GOOD-NIGHT TO THE INFANT OF PRAGUE
The last hour of Christmas Eve ticked slowly to its close.
On all around grew that sense of the herald angels, bending over a
waiting world, poised upon outstretched wings. The hush had fallen which
carries the mind away to the purple hills of Bethlehem, the watching
shepherds, the quiet folds, the sudden glory in the sky.
The old Grange was closing its eyes at last, and settling itself to
slumber.
One by one the brightly lighted windows darkened; the few remaining
lights moved upwards.
The Hollymead Waits had duly arrived, and played their annual Christmas
hymns. They had won gold from Ronnie, by ministering to his new-found
proud delight in his infant son. The village blacksmith, who played the
cornet and also acted spokesman for the band, had closed the selections
of angelic music, by exclaiming hoarsely, under cover of the night: "A
merry Christmas and a 'appy New Year, to Mrs. West, to Mr. West, and to
_Master_ West!"
Ronnie dashed out jubilant. The Waits departed well-content.
Helen said: "You dear old silly!"
"Master West," wakened by the cornet, also had something to say; but he
confided his remarks to his nurse, and was soon hushed back to slumber.
* * * * *
In the studio, the fire burned low.
The reflections in the long mirror, were indefinite and dim.
The Infant of Prague lay forgotten on the floor.
* * * * *
As midnight drew very near, the door of the studio was pushed softly
open, and Helen came in, wearing a soft white wrapper; a lighted candle
in her hand.
She placed the candle on a table; then, stooping, carefully lifted
Ronnie's 'cello from the floor, laid it in its rosewood case, and stood
looking down upon it. Then, smiling, touched its silver strings, with
loving fingers.
"Poor Infant of Prague!" she said. "Has Ronnie forgotten even to put you
to bed? Never mind! To-morrow you and he shall sing Christmas hymns
together, while I and his little son listen and admire."
She closed the case. Then some impulse made her open it again. Her sweet
eyes filled with tears. No one was there to see. Ronnie's wife knelt
down and gently kissed the unconscious, shining face of the Infant of
Prague.
* * * * *
Turning from the settee beneath the window, she saw herself reflected in
the mirror--a tall fair figure in trailing garments, soft and white.
She held the candle high above her head, looked at her own reflection,
and smiled.
She was glad she was so lovely--for Ronnie's sake.
Ronnie's love to-night was very wonderful.
She moved towards the door, but paused in passing, to look into the
smouldering embers of the fire.
At that moment the clocks struck midnight. She heard the Westminster
chimes, up on the landing.
It was Christmas Day.
"Unto us a Child is born; unto us a Son is given," murmured Helen. "Oh,
holy Christ of Christmas, may the new life to come be very perfect for
my Ronnie, my baby, and me."
* * * * *
"Helen!" came Ronnie's eager happy voice, shouting over the stairs. "I
say, _Helen_! Where are you?"
"Coming, darling!" she called, passing out of the studio, and moving
swiftly down the corridor.
Ronnie, on the landing, was leaning over the banisters, an expression
of comic dismay on his face.
"Oh, I say!" he whispered. "I've done it now! I believe I've woke the
baby!"
Helen, mounting the stairs, paused to look up at him, love and laughter
in her eyes.
"Undoubtedly you have, you naughty boy! No shouting allowed here now,
after dark. But what do you think I was doing? Why, I was in the studio,
putting to bed the Infant of Prague."
THE END.
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