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masse, whom they half believe to be a real personage —a sort of
half Deity, half mortal, coming once a year, to see that they are
and deserve to be happy. Leaving them in groups about the
grounds, we prepare for another display of fire-works, after which
we adjourn to the mansion, in obedience to the summons of the
violin.
Supposing you, dearly beloved reader of either gender, the tender
and the tough, to be in some degree familiar with the laws of art, you
will see that we have this night left only for our denouement. The
artist is a creator, andso —a Fate. He has established his premi
ses, and the results are inevitable; they bind him just as rigidly
as they do his Dramatis Personae. What we do, accordingly,
must be done quickly. The “ Golden Christmas ” ends with this
night, and our parties must be disposed of. Who must be dis
posed of ? How must they be disposed of ? Who are the vic
tims ? What the processes ? You, perhaps, can all of you an
swer these questions —all except the last. And that is a question
to which I can only help you to an answer, as I proceed, and in
the natural progress of events. You must not be surprised at this.
The artist does not make events; they make themselves. They
belong to the characterization. The author makes the character.
If this be made to act consistently,—and this is the great necessity
in all works of fiction, —events flow from its action necessarily, and
one naturally evolves another, till the whole action is complete.
Here is the whole secret of the novelist. Now', all that I can tell
you of a certainty is this, —that the action must be complete to
night ; and that the persons of the story may be expected to ex
hibit just the same sort of conduct which they have shown from
the beginning. More I cannot report. You must judge for your
selves of w hat you have to expect. You may ask, Shall the se
quel be a happy one ? That, of course, or it would not be the
“ Golden Christmas.” Will Ned Bulmer be allowed to marry
pretty Paula Bonneau ? Do you suppose, with such characters as
they have shown, they will be happy together \ And what of
Dick Cooper and Beatrice Mazyck ? The question naturally oc
curs, in answer to this, —What will Tabitha say to it, the house
keeper of that bachelor ? But, really, if you thus go on making
these inquiries, we shall never make an end of it. Even now',
Messrs. Walker, Richards A Cos., are crying aloud for “ copy,”
through the lungs of forty printing office fiends. The readers,
they cry, are becoming impatient. Nothing, but a marriage, or
some other catastrophe, of equal magnitude, will satisfy them. If
so — revenom a nous moutons! Let us see what our folks are about.
The tea service over, the fire-w'orks displayed, all preliminaries
at an end, the violins in full tune, the dancers are preparing for
their partners. Ned Bulmer, arm in sling, is standing in the floor.
The Major approaches him with a whisper. His eyes turn upon
Beatrice Mazyck.
“ Ned, my boy, let me repeat my wishes once more. It is not
too late. Paula Bonneau is no doubt a good girl, a fine girl, a
pretty girl, but there is no such woman in the parish as Beatrice.”
“ Father,” answered Ned very solemnly, though in a whisper
also, —“ Your taking the reins out of my hand has already broken
my arm: your further attempts at driving me may break my heart.”
“ Break the d—1!” burst out from the old man, who turned
away in a huff. He came up to me, muttering,—
He s as stubborn as Ben Fisher’s mule, that always reared
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going up hill, and took the studs going down ! How to p “
myself to Mrs. Mazyck !” CUi
I could give him neither advice nor consolation; and be wheel
out of the room as soon as he saw that Ned, lame as he was *
taking Paula Bonneau out for the cotillion. I took out Beat’
at the same time. How we danced, with what glee, what perfe,
abandonment to the influences of the season, must be left to coi
jecture. Description is impossible. The happiness was not co
fined to the dances. The elderly folks had their own and vario
modes of recreation. Some, of course, looked on, enjoying (
dancing, just as much as if they themselves had a foot in
Others were gathered together in side rooms, in ’he wings, findin
solace in conversation; others, apart also, were engaged in whis
and in the hall, or grand passage way, the curtain still being si
pended across it, others were preparing for tableaux. For thes
the characters and scenes were numerous; and a couple of cot
lions and a reel being ended, the little bell summoned the sped
tors to the hall, where, in the area outside of the curtain, th<
awaited its rising. I was among the actors, and can say nothii
of the exhibition, except that it was apparently quite successl
with the audience. But it led to other scenes, more important
the event, to which I must hasten. It happened that,
arrangements, I was cast tor the part of Ferdinand, and Beatri
for Miranda, the scene taken from “The Tempest.” Beatri
looked admirably the Miranda. Her fair complexion, calm, inn
cent features, the simple dignity in her expression, the artless gra
of her action, all became the presentment “wonderfully well,
flatter myself I made a comely Ferdinand enough. I havener
doubted that. lam a tolerably good looking fellow', as thewor
goes. Well—we were together in the library", which we had co
verted into a sort of green room. We were preparing fort
moment when we should be called to the Beatrice had it
o *
joined me from the ladies Tiring room in the rear, and, undertl
pretence of surveying her costume, I took her hand, held her
little off, and allowed my eves to devour greedily all her beautil
proportions. There was nobody at that moment in the room. Tl
hall was again empty, the audience having returned to the parlo
until the bell should again give the signal when the stage shou
be occupied. There is a moment in the career of a lover, wh
some instinct emotion spurs him to an audacity, from which,
most other moments, he would be very apt to shrink. The coi
age of love wonderfully comes and goes. I was now carried away
mine. The blood rushed in a torrent about my heart. It mount
to my brain, as billows of the sea to the shore. I whispered p
sionate words; —l breathed passionate assurances; 1 lltt ‘ r
vows and entreaties in the same breath ; and the bosom of $
trice heaved beneath her l>odioe ; and her ey T es rose, forge ai
dewy, till they met the gaze of mine. She did not speak, h
silently 7 lifted the hand which I clasped, and I beheld the m
which she had found in the Christmas box, securely circling I
particular finger. Then she spoke, in a tremulous whisper,—
“ Was it not your’s ?”
I carried the hand to my lips; the next moment my arm
circled her waist; I drew her up to my bosom, and our lips met
the first most precious kiss of love !
We forgot the world—heard nothing —saw 7 nothing
nothing—in that delicious moment of certain bliss. Little 1
dream, then, that any eye was upon us but that of Heaven.