Christmas Day was fine and brilliant, and Margaret awaked early. Her
first thoughts were of home and distant friends. How well she knew
that the dear father and mother, far away in Bassett, were thinking of
her! As she rose and dressed, her heart was in full unison with the
day’s sweet lesson of peace and goodwill, and when she knelt to say her
morning prayers, she had a vague feeling that somehow this Christmas
Day was a fuller and better one than any she had known before. She did
not ask herself what was the new element in her life that made it so;
it was too indefinite to be formulated into a tangible idea, but she
felt conscious of its presence.
General and Mrs. Gaston had a charming present for her when she went
down to breakfast--a pair of exquisite gold bracelets of the most
beautiful design and workmanship, and, as they seemed really pleased
with the little presents that she had prepared for them, they had a
very satisfactory beginning of their Christmas Day. After breakfast,
she went to her room to write a letter home, and when that was done it
was time to dress for church.
A little before eleven, as Miss Trevennon was standing in the deep
bow-window of the drawing-room, equipped for the morning service, she
heard a firm tread on the carpet behind her, and the next moment her
somewhat rusty little Prayer-book and Hymnal were slipped from her
hand, and a marvellous tortoise-shell case, containing two beautiful
little books, substituted for them. Margaret looked up quickly, and
met Louis Gaston’s smiling eyes. He had searched New York over for the
prettiest set he could find, and the result satisfied him.
“You will use these instead, will you not?” he said. “I wanted to give
you some little thing.”
A flush of pleasure rose to Margaret’s face.
“I never saw anything half so lovely,” she said, handling them
delightedly. “To think of your taking the trouble! I suspect my shabby
little books offended your fastidious taste. I never dreamed of your
remembering me in this kind way. I wish I had a present for you.”
“You might give me the old ones, perhaps,” he said, hesitatingly. “I
should think it a munificent return, for, as you say, they are worn and
shabby, and that comes only from much using. How often they have been
in your hands when your thoughts were away with God! I should like to
keep them as a souvenir of you. May I, if you don’t particularly value
them?”
“I should be only too glad for you to have them,” said Margaret, in
a low voice. “Only I did not think you would care for anything like
that. I asked Cousin Eugenia once what church your family belonged to,
and she said you called yourselves Unitarians, but practically you
were pagans. I couldn’t help hoping it was not really true--of you at
least.”
“It isn’t in the least true of me,” he said, frowning, and looking so
displeased that Margaret was almost sorry she had spoken. “I would not,
for anything, have you to suppose me an irreligious man, for it is not
true, and I never even called myself a Unitarian. On the contrary, I
was wishing a little while ago that I could go with you to church, so
that you and I might keep this day holy together.”
“Do,” said Margaret, earnestly. “I have seen that you do not very often
go. Go with us to-day, and make a resolve for better things in future.
You would be so wise to do it.”
“I don’t think I will go this morning,” he said; “Eugenia has not
room for me in the coupé. But will you let me take you to-night? We
will walk, perhaps, if it remains fine, and the music will be lovely.
Perhaps, if we’re lucky, they will get some good voice to sing the
_Cantique de Noël_.”
“I love that so dearly,” Margaret said. “I shall be delighted to go
with you.”
A little sigh rose, as she spoke. This was one of Charley Somers’
favorites; she had taken pains to see that he sang it correctly, and
his voice was trained to it beautifully.
Her reflections were cut short by the appearance of Mrs. Gaston, who
swept down the steps, elaborately arrayed in furs and velvets, and
signified her readiness to set out.
Louis helped them into the carriage, and then turned away, saying he
was going for a long walk. There was a look of gravity on his face that
Margaret found herself recalling long afterward.
The weather continued fine, and it proved quite mild enough for Louis
and Margaret to walk to church in the evening. As they took their way
along the gayly lighted streets, the young man turned suddenly and,
looking down into her face, said:
“Do you know, I found a little pressed flower in my Hymnal, when I
opened it this morning. Am I to keep it or return it to you?”
They were just under a gas-light, and Margaret, though she would not
drop her eyes under his searching gaze, felt that she looked confused,
as she said:
“No; you must give that back to me. I had forgotten it.”
It was a little flower that Charley Somers had put in there one
evening, and she had never happened to remove it.
Mr. Gaston put his hand into his pocket and took out the book. It
opened easily at the place, and he removed the flower, which was run
into a little slit, and handed it to her as they entered the church
vestibule.
“There were some initials under it,” he said.
“Oh, you can just rub those out. It doesn’t matter,” said Margaret,
as she took the flower. She was about to crush and throw it from her,
when a pang of pity for poor Charley checked her; so she opened her own
Prayer-book and hurriedly slipped it among the leaves.
The service seemed wonderfully sweet to her that night. The hymns and
anthems were triumphant and inspiring, and the sermon was simple,
earnest and comforting. Louis found his places, and used his little
book sedulously, and Margaret felt intuitively that this service was
sweet to him also. As she glanced at him occasionally, she saw that his
face looked serious and a little careworn, now that she saw it in such
perfect repose.
The sermon was ended now. The congregation had risen at its
termination, and had settled again in their seats. The wardens were
walking up the aisle to receive the alms-basins, when the organ began
to murmur a low prelude. Louis and Margaret glanced at each other
quickly. It was the _Cantique de Noël_.
Margaret leaned back in her seat, serene and restful, prepared for a
deep enjoyment of the pleasure before her, and at that moment a rich,
sweet voice, high up in the choir behind her began:
“Oh, holy night----”
At the first note uttered by that voice the color rushed to Miss
Trevennon’s cheeks, and she drew in her breath with a sound that was
almost a gasp.
And up on high the beautiful voice sang on:
“It is the night of the dear Saviour’s birth.”
Higher and sweeter it soared--thrilling, rich, pathetic--and how
familiar to the young girl’s ears was every modulation and inflection!
How often had that flood of melody been poured forth, for her ear
alone, in the old parlor at home!
It was Charley Somers, and she knew that he had seen her, and that he
was singing to her now, no less than then. She listened, as in a dream,
while the wistful, yearning voice sang on. And now came the words:
“Fall on your knees! fall on your knees!”
They were somewhat indistinct, in their mingling of sweet sounds, and,
in some vague way, it seemed to Margaret that they were a direct appeal
from Charley Somers to her for mercy and pardon.
It was all so moving, and Gaston felt so touched by it himself, that
it scarcely surprised him when he glanced at Margaret, as the sweet
voice died away, to see that her eyes were full of tears. As they
knelt for the concluding prayer she brushed away the traces of these,
and when they walked down the aisle together her calmness had quite
returned. And how calm and quiet her companion looked! His perfectly
chosen clothes, the smooth neatness of his short, dark hair, and, more
than all, his self-collected bearing and thoughtful face, made him a
contrast to the rather carelessly dressed young man, with dishevelled,
curly locks, and eager, restless eyes, who stood in the vestibule,
at the foot of the gallery steps, rapidly scanning the faces of the
dispersing congregation, in complete unconsciousness of the fact that
his somewhat singular conduct and appearance were being observed
by those around him. As his restless gaze at last fell upon Miss
Trevennon, his knit brows relaxed, and he pressed forward.
“May I come to see you to-morrow?” he said, in eager tones, which,
though low, were distinctly audible to Louis.
“Yes,” replied Margaret at once, in a somewhat tremulous voice, “at
eleven in the morning.”
Then, taking her companion’s arm, she passed on. Louis had observed
that the two did not shake hands, nor exchange any word of greeting.
This hurried question and answer was all that passed between them. What
had there been in a short, casual meeting like that to make the girl
look pale and excited, as her companion saw by a furtive glance that
she was? He could feel her hand tremble slightly when she first laid
it within his arm, but the little, almost imperceptible flutter soon
ceased, and she walked on very quiet and still. And so they took their
way along the streets in silence. She did not seem inclined to talk,
and he would not jar her by speaking.
Margaret, as she mused upon this meeting, was blaming herself for the
concession she had made, which was indeed attributable altogether to
the music.
“I have no resolution or power of resistance whatever, when I’m under
the influence of music,” she said to herself, half angrily. “It takes
away my moral accountability. I don’t believe the story of the sirens
is a fable. A beautiful voice could draw me toward itself as truly as
the pole draws the magnet. It is intense weakness. I ought to have told
him No, and ended the matter at once.”
Remembering that her companion would have reason to wonder at her
silence, Margaret roused herself with an effort and made some comment
on the service.
“It was all very beautiful,” said Louis. “I felt it very much, and I
feel very happy to have gone. That solo was exquisitely sung. The voice
does not seem to be highly cultivated, but it was thrillingly sweet.”
“It was Mr. Somers, the young man from Bassett, whose voice I have
spoken to you of. He has just come to Washington, and I knew he would
want to see me, so I named an hour when I was sure to be free.”
When they had reached home and were going up the steps, they found
Thomas opening the door for a colored servant-man, who had two small
parcels in his hand. He took off his hat and stepped back as they came
up, and Thomas said:
“It is a parcel for Miss Trevennon.”
Margaret turned and held out her hand for it.
“Where from?” she said.
“From the Arlington, Miss,” replied the man, in evident trepidation.
“I’m very sorry, Miss, but there’s been a mistake. It was to have been
sent this morning, but it has been such a busy day that it has been
forgotten. Mr. Decourcy left particular orders, and I hope you’ll be
kind enough to excuse the delay, Miss.”
Margaret turned the parcel so as to get the light from the hall
gas upon it. As she did so, her expression changed quickly. It was
addressed to Mrs. Vere.
“There is some mistake,” she said, coldly, with a certain high turn of
the head that Louis knew. “This is not for me.”
The poor negro, who was perhaps somewhat the worse for the wine
remnants left by the Arlington’s Christmas guests, was overwhelmed with
confusion, and, quickly extending the other package, explained that he
had made a mistake between the two, and asked Miss Trevennon rather
helplessly to see if this one was not addressed to herself.
It proved to be so; and though, under the circumstances, Margaret
would have preferred not to touch it, she was compelled to take it and
dismiss the man, which she did somewhat curtly.
She did not examine her parcel until she reached her own room, and
even then she tossed it on the bed, and removed her wraps and hat and
put them away before she untied the string which bound it. Once she
thought she would put it out of sight until to-morrow, but, despite her
disfavor toward the giver, she had a young lady’s natural curiosity as
to the gift, and so she presently took it up and untied it. A little
note fell out. It was dated Christmas morning at nine, and ran:
“I am just leaving for Baltimore, under a pledge to spend to-day with
Amy and the children. I have been more than disappointed--_hurt_ at
missing you, both when I called and at the theatre last evening. I did
not know you had been present, until I heard it by accident, after we
had left. It had not at all entered into my calculations to forego the
pleasure of taking leave of you in person, and I propose to get the
better of fate by returning in a day or two for this purpose.
“Merry Christmas, dear Daisy, and all good wishes for the coming year!
Who knows what it may have in store for us?
“Wear my little present sometimes for the sake of yours devotedly, A.
D.”
“So much for note number one!” said Margaret. “It would be interesting
to have a glance at note number two, which I have no doubt is equally
tender and gracious.”
She took up the little leather case and opened it, revealing a
beautiful locket. In spite of herself, she could not withhold a tribute
to her cousin’s taste. The workmanship and design of this little
ornament were so effective and so uncommon that she felt sure Alan
must have gone to some trouble about it, and most likely had it made
expressly for her.
“He _is_ kind,” she said, regretfully. “It _was_ good of him to go
back to Baltimore, in order that Amy and the children should not be
disappointed. I almost wish I had not made this new discovery about
him; but no, no, no! It would have been dreadful to be ignorant of the
real truth of the matter.”
It occurred to her now to open the locket and, on doing so, her
cousin’s high-bred face looked out. The very sight of it made her
recoil inwardly. How well she remembered the look of these same eyes,
as they had been bent upon Mrs. Vere, with an expression she would
have liked to forget. What right had he to expect her to wear his
picture? Why should she?
He had sent another note and another present elsewhere. Was there
another picture, which some one else had been gracefully urged to wear,
for the sake of hers devotedly? It was more than probable!
“I half believe I begin to understand him,” she said to herself,
indignantly. “It is one of his sage and correct opinions that a man
should marry, but all the same a man wants his little diversions. Under
these circumstances he had better marry an amiable, easy-going young
thing, who is healthy and cheerful, who knows nothing of the world, and
who will leave him to pursue his little diversions undisturbed. It is
perfectly humiliating! I will return his locket, for the very sight of
it would always sting me.”