"The snow is on the mountain,
The frost is on the vale,
The ice hangs o'er the fountain,
The storm rides on the gale."--OUSELEY.
Clarissa's letter to Georgie Broughton receives a most tender
response,--tender as it is grateful. The girl writes thankfully,
heartily, and expresses almost passionate delight at Clarissa's
instantaneous and ready sympathy.
The letter is short, but full of feeling. It conveys to Clarissa the
sad impression that the poor child's heart is dry and barren for lack
of that gracious dew called love, without which not one of us can
taste the blessedness of life.
"Nothing is true but love, nor aught of worth;
Love is the incense which doth sweeten earth."
So sings Trench. To Clarissa, just now, his words convey nothing less
than the very embodiment of truth. That Georgie should be unhappy for
want of this vital essence cuts her to the heart,--the more so that
Georgie persistently refuses to come to Gowran.
"DEAREST CLARISSA,--Do not think me cold or ungrateful,"--so
she writes,--"but, were I to go to you and feel again the
warmth and tenderness of a home, it might unfit me for the
life of trouble and work that must lie before me. 'Summer is
when we love and are beloved,' and, of course, such summer is
over for me. I know my task will be no light or easy one; but
I have made up my mind to it, and indeed am thankful for it,
as any change from this must of necessity be pleasant. And,
besides, I may not be a governess forever. I have yet another
plan in my head,--something papa and I agreed upon, before he
left me,--that may put an end to my difficulties sooner than
I think. I will tell you of it some time, when we meet."
"Poor darling," says Clarissa, "what a wretched little letter!" She
sighs, and folds it up, and wonders vaguely what this other plan of
Georgie's can be. Then she writes to her again, and describes Mrs.
Redmond as well as is possible.
"Accept her offer by return of post," she advises, earnestly. "Even
if, after a trial, you do not like her, still this will be an opening
for you; and I am glad in the thought that I shall always have you
near me,--at least until that mysterious plan of yours meets the
light. Mrs. Redmond is not, of course, everything of the most
desirable, but she is passable, and very kind at heart. She is tall
and angular, and talks all day long--and all night, I am sure, if one
would listen--about her ailments and the servants' delinquencies. She
is never without a cold in her head, and a half-darned stocking! She
calls the children's pinafores 'pinbefores,'--which is quite correct,
but very unpleasant; and she always calls terrible 'turrible;' but
beyond these small failings she is quite bearable."
And so on. When Miss Broughton receives this letter in her distant
home, she is again solemistress of a sickroom. Her aunt--the hard
taskmaster assigned to her by fate--lies on her bed stricken to the
earth by fever. To come to Pullingham now will be impossible. "Will
Mrs. Redmond wait for a month, or perhaps two?" She entreats Clarissa
to do what she can for her; and Clarissa does it; and the worried wife
of the vicar, softened by Miss Peyton's earnest explanations, consents
to expound Pinnock and "Little Arthur" to the small Redmonds until
such time as Miss Broughton's aunt shall be convalescent.
"The inaudible and noiseless foot of Time" creeps on apace, and
Christmas at last reaches Pullingham. Such a Christmas, too!--a
glorious sunny Christmas morning, full of light and life, snow-crowned
on every side. The glinting sunbeams lie upon the frozen hills,
kissing them with tender rapture, as though eager to impart some heat
and comfort to their chilly hearts.
"Now trees their leafy hats do bare
To reverence Winter's silver hair."
The woods are all bereft of green; the winds sigh wearily through
them; "no grass the fields, no leaves the forests wear;" a shivering
shroud envelops all the land.
But far above, in the clear sky, Sol shines triumphant. Nor ice, nor
snow, nor chilling blast has power to deaden him to-day. No "veil of
clouds involves his radiant head." He smiles upon the earth, and
ushers in the blessed morn with unexpected brilliancy. Innumerable
sounds swell through the frosty air; sweet bells ring joyously. All
the world is astir.
Except Clarissa. She lies, still sleeping,--dreaming, it may be, that
first glad dream of youth in which all seems perfect, changeless,
passion-sweet!
Upon her parted lips a faint soft smile is lingering, as though loath
to depart. Her face is lightly tinged with color, as it were a
"ripened rose." Upon one arm her cheek is pillowed; the other is
thrown, with negligent grace, above her head.
"Half-past eight, Miss Peyton, and Christmas morning; too," says a
voice more distinct than musical, and rather reproachful. It rushes
into Clarissa's happy dream like a night-mare, and sends all the dear
shades she has been conjuring to her side back into their uncertain
home.
The maid pokes the fire energetically, and arranges something upon the
dressing-table with much unnecessary vigor.
Clarissa, slowly bringing herself back from the world in which Hester,
however admirable in every respect, bears no part, sighs drowsily, and
sits up in her bed.
"Really that hour?" she says. "Quite too disgracefully late! A happy
Christmas, Hester!"
"Thank you, miss. The same to you, and very many of them!"
"Is it a cold morning?" asks Clarissa, with a little shiver. She
pushes back the soft waving masses of her brown hair from her
forehead, and gazes at Hester entreatingly, as though to implore her
to say it is warm as a day in June.
But Hester is adamant.
"Terrible cold, miss," she says, with a sort of gusto. "_That_ frosty
it would petrify you where you stand."
"Then I won't stand," declares Clarissa, promptly sinking back
once more into her downy couch. "I decline to be petrified,
Hester,"--tucking the clothes well round her. "Call me again next
week."
"The master is up this hour, miss," says the maid, reprovingly; "and
see how beautifully your fire is burning."
"I can't see anything but the water over there. _Is_ that ice in my
bath?"
"Yes, miss. Will you let me throw a little hot water into it to melt
it for you? Do, miss. I'm sure them miserable cold oblations is bitter
bad for you." Perhaps she means ablutions. Nobody knows. And Clarissa,
though consumed with a desire to know, dares not ask. Hester is
standing a few yards from her, looking the very personfication of all
pathos, and is plainly an-angered of the frozen bath.
"Well, then, Hester, yes; a little--a _very_ little--hot water, just
for once," says Clarissa, unable to resist the woman's pleading, and
her own fear of the "bitter chill" that awaits her on the other side
of the blankets. "My courage has flown; indeed, I don't see how I can
get up at all,"--willfully, snuggling down even more closely into the
warm sheets.
"Oh, now get up, miss, do," implores her maid. "It is getting real
late, and the master has been up asking for you twice already."
"Is papa dressed, then?"
"An hour ago, miss. He was standing on the doorsteps, feeding the
sparrows and robins, when I came up."
"Dear papa!" says Clarissa, tenderly, beneath her breath; and then she
springs out of bed, and gets into her clothes by degrees, and
presently runs down-stairs to the great old hall, where she finds her
father awaiting her.
He is standing at the upper end, with his back to the huge central
window, through which
"Gleams the red sun athwart the misty haze
Which veils the cold earth from its loving gaze."
A calm, clear light illumes the hall, born of the "wide and glittering
cloak of snow" which last night flung upon the land. At its other end
stand all the servants,--silent, expectant,--to hear what the master
shall say to them on this Christmas morning.
That George Peyton should refuse to address them on this particular
day is out of all hearing. His father, grandfather, and
great-grandfather had done it before him to the then servants;
therefore (according to the primitive notions of the county) he must
do the same. Yet it is undeniable that to the present proprietor this
task is a terrible one, and not to be performed at any price, could
escape from it be shown.
Eloquence is not Mr. Peyton's _forte_. To find himself standing before
an expectant audience, and to know they are prepared to hang upon his
accents, is not sweet to him,--in fact, fills him with terrors vast
and deep. Yet here they are awaiting his speech, in a goodly row, with
all their eyes fixed on his, and their minds prepared to receive
anything he may say.
He breathes a small sigh of relief as he sees Clarissa approaching,
and gives her his customary morning kiss in a rather warmer fashion
than usual, which has only the effect of raising mirth in Clarissa's
mind. She smiles in an unfilial fashion, and, slipping her hand
through his arm, awaits what fate may have in store.
Her father, when he has cast upon her one reproachful glance, turns to
the servants, and, with a heightened color and somewhat lame delivery,
says as follows:
"I am very glad to see you all again----" here he checks himself, and
grows a degree redder and more embarrassed. It occurs to him that,
after all, he saw them yesterday and the day before, and that it is on
the cards he will see them again to-morrow. Therefore why express
exuberant joy at the fact that he can see them at this present moment?
He glances, in a despairing fashion, at Clarissa; but she is plainly
delighted at his discomfiture, and refuses to give him any assistance,
unless a small approving nod can be accounted such.
Feeling himself, therefore, unsupported, he perforce, returns to the
charge.
"It is a great pleasure to me to know that no changes have taken place
during the past year, I hope"--(long pause)--"I hope we shall always
have the same story to tell."
This is fearfully absurd, and he knows it, and blushes again.
"Well, at least," he goes on, "I hope we shall not part from each
other without good cause,--such as a wedding, for instance."
Here he looks at the under-housemaid, who looks at the under-gardener,
who looks at his boots, and betrays a wild desire to get into them
forthwith.
"There is no occasion for me, I think, to make you a speech. I----the
fact is, I----couldn't make you a speech, so you must excuse me. I
wish you all a happy Christmas! I'm sure you all wish me the same.
Eh?----and----"
Here he is interrupted by a low murmur from the servants, who plainly
feel it their duty to let him know, at this juncture, that they do
hope his Christmas will be a successful one.
"Well----eh?----thank you----you know," says Mr. Peyton, at his wits'
end as to what he shall say next.
"You are all very kind, very kind indeed----very----. Mrs.
Lane,"--desperately,--"come here and take your Christmas-box."
The housekeeper advances, in a rounded stately fashion, and, with an
elaborate courtesy and a smile full of benignity, accepts her gift and
retires with it to the background. The others having all performed the
same ceremony, and also retired, Mr. Peyton draws a deep sigh of
relief, and turns to Clarissa, who, all through, has stood beside him.
"I think you might have put in a word or two," he says. "But you are a
traitor; you enjoyed my discomfiture. Bless me, how glad I am that
'Christmas comes but once a year!'"
"And how sorry I am!" says Clarissa, making a slight grimace. "It is
the one chance I get of listening to eloquence that I feel sure is
unsurpassable."
They are still standing in the hall. At this moment a servant throws
open the hall door and Dorian and Horace Branscombe, coming in, walk
up to where they are, near the huge pine fire that is roaring and
making merry on the hearth-stone; no grate defiles the beauty of the
Gowran hall. They are flushed from the rapidity of their walk, and are
looking rather more like each other than usual.
"Well, we have had a run for it," says Dorian. "Not been to breakfast,
I hope? If you say you have finished that most desirable meal, I shall
drop dead: so break it carefully. I have a wretched appetite, as a
rule, but just now I feel as if I could eat you, Clarissa."
"We haven't thought of breakfast, yet," says Clarissa. "I am so glad I
was lazy this morning! A happy Christmas, Dorian!"
"The same to you!" says Dorian, raising her hand and pressing it to
his lips. "By what luck do we find you in the hall?"
"The servants have just been here to receive their presents. Now, why
were you not a few minutes earlier, and you might have been stricken
dumb with joy at papa's speech?"
"I don't believe it was half a bad speech," says Mr. Peyton, stoutly.
"Bad! It was the most enchanting thing I ever listened to!--in fact,
faultless,--if one omits the fact that you looked as if you were in
torment all the time, and seemed utterly hopeless as to what you were
going to say next."
"James, is breakfast ready?" says Mr. Peyton, turning away to hide a
smile, and making a strenuous effort to suppress the fact that he has
heard one word of her last betrayal. "Come into the dining-room,
Dorian," he says, when the man has assured him breakfast will be ready
in two minutes: "it is ever so much more comfortable there."
Branscombe goes with him, and so presently, Clarissa and Horace find
themselves alone.
Horace, going up to her, as in duty bound, places his arm round her,
and presses his lips lightly, gently, to her cheek.
"You never wished _me_ a happy Christmas," he says, in the low soft
tone he always adopts when speaking to women. "You gave all your best
wishes to Dorian."
"You knew what was in my heart," replies she, sweetly, pleased that he
has noticed the omission.
"I wonder if I have brought you what you like," he says, laying in her
little palm a large gold locket, oval-shaped, and with forget-me-nots
in sapphires and diamonds, on one side. Touching a spring, it opens,
and there, staring up at her, is his own face, wearing its kindliest
expression, and seeming--to her--to breathe forth love and truth.
For a little minute she is silent; then she says softly, with lowered
eyes, and a warm, tender blush,--
"Did you have this picture taken for me, alone?"
It is evident the face in the locket is even dearer to her than the
locket itself.
"For you alone," says Horace, telling his lie calmly. "When it was
finished I had the negative destroyed. I thought only of you. Was not
that natural? There was one happy moment in which I assured myself
that it would please you to have my image always near you. Was I
wrong?--presumptuous?"
Into his tone he has managed to infuse a certain amount of uncertainty
and anxious longing that cannot fail to flatter and do some damage to
a woman's heart. Clarissa raises her trustful eyes to his.
"Please me!" she repeats, softly, tears growing beneath her lids: "it
pleases me so much that it seems to me impossible to express my
pleasure. You have given me the thing that, of all others, I have most
wished for."
She blushes, vividly, as she makes this admission. Horace, lifting her
hand, kisses it warmly.
"I am fortunate," he says, in a low tone. "Will you love the original,
Clarissa, as you love this senseless picture? After long years, how
will it be?" There is a touch of concern and doubt--and something
more, that may be regret--in his tone.
"I shall always love you," says the girl, very earnestly, laying her
hand on his arm, and looking at him with eyes that should have roused
all tenderness and devotion in his breast:
"For at each glance of those sweet eyes a soul
Looked forth as from the azure gates of heaven."
He is spared a reply. Dorian, coming again into the hall, summons them
gayly to breakfast.
* * * * *
In the little casemented window of the tiny chamber that calls her
mistress, sits Ruth Annersley, alone.
The bells are ringing out still the blessed Christmas morn; yet she,
with downcast eyes, and chin resting in her hand, heeds nothing, being
wrapped in thought, and unmindful of aught but the one great idea that
fills her to overflowing. Her face is grave--nay, almost
sorrowful--and full of trouble; yet underlying all is gladness that
will not be suppressed.
At this moment--perhaps for the first time--she wakes to the
consciousness that the air is full of music, borne from the belfries
far and near. She shudders slightly, and draws her breath in a quick
unequal sigh.
"Another long year," she says wearily. "Oh that I could tell my
father!"
She lifts her head impatiently, and once more her eyes fall upon the
table on which her arm is resting. There are before her a few opened
letters, some Christmas cards, a very beautiful Honiton lace
handkerchief, on which her initials, "R. A.," are delicately worked,
and--apart from all the rest--a ring, set with pearls and turquoises.
Taking this last up, she examines it slowly, lovingly, slipping it on
and off her slender finger, without a smile, and with growing pallor.
A step upon the stairs outside! Hastily, and in a somewhat guilty
fashion, she replaces the ring upon the table, and drops the lace
handkerchief over it.
"Miss Ruth," says a tall, gawky country-girl, opening the door, "the
maister he be waitin' breakfast for you. Do ee come down now." Then,
catching sight of the handkerchief, "La! now," she says, "how fine
that be! a beauty, surely, and real lace, too! La! Miss Ruth, and who
sent you that, now? May I see it?"
She stretches out her hand, as though about to raise the dainty fabric
from its resting-place; but Ruth is before her.
"Do not touch it," she says, almost roughly for her. Then, seeing the
effect her words have caused, and how the girl shrinks back from her,
she goes on, hurriedly and kindly, "You have been in the dairy,
Margery, and perhaps your hands are not clean. Run away and wash them,
and come to attend table. Afterwards you shall come up here and see my
handkerchief and all my pretty cards."
She smiles, lays her hand on Margery's shoulder, and gently, but with
determination, draws her towards the door.
Once outside, she turns, and, locking the door, carefully puts the key
in her pocket.
Slowly, reluctantly, she descends the stairs,--slowly, and with a
visible effort, presses her lips in gentle greeting to her father's
care-worn cheek. The bells still ring on joyously, merrily; the sun
shines; the world is white with snow, more pure than even our purest
thoughts; but no sense of rest or comfort comes to Ruth. Oh, dull and
heavy heart that holds a guilty secret. Oh, sad (even though yet
innocent) is the mind that hides a hurtful thought! Not for you do
Christmas bells ring out their happy greeting! Not for such as you
does sweet peace reign triumphant.