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Speaker 1: Joseph Golding's last Christmas. It was very strange, thought old

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Joseph Golding, that he couldn't be master of his own mind.

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He had lived a great many years, and neither remorse

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nor memory had ever been in the habit of disturbing him.

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But now it seemed to him as if the very

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foundations of his life were breaking up. He was well

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through his day's work, He had dined comfortably. He sat

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in an easy chair in a luxurious drawing room whose

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crimson hangings shut out the still cold of the December afternoon.

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He had nothing to do but enjoy himself. Mister Golding

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liked to enjoy himself at this season as much as

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others did, for it was Christmas Eve. What though he

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was in the habit of spending it solitarily. He liked solitude,

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perhaps because nothing more lively came in his way, and

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he was too shy and proud to look out for it.

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For many a year on Christmas Eve he had sat

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balancing in his mind the great accounts presented in his ledgers,

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the accumulating coffers at his banker's, the strokes of business

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he would make in future. Not so now the year

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was drawing to a close. Some intruding voice kept whispering that,

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in like manner, so was his career. He could not

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put it from him, try as he would. The voice

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reminded him of a coming time when his life's work

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would be all done, even as his day's work was

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all done now, when he would be ready to sit

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down in the evening and look over the balance sheet

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of his deeds, good and evil. Curiously, the old days

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came trooping in slow procession before him, and he had

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been able to forget them for so very long. His

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dead wife, he had not loved her much when she

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was with him, but how vivid was his memory of

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her now He could see her moving round the house,

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noiseless as a shadow, never intruding on him, after he

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had once or twice repulsed her gruffly, but going on

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her own, meek still ways, with her face growing whiter

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every day. He began to understand as he looked back,

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why her strength had failed, and she had been ready

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when her baby came to float out on the tide

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and let it drift her into God's haven. She had

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had enough to eat and to drink. That he saw

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now that he had left her heart to starve heaven.

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What a hard man he had been. He seemed to

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see her white still face as he looked at it

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the last time before they screwed down the coffin lid,

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with the dumb reproach frozen on it, the eyes that

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would never plead vainly any more closed for ever. He

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recalled how passionately the three days old baby had cried

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in another room just at that moment, moving all the

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people gathered together for the funeral with a thrill of

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pity for the poor little, motherless morsel. She was a passionate,

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wilful baby. All through her babyhood, he remembered that she

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wanted missed, without knowing what the lack was, the love

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and sustenance which her mother would have given her, and

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protested against fate with all the might of her infant lungs.

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But as soon as she grew old enough to understand

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how useless it was, she had grown quiet too, just

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like her mother. He recalled her, all through her girlhood,

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a shy, still girl, always obedient and submissive, but never

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drawing very near him. Why because he would have repulsed

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her as he repulsed her mother. He could see it now.

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It was very strange these facts should come back to

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him to day, and their naked truth with them. He

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had been a cold, hard, ungenial man, without sympathy for

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any one human being, absorbed utterly in the pursuit of

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money making. And so the child Amy had grown up

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in shadow without him. But suddenly, when she was eighteen,

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the old passionate spirit that had made her cry so

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when a baby must have awakened again, he thought, for

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she fell in love then and wished to marry, to

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marry in defiance of his wishes. He remembered her standing

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proudly before him after one of their quarrels, where he

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had been harsh and bitter and abusive of the man

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she wanted to call husband. She had borne in silence

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reproach of herself, but not of him, who had become

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to her as her best existence. Her words came back

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to the old man. Now, father, do you know anything

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against Harry Church, Yes, he had answered, wrathfully, I know

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that he is as poor as job was when he

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sat among the ashes. He cannot keep a wife as

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a daughter of mine must be kept. Anything else, Father,

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looking him steadily in the eye, No, that's enough, he

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had thundered. I'll tell you besides that if you marry him,

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you must lie in the bed you'll make My doors

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will never open to you again. Never he met with

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a will as strong as his own. That time, she

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did marry him, and went away with him from her

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father's house. Mister Golding had known the day the wedding

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was to take place, and disdained to stop it. He

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washed his hands of Harry Church and of Amy his wife.

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She wrote home afterwards, over and over again, but mister

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Golding sent all the letters back unopened. Subsequent to that,

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they disappeared from the town, and he had never heard

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what became of them. It was at least ten years ago.

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Now it seemed very strange that these things should have

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come back to night to haunt him, and with a

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wild remorse, a pitying regret, he had done nothing to

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recall them. Could it be his sense of failing health

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that brought them? If so, what sort of anguish might

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he not look for? As he drew nearer and nearer

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to the ending, he began to wish that he knew

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what had been in those rejected letters, whether Amy had

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been suffering for anything, that money could supply. The next

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thought that struck him was why he had opposed the

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marriage so virulently. It is true Harry Church had been

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but a clerk in his own employ but he was

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a well educated gentleman and would rise with time, faithful, intelligent, persevering, respected,

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but poor. In that last word lay the head and

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front of Harry Church's offending. Joseph Golding was rich then,

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he was far richer now, But he could not help

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asking it. What special good were his riches bringing him?

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He was an old man, the span of life running

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quickly on, and he was all alone. Who would take

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his gold? Then? He could not carry it along with him.

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All in a moment he saw it clearly, the dreadful

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truth stood naked and bare. His life and its object

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had been mistaken ones all alone, all alone, he kept

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saying to himself, in a sort of vague self pity,

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I've toiled and worked for naught. But during this time,

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even now, as he sat there, a message of love

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was on its way to him. Perhaps Heaven had but

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been preparing his heart to receive it. He heard a

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ring at the door bell, heard it without paying attention

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to it. Rings were nothing to him. People did not

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come on business to his residence, and of visitors he

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expected none. Down went his head lower and lower with

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its weight of thought. Meanwhile, two people were admitted into

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the hall below, a man and a little girl. The

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man had the appearance of a staid, respectable servant. He

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took off the child's warm cloak and hood, and she

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stood revealed a dainty, delicate creature of some eighty years old,

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her golden curls drooping softly round her face, with its

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large blue eyes and its cherry lips. The admitting maid,

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not knowing what to make of this, called mister Golden's housekeeper,

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old Missus osgood The latter went into a tremor as

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she came forward and looked at the face. It's miss

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Amy's child, she exclaimed to the man nervously. I couldn't

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mistake the lightness miss Amy's it was, he answered, Missus

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Harry Church. She has been this many a year. I

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know it is as much as my place is worth

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to admit any child of hers here. You and Missus Osgoode,

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exclaimed the little girl. Mamma said I should be sure

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to see you. Here's a blessed lamb and so she

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remembers me. She talks if you often, she says, you

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are always kind to her, nobody, but you loved her well.

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I did love her. The old house has never been

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the same since she went out of it. What's your name,

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my pretty one, Amy, Amy, repeated the housekeeper, lifting her

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hands as if there were some wonder in it. And

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Mamma said, you would let me go up alone to Grandpapa.

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And so you shall decided, missus osgood. After a minute's hesitation.

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I won't stand in the way of it. Let master

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be as angry with me as he will be. Is

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up in the drawing room, all by himself. The man

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sat down to wait, and the child went up alone,

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opening the door. She went softly in, not speaking. Perhaps

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the stern looking old man sitting there with bent head

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wed her to silence. Joseph Golding, waking up from his

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deep reverie, saw a letter held out to him. He

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took it mechanically, supposing its messenger. Hidden behind his large

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chair was one of his waiting maids. With a singular

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quickening of pulse, he recognized his daughter's writing. She had

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waited all these silent years, she told him, because she

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was determined never to write to him again until they

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were rich enough for him to know that. She did

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not write from any need of his help. They had

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passed these ten years in the west, and heaven had

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prospered them. Her husband was a rich man now, and

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she wanted from her father only his love. Wanted only

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that death should not come between them, and either of

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them go to her mother's side without having been reconciled

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to the other. How did this come here? Who brought it?

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Demanded mister Golding, in his usual imperious manner. I did, Grandpapa.

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He sprang up at the soft, timid voice, as if

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some fright took him, and stared at the lovely vision

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standing there like a spirit on his half stone, with

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her white face and her gleaming golden hair. Was it real?

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Where was he? Who could this child be? But as

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he looked, the likeness flashed upon him, and he grew

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hungry to clasp her to him. It was the little

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Amy of the old days, grown into beauty. For Amy

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had never been so wondrously fair as this. Come here,

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my child. Don't be afraid tell me what your name is? Amy, Grandpapa,

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Another Amy, Grandpapa He felt the sobs rising up in

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his heart with a great flood of emotion, but he

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choked them back. What have they told you about me?

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He rejoined, after a long pause. Have they bid you

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hate me? They always told me that you were far

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away toward weather sun rose, and if I were good,

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they would bring me to see you some day. Every

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night I say in my prayers, God bless Papa and Mamma,

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and God bless Grandpapa. Why didn't they bring you? What

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made them let you come alone? Mamma sent me with

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John to give you the letter? Was the simple answer.

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The carriage is at the gate waiting for me. Who

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is John Papa's servant? And where are they staying at

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the hotel? We only got here this morning. Missus Osgood,

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hovering in the hall, looked on in wonder. Her master

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was coming downstairs, calling for his hat and coat, and

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leading the child. He got into the carriage with her,

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and it drove away. Mister Golding was wondering vaguely whether

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it were real. They arrived at last, and the child

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led him in opening a door at the end of

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a long corridor. She spoke, cheeringly, Mamma, here is Grandpapa,

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He said he would come back with me. Mister Golding's

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head went off in a swim. Advancing weakness tells upon

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people in such moments as these. He sat down, and

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there were Amy's arms, his own, Amy's about his neck.

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Which of the two sobbed the most could not be told?

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Why had he never known what he last through all

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those vanished years? Father? Are we reconciled at last? I

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don't know my daughter until you tell me whether you

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forgive me. There should be no talk about forgiveness. She said,

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you went according to your own opinion of what was right,

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and perhaps I was to blame too. Father. It is

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in off that God has brought us together again in peace.

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I thought that no one could resist my little Amy,

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least of all her Grandpapa. He looked up. The child

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stood by silently, the firelight glittering on her golden hair,

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her face shining strangely sweet. He put out his arms

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and drew her into them, close, where no child, not

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even his own, had ever nestled before. Oh how much

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he had missed in life? He knew it now. He

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felt her clinging hold round his neck. Her kisses dropped

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upon his face like the pitying dew from heaven, and

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he was it himself or another soul in his place. Father.

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See Amy's voice had a full, cheerful ring in it.

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Her married life had been happy. Mister Golding turned at

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the call. Here are Harry and the boys waiting to

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speak to you, she said, in a less assured tone.

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He shook his son in law's hand heartily. Old feuds,

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old things were over now, and all was become new

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in his heart. Until that trouble came. He had always

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liked Harry Church. Then he looked at the two boys, brave,

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merry little fellows of whom he might be proud. Explanations ensued.

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Fortune had favored mister Church. They had come back for

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good and were already looking out for a house. No

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house but mine, interrupted Joseph Golding. It will want a

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tenant when I am gone. You must come home to morrow.

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To Morrow will be Christmas day, said his daughter, half doubtingly.

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All the better. If Christmas was never kept in mind

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my house, it shall be now. I shall not live

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to see another Amy. She looked up at the changed

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thin face and could not contradict him. Some one going

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out to the west indies had told them how Joseph

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Golding was breaking. The news had caused them to hurry

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home prematurely. Amy said to her husband that if her

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father died unreconciled to her, she should be full of remorse. Forever.

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You will come home to morrow, all of you, repeated

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mister Golding, and mind Amy, you do not go away again.

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But if the children should be too much for you father,

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when they are, I'll tell you, he said, with the

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touch of the former gruffness, the old house is large enough.

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He went out and found his way to the shops

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open to the last on Christmas Eve in the old town,

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looking for Christmas gifts new work for him. But he

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entered into it earnestly, perambulating the streets like a bewildered

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Santa Clause. He went home laden with books and toys

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and jewels and bonbons. Missus Osgood lifted her hands and thought,

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the end of the world must be coming. Help me

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to put these things away, Osgood, don't stare as if

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your moon struck and look here, they'll be company to

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dinner to morrow. Mind you send in a good one,

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the best that ever was seen on a table. Master.

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If it's for them, I think it may be for well.

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It is miss Amy's coming home again. Heaven be praised, sir.

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The house has been but a dull one since she

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left it. They are all coming, and they will not

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go away again. Osgood. If you want more servants, you

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can get them. It's the best Christmas box you could

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have given me. Master. And they came Amy and Amy's husband,

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and the pretty boys were there, and best of all,

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the sweet little girl with the golden hair sitting next

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to Grandpapa. It was too happy a party for loud mirth.

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And among them Joseph Golding saw or fancied he saw

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another face over which, almost thirty years ago he had

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watched the grave sod piled, a face sad and wistful,

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no longer, but bright with a strange glory. Close over

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beyond him, she seemed to stand, and he heard or

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fancied that he heard a whisper from her parted lips,

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though it might have come only from his own heart.

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Peace on earth and good will toward men. End of

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Joseph Golding's Last Christmas