WREATHING HOLLY AND TWINING BAY
Two letters were despatched to Boston that night--one from Jessamy, one
from Bab--like a duet chanted to Phyllis. The burden of one was, in
brief, that the millennium had come upon earth, for Bab was so happy;
and of the other: "Come home, come home!"
Phyllis read them at the breakfast-table, and her face lighted up with
such joy that Mrs. Dean noticed it in spite of the preoccupation her
morning mail usually involved.
"Dear little Bab is actually engaged to Tom. Oh, I am so thankful!"
Phyllis said in reply to Mrs. Dean's inquiry as to the cause of her
happiness. "I am afraid, Mrs. Dean, that this means that I shall have
to go home as soon as you can get ready to let me."
"For the holidays--not longer?" said the old lady, sharply.
"For always," said Phyllis, gently.
"I should like to know why your cousin's engagement involves breaking
yours to me," said Mrs. Dean, disappointment and regret shining even
from her eye-glasses and gray curls. "I have tried to make this a home
to you, and I hoped to keep you until you should be ready to follow
your exasperating 'Bab's' example."
"We had not a positive engagement to each other, dear Mrs. Dean. Please
don't think I am breaking an agreement," said Phyllis, distressed. "You
have been as good to me as you could be, and I love you gratefully
for it; but they want me very much at home, and you won't blame me
for liking to be there better than anywhere else, however dear the
elsewhere may be."
"I suppose I can't blame you, but it is most disappointing and
annoying. You sly little minx! I believe you only ran away to leave the
field clear to this Babbie; and, now the danger is past, you are ready
to throw me over," said Mrs. Dean, with sudden acumen.
Phyllis laughed, seeing her battle won. She had dreaded the day, and
speculated as to the manner in which she should announce to her kind
friend that her hour to leave her had come.
There were two weeks wanting to the arrival of Christmas day, and
Phyllis was not to start homeward until the twenty-third. The time
crawled by, in spite of the young friends who filled every spare moment
with pleasure, trying to crowd into the unexpectedly brief time left
them in which to enjoy Phyllis all the sight-seeing and visiting of a
winter. She felt guilty, fond as she had grown of them all, to tell off
each sunset, and count each moment by the beats of feverish pulses.
At last the twenty-third came, and the hour for starting to the station
struck.
Rick and his sisters and their friends, Alan Armstrong, and David
the Scot, who had become Phyllis's devoted knight, all formed her
body-guard, laden with flowers and candy enough to have done credit to
a prima donna's farewell.
Mrs. Dean held Phyllis fast as she kissed her good-by. "I forgive you
for leaving me, my dear, though I hardly know how I am going to get on
without you. You have been all and more than I expected you to be to
me; and though I do admit your family's claim to you, I dislike your
aunt very deeply for being forced to admit it; and you may tell her so
from me, with my best wishes for the coming year. But I won't take no
for an answer to my invitation to Hingham next summer, if I live; so
be prepared," she said, as the carriage drove up to carry Phyllis away
from her.
At the station there were the usual repeated good-bys, when every
one strains hard to think of something to say, original and worth
remembering, and thus rise equal to the occasion, but succeeds only
in repeating the promise and request to write often, and in giving
invitations, and assurances of visits and remembrance, reiterated with
a fervor that is intended to conceal the conviction that the speaker
is falling far below ordinary intelligence. But hearty good will goes
far to make up for lack of conversational brilliancy, and Phyllis was
surprised to find how fond she and her new friends really were of one
another, and that there were tears on her lashes, glad as she was to
turn her face toward Gotham. Alan and David wrung both her hands sore,
bidding her not forget them, and assuring her that the very first thing
they both did when they arrived in New York to seek their fortune--a
plan to be carried out after the New Year--would be to come and see
her, without which prospect their farewell would have been more dreary.
The train moved out at last, past the smiling young faces lined up to
nod good-by to Phyllis,--the girls, with tears in their eyes in spite
of the smiles, waving wet handkerchiefs from the platform. Phyllis
leaned forward to wave as long as the last of the row was in sight,
then settled back in her seat with one long sigh for Boston and what it
held that was dear to her, and a leap of the heart forward, for now she
was really cut adrift from exile, and was homeward bound.
Winter though it was, Phyllis preferred the boat to the train for her
journey, and in a short time was tucking away her belongings in her
berth, taking supper in the gay dining-room, listening to the band for
a little while, then lying down to slumber, which the thought that she
was to waken in New York, and not the noise of the engines, rendered
very light and fitful.
Far from waking in New York, she was up and dressed, with all her
books, flowers, and candy strapped up ready to carry off, before the
boat had sighted the upper end of Manhattan Island; and she stood,
shivering in the gray light of the December dawn, as one by one the
islands of the river crept past, looking very picturesque, seen from
that view-point, and with proper forgetfulness of the misery and sin
they sheltered.
Phyllis grew so excited she could not stand still as the boat crept
down past the lower east side of the city, under the Brooklyn Bridge,
swung around the Battery, and drew near her pier on the North River.
How beautiful the spire of Trinity looked, and the new, high office
buildings which dwarfed it! How beautiful were even the tall brick
chimneys of the factories, for they were part of home! Phyllis could
have put both arms around the square tower of the Produce Exchange
and kissed the face of its clock, or hugged the Barge Office with
enthusiasm, unattractive as it might be, ordinarily. She wondered
if the immigrants crowded around it would have been as glad to see
their distant homes again as she was to see hers. How painfully slow
the boat's crew was in making her fast and getting out the gangway!
How exasperating were the passengers--so many, too, though it was
December--who were in advance of Phyllis, and moved like snails toward
the pier! Phyllis was nearly suffocated with the flutterings of her
heart, and she could hardly hold her packages, numerous enough to have
warranted her dropping some overboard purposely.
At last, at last, she had surrendered her ticket, and was moving off
the boat! And there, just at the gangway's end, concealed from her
till this moment by the crowd--there was Jessamy, more lovely than
ever, with her cheeks glowing, her eyes dancing; pretty Bab, all
scintillating with joy; Tom, proud as a whole flock of peacocks in
his new dignity, with Nixie--yes, actually Nixie--on a leash, sitting
up and behaving like a man and a brother. And her aunt! Phyllis could
hardly believe her eyes that Mrs. Wyndham had braved the chill of the
winter morning and reached the pier before seven o'clock to prove to
the "Unit," who prayed to stray no more, how glad she was to get her
back.
Just what happened when Phyllis's foot touched the pier no one could
say. She recognized her aunt's veil, Jessamy's fur collar, Bab's nose,
and even Tom's rough coat, in the indiscriminate, rapturous embracing
she was getting; but everybody was hugging her and talking to her at
once, and Phyllis only knew that it was rather like a blissful Tower of
Babel.
The party walked up Warren Street, talking still, all at the same
time, Bab walking backward and spinning around like Barney in "Martin
Chuzzlewit" after the accident. It took all of Tom's ability to keep
her and Nixie from under people's feet. Mrs. Wyndham and Jessamy tried
to behave with dignity, but it was not a successful attempt; and those
who met the party probably set them down as harmless lunatics under
the convoy of one young keeper; though there was one ruddy-faced old
gentleman who, seizing the spirit of the occasion and the season,
wished Babbie "A merry Christmas, my dear," in return for her having
run into his portly form, and trodden on his most sensitive corn.
Even Nixie's manners did not admit him to the elevated road, so they
took the surface car, Tom remaining on the platform with the small dog
and a conductor blinded in the most efficacious manner to his presence;
and by the time they had made the long journey to Harlem much of the
excitement had cooled down.
It broke out afresh, however, as Phyllis ran from room to room through
the little apartment, which looked more beautiful to her than Mrs.
Dean's big house on Commonwealth Avenue could ever look, exclaiming
over every change, and still more surprised over those things which had
not altered. Truce was not one of these. The snowy kitten was a white
cat now; but, as Phyllis said, "did not seem to know it," for he ran up
her skirt to her shoulder, and sat there as he had done when he was not
much bigger than a thistle-ball, proving that he recognized her, for
this was a mark of affection he had always reserved for his mistress
alone.
"Do you remember last Christmas eve?" asked Phyllis, after breakfast,
as they all pushed back their coffee-cups with the involuntary movement
of those who have satisfied hunger.
"Are we likely to forget it?" said Jessamy, with a shudder. "It did not
mean anything to you, though; oh, Phyllis, this ought to be much more
than merely a '_merry_ Christmas' to us!"
"We are going to keep it in baronial style," said Tom. "There are tons,
to speak comprehensively, of green stuff coming here to-day, and we
are going to trim the Land of Canaan till Birnam Wood won't be a twig
beside it. And to-morrow we're going to have a Christmas-tree, and
invite our friends, preceded by a dinner to which we shall not invite
any one, because the dining-room is too small, and the turkey fills all
the spaces we do not require. He is to be offered up to you, Phyllis,
in honor of your repentant return from your wild wanderings."
"Isn't that a delightful program!" cried Phyllis, the joy in her eyes
arising more from noting how thoroughly Tom had assumed his place as
the son of the little family, than from the prospect of Christmas
festivities, however blithe.
All day long the girls climbed step-ladders and wound ropes of
evergreen till their hands were stiff, but their hearts so light that
they hardly knew the discomfort. By night the little place was a bower
of green, with red holly-berries shining in every available corner like
cheery little lanterns signaling coming gladness.
Not one day had passed during the six months of Phyllis's absence
without a letter from her crossing another going to her from home;
and yet, though the three tongues had rattled as fast as they could
move all day, Jessamy, Phyllis, and Bab talked till midnight, and fell
asleep exhausted, wishing each other "Merry Christmas," not having told
half the history of those eventful days of absence.
Christmas day was bright and sunny--not that it mattered with so much
sunshine within doors. Violet, who slept at home, "because," said Bab,
"the bath-tub was not long enough for a bed, and there was no room
for her anywhere else"--Violet arrived earlier than usual, her face
beaming with anticipation of pleasure, for she was that rare servant to
whom "company" was a delight.
Mrs. Wyndham peered at Tom at the foot of the table, from her place
at the head, over a barricade of turkey, and each heart throbbed with
gratitude that it was their own turkey, served on their own table, and
that the year that had passed had proved that a home and happiness
might be theirs, although loss of money had made the maintenance of
that home not without its difficulties.
Barbara sat at Tom's right hand, and Tom's youngest sister at Mrs.
Wyndham's right. Phyllis, watching jealously for proofs of Tom's love
for Bab, was more than satisfied. Tom and Babbie were not a sentimental
pair, but there was a quiet certainty of affection and a perfect
comradeship between them that guaranteed a love founded on the best
and most enduring basis. And Alice Leighton was a girl after their own
hearts. Bab was surely fortunate, and Phyllis rejoiced unselfishly.
Although the little parlor had seemed filled in every corner, one had
been cleared for the tree, and a curtain hung across it that there
might be something in the celebration that Phyllis had not seen, since
the festivities had taken on this special form in honor of her return.
At a little after eight the bell tingled, and many feet echoed up the
stairs.
"Open the door, Phyl," cried Bab from her room. Neither she nor Jessamy
would allow Phyllis a glimpse of them dressing.
Phyllis did as she was bidden, and started back in amazement from a
motley assemblage of characters from the four quarters of the globe,
and all the realms of fairyland, as bewildered Phyllis at first thought.
Santa Claus led the way--a small man, but only when measured
perpendicularly; in diameter he was immense. After him came Cinderella
and her godmother; then Aunt Henrietta, who disdained masking and
costuming, and came in her own proper--most proper--person. Next
followed Red Riding Hood, a Viking's Daughter, Old Mother Hubbard,
Pocahontas, Little Nell with her grandfather, Bo-peep with a woolly
lamb under one arm, and many other old friends, those known in the
nursery predominating, since it was a Christmas-tree party, and
childhood, human and divine, the ruling spirit of the feast.
For a moment Phyllis did not know how to act. She felt out of place,
with her own face undisguised confronting the queer figures bowing
and saluting her cordially by name, not one of whom she knew. But she
rallied quickly, welcomed them politely, wishing that Jessamy and Bab
would hasten to help her out. But Jessamy and Bab were not forthcoming.
After a few moments Phyllis realized it was because they too were
costumed and masked, mixing with the other mummers.
Old King Cole stepped out of the crowd as Phyllis was wondering what
could be done with so many in such small space, and calling for his
fiddlers three, demanded an old English dance. There is nothing like
ignoring a difficulty when there is no way of doing away with it.
The idea of dancing when she was fearful there would not be room for
all the guests merely to stand rather took Phyllis's breath away; but
everybody seemed to fold himself or herself up to make room, and the
couples for the old country dance were on the floor in a twinkling.
"It's because they are used to living in books, so can become quite
flat," Bobby Shafto explained to her as he rose to lead out the
Sleeping Beauty, who indicated her previous condition by poppies all
over her costume and in her hair, but showed no sign of relapsing from
decided wakefulness.
"Aren't there people outside of books who are flatter than those in
them?" asked Phyllis; but she was not thinking of plays on words, but
that the dancers of to-night were probably the actors in the theatricals
of last May, who had then learned the old dance, and that if she
watched she should discover which were Jessamy and Bab, and which
Jessamy's friend, Mr. Lane, in regard to whom she felt considerable
curiosity. It was not hard to distinguish Jessamy, who had a certain
manner of using her hands all her own. She was the Sleeping Beauty, and
Phyllis guessed that Bobby Shafto was Mr. Lane--or should it be the
other way?
It was not long before she discovered Bab in the guise of Little Miss
Muffet, and a tall Little Boy Blue, with a huge Japanese spider on a
sort of small fishing-pole which he dangled before the nervous little
person who lunched out of doors on curds and whey, was Tom.
"And who am I?" asked Cinderella's godmother, stopping before Phyllis,
smiling behind her muslin mask at the girl's preoccupied face.
"I know who the fairy godmother ought to be," said Phyllis. "If you
aren't Mrs. Van Alyn, then it's your own character which is the
disguise."
"Bravo! You have been getting clever over there in the land of Athena
Junior," laughed the godmother, and her voice proved Phyllis right.
"And me?" cried Cinderella, impatiently. "Who am I?"
"I have no idea," Phyllis was slowly beginning, when Cinderella
interrupted her.
"How can you be so dull?" she cried. "Who is always sitting in the
ashes, and likes them?"
"Why, Ruth!" cried Phyllis, and hugged her friend until some of the
realistic black spots on her gown were transferred to her own.
It was not a very conventional party. The room was "so crowded there
was no space for stiffness," said Bab, truly; but everybody seemed to
be having the nicest time--even Aunt Henrietta. To be sure, Phyllis
heard her suggesting to Mrs. Wyndham that parties were a great
extravagance for people in straitened circumstances, but that was said
rather as an oblation to her custom of fault-finding, and not heartily;
and a moment later she added graciously that "the girls are improving
daily. Even Phyllis is becoming more and more a Wyndham; they are all
clear Wyndhams."
"Phyllis is just as much a Wyndham, certainly, as her cousins," laughed
Mrs. Wyndham.
"Ah, but she is not poor Henry's daughter," said Aunt Henrietta so
decidedly that the remark became at once illuminative in effect, if not
in matter.
"Ladies in the center, as for the quadrille figure," called Old King
Cole, who acted as master of ceremonies. "Men join hands around them;
ladies form line, hands raised, men dance through, come down outside,
take places, a man beside each lady."
A quaint and merry air was played by a pretty young girl whom Phyllis
had never seen, and King Cole's directions were carried out, almost
without a mistake.
"Left hand to partner, right hand on mask," called that jovial person.
"Ready!"
The little creature at the piano struck three chords, while the
masqueraders took position. It really was very pretty, small as the
space was.
Suddenly, obeying another chord, every voice poured out in the carol:
"Christ was born on Christmas Day,
Wreathe the holly, twine the bay,"
and sang it through to the end. Then a single chord was struck, and
instantly every mask was swept off by the raised right hands, and the
company made a deep bow, crying in unison: "Merry Christmas!"
It was charming; and while Phyllis and the few who were not a part
of the figure applauded wildly, Santa Claus, who proved to be, of all
unexpected persons, Lawyer Hurd, began to strip the tree.
There were presents for every one. Phyllis had saved her own packages,
tucked into her trunk by Mrs. Dean, to open now; and all the little
trinkets she had made or got together for her family they had made her
keep for the tree. Violet, shining and smiling in the background, was
made happy; and Truce received a chicken wish-bone, with plenty of meat
on it, and Nixie a French chop, that being the kind of comfit suited
to their palates, each placed in a candy-box ornamented with a picture
of a cat and a dog respectively. Bab opened a small case Santa Claus
handed her, and flushed with pleasure. A little miniature of Tom smiled
up at her, and on the back was engraved: "Years pass away; Love lasts
alway." Since that morning a diamond, set as lightly as possible, shone
on Barbara's little left hand like a drop of dew.
But Phyllis's surprise was so complete and delightful that no one was
happier than she. She had written since she had been away and sent
to Jessamy two or three short stories for her illustrating, and had
wondered what had become of them, knowing that Jessamy had done the
work and sent them to magazines. No one told her their fate, so she
did not ask, being more sensitive about these little attempts than any
one suspected. Now the explanation lay before her in the delightful
shape of a crisp fifty-dollar bill.
The first story, written before she had left home, Jessamy had sent to
several of the larger magazines, and received it back each time with
a personal note of praise and encouragement. At last it had found its
way to a magazine with a larger circulation and smaller subscription
price than any of the others, and the editor had not only accepted the
story, but told Jessamy he would take all she could give him of equal
merit; and especially requested her to illustrate for him other work
besides her cousin's. The second story Phyllis sent had been refused,
but the third was accepted with praise; and now the money for both lay
in her hand to complete the happiness of her home-coming. It was not
a great sum--the magazine would have paid more to some one whose name
was known; but Phyllis considered it tremendous, and felt as though her
five right-hand fingers had suddenly been endowed with the Midas touch.
Jessamy and she had a rapture after all their friends had gone. It had
been a beautiful Christmas Day, and the very nicest evening the girls
remembered to have spent; but it was best of all to bid the people
good-night, dear as many of them were to them, and sit down alone, a
"square" once more, at their "ain fireside," represented, as Babbie
pointed out, by a gilded steam radiator.
Jessamy was paid ten to twenty dollars each for her illustrations. She
and Phyllis hugged each other in speechless anticipation of the wealth
that they were to pile up. Yet a vision of Bobby Shafto, and a look
in his eyes that night as they rested on the Sleeping Beauty, as if
he would dearly have liked the privilege of waking her in the manner
of the prince in the story, filled Phyllis with foreboding that their
collaboration might be short. But she was at home again, and everything
smiled on their hopes. "A merry Christmas and a happy New Year!" Ah,
yes, very, very happy. And with that thought in her grateful heart,
Phyllis fell asleep, with Truce purring on her arm.