But Father Christmas waved my gratitude aside.
“Nonsense,” he said, “that’s nothing. That’s my life. Perhaps the little
boy would like a book too. I have them here in the packet. Here, sir,
_Jack and the Bean Stalk_, most profound thing. I read it to myself
often still. How damp it is! Pray, sir, will you let me dry my books
before your fire?”
“Only too willingly,” I said. “How wet and torn they are!”
Father Christmas had risen from his chair and was fumbling among his
tattered packages, taking from them his children’s books, all limp and
draggled from the rain and wind.
“All wet and torn!” he murmured, and his voice sank again into sadness.
“I have carried them these three years past. Look! These were for little
children in Belgium and in Serbia. Can I get them to them, think you?”
Time gently shook his head.
“But presently, perhaps,” said Father Christmas, “if I dry and mend
them. Look, some of them were inscribed already! This one, see you, was
written ‘_With father’s love_.’ Why has it never come to him? Is it rain
or tears upon the page?”
He stood bowed over his little books, his hands trembling as he turned
the pages. Then he looked up, the old fear upon his face again.
“That sound!” he said. “Listen! It is guns--I hear them.”
“No, no,” I said, “it is nothing. Only a car passing in the street
below.”
“Listen,” he said. “Hear that again--voices crying!”
“No, no,” I answered, “not voices, only the night wind among the trees.”
“My children’s voices!” he exclaimed. “I hear them everywhere--they
come to me in every wind--and I see them as I wander in the night and
storm--my children--torn and dying in the trenches--beaten into the
ground--I hear them crying from the hospitals--each one to me, still as
I knew him once, a little child. Time, Time,” he cried, reaching out his
arms in appeal, “give me back my children!”
“They do not die in vain,” Time murmured gently.
But Christmas only moaned in answer:
“Give me back my children!”
Then he sank down upon his pile of books and toys, his head buried in
his arms.
“You see,” said Time, “his heart is breaking, and will you not help him
if you can?”
“Only too gladly,” I replied. “But what is there to do?”
“This,” said Father Time, “listen.”
He stood before me grave and solemn, a shadowy figure but half seen
though he was close beside me. The fire-light had died down, and through
the curtained windows there came already the first dim brightening of
dawn.
“The world that once you knew,” said Father Time, “seems broken and
destroyed about you. You must not let them know--the children. The
cruelty and the horror and the hate that racks the world to-day--keep it
from them. Some day _he_ will know”--here Time pointed to the prostrate
form of Father Christmas--“that his children, that once were, have not
died in vain: that from their sacrifice shall come a nobler, better
world for all to live in, a world where countless happy children shall
hold bright their memory for ever. But for the children of To-day, save
and spare them all you can from the evil hate and horror of the war.
Later they will know and understand. Not yet. Give them back their Merry
Christmas and its kind thoughts, and its Christmas charity, till later
on there shall be with it again Peace upon Earth Good Will towards Men.”
His voice ceased. It seemed to vanish, as it were, in the sighing of the
wind.
I looked up. Father Time and Christmas had vanished from the room. The
fire was low and the day was breaking visibly outside.
“Let us begin,” I murmured. “I will mend this broken horse.”