A TIME BARGAIN AT CHRISTMAS.

Lyttelton Times, Volume CXIV, Issue 13947, 2 January 1906, Page 2

A TIME BARGAIN AT CHRISTMAS.

■ (By THE EARL OF IDDLESLEIGH.) Author of “ Charms,” “ Belinda Fitz warren,” etc. [Ale Rights Reserved.] CHAPTER I. • The 23rd day of December, 1810, was ending, and midnight was at end, as through a window in Langton Grange, i a lovely face looked out upon a world j that was white with snow. For some minutes there was a perfect silence, to be broken by the church clock tolling out twelve musical notes; silence again, and then in the distance rose the song of the Christmas minstrels. Lo! Now is come our joyful’st feast, Let every man be jolly. Each room with ivy leaves is drest, And every pest with holly. Now ali our neighbours’ chimneys smoke, And Christmas blocks are burning, Their ovens they with baked meats choke, And all their spits are turning. In bitter ; contrast to the glad words of the carol there came a sob from a girl whose heart was well-nigh bursting with grief, “ to-morrow, only to-mor-row.” “Adelaide, Adelaide!” cried a voice, which though quick was soft enough, ’ “do you want to catch your death?” and a little woman bustled into the room. “ Why not?” said the girl, in a low. defiant tone, and she continued to stand by the open window, with no protection against the perishing cold of the night, but her thin evening dress of sprigged muslin. “Why not!” exclaimed the ’itt’e woman, divided between pity and exasperation ; “ did mortal ever hear the like of that?” “Often, I imagine,” said Adelaide, bitterly. “ Well I never, and will you look your aunt in the face, and tell her that you know what you say?” “I will, Aunt Mary,” said Adelaide, with the, calmness of desperation. “ I will tell you that ah hope has gone, and with hope all wish to live.” “ All hope gone!” repeated the practical aunt. “ What nonsense! Did yon never hear that while there is life there is always hope, always, do you hear?” “ There are but twenty-four hours left, and all these months never a single word.” “There are nearly fifteen hundred minutes in twenty-four hours, and sixty times that number of seconds. Something happens every second, and therefore, concluded Aunt Mary, “ ’tis a great deal too soon to despair.” CHAPTER 11. Herbert Cressingham and Adelaide Langton had plighted their troths, and their two fathers had assented grudgingly to the betrothal. These fathers had for many years been neighbours, but they had been anything but friends. Many causes of offence had arisen between them, and though neither of them was unjust enough to deny to his child the freedom of matrimonial choice, both were displeased when that choice was made. Sir Gerald Cressingham desired for his son a far higher match than was to be found in the daughter of a squire of moderate means, and Mr Langton looked forward with great dislike to the prospect of his ‘girl’s entry into a family which would give her no cordial reception. Moreover, the Squire was often out-at-elbows, and would have been highly pleased to have obtained a son-in-law with whom ready money was plentiful, as it would certainly not be with Herbert Cressingham, who was simply the heir to estates that were not particularly large, and which were sadly encumbered. If Adelaide would but have seen the shining merits of Samuel Goldsworthy, the excellent son of an army contractor, who had recently died, leaving behind him a__fortune calculated to make any moutTT water, how delightful it would have been. But Adelaide ■ unhappily was blind, and Mr Langton must suffer. The lovers, as might be expected under these circumstances, found the course of their lives to be very-far from smooth. Either parent would have caught with joy at any decant excuse for breaking off the engagement, which, however, survived many dangers. But at last arrived the climax. Captain Cressingham had gone with his regiment to the war in Spain and Portugal, and now in the December of the year 1810, isix 1 months had claused since ho had sent any communication to Adelaide or her father. He had not been either killed or wounded, for he had kept up his correspondence at intervals with Sir Gerald, and Mr Langton frankly hoped ‘that ths captain had changed his mind, and that Adelaide would be free to look elsewhere for a husband. Adelaide 'herself would not doubt, but she became very, very miserable. Then her father spoke' out—the state of things, he said, was intolerable, it should endure no longer, no girl who respected herself could wish to wait for a man who had grown tired of her, that his Adelaide should so demean herself would be an outrage, and he wound up with an angry order that Herbert should be thought of no more. Between father and daughter many a sad and bitter scene ensued, the latter refusing to renounce her .lover. So steady was her resistance to Mr Langton’s demands that he was ultimately forced to resort to a threat which he was well able to carry into effect. He would write a letter to Sir Gerald Cressingham, in which Herbert should bo accused of conduct unworthy of an officer and a gentleman, and his alliance should he scornfully repudiated. Well did Adelaide know how fatal to her hopes such a missive must prove. The old Baronet’s ready pride would catch fire, he would withdraw instantly and for ever his sanction to the marriage, and Herbert, who was wholly dependent on his father, would have to choose between the loss of herself and worldly ruin. In the end a strange bargain was patched up between parent and child. The former agreed to keep silence up to Christmas Day, and the .latter promised on her side that if by that date no tidings of'Captain Cressingham had been received, she would regard her engagement at an end. It was all she could do; some time she thus gained, and in time lay her only hope. But the weeks flew by, and turned into months, and although Adelaide hastened to inform her lover of her ‘bargain, from Captain Cressingham there came never a word. CHAPTER 111. The morning of Christinas Eve was dark and stormy. A thaw had come in the night and many of the narrow roads and lanes were streams of melted snow. The wind had been gradually rising since the early streaks of dawn had appeared in the sky, and by midday there was almost a tempest. “ Bad I weather this for travelling,” was a re- i mark that was freely passed round j

among the company that were spending their holiday in the cheerful parlour of the White Horse Inn. “ Bad weather for all,” was the oracular statement of the parish sexton. “ Fat churchyard oometh with a green yule.” “ ’Us grist to thy mill,” was the grim jest of Mr Thorn, the blacksmith, but the jest was resented on all sides as very bad taste, and the blacksmith subsided into abashed silence. Squire Langton’s gamekeeper spoke next. “ Tell ’eo what, there’ll be one looking to the churchyard before her time, if so be as things rests whore they be.” There was a general sigh and many a murmur. “ Poor Miss Adelaide, I pity her I do.” “ What may you make of it all, if I may take the liberty of asking the question, Mr Fowler,” said the jovial butcher, addressing the keeper. Mr Fowler gravely contemplated the company. “ I met with Mr Hawker only this very morning.” “Aye, a ye,” cried several voices. “ What I be to the Squire, Mr Hawker be to Sir Gerald, and have abeen this many years.” “ Aye, aye, we know.” “ ’Twas he taught the captain to snoot, mortal fond ho be of the captain to bo sure.” “ Aye, aye.” “ And now he be fair shamed, scarce know how to look in my face he didn’t.” “ Speak out, man,” cried Giles, the butcher impatiently, “ don’t harry us like this.” “ Well, word have come,” said Fowler very slowly, “ that the captain is to wed with a grand Spanish lady, with eyes so big as those of a stag, and as black . . .” ho paused in the hope of a happy comparison—“ Ah, as black as the hat what Sexton here weareth at a funeral.” There was a groan of disgust and dismay, but the stout Mr Giles struck in gallantly. “1 believe it none; there’s nothing wrong about the captain, no, nor has been since he were a boy. Who brought this word of his wedding?” The keeper shrugged his shoulders. “ I’ve told ’ee all I know.” “ It’s a lie. I’ll wager it’s a lie.” ; The conciliatory host intervened. “It isn’t for the likes of us to judge how that may be; but there’s one tiling xo say which is, unless I’m making a mistake, Chat if captain cometh not by this very midnight, Squire won’t give him his daughter.” “ Aye, aye, no mistake there,” exclaimed the chorus, “ and Miss Adelaide, poor young lady, will break her heart.” “ Tell ’ee what we might do,” suggested the blacksmith, eager to retrieve his- former blunder, “us might make her chance better than what it be ROW.” “ Ah,” said the sexton with a sneer, “you’re a clever one, you be, how can we do that?” “ Us can put hack the church clock; reckon ’twon’t count as midnight till church clock strikes twelve.” No one spoke, the magnificence of the idea and its adventurous character had for the moment stricken each man, dumb. “ Who’ll dare touch the church clock?” quavered the sexton at last;. The blacksmith gazed around, on all faces ho read approval and encouragement, he took the plunge, " I will.” There was a round of applause, led off by Mr Giles, the butcher, and arrangements were being discussed with the care and caution that were needed for so desperate an enterprise when the butcher was imperatively summoned out to speak to his wife. He quitted the parlour, but returned very quickly in a state of fiery wrath to say that his boy had forgotten to leave at Mistley Hall the sirloin expressly ordered for Christmas Day, and that he must therefore ride over with it himself without the loss of a minute. “ Sakes, man,” said the landlord, “ will you ride a long six miles in such a storm as this?’ “I must,” said Giles gloomily, “ tiro Mistley custom is a good fifty pounds a year.” CHAPTER IV. “ Adelaide, you have no belief in dreams?” thus spoke Aunt Mary, on the morning of Christmas Eve. “ No, Aunt Mary, none.” “ And yet I will tell you whati I dreamed last night, dreamed, too, with extraordinary clearness. I am sure it will interest you.” Adelaide listened, but with indifference. “ I was in a strange place among such people as I had never before seen, and for a time my senses were just dazed. I could not understand what was going on around me., I was only conscious that there was a general stir and excitement, but at last my mind began to clear,, and I knew that I was one of a crowd on tho side of a Harbour 'watching for the arrival of a ship. It was night, but the moon was shining, and the ship beating about in tue open sea was plain in sight. After an interval of expectation there was a cry of satisfaction, a feeling in which I had my own share, tho vessel entered the harbour, and soon the crew began to com© on shore. One of the sailors advanced towards myself, and I had a dim notion that I recognised in him a resemblance to some former friend, but the dress mad© this a matter of doubt. Ho came close up to me, and then I was sure; Adelaide, who do you think it was?” But without waiting for an answer, Aunt Mary went on with all the emphasis she could muster: “Adelaide, as certain as I stand here, it was Herbert Cressingham.” * Adelaide was silent, but the flush on her cheek showed that she was not without emotion. “And then,” said Aunt Mary, “the vision, if vision it was, addressed me, and the voice was Herbert’s voice. Oh, it was Herbert, Herbert himself. I am sure it was. And he said that he had got leave, that he was on his way to England when he was taken prisoner by the French. He had made his escape from them, but he had lost his money, and his clothes were rags. He found a trading ship starting for England, and was allowed to work his passage home, receiving for his services his food, and an old suit of sailor’s slops. And here he was in England at length. ‘Aud i am tco'late?’ Adelaide, as he put that question his eyes seemed to burn into ray very brains, so keenly did they search for a reply.” She paused, and Adelaide caught her breath quickly. “While I was struggling to avoid this intense gaze,” continued Aunt, Mary, “ a clock began to strike, and Herbert removed his ©yes. Next I hoard him murmur: ‘ twenty-four hours—can it bo done.’ Then ho continued to murmur, but I could only hoar him indistinctly. Ho talked about a great distance, about the many miles that lay between him and Langton Grange, about the wind being an enemy, and tho rain being a second he find two friends ready to lend him their aid, since one alone would not suffice—and with that, Adelaide, I awoke.” / “ A strange dream, indeed,” said .Adelaide thoughtfully. “ Oh, my dear,” cried Aunt Mary,

“it was wonderful, and suppose that Herbert really did land in England last night.” “ Miracles don’t happen,” said Adelaide very sadly, and turning away she loft the roomCHAPTER V. Squire Langton was not a brute, although he sadly lacked both tenderness and imagination. He was truly sorry for his da lighter, though he blamed her severely for not being more quick to resent the insult that had been thrust upon her by the Cressinghams. That she had been so insulted was in his eyes beyond doubt. It _ was in vain to remind him that in this time of war,' scores and scores of letters went astray, and that Captain Cressingham might still be faithful to his love. “ He has written to his father, but not to my girl,” was his one answer to such arguments, and he could not be brought to see that his answer was not sound or conclusive; And now on the 24th December ho had. prepared such a communication for Sir Gerald Cressingham, as would infallibly break off all friendly relations between the two families. It, was to be sent off on the stroke of midnight, and a groom had received orders to be at the door of the house, mounted, on a swift horse, and ready to start at that very moment. Mr Langton waited impatiently for the crisis, and could scarcely attend to the guests, whom in accordance with custom he had invited to the Grange on Christmas Eve. He had been begged by his sister and his children to omit this annual entertainment in consideration of Adelaide’s unhappy condition, but he had an idea that he ought to pursue his ordinary course, that in this way he would prove that he could carry his head high, and show that he regarded the breach with the Cressinghams as a matter for rejoicing, not regret. Pale and silent, Adelaide forced herself to join the company during the greater part of the evening, but as the fated hour di-ew near her endurance failed, and she fled to her own room for refuge Her aunt would have joined her, but she prayed to he left alone, and when her prayer was granted,_ she flung wide her window’ as if the night wind oo*ld relieve the deadly oppression with which she was well-nigh stifled. CHAPTER VI. The night wore on, and the span of time during which Adelaide’s fate hung in the balance had come to be measured by minutes. In ungovernable impatience Squire Langton had begun to stride up and down one end of the room, he had pulled from his fob his huge gold watch, and he gazed with voracity at the moving hands. In silence that w r as almost consternation, the company looked on at a spectacle so strange. The Squire quitted the guest chamber, he passed through the hall, producing from his pocket the 'etter that was to sow eternal dissension between the Langton and the- Cressingham families. With a crash he opened the front door of the maiusion 3 and peel*ed out into the darkness. “ George,” and the ready groom was quick with his answer —“ Here, sir.” “ in one minute you start.” “You play the game sharply, brother,” said Aunt Mary, in expostulation. . “ I play to win,” was the angry response. , , , “ You must wait till the church clock strikes, or it ivon’t be fair, father,” exclaimed Helen, the Squire’s youngest and favourite daughter. She was nearly weeping in nervous excitement. “ Oh, I will be fair,” said the father firmly, there was no chance now of his intentions being thwarted, i There was'stillness, absolute and unbroken, the wind had fallen, the rain had ceased, all listened in an agony of expectation for the first sound from the church tower'. The Squire consulted his watch steadily but in fuming impatience. “ The clock is late,” he muttered at last. There was a . whispered “ -vo, no,” from several voices, and the stillness again settled down. It was broken by a sudden cry from a window above; to all save one of the. hearers that cry meant Adelaide’s final despair, but to the finer sense of Aunt Mary it told an opposite tale/ She recognised distinctly a quivering note of joy. There was a stir and confusion among the assemblage, and on the next instant Adelaide was among them with a flush on her cheek, and with large shining eyes. “He comes, he comes,” and she made her way to the door, the others yielding place to her, as if she were a being from another world. And now through • the quiet of the night was heard another sound —the beat of a horse’s feet rapidly drawing near. The groom, a sharp lad, gave a shout. “ It’s the butcher’s pony, I’ll swear to the tittup of his hoofs anywhere.” “ It is Herbert,” said Adelaide with inspired calm. And Herbert it was; Aunt Mary was justified in her dream, but if Captain Cressingham had not encountered two good friends, this story could not have ended thus. Happily lie met Mr Giles, the butcher, at Mistley Hall, and borrowing his pony, was enabled to accomplish the last six miles of his journey on horseback, instead of on foot, and, even so, he must have arrived too late if Mr Thorn, the blacksmith, had not put back the church clock. As it was, by the time that the midnight chimes rang out Adelaide was clasped in Herbert’s arms, while in the distance the minstrels sang—

At Christmas play, and make good cheer, For Christmas comes but once a yea*.