Chapter IV

CHRISTMAS morning came, and the overladen postmen left greetings at the world's door, literally by the million. Arthur Glyn was not forgotten.

The little sister and her intended sent quite a budget of loving wishes, bright hopes—heartfelt regrets, too, that the dear brother could not be with them.

Hilda, far-away in the sunny South, had timed her letter so that Arthur might have it just at Christmas. There were more cards and letters still, and amongst the latter just one at which the curate looked distrustfully. He had been trying to make a few hearts more glad by his kindly thought, and when he expended a trifle for Esther and the white-headed urchins, had felt sorry that his slender purse and the claims upon it would let him do no more or better.

Arthur hoped that letter boded no evil. He did not know how he could bear it to-day; but he had been somewhat disturbed by a rather urgent appeal for the balance of one of his father's debts—the largest of those for which he had bound himself. The creditor was retiring from business, a prosperous man, and was not in need of immediate payment, but he wanted to straighten his books finally, and "could Mr. Glyn oblige him with the trifling balance?"

It was nearly a hundred pounds, and Arthur had not ten. The incident made him uneasy and down-hearted for the moment; but, like Hezekiah of old, he prayed, spreading his letter before the Lord.

The old Jewish king found comfort in his trouble; so did the young English clergyman. The one had a direct message in reply; the other had faith renewed and patience given to wait and see what way out would be made for him, in God's good time. He could say with a clear conscience—

"I have done what I could. My Master will require from me only in accordance with what He has given."

Yet surely, it is hardly to be wondered at, if the seal of that letter, with a London post-mark, and from an unknown correspondent, was the last which Arthur found courage to break. When he did so, an exclamation of surprise and astonishment broke from him. Day-dreams he had indulged in while sitting on that very spot, but the reality that met his sight had never been pictured in the wildest of them.

The envelope contained a number of Bank of England notes, new and crisp to the touch. He looked at the first: it was for a hundred pounds; the second, third—in short, the whole ten, were the same value! A thousand pounds was the sum contained in that suspicious-looking letter which he had shrunk from opening!

There was a large sheet of paper which covered the notes. Arthur snatched it eagerly. An inscription on the outer page, in printed letters, to him that the contents were "A Christmas-box for the Rev. Arthur Worsley Glyn."

But on the inner portion of the sheet were words which stirred the man's heart to its deepest fibre. Brave with Christian courage, he had thus far acted up to his resolution, and endured "hardness as a good soldier of Jesus Christ."

But the good-will of this unknown friend, made him weak, and he wept like a child.

We will read the words which so moved him over his shoulder, for the sheet lies open, and the curate is on his knees, with bowed head and clasped hands, as he thanks God for the wonderful answer which has come to the letter he had spread before his Divine Master.

"'Bear ye one another's burdens, and so fulfil the law of Christ.'"

"A brother in Christ claims the privilege of obeying this Divine command, by lifting from your shoulders the burden so long and bravely borne. He knows what you have accomplished, and of what mettle you are made. Had health, strength, and fortune still favoured you, he might have been contented to wait and see you rejoice over a task accomplished without the helping hand of a human friend. He knows that sometimes of late even the diminished load has proved too heavy. He has pictured you on your knees before the Master you serve—a prayer-hearing God. And he rejoices to think that the feeling which has prompted him to send this free-will offering may be 'Our Father's' way of answering His child's petition, for it pleases Him to work by feeble human hands."

"'Take, then, brother, and use what is here enclosed. It has cost the sender no self-denial—he wishes it had, for the sake of Him in whose name he offers it to you. It rejoices his heart to devote it to your service. May yours be the lighter for receiving and using 'A brother's Christmas-box.'"

Arthur read and re-read the letter, written in printing characters; but there was nothing to give him the slightest clue as to the sender—no mark on notes or paper; nothing on the envelope, except the postal impress, and London was a field far too wide to travel over in search of the unknown sender. Besides, Arthur had few acquaintances there, and none that he knew of anywhere who would be likely to send such a Christmas gift as this.

He thought once of Leonard Thorold, but soon dismissed that idea from his mind. His brother-in-law elect knew comparatively little of him.

Mr. Worthington? He was his true friend; but though his means were fairly good, they were not such as to render it likely that he would bestow so large a sum. Besides, the rector knew that it was more than treble the amount of the debts still owing.

He could not guess. Stay: there were two men in Little Cray that were rich enough, but should either do such a thing? Mr. Ulyett he dismissed from his mind at once. Mr. Spencer? Ana then a crimson flush covered the curate's too pale cheek. If he had indeed done this!

Off went Arthur into another dream, and in it, he said to himself, "If I stood now on the same ground that I did a few years ago, with college honours, my Fellowship, health, youth, strength, spirits, no debts or encumbrances, and a fair field to work in, I would not fear to try my fortune. But!"

And here, you see, was the drawback. The "if" and the "but" spoiled the vision; and then the first chime of the bells told Arthur that it was high time for him to turn his steps in the direction of the old square tower whence the sound came. As he walked thither, he almost made up his mind that Mr. Spencer was the sender of his letter and its contents.

"He is generous enough to do it—Christian enough to do it in such a spirit, and to accompany it with such a message," said he to himself.

Mr. Ulyett was in his pew, with the usual look of preternatural keenness on his face. Mr. Spencer's good countenance had, as was common to it now, a shade of sadness. No wonder, on that day. But it lighted up as he listened to the old message which the angels brought, and as he joined in the song, "Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good-will toward men."

I do not think the curate's previous preparation had much to do with his actual sermon that Christmas morning; but his hearers said that "young parson had never preached like that before, and that he could beat even Mr. Worthington all to nothing."

Perhaps Arthur's flock wondered most when, before the General Thanksgiving, the curate desired them to join him in thanking God for a special mercy vouchsafed to himself on that Christmas morning.

Then, when all was over, and Arthur walked home to Cray Holm with the Spencers, Anna looked at him in wonder, and even quiet Aunt Adelaide thought that Mr. Glyn seemed almost like a new man, he was so bright, and seemed so happy.

Quite contrary to expectation, there was another guest at Cray Holm that day—an old friend of Mr. Spencer's who had been called to the neighbourhood by urgent business, and who, finding that he could not well reach home for Christmas, had thrown himself upon the squire's hospitality. He had reached Cray Holm the night before, and was at church with the little party that morning. He spoke in warm terms of the curate's sermon, and, on the homeward way, asked his host many questions about Arthur Glyn's antecedents, the answers to which need not be repeated.

As to Arthur, he thought no Christmas Day had opened so brightly for him since he had enjoyed the happy season as a child, and in ignorance of the trials and responsibilities of riper years.

The guest, Mr. Mervyn, gave his arm with old-world courtesy to Aunt Adelaide, at the same time keeping pace with the squire, and chatting gaily about their mutual past.

Surely, under the circumstances, the younger pair acted discreetly in keeping at a little distance behind, so that the elders might talk without restraint! The sun shone out and spread a broad, if wintry smile over all the country round; the earth was crisp under foot, and the air keen enough to make people recall their former verdict, and say that "things looked a bit Christmas-like, after all."

Mr. Ulyett had waylaid the squire on his threshold before service, and made him promise that the little party from Cray Holm should look in at his large one at Fairhill. As Mr. Mervyn openly avowed his wish to go; Mr. Spencer would not disappoint his guest; dinner was fixed for an earlier hour; and it was settled unanimously that they would all go—even Aunt Adelaide.

Well might Arthur think that day just what Christmas should be, as he went into the dining-room with Anna, and took his place by her side for the meal.

Nobody could tell quite how it happened, but as the three gentlemen sat for a little while after dinner, the talk turned upon matrimony and the part that money ought to play in uniting or severing loving hearts. Mr. Mervyn seemed rather to deem it a drawback for a poor or even a rich man to marry "a lass wi' a tocher;" saying that he had always resolved never to wed a wife with money. He had been true to his determination, and had been rewarded by finding the richest of dowries in the dear wife herself.

Whereat the squire asserted that the man or woman possessing all the good qualities to make a perfect partner would neither be better nor worse for having the money, unless it were indispensable to their union.

"What does it matter which has it, provided either has enough to make marriage prudent?" he asked.

"Ah, but," returned Mr. Mervyn, "I could never be so beholden to a wife. If I had not possessed the means to offer such a home as I should like to see the woman I loved the mistress of, I should have borne my trial and held my peace."

"Then, sir," said the old squire, waxing warm, and standing erect as he spoke, "your love would have been worth little, and its strength but small, if money could have entered into such calculation with it, and pride strangled it altogether."

But he had hardly uttered the words ere he checked himself, and with a pleasant smile held out his hand to the old friend, who had risen, too, with a somewhat indignant manner, saying, "Forgive me, Mervyn, if I spoke too warmly. The question is but an abstract one, after all. I know: your true heart too well to doubt it. It happened that you could win your wife and keep your resolution. But had you loved a rich lassie, you would never have inflicted the cruel wrong of being silent about it, if you thought she had bestowed an honest heart upon you."

Mr. Mervyn laughed and clasped the squire's hand, and so linked, they passed out and into the drawing-room, the curate following, and greatly exercised in his mind by the discussion, in which he had taken no part but that of listener. He knew that Anna Spencer had half her dead mother's fortune, and that not a trifle, in her own right, and he had ever deemed this a barrier which his pride could not overleap.

There was a little interval of singing, and Aunt Adelaide dozed now and then, as old ladies will, and wakened with a start, to thank the young people for the music which had been unheard by her, and to declare that it was very pretty indeed.

The little party walked to Fairhill in the gloaming, and saw the children, and helped to distribute the gifts. And Mr. Spencer's face was like the weather—much more Christmas-like than could have been expected. His heart was far too warm, his nature too kindly, to be unsympathetic when he saw others happy. He tried to forget the cloud that had burst over his own hearth, and thanked God that there was so much of sunshine left for others and for him.

As to Mr. Ulyett! Nobody would have imagined that a caustic word had ever dropped from his lips, or that he could doubt the disinterestedness of any human being. He was the life and soul of the Christmas gathering. He was pulled about by small hands, and clung to, and made to act as a beast of burden. He looked so happy at being tyrannized over by a crowd of children, that everyone felt it was the greatest mistake for him to be an old bachelor.

Anna Spencer declared that she had quite fallen in love with Mr. Ulyett; which statement must, however, be received with caution. Girls will guess that had such a sentiment really existed, it would not have been publicly proclaimed.

All happy days must end. Before the guests departed, however, young and old sang a carol together, a few words of prayer were said, with thanks for the past year's good, while a blessing was asked for the new.

Then away through the lanes—and soon the moon looked down upon a sleeping village.