The Christmas Hirelings

Preface

Table of Contents

I had long wished to write a story about children, which should be interesting to childish readers, and yet not without interest for grown-up people: but that desire might never have been realized without the unexpected impulse of a suggestion, dropped casually in the freedom of conversation at a table where the clever hostess is ever an incentive to bright thoughts. The talk was of Christmas; and almost everybody agreed that the season, considered from the old-fashioned festal standpoint, was pure irony. Was it not a time of extra burdens, of manifold claims upon everybody’s purse and care, of great expectations from all sorts of people, of worry and weariness? Except for the children! There we were unanimous.

Christmas was the children’s festival — for us a rush and a scramble, and a perpetual paying away of money; for them a glimpse of Fairyland.

If we had no children of our own, said my left-hand neighbor, we ought to hire some for Christmas.

I thought it was a pretty fancy; and on that foundation built the little story of the Christmas Hirelings, which is now reproduced in book form from last year’s Christmas Number of the Lady’s Pictorial, and which I hope even after that wide circulation all over the English-speaking world may find a new public at home — the public of mothers and aunts and kind uncles, in quest of stories that please children. This story was a labour of love, a holiday task, written beside the fire in the long autumn evenings when the south-west wind was howling in the Forest trees outside.

The living models for the three children were close at hand, dear and familiar to the writer; and Moppet’s long words and quaint little mannerisms are but the pale reproduction of words and looks and gestures in the tiny girl who was then my next-door neighbor, and who is now far away in the shadow of the Himalayas.

The character of Mr. Danby, whom some of my critics have been kind enough to praise, was suggested by the following passage in the first series of the Greville Memoirs, copied in my commonplace-book long ago, when everybody was reading those delightful reminiscences: —

Old Creevy — an attorney or barrister — married a widow, who died a few years ago. She had something, he nothing. His wife died, upon which event he was thrown upon the world with about two hundred a year, or less, no home, few connections, a great many acquaintance, a good constitution, and extraordinary spirits. He possesses nothing but his clothes, no property of any sort; he leads a vagrant life, visiting a number of people who are delighted to have him, and sometimes roving about to various places as fancy happens to direct, and staying till he has spent what money he has in his pocket. He has no servant, no home, no creditors; he buys everything as he wants it at the place he is at; he has no ties upon him, and has his time entirely at his own disposal and that of his friends. He is certainly a living proof that a man may be perfectly happy and exceedingly poor, or rather without riches, for he suffers none of the privations of poverty, and enjoys many of the advantages of wealth. I think he is the only man I know in society who possesses nothing.

M. E. B.

LYNDHURST,

November 1st, 1894.

Prologue

Table of Contents

The scene was the library at Penlyon Place, commonly called for shortness — Place. The personages were Sir John Penlyon, a great landed proprietor, and a line gentleman of the early Victorian school; his niece, Miss Adela Hawberk, a smart young lady, whose paternal home was in South Kensington: and Mr. Danby, the useful friend, whose home was everywhere. Home of his own Mr. Danby had none. He had drifted lightly on the stream of life for the last forty years, living in other people’s houses, and, more or less, at other people’s expense; yet there lived not the man or woman who would have dared to describe Mr. Danby as a sponge or a toady, as anybody’s hanger-on or parasite. Mr. Danby only went where he was wanted; and the graces of his manner and the qualities of his mind and heart were such that Mr. Danby was wanted everywhere. He had invitations three years deep. His engagements were as far in the future as the calculations in the nautical almanac. Some people, who had been trying for years to get Mr. Danby to their houses, compared him to that star whose inhabitants may now be contemplating the Crimean War of 1854.

Sir John Penlyon and Mr. Danby had been schoolfellows at Eton, and chums at Christchurch; and, whomsoever else he disappointed, Mr. Danby never omitted his annual visits to Penlyon Place. He Christmassed there, and he Eastered there, and he knew the owner of the fine old Tudor house inside and out, his vices and his virtues, his weaknesses, and his prejudices.

That there Danby, said Sir John’s valet, can turn the old chap round his finger; hut he’s a good feller, is Danby, a gentleman to the marrer, and nobody’s any the worse for ‘is hinfluence.

The library at Penlyon was one of those rooms in which to live seems enough for bliss. A lovely old room, full of fantastic lights and shadows in the December gloaming; a spacious room, lined with books in the most exquisite bindings, for the binding of his books was more to Sir John than the letterpress inside. He was very fond of his library; he was very fond of his books. He looked at the bindings; and he read the newspapers and magazines which were heaped on a carved oak table at one end of the room.

Miss Hawberk sat in a low chair, with her feet on the fender, apparently lost in admiration of her Queen Anne shoes. She had lately come in from a long walk on the moor with the useful friend, and had changed her clump-soled boots for these pointed toes, which set off the high instep that was considered a family mark of the Penlyons. A flat-footed Penlyon would have been thrust out and repudiated by the rest of the clan, perhaps, like a sick cow to which the herd gives the coup de grâce.

Sir John was standing on the hearth-rug with his back to the crackling wood fire, contemplating his books as the fire-glow lit up their varied bindings. Mr. Danby was resting luxuriously after his moorland walk, in quite the most comfortable chair in the room, not too near the fire, for Danby was careful of his complexion. At sixty-three years of age a man, who means to be good-looking to the end, has to be careful of his complexion.

Danby was a slenderly-built man, of middle height. He had never been handsome, but he had neat, inoffensive features, bright grey eyes, light brown hair, with a touch of silver in it, and perfect hands and feet. He reminded elderly people of that accomplished and amiable gentleman, Charles Matthews, the younger.

Miss Hawberk was tall and handsome. She prided herself in the first place upon being every inch a Penlyon, and in the second place upon being undeniably smart. She belonged to a set which, in the London season, sees a good deal of the Royalties, and, like most people who are in touch with personages of the blood royal, she very often talked about them.

So much for the actors in the social drama, which was in this very hour to begin at Penlyon Castle. The curtain is up, and the first words of the play drop quietly from the lips of Sir John.

SIR JOHN. Christmas again, Danby! I think of all the boring seasons Christmas is the most boring.

ADELA (reproachfully). My dear uncle, that sounds like forgetting what Christmas means.

SIR JOHN. What does Christmas mean to any British householder? Firstly, an extra Sunday, wedged into the week, — and at my age the longest week is too short, and all the Sundays are too near together; secondly, an overwhelming shower of stationery in the shape of pamphlets, booklets, circulars, and reports of every imaginable kind of philanthropic scheme for extracting money from the well-to-do classes — schemes so many and so various that a man will harden his heart against the cry of the poor rather than he will take the trouble to consider the multitude of institutions that have been invented to relieve their distresses; thirdly, a servants’ hall, which generally sets all the servants by the ears, and sometimes sets the house on fire; fourthly, a cloud of letters from poor relatives and friends one would willingly forget, only to be answered decently with a cheque. I won’t speak of bills, for the so-called Christmas bills are held back till January, to embitter the beginning of the year, and to remind a man that he was born to trouble, as the sparks fly upward.

Sir John takes up the poker, and illustrates this passage of holy writ by striking a tremendous shower of sparks out of a burning pine log.

DANBY. I don’t think you need mind Christmas. You are rich enough to satisfy everybody, even the philanthropic gentlemen; or you may plunge for two or three of the best established and soundest charities — hospitals, for choice — and give a round sum to each of them. That is what I would do if I were a rich man. And as for festivities, why, you and I are too old, and Miss Hawberk is too sensible to want any fuss of that kind; so we can just put up with the extra Sunday, and pull up the arrears of our correspondence between luncheon and dinner, while the servants are lingering over their Christmas dessert.

MISS HAWBERK (with a faint sigh). That is all very well; but I think Christmas Day ought to be different from other days, somehow.

SIR JOHN (impatiently). Somehow, yes, but which how? What are we, civilized people, with plenty of common sense and no silly sentiment — what are we to do year after year in order to lash ourselves into the humour for Christmas mirth and Christmas benevolence? It was all very well for a miserly old churl like Dickens’s Scrooge to break out suddenly into kindness and joviality, after a long life of avarice. Giving away turkeys and drinking punch were new sensations for him. But for us, who have been giving away turkeys and putting our sovereigns in the plate for nearly fifty Christmas Days! You can’t expect me to be enthusiastic about Christmas, Adela, any more than you would expect me to hang up my stocking when I go to bed on Christmas Eve.

MISS HAWBERK. Oh, that stocking! How old I feel when I think of it! How firmly I believed in Santa Claus, and bow happy I used to be on Christmas morning when