here, within a short distance of you all and home. I do not
know how many days I have been here. It seems like ages. No
help can come to me, and I am beyond the reach of being heard.
I fled from your accusing eyes, and the boat carried me here.
She was tossed like a weed on the rocks, and I have crawled up
hither to die a harder death than any I ever dealt. It is the
meet reward for all my crimes—that I know; but I am not alone,
and I am forgiven. Try to think kindly of me. I have been very
wicked, but now I am at peace, and dying. Something whispers
you will know my fate, my children, my wife.”
Could anything have been of such infinite value to Doya as those parting
words? They washed away every trace of bitter or offended feeling, and
when she placed the precious relic in her bosom, she blotted out from its
generous heart every remembrance of Bartle, save their early love and his
Christian death.
Very slowly, very tenderly, Doya encased the withered form in the broken
bits of wood, lashing them around it by means of some fishing lines which
they had chanced to have in the boat. Very carefully she attached some
pieces of rock to the rope, and then, after one long lingering look,
and a silent, earnest prayer, she let it slide gently down into the
calm limpid ocean. The waves gave one low gurgling sigh as they opened
to receive that strangely buried thing, and Doya, kneeling on the cold
stone, strained her sight to see the very last of her husband. The clear
water hid nothing from her, and she saw him sink to rest down below the
sea. And then the tide bore a floating mass of weed, glittering brown
and crimson, to the spot, and laid it over poor Bartle, who slumbers
peacefully there in that wild cavern, cradled by the surf, and lulled
by the wind. And surf and wind say, better than sculptured stone,
that mercy endureth for ever, and He, our Father, and our Judge, is
long-suffering, and doeth all things well.
It was some time ere Doya could venture to break the awe and quiet of
that scene by summoning her children. It seemed as if she had parted from
every earthly trouble, as she knelt there alone, and pressed to her heart
the token of her husband’s repentance; as she knelt there, alone with
nature’s sublimest voices speaking to her soul; but slowly her thoughts
came back to life and earth, and at her call the boat glided into the
cave again. Then, as the boys rowed slowly homewards, Doya told them
the end of the story. They had guessed it already, but they were not
prepared for the surprise which she had in store—the reading of their
father’s parting words. That took away almost all the sorrow. Under the
moonlit sky of Yule, with Yule stars looking down like eyes of forgiving
love, and Yule zephyrs winnowing by like the rustle of angel-wings, when
they hurry to earth with Christmas messages of peace and good will,
of mercy and pardon; with Yule frost glittering upon the heath, Doya
and her children returned to their home; and when Rassmie clung to her
neck, and Hermann’s head nestled on her bosom, while Tronda’s sweet
voice whispered, “You have _us_, mother,” Doya’s sorely tried heart was
comforted.
* * * * *
Just as Cousin Cyntha concluded her story, the clock struck, and then a
strange stare of astonishment stole over every face. What the hour was it
is not necessary to state, but a general stirring among the company told
the fact that all of them were of opinion it was high time to be thinking
of returning to their homes. But while glasses were being handed round,
Old Merry took the opportunity of arresting attention; and, amid cries
of “Hurrah, bravo! A speech! Old Merry, a speech!” got upon his legs,
and after polishing his bald pate and adjusting his specs, according to
time-honoured usage, he thus delivered himself:—
“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, MY DEAR YOUNG PEOPLE,
“Before we separate we must all pledge ourselves in lemonade,
et cetera, and wish one another ‘A Merry Christmas and a
Happy New Year!’ Perhaps in all the year the few merry hours
of Christmas Eve are the brightest and happiest to the whole
world. This night, while we have been here enjoying ourselves
together, thousands of homes have been full of gladness and
merriment. Boys and girls from school have been telling the
adventures of the ‘last half;’ apprentices, home for the
Christmas-tide, have been giving their parents and friends
an account of their trials and joys; family circles, broken
throughout the year by circumstances, have been united round
the old fireside in thousands of homes; sailors on the sea
have struggled between cheerfulness and sorrow as they have
told their shore stories and drunk to absent friends; settlers
in the colonies, despite the differences of time and climate,
have been linking themselves again with the associations of
the old country; heaven and earth have been vocal with new
songs of praise; and the blessed Redeemer Himself, whose birth
in this world is the source of all our joy and gladness, has
looked down on the delights which He has created, and seeing
the results of the travail of His soul ‘has been satisfied.’
Well, my young friends, I am not going to preach you a sermon,
but I do ask you to try and realize the pleasure of sharing the
joy of the whole world. But do not forget amid the festivities
that Christmas is the anniversary of the birthday of our Lord.
He came to bless us and He lives to bless us. He gave to us all
we have, and we should seek to give back to Him all we are. The
cheerful heart, the smiling face, the happy thought, the kindly
act, the friendly speech, are more acceptable to Him than the
long drawn face and the sigh and the groan. His service is not
simply that of the Sabbath-day or the appointed Church, but at
the fireside, the play-ground, the office; in our hours of rest
and toil and recreation, at home and at school, all through the
life He requires, and is pleased with, our acknowledgment of
Him. So now for all the happy hours of this happy season let
us devoutly thank Him, and let us each determine that as He
came this day to bless all the world, we will try to follow His
example as far as we can.
“Let each of you determine that some other life shall be
happier to-morrow through your means. Join your labours to
those of the ministering angels, and see if you cannot lighten
some burden, and give joy to some sad heart on Christmas Day.
The lad who sweeps the crossing, encourage him with a copper;
your sister who has quarrelled with you, kiss her and make it
up; that poor old woman in the garret, beg some plum pudding
for her and send it with a twig of holly in it. Only be willing
to do what you can, and depend upon it the opportunities will
not be wanting. And now we must separate; I wish you all happy
meetings and greetings on the morrow, pleasant hours for merry
thoughts and serious thoughts—good digestions—and everything
that can make to its full degree, A Merry, Happy, Christmas!”