CHAPTER X

Isupposenot,butonewouldliketo.PerhapsIshallthinkofsomethingaswegoabout.” Hernameremainedattheheadofthelist,butnothingwaswrittenoppositeit.Theydrovefromshoptoshop.Theairwaswhite,andwhentheyalightedittastedlikecoldpennies.Attimestheypassedthroughaclotofgrey.Mrs.Wilcox’svitalitywaslowthatmorning,anditwasMargaretwhodecidedonahorseforthislittlegirl,agolliwogforthat,fortherector’swifeacopperwarming-tray.“Wealwaysgivetheservantsmoney.”“Yes,doyou,yes,mucheasier,”repliedMargaretbutfeltthegrotesqueimpactoftheunseenupontheseen,andsawissuingfromaforgottenmangeratBethlehemthistorrentofcoinsandtoys.Vulgarityreigned.Public-houses,besidestheirusualexhortationagainsttemperancereform,invitedmento“JoinourChristmasgooseclub”—onebottleofgin,etc.,ortwo,accordingtosubscription.AposterofawomanintightsheraldedtheChristmaspantomime,andlittlereddevils,whohadcomeinagainthatyear,wereprevalentupontheChristmas-cards.Margaretwasnomorbididealist.Shedidnotwishthisspateofbusinessandself-advertisementchecked.Itwasonlytheoccasionofitthatstruckherwithamazementannually.Howmanyofthesevacillatingshoppersandtiredshop-assistantsrealisedthatitwasadivineeventthatdrewthemtogether?Sherealisedit,thoughstandingoutsideinthematter.ShewasnotaChristianintheacceptedsenseshedidnotbelievethatGodhadeverworkedamongusasayoungartisan.Thesepeople,ormostofthem,believedit,andifpressed,wouldaffirmitinwords.ButthevisiblesignsoftheirbeliefwereRegentStreetorDruryLane,alittlemuddisplaced,alittlemoneyspent,alittlefoodcooked,eaten,andforgotten.Inadequate.Butinpublicwhoshallexpresstheunseenadequately?Itisprivatelifethatholdsoutthemirrortoinfinitypersonalintercourse,andthatalone,thateverhintsatapersonalitybeyondourdailyvision. “No,IdolikeChristmasonthewhole,”sheannounced.“Initsclumsyway,itdoesapproachPeaceandGoodwill.Butoh,itisclumsiereveryyear.” “Isit?IamonlyusedtocountryChristmases.” “WeareusuallyinLondon,andplaythegamewithvigour—carolsattheAbbey,clumsymiddaymeal,clumsydinnerforthemaids,followedbyChristmas-treeanddancingofpoorchildren,withsongsfromHelen.Thedrawing-roomdoesverywellforthat.Weputthetreeinthepowder-closet,anddrawacurtainwhenthecandlesarelighted,andwiththelooking-glassbehinditlooksquitepretty.Iwishwemighthaveapowder-closetinournexthouse.Ofcourse,thetreehastobeverysmall,andthepresentsdon’thangonit.Nothepresentsresideinasortofrockylandscapemadeofcrumpledbrownpaper.” “Youspokeofyour‘nexthouse,’MissSchlegel.ThenareyouleavingWickhamPlace?” “Yes,intwoorthreeyears,whentheleaseexpires.Wemust.” “Haveyoubeentherelong?” “Allourlives.” “Youwillbeverysorrytoleaveit.” “Isupposeso.Wescarcelyrealiseityet.Myfather—”Shebrokeoff,fortheyhadreachedthestationer