“Merry Christmas, Charlie,” George squeaked.
Life was very good.
[Another adventure of Charlie and his friends is chronicled in the author’s story, “After All.”]
WHEN THE YULE LOG BURNS, by Leona Dalrymple
PART ONE
In Which We Light a Yule Log
I. KINDLINGS
Polly, the Doctor’s old white mare, plodded slowly along the snowy country road by the picket fence, and turned in at the snow-capped posts. Ahead, roofed with the ragged ermine of a newly-fallen snow, the Doctor’s old-fashioned house loomed gray-white through the snow-fringed branches of the trees, a quaint iron lantern, which was picturesque by day and luminous and cheerful by night, hanging within the square, white-pillared portico at the side. That the many-paned, old-fashioned window on the right framed the snow-white head of Aunt Ellen Leslie, the Doctor’s wife, the old Doctor himself was comfortably aware—for his kindly eyes missed nothing.
He could have told you with a reflective stroke of his grizzled beard that the snow had stopped but an hour since, and that now through the white and heavy lacery of branches to the west glowed the flame-gold of a winter sunset, glinting ruddily over the box-bordered brick walk, the orchard and the comfortable barn which snugly housed his huddled cattle; that the grasslands to the south were thickly blanketed in white; that beyond in the evergreen forest the stately pines and cedars were marvelously draped and coiffed in snow. For the old Doctor loved these things of Nature as he loved the peace and quiet of his home.
So, as he turned in at the driveway and briskly resigned the care of Polly to old Asher, his seamed and wrinkled helper, the Doctor’s eyes were roving now to a corner, snug beneath a tattered rug of snow, where by summer Aunt Ellen’s petunias and phlox and larkspur grew—and now to the rose-bushes ridged in down, and at last to his favorite winter nook, a thicket of black alders freighted with a wealth of berries. How crimson they were amid the white quiet of the garden! And the brightly colored fruit of the barberry flamed forth from a snowy bush like the cheerful elf-lamps of a wood-gnome.
There was equal cheer and color in the old-fashioned sitting-room to which the Doctor presently made his way, for a wood fire roared with a winter gleam and crackle in the fireplace and Aunt Ellen Leslie rocked slowly back and forth by the window with a letter in her hand.
“Another letter!” exclaimed the Doctor, warming his hands before the blazing log. “God bless my soul, Ellen, we’re becoming a nuisance to Uncle Sam!” But for all the brisk cheeriness of his voice he was furtively aware that Aunt Ellen’s brown eyes were a little tearful, and presently crossing the room to her side, he gently drew the crumpled letter from her hand and read it.
“So John’s not coming home for Christmas either, eh?” he said at last. “Well, now, that is too bad! Now, now, now, mother,” as Aunt Ellen surreptitiously wiped her glasses, “we should feel proud to have such busy children. There’s Ellen and Margaret and Anne with a horde of youngsters to make a Christmas for, and John—bless your heart, Ellen, there’s a busy man! A broker now is one of the very busiest of men! And what with John’s kiddies and his beautiful society wife and that grand Christmas eve ball he mentions—why—” the Doctor cleared his throat—“...why, dear me, it’s not to be wondered at, say I! And Philip and Howard—busy as—as—as architects and lawyers usually are at Christmas,” he finished lamely. “As for Ralph—” the Doctor looked away—“...well, Ralph hasn’t spent a Christmas home since college days.”
“It will be the first Christmas we ever spent without some of them home,” ventured Aunt Ellen, biting her lip courageously, whereupon the old Doctor patted her shoulder gently with a cheery word of advice.
Now, there was something in the touch of the old Doctor’s broad and gentle hand that always soothed, wherefore Aunt Ellen presently wiped her troublesome glasses again and bravely tried to smile, and the Doctor making a vast and altogether cheerful to-do about turning the blazing log, began a brisk description of his day. It had ended, professionally, at a lonely little house in the heart of the forest, which Jarvis Hildreth, dying but a scant year since, had bequeathed to his orphaned children, Madge and Roger.
“And, Ellen,” finished the Doctor, soberly, “there he sits by the window, day by day, poor lame little lad!—staring away so wistfully at the forest, and Madge, bless her brave young heart!—she bastes and stitches and sews away, all the while weaving him wonderful yarns about the pines and cedars to amuse him—all out of her pretty head, mind you! A lame brother and a passion for books—” said the Doctor, shaking his head, “a poor inheritance for the lass. They worry me a lot, Ellen, for Madge looks thin and tired, and today—” the Doctor cleared his throat, “I think she had been crying.”
“Crying!” exclaimed Aunt Ellen, her kindly brown eyes warm with sympathy. “Dear, dear!—And Christmas only three days off! Why, John, dear, we must have them over here for Christmas. To be sure! And we’ll have a tree for little Roger and a Christmas masquerade and such a wonderful Christmas altogether as he’s never known before!” And Aunt Ellen, with the all-embracing motherhood of her gentle heart aroused, fell to planning a Christmas for Madge and Roger Hildreth that would have gladdened the heart of the Christmas saint himself.
Face aglow, the old Doctor bent and patted his wife’s wrinkled hand.
“Why, Ellen,” he confessed, warmly, “it’s the thing I most desired! Dear me, it’s a very strange thing indeed, my dear, how often we seem to agree. I’ll hitch old Billy to the sleigh and go straight after them now while Annie’s getting supper!” And at that instant one glance at Aunt Ellen Leslie’s fine old face, framed in the winter firelight which grew brighter as the checkerboard window beside her slowly purpled, would have revealed to the veriest tyro why the Doctor’s patients liked best to call her “Aunt” Ellen.
So, with a violent jingle of sleigh-bells, the Doctor presently shot forth again into the white and quiet world, and as he went, gliding swiftly past the ghostly spruces by the roadside, oddly enough, despite his cheerful justification to Aunt Ellen, he was fiercely rebelling at the defection of his children. John and his lovely wife might well have foregone their fashionable ball. And Howard and Philip—their holiday-keeping Metropolitan clubs were shallow artificialities surely compared with a home-keeping reunion about the Yule log. As for the children of Anne and Ellen and Margaret—well, the Doctor could just tell those daughters of his that their precious youngsters liked a country Christmas best—he knew they did!—not the complex, steam-heated hot-house off-shoot of that rugged flower of simpler times when homes were further apart, but a country Christmas of keen, crisp cold and merry sleigh-bells, of rosy cheeks and snow-balls, of skating on the Deacon’s pond and a jubilant hour after around the blazing wood-fire: a Christmas, in short, such as the old Doctor himself knew and loved, of simplicity and sympathy and home-keeping heartiness!
And then—there was Ralph—but here the Doctor’s face grew very stern. Wild tales came to him at times of this youngest and most gifted of his children—tales of intemperate living interlarded with occasional tales of brilliant surgical achievement on the staff of St. Michael’s. For the old Doctor had guided the steps of his youngest son to the paths of medicine with a great hope, long abandoned.
Ah—well! The Doctor sighed, abruptly turning his thoughts to Madge and Roger. They at least should know the heart-glow of a real Christmas! A masquerade party of his neighbors Christmas eve, perhaps, such as Aunt Ellen had suggested, and a Yule-log—but now it was, in the midst of his Christmas plans, that a daring notion flashed temptingly through the Doctor’s head, was banished with a shrug and flashed again, whereupon with his splendid capacity for prompt decision, the Doctor suddenly wheeled old Billy about and went sleighing in considerable excitement into the village whence a host of night-telegrams went singing over the busy wires to startle eventually a slumbering conscience or so. And presently when the Doctor drew up with a flourish before the lonely little house
among the forest pines, his earlier depression had vanished.
So with a prodigious stamping of snow from his feet and a cheerful wave of his mittened hand to the boy by the window, the Doctor bustled cheerily indoors and with kindly eyes averted from the single tell-tale sauce-pan upon the fire, over which Madge Hildreth had bent with sudden color, fell to bustling about with a queer lump in his throat and talking ambiguously of Aunt Ellen’s Christmas orders, painfully conscious that the girl’s dark face had grown pitifully white and tense and that Roger’s wan little face was glowing. And when the fire was damped by the Doctor himself, and his Christmas guests hustled into dazed, protesting readiness, the Doctor deftly muffled the thin little fellow in blankets and gently carried him out to the waiting sleigh with arms that were splendid and sturdy and wonderfully reassuring.
“There, there, little man!” he said cheerfully, “we’ve not hurt the poor lame leg once, I reckon. And now we’ll just help Sister Madge blow out the lamp and lock the door and be off to Aunt Ellen!”
But, strangely enough, the Doctor halted abruptly in the doorway and turned his kindly eyes away to the shadowy pines. And Sister Madge, on her knees by Roger’s bed, sobbing and praying in an agony of relief, presently blew out the lamp herself and wiped her eyes. For nights among the whispering pines are sleepless and long when work is scarce and Christmas hovers with cold, forbidding eyes over the restless couch of a dear and crippled brother.
II. WISHING SPARKS
Round the Doctor’s house frolicked the brisk, cold wind of a Christmas eve, boisterously rattling the luminous checkerboard windows and the Christmas wreaths, tormenting the cheerful flame in the old iron lantern and whisking away the snow from the shivering elms, whistling eerily down the Doctor’s chimney to startle a strange little cripple by the Doctor’s fire, who, queerly enough, would not be startled.
For to Roger there had never been a wind so Christmasy, or a fire so bright and warm, and his solemn black eyes glowed! Never a wealth of holly and barberry and alder-berries so crimson as that which rimmed the snug old house in Christmas flame! Never such evergreen wreaths, for, tucked up here in this very chair by Aunt Ellen, he had made them all himself of boughs from the evergreen forest! And never surely such enticing odors as had floated out for the last two days from old Annie’s pots and pans as she baked and roasted and boiled and stewed in endless preparation for Christmas day and the Christmas eve party, scolding away betimes in indignant whispers at old Asher, who, by reason of a chuckling air of mystery, was in perpetual disgrace.
And presently—Roger caught his breath and furtively eyed the grandfather’s clock, ticking boastfully through a welter of holly—presently it would be time for the Doctor’s masquerade, and later, when the clock struck twelve and the guests unmasked, that great surprise which the doctor had planned so carefully by telegram!
But now from the kitchen came the sound of the Doctor singing: “Come bring with a noise, My merry, merry boys, The Christmas log to the firing!”
Roger clapped his thin little hands with a cry of delight, for old Asher and the Doctor were bringing in the Yule-log to light it presently with the charred remains of the Christmas log of a year ago. Tomorrow another Yule-log would crackle and blaze and shower on the hearth, for the old Doctor molded a custom to suit his fancy. And here was Annie splendidly aproned in white, following them in, and Aunt Ellen in a wonderful old brown-gold brocade disinterred for the doctor’s party from a lavender-sweet cedar chest in the garret. And Sister Madge!—Roger stared—radiant in old-fashioned crimson satin and holly, colorful foils indeed for her night-black hair and eyes! As for the doctor himself, Roger now began to realize that with his powdered wig, his satin breeches and gaily-flowered waistcoat—to say nothing of silken hose and silver buckles—he was by far the most gorgeous figure of them all!
“I,” said the doctor presently, striking the burning Yule-log until the golden sparks flew out, “I charge thee, log, to burn out old wrongs and heart-burnings!” and then, in accordance with a cherished custom of his father’s he followed the words with a wish for the good of his household.
“And I,” said old Asher as he struck the log, “I wish for the good of the horses and cows and all the other live things and,” with a terrific chuckle of mystery, “I wish for things aplenty this night.”
“And I,” said old Annie, with a terrible look at her imprudent spouse as she took the poker, “I wish for the harvest—and wit for them that lack it!”
But Roger had the poker now, his black eyes starry.
“I—I wish for more kind hearts like Aunt Ellen’s and the Doctor’s,” he burst forth with a strangled sob as the sparks showered gold, “for more—more sisters like Sister Madge—” his voice quivered and broke—“and for—for all boys who cannot walk and run—” but Sister Madge’s arm was already around his shoulders and the old Doctor was patting his arm—wherefore he smiled bravely up at them through glistening tears.
“Now, now, now, little lad!” reminded the Doctor, “it’s Christmas eve!” Whereupon he drew a chair to the fire and began a wonderful Christmas tale about St. Boniface and Thunder Oak and the first Christmas tree. A wonderful old Doctor this—reflected Roger wonderingly. He knew so many different things—how to scare away tears and all about mistletoe and Druids, and still another story about a fir tree which Roger opined respectfully was nothing like so good as Sister Madge’s story of the Cedar King who stood outside his window.
“Very likely not!” admitted the Doctor gravely.
“I’ve nothing like the respect for Mr. Hans Andersen myself that I have for Sister Madge.”
“I thought,” ventured Roger shyly, slipping his hand suddenly into the Doctor’s, “that Doctors only knew how to cure folks!”
“Bless your heart, laddie,” exclaimed the Doctor, considerably staggered; “they know too little of that, I fear. My conscience!” as the grandfather’s clock came into the conversation with a throaty boom, “it’s half-past seven!” and from then on Roger noticed the Doctor was uneasy, presently opining, with a prodigious “Hum!” that Aunt Ellen looked mighty pale and tired and that he for one calculated a little sleigh ride would brace her up for the party. This Aunt Ellen immediately flouted and the Doctor was eventually forced to pathetic and frequent reference to his own great need of air.
“Very well, my dear,” said Aunt Ellen mildly, striving politely to conceal her opinion of his mental health, “I’ll go, since you feel so strongly about it, but a sleigh ride in such a wind and such clothes when one is expecting party guests—” but the relieved Doctor was already bundling the brown-gold brocade into a fur-lined coat and furtively winking at Roger! Thus it was that even as the Doctor’s sleigh flew merrily by the Deacon’s pond, far across the snowy fields to the north gleamed the lights of the 7:52 rushing noisily into the village.
III. BY THE FIRE
How it was that the old Doctor somehow lost his way on roads he had traveled since boyhood was a matter of exceeding mystery and annoyance to Aunt Ellen, but lose it he did. By the time he found it and jogged frantically back home, the old house was already aswarm with masked, mysterious guests and old Asher with a lantern was peering excitedly up the road. Holly-trimmed sleighs full of merry neighbors in disguise were dashing gaily up—and in the midst of all the excitement the Doctor miraculously discovered his own mask and Aunt Ellen’s in the pocket of his great-coat. So hospitable Aunt Ellen, considerably perturbed that so many of her guests had arrived in her absence—an absence carefully planned by the Doctor—betook herself to the masquerade, and the Christmas party began with bandits and minstrels and jesters and all sorts of queer folk flitting gaily about the house. They paid gallant court to Roger in his great chair by the fire and presently began to present for his approval an impromptu Mummer’s play.
And now the lights were all out and a masked and courtly old gentleman in satin breeches was standing in the bright firelight pouring brandy into a giant bowl of raisins; and now he was
gallantly bowing to Roger himself who was plainly expected to assist with a lighted match. He did this with trembling fingers and eyes so big and black and eloquent that the Doctor cleared his throat; and as the leaping flames from the snapdragon bowl flashed weirdly over the bizarre company in the shadows. Roger, eagerly watching them snatch the raisins from the fire, fell to trembling in an ecstasy of delight. Presently a slender arm in a crimson sleeve, whose wearer was never very far from Roger’s chair, slipped quietly about his shoulders and held him very tight. So, an endless round of merry Christmas games until, deep and mellow came at last the majestic boom of the grandfather’s clock striking twelve and with it a hearty babel of Christmas greetings as the Doctor, smiling significantly down into Roger’s excited eyes, gave the signal to unmask.
By the fire a mysterious little knot of guests had been silently gathering, and now as Aunt Ellen Leslie removed her mask, hand and mask halted in mid-air as if fixed by the stare of Medusa, and the face above the brown-gold brocade flamed crimson. For here in Puritan garb was John Leslie, Jr., and his radiant wife—and Philip and Howard, smiling Quakers, and Anne and Margaret and Ellen with a trio of husbands, and beyond a laughing jester in cap and bells, whose dark, handsome face was a little too reckless and tired about the eyes, Roger thought, for a really happy Christmas guest—young Doctor Ralph.
As Aunt Ellen’s startled eyes swept slowly from the smiling faces of her children to the proud and chuckling Doctor who had spent Heaven knows how many dollars in telegraphed commands—she laughed a little and cried a little and then mingled the two so queerly that she needs must wipe her eyes and catch at Roger’s chair for support, whereupon a kindly little hand slipped suddenly into hers and Roger looked up and smiled serenely.
“Don’t cry, Aunt Ellen!” he begged shyly. “I knew all about it too and the Doctor—he did it all!”
The Christmas Megapack Page 13