My parents being abroad in the service of Empire, I would have been at a loose end on Christmas Day had Doyle, that most good-hearted of fellows, not invited me to celebrate with his household.
Not that I was the only invitee. When I entered the Doyle's drawing-room -- green with the time-honoured ivy and berry-laden holly, and bright with many candles -- I found the widow Threlfall among the company, at the request of old Mr Courtenay, though his Christmas goodwill was perhaps rooted in an urge less respectable.
Even Cummings, the seasoned yet vigorous gardener, made an appearance, joining us in a glass of sherry before retreating to the bosom of his family for the seasonal meal itself; and judging by a look I caught passing between him and the elderly Mrs Courtenay, she too might have had -- let us say -- a fittingly
earthy
motive for her welcome.
My attention was drawn to what in that year was still a novelty: Mavis Doyle handed me for examination, a Christmas card. An especially fine specimen, with a proper emphasis on the religious aspect of the day in the form of a somewhat glutinous-looking angel holding up a banner emblazoned with, "Rejoice!" This was from the Reverend Handscombe, and included a fulsome apology for being unable to attend in person -- but only the vaguest of explanations.
Relieved of any duty of false civility towards my rival, I contemplated the female members of the company with a complacent satisfaction. Mrs Threlfall was discoursing to Mr Courtenay on the sad decline of morals in these profane times -- the splendidly-endowed Mrs Threlfall, who had swallowed my seed so greedily while I pleasured her eager and luxurious rump with a candle. By the fireplace stood pretty Florence, whose posterior I had riven very happily a dozen or more times, today talking chastely with her owlish student admirer. The graceful Lydia meanwhile sat alone, a trifle languid and pensive, looking very unlike the passionate, willing victim whose ardent rear entrance I had mock-ravished.
I was crossing the room to speak to Lydia when the double-doors opened and Morwena appeared, her jet eyes a-glitter above a freshly-starched maid's black-and-white, to declare the meal imminent. Mrs Cargill the cook could be seen through the doorway, standing by a tureen, ladle in hand, thereby almost completing the tally of the women whose persons I had enjoyed. And I confess that when Morwena looked meaningly at me with a wink as if to say, give us just five minutes alone together and I'll take every inch of you up where you've been before -- well, the front of my trousers was suddenly a good deal tighter than my tailor intended, and I was very grateful to Mrs Threlfall for lending her servants to the household for the day.
We all drained our small glasses of sherry and trouped in due order to where an absolute banquet awaited. I would have accompanied Lydia in the little procession, but she shook her head and said, "No, please Mr Jaspers -- Mrs Threlfall has seniority," and so I walked beside the widow, wondering whether I had displeased Lydia.
I am tempted at this point to describe the meal course by course. Mrs Cargill had led the culinary campaign, and a masterful general she proved indeed. The memory has my mouth watering. But I should not dam the flow of my tale.
That splendid Christmas banquet was already, in my mind, the stuff of culinary legend when, a few days later, I stood watching a succession of the worthiest, and therefore the dullest, of our Cambridge luminaries filing into the pews in the hall where the Evolution debate was to take place. No-one below the rank of senior Fellow of a college had been invited, with the addition of some notable divines. Men of weight in the world of intellect, in other words, present through Handscombe's influence. Present too were the heads of the new women's establishments of higher learning. Handscombe had agreed to their inclusion with a willingness that surprised me; but it transpired that he wished to invite Lydia -- to witness my downfall, no doubt -- and it would have caused remark if she had been the only invitee of the fair sex. She was one of a small handful of our friends invited.
On the stage behind trestle tables sat the chairman and a jury of half a dozen learned men who had declared themselves undecided between Creation and Evolution. Of Handscombe there was as yet no sign.
The first unexpected event of the evening was presaged by the wizened caretaker of the hall, tonight acting as doorkeeper, hobbling down the aisle between the pews. He stopped at the foot of the stage and beckoned me. "Young lady at the door to speak with you, sir."
Puzzled, I left the hall, and found Jenny standing on the steps, a vision in a pool of gaslight. The night was not cold, but a few large, lazy flakes of snow fell, stark white, caught by the light as they drifted. One, I recall, drifted onto her lips and she licked it away with a knowing smile. And withal, she looked peerlessly desirable.
"Freddy," she said in a low voice -- we were not supposed to know one another, let alone be on first-name terms, "Handscombe was at the shop less than an hour ago. I heard Mr Jones address him."
"So he's surfaced. I dare say he'll be here at any minute," was my reply.
"I was in the darkroom and could hear very little. What I do know is that judging by his tone of voice, he left in a state of high satisfaction; but why, I can't say. If he'd wanted to have a photographic slide made from the tintype I would know. I do all the dark-room work now. Besides, such a slide wouldn't suit his purpose. Too much detail would be lost."
"Doyle is ready to wrest the tintype from any person's hands by main force, if needs be."
"He may have to. One other thing. Mr Jones and Mr Hind have had a lover's quarrel, and Mr Hind stormed out of the shop. You can expect Mr Jones to work the magic lantern in Mr Hind's place, and he'll probably be drunk."
With that we parted. I resumed my place on the stage, and could see that Doyle was watching the audience with the attention of an eagle gliding over a flock of lambs. Ladies had been allocated a pew of their own at the front; both Lydia and the devout Mrs Threlfall were there. I remember Doyle respectfully asking Mrs Threlfall to remove her hat, which was a tall and feathered construction bound to inconvenience an audience. At any other time, the incident might have amused me.
I could not catch Lydia's eye.
Not many minutes later Handscombe arrived; we shook hands courteously enough. Then Mr Jones entered, wheeling the lantern on its tall stand, all covered with a blanket as a protection against knocks. He was indeed "rather the worse for wear", as the saying is, and I hopped down from the low stage to help him set up his apparatus.
At the time I was too full of anticipation to attach much importance to the fact that, when the blanket was off, it was clear that the wrong lantern had been sent. I had requested the simplest; instead, the newest and most complex was revealed: a "Thompson's patent Epidiascope," whatever that might be, as declared in florid gilt letters on its mahogany side. But Mr Jones assured me it would project my slides perfectly.
I had won the toss and was to give the first address. The Chairman delivered a sententious platitude or two about open-mindedness, then introduced me. While he did so, Handscombe leaned his head towards me and said very softly, "You know, it is still not too late to repent your views."
At that moment the Chairman stopped speaking and looked expectantly at me. Before I rose from my seat I bent to put my mouth almost to Handscombe's ear to murmur vehemently, "I speak. Now do your damnedest, hypocrite."
The gas was turned down and my first lantern-slide appeared, as if by magic indeed, on the screen on the stage. Handscombe had fired me up, and I'm told that I spoke with great vigour and earnestness, sometimes striking the lectern with the flat of my hand for emphasis; but my recollection is that the presence of my viperous enemy behind my back at times seemed to hang over me like a blue-black thundercloud, and me sailing into its darkness. The fact that I could see Mr Jones taking frequent pulls from a hip-flask, so that his operating the blazing lantern became more and more a hazardous and approximate undertaking, certainly did nothing for my powers of concentration.
When I had finished with my slides, Mr Jones abruptly masked the lamp in the lantern, and we were plunged into near-darkness. But Doyle ordered that the gaslight be turned up, and I delivered my concluding words, sat down in my allotted place, and the chairman called upon Handscombe to deliver his address.
Handscombe said, "One moment, Mr Chairman," and walked to the very front of the stage, where to my great unease he handed a note to Mr Jones. Then he -- Handscombe -- took up his position by the lectern.
There ensued a pause in proceedings. All could see that Mr Jones was befuddled. Doyle ordered the gas turned down, but the hall was lit by the reflected light from the screen. Mr Jones fumbled with the apparatus, and for an instant his fingers appeared, vastly magnified, on the screen. I looked at Doyle, but he shook his head and shrugged; he knew no more of magic lanterns than I did. Meanwhile Handscombe stood with the unctuous smile of a vampire assured of its next meal.
An image came up on the screen, but it was very blurred, and upside-down into the bargain. Nevertheless, when I looked at it I felt as though the vampire had drained every drop of blood from my veins. For there was the tintype, blown up to immense proportions and ready to destroy my standing in society -- my hopes of Lydia -- my scientific aspirations -- as soon as it was projected aright.
And then must have come out of the gloom far from the light of the screen, the characteristic creak and thump of swinging double doors. Logically, the sound must have occurred, yet it made no impression on anyone. All were struggling to comprehend the abstruse image on the screen.
But none could ignore the resonant female voice that burst from the back of the hall.
"
Where is my runaway slave wife?
"
All heads turned as one, to see a black silhouette: Mrs Cavendish, her long widow's cape blacker than shadow, was standing in the gloom. Even but half-seen, her air of command was intense.
