Chapter Five.
“Joy.”
“Love took up the glass of Time, and turn’d it in his glowing hands;
Every moment, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden sands.
Love took up the harp of life, and smote on all the chords with might;
Smote the chord of self that, trembling, pass’d in music out of sight!”
It was a regular joyous, jolly, old-fashioned Christmas morning: bright, sparkling, exhilarating.
Just sufficient snow had fallen during the night to give that semblance of winter to the house-tops and hedge-rows, with a faint white powdering of the roadway and pavement, which adds so much to the quondam season of family gatherings, merrymakings, and plum-pudding; and this, King Frost had hardened by his patent adamantine process, so that it might not cause any inconvenience to foot passengers or lose its virgin freshness; while, at the same time, he decked and bedizened each separate twig and branch of the poor, leafless, skeleton trees with rare festal jewels and ear-drops of glittering icicles; besides weaving fantastic devices of goblin castles and airy, feathery foliage on the window panes, fairy armies in martial array and delicate gnome-tracery—transforming their appearance from that of ordinary glass into brilliantly-embroidered flakes of transparent, lucent crystal. Ah me! Jack Frost is a cunning enchanter: his will is all-powerful, his taste wondrous.
The clanging church bells were merrily ringing in “the day of glad tidings,” as our good vicar styled it, when I jumped out of bed and looked out to see what the weather was like. It was exactly as I could have wished—if I had had any choice in the matter—Christmas all over!
A little robin acquaintance, who never omitted his daily call at my window-ledge for his matutinal crumbs, was stretching his tiny crimson throat to its fullest extent, with quivering heart-notes of choral song, from a solitary poplar-tree in the adjacent garden on which my room out-looked, making the still air re-echo with his melody; my old retriever, Catch, a good dog and true, was pawing and scratching at the door to be admitted, in his customary way, and sniffing a cordial welcome, as he wondered and grumbled, in the most intelligible doggy language, at my being so late in taking him out for his preprandial walk—when it was such a fine morning, too! I heard the maid wishing me a cheery “Merry Christmas, sir!” as she left my hot water; so, it is not to be wondered that, after I had had the moral courage to plunge into my cold tub, dressing afterwards in a subsequent glow, I became infected with the buoyant spirit of all these social surroundings; and felt as light-hearted and “seasonable” as Santa Claus and his wintry comrades, the church bells, little robin redbreast, dog Catch, and Bridget the maid, could either inspire or expect.
Dog Catch and I sallied forth for our walk—I, cheerful, and drinking in healthy draughts of the fresh, frosty aether; he with great red tongue lolling out, as he trotted along in front of me, coming back every second step and looking up into my face with a broad grin on his jaws and a roguish glance in his brown eyes—I suppose at some funny canine joke or other, which he could not permit me to share—or else, darting backwards and forwards, gleefully barking and making sundry feints and dashes at me; or, prancing up in his elephantine bounds, with felonious intentions regarding my walking stick, which he considered he had a much better right to carry than myself.
We had lots of meetings and greetings when strolling along.
First, there was the gardener’s dog at the corner, an old chum of Catch’s, who passed the time of day to us with a cheerful bow-wow; although I was surprised to see that he had not “a posy tied to his tail,” according to the orthodox adage of typical smartness. Then there was the milkman’s dog, a gaunt retriever like mine, but of a very bad disposition, and a surly brute withal. He and Catch were deadly foes, as is frequently the case with dogs of the same breed; so, of course, they could never meet without quarrelling: on this occasion they exchanged ferocious challenges, and parted with signs and symptoms of unmitigated contempt on both sides, expressed by growls and barks, tail risings, and mane upliftings.
Further on, we encountered Mrs O’Flannagan, an Irish lady, who kept the fruit stall at the corner by the cross roads. She was dressed, as neatly as a new pin, in an “illigant” Connemara cloak, which seemed to be donned for the first time, besides a bran new bonnet; and, thanks to “elbow grease,” her peachy, soap-scrubbed cheeks shone again. She was returning from early chapel, whither she had gone to mass and confession; and where I trust she had received absolution for her little peccadilloes. I’ve no doubt she did get absolution, for she told me that Father Macmanus was “a raal gintleman.”
Then Catch chased a roving cat until it got within the neighbouring shelter of its domiciliary railings, whence it me-ai-ouwed to him, through all the vowels of pussy’s vocabulary, a Christmas compliment—with, probably, a curse tacked on to the tail of it, or that “phoo! phoo! phiz!” meant nothing. But the feline expletives were all thrown away; for Catch was only “full of fun and with nobody to play with him,” like Peter Mooney’s goose, and had only chased pussy in the natural exuberance of his spirits, having no “hard feelings” towards her, or any desire, I know, to injure her soft tabby fur.
We next came across old Shuffler, the house-agent, waddling along, with his sound eye rolling buoyantly on its axis, while the artificial orb glared steadily forward in a fixed, glassy stare.
“Bootiful weether!” said he, cordially, to me, touching his hat—“bootiful weether, sir!”
“It is a fine day,” I responded. “A merry Christmas to you, Mr Shuffler.”
“Same to you, sir, and many on ’em,” he replied, courteously.
“Thank you, Shuffler,” I said, satisfied with the colloquy, “but I must now say good day!”
“Good day, and a ’appy noo year to you,” answered he, passing on his way. Really, everybody appeared to be very civil and good natured to-day; and everything joyous and rose-coloured! Was it owing to the bright morning, or to the fact of its being Christmas, or to the sweet feelings I had lying hidden in my heart anent my darling?
I cannot tell: can you?
After a time Catch and I reached the river. It was not now rolling by, a muddy, silent, whilom sluggish, whilom busy stream. It was quite transformed in its appearance and resembled more some frozen arctic stream than the old Thames which I knew so well. Far as the eye could reach, it was covered with sheets of broken ice, again congealed together and piled up with snow—so many little bergs, that had been born at Great Marlow and Hampton, and other spots above the locks; gradually increasing in size and bulk as they span round and swept by on the current, until they should reach the bridges below. Then, they would, perhaps, be formed into one great icefield, stretching from bank to bank, whereon a grand bullock-roasting festival might be held, or a fancy fair instituted, as happened in the reign of James, the king, “of ever pious memory:” that is, if my chronology be right and my memory not at fault, as may very possibly be the case.
Doggy did not mind the ice a bit, however. He plunged in, time after time, to fetch out my in-thrown stick, with a frisky bound; emerging after the performance with ice-pendants to his glossy, silken ears and coat smartly curled, as if he had just paid a visit to Truefitt’s, and been manipulated by the dexterous hands of one of the assistants at that celebrated establishment, armed with the crinal tongs and anybody’s best macassar.
By-and-by we returned; and whom should I then meet on my way home but, positively, my eye-glass acquaintance of Downing Street. Fancy his being out before nine o’clock in the morning! It was an unparalleled occurrence.
“Hullo, Horner!” I sang out, “’morning, old fellow. Compliments of the season!”
“Bai-ey Je-ove! Lorton, how you stawtled me—’do!”
“You don’t mean to say,” I asked, on getting closer to him, “that you’ve actually taken to early rising?”
“No, ’pon honah, I asshaw you, my deah fellah, no!” he replied, quite excitedly. “No, I asshaw you, no,” he repeated.
“Well, then, what on earth makes you come out at this early unearthly hour?” I said.
“Oh—ah! you see—ah, my deah fellah,” he answered, “it was all those confawnded little bahds and the bells kicking up such a raow; that, ’pon honah, I couldn’t sleep and so I came out. I asshaw you it was all those bweastwy little bahds and the bells!”
“At all events, I must congratulate you on your reformation,” I said.
“Yaas? But it was all those bweastwy little bahds and the bells, you know; and it’s only once a ye-ah you know, Lorton,” he added.
“So you will never do so again till next time—is that what you mean, Horner?” I asked.
“Yaas! But, bai-ey Je-ove, I say, Lorton, my deah fellah, were the Clydes those ladies in hawf-mawning, eh?” said he, smiling feebly in his usual suave manner. He thought he had got hold of a grand joke at my expense.
However, I was not in the least angry with him. I felt too happy to have lost my temper with any one, especially Horner, whom I generally regarded as a poor creature to be tolerated rather than blamed.
“Did you ever hear, Horner,” said I, “how Peabody made his first fortune?”
“No, ’pon honah, I asshaw you, no.”
“Well, then, I’ll tell you, Horner,” said I. “It was by minding his own business, my dear fellow.”
“Bai-ey Je-ove!” he ejaculated, adding, after a pause, “Weally, Lorton, you dawn’t mean it?”
“I suppose,” I continued, “that you are also just as ignorant again how Mr Peabody made his second and greater fortune, eh?”
“Yaas,” he drawled out.
“Ah,” said I, “he got that by letting other people’s business alone!”
“Bai-ey Je-ove!” said Horner, quite staggered at this second blow. “Vewy amusing anecdote, indeed! Thank you, Lorton. Much obwiged, and all that sawt of thing, for the in-fawmation. Yaas, bai-ey Je-ove! And so I’ll say good day. Good day, Lorton; good day to you!” and he started off, with a quick step, in the very opposite direction to that which he had been previously going. I went on homeward, with Catch following obediently at my heels.
Which way did we go?
Can you not guess, or must I have to tell you?
How very obtuse some persons are!
Why, by The Terrace, of course. Was it not there that Min lived; and might I not chance to get a glance from her love-speaking, soft grey eyes? Only one glance—and I would be amply repaid!
I passed by her house. Yes, there she was at the window, attending to her flowers and carefully shielding a much-prized little maidenhair fern with a bell glass from the rays of the sun, which beamed as though Phoebus had mistaken the season and thought it a summer day.
She saw me as I sauntered by, recognising me with a little nod and smile and a sudden heightening of colour; and came to the door. Of course I went up the steps and spoke to her. You would have proceeded on your way with a passing bow? Oh, yes!
“Good morning, Mr Lorton,” she said. “How very early you are out to be sure! I thought gentlemen were always lazy, but you’re an exception to the rule, it seems;” and her soft grey eyes sparkled.
“Well, I don’t know that, Miss Clyde,” I said. “I suppose I’m just as lazy as the rest. I only came out to give my old doggy a walk and a dip, as I generally do every morning before breakfast. If it were not for him, I do not believe I would get up sooner than anybody else; but he’s such a pertinacious fellow that he won’t be denied his walk, always rousing me up at eight o’clock ‘sharp.’ Would you believe it, he brings my boots up to my door, and it is a trick he taught himself!”
“Dear old doggy,” she said, stooping down and patting his head. “What a nice sagacious fellow you are! Come here, sir, and give me your paw! Now, shake hands. Doggy, do you like me?” Catch could tell a friend at once; so looking up, he licked her hand, expressing, as intelligently as possible, that he was pleased to make her acquaintance. “How I love dogs!” she ejaculated, rising up again.
“Do you!” said I. “Ah, Miss Clyde! ‘Love me, love my dog.’”
“What nonsense, Mr Lorton!” she said, with a warm blush tinting her cheek. “But, I declare you haven’t wished me the compliments of the season yet. How very ungallant you are! I will set you an example—a merry Christmas, Mr Lorton!”
“A thousand to you, Miss Clyde; and each happier than the last!” I said.
“Oh dear, dear!” she exclaimed in mimic dismay; “I am sure I would not care about having so many as that! Fancy a thousand Christmases—why, what an old, old woman I should be then!”
“And a very nice old woman, too,” said I.
“Merci pour le compliment, Monsieur,” she replied, making me an elaborate curtsey and laughing merrily. “And what have you got there?” she asked, pointing to a little bunch of violets that I was extracting from my overcoat pocket, and which I had procured for her when Catch met his friend the gardener’s dog.
“I got them for you, Miss Clyde,” said I, somewhat bashfully; “and—and—”
“Oh, thank you, Mr Lorton,” she said, quite pleased. “I love violets more than any other flower. You could not have given me a nicer present. I was only wishing for some just now. But, I hear mamma coming down stairs; so, as I’ve not made the tea yet, I must go in—good-bye!”
“Good-bye,” I echoed, clasping her tiny hand in mine. “Good-bye, and many good wishes for the day, my darling!” I courageously added the last two words, lowering my voice over them, as she gently closed the door.
She was not offended, if she had heard the term of endearment I used, for she gave me another nice little bow and smile from the window. Still I think she did hear me. I fancied I saw a conscious look in the dancing grey eyes, a blush yet lingering on her damask cheek.
I went home with joy in my heart—joy which fed upon itself and increased each moment. Don’t you remember what Herder says? Let but the heart once awake, and wave follows wave of newborn feelings—
“So bald sich das Herz ergiesst,
Strömt Welle auf Welle!”
I only know that I was as happy as possible, and astonished everybody by the breakfast I ate.
You fancy, perhaps, that I wasn’t really in love, or I wouldn’t probably have been hungry? Nonsense! Let me tell you that happy lovers are always hungry, and have great appetites. It is only your poor, miserable, disappointed suitors, who are in a state of suspense, that go about with a hang-dog look and cannot eat. I firmly believe that Shakespeare intended to convey the idea that Valentine was mad, or he would never have put into his mouth such ridiculous words as those, that he could “break his fast, dine, sup, and sleep, upon the very naked name of love!” If that gentleman of Verona had been sane knowing how his passion was reciprocated and that his lady loved him in return, he would have had just as good an appetite as I had that morning; when, joyous as a bird, I was as hungry as a hunter.
As for dog Catch, you should have seen how he galloped into his oatmeal porridge after his walk—how the oatmeal porridge galloped into him would, however, be a more correct form of expression. You should have only seen him, that’s all!
Next came church; and, of all occasions when church-going strikes even an uninterested spectator, generally lacking in religious zeal, with feelings of unwonted emotion, commend me to Christmas day. Then, to paraphrase the well-known lines of the poet, those in the habit of being regularly present at worship “went the more;” while those go now “who never went before.” People make a practice of visiting church on that day who seldom, if ever, attend a religious service at any other time, taking the year all through. It is like the wedding feast to which the lame, the halt, and the blind were invited. Every one goes then; every class and clan is represented.
Saint Canon’s was a sight. Its garland-twined oaken columns, its wreath-hung galleries, its scroll-work in the chancel—where “Unto us a son is born,” and the message of glad tidings, which the shepherds of Bethlehem first heard when they “watched their flocks by night,” and saw the star in the east, two thousand years ago, shone forth in blazonments of red and purple and gold—all reminded the congregation of the festival they had assembled to commemorate; the day of peace and good-will to all, that had dawned for them once more, as I trust it will dawn again and again for us yet on many more future anniversaries. The place, too, was crammed, contrary to Lady Dasher’s fears concerning the spread of unbelief and the degeneracy of the present age. Everybody was there that could go at all, for it was a year in which we had to be specially mindful of mercies vouchsafed to us. Even old Shuffler, who had not been seen inside a place of public worship before within the memory of man, was not an absentee.
I was not thinking of him, however, nor of the display which the decorations made, nor of the congregation—indeed, I hardly attended to the service. All my thoughts were centred on Min.
A madonna-like face, a pair of honest, steadfast, speaking, grey eyes were ever before me; although I could not actually see her, except when we stood up during the service, according to the ordinances of the rubric, as she sat a long way off. Notwithstanding my usual attachment towards them, I felt inclined to quarrel with the high pews that hid her from my sight; and, I’m afraid, despised Bishop Burnet for his innovation. The vicar, they told me afterwards, preached a simple, beautiful sermon, that struck home to the hearts of every one present; but I heard none of it. My sermon was in my heart, and bore for its text one little word of four letters. O Min, Min! you had a good deal to answer for.
“Long was the good man’s sermon,
Yet it seemed not so to me;
For he spoke of Ruth the beautiful,
And still I thought of thee.
“Long was the prayer he uttered,
Yet it seemed not so to me;
For in my heart I prayed with him,
And still I thought of thee!”
After service, of course everybody met everybody else, each of their own respective little world, at the church door, exchanging those good wishes and seasonable greetings proper to the day.
There was a grand throng without the porch. Horner was there. It would have been nothing at all without him and his eye-glass. He did not appear to bear me any hard feelings, I was glad to see, for my unkindness of the morning. He nodded affably, and said “’do!” to me, in his usual way, as if he had not met me before.
Min and her mother did not linger as did the other parishioners; so, I had only an opportunity of a passing bow, without that other tender little hand-clasp which I had hoped for. But she looked at me, and that was something.
Lady Dasher, however, stopped for a minute or two; so did her daughters.
“Beautiful weather for Christmas, Lady Dasher,” hazarded I. She evidently did not agree with me, for she looked about her mournfully, with a down-drawn visage, just as if we were all attending a funeral, of which she was the chief mourner.
“Really, Mr Lorton, do you think so?” came her answer at length. “Don’t you find it very cold?”
“Dear me, ma! why you said last Christmas that it was too warm!” said her daughter Bessie.
“Ah! Mr Lorton,” continued her mother, not noticing her remark, “we never have those good, old-fashioned Christmases that we had when my poor dear papa was alive!”
“No, I suppose not,” I answered; “people say that it is because of the vast American forests being gradually cut down, admitting freer currents of air all over the world; while others put the change down to the influence of the Gulf Stream. Still, I dare say, it will all come right again at some time or other.”
“Ah, Mr Lorton,” said Lady Dasher, “I’m afraid it will never come right again. You are too sanguine, like all young people.”
“Oh, ‘never’ is a long day,” I said; “we should all be hopeful and merry, I think, at least on this one day in the year.”
“I could never be merry again, Mr Lorton,” she said, with a prodigious sigh, which seemed to come from the depths of her heart, “since poor dear papa died;” and she then passed on mournfully homewards, with Bessie and Seraphine in her wake. Their cheerful faces, as they nodded back and smiled at Horner and myself, contrasted strongly with their mother’s lugubrious visage. I wonder if anybody ever saw her laugh? I’ve got my doubts about it.
Then came out Miss Pimpernell, her kind old face beaming with smiles as she bowed here and there, and gave a cordial greeting to us young fellows, who still stood around the church porch. She did not forget me, you may be certain. “God bless you, Frank, my boy!” she said, in her affectionate, purring way; dismissing me home with a light heart to eat the traditionary roast turkey and plum-pudding, at peace with all mankind, and in love with all womankind for her sake.
What a happy, happy day it had been!
That night I passed and repassed Min’s house a dozen times at least, only that I might see her shadow on the blinds, weaving luxurious castles in Spain the while. I would be a great general, a distinguished orator, a famous statesman, a celebrated author! I would do some grand, heroic action. I desired to be “somebody,” something, only great and glorious! And yet, as One above is my judge, I had not one selfish craving, not a single purely-personal thought in connection with these mad wishes. It was but for her sake that I longed for honour and fame and advancement. Only for her, only for her!