Part 11 (2/2)

”Catch, then, oh, catch the transient hour!

Improve each moment as it flies.

Life's a short summer, man a flower; He dies, alas! how soon he dies!”

There are days which rise sadly, go on without suns.h.i.+ne, and pa.s.s into night without one gleam of color. Life, also, has these pallid, monotonous hours. A distrust of all things invades the soul, and physical inertia and mental languor make daily existence a simple weight. It was Christmas-time, but the squire felt none of the elation of the season. He was conscious that the old festal preparations were going on, but there was no response to them in his heart. Julius had arrived, and was helping Sophia to hang the holly and mistletoe. But Sandal knew that his soul shrank from the nephew he had called into his life; knew that the sound of his voice irritated him, that his laugh filled him with resentment, that his very presence in the house seemed to desecrate it, and to slay for him the very idea of home.

He was sitting in the ”master's room,” wondering how the change had come about. But he found nothing to answer the wonder, because he was looking for some palpable wrong, some distinctive time or cause. He was himself too simple-hearted to reflect that it is seldom a great fault which destroys liking for a person. A great fault can be forgiven. It is small personal offences constantly repeated; little acts of meanness, and, above all, the petty plans and provisions of a selfish nature. Besides which, the soul has often marvellous intuitions, unmasking men and things; premonitions, warnings, intelligences, that it cannot doubt and cannot explain.

Inside the house there was a pleasant air and stir of preparation; the rapid movements of servants, the shutting and opening of doors, the low laughter of gay hearts well contented with the time and the circ.u.mstances. Outside, the mesmerizing snow was falling with a soft, silent persistence. The squire looked sadly at the white hills, and the white park, and the branches bending under their load, and the sombre sky, gray upon darker gray.

Last Christmas the girls had relied entirely upon his help. He had found the twine, and driven the nails, and steadied the ladder when Sophia's light form mounted it in order to hang the mistletoe. They had been so happy. The echo of their voices, their s.n.a.t.c.hes of Christmas carols, their laughter and merry badinage, was still in his heart. He remembered the impromptu lunch, which they had enjoyed so much while at work. He could see the mother come smiling in, with constant samples of the Christmas cheer fresh out of the oven. He had printed the verses and mottoes himself, spent all the afternoon over them, and been rather proud of his efforts. Charlotte had said, ”they were really beautiful;”

even Sophia had admitted that ”they looked well among the greens.” But to-day he had not been asked to a.s.sist in the decorations. True, he had said, in effect, that he did not wish to a.s.sist; but, all the same, he felt shut out from his old pre-eminence; and he could not help regarding Julius Sandal as a usurper.

These were drearisome Christmas thoughts and feelings; and they found their climax in a pathetic complaint, ”I never thought Charlotte would have given me the go-by. All along she has taken my side, no matter what came up. Oh, my little la.s.s!”

As if in answer to the heart-cry, Charlotte opened the door. She was dressed in furs and tweeds, and she had the squire's big coat and woollen wraps in her hand. Before he could speak, she had reached his chair, and put her arm across his shoulder, and said in her bright, confidential way, ”Come, father, let you and me have a bit of pleasure by ourselves: there isn't much comfort in the house to-day.”

”You say right, Charlotte; you do so, my dear. Where shall we go? Eh?

Where?”

”Wherever you like best. There is no snow to hamper us yet. Some of the servants are down from Up-Hill. Ducie has sent mother a great spice-loaf and a fine Christmas cheese.”

”Ducie is a kind woman. I have known Ducie ever since I knew myself.

Could we climb the fell-breast, Charlotte? Eh? What?”

”I think we could. Ducie will miss it, if you don't go and wish her 'a merry Christmas.' You never missed grandfather Latrigg. Old friends are best, father.”

”They are that. Is Steve at home?”

”He isn't coming home this Christmas. I wasn't planning about Steve, father. Don't think such a thing as that of me.”

”I don't, Charlotte. I don't think of Charlotte Sandal and of any thing underhand at the same time. I'm a bit troubled and out of sorts this morning, my dear.”

She kissed him affectionately for answer. She not only divined what a trial Julius had become, but she knew also that his heart was troubled in far greater depths than Julius had any power to stir. Harry Sandal was really at the root of every bitter moment. For Harry had not taken the five hundred pounds with the creditable contrite humiliation of the repenting prodigal. It was even yet doubtful whether he would respond to his parents' urgent request to spend Christmas at Seat-Sandal. And when there is one rankling wrong, which we do not like to speak of, it is so natural to relieve the heart by talking a great deal about those wrongs which we are less inclined to disguise and deny.

In the great hall a sudden thought struck the squire; and he stood still, and looked in Charlotte's face. ”You are sure that you want to go, my dear? Won't you be missed? Eh? What?”

She clasped his hand tighter, and shook her head very positively. ”They don't want me, father. I am in the way.”

He did not answer until they had walked some distance; then he asked meaningly, ”Has it come to that? Eh? What?”

”Yes, it has come to that.”

”I am very glad it isn't you. And I'm nettled at myself for ever showing him a road to slight you, Charlotte.”

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