The Indianapolis journal. [volume] (Indianapolis [Ind.]) 1867-1904, 1884-12-21
UNDER THE MISTLETOE.


The fire roared up the great chimney of the
lonely old country house as if each struggling
| flame tumbled over the other in a hurry to reach
the stars and the wind that roared in unison,
while it cast thousand rosy lights about the
antique room, whose dark and polished wains-
coat cast them forth again, to play about the
massive silver of the buffet, the old portraits on
the wall and the cluster of young faces around
the hearth.
Miss Sangrefeld, to be sure, was not so young;
she was the embodiment rather of the hoary age
of her name and race. But there was Adrian,
the impersonation of youth itself, the young,
artist whose pictures were just beginning to sell,
who had come as often before, for the holida Us,
to the region where he had found his first patron
in old Miss Sangrefeld, and his first and last
and only love in her niece, the naughty Kathar-
inc, the sole representative now of the Sangre-
fields and the heiress of all the wealth they had
left behind them
Not that Adrian had ever dared whisper
word OF his love; it locked into the last fast
ness of his heart, and he was jealous jailer of
the least sparkle of the eye that might betray it.
But as if Katharine did not knowit, for all that
Some day, he reasoned, if he became famous if
his pictures sold at the fabulous prices of his
dreams-and yet, even then, he did not know if
he should dare; she would still be the remote,
unapproachable beauty and certain visions that
he had had of life in a studio, with small income
but with a wife beside him happy in small ways,
always stood in the path of any bold determine
ton to marry woman whose ancestral
diamonds alone were fortune One night, he
remembered, he had been dangerously near the
point of testing his passion, his patience, his
pride; dangerously near her, dressed for some
dueenly part in the play, the front of her dress
thick with jewels that the women of her name
had worn before her. fllet of diamonds
binding her night black hair some one, jostling
her, had set all the jewels in glitter, and down
had fallen the coil of that fragrant night black
hair all about her to her feet-sueh hair as the
Carthagenian women gave for bow -strings; and
the Jewels shook and glistened. and her great
luminous eyes glistened like pale blue gems
themselves, and the white hand she raised to
that hair, the hand he had been about to seize
that he did seize-was so heavy with the jew
els, pledges Of old love, maybe between lovers
long dead and dust, that he dropped it like
weight. Was it the jewels, was it the sense of
that barrier of wealth, was it her own inaceessi-
bic individuality, that hindered2 He could not
say. He only felt the desire of the moth for the
star, and used to reproach himself that he had
not the courage OF the moth to fly into the con
Stunning light; for he kept away from the Sangre-
fields, and only when absenting himself from
holiday fiesta would have made his absence more
conspicuous than his presence did he obtrude
himself upon the view But now as he looked
at her, how he loved herr
Yet if in thinking of Adrian as young and ar
dent enough to absorb all the youth in the room,
you would be sure he had done so had you
looked a second time at Miss Sangrefeld, from
whom all youth seemed to be distracted, as she
sat there, an image of age, with her white face,
her white hair, her white laces. her white shawl,
the only live or pulsing thing about her being
the lights that glanced in her crimson satin drap
cries, and in two eyes that glimmered from their
sunken pits. But there were others about the
hearth with as eager outlook life as
Adrian's; not to speak of Rose and Mary and
Betty and Vennard, and the rest, since they
were always with rs, there was the Prince Pi
laty, young himself, if his pedigree dated from
the founding of Rome, an attaehe OF legation,
without sufficient visible means of support to
keep him in walking sticks, princeling who had
enough left of his family influence to attach him
temporarily to a legation, and who il he did not
marry fortune in this country, had no
course but to become a dancing master
or restaurant waiter. Meanwhile,
being young and fond of the things of youth, he
saw no reason why he should not love katha-
rne and her fortune too. And as Adrian looked
at him he Withdrew himself still further into
the moody silence that was wont of late to wrap
him, for there was to his picturesque view GER
tain fitness of things that made Katharine San
greheld the proper bride for family that dated
from the foundation of Rome Now and then
Miss Sangrefeld looked at Adrian; now and
then she looked at Katharine; now and then she
twisted the loose rings on her withered fingers
or put those fingers before her eyes and looked
through them at the princeling She was very
old; life lay behind her. They were very young;
life lay before them. She was presently to leave
Katharine. In whose hands! The warmth of
her heart, the life Of her soul, friend husband
child the whole world in onel And the thin
and trembling fingers still shielded the keen. old
eyes that danced from the fire to the faces as
restlessly as the flames themselves danced.
How the wind blows!n said Rose, drawing up
her lace mantle as if it warmed her to do so, and
giving Vennard the hint to draw 1t up again,
and liuger in the drawing. Just hear i'll 1t
sounds like the keening at a mountain wake in
Ireland Did you ever hear anything so mel
ancholyP
ut sounds half human" said Betty, crouching
closer to Miss Sangrefelds feet
'"These huge chimneys-" began VennaPd.
1T isn't the wind" said Miss Sangrefeld
letting her hands fall in her lap as if life had left
them.
Isn't the wind" cried Rose and Betty in a
breath What is it, thenP
ut is the voice of Sarah Sangreheld."
''Of Sarah Sangrefeldl" cried Katharine
There she hangs; look at her" cried the
old woman. Look at her in all her fatal
beauty!"
'sThe one that resembles you so, Katharine"
said Vennard.
And they all bent forward to see the likeness.
as the startled girl from her low seat half turned
to scan the portrait
EYES," exclaimed old Miss Sangre6eld; "once
in every tenth generation the likeness reappears,
they say And this is Katharine to the life"
''Oh, it makes me SILVER" cried Mary.
ut has made many one shiver before said
Miss Sangrefeld. For nearly twice hundred
years it has been making people SILVER"
IA ghost! ghostl' cried one and all. "Oh!
| it is just the night for it. Do let us have the
story" And they turned to look over their
shoulders, as Katharine had done, at the picture
of the lovely lady in her old court robes stiff with
| silver thread and pearls, with the great pale
blue jewellke eyes, the night black hair, pearl
braided, the skin like the creamy petal of that
rose which bushes only at the heart; and they
shuddered, and gave little screams and gathered
tla aicnrs of the fire. li cht fell