Originally published in Belgravia (John Maxwell) vol.4 #15 (Jan 1868).
The First
On the side of a hill, with a wide expanse of heathery moor between it and the sea, and with a wild waste of moorland all round it, stands the village of Longhill Moorside.
On the outskirts of the village, facing seaward across the moor, there is a large rambling old house, with many gables, many queer groups of chimneys, and fantastically-shaped windows, all grown gray and hoary with age; behind it, and on either side, there are groups of tall trees throwing their shadows over the roof and the green lawns below: but in front there is nothing to intercept the view—nothing to be seen save a mile or two of undulating moorland, and the glistening sea-line beyond.
Generally there is a lonely desolate look about the old house; but on a certain Christmas Eve three years ago, memorable to everybody in Longhill Moorside, it seemed to have put on a new aspect; for every room had its tenant, and bright ruddy fires glowed in every grate. Lawrence Hesketh, its master, was always wont to be hospitable, and at that particular Christmas time was more so than ever; for it was the last he was to spend as a bachelor. In the very next week Kitty Brooke, the rector's only daughter, with her pretty gentle face and winning ways, was to be made Mrs. Laurence Hesketh; and Laurence had filled his old moorland house with a party of his school and college friends, that they might be present at his wedding.
He was a good amiable man, one whom the rector and his wife were well pleased to welcome as a son-in-law; and people who put faith in the wisdom of contrasts said that he and Kitty were exactly suited to each other, for each possessed what the other needed. She was full of life and animation and high spirits, and he was studious and dreamy—meek and gentle; rather too meek and yielding for a man perhaps; but Kitty overlooked all his failings, for she knew that he loved her deeply—almost worshipped her, in fact—and she returned his affection in her own warm-hearted impulsive way.
It was a merry breakfast-party which sat round the long table in Laurence Hesketh's low-browed dining-room on the morning of that ill-fated Christmas Eve. There was Harry Foster of the Guards—a tall broad young man with fair hair, and an honest fresh-coloured face—merry and cheerful, and good-natured; there were two Mr. Hopwoods—brothers, and London solicitors, both young men, and both fond, as Londoners are wont to be, of everything they see in the country; John Mowbray—a kindred spirit to Laurence Hesketh—dreamy, meditative, and wrapped up in his books; Charles Hesketh, a cousin of Laurence's and under-graduate of St. Cyprian's, Oxford; and last—though not least in his own opinion—a young man of good family and fortune, but of few wits; most people liked him in spite of his failing—that was, at least, when he did not carry his pet practical jokes too far—and he was invited here and there and everywhere. "When people want a clown, they send for Percy Dashwood," said his friends; and there was some truth in the remark; he was very merry and funny, and though his sallies did not always savour of the ripest wisdom, they had the merit of making his hearers laugh.
Most of Laurence's friends were keen sportsmen, and were looking forward to a long day on the moors; and moreover there was to be a Christmas party, with dancing in the evening—Kitty Brooke and her family to be present—and, of course, they were rallying their host upon the devotion he would have to pay, and also upon the approaching termination of his bachelor days: most of them too, having only arrived the night before, were strangers to the bride elect, and plied Laurence with questions. Only one among them had seen her, and that was Mr. Harry Foster; he had known the family in former years, when Kitty's father was a London clergyman; and in the early days of Laurence's engagement Harry's friends had been wont to tease him by calling him a disappointed lover, and by asking him how he had allowed the bookworm to be his successful rival, for they thought he would have liked Kitty himself. But all that was long ago, and nobody ever said anything about it to Harry Foster now.
"What shall you do with yourself, Hesketh?" inquired one of the party, as breakfast was drawing to a close—"of course we don't expect a man in your position to take any interest in such prosaic things as dogs and guns; I suppose you'll spend the morning at the rectory, holding Miss Kitty's skeins of silk."
"O, by the bye, you were to ride with her, weren't you, Hesketh?" interposed Harry Foster; "but it seems to me you would be much better sitting over the fire, and drinking Mrs. Ruler's gruel, unless you want to be as hoarse as a raven to-night; our ride yesterday did not improve your cold."
"I don't feel much inclined to ride to-day certainly," remarked Laurence; "but I'm afraid that Kitty—"
"Let me go instead," interrupted Harry Foster once more. "I haven't the vanity to suppose that I shall do as well as you, Hesketh, but I'll try my best, that is, at least, if you are not afraid to trust us. Suppose Miss Kitty and I should take it into our heads to elope; we might give you a fine chase over these hills, and for all you know there may be a boat moored somewhere along the beach in readiness for flight!"
"Upon my word, a good joke," drawled out Percy Dashwood. "Can you trust him, Hesketh, after his betraying such an intimate knowledge of the ins and outs of such matters?"
But Laurence only smiled—a smile of perfect confidence in his friend, and loving confidence in his promised bride; and he rang the bell, and ordered that two horses should be brought round directly after luncheon, and that a groom should be in readiness to lead the one intended for Miss Brooke to the rectory.
It was a fair, still, winter's day, with a soft clouded sky, as the two horses stood on the gravel in front of the house. They were pretty creatures; the one destined for Kitty Brooke was a bright chestnut with arched neck and slender legs, and Harry Foster's was a dappled gray.
"Dinner at six, I think you said, Hesketh," remarked Harry, as he jumped into his saddle. His host had come out to the hall-door to see the horses start.
"Yes; but don't keep her out too late; I think it will be foggy, and it is very cold." Then Laurence came out, and stroked the chestnut's nose.
"Carry her safely, Bessie," he said playfully—"she's a precious burden, isn't she?" and the petted mare, accustomed to Kitty Brooke's gentle fondling, arched her neck and bent her head as if she understood.
Laurence stood at the door, and watched the two horses till they were out of sight; and then he went into the house, lonely and dull now, for the rest of his friends were ranging the moors with their dogs and guns. By and by, as the afternoon wore on, they dropped in one by one, each full of some wonderful exploit; and gathered round their host's study fire, talking pleasant sociable talk, as the light of day grew fainter and fainter.
"It's well for you that you didn't go out riding, Hesketh," remarked one; "the cold would have been perfectly awful; even walking hard, as we did, we could scarcely keep it out; it was getting foggy too."
"Look at it now," remarked another. "Cut your way through it with a penknife. The aspect of things out of doors enhances the value of your fireside, Hesketh."
"Is it foggy? I had not noticed it. Dear me! it is indeed," said the host anxiously, his eyes turning hastily towards the window; and he rose from his chair and looked out. Kitty Brooke was exposed to the weather, whatever it might be, and he knew how swiftly and suddenly those mountain fogs come down on belated travellers. But there could be no fear for her, he told himself; she knew every inch of the wild moors, and had ridden over them and walked over them in all kinds of weather. Yet, in spite of himself, he was uneasy, and put up the window.
"They ought to be coming by this time," he said.
But there was nothing to be seen or heard of them—there was nothing to be seen save a dense curtain of thick fog, which grew lighter for a moment and then darker again; and nothing to be heard except a low sighing wind, which seemed to promise that the mist would be dispelled after a while; and the sullen roar of the sea as it broke upon the rocks a mile away.
"Foster said he should elope, you know, Hesketh," remarked Percy Dashwood as Laurence closed the window. "He has, you may depend upon it. Wouldn't it have been better, now, if you had taken my warning?"
But Laurence took no notice of the joke, for he was not in a joking mood; and he went out of the room and closed the door behind him.
He went up to his own bedroom, which commanded a more extensive view of the moors, and leant anxiously out; but there was nothing, as before—nothing save the heavy mist and the cold spray coming up from the sea. It was growing dusk now, and very soon it would be quite dark; for the stable-clock struck five as Laurence Hesketh stood there listening. Suddenly a thought struck him: it was not likely that Kitty would be out riding in the dusk; of course they were safe at the Rectory, and Mr. and Mrs. Brooke had persuaded Harry Foster to stay to dinner. Of course, too, if nothing had been heard of them, Mrs. Brooke, being a very anxious mother, as Laurence well knew, would have sent over to hear if he had tidings of them.
So he quieted his mind in a measure, and sat down to read till it was time for dinner. But every now and then during the dinner, when the dining-room door opened, his eyes would turn anxiously towards it, and two or three times he told the servants not to forget to let him know the moment Mr. Foster arrived. He could not be long now, Laurence thought; for it was nearly seven, and the guests were to arrive at eight. He had fixed an early hour, knowing that fashionable habits would be inconvenient in that wild moorland district.
Seven o'clock struck; and Laurence and his friends rose from the table, the host going the round of his rooms to see that everything was in proper order. There was the large drawing-room, with its bare floor all ready for dancing, its walls decorated with holly, ivy, and mistletoe, and its wax lights beginning to twinkle here and there among the foliage. Then there was the library similarly decorated, its long table loaded with tea and wines and light refreshments; and there was an air of mystery already pervading the dining-room, where Mrs. Ruler the housekeeper was superintending the arrangements for supper.
"It only wants Kitty's hand and Kitty's taste to make it all that it should be," thought Laurence, as he finished his survey.
It was nearly eight o'clock then; and just at that moment the hall-door bell rang, and the master paused and listened, while the servant went to the door and opened it. But it was not Harry Foster. The sound of carriage-wheels grinding the gravel came in with the rush of cold air, and Laurence heard ladies' voices. By and by there were exclamations from the servants. "What's this?—what can it be?" Then, in hushed horror-stricken tones, the single word "Bessie!" Then Laurence heard his own name; something was to be given to Mr. Hesketh directly; and he rushed forward, heeding nothing, and taking no notice of the group of guests who had clustered inside the porch. Standing behind the carriage, nobody holding her, and her reins hanging loosely about her neck, was the mare Bessie, her nostrils distended, and her breath coming hard.
"Who brought Bessie home?" broke from Laurence Hesketh's white lips.
"Nobody brought her, sir; she followed us in," said his friend's coachman, and at the same moment his own servant put a note into his hand.
"From Mrs. Brooke, sir."
Back to the well-lighted hall Laurence rushed; and as he stopped underneath a lamp to tear open the envelope, another servant came from the interior of the house and put a second note into his hand. Laurence clutched at it eagerly, without asking whence it came. Any thing from the outer world was welcome, for it might bring him tidings of the wanderers. Hurriedly, and with feverish hands, he unfolded the notes—Mrs. Brooke's first.
"Long-hill Rectory.
"As a last hope, dearest Mr. Hesketh, I write to you. Have you heard any thing of our darling Kitty since she left us at three o'clock to ride with your friend Mr. Foster? When it began to grow dark we sent the servants after them; but they could hear nothing of them, nor find a single trace of them on the road they intended to take. I should have written before, but was loth to give you what might prove to be unnecessary alarm. Do send to me at once.—Your distressed friend, LAURA BROOKE."
Pale, trembling, and in an agony of fear, Laurence allowed the note to drop from his hand, and took up the other. It was no wonder that he grew paler and trembled more as he read:
"DEAR HESKETH,—My light words this morning had more meaning than I led you to suppose; in short, they had a foundation in fact. There is a boat moored under the cliffs at a certain point. You will have a chase after us over the hills, but you will never see Kitty Brooke or me again. I have abused your hospitality and friendship fearfully, I know; but I cannot help it. I shall leave this on my dressing-table. You will find it soon enough. H.F."
Laurence could hardly stand by the time he had finished the letter. Kitty Brooke false to him! The thought maddened him, and his brain reeled. He knew nothing more; he did not hear the ring of the bell which announced fresh visitors, did not notice the party of ladies in their bright-coloured dresses as they came into the hall. One of them, seeing the master of the house leaning against a doorway, went to speak to him, but his eyes looked at her vacantly. The shock had robbed him of his senses, and before they could take him away, he fell heavily on the floor.
There was no Christmas party in the old house that night.
The Second
Another Christmas Eve had come round; not like the last, foggy and dreary, but bright and sparkling, with snow of dazzling whiteness lying on the ground, and clear blue skies smiling down upon it.
Just a year had rolled away since the riderless horse had appeared at the door of Laurence Hesketh's old house on that ill-fated night when his terrible affliction befel him. The shock to his nerves was followed by a violent illness, which laid him low for weeks; and when it had passed away, it was found that his reason was gone too—not hopelessly, the doctor said, but it would take time to bring him round. He was very quiet and very harmless, poor fellow! moped in the darkest corners of his rooms all day, or sat at the table, turning over his books with a piteous look in his eyes, which seemed to say that he would love them still if he could, but now they were of no use to him. He spoke but little, appearing to shrink from contact with those around him; but time after time—many times in every day—they heard him whispering to himself, "I forgive. Yes, both of them. Take care of her."
Whatever was left of his mind was evidently perpetually dwelling on the events of that Christmas Eve.
Everything that his friends could think of was tried to restore him, but all in vain. Weeks went by, and still there was no promise of amendment; he was not even able to recognise his friends; one person seemed the same to him as another. At last the doctors recommended foreign travel under proper care; change of scene might do a great deal for him, they said.
So he had spent the intervening months on the Continent, wandering from city to city; and meanwhile the letters of those who were with him had contained sad tidings. The wanderings produced no change in him, said each letter; he was just the same as when he left England. Hence, on that bright Christmas Eve they were going to bring him home—hopeless as far as his reason was concerned—quite hopeless that it would ever return.
His aged mother and one of his sisters had come down to his old house to be ready to receive him, and to make the well-known rooms look comfortable; for, said the doctors, the coming home may have the same effect which we hoped for from the continental tour.
A bright fire was burning in the grate, and a comfortable meal set out in the dining-room full an hour before the carriage conveying Laurence Hesketh could possibly arrive. The dusk of the coming evening was creeping over the moors, as it appeared in the distance on the brow of a hill, and in five minutes more it was coming through the village.
A wonderful change had come over Laurence during his homeward journey. On his last day in Rome he had seemed better, and every mile both by sea and land had been marked by a decided improvement. When he set foot on English ground, it was no longer as a man who required watching and care, but simply as one who had come through a fearful time of trouble, which had crushed him, and left him melancholy for life; at least he thought so.
As the carriage bore him through the village, he was sitting in one corner of it, his hands clasped tightly together, and his lips pale and compressed. Old associations had brought his troubles vividly before him, and he was striving to bear them in a spirit of meek resignation, as a Christian man should, and to get his heart full of peace and goodwill towards men, in accordance with the holy Christmas-tide—goodwill even to Harry Foster.
There was a pause to open the gate; then the familiar sound of wheels grinding upon gravel; and in a minute more Laurence Hesketh was getting out at his own door.
But the friend who had shared his continental travels had alighted first, and was saying in a hurried whisper to old Mrs. Hesketh,
"He is so much better, nearly well; but I have not dared to tell him, and you must be careful; the shock might—"
The old lady nodded her head.
"I understand; after tea;' and then she went forward and gave Laurence such a welcome as only a mother can give. "My dear boy, can I ever be thankful enough?"
His quiet reply,
"Yes, mother; I suppose we have much to be thankful for, all of us," had a tone of sadness in it which was touching to hear. The resignation he had been striving after was not perfectly attained as yet. When the early tea was over, and Laurence had been sitting for some time by his own fireside, telling tales of his homeward journey in his old quiet collected way, his mother suddenly rose from her chair and went out of the room. Laurence fancied that he heard whispering voices outside the door; and then in a minute or two his mother came back, and stood on the hearth-rug before him.
"Laurence," she said, speaking very quietly and gently, "would you mind seeing an old friend who is anxious to see you? Kitty is here."
A dark scowl fell over his face for a moment, and then as quickly it cleared away, and he rose from his chair.
"Yes, mother, let her come. I think I've quite forgiven her. I was able to pray for her last night. Yes, let her come."
A curious smile flitted across his mother's face as she replied, speaking gently as before,
"She deserves to be forgiven, Laurence; that is, at least, if there was ever anything to forgive."
But he did not hear the last words, for just at that moment a slight little figure glided into the room and came up to him. He turned and looked at her, gravely and sadly; then he took her hands in his.
"I daresay we have both much to forgive, Kitty—I mean—" He meant her new name; but the words "Mrs. Foster" refused to come, and he hurried on—"I daresay there was much in me that you thought wrong and unreasonable. It is Christmas-time again—the time of God's special good-will to man—let us be friends. Kitty, Kitty!" the old name would come back in spite of himself, "what is the matter?"
For she had torn herself away from him, and buried her face in her hands, sobbing bitterly.
"O, Laurence, how could you think such things of me?" she sobbed out, as soon as she could speak; "how could you think I should leave you for another?"
"What does she mean?" he said, turning to his mother.
"Why, it was an accident," said his mother, speaking slowly, and watching the effect of each word upon him, "which kept them out on the moors that night. Poor Kitty was thrown from her horse and dreadfully hurt; and ever since then she has been mourning for you, Laurence. You don't know how often she came here with us after she was able to move about again, when you didn't know any of us, and how she talked to you, thinking that her voice might rouse you; but even that failed."
"But Harry Foster wrote, mother, he—"
"Harry Foster never wrote, Laurence. Both he and Kitty were cruelly wronged by a wicked practical joke perpetrated by that silly young Dashwood. He saw that you were uneasy at their absence, and he wrote the note, and bribed the servants to deliver it to you. Harry Foster made him confess everything; and I wish you could have seen poor Harry's grief and distress; he told me over and over again that he should never be happy any more."
For a few moments Laurence was silent, a mystified dreamy look on his face. Was this all true? could it be? or was it only a dream, after all?
Then he clasped his hands, and murmured some words of thankfulness; and then he bent tenderly over Kitty.
"I have something to be forgiven for indeed," he whispered.
"Not forgiven," she said hastily. "Poor Laurence, you could not help it. O, I'm so thankful you are well again."
"Let us be thankful together, Kitty," he said softly, taking her hands again.
And as the hours of that Christmas Eve wore on, the two, who had been separated for so long, were almost ready to believe that the past year, with all its sorrow and trouble, had never been.
"What about the accident?" asked Laurence, just before Kitty went away.
It was a painful story which she had to tell him, but she made as little of it as she could. She and Harry Foster had changed their minds as to the route they had intended to take over the moors that Christmas afternoon, and in coming home had lost their way, finding themselves, when they expected to be at Longhill, in the midst of a wide open space with not even a single undulation to guide them; the mist closing in on all sides, and the village and every other distant landmark completely blotted out. Kitty had represented herself as a competent guide; but here she was obliged to confess herself foiled, for she had not the slightest idea where they were. They held a hurried consultation, trying to find out by the sound of the sea in what direction Longhill lay; and when they had made up their minds, Harry Foster, in desperation, suggested that they should ride as hard as they could, taking the road as they found it; for the darkness was falling fast, and he remembered Laurence's caution against keeping Kitty out too late. Kitty, being a bold and skilful rider, agreed to the proposal, and they started at a headlong pace—a veritable race with the growing darkness. They had not proceeded far, however, before the chestnut made a fearful stumble, throwing Kitty from her seat; but her foot caught in the stirrup, and the mare dragged her for several yards. Harry Foster sprang off his horse to her assistance, but before he could reach her she had freed herself, and was lying helpless on the heather, her arm broken and her shoulder dislocated, and watching Bessie as she scampered off towards home.
That was all Kitty could relate from memory, for she fainted away from the pain as she lay on the heather, and for the rest of the night she was unconscious; but they had told her how kindly and tenderly Harry Foster behaved; how he carried her down to the village, his arm slung through the rein of his horse the while; and how he rode off—tired and spent as he was—in hot haste for the doctor; and all this Kitty told to Laurence. "I suppose I was very ill," she concluded; "at any rate, it seemed a very long time before I was able to come and see you."
"Thank God it was no worse, Kitty," he said fervently.
The Christmas bells rang their joyous peals that night, as Christmas Eve grew into Christmas Day; and a few months afterwards there were joyous peals from the old church-tower again, to celebrate Laurence Hesketh's wedding with Kitty Brooke; Harry Foster giving the bride away.
And a week after the wedding came a subdued penitent letter from Percy Dashwood, who declared himself thoroughly cured of the vicious folly of the practical joker.