The week before Christmas was packed tight with hurry, tired bones, fun,
and, for me, a short worry and two surprises, one of which made my
disquiet. And the week after held indigestion, more tired bones, more
fun, and one surprise. And they each held a mysterious happening which
no one could explain. The second of these being so serious that my
stories of hearing things at night were at last taken seriously. Even
the rappings which they had all heard had not made them see that
anything out of the ordinary was really happening, until the
after-Christmas affair convinced them. Feeling this, I had given up
speaking of what occurred to bother me.
It was like telling of the huge fish you HONESTLY really almost landed,
and then having the listener say: “Oh yes. But I suppose he got away?”
and--smile. It shut you up. It was that way with my affairs.
After Evelyn began to say, “How many brigands slept on the balcony last
night, Natalie?” or, “I heard strange noises at five this morning. It
_might_ have been the milkman, but Natalie seems to think it was a thug
who came in to steal her flashlight!”
Perhaps I would say: “It _was_ gone!” and then everyone would laugh, for
of course they thought I had mislaid it; and naturally thought so, since
a real thief is rarely satisfied with one flashlight costing a dollar
and forty cents. Just as I decided to stop assuring them that something
was happening (it seemed futile to keep up--they _wouldn’t_ believe me)
Evelyn stopped teasing me. I think Doctor Vance’s saying I wasn’t
especially well made that. And I was glad to have it cease. It wasn’t a
joke to me!
As I said, the week before Christmas was a hurried time. Aunt, Evelyn,
and Amy gave lots of people presents and I helped them wrap them up. It
was great fun. The red and green tissues, the beautiful ribbons and the
cunning stickers made things so pretty that you never thought of the
bother. But I will acknowledge that I tired of the flavour of the
stickers, which was assertive and clung. I believe any stationery house
would make a _fortune_ if they manufactured Christmas seals that tasted
as nice as they look.
I said so to S. K. one afternoon a few days before Christmas. He had
come up and we were in the library. Amy was playing the victrola,
between going to the hall to inspect the packages which kept arriving so
steadily; Evelyn was writing thank you notes for things she _hadn’t
received_! She said she always did, because it saved the bother after
Christmas, when parties were scheduled for almost every minute; and that
it was quite simple since all you had to do was to say: “Your beautiful
gift means so _much_ to me, and I shall always treasure it.” But Amy
told me one year Aunt Penelope mailed these before Evelyn knew it and a
lot of the thanked people hadn’t come across. Naturally it was awkward
and took a great deal of talented explaining.
But, to go back to that afternoon. S. K. said: “That’s one thing you
haven’t tried--glue.” And I knew he meant putting it in the bracelet
box. He smiled at me in a teasing way after that, for even he didn’t
take me seriously then.
“No,” I answered, “but I will, or something better for leaving a trail.
It’s a good idea.” I was really taken with it and decided upon red
paint, as I tied up a set of bridge scores that Aunt Penelope was going
to send to a cousin of hers who lives miles from nowhere on a Western
farm.
Then I attacked a lot of nut bowls and crackers that Evelyn had got at a
bargain from a gift shop. Amy tried to crack a peanut with the crackers,
and even its fragile shell was not dented, but Evelyn explained that “It
was _the thought_” that counted. Personally, I decided that the kind of
thoughts one would have on using those things would count against
you--if Heaven’s Gate Keeper were listening, but I didn’t say so.
“Got sixteen of those last Christmas,” said S. K.
“I had planned to give you one!” I gasped, and I really did it well.
“My dear,” he said, growing quite excited, “you know I was joking. I
should love having you give me one! I’m simply a stupid fool, that’s all
and----” And then I laughed, and Evelyn, who had stopped writing to
listen, did too, for she had helped me get my present for S. K.
“Come here, you humbug!” he ordered. I came. He reached up and pulled me
down on the lounge beside him, very hard. “What’ll I do to her, Miss
Evelyn?” he asked, as he frowned down on me.
Evelyn said I was hopeless and that she thought nothing short of
arsenic, and a large dose of that, would have any effect.
“Oh, well, we’ll let her live a small while longer,” he temporized, and
I slipped my hand in his because I am always a little sorry when I tease
him, although it is fun to do. “I’ll tell you,” he went on. “We’ll have
bread and butter, and that ONLY, with tea for a month.”
“Then I won’t come down and have tea with you,” I replied, “for I can
get that kind of a hand-out here.”
“So, you slangy young thing, I am loved for my food?” he asked. He
looked quizzical, but I thought he wondered, and of course I told him I
loved him for himself. Evelyn was amused, which was silly of her,
because it was nothing to be flippant about.
“Shall I leave the room?” she asked, in an attempt to be funny. And
then, for the first time, I realized that S. K. was not so much older
than I, after all, and that perhaps he, as well as other people, might
not understand. He had seemed like Uncle Frank, or Bradly-dear; like
someone who belonged to me, and to whom I belonged. I had adopted him
into the family-side of my heart because he had been so good to me, and
of course for the same reason I loved him. But I wondered then, whether
my saying so sounded silly, and it made me grow pink and look down.
But S. K. helped me out as he always does.
“No,” he answered, and I felt that he was looking at me and in a very
kind way, “that is not the kind of love Nat means. Hers has a sort of
small girl, open-air, baseball flavour that is attractive, but--not
right for a flirtation. When she learns the other sort, you may leave
the room--and quickly, please!”
Evelyn laughed, and went on scribbling. I could see that her remark had
been idle, and that she thought S. K.’s was too, but I looked up. S. K.
was looking down at me and I felt frightened and very happy, and quite
hot but a little chilly; and I began, right then, to know that I did
care a great, great deal for S. K. and that--he cared for me.
I didn’t need the thing he blurted out in a whisper, to be sure. For his
eyes had said it. What sounded as if it were shaken from him was: “My
dearest?” and it came as a question, and after it he bit his lips, grew
slowly red and looked away. I knew he was sorry he had spoken, and I was
sorry too, for it frightened me, and because I did not know what to do.
I got up and began to wrap up Christmas things and S. K. did not watch
me as he usually does, but looked into the fire.
“Thought you were going to punish her,” said Evelyn in that level voice
which people use when they’re writing hard or playing the piano softly.
“Decided it was futile,” he answered; and I saw that he was upset too,
for he spoke stiffly. And then, after refusing tea and making a light
mention of an engagement, he left. And I went on wrapping up packages,
but my hands shook.
“Why didn’t you see him out?” Evelyn asked.
I replied that Ito was in the hall and that I didn’t see any reason for
doing so.
Then Amy came in and said that Herbert was coming, and that meant that
she and I had to get out. For ever since that afternoon that I bumped
into him while attempting to walk, he and Evelyn have been discussing
inner draperies and how to keep cooks, and the right proportion for a
rent, and where to live, for they got engaged that day. Amy told me
about it. She said it was dramatic and exceedingly interesting, but that
they ordered her off just when she most wanted to stay.
It seemed he bolted in the room, and two feet from Evelyn paused. Amy
said he was absolutely white and spoke in a deep, shaken voice. She
really described it beautifully. He said: “_You have been ill!_”
And she said: “Oh, _Herbert_,” and began to cry. Then she stretched a
hand out to him, and he put his arms around her and said: “My
_darling!_” Amy, who had been sitting in a high-backed Italian chair,
naturally got up to look over it, and then Evelyn ordered her off. She
whispered: “Please, Amy--go----” and Amy felt that she had to. But she
was annoyed at Evelyn, for she wasn’t bothering anyone, and she said it
was better than movies or the theatre, for she knew the principal
characters, and she said that they were acting wonderfully.
But, to go back; after I left them that afternoon I went to my room. Amy
had to do some telephoning and stopped outside of the library door to do
it. She said she liked that telephone better, but I think she did it
because it annoys Evelyn. Of course the most loving sisters occasionally
positively work to think up ways of annoying one another; it belongs to
them just as much as does taking each other’s clothes, or borrowing
hats.
In my room I sat down by the window and I did not light the
lights. . . . I wanted to think and in the half-light it seemed easier
for the sort of reverie in which I was going to indulge. For, if you can
understand it, I was frightened. I loved S. K., I knew that; but I
didn’t want to plan a house as Evelyn and Herbert were and to have
people go off to leave us alone to do it. Sometimes Herbert kisses
Evelyn when they are alone, I am quite sure of it, for I heard Evelyn
say: “Don’t, dear--someone is coming,” as I came in one day. And Amy
assured me that that was a part of being engaged. I can’t quite explain,
because I am stupid about making words carry my thoughts, but at that
moment I very much wanted to be back in Queensburg, playing ball,
walking, or riding. I wanted Willy to say, “Come out and play catch,
Nat!” and not to be worried about things that loomed ahead, things that
I was afraid must come before I was ready for them. . . .
But--curiously, with all that fear, I had that happy but sad, and lovely
but hurting sensation that neither Bradly-dear nor Uncle Frank had ever
had. I think my mother would have understood it, and I know she could
have helped me. I tried to shut my eyes and pretend she could talk to
me, but it only left me a little choked and wanting her fearfully. I
think, perhaps, if she had been there, that I would have put my head
down on her shoulder and cried--although I never do cry--and that she
would have said, “My dear little girl! My baby!” which is strange, since
I cannot remember a word of hers and possibly she never did call me “My
dear little girl,” or “My baby.”
After a while Amy came rustling in to show me a new frock, and made a
good deal of noise and turned on all the lights, which helped me. And
then I got dressed for the evening, and we heard Uncle Archie come in.
“I am going to take Evelyn’s place with him,” Amy said piously as she
looked at her back in a cheval glass. “Evelyn has absorbed _all_ his
attention recently, but I’m going to cut her out. I think he’s a dear.”
I agreed with her.
“And I think it looks so sweet to see a father and daughter devotedly
attached,” said Amy. Again I agreed and loudly, for I thought Uncle
Archie would be pleased by her paying him attention, as he was by
Evelyn’s doing so, and I knew that Amy had to limelight herself before
she enjoyed doing anything kind. She had to occupy the centre of the
stage. She’s built that way. That is really the reason she confessed
about the violets, but that comes later.
There were guests at dinner, and Ito spilled soup, but otherwise it was
uneventful. And afterward Amy went out to a little party to which I had
not been asked, Evelyn went out with Mr. Apthorpe, aunt and her guests
played cards in the living-room and I went to mine again--to write
letters.
I thought writing to Uncle Frank would help me, but it didn’t. I knew
that if I had wanted advice, he probably would tell me how long a
grasshopper woos its mate before marriage, instead of talking to me
about mine. I love him, but his soul is steeped in bugs. The person I
wanted to ask help from was S. K., but doing so seemed odd under the
circumstances.
At nine I heard a noise, a funny noise. I got up and turned off my light
and waited. After a few moments I heard a scrape on the side of the
building and I turned on the electrics suddenly. At that, something slid
down against the outside wall. I heard it. Whatever it was had slipped
down the side of the house, scraping all the way. I again turned out the
lights and going to the window peered out. In the dim light of the court
seeing was difficult, but I did manage to make out a black mass on S.
K.’s balcony and then I heard a window slide up and this disappeared.
And, without picking up a scarf or a wrap, I hurried out, ran down the
balcony until I reached the fire-escapes, which are in front of the main
hall windows and are always well illuminated by them. I ran down these,
and it seemed like old times, for the going was not steady. Of course,
the rail was just a rod, the building was high and the steps steep. I
realized that New York had tamed me, for by the time I reached S. K.’s
window I was glad to stop.
Here I kicked a hole through the window-pane, knocked out the glass and
entered. S. K.’s man was evidently washing up things, for he came toward
me with a towel and a glass in one hand.
Panting a little, I told him I’d seen a man go in the office window. S.
K. has a sort of office in the room that corresponds to mine in his
apartment. Debson immediately put down the glass, told me to be quiet,
settled his shoulders, and began the hunt. He was brave, but I could see
that he was frightened, for he was white.
He whispered a direction for me to the library, and there I went. I
tiptoed, quite naturally, and S. K. was surprised to see me.
“Nat!” he gasped, and then he stopped, for I gestured for silence, just
as hard as I could. . . . To make a long story short, there was no one,
and I suppose both those men thought I was crazy, and S. K. had to get a
new glass for that window I kicked in. But he was nice about that.
“I did see someone come in here,” I said lamely.
“Did you hear anything, Debson?” S. K. asked. Debson shook his head.
“Not since Maggie left, at least, sir,” he qualified. “She went to the
balcony to shake a duster, I think, sir, although I am not sure.”
“That was probably it,” said S. K. He dismissed Debson and then said:
“Sit down, Nat.” And I did. Then he told me that he thought it was fine
and brave of me, and that he appreciated it, although my going without a
wrap worried him, and my Paul Revereing it down a fire-escape was a
dangerous practice for night--or any other time, for that matter. And I
promised him I wouldn’t do it again, unless there was a fire.
Then S. K. said: “Nat, can you stay a little while? I want to talk to
you.”
I said I could, and he asked me to come over and sit by him on a wide
davenport which stands before his big fireplace.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “that you know it, because I didn’t mean to tell
you.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” I answered, although it wasn’t; I was frightened
and unhappy all over again, and my heart was pumping fearfully.
“No,” he answered, “it is not all right. It is all wrong. You are
seventeen, and two or three good-time, free years are ahead of you--must
be ahead of you. I wouldn’t for the world disturb your peace, make you
think of anything that would turn you older. I love having you frankly
friendly, treating me as a chum. I am afraid I have spoiled things.”
I said he hadn’t, although he really had.
“But you were disturbed by the way I looked at you,” he went on; “what I
said. I didn’t mean to, Nat. It shot out. . . . I was weak at that
moment, but I promise I won’t be again. I assure you, you needn’t be
worried about it,” he ended stiffly. “I will never bother you with it.
In fact, now it would be as unsatisfactory to me as it would be to you.”
That was a very cool statement for S. K. I didn’t understand it, and it
hurt. And that and the feeling that perhaps our tight friendship was
gone made me ache. Then I looked at him and saw that he felt badly too.
He smiled as our eyes met, but not happily.
“I had planned this very differently,” he said. “We were going to be
better friends all the time, you know, and then one day, when you were
several years older and a little tired of a world that held only parties
and fluffy frocks, I would tell you that I had liked you ever since you
were a school-going youngster, and I liked to dream that you would find
that I had come to mean something in your heart and that----” And then
S. K. stopped abruptly and said: “Nat, I shouldn’t be allowed loose.”
I said: “Oh yes you should, S. K.!” And I found the greatest cure for a
heartache, and that is finding someone you love suffering from the same
thing. I immediately quite forgot mine and thought of S. K.’s. And I did
something then that sounds silly, but which wasn’t, and didn’t seem so
at the time. I moved closer to S. K. and rested my cheek against his
coat-sleeve. He fumbled for my hand, and when he found it I squeezed his
hard.
He said I was a “ripping little pal,” and his voice was not awfully
steady, and so I think he really thought so. And in that position, where
I did not have to meet his eyes, and yet where I was strengthened by his
touch--for it did strengthen me--I told him how I felt.
“S. K. dear,” I whispered, “I want some more baseball, and not to _have_
to think of love and such stuff.”
“I know, dear,” he answered.
And then I said: “This afternoon I felt as I did before I did my first
really high dive. Wasn’t that silly? For there’s nothing to be
frightened about.”
“Not a thing, dear,” he replied.
And then I told him about wanting my mother, and the garden, and how it
made me feel, and that I had felt that way when I began to realize that
afternoon how much I cared for him. And then he sat up suddenly, and I
did too.
“Care?” he echoed. “Oh, my dear child!”
I said: “Of course.” A clock somewhere struck ten, and I stood up.
“You’re only seventeen,” said S. K., and somewhat wistfully. I knew why
he said it; he was afraid my feeling for him was what Amy would call a
“case,” but it wasn’t. I knew that even then.
“True,” I agreed, and smiled up at him. He drew a long breath, started
to speak, stopped quickly, and went to hunt a mandarin coat for me to
wear going upstairs, since the halls were draughty. He helped me into
it, made me go over and look at myself in a long glass, called me Miss
Tsing, and then said the last word about what had happened--that is, the
last word about it for a good while.
“Pals again?” he asked.
I put out my hand, and we shook hard. “_Truly_,” I answered, and then we
went upward.
“Why couldn’t we drive down Fifth Avenue to-morrow afternoon?” he asked,
as we paused in our outer hall. “The excitement would be interesting to
look at, with everything at its height.”
I said I thought it would be fine.
“We might go in to Mary Elizabeth’s,” he went on. “I’ll telephone her to
beat up some extra waffle batter; that is, if you think you can go.” He
was teasing me, and it was just like old times. I didn’t feel at all as
I had before I went down. And it was silly of me to feel that way,
anyway; for he is S. K., and I should have known that he wouldn’t, or
couldn’t, hurt me. I went to sleep, slept well, and was untroubled by
noises.
When I got up the next morning Aunt Penelope said, “Thank Heaven you
look as if you felt well. I’ll need your help. This will be an awful
day; it always is. . . . There are so many things to do that I don’t
know _where_ to start. . . . Ito, was that the bell? Yes, it was--what
was it?” and then she stopped, and I looked up and gave a little cry,
for Uncle Frank stood in the doorway, peering over his glasses at me and
blinking.
“Ho hum----” he said. “Couldn’t keep away! Couldn’t keep away! Ho
hum----” I didn’t speak. I only hugged him.