“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.