by Edwin F. Roberts.
Originally published in Reynolds's Miscellany of Romance, General Literature, Science, and Art (John Dicks) vol.7 #184 (17 Jan 1852).
Chapter II.
The Second Christmas Tree.
There was now a gap in the household which nothing could fill up. Every one, from highest to lowest, felt it, and Mr. Colville among the rest. The grief of his wife was quiet, unostentatious, but profound, and there were times when the uncompromising man felt a sense of annoyance that she did not name the subject to him. Then he fancied that an underhand communication was held between Valentine and his sister and mother. He was still more indignant at this; but he found nothing on which he could ground his suspicions, and so he discarded them. Months passed away and he heard nothing of the son he loved so well; and although it was evident that a secret grief was preying upon him, still he uttered never a word. The house that was once so cheerful grew gloomy and dull. The children, if in the midst of their play their father's foot was heard or his face seen, became suddenly silent. He saw this, and it cut him to the soul. He felt that to them, with all his love, he seemed a tyrant.
Uncle Sampson, unfortunately for Valentine, had been compelled to fly the country immediately after Christmas; for the festivals, the good cheer, and his own jollity had brought on so fearful an attack of gout and a conglomeration of evil symptoms, that his physician had incontinently bundled him off to Madeira for the winter, or else matters would not have proceeded to such an extremity with poor Valentine. As it was, the irate Deputy did not make any attempt whatever to heal the breach or interfere in favour of the "disinherited;" for as such he was now looked upon: and Mr. Ramsbottom, who was wont to be great at vestries and general meetings, did not forget that Valentine had "snubbed" him during his speech after the Christmas dinner. He was passive, however, in his share of the matter, and looked on the young man as a jackanapes who would one day come to his senses. But to do him justice, on the whole he felt sorrowful when he saw the face of Mr. Colville grow sadder and more marked in its expression every day. But he stood in some dread of his head partner, or perhaps would have said a good word for the discarded son, had he really dared.
Even Julia, the stately, the proud, the beautiful, whom one might suppose to be filled with a deeper sense of injury (she had been hurt in that part which brought with its wound most healing—her pride), even she grew generous when she heard the whole of the unhappy events that occurred, and even had the courage to seek an interview with Mr. Colville and intercede in the name of the weeping sister, the mourning mother, the lone, sad children, in her own name, for Valentine's forgiveness.
No! no prayers of hers ever could move him. She had gone to the extent (a fine dashing country cousin having come to her rescue by making fierce and as yet irresistible love to her) of compelling the Deputy, who did just as his daughter told him, to speak kindly of Valentine—to say something favourable in his behalf—to urge, in plain terms, the necessity there was at least, if he was discarded, that his own justification should be heard, and that some provision should be made for him to keep him from absolute starvation. The only answer Mr. Deputy Howard got was astern negative; but Mr. Colville turned deadly pale when the word starvation was mentioned.
As for Mr. Milend, his agony was touching. The scoffing junior clerk who had exhibited restless symptoms whenever Miss Colville was mentioned or seen, and who now always quoted, from a pink volume, "The Lays of the Heart," even he had been awed into a respect for the kind-hearted old clerk's grief: even this young British lion could be quelled.
One day, in the private office, when alone with his master, Mr. Milend, with probably very bad taste, but certainly with the most undoubted sincerity, burst into the very heart of the matter, and into tears too, while pleading for his master's son. He even went on his knees.
"Do, sir—Mr. Colville, think of him wandering and friendless. Pity the son you were so proud of, and with such good reason, sir. Remember how good, how obedient, how affectionate he was ever to you. Think of his frank, handsome face; think of his cultivated intelligence."
"I do;" and Mr. Colville stamped his foot; "and I see that its fruit is all lost, lost, and gone to the winds! Get up, sir; this position is unbecoming."
"How can the fruits of his mind be lost, sir?" persisted Mr. Milend, rising, "How can his having married a charming, lovely, accomplished wife, sir, prevent him from advancement in the world, such as you would desire. He may make a name in literature, the law. He is an artist. He requires not to make a fortune; that he has or should have —"
"Or—should—have!" repeated Mr. Colville slowly, but sternly. "Indeed!"
Mr. Septimus saw that he had perhaps gone too far, but he added, "I am only speaking, sir, from a knowledge of what your sentiments have been. Master Valentine was not intended for your business, I believe, sir; and he was to have contended, sir, for the world's highest and best honours."
"Well, sir, what then?" said Mr. Colville.
"Men marry, sir, for many reasons. Some to make a fortune, some to buy one; some for a title, some for wealth. Few, very few, marry for the real purpose for which it seems to me that marriage only is good —"
"And what is that?" asked Mr. Colville quickly, for he was certainly impressed with the earnest manner of his clerk.
"To be happy, sir. What is fame, honour, rank, and wealth, and all the feverish things that men seek for day and night, year after year, without having one hour to spare for that which is gratifying to the heart and to the soul in man, and nature, and books, and in art—in things that are in the fields, and not in the office?"
"Do you think, Mr. Milend, that you spend too many hours at business?" asked Mr. Colville, with a caustic coldness that the other felt.
"I have a mother, sir, and a poor afflicted sister to support," was the old book-keeper's mild reply. "It does not become me to speak so of myself, and I did not; besides, I have too often experienced your goodness and consideration on my behalf to allow myself to think so for a moment, and—" here he paused.
"Mr. Septimus Milend," said Mr. Colville, with a grave, decided tone. "You are an old and honoured servant of mine. I do not use that word in an invidious sense, but simply because it expresses that I have trusted implicitly in you, and found you a man full of simplicity as a child; full of integrity, as if your heart were as large as a giant's. I respect both you and your motives. Your argument is good; but I refuse to hear it, to be convinced by it. It is he who should convince me."
"Ah, sir, have you heard him?" A long pause followed.
"No," was the reply. "Mr. Milend, let me have the stock book; we have spoken of this long enough. It is my desire that you speak of it no more." Mr. Septimus Milend gave a sigh, bowed, and withdrew to his dry details of business.
In the meantime another event occurred which added to Mr. Colville's annoyance, and made him more obstinate than ever. He happened to be returning home one night, and, passing by a darky-shaded portion of a street, which derived its name from his own, he was startled by seeing two figures, one thin and youthful-looking, wrapped in a cloak; the other, by the momentary glance, struck him as possessing the portly proportions of his butler Robert. A suspicion instantly crossed him—as the hat of the cloaked individual was drawn farther over his brows: he stopped short and spoke.
"Robert!" a pause. "Robert! what means this? Why do you not reply? Why are you out now? Who is this person with you?" The rich silk-merchant's heart rose to his throat at the moment, for his quick susceptibility told him who it was.
The poor butler was fearfully embarrassed. He had disobeyed the most stringent orders he had ever received. The other saw his position, generously determined to save him, if such were possible.
"Sir," at last said the stranger advancing: "it is I. Pardon your servant. It is—your—son's—fault—I am Valentine!"
"It is well, sir," said the father coldly, "I perceive that my injunctions have not been attended to. This time they shall;" and he was moving away, when the imploring voice again reached his ear.
"Father! Oh! my father !" it said.
But Mr. Coville hardened himself against it, and hurried on, his heart beating, his head throbbing, and the air around him singing and reverberating in sad minors, "Father! oh! my father?" He hurried home and locked himself up in his library.
The next day, without any apparent anger, without accusation, or making—what people understand so well by the word—"fuss" about the business, he gave his wife and daughter to know that he was cognizant of the fact of their holding a correspondence with Valentine. He put down on the table a fifty-pound bank-note, told them to send it to his son, and in a few terse words, said also that he would not permit such to exist without his sanction, which he would not give. This (the bank-note) was the last memento. His son's disobedience should not be countenanced by him—and to prove that he was in earnest in what he said—he called the butler in, and then cancelling thirty year's service (boy and man) he paid him his wages, and dismissed him on the spot at the instant. Without a word poor Robert withdrew, and consternation was at its height.
The butler was a married man, and Mrs. Biggles had a little comfortable house in the city. The washing which his wife had was taken away the next week after. The blow was cutting, unkind, bitterly so. The old man mourned but did not murmur. He had a little boy, and a wife, and himself to keep. He set up a hackney cab, and for a while fought a hard battle with fortune. Poor fellow! The sense of unkindness, totally undeserved, took away his courage, but he valiantly struggled on.
The monotony of Mr. Colville's residence became dreadful. There was no longer either music or mirth within its walls, but a staid, melancholy, mornful propriety reigned from top to bottom; and the last message, with its consequences, having been conveyed to Valentine, mother and sister looking at the fatal missive as if it was a sentence of death, and that the former would take it accordingly and trouble them no more with his presence.
That night the mother wept, her husband saw it, but soothed her not. They had been married for more than twenty years, and he had ever till then, been kind, considerate, and attentive to her. What horrible change had come over him. That night Emma Colville wept, her little sisters wept for company. There was none to console her.
Valentine sent the old butler ten pounds of the money, with a kind, thankful note of adieu; and in order to avoid bringing anyone else into further trouble, after writing a loving, grateful letter to his mother and sister, he left his lodgings, without giving any indications where he was to be found; and now every clue to him was entirely lost. Mr. Colville felt that they all sorrowed as for one dead; but he was a man of iron will, and would not show any emotion himself, whatever he might have felt.
The spring went by, the summer followed, and the family went on their usual short continental tour. The autumn came, and they spent as much of it as they possibly could in the country. Christmas-tide was approaching; but few, except the children, looked for it with either hope or pleasure; and meantime, ripe fruits, brown apples, hazel nuts, and the golden corn, all harvested, were come, and over, and gone; then the autumn winds began to blow in the night.
Let the reader follow us to a small neat cottage in the suburbs. It is where Valentine and his sweet wife Florence live. There is an air of neatness about the humble furniture and the pretty picturesque decorations on the walls, the works of the husband's pencil and his wife, for both are artists. There is at the same time an aspect of that decent, struggling poverty which carries so much pain with it. It is not of the kind which pretends without the grace or the appreciation of all that is elegant and beautiful, but of a taste pure and refined,—a taste of persons who have been accustomed to it as things of course—as habitual and daily; and the pain a spectator would feel in those barren cupboards, scanty wardrobes, and the absence of property more valuable and money-worth, is beyond the reach of description.
For instance, there is a gap by the wall where a little cottage piano stood. There is a gap over the chimney piece where a valuable picture hung. There is a gap in that little watch-basket, or box, or what ever else it is called, that indicates a journey to the pawnbroker's. These things have been sold. The inhabitants of this cottage are in dire poverty. The lower rooms are dark. In one chamber a taper burns. Poverty is in the house, and death is fighting for entrance there also.
It is now night. In a little bed lies an infant, that you would think was sleeping, but for the breathing of its little lungs. The pale, thin-faced, exquisitely lovely, and Madonua-like mother is kneeling by the little crib, and she is praying to God with all her heart and with all her soul to spare her little first- born. At the foot stands the pallid father. His fine handsome youth is now wasted and haggard with privation and long midnight labour at the canvass. His sorrowful eyes are sunk in his head. His chin is in his hand, his eyes are on the child. Oh! the agony of that moment, to see the beloved, the darling, the life of your own life, wasting, dying before his eyes—eaten—devoured by poverty, and given up to death!
A knock comes to the door. It is repeated—and once again. The man starts out of his painful brooding with a sentiment of bitter annoyance. Why this intrusion now? why must he leave the chamber? Can he not be left to take a last glance of his babe? Can he not be left in peace to kiss the cold and paling lips—to gather the last breath of the little sufferer? Knock! It comes again. Some one that will not be denied is at the door. The husband goes down, opens it, utters an exclamation; and then a heavy foot is heard, something is thrust into the passage, and a voice exclaims, "Oh! Master Valentine, how could you use me so?—to send me all that there money you couldn't spare, and not tell me where you was gone?"
There stood Robert Biggles, late the butler of Mr. Colville, and now wrapped up in the heavy coat of cabman. Before him was a hamper, neither large nor small, which he pushed in, and then closed the door behind him. He spoke hurriedly—headlong—as if afraid of being interrupted every moment.
"I found you after a great deal of difficulty. I heard your little baby was ill. I've brought it some wine, and pies, and jelly—and—and—for God's sake, Master Valentine," he burst out, "don't you say as the baby is—is—is—"
"It's going, my poor affectionate Robert," said Valentine, in a low, sad, but grateful voice. "May God reward you for this: we'll see what it may do. Give me, then, some of the wine. On, for a doctor now!"
"All right!" cried Mr. Biggles, roused into instant action. With a cut of the knife the plethoric hamper flew open. A bottle was got, some wine poured out, a jelly handed, and the next moment, as Valentine went softly up the stairs, Robert quickly unfastened the door, having taken away the key, and was off, as though he had been a thief and had robbed the house; but he was going for a doctor, and presently, after sundry frantic knockings, he roused one up and bore him in triumph to the house.
It was just time. The vital spark was fluttering on the lips. The trembling hands of the young mother put the wine to the little child's mouth; some restoratives and food were added; and when Robert received the thanks of the grateful mother, and felt the clasp of the young father's hand upon his arm as he took his departure after bringing the doctor (who had done wonders and meant to do more), the ex-butler, and now cabman, went home proud and pleased, having left in a purse on the chimney-piece ten golden sovereigns, where it was sure to be found. It was so, and ruin and death was staved away from that young pair for a time. Alas! what bitter waters they had already drank of—they to whom life had opened out so broadly—so leafy green—so gorgeously!
The year was wearing on, the child recovered, some little turn of fortune drove the horrid ghost of chilling, breadless penury from the threshold of Valentine's door; but he saw little prospect of its lasting for all that; and he beheld himself under the inevitable necessity of seeking for some other place or means for obtaining a livelihood for himself and family, or of beholding such another probability arriving as that from which the grateful Robert Biggles had extricated him.
He had tried a school, tuition in the classics, and had failed. Literature, could he have waited long enough, and fought out the battle patiently, might have in some way rewarded him. His last resource of painting realised him most; but ah! what a paltry remuneration for time, for talent, for real outlay necessary for the completion of a picture, did he receive.
He thought finally of emigration. He was young, sanguine, and, what was better, had made up is to every labour, every difficulty. He loved his sweet wife with such a strength of affection as divested life of all its miseries. That which he dreaded most, that which haunts the strongest as well as the weakest—poverty, destitution, beggary, starvation, that was what alone had a fear of. By dint of the most niggardly and even penurious living, he had been able to realise a few pounds. He took his wife into his confidence. She had no home, no friends—the poor orphan! He was all the world to her; and east or west, north or south, with a submissive, trustful, deep love, she smilingly assented. How, indeed, could she sufficiently love the man who had sacrificed so much for her, save by the most implicit attention to his will. All the golden splendours of a life of promise she well knew Valentine had lost. For her he had lost the loves of home, and every tie that was dear to him was rent. To his honour, let us add, that neither by word, look, or act, did he ever let her know his inestimable deprivation. No reproach as to her being the cause of his ruin; for what else was it to a young man like Valentine (he thought) who was driven from the bosom of his family, and disinherited by his father passed his lips? Her consent, therefore, being obtained without trouble, Valentine set about the affair without loss of time. He sold all his little stock of furniture, pictures, and trinkets; and, taking a place on board a vessel about to sail for New York, for himself, and wife, and child, before the second Christmas came round, he was a stranger in a strange land, beginning to encounter those vicissitudes which are ever attendant upon the young and the inexperienced who seek to hew out a path through the world's adamant, scarcely able to wield the Titan tools necessary for the purpose. Their privations were many and great—their endurances were worthy, however, of two devoted and heroic beings; and, settled in a little log cabin on the banks of the Hudson, with his field of maize, his garden of fruits and vegetables, and with his gun in the woods, he began to reconcile himself to his fate, though his heart yearned for his home, and he longed to wipe away the tears from his mother's eyes, to embrace Emma, and to kiss his little sisters. He would have added a wish to obtain his father's forgiveness; but the unbending obduracy of the man made him ever despair of so doing.
Before sailing, however, and while in his little lodgings at Gravesend, he had written a long letter to his father, a history and a justification of his love and marriage. From this letter, which we shall lay before the reader, every particular that was shrouded in darkness will be gleaned. This, made up in a packet, he consigned into the hands of the friendly and faithful Robert Biggles, who was to deliver it on the next Christmas Day at Mr. Colville's house, so that at least they should have a souvenir of him at the table, even if he was not present with them. In his heart he said, "Adieu! my once dear home, and all that I loved, I shall never behold you more!"
Christmas Eve came, but the carol was not sung, nor did the junior clerk sneer at the young children playing round the "snap-dragon" bowl. The porters and the workmen received their accustomed presents as of old, but these were sent to their own homes or given at the office. The party assembled on the holy eve of the pleasant and rejoicing day numbered many among it, some few of those we have seen before, and some few that we have not; but Mr. Septimus Milend was not rosy with joy. He, poor man, had been short of all his glory; and he looked with a piteous face upon the pale Emma, who tried all in her power to promote something that might take the place of mirth. Mrs. Colville looked ill and wan, and Mr. Colville himself, still occupying his old place at the head of the table, was now and then talkative, but oftener taciturn. The joyous exhilarating laugh of the last Christmas Eve was vanished. It drowned not the moaning of the wind. It deadened not the sound of the falling hail. It did not prevent them from hearing the shaking branches of the great trees in the courtyard. The whole sounded sadly, hollowly, mournfully.
They expected not to hear the clatter of the carriage-wheels, nor the falling of the carriage-steps. None looked to the door, in expectation of seeing the radiant old butler rush in and destroy decorum with his glad gratulation. No hurried feet of the elder brother of the house were now thought of; and the damp of that hopeless sentiment chilled all, in spite of the toasts, and the punch, and the "Merry Christmas." Merry Christmas! Ah! what a mockery there was in those two words. How like burying a dead friend is the burying of human happiness thus at such a season. But who could help it?
Christmas Day dawned out. Ah! how different was the dull, foggy, drizzling, bitter day, to the bright, bracing, sunlight of the last one spent in that noble house! It was cheerless without—it was cheerless within—it was cheerless everywhere. The streets seemed to the Colvilles' an echo of their own hearts.
That Christmas morning Mr. Colville did not go with his family to church. He was not well. He could not go. Perhaps he felt with that consciousness of his own obduracy, which he could not but feel, that his lips would move in mockery and not prayer. Until they all returned, therefore, he shut himself up in his library, and none came near him. What were his thoughts then?
The guests met at dinner as before, and that passed over heavily; and then, oh! weary Christmas-tree that you were then, without blossom nor fruit! then the children plucked your laden branches, but they plucked them not as of yore. Lights burnt dimmer, fires were gloomier, the wine dull, the jest forced. It was a pain to look at the party, and the only one who did appear to enjoy himself at all was the junior clerk, who, more manly grown, bolder in his defiance of Mr. Milend than ever, perpetrated awful attempts at facetiousness, and ate and drank in memory of the last Christmas Day, when he lay dinnerless, with splitting head, in bed. It required hardihood to do all this; and the young gentleman drank a good deal of wine for the purpose.
Oh! weary, weary Christmas-tree! Mr. Deputy Howard, Julia, and her mother were elsewhere. Uncle Sampson was there, not jovial, but saturnine. He was silently savage at Valentine's absence, and ferocious with Mr. Colville for his hardheartedness. Mr. Ramsbottom and family were there, but doing the dismal in a highly pompous manner. It was a Christmas Day of misery to all there, within and without. Mr. Colville felt it. Everything animate and inanimate tacitly reproached him; but this gave the man a sort of dogged courage to mask the throbbings of his heart. Yes, he, too, longed for Valentine.
He fell into a reverie. Where was Valentine—his son—his beloved, noble son? He must be very poor. Perhaps his wife, his little babe were shivering by the fireless grate, perhaps out, homeless, beneath the canopy. He shuddered! Pictures of destitution and of despair formed and vanished, and re-created themselves to his "mind's" eye with a most painful variety. Things before him and around him all vanished. His gaze pierced the streets; he saw his poor butler reduced to beggary; he fancied that he heard his little child crying for food; he imagined that the pale, wasted face of the hard working Mrs. Biggles was reproaching him. A dreadful nightmare was weighing upon him. This was dissipated at once by the voice of Emma bidding the young ones, Colvilles, Ramsbottoms, and all, prepare for the Christmas-tree.
On that blessed Christmas Day itself, surrounded by all those things which ministered to enjoyment, was wanting the appreciation and the persons. The Christmas-tree, all lighted up and loaded with gifts, was there. At a sign the children did with a little vivacity attack and deflower it. Suddenly one of them uttered a cry.
On the table, by the said tree, laid a voluminous packet directed to Mr. Colville, which was instantly handed to him. He looked at it wonderingly a moment, read over the address, and shook his head. It was only some little present—he knew not who from. He tore it open, read the second wrapper, and gave a start, while his face turned deadly pale, and his stern jaw fell.
All eyes were turned upon him. Emma approached in wonder and fear. Mrs. Colville's alarm was expressed in her face. He recovered himself by an effort, and with a cold smile, glancing round the company, muttered something about being taken by surprise by the singular manner in which the communication had been made to him; but, as it were, firm in his purpose, he turned his kindling eyes upon the trembling Emma, as if she had been guilty of a piece of treachery.
It was the packet which Valentine had entrusted to old Robert, who bad executed his orders so well, that on the very day, by the very tree, and almost at the desired hour, it had been placed there by some unseen hands. Mr. Colville felt irritated at the disregard shown to his wishes, and coldly said, "Who placed this here?"
"Indeed, dear father, I do not know," replied Emma, with such a sincerity of tone and manner that he could not but believe her. Mr. Colville spoke.
"Inquire of the servants. Stay! call the butler."
The butler was called for, and the question put to him.
The man's reply indicated ignorance as well as total innocence of the matter, and Mr. Colville found himself in a manner compromised.
"It could not come here without hands," said he. "Someone of my household must have placed it where it was found; or—perhaps it was —" he glanced at Mr. Milend. That gentleman, with a shade upon his cheek, was assiduously gazing in quite another direction.
"What is it, dear papa? Whom is it from?" inquired Emma eagerly, a suspicion working up within her breast. "Is it from Valentine?" she stammered out.
Mrs. Colville, at the name, uttered an irrepressible cry, and cast an imploring look upon her husband's countenance. He gave to his own as much of coldness, indifference, and even harshness as he possibly could, but human nature and the paternal sentiment were working violently in his breast.
"Have I not forbidden that name to be uttered?" he demanded.
"Oh! my husband!" cried the bereaved mother in agony, "forgive him."
"Do, dear father," said Emma, clasping her hands.
"If I would," he hoarsely said, "I know not where he is. Silence!"
He ordered lights to be placed in his library, and with as much coolness as he could command, begged that his guests would amuse themselves in the best way they could, and excuse his absence from them. Then, with a wave of the hand, he quitted the room with a firm step, and reached his library door. Once within that, his knees quivered under him, his heart grew faint, he fastened the door and staggered to his great chair, and for a time the packet lay before him on the table unopened.
While the afternoon and evening were spent by the guests in the great hall; while hopes and fears alternated in the bosom of those to whom the absent son and brother was most dear, hopes awakened by the certainty that this was a packet from Valentine to some purport or other; fears arising from the poignant but despairing sentence which had been wrung from Mr. Colvile's lips,—while all this went on, and the host returned not back among them, he was reading with strange bewildering emotions, often compelled to stop for the tears that binded every word before him, the minute details, which the son in his "Eternal adieu!" had written to his father.
The strong man's agony broke out at last in sobs and tears! He flung himself on the ground, and kneeling, prayed. Such sorrow! such woe! such suffering did those pages contain; but above all, the words that burned themselves into his brain were those, "Eternal-Adieu! Forgive me!" Valentine then, was lost for ever!