“You said let there be silence between us, and I am content,” was the rejoinder. “I shall take care not to trouble you in future.”
Pride and love struggled for mastery in the heart of the eldest, and it was a mingling of both that brought the answer, in tones cold enough to freeze the tenderness of the words: “There will come a silence between us one day, Nell, you will be glad to break.” And she passed from the room.
“Let it come,” was the almost insolent reply; but there was a mist in the flashing black eyes that contradicted the words.
They passed the day apart from each other, and at night, although kneeling for prayer in the same little oratory, and occupying the same little white-draped chamber, the chilling silence remained. So passed the next day, and it was now Christmas Eve. The evergreens were all hung in the village church; the altar was radiant with flowers and tapers; the confessionals were thronged; but both sisters kept aloof, and both hearts were aching over the pride and anger that was strangling even religion in their souls. Alas! alas! how the angels must have mourned to see days of such especial grace passing in sin. Christmas gifts had been prepared, but neither would present them. How different other Christmas Eves had been!—the gentle mother overseeing every preparation for the next day, that was always celebrated as a feast of joy. Those busy hands were idle now, and the white snow was coldly drifting over the mound that loving hearts would fain have kept in perpetual summer. A mother’s grave! Except to those who have knelt beside that mound—that seems such a slight barrier between the aching heart and its treasure, and yet is such a hopeless, inexorable one—these words have little meaning.
They retired early, and, as Nell knelt for prayer, the hot tears rolled through her fingers as she thought of other Christmas mornings, when they had been awakened for early Mass by the “Merry Christmas! girls,” that earth would never, never hear again. But the icy bands of pride that had frozen around her heart would not melt, and sleep came again in that stony stillness.
Morning came to Nellie’s perturbed visions, and in the gray dawn “Merry Christmas” broke forth from her lips; but the memory of the past few days checked the words, and they died in whispers. But as she glanced at Laura, she saw that her eyes were open, but that their expression was fixed and rigid. She sprang up with a vague alarm, and laid her hand upon the low, broad forehead. It was icy cold. Shriek after shriek rang from her lips, but they reached not the death-dulled ear.
“I never meant it, Laura—I never meant it! Only come back that I may speak one word!” she moaned. “O my God! give her back to me for one hour, and I will submit to thy will.” But her voice only broke the silence, and the white, smiling lips on the bed seemed a mockery of the passionate anguish wailing above them. She threw herself before the little altar in her room. “Blessed Mother!” she prayed, “I promise, solemnly promise, that never, never again will I give way to the passionate temper that has been my bane, if she may only come back for one hour to grant forgiveness for the awful words I have spoken.” And for the first time since she had realized her sorrow tears fell from her eyes.
“Why, Nellie, Nellie, what ails you?” said a familiar voice. “You are crying in your sleep on this merry Christmas morning; do waken.” And, oh! the heaven that met those unclosing eyes—Laura bending over her, smiling, yet with a look of doubt in her face as if the icy barrier had not yet broken down.
“O my darling, my darling!” sobbed the excited girl, winding her arms around her sister. “Thank God it is only a dream; but never, never again will I give way to my awful temper. I have promised it, Laura, and I will keep my vow.”
And she did. For though she lived long enough for the dark hair to lie like snowy floss under the matron’s cap, never did those lips utter stinging sarcasm or close in sullen anger. And often, when her gentle voice seemed unable to stem some furious tide of passion among her grandchildren, would she tell the story of her dream on Christmas Eve.