Home again! Near to Mother Earth again, to the old habits, old
longings, old friends. I am never going away again. Now, John, I
am giving a little Christmas Eve dinner to-night, informally, to
five literary celebrities (four who are known and one who will
be), and I want you more than any one else. Why? Well, you are a
staff of oak to lean upon--sound and sturdy and impervious to
the storms. I want visions of the old days, and somehow they
will not come back vividly unless you help me to conjure them.
Do you remember _souviens-toi_?... But never mind. I'll ask the
question of you when we meet. No excuses, John, no previous
engagements. If you have an excuse, destroy it; an engagement,
break it. This is a command. If you do not come I shall never
forgive you. What do you care if the celebrities have never
heard of you? I am sure that not one of them is your peer at
heart and mind. I am tired, John, tired of false praises and
flattery, tired of worldly things; and somehow your voice is
going to rest me. Come at half after eight. NELL.
Home again! She was home! A dizziness fell upon him for a space, and all
things grew blurred and indistinct. When the vapor passed he returned
the letter to its envelope, opened a drawer in his bureau, and brought
forth an old handkerchief case. In it there were withered flowers,
scraps of ribbon, a broken fan, and packets of old letters. He took out
one of the packets, raised the ribbon (torn from some gown of hers), and
slid under this latest letter, which would probably be the last.
Yes, he would go. And if the celebrities loosed their covert and fatuous
smiles when his back was turned, so be it. His poverty was clean and
honorable. He dressed slowly, and once he gazed into the mirror. The
face he saw there was not inspiring, lined and hollowed as it was; but
its pallor lent a refinement to it, that tender, proud refinement which
describes a lofty soul, full of gentleness and nobility.
From time to time he approached the window. How the snow whirled,
eddied, sank, and whirled again! The arc lamps became luminous clouds.
He looked at his shoes. Could he afford a cab? And yet, could he afford
to appear before her, his shoes wet, his clothes damp with snow? He
decided in favor of the cab. It was Christmas Eve; a little luxury would
not be wrong.
By-and-by he stepped out of the boarding-house into the storm. Clouds of
moist feathery particles surged over him, and crept inside his rusty
velvet collar. Suddenly he discovered a handsome coupé standing in
front. The footman was walking up and down while the driver beat his
hands across his breast. Williard did not understand what this elegant
equipage was doing in such a street. Even as he cogitated, the footman
descried him and approached.
"Beg pardon, sir; Mr. Williard?" he inquired.
"Yes, I am Mr. Williard," was the wondering answer.
"Then we are just in time, sir!" The footman ran to the coupé and opened
the door respectfully.
"You have made a mistake, my man," said Williard. "I did not order--"
"We are from Miss Wycklift's," said the footman.
Her carriage! And she had sent it to his boarding-house for fear he
might slip past!
"Are you certain?" he asked, still in doubt.
"If you are Mr. Williard there isn't a particle of doubt, sir." The tone
was perfectly respectful, and did more to determine Williard than
anything else.
"Very well," he said.
He entered the luxurious carriage and the door slammed behind him.
Presently he was on the way to see the one woman in all the world. Her
carriage! What a delicate bit of charity it was, savoring of a
thoughtful mind and a warm heart! She knew, then, of his continued
poverty and wished to save him the embarrassment of going to a dinner in
a surface car. There was not the least hint of patronage in the act; it
was simply one of those fine and thoughtful impulses of which only a
noble woman is capable. He recalled the first night he had taken her to
the opera. There had been no other woman half so lovely--he had thought
only of her. Fool that he was to surrender to this idle dream: but oh!
it had been so sweet.
There was a jar, and the carriage and Williard's reverie came to a
sudden pause. The door opened and the footman's head appeared.
"Here we are, sir!"
Williard, still dazed, alighted. He mounted the steps to the door, and
with no little timidity he pushed the electric button. Riches! How the
hateful word buzzed in his ears!