by Edwin F. Roberts.
Originally published in Reynolds's Miscellany of Romance, General Literature, Science, and Art (John Dicks) vol.8 #185 (24 Jan 1852).
Chapter III.
The Third Christmas Tree.
The following is the substance of the voluminous letter, referred to in our last chapter, written by Valentine to his father. After some few opening lines, it proceeded thus:—
"I was enabled to be of some little service to a poor, but very talented artist, who lived in a pleasant little cottage in the suburbs of Cambridge, and had occasion to visit him in pursuance of a design I had to procure him some few purchasers for his pictures.
"I found his quiet home the abode of beauty. It breathed through the medium of his divine art in every thing about the house. Alas! poverty and ill health were joined to this also. Privation and long hours of unremunerated toil had sapped the painter's constitution, and he was attacked immediately after my acquaintance with him with a severe form of the disease, which resisted the efforts of the physicians, and nothing but rest and care could check its progress. Its cure, to my dismay, was said to be quite out of the question.
"His daughter—I forgot that I have not named her to you—his daughter Florence, lovely beyond his own ideal of beauty, accomplished far beyond the ordinary range of feminine education, gifted with grace and genius, was his household god! She loved her father and was to him daughter, servant, friend, comforter, and strongest help; and if God had but raised him up a friend a little earlier, they might both have been happy and smiling now. She was untiring in her efforts, and I found that she too was beginning to suffer, for she became paler and thinner day by day. I discovered after that, in the lone hours of the night, she used her father's brushes and paint, and filled his canvass for him.
"The students soon found out where I had become a regular visitor, indeed I made no secret of it—for I was innocent of everything but that of doing a few trifling acts of human kindness—and I certainly was the means of disposing of a few pictures at a fair price, but his necessities grew greater and more pressing, and the efforts of both were unavailing, though they fought courageously.
"The students attributed to me other motives, for my visits to Mr. Sterling's house (that was the painter's name), and my indignation was aroused at hearing a rumour that the daughter's heart, and not the father's friendship, was what I sought to gain. I satisfied myself with a simple denial of this infamous assertion; but when these rumours also came to the ears of Florence, with tears in her eyes, and the blushes of outraged modesty on her lovely face, she desired me to discontinue my visits—to see them no more, in fact, and mute with a shame I had no right to suffer, I bowed to her resolve, and avoided the house for several weeks.
"In the meantime, one of the students, who has since distinguished himself by a course of bold and unblushing profligacy, wormed himself into the esteem of Florence by performing for the father a piece of service, which I should have been proud to have done, but which I could not without rendering them subject to further insult. When I had ascertained this, however, I determined to rescue the agitated girl from her odious persecution, and in defiance of all opinion, public or private, become the champion of innocence.
"On one day, therefore, I called at the house. There was an air of gloom and mourning about it which filled me with dismay. The blinds were down, and the silence of death reigned around. In short, the painter was dead! Florence was an orphan, without one friend in the world to help her—none to hope in but God!
"It was an awful bereavement to her! While her heart was breaking with sorrow for her loss, she was tormented with the addresses of Waldegrave (the student), who having lent—indeed forced, some money to pay the funeral expenses, was becoming importunate for his repayment. When the horrible designs of the refined villain were wrung out of her as if she lay upon a rack of agony, my blood became fire, and my heart was filled with a deadly craving for avenging the insults she daily endured. The wretch, as merciless as he was abandoned, actually put his debts into the hands of a pitiless attorney, and she was to be turned out of her home without a single penny, or a single article in the world beyond the clothes she wore. Nay, she was even menaced with a prison.
"I arrived at the house at an opportune moment. The lawyer and his myrmidons were there. In another room was the unmasked villain, his hateful heart now unclothed in all its sinister blackness. To be his mistress or to be his victim—in either way his victim—was the only alternative. I rushed into the room.
"'Save me, Valentine! save me?' she cried, rushing towards me: 'save the poor orphan who is on the verge of eternal ruin!'
"I unclasped her hand from my shoulder, and advancing a step to the baffled bully, pointed to the door. Bold and audacious as he was, he saw that there was that in my eye which was dangerous, and he presently withdrew. The strength of ten men was in my arms, the wrath of a Titan was in my breast. It required a great effort on my part to curb my temper. He went. I thanked God for it. I paid the debt, and saw the vile wretches leave the house. Florence, saved from her greatest danger, called me her preserver.
"I would have spoken of her father, but dared not tear open her wounds afresh. I felt a bereavement beyond that of a mere acquaintance. The man had been highly educated, and gifted with a genius and an idealism that was intellectually gorgeous. I acquired from him tastes, ideas, and a key to the wisdom of the gifted that a legacy of a million of money could not be an equivalent for. There was in his privation a dignity of endurance, an heroism which to have witnessed was a lesson—and this man died with only the man that would have destroyed his child by his bedside. Well for him that he did not know it. I felt happy beyond words when I heard that my name had been last on his lips.
"Alas! my father! he, too, like your own son, had married imprudently, and a man who could have given to his wealthy family a name beyond the reach of any adventitious influence was left mourning the wife he adored to perish in obscure poverty, and leave her child a legacy of penury.
"What was I to do with this poor child thus cast upon my protection? Could I abandon her at the moment that I had snatched her from the jaws of ruin? My father! had you been near me then, I should have confided all to you; as it was, you might not believe me. What I did first, was to remove her from the spot so pregnant with sad memories.
"Evil tongues whispered slanders of her and of me. In the little lodgings I had her taken to, the depraved and the designing sought her out. Waldegrave I was compelled to horsewhip in the public streets for his insolent importunity. He called me out. I refused to go; one man called me coward. I chastised him by wounding him with a sword in a duel. Waldegrave saw that it was not fear that deterred me. Others saw it too. He was forced to quit the University; and I walked abroad without fear or shame.
"I had no right to sacrifice her reputation. I had no right to afford her out of my ample means a place to lay her head while the malice of the world was killing her pure soul within her. I could neither hold peoples' tongues, nor fight the whole of her slanderers. Still I knew not what to do; and for several days I cogitated in the manner in which I could most effectively serve her without in any way sacrificing either her good name or mine. I was proud of both, and determined that nothing should disgrace either.
"I found that I loved her when she expressed a desire to seek in London for some honourable means of obtaining a livelihood. I felt that to lose her was losing that which had become to me a portion of my life, a part of my being, an essence that clothed me with pure thoughts, lofty feelings, and made me feel ennobled in the new sense of existence. I could not part with her.
"Thoughts of the dangers which would surround her—of the privations she must endure—of her utter unfitness to meet these trials came, I pointed them out to her and sought to dissuade her. Smiling amidst her tears, she said that "it was like prohibiting a hungry man from feeling the necessity of eating." She was actually compromised in reputation I discovered, though malevolence could not have charged her with a criminal thought.
"If it be true, as a rule, that man's chief object is to seek for a partner which shall be to him all that fulfils the desire of the soul—beauty, grace, talent, and, above all, the feeling, the faith, the perpetual consciousness that so peerless a creature should love him—it is also true, that having found such, he should secure her. Prudence was not listened to when the loftiest principles of honour dictated to me what to do, when the question of my own lasting happiness was at stake—I married her!
"I desired to rescue so noble and lofty a soul from the remotest chances of danger. She was worthy of any sacrifice. She is now worthy of any that I have made for her. Oh! my father, if you would but have listened to me—seen her—known the fearful position in which the friendless orphan was placed—you would have judged of her, of me, differently.
"'Why did I not consult you?' you might ask. My reply is, that you would have judged as ninety-nine men out of a hundred would. You would have looked upon me as a raw and inexperienced boy—upon her, as a designing woman; these last words, believe me, cost me something to write. For I cannot be patient at the thought that any one, even my father, should have done so noble a creature so great a wrong.
"My dear father! my vindication is done. It is no defence after all. It is a simple history merely, and not a palliation. I did not, I could not desire it to be thus lost. Whatever was the sin against you—and I never anticipated that it could be so—to me it was a virtue. It is over now, and before you peruse this we shall be both of us, and my little babe, far away. I would beg of you, as a last favour, to restore Robert Biggles to his place, and to your confidence, as before. The cause of your annoyance being removed, the same sources of happiness are still with you. Let not those who are innocent and good suffer for those who are thought guilty.
"Father—dear, beloved, and honoured father, adieu! You can afford to think kindly of the son that has lost your love. We are never likely to meet again, and I would believe that you blessed me and wished me well. Restore your old love to my sister; let me be no cause of unhappiness to my dear mother, and believe me that I love and pray for you as fervently as I ever did when I was under the old household roof, now that I am a denizen of the world thousands of miles away. God for ever bless you.
"Your affectionate son,
"VALENTINE."
Time rolled on, and the spring became summer, and summer, autumn; as that was rapidly going by, as the winter was approaching, bringing Christmas to the very hearths of the people, like a beneficent geni scattering a blessing to all, and taking it like a package of plum cake to the very houses and hearths of people, chock full of good things, all carriage paid. In the interior of Mr. Collvile's establishment there were few or no changes, but it was remarked by all that a great change indeed had taken place in the rich silk-merchant himself during the course of the last year.
Since the receipt of Valentine's letter on that last memorable Christmas day when he went into his library and came not from until the day following, a pale, haggard man, a change of a slow and silent growth took gradually place in him. He ceased to be peremptory or dictatorial. He became conciliatory, kind and affable once more, as he used to be formerly when in his best moods. He was like one that had committed some wrong against society, the very memory of which he was anxious to cast into oblivion by using a forbearance of temper which did not always distinguish him. This change was witnessed in his own home with silent joy by Mrs. Colville, with silent hopefuluess by Emma, but still all this did not restore back to them the lost "beloved." Yet there was in all this many sources of comfort, and like sensible people they made the most of them. Hoping and loving they lived on, and a portion of joy was restored.
He had set to work also to make inquiries about the old butler, Robert, the butler par excellence of many an old, happy, jolly Christmas dead and gone, yet lovely even in its grave of time to contemplate, but without the slightest success. He found that the poor fellow had not been able to make his vehicle pay him. It had been seized for a debt; his goods had been sold for rent. For a time he had laboured as a porter, but an accident prevented him from following his labour, and having lost all clue to where he had migrated to, the silk-merchant feared that the poor fellow's love for his son had cast him and his into a dire penury. There was the consolation in this thought.
On one occasion, some months after, he had Mr. Septimus Milend closetted with him for at least two hours one day, in his private office, to the surprise of his partners, Messrs. Deputy Howard and Ramsbotton, and to the disturbing of the junior clerk's advanced dignity and importance, when the kind-hearted old book-keeper came forth again, however, it was seen that his eyes were dim with tears, but that his cheeks were glowing with gladness—that he wept for joy, and that there was a radiant happiness beaming out of him, which fell like sunshine on those about. But the cause of all this was an impenetrable mystery. When questioned with some polite severity by the junior clerk, he shook his head. All was shrouded in mystery.
Two days afterwards, Mr. Milend suddenly disappeared, and as day after day passed on, and as there was no news of a large robbery, forged bills, or cases of embezzlement committed by him, it was concluded—so much had the profundity of this mysterious movement become,—that the old clerk had been despatched somewhere or other on secret business which was of the highest importance, but what it was, even the genius of the junior clerk, which was fast ripening to perfection, could not fathom. That young gentleman shook his head in his wisdom, but Like Lord Burleigh, did not convey by it any very precise meaning.
Mr. Colville, too, had established, through the medium of "Uncle" Sampson, the banker (who by virtue of his business knew every body everywhere) with America, and it was remarked that he had letters and newspapers at long intervals from various places across the Atlantic, after the perusal of which he was either sad or cheerful, as the news might be good or bad. But the name of Valentine crossed not his lips. He never spoke of him; and those who at first imagined that he was seeking for his lost son, were forced to give up their guess, and attribute this unusual correspondence to some mercantile or commercial speculation.
In the meantime, the months were rolling on, and in the family of the merchant no change for better or worse took place. The only great event of the period was the marriage of the lovely Julia to her cousin, on which occasion Mr. Colville gave a grand dinner, and made her some superb presents.
Great political events at this period gave to trade and manufactures so severe a paralysis, that the artizans of the metropolis suffered most severely in connexion with their more numerous brethren in the country, and it was to be feared that the winter would set in with poverty and want, and that the approaching Christmas season would be a time of sorrowing and not of rejoicing; and there were many good reasons for thinking so.
Mr. Colville bore reverse after reverse, and loss after disappointment, with a dignity which demanded the respect of his partners; and spite of discouraging occurrences filled them with a certain vague hope and confidence, for they had great confidence in his skill and foresight. Great as was the pressure from without, he persuaded his partners to keep their men employed, when the goods were filling the shelves of the warehouses. A reaction would come, and they would see the benefit of their outlay. As he staked his own wealth freely too, they were also as liberal. Ultimately this turned out well for all.
The autumn was dead, the winter was born in white, and descended upon the earth in gleaming garments. Christmas again was close at hind, and preparations were being made everywhere as of old, for keeping up the blessed, happy time, with due honour. Even men who had been steeped to the lips in the disastrous occurrences of the last few months, borrowed a little hope from the genial influence that the season brought, and were determined to smile once more if never again.
Mr. Colville, one cold December night, and full of thought, that had a depressing tendency, was hastening home from the West End, and passing through one of the bleak squares towards a cab-stand, his attention was called to a little boy, who sat shivering on the stone steps of a noble mansion. There was something so piteous, so affecting, so suggestive of homeless misery and foodless despair, in the aspect of the thinly-clad child, that the heart of the merchant was touched by it. He stopped—then went on—stopped, looked back, and then returned.
"My boy!" said he, as the startled child turned a pale thin face up to his own, and looked upon him half in alarm, "what do you do here?"
"I am trying to sleep—I am very hungry, and very cold," replied the boy, in a low voice.
But, my poor child, have you no home to go to?" asked Mr. Colville, with a thrill of tenderness in his manly voice.
"I ain't—no better than here," replied the boy.
"There's no coal, and no fire; father's dying—I think, and mother's starving:"—he burst into tears. A more graphic picture of earthly destitution could not possibly have been drawn. The boy seemed to feel it—his head dropped on his breast—he gave a sigh, but he did not beg.
"Good God!" exclaimed Mr. Colville, "what an awful condition of things for poor human creatures to be in. "My poor lad," he said, "rise up, and come with me." The boy obeyed, but with difficulty.
"How come all this to happen?" he asked.
"Don't know; father was comfortable once," was the answer. "He lived in a great house—was butler there (the merchant started)—his master turned him away—he got work—then hurt himself, and was obliged to give it up. I've been out begging to-night—the policeman said he'd lock me up—I got nothing—some big boys wanted me to go a thieving—I was too hungry—or else—"
"Or else!" said the merchant, with intense anxiety, and a beating heart, "On how little (thought he) does honesty or dishonesty rest."
"I must do something, if I don't die here. I wish I was dead," said the poor outcast plaintively.
"What's your father's name?" asked Mr. Colville, as they walked slowly on.
"Robert Biggles!"
"Thank God! thank God!" cried the merchant, with a fervency that was at least sincere. "Now, we'll soon put an end to all this, if it please heaven that I may not be too late;" and seizing the boy's hand he rushed on.
A physician whom he knew, lived in the square, He knocked hurriedly, entered, and requested him to accompany him, with food, wine, and other necessaries instantly. A few words told the physician the whole tale, and with a quick and native sympathy, peculiar to this most noble, honoured, and ill-requited class of men, he hastened to obey.
As they drove along a rush of feeling ran through Mr. Colville's breast. Out of the wreck of human nature flung by neglect and harshness in the feculent depths of life—holy, human life, degraded by want, misery, and the ghastliness of a death uncheered by any human warmth, had he now rescued a child that might (through hum) have been a felon on the scaffold. Out of this awful tide, destructive and Lethean, he would rescue other creatures, whose whole life, inner and outer, had been perilled by his unforgiving nature.
* * * * *
Hurrah! it is Christmas Eve! At last, round comes another. The skies are hung with black. The ground is covered with snow. Between heaven and earth goes the moaning, yet melodious night-wind. It, too, chaunts carols among the stars, and sweeps along the streets, crying, "home! home! for the festival of Christmas is begun!"
Fires blazed merrily, lamps lighted up windows like an illumination. Bakers, butchers, and confectioners were beginning to fall into the most delightful states of consumption, and dying with a pleasant fatigue. If Mr. Colville's house, and rooms, and windows, and court-yard were ever lighted up before, they almost blazed with light on this particular Christmas Eve. The outer air is redolent of mince and roast ducks. Geese, and turkeys have done their worst and their best, and the cook has made a conquest over them that fills the air with a grateful incense. There are more bottles than ever, bigger hampers than ever about the passage, the house-keeper's room, and the kitchen. Everything is on a scale of gigantic violence. There is not, there cannot be a mistake about anything.
The great drawing-room (with Mr. Coville at the head of the table) is fuller than ever it was. There are the Howards, the Ramsbottoms, the "tail" of uncle Sampson, the poor relations, "Cousin Joe" the jolly and the luckless, and Mrs. Meek, the peerless sultana. There are porters, burlier, larger than ever, and there is Emma—sweet darling, lovely Emma—with a smile of light upon her face.
By her side, and holding one hand in hers, is Julia. She is beautiful and radiant to-night, and her good-humoured handsome husband is engaged in speaking with Mr. Colville, for he is to be taken as a partner into the business, and he is not now the rattlebrain that he was.
There are no end of young people there, and they are noisily romping and laughing. Suddenly the door opens. In walk five musical gentlemen, who have been found on a very short notice, and they take up their places by the sideboard, and a servant is handing to them glasses of punch and some cake to clear their throats, for "by'r lady" there will be a carol sung to-night, and "cakes and ale" to follow.
The dignity, moral and physical, of the junior clerk (now no longer really so) was awfully severe. His style of dress was "quiet." He had cut the "fast" school, and was become a grave man; but it was astonishing how he would follow Emma with his eyes, and how he would blush when caught. What next?
It was Mr. Septimus Milend himself who had been absent six months, that suddenly rushed in and disturbed this dignity, and robbed Mr. Augustus Timmins, as his "card" indicated it—of his partner Emma, who if old Septimus had been a real bona fide Apollo-like lover, could not have been more glad, only she needn't have embraced the old genteman so warmly, nor (thought Mr. Timmins) needed Mr. Milend to have kissed her cheek so affectionately, though he did appear like a man who having suddenly risen from the dead, looked remarkably well after his long absence among the "dead men."
Now then for the grand, the glorious, the solemn Christmas Carol! for Emma has ceased to speak with Julia, and seems to be waiting for her father's signal.
Again! what mean those carriage-wheels in the court-yard as of old—the clattering of the steps as of old, with a little longer delay? What is the meaning of that terrible tumbling up the stairs? and what does ROBERT BIGGLES mean, as of old, with his jolly face (it took some time, and nursing, to get it up to perfection again) and with a new suit of quiet livery on? What does he mean with his ridiculous, uproarious, noisier-than-ever cry of,—
"Hooray! here's Master Val himself again—and somebody with him," he added, with a fiercer, louder tone.
In truth, the long-absent Valentine entered. In his arms he carried a little crowing child. Following him came a quiet, lovely, timid creature, to whom Emma, Julia, and Mrs. Colville rushed at once in order to devour her, and her blessed baby, with kisses and embraces. The next moment, amid tremblings and tears of joy, she placed their last youngest born in the arms of the grandsire, and pleaded for Valentine's pardon. Little was that needed—it was done long ago.
Then Emma stole softly to the chamber organ, and awakened the eloquent stops. More solemnly, far more sweetly is the Christmas Carol sung this year than ever before, Hearts that thrill to the gathering melody as it wails now, and then rejoices, are overflowing with a joy far beyond the power of words to describe. They stand there together, looking into each other's eyes, and hearing each other's hearts beat; those who have been parted for a long, long time—never to be parted more save by the hand of death—by no unkind feeling, however, or by any hard, haughty thought. And they all thank God for this union, with all the fervour of their souls!
It would be useless to go into the details of that tremendous night. It was, in fact, overpowering to be so happy. And that's the reason why Robert Biggles, but especially Mr. Milend, made themselves so very absurd as they did, crying and laughing by turns. Valentine's lovely Florence sat at Mr. Colville's right hand, and the proud, pleased, happy old man, could not keep his eyes from dwelling on the Christmas bud of promise nestling warmly in her arms.
The third Christmas Day comes, and the Christmas Tree is magnificent, superb, and is three times bigger than the last. It blazes with tapers. Its vast branches are loaded with the choicest toys and the richest sweetmeats. Its presents are on a princely scale. It is like a glorious grandsire of Christmas trees, and it parades its opulence like a nabob.
There was tremendous feasting within and without. The kitchens, the halls, the room below, are all filled with guests. The junior clerk rules a party in a yellow dining-room; Mr. Milend has had charge of one in the second dining-room, but he refuses to stop there altogether, and comes to look after the laughing Emma, who holds up her finger at him and then laughs. The children are loaded with presents, and all are happy. On one side of Mr. Colville sits his wife, with Valentine's elder child in her lap. On the other sits Valentine's wife, with her last born at her bosom. At the other end of the table sits Valentine himself, a happy honoured man.
All are happy.
Mr. Colville gets up and speaks a few words in a tone of reverence and feeling, and says that it is good to "forgive and to be united," and the more especially at Christmas.
May our readers spend many a Happy Christmas, is our wish and prayer!
THE END.