“My wife and children, forgive me. God has done so. I am dying here, within a short distance of you all and home. I do not know how many days I have been here. It seems like ages. No help can come to me, and I am beyond the reach of being heard. I fled from your accusing eyes, and the boat carried me here. She was tossed like a weed on the rocks, and I have crawled up hither to die a harder death than any I ever dealt. It is the meet reward for all my crimes—that I know; but I am not alone, and I am forgiven. Try to think kindly of me. I have been very wicked, but now I am at peace, and dying. Something whispers you will know my fate, my children, my wife.”
Could anything have been of such infinite value to Doya as those parting words? They washed away every trace of bitter or offended feeling, and when she placed the precious relic in her bosom, she blotted out from its generous heart every remembrance of Bartle, save their early love and his Christian death.
Very slowly, very tenderly, Doya encased the withered form in the broken bits of wood, lashing them around it by means of some fishing lines which they had chanced to have in the boat. Very carefully she attached some pieces of rock to the rope, and then, after one long lingering look, and a silent, earnest prayer, she let it slide gently down into the calm limpid ocean. The waves gave one low gurgling sigh as they opened to receive that strangely buried thing, and Doya, kneeling on the cold stone, strained her sight to see the very last of her husband. The clear water hid nothing from her, and she saw him sink to rest down below the sea. And then the tide bore a floating mass of weed, glittering brown and crimson, to the spot, and laid it over poor Bartle, who slumbers peacefully there in that wild cavern, cradled by the surf, and lulled by the wind. And surf and wind say, better than sculptured stone, that mercy endureth for ever, and He, our Father, and our Judge, is long-suffering, and doeth all things well.
It was some time ere Doya could venture to break the awe and quiet of that scene by summoning her children. It seemed as if she had parted from every earthly trouble, as she knelt there alone, and pressed to her heart the token of her husband’s repentance; as she knelt there, alone with nature’s sublimest voices speaking to her soul; but slowly her thoughts came back to life and earth, and at her call the boat glided into the cave again. Then, as the boys rowed slowly homewards, Doya told them the end of the story. They had guessed it already, but they were not prepared for the surprise which she had in store—the reading of their father’s parting words. That took away almost all the sorrow. Under the moonlit sky of Yule, with Yule stars looking down like eyes of forgiving love, and Yule zephyrs winnowing by like the rustle of angel-wings, when they hurry to earth with Christmas messages of peace and good will, of mercy and pardon; with Yule frost glittering upon the heath, Doya and her children returned to their home; and when Rassmie clung to her neck, and Hermann’s head nestled on her bosom, while Tronda’s sweet voice whispered, “You have us, mother,” Doya’s sorely tried heart was comforted.
Just as Cousin Cyntha concluded her story, the clock struck, and then a strange stare of astonishment stole over every face. What the hour was it is not necessary to state, but a general stirring among the company told the fact that all of them were of opinion it was high time to be thinking of returning to their homes. But while glasses were being handed round, Old Merry took the opportunity of arresting attention; and, amid cries of “Hurrah, bravo! A speech! Old Merry, a speech!” got upon his legs, and after polishing his bald pate and adjusting his specs, according to time-honoured usage, he thus delivered himself:—
“Ladies and Gentlemen, my dear Young People,
“Before we separate we must all pledge ourselves in lemonade, et cetera, and wish one another ‘A Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!’ Perhaps in all the year the few merry hours of Christmas Eve are the brightest and happiest to the whole world. This night, while we have been here enjoying ourselves together, thousands of homes have been full of gladness and merriment. Boys and girls from school have been telling the adventures of the ‘last half;’ apprentices, home for the Christmas-tide, have been giving their parents and friends an account of their trials and joys; family circles, broken throughout the year by circumstances, have been united round the old fireside in thousands of homes; sailors on the sea have struggled between cheerfulness and sorrow as they have told their shore stories and drunk to absent friends; settlers in the colonies, despite the differences of time and climate, have been linking themselves again with the associations of the old country; heaven and earth have been vocal with new songs of praise; and the blessed Redeemer Himself, whose birth in this world is the source of all our joy and gladness, has looked down on the delights which He has created, and seeing the results of the travail of His soul ‘has been satisfied.’ Well, my young friends, I am not going to preach you a sermon, but I do ask you to try and realize the pleasure of sharing the joy of the whole world. But do not forget amid the festivities that Christmas is the anniversary of the birthday of our Lord. He came to bless us and He lives to bless us. He gave to us all we have, and we should seek to give back to Him all we are. The cheerful heart, the smiling face, the happy thought, the kindly act, the friendly speech, are more acceptable to Him than the long drawn face and the sigh and the groan. His service is not simply that of the Sabbath-day or the appointed Church, but at the fireside, the play-ground, the office; in our hours of rest and toil and recreation, at home and at school, all through the life He requires, and is pleased with, our acknowledgment of Him. So now for all the happy hours of this happy season let us devoutly thank Him, and let us each determine that as He came this day to bless all the world, we will try to follow His example as far as we can.
“Let each of you determine that some other life shall be happier to-morrow through your means. Join your labours to those of the ministering angels, and see if you cannot lighten some burden, and give joy to some sad heart on Christmas Day. The lad who sweeps the crossing, encourage him with a copper; your sister who has quarrelled with you, kiss her and make it up; that poor old woman in the garret, beg some plum pudding for her and send it with a twig of holly in it. Only be willing to do what you can, and depend upon it the opportunities will not be wanting. And now we must separate; I wish you all happy meetings and greetings on the morrow, pleasant hours for merry thoughts and serious thoughts—good digestions—and everything that can make to its full degree, A Merry, Happy, Christmas!”