XIX
CHRISTMAS
Laine looked at his watch. Twenty minutes past twelve. Christmaswas over. Two days after were over also, and in the morning most ofthe guests were going away.
From the basket by the hearth he threw a fresh log on the smolderingfire, lifted it with his foot farther back on the hot ashes, drew theold-fashioned arm-chair closer to the fender, and, turning down thelight from the lamp on the pie-crust table near the mantel, sat downand lighted a fresh cigar.
It had been very beautiful, very wonderful, this Christmas in thecountry. Its memories would go with him through life, and yet hemust go away and say no word of what he had meant to say to Claudia.
Very definitely he had understood, from the day of his arrival, thatto tell her of his love would be a violation of a code to which thedirectness of his nature had given little thought in the reaction offeeling which had possessed him when he read her note. He was aguest by invitation, and to speak now would be beyond pardon. In hisheart was no room for humor, and yet a comic side of the situation inwhich he found himself was undeniable. The contrast it afforded toformer opportunities was absurdly sharp and determined, and the ironyof the little god's way of doing things was irritatingly manifest.
If in Claudia's heart was knowledge of the secret in his, she maskedit well. Warmly cordial, coolly impersonal, frankly unconscious,she had never avoided him, and still had so managed that they werenever alone together. Hands clasped loosely, he leaned forward andstared into the heart of the blazing logs. Of course she knew. Allwomen know when they are loved. No. The log fell apart, and itsburning flame glowed rich and red. She had not known, or she wouldnot have asked him to Elmwood. Merely as she would ask any otherlonely man in whom she felt a kindly interest, she had asked him,and, thus far, her home was the love of her life. In a thousand wayshe had felt it, seen it, understood it; and the man who would takeher from it must awaken within her that which as yet was still asleep.
The days just past had been miserably happy. Before others lightlaughter and gay speech. In his heart surrender and suppliance, andbefore him always the necessity of silence until he could come again,and he must go that he might come again.
One by one, pictures of recent experiences passed before him,experiences of simple, happy, homelike living; and things he hadalmost forgotten to believe in seemed real and true once more. A newsense of values, a new understanding of the essentials of life, hadbeen born again; and something growing cold and cynical had warmedand softened.
In the big hall he had helped the others put up the fragrant sprucepine-tree which reached to the ceiling, helped to dress it midstjolly chatter and joyous confusion, helped to hide the innumerablepresents for the morrow's findings; and on Christmas morning had aseagerly dumped the contents of his stocking as had Jack and Janet, orthe men who had come from busy city lives to be boys again, or asClaudia herself, who could not see with what her own was filled, forthe constant demand that she should come here and there, and see thisand that, or do what no one else was able to.
Slipping down farther in his chair, Laine put his feet on the fenderand with half-shut eyes saw other pictures in the fire. The graydawn of Christmas morning came again, and he seemed to hear theclear, childish voice below his window. Half asleep, he had stirredand wondered what it was, then sat up to listen. The quaint words ofthe old carols he knew well, but never had he heard them sung asGabriel was singing them. Shrill and sweet in the crisp, cold air,the voice sounded first as if far away and then very near, and heknew the boy was walking up and down below each window that all mighthear alike.
As Joseph was a-walking He heard the angels sing, This night there shall be born Our heavenly King.
Here and there, in a verse from one carol joined almost in the samebreath to another he went from:
God rest you, merry gentlemen, Let nothing you dismay. Remember Christ, our Saviour, Was born on Christmas Day.
to
We are not daily beggars, That beg from door to door, But we are neighbor's children Whom you have seen before.
He had smiled at the mixture of verses and jumped up, for Jim hadcome in to light the fire, and from his broadly grinning face"Christmas Gif" was radiating, if from his lips, in obedience toorders, their utterance was withheld. On his door a half-hour latercame the pounding of childish fists, and Janet's lisping voice wascalling sturdily:
"Oh, Mither Laine, Santa Clauth hath come and your stocking ithdown-stairs. Pleath, thir, hurry! Mother said I could kiss you ahappy Chrithmath if you were drethed."
Hand in hand they had gone into the dining-room, with its lavishlyspread table and mantel-hung stockings, and the chorus of heartygreetings and warm hand-shaking had made his heart beat like a boy's.
The day had passed quickly. The gay breakfast; the unwrapping ofbundles; the sleigh-ride to church, where the service was not so longas was the seemingly social meeting afterward; the bountiful dinnerwith its table laden as in days of old rather than in the modernfashion of elegant emptiness; the short afternoon--it was all soonover, and the evening had gone even more rapidly.
The crackling logs and dancing flames in the huge old-fashionedfireplace in the hall, the tree with its myriad of lighted candles,the many guests from county's end to county's end, the delicioussupper and foaming egg-nog, and, last of all, the Virginia reeldanced in the vast parlors and led by Colonel Bushrod Ball and MadamBeverly, who had not missed a Christmas night at Elmwood since shewas a bride some sixty years ago, made a memory to last through life,a memory more than beautiful if-- He drew in a deep breath. Thereshould be no "if."
Through the days and the evenings of the days that followed there hadbeen no word alone with Claudia, however. She had taken him to seethe Prossers, but Jack and Janet had gone with them, and out-of-doorsand indoors there was always some one else. Was this done purposely?
He leaned forward and threw a couple of logs on the fire. The roomwas cold. As the wood caught and the names curled around the roughbark, the big tester bed, with its carved posts and valance of whitemuslin, threw long shadows across the room, and in their brasscandlesticks the candle-light flared fitfully from the mantel,touching lightly the bowl of holly with its scarlet berries, andthrowing pale gleams of color on the polished panels of the oldmahogany wardrobe on the opposite wall. For a moment he watched theplay of fire and candle, then got up and began to walk backward andforward the length of the uncarpeted floor. Writing was a poorweapon with which to win a woman's heart. Rather would he tell herof his love, ask her to be his wife, and, if she would marry him,compel her to say when; but he could not come as quickly as he couldwrite. He must go away that he might tell her what no longer was tobe withheld. Indecision had ever been unendurable, and uncertaintywas not in him to stand. Without her, life would be--again he lookedin the fire--without her, life would not be life.
The Man in Lonely Land Page 19
