Epigraph
“If you want any Christmas money, you must earn it.”
CHRISTMAS EARNINGS.
Chapter First
“What are you going to do about Christmas this year?” asked Abby Coles of her cousin Ethel Fletcher, as they walked home from school together one afternoon towards the close of December.
“I don’t know,” said Ethel; “I have not thought much about it yet.”
“But Christmas is almost here,” argued Abby, “and if you are going to make any thing, it is time you began it. I have almost finished my worsted shawl, and am going to knit some scarfs next. Father gave me five dollars to spend, and I am to have five more if I finish the arithmetic before holidays, as I am almost certain I shall. So you see I shall be well off for spending money. What have you commenced?”
“Nothing,” replied Ethel: “I have not asked father for any money yet, and I don’t exactly like to, for when mother told him the other day that she wanted some new things, he said she must wait if she could, for he could not afford it at present.”
“Oh, that’s nothing!” returned Abby. “My father says so half the time, and then very likely, he goes and buys something that costs twice as much as what we asked him for. That’s always the way with men.”
“But you know my father failed,” said Ethel, “and we are not as rich as we were.”
“So did my father fail,” said Abby; “but I don’t see that it makes any difference with us. Come, Ethel, ask your father for some money to-night, and to-morrow we can go out together and get our things. I want you to knit a shawl for your mother like the one I am doing. It would be so becoming to her. And then you ought to do something for Aunt Sally too. You know she won’t like it if you don’t.”
“Mother told me to stop there and do an errand this afternoon,” said Ethel: “I don’t like to go to see her lately, she is so cross.”
“She is cross sometimes,” admitted Abby; “but then she always gives us very nice presents.”
“Yes, and sometimes I almost wish she didn’t,” said Ethel. “I feel sometimes very much as if I should like to say, ‘Aunt Sally, you may just keep your presents to yourself,’ when she has made one of her provoking speeches.”
Abby laughed. “Why, Ethel, the presents are just as good, and one need not mind what she says: I don’t. Father says we must not get out of patience with her, because she is as rich as a Jew, and can leave her money to any one she pleases.”
Ethel made no answer. In this speech, as in many of her cousin’s remarks, there was something that grated on her feelings, and she was glad to be spared the necessity of a reply, by their arrival at the door of a house, which bore upon it the name of Mrs. Sarah Bertie.
If days should teach, Mrs. Bertie ought to have been very wise, for she was a very old lady, though she would hardly have thanked any one for telling her so. But the years which had passed over her head had only added to her self-esteem, without increasing her wisdom, and she was now, at seventy-nine, as self-willed, exacting, unreasonable, and petulant, as she had been at fifteen.
She had the misfortune to be the only child of very rich parents, who found it less trouble to humor her in every whim, than to control and regulate her naturally troublesome temper. They found it any thing but a saving of trouble in the end. True, her mother was spared a great deal of trouble by dying when her darling was about fourteen; but her father’s death was supposed to be hastened by the perverse conduct of his daughter, who at fifteen ran away with her own cousin, a reckless, wild young man, who having spent all his own money, was desirous of continuing his career of pleasure by spending his cousin’s. Mr. Bertie died suddenly, a few months after this marriage, without seeing his daughter, to whom he bequeathed his whole estate, taking care, however, so to arrange matters, that she should enjoy only the income of her property, the principal being tied up beyond the reach of herself or her husband. This was a great disappointment to the latter, and did not tend to sweeten his temper, or make him more patient with the whims and caprices of his young wife, who expected her husband to be her slave as her parents had been.
The result was, that after some years of strife and bitterness, the ill-matched pair separated, and Mr. Bertie went to Europe, where he died not very long after. Mrs. Bertie did not pretend to afflict herself greatly upon that event. She had no children or other incumbrance to prevent her from doing as she pleased, and after travelling about for some years, she finally settled herself down in one of the smaller northern cities, bought a handsome house, and commenced housekeeping in good style.
As she could always be very pleasant when she pleased, she had plenty of society, and her wealth caused her to be very much courted, especially by her husband’s nephew, Mr. Coles, Abby’s father. Mr. Coles and Mr. Fletcher were cousins, and the families were intimate from that circumstance, though there was between them a great difference, not only of sentiment, but of principle. With all her faults, Mrs. Bertie had some sterling good qualities. She was a warm and generous friend, and a good neighbor and mistress, and her sense of integrity and truthfulness was extreme almost to a fault.
She was sitting in her parlor knitting, with her dog at her feet, as the girls entered, and being in a good-humor, received them graciously.
“And what work are you doing for Christmas?” she inquired, after Ethel had delivered her message. “I shall expect to see something very handsome from you, Ethel, as you have improved so much in working the last year.”
“I have not commenced any thing yet, Aunt Sally,” replied Ethel.
“Only think, Aunt Sally,” exclaimed Abby, who, though good-natured, was a very thoughtless child, “Ethel has not even asked her father for any money yet, just because she heard him tell her mother that he could not afford something.”
“Of course he could not afford it, if it was something his wife wanted,” ejaculated Aunt Sally, whose theory it was that all men abused all women.
“And Ethel says,” continued Abby, unheeding her cousin’s looks of entreaty, “that they are poor now, because her father has failed. I am sure we are not poor, and I don’t see why cousin George should be.”
“Because your cousin George is a fool!” said Mrs. Bertie sharply.
She was always provoked at any mention of her nephew Fletcher’s affairs, and being wholly unused to restrain herself from any consideration for the feelings of others, she did not hesitate to express her opinion on this occasion. She was not, however, quite prepared for the effect of her words on one of her auditors.
As she finished her remark, Ethel rose from her chair, and began to put on her gloves without speaking.
“Stop, Ethel, child!”’ said her aunt, surprised. “Where are you going?”
“I am going home,” replied Ethel with decision, but in a voice which trembled with agitation. “I am not going to stay anywhere to hear my father called a fool. I should think you would be ashamed, Aunt Sally.”
Abby looked horrified at this bold speech. She hardly dared to glance at her aunt, but sat in silent terror, expecting some violent outburst. But Mrs. Bertie seemed rather amused than otherwise.
“Well done, Miss Fire-cracker! I like your spirit. But you must not go off so,” she continued, seeing that Ethel continued to make preparations for departure. “You know nobody minds my speeches. I am an old woman, and always say just what I think. Come, come, kiss and be friends, and don’t quarrel with your old auntie.”
Ethel thought her aunt had not mended matters much by her apology, as she had no business to think so. But she was already sensible that she had spoken unbecomingly, and her mother’s often repeated words recurred to her mind:
“Aunt Sally is a very old woman, and you must have patience with her.”
So she conquered the rising storm so far as to allow herself to be kissed by her aunt and even to eat a piece of plum-cake, though she felt all the time as if it would choke her. She was glad when they were once more in the street, where she could speak her mind freely.
“Hateful old thing!” she said, more to herself than to her companion. “She may keep her cake and sweetmeats to herself. I will never go there again, if I can help it.”
“Then you will be the loser,” remarked Abby. “You know she can leave her fortune to whom she pleases.”
“I don’t care for her fortune,” interrupted Ethel, more angry than ever. “She may leave it to whom she likes, for all I care. I should be ashamed to coax and flatter her for her money, or her presents either. To go and call my father a fool—” and here Ethel paused, partly for want of breath, and partly because she felt herself in imminent danger of crying.
“Well, well,” said Abby soothingly, “you must not be angry with me, Ethel. I am sure I only spoke for your good. You know Aunt Sally says when she is in a good-humor, that she shall leave her money to whom she likes best; and after all, she is very good to us generally, though she does say vexatious things. But really, Ethel, I don’t see into it—why you should be poor, I mean. A good many people failed in the fall besides your father. There was my father, and Mr. Peet, and Mr. Larkins, and the Mr. Wileys; and none of them were much the poorer for it that I could see, only the Wileys, and my father said they managed badly. But here is my turning-off place, so good-bye. Be sure and get your money to-night, and I will call for you to-morrow.”
Ethel bade her cousin good-by, and walked on, pondering deeply, and feeling very unhappy and dissatisfied—first with herself for having been so much out of humor, and speaking unbecomingly, and then with her circumstances. She did not understand the matter any better than Abby. Her father had been for many years a manufacturer in very prosperous circumstances. The tastes and habits of Mr. and Mrs. Fletcher did not lead them to launch out into the foolish extravagance of dress and equipage which characterized so many people at the time of our story; but they were persons of very elegant tastes, fond of literature and art, and Mr. Fletcher prided himself upon his superb collection of engravings and books, to which he was constantly making additions.
Ethel was the only daughter, but there were two boys much younger than herself. Without being at all spoiled, she was very much indulged, and while she was expected to give some account of what she spent, she hardly knew what it was to ask for money without having it. Especially at Christmastime was her father liberal. The Fletchers were very strict Church people, and always “kept Christmas,” with a good deal of care and expense. Mince-pies were made; the most elegant sweetmeats were reserved for this occasion; the children had new clothes, and the house was beautifully decorated with evergreens and flowers. The children hung up their stockings upon Christmas Eve, sure of finding them well filled; the whole family went to Church, and in the evening, a beautiful Christmas tree was lighted up for the benefit of Mr. and Mrs. Fletcher’s Sunday-school classes, consisting of poor children, each of whom received a present, and as much cake as he could eat, besides a surplus to carry home.
Such was the state of the family at the commencement of the year, but the end of it found them in circumstances sadly changed. The financial crisis affected Mr. Fletcher as well as his neighbors; unpaid himself, he was unable to meet his liabilities, and after two or three weeks of miserable suspense, he was obliged to declare a failure, like his cousin, Mr. Coles, who had gone among the first. Unlike Mr. Coles, however, his failure was a perfectly honest one. The beautiful house and grounds went into the hands of one of the banks; the library and collections were sent to New York for sale; and all the handsome furniture, even to baby’s swinging crib, and Mrs. Fletcher’s china and silver, were sent to auction. They reserved only furniture enough of the plainest sort to furnish a small house which had been left to Mrs. Fletcher by her mother, and to this they removed, to begin life anew, after they supposed they had provided for their old age, and for their children after them.
Of course this change in their circumstances did not pass without many remarks from their friends. Mr. Cole, whose property had somehow been discovered to belong entirely to his wife and her brothers, did not hesitate to say that George Fletcher had acted like a fool. Mrs. Coles thought Mr. and Mrs. Fletcher ought to have more consideration for the prospects of their daughter. Mrs. Sarah Bertie, who loved her niece and nephew Fletcher as well as she loved any one in the world but herself, but who knew as much of business as her own gray parrot, was very angry at him for his bad management. At the same time that she snubbed Mr. Coles for expressing an unfavorable opinion of Mr. Fletcher, and informed him that George Fletcher knew more than he ever thought he did; a very bold assertion, which Mr. Coles, having an eye to the old lady’s succession, received with great meekness and submission.
Mr. and Mrs. Fletcher did not find themselves as unhappy as they expected in their new abode. Mr. Fletcher’s honor had come out untarnished, and his conscience told him, that if he had been imprudent in investments, he had at least done all in his power to make amends. No unpaid butcher’s or baker’s bills disturbed his slumbers, nor were those of his wife rendered uneasy by the vision of unsettled milliner’s accounts. True, the want of birds and flowers was deeply felt, but as the possession of these things had never constituted the source of their happiness, so the want of them could not destroy it.
Perhaps Ethel was the most to be pitied of any of the family. She had never been accustomed to deny herself any thing she wanted from motives of economy, and she found it hard work to begin. The house seemed to her very small, confined, and gloomy, and she did not like to wash dishes and sweep, or to see her mother at work in the kitchen. All these things weighed upon her mind and spirits, and Abby’s remarks and her aunt’s observation had brought her discontent to a climax. A little girl of twelve does not usually know much about business, and she could not see why, if Mr. Coles had kept his fine house, and her cousin dressed as well as ever, she should be wearing all her old frocks, and living in a little house with only three rooms on the ground-floor, and no garden at all.
Now a cloud was not a very common sight upon Ethel’s face, for though her temper was somewhat hasty, it was also sunshiny and cheerful; and Mrs. Fletcher was not very long in perceiving that something was amiss. Ethel had been sitting for some time silently looking out of the window, where nothing very interesting was to be seen, when her mother asked—
“Don’t you feel well, Ethel?”
“Yes, mother,” said Ethel, in a voice which sounded as though it came from the tombs.
“Has any thing gone wrong in school, or have you had a quarrel with Abby?”
“No, mother,” replied Ethel again; but she did not offer any solution of the mystery.
Mrs. Fletcher said no more, but waited in silence, certain that it would not be long before her daughter opened her mind.
At last, after an interval of silence, Ethel said with some hesitation—
“Mother, shall we have any Christmas this year?”
“Of course,” replied Mrs. Fletcher. “Christmas comes every year, does it not?”
“Yes,” returned Ethel; “but shall we keep it ourselves, I mean?”
“Certainly, we shall keep it,” replied Mrs. Fletcher. “We shall go to Church as usual, and there will be nothing to prevent our decorating our rooms with evergreens, though we shall have no flowers.” And Mrs. Fletcher suppressed a little sigh as she spoke. She missed her green-house more than any of the luxuries she had lost.
“Shall we have—” any presents, Ethel was going to say, but she changed her mind. “Shall we have a Christmas tree for the poor children?”
Mrs. Fletcher sighed again. “No, Ethel, that must be given up. We cannot afford it now, and we shall have to content ourselves without our usual Christmas fare. There is no money to spend on such things.”
“O mother!” exclaimed Ethel. “How disappointed the children will be. It will not be like Christmas. I do not think there is any use in trying to keep it, if we are to have nothing ourselves, and nothing to give away. I wish Christmas would not come at all.”
The tears which had been gathering all the afternoon would no longer be restrained, and Ethel laid her head down on the windowsill and cried bitterly,—cried as she had not done when the house was sold, or even when her chief treasure, her watch was disposed of.
Mrs. Fletcher let the tears have their way, certain that they would not last long, and she was right.
In a few moments Ethel sat up and wiped her eyes, but she repeated as she did so, “I wish Christmas was not coming at all.”
“My daughter,” said Mrs. Fletcher gravely, “what is Christmas?”
“It is the Feast of the Nativity—of the birth of Christ,” replied Ethel.
“What did God do for us on that day?” continued Mrs. Fletcher. “What does the Collect say?”
“He sent His only begotten Son to take our nature upon Him, and as at this time to be born of a pure virgin.”
“Very right. And now why does the Church celebrate this day? What good came to men from Christ’s coming down from heaven to earth, and taking our nature upon Him?”
“Christ came for our salvation,” said Ethel in a low voice. She began to see what her mother was coming to.
“Yes. On Christmas day, our Saviour began His career upon earth, by taking upon Him the burden of our frail and sinful nature—began that life which ended with His death upon the cross, whereby He secured our redemption for us. Did you ever think why He might choose to come in the form of a child?”
“My Sunday-school teacher said it was in order that children might realize how He felt for their little troubles and cares, because He had passed through the same.”
“True. And yet my little Ethel, because she cannot have just what she wants, and cannot celebrate Christmas in her own way, would rather not celebrate it at all. She does not care to thank God for the birth of His dear Son, because she cannot have what she has been accustomed to at this Holy Season, all the pleasures of which have, or should have, a direct reference to the great and unspeakable Gift made to us on this day. Is that right, my dear?”
“No, mother,” said Ethel frankly. “I did not think of it in that way.” She paused a little, and then added: “I was not thinking so much about getting presents, as about making them. I do so love to make presents! Cannot we have any Christmas money at all?”
“I fear not, my child, unless you can contrive some way to earn it. We have no right to indulge in luxuries so long as we are in debt, and the giving of Christmas presents is certainly a luxury.”
“But the poor children, mother. We might give them only such things as they need, and leave out the candy and toys. Those little Brown girls have hardly comfortable clothes.”
“I know it, Ethel, but we must be just before we are generous.”
Ethel was silenced, if not entirely satisfied by her mother’s reasoning. But after a little interval, she resumed the conversation.
“Mother, how does it happen that failing makes so much more difference with some people than it does with others? Why is Mr. Coles rich, while father and the Mr. Wileys are poor? Now cousin Anna has every thing just as she always did: they do not make any difference in their housekeeping, and Abby is dressed just as well as ever. She told me to-day, that her father had given her five dollars, and was going to give her five more if she finished the arithmetic. She wanted me to ask father for some money to-night, that we might go out shopping together to-morrow, but I thought I would speak to you first.”
“I am glad you were so thoughtful, my love.”
“But why is it, mother?” persisted Ethel. “I want to understand it, if I can.”
“And I will try to explain it to you,” replied Mrs. Fletcher. “If in doing so, I should be obliged to speak freely of the faults of others, you must remember that what I say is not to be repeated.”
“I will, mother,” said Ethel. “But tell me first what it is to fail, please, for I don’t know exactly.”
“When a man is unable to pay all his debts,” said Mrs. Fletcher, “he is said to fail, or to become insolvent. This may come to pass in many different ways. He may have lived so extravagantly as to use up all his means, and then have run into debt for what he wanted till people would trust him no longer. He may have been imprudent in his business, by trusting those who were unworthy of confidence, and by selling his commodities to people who could not or would not pay him. He may have signed notes with other people to enable them to get money, not expecting to have to pay it himself, and then have been obliged to do so. Or he may suffer from the failure of others, and this was the case with your father.”
“But how did the failure of others affect father?” asked Ethel. “I don’t understand.”
“Think a little, and perhaps you will,” replied her mother.
“I see,” exclaimed Ethel, after some consideration. “Father sold goods to the merchants, and depended upon the money he got from them, to pay for his materials and his work. Then if the merchants did not pay him, of course he could not pay the people that he owed, and that made him fail.”
“Quite right,” said Mrs. Fletcher. “I see you are learning to think. There is another way yet of failing. A man may buy a great quantity of some kind of property—bank stock or railroad stock, for instance—expecting it to rise so much in value that he will be able to sell it for a great deal more than he gave. Then if it goes down instead of rising, what becomes of him?”
“He loses his money,” said Ethel.
“Yes, not only what he has spent, but what he expected to make. This is called speculation, and has ruined more people than I can tell you. This was just what Mr. Coles did. Now if the speculator treats the money he intended to make as though it were already in his pocket, and runs deeper and deeper into debt on the strength of it, you can easily see what disastrous consequences must follow, not only to himself, but to every one who has trusted him.”
“Of course,” said Ethel, “they would lose their money. But you have not yet told me what makes the difference.”
“I am just coming to that. When your father found that he was not going to meet his obligations, as it is called—that is, to pay what he owed for goods and other things—he informed his creditors of it. He told them how much property he had, and that he should put it into the hands of assignees—gentlemen who would manage the matter and divide the property among the creditors, so that each might have an equal proportion. That was the reason that the house and all the things were sold, in order that the money might go in with the rest of the property to meet the debts. But after all there was only enough to pay about seventy cents on the dollar, as it is called—that is, if your father owed a man a dollar, he could only pay him seventy cents.”
“That seems a pity, after selling all the things,” said Ethel. “What did the creditors do then?”
“They very generously and kindly signed a paper, saying that they were satisfied that your father had done all in his power to satisfy them, and that they would be contented with what he had paid. This paper was called a release.”
“That was very good of them,” said Ethel, brightening up. “So father does not owe any thing now?”
“Think a little, Ethel. Does he not owe the other thirty cents? Suppose you were one of the creditors who had signed the release. Would you not feel that you ought to be paid, if the debtor ever became able to do so? And if you were the debtor, would you not feel that you were all the more bound by the kindness of your creditors to pay them the rest of the debt if you possibly could, even though the law did not compel you to do so?”
“I should, to be sure,” admitted Ethel.
“Well, that is just what your father and myself are trying to do. I had a little property left me by my father—about a thousand a year—and we are endeavoring to live upon your father’s salary, that this money may be left to accumulate till it becomes enough to pay the debt.
“Now for the other side. Mr. Coles, as I told you, got into debt by speculation, and failed about the time that your father did. But when the creditors came to look into the matter, it seemed that he had so disposed his property that it did not appear to belong to him at all, but to his wife and her brothers. So their house and furniture could not be sold as ours was, and the creditors got nothing at all. But Mr. Coles enjoys the use of the property just as he did before, though he can hardly go into the street without meeting some one that he owes; while your father, if he sees one of his creditors, can at least think—‘I have done, and am doing all I can to satisfy you.’ Now which would you rather be—Mr. Coles in his large house, or your father in this small one?”
“I would rather be father, a thousand times,” said Ethel with flushed cheeks and flashing eyes; “even if I never made a present or had one to the end of my days. It is just as mean as stealing. I should not dare to look any one in the face. I wonder if Abby knows any thing about it? I guess if she did, she would not feel quite so much pride in her spending money and her new frocks.”
“No doubt she is entirely ignorant of it,” said Mrs. Fletcher, “and it would be the height of cruelty to tell her. Remember, Ethel, I have not told you this to make you feel as though you were a great deal better than your neighbors, but only that you may see the reasonableness of the strict economy we practise, and why we cannot afford ourselves the luxury of giving presents.”
“I see it now, mother, and I don’t care any thing about presents; but then the poor school-children. How much money would it take for the tree?”
“Ten dollars at the very least,” replied her mother. “It has usually cost much more.”
“And could not we spare as much as that, if we children did not have any presents at all?”
“No, my dear, it is not to be thought of,” replied her mother kindly, but decidedly. “We must have regard to appearances, sometimes, as well as to reality; and your father’s creditors might well think it strange for him to be making parties for school-children in his present circumstances. Now are we quite at the bottom of the trouble?”
“Not quite, mother,” said Ethel. “I was vexed at something that happened at Aunt Sally Bertie’s.” She then recounted the circumstances, saying in conclusion: “I know it was wrong to speak so to her, but I tried to make up for it by eating the cake she gave me, though I felt all the time as though it would choke me.”
Mrs. Fletcher could not help smiling at the idea of Ethel’s making amends for her hasty speech by the sacrifice of eating a piece of her aunt’s plum-cake, but she answered quite seriously: “I am glad that you did not quarrel with Aunt Sally, my dear. She was provoking, no doubt, but you must remember that she is a very old woman, and have patience. Try to think not of her disagreeable speeches, but of the many kind things she does for us all. You will never be sorry after she is dead and gone, that you bore with her little ways.”
“I don’t mind what she says to me,” said Ethel; “but I cannot bear to have her talk so about father. Whenever she says any thing particularly vexatious, she always makes it an excuse that she says just what she thinks, or that she is plain-hearted. Do you think that is any excuse, mother?”
“No, my dear, not at all. In the first place, we have no right to think unkind thoughts, and if we think them, the least we can do is to keep them to ourselves, that they may not annoy others. You may observe, too, that those people who pride themselves on being plain spoken, are the last to bear any plain speaking from others.”
“I know that,” said Ethel. “Aunt Sally will hardly bear a word from any one, though she did not seem to be angry with me this afternoon. She called me Miss Fire-cracker, but she said she liked my spirit.”
“It is not very easy to calculate what she will say or do at any time,” said Mrs. Fletcher. “Now, if you please, my dear, you may set the table for tea. I am going to make some of those little warm biscuits you like so much.”