It was at such times as these that everything that Ruth had seen in the past and everything she feared for the future seemed most unreal and incredible.
Surely here in this warm room with its glowing fire, its flowers and birds, among these every-day people, eating breakfast and chatting of ordinary things, there could be nothing more sinister than the snow storm outside; and that only seemed to add to the comfort and good cheer within.
Then she saw George glide across the far end of the long room, silent, dark-clad, swift, and she remembered that this was not only Christmas Eve; it was also the dark of the moon. The children would come to play before the Christmas tree in the afternoon—and at night the doom of the daughter of Shiva would fall. Later she knew that it was in this moment that she thought again of the words of Professor Pendragon: “If I had an enemy I would destroy his faith in his power to harm,” and she knew what it was that she must do.
Angela was right. The snow stopped falling before ten o’clock. They had all been keeping country hours and had breakfasted at eight, and they all watched James drive off in the huge sleigh that was to bring the children to the Christmas party.
There would not be as many as usual, for James had been forced to make a late start and he could not travel very rapidly in the deep snow and the children must be there at three o’clock if they were to start home early in the evening. For these very good reasons he could not stop at more than four or five of the very nearest farms. However, as each farm could provide from two to six children, there promised to be quite enough to keep Ruth busy if she was to amuse them.
The idea of amusing children rather frightened Ruth, but she was relieved when Angela took them to see the tree. It had all been very nicely arranged with enough mechanical amusement to relieve her of any very great responsibility. The tree—a very big one—was in a large room from which most of the furniture, except a few chairs, had been thoughtfully removed. Aside from the candles and tinsel ornaments there were dozens of small gifts, of little value, but suitable almost for any child, together with the usual “Christian sweets,” as Terry called them, which Ruth remembered to have received herself from Church Christmas trees, and to have seen nowhere else at any time. Then there was to be tea with lots of cakes and chocolate and nuts and fruit, and altogether Ruth could see that there would not be more than one torturing hour in which she would have to “amuse the children.” Besides they would probably amuse themselves.
“Why not teach them poetry games?” suggested Miss Gilchrist, “those lovely things of Vachel Lindsay’s, where the poetry is interpreted by motion—”
“Better let them play games they know,” said Angela. “They only have an hour or two, and there won’t be time to teach them anything new.”
“Oh, very well. I was only suggesting; of course if you prefer the old-fashioned, undirected play—but it seemed to me a splendid opportunity to bring beauty into the lives of children who might never have another opportunity of studying it. I have gone in for child study, you know, quite deeply; I may say that child culture is my—”
Ruth feared that she was going to say it was her chief métier, but Angela interrupted with: