The Admiral was pleased with that, though he was still troubled by this
man's difference from the men of his own race. Yet if back of that
honest bluntness there was a heart which would enshrine her--well, that
was all he would ask for this dearest of girls.
He glanced at the clock, and spoke hurriedly: "I must be going, my dear;
it is long after five."
"Must you really go?" asked the mendacious Petronella.
An hour later she was alone. The visit had been a failure. She admitted
that, as she gazed with a sort of agonized dismay through the wide
window to where the sea was churned by the wildness of the northeast
gale. Snow had come with the wind, shutting out the view of the great
empty hotels on the Point, shutting out, too, the golden star of hope
which gleamed from the top of the lighthouse.
Petronella turned away from the blank scene with a little shudder. Thus
had Justin Hare shut her out of his life. He had talked of his mother in
Maine, of his hospital plans for the winter, but not a word had he said
of those moonlight nights when he had masterfully swayed her by the
force of his own passion, had wooed her, won her.
And now there was nothing that she could do. There was never anything
that a woman could do! And so she must bear it. Oh, if she could bear
it!
A little later, when a maid slipped in to light the candles, Petronella
said out of the shadows, "When Jenkins goes to the post-office, I have a
parcel for the mail."
"He's been, miss, and there won't be any train out to-night; the snow
has stopped the trains."
"Not any train!" At first the remark held little significance, but
finally the fact beat against her brain. If the one evening train could
not leave, then Justin Hare must stay in town, and he would have to stay
until Christmas morning!
Petronella went at once to the telephone, and called up the only hotel
which was open at that season. Presently she had Hare at the other end
of the line.
"You must come to my house to dinner," she said. "Jenkins has told me
about your train. Please don't dress--there'll be only Miss Danvers and
uncle; and you shall help me trim my little tree."
Although she told him not to dress, she changed her gown for one of dull
green velvet, built on the simple lines of the white wool she had worn
in the afternoon. The square neck was framed by a collar of Venetian
point, and there was a queer old pin of pearls.
The Admiral, arriving early, demanded: "My dear, what is this? I was
just sitting down to bread and milk and a handful of raisins, and now I
must dine in six courses, and drink coffee, which will keep me awake."
She laid her cheek against his arm. "Mr. Hare's train couldn't get out
of town on account of the snow."
"And he's coming?"
"Yes."
"But what of this afternoon, my dear?"
She slipped her hand into his, and they stood gazing into the fire. "It
was dreadful, uncle. I had a feeling that I had compelled him to
come--against his will."
"Yet you have asked him to come again to-night?"
She shivered a little, and her hand was cold. "Perhaps I shall regret
it--but oh, uncle, can't I have for this one evening the joy of his
presence? And if to-morrow my heart dies--"
"Nella, my dear child--"
The Admiral's own Petronella had never drawn in this way upon his
emotions. She had been gentle, perhaps a little cold. But then he had
always worshiped at her shrine. Perhaps a woman denied the lore she
yearns for learns the value of it. At any rate, here in his arms was the
dearest thing in his lonely life, sobbing as if her heart would break.
When Justin came, a half-hour later, he found them still in front of the
fire in the great hall, and as she rose to welcome him he saw that
Petronella had been sitting on a stool at her uncle's feet.
"When I was a little girl," she explained, when Hare had taken a chair
on the hearth and she had chosen another with, a high, carved back, in
which she sat with her silken ankles crossed and the tips of her slipper
toes resting on a leopard-skin which the Admiral had brought back from
India--"when I was a little girl we always spent Christmas Eve in this
house by the sea instead of in town. We were all here then--mother and
dad and dear Aunt Pet, and we hung our stockings at this very
fireplace--and now there is no one but Miss Danvers and me, and uncle,
who lives up aloft in his big house across the way, where he has a
lookout tower. I always feel like calling up to him when I go there,
'Oh, Anne, Sister Anne, do you see anybody coming?'"
She was talking nervously, with her cheeks as white as a lily, but with
her eyes shining. The Admiral glanced at Hare. The young man was
drinking in her beauty. But suddenly he frowned and turned away his
eyes.
"It was very good of you to ask me over," he said, formally.
That steadied Petronella. Her nervous self-consciousness fled, and she
was at once the gracious, impersonal hostess.
The Admiral glowed with pride of her. "She'll carry it off," he said to
himself; "it's in her blood."
"Dinner is served," announced Jenkins from the doorway, and then Miss
Danvers came down and greeted Justin, and they all went out together.
There was holly for a centerpiece, and four red candles in silver
holders. The table was of richly carved mahogany, and the Admiral,
following an old custom, served the soup from a silver tureen, upheld by
four fat cupids. From the wide arch which led into the great hall was
hung a bunch of mistletoe; beyond the arch, the roaring fire made a
background of gleaming, golden light.
To the young surgeon it seemed a fairy scene flaming with the color and
glow of a life which he had never known. He had lived so long surrounded
by the bare, blank walls of a hospital. Even Petronella's soft green
gown seemed made of some mystical stuff which had nothing in common with
the cool white or blue starchiness of the uniforms of nurses.
They talked of many things, covering with, their commonplaces the
tenseness of the situation. Then suddenly the conversation took a
significant turn.
"I love these stormy nights," Petronella had said, "with the snow
blowing, and the wind, and the house all warm and bright."
"Think of the poor sailors at sea," Hare had reminded her.
"Please--I don't want to think of them. We have done our best for them,
uncle and I. We have opened a reading-room down by the docks, so that
all who are ashore can have soup and coffee and sandwiches, and there's
a big stove, and newspapers and magazines."
"You dispense charity?"
"Why not?" she asked him, confidently. "We have plenty--why shouldn't we
give?"
"Because it takes away from their manhood to receive."
The Admiral spoke bluntly. "The men don't feel it that way. This
charity, as you call it, is a memorial to my wife. The grandfathers of
these boys used to see her light in the window of the old house on
stormy nights, and they knew that it was an invitation to good cheer.
More than one crew coming in half frozen were glad of the soup and
coffee which were sent down to them in cans with baskets of bread. And
this little coffee-room has been the outgrowth of just such hospitality.
There are too many of the men to have in my house. I simply entertain
them elsewhere, and I like to go and talk to them, and sometimes
Petronella goes."
"There's a picture of dear Aunt Pet hanging there," said Petronella,
"and you can't imagine how it softens the manners of the men. It is as
if her spirit brooded over the place. They have made it into a sort of
shrine, and they bring shells and queer carved things to put on the
shelf below it."
"In the city we are beginning to think that such methods weaken
self-respect."
"That's because," said the wise old Admiral, "in the city there isn't
any real democracy. You give your friend a cup of coffee and think
nothing of it, yet when I give a cup of coffee to a sailor whose
grandfather and mine fished together on the banks, you warn me that my
methods tend to pauperize. In the city the poor are never your
friends--in this little town no man would admit that he is less than I.
They like my coffee and they drink it."
Petronella, seeing her chance, took it. "I think people are horrid to
let money make a difference."
"You say that," said Hare, "because you have never had to accept
favors--you have, in other words, never been on the other side."
The Admiral, taking up cudgels for his niece, answered, "If she had been
on the other side, she would have taken life as she takes it now--like a
gentleman and a soldier," and he smiled at Petronella.
Hare had a baffled sense that the Admiral was right--that Petronella's
fineness and delicacy would never go down in defeat or despair. She
would hold her head high though the heavens fell. But could any man make
such demands upon her? For himself, he would not.
So he answered, doggedly, "We shall hope she need never be tested." And
Petronella's heart sank like lead.
But presently she began to talk about the little tree. "We have always
had it in uncle's lookout tower. That was another of dear Aunt Pet's
thoughts for the sailors. On clear nights they looked through their
glasses for the little colored lights, and on stormy nights they knew
that back of all the snow was the Christmas brightness."
"I never had a tree," said Justin. "When I was a kiddie we had pretty
hard times, and the best Christmas I remember was one when mother made
us boys put up a shelf for our books, and she started our collection
with 'Treasure Island' and 'Huckleberry Finn.'"
In the adjoining room, volumes reached from floor to ceiling, from end
to end. Petronella had a vision of this vivid young giant gloating over
his two books on a rude shelf. And all her life she had had the things
she wanted! Somehow the thought took the bitterness out of her attitude
toward him. How strong he must be to deny himself now the one great
thing that he craved when his life had held so little.
"How lovely to begin with just those two books," she said, softly, and
the radiance of her smile was dazzling.
When she showed him her presents she was still radiant. There was a
queer opera-bag of Chinese needlework, with handles of jade, a Damascus
bowl of pierced brass, a tea-caddy in quaint Dutch _repoussé_; there was
a silver-embroidered altar-cloth for a cushion, a bit of Copenhagen
faience, all the sophisticated artistry which is sent to those who have
no need for the commonplace. There were jewels, too: a bracelet of
topazes surrounded by brilliants, a pair of slipper buckles of
turquoises set in silver, a sapphire circlet for her little finger, a
pendant of seed pearls.
As she opened the parcels and displayed her riches Justin felt
bewildered. His gifts to his mother had included usually gloves and a
generous check; if he had ventured to choose anything for Petronella he
would not have dared go beyond a box of candy or a book; he had given
his nurses pocketbooks and handkerchiefs. And the men of Petronella's
world bestowed on her brass bowls and tea-caddies!
Miss Danvers vanished up-stairs. The Admiral, having admired, slipped
away to the library, encouraged by Petronella's whispered: "Oh, uncle
dear, leave us alone for just a little minute. I've found a way!"
Then Petronella, with that radiance still upon her, sat down on her
little stool in front of the fire, and looked at Justin on the other
side of the hearth.
"You haven't given me anything," she began, reproachfully.
"What could I give that would compare with these?" His hand swept toward
the exquisite display. "What could I give--"
"There's one thing," softly.
"What?"
"That copy of 'Treasure Island' that your mother gave you long ago."