Chapter Six

by Kate J. Neily
Edited and Revised by Amber Moeller

"Well, my daughter," said Mrs. Morgan, turning over in the bed, and greeting Nelly with a smile, "you come in singing; so I suppose you've had a very pleasant time. But, child," she went on, as she noticed Nelly's pale and strange looks, "you're blue with the cold, and your teeth are chattering. Is it so very cold out?"

"It was chilly in the school-room," answered Nelly, evasively, "but never mind me, Mother; I'll soon get warm here before your bright fire. How are you, and how is baby? I scarcely had time to peep at you this morning."

"O, doing nicely as can be; the little fellow sleeps

'As if he were fed on dormouse pie,
With sauce of sirup of poppy.'

But tell me what kind of a morning you've had."

"O, pretty nice -- just like all the receptions. Stupid things, I think, they are. I was glad when it was over."

"I'm afraid you don't feel very well," said Mrs. Morgan, anxiously, as Nelly answered in this dull, listless way. "I hope you haven't taken cold. I think the janitor ought to have the rooms properly warmed, at least. You shall have some of my warm gruel, if you will. I expect you rushed off with half a breakfast this morning."

But Nelly declined the gruel. Her mother's kindness made her feel uncomfortable, conscious as she was of planning to deceive her; and she wanted to escape from it by quitting the room. So she said,--

"No, thank you, mother. I won't rob you of your sick dainties. I guess I'll go down in the dining room, and see what Anne can give me for lunch."

She got up to go, and Mrs. Morgan only stopped her to beg that she would keep near the fire until she had got thoroughly warmed through; and Nelly smiled, and said yes, and stopped to kiss the sleeping baby, who lay all rolled up in a puff-ball, as she went out; but when the door had closed behind her, the smile vanished from her face, and the tired and sullen look came back.

"That ain't much of a Christmas face you're brought back from the school wid ye, Miss Nelly," said the good-natured Anne, as she came, bringing the tea-tray into the dining room, where Nelly sat cowering gloomily over the fire. "An' sure, an' I should think ye'd look as bright as button today, seein' the great turkey yer father's sent home for the dinner tomorrow, an' the raisins and currants for the puddin', an' the oranges and nuts for dessert. Indade, an' I think it's a fine Christmas Eve, an' blissed be the name o' Jesus, that gives us a happy time once a year!"

Nelly did not look up, or make any answer to this cheerful speech of the simple-hearted Irish girl; and Anne came close up to her, and saw how pale she looked.

"Is it sick, thin, ye are?" she asked, with ready sympathy. "O, but that's too bad entirely on Christmas Eve. It's chilled through I think ye've got -- ye look all of a shiver. Here now, Here's a cup o' nice hot tay, strong enough for grown folks, and some nice apple fritters: you like apple fritters. Eat and drink a bit, Miss Nelly, and you'll feel better," said the kind-hearted girl, drawing up a chair between the fire and the table, and almost forcing Nelly to sit down in it.

"And there's the other childer poundin' at the door; I must go an' let 'em in; but you take your lunch comfortable all by yourself, Miss Nelly, while I take off their cloaks and mittens."

She went out, and shut the door behind her; but even her kind good-nature could not make Nelly feel "comfortable."

She felt both cold and hot; quick chills ran through her frame of heat; her head ached; her links were stiff; and she found, when she attempted to eat, that her throat was so sore that it was painful to swallow. It was evident that she had taken a severe cold from wetting her feet, and then sitting for hours in the fireless room; and poor Nelly had the added pains of illness to all the miseries of that most wretched day. She could not enjoy even her favorite apple fritters, but drank, with an effort, part of the cup of tea, and then went and lay down on the dining room lounge, too tired and uncomfortable to sit up, and yet not wishing to go up stairs, where she would be likely again to meet her mother's watchful and anxious glance.

The children came rushing in, in a few minutes, their cheeks rosy, and their eyes bright with their race home in the snow, and instantly besieged Nelly with eager histories of their day at the kindergarten, and as eager inquires about her morning at school.

"O, Nelly, it was such fun!" said little Frank, his round face all in a glow with excitement; "we had such a cunning little Christmas tree--"

"Yes, and we each had an orange and some candy," interrupted Jennie, and Frank broke in again; "and every fellow had a present, and every girl, too; see, here's mine!" putting a tin trumpet close to Nelly's ear, and blowing a terrific blast. But Nelly did not laugh.

"Get away, you naughty boy! How dare you do such a thing?" she cried, raising herself on the couch, an giving her little brother a hearty push. "Don't come near me again, either of you. I'm sick, and I want to be let alone. Make haste, and eat your lunch, and go up stairs. I don't want you down here. I'm sick, I tell you."

Well, you needn't be so awful cross about it if you are," answered Frank, angrily; "and mind how you push a fellow about next time, please."

"Stop saying 'fellow' so much; you know mother doesn't like it!" said Nelly, sharply; "and eat your lunch, I say, and go. I'm tired of your noise."

"How cross you are today, Nelly, and you were so nice yesterday!" said Jennie, in a complaining tone; but before her sister could answer, Anne appeared to bring in more fritters.

"Come now, be good childer," she said, "don't tease yer sister; she don't feel well today, and you must lave her alone. Sure, Miss Nelly, an' ye'll get yer death o' cold lyin' there with nothin' over ye; just let me fetch my shawl; it's hangin' in the hall since I came in the from the grocery." And the good-natured girl went for it immediately, and spread the warm plaid all over the poor little, unhappy figure that lay shivering, even in this fire-lit room, on the lounge.

The children, who were good-hearted little things, accepted Anne's word that there really was something amiss with their sister, quieted down into a low, confidential chat over their fritters; and when they last of the smoking pile had disappeared, they jumped down, and ran upstairs, to coax nurse to let them into their mother's room, that they might pour the story of the day's delights into her more sympathetic ear.

Meanwhile Anne cleared the table, tidied the room, stirred the fire, and, bidding Miss Nelly to "lay still, and take a bit of a nap," went off into the kitchen, and left her to her repose.

But Nelly did not find it such a easy thing to go to sleep. Her body was too full of aches, and her heart too full of bitter and anxious thoughts, for that. The events of the day, from her first eager springing up to this her dreary lying down again, would keep passing in and out of her mind, scene after scene shifting to and fro, like a kaleidoscope, in spite of her efforts to put away the memory of it all; and her head ached, and the soreness in her throat amounted to positive pain. Worst of all was the ever-returning thought, which would not be driven away, that her misfortunes were all caused by her own wrong-doing; and a verse she had learned at Sunday school-- "That way of the transgressor is hard"-- kept sounding in her ears all the time.

It grew fainter, however, at last; and the changing images of the day settles into indistinct mass, and kind sleep came at length to the weary and heavy-hearted girl, and she "forgot her sorrow, and remembered her misery no more."

Her mother sent Jennie down to inquire why she did not come upstairs, and Anne sent back word that she was sleeping so nicely it was a pity to disturb her; and so the hours of the Christmas Eve wore away quietly enough in that house, while out of doors the streets were alive with the rushing of sleighs, the jingling of bells, and shouts of merry children, and the hurrying to and fro if eager shoppers; in many a happy home Christmas trees were being planted and hung with their own peculiar fruit in locked rooms by loving mammas and aunties; kind-hearted people were packing baskets of provisions and warm clothing to be sent to the houses of the poor and needy; and the whole Christian world seemed to have paused an instant in the eager race of toil and of pleasure, to draw breath, and be glad, and thank God, if only by a cheerful face and a kindly mood, for the gift of His Son, our Savior Jesus Christ.

It was after four o'clock, and Nelly was still sleeping, when a little girl knocked at the basement door, and asked to see her.

"I have brought her rubber boots, which she forgot, and left at school today," she said; and Anne exclaimed aloud, --

"There, then, that's what's the matter with her, then! Sure, an' it's no wonder she's choked up with cold. if she come home without over shoes in this slush! She'll be much obliged to ye, miss, I'm sure, an'--" But just there she was interrupted.

Even in her sleep Nelly was not unconscious of her deception, and the danger of its being found out; and the sound of voices, in connection with her name, and school, and overshoes, startled her like a thunder-clap. She sprang up from the lounge, her cheeks pale and her hair disordered, and rushed out into the hall, eager to prevent Maggie from making any disclosures.

"Why in the world didn't you ask the young lady in out of the cold?" she asked, sharply, of Anne, who stared at her amazement. "A pretty way to treat my company, to be sure! Come into the dining room, Maggie; I'm very much obliged to you, indeed, for bringing home my boots."

And she took Maggie's hand, and drew her in almost by force, while the little girl look at her in surprise at her excited manner; and Anne muttered, as she went back to the kitchen--

"Sure, an' she's the disagree'blest spoken child iver I see, whin she's a mind to be! Ketch me coverin' her up wi' my best shawl again in a hurry!"

The warmth of Nelly's hospitality cooled down, however, as soon as she had Maggie safely out of Anne's hearing. She decided at once to treat her so coldly that she would not be likely to visit again; and so, pushing a chair carelessly towards her little guest, she threw herself back upon the lounge, and groaned out, in a vexed tone,--

"O, dear, dear! how my head aches! I was asleep, and the noise at the door woke me with such a start!"

"Why, I'm sure there wasn't such a great deal of noise," said Maggie, merrily; "I guess you couldn't have been very sound asleep, Nelly. And, anyhow, what are you doing asleep on Christmas Eve? The very idea of such a thing!"

"Don't speak to me of Christmas! I hate the very sound of the word!" exclaimed Nelly, so bitterly that Maggie started back shocked and frightened.

"O, don't say that, Nelly," she said, coaxingly; "you mustn't mind what happened this morning so much. Of course you had a right to wear whatever you and your mother chose, and it was very rude of us girls to tease and laugh at you. I've felt sorry about it all day, Nelly, and I was real glad to find your boots, so that I might have a chance to come round and tell you so."

"Much good it does so be sorry, after my whole day is spoiled," said Nelly, sullenly. "I wonder how you'd have liked it to be made fun of in that way. I guess you'd have been mad enough to go off and forget your rubbers, too. And now I've taken cold, getting my feet soaking wet, and I suppose I shall be laid up all the holidays. And you talk to me about merry Christmas!"

"It is too bad. I'm just as sorry as I can be," said Maggie, in a real distress of sympathy. "But maybe you'll get over it in a day or two, if you take some medicine right away. And your shoes, Nelly, --your beautiful bronze shoes,-- did they get all spoiled with the mud?"

Nelly started, and the blood rushed to her face. She was afraid to let any one know what had happened to the shoes, and she wished heartily that Maggie Lang, with her troublesome questions, would go away, and never come to see her again.

"No," she said presently, speaking very impatiently; "they're so thin. O, dear, how my head aches!"

"I'm so glad to hear it -- I mean that the shoes were not hurt -- not that your head aches, Nelly," said the unsuspecting Maggie; "though, indeed, I don't see how you could help wetting the sides, too; you must have flown home, Nelly. But what did your mother say when you came back so early: did you tell her the girls laughed at you, Nelly?"

"Of course I did!" said Nelly, sharply; :and she was angry enough, I can tell you. I don't think she'll ever want to lay eyes on any of them again."

Maggie crimsoned with shame and wounded feeling. "You needn't be afraid," she said, proudly; "I shall not trouble your mother with my presence, nor you, either, since you feel so bitter about it. I've told you, over and over again, how very sorry I was for what little share I had in making you miss such a pleasant day, the grand surprise, and all; and I must say that, considering it was mostly your own fault, you're very unkind about it. I'm not sorry I brought you your boots, but I shall not trouble you with any more visits, Nelly."

"O, no, Maggie, don't go yet! I'm sure it was very good of you to bring my boots, and I'm much obliged. My head aches so it makes me feel cross; but you mustn't mind it. What do you mean by the 'grand surprise'? What happened at school after I went away?"

"O, sure enough, you haven't heard about what a fine time we had! What a pity you missed it, Nelly!" And the good-natured Maggie sat down again, and began to tell of the grand dinner, and the famous sport in the great play room. But Nelly did not listen with pleasure; her face grew darker than ever with jealousy and anger, and she broke out, at last,--

"It is too, too mean! There never was anything meaner than that I should have been the only one to be kept out of all the fun, and made sick into the bargain."

"It is too bad, Nelly," began Maggie, in a pitying tone, but Nelly interrupted her sharply. "There, I don't want to hear any more about it," she said, savagely. "I wish I need never go to the old school again, or see anybody that ever belonged there. I hate it all."

Maggie rose again, this time really indignant. "Good by, Nelly," she said. "I hope you will not be very sick, but I shall not take the liberty to come and inquire."

"Nobody cares if you don't," muttered Nelly, turning over on the lounge, and covering her face with the shawl. And Maggie walked off, her little round face all in a flush of wounded feeling.

Her indignation had begun to melt into compassion or poor Nelly's unhappiness, however, before she reached her home; and when she met her father on the stoop, his pockets all bulged out with mysterious-looking parcels, she forgot everything but that it was Christmas Eve, and that she, at least, was very happy.

To be continued ...

« Return to Fine Feathers Do Not Make Fine Birds