It had been the house of his fathers. He had brought her to it as his
own on the afternoon of their wedding several miles away across the
country. They had arrived at dark; and as she had sat beside him in
the carriage, one of his arms around her and his other hand enfolding
both of hers, she had first caught sight of it through the forest
trees--waiting for her with its lights just lit, its warmth, its
privacies: and that had been Christmas Eve!
For her wedding day had been Christmas Eve. When she had announced her
choice of a day, they had chidden her. But with girlish wilfulness she
had clung to it the more positively.
"It is the most beautiful night of the year!" she had replied,
brushing their objection aside with that reason alone. "And it is the
happiest! I will be married on that night, when I am happiest!"
Alone and thinking it over, she had uttered other words to
herself--yet scarce uttered them, rather felt them:
"Of old it was written how on Christmas Night the Love that cannot
fail us became human. My love for him, which is the divine thing in
my life and which is never to fail him, shall become human to him on
that night."
When the carriage had stopped at the front porch, he had led her into
the house between the proud smiling servants of his establishment
ranged at a respectful distance on each side; and without surrendering
her even to her maid--a new spirit of silence on him--he had led her
to her bedroom, to a place on the carpet under the chandelier.
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