A PRIM little maid opened the door. She took his hat and coat, and
directed him to the warm and cozy library. As he saw no one about he
believed that he had committed the unpardonable offense of coming too
early. It was so long since he had been "out." He wandered among the
bookcases and soon forgot where he was, for he possessed the poet's
enthusiasm for rare books. The atmosphere seemed spirituous of Balzac,
Thackeray, Dumas, Dickens, Scott, Hugo and all the tender poets he loved
so well. And here, right under his hand, was a rare copy of _Tristram
Shandy_. Dear, guileless old Uncle Toby! And then he became conscious of
a Presence.
He turned, and beheld her standing in the doorway. Beautiful, beautiful!
The ivory pallor of her complexion, the shadowy wine of her hair, her
brilliant eyes, the glistening whiteness of her neck and arms! He stood
like stone, incapable of animation. Then he took in a deep breath: he
wished to possess absolute control over himself before he touched her
hand. Oh, he needed no fire to warm his veins, the blood of which gushed
into his brain like the floods of spring torrents!
"John!" she cried.
She floated toward him, her hands outstretched, a smile of welcome on
her lips. He touched her hands with some uncertainty. It was all so like
a dream.
"So you are home again?" he said, finding only this commonplace question
among all the beautiful phrases he had invented for her benefit.
"And I am glad to be home, John; glad. I knew you would come."
"How in the world could I help it?" smiling. "It was very kind of you to
send your carriage. A carriage is a luxury in which I do not often
indulge. I couldn't invent any excuse; I had no engagement. Besides, I
would have come anyway."
She laughed, and drew two chairs to the blazing grate and motioned him
to be seated.
"Do you know," he began, "but for your note I might have forgotten all
about its being Christmas Eve? To what terrible depths a man falls to be
able to confess such a sacrilege! But a lonely man forgets the customs
of his youth. There is no Christmas spirit where there are no children,
no family ties. I'm a hermit."
"Tell me all about yourself, John," she urged, cleverly seating herself
so that she might see him easily, while he, to see her, would have to
turn his head.
"There isn't much to say. I've just gone right on making a failure."
"There is no such thing as failure, John. Failure means effort, and
effort is never failure."
"That is a pretty way of putting it. Well, then, let me say that I am
still unsuccessful. Fame has knocked on my door with soft gloves, and I
have not heard her; and Fortune never had me on her visiting list." He
stared into the fire.
He was quite unconscious of her minute examination. How changed he was,
poor boy! He was not growing old; he was aging. What had wrought this
change? Work? A long series of defeats? Unrewarded toil? She leaned back
in her chair, and the light in her eyes would have blinded Williard had
he turned just then.
"What have you been doing this long year?" he asked presently.
"Wanderlust. I have flitted from place to place, always dissatisfied."
"Dissatisfied--you?"
"Yes, John. To be truly unhappy is to be rich and unhappy. It is the
hope of some time being rich that dulls the unhappiness of the poor.
Money buys only inanimate things."
"I have heard of you sometimes."
"What have you heard?"
"There was a prince or duke, I forget which."
"He wanted to marry me," lightly.
"And you?"
"It was amusing. Some busybody would always manage to introduce me as
the rich Miss Wycklift; and then the comedy would begin. Perhaps I was
spiteful; but I knew that it was only my money."
"Have you ever looked in your mirror?" Williard asked naively.
"I spend a part of the day before it," she confessed.
"But money is not everything. It is quite possible that these men loved
you for your own sake."
"Loved for one's own sake," mused the girl. "Yes, that is how I would
have it. But how in the world is a rich girl going to tell? I am
superstitious. For three or four years I have been carrying this little
amulet," she said, holding out for his inspection a silver, thimble-like
trinket. "It represents St. Joseph, the patron saint of spinsters. An
old French nurse gave it to me, and said that if I offered prayers to
St. Joseph I should some day find the man I loved and who loved me. I do
not want to be a spinster."
"That is a graceful sentiment."
"Not wanting to be a spinster?"
"Oh, that is not only graceful but commendable," smiling. Then he added
gravely: "Have your prayers been answered?"
"Yes."
Silence.
"Well?" he said, with the slightest tremor.
"Only he hasn't said anything yet."
He moved restlessly. It was all so sad. Yet it was best so. Once he knew
her to be beyond his reach he could bring to an end his foolish dream.
"I wonder how I shall begin to tell you my romance," she resumed.
"Society has done so many evil things in the name of formality. It has
laid down impossible and inhuman rules, destroying freedom of thought
and action. To these rules we must conform or be ostracized. Might a
woman tell a man she loves him, John?"
"That depends wholly upon her knowledge that he loves her."
"So if a woman knows that a man loves her she may, in the pursuit of
happiness, tell that man?"
"I see no reason why not. To love is natural. Love is stronger than
logic, stronger than formality. But this should always be borne in mind:
for a woman to propose to a man, the man must be her equal in all
things--wealth of mind and wealth of purse."
"Oh, now you are going back to the conventionality of things," she
protested. "How I hate conventional mediocrity! I have hated it ever
since I came to this horrid city. Don't you sometimes long for the old
days, John: the sermons in stones, the good in everything?"
"Yes, sometimes."
"Well, I am going back to the old village in the spring. John," softly,
"why didn't you answer my letter?"
"The little orbit around which I take my flight could scarce interest
you," lamely. "There were princes and dukes in your train, and great
fêtes, and bewildering cities besides."
"It hurt," she said simply.
"Hurt? Have I hurt you?" the repressed tenderness in his voice shaking
him. "Oh, if I had known that you really wanted to hear from me!"
"And why should I not? Were we not boy and girl together? And you always
wrote such charming letters, cheerful and hopeful and sunshiny. There
never was any worldliness, nor cynicism. I have kept all your letters;
and even now I find myself returning to them, as one returns to old
friends."
He clasped and unclasped his hands nervously.
"Cheerful and hopeful and sunshiny," she went on. "The man I love is
like that. He is good and cheerful and brave. Nobody ever hears him
complain. But he is poor, John, dreadfully poor; and what makes it so
hard, he is dreadfully proud. So I must put my own pride underfoot and
tell him that he is wrong to spoil two lives, simply because I am rich
and he is poor. And if he rejects me I shall throw away this little
amulet, and lose faith in everything."
Williard had nothing to say. Rather he saw himself once more in his
little hall bedroom, his face buried in packets of old letters.
"Dinner is served." The butler appeared.
Williard rose.
"Come, sir," she said as the butler went out.
Somehow her hand slid comfortably into his and she guided him through
the hall. The touch of her hand was ecstasy.
"There was a time when you used to kiss my hand," she said.
With the forgotten gallantry of olden times suddenly returned, he bent
his head and kissed the hand in his, to hide his dimming eyes!
They then entered the dining-room. Covers had been laid for six. There
was a candle at each plate, but upon four of the plates rested books!
The poet looked at the girl: ah, the brave and merry eyes that met his!
"Permit me, Mr. Williard," she said, making a courtesy, "to introduce
you to the celebrities. Yonder is Mr. Thackeray, and next to him is Mr.
Dickens; on the opposite side are MM. de Balzac and Dumas. Behold Mr.
Esmond and Mr. Copperfield, the kindly Cousin Pons and the brave
D'Artagnan! Ah, John, I was so afraid that you might invent an excuse
that I took to this little subterfuge. Do you forgive me?"
"I would have come anyway."
"Why?"
"Because."
"That is a woman's answer."
"Well, because I wanted to see you."
"That is better."
What a fine dinner it was! With that tact of which only a woman of the
world is capable she drew him out by degrees. He became animated, merry,
witty; all the channels of his broadly educated mind loosed their
currents. He was the poet and the man of letters.
"But what would you do in my place, John?" she asked finally.
"As to what?"
"As to the man whose poverty keeps him outside my gates; this man I
love, whose pride is striving to cheat me out of that which is mine
own?"
All the light went out of Williard's eyes. He had forgotten!
"You are sure he loves you?"
"Oh, yes!"
"Well," with a forced smile, "this is the last week of leap year; why
not ask him? Custom allows such action once in four years."
"You are not laughing?"
"No, I am not laughing," truthfully enough.
"John--will you marry me?" Her voice was low, like music in a church.
How still everything suddenly grew!
"Will you marry me, John; or will you break my heart with your foolish
pride?"
He stared at her dumbly. She balanced the image of St. Joseph in her
hand.
"Shall I toss it into the fire?" she asked presently, a weariness
stealing into her tones.
He tried to speak, but could not. She made as though to fling the image
into the fire, when he leaned across the table and caught her hand.
"I'm a miserable coward," he said, choking.
"So am I, John. I was afraid I might lose you."
* * * * * *
Transcriber's note:
Throughout the document, the oe-ligature was replaced with "oe".
Throughout the dialogues, there were words used to mimic accents of
the speakers. Those words were retained as-is.
The illustrations have been moved so that they do not break up
paragraphs and so that they are next to the text they illustrate.
Errors in punctuation and inconsistent hyphenation were not corrected
except that on page 210 a period was added after "He was a failure".