It was Christmas eve in the year of our Lord 1653. The snow, which had
fallen fitfully throughout the day, shrouded in white the sloping roofs
and narrow London streets, and lay in little, sparkling heaps on every
jutting cornice or narrow window-ledge where it could find a
resting-place. But in the west the setting sun shone clearly, firing the
steeples into sudden glory and gilding every tiny pane of glass that
faced its dying splendor. The thoroughfares were strangely silent and
deserted. The roving groups that had been wont at this season to fill
them with boisterous merriment, the noise, the bustle, the good cheer of
Christmas--all were lacking. No maskers roamed from street to street,
jingling their bells, beating their mighty drums, and bidding the
delighted crowd to make way for the Lord of Misrule. No shouts of "Noel!
Noel!" rang through the frosty air. No children gathered round their
neighbors' doors, singing quaint carols and forgotten glees, and bearing
off rich guerdon in the shape of apples, nuts, and substantial
Christmas buns. In place of the old-time gayety a dreary silence reigned
through the deserted highways, and down the narrow footwalk, with even
step and half-shut eyes, tramped the Puritan herald, ringing his bell
and proclaiming ever and anon in measured tones, "No Christmas! No
Christmas!"
In sober and sad-hued garments was the herald arrayed, with leathern
boots that defied the snow and a copious mantle enveloping his sturdy
frame. Now and then he stopped to warn a couple of belated idlers that
they would do well to separate and go quietly to their homes. Now and
then a little child peeped at him timorously from a doorway, and,
overawed by his sombre aspect and heavy frown, retreated rapidly to hide
its fears in the safe shelter of its mother's gown. Men shook their
heads as he went by, and muttered something that was not always
complimentary to his presence; and women shrugged their shoulders and
sighed, and thought, perchance, of other Christmases in the past, with
Yule-logs burning on the hearth and stray kisses snatched beneath the
mistletoe. From a latticed window a girl's face peered at him with such
a light of laughing malice in the brown eyes that the Puritan, catching
sight of their wicked gleam, paused a moment, as though to reprove the
maiden for her forwardness, or to inquire what mischief was afoot under
this humble roof. But the night was growing chill, and he had still far
to go. It might not be worth while to waste words of counsel on one so
evidently godless; and, with a heavier scowl than usual, he tramped on,
swinging his bell with lusty force. "No Christmas! No Christmas!" echoed
through the darkening streets, and, as he passed, the girl contracted
her features into a grimace that would have done credit to the
wide-mouthed gargoyle of a Gothic cathedral.
"Cicely, Cicely!" cried a voice, at this juncture, from within, "close
the shutters, do, and come and help me."
Cicely, who had been inclined to stare out a little longer, shot the
heavy oaken bolt into its socket, and, opening a door leading to the
inner room, disclosed a scene whose ruddy cheerfulness shone all the
brighter in contrast to the dreary streets outside. A mighty bunch of
fagots blazed and crackled on the hearth, and above the carved
chimney-place hung branches of holly, their scarlet, berries glowing
deeply in the firelight. In one corner, half-veiled by a tapestry
curtain, a waxen Bambino nestled in its little manger, while before it
burned a small copper lamp. Wreaths of holly and ivy bedecked the
doors, and, standing tip-toed on a tall wooden chair, a young girl was
even now striving to fasten these securely with the aid of a very old
and wrinkled woman, who seemed more competent to admire than to assist
the undertaking.
"Some bigger berries, pray, Catherine," she said, impatiently; "and,
Cicely, if you feel you have loitered enough, hand me those two long ivy
branches. They should droop gracefully--so! And now stand off a little
way and tell me how it looks."
The younger sister obeyed, and, stationing herself in the middle of the
room, surveyed the whole effect with much approval. Annis, her fair face
flushed with the exertion, balanced herself on her lofty perch and gazed
complacently upon her handiwork; while even Mistress Vane, who had been
seated quietly on a deep chair by the fireplace, roused herself as from
a reverie, and looked half-wistfully around the cheerful room. "What
bell was that I heard just now?" she asked.
"The herald's, proclaiming a still Christmas," answered Cicely,
promptly; "and he watched me as sourly as though he knew that we were
plotting treason."
"Cecil, Cecil!" remonstrated her mother, in alarm. "Surely you did
nothing imprudent."
"I?" returned Cicely, apparently oblivious as to what she had done. "I
cast up the whites of my eyes, as though repeating psalms for mine own
inward sustainment; and seeing me so piously disposed, he was fain to
pass on to the correction of greater sinners."
"That were well-nigh impossible," said her sister, laughing; but
Mistress Vane only looked anxious and disturbed. The sense of insecurity
to which Annis was indifferent, and which Cicely at fourteen found
absolutely amusing, weighed heavily on the older woman, who had a better
understanding of the danger, and who had suffered cruelly in the past.
Husband and son had fallen for a lost cause, confiscation had devoured
the larger portion of her once fair inheritance; and now, with her two
young daughters, she found herself beset by perils, harassed by
stringent laws, and at the mercy of any ill-wind fate might blow her.
Cromwell's mighty arm held the fretful country in subjection, making the
name of England great and terrible abroad, and silencing every whisper
of disaffection at home. The Puritans, in their hour of triumph, stamped
upon the land the impress of their strong and bitter individuality; and
a morose asceticism, part real and part affected, crushed out of life
all the innocent pleasure of living. With every man determined to be
better than his neighbor, the competition in saintliness ran high. Under
its vigorous stimulus the May-pole and the Yule-log were alike branded
as heathenish observances, the Christmas-pie became a "pye of
abomination," and all amusements, from the drama to bear-baiting, were
censured with impartial severity. Feast-days were abolished, and even to
display the emblems of the Nativity was held to be sedition. The
Established Church, cowed and shorn of its splendor, was treated with
surly contempt; the Catholics were altogether beyond the pale of
charity. It was not a time calculated to promote festivity; yet, while
the heralds proclaimed through the frosty streets that Christmas at last
was dead, Annis Vane, with holly and ivy, with Yule-dough and
Babie-cake, was making all things ready for its mysterious birth. And as
she worked she sang softly under breath the refrain of a carol she had
learned at her nurse's knee,--
"This endris night
I saw a sight,
A star as bright as day;
And ever among
A maiden sung
Lullay, by-by, lullay."
"Is it not strange, mother," she said, breaking suddenly off, "that men
should deem it a mark of holiness to cast derision on the birth-night
of their Saviour?"
"Let us be just even to our enemies," replied Mistress Vane, gently.
"They think not to deride the Nativity, so much as to condemn the
riotous fashion in which Christians were wont to keep the feast. There
have been times, Annis, when the Lord of Misrule did more discredit to
this holy season than does the Puritan to-day."
Annis opened her blue eyes to their very utmost. This view of the matter
was one she was hardly prepared to accept. "Why, dearest mother," she
protested, "when should we venture to be happy, if not on Christmas-day?
And how can we show ourselves too joyful for our salvation? And did not
his most blessed majesty King Charles knight with his own royal hand a
Lord of Misrule who held court in the Middle Temple?"
Mistress Vane smiled at her daughter's vehemence. She knew more about
these jovial monarchs and their courts than Annis did, and it may even
be that his most blessed majesty's approval carried less weight to her
experienced mind. But in these dark and chilly days a little enthusiasm
was helpful in keeping one's heart warm, and she was far too wise a
mother to disparage it. "Truly they made a brave show then upon
Christmas-day," she admitted, "for the lord mayor and his corporation, a
goodly company of gentlemen, rode in procession to the church of St.
Thomas Acon, and thence to dine together with many pleasant ceremonies.
And stoups of wine and huge venison pasties were despatched to the
Temple for the stay and comfort of the mock-court, who made merry all
day long. And the streets were crowded, far into the night, with maskers
and revellers; and even the poor might for once forget their poverty,
and were welcome to the brawn and plum-broth of their richer neighbors."
"And now we have nothing of all this!" cried Cicely, with passionate
regret. "Nothing to look at and nothing to hear save the cracked bell of
a dingy herald, who does not even ride a hobby-horse like the merry
heralds of old. In truth, Master Prynne hath made good his own words
when he holds that Christmas should be rather a day of mourning than one
of rejoicing."
"Not so thought my godfather, kind Master Breton," said Annis,
thoughtfully. "For he hath written that it is the duty of Christians to
rejoice for the remembrance of Christ and for the maintenance of
good-fellowship. 'I hold it,' he hath said, 'a memory of the Heaven's
love and the world's peace, the mirth of the honest and the meeting of
the friendly.'"
Cicely's eyes danced with glee. "That were well remembered," she said,
mockingly; "if, now, you can but tell us in turn what your godfather's
nephew, Captain Rupert Breton, hath thought upon the matter."
Annis flushed scarlet, and the quick tears welled into her eyes as she
turned them reproachfully upon her sister. It was not easy for her to
think of her absent lover and maintain the cheerful frame of mind she
deemed appropriate to the season. The shores of France seemed very far
away that night, and the long months that had elapsed since the defeat
at Worcester stretched backward like a lifetime, as she recalled his
last hurried farewell. He had ridden hard and risked much for those few
words, and patiently and bravely she had waited ever since, hoping,
praying, turning her face steadily to the brighter side, and keeping
ever in mind the happy hour which should reunite them to each other.
Now, in silence, she bound together the last green boughs and put all in
order for the night. Old Catherine had long since gone off, yawning and
blinking, to bed, and Cicely, half-asleep, nodded over the dying fire.
Only her mother watched her, with eyes of loving scrutiny, and Annis
smiled brightly as she kissed the careworn face. "I shall not cry
myself to sleep to-night," she said, resolutely. "This is a time for
gladness; for the star of Bethlehem is shining in the sky, and the birth
of the Lord is at hand."
* * * * *
Bright glowed the Christmas-logs on the capacious hearth till every
pointed leaf and scarlet holly-berry shone in the generous firelight.
"Whosoever against holly doth cry,
In a rope shall be hung full high."
For, when the oak and ash trees babbled to the wind, and betrayed the
Saviour's hiding-place, the holly, the ivy, and the pine kept the secret
hidden in their silent hearts; and for this good deed they stand green
and living under winter's icy breath, while their companions shiver
naked in the blast. Not till the risen sun has danced on Easter morn
shall the oak adorn a Christian household and prove itself forgiven. The
Christmas-pie--the Christ-cradle, as the Saxons used to call it--had
been baked in its oblong dish in memory of the manger at Bethlehem, with
the star of the Magi cut deeply in the swelling crust. The Yule-dough,
cunningly moulded into the likeness of a little babe, had been carefully
laid by as a sovereign protector from the evils of fire, floods,
carnage, and--so say some ancient writers--from the bite of rabid
dogs. Annis Vane, decked out in the bravest array her altered fortunes
would permit, knelt by the blazing hearth. Her ruff was of the finest
lace, and a row of milk-white pearls clasped her slender throat. She
shaded her face from the fire, and piled up shining cones of
bright-brown nuts that seemed to tempt the flames.
[Illustration: The Cavalier From France]
"All we lack now is the mistletoe," she said, half-despondently. "It was
no easy task to find the holly and bring it home unnoticed; but we
cannot gather mistletoe near London, and there is none for sale
throughout the city."
"Of what use is the mistletoe," said the practical Cicely, "when we are
but three women here alone? We can kiss each other as readily under a
sprig of ivy, and we can fire our nuts without the help of man or lad,
provided only we keep one in our minds. Of whom shall I think, Annis?"
she queried, wrinkling up her pretty forehead in anxious perplexity over
so disturbing a doubt.
"You are far too young to think of men at all," answered Annis,
reprovingly, and with all the conscious superiority of age. "Nor do you
know enough as yet to make such pastime profitable."
Cicely's brows drew together with a frown which plainly indicated the
nature of the retort upon her lips, but a glance from her mother checked
her. "The word uttered in vexation is better left unspoken," said
Mistress Vane, with gentle authority. "And I am waiting here, not to
listen to disputes, which in these stormy times have grown wearisome,
but to hear the Christmas carol promised me to-night."
Annis, with flushed cheeks, took down from the wall a little mandolin of
Spanish workmanship, and, striking a few chords, began the carol, in
which Cicely, after sacrificing some moments to ill-temper, concluded
presently to join, her clear flute-notes rising high above her sister's
weaker tones,--
"When Christ was born of Mary free,
In Bethlehem, in that fair citie,
Angels sungen with mirth and glee,
In Excelsis Gloria!
"Herdsmen beheld these angels bright
To them appeared with great light,
And said, God's Son is born this night,
In Excelsis Gloria!
"The King is comen to save kind,
Even in Scripture as we find;
Therefore this song have we in mind,
In Excelsis Gloria!
"Then, dear Lord, for thy great grace,
Grant us in bliss to see thy face,
Where we may sing to thee solace,
In Excelsis Gloria!"
As the sounds died into silence there stood one in the icy streets and
listened. No self-elected saint was he, scenting out treason to the
Commonwealth, but a cavalier from France, with his love-locks shorn for
sweet prudence's sake, and a mighty mantle enveloping him from head to
foot. If Annis Vane had waited, and hoped, and built up her faith in the
cheer of Christmas-night, the joy she coveted was very near at last.
After lingering a few moments, as though on the chance of hearing more,
the stranger advanced and knocked sharply at the heavily-barred door. It
was opened in due season and with great caution by old Catherine, who
evidently thought the hour ill-chosen for a new-comer, and mistrusted
sorely the purpose of his visit. He allowed her scant time, however, to
threaten or expostulate, but, putting her gently on one side, stepped to
the inner room. There, pale with anxiety and terror, Mistress Vane
leaned forward in her chair, while Cicely, half-frightened,
half-defiant, grasped her mother's skirt. Before the fire stood Annis,
her blue eyes shining like stars, a round, red spot burning feverishly
in each cheek, her lace ruff rising and falling distressfully with the
heaving bosom within. The mandolin had fallen from her hands; the ruddy
firelight lit up her slight figure and fair, disordered curls. She stood
thus for a moment, swaying breathless betwixt hope and fear, then, with
a low, joyous cry, sprang forward into her lover's arms.
Welcome now the good cheer of Christmas-night! Welcome the
Christmas-pie, the pasty of venison, the pudding stuffed with plums, and
the flagon of old wine. Love is a brave appetizer when backed by long
fasting and a ten hours' ride, and Captain Breton brought all the vigor
of youth and happiness and of a noble hunger to bear upon the viands.
The glow of the cheerful room was infinitely comforting to the tired
traveller; the sight of Annis's happy face put fresh hope and courage in
his heart. He had much to tell of the gay court of France, and of the
royal exile, who should one day, God willing, sit on his father's
throne. Nor were there lacking adventures and dangers of his own to give
flavor to the narrative, nor plans for the future, colored with all the
happy confidence of youth. He had come home to win his bride, and to
carry her away to brighter scenes until this soured and gloomy England
should be merrie England once more. "He who would keep a light heart
within London walls," said he, "must needs be very sure of heaven, as
are Master Prynne and Master Philip Stubbes, or very much in love, as am
I. It lacks but a covered cart and a bell in every street to make one
feel the Black Death is upon us. If you can laugh in such an atmosphere
of melancholy, Annis, what will you do in France?"
"Mayhap if I laugh enough in sober London I shall grow too giddy and
forward in foolish France," returned Annis, gayly; "unless----"
"Unless what, dear heart?"
"Unless while I am safe in Paris you are fighting the battles of the
king in England. Then tears will come easier than laughter, as in truth
they have done of late."
"Wherever I may be, your prayers will prove my bulwark," said Captain
Breton, confidently. "It would take more than a silver bullet to find
its way to my heart while you are besieging heaven's doors in the
tumultuous fashion that only women can attain. I bear a charmed life as
long as you remember your petitions."
Annis answered with a look, and Cicely, nestling by her mother's chair,
watched her sister with wide, serious eyes. To the child standing on the
threshold of womanhood the presence of love carries with it an
intoxicating flavor of mystery. It is something that fills her alike
with envy and a vague resentment, with wonder and an indefinable desire.
Its commonest expression is a perverse antipathy to one of the lovers,
with an irrational increase of affection for the other; and in this case
Captain Breton came in for his full share of Cicely's smothered anger
and disdain. He, meanwhile, in happy unconsciousness, chancing to meet
the brown eyes lifted dreamily to his own, and noting the upward curve
of the short, sweet lip, thought within himself that this elfish little
Cicely was growing almost as pretty as her sister--a judgment which
proves conclusively the blindness of love; for Annis, though fair and
comely to look upon, came no nearer to her young sister's beauty than
does the pink-tipped daisy to the half-opened rosebud uncurling slowly
in the sun. At present, the girl, seeing that she was watched, turned
away her head pettishly and eyed the leaping flames.
"Annis said to-night there was but one thing lacking to her Christmas
cheer," she remarked, after a pause, and with the too evident intention
of saying something vexatious.
"And that was I!" interposed the cavalier, with the ready assurance of a
lover.
"It was not you at all," returned Cicely, "but the mistletoe. We
gathered the other greens ourselves, but there was no mistletoe to be
found within or without the gates of London."
"By a happy chance we can proceed as though we had it," said Captain
Breton, contentedly, while Annis crimsoned like a rose. "It is a welcome
little plant, and carries a merry message; but if it be banished in
these saintly days, we obstinate sinners must kiss without its
sanction."
"But the maid who is not kissed on Christmas-night beneath the mistletoe
will never be a wife during the coming year," persisted Cicely, who had
laid down her line of attack and was not to be driven therefrom.
"Now, will you wager your ring or your new ear-drop on that, little
sister?" said the captain, laughing at the threat. "Or have you a
trinket that you value less to risk in such a cause?"
Cicely, deeply affronted, puckered up her brow and drew closer to her
mother; but Annis, far too happy to be vexed, leaned over and kissed the
pouting lips. With her, joy meant thanksgiving, and her heart was
singing--singing the song of the angel of Judea: "In Excelsis Gloria!"
_A Norseman's Saga._
"As he sat there with a sou'wester down over his ears, in a long
pilot coat, his figure appeared to assume quite supernatural
proportions, and you might almost imagine that you had one of the
old Vikings before you."
_Asbjörnsen._