horror in her eyes. She was of a superstitious nature.

But he laughed.

“You talk of death at a dance?” said he. “One might almost think, Princess, you were primitive, and scorned the guarded terms of civilisation.”

The conversation had taken a turn not to her fancy. He had thrown a shadow over the brilliantly-lit supper-room. She shivered involuntarily, and looked about her petulantly, and said:

“Are you quite sure this place isn’t damp?”

“Not at all! Not a rheumatic dampness, anyway. Spirits do not count; they are above it.”

Then their conversation ran into a lighter channel suited to the occasion, and the feast began right royally, when the plumed peacock was carried in, to be admired in death, a lasting tribute to its vanity.

The band played, and the people laughed and feasted and talked. In the whole of Lucifram that night could not have been found a gayer or more brilliant company.