Christmas Gifts.
A pleasantly-furnished parlor, looking out upon noble trees and gray shrubbery.
Within, books, pictures, portfolios, and a superb piano.
At the piano a lovely girl of twenty summers, whose face, figure, and fair white hands give token that no care, or sorrow, or labor has ever reached her.
A footfall on the piazza startles her; the bell rings, and is answered.
"George!"
"Isabel!"
And in another moment brother and sister are locked in each other's arms. He put her from him a little, and looked in her face.
"You are more than ever Bella," he said, while two or three times he kissed her fair forehead.
"How is my mother? Didn't I hear some strains of Mozart's 'Twelfth' as I came into the gate?"
"Yes, I was just playing the Agnus Dei. Mother is nicely; and I was enjoying my music immensely; for it is the first day in two or three weeks that I have been allowed to touch the piano."
Why?"
"Because mother has been so sick. Don't look so frightened; she is quite well now. Did you know you had a little sister up-stairs?"
"No, indeed!" he exclaimed, with an expression of delight, at which Isabel laughed again, while she went on to say:
"Mother was so nervous, and so excited by the storms and shipwrecks that the papers were full of, that for nights and nights she did not sleep at all, and the doctor was afraid she would die or lose her reason; but for some time past she has slept, and now she seems quite recovered."
"Let us go to her—can I go up?"
Just then a little girl of six years came into the room, with wide expectant eyes, and, "Mother says—"
"Ah! little one," said the young man caressingly, "do you remember brother George?"
"Yes, indeed I do."
"Then give me a hug," said he, folding her in his arms, and then releasing her. "It is a long time since you saw me. I should not wonder if you had forgotten me."
"But I have not forgotten you; and mother says," she went on, dancing up and down in great glee, "if it's brother George, you're to come right up-stairs; only you mustn't make a noise for the sake of the baby. What did you bring me?"
"If you have a baby, you ought not to expect me to bring you anything. Isn't the baby enough?"
She smiled rather doubtfully, and trotted on before them up-stairs.
"Isabel," said George, "wait a minute." Then, as if something in his sister's face failed to invite the meditated confidence, he asked, as they slowly ascended the stairs, their hands locked, "Is Philip here?"
"No; he will not be here till next Monday—the Monday before Christmas."
"And you are to be married—"
"On Christmas eve; how glad I am you've come!"
"Is my father well?"
"Yes; he will be so sorry not to have met you at the wharf; but he had to go to W—— on Thursday, and will not be home till evening."
They entered Mrs. Hartland's room, and the son, so hardly parted from, so anxiously and long expected, was pressed to his mother's heart. "My darling boy, you are indeed a Christmas gift."
"Yes, dear mother, we ought to have been back long ago; sometimes I was afraid I should never get back to you. Besides that hurricane off the Cape, which obliged us to put in for repairs, we have had very heavy weather since we crossed the line. But I have accomplished the business father sent me to do, thank God, and am with you all once more. Are Mary and Fanny well?"
"Yes, they have gone out to buy Christmas presents, and Robert with them."
"And Charlie?"
"Is spending a few days with Aunt Ellen, and will come back with them on Monday for the wedding and for Christmas."
"O mother dear!" said Isabel, "whom was your letter from?"
"From Aunt Ann. They are all well, and are coming on Monday."
"And Lucy and Jane?"
"Yes."
"But, my darling mother," exclaimed George, with a look of distress, "you will be perfectly worn out with all this company."
"Mother has nothing to do with that," said Isabel; "we take care of that. If mother takes care of the baby, that is all we expect of her; and Mrs. Reilly is to stay till Philip and I are off."
"And how is this dear little Christmas present?" said George, stooping tenderly over the sleeping infant.
"Lovely," said his mother, smiling.
"As lovely," said Isabel, with a slight laugh, "as such little nuisances ever are."
"Why, Bella dear, don't you love her?" asked George.
"Oh! yes, to be sure, I love her; but I don't see the use of her; nobody wants her."
"I beg your pardon, dear, I want her," interrupted her mother.
"Oh! yes, mother, I don't mean that; I know you want her, and I am sure I am glad you have her; only I mean to say that she has chosen to come at the most inconvenient time possible, as babies always do; and that there is no place here for a baby, and that she deranges everything; and turns the whole house upside down; and I think babies are a nuisance; and then Kate is six years old, and we had no right to expect any more babies; and there were enough of us without her; and I am just going to be married, and it all seems so odd and queer."
Mother laughed, and seemed to think it not at all odd and queer, nor yet did she take to heart Isabel's repugnances; but George said musingly:
"And yet you are going to be married yourself next week?"
"That is precisely why it is such a nuisance," said Isabel.
"Would there have been enough of us without her," said her mother, "if brother George had never come back, as for so long a time we feared he would not?"
"There are never enough of us without George," replied Isabel, reddening, partly from vexation, and partly from the consciousness that the brother, of whom she was so fond and proud, was regarding her, she really did not know why, with something like surprise and disappointment.
Just then the baby stirred, woke, was taken up, admired, discussed, and caressed, and in the midst of a consultation as to what her name should be, a noise of feet and voices was heard in the hall below.
By a mutual instinct that "mothers room" should be spared the disturbance of too noisy greetings, the young people ran down-stairs. There were tender embraces on the part of the girls, more vehement and tumultuous ones from Bob, and confused cries of, "Are we not glad to see you!" and "How long you staid!" and "We thought you would never come back!" with "I was in danger of never coming back;" and "How you have grown!" and "How pretty you are!" at which Mary and Fanny laughed and blushed.
"I say, old fellow," cried Bob, "hadn't you a terrible time? were you frightened?"
"I hadn't time to be frightened," returned George, "there was too much to do."
"What could you do?"
"Not so much as a sailor, of course; but every one can do something—every one who is cool and not afraid."
"By Jove! but I should think 'twould be fun! only I should be afraid; I shouldn't like to go to the bottom."
"No, most of us would object to that."
"I wish you wouldn't say 'by Jove,' Robert," said Isabel; "I wish you wouldn't take up expressions from your school-fellows that you never hear at home."
"Isabel isn't fond of foreign importations," said Fanny.
"Yes, she is, though," retorted Robert wisely, "what is she made of, from top to toe, but foreign importations?"
Amid the general laugh which followed this thrust, Mrs. Hartland's voice was heard at the head of the stairs:
"Fanny! brother George will want to go to his room; is it ready for him?"
"Yes, mother, it is all ready; I will go and see. You will have plenty of time, George; for dinner is half an hour later to-day, on account of father."
Not long after this, there was a thundering rap at George's door, which opened and admitted his youngest brother, a lad of ten years.
"Why, Charlie, boy," he exclaimed, as the lithe little fellow sprang into his arms, "I didn't expect you; I thought you weren't coming till Monday."
"No, I wasn't; but father saw by the paper that the ship was in, and I told Aunt Ellen I couldn't stay any longer."
"You've grown a head taller since I saw you."
"I should think I'd had time enough to grow; how long have you been gone?"
"Fourteen months; but let's go down and see father."
"But, George," said the little boy, looking round the room, "do let me come back and chum with you now. I've slept with Robert ever since you went away, and I like it very well with Robert, but I'd rather come back to you, mayn't I?"
"Certainly you shall, if mother and Robert agree to it." And Charlie made one leap to the first landing, another to the second, and with a third bound reached his father's door.
A gay party assembled at dinner. Mother came down for the first time, to honor her boy's return. Mr. Hartland said a long, earnest grace, thanking God for the bounties spread before them less than for the return of the long-absent, and for their joyful reunion. The girls were looking their prettiest, the boys full of glee. All being more talkative than hungry, they discussed home affairs, family affairs, the voyage, the tropics, and Valparaiso, until Charlie, tired of his chair, pushed it back, and began turning summersets over the floor, by way of digesting his dinner.
A general move followed; father and George exchanged a few sentences on business matters in a low voice to which nobody listened, and the young man left the room. Presently he returned with a bulky envelope, which he gave his father, saying:
There are the papers, sir; I think you will find the whole matter very clearly stated, and the affair satisfactorily arranged."
Mr. Hartland took the bundle, and, placing himself at a side table, turned the drop-light conveniently and began to open and read. At this signal the rest of the party moved into the parlor; mamma was placed in the most comfortable chair, and the young people were presently absorbed in a conversational and philosophical game. How long the wits of all of them had been on the strain, not one of them could have guessed, when, just as Robert was insisting that the article under discussion must be red clover, and that it must be found chiefly in icebergs, or else both Fanny and George had made wrong answers, suddenly their father's tall figure loomed up before them. His usually calm face was slightly tremulous.
"We never can be thankful enough, my dear boy," he began abruptly, and his voice trembled also, "to have you among us once more; and I must say I am very proud at the manner in which you have managed this business."
George blushed, mamma's eyes filled with tears, and Charlie, who for the last half-hour had been so sleepy that he was of no use except to make a laugh at his own expense, rubbed his eyes and looked up.
"George is a trump!" said he sententiously.
This was a great relief to papa, who fairly looked as if he would have liked to cry himself, and the hubbub of voices and inquiries which followed was quieted by Isabel placing herself at the piano, and beginning the same strain from Mozart's Twelfth which had charmed her brother on entering the gate.
George stood over the piano and again looked at Isabel, as if he were half inclined to tell her something, but refrained; and Isabel was too much occupied with her own plans and prospects to indulge an indiscreet curiosity.
The next day Mr. Hartland having established himself in the library soon after breakfast, and the younger members of the family having gone out on their Christmas errands, Mrs. Hartland bethought herself to go and see if her son's room were supplied with all things necessary to his comfort. The door was open, and George and Isabel were both there, gaily chatting and laughing, amid a confused medley of books, papers, clothes, and odd nicknacks, to which George was busily adding, as he pulled pile after pile from his trunk. Isabel glanced from one object to another, with the idle curiosity and eagerness begotten of such occupation; but seeing her mother approach, she made haste to clear the rocking-chair and place a footstool for her feet.
"Tell mother about that curious little pipe," she said.
"Yes, but let her see it first; isn't it odd?" said he, showing it. "I thought of giving it to Robert, he is so fond of oddities; and see, mother, is not this shagreen case pretty, with the silver trimmings, and that quaint old medallion on the cover? It will do to keep your needles and thimble in."
"Yes, and scissors, and a good-sized spool of cotton; it will do nicely to take to the sewing society, mother dear."
"And here is a box which I thought of giving to father," returned George, "only he never takes snuff," producing a beautiful amber snuff-box, mounted and lined with gold.
"Exquisite! he could keep postage-stamps in it," suggested Isabel.
"That would do very well for you girls, who only write three or four letters a week; I have something else that will please father much better." And he brought from his trunk a dagger of fine metal, curiously wrought in arabesque, the massive handle also richly carved and inlaid. While her mother was admiring the workmanship of the dangerous little weapon, Bell took up, one after another, the books upon the table, most of them old acquaintances, travelling companions, taken from home and brought home again. As she listened to the story of the pipe, mamma observed in Isabel's hand a little, well-thumbed book which attracted her attention.
"What book is that, dear?" she asked, as the story ended.
"A prayer-book," said Isabel.
"An Episcopal prayer-book?"
"No," said George, "a Catholic."
"What do you have that for?" said Mrs. Hartland, with a mingled expression of surprise, contempt, and indignation.
"Because I want it," he returned, smiling.
"What do you want it for?" she exclaimed, instantly alarmed at his look and tone.
"Because, dear mother, I want it to use; I am a Roman Catholic."
"A Roman Catholic! You might as well plunge this dagger into my heart," said his mother, "as tell me that. Dearly as I love you, I would much rather see you dead and buried."
"And I," said George quietly, "would much rather be dead and buried than ever be a Protestant again."
"What infatuation! But how came you to be a Catholic, and what put it into your head to change your religion?"
George began to tell her of an acquaintance formed on the outward voyage with a Catholic priest, who was bound for the same port as himself; of the inexplicable attraction which drew him to this man; of the charm of his conversation and manners; of their discussions; of the books which he lent him; of his tender and fatherly advice and instructions—here Mrs. Hartland interposed an expression of impatience and contempt—"in short, dear mother," pursued the young man earnestly and quietly, "I became perfectly convinced that the Catholic religion is the only true religion; and as I did not choose to risk my salvation by living any longer without it, I was received into the church before I left Valparaiso."
"Well, I feel as if all the happiness of my life were blighted."
"I am sorry you feel so, dear mother; I am grieved to pain you, but there was no help for it; you would not have me violate my conscience."
"There is such a thing as an ill-enlightened conscience."
"That's so, my dear mother," said he, with something more than his old bright smile, "and I am sure that when you have heard fairly stated the arguments which have influenced me—"
"I don't want to hear any arguments or any reasons; I would rather die than be a Catholic; it is a bad sign when young people begin to think themselves wiser than their elders."
"So it is, dear mother; but you did not repulse Grace Estabrook with that argument when she left the Unitarian church and began to come to yours, against the wishes of both her parents."
"I don't wish to hear anything about it, or to talk or argue; the whole subject is hateful to me. You have given us all the dagger, my son," said she, placing it upon the table, and rising, she went below to communicate to Mr. Hartland the sad intelligence.
The allusion to the dagger affected George very sensibly, and he dreaded to go down-stairs or meet his father and sisters; but having at last made the effort, he was immensely relieved to find every one as kind as usual. His father's face was pale and excited, but he said nothing; Bob stared at him rather saucily, as if he were a phenomenon; and the rest of the family evidently regarded him as an amiable dupe. This was hard, but endurable. His spirits rose, he romped with the little ones, capped verses with his sisters, and convinced every one that his self-respect was in no way diminished by the slender appreciation put upon his faith. There were, of course, not wanting arguments and persuasions to lure him back to the faith of the family; but George was not a fellow having once in his life met with positive truth, to abandon it afterward for a mere negation.
After dinner, some of the novelties which he had brought home were produced: the dagger, which his father accepted and admired, without seeming seriously wounded by it; a collection of shells, a set of corals, and some exquisite little articles of mother-of-pearl. Kate fished out of his pocket a necklace, as she called it, of garnet beads, not running all together, but separated occasionally by little bits of gold chain, with a gold medal pendent from it.
"Isn't this a reward of merit?" exclaimed she; "is this for me, brother George? may I have it?"
"Yes," said George, laughing, "you may have it."
But it would not go over her head, and it had no clasp to fasten round her neck; then she tried it on for a bracelet, but it would fall off. In short, it was not meant to wear, nor for an ornament at all, but for something else; and as she twirled it rather uneasily over her fingers, not knowing exactly what to do with it, George took it from her, and replaced it with a carnelian necklace which he clasped round her white throat. Kate was contented to see the little garnet beads slip back into her brother's pocket, with the assurance that she should see them as often as she wished, not, however, till they had been curiously examined and inquired into by Charlie and Fanny.
"They are to say?" said Fanny, with great curiosity, "how do you say them?" But before George could answer the question, the baby was brought in, and the subject dropped.
The little one was petted, praised, and passed from hand to hand with an affectionate eagerness which showed plainly that she was not generally considered a nuisance, and at last all protested that it was high time she had a name.
"I shall not call her Bridget, to please George," said mamma.
"But it would not please me, dear mother, to have you call her Bridget. I see no more propriety in calling her Bridget than in calling her Eulalie, or Genevieve, or Inez."
"I think I will call her Elizabeth Tudor; she was a good Protestant."
"I doubt very much Elizabeth's being what you would call a good Protestant," returned George merrily; "but if you call baby after her, I shall immediately put her under the protection of St. Elizabeth."
"Who was St. Elizabeth?" asked Fanny.
"She was a Hungarian princess, and very pious. She washed the saints' feet and tended the sick and poor with her own hands."
"If it was a boy, I would call him Cranmer," said mamma.
"I guess not," said Mr. Hartland; "I should have something to say about that."
"You might call her Jezebel, or Bathsheba," suggested Robert; "I dare say they were both genuine Protestants." There was frequently an uncertainty as to how Robert's missiles were intended to fall; and whether his barbed arrows were sped in innocence or with malice aforethought was a point in regard to which the most unlimited private judgment was conceded to every member of the family. Of course, nobody laughed at this sally, though Isabel bit her lip to keep from smiling, and George said,
"Why not call her Annie, after Aunt Ann?"
"I have been thinking of that," said mamma, "only Isabel thinks it is such a homespun name."
"I like homespun names," said papa.
Isabel liked Blanche, and Fanny suggested Margaret. Robert thought Schwartz would be more appropriate than Blanche. George said any name was good that was in the calendar. Robert said Charlotte Corday was in the calendar. George thought not, and after a brisk discussion and sundry pros and cons, it was decided to call the little one Annie.
"And St. Anne was the mother of the Blessed Virgin Mary," whispered George to Isabel, as he opened the piano for her.
"Christmas gifts not appreciated," said George, turning round at the head of the first flight of stairs to bid Isabel good night.
"What do you mean?" said Bell.
"I mean the dear little sister in there," pointing to his mother's room, "whom you think a little nuisance."
"Psha!" said Isabel.
"And I here, too," he went on, "who should have been under the water rather than have come home a Catholic. And the gift of faith," he said seriously, "which God has bestowed upon me, and which my friends would wish me to throw away or trample under foot, and the guardianship of saints and angels, which people mock at."
"Baby can hardly be called a Christmas present," said Bell, "since she is four weeks old, and Christmas is not until next Thursday."
"Not precisely."
"Nor your gift of faith, as you call it, since you became a Catholic, you say, before leaving Valparaiso."
"Not as we usually speak; but every blessing comes to us really because of the Incarnation, and so any blessing which we have particularly to be thankful for may be gratefully regarded as a Christmas gift."
"Well, it must be owned," said Isabel, "that you bring your ideas, like the wise woman in the Proverbs, from afar."
George went on quietly without smiling. "There will be more Christmas gifts next Thursday."
"I dare say," said Bell, though her face demanded an explanation.
"Father and mother will have another son, and we all shall have another brother, and you will have one who in some sort will stand to you in the place of God."
Bell colored and was silent. If she had chosen to speak, she would have said that of all her brother's far-fetched ideas this was the oddest, and one which she was little likely to appreciate. She certainly had not regarded Philip at all in that light, or as a gift from God any way. She returned her brother's good night, and, going into her own room, meditated how George was always the same incomprehensible fellow, always gay and full of life, and yet always taking seriously what every one said in temper or in fun, or by vanity, or for effect, "as if an idle word signified." With every one else in the house she did pretty much as she pleased; but George always contrived to manage her, and had done so ever since she was born. He had a quiet, serious way of talking to her, as if he were twenty years her senior, which was not flattering to Bell's vanity; yet she loved him so very much, she was not at all sure that she loved Philip better.
"Well, George," said Robert on Saturday night, "I suppose you are not going to church to-morrow with us?"
"Probably not," said George.
"I suppose you will go to St. Lawrence's, over here, with servant-girls, and stable-men, and rag-pickers; won't it be a sweet crowd!"
"Do be quiet, Robert," said his father, "what difference does it make whom you go to church with?"
"Mother," said Fanny, "may I go to church with brother George tomorrow?"
"No, Fanny, you may not," said Mrs. Hartland shortly, "and you are not to ask for such a thing. The Catholic religion is the religion of the devil, and I don't want you to know anything about it, or to hear or think anything about it. I would rather you were dead and buried than that you should be Catholics, any of you."
Poor Fanny looked dismayed, and Robert and Mary laughed irreverently; but Mr. Hartland said mildly,
"If the Catholic religion were the religion of the devil, my dear, I think there is nothing gained by saying so."
And when the children had dispersed for the night, and he was alone again with Mrs. Hartland, he said:
"George has been led away by his imagination; and your vehement opposition will only strengthen him; let him alone, and he will get over this."
In due time Philip made his appearance. He was a gay, spirited, handsome fellow—a great favorite with every one, and especially with George, whose classmate he had been.
The Shirleys and Hartlands had been intimate for many years, having moved in the same society, inherited the same religious opinions, and imbibed by association the same ideas. Mr. Shirley was a man of great wealth, and was still living; but Philip had just inherited a fine property from the uncle after whom he was named, so that he was as rich as he needed to be now, with a prospect of as much again hereafter. Indeed, as Mrs. Hartland rather proudly said, "It was precisely the connection which they had most desired for Isabel."
And yet, such as Philip was, it was not strange, perhaps, that George's idea of the Christmas gift should seem to Isabel far-fetched. "But it is not so," George reasoned, "for you all say that marriages are made in heaven, and St. James says that 'Every best gift, and every perfect gift, is from above, and cometh down from the Father of lights.'"
Christmas eve arrived, and, according to the programme, the young people were married. "The wedding was furnished with guests," and it may be taken for granted at once that everything was planned and carried out in the most approved style, since Isabel had the supreme dictatorship. George was first groomsman, and the others were selected from the list of Belle's inconsolable admirers. Little Kate was the smallest bridesmaid, and went through her part with serious gravity, evidently believing that she was assisting at a solemn function. The bride and groom were pronounced the handsomest couple, and so forth; the cake and the weather were delicious. Philip certainly appreciated his Christmas gift, and thought himself a happy man. He had always considered Belle the prettiest girl in P——, as she was certainly one of the cleverest; he was perfectly persuaded that she was equally good and beautiful, and he had the grace to think that his own wealth, with his other advantages, did no more than place him upon a par with her. Certainly, Isabel's prospects of happiness were very fair.
And so she passed away to adorn a new house, very much missed by all at the old, and by none more than by Mary, who succeeded to the place and honors of elder sister, though confessedly by no means so beautiful, brilliant, or clever as "Miss Hartland that was." But Mary was a good girl, played and sang very sweetly, and was always ready to gratify her father with those simple ballads in which he chiefly delighted. Home was quieter, but perhaps scarcely less happy, and home happiness was constantly augmented by the pleasure of anticipating Isabel's visits.
If Mr. Hartland really expected George to get over his love for and belief in the Catholic religion, he was evidently doomed to disappointment; for, to all appearance, it every day penetrated more and more the very substance of his being, though he had always been so sincerely religious that his external conduct was modified by it less than might have been supposed. Fanny never repeated her preposterous request for permission to go to church with brother George; but she was perpetually slipping into his room, peeping into his books, admiring his little pictures and statuettes, trying, in fact, with a girl's insatiable curiosity, to discover why the forbidden fruit was so unspeakably poisonous. She incurred repeated scoldings for her restless inquest; and, after being reproved the twentieth time for taking possession of brother George's books and carrying them off into her own room, she fairly disconcerted her mother by indignantly inquiring, "Why they had no 'creed,' and what right the people who first started the Protestant religion had to hide away the 'Apostles' Creed' from everybody, so that hundreds of persons who thought themselves Christians, and meant to be Christians, lived and died without ever knowing there was any 'creed.'"
Poor Mrs. Hartland was completely nonplussed; she knew nothing about creeds herself, but she hesitatingly suggested that they had a "form of covenant." This, Fanny insisted, was not the least like the "Creed," and her mother, having no other forces in reserve, took refuge in the usual invective, and assured her daughter in the most solemn manner that she would prefer to see her in her grave rather than have her imbibe her brother George's sentiments. Fanny, of course, was obliged to go to George for a satisfactory answer to her question, and having learned from him the gradual process by which the first Protestantism had dwindled down into New England Congregationalism, her reverence for the system in which she had been brought up was not increased.
Meanwhile, almost another year has passed away. Little Annie Hartland is creeping about the carpet, or pushing herself round with a chair, and, under great persuasion and generous bribery, making some diffident attempts to talk. Isabel has been at home some weeks, and is domiciled in her own old room. Philip's visits are frequent, but short and uncertain, for though a rich he is by no means an idle man. All are improving the last beautiful days of autumn, in anticipation of the disagreeable weather of settled winter.
Fanny, especially, who was fond of riding and a capital horsewoman, rode almost every afternoon, sometimes without any escort, and sometimes accompanied by Robert, who was very proud of the elegant figure his sister made on her spirited yet gentle horse.
On one of the loveliest of these days, as George, returning from a long walk, was sauntering up the drive, he was startled at seeing Robert upon the lower end of the piazza without a hat, trembling, and excessively pale.
"Do you know? did you see her?" he asked, quivering with excitement, and without waiting for an answer, "Fan—she's been thrown—and mother says she's been terribly hurt."
"Where was she? who was with her? is she here?"
"In mother's room. Where were you that you did not see it?"
"I have been in the other direction, up toward the academy. Has Philip come?"
"Yes, he came just before Fan was hurt."
George went up-stairs, and found Fanny quite insensible.
The poor child was settled in her mother's room, out of the way of Isabel, whose little boy was only a week old, and from whom the sad news was to be kept as long as possible. For some days it seemed very doubtful whether Fanny would recover; but her youth prevailed, and at last the doctor pronounced that, with great care, she would be perfectly restored, though she would scarcely be able to leave the house before spring.
During this interval Belle, who was rapidly convalescing, had repeatedly asked for Fanny, and wondered so much that she did not come to her room that it was at last no longer possible to conceal her sister's injury. Isabel's excitement and agitation were at first extreme; but the assurance that the invalid was now doing well soon soothed and cheered her, and she pleased herself that before long she could go into her mother's room and show Fanny her beautiful baby.
"He is four weeks old to-morrow," said Isabel, "and the doctor says I may go down-stairs to-morrow. Poor dear little Fanny! I wonder when she will be able to go out? Do you know, George, I think, considering all that has been said on several occasions about preferring that we should be dead and buried rather than that we should be this and that, we all ought to be very thankful that Fanny was not killed outright?"
"Of course."
"I wonder if mother ever thought of it?"
But George made no reply; only, after a few minutes, he said:
"You ought to have this dear little fellow baptized, now, while Philip is here."
"O clear!" said Isabel, "we don't dream of having him baptized till spring; it is too cold; and Philip is going to-morrow evening. Annie was almost six months old before she was baptized."
"I know, but it is very wrong; most Catholic children are baptized before they are ten days old."
"Oh! yes, I know you think it is necessary."
"If it is not necessary, I don't see why you do it at all."
"Why, it is a pious observance," said Isabel. "What hurry is there? besides, we can't have him baptized now, for Philip and I have not agreed what to call him."
"And while you are debating that point, you run the risk of having him die without being baptized at all."
"I don't think there is any danger. He is as well as he can be. And mother's little—I forget what his name was—died without being baptized at all, and I don't believe it makes any difference."
"Just as I told you last year, Belle," said George, smiling, "gifts despised; you place a sacrament instituted by our blessed Saviour himself on the same footing with grace at table; a pious observance, of course; to be attended to, no doubt, when one is not in too much of a hurry."
Isabel half smiled; but she was too proud and happy, and too busy petting her darling, to regard much the drift of her brother's words. At that moment Philip came in to get the baby to show Fanny, and the three adjourned into their mother's room, Philip carrying the baby, of whom he was evidently very proud.
"There are most too many of you," said Mrs. Hartland; but she could not choose which to dismiss, so they all went in. "I don't let Fanny hold levees, but you need not stay long."
Fanny was very fond of babies, and they made her examine his beautiful eyes and forehead and dimpled chin; and then Belle called her sister's attention to the exquisitely embroidered dress which she herself had worked.
"I wonder how long it will be before I shall be able to work another," said Fanny, with a patient smile.
"You will soon be well enough, dear Fanny, for me to come and read to you," said George.
"Oh! yes, I shall enjoy that; and if Belle is going down-stairs to-morrow, she can play a little, and if the doors are left open, I shall hear."
"Yes, and Mary can play to you; for I shall be carrying Belle off pretty soon," said Philip.
"No, indeed," said mamma, "she can't go till after Christmas; so you will have to come back and spend Christmas with us."
"It will be a great drawback to our Christmas, having Fanny upstairs," said Isabel.
"Yes," returned mamma; "but if she recovers, we shall have no reason to complain."
"I have been telling Isabel that she ought to have the baby baptized while Philip is here," said George.
"Nonsense, George!" replied his mother; "nobody thinks as you do, and why will you be forcing your peculiar notions upon us?" And so the suggestion passed and was thought of no more.
"Put him down and let me kiss him," said Fanny; "dear little fellow! I wish I could take him." But she knew it was impossible, and she made no objection when, after a few minutes, Mrs. Hartland put them all out of the room.
That evening, when the baby was put to bed, Mrs. Hartland thought he seemed dull; but this was natural enough; nurse said he was sleepy. He slept very well and was bright in the morning, but toward night became dull again. Another day brought no improvement, and Mrs. Hartland became uneasy. She consulted the doctor, and strictly followed his suggestions, but the symptoms were only aggravated. She did not like to show Belle her anxiety, and proposed taking the baby herself into Fanny's vacant room, in order, she said, that Isabel need not be disturbed. For two nights she watched and tended him, hardly sleeping herself until daylight, when she suffered Mrs. Reilly to take her place.
Mrs. Reilly was a kind, prudent, motherly woman, and very fond of Mrs. Hartland's children, most of whom had been washed and dressed by her for the first time in their lives. She was also a Catholic.
The second night George sat in his room till very late, reading. Shortly before midnight, he went to bed, and slept uneasily for two or three hours, then rose, and finding that it wanted some minutes to four o'clock, he dressed, and resumed his reading, listening the while till some one in the house should stir.
Soon after the great hall-clock struck five, Mrs. Reilly left Isabel's room very softly, and went into Fanny's to take the baby. George waited until he heard his mother pass from the little room into her own, and close the door. Then he went down-stairs and into Fanny's room, where Mrs. Reilly sat with the poor little suffering child upon her lap.
"Is there any change?" he asked.
She shook her head.
"He'll not live till night, Mr. George," she whispered. "Poor Miss Belle! what will she do?"
Mrs. Reilly could not get over her habit of calling: Isabel "Miss Belle."
"Did you ever baptize a child, Mrs. Reilly?"
"Indeed I have, sir."
"Then you can do it once more," said he, smiling sadly. "We must not let this child die without baptism." And he poured water into the basin, and brought it to her.
And the humble Irish nurse performed those sacred acts which, by the power of the Word made flesh, sanctify the soul.
George replaced the basin, kissed the little creature upon whose head the baptismal water was still glistening, and returned to his own room as silently as he came.
Isabel slept heavily and uneasily, and woke unrefreshed and with a vague sense of apprehension. She rose on hearing the bell ring for family prayers, and hearing her brothers go down-stairs she dressed languidly and went into the next room.
The babe still lay upon the pillow in the nurse's lap, and, although the breakfast-bell had already rung, Mary was sitting in the window, looking silently and with folded arms at the sick child.
"Why, he seems so sick," said Isabel, with a tone and look of pain and alarm.
"Yes," said Mary, "he is very sick."
Mary had always helped her mother more than Belle in taking care of the little ones, and she knew better than her sister how to judge of illness. Isabel asked several questions, to which Mrs. Reilly gave only the most vague and cautious answers. The faint ring of silver was heard in the hall.
"There is your breakfast, Belle, dear," said Mary, "go into your own room and take some coffee; you ought not to be standing about here without having taken anything." "O dear!" said Isabel, "I don't want any breakfast. I wonder when Philip will come, and what will he say to see the baby so sick?"
After a few moments, she followed her sister's advice. Mechanically she put the sugar and cream into the coffee, and had just drunk it off, and pushed away the little stand, when the door opened and Philip entered.
"Where is he?" and his face of agony and consternation told all.
He had been sent for, and she knew why.
"Oh! no, no, they don't think he will die," cried Isabel passionately, throwing herself into Philip's arms; "they don't think he will die! O my darling! my baby! my beautiful boy!" And she rushed into the next room.
Her grief was terrible to witness, and Philip had to command himself.
"He has changed a good deal since daylight," said Mrs. Reilly, looking up at Philip; but she was sorry she had looked, and hastily turned her eyes again upon the child.
Presently Mrs. Hartland came in, and insisted that Philip should go down and have some breakfast, and he felt bound to obey.
Isabel was stunned. It had never entered her head that he could die; he was so strong and bright and beautiful, and he was hers. She threw herself helplessly upon the couch, and cared for nothing. By and by she remembered that now she could see him for a little while, but that soon she could see him no more, and she rose and went into the room.
George and Philip were both there. The quiet little form lay sweetly, as in sleep, upon the white counterpane of Fanny's cot. Death had only beautified him. The tiny waxen hands clasped upon the breast, almost as white as the white rosebud they enfolded, the smile of beatitude upon the face, the beautiful forehead, the closed eyes with their long lashes—no pain, no sorrow, the ineffable peace there, contrasting with the tumult of agony in her own soul, brought the tears to Belle's eyes.
George could not help thinking of his own little brother, just about as old, whom, years ago, he had seen lying in the same way in that very room, upon whose head the baptismal water had never fallen; and he thought Isabel very happy.
And thus was laid away, till the morning of the resurrection, the fair casket which had enclosed, for so short a time, a beautiful soul.
Isabel's room was neatly set in order. It was the brightest and prettiest chamber in the house, but it looked empty and desolate, though the family inclined to congregate there, every one wishing to do something to comfort their poor sister.
"It is five weeks to-day since my little darling was born," said Isabel; "how proud and happy I was only a week ago, showing him to Fanny."
George seemed in a reverie, but after a moment he said,
"And it is a year to-day since I returned from Valparaiso."
Belle fixed a look of anguish upon her brother's face, and then wept bitterly, until having stopped, apparently from mere exhaustion, she said,
"I have been properly punished."
"What do you mean, Belle dear?"
"I mean I have been punished for making so light of one little life, or rather, for my own life-long selfishness," said she, looking at Annie who was playing upon the carpet.
George looked at Isabel with much concern and tenderness, but said nothing.
"I deserve to be punished, I know, George. I have been perfectly selfish. I have thought more, all my life long, about dress and vanity and pleasure than about anything else in the world. I have been a member of the church and have had a class in the Sunday-school, and I have thought myself a very good Christian; but I have really occupied all my life in thinking how I should contrive to look prettier and to dress better than others, and to secure my personal gratification. And I have always thought everything a nuisance that has stood in my way. When the dear baby came, I have been thinking ever since he was born how I should dress him and make him look pretty—and now the body that I thought so much of—" She stopped and sobbed again.
"Don't make yourself so unhappy, my darling sister," said George tenderly, as he rose and kissed her.
She seemed soothed, and presently ceased weeping.
"And for my Christmas gift this year, I have that little grave."
"Dear Belle, you must not be too hard upon yourself; the gifts of God are as many as the sands upon the sea-shore, and one honest sight of one's self is a Christmas gift worth having. Even if we think we are punished, his chastisements are always gifts, if we know how to receive them; my dear sister, isn't it so?"
"I have heard so times enough from the pulpit," said Belle, through her tears; "but you know, George, I have never thought about those things. And then, my baby's soul, which I cared so little about—dear George, do you really think it makes any difference?"
"What, dear?"
"Whether he was baptized or not?"
"I don't think anything about it, my darling sister; I know that it makes all the difference between going instantly to the heaven of heavens, where God is, and staying, perhaps for ever and ever, in a place which, though not an unhappy place, is by no means so happy as the very presence-chamber of the King of kings. But you need not grieve about that; for he was baptized, and your little darling has gone to keep a joyful Christmas in heaven."
And then he told Belle how he came down that morning, and how Mrs. Reilly had baptized the child.
Isabel listened and wept and seemed comforted.
"I am sure I thank you, dear George, you are always so kind and thoughtful. I know father and mother don't think it makes the least difference in the world, and I don't know why I should trouble myself about it; but still, now that I have lost him, I can't bear to think that anything was left undone which could have been done to his possible advantage. And then Philip—Philip is a great deal better than I am; I have thought very often, George, of what you said last year about Philip being a gift to me—a gift from God; he really is very good, and he seemed to feel so badly because baby was not baptized."
"Our blessed Saviour has given us the sacrament of baptism for something, no doubt," said George, "and it is taking considerable upon ourselves, short-sighted creatures as we are, to pronounce that it is of no consequence to any one, even to a babe a day old. But you must be comforted now, my darling sister, and remember that God has given you this year for your Christmas gift, not merely that little grave, but a spotless soul before his throne, who will never cease to pray for you and Philip until you are so happy as to arrive there yourselves."
Then bending over her, he made the sign of the cross on her fair forehead, and in his heart invoked on her those Christmas benedictions which faith alone can give.