So he rattled on till dinner was announced. It was a merry but frugal meal. The mince-pies and plum-pudding crowned with blue flame, the holly-wreathed boar's head of romance, were not there; they were reserved for to-morrow. So with the “wassail-bowl,” the fragrant, spirituous beverage of which each one was to partake, his two neighbors standing up on each side of him, according to the old custom intended as a defence against treachery; for once it had happened that a guest whose hands were engaged holding the two-handled [pg 452] bowl to his lips was stabbed from behind by a lurking enemy, and ever after it became de rigueur that protection should be afforded to the drinker by his neighbor on either side.
The fare to-night was still Advent fare, but, after dinner, Christmas insisted upon beginning. We were told that the “mummers” from the village were come, and waited for leave to begin their play. They were brought into the hall, and the whole company stood on the steps leading up to the drawing-rooms. The scenery was not characteristic—a broad oaken staircase, a Chinese gong, the polished oak flooring, the massive hall-door. The actors themselves, seven or eight in number, dressed in the most fantastic and extemporized costume, now began the performance; and but for the venerable antiquity of the farce, it was absurd and obscure enough to excite laughter rather than interest. The children were wild with delight, and were with difficulty restrained from leaping the “pit” and mingling with the actors on the “stage.” Indeed, for many days after nothing was heard among them but imitations of the “mummers.” There was a grave dialogue about “King George,” then a scuffle ensued, and one man fell down either wounded or in a fit. The doctor is called; the people believe the man dead, the doctor denies this, and says, “I will give him a cordial, mark the effect.” The resuscitated man afterwards has a tooth drawn by the same quack, who then holds up the tooth (a huge, unshapely equine one provided for the occasion), and exclaims: “Why, this is more like a horse's tooth than a man's!” I never could make out the full meaning of the “mummers'” play; but, whether it was a corruption of some older and more complete dramatic form, or the crude beginning of an undeveloped one, it certainly was the characteristic feature of our Christmas at Aldred. It took place regularly every year, without the slightest deviation in detail, and always ended in a mournful chorus, “The Old Folks at Home.” After the actors had been heartily cheered, and the host had addressed to them a few kind words of thanks and recognition, they were dismissed to the kitchen, to their much coveted entertainment of unlimited beer. There they enacted their performance once more for the servants, who then fraternized with them on the most amiable terms.
Meanwhile, our party were gradually collecting round the wood-fire in the corridor. It was a bitter cold night, the snow was falling noiselessly and fast, and the wind howled weirdly through the bare branches of the distant trees. Our old aunt remarked, in her gentle way:
“One almost feels as if those poor owls were human beings crying with cold.”
“We look like a picture, mother,” somewhat irrelevantly answered her son after a slight pause; “the antique dresses of many of us are quite worth an artist's study.”
Mrs. Burtleigh, whose blonde beauty was coquettishly set off by a slight touch of powder on the hair, and a becoming Marie Antoinette style of négligé, here pointedly addressed the traveller.
“Sir Pilgrim,” she said, “did you ever think of home when you had to spend a Christmas in outlandish countries?”
“Sometimes,” answered “Jim” absently, his eyes wandering towards Miss Houghton, who stood resting her head against a carved griffin on the tall mantel-piece.
She caught his glance, and said half saucily:
“Now, if it was not too commonplace, I should claim a story—Christmas eve is not complete without a story, at least so the books say.”