Christmas on the first floor.

Hawke's Bay Times, Issue 1537, 26 December 1873, Page 61

Christmas on the first floor.

AUTHOR CX " THE AWDRIES AND THEIR FRIENDS."

Jt SHAKP frost outside, a bright Jj, fire inside, a comfortable room with its easy chair, its breakfast table well spread, a holly wreath surmounting the mirror, and sprigs of its glossy green and scarlet berries peeping from every fitting corner. "I wish," said Mr Samson, "that they hadn't put a sprig over you, my poor fellow;" and he stood before a portrait in crayons, of a sweet and joyous face, and clasped his hands behind his back, as his manner was when in serious thought.

He raised his hand at last to remove the sprig, but drew it back and shook his head, saying, " No let it stay to honor you, even though it sadden me." "Rolls are hot, sir; coffee is hot, sir; eggs done, sir; missus wishes to know if you will take broiled ham." A little waiting maid, with a smiling face, said this as she placed the articles on the table, and then waited for orders. " You look very happy and gay, Mary," said Mr Sampson kindly, and smiling in return. u Yes, sir, Christmas day, air; merry Christmas to yon, sir," said Mary, dropping a curtsey. "Thank you, Mary, thank you," he answered, with a sigh. "Merry is hardly what I look for; but happy I —ought to be." Mary had thought so before, but when he put the half-crown Christmasbox into her hand, she was quite sure he ought to be very happy indeed. "Amerry heart maketh a cheerful countenance," he said to himself when she had vanished; and he looked round the room, surveyed its comforts, its adornments, the taste in its arrangements, the order throughout, and could not help confessing that no improvement in snch things was necessary. When Mary came back with the broiled ham, he was struck with her dancing eyes, and her face vibrating with delight in every muscle. " Missus liopes it's done as you like, sir, and—thank you again, sir, for my Christmasibox," she said, as she again vanished. For a minute, Mr Simpson caught her smile, but he soon grew grave, and said, sadly, " I wish somebody would give me half-a-crownand make my heart as ■* merry' as I have made hers." Poor Mr Simpson, he was so lonely, there on the first floor; he had much to satisfy him, but he had no one to share his satisfaction. He would not have known what to do with her if she had stayed, yet he felt a blank when little Mary shut the door with an active, cheerful click that had a sound of « merry Christnas " in it. He was getting into anything but a cheerful state when a peal of bells struck up from the neighboring church. They were fine belle, and ht) usually listened to them

with pleasure; but now they made him melancholy, and he wished they would stop.

" Please, sir, a person by the name of Rundle wants to see you," said Mary, who looked quite pleased with the opportunity of an extra visit. " Rundle ? o—yes—show him up," said Mr Samson.

" Afraid I'm intruding, sir," said a shabbily dressed man, who had not had as good a breakfast as Mr Samson, judging from the way in which his eyes devoured bread, butter, bacon, egg-shells —everything on the table, from which lie vainly tried to turn them.

" 0, no," said Mr Samson, noticing his hungry look, "I have nearly finished ; the coffee is not very hot—nor the ham ; but if you haven't breakfasted—(l am early)—and will sit down, what you can find is at your service."

Never was invitation more readily received nor more heartily improved; a clearance was speedily made, and Mr Samson felt even more pleased than by Mary's delight with her half-crown, at the brightened face of his guest, whose great eyes seemed to contract to their right dimensions, and his whole appearance bespoke gratitude, independent of the devout grace with which he concluded his meal.

" Sir, I wish you from my heart, a merry Christinas," he said; " I have been up good part of the night with my wife, and am a little spent; lam no restored— many thanks." Here he stopped, for much will not come out of a full heart; generally the fuller it is the fewer the words are.

Mr Samson said, truly, "I am the person to return thanks; it has done me more good to see you enjoy your breakfast than it did me to eat mine ; but now, what brought you on Christmas Day ? You don't do business oil Christmas Day ?" "No, sir. I came, not ou the business of the house'" ( Rundle was an inferior clerk in a bank), " but on my own business."

"Ah yes, go on," said.Mr Samson. The poor man then, with some hesitation, gave him a sad story: a sick wife, long doctor's bill, recent death and funeral expense of a child, low salary, dearness of everything—and, in fact, all the trials incident to poverty. " I thought of you, sir, in the night; I remembered, when I found that bank parcel Master Richard lost, you told me if ever you could serve me you would, and I thought it was but trying,—l would come to you—and ten pounds now, sir, would save us, I think; and I will pay it back weekly, sir, as I get ray money—l will indeed." " There," said Mr Samson, almost gaily, putting the money in his hand, "I give it you for a Christmas box, and you are heartily welcome. I ought to have done something sooner. If you want more, I will lend you another ten ; don't say a word, —there's a fowl, roasted cold for my dinner (I never let them cook anything but pudding for me on Christmas Day), you may take that for your wife—and—and here's a bottle of sherry, not uncorked—a glass of it will do you both good, I dare say. No thanks —no thanks—good-bye." Should he mock him by wishing him a merry Christmas?

" God grant you as merry a Christmas as you have made for us, sir!' said Rundle, supplying the answer to his questioning thought, as he left the room, overcome with thankfulness.

Again the peal of bells burst forth. Mr Samson listened, looked at his watch, compared it with the timepiece, and saw that it would be nearly two hours before church. So much good had poor JRundle done him, that he quite smiled, and nodded cheerfully at Mary when she came to remove the things, and asked her if she was going to church.

"so, 'second floor' was going to have friends to dinner, and she would be wanted to help in cooking; but there was an evening meeting at the chapel, and she hoped to get out then." " Your regular service ?" he asked. " No, sir, it's called a thanksgiving meeting for Christmas mercies, and a collection is to be made for such as is in distress," said Mary. " Good," said Mr Samson ; " put that in the plate for me," slipping a shilling into her hand. "Those are, certainly, beautiful bells!" he cried, standing at the window a few minutes afterwards, and looked at the people as they went up and down the wide, respectable street, " beau-t'tful bells. ' Christmas mercies,'" lio thought. " Yes, they ought to be beautiful, and chime out ' Christmas mercies.' lam glad Mary used those words." He seated himself in his easy chair, and took his Bible from the little table beside. He read, he looked around the room, he read again, he meditated ; and the more he thought, the more he discovered for thankfulness, even in his condition, As he had foreseen, the brightness of the morning had passed, and the air was filled with fine snow. On the church steps, as the congregation dispersed, there was much opening of umbrellas and some confusion in consequence. " Allow me, ma'am," he said to an old lady, who seemed to be no match for her refractory umbrella, "Ah, Mr Samson! is it yon, sir? Thank you, I am greatly obliged, indeed."

" It's right now, ma'am. Stop, let me hold it for you—you won't be able to carry it; 0, don't say a word, your house is partly on my way home, you know; lam most happy."

And so he was. With the snow in his face—for he could do no more than shield his companion—and the wind making a rapid walk more desirable than the slow march he was compelled to take by her side, he chatted in his cheerfullest manner possible, and walked two streets out of his way to take her safe to her door.

" I mustn't ask you to walk in, I know; being Christmas Day, of course you are engaged," said the old lady. No, ho was not engaged till his dinner-time. Yesterday's cold roast beef would not get colder if he kept it waiting; he would walk in and see Mr James. And lie walked in. Such a dull room. Blinds down to exclude light—all the furniture bearing impress of the presence of an invalid; here a pillow on a chair, there a medicine bottle on the tabic, a gruel cup on the what-not, a jug of reviving drink on the flower-stand: the insignia of sickness had taken possession of every standing room it could find.

And there on the sofa by the fire, in his dressing-grown, lay Mr James, pale, hollow-eyed, and sad.

" You are much worse than I knew of," said Mr Samson, going up to him. " Until your mother told me, I thought you were recovering rapidly." " Not rapidly, but 1 am better, and hope," said Mr James with a sigh. "It's very good of you to come and see me."

Mr Samson took a chair by the sofa, entered into a pleasant chat, sympathising yet cheerful, and had the satisfaction of seeing the cloud lighten on the sick man's face. "You were at our church, or you would not have seen my mother. A good sermon ? " asked Mr James, whose powers of speech seemed to be returning with strength and speed, and the old lady sat opposite, enjoying the improvement. " Admirable, and such a text!" said Mr Sampson. "What was it?" asked the sick man.

"It hecometh well (he just for justified) to be thankful." Mr James bowed his head, and his friend opened to him the heads of the sermon and the application of the subject. "It comes home to me" said Mr James, at the close ; " very unthankful I am, I fear; not like you." Mr Samson looked back on the morning, and said, sincerely, "My dear friend, if you knew me—but, let it pass."

" You have done me a world of good," said Mr James, as he parted from him. " Thank you for this kindness."

" The good is ss much, if not more, to me" said Mr Samson, heartily, He could not help looking as he passed them at the windows brightened by Christmas fires, around which he oould see, in imagination, happy family groups gathered, and the vision of his own lonely apartment rose sadly before him. He looked at the wedding-ring which he had worn on his little finger for more than twenty years—the ring he had taken from his poor wife's hand after she had worn it but a few months, and a tear trickled in his eye. " Very remarkable," he thought, " that I, who am naturally so sociable, and have such lively affections, should be doomed to live alone." Then the loss of his nephew, a traveller in Africa, of whom he had received no tidings for five years, and who was looked on as certainly lost by all competent judges, brought its usual accession of grief. "If I had but kept Dick, and could have seen him married to Caroline, and taken up my home with them and their children, I should not have spent a eolitary Christmas Day!"

" I wonder how Caroline is I" he thought again. " She is generally so low spirited when she sees me, even now, and her mother, whom she never leaves, is such a fidget—so full of misery—that I don't go there half as often as—l ought; no, it's true—for Dick's sake, I ought to go. Well, I ivill go—and I'll go to-day— at once. Perhaps they find Christmas Day oppressive through loneliness, as I do. I will just look in and try and cheer them, and then back to dinner."

It was some mile and a half distance to Caroline, but the snow had ceased, and he walked on briskly till he came to her door. He found them, as he had anticipated, very sorrowful, very un-Christmas-like in looks, but they ohoered up amazingly while he was with them.

The old lady told him, while Caroline was out of the room, that her daughter had received an admirable offer from a gentleman during the last week, but_ had rejected him. " She says she will never marry."

Mr Samson loved her in his heart for her constancy, but said little; when she came back he was more tender than usual in his manner to her. The thought involuntarily struck him that when the old lady died she would belike himself—alone, and then he would offer Caroline a home as a daughter, and how great a change that would make in his life! They could together mourn over the poor lost one, together seek consolation under his loss. He got so in love with this plan, that he felt (though ashamed to own it to himself) almost disappointed when he saw, on looking at her, how wiry and promising for long-life the old lady appeared. " I will, though," he said; and he did his best to bring smiles to her pale face, and smooth the wrinkles in the old lady's, by conversing cheerfully on " Christmas mercies." He succeeded so well that Caroline's heartfelt thanks for his visit rang a chime in his heart all the way through the long streets, and if he could have seen his face in the glass he would have cried,, "What! you the man that is mourning a solitary Christmas ?" It snowed again, and he put up his umbrella. He kept it in front/for the wind drove the snow in on him; by this means, seeing nothing but the legs of those he met, he knocked up against his old partner in the law, who now occupied his place in the firm, Mr Brent. Both expressed surprise at meeting, and then both said they didn't know why they should be surprised; and both wished each other a happy Christmas, and then both declared that the other looked as if he were enjoying Christmas right well. " Oh, yes," said Mr Samson, " I have no cloud on my horizon; that is—at least—you understand me—there is one cloud—but that one God's light shines through, and I am able to believe that all is right; but you —you are surrounded by loving faces; you haven't the four corners of your sitting-room staring you in the face, as I have." " I shouldn't know that there was a corner in the house, it's so full," said Mr Brent, laughing. "It's worth your while to come and see. All the Brents, of every age and size and degree of relationship— all my cousins, young and old, that are, as you may say, loose about in the world, with nobody particular to take caro of them; and, as if these were not enough, my wife has a large party in the kitchen—her ' particulars!'" Mr Samson felt more inclined to go home, but his friend was so urgent that he assented. Many mistakes are thus made through kindness. Mr Brent pressed him because he thought it would do him good, and not for his own sake, for in that crowd how could he enjoy his company ? Such mistakes, however, often turn out happily, as this did. The members of the Brents and their " loose-about-the-world cousins" had not been overstated, and although the house and the rooms were very capacious, there would have been some difficulty in counting corners. Mr Samson felt very lonely at] first, for all were strange to him except the young children, and he was glad to accept Mrs Brent's invitation to the hall to hear her "particulars" (which included old servants, two poor needlewomen, and two or three widows having piety and poverty for their recommendations) — to hear these and the " staff," as Mr Brent called the domestics ot the house, sing the Christmas anthem. " This," whispered Mr Brent to him, " is a little ■weakness of my wife's; her heart is full of harmony, but not a note of music is there in her composition, elsewhere — so she does not know, poor dear creature, the pain she inflicts on sensitive ears by the noise that delights her and those who make it. You must bear it like a man ! Stick to the ivords, that's what I try to do." Certainly there was some effort necessary, and cotton wool for the ears would have been a comfort; but through it all Mr Samson enjoyed Mrs Brent's look of intense satisfaction, and her husband's successful endeavors to stick to the words, and bear the music patiently for their sake. In the spirit of the words, too, he surveyed the singers until his eyes brimmed over with emotion; a year of toil, and doubtless much privation, forgotten in this one day of unmingled happiness! If it hadn't been for the fear that he would put them out, he would certainly have joined in the chorus. " Well, taking the good and the bad together, you'll own it was better to come to us than to go home to 'one cup and saucer,' " said Mr Brent, as he took leave. "Better twenty times," was the reply.

" Any letters V* he inquired, according to lis custom, as he took his candle from Mary's fellow-servant and went upstairs. " No, sir," said the servant, and he was soon seated by his solitary fireside. He looked at the four corners of the room and smiled, remembering: his friend's words. " Good people—happy people!" he thought. In going over the miimtia of his visit, he dwelt with painful pleasure on the delicate kindness with which Mrs Brent had adverted to his loss, which seemed ever fresh; upon her remarks concerning trial in general, and on her husband's manly expressions of faith and submission, both of which had been greatly exercised a few months back by the death of his eldest boy. " Christmas, you see, takes off the false wraps which we invest our good and evil in; it opens heaven and lets out such a flood of light and such a power of love that we see the truth of all, and are made able to sing, ' Glory to God in the highest.'" "To be sure, he is right, perfectly right!" Musing and reading, an hour passed; the time-piece struck. " Ten ! is it possible ? "—he rang the bell, and swy came smiling in,

" Supper, Mary. Have you had a happy Christmas Day, Mary ?" He listened to her account of the family meeting, and of the meeting to celebrate Christmas mercies, with sympathy, and when she left the room, could not help feeling, " Nobody alone in the world but poor \ Samson." He stood before .the holly-crowned portrait, and was obliged to use sternness with himself to keep back his tears. "What late hours then- company keep," he thought, as a carriage rattled to the door, while he ate his supper. " Well, I am glad there are no more ' solitaries' in the house."

" Please, sir—a gentleman, sir," said Mary, throwing open the door, and standing with breathless excitement while a stranger, bronze-faced, with a jet-black beard and bushy whiskers, advanced to meet Mr Samson. Mr Samson rose, turned somewhat pale, and after a second of bewildered surprise, clasped him in his arms. " My boy, my poor dear boy!" Not many leaps did Mary take from the top of the stairs to the bottom, and announced, with clapping of hands, " The pictur's come, the pictur's come —him as I stuck with holly th*» morning." Yes, it was the "pictur'," but not much like the one in the frame. The letter dispatched on his arrival in England, Mary had taken in and put in the accustomed spot; her Christmas joys had made her forget to ask Mr Samson if he had seen it.

Having closed thus happily Mr Samson's Christmas Day, we will not stay to explain the causes of his nephew's long silence and unlooked for return, nor describe Caroline's joy and his uncle's happiness. This would take long to do. The reader will not wonder that Mr Samson always signalized the day so closed as " that Christmas Day," and little Mary did too, adding " that Christmas Day when the pictur' come!"