Chapter 41: The First Christmas

Christmas Eve in a little village of Northern New York--a white Christmas, clear and cold. In the dark, blue-black of the sky the glittering stars were spread thick; the brilliant moon poured down its silver light over the whiteness of the sloping roof-tops, and upon the ghostly white, silently drooping trees. A heaviness hung in the frosty air--a stillness broken only by the tinkling of sleigh-bells or sometimes by the merry laughter of the passers-by.

At the outskirts of the village, a little back from the road, a farmhouse lay snuggled up between two huge apple-trees--an old-fashioned, rambling farmhouse with a steeply pitched roof, piled high now, with snow. It was brilliantly lighted this Christmas Eve, its lower windows sending forth broad yellow beams of light over the whiteness of the ground outside.

In one of the lower rooms of the house, before a huge, blazing log-fire, a woman and four men sat talking. Across the room, at a table, a little boy was looking at a picture-book by the light of an oil-lamp.

The woman made a striking picture as she sat back at ease before the fire. She was dressed in a simple black evening-dress such as a lady of the city would wear. It covered her shoulders, but left her throat bare. Her features, particularly her eyes, had a slight Oriental cast, which the mass of very black hair coiled on her head accentuated. Yet she did not look like an Oriental, nor indeed like a woman of any race of this earth. Her cheeks were red--the delicate diffused red of perfect health. But underneath the red there lay a curious mixture of other colours, not only on her cheeks but particularly noticeable on her neck and arms. Her skin was smooth as a pearl; in the mellow firelight it glowed, with the iridescence of a shell.

The four men were dressed in the careless negligee of city men in the country. They were talking gaily now among themselves. The woman spoke seldom, staring dreamily into the fire.

A clock in another room struck eight; the woman glanced over to where the child sat, absorbed with the pictures in his book. The page at which he was looking showed a sleigh loaded with toys, with a team of reindeers and a jolly, fat, white-bearded, red-jacketed old man driving the sleigh over the chimney tops.

“Come Loto, little son,” the woman said. “You hear--it is the time of sleep for you.”

The boy put down his book reluctantly and went over to the fireplace, standing beside his mother with an arm about her neck.

“Oh, mamita dear, will he surely come, this Santa Claus? He never knew about me before; will he surely come?”

Lylda kissed him tenderly. “He will come, Loto, every Christmas Eve; to you and to all the other children of this great world, will he always come.”

“But you must be asleep when he comes, Loto,” one of the men admonished.

“Yes, my father, that I know,” the boy answered gravely. “I will go now.”

“Come back Loto, when you have undressed,” the Chemist called after him, as he left the room. “Remember you must hang your stocking.”

When they were left alone Lylda looked at her companions and smiled.

“His first Christmas,” she said. “How wonderful we are going to make it for him.”

“I can remember so well,” the Big Business Man remarked thoughtfully, “when they first told me there was no Santa Claus. I cried, for I knew Christmas would never be the same to me.”

“Loto is nearly twelve years old,” the Doctor said. “Just imagine--having his first Christmas.”

“We’re going to make it a corker,” said the Banker. “Where’s the tree? We got one.”

“In the wood-shed,” Lylda answered. “He has not seen it; I was so very careful.”

They were silent a moment. Then: “My room is chock full of toys,” the Banker said reflectively. “But this is a rotten town for candy canes--they only had little ones.” And they all laughed.

“I have a present for you, Lylda,” the Chemist said after a moment.

“Oh, but you must not give it until to-morrow; you yourself have told me that.”

The Chemist rose. “I want to give it now,” he said, and left the room. In a moment he returned, carrying a mahogany pedestal under one arm and a square parcel in the other. He set the pedestal upright on the floor in a corner of the room and began opening the package. It was a mahogany case, cubical in shape. He lifted its cover, disclosing a glass-bell set upon a flat, mahogany slab. Fastened to the center of this was a handsome black plush case, in which lay a gold wedding-ring.

Lylda drew in her breath sharply and held it; the three other men stared at the ring in amazement. The Chemist was saying: “And I decided not to destroy it, Lylda, for your sake. There is no air under this glass cover; the ring is lying in a vacuum, so that nothing can come out of it and live. It is quite safe for us to keep it--this way. I thought of this plan, afterwards, and decided to keep the ring--for you.” He set the glass bell on the pedestal.

Lylda stood before it, bending down close over the glass.

“You give me back--my world,” she breathed; then she straightened up, holding out her arms toward the ring. “My birthplace--my people--they are safe.” And then abruptly she sank to her knees and began softly sobbing.

Loto called from upstairs and they heard him coming down. Lylda went back hastily to the fire; the Chemist pushed a large chair in front of the pedestal, hiding it from sight.

The boy, in his night clothes, stood on the hearth beside his mother.

“There is the stocking, mamita. Where shall I hang it?”

“First the prayer, Loto. Can you remember?”

The child knelt on the hearth, with his head in his mother’s lap.

“Now I lay me----” he began softly, halting over the unfamiliar words. Lylda’s fingers stroked his brown curly head as it nestled against her knees; the firelight shone golden in his tousled curls.

The Chemist was watching them with moist eyes. “His first Christmas,” he murmured, and smiled a little tender smile. “His first Christmas.”

The child was finishing.

“And God bless Aura, and Jack, and----”

“And Grandfather Reoh,” his mother prompted softly.

“And Grandfather Reoh--and mamita, and----” The boy ended with a rush--”and me too. Amen. Now where do I hang the stocking, mother?”

In a moment the little stocking dangled from a mantel over the fireplace.

“You are sure he will come?” the child asked anxiously again.

“It is certain, Loto--if you are asleep.”

Loto kissed his mother and shook hands solemnly with the men--a grave, dignified little figure.