Joseph Golding's last Christmas. It was very strange, thought old Joseph Golding,
that he couldn't be master of his own mind. He had lived a great
many years, and neither remorse nor memory had ever been in the habit of
disturbing him. But now it seemed to him as if the very foundations of
his life were breaking up. He was well through his day's work, He
had dined comfortably. He sat in an easy chair in a luxurious drawing room
whose crimson hangings shut out the still cold of the December afternoon. He had
nothing to do but enjoy himself. Mister Golding liked to enjoy himself at this
season as much as others did, for it was Christmas Eve. What though
he was in the habit of spending it solitarily. He liked solitude, perhaps
because nothing more lively came in his way, and he was too shy and
proud to look out for it. For many a year on Christmas Eve he
had sat balancing in his mind the great accounts presented in his ledgers, the
accumulating coffers at his banker's, the strokes of business he would make in future.
Not so now the year was drawing to a close. Some intruding voice
kept whispering that, in like manner, so was his career. He could
not put it from him, try as he would. The voice reminded him
of a coming time when his life's work would be all done, even as
his day's work was all done now, when he would be ready to sit
down in the evening and look over the balance sheet of his deeds, good
and evil. Curiously, the old days came trooping in slow procession before him,
and he had been able to forget them for so very long. His
dead wife, he had not loved her much when she was with him,
but how vivid was his memory of her now He could see her moving round
the house, noiseless as a shadow, never intruding on him, after he
had once or twice repulsed her gruffly, but going on her own, meek
still ways, with her face growing whiter every day. He began to understand
as he looked back, why her strength had failed, and she had been
ready when her baby came to float out on the tide and let it drift
her into God's haven. She had had enough to eat and to drink.
That he saw now that he had left her heart to starve heaven. What
a hard man he had been. He seemed to see her white still face
as he looked at it the last time before they screwed down the coffin lid,
with the dumb reproach frozen on it, the eyes that would never plead
vainly any more closed for ever. He recalled how passionately the three days old
baby had cried in another room just at that moment, moving all the people
gathered together for the funeral with a thrill of pity for the poor little,
motherless morsel. She was a passionate, wilful baby. All through her babyhood,
he remembered that she wanted missed, without knowing what the lack was,
the love and sustenance which her mother would have given her, and protested against
fate with all the might of her infant lungs. But as soon as she
grew old enough to understand how useless it was, she had grown quiet too,
just like her mother. He recalled her, all through her girlhood,
a shy, still girl, always obedient and submissive, but never drawing very
near him. Why because he would have repulsed her as he repulsed her mother.
He could see it now. It was very strange these facts should come
back to him to day, and their naked truth with them. He had
been a cold, hard, ungenial man, without sympathy for any one human
being, absorbed utterly in the pursuit of money making. And so the child
Amy had grown up in shadow without him. But suddenly, when she was
eighteen, the old passionate spirit that had made her cry so when a baby
must have awakened again, he thought, for she fell in love then and
wished to marry, to marry in defiance of his wishes. He remembered her
standing proudly before him after one of their quarrels, where he had been harsh
and bitter and abusive of the man she wanted to call husband. She had
borne in silence reproach of herself, but not of him, who had become
to her as her best existence. Her words came back to the old man.
Now, father, do you know anything against Harry Church, Yes,
he had answered, wrathfully, I know that he is as poor as job
was when he sat among the ashes. He cannot keep a wife as a
daughter of mine must be kept. Anything else, Father, looking him steadily
in the eye, No, that's enough, he had thundered. I'll tell
you besides that if you marry him, you must lie in the bed you'll
make My doors will never open to you again. Never he met with a
will as strong as his own. That time, she did marry him,
and went away with him from her father's house. Mister Golding had known the
day the wedding was to take place, and disdained to stop it. He
washed his hands of Harry Church and of Amy his wife. She wrote home
afterwards, over and over again, but mister Golding sent all the letters back
unopened. Subsequent to that, they disappeared from the town, and he had
never heard what became of them. It was at least ten years ago.
Now it seemed very strange that these things should have come back to night to
haunt him, and with a wild remorse, a pitying regret, he had
done nothing to recall them. Could it be his sense of failing health that
brought them? If so, what sort of anguish might he not look for?
As he drew nearer and nearer to the ending, he began to wish
that he knew what had been in those rejected letters, whether Amy had been
suffering for anything, that money could supply. The next thought that struck him
was why he had opposed the marriage so virulently. It is true Harry Church
had been but a clerk in his own employ but he was a well educated
gentleman and would rise with time, faithful, intelligent, persevering, respected,
but poor. In that last word lay the head and front of Harry Church's
offending. Joseph Golding was rich then, he was far richer now, But
he could not help asking it. What special good were his riches bringing him?
He was an old man, the span of life running quickly on,
and he was all alone. Who would take his gold? Then? He
could not carry it along with him. All in a moment he saw it
clearly, the dreadful truth stood naked and bare. His life and its object
had been mistaken ones all alone, all alone, he kept saying to himself,
in a sort of vague self pity, I've toiled and worked for naught.
But during this time, even now, as he sat there, a
message of love was on its way to him. Perhaps Heaven had but been
preparing his heart to receive it. He heard a ring at the door bell,
heard it without paying attention to it. Rings were nothing to him.
People did not come on business to his residence, and of visitors he expected
none. Down went his head lower and lower with its weight of thought.
Meanwhile, two people were admitted into the hall below, a man and a
little girl. The man had the appearance of a staid, respectable servant.
He took off the child's warm cloak and hood, and she stood revealed a
dainty, delicate creature of some eighty years old, her golden curls drooping softly
round her face, with its large blue eyes and its cherry lips. The
admitting maid, not knowing what to make of this, called mister Golden's housekeeper,
old Missus osgood The latter went into a tremor as she came forward and
looked at the face. It's miss Amy's child, she exclaimed to the man
nervously. I couldn't mistake the lightness miss Amy's it was, he answered,
Missus Harry Church. She has been this many a year. I know it
is as much as my place is worth to admit any child of hers here.
You and Missus Osgoode, exclaimed the little girl. Mamma said I should
be sure to see you. Here's a blessed lamb and so she remembers me.
She talks if you often, she says, you are always kind to
her, nobody, but you loved her well. I did love her.
The old house has never been the same since she went out of it.
What's your name, my pretty one, Amy, Amy, repeated the housekeeper,
lifting her hands as if there were some wonder in it. And Mamma
said, you would let me go up alone to Grandpapa. And so you
shall decided, missus osgood. After a minute's hesitation, I won't stand in
the way of it. Let master be as angry with me as he will
be. Is up in the drawing room, all by himself. The man
sat down to wait, and the child went up alone, opening the door.
She went softly in, not speaking. Perhaps the stern looking old man
sitting there with bent head ORed her to silence. Joseph Golding, waking up
from his deep reverie, saw a letter held out to him. He took
it mechanically, supposing its messenger. Hidden behind his large chair was one of
his waiting maids. With a singular quickening of pulse, he recognized his daughter's
writing. She had waited all these silent years, she told him, because
she was determined never to write to him again until they were rich enough for
him to know that. She did not write from any need of his help.
They had passed these ten years in the west, and heaven had prospered
them. Her husband was a rich man now, and she wanted from her
father only his love. Wanted only that death should not come between them,
and either of them go to her mother's side without having been reconciled to the
other. How did this come here? Who brought it? Demanded mister Golding,
in his usual imperious manner. I did, Grandpapa. He sprang up
at the soft, timid voice, as if some fright took him, and
stared at the lovely vision standing there like a spirit on his half stone,
with her white face and her gleaming golden hair. Was it real? Where
was he? Who could this child be? But as he looked, the
likeness flashed upon him, and he grew hungry to clasp her to him.
It was the little Amy of the old days, grown into beauty. For
Amy had never been so wondrously fair as this. Come here, my child.
Don't be afraid tell me what your name is? Amy, Grandpapa,
Another Amy, Grandpapa He felt the sobs rising up in his heart with a
great flood of emotion, but he choked them back. What have they told
you about me? He rejoined, after a long pause. Have they bid
you hate me? They always told me that you were far away toward weather
sun rose, and if I were good, they would bring me to see
you some day. Every night I say in my prayers, God bless Papa
and Mamma, and God bless Grandpapa. Why didn't they bring you? What
made them let you come alone? Mamma sent me with John to give you
the letter? Was the simple answer. The carriage is at the gate waiting
for me. Who is John Papa's servant? And where are they staying at
the hotel? We only got here this morning. Missus Osgood, hovering in
the hall, looked on in wonder. Her master was coming downstairs, calling
for his hat and coat, and leading the child. He got into the
carriage with her, and it drove away. Mister Golding was wondering vaguely whether
it were real. They arrived at last, and the child led him in
opening a door at the end of a long corridor. She spoke, cheeringly,
Mamma, here is Grandpapa, He said he would come back with me.
Mister Golding's head went off in a swim. Advancing weakness tells upon people
in such moments as these. He sat down, and there were Amy's arms,
his own, Amy's about his neck. Which of the two sobbed the
most could not be told? Why had he never known what he last through
all those vanished years? Father? Are we reconciled at last? I don't
know my daughter until you tell me whether you forgive me. There should be
no talk about forgiveness. She said, you went according to your own opinion
of what was right, and perhaps I was to blame too. Father.
It is in off that God has brought us together again in peace. I
thought that no one could resist my little Amy, least of all her Grandpapa.
He looked up. The child stood by silently, the firelight glittering on
her golden hair, her face shining strangely sweet. He put out his arms
and drew her into them, close, where no child, not even his
own, had ever nestled before. Oh how much he had missed in life?
He knew it now. He felt her clinging hold round his neck.
Her kisses dropped upon his face like the pitying dew from heaven, and he
was it himself or another soul in his place. Father. See Amy's voice
had a full, cheerful ring in it. Her married life had been happy.
Mister Golding turned at the call. Here are Harry and the boys waiting
to speak to you, she said, in a less assured tone. He
shook his son in law's hand heartily. Old feuds, old things were over
now, and all was become new in his heart. Until that trouble came.
He had always liked Harry Church. Then he looked at the two boys,
brave, merry little fellows of whom he might be proud. Explanations ensued.
Fortune had favored mister Church. They had come back for good and were
already looking out for a house. No house but mine, interrupted Joseph Golding.
It will want a tenant when I am gone. You must come home
to morrow. To Morrow will be Christmas day, said his daughter, half
doubtingly. All the better. If Christmas was never kept in mind my house,
it shall be now. I shall not live to see another Amy.
She looked up at the changed thin face and could not contradict him. Some
one going out to the west indies had told them how Joseph Golding was breaking.
The news had caused them to hurry home prematurely. Amy said to her
husband that if her father died unreconciled to her, she should be full of
remorse. Forever. You will come home to morrow, all of you,
repeated mister Golding, and mind Amy, you do not go away again.
But if the children should be too much for you father, when they are,
I'll tell you, he said, with the touch of the former gruffness,
the old house is large enough. He went out and found his way
to the shops open to the last on Christmas Eve in the old town,
looking for Christmas gifts new work for him. But he entered into it earnestly,
perambulating the streets like a bewildered Santa Clause. He went home laden with
books and toys and jewels and bonbons. Missus Osgood lifted her hands and thought,
the end of the world must be coming. Help me to put these
things away, Osgood, don't stare as if your moon struck and look here,
they'll be company to dinner to morrow. Mind you send in a good
one, the best that ever was seen on a table. Master. If
it's for them, I think it may be for well. It is miss
Amy's coming home again. Heaven be praised, sir. The house has been
but a dull one since she left it. They are all coming, and
they will not go away again. Osgood. If you want more servants,
you can get them. It's the best Christmas box you could have given me.
Master. And they came Amy and Amy's husband, and the pretty boys
were there, and best of all, the sweet little girl with the golden
hair sitting next to Grandpapa. It was too happy a party for loud mirth.
And among them Joseph Golding saw or fancied he saw another face over which,
almost thirty years ago he had watched the grave sod piled, a face
sad and wistful, no longer, but bright with a strange glory. Close
over beyond him, she seemed to stand, and he heard or fancied that
he heard a whisper from her parted lips, though it might have come only
from his own heart. Peace on earth and good will toward men. End
of Joseph Golding's Last Christmas