The Queerest Christmas by Grace Margaret Gallapher 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 Thompson's 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 less 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,
certainly was not a feast of reason and a flow of soul. Betty,
whose sense of humor 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 this snowy landscape, however, instead
a picture the gazed medley of many colors 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 tomorrow. Therefore,
the preparations of a fortnight were always crowded into a day. For 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. And to keep one least
little thing to any one? Why whoever heard of such a Christmas? Won't
you haunt for that blue? Broken my thread? Again? Give me those
scissors. Betty jump out of her day dream. She had wandered into cork,
and the three O'Neals 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 Catherine Dolls for Aunt Anne's mission,
explained Constance, you're so forehanded that all your presents went a week ago.
I suppose Eleanor swept a clear chair. The Clan O'Neill is never four handed.
You'd think I was from the number of thumbs I've grown this morning.
Oh misery, Elinor 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 irregular silkworm. The O'Neill's
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'Neill's 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'Neal 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 Eylice John's
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 Dye 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? Yea, I promised a friend in town who is to have a
Christmas dinner and who has been very kind to me, that i'd paint the
play's cards and write some quotation appropriately. She guessed, 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 straight 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 missus Fernoll will be delighted. Rosamond wrapped up the cards carefully.
I can't begin to tell you how you've helped me. It will sweeten 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 girl saw it was the tall old rector,
his white hair shining silver bright in the moonbeams. We are 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 Christmas Eve's 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 let 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 of cart 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 sullen corridor all through the gay carol,
Then sweeter still, it changed into a Christmas hymn. Then from behind the
closed door 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 adess dee fidelis. Christmas morning began with music and laughter. This is
your place, Betty, you are Lord of Christmas Morning. Betty stood,
blushing read as the holly in her hand. Before the breakfast table, Miss
Hile, 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 Hayle
and Miss Thrasher, the two sad looking teachers. She approached them and said,
won't you come skating? To Miss Thrasher, hardly older than Betty herself
and pretty in a white, frightened way, refused, but almost cheerfully.
I have a Christmas box to open and Christmas letters to write. Thank you
very much. Betty's heart sank as she saw Miss Hyle's face. Goodness,
she's coming. Miss Hile was the most unpopular teacher in school. Neither ill
tempered nor harsh, she was so cold, remote, and rigid in face,
voice, and manner that the warmest blooded shivered away from her. The
least sensitive shrank. I have no skates, but I should like to borrow
a pair to learn, if I may. I have never tried, she
said. The tragedies of a beginner on skates are to the observers, especially
if such peace schoolgirls subjects for unalloyed mirth. The nine girls choked and turned
their backs and even giggled aloud as Miss Haile went prone now backward with a
whack now forward in a limp crumple. But amusement became admiration. Misshile stumbled,
fell, laughed merrily, scrambled up, struck out, and skated.
Presently she was swinging up the pond in stroke with Betty and Eleonora O'Neill.
Miss Haile, You're great, cried Betty at the end of the morning.
I've taught dozens and scores to skate, but never anybody like you. You've
a genius for skating. Miss Hiles's blue eyes shot a sudden flash at Betty
that made her whole severe face light up. I've never had a chance to
learn at home. There never is any ice, but I have always been
athletic. Where is your home, miss Hale, asked Betty. Con poor
India India, gasped elinor how delightful? Oh, won't you tell us about
it, Miss Hale. So it was that Miss Hale found herself talking about
something besides triangles to girls who really wanted to hear. And so it was
that the flash came often into her eyes. I have had a happy morning,
thank you, Betty and all. She said it, very simply,
yet a quick throb of pity and liking beat in Betty's heart. How stupid
we are about judging people, she thought. Yet Betty had always prided herself
on her character. Reading Hurrah, the mail and Express are in. The
girls ran excitedly to their rooms. Betty alone went to hers without interest.
Why, Helma, what's happened? The little round faced, sweetish maid mopped
the big tears with her duster and choked out nothing, ma'am. Of course
there is. You're crying like everything. Hilma wept aloud. Christmas day is,
and mine family and mine friends have party now all day where Hilma jerked
her head toward the window. Oh you mean in town? Why can't you
go? I work? And never before am I from home Christmas Day?
Betty shivered. Never before am I from home Christmas Day? She whispered.
She went close to the girl, very tall and slim and bright, beside
the dumpy flaxen Helma, what work do you do? The cook? He
cooks the dinner in the supper. I put it on and waited on the
young ladies and washed the dishes. The others all are gone. Betty laughed
suddenly, Heilma, go put on your best clothes quick and go down to
your party. I'm going to do your work. Helma's eyes rounded with amazement.
The cook he'd be mad. No, he won't. He won't care
whether it's Helma or Betty. If things get done, all right. I
know how to wait on tables and wash dishes. There's no housekeeper here to
object. Run along, Helma, be back by nine o'clock and Merry Christmas.
Helma's face beamed through her tears. She was speechless with joy, but
she seized Betty's slim brown hand and kissed it loudly. What larks? Is
it a joke? Betty? You're the handsomest butler. Betty, in a
white shirt waist suit, a jolly red bow pinned on her white apron and
a little cap cocked on her dark hair, waved them to their seats at
the holly deck table. Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas. Nobody is ill.
Betty Rosamond asked anxiously, if I had three guesses, I should use every
one that our maid wanted to go into town for the day, and Betty
too her place. It was Miss Hailes's calm voice. Betty blushed. It
was her turn now to flash back a glance, and those two sparks kindled
the fire of friendship. It was a jolly Christmas dinner with a butler,
eating with the family, and now the dishes, thought Betty. It must
be admitted the washing up after Christmas dinner of twelve is not a subject for
much joy. I propose we all help Betty wash the dishes, cried Rosamond.
Howitt out in the kitchen. Every one laughed and talked and got in
the way and had a good time. And if the milk pitcher was knocked
on the floor and the pudding bowl emptied in Betty's lap, why it was
all merry Christmas. After that they all skated again. When they came in,
little miss Thrasher, looking almost gay in a rose bred gown, met
them in the corridor. I thought it would be fun, she said,
shyly, to have supper in my room. I have a big box from
home. I couldn't possibly eat all the things myself. And if you'll bring
chaffing dishes and spoons and those things I'll cook it and we can sit round
my open fire. Miss Thrasher's room was homelike, with its fire of white
birch and its easy chairs, and Miss Thrasher herself proved to be a pleasant
hostess. After supper, Miss Hayle told a tale of India, Miss Thrasher
gave a rocky amountain adventure, and the girl's contributed ghost and burglar stories till
each guest was in a thrill of delightful horror. We've had really a fine
day. I expected to dive homesickness, but it's been jolly. So did
I. But I've actually been happy. Thus, the girls commented, as
they started for bed. I have enjoyed my day, said little Miss Thrasher
very much. Yes, indeed, it's been a merry Christmas. Miss Hile
spoke almost eagerly. Betty gave a little jump she realized each one of them
was holding her hand and pressing it a little thank you. It's been a
lovely evening. Good night. Rosamond had invited Betty to share her roommate's bed,
but both girls were too tired and sleepy for any confidence. It's been
the queerest Christmas, thought Betty. As she drifted towards sleep. Why I
haven't given one single soul, one single present yet, she smiled, drowsily
happy, And then the room seemed to fill with a bright, warm light,
and round the bed there danced a great Christmas wreath made up of the
faces of the three O'Neals, and the thin old Rector with his white hair
and pretty Rosamond, and frightened Miss Thrasher, and the homesick girl's and lonely
Miss Hile, and tear dimmed Hilma, and all the faces smiled and nodded
and called Merry Christmas, Betty, Merry Christmas, and of the queerest Christmas.
By Grace Margaret Gallaher