ELMWOOD

For some time Laine had seen Claudia. Walking up and down the little

wharf at the end of the long bridge, railless and narrow, which ran

far out into the river, her hands in her muff, the collar of her fur

coat turned up, her face unprotected by the brown veil which tied

down securely the close-fitting hat, he had seen her a long way off,

and as she waved her hand in greeting he lifted his hat and waved it

in return.

A few minutes later he was shaking hands with her, with her uncle,

with his two fellow-passengers, with a number of other people, and

everybody was talking at once. Those on the wharf were calling out

to those on the boat, and those on the boat were making inquiries of,

or sending messages by those on the wharf, and not until Laine's

hands were again shaken well by Claudia's uncle as the Essex drew

off, did he understand just who was his host.

"A hearty welcome to Virginia, sir! A hearty welcome! We're happy

to have you in our home! Here, Claudia, you drive Mr. Laine in the

small sleigh, and I'll take the boys in the big one. Are you ready?

Look at that rascal Jim dancing a horn-pipe instead of filling that

wagon! We're glad to know you, sir, glad to have you!" And for the

third time Laine's hands were shaken well by the ruddy-faced,

white-haired old gentleman, with the twinkling, faded blue eyes, and

old-fashioned clothes; shaken until they hurt. He was no longer a

stranger. The touch of hands, the sound of voice, and a something

without name had made him one of them, and that of which he had once

been doubtful he knew was true.

Ahead of them his fellow-travelers, one a Keith cousin and the other

a friend, waved back and disappeared in a bend of the road; and as

Claudia took up the reins he turned toward her.

"Have you been waiting long? Are you sure you are not cold?" he

asked.

"Cold! On a day like this?" The color in her face was brilliant.

"We don't often have weather of this sort, and to stay indoors is

impossible. I love it! It's so Christmasy, if it isn't Southern.

Did you have a very dreadful trip down? It takes courage to make it."

"Courage!" He laughed and tucked the robe closer around her. "It

was the most interesting trip I ever took. This is a very beautiful

country."

"We think it is." She turned slightly and looked around her. The

road from the boat-landing wound gradually up the incline to the

ridge above the river; and as they reached its top the view of the

latter was unbroken, and broad and blue it stretched between its

snow-clad banks, serene and silent.

Laine's eyes swept the scene before him. The brilliant sunshine on

field and river and winding road for a moment was blinding. The

biting air stung his face, and life seemed suddenly a splendid,

joyous thing. The girl beside him was looking ahead, as if at

something to be seen there; and again he turned to her.

"You love it here?"

"Love it?" Her eyes were raised to his. "Everything in it, of it,

about it!" With her left hand she brushed away the strands of hair

the wind had blown across her eyes. "It is my home."

"A woman can make a home anywhere. A man--"

"No, she can't--that is, I couldn't. I'd smother in New York. It is

wonderful to go to. I love its stir and color and the splendid

things it is doing; but you can't listen to the wind in the trees, or

watch the stars come out, or let your other self have a chance." She

turned to him. "We're very slow and queer down here. Are you sure

you won't mind coming for Christmas?"

Laine leaned forward and straightened the robe, and out of his face

the color faded. He was only one of the several guests. "You are

very good to let me come," he said, quietly. "I have not thanked

you. I don't know how to thank you. Christmas by one's self--"

"Is unrighteous!" She nodded gaily and touched the horse with the

whip. "There's Elmwood! There's my home! Please like Virginia, Mr.

Vermont man!"

Before he could answer, the sleigh stopped at the entrance to the

road leading to the big house, and at the door of the little lodge by

the always-open gate stood a short, stout colored woman, hands on her

hips, and on her head a gaily colored kerchief.

Laine was introduced. Mammy Malaprop was known by reputation, but no

words could make of Malaprop a picture, and in deep delight Laine

watched her as she curtsied in a manner all her own.

"How you do, suh! How you do! A superfluous Christmas to you, suh!

I'm sorry you didn't git heah 'fore de war. Livin' nowadays ain't

more'n shucks from de corn of what it used to be. Is dey all heah

now, Miss Claudia?"

"I believe so. I am going to bring Mr. Laine down for some hoe-cakes

and buttermilk after Christmas, and you might tell him some of the

stories you used to tell us when we were children. He lives in New

York, and--"

"He do! I hope he got himself petrified on the way down, for they

tell me 'tis a den of promiscuity, and all the nations of the earth

done took their seats in it. I knowed a woman who lived there once.

She near 'bout work herself to death, and she say she couldn't have

stood it if it hadn't been for the hopes of a glorious immorality

what was awaitin' her when she died--" And Mammy Malaprop's hands

waved cheerfully until the sleigh was lost to sight.

From the public road skirting the Elmwood land the private one,

tree-bordered by century-old elms, leading to the terraced lawn,

wound for some three-quarters of a mile, and as they approached the

house Laine saw it was architecturally of a type unseen before. The

central building, broad, two stories high, with sloping roof and

deep-pillared portico, by itself would not have been unusual; but the

slightly semi-circular corridors connecting it with the two wings

gave it a grace and beauty seldom found in the straight lines of the

period in which it had been built, and the effect was impressive. At

the foot of the terrace a little colored boy was blowing ardently a

little trumpet, giving shrill greeting to the stranger guest, and as

they came closer he took off his hat and held it in his hand.

"All right, Gabriel." Claudia nodded to the boy. "Run on, now, and

tell Jeptha to come for the horse." She laughed in Laine's puzzled

eyes. "He's Mammy Malaprop's grandson. He thinks he's the real

Gabriel and it's his duty to blow. He sings like an angel, but can't

learn to spell his name. There they are!" She waved her hand gaily

to the group on the porch.

As he saw them Laine thought of Claudia's arrival in New York, and

his face flushed. The men came down the steps, and a moment later he

was presented to Claudia's mother, gracious, gentle, and of a dignity

fine and sweet; to her sister, home for the holidays with her husband

and children; to an engineer cousin from the West, and a girl from

Philadelphia; and once more his hands were shaken by Colonel Bushrod

Ball. It was a Christmas guest who was being welcomed, not Winthrop

Laine alone, and he wondered if he were indeed himself.

More than once he wondered before the day was done. Under the

leadership of the Colonel the men were shown their rooms, by way of

the dining-room, for, like Moses, Uncle Bushrod believed inward cheer

essential after outdoor chill; and, moreover, the apple toddy must be

tested. It was an old world he was in, but to him a very new one.

The happy stir of Christmas preparations, the coming and going of

friends and neighbors, the informality and absence of pretense, the

gay chatter and genuine interest, was warm and sweet; and as one who

watches a play he wondered at it, and something long thought dead

thrilled and throbbed and stirred within him.

In former days the house had doubtless been the scene of lavish

living, he thought from time to time, and he would have liked to

explore the many rooms with their polished floors and deep

window-seats, their carved paneling and marble mantels; and when, in

the afternoon, he found himself alone for a few minutes in the vast

hall, he paced off its sixty feet of length and its twenty of width

to know their number, studied the winding staircase with its white

pilasters and mahogany rails, scanned hurriedly the portraits in

their tarnished frames, some with the signatures of Sir Joshua

Reynolds, some with Stuart, and others of lesser fame, which hung

above the wainscoted walls; and as he looked he did not wonder at

Claudia's love for her home.

"You care for these things, too, do you?"

The voice behind made him turn quickly. The girl from Philadelphia

nodded to him and hugged her crossed arms closely to her bosom. "I

don't. That is, not in weather like this, I don't. Ancestral halls

sound well, but, unheated, they're horrors. I'm frozen, and the

doors are open, of course. Have you been in the big parlors? Some

pretty things are in them, but faded and rather shabby now. Why

don't you go in the library? There's a roaring fire in there, and a

chair you can sit on. Every other one in the house has something in

it."

Laine followed the girl into the library, and as she held her hands

to the blaze she motioned him to sit down. "I don't believe anybody

in the world is as crazy about Christmas as Claudia. She gets the

whole county on the jump, and to-morrow night everything in it will

be here. Giving is all right, but Claudia takes it too far. The

house needs painting, and a furnace would make it a different place,

but she will do nothing until she has the money in the bank to pay

for it; and yet she will give everybody within miles a Christmas

present. When she took hold of things the place was dreadfully

mortgaged, and she's paid off every dollar; but, for chance,

stock-markets aren't in it with farming. Isn't that a pretty old

desk? I could sell lots of this furniture for them and get big money

for it, but I don't dare say so. They never talk money here. My

room hasn't a piece of carpet on it, and one of those old Joshua

Reynoldses in the hall would get so many things the house needs. I'm

a Philistine, I guess, as well as a Philadelphian, and I like new

things: plenty of bath-rooms and electric lights and steam heat. I

don't blame them for not selling the old silver and china or the

dining-room furniture, though it needs doing over pretty badly; but

some of those old periwigged pictures I'd sell in a minute. Plenty

of people would pay well for ancestors, and it's about all they've

got down here. Hello, Claudia; we were just talking about you!"

Claudia put down the armful of red roses she was carrying and began

to fill a tall vase with them. "Did you say anything that wasn't

nice?" She bit a piece of stem off. "If you did, it wasn't so." She

turned to Laine. "You ought to see mother. She rarely has such

flowers as you brought down--You have made her so happy. It was very

good of you."

"Good!" The girl from Philadelphia went out of the room. "If

only--" In his eyes no longer was restraint, and Claudia turned her

head as if listening to something outside.

"I believe mother is calling me," she said. "Would you mind telling

her, Mr. Laine, I am coming right away?"