A great annual occasion has come round in the establishment of Mr.
Matthew Bagnet, otherwise Lignum Vitae, ex-artilleryman and presentbassoon-player. An occasion of feasting and festival. Thecelebration of a birthday in the family.
It is not Mr. Bagnet's birthday. Mr. Bagnet merely distinguishesthat epoch in the musical instrument business by kissing thechildren with an extra smack before breakfast, smoking anadditional pipe after dinner, and wondering towards evening whathis poor old mother is thinking about it--a subject of infinitespeculation, and rendered so by his mother having departed thislife twenty years. Some men rarely revert to their father, butseem, in the bank-books of their remembrance, to have transferredall the stock of filial affection into their mother's name. Mr.
Bagnet is one of like his trade the better for that. If I had keptclear of his old girl causes him usually to make the noun-substantive "goodness" of the feminine gender.
It is not the birthday of one of the three children. Thoseoccasions are kept with some marks of distinction, but they rarelyoverleap the bounds of happy returns and a pudding. On youngWoolwich's last birthday, Mr. Bagnet certainly did, after observingon his growth and general advancement, proceed, in a moment ofprofound reflection on the changes wrought by time, to examine himin the catechism, accomplishing with extreme accuracy the questionsnumber one and two, "What is your name?" and "Who gave you thatname?" but there failing in the exact precision of his memory andsubstituting for number three the question "And how do you likethat name?" which he propounded with a sense of its importance, initself so edifying and improving as to give it quite an orthodoxair. This, however, was a speciality on that particular birthday,and not a general solemnity.
It is the old girl's birthday, and that is the greatest holiday andreddest-letter day in Mr. Bagnet's calendar. The auspicious eventis always commemorated according to certain forms settled andprescribed by Mr. Bagnet some years since. Mr. Bagnet, beingdeeply convinced that to have a pair of fowls for dinner is toattain the highest pitch of imperial luxury, invariably goes forthhimself very early in the morning of this day to buy a pair; he is,as invariably, taken in by the vendor and installed in thepossession of the oldest inhabitants of any coop in Europe.
Returning with these triumphs of toughness tied up in a clean blueand white cotton handkerchief (essential to the arrangements), hein a casual manner invites Mrs. Bagnet to declare at breakfast whatshe would like for dinner. Mrs. Bagnet, by a coincidence neverknown to fail, replying fowls, Mr. Bagnet instantly produces hisbundle from a place of concealment amidst general amazement andrejoicing. He further requires that the old girl shall do nothingall day long but sit in her very best gown and be served by himselfand the young people. As he is not illustrious for his cookery,this may be supposed to be a matter of state rather than enjoymenton the old girl's part, but she keeps her state with all imaginablecheerfulness.
On this present birthday, Mr. Bagnet has accomplished the usualpreliminaries. He has bought two specimens of poultry, which, ifthere be any truth in adages, were certainly not caught with chaff,to be prepared for the spit; he has amazed and rejoiced the familyby their unlooked-for production; he is himself directing theroasting of the poultry; and Mrs. Bagnet, with her wholesome brownfingers itching to prevent what she sees going wrong, sits in hergown of ceremony, an honoured guest.
Quebec and Malta lay the cloth for dinner, while Woolwich, serving,as beseems him, under his father, keeps the fowls revolving. Tothese young scullions Mrs. Bagnet occasionally imparts a wink, or ashake of the head, or a crooked face, as they made mistakes.
"At half after one." Says Mr. Bagnet. "To the minute. They'll bedone."Mrs. Bagnet, with anguish, beholds one of them at a standstillbefore the fire and beginning to burn.
"You shall have a dinner, old girl," says Mr. Bagnet. "Fit for aqueen."Mrs. Bagnet shows her white teeth cheerfully, but to the perceptionof her son, betrays so much uneasiness of spirit that he isimpelled by the dictates of affection to ask her, with his eyes,what is the matter, thus standing, with his eyes wide open, moreoblivious of the fowls than before, and not affording the leasthope of a return to consciousness. Fortunately his elder sisterperceives the cause of the agitation in Mrs. Bagnet's breast andwith an admonitory poke recalls him. The stopped fowls going roundagain, Mrs. Bagnet closes her eyes in the intensity of her relief.
"George will look us up," says Mr. Bagnet. "At half after four.
To the moment. How many years, old girl. Has George looked us up.
This afternoon?""Ah, Lignum, Lignum, as many as make an old woman of a young one, Ibegin to think. Just about that, and no less," returns Mrs.
Bagnet, laughing and shaking her head.
"Old girl," says Mr. Bagnet, "never mind. You'd be as young asever you was. If you wasn't younger. Which you are. As everybodyknows."Quebec and Malta here exclaim, with clapping of hands, that Bluffyis sure to bring mother something, and begin to speculate on whatit will be.
"Do you know, Lignum," says Mrs. Bagnet, casting a glance on thetable-cloth, and winking "salt!" at Malta with her right eye, andshaking the pepper away from Quebec with her head, "I begin tothink George is in the roving way again.
"George," returns Mr. Bagnet, "will never desert. And leave hisold comrade. In the lurch. Don't be afraid of it.""No, Lignum. No. I don't say he will. I don't think he will.
But if he could get over this money trouble of his, I believe hewould be off."Mr. Bagnet asks why.
"Well," returns his wife, considering, "George seems to me to begetting not a little impatient and restless. I don't say but whathe's as free as ever. Of course he must be free or he wouldn't beGeorge, but he smarts and seems put out.""He's extra-drilled," says Mr. Bagnet. "By a lawyer. Who wouldput the devil out.""There's something in that," his wife assents; "but so it is,Lignum."Further conversation is prevented, for the time, by the necessityunder which Mr. Bagnet finds himself of directing the whole forceof his mind to the dinner, which is a little endangered by the dryhumour of the fowls in not yielding any gravy, and also by the madegravy acquiring no flavour and turning out of a flaxen complexion.
With a similar perverseness, the potatoes crumble off forks in theprocess of peeling, upheaving from their centres in everydirection, as if they were subject to earthquakes. The legs of thefowls, too, are longer than could be desired, and extremely scaly.
Overcoming these disadvantages to the best of his ability, Mr.
Bagnet at last dishes and they sit down at table, Mrs. Bagnetoccupying the guest's place at his right hand.
It is well for the old girl that she has but one birthday in ayear, for two such indulgences in poultry might be injurious.
Every kind of finer tendon and ligament that is in the nature ofpoultry to possess is developed in these specimens in the singularform of guitar-strings. Their limbs appear to have struck rootsinto their breasts and bodies, as aged trees strike roots into theearth. Their legs are so hard as to encourage the idea that theymust have devoted the greater part of their long and arduous livesto pedestrian exercises and the walking of matches. But Mr.
Bagnet, unconscious of these little defects, sets his heart on Mrs.
Bagnet eating a most severe quantity of the delicacies before her;and as that good old girl would not cause him a moment'sdisappointment on any day, least of all on such a day, for anyconsideration, she imperils her digestion fearfully. How youngWoolwich cleans the drum-sticks without being of ostrich descent,his anxious mother is at a loss to understand.
The old girl has another trial to undergo after the conclusion ofthe repast in sitting in state to see the room cleared, the hearthswept, and the dinner-service washed up and polished in thebackyard. The great delight and energy with which the two youngladies apply themselves to these duties, turning up their skirts inimitation of their mother and skating in and out on littlescaffolds of pattens, inspire the highest hopes for the future, butsome anxiety for the present. The same causes lead to confusion oftongues, a clattering of crockery, a rattling of tin mugs, awhisking of brooms, and an expenditure of water, all in excess,while the saturation of the young ladies themselves is almost toomoving a spectacle for Mrs. Bagnet to look upon with the calmnessproper to her position. At last the various cleansing processesare triumphantly completed; Quebec and Malta appear in freshattire, smiling and dry; pipes, tobacco, and something to drink areplaced upon the table; and the old girl enjoys the first peace ofmind she ever knows on the day of this delightful entertainment.
When Mr. Bagnet takes his usual seat, the hands of the clock arevery near to half-past four; as they mark it accurately, Mr. Bagnetannounces, "George! Military time."It is George, and he has hearty congratulations for the old girl(whom he kisses on the great occasion), and for the children, andfor Mr. Bagnet. "Happy returns to all!" says Mr. George.
"But, George, old man!" cries Mrs. Bagnet, looking at himcuriously. "What's come to you?""Come to me?""Ah! You are so white, George--for you--and look so shocked. Nowdon't he, Lignum?""George," says Mr. Bagnet, "tell the old girl. What's the matter.""I didn't know I looked white," says the trooper, passing his handover his brow, "and I didn't know I looked shocked, and I'm sorry Ido. But the truth is, that boy who was taken in at my place diedyesterday afternoon, and it has rather knocked me over.""Poor creetur!" says Mrs. Bagnet with a mother's pity. "Is hegone? Dear, dear!""I didn't mean to say anything about it, for it's not birthdaytalk, but you have got it out of me, you see, before I sit down. Ishould have roused up in a minute," says the trooper, makinghimself speak more gaily, "but you're so quick, Mrs. Bagnet.""You're right. The old girl," says Mr. Bagnet. "Is as quick. Aspowder.""And what's more, she's the subject of the day, and we'll stick toher," cries Mr. George. "See here, I have brought a little broochalong with me. It's a poor thing, you know, but it's a keepsake.
That's all the good it is, Mrs. Bagnet."Mr. George produces his present, which is greeted with admiringleapings and clappings by the young family, and with a species ofreverential admiration by Mr. Bagnet. "Old girl," says Mr. Bagnet.
"Tell him my opinion of it.""Why, it's a wonder, George!" Mrs. Bagnet exclaims. "It's thebeautifullest thing that ever was seen!""Good!" says Mr. Bagnet. "My opinion.""It's so pretty, George," cries Mrs. Bagnet, turning it on allsides and holding it out at arm's length, "that it seems too choicefor me.""Bad!" says Mr. Bagnet. "Not my opinlon.""But whatever it is, a hundred thousand thanks, old fellow," saysMrs. Bagnet, her eyes sparkling with pleasure and her handstretched out to him; "and though I have been a crossgrainedsoldier's wife to you sometimes, George, we are as strong friends,I am sure, in reality, as ever can be. Now you shall fasten it onyourself, for good luck, if you will, George."The children close up to see it done, and Mr. Bagnet looks overyoung Woolwich's head to see it done with an interest so maturelywooden, yet pleasantly childish, that Mrs. Bagnet cannot helplaughing in her airy way and saying, "Oh, Lignum, Lignum, what aprecious old chap you are!" But the trooper fails to fasten thebrooch. His hand shakes, he is nervous, and it falls off. "Wouldany one believe this?" says he, catching it as it drops and lookinground. "I am so out of sorts that I bungle at an easy job likethis!"Mrs. Bagnet concludes that for such a case there is no remedy likea pipe, and fastening the brooch herself in a twinkling, causes thetrooper to be inducted into his usual snug place and the pipes tobe got into action. "If that don't bring you round, George," saysshe, "just throw your eye across here at your present now and then,and the two together MUST do it.""You ought to do it of yourself," George answers; "I know that verywell, Mrs. Bagnet. I'll tell you how, one way and another, theblues have got to be too many for me. Here was this poor lad.
'Twas dull work to see him dying as he did, and not be able to helphim.""What do you mean, George? You did help him. You took him underyour roof.""I helped him so far, but that's little. I mean, Mrs. Bagnet,there he was, dying without ever having been taught much more thanto know his right hand from his left. And he was too far gone tobe helped out of that.""Ah, poor creetur!" says Mrs. Bagnet.
"Then," says the trooper, not yet lighting his pipe, and passinghis heavy hand over his hair, "that brought up Gridley in a man'smind. His was a bad case too, in a different way. Then the twogot mixed up in a man's mind with a flinty old rascal who had to dowith both. And to think of that rusty carbine, stock and barrel,standing up on end in his corner, hard, indifferent, takingeverything so evenly--it made flesh and blood tingle, I do assureyou.""My advice to you," returns Mrs. Bagnet, "is to light your pipe andtingle that way. It's wholesomer and comfortabler, and better forthe health altogether.""You're right," says the trooper, "and I'll do it."So he does it, though still with an indignant gravity thatimpresses the young Bagnets, and even causes Mr. Bagnet to deferthe ceremony of drinking Mrs. Bagnet's health, always given byhimself on these occasions in a speech of exemplary terseness. Butthe young ladies having composed what Mr. Bagnet is in the habit ofcalling "the mixtur," and George's pipe being now in a glow, Mr.
Bagnet considers it his duty to proceed to the toast of theevening. He addresses the assembled company in the followingterms.
"George. Woolwich. Quebec. Malta. This is her birthday. Take aday's march. And you won't find such another. Here's towardsher!"The toast having been drunk with enthusiasm, Mrs. Bagnet returnsthanks in a neat address of corresponding brevity. This modelcomposition is limited to the three words "And wishing yours!"which the old girl follows up with a nod at everybody in successionand a well-regulated swig of the mixture. This she again followsup, on the present occasion, by the wholly unexpected exclamation,"Here's a man!"Here IS a man, much to the astonishment of the little company,looking in at the parlour-door. He is a sharp-eyed man--a quickkeen man--and he takes in everybody's look at him, all at once,individually and collectively, in a manner that stamps him aremarkable man.
"George," says the man, nodding, "how do you find yourself?""Why, it's Bucket!" cries Mr. George.
"Yes," says the man, coming in and closing the door. "I was goingdown the street here when I happe............