Chapter 17

The work on the house had been going steadily on week after week. Whenever Thurlow had a few hours, or even a few minutes, of leisure, he was making the little house more habitable.

Since the day that they had come home and found their mother had papered two of the ugly side walls in the living room all by herself, the two young people had been taking lessons in the simple old art of paperhanging.

Thurlow practiced on the old kitchen, which was now his bedroom, sacrificing a good part of his first roll of paper until he succeeded in getting a smooth ceiling hung at last, and then he went at the other ceilings, leaving the side walls for his mother and sister, who often had far more leisure than he did.

They were anxious to get the little house neat and well furnished by Christmas, for they were all looking forward to Pat’s coming as a bright spot in the year.

“Mother, you’re sure Pat isn’t going to make it hard for you if he comes?” asked Thurlow one night.

“Not a bit of it. He’ll make it easy. He does a lot of things for me when you are not here. Don’t worry about that. I like to have something going on to make it bright for you children. I know it is going to be hard for you both.”

“Not so hard,” said Thurlow thoughtfully. “I never dreamed I’d be so interested in fixing this place up as I am, but, you see, when spring comes I’m counting on selling it and getting you and Rilla away to a more respectable neighborhood. It hurts me terribly to be going off day after day, leaving you down in this awful dump with all sorts of people.”

“Well, don’t worry any longer. It’s been good for me. I’d forgotten there were such people in the world, and I guess it isn’t good to forget that. The Lord died for such as much as for us, and we ought to be keeping them in mind, praying for them and witnessing before them, doing for them more understandingly and more eagerly than we do. I’m getting really interested in Mrs. O’Hennessy. She’s acquiring the habit of coming over when she smells the bread or the pies just out of the oven, and I’ve been suspecting lately that the poor old thing is half starved. Her husband had a job once, but he’s drunk most of the time, and half the time in the hospital with delirium tremens. And that Bat doesn’t work. I’m sure I don’t know what they live on. Beer, I guess, but where do they get the beer? Maybe she makes it, I’m not sure, but what would she make it out of? It must cost something to live even on nothing but beer. And as for those seven little boys, the second door below, well, they are precious sometimes. Poor little souls. How they hunger for love and attention, and how empty their little stomachs must be. Once in a while I indulge myself a little and sacrifice a rag and wash all their faces and comb their hair. I have a comb I keep out on the back porch up under the edge of the roof. I wash it in lye after I’ve used it on them, but you ought to see them when I get done. I washed them all up the other day and stood them in a row. Then I took the looking glass down and showed each one how he looked. They looked and looked, and little Jimmy said, ‘Did God make me thataway? Is that why He loves me?’ And the poor little stutterer said, ‘Did m–m–m–my m–m–m–mother know I looked like this afore she died-up? I w–w–wish I c–c–c–cud s–s–see m–m–m–my m–m–m–mother. Do her have a c–c–c–clean f–f–face l–l–like me?’”

Thurlow gave her a troubled look.

“Mother, it’s heavenly of you to take an interest in the poor souls, but it’s terrible for you to have to be living down among them. I’ll get you out as soon as I can.”

So the paperhanging went on, the rooms blossomed into astonishing beauty at a surprisingly small cost, and the wonder in Meachin Street grew. The women in the next block were beginning to come to borrow salt and sugar and eggs, and to ask what was good for toothache or inflamed eyes. Every woman wanted a sight of the beauties of the cottage whose glories Mrs. O’Hennessy had sounded as far as her acquaintance reached.

Mother Reed kept a jar of little cakes or cookies to pass to such guests when they came and added to her supplies a table drawer full of little tracts, picture pamphlets, and Gospels that she had found at the chapel mission to slip along with the cake to each one. Mother Reed was certainly doing her best to make known salvation to everyone on the South Side with whom she came into contact.

The visitors walked around and stared at the pictures and asked questions, sometimes telling their troubles and confessing their sins, and Mother Reed was quietly getting a great hold on the street, even before Christmas came.

It cost a little something to supply even a few cakes and Gospels and tracts, but Mother Reed was doing well with her baking and set aside a certain portion of her gains for this work. As neither Rilla nor Thurlow were at home when all these things went on, they had no idea either of their mother’s business enterprise or of her philanthropy.

For Mrs. Reed had become a popular baker, and she had more orders some days than she could possibly fill.

Of course her children would have protested if they had known how hard she was working, but perhaps it was the best thing that she could have done, for it kept her from thinking of the beautiful past when she had luxuries surrounding her and loving care over her all the time. For her children’s sake, she would not give way to her sorrow, and therefore she worked instead, making everything bright and cheery for them at their homecoming in the evening.

The house was really charming inside as Christmas holidays drew near. Only the best of their fine old furniture was in use, the remainder being stored in the barn, which Thurlow had made strong and secure. Rilla and her mother had touched up the paint in the rooms at odd times, days when the weather allowed an open window for a little while and the atmosphere was drying rather than freezing. They mounted stepladders and painted window sashes, so that even the outside had a trimmer look.

“What would you think of asking Sandra down during vacation?” Mrs. Reed asked Rilla one evening while they were getting the evening meal on the table and Thurlow was in his room washing his hands and getting out of his uniform.

“Oh, Mother!” said Rilla, turning delighted eyes toward her. “But—what would Thurl say? I’ve never been quite sure he likes her.”

“Oh, I think he likes her,” said the mother thoughtfully. “We might ask him. Of course I wouldn’t suggest it if he was against it. But they have seemed friendly enough, and I thought it might be nice for her. She told me the other night at church that she was very lonely sometimes. That cousin of hers isn’t very congenial. But of course, if you think Thurlow would object, maybe we better not mention it. Only—well, even if he didn’t care for having her here when he is at home, we could ask her to lunch or something when he is on duty. Only you wouldn’t be here then either.”

“Why, I’ll have some time off. They said I would. Ask Thurl anyway and see what he says.”

So at dinner Mrs. Reed asked him.

“Thurl, what would you think of asking Miss Cameron to lunch or dinner or something while Pat is here?” She asked it very casually as she passed his coffee and was surprised at the lighting of his eyes.

He cast a quick look around the pretty dining room—the cheap wallpaper set off by the snowy curtains, the beautiful old mahogany, the fine old china and a few pieces of silver on the sideboard and in the corner cupboard. It was lovely and homelike and good enough for anybody. A pleased look came to his face.

“Great!” he said, “if you can get her. But I don’t suppose she can come. She likely has dozens of engagements around Christmas week. That cousin of hers lives in one of those great old brownstone houses on the avenue near the circle. They’ll have slews of guests, likely. The wonder is to me that she spares time to come to the mission. But ask her if you don’t think it will make too much work for you and Rilla. Pat would like her, I’m sure. He’s her kind.”

Over Rilla’s bright face there suddenly came a blankness, and a thoughtfulness settled down upon her that none of their pleasant plans interrupted. The mother looked from one to the other in puzzled silence. She wondered after all whether it was going to be good to have company at Christmas. She owned she didn’t understand either of her two children. Perhaps it would have been better to remember that they were just poor people now and confine their festivities to those poorer than themselves, and not try to get back to their own environment. But it hurt her terribly that her beloved son should have such a strong feeling of inferiority. Now why should he presume that Pat should like Sandra? And why should that idea have brought a soberness to Rilla’s face? Was it going to bring sorrow to her girl to have Pat come? And where did Barbara Sherwood come in? Was she still to be reckoned with in the daily things of life?

The mother sighed and decided that it was all too much for her. However, Pat was already invited. It was too late to reconsider. He had really invited himself, and it would be just as well to ask Sandra for a meal at least.

The Christmas holidays were approaching fast, and Mrs. Reed was busy all day long baking and brewing and getting her wares off to their marketplace. Then one day Pat arrived right in the middle of her work, asked a few intelligent questions, and got the whole truth from her. No, he wouldn’t tell, of course he wouldn’t, but couldn’t he help? It was a grand scheme, and what was the use of spoiling her fun? But why shouldn’t he carry her wares to the exchange, leaving her more time to work? Why shouldn’t she put him to work? Where was an apron? He could beat eggs. He could stir up sugar and butter in grand shape. He could crack and shell nuts and shred coconut and pick over raisins. Mincemeat? He could grind the meat and apples in the meat chopper. Why, this was going to be more fun than a cat fight! Now, why didn’t she let him take the stuff down to the city right away, and then he would come back and help her get the next batch out of the way before the kids came back. That was what he called Thurlow and Rilla—the kids!

So like two happy conspirators they went to work, and Mother Reed presently saw her baking sail off in the great high-powered car with a millionaire’s son keeping guard over them, as happy as a boy playing store.

She had all the materials out for the mince pies by the time he got back, and he ground meat and apples, cut citron and lemon peel, and weighed spices according to Mrs. Reed’s directions while she rolled the piecrust and deftly fitted it into the tins. Pat stood by and watched the filling put in and the thin, rich crust flapped skillfully over the top—pinched down in a neat ripple around the edge, slashed with a sharp knife in the shape of a Christmas tree—and himself carried them to the oven.

He had just shut the oven door and turned around when Mrs. O’Hennessy tapped at the door and entered with the inevitable teacup, come to borrow a pinch of sugar again.

“Yer late with yer bakin’,” said Mrs. O’Hennessy.

“Yes,” said Mrs. Reed. “I have some extra orders.” She hurried into the pantry for the sugar.

Mrs. O’Hennessy sidled onto a chair and watched Pat, turning the meat grinder with all his might.

“This ‘nuter o’ yer sons?” asked Mrs. O’Hennessy affably.

“Oh, no,” said Mother Reed, a trifle annoyed, “just a friend come to spend holidays.”

“Name of Patrick,” said the irrepressible Pat, bowing low toward the caller.

“Thin it’s Oirish ye aire?” said the caller.

“Sure thing,” said Pat.

Mother Reed smiled and sensed a situation.

“I’m sorry I haven’t anything to offer you to eat,” she said quickly, hoping to get rid of her caller. “I’ve sent my finished things all to town, and I’m hurrying to finish the rest before time to get dinner.”

“What about one of these?” said Pat, suddenly appearing with two small tartlets Mother Reed had put on a plate for him to eat. “I’m sure the lady wouldn’t want to go home empty-handed.” And he presented her with a tart, one in each hand. Then he swung the kitchen door wide for her, bowing her out with a flourish, and actually sent her on her way good-naturedly. Of course Pat had to hear the whole history of Mrs. O’Hennessy’s calls and the rest of the neighborhood. The two had a beautiful time talking, finishing the second oven full of pies, and cleaning up the kitchen.

“Now,” said Pat, “lady, I’m taking these pies to market, and while I’m gone, you’re lying down to rest. If you don’t promise me that, I’ll not keep your secret, see?”

“Oh, I’ll promise. You’ve helped me so wonderfully that I’ll have plenty of time before I have to set the table.”

“That’s the nice, good, little mother,” said Pat, leaning over her suddenly and placing a kiss gently on her forehead. “You don’t mind, do you, Mother Reed?” he said, laughing down into her astonished face. “You know I haven’t had a mother in a long time. Thurl won’t mind if I borrow his for a little while, will he, just to make a Christmas out of it?”

“Why no, you dear child!” said Mother Reed, much touched.

He left her laughing, and then she heard him rushing away in his car with her last load of baking. Well, she thought, she would rest just a minute. So she lay down and closed her eyes, and the next thing she knew, she heard his car coming back.

Her eyes flew open and looked at the clock on the bureau, and she rose up in a hurry. It was almost time for the children to be back, and what would they think of her lying there asleep and the dinner not got yet? She would have to hurry now.

But the dinner was on the table in due time.

Pat set the table and then went out to meet Rilla.

“I don’t like to have her coming home alone after dark like this,” he said with a grin. “I’ll go pick her up.”

There were snowflakes whirling down as they drove back, and Thurlow was just coming in the gate.

“Where will I put my car, Whirl?” called Pat. “How’s the barn? Got room there? There’s going to be a blizzard. A real Christmas blizzard! Hooray!”

Thurlow went with him to the barn to house the car, and Rilla, her cheeks glowing, hurried in to help her mother with dinner. Presently they were seated at the table, feeling that a new happiness had come to the little house on Meachin Street.

Thurlow had brought home a big turkey, the gift of a man he had helped out of a difficulty, and handed it over to his mother proudly. It was a twenty-pounder, and she drew a relieved breath. The Christmas dinner was going to be a success. She hadn’t dared think about a turkey, they were so costly. The best she had dreamed of was a chicken. But now they would have a real feast.

Rilla had brought home a big bunch of holly, and they found a twig of mistletoe tucked in with it. They had great fun after the dishes were done decorating the house and hanging the mistletoe. Pat captured it and hung it in the doorway between the living room and the dining room, and the laughter and chasing that ensued reached out into Meachin Street and drew Bat—poor, sinful, hungry Bat—through the quietly falling snow to his old station in the dark to watch the fun. For Rilla proved to be very skillful at getting away from under the mistletoe, and it was finally Mother Reed who was caught and kissed by each one in turn. There stood Bat, his stricken white face almost near enough to be seen where the lamplight fell across the windowpane, watching in amazement. Bat couldn’t remember that he had ever kissed his mother.

And by and by the lights went out and it was all still in the bright cottage. Bat stole home in the dark through the soft white snow. Whiter than snow! Whiter than snow! Oh, he could never be whiter than snow! He put out his cold hand and touched it as it lay on the fence where he went through. Soft white snow, like angels’ wings—the wings of the angel in the old church up on Seventh Street, the angel that stood among tall lilies beside an empty tomb. Whiter than snow! Oh, he, Bat, could never be whiter than snow!

Over by the looming brick wall, three shadows passed like wraiths, paused in the drifting whiteness of the great flakes, and pointed.

“Whaddaya know about that? Whad’d I tell ya? Ya hev ta watch that guy. Now what’s he ben over ta that house fer?”

Then the shadows slid along and disappeared into darkness, and Meachin Street slept while the great snowflakes dropped noiselessly as a cloud and covered up their goings.

There were two days left till Christmas, and the next morning Pat was up early and eager for work. He helped Mother Reed with her work and drove away at half past ten with a load of good things. When he came back a couple of hours later, he had a great, lovely hemlock tree in the back of his car, several bundles of laurel, and a lot of small packages. After he had deposited the tree in the barn, he came in and draped the laurel wreaths all around the pretty rooms till it sang Christmas from every wall. Then he hung a big holly wreath on the front door, and Mother Reed found a broad scarlet ribbon for a bow with long fluttering ends. There it hung on the cheap little door and glorified the whole street. Even in the snow it hung there, safe from the drifts because it was under a small roof that Thurlow had nailed over the front door early in the fall. And oh, what didn’t that holly wreath and its red do to the street!

Word of it got out and traveled from house to house till even the woman with a heavy cold, and the woman who had seven children, and the woman with a toothache came out to view it in the storm. A holly wreath with red ribbons on Meachin Street was something that had never happened before!

Bat walked by, and the three evil-eyed men walked by and looked and came back, for the way to the dump was snowed under, and their evil doings were held in abeyance for the time being.

The seven little boys ran out with seven colds, each one worse than the other, and got snow in their shoes, both from above and from below where there were holes, and snow up the flimsy sleeves of their old sweaters that were worn-out at the elbows, and snow up their thin, inadequate trousers because they had all fallen down with staring. The smallest one cried and went shivering back to the cold, unhappy shelter, but they had seen the holly wreath on Meachin Street with the bright Christmas ribbon floating joyously out to defy the storm, and they went back to flatten cold, wet, sorry little noses against the dirty window panes and look up into the whirl, whirl of heaven above and wonder what angels were like, and when would come April gold?