KITTY'S CHRISTMAS TREE.
"The Websters are off to London, Paul," said Sally, about two days
after Tom's departure.
Paul started at the sudden mention of the name.
"I did not think they intended to go to town until after the New Year.
Mrs. Webster dilates largely upon the superiority of a Christmas in the
country versus a Christmas in London; but, I suppose, it is as sincere
as most of her statements?"
"I think May has had more to do with it than her mother. She says Mrs.
Webster has fussed a good deal over Dixon's flight, she trusted him so
thoroughly. And May thinks it will be easier to get a good coachman in
London, and that it will take off her mother's thoughts from an
unpleasant subject. She now has visions of Dixon's return in company
with an armed body of burglars, and prophesies cheerfully that they
will all be found dead in their beds one morning, and that the house
will be ransacked."
Paul laughed. "Under the circumstances Miss Webster is wise to remove
her forcibly to London," he said. But he privately conjectured that
May's real reason for flight lay in her desire to get away from
himself. "Has anything been heard of Dixon?" he went on.
"Nothing. I don't think any very keen search has been made for him.
Mrs. Webster declares that she would far rather lose her money than
appear in a court of law, or have her name bandied about in the papers.
I think, Paul, that if you approve I shall be off to London, too, when
the New Year comes."
"In what capacity?" asked Paul, resignedly. "As a sister or something?"
"Oh dear, no; you know I've always wanted to join one of those
settlements of girls at the East End, who work under the management of
Miss Grant. She wrote a little while ago to tell me she would have a
vacancy in the settlement soon after Christmas. My work would lie
chiefly amongst factory girls, getting up statistics about their hours
of work and their housing, and my play would be recreation evenings
with them."
"But this is what you have always talked of doing. I expected you to
take up quite different lines now: to district visit, and take classes
on Sundays, under the guidance and supervision of the rector."
"I don't feel the least fitted for it; I know very little about it.
Mr. Curzon thinks it would be a great pity for me to abandon the work
to which I feel myself drawn. I like life in London far better than in
the country."
"I quite agree with you," interposed Paul.
"And I think that my change of opinion about religious things will
help, rather than hinder me in my work," continued Sally, with a slight
effort.
"Let us hope it may," said Paul, in a tone that implied a doubt on the
subject. "Anyway, I wish you to follow your own plan of life. I think
women ought to be as free as men to choose what they will do.
But"--with a glance from the window--"Miss Kitty's carriage stops the
way. I must go and see what she wants."
"Why, Kitty," he began, almost before he had reached the gate, "I
thought you had forgotten all about me! It is days, almost weeks, I
think, since you've paid me a call."
"It's because it has rained nearly every day and I've not been out at
all; and there are such a lot of things I want to ask you about."
Paul was Kitty's referee on every subject. "What is the first, I
wonder?" he said, smiling down at her.
"Bend down, please, Mr. Paul. It's a secret."
And Paul brought his ear to a level with Kitty's mouth.
"Do boys like Noah's Arks?"
Paul straightened himself with a burst of laughter.
"I thought you would know. Nurse said you'd be sure to know," Kitty
said, much injured by his untimely mirth.
"It's just because I don't that I am laughing," said Paul, whose
remembrance of childhood was unconnected with any scriptural game.
That he should be solemnly consulted about one seemed extremely
ludicrous.
"Then you did not have one?"
"No, I did not."
"I suppose it won't do, after all," said Kitty, dejectedly. "And it's
a real beauty; it cost half a crown."
"Really! That's a big price. I should think it might do for any one.
After all, an ark might come in handy soon, if we are going to have a
flood. Who's the happy boy?"
"Oh, you are shouting!" cried Kitty, warningly. "And it's a secret."
"I beg your pardon," said Paul, penitently. "Shall I look in and give
an opinion?"
"Yes; you and Sally, too. Perhaps you would come to tea with me this
afternoon? Daddy is gone to a Congress, or he could have told me
everything."
"Yes, we will come--Sally and I."
"And then I can tell you all about it, for Nurse knows but has promised
not to tell."
"We will try to be as trustworthy as Nurse," Paul said with a
reassuring nod.
So, over tea and toast, after three false guesses on Paul and Sally's
part, Kitty divulged her tremendous secret, which turned out to be that
daddy had promised that when she was ten years old she should give a
Christmas-tree party to every child in Rudham from ten years and under,
and the whole responsibility of choosing the presents and assorting
them should devolve upon her. For months past Kitty had been making
out her list of the children she would have to invite, rather
bewildering the villagers by her feverish anxiety to discover the ages
of their offspring; but the choosing of suitable presents for her
guests was a far more difficult task. A large box of toys had arrived,
by her father's order, from a neighbouring town, from which Kitty could
make a selection; she had spent one whole day poring over them. Girls
were easy enough to please, but boys' tastes were quite a different
matter. So Nurse had finally suggested that Mr. Lessing should be
taken into confidence. Happily, by the afternoon he had grasped the
gravity of the situation, and he discussed the varying merits of tops,
marbles, horses, and carts as earnestly as even Kitty could desire. He
still felt a lurking desire to laugh when he saw the Noah's Ark, which
cost half a crown, set apart in a place by itself on Kitty's couch.
From time to time she laid a caressing hand upon it. It was still
unallotted, and Kitty gave a quivering sigh of excitement as she
glanced down her crumpled list.
"I had meant this for Tommy Baird," she said, looking down at it
fondly. "It's quite the best thing I have--and he's the oldest
boy,--and it's very pretty, daddy thinks; but you say it won't do."
"I!" cried Paul, aghast. "I never said anything of the kind."
"You laughed at it! and you said something about a flood."
"Was not the ark connected with a flood? You know better than I."
Kitty looked from Paul to Sally with distress on her face.
"Of course," she said, a little petulantly. "But you said there might
be another--and there can't be, daddy says."
"Of course there can't," said Paul, a little hurriedly, feeling it
scarcely fair to make a joke to such a sensitive little girl.
"Look here! I'm writing a ticket for Tommy Baird, and I shall tuck it
under the elephant's trunk. Do you think he will hold it fast?"
"Then it will do, after all," said Kitty, greatly relieved.
But when Paul and Sally were gone, and all the excitement and joy of
the tea-party, and the allotting of her presents, was over, Kitty's
mind reverted to the flood. Mr. Paul had meant something which he
would not explain to her. Whilst the perplexing thought was still in
her mind, she heard her father's latchkey turn in the lock of the front
door, and he popped his head into the room where she lay with a merry
laugh.
"I'm home, Kitty. I'll be down in a minute, but I must get my things
off first. It is raining cats and dogs."
The words confirmed Kitty's worst fears. That is how it must have
rained before that first great flood, when the waters crept up and up,
and the people first climbed the hills, until the waters reached them
there; and at last there was nothing to be seen anywhere but a waste of
water and one little ark that floated on the top. By the time Mr.
Curzon came and seated himself by her side, Kitty's eyes were round
with the terror of the picture that her too vivid imagination had
painted. Her father, quick to read each passing emotion on the face
that was dearest to him in the whole world, stooped down and kissed her.
"My little Kitty is in one of her frightened moods. She must tell me
all about it."
"It's the flood," Kitty whispered.
"What flood, darling?"
"Mr. Paul said we might have one."
"Did he? He must have meant that the river might overflow its banks;
and perhaps it will after such a wet season."
"But it would drown us all."
"Not a bit of it. The cottages near the river might have some water in
them; but unless it were something quite unprecedented, the water would
not get to the upper floor of any house--and certainly won't come near
us or the church and schools, so you may dismiss your fear of a flood.
You ought not to have had it anyway, because God has promised that the
world shall not be flooded totally again. Shall I tell you what a very
good man wrote years ago--many hundreds of years ago--about floods?
'The floods are risen, O Lord, the floods have lift up their voice, the
floods lift up their waves . . . but yet the Lord who dwelleth on high,
is mightier.' If he could learn that, all that long time ago, you
ought not to be afraid now, ought you?"
"And you don't think God will let it come before my Christmas tree, do
you daddy? Because, if all the little children were obliged to stay
upstairs, to keep out of the way of the water, they could not come,"
said Kitty, giving a strictly practical turn to the conversation.
Mr. Curzon smiled and stroked Kitty's head.
"That is more than I can say, darling. Although your Christmas tree
seems such a big thing to you, it is only a little one; and if it were
put off it would be a disappointment to you, but not a trouble, you
see."
Kitty was silenced but not satisfied, and each night added a postscript
to her prayers that the flood, if it was to come, should not occur
before her Christmas tree. It was to be held in the school-room on
Christmas Eve. The secret had exploded now, for the invitations were
out, each one written by Kitty herself, and personally delivered in the
course of her morning rambles. Paul and Sally were to come as humble
helpers. December 23rd was a particularly wild, wet day; but a gleam
of sunshine at the close of it produced a rainbow so brilliant in hue
that Kitty regarded it as a written sign in the heavens that the flood
would be averted, certainly until after her Christmas tree. But it was
such a brief gleam of sun! All night through the rain fell, and the
wind, which had been fairly quiet the previous day, rose to a perfect
tempest, roaring in the tree-tops round the rectory, groaning in the
chimneys, and dashing the rain in sheets against poor little Kitty's
window-pane; and when in the morning Nurse drew up the blind, and burst
into an exclamation of surprise, Kitty knew that her worst fear was
realized, and that her prayer had been unavailing. The "Lord that
dwelt on high" did not seem to have listened. She tried to nerve
herself to bear the tidings which Nurse conveyed in as cheerful a tone
as she could assume.
"Miss Kitty, my dear, what do you think has happened? The waters are
out, and the river is turned into a great big lake, and the houses are
standing out of it like little dots. It all looks so funny; shall I
lift you out to see?"
But Kitty had buried her head under the clothes, and was sobbing
quietly to herself. No mention was made of the Christmas tree in her
prayers that morning, and the prayers themselves were very perfunctory
indeed--said more from the force of habit than because she had any
faith in their efficacy. True, the rain had ceased now, but what was
the good of that now the flood had come? And the worst of it was that
she could not talk this matter out to daddy; he would think her
dreadfully wicked. So it was a very white-faced Kitty that presented
herself at the breakfast-table, and she received her father's assurance
that her tree should not be abandoned, but only delayed, with a watery,
quivering smile.
"And I shall be so busy all the morning," went on Mr. Curzon,
cheerfully. "You see, lots of the cottages are cut off from
communication with the outside world, and the children will be hungry
and wanting their breakfasts and dinners; so I must be off to see what
I can do with carts or boats, according to the depth of the water."
This was rather exciting; and Kitty spent her morning with her chair
drawn close to the window, which commanded the best view of the
village, and saw carts drawn by pairs of horses splashing along to some
of the cottages. And to one cottage, standing alone in a low-lying
field, she saw a boat making its way; she was almost sure that the man
who rowed it was her friend Mr. Paul. Later in the morning he paid her
a visit, with a red colour in his face and a cheery ring in his voice.
"I could not get up before, Kitty. We have had such a lot to do, Sally
and I, taking round supplies to the people who are flooded. Everybody
is in quite good spirits--indeed, some of the children are thinking it
first-rate fun."
At the mention of the children Kitty broke down helplessly, and sobbed
aloud.
"Dear me! And I have had such a lot of water all the morning, I did
not expect a shower-bath here. What time do you expect Sally and me?
How long will it take to light up that blessed tree?"
Kitty uncovered one eye; Mr. Paul must be dreaming.
"I can't have it, you see."
"Who said so? Sally and I have been planning all the morning how we
shall order out all my waggons, and go round and fetch your
guests--only you must not have the tree too late, or else we might lose
our way in taking them home again."
Kitty's joy could only find expressions in incoherent exclamations of
delight.
"It's wonderfully kind of you," said the rector, who appeared at that
moment, and gradually gathered from Kitty what Paul proposed to do.
"It seems a pity the thing should be put off," Paul answered a little
awkwardly.
Perhaps no act of the squire's won such universal approbation as the
spirited manner in which he carried through Miss Kitty's tree.
"You would not have thought as he was one to care about the little
ones," said Mrs. Macdonald to Sally.
"And I don't think, honestly, that he is," Sally answered--"with the
exception of Kitty Curzon; his devotion to her is something quite
astonishing."
The tree had been, happily, trimmed the day before, and nothing
therefore remained but for the guests to appear. One or two had to be
fetched in a boat, and the cottage in the field had a special voyage to
itself. There was a little child there that was a particular friend of
Kitty's.
"It's very good of you to come, sir, but I'm not sure as I can let
Jenny go; she's been ailing all day," said the smiling mother, looking
out at Paul from an upstairs window. "She's felt the damp a bit. The
water's begun to go down already. We'll be able to get downstairs
again to-morrow; but, as I was saying to my mate, it will be the
queerest Christmas Day we've ever spent."
"Yes, indeed," said Paul, hurriedly, anxious to cut short the
disconnected speech; "but I think you must let me have Jenny, Mrs.
Weldon. She's such a great friend of Kitty's, and we shall not have
any more rain for the present. Put on an extra shawl. It will be fine
fun for Jenny to have a ride in a boat."
So Jenny, wrapped up so that only her eyes were visible, was handed
out; and Paul rowed her across the field that separated her from dry
land, popping her into a cart that waited on the far side.
Sally, meanwhile, was at the school arranging the children as they
arrived, whilst Kitty's carriage was drawn up close to the tree, which
was veiled under a sheet. Jenny Weldon was the last to arrive, and,
when duly uncloaked, was given a place close to Kitty.
Then followed the lighting of the tree; and the dancing eyes of the
children watched the process with untold delight. Joining hands they
walked round it singing a quaint old Christmas carol, led by the
rector's strong sonorous voice; and finally came the distribution of
the presents.
Paul, as he stood quietly at the back of the room, thought the scene a
pretty one. It was a beautiful tradition, that of the Christ Child; he
could have almost wished it true.
"It has come to an end--I think it has really come to an end," the
rector said. "But, stay, I find some little things tucked away at the
very bottom of the tree; and here upon the labels are written 'Miss
Lessing' and 'Mr. Lessing.' That is quite as it should be, for to whom
do we owe the fact of your all being here to-night but to the squire,
who planned and carried it out?"
And as a penknife was handed to Paul, there were cheers ringing in his
ears for him and for Sally, who had a pen with her name on it.
"It was really very jolly of you, Kitty," said Paul, making his way to
her.
"Weren't you surprised?" said Kitty, joyfully. "Daddy said you would
be; and I told him where to hide them so that Sally should not see
them. And, oh!"--with a long-drawn sigh--"I've never been so happy in
my life. Daddy says I must thank you ever so much, dear Mr. Paul."
Paul stooped and kissed the pretty, flushed face. "It's been great
fun, Kitty; you've nothing to thank me for. It is my first Christmas
tree, and I shall take great care of my penknife."
It was seven o'clock before Sally and Paul regained the quietness and
peace of their lodging, for it took some time to deliver all the little
ones to their several homes.
"It's wonderful what surroundings will do for one. I've felt as if I
were a curate to-day; but it is Kitty who drove me to it. Her despair
this morning was almost tragic," Paul said.
How little he knew that that night Kitty was thanking God for her happy
day, and for the special help He had sent her to carry through her tree.
"Pray bless dear Mr. Paul!"