CHAPTER SIX
_Of the Dawning of Christmas Day_
In most lives (as I suppose) there is a time which, looming ahead of usdark and sombre, fills us with a direful expectancy and a thousandboding fears, so that with every dawn we thank God that it is not yet.Still, the respite thus allowed brings us little ease, for the knowledgeof its coming haunts us through the day and night, creeping upon usnearer and nearer with every tick of the clock, until the last chime hasrung--until the sand is all run down in the glass, and we are left faceto face with our destiny to front it as we may.
Christmas Day was dawning. From my window I had watched the first palelight gather little by little beyond the distant trees, until the wholedismal scene had come into view.
It had snowed all night, and now everything showed beneath a whiteburden that, as I watched, seemed horribly suggestive of shrouds; so Iturned from the casement with a shiver, and drawing the curtains, satdown before the fire (which I had mended during the night), dejected inmind, and heavy with lack of sleep. Somewhere further down the corridorI could hear Bentley snoring, and the sound, rising and falling in thequietude with wearisome monotony, irritated my fractious nerves to thatdegree that I was of half a mind to go and wake him. Since Penelope hadleft for London, two days before, he and I had been staying with Jack atthe Manor. And very silent the great place had seemed without her; Jackhad been more fretful than usual, and more than once I had thrown downmy cards in a huff, for cards, after all, were a very sorry substitutefor our lovely, laughing Pen. Hereupon I must needs fall to thinking ofher mother (as indeed I oft do of late)--dead now these twenty years andmore. But what are years after all to one who has loved as I? And fromthe broken threads of my life that was, I began to weave a life of the"might have been"--a fuller, richer life, perfected by love, and awoman's sweet companionship--so very different to the lonely life thatwas mine. Well, she had decreed otherwise,--and now--now she wasdead--and I an old man, and lonely. But Jack had loved her passing well,and he was lonely too--and Bentley likewise--Bentley, who was snoringlike a grampus. I rose, and slipping on some clothes, stepped out intothe corridor. But with my hand upon the latch of his bedroom door Istopped, and changing my mind, went down the stairs to the library. Tomy surprise the candles were still burning, and through the open door Isaw Jack sprawled across the table, his face buried in his hands, andbeside him Penelope's miniature. Now as I stood there hesitating, I sawhis shoulders heaving very strangely, wherefore, turning about, I beganto creep softly up the stairs again, lest he should find himselfdiscovered. Half-way up, however, I heard the scrape of his chair as herose, and a moment after the sound of his step, firm and resolute asever, noting which I turned and came down again, coughing very naturallyas I reached the last stair.
"Ah, Dick!" says he, as he turned and saw me, "A Merry Christmas tothee."
Now it had ever been our custom, since he and I and Bentley were ladstogether at Charterhouse, at this so happy season to greet each otherthus, but for once I found the words to stick most woefully, and for noreason in the world my eyes wandered from his face to the miniature uponthe table, seeing which he picked it up--yet kept it covered in hishand.
"Dick," says he, staring up at the cornice very hard, "we loved hermother well--passing well--you, and Bentley, and I."
"Aye," says I, "we did."
"This was the first great sorrow of my life--that by my happiness youtwo were rendered desolate," says he, laying his hand upon my shoulder.
"No, no," says I.
"Yes," says he, "think you I have been so blind, Dick?"
"You were her choice," says I.
"True, I was her choice," he repeated, "and methinks it came nighbreaking both your hearts, yet you were my friends still--the old bondswere too strong for self to break them."
"'T were a poor friendship else," says I.
"And now, Dick," says he, with his eyes on the cornice again, "there isPen," and I saw his lips quiver slightly.
"Aye," I nodded, "there's Pen--our Pen."
I felt his fingers tighten on my shoulder, but he was silent.
"When I go out to-day," says he at last, and stopped.
"When I go out to-day--" he began once more, and stopped again; then,with a sudden gesture, he thrust the miniature into my hand. "You andBentley!" says he, and turned to the papers that littered the table."You understand?" says he, over his shoulder.
"Yes," says I, from the window, gazing across the bleak, grey desolationof the park. "Yes, I understand."
"I've been setting my papers in order, Dick,--a hard business," says he,with a rueful shake of the head, "a hard business, Dick--and now I'mminded to write a few lines to her, and that methinks will be harderyet." And passing his hand wearily over his brow, he took up his pen.
"Oh Jack--Jack," says I, suddenly, "there may be hope yet--"
"None," says he, quietly; "I was ever a fool with the small-sword, asyou will remember, Dick. But I do not repine--you and Bentley are left."
So I presently went up-stairs again, and this time I did not passBentley's door, but entering, found him already nearly dressed, and as Ilive!--a-whistling of his eternal "Lillibuleero."
"Bentley," says I, sharply, "you surely forget what day it is?"
"No," says he, reaching out his hand with a smile. "A Merry Christmas,Dick!"
But seeing my look, and how I shrank from his proffered hand, his facegrew solemn all in a moment.
"Good God, man!" I cried, "cannot you understand!" and with the words, Iheld up the miniature before his eyes. "From to-day she is in our carealone--her mother died twenty years ago--and to-day--poor Jack--oh, damnyour Merry Christmas!--are you so utterly heartless and without feeling,or only a blind fool?"
And with this I turned my back fairly upon him and hurried from theroom.