Aunt Penelope was right--the day before Christmas was an awful day for
hurry. Everyone simply flew, and almost every six seconds Amy would come
in to tell of someone she’d forgotten to remember, Ito would appear to
say that someone was wanted by someone at the telephone, and Evelyn
would say: “Another pot of poinsettias and ferns. Where _shall_ I tell
Jane to put it?” There were lots of roses too, and they made the whole
place fragrant and beautiful.
In the hall there were millions of packages, unopened cards on a tray,
and messenger boys waiting for someone to sign their books. I loved it
all, and having Uncle Frank there made it perfect. He kept wandering
around saying “Ho hum” and hunting his spectacles, which had all
gradually climbed up on his forehead. And he gave the touch of home that
I had needed. It is curious, but I have found that you never realize how
very much you have missed anyone until you have them near again and
_don’t_ miss them.
Lunch was a hurried affair, but at this meal Aunt Penelope became
coherent long enough to suggest that I ask Mr. Kempwood up for the
celebration and opening of presents, which was to be at eight o’clock,
after an early dinner. I said I would love to, and I immediately
telephoned him about it, and asked if he would take Uncle Frank that
afternoon too. He said he would be charmed to do so, and at five we
started for a drive.
Going was great fun, for there was so much excitement. All the shop
windows were blazing, and people seemed happy. They always do at
Christmas-time; I think even mean spirits warm up and stop refrigerating
anything they touch after December twenty-third. But, unfortunately,
they begin being mean again about January third or fourth. I have always
had the feeling that perhaps the Christmas bills made their pessimism
return, for bills are depressing to even a constitutionally happy
individual.
But, to get on, we had tea, and I made mine a little heavy, because I
really hadn’t had much lunch, and altogether enjoyed myself. Uncle Frank
and S. K. got along beautifully and did most of the talking. Because I
was hungry, I occupied myself with eating and listening.
“Doubtless that young person will take you to the Jumel Mansion,” said
S. K., with a nod toward me and a smile for me.
Uncle Frank nodded.
“Audubon lived near here,” he said after he stood up and slipped out of
his coat. “Wonderful man, ho hum.”
“Yes,” agreed S. K., and then slowly smiled, and as if he couldn’t help
it. I do too, for Uncle Frank had a string of tinsel tied around his
collar and under his chin in a great bow.
I pulled it off and showed it to him, and he explained. He had been
helping Evelyn and Herbert trim the tree before we started out, and Amy
had given him that four-in-hand. Then he put his hand in his pocket and
brought out a bit of a broken glass ball, and then, very carefully, the
rest.
“Dearest,” I said, “you will cut yourself!” But he didn’t.
“Must have slipped it in there, thinking it was my handkerchief,” he
explained, “then hung my handkerchief on the tree!”
S. K. said it was easy to do those things, and then he smiled at me, and
I answered it, for I could see that he liked Uncle Frank and understood
him. After we finished eating, S. K. bought me a tiny Santa Claus about
an inch long and pinned it on my lapel, and I bought him one and pinned
it on his, and Uncle Frank stood looking on and blinking. Then we pushed
through the crowd and started on. And being out was gorgeous. I hated
going in, but of course we had to, for dinner was to be served very
promptly at seven.
The attitude of suspense in the apartment was thrilling. The curtains
that frame the living-room doors were drawn across them, and from behind
them someone was tacking something up. Greens trailed over pictures, and
holly bloomed in jardinières. Corners were lit by all sorts of flowers,
and the air smelled like a hothouse.
Aunt Penelope, looking very tired, but happy, met me and told me to make
haste about dressing, and I went toward my room. Here, I prepared to
bathe, first getting out all the prettiest things I owned and laying
them on the bed, for I did want to look very gay. I decided on my pink
dress, for it is the most beautiful one I have, and because I thought it
would look nice with a bouquet of tiny roses which I found waiting me on
my return. S. K. had sent them and they were dear.
Then I began to slip from my clothes, and as I unclasped my bracelet I
decided I had been silly about the whole affair and that I probably
imagined a good deal of it. For nothing but the noise against the wall
and the black form on S. K.’s balcony had occurred to disquiet me during
that last week. I opened the drawer to put the bracelet away while I
bathed, for I am careful of where I leave it, and when I opened its box
I found a note. This was written on brown butcher’s paper, and it was a
little hard to make out. It said:
“Natalie Page is ordered to leave her bracelet under a stone
which lies beneath the first bush to the right of the side
entrance of the Jumel Mansion. This must be done at five o’clock
on December 28 without fail. If she comes alone and tells no
one, no harm will come to her, but if she speaks of this
misfortune will follow quickly and in the worst form. All will
be well if instructions are absolutely obeyed, and if not, great
suffering and unhappiness are bound to occur. Be wise! Take
warning!”
After I read it I put it down. Then I read it again, as I sat on the
edge of my bed (my knees shook), and then I wondered how the person who
warned me had got it in my bracelet box without anyone’s knowing it? and
then--I stood up, clasped the bracelet on, because I thought my arm was
the safest place to leave it, and went to get my bath. I hurried because
aunt doesn’t like people’s being late. I decided I would forget the
affair for this one evening, if I could. And--begin to consider what I
would do the next day.
When I was dressed, and I will acknowledge I looked as nice as I can, I
hurried toward the hall, where I found S. K. (aunt had asked him to come
up to dinner), Amy, who was fox-trotting with Herbert, Evelyn, who was
sorting packages, and uncle, who was helping her take them to the
living-room.
I sat down on a long chest which came from Holland and is beautifully
carved, and S. K. sat down beside me. I told him I loved the baby roses,
and he said that I looked very nice. Then he said he wished he could
fox-trot with me, and I told him I liked sitting out with him better. I
am very sorry that he feels badly about being lame. I think that if
people who have deformities would realize that people like the
deformities because of _them_, they would get on better. Just the sight
of S. K.’s cane always makes me feel well, because it belongs to him.
Awkwardly, I told him this, and he said I had made him a Christmas
present of a new viewpoint which he liked and which would help him. Then
he looked at me carefully and said: “Small girl, what’s worrying you?”
I replied that nothing was; he called me a cheerful prevaricator, and
then Ito announced dinner, and we went in. It was positively the nicest
meal I ever ate in Uncle Archie’s dining-room, and the food had nothing
to do with its seeming so, but the little Santas which stood at each
place and the verses on the place-cards and the laughter and talk did.
Then we got up. Uncle Archie disappeared to light the candles on the
tree; we were signalled and filed in. It was a pretty tree, and opening
things was the greatest fun, and we had jokes among the gifts too.
Everyone gave Uncle Frank worsted spiders, papier-mâché bugs, or crêpe
paper butterflies. Evelyn had got a doll’s coat for Amy made of fur, and
they gave me a toy pistol and a trap. Uncle Archie’s joke was a bottle
of “Seven Sutherland Sisters” hair tonic and a switch, because he has
hardly any hair. There were lots of others too, and a great many
beautiful things. Quite everyone talked at once, paper rustled and grew
to great heaps on the floor, ribbons tangled around your ankles as you
stepped, and it was--just the way Christmas always is.
I had some lovely things given me. Aunt gave me a tiny string of corals
because I am dark and she thought they would look well on me, and Uncle
Archie a book that he had selected himself, which made me very happy.
Evelyn and Amy gave me charming things to wear--handkerchiefs, silk
underthings, and so on--and Uncle Frank a book on the development of
bills in the wild fowl of South Africa.
“Very interesting subject,” he said, peering at me over his glasses (one
pair was actually on his nose!). “Plate seventy-two--ho hum--let me see
it.” I passed it to him, and he went off in a corner near the victrola
and read it all the evening. Amy ran that all the time and with a loud
needle. I think it bothered Uncle Frank, although he didn’t seem to
realize it, but every once and again he would shake his head, as you do
when you get water in your ears while swimming.
S. K. grinned at this a good deal, and very tenderly at me. “You little
peach!” he said, and I loved it, although I had to protest that I did
enjoy having that book and that it would mean a lot to me. S. K. had
heard me thank uncle, and I had been extremely exuberant, because Amy
had drawn near, looked at it, and said, “Oh----” in a kind of an
“Is-_that_-all” manner, and I was afraid Uncle Frank might be hurt.
“Of course you liked it,” said S. K.; “you would, Nat, I swear----” But
he stopped, and I don’t know what he was going to swear. He only shook
his head, covered my hand with his, and squeezed it.
“It’s all right for a pal to tell you he likes you, isn’t it?” he asked.
I said it was and that he’d better, then aunt brought up a tiny package,
and it was marked from S. K., and I was surprised, for I had supposed
the tiny roses were my present from him. I explained this as I unwrapped
it, and when I did--well, I couldn’t speak; I just held it and looked
until tears made things waver, and then I began to do my champion
quick-swallowing trick.
Everyone stood around and asked to look at it, and I let them, but I
didn’t let go of it, and Aunt Penelope frankly wiped her eyes. “Just
like her, dear,” she said, “and your good friend ‘S. K.’ had it painted
from a tiny photograph I had. Come here, Frank, and see this miniature
of Nelly. . . . Mr. Kempwood had it made for Natalie. . . . It’s on
ivory and is simply exquisite. . . .” Then aunt turned to me and said:
“You haven’t thanked him, dear.” She did it very gently, for I think she
saw how greatly I cared for it.
“Yes, she has!” said S. K.
But I hadn’t, and I didn’t know how ever to do it. Something--I suppose
a very full heart--made me turn to S. K., slip my arm around his neck,
pull his face down, and kiss him. “I hope,” I said, “that you won’t
mind, for that is the only way I know how to show you. I _can’t_ say
it.” And then I asked aunt if that was all right, and she said it was,
and blew her nose and cried a little more, and Evelyn put her arm around
me, and I allowed Uncle Frank to take possession of the miniature, and
he stood holding that in one hand and my book on duck bills in the
other, and--blinking awfully hard.
“Come,” said Amy loudly, “this _won’t_ do; everyone is threatening
weeps! And--it’s Christmas Eve!” So I put the miniature on the middle of
a big table in its little case, and joined whatever went on. But I went
back to the table very often to look at it.
Amy was right about it; everyone had been upset, even S. K., which was
queer, for he didn’t know my mother. But when I looked at him, after I’d
thanked him, I saw that his eyes, too, were full of tears. And he didn’t
talk very much for the rest of the evening.
But he was so kind to me that I knew he knew I was grateful, even if I
couldn’t say so properly, and that my lack of words was not what was
making him quiet.