CHRISTMASING.
THE next day seemed to be largely spent in running to and fro between
the two houses. Kitty and Willy were at Braeside before breakfast, eager
to embrace their dear Mrs. Grahame and Hilda, and full of wonderful
tales of school and play. Then, as soon as Hildegarde had finished
breakfast, she must go back with them to greet Mrs. Merryweather, and
tell her how delighted she was at their coming, and hear a more detailed
account of the girls' movements. Mrs. Merryweather was sitting at her
desk, with a pile of papers before her, and books heaped as high as her
head on every side.
"My dear," she said, after greeting Hildegarde most affectionately, "I
am just looking for the girls' letter. It came this morning, and I put
it somewhere,--in quite a safe place, as I knew the boys would want to
see it, and then I meant to send it on to your father,--I mean to their
father, of course. Here it--oh, no! that is an old one! Now, this is
really unfortunate, for I was to send something to Gertrude, and I
cannot remember what it was. Dear me! I am really too--would you mind
saying over a few things, Hildegarde, that she would be likely to want?
Perhaps it will come back to me; and I can keep on looking all the
while, not to lose time."
Much amused, Hildegarde began to suggest,--"Boots, hat, muff,
handkerchiefs, gloves,"--but at each article named Mrs. Merryweather
shook her head, and sighed as she sorted papers.
"No, dear, no! Thank you just as much; but it was none of those. This
only shows, dear Hildegarde, the dreadful misfortune of being
unmethodical. I have no manner of doubt that I have wasted at least ten
good years of life in looking for things. My sister-in-law, now, could
find a needle in a top bureau drawer at midnight, without a moment's
hesitation. It is a gift! I trust you cultivate--now, you see, I may
spend half the morning hunting for this letter, when I might--what
amuses you, my dear?"
For Hildegarde's eyes were dancing, and her whole face eloquent of fun.
"Dear Mrs. Merryweather,--I know you will excuse me,--but is not that
the letter, pinned to your dress? It looks like Gertrude's handwriting."
Mrs. Merryweather looked down, and gave a sigh of relief.
"My child, your coming in was providential, nothing less. Of course, I
remember now, I pinned it there for fear I should do--what I thought I
had done. Well, well! and it is a Roman sash that the child wants,--I am
sure I should never have thought of that. Ah, dear! I do miss my girls,
Hildegarde. You see, they inherit from their father a sense of
order,--in a measure,--and they help me a great deal. Are my glasses on
my forehead, dear? Whereas Gerald and Phil are rather like me, I am
afraid. I wonder if Gerald has found his waistcoat yet? He is
wearing--ah, there he is now! Gerald, you are really an object for a
circus, my son."
[Illustration: "'CONSIDER THE BEAUTY OF YOUR OFFSPRING.'"]
Gerald looked down thoughtfully at himself. He was attired in white
corduroy knickerbockers, an ancient swallow-tail coat so large that it
hung in folds upon him, and a red velvet waistcoat reaching to his knee.
"I hesitated about coming in," he said. "Hildegarde is so susceptible, I
fear the impression I shall make upon her tender heart. The lily is
painted, the fine gold is gilded. Hilda, confess that I am the dream of
your existence."
"What does it mean?" asked Hildegarde, laughing.
"Trunks not come yet; not mine, at least. Upset a bath-tub over my only
suit this morning,--lo, the result! Wouldst not that I were ever habited
thus, mirific Mammy? Consider the beauty of your offspring."
He seated himself on his mother's desk, drawing the folds of the
dress-coat about him, and beamed upon her.
"If you would send him away, dear Mrs. Merryweather," said Hildegarde,
"I should be so glad to help you a little with the papers and books. I
have a whole hour to spare,--do let me help!"
"My dear, I should be only too thankful," said Mrs. Merryweather.
"Jerry, go away, and find something to do! You might unpack the
blankets, like a dear."
But Gerald declared that a wet blanket was the only one with which he
had any concern after this cruel treatment, and retired weeping
bitterly, wiping his eyes with a long coat-tail.
Hildegarde devoted the morning to helping her friends, and when she went
home at noon the rooms wore a very different aspect. The books were all
off the chairs and on the tables, or in the bookcases.
"Not that it makes any permanent difference," said Mrs. Merryweather,
plaintively. "They _will_ put books on the chairs, Hildegarde. It is
against the rules,--but it is their nature. I made a rhyme about it
once:
"'The book is on the chair,
And the hat is on the stair,
And the boots are anywhere,
Children mine!'"
Hildegarde especially enjoyed helping to arrange the girls' room,
tacking up the curtains, and putting fresh flowers (from the Roseholme
greenhouse) in the vases. To-morrow she would see those dear girls, and
then who so happy as she!
And to-morrow came, and with it Bell and Gertrude, escorted by their
father. All the Merryweathers were now here, except Roger. The question
was on Hildegarde's lips several times, "When will he come?" but somehow
she waited a little each time, and the moment passed, till she heard Mr.
Merryweather say:
"A letter from Roger, Miranda! He will be here next week,--day
uncertain, but surely in time for Christmas."
A chorus of joy arose, in which Hildegarde joined heartily.
"Think!" said Bell. "We have not seen Roger since the summer; hardly
since we have seen you, Hildegarde. Oh, my dear, how long it seems since
camp! and yet when you look at it the other way, it might be yesterday.
Heigh, ho! whose turn is it to get supper to-night? and who is going to
get the fish for the chowder?"
"Dear, happy days!" said Hildegarde. "I have not lost a minute of one
of them, Bell. If I should wake up to-morrow morning and find myself at
camp, I should not be in the least surprised, but should just 'put the
kettle on and stand by to go about.'"
"Dear old camp motto!" said Bell. "It makes a pretty good one anywhere,
Hilda, do you know? If they give me the class oration,--the girls are
talking about it,--I might take that for my text."
"Are you talking camp and graduation," put in Gertrude, who came into
the room at this moment, "when Christmas is almost here? Oh, think of
it, and we have not planned what we are going to do, or--or anything!"
"Speak for yourself, Gertrude," laughed Hildegarde. "I have three bureau
drawers full of things ready, and I ought to be tying up a box this
minute, to go out West."
"Missionary box?" asked Bell.
"No,--at least, not in the regular way. But there are some distant
cousins out in Colorado,--they have a hard time to get along, and there
are a great many of them,--and Mamma and I always send them a box at
Christmas. A kind of grab-bag box, with clothes and whatever we can
think of."
"My dear," cried Bell, sitting up with shining eyes, "don't you want
some contributions? Let me tell you,--this is the position! We also have
such cousins,--fourteen in number,--in Minnesota. And there was an
auction at school, and I got all kinds of odd picknickles and
bucknickles, thinking they would do for the box,--and I returned to find
that Mother had sent it off three days ago, filled to overflowing. You
see, the boys are just behind ours in age and size, so there are always
lots of jackets (never any trousers, of course), and she thought they
would be needed for the cold weather,--and I forgot to tell her about my
purchases. What do you say, Hilda? Oh, come up into my room, and see
some of the things! They are rather nice, some of them, and others just
funny. Come on!"
Away went the three girls, up to Bell's sunny room, where the trunks
stood open, with trays of hats on the bed, and a general effect of
"just-arrived-and-haven't-had-time-to-get-settled" pervading all. Bell
cleared a chair for Hildegarde, and bidding Gertrude "perch where she
could," began to pull things out of the big, brown trunk, talking as she
went.
"You see, girls, the way of it was this. There is always an auction at
the end of the year, and generally things stay over for that; but this
time there had been a fire in the town, and a good many poor families
were left destitute. Mrs. Tower suggested that, perhaps, we might make
up a little purse, or take charge of one family for the winter. We
agreed to do the latter, and made up a committee to order coal and wood,
and another to make clothes for the children,--seven children, poor
little things! and the father so badly hurt in saving the youngest baby
that he will not be able to work for several weeks. Well, I was on the
committee to order the things; but when I came to collect the money,
some of the girls, who wanted most to help, were very hard up, myself
included. So near the end of the term, you see, and we had been buying
Christmas things and all. So I said, 'Suppose we have an auction!' for
there were some girls--not many, but I suppose there are a few
everywhere--who didn't care a bit about the poor family, and yet we knew
they had money, and we were bound to get some of it. I had the sale in
my room. It was great fun. I hung out a red flag, and posted flaming
notices in all the halls and corridors; and we had a great crowd. Me!
oh, no, I was not auctioneer! I could not possibly talk fast enough.
Caroline Hazen did it splendidly. Her mother was Irish, and she can drop
into the most delicious brogue you ever heard, and she was so funny, we
were in fits of laughter all the time. We made twenty dollars,--think of
it!--all in a little over an hour. And some of these things I bought
with what little money I had, and the rest were just left over, and as
the girls would not take them back, I brought them along for the box.
See! here is a pair of knitted shoes,--really perfectly new. Anna Waring
said that she had a dear aunt who sent her a pair every Christmas and
every birthday, and she has ten pair now, and never hopes to catch up.
Three pair were sold beside these; got them for ten cents, and see how
pretty they are!"
"Why, charming!" cried Hildegarde. "Bell, why don't you wear these
yourself?"
"I! Perish the thought! I never wear _any_ shoes in my room, Hilda; bare
feet are part of my creed."
"But--but you have no carpet here, dear," said Hildegarde, with a little
shiver. "And it must be very cold--"
"Delightfully cold!" cried Bell. "I know few things pleasanter than the
touch of a good cold floor to the bare feet on a winter morning."
"She is volcanic, Hilda!" put in Gertrude. "She sleeps under a sheet all
winter, and never looks at a blanket; it is true!"
Bell nodded gaily in answer to Hildegarde's horrified look. "No use,
dear! I am hardened in mind as well as in body, and cannot change my
ways. Look here! Perhaps one of the boys might like this?"
She held up a string of chenille monkeys, and danced them up and down.
"Of course he would," said Hildegarde. "And what--what _is_ that, Bell
Merryweather?"
Bell looked rather ruefully at the object she now drew from the trunk.
"Nobody else would buy it," she said. "The girl who brought it down is
new and shy, and--well, somehow, you felt that she wanted to help, and
had nothing else to bring. I was so sorry for her,--I gave my last
quarter for it."
It was a long strip of coarse twine lace, with a yellow ribbon quilted
in and out its entire length. One of those objects that sometimes appear
at fancy fairs, for which no possible use can be imagined.
"It _is_ queer," said Bell. "I suppose it must have been meant for
something; I didn't like to ask her what."
"Oh, but, my dear, it is a lovely ribbon!" said Hildegarde. "Why not
take the ribbon out, and make bows and things? I am sure you must want
ribbon for some of your Christmasings."
Bell confessed that she might, and the ribbon was carefully laid aside,
freed from its snarl of twine.
"Here," said Bell, diving into the trunk again, "is a highly interesting
article, _mesdames!_ a pheasant, you see, carved,--Swiss, I
suppose,--with all his feathers spread out. Now, I think I did pretty
well to bring that home without breaking. Is there a boy in your box,
Hilda? I meant this for a boy."
"There is, indeed, and I know he will be enchanted with such a pretty
thing. Oh, and the marbles! Now, Bell, will you tell me what college
girls do with marbles?"
"I will," said Bell, laughing. "She--Martha Sinclair--is very
near-sighted, poor thing. She thought these were moth-balls. She brought
a lot of them from home, and put them up with her furs this spring, and
was horrified to find them--the furs--all moth-eaten this fall. Poor
Martha! That, Hildegarde, is the sad tale of the marbles. They are very
good ones! I should not dare to let Willy see them,--here, put them in
your pocket! Here are assorted pen-handles,--went in one lot,--forty
cents for the dozen of them. Some of them are rather nice, I think."
"This is a beauty!" cried Gertrude. "This Scotch plaid one. May I have
this, Bell?"
"Certainly, dear! Hilda shall have the pearl one,--there! This is the
prettiest, Hilda--"
"But why am I to have all the prettiest?" inquired Hildegarde. "You are
very reckless, Bell."
"No, my love, I am not," said Bell. "Pen-handles are, generally
speaking, a drug in this family. For several Christmases Willy--dear
child!--could not think of anything else to give us, so we had
pen-handles all round--how many years, Gertrude?"
"Three, I think," said Gertrude. "Then some one laughed, and hurt his
dear little feelings, and he never gave us any more. I miss the
Christmas pen-handle myself, for I always get mine nibbled pretty short
in the course of the fall term. It is the only way I can possibly write
a composition."
"And is your next composition to be on the 'Scottish Chiefs?'" asked
Hildegarde. "Or do you hope to cure yourself by the taste of varnish
and red paint?"
"Puppies!" cried Bell, emerging once more from the depths of the trunk.
"Five china puppies in a row. And thereby hangs a tale."
"I don't see a sign of a tail," said Gertrude, inspecting the five
little terriers, all sitting up very straight, with their paws exactly
on a line.
"Spell it the other way, miss; and don't forget your Shakespeare," said
her sister.
"This reminds me of the very most foolish charade I ever heard. We were
playing one evening in Martha Sinclair's room; and Janet Armour took
this row of puppies from the mantelpiece and set it on the floor, and
told us to look at it. Then she kicked it over with her foot, and told
us it was a word of three syllables, all three and the whole word given
at once. See if you can guess, Hildegarde? You give it up? Well, it is
too silly to guess. 'Kick-a-row,' do you see? Cicero, Gertrude, my lamb.
I explain on account of your tender years."
"She must be a silly girl," said Gertrude. "We wouldn't put up with such
a poor charade as that here, would we, Hilda?"
"There are different kinds of brains," said Bell, laughing. "Janet
Armour leads the whole college in mathematics, and is head of the
basket-ball team. So you see, dear, talents vary. Well, Hildegarde, I am
afraid there is nothing else that would do; unless you would like this
cologne-bottle doll? She is a superior doll."
"Very," said Hildegarde. "And you know Kitty would be enchanted with
her. No, Bell, I shall take nothing else, and I am ever so much obliged
for all these nice things. Now you must come over with me and help me
fasten up the box. You, too, dear Gertrude."
The three raced across the lawn and through the hedge, and were soon in
Hildegarde's room. Bell looked round her with a sigh, half admiration,
half regret.
"Hilda, there is no room but this!" she said. "How do you make it
so--so--well, your own portrait in a way? If I were to be shown into
this room in the furthest corner of the Soudan I should say, 'And is
Hildegarde in, or shall I wait for her?'"
Hildegarde laughed, and looked about her, her eyes resting lovingly on
this or the other treasure of picture or book.
"Dear room!" she said. "I am glad you like it, for I love it very much.
And if it looks like me--"
"You must be pretty good-looking!" cried Gertrude. "Is that what you
were going to say, Hilda?"
"No, you absurd child, it was not. But--well, girls, of course it is
different when people have two or three places, in town and country, and
move about as you do, to and from school and college, and all that. But
this, you see, is my home, my only home and abiding-place; and so my own
things grow to be very real to me, and very much a part of my life. I
suppose that is it. I know--you will understand what I mean,
Bell--whenever I go out of this room, it seems as if one part of me
stayed here, and was ready to greet me when I came back. But that is
enough about me," she added, lightly. "Here is the box! Now we shall
see how nicely all Bell's prettinesses will fit into the corners!
"This is Mamma's present for Cousin Ursula. A nice, fat down puff, for
her feet in winter; it is very cold there, and she is not strong, poor
dear. And I trimmed this hat for Mary, the daughter. Rather pretty, do
you think?"
"Rather pretty!" cried both girls. "Hilda, it is a perfect beauty! Oh,
how did you learn to do these things? Will you trim all our hats for us,
for the rest of our lives?"
"I should be delighted," said Hildegarde, laughing. "I learned all I
know from my mother. She _is_ clever, if you will. I cannot compare with
her in skill. Yet I was once offered a position as assistant to a
milliner. These things underneath are things we have worn, but they are
all good."
"This has never been worn!" exclaimed Bell, lifting a pretty gray silk
blouse, trimmed with knots of cherry-coloured ribbon. "This is just out
of the box, Hildegarde. Oh, what a pretty, dainty thing!"
Hildegarde laughed. "I am proud of that!" she said. "I made that out of
an old underskirt of Mamma's. Yes, I did!" as the girls exclaimed with
one accord. "It was good silk to begin with, you see. I washed it, and
pressed it, and made it up on the other side; and it really does look
very nice, I think. The ribbon is some that Mamma had had put away ever
since the last time they wore cherry colour,--twenty-five years, she
says. Lovely ribbon! Well, and I knew that Mary, the daughter, is just
my age, so I had to 'run for luck,' and make it to fit me. I do hope she
will like it!"
"Like it!" exclaimed Bell. "If she does not like it, she deserves to
wear brown gingham all her life. It is as pretty a blouse as I ever
saw."
"What is the matter with brown gingham?" asked Hildegarde. "One of my
pet dresses, a year or two, was a brown gingham."
"Oh, but not like _our_ brown gingham!" said Bell. "You see--well, it is
treasonable, I know, Gerty, but Hildegarde is almost like ourselves. You
see, our blessed Mammy (this was long ago, when Toots was a baby, and
the boys still in kilts) got tired of all our clothes, and felt as if
she could not bear to think about them for a while. So she got a whole
piece of brown check gingham,--forty mortal yards,--and had it all made
up into clothes for us. Oh, dear! Shall I ever forget those clothes? It
was a small check, rather coarse, stout gingham, because she thought
that would wear better than the Scotch. It did! I had four frocks of it,
and the boys each had three kilt suits, and even the baby wore brown
slips. You cannot remember it, Toots?"
Gertrude shook her head.
"I remember the effect on the family mind," she said, laughing.
"Yes," said Bell. "I don't know whether you have ever noticed,
Hildegarde, that none of us ever wear brown? Well, we never do! Pater
will never see it. He did not realise for some time what had been done.
But one day,--oh, you ought to hear the Mammy tell about this! I can't
begin to make it as funny as she does. One day he came home, and the
twinnies were playing in the front yard. He stood and looked at them for
a while.
"'Are you making mud pies, boys?'
"'No, Papa!'
"'Then why have you on these clothes?'
"The boys didn't know much about their clothes; he looked at them a
little more, and then he came into the house. There was I, in my brown
gingham, playing with my doll.
"'Great Caesar!' says Papa. 'Here's another! Been making mud pies,
Pussy?'
"'No, Papa! I am playing with my dolly.'
"'Do you get dirty, playing with your dolly?'
"'Why, no, Papa!'
"'Then why do you wear such things as this?'
"I was just going to tell him that 'this' was the dress I was wearing
every day and all day, when dear Mammy came out of the sitting-room with
the baby. And, Hilda, the baby wore a brown gingham slip, and Mammy had
on a long, brown gingham apron.
"'Napoleon Bonaparte!' said Papa. 'Here's two more of 'em.' Then he sat
down on the stairs, and looked from one to the other. Then he went to
the door and called the boys; and he took us all into the sitting-room,
and stood us in a row, and sat and looked at us.
"'Miranda,' he said, 'What have you been doing here?'
"'Doing, my dear Miles?' said Mamma. 'What should I have been doing?
Dressing baby after her afternoon nap, to be sure.'
"'Dressing her!' says Pater. '_Dressing_ her!' Then he broke off, Mammy
says, and put his hand to his forehead, as if he were in a kind of
dream.
"'Miranda,' he said, 'I have been greatly occupied for the last few
weeks, and have not fully realised what was going on. I have been dimly
aware that, when I came home, the whole world seemed to turn brown and
dingy. At first I thought it was the weather; then I thought it was the
condition of business; at last I began to think that my sight must be
failing, and cataracts forming, or something of the kind, so that I
could see nothing without a brownish tinge over it. Now, I--I realise
what the matter is; and I ask what--_what_ is this stuff in which my
family is masquerading?'
"'Masquerading, Miles? I don't understand you. This is brown gingham, a
most excellent material, inexpensive, durable, and neat. I bought forty
yards of it, so that the children might all be dressed alike, and
without all this fuss and expense of different materials. You know you
said we must economise this summer, and I--'
"'Yes,' said Pater. 'Yes, I understand now. Miranda, you are a good
woman, but you have your limitations.'
"He would not say another word, but went off into the garden to smoke.
We forgot all about what he said, all but Mammy, and she thought he
would get used to the brown gingham in time, and, anyhow, she had meant
to do the best, dear darling.
"Hildegarde, the next morning, when we all came to dress, our clothes
were gone."
"Gone!" repeated Hildegarde.
"Gone,--vanished; frock and kilt, slip and apron. Not an atom of brown
gingham was to be found in the house. And the rest of the piece, which
Mammy had meant to make into a gown for herself, was gone, too. Mammy
looked everywhere, but in a few minutes she understood how it was. She
didn't say a word, but just put on our old dresses, such as were left of
them. They were pretty well outworn and outgrown, but we were glad to
get into them. We hardly knew how we had hated the brown gingham
ourselves, till we got out of it. Well, that day there came from one of
the big shops a box of clothes; an enormous box, big as a packing-case.
Oh! dresses and dresses, frocks and pinafores and kilts, everything you
can imagine, and all in the brightest colours,--pink and blue, yellow
and green,--a perfect flower-garden. White ones, too, three or four
apiece; and the prettiest slips for Baby, and a lovely flowered silk for
Mammy. You can imagine how I danced with joy; the boys were delighted,
too, and as for old Nursey, she beamed all over like an Irish sun. When
Papa came home that afternoon, we were all dressed up, the boys in
little white sailor suits, I in a ruffled pink frock, and Mammy and Baby
most lovely in white and flowers. He looked us all over again. 'Ha!' he
said, 'once more I have a family, and not a shoal of mud-fish. Thank
you, my dear.' And none of us has ever worn brown since that day,
Hildegarde."
"Poor, _dear_ Mrs. Merryweather!" cried Hildegarde, laughing. "I think
it was pretty cruel, all the same. And--did you ever find the brown
gingham?"
"Oh, that _was_ naughty!" cried Gertrude. "He buried it all in the back
garden. That was truly naughty of Papa. Mammy found them there a week
after, when she was setting out the asters. They were all neatly laid in
a box, and buried quite deep down. But Mammy took them up, and sent them
to the Orphans' Home. Dear Mammy!"