the fatigues of preparation. But somehow when things were almost ready,
when the table was set, lacking only the last touches, and the fire
lighted, a heavy sense of discouragement fell upon her. It was the
natural reaction after long overwork, but she was too inexperienced to
understand it. She only knew that suddenly the thing she had wished for
seemed undesirable and worth nothing, and that she felt perfectly
miserable, and "didn't care what became of her." She laid her tired head
on the little table by which she was sitting, and, without in the least
intending it, began to cry.
Mrs. Grace was lying down, the Squire was out; there was no one to note
her distress or sympathize with it excepting Teakettle, the black cat.
He was sorry for Milly after his cat-fashion, rubbed his velvet head
against her dress for a little while as if wishing to console her, but
when she took no notice, he walked away and sat down in front of the
door, waiting till some one should open it and let him through. Cats
soon weary of the role of comforter, and escape to pleasanter
things,--sunshine, bird-shadows on the grass, light-hearted people who
will play with them and make no appeal to their sympathies.
Milly's tears did her no good. She was too physically worn out to find
relief in them. They only deepened her sense of discouragement. The
clock struck six; she roused herself wearily and went upstairs to
dress. There were still the lamps to light and last things to do.
"And no one to do them but me," thought poor Milly. "Oh dear, how
dreadfully my feet ache! How glad I shall be when they all go away and I
can go to bed!"
This was indeed a sad state of mind to be in on the eve of a
long-anticipated pleasure!
Everything looked bright and orderly and attractive when the guests
arrived a little after half-past seven. The fire snapped and the candles
shone; a feeling of hospitable warmth was in the air. Milly's
arrangements, except so far as they regarded her own well-being, had
been judicious and happy. The pretty girls in their short-sleeved blue
and crimson merinos, with roses and geranium-leaves in their hair (I
need not say that this was at a far-back and old-fashioned date), looked
every whit as charming as the girls of to-day in their more elaborate
costumes.
Cousin Mary Kendal, who, for all her grown-up sons and daughters liked
fun as much as any girl among them, had volunteered to play for the
dancing, and the spirit with which she dashed at once into "The Caspian
Waltz" and "Corn Rigs are Bonny" was enough to set a church steeple to
capering.
Everybody seemed in a fair way to have a delightful evening except one
person. That one was poor Milly, usually the merriest in every party,
but now dull, spiritless, and inert. She did not even look pretty! Color
and sparkle, the chief elements of beauty in her face, were, for the
moment, completely quenched. She was wan and jaded, there were dark
rings under her eyes, and an utter absence of spring to her movements,
usually so quick and buoyant. She sat down whenever she had the chance,
she was silent unless she must speak; half-unconsciously she kept a
watch of the clock and was saying to herself, "Only two hours more and I
can go to bed." Her fatigued looks and lack of pleasure were a constant
damper to the animation of the rest. Every one noticed, and wondered
what could be the matter; but only Janet Norcross dared to ask.
"Have you got a headache?" she whispered; but the "No" which she
received by way of answer sounded so cross that she did not venture on
further inquiries.
"Why won't you dance with me?" urged Will Benham; "you said you would
when we were talking about the party after the Lecture--don't you
remember?"
"I'd rather the others had the chance--it's my party, you know," replied
Milly.
"But they _are_ having a chance. Everybody is dancing but you. Come,
Milly."
"Oh, Will, don't tease," cried Milly irritably. "I never saw such an
evening. Do please to leave me alone and go and ask some of the others."
Weariness sharpened her voice. Till the words were out of her lips she
had no idea that she was going to speak so petulantly to Will. It
sounded dreadfully even to herself.
"Oh, certainly," said Will with freezing dignity. He crossed the room,
and presently Milly saw him take Helen Jones out to the set of Lancers
just forming. He did not look at Milly again, or come near her, and the
sense of his displeasure was just the one drop too much. Milly felt
herself choke, a hot rush of tears blinded her eyes, she turned, and
being fortunately near the door, got out of it and upstairs without
suffering her face to be seen.
Janet found her half an hour later lying prone across the bed, and
sobbing as if her heart would break.
"What _is_ the matter?" she cried in alarm. "Are you ill, dear Milly?
has anything dreadful happened? I came up to look for you. Will Benham
got worried because you were away so long, and came to me to ask what
had become of you. I told him I guessed you were taking out the
ice-creams, but Katy said you hadn't been in the kitchen at all, so I
came up here. What is the matter--do tell me?"
"Oh, nothing is the matter at all, except that I am a perfect idiot, and
so tired that I wish I were dead," said Milly. "It was awfully good of
Will to care, for I spoke so crossly to him. You can't think. It was
horrid of me, but somehow I felt so dreadfully tired that the words
seemed to jump out of my mouth against my will. Dear Janet--and I was
cross to you, too," added Milly penitently. "Everything has gone wrong
with me to-night. Oh, and there is that horrible ice-cream! I must go
and get it out of the freezers. But my back aches so, Janet, and the
soles of my feet burn like fire."
"You poor thing, you are just tired out," said her friend. "No wonder.
You must have worked like a horse to make everything so nice and pretty
as it is. Don't worry about the ice-cream. Just tell me what dishes to
put it in, and I'll see to it. It won't take five minutes. But do rouse
yourself now, and keep up a little while longer. The others will wonder
so if you don't go down. You _must_ go down, you know. Here is a wet
towel for your eyes, and I'll smooth your hair."
Even so small a lift as having the ice-cream taken out for her was a
relief, and Janet's kindness, and the sense that Will was not hopelessly
alienated by her misconduct, helped Milly to recover her equilibrium.
Soothed and comforted she went downstairs, and got through the rest of
the evening tolerably well.
But when the last good-night had been said, and the last sleigh-bell had
jingled away from the door, she found herself too tired to rest. All
night long she tossed restlessly on her hot pillows, while visions of
pounding ice and stirring cake, of Will's anger, and Janet's surprise
when she found her in tears, whirled through her thoughts. When morning
came she was so "poorly" that the doctor was sent for.
"Too much party, no doubt," was his inward commentary when he received
the summons; and his first words to Milly were, "Well, Missy, so you are
down with fruit cake and mottoes, are you?"
"Oh, Doctor, no, I never ate a mouthful of the cake. I only made it,"
was poor Milly's disclaimer.
"That sounds serious," said the doctor. But when he had felt her pulse
he looked graver.
"You've done a good deal too much of something, that is evident," he
said. "I shall have to keep you in bed awhile to pay you for it."
Milly was forced to submit. She stayed in bed for a whole week and the
greater part of another, missing thereby two candy-pulls on which her
heart was set, and the best sleighing frolic of the season. Everybody
was kind about coming to see her, and sending her flowers and nice
things, and Janet, in particular, spent whole hours with her every day.
"The whole thing seems such a dreadful pity," Milly said one day. She
was really better now, able to sit up, and equal to a calm discussion of
her woes. "I had looked forward so much to my party, and I wanted to
have it as nice as could be, and I worked so hard; and then, when the
time came, I didn't enjoy it a bit. If I could only have it over again
now when I am all rested and fresh, I should have as good a time as
anybody. Doesn't it seem a pity, Janet?"
"Yes, it does," replied Janet, after which she fell into a little
musing-fit.
"One can't have company without taking some trouble," she said at last.
"But I wonder if one need take so much?"
"I don't see what else I could have done," said Milly. "You must give
people nice things when they come to see you, and somebody has got to
make them. And besides that, there is so much to see to about the
house,--dusting, and washing china, and making the rooms nice."
"I know," went on Janet reflectively. "Mrs. Beers half killed herself, I
remember, when she had that quilting two years ago, in giving the whole
house a thorough house-cleaning beforehand. She said as like as not
somebody would want to run up into the garret-chamber after something,
and she should have a fit if it wasn't in order. And after all, not a
soul went anywhere except to the parlor and dining-room, and into Mrs.
Beers's bedroom to take off their things; so the fuss was all thrown
away, and Mrs. Beers had inflammation of the lungs afterward, and almost
died."
"I recollect. But then they might have gone to the attic--she couldn't
tell. It was natural that Mrs. Beers should think of it."
"Well, and suppose they had, and that there had been a trifle of dust on
the top of some old trunk, what difference would it have made? People
who are busy enjoying themselves don't stop to notice every little
thing. I am going to think the thing over, Milly. It's all wrong
somehow."
Janet herself was meditating a party. Her father had given permission,
and Aunt Esther, who managed the housekeeping, was only too glad to fall
in with any plan which pleased Janet. Judge Norcross was the richest man
on the Hill. There was no reason why Janet's entertainment should not
out-shine Milly's. In fact, she had felt a little ambitious to have it
do so, and had made certain plans in her private mind all of which
involved labor and trouble; but now she hesitated.
"If I'm going to be as tired out as Milly was, and not enjoy it, what's
the use of having a party at all?" she said to herself. "I'd _like_ to
have it as nice as hers; but whatever I have, I have got to do it all
myself. I'm not as strong as Milly, I know, and it has half killed
_her_; perhaps it would quite kill me. A party isn't worth that!"
She discussed the matter within herself, reasonably. She _could_ wind
herself up and make eight kinds of cake if she liked. There were the
recipes and the materials and she knew how; moreover, Aunt Esther would
help her. She could have as much jelly and syllabub and blanc-mange as
Milly, she could turn the house upside down if she desired, and trim and
beautify and adorn. It was a temptation. No girl likes to be outdone,
least of all by her intimate friend. "But is it worth while?" Janet
queried. And I think she proved herself possessed of a very "level head"
when, at last, she decided that it was not.
"I'll be sensible for once," she told herself. "A party is not a duty,
it is a pleasure. If I get so tired that I spoil my own pleasure, I
spoil my company's too, for they will be sure to find it out just as
they did at Milly's. I couldn't half enjoy anything that night, because
she looked so miserable; and I won't run the risk of having the same
thing happen at our house. I'll just do what is necessary, and leave off
the extras."
The "necessary," when Janet came to analyze it, proved to be quite as
much as she was able to undertake; for, as she had admitted to herself,
she was not nearly so strong as Milly Grace. It meant an ample supply of
two sorts of cake, freshly made and delicate, with plenty of ice-cream,
salad, scalloped oysters, and rolls. There was extra china to wash, the
table to set, and the rooms to dust and arrange, and Janet was quite
tired enough before it was done. She sent to Boston for some preserved
ginger to take the place of the jelly which she didn't make, she made no
attempt at evergreen wreaths, and she wisely concluded that rooms in
their usual state of cleanliness would pass muster with young people
intent on dancing and amusement, that no one would find time to peep
into holes and corners, and that the house could wait to have its
"thorough cleaning" administered gradually after the occasion was over.
There was really a great deal of steady good sense in holding to this
view of the matter, and Janet found her reward in the end. The
preparations, even thus simplified, taxed her strength; the extra
touches which she had omitted would have been just the "straw too much."
She gave herself a good margin for rest on the afternoon preceding the
party, and when she came downstairs in her pretty dress of pale blue
cashmere and swan's-down, ready to meet her guests, her cheeks and eyes
were as bright as usual, and her spirits were ready for the exhilaration
of excitement.
The tone of any gathering depends in great measure on its hostess. If
she is depressed or under the weather, her visitors are pretty sure to
catch her mood and be affected by it. Janet's sunny looks and gay laughs
set the key-note of her party. Nobody missed the wine jelly or the six
absent sorts of cake, no one wasted a thought on the evergreen wreaths.
All was fun and merriment, and nothing seemed wanting to the occasion.
"What a good time we _have_ had!" said Helen Jones to Alice Ware as they
stood at the door of the dressing-room waiting for their escorts. "It's
been ever so much jollier than it was at Milly's, and I can't think
why. That was a beautiful party, but somehow people seemed to feel
dull." Helen had no idea of being overheard, but as it happened Milly
was nearer to her than she thought.
"I'll tell you why it was, Helen," she said, coming forward frankly.
"Don't look so shocked. I know you didn't mean me to hear, but indeed I
don't mind a bit. And it's quite true besides. Janet's party has been a
great deal nicer, and it's because I was such a goose about mine. I did
a great deal too much and got dreadfully tired, so tired that I couldn't
enjoy it, and you all found it out of course, so you couldn't enjoy it
either. I'm sure I don't wonder, but it was all my own fault. Janet took
warning by my experience and made her party easier, and you see how nice
it has been. We have all had a beautiful time, and so has she.
Well--I've learned a lesson by it. Next time I give a party I shall just
do what I can to make it pleasant for you all, and not what I can't, and
I hope it will turn out better for everybody concerned."
THE PINK SWEETMEAT.
Only three pairs of stockings were left in the shop. It was a very
little shop indeed, scarcely larger than a stall. Job Tuke, to whom it
belonged, was not rich enough to indulge in the buying of any
superfluous wares. Every spring he laid in a dozen dozen of thin
stockings, a bale of cheap handkerchiefs, a gross of black buttons, a
gross of white, a little stationery, and a few other small commodities.
In the autumn he added a dozen dozen of thick stockings, and a box full
of mittens and knitted comforters. Besides these he sold penny papers,
and home-made yeast made by Mrs. Tuke. If the stock of wearables grew
scant toward midwinter, Job rejoiced in his heart, but by no means made
haste to replenish it. He just laid aside the money needed for the
spring outfit, and lived on what remained. Thus it went year after year.
Trade was sometimes a little better, sometimes a little worse, but
whichever way it was, Job grew no richer. He and his old wife lived
along somehow without coming on the parish for support, and with this
very moderate amount of prosperity they were content.
This year of which I write, the supply of winter stockings had given out
earlier than usual. The weather had been uncommonly cold since October,
which may have been the reason. Certain it is, that here at Michaelmas,
with December not yet come in, only three pairs of stockings were left
in the little shop. Job Tuke had told his wife only the week before that
he almost thought he should be forced to lay in a few dozen more, folks
seemed so eager to get 'em. But since he said that, no one had asked for
stockings, as it happened, and Job, thinking that trade was, after all,
pretty well over for the season, had given up the idea of replenishing
his stock.
One of the three pairs of stockings was a big pair of dark mixed gray.
One pair, a little smaller, was white, and the third, smaller still and
dark blue in color, was about the size for a child of seven or eight
years old.
Job Tuke had put up the shutters for the night and had gone to bed. The
stockings were talking together in the quiet darkness, as stockings will
when left alone. One pair had been hung in the window. It had got down
from its nail, and was now straddling carelessly with one leg on either
side of the edge of the box in which the others lay, as a boy might on
the top of a stile. This was the big gray pair.
"Our chances seem to be getting slim," he said gloomily.
"That is more than you seem," replied the White Stockings, in a tart
voice. "Your ankles are as thick as ever, and your mesh looks to me
coarser than usual to-night."
"There are worse things in the world than thickness," retorted the Gray
Stockings angrily. "I'm useful, at any rate, I am, while you have no
wear in you. I should say that you would come to darning about the
second wash, if not sooner."
"Is that my fault?" said the White Pair, beginning to cry.
"No; it's your misfortune. But people as unfortunate as you are should
mind their P's and Q's, and not say disagreeable things to those who
are better off."
"Pray don't quarrel," put in the Little Blues, who were always
peacemakers. "Think of our situation, the last survivors of twelve
dozen! we ought to be friends. But, as you say, matters _are_ getting
serious with us. Of course we are all thinking about the same thing."
"Yes; about the Christmas, and the chimney corner," sighed the White
Pair. "What a dreadful thing it would be if we went to the rag-bag never
having held a Christmas gift. I could not get over such a disgrace. My
father, my grandfather--all my relations had their chance--some of them
were even hung a second time!"
"Yes; Christmas is woven into our very substance," said the Gray
Stockings. "The old skeins and the ravellings tell the story to the new
wool,--the story of the Christmas time. The very sheep in the fields
know it. For my part," he added proudly, "I should blush to lie in the
same ash-heap even with an odd stocking who had died under the disgrace
of never being hung up for Christmas, and I will never believe that my
life-long dream is to be disappointed!"
"Why will you use such inflated language?" snapped the White Pair. "You
were only woven last July. As late as May you were running round the
meadow on a sheep's back."
"Very well; I don't dispute it. I may not be as old as Methuselah, but
long or short, my life is my life, and my dream is my dream, and you
have no call to criticise my expressions, Miss!" thundered the Big Pair.
"There you are again," said the Little Blues. "I _do_ wish you wouldn't
dispute. Now let us talk about our chances. What day of the month is
it?"
"The twenty-seventh of November," said the Gray Stockings, who, because
they hung over the penny papers in the window, always knew the exact
date.
"Little more than four weeks to the holidays," said the White Pair
dolorously. "How I wish some one would come along and put us out of
suspense."
"Being bought mightn't do that," suggested the Little Blues. "You might
be taken by a person who had two pairs of stockings, and the others
might be chosen to be hung up. Such things do happen."
"Oh, they wouldn't happen to me, I think," said the White Pair
vaingloriously.
As it happened, the three pairs of stockings were all sold the very day
after this conversation, and all to one and the same person. This was
Mrs. Wendte, an Englishwoman married to a Dutch shipwright. She had
lived in Holland for some years after her marriage, but now she and her
husband lived in London. They had three children.
The stockings were very much pleased to be bought. When Job Tuke rolled
them up in paper and tied a stout packthread round them, they nestled
close, and squeezed each other with satisfaction. Besides, the joy of
being sold was the joy of keeping together and knowing about each
other's adventures.
The first of these adventures was not very exciting. It consisted in
being laid away in the back part of a bureau-drawer, and carefully
locked in.
"Now, what is this for?" questioned the White Stockings. "Are we to stay
here always?"
"Yes; that is just what I should like to know," grumbled the Big Grays.
"Why, of course not! Who ever heard of stockings being put away for
always?" said the wise Little Blues. "Wait patiently and we shall see. I
think it is some sort of a surprise."
But day after day passed and nothing happened, surprising or otherwise,
till even the philosophical Little Blue Stockings began to lose heart
and hope. At last, one evening they heard the key click in the lock of
the drawer, a stream of light flashed into their darkness, and they were
seized and drawn forth.
"Well, mother, let us see thy purchase. Truly fine hosen they are," said
Jacob Wendte, whose English was rather foreign.
"Yes," replied his wife. "Good, handsome stockings they are, and the
children will be glad, for their old ones are about worn out. The big
pair is for Wilhelm, as thou knowest. Those must hang to the right of
the stove."
The Big Gray Pair cast a triumphant glance at his companions as he found
himself suspended on a stout nail. This _was_ something like life!
"The white are for Greta, and these small ones for little Jan. Ah, they
are nice gifts indeed!" said Mrs. Wendte, rubbing her hands. "A fine
Christmas they will be for the children."
The stockings glowed with pleasure. Not only were they hung up to
contain presents, but they themselves were Christmas gifts! This was
promotion indeed.
"Hast thou naught else?" demanded Jacob Wendte of his wife.
"No great things; a kerchief for Greta, this comforter for Wilhelm, for
the little one, mittens. That is all."
But it was not quite all, for after her husband had gone to bed, Mrs.
Wendte, a tender look on her motherly face, sought out a small,
screwed-up paper, and with the air of one who is a little ashamed of
what she is doing, dropped into each stocking a something made of sugar.
They were not sugar almonds, they were not Salem Gibraltars,--which
delightful confections are unfamiliar to London shops,--but irregular
lumps of a nondescript character, which were crumbly and sweet, and
would be sure to please those who did not often get a taste of candy. It
was of little Jan that his mother had thought when she bought the
sweetmeats, and for his sake she had yielded to the temptation, though
she looked upon it as an extravagance. There were three of the
sweetmeats--two white, one pink--and the pink one went into Jan's
stockings. Mrs. Wendte had not said anything about them to her husband.
"Well, this is satisfactory," said the Gray Pair, when Mrs. Wendte had
left the room, and he was sure of not being overheard. "Here we are all
hanging together on Christmas Eve. My dream is accomplished."
"Mine isn't," said the White Pair plaintively. "I always hoped that I
should hold something valuable, like a watch or a pair of earrings. It
is rather a come-down to have nothing but a bit of candy inside, and a
pocket handkerchief pinned to my leg. I don't half like it. It gives me
an uncomfortable pricking sensation, like a stitch in the side."
"It's just as well for you to get used to it," put in the Gray. "It
doesn't prick as much as a darning-needle, I fancy, and you'll have to
get accustomed to that before long, as I've remarked before."
"I'm the only one who has a pink sweetmeat," said the Little Blues, who
couldn't help being pleased. "And I'm for a real child. Wilhelm and
Greta are more than half grown up."
"Real children are very hard on their stockings, I've always heard,"
retorted the White Pair, who never could resist the temptation to say a
disagreeable thing.
"That may be, but it is all in the future. This one night is my own, and
I mean to enjoy it," replied the contented Little Blues.