CHRISTMAS AT THE MANOR
Christmas without Jimmie was, for Robin, a thing not to think about. And
from Beryl, inasmuch as that young lady affected a stoical indifference
to the holiday, she could get little sympathy. Beryl had shocked her
with the heresy: "Christmas is just for rich people, anyway."
"It is not. Oh, it isn't," Robin had cried in remonstrance. But she
could not tell of her and Jimmie's happy Christ-days without giving way
to the tears which, at the thought, scalded the backs of her eyes. It
had not been alone the holly and pine of the shop windows, or the simple
gifts Jimmie's loyal and more fortunate friends brought, or the usual
merry feast that had made them happy; it had been a deep and beautiful
understanding of the Infinite Love that had given the Christ-child to
the world, that Love which surpassed even Jimmie's love for her or hers
for Jimmie, and that was hers and everyone elses. She had felt it first
when, a very little girl, she had gone, once, with Jimmie into the
purple shadows of a great church, where the air was sweet with incense
and vibrating with the muted notes of an organ. She had stood with
Jimmie before a little cradle that had seemed beautiful with gold and
precious colors but, when she looked again, was a humble thing of wood
and straw, and what she had thought so bright was the radiance of
candles and the reflection from the many-colored windows. Then she had
looked at the cradle more closely and had found that it held a beautiful
wax babe. When Jimmie tugged at her hand she had reluctantly turned
away. At the same time a shabby old woman and a little boy, who had been
kneeling nearby, arose, and the old woman and the little boy had smiled
at her--a _different_ smile and she had smiled back. On the way home
Jimmie had explained to her that the Gift of the Christ-child was the
great universal gift and belonged to everyone, the world over. She knew,
then, why the shabby old woman had smiled--it was over the Gift they
shared.
"Christmas is for _everybody_," she finished.
"Well, all it means to me now that I'm big," pursued Beryl, "is stores
full of lovely things and crowded with people lucky enough to have money
to buy them. And talking about how much everything is. I heard a woman
once saying she had to spend five dollars on her aunt because her aunt
always spent five dollars on her. That's why I say Christmas is for the
rich--it's a sort of general exchange and take it back if you don't like
it or have half a dozen like 'em, or put it away and send it to some one
next Christmas. Miss Lewis, at the Settlement where mother worked, gave
a book to a lady one Christmas and got it back the next, and the leaves
weren't even cut."
Robin laughed in spite of her disapproval of Beryl's heresy. "There
_are_ different kinds of Christmases, Beryl, and I'll show you," she
protested, then and there vowing to make the Christmas at the Manor a
merry one, in spite of odds.
"Well, the nicest thing _I_ know that's going to happen is that
Rub-a-dub-dub is going home," retorted Beryl.
"That _is_ nice, but there'll be even nicer things. Let's invite your
mother and Dale for dinner and have a little tree and we'll make all
sorts of foolish things to put on it."
To Beryl this did not sound at all exciting but Robin loved the thought
of sitting with Mrs. Lynch and Dale and Beryl, like one happy family,
around the long table. She'd ask Harkness to cut pine boughs and a nice
smelly tree, which she and Beryl would adorn with gifts that had no more
value than a good laugh.
And she would coax Harkness to get Williams and his nice wife to help
open and clean the House of Laughter. She'd like to have it a Christmas
gift from her to the Mill children.
She found Harkness ready for her wildest suggestion. He had confided to
Williams and Mrs. Budge that he felt sorry for little Missy alone in the
big house on Christmas.
"A lot of pine and holly, Missy, and the old place won't look the same.
A tree--of course there'll be a tree! Whoever heard of Christmas
without a tree. Many's the one I've cut with the young master; he'd have
no one but Harkness do it, for he said I always found the best trees."
But the old man's head began to whirl a little when Robin explained
about the House of Laughter and the dinner that must be "different." She
had to tell him again and again, until her tone grew pleading.
"I'll help you, Missy, only I'm a little slow just understanding. It'll
come, though, it'll come. Williams will give a hand and his wife maybe,
and I'll tell Mrs. Budge about the Christmas cakes and things. It'll be
as merry a Christmas as old Harkness can make it, Missy."
"Oh, Mr. Harkness, you're a dear," Robin cried, with a look that made
the old man's heart almost burst with affection.
"But I won't tell Hannah Budge any more than she has to know," he
thought, as he went off to do Robin's bidding.
With Williams and his wife and his wife's sister, who had married the
telegraph operator at the little station, pressed into the work, the
empty cottage at the turn of the road took on rapid changes. Windows
were opened, doors were thrown wide, letting in the sweet cold air;
under the magic of strong soap and good muscle the old wood-work shone
with cleanliness; the faded walls lost their melancholy. Harkness and
Williams hauled down a load of wood and piled it high by the back door;
Mrs. Lynch transformed the rusty stove into a shiny, efficient, eager
thing.
Williams, who was very clever and would have been a carpenter if he
hadn't been a chauffeur, built tables out of rough boards and, in the
living room, put up shelves for books and the window seat Robin wanted.
Robin and Beryl flew about in everyone's way, eager to help and generous
with advice.
"There, I'd say things were pretty nice," exclaimed Williams, at the end
of the sixth day of work, stepping back to survey with satisfaction the
chair he had made out of "odds and ends."
"But it doesn't look like what we want--yet!" Robin glanced about
dolefully. "It needs such a lot to make it homey. Where'll we ever get
it all?"
"Now, Miss Robin, Rome wasn't built in a day, as I ever heard of,"
protested Harkness, a smudge over his nose and two long nails between
his teeth. "I guess there's truck enough in the attic up there at the
Manor to fill this house and a dozen like it."
"Oh, Mr. Harkness, may we use it? Or--just borrow it until my aunt
returns? Can we?"
Harkness exchanged glances with Williams. Harkness knew that it had long
been Mrs. Budge's custom to make a two day trip to New York during the
week preceding Christmas. They could take advantage of her absence.
"Well, I guess we can borrow enough, Missy, to do." And no one thought
of smiling at his "we" for, indeed, everyone there felt that he or she
had a share in Robin's House of Laughter.
But even stripping the Manor attic of its "truck" did not satisfy Robin
and the day before Christmas found her House of Laughter lacking in the
things she wanted most.
"It ought to have jolly pictures and ever so many books and pillows and
nice, frilly curtains," she mourned, wondering how much they would cost
and how she could ever get them.
On Christmas morning, Harkness dragged to Robin's door a box of gifts
from her guardian. Most of them Miss Effie had selected, as poor
Cornelius Allendyce was still confined to his room, and that
good-hearted woman had, with a burst of real Christmas spirit, simply
duplicated each gift, for, though she wasn't at all sure, yet, that this
"companion" of Robin's choosing was the refined sort Robin ought to
have, nevertheless she was a girl like Robin and Christmas was
Christmas. Beryl appreciated the thoughtfulness more than she could
express and when she found a little book entitled "Old Violins" and
_only one_, she hugged it to her with a rush of happy feeling.
Later in the morning Mrs. Granger's chauffeur arrived with a great box
of bon-bons in queer shapes and colors. Neither Robin nor Beryl had ever
seen anything quite so extravagantly contrived.
"She paid a fortune for _that_," declared Beryl, appraisingly. "She must
have forgiven Susy for spoiling her dress. Or maybe she's thinking of
her son again. Let me read the card. 'Hoping you will coax that nice Mr.
Tubbs to bring you to us before my youngsters go back to school--'
Didn't I tell you, Robin?"
"I won't go," Robin answered briefly, pushing box and card away with a
gesture that disposed of Mrs. Granger and her son. "Now we must trim the
tree."
Harkness, true to his boast, had found quite the straightest,
princeliest balsam in the nearby woods. Its fragrance penetrated and
filled the old house. The girls went about sniffing joyously, carrying
in their arms all sorts of mysterious objects made of bright paper.
Harkness, oddly dishevelled and excited, balanced on a stepladder and
fastened the gay ornaments where Robin directed.
Beryl had laughed at the idea of having a Christmas tree without the
usual tinsel and glittering baubles. But after Robin and Harkness had
worked for a half-hour she admitted the effect was very Christmasy and
"different."
"You're awfully clever, Robin," she declared, in a tone frankly
grudging. "You make little things count for so much--like mother."
"I think _that's_ a compliment. And speaking of your mother, Beryl
Lynch, we have just time to wash our hands and faces and change our
dresses before she comes. Oh, hasn't this day simply flown? And _hasn't_
it been nice, after all? Isn't Harkness darling--look at him." For
Harkness, his head on one side, a sprig of holly over one ear where
Robin had put it, was surveying the effect of an angel which Robin had
made of bright tissue paper and which he had carefully hung by the
heels.
"That kite looks as real as can be, Missy."
Giggling, the girls rushed away to make ready for what Robin declared
(though she had been much hurt by Dale's refusing to come) the nicest
part of Christmas.
Belowstairs Mrs. Budge was directing Chloe with the last touches of the
Christmas feast.
"That's the prettiest cake I ever saw if I do say so," she cried,
patting the round cherry which adorned the centre of the gaily frosted
cake. Then, lest she grow cheerful, she drew a long sigh from the depths
of her bosom. "But, cake or no cake, I never thought I'd live to feed
Mill persons, coming to our table like the best people. Things plain
common. It ain't like the old days--it ain't."
"The old days are old days, Hannah Budge," rebuked Harkness, who had
come into the kitchen. "Mebbe our little lydy's ways aren't our ways but
it isn't so bad hearing the young voices and you'll admit, Mrs. Budge,
that that's a fine cake and there'd be no cake if Missy wasn't here,
now, won't you?"
"I haven't time for your philosophizing, Timothy Harkness. With things
at sixes and sevens I have enough to do!" But Mrs. Budge's tone had
softened. She _had_ not made a Christmas cake (at sixteen Hannah Budge
had taken the prize at the County Agricultural Exhibit for the finest
decorated cake, and she had never forgotten it) since Master Christopher
the Third had left them. And she _had_ enjoyed hearing young voices and
eager steps in the old house and had caught herself that very morning,
as she helped Chloe stuff the turkey, singing:
"Oh, com-m-me let 'tus a-dor-r-re Him."
Chloe's last delectable dish for the dinner eaten, Harkness drew back
the folding doors to reveal the Christmas tree in the conservatory. And
Robin, waiting for Mrs. Lynch's "oh" of admiration, gave vent herself to
a delighted cry of surprise for, at the foot of the tree, so still as to
seem a graven image, sat little Susy, cross-legged, staring in wrapt
contentment at the bright ornaments.
"Susy, you _darling_, where in the world did you drop from?" Robin
rushed to her and knelt at her side.
Without moving her eyes so much as a fraction of an inch, Susy indicated
the side door of the conservatory as her means of entrance. In one hand
she clutched a soiled ragged picture book, on its uppermost page the
colorful illustration of "The Night before Christmas." Susy had not
forgotten the magic of that side door which had opened for her upon a
feast beyond her wildest imaginings; if there were a place on earth
where that Christmas tree of her picture could come really true it must
be at the "big girl's." Alone she had bravely climbed the hill to the
Manor to find out.
Not a word could Robin's questioning drag from her.
"You shall stay here as long as you want," Robin finally declared,
popping a round bon-bon between the child's trembling lips. "We needed a
little girl to sit at the foot of that tree, didn't we?"
At Robin's command, Harkness played the rôle of Santa. The girls had
fashioned all sorts of nonsensical gifts out of paper and cardboard and
paste; no one was forgotten. Mrs. Lynch declared herself "as rich as
rich" with bracelets and a necklace made of red berries. Mrs. Budge,
forgetting, when Robin held a sprig of mistletoe over her head and
daringly kissed her wrinkled cheek, that "things was going to sixes and
sevens," laughed until her sides ached at Harkness in his silly clown's
cap. Robin and Beryl, with much solemnity, exchanged purchases each had
secretly made at the village store and Robin could not resist adding:
"Dare you to send it to me next Christmas."
Beryl had to admit, deep in her heart, that Robin had managed a
Christmas full of joy that had nothing to do with stores full of lovely
things and crowded with people lucky enough to have money to buy them.
Never having thought much about the Christmas spirit, she had no name
with which to explain Mrs. Budge's awkwardly kind manner--even to her,
or her mother's unusual animation, or why the picture of little Susy,
still rooted to the tree, clasping a great paper doll in her arms, made
her glad all over. But after a little she disappeared, and presently,
from the library, came the strains of her violin, low, pulsing with a
deep emotion, now a laugh, now a sob, climbing higher and higher until
they sang like the far-off, quivery note of a bird, flying into the
heavens.
A deep hush fell over the little group of merrymakers. Harkness coughed
into his hand. Mrs. Budge fussed around the spacious belt of a dress for
a handkerchief and, finding none, surreptitiously lifted a corner of her
apron. Mrs. Lynch caught her throat with a convulsive movement as though
something hurt it. Robin, watching her, slipped her hand into the
mother's and squeezed it.
"Don't go," she whispered when the music suddenly ceased. "Beryl's
funny. She likes to be alone when she plays."
"I never heard her play--like _that_!"
"Oh, Beryl's wonderful!" Robin smiled happily in her faith. "She makes
that all up, too, 'cause she hasn't any music. She's going to be the
greatest violinist in the world. Hush!"
Beryl had begun a lilting refrain, as though a mother laughed as she
sang a lullaby. It had in it a familiar strain which carried little Mrs.
Moira back to Beryl's baby days. Then the lullaby swung into the deeper
tones of a Christmas anthem and again into a tempestuous outburst of
melody, as though Beryl had let loose all at once the riotous feelings
that surged within her.
Just as the last note died away a bell pealed through the house. Because
it was still Christmas, really being only nine o'clock, everyone looked
for a surprise. And a surprise it was, indeed, when Harkness placed an
impressive envelope in Robin's hands and said that a stranger had
brought it to the door.
"He looked like one of these motorcycle men, but before I could as much
as say 'Good evening' he was off in the dark."
Robin studied the address, which was printed. It gave no clue
whatsoever. Nor was there anything else on the envelope. She broke the
sealed flap, with an excited giggle. Five crisp bank-notes fell out.
"For goodness' sake," cried Beryl, staring. "Who ever sent them?"
"TO MISS GORDON FORSYTH. Please use this money for your House of
Laughter. I am deeply interested in your experiment. Frankly, I do
not believe it will work; but if it does my little contribution
will be well spent; and if it doesn't, my own conviction will be
justified.
YOUR FRIEND NEAR THE RUSHING WATER."
Beryl squealed with delight. "How _larky_ to have her remember every
solitary thing you told her, Robin--even what we called her house. What
are you going to do with it all? I wish _I_ could get money like that."
Robin stood staring at the letter--not at all jubilant over the
unexpected gift. "I wish she hadn't said she didn't believe the
experiment would work. It _isn't_ an experiment and it _will_ work. I'm
not _trying_ anything, am I?" appealing to Mrs. Lynch, who hastily
assured her with a "No, dearie." Then Robin gathered up the bank-notes.
"Though I did wish we had more nice things for the house and now we can
get them. But isn't this an awful lot of money?" For she had seen a one
and two ciphers in a corner of one bank-note. "I never had so much in my
life."
At this Mrs. Budge sniffed and, the Christmas celebration apparently
abandoned in the excitement of the strange letter, she departed
kitchenward.
Harkness volunteered to escort Susy and Mrs. Lynch back to the village.
In a twinkling the house had quieted so that the girls' footsteps, as
they climbed the stairs, resounded strangely.
Robin leaned for a moment against the banister and looked back into the
shadows of the great, dimly-lit hall.
"Listen a moment, Beryl! Can't you hear tiny echoes of voices and
laughter? Don't you s'pose even the things we think and feel get into
the air, too--and linger?"
Beryl tugged at her arm. "Oh, come on, Robin. You make me creepy. You'll
be seeing ghosts in a moment. I want to have a good look at that letter.
_Wasn't_ it a surprise, though?"
But after a close study of it, Beryl threw the letter down in
disappointment. "Not so much as a tiny crown on it! I'll bet she had
someone write it for her, too. It looks all big and scrawly--like a man.
Anyway, Robin, you ought to keep one of the bills as a souvenir."