THE CHILD IN THE MANGER
The long winter evenings were very dreary when the sun set early and the
rain and the fogs overspread the mountains, and enshrouded the home with
blackness.
Aunt Priscilla used to retire upstairs, where Joan could hear her
sobbing often in the darkness; and the two young servants, the maid and
the ploughboy, as soon as she was safely out of the way, would slink off
out of the kitchen, where their mistress could overhear them.
It was not worth while to light a candle for a little girl like Joan,
and many a long hour she sat alone in the dark chimney-corner with no
light save the dull red glimmer of the embers in the grate, and hearing
strange, mysterious noises all about her, sounds so low and quiet that
they could only be heard when everything else was perfectly still. And
going to bed was always a terror to her. The little creature could not
put her terror into words; but all day long it was as if some powerful
and pitiless enemy was lying in wait to seize her; and as the hour came
when all the household went to bed, and she was forced to creep up her
separate staircase to her lonely room, the terror reached its utmost
height, and she often sprang into bed dressed, and drew the coverings up
above her head, lest she should see or hear something more horrible than
what she could image to herself.
What Joan would have done without Nathan no one can tell. During the
long winter nights, whenever he was sitting with her by the fireside, he
taught her to read, or read aloud to her out of his Bible, which was
yellow and worn with much turning over of its leaves. He could sing a
little still, though now his teeth were gone his voice was weak and
quavering; but he made Joan sing with him, and took care to choose such
hymns as his mistress had been taught when she was a child, knowing well
she could not help hearing them through the unceiled rafters overhead.
The newer hymns which Rhoda had often sung with her young, sweet voice,
old Nathan never sung; and Aunt Priscilla, in her dark, desolate room,
would sit still and listen, and think of the days when she was herself a
child, and go to sleep and dream that she was a child again.
The third Christmas Eve came; the second since Rhoda ran away from her
tranquil home and all who loved her truly. Joan had grown into a very
silent, pale, and sad child, seldom laughing, and with no companion
save old Nathan and a doll he had bought for her in the market-town,
where he went every week instead of Miss Priscilla. She and Nathan could
not sing, "Hark! the herald angels!" because that was one of Rhoda's
favourite hymns; but as they sat together on the settle very quiet, for
both of them were full of sorrowful thoughts, Joan laid her small
fingers timidly on the old man's hard and horny hand.
"Nathan," she said very softly, lest Aunt Priscilla overhead should hear
her, "can I go to-morrow, like Rhoda and me said we would, and look into
the manger for the child Jesus? I know He can't be there, because I'm a
big girl now. But me and Rhoda said we'd go every Christmas morning very
early; and she 'll be thinking of it to-morrow. I'm sure Rhoda 'ill
remember, and think I'm going to look for Him."
"Ay, ay, Joan," answered the old man; "I'd never say nay to anything as
is done out o' love. Maybe Rhoda 'ill be thinking of it, and please God
it 'ill do her good. I'll be up early i' th' morning and light the
lantern, and see thee safe across the fold and hearken to thee singing
the 'Heral' angels.'"
There was neither frost nor snow this Christmas. The weather had been as
soft and mild as autumn, and there were still some pale monthly roses
blooming against the southern walls of the farm-house. Old Nathan
lighted Joan across the causeway and put the lantern into her hand when
they reached the door of the outer cow-shed. As she stood alone on the
low threshold of the farther shed, and looked up to the black space
above her, where the bay of the barn opened into it on her left hand,
she felt a little terrified. The light from her dim lantern could not
reach the roof, but she could see the piled-up straw rising high above
her, and the utter blackness beyond it.
Her own white, melancholy-looking face was lit up by the rays from the
perforated top of the lantern, which swung from her hand as she lingered
on the door-sill gazing forward into the dark shed. The thought of old
Nathan not far away gave her some courage, and, after a timorous pause
of a minute or two, her young, clear, yet tremulous voice began to sing
the Christmas Hymn:--
Hark! the herald angels sing,
Glory to the new-born King;
Peace on earth and mercy mild,
God and sinners reconciled.
All the other verses seemed to slip suddenly out of Joan's memory. She
heard something stirring in the stall before her, the straw rustled
softly, and there was a faint, slight sound of a gentle breathing. With
her heart beating fast she stole forward on tiptoe to the manger, well
lined with hay, and lifted up the lantern. It was no longer empty: there
lay a child asleep, a little babe, wrapped in swaddling clothes and
cradled in the manger!
No doubt was there in Joan's little heart, no question as to who the
sleeping child could be. All the little learning she had gained died
away when she saw the child. She had come to seek the babe whose birth
the angels had sung over, and she had found him. Without speech or
motion, scarcely breathing for very joy, she stood gazing at it. The
little head and small face, the tiny hands, filled her soul with awe and
tenderness. Very timidly she touched the soft cheek with the tip of her
finger--the warm, soft cheek--and the baby stirred a little. Then Joan,
hanging the lantern to the rack above the manger, knelt down by its side
to watch the quiet slumber of the welcome child.
Were the angels there, asked Joan of herself, unseen and unheard by her,
singing glory? And oh! where was Mary, His mother? and where could
Joseph be? She must take care of the sleeping baby till they came back;
and surely Aunt Priscilla would consent to have such guests as these in
her house.
But before very long she heard Nathan's voice calling her anxiously. He
wanted his lantern; and his mind was not quite easy as to whether it was
well for Joan to keep up a fancy like this. At the sound the baby
stirred, and its tiny features grew puckered up, as if it was about to
cry. Joan sprang up quickly yet quietly, and appeared in the doorway,
beckoning to old Nathan to keep still.
"Hush! hush!" she cried; "he is here sleeping, and you mustn't wake him.
But I don't know where Mary is or Joseph. There is nobody but the baby.
Oh, I am so happy! I am so happy!"
"What does Joan mean?" thought Nathan, stepping heavily yet gently on
into the inner shed, which he had filled with provender the day before.
Joan led him to the farther stall, and there, in a warm, soft nest of
hay, well wrapped up and sleeping soundly again, lay the baby. The old
man stood silently gazing at it till the slow tears trickled down his
grey and withered cheeks.
"God help us!" he sobbed at last; "poor little lost babe! Come on
Christmas mornin'! And where's thy poor, sorrowful mother? What can we
do for thee, Joan and me? Nobody to give thee a welcome but an old man
and a little child. But we'll love thee for the dear Lord's sake as sent
thee to us on Christmas mornin'. Ay, and, old as I am, I'll fight thy
battles for thee, poor lamb!"
Very gently he lifted up the tender little creature, and laid it in
Joan's outstretched arms, which tingled with delight, mingled with fear
lest she should loose her hold of it. A flush of colour had come to her
pale face, and all the sadness had fled from it, and her eyes were
shining with joy. Nathan lighted her steps along the stony causeway,
which she trod with a thrill of anxious care, lest she might slip and
fall with her precious burden. But the house was reached in safety, and
the sleeping child had uttered no cry.
"Lay it warm in thy own bed," said Nathan, "and wrap the blankets about
it, and I'll run and fetch Nurse Williams, that knows how to manage
little babes; and keep it still, Joan, while I'm away, whatever you do.
Don't let thy aunt hear it till I come back."
How long Nathan was away Joan could not tell. She knew nothing of time
as she knelt by the bedside watching the child sleeping so softly and
soundly, its tiny face growing rosy with warmth. But at last her long
day-dream was broken by the sound of her own name, uttered in so loud
and terrible a voice that she felt as if she could not stir hand or
foot. It was Aunt Priscilla's voice, not far away, nay, at the very foot
of the steep and narrow staircase leading up to her room. Joan's heart
seemed to stand still with terror.
"Joan, bring that child down at once!" were the words that rang in her
ears; "I'll not have it one moment under my roof."
Joan did not answer or move, except to throw her little arms over the
sleeping baby.
"No, no!" she heard old Nathan say; "I've lived here in this place all
my life, with thy grandfather and father and thee, and I've been true
and faithful in my service, and I've grieved over the poor unhappy
mother of the little babe as if she'd been my own child. And now, if the
baby goes away from out of the house I'll go with it. I'll stay no
longer, not another hour. Thou'rt a hard woman, Priscilla Parry, and God
'll show Himself hard to thee. With the unmerciful He'll show Himself
unmerciful, and with the froward He'll show Himself froward. And oh!
it's a fearful thing to think of an unmerciful and hard God!"
Joan listened in terror to Nathan's strange words, but she did not hear
her aunt's voice making any answer. There was utter silence for a long
minute or two, followed by the sound of slow and dragging footsteps,
which grew fainter and fainter till she could hear them no more. Then
old Nathan came upstairs, and Nurse Williams, whom he had been to
fetch.