I
WILLIARD sat down to his evening meal. He was later than usual. The
dining-room of the boarding-house was deserted, save for the presence of
the maid servant, who was sweeping the crumbs from the tablecloth. His
entrance was acknowledged by a sour smile. Williard was a sort of pariah
to the narrow minds of that household, who could not associate greatness
of soul with failure and poverty.
"You won't get much," said the maid. "We are too busy with to-morrow's
Christmas dinner."
To-morrow's Christmas dinner! Williard drew the bread-dish toward him
rather mechanically. To-morrow's Christmas dinner! It was Christmas Eve
to-night, and he had forgotten! All that day he had wondered why every
face looked so eager and bright in the office, why the jostling crowds
in the streets were so merry and good-humored. To-morrow was Christmas,
and he had forgotten!
The maid grumblingly fetched what remained of the supper. The hanging
lamp sputtered for lack of oil to feed upon; and all the food tasted
vaguely of kerosene. But Williard made no complaint; he was hungry.
To-morrow's Christmas dinner!
He was tired. Great names had danced before his eyes that day: names
resounding the fickle world's applause and the jingle of her
inconsiderate largess. Not that he envied them, no; rather that they
taught him to despair. In the daytime he read proof in the attic of a
large publishing house; this was existence, it was bread and butter. But
at night, in his little hall bedroom, where the clamors of the city
streets sounded murmurous and indistinct, he still clung to the
fragments of early dreams. His verses and stories, lofty and proud,
lacked something, for they found no entrance to the garden of fame,
which is at best full of false flowers and spurious scents.
For ten years he had striven to attain; and he had failed. He had come
to New York, as thousands of others had come, with hope and her thousand
stars, to see them fade away one by one from the firmament of his
dreams. The world has no patience with failure, no treasures for the
obscure defeat. Ah, to see one's own people, dressed in clear, beautiful
type, move across the white pages, from margin to margin, thinking,
acting, speaking! To unravel the scheme of life, with its loves,
ambitions and revenges--was there any rapture, any pleasure, half so
fine?
The harsh voice of the maid brought him out of his idle dream: for to be
a poet is to dream and to suffer.
"There's a letter under your door," said the girl. "Didn't know you were
coming home to supper, so I didn't put it under your plate."
"Thank you."
"I guess you've struck an heiress; that letter smells of sachet powder,"
she added, sailing through the swinging door to the kitchen.
Williard folded his napkin and rose. Christmas Eve! Where were the old
days in the little white village, the straw rides, the candy pulls, the
great logs in the fireplace? Where had youth gone so suddenly? He
climbed the two flights of stairs to his room, struck a match, and knelt
before the door. Yes, there was a letter. He held it to his nose and
inhaled the delicate odor of violets. A thrill passed through him, a
thrill that was a mixture of joy, sorrow, love, bitterness and regret.
He unlocked the door, entered the room and lighted the gas. How well he
knew the stroke of each letter! How many times in the old days had that
feathery tracing brought cheer and comfort to him! And now she was gone;
out of his meager circle she had passed for ever. Riches! What a
fortress! What a parapet to scale! What a barrier! The mighty dollar now
bastioned and sentineled her as the drab granite and men-at-arms had
surrounded the unhappy princesses of feudal times.
From time to time he had read of her; this duke or that prince was
following her about, from resort to resort. She had written once, but he
had not had the courage to answer that letter. Paris, London, Berlin!
Her beauty and her wealth had conquered each city in its turn. Heigh-ho!
He held the letter as a lover holds a woman's hand: dreamily, dim-eyed,
motionless. Finally he broke the seal.