Rensselaer Republican, Volume 16, Number 15, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 20 December 1883 — Page 9

( lIRISTMAS--ISH3

(ORIGINAL.) ASHES OF ROSES.

A CHRISTMAS STORY.

- -PART I. =—? The old house stood alone, quite alone, among fields of snow, traced here and there with hedges of evergreen along paths else hidden; out from the lit;tie town, on a road which led southward to other towns as silent and uneventful. It was a rare old homestead, even thus remote from other dwellings—roomy, luxurious, with wealth’s conceptions and royal with welcome for friends. A rare old place for a visit—. at Christmas no less than at other seasons—for therein was never known a cold corner, never a chill spare room, an icy sheet, a frosted window-pane! A huge furnace in the cellar “sent” up streams of delicious which here and there found supplement in glowing grate fires ruddy as the setting sun. Great solace was evident in the rosy depths of flame great solace and delight, to the mistress of the house, the quiet, elderly woman who, for thirty years, had ruled here, alone for the most—part, especially until Clarice had come. Yet her life had not been tone of unhappiness; she, Lucretia Channing, at 60, could look back upon the past and say it had been ■well worth living. And Clarice would brighten all the later days—Clarice (no relative) whom she had adopted as niece a half-score years before, and striven to do for as she would for an own child. Sometimes Miss Channing’s only brother, older, not over-like herself, found time to run hither from the great city and spend a day or two, filled with hjs polities, his speculations, his lingering greed for gain. Little and bent he was, With many a cynical chuckle and nasty sarcasm, and seemed to delight in arriving when least expected. Yet he ever received his due of respect and deference—even they humored him by strict observance of his request that no carriage be sentto wait for any late train. There were__others who always came at the Christmas season; the Fieldings, Clem and Charley, children of a cousin, Victor Keene, a physician, and his wife Myra, also distant connections, besides a school-girl friend or two of Clarice. In the past there had also been Elmer Keene, now abroad, and Robert McClure, his chum and protege. Even though Miss Channing had not herself enjoyed this flood of youth and music and laughter, she would still have made them welcome for Clarice’s Baker- No-"moidrer "-eould--haYfiK»bee»-truer or wiser to Clarice than was sjie. She felt it no sacrifice when she took the girl to the city to spend’ a January, or to the seaside for a midsummer month. The remainder of the timein the two years since Clarice- had left school—they had spent happily enough by themselves in the great house out among its own far-reaching meadows. -Here they ebttld * bring»- the latest wonders of art, and enjoy them in restful leisure; here was home and its exceeding tenderness and peace. It was lacking two days of Christmas, and the house was filled with a quietude that presaged coming joys. Everywhere was the delicious evenness of temperature, from the great velvetcarpeted drawing-room to the smallest upper chamber,, through whose dormer window came the faint light of the winter sunset. And in her own apartment, facing the glow of firelight, Miss Channing rocked slowly to and fro in an ample chair, while Clarice stood leaning upon the low mantel, a sweet and gracious presence. Tall, with perfect outline, though slenderly built; fair, with a face -both-clftssie and tender,, and wondrous shadowy eyes, grat springs in the fuller fight. She leaned gracefully; her gray, close-clinging dress, was perfect in tail-or-fit, perfect in its one hue relieved only by the cluster of Jacqueminot rosee glowing on her bosom. Miss Channing rocked slowly to and fro ifi her favorite chair, still holding her favorite magazine—though she had not read for an hour. There was something in her countenance indicative of slow judgment, unswerving purpose,

BY LILY M. CURRY.

—no thing unkind ly, however, or-cnieL Clarice recounted the preparations of the day in a cheery voice—a voice that seemed to have never thrilled with pain or passion. “The same as usual, Aunt; the front cahmber for Uncle Rowland, the pink room to Nettie and Nell, the Fieldings in the blue room, Victor and Myra in the gold room and Mr. McClure in the red.” ■ ■Miss Channing rocked more slowly. “Mr. McClure will not be here this year.”

Clarice repeated the words in a wondering tone: “Will not be here; why, aunt, did you forget to ask him?” “No, I did not forget.” There was silence—the sheerest silence—then Clarice spoke in a low voice; “And you are not going to ask him?” “I am not.” “But why, aunt?” There was only calm and respect in the query. “Because, my dear, it is not advisable. It would have been hard to omit him had not Elmer been absent. Indeed, I think it happened most fortunately so.” “What has he done to forfeit our friendship, aunt?” “Nothing /especial, my dear. But, .caudidly 7 .it..,isysiiimg. man that he be not thrown in your society—don't interrupt, Clarice. Close observation, when we last met Mr! ihe fhaF lie might easily become too greatly jfir, terested in you. That is all I have to say, my dear.” “That is the only.reason, aunt? - ’ “The main reason. It is difficult to say wlhatxiovt of man he i»ay bo growing. Poverty is against him; poverty and a quick, passionate nature. He seems inclined to communistic notions. I have no sympathy with Communists or Socialists or Nihilists. That is all, Qlarice; and now I must go down and speak with Jane.” . Clarice went slowly out of the room and down the winding corridor to her own apartment; there she shut herself in and sat by the window to look upon the dusk and the white fields. “Aunt,” she said, speaking her thoughts aloud, with a tinge of bitterness, “youjyive spoiled my. Christmas; but I will not spoil yours, for you are an old woman—an old woman, and you have been griod to me. I will try not to show disappointment, but it is cruel, cruel!” ——— . . Hlie...xaid ao- -more?-dntfr-sat- thereiuthe dusk, thinking , very rapidly and trying to feel less grieved.' What would Christnihs be, now that he would not come? What were all the others, if that one earnest face, with its clear blue eyes, looked no response? That hopeful, handsome face, with its crisp chestnut locks at th e tern pl es! She had not seen him since October, when he had come out with Elmer, just before Elmer had sailed. They had corresponded at intervals. She

Holiday Supplemenl.

PKESENTiII > T< >'I'HE KEADEBS < >P I'lll'. HEXKSELAEB BEITBLICAX.

“YOU ARE VERY LIKE YOUR FATHER. DID YOU KNOW I KNEW YOUR FATHER YEARS AGO?"

wondered if her aunt had thought of this. Her aunt was the last person on earth to pry into another’s correspond-ence-even to examining a postmark. Ah, yes, her aunt was nobly, just—to her! But to Robert —Robert, so brave, so honest, so full of youthis enthusiasm! Poverty? Yes, sore poverty was against him. Elmer Keene had told lier something once about a rich man having defrauded Robert, a rieh man who knew well tlu\t which he was doing when he took advantage of legal quibble and and a day's lapse to so possess what Robert should have gained—his mother’s heritage. But Robert had never learned the name or identity of the defrauder. Robert was peculiar in some respects. “Communistic!” she wondered if this were Communism, a great heart yearning toward all the oppressed, the suffering ones of efrth. If he were a rich man, or even fairly , fixed, she knew what he .would be do-

ing just now. He would be going and sending from house to house amongthe low, tlie ignorant, the sorrowing, with bread and meat and tenderness for sold and body, and blessings for the Christmas day so near approaching. Oh, it Wifs cruel! She rose and ; walked slowly to and fro. How calmly I her aunt had dismissed it! How es-i fectually! She knew too well the utter j vanity of reopening the subject. She almost regretted she had not let her heart cry out for him, saying, “-Aunt, for my sake, let him come.” I But he had never said that he loved | her, and should she be the first? Impossible ! face grew hot in the ; darkness. Still she could not give him up thus. She must see him once more, ! if only mice. She had ho thought of wronging her aunt’s confidence, for her I aunt had ever been just, and justice ■ begets-justice wherever its touch has : berih felt. But she would, write him ; to-morrow, in any event. He should ; know that if all else were different, she ' remained unchanged. - Thus resolved she went down to the i sitting-room, and as they sat at dinner, her face was unclouded and beautiful. Miss Channing had possibly forgotten the conversation and the evening ; slipped quietly away. But Clarice retired only to toss feverishly all night long and realize that she ■ stood face to face with her first trouble. She would not write, she deterinined, but telegraph instead, when on the.mor- ! row she went to town. It occupied her . mind to word out this message: 1 did not Know until a few hours since that you had not been asked this* year. My ! aunt has always attended to such matters, j and supposed it to be as usual. I cannot tell I you how pained I am—though were you here " I might convince you. Remember, thpugh other things be different, I am still the same, ! Answer this if possible, that I may know'you I believe me. J shall be in town some hours. Clarice.' i Y’es, she woulfl-say at least this much. ; He shouhl know that »he was his friend, if nothing ! ■ DART 11. . The morning had risen white as a sanctified spirit, and with love upon the shining fields. Clarice was eager to be off. “You must ’have the- carriage,”, said Miss , Channing. “I dare say you would pre- \ fer the cutter, but it would never hold your parcels.” Clarice gave gentle assent, and soon j

aft er was leaning back among the cushions and listening with infinite satisfaction to the cringing snow beneath the wheels, as the carriage progressed toward Cattling. They crossed the railroad, and turned to the north again, the.sum Slanting Warmly through the windows, then entered the old wooden bridge, spanning a wide, frozen river. Having arrived in town, Clarice first dispatched her message, then went about some errands. When these were -dene —she returned—to—the office and found his reply awaiting her. With nervous haste she opened it and read: I will be in Cattling on Christmas eve, at the Depot hotel. She rode home in a quiver of delight. Tomorrow! He was coming to-mor-row—for her sake. He loved her, then —he loved her! “How bright you look, my dear,” her aunt said kindly. “I am happy, Aunt,” said Clarice, impetuously.

It seemed to her the great house had never looked s 0 beautiful as now, with its evergreen-wreathings, its luxury, its parted curtains, where the sunlight entered and blessed with abundance. She realized what a home it had been ami wliathaclbeen Aliss Channing's goodness through all these years. A goodness not to be set aside or forgotten through any cause on earth. Come what might, she would be grateful and honest But first she must see him. Come to-morrow ! Come to-morrow, quickly, when she should see him—on Christmas eve! But how to meet him? She had not thought of this. Thp visitors were expected in tfie morning. Robert from encounter unless Uncle Rowland should chance to arrive also by the same train—that of early evening. She hoped the old gentleman would come as heretofore—on Christmas day. She had no great love for Uncle Rowland. His fierce little eyes would ferret Robert out; his sharp, sarcastic;tongue make note of it to all the visitors. He confusion upon her. She did not fancy he liked her well. After another restless night, dawned another day of dazzling sunshine. The carriage,-sent down to meet the guests, returned with a merry crowd of six, one of the gentlepnen riding outside. Clarice was sincere in her welcome of dainty-blonde Myra, and rosy-cheeked Nettie and Nell, fresh from the life and light of the great city. She had i pleasant words and cordial for the j young men. Lunch -was waiting with all they liked best. There was good skating pn the river, and sleigh-rides in prospect. There was a new billiard ! table to be tried. In the evening there would be singing and dancing, and so ! she thought, said Clarice, they might manage a little sport. “We miss Elmer,” said Myra, sipping her coffee with dainty grace. “And Bob McClure,” put in Charley Fielding. “Isn't Bob coming?” asked Dr. Keene, glancing up from his salad. “No,” said Miss Channing, serenely, “I have not asked him.” In the interval of silence, Mvra glanced furtively at Clarice, but the girl’s face was utterly placid, even smiling without a flush or quiver.

“I was mistaken,” thought Myra. “She does not care for him,” Clarice Was thinking very hardthinking how she could manage to see him that night. He must riot be kept waiting until .the morning—he, who had come so far at her merest calling. No, she must and would see him, if she walked miles to do so. An hour later she had written a note and dispatched it to Cattling by the stable-boy, for av horn she arranged other errands. After that she found herself joyousat heart and keen as the others for skat- - - i-“ • y : in g on the river. At dusk the train from the city came thundering into Cattling, and a young iqan alighted, passing quickly through the station and crossing the road to the depot hotel. Having erigaged a room, with fire, he discovered a letter awaiting him. It was from Clarice and contained but a few words. He took it up into his room and there sat reading by the cylinder stove. “God bless her,” he said, as he reached the signature, “she must care a little. ” And what had Clarice written ? —I want-to see you so much;—but the coni-, pany has arrived, and I scarcely know what to do. Clearly, I cannot corrte to town ton’ght, nor do I know how long you can remain, You remember the little school-house half a inilo below Could yon drive out there at 6:30? I will run down and wait in the porch. / • . . It did not seem to her she had written boldly, unwomanly. She felt so innocent, so earnest at heart, that she had no thought of possible misconstruction. i ;—— ; McClure looked at his watch—it was not yet 6. He still held the letter with fond, firm clasp. “God bless her!” he repeated, and wondered if the Christmas past were half as much to her as to himself; if it were possible she remembered the flower she had given him —the crimson rose, her favorite blossom ? The luscious crimson rose that he had always treasured, even when it was ashes. “Ashes of roses!” he said, tenderly, and his hand sought the pocket next his heart, where the little package lay, of rose dust. He went down after a little and took a cup of coffee; then he obtained a horse and a clumsy cutter, in which to drive to the school-house. Not a bad horse, he said to hiiriself, though a little skittish at moments. He wished there were a bridge this side of the railroad trestle-work, so that he need not cross the track in town and reerpss a mile beyond the river. However, he enjoyed the crisp air and the pure, delicious mqpn-iise. The lights of the town twinkled faintly behind him; the distance widened. He was soon out on the open road beyond the river. He had reached the railroad and was sweeping swiftly onward, when the horse shied at an empty freight l car upon a siding, and, breaking from control, dashed into a snow-bank. But the boorish little cutter did not overreins, brought the animal, after a moment, into a moderate pace. They went on so, and slackened by and by at the school house, where in the little porch stood waiting a graceful form, warm wrapped in a long seal cloak, with a wide bonnet framing her beauteous face.. y He sprang to the ground with one glad cry, one word more he could not utter — “Clarice!” “I knew you Would come, ” she said, in a voice that thrilled him through and through. He tied the horse and stepped within the shadow of the porch. “It was so good of you,” he said; “so unspeakably good. I cannot thank you enough. ” “It was you who were good,” she answered gently, “to come as you have done.” “I was glad to come, more glad than I can tfcll> to find that you were my friend; that though all else were changed, you were still the same.” “I want you to believe that,” she put in, eagerly. “I do, I do.” His voice trembledr “In all my toil," my disheartening luck, my failures/ I have thought of you as true, steadfast. It has helped me.” Tears glistened in her eyes. “I am glad if I have been of any little help,” she said, softly, “or comfort. And that is what I wanted to say to you to-night —to-night—Christmas eve it is, you know; that I 'longed to help you in word or deed, or both. That I should not, would not, disguise iny friendship, for that were dishonest. It is true,”

XEW YEAB'S--Ihk|.

she hesitated; “it is true that my aunt-—-’* . t ..... ”~~^That"your aunt dislikes rim,” he finished the sentence for her, and she continued quickly; “But she has been good to me — wonderfully good—for I am no kin of hers;, it would be heartless, wicked, were I to speak against her or deceive her. I could not do so. But why should I fear ?” “Ah, why?” he echoed, dreamily. -Tlten-a new energy came into his voice, - ""It lias done me good to be with you. Clarice, great good. You have given me courage, the sweetest Christmas gift. And, Clarice, if ever there come a day when I dare to speak, dare to tell you all that you have been and are to me ” The moonlight fell like peace upon her face. “Are you afraid of me?” she said softly. “Clarice!” “Robert!” “Oh, my darling, my own wife! Can you love me—is it true?” His arm encircled her and held her . safe, while slow tears of happiness gathered in her eyes and fell upon his shoulder. “New hope! New life!” he cried rapturously.vi“Clarice.lw'itl'winqßame and honor for your sake. The thought of you is like the thought of the angels in heaven, lifting me up out of my meaner self. I tread new heights; there is keen, sweet strength, within me!” —■■.- - “()li, hush, hush,” she whispered gently, “you make me ashamed of my poor girlhood. I have, done nothing, become nothing but yours!” “Mine, mine!” he reiterated. “ShallI tell you, dear, of the rose you gave me a year ago to-night? It has never left me; it lies upon Triy“heart, though it is only ashes—‘ashes of roses,’ sealed from the-air even.”’ “You cared for me so long?" “I always cared for you!” “And, now,” she said, after kmoment, “I must return.” He held her very close and murmured his tenderness. “My darling, my angel! My brave sweetheart!” He would not let her see aught of bitterness in his mood that she were going back to the music and merriment while he must return alone to the town and see her no more for weary days. “You will write me, Clarice?” .' 1 “Very often, Robert, and your replies.” ' She lay a moment in his arms then suddenly withdrew. “Goo t-night,” she said, “and goodby. ’’ He untied the horse and sprang into the sleigh, from which be leaned for one last kiss. “God bless you, Clarice, and make your Christmas happy. Good-night.” He knew she preferred that be leave her here. He might have driven her lo heF own gate, biff ft® farictßd Str® wanted to go back leisurely and grow composed ere facing the glad company. It was half-pas t 7, their usual dinner hour, when -she the drawingroom, apparently cheerful. She strove to do her part, and let none read her heart; none should know how sorely she missed the absent. Not one. As the evening progressed, the old house seemed to brim with joy. Here were swinging footsteps to slow waltz melodies, and chorused songs of college life, and shining eyes and crimson lips under the glitter and in the waymth of luxury, while only a few miles off, at the little town, a lonely soul would wage .fierce war in an hour’s short space. PAET hi. He drove back to the town—holding the reins carefully lest the horse would shy and plunge again down there at the •railroad crossing; drove, feeling new strength and purpose in life, new desire for life itself. His heart fairly ached with excess of ambition. Poor heart! So downcast of late and warmed only by the rose-dust resting always above it. His room was cozy after the outer keenness; he was glad to throw himself upon the bed and cover his face, to dream of . her by snatches. "Would the time ever come when he might call her to his arms? When the jewels she wore, the rich clothing be through him provided ? And all might have been so different but for the miserly old scoundrel who had robbed him with wanton avidity. “Scoundrel 1” he said, through his teeth. “If ever came chance to ro-