THE MORNING OF CHRISTMAS DAY.
It is but justice to Thomas Worboise to mention that he made no
opportunities of going to his "governor's" house after this. But the
relations of the families rendered it impossible for him to avoid
seeing Mary Boxall sometimes. Nor did he make any great effort to
evade each meetings: and it must be confessed that it was not without
a glow of inward satisfaction that he saw her confusion and the rosy
tinge that spread over her face and deepened the color of her eyes
when they thus happened to meet. For Mary was a soft-hearted and too
impressible girl. "I never said anything to her," were the words with
which he would now and then apply an unction to his soul, compounded
of self-justification and self-flattery. But he could not keep an
outward appearance of coolness correspondent to the real coldness of
his selfish heart, and the confusion which was only a dim reflection of
her own was sufficient to make poor Mary suppose that feelings similar
to her own were at work in the mind of the handsome youth. Why he did
not _say_ anything to her had not yet begun to trouble her, and her
love was as yet satisfied with the ethereal luxuries of dreaming and
castle-building.
It had been arranged between Amy Worboise and the Boxall girls, that if
Christmas Day were fine, they would persuade their fathers to go with
them to Hampstead Heath in the morning. How much of this arrangement
was owing to sly suggestion on the part of Mary in the hope of seeing
Tom, I do not know. I believe Jane contrived that Charles Wither should
have a hint of the possibility. It is enough that the plan was accepted
by the parents, and that the two families, with the exception of Mrs.
Boxall, who could not commit the care of the Christmas dinner to the
servants, and the invalid Mrs. Worboise, who, indeed, would always
have preferred the chance of a visit from Mr. Simon to the certainty
of sunshine and extended prospect, found themselves, after morning
service, on the platform of the Highbury railway station, whence they
soon reached Hampstead.
The walk from the station, up the hill to the top of the heath, was
delightful. It was a clear day, the sun shining overhead, and the
ground sparkling with frost under their feet. The keen, healthy air
brought color to the cheeks and light to the eyes of all the party,
possibly with the sole exception of Mr. Worboise, who, able to walk
uncovered in the keenest weather, was equally impervious to all the
gentler influences of Nature. He could not be said to be a disbeliever
in Nature, for he had not the smallest idea that she had any existence
beyond an allegorical one. What he did believe in was the law, meaning
by that neither the Mosaic nor the Christian, neither the law of love
nor the law of right, but the law of England as practiced in her courts
of justice. Therefore he was not a very interesting person to spend
a Christmas morning with, and he and Mr. Boxall, who was equally a
believer in commerce, were left to entertain each other.
Mary Boxall was especially merry; Amy Worboise roguish as usual; Jane
Boxall rather silent, but still bright-eyed, for who could tell whom
she might meet upon the heath? And with three such girls Tom could not
be other than gay, if not brilliant. True, Lucy was alone with her old
grandmother in dingy Guild Court; but if she loved him, was not that
enough to make her or any other woman happy? And he could not help it,
besides. And why should he not improve the shining hour because Lucy
had no flowers to gather honey from? Besides, was he not going to meet
her the very next day, after much contrivance for concealment? So he
was resolved to be merry and "freuen sich des Lebens."
They reached the flag-staff. The sun was getting low, and clouds
were gathering behind him. Harrow-on-the-Hill was invisible, but the
reservoir gleamed coldly far across the heath. A wind was blowing from
the northwest; all London lay south and east in clearness wonderful,
for two or three minutes. Then a vapor slowly melted away the dome of
St. Paul's, and, like a spirit of sorrow, gathered and gathered till
that which was full of life to those who were in it, was but a gray
cloud to those that looked on from the distant hight. Already the young
people felt their spirits affected, and as if by a common impulse,
set off to walk briskly to the pines above the "Spaniards." They had
not gone far, before they met Charles Wither sauntering carelessly
along--at least he seemed much surprised to see them. He turned and
walked between Jane and Amy, and Mary and Tom were compelled to drop
behind, so as not to extend their line unreasonably and occupy the
whole path. Quite unintentionally on Tom's part, the distance between
the two divisions increased, and when he and Mary reached the pines,
the rest of the party had vanished. They had in fact gone down into the
Vale of Health, to be out of the wind, and return by the hollow, at the
suggestion of Charles Wither, who wished thus to avoid the chance of
being seen by Mr. Boxall. When he had taken his leave of them, just as
they came in sight of the flag-staff, where Mr. Worboise and Mr. Boxall
had appointed to meet them on their return from the pines, Jane begged
Amy to say nothing about having met him.
"Oh," said Amy, with sudden and painful illumination, "I am _so_ sorry
to have been in the way."
"On the contrary, dear Amy, I should not have known what to say to
papa, except you had been with me. I am so much obliged to you."
Thus there was clearly trouble in store for Mr. Boxall, who had never
yet known what it was not to have his own way--in matters which he
would consider of importance at least.
The two gentlemen had gone into Jack Straw's to have a glass of wine
together, in honor of Christmas Day; and while they were seated
together before a good fire, it seemed to Mr. Boxall a suitable
opportunity for entering on a matter of business.
"What will you say to me, Worboise, when I tell you that I have never
yet made a will?"
"I needn't tell you what I think, Boxall. You know well enough. Very
foolish of you. Very imprudent, indeed. And I confess I should not have
expected it of you, although I had a shrewd suspicion that such was the
case.
"How came you to suspect it?"
"To tell the truth; I could not help thinking that as our friendship
was not of yesterday, you would hardly have asked any one else to draw
up your will but your old friend. So you see it was by no mysterious
exercise of intelligence that I came to the conclusion that, not being
an unkind or suspicious man, you must be a dilatory, and, excuse me, in
this sole point, a foolish man."
"I grant the worst you can say, but you shall say it only till
to-morrow--that is, if you will draw up the will, and have it ready for
me to sign at any hour you may be at leisure for a call from me."
"I can't undertake it by to-morrow; but it shall be ready by the next
day at twelve o'clock."
"That will do perfectly. I must remain 'a foolish man' for twenty-four
hours longer--that is all."
"You won't be much the worse for that, except you have an attack of
apoplexy to fix you there. But, joking apart, give me my instructions.
May I ask how much you have to leave?"
"Oh; somewhere, off and on, about thirty thousand. It isn't much, but I
hope to double it in the course of a few years, if things go on as they
are doing."
Mr. Worboise had not known so much about his friend's affairs as he had
pretended to his son. When he heard the amount, he uttered a slight
"Whew!" But whether it meant that the sum fell below or exceeded his
expectations, he gave Mr. Boxall no time to inquire.
"And how do you want the sum divided?" he asked.
"I don't want it divided at all. There's no occasion whatever to
mention the sum. The books will show my property. I want my wife, in
the case of her surviving me, to have the whole of it."
"And failing her?"
"My daughters, of course--equally divided. If my wife lives, there is
no occasion to mention them. I want them to be dependent upon her as
long as she lives, and so hold the family together as long as possible.
She knows my wishes about them in everything. I have no secrets from
her."
"I have only to carry out instructions. I have no right to offer any
suggestions."
"That means that you would suggest something. Speak out, man."
"Suppose your daughters wished to marry?"
"I leave all that to their mother, as I said. They must be their own
mistresses some day."
"Well, call on me the day after to-morrow, and I shall have the draught
at least ready."
When the two girls reached the flag-staff, their parents were not
there. Jane was glad of this, for it precluded questioning as to the
point whence they had arrived. As they stood waiting, large snow-flakes
began to fall, and the wind was rising. But they had not to wait long
before the gentlemen made their appearance, busily conversing, so
busily, indeed, that when they had joined the girls, they walked away
toward the railway station without concerning themselves to ask what
had become of Mary and Thomas.
When they reached the railway station, Mr. Boxall became suddenly aware
that two of their party were missing.
"Why, Jane, where's Mary? And where's Tom? Where did you leave them?"
"Somewhere about the pines. I thought they would have been back long
ago."
The two fathers looked at each other, and each seeing that the other
looked knowing, then first consented, as he thought, to look knowing
himself.
"Well," said Mr. Worboise, "they're old enough to take care of
themselves, I suppose. I vote we don't wait for them."
"Serve them right," said Mr. Boxall.
"Oh, don't, papa," interposed Jane.
"Well, Jane, will you stop for them?" said her father.
But a sudden light that flashed into Jane's eyes made him change his
tone. He did not know why, but the idea of Charles Wither rose in his
mind, and he made haste to prevent Jane from taking advantage of the
proposal.
"Come along," he said. "Let them take care of themselves. Come along."
The suspicion had crossed him more than once, that Mr. Wither and Jane
possibly contrived to meet without his knowledge, and the thought made
him writhe with jealousy; for it lay in his nature to be jealous of
everyone of whom his wife or his daughters spoke well--that is, until
he began to like him himself, when the jealousy, or what was akin to
it, vanished. But it was not jealousy alone that distressed him, but
the anxiety of real love as well.
By the time they reached Camden Road station, the ground was covered
with snow.
When Tom and Mary arrived at the pines, I have said they found that the
rest of their party had gone.
"Oh, never mind," said Mary, merrily; "let us run down into the hollow,
and wait till they come back. I dare say they are not far off. They
will never go without us."
Partly from false gallantry, partly from inclination, Thomas agreed.
They descended the bank of sand in a quite opposite direction from that
taken by Jane and her companions, and wandered along down the heath.
By this time the sky was all gray and white. Long masses of vapor were
driving overhead with jagged upper edges. They looked like lines of
fierce warriors stooping in their eager rush to the battle. But down in
the hollows of the heath all was still, and they wandered on for some
time without paying any heed to the signs of the coming storm. Does my
reader ask what they talked about? Nothing worthy of record, I answer;
although every word that Thomas uttered seemed to Mary worth looking
into for some occult application of the sort she would gladly have
heard more openly expressed. At length, something cold fell upon her
face, and Thomas glancing that moment at her countenance, saw it lying
there, and took it for a tear. She looked up: the sky was one mass of
heavy vapor, and a multitude of great downy snow-flakes was settling
slowly on the earth. In a moment they were clasped hand in hand.
The pleasure of the snow, the excitement of being shut out from the
visible, or rather the seeing world, wrapped in the skirts of a storm
with a pretty girl for his sole companion, so wrought upon Thomas, who
loved to be moved and hated to will, that he forgot Lucy, and stood in
delight gazing certainly at the falling snow, and not at Mary Boxall,
but holding her hand tight in his own. She crept closer to him, for a
little gentle fear added to her pleasure, and in a moment more his arm
was about her--to protect her, I dare say, he said to himself.
Now, be it understood that Thomas was too much in love with himself
to be capable of loving any woman under the sun after a noble and
true fashion. He did not love Lucy a great deal better than he loved
Mary. Only Mary was an ordinary pretty blonde, and Lucy was dark,
with great black eyes, and far more distinguished in appearance than
Mary. Besides, she was poor, and that added greatly to the romance of
the thing; for it made it quite noble in him to love her, and must
make her look up to him with such deserved admiration, that--without
reckoning the fact that the one was offered him, and the other only
not forbidden because there was as yet no suspicion of his visits in
Guild Court--there was positively no room to hesitate in choice between
them. Still the preference was not strong enough to keep his heart from
beating fast when he found the snow-storm had closed him in with Mary.
He had sense enough, however, to turn at once in order to lead her back
toward the road. But this was already a matter of difficulty, for there
was no path where the storm found them, and with the gathering darkness
the snow already hid the high road across the heath; so that the first
question was in what direction to go to find it. They kept moving,
however, Mary leaning a good deal on Tom's arm, and getting more and
more frightened as no path came in view. Even Tom began to be anxious
about what was to come of it, and although he did his best to comfort
Mary, he soon found that, before the least suspicion of actual danger,
the whole romance had vanished. And now the snow not only fell rapidly,
but the wind blew it sharply in their faces, and blinded them yet more
than merely with its darkness--not that this mattered much as to the
finding the way, for that was all hap-hazard long ago.
After wandering, probably in a circuitous fashion, for more than
an hour, Mary burst out crying, and said she could not walk a step
farther. She would have thrown herself down had not Tom prevented her.
With the kindest encouragement--though he was really down-hearted
himself--he persuaded her to climb a little hight near them, which with
great difficulty she managed to do. From the top they saw a light, and
descending the opposite side of the hill, found themselves in a road,
where an empty cab stood by the door of a public-house. After trying to
persuade Mary to have some refreshment, to which she refused to listen,
insisting on being taken to her mother, Thomas succeeded in getting
the cabman to drive them to the station. In the railway carriage, Mary
lay like one dead, and although he took off both his coats to wrap
about her, she seemed quite unconscious of the attention. It was with
great difficulty that she reached her home; for there was no cab at the
hackney station, and the streets were by this time nearly a foot deep
in snow.
Thomas was not sorry to give her up to her mother. She immediately
began to scold him. Then Mary spoke for the first time, saying, with
great effort:
"Don't, mother. If it had not been for Thomas, I should have been dead
long ago. He could not help it. Good-night, Tom."
And she feebly held up her face to kiss him. Tom stooped to meet it,
and went away feeling tolerably miserable. He was wet and cold. The
momentary fancy for Mary was quite gone out of him, and he could not
help seeing that now he had kissed her before her mother he had got
himself into a scrape.
Before morning Mary was in a raging fever.
That night Charles Wither spent at a billiard-table in London, playing,
not high but long, sipping brandy and water all the time, and thinking
what a splendid girl Jane Boxall was. But in the morning he looked all
right.