THE CHRISTMAS ANGEL
Almost at the bottom of the box Miss Terry's fingers closed about a small
object. Once more she drew out the papier-mâché Angel which had so excited
the wonder of Norah when once before that evening it had come to light.
Miss Terry held it up and looked at it with the same expression on her
face, half tender, half contemptuous. "The Christmas Angel!" she murmured
involuntarily, as she had done before. And again there flashed through her
mind a vivid picture.
It was the day before Christmas, fifty years earlier. She and her brother
Tom were trimming the Christmas tree in this very library. She saw Tom, in
a white piqué suit with short socks that were always slipping down his fat
legs. She saw herself in a white dress and blue ribbons, pouting in a
corner. They had been quarreling about the Christmas tree, disputing as to
which of them should light the first candle when the time arrived. Then
their mother came to them smiling, a sweet-faced lady who seemed not to
notice the red faces and the tears. She put something into Tom's hand
saying, "This is the Christmas Angel of peace and good-will. Hang it on the
tree, children, so that it may shed a blessing on all who come here to give
and to receive."
How lovely and pink it looked in Tom's hand! Little Angelina had thought it
the most beautiful thing she had ever seen,--and holy, too, as if it had
some blessed charm. Fiddlestick! What queer fancies children have! Miss
Terry remembered how a strange thrill had crept through Angelina as she
gazed at it. Then she and Tom looked at each other and were ashamed of
their quarrel. Suddenly Tom held out the Angel to his sister. "You hang it
on the tree, Angelina," he said magnanimously. "I know you want to."
But she--little fool!--she too had a fit of generosity.
"No, you hang it, Tom. You're taller," she said.
"I'll hang it at the very top of the tree!" he replied, nothing loath.
Eagerly he mounted the step-ladder, while Angelina watched him enviously,
thinking how clumsy he was, and how much better she could do it.
How funny and fat Tom had looked on top of the ladder, reaching as high as
he dared! The ladder began to wobble, and he balanced precariously, while
Angelina clutched at his fat ankles with a scream of fright. But Tom
said:--
"Ow! Angelina, let go my ankles! You hurt! Now don't scream. I shan't fall.
Don't you know that this is the Christmas Angel, and he will never let me
get hurt on Christmas Eve?"
Swaying wildly on one toe Tom had clutched at the air, at the tree
itself,--anywhere for support. Yet, almost as if by a miracle, he did not
fall. And the Christmas Angel was looking down from the very top of the
tree.
Miss Terry laid the little pink figure in her lap and mused. "Mother was
wise!" she sighed. "She knew how to settle our quarrels in those days.
Perhaps if she had still been here things would have gone differently. Tom
might not have left me for good. _For good._" She emphasized the words with
a nod as if arguing against something.
Again she took up the Christmas Angel and looked earnestly at it. Could it
be that tears were glistening in her eyes? Certainly not! With a sudden
sniff and jerk of the shoulders she leaned forward, holding the Angel
towards the fire. This should follow the other useless toys. But something
seemed to stay her hand. She drew back, hesitated, then rose to her feet.
"I can't burn it," she said. "It's no use, I can't burn it. But I don't
want to see the thing around. I will put this out on the sidewalk, too.
Possibly this may be different and do some good to somebody."
She wrapped the shawl about her shoulders and once more ran down the steps.
She left the Angel face upward in the middle of the sidewalk, and retreated
quickly to the house. As she opened the door to enter, she caught the
distant chorus of fresh young voices singing in a neighboring square:--
"Angels from the realms of glory,
Wing your flight o'er all the earth."
When she took her place behind the curtain she was trembling a little, she
could not guess why. But now she watched with renewed eagerness. What was
to be the fate of the Christmas Angel? Would he fall into the right hands
and be hung upon some Christmas tree ere morning? Would he--
Miss Terry held her breath. A man was staggering along the street toward
her. He whistled noisily a vulgar song, as he reeled from curb to railing,
threatening to fall at every step. A drunken man on Christmas Eve! Miss
Terry felt a great loathing for him. He was at the foot of the steps now.
He was close upon the Angel. Would he see it, or would he tread upon it in
his disgusting blindness?
Yes--no! He saw the little pink image lying on the bricks, and with a lurch
forward bent to examine it. Miss Terry flattened her nose against the pane
eagerly. She expected to see him fall upon the Angel bodily. But no; he
righted himself with a whoop of drunken mirth.
"Angel!" she heard him croak with maudlin accent. "Pink Angel, begorrah!
What doin' 'ere, eh? Whoop! Go back to sky, Angel!" and lifting a brutal
foot he kicked the image into the street. Then with a shriek of laughter he
staggered away out of sight.
Miss Terry found herself trembling with indignation. The idea! He had
kicked the Christmas Angel,--the very Angel that Tom had hung on their
tree! It was sacrilege, or at least--Fiddlestick! Miss Terry's mind was
growing confused. She had a sudden impulse to rescue the toy from being
trampled into filthiness. The fire was better than that.
She hurried down the steps into the street, forgetting her shawl. She
sought in the snow and snatched the pink morsel to safety. Straight to the
fire she carried it, and once more held it to the flames. But again she
found it impossible to burn the thing. Once, twice, she tried. But each
time something seemed to clutch back her wrist. At last she shrugged
impatiently and laid the Angel on the mantelpiece beside the square old
marble clock, which marked the hour of half-past eight.
"Well, I won't burn it to-night," she reflected. "Somehow, I can't do it
just now. I don't see what has got into me! But to-morrow I will. Yes,
to-morrow I will."
She sat down in the armchair and fumbled in the old play box for the
remaining scraps. There were but a few meaningless bits of ribbon and
gauze, with the end of a Christmas candle, the survivor of some past
festival, burned on some tree in the past. All these but the last she
tossed into the fire, where they made a final protesting blaze. The
candle-end fell to the floor unnoticed.
"There! That is the last of the stuff," she exclaimed with grim
satisfaction, shaking the dust from her black silk skirt. "It is all gone
now, thank Heaven, and I can go to bed in peace. No, I forgot Norah. I
suppose I must sit up and wait for her. Bother the girl! She ought to be in
by now. What can she find to amuse her all this time? Christmas Eve!
Fiddlestick! But I have got rid of a lot of rubbish to-night, and that is
worth something."
She sank back in her chair and clasped her hands over her breast with a
sigh. She felt strangely weary. Her eyes sought the clock once more, and
doing so rested upon the Christmas Angel lying beside it. She frowned and
closed her eyes to shut out the sight with its haunting memories and
suggestions----