CHRISTMAS IN TWO HOMES
When Ida Starr was dismissed from school it wanted but a few days to
the vacations. The day which followed her mother's removal to the
hospital was Christmas Eve. For two hours on the afternoon of Christmas
Day, Ida sat in silence by the bedside in the ward, holding her
mother's hand. The patient was not allowed to speak, seemed indeed
unable to do so. The child might not even kiss her. The Sister and the
nurse looked pityingly at Ida when they passed by, and, when the
visitors' time was at an end, and she had to rise and go, the Sister
put an orange into her hand, and spoke a few hopeful words.
Night was setting in as she walked homewards; it was cold, and the sky
threatened snow. She had only gone a few yards, when there came by a
little girl of her own age, walking with some one who looked like a
nurse-maid. They were passing; but all at once the child sprang to
Ida's side with a cry of recognition. It was little Maud Enderby.
"Where have you been, Ida? Where are you going? Oh, I'm so glad; I
wanted so to see you. Miss Rutherford told us you'd left school, and
you weren't coming back again. Aren't you really? And sha'n't I see
you?"
"I don't know, I think not," said Ida. In her premature trouble she
seemed so much older than her friend.
"I told Miss Rutherford you weren't to blame," went on Maud eagerly. "I
told her it was Harriet's own fault, and how shockingly she'd behaved
to you. I expect you'll come back again after the holidays, don't you?"
Ida shook her head, and said nothing.
"But I shall see you again?" pleaded the little maid. "You know we're
always going to be friends, aren't we? Who shall I tell all my dreams
to, if I lose you?"
Dreams, in the literal sense of the word. Seldom a week went by, but
Maud had some weird vision of the night to recount to her friend, the
meaning of which they would together try to puzzle out; for it was an
article of faith with both that there were meanings to be discovered,
and deep ones.
Ida promised that she would not allow herself to be lost to her friend,
and they kissed, and went their several ways.
Throughout the day the door of Mr. Smales's shop had been open, though
the shutters were up. But at nightfall it was closed, and the family
drew around the tea-table in the parlour which smelt so of drugs. It
was their only sitting-room, for as much of the house as could be was
let to another family. Besides Mr. Smales and his daughter Harriet,
there sat at the table a lad of about thirteen, with a dark, handsome
face, which had something of a foreign cast His eyes gleamed at all
times with the light of a frank joyousness; he laughed with the
unrestraint of a perfectly happy nature. His countenance was capable,
too, of a thoughtfulness beyond his years, a gravity which seemed to
come of high thoughts or rich imagination. He bore no trace of
resemblance to either the chemist or his daughter, yet was their
relative. Mr. Smales had had a sister, who at an early age became a
public singer, and so far prospered as to gain some little distinction
in two or three opera seasons. Whilst thus engaged, she made the
acquaintance of an Italian, Casti by name, fell in love with him, and
subsequently followed him to Italy. Her courage was rewarded, for there
she became the singer's wife. They travelled for two years, during
which time a son was born to them. The mother's health failed; she was
unable henceforth to travel with her husband, and, after living in Rome
for nearly four years, she died there. The boy was shortly brought back
to England by his father, and placed in the care of Mr. Smales, on the
understanding that a sum of money should be paid yearly for his support
and education. From that day to the present nothing more had been heard
of Signor Casti, and all the care of his sister's child had fallen upon
poor Smales, who was not too well provided with means to support his
own small household. However, he had not failed in the duty, and Julian
(his name had been Englished) was still going to school at his uncle's
expense. It was by this time understood that, on leaving school, he
should come into the shop, and there qualify himself for the business
of a chemist.
Had it not been for Julian, the back parlour would have seen but little
cheerfulness to-night. Mr. Smales himself was always depressed in mind
and ailing in body. Life had proved too much for him; the burden of the
recurring daylight was beyond his strength. There was plainly no lack
of kindliness in his disposition, and this never failed to come
strongly into his countenance as often as he looked at Harriet. She was
his only child. Her mother had died of consumption early in their
married life, and it was his perpetual dread lest he should discover in
Harriet a disposition to the same malady.
His fears had but too much stimulus to keep them alive. Harriet had
passed through a sickly childhood, and was growing up with a feeble
constitution. Body and mind were alike unhealthy. Of all the people who
came in contact with her, her father alone was blind to her distorted
sense of right, her baseless resentments, her malicious pleasures, her
depraved intellect. His affection she repaid with indifference. At
present, the only person she appeared to really like was the servant
Sarah, a girl of vicious character.
Harriet had suffered more from Ida's blow than had at first appeared
likely. The wound would not heal well, and she had had several feverish
nights. For her convenience, the couch had been drawn up between the
fire and the table; and, reclining here, she every now and then threw
out a petulant word in reply to her father's or Julian's well-meant
cheerfulness. But for the boy, the gloomy silence would seldom have
been broken. He, however, was full to-night of a favourite subject, and
kept up a steady flow of bright narrative. At school he was much
engaged just now with the history of Rome, and it was his greatest
delight to tell the listeners at home the glorious stories which were
his latest acquisitions. All to-day he had been reading Plutarch. The
enthusiasm with which he spoke of these old heroes and their deeds went
beyond mere boyish admiration of valour and delight in bloodshed; he
seemed to be strongly sensible of the real features of greatness in
these men's lives, and invested his stories with a glow of poetical
colour which found little appreciation in either of his hearers.
"And I was born in Rome, wasn't I, uncle?" he exclaimed at last. "_I_
am a Roman; _Romanus sum_!"
Then he laughed with his wonted bright gleefulness. It was half in
jest, but for all that there was a genuine warmth on his cheek, and
lustre in his fine eyes.
"Some day I will go to Rome again," he said, "and both of you shall go
with me. We shall see the Forum and the Capitol! Sha'n't you shout when
you see the Capitol, uncle?"
Poor Smales only smiled sadly and shook his head. It was a long way
from Marylebone to Rome; greater still the distance between the boy's
mind and that of his uncle.
Sarah took Harriet to bed early. Julian had got hold of his Plutarch
again, and read snatches of it aloud every now and then. His uncle paid
no heed, was sunk in dull reverie. When they had sat thus for more than
an hour, Mr. Smales began to exhibit a wish to talk.
"Put the book away, and draw up to the fire, my boy," he said, with as
near an approach to heartiness as he was capable of. "It's Christmas
time, and Christmas only comes once a year."
He rubbed his palms together, then began to twist the corners of his
handkerchief.
"Well, Julian," he went on, leaning feebly forward to the fire, "a year
more school, I suppose, and then--business; what?"
"Yes, uncle."
The boy spoke cheerfully, but yet not in the same natural way as before.
"I wish I could afford to make you something better, my lad; you ought
to be something better by rights. And I don't well know what you'll
find to do in this little shop. The business might be better; yes,
might be better. You won't have much practice in dispensing, I'm
afraid, unless things improve. It is mostly hair-oil,--and the patent
medicines. It's a poor look-out for you, Julian."
There was a silence.
"Harriet isn't quite well yet, is she?" Smales went on, half to himself.
"No, she looked poorly to-night."
"Julian," began the other, but paused, rubbing his hands more nervously
than ever.
"Yes, uncle?"
"I wonder what 'ud become of her if I--if I died now? You're growing
up, and you're a clever lad; you'll soon be able to shift for yourself.
But what'll Harriet do? If only she had her health. And I shall have
nothing to leave either her or you, Julian,--nothing,--nothing! She'll
have to get her living somehow. I must think of some easy business for
her, I must. She might be a teacher, but her head isn't strong enough,
I fear. Julian--"
"Yes, uncle?"
"You--you are old enough to understand things, my boy," went on his
uncle, with quavering voice. "Suppose, after I'm dead and gone, Harriet
should want help. She won't make many friends, I fear, and she'll have
bad health. Suppose she was in want of any kind,--you'd stand by her,
Julian, wouldn't you? You'd be a friend to her,--always?"
"Indeed I would, uncle!" exclaimed the boy stoutly.
"You promise me that, Julian, this Christmas night?--you promise it?"
"Yes, I promise, uncle. You've always been kind and good to me, and see
if I'm not the same to Harriet."
His voice trembled with generous emotion.
"No, I sha'n't see it, my boy," said Smales, shaking his head drearily;
"but the promise will be a comfort to me at the end, a comfort to me.
You're a good lad, Julian!"
Silence came upon them again.
In the same district, in one of a row of semi-detached houses standing
in gardens, lived Ida's little friend, Maud Enderby, with her aunt,
Miss Bygrave, a lady of forty-two or forty-three. The rooms were small
and dark; the furniture sparse, old-fashioned, and much worn; there
were no ornaments in any of the rooms, with the exception of a few
pictures representing the saddest incidents in the life of Christ. On
entering the front door you were oppressed by the chill, damp
atmosphere, and by a certain unnatural stillness. The stairs were not
carpeted, but stained a dark colour; a footfall upon them, however
light, echoed strangely as if from empty chambers above. There was no
sign of lack of repair; perfect order and cleanliness wherever the eye
penetrated; yet the general effect was an unspeakable desolation.
Maud Enderby, on reaching home after her meeting with Ida, entered the
front parlour, and sat down in silence near the window, where faint
daylight yet glimmered. The room was without fire. Over the mantelpiece
hung an engraving of the Crucifixion; on the opposite wall were the
Agony in the Garden, and an Entombment; all after old masters. The
centre table, a few chairs, and a small sideboard were the sole
articles of furniture. The table was spread with a white cloth; upon it
were a loaf of bread, a pitcher containing milk, two plates, and two
glasses.
Maud sat in the cold room for a quarter of an hour; it became quite
dark. Then was heard a soft footstep descending the stairs; the door
opened, and a lady came in, bearing a lighted lamp, which she stood
upon the table. She was tall, very slender, and with a face which a
painter might have used to personify the spiritual life. Its outlines
were of severe perfection; its expression a confirmed grief, subdued
by, and made subordinate to, the consciousness of an inward strength
which could convert suffering into triumph. Her garment was black, of
the simplest possible design. In looking at Maud, as the child rose
from the chair, it was scarcely affection that her eyes expressed,
rather a grave compassion. Maud took a seat at the table without
speaking; her aunt sat down over against her. In perfect silence they
partook of the milk and the bread. Miss Bygrave then cleared the table
with her own hands, and took the things out of the room. Maud still
kept her place. The child's manner was not at all constrained; she was
evidently behaving in her wonted way. Her eyes wandered about the room
with rather a dreamy gaze, and, as often as they fell upon her aunt's
face, became very serious, though in no degree expressive of fear or
even awe.
Miss Bygrave returned, and seated herself near the little girl; then
remained thoughtful for some minutes. The breath from their lips was
plainly visible on the air. Maud almost shivered now and then, but
forced herself to suppress the impulse. Her aunt presently broke the
silence, speaking in a low voice, which had nothing of tenderness, but
was most impressive in its earnest calm.
"I wish to speak to you before you go upstairs, Maud; to speak of
things which you cannot understand fully as yet, but which you are old
enough to begin to think about."
Maud was surprised. It was the first time that her aunt had ever
addressed her in this serious way. She was used to being all but
ignored, though never in a manner which made her feel that she was
treated unkindly. There was nothing like confidence between them; only
in care for her bodily wants did Miss Bygrave fill the place of the
mother whose affection the child had never known. Maud crossed her
hands on her lap, and looked up with respectful attention upon her pale
sweet little face.
"Do you wonder at all," Miss Bygrave went on, "why we never spend
Christmas like your friends do in their homes, with eating and drinking
and all sorts of merriment?"
"Yes, aunt, I do."
It was evidently the truth, and given with the simple directness which
characterised the child.
"You know what Christmas Day means, Maud?"
"It is the day on which Christ was born."
"And for what purpose did Christ come as a child on earth?"
Maud thought for a moment. She had never had any direct religious
teaching; all she knew of these matters was gathered from her regular
attendance at church. She replied in a phrase which had rested in her
mind, though probably conveying little if any meaning to her.
"He came to make us free from sin."
"And so we should rejoice at His coming. But would it please Him, do
you think, to see us showing our joy by indulging in those very sins
from which He came to free us?"
Maud looked with puzzled countenance.
"Is it a sin to like cake and sweet things, aunt?"
The gravity of the question brought a smile to Miss Bygrave's close,
strong lips.
"Listen, Maud," she said, "and I will tell you what I mean. For you to
like such things is no sin, as long as you are still too young to have
it explained to you why you should overcome that liking. As I said, you
are now old enough to begin to think of more than a child's
foolishness, to ask yourself what is the meaning of the life which has
been given you, what duties you must set before yourself as you grow up
to be a woman. When once these duties have become clear to you, when
you understand what the end of life is, and how you should seek to gain
it, then many things become sinful which were not so before, and many
duties must be performed which previously you were not ready for."
Miss Bygrave spoke with effort, as if she found it difficult to express
herself in sufficiently simple phraseology. Speaking, she did not look
at the child; and, when the pause came, her eyes were still fixed
absently on the picture above the mantelpiece.
"Keep in mind what I shall tell you," she proceeded with growing
solemnity, "and some day you will better understand its meaning than
you can now. The sin which Christ came to free us from was--fondness
for the world, enjoyment of what we call pleasure, desire for happiness
on earth. He Himself came to set us the example of one to whom the
world was nothing, who could put aside every joy, and make His life a
life of sorrows. Even that was not enough. When the time had come, and
He had finished His teaching of the disciples whom He chose, He
willingly underwent the most cruel of all deaths, to prove that His
teaching had been the truth, and to show us that we must face any most
dreadful suffering rather than desert what we believe to be right."
She pointed to the crucified figure, and Maud followed the direction of
her hand with awed gaze.
"And this," said Miss Bygrave, "is why I think it wrong to make
Christmas a time of merriment. In the true Christian, every enjoyment
which comes from the body is a sin. If you feel you _like_ this or
that, it is a sign that you must renounce it, give it up. If you feel
fond of life, you must force yourself to hate it; for life is sin. Life
is given to us that we may conquer ourselves. We are placed in the
midst of sin that we may struggle against its temptations. There is
temptation in the very breath you draw, since you feel a dread if it is
checked. You must live so as to be ready at any moment to give up your
life with gladness, as a burden which it has been appointed you to bear
for a time. There is temptation in the love you feel for those around
you; it makes you cling to life; you are tempted to grieve if you lose
them, whereas death is the greatest blessing in the gift of God. And
just because it is so, we must not snatch at it before our time; it
would be a sin to kill ourselves, since that would be to escape from
the tasks set us. Many pleasures would seem to be innocent, but even
these it is better to renounce, since for that purpose does every
pleasure exist. I speak of the pleasures of the world. One joy there is
which we may and must pursue, the joy of sacrifice. The more the body
suffers, the greater should be the delight of the soul; and the only
moment of perfect happiness should be that when the world grows dark
around us, and we feel the hand of death upon our hearts."
She was silent, and both sat in the cold room without word or motion.