CHAPTER III. THE CHRISTMAS HARP
Great was the excitement in the houses of King as Christmas drew nigh.The air was simply charged with secrets. Everybody was very penuriousfor weeks beforehand and hoards were counted scrutinizingly every day.Mysterious pieces of handiwork were smuggled in and out of sight, andwhispered consultations were held, about which nobody thought of beingjealous, as might have happened at any other time. Felicity was in herelement, for she and her mother were deep in preparations for theday. Cecily and the Story Girl were excluded from these doingswith indifference on Aunt Janet's part and what seemed ostentatiouscomplacency on Felicity's. Cecily took this to heart and complained tome about it.
"I'm one of this family just as much as Felicity is," she said, with asmuch indignation as Cecily could feel, "and I don't think she needshut me out of everything. When I wanted to stone the raisins for themince-meat she said, no, she would do it herself, because Christmasmince-meat was very particular--as if I couldn't stone raisins right!The airs Felicity puts on about her cooking just make me sick,"concluded Cecily wrathfully.
"It's a pity she doesn't make a mistake in cooking once in a whileherself," I said. "Then maybe she wouldn't think she knew so much morethan other people."
All parcels that came in the mail from distant friends were taken chargeof by Aunts Janet and Olivia, not to be opened until the great day ofthe feast itself. How slowly the last week passed! But even watched potswill boil in the fulness of time, and finally Christmas day came, grayand dour and frost-bitten without, but full of revelry and rose-redmirth within. Uncle Roger and Aunt Olivia and the Story Girl came overearly for the day; and Peter came too, with his shining, morning face,to be hailed with joy, for we had been afraid that Peter would not beable to spend Christmas with us. His mother had wanted him home withher.
"Of course I ought to go," Peter had told me mournfully, "but we won'thave turkey for dinner, because ma can't afford it. And ma always crieson holidays because she says they make her think of father. Of courseshe can't help it, but it ain't cheerful. Aunt Jane wouldn't have cried.Aunt Jane used to say she never saw the man who was worth spoiling hereyes for. But I guess I'll have to spend Christmas at home."
At the last moment, however, a cousin of Mrs. Craig's in Charlottetowninvited her for Christmas, and Peter, being given his choice of going orstaying, joyfully elected to stay. So we were all together, except SaraRay, who had been invited but whose mother wouldn't let her come.
"Sara Ray's mother is a nuisance," snapped the Story Girl. "She justlives to make that poor child miserable, and she won't let her go to theparty tonight, either."
"It is just breaking Sara's heart that she can't," said Cecilycompassionately. "I'm almost afraid I won't enjoy myself for thinking ofher, home there alone, most likely reading the Bible, while we're at theparty."
"She might be worse occupied than reading the Bible," said Felicityrebukingly.
"But Mrs. Ray makes her read it as a punishment," protested Cecily."Whenever Sara cries to go anywhere--and of course she'll crytonight--Mrs. Ray makes her read seven chapters in the Bible. I wouldn'tthink that would make her very fond of it. And I'll not be able to talkthe party over with Sara afterwards--and that's half the fun gone."
"You can tell her all about it," comforted Felix.
"Telling isn't a bit like talking it over," retorted Cecily. "It's tooone-sided."
We had an exciting time opening our presents. Some of us had more thanothers, but we all received enough to make us feel comfortably that wewere not unduly neglected in the matter. The contents of the box whichthe Story Girl's father had sent her from Paris made our eyes stick out.It was full of beautiful things, among them another red silk dress--notthe bright, flame-hued tint of her old one, but a rich, dark crimson,with the most distracting flounces and bows and ruffles; and with itwere little red satin slippers with gold buckles, and heels that madeAunt Janet hold up her hands in horror. Felicity remarked scornfullythat she would have thought the Story Girl would get tired wearing redso much, and even Cecily commented apart to me that she thought whenyou got so many things all at once you didn't appreciate them as much aswhen you only got a few.
"I'd never get tired of red," said the Story Girl. "I just love it--it'sso rich and glowing. When I'm dressed in red I always feel ever so muchcleverer than in any other colour. Thoughts just crowd into my brainone after the other. Oh, you darling dress--you dear, sheeny, red-rosy,glistening, silky thing!"
She flung it over her shoulder and danced around the kitchen.
"Don't be silly, Sara," said Aunt Janet, a little stimy. She was a goodsoul, that Aunt Janet, and had a kind, loving heart in her ample bosom.But I fancy there were times when she thought it rather hard that thedaughter of a roving adventurer--as she considered him--like BlairStanley should disport herself in silk dresses, while her own daughtersmust go clad in gingham and muslin--for those were the days when afeminine creature got one silk dress in her lifetime, and seldom morethan one.
The Story Girl also got a present from the Awkward Man--a little,shabby, worn volume with a great many marks on the leaves.
"Why, it isn't new--it's an old book!" exclaimed Felicity. "I didn'tthink the Awkward Man was mean, whatever else he was."
"Oh, you don't understand, Felicity," said the Story Girl patiently."And I don't suppose I can make you understand. But I'll try. I'd tentimes rather have this than a new book. It's one of his own, don't yousee--one that he has read a hundred times and loved and made a friendof. A new book, just out of a shop, wouldn't be the same thing at all.It wouldn't MEAN anything. I consider it a great compliment that he hasgiven me this book. I'm prouder of it than of anything else I've got."
"Well, you're welcome to it," said Felicity. "I don't understand and Idon't want to. I wouldn't give anybody a Christmas present that wasn'tnew, and I wouldn't thank anybody who gave me one."
Peter was in the seventh heaven because Felicity had given him apresent--and, moreover, one that she had made herself. It was a bookmarkof perforated cardboard, with a gorgeous red and yellow worsted gobletworked on it, and below, in green letters, the solemn warning, "TouchNot The Cup." As Peter was not addicted to habits of intemperance, noteven to looking on dandelion wine when it was pale yellow, we did notexactly see why Felicity should have selected such a device. But Peterwas perfectly satisfied, so nobody cast any blight on his happiness bycarping criticism. Later on Felicity told me she had worked the bookmarkfor him because his father used to drink before he ran away.
"I thought Peter ought to be warned in time," she said.
Even Pat had a ribbon of blue, which he clawed off and lost half an hourafter it was tied on him. Pat did not care for vain adornments of thebody.
We had a glorious Christmas dinner, fit for the halls of Lucullus, andate far more than was good for us, none daring to make us afraid on thatone day of the year. And in the evening--oh, rapture and delight!--wewent to Kitty Marr's party.
It was a fine December evening; the sharp air of morning had melloweduntil it was as mild as autumn. There had been no snow, and the longfields, sloping down from the homestead, were brown and mellow. A weird,dreamy stillness had fallen on the purple earth, the dark fir woods, thevalley rims, the sere meadows. Nature seemed to have folded satisfiedhands to rest, knowing that her long wintry slumber was coming upon her.
At first, when the invitations to the party had come, Aunt Janet hadsaid we could not go; but Uncle Alec interceded in our favour, perhapsinfluenced thereto by Cecily's wistful eyes. If Uncle Alec had afavourite among his children it was Cecily, and he had grown even moreindulgent towards her of late. Now and then I saw him looking at herintently, and, following his eyes and thought, I had, somehow, seen thatCecily was paler and thinner than she had been in the summer, and thather soft eyes seemed larger, and that over her little face in moments ofrepose there was a certain languor and weariness that made it very sweetand pathetic. And I heard him tell Aunt Janet that he did not like tosee the child gett
ing so much the look of her Aunt Felicity.
"Cecily is perfectly well," said Aunt Janet sharply. "She's only growingvery fast. Don't be foolish, Alec."
But after that Cecily had cups of cream where the rest of us got onlymilk; and Aunt Janet was very particular to see that she had her rubberson whenever she went out.
On this merry Christmas evening, however, no fears or dim foreshadowingsof any coming event clouded our hearts or faces. Cecily looked brighterand prettier than I had ever seen her, with her softly shining eyes andthe nut brown gloss of her hair. Felicity was too beautiful for words;and even the Story Girl, between excitement and the crimson silk array,blossomed out with a charm and allurement more potent than any regularloveliness--and this in spite of the fact that Aunt Olivia had tabooedthe red satin slippers and mercilessly decreed that stout shoes shouldbe worn.
"I know just how you feel about it, you daughter of Eve," she said, withgay sympathy, "but December roads are damp, and if you are going towalk to Marrs' you are not going to do it in those frivolous Parisianconcoctions, even with overboots on; so be brave, dear heart, and showthat you have a soul above little red satin shoes."
"Anyhow," said Uncle Roger, "that red silk dress will break the heartsof all the feminine small fry at the party. You'd break their spirits,too, if you wore the slippers. Don't do it, Sara. Leave them one weeloophole of enjoyment."
"What does Uncle Roger mean?" whispered Felicity.
"He means you girls are all dying of jealousy because of the StoryGirl's dress," said Dan.
"I am not of a jealous disposition," said Felicity loftily, "and she'sentirely welcome to the dress--with a complexion like that."
But we enjoyed that party hugely, every one of us. And we enjoyed thewalk home afterwards, through dim, enshadowed fields where silverystar-beams lay, while Orion trod his stately march above us, and a redmoon climbed up the black horizon's rim. A brook went with us part ofthe way, singing to us through the dark--a gay, irresponsible vagabondof valley and wilderness.
Felicity and Peter walked not with us. Peter's cup must surely havebrimmed over that Christmas night. When we left the Marr house, he hadboldly said to Felicity, "May I see you home?" And Felicity, much to ouramazement, had taken his arm and marched off with him. The primnessof her was indescribable, and was not at all ruffled by Dan's hoot ofderision. As for me, I was consumed by a secret and burning desire toask the Story Girl if I might see HER home; but I could not screw mycourage to the sticking point. How I envied Peter his easy, insouciantmanner! I could not emulate him, so Dan and Felix and Cecily and theStory Girl and I all walked hand in hand, huddling a little closertogether as we went through James Frewen's woods--for there are strangeharps in a fir grove, and who shall say what fingers sweep them? Mightyand sonorous was the music above our heads as the winds of the nightstirred the great boughs tossing athwart the starlit sky. Perhaps it wasthat aeolian harmony which recalled to the Story Girl a legend of elderdays.
"I read such a pretty story in one of Aunt Olivia's books last night,"she said. "It was called 'The Christmas Harp.' Would you like to hearit? It seems to me it would just suit this part of the road."
"There isn't anything about--about ghosts in it, is there?" said Cecilytimidly.
"Oh, no, I wouldn't tell a ghost story here for anything. I'd frightenmyself too much. This story is about one of the shepherds who saw theangels on the first Christmas night. He was just a youth, and he lovedmusic with all his heart, and he longed to be able to express the melodythat was in his soul. But he could not; he had a harp and he often triedto play on it; but his clumsy fingers only made such discord thathis companions laughed at him and mocked him, and called him a madmanbecause he would not give it up, but would rather sit apart by himself,with his arms about his harp, looking up into the sky, while theygathered around their fire and told tales to wile away their long nightvigils as they watched their sheep on the hills. But to him the thoughtsthat came out of the great silence were far sweeter than their mirth;and he never gave up the hope, which sometimes left his lips as aprayer, that some day he might be able to express those thoughts inmusic to the tired, weary, forgetful world. On the first Christmas nighthe was out with his fellow shepherds on the hills. It was chill anddark, and all, except him, were glad to gather around the fire. He sat,as usual, by himself, with his harp on his knee and a great longing inhis heart. And there came a marvellous light in the sky and over thehills, as if the darkness of the night had suddenly blossomed into awonderful meadow of flowery flame; and all the shepherds saw the angelsand heard them sing. And as they sang, the harp that the young shepherdheld began to play softly by itself, and as he listened to it herealized that it was playing the same music that the angels sangand that all his secret longings and aspirations and strivings wereexpressed in it. From that night, whenever he took the harp in hishands, it played the same music; and he wandered all over the worldcarrying it; wherever the sound of its music was heard hate and discordfled away and peace and good-will reigned. No one who heard it couldthink an evil thought; no one could feel hopeless or despairing orbitter or angry. When a man had once heard that music it entered intohis soul and heart and life and became a part of him for ever. Yearswent by; the shepherd grew old and bent and feeble; but still heroamed over land and sea, that his harp might carry the message of theChristmas night and the angel song to all mankind. At last his strengthfailed him and he fell by the wayside in the darkness; but his harpplayed as his spirit passed; and it seemed to him that a Shining Onestood by him, with wonderful starry eyes, and said to him, 'Lo, themusic thy harp has played for so many years has been but the echo of thelove and sympathy and purity and beauty in thine own soul; and if at anytime in the wanderings thou hadst opened the door of that soul to evilor envy or selfishness thy harp would have ceased to play. Now thy lifeis ended; but what thou hast given to mankind has no end; and as long asthe world lasts, so long will the heavenly music of the Christmas harpring in the ears of men.' When the sun rose the old shepherd lay dead bythe roadside, with a smile on his face; and in his hands was a harp withall its strings broken."
We left the fir woods as the tale was ended, and on the opposite hillwas home. A dim light in the kitchen window betokened that Aunt Janethad no idea of going to bed until all her young fry were safely housedfor the night.
"Ma's waiting up for us," said Dan. "I'd laugh if she happened to go tothe door just as Felicity and Peter were strutting up. I guess she'll becross. It's nearly twelve."
"Christmas will soon be over," said Cecily, with a sigh. "Hasn't itbeen a nice one? It's the first we've all spent together. Do you supposewe'll ever spend another together?"
"Lots of 'em," said Dan cheerily. "Why not?"
"Oh, I don't know," answered Cecily, her footsteps lagging somewhat."Only things seem just a little too pleasant to last."
"If Willy Fraser had had as much spunk as Peter, Miss Cecily Kingmightn't be so low spirited," quoth Dan, significantly.
Cecily tossed her head and disdained reply. There are really someremarks a self-respecting young lady must ignore.