_LeClare’s Story: The Christmas Tree._
“The next Autumn she went away to the State Normal School, and
at vacation time a strange young man visited her at her home in
Darrington. Then, at the end of the Spring term, when she returned, one
of the boys in my class of the year before wrote me to the city where I
had gone to acquire a business training, that Lucy was engaged, and was
to be married in the fall. How many times I cannot tell you during my
first year in the city I had composed the letter to Lucy which I never
sent. At night, seated at the small stand I used as a writing table, in
the hall room, top floor, back, I went over for the thousandth time
the thought uppermost in my mind. Should I write to her and say, ‘Wait
for me, Lucy. I am working hard for the position in business which
will give me the right to claim you from the comfortable home of your
parents. You are my constant inspiration. For you I toil the whole day
with ceaseless energy. For you, to claim as my prize at the end, I have
sacrificed the associations of home, accepted the challenge thrown down
before me by the ambitious who, like myself, are striving to gain that
same position which would give to them the opportunity to say, “I have
won the race, I have reached the goal first, now I am entitled to the
prize.” For you, Lucy, one day I hope to return, and then to the music
of the old church organ, which we both have known from childhood, to
walk arm in arm from the scene of our innocent love-making to brave
together life’s voyage.’
“But no, Andy, I never sent this letter. Was it pride, I wonder,—were
my acts of silence dictated by an over-cautious mind, or were the
subtle workings of my heart’s emotions stayed by the reports which
had reached me that Lucy, my loved one, my ideal, could so doubt my
integrity, could so disregard the sacred ties of our friendship,
hallowed by the memories of sweet, childish innocence, as to accept the
attentions of another? I could not return at the Christmas holiday and
see another at the side of my beloved. At the summer vacation I still
clung to my work, mastering the details of the business with such an
alarming rapidity that the management would soon be forced to place
me in control of more important affairs. My incentive now for greater
efforts had changed from that which first had inspired me. Now I worked
to accomplish great successes, that, indirectly, Lucy might come to
hear my name mentioned, that she might be proud to say, if only in her
own heart, that she had once known me, and as boy and girl we had been
sweethearts.
“True enough, Andy, she was married that Autumn. My invitation to
their wedding came, and with it a short note saying to try and come if
possible, and if not, she wished me all success in business, and that
my share of happiness might be as great as she had heard my career
was proving successful. Love with pride was contending in my heart. I
should not attend the wedding, I finally decided. She had heard about
my success. Did she not know I had done all this for her sake? Why,
then, could she not have waited a short two years?
“Then love would steal quietly to the door of my troubled heart and
say, ‘You never told her of your resolves. You have never explained the
reason why you wished to postpone the carving of the line which would
have fully inclosed the initials in the bark upon the basswood tree
at Tyno’s Point. You have asked her to guess too much. You have been
unreasonable.’
“But pride would return, and, roughly pushing love out of the door,
proclaim in a loud, harsh voice, ‘She took up with another while I have
been true to her, and I am through. I have no care. One day she shall
hear, she shall know of my prominence, of my success.’ Then pride was
joined by selfishness within the chambers of my heart. The door closed,
and there they held control for a whole year.
“Lucy and her husband were now living in Darrington, at the home of her
parents. Mother wrote me that the Sunday school to which I had belonged
all the years I had spent at home would celebrate the eve of Christmas
with the unloading of a Christmas tree, and wouldn’t I come home for
that and gladden the hearts of my father and mother, now growing old so
fast without me? That evening, the same day upon which I had received
the letter, love came tapping again at the door of my heart. This time
I opened to welcome the timid caller. ‘We are going home together,’ it
said, ‘to mother and to father, to Lucy and her husband. We will bring
the good words of cheer. This Christmas shall see a reunion at the old
home. It will seem good to be there, and to meet Lucy with her husband
at the church, and to see them happy in their love for each other will
put my soul at rest, and give me another chance to meet happiness
should the fates favor me.’
“A three years’ absence from the old place had made changes, and
most of all in myself. The change of dress from country to city,
the mannerisms acquired by constant mingling with strangers, had
given me the air which in the country is interpreted as being akin to
presumptuousness. My school friends approached me with an uneasiness
of manner, while the conversation with the older members of families
was limited to a few questions concerning my arrival and departure.
The ladies of the committee in charge of the entertainment flitted
about the Christmas tree, which was placed in front of the pulpit at
the head of the main aisle and at the end of the edifice opposite the
entrance. I had not yet removed my great coat, and, hat in hand, was
strolling with mother up the aisle to the family pew. We were very
early, and but a few had taken their seats. Some one of the group of
ladies surrounding the tree had called the attention of her co-workers
to the approaching stranger. At the instant one of their number darted
down the aisle. A cry of joy had escaped her lips, and in a frenzy of
hysteria she fell into my arms. It was Lucy Maynard. Tenderly I placed
her in the very pew from where I had so often stolen the childish
glances at the same brown, curly head and beautiful eyes of my Lucy,
who now lay in a dead faint upon the cushions.
“‘You must care for her, mother,’ I said, as I turned hastily to leave.
‘I am going away; and, now that you know my secret, you must always
pray that my happiness may some time be returned.’”
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