THE STORY OF TWO CHRISTMAS EVES.

IN TWO CHAPTERS.—PROLOGUE.

In the gray light of an Indian dawn, with the cool breeze blowing through the curtains of the tent, and his friend's sorrowful eyes looking down on him, a soldier lay on his rough couch—waiting for death. They were soon to be parted those two, who had lived and fought together; but the face of the one who was starting on that journey of which none has measured the distance, was smilingly calm, while the eyes of the other glistened with regretful tears as he spoke low, faltering, remorseful words.

'Hush, Ralph, hush!' the other said at last. 'Don't you think, dear old fellow, I would sooner lose my life in having saved yours, than in any other way? After all, a few days or years sooner or later, what does it signify? My fate is perhaps the happiest, though I hope it is not. I don't think life is so very desirable,' he continued; 'I am only twenty-six; but mine has not been a happy one. It was my own fault, though. Take my advice, Ralph; don't marry young. There is only one thing that troubles me'——

'Your little girl,' Ralph interrupted. 'Wrayworth, let me take care of her; if I can make her happy, it will be some slight atonement, some'——

'You would take care of her, Ralph? would you?' The dying man's eyes shone gratefully as he looked up in his friend's face. 'She has nothing, poor little thing,' he went on sadly—'motherless, fatherless, scarcely more than a baby either. It would be a heavy charge to leave you, Ralph.'

'Wrayworth! how can you speak so; you will drive me mad! You—you'—— He broke down utterly; it was something so terrible to see this friend dying there—for him. 'Anything on earth that I can do'—— he murmured.

'You will do for her,' said Wrayworth. 'Thank you. I have no friends to send her to. I meant to have made her very happy.'

'She shall be; I swear it!' Ralph answered fervently, thankful for this charge, which might in some degree help him to pay that debt of gratitude, and forgetful that he had no control of fate, that the promise he gave of happiness was a fearfully presumptuous one. But he made it willingly, gladly, solemnly, before God; and as far as lay in his power it should sacredly be kept; any sacrifice he would make for this child.

His friend's eyes rested on him searchingly for a moment. 'I trust you,' he said—'I trust you.'

The hours passed on, the blazing sun arose, and Ralph went out into the burning glare with bent head and staggering footsteps, while words he had heard long since seemed floating round him in letters of fire: 'Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friend.'—'Is there none greater?' he thought. 'Is there nothing I can do to repay—nothing?'

CHAPTER I.—ASKED.

The years were well on in their teens since that melancholy scene was enacted in the Indian tent—since Wrayworth consigned his only child to the guardianship of the friend whose life, at the expense of his own, he had saved on the battle-field. A carriage rolled along the snowy high-road through the cold clear air; the short winter's day was drawing to its close, and up in the darkening sky the stars were beginning to shine upon the world's most joyful season, upon Christmas eve. The world's most joyful season? We call it so, this festival, more than eighteen hundred years old; but does the world think it so?—the world, with its thousand cares and crosses, its deep and hidden sorrows, its partings and its tears? Of those amongst the myriads who keep the Yule-tide feast, how many hold it with a chastened joy! For on that day most of all our thoughts go back to other years, to other faces, to other lips that have wished us 'a merry Christmas;' to other hands, which have clasped ours so loyally, to those who have loved us so long ago!

But Major Loraine had no sad memories connected with the season as he drove up to the old house, from which duty had so frequently called him, and which he had not seen for five years. In the wide, dark, panelled hall his step-mother stood waiting to welcome him, as gladly as though he had been her own son. He was only a boy when she first came there, when the pink was fresh on her cheek and the gold bright in her hair; they had been drawn to each other then; and through the long years of her widowhood his loving care had helped to lighten her load of sorrow; so it was not wonderful that for months past she had been eagerly looking forward to his return.

The greetings over, they sat down side by side, talking, as those talk after long separation, of past, present, and future; of their acquaintances married, dead, or far away; of things on the estate, prosperous or failures; of the ball to be given next month, of the one they were going to, to-night; of how much Emma was improved since she 'came out,' how Katharine was considered one of the handsomest girls in the place, and how she might marry Sir Michael Leyland with thirty thousand a year if she liked.

'But why ever doesn't she like?' asked the Major, astonished at this new phase in the character of his worldly-minded sister.

'That is just what troubles me,' answered Mrs Loraine. 'They are all at the church now, helping to decorate. Louise wanted to stay at home to welcome you, but I sent them all off, so as to have you to myself for an hour. You will see a great alteration in Louise, Ralph.'

'Shall I, mother?' he said smiling. 'I think not. Her letters are the same always; they have altered in style a little of course in the last year or two, but it is the same spirit—the same creature.'

'But not the same face, Ralph. Remember you have not seen her for five years, which have not altered you, but which have changed her from an unformed girl of fourteen to a lovely woman; with that bright changing beauty, which has more charm for a man than regularity of feature. It is a very difficult question.'

'What is a difficult question?' asked Ralph, as his mother paused.

'What to do with Louise.'

'You hinted something of the kind in your last letter, mother,' he said gravely. 'I am sorry, but I must confess this house seems large enough for four women. You know how I am situated; you know the promise which binds me. But tell me,' he added smiling, 'what has Louise done? She seemed to me gentle and tractable enough when I was last at home.'

'I have not the slightest fault to find,' Mrs Loraine replied; 'you know I am very fond of her. You will think my difficulty very womanish; simply, Louise is too pretty.'

'And some one has told her so,' said Ralph, laughing. 'Go on.'

'It is not that; but I cannot bear to see my own child's happiness destroyed by another, who, if not a stranger, has at least no claim upon her.'

Ralph frowned slightly. 'Perhaps not,' he answered; 'the claim is upon me, and it is a sacred one. So,' he continued, 'it is a case of rivals, I see.'

'Simply this, Ralph. You remember the Levesons of Leigh Court, where we are going to-night? Their eldest son is in the —th Dragoons, and has been home on leave. Louise was away when he first came here, and he appeared very much struck with Katharine; and no wonder; she is very handsome. Well—don't laugh at me; I don't like match-making as a rule; but I thought as she seemed interested in him, there was no harm in inviting him sometimes. But as soon as Louise came home, he transferred his attentions to her. Katharine says nothing; but it makes a kind of awkwardness between them. I know she feels it, poor child; though indeed I believe Vere Leveson is simply flirting with Louise.'

Major Loraine laughed. 'Poor mother!' he said, 'you will have enough to do if you take all your children's love affairs to heart so seriously. These things always right themselves, you know. But I confess I am surprised to hear of Katharine going in for sentiment; I should have thought Sir Michael more in her line. Is that all, mother?'

'No; only the first of my difficulties,' she answered half sadly. 'You know what my health has been for the last few years; you know—— Well, you do not wish me to speak of that; but it is better to look in the face of possibility. Suppose anything happened to me, Ralph, what would become of Louise?'

'You speak of what I hope may be far distant, mother,' he answered tenderly. 'But why should you be uneasy about her? In the event of her not marrying, she would always have a home here with me.'

Mrs Loraine shook her head. 'Turn round and look in the glass,' she said; 'thirty-nine is not such a very formidable age.'

He turned, and contemplated his bronzed face in the glass; such a handsome, noble face, telling of a nature that could not act falsely or meanly. The broad square forehead, marred by a sabre-cut, and the dark hair flecked here and there, by the Indian sun, with gray; nothing else to find fault with in the frank kind smile, the fine regular features, the dark true eyes.

'I think there is no fear of my being taken for younger than I am, mother,' he said, smiling.

'It is an awkward position for you, though,' she answered; 'and as I said, a difficult question what to do. We must hope for the best, Ralph. You are going to join the others now, I suppose?'

'Yes; I think I can find my way.'

He went out into the keen frosty air, walking slowly, though it was unpleasantly cold to one accustomed to tropical climates. He was thinking over his mother's words, and knew she was right as to the awkwardness of the position. He saw the peace of the household was troubled, without knowing how to set matters right, and he thought of the old friend who had trusted his child to him. He had vowed she should be happy, and now it seemed a difficult vow to keep; but for the sake of the man who had died for him sixteen long years ago, the pledge then given must be redeemed.

Louise Wrayworth's life had been a bright one hitherto; her guardian's home was the only one she could remember, and he had striven to fill in some degree her father's place. To him, from infancy to womanhood, she had looked up with loving grateful reverence, regarding him, present or absent, as the noblest of created beings.

He reached the old church, and made his way round to the open vestry door. The steps were encumbered with bundles of evergreens; the voices of the workers, who had finished their task, were audible. He pushed the door further open, and went in. The floor was covered with boughs, and around the pillars were wreathed holly and other evergreens in honour of the joyous season. Some of the choristers stood waiting for the choir-practice, and the organist was softly playing Adeste Fideles.

'Ralph!' cried a young fresh voice; and a slight fair girl with a merry face sprang up from the floor, with her hands full of the scarlet berries, which fell hither and thither in bright-hued rain, as with complete indifference to the by-standers, she gave the returned soldier a sisterly embrace. 'You dear old thing to come for us!' she exclaimed.

'Emma, Emma!' exclaimed Ralph, laughing and disengaging himself; 'you have not learned to behave any better in five years.'

But his young sister had vanished, and he turned to greet the vicar; and one or two of the ladies he recognised. In a few minutes Emma reappeared; and behind her came a tall fair girl with masses of golden hair, and great beautiful cold blue eyes. She greeted Major Loraine affectionately, but with the quiet stately grace habitual to her. Five years had not changed Katharine Loraine; at twenty-four she was still the same majestic Queen Katharine as at nineteen, with whom he had always had so little sympathy, whose nature he had found so difficult to understand.

'Where is Louise?' he asked presently. 'Is she not here?'

'She went into the churchyard just now,' answered Emma, 'to put a wreath on Nellie Bryant's grave. You remember her, Ralph?'

'Louise's friend? Yes.'

'A triste employment for Christmas eve,' observed one of the gentlemen decorators to Katharine, as he stooped to disentangle her dress from a long sprig of ivy.

'Oh, Mr Leveson went to hold a lantern for her,' Katharine answered, with the slightest possible shade of contempt in the silvery tones of her voice; 'and Louise is never triste, unless she is by herself.'

The choir was now fully assembled; the organist struck up the anthem, the rest were silent to listen, and Ralph Loraine went out to look for his ward. He came round the east end of the old church, and stood still for a moment in the shadow. There were two people standing at the edge of the path, looking down on the grave at their feet, where the lantern's light shewed the shining holly upon the upright marble cross. It shewed too the face of his friend's child; a beautiful face, as his step-mother had said, with large dark eyes and wavy dusky hair, a clear delicate complexion with a little rose-flush on the cheeks, and full red lips half-parted by the sweetest smile he had ever seen; with the same erect carriage of the head, the same fearless straight regard which had characterised her father.

It was so strange to see her there a woman, whom he had left a mere girl; and as he looked on the fair face, something seemed to whisper that the ideal beauty he had so often dreamed of was before him at last. They moved away, and came slowly nearer, and paused again where he could see her companion; and for a moment he almost hated the man for his youth, and his handsome face, and the deep-blue eyes aflame with passion-fire as they rested on the child of his dead friend; and another whisper which silenced the first, told him how fitted was each for the other.

'If I were lying there,' said Vere Leveson, and Ralph could hear every one of the foolish, softly spoken words, 'would you ever make wreaths for me, I wonder?'

'I don't know.'

'Don't you? I wish you did; for I thought just now I should be glad to be lying there, if you would remember me.'

Ralph had heard enough, and tried to slip away unseen; but the gravel crunched under his feet and betrayed him.

Louise started, and a bright vivid blush covered her face as she sprang forward. 'Lorrie! Oh, how glad I am to see you again!' she cried, as she took both his hands in hers and lifted her cheek for his kiss.

He felt half sorry she had done so; that and the old childish name put him immediately in his place as guardian, and made him ashamed of his thoughts. 'How you are altered, Louise!' he said, looking down at her admiringly. 'I think I should hardly have known you!'

'I should have known you, Lorrie, anywhere,' she said reproachfully.

'That is rather different,' he said; 'when we once get old, we don't change so quickly.'

'You would not like it if I said you were old, Lorrie. But tell me, am I altered for the worse? or'——

'You have no need to come to me for compliments, surely,' he said smiling.

'I should think more of yours than of any one's,' she whispered, with that sweet dangerous smile; a smile which a man like Ralph Loraine should have taken as a warning not to feel its influence too often.

'How rude I am!' she said at last.—'Mr Leveson, do you know my guardian?' She turned to her companion, who stood holding the lantern a few yards from them.

'I had the honour of dining in your company once, Major Loraine,' he answered, stepping forward. 'It is some time ago, when I first joined at Madras; but I well remember my anxiety to see such a distinguished soldier as yourself.'

There was a ring of truth and honest admiration in the words, which raised them above an ordinary compliment, and which made Ralph hold out his hand and answer cordially: 'I have a bad memory for faces, or I think I should have remembered yours.'

'Thanks,' said Vere, laughing. 'We shall have the pleasure of seeing you to-night, I hope?'

'Yes; my mother told me of the invitation.'

'Of course he is coming,' said Louise. 'And you will dance with me all the evening, Lorrie; won't you?'

'Not quite all, Miss Wrayworth; please, don't forget my waltzes,' said Vere, holding out his hand. 'I must be off now; so good-bye for the present. You won't forget?'

She looked up quickly. 'Perhaps,' the lips said laughingly; but the dark eyes gave a sweet silent answer Ralph did not see, though he was watching them. But after Vere Leveson had gone, he walked home beneath the Christmas stars, with Louise's hand resting on his arm, dreaming as he went, a fair, fond, foolish dream.

The Christmas-eve ball at Leigh Park was a regular institution, one which Sir Harry Leveson had kept up for years. It was a pretty sight, Ralph thought, as he stood leaning against a window, and looking round to select a partner. And amongst all the fair women, the one he thought the fairest was his young ward Louise Wrayworth, in her white floating dress, with its wreaths of holly, and the red clustering berries in her dark hair.

Ralph had been watching Vere Leveson, trying to decide in his own mind whether Mrs Loraine's verdict of flirtation was a just one; and he judged that it was; for the attentions of the young officer were apparently equally divided between Louise and Katharine. Ralph did not happen to be near when, later on, he led Louise to one of the cool empty rooms, where through the open window could be heard the merry Christmas bells. He did not see the hand-clasp or the light that flashed in the eyes of each. He did not hear the hurried whisper: 'Louise, you won't forget me, you will trust me till next Christmas-time?'

The ball was over, the rooms were dark and silent; the whole world waited for the sun to rise on Christmas-day.