Faith And Unfaith Part 17

"Whenever I wish I had had a brother, I always think of you," goes on she, pleasantly, "you are so--so--quiet, and your scoldings so half-hearted. Now, even though rather late, wish me joy."

"My dear, dear girl," says Scrope, "if I were to speak forever, I could not tell you how I long for and desire your happiness. If your life proves as calm and peaceful as I wish it, it will be a desirable life indeed! You have thought of me as your brother: let me be your brother indeed,--one in whom you can confide and trust should trouble overtake you."

He says this very solemnly, and again Clarissa's eyes fill with tears.

She does now what she has not done since she was a little, impulsive, loving girl: she lifts her head and presses her lips to his cheek.

For one brief moment he holds her in his arms, returning her caress, warmly, it is true, but with ineffable sadness. To her, this embrace is but the sealing of a fresh bond between them. To him it is a silent farewell, a final wrenching of the old sweet ties that have endured so long.

Up to this she has been everything to him,--far more than he ever dreamed until the rude awakening came,--the one bright spot in his existence; but now all is changed, and she belongs to another.

He puts her gently from him, and, with a kindly word and smile, leads her to the garden gate, and so round to where her ponies are impatiently awaiting her coming: after which he bids her good-by, and, turning, goes indoors, and locks himself into his own private den.

CHAPTER XII.

"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 pa.s.sionate 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 pa.s.sable, 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 a.s.signed 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 gra.s.s the fields, no leaves the forests wear;" a s.h.i.+vering shroud envelops all the land.

But far above, in the clear sky, Sol s.h.i.+nes 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, pa.s.sion-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 s.h.i.+ver. She pushes back the soft waving ma.s.ses 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. n.o.body 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 fas.h.i.+on than usual, which has only the effect of raising mirth in Clarissa's mind. She smiles in an unfilial fas.h.i.+on, 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 embarra.s.sed. 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?