“I’m one of this family just as much as Felicity is,” she said, with as much indignation as Cecily could feel, “and I don’t think she need shut me out of everything. When I wanted to stone the raisins6 for the mince-meat she said, no, she would do it herself, because Christmas mince-meat was very particular—as if I couldn’t stone raisins right! The airs Felicity puts on about her cooking just make me sick,” concluded Cecily wrathfully.
“It’s a pity she doesn’t make a mistake in cooking once in a while herself,” I said. “Then maybe she wouldn’t think she knew so much more than other people.”
All parcels that came in the mail from distant friends were taken charge of by Aunts Janet and Olivia, not to be opened until the great day of the feast itself. How slowly the last week passed! But even watched pots will boil in the fulness of time, and finally Christmas day came, gray and dour7 and frost-bitten without, but full of revelry and rose-red mirth within. Uncle Roger and Aunt Olivia and the Story Girl came over early for the day; and Peter came too, with his shining, morning face, to be hailed with joy, for we had been afraid that Peter would not be able to spend Christmas with us. His mother had wanted him home with her.
“Of course I ought to go,” Peter had told me mournfully, “but we won’t have turkey for dinner, because ma can’t afford it. And ma always cries on holidays because she says they make her think of father. Of course she can’t help it, but it ain’t cheerful. Aunt Jane wouldn’t have cried. Aunt Jane used to say she never saw the man who was worth spoiling her eyes for. But I guess I’ll have to spend Christmas at home.”
At the last moment, however, a cousin of Mrs. Craig’s in Charlottetown invited her for Christmas, and Peter, being given his choice of going or staying, joyfully8 elected to stay. So we were all together, except Sara Ray, who had been invited but whose mother wouldn’t let her come.
“Sara Ray’s mother is a nuisance,” snapped the Story Girl. “She just lives to make that poor child miserable9, and she won’t let her go to the party tonight, either.”
“It is just breaking Sara’s heart that she can’t,” said Cecily compassionately10. “I’m almost afraid I won’t enjoy myself for thinking of her, home there alone, most likely reading the Bible, while we’re at the party.”
“She might be worse occupied than reading the Bible,” said Felicity rebukingly11.
“But Mrs. Ray makes her read it as a punishment,” protested Cecily. “Whenever Sara cries to go anywhere—and of course she’ll cry tonight—Mrs. Ray makes her read seven chapters in the Bible. I wouldn’t think that would make her very fond of it. And I’ll not be able to talk the party over with Sara afterwards—and that’s half the fun gone.”
“You can tell her all about it,” comforted Felix.
“Telling isn’t a bit like talking it over,” retorted Cecily. “It’s too one-sided.”
We had an exciting time opening our presents. Some of us had more than others, but we all received enough to make us feel comfortably that we were not unduly12 neglected in the matter. The contents of the box which the Story Girl’s father had sent her from Paris made our eyes stick out. It was full of beautiful things, among them another red silk dress—not the bright, flame-hued tint13 of her old one, but a rich, dark crimson14, with the most distracting flounces and bows and ruffles17; and with it were little red satin slippers18 with gold buckles19, and heels that made Aunt Janet hold up her hands in horror. Felicity remarked scornfully that she would have thought the Story Girl would get tired wearing red so much, and even Cecily commented apart to me that she thought when you got so many things all at once you didn’t appreciate them as much as when you only got a few.
“I’d never get tired of red,” said the Story Girl. “I just love it—it’s so rich and glowing. When I’m dressed in red I always feel ever so much cleverer than in any other colour. Thoughts just crowd into my brain one after the other. Oh, you darling dress—you dear, sheeny, red-rosy, glistening20, silky thing!”
She flung it over her shoulder and danced around the kitchen.
“Don’t be silly, Sara,” said Aunt Janet, a little stimy. She was a good soul, that Aunt Janet, and had a kind, loving heart in her ample bosom21. But I fancy there were times when she thought it rather hard that the daughter of a roving adventurer—as she considered him—like Blair Stanley should disport22 herself in silk dresses, while her own daughters must go clad in gingham and muslin—for those were the days when a feminine creature got one silk dress in her lifetime, and seldom more than one.
The Story Girl also got a present from the Awkward Man—a little, shabby, worn volume with a great many marks on the leaves.
“Why, it isn’t new—it’s an old book!” exclaimed Felicity. “I didn’t think the Awkward Man was mean, whatever else he was.”
“Oh, you don’t understand, Felicity,” said the Story Girl patiently. “And I don’t suppose I can make you understand. But I’ll try. I’d ten times rather have this than a new book. It’s one of his own, don’t you see—one that he has read a hundred times and loved and made a friend of. A new book, just out of a shop, wouldn’t be the same thing at all. It wouldn’t MEAN anything. I consider it a great compliment that he has given me this book. I’m prouder of it than of anything else I’ve got.”
“Well, you’re welcome to it,” said Felicity. “I don’t understand and I don’t want to. I wouldn’t give anybody a Christmas present that wasn’t new, and I wouldn’t thank anybody who gave me one.”
Peter was in the seventh heaven because Felicity had given him a present—and, moreover, one that she had made herself. It was a bookmark of perforated cardboard, with a gorgeous red and yellow worsted goblet23 worked on it, and below, in green letters, the solemn warning, “Touch Not The Cup.” As Peter was not addicted24 to habits of intemperance25, not even to looking on dandelion wine when it was pale yellow, we did not exactly see why Felicity should have selected such a device. But Peter was perfectly26 satisfied, so nobody cast any blight27 on his happiness by carping criticism. Later on Felicity told me she had worked the bookmark for him because his father used to drink before he ran away.
“I thought Peter ought to be warned in time,” she said.
Even Pat had a ribbon of blue, which he clawed off and lost half an hour after it was tied on him. Pat did not care for vain adornments of the body.
We had a glorious Christmas dinner, fit for the halls of Lucullus, and ate far more than was good for us, none daring to make us afraid on that one day of the year. And in the evening—oh, rapture28 and delight!—we went to Kitty Marr’s party.
It was a fine December evening; the sharp air of morning had mellowed31 until it was as mild as autumn. There had been no snow, and the long fields, sloping down from the homestead, were brown and mellow30. A weird32, dreamy stillness had fallen on the purple earth, the dark fir woods, the valley rims15, the sere33 meadows. Nature seemed to have folded satisfied hands to rest, knowing that her long wintry slumber34 was coming upon her.
At first, when the invitations to the party had come, Aunt Janet had said we could not go; but Uncle Alec interceded35 in our favour, perhaps influenced thereto by Cecily’s wistful eyes. If Uncle Alec had a favourite among his children it was Cecily, and he had grown even more indulgent towards her of late. Now and then I saw him looking at her intently, and, following his eyes and thought, I had, somehow, seen that Cecily was paler and thinner than she had been in the summer, and that her soft eyes seemed larger, and that over her little face in moments of repose36 there was a certain languor37 and weariness that made it very sweet and pathetic. And I heard him tell Aunt Janet that he did not like to see the child getting so much the look of her Aunt Felicity.
“Cecily is perfectly well,” said Aunt Janet sharply. “She’s only growing very fast. Don’t be foolish, Alec.”
But after that Cecily had cups of cream where the rest of us got only milk; and Aunt Janet was very particular to see that she had her rubbers on whenever she went out.
On this merry Christmas evening, however, no fears or dim foreshadowings of any coming event clouded our hearts or faces. Cecily looked brighter and prettier than I had ever seen her, with her softly shining eyes and the nut brown gloss38 of her hair. Felicity was too beautiful for words; and even the Story Girl, between excitement and the crimson silk array, blossomed out with a charm and allurement39 more potent40 than any regular loveliness—and this in spite of the fact that Aunt Olivia had tabooed the red satin slippers and mercilessly decreed that stout41 shoes should be worn.
“I know just how you feel about it, you daughter of Eve,” she said, with gay sympathy, “but December roads are damp, and if you are going to walk to Marrs’ you are not going to do it in those frivolous42 Parisian concoctions43, even with overboots on; so be brave, dear heart, and show that you have a soul above little red satin shoes.”
“Anyhow,” said Uncle Roger, “that red silk dress will break the hearts of all the feminine small fry at the party. You’d break their spirits, too, if you wore the slippers. Don’t do it, Sara. Leave them one wee loophole of enjoyment44.”
“What does Uncle Roger mean?” whispered Felicity.
“I am not of a jealous disposition,” said Felicity loftily, “and she’s entirely46 welcome to the dress—with a complexion47 like that.”
But we enjoyed that party hugely, every one of us. And we enjoyed the walk home afterwards, through dim, enshadowed fields where silvery star-beams lay, while Orion trod his stately march above us, and a red moon climbed up the black horizon’s rim16. A brook48 went with us part of the way, singing to us through the dark—a gay, irresponsible vagabond of valley and wilderness49.
Felicity and Peter walked not with us. Peter’s cup must surely have brimmed over that Christmas night. When we left the Marr house, he had boldly said to Felicity, “May I see you home?” And Felicity, much to our amazement50, had taken his arm and marched off with him. The primness51 of her was indescribable, and was not at all ruffled52 by Dan’s hoot53 of derision. As for me, I was consumed by a secret and burning desire to ask the Story Girl if I might see HER home; but I could not screw my courage to the sticking point. How I envied Peter his easy, insouciant54 manner! I could not emulate55 him, so Dan and Felix and Cecily and the Story Girl and I all walked hand in hand, huddling56 a little closer together as we went through James Frewen’s woods—for there are strange harps57 in a fir grove58, and who shall say what fingers sweep them? Mighty59 and sonorous60 was the music above our heads as the winds of the night stirred the great boughs61 tossing athwart the starlit sky. Perhaps it was that aeolian harmony which recalled to the Story Girl a legend of elder days.
“I read such a pretty story in one of Aunt Olivia’s books last night,” she said. “It was called ‘The Christmas Harp29.’ Would you like to hear it? It seems to me it would just suit this part of the road.”
“There isn’t anything about—about ghosts in it, is there?” said Cecily timidly.
“Oh, no, I wouldn’t tell a ghost story here for anything. I’d frighten myself too much. This story is about one of the shepherds who saw the angels on the first Christmas night. He was just a youth, and he loved music with all his heart, and he longed to be able to express the melody that was in his soul. But he could not; he had a harp and he often tried to play on it; but his clumsy fingers only made such discord62 that his companions laughed at him and mocked him, and called him a madman because he would not give it up, but would rather sit apart by himself, with his arms about his harp, looking up into the sky, while they gathered around their fire and told tales to wile63 away their long night vigils as they watched their sheep on the hills. But to him the thoughts that came out of the great silence were far sweeter than their mirth; and he never gave up the hope, which sometimes left his lips as a prayer, that some day he might be able to express those thoughts in music to the tired, weary, forgetful world. On the first Christmas night he was out with his fellow shepherds on the hills. It was chill and dark, and all, except him, were glad to gather around the fire. He sat, as usual, by himself, with his harp on his knee and a great longing64 in his heart. And there came a marvellous light in the sky and over the hills, as if the darkness of the night had suddenly blossomed into a wonderful meadow of flowery flame; and all the shepherds saw the angels and heard them sing. And as they sang, the harp that the young shepherd held began to play softly by itself, and as he listened to it he realized that it was playing the same music that the angels sang and that all his secret longings65 and aspirations66 and strivings were expressed in it. From that night, whenever he took the harp in his hands, it played the same music; and he wandered all over the world carrying it; wherever the sound of its music was heard hate and discord fled away and peace and good-will reigned67. No one who heard it could think an evil thought; no one could feel hopeless or despairing or bitter or angry. When a man had once heard that music it entered into his soul and heart and life and became a part of him for ever. Years went by; the shepherd grew old and bent68 and feeble; but still he roamed over land and sea, that his harp might carry the message of the Christmas night and the angel song to all mankind. At last his strength failed him and he fell by the wayside in the darkness; but his harp played as his spirit passed; and it seemed to him that a Shining One stood by him, with wonderful starry69 eyes, and said to him, ‘Lo, the music thy harp has played for so many years has been but the echo of the love and sympathy and purity and beauty in thine own soul; and if at any time in the wanderings thou hadst opened the door of that soul to evil or envy or selfishness thy harp would have ceased to play. Now thy life is ended; but what thou hast given to mankind has no end; and as long as the world lasts, so long will the heavenly music of the Christmas harp ring in the ears of men.’ When the sun rose the old shepherd lay dead by the roadside, with a smile on his face; and in his hands was a harp with all its strings70 broken.”
We left the fir woods as the tale was ended, and on the opposite hill was home. A dim light in the kitchen window betokened71 that Aunt Janet had no idea of going to bed until all her young fry were safely housed for the night.
“Ma’s waiting up for us,” said Dan. “I’d laugh if she happened to go to the door just as Felicity and Peter were strutting72 up. I guess she’ll be cross. It’s nearly twelve.”
“Christmas will soon be over,” said Cecily, with a sigh. “Hasn’t it been a nice one? It’s the first we’ve all spent together. Do you suppose we’ll ever spend another together?”
“Lots of ‘em,” said Dan cheerily. “Why not?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” answered Cecily, her footsteps lagging somewhat. “Only things seem just a little too pleasant to last.”
“If Willy Fraser had had as much spunk73 as Peter, Miss Cecily King mightn’t be so low spirited,” quoth Dan, significantly.
Cecily tossed her head and disdained74 reply. There are really some remarks a self-respecting young lady must ignore.
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1
penurious
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| adj.贫困的 | |
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hoards
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| n.（钱财、食物或其他珍贵物品的）储藏，积存( hoard的名词复数 )v.积蓄并储藏（某物）( hoard的第三人称单数 ) | |
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smuggled
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| 水货 | |
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consultations
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| n.磋商（会议）( consultation的名词复数 )；商讨会；协商会；查找 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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raisins
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| n.葡萄干( raisin的名词复数 ) | |
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dour
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| adj.冷酷的，严厉的；（岩石）嶙峋的；顽强不屈 | |
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joyfully
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| adv. 喜悦地, 高兴地 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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compassionately
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| adv.表示怜悯地，有同情心地 | |
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rebukingly
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unduly
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| adv.过度地，不适当地 | |
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tint
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| n.淡色，浅色；染发剂；vt.着以淡淡的颜色 | |
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crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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rims
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| n.（圆形物体的）边( rim的名词复数 )；缘；轮辋；轮圈 | |
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rim
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| n.(圆物的)边，轮缘；边界 | |
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ruffles
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| 褶裥花边( ruffle的名词复数 ) | |
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slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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buckles
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| 搭扣，扣环( buckle的名词复数 ) | |
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glistening
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| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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disport
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| v.嬉戏，玩 | |
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goblet
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| n.高脚酒杯 | |
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addicted
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| adj.沉溺于....的，对...上瘾的 | |
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intemperance
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| n.放纵 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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blight
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| n.枯萎病；造成破坏的因素；vt.破坏，摧残 | |
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rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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harp
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| n.竖琴；天琴座 | |
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mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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mellowed
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| （使）成熟( mellow的过去式和过去分词 )； 使色彩更加柔和，使酒更加醇香 | |
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weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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sere
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| adj.干枯的；n.演替系列 | |
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slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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interceded
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| v.斡旋，调解( intercede的过去式和过去分词 )；说情 | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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languor
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| n.无精力，倦怠 | |
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gloss
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| n.光泽，光滑；虚饰；注释；vt.加光泽于；掩饰 | |
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allurement
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| n.诱惑物 | |
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potent
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| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
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frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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concoctions
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| n.编造，捏造，混合物( concoction的名词复数 ) | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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51
primness
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| n.循规蹈矩，整洁 | |
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52
ruffled
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| adj. 有褶饰边的, 起皱的 动词ruffle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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53
hoot
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| n.鸟叫声，汽车的喇叭声； v.使汽车鸣喇叭 | |
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54
insouciant
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| adj.不在意的 | |
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55
emulate
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| v.努力赶上或超越，与…竞争；效仿 | |
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56
huddling
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| n. 杂乱一团, 混乱, 拥挤 v. 推挤, 乱堆, 草率了事 | |
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57
harps
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| abbr.harpsichord 拨弦古钢琴n.竖琴( harp的名词复数 ) | |
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58
grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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60
sonorous
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| adj.响亮的，回响的；adv.圆润低沉地；感人地；n.感人，堂皇 | |
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boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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discord
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| n.不和，意见不合，争论，（音乐）不和谐 | |
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wile
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| v.诡计，引诱；n.欺骗，欺诈 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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longings
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| 渴望，盼望( longing的名词复数 ) | |
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aspirations
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| 强烈的愿望( aspiration的名词复数 )； 志向； 发送气音； 发 h 音 | |
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reigned
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| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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68
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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starry
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| adj.星光照耀的, 闪亮的 | |
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70
strings
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| n.弦 | |
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71
betokened
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| v.预示，表示( betoken的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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72
strutting
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| 加固，支撑物 | |
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73
spunk
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| n.勇气，胆量 | |
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74
disdained
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| 鄙视( disdain的过去式和过去分词 )； 不屑于做，不愿意做 | |
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