MAGIC WORDS.
[Illustration: Day & Son, lith^{rs}. to the Queen.]
MAGIC WORDS;
A Tale for Christmas Time.
BY
EMILIE MACERONI.
“Oh, many a shaft at random sent,
Finds mark the archer little meant;
And many a word at random spoken
May soothe or wound a heart that’s broken.”
_Scott._
WITH FOUR ILLUSTRATIONS BY E. H. WEHNERT.
[Illustration]
LONDON:
CUNDALL & ADDEY, 21 OLD BOND STREET.
M.DCCC.LI.
LONDON:
Printed by G. BARCLAY, Castle St. Leicester Sq.
TO
MRS. AUSTIN
This Little Volume
IS AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED.
ILLUSTRATIONS.
LITTLE MARY AND HER FRIEND TROY 11
MARION TEACHING LATIN 25
EDITH WATCHING THE DAWN 39
MARION AND HER FATHER (_Frontispiece_) 53
_From Drawings by_ E. H. WEHNERT.
MAGIC WORDS.
CHAPTER I.
It was the evening of Christmas Day. The hymn of “Peace upon earth,
good-will towards men,” had been chanted by thousands of voices
throughout the land, from the grand cathedral-choir to the simple
singers of the village church. Charity had extended her munificent
hand to the poor and needy, lighting up smiles on many a care-worn
face. Hospitality welcomed the good, the beautiful, and the great to
the lordly mansions of the rich. Love and Peace sat enthroned in many
a happy home. Poverty, shivering at the present, was consoled by the
glowing figure of Hope, pointing with radiant eyes to the future.
Memory and Sorrow lingered around the grave of many a departed one;
but of all mourners they were the saddest who were estranged from
those they still loved. Yes, amid the pain, the sorrow, the suffering
of life, _their_ hearts were the heaviest; for (to use the oft-quoted
words of the poet) “to be wroth with those we love, doth work like
madness in the brain;” and this hallowed season speaks strongest to our
kindest feelings, and to the tenderness of our better nature.
* * * * *
A train had stopped at a rough little village station about thirty
miles from town, and a few country people, on their way home, leaned
over the bridge above to admire the enormous red eyes of the monster
as it moved slowly on through a deep cutting crowned with dark firs.
They lingered yet a moment longer, to mark whom it had borne from the
great city to their quiet village. A beautiful girl of fifteen, glowing
with health and exercise, accompanied by two fine, rough-looking dogs,
rushed down to meet her playfellows and friends. She was breathless
with joy, and with her race over the heath; but her merry laugh and
warm greeting sounded pleasantly enough as the noise of the train died
away in the distance.
A lady, wrapped in a warm plaid, who had been anxiously waiting for
some time, took the arm of her husband, with a few low words of
delighted welcome, and they walked briskly away. The dogs of the
younger party barked with glee--were patted and caressed. One look at
the dear heath and at the hills beyond, with a thrill of delight at
the thoughts of a long ramble over them on the morrow, and the ponies
were mounted, the dogs whistled to, and away flew the happy trio to
the home-welcome, to the dear old hall, to all the joy of a Christmas
meeting.
Only two other passengers appeared, winding up the pathway--a gentleman
of tall and commanding aspect, and a buxom, brisk-footed countrywoman,
wrapped in her scarlet cloak, who passed him with a low curtsey and
cheerful good night. She was thinking of the bright fireside, of the
dear little faces round it anxiously awaiting her return, and of the
enormous amount of joy contained in that wicker basket. An event of
great marvel and wonderment is a poor woman’s visit to her friends in
town, and she is ever in a tearful state of ecstasy and excitement on
reaching home again; all of which becomes a matter of grave family
history in the lowly household, and is recounted on many an occasion to
eager and attentive hearers.
She quickly disappeared up a winding path cut through the furze and
heather, evidently leading to a low-roofed cottage on the skirts of a
fir-wood. Lights twinkled in the casement, and joyful voices were soon
heard approaching to meet and welcome her. The road was now perfectly
solitary. A few deep-red clouds still hung over the west, and here and
there a large bright star shone silently through the sharp, pure air.
Dogs bayed in the distance; the sound came very pleasantly over the
heather through the rough old pines.
The gentleman walked briskly on, and lights began to appear in the
valley beneath. He stopped as the merry notes of a flageolet struck
his ear, proceeding from a cottage by the road-side. The blaze of a
wood fire within illumined the little rustic porch and neat garden.
Bright branches of glistening holly shone in the tiny casement. The
tune ceased, and was followed by a light-hearted laugh and the sound of
young voices.
“How happy they seem!” said he. “It is such scenes as these which make
the country so delightful, so cheering to sense and spirit!”
And yet he sighed heavily as he walked on; and passing through an
avenue of fir and larch leading to one of the prettiest and most
picturesque cottages in the world, he paused when he reached the
garden-gate. It seemed, too, a dear, quiet, sweet-smelling home. Lights
shone from more than one of the windows; and more than one bright young
face might be seen, by the gleam of its golden hair, flitting about
in the uncertain light. A sweet young voice singing as sweet a tune
ceased, as all young voices do, suddenly, when the bell rang out its
summons, and a brisk, rosy little maid appeared, lantern and key in
hand, to admit the traveller, and guide him through the long shadow of
the firs to the house. A favourite dog bounded to meet and gambol round
him with unrepressed joy. The children clustered into the porch to say,
timidly, “How do you do?” and hold out their little hands to shake;
while their mother, advancing with a kindly greeting, expressed her
pleasure at his return. Even the maid looked pleased and happy to see
him. But yet it was not his home.
After a few minutes’ conversation, the traveller was seated in his own
room, his dog, his sole companion, looking at him with glistening eyes,
as his master fondly stroked his magnificent head. He was a man of
twenty-eight or thirty years of age, with a sad and thoughtful cast of
countenance, yet one that all who looked upon it _must_ instantly love
and respect; it was at once so engaging and so noble. He looked round
his little room at his sketches and his gun with evident pleasure,
placed some books and papers which he had brought on a little table
before him, and drawing his arm-chair close to the blazing pine-logs,
sat watching the golden cones as they crumbled away, one by one, at
the height of their brilliancy. But every reverie must have its end;
and his was brought to a close by the appearance of coffee, borne by
a bright-eyed country maid, smirking and smiling with pleasure, as
country servants are wont to do at every fresh arrival.
It would seem that the reverie by the bright fireside was not an idle
one, but that among many revolving thoughts, some, at least, were
considered worthy of preservation; for the coffee was soon despatched,
the table covered with books and papers, and the stranger intently
occupied with his pen.
So absorbed did he become with it, that after one or two long, wistful
glances, the fine hound lay down reproachfully on his comfortable rug,
as if despairing of any further notice that night.
The wind moaned heavily in the pine-branches round the cottage.
Presently the writer paused and listened to the sound, so like the
rushing of distant waters. He walked slowly to the window, and gazed
long and earnestly into the night. It was moonlight, yet stormy;
and large, glittering stars, looked down through the dark branches,
when the hurrying white clouds had drifted over them. The distant
clock of the old village church, slowly striking the hour, sounded
mournfully over the river; and the lonely man at that little window
thought of years that were gone, of the bright firesides in many a
happy home that night, and turned and put away his papers with a sigh.
He thought how differently he used to work years ago, when, with all
the ardour of his nature and the energy of hope, and yet with intense
fear and anxiety, he strove to render himself worthy of one idolized,
one long-sighed-for object! He thought, too, of the bitterness, the
agony of disappointment; and how long years of his young life would
have been thrown away, had he not struggled hard to save himself from
becoming a useless, melancholy being, given up to the indulgence of
selfish regrets. He had succeeded,--there was some comfort in that
reflection. He knew of what he was capable, and dared not throw away
the power he had acquired, because it no longer availed the idol Self.
So he still worked on. He had become distinguished for his literary
labours, and for his contributions to the improvement and well-being
of his fellow-creatures; but to fame and to the praises of the great
he was now equally indifferent. His happiest hours were passed in his
favourite village, where he was greatly beloved, although he dared not
wholly give himself up to the quiet of a country life.
He had had the old Gothic church restored, with all possible observance
of its antique ornaments and its fine clustering ivy; and took a kind
of Sir Roger de Coverley delight in seeing the country people, bettered
and improved in every way, flocking to it on Sundays to hear his good
tutor’s sermons, to which he used to listen with so much reverence in
his boyish days. He had learned to believe that the word “happiness”
signifies, the being reconciled to bear, still having courage to
do, and gratitude to enjoy that which remains. Thus, he was usually
cheerful in his various occupations; _but this was Christmas time_:
a time when the lonely heart feels most desolate--a time when many a
tender word spoken by the absent is remembered with sorrow--when all
anger is forgotten in the feeling of peace and love which steals over
the heart. And his head lay buried in his hands, his whole soul given
up to an overwhelming agony of regret.
[Illustration: Day & Son, lith^{rs}. to the Queen.]
“This day last year,” he muttered, “who could have believed the change?
Oh, Edith!” he continued, taking up a miniature that lay beside him,
“who could have thought then that we should now be as strangers to
each other? Who could have thought that that bright face, those many
noble qualities, could have wrought so much misery?” Again he looked
at the lovely countenance, smiling on him a thousand of the tenderest
remembrances, and a still gentler expression, a kindlier spirit, came
over him. “Those eyes,” he said, “how softly they have looked on me!
Perhaps even now a thought----but what folly! In the pride of
beauty and prosperity, what is there to remind her of me?”
A low tap at the door interrupted his meditations. For an instant he
could not say, “Come in!” his heart was so very full; but quickly
recovering himself, he turned with a smile to welcome a little village
child, who timidly advanced to place both her tiny hands in his.
She looked into his face with eyes beaming with love and gratitude; but
the joyful, sparkling expression soon faded away, for she saw that he
was sadder than usual; and with the quick sympathy and natural grace
of childhood she sat down quietly on the rug, and taking the stately
head of the hound on her lap, pensively stroked his long, shaggy coat.
Presently she ventured to break the silence in her gentle way--“I am so
glad you are come back, sir; I have missed you so!”
Her companion’s countenance brightened, and he said with
animation--“Have you, though, my poor little Mary? I thought you had
forgotten me, being so long away.” And he stroked her bright brown hair.
“You should not have thought that,” said the child, earnestly; “I
always remember you, for you taught me all I know. I was longing to
come yesterday, and all day to-day,” she continued, “to hear if you
had arrived. To-day has been so happy that I could not stay away any
longer, and so here I am,” she added, with her merry laugh, which
sounded pleasantly in that usually silent room. These simple words,
that mute caress, had restored the confidence of the two friends. Mary
was herself again, full of fun and prattle. Seated on the extreme edge
of a huge Gothic chair, she balanced her little feet on the back of
her friend Troy, who, far from resenting the liberty, fixed his dark
eyes lovingly on her sweet young face, while she talked on, full of
the details of her simple life. How she had gathered pine-cones for
several evenings, because she knew he loved their cheerful blaze and
sweet smell. How poor Turpin, who was always in trouble, had hunted
a rabbit, and been caught in a trap; of her mad race over the hills
for help; how she nursed the poor, poor foot afterwards; and how
the faithful patient cried because he could not accompany her that
night; the relation of all which very much affected his kind little
mistress. Presently she produced with great glee her “Christmas
present,”--several little bundles of bark, peeled with great care, from
the silver birch-trees, cut into slips, and tied with red worsted. “I
burnt a little bit the other day,” said she, “and the smell was so nice
I thought you would like it, so I got some to light your taper with--do
try it;” and the little creature soon held a blazing piece in her hand.
“It is delicious, Mary; and how good of you to collect it for me!”
“I was very happy getting it,” said the child; “but I wish you had not
thought I had forgotten you. I could not forget you!” she continued,
after a pause; “you, who have been so good to me, and taught me so
much! I never looked at a book before you came. Oh, I was sadly wild!
Mother said I made more noise than the boys!” And she laughed heartily.
The tutor laughed too, and told the often repeated story, which he knew
she loved to hear, of how, in his walks, he had frequently listened to
her little voice singing in a cornfield, while “minding” birds; how he
had been surprised at her sudden disappearance on his nearer approach,
and on making a voyage of discovery, had found her ensconced in the
body of a broken-down post-chaise, that, singularly enough, lay between
two old fir-trees at the foot of the wood! He did not describe to her
how, in imagination, he had pictured the different and exciting scenes
in which the once gay equipage might have borne its part; but went on
to say how he had peeped in unobserved, and had seen her perched on
one of the dilapidated seats, with a little piece of board on her lap,
intently occupied in carving a morsel of meat into divers small pieces,
which she divided, with impartial care, among three ragged starlings
perched on the opposite beam, who watched her with glistening eyes!
How merrily she talked to them, and how perfectly they seemed to love
and understand each other! He reminded her of her surprise on being
discovered, and her frank invitation to the intruder to “look in” on
the wonders of the unique aviary, with its valuable illustrations of
the “History of Red Riding Hood,” its bright jay’s feathers, and other
childish treasures!
Heartily the little Mary laughed; and so the Christmas evening passed
on.
“I must go now,” she said; “I promised to read mother the pretty story
you gave me, ‘Simple Susan,’ and they will all sit up for it! Good bye!
You will promise not to be so sad when I am gone as you were when I
came in. You have been thinking of that pretty lady again!” she said,
with a face of anxious love--pointing to the miniature--“that makes you
so, I know! Why don’t you go to her?”
“Because she does not love me, Mary,” was the faltering reply; “and you
know we are not happy with those who do not love us.”
“Are you _sure_ of that?” said the child, earnestly. “People often
hide their kindest thoughts--and perhaps she hides hers from you; you
must look for them, as I look for violets, in their thick leaves. Oh,
I was so unhappy once!” she continued, tears starting into her eyes at
the remembrance: “I quarrelled with my brother, and we did not speak
all day--both were so proud: but do you know” (and the sweet little
face sparkled) “that when I put my arms round his neck and kissed him,
and said, ‘Good night, Harry!’ he kissed me, and cried too; and said
how unhappy he had been _all_ the time. I had thought he would _never_,
_never_ love me again! Oh! if my brother had died, as baby did, before
we kissed each other that night!”
Poor little Mary paused, her heart quite full at the bare idea of such
a thing; but she turned again, with admiring eyes, to the miniature.
“She looks very kind and good, and _so_ beautiful! Did you speak
gently, and ask her to love you again: or were you proud?”
The child did not notice the agitation of her companion, and little did
she imagine that, long after her head lay softly on her happy pillow,
the simple eloquence of those Magic Words was working powerfully in his
heart!