Chapter 13 Anne of Ingleside by Lucy Montgomery
"We never seem to have old-fashioned winters nowadays, do we, Mummy?" said Walter gloomily.
For the November snow had gone long ago and all through December Glen St. Mary had been a black and sombre land, rimmed in by a grey gulf dotted with curling crests of ice-white foam. There had been only a few sunny days, when the harbour sparkled in the golden arms of the hills: the rest had been dour and hard-bitten. In vain had the Ingleside folks hoped for snow for Christmas: but preparations went steadily on and as the last week drew to a close Ingleside was full of mystery and secrets and whispers and delicious smells. Now on the very day before Christmas everything was ready. The fir tree Walter and Jem had brought up from the Hollow was in the corner of the living-room, the doors and windows were hung with big green wreaths tied with huge bows of red ribbon. The banisters were twined with creeping spruce and Susan's pantry was crammed to overflowing. Then, late in the afternoon, when they all had resigned themselves to a dingy "green" Christmas somebody looked out of a window and saw white flakes as big as feathers falling thickly.
"Snow! Snow!! Snow!!!" shouted Jem. "A white Christmas after all, Mummy!"
The Ingleside children went to bed happy. It was so nice to snuggle down warm and cosy and listen to the storm howling outside through the grey snowy night. Anne and Susan went to work to deck the Christmas tree . . . "acting like two children themselves," thought Aunt Mary Maria scornfully. She did not approve of candles on a tree . . . "suppose the house caught fire from them." She did not approve of coloured balls . . . "suppose the twins ate them." But nobody paid any attention to her. They had learned that that was the only condition on which life with Aunt Mary Maria was livable.
"Finished!" cried Anne, as she fastened the great silver star to the top of the proud little fir. "And, oh, Susan, doesn't it look pretty! Isn't it nice we can all be children again at Christmas without being ashamed of it! I'm so glad the snow came . . . but I hope the storm won't outlast the night."
"It's going to storm all day tomorrow," said Aunt Mary Maria positively. "I can tell by my poor back."
Anne went through the hall, opened the big front door, and peered out. The world was lost in a white passion of snowstorm. The window-panes were grey with drifted snow. The Scotch pine was an enormous sheeted ghost.
"It doesn't look very promising," Anne admitted ruefully.
"God manages the weather yet, Mrs. Dr. dear, and not Miss Mary Maria Blythe," said Susan over her shoulder.
"I hope there won't be a sick call tonight at least," said Anne as she turned away. Susan took one parting look into the gloom before she locked out the stormy night.
"Don't you go and have a baby tonight," she warned darkly in the direction of the Upper Glen where Mrs. George Drew was expecting her fourth.
In spite of Aunt Mary Maria's back the storm spent itself in the night and morning filled the secret hollow of snow among the hills with the red wine of winter sunrise. All the small fry were up early, looking starry and expectant.
"Did Santa get through the storm, Mummy?"
"No. He was sick and didn't dare try," said Aunt Mary Maria, who was in a good humour . . . for her . . . and felt joky.
"Santa Claus got here all right," said Susan before their eyes had time to blur, "and after you've had your breakfast you'll see what he did to your tree."
After breakfast Dad mysteriously disappeared, but nobody missed him because they were so taken up with the tree . . . the lively tree, all gold and silver bubbles and lighted candles in the still dark room, with parcels in all colours and tied with the loveliest ribbons piled about it. Then Santa appeared, a gorgeous Santa, all crimson and white fur, with a long white beard and such a jolly big stomach . . . Susan had stuffed three cushions into the red velveteen cassock Anne had made for Gilbert. Shirley screamed with terror at first, but refused to be taken out, for all that. Santa distributed all the gifts with a funny little speech for everyone in a voice that sounded oddly familiar even through the mask; and then just at the end his beard caught fire from a candle and Aunt Mary Maria had some slight satisfaction out of the incident though not enough to prevent her from sighing mournfully.
"Ah me, Christmas isn't what it was when I was a child." She looked with disapproval at the present Little Elizabeth had sent Anne from Paris . . . a beautiful little bronze reproduction of Artemis of the Silver Bow.
"What shameless hussy is that?" she inquired sternly.
"The goddess Diana," said Anne, exchanging a grin with Gilbert.
"Oh, a heathen! Well, that's different, I suppose. But if I were you, Annie, I wouldn't leave it where the children can see it. Sometimes I am beginning to think there is no such thing as modesty left in the world. My grandmother," concluded Aunt Mary Maria, with the delightful inconsequence that characterized so many of her remarks, "never wore less than three petticoats, winter and summer."
Aunt Mary Maria had knitted "wristers" for all the children out of a dreadful shade of magenta yarn, also a sweater for Anne; Gilbert received a bilious necktie and Susan got a red flannel petticoat. Even Susan considered red flannel petticoats out of date, but she thanked Aunt Mary Maria gallantly.
"Some poor home missionary may be the better of it," she thought. "Three petticoats, indeed! I flatter myself I am a decent woman and I like that Silver Bow person. She may not have much in the way of clothes on, but if I had a figure like that I do not know that I would want to hide it. But now to see about the turkey stuffing . . . not that it will amount to much with no onion in it."
Ingleside was full of happiness that day, just plain, old-fashioned happiness, in spite of Aunt Mary Maria, who certainly did not like to see people too happy.
"White meat only, please. (James, eat your soup quietly.) Ah, you are not the carver your father was, Gilbert. He could give everyone the bit she liked best. (Twins, older people would like a chance now and then to get a word in edgewise. I was brought up by the rule that children should be seen and not heard.) No, thank you, Gilbert, no salad for me. I don't eat raw food. Yes, Annie, I'll take a little pudding. Mince pies are entirely too indigestible."
"Susan's mince pies are poems, just as her apple pies are lyrics," said the doctor. "Give me a piece of both, Anne-girl."
"Do you really like to be called 'girl' at your age, Annie? Walter, you haven't eaten all your bread and butter. Plenty of poor children would be glad to have it. James dear, blow your nose and have it over with, I cannot endure sniffling."
But it was a gay and lovely Christmas. Even Aunt Mary Maria thawed out a little after dinner, said almost graciously that the presents given her had been quite nice, and even endured the Shrimp with an air of patient martyrdom that made them all feel a little ashamed of loving him.
"I think our little folks have had a nice time," said Anne happily that night, as she looked at the pattern of trees woven against the white hills and sunset sky, and the children out on the lawn busily scattering crumbs for birds over the snow. The wind was sighing softly in the boughs, sending flurries over the lawn and promising more storm for the morrow, but Ingleside had had its day.
"I suppose they had," agreed Aunt Mary Maria. "I'm sure they did enough squealing, anyhow. As for what they have eaten . . . ah well, you're only young once and I suppose you have plenty of castor-oil in the house."