In another moment, however, he was all cheerfulness. “You have brought me a Christmas present,” cried he, “and we must make it a Christmas holiday indeed. Here is the beginning:” and with one of his old grave smiles, he handed Bertram a little note which had been awaiting him on the library table. “But Paula and Miss Belinda must have their pleasure too. Paula, are you too tired for a ride downtown? I will show you New York on a Christmas eve,” continued he to Miss Walton, seeing that Paula’s attention was absorbed by the expression of sudden and moving surprise which had visited Bertram’s face, upon the perusal of his note. “It is a stirring sight. Nothing more cheering can be found the wide world over, for those who have a home and children to make happy.”
“I certainly should enjoy a glimpse of holiday cheer,” assented Miss Belinda. And Paula recalled to herself by the sound of her aunt’s voice, gayly reechoed her assertion.
So Samuel was despatched for a carriage, and in a few minutes they were all riding down Fifth Avenue, en route for Tiffany’s, Macy’s, and any other store that might offer special attractions. It was a happy company. As they rolled along, Paula felt her heart grow lighter and lighter, Mr. Sylvester was almost gay, while even Aunt Belinda condescended to be merry. Bertram alone was silent, but as Paula caught short glimpses of his face, while speeding past some illuminated corner, she felt that it was that silence which is “the perfectest herald of joy.”
“I shall make you get out and mix with the crowd,” said Mr. Sylvester. “I want you to feel the throb of the great heart of the city on such a night as this. It is as if all men were brothers—or fathers, I should say. People that ordinarily pass each other without a sign, nod and smile with pleasing recognition of the evening’s cheer. Grave and reverend seigniors, are not ashamed to be seen carrying packages by the dozen. Indeed, he who is most laden is considered the best fellow, and he who is so unfortunate as to show nothing but empty arms, feels shy if not ashamed; a condition of mind into which I shall soon fall myself, if we do not presently reach our destination.”
Paula never forgot that night. As from the midst of our commonplace memories, someone hour stands out distinct and strange, like a sweet foreigner in a crowd of village faces, so to Paula, this ride through the lighted streets, with the ensuing rush from store to store, piloted by Bertram and Miss Belinda, and protected by Mr. Sylvester, was her one weird glimpse into the Arabian Nights’ country. Why, she could not have told; why, she did not stop to think. She had been to all these places before, but never with such a heart as this—never, never with such an overflowing heart as this.
“I have washed away my reproach,” cried Mr. Sylvester, coming out to the carriage with his arms full of bundles. “Aunt Belinda is to blame for this; she set the example, you see.” And with a merry laugh, he tossed one thing after another into Paula’s lap, reserving only one small package for himself. “I scarcely know what I have bought,” said he. “I shall be as much surprised as anyone, when you come to undo the bundles. ‘A pretty thing,’ was all I waited to hear from the shop girls.”
“There is a small printing press for one thing,” cried Paula merrily. “I saw the man at Holton’s eye you with a certain sort of shrewd humor, and hastily do it up. You paid for it; probably thinking it one of the ‘pretty things.’ We shall have to make it over to Bertram, as being the only one amongst us who by any stretch of imagination can be said to be near enough the age of boyhood to enjoy it.”
“I do not know about that,” cried Bertram, with a ringing infectious laugh, “my imagination has been luring me into believing that I am not the only boy in this crowd.”
And so they went on, toying with their newfound joy as with a plaything, and hard would it have been to tell in which of those voices rang the deeper contentment.
The opening of the packages on the library-table afforded another season of merriment. Such treasures as came to light! A roll of black silk, which could only have been meant for Miss Belinda. A casket of fretted silver, just large enough to hold Paula’s gloves; a scarf-ring, to which no one but Bertram could lay claim; a bundle of confections, a pair of diamond-studded bracelets, a scarf of delicate lace, articles for the desk, and knickknacks for the toilet table, and last, but not least, in weight at least, the honest little printing-press.
“Oh, I never dreamed of this,” said Paula, “when we chose Christmas eve for our journey.”
“Nor would you have done right to stay away if you had,” returned Mr. Sylvester gayly.
But when the sport was all over, and Paula stood alone with Mr. Sylvester in the library, awaiting his last good night, the deeper influences of this holy time made themselves felt, and it was with an air of gentle seriousness, he told her that it had been a happy Christmas eve to him.
“And to me,” returned Paula. “Bertram too, seemed very happy. Would it be too inquisitive in me to ask what good news the little note contained, to work such wonders?”
A smile such as was seldom seen on Mr. Sylvester’s face of late, flashed brightly over it. “It was only a card of invitation to dinner,” said he, “but it came from Mr. Stuyvesant, and that to Bertram means a great deal.”
The surprise
