"'TIS A LOVE TOKEN, I RECKON."
"It is in men as in soils--where sometimes there is a vein of gold
which the owner knows not of."--_Dean Swift_.
"Marcus, I have an idea."
Olivia had been sitting for some time in a brown study, staring into
the red caverns, where the yellow fire-elves were beating out their
rainbow gold on their glowing, hissing anvils.
It was in the gloaming, and the little sitting-room was warm and cosy.
Dot was on her mother's lap, toasting her pink toes gleefully, and
chuckling over them in baby fashion. And Marcus, who had finished his
day's work, had left off trying to read by the light of the flickering
flame, and was indulging in a furtive doze. He roused up when Olivia's
clear voice broke the silence.
"Marcus, do you hear me? I have such a nice plan."
"Is it a riddle?" he returned, lazily. "I give it up." Then he
contemplated his small daughter with much satisfaction. "I wonder none
of you advanced women have ever turned your attention to
baby-language," he observed presently; "we are studying the
ape-vocabulary, you know. Dot has got quite a little language of her
own. As far as I can make out each sentence is finished off with a
'gurgle-doe.' Something between the 'gobble, gobble' of a turkey and
the coo of the ring-dove. I suppose it all means something."
"Means something!" and Olivia kissed the little rings of curly hair
with passionate fondness. "Of course my girlie means something! I
understand her as well as possible. She is scolding the fire, because
it has burnt her dear little toes. Look, she is showing them to me.
Naughty fire, to burn my baby." And thereupon followed one of those
maternal and infantine duets, which appear such hopeless jargon to the
masculine mind.
To Marcus it had a lulling effect, his eyes began to blink drowsily
again, but Olivia, who had passed a solitary day, was not disposed for
silence.
"You are not a bit curious about my plan, dear," she said presently.
"I have been thinking so much of that sad, sad speech of Mr.
Gaythorne's yesterday. I cannot bear to think of him alone all
Christmas Day, with only the ghosts of happier years to haunt him."
"There is no need for him to be alone," returned Marcus, coolly. "He
could invite us to supper. Why don't you propose it, Livy? You seem
to say anything that comes into your head. A good bowl of steaming
punch would drive all the grey and black spirits away. I would
undertake to amuse him." But Olivia only looked at him rebukingly.
"Marcus, it is so tiresome that you will always joke when I want to be
serious. Now, do give me a straightforward answer, if you can. Shall
you have any visits to pay on Christmas Day?"
"My dear child, how can you expect me to answer in that off-hand way,
and without consulting my visiting list? Well, if you must know," as
Olivia uttered an impatient exclamation, "I shall have to go up to the
Models after tea, to see that poor woman who was confined yesterday.
The baby is not likely to live; and then I shall look in on Travers. I
don't suppose I shall be out more than an hour."
"Oh, that will do nicely," returned his wife, in a satisfied tone.
"Marcus, do you know, I have made up my mind to pay Mr. Gaythorne a
surprise visit on Christmas evening. We are always back by six, and I
know he does not dine until half-past seven. Do you think I dare
venture? You see, I have never been without an invitation yet."
"And you actually mean 'to beard the lion in his den, and Douglas in
his hall,'" spouted Marcus. And then, in his ordinary voice, "Well,
you might try it, if you like; but I should not be surprised if you got
snubbed. Christmas ghosts have a ghastly effect, and rub a man up the
wrong way."
"Oh, I will take my chance of that," returned Olivia, cheerfully. "Now
I will put Dot to bed, and leave you to finish your nap in peace."
"Thank goodness!" was on the tip of Marcus's tongue, but he refrained
and only curled himself up afresh in his easy-chair. He had sat up
late over his books the previous night, wasting lamp-oil and coals, as
his wife had remarked, rather severely, and the cold air, with a touch
of frost in it, had made him sleepy.
Olivia had been bristling all day, like a blissful porcupine, with
little plans and surprises: first, she had actually saved out of Aunt
Madge's Christmas gift enough money to buy Marcus another of
Thackeray's novels; last Christmas she had given him _The Newcomes_,
and this year she had fixed on _Esmond_.
Marcus was devoted to Thackeray, and thirsted for a complete set of his
works, but at present only _Vanity Fair_ and _The Newcomes_ were on his
modest bookshelves. Neither the husband nor wife thought it right to
spend even those few shillings on the purchase of books, when they
could make use of the Free Library.
The new copy of _Esmond_ looked decidedly inviting, with its clean,
uncut pages, and then there was really a handsome work-bag for Aunt
Madge, fashioned by Olivia's skilful fingers out of a yard of cretonne.
Olivia had already received her Christmas presents, and had nothing to
expect. Her new outfit, and Dot's pelisse, and Martha's wages were all
birthday and Christmas gifts. Nevertheless when Marcus came on
Christmas Eve to hang up their scanty store of holly, he was met by his
wife's excited face.
"Oh, Marcus!" she exclaimed, "I thought you would never come home;
there is such a hamper from Galvaston House, and I am waiting for you
to open it. And oh! do you know, dear, Aunt Madge has sent us some of
her delicious mince pies, and a Christmas cake!"
"She is a good old soul," returned Marcus, fervently. "By-the-bye,
Olive, could not we have supper earlier? for this sharp air--and it is
freezing hard, let me tell you--has made me as hungry as a hunter."
And as Olivia conceded this point graciously, he was induced to follow
her to the small kitchen, where Martha, all smiles and excitement,
awaited them.
Martha had her best dress on, for she was going round to her mother's
presently, with her little store of Christmas gifts: a red knitted
shawl for her mother and half a pound of tea, a comforter for her
father, and some warm cuffs for the boys, and gingerbread-nuts and some
oranges for the children, to which Olivia had added a bag of mixed
sweets.
Martha's round eyes widened with amazement when the hamper was opened,
and a plump turkey, and a fine York ham came to view; there were also
half a dozen bottles of old port-wine for Dr. Luttrell, with Mr.
Gaythorne's compliments, and a box of candied fruit and a jar of
preserved ginger for his wife.
"Oh, Marcus! is not this kind?" Olivia's voice was almost awe-struck;
her acquaintance with turkeys had hitherto been strictly limited to a
partial view of their limp bodies as they dangled above her in the
poulterers' shops; now her little larder would be filled to overflowing.
"Shall I step across and thank him, while you put those things away?"
suggested Marcus. And as Olivia agreed to this, he caught up his hat
and vanished.
When everything was safely stowed away, and Martha had been made
supremely happy by the gift of two mince pies for her mother, and had
trotted off red in the face with excitement, Olivia busied herself in
getting the supper ready. The unsightly remains of a cold shoulder of
mutton had been transformed into tempting rissoles. Olivia always
treated her husband to a hot supper on Christmas Eve. Potatoes cooked
in their coats, and a couple of Deborah's mince pies, finished off the
_menu_, to which Marcus did ample justice. Afterwards he hung up their
holly, and then Olivia fetched her work-basket, and Marcus went on with
the novel that he was reading aloud, and both of them looked at the
clock in amazement when Martha's modest ring told them the evening was
over.
When Marcus put on his new great-coat the next morning, he shrugged his
shoulders as he opened the front-door. Instead of the frost he had
expected, the icy coldness of the air and the heavy aspect of the
wintry sky were premonitory signs of a snow-storm.
"It is hardly fit for you to go out," he said, as Olivia joined him,
but she only smiled at him, her vigorous young strength was proof
against the cold.
"We must hurry, Marcus," she said, briskly, "or we shall be late, and I
want to enjoy my Christmas service," for she had already arranged to
take care of Dot during the morning, while Martha went to church.
Marcus had his rounds, and would fetch her in time for the early dinner
at Maybrick Villas.
The quiet service in the warm, well-lighted church was very soothing
and refreshing. As Olivia knelt beside her husband, her heart swelled
with thankfulness for countless blessings. "I have not deserved to be
so happy," she said to herself, as she thought of her two treasures.
Martha had breakfast ready for them on their return, and Olivia hurried
upstairs to take off her hat. She was just stepping into the
dining-room, when Marcus caught hold of her, and blindfolded her
playfully.
"No, you are not to look yet!" he said, teasingly. "There is a
surprise in store for you." But as he took his hands from her eyes,
she uttered a little cry of ecstasy.
On the breakfast-table, propped up with books, was a small framed
picture, the very cornfield, with the brown baby asleep under the
hedge, and the old terrier guarding it, that she had so admired. A
card, with Mr. Gaythorne's compliments and Christmas greeting, was
beside it.
"What do you think of your friend now, Livy?"
But Olivia seemed to have no answer ready, her lips trembled, and the
tears gathered in her bright eyes. Marcus, who was almost as pleased
as she was, patted her on the shoulder kindly, and bade her pour out
the coffee, but for a long time Olivia could not be induced to go on
with her breakfast.
"If only I could take it to show Aunt Madge!" she said at last. But
Marcus negatived this at once; the picture was heavy, and the damp,
cold air might injure it.
That was a happy morning to Olivia, as she played with Dot, and then
sang her to sleep. When Marcus came home he told her to wrap up as
warmly as possible. "The damp quite gets into one's bones," he said;
and even Olivia owned that it was disagreeably cold.
Aunt Madge received them with her usual kind welcome, but she looked at
her niece with a queer expression.
"Livy," she said, "I feel as though I were living in the days of
Aladdin and his wonderful lamp. I had to pinch myself this morning, to
be sure I was not dreaming. What do you think our dear old magician
has done now?" And as she pointed to the table beside her, Olivia saw
the picture of the ruined church, and the old shepherd in his tattered
smock. "'Tis a love token, I reckon," repeated Aunt Madge, but her
voice was not quite steady. As for Olivia, the tears were fairly
running down her face.
"Dear Aunt Madge, I do love him for this. What do you think, he has
sent me the picture of the cornfield that I described to you, and such
a hamper of good things!"
"Yes, and a brace of pheasants have come to me. Livy, do you know what
that picture means to me? I have just been feasting my eyes on it all
the morning. I mean to get an easel and stand it at the foot of my
couch, with that Indian scarf of mine just draped over it; won't it
cheer me up on one of my bad days when I can't read or work, and even
thinking is too hard for my poor head? ''Tis a love token, I reckon,'
I shall just say that to myself."
"Marcus, I shall have to pay that visit," observed Olivia, desperately.
"Oh, dear, if only we could do something in return for him! Don't
laugh at me, you tiresome boy; it is all very well for you, you are
doing him a good turn every day, that is why it is so grand to be a
doctor, but Aunt Madge and I want to have our share too."
"Take off your hat, Livy," interrupted Aunt Madge, "for I hear Deb
dishing up the dinner, and Marcus looks blue in the face with cold and
hunger." And at this reminder Olivia hurried.
Mrs. Broderick always gave them the same dinner, a roast fowl and a
piece of boiled ham, with plum pudding and mince pies to follow, but
Deborah's cookery always gave it a different and most delicious flavour.
When dinner was over they sat by the fire and roasted chestnuts, and
talked softly to each other, while Aunt Madge dozed. She roused up
when Deb brought in the tea-things, and chatted in her old bright way,
but Marcus's professional eyes detected lassitude, and in spite of her
entreaties took his wife away rather earlier than usual.
"Livy," observed Aunt Madge, as her niece stooped over her to kiss her,
"I have not been able to write a note of thanks to Mr. Gaythorne yet,
but will you tell him that I have not had such a Christmas gift as that
since my husband left me, and that I have been praying for him off and
on all day, that he may have his heart's desire--there, tell him
that----" And then she sank back wearily on her pillows.