Saturday's Child Part 66

"She told me that when she got home, and saw the way that you have changed things," confided Betsey, "she began to think for the first time that we might--might get through this, you know!"

Wonderful days for Susan followed, with every hour br.i.m.m.i.n.g full of working and planning. She was the first one up in the morning, the last one in bed at night, hers was the voice that made the last decision, and hers the hands for which the most critical of the household tasks were reserved. Always conscious of the vacant place in their circle, and always aware of the presence of that brooding and silent figure upstairs, she was nevertheless so happy sometimes as to think herself a hypocrite and heartless. But long afterward Susan knew that the sense of dramatic fitness and abiding satisfaction is always the reward of untiring and loving service.

She and Betsey read together, walked through the rain to market, and came back glowing and tired, to dry their shoes and coats at the kitchen fire. They cooked and swept and dusted, tried the furniture in new positions, sent Jimmy to the White House for a special new pattern, and experimented with house-dresses. Susan heard the first real laughter in months ring out at the dinner-table, when she and Betsey described their experiences with a crab, who had revived while being carried home in their market-basket. Jimmy, silent, rough-headed and sweet, followed Susan about like an affectionate terrier, and there was another laugh when Jimmy, finishing a bowl in which cake had been mixed, remarked fervently, "Gosh, why do you waste time cooking it?"

In the evening they played euchre, or hearts, or parchesi; Susan and Philip struggled with chess; there were talks about the fire, and they all straggled upstairs at ten o'clock. Anna, appreciative and affectionate and brave, came home for almost every Sat.u.r.day night, and these were special occasions. Susan and Betsey wasted their best efforts upon the dinner, and filled the vases with flowers and ferns, and Philip brought home candy and the new magazines. It was Anna who could talk longest with the isolated mother, and Susan and she went over every word, afterwards, eager to find a ray of hope.

"I told her about to-day," Anna said one Sat.u.r.day night, brushing her long hair, "and about Billy's walking with us to the ridge. Now, when you go in tomorrow, Betsey, I wish you'd begin about Christmas. Just say, 'Mother, do you realize that Christmas is a week from to-morrow?'

and then, if you can, just go right on boldly and say, 'Mother, you won't spoil it for us all by not coming downstairs?'"

Betsey looked extremely nervous at this suggestion, and Susan slowly shook her head. She knew how hopeless the plan was. She and Betsey realized even better than the absent Anna how rooted was Mrs. Carroll's unhappy state. Now and then, on a clear day, the mother would be heard going softly downstairs for a few moments in the garden; now and then at the sound of luncheon preparations downstairs she would come out to call down, "No lunch for me, thank you, girls!" Otherwise they never saw her except sitting idle, black-clad, in her rocking-chair.

But Christmas was very close now, and must somehow be endured.

"When are you boys going to Mill Valley for greens?" asked Susan, on the Sat.u.r.day before the holiday.

"Would you?" Philip asked slowly. But immediately he added, "How about to-morrow, Jimsky?"

"Gee, yes!" said Jim eagerly. "We'll trim up the house like always, won't we, Betts?"

"Just like always," Betts answered.

Susan and Betsey fussed with mince-meat and frosted cookies; Susan accomplished remarkably good, if rather fragile, pumpkin pies. The four decorated the down-stairs rooms with ropes of fragrant green. The expressman came and came and came again; Jimmy returned twice a day laden from the Post Office; everyone remembered the Carrolls this year.

Anna and Philip and Billy came home together, at midday, on Christmas Eve. Betsey took immediate charge of the packages they brought; she would not let so much as a postal card be read too soon. Billy had spent many a Christmas Eve with the Carrolls; he at once began to run errands and carry up logs as a matter of course.

A conference was held over the turkey, lying limp in the center of the kitchen table. The six eyed him respectfully.

"Oughtn't this be firm?" asked Anna, fingering a flexible breast-bone.

"No-o--" But Susan was not very sure. "Do you know how to stuff them, Anna?"

"Look in the books," suggested Philip.

"We did," Betsey said, "but they give chestnut and mushroom and sweet potato--I don't know how Mother does it!"

"You put crumbs in a chopping bowl," began Susan, uncertainly, "at least, that's the way Mary Lou did--"

"Why crumbs in a chopping bowl, crumbs are chopped already?" William observed sensibly.

"Well--" Susan turned suddenly to Betsey, "Why don't you trot up and ask, Betts?" she suggested.

"Oh, Sue!" Betsey's healthy color faded. "I can't!" She turned appealing eyes to Anna. Anna was looking at her thoughtfully.

"I think that would be a good thing to do," said Anna slowly. "Just put your head in the door and say, 'Mother, how do you stuff a turkey?'"

"But--but--" Betsey began. She got down from the table and went slowly on her errand. The others did not speak while they waited for her return.

"Hot water, and b.u.t.ter, and herbs, and half an onion chopped fine!"

announced Betts returning.

"Did she--did she seem to think it was odd, Betts?"

"No, she just answered--like she would have before. She was lying down, and she said 'I'm glad you're going to have a turkey---'"

"What!" said Anna, turning white.

"Yes, she did! She said 'You're all good, brave children!'"

"Oh, Betts, she didn't!"

"Honest she did, Phil--" Betsey said aggrievedly, and Anna kissed her between laughter and tears.

"But this is quite the best yet!" Susan said, contentedly, as she ransacked the breadbox for crumbs.

Just at dinner-time came a great crate of violets. "Jo's favorites, from Stewart!" said Anna softly, filling bowls with them. And, as if the thought of Josephine had suggested it, she added to Philip in a low tone:

"Listen, Phil, are we going to sing to-night?"

For from babyhood, on the eve of the feast, the Carrolls had gathered at the piano for the Christmas songs, before they looked at their gifts.

"What do you think?" Philip returned, troubled.

"Oh, I couldn't---" Betts began, choking.

Jimmy gave them all a disgusted and astonished look.

"Gee, why not?" he demanded. "Jo used to love it!"

"How about it, Sue?" Philip asked. Susan stopped short in her work, her hands full of violets, and pondered.

"I think we ought to," she said at last.

"I do, too!" Billy supported her unexpectedly. "Jo'd be the first to say so. And if we don't this Christmas, we never will again!"

"Your mother taught you to," Susan said, earnestly, "and she didn't stop it when your father died. We'll have other breaks in the circle some day, but we'll want to go right on doing it, and teaching our own children to do it!"

"Yes, you're right," said Anna, "that settles it."

Nothing more was said on the subject; the girls busied themselves with the dinner dishes. Phil and Billy drew the nails from the waiting Christmas boxes. Jim cracked nuts for the Christmas dinner. It was after nine o'clock when the kitchen was in order, the breakfast table set, and the sitting-room made ready for the evening's excitement. Then Susan went to the old square piano and opened it, and Phil, in absolute silence, found her the music she wanted among the long-unused sheets of music on the piano.

"If we are going to DO this," said Philip then, "we mustn't break down!"

"Nope," said Betts, at whom the remark seemed to be directed, with a gulp. Susan, whose hands were very cold, struck the opening chords, and a moment later the young voices rose together, through the silent house.

"Adeste, fideles, Laeti triumphantes, Venite, venite in Bethlehem...."

Josephine had always sung the little solo. Susan felt it coming, and she and Betts took it together, joined on the second phrase by Anna's rich, deep contralto. They were all too conscious of their mother's overhearing to think of themselves at all. Presently the voices became more natural. It was just the Carroll children singing their Christmas hymns, as they had sung them all their lives. One of their number was gone now; sorrow had stamped all the young faces with new lines, but the little circle was drawn all the closer for that. Phil's arm was tight about the little brother's shoulder, Betts and Anna were clinging to each other.