At first the two yards had been as much
alike as the two houses, the houses being
exact copies one of the other. They were
just two of those little red brick ones that
one is always seeing in the outskirts of a city,
side by side, and looking as if the occupants
must be alike, too. But these two families
were quite different. Mr. Gilton who lived in
one, was a pretty cross sort of man and
was quite well to do, as cross people sometimes
are. He and his wife lived alone and
they did not have much going and coming out
and in either. Mrs. Gilton would have
liked more of it, but she had given up thinking
about it, for her husband had said so
many times that it was women's tomfoolery
to want to have people, whom you weren't
anything to and who weren't anything to
you, ringing your doorbell all the time and
bothering around in your dining room, which
of course it was, and she would have
believed it if a woman ever did believe
anything a man says a great many times.
In the other house there were five children,
and as Mr. Gilton said, they made too large
a family, and they ought to have gone somewhere
else. Possibly they would have gone
had it not been for the fence, but when
Mr. Gilton put it up and Mr. Bilton told him
it was three inches too far on his land, and
Mr. Gilton said he could go to law about it,
expressing the idea forcibly, Mr. Bilton was
foolish enough to take his advice. The decision
went against him and a good deal of his
money went with it, for it was
a long teasing
law suit, and instead of being three
inches of made ground it might have been
three degrees of the Arctic Circle for the
trouble there was in getting at it. So Mr.
Bilton had to stay where he was. It was
then that the yards began to take on those
little differences that soon grew to be very
marked. Neither family would plant any
vines because they would have been certain
to heedlessly beautify the other side, and
consequently the fence, in all its primitive boldness,
stood out uncompromisingly, and the
one or two little bits of trees grew carefully
on the further side of the enclosures so as not
to be mixed up in the trouble at all. But Mr.
Gilton's grass was cut smoothly by the man
who made the fires, while Mr. Bilton only
found a chance to cut his himself once in two
weeks. Then, by and by, Mr. Gilton bought
a red garden bench and put it under the tree
that was nearest to the fence. No one ever
went out and sat on it to be sure, but to the
Bilton children it represented the visible
flush of prosperity. Particularly was Cora
Cordelia wont to peer through the fence
and gaze upon that red bench, thinking it a
charming place to play house, ignorant of
the fact that much of the red paint would
have come off on her back. Cora
Cordelia
was the youngest of the five. All the rest
had very simple names, John, Walter, Fanny,
and Susan, but when it came to Cora Cordelia
luxuries were beginning to get very scarce
in the Bilton family, and Mrs. Bilton felt
that she must make up for it by being lavish,
in one direction or another. She had wished
to name Fanny, Cora, and Susan, Cordelia,
but she had yielded to her husband,
and called one after his mother and one after
herself, and then gave both her favorite
names to the youngest of all. Cora Cordelia
was a pretty little girl, prettier even, than
both her names put together.
After the red bench, came a quicksilver
ball, that was put in the middle of the yard
and reflected all the glory of its owner, albeit
in a somewhat distorted form. This effort
of human ingenuity filled the Bilton children
with admiration bordering on awe. Cora
Cordelia spent hours gazing at this until
called in and reproved by her mother for
admiring so much things she could not afford
to have. After this she only admired it covertly.
Small distinctions like these barbed
the arrows of contrast and comparison and
kept the disadvantages of neighborhood ever
before their eyes.
Then it was a constant annoyance to have
their surnames so much alike. Matters were
made more unpleasant by mistakes of the
butcher, the grocer and so on, Gilton, 79
Holmes avenue was so much like Bilton, 77
Holmes avenue. Gilton changed his butcher
every time he sent his dinner to Bilton and
though the mistakes were generally rectified
neither of the two families ever forgot the
time the Biltons ate, positively ate, the Gilton
dinner, under a misapprehension. Mrs.
Bilton apologized and Mrs. Gilton boldly told
her husband that she was glad they'd had it,
and she hoped they'd enjoyed it, which only
made matters worse, and altogether it was
a dark day, the only joy of it being that
fearful one snatched by John, Walter, Susan,
Fanny and Cora Cordelia from the undoubted
excellence of the roast.
Of course there was an assortment of
minor difficulties. The smoke from the
Biltons' kitchen blew into the windows of
the Giltons' sitting room, when the wind
was in one direction, and, when it was in the
other, many of the clothes from the Giltons'
clothes line were blown into the Biltons'
yard, and Fanny, Susan, or Cora Cordelia
had to be sent out to pick them up and drop
them over the fence again, which Mrs.
Bilton said was very wearing, as of course it
must have been. Things like this were
always happening, but matters reached at
climax when it came to the dog. It wasn't
a large dog but it was a tiresome one.
It
got up early in the morning and barked.
Now we all know that early rising is a good
thing and honorable among all men, but it is
something that ought to be done quietly
out of regard to the weaker vessels. And a
dog that barks between five and seven in the
morning, continuously, certainly ought to
be suppressed, even if it be necessary to use
force. Everybody agreed with the Biltons
about that — everybody except the Giltons
themselves, who, by some one of nature's
freaks, didn't mind it. Mrs. Bilton often
said she wished Mrs. Gilton could be a light
sleeper for a week and see what it was like. So
too, everybody thought that Mr. Bilton had
right on his side when he complained that
this same dog came into his yard, being
apparently indifferent to any coolness
between the estate owners, and ran over a
bed of geraniums and one thing and another,
that was the small Bilton offset to the Gilton
bench and ball. But when one morning for
the first time, that dog remained quiet and
restful, and was found cold and poisoned,
and Mr. Gilton was loud in his accusations
of the Bilton boys and their father, public
opinion wavered for a moment. After that
accident, no member of either family spoke
to any member of the other. That was the
way matters stood the day before Christmas.
It was snowing hard and the afternoon
grew dark rapidly, and the whirling flakes
pursued a blinding career. In spite of that,
everybody was out doing the last thing. Mrs.
Gilton was not, to be sure. She hadn't many
preparations to make. Of course they would
have a big dinner, but even that was all
arranged for, although the turkey hadn't
come and her husband was going to stop and
see about it on his way home. She shuddered
as the possibility of its having gone to the
Biltons occurred to her. But she didn't believe
it had — they hadn't the same butcher
any longer. Meanwhile there was so little to
do. It was too dark to read or sew and she
sat idly at the window looking out at the
passers and the driving snow. Everybody else
was in a hurry. She wished she, too, had
occasion to hasten down for a last purchase
or to light the lamp in order to finish a last
bit of dainty sewing, as she used to do, when
she was a girl. She seemed to have so few
friends now with whom she exchanged
Christmas greetings. Was it then only for
children and youth, this Christmas cheer?
And must she necessarily have left it
behind her with her girlhood? No, she knew
better than that. She felt that there was a
deeper significance in the Christmas tide than
can come home to the hearts of children and
unthoughtfulness, and yet it had grown to be
so painfully like other days — an occasion for
a little bigger dinner, that was
about all. With an unconscious
sigh she looked across to the Bilton house.
Plenty of people over there to make merry.
Five stockings to hang up. She wished she
might have sent something in. To be sure there
was the dog, but that was
some time ago. Very likely the dog would have been dead
now anyhow. She felt herself that this logic
was not irrefutable, but she wished she
could have sent some paper parcels just the
same. So strong had this impulse been that
she had said to her husband somewhat
timidly that morning:—
"There are a good many of those Bilton children to get presents for." "More fools they that get 'em presents then," he
had pleasantly replied.
"I don't suppose he has much to buy them
with," she continued.
"He had enough to buy poison for my
dog;" exclaimed her husband, giving his
newspaper an angry shake.
"I'd almost like to send them in some
cheap little toys."
"Well, as long as you don't quite like to, it
won't do any harm," he said with
some violence, laying down his newspaper,
and looking at her in a manner not to be
misunderstood. "But you see that the liking
doesn't get any further."
"It's Christmas you know," said his plucky
wife.
"Oh no, I don't know it!" he replied gruffly.
"I haven't fallen over forty children a
minute in the street with their ridiculous parcels,
and I haven't had women drop brown
paper bundles that come undone all over me
when they crowd into the horse car, and I
haven't found it impossible to get to the shirt
collar counter on account of Christmas novelties!
Oh, no, I didn't know it was Christmas!"
After that there was really not much to be
said, for we all know Christmas is dreadfully
annoying, and the last thing a man in this
sort of temper wants to hear about is peace
and good will.
Notwithstanding the fact that Mrs. Gilton
looked over to her neighbors' with an
envious feeling this dark afternoon, their
Christmas cheer was not so abounding as it
had been in more prosperous times. There
was not very much money to be spent this
year and they must give up something. Mr. and
Mrs. Bilton had decided that it should be the
Christmas dinner; they would have a simple
luncheon and let all the money that could
be spared go for the stockings. Each child
had its own sum to invest for others and there
was still a small amount for the older members
of the family. That it was a small
amount Mrs. Bilton felt strongly as she went
from shop to shop. But when she reached
home again she was somewhat encouraged,
there was such an air of joyous expectation
in the house and her purchases looked larger
now that they were away from the glittering
counters. Then each of the five children
came to her separately and confided
to her the nothing less than wonderful results
of judicious bargaining which had enabled
them to buy useful and beautiful presents for
each of the others out of the sums entrusted
to their care, ranging in amount from the
two dollars of John to the fifty cents of Cora
Cordelia. She felt sure that there were further
secrets yet; secrets attended by brown
paper and string, which she had taken the
greatest care for the last two weeks not to
heedlessly expose, riddles of which the
solution lay perilously near her eyes, which
would be revealed to her astonished gaze the
next morning.
She had reason to believe that even
Cora Cordelia was making something for her,
and though it was difficult for her to ignore
the fact that it was a knit wash cloth, she had
hitherto avoided absolute certainty on the
subject. So that altogether it was a pretty
cheerful afternoon at the Biltons'. Meanwhile
down in the main street of the city it was a
confusing scene. It was darker there than
where the streets were more open, and
although there were several daring spirits of
that adventurous turn of mind which leads
people into byways of discovery, who asserted
that the street lamps were lighted, it was not
generally believed. The snow was blowing
down and up and across, and getting more
and more unmanageable under the feet of
foot passengers every moment. It was cold
and windy and blinding and crowded, and a
good many other disconcerting things, all of
which Mr. Gilton felt the full force of as
he stood on the corner where he had just bought
his turkey. It was a fine turkey and
had been a good bargain and, though he
had to carry it home himself, there
was nothing derogatory in that, and if it
had been anybody else he would have been
thrilled with a glow of satisfaction, but Mr.
Gilton was long past glows of satisfaction — it
was years since he had permitted himself to
have such a thing.
"Jour—our—nal! fi-i-i-ve cents!" screamed
an intermittent newsboy in his ear.
"Get out!" replied Mr. Gilton, the
uncompromising nature of his language being
intensified by the fact that he jumped nearly
two feet from the suddenness of the newsboy's
attack. Even the newsboy, inured
to the short words of an unfriendly world,
and usually quite indifferent thereto, was
impressed by the asperity of the suggestion
and moved somewhat hastily on.
Possibly his cold, wet little existence had
been rendered morbidly susceptible by the
general good feeling of the hour, one lady
having even spontaneously given him five
cents. After this exchange of amenities
Mr. Gilton stepped into his horse-car. It
was crowded, of course, as horse-cars that
are small and run once in half an hour are
apt to be, and he had to stand up, and the
turkey legs stuck out of the brown paper in
a very conspicuous way. If Mr. Gilton had
been anybody else he would have been
chaffed about his turkey, because to make
up for the conveniences that the horse-car
line did not furnish the public, the large
hearted public furnished the horse-car line
with an unusual amount of friendliness.
There was almost always something going
on in these horse-cars. Their social privileges
were quite a feature. To-night they
were in unusual force on account of
the season. But nobody said anything
to Mr. Gilton. Only when he jerked the
bell and stepped off, one stout man with his
overcoat collar turned up to his ears said
without turning his head:—
"I supposed of course he was going to give
the turkey to the conductor." Everybody
laughed in that end of the car except one
small old lady in the corner, who was a
stranger and visiting, and who was left
with the impression that the gentleman who
got off must be a very kind man. It was
darker and blowier and snowier than when
he had left the corner and Mr. Gilton
floundered through the unbroken drifts up
the little path to the door with increasing
grudges in his heart against the difficulties
of Christmas. The lock was off and he went
in slamming the door after him. There was
no light in the hall and he murmured loudly
against the inconveniences.
"Confound it!" said he, "why didn't they
light the gas? I'm not one of those
confounded Biltons, I can afford to pay for
what I don't get;" and, without pausing to
take off his hat and coat, he strode to the
sitting room door and flung it open. That
was an awful moment. The sudden change
from the cold and darkness almost blinded
him, and confirmed the impression that he
was the victim of an illusion. The sound of
many voices, and then the hush of sudden
consternation, was in his ears. There was a
lamp and there was a fire and there between
them sat Mr. Bilton on one side and Mrs.
Bilton on the other, and round about in various
unconventional attitudes sat four
Bilton children. And there in the very
midst of them, in his heavy overcoat,
with snow melting on his hat, his beard
and his shoulders, stood Mr. Gilton. The
unexpected scene, the amazed faces gazing
into his, rendered him speechless; he
wondered vaguely if he were losing his reason.
Then, in a flash of enlightenment he realized
what had happened; thanks to the storm
outside, he had come into the wrong house.
Naturally his first impulse was towards flight,
but as his bewildered gaze slipped about the
room it fell upon five stockings hung against
the mantelpiece, and stayed there fascinated.
Five foolish, limp, expressionless stockings,
it
was long since he had seen such an unreasonable
spectacle. Then he recollected himself
and looked around him. Perhaps even then if
he had made a dash for the door he might have
escaped and matters have been none the
worse. But in that instant of hesitation
caused by the sudden sight of those five
stockings something dreadful occurred. It
must be premised that Cora Cordelia did not
know Mr. Gilton very well by sight, being in
the first place small and not noticing, and in
the second, filled with an unreasoning fear
that caused her to flee whenever she had
seen him approach. This is the only excuse
for what she did. For while her mother
was feebly murmuring, as if in extenuation,
"we thought it was John coming in," Cora
Cordelia clasped her hands in delirious
delight and cried aloud, "It's Santa Claus!
Oh, it's Santa Claus!" Could anything more
awful happen to a cross man, a very cross
man, than to be taken for Santa Claus!
Mr. Gilton looked at Cora Cordelia and
wondered why she had not been slaughtered
in her cradle.
"And," exclaimed Susan Bilton, with sudden
communicative fervor, "he has come
and brought us a turkey for to-morrow's
dinner!"
The truth was that Susan had been coming
to the age that is sceptical about Santa
Claus, but she could not resist this sudden
appearance.
No one better than Mr. Gilton could appreciate
the nonsense of the whole situation, and
yet, strangely enough, together with his
annoyance was mingled a touch of the
strangest feeling that had dawned upon him
first when he saw the stockings. To be sure
it only added to his annoyance but it was
there. By this time — it was really a very
short time — Mrs. Bilton had recovered
herself and risen, and Mr. Bilton had risen too.
"Hush, children, it is not Santa Claus," she
said, "It is Mr. Gilton. We are glad to see
you, Mr. Gilton," and she held out her hand
to him, "Won't you sit down?" She felt that
he had come in the Christmas spirit and she
was anxious to meet him half-way.
"Yes," said her husband coming forward,
and instantly taking his cue from his wife —
for he was really a very nice man — "we are
very glad." To be sure, in his manner there
was a certain stiffness, for a man cannot
always change completely in a moment, as a
woman can, but Mr. Gilton was too perplexed
to notice this. In the incomprehensible way
that one's mind has of clinging to unimportant
things at great crises, now while he was
fuming with rage and bothered with this
strange feeling which was not precisely rage,
he was wondering how in the world he was
going to sit down with that ridiculous turkey
with its ridiculous legs, in his arms, and not look
more absurd than he did now. In this moment
of absent-mindedness he had mechanically
taken Mrs. Bilton's hand and shaken it, and
after that of course there was nothing to do
except to shake Mr. Bilton's. Then he began
to know it was all up. He had not spoken
yet but now he made a frantic effort to save
what might be left besides honor. "I came
—" he began, "I came — came to your house
—" There he paused a moment, and that
unlucky child with that tendency to be
possessed by one idea which is characteristic
of small and trivial minds, and for which
she should have been shaken, burst in with
"And did the reindeer bring you and are
they outside?"
He almost groaned, so overwhelmed was he
by this new idiocy. Reindeer! If those
overworked, struggling car horses could have
heard that! Then Mrs. Bilton pitying his
evident confusion, came to his assistance.
"Don't mind the children, Mr. Gilton," she
said, her cheeks flushing, and looking very
pretty with the excitement of the unusual
circumstances,
"we
are glad you came, however
you made your way here. I think we
may thank Christmas eve for it. Now do
take off your overcoat and sit down."
Oh, mispraised woman's tact! What
complications you may produce! That finished
it, of course. He sat down. In those few
moments that strange feeling had grown
marvellously stronger. It seemed to be made
up of the most diverse elements; a mixture
of green wreaths and his own childhood and
his mother and a top he had not thought of
for years and the wide fireplace at home and
a stable with a child in it and a picture in
a book he used to read of a lot of angels in
the sky, one particular one in the middle, and
underneath it some words — what were the
words? he'd forgotten they had anything to
do with Christmas, anyway.
"But you did bring us the turkey, didn't
you?" said Cora Cordelia, helping her
mother on.
To do the child justice, for even Cora
Cordelia has a right to demand justice, her
manners were corrupted by Christmas
expectancy.
"Cora Cordelia, I'm ashamed of you,"
said Mrs. Bilton.
"Yes," said Mr. Gilton, the words wrung
from his lips, while beads stood on his forehead.
"Yes, I brought you the turkey."
"Did you really?" exclaimed Mrs. Bilton,
who thought he had all the time, "That
was very kind of you."
"Will you please take it — take it away?"
he said with that wish to have something
over which we associate with the dentist.
So Mrs. Bilton took the turkey and thanked
him and gave it to Fanny who carried it out
to the kitchen, and Mr. Gilton gave one last
look at its legs as it went through the door,
feeling that now he must wake up from
this nightmare. But things only went
farther and became more incredible and
upsetting, only that, strangely enough, that
feeling of horror began to wear off, and
that singular strain of association with all
sorts of Christmas things to grow stronger.
He himself could hardly believe that it was
no worse when he found himself seated by
the littered table, with Mrs. Bilton near and
Mr. Bilton over by the fire again, listening
to first one and then the other, and
occasionally letting fall a word himself, his
conversational powers seeming to thaw out
along with the snow on his great coat.
These words themselves were a
surprise to him. He was quite
sure that he started them with a
creditable gruffness, but the Christmas air
mellowed them in a highly unsatisfactory
fashion, so that they fell on his own ears
quite otherwise than as he had meant they
should. Moreover the general tenor of the
conversation was exceedingly perplexing. It
was all about how fine it was of him to come
this evening, and how they had often
regretted the hard feeling, and how things
always did get exaggerated. Of course he
would not have believed a word of it, if he
had been able to get any grip on the situation,
but he wasn't, and he just went on
assenting to it all as if it were true. There
came a time when Mr. Bilton cleared his
throat, hesitated a moment, and then said
boldly,
"I think I ought to tell you Mr. Gilton,
that I had nothing whatever to do with the
death of your dog." Mr. Gilton felt the
ground slipping away from under his very
feet. That dog had been his piece of resistance,
as it were.
"I wouldn't have poisoned
him," went on Mr. Bilton, "for a hundred
dollars. But," he added, with a queer little
smile, "I wasn't going to tell you so, you
know."
"Of course you wasn't," exclaimed Mr. Gilton
hurriedly, with a touch of that unholy
excitement that a lapse from grammar
imparts. "We wouldn't any of us," asserted
Walter.
"No,"
said Susan, Fanny, and Cora Cordelia.
Then it came out that the whole family had
rather admired the dog than otherwise. It
was then that John did really come
in, his entrance sounding very much
as had Mr. Gilton's. He nearly fell over
when he saw the visitor, but he had time to
pull himself together, for Cora Cordelia had
snatched that moment for showing Mr. Gilton
her gifts for the family, and he was
bound hand and foot with helplessness. Then
they all came and showed him their gifts.
While he examined them Mr. and Mrs. Bilton
carefully averted their eyes and gazed hard
at the opposite wall, while Cora Cordelia
urged him, in stage whispers, not to let them
suspect. It was pitiable the state to which
he was reduced. Of course resisting this
Christmas enthusiasm was out of the question.
To be sure, it came over him once with
startling force, as she showed him a toy
water-wheel, that went by sand, which she
had purchased for her father at a phenomenally
low rate, because the wheel could not be
made to go, that Cora Cordelia was the very
child that he had fallen over as she came
hastening out of a toy shop with a queer
shaped bundle, the day before, and so been
further embittered towards Christmas.
Susan had purchased a cup and ball for her
mother, and as she went out of the room for
a moment insisted upon Mr. Gilton's trying
to do it and see what fun it was. If Mr. Gilton
lives to be a hundred he will never forget
the mingled feelings with which he awkwardly
tried to get that senseless ball into that
idiotic cup. At last he stood up to go — it
was after six o'clock — and they went
with him to the door, and wished
him Merry Christmas and sent
Merry Christmas to Mrs. Gilton and said
good-night several times and he stumbled on
through the snow, this time towards his own
door. It had stopped snowing as suddenly
and quietly as it had begun and the stars
had come out. He gazed up at them, something
he very rarely did. They seemed a
part of Christmas. Just before he turned in
at his own gate, he looked back at the Bilton
house and shook his fist at it, but the
expression on his face was such that the very
same newsboy who had accosted him earlier
failed utterly to recognize him and was
emboldened to offer him a paper. He too
was pushing his way home with two left in
a somewhat dispirited way.
"I'll take 'em both," said this singular
customer. "Here's a quarter — never mind
the change. It's Christmas eve, I believe" —
and this when he knew perfectly well that a
copy of that very same journal was lying,
waiting for him on his table. The boy
looked at his quarter and looked again at
his customer and recognized him, and made
up his mind to buy a couple of hot sausages
on the corner and went on his way feeling
that there was a new heaven and a new
earth. Mrs. Gilton was standing at the
parlor window, peering out anxiously as he
came up the path. She was in the hall
as he entered. "Why Reuben!" she said, "I
was afraid something had happened."
Goodness gracious! As if something hadn't
happened! He turned away to hang up his
overcoat and tried to speak crossly.
"Well," he said, "I've lost my turkey,
that's happened."
"Never mind," said Mrs. Gilton
quickly.
"The other one came
later,
the first one you
know — so — so the Biltons didn't get it this
time." "They got the second one though,"
said Reuben, hanging up his hat. "Oh, dear,
did they!" said Mrs. Gilton. Then she went
on, "well, I don't care if they did, so there! I
guess they need it for their Christmas dinner."
"No, they don't," said Reuben turning
around and facing her, "because they are
going to eat part of ours. They are coming
in to-morrow to have dinner with us. Everyone
of them!" he asserted more loudly, on
account of the expression on his wife's face.
"Bilton and his wife, and all the five children,
down to Cora Cordelia! So we'll have to
have something for them to eat."
If Mr. Gilton will never forget the cup and
ball, Mrs. Gilton will never forget that
moment. She went all over it in her mind
whether she could manage him herself
to-night, or whether to send Bridget right away
then for the doctor,and if she hadn't better
say a policeman too; and whether he could
be kept for the future in a private house or
would have to be confined in an asylum. She
was inclining towards the asylum when he,
who was going into the sitting room before
her, turned round and laughed an odd little
laugh. She began to think then that a
private house would do.
The next day they all dined together which
proved that it was not all a Christmas eve
illusion. There is a report in the neighborhood
that the fence between the houses is to be
taken down to make room for a tennis court
for the Bilton children, but of course this
may not be true. It would have to be done
in the summer, and if the effect of Christmas
could be depended upon to last into the
summer this would be a very different sort of
world.
