Christmas Day came and went with a host of bitter-sweet memories for
Claire Robson. Not that she could look back on any holiday season with
unalloyed happiness, but time had drawn the sting from the misfortune of
the old days. Through the mist of the years outlines softened, and she
was more prone to measure the results by the slight harvest that their
efforts had brought. For instance, they had never been too poor to deny
themselves the luxury of a tree. And a tree to Mrs. Robson meant none of
the scant, indifferent affairs that most of the neighbors found
acceptable strung with a few strands of dingy popcorn and pasteboard
ornaments. No, the Robson tree was always an opulent work of art,
freighted with bursting cornucopias and heavy glass balls and yards of
quivering tinsel. The money for all this dazzling beauty usually came a
fortnight or so before the eventful day in the shape of a ten-dollar
bill tucked away in the folds of Gertrude Sinclair's annual letter to
Mrs. Robson. As Claire had grown older she had grown also impatient of
the memory of her mother squandering what should have gone for thick
shoes and warm plaid dresses upon the ephemeral joys of a Christmas
tree. But now she suddenly understood, and she felt glad for a mother
courageous enough to lay hold upon the beautiful symbols of life at the
expense of all that was hideously practical. Shoes wore out and plaid
dresses finally found their way to the rag-bag, but the glories of the
spirit burned forever in the splendor of all this truant magnificence,
and the years stretched back in a glittering procession of light-ladened
fir-trees.
Then some time between Christmas and New-Year came the Christmas
pantomime at the Tivoli, with its bewildering array of scantily clad
fairies and dashing Amazons and languishing princes in pale-blue tights;
to say nothing of the Queen Charlottes consumed between acts through
faintly yellow straws. How Claire would mark off each day on the
calendar which brought her nearer to this triumph! And what a hurry and
bustle always ensued to get dinner over and be fully dressed and down to
the box-office before even the doors were opened, so that they could get
first choice of the unreserved seats which sold at twenty-five cents.
Then there would ensue the long, tedious wait in the dimly lighted
cavern of the playhouse, smelling with a curious fascination of stale
cigars and staler beer, and the thrill that the appearance of the
orchestra produced, followed by the arrival of all the important
personages fortunate enough to afford fifty-cent seats, which gave them
the security to put off their appearance until the curtain was almost
ready to rise. And when the curtain really did rise upon the inevitable
spectacle of villagers dancing upon the village green! And Mrs. Robson
carefully picked out in the chorus the stout sister of a former servant
who had worked for her mother! And the wicked old witch swept from the
wings on the traditional broomstick! From that moment until the final
transformation scene, when scintillating sea-shells yielded up one by
one their dazzling burdens of female loveliness and a rather Hebraic
Cupid descended from an invisible wire to wish everybody a happy
New-Year in words appropriately rhymed, there was no halt to the wonders
disclosed. With what sharp and exquisite reluctance did Claire remain
glued to her seat, refusing to believe that it was all over! Even at
this late date Claire had only to close her eyes to revive the delights
of these rather covert excursions into the realm of fancy--covert,
because a Tivoli pantomime had not precisely the sanction of such a
respectable organization as the Second Presbyterian Church. Mrs. Robson,
while not definitely encouraging Claire to wilful dishonesty, always
managed to warn her daughter by saying:
"I wouldn't tell any one about going to the Tivoli, Claire, if I were
you ... unless, of course, they should ask about it."
Claire, in mortal terror lest any indiscretion on her part would put a
stop to this annual lapse into such delightful immoralities, held her
peace in spite of her desire to spread abroad the beauties which she had
beheld. She had a feeling that all the participants in the pantomime
must of necessity be rather wicked and abandoned creatures, and half the
pleasure she had felt in viewing them arose from a secret admiration at
the courage which permitted human beings to be so perfectly and
desperately sinful. Although she was almost persuaded that perhaps it
did not take quite such bravado to be wicked in blue-spangled gauze and
satin slippers as it did to lapse from the straight and narrow path in a
gingham dress and resoled boots.
The only thrill that the present Christmas Day produced came in the
shape of a pot of flaming poinsettias bearing the card of Ned Stillman.
These were the first flowers that Claire ever remembered having
received. It pleased her also to realize that Stillman had been delicate
to the point of this thoroughly unpractical gift, especially as he had
every reason to assume that something more substantial would have been
acceptable. She was confident that by this time he had heard through
Mrs. Condor of her mother's illness and her loss of position. Claire was
still puzzled at Mrs. Condor's visit. For all that lady's skill at
subterfuge, there were implied evasions in her manner which Claire
sensed instinctively. And then Claire was not yet inured to the novelty
of being in demand. To have been forced by circumstance upon Mrs. Condor
as an accompanist was one thing; to be desired by her in a moment of
cold calculation was quite another; and there had been more uncertainty
than caution in Claire's plea for time in which to consider the offer.
But as the days flew by it became more and more apparent to Claire that
she was in no position to indulge in idle speculation. She had long
since given up the hope of fulfilling the demands of a regular office
position, even if one had been open to her. Mrs. Finnegan's enthusiasm
to be neighborly and helpful was more a matter of theory than practice,
and it did not take Claire many days to decide that she had no right to
impose upon a good nature which was made up largely of ignorance of a
sick-room's demands. Claire's final check from Flint was dwindling with
alarming rapidity; indeed, she was facing the first of the year with the
realization that there would be barely enough to pay the next month's
rent, let alone to settle the current bills. She had no idea what Mrs.
Condor intended paying, but she fancied that it must be little enough.
Surely Mrs. Condor did not receive any great sum for her singing and
there must be any number of gratuitous performances. She decided quite
suddenly, the day after Christmas, to take Mrs. Condor at her word, and
she was a bit disturbed at both the lady's reply and the manner of it.
"Oh," Mrs. Condor had drawled rather disagreeably, "I thought you'd
given up the idea. I spoke to somebody else only this morning. But, of
course, I'm not certain about how it will turn out. I'll keep you in
mind and if the other falls through.... By the way, how is your mother?
I keep asking Ned Stillman every day what the news is, but he never
knows anything. All men are alike ... unless they've got some special
interest. Sometimes I marvel that he looks me up so regularly, but then
I've known him ever since.... But there, I'll be telling more than I
should! Do come and see me. I'm always in in the morning.... Yes, I can
imagine you do have a lot to do. I'm so sorry you didn't call up
sooner. But one never can tell. Good-by.... I hope you'll have a happy
New Year."
Claire hung up the receiver. Well, she had lost an opportunity to turn
an easy dollar or two and she had no one to thank but herself. Why had
she delayed in accepting Mrs. Condor's offer?
Fortunately the unexpected arrival of Nellie Whitehead cut short any
further repinings. Claire was frankly glad to see her and at once she
thought, "She has come to show me her new coat."
But Nellie Whitehead was incased in a wrap that showed every evidence of
a good six months' wear.
"My new coat?" the lady echoed, in answer to Claire's question. "There
ain't no such animal. Somebody else copped it. I didn't shove it back
far enough the last time I took a look at it, I guess. Oh, well, I
should worry! I can get along very well without it...."
When Nellie Whitehead rose to leave, dusk had fallen and Claire was
fumbling for matches to light the hall gas, when she felt her friend's
hand close over hers. There followed the cold pressure of several coins
against Claire's palm and the voice of her visitor sounding a bit
tremulous in the dusk.
"You'll need some extra money, Robson, or I miss my guess."
Claire fell back with a gesture of protest. "Why, Nellie Whitehead, how
could you? It's your coat money, too! Well, _I_ never!"
And with that they both burst into tears.... When Claire recovered
herself she found that Nellie Whitehead had escaped. She lit the gas
and opened her palm. Four twenty-dollar gold pieces glistened in the
light.
* * * * *
Next morning Claire received a telephone message from Mrs. Condor. The
position of accompanist was hers at forty dollars a month if she desired
it.
"It won't be hard," Mrs. Condor had finished, reassuringly. "Some weeks
I've something on nearly every night. And then again there won't be
anything doing for days.... How can I afford to pay so much? Well, my
dear, that is a secret. But don't worry, you'll earn it...."
And toward the close of the week there came another surprise for Claire
in the shape of a letter from Stillman, which ran:
MY DEAR MISS ROBSON.--I am going to take a little flier at the bean
market.
That was my father's business and I know a few things about it--at
least to the extent of recognizing the commodity when the sack is
opened. Do you fancy you could arrange to give me a few hours a week
at the typewriter? If so, we can get together and arrange terms.
Cordially,
EDWARD STILLMAN.
"At last," flashed through Claire's mind, "he's going in for something
worth while."
This time she decided promptly. Over the telephone she made an
appointment with Stillman, in his apartments, for beginning work on the
second Wednesday in January.