JEAN'S CHRISTMAS EVE.
Christmas mystery was in the air. For weeks the girls had been
busy over all sorts of gay trifles which were whisked out of
sight, now and then, to avoid some particular pair of curious eyes
that were not intended to see them until the proper moment came.
"What's the use of making such a time about it?" inquired Alan, in
some disgust one day.
He had rushed breathlessly into the room to announce the first
skating of the season, and was greeted with four protesting
voices, as the girls tried to cover up the stripes of the afghan
they were making for his own especial use.
"Making such a time about it, you heathen!" retorted Polly, diving
after a ball of golden-yellow wool; "you know perfectly well that
all the fun of Christmas is in surprising people. I'd rather have
a paper of pins, and have the fun of being astonished over it,
than get the most elegant present in creation and know all about
it beforehand."
"That's all very fine, Poll; but I haven't been able to come near
you girls for a month, without your all howling at me," objected
Alan. "Now, of course I know you aren't doing all this for me, but
you won't let me see anything. I'll start up some secrets, too;
see if I don't!"
"Poor boy, does he want to see?" said Katharine protectingly.
"Well, I'll show you one thing, Alan, if you'll promise not to
tease any more."
"Depends on what 'tis," returned Alan grudgingly. "One is better
than nothing, so go ahead."
Katharine gathered up her work under the light shawl which lay
across her shoulders, and went away out of the room. Presently she
came back again, with a pile of something soft and red in her
arms.
"There now!" she said, shaking out the folds with conscious pride.
"This is our grandest secret of all. It's a dressing-gown for
Bridget, and we girls have cut and made it ourselves, every
stitch. It's well made, too; you can look, if you know enough to
judge."
"We!" echoed Polly. "Katharine has done 'most all of the work."
Alan eyed it critically.
"I say, that's something worth having," he remarked. "I wish I was
Miss O'Finnigan; I know that color would be becoming to me, and
it's so soft and warm." And before the girls could guess his
intention, he had slipped on the long, loose garment, and was
parading up and down the room in it, with all the airs of a young
peacock.
"Tell me some more," he implored them; "tell me what you were
doing when I came in."
"Never!" said Jessie sternly. "You know more now than you deserve.
You'll have to wait for the rest."
"A whole week?" groaned Alan. "I never can stand it. Never you
mind, though; I know one thing you don't, and I was going to tell
you, and now I shan't. It's something awfully nice, too, and it's
about Christmas."
"Tell me, Alan," said Katharine. "You know I showed you this, so
it's only fair you should let me be the one to hear your secret."
"All right, Kit; I'll tell you for the sake of making the rest
jealous." And Alan glared defiantly at the other girls, as he bent
over and whispered a few words in Katharine's ear.
"Really, Alan? What fun!"
"Isn't it?" And they exchanged significant smiles.
"Where's Jean, these days?" inquired Alan, a few minutes later, as
he settled himself on the sofa, with his shoes on the pillow. "I
haven't seen her for a coon's age."
"Poor Jean!" said Polly. "She's having a hard time. Ever since her
father had that fall, two weeks ago, Mrs. Dwight has been busy
with taking care of him, and Jean has had to do all the work, and
see to those four boys, besides."
"That's hard luck," said Alan sympathetically.
"I did feel so sorry for her, the other day," said Jessie, moving
into the sofa corner to let Alan rest his yellow head in her lap.
"I asked her what she was going to do Christmas, and she said,
'Nothing at all.' She laughed; she always does that, but she
looked as sober as could be, and it did sound so forlorn."
There was a silence throughout the group for a moment.
"I say!" exclaimed Alan so suddenly that Jessie, who was bending
over to part his hair into little squares, started violently.
"Well?" inquired Molly, who was tranquilly rocking back and forth
by the window.
"I say, girls, let's give her a Christmas surprise." "Good, Alan!"
And Jessie sprang up in an excited fashion that nearly dislocated
the boy's neck. "This is the best plan yet. It's ever so much more
fun than Bridget; and Jean is working so hard now, that she needs
a little good time to make up for it. What shall we do?"
"Oh, have some kind of a lark Christmas eve," answered Alan. "We
can't do it Christmas day because--Well, I may as well tell the
rest of you--mamma has just asked Polly and all the other Adamses
to come here for dinner and the evening, so we can have our fun,
all of us together."
"Oh-h-h!" remarked Polly rapturously.
"So you see," the boy went on; "whatever we do must come in on the
night before; but I think we could manage it. Let's call mamma in,
to take counsel."
"Would Florence help us along, I wonder," said Jessie
thoughtfully.
"Yes, I know she will," Katharine responded quickly; "I'll answer
for her. We'll have to work, girls, to get this done, with all our
other plans; but I am sure we can do it."
"Oh, dear! I've got to finish up my scrapbook for my hospital
boys," sighed Polly; "and the corners peel up faster than I can
stick them down."
"I'll do it for you, Polly," Alan offered. "I can't sew, but I can
stick beautifully."
"That's so," said Molly, in an undertone to Polly. "He upset the
mucilage bottle into the dictionary, the other day, and now we
have to take a knife and pry, if we want to look up anything from
I to Q."
"Oh, Polly, I almost forgot to tell you," said Alan suddenly. "I
was coming up past your house, just now, and saw Mr. Baxter going
in at the gate. You'd better hurry home, and tell him something
more about Job."
Polly laughed at the memory.
"He has called once since then," she said. "I don't see what has
started his doing that, and he comes to see Aunt Jane, of all
people. This time I was telling about, he went on in the queerest
way about his children, as if he didn't care anything for them. I
wish you could have heard him. He said that they had very peculiar
dispositions, and his wife never did know how to bring them up.
But go call your mother, there's a dear boy. I do want to plan
about Jean."
For the next hour there was held a council into which Mrs. Hapgood
entered with spirit, restraining the girls' ardor, offering all
manner of assistance, and making many a useful suggestion for the
success of their frolic, which was to be extended to include
something for the little brothers, as well as for Jean. There was
no time to be lost, for there was only a week before Christmas,
and there was much to be done. At dinner time the girls separated,
with many vows of secrecy.
Christmas fell on Thursday that year. It had been cloudy all the
early part of the week, and on Wednesday morning Jean had opened
her eyes in the cold, gray dawn, to see the air filled with
whirling snowflakes that went dancing and skurrying this way and
that before the noisy wind. Such a tempting morning to pull the
blankets over one's shoulders and nestle down for another nap! But
there was no such luxury for Jean; she scarcely had time to
realize that this was the dawn of the Christmas eve. A careless
step on a slippery roof, a cutting wind which had numbed him too
much to let him save himself, these had given her father a bad
fall so that work was out of the question for a long time to come.
Her mother was busy caring for her husband and doing a little
sewing at odd moments, so the main charge of the house and of the
children had fallen on Jean's strong young shoulders, which were
bearing the load with a merry willingness that is so much more
helpful than mere patient endurance. And really, if it had not
been for Christmas, Jean would not have minded it so much. But it
was hard to think of the fun the other girls were having over
their mysterious plans; and though she had no time to join them,
in fancy she pictured their merry afternoons together, while Alan
dodged about them, pretending to pry and peep into the carefully
covered work-baskets. Harder still it was to imagine the
disappointment of her own young brothers, when Christmas morning
should reveal the empty little stockings that Santa Claus had
forgotten to fill.
"No, Jean," Mrs. Dwight had said sadly; "we can't have any
Christmas this year. I'm sorry to disappoint you and the children;
but with the uncertainty about father's going to work again, I
feel that it would be really wrong for us to use our money for
presents, when before winter is over, we may have to borrow some
for food or clothes."
And Jean saw the right of it. Still, she cried herself to sleep
that night, not so much for herself, as for the boys who had
talked of the children's fur-clad saint for a month past. But by
the next morning, Jean's inspiration had come. As soon as her work
was done, she shut herself into her room and ransacked her few
small stores. At least the boys should not be disappointed she
thought, as she selected this treasure and that from the meagre
number which she had hoarded with such care. A little planning and
contriving changed them to fit the present need, and Jean had put
them away until Christmas eve with the happy certainty that, at
any rate, the toes of the stockings would bulge a little, even if
the legs hung empty and lean.
But now it was the morning of Christmas eve, and breakfast was
waiting until Jean should get it ready, so she sprang up and
hastily dressed herself. Then, with her cheeks glowing from the
shock of the icy water, and her fingers aching with cold, she ran
across the hall to rouse the boys. But they were sitting up in
bed, calling back and forth to each other through the open door
between their rooms, in all the joyous excitement of the
approaching Christmas tide; so Jean only stopped to caution them
not to disturb their father, and hurried away down-stairs, to
start the fire for their morning meal. The house was so cold, in
the dim light, for the fire had burned low and the wind seemed to
blow in through all the cracks and corners. But Jean never minded
that; she was thinking with a quiet satisfaction of the little box
up-stairs, and as she knelt on the bare floor to shake down the
ashes in the kitchen stove, she was humming contentedly to
herself,--
"'And pray a gladsome Christmas
On all good Christian men;
Carol, brothers, carol,
Christmas day again!'"
Her mother's step interrupted her.
"Good morning, mammy!" she exclaimed, jumping up. "Why in the
world didn't you stay in bed till the house was a little warmer?"
"It's no colder for me than it is for you," her mother answered.
"Your nose is blue and your ears are red. Are the boys getting
up?"
"Oh, yes; they must be nearly dressed," answered Jean. "They
started as soon as I did."
Breakfast was all ready to put on the table, and still the boys
had not come down. Jean had heard them running about their rooms;
but now, for some time, all had been silent. Suddenly there was a
shout.
"Jean! Jean! _Jean!_"
"Well," answered Jean, going to the foot of the back stairs, with
the toasting-fork in one hand and a slice of bread in the other.
"I can't find but one stocking. You come and look for it for me."
"I'm busy, Erne," she called. "Ask Willie to help you."
"He won't. He's gone back to bed, 'cause it's cold," responded the
childish voice.
Jean glanced at her mother in despair. Then she put down her toast
and went up to the boy's room. Mrs. Dwight could hear her coaxing,
laughing, and merrily scolding the boys, as she found the missing
garments, routed Willie out from his warm nest in the middle of
the bed, and triumphantly marshalled the four children downstairs
to their seats at the breakfast table.
It was the beginning of a long, hard day, and Jean was forced,
again and again, to hold herself in check while she bethought
herself of the true Christmas spirit: good will to men. The boys
had not the least intention of being naughty; but the storm kept
them shut up in the house, and they were overflowing with fun and
mischief, which was somewhat increased by the vague holiday
feeling that is in the very air around us at Christmas time. Jean
did her part well, restraining their boisterous shouts, making
peace in their small quarrels, proposing new entertainments when
the old ones had been worn threadbare, and, in the afternoon,
calling them all into a corner of the dining-room and telling them
marvellous old-time stories, to keep them quiet while their father
took his nap in the next room. Not much of a Christmas eve,
perhaps, compared with the stir and bustle of preparation at the
Hapgoods', or with the elaborate gifts which Mr. and Mrs. Lang had
bought for their only child; but after all, blessed be drudgery!
and the hard work and stern self-denial were doing much to round
Jean's character into the perfect womanhood, for which all our
girls were striving.
Slowly the day wore away; an endless one it appeared to Jean who,
with tired hands and weary head, longed for the hour when the
little ones should be tucked away for the night, and she could
give her nerves and her patience a little rest. It came soon after
supper, for the boys were more than ready to go to bed, hoping in
this way to encourage an early visit from Santa Claus and so have
the first choice of gifts from his overflowing pack. There was a
little sadness in Jean's smile, as she watched them eagerly
fastening their long stockings around the kitchen chimney, with
many a sleepy dispute about the best place and to whom it should
be given. Then they clattered up the stairs and pulled off their
clothes, tossing them in a promiscuous pile on the floor, to be
sorted out again by Jean while they lay huddled under the
blankets. The last good night was said, the last "Merry Christmas"
exchanged in anticipation of the morrow, and Jean went away and
left them.
She crossed into her own room, took up the little box, and went
down-stairs again and out into the kitchen. How poor and mean her
gifts looked, after all, and how lonely in the toes of the long,
thin stockings! She could have cried, as she stood there looking
at them; but what was the use of crying? Tears wouldn't bring
Willie the air-rifle for which he sighed, nor Ernest the fine new
sled and knife that he had so innocently mentioned in his prayers.
No, crying wouldn't help the matter any; so she smiled instead, as
she went back to the sitting-room; but it was a wan, lifeless
smile, after all.
For a few moments she stood at the window, looking out into the
night and listening to the sleepy murmurs from the room above. It
would be good sleighing for Santa Claus, she thought, and then
smiled at the childishness of the idea. The storm had died away at
sunset, and the soft, light snow lay white on the ground, and
piled high on the evergreen hedge at the side of the house. In the
cold, still air, the stars glittered like little, pricking points
of steel, throwing a faint light over the town below; while, far
down in the quiet western sky, lay the tiny silver thread of the
baby moon, as if anxious to linger above the horizon for a peep
into the happy Christmas world, when the midnight bells should
ring in the glad news, centuries old, yet ever coming to us with
all the fresh joy of that first eastern Christmas dawn.
Jean's eyes wandered from the snow below to the sky above, then
dropped again to the distant lights that were shining out from the
upper rooms of the Hapgood house. Even the attic was ablaze, for
Mrs. Hapgood still kept to the old-fashioned custom of
illuminating the house on Christmas eve. How Jean wished she could
peep in to see what they were all doing! She had missed her
friends and their frolics during these past weeks, missed them
more than any one knew but her pillow, to which alone she confided
her troubles.
Then she turned away from the window and threw herself down on the
scratchy old haircloth sofa, with her arms folded under her head,
to stare at the ceiling and think it all over. She had kept her
temper that day, at least; for so much she could be thankful. But
now she would have given worlds to run away out of the house and
down the street, to spend the evening with Polly or Molly, or even
Florence. Mrs. Dwight was busy with her husband, so Jean was quite
alone and could be as forlorn as she pleased.
Suddenly she sprang up and listened intently. There was the
rhythmic beat of footsteps on the sidewalk which Willie had
cleared, and a chorus of blithe young voices rang out on the quiet
air.
"'Hark! Hark! Upon the frosty air of night
A joyful anthem swells!
A song of gladness and delight,
The bells ring out with all their might,
And echo o'er the fields, with snow all bright,
The merry Christmas bells!'"
"It's a carol!" And Jean strained her ears to listen, while the
steps and the voices came nearer, and still nearer.
"'Hark! Hark! About the gray old belfry tower
Their gladsome notes resound,
And carol through the moonlight hour,
O'er snowy sward and glist'ning bower,
The glory of the Lord, whose saving power
On earth to-night was found.'"
They were very near now, nearer than Jean realized, for, as the
last line died away, the front door swung open and the singers
appeared on the threshold, with rosy cheeks and shining eyes,
exclaiming in a jovial chorus,--
"Merry Christmas, Jean!"
And Jean stood in amazement, while Alan and Polly set down the
great basket that they carried, and the six friends pulled off
their coats and hats and prepared to spend a long evening.
What need to linger over the unpacking of the great basket, to
listen to the fun as the simple presents and absurd jokes came to
light, one after another, while Jean now wiped away a tear or two
over Katharine's dainty gift, now laughed convulsively over some
ridiculous prank of Alan's plotting? And all the time, the chorus
went on, now explaining, now joking, but always bringing to Jean
the welcome assurance that her friends did not forget her even in
her absence.
It was a successful evening, they all said again and again, as
they gathered at the door in the starlight; and Jean stood looking
after them with happy eyes as they marched off through the snow,
gaily singing the dear old carol,--
"'God rest ye, merry gentlemen,
Let nothing you dismay,
For Jesus Christ, the Saviour,
Was born upon this day.'"
That night when the Christ child came silently over the mountains
and down into the sleeping town, he lingered beside their pillows,
to whisper to Jean words of encouragement for the coming days of
toil, to paint bright visions of the well-filled stockings which
the boys were to find in the morning, and to bring to five girls
and one young lad his thanks for their helping to do his work here
upon the earth. And if the morning brought the merry Christmas to
them all, to none it came more truly than to Jean as she watched
the children's rapture over their lumpy, shapeless stockings,
while she turned, again and again, to look over and caress her own
generous share of gifts which the Christmas eve had brought her.