Yes, a magnificent dinner, with no end of servants, who seemed to know that I couldn't have paid the wages of one of them, and plate and courses endless.I say, a miserable dinner, on the edge of which seemed to sit by permission of somebody, like an invited poor relation, who wishes he had sent a regret, and longing for some of those nice little dishes that Polly used to set before me with beaming face, in the dear old days.
And after dinner, and proper attention to the comfort for the night of our benefactor, there was the Blibgims's party.No long, confidential interviews, as heretofore, as to what she should wear and what I should wear, and whether it would do to wear it again.
And Polly went in one coach, and I in another.No crowding into the hired hack, with all the delightful care about tumbling dresses, and getting there in good order; and no coming home together to our little cozy cottage, in a pleasant, excited state of "flutteration,"and sitting down to talk it all over, and "Was n't it nice?" and "Did I look as well as anybody?" and "Of course you did to me," and all that nonsense.We lived in a grand way now, and had our separate establishments and separate plans, and I used to think that a real separation couldn't make matters much different.Not that Polly meant to be any different, or was, at heart; but, you know, she was so much absorbed in her new life of splendor, and perhaps I was a little old-fashioned.
I don't wonder at it now, as I look back.There was an army of dressmakers to see, and a world of shopping to do, and a houseful of servants to manage, and all the afternoon for calls, and her dear, dear friend, with the artless manners and merry heart of a girl, and the dignity and grace of a noble woman, the dear friend who lived in the house of the Seven Gables, to consult about all manner of im-portant things.I could not, upon my honor, see that there was any place for me, and I went my own way, not that there was much comfort in it.
And then I would rather have had charge of a hospital ward than take care of that uncle.Such coddling as he needed, such humoring of whims.And I am bound to say that Polly could n't have been more dutiful to him if he had been a Hindoo idol.She read to him and talked to him, and sat by him with her embroidery, and was patient with his crossness, and wearied herself, that I could see, with her devoted ministrations.
I fancied sometimes she was tired of it, and longed for the old homely simplicity.I was.Nepotism had no charms for me.There was nothing that I could get Polly that she had not.I could surprise her with no little delicacies or trifles, delightedly bought with money saved for the purpose.There was no more coming home weary with office work and being met at the door with that warm, loving welcome which the King of England could not buy.There was no long evening when we read alternately from some favorite book, or laid our deep housekeeping plans, rejoiced in a good bargain or made light of a poor one, and were contented and merry with little.I recalled with longing my little den, where in the midst of the literary disorder I love, I wrote those stories for the "Antarctic" which Polly, if nobody else, liked to read.There was no comfort for me in my magnificent library.We were all rich and in splendor, and our uncle had come from India.I wished, saving his soul, that the ship that brought him over had foundered off Barnegat Light.It would always have been a tender and regretful memory to both of us.And how sacred is the memory of such a loss!
Christmas? What delight could I have in long solicitude and ingenious devices touching a gift for Polly within my means, and hitting the border line between her necessities and her extravagant fancy? A drove of white elephants would n't have been good enough for her now, if each one carried a castle on his back.
"--and so they were married, and in their snug cottage lived happy ever after."--It was Polly's voice, as she closed the book.
"There, I don't believe you have heard a word of it," she said half complaininglv.
"Oh, yes, I have," I cried, starting up and giving the fire a jab with the poker; "I heard every word of it, except a few at the close I was thinking"--I stopped, and looked round.
"Why, Polly, where is the camel's-hair shawl?""Camel's-hair fiddlestick! Now I know you have been asleep for an hour."And, sure enough, there was n't anv camel's-hair shawl there, nor any uncle, nor were there any Hindoos at our windows.
And then I told Polly all about it; how her uncle came back, and we were rich and lived in a palace and had no end of money, but she didn't seem to have time to love me in it all, and all the comfort of the little house was blown away as by the winter wind.And Polly vowed, half in tears, that she hoped her uncle never would come back, and she wanted nothing that we had not, and she wouldn't exchange our independent comfort and snug house, no, not for anybody's mansion.
And then and there we made it all up, in a manner too particular for me to mention; and I never, to this day, heard Polly allude to My Uncle in India.
And then, as the clock struck eleven, we each produced from the place where we had hidden them the modest Christmas gifts we had prepared for each other, and what surprise there was! "Just the thing Ineeded." And, "It's perfectly lovely." And, "You should n't have done it." And, then, a question I never will answer, "Ten? fifteen?
five? twelve?" "My dear, it cost eight hundred dollars, for I have put my whole year into it, and I wish it was a thousand times better."And so, when the great iron tongue of the city bell swept over the snow the twelve strokes that announced Christmas day, if there was anywhere a happier home than ours, I am glad of it!
BADDECK AND THAT SORT OF THING
PREFACE
TO JOSEPH H.TWICHELL
