‘AND PURPLE LIGHT SHONE OVER ALL.’
Christmas was at hand, the first Christmas in Laura’s married life,
and to her happy fancy it seemed the most wonderful season that had
ever been marked on the calendar of the ages. How could she and John
Treverton be thankful enough for the blessings Providence had given
them? How could they do enough to make other people happy? About
a fortnight before the sacred festival she carried Celia off to
Beechampton in the pony carriage, to buy a tremendous stock of blankets
and flannel petticoats for the old women, and comfortable homespun
coats for the rheumatic old men.
‘Have you any idea as to the amount you are spending, Laura?’ asked the
practical Celia.
‘No, dear; but I have one fixed idea, and that is that no one near
Hazlehurst shall be cold and wretched this Christmas, if I can help it.’
‘I’m afraid you are encouraging pauperism,’ said Celia.
‘No, Celia; I am waging war against rheumatism.’
‘I hope you don’t expect gratitude.’
‘I only expect the blankets to keep out Jack Frost. And now for the
grocer’s.’
She shook the reins gaily, and drove on to the chief grocer of
Beechampton, in whose plate-glass windows a pair of tall Japanese jars
announced the superior character of the trade transacted inside. Here
Mrs. Treverton ordered a hundred parcels of plums, currants, sugar,
spice, and candied peel, each parcel containing an ample supply for a
family Christmas pudding. The shopman rejoiced as he booked the order,
and was eloquent in his praise of ‘our new fruit.’
From the grocer’s they drove to the confectioner’s, and there Laura
ordered such a supply of plum cake and buns, muffins and tea cakes, all
to be delivered at the Manor House on Christmas Eve, that Celia began
to be seriously alarmed for her friend’s sanity.
‘What can you want with all that indigestible rubbish?’ she exclaimed.
‘Are you going to open a pastrycook’s shop?’
‘No, dear. These things are for my juvenile party.’
‘A juvenile party--already! I can’t understand your motive, unless it
is to get your hand in for the future. Who are you going to have? All
Lady Parker’s nursery, of course--and Lady Barker’s grandchildren, and
Mrs. Pendarvis’s seven boys, the Briggses, and the Dropmores, and the
Seymours. You’ll want dissolving views, and a conjuror; and you might
have _tableaux vivants_, as you don’t seem to care how much money
you waste. People expect so much at juvenile parties now-a-days.’
‘I think my guests will be quite happy without _tableaux vivants_,
or even a conjuror.’
‘I doubt it. Those little Barkers are intensely old for their age.’
‘The little Barkers are not coming to my party.’
‘And the Pendarvis boys give themselves as many airs as undergraduates
after their first term.’
‘But I have not invited the Pendarvis boys.’
‘Then what children, in goodness’ name, are to eat all those cakes?’
cried Celia.
‘My party is for the children of the cottagers. All your father’s
infant school will be there.’
‘Then all I can say is, I hope you have arranged for the ventilation
of your rooms; for if you expect me to spend Christmas Eve in an
atmosphere at all resembling that of our infant schoolroom you are
reckoning without your host.’
‘I am not reckoning without a knowledge of Celia Clare’s good nature.
I shall expect you to help me with all your heart and soul. Even
your brother might do something for us. He could give us a comic
reading--“Mrs. Brown at the play,” or something of that kind.’
‘Picture to yourself Algernon Swinburne reading “Mrs. Brown” to a
herd of charity children,’ exclaimed Celia, laughingly. ‘I assure you
my brother Edward thinks himself quite as important a person as Mr.
Swinburne. Would you have him lay aside his _magnum opus_ to study
“Mrs. Brown at the play”?’
‘I am sure he won’t mind helping us,’ said Laura. ‘I shall have a
Christmas tree loaded with gifts, a good many of them useful ones. I
shall hire a magic lantern from London; and for the rest we can have
all the old-fashioned games--Blind Man’s Buff, Oranges and Lemons,
Thread my Needle--all the noisiest, wildest romps we can think of. I
am going to have the servants’ hall cleared out and decorated for the
occasion; so there will be no fear of any of the dear old furniture
coming to grief.’
‘If poor old Mr. Treverton could come to life again, and see such
goings on!’ ejaculated Celia.
‘I am sure he would be glad to know that his wealth was employed in
making other people happy. Think of all those poor little children,
Celia, who hardly know the meaning of the word pleasure, as rich people
understand it.’
‘All the happier for them,’ said Celia, philosophically. ‘The pleasures
of the rich are dreadfully hollow; as sickly-sweet and crumbly as a
meringue from an inferior pastry-cook, with the cream gone sour inside.
Well, Laura, you are a good soul, and I will do my very best to help
you through your juvenile muddle. I wonder if fourteen thousand a year
would make me benevolent. I’m afraid my expenses would increase at such
a rate that I should have no margin for charity.’
Before Christmas Eve came a shadow had fallen upon Laura’s life, which
made complete happiness impossible, even for one who was bent upon
giving joy to others. John Treverton fell ill of a low fever. He was
not dangerously ill. Mr. Morton, the local doctor, who had attended
Jasper Treverton for twenty years, and who was a general practitioner
of skill and experience, made very light of the malady. The patient
had got a chill riding a tired horse a long way home through the rain,
after his last hunt, and the chill had resulted in slightly feverish
symptoms, and Mr. Treverton was a little below par. That was all. The
only remedies wanted were rest and good nursing, and for a man in John
Treverton’s position both were easy.
‘Ought I to put off my children’s party?’ Laura asked, anxiously, the
day before Christmas Eve. ‘I should be very sorry to disappoint the
poor little things, but,’ here her voice faltered, ‘if I thought John
was going to be worse----’
‘My dear Mrs. Treverton, he is not going to be worse; in fact, he is
rapidly mending. Didn’t I tell you the pulse was stronger this morning?
He will be well in a few days, I hope; but I shall keep him in his room
to the end of the week, and I shall not allow him to take part in any
Christmas festivities. As for your children’s party, if you can prevent
the noise of it reaching him, there is no reason in the world why it
should be postponed.’
‘The servants’ hall is quite on the other side of the house,’ said
Laura. ‘I don’t think the noise can possibly reach the next room.’
This conversation between Mrs. Treverton and the doctor had taken place
in John Treverton’s study--the panelled room adjoining his bedroom--the
room in which he and Laura had first met.
‘Then that’s all you need care about,’ replied Mr. Morton.
Laura had been her husband’s only nurse throughout his illness. She
had sat with him all day, and watched him through the night, taking
snatches of slumber at intervals on the comfortable old sofa at the
foot of the big old-fashioned four-post bed. In vain had John Treverton
urged the danger of injury to her own health from the fatigue involved
in this tender care of him. She told him she had never felt better or
stronger, and never enjoyed more refreshing sleep than on the roomy old
sofa.
They had been happy together, even in this time of anxiety. It was
Laura’s delight to read aloud to the invalid, to write his letters,
to pour out his medicine, to minister to all the trivial wants of
an illness that caused at its most only a sense of languor and
helplessness. Her only regret with regard to the children’s party was
that for this one evening she must be for the most part absent from the
sick room. Instead of reading aloud to her husband, she must give her
mind to ‘Blind Man’s Buff,’ and all her energies to ‘Thread my Needle.’
The winter twilight came gently down, bringing a light snow shower with
it, and at four o’clock Laura was seated at the little Chippendale
table by her husband’s bed, drinking tea with him for the first time
since the beginning of his illness. He had been sitting up for a few
hours in the middle of the day, and was now lying outside the bed,
wrapped warmly in his long fur-bordered dressing-gown.
He was intensely interested in the children’s party, and asked Laura
all about her arrangements for entertaining her guests.
‘I should think the great point was to give them enough to eat,’ he
said, meditatively. ‘The nearest approach to perfect happiness I ever
beheld is a child eating something it considers nice. For the moment
the mind of that infant is in a state of complete beatitude. It lives
in the present, and the present only. Its little life is rounded
into the narrow circle of NOW. Slowly, thoughtfully, it smacks its
lips, and gloats upon the savour it loves. Hardly an earthquake would
disturb it from that deep and tranquil delight. With the last mouthful,
its gladness departs, and the child learns that earthly pleasure is
fleeting. Let your children stuff themselves all the evening and stuff
their pockets before they go home, Laura, and they will realise the
perfection of bliss.’
‘And to-morrow the poor little creatures would be ill and miserable.
No, Jack, they shall enjoy themselves a little more rationally than you
propose; and every one of them shall have something to take back to the
person they love best at home, so that even a child’s idea of enjoyment
shall not be utterly selfish. But I shall be so sorry to be away from
you all the evening Jack.’
‘And I shall be still more sorry to lose you, love. I shall try to
sleep away the hours of your absence. Could you not give me a good dose
of chloral now, Laura?’
‘Not for the world, dear. I have a horror of opiates, except in extreme
cases. I shall contrive to be with you for an odd half hour or two in
the course of the evening. Celia is to be my lieutenant.’
‘Then I hope you will let her do a good deal of your work, and that I
shall see the sweet face I love, very often. Who is coming, besides the
children?’
‘Only Mr. Sampson and his sister, and Edward Clare. Edward is going to
read an Ingoldsby legend. I suggested “Mrs. Brown at the play;” but
he would not hear of her. I am afraid the children won’t understand
Ingoldsby.’
‘You and Celia must start all the laughter.’
‘I don’t think I could laugh while you are a prisoner here.’
‘It has been a very short imprisonment and your sweet society has made
it very happy.’