The Village by the River Part 24

"Miss Kitty, my dear, what do you think has happened? The waters are out, and the river is turned into a great big lake, and the houses are standing out of it like little dots. It all looks so funny; shall I lift you out to see?"

But Kitty had buried her head under the clothes, and was sobbing quietly to herself. No mention was made of the Christmas tree in her prayers that morning, and the prayers themselves were very perfunctory indeed--said more from the force of habit than because she had any faith in their efficacy. True, the rain had ceased now, but what was the good of that now the flood had come? And the worst of it was that she could not talk this matter out to daddy; he would think her dreadfully wicked. So it was a very white-faced Kitty that presented herself at the breakfast-table, and she received her father's a.s.surance that her tree should not be abandoned, but only delayed, with a watery, quivering smile.

"And I shall be so busy all the morning," went on Mr. Curzon, cheerfully. "You see, lots of the cottages are cut off from communication with the outside world, and the children will be hungry and wanting their breakfasts and dinners; so I must be off to see what I can do with carts or boats, according to the depth of the water."

This was rather exciting; and Kitty spent her morning with her chair drawn close to the window, which commanded the best view of the village, and saw carts drawn by pairs of horses splas.h.i.+ng along to some of the cottages. And to one cottage, standing alone in a low-lying field, she saw a boat making its way; she was almost sure that the man who rowed it was her friend Mr. Paul. Later in the morning he paid her a visit, with a red colour in his face and a cheery ring in his voice.

"I could not get up before, Kitty. We have had such a lot to do, Sally and I, taking round supplies to the people who are flooded. Everybody is in quite good spirits--indeed, some of the children are thinking it first-rate fun."

At the mention of the children Kitty broke down helplessly, and sobbed aloud.

"Dear me! And I have had such a lot of water all the morning, I did not expect a shower-bath here. What time do you expect Sally and me?

How long will it take to light up that blessed tree?"

Kitty uncovered one eye; Mr. Paul must be dreaming.

"I can't have it, you see."

"Who said so? Sally and I have been planning all the morning how we shall order out all my waggons, and go round and fetch your guests--only you must not have the tree too late, or else we might lose our way in taking them home again."

Kitty's joy could only find expressions in incoherent exclamations of delight.

"It's wonderfully kind of you," said the rector, who appeared at that moment, and gradually gathered from Kitty what Paul proposed to do.

"It seems a pity the thing should be put off," Paul answered a little awkwardly.

Perhaps no act of the squire's won such universal approbation as the spirited manner in which he carried through Miss Kitty's tree.

"You would not have thought as he was one to care about the little ones," said Mrs. Macdonald to Sally.

"And I don't think, honestly, that he is," Sally answered--"with the exception of Kitty Curzon; his devotion to her is something quite astonis.h.i.+ng."

The tree had been, happily, trimmed the day before, and nothing therefore remained but for the guests to appear. One or two had to be fetched in a boat, and the cottage in the field had a special voyage to itself. There was a little child there that was a particular friend of Kitty's.

"It's very good of you to come, sir, but I'm not sure as I can let Jenny go; she's been ailing all day," said the smiling mother, looking out at Paul from an upstairs window. "She's felt the damp a bit. The water's begun to go down already. We'll be able to get downstairs again to-morrow; but, as I was saying to my mate, it will be the queerest Christmas Day we've ever spent."

"Yes, indeed," said Paul, hurriedly, anxious to cut short the disconnected speech; "but I think you must let me have Jenny, Mrs.

Weldon. She's such a great friend of Kitty's, and we shall not have any more rain for the present. Put on an extra shawl. It will be fine fun for Jenny to have a ride in a boat."

So Jenny, wrapped up so that only her eyes were visible, was handed out; and Paul rowed her across the field that separated her from dry land, popping her into a cart that waited on the far side.

Sally, meanwhile, was at the school arranging the children as they arrived, whilst Kitty's carriage was drawn up close to the tree, which was veiled under a sheet. Jenny Weldon was the last to arrive, and, when duly uncloaked, was given a place close to Kitty.

Then followed the lighting of the tree; and the dancing eyes of the children watched the process with untold delight. Joining hands they walked round it singing a quaint old Christmas carol, led by the rector's strong sonorous voice; and finally came the distribution of the presents.

Paul, as he stood quietly at the back of the room, thought the scene a pretty one. It was a beautiful tradition, that of the Christ Child; he could have almost wished it true.

"It has come to an end--I think it has really come to an end," the rector said. "But, stay, I find some little things tucked away at the very bottom of the tree; and here upon the labels are written 'Miss Lessing' and 'Mr. Lessing.' That is quite as it should be, for to whom do we owe the fact of your all being here to-night but to the squire, who planned and carried it out?"

And as a penknife was handed to Paul, there were cheers ringing in his ears for him and for Sally, who had a pen with her name on it.

"It was really very jolly of you, Kitty," said Paul, making his way to her.

"Weren't you surprised?" said Kitty, joyfully. "Daddy said you would be; and I told him where to hide them so that Sally should not see them. And, oh!"--with a long-drawn sigh--"I've never been so happy in my life. Daddy says I must thank you ever so much, dear Mr. Paul."

Paul stooped and kissed the pretty, flushed face. "It's been great fun, Kitty; you've nothing to thank me for. It is my first Christmas tree, and I shall take great care of my penknife."

It was seven o'clock before Sally and Paul regained the quietness and peace of their lodging, for it took some time to deliver all the little ones to their several homes.

"It's wonderful what surroundings will do for one. I've felt as if I were a curate to-day; but it is Kitty who drove me to it. Her despair this morning was almost tragic," Paul said.

How little he knew that that night Kitty was thanking G.o.d for her happy day, and for the special help He had sent her to carry through her tree.

"Pray bless dear Mr. Paul!"

CHAPTER XIII.

THE CALL OF G.o.d.

With the dawn of the New Year there was an outbreak of fever in Rudham, the after-effect of the flood, which, although it subsided almost as quickly as it rose, left the houses which it had invaded damp and many of the drains blocked. Paul, as he went his rounds, condemned some of the cottages as insanitary, and determined that another spring should see new ones begun in higher, healthier situations--if, at least, he could by any means raise the requisite funds. He was constantly brought into contact with the rector, who busied himself amongst his sick people morning, noon, and night.

"Bless you!" said Mrs. Weldon, when Paul had been looking round her premises, and heard with some astonishment the sound of a strong, clear voice singing in the bedroom above, "that's only Mr. Curzon singing hymns to my little Jenny, who's proper bad with the fever. She must have been sickening with it that night as you fetched her to the tree.

Mr. Curzon seems like a parson, and doctor, and nurse, all in one. He come'd here late last night, and he took her temperature ready to tell the doctor this morning, and he's round here again now; and it's not as though he favours mine more than another's. He's just the same to every one who's bad."

And what one said all said, and Paul pondered on their words. May Webster had spoken truly when she said that this man lived in the hearts of his people. Sally delayed her departure for London for a few weeks when she found that she could be of great service in the village by going and lending a helping hand when the mothers got overdone with nursing, for it was chiefly among the children of the place that the fever found its victims. Twenty succ.u.mbed, and then there was a day or two when no fresh case was reported.

Paul met the rector one morning and stayed to congratulate him on the fact that the fever seemed to have run its course, that there had been no death from it during the last few days, and apparently no fresh cases.

"Poor little Jenny Weldon pa.s.sed away this morning; I was with her when she died," said the rector. Then came a long pause, and he cleared his throat. "My Kitty was the last case; she was p.r.o.nounced to have the fever last night."

"Kitty!" echoed Paul, with a face almost as white as Mr. Curzon's own.

"Good Heavens! and I was the double-dyed idiot who brought that child Jenny Weldon to the treat. Kitty probably caught it from her."

"That is quite impossible to decide," said Mr. Curzon, with a sad little smile; "the outbreak has been almost simultaneous. But Kitty's life is in G.o.d's Hands."

Paul turned away with an impatient exclamation; he had no word of comfort to offer, for he had but little hope that a child so delicate as Kitty would recover.

"If Sally could help in the nursing of her, or I in fetching any delicacy the child could fancy, you know we are ready to help," he said.

"Thank you; you have always been good to her."

It was a feeble fight that little Kitty made for life, and did not last many days. She had brief intervals of consciousness when she recognized the father, who was never absent from her bedside except when he visited the other sick children of his flock. All day long the rectory was besieged by anxious inquiries for Kitty, who was better known and more loved than any other child in the place; and Paul came each day with some offering of fruit or flowers. But before the week was over the pa.s.sing-bell rang out, and a thrill of sympathy ran through the village, and the neighbours looked into each other's faces, and their kind eyes filled with tears as they said--

"That's little Miss Kitty gone home."