The Spanish Chest Part 13

She goes to your school. Win," she added quickly, "won't you come and help struggle with this tiresome pulpit?"

Win followed at once, glad to see Max already busy over the designated task, but Constance sent him to seek a certain wire frame reputed to exist in the sacristy. Win found himself twining myrtle wreaths around the pillars of the stone pulpit, yet stealing constant glances at the interior of the old church.

Part of it was very ancient, with round Norman pillars and a rounded vault, speaking of very distant days. Everything save pews and choir stalls was of granite, its rosy color making the stone seem warm rather than cold. Vines, holly and flowers heaped about the interior emphasized by their ephemeral beauty the solemn enduring majesty of the church itself. Ten or twelve young people were working more or less steadily to the accompaniment of much gay conversation.

"Oh, Max, that's the wrong frame," Constance said suddenly.

Win turned to see her sorting lilies where she knelt on the chancel steps.

"This isn't Easter, ducky," she added. "We want a star, not a cross."

Max smiled at Win, an indulgent, rather amused smile, and when the proper frame had been subst.i.tuted, came back to the pulpit.

"Tell me," said Win, indicating the stone vault. "What are those little pointed things up there?"

"You mean the limpet sh.e.l.ls?" asked Max, looking up.

"Are they sh.e.l.ls?" said Win in amazement. "They looked it, but I couldn't imagine how sh.e.l.ls could be scattered about up there."

"Some thousand years ago when the original builders quarried this stone from the Jersey sh.o.r.e, they didn't trouble to sc.r.a.pe off the limpets that clung to it. n.o.body has removed them since; now it would seem sacrilege to do so."

"A thousand years!" repeated Win in awe. He stopped work for a moment to look at the pointed sh.e.l.ls on the roof.

"Does jar a fellow and makes him feel mighty transitory and insignificant, doesn't it?" commented Max, with a friendly glance of understanding. "I think there's no place quite like this church. The Manor lies in its parish and Uncle d.i.c.k would know if a single limpet was knocked off. The only time I ever saw him really angry was once when some Americans--I'm an American, too, you know, so I can tell this story--tried to bribe the verger to sc.r.a.pe one down for them. There was rather a row and Uncle was in a fine fizz.

"There's one interesting thing common to all these old churches,"

Max went on, seeing that Win appreciated the place. "The island is divided into twelve parishes. From the church of each there was originally a road, leading directly to the sea. In feudal times, a criminal was safe if he took sanctuary in the church and by the old custom, after he had abjured his crime, he could go down by this one road to the sh.o.r.e and leave the island. But if he strayed never so little aside, he lost the benefit of the sanctuary and was liable to the law. Just imagine some old robber or cut-throat marching down his path to the sea, escorted by the churchwardens, with other men watching his every step, ready to seize him if he swerved. Some of these sanctuary roads are still the main highways."

"I think the island history is so interesting," said Win. "I suppose it is a fact that Prince Charles did take refuge here?"

"No doubt of it," Max replied, looking critically at the almost completed pulpit decorations. "Indeed, there is a story that he was entertained at Laurel Manor. Ask Uncle about it," he added, not noticing Win's start of interest. "He's awfully keen on that legend. I suppose it is very likely true though I don't know that there is any real proof. There, do you think her ladyship will approve our efforts? Excuse me,--Connie wants her star put in place."

Left alone, Win stood thinking hard. So Prince Charles was reputed to have visited Laurel Manor! What if that chance letter were the proof? If so, was there not more in its message than confirmation of the prince's stay? One thing was certain--he _must_ get acquainted with Colonel Lisle.

So many industrious hands soon completed their task. After the gay workers departed, Connie lingered for a last look.

"Come and see it to-morrow morning," she said to the three.

"Probably you'll wish to go into town at eleven, but come here for the early service at six."

Edith looked doubtful. "Sister planned to go to St. Aubin's," she said.

"I couldn't come alone," said Frances, her disappointment showing in her face.

"I'll come with you," offered Win so unexpectedly that his sister frankly stared.

"Good!" said Constance. "There'll be no music and only candle- light, but you'll love it. I wouldn't miss it for the world."

That very evening Fran was forced to admit that a Jersey Christmas had its compensations. The doors of the back parlor, mysteriously locked for days, were opened and in the room, gay with holly, mistletoe, and laurestinus, appeared a most delightful little Christmas tree, itself rather foreign in appearance since it was a laurel growing in a big pot. Real English holly concealed the base and merry tapers twinkled a welcome.

Estelle had spent much time and thought, coupled with anxious fears lest these young Americans whose lives seemed so sunny, might not care for so simple a pleasure. Their appreciation, not in the least put on for the occasion, quite repaid her.

Inexpensive little gifts adorned the tree, each bearing a number.

"Draw a slip," commanded Roger, appearing before his mother with a box. "Take a chance and see what you'll get."

When all the slips were distributed, Roger as instructed by Estelle, took a gift at random from the tree and called its attached number.

"Who has eight?" he demanded.

"Here," said Win, giving up his slip in exchange for the tiny package, and presently laughing heartily over an absurd mechanical mouse. Ridiculous misfits in the presents made the distribution all the funnier, and the rejoicing was great when Roger, who didn't believe in washing his hands without being told to do so, drew a wee cake of soap. He took it good-naturedly and considered as an added joke, Estelle's hasty and shocked a.s.surance that it was not meant especially for him.

Strange to say, some packages appeared on that tree of which Estelle was ignorant, conveyed by Roger to the proper persons.

Edith was rendered speechless with joy over several lovely gifts, and tears filled Estelle's eyes. Nor were Nurse and Annette forgotten. The Thaynes had certainly lived up to the American reputation for generosity.

Then Nurse brought a big bowl filled with darting blue flames. The courageous shut one or both eyes, stuck in a fearful finger and extracted a fig or a fat raisin. Egg-nog and roasted Italian chestnuts completed Estelle's entertainment save for the holiday dinner of roast beef and plum pudding to follow on the morrow.

Unexpected by Estelle, her plans were supplemented by a group of parish school-children, led by the old organist, who came through the streets, singing Christmas carols: "G.o.d save you, merry gentlemen," "Good King Wenceslaus" and "As Joseph was a-waukin'"

In fascination Fran lingered on the steps long after the singers were gone, pleased with her distribution of pennies from her mother's purse and biscuit provided by Estelle. Far in the distance she could hear their voices. Yes, after all, an English Christmas had its points.

Next morning, Nurse's call seemed incredibly early to Frances, though she found the whole household awake and exchanging greetings. Mrs. Thayne decided to accompany Win and Fran, and Roger alone remained in bed.

The stars still shone brightly, making it seem the middle of the night, save for the hurrying groups bound for church, some still singing carols or hymns.

"It's like October weather at home, isn't it, Mother?" said Frances as they walked on through the crisp, clear air. "See, there are lights in the windows and people leaving lanterns in the porch."

The moment she entered, Frances understood what Connie meant by not missing that service for "anything in the world," and Win felt it even more keenly, being by nature more impressionable.

The utter quiet, broken only by a distant wash of waves,--waves that sometimes broke over the stones in the churchyard,--the candles in the chancel, throwing into high relief Constance's Christmas star and touching with light the jonquils banking steps and altar rail; the dusk in the nave of the church half-revealing scattered groups of people as they knelt in silence under the arched vault where clung the limpets dead a thousand years,--all contributed to the age-old Christmas miracle.

"I feel as though I'd never realized what Christmas meant before,"

thought Win, and somewhat the same feeling came to Frances as her eyes became accustomed to the gloom and she discerned among the kneeling figures her fellow-workers of the day before. Half-way down the nave was the family from the Manor, Constance and Max on either side of a tall gray-haired gentleman. Fran recognized him as the one who had spoken to Win that day in the Royal Square.

Win recognized him also, knew him to be Colonel Lisle and was quickly reminded of that curious old doc.u.ment, as yet a mystery.

How he hoped Miss Connie's school treat would afford an opportunity to meet the owner of the Manor and to take some step toward the solution of that puzzle.

As the service began, Frances stole a glance at the windows banked with glossy laurel and holly, over which she and Edith had worked with Rose LeCroix and her sister Muriel. Just because she had helped do something for that little church in a foreign land, Fran experienced a sudden blessed feeling of belonging a bit. A pleasant glow crept into her heart, a sense of the spirit that makes the world akin at Christmas.

CHAPTER X

THE BUN WORRY

"I have helped you very nicely all the morning, Connie, and I hope you appreciate my goodness. But as for messing about the lawn with a bun worry in full blast,--thank you, Maxfield is not on. One doesn't want to let one's self in for everything."

"Your goodness isn't such as to alarm me," sighed Constance, casting a worried glance about the Manor green. "You're in no danger of acquiring saintship. Dad has balked, too. What'll I do alone?"