Speaker 1: 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
wed 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