"I fairly dread to have Christmas come for one reason," had said Mrs.
Gray to her husband beforehand.
"Why? I thought you were counting the days!"
"So I am. But I hate to think of all the presents Sylvia's likely to load
us down with. Seems as if she'd done enough. I don't want to be beholden
to her for any more."
"Don't worry, Mary. Sylvia's got good sense, and delicate feelings as
well as an almighty generous little heart. She'll be the first to think
how we'd feel, herself."
Mr. Gray was right. When Christmas came there was a simple, inexpensive
trinket for each of the girls, and slightly costlier ones for the bride
and Mrs. Gray; little pocket calendars, all just alike, for the men; that
was all. Mr. Stevens had taken pleasure in bringing great baskets of
candy, adorned with elaborate bows of ribbon, and bunches of violets as
big as their heads, to all the "children," a fine plant to Mrs. Gray, and
books to Howard and his sons; and Austin's suit-case bulged with all
sorts of little treasures, which tumbled out from between his clothes in
the most unexpected places, as he unpacked it in the living-room, to the
great delight of them all.
"Here's a dress-length of gray silk from Venice for mother," he said,
tossing the shimmering bundle into her lap; "I want her to have it made
up to wear at Sally's wedding. And here's lace for Sadie and Sally
both--the bride and the bride-to-be. Nothing much for the rest of
you"--and out came strings of corals and beads, handkerchiefs and
photographs, silk stockings and filagree work, until the floor was
strewn with pretty things. After all the presents were distributed, it
was time to begin to get dinner, and to decorate the great table laid
for sixteen. There was a turkey, of course, and a huge chicken pie as
well, not to mention mince pies and squash pies and apple pies, a plum
pudding and vanilla ice-cream; angel cakes and fruit cakes and chocolate
cakes; coffee and cider and blackberry cordial; and after they had all
eaten until they could not hold another mouthful, and had "rested up" a
little, Sylvia played while they danced the Virginia Reel, Mr. Stevens
leading off with Mrs. Gray, and Mr. Gray with Sadie. And finally they
all gathered around the piano and sang the good old carols, until it was
time for the Elliotts to go home, and for Ruth to carry the sleepy
babies up to bed.
Since early fall it had been Sylvia's custom to sit with the family for a
time after the early supper was over, and the "dishes done up"; then she
went to her own parlor, lighted her open fire, and sat down by herself
to read or write letters. But she always left her door wide open, and it
was understood that any one who wished to come to her was welcome. Austin
was the last to start to bed on Christmas night, and seeing Sylvia still
at her desk as he passed her room, he stopped and asked:
"Is it too late, or are you too tired and busy to let me come in for a
few minutes?"
She glanced at the clock, smiling. "It isn't very late, I'm not a bit
tired, and in a minute I shan't be too busy; I've been working over some
stupid documents that I was bound to get through with to-night, but I'm
all done now. Throw that rubbish into the fire for me, will you?" she
continued, pointing to a pile of torn-up letters and printed matter, "and
draw up two chairs in front of the fire. I'll join you in a minute."
He obeyed, then stood watching her as she straightened out her silver
desk fixtures, gravely putting everything in perfect order before she
turned to him.
"What a beau cavalier you have become," she said, smiling again, as he
drew back to let her pass in front of him, and turned her chair to an
angle at which the fire could not scorch her face; "what's become of the
old Austin? I can't seem to find him at all!"
"Oh, I left him in the woods the night of the fire, I hope," returned
Austin, laughing, "while you were asleep. I'm sure neither you nor any
one else wants him back."
Sylvia settled herself comfortably, and smoothed out the folds of her
dull-black silk dress. "Wouldn't you like to smoke?" she asked; "it's
an awfully comfortable feeling--to watch a man smoking, in front of an
open fire!"
"I'd love to, if you're sure you don't mind. I don't want to make the air
in here heavy--for I suppose you've got to sleep here on this sofa,
having allowed yourself to be turned out of your good bed."
She laughed. "I'm so small that I can curl up and sleep on almost
anything, like a kitten," she said. "And it's fine to think of being able
to give my room to James and Sadie--they're so nice, and so happy
together. I can open the windows wide for a few minutes after you've
gone, and there won't be a trace of tobacco smoke left. If there were, I
shouldn't mind it. Now, what is it, Austin?"
"I want to talk. I haven't seen you a single minute alone. And though the
others are all interested, it isn't like telling things to a person who's
done all the wonderful things and seen all the wonderful places that I
just have. I've simply got to let loose on some one."
"Of course, you have. I thought that was it. Talk away, but not too
loud. We mustn't disturb the others, who are all trying to go to sleep by
this time. Tell me--which of the Italian cities did you like
best--Rome--or Florence--or Naples?"
"Will you think me awfully queer if I say none of them, but after Venice,
the little ones, like Assisi, Perugia, and Sienna. I'm so glad we took
the time for them. Oh, _Sylvia_--" And he was off. The little clock on
the mantel struck several times, unnoticed by either of them, and it was
after one, when, glancing inadvertently at it, Austin sprang to his feet,
apologizing for having kept her awake so long, and hastily bade her
good-night.
"May I come again some evening and talk more?" he asked, with his hand on
the door-handle, "or have I bored and tired you to death? You're a
wonderful listener."
"Come as often as you like--I've been learning things, too, that I want
to tell you about."
"For instance?"
"Oh, how to cook and sweep and sew--and how to be well and happy and at
peace," she added in a lower voice. Then, speaking lightly again, "We'll
try to keep up that French you've worked so hard at, together--I'm
dreadfully out of practice, myself--and read some of Browning's Italian
poems, if you would care to. Goodnight, and again, Merry Christmas."
He left her, almost in a daze of excitement and happiness; and mounted
the stairs, turning over everything that had been said and done during
the two hours since he entered her room. As he reached the top, a sudden
suspicion shot through him. He stopped short, almost breathlessly, then
stood for several moments as if uncertain what to do, the suspicion
gaining ground with every second; then suddenly, unable to bear the
suspense it had created, ran down the stairs again. Sylvia's door was
closed; he knocked.
"All right, just a minute," came the ready answer. A minute later the
door was thrown open, and Sylvia stood in it, wrapped in a white satin
dressing-gown edged with soft fur, her dark hair falling over her
shoulders, her neck and arms bare. She drew back, the quick red color
flooding her cheeks.
"_Austin!"_ she exclaimed; "I never thought of your coming back--I
supposed, of course, it was one of the girls. I can't--you mustn't--"
But Sylvia was too much mistress of herself and woman of the world to
remain embarrassed long in any situation. She recovered herself before
Austin did.
"What has happened?" she asked quickly; "is any one ill?"
"No--Sylvia--what were those papers you gave me to burn?"
"Waste--rubbish. Go to bed, Austin, and don't frighten me out of my wits
again by coming and asking me silly questions."
"What kind of waste paper? Please be a little more explicit."
"How did you happen to come back to ask me such a thing--what made you
think of it?"
"I don't know--I just did. Tell me instantly, please."
"Don't dictate to me--the last time you did you were sorry."
"Yes--and you were sorry that you didn't listen to me, weren't you?"
"No!" she cried, "I wasn't--not in the end. If I hadn't gone out to
ride that day, you never would have gone to Europe--and come back the
man you have!"
She turned away from him, her eyes full of tears, her voice shaking. He
was quite at a loss to understand her emotion, almost too excited himself
to notice it; but he could not help being conscious of the tensity of the
moment. He spoke more gently.
"Sylvia--don't think me presuming--I don't mean it that way; and you and
I mustn't quarrel again. But I believe I have a right to ask what that
document you gave me to burn up was. If you'll give me your word of honor
that I haven't--I can only beg your forgiveness for having intruded upon
you, and for my rudeness in speaking as I did."
She turned again slowly, and faced him. He wondered if it was the unshed
tears that made her eyes so soft.
"You have a right," she said, "and _I_ shouldn't have spoken as I did.
You were fair, and I wasn't, as usual. I'll tell you. And will you
promise me just to--to give this little slip of paper to your father--and
never refer to the matter again, or let him?"
"I promise."
"Well, then," she went on hurriedly, "about a month ago I bought the
mortgage on this farm. It seemed to me the only thing that stood in the
way of your prosperity now--it hung around your father's neck like a
millstone--just the thought that he couldn't feel that this wonderful
old place was wholly his, the last years of his life, and that he
couldn't leave it intact for you and Thomas and your children after you
when he died. So I made up my mind it should be destroyed to-day, as my
real Christmas present to you all. The transfer papers were all
properly made out and recorded--this little memorandum will show you
when and where. But Hiram Hutt's title to the property, and mine--and
all the correspondence about them--are in that fireplace. That burden
was too heavy for your father to carry--thank God, I've been the one to
help lift it!"
In the moment of electrified silence that followed, Sylvia
misinterpreted Austin's silence, just as he had failed to understand her
tears. She came nearer to him, holding out her hands.
"Please don't be angry," she whispered; "I'll never give any of you
anything again, if you don't want me to. I know you don't want--and you
don't need--charity; but you did need and want--some one to help just a
little--when things had been going badly with you for so long that it
seemed as if they never could go right again. You'd lost your grip
because there didn't seem to be anything to hang on to! It's meant new
courage and hope and _life_ to me to be able to stay here--I'd lost my
grip, too. I don't think I could have held on much longer--to my _reason_
even--if I hadn't had this respite. If I can accept all that from you,
can't you accept the clear title to a few acres from me? Austin--don't
stand there looking at me like that--tell me I haven't presumed too far."
"What made you think I was angry?" he said hoarsely. "Do men dare to be
angry with angels sent from Heaven?" He took the little slip of paper
which she still held in her extended hand. "I thought you had done
something like this--that was why you made me burn the papers myself--in
the name of my father--and of my children--God bless you." Without taking
his eyes off her face, he drew a tiny box from his pocket.
"Sylvia--would you take a present from _me_?"
"Why, yes. What--"
"It isn't really a present at all, of course, for it was bought with your
money, and perhaps you won't like it, for I've noticed you never wear any
jewelry. But I couldn't bear to come home without a single thing for
you--and this represents--what you've been to me."
As he spoke, he slipped into her hand a delicate chain of gold, on which
hung a tiny star; she turned it over two or three times without speaking,
and her eyes filled with tears again. Then she said:
"It _is_ a present, for this means you travelled third-class, and stayed
at cheap hotels, and went without your lunches--or you couldn't have
bought it. You had only enough money for the trip we originally planned,
without those six weeks in Italy. I'll wear _this_ piece of jewelry--and
it will represent what _you've_ been to _me_, in my mind. Will you put it
on yourself?"
She held it towards him, bending forward, her head down. It seemed to
Austin that her loveliness was like the fragrance of a flower.
Involuntarily, the hands which clasped the little chain around her white
throat, touching the warm, soft skin, fell to her shoulders, and drew
her closer.
The swift and terrible change that went over Sylvia's face sent a thrust
of horror through him. She shut her eyes, and shrank away, trembling all
over, her face grown ashy white. Instantly he realized that the gesture
must have replied to her some ghastly experience in the past; that
perhaps she had more than once been tricked into an embrace by a gift;
that a man's love had meant but one thing to her, and that she now
thought herself face to face with that thing again, from one whom she had
helped and trusted. For an instant the grief with which this realization
filled him, the fresh compassion for all she had suffered, the renewed
love for all her goodness, were too much for him. He tried to speak, to
take away his hands, to leave her. He seemed to be powerless. Then,
blessedly, the realization of what he should do came to him.
"Open your eyes, Sylvia," he commanded.
Too startled to disobey, she did so. He looked into them for a full
minute, smiling, and shook his head.
"You did not understand, dear lady," he said. And dropping on his knees
before her, he took her hands, laid them against his cheek for a minute,
touched them with his lips, and left her.