YES, THE YEAR is growing old,
And his eye is pale and blear’d!
Death, with frosty hand and cold,
Plucks the old man by the beard
Sorely, — sorely! — LONGFELLOW.
IT is New Year’s Eve. There is no twilight now in Mr. Melville’s cheery parlour, the light is glimmering in the polished furniture, leaping and dancing in the merry eyes that surround it, and even the grave features of the head of the house have relaxed into an unwonted smile. The young people have not forgotten the old Scottish celebration of “Hogmanay,” in all its observances, and Christian’s stores have been plundered, and James has fled blushing from their raillery, pursued by the glad echo of their ringing laughter. How pleasantly it sounds! the passengers without on the cold pavement linger at the bright window, arrested by its spell; involuntary smiles steal over grave sober faces, as it rings out in its frank youthfulness challenging their sympathy, and younger passers-by echo it with interest in a chorus of their own, and send it on, louder and louder, through the cold brisk air. How merrily it sounds!
And Christian is smiling too, but her smile is like the first April sunbeam, whose fleeting brightness tells of tears at hand. Her thoughts are solemn; this evening is sacred to the dead, whose image floats before her pensive eyes, and whose cherished memory hangs about her inmost heart. She sees the worn and weary frame, so long since laid down in peace, to sleep and be at rest within the bosom of its mother earth; She holds communion with the immortal nature so long since perfected. She is alone amid that mirth, surrounded by mournful remembrances; among them, but united to the dead.
But “James is to be married to-morrow!” and there are household preparations to make, and when these are finished the hour has come for their usual evening worship; a pleasant hour at all times to Christian Melville. Her father has chosen his Psalm appropriately this night, and the solemn and simple melody swells up, full and clear, through their quiet habitation.
“Lord, thou hast been our dwelling place
In generations all,
Before thou ever hadst brought forth
The mountains great or small;
Ere ever thou hadst form’d the earth
And all the world abroad,
Ev’n thou from everlasting art
To everlasting, God.”
How vivid is the realisation of Christian, as she sings the words of that solemn acknowledgment of God’s power and man’s dependence, and, in true heartfelt appreciation of the Lord’s providential loving-kindness on the closing night of the year, recognises and gives thanks for His great goodness. And there is a quivering aged voice blending with the sweet youthful accents in the song of gratitude; Christian knows right well that it comes from a heart, a very babe’s in godly simplicity, which, in the meek confidence of faith, is enabled and privileged to take the inspired words of the Psalmist for its own. It is old Ailie, her dead mother’s faithful and trusted servant, and her own humble friend and counsellor. The reading of the Word is past, the voice of supplication has ceased, and, gathering round the warm fireside, they wait the advent of the new year; happily and with cheerfulness wait for it — for it, for the breath of praise and prayer has driven away the gloom from the calm horizon of Christian’s gentle spirit, like a cloud before the freshening gale, and the young faces that know no sorrow are shining with the very sunlight of happiness. Robert’s eye is on the time-piece, watching its slow fingers as they creep along to midnight, and Mary has clasped Christian’s hand in her own, that none may be before her in her joyful greeting, and the father lingers in his seat half disposed to melt into momentary kindness, and half ashamed of the inclination.
Twelve! Listen how it peals from a hundred noisy monitors, filling the quiet midnight air with clamour, and followed by a storm of gratulation and good wishes in this cheerful room, and out of doors from so many human tongues, and so often insincere. There is no feigned affection, however, in this little circle; hand clasps hand warmly, and voice responds to voice with genuine heartiness. Even Mr. Melville has foregone his frost, and hurries away that nobody may see him in his molten state, and Christian calls in Ailie and her younger assistants to give and receive the “happy new year.” Christian is no niggard in her annual dainties, and she has risen now with her eyes sparkling:
“A happy new year to Halbert!”
There is a glistening look about those cheerful eyes — for they are cheerful now — which shows that their brightness is all the brighter for a tear hovering under the long lashes; and cordially does every voice in the room echo her wish, “A happy new year to Halbert!” if he were only here to give it back!
But the blithe ceremonial is over, the embers are dying on the hearth, and the young eyelids are closed in sleep; why does Christian linger here? The room is dark, save when some expiring flame leaps up in dying energy before it passes away, yet there she bends in silent contemplation, as the dusky red grows darker and darker, and the ashes fall noiselessly upon the hearth. Is she dreaming over the extinguished hopes which she has hid in mournful solitude within her steadfast heart? Is she comparing, In grief’s pathetic power of imagery, these decaying embers with the happy prospects, the abundant promise, which Death’s cold fingers have quenched? Ah! Christian has gone far back through the dim vistas of memory to a chamber of sorrow; a darkened room, where lies in its unconscious majesty the garment of mortality which a saint has laid aside. In imagination she weeps her tears all over again, but they are sweet and gentle now, for Time’s hand is kind, and there is healing in the touch of his rapid fingers; and now that bitterness worse than death has passed away, and Christian rejoices even in the midst of her sadness, for the one she mourns derived his lineage from the highest blood on earth — the household of faith — and Death has carried him home.