CHRISTMAS DAY.
“You are not like most women, my daughter Tom; you can keep a secret?”
“But not from you, dear. I will tell you what you want to know, really,
if you put it in that way.”
Mr. Whitwell and his favourite daughter were spending a cosy evening
together in the library at Hornby Hall. The lamps which lighted the room
were shaded, the curtains were drawn, and the fire burned brightly. Tom
sat on a low chair by her father’s side, and he laid his hand lovingly
on the short curls of her closely-cropped head. “Now, tell me if I
understand you rightly, Tom,” he said. “Instead of the usual
pocket-money which has been your share—a Benjamin’s portion always, you
know, because you are my youngest—you want me to give you a pound a
month. Next, you wish me to forget that I have a mortgage on John’s
land, which, indeed, as you say, I no longer hold since you have it. I
am not going to ask you to tell me what is in your heart to do, Tom; but
you are too sensible not to remember that business is business and right
is right. I cannot afford to make John a present of that deed, and he
would not accept it if I did.”
“But he is dreadfully in want of money, isn’t he, father?”
“Yes, he is; and so will you be soon if you try to make twelve pounds a
year do for your necessities. Does it not cost you half-a-crown each
time you go to London, even travelling by third class? And you would not
be content to go up less frequently than once a week; for what would
your young Crusaders do if they did not see you, and what would happen
to your old and sick people here if you never had a shilling to give
them?”
“But a pound a month would not be all I should have. I have learnt how
to earn money by my own talents and industry. Has not that a grand
sound?”
“What do you mean, dear?”
“I have become a contributor of pictures to the daily papers. You did
not know that you had an artist in the family, did you?”
“No, and I do not know it now.”
“That is too bad of you. Really, I have been earning a little money in
that way for some time past. There, you see, I cannot keep a secret
after all. But, seriously, father, I feel so sorry for Cousin John. He
looks most anxious and miserable, excepting when he is doing something
for others, and then he brightens up. I know you are not rich, nor as
comfortably off as you might be if you would let that scapegrace heir
shift as he can by-and-by; but do you not think that you could strain a
point, and let me send that parchment to Cousin John as a
Christmas-box?”
“No, Tom. It is very unreasonable of you to expect such a thing.
Besides, John wants more than a hundred and fifty pounds a year to lift
him out of his troubles. I have generally credited you with a fair
amount of good sense. Do not disappoint me now.”
But Tom was very persevering, and persistence generally wins.
She was correct in saying that John Dallington looked full of care.
Indeed, neither he nor Margaret Miller would have been able to bear the
worries of that time equably, but for the vivid interest which each was
taking in the new life that was developing around them.
Margaret was discovering how bitter one woman can render the existence
of another. Mrs. Hunter made her hatred of the girl felt in a hundred
ways. The village of Darentdale was small, and it seemed that the two
must frequently cross each other. The glances of the lady’s eyes were
always vindictive and her words were barbed arrows. She was not careful
to hide her feelings, and everybody in the place knew how heartily she
hated the girl whom her son loved. Margaret was constantly hearing,
although she begged her friends to keep silence, what Mrs. Hunter had
said; and other letters, unsigned, followed the first, and made her
angry as well as wretched. Every action of hers seemed to be
misunderstood and misrepresented, and the state of things became
intolerable.
John Dallington, upon whose young head some grey hairs were already to
be seen, was often vexed as well as unhappy; and a conviction began to
force itself upon his mind that he and Margaret would do well to end the
present unsatisfactory state of affairs by a speedy marriage. He would
leave his mother in undisturbed possession of the old home, and he would
take one of the better cottages on the estate, where he and his bride
would begin life together in a small way, and work and economise, and
love one another until more prosperous times came. It was a very
alluring prospect—if he could only get Margaret to adopt it! He resolved
that he would at least compel her to think of it, and decided that on
Christmas Day, which was approaching, he would lay his project before
her.
In Darentdale there were to be no special spasmodic gifts of dinners and
flannels on the occasion. For more than a month two vestries belonging
to the chapels and the church schoolroom had been the scene of happy
evenings of industry, where young people had been busying themselves in
all sorts of ways, and especially in manufacturing pretty little
Christmas gifts, which had been disposed of at a sale, the proceeds
being divided among the workers. The superintendents—the ladies and
gentlemen who were trying to help the people to independence, instead of
demoralising them with alms—were exceedingly gratified at the result;
and it was with a ring of exultation in her voice that Margaret Miller
said: “We have not in the whole of Darentdale a single able person whose
hands have not been busy for more than a month.”
There was, accordingly, very great happiness in the village on Christmas
Day. John Dallington heard the bells ring out their peal of gladness
early in the morning, and experienced for a few minutes the sort of joy
which had filled him in the spring when he first returned to England.
The post brought him several cards and congratulations, and among the
rest a large envelope addressed in the handwriting of Tom Whitwell,
which he opened before the others. As soon as he saw the nature of its
contents the swift colour dyed his face and his pulse quickened. The
envelope contained the deed to which his thoughts had often referred,
and a note, which read thus: “DEAR JOHN,—There need be no ceremony
between cousins, and so I hope you will let me ask your acceptance of
the accompanying Christmas gift, with my love and best wishes. This is a
day, you know, when nobody feels vexed with anybody else, and Christian
humility fills all hearts, even those of young men. I rejoice, and so
does father, in the splendid things you are doing on your farm, and we
want to have a little share in them. Dear old John, you will be good,
and let us have our hearts’ desire, because of all the gracious
associations of the season, and because of the love of your two friends,
Tom and her father.”
John Dallington went to church in the morning with his mother, and had
early dinner with her and Mr. William Hunter afterward. Then he wrote a
cheque which was due to Mr. Whitwell on that day, and sealed it up
together with the deed.
“Mother,” he said, “I shall ride over to uncle’s and take tea at Hornby
this afternoon, if you have no objection.”
“None whatever, John. Give my love to them all. And perhaps the girls
will come over and spend to-morrow with us.”
“I will ask them.”
Tom expected her cousin, but she could scarcely be quite her old natural
self. Mr. Whitwell at once gave John to understand that anything special
which he might have to say must be said to Tom and not to him. Tom gave
him no opportunity. She soon rallied her powers of merriment, and by the
aid of her sisters a pleasant afternoon was spent. John did not wish to
prolong his stay, for, however delightful the company of his cousins
might be, he was hungering for the few minutes which he had promised
himself should be passed with Margaret as the crowning joy of the day.
But neither did he intend to leave until he had put that deed safely
back into Tom’s hands. About seven o’clock he said, in desperation,
“Tom, may I have the honour of a five minutes’ serious talk with you?”
“Certainly; it will give me great pleasure to be as serious as even you
can desire.”
“Where can it be? May we go into the library, uncle?”
“Oh, no!” said Tom, in frightened tones, “please let it be here, so that
my people can sympathise with me if the seriousness should deepen into
solemnity.”
But John offered his arm and led her away, amid the significant glances
of her sisters.
She was the first to speak when the door closed upon them, and they
stood facing each other before the fire.
“You are not going to make a fuss, John, are you? Please don’t! There is
nothing whatever to be said.”
“Yes, indeed, Tom, there is much for me to say. Do sit down.” He saw
that she was trembling, and thought it best to go at once to the point.
“Never had man such a kind little cousin as I have; but, of course, it
must not be. I should never respect myself again if I did not meet and
discharge my liabilities, as other men do. I know you are your father’s
man of business, Tom dear, so I hand you this cheque, due to-day, as
well as the deed. And I think you had better kiss me, and let us feel
that we are now and always the best of friends.”
“John, do have it. I shall feel so bad if you will not. And father will
like to do it just as much as I. He does not need this cheque. If you
should become a rich man some day you can make it all right then; but
for the present do let it be as if this had never been. There, it is a
good thing that I have not to parse that last sentence, isn’t it?”
“Tom, my mother sends her love; and will you all come and spend the day
with us to-morrow?”
“No, John, I will do nothing until you put back that letter into your
pocket.”
“It will be a hard experience for you, my little cousin, to do nothing
for the rest of your natural life.”
At this juncture, I am sorry to say that Tom Whitwell disgraced herself
by beginning to cry, and John Dallington was genuinely distressed.
“Oh! pray don’t do that, Tom. Try to be your own sensible self. Why, you
would never respect me again if I did this thing; and I should be sorry
indeed to forfeit your good opinion. Try to look at this matter from a
man’s point of view, dear. Your kindness to me has blinded you; but
suppose I were William Hunter instead of John Dallington, what would you
think? I shall get over my difficulties. They are not unusual ones, and
I am strong enough to cope with them. I shall buy back this paper which
you so generously wish to give me, and that will be so much the better
for us all round. Tom, do tell me that you think as I do!”
Tom’s eyes, usually so merry, were suffused when she lifted them to his
face, and his mother’s suggestion flashed into his mind. He was sure
that Tom only cared for him as a cousin, and yet if he could have taken
her into his arms, and told her that he loved her, he could see that it
would be an easy way out of the difficulty; and what good news it would
be to take home to his mother. And Tom could be made to care for him in
time, he really felt sure of that. Dear little Tom, she looked very limp
at that minute, and she was hating herself heartily, too.
She struggled bravely for a moment or two, and then conquered her
weakness.
“I am a nice cheerful fellow for Christmas Day,” she said. “Excuse me,
John, I am miserably disappointed; I think you might give in, and let
father and me have a little pleasure for once. But you are so wilful.
Come and look at this picture. My sister Clara painted it, and gave it
to father this morning. He is very pleased with it, and Clara is really
clever.”
John admired it, and several other new things which had been given to
his uncle on that day.
“I wish I might be just such a man as he when I am his age,” said John.
“There is no man whom I honour as I do my uncle. I hope I shall never
give him reason to think other than well of me.”
“Dear old dad!” said Tom. “There is no man like him in the whole wide
world; he is a king among men—a high, august, imperial emperor, and,
compared with him, all other men are mice, especially some!”
She felt better after the outburst, and presently the two went together
into the drawing-room, where they were enjoying some music. Tom flushed
at the look of her sisters, but she knew that they knew better than to
question her, for she often boasted that she had brought her sisters up
in the way they should go, although they were all older than she.
Presently John left, and for the rest of the evening Tom gave herself
entirely to the entertainment of her father. They were such good friends
that he did not need to ask any questions but one, “Have you left it in
the library?” and she said “Yes; shall it be chess?”
John’s horse carried him swiftly along the way, which his desire
travelled before him. He knew what he should see, and his heart longed
for a glimpse of the beautiful lighted face on which he would like to
gaze for ever. The roads were hard, and the moon shone brightly. It was
a peaceful wintry scene, and John’s heart was full of peace and
goodwill. It is true that he gave a few half-troubled thoughts to his
cousin, but he would not let himself suppose that more than ordinary
relationship had induced her to make the attempt she had made. “Dear
little Tom, she meant it kindly,” he said, “but I am sorry to see her so
weak. She never would have cried if she had been quite well; it is not
in the least like her;” and then all his attention was centred upon that
which was before, not that which was behind him.
Ann Johnson opened the door directly he knocked.
“A beautiful night, Mr. Dallington, indeed. Yes, they are at home, they
haven’t been out since the morning. Oh, no; it is not too late to wish
me a merry Christmas, which it is, though we don’t keep late hours in
the country. Why, dear me, there’s lots of houses in the great
metrollops where they are, as you may say, just about to commence their
jovialities, but I don’t care for that style: no great metrollops for
me, thank you.”
Ann commenced one of her stories; but John stepped toward the room
whence he could hear the sound of the voice he loved; and Ann let him
pass into it without announcing him.
To the eyes of Dallington there was no scene so exquisitely home-like as
that which he scarcely saw more clearly now than his imagination had
seen it as he rode through the night. The room was old, and not large;
it was furnished with perfect taste; there was not a showy thing in the
whole apartment, but everything that was comfortable and cosy, soft and
bright seemed gathered there. Mr. Harris sat on one side of the fire,
nursing a cat, and Margaret on the other, with her hand on the head of a
dog. A lamp was near on a small table, and the volume of Browning from
which she had been reading was laid beside it when John entered. She
glanced at him half shyly; she must not let him see how very glad she
was, but he did see, and his heart leaped for joy. He took the hand she
held toward him, and then, yielding to the hunger of love which impelled
him, he gathered her in his arms for one moment, and kissed her
tenderly, twice. Afterward, he turned to Mr. Harris with an apologetic
remark, “See; I have some mistletoe, and it is Christmas time, you
know.”
“Very well; if you consider that these give you the right, well and
good,” was the reply.
“I have a right, established on a better basis than that,” he said. And
Margaret, who was about to contradict him, held her peace. She could not
say that he had no right when her heart was filled with such glad music
at the very sight of him. All day she had been asking herself, “Will he
come?” and it was of no use for her to try to disguise the fact that an
hour spent with him held a year of happiness for her.
They had some fruit, and then, at the urgent request of Mr. Dallington,
Margaret went on with the reading, John feasting his eyes upon her
bright head and graceful form, and watching the expressive face and
sweet lips with a joy that had much resolution in it. “Mine, my darling,
my very own, mine you are and must be; I would give the whole world for
you, and feel that it was too little.” So his thoughts ran as he
listened to the inflections of her beautiful voice, and saw the light on
her face. She left off occasionally to discuss the passages she had
read. “I am obliged to question Graf now and then, to be sure that he
understands,” she said, “and he and I do not always agree as to the
meaning. It is well to have another opinion.”
Dallington gave his in a most hap-hazard way, and when he was rebuked
had the effrontery to confess that he had thought less of the reading
than the reader. Yet even he could not do other than listen again to the
well-known lines of Rabbi Ben Ezra, and especially the closing stanzas—
“But I need, now as then,
Thee, God, who mouldest men!
And since, not even while the whirl was worst
Did I—to the wheel of life,
With shapes and colours rife,
Bound dizzily—mistake my end, to slake Thy thirst.
“So, take and use Thy work,
Amend what flaws may lurk,
What strain o’ the stuff, what warpings past the aim!
My times be in Thy hand!
Perfect the cup as planned!
Let age approve of youth, and death complete the same.”
So the time passed, and an hour seemed no time. They moved to the piano,
and sang Browning’s songs, after his poetry. Dallington had a good
voice, and he sang one after another, concluding with
“So the year’s done with!
(_Love me for ever!_)
All March began with
April’s endeavour;
May-wreaths that bound me
June needs must sever;
Now snows fall round me
Quenching June’s fever.
(Love me for ever!)”
Then Margaret sang a song from “James Lee’s Wife”; and so the hours flew
by, and Dallington arose to leave.
“Ann Johnson will be angry with me, and think that I belong more to what
she calls ‘the great Metrollops’ than to the country, if I keep such
late hours,” he said. But Mr. Harris wanted some music of another kind,
and an hour was spent in sacred songs and solos. At last John wondered
what his mother would say to him, and felt that he must not linger
longer. The old man, whose dreams were of long ago, enjoyed the evening
almost as much as the young folks did; and he discreetly gave them a few
minutes alone after supper; and this was John’s opportunity.
“Margaret,” he said, “I think you care for me a little, but perhaps not
enough to give me the answer that I want. It is a very unsatisfactory
state of things that exists between us now: surely you feel it as I do.
Why should we not end it by being married at once?”
The suddenness of the proposal took Margaret’s breath away; and as she
did not reply John continued: “I am asking you to share my poverty with
me. My mother must remain undisturbed, and I should not like her income
to be less than it is; but we might begin life in a small way, and be
very happy together if you love me, Margaret. You do not care for a
great house and extravagant expenditure any more than I do—not that any
place would be too good for you, my queen——”
“Oh, John; you know it is not a question of money; but I cannot marry
you now, and you must see that for yourself. There are several reasons,
but one will suffice. I shall never be married to you while your mother
dislikes me as she does now. I could not consent to come between you
two. She has no one to think of but you, and it would be too hard, after
being separated from you for so many years by the ocean, to be estranged
by something else.”
“How do you know that my mother dislikes you? She is civil to you when
you meet.”
Margaret smiled. “Yes—in a way—but it is impossible for me to mistake
the feeling with which she regards me. I am very sorry, for my own sake
as well as yours; but I could never be happy if I made your mother
miserable—because she is your mother.”
“I wish she knew you, really.”
“I am afraid it would make no difference.”
“She knows that I love you, and hope to marry you, because I have told
her myself. She will relent after a time; but it is hard to wait. At
least grant me one favour, my darling. Let me know from your own lips
that you accept me, and give me your promise, as I give you mine, that
you will not marry another.”
Margaret’s face paled a little. “I will give the promise, but not accept
it,” she said.
“And I give it and accept it, too,” answered John, promptly.
The thought that kept repeating itself to Margaret was, “If I could only
be sure about Tom!” and she was wondering all the time whether it would
not be better to ask her friend a direct question, and so get at the
truth.
“And for the rest we must wait,” she said aloud.
“We need not wait an hour before we are pledged to each other. Do grant
me at least this, my dearest, so that I can feel sure of you.”
“Wait a week for that,” she said.
“Very well; but you are not going to send me away without a crumb of
comfort, to-night of all other times. Tell me in so many words that you
love me.”
“Oh, John, you know—you must know! I love you better, I think, than even
my own happiness. Be content, my dear one.”
And he was.