It was now Christmas Eve. From time to time the “hired out” servants came home from Richmond or other places where they had been hired or had hired out themselves, their terms having been by common custom framed, with due regard to their rights to the holiday, to expire in time for them to spend the Christmas at home.[2] There was much hilarity over their arrival, and they were welcomed like members of the family as, with their new winter clothes donned a little ahead of time, they came to pay “bespec’s to master and mistis.”
[2] The hiring contracts ran from New Year to Christmas.
Then the vehicles went off to the distant station for the visitors—the visitors and the boys. Oh the excitement of that! at first the drag of the long hours, and then the eager expectancy as the time approached for their return; the “making up” of the fires in the visitors’ rooms (of the big fires; there had been fires there all day “to air” them, but now they must be made up afresh); the hurrying backwards and forwards of the servants; the feverish impatience of every one, especially of the children, who are sure the train is “late” or that something has “happened,” and who run and look up towards the big gate every five minutes, notwithstanding the mammy’s oft-repeated caution that a “watch’ pot never b’iles.” There was one exception to the general excitement: the Mistress, calm, deliberate, unperturbed, moved about with her usual serene composure, her watchful eye seeing that everything was “ready.” Her orders had been given and her arrangements made days before, such was her system. The young ladies, having finished dressing the parlor and hall, had disappeared. Satisfied at last with their work, after innumerable final touches, every one of which was an undeniable improvement to that which had already appeared perfect, they had suddenly vanished—vanished as completely as a dream—to appear again later on at the parlor door, radiant visions of loveliness, or, maybe, if certain visitors unexpectedly arrived, to meet accidentally in the less embarrassing and safer precincts of the dimly lighted halls or passages. When they appeared, what a transformation had taken place! If they were bewitching before, now they were entrancing. The gay, laughing, saucy creature who had been dressing the parlors and hanging the mistletoe with many jests and parries of the half-veiled references was now a demure or stately maiden in all the dignity of a new gown and with all the graciousness of a young countess.
But this is after the carriages return. They have not yet arrived. They are late—they are always late—and it is dark before they come; the glow of the fires and candles shines out through the windows on the snow, often blackened by the shadows of little figures whose noses are pressed to the cold panes, which grow blurred with their warm breath. Meantime the carriages, piled outside and in, are slowly making their way homeward through the frozen roads, followed by the creaking wagon filled with trunks, on which are haply perched small muffled figures, whose places in the carriages are taken by unexpected guests. The drivers still keep up a running fire with their young masters, though they have long since been pumped dry as to every conceivable matter connected with “home,” in return for which they receive information as to school and college pranks. [At last the “big gate” is reached]; a half-frozen figure rolls out and runs to open it, flapping his arms in the darkness like some strange, uncanny bird; they pass through; the gleam of a light shines away off on a far hill. The shout goes up, “There she is; I see her!” The light is lost, but a little later appears again. It is the light in the mother’s chamber, the curtains of the windows of which have been left up intentionally, that the welcoming gleam may be seen afar off by her boys on the first hill—a blessed beacon shining from home and her mother’s heart.
[“At last the ‘big gate’ is reached.”]
Across the white fields the dark vehicles move, then toil up the house hill, filled with their eager occupants, who can scarce restrain themselves; approach the house, by this time glowing with lighted windows, and enter the yard just as the doors open and a swarm rushes out with joyful cries of, “Here they are!” “Yes, here we are!” comes in cheery answer, and one after another they roll or step out, according to age and dignity, and run up the steps, stamping their feet, the boys to be taken fast into motherly arms, and the visitors to be given warm handclasps and cordial welcomes.