MERRY CHRISTMAS
Margaret in mauve velvet and violets, and Gertrude in a frock of smart
black and white were in the act of meeting by appointment at Sherry's
one December afternoon, with a comfortable cup of tea in mind.
Gertrude emerged from the recess of the revolving door and Margaret,
sitting eagerly by the entrance, almost upset the attendant in her
rush to her friend's side.
"Oh! Gertrude," she cried, "I'm so glad to see you. My family is
trying to cut me up in neat little quarters and send me north, south,
east and west, for the Christmas holidays, and I want to stay home and
have Eleanor. How did I ever come to be born into a family of giants,
tell me that, Gertrude?"
"The choice of parents is thrust upon us at an unfortunately immature
period, I'll admit," Gertrude laughed. "My parents are dears, but
they've never forgiven me for being an artist instead of a dubby bud.
Shall we have tea right away or shall we sit down and discuss life?"
"Both," Margaret said. "I don't know which is the hungrier--flesh or
spirit."
But as they turned toward the dining-room a familiar figure blocked
their progress.
"I thought that was Gertrude's insatiable hat," David exclaimed
delightedly. "I've phoned for you both until your families have given
instructions that I'm not to be indulged any more. I've got a surprise
for you.--Taxi," he said to the man at the door.
"Not till we've had our tea," Margaret wailed. "You couldn't be so
cruel, David."
"You shall have your tea, my dear, and one of the happiest surprises
of your life into the bargain," David assured her as he led the way to
the waiting cab.
"I wouldn't leave this place unfed for anybody but you, David, not if
it were ever so, and then some, as Jimmie says."
"What's the matter with Jimmie, anyhow?" David inquired as the taxi
turned down the Avenue and immediately entangled itself in a hopeless
mesh of traffic.
"I don't know; why?" Gertrude answered, though she had not been the
one addressed at the moment. "What's the matter with this hat?" she
rattled on without waiting for an answer. "I thought it was
good-looking myself, and Madam Paran robbed me for it."
"It is good-looking," David allowed. "It seems to be a kind of
retrieving hat, that's all. Keeps you in a rather constant state of
looking after the game."
"What about my hat, David?" Margaret inquired anxiously. "Do you like
that?"
"I do," David admitted. "I'm crazy about it. It's a lovely cross
between the style affected by the late Emperor Napoleon and my august
grandmother, with some frills added."
The chauffeur turned into a cross street and stopped abruptly before
an imposing but apparently unguarded entrance.
"Why, I thought this was a studio building," Gertrude said. "David, if
you're springing a tea party on us, and we in the wild ungovernable
state we are at present, I'll shoot the way my hat is pointing."
"Straight through my left eye-glass," David finished. "You wait till
you see the injustice you have done me."
But Margaret, who often understood what was happening a few moments
before the revelation of it, clutched at his elbow.
"Oh! David, David," she whispered, "how wonderful!"
"Wait till you see," David said, and herded them into the elevator.
Their destination was the top floor but one. David hurried them around
the bend in the sleekly carpeted corridor and touched the bell on the
right of the first door they came to. It opened almost instantly and
David's man, who was French, stood bowing and smiling on the
threshold.
"Mr. Styvvisont has arrive'," he said; "he waits you."
"Welcome to our city," Peter cried, appearing in the doorway of the
room Alphonse was indicating with that high gesture of delight with
which only a Frenchman can lead the way. "Jimmie's coming up from the
office and Beulah's due any minute. What do you think of the place,
girls?"
"Is it really yours, David?"
"Surest thing you know." He grinned like a schoolboy. "It's really
ours, that's what it is. I've broken away from the mater at last," he
added a little sheepishly. "I'm going to work seriously. I've got an
all-day desk job in my uncle's office and I'm going to dig in and see
what I can make of myself. Also, this is going to be our headquarters,
and Eleanor's permanent home if we're all agreed upon it,--but look
around, ladies. Don't spare my blushes. If you think I can interior
decorate, just tell me so frankly. This is the living-room."
"It's like that old conundrum--black and white and red all over,"
Gertrude said. "I never saw anything so stunning in all my life."
"Gosh! I admire your nerve," Peter cried, "papering this place in
white, and then getting in all this heavy carved black stuff, and the
red in the tapestries and screens and pillows."
"I wanted it to look studioish a little," David explained, "I wanted
to get away from Louis Quartorze."
"And drawing-rooms like mother used to make," Gertrude suggested. "I
like your Oriental touches. Do you see, Margaret, everything is Indian
or Chinese? The ubiquitous Japanese print is conspicuous by its
absence."
"I've got two portfolios full of 'em," David said, "and I always have
one or two up in the bedrooms. I change 'em around, you know, the way
the Japs do themselves, a different scene every few days and the rest
decently out of sight till you're ready for 'em."
"It's like a fairy story," Margaret said.
"I thought you'd appreciate what little Arabian Nights I was able to
introduce. I bought that screen," he indicated a sweep of Chinese line
and color, "with my eye on you, and that Aladdin's lamp is yours, of
course. You're to come in here and rub it whenever you like, and your
heart's desire will instantly be vouchsafed to you."
"What will Eleanor say?" Peter suggested, as David led the way through
the corridor and up the tiny stairs which led to the more intricate
part of the establishment. "This is her room, didn't you say, David?"
He paused on the threshold of a bedroom done in ivory white and
yellow, with all its hangings of a soft golden silk.
"She once said that she wanted a yellow room," David said, "a
daffy-down-dilly room, and I've tried to get her one. I know last
year that Maggie Lou child refused to have yellow curtains in that
flatiron shaped sitting-room of theirs, and Eleanor refused to be
comforted."
A wild whoop in the below stairs announced Jimmie; and Beulah arrived
simultaneously with the tea tray. Jimmie was ecstatic when the actual
function of the place was explained to him.
"Headquarters is the one thing we've lacked," he said; "a place of our
own, hully gee! It makes me feel almost human again."
"You haven't been feeling altogether human lately, have you, Jimmie?"
Margaret asked over her tea cup.
"No, dear, I haven't." Jimmie flashed her a grateful smile. "I'm a bad
egg," he explained to her darkly, "and the only thing you can do with
me is to scramble me."
"Scrambled is just about the way I should have described your behavior
of late,--but that's Gertrude's line," David said. "Only she doesn't
seem to be taking an active part in the conversation. Aren't you
Jimmie's keeper any more, Gertrude?"
"Not since she's come back from abroad," Jimmie muttered without
looking at her.
"Eleanor's taken the job over now," Peter said. "She's made him swear
off red ink and red neckties."
"Any color so long's it's red is the color that suits me best," Jimmie
quoted. "Lord, isn't this room a pippin?" He swam in among the bright
pillows of the divan and so hid his face for a moment. It had been a
good many weeks since he had seen Gertrude.
"I want to give a suffrage tea here," Beulah broke in suddenly. "It's
so central, but I don't suppose David would hear of it."
"Angels and Ministers of Grace defend us--" Peter began.
"My _mother_ would hear of it," David said, "and then there wouldn't
be any little studio any more. She doesn't believe in votes for
women."
"How any woman in this day and age--" Beulah began, and thought better
of it, since she was discussing Mrs. Bolling.
"Makes your blood boil, doesn't it--Beulahland?" Gertrude suggested
helpfully, reaching for the tea cakes. "Never mind, I'll vote for
women. I'll march in your old peerade."
"The Lord helps those that help themselves," Peter said, "that's why
Gertrude is a suffragist. She believes in helping herself, in every
sense, don't you, 'Trude?"
"Not quite in every sense," Gertrude said gravely. "Sometimes I feel
like that girl that Margaret describes as caught in a horrid way
between two generations. I'm neither old-fashioned nor modern."
"I'd rather be that way than early Victorian," Margaret sighed.
"Speaking of the latest generation, has anybody any objection to
having our child here for the holidays?" David asked. "My idea is to
have one grand Christmas dinner. I suppose we'll all have to eat one
meal with our respective families, but can't we manage to get together
here for dinner at night? Don't you think that we could?"
"We can't, but we will," Margaret murmured. "Of course, have Eleanor
here. I wanted her with me but the family thought otherwise. They've
been trying to send me away for my health, David."
"Well, they shan't. You'll stay in New York for your health and come
to my party."
"Margaret's health is merely a matter of Margaret's happiness anyhow.
Her soul and her body are all one," Gertrude said.
"Then cursed be he who brings anything but happiness to Margaret,"
Peter said, to which sentiment David added a solemn "Amen."
"I wish you wouldn't," Margaret said, shivering a little, "I feel as
if some one were--were--"
"Trampling the violets on your grave," Gertrude finished for her.
Christmas that year fell on a Monday, and Eleanor did not leave school
till the Friday before the great day. Owing to the exigencies of the
holiday season none of her guardians came to see her before the dinner
party itself. Even David was busy with his mother--installed now for a
few weeks in the hotel suite that would be her home until the opening
of the season at Palm Beach--and had only a few hurried words with
her. Mademoiselle, whom he had imported for the occasion, met her at
the station and helped her to do her modest shopping which consisted
chiefly of gifts for her beloved aunts and uncles. She had arranged
these things lovingly at their plates, and fled to dress when they
began to assemble for the celebration. The girls were the first
arrivals. Then Peter.
"How's our child, David?" Gertrude asked. "I had a few minutes' talk
with her over the telephone and she seemed to be flourishing."
"She is," David answered. "She's grown several feet since we last saw
her. They've been giving scenes from Shakespeare at school and she's
been playing Juliet, it appears. She has had a fight with another girl
about suffrage--I don't know which side she was on, Beulah, I am
merely giving you the facts as they came to me--and the other girl was
so unpleasant about it that she has been visited by just retribution
in the form of the mumps, and had to be sent home and quarantined."
"Sounds a bit priggish," Peter suggested.
"Not really," David said, "she's as sound as a nut. She's only going
through the different stages."
"To pass deliberately through one's ages," Beulah quoted, "is to get
the heart out of a liberal education."
"Bravo, Beulah," Gertrude cried, "you're quite in your old form
to-night."
"Is she just the same little girl, David?" Margaret asked.
"Just the same. She really seems younger than ever. I don't know why
she doesn't come down. There she is, I guess. No, it's only Alphonse
letting in Jimmie."
Jimmie, whose spirits seemed to have revived under the holiday
influence, was staggering under the weight of his parcels. The
Christmas presents had already accumulated to a considerable mound on
the couch. Margaret was brooding over them and trying not to look
greedy. She was still very much of a child herself in relation to
Santa Claus.
"Merry Christmas!" Jimmie cried. "Where's my child?"
"Coming," David said.
"Look at the candy kids. My eyes--but you're a slick trio, girls. Pale
lavender, pale blue, and pale pink, and all quite sophisticatedly
décolleté. You go with the decorations, too. I don't know quite why
you do, but you do."
"Give honor where honor is due, dearie. That's owing to the cleverness
of the decorator," David said.
"No man calls me dearie and lives to tell the tale," Jimmie remarked
almost dreamily as he squared off. "How'll you have it, Dave?"
But at that instant there was an unexpected interruption. Alphonse
threw open the big entrance door at the farther end of the long room
with a flourish.
"Mademoiselle Juliet Capulet," he proclaimed with the grand air, and
then retired behind his hand, smiling broadly.
Framed in the high doorway, complete, cap and curls, softly rounding
bodice, and the long, straight lines of the Renaissance, stood
Juliet--Juliet, immemorial, immortal, young--austerely innocent and
delicately shy, already beautiful, and yet potential of all the beauty
and the wisdom of the world.
"I've never worn these clothes before anybody but the girls before,"
Eleanor said, "but I thought"--she looked about her appealingly--"you
might like it--for a surprise."
"Great jumping Jehoshaphat," Jimmie exclaimed, "I thought you said she
was the same little girl, David."
"She was half an hour ago," David answered, "I never saw such a
metamorphosis. In fact, I don't think I ever saw Juliet before."
"She is the thing itself," Gertrude answered, the artist in her
sobered by the vision.
But Peter passed a dazed hand over his eyes and stared at the delicate
figure advancing to him.
"My God! she's a woman," he said, and drew the hard breath of a man
just awakened from sleep.
[Illustration: "I thought"--she looked about her appealingly--"you might
like it--for a surprise"]