This column first appeared in the Victoria Daily Times on Dec. 24, 1937.
Little Miss Banks was in despair. Here was Christmas and she had no money.
All her savings had gone to pay for her broken ankle, and never had money been more grudgingly paid; $80 gone with the wind! The money she had saved so happily for her Christmas giving gone, and nothing to show for it but two receipted bills, one from the doctor, and one from the hospital.
She marvelled at the accuracy with which the medical profession had gauged her resources. Fifty to the doctor, and $30 to the hospital, the exact sum she had in the bank. Mental telepathy, that’s what it was!
Wild thoughts raced through her brain. She would sell a ring, she would borrow money, she would ask her niece to lend her some! She knew very well she couldn’t do this. She, who had never owed anyone a cent! She would be sure to die if she did, and leave a debt behind her. Not that Phoebe Banks would object to dying, but to leave a debt would be a disgrace to the proud name of Banks.
Phoebe Banks was a religious woman and felt she had a right to expect fair treatment from God. She had not complained when the money she invested in a little town in B.C. had been lost. Speculation was always dangerous. She could not expect any sympathy for this loss, but when a person is on an errand of mercy, and suddenly has the sensation of falling heavily on an icy crossing, for no good reason at all, there is cause for complaint.
Miss Phoebe’s heart grew resentful every time she thought of it. What did God mean by such high-handed methods? If she had forgotten her rubbers now, or had not been carefully picking her steps!
The first time she went to church after her accident, the opening hymn had been Oh for a Closer Walk With God! and Miss Phoebe refused to sing it.
More and more she thought about her niece, her only relative on the coast. No, she certainly could not ask Ethel for a favour. Ethel was her sister’s only child, but Ethel had forsaken the proud Banks tradition. Sometimes Miss Phoebe was glad her sister had not lived to see the way Ethel had gone, associating with impossible people in a new sort of religion, if one could call it that, in a downtown area; speaking at meetings, organizing parades, mentioned in newspapers and calling all sorts of people by their first names! No modesty, no maidenly reserve. Miss Phoebe had washed her hands of all Ethel’s iniquities.
But she had to have money. Not for herself, but for her pensioners! Miss Phoebe loved to call her poor family her pensioners. It brought her back to the glorious days of old, when her people had lived in a great stone house on the St. Lawrence in eastern Canada, and dispensed charity with a free hand. Who could have dreamed that she, Miss Phoebe Banks, should ever come to the place where the loss of a wretched little sum like $80 should embarrass her.
And again Miss Phoebe wondered what God was thinking of when he let her fall! How could she disappoint Mrs. Stocking, whose life was made miserable by a drinking husband and a son who was breaking her heart? How could she deny herself the pleasure of going out on Christmas Eve with her hamper of groceries and clothing?
It was the high spot of the Christmas season, to ring the tiny doorbell at the poor tenement house and have Mrs. Stocking open the door, her tired face all smiles, to receive her bounty. Mrs. Stocking calling down blessings on her! Mrs. Stocking’s mother had been a housekeeper in the big stone house.
Then came Ethel’s letter — with its surprising news! Ethel was going to be married to the doctor at the mission, and she invited her Aunt Phoebe to come to her wedding. She intimated that she would be very proud to show her Aunt Phoebe to the relatives of her young man.
“They are stiff old Tories like yourself, Aunt Phoebe,” she wrote, “and I will be glad to have you present to prove my contention that I too have a background of point lace and blue china! So put on your pearls, and the family earrings, forget the past, and be ready. I’ll send a taxi for you! You’ll meet university professors and their wives, night watchmen, gardeners and converted bootleggers, but you’ll like them and they will like you.”
Miss Phoebe’s first thought was to send a frigid refusal. But her impoverished state, her dire need for money, counselled otherwise. There was a chance that in some way she might still be able to provide Christmas cheer for her Mrs. Stocking. She did not know how it could be managed without loss of dignity.
All sorts of wild plans flashed through her mind. She might find a pocket book, or a ring, or a valuable document, and be rewarded. She remembered a story about a man who spent his last quarter for an oyster stew, because there might be a pearl in it.
A new sense of adventure filled her heart. At least there was a chance of something happening. One of her ancestors, in the middle ages, had been a highwayman. A very handsome, romantic, highwayman, of course, who gave to the poor what he took from the rich, in the best Robin Hood tradition and all in the highest sense of public duty!
And for him she now felt a sudden throb of understanding and pride!
Miss Phoebe had the decency to blush when she realized where her vagrant thoughts were leading her.
Ethel’s wedding was held in a church, with candles and roses, and Lohengrin’s Wedding March, as stately and dignified a ceremony as any of the living or dead Banks could desire, and then the scene of the party changed to the place called the mission, Miss Banks riding with the bride and groom, in a daze of delight. And to think that she had been on the point of refusing to come!
Ethel’s husband had kissed her forehead, with old-world grace, and she stood beside her niece and received the guests, wondering more and more as the stream of people came to greet the young people. There were people in evening dress, and there were people very plainly dressed, but it made no difference, it seemed. No one seemed to care, and everyone was happy. Miss Phoebe was swept into a new and bewildering fellowship. She found herself talking familiarly to strange men. Suddenly a familiar voice called her by name.
“Oh, Miss Banks — I am glad to see you here. I’ve been thinking of you, and how good you’ve been to us all these years.”
“Why, Mrs. Stocking, I did not know that you knew my niece,” Miss Banks stammered. “It is Mrs. Stocking, isn’t it? You look so well and young. What has happened?”
“Everything! And it’s all come about by Miss Ethel and the doctor. My husband has a job now, and is a new man. Young Bill is back at school, and we’re not on relief any more! I can’t tell you all, but our problems are solved. I am giving presents this year, and life is all changed for us. We’re moving on the first of the month into a better house.”
Miss Phoebe sought a quiet spot when the reception was over and looked about her in wonderment. From time to time, she fanned herself, trying to rearrange her thoughts.
When, late that night, Miss Phoebe Banks returned to her small apartment, she sat beside her little fire. She felt like Scrooge after the last spirit had deposited him on his own doorstep. The fire was the same; the books on the mantel were the same; nothing was changed but Miss Phoebe herself.
“It seems,” she said slowly, “that there are better things than hampers to give to people.”
Then she looked affectionately at the ankle that had been broken, now almost as slim as the other one.
“Operation successful!” she smiled, “and money well spent!”