Seated before the fire, with her sewing on her lap, Susan Swallowtail’s thoughts went back to the days when William, then on the threshold of his career as a Society reporter, had first won her young heart by his description of her costume at the ball[Pg 232] of the “Ladies’ Daughters’ Association of the Ninth Ward3.” She remembered how gallantly4 and tenderly he had wooed her through the columns of the four weekly and Sunday papers in which he conducted the “Fashion Chit-chat” columns, and then the tears filled her eyes as memory brought once more before her the terrible night when William came to the house and asked her father, the stern old house and sign painter, for his daughter’s hand.
“And yet,” said Susan to herself, “my life has not been altogether an unhappy one in spite of our poverty. William has a kind heart, and I am sure that if he had anything to wear besides his dress-suit and flannel5 dressing-gown he would often brighten my lot by taking me out somewhere in the daytime. Ah, if papa would only relent! But I fear he will never forgive me for my marriage.”
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of familiar footsteps in the hall,[Pg 233] and the next moment her husband had clasped her in his arms, while the children clung to his ulster and clamored for their early morning kiss.
But there was a cloud on the young husband’s brow and a tremor6 on his lips as he said, “Run away now, little ones; papa and mama have something to say to each other that little ears must not hear.”
“My darling,” he said, as soon as they were alone, “I fear that our Christmas will not be a very merry one. You know how we always depend on the ball of the Gilt-edged Coterie7 for our Christmas dinner?”
“Indeed I do,” replied the young wife, with a bright smile: “what beautiful slices of roast beef and magnificent mince-pies you always bring home from that ball! Surely they will give their entertainment on Christmas eve this year as they always have?”
[Pg 234]“Yes, but—can you bear to hear it, my own love?”
“Let me know the worst,” said the young wife, bravely.
“Then,” said William, hoarsely8, “I will tell you. I am not going to that ball. The city editor is going to take the assignment himself, and I must go to a literary and artistic9 gathering10, where there will be nothing but tea and recitations.”
“Yes,” said Susan, bitterly, “and sandwiches so thin that they can be used to watch the eclipse of the sun. But what have you brought back with you now? I hope it is something nourishing.”
“My darling,” replied William Swallowtail, in faltering11 tones, “I fear you are doomed12 to another disappointment. I have done my best to-night, but this is all I could get my hands on;” and with these words he drew from the pockets of his heavy woolen13 ulster a paper bag filled[Pg 235] with wine jelly, a box of marrons glacés, and two pint14 bottles of champagne15.
“Is that all?” said Susan, reproachfully. “The children have had nothing to eat since yesterday morning except patés de foie gras, macaroons, and hothouse grapes. All day long they have been crying for corned-beef sandwiches, and I have had none to give them. You told me, William, when we parted in the early evening, that you were going to a house where there would be at least ham, and perhaps bottled beer, and now you return to me with this paltry16 package of jelly and that very sweet wine. I hope, William”—and a cold, hard look of suspicion crept into her face—“that you have not forgotten your vows17 and given to another—”
“Susan!” cried William Swallowtail, “how can you speak or even think of such a thing, when you know full well that—”
But Susan withdrew from his embrace,[Pg 236] and asked in bitter, cold accents, “Was there ham at that reception or was there not?”
“There was ham, and corned beef too. I will not deny it; but—”
“Then, William, with what woman have you shared it?” demanded the young wife, drawing herself up to her full height, and fixing her dark, flashing eyes full upon him.
“Susan, I implore18 you, listen to me, and do not judge me too harshly. There was ham, but there were several German noblemen there too—Baron Sneeze of the Austrian legation, Count Pretzel, and a dozen more. The smell of meat inflamed19 them, and I fought my way through them in time to save only this from the wreck20.”
He drew from his ulster-pocket something done up in a piece of paper, and handed it to his wife. She opened the package and saw that it contained what[Pg 237] looked like a long piece of very highly polished ivory. Then her face softened21, her lips trembled, and her eyes brimmed over with tears. “Forgive me, William, for my unjust suspicions,” she exclaimed, as she threw herself once more into his arms. “This mute ham-bone tells me far more strongly than any words of yours could the story of the Society reporter’s awful struggle for life.”
William kissed his young wife affectionately, and then sat down to the breakfast which she had prepared for him.
“I hope,” she said, cheerfully, as she took a dish of lobster22 salad from the oven, where it had been warmed over, “that you will keep a sharp lookout23 for quail24 this week. It would be nice to have one or two for our Christmas dinner. Of course we cannot afford corned beef and cabbage like those rich people whom you call by their first names when you write about them in the Sunday papers; but I[Pg 238] do hope we will not be obliged to put up with cakes and pastry25 and such wretched stuff.”
“Quail!” exclaimed her husband; “they are so scarce and shy this winter that we are obliged to take setter-dogs with us to the entertainments at which they are served. But I will do my best, darling.”
As soon as William had gone to bed Susan took from its hiding-place the present which she had prepared for her husband, and proceeded to sew it to the inside of his ulster as a Christmas surprise for him. She sighed to think that it was the best she could afford this year. It was a useful rather than an ornamental26 gift—a simple rubber pocket, made from a piece of an old mackintosh, and intended for William to carry soup in.
But Susan had a bright, hopeful spirit, and a smile soon smoothed the furrows27 from her face as she murmured, “How nice it will be when William comes home[Pg 239] with his new pocket filled with nice, warm, nourishing bouillon!” and then she glanced up from her work and saw that her daughter, little golden-haired Eva, had entered the room and was looking at her out of her great, truthful28, deep-blue eyes.
It was Christmas eve, and as Jacob Scaffold trudged29 through the frosty streets the keen air brought a ruddy glow to his cheeks and tipped his nose with a brighter carmine30 than any that he used in the practice of his art. Entering the hall in which the ball of the Gilt-edged Coterie was taking place, the proud old house and sign painter quickly divested31 himself of his outer wraps and made his way to the committee-room.
Then, adorned32 with a huge badge and streamer, he strolled out to greet his friends, who were making merry on the polished floor of the ball-room. But although[Pg 240] the band played its most stirring measures and the lights gleamed on arms and necks of dazzling whiteness, old Jacob Scaffold sighed deeply as he seated himself in a rather obscure corner and allowed his eyes to roam about the room as if in search of some familiar face.
The fact was that the haughty33, purse-proud old man was thinking of another Christmas eve ten years before when his daughter Susan had danced at this same ball, the brightest, the prettiest, and the most sought-after girl on the floor.
“And to think,” said the old man to himself, “that, with all the opportunities she had to make a good match, she should have taken up with that reporter in the shiny dress-suit! It’s five years since I’ve heard anything of her, but of late I’ve been thinking that maybe I was too harsh with her, and perhaps—”
His thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of a servant, who told him that[Pg 241] some one desired to see him in the committee-room. On reaching that apartment he found a little girl of perhaps eight years of age, plainly clad, and carrying a basket in her hand. Fixing her eyes on Jacob Scaffold, she said:
“Please, sir, are you the chairman of the press committee?”
“I am,” replied the puzzled artist; “but who are you?”
“I am the reporter of the Sunday Guff. My papa has charge of the ‘What the Four Hundred are Doing’ column, but to-night he is obliged to attend a chromo-literary reception, where there will be nothing to eat but tea and cake. Papa has reported your balls and chowder excursions for the past five years, and we have always had ham for dessert for a week afterward34. We had all been looking forward to your Christmas-eve ball, and when papa told us that he would have to go to the tea and cake place to-night[Pg 242] mama felt so badly that I took papa’s ticket out of his pocket when he was asleep and came here myself. Papa has a thick ulster, full of nice big pockets, that he puts on when he goes out to report, but I have brought a basket.”
The child finished her simple and affecting narrative35, and the members of the press committee looked at one another dumfounded. Jacob Scaffold was the first to break the silence.
“And what is your name, little child?” he inquired.
“Eva Swallowtail,” she answered, as she turned a pair of trusting, innocent blue eyes full upon him.
The old man grew pale and his lips trembled as he gathered his grandchild in his arms. The other members of the committee softly left the room, for they all knew the story of Susan Scaffold’s mésalliance and her father’s bitter feelings toward her and her husband.
“What!” cried Jacob Scaffold, “my grandchild wanting bread? Come to me, little one, and we’ll see what can be done for you.”
And putting on his heavy ulster he took little Eva by the hand and led the way to the great thoroughfare, on which the stores were still open.
It was a happy family party that sat down to dinner in William Swallowtail’s humble home that bright Christmas day, and well did the little ones enjoy the treat which their generous new-found grandparent provided for them. They began with a soup made of wine jelly, and ended with a delicious dessert of corned-beef sandwiches and large German pickles36; and then, when they could eat no more, and not even a pork pie could tempt37 their appetites, Grandpa Scaffold told his daughter that he was willing to lift his son-in-law from the hard and[Pg 244] ill-paid labor38 of writing Society chronicles, and give him a chance to better himself with a whitewash39 brush. “And,” continued the old man, “if I see that he possesses true artistic talent, I will some day give him a chance at the side of a house.”
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1
parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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gallantly
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| adv. 漂亮地，勇敢地，献殷勤地 | |
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flannel
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| n.法兰绒；法兰绒衣服 | |
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6
tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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7
coterie
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| n.(有共同兴趣的)小团体，小圈子 | |
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hoarsely
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| adv.嘶哑地 | |
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artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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faltering
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| 犹豫的，支吾的，蹒跚的 | |
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12
doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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woolen
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| adj.羊毛(制)的；毛纺的 | |
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14
pint
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| n.品脱 | |
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champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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16
paltry
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| adj.无价值的，微不足道的 | |
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17
vows
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| 誓言( vow的名词复数 )； 郑重宣布，许愿 | |
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18
implore
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| vt.乞求，恳求，哀求 | |
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19
inflamed
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| adj.发炎的，红肿的v.（使）变红，发怒，过热( inflame的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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20
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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21
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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22
lobster
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| n.龙虾，龙虾肉 | |
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23
lookout
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| n.注意，前途，瞭望台 | |
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24
quail
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| n.鹌鹑；vi.畏惧，颤抖 | |
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25
pastry
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| n.油酥面团，酥皮糕点 | |
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ornamental
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| adj.装饰的；作装饰用的；n.装饰品；观赏植物 | |
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27
furrows
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| n.犁沟( furrow的名词复数 )；（脸上的）皱纹v.犁田，开沟( furrow的第三人称单数 ) | |
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28
truthful
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| adj.真实的，说实话的，诚实的 | |
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29
trudged
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| vt.& vi.跋涉，吃力地走（trudge的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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30
carmine
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| n.深红色，洋红色 | |
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31
divested
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| v.剥夺( divest的过去式和过去分词 )；脱去（衣服）；2。从…取去…；1。（给某人）脱衣服 | |
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32
adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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34
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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35
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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36
pickles
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| n.腌菜( pickle的名词复数 )；处于困境；遇到麻烦；菜酱 | |
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37
tempt
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| vt.引诱，勾引，吸引，引起…的兴趣 | |
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38
labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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39
whitewash
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| v.粉刷，掩饰；n.石灰水，粉刷，掩饰 | |
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