The Queerest Christmas





GRACE MARGARET GALLAHER





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 Thomson 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 last

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, it certainly was not

"a feast of reason and a flow of soul." Betty, whose sense of humour

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 the snowy landscape, however. Instead, a picture, the

gayest medley of many colours 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 to-morrow"; therefore the preparations

of a fortnight were always crowded into a day.



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 not to give one least little

thing to any one! Why, who ever heard of such a Christmas!"



"Won't you hunt for that blue----"



"Broken my thread again!"



"Give me those scissors!"



Betty jumped out of her day-dream. She had wandered into "Cork" and the

three O'Neills 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 Katherine.



"Dolls for Aunt Anne's mission," explained Constance.



"You're so forehanded that all your presents went a week ago, I

suppose," Eleanor swept clear a chair. "The clan O'Neill is never

forehanded."



"You'd think I was from the number of thumbs I've grown this morning.

Oh, misery!" Eleanor 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 a regular silkworm."



The O'Neills 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'Neills 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'Neill 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

Alice Johns 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 Dyce 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, I promised a friend in town, who is to have a Christmas

dinner, and who's been very kind to me, that I'd paint the place cards

and write some quotation appropriate to each guest. 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 strayed 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 Mrs. Fernell

will be delighted." Rosamond wrapped up the cards carefully. "I can't

begin to tell you how you've helped me. It was sweet in 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 girls saw it was the tall old rector, his white hair shining silver

bright in the moonbeams.



"We're 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 our Christmas-eve 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 led 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 a card:



"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 silent corridor all through

the gay carol. Then, sweeter still, it changed into a Christmas hymn.

Then from behind the closed doors 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 "Adeste Fideles." Christmas

morning began with music and laughter.



"This is your place, Betty. You are lord of Christmas morning."



Betty stood, blushing, red as the holly in her hand, before the

breakfast table. Miss Hyle, 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 Hyle and Miss Thrasher, the two

sad-looking teachers.



She approached them and said, "Won't you come skating, too?"



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 Hyle 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 be school-girls, subjects for unalloyed mirth. The nine girls

choked and turned their backs and even giggled aloud as Miss Hyle went

prone, now backward with a whack, now forward in a limp crumple.



But amusement became admiration. Miss Hyle stumbled, fell, laughed

merrily, scrambled up, struck out, and skated. Presently she was

swinging up the pond in stroke with Betty and Eleanor O'Neill.



"Miss Hyle, 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 Hyle'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 Hyle?" asked Betty.



"Cawnpore, India."



"India?" gasped Eleanor. "How delightful! Oh, won't you tell us about

it, Miss Hyle?"



So it was that Miss Hyle 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, Hilma, what's

happened?"



The little round-faced Swedish maid mopped the big tears with her

duster, and choked out:



"Nothings, ma'am!"



"Of course there is! You're crying like everything."



Hilma wept aloud. "Christmas Day it 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 Hilma.



"What work do you do?"



"The cook, he cooks the dinner and the supper; I put it on and wait it

on the young ladies and wash the dishes. The others all are gone."



Betty laughed suddenly. "Hilma, go put on your best clothes, quick, and

go down to your party. I'm going to do your work."



Hilma's eyes rounded with amazement. "The cook, he be mad."



"No, he won't. He won't care whether it's Hilma or Betty, if things get

done all right. I know how to wait on table and wash dishes. There's no

housekeeper here to object. Run along, Hilma; be back by nine

o'clock--and--Merry Christmas!"



Hilma'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-decked 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 took her place." It was Miss Hyle'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 the "butler" eating with the

family.



"And now the dishes!" thought Betty. It must be admitted the "washing

up" after a 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-red 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 chafing-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 Hyle told a tale of India, Miss Thrasher gave a Rocky

mountain adventure, and the girls 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 die of homesickness, but it's been jolly!"



"So did I, but I have 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 Hyle 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.

Goodnight."



Rosamond had invited Betty to share her room-mate's bed, but both girls

were too tired and sleepy for any confidence.



"It's been the queerest Christmas!" thought Betty, as she drifted toward

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'Neills, and the thin old

rector, with his white hair, and pretty Rosamond, and frightened Miss

Thrasher and the homesick girls, and lonely Miss Hyle, and tear-dimmed

Hilma.



And all the faces smiled and nodded, and called, "Merry Christmas,

Betty, Merry Christmas!"





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