Puck — December 25, 1878 — page 11: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

jE Sidney,” said she, “ it is very inconsiderate of you to make such a noise, when you know how weak my nerves are; and what were you going to say about me? I know it was some- thing unpleasant, but I would not listen, for that I despise.” “You had better not ask, then,” said he, somewhat abruptly, but checked himself, and added, in a more constrained tone, “ I was only going to say, ‘My dear, why let out the fire, and perish both yourself and me with the cold—on Christmas-eve, too, of all nights in the year??”” “Now that is just like you,” replied Carrie; ‘as if I could get get up and walk across the room to do that!” : “Well, I did not know you could not,” re- plied Sidney; “ you seemed quite brisk this afternoon when Mrs, Gore called. Then why does not Sarah see to it?” “Poor Sarah! I really believe you hate that girl,” said Mrs. Dainton, beginning to whim- per. “Iwish I had never taken her when poor papa died; but I suppose you would never like any servant who was devoted to me.” “What nonsense! just because I wish her to do her duty,” replied Sidney. ‘And there are no coals here. But I suppose she will be up presently with the tea.” “The tea is gone down long ago,” said Mrs, Dainton. ‘ You are so late; you always are now.” “I said half-past seven,” said Sidney. “Yes, you did, and at half-past seven it came,” said Carrie.“ But you can have some now if you like.” “No, thank you,” replied he. “I am going out presently, I daresay mother will give me some,” “‘ Mrs. Dainton was here this afternoon. I told her how very lonely I was, but she did not stay. She will be rather surprised to see you away from your home to-night, I should think.” “At all events she will be glad,” said Sidney, in a tone of dreary sarcasm. “How you can care to go there so much I cannot think; to think of a mother that teaches dancing! And then that Maggie Sefton—her father was a colonel, it is true, but only in the Indian army, and everyone knows what that is.” “My mother is my mother,” replied Sidney, “and Maggie is her adopted daughter;” and with this reply he left the room, A very different scene awaited him at his mother’s house. Two fair girls, Maud and Emily Dainton, were occupied in roasting chestnuts by the aid of the huge log of wood burning on the hearth, and Maggie Sefton was knetling on the hearth-rug watching them. Stephen was in a corner reading, and Mrs. Dainton was gossiping with an old lady who had just dropped in to tell and hear the news. Sidney was greeted with great delight. “What, Sidney!” exclaimed Mrs. Dainton. “ Well, this is charming; you are just come in time to play one of your beautiful pieces to kind Mrs. Macredy. And how is poor dear Carrie? Ah, look, he has brought his music, that naughty fellow!” and tapping him on the shoulder, she pointed to the piano, Sidney obeyed, looking with a ruefully comic expression at Stephen, who lifted his eyebrows in answering sympathy. He played a brilliant waltz, “That is very different dance music from ours, is it not, Maud, my pet ?” said Mrs. Dain- ton. “Ah, how well I remember when poor T. W. used to play for the little ladies and gen- tlumen, and then I used to cut up the sand- wiches for them! And you, Sidney, I remem- ber one day Mrs. Morfin, of Noble House, looked at you and said, ‘Oh, what a lovely boy!’ and then she actually kissed you.” “You don't say so, mother!” said Sidney, in a tone of horror. Stephen looked over his paver at Sidney, and muttered some brief sentence in mono- tone. Sidney tried in vain to catch it. At last he succeeded. It was “Don’t you hate mother?” ‘The girls heard it too, and there was a merry burst of laughter; fortunately Mrs. Dainton did not. Sidney knelt down on the hearth-rug between his sister Emily and Maggie Sefton, and gently placed an arm round each of them, “Dear old boy!” said Emily, caressing him. “Tt is so jolly to have you.” Maggie did not speak, but touched his hand gently, half absently, with her own, Her dark lustrous ‘eyes were fixed on the glowing embers, and there was a wild pathos in them that was very pitiful, Her slender stately form seemed to need no supporting arm to strengthen it, but the shapely head, with its dark masses of glossy braids—usually held with such queenly dignity, as though it could well bear the weight of a crown—now drooped with the weight of an unuttered misery. Her thoughts were at St. Mary's clergy-house, where the young Rec- tor lay stricken with a dangerous fever. “Are you going to give many Christmas- boxes, Stephen?” demanded Maud of her bro- ther, “Not more than I can help,” replied he, “I was obliged to give Robinson one, because he sang so well last Sunday; and I refused to let him go about singing carols to-night, as he has a cold.” “Ah, you were afraid he would meet Adams in the cathedral choir and be eclipsed,” said Sidney, laughing. “That he might easily be if the others made more noise,” replied Stephen; the moon can eclipse the sun, you know.” “Mother,” said Maud, in her musical voice, “remember that Santa Claus has to come to- night with some presents.” “Oh, I don't believe in yonr Santa Claus,” replied Mrs. Dainton; “in my days it used to be the nice old-fashioned fairies who got the credit of it.” “Well, then, let it be the fairies, only let us find something nice.” «What babies you are!” said Sidney. “Qh, all very fine, sir,” said Emily; “ you know you like chocolate and sweets as well as we do.” “J like sweet little girls better,” said Sidney, kissing her. “Ah, naughty pipsy-popsies!” said Mrs. Dainton, shaking her finger at them. “ Now, young gentlemen, I must turn you out, for I Promised Mrs. Macredy you should walk home with her, and it is time for my young maidens here to go bye-bye.” Sidney and Stephen had to accept their fate, which they did with a good grace; and having deposited Mrs. Macredy at her residence, Ste- phen volunteered to go with his brother as far as the Close. As they were passing through the turnstile into the cathedral yard a boy ran against Sidney in the darkness. “Hullo!” said the latter, “The Rector of St. Mary's is dead, sir!” said the boy, and ran on. “No more Gregorians for you, old boy,” said Sidney, as he grasped his ‘brother's hand and turned to open the dour with his latch- key. ‘“Good-night.” “Good-night,” said Stephen, turning away without further parlance. Sidney found his wife asleep when he entered her room. He had hardly time to congratulate himself when her eyes opened, and the usual complaining “ Well, Sidney,” greeted his ear. “Well, my dear,” replied he cheerfully. “1 have just heard that the Rector of St. Mary’s is dead.” “You inhuman creature!” wailed Carrie; “how could you tell me anything so shocking! PUCK. Be Ir aod now I daresay that I shall not sleep all night." “T thought you would like to know,” said Sidney, laying his head on the pillow with re- solution, It was clear he meant to sleep, at all events; so Carrie had no alternative but to try to follow his example. The next morning Mrs. Dainton’s servant entered the room of the three girls with much bustle, After shaking the two sisters without much result, but some feeble groans, she turned to Maggie Sefton. “Now, Miss Maggie, my dear, do’ee get up. Here is Christmas-day, and that pore-young gentleman lying dead at the clergy-house, and your pretty new frocks all waiting to be put on,” Maggie started up, half dazed with sleep and misery. “A merry Christmas to you, Anne,” said she mechanically. She did not look for her Christmas gifts, for Maggie knew that nowhere, in the whole wide world, could Santa Claus find for her anything that she would value now, CHAPTER IIL THE SECOND CHRISTMAS-EVE, A YEAR passed away, and Christmas-eve came again. A little group of shadowy figures were sitting round the fire in Sidney Dainton’s din- ing-room, and speaking occasionally in hushed tones, The twilight of the gray afternoon had turned to night, yet though the shutters were closed, the candles had not been lighted. Out- side lay the snow, and all the shrubs of the little garden looked weird and ghostly as they stood, still and motionless, clad in this unaccustomed vesture. It was a strange and melancholy Christmas-eve to those who were here assem- bled, and such perforce it must be, for Carrie Dainton had died that afternoon. The house was very quiet, all the bustle of the afternoon had died away, and Mrs Daintoa and her daughter Emily had gone back to their own house. But dt Sidney's earnest request, the two other girls had remained; and with them also had lingered Stephen Dainton, unwilling to leave his brother in this time of sadness, Before the fire sat Maggie, clad in a dress of plain black serge, relieved by no ornament but a tiny silver cross, which hung at her bosom and glittered in the firelight. She was still as beautiful as she had been, and the glow of health brightened her cheeks, and contrasted well with the dusky coloring of her gypsy-like complexion Her expression was calm and sweet, very much like the Maggie of a year ago, but more matured, more self-contained, less given to fiery outbursts or eager enthusiastic defense of her opinions or favorites. Maud looked lovingly at her, as she leant her sunny head against her shoulder. “Ah, Maggie,” whispered she, “ how I wish you had married Sidney!” “ That could not have been,” said Maggie; “1 should as soon have thought of marrying you, my darling.” «Yes, L know,” replied Maud. “ You are a lady and we are not.” Maggie smiled. She knew it was useless to combat this rooted conviction of Maud’s mind, for she had never been able to, though they had grown up together from childhood. She only said, “It could not have been, anyhow.” “© No,” said Maud, ‘I have not forgotten this day last year, dear, though you may think Ihave.” : Maggie stroked her hair and made no reply. Meanwhile Stephen and Sidney were speak- ing together in low tones. : comicbooks:com