The weeks leading up to Christmas at Ingleside was a whirl of color and activity. The hallways of that dear house were a-buzz with secrets, whispered conversations, and the rustle of wrapping paper. For weeks Cecilia had shut herself up in her room, knitting furiously. There were so many people to get presents for this year! Last year it had been only Mother, Father, and Susan.
She made sachets of old rose petals and lavender for the aunts-- and for Joy and Merry, who were getting too big to appreciate gifts like the mittens she was knitting for Trudy, Bertie and the small Annes. Trudy got a matching muffler because she was Cecilia's especial friend-- it was the first she had ever tried to make and the stitches a little uneven. But when it was wound around Trudy's dear face, who would notice the stitches?
She made cookies for the small boys, from an old recipe of Aunt Persis.' Because Leslie had no interest in cooking, Aunt Persis had promised the recipe to Cecilia and Cecilia only. Leslie herself got the same balsam glider set that Cecilia bought from the dime store for Gilly and Walter-- Leslie would sniff disdainfully over something so female as a sachet, and would lose one of the mittens within hours of getting them. Cecilia knew Leslie. For Kent she bought a little sticker-book. For Blythe she had spent a large sum of her allowance on a great. leather-bound volume of poetry by Hopkins. But he must keep it a secret, lest the other cousins feel jealous.
Grandfather and Grandmother had said they did not want the young folks to spend money making them presents. For Father, Cecilia framed her class picture. But oh, what for Mother? For Mother would spend this Christmas at the hospital, and there were very few things Cecilia was allowed to send. Books, paper, pencils. That was it! No photographs that might upset her. No things that she might hurt herself with. Cecilia racked her brain for a long while, and then had a revelation. She would send Mother that old book of poetry of Uncle Walter's! It would certainly be a nice reminder of home, and the old, forgotten days.
She sang as she wrapped it, and included a handwritten note between the leaves. Merry Christmas, darling Mother! It said. That note by itself would have had a chance of cheering Una up. The book of poetry would have made her smile in rememberance--and yes, regret. But between the pages of the book there was also another letter that Cecilia had forgotten to take out, one that urged its reader to keep faith. It was that letter that would have quite the opposite effect for sad, tortured Una Blythe.
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Cecilia and Sid were talking things over as they walked home from Christmas Eve service at the Church. The world was hushed by newfallen snow, and it seemed as they were walking in a dream.
"It reminds me of the poem," said Sid, in an uncharacteristic flight of fancy.
"The moon on the breast of the newfallen snow
Gave lustre of midday to objects below."
Cecilia had always thought it a garish, unbeautiful poem, but on this snowy, Christmas night, it was the right thing. She sighed with happiness when Sid had finished and repeated that peaceful last line.
"Merry Christmas to all-- And to all a good night! Oh," she thrilled. "How can words be as beautiful as people-- and things! Sometimes they are even more so. When Uncle Jerry read that age old story tonight, one line jumped out at me and made me shiver: For unto you this day a Child is born, in Bethlehem! Oh, Sid, look how quiet and still and expectant everything is! What if we saw a star suddenly rise in the East-- and followed it-- and found ourselves transported back to that wonderful night so long and far ago."
"It might look quiet and still," Sid said, with a grin. "But think of all the kids inside those houses who are full of mischief this night. I know Cuddles will still be up when I get home-- begging not to have to go to bed, and too excited to sleep when she finally does. But it is peaceful to look at from here," he admitted. "It reminds me of the hymn-- above thy deep and dreamless sleep, the silent stars go by. That line always made me feel sort of peculiar whenever I heard it-- but in a glad way. Isn't that strange?"
Cecilia would have thrilled to be reminded of that line-- she had always loved that carol-- had she not been lost in thought. Sid had reminded her of something.
"Susan would have been too excited to sleep, too," she murmured. "Peeking through the window slats to try and see Santa Claus-- like she was doing last year-- only last year! Susan-- Susan-- where are you tonight?"
Sid felt a pang of-- something-- when he saw her eyes. It felt like he was standing in the face of a great hurricane with nothing to brace against. Oh, how terrible it was to feel powerless in the face of her sorrow! When he had promised her and himself that nothing-- nothing-- of sorrow should touch her. He comforted her in the only way he could think of.
"I've a present for you," he said, and presented her with a very pretty necklace of cut glass beads that sparkled like crystal and were as blue as her eyes. He fastened the gold clasp around her neck and stood back to admire the way they glinted against her creamy throat in the moonlight. He would have preferred to get her a string of diamonds-- or sapphires-- or pearls, but these glass beads would have to do. To a schoolboy without the means to make money of his own, they were as dear as diamonds, anyway.
Sid had done a foolish thing-- he had bought two strings of beads-- one of violet-blue for Cecilia-- and an amber ones that he left on the doorstep of the Long Lonely House. For Bets. It was ridiculous-- but he had wanted to get her something. Only last winter he had promised himself he would-- when Bets had walked among them.
"Oh, thank you!" Cecilia breathed, the sudden joy of getting her first present from a true-love somewhat quenching her anguish. "They're lovely, Sid-- I'll never take them off."
So she was restored to good humor when Sid left her at the door of Ingleside with a kiss-- she sang and danced around her room while she made ready for bed. She bade Blythe goodnight with a smile and a cousinly salute-- for Uncle Jerry had to be at the church early and Blythe had been allowed to stay over. And when she went to sleep, Sid's beads glistened still around her neck.
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She awoke in a sweat hours later. It couldn't be morning already-- why, then, did she hear hushed voices in the kitchen? And the sound of sobs-- there was someone crying. With trepidation Cecilia pulled herself up and padded softly downstairs.
They were all there, in the kitchen-- Grandmother and Grandfather, Uncle Jerry and Aunt Nan, Aunt Faith and Jem, and Blythe. It was Blythe who had woken Grandmother, shortly before, with a premonition.
"I feel like something dreadful is going to happen," he said, his dark eyes alight with fear.
And the telephone had rung.
Aunt Nan had her face hid in Uncle Jerry's chest-- she was the one that was crying. Aunt Faith simply looked very pale-- and Uncle Jem was speaking in low tones on the telephone. Cecilia felt a wave of dread wash over her.
"Wh-what is the matter?" she demanded to know, in a loud but quavering voice.
They all stared at her-- Aunt Faith's lips went very white-- Uncle Jem turned-- Aunt Nan sobbed some more-- and Uncle Jerry said, "Take her to bed. They'll be time for this in the morning." But Cecilia refused to be budged.
"What is wrong?" she cried. "Is it Father? Tell me-- or I shall fly to pieces!"
Even Grandmother and Grandfather did not know what to do, and stared at her helplessly. It was Blythe who stood and went to Cecilia, placing a firm, strong hand on each of her shoulders.
He knew that she must be told. It is more hurtful to keep the truth from someone than to tell them. She must not be lied to-- she must be trusted to know-- but he did not relish the thought of being the one to tell her. Still, he felt that it must come from a friend. It takes some people a lifetime to grow up-- some never finish the job-- but in that moment Blythe Meredith felt himself change from a boy into a man.
"It is not your Father," he said in a calm voice. "Uncle Shirley is fine. But we had a telegram-- Aunt Una--"
"What about Mother?" Cecilia whispered. "What about her?"
"She tried to-- she hurt herself-- God help us all," said Aunt Faith wearily, suddenly leaning her head on her shaking white hand.
"What?" Cecilia cried. "Blythe-- what is she saying? What does she mean?"
"She cut her wrists," Blythe said miserably, watching her face crumple, and wishing with his whole heart that it did not have to be so. "She must have found the knife and hidden it, they think-- she did it on purpose. She meant-- she meant to--"
"To kill herself?" Cecilia screamed. "You can't mean-- that Mother-- would try to kill herself!"
From their silence, it seemed that that was exactly what they meant.
"Oh God no!" Cecilia cried, slamming her eyes shut. Her head-- and heart-- were spinning madly. "Oh, God, why would You let it happen?"
"Catch her, Blythe!" said Uncle Jerry, but Blythe had already rushed forward to gather Cecilia in his arms as she fell. She clutched wildly at her throat as she did, breaking the string that held Sid's beads fast around her neck. They scattered all over the floor, like so many tears that she did not shed.
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A/N: I'm sorry-- this is a depressing chapter. I did not want to do this to Una, but I needed a way to make it so Cecilia could stay on the Island-- also, I have another reason and it'll be made known later in the story. I'm sorry if I've upset anyone too much but I want you all to know that Una will be fine in the end.
For those of you who think that Una never would have done it, remember that she has lost a child-- and to get Walter's letter on top of that, even if she didn't love him anymore, might have been too much for her. Also, she's in a mental hospital and probably sedated, and not thinking too clearly or rationally.
Anyway, just wanted to apologize if this was too much for anyone, and reassure you that Una will be well.