Budget of Christmas Tales — The Peace Egg

BY JULIANA HORATIA EWING.

Every one ought to be happy at Christmas.

But there are many things which ought to be, and yet are not; and people are sometimes sad even in the Christmas holidays.

The Captain and his wife were sad, though it was Christmas Eve.

Sad, though they were in the prime of life, blessed with good health, devoted to each other and to their children, with competent means, a comfortable house on a little freehold property of their own, and, one might say, everything that heart could desire.

Sad, though they were good people, whose peace of mind had a firmer foundation than their earthly goods alone; contented people, too, with plenty of occupation for mind and body.

Sad--and in the nursery this was held to be past all reason--though the children were performing that ancient and most entertaining play or Christmas mystery, known as "The Peace Egg," for their benefit and behoof alone.

The play was none the worse that most of the actors were too young to learn parts, so that there was very little of the rather tedious dialogue, only plenty of dress and ribbons, and of fighting with the wooden swords.

But though Robert, the eldest of the five children, looked bonny enough to warm any father's heart, as he marched up and down with an air learned by watching many a parade in barrack-square and drill ground, and though Nicholas did not cry in spite of falling hard, and Dora, who took the part of the Doctor, treading accidentally on his little finger in picking him up, still the Captain and his wife sighed nearly as often as they smiled, and the mother dropped tears as well as pennies into the cap which Tom, as the King of Egypt, brought round after the performance.

II.

Many, many years back the Captain's wife had been a child herself, and had laughed to see the village mummers act "The Peace Egg," and had been quite happy on Christmas Eve.

Happy, though she had no mother.

Happy, though her father was a stern man, very fond of his only child, but with an obstinate will that not even she dared thwart.

She had lived to thwart it, and he had never forgiven her.

It was when she married the Captain.

The old man had a prejudice against soldiers, which was quite reason enough, in his opinion, for his daughter to sacrifice the happiness of her future life by giving up the soldier she loved.

At last he gave her her choice between the Captain and his own favor and money.

She chose the Captain, and was disowned and disinherited.

The Captain bore a high character, and was a good and clever officer, but that went for nothing against the old man's whim.

He made a very good husband too; but even this did not move his father-in-law, who had never held any intercourse with him or his wife since the day of their marriage, and who had never seen his own grand-children.

Amid the ups and downs of their wanderings, the discomforts of shipboard and of stations in the colonies, bad servants, and unwonted sicknesses, the Captain's tenderness never failed.

If the life was rough the Captain was ready.

He had been, by turns, in one strait or another, sick-nurse, doctor, carpenter, nursemaid and cook to his family, and had, moreover, an idea that nobody filled these offices quite so well as himself.

Withal, his very profession kept him neat, well-dressed, and active.

In the roughest of their ever-changing quarters he was a smart man, and never changed his manner from that of the lover of his wife's young days.

As years went and children came, the Captain and his wife grew tired of traveling.

New scenes were small comfort when they heard of the death of old friends.

One foot of the dear, old, dull home sky was dearer, after all, than miles of the unclouded heavens of the South.

The grey hills and over-grown lanes of her old home haunted the Captain's wife by night and day, and home-sickness (that weariest of all sicknesses) began to take the light out of her eyes before their time.

It preyed upon the Captain too.

Now and then he would say, fretfully, "I _should_ like a resting-place in our own country, however small, before _every_body is dead!

But the children's prospects have to be considered."

The continued estrangement from the old man was an abiding sorrow also, and they had hopes that, if only they could get home, he might be persuaded to peace and charity this time.

At last they were sent home.

But the hard old father still would not relent.

He returned their letters unopened.

This bitter disappointment made the Captain's wife so ill that she almost died, and in one month the Captain's hair became iron gray.

He reproached himself for having ever taken the daughter from her father, "to kill her at last," as he said.

And (thinking of his own children) he even reproached himself for having robbed the old widower of his only child.

After two years at home his regiment was ordered again on foreign duty.

He failed to effect an exchange, and they prepared to move once more--from Chatham to Calcutta.

Never before had the packing to which she was so well accustomed, been so bitter a task to the Captain's wife.

It was at the darkest hour of this gloomy time that the Captain came in, waving above his head a letter which changed all their plans.

Now close by the old home of the Captain's wife there had lived a man, much older than herself, who yet had loved her with a devotion as great as that of the young Captain.

She never knew it, for when he saw that she had given her heart to his younger rival, he kept silence, and he never asked for what he knew he might have had--the old man's authority in his favor.

So generous was the affection which he could never conquer, that he constantly tried to reconcile the father to his children whilst he lived, and, when he died, he bequeathed his house and small estate to the woman he had loved.

"It will be a legacy of peace," he thought, on his death bed.

"The old man cannot hold out when she and her children are constantly in sight.

And it may please GOD that I shall know of the reunion I have not been permitted to see with my eyes."

And thus it came about that the Captain's regiment went to India without him, and that the Captain's wife and her father lived on opposite sides of the same road.

III.

The eldest of the Captain's children was a boy.

He was named Robert, after his grandfather, and seemed to have inherited a good deal of the old gentleman's character, mixed with gentler traits.

He was a fair, fine boy, tall and stout for his age, with the Captain's regular features, and (he flattered himself) the Captain's firm step and martial bearing.

He was apt--like his grandfather--to hold his own will to be other people's law, and (happily for the peace of the nursery) this opinion was devoutly shared by his brother Nicholas.

Though the Captain had left the army, Robin continued to command an irregular force of volunteers in the nursery, and never was colonel more despotic.

His brothers and sisters were by turn infantry, cavalry, engineers, and artillery, according to his whim.

The Captain alone was a match for his strong-willed son.

"If you please, sir," said Sarah, one morning, flouncing in upon the Captain, just as he was about to start for the neighboring town,--"If you please, sir, I wish you'd speak to Master Robert.

He's past my powers."

"I've no doubt of it," thought the Captain, but he only said, "Well, what's the matter?"

"Night after night do I put him to bed," said Sarah, "and night after night does he get up as soon as I'm out of the room, and says he's orderly officer for the evening, and goes about in his night-shirt and his feet as bare as boards."

The Captain fingered his heavy moustache to hide a smile, but he listened patiently to Sarah's complaints.

"It ain't so much _him_ I should mind, sir," she continued, "but he goes round the beds and wakes up the other young gentlemen and Miss Dora, one after another, and when I speak to him, he gives me all the sauce he can lay his tongue to, and says he's going round the guards.

The other night I tried to put him back in his bed, but he got away and ran all over the house, me hunting him everywhere, and not a sign of him, till he jumps out on me from the garret stairs and nearly knocks me down.

'I've visited the outposts, Sarah,' says he; 'all's well.'

And off he goes to bed as bold as brass."

"Have you spoken to your mistress?"

asked the Captain.

"Yes, sir," said Sarah.

"And missis spoke to him, and he promised not to go round the guards again."

"Has he broken his promise?"

asked the Captain, with a look of anger, and also of surprise.

"When I opened the door last night, sir," continued Sarah, in her shrill treble, "what should I see in the dark but Master Robert a-walking up and down with the carpet-brush stuck in his arm.

'Who goes there?'

says he.

'You awdacious boy!'

says I, 'Didn't you promise your ma you'd leave off them tricks?'

'I'm not going round the guards,' says he; 'I promised not.

But I'm for sentry-duty to-night.'

And say what I would to him, all he had for me was, 'You mustn't speak to a sentry on duty.'

So I says, 'As sure as I live till morning, I'll go to your pa,' for he pays no more attention to his ma than to me, nor to any one else."

"Please to see that the bed is taken out of my dressing-room," said the Captain.

"I will attend to Master Robert."

With this Sarah had to content herself, and she went back to the nursery.

Robert was nowhere to be seen, and made no reply to her summons.

On this the unwary nursemaid flounced into the bed-room to look for him, when Robert, who was hidden beneath a table, darted forth, and promptly locked her in.

"You're under arrest," he shouted, through the keyhole.

"Let me out!"

shrieked Sarah.

"I'll send a file of the guard to fetch you to the orderly-room, by-and-by," said Robert, "for 'preferring frivolous complaints.'

" And he departed to the farmyard to look at the ducks.

That night, when Robert went up to bed, the Captain quietly locked him into his dressing-room, from which the bed had been removed.

"You're for sentry duty, to-night," said the Captain.

"The carpet-brush is in the corner.

Good-evening."

As his father anticipated, Robert was soon tired of the sentry game in these new circumstances, and long before the night had half worn away he wished himself safely undressed and in his own comfortable bed.

At half-past twelve o'clock he felt as if he could bear it no longer, and knocked at the Captain's door.

"Who goes there?"

said the Captain.

"Mayn't I go to bed, please?"

whined poor Robert.

"Certainly not," said the Captain.

"You're on duty."

And on duty poor Robert had to remain, for the Captain had a will as well as his son.

So he rolled himself up in his father's railway rug, and slept on the floor.

The next night he was very glad to go quietly to bed, and remain there.

IV.

The Captain's children sat at breakfast in a large, bright nursery.

It was the room where the old bachelor had died, and now _her_ children made it merry.

This was just what he would have wished.

They all sat round the table, for it was breakfast-time.

There were five of them, and five bowls of boiled bread-and-milk smoked before them.

Sarah (a foolish, gossiping girl, who acted as nurse till better could be found) was waiting on them, and by the table sat Darkie, the black retriever, his long, curly back swaying slightly from the difficulty of holding himself up, and his solemn hazel eyes fixed very intently on each and all of the breakfast bowls.

He was as silent and sagacious as Sarah was talkative and empty-headed.

Though large, he was unassuming.

Pax, the pug, on the contrary, who came up to the first joint of Darkie's leg, stood defiantly on his dignity (and his short stumps).

He always placed himself in front of the bigger dog, and made a point of hustling him in doorways and of going first downstairs.

Robert's tongue was seldom idle, even at meals.

"Sarah, who is that tall old gentleman at church, in the seat near the pulpit?"

he asked.

"He wears a cloak like what the Blues wear, only all blue, and is tall enough for a Life-guardsman.

He stood when we were kneeling down, and said, _Almighty and most merciful Father_, louder than anybody."

Sarah knew who the old gentleman was, and knew also that the children did not know, and that their parents did not see fit to tell them as yet.

But she had a passion for telling and hearing news, and would rather gossip with a child than not gossip at all.

"Never you mind, Master Robin," she said, nodding sagaciously.

"Little boys aren't to know everything."

"Ah, then, I know you don't know," replied Robert; "if you did, you'd tell."

"I do," said Sarah.

"You don't," said Robin.

"Your ma's forbid you to contradict, Master Robin," said Sarah; "and if you do I shall tell her.

I know well enough who the old gentleman is, and perhaps I might tell you, only you'd go straight off and tell again."

"No, no, I wouldn't!"

shouted Robin.

"I can keep a secret, indeed I can!

Pinch my little finger, and try.

Do, do tell me, Sarah, there's a dear Sarah, and then I shall know you know."

And he danced round her, catching at her skirts.

To keep a secret was beyond Sarah's powers.

"Do let my dress be, Master Robin," she said, "you're ripping out all the gathers, and listen while I whisper.

As sure as you're a living boy, that gentleman's your own grandpapa."

Robin lost his hold on Sarah's dress; his arms fell by his side, and he stood with his brows knit for some minutes, thinking.

Then he said, emphatically, "What lies you do tell, Sarah!"

"Oh, Robin!"

cried Nicholas, who had drawn near, his thick curls standing stark with curiosity, "Mamma said 'lies' wasn't a proper word, and you promised not to say it again."

"I forgot," said Robin, "I didn't mean to break my promise.

But she does tell--ahem!

--_you know what_."

"You wicked boy!"

cried the enraged Sarah; "how dare you say such a thing, and everybody in the place knows he's your ma's own pa."

"I'll go and ask her," said Robin, and he was at the door in a moment;

but Sarah, alarmed by the thought of getting into a scrape herself, caught him by the arm.

"Don't you go, love; it'll only make your ma angry.

There; it was all my nonsense."

"Then it's not true?"

said Robin, indignantly.

"What did you tell me so for?"

"It was all my jokes and nonsense," said the unscrupulous Sarah, "But your ma wouldn't like to know I've said such a thing.

And Master Robert wouldn't be so mean as to tell tales, would he, love?"

"I'm not mean," said Robin stoutly; "and I don't tell tales; but you do, and you tell _you know what_, besides.

However, I won't go this time;

but I'll tell you what--if you tell tales of me to papa any more, I'll tell him what you said about the old gentleman in the blue cloak."

With which parting threat Robin strode off to join his brothers and sisters.

V.

After Robert left the nursery he strolled out of doors, and, peeping through the gate at the end of the drive, he saw a party of boys going through what looked like a military exercise with sticks and a good deal of stamping; but, instead of mere words of command, they all spoke by turns, as in a play.

Not being at all shy, he joined them, and asked so many questions that he soon got to know all about it.

They were practicing a Christmas mumming-play, called "The Peace Egg."

Why it was called thus they could not tell him, as there was nothing whatever about eggs in it, and so far from being a play of peace, it was made up of a series of battles between certain valiant knights and princes.

The rehearsal being over, Robin went with the boys to the sexton's house (he was father to one of the characters called the "King of Egypt") where they showed him the dresses they were to wear.

These were made of gay-colored materials, and covered with ribbons, except that of the "Black Prince of Paradine," which was black, as became his title.

The boys also showed him the book from which they learned their parts, and which was to be bought at the post-office store.

"Then are you the mummers who come round at Christmas, and act in people's kitchens, and people give them money, that mamma used to tell us about?"

said Robin.

The boy hesitated a moment and then said, "Well, I suppose we are."

"And do you go out in the snow from one house to another at night; and oh, don't you enjoy it?"

cried Robin.

"We like it well enough," the lad admitted.

Robin bought a copy of "The Peace Egg."

He was resolved to have a nursery performance, and to take the chief part himself.

The others were willing for what he wished, but there were difficulties.

In the first place, there are eight characters in the play, and there were only five children.

They decided among themselves to leave out the "Fool," and Mamma said that another character was not to be acted by any of them, or indeed mentioned; "the little one who comes in at the end," Robin explained.

Mamma had her reasons, and these were always good.

She had not been altogether pleased that Robin had bought the play.

It was a very old thing, she said, and very queer; not adapted for a child's play.

If Mamma thought the parts not quite fit for the children to learn, they found them much too long: so in the end she picked out some bits for each, which they learned easily, and which, with a good deal of fighting, made quite as good a story of it as if they had done the whole.

What may have been wanting otherwise was made up for by the dresses, which were charming.

Robin was St. George, Nicholas the valiant Slasher, Dora the Doctor, and the other two Hector and the King of Egypt.

"And now we've no Black Prince!"

cried Robin in dismay.

"Let Darkie be the Black Prince," said Nicholas.

"When you wave your stick he'll jump for it, and then you can pretend to fight with him."

"It's not a stick, it's a sword," said Robin.

"However, Darkie may be the Black Prince."

"And what's Pax to be?"

asked Dora; "for you know he will come if Darkie does, and he'll run in before everybody else too."

"Then he must be the Fool," said Robin, "and it will do very well, for the Fool comes in before the rest, and Pax can have his red coat on, and the collar with the little bells."

VI.

Robin thought that Christmas would never come.

To the Captain and his wife it seemed to come too fast.

They had hoped it might bring reconciliation with the old man, but it seemed they had hoped in vain.

There were times now when the Captain almost regretted the old bachelor's bequest.

The familiar scenes of her old home sharpened his wife's grief.

To see her father every Sunday in church, with marks of age and infirmity upon him, but with not a look of tenderness for his only child, this tried her sorely.

"She felt it less abroad," thought the Captain.

"A home in which she frets herself to death, is after all, no great boon."

Christmas Eve came.

"I'm sure it's quite Christmas enough now," said Robin.

"We'll have 'The Peace Egg' to-night."

So as the Captain and his wife sat sadly over their fire, the door opened, and Pax ran in shaking his bells, and followed by the nursery mummers.

The performance was most successful.

It was by no means pathetic, and yet, as has been said, the Captain's wife shed tears.

"What is the matter, mamma?"

said Robert, abruptly dropping his sword and running up to her.

"Don't tease mamma with questions," said the Captain; "she is not very well, and rather sad.

We must all be very kind and good to poor dear mamma;" and the Captain raised his wife's hand to his lips as he spoke.

Robin seized the other hand and kissed it tenderly.

He was very fond of his mother.

At this moment Pax took a little run, and jumped on to mamma's lap, where, sitting facing the company, he opened his black mouth and yawned, with a ludicrous inappropriateness worthy of any clown.

It made everybody laugh.

"And now we'll go and act in the kitchen," said Nicholas.

"Supper at nine o'clock, remember," shouted the Captain.

"And we are going to have real frumenty and Yule cakes, such as mamma used to tell us of when we were abroad."

"Hurray!"

shouted the mummers, and they ran off, Pax leaping from his seat just in time to hustle the Black Prince in the doorway.

When the dining-room door was shut, Robert raised his hand, and said "Hush!"

The mummers pricked their ears, but there was only a distant harsh and scraping sound, as of stones rubbed together.

"They're cleaning the passages," Robert went on, "and Sarah told me they meant to finish the mistletoe, and have everything cleaned up by supper-time.

They don't want us, I know.

Look here, we'll go _real mumming_ instead.

That _will_ be fun!"

Nicholas grinned with delight.

"But will mamma let us?"

he enquired.

"Oh, it will be all right if we're back by supper-time," said Robert, hastily.

"Only of course we must take care not to catch cold.

Come and help me to get some wraps."

The old oak chest in which spare shawls, rugs, and coats were kept was soon ransacked, and the mummers' gay dresses hidden by motley wrappers.

But no sooner did Darkie and Pax behold the coats, etc. , than they at once began to leap and bark, as it was their custom to do when they saw any one dressing to go out.

Robin was sorely afraid that this would betray them; but though the Captain and his wife heard the barking they did not guess the cause.

So the front door being very gently opened and closed, the nursery mummers stole away.

VII.

It was a very fine night.

The snow was well-trodden on the drive, so that it did not wet their feet, but on the trees and shrubs it hung soft and white.

"It's much jollier being out at night than in the daytime," said Robin.

"Much," responded Nicholas, with intense feeling.

"We'll go a wassailing next week," said Robin.

"I know all about it, and perhaps we shall get a good lot of money, and then we'll buy tin swords with scabbards for next year.

I don't like these sticks.

Oh, dear, I wish it wasn't so long between one Christmas and another."

"Where shall we go first?"

asked Nicholas, as they turned into the high road.

"This is the first house," he said.

"We'll act here;" and all pressed in as quickly as possible.

Once safe within the grounds, they shouldered their sticks, and marched with composure.

"You're going to the front door," said Nicholas.

"Mummers ought to go to the back."

"We don't know where it is," said Robin, and he rang the front-door bell.

There was a pause.

Then lights shone, steps were heard, and at last a sound of much unbarring, unbolting, and unlocking.

It might have been a prison.

Then the door was opened by an elderly, timid-looking woman, who held a tallow candle above her head.

"Who's there?"

she said, "at this time of night."

"We're Christmas mummers," said Robin, stoutly; "we didn't know the way to the back door, but----" "And don't you know better than to come here?"

said the woman.

"Be off with you, as fast as you can."

"You're only the servant," said Robin.

"Go and ask your master and mistress if they wouldn't like to see us act.

We do it very well."

"You impudent boy, be off with you!"

repeated the woman.

"Master'd no more let you nor any other such rubbish set foot in this house----" "Woman!"

shouted a voice close behind her, which made her start as if she had been shot, "who authorizes you to say what your master will or will not do, before you've asked him?

The boy is right.

You _are_ the servant, and it is not your business to choose for me whom I shall or shall not see."

"I meant no harm, sir, I'm sure," said the housekeeper; "but I thought you'd never----" "My good woman," said her master, "if I had wanted somebody to think for me, you're the last person I should have employed.

I hire you to obey orders, not to think."

"I'm sure, sir," said the housekeeper, whose only form of argument was reiteration, "I never thought you would have seen them----" "Then you were wrong," shouted her master.

"I will see them.

Bring them in."

He was a tall, gaunt old man, and Robin stared at him for some minutes, wondering where he could have seen somebody very like him.

At last he remembered.

It was the old gentleman of the blue cloak.

The children threw off their wraps, the housekeeper helping them, and chattering ceaselessly, from sheer nervousness.

"Well, to be sure," said she, "their dresses are pretty, too.

And they seem quite a better sort of children, they talk quite genteel.

I might ha' knowed they weren't like common mummers, but I was so flusterated hearing the bell go so late, and----" "Are they ready?"

said the old man, who had stood like a ghost in the dim light of the flaring tallow candle, grimly watching the proceedings.

"Yes, sir.

Shall I take them to the kitchen, sir?"

"----for you and the other idle hussies to gape and grin at?

No. Bring them to the library," he snapped, and then stalked off, leading the way.

The housekeeper accordingly led them to the library, and then withdrew, nearly falling on her face as she left the room by stumbling over Darkie, who slipped in last like a black shadow.

The old man was seated in a carved oak chair by the fire.

"I never said the dogs were to come in," he said.

"But we can't do without them, please," said Robin, boldly.

"You see there are eight people in 'The Peace Egg,' and there are only five of us; and so Darkie has to be the Black Prince, and Pax has to be the Fool, and so we have to have them."

"Five and two make seven," said the old man, with a grim smile; "what do you do for the eighth?"

"Oh, that's the little one at the end," said Robin, confidently.