Chapter 6

THE DAY BEFORE CHRISTMAS.

"Still to ourselves in every place consigned.
Our own felicity we make or find."

"Catch, then, oh, catch the transient hour!
Improve each moment as it flies.
Life's a short summer, man a flower;
He dies, alas! how soon he dies!"

There are days which rise sadly, go on without sunshine, and pass into
night without one gleam of color. Life, also, has these pallid,
monotonous hours. A distrust of all things invades the soul, and
physical inertia and mental languor make daily existence a simple
weight. It was Christmas-time, but the squire felt none of the elation
of the season. He was conscious that the old festal preparations were
going on, but there was no response to them in his heart. Julius had
arrived, and was helping Sophia to hang the holly and mistletoe. But
Sandal knew that his soul shrank from the nephew he had called into his
life; knew that the sound of his voice irritated him, that his laugh
filled him with resentment, that his very presence in the house seemed
to desecrate it, and to slay for him the very idea of home.

He was sitting in the "master's room," wondering how the change had come
about. But he found nothing to answer the wonder, because he was looking
for some palpable wrong, some distinctive time or cause. He was himself
too simple-hearted to reflect that it is seldom a great fault which
destroys liking for a person. A great fault can be forgiven. It is small
personal offences constantly repeated; little acts of meanness, and,
above all, the petty plans and provisions of a selfish nature. Besides
which, the soul has often marvellous intuitions, unmasking men and
things; premonitions, warnings, intelligences, that it cannot doubt and
cannot explain.

Inside the house there was a pleasant air and stir of preparation; the
rapid movements of servants, the shutting and opening of doors, the low
laughter of gay hearts well contented with the time and the
circumstances. Outside, the mesmerizing snow was falling with a soft,
silent persistence. The squire looked sadly at the white hills, and the
white park, and the branches bending under their load, and the sombre
sky, gray upon darker gray.

Last Christmas the girls had relied entirely upon his help. He had found
the twine, and driven the nails, and steadied the ladder when Sophia's
light form mounted it in order to hang the mistletoe. They had been so
happy. The echo of their voices, their snatches of Christmas carols,
their laughter and merry badinage, was still in his heart. He remembered
the impromptu lunch, which they had enjoyed so much while at work. He
could see the mother come smiling in, with constant samples of the
Christmas cheer