“Oh, mamma will tell you all about it by-and-bye. Come along and have supper, for, after your long ride, you must be half-starved.”
So, after supper, when the others had gone to bed, I got my mother into a cosy chat, and asked her all about it.
“Well, my dear John,” she said, “I’m rather anxious about your father. As you know, he is far from being a poor man, but he has, for the last two or three years, had a strange notion that his money will take to itself wings and fly away, and a terrible dread of poverty, and ultimately the workhouse or starvation, is always haunting him. There is not the slightest foundation for this fancy, which arises from some mental disorder; and, at times, he is perfectly aware that it is but a fancy, and has had the very best medical advice; but, at other times, the impression comes upon him so vividly that his life is perfectly wretched. So we are having this party for two or three reasons; one is to try and enliven him with a change of scene; another, to show him that he will not be ruined by the expense. We must all do what we can to make him enter into the spirit of the amusement; for, although he has given his free consent to all the arrangements, his manner has been very strange at intervals to-day, and I can see that something oppresses him. Do your best then, my boy, to cheer him up, and let us pray God to give him better health to enjoy the mercies with which He has surrounded us.”
I shared in my mother’s anxiety; but on the next day my father seemed so much better, and joined so very heartily in all we did, that in the bustle and excitement of expectation I almost forgot the conversation of the preceding evening. At last the carriages began to arrive, and the merry-making commenced. Everybody was in high spirits, for the weather was just the right sort for the season, with the snow thick upon the ground, and the difficulties in the journey to our house had made some fun for the guests, and put them in the cue for more. My father was as merry as any of us, and warmly welcomed each arrival; and when the music struck up for a set of quadrilles, he accepted the challenge of my mother, and danced with her. I could not help noticing, however, that when he was not engaged in conversation, his countenance fell, and a look of pain came on his pale face; but he recovered himself almost instantaneously, and was at once himself again. Merrily flew the hours, and never were charades played with greater spirit, or dances whizzed through with more delight. It was nearly supper time, and I went to find my father, who, on a plea of head-ache, had withdrawn for a little while into the study. But he had left the study, and so, fearing that he was really unwell, I went to his bedroom, but found that he was not there. For a moment a horrible undefined dread came over me; I trembled in every limb, and cold perspiration dropped down my face. There was no reason for this; there were twenty places where my father might be; it was not at all an unusual thing for him to seclude himself when he felt unwell, but for all that I could not divest myself of the strange feeling that came over me that something wrong had happened. I ran hastily through all the bedrooms, and then looked into every room down stairs, but he was not there. Old Williams, the gardener, was in the hall, and I asked him if he had seen my father? “Yes, Master John; he was here about half-an-hour ago. He put on a stout pair of boots, and his top coat, and said he should go into the stable to wish the horses and old Carlo a merry Christmas.” I went at once to the stables and called to him, but no answer came in reply. A lantern was in the loft, and, lighting it, I walked round the place to see if I could trace whether, by his footprints, he had been there. The snow marked his steps distinctly, but they were turned from the stable towards the paddock. Again that horrible dread, which had seized me in the bedroom, returned, for I knew that at the bottom of the paddock ran the river, swollen by the recent snows! Mechanically I followed the footprints, which led directly to the river. I tried to call out, but a suffocating feeling like night-mare rendered me speechless. I fell down on my knees in the snow, and cried with my whole heart to the merciful Father in heaven to avert the evil I so intensely dreaded. Strength came to me with the necessity; my voice came back to me, and I made the silent night ring with my father’s name. But no answer came, and now I stood at the edge of the rushing river, and the marks of the footprints had ceased! There was no time to be lost; the snow, which before had been falling gently, now began to descend in a storm, and every moment would serve to obliterate the tracks of his steps, if there were any more that might be found. With a cry to heaven to give me strength for all that remained to be done, I flew back to the house. Nelly was the first to meet me upon my return, and my face betrayed to her my anxiety. “My darling Nell, be calm and strong. I fear something has happened to father. Comfort mother while I and some of the friends are away. Go first to Williams, and tell him to come here with all the lanterns he can get, and then bid him saddle both the horses without delay.” A brave little woman was my sister Nell! I can see her pale face, and her white hands clenched together, as she stood beside me that night in her pretty evening dress, and heard my hurried news. In less than ten minutes I had a party of eight trusty men around me, to whom I told my suspicions, and begged their help. Among them was Captain Wray, an old friend of my father’s; he saw with a military instinct the position, and at once took the command of the expedition. “Let four follow each other through the paddock to the river,” said he, “and then divide, two to the right, and two to the left. John, Andrew Morris, Williams, and I, will go across the bridge, and adopt the same plan on the other side of the river. Now let us be off, and may God grant us success.”
A deep and earnest amen followed, and we started off.
I will not give you a history of that terrible time; in vain we searched for footprints, in vain we dragged the river; messengers were sent into every village round about, letters were sent to all the principal posting stations along the high roads, information was given to the London constabulary, rewards were offered for any clue of the missing one; and every effort failed.
Had it not been for my good friend Andrew Morris, I do not know how I should have gone through the fatigue and anxiety of those days. He never seemed to tire; he was determined not to encourage a feeling of despair; at one moment he was devising some fresh scheme, and the next comforting my mother and Nelly with hope. At last Andrew and I, when we found every endeavour in our neighbourhood fruitless, determined to go up to London and seek for him there. We journeyed from street to street, gazing earnestly in the face of every passer by; we went from workhouse to workhouse, from shipping place to shipping place; and at last, worn out with fatigue, we returned to Marantby disappointed and distressed.
Time wore away; Andrew Morris went home to engage in business, and I returned no more to school, for the management of my father’s affairs now devolved in a great measure upon me. The spring time came, with its songs of birds and perfume of flowers; the glad summer sunshine played upon the murmuring waters of Marantby; the red leaves of autumn fell in gorgeous showers, and the silver traceries of frost sparkled in the wintry nights, but still our home was desolate; and so it came to pass that Christmas Day became a day full of painful memories.
Six years passed, and time, the great physician for the wounded heart, had taken the sting of our sorrow away. Our good Father in heaven never allows a sorrow to come into this world unless He sends a joy to counterbalance it; life would be a stunted and deformed thing, if, when the night enveloped it, the bright sunshine of morning did not as surely follow; and the law which regulates the outer world has its counterpart in the inner, that “while the earth remaineth, seed time and harvest, and cold and heat, and summer and winter, and day and night, shall not cease.” Well, Christmas Day was coming round again, and we determined that we would spend it in London, with Andrew Morris. It was a cosy little party we made on Christmas Eve—I and my mother, and Captain Wray, Mr. and Mrs. Morris, sen., and Andrew and Nelly, and the baby. Whose baby? Why Nelly’s, to be sure, and never was there a prettier and prouder little mother, or a handsomer and happier young husband, than Nelly and Andrew Morris. There was no boisterous fun or merriment, but there was a great deal of quiet enjoyment amongst us as we sat at the table after dinner and played round games, or as Nelly and Andrew sang duets, while baby crowed a chorus. There was an air of homeliness, too, and comfort about the house, and that was increased tenfold from the fact that the night was bitterly cold. The wind roared along the streets, and every now and then the hail came down in a perfect cataract. The evening slipped rapidly away, and, as Martha came in at about ten o’clock to lay the cloth for supper, a pause in the rattle of the conversation within, and a pause in the rattle of hailstones without, enabled us to hear voices somewhere along the street joined in very good harmony, singing a Christmas carol. By-and-bye they came opposite our window, and struck up that fine old carol—
“When Christ was born of Mary free,