possible question of that. From the pink geranium in Mrs. Kelcey's
hair just behind her ear, to the high polish of her husband's boots,
the Kelceys were brave and fine. Mrs. Murdison, though soberly gowned
in slate-coloured worsted, wore a white muslin kerchief which gave her
the air of a plump and comfortable Mother Superior. Mr. Murdison, the
only gentleman present who possessed a "suit of blacks," as he himself
was accustomed to call it, came in looking like the Scottish preacher
whose grandson he was, and lent much dignity to the occasion merely by
his presence.
There was a predominance of exquisitely ironed white "shirtwaists" among
the costumes of the women, but as these were helped out by much elaborate
and dressy neckwear of lace and ribbon the general effect was
unquestionably festive. The men were variously attired as to clothing,
but every collar was immaculate--most of them had a dazzlingly brilliant
finish--and the neckties worn were so varied as to give the eye relief
from possible monotony.
In spite of Brown's genial greetings to his guests--he had a special
welcoming word for every one--just at first there was a bit of stiffness.
The men showed the customary tendency to support one another through the
social ordeal by standing in a solid group in a corner of the room, hands
behind their backs and an air of great gravity upon their faces, while
they spoke, if at all, in low and solemn tones. The women, on the other
hand, as ever, did their best to show themselves entirely at ease by
addressing, one after another, remarks to their host calculated to
prevent his having any doubt as to the sort of weather now prevailing
outside or likely to prevail during the days to come.
Brown, having anticipated this period of gloom before the feast should
actually begin, had arranged with Mrs. Kelcey that as soon as the last
guest had arrived the company should sit down at the table. Mrs. Kelcey,
true to her word, gave him the nod without the delay of more than a
minute or two, and promptly the company seated itself. Brown, drawing
back her chair for Mrs. Murdison, who as his most impressive guest he had
placed upon his right, noticed, without seeming to notice, that the
little watchmaker did the same for his wife, and with an effect of habit.
Speaking of wives, the company being left to seat themselves according to
their own notion (Brown having considered the question of dinner cards
and discarded it), every man sat down beside his own wife, in some
instances being surreptitiously jerked into position by a careful
conjugal hand.
Brown, looking about his table with a smile, bent his head. Every eye
fell and every ear listened to the words which followed: "_Our Father,
we are here in company with Thee and in warm friendliness with one
another. We are thankful on this day that we are busy men and women, able
to do our work and to be useful in Thy world. Teach us to find in life
the joy of living it to please Thee. Amen_."
It was Mrs. Kelcey who broke the hush which followed, by starting from
her place to run out into the kitchen and bring on the dinner. From this
moment the peculiar fitness of Donald Brown for the duties of host showed
itself. That his dinner should be stiff and solemn was not in his
intention, if the informality of his own conduct could prevent it. He
therefore jumped up from his own place to follow Mrs. Kelcey to the
kitchen and bring in the great platter for her, bearing the turkey in a
garland of celery leaves, a miracle of luscious-looking brownness.
He had considered the feasibility of serving at least one preliminary
course, not so much because it seemed to him impossible to plunge at
once into the heartiness of fowl and stuffing as because he wanted to
prolong the hour of dining for his guests. But Mrs. Kelcey had promptly
vetoed this notion.
"Man, dear," she had said earnestly, "an' why would ye be shpoiling the
appetoites of yer company with soup? Tis soup they know only too
well--but the turrkey! 'Tis manny a long year since Mrs. Murdison and
Andy have tasted the loike of it, an' the same with the ithers. If
'twas chickun, I'll warrant now--we're all glad to make a bit of
chickun go furrther with other things--but a grreat turrkey like this
wan--Give it to thim sthrait, Misther Brown, an' that's my advoice. Ye
can take it or lave it."
Brown had accepted this wise counsel, of course, and now saw the full
wisdom of it as he beheld the looks of veiled but hungry--one might
almost have said starving--anticipation which fell upon the big turkey as
it was borne to its place at the end of the table. "I don't know how an
old bachelor is going to make out to carve before such a company," Brown
said gaily, brandishing his carving knife. (This was a bit of
play-making, for he was a famous carver, having been something of an
epicure in days but one year past, and accustomed to demand and receive
careful service in his bachelor establishment.) "I wonder if I can manage
it. Mr. Benson"--he addressed the old watchmaker--"what do you say to
taking my place and helping me out? I'd hate to ruin the bird."
"I say I'll not do it, Mr. Brown," responded old Benson. "Watch-making is
my business, and it's watch I'll make now of your carving."
This brave attempt at a witticism brought a fine response, Brown's hearty
laugh leading off. And now the ice began to be broken into smaller and
smaller bits. Brown's gay spirits, his mirth-provoking observations as he
carved the tender fowl, the way in which he appreciated the efforts of
his guests to do their part, led them all to forget themselves in greater
or less degree. When it came to the actual attacking of the piled-up
plates before them, it is true that there ensued considerable significant
silence, but it was the silence of approval and enjoyment, not that of
failure to be entertained.
If it occurred to Brown to wish himself at some more exalted
festival-making with more congenial associates on this Thanksgiving Day,
no one would have dreamed it. To all appearances he was with his best
friends, and if he did not partake of the toothsome meal before him with
such avidity as they, it would have needed a more discerning person to
have recognized it than any one who sat at his board--at his boards, it
might be put, remembering Tim Lukens's achievement with the sawhorses.
Tim, himself, was present, sober and subdued but happy. How it came about
that he had not drunk a drop for several weeks, none but Brown and Mrs.
Lukens could have told. Tim's glance was often upon Brown's face--the
look in his eyes, now and then, reminded Brown of that in the eyes of his
dog Bim when he had earned his master's approval, shy but adoring.
In spite of all there was to eat in that mighty first course of turkey
and stuffing and mashed white potatoes and sirup-browned sweet potatoes,
and every possible accompaniment of gravy and vegetable and relish, not
to mention such coffee as none of them had ever drunk, it all disappeared
with astonishing rapidity down the throats of the guests. How, indeed,
can one mince and play with his food when he and his wife have not in
their lives tasted so many good things all at once, and when both have
been prepared for the feast by many weeks and months--and years--of
living upon boiled potatoes with a bit of salt pork, or even upon bread
and molasses, when times were hard? Brown's neighbours were not of the
very poorest, by any means, but all were thriftily accustomed to
self-denial, and there is no flavour to any dainty like that of having
seldom tasted but of having longed for it all one's life.
When the second course had come and gone--it was composed entirely of
pies, but of such pies!--Brown surprised Mrs. Kelcey by going to a
cupboard and bringing out a final treat unsuspected by her. A great
basket of fruit, oranges and bananas and grapes, flanked by a big bowl of
nuts cunningly set with clusters of raisins, made them all exclaim.
Happily, they had reached the exclaiming stage, no longer afraid of their
host or of one another.
"It's reckless with his money he is, Patsy," whispered Mrs. Kelcey to
her husband. "It'll take a power of it to pay for all o' thim, an'
fruit so dear."
"Whist, he knows what he's about," returned Patrick Kelcey, uninclined to
remonstrate with any man for giving him that unaccustomed and delightful
feeling that his vest buttons must be surreptitiously unloosed or he
would burst them off. He helped himself lavishly as he spoke.
By and by, when all had regretfully declined so much as another
raisin--"Now we must have some music!" cried Brown. "Tim, did you bring
your fiddle?"
Tim Lukens nodded. Carpentry was Tim's vocation, but fiddling was his
avocation and dear delight. He was presently fiddling away, while the
company sat about, completely relaxed in spirit, and Mrs. Kelcey and Mrs.
Murdison hustled the table clear of dishes, refusing sternly Brown's
eager offer to help them. And now came the best time of all. Tim played
all the old tunes, and when he struck into "Kate Kearney" the company was
electrified to hear a rich and vibrant voice take up the words of the
song and sing them through to the end.
Sitting carelessly on his pine-bottomed chair--it was one from the
Kelcey house--one hand in his pocket, his heavy hair tossed back and his
lips smiling, Brown's splendid tones rang through the room and held his
listeners enthralled. Never had they heard singing like that. They could
have no possible notion of the quality of the voice to which they
listened, but they enjoyed its music so thoroughly that the moment the
song was ended they were eager for another. So he sang them another and
still another, while the warm blood rolled in under his dark skin,
enriching his thin cheek till it looked no longer thin. He was giving
himself up to the task of pleasing his friends, with thorough enjoyment
of his own. After "Kate Kearney" he sang "Annie Laurie," making Andy
Murdison's warm Scottish heart under his stiff Scottish manner beat
throbbingly in sympathy. So the hours passed, it never occurring to the
company to go home as long as it was having the time of its life, until
the sudden discovery of a row of boys' faces peering eagerly in from the
darkness of the late afternoon reminded Mrs. Kelcey that she had a
family at home.
"The saints be prraised, 'tis afther darrk," said she, rising
precipitately, "and the bhoys promised the lavin's of the table!"
They all followed her, suddenly grown shy again as they murmured their
thanks. Their host's cheery parting words eased them over this ordeal,
however, and each one left with the comfortable feeling that he had said
the right thing.
Two minutes later the house was again invaded, this time by those who
felt entirely at home there. With a whoop of joy the boys of the
neighbourhood took possession, and as they did so a curious thing
happened: Donald Brown himself became a boy among them.
But this was not the only curious thing which happened.
The sixteen guests at the dinner, in spite of the generous supplies, had
not left many "lavin's." The great turkey had little remaining now upon
his bones and nothing at all inside of him; the potatoes and vegetables
had been entirely consumed; of the pies there remained a solitary wedge.
But Brown, smiling broadly, attended to these difficulties. He had the
air of a commissary who knew of unlimited supplies.
"Tom," he commanded, "pick three boys and go down cellar with them, and
into the little storeroom at the right."
Tom, grinning, made a lightning-like selection of assistants, and dove
down the steep and narrow stairway from the kitchen.
"Burke and Jimpsey, explore the cupboard opening from my bedroom, and
bring out whatever you find there that looks good to eat."
Before the words were out of his mouth Burke and Jimpsey had disappeared.
"Tub and Jiggers, look under my bed, and haul out a long box you'll
find there."
The two fell over each other to do his bidding. In less time than it
takes to tell it, the emissaries were returning with their spoils. A
whole cooked turkey, only slightly inferior in size to the original one,
appeared to the accompaniment of howls of joy. It was cold, to be sure,
but what boy would mind that--and to the critical palate is not cold
turkey even more delicious than hot? There were piles and piles of
sandwiches with the most delectable filling, there were pies and more
pies, and there were fruit and cake and candy. Brown had not feared lest
these later guests suspect him of too long a purse; he had ordered
without stint, and his orders had been filled by a distant firm of
caterers and sent by express.
Now there were girls in the neighbourhood as well as boys. By a
mysterious invitation they had been summoned to the home of one of their
number, a small cripple, and were there at the very moment rejoicing in
all manner of festivities. Nobody knew how it had happened, nor where the
good things came from, except the little girl who was their hostess, and
wild horses could not have dragged the wonderful secret from her. Brown
himself, making merry with his boys, remembered the girls with a
comfortable feeling at his heart that for once, at least, a goodly number
of people, young and old, were happier than they had ever been before in
their lives on Thanksgiving Day.
As for his own immediate entertaining the revel now began--no lesser word
describes it. If, before the departure of his dinner guests, Brown had
experienced a slight feeling of fatigue, it disappeared with the pleasure
of seeing his present company disport themselves. They were not in the
least afraid of him--how should they be, when he had spent months in the
winning of their confidence and affection by every clever wile known to
the genuine boy lover? That they respected him was plainly shown by the
fact that, ill trained at home as most of them had been, with him they
never overstepped certain bounds. At the lifting of a finger he could
command their attention, though the moment before their boisterousness
had known no limits.
If the earlier guests had been surprisingly rapid in their consumption of
the dinner, these later ones were startlingly so. Like grain before a
flock of hungry birds, like ice beneath a bonfire, the viands, lavishly
provided though they had been, melted away in almost the twinkling of an
eye. And it was precisely as the last enormous mouthful of cherry pie
vanished down Jiggers Quigg's happy throat that the unexpected happened.
IX
BROWN'S UNBIDDEN GUESTS
The front door, opening directly into the living-room, with its long
table, and its flashing fire lighting the eager faces round it--nobody
had thought of or bothered to make any other light in that room--was
flung open by a fur-gloved hand, and a large figure appeared in the
doorway. A ruddy face looked in upon the scene. This face possessed a
pair of keen gray eyes, a distinguished nose, and a determined mouth
beneath a close-trimmed moustache with flecks of gray in it.
Brown sprang up. "Doctor Brainard!" he cried joyfully, and came forward
with outstretched hand.
The unexpected guest advanced. Behind him appeared others. To the dazed
and gazing boys these people might have come from Greenland, so enveloped
were they in defences against the cold. Motor coats of rich fur, furry
hats and caps, floating silken veils, muffs, rugs--wherever they came
from they could not have minded coming, sharp as was the November air
outside, as the boys, who had been hanging about the house since the
first approach of twilight, well knew.
Dr. Bruce Brainard was followed by two men and three women. In the
flickering firelight Brown was obliged to come close to each, as in
smiling silence they approached him, before he could make sure whom the
furs and scarfs enshrouded. "Sue!" he exclaimed, discovering his
sister. "And Hugh Breckenridge! This is great, brother-in-law! Mrs.
Brainard--can it be Mrs. Brainard? How kind of you! You must have known
how I've been wanting to see you. Webb Atchison, is that you, looming
behind there? How are you, old fellow? But--this lady in the veil--"
He bent closer as he took the gloved hand outstretched, but all he could
make out in the traitorous light was a pair of dark eyes, and lips that
must be laughing behind the heavy silken veil.
"Do I know her?" he asked, looking round upon the others, who were
watching him.
"You have met her," Hugh Breckenridge assured him.
"Several times," added Webb Atchison.
"But not of late," said Brown, "or else I--"
"Once to have seen her," declared Doctor Brainard, "means never to
forget."
"You put me in a hard place," Brown objected, trying in vain to
distinguish outlines through the veil. "She isn't going to lift it?
Must I guess?"
"Of course you must guess, Don," cried his sister.
"How can he?" laughed Breckenridge. "He knows so many fair beings of
about that height, and furs and veils are disguising things. Without
them, of course, though she wore a mask, he would have no difficulty."
"Will you speak one word?" asked Brown of the unknown.
She shook her head.
"Then--forgive me, but I'm puzzled," said he, laying light but determined
hold upon the veil. "I can't imagine at all who--would honour me--"
He gently lifted the veil. The others saw his expression change as the
drawn folds revealed a face whose dark-eyed beauty was vividly enhanced
by the fire-glow upon cheeks which the November frost had stung into a
wonder colour. There was a general laugh of appreciation.
"Never would have thought it, eh?" chuckled Webb Atchison, a fine and
prosperous figure of a bachelor past his first youth but not yet arrived
at middle age, and with the look of one who does what he pleases with
other people. "Well, it wasn't her plan, I assure you. She was
horror-stricken when she learned where we were bound."
"Donald Brown in his bachelor apartment in the Worthington was one
person, this queer fellow living in a roadside cabin is quite
another," suggested Dr. Bruce Brainard quizzically. "Still, I'll
warrant Miss Forrest will confess to a bit of curiosity, when she
found she was in for it."
"Were you curious?" asked Donald Brown. He was still looking steadily
down into the lifted face of the person before him. Into his own face
had come a look as of one who has been taken unawares at a vulnerable
point, but who has instantly rallied his forces to stand out the attack.
"They were all curious," answered Miss Forrest, and the sound of her
voice was different from that of the other voices. If, as Doctor Brainard
had jestingly but truthfully said, one who had seen her would not forget
her, a similar statement might with equal truth be made of the hearing of
her voice. The one word Brown had asked from her lips could certainly
have revealed her to him--and would have done so while he had a memory.
"To see if we know how to keep Thanksgiving here?" Brown inquired of the
group, though his eyes came back again to Helena Forrest's face.
"To see if you had anything to be thankful for," cried Sue Breckenridge.
"Well, Don, now that we are here, are you going to invite us to stay?
Or--is your present company--"
Brown wheeled and went over to the boys, who were staring, open-eyed and
motionless.
"You'll help me out, fellows, won't you?" he said in a low tone--and they
felt him still one of them, for the tone was the old one of comradeship.
"You see, I have nowhere to ask my guests to sit down. If each of you
will take what you can at a time, and carry everything out into the
kitchen, and then take out the table, I'll be much obliged. You are
coming again soon, you know; but for to-night, you see, I must call it
off. Tom, you'll see to taking off the tablecloth, will you? Fold it up
any sort of way, but don't let the crumbs get out. All right?"
There was a tumultuous pushing back of chairs. In short order it was
all accomplished. The guests stood at one side, looking at the boys as
curiously as the boys had looked at them, while the dishes disappeared
as fast as many hands could carry them. The big bowl of geraniums was
removed by Brown himself, who set it carefully upon his reading-table
at the side of the room, and the tablecloth was painstakingly
manipulated by Tom Kelcey so that hardly a crumb fell upon the floor.
There was one crash of crockery in the kitchen, followed by a smothered
howl from the boy who in his agitation had done the deed, but this was
the only accident.
Brown turned again to his guests.
"Now," said he, "will you make yourselves at home? It's a cold night
out. Let's have off the furs and sit by the fire. Mrs. Brainard, allow
me to help you out of that coat. This is the happiest sort of a
surprise for me!"
X
BROWN'S ANSWERS TO QUESTIONS
Donald Brown stood at the end of his hearth, his elbow resting on the
chimney-piece, his eyes, narrowed a little between the lashes, intently
regarding these latest guests of his. He was in the shadow, they were in
the strong light of the fire. A great lump of cannel coal, recently laid
upon the red-hot embers and half-burned logs of the afternoon fire, had
just broken apart with a great hissing and crackling of the pitchy
richness of its inner formation, and the resultant glow of rosy light
which enveloped the figures before the hearth, against the duller
background of the room, otherwise unillumined, made them stand out like
figures in a cleverly lighted tableau.
They were much more interesting to Brown, however, than anything he had
ever seen in the set and artificial radiance of the calcium light. He
knew well every face there, and yet, after his year's exile and in
contrast to the faces at which he had been lately looking, they formed a
more engrossing study than any he had known for many months.
In the centre of the circle, in Brown's old red-cushioned rocker and most
comfortable chair, sat Mrs. Brainard, the exquisitely sophisticated wife
of the distinguished specialist close by. Her graceful head, with its
slight and becoming touches of gray at the temples, rested like a fine
cameo against the warm hue of the cushion. Her brilliant eyes reflected
the dancing firelight; her shapely hands, jewelled like Mrs.
Breckenridge's, but after an even more rare and perfectly chosen fashion,
lay in her silken lap. As his glance fell upon these hands some whimsical
thought brought to Brown's mind Mrs. Kelcey's red, work-roughened ones.
He wondered if by any chance the two hands would ever meet, and whether
Mrs. Brainard's would shrink from the contact, or meet it as that of a
sister, "under the skin."
Near her his sister Sue's dainty elegance of person showed like a flower
against the big figure of Doctor Brainard, who sat at her elbow. Brainard
himself, with his splendid head and erect carriage, was always an
imposing personage; he had never seemed more so than now, with the face
of Patrick Kelcey, Andrew Murdison, and James Benson, the little
watchmaker, in the background of Brown's mind with which to contrast it.
Beyond Mrs. Brainard lounged Hugh Breckenridge--as nearly as one could be
said to lounge--in a plain, cane-seated chair without arms.
At one side of the group was Webb Atchison, the rich bachelor of the
party where all were possessed of wealth in plenty. Next Atchison sat
Miss Helena Forrest, the one member of the company who had not known
where she was going until well upon her way there. Upon her the glance of
the man standing by the chimney-piece fell least often, yet there was no
person present of whom he was so unremittingly conscious. It may be said
that from the moment that he had lifted her veil in his puzzled search
for her identity, he had been conscious of little else.