Chapter 4

"I don't think five weeks is long. I think it's very short." Dorothea took a seat on a stool at her uncle's feet, and looked up in his face. "Father says he thinks it's downright mean in her to go before we do. Don't you think she might stay, Uncle Winthrop?"

"I do." Laine changed his position and looked away from Dorothea's eyes. "Is there nothing we can do to make her change her mind?"

"Is there?" Dorothea fumed to Claudia. "I think you ought to, for mother says Uncle Winthrop is just beginning to act like a Christian in coming to see her regularly, and when you go he might stop acting that way. Are you going to stay to dinner to-night?" She took Laine's hand and intertwined her fingers in his. "Please do."

"In these clothes?"

Dorothea hesitated. "Mother wouldn't like them, but--" She jumped up and clapped her hands in excited delight. "Mother's got a headache and isn't coming down to-night, and if you will stay I think she will let me take dinner with you. I hate foolishness about clothes, and these are the becomingest ones you wear; and, besides, at the Hunt Club you eat in them, and why can't you do it here just once? Wouldn't it be magnificent if I could sit up?" Dorothea whirled round and round. "Father is out of town, and Channing has a tiny bit of cold and can't leave his room, and I'm so lonesome. Oh, please, Uncle Winthrop, please stay!"

"Ask Miss Keith if I can stay. She may have other engagements."

"Have you?" Dorothea was on her knees by Claudia, hands on her shoulders. "And may he stay? You won't have to change your clothes, either. You look precious in those riding things, and, when you take the coat off, anybody who didn't know would think you were a little girl, the skirt is so short and skimpy; and your hair with a bow in the back looks like me. Can't he stay, Cousin Claudia?"

"If he wants to, of course. I'm sorry your mother is sick. She didn't tell me at lunch."

"It's just a headache, and as father is away and there was nothing to go to, I think she thought she'd take a rest and read something. Are you going out to-night?"

Claudia got up. "No, I'm not going out; but I have a letter to write. Will you stay to dinner, Mr. Laine?"

"I will. Thank you very much, Miss Warrick. The invitation was forced from Miss Keith, but I accept it notwithstanding." Laine, who had risen, put his hand on Dorothea's shoulder. "I think we will have a very nice dinner-party."

"I'll chaperone it!" Dorothea rose to full height and balanced herself on her toes. "Miss Robin French said she couldn't go on some trip the other day because there was no chaperone; and if a lady with a mole on her chin and nearly forty has to have a chaperone, I guess you all will. Please don't stay long, Cousin Claudia. If you don't want to see mother, Uncle Winthrop, I'll talk to you, for after dinner I will have to go right straight to bed, being a brought-up-on-a-book child, and then you and Cousin Claudia will be all by yourselves. Maybe if you asked mother, though, she might let me sit up just this once. Shall I go and tell her you say so?"

Laine held the curtains for Claudia to pass out. "We wouldn't be so cruel as to keep her up, would we?" he asked, and smiled in the eyes turned quickly from his. "You will not be gone long, and you won't change your dress?"

"I will be back in time for dinner--and I won't change my dress. Tell Dorothea about the birds we saw this afternoon."

During the hour that passed before Claudia came back Dorothea had a chance that seldom came for uninterrupted conversation, and that her uncle said little was not noticed for some time. Presently she looked up,

"I don't believe you've opened your lips since Cousin Claudia went up-stairs," she said. "I don't wonder you don't know where you went this afternoon if you didn't see any more than you're hearing now. You don't know a thing I've been talking about."

Laine raised his head with a start. "Oh yes, I do. You were saying--saying--"

"I told you so! You didn't even know where you were! You were way off somewhere." Dorothea's voice was triumphant. "I want to ask you something, Uncle Winthrop. I won't tell anybody." She settled herself more comfortably on the stool at his feet, and crossed her arms on his knees. "Don't you think my Cousin Claudia is nice?"

"Very nice." Laine took out his handkerchief, wiped his glasses, and held them to the light.

"And don't you think she has a lovely mouth? When she talks I watch her like I haven't got a bit of sense." Dorothea scanned her uncle's face critically. "Your eyes are dark; and hers are light, with dark rims around the seeing part, and she just comes to your shoulder; but you look so nice together. I hope you feel sorry about the things you said about her before she came."

"What things?"

"That maybe her face was red and her hair was red and her hands were red, or if they weren't, maybe they were blue. Aren't you sorry?"

"Very sorry, Dorothea. I was rude and tired and worried that evening. Let's forget it."

"I never have told her, but I supposed you must have changed your mind, for you've been here so much lately, and gone to so many places with her that you don't like to go to, that I thought--"

"Thought what, Dorothea?"

"That maybe--" Dorothea stroked Laine's fingers one by one--"maybe you liked her a little bit. Don't you remember I asked you please to like her, and you didn't seem to think you would. But you do, don't you? I won't tell anybody. Don't you like her, Uncle Winthrop?"

"I like her very much, Dorothea." Into Laine's clear-cut face the color crept to his temples, "She is very different from any one I've--"

"I knew you would." Dorothea's hands came together excitedly. "I knew it the minute I saw her, for she isn't a bit frilly, and you don't like frills any more than I do, and she doesn't, either. She's sees through people like they were glass, and she tells us the grandest, shiveringest, funniest stories you ever heard. I bet she's telling Channing one this minute. She loves children. I'm so glad you like her, Uncle Winthrop. I knew you would if you saw her, but I didn't know you'd see her so much."

"How could I help it if I saw her once? The trouble has been to get her to see me. Perhaps she thinks I am too old to--"

"Oh, she knows you aren't the sweetheart kind--Miss Robin French told her so, and mother and everybody says you are too set in your ways to get married, and that's why I think she likes you, because you aren't that sort. She hates flum talk, and you talk sense and things. She told father so. Here she is now. Please stay with Uncle Winthrop, Cousin Claudia, while I ask mother if I may take dinner with you." Dorothea got up. "You took off your riding boots, didn't you?"

Claudia looked at her slippers. "I surely did. I never wear high shoes in the house. Your mother says you may take dinner with us, but she wants to see you as soon as it is over. Her headache is better, but she doesn't feel like coming down to-night."

X

A DISCOVERY

In a chair of curious carving, his feet on a pile of books which had been unpacked, but for which there was as yet no place, Winthrop Laine leaned back, partly relaxed, partly tense, and with half-shut eyes looked at a picture on the wall opposite. For an hour, two hours, he had sat like this. On his desk was an unfinished article, but "The Punishments of Progress" did not interest to-night, and after vain effort to write he had thrown the pages aside and yielded to the unrest which possessed him.

In his hands was a small calendar, and with it he tapped unconsciously the arm of his chair; but after a while he again looked at it and with his pencil marked the date of the month. It was the fifteenth of December. Miss Keith was going home on the eighteenth. Three days of her visit yet remained, a month of it had passed, and after she went-- He stirred uneasily, changed his position, put down the calendar, then got up and began to walk the length of the room backward and forward. A long mirror filled the space between the two southern windows, and for some time as he reached it he avoided the face seen therein; but after a while he stopped in front of it, hands in his pockets, and spoke with smiling bitterness to it.

"Take it off, man, take it off! All men wear masks, but they needn't go to bed with them. For years you've pretended, smiled, sworn, played with all the toys, worked with the best you had, and believed you were content. And you're finding out at forty what a fool you've been. You love her. She isn't married yet, if she is engaged to another man--and if you've no fight in you, go make a hole and get in it!"

In the glass he saw his face whiten, saw the lines on his forehead swell, saw his eyes grow dark with rebellious pain, and, turning away, went to a window, opened it, and let the cold air blow upon him. Few people were on the street, and in the windows opposite was little light. The neighborhood was exclusively correct; and only that evening walking home from the club the man with him had frankly envied his manner of life, his freedom and independence. He closed the window, turned off some of the lights, and went back to his chair. "I am an entirely free and independent person," he said aloud. "A most desirable condition for a man without a heart." Why did men have hearts, anyhow, and especially such a queer kind as he had. In the days of his youth he had expected the days of his maturity to find him married, find him with the responsibilities and obligations of other men; but he had strange views of marriage. One by one his friends had entered the estate; he had helped them enter it, but he had acquired an unhealthy habit of watching their venture with wonder at its undertaking and with doubt of its success, and the years had gone by with no desire on his part to assume the risk. What he saw was not the life he wanted. Just what he did want he was not sure; but years of contact with much that blights and withers had not killed his belief in certain old-fashioned things, and if they could not come true the journey would be made alone.

What whimsical ways fate had of deciding great issues. Four weeks ago he was something of a piece of mechanism, fairly content with his drab-colored life; and now a girl had entered it and brought to him visions too fair and beautiful to be viewed unveiled, and he knew at last the mystery and power of love. Almost a week of her stay had gone before he met her. In those that followed, he had seen her many times, but frequently he had to stand back and know that others were taking her time when there was none for him to lose.

Should love come to him, he had imagined he would pursue it with the same directness and persistence which had impelled the securing of whatever was determined upon, and instead he was that most despicable of things--a coward.

She was so young--fourteen years younger than he--and what was his to offer in exchange for her life of varied interests, of sweet, sane, helpful, happy things of which he knew so little? He had thought he knew life, its all sides; and unknown to herself she had shown him what had not been understood before, and his was cold and colorless by the side of the warmth and glow of hers.

Yesterday he had known, however, he would not wait long. After she had returned to her home he would go to it and tell her why he had come. All through the day certain words had sung in his ears, and over his books had danced and blurred the figures he was making; and before him in fancy she was waiting for his coming when the day was done, was in the room with outstretched hands to give him greeting as he entered the door. The light of a new vision had blinded, and in its fire the loneliness of his life had stood out in chill clearness, and no longer could it be endured. Some one to care if the days were dark, some one to share the giving and taking of life. At the thought of trust so sacred, his face had whitened, and in his heart unconscious prayer had sprung.

That was yesterday. This afternoon he had stopped at his sister's home for tea, as he had done for days past now, and, Dorothea being sick, he had gone up to see her and give her the book bought for her. As usual, she had much to say, and he let her talk uninterruptedly. It was of Claudia that she talked, always of Claudia, and he had listened in a silence that gave chance for much detail.

"She gets more letters!" Dorothea's hands came together as if very full. "Every day there is one from the same person, sometimes two, and specials and telegrams; and sometimes he talks over the telephone. I know his handwriting now. She lets me come in her room whenever I want to. I don't see how one person could have so much to say. I knew he must be her sweetheart, and I asked mother, and mother says she's engaged to a, man in Washington. Miss Robin French told her. Mother thinks it's real strange Claudia didn't tell her." And he had answered nothing, but had gone down the steps and out of the house, and to no one said good night.

XI

A CHANCE ENCOUNTER

Claudia glanced at the clock. She must be dressed by seven. Hurriedly she put aside the letters which could wait, and began to write.

"Just three days more, precious mother, and I will leave for home. I've seen such remarkable things; heard such wonderful music; been to so many parties and luncheons and teas and dinners; met so many people, some fearfully, dreadfully dressed, some beautifully, gorgeously gowned, that my brain is a plum-pudding, and my mind mere moving pictures. It's been a lovely visit. Channing is a dear, and Hope has done her full duty, but it's something of a strain to dwell in the tents of the wealthy. I'm so glad we're not wealthy, mother. There are hundreds of things I'd like money for, but I've gotten to be as afraid of it as I am of potato-bugs when the plants are well up. It has a way of making you think things that aren't so. I do hope Uncle Bushrod's cold is better.

"I've tried to fill all the orders from everybody, but some I haven't found yet. Hope and her friends shop only in the expensive stores, and the prices are so paralyzing that, though outwardly I don't blink, I'm inwardly appalled; but I put the things aside as if undecided whether to get them or something nicer. I'm afraid I don't mean I'm glad we're not wealthy. Certainly when shopping I don't wish it. I want millions then. Millions! And when I get among the books I'd like to be a billionaire. To-morrow I'm going out by myself and finish up everything. Hope would be horrified at my purchases, for Hope has forgotten when she, too, had to be careful in her expenditures. Her brother hasn't.

"Did I tell you about the crazy mistake I made? I thought, from what Dorothea told me, he was an old gentleman, her mother's uncle, and wrote him a note before I met him. Dorothea adores him, and when his dog died I was so sorry I told him so. I wonder what does make me do such impulsive things! I get so discouraged about myself. I'll never, never be a proper person. He isn't old.

"I wish you could see the letter Beverly wrote me from Mammy Malaprop. She says she is 'numberating the date of my return to the dissolute land in which I live, and is a-preparing to serve for supper all the indelicacies of the season.' If I didn't know old Malaprop I'd think Beverly was making up her messages, but no imagination could conceive of her twists and turns of the English language.

"Are the hens laying at all? and please tell Andrews to watch the sheep carefully; it's so bitterly cold.

"I've had a beautiful time, but, oh, mother dear, I shall be so glad to get home, where there are real things to do and where you all love me just for myself! Every night I kiss your picture and wish it was you. Best love for everybody. I have Gabriel's little trumpet.

"Devotedly," "CLAUDIA."

"P. S.--We are going again to-night to the opera. If only you were going, too! I never see anything beautiful, hear anything beautiful, that I don't wish you could see it and hear it also. I'm so glad I brought my riding-habit. They have been the best things of all, the long, splendid rides in the country. So much nicer than motoring. Mr. Laine rides better than any city man I know. Three days more and I leave for home.

"C."

Guilty gladness at being alone, at getting off by herself and going where she chose, so possessed her the next day that as Claudia passed Mrs. Warrick's sitting-room she tip-toed lest she be called in and a moment of her precious freedom be lost. Several hours of daylight were still left, but there was much to be done; and hurriedly she went down the steps, hurriedly walked to the avenue, and caught the 'bus she saw coming with a sigh of thankfulness. In the center of the shopping district she got out and disappeared soon after in one of the stores. It was her only chance for the simple purchases to be made for the slim purses of her country friends; and as she read first one list and then the other she smiled at the variety of human desires and the diversities of human needs, and quickly made decisions. A letter received just before leaving the house had not been read, but its writing was recognized, and going to the door she tried to make out the scrawly contents and get, at the same time, the breath of fresh air brought in by its opening as hurrying customers came and went. To read there was impossible, however. Darkness had fallen; and, going outside for a moment, she looked up and down at the surging, pushing, shivering crowd and wondered as to the time. She was not through, and she must finish before going back.

"Is Madame Santa Claus ready to go home?"

Startled, she looked up. "Oh, Mr. Laine, I'm so glad! Indeed I'm not through, and it's dark already. Do you think Hope will mind if I don't get back for tea?"

"I think not." He smiled in the troubled face. "What is left to be done?"

"This among other things." Together they moved slowly down the crowded street, and she held the letter in her hand toward him. "It's from Mrs. Prosser, who has eleven children and a husband who is their father and that's all. They live on faith and the neighbors, but she has sold a pig and sent me part of the money with which to buy everybody in the family a Christmas present. That's all I've made out."

Laine took the sheets of paper torn from a blank-book and looked at them under an electric light. "This Syro-Phoenician writing needs what it can't get out here," he said, after a half-minute's pause. "A cipher requires a code, and a code means sitting down. Aren't you cold? You are. Come over here and we'll have some tea and work it out together." And before protest could be made they were in a hotel across the street and at a table on which a shaded light permitted a closer examination of the penciled scrawl which went for writing. Slowly he read aloud:

"DERE Miss CLAUDIA,--The chillern is near bout set me crazy sence I tole 'em I was agoin' to ask you to do me some favors which is to buy for me some New York krismus presents. I have sole the pig and I am a-puttin' in this six dollars and sixteen cents, I would have sent seven dollars even but the baby had the colic so bad I had to git some more of that pain-killer which I give the hoss onct, and Johnnie lost the change comin' home from the store. The baby is well, but the hoss ain't. The followin' is what I would like to have. Ifen you can't git the things, git what you can. I have confidence in your jedgment.

"2 pare sox and a maresharm pipe for the old man. Don't spend more than fifty cents on him. He drunk up the whiskey your ma give me for the mincemeat for Thanksgivin' and I had to lock him up in the garret. He'd like the pipe yaller.

"1 A blew skarf pin--Johnnie.

"2 A bracelet. Bras will do if you can't git gold. Minnie is the meekest and don't look for much but she wants a bracelet awful bad.

"3 A box of paper and envellopes for Maizzie--Maizzie's got a bow. He lives in the next county. I don't let the chillern say nothin'. I'm 'fraid they'll scare the ducks.

"4 A wax doll in pink tarlton for Rosy. She won't be here next krismus. The doctor done tole me, and my hart it have been hurtin' so ever since that I have to hide every now and then so as to git my breath good. Sometimes I can't help chokin', I can't. She seen a doll in pink tarlton onct and the other night I heard her talkin' up the chimney and she was askin' Santa Claus to bring her one if he could spare it. Ifen you can't git all the things with the pig money, please'm git the doll, and in pink, please'm, and let the others go."

Laine took up his cup of tea and drank it slowly. "Part of this is hard to make out," he said, after a moment. "I can't see it very well."

"All of it is hard." Claudia put a piece of cracker in her mouth. "But it's a wonder she can write at all. The boys are as trifling as their father, and she does the work of five people. Is that all?"

Laine began again. "Becky say she don't want nothin' but a pare of silk stockings. She's crazy, but she seen the summer girls with 'em and I don't reckon it will do no harm if we ain't pracktical at krismus. It do seem like krismus ain't for prackticals. 40 cents is her share.

"Sam he wants a harmonicum, and Bobbie he just set his hart on a sled. I don't reckon you can get that in your trunk, and ifen you can't a necktie will have to do. The other chillern is so small it don't make no difference what you get for them, any little thing you can pick up will please 'em. They is all so excited about havin' presents from New York that they's plum crazy. I don't know what the county would do without you, Miss Claudia. You is everybody's friend and everybody is--"

Claudia put out her hand. "Oh, that part doesn't matter. I'll take it now. We'll have to go. Are you ready?"

"Not quite." Laine, who had finished the letter, handed it to her, then took out a note-book and pencil. "Are you sure you can remember the things? Hadn't I better write them down?"

Claudia shook her head. "Not a bit of use. These are the last to get, and then I'm through. Are you?"

"Am I what?"

"Through."

"Through what?"

"With your Christmas things. I don't suppose men have as much to do as women and don't have to begin so early. Some people don't love Christmas. It's such a pity."

"It's a pity the old Christmas has given way to the new one. With many it's a sort of hold-up. I don't believe in it."

Claudia's arms were folded on the table, and her eyes were gravely looking into his. "What kind do you believe in?"

Into Laine's face the color crept slowly, then he laughed. "I really don't know. I only know the present kind is wrong."

"You know a great many things that are wrong, don't you?"

"I'm afraid I do." With his handkerchief Laine wiped his glasses, put them back, and again tapped the table. "That is, I know a great many things that aren't nice to know."

"Most of us do. It isn't difficult to see what isn't nice in people or things." She got up. "I'm sorry you don't love Christmas."

"Why should I love it? For the men at the office there are checks; for my brother's widow and children are other checks; for Hope, another. A man makes a mess of buying presents. Cigars for men and flowers for women are the two orders telephoned in advance for the few so remembered. The employees at the clubs, the servants at the house, the--the associations which do things merely mean more money, and money--"