It was plain that envy, hatred, and much uncharitableness had resulted from it—feelings latent, alas! in our poor human nature, that need not premature development. Discontent too, and rivalry and greed were, it would seem from the nature of the entertainment, liable to be aroused in childish breasts. So I locked away the disparaged prizes, until later on, when the satiety produced by a glut had passed off and envious comparisons were forgotten.
We had merry gatherings of small people at wholesome hours, and happy little feasts, and games and romps in every-day clothes. But this was my children’s first—and last—Christmas Tree.
THE MISSING CLUE.
CHAPTER VI.—HOBB DIPPING BEWILDERED.
Mine host of the Saxonford Arms sits in his lonely back-parlour, looking thoughtfully into the fire, and taking alternate whiffs and pulls from a clay pipe and a beer-jug which stands on the table at his elbow. During the past week, no traveller has entered Hobb Dipping’s ancient house of entertainment, and the worthy man was beginning to wonder whether it was within the bounds of possibility that any one would ever enter it again. For several days the snow had been drifting up against his front-door, and for over a week the howling wind had stormed and beat against the walls of the old inn. True, the wind had dropped somewhat during the night; but Jerry—the man-of-all-work, and old Dipping’s special informant upon all matters—had reported that the snow-drift was ‘alarmin’ deep in places;’ while, if he needed any confirmation of this statement, he had but to turn his eyes towards the windows and gaze over the frozen waste which extended on every side.
Hobb Dipping was an old man now, and fifteen years had whitened his hair since the fatal night when Sir Carnaby Vincent was shot by the military in his house. The innkeeper’s thoughts had apparently at this moment been dwelling upon that catastrophe, for he muttered to himself: ‘Fifteen years! I shouldn’t ha’ thought it!’ at the same time looking gloomily at a well-thumbed scrap of paper which he was turning over between his fingers. ‘Fifteen years!’ muttered old Dipping, who was enveloped in a thick volume of smoke, consequent upon his exertions with the clay pipe aforesaid—‘fifteen years, an’ no one’s guessed it yet. Why, what fools we all be!’
‘Hi, master!’ says Jerry, popping his head in through the doorway. ‘Here’s a gentleman come; wants to know if he can be put up for a night or two.’
Old Hobb peeped through a little latticed window into the courtyard, and saw a gentleman of military aspect sitting motionless in his saddle amidst a thin cloud of falling snow. It is Reginald Ainslie.
‘Why do you keep the gentleman waiting out there?’ is the indignant exclamation of mine host, who seems to be endowed with sudden energy. ‘Put up for a night or two! Of course he can; for a month, if he likes. Show the gentleman in, and then go attend to his horse.’
When the man has disappeared, old Dipping bustles out of the room to find something to tie over his head, before he dares to venture into the cold biting air. On his return, he finds his visitor has thrown aside his heavy riding-cloak, and is reclining in an armchair, with every appearance of fatigue expressed in his attitude and countenance. Jerry whispers that the gallant must be right bad, for it was all he could do to help him out of the saddle. ‘And his nag ain’t much better,’ he goes on. ‘They ha’ come a long bad road this day, I’ll warrant.’