Chapter XI: 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.