It was Christmas Eve, and the night being in a reminiscent mood, was
chillier than usual. Adam piled up the logs till the whole room was
full of the warm glow. "Let us hang up our stockings," he said, with
an attempt at gayety.
Robin spread out her hands with a gesture of comic distress. "If only
I had a pair to hang!" she said. "But they gave boxes in England,
didn't they? I noticed that the rain the other day seemed to have come
through the shed roof, and I fear the contents of those packing cases
may be the worse for it, especially if they happen to be sugar. Do you
think it would do to make ourselves presents of them? If you do,
please give me the smaller box; I am sure it has hair-pins and needles
and darning-cotton in it."
Adam laughed. "We will give them to each other," he said, "and perhaps
you'll find some stockings in your box, if there is no box in your
stockings. We can dream of their contents all night, and--who
knows?--we may have a merry Christmas, after all."
Robin hardly knew the place next morning. Adam had risen early and
decked every available spot with kinnikinnick until the room fairly
glistened. "I wish I knew how to thank him," she said.
"Do you like it?" he said, as he came in. "I was afraid I should waken
you putting it up."
"Like it!" she answered, "Why, Adam, it is beautiful. You are just an
ideal Santa Claus."
When they had finished their breakfast they went out and looked at the
boxes.
"You must open yours first," she said; "it's so big I know it doesn't
contain anything nice, so we would better save mine till the last, and
then I can divide with you. What do you think it is? You shall have
three guesses."
"It might be a piano from its size," he ventured.
"No," she said decidedly. "It's not the right shape."
"Or perhaps it's a feather-bed; I don't know of anything I want less."
"It's too large for that; now guess, really."
"As a matter of fact, I expect it is mining machinery, which will be
about as much use as another chimney; but here goes to find out." He
brought his hatchet down vigorously between the boards at one end,
where a slight crevice promised some leeway.
"Oh, do be careful," she cried "even if there's nothing in it but
stove-polish and excelsior, the nails and the boards are absolute
treasures!"
He proceeded more gently. There was any amount of hoop-iron, which he
removed carefully, and the nails were drawn with as much caution as if
they had been teeth, as they well might be, considering there were no
more on earth to draw. When the top of the box was finally off, and a
quantity of papers removed, they gave a simultaneous cry of delight.
The box was full of books. They took them out, one at a time, with
little exclamations of pleasure, as an old friend came to light.
Sitting down on the ground they piled the books about them on the
papers, and opening favorites here and there read to each other and
themselves till long after noon. It was really a fine library, well
chosen, covering a wide range of subjects and including an
encyclopædia and an unusually fine edition of Shakespeare.
"Isn't it the most beautiful Christmas present you can imagine, Adam?"
she said. "If you are not suited with this it must be because, in the
old slang, you 'want the earth.'"
"But we haven't even opened your box," he said.
"I don't want to," she answered slowly. "Somehow I feel as if we would
better stop now and let well enough alone. Let us enjoy this awhile.
Perhaps the other box may spoil this one, or at least the day."
Adam laughed with good-natured tolerance. "How absurd!" he said. "Let
us see what there is. You know you said yours would be the nicest;
besides, if it contains sawdust and last year's almanacs, I shall have
to divide with you, and we may quarrel over the Shakespeare." He
opened the box while she stood watching him with a strange
unwillingness. It had been labeled, "This Side Up," and on the very
top there was a wooden case. He put it in Robin's arms, and she opened
it with trembling fingers. She replaced the broken strings, adjusted
the bridge, tucked the violin under her chin, tuned it, and
straightway escaped from every sorry care of earth.
Adam went on unpacking the box. It contained chiefly materials for
writing,--all the paraphernalia that the fastidious student requires.
There were many note-books, and at the bottom a large, handsomely
inlaid writing-desk. The name on the cover made him start and call
her. She put down the violin reluctantly, and then stooped and kissed
the vibrating wood with sudden feeling.
"It is a Steiner," she said. "You know the story of Steiner's violins,
do you not? No? Some day, perhaps, I may tell you. Can you open the
desk?"
He found the key and unlocked it. There were some letters, a few
papers and memoranda, and a journal. Adam turned to the last page
written, and read:--
"Have just completed arrangements for transportation of my
effects to the mountains. Close study of various phenomena
convinces me that I may have been in error, and that the
cataclysm is much closer at hand than I have thought. Within
a few months I shall burn this book, and confess that I
should be written down an ass, or turn to it to prove myself
a prophet. From the eyrie I have chosen I expect to be able
to write the story of the coming deluge. It will be of great
value to posterity to have a calm, scientific account, quite
free from any tinge of superstition or religion. I have
to-day written my Boston skeptics, forwarding copies of my
calculations, with references to former inundations, and
reasons for believing the Rocky Mountain region the safest
at this time. All geologists agree that--"
Here the journal terminated abruptly.
Robin hardly seemed to comprehend its full significance; or possibly
she was not surprised. She touched the book as gently as if it were
the napkin over the face of the dead.
"It is not to the wise that God has revealed himself," she said
softly. "Where is the hand that wrote this? You must finish it, Adam.
Here are the blank pages waiting for such a chapter as was never
written on earth."
But Adam only looked at the half-written page unseeingly. "It is all
true, then," he muttered to himself; "it is all true." He walked away
with a painful precision of motion, almost as if he were drunk; he
neither heard nor saw anything, yet was conscious of everything, and
while he thought he had been hopeless before, he knew now that he had
never given up hope, never until that moment ceased to expect a
rescue.
Robin took her violin and went indoors. Presently he heard its liquid
notes stealing out to him, like a power unknown and divine, brushing
its fingers across his heart, the harp of a thousand strings. She
played for a long time, and when she ceased, in some strange way he
felt that he was comforted.