“It was so odd that both of you should have been detained on the very same day,” said Jane.
“Yes, it was odd,” said Mrs. Brown, with a smile looking round upon her neighbour.
“It was abominably bad weather you know,” said Brown.
“But you were both so determined to come,” said the old gentleman. “ When we got the two telegrams at the same moment, we were sure that there had been some agreement between you.”
“Not exactly an agreement,” said Mrs. Brown; whereupon Mr. Jones looked as grim as death.
“I’m sure there is something more than we understand yet,” said the Member of Parliament.
Then they all went to church, as a united family ought to do on Christmas Day, and came home to a fine old English early dinner at three o’clock, —a sirloin of beef a foot-and-a-half broad, a turkey as big as an ostrich, a plum-pudding bigger than the turkey, and two or three dozen mincepies. “ That’s a very large bit of beef,” said Mr. Jones, who had not lived much in England latterly. “ It won’t look so large,” said the old gentleman, “ when all our friends downstairs have had their say to it.” “ A plum-pudding on Christmas Day can’t be too big,” he said again, “ if the cook will but take time enough over it. I never knew a bit go to waste yet.”
By this time there had been some explanation as to past events between the two sisters. Mrs. Brown had indeed told Jane all about it, how ill her husband had been, how she had been forced to go down and look for the mustard, and then what she had done with the mustard. “ I don’t think they are a bit alike you know, Mary, if you mean that,” said Jane.
“Well, no; perhaps At quite alike. I only saw his beard, you know. No doubt it was stupid, but I did it.”
“Why didn’t you take it off again? “ asked the sister.
“Oh, Jane, if you’d only think of it! Could you?”
Then of course all that occurred was explained, how they had been stopped on their journey, how Brown had made the best apology in his power, and how Jones had travelled with them and had never spoken a word. The gentleman had only taken his new name a week since, but of course had had his new card printed immediately. “ I’m sure I should have thought of it if they hadn’t made a mistake with the first name. Charles said it was like Barnaby Rudge.”
“Not at all like Barnaby Badge,” said Jane; “ Charles Burnaby Jones is a very good name.”
“Very good indeed, — and I’m sure that after a little bit he won’t be at all the worse for the accident.”
Before dinner the secret had been told no further, but still there had crept about among the Thompsons, and, indeed, downstairs also, among the retainers, a feeling that there was a secret. The old housekeeper was sure that Miss Mary, as she still called Mrs. Brown, had something to tell if she could only be induced to tell it, and that this something had reference to Mr. Jones’ personal cbmfort. The head of the family, who was a sharp old gentleman, felt this also, and the member of Parliament, who had an idea that he specially should never be kept in the dark, was almost angry. Mr. Jones, suffering from some kindred feeling throughout the dinner, remained silent and unhappy. When two or three toasts had been drunk,—the Queen’s health, the old gentleman’s health, the young couple’s health, Brown’s health, and the general health of all the Thompsons, then tongues were loosened and a question was asked,” I know that there has been something doing in Paris between these young people that we haven’t heard as yet,” said the uncle. Then Mrs. Brown laughed, and Jane, laughing too, gave Mr. Jones to understand that she at any rate knew all about it.
“If there is a mystery I hope it will be told at once,” said the member of Parliament, angrily.
“Come, Brown, what is it? “ asked another male cousin.
“Well, there was an accident. I’d rather Jones should tell,” said he.
Jones’ brow became blacker than thunder, but he did not say a word. “ You mustn’t be angry with Mary,” Jane whispered into her lover’s ear.
“Come, Mary, you never were slow at talking,” said the uncle.
“I do hate this kind of thing,” said the member of Parliament.
“I will tell it all,” said Mrs. Brown, very nearly in tears, or else pretending to be very nearly in tears. “ I know I was very wrong, and I do beg his pardon, and if he won’t say that he forgives me I never shall be happy again.” Then she clasped her hands, and turning round, looked him piteously in the face.
“Oh yes; I do forgive you,” said Mr. Jones.
“My brother,” said 4e, throwing her arms round him and kissing him. He recoiled from the embrace, but I think that he attempted to return the kiss. “ And now I will tell the whole story,” said Mrs. Brown. And she told it, acknowledging her fault with true contrition, and swearing that she would atone for it by lifelong sisterly devotion.
“And you mustard-plastered the wrong man!” said the old gentleman, almost rolling off his chair with delight.
“I did,” said Mrs. Brown, sobbing, “ and I think that no woman ever suffered as I suffered.”
“And Jones wouldn’t let you leave the hotel?”
“It was the handkerchief stopped us,” said Brown.
“If it had turned out to be anybody else,” said the member of Parliament, “ the results might have been most serious,—not to say discreditable.”
“That’s nonsense, Robert,” said Mrs. Brown, who was disposed to resent the use of so severe a word, even from the legislator cousin.
“In a strange gentleman’s bedroom! “ he continued. “ It only shows that what I have always said is quite true. You should never go to bed in a strange house without locking your door.”
Nevertheless it was a very jovial meeting, and before the evening was over Mr. Jones was happy, and had been brought to acknowledge that the mustard-plaster would probably not do him any permanent injury.
Christmas Day at Kirkby Cottage
(Anthony Trollope)
Chapter I. What Maurice Archer Said About Christmas
Chapter II. Kirkby Cliffe Church
Chapter III. Showing How Isabel Lownd Told a Lie