MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ALL, AND TO ALL A GOOD-NIGHT. FIVE YEARS LATER.
The house was lighted from attic to basement, and though it was
Christmas Eve, the air was like spring, for nature sometimes turns
freakish, and smiles on us when we are expecting the cold shoulder. Here
and there, a window was open, for the Derings always did love plenty of
air; and so a merry sound of laughter and gay voices was wafted out into
the night air, and the old trees rustled joyfully, as though the sound
were a familiar and happy one to them, and it did their old bones--or
bark, good to hear it. Even the vines, that clambered about as gayly now
as ever--only closer and thicker, tapped on the windows and nodded their
leafless heads, as though in welcome, and fairly rustled with joy clear
down to their aged roots, to see all the dear children at home once
more.
The front door stood hospitably open, as it had always had a trick of
doing, and in the wide old hall were two children, one of whom sat on
the stairs, with a sober, thoughtful face, while the other, in
diminutive petticoats, was trying to stand on his head against the stout
bannister-post. One failure followed another, in discouraging
succession, but the little fellow kept determinedly at it, in spite of
bumps and thumps, and finally succeeded in hoisting his fat legs up for
the briefest second imaginable, which was perfectly satisfactory, and
after which he righted himself, with serenely glowing face.
"Did," he said, triumphantly; to which the judge, sitting gravely on the
stairs, assented with much solemnity, and seemed to be casting about in
his mind for some other feat to propose.
"Hurts," said the young tumbler, rubbing his top-knot with a mite of a
hand, and glancing severely at the judge.
"Stand on this," said the judge, coming down and offering his square
inch of pocket-handkerchief, which was accordingly laid down by the
post. "That makes it thoft; won't hurt now. Do't over."
With a readiness and faith that was sublime, he of the petticoats went
at it, and had just succeeded in turning a side somersault, such as was
never seen before, when further effort was nipped in the bud by some one
coming into the hall.
"Good gracious!" cried a merry voice, as the tumbler was caught up,
shaken, and set down with some force. "What are you up to now, Thomas,
my lively son?"
"He wath standin' on hith head, auntie," explained the judge, with great
politeness, as the tumbler appeared too much confused by all the
circumstances to make any answer.
"Wath he, indeed?" laughed Thomas's mama. "Mashing his little head all
to jelly; poor Tommy!"
"No," said Tom, whose remarks were more noticeable for brevity than
anything else. "No shelly."
"Yes, indeed, little soft-head; come, ask papa," and with that Mrs.
Tremayne--for who should it be but lively Kat--shouldered her small, but
ambitious son, and carried him away. The judge looked forlorn after
that. He folded his small handkerchief and put it carefully away in its
tiny pocket, then he sat down on the lowest step and looked thoughtfully
out of the front door, as though he expected further developments to
arrive from that direction. Nor was he disappointed. There arose a sound
of labored and energetic breathing from without, as of some one toiling
up the steps, and then something in white fluttered across the porch,
and in at the door, and the judge fairly beamed with delight and
satisfaction.
"Hullo!" he said politely.
"'Llo," returned the new-comer.
"Where'd you come from?"
"Off," said the stranger, with a flourish of both small arms, intended
to indicate some great distance. "Runned off."
"Did you? From Pansy?"
"Yeth." And the bunch of ruffles and brown ribbon shook its head with
distinctive force, while the bits of slippered feet began to dance
wildly up and down the hall.
"Mama'll come," said the judge, warningly, and, sure enough, out came a
lady, with the loveliest face, and a white lace cap on her grey hair.
"Come, dears," she said, in a voice we know well and both flew to her,
for who was dearer to their loving hearts than "Dramma?" "Time for
little birdies to be eating supper, and getting little peepers shut up
tight, before Santa Claus comes," she said, going towards the dining
room, with a little hopper clinging to each hand, and playing peep
around her. Tom was already at the table, pounding with his spoon, and
smiling serenely through the milk that spattered his face from forehead
to chin, and there were two other bowls and spoons and high chairs,
ready and waiting.
"Naughty Louise," said Mrs. Kittie, as she lifted the white-robed morsel
to her chair, and tied on her bib. "Run away from poor sister Pansy, and
make her feel bad."
"All baddy, mama?" inquired Louise, looking over her bowl with repentant
eyes.
"She comed in the front door," said Philip, otherwise the judge, who was
the eldest hopeful of the Barnett household, and was, at present, under
the care of aunt Kathy, as mama Bea had the baby in the sitting-room. "I
thaw her," he went on to explain with care; but was evidently disgusted,
that every one laughed and talked, instead of listening to him; so
paused right there, and ate his bread and milk in silence and with
dignity, not even unbending when Tom and Louise had a skirmish, and
testified their cousinly regard, by throwing their spoons at each other,
and upsetting what milk had been left in their bowls.
"Dear me, what children!" cried Kittie, running for a towel, with a
laugh that sounded as though "such children" were very delightful.
"Thomas, Thomas!" said Mrs. Kat, with an air of grave reproof, such as
she sometimes wasted on her lively son; and Thomas looked up at her,
with roguish eyes, brimful of mischief, and fairly crowed with glee, a
method of expression that he resorted to in gay moments, as it was still
an exertion for him to talk.
When the young people were finally carried off to bed, every one went
along, for the gentlemen were all down town, and what better could the
mothers and aunties do than follow the procession headed by "Dramma,"
and watch the roguish imps get into their snowy little nests? There was
much skirmishing and crowing, but it all ended in a doleful wail, for
Tom fell out of bed and bumped his precious head, and refused to be
comforted, in any way, shape, or form, until Philip was heard to remark
with admiration:
"You stood on your head, Tom, and wath straight up," and that was
Balm-of-Gilead to the infantile soul of that Young America, for he
immediately ceased to weep, and looked content.
They all lingered there some time after the children had grown quiet,
but finally went down stairs, and left Grandma rocking and watching,
till the last little peeper should be closed, for she insisted on
staying, as all the little folks were not with her always, and dearly
she enjoyed each moment spent with them.
Down stairs, the sisters clustered about the fire, with all the old
girlish love and glee, and looking at them, in that familiar group, very
few changes were noticeable, for time brings few foot-prints if the
heart is happy. Bea wore a matronly little cap of bits of lace and blue
bows, and held in her arms a gleeful baby, with roguish eyes and sunny
little rings of hair, who was named after dear grandma, and who
obstinately refused to go "by-low," as any well regulated baby ought to
do, by seven o'clock in the evening. Kittie and Kat, on the lounge with
clasped arms as of old, looked scarcely a whit changed, though they were
both indelibly stamped with the grace and elegance of city ladies, and
had fulfilled the promise in girlhood, by becoming truly refined and
lovely women. The little stool by the fire was not vacant, for there sat
Jean as of old, with the same sweet face and lovely eyes, only now she
was taller than mama, and the still childish face wore a perfect
happiness, for on the hand that supported her chin, the firelight showed
a ring, and in the smiling eyes any one could read the story of it.
Olive was there too. Olive, of whom they were all so proud, and who was
still Olive Dering; and time had made her very fair to look upon; for
energy and purpose had stamped her face indelibly, and the clear eyes
were beautiful in their light of strength and happy content. She was no
longer a struggling girl, battling with all circumstances, and fighting
her way into work, but a woman, restful, yet not resting, in perfect
success; for every nerve was still alert to further progress, and every
wish and ambition had been sacrificed to one great desire, which would
next year be satisfied; she was going to Europe. Masters and travel
awaited her eager heart, and her own hand had carved the way. Her studio
in New York was filled with works; many homes, far and wide, owed their
pleasure, in the portrayed face of some dear one, to her pencil or
brushes; and a large class, constantly increasing in size, trod the
first pathways of art under her careful guidance. And so with hard work
and economy, the money had come in, and been laid away; and now at last,
there was enough. Mother and Olive were going to Europe.
I know it is all very nice and easy to carry a girl through ambitious
battles in a book, and after a lapse of years, which are left to the
imagination, to bring her out, glowing with success, and with her
heart's desire realized. It is done in a book this time; but Olive
Dering's love and longing for art, her struggles, determination, and
final success, are taken from the life of one who still lives, and who
is now enjoying the perfect happiness earned by hard labor, in the
galleries of the old masters. There had been toil and troubles and
trials; discouraging tears and times of despair, in the years through
which we have slipped without a pause; but it would do no good to tell
them all; it is enough to know that patience, perseverance and will had
overcome them, as there is rarely a case where they will not.
"Next year this time we'll not be here together," said Kittie, breaking
a long pause, such as will often come, when hearts are content with
worldless communion.
"Why not?" asked Jean. "Mama and Olive being in Italy, is no reason why
you should not come and spend Christmas with me."
"Bless the baby, to think she will be married then," exclaimed Bea,
caressing the brown head with loving hand. "Every one gone from the old
home but Jeanie, and she presiding over it, a married lady; to think of
it, girls?"
"So wags the world," said Kat with a brisk nod. "I think it would be sad
to come here and spend Christmas, with Olive and mama gone; but you must
all come to Boston, and if my house isn't big enough, I'll have an
addition put on."
"No, my home is best," put in Kittie with decision. "It's between you
all, and is plenty big enough. That is the place."
"Yes, indeed," chimed in Pansy, who was now a tall pretty girl of ten,
and perfectly devoted to mama. "We want you to come to New York, and
spoke about it before we left home; didn't we mama?"
"Yes, and we'll wage a brisk war with any one who puts in a claim, so
you had better subside at once my dear," answered Kittie with a smile at
her twin, which looked like most anything except a war-like preparation.
"There's the gate, the boys are coming," was the answer of Mrs. Kat, and
sure enough, there arose a clatter of feet on the porch, a smell of
cigar smoke in the air, and in came "the boys," with the usual amount of
noise, which boys, big or little, invariably make; and then grandma came
flitting down stairs, with a smile and a warning "hush;" and there they
were all together.
Supper was a gloriously gay meal, where every one's health was drank in
fragrant coffee, from Grandma Dering, down to Prince, who had been
returned to the home of his youth, and was passing his last days in
peaceful content, with just enough exercise to keep his old bones from
rusting out too fast. And then they talked of those who were gone from
the circle: Father Dering, Ernestine, and lastly, dear old Uncle Ridley,
who had died that year, and for whom every one had such a warm loving
memory.
After supper the boys went off to the library to smoke, and mother and
daughters clustered together in the dear old sitting-room, to chat
lovingly as in other days; for now, as then, the sweet motherly face, to
which they still looked for love, comfort, and praise, was the dearest
in the world to them, and the loveliest, they all thought, with its
serene happy smile and contented loving eyes.
"Has anybody any disappointments to tell to-night," she asked, looking
around at the bright happy faces, and remembering another night long
ago, when they all sat so, and told such.
"Yes, I've got one," announced Kat, just as briskly as she had done on
that other night. "I can't, to save my life, arrive at the point where I
will always look stately and unruffled, and ready to receive callers, in
spite of babies and household work, as Mrs. McGregor does, who lives
opposite me. And then, I do believe that Thomas is going to be short and
fat, instead of tall and slim, and from present indications I think he
will prefer being a clown to anything else in the world. That's my
disappointment, and it's just about as sensible as my other, but it's
the best I've got. What's yours, Kittie?"
"I don't know, I'm sure," answered Kittie, looking down into Pansy's
upturned face, and laying her hand lovingly on the curly head. "I have
the dearest husband, and two of the most precious little daughters in
the world, and what more could I ask? I always did want curly hair and
black eyes, but Pansy has one, and Louise the other, so I'm content. The
only disappointment I have, is that mama and Olive will not be with us
next Christmas."
"Well, I've a very small one," said Bea, as she rocked and trotted, with
a vain attempt to get small Bessie's eyes shut. "Walter isn't quite as
well as I should like to have him; he works too hard, poor fellow, and I
want him to go off to the mountains next summer, and get rested, but we
can't all afford to go, and he says he will not go and leave me at home
in the hot weather with the house and babies. So I can't help worrying
and wishing that I could help him some way."
"You do help him, dear," interposed Mrs. Dering promptly. "You keep home
bright and happy, and anticipate all his wants and wishes. In times of
weariness or trouble, he has you and the dear babies for comfort. You
love, sympathize and help him in a thousand ways, the want of which he
could not do without."
"And sew on his buttons," added Kat. "Don't leave that out, for if he's
anything like Ralph, it's a mighty big item."
"And here's my little girl," continued Mrs. Dering in a moment, and
looking down at Jean, whose head lay in her lap. "Has she any?"
"None, mama," answered Jean, looking up with happy eyes. "Except that
you are going away, and that Uncle Ridley is not here."
"Surely, no one supposes for an instant that I have any," said Olive,
and every one shook their heads in a decided negative, except Mrs.
Dering, and she looked across into Olive's eyes with a smile, and Olive,
catching the look, dropped them to the fire, and said no more. She had
intimated that she had none; but was it so in the depths of her heart?
Was she quite content?
"You do to-night, as you did before, and no one asks me for mine," said
Mrs. Dering with a smile. "Do you rightly guess that I have none?"
"We hope that you have none, mama," said Bea, lovingly.
"Indeed, I have not, my dear girls; instead, as I sit here to-night with
you all around me, I wonder if I am fully grateful for how good God has
been to me. I look at you, and I see in my girls just such good, true
women as their father would have them, and I am more than content. I
would that these three vacant places might be filled to-night, but God
knows best, and I feel only love, not regret. No, my dear girls, I have
no disappointments to-night, only a heart full of happiness and
content."
They were silent after that for a little while, and then Bess dropped
to sleep, and Olive crossed to Bea's side, as the gentlemen were heard
coming from the library.
"Let me take her up stairs, Bea--you look tired;" and Bea handed the
precious charge over, and Olive went slowly up stairs, with her arms
tenderly clasped about the little form, her cheeks laid to the soft baby
face, and a look in her eyes that mother might have read had she seen
it.
The sleepers already there, and sprawled about in characteristic
attitudes, was a sight to hold one's gaze.
Philip lay perfectly straight and orderly, with a sober countenance, and
both hands crossed on his little stomach; while Tom, the tumbler, had
completely reversed himself, and lay with his feet on the pillow, his
body in a snarl, and his head just ready to fall off the edge with the
next jerk. Louise had dispensed with her pillow, it was on the floor,
while she lay in the sweetest possible attitude, with one tiny hand
under the dimpled cheek, on which the long, dark lashes rested softly,
and one wee snowy little foot peeped out of the clothes. Olive laid the
baby in its nest, and covered it warmly, bending many times to kiss the
rosy little face; then she righted Tom, restored the pillow, and removed
some of Philip's covering, as he seemed to be too warm; and then she
stood still looking at them.
Was she perfectly happy, and quite content?
The pale light that fell across her, as she stood there watching the
sleepers, with eyes that were traitorously expressive, would have made a
very dear picture to one pair of eyes, had they not been too far away to
rest on. The grey dress which she wore, fell in colorless draperies, and
the soft laces at her throat and wrists, were very becoming to the clear
skin. In the rich dark hair, was a white flower, that touched the tip of
her ear as with a caress; but greatest of all was the eyes, that were
growing dim with tears, as she stood there. The feeling that was in her
heart was no new one, but to-night it came differently from what it ever
had before. Then it had only been a half defined loneliness that could
be quenched with a little effort, and pass without a name; but to-night
it came surging up and assumed shape and title before her eyes. She had
no claim on these little ones; she would never be able to stand so and
watch one of her own in its innocent sleep. Would never feel the tender
happiness of knowing that her blood beat in another little heart, that
her life had given breath to its laughing lips, and the warm color to
the dimpled cheeks. In the room down stairs, each sister had her own;
even little Jean would soon be claimed by one to whom she was dearer
than all else in the world; and in a few years mother might be gone, and
then--_success_ was hers. She had worked and won. Her name was on many
lips, and her fame spreading. The goal she had looked forward to for
years, with eager heart, was hers at last, and while the anticipation,
had in this case, lost nothing through possession; did it wholly satisfy
her? Was there no corner, no longing, or want that brushes, oils, and
inspiration failed to satisfy? Her eyes grew blind with strange, wistful
tears, a queer choking filled her throat, and with a sudden movement she
had crossed the room and knelt down by the baby. Had she no
disappointment? Would she not have said "come," to some one, still a
wanderer beyond the seas, had it been in her power? Or, had he stood
before her, with the old, old longing, would she have drawn back and
said: "My art is all I want."
Ah, indeed, Uncle Ridley had been right:
"A single flame gives little warmth, and needs a kindred spark."
Art was none the less dear, but the woman's heart had asserted itself,
and there was a yearning passionate cry for a love that would answer to
that, which had so strangely grown within her heart, and which called
for something more than a lifeless irresponsive idol.
Sometimes, even out of books, the right thing happens just at the right
moment; then, again, sometimes it does not; but this is what happened
just at that moment. Some one had been standing in the shadow outside
the door, for several moments and now entered, and crossing the room,
stood beside her, kneeling there, and said:
"Olive."
She stood up quickly, and looked at him for a moment, and knew him, in
spite of seven years' absence, and the bronze and change wrought by time
and constant travel. Yes, she knew him, for the eyes were the same, and
wore the look she had seen in them last. It was a true love that had
bided its time, and won its reward at last. She did not blush rosy red,
as most women would have done, but a speechless joy came slowly into her
eyes, where the tears yet lay, and she was quite silent.
"You have no welcome for me?" he asked, holding out his hand. "Have I
waited so long, and come in vain, at last, Olive?"
"No," she answered, finding her voice, and it sounded strangely sweet
and glad, even to herself, as she drew nearer and laid her hand in his.
"I am glad that you came; I--I have wished that you would."
It was not a romantic place at all, with the three little tumbled beds
and sleepers; the diminutive stockings, shoes, and slips, scattered
about, and Philip unmistakably snoring, as became a worn-out judge. But
as he clasped the hand laid in his, and drawing her to him, kissed her
gladly, I doubt if the most romantic spot, either side the sea, could
have made that meeting sweeter to either of them.
"I was on the porch when you passed through the hall," said Roger, in a
moment. "I had been out there some little time watching you through the
window, and studying your face, that I have so longed and hungered to
see in these years, and I read in it such complete happiness, that my
heart failed me. I had waited till you should reach the perfect goal of
your ambition, and should know what it was to own fame; and as I looked
at you, to-night, I thought it satisfied your heart entirely. So I was
tempted to go away without having you send me. When you came into the
hall with the baby, I followed you up here--quite against my will. As
you stood here a few moments ago, and I saw that sadness creep into your
face and eyes, I first thought that, perhaps, I had not come in vain.
And have you really wished that I would come, Olive?"
"Yes; neither my work nor my life is perfect without you, Roger, and I
think that I have known it for some time, though I never so fully
confessed it to myself as to-night. I honestly sent you from me, and I
honestly welcome you back. I have nothing more to wish for now."
So together they went down stairs, and the wanderer's welcome far
exceeded his strongest hopes. A new ray of light and joy seemed brought
into that circle, with this new union of hands, hearts, and happiness;
and as Mrs. Dering kissed each of her girls good-night, she said,
looking into Olive's eyes, with a loving smile:
"I fully believe, dear, that now you have no disappointment."
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|Transcriber's Note: |
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|The illustration on page 267 with the caption |
|"WHAT IS THE MATTER? WHAT HAS HAPPENED?" was not|
|available for inclusion in this ebook. |
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