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