“As soon as ever you can’t eat anymore, you must order home the tree, ’Rusalem, and then go with Joe to invite the party, while I see to dinner and dress up the pine as well as I can in such a hurry.”
“Yes, Mum,” answered Mr. ’Rusalem with alacrity, though how she was going to do her part was not clear to him. But he believed her capable of working any miracle within the power of mortal woman; and having plans of his own, he soon trudged away with Joe prancing at his side, so like the lost Neddy, in the little cap and coat, that Mrs. Podgers forgot her party to stand watching them down the crowded street, with eyes that saw very dimly when they looked away again.
Never mind how she did it; the miracle was wrought, for Mrs. Podgers and her maid Betsey fell to work with a will. And when women set their hearts on anything, it is a known fact that they seldom fail to accomplish it. By noon everything was ready—the tree waiting in the best parlor, the dinner smoking on the table, and Mrs. Podgers at the window to catch the first glimpse of her coming guests.
A last thought struck her as she stood waiting. There was but one high chair in the house, and the big ones would be doubtless too low for the little people. Bent on making them as comfortable as her motherly heart could desire, she set about mending the matter by bringing out from Podgers’ bookcase several fat old ledgers, and arranging them in the chairs. While busily dusting one of these, it slipped from her hands, and as it fell, a paper fluttered from among the leaves. She picked it up, looked at it, dropped her duster, and became absorbed. It was a small sheet filled with figures, and here and there short memoranda—not an interesting looking document in the least—but Mrs. Podgers stood like a statue till she had read it several times; then she caught her breath, clapped her hands, laughed and cried together, and put the climax to her extraordinary behavior by running across the room and embracing the astonished little teapot.
How long she would have gone on in this wild manner it is impossible to say, had not the jingle of bells and a shrill, small cheer announced that the party had arrived. Whisking the mysterious paper into her pocket and dressing her agitated countenance in smiles, she hastened to open the door before chilly fingers could find the bell.
Such a merry load as that was! Such happy faces looking out from under the faded hoods and caps! Such a hearty “Hurrah for Mrs. Podgers!” greeted her straight from the grateful hearts that loved her the instant she appeared! And what a perfect Santa Claus Mr. ’Rusalem made, with his sleigh full of bundles as well as children, his face full of sunshine, his arms full of babies whom he held up that they too might clap their little hands while he hurrahed with all his might! Even reindeers, or the immemorial white beard and fur cap of Mr. Claus, could not have improved the picture.
It was good to see Mrs. Podgers welcome them all in a way that gave the shyest courage, made the poorest forget patched jackets or ragged gowns, and caused them all to feel that this indeed was a merry Christmas. It was better still to see Mrs. Podgers preside over the table, dealing out turkey and pudding with such a bounteous hand that the small feasters often paused, in sheer astonishment, at the abundance before them, and then fell to eating again with renewed energy, as if they feared to wake up presently and find the whole meal a dream.
It was best of all to see Mrs. Podgers gather them about her afterwards, hearing their little stories, learning their many wants, and winning their young hearts by such gentle wiles that they soon regarded her as some beautiful, benignant fairy, who had led them from a cold, dark world into the land of innocent delights they had imagined, longed for, yet never hoped to find.
Then came the tree, hung thick with bonbons, fruit and toys, gay mittens and tippets, comfortable socks and hoods, and, lower down, more substantial but less showy gifts; for Mrs. Podgers had nearly exhausted the Dorcas basket that fortunately chanced to be with her just then. There was no time for candles, but, as if he understood the matter and was bent on supplying all deficiencies, the sun shone gloriously on the little tree and made it doubly splendid in the children’s eyes.
It would have touched the hardest heart to watch the children, as they trooped in and stood about the wonderful tree. Some seemed ready to go wild with delight; some folded their hands and sighed with solemn satisfaction; others looked as if bewildered by such unwonted and unexpected good fortune; and when Mr. ’Rusalem told them how this fruitful tree had sprung up from their loving playmate’s broken bough, little Joe hid his face in Mrs. Podgers’ gown and could find no vent for his great happiness but tears. It was not a large tree, but it took a long while to strip it; and even when the last gilded nut was gone, the children still lingered about it, as if they regarded it with affection as a generous benefactor and were loath to leave it.
Next they had a splendid round of games. I don’t know what will be thought of the worthy souls, but Mr. ’Rusalem and Mrs. Podgers played with all their might. Perhaps the reason why he gave himself up so freely to the spirit of the hour was that his disappointment was very heavy; and, according to his simple philosophy, it was wiser to soothe his wounded heart and cheer his sad spirit with the sweet society of little children than to curse fate and reproach a woman.
What was Mrs. Podgers’ reason it is impossible to tell, but she behaved as if some secret satisfaction filled her heart so full that she was glad to let it bubble over in this harmless fashion. Both tried to be children again, and both succeeded capitally, though now and then their hearts got the better of them. Mr. ’Rusalem tossed all the little lads up to the ceiling and caught them; he kissed all the little girls, and, that no one might feel slighted, kissed Mrs. Podgers also.
When they played “Open the Gates,” and the two grown people stood hand in hand while the mirthful troops marched under the tall arch, Mrs. Podgers never once looked Mr. ’Rusalem in the face, but blushed and kept her eyes on the ground, as if she was a bashful girl playing games with some boyish sweetheart. The children saw nothing of all this, and—bless their innocent little hearts!—they wouldn’t have understood it if they had. But it was perfectly evident that the gray-headed gentleman and the mature matron had forgotten all about their years and were in their teens again, for true love is gifted with immortal youth.
When weary with romping, they gathered ’round the fire, and Mr. ’Rusalem told fairy tales, as if his dull ledgers had preserved these childish romances like flowers between their leaves and kept them fresh in spite of time. Mrs. Podgers sung to them, and made them sing with her, till passersby smiled and lingered as the childish voices reached them. Looking through the screen of roses, they caught glimpses of the happy little group singing in the ruddy circle of that Christmas fire.
It was a very humble festival, but with these poor guests came also Love and Charity, Innocence and Joy—the strong, sweet virtues that bless and beautify the world. And though eclipsed by many more splendid celebrations, I think the day was better and the blither for Mrs. Podgers’ little party.
When it was all over—the grateful farewells and riotous cheers as the children were carried home, the twilight raptures of Joe, and the long lullaby before he could extinguish himself enough to go to sleep, the congratulations and clearing up—then Mr. ’Rusalem and Mrs. Podgers sat down to tea. But no sooner were they alone together than Mrs. P. fell into a curious flutter and did the oddest things. She gave Mr. ’Rusalem warm water instead of tea, passed the salt bowl when he asked for the sugar basin, burnt her fingers, laid her handkerchief on the tray, tried to put her fork in her pocket, and went on in such a way that Mr. ’Rusalem began to fear the day had been too much for her.
“You’re tired, Mum,” he said presently, hearing her sigh.
“Not a bit,” she answered briskly, opening the teapot to add more water, but, seeming to forget her purpose, sat looking into its steamy depths as if in search of something. If it was courage, she certainly found it, for all of a sudden she handed the mysterious paper to Mr. ’Rusalem, saying solemnl
y:
“Read that, and tell me if it’s true.”
He took it readily, put on his glasses, and bent to examine it, but gave a start that caused the spectacles to fly off his nose, as he exclaimed:
“Lord, bless me, he said he’d burnt it!”
“Then it is true? Don’t deny it, ’Rusalem; it’s no use, for I’ve caught you at last!” And in her excitement, Mrs. Podgers slapped down the teapot lid as if she had got him inside.
“I assure you, Mum, he promised to burn it. He made me write down the sums, and so on, to satisfy him that I hadn’t took more’n my share of the profits. It was my own; and though he called me a fool, he let me do as I liked, but I never thought it would come up again like this, Mum.”
“Of course you didn’t, for it was left in one of the old ledgers we had down for the dears to sit on. I found it, read it, and understood it in a minute. It was you who helped the mill people, and then hid behind Podgers because you didn’t want to be thanked. When he died and the teapot came, you saw how proud I was of it—how I took comfort in thinking he did the kind things; and for my sake you never told the truth, not even last night, when a word would have done so much. Oh, ’Rusalem, how could you deceive me all these years?”
If Mr. ’Rusalem had desired to answer, he would have had no chance, for Mrs. Podgers was too much in earnest to let anyone speak but herself and hurried on, fearing that her emotion would get the better of her before she had had her say.
“It was like you, but it wasn’t right, for you’ve robbed yourself of the love and honor that was your due. You’ve let people praise Podgers when he didn’t deserve it; you’ve seen me take pride in this because I thought he’d earned it; and you’ve only laughed at it all as if it was a fine joke to do generous things and never take the credit of ’em. Now I know what bank you’ve laid up your hard earnings in, and what a blessed interest you’ll get by and by. Truly they who give to the poor lend to the Lord—and you don’t need to have the good words written on silver, for you keep ’em always in your heart.”
Mrs. Podgers stopped a minute for breath and felt that she was going very fast; for ’Rusalem sat looking at her with so much humility, love, and longing in his honest face that she knew it would be all up with her directly.
“You saw how I grieved for Neddy and gave me this motherless boy to fill his place. You knew I wanted someone to make the house seem like home again, and you offered me the lovingest heart that ever was. You found I wasn’t satisfied to lead such a selfish life, and you showed me how beautiful Charity could make it. You taught me to find duty waiting for me at my own door; and, putting by your own trouble, you’ve helped to make this day the happiest Christmas of my life.”
If it hadn’t been for the teapot, Mrs. Podgers would have given out here; but her hand was still on it, and something in the touch gave her steadiness for one more burst.
“I loved the little teapot for Podgers’ sake; now I love it a hundred times more for yours, because you’ve brought its lesson home to me in a way I never can forget and have been my benefactor as well as theirs, who shall soon know you as well as I do. ’Rusalem, there’s only one way in which I can thank you for all this, and I do it with my whole heart. Last night you asked me for something, and I thought I couldn’t give it to you. Now I’m sure I can, and if you still want it, why—”
Mrs. Podgers never finished that sentence; for, with an impetuosity surprising in one of his age and figure, Mr. ’Rusalem sprang out of his chair and took her in his arms, saying tenderly, in a voice almost inaudible, between a conflicting choke and chuckle: “My dear! My dear! God bless you!”
Louisa May Alcott, A Merry Christmas and Other Christmas Stories
(Series: # )
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