It had been a rough year for Margaret and John. She had lost both her parents and he had lost the mill. Margaret's mother died first after a prolonged illness, followed a few months later by her father, most likely of a broken heart. After the irreversible setback of the strike and his refusal to join the speculation, John was forced to give up his mill. The elder Mrs. Thornton had moved in with her daughter and son-in-law, while John and Margaret sold off just about everything they owned and moved to Manchester where he was able to find work as a mill foreman and Margaret kept house for them in the tiny apartment that was all they could afford. Even Dixon had left her young mistress, choosing to take a position with Mrs. Shaw in London rather than join the newlywed couple in reduced circumstances.
Their situation was not new to either of them and both John and Margaret took solace in their love for each other and had bright hopes for their future. However, the bitter winter of Northern England was now upon them and Christmas was drawing near. It would be their first Christmas together and Margaret wanted to mark the occasion with a memorable gift for her new husband. She had scrimped and saved over the past few months that they had been in Manchester and she pulled out her purse to see just how much she had: one pound eighty-seven pence, and sixty of that in ha-pennies. That wouldn't do for what she wanted for him – for what he deserved.
Margaret walked over to the washstand to peer into the small looking glass that John used for shaving and she used for dressing her hair in the morning. Her eyes were shining brilliantly, but her face had lost its color within twenty seconds. She pulled out her hair pins and watched as her chestnut tresses tumbled down her back.
Margaret's beautiful hair fell about her rippling and shining like a cascade of brown waters. It reached below her waist and made itself almost a garment for her. And then she did it up again nervously and quickly. Once she faltered for a minute and stood still while a tear or two splashed on the worn red carpet.
On went her old brown coat; on went her old brown hat. With a whirl of skirts and with the brilliant sparkle still in her eyes, she fluttered out the door and down the stairs to the street.
Where she stopped the sign read: "Mme. Sofronie. Hair Goods of All Kinds." One flight up Margaret ascended. Arriving at the door she collected herself. Madame, large, too white, chilly, hardly looked the "Sofronie."
"Will you buy my hair?" asked she.
"I buy hair," said Madame. "Take yer hat off and let's have a sight at the looks of it."
Down rippled the brown cascade. Margaret folded her hands in front of her and screwed her eyes shut tight as Madame walked behind her and lifted the mass with a practiced hand.
"Twenty pounds," declared the French woman.
With a burst of air Margaret let out the breath she had been holding but kept her eyes shut tight. "Do it quickly, please," she said with as much determination as she could muster, "before I change my mind."
Margaret left the shop with a lighter head but a heavier pocketbook.
Oh, and the next two hours tripped by on rosy wings. Margaret was ransacking the stores for John's present.
She found it at last. It surely had been made for John and no one else. There was no other like it in any of the stores, and she had turned all of them inside out. It was a platinum fob chain simple and chaste in design, properly proclaiming its value by substance alone and not by meretricious ornamentation-as all good things should do. It was even worthy of The Watch. As soon as she saw it she knew that it must be John's. It was like him. Quietness and value-the description applied to both. Twenty-one pounds they took from her for it, and she hurried home with the 87 pence. With that chain on his watch John might be properly anxious about the time in any company. Grand as the watch was, he sometimes looked at it on the sly on account of the old leather strap that he used in place of a chain.
….oOo….
Even though the mill he worked at closed early for the holiday, John Thornton stayed late (as was his habit) to ensure all the hands got off safely and the machines were turned off properly and everything was put back in place, ready for the next day of work.
Standing in the middle of the weaving shed floor, John pulled out his pocket watch to check the time. He and his wife had sold off most of their possessions when the mill failed. But there was one heirloom that John possessed in which he took a mighty pride. It was the gold watch that had been his father's and his grandfather's. Handed down to him after his father died, John carried it with him always.
However, no possession meant more to him than the love of his beautiful wife Margaret. This was their first Christmas together and even though they were poor and their purse strings were tight, he wanted to get her something special for the holiday, something worthy of her.
His mind wandered to the night of his mother's dinner party just last year.
As he looked upon Margaret in her light green evening gown, he was struck anew with her great beauty. He had never seen her in such dress before and yet now it appeared as if such elegance of attire was so befitting her noble figure and lofty serenity of countenance, that she ought to go always thus apparelled. She was talking to Fanny. Margaret's large soft eyes looked forth steadily at one object, as if from out their light beamed some gentle influence of repose: the curving lines of the red lips, just parted in the interest of listening to what her companion said-the head a little bent forwards, so as to make a long sweeping line from the summit, where the light caught on her glossy chestnut hair.
Mr. Thornton sighed at this memory. Margaret's hair was long and luxurious. John loved the silky feel of it as he ran his fingers through her locks. She only wore it down at bedtime – for him. Otherwise, she kept it plaited or pinned up on her head. However, Margaret no longer had anything with which to adorn it. She sold all of her hairpieces before they left Milton.
John looked down once again at the watch. For a moment John ran his finger lovingly along the gilded lid of the pocket watch. Pulling his finger away he snapped the timepiece shut with determination and stuffed it back in his vest pocket. He strode out of the mill and headed toward the main street where he knew all the shops would be open late this Christmas Eve.
….oOo….
When Margaret reached home her intoxication gave way a little to prudence and reason. She got out her curling tongs, heated them in the fire, and went to work repairing the ravages made by generosity added to love. Which is always a tremendous task, dear friends-a mammoth task.
Within three quarters of an hour her head was covered with tiny, close-lying curls that made her look wonderfully like a truant schoolboy. She looked at her reflection in the mirror long, carefully, and critically.
"If John doesn't kill me," she said to herself, "before he takes a second look at me, he'll say I look like a poodle. But what could I do-oh! what could I do with a pound and eighty- seven pence?"
At 7 o'clock the tea was made and the frying-pan was on the back of the stove hot and ready to cook the mutton.
John was never late. Margaret doubled the fob chain in her hand and sat on the edge of the couch near the door that he always entered. Then she heard his step on the stair away down on the first flight, and she turned white for just a moment. She had a habit for saying little silent prayer about the simplest everyday things, a sentiment drilled into her by her father, the former vicar, and now she whispered: "Please God, make him think I am still pretty."
The door opened and John stepped in and closed it. He looked thin and very serious. Poor fellow, he was only thirty-two-and to be burdened with a family! He needed a new overcoat and he was without gloves.
John stopped inside the door, as immovable as a setter at the scent of quail. His eyes were fixed upon Margaret, and there was an expression in them that she could not read, and it terrified her. It was not anger, nor surprise, nor disapproval, nor horror, nor any of the sentiments that she had been prepared for. He simply stared at her fixedly with that peculiar expression on his face.
Margaret rose from her perch and went to him.
"John, darling," she cried, "don't look at me that way. I had my hair cut off and sold because I couldn't have lived through Christmas without giving you a present. It'll grow out again-you won't mind, will you? I just had to do it. My hair grows awfully fast. Say 'Merry Christmas!' John, and let's be happy. You don't know what a nice- what a beautiful, nice gift I've got for you."
"You've cut off your hair?" asked John, laboriously, as if he had not arrived at that patent fact yet even after the hardest mental labor.
"Cut it off and sold it," said Margaret, feigning cheer as she fought back tears. She had not thought this revelation would strike him so. "Don't you like me just as well, anyhow? I'm still me without my hair, aren't I?"
John looked about the room curiously as if looking for her hair, like she might have it hidden somewhere.
"You say your hair is gone?" he said, with an air almost of idiocy.
"You needn't look for it, silly," said Margaret. "It's sold, I tell you-sold and gone, too. It's Christmas Eve. Be good to me, for it went for you. Maybe the hairs of my head were numbered," she went on with sudden serious sweetness, "but nobody could ever count my love for you. Shall I put the mutton on, John?"
Out of his trance John seemed quickly to wake. He enfolded his Margaret in his arms, maybe a little more tightly than usual. He lifted her face to his and kissed her passionately.
After he released her, John drew a package from his overcoat pocket and threw it upon the table.
"Don't make any mistake, Margaret," he said, "about me. I don't think there's anything in the way of a haircut or a shave or a shampoo that could make me like my wife any less. But if you'll unwrap that package you may see why you had me going a while at first."
She went to the table in silence, and lifted the package tenderly, with the points of her delicate taper fingers, Margaret tore at the string and paper. One hand flew to her mouth and a gasp of joy and surprise escaped her; and then, alas! a quick feminine change to hysterical tears and wails, necessitating the immediate employment of all the comforting powers of the lord of the flat.
For there lay The Combs-the set of combs, side and back, that Margaret had worshipped long in a Broadway window. Beautiful combs, pure tortoise shell, with jewelled rims-just the shade to wear in her beautiful vanished hair. They were expensive combs, she knew, and her heart had simply craved and yearned over them without the least hope of possession. And now, they were hers, but the tresses that should have adorned the coveted decorations were gone.
However, Margaret hugged them lovingly to her bosom, and at length she was able to look up with dim eyes and a smile and say: "My hair grows so fast, John!"
And then Margaret leaped up like a little singed cat and cried, "Oh, oh!"
John had not yet seen his beautiful present. She held it out to him eagerly upon her open palm. The dull precious metal seemed to flash with a reflection of her bright and ardent spirit.
"Isn't it handsome, John?" she exclaimed, "I hunted all over town to find it. You'll have to look at the time a hundred times a day now. Give me your watch. I want to see how it looks on it."
Instead of obeying, John sat down on the couch and put his hands under the back of his head and smiled.
"Margaret," said he, "let's put our Christmas presents away and keep 'em a while. They're too nice to use just at present. I sold the watch to get the money to buy your combs. And now suppose you put the mutton on."
The magi, as you know, were wise men-wonderfully wise men-who brought gifts to the Babe in the manger. They invented the art of giving Christmas presents. Being wise, their gifts were no doubt wise ones, possibly bearing the privilege of exchange in case of duplication. And here I have lamely related to you the uneventful chronicle of two foolish children in a flat who most unwisely sacrificed for each other the greatest treasures of their house. But in a last word to the wise of these days let it be said that of all who give gifts these two were the wisest. Of all who give and receive gifts, such as they are wisest. Everywhere they are wisest. They are the magi.