Christmas gold, p.879
Christmas Gold, page 879
“Did you ever try?” asked Aunt Emmy. “Think out that question, too, in your thinking out, Clorinda.”
“Well, I must say bye-bye and run home. I feel cheered up — you always cheer people up, Aunt Emmy. How grey it is outdoors. I do hope we’ll have snow soon. Wouldn’t it be jolly to have a white Christmas? We always have such faded brown Decembers.”
Clorinda lived just across the road from Aunt Emmy in a tiny white house behind some huge willows. But Aunt Mary lived there too — the only relative Clorinda had, for Aunt Emmy wasn’t really her aunt at all. Clorinda had always lived with Aunt Mary ever since she could remember.
Clorinda went home and upstairs to her little room under the eaves, where the great bare willow boughs were branching athwart her windows. She was thinking over what Aunt Emmy had said about Christmas gifts and giving.
“I’m sure I don’t know what she could have meant,” pondered Clorinda. “I do wish I could find out if it would help me any. I’d love to remember a few of my friends at least. There’s Miss Mitchell … she’s been so good to me all this year and helped me so much with my studies. And there’s Mrs. Martin out in Manitoba. If I could only send her something! She must be so lonely out there. And Aunt Emmy herself, of course; and poor old Aunt Kitty down the lane; and Aunt Mary and, yes — Florence too, although she did treat me so meanly. I shall never feel the same to her again. But she gave me a present last Christmas, and so out of mere politeness I ought to give her something.”
Clorinda stopped short suddenly. She had just remembered that she would not have liked to say that last sentence to Aunt Emmy. Therefore, there was something wrong about it. Clorinda had long ago learned that there was sure to be something wrong in anything that could not be said to Aunt Emmy. So she stopped to think it over.
Clorinda puzzled over Aunt Emmy’s meaning for four days and part of three nights. Then all at once it came to her. Or if it wasn’t Aunt Emmy’s meaning it was a very good meaning in itself, and it grew clearer and expanded in meaning during the days that followed, although at first Clorinda shrank a little from some of the conclusions to which it led her.
“I’ve solved the problem of my Christmas giving for this year,” she told Aunt Emmy. “I have some things to give after all. Some of them quite costly, too; that is, they will cost me something, but I know I’ll be better off and richer after I’ve paid the price. That is what Mr. Grierson would call a paradox, isn’t it? I’ll explain all about it to you on Christmas Day.”
On Christmas Day, Clorinda went over to Aunt Emmy’s. It was a faded brown Christmas after all, for the snow had not come. But Clorinda did not mind; there was such joy in her heart that she thought it the most delightful Christmas Day that ever dawned.
She put the queer cornery armful she carried down on the kitchen floor before she went into the sitting room. Aunt Emmy was lying on the sofa before the fire, and Clorinda sat down beside her.
“I’ve come to tell you all about it,” she said.
Aunt Emmy patted the hand that was in her own.
“From your face, dear girl, it will be pleasant hearing and telling,” she said.
Clorinda nodded.
“Aunt Emmy, I thought for days over your meaning … thought until I was dizzy. And then one evening it just came to me, without any thinking at all, and I knew that I could give some gifts after all. I thought of something new every day for a week. At first I didn’t think I could give some of them, and then I thought how selfish I was. I would have been willing to pay any amount of money for gifts if I had had it, but I wasn’t willing to pay what I had. I got over that, though, Aunt Emmy. Now I’m going to tell you what I did give.
“First, there was my teacher, Miss Mitchell. I gave her one of father’s books. I have so many of his, you know, so that I wouldn’t miss one; but still it was one I loved very much, and so I felt that that love made it worth while. That is, I felt that on second thought. At first, Aunt Emmy, I thought I would be ashamed to offer Miss Mitchell a shabby old book, worn with much reading and all marked over with father’s notes and pencillings. I was afraid she would think it queer of me to give her such a present. And yet somehow it seemed to me that it was better than something brand new and unmellowed — that old book which father had loved and which I loved. So I gave it to her, and she understood. I think it pleased her so much, the real meaning in it. She said it was like being given something out of another’s heart and life.
“Then you know Mrs. Martin … last year she was Miss Hope, my dear Sunday School teacher. She married a home missionary, and they are in a lonely part of the west. Well, I wrote her a letter. Not just an ordinary letter; dear me, no. I took a whole day to write it, and you should have seen the postmistress’s eyes stick out when I mailed it. I just told her everything that had happened in Greenvale since she went away. I made it as newsy and cheerful and loving as I possibly could. Everything bright and funny I could think of went into it.
“The next was old Aunt Kitty. You know she was my nurse when I was a baby, and she’s very fond of me. But, well, you know, Aunt Emmy, I’m ashamed to confess it, but really I’ve never found Aunt Kitty very entertaining, to put it mildly. She is always glad when I go to see her, but I’ve never gone except when I couldn’t help it. She is very deaf, and rather dull and stupid, you know. Well, I gave her a whole day. I took my knitting yesterday, and sat with her the whole time and just talked and talked. I told her all the Greenvale news and gossip and everything else I thought she’d like to hear. She was so pleased and proud; she told me when I came away that she hadn’t had such a nice time for years.
“Then there was … Florence. You know, Aunt Emmy, we were always intimate friends until last year. Then Florence once told Rose Watson something I had told her in confidence. I found it out and I was so hurt. I couldn’t forgive Florence, and I told her plainly I could never be a real friend to her again. Florence felt badly, because she really did love me, and she asked me to forgive her, but it seemed as if I couldn’t. Well, Aunt Emmy, that was my Christmas gift to her … my forgiveness. I went down last night and just put my arms around her and told her that I loved her as much as ever and wanted to be real close friends again.
“I gave Aunt Mary her gift this morning. I told her I wasn’t going to Murraybridge, that I just meant to stay home with her. She was so glad — and I’m glad, too, now that I’ve decided so.”
“Your gifts have been real gifts, Clorinda,” said Aunt Emmy. “Something of you — the best of you — went into each of them.”
Clorinda went out and brought her cornery armful in.
“I didn’t forget you, Aunt Emmy,” she said, as she unpinned the paper.
There was a rosebush — Clorinda’s own pet rosebush — all snowed over with fragrant blossoms.
Aunt Emmy loved flowers. She put her finger under one of the roses and kissed it.
“It’s as sweet as yourself, dear child,” she said tenderly. “And it will be a joy to me all through the lonely winter days. You’ve found out the best meaning of Christmas giving, haven’t you, dear?”
“Yes, thanks to you, Aunt Emmy,” said Clorinda softly.
Christmas at Red Butte
Table of Contents
“Of course Santa Claus will come,” said Jimmy Martin confidently. Jimmy was ten, and at ten it is easy to be confident. “Why, he’s got to come because it is Christmas Eve, and he always has come. You know that, twins.”
Yes, the twins knew it and, cheered by Jimmy’s superior wisdom, their doubts passed away. There had been one terrible moment when Theodora had sighed and told them they mustn’t be too much disappointed if Santa Claus did not come this year because the crops had been poor, and he mightn’t have had enough presents to go around.
“That doesn’t make any difference to Santa Claus,” scoffed Jimmy. “You know as well as I do, Theodora Prentice, that Santa Claus is rich whether the crops fail or not. They failed three years ago, before Father died, but Santa Claus came all the same. Prob’bly you don’t remember it, twins, ‘cause you were too little, but I do. Of course he’ll come, so don’t you worry a mite. And he’ll bring my skates and your dolls. He knows we’re expecting them, Theodora, ‘cause we wrote him a letter last week, and threw it up the chimney. And there’ll be candy and nuts, of course, and Mother’s gone to town to buy a turkey. I tell you we’re going to have a ripping Christmas.”
“Well, don’t use such slangy words about it, Jimmy-boy,” sighed Theodora. She couldn’t bear to dampen their hopes any further, and perhaps Aunt Elizabeth might manage it if the colt sold well. But Theodora had her painful doubts, and she sighed again as she looked out of the window far down the trail that wound across the prairie, red-lighted by the declining sun of the short wintry afternoon.
“Do people always sigh like that when they get to be sixteen?” asked Jimmy curiously. “You didn’t sigh like that when you were only fifteen, Theodora. I wish you wouldn’t. It makes me feel funny — and it’s not a nice kind of funniness either.”
“It’s a bad habit I’ve got into lately,” said Theodora, trying to laugh. “Old folks are dull sometimes, you know, Jimmy-boy.”
“Sixteen is awful old, isn’t it?” said Jimmy reflectively. “I’ll tell you what I’m going to do when I’m sixteen, Theodora. I’m going to pay off the mortgage, and buy mother a silk dress, and a piano for the twins. Won’t that be elegant? I’ll be able to do that ‘cause I’m a man. Of course if I was only a girl I couldn’t.”
“I hope you’ll be a good kind brave man and a real help to your mother,” said Theodora softly, sitting down before the cosy fire and lifting the fat little twins into her lap.
“Oh, I’ll be good to her, never you fear,” assured Jimmy, squatting comfortably down on the little fur rug before the stove — the skin of the coyote his father had killed four years ago. “I believe in being good to your mother when you’ve only got the one. Now tell us a story, Theodora — a real jolly story, you know, with lots of fighting in it. Only please don’t kill anybody. I like to hear about fighting, but I like to have all the people come out alive.”
Theodora laughed, and began a story about the Riel Rebellion of ‘85 — a story which had the double merit of being true and exciting at the same time. It was quite dark when she finished, and the twins were nodding, but Jimmy’s eyes were wide open and sparkling.
“That was great,” he said, drawing a long breath. “Tell us another.”
“No, it’s bedtime for you all,” said Theodora firmly. “One story at a time is my rule, you know.”
“But I want to sit up till Mother comes home,” objected Jimmy.
“You can’t. She may be very late, for she would have to wait to see Mr. Porter. Besides, you don’t know what time Santa Claus might come — if he comes at all. If he were to drive along and see you children up instead of being sound asleep in bed, he might go right on and never call at all.”
This argument was too much for Jimmy.
“All right, we’ll go. But we have to hang up our stockings first. Twins, get yours.”
The twins toddled off in great excitement, and brought back their Sunday stockings, which Jimmy proceeded to hang along the edge of the mantel shelf. This done, they all trooped obediently off to bed. Theodora gave another sigh, and seated herself at the window, where she could watch the moonlit prairie for Mrs. Martin’s homecoming and knit at the same time.
I am afraid that you will think from all the sighing Theodora was doing that she was a very melancholy and despondent young lady. You couldn’t think anything more unlike the real Theodora. She was the jolliest, bravest girl of sixteen in all Saskatchewan, as her shining brown eyes and rosy, dimpled cheeks would have told you; and her sighs were not on her own account, but simply for fear the children were going to be disappointed. She knew that they would be almost heartbroken if Santa Claus did not come, and that this would hurt the patient hardworking little mother more than all else.
Five years before this, Theodora had come to live with Uncle George and Aunt Elizabeth in the little log house at Red Butte. Her own mother had just died, and Theodora had only her big brother Donald left, and Donald had Klondike fever. The Martins were poor, but they had gladly made room for their little niece, and Theodora had lived there ever since, her aunt’s righthand girl and the beloved playmate of the children. They had been very happy until Uncle George’s death two years before this Christmas Eve; but since then there had been hard times in the little log house, and though Mrs. Martin and Theodora did their best, it was a woefully hard task to make both ends meet, especially this year when their crops had been poor. Theodora and her aunt had made every sacrifice possible for the children’s sake, and at least Jimmy and the twins had not felt the pinch very severely yet.
At seven Mrs. Martins bells jingled at the door and Theodora flew out. “Go right in and get warm, Auntie,” she said briskly. “I’ll take Ned away and unharness him.”
“It’s a bitterly cold night,” said Mrs. Martin wearily. There was a note of discouragement in her voice that struck dismay to Theodora’s heart.
“I’m afraid it means no Christmas for the children tomorrow,” she thought sadly, as she led Ned away to the stable. When she returned to the kitchen Mrs. Martin was sitting by the fire, her face in her chilled hand, sobbing convulsively.
“Auntie — oh, Auntie, don’t!” exclaimed Theodora impulsively. It was such a rare thing to see her plucky, resolute little aunt in tears. “You’re cold and tired — I’ll have a nice cup of tea for you in a trice.”
“No, it isn’t that,” said Mrs. Martin brokenly “It was seeing those stockings hanging there. Theodora, I couldn’t get a thing for the children — not a single thing. Mr. Porter would only give forty dollars for the colt, and when all the bills were paid there was barely enough left for such necessaries as we must have. I suppose I ought to feel thankful I could get those. But the thought of the children’s disappointment tomorrow is more than I can bear. It would have been better to have told them long ago, but I kept building on getting more for the colt. Well, it’s weak and foolish to give way like this. We’d better both take a cup of tea and go to bed. It will save fuel.”
When Theodora went up to her little room her face was very thoughtful. She took a small box from her table and carried it to the window. In it was a very pretty little gold locket hung on a narrow blue ribbon. Theodora held it tenderly in her fingers, and looked out over the moonlit prairie with a very sober face. Could she give up her dear locket — the locket Donald had given her just before he started for the Klondike? She had never thought she could do such a thing. It was almost the only thing she had to remind her of Donald — handsome, merry, impulsive, warmhearted Donald, who had gone away four years ago with a smile on his bonny face and splendid hope in his heart.
“Here’s a locket for you, Gift o’ God,” he had said gaily — he had such a dear loving habit of calling her by the beautiful meaning of her name. A lump came into Theodora’s throat as she remembered it. “I couldn’t afford a chain too, but when I come back I’ll bring you a rope of Klondike nuggets for it.”
Then he had gone away. For two years letters had come from him regularly. Then he wrote that he had joined a prospecting party to a remote wilderness. After that was silence, deepening into anguish of suspense that finally ended in hopelessness. A rumour came that Donald Prentice was dead. None had returned from the expedition he had joined. Theodora had long ago given up all hope of ever seeing Donald again. Hence her locket was doubly dear to her.
But Aunt Elizabeth had always been so good and loving and kind to her. Could she not make the sacrifice for her sake? Yes, she could and would. Theodora flung up her head with a gesture that meant decision. She took out of the locket the bits of hair — her mother’s and Donald’s — which it contained (perhaps a tear or two fell as she did so) and then hastily donned her warmest cap and wraps. It was only three miles to Spencer; she could easily walk it in an hour and, as it was Christmas Eve, the shops would be open late. She muse walk, for Ned could not be taken out again, and the mare’s foot was sore. Besides, Aunt Elizabeth must not know until it was done.
As stealthily as if she were bound on some nefarious errand, Theodora slipped downstairs and out of the house. The next minute she was hurrying along the trail in the moonlight. The great dazzling prairie was around her, the mystery and splendour of the northern night all about her. It was very calm and cold, but Theodora walked so briskly that she kept warm. The trail from Red Butte to Spencer was a lonely one. Mr. Lurgan’s house, halfway to town, was the only dwelling on it.
When Theodora reached Spencer she made her way at once to the only jewellery store the little town contained. Mr. Benson, its owner, had been a friend of her uncle’s, and Theodora felt sure that he would buy her locket. Nevertheless her heart beat quickly, and her breath came and went uncomfortably fast as she went in. Suppose he wouldn’t buy it. Then there would be no Christmas for the children at Red Butte.
“Good evening, Miss Theodora,” said Mr. Benson briskly. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m afraid I’m not a very welcome sort of customer, Mr. Benson,” said Theodora, with an uncertain smile. “I want to sell, not buy. Could you — will you buy this locket?”
Mr. Benson pursed up his lips, took up the locket, and examined it. “Well, I don’t often buy secondhand stuff,” he said, after some reflection, “but I don’t mind obliging you, Miss Theodora. I’ll give you four dollars for this trinket.”
Theodora knew the locket had cost a great deal more than that, but four dollars would get what she wanted, and she dared not ask for more. In a few minutes the locket was in Mr. Benson’s possession, and Theodora, with four crisp new bills in her purse, was hurrying to the toy store. Half an hour later she was on her way back to Red Butte, with as many parcels as she could carry — Jimmy’s skates, two lovely dolls for the twins, packages of nuts and candy, and a nice plump turkey. Theodora beguiled her lonely tramp by picturing the children’s joy in the morning.
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