TERRY DECIDES
Christmas Eve, the large snowflakes drifted slowly down out of a
windless sky. The dusk was cheerful with the sound of sleigh bells
that announced the arrival or departure of last-hour shoppers.
Terry, at his desk in the great living room, surveyed the finished
trophy happily. It was an unusually black and lustrous pelt. He buried
his face in the silky mat a moment, then drew out paper and pen, and
wrote:
DEANE-DEAR:--
Some three years ago a mother fox suffered that this one
might be born: denied herself food that he might satisfy his
urgent little appetite as he grew bigger and stronger. When
he was big enough he left her and forgot her--she may have
suffered then, too.
He lived as foxes do. Things died that he might eat;
rabbits, pheasants, chickens, field-mice. He stalked all
things less strong and clever than himself. A cruel cycle,
but it is the law of the wild, something that you and I
cannot alter.
He enjoyed the summers best, with their longer days, fuller
larders, sweet wood odors, long naps in the cool shadows of
the thicket. But winter came, with its hardships and its
cold, a cold that little foxes feel the same as you and I.
But it was this cold that stimulated and silkened his fur,
made it this wondrous, prized thing.
Then I came, and he ceased to be what he was--a hunter of
smaller, weaker things--and became what you see here: a
finer thing--a token. Your kind heart need find no cruelty
in a merciful shot that spelled no pain and that by stopping
him assured that gentler, weaker things will live on and on.
_And he_ will be glad, too, as not _only_ is he forever
freed from cold and hunger and stark fear, but his is to be
a tender office.
Will you lay it at your bedside, that each night it may
cushion your last step at slumbertime, and each morning
soften the first contact between the vistas of dreamland and
the less yielding surfaces of life to which we wake.
So even the things of the wild are made to serve. To
serve--is that not the law of man?
My part in it? But little: none other than I will have
touched it till it reaches your dear hands. I shaped it,
wrought to preserve its beauties that it might give you
pleasure.
To give pleasure--is that not the law of love?
A very, very Merry Christmas!
DICK.
He sent his gift, at about nine o'clock. In gay mood, he wandered
about the great house: entered the kitchen where Fanny was singeing
the Christmas turkey: returned to the living room to throw a fresh log
in the wide fireplace. His mood was too expansive for indoors. He
donned short coat and thick cap, but as he passed out of the gate a
scared little lad, a foreigner, rushed up breathlessly and begged him
to come--trouble was brewing on the southside.
His questions elicited meager information. Excited, the lad relapsed
so often into his native tongue that Terry could make nothing of his
tale.
Hand in hand they hurried through the village, crossed the dark bridge
and approached a ramshackle house from which a babble of voices rose
in strident argument. The excited chorus abated at Terry's sharp knock
and the door was thrown open to disclose the belligerent figure of
Tony Ricorro, the leader of the Italian colony. Recognizing the
reefered figure that smiled up at him through the falling flakes,
Tony's dark scowl faded as he reached out his powerful hands and with
a joyous shout fairly lifted Terry into the house.
Terry laughed as the gaudily dressed occupants of the room crowded
around him, and greeted most of the score of swarthy men and women by
name. Tony masterfully stripped him of his overcoat and cap and placed
them in the kitchen from which emanated odors of strange things
cooking. The room was stifling with heat and with smells--beer,
garlic, tobacco, perfumes, kerosene.
Tony charged in from the kitchen with a bottle of beer but Terry shook
his head. Tony was hospitably insistent, "What! No beer?"
"No thanks, Tony."
"What's matt'? Bad stomach?"
"Yes," smiled Terry, "call it that."
He plunged into the business in hand. "Tony, what's the trouble here
to-night?"
Tony's first word of explanation was instantly submerged beneath a
chorus of voices; the excited crowd surged around Terry, as voluble of
gesture as of tongue. Pandemonium descended.
Terry finally silenced the din by standing on his chair and
pantomiming his desire to be heard. "Now, listen to me," he began,
after quiet was restored, "I'm going to ask you all to keep silent,
and to promise me that no one will speak except those I call by name."
They all promised--each one not once but in a series of lengthy
assurances which he had to raise his hand to cut short.
"Now, Tony, you first. What's the matter?"
Tony's face registered his utter disgust. "What'sa matt'? What'sa
matt'? Evra teeng 'sa matt'! Tommor' we christen our bab' and evra'
bod' want a name heem!" He glared at the restless circle which ringed
them.
The odd wistful twist at the corner of Terry's mouth disappeared for a
moment in his slow smile; this was so like these people, who bore big
troubles stoically and reacted powerfully to inconsequentials.
He called on several others. All were relatives of Tony or of his
wife; sisters, brothers, several "in-laws," Tony's father, two uncles.
Each had his or her name for the child, and sound reasons for the
choice.
"Tony, where is Felice?" he asked, noting that Tony's wife was not in
the crowded dining room.
Tony took him into a dimly lighted room, where his wife lay in bed;
the guiltless cause of all this dissension, obviously inured to
clamor, was asleep in her arm. She smiled up at Terry as he sat down
on the edge of the bed and took her hand.
Tony stood looking down at Felice and their first-born, his heart in
his eyes.
"Tony, what does Felice wish to name your son?" Terry asked suddenly.
Receiving no answer, he looked up at Tony and read in the agonized
contrition of Tony's dark face that she had not yet been consulted.
Tears glistened in the forgiving eyes Felice turned on Tony, and as he
flung himself down at the side of the bed and buried his face in her
pillow, Terry tiptoed out of the room and softly closed the door.
In a few minutes Tony flung the door open and strode into the room,
unashamed of the tears that shone on his rough cheeks.
"You all a go to hell-a with your a-names! Felice, she name-a our boy
and to-morrow we go Padre Jenneeng. She a name heem"--he paused with
true Latin sense of the value of suspense--"She a name heem--Reechar'
Terree--Ricorro!"
A moment of hesitation, of assimilation, and then a hubbub of
delighted acceptance and acclaim. Terry stayed but a few minutes,
realizing that much as they liked him, there would be more spontaneity
at the fiesta if there were none but their own people at the table.
He went in and thanked Felice gravely for the honor she had conferred
upon him, wished for them all a merry Christmas, and passed out amid a
medley of thanks and benedictions.
The snowfall had ceased. He crossed to the North Side and hastened up
Main Street, and though it lacked but an hour of midnight, he found
Judd's jewelry store still open. He went in and found young Judd about
to close up.
Judd, hollow eyed with the fatigue of the long day, studied his old
friend's beaming face: "Hello, Sir Galahad!" he said.
Terry eyed him scornfully: "Hello, Rut!" He drew himself up proudly.
"Behold in me a new dignity--I am now a god-father!"
Having in mind the parents' love for the elaborate, he gayly selected
an ornate silver cup for the infant.
"I'll engrave it for you after the holidays," Judd offered.
"Good old boy, Judd! The initials will be R--T--R."
He buttoned his coat and went to the door: Judd was musing over the
monogram: "Richard--Terry--what's the 'R' stand for, Dick?"
Terry grinned as he called back through the open door.
"Why,--Romance, of course!"
* * * * *
He tramped far out the north road through the new fallen snow, his
whole being glowing. The stars sparkled through the clear cold air in
myriad chorus of the message of hope that one in the East had heralded
to a sadder world on another Christmas eve. The snow-flung star beams
illuminated the peaceful countryside: there was no moon, no light
save the great glow of the heavens, no shadows under gaunt oaks or
huddled evergreens.
He was in harmony with the night. He followed the sleigh-rutted
highway for several miles, then swung back to town along a
woodcutter's trail that edged the lakeshore, winding through the new
growths of pine and balsam whose night-black branches were outlined by
the white fall.
He loved the open: there was no loneliness here.... Magic-wrought,
Deane's phantom figure kept apace, matched step with step along the
shore trail through the hushed woods, across the white sheen of open
spaces. Ever, when summoned thus, she came to share the hours and the
places that he loved best.
Love surged hot through his veins: love of friends, of living, of
youth, love of a woman ... probably his gift lay at her bedside now,
as she slept....
Unconsciously he slowed his pace and lifted his fine, pale face
upward: his low, clear baritone flooded the broken woods, carried far
out across the silent frozen lake, unechoed; it was vibrant with the
very spirit of yuletide--love of man and woman.
Love, to share again those winged scented days,
Those starry skies:
To see once more your joyous face,
Your tender eyes:
Just to know that years so fair might come again,
Awhile:
Oh! To thrill again to your dear voice--
Your smile!
It was long past midnight when he reached town, his mood chilling
indefinably at sight of its dark houses.
"You're a queer old town," he muttered. "You go to bed on this night
of nights--yes, and you batten your windows tight against this
glorious air--and all of the other glorious things."
Passing the suspicious village constable, he penetrated even his
callous heart with the most gladsome Christmas greeting he had heard
in many a year.
Home, he stirred the dying logs into flame and sank into a deep
cushioned chair drawn up before the glowing embers. The long day had
taken no toll of his lithe frame: sleepless, he sat long in pleasant
retrospection of the day, which had brought him opportunities to
contribute to the sum of peace on earth and to give pleasure to those
whom he loved.
His gift to Deane had approached even his exacting criterion of what
was fit for her. He envied the skin its rapturous reception, the
sparkle of bright eyes its beauty would invoke. It was characteristic
that his vision did not carry him to the daily contact of pink toes he
had assigned as its function. And it was characteristic of him, too,
that he did not think of the gifts which had come for him.
He would see the elders, he mused, and apologize for what must have
seemed to them a deliberate flaunting of their standards ... he had
been a little careless, lately ... he would remedy that ... it was a
good town--his failure to settle down had been a fault ... he would
find something to do, worth doing--and do it.... Deane's friendship
might ripen into something mellower, and then....
He reached into an inner pocket and withdrew a telegram, bending
nearer the fireplace to read it.
Washington, D. C.
Richard Terry, Crampville, Vermont.
Wire will you accept commission second lieutenant Philippine
Constabulary period immediate decision essential period if
you accept wire date you will be able to sail from San
Francisco
Wilson Insular Bureau
The glow from the fire which ruddied his face revealed the struggle of
the minute before decision came. With an expression curiously mingled
of renunciation and relief he tossed the paper among the glowing
embers. He rose as the sheet took fire and in the brief flash of light
which marked the consumption of the telegram he saw a familiar-looking
package on the library table in the shadow cast by his big chair. He
carried it to the now fainter glow of the hearth and saw that it was
addressed to him in Deane's trim hand. He opened it eagerly, to see
what form her remembrance had taken.
It was the fox-skin, returned. Vague, trouble-eyed, he read the
inclosed note.
DEAR DICK:--
I am sending you back your present. Father insists, because
you secured it on Sunday.
It hurts me, Dick, dreadfully, but you know how he feels
about such things.
It is the loveliest present I ever received--and it makes me
want to cry, sometimes, when I think of your doing such
things for me and thinking about me as you do. I _AM_
crying, now, Dick.
Though I can not have it, your present will always be
mine--I can never forget that you were good enough to wish
me to have it.
And will you accept my very best wishes that your Christmas
may be a very merry one.
DEANE.
He sank back into the chair again, sickened.... "That your Christmas
may be a very merry one."
* * * * *
Susan, first down in the morning, raised the curtains to the brilliant
Christmas morning, and turned to find him sitting in the chilled room
before the dead fire. Shocked by the haggard face, she hurried to him.
"Dick, are you sick?" As she sank by the side of his chair her hand
brushed against the rich fur which lay across his knees, and she
understood. She placed a pitying arm about his shoulders.
"I feared it, Dick--I feared it! You know how he is--her father. I'll
never speak to him again as long as--" She burst into tears.
Gently he withdrew her arm and took her hand in his.
"It's all right, Sue, it's--all--right."
Through her tears she read the pain that lurked in his eyes, the agony
that betrayed the patient smile. She sobbed convulsively, heartsick in
her helplessness to ease this young brother to whom she had been half
mother.
"That's what you always say--about everything: 'it will be all
right.' When you were a boy it was always the same--'it's all right.'"
He comforted her with quiet words till the storm abated. Then, "I'm
going to miss you, Sue-sister," he said.
She stood up, comprehension dawning in her wide eyes.
"You're going away!"
He nodded gravely.
Slowly, fearfully, she asked, "When?"
"To-night."
"Way off to--those--Philippines?"
He nodded, then unable to bear longer the hurt in her tremulous face,
he sought refuge in the ridiculous; he struck an attitude.
"I'm going in quest of adventure--riches--romance! I'm going to sail
the Spanish Main--seek golden doubloons--maids in distress--the
Fountain of Youth! I'm going to cross strange waters--travel
untraveled forest ... see unseen peoples ... know unknown hills...."
An odd light flickered in his eyes, as if he half believed what he
spoke. Fanny appeared at the kitchen door and with her cheery call of
"Merry Christmas," the light faded from his face as he turned in quick
response.
He turned to his sister in mock reproof: "Shure and it's ye that has
not yet wished me aven a dacent top o' the marnin', let alone the
gratin's of the sason! Shame on ye--ye heartless, thoughtless,
loveless--"
He broke off, laughing at her bewilderment: she never could keep apace
with his quick moods. Noting a tear still glistening he took her
cheeks between his hands and kissed the wet eyes, then asked her to
get word to Deane that he would be over some time during the evening.
Surprised and pleased that he should ask her to participate in his
affair with Deane, she hurried to the desk set in a deep bay window.
Ellis, sleepy-eyed, came down with his hearty greetings of the day,
and was surprised to find Sue bent earnestly over her writing.
"Say," he said, "can't you wait till after breakfast to thank
everybody for their presents? What's the rush? Say, Dick, did you hear
yet what Bruce gave to the lady of his heart? No? Well, he out-Bruced
Bruce this time! He gave her a patented, electric foot-warmer!"
Terry smiled his appreciation of Ellis' chuckling loyalty and escaped
upstairs to his room. Ellis wandered aimlessly over to the Christmas
table and noted the number of unopened packages marked with Terry's
name, then called up from the foot of the stairs:
"Come right down here, you ungrateful Non-christian, and see what
Santa Claus brought you! You got more than any of us and--"
He desisted as he suddenly became aware of his wife's frantic signals,
and reading the grievous trouble in her twitching face, he went to
her.
* * * * *
Susan, entering Terry's room at dusk, found him standing at the window
staring out into the evening, watching the shadows paint out one by
one the landmarks he had known from boyhood. Two large leather bags,
packed but still open, stood at the side of the bed. The two frames
which had held the pictures of his father and mother lay upon the
table, empty, beside letters addressed to Father Jennings, Doctor
Mather, and Tony Ricorro.
He did not hear her but continued at the window, his relaxed shoulders
giving an unwonted aspect of frailty to his body. She tiptoed out of
the room, crept back again to look through brimming eyes at the lonely
figure silhouetted against the darkening window, then stumbled into
her own room and closed the door.
* * * * *
Terry returned to Deane in the sitting room after bidding her father
and mother a courteously friendly farewell. Mr. Hunter, vaguely
disturbed, had followed his wife upstairs reluctantly; he was not
quite confident that his decision regarding the fox skin had been
justified, and would have been glad had Terry given him opportunity to
discuss it. In a moment his voice sounded down to them as he defended
himself against his irate spouse.
"I don't care what you say, Marthy, he's got to settle down and--"
Then their door closed.
For a long time Deane and Terry stood voiceless, each leaden with a
dull misery. The shock of his announcement had paled her and she
stared hopelessly at him out of wide blue eyes, her full red lips
aquiver at the hurt she read in the gray eyes and the queer wistful
mouth.
She broke the pulsing silence: "I never understand you, Dick,--quite.
Is it because of the fox skin?"
He shook his head uncertainly, barely conscious of her words in a last
rapt gaze at her, vaguely aware that this was the picture of her that
he would carry in his mind through the years to come. Rounded, long of
lines, apart from him she looked as tall as he, though there was a two
inch discrepancy; the wide eyes and generous, curved mouth indicated
her infinite capacity for affection. The shadow of a dimple flickered
high on her left cheek: the quickened beat of heart pulsed in the
white column of her throat.
"Is it because you hate the town, Dick?" she asked tremulously.
Again he shook his head slowly: "No, Deane, it is not that. The town
is all right--it is not that."
He paused, brooding, then went on: "Last night I did not
sleep--much--thinking about it. It's all my fault.... I do not fit. So
I am going away, going to try to find my own place, somehow."
Tortured by his patient smile, she followed him out into the dim hall,
half blinded by her burning tears. She sobbed unrestrainedly as he
slipped into his overcoat.
He came to her, his hand outstretched, his voice husky.
"Good-by, Deane-girl," he said.
Taking his hand she stepped close to him, misty-eyed, atremble.
"Good-by, Di--Oh, Dick! Don't go! Don't go way over to those awful
Islands!"
He steadied her with an arm about the shaking shoulders. She leaned
full against him and in the soft contact his pulses leaped. He fought
to resist the temptation to take advantage of her mood, knew that for
the moment she was his if he but pressed his claim.
Suddenly she looked up at him, glorious in her grief and surrender.
"Shall I--do you want me to--to--wait?"
For a few moments it seemed that he had not heard the low voice.
Then: "Don't wait, Deane-girl,--don't wait."
Then the arm was gone from about her shoulder.
"But I will, Dick, I will!" she sobbed, but as the words fell from her
lips she heard the door close and felt the gust of cold air that
chilled the hall.
* * * * *
She was still awake when the midnight accommodation whistled its
impending arrival from the north. She listened, tense, as the train
came to a stop in the town. A brief halt, then it sounded its
underway, the pistons accelerated their chugging beat and it passed
out of Crampville into the south.
She stood, still-breathed, dry-eyed, till the last grinding rumble
died out of the frosty night, then as a full realization of her loss
came home, she dropped to the side of the bed and buried her face in
the coverlid.
The floor where she knelt seemed cold and hard.