Betty stood at her door, gazing drearily down the long, empty corridor
in which the breakfast gong echoed mournfully. All the usual brisk
scenes of that hour, groups of girls in Peter Thomson suits or starched
shirt-waists, or a pair of energetic ones, red-cheeked and shining-eyed
from a run in the snow, had vanished as by the hand of some evil
magician. Silent and lonely was the corridor.
"And it's the day before Christmas!" groaned Betty. Two chill little
tears hung on her eyelashes.
The night before, in the excitement of getting the girls off with all
their trunks and packages intact, she had not realized the homesickness
of the deserted school. Now it seemed to pierce her very bones.
"Oh, dear, why did father have to lose his money? 'Twas easy enough last
September to decide I wouldn't take the expensive journey home these
holidays, and for all of us to promise we wouldn't give each other as
much as a Christmas card. But now!" The two chill tears slipped over the
edge of her eyelashes. "Well, I know how I'll spend this whole day; I'll
come right up here after breakfast and cry and cry and cry!" Somewhat
fortified by this cheering resolve, Betty went to breakfast.
Whatever the material joys of that meal might be, it certainly was not
"a feast of reason and a flow of soul." Betty, whose sense of humour
never perished, even in such a frost, looked round the table at the
eight grim-faced girls doomed to a Christmas in school, and quoted
mischievously to herself: "On with the dance, let joy be unconfined."
Breakfast bolted, she lagged back to her room, stopping to stare out of
the corridor windows.
She saw nothing of the snowy landscape, however. Instead, a picture,
the gayest medley of many colours and figures, danced before her
eyes: Christmas-trees thumping in through the door, mysterious bundles
scurried into dark corners, little brothers and sisters flying about
with festoons of mistletoe, scarlet ribbon and holly, everywhere sound
and laughter and excitement. The motto of Betty's family was: "Never do
to-day what you can put off till to-morrow"; therefore the preparations
of a fortnight were always crowded into a day.
The year before, Betty had rushed till her nerves were taut and her
temper snapped, had shaken the twins, raged at the housemaid, and had
gone to bed at midnight weeping with weariness. But in memory only the
joy of the day remained.
"I think I could endure this jail of a school, and not getting one
single present, but it breaks my heart not to give one least little
thing to any one! Why, who ever heard of such a Christmas!"
"Won't you hunt for that blue--"
"Broken my thread again!"
"Give me those scissors!"
Betty jumped out of her day-dream. She had wandered into "Cork" and the
three O'Neills surrounded her, staring.
"I beg your pardon--I heard you--and it was so like home the day before
Christmas--"
"Did you hear the heathen rage?" cried Katherine.
"Dolls for Aunt Anne's mission," explained Constance.
"You're so forehanded that all your presents went a week ago, I
suppose," Eleanor swept clear a chair. "The clan O'Neill is never
forehanded."
"You'd think I was from the number of thumbs I've grown this morning.
Oh, misery!" Eleanor jerked a snarl of thread out on the floor.
Betty had never cared for "Cork" but now the hot worried faces of its
girls appealed to her. "Let me help. I'm a regular silkworm."
The O'Neills assented with eagerness, and Betty began to sew in a
capable, swift way that made the others stare and sigh with relief.
The dolls were many, the O'Neills slow. Betty worked till her feet
twitched on the floor; yet she enjoyed the morning, for it held an
entirely new sensation, that of helping some one else get ready for
Christmas.
"Done!"
"We never should have finished if you hadn't helped! Thank you, Betty
Luther, very, VERY much! You're a duck! Let's run to luncheon together,
quick."
Somehow the big corridors did not seem half so bleak echoing to those
warm O'Neill voices.
"This morning's just spun by, but, oh, this long, dreary afternoon!"
sighed Betty, as she wandered into the library. "Oh, me, there goes
Alice Johns with her arms loaded with presents to mail, and I can't give
a single soul anything!"
"Do you know where 'Quotations for Occasions' has gone?" Betty turned to
face pretty Rosamond Howitt, the only senior left behind.
"Gone to be rebound. I heard Miss Dyce say so."
"Oh, dear, I needed it so."
"Could I help? I know a lot of rhymes and tags of proverbs and things
like that."
"Oh, if you would help me, I'd be so grateful! Won't you come to my
room? You see, I promised a friend in town, who is to have a Christmas
dinner, and who's been very kind to me, that I'd paint the place cards
and write some quotation appropriate to each guest. I'm shamefully late
over it, my own gifts took such a time; but the painting, at least, is
done."
Rosamond led the way to her room, and there displayed the cards which
she had painted.
"You can't think of my helplessness! If it were a Greek verb now, or a
lost and strayed angle--but poetry!"
Betty trotted back and forth between the room and the library, delved
into books, and even evolved a verse which she audaciously tagged "old
play," in imitation of Sir Walter Scott.
"I think they are really and truly very bright, and I know Mrs. Fernell
will be delighted." Rosamond wrapped up the cards carefully. "I can't
begin to tell you how you've helped me. It was sweet in you to give me
your whole afternoon."
The dinner-bell rang at that moment, and the two went down together.
"Come for a little run; I haven't been out all day," whispered Rosamond,
slipping her hand into Betty's as they left the table.
A great round moon swung cold and bright over the pines by the lodge.
"Down the road a bit--just a little way--to the church," suggested
Betty.
They stepped out into the silent country road.
"Why, the little mission is as gay as--as Christmas! I wonder why?"
Betty glanced at the bright windows of the small plain church. "Oh, some
Christmas-eve doings," she answered.
Some one stepped quickly out from the church door.
"Oh, Miss Vernon, I am relieved! I had begun to fear you could not
come."
The girls saw it was the tall old rector, his white hair shining silver
bright in the moonbeams.
"We're just two girls from the school, sir," said Rosamond.
"Dear, dear!" His voice was both impatient and distressed. "I hoped you
were my organist. We are all ready for our Christmas-eve service, but we
can do nothing without the music."
"I can play the organ a little," said Betty. "I'd be glad to help."
"You can? My dear child, how fortunate! But--do you know the service?"
"Yes, sir, it's my church."
No vested choir stood ready to march triumphantly chanting into the
choir stalls. Only a few boys and girls waited in the dim old choir
loft, where Rosamond seated herself quietly.
Betty's fingers trembled so at first that the music sounded dull and far
away; but her courage crept back to her in the silence of the church,
and the organ seemed to help her with a brave power of its own. In the
dark church only the altar and a great gold star above it shone bright.
Through an open window somewhere behind her she could hear the winter
wind rattling the ivy leaves and bending the trees. Yet, somehow, she
did not feel lonesome and forsaken this Christmas eve, far away from
home, but safe and comforted and sheltered. The voice of the old rector
reached her faintly in pauses; habit led her along the service, and the
star at the altar held her eyes.
Strange new ideas and emotions flowed in upon her brain. Tears stole
softly into her eyes, yet she felt in her heart a sweet glow. Slowly the
Christmas picture that had flamed and danced before her all day, painted
in the glory of holly and mistletoe and tinsel, faded out, and another
shaped itself, solemn and beautiful in the altar light.
"My dear child, I thank you very much!" The old rector held Betty's hand
in both his. "I cannot have a Christmas morning service--our people
have too much to do to come then--but I was especially anxious that our
evening service should have some message, some inspiration for them,
and your music has made it so. You have given me great aid. May your
Christmas be a blessed one."
"I was glad to play, sir. Thank you!" answered Betty, simply.
"Let's run!" she cried to Rosamond, and they raced back to school.
She fell asleep that night without one smallest tear.
The next morning Betty dressed hastily, and catching up her mandolin,
set out into the corridor.
Something swung against her hand as she opened the door. It was a great
bunch of holly, glossy green leaves and glowing berries, and hidden in
the leaves a card: "Betty, Merry Christmas," was all, but only one girl
wrote that dainty hand.
"A winter rose," whispered Betty, happily, and stuck the bunch into the
ribbon of her mandolin.
Down the corridor she ran until she faced a closed door. Then, twanging
her mandolin, she burst out with all her power into a gay Christmas
carol. High and sweet sang her voice in the silent corridor all through
the gay carol. Then, sweeter still, it changed into a Christmas hymn.
Then from behind the closed doors sounded voices:
"Merry Christmas, Betty Luther!"
Then Constance O'Neill's deep, smooth alto flowed into Betty's soprano;
and at the last all nine girls joined in "Adeste Fideles." Christmas
morning began with music and laughter.
"This is your place, Betty. You are lord of Christmas morning."
Betty stood, blushing, red as the holly in her hand, before the
breakfast table. Miss Hyle, the teacher at the head of the table, had
given up her place.
The breakfast was a merry one. After it somebody suggested that they all
go skating on the pond.
Betty hesitated and glanced at Miss Hyle and Miss Thrasher, the two
sad-looking teachers.