CHRISTMAS IN THE DESOLATE HOUSE.
“This holly by the mansion’s bourne,
To-day, ungathered shall it stand,
She dwells within the stranger’s land,
And strangely comes our Christmas morn.
“So neither song, nor game, nor feast,
Nor harp be touched, nor flute be blown,
Nor dance, nor motion, save alone
What lighteus in the lucid east.”—_Tennyson._
Having passed the park gates, the whole scene was changed. No sign of
Christmas festivity was here. No winter wreath of mingled misletoe and
holly arched the entrance. No gay troops of village children carolled
their Christmas song as they went up to the Hall to receive from the
steward their Christmas gifts of cakes and shillings. All was quiet,
sombre, gloomy, as though a recent death in the family had put the
household and premises into mourning. The carriage entered the park by
the “winter drive,” an avenue shaded entirely by gigantic evergreens,
and for its continued verdure and close shelter used exclusively in the
cold months by this comfort-loving family. Now these dark trees, with
their branches meeting overhead, threw a funereal shadow over their way.
As they neared the Hall, the gloom deepened. The dark gray front of the
mansion was closed and silent. The carriage drew up in front of the
great portal. The coachman got down, opened the carriage door, dropped
the steps, and Lord Montressor alighted.
The old man then went up and rang the bell, and to the grave footman
that opened the door, said:
“John, show his lordship into the black oak parlor, and take his
orders.”
John bowed, and as the old coachman withdrew, closed the door behind
him, turned and with another bow led the way to a small, snug, but
gloomy little sitting-room on the same floor, stirred the fire, drew
forward an easy chair, and leaving him comfortably seated, went to take
up the card.
In a few moments, John returned with the request that the visitor would
walk up, and straightway preceded him to the door of the morning room,
which he opened, announcing—
“Lord Montressor.”
Sir Parke and Lady Morelle were seated at opposite corners of the ample
fire-place, in the grate of which burned a fine fire of seacoal.
Both were greatly and sadly changed. Worldliness might indeed have
chilled their parental affections, and pride might have repressed all
utterance of grief or mortification. But that they had suffered deeply,
keenly, bitterly, was indelibly impressed upon their faces.
Sir Parke had grown bald and gray; his features were visibly sunken, his
form perceptibly shrunken.
Lady Morelle’s fair, classic face had lost its firm oval contour and
delicate bloom, and was marked with a light tracery of lines about the
brow and eyes.
But both retained their cold and stately self-control.
As Lord Montressor advanced, Sir Parke arose and offered him his hand,
saying merely—
“I am glad to see you, Montressor.”
“Thank you, Sir Parke; that is but just, since I come to you within
twenty-four hours of my landing in England,” replied the visitor,
smiling. Then he passed on to Lady Morelle, who arose coldly and offered
her hand.
“I hope I find your ladyship in your usual good health, this morning?”
“I am well, sir, and am happy to welcome you back to England,” she
replied, sinking again upon her sofa to the left of the chimney. Sir
Parke resumed his seat on the right of the same. And Lord Montressor
took the comfortable easy chair that had been drawn up for him by the
footman, in front of the glowing fire. And there he sat with the haughty
and reserved baronet, on his right, and the cold and stately lady on his
left,—all silent for a few minutes until Sir Parke bethought him to
dismiss the footman.
When they were alone, Lord Montressor turned to the baronet, and
plunging directly into the subject of all their secret thoughts, said:
“Sir Parke, it has given me the profoundest satisfaction to learn from
Lord Dazzleright that you have relented toward your daughter.”
The baronet’s countenance never changed. He passed his hand once or
twice across his thin and sunken lips and then said, slowly and
composedly:
“That trial, sir, however deplorable and ever-to-be regretted in itself,
nevertheless elicited facts that proved Estelle to be much less
blameworthy than she at first appeared. Yes, sir. Such is the judgment
of those who rule, and who should rule, public opinion.”
To this sentiment Lord Montressor merely bowed while waiting to hear
further.
“Estelle, sir, was but an infant, in bad hands, when she committed that
fatal act of disobedience.”
Lord Montressor could not exactly understand how Estelle had disobeyed
her parents, in marrying Victoire, whom she had never been forbidden to
marry; but he let it pass. Sir Parke continued in the same slow and
composed manner—
“The calamities growing out of that unhappy event are not to be
attributed as crimes to her—the greatest sufferer by them.”
“I am glad you see it in this light, Sir Parke,” said Lord Montressor,
at the same time thinking within himself that it was a signal pity he
could not have seen it so before borrowing old Queen Adelaide’s
spectacles.
“We have determined to establish the first marriage,” said the baronet,
with the cool confidence of an autocrat. “I have talked with my friend,
the Archbishop of York, and he thinks with me that it is the only thing
to be done.”
“But—you are sure of your ground—you are certain that it can be done?”
Sir Parke put down the hand that had been caressing his own chin, turned
upon the caviller a look of cool surprise, and said:
“Assuredly, sir. Can there be a question of it? The only obstacle to the
validity of that childish union was the lack of my consent. Now I intend
to leave it to be supposed that my silence all these years, was the
silence of consent. Yes, sir. Had I known of, and felt an opposition to
that marriage, I might have broken it up at first. That I failed to do
so—from whatever cause—argues my consent. That I allowed it to exist
unquestioned, up to the date of the legal majority of my daughter,
establishes the marriage. So my friend, the Archbishop, views it. The
affair will be heard in chambers. The Court is friendly to my interests.
The decision will involve no question of property or of dower, only the
honor of my house, which must be redeemed.”
“When will the case come on?”
“Very soon. It will be the first cause taken up.”
“You have not lately heard from your daughter?”
“Not since her departure for America. I, however, dispatched a messenger
after her, from whom I am expecting to hear by every mail,” replied Sir
Parke, slightly betraying the great uneasiness he felt.
“Then I bring you the latest news of Estelle.”
Now both Sir Parke and Lady Morelle had expected this; but were both too
cool and self-governed to hazard an inquiry, or manifest anxiety upon
the subject.
At Lord Montressor’s words, however, Lady Morelle raised her head, and
Sir Parke answered:
“Ah, indeed; then I hope, my lord, that you will tell me she is well,
and within reach of my agent.”
“She was well when I left, and living in retirement, in Maryland.”
Sir Parke bowed, and compressed his lips. Lady Morelle flushed, and
averted her face. Self-controlled as they were, their increasing anxiety
betrayed itself.
Lord Montressor understood its full meaning, and, with his usual
straightforward candor, replied:
“Fear nothing, Sir Parke. Although when I left the shores of England in
pursuit of Estelle, I believed her to be my lawful bride; yet, since
affairs have taken this unexpected turn, I thank Heaven that I have not
seen her from the day she left the protection of her aged pastor, and,
moreover, that I had not passed one moment alone with her since leaving
the altar.”
“That is well,” answered Sir Parke, coolly, and in no degree revealing
that a great burden of anxiety had been lifted from his mind.
Lady Morelle’s countenance resumed its slightly discomposed serenity.
“But it is only fair to inform the parents of Estelle, that when the
decision of the Arches’ Court is rendered, I shall become a candidate
for her hand. Until that time, I am forbidden, of all, to seek her.”
Sir Parke bent his head.
“You are right, my lord,” he said.
Lady Morelle now, also, for the first time, entered into the
conversation, by saying—
“You informed us that Estelle was living in retirement, in some part of
Maryland. Will you please to designate more exactly the place of her
residence?”
“I cannot do so, Madam, since I am not advised of it. Had I been so, it
is probable that I should not now be sitting among you.”
“Your information, then, is not very precise or satisfactory.”
“It is satisfactory, so far as it goes, Madam; though I admit it is not
very precise. Permit me to explain;”—and Lord Montressor here related
the circumstances of his acquaintance with Barbara Brande, together with
the conversations he had held with her upon the subject of Estelle.
“But is this reliable? Is not Estelle the last woman in the world, even
in her extremity, to make a confidante of such a she-savage?” inquired
Sir Parke.
“Have I, then, been so unjust or incompetent as to give you _that_ idea
of Miss Brande?—a heroic Christian woman, if ever I saw one!” exclaimed
Lord Montressor, warmly.
“A female sailor, at best. But let that pass, Montressor, since you are
her apologist. Here comes John from the steward’s room.”
The footman now indeed appeared and announced—
“The tenants are all arrived, Sir Parke.”
“Well!” said the baronet, rising with a dissatisfied air—“I suppose we
must show ourselves to them—I suppose they came pouring in hither from
the church, eh, John?”
“Church is just out, sir, and they have just dropped in to Mr.
Thompson’s room, to wish your honor a merry Christmas.”
“And to drink a pipe of wine!—very good! Lady Morelle, will you go with
me?”
“I thank you, no, Sir Parke,” said her ladyship, shrugging her graceful
shoulders at the thought of meeting the heterogeneous company below.
“And you, Montressor?”
“I will attend you with pleasure, Sir Parke.”
“Come, then! It is an old custom, to treat our tenants on Christmas day;
and though I would have well dispensed with their company upon this
occasion, and though nothing was said about their coming, you see they
have not forgotten it,” said the baronet, as they left the room.
“A time-honored custom, worthy to be observed, Sir Parke! and I hope
indeed that my bailiff at Montressor is not forgetting my children
there, at this present time,” replied the young peer, who was indeed the
patriarch of his own tenants and dependants.
“By the way, can you tell me why Dazzleright has not made his
appearance?”
“He will be down by the noon train, Sir Parke.”
“Ah, indeed, if that is so—John!”
“Yes, sir,” said that functionary coming up.
“Tell Jenkins to put the greys to the carriage and go to the ‘Arms’ to
wait for Lord Dazzleright.”
“Yes, sir!” and this official disappeared.
They went down another flight of steps and entered the steward’s room,
where about fifty or sixty persons, men, women and children, were
assembled.
The men were all standing for the want of sufficiency of seats to
accommodate their numbers; and the women all sitting, with the children
gathered at each mother’s knee, to be kept out of mischief.
Four moderate-sized tables were set out and laden with huge loaves of
bread and rounds of beef, great cheeses and mammoth seed-cakes—all
veritable pieces of resistance.
In one corner, under the direction of the butler, stood two grinning
footmen, surrounded by several hampers of wine, and flanked by a stand
laden with glasses. One of these worthies was engaged in drawing corks,
while the other filled the goblets on the stand.
At the opposite end of the room, with his firm feet planted upon the
rug, and his broad, responsible back toward the fire, stood Mr.
Thompson, the steward, to impose decorum by his magisterial presence.
Upon the entrance of the Lord of the Manor and his distinguished guest,
this “decorum” grew more decorous—took a higher degree. The flunkies at
the hampers stopped grinning. The men all bowed. The women all arose and
courtesied.
Sir Parke received their homage graciously.
“I am happy to see you here as usual, my friends. Sit down all of you
who can find seats; but you will give the women the preference, I
know——Thompson, see that our good friends lack nothing. Brodie, mind
that you do not spare the cellars,” said the baronet.
A few of the elder and more privileged among the tenants now advanced,
bowed to the guest, and shook hands with their landlord, wishing both—
“A merry Christmas and many happy returns of the same.”
The first course of wine was then served around. And a grey-haired
tenant arose in his place and proposed—
“Our honored landlord, his family, and his guests—may everlasting
happiness be theirs!”
The toast was heartily taken up and drank with enthusiasm—for just at
Christmas Sir Parke Morelle and his lady were well liked by their
dependants—or if they were not, their Christmas cheer _was_, which
answered the same purpose.
When the uproar of the toast-drinking had subsided, the baronet and his
visitor, wishing the assembled people health and prosperity, withdrew,
leaving them to their repast.