He was ashamed of himself for being ashamed. Why on earth should he
hesitate to tell Peterkin he would dine alone on Christmas day? It was
none of Peterkin's business how he dined, or where, or with whom. And
still he had not brought himself to the point of informing Peterkin,
by his order for dinner at home, that he was not leaving town for the
holidays, that he was not invited to dine with any one else, and that
there was no one he cared to invite to dine with him. It was the 22d
of December, and the custodian in charge of his domestic arrangements
had not yet been told what his plans were for the 25th. He had no
plans.
He might go, of course, to one of his clubs. But worse than telling
Peterkin that he would dine alone would be the public avowal of having
nowhere to go which dining at the club would not only indicate, but
affirm. Besides, at Christmas a club was ghastly, and the few who
dropped in had a half-shamed air at being there and got out as quickly
as possible. He could go to Hallsboro, but Hallsboro no longer bore
even a semblance to the little town in which he had been born--had,
indeed, become something of a big city, bustling, busy, and new, and
offensively up-to-date; and nowhere else did he feel so much a
stranger as in the place he had once called home. He was but twelve
when his parents moved away, and eight months later died within a week
of each other, and for years he had not been back. Had there been
brothers and sisters--Well, there were no brothers and sisters, and by
this time he should be used to the fact that he was very much alone in
the world.
Hands in his pockets, Stephen Van Landing leaned back in his chair and
looked across the room at a picture on the wall. He did not see the
picture; he saw, instead, certain things that were not pleasant to
see. No, he would not go to Hallsboro for Christmas.
Turning off the light in his office and closing the door with
unnecessary energy, Van Landing walked down the hall to the elevator,
then turned away and toward the steps. Reaching the street, he
hesitated as to the car he should take, whether one up-town to his
club or one across to his apartment, and as he waited he watched the
hurrying crowd with eyes in which were baffled impatience and
perplexity. It was incomprehensible, the shopping craze at this season
of the year. He wished there was no such season. Save for his very
young childhood there were few happy memories connected with it, but
only of late, only during the past few years, had the recurrence
awakened within him a sort of horror, its approach a sense of
loneliness that was demoralizing, and its celebration an emptiness in
life that chilled and depressed beyond all reason. Why was it that as
it drew near a feeling of cowardice so possessed him that he wanted to
go away, go anywhere and hide until it was over, go where he could not
see what it meant to others? It was humanity's home-time, and he had
no home. Why--
"An ass that brays is wiser than the man who asks what can't be
answered," he said, under his breath. "For the love of Heaven, quit
it! Why-ing in a man is as inexcusable as whining in a woman. There's
my car--crowded, of course!"
For some minutes longer he waited for a car on which there was chance
to get a foothold, then, buttoning his overcoat, put his hands in his
pockets and began the walk to his club. The season had been mild so
far, but a change was coming, and the two days left for Christmas
shopping would doubtless be stormy ones. On the whole, it might be
fortunate. There was a good deal of nonsense in this curious custom of
once a year getting on a giving jag, which was about what Christmas
had degenerated into, and if something could prevent the dementia that
possessed many people at this season it should be welcomed. It had
often puzzled him, the behavior of the human family at this so-called
Christian holiday in which tired people were overworked, poor people
bought what they couldn't afford, and the rich gave unneeded things to
the rich and were given unwanted ones in return. The hands of all
people--all places--had become outstretched. It wasn't the giving of
money that mattered. But what did matter was the hugeness of the habit
which was commercializing a custom whose origin was very far removed
from the spirit of the day.
With a shrug of his shoulders he shoved his hands deeper down into
his pockets. "Quit again," he said, half aloud. "What do you know of
the spirit of the day?"
Not only of the spirit of the day did he know little, but of late with
acute conviction it was dawning on him that he knew little of many
other things. Certainly he was getting little out of life. For a
while, after professional recognition had come to him, and with it
financial reward, he had tested society, only to give it up and settle
down to still harder work during the day and his books when the day
was done. The only woman he had ever wanted to marry had refused to
marry him. His teeth came down on his lips. He still wanted her. In
all the world there was but one woman he loved or could love, and for
three years he had not seen her. It was his fault. He was to blame. It
had taken him long to see it, but he saw it now. There had been a
difference of opinion, a frank revealing of opposing points of view,
and he had been told that she would not surrender her life to the
selfishness that takes no part in activities beyond the interests of
her own home. He had insisted that when a woman marries said home and
husband should alone claim her time and heart, and in the multitude
of demands which go into the cultural and practical development of a
home out of a house there would be sufficient opportunity for the
exercise of a woman's brain and ability. He had been such a fool. What
right had he to limit her, or she him? It had all been so silly and
such a waste, such a horrible waste of happiness.
For she had loved him. She was not a woman to love lightly, as he was
not a man, and hers was the love that glorifies life. And he had lost
it. That is, he had lost her. Three years ago she had broken their
engagement. Two years of this time had been spent abroad. A few months
after their return her mother died and her home was given up. Much of
the time since her mother's death had been spent with her married
sisters, who lived in cities far separated from one another, but not
for some weeks had he heard anything concerning her. He did not even
know where she was, or where she would be Christmas.
"Hello, Van!"
The voice behind made him turn. The voice was Bleeker McVeigh's.
"Where are the wedding garments? Don't mean you're not going!"
"Going where?" Van Landing fell into step. "Whose wedding?"
McVeigh lighted a fresh cigarette. "You ought to be hung. I tell you
now you won't be bidden to my wedding. Why did you tell Jockie you'd
come, if you didn't intend to?"
Van Landing stopped and for a minute stared at the man beside him. "I
forgot this was the twenty-second," he said. "Tell Jock I'm dead. I
wish I were for a week."
"Ought to be dead." McVeigh threw his match away. "A man who ignores
his fellow-beings as you've ignored yours of late has no right to
live. Better look out. Don't take long to be forgotten. Good night."
It was true that it didn't take long to be forgotten. He had been
finding that out rather dismally of late, finding out also that a good
many things Frances had told him about himself were true. Her eyes
could be so soft and lovely and appealing; they were wonderful eyes,
but they could blaze as well. And she was right. He was selfish and
conventional and intolerant. That is, he had been. He wished he could
forget her eyes. In all ways possible to a man of his type he had
tried to forget, but forgetting was beyond his power. Jock had loved
half a dozen women and this afternoon he was to be married to his last
love. Were he on Jock's order he might have married. He wasn't on
Jock's order.
Reaching his club, he started to go up the steps, then turned and
walked away. To go in would provoke inquiry as to why he was not at
the wedding. He took out his watch. It was twenty minutes of the hour
set for the ceremony. He had intended to go, but--Well, he had
forgotten, and was glad of it. He loathed weddings.
As he reached the building in which was his apartment he again
hesitated and again walked on. An unaccountable impulse led him in the
direction of the house, a few blocks away, in which his friend was to
be married, and as he neared it he crossed the street and in the
darkness of the late afternoon looked with eyes, half mocking, half
amazed, at the long line of limousines which stretched from one end of
the block to the other. At the corner he stopped. For some minutes he
stood looking at the little group of people who made effort to press
closer to the entrance of the awning which stretched from door to
curbing, then turned to go, when he felt a hand touch him lightly on
the arm.
"If you will come up to the top of the steps you can see much better,"
he heard a voice say. "I've seen almost everybody go in. I just ran
down to tell you."