Christmas Waits in Boston & Other Christmas Stories. Edward Everett Hale
again in this world? Now to the duty next her hand!
Yes, the wind is as fierce as ever! A point more to the north, Laura notices. She has no child to carry now. She tumbles once in the drift. But Laura has rolled in snow before. The pile at the door is three feet thick. But she works down to the latch,—and even her poor numb hand conquers it,—and it gives way. How nice and warm the tower is! and how well the lights burn! Can they be of any use this night to anybody? O my God, grant that they be of use to him!
She has wound them now. She has floundered into the snow again. Two or three falls on her way home,—but no danger that she loses the line of march. The light above her own house is before her. So she has only to aim at that. Home again! And now to wait for five hours,—and then to wind that light again—at midnight!
"And at midnight there was a cry made"—"oh dear!—if he would come,—I would not ask for any cry!"—
And Laura got down her choice inlaid box, that Jem brought her from sea,—and which held her treasures of treasures. And the dear girl did the best thing she could have done. She took these treasures out.—You know what they were, do not you? They were every letter Tom Cutts ever wrote her—from the first boy note in print,—"Laura,—these hedgehog quills are for you. I killed him. Tom." And Laura opened them all,—and read them one by one, each twice,—and put them back, in their order, without folding, into the box. At ten she stopped,—and worked her way upstairs into her own lantern,—and wound its works again. She tried to persuade herself that there was less wind,—did persuade herself so. But the snow was as steady as ever. Down the tower-stairs again,—and then a few blessed minutes brooding over Matty's crib, and dear little Tom who has kicked himself right athwart her own bed where she had laid him. Darlings! they are so lovely, their father must come home to see them! Back then to her kitchen fire. There are more of dear Tom's letters yet. How manly they are,—and how womanly. She will read them all!—will she ever dare to read them all again?
Yes,—she reads them all,—each one twice over,—and his soldier diary,—which John Wildair saved and sent home, and, as she lays it down, the clock strikes twelve. Christmas day is born!—
"And at midnight there was a cry made, Behold, the bridegroom cometh." Laura fairly repeated this aloud. She knew that the other carcel must be wound again. She dressed herself for the fight thoroughly. She ran in and trusted herself to kiss the children. She opened the lee-door again, and crept round again into the storm,—familiar now with such adventure. Did the surf beat as fiercely on the rocks? Surely not. But then the tide is now so low! So she came to her other tower, crept up and wound her clock-work up again, wiped off, or tried to wipe off, what she thought was mist gathering on the glasses, groped down the stairway, and looked up on the steady light above her own home. And the Christmas text came back to her. "The star went before them, and stood above the place where the young child was."
"A light to lighten the Gentiles,—and the glory of my people Israel!"
"By the way of the sea,"—and this Laura almost shouted aloud,—"Galilee of the Gentiles, the people who sat in darkness saw a great light, and to them who sat in the region and shadow of death light is sprung up." "Grant it, merciful Father,—grant it for these poor children!" And she almost ran through the heavy drifts, till she found the shelter again of her friendly tower. Her darlings had not turned in their bed, since she left them there.
And after this Laura was at rest. She took down her Bible, and read the Christmas chapters. It was as if she had never known before what darkness was,—or what the Light was, when it came. She took her Hymn Book and read all the Christmas Hymns. She took her Keble,—and read every poem for Advent and the hymn for Christmas morning. She knew this by heart long ago. Then she took Bishop Ken's "Christian Year,"—which Tom had given for her last birthday present,—and set herself bravely to committing his "Christmas Day" to memory:—
"Celestial harps, prepare
To sound your loftiest air;
You choral angels at the throne,
Your customary hymns postpone;"
and thus, dear girl, she kept herself from thinking even of the wretched Hero and Leander lines, till her clock struck three. Upstairs then to her own tower, and to look out upon the night. The sister flame was steady. The wind was all hushed. But the snow was as steady, right and left, behind and before. Down again, one more look at the darlings, and then, as she walked up and down her little kitchen, she repeated the verses she had learned, and then sat down to—
"You with your heavenly ray
Gild the expanse this day;
"You with your heavenly ray
Gild—the expanse—this day;
"You—with—your—heavenly—ray"—
Dear Laura, bless God, she is asleep. "He giveth his beloved sleep."
Her head is thrown back on the projecting wing of grandmamma's tall easy-chair, her arms are resting relaxed on its comfortable arms, her lips just open with a smile, as she dreams of something in the kingdom of God's heaven, when, as the lazy day just begins to grow gray, Tom, white with snow to his middle, holding the boat's lantern before him as he steals into her kitchen, crosses the room, and looks down on her,—what a shame to wake her,—bends down and kisses her!
Dear child! How she started,—"At midnight there is a cry made, Behold, the bridegroom cometh,"—"Why, Tom! Oh! my dearest, is it you?"
"Have I been asleep on duty?" This was her first word when she came fairly to herself.
"Guess not," said old Mipples, "both lanterns was burning when I come in. 'Most time to put 'em out, Major! 'Keepers must be diligent to save oil by all reasonable prevision.'"
"Is the north light burning?" said poor Laura. And she looked guiltily at her tell-tale clock.
"Darling," said Tom, reverently, "if it were not burning, we should not be here."
And Laura took her husband to see the babies, not willing to let his hand leave hers, nor he, indeed, to let hers leave his. Old Mipples thought himself one too many, and went away, wiping his eyes, to the other light. "Time to extinguish it," he said.
But before Tom and Laura had known he was gone, say in half an hour, that is, he was back again, hailing them from below.
"Major! Major! Major! An English steamer is at anchor in the cove, and is sending her boat ashore."
Tom and Laura rushed to the window; the snow was all over now, and they could see the monster lying within half a mile. "Where would they be, Miss Cutts, if somebody had not wound up the lamps at midnight? Guess they said 'Merry Christmas' when they see 'em." And Laura held her breath when she thought what might have been. Tom and Mipples ran down to the beach to hail them, and direct the landing. Tom and Mipples shook the hand of each man as he came ashore, and then Laura could see them hurrying to the house together. Steps on the landing; steps on the stairway,—the door is open, and,—not Tom this time,—but her dear lost brother Jem, in the flesh, and in a heavy pea-coat.
"Merry Christmas! Laura!"
"Laura," said Jem, as they sat at their Christmas dinner, "what do you think I thought of first, when I heard the cable run out so like blazes; when I rushed up and saw your yellow lanterns there?"
"How should I know, Jem?"
"'They that dwell in the shadow of death, upon them the light hath shined.'"
"But I did not think it was you, Laura."
Christmas Waits in Boston