"Oh, do you like it?" she asked. "Jimmie hates to see me in dark things.
He says that when I wear this he can see his heroine."
"Is she like you?"
"Not a bit. She is rather untamed. Jimmie does her very well. She
positively gallops through the play."
"And do you never gallop?"
She shook her head. "It's a good thing that I don't. If I did, Jimmie
would never write. He says that I keep his nose to the grindstone. It
isn't that, but I love him too much to let him squander his talent. If
he had no talent, I should love him without it. But, having it, I must
hold him up to it."
She was very sure of herself, very sure of the rightness of her attitude
toward Jimmie. "I know how great he is," she said, as we went down, "and
other people don't. So I've got to prove it."
* * * * *
It was at dinner that I first noticed a change in Jimmie. It was a
change which was hard to define. Yet I missed something in him--the
enthusiasm, the buoyancy, the almost breathless radiance with which he
had rekindled our dying fires. Yet he looked young enough and happy
enough as he sat at the table in his velvet studio coat, with his crisp,
burnt-gold hair catching the light of the candles. He and his wife were
a handsome pair. His manner to her was perfect. There could be no
question of his adoration.
After dinner we had the tree. It was a young pine set up at one end of
the long dining-room, and lighted in the old fashion by red wax candles.
There were presents on it for all of us. Jimmie gave me an adorably
illustrated _Mother Goose_.
"You are the only other child here, Miss Standish," he said, as he
handed it to me. "I saw this in a book-shop, and couldn't resist it."
We looked over the pictures together. They were enchanting. All the
bells of old London rang out for a wistful Whittington in a ragged
jacket; Bo-Peep in panniers and pink ribbons wailed for her historic
sheep; Mother Hubbard, quaint in a mammoth cap, pursued her fruitless
search for bones. There was, too, an entrancing Boy Blue who wound his
horn, a sturdy darling with his legs planted far apart and distended
rosy cheeks.
"That picture is worth the price of the whole book," said Jimmie, and
hung over it. Then suddenly he straightened up. "There should be
children in this old house."
I knew then what I had missed from the tree. Elise had a great many
gifts--exquisite trifles sent to her by sophisticated friends--a
wine-jug of seventeenth-century Venetian glass, a bag of Chinese brocade
with handles of carved ivory, a pair of ancient silver buckles, a box of
rare lacquer filled with Oriental sweets, a jade pendant, a crystal ball
on a bronze base--all of them lovely, all to be exclaimed over; but the
things I wanted were drums and horns and candy canes, and tarletan bags,
and pop-corn chains, and things that had to be wound up, and things that
whistled, and things that squawked, and things that sparkled. And Jimmie
wanted these things, but Elise didn't. She was perfectly content with
her elegant trifles.
It was late when we went out finally to the studio. There was snow
everywhere, but it was a clear night with a moon above the pines. A
great log burned in the fireplace, a shaded lamp threw a circle of gold
on shining mahogany. It seemed to me that Jimmie's writing quarters were
even more attractive in December than in June.
Yet, looking back, I can see that to Jimmie the little house was a sort
of prison. He loved men and women, contact with his own kind. He had
even liked our dingy old office and our dreary, dried-up selves. And
here, day after day, he sat alone--as an artist must sit if he is to
achieve--_es bildet ein Talent sich in der Stille_.
We sat around the fire in deep leather chairs, all except Elise, who had
a cushion on the floor at Jimmie's feet.
He read with complete absorption, and when he finished he looked at me.
"What do you think of it?"