Faith And Unfaith Part 18

He glances, in a despairing fas.h.i.+on, at Clarissa; but she is plainly delighted at his discomfiture, and refuses to give him any a.s.sistance, 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 fas.h.i.+on, 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 unsurpa.s.sable."

They are still standing in the hall. At this moment a servant throws open the hall door and Dorian and Horace Brans...o...b.., 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 appet.i.te, 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 a.s.sured him breakfast will be ready in two minutes: "it is ever so much more comfortable there."

Brans...o...b.. 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 a.s.sured 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 cas.e.m.e.nted 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 fas.h.i.+on, 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."