CHAPTER XV

WREATHING HOLLY AND TWINING BAY

Two letters were despatched to Boston that night--one from Jessamy, one from Bab--like a duet chanted to Phyllis. The burden of one was, in brief, that the millennium had come upon earth, for Bab was so happy; and of the other: "Come home, come home!"

Phyllis read them at the breakfast-table, and her face lighted up with such joy that Mrs. Dean noticed it in spite of the preoccupation her morning mail usually involved.

"Dear little Bab is actually engaged to Tom. Oh, I am so thankful!" Phyllis said in reply to Mrs. Dean's inquiry as to the cause of her happiness. "I am afraid, Mrs. Dean, that this means that I shall have to go home as soon as you can get ready to let me."

"For the holidays--not longer?" said the old lady, sharply.

"For always," said Phyllis, gently.

"I should like to know why your cousin's engagement involves breaking yours to me," said Mrs. Dean, disappointment and regret shining even from her eye-glasses and gray curls. "I have tried to make this a home to you, and I hoped to keep you until you should be ready to follow your exasperating 'Bab's' example."

"We had not a positive engagement to each other, dear Mrs. Dean. Please don't think I am breaking an agreement," said Phyllis, distressed. "You have been as good to me as you could be, and I love you gratefully for it; but they want me very much at home, and you won't blame me for liking to be there better than anywhere else, however dear the elsewhere may be."

"I suppose I can't blame you, but it is most disappointing and annoying. You sly little minx! I believe you only ran away to leave the field clear to this Babbie; and, now the danger is past, you are ready to throw me over," said Mrs. Dean, with sudden acumen.

Phyllis laughed, seeing her battle won. She had dreaded the day, and speculated as to the manner in which she should announce to her kind friend that her hour to leave her had come.

There were two weeks wanting to the arrival of Christmas day, and Phyllis was not to start homeward until the twenty-third. The time crawled by, in spite of the young friends who filled every spare moment with pleasure, trying to crowd into the unexpectedly brief time left them in which to enjoy Phyllis all the sight-seeing and visiting of a winter. She felt guilty, fond as she had grown of them all, to tell off each sunset, and count each moment by the beats of feverish pulses.

At last the twenty-third came, and the hour for starting to the station struck.

Rick and his sisters and their friends, Alan Armstrong, and David the Scot, who had become Phyllis's devoted knight, all formed her body-guard, laden with flowers and candy enough to have done credit to a prima donna's farewell.

Mrs. Dean held Phyllis fast as she kissed her good-by. "I forgive you for leaving me, my dear, though I hardly know how I am going to get on without you. You have been all and more than I expected you to be to me; and though I do admit your family's claim to you, I dislike your aunt very deeply for being forced to admit it; and you may tell her so from me, with my best wishes for the coming year. But I won't take no for an answer to my invitation to Hingham next summer, if I live; so be prepared," she said, as the carriage drove up to carry Phyllis away from her.

At the station there were the usual repeated good-bys, when every one strains hard to think of something to say, original and worth remembering, and thus rise equal to the occasion, but succeeds only in repeating the promise and request to write often, and in giving invitations, and assurances of visits and remembrance, reiterated with a fervor that is intended to conceal the conviction that the speaker is falling far below ordinary intelligence. But hearty good will goes far to make up for lack of conversational brilliancy, and Phyllis was surprised to find how fond she and her new friends really were of one another, and that there were tears on her lashes, glad as she was to turn her face toward Gotham. Alan and David wrung both her hands sore, bidding her not forget them, and assuring her that the very first thing they both did when they arrived in New York to seek their fortune--a plan to be carried out after the New Year--would be to come and see her, without which prospect their farewell would have been more dreary. The train moved out at last, past the smiling young faces lined up to nod good-by to Phyllis,--the girls, with tears in their eyes in spite of the smiles, waving wet handkerchiefs from the platform. Phyllis leaned forward to wave as long as the last of the row was in sight, then settled back in her seat with one long sigh for Boston and what it held that was dear to her, and a leap of the heart forward, for now she was really cut adrift from exile, and was homeward bound.

Winter though it was, Phyllis preferred the boat to the train for her journey, and in a short time was tucking away her belongings in her berth, taking supper in the gay dining-room, listening to the band for a little while, then lying down to slumber, which the thought that she was to waken in New York, and not the noise of the engines, rendered very light and fitful.

Far from waking in New York, she was up and dressed, with all her books, flowers, and candy strapped up ready to carry off, before the boat had sighted the upper end of Manhattan Island; and she stood, shivering in the gray light of the December dawn, as one by one the islands of the river crept past, looking very picturesque, seen from that view-point, and with proper forgetfulness of the misery and sin they sheltered.

Phyllis grew so excited she could not stand still as the boat crept down past the lower east side of the city, under the Brooklyn Bridge, swung around the Battery, and drew near her pier on the North River. How beautiful the spire of Trinity looked, and the new, high office buildings which dwarfed it! How beautiful were even the tall brick chimneys of the factories, for they were part of home! Phyllis could have put both arms around the square tower of the Produce Exchange and kissed the face of its clock, or hugged the Barge Office with enthusiasm, unattractive as it might be, ordinarily. She wondered if the immigrants crowded around it would have been as glad to see their distant homes again as she was to see hers. How painfully slow the boat's crew was in making her fast and getting out the gangway! How exasperating were the passengers--so many, too, though it was December--who were in advance of Phyllis, and moved like snails toward the pier! Phyllis was nearly suffocated with the flutterings of her heart, and she could hardly hold her packages, numerous enough to have warranted her dropping some overboard purposely.

At last, at last, she had surrendered her ticket, and was moving off the boat! And there, just at the gangway's end, concealed from her till this moment by the crowd--there was Jessamy, more lovely than ever, with her cheeks glowing, her eyes dancing; pretty Bab, all scintillating with joy; Tom, proud as a whole flock of peacocks in his new dignity, with Nixie--yes, actually Nixie--on a leash, sitting up and behaving like a man and a brother. And her aunt! Phyllis could hardly believe her eyes that Mrs. Wyndham had braved the chill of the winter morning and reached the pier before seven o'clock to prove to the "Unit," who prayed to stray no more, how glad she was to get her back.

Just what happened when Phyllis's foot touched the pier no one could say. She recognized her aunt's veil, Jessamy's fur collar, Bab's nose, and even Tom's rough coat, in the indiscriminate, rapturous embracing she was getting; but everybody was hugging her and talking to her at once, and Phyllis only knew that it was rather like a blissful Tower of Babel.

The party walked up Warren Street, talking still, all at the same time, Bab walking backward and spinning around like Barney in "Martin Chuzzlewit" after the accident. It took all of Tom's ability to keep her and Nixie from under people's feet. Mrs. Wyndham and Jessamy tried to behave with dignity, but it was not a successful attempt; and those who met the party probably set them down as harmless lunatics under the convoy of one young keeper; though there was one ruddy-faced old gentleman who, seizing the spirit of the occasion and the season, wished Babbie "A merry Christmas, my dear," in return for her having run into his portly form, and trodden on his most sensitive corn.

Even Nixie's manners did not admit him to the elevated road, so they took the surface car, Tom remaining on the platform with the small dog and a conductor blinded in the most efficacious manner to his presence; and by the time they had made the long journey to Harlem much of the excitement had cooled down.

It broke out afresh, however, as Phyllis ran from room to room through the little apartment, which looked more beautiful to her than Mrs. Dean's big house on Commonwealth Avenue could ever look, exclaiming over every change, and still more surprised over those things which had not altered. Truce was not one of these. The snowy kitten was a white cat now; but, as Phyllis said, "did not seem to know it," for he ran up her skirt to her shoulder, and sat there as he had done when he was not much bigger than a thistle-ball, proving that he recognized her, for this was a mark of affection he had always reserved for his mistress alone.

"Do you remember last Christmas eve?" asked Phyllis, after breakfast, as they all pushed back their coffee-cups with the involuntary movement of those who have satisfied hunger.

"Are we likely to forget it?" said Jessamy, with a shudder. "It did not mean anything to you, though; oh, Phyllis, this ought to be much more than merely a '_merry_ Christmas' to us!"

"We are going to keep it in baronial style," said Tom. "There are tons, to speak comprehensively, of green stuff coming here to-day, and we are going to trim the Land of Canaan till Birnam Wood won't be a twig beside it. And to-morrow we're going to have a Christmas-tree, and invite our friends, preceded by a dinner to which we shall not invite any one, because the dining-room is too small, and the turkey fills all the spaces we do not require. He is to be offered up to you, Phyllis, in honor of your repentant return from your wild wanderings."

"Isn't that a delightful program!" cried Phyllis, the joy in her eyes arising more from noting how thoroughly Tom had assumed his place as the son of the little family, than from the prospect of Christmas festivities, however blithe.

All day long the girls climbed step-ladders and wound ropes of evergreen till their hands were stiff, but their hearts so light that they hardly knew the discomfort. By night the little place was a bower of green, with red holly-berries shining in every available corner like cheery little lanterns signaling coming gladness.

Not one day had passed during the six months of Phyllis's absence without a letter from her crossing another going to her from home; and yet, though the three tongues had rattled as fast as they could move all day, Jessamy, Phyllis, and Bab talked till midnight, and fell asleep exhausted, wishing each other "Merry Christmas," not having told half the history of those eventful days of absence.

Christmas day was bright and sunny--not that it mattered with so much sunshine within doors. Violet, who slept at home, "because," said Bab, "the bath-tub was not long enough for a bed, and there was no room for her anywhere else"--Violet arrived earlier than usual, her face beaming with anticipation of pleasure, for she was that rare servant to whom "company" was a delight.

Mrs. Wyndham peered at Tom at the foot of the table, from her place at the head, over a barricade of turkey, and each heart throbbed with gratitude that it was their own turkey, served on their own table, and that the year that had passed had proved that a home and happiness might be theirs, although loss of money had made the maintenance of that home not without its difficulties.

Barbara sat at Tom's right hand, and Tom's youngest sister at Mrs. Wyndham's right. Phyllis, watching jealously for proofs of Tom's love for Bab, was more than satisfied. Tom and Babbie were not a sentimental pair, but there was a quiet certainty of affection and a perfect comradeship between them that guaranteed a love founded on the best and most enduring basis. And Alice Leighton was a girl after their own hearts. Bab was surely fortunate, and Phyllis rejoiced unselfishly.

Although the little parlor had seemed filled in every corner, one had been cleared for the tree, and a curtain hung across it that there might be something in the celebration that Phyllis had not seen, since the festivities had taken on this special form in honor of her return.

At a little after eight the bell tingled, and many feet echoed up the stairs.

"Open the door, Phyl," cried Bab from her room. Neither she nor Jessamy would allow Phyllis a glimpse of them dressing.

Phyllis did as she was bidden, and started back in amazement from a motley assemblage of characters from the four quarters of the globe, and all the realms of fairyland, as bewildered Phyllis at first thought.

Santa Claus led the way--a small man, but only when measured perpendicularly; in diameter he was immense. After him came Cinderella and her godmother; then Aunt Henrietta, who disdained masking and costuming, and came in her own proper--most proper--person. Next followed Red Riding Hood, a Viking's Daughter, Old Mother Hubbard, Pocahontas, Little Nell with her grandfather, Bo-peep with a woolly lamb under one arm, and many other old friends, those known in the nursery predominating, since it was a Christmas-tree party, and childhood, human and divine, the ruling spirit of the feast.

For a moment Phyllis did not know how to act. She felt out of place, with her own face undisguised confronting the queer figures bowing and saluting her cordially by name, not one of whom she knew. But she rallied quickly, welcomed them politely, wishing that Jessamy and Bab would hasten to help her out. But Jessamy and Bab were not forthcoming. After a few moments Phyllis realized it was because they too were costumed and masked, mixing with the other mummers.

Old King Cole stepped out of the crowd as Phyllis was wondering what could be done with so many in such small space, and calling for his fiddlers three, demanded an old English dance. There is nothing like ignoring a difficulty when there is no way of doing away with it. The idea of dancing when she was fearful there would not be room for all the guests merely to stand rather took Phyllis's breath away; but everybody seemed to fold himself or herself up to make room, and the couples for the old country dance were on the floor in a twinkling.

"It's because they are used to living in books, so can become quite flat," Bobby Shafto explained to her as he rose to lead out the Sleeping Beauty, who indicated her previous condition by poppies all over her costume and in her hair, but showed no sign of relapsing from decided wakefulness.

"Aren't there people outside of books who are flatter than those in them?" asked Phyllis; but she was not thinking of plays on words, but that the dancers of to-night were probably the actors in the theatricals of last May, who had then learned the old dance, and that if she watched she should discover which were Jessamy and Bab, and which Jessamy's friend, Mr. Lane, in regard to whom she felt considerable curiosity. It was not hard to distinguish Jessamy, who had a certain manner of using her hands all her own. She was the Sleeping Beauty, and Phyllis guessed that Bobby Shafto was Mr. Lane--or should it be the other way?

It was not long before she discovered Bab in the guise of Little Miss Muffet, and a tall Little Boy Blue, with a huge Japanese spider on a sort of small fishing-pole which he dangled before the nervous little person who lunched out of doors on curds and whey, was Tom.

"And who am I?" asked Cinderella's godmother, stopping before Phyllis, smiling behind her muslin mask at the girl's preoccupied face.

"I know who the fairy godmother ought to be," said Phyllis. "If you aren't Mrs. Van Alyn, then it's your own character which is the disguise."

"Bravo! You have been getting clever over there in the land of Athena Junior," laughed the godmother, and her voice proved Phyllis right.

"And me?" cried Cinderella, impatiently. "Who am I?"

"I have no idea," Phyllis was slowly beginning, when Cinderella interrupted her.

"How can you be so dull?" she cried. "Who is always sitting in the ashes, and likes them?"

"Why, Ruth!" cried Phyllis, and hugged her friend until some of the realistic black spots on her gown were transferred to her own.

It was not a very conventional party. The room was "so crowded there was no space for stiffness," said Bab, truly; but everybody seemed to be having the nicest time--even Aunt Henrietta. To be sure, Phyllis heard her suggesting to Mrs. Wyndham that parties were a great extravagance for people in straitened circumstances, but that was said rather as an oblation to her custom of fault-finding, and not heartily; and a moment later she added graciously that "the girls are improving daily. Even Phyllis is becoming more and more a Wyndham; they are all clear Wyndhams."

"Phyllis is just as much a Wyndham, certainly, as her cousins," laughed Mrs. Wyndham.

"Ah, but she is not poor Henry's daughter," said Aunt Henrietta so decidedly that the remark became at once illuminative in effect, if not in matter.

"Ladies in the center, as for the quadrille figure," called Old King Cole, who acted as master of ceremonies. "Men join hands around them; ladies form line, hands raised, men dance through, come down outside, take places, a man beside each lady."

A quaint and merry air was played by a pretty young girl whom Phyllis had never seen, and King Cole's directions were carried out, almost without a mistake.

"Left hand to partner, right hand on mask," called that jovial person. "Ready!"

The little creature at the piano struck three chords, while the masqueraders took position. It really was very pretty, small as the space was.

Suddenly, obeying another chord, every voice poured out in the carol:

"Christ was born on Christmas Day, Wreathe the holly, twine the bay,"

and sang it through to the end. Then a single chord was struck, and instantly every mask was swept off by the raised right hands, and the company made a deep bow, crying in unison: "Merry Christmas!"

It was charming; and while Phyllis and the few who were not a part of the figure applauded wildly, Santa Claus, who proved to be, of all unexpected persons, Lawyer Hurd, began to strip the tree.

There were presents for every one. Phyllis had saved her own packages, tucked into her trunk by Mrs. Dean, to open now; and all the little trinkets she had made or got together for her family they had made her keep for the tree. Violet, shining and smiling in the background, was made happy; and Truce received a chicken wish-bone, with plenty of meat on it, and Nixie a French chop, that being the kind of comfit suited to their palates, each placed in a candy-box ornamented with a picture of a cat and a dog respectively. Bab opened a small case Santa Claus handed her, and flushed with pleasure. A little miniature of Tom smiled up at her, and on the back was engraved: "Years pass away; Love lasts alway." Since that morning a diamond, set as lightly as possible, shone on Barbara's little left hand like a drop of dew.

But Phyllis's surprise was so complete and delightful that no one was happier than she. She had written since she had been away and sent to Jessamy two or three short stories for her illustrating, and had wondered what had become of them, knowing that Jessamy had done the work and sent them to magazines. No one told her their fate, so she did not ask, being more sensitive about these little attempts than any one suspected. Now the explanation lay before her in the delightful shape of a crisp fifty-dollar bill.

The first story, written before she had left home, Jessamy had sent to several of the larger magazines, and received it back each time with a personal note of praise and encouragement. At last it had found its way to a magazine with a larger circulation and smaller subscription price than any of the others, and the editor had not only accepted the story, but told Jessamy he would take all she could give him of equal merit; and especially requested her to illustrate for him other work besides her cousin's. The second story Phyllis sent had been refused, but the third was accepted with praise; and now the money for both lay in her hand to complete the happiness of her home-coming. It was not a great sum--the magazine would have paid more to some one whose name was known; but Phyllis considered it tremendous, and felt as though her five right-hand fingers had suddenly been endowed with the Midas touch.

Jessamy and she had a rapture after all their friends had gone. It had been a beautiful Christmas Day, and the very nicest evening the girls remembered to have spent; but it was best of all to bid the people good-night, dear as many of them were to them, and sit down alone, a "square" once more, at their "ain fireside," represented, as Babbie pointed out, by a gilded steam radiator.

Jessamy was paid ten to twenty dollars each for her illustrations. She and Phyllis hugged each other in speechless anticipation of the wealth that they were to pile up. Yet a vision of Bobby Shafto, and a look in his eyes that night as they rested on the Sleeping Beauty, as if he would dearly have liked the privilege of waking her in the manner of the prince in the story, filled Phyllis with foreboding that their collaboration might be short. But she was at home again, and everything smiled on their hopes. "A merry Christmas and a happy New Year!" Ah, yes, very, very happy. And with that thought in her grateful heart, Phyllis fell asleep, with Truce purring on her arm.