There are phases more vivid in
the commonplace lives of these men and women, I do not doubt:
love, as poignant as pain in its joy; crime, weak and foul and
foolish, like all crime; silent self- sacrifices: but I leave
them for you to paint; you will find colours enough in your own
house and heart.
As for Christmas-day, neither you nor I need try to do justice to
that theme: how the old school-master went about, bustling, his
thin face quite hot with enthusiasm, and muttering, "God bless my
soul!"--hardly recovered from the sudden delight of finding his
old pupil waiting for him when he went down in the morning; how
he insisted on being led by him, and nobody else, all day, and
before half an hour had confided, under solemn pledges of
secrecy, the great project of the book about Bertrand de Born;
how even easy Mrs. Howth found her hospitable Virginian blood in
a glow at the unexpected breakfast-guest,--settling into more
confident pleasure as dinner came on, for which success was
surer; how cold it was, outside; how Joel piled on great fires,
and went off on some mysterious errand, having "other chores to
do than idling and duddering;" how the day rose into a climax of
perfection at dinner-time, to Mrs. Howth's mind,--the turkey
being done to a delicious brown, the plum-pudding quivering like
luscious jelly (a Christian dinner to-day, if we starve the rest
of the year!). Even Dr. Knowles, who brought a great bouquet out
for the school-master, was in an unwonted good-humour; and Mr.
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