BEAUTIFULLY dawned the last morning of the old year. How lovely are some few winter sunrisings! A cold, grey sky, and dim, glimmering light, scarcely reveals surrounding objects. Presently a delicate blush appears, gently stealing over the east. It deepens to a ruddy glow; and then bright, golden clouds, tinged with many a varied hue, overspread the sky, lighting up in the strongest relief every leafless tree, even to the most fibre-like branches.
Everything is very still. Edith sits silently at the window of her dressing-room, watching that lovely dawn. Presently a few starlings appear on the frosty slopes, with their quick, impatient gestures and rapid movements, seeking a breakfast. A pair of beautiful blackbirds droop their jetty wings, and seem numbed with cold. A robin, cheerful even in adversity, trills a few grateful notes on a shrub near the window, and Edith thinks that no new-year’s serenade could be half as touching as that low, sweet song. She thinks, too, what a lesson it teaches; for her melancholy eye had been straying mournfully over the broad lands stretching far and wide before her, and—“’tis an old tale, and often told,”—she had almost envied the humblest cottager in those her lordly possessions. “Farewell, old year!” she exclaimed; “none other will ever dawn upon me as you did. May the new bear happiness and joy to many! Oh, Marion! you little thought how desolate I am, when you prophesied that there was yet much in store for me.”
Marion’s picturesque cottage could be plainly seen in the distance, shut in by the blue range of hills above, and sheltered with sweeping larches. The morning sun now shone brightly upon it, and Edith pictured to herself the beaming, happy countenance of her friend.
“May God bless you, Marion!” she continued with emotion; “for to the example of your gentle goodness I owe all that is now left me,—the knowledge of that usefulness, that patient love and forbearance, which makes you so dear to others, so happy in yourself, and without which all that the world calls beauty and talent is hollow and heartless indeed! You taught me the value of true affection—the folly and littleness of the false pride I rejoiced in; and yet so sweetly, that I was only humbled to myself—not to you. Would that it had been but a few short months before! Oh, Percy! how willingly would I now confess myself in the wrong! But now I am forgotten! In your benevolent plans, in your honourable successes, there is no thought of me; or I am only remembered as a wilful, imperious woman, whom you once foolishly loved. I shall never see you again—mine the sorrow, mine the fault! But I am earning the right to self-esteem; I am doing all that I believe you would approve of, did you care for me now.”
Her heart was very full as she descended to the breakfast-room. No one was there; but on the table lay a simple nosegay. “From Marion,” was written on a slip of paper. Edith mentally thanked her friend for the love which she knew was expressed in the fragrant gift; but tears sprang into her eyes as she looked on it; for a few lovely roses, the little blue periwinkle, with its shining green leaves and “sweet remembrances,” and a few early primroses and violets, were arranged almost exactly as she had received them from a still more beloved hand the year before. She started as her mother entered the room, and turned hastily to conceal her emotion; but touched by the look of anxious love which she caught fixed on herself, exclaimed, while she suffered the large tears to fall down her face, “Oh, my mother, I will not be proud to you—Heaven knows there would be little merit in that! I was thinking”—and her beautiful head lay on her mother’s gentle bosom—“of the happiness which I have thrown away—of one who has forgotten me.”
“Ah, my dear child!” said her mother, as she tenderly pressed her hand on the throbbing brow, “in the doubtfulness of our nature we often accuse those of forgetfulness whose hearts may be breaking for our sake.”
Edith looked up, a sudden expression of joy beaming over her countenance. As she bent again over the flowers, the sweetest gleam of hope stole over her, and she felt the magic influence of those words.
Happy are they who in their own interests, joys, and sorrows, forget not the welfare of others! Edith looked forward with pleasure to the events of the day; for in the morning the school which she had built was to be opened, with an appropriate address from the good rector; and in the evening, young and old, rich and poor, were to be assembled in her splendid home. She had gaily declared to the gentry her wish to receive, as lady of the manor, “all good comers,” that New-Year’s Eve; and to sup in the old hall of her ancestors, after the manner of feudal times, with the peasantry of her estate “below the salt.” They, of course, looked forward to the event with unmixed pleasure and delight. Not so all those of gentler birth; for she had lived but little among them until of late, and was understood still less. Many thought it a capricious whim of the spoiled beauty, and many wondered what strange thing she would do next. “It was not that she cared more than the rest of them that the poor should enjoy themselves, but that she loved to do as no one else did. What a pity her uncle’s fine estate was left in such hands!”
So charitably reasoned some of the invited guests; but, happily, there were others who knew Edith better, and welcomed with delight her kind and benevolent plan for a happy new-year’s eve to them all.
The important evening at last arrived. The village children could not have existed much longer. Wide were the park-gates flung open, and never had the old avenue rung with the sound of so many merry voices before. Many a little belle startled a sleeping bird by stopping under his resting-place to admire, by the light of the lantern she carried, her bran new shoes and pretty frock, wondering if any of the great ladies would look half as nice, and feel half as happy as she did. Some timid little creatures clung to their mothers’ skirts, and looked with mingled feelings of awe and admiration on the stately mansion, blazing with light in the midst of the dark cedars, half afraid of entering it until re-assured by the promise of seeing the kind lady whom they all loved. But when they arrived there, and were welcomed by that sweet lady herself, who shook hands with all, and wished them a happy new-year; and when they saw the fine old hall with its bright armour, and many magnificent rooms all beautifully lighted up and decorated, and were shown the pictures and other wonderful things, their delight knew no bounds. But, perhaps, that which charmed them most was a deep recess at the lower end of the hall, completely filled with rare and luxuriant plants, in the midst of which stood a beautiful figure of Peace, joining the hands of Anger and Contention, who were regarding with a mingled expression of surprise and admiration the heavenly beauty which they had not perceived when occupied with their unholy strife.
The children whispered softly here; for the light was very dim, but a lovely glow irradiated the beaming countenance of Peace, and here and there flowers glistened in the dark leaves around them.
And now tea and cake, such as they had never tasted before, awaited them in a pretty room, gay with laurel and holly, where our friend Mrs. Hope presided, half beside herself with joy, yet preserving the most perfect order and decorum. Then the amusements of the evening began, which comprised the merriest and oddest of all styles of dancing to the music of the village band, the wonders of a magic lantern, and many a childish game beside; but above all, the crowning delight was the new-year’s gift to each of a pretty little volume, with the name of each written in it by Edith’s own hand.
The hours flew too swiftly by—so thought these delighted little people, as ten o’clock was announced, and Edith wished them all good night as kindly as she had welcomed them; but in few words, for carriages were arriving, and she had to receive her guests: they thanked her in their simple way for the pleasure which she had given them, and the homely sincerity of their gratitude lighted her sweet face with happy smiles.
The spacious picture-gallery, which had been converted into a ball-room for the occasion, was gay with many a shining wreath. The old family portraits seemed to look down with pleasure, and to beam a welcome on all assembled there; so thought several of the wandering villagers, grouped here and there amid the more brilliant throng, watching the mazes of the dance with interest and amazement, and listening with equal surprise to the magnificent band, to the music of which many a fairy foot was flying. Most, however, thought it very inferior to the performance of their own village musicians, and wondered how people could dance to such spiritless tunes on a new-year’s eve like this.
Edith had anticipated their predilection, their shyness, and their love of country-dances and hornpipes; so they were soon marshalled by their gentle chamberlain, Mrs. Hope, into another room, where they could enjoy all these to their hearts’ content, and yet feel themselves privileged to look in on the grandees whenever they pleased. Perhaps this room, with its unrestrained mirth and merry laughter, was happier than the more splendid one; for though many there were thoroughly enjoying the beauty and gaiety of the scene, still there were heart-burnings. In that large assemblage several met, who, though once friends, had not spoken for years, and who felt startled and uneasy at being brought into such close proximity. But scarcely a shadow could be cast where the beautiful hostess moved and spoke—
“Thought in each glance, and mind in every smile.”
There was so much frankness in every kind and earnest word she said, joined to the charm of her gentle and courtly manners, that the coldest, the most obtuse, the most reserved, felt moved and interested beyond themselves, and more cordially inclined to all the world beside.
And Marion was there, whose flowers were the only ornament on Edith’s snowy dress; but she, usually so gay, was thoughtful almost to sadness, and looked anxiously into her husband’s face as they stood for a few moments apart—“I believed that of late years my father never mixed in such scenes as these,” said he. “Edith could not have thought he would come when she invited us.”
“I knew how it was to be,” said Marion; “there are many here to-night whom she hopes to bring together again; rich and poor. See, she is looking towards us now, while speaking to him! Oh, Edward, go up to them at once, I entreat you!” exclaimed she earnestly.
“Not before so many people,” said her husband with emotion. “Suppose he were to refuse my hand?”
Marion sighed: but her hopeful nature whispered that the New-Year’s Eve was not yet ended. And now a clock of silvery tone chimed and struck the hour of midnight. The guests were conducted to supper: unseen harps, and sweet voices, gave a slow farewell to the old year, as they were seating themselves at the upper end of the hall, and then burst forth into a joyful welcome to the new, as the villagers entered and took their places at the lower range of tables; this again died away, and a sweet strain arose, of the softest prayer, for peace and happiness to all! Marion looked round with emotion.
It was a lovely scene, that huge banquet-hall, with its gay wreaths of holly and flowers. The bright assemblage of guests; the happy faces of the villagers below; the beautiful hostess, seated in an antique chair at the upper end, with the banners of her ancient race, trophies of ages long gone by, waving behind her; the lovely figure of Peace below, almost shrouded in the dark leaves, and forming a striking contrast to those warlike emblems: all these afforded a sight which, once beheld, would not be easily forgotten.
After each guest had paid sufficient homage to the choice viands before them, Edith took up a cup of curious workmanship; her face was radiant with kindness and love as she looked on those around her.
“This cup has been possessed, for many a century, by my ancestors,” she said; “preserved for ages as a venerated relic: doubtless many a toast has been pledged in it—many a friendly welcome expressed; but I believe no more cordial and sincere one than that with which I greet you all this night. I would fain express the usual wish of a new-year of all imaginable happiness and prosperity, but as such have never visited this earth, we know it would be vain; and I therefore wish you the greatest of all blessings—that which cheers and supports us in the sorrows of life, and heightens beyond measure its pleasures and enjoyments,—love and harmony in your hearts and homes! There may be some among us estranged from friends and kindred, grieving over the fault, (for few, let us hope, in a Christian land, can live unmoved in enmity one with another,) and yet hanging back, in mistaken pride or want of moral courage, from the few conciliatory words which would, in most cases, suffice for a perfect reconciliation. The old year is now passing away—may it bear with it all anger, all animosity! May those few healing words be spoken,—and Peace, and Love, and Charity be with us all!”
Edith’s voice trembled with emotion, but she did not perceive the agitation of many of her guests, for her eyes were fixed, as if in a dream, on the lower end of the hall. There was a movement of surprise among those seated there: she made her way, she knew not how, through them all. Yes, it was Percy!—One look, expressing a thousand emotions, and their hands were clasped in each other! For an instant her lovely head was bowed before him, while a few large, heavy tears, fell on the flowers at her feet! But she soon mastered her emotion, and, with a face radiant with joy, led him through the crowd of sympathising faces to her mother’s side. In the short silence which ensued, the bells of the village church were plainly heard ringing-in the new-born year! When had they ever sounded so sweetly before?
And now a joyous strain again burst forth, and all returned to the ball-room. Again the young, the beautiful, the gay, joined in the dance; and never feet flew more lightly than theirs. But there were those who felt a deeper joy; the serene, the heavenly one of Reconciliation!
And Percy and Edith once more stood side by side,—united, happy! And Marion told her wondering friend how Percy (who was an old college friend of her husband’s) had come to see them that morning, and in their quiet home had confessed that he was drawn to them by the desire of obtaining news of her, round whom his deep true love still lingered with so much regret. She had tried to persuade him to accompany them that night, but still he doubted—still feared. Yet he now confessed to Edith how, when they were gone, he had longed to see her face again, how he had concealed himself in the crowd, and how he had been moved, by what she had just said, to rush forward from the recess where he stood unobserved, that he might be the first to own the gentle Magic of those words!
And many others had felt them too! Marion was leaning on her father’s arm—her eyes cast down and tearful in their joyfulness, as he spoke to her in a low tone of the invalid whom she must see on the morrow.
And all hearts were touched and softened, and rich and poor felt drawn closer together! And they thought of the voice that had said,—“Love one another as I have loved you,”—and of the divine lessons of peacefulness and long-suffering which some had forgotten! And many blessed to the end of their days the Magic Words spoken by the Peacemaker[A] on that New-year’s Night.