The After Years.
Fifteen years had come and gone. The men and women who had sat round the fire on that memorable New Year’s Eve in Mrs Ingram’s hospitable country manor, had left youth behind, and entered upon the strenuous term of middle age, while their host and hostess had reached a stage still further on the downward path, and frankly ranged themselves among the old.
Fifteen years ago! And now once more the end of the year was approaching, and Mr Ingram and his wife were discussing their plans for the festive season. It was a very frail woman who lay back against the cushions of her chair, and to her husband all outside considerations were as naught compared with the necessity of screening her from undue exertion.
“Forget that it is Christmas time, that’s the best thing you can do! All your life you have worked and schemed to give other people pleasure, now you must take it easy, and let them have a turn for a change. No Christmas presents, no village treats, no house-party over the New Year. You and I will have a quiet resting time, and think of nobody but ourselves.”
His wife smiled, her fine, delicate smile, and stretched out her hand to meet his.
“Foolish man!” she said softly. “What folly you do talk! The Christmas presents are ready, dear. I begin collecting them each January, as soon as the last batch is out of the way, and it would break my heart to disappoint the villagers of their treat; but I’ll be very good, and leave the whole of the arrangements to the vicar. That’s a concession made entirely to please you. I want to please you, because as regards the house-party I am going to ask you to give in to me! I’d been planning a very special gathering for this year. Please, dear, don’t say no! It would be such a great interest. I want to ask all the members of that Heart’s Desire party of fifteen years ago—all that are left, that’s to say, and sit over the fire together as we did then, for the first hour of the New Year, and talk over our different experiences. I have thought of it for the last three or four years, but something has always come in the way, and now—now I would rather not postpone it again.”
Her husband knew the meaning of that unwillingness. She was thinking that she might not live to see another New Year, and the knowledge was enough to stifle any objections which he might have made.
“You shall do as you choose, dearest,” he said softly. “I ask only that you should spare yourself. You must spend the mornings in your own room, and then you will be able to enjoy your guests for the rest of the day.” He was silent for a few minutes, gazing into the heart of the fire. “It is one thing to wish,” he said at last, “and another to confess what has really happened. I wonder if they will confess!”
“Probably—not!” Mrs Ingram said. “We may be sure of one thing at least, that the happenings which went deepest will never be put into words. All the same we shall know. It is not only by speech that the heart tells its secrets, Hubert!”
“But the ordinary man judges only by his ears. His eyes are holden that he cannot see.”