If Knowles hated anybody that night, he hated the man he had left
standing there with pale, heavy jaws, and heart of iron; he could have
cursed him, standing there. He did not see how, after he was left
alone, the man lay with his face to the wall, holding his bony hand to
his forehead, with a look in his eyes that if you had seen, you would
have thought his soul had entered on that path whose steps take hold on
hell.
There was no struggle in his face; whatever was the resolve he had
reached in the solitary hours when he had stood so close upon the
borders of death, it was unshaken now; but the heart, crushed and
stifled before, was taking its dire revenge. If ever it had hungered,
through the cold, selfish days, for God's help, or a woman's love, it
hungered now, with a craving like death. If ever he had thought how
bare and vacant the years would be, going down to the grave with lips
that never had known a true wife's kiss, he remembered it now, when it
was too late, with bitterness such as wrings a man's heart but once in
a lifetime. If ever he had denied to his own soul this Margret, called
her alien or foreign, it called her now, when it was too late, to her
rightful place; there was not a thought nor a hope in the darkest
depths of his nature that did not cry out for her help that night,--for
her, a part of himself,--now, when it was too late. He went over all
the years gone, and pictured the years to come; he remembered the money
that was to help his divine soul upward; he thought of it with a curse,
getting up and pacing the floor of the narrow room, slowly and quietly.
Looking out into the still starlight and the quaint garden, he tried to
fancy this woman as he knew her, after the restless power of her soul
should have been chilled and starved into a narrow, lifeless duty. He
fancied her old, and stern, and sick of life, she that might have been
what might they not have been, together? And he had driven her to this
for money,--money!
It was of no use to repent of it now. He had frozen the love out of
her heart, long ago. He remembered (all that he did remember of the
blank night after he was hurt) that he had seen her white, worn-out
face looking down at him; that she did not touch him; and that, when
one of the sisters told her she might take her place, and sponge his
forehead, she said, bitterly, she had no right to do it, that he was no
friend of hers. He saw and heard that, unconscious to all else; he
would have known it, if he had been dead, lying there. It was too late
now: why need he think of what might have been? Yet he did think of it
through the long winter's night,--each moment his thought of the life
to come, or of her, growing more tender and more bitter. Do you wonder
at the remorse of this man? Wait, then, until you lie alone, as he had
done, through days as slow, revealing as ages, face to face with God
and death. Wait until you go down so close to eternity that the life
you have lived stands out before you in the dreadful bareness in which
God sees it,--as you shall see it some day from heaven or hell: money,
and hate, and love will stand in their true light then. Yet, coming
back to life again, he held whatever resolve he had reached down there
with his old iron will: all the pain he bore in looking back to the
false life before, or the ceaseless remembrance that it was too late
now to atone for that false life, made him the stronger to abide by
that resolve, to go on the path self-chosen, let the end be what it
might. Whatever the resolve was, it did not still the gnawing hunger
in his heart that night, which every trifle made more fresh and strong.
There was a wicker-basket that Lois had left by the fire, piled up with
bits of cloth and leather out of which she was manufacturing Christmas
gifts; a pair of great woollen socks, which one of the sisters had told
him privately Lois meant for him, lying on top. As with all of her
people, Christmas was the great day of the year to her. Holmes could
not but smile, looking at them. Poor Lois!--Christmas would be here
soon, then? And sitting by the covered fire, he went back to
Christmases gone, the thought of all others that brought Margret
nearest and warmest to him: since he was a boy they had been together
on that day. With his hand over his eyes, he sat quiet by the fire
until morning. He heard some boy going by in the gray dawn call to
another that they would have holiday on Christmas week. It was coming,
he thought, rousing himself,--but never as it had been: that could
never be again. Yet it was strange how this thought of Christmas took
hold of him, after this,--famished his heart. As it approached in the
slow-coming winter, the days growing shorter, and the nights longer and
more solitary, so Margret became more real to him,--not rejected and
lost, but as the wife she might have been, with the simple, passionate
love she gave him once. The thought grew intolerable to him; yet there
was not a homely pleasure of those years gone, when the old
school-master kept high holiday on Christmas, that he did not recall
and linger over with a boyish yearning, now that these things were over
forever. He chafed under his weakness. If the day would but come when
he could go out and conquer his fate, as a man ought to do! On
Christmas eve he would put an end to these torturing taunts, be done
with them, let the sacrifice be what it might. For I fear that even now
Stephen Holmes thought of his own need and his own hunger.
He watched Lois knitting and patching her poor little gifts, with a
vague feeling that every stitch made the time a moment shorter until he
should be free, with his life in his hand again. She left the hospital
at last, sorrowfully enough, but he made her go: he fancied the close
air was hurting her, seeing at night the strange shadow growing on her
face. I do not think he ever said to her that he knew all she had done
for him, or thanked her; but no dog or woman that Stephen Holmes loved
could look into his eyes, and doubt that love. Sad, masterful eyes,
such as are seen but once or twice in a lifetime: no woman but would
wish, like Lois, for such eyes to be near her when she came to die, for
her to remember the world's love in. She came hobbling back every day
to see him after she had gone, and would stay to make his soup, telling
him, child-like, how many days it was until Christmas. He knew that,
as well as she, waiting through the cold, slow hours, in his solitary
room. He thought sometimes she had some eager petition to offer him,
when she stood watching him wistfully, twisting her hands together; but
she always smothered it with a sigh, and, tying her little woollen cap,
went away, walking more slowly, he thought, every day.
Do you remember how Christmas came that year? how there was a waiting
pause, when the States stood still, and from the peoples came the first
awful murmurs of the storm that was to shake the earth? how men's
hearts failed them for fear, how women turned pale, and held their
children closer to their breasts, while they heard a far cry of
lamentation for their country that had fallen? Do you remember how,
amidst the fury of men's anger, the storehouses of God were opened for
that land? how the very sunshine gathered new splendours, the rains
more fruitful moisture, until the earth poured forth an unknown fulness
of life and beauty? Was there no promise there, no prophecy? Do you
remember, while the very life of the people hung in doubt before them,
while the angel of death came again to pass over the land, and there
was no blood on any door-post to keep him from that house, how serenely
the old earth folded in her harvest, dead, till it should waken to a
stronger life? how quietly, as the time came near for the birth of
Christ, this old earth made ready for his coming, heedless of the
clamour of men? how the air grew fresher above, day by day, and the
gray deep silently opened for the snow to go down and screen and whiten
and make holy that fouled earth? I think the slow-falling snow did not
fail in its quiet warning; for I remember that men, too, in a feeble
way tried to make ready for the birth of Christ. There was a healthier
glow than terror stirred in their hearts; because of the vague, great
dread without, it may be, they drew closer together round household
fires, were kindlier in the good old-fashioned way; old friendships
were wakened, old times talked over, fathers and mothers and children
planned homely ways to show the love in their hearts and to welcome in
Christmas. Who knew but it might be the last? Let us be thankful for
that happy Christmas-day. What if it were the last? What if, when
another comes, and another, one voice, the kindest and cheerfullest
then, shall never say "Happy Christmas" to us again? Let us be
thankful for that day the more,--accept it the more as a sign of that
which will surely come.
Holmes, even, in his dreary room and drearier thought, felt the warmth
and expectant stir creeping through the land as the day drew near.
Even in the hospital, the sisters were in a busy flutter, decking their
little chapel with flowers, and preparing a fete for their patients.
The doctor, as he bandaged his broken arm, hinted at faint rumours in
the city of masquerades and concerts. Even Knowles, who had not
visited the hospital for weeks, relented and came back, moody and grum.
He brought Kitts with him, and started him on talking of how they kept
Christmas in Ohio on his mother's farm; and the poor soul, encouraged
by the silence of two of his auditors, and the intense interest of Lois
in the background, mazed on about Santa-Claus trees and Virginia reels
until the clock struck twelve, and Knowles began to snore.
Christmas was coming. As he stood, day after day, looking out of the
gray window, he could see the signs of its coming even in the
shop-windows glittering with miraculous toys, in the market-carts with
their red-faced drivers and heaps of ducks and turkeys, in every
stage-coach or omnibus that went by crowded with boys home for the
holidays, hallooing for Bell or Lincoln, forgetful that the election
was over, and Carolina out.
Pike came to see him one day, his arms full of a bundle, which turned
out to be an accordion for Sophy.
"Christmas, you know," he said, taking off the brown paper, while he
was cursing the Cotton States the hardest, and gravely kneading at the
keys, and stretching it until he made as much discord as five
Congressmen. "I think Sophy will like that," he said, looking at it
sideways, and tying it up carefully.
"I am sure she will," said Holmes,--and did not think the man a fool
for one moment.
Always going back, this Holmes, when he was alone, to the certainty
that home-comings or children's kisses or Christmas feasts were not for
such as he,--never could be, though he sought for the old time in
bitterness of heart; and so, dully remembering his resolve, and waiting
for Christmas eve, when he might end it all. Not one of the myriads of
happy children listened more intently to the clock clanging off hour
after hour than the silent, stern man who had no hope in that day that
was coming.
He learned to watch even for poor Lois coming up the corridor every
day,--being the only tie that bound the solitary man to the inner world
of love and warmth. The deformed little body was quite alive with
Christmas now, and brought its glow with her, in her weak way.
Different from the others, he saw with a curious interest. The day was
more real to her than to them. Not because, only, the care she had of
everybody, and everybody had of her seemed to reach its culmination of
kindly thought for the Christmas time; not because, as she sat talking
slowly, stopping for breath, her great fear seemed to be that she would
not have gifts enough to go round; but deeper than that,--the day was
real to her. As if it were actually true that the Master in whom she
believed was freshly born into the world once a year, to waken all that
was genial and noble and pure in the turbid, worn-out hearts; as if new
honour and pride and love did flash into the realms below heaven with
the breaking of Christmas morn. It was a beautiful faith; he almost
wished it were his. A beautiful faith! it gave a meaning to the old
custom of gifts and kind words. LOVE coming into the world!--the idea
pleased his artistic taste, being simple and sublime. Lois used to
tell him, while she feebly tried to set his room in order, of all her
plans,--of how Sam Polston was to be married on New-Year's,--but most
of all of the Christmas coming out at the old school-master's: how the
old house had been scrubbed from top to bottom, was fairly glowing with
shining paint and hot fires,--how Margret and her mother worked, in
terror lest the old man should find out how poor and bare it was,--how
he and Joel had some secret enterprise on foot at the far end of the
plantation out in the swamp, and were gone nearly all day.
She ceased coming at last. One of the sisters went out to see her, and
told him she was too weak to walk, but meant to be better soon,--quite
well by the holidays. He wished the poor thing had told him what she
wanted of him,--wished it anxiously, with a dull presentiment of evil.
The days went by, cold and slow. He watched grimly the preparations
the hospital physician was silently making in his case, for fever,
inflammation.
"I must be strong enough to go out cured on Christmas eve," he said to
him one day, coolly.
The old doctor glanced up shrewdly. He was an old Alsatian, very
plain-spoken.
"You say so?" he mumbled. "Chut! Then you will go. There are
some--bull-dog, men. They do what they please,--they never die unless
they choose, begar! We know them in our practice, Herr Holmes!"
Holmes laughed. Some acumen there, he thought, in medicine or mind: as
for himself, it was true enough; whatever success he had gained in life
had been by no flush of enthusiasm or hope; a dogged persistence of
"holding on," rather.
A long time; but Christmas eve came at last: bright, still, frosty.
"Whatever he had to do, let it be done quickly;" but not till the set
hour came. So he laid his watch on the table beside him, waiting until
it should mark the time he had chosen: the ruling passion of
self-control as strong in this turn of life's tide as it would be in
its ebb, at the last. The old doctor found him alone in the dreary
room, coming in with the frosty breath of the eager street about him.
A grim, chilling sight enough, as solitary and impenetrable as the
Sphinx. He did not like such faces in this genial and gracious time,
so hurried over his examination. The eye was cool, the pulse steady,
the man's body, battered though it was, strong in its steely composure.
"Ja wohl!--ja wohl!" he went on chuffily, summing up: latent
fever,--the very lips were blue, dry as husks; "he would
go,--oui?--then go!"--with a chuckle. "All right, gluck Zu!" And so
shuffled out. Latent fever? Doubtless, yet hardly from broken bones,
the doctor thought,--with no suspicion of the subtile, intolerable
passion smouldering in every drop of this man's phlegmatic blood.
Evening came at last. He stopped until the cracked bell of the chapel
had done striking the Angelus, and then put on his overcoat, and went
out. Passing down the garden walk a miserable chicken staggered up to
him, chirping a drunken recognition. For a moment, he breathed again
the hot smoke of the mill, remembering how Lois had found him in
Margret's office, not forgetting the cage: chary of this low life, even
in the peril of his own. So, going out on the street, he tested his
own nature by this trifle in his old fashion. "The ruling passion
strong in death," eh? It had not been self-love; something deeper: an
instinct rather than reason. Was he glad to think this of himself? He
looked out more watchful of the face which the coming Christmas bore.
The air was cold and pungent. The crowded city seemed wakening to some
keen enjoyment; even his own weak, deliberate step rang on the icy
pavement as if it wished to rejoice with the rest. I said it was a
trading city: so it was, but the very trade to-day had a jolly
Christmas face on; the surly old banks and pawnbrokers' shops had grown
ashamed of their doings, and shut their doors, and covered their
windows with frosty trees, and cathedrals, and castles; the shops
opened their inmost hearts; some child's angel had touched them, and
they flushed out into a magic splendour of Christmas trees, and lights,
and toys; Santa Claus might have made his head-quarters in any one of
them. As for children, you stumbled over them at every step, quite
weighed down with the heaviness of their joy, and the money burning
their pockets; the acrid old brokers and pettifoggers, that you met
with a chill on other days, had turned into jolly fathers of families,
and lounged laughing along with half a dozen little hands pulling them
into candy-stores or toy-shops; all of the churches whose rules
permitted them to show their deep rejoicing in a simple way, had
covered their cold stone walls with evergreens, and wreaths of glowing
fire-berries: the child's angel had touched them too, perhaps,--not
unwisely.
He passed crowds of thin-clad women looking in through open doors, with
red cheeks and hungry eyes, at red-hot stoves within, and a placard,
"Christmas dinners for the poor, gratis;" out of every window on the
streets came a ruddy light, and a spicy smell; the very sunset sky had
caught the reflection of the countless Christmas fires, and flamed up
to the zenith, blood-red as cinnabar.
Holmes turned down one of the back streets: he was going to see Lois,
first of all. I hardly know why: the child's angel may have touched
him, too; or his heart, full of a yearning pity for the poor cripple,
who, he believed now, had given her own life for his, may have plead
for indulgence, as men remember their childish prayers, before going
into battle. He came at last, in the quiet lane where she lived, to
her little brown frame-shanty, to which you mounted by a flight of
wooden steps: there were two narrow windows at the top, hung with red
curtains; he could hear her feeble voice singing within. As he turned
to go up the steps, he caught sight of something crouched underneath
them in the dark, hiding from him: whether a man or a dog he could not
see. He touched it.
"What d' ye want, Mas'r?" said a stifled voice.
He touched it again with his stick. The man stood upright, back in the
shadow: it was old Yare.
"Had ye any word wi' me, Mas'r?"
He saw the negro's face grow gray with fear.
"Come out, Yare," he said, quietly. "Any word? What word is arson,
eh?"
The man did not move. Holmes touched him with the stick.
"Come out," he said.
He came out, looking gaunt, as with famine.
"I'll not flurr myself," he said, crunching his ragged hat in his
hands,--"I'll not."
He drove the hat down upon his head, and looked up with a sullen
fierceness.
"Yoh've got me, an' I'm glad of 't. I'm tired, fearin'. I was born
for hangin', they say," with a laugh. "But I'll see my girl. I've
waited hyur, runnin' the resk,--not darin' to see her, on 'count o'
yoh. I thort I was safe on Christmas-day,--but what's Christmas to yoh
or me?"
Holmes's quiet motion drove him up the steps before him. He stopped at
the top, his cowardly nature getting the better of him, and sat down
whining on the upper step.
"Be marciful, Mas'r! I wanted to see my girl,--that's all. She's all I
hev."
Holmes passed him and went in. Was Christmas nothing to him? How did
this foul wretch know that they stood alone, apart from the world?
It was a low, cheerful little room that he came into, stooping his tall
head: a tea-kettle humming and singing on the wood-fire, that lighted
up the coarse carpet and the gray walls, but spent its warmest heat on
the low settee where Lois lay sewing, and singing to herself. She was
wrapped up in a shawl, but the hands, he saw, were worn to skin and
bone; the gray shadow was heavier on her face, and the brooding brown
eyes were like a tired child's. She tried to jump up when she saw him,
and not being able, leaned on one elbow, half-crying as she laughed.
"It's the best Christmas gift of all! I can hardly b'lieve
it!"--touching the strong hand humbly that was held out to her.
Holmes had a gentle touch, I told you, for dogs and children and women:
so, sitting quietly by her, he listened for a long time with untiring
patience to her long story; looked at the heap of worthless trifles she
had patched up for gifts, wondering secretly at the delicate sense of
colour and grace betrayed in the bits of flannel and leather; and took,
with a grave look of wonder, his own package, out of which a bit of
woollen thread peeped forth.
"Don't look till to-morrow mornin'," she said, anxiously, as she lay
back trembling and exhausted.
The breath of the mill! The fires of the world's want and crime had
finished their work on her life,--so! She caught the meaning of his
face quickly.
"It's nothin'," she said, eagerly. "I'll be strong by New-Year's; it's
only a day or two rest I need. I've no tho't o' givin' up."
And to show how strong she was, she got up and hobbled about to make
the tea. He had not the heart to stop her; she did not want to
die,--why should she? the world was a great, warm, beautiful nest for
the little cripple,--why need he show her the cold without? He saw her
at last go near the door where old Yare sat outside, then heard her
breathless cry, and a sob. A moment after the old man came into the
room, carrying her, and, laying her down on the settee, chafed her
hands, and misshapen head.
"What ails her?" he said, looking up, bewildered, to Holmes. "We've
killed her among us."
She laughed, though the great eyes were growing dim, and drew his
coarse gray hair into her hand.
"Yoh wur long comin'," she said, weakly. "I hunted fur yoh every
day,--every day."
The old man had pushed her hair back, and was reading the sunken face
with a wild fear.
"What ails her?" he cried. "Ther' 's somethin' gone wi' my girl. Was
it my fault? Lo, was it my fault?"
"Be quiet!" said Holmes, sternly.
"Is it THAT?" he gasped, shrilly. "My God! not that! I can't bear it!"
Lois soothed him, patting his face childishly.
"Am I dyin' now?" she asked, with a frightened look at Holmes.
He told her no, cheerfully.
"I've no tho't o' dyin'. I dunnot thenk o' dyin'. Don't mind, dear!
Yoh'll stay with me, fur good?"
The man's paroxysm of fear for her over, his spite and cowardice came
uppermost.
"It's him," he yelped, looking fiercely at Holmes. "He's got my life
in his hands. He kin take it. What does he keer fur me or my girl?
I'll not stay wi' yoh no longer, Lo. Mornin' he'll send me t' th'
lock-up, an' after"----
"I care for you, child," said Holmes, stooping suddenly close to the
girl's livid face.
"To-morrow?" she muttered. "My Christmas-day?"
He wet her face while he looked over at the wretch whose life he held
in his hands. It was the iron rule of Holmes's nature to be just; but
to-night dim perceptions of a deeper justice than law opened before
him,--problems he had no time to solve: the sternest fortress is liable
to be taken by assault,--and the dew of the coming morn was on his
heart.
"So as I've hunted fur him!" she whispered, weakly. "I didn't thenk it
wud come to this. So as I loved him! Oh, Mr. Holmes, he's hed a pore
chance in livin',--forgive him this! Him that'll come to-morrow 'd say
to forgive him this."
She caught the old man's head in her arms with an agony of tears, and
held it tight.
"I hev hed a pore chance," he said, looking up,--"that's God's truth,
Lo! I dunnot keer fur that: it's too late goin' back. But Lo--Mas'r,"
he mumbled, servilely, "it's on'y a little time t' th' end: let me stay
with Lo. She loves me,--Lo does."
A look of disgust crept over Holmes's face.
"Stay, then," he muttered,--"I wash my hands of you, you old scoundrel!"
He bent over Lois with his rare, pitiful smile.
"Have I his life in my hands? I put it into yours,--so, child! Now put
it all out of your head, and look up here to wish me good-bye."
She looked up cheerfully, hardly conscious how deep the danger had
been; but the flush had gone from her face, leaving it sad and still.
"I must go to keep Christmas, Lois," he said, playfully.
"Yoh're keepin' it here, Sir." She held her weak grip on his hand
still, with the vague outlook in her eyes that came there sometimes.
"Was it fur me yoh done it?"
"Yes, for you."
"And fur Him that's comin', Sir?" smiling.
Holmes's face grew graver.
"No, Lois." She looked into his eyes bewildered. "For the poor child
that loved me" he said, half to himself, smoothing her hair.
Perhaps in that day when the under-currents of the soul's life will be
bared, this man will know the subtile instincts that drew him out of
his self-reliance by the hand of the child that loved him to the Love
beyond, that was man and died for him, as well as she. He did not see
it now.
The clear evening light fell on Holmes, as he stood there looking down
at the dying little lamiter: a powerful figure, with a face supreme,
masterful, but tender: you will find no higher type of manhood. Did
God make him of the same blood as the vicious, cringing wretch
crouching to hide his black face at the other side of the bed? Some
such thought came into Lois's brain, and vexed her, bringing the tears
to her eyes: he was her father, you know. She drew their hands
together, as if she would have joined them, then stopped, closing her
eyes wearily.
"It's all wrong," she muttered,--"oh, it's far wrong! Ther' 's One
could make them 'like. Not me."
She stroked her father's hand once, and then let it go. There was a
long silence. Holmes glanced out, and saw the sun was down.
"Lois," he said, "I want you to wish me a happy Christmas, as people
do."
Holmes had a curious vein of superstition: he knew no lips so pure as
this girl's, and he wanted them to wish him good-luck that night. She
did it, looking up laughing and growing red: riddles of life did not
trouble her childish fancy long. And so he left her, with a dull
feeling, as I said before, that it was good to say a prayer before the
battle came on. For men who believed in prayers: for him, it was the
same thing to make one day for Lois happier.