The Empty Chair

New Zealand Tablet, 24 December 1908, Page 21

The Empty Chair

A HRISTMAS STORY Gordon Raymond stepped out to where his carriage waited for him. Me was a stately old man, richly clad, his general appearance that of one accustomed to ease and elegance. His footman stood with hand upon the open door of the vehicle, and he paused halfway down the steps to how courteously to a young girl who looked at him with a smile and nodded as she passed. Gordon Raymond's face did not relax, his eyes did not brighten, though the countenance upturned to his would have gladdened the heart of any man not a misanthrope. Its very fairness and freshness and unspoiled youth would have served as passports to immediate favor. Ordinarily, even Gordon Raymond could not resist it; ordinarily, it gave him a distinct sense of pleasure. But not to-day. There was a heavy cloud upon his spirits — clue, indeed, partially, if not wholly, to the pretty girl herself . For she was one of his happy next-door neighbors. In spite of the crustiness which the years had brought to a lonely old man, he had found himself unable to resist the brightness of the three young sisters who made their home next to his dwelling-place — feeling but too well tlie difference between those two words. Because of the very gaiety and light-heartedness of the trio he had, during the first few months of their proximity, ignored .them ; during those first few months he had withdrawn into his shell, doing his best to remain insensible and unmoved by their bright good-mornings ' and cheerful ' good-days.' But he would have had to be more than human to resist. Try as he might could not. Try as he would, he felt that he dared not; that he was shutting out the only bit of pleasure that had come to him in years. He bent, he thawed, he yielded, and so strong grew the craving for human sympathy that where he had avoided he now sought them. The older one with the gray eyes, and the next One with the yellow hair, and the youngest one with the pretty smile — this was the way he arranged them in his mental category. It was the youngest one with the pretty smile who paused to flash that pretty smile up at liim, her face shining like a white rose from her soft brown furs. She was merrier than the other two, and now as she passed and smiled she held up a great bunch of holly in her gloved hand, and put her dainty head on one side with a gay and roguish look, as if to challenge him to speech, and as if to say to him, ' And where is your holly? And where are you going at this hour on Christmas Eve, instead of staying at home ? Have you no merry Christmas to prepare for, j to look forward to ? '

He knew full well that she had. That day he must have been deaf, did he not overhear the bursts of laughter, the bright chatter, the gay voices wafted into Ms open library window from the window next door. And perhaps he left his own window oi>en much longer than he would have deemed necessary at another time, for from smiling and listening sympathetically he had grown suddenly cold and chilled. They had spoken of him — only a few words, a few simple and sympathetic words: ' The poor, lonely, rich old man next door 1 ' And he knew himself then for what he was — 'a poor, lonely, rich old man 1 ' He pushed his book away from him and sat back in his chair, the light fading from his countenance. He had never looked at it in quite that way. He had always been proud of his station, his birth, his independence, his adamantine will, his firm disposition, even his good health. He was pleased to see that men considered him clever and consulted him and asked his advice, even though he were now somewhat advanced in years. These things he was indeed proud of with a very great pride, and because he had very great wealth he was never undeceived. For tin first time in his singularly lucky, supremely contented and highly rsepectable existence he had heard his name spoken with sympathy and pitifully. It had been the older one with the soft gray eyes, the one he liked the best, and perhaps it was the thrill of feeling in her low and gentle

voice that brought home the words with such stunning force : ' The poor, lonely, rich old man ! ' 'No Christmas tree! ' Ah, that had been one of the sorrows of the season which they felt he must endure. < No tormenting sisters ! ' Another sorrow, this? 'And, oh,' with a laugh and a rush that sounded as if there were thirty instead of three girls in the room, 'no sweet, beautiful, altogether lovely and charming mother, with a father in the background who was a veritable Santa Clans ! ' And then a deeper and fuller and older voice remonstrating, drowned amid a shower of kisses and shrieks of laughter. For was not this Christmas Eve, and were they— children at heart still — not privileged to be as foolish as they pleased ? No wonder he ordered his carriage — 'the poor, lonely, rich old man — ' and shut his window tight, and planned a drive off with his thoughts and his pride to keep "him cor pany and forget the noisy happiness he might never hope to take part in, though once But he had no regrets; he surely had no regrets, he, the Avealthy and highly respected Raymond, the millionaire? And as he came down the steps the youngest one with the pretty smile passed below him and nodded and laughed and held up her bunch of holly.

After that the old man saw little of the city streets as his carriage rolled through them. In spite of himself, he could not help hut remember past Christmases—Christmascs which had been very, Tery happy contrasted to that which he would know on tho morrow. The memory saddened his old face and tightened his thin lips, yet he could not, even if he would, have put the memory away. He stopped at his club. Before entering, acting on an impulse, he went into the big confectionery store close to it and ordered a box of candy, monstrous in size. With it he enclosed his card. 'To my three pretty neighbors, from the poor, lonely, rich old man next door, 5 he scribbled on the back of it, smiling as he did so, thinking what tley would say when they received it. And his old lips were so unused to such smiling, and his face so accustomed to its severity, that a fellow-member, meeting him as he stood in the hall of the club house, looked at him in some astonishment. ' Hello . 'he exclaimed, ' Have you heard good news?' Ilaymond drew himself up. ' No,' he said, rather shortly. ' Why do you ask? ' 'Oh, you've got a sort of Christmasy look!' He laughed as if it were a joke. 'A good-cheer-and-let's-be-happy look ; a sort of long-lost-relative-just-found look ! " Aad again he laughed, while Gordon Raymond turned away displeased, a frown on his forehead and an uncomplimentary word on his livjs.

He threw off his overcoat and sank into a leather chair near the open grate. The room was warm, bright, well lighted, but Gordon Raymond was chilled to the marrow. He ordered a hot drink; it did not warm him, nor the cigar that he puffed at slowly, nor the heat of the room, nor the nearness of the blazing logs. He was cold He looked at his fine, thin, white hands, bluish in hue nov, and shrunken. He moved his feet closer to the fire. They were numb. And as he sat and meditated, a curious thought struck him. The chill came from within; his heart and soul were cold and empty; and, because this was the season of warmth of heart and soul, because this ww the eve of that great day which the Lord had made, his life seemed most barren and valueless. Again, as once before that self-same evening, Gordon Raymond let his head fall hack. " A poor, lonely, rich old man '—truly, now, that was his proper title. And the lines about his mouth deepened, and the shadows grew darker until his tired eyes and his forehead took on t frown that was not all due to the light of the room, but seemed rather to signify repressed pain. His thin hands — one lying upon his knee, the other holding his cigarclasped and unclasped nervously. Arid while he sat thus a cheery voice called to the irreproachable waiter, and the

same cheery voice saluted him as its owner took a chair opposite. ' Hello, Mr. Raymond 1' he exclaimed. ' Genuine Christmas weather, this. Snapping, hearty, gorgeous, isn't it ? Christmas is in the air.' Gordon Raymond, unclosing his eyes, nodded several times without lifting his head. ' Yes,' he answered, slowly. ' Genuine Christmas weather, and— er— Christmas is generally in the air about this time of the year, isn't it?' But Bob Windthrop's high spirits could not be dashed because Gordon Raymond was not enthusiastic. 'Each Christmas seems happier to me than the one that preceded it,' he said. ' The boys make it lively — I've four youngsters, you know, and I'll guarantee we have amuch fun to the square inoh ' He paused suddenly. He was indeed a gay-hearted felloAV, not too young, with a splendid home, a lovely wif<j and happy, healthy children. But he had not gone through life untouched by its pain, and he read the signs now In the white countenance opposite him.

' I say, I really forgot you didn't have any one,' he began in an altered. tone. 'Lots of friends, oh— of course —hat you know — well, you know what I mean.' He paused. The other, neither by word nor sign, filled up that pause. 'Dome a favor, will you, Raymond? We'll have none of the old folks this year. Neither of Marion's parents are alive, and mine are still in Europe on account of the father's health, so we must keep Christmas without them. Will you come home with me? There's nobody in that big house of yours to care, and— oh, hang it all, Raymond, it must be a bit lonesome for you ! Come on, and let those lads of mine pester you a bit 1 ' He ended so cheerfully, so boyishly, that Gordon Raymond bent forward. A smile crept to his thin lips, and from his lips to his eyes. ' I'd be tempted to accept, Bob,' he said. ' I would, indeed, but that I take Christmas dinner to-morrow with my daughter.' Bob Windthrop's eyes widened. 'Your — -> 'My daughter, yes; my daughter Adele. Under th=> circumstances '

'Of course, of course ! ' cried the young man hastily. I didn't know, Raymond. In fact, you've surprised me, I thought— every one believes— of course, that is another thing. Well, a merry Christmas, a merry Christmas 1 i must be going on. I just dropped in to see if I couil catch Peters and take him back with me. Peters is godfather to my youngest, and I suppose I'm a fool over them, but Peters is worse than I am. A merry Christmas, Raymond, and to ' — with a curious 100k — ' a merry Christmas to your daughter too ! ' He rose, turned, but his gaze lingered on the old man's face. There was an unwonted brightness in- his eyes as he went down the room ' The poor old chap ! ' he whispered under his breath. • The poor, lonely old chap — with all his money.' At tlie door he met Peters. Peters had already despatched almost a half vanload of toys to the Windthrop domicile, but Peters now bore under his arm several sus-picions-looking bundles, and his pockets were full to overflowing. Peters was younger than his lifelong friend, Bob, but not yet as happy, as Bob told him, since he was

still single. Now, as they went out together, Windthrop indicated that quiet figure in the chair by a nod. ' I just asked Raymond to the house. He declined; says lie's going to dine with his daughter to-morrow. Who's his daughter?' ' Never heard *ie had one,' said Peters. 'Never knew he was married. Sure he said his daughter?' ' His daughter Adele — those were the words.' ' Oh, his mind must be wandering.' ' Poor old chap, poor old chap i ' repeated Bob Windthrop. 'If I told Marion that it would spoil her Christ--mas.' ' Then for goodness' sake, don't tell her ! * exclaimed Peters, very energetically. ' There's enough unhappiness in the world without making her -unhappy. Why, Bob. every time I see Marion I only hope I can bring that look to Nell's face.' 'Well, you've every prospect,' said Boh, laughing. ' Both young, hearty, cheerful, and of like tastes.' And so the ' poor, lonely, rich old man,' with his chilled heart and empty soul, drifted out of the conversation, and even the thoughts of these happy folk, to whom xhe delights

of Christmas came as their right— a right enjoyed to the full. He sat silent long after Bob Windthrop left him. His cigar went out, fell from his fingers to the floor, lay there forgotten and unheeded. ' Presently, however, he rose slowly to his feet, stretched his tired old limbs, and then slipped into the overcoat Jackson held ready for him, thanking him and bestowing a Christmas gift that made the man's eyes shine. A few seconds later he was starting toward his lonely mansion. As he went up the steps he saw a messenger carrying a huge box into the house next door, and he pictured, mentally, the consternation that would prevail among his pretty neighbors in a few moments. The look of amusement, that the thought evoke 1 lingered still as he entered the library. 'Tell Stephen to come here' were his first words, and the old butler, a little mystified, went at once to the room. ' Stephen,' began Gordon Raymond, ' It is rather late to give orders now, but what arrangements have you made for to-morrow ? '

' Nothing out of the ordinary, sir,' answered Stephen. "You see, you have never * ' I understand, I understand,' said Gordon Raymond, waving the explanation aside. ' But this time I want you to get up as elaborate a dinner as you know how, and you know lioav, Stephen. I want the dining-room decorated with holly and smilax, and as many— as many, 5 he hesitated a little, ' lilies-of-the-valley as you can buy at the stores. Send a messenger out now to order them.' .Stephen; who had- been with Gordon Raymond almost all his lifetime, gazed at him in consternation. 'Lilies-of-the-valley? Yes, sir; yes, sir. And— and— an elaborate spread? Places for how many, Mr. Gordon? ' ' One guest and myself. My daughter dines witn me.' The consternation on Stephen's face turned to absolute dismay, but he recovered himself quickly, bowed, and went out. * And it was very, very beautiful indeed. The old man moved slowly through the room, his eyes dwelling on the daintily-set table. The silver, the delicate china, the tall

candlesticks, all the carefully-hoarded treasures of the old house spread in a manner to please the eye and the taste of the most. fastidious. .It was long since the dinner-board was thus decorated. Gordon Raymond looked about him with satisfaction— at the dark oaken walls on which candlegleam and f:relight played, bringing out new shadows and intensifying deeper ones. The scent of the lilies-of-the-valley, sweet and penetrating, filled the air. Stephen lingered, adding a touch here and there, his gaze seeking, off and on, the face of that other old man; not curiously, but with a strange look of pity. 'Is everything right now, sir?' he asked. 'Does it please you ?' Very, very much,' said Gordon Raymond. 'We shall do ourselves credit.' 1 At what hour do you and — or — do you expect to have dinner, sir?' 'The usual time. You have so arranged it, Stephen ?' ' Yes, sir.'

'Then come here; come closer, nearer to the fire. I want to talk to you.' The old man came close as he was bidden. Gordon Raymond stood at the hearth, his arm resting on the high mantel board. ' Stephen,' he began, very quietly, ' you have had a wife.' • Yes, sir. The Lord give her peace.' "Amen to that, Stephen. She was a good woman. ' He paused an instant, and when he spoke again there was a different note in his voice. ' And you have had children.' ' Five, sir — still living, all.' ' I know. And grandchildren.' 'Grandchildren— beautiful, lovable, the delight of all who know them.' 'So.' Gordon Raymond looked into the fire with sombre gaze. ' All those things you have, and men, even men such as I, call you blessed. Well, Stephen, you have been with me — Ave have been together many years.' ' Many years, Mr. Raymond.' ' You know my history. I, too, had a wife- : '

His voice broke. 'A wife, sirp' Oh, no, not a wife. Rather, sir, an angel. Oh, sir, an angel ' 'Lent to me, and taken back again.' ' That is it, sir. Taken back, but taken back too soon.' Stephen coughed and turned his grey head .away, ashamed a little of the tears in his eyes. ' You know also all the rest. And, Stephen, knowing what you know, it pleases me to tell you that I dine with

my daughtei this Christmas night, when all the world sits down amidst its own, rejoicing, merry and glad. Place the empty chair at the head of my table, Stephen, that chair which has been so long unoccupied, and serve your Miss Adele as if she were really present. Come now, good and blest old man,' he put shaking, cold fingers on the other's shoulders, ' good Stephen, come. It is my fancy that to-night she sits opposite to me — the girl I sent away, the flowers that she loved best about her, their perfume surrounding her. It is my fancy that her beautiful eyes meet mine witli their old joyousness. Dead or living, God gives me this grace to-night, this happy Christmas night, to see her once again as she was, as she is; my own, of my own flesh and my own blood, the child I loved with all my heart, and whom, Stephen, whom I still love — as dearly.' His hands dropped. Stephen made no pretence now of hiding the tears. He looked at him. ' Mr. Gordon, sir ' Gordon Raymond raised his head. ' That is all, .Stephen. When dinner is ready, yon will find me in the library, as usual.' Fifteen minutes later Stephen tapped lightly and announced the serving of the meal. Gordon Raymond bowed to some imaginary ' person, offered her Hiis arm, escorted her to the door, which Stephen held wide open. In silence the meal began, and as Gordon Raymond ate he looked at the empty chair under the softly-shaded light. Stephen served at it first, and then brought the dishes to li.'s master. In every movement the old butler, too, carried out the illusion. And presently Gordon Raymond's fao lighted up, so keenly did his imagination take possession of him, and his eyes shone with a brighter gleam.

What visions of that absent one came before him I The little girl in her white robe, with its black ribbons^ that first, lonely, heart-breaking Christmas' after his wife's death. The schoolgirl with her shining, youthful, beautiful face. The young woman, accomplished, graceful, winning, lovable. And after that? . „ Nothing. For it was then, just then, that she had defied him, not openly, but with a quiet self-will which enraged tho man of self-will. She married— married beneath her in wealth and station. To-night she sat before him, the-gracious, graceful girl he loved, and who, he knew, had loved him dearly. The beautiful girl, with her -gentle voice so like her mother's, and her gentle face and her gentle ways. , The meal went on, and as it did so he bent forward, thinking that ho heard her speak. Stephen withdrew to the side of the room, standing with glance riveted on his master's countenance, his master's glance riveted on that empty chair. Ah! Gradually the dream was fading. Gradually tho sorrow of his own self-deception was being forced upon him. For no keenness of the imagination could bring that sweet presence before hinij and even as lie gazed he saw another face, a lovable face, set above a slim, white-robed body. And the woman whom now his vision contemplated held out to him her beseeching hands. 'Gordon,' she prayed, 'where is the little one I gave into your care? Husband and father, what have yon done with my little gin ?' A groan hurst from his lips, his head fell forward on his breast, his eyes closed. And while he sat thus, his white hair shining in the candle light, his white hands resting on the polished table, Stephen moved with noiseless steps toward the door. He opened it. A woman en-

tered, stately as Gordon Raymond? s self, beautiful; advanced to the table, and sat down in that empty chair without footstep or breath to. herald her coming. Gordon Raymond did not lift his eyes. As he sat silent, his mental gaze concentrated On the past, he heard a voice : ' Give that to father, please, Stephen.'

It was a very musical voice, so soft that it did not disturb or startle the old man. He looked up slowly — this was but part of his dream — gazed down the table — sat staring, mutely. For the empty chair was filled. Above that brow where once shone hair of gleaming gold was piled now a coronet of gleaming silver. Those

blue eyes were still as blue and open, yes, and as loving as of yore. Those lips were curved to the sweet smile he knew. In all things this was like, so like, his lost Adele. And yet unlike, too. An older Adele — one who had known life's trials and vicissitudes, but still lovely, lovely witli a beauty shining from within. She smiled at him again as he looked at her — smiled, but said no word.

His hand went to his forehead in a dazed way. Stephen quietly put down the dish he held, went out and closed the door, and his existence was forgotten by Gordon Raymond. He rubbed his eyes, but still she sat there, smiling. He looked away from her and back again. The mystery of it smote him, then smote full upon him. He sprang to his feet, leaning Ms weight upon his hands while he bent towards her. *

' If you ate no vision of a disordered! brain, no phantom conjured up by my imagination, speak, speak ! Speak, if it be but one word!' He saw her rise and push back her chair and move toward him. She put her arms about him and held him close; her warm, soft cheek was pressed to his cold one, her warm fingers met about his neck.

' It is no vision, no phantom, dear father,' she whispered. 'It is Adele.' He leaned against her, tremblingly. He gazed into her eyes ; he put his arm about her, touched her hair, her cheek with his fingers in amazement and in rapture. ' Adele!' he said. 'God be praised; it is Adele!' ' Indeed, Adele,' she answered. ' Who has been wait-

ing for this hour to win her way back into your heart. Whose husband and whose children are waiting, too. How I have prayed for this,' she went on. 'How I have prayed! And how God in His great love, and through our good Stephen's help, has straightened the way for me. My father, my dear father, my loved and loving father, tell me you are glad as I am.'

' Oh, child I' he murmured gently, tenderly. c Child, my child 1' ' For months, though I kept myself hidden from your sight, I have been your next-door neighbor,' she continued. 4 The mother of the three girls with whom you have been making friends — yes, they are yours, too. Can you realise that?' He could realise nothing yet— staring from her to the empty chair and back again. Content to realise nothing save that there was Adele, here beside him, her hand ,<i his. That his daughter's loving eyes gazed into his, that her loving face beamed upon him. He could realise nothing but that the heart in his bosom suddenly woke to life and warmth, and sent the blood with new vigor through his frame; that the chill and the cold had left him ; that all was well with liim, and that here, here sat Adele .

And with that new life welling within him he responded to it. His three pretty neighbors came, and with them their father, a grey-haired man now, with the stamp of years well spent upon his countenance — a good husband, a true man, a useful, noble man, devoted to his wife and children. Gordon Raymond advanced to. him, both hands outstretched — hands that asked forgiveness, and all was well between them from that hour. The meal began once more, Stephen, smiling and happy, hovering about the table. And Gordon Raymond yielded to the spirit of Christmas, and talked and laughed as he had not done in years, as he had never thought to do again in all the years that remained to him. And surely, surely, not even the kind-hearted Bob Windthrop was happier among his loved ones than the 'poor, lonely, rich old man ' who dined with his daughter that Christmas day — whose loneliness was, from that day ?n, forever a thing of the past. — Extension.