‘Oh, Joe, I’ll go and keep guard with you!’
Also the cook stole in with a bowl and a sponge, and a strong savour of vinegar. She had come to bathe the warder’s foot, unsolicited, moved only by a desire to do good, doubtless. Also the under-housemaid’s beady eyes were visible at the door looking in to see if more fuel were required for the fire.
Clearly, there was no need for Barbara to summon her maids. As a dead camel in the desert attracts all the vultures within a hundred miles, so the presence of these men in the hall drew to them all the young women in the house.
When they saw their mistress enter, they exhibited some hesitation. Barbara, however, gave them a nod, and more was not needed to encourage them to stay.
‘Jane,’ said Barbara, ‘here is the key. Fetch a couple of bottles of Jamaica rum, or one of rum and one of brandy. Patience,’ to the under-housemaid, ‘bring hot water, sugar, tumblers, and spoons.’
A thrill of delight passed through the hearts of the men, and their eyes sparkled.
Then in at the door came the boy with his violin, fiddling, capering, dancing, making faces. In a moment he sprang on the table, seated himself, and began to play some of the pretty ‘Don Giovanni’ dance music.
He signed to Barbara with his bow, and pointed to the piano in the parlour, the door of which was open. She understood him and went in, lit the candles, and took a ‘Don Giovanni’ which her sister had bought, and practised with Jasper. Then he signed to his brother, and Jasper also took down his violin, tuned it, and began to play.
‘Let us bring the piano into the hall,’ said Barbara, and the men started to fulfil her wish. Four of them conveyed it from the parlour. At the same time the rum and hot water appeared, the spoons clinked in the glasses. Patience, the under-housemaid, threw a faggot on the fire.
‘What is that?’ exclaimed the lame warder, pointing through the window.
It was only the guard, who had extended his march to the hall and put his face to the glass to look in at the brew of rum-and-water, and the comfortable party about the fire. ‘Go back on your beat, you scoundrel!’ shouted the warder, menacing the constable with his fist. Then the face disappeared; but every time the sentinel reached the hall window, he applied his nose to the pane and stared in thirstily at the grog that steamed and ran down the throats of his comrades, and cursed the duty that kept him without in the falling dew. His appearance at intervals at the glass, where the fire and candlelight illumined his face, was like that of a fish rising to the surface of a pond to breathe.
