"Tom, darling, take care of baby; do not let her get out of the cradle, while mamma goes to the door." Downstairs to the door. The gale has doubled its rage. How ever did it get in behind the storm-door outside?
That "_whang_" was the blow with which the door, wrenched off its hinges, was flung against the side of the wood-house. Nothing can be done but to bolt the storm-door to the other passage, and bolt the outer window shutters, and then go back to the children.
"Once there was a little boy, and he had two kittens, and he named one Minna, and one Brenda"--
"No, mamma, no! one Muff, and one"--
"Oh, yes! my darling! once there was a little boy, and he had two kittens, and he named one Buff, and one Muff. And one day he went to walk"--
Heavens! the lanterns! Who was to trim the lamps? Strange to say, because this was wholly out of her daily routine, the men always caring for it of course, Laura had not once thought of it till now. And now it was after one o'clock. But now she did think of it with a will. "Come, Tommy, come and help mamma." And she bundled him up in his thickest storm rig. "Come up into the lantern." Here the boy had never come before. He was never frightened when he was with her. Else he might well have been frightened. And he was amazed there in the whiteness; drifts of white snow on the lee-side and the weather-side; clouds of white snow on the south-west sides and north-east sides; snow; snow everywhere; nothing but whiteness wherever he looked round.
Laura made short shift of those wicks which had burned all through the night before. But she had them ready. She wound up the carcels for their night's work. Again and again she drew her oil and filled up her reservoirs. And as she did so, an old text came on her, and she wondered whether Father Spaulding knew how good a text it would be for Christmas. And the fancy touched her, poor child, and as she led little Tom down into the nursery again, she could not help opening into the Bible Parson Spaulding gave her and reading:--
"'But the wise took oil in their vessels with their lamps. While the bridegroom tarried, they all slumbered and slept.' Dear Tommy, dear Tommy, my own child, we will not sleep, will we? 'While the bridegroom tarried,' O my dear Father in Heaven, let him come. 'And at midnight there was a cry made, Behold, the bridegroom cometh, go ye out to meet him;'" and she devoured little Tommy with kisses, and cried, "We will go, my darling, we will go, if he comes at the first hour,--or the second,--or the third! But now Tommy must come with mamma, and make ready for his coming." For there were the other lamps to trim in the other tower, with that heavy reach of snow between. And she did not dare leave the active boy alone in the house. Little Matty could be caged in her crib, and, even if she woke, she would at best only cry. But Tom was irrepressible.
So they unbolted the lee-door, and worked out into the snow. Then poor Laura, with the child, crept round into the storm. Heavens! how it raged and howled! Where was her poor bridegroom now? She seized up Tom, and turned her back to the wind, and worked along, go,--step sideway, sideway, the only way she could by step,--did it ever seem so far before? Tommy was crying. "One minute more, dear boy. Tommy shall see the other lantern. And Tommy shall carry mamma's great scissors up the stairs. Don't cry, my darling, don't cry."
Here is the door;--just as she began to wonder if she were dreaming or crazy. Not so badly drifted in as she feared. At least she is under cover. "Up-a-day, my darling, up-a-day. One, two, what a many steps for Tommy! That's my brave boy." And they were on the lantern deck again, fairly rocking in the gale,--and Laura was chopping away on her stiff wicks, and pumping up her oil again, and filling the receivers, as if she had ever done it till this Christmas before. And she kept saying over to herself,--
"Then those virgins arose and trimmed their lamps."
"And I will light them," said she aloud. "That will save another walk at sundown. And I know these carcels run at least five hours." So she struck a match, and with some little difficulty coaxed the fibres to take fire. The yellow light flared luridly on the white snow-flakes, and yet it dazzled her and Tommy as it flashed on them from the reflectors.
"Will anybody see it, mamma?" said the child. "Will papa see it?" And just then the witching devil who manages the fibres of memory, drew from the little crypt in Laura's brain, where they had been stored unnoticed years upon years, four lines of Leigh Hunt's, and the child saw that she was Hero:--
"Then at the flame a torch of fire she lit, And, o'er her head anxiously holding it, Ascended to the roof, and, leaning there, Lifted its light into the darksome air."
If only the devil would have been satisfied with this. But of course she could not remember that, without remembering Schiller:--
"In the gale her torch is blasted, Beacon of the hoped-for strand: Horror broods above the waters, Horror broods above the land."
And she said aloud to the boy, "Our torch shall not go out, Tommy,--come down, come down, darling, with mamma." But all through the day horrid lines from the same poem came back to her. Why did she ever learn it!
Why, but because dear Tom gave her the book himself; and this was his own version, as he sent it to her from the camp in the valley,--
"Yes, 'tis he! although he perished, Still his sacred troth he cherished."
"Why did Tom write it for me?"
"And they trickle, lightly playing O'er a corpse upon the sand."
"What a fool I am! Come, Tommy. Come, Matty, my darling. Mamma will tell you a story. Once there was a little boy, and he had two kittens. And he named one Buff and one Muff"-- But this could not last for ever. Sundown came. And then Laura and Tommy climbed their own tower,--and she lighted her own lantern, as she called it. Sickly and sad through the storm, she could see the sister lantern burning bravely. And that was all she could see in the sullen whiteness. "Now, Tommy, my darling, we will come and have some supper." "And while the bridegroom tarried, they all slumbered and slept." "Yes, 'tis he; although he perished, still his sacred troth he cherished." "Come, Tommy,--come Tommy,--come, Tommy, let me tell you a story."
But the children had their supper,--asking terrible questions about papa,--questions which who should answer? But she could busy herself about giving them their oatmeal, and treating them to ginger-snaps, because it was Christmas Eve. Nay, she kept her courage, when Tommy asked if Santa Claus would come in the boat with papa. She fairly loitered over the undressing them. Little witches, how pretty they were in their flannel nightgowns! And Tommy kissed her, and gave her--ah me!--one more kiss for papa. And in two minutes they were asleep. It would have been better if they could have kept awake one minute longer.
Now she was really alone. And very soon seven o'clock has come. She does not dare leave the clock-work at the outer lantern a minute longer. Tom and Mipples wind the works every four hours, and now they have run five.
One more look at her darlings. Shall she ever see them again in this world? Now to the duty next her hand!
Yes, the wind is as fierce as ever! A point more to the north, Laura notices. She has no child to carry now. She tumbles once in the drift.
But Laura has rolled in snow before. The pile at the door is three feet thick. But she works down to the latch,--and even her poor numb hand conquers it,--and it gives way. How nice and warm the tower is! and how well the lights burn! Can they be of any use this night to anybody? O my God, grant that they be of use to him!
She has wound them now. She has floundered into the snow again. Two or three falls on her way home,--but no danger that she loses the line of march. The light above her own house is before her. So she has only to aim at that. Home again! And now to wait for five hours,--and then to wind that light again--at midnight!
"And at midnight there was a cry made"--"oh dear!--if he would come,--I would not ask for any cry!"--
And Laura got down her choice inlaid box, that Jem brought her from sea,--and which held her treasures of treasures. And the dear girl did the best thing she could have done. She took these treasures out.--You know what they were, do not you? They were every letter Tom Cutts ever wrote her--from the first boy note in print,--"Laura,--these hedgehog quills are for you. I killed him. TOM." And Laura opened them all,--and read them one by one, each twice,--and put them back, in their order, without folding, into the box. At ten she stopped,--and worked her way upstairs into her own lantern,--and wound its works again. She tried to persuade herself that there was less wind,--did persuade herself so. But the snow was as steady as ever. Down the tower-stairs again,--and then a few blessed minutes brooding over Matty's crib, and dear little Tom who has kicked himself right athwart her own bed where she had laid him.
Darlings! they are so lovely, their father must come home to see them!
Back then to her kitchen fire. There are more of dear Tom's letters yet.
How manly they are,--and how womanly. She will read them all!--will she ever dare to read them all again?
Yes,--she reads them all,--each one twice over,--and his soldier diary,--which John Wildair saved and sent home, and, as she lays it down, the clock strikes twelve. Christmas day is born!--
"And at midnight there was a cry made, Behold, the bridegroom cometh."
Laura fairly repeated this aloud. She knew that the other carcel must be wound again. She dressed herself for the fight thoroughly. She ran in and trusted herself to kiss the children. She opened the lee-door again, and crept round again into the storm,--familiar now with such adventure. Did the surf beat as fiercely on the rocks? Surely not. But then the tide is now so low! So she came to her other tower, crept up and wound her clock-work up again, wiped off, or tried to wipe off, what she thought was mist gathering on the glasses, groped down the stairway, and looked up on the steady light above her own home. And the Christmas text came back to her. "The star went before them, and stood above the place where the young child was."
"A light to lighten the Gentiles,--and the glory of my people Israel!"
"By the way of the sea,"--and this Laura almost shouted aloud,--"Galilee of the Gentiles, the people who sat in darkness saw a great light, and to them who sat in the region and shadow of death light is sprung up."
"Grant it, merciful Father,--grant it for these poor children!" And she almost ran through the heavy drifts, till she found the shelter again of her friendly tower. Her darlings had not turned in their bed, since she left them there.
And after this Laura was at rest. She took down her Bible, and read the Christmas chapters. It was as if she had never known before what darkness was,--or what the Light was, when it came. She took her Hymn Book and read all the Christmas Hymns. She took her Keble,--and read every poem for Advent and the hymn for Christmas morning. She knew this by heart long ago. Then she took Bishop Ken's "Christian Year,"--which Tom had given for her last birthday present,--and set herself bravely to committing his "Christmas Day" to memory:--
"Celestial harps, prepare To sound your loftiest air; You choral angels at the throne, Your customary hymns postpone;"
and thus, dear girl, she kept herself from thinking even of the wretched Hero and Leander lines, till her clock struck three. Upstairs then to her own tower, and to look out upon the night. The sister flame was steady. The wind was all hushed. But the snow was as steady, right and left, behind and before. Down again, one more look at the darlings, and then, as she walked up and down her little kitchen, she repeated the verses she had learned, and then sat down to--
"You with your heavenly ray Gild the expanse this day;
"You with your heavenly ray Gild--the expanse--this day;
"You--with--your--heavenly--ray"--
Dear Laura, bless God, she is asleep. "He giveth his beloved sleep."
Her head is thrown back on the projecting wing of grandmamma's tall easy-chair, her arms are resting relaxed on its comfortable arms, her lips just open with a smile, as she dreams of something in the kingdom of God's heaven, when, as the lazy day just begins to grow gray, Tom, white with snow to his middle, holding the boat's lantern before him as he steals into her kitchen, crosses the room, and looks down on her,--what a shame to wake her,--bends down and kisses her!
Dear child! How she started,--"At midnight there is a cry made, Behold, the bridegroom cometh,"--"Why, Tom! Oh! my dearest, is it you?"
"Have I been asleep on duty?" This was her first word when she came fairly to herself.
"Guess not," said old Mipples, "both lanterns was burning when I come in. 'Most time to put 'em out, Major! 'Keepers must be diligent to save oil by all reasonable prevision.'"
"Is the north light burning?" said poor Laura. And she looked guiltily at her tell-tale clock.
"Darling," said Tom, reverently, "if it were not burning, we should not be here."
And Laura took her husband to see the babies, not willing to let his hand leave hers, nor he, indeed, to let hers leave his. Old Mipples thought himself one too many, and went away, wiping his eyes, to the other light. "Time to extinguish it," he said.