Magic Elizabeth (14 page)

Her aunt said nothing for a time. She seemed to be thinking. She looked closely at Sally. “I don’t know,” she said at last. “I thought perhaps you
ought to play outside — but it is a little chilly. Oh, I suppose if you’re sure you feel all right, it won’t hurt you. Go ahead.”

“Oh, thank you!” And off Sally went once more to the attic, followed by her faithful Shadow.

How wonderful the attic looked to her after her long absence! It seemed indeed to welcome her. The little brass label on the other Sally’s trunk winked a greeting at her. It seemed to be speaking right to her, just as it had on the first day she had seen it. But she passed by the trunk and went straight to the mirror.

She sat down in front of the mirror, feeling suddenly quite out of breath, and she remembered that she had just gotten over being sick, “There’s a sort of ringing in my ears,” she told herself, closing her eyes. For there was a faint jingling sound, rather like the sound of far-off sleigh bells. “Jingle bells, jingle bells,” she whispered. No, it seemed as if someone were singing — no, whistling — somewhere. Someone was whistling “Jingle Bells,” and there
were
bells ringing!

“Oh my,” she thought, “I must still be sick.” Her head was spinning. She felt quite dizzy.

And then she opened her eyes and saw the other Sally in the mirror. There was no mistaking her this time.

She was wearing a little red velvet cape with a
pointed hood that covered her hair entirely. Her hands were tucked into a white fur muff just like the one Elizabeth carried in the picture. The little doll was seated upon her lap, and she too was wearing a tiny red-hooded cape. Snow was swirling about them, and there were snowflakes on their hoods and even clinging to the other Sally’s eyelashes. And how dark it was; the stars looked as if they were falling too, all mixed up with the twirling of the snowflakes.

“How cozy it feels,” thought Sally, snuggling down into the fur rug which covered her knees and the knees of her mother, who sat beside her. Sally stuck out her tongue and caught a cold snowflake on its tip.

They were riding in the red sleigh, the sleigh bells ringing as they glided over the glittering snow. Her father was seated on the driver’s seat high above them, whistling “Jingle Bells” and gently slapping the reins in his hands on the rising and falling back of the horse, who whinnied and raised its nose to the falling snow. When the horse turned its head, Sally could see its great eye flashing in the light of the lanterns that hung on either side of the sleigh. The cloud of its frosty breath hovered in the crystal air.

Up a hill they went, seeming to be flying straight toward the round moon. Sally could hear the sound
of the horse’s hoofs breaking through the crusty snow. Up and over the snowdrifts they flew, wind whistling past their ears. It nipped at Sally’s nose, and she drew her head further into the hood of her cape. Snow blew into her eyes and stiffened her lashes with cold. Snowflakes circled like moths around the lanterns, which swayed and bumped against the sides of the sleigh and cast leaping patterns of light on the banks of snow and the glittering ice-covered branches of the trees.

The branches struck a frosty music from the air above them, and Sally reached up and broke a twig from a low-hanging branch as they sped along past the lighted windows of farmhouses, past the school-house and the reaching spire of the church, with the silver moon caught on its tip. “The moon looks like a crystal ball tonight,” thought Sally. She looked down at the icy twig she held in her mittened hand. It looked silvery, a twig from a silver tree in a fairy tale. She waved it at the wonderful moon, and then let it fall into the snow. It seemed a night when anything could happen.

“Jingle bells, jingle bells,” sang her father’s deep voice, and he shook the reins and grinned around at her as the bells on the reins jingled a lively accompaniment.

“Careful, John,” cried her mother in a worried voice. “We’re going very fast.”

“Whoa,” said her father at last, standing up, the rug which covered his knees slipping over the edge of the seat as he did so. Sally reached up and caught the edge of the rug and looked up at him. “Here?” she asked.

“Right about here, I reckon,” said her father, peering about. Sally could see that they had stopped at the edge of a forest. Her father threw the reins over the seat and jumped out into the snow.

“Ah, there she is,” he said, lifting one of the lanterns from the sleigh and holding it so that Sally and her mother could see the fir tree, which lay on its side almost buried in the snow. “Perkins and I cut it this afternoon,” he said proudly. “Couldn’t bring it back then with all the wood we were carrying. But there it is — the biggest Christmas tree in the whole forest!”

“Oh it is!” breathed Sally. As she moved to look down at it, her hood fell back from her hair. She didn’t notice it until her mother reached over and pulled it up. “It must be the biggest tree in the world!”

“Will it fit into the parlor?” asked her mother.

“Have to make the parlor bigger if it doesn’t,” said Sally’s father, and accompanied by some good-natured grunting and groaning and a few more bars of “Jingle Bells,” he stood the tree up, shook some of the snow from its branches, and hoisted it up
onto the back of the sleigh. With some help from Sally and her mother, he secured it there with ropes.

And back they drove through the frosted air, over the moon-sparkled drifts, the lovely piney smell accompanying them all the way and reminding them — though they hardly needed a reminder — that this was indeed Christmas Eve. The church bells were chiming as they passed the little white church once more. Light streamed out onto the snow from its doorway.

Other sleighs passed them. “Merry Christmas!” called the people. The fluttering ends of the shawls and scarves in which they were wrapped waved gaily as they drove by.

“Merry Christmas!” they shouted in return. Patience went by with her family in their sleigh, muffled to her ears in a yellow shawl that glinted in the moonlight. “Merry Christmas, Elizabeth!” she called, and Sally held Elizabeth up and made her wave a cotton hand at her.

The tree was dragged into the house at last, along with a good deal of snow, which Sally’s mother did her very best to seem stern about. Rather unsuccessfully too, for she was as excited as any of them.

They stood the tree up in a corner of the parlor next to the melodeon, which made a continuous tinkling comment upon the proceedings as they
worked. The tree fit exactly, its tip just brushing the ceiling of the room.

“It’s beautiful!” said Sally.

“Twee!” cried little Bub, and they had to hold him back, for he rushed at it as if he meant to push it over, if possible, just for the fun of seeing it raised again to the ceiling. Mrs. Perkins caught him just in time. “Little dear,” she cried, kissing him. “The little, little dear.”

Aunt Tryphone vowed she had never seen such a tree in all her ninety-five years. “And I even doubt,” she said, “that my dear papa who once spoke to Mr. Washington saw such a tree. Mr. Washington himself may not even have been so fortunate.”

“Put your apron on, Sally,” said her mother, “to keep your dress clean.” And Sally ran to the kitchen to get her white apron with the borders of lace.

Mrs. Niminy Piminy, to everyone’s surprise — for they would have believed her too dignified for such behavior — tried to climb up the tree, and like Bub, had to be restrained. Her grown-up kittens behaved much better, sitting in a line and blinking in astonishment as the tree was being decorated. There were strings of popcorn and cranberries — Sally had made them with Bub’s “help” during many evenings at the kitchen table — and cotton-whiskered Santas, and beautiful shining balls of
red and gold and green glass. There were swans and birds with feathered tails, and angel-hair and tinsel, and tiny red candles in silver holders. When it was all done at last, everyone stood back to admire it.

Sally, holding Elizabeth in her arms, was looking especially hard at the top of the tree. Then she looked down at Elizabeth, smiled, and hugged her. “We need a Christmas angel!” she said, pointing at the top of the tree. “Elizabeth could be our angel.” And indeed, Elizabeth, her feet flying as Sally lifted her, looked as if she were already winging her way to the topmost branch of the tree.

“Ango,” cried Bub, clapping his chubby hands.

They all looked fondly at Elizabeth and nodded.

“She’ll make a dear little angel,” agreed Mrs. Perkins.

Aunt Tryphone could be heard to murmur something about Mr. Washington and Christmas angels.

“I’ll bring the ladder back,” said Father.

And he did. He helped Sally climb almost to the very top of the ladder, and then he handed Elizabeth up to her.

Up there, Sally could smell the piney smell of Christmas, which is like nothing else in the world. She felt quite delightfully faint with it.

“Steady there,” warned her father as she swayed, and Sally lifted Elizabeth high into the air. “Here’s
some string,” said her father. “Can you tie her to the peak?”

Sally took the string and gently tied Elizabeth to the top of the glittering tree, and blew a kiss to her.

Sally came down again and they all stood looking up at Elizabeth.

“She’s the most beautiful angel in the world,” said Sally.

“Indeed she is.”

“Dear little thing.”

“Fing, fing.”

Tom sat looking up longingly at his friend. “He wants to be up there with her,” said Sally.

Her mother said, “He’d better not try to get there!”

Then, with Sally’s mother playing the melodeon, they all sang Christmas carols — “Jingle Bells” and “Hark the Herald Angels Sing,” and last of all, “Silent Night.” And while they sang, snow fell upon the house and upon the hills and upon all the sleeping fields.

It was Sally who first saw that Elizabeth was gone.

They had stopped singing at last, too tired to go on, and they had all turned to admire the tree once more.

Sally, of course, looked for Elizabeth first of all.

“Mama!” she cried. “Elizabeth! She’s gone!”

“Goodness!” cried her mother. “So she is.”

“Dear little thing,” said Mrs. Perkins. “No doubt she’s fallen.”

“But then where is she?” cried Sally, for she was looking all around the bottom of the tree and could not find her.

“In among the branches probably,” said her father, bringing the ladder back once more. They searched and searched among the branches, but Elizabeth was nowhere to be found. They looked and looked, till they all knew that there was no point in looking any more.

“But where could she go?” Sally was sobbing. “She couldn’t just vanish!”

They all stood looking unhappily down at Sally, not knowing what to do. Then her mother knelt beside her and took her in her arms and kissed her. “Sal,” she said, “you mustn’t. Elizabeth wouldn’t want to spoil your Christmas, darling, you know she wouldn’t.”

“I know,” sobbed Sally into her mother’s comforting shoulder. “I know, but I can’t help it. I miss her so.” She sniffed and looked up at her mother. “Oh, Mama,” she said, “I had such good times with her.”

“There, dear,” comforted her mother. “Don’t cry, don’t cry.”

“D
on’t cry, Sal
. Don’t cry, there, dear.”

Sally looked up to find Aunt Sarah seated on the attic floor, holding her in her arms. “Sal, Sal, what’s the matter, dear?” she was saying. “You’ve overtired yourself. I shouldn’t have let you come up here.”

Sally rubbed at her eyes. “No,” she said, “it’s all right. I was crying about Elizabeth, when the other Sally lost her.”

“There, dear, you were dreaming again,” said Aunt Sarah, gently smoothing her hair back from her forehead.

“No,” said Sally, shaking her head, “no, it wasn’t like a dream. It was just as if it were happening.
And the other Sally had an apron like yours, like the ones you had when you were a little girl.”

“Did she?” murmured Aunt Sarah. She was looking off somewhere over Sally’s head, as if she too could see into the past.

Sally gulped and nodded. She sat up slowly. “Where’s Shadow?” she asked.

“Up to his usual tricks,” said Aunt Sarah, pointing at him. He was poking at something between the roof and the floor, poking and poking. “Aren’t cats funny?”

“But they don’t like to be laughed at,” said Sally.

“Well,” said Aunt Sarah, “perhaps they don’t mind so awfully much.”

“Shadow looks like Mrs. Niminy Piminy, but he looks even more like Tom.”

“Old Tom,” sighed Aunt Sarah.

But Sally didn’t hear her. She was remembering something — the bonnet found by Emily, the golden thread in Shadow’s paw, and Tom, sitting under the Christmas tree, gazing up at his friend Elizabeth. Tom, who had carried Elizabeth in his mouth, in the garden. What if, while they were singing, Elizabeth had fallen off the tree? What if Tom had still been sitting there, watching her? What would he have done if she had fallen to the floor? Her eyes flicked to Shadow, poking his paw into the space under the roof. What if Tom had
taken Elizabeth in his mouth? What if, while they were singing, he had walked silently past them, up the stairs, and up more stairs, and what if the attic door had been open? Yes, what if Tom had been like Shadow? They were both cats, weren’t they?