Seven years have gone by since the events just recorded. It is
Christmas Eve, and the streets of Beauleigh are ablaze with light.
People are hurrying to and fro, laughing, talking, pausing now and again
to wish each other the compliments of the season. Children stand at the
shop windows, gazing in wonder and delight at the gorgeous toys, the
pretty picture-books, and the numerous games which make them look like
fairyland. The bright red berries of the holly shine and sparkle in the
brilliant light, the mistletoe hangs temptingly overhead, the turkeys
and geese are garlanded with ribbons and decked with green.
Inside the shop of Messrs. Gotch and Parker, the eminent jewellers, a
young man is buying an exquisite brooch.
"I think, mother, that this will please her," he remarks to the
well-dressed woman seated close by.
Look at the laughing blue eyes, the fresh-coloured cheeks, the winning
smile. Surely this young gentleman is an old acquaintance. Mr. Boden,
the shopman calls him; but to us he is Dick, or Dicky, or the Angel,
just as memory prompts.
"Thanks," he says, placing the tiny packet in his pocket. "Now, mother,
lean on my arm."
Yes, it certainly is our light-hearted Dick, whom we will take the
liberty of following, as he pilots his mother through the crowded
streets, then into the quieter part of the town, and so to the foot of a
fairly steep hill facing the sea.
He is evidently well known in Beauleigh, and respected, too, one would
imagine. Many people stop to shake his hand, and to wish him a "merry
Christmas." Some are poor, other well-to-do; but their wealth or
poverty makes no difference in the warmth of his greeting. It is easy
to see that things have prospered with him, but he is just as kind and
generous and simple-hearted as in the old days.
"O my aunt!" he exclaims with a boyish laugh, looking at the hill;
"fancy having this to climb! You'll need a rest, mother, by the time we
reach the top!"
Mrs. Boden smiles, and glances proudly at the handsome young fellow on
whose arm she is leaning. It must needs be a steep hill she could not
climb with him to help her.
They are up at last, and a stream of light comes from the open doorway
of a large, old-fashioned house.
"There he is!" cries Dick excitedly; and the next instant he is shaking
hands with another young fellow, who pulls him laughingly inside.
"Come along, old man!--Come along, Mrs. Boden!" he exclaims. "A merry
Christmas to you both!"
"The same to you, Jim, and many of 'em. You're looking well, old chap,
considering that heavy grind.--A merry Christmas, Mrs. Hartland! See,
you have half killed mother! How? Why, by living up in the clouds.
You ought to keep a special tramway for your guests--'pon my word you
ought."
"Quite right, Dick, my boy!" exclaims a deep voice; and a tanned,
bearded man comes into the room with a sailor-like roll.
"Let me congratulate you on your appointment, Mr. Hartland," cries Dick.
"No more ploughing the salt seas for you!"
John Hartland has just procured the berth of traffic manager to the
harbour board.
"It's almost a pity, though," says Mr. Hartland with a laugh, "that the
house is perched up so high. I tell the wife we live in a sort of
eagle's nest. Still, it suits Susie remarkably well; I must admit
that."
"Isn't Susie here?" asks Dick innocently, looking round as if he had
only just discovered her absence.
"She's upstairs," laughs her father, "putting on a few more fal-lals, I
expect. The lasses are all alike in that respect."
Dick whispers to Mrs. Hartland, at the same time slipping something into
her hand, and the others smile at one another as she glides out of the
room. She reappears presently, followed by a young girl, the neck of
whose dress is fastened by an exquisite brooch.
"O Dick!" she exclaims, running forward, "thank you very much. It is
just lovely!"
Dick, looking a trifle shamefaced, murmurs some reply, while Jim can
hardly take his eyes from his sister's face. He has not been at home
much of late years, and he can never quite restrain a thrill of surprise
on seeing the beautiful girl as she passes before him with all the grace
of a young fawn.
Presently, when they are all quietly seated, Dick says, with a joyous
laugh,--
"By the way, I have a surprise packet for you. Barton, our manager, has
resigned, and Mr. Leverton has been appointed in his place. That leaves
the under-manager's berth vacant, and--"
"You haven't got it, Dick?"
"How can a fellow tell his yarn if he's interrupted in this fashion?
But, just to relieve your suspense, I beg to state that the new
under-manager for Sir Thomas Arkell is Mr. Richard Boden, whom his
friends call Dick, and sometimes Dicky."
How they laugh, and cheer, and congratulate him--almost like a parcel of
school-boys! It certainly is a memorable Christmas Eve.
"That partnership is decidedly drawing nearer!" laughs Jim. "I shall
soon begin to look for the altered sign."
He himself has not done badly. He has passed through college with
flying colours, has earned the right to place "B.A. (Lond.)" after his
name, and now, on returning to Beauleigh, has been appointed one of the
masters at the Deanery School.
They are very proud of him at home, for he has more than fulfilled their
expectations, and has brought some amount of credit to the good old
town.
"Sometimes," he exclaims thoughtfully, "it all seems like a dream, and I
pinch myself to make sure that I am awake. I little imagined, dad, when
we heard of the loss of the _Morning Star_, that things would turn out
like this. We have been very fortunate in finding good friends, and the
best one of all, as far as I am concerned, sits here," he says, pointing
to Dick.
* * * * *
Draw the curtains now, light the gas, heap more logs on the roaring
fire, and let us, before saying our final word of farewell, take one
more glance at the merry party. For the elders, the stress and storm of
life's battle has abated; they have glided into a peaceful haven, where
they hear only the echo of the thundering waves outside.
As to the younger ones, who shall prophesy? Life holds many storms and
tempests for them yet; but their barks are well manned and stoutly
built, and, I think, are likely to ride triumphantly through life's
seas, until they, too, come to a peaceful anchorage.
And so, farewell.