CHAPTER XII.

The snow is on the mountain,
The frost is on the vale,
The ice hangs o'er the fountain,!
The storm rides on the gale."
--OUSELEY.

CLARISSA'S letter to Georgie Broughton receives a most tender response,--tender as it is grateful. The girl writes | | 87 thankfully, heartily, and expresses almost passionate delight at Clarissa's instantaneous and ready sympathy.

The letter is short, but full of feeling. It conveys to Clarissa the sad impression that the poor child's heart is dry and barren for lack of that gracious dew called love, without which not one of us can taste the blessedness of life.

So sings Trench. To Clarissa, just now, his words convey nothing less than the very embodiment of truth. That Georgie should be unhappy for want of this vital essence cuts her to the heart,--the more so that Georgie persistently refuses to come to Gowran.

"Poor darling," says Clarissa, "what a wretched little letter!" She sighs, and folds it up, and wonders vaguely what this other plan of Georgie's can be. Then she writes to her again, and describes Mrs. Redmond as well as is possible.

"Accept her offer by return of post," she advises, earnestly. "Even if, after a trial, you do not like her, still this will be an opening for you; and I am glad in the thought that I shall always have you near me,--at least until that mysterious plan of yours meets the light. Mrs. Redmond is not, of course, everything of the most desirable, but she is passable, and very kind at heart. She is tall and angular, and talks all day long--and all night, I am sure, if one | | 88 would listen--about her ailments and the servants' delinquencies. She is never without a cold in her head, and half-darned stocking! She calls the children's pinafores 'pinbefores,'--which is quite correct, but very unpleasant and she always calls terrible 'turrible;' but beyond the small failings she is quite bearable."

And so on. When Miss Broughton receives this letter in her distant home, she is again solemistress of a sic room. Her aunt--the hard taskmaster assigned to her by fate--lies on her bed stricken to the earth by fever. To come to Pullingham now will be impossible. "Will Mrs. Redmond wait for a month, or perhaps two?" She entreats Clarissa to do what she can for her; and Claris does it; and the worried wife of the vicar, softened b Miss Peyton's earnest explanations, consents to expound Pinnock and "Little Arthur" to the small Redmonds until such time as Miss Broughton's aunt shall be convalescent.

"The inaudible and noiseless foot of Time" creeps on apace, and Christmas at last reaches Pullingham. Such Christmas, too!--a glorious sunny Christmas morning, full of light and life, snow-crowned on every side. The glinting sunbeams lie upon the frozen hills, kissing them with tender rapture, as though eager to impart some heat and comfort to their chilly hearts.

The woods are all bereft of green; the winds sigh wearily through them; "no grass the fields, no leaves the forests wear;" a shivering shroud envelops all the land.

But far above, in the clear sky, Sol shines triumphant. Nor ice, nor snow, nor chilling blast has power to deaden him to-day. No "veil of clouds involves his radiant head." He smiles upon the earth, and ushers in the blessed morn with unexpected brilliancy. Innumerable sounds swell through the frosty air; sweet bells ring joyously. All the world is astir.

Except Clarissa. She lies, still sleeping,--dreaming, it may be, that first glad dream of youth in which all seems perfect, changeless, passion-sweet!

Upon her parted lips a faint soft smile is lingering, as | | 89 though loath to depart. Her face is lightly tinged with color, as it were a "ripened rose." Upon one arm her cheek is pillowed; the other is thrown, with negligent grace, above her head.

"Half-past eight, Miss Peyton, and Christmas morning, too," says a voice more distinct than musical, and rather reproachful. It rushes into Clarissa's happy dream like a night-mare, and sends all the dear shades she has been conjuring to her side back into their uncertain home.

The maid pokes the fire energetically, and arranges something upon the dressing-table with much unnecessary vigor.

Clarissa, slowly bringing herself back from the world in which Hester, however admirable in every respect, bears no part, sighs drowsily, and sits up in her bed.

"Really that hour?" she says. "Quite too disgracefully late! A happy Christmas, Hester!"

"Thank you, miss. The same to you, and very many of them!"

"Is it a cold morning?" asks Clarissa, with a little shiver. She pushes back the soft waving masses of her brown hair from her forehead, and gazes at Hester entreatingly, as though to implore her to say it is warm as a day in June.

But Hester is adamant.

"Terrible cold, miss," she says, with a sort of gusto. "That frosty it would petrify you where you stand." "Then I won't stand," declares Clarissa, promptly sinking back once more into her downy couch. "I decline to be petrified, Hester,"--tucking the clothes well round her. "Call me again next week."

"The master is up this hour, miss," says the maid, reprovingly; "and see how beautifully your fire is burning."

"I can't see anything but the water over there. Is that ice in my bath?"

"Yes, miss. Will you let me throw a little hot water into it to melt it for you? Do, miss. I'm sure them miserable cold oblations is bitter bad for you."

Perhaps she means ablutions. Nobody knows. And Clarissa, though consumed with a desire to know, dares not ask. Hester is standing a few yards from her, looking the very person- | | 90 ification of all pathos, and is plainly an-angered [sic] of the frozen bath.

"Well, then, Hester, yes; a little--a very little--hot water, just for once," says Clarissa, unable to resist the woman's pleading, and her own fear of the "bitter chill" that awaits her on the other side of the blankets. "My courage has flown; indeed, I don't see how I can get u at all,"--willfully, snuggling down even more closely into the warm sheets.

"Oh, now get up, miss, do," implores her maid. "It is getting real late, and the master has been up asking for you twice already."

"Is papa dressed, then?"

"An hour ago, miss. He was standing on the door. steps, feeding the sparrows and robins, when I came up."

"Dear papa!" says Clarissa, tenderly, beneath her breath; and then she springs out of bed, and gets into her clothes by degrees, and presently runs down-stairs to the great old hall, where she finds her father awaiting her, He is standing at the upper end, with his back to the huge central window, through which

A calm, clear light illumes the hall, born of the "wide and glittering cloak of snow" which last night flung upon the land. At its other end stand all the servants,--silent, expectant,--to hear what the master shall say to them on this Christmas morning.

That George Peyton should refuse to address them on this particular day is out of all hearing. His father, grandfather, and great-grandfather had done it before him to the then servants; therefore (according to the primitive notions of the county) he must do the same. Yet it is undeniable that to the present proprietor this task is a terrible one, and not to be performed at any price, could escape from it be shown.

Eloquence is not Mr. Peyton's forte. To find himself standing before an expectant audience, and to know they are prepared to hang upon his accents, is not sweet to him,--in fact, fills him with terrors vast and deep. Yet here they are awaiting his speech, in a goodly row, with all | | 91 their eyes fixed on his, and their minds prepared to receive anything he may say.

He breathes a small sigh of relief as he sees Clarissa approaching, and gives her his customary morning kiss in a rather warmer fashion than usual, which has only the effect of raising mirth in Clarissa's mind. She smiles in an unfilial fashion, and, slipping her hand through his arm, awaits what fate may have in store.

Her father, when he has cast upon her one reproachful glance, turns to the servants, and, with a heightened color and somewhat lame delivery, says as follows:

"I am very glad to see you all again----" here he checks himself, and grows a degree redder and more embarrassed. It occurs to him that, after all, he saw them yesterday and the day before, and that it is on the cards he will see them again to-morrow. Therefore why express exuberant joy at the fact that he can see them at this present moment?

He glances, in a despairing fashion, at Clarissa; but she is plainly delighted at his discomfiture, and refuses to give him any assistance, unless a small approving nod can be accounted such.

Feeling himself, therefore, unsupported, he perforce, re-turns to the charge.

"It is a great pleasure to me to know that no changes have taken place during the past year. I hope"--(long pause)--"I hope we shall always have the same story to tell."

This is fearfully absurd, and he knows it, and blushes again.

"Well, at least," he goes on, "I hope we shall not part from each other without good cause,--such as a wedding, for instance."

Here he looks at the under-housemaid, who looks at the under-gardener, who looks at his boots, and betrays a wild desire to get into them forthwith.

"There is no occasion for me, I think, to make you a ,speech. I--the fact is, I--couldn't make you a speech, so you must excuse me. I wish you all a happy Christmas! I'm sure you all wish me the same. Eh?--and--"

Here he is interrupted by a low murmur from the serv- | | 92 ants, who plainly feel it their duty to let him know, this juncture, that they do hope his Christmas will be successful one.

"Well----eh?----thank you----you know," says Peyton, at his wits' end as to what he shall say next. "You are all very kind, very kind indeed----very----Mrs. Lane,"--desperately,--"come here and take your Christmas-box."

The housekeeper advances, in a rounded stately fashion and, with an elaborate courtesy and a smile full of benignity, accepts her gift and retires with it to the background. The others having all performed the same ceremony and also retired, Mr. Peyton draws a deep sigh of relief and turns to Clarissa, who, all through, has stood beside him.

"I think you might have put in a word or two," he says. "But you are a traitor; you enjoyed my discomfiture. Bless me, how glad I am that `Christmas comes b once a year!'"

"And how sorry I am!" says Clarissa, making a slight grimace. "It is the one chance I get of listening to eloquence that I feel sure is unsurpassable."

They are still standing in the hall. At this moment servant throws open the hall door and Dorian and Horace Branscombe, coming in, walk up to where they are, near the huge pine fire that is roaring and making merry on the hearth-stone; no grate defiles the beauty of the Gowran hall: They are flushed from the rapidity of their walk and are looking rather more like each other than usual.

"Well, we have had a run for it," says Dorian. " Not been to breakfast, I hope? If you say you have finish that most desirable meal, I shall drop dead: so break carefully. I have a wretched appetite, as a rule, but just now I feel as if I could eat you, Clarissa."

"We haven't thought of breakfast, yet," says Clarissa. "I am so glad I was lazy this morning! A happy Christmas, Dorian!"

"The same to you!" says Dorian, raising her hand a pressing it to his lips. "By what luck do we find you the hall?"

"The servants have just been here to receive their presents. Now, why were you not a few minutes earlier, | | 93 you might have been stricken dumb with joy at papa's speech?"

"I don't believe it was half a bad speech," says Mr. Peyton, stoutly.

"Bad! It was the most enchanting thing I ever listened to!--in fact, faultless,--if one omits the fact that you looked as if you were in torment all the time, and seemed utterly hopeless as to what you were going to say next."

"James, is breakfast ready?" says Mr. Peyton, turning away to hide a smile, and making a strenuous effort to suppress the fact that he has heard one word of her last betrayal. "Come into the dining-room, Dorian," he says, when the man has assured him breakfast will be ready in two minutes: "it is ever so much more comfortable there."

Branscombe goes with him, and so, presently, Clarissa and Horace find themselves alone.

Horace, going up to her, as in duty bound, places his arm round her, and presses his lips lightly, gently, to her cheek.

"You never wished me a happy Christmas," he says, in the low soft tone he always adopts when speaking to women. "You gave all your best wishes to Dorian."

"You knew what was in my heart," replies she, sweetly, pleased that he has noticed the omission.

"I wonder if I have brought you what you like," he says, laying in her little palm a large gold locket, oval-shaped, and with forget-me-nots in sapphires and diamonds, on one side. Touching a spring, it opens, and there, staring up at her, is his own face, wearing its kindliest expression, and seeming--to her--to breathe forth love and truth.

For a little minute she is silent; then she says softly, with lowered eyes, and a warm, tender blush,

"Did you have this picture taken for me, alone?"

It is evident the face in the locket is even dearer to her than the locket itself.

"For you alone," says Horace, telling his lie calmly. "When it was finished I had the negative destroyed. I thought only of you. Was not that natural? There was one happy moment in which I assured myself that it would | | 94 please you to have my image always near you. Was I wrong?--presumptuous?"

Into his tone he has managed to infuse a certain amount of uncertainty and anxious longing that cannot fail to flatter and do some damage to a woman's heart. Clarissa raises her trustful eyes to his.

"Please me!" she repeats, softly, tears growing beneath her lids: "it pleases me so much that it seems to me impossible to express my pleasure. You have given me the thing that, of all others, I have most wished for."

She blushes, vividly, as she makes this admission. Horace, lifting her hand, kisses it warmly.

"I am fortunate," he says, in a low tone. "Will you love the original, Clarissa, as you love this senseless picture? After long years, how will it be?" There is a touch of concern and doubt--and something more, that may be regret--in his tone.

"I shall always love you," says the girl, very earnestly, laying her hand on his arm, and looking at him with eyes that should have roused all tenderness and devotion in his breast:

He is spared a reply. Dorian, coming again into the hall, summons them gayly to breakfast.

In the little casemented window of the tiny chamber that calls her mistress, sits Ruth Annersley, alone.

The bells are ringing out still the blessed Christmas morn; yet she, with downcast eyes, and chin resting in her hand, heeds nothing, being wrapped in thought, and unmindful of aught but the one great idea that fills her to overflowing. Her face is grave--nay, almost sorrowful--and full of trouble; yet underlying all is gladness that will not be suppressed.

At this moment--perhaps for the first time--she wakes to the consciousness that the air is full of music, borne from the belfries far and near. She shudders slightly, and draws her breath in a quick unequal sigh.

"Another long year," she says wearily. "Oh that I could tell my father!"

She lifts her head impatiently, and once more her eyes | | 95 fall upon the table on which her arm is resting. There are before her a few opened letters, some Christmas cards, a very beautiful Honiton lace handkerchief, on which her initials, "R.A.," are delicately worked, and--apart from all the rest--a ring, set with pearls and turquoises.

Taking this last up, she examines it slowly, lovingly, slipping it on and off her slender finger, without a smile, and with growing pallor.

A step upon the stairs outside! Hastily, and in a some-what guilty fashion, she replaces the ring upon the table, and drops the lace handkerchief over it.

"Miss Ruth," says a tall, gawky country-girl, opening the door, "the maister he be waitin' breakfast for you. Do ee come down now." Then, catching sight of the handkerchief, "La! now," she says, "how fine that be! a beauty, surely, and real lace, too! La! Miss Ruth, and who sent you that, now? May I see it?"

She stretches out her hand, as though about to raise the dainty fabric from its resting-place; but Ruth is before her.

"Do not touch it," she says, almost roughly for her. Then, seeing the effect her words have caused, and how the girl shrinks back from her, she goes on, hurriedly and kindly, "You have been in the dairy, Margery, and perhaps your hands are not clean. Run away and wash them, and come to attend table. Afterwards you shall come up here and see my handkerchief and all my pretty cards."

She smiles, lays her hand on Margery's shoulder, and gently, but with determination, draws her towards the door.

Once outside, she turns, and, locking the door, carefully puts the key in her pocket.

Slowly, reluctantly, she descends the stairs,--slowly, and with a visible effort, presses her lips in gentle greeting to her father's care-worn cheek. 'I he bells still ring on joyously, merrily; the sun shines; the world is white with snow, more pure than even our purest thoughts; but no sense of rest or comfort comes to Ruth. Oh, dull and heavy heart that holds a guilty secret. Oh, sad (even though yet innocent) is the mind that hides a hurtful thought! Not for you do Christmas bells ring out their happy greeting! Not for such as you does sweet peace reign triumphant.