Red and Green
Dora and I shared but one Christmas as husband and wife. It is strange for me to think so now, but so it was. We were married in the spring – Christmas came – by next year, I was quite alone. But I do have many tender memories of that time, and no holiday passes for me, now, when I fail to think of the little foolish Christmas Dora and I spent in our poor cottage, and of one episode in particular which I shall try to relate, as I recall it, here.
I had been abashed to find that our bank account was not so full as I could have wished, as the end of the year began to come round and Dora began to chatter, merrily, about all the extensive Christmas plans, which I knew we couldn't possibly realize. We were to organize sleigh rides, and hold a little party and make cakes (she decided she would learn, and even ventured to say she might review the cookery book, for that occasion), and she would have a new dress, of course, and make the house beautiful, and buy all manner of lovely presents for everyone, especially (she said) Agnes. "I should like to have Christmas just exactly like I did at home, you know, Doady," she told me. "It was my most favorite time of year."
She looked up at me with such eager blue eyes, I admit I was a little angry with her – yes, angry, though I am ashamed to say so now. Didn't the poor girl know we barely had enough to pay our bills, even after I'd been paid for one or two Christmas stories I had written to supplement our income? Was she really requiring me to tell her this year's Christmas would be very different from the ones she remembered fondly, and so to break her heart?
I just agreed with her at first, but I slowly began to suggest we might have a rather simple Christmas the next times she picked up the subject.
"But Doady," she sulked, at last, pulling Jip's ears crossly, "what is the fun in that? We must have festivities."
"We also must eat, Dora, and keep warm," I reminded her. "And – I fear we cannot do both." At which statement she burst into tears, fervently, like a child, and I said no more for fear I should grieve her further.
Slowly, Dora became accustomed to this way of thought, and I was very proud of her for understanding. But I knew she also grew sadder, as the realization grew, and I felt monstrous for hurting her happiness, even though I knew it couldn't be helped.
A week or so before Christmas, though, she seemed in better spirits, and I wondered, could I, perhaps, follow the example Mr. Micawber had set me, those many years ago? "Perhaps we needn't have a beggar's Christmas," I considered. "We needn't abandon all ideas of fun or merriment." I therefore decided to stop off on my way home Christmas Eve, with a little goose, and a ham, and some red Christmas flowers which I believed would please my child-wife.
I was indeed expecting, I fear, a display of excitement from Dora at these offerings, but arriving home, I was surprised to find our parlor empty, and Dora missing entirely.
I wondered if she had gone to visit my aunt, but thought she would have told me if she had so intended, and I put down my bundles in our kitchen, in wonder. I stepped among our front rooms. "Dora?" I called. "Dora, my love, I'm home!"
Suddenly, I heard Jip begin to bark near the back of the house, and quickly leave off, as if he'd been silenced; and I decided to investigate immediately.
"Dora, where are you? What are you doing?"
"Nothing, Doady, my love!" Dora called, from our bedroom. "Don't come in!" she added, with a little scream, as I began to open the door – and I saw her two white arms (and only those) dart out in an effort to capture Jip, who, in a dash, wriggled out of the crack in the doorway. I quickly caught him up and found him in possession of a new red ribbon tied round his neck.
"Come now, Dora, what is the meaning of this foolishness?" I demanded.
"It's not foolish," she cried from behind the door, almost desperately, "only, I know you will be angry with me, but I couldn't help it!" I heard her burst into tears, and now more than a little unnerved, I let Jip down and opened the door to our chamber, unsure what to expect there. On the other side stood Dora, sobbing, in the loveliest green silk dress I ever saw, her pretty curls tumbling sadly over her shoulders. I was speechless for a moment, and Dora came into my arms and cried as though she expected me to beat her.
"My dear girl!" I cried, hugging her, and holding her away so I could look at her, in almost the same instant. "Dora, pray, tell me what is the matter?"
"It's new!" she wept – meaning the dress.
"I…I can see that. Are you upset because we hadn't the money, Dora?" Because I had already don't the calculations in my head, and knew that must be the case.
"No!" she sobbed. "I'm upset because you'll think I was foolish, Doady! But – but I didn't spend any extra money! I…I saved up my allowance because – because I wanted to buy you a watch, because you are so good – and then I went into the shop – and I saw this dress and – it was so lovely – I bought it instead for myself, Doady! And you you haven't any present at all! Only a foolish little wife (who did try to be good!) in a pretty dress! And what would you want with that?!"
"Oh, Dora," I said, softly, smoothing her hair to comfort her.
"It is pretty though?" she asked anxiously.
"It is beautiful. Pray, Dora, don't distress yourself. I don't need a pocketwatch." In fact, the one my aunt had given me was still running strong. "I only wish to see you happy, my love. That is all I need, truly."
She looked up at me through glistening eyes. :Oh, Doady, I tried to be good for you, because I want YOU to be happy!"
"Well I have a sweet wife, who, I find, looks lovely in green – and so I think I ought to be very content, and I am."
"So am I," she laughed, through her tears.
"And I brought home some things," I added, as I led her to the kitchen, and she let out a little squeal, and rushed to the red flowers, and kissed me many times over.
That evening, we sat by the fire, and she laid her head against my shoulder. "This Christmas is not like the old Christmases, Doady," she told me, thoughtfully. "And I thought I would be very sad, but you see, I am very, very happy."
I was very happy too, and told her so. I had but on such Christmas with her – I am sure our others would have been very happy too. But I must be contented with the memories, now – and I do remember that year, whenever I see a bouquet of red Christmas flowers, or a smiling young lady in a green silk dress.
-X-
Yes, I have many memories of past Christmases – holidays of my childhood, my adolescence, even times when I was a young man – and think myself immeasurably fortunate to have been surrounded by people who have made my history meaningful and bright. I count these memories among the greatest of my many blessings and gifts, and hope to make many more, at Christmas, and all through the year, with those people I love the most.
