The Second Christmas Megapack: 29 Modern and Classic Yuletide Stories

by Robert Reginald

  “What a picture!” thought Reba. “The very thing for my Christmas card! It would do almost without a change, if only she is willing to let me use her.”

  “Wake up, Letty!” she called. “Come and let me in!—Why, your front door isn’t closed!”

  “The fire smoked a little when I first lighted it,” said Letty, rising when her friend entered, and then softly shutting the bedroom door that the children might not waken. “The night is so mild and the room so warm, I couldn’t help opening the window to look at the moon on the snow. Sit down, Reba! How good of you to come when you’ve been rehearsing for the Christmas Tree exercises all the afternoon.”

  II.

  “It’s never ‘good’ of me to come to talk with you, Letty!” And the minister’s wife sank into a comfortable seat and took off her rigolette. “Enough virtue has gone out of me today to Christianize an entire heathen nation! Oh! how I wish Luther would go and preach to a tribe of cannibals somewhere, and make me superintendent of the Sabbath-School! How I should like to deal, just for a change, with some simple problem like the undesirability and indigestibility involved in devouring your next-door neighbor! Now I pass my life in saying, ‘Love your neighbor as yourself’; which is far more difficult than to say, ‘Don’t eat your neighbor, it’s such a disgusting habit—and wrong besides’—though I dare say they do it half the time because the market is bad. The first thing I’d do would be to get my cannibals to raise sheep. If they ate more mutton, they wouldn’t eat so many missionaries.”

  Letty laughed. “You’re so funny, Reba dear, and I was so sad before you came in. Don’t let the minister take you to the cannibals until after I die!”

  “No danger!—Letty, do you remember I told you I’d been trying my hand on some verses for a Christmas card?”

  “Yes; have you sent them anywhere?”

  “Not yet. I couldn’t think of the right decoration and color scheme and was afraid to trust it all to the publishers. Now I’ve found just what I need for one of them, and you gave it to me, Letty!”

  “I?”

  “Yes, you; tonight, as I came down the road. The house looked so quaint, backed by the dark cedars, and the moon and the snow made everything dazzling. I could see the firelight through the open window, the Hessian soldier andirons, your mother’s portrait, the children asleep in the next room, and you, wrapped in your cape waiting or watching for something or somebody.”

  “I wasn’t watching or waiting! I was dreaming,” said Letty hurriedly.

  “You looked as if you were watching, anyway, and I thought if I were painting the picture I would call it ‘Expectancy,’ or ‘The Vigil,’ or ‘Sentry Duty.’ However, when I make you into a card, Letty, nobody will know what the figure at the window means, till they read my verses.”

  “I’ll give you the house, the room, the andirons, and even mother’s portrait, but you don’t mean that you want to put me on the card?” And Letty turned like a startled deer as she rose and brushed a spark from the hearth-rug.

  “No, not the whole of you, of course, though I’m not clever enough to get a likeness even if I wished. I merely want to make a color sketch of your red-brown cape, your hair that matches it, your ear, an inch of cheek, and the eyelashes of one eye, if you please, ma’am.”

  “That doesn’t sound quite so terrifying.” And Letty looked more manageable.

  “Nobody’ll ever know that a real person sat at a real window and that I saw her there; but when I send the card with a finished picture, and my verses beautifully lettered on it, the printing people will be more likely to accept it.”

  “And if they do, shall I have a dozen to give to my Bible-class?” asked Letty in a wheedling voice.

  “You shall have more than that! I’m willing to divide my magnificent profits with you. You will have furnished the picture and I the verses. It’s wonderful, Letty—it’s providential! You just are a Christmas card tonight! It seems so strange that you even put the lighted candle in the window when you never heard my verse. The candle caught my eye first, and I remembered the Christmas customs we studied for the church festival—the light to guide the Christ Child as he walks through the dark streets on the Eve of Mary.”

  “Yes, I thought of that,” said Letty, flushing a little. “I put the candle there first so that the house shouldn’t be all dark when the Pophams went by to choir-meeting, and just then I—I remembered, and was glad I did it!”

  “These are my verses, Letty.” And Reba’s voice was soft as she turned her face away and looked at the flames mounting upward in the chimney:

  My door is on the latch tonight, The hearth fire is aglow. I seem to hear swift passing feet— The Christ Child in the snow.

  My heart is open wide tonight For stranger, kith or kin. I would not bar a single door Where Love might enter in!

  There was a moment’s silence and Letty broke it. “It means the sort of love the Christ Child brings, with peace and good-will in it. I’m glad to be a part of that card, Reba, so long as nobody knows me, and—”

  Here she made an impetuous movement and, covering her eyes with her hands, burst into a despairing flood of confidence, the words crowding each other and tumbling out of her mouth as if they feared to be stopped.

  “After I put the candle on the table…I could not rest for thinking…I wasn’t ready in my soul to light the Christ Child on his way…I was bitter and unresigned.… It is three years tonight since the children were born…and each year I have hoped and waited and waited and hoped, thinking that David might remember. David! my brother, their father! Then the fire on the hearth, the moon and the snow quieted me, and I felt that I wanted to open the door, just a little. No one will notice that it’s ajar, I thought, but there’s a touch of welcome in it, anyway. And after a few minutes I said to myself: ‘It’s no use, David won’t come; but I’m glad the firelight shines on mother’s picture, for he loved mother, and if she hadn’t died when he was scarcely more than a boy, things might have been different.… The reason I opened the bedroom door—something I never do when the babies are asleep—was because I needed a sight of their faces to reconcile me to my duty and take the resentment out of my heart…and it did flow out, Reba—out into the stillness. It is so dazzling white outside, I couldn’t bear my heart to be shrouded in gloom!”

  “Poor Letty!” And Mrs. Larrabee furtively wiped away a tear. “How long since you have heard? I didn’t dare ask.”

  “Not a word, not a line for nearly three months, and for the half-year before that it was nothing but a note, sometimes with a five-dollar bill enclosed. David seems to think it the natural thing for me to look after his children; as if there could be no question of any life of my own.”

  “You began wrong, Letty. You were born a prop and you’ve been propping somebody ever since.”

  “I’ve done nothing but my plain duty. When my mother died there was my stepfather to nurse, but I was young and strong; I didn’t mind; and he wasn’t a burden long, poor father. Then, after four years came the shock of David’s reckless marriage. When he asked if he might bring that girl here until her time of trial was over, it seemed to me I could never endure it! But there were only two of us left, David and I; I thought of mother and said yes.”

  “I remember, Letty; I had come to Beulah then.”

  “Yes, and you know what Eva was. How David, how anybody, could have loved her, I cannot think! Well, he brought her, and you know how it turned out. David never saw her alive again, nor ever saw his babies after they were three days old. Still, what can you expect of a father who is barely twenty-one?”

  “If he’s old enough to have children, he’s old enough to notice them,” said Mrs. Larrabee with her accustomed spirit. “Somebody ought to jog his sense of responsibility. It’s wrong for women to assume men’s burdens beyond a certain point; it only makes them more selfish. If you only knew where David is, you ought to bundle the children up and express them to his address. Not a word of explanation or apology; simply t
ie a tag on them, saying, ‘Here’s your Twins!’”

  “But I love the babies,” said Letty smiling through her tears, “and David may not be in a position to keep them.”

  “Then he shouldn’t have had them,” retorted Reba promptly; “especially not two of them. There’s such a thing as a man’s being too lavish with babies when he has no intention of doing anything for them but bring them into the world. If you had a living income, it would be one thing, but it makes me burn to have you stitching on coats to feed and clothe your half-brother’s children!”

  “Perhaps it doesn’t make any difference—now!” sighed Letty, pushing back her hair with an abstracted gesture. “I gave up a good deal for the darlings once, but that’s past and gone. Now, after all, they’re the only life I have, and I’d rather make coats for them than for myself.”

  Letty Boynton had never said so much as this to Mrs. Larrabee in the three years of their friendship, and on her way back to the parsonage, the minister’s wife puzzled a little over the look in Letty’s face when she said, “David seemed to think there could be no question of any life of my own”; and again, “I gave up a good deal for the darlings once!”

  “Luther,” she said to the minister, when the hymns had been chosen, the sermon pronounced excellent, and they were toasting their toes over the sitting-room fire—“Luther, do you suppose there ever was anything between Letty Boynton and your Dick?”

  “No,” he answered reflectively, “I don’t think so. Dick always admired Letty and went to the house a great deal, but I imagine that was chiefly for David’s sake, for they were as like as peas in a pod in the matter of mischief. If there had been more than friendship between Dick and Letty, Dick would never have gone away from Beulah, or if he had gone, he surely would have come back to see how Letty fared. A fellow yearns for news of the girl he loves even when he is content to let silence reign between him and his old father.—What makes you think there was anything particular, Reba?”

  “What makes anybody think anything!—I wonder why some people are born props, and others leaners or twiners? I believe the very nursing-bottle leaned heavily against Letty when she lay on her infant pillow. I didn’t know her when she was a child, but I believe that when she was eight all the other children of three and five in the village looked to her for support and guidance!”

  “It’s a great vocation—that of being a prop,” smiled the minister, as he peeled a red Baldwin apple, carefully preserving the spiral and eating it first.

  “I suppose the wobbly vine thinks it’s grand to be a stout trellis when it needs one to climb on, but doesn’t the trellis ever want to twine, I wonder?” And Reba’s tone was doubtful.

  “Even the trellis leans against the house, Reba.”

  “Well, Letty never gets a chance either to lean or to twine! Her family, her friends, her acquaintances, even the stranger within her gates, will pass trees, barber poles, telephone and telegraph poles, convenient corners of buildings, fence posts, ladders, and lightning rods for the sake of winding their weakness around her strength. When she sits down from sheer exhaustion, they come and prop themselves against her back. If she goes to bed, they climb up on the footboard, hang a drooping head, and look her wistfully in the eye for sympathy. Prop on, prop ever, seems to be the underlying law of the universe!”

  “Poor Reba! She is talking of Letty and thinking of herself!” And the minister’s eye twinkled.

  “Well, a little!” admitted his wife; “but I’m only a village prop, not a family one. Where you are concerned”—and she administered an affectionate pat to his cheek as she rose from her chair—“I’m a trellis that leans against a rock!”

  III.

  Letitia Boynton’s life had been rather a drab one as seen through other people’s eyes, but it had never seemed so to her till within the last few years. Her own father had been the village doctor, but of him she had no memory. Her mother’s second marriage to a venerable country lawyer, John Gilman, had brought a kindly, inefficient stepfather into the family, a man who speedily became an invalid needing constant nursing. The birth of David when Letty was three years old, brought a new interest into the household, and the two children grew to be fast friends; but when Mrs. Gilman died, and Letty found herself at eighteen the mistress of the house, the nurse of her aged stepfather, and the only guardian of a boy of fifteen, life became difficult. More difficult still it became when the old lawyer died, for he at least had been a sort of fictitious head of the family and his mere existence kept David within bounds.

  David was a lively, harum-scarum, handsome youth, good at his lessons, popular with his companions, always in a scrape, into which he was generally drawn by the minister’s son, so the neighbors thought. At any rate, Dick Larrabee, as David’s senior, received the lion’s share of the blame when mischief was abroad. If Parson Larrabee’s boy couldn’t behave any better than an unbelieving black-smith’s, a Methodist farmer’s, or a Baptist storekeeper’s, what was the use of claiming superior efficacy for the Congregational form of belief?

  “Dick’s father’s never succeeded in bringing him into the church, though he’s worked on him from the time he was knee-high to a toad,” said Mrs. Popham.

  “P’raps his mother kind o’ vaccinated him with religion ’stid o’ leavin’ him to take it the natural way, as the ol’ sayin’ is,” was her husband’s response. “The first Mis’ Larrabee was as good as gold, but she may have overdone the trick a little mite, mebbe; and what’s more, I kind o’ suspicion the parson thinks so himself. He ain’t never been quite the same sence Dick left home, ’cept in preaching’; an’ I tell you, Maria, his high-water mark there is higher ’n ever. Abel Dunn o’ Boston walked home from meetin’ with me Thanksgivin’, an’, says he, takin’ off his hat an’ moppin’ his forehead, ‘Osh,’ says he, ‘does your minister preach like that every Sunday?’ ‘No,’ says I, ‘he don’t. If he did we couldn’t stan’ it! He preaches like that about once a month, an’ we don’t care what he says the rest o’ the time.’”

  “Well, so far as boys are concerned, preachin’ ain’t so reliable, for behavin’ purposes, as a good young alder switch,” was the opinion of Mrs. Popham, her children being of the comatose kind, whose minds had never been illuminated by the dazzling idea of disobedience.

  “Land sakes, Maria! There ain’t alders enough on the river-bank to switch religion into a boy like Dick Larrabee. It’s got to come like a thief in the night, as the ol’ sayin’ is, but I guess I don’t mean thief, I guess I mean star: it’s got to come kind o’ like a star in a dark night. If the whole village, ‘generate an’ onregenerate, hadn’t ’a’ kep’ on naggin’ an’ hectorin’ an’ criticizin’ them two boys, Dick an’ Dave—carryin’ tales an’ multiplyin’ of ’em by two, ‘ong root’ as the ol’ sayin’ is—I dare say they’d ’a’ both been here yet; ’stid o’ roamin’ roun’ the earth seekin’ whom they may devour.”

  There was considerable truth in Ossian Popham’s remark, as Letty could have testified; for the conduct of the Boynton-Gilman household, as well as that of the minister, had been continually under inspection and discussion.

  Nothing could remain long hidden in Beulah. Nobody spied, nobody pried, nobody listened at doors or windows, nobody owned a microscope, nobody took any particular notice of events, or if they did they preserved an attitude of profound indifference while doing it—yet everything was known sooner or later. The amount of the fish and meat bill, the precise extent of credit, the number of letters in the post, the amount of fuel burned, the number of absences from church and prayer-meeting, the calls or visits made and received, the hours of arrival or departure, the source of all incomes—these details were the common property of the village. It even took cognizance of more subtle things; for it observed and recorded the fluctuations of all love affairs, and the fluctuations also in the religious experiences of various persons not always in spiritual equilibrium; for the soul was an object of scrutiny in Beulah, as well as mind, body, and e
state.

  Letty Boynton used to feel that nothing was exclusively her own; that she belonged to Beulah part and parcel; but Dick Larrabee was far more restive under the village espionage than were she and David.

  It was natural that David should want to leave Beulah and make his way in the world, and his sister did not oppose it. Dick’s circumstances were different. He had inherited a small house and farm from his mother, had enjoyed a college education, and had been offered a share in a good business in a city twelve miles away. He left Beulah because he hated it. He left because he could not endure his father’s gentle remonstrances or the bewilderment in his stepmother’s eyes. She was a newcomer in the household and her glance seemed to say: “Why on earth do you behave so badly to your father when you’re such a delightful chap?” He left because Deacon Todd had prayed for him publicly at a Christian Endeavor meeting; because Mrs. Popham had circulated a wholly baseless scandal about him; and finally because in his young misery the only being who could have comforted him by joining her hapless fortunes to his had refused to do so. He didn’t know why. He had always counted on Letty when the time should come to speak the word. He had shown his heart in everything but words; what more did a girl want? Of course, if any one preferred a purely fantastic duty to a man’s love, and allowed a scapegrace brother to foist two red-faced, squalling babies on her, there was nothing to be said. So, in this frame of mind he had had one flaming, passionate, wrong-headed scene with his father, and strode out of Beulah with dramatic gestures of shaking its dust off his feet. His father, roused for once from his lifelong patience, had been rather terrible in that last scene; so terrible that he had never forgiven himself, or really believed himself fully forgiven by God, though his son had alienated half the village and nearly rent the parish in twain by his conduct.