“Miss Pennibacker!” cried Jericho, with a reprehensive frown, “Religious! For shame!”
“It seems to me, as if dear—dear Bessy”—cried Monica—“would glide into the room every moment.”
“It is wonderful, Mr. Jericho”—said Candituft, as the party lounged on, and then paused, looking from the lawn into the dining-room—“it is wonderful, how the imagination will people space.”
Jericho rubbed his chin, and said—“Wonderful!”
“Ha, sir! what a family was here! There, sir, as perhaps you may recollect”—said Candituft,—“was the head of the table; there sat dear Mrs. Carraways; and there the master’s chair. And there Bessy’s place; she always sat beside the old man.”
“Sweet girl!”—cried Hodmadod—“clung to him like a honeysuckle; when I say a honeysuckle, I mean of course, a—a devilish affectionate thing.”
“Ha! Mr. Jericho,” said Candituft, “I have passed many delightful dinners here, sir. I spent, I think—yes, I did—I spent last Christmas here. And—pray pardon me—it is impossible to think of that room unmoved. There, sir, as I’ve said, was Mrs. Carraways; a kind, soft, beaming, hearty woman—plain to be sure, in her manners; in fact, very plain—but well meaning, poor soul! very well meaning, in spite of her bad French.—And there was Carraways himself. A good man—I’m pretty sure, a good man; though perhaps a little sanguine: at least, they accuse him of it in the City. But when people have a tumble, the world always gives a good-natured reason for the slip. That, sir, I have remarked—always. There he sat, with his face lighted with the best of hearts, the best of wine, and the best of good spirits; his eyes swimming in jollity, and looking and talking as though he could have received all the brotherhood of man at his Christmas mahogany.”
“Mr. Carraways was always very kind”—observed Mrs. Jericho—“I don’t think any body can deny it.”
“And there sat Bessy”—continued Candituft, warming as he went on—“there she sat; and though not a beauty—certainly, not a beauty—still, very well she looked. And next her was—I forget his name—but he was an amazingly rich person, and a very pleasant man. And there, opposite, was an Indian friend of Carraways—a Brahmin banker or something—very curious about English Christmas, I recollect; a man of most liberal sentiments—above national prejudice. Took mince-pie and burnt brandy in a manner that quite warmed one’s heart.—Beside him I recollect was the last year’s Lady Mayoress; very fine, very interesting woman; I well remember her; she never spoke a syllable. And on that side again, was a very—very distinguished traveller. He had hunted a unicorn somewhere, and was asked to a round of dinners to tell all about the sport.—And opposite to him was the rich”—
“You’re not going to string off the whole set, are you?”—growled Jericho.