"God rest you, merry gentlemen!"
The first line rang out in all its tremulous bravery.
"Merry gentlemen!" flashed through Fred's mind. "What mockery!"
But a swelling chorus took it up and in the next instant they were men again. They sang it all—every word to the last line … repeating each stanza after the little man who had begun it and who had risen and taken his place beside Monet.
"Now to the Lord sing praises,
All you within this place,
And with true love and brotherhood
Each other now embrace,
This holy tide of Christmas
All other doth deface."
Only Fred remained silent. He could not sing, the bravery of it all smote him too deeply.
"This holy tide of Christmas
All other doth deface."
They were singing the last words over again.
Fred Starratt bowed his head. For the first and only time in his life he felt Christ very near. But the Presence passed as quickly. When he looked up the singing had ceased and the candles upon the tree were guttering to a pallid end. Monet laid down his violin and blew out the dying flames; his face was ashen and as he grasped the branches of the tree his hand shook. A man in front rose to his feet. Flockwise the others followed his lead. Christmas was over!… Fred Starratt had a sense that it had died still-born.
The next morning came wrapped in a dreadful silence. Men stood about in huddling groups and whispered. The exaltation of the night before had been too violent. A great dreariness oppressed Fred Starratt. He felt the inevitable sadness of a man who had met unveiled Beauty face to face and as speedily found the vision dissolved. The tree still swept the rooms and corridors with its fragrance, but in the harsh daylight its cheap trappings gave it a wanton look. Somehow, it mocked him, filled him with a sense of the vanity of life and all its fleeting impressions. The rain came down in a tremulous flood, investing everything with its colorless tears. The trees, the buildings, the very earth itself seemed to be melting away in silvery-gray grief.