Page:Once a Week Jul - Dec 1859.pdf/554

24, 1859.] doorway, timidly. There were  sounds  of  supper in a distant  room; but  they  wanted  no  supper, these two; they  stood  alone  by  the  friendly  fire, and the  gentle  one  trembled  a little,  with  a flush on her  cheek  deeper,  perhaps,  than  fire  or  dancing could call  up. But he — that  dark,  sombre man — held her  hand  in  his,  and  he  put  on  her finger, tenderly,  a glistening  ring. We were there, we  saw  it,  and  we  wished  them  A Merry Christmas!’”

Then all  the  little  spirits  clapped  their  hands and chorussed  out  “A Merry  Christmas!”

Then there  was  a mourning  sound  among  the little spirits,  and  another  took  up  the  tale.

“There was  a Christmas  fire  not  so  long  ago,” he began,  sorrowfully,  “which  shone  upon  the same oak  floor,  and  lighted  up  wreaths  of  the same evergreens,  and  there  had  been  merriment, but it  was  hushed. No light  footstep  trod  the floor, no  gentle  one  stood  by  the  friendly  fire,  but other sounds  were  heard.

“He was  there  then,  passion  on  his  face,  and rage in  his  clenched  fist,  and  opposite  to  him — white and  angry,  too— his  only  brother.

“You have  dared,’  cried  out  the  dark  man; you have  dared  to  put  your  miserable  foot  across my path — to  take  away  that  which  was  dearer  to me  than  life — to  steal  from  me  that  which  was mine faithfully  once—— ’

“The pale  brother’s  head  was  bent,  but  his words were  bitter.

“You kept  your  secret  close. I knew nothing. I dared to  love. What sin  was  there  in  that? ’

“‘Puny coward! In my  father’s  house  you were ever  the  favourite. When we  were  children, my very  tongue  was  not  my  own. Did any  dis- pute arise — I must give  up  my  will  to  you,  the youngest, because,  forsooth,  you  were  weakly. When I left  that  home,  because  I could  no  longer bear the  constant  bickerings  you  and  your  tender sister raised  between  us,  you  triumphed. I, the eldest, gave  up  my  birthright  and  turned  out  into the world  for  you. Is the  sacrifice  never  com- plete? Am I to  give  up  to  you  my  heart’s  blood — the love  of  my  life? Shall I grovel  before  you now, and  bid  you  take  her  and  be  happy,  holding forth the  right  hand  of  brotherhood? So help  me all  the  passions  of  my  nature — no! Across  my father’s  threshold  my  foot  shall  pass  never  again. I look upon  your  face  no  more.’

“Be it  so. Before I go  from  your  presence I for ever,  hear  me  confess  that  mine  alone  is  the folly, mine  the  love. Hear me  say,  that  never, by word  or  action,  has  she  broken  her  plighted truth to  you. Me you  have  always  distrusted — let your  vengeance  end  there.’

“But in  that  dark  man’s  heart  there  burnt  a flame  harder  to  quench  than  the  hottest  fire,  and the fuel  which  fed  it  was  jealousy,  distrust,  and wrath. When the  little  figure  once  so  joyous stood before  him  sorrowful; when  she  lifted  her troubled face  wistfully,  and  prayed  him  to  say what she  had  done,  why  did  he  not  listen? Should he not  have  remembered  how  they  stood  there alone on  that  other  Christmas  night,  and  the words that  were  spoken  then? Ah! he did remember, and  the  thought  of  that  great happiness lost  to  him  for  ever — for  he  did  not believe her — lent  strength  to  his  jealous  anger and bitterness  to  his  tongue. He scorned  her justification; he pointed  to  the  blush  which tinged her  cheek — a blush  of  shame,  not  for  herself but  for  his  unmanly  suspicion; he  called  it  a witness  against  her; he  discredited  her  pure truth, for,  he  said,  his  eyes  had  seen  her  listen  to another’s  words  of  love. So deceived,  he  would never trust  again; henceforth  he  should  be  alone in the  world.

“Oh! how could  he  look  into  her  gentle  face and doubt  the  heart  which  cried  out  after  him  in its  great  love,  with  an  exceeding  bitter  cry,  that he would  not  leave  her  in  anger,  that  he  would come back  and  recall  his  harsh  words!

“Shall he  have  a merry  Christmas,  who  left  the gentle one  alone  with  the  reproaches  he  had heaped upon  her, — alone  on  the  deserted  hearth, to bear  her  sorrow  as  she  could? He who,  when the news  reached  him  that  his  father  was  gone aw'ay to  his  place, — that  his  home  was  broken  up, — that over  his  sister  and  the  poor  pale  brother, fragile from  youth,  hung  the  iron  hand  of poverty, — hugged  the  knowledge  to  his  heart, with the  bitter  thought  that  it  served  them  right — shall he  have  a merry  Christmas?”

“No, no!”  came  forth  from  the  little  chorus singers, mournfully. “No Christmas  for  him; no merry  Christmas!”

Then the  dark  man  started  to  his  feet  sud- denly, and great  drops  of  moisture  stood  on  his forehead, and  a look  of  despair  and  remorse  dis- torted his features. What dream  had  come  to  him this Christmas  night, — what  had  he  been  doing?

The little  spirits  have  hurried  back  amongst  the few remaining  red  coals,  and  nothing  is  to  be  seen of them, — nothing  is  to  bo  heard  but  the  heavy breathing of  the  dark  man,  as  he  thinks  over  his dream. There was  another  Christmas  fire  which  shone upon the  oak  floor  of  which  the  spirits  had  talked, and lighted  up  a few  scattered  evergreens; but the room  was  not  decked  for  a merry  party; there was no  laughter,  no  song,  no  dance.

On the  friendly  hearth  stands  the  gentle  one; and there  too,  but  not  near  her,  is  he  who  once placed a glistening  ring  upon  her  finger,  and whose barbarous  heel  had  ground  it  into  a shapeless mass  on  that  same  hearthstone. In the shadow he  stands,  with  a bent  head,  silent; for though she  is  there  to  listen  to  him,  his  heart fails when  he  thinks  of  the  past,  and  he  knows not what  to  say.

“Mary —” It seems  he  can  go  no  further,  so many  words  rush  to  his  lips; and  she  stands there so  statue-like — a figure  about  which  hangs no tender  memory  from  the  past,  no  hope  for  the future.

“You sent  for  me — I am  here.”

“Oh Mary! your heart  is  steeled  against  me, and justly. If words  of  mine  could  speak  my deep  repentance  and  remorse, — if  years  of  penance could undo  my  madness,  for  I was  mad, — if  you could know  how  I shrink  in  horror  from  myself and the  thought  of  what  I have  done,  then  I might  hope  something  from  your  pity.”

Silent still, and  statue-like. Oh, memory of