“Sh!” said Grist. “Listen.”
Beasley had begun to speak, and his voice, loud and clear, sounded over the wind. “Come right in, Colonel!” he said. “I’d have sent a carriage for you if you hadn’t telephoned me this afternoon that your rheumatism was so bad you didn’t expect to be able to come. I’m glad you’re well again. Yes, they’re all here, and the ladies are getting up a quadrille in the sitting-room.”
(It was at this moment that I received upon the calf of the right leg a kick, the ecstatic violence of which led me to attribute it to Mr. Dowden.)
“Gentlemen’s dressing-room upstairs to the right, Colonel,” called Beasley, as he closed the door.
There was a pause of awed silence among us.
(I improved it by returning the kick to Mr. Dowden. He made no acknowledgment of its reception other than to sink his chin a little deeper into the collar of his ulster.)
“By the Almighty!” said Simeon Peck, hoarsely. “Who—what was Dave Beasley talkin’ to? There wasn’t nobody there!”
“Git out,” Grist bade him; but his tone was perturbed. “He seen that reporter. He was givin’ us the laugh.”
“He’s crazy!” exclaimed Peck, vehemently.
Immediately all four members of his party began to talk at the same time: Mr. Schulmeyer agreeing with Grist, and Mr. Cullop holding with Peck that Beasley had surely become insane; while the Journal man, returning, was certain that he had not been seen. Argument became a wrangle; excitement over the remarkable scene we had witnessed, and, perhaps, a certain sharpness partially engendered by the risk of freezing, led to some bitterness. High words were flung upon the wind. Eventually, Simeon Peck got the floor to himself for a moment.
“See here, boys, there’s no use gittin’ mad amongs’ ourselves,” he vociferated. “One thing we’re all agreed on: nobody here never seen no such a dam peculiar performance as we jest seen in their whole lives before. Thurfore, ball or no ball, there’s somep’n’ mighty wrong about this business. Ain’t that so?”
They said it was.
“Well, then, there’s only one thing to do—let’s find out what it is.”
“You bet we will.”
“I wouldn’t send no one in there alone,” Peck went on, excitedly, “with a crazy man. Besides, I want to see what’s goin’ on, myself.”—“So do we!” This was unanimous.
“Then let’s see if there ain’t some way to do it. Perhaps he ain’t pulled all the shades down on the other side the house. Lots o’ people fergit to do that.”
There was but one mind in the party regarding this proposal. The next minute saw us all cautiously sneaking into the side yard, a ragged line of bent and flapping figures, black against the snow.
Simeon Peck’s expectations were fulfilled—more than fulfilled. Not only were all the shades of the big, three-faced bay-window of the “sitting-room” lifted, but (evidently on account of the too great generosity of a huge log-fire that blazed in the old-fashioned chimney-place) one of the windows was half-raised as well. Here, in the shadow just beyond the rosy oblongs of light that fell upon the snow, we gathered and looked freely within.
Part of the room was clear to our view, though about half of it was shut off from us by the very king of all Christmas-trees, glittering with dozens and dozens of candles, sumptuous in silver, sparkling in gold, and laden with Heaven alone knows how many and what delectable enticements. Opposite the Tree, his back against the wall, sat old Bob, clad in a dress of state, part of which consisted of a swallow-tail coat (with an overgrown chrysanthemum in the buttonhole), a red necktie, and a pink-and-silver liberty cap of tissue-paper. He was scraping a fiddle “like old times come again,” and the tune he played was, “Oh, my Liza, po’ gal!” My feet shuffled to it in the snow.
No one except old Bob was to be seen in the room, but we watched him and listened breathlessly. When he finished “Liza,” he laid the fiddle across his knee, wiped his face with a new and brilliant blue silk handkerchief, and said:
“Now come de big speech.”
The Honorable David Beasley, carrying a small mahogany table, stepped out from beyond the Christmas-tree, advanced to the centre of the room; set the table down; disappeared for a moment and returned with a white water-pitcher and a glass. He placed these upon the table, bowed gracefully several times, then spoke:
“Ladies and gentlemen—” There he paused.
“Well,” said Mr. Simeon Peck, slowly, “don’t this beat hell!”
“Look out!” The “Journal” reporter twitched his sleeve. “Ladies present.”
“Where?” said I.
He leaned nearer me and spoke in a low tone. “Just behind us. She followed us over from your boarding-house. She’s been standing around near us all along. I supposed she was Dowden’s daughter, probably.”
“He hasn’t any daughter,” I said, and stepped back to the hooded figure I had been too absorbed in our quest to notice.
It was Miss Apperthwaite.
She had thrown a loose cloak over her head and shoulders; but enveloped in it as she was, and crested and epauletted with white, I knew her at once. There was no mistaking her, even in a blizzard.
She caught my hand with a strong, quick pressure, and, bending her head to mine, said, close to my ear:
“I heard everything that man said in our hallway. You left the library door open when you called Mr. Dowden out.”
“So,” I returned, maliciously, “you—you couldn’t help following!”
She released my hand—gently, to my surprise.
“Hush,” she whispered. “He’s saying something.”
“Ladies and gentlemen,” said Beasley again—and stopped again.
Dowden’s voice sounded hysterically in my right ear. (Miss Apperthwaite had whispered in my left.) “The only speech he’s ever made in his life—and he’s stuck!”
But Beasley wasn’t: he was only deliberating.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began—“Mr. and Mrs. Hunchberg, Colonel Hunchberg and Aunt Cooley Hunchberg, Miss Molanna, Miss Queen, and Miss Marble Hunchberg, Mr. Noble, Mr. Tom, and Mr. Grandee Hunchberg, Mr. Corley Linbridge, and Master Hammersley:You see before you tonight, my person, merely the representative of your real host. Mister Swift. Mister Swift has expressed a wish that there should be a speech, and has deputed me to make it. He requests that the subject he has assigned me should be treated in as dignified a manner as is possible—considering the orator. Ladies and gentlemen”—he took a sip of water—“I will now address you upon the following subject: ‘Why we Call Christmas-time the Best Time.’
“Christmas-time is the best time because it is the kindest time. Nobody ever felt very happy without feeling very kind, and nobody ever felt very kind without feeling at least a little happy. So, of course, either way about, the happiest time is the kindest time—that’s this time. The most beautiful things our eyes can see are the stars; and for that reason, and in remembrance of One star, we set candles on the Tree to be stars in the house. So we make Christmas-time a time of stars indoors; and they shine warmly against the cold outdoors that is like the cold of other seasons not so kind. We set our hundred candles on the Tree and keep them bright throughout the Christmas-time, for while they shine upon us we have light to see this life, not as a battle, but as the march of a mighty Fellowship! Ladies and gentlemen, I thank you!”
He bowed to right and left, as to an audience politely applauding, and, lifting the table and its burden, withdrew; while old Bob