Chapter VIII: A Merry Christmas After All

Marcy lay with her cheek pillowed on her hand, watching the fire burning red in the growing dusk of the December early twilight. Her mother had been reading to her the “Lady of the Lake,” the musical rhythm of which was delightful to the sick child’s ear, but it had long been too dark to read, and thinking Marcy asleep Mrs. Merrick had not moved, but sat with her finger shut in the book on her knee, meditating sadly on the coming of Christmas, which it seemed to her she could not celebrate this year.

But Marcy was not asleep, and she, too, was thinking of the celebration of Christmas, with similar thoughts to her mother’s, but she had reached the opposite conclusion. It took a little effort before she could say steadily:

“Mamma, I’ve been thinking of Christmas.”

Mrs. Merrick started.

“So have I, Marcy dear,” she said.

“You know,” Marcy went on, “I think we shall have to try to make it merry, or it may be the least wee bit sad. Nellie was never away from home at Christmas before, and I’m afraid she’ll be homesick, and, anyway, I wouldn’t like our children not to have a good time; so what can we do to keep my being sick from half spoiling things?”

“Oh, dearest, sweetest little daughter, what can we do to keep your Christmas from being wholly spoiled?” cried her mother, with more love than wisdom.

“Didn’t the doctor say I might get up at Christmas?” asked Marcy. “Do you think he meant just sit up, or that I might walk around?”

Mrs. Merrick’s heart ached. Marcy evidently did not know that he had said she would never “walk around again.”

“I think he only meant that you might be laid on a couch chair and moved a little,” answered her mother gently. “We shall have to be very careful, you know, Marcy.”

Marcy was silent a moment.

“Well, even that,” she said at last. “Then I could be taken into the sitting-room?”

“Yes, I think so,” said Mrs. Merrick.

“Now, mamma, would it be too much trouble for you to have a little supper laid there for us children?”

“None at all, dear, if you would like it,” replied her mother, rejoicing at the request.

“I thought,” Marcy continued, “we might have a kind of combination of a Twelfth Night, and Christmas, and birthday party. If Eliza would bake a cake for me I’d write a lot of mottoes, and have them laid all around the top in the icing, so that every one who took a piece of cake would get one. And we’d have a ring in the cake, too, if you would buy one. And Lucy could be crowned queen of the feast, and I could be there, and no one would feel a little sad, as they might if I were up-stairs alone, and we’d have a merry time after all.”

“It shall all be done, my dearest,” said her mother. “And now tell me if you have thought of anything you would like for yourself this Christmas?”

“Nothing but books and the Madonna I love, to hang opposite on the wall there,” said Marcy; “but I do want to send a splendid box to Prairie Rest, and have it packed here in my room, and let every one, even Lulie, have a hand in getting it up. And if we begin right away, and think of nothing but these things, I really do believe we can be happy.”

Mrs. Merrick got up and kissed Marcy.

“Do you know, dear, you are making the whole house sweet, like a bit of mignonette among a bunch of showy flowers?” she said; and after she had left the room Marcy lay smiling contentedly, pondering the remarkable coincidence that her mother had used almost the same comparison as Father Glenn.

A busier household than the Merricks’ could hardly have been found preparing for Christmas. Every afternoon after school Inez, and Nellie, and Bob, and Hugh, and Grace hastened up to Marcy’s room, where Lucy was already established, and the task of dressing dolls and getting things ready for the box for Prairie Rest went merrily forward. There were other meetings in mysterious corners of the house, as far from Marcy’s room as possible, yet where conversation was carried on in whispers lest she might hear, and discussions of presents for her were the object of the conclaves.

A chance remark of Norah’s that Miss Marcy might like a pet struck Grace and Lucy favorably, and they combined their pocket money to get her a canary-bird. The same remark had a similar effect on Hugh, who, without consulting any one, went off and bought her a pair of rabbits. Bob, too, considered this a happy thought of Norah’s, and he obtained a Yorkshire puppy from a boy who had five. Inez, ignorant of the secrets of the younger children, carried out her original intention, and bought for Marcy a snow-white Angora kitten, for which Nellie, who had to supply her lack of pin-money by the work of her skilful fingers, fitted up a cozy basket with blue linings.

The Christmas tree was abandoned for that year, and the presents were to be placed on the hearth in Marcy’s room, where the family was to assemble to get them. Marcy had to feign sleep while mysterious figures glided in, bent a moment over the hearth, and tiptoed out again. She had fallen asleep very late, and was still resting peacefully when she was aroused by a succession of most incomprehensible sounds. She distinguished short, sharp cries, ending in little whimpers and grunts, the sound of scratching, and sniffing, and something rather like damp fire-crackers, but she could not tell from what they came. While she was wondering the door opened softly, and Hugh poked a tumbled head through, followed briskly by the rest of his body, when Marcy spoke. Soon Inez crept in with Nellie, and then Bob stole down, and they all went over to the hearth. Earnest whispers took the place of the mysterious sounds which had ceased as soon as the children entered, and in a moment a shout of laughter, instantly checked by hands clapped over lips lest Mr. and Mrs. Merrick should be awakened. Marcy could see Bob rolling on the floor and kicking in an ecstasy of repressed laughter, while the shoulders under Inez’s and Nellie’s dressing-gowns were shaking convulsively, as they sat on the floor clasping their knees with their hands, on which their faces were bowed.

“Oh! do tell me the joke,” begged Marcy. “I’ve been hearing the queerest noises, and I’ll go crazy if you don’t tell me what is so funny.”

Bob climbed up and lit the gas, and Marcy saw a very frightened pair of rabbits huddled up in the corner of a wooden cage, a canary-bird on a chair, a long-haired, bow-legged little puppy making frantic dashes in his box at a beautiful snowy kitten, whose long plume of a tail was swollen to an enormous size, and she occasionally spit at the demoralized puppy, which explained the fire-crackers Marcy had heard.

“Oh, how funny! Oh, aren’t they dear?” cried Marcy, who loved all kinds of pets. “Where did they all come from?”

“That’s the joke,” explained Inez, wiping her eyes and gasping for breath. “We all thought you’d like a pet to keep you company while you’re sick, and we never said a word to one another, only I told Nellie about mine. So we each got an animal, only Hugh, and he got two, and among us we’ve turned your room into a menagerie. I think it’s the funniest thing I ever saw.”

Marcy laughed, too, but she was very much pleased, for she had room in her heart for all the animals in the ark. The rest of the family was aroused, and followed the sound of voices to Marcy’s room, and the presents were seized upon, though it was but half-past five, and they had been intended to be left till after Mass.

Nellie had never dreamed of such riches as she was gloating over: a beautiful little pin, a wreath of mistletoe, with the berries of tiny pearls from Marcy; a pretty moonstone ring from Bob; the softest of chinchilla muffs and collars from her uncle; a complete silver manicure set, the counterpart of the one Inez had, from her aunt, and a dear little chatelaine and watch from Inez, the chatelaine pin being in the form of a tiny crown, in memory of the play. Marcy rejoiced in her coveted Madonna, quantities of books, and her “menagerie,” and her father gave her three hundred dollars to do with as she liked. It came in crisp new bills, wrapped in a note, to be read at her leisure, and while the others were at church she read it with a glad heart.

“First of all, my dearest daughter,” Mr. Merrick wrote, “I wish you a blessed Christmas, which should be yours, who are proving yourself, in the midst of a great affliction, our chiefest blessing. I intend that each year you shall have this sum of money to use in charity as you see fit, for I foresee that your greatest pleasure will lie in doing for others. You will learn to use this sum, and thus be better prepared to make the most of the larger amount which will one day be yours to do with as you think best.”

Marcy lay dreaming of all she could do with so much money, and she planned to support several families, beside educating some clever child with it, for she had no more idea of the value of a hundred cents than many persons whom misfortune has not taught.

When it was time for the supper Marcy was taken for the first time from her bed, wrapped in her white eider-down wrapper with the swan’s down around her wrists and throat, and wheeled into the next room on the couch-chair, which was but another bed on wheels.

The sitting-room had been turned into a Christmas banqueting hall. The table in the centre was bright with holly and candles with red shades, and each napkin was tied with a bow of scarlet ribbon, ornamented with a sprig of holly. Evergreen, holly, and mistletoe hung on the walls, and made the chandelier a bower of green. Julia, the waitress, and Norah, who was to help, wore wonderful mediæval dresses, with canton-flannel ermine trimming, and holly-trimmed caps. Marcy’s couch was wheeled into place at one side of the table, and suddenly there arose the sound of music. A harp and violin began to play the carol, “God rest ye, merry gentlemen,” and in walked the procession. First came Queen Lucy, the queen of the feast, very stately, with a golden (pasteboard) crown on her pretty head, and a sceptre in her hand. Then came Grace and Hugh--one dressed as a cavalier in cuffs and slashed doublet, with a sword at his side; the other as a court lady, with a train as long as the queen’s, and her hair dressed high on her head and powdered, and a black patch of court-plaster in the form of a star on her chin. Bob and Nellie followed, another court lady and gallant, she in the costume she had worn in the play, he in rose-colored doublet, slashed with white, and a mustache that was at once the joy and trial of his soul, because it looked so fierce when it was on, and was perpetually falling off. Last came Inez and Madeleine Greene, both in the costumes of the play.

Marcy clapped her hands at the sight of her favorite schoolmate. Since her accident she had shrunk from seeing any of her friends, but Madeleine’s coming so unexpectedly was only a pleasure, and she held out her hands to her in ecstasy. The meeting might have been a sad one, but Mrs. Merrick gave them no time to think, and hurried the gorgeous company to their seats, Queen Lucy presiding at the head of the table with much dignity. Mr. Merrick was present, introduced as a distinguished guest from Australia. He wore a queer high collar, a flaring plaid necktie, and a green coat with brass buttons, and had black spectacles on his nose, and equally surprised and delighted his children by the funny things he said and did.

At last the great cake was cut, and everybody carefully nibbled around the frosting to find the motto which they were warned was hidden there. This was the supreme moment to Marcy, who had spent long hours composing these little couplets. When the last crumb of the cake had gone the reading of the mottoes was called for.

“No, first the ring. Who has the ring?” cried Marcy.

Nellie instantly cried, “I have,” and held up a dainty little golden ribbon, tied in a true lover’s knot, with two slender ends flying.

“You can’t get it on,” said Hugh, anxiously regarding the tiny band.

“It’s for her pinkie fin’ner, you silly boy,” said Lucy, to every one’s amusement.

“Now the guest from Australia will read his motto first, please,” cried Marcy.

Mr. Merrick had to poke up his spectacles to see, and read:

“May your Christmas joy and peace
Through the new year never cease.”

“Mamma,” cried Marcy.

“Christmas green, or Christmas white,
Be your heart forever light,”

read Mrs. Merrick.

Madeleine, Inez, and Nellie read in succession:

“For him whose heart is good and pure
Christmas joy shall aye endure.”

“May He who in the stable lay
Bless you every Christmas day.”

“She who loves both man and beast,
Truly keeps the Christmas feast.”

“Gracie,” said Marcy, and Grace read slowly and carefully:

“Once a Child was cold and sad,
That all children might be glad.”

“Queen Lucy next,” cried Marcy, and Lucy handed her slip to Norah, saying:

“P’raps you’d better read it, Nonie,” which, considering the small girl did not know her letters, seemed advisable.

Norah read:

“May the Babe of Bethlehem bless
All your life with happiness.”

Bob read his couplet next, which ran:

“May Christmases coming, and Christmases past,
Crown you with joys that forever shall last.”

Finally Hugh read:

“Christmas comes all wreathed in holly;
May each Christmas find you jolly.”

The applause for Marcy’s verses was the signal for her return to her room, and that the feast was over.

The procession formed once more to precede her; the harp and violin played the merriest airs, and Norah pushed Marcy’s chair back to her door, where the children divided, and drew up on each side, dropping her old-fashioned courtesies as she passed. The new white kitten and the excited puppy, who had been already named “Merry Christmas,” called Merry for short, and Kris Kringle, in honor of the day, welcomed her boisterously.

“One thing more, mamma,” said Marcy, “please sing the _Adeste_ for me after I am in bed again, and leave the door open so I can hear it, for it is the dearest of all hymns. It has been a Merry Christmas after all, hasn’t it, mamma?”

“Yes, my darling,” said her mother, kissing her good-night.

And soothed by the beautiful _Adeste Fideles_, tired out with her exciting day, Marcy sank to sleep.