The bargain was easily concluded. Mr. Glyn was to give house-room, firing, and lights to the Morris family, and Esther was to keep house and generally "do for" the curate, with occasional help, for which he was to pay. This agreement had been in force for six months, and now Christmas was coming, and with it Arthur Glyn hoped for the society of his younger sister, Gertrude. Hilda was passing the winter at Cannes with a delicate pupil, but Gertrude had sent a number of loving letters to tell him how she was reckoning on spending at least a month with dear old Arthur at Little Cray.
And the solitary young man, who had been living for others ever since he was able to think and act, was counting the hours until that happy one should arrive which would bring the sweet young face of his favourite to cheer his fireside.
But as he paced up and down the study on that dismal morning, on the shortest day, and one of the dreariest in all the year, his heart might well echo what bolder grumblers put into words, "It is not a bit like Christmas."
That open letter upon the study table replied, though mutely, "And I bring a message which will take the taste out of your Christmas dinner."
The letter was from Gertrude, and told a love tale—a very happy one. The lassie had won the affections of a good man, the uncle of her little pupils. He had wealth, position, high character, and must have sought the little damsel for herself alone, since all her dowry consisted in her fair young face, true heart, and well-cultivated mind. Better still, every one was agreeable, and so the girl's letter was full of sunshine and the shy happiness which wants to tell all its tale to the dear absent brother, but can hardly put it into words.
"He is to spend Christmas here, and they all want me to stay," wrote Gertrude. "Of course, I should like it, only I want you too, dear Arthur. I cannot possibly be quite happy until you have seen him, and told me that you, who stand in place of both father and mother, are satisfied with my choice, and can ask God's blessing on it. You will come to us, dear, if only on Christmas Eve. I am sure Mr. Worthington will contrive to set you at liberty, and some time after the New Year has begun I will join you at Little Cray. Only, if you cannot possibly come, I will keep my promise, and spend Christmas at your village parsonage. But do, please, try to join us here."
"The little gipsy!" exclaimed the Reverend Arthur, as he finished his, sister's letter. "To think of the child being engaged! But what nonsense I am talking to myself! She is two-and-twenty—a woman, and more, even, in the stern eye of the law—and can dispose of herself without let or hindrance from me—bless her! Not that I would hinder the bright little bird, or interfere with her choice of a mate. What an old fellow this letter makes me! I have left the girls such a long way behind that I can hardly realize how few years really lie between them and me!"
The curate paced up and down, pausing a moment to see the wet dripping and trickling from the eaves, the Christmas greenery of laurel, ivy, and holly shining like burnished metal under their washing, and to hear the melancholy coo of the pigeons as they crouched under the shelter of the overhanging roofs, and complained in a neighbourly way of there being "so much weather about."
Arthur's thoughts left his immediate surroundings. He knew Leonard Thorold, pretty Gertrude's fiancé, and could picture the little bright thing looking up to her tall lover as she nestled beside him, the dark eyes veiled with moisture, the half-shy yet all-trustful clasp on the strong arm that was to be her support through life. Half to himself, the brother murmured a prayer for her happiness, and then, sitting down, he wrote out his loving wishes, his hearty sympathy, his own unselfish resolution respecting the Christmas visit.
"It is impossible for me to leave Little Cray at this season," he wrote. "It would not be right for me to suggest such a thing to Mr. Worthington so, much as I should like to give my darling sister a brother's kiss, and tell her, instead of writing it, how truly I rejoice with her in this new-born happiness, I must be content to spend my Christmas in old bachelor fashion. As to your coming to me! That is equally impossible. A little cloaked and furred damsel, known to the world as Gertrude Glyn, might be packed off by train, landed at the station nearest to Little Cray, and thence conveyed in a borrowed trap to the rectory. But if she were here in the body she would be absent in spirit. Whilst I was talking to my little sister, she would be hearing again that other voice which has so lately told its love tale, and would answer Leonard whilst brother Arthur was speaking."
"No use, darling! I will not have the shell without the kernel, and I love you far too well to wish for your presence under the circumstances. Perhaps another Christmas we may—but no; I will not try to look beyond your happy present. So good-bye, dear sister, and may the joy which is now only in the bud bring glorious blossom in the future. I believe you love wisely, for Leonard is a good man. May you be to each other all that the great Creator willed when He gave man to be the head of the woman, and the wife to be his true helpmeet!"