Down-town the streets were crowded with the package-laden people,
bending heads and shoulders to the bitter wind, which swept a blinding,
sleet-like snow horizontally against them. At corners it struck so
tumultuous a blow upon the chest of the pedestrians that for a moment it
would halt them, and you could hear them gasping half-smothered “AHS”
like bathers in a heavy surf. Yet there was a gayety in this eager gale;
the crowds pressed anxiously, yet happily, up and down the street in
their generous search for things to give away. It was not the rich who
struggled through the storm to-night; these were people who carried
their own bundles home. You saw them: toilers and savers, tired mothers
and fathers, worn with the grinding thrift of all the year, but now for
this one night careless of how hard-saved the money, reckless of
everything but the joy of giving it to bring the children joy on the one
great to-morrow. So they bent their heads to the freezing wind, their
arms laden with daring bundles and their hearts uplifted with the
tremulous happiness of giving more than they could afford. Meanwhile,
Mr. Simeon Peck, honest man, had chosen this season to work harm if he
might to the gentlest of his fellow-men.
I found Mr. Peck waiting for me at his house. There were four other men
with him, one of whom I recognized as Grist, a squat young man with
slippery-looking black hair and a lambrequin mustache. They were donning
their coats and hats in the hall when I arrived.
“From the 'Despatch,' hay?” Mr. Peck gave me greeting, as he wound a
knit comforter about his neck. “That's good. We'd most give you up. This
here's Mr. Grist, and Mr. Henry P. Cullop, and Mr. Gus Schulmeyer--three
men that feel the same way about Dave Beasley that I do. That other
young feller,” he waved a mittened hand to the fourth man--“he's from
the 'Journal.' Likely you're acquainted.”
The young man from the 'Journal' was unknown to me; moreover, I was far
from overjoyed at his presence.
“I've got you newspaper men here,” continued Mr. Peck, “because I'm
goin' to show you somep'n' about Dave Beasley that'll open a good many
folk's eyes when it's in print.”
“Well, what is it?” I asked, rather sharply.
“Jest hold your horses a little bit,” he retorted. “Grist and me knows,
and so do Mr. Cullop and Mr. Schulmeyer. And I'm goin' to take them and
you two reporters to LOOK at it. All ready? Then come on.”
He threw open the door, stooped to the gust that took him by the throat,
and led the way out into the storm.
“What IS he up to?” I gasped to the “Journal” man as we followed in a
straggling line.
“I don't know any more than you do,” he returned. “He thinks he's got
something that'll queer Beasley. Peck's an old fool, but it's just
possible he's got hold of something. Nearly everybody has ONE thing, at
least, that they don't want found out. It may be a good story. Lord,
what a night!”
I pushed ahead to the leader's side. “See here, Mr. Peck--” I began, but
he cut me off.
“You listen to ME, young man! I'm givin' you some news for your paper,
and I'm gittin' at it my own way, but I'll git AT it, don't you worry!
I'm goin' to let some folks around here know what kind of a feller Dave
Beasley really is; yes, and I'm goin' to show George Dowden he can't
laugh at ME!”
“You're going to show Mr. Dowden?” I said. “You mean you're going to
take him on this expedition, too?”
“TAKE him!” Mr. Peck emitted an acrid bark of laughter. “I guess HE'S at
Beasley's, all right.”
“No, he isn't; he's at home--at Mrs. Apperthwaite's--playing cards.”
“What!”
“I happen to know that he'll be there all evening.”
Mr. Peck smote his palms together. “Grist!” he called, over his
shoulder, and his colleague struggled forward. “Listen to this: even
Dowden ain't at Beasley's. Ain't the Lord workin' fer us to-night!”
“Why don't you take Dowden with you,” I urged, “if there's anything you
want to show him?”
“By George, I WILL!” shouted Peck. “I've got him where the hair's short
NOW!”
“That's right,” said Grist.
“Gentlemen”--Peck turned to the others--“when we git to Mrs.
Apperthwaite's, jest stop outside along the fence a minute. I recken
we'll pick up a recruit.”
Shivering, we took up our way again in single file, stumbling through
drifts that had deepened incredibly within the hour. The wind was
straight against us, and so stingingly sharp and so laden with the
driving snow that when we reached Mrs. Apperthwaite's gate (which we
approached from the north, not passing Beasley's) my eyes were so full
of smarting tears I could see only blurred planes of light dancing
vaguely in the darkness, instead of brightly lit windows.
“Now,” said Peck, panting and turning his back to the wind; “the rest of
you gentlemen wait out here. You two newspaper men, you come with me.”
He opened the gate and went in, the “Journal” reporter and I
following--all three of us wiping our half-blinded eyes. When we reached
the shelter of the front porch, I took the key from my pocket and opened
the door.
“I live here,” I explained to Mr. Peck.
“All right,” he said. “Jest step in and tell George Dowden that Sim
Peck's out here and wants to see him at the door a minute. Be quick.”
I went into the library, and there sat Dowden contemplatively playing
bridge with two of the elderly ladies and Miss Apperthwaite. The
last-mentioned person quite took my breath away.
In honor of the Christmas Eve (I supposed) she wore an evening dress of
black lace, and the only word for what she looked has suffered such
misuse that one hesitates over it: yet that is what she was--regal--and
no less! There was a sort of splendor about her. It detracted nothing
from this that her expression was a little sad: something not uncommon
with her lately; a certain melancholy, faint but detectable, like breath
on a mirror. I had attributed it to Jean Valjean, though perhaps
to-night it might have been due merely to bridge.
“What is it?” asked Dowden, when, after an apology for disturbing the
game, I had drawn him out in the hall.
I motioned toward the front door. “Simeon Peck. He thinks he's got
something on Mr. Beasley. He's waiting to see you.”
Dowden uttered a sharp, half-coherent exclamation and stepped quickly to
the door. “Peck!” he said, as he jerked it open.
“Oh, I'm here!” declared that gentleman, stepping into view. “I've come
around to let you know that you couldn't laugh like a horse at ME no
more, George Dowden! So YOU weren't invited, either.”
“Invited?” said Dowden, “Where?”
“Over to the BALL your friend is givin'.”
“What friend?”
“Dave Beasley. So you ain't quite good enough to dance with his
high-society friends!”
“What are you talking about?” Dowden demanded, impatiently.
“I reckon you won't be quite so strong fer Beasley,” responded Peck,
with a vindictive little giggle, “when you find he can use you in his
BUSINESS, but when it comes to ENTERTAININ'--oh no, you ain't quite the
boy!”
“I'd appreciate your explaining,” said Dowden. “It's kind of cold
standing here.”
Peck laughed shrilly. “Then I reckon you better git your hat and coat
and come along. Can't do US no harm, and might be an eye-opener fer YOU.
Grist and Gus Schulmeyer and Hank Cullop's waitin' out yonder at the
gate. We be'n havin' kind of a consultation at my house over somep'n'
Grist seen at Beasley's a little earlier in the evening.”
“What did Grist see?”
“HACKS! Hacks drivin' up to Beasley's house--a whole lot of 'em. Grist
was down the street a piece, and it was pretty dark, but he could see
the lamps and hear the doors slam as the people got out. Besides, the
whole place is lit up from cellar to attic. Grist come on to my house
and told me about it, and I begun usin' the telephone; called up all the
men that COUNT in the party--found most of 'em at home, too. I ast 'em
if they was invited to this ball to-night; and not a one of 'em was.
THEY'RE only in politics; they ain't high SOCIETY enough to be ast to
Mr. Beasley's dancin'-parties! But I WOULD 'a' thought he'd let YOU
in--ANYWAYS fer the second table!” Mr. Peck shrilled out his acrid and
exultant laugh again. “I got these fellers from the newspapers, and all
I want is to git this here ball in print to-morrow, and see what the
boys that do the work at the primaries have to say about it--and what
their WIVES'll say about the man that's too high-toned to have 'em in
his house. I'll bet Beasley thought he was goin' to keep these doin's
quiet; afraid the farmers might not believe he's jest the plain man he
sets up to be--afraid that folks like you that ain't invited might turn
against him. I'LL fool him! We're goin' to see what there is to see, and
I'm goin' to have these boys from the newspapers write a full account of
it. If you want to come along, I expect it'll do you a power o' good.”
“I'll go,” said Dowden, quickly. He got his coat and hat from a table in
the hall, and we rejoined the huddled and shivering group at the gate.
“Got my recruit, gents!” shrilled Peck, slapping Dowden boisterously on
the shoulders. “I reckon he'll git a change of heart to-night!”
And now, sheltering my eyes from the stinging wind, I saw what I had
been too blind to see as we approached Mrs. Apperthwaite's. Beasley's
house WAS illuminated; every window, up stairs and down, was aglow with
rosy light. That was luminously evident, although the shades were
lowered.
“Look at that!” Peck turned to Dowden, giggling triumphantly. “Wha'd I
tell you! How do you feel about it NOW?”
“But where are the hacks?” asked Dowden, gravely.
“Folks all come,” answered Mr. Peck, with complete assurance. “Won't be
no more hacks till they begin to go home.”
We plunged ahead as far as the corner of Beasley's fence, where Peck
stopped us again, and we drew together, slapping our hands and stamping
our feet. Peck was delighted--a thoroughly happy man; his sour giggle of
exultation had become continuous, and the same jovial break was audible
in Grist's voice as he said to the “Journal” reporter and me:
“Go ahead, boys. Git your story. We'll wait here fer you.”
The “Journal” reporter started toward the gate; he had gone, perhaps,
twenty feet when Simeon Peck whistled in sharp warning. The reporter
stopped short in his tracks.
Beasley's front door was thrown open, and there stood Beasley himself in
evening dress, bowing and smiling, but not at us, for he did not see us.
The bright hall behind him was beautiful with evergreen streamers and
wreaths, and great flowering plants in jars. A strain of dance-music
wandered out to us as the door opened, but there was nobody except David
Beasley in sight, which certainly seemed peculiar--for a ball!
“Rest of 'em inside, dancin',” explained Mr. Peck, crouching behind the
picket-fence. “I'll bet the house is more'n half full o' low-necked
wimmin!”
“Sh!” said Grist. “Listen.”
Beasley had begun to speak, and his voice, loud and clear, sounded over
the wind. “Come right in, Colonel!” he said. “I'd have sent a carriage
for you if you hadn't telephoned me this afternoon that your rheumatism
was so bad you didn't expect to be able to come. I'm glad you're well
again. Yes, they're all here, and the ladies are getting up a quadrille
in the sitting-room.”
(It was at this moment that I received upon the calf of the right leg a
kick, the ecstatic violence of which led me to attribute it to Mr.
Dowden.)
“Gentlemen's dressing-room up-stairs to the right, Colonel,” called
Beasley, as he closed the door.
There was a pause of awed silence among us.
(I improved it by returning the kick to Mr. Dowden. He made no
acknowledgment of its reception other than to sink his chin a little
deeper into the collar of his ulster.)
“By the Almighty!” said Simeon Peck, hoarsely. “Who--WHAT was Dave
Beasley talkin' to? There wasn't nobody THERE!”
“Git out,” Grist bade him; but his tone was perturbed. “He seen that
reporter. He was givin' us the laugh.”
“He's crazy!” exclaimed Peck, vehemently.
Immediately all four members of his party began to talk at the same
time: Mr. Schulmeyer agreeing with Grist, and Mr. Cullop holding with
Peck that Beasley had surely become insane; while the “Journal” man,
returning, was certain that he had not been seen. Argument became a
wrangle; excitement over the remarkable scene we had witnessed, and,
perhaps, a certain sharpness partially engendered by the risk of
freezing, led to some bitterness. High words were flung upon the wind.
Eventually, Simeon Peck got the floor to himself for a moment.
“See here, boys, there's no use gittin' mad amongs' ourselves,” he
vociferated. “One thing we're all agreed on: nobody here never seen no
such a dam peculiar performance as WE jest seen in their whole lives
before. THURfore, ball or NO ball, there's somep'n' mighty wrong about
this business. Ain't that so?”
They said it was.
“Well, then, there's only one thing to do--let's find out what it is.”
“You bet we will.”
“I wouldn't send no one in there alone,” Peck went on, excitedly, “with
a crazy man. Besides, I want to see what's goin' on, myself.”--“So do
we!” This was unanimous.
“Then let's see if there ain't some way to do it. Perhaps he ain't
pulled all the shades down on the other side the house. Lots o' people
fergit to do that.”
There was but one mind in the party regarding this proposal. The next
minute saw us all cautiously sneaking into the side yard, a ragged line
of bent and flapping figures, black against the snow.
Simeon Peck's expectations were fulfilled--more than fulfilled. Not only
were all the shades of the big, three-faced bay-window of the
“sitting-room” lifted, but (evidently on account of the too great
generosity of a huge log-fire that blazed in the old-fashioned
chimney-place) one of the windows was half-raised as well. Here, in the
shadow just beyond the rosy oblongs of light that fell upon the snow, we
gathered and looked freely within.
Part of the room was clear to our view, though about half of it was shut
off from us by the very king of all Christmas-trees, glittering with
dozens and dozens of candles, sumptuous in silver, sparkling in gold,
and laden with Heaven alone knows how many and what delectable
enticements. Opposite the Tree, his back against the wall, sat old Bob,
clad in a dress of state, part of which consisted of a swallow-tail coat
(with an overgrown chrysanthemum in the buttonhole), a red necktie, and
a pink-and-silver liberty cap of tissue-paper. He was scraping a fiddle
“like old times come again,” and the tune he played was, “Oh, my Liza,
po' gal!” My feet shuffled to it in the snow.
No one except old Bob was to be seen in the room, but we watched him and
listened breathlessly. When he finished “Liza,” he laid the fiddle
across his knee, wiped his face with a new and brilliant blue silk
handkerchief, and said:
“Now come de big speech.”
The Honorable David Beasley, carrying a small mahogany table, stepped
out from beyond the Christmas-tree, advanced to the centre of the room;
set the table down; disappeared for a moment and returned with a white
water-pitcher and a glass. He placed these upon the table, bowed
gracefully several times, then spoke:
“Ladies and gentlemen--” There he paused.
“Well,” said Mr. Simeon Peck, slowly, “don't this beat hell!”
“Look out!” The “Journal” reporter twitched his sleeve. “Ladies
present.”
“Where?” said I.
He leaned nearer me and spoke in a low tone. “Just behind us. She
followed us over from your boarding-house. She's been standing around
near us all along. I supposed she was Dowden's daughter, probably.”
“He hasn't any daughter,” I said, and stepped back to the hooded figure
I had been too absorbed in our quest to notice.
It was Miss Apperthwaite.
She had thrown a loose cloak over her head and shoulders; but enveloped
in it as she was, and crested and epauletted with white, I knew her at
once. There was no mistaking her, even in a blizzard.
She caught my hand with a strong, quick pressure, and, bending her head
to mine, said, close to my ear:
“I heard everything that man said in our hallway. You left the library
door open when you called Mr. Dowden out.”
“So,” I returned, maliciously, “you--you couldn't HELP following!”
She released my hand--gently, to my surprise.
“Hush,” she whispered. “He's saying something.”
“Ladies and gentlemen,” said Beasley again--and stopped again.
Dowden's voice sounded hysterically in my right ear. (Miss Apperthwaite
had whispered in my left.) “The only speech he's ever made in his
life--and he's stuck!”
But Beasley wasn't: he was only deliberating.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began--“Mr. and Mrs. Hunchberg, Colonel
Hunchberg and Aunt Cooley Hunchberg, Miss Molanna, Miss Queen, and Miss
Marble Hunchberg, Mr. Noble, Mr. Tom, and Mr. Grandee Hunchberg, Mr.
Corley Linbridge, and Master Hammersley:--You see before you to-night,
my person, merely the representative of your real host. MISTER Swift.
Mister Swift has expressed a wish that there should be a speech, and has
deputed me to make it. He requests that the subject he has assigned me
should be treated in as dignified a manner as is possible--considering
the orator. Ladies and gentlemen”--he took a sip of water--“I will now
address you upon the following subject: 'Why we Call Christmas-time the
Best Time.'
“Christmas-time is the best time because it is the kindest time. Nobody
ever felt very happy without feeling very kind, and nobody ever felt
very kind without feeling at least a LITTLE happy. So, of course, either
way about, the happiest time is the kindest time--that's THIS time. The
most beautiful things our eyes can see are the stars; and for that
reason, and in remembrance of One star, we set candles on the Tree to be
stars in the house. So we make Christmas-time a time of stars indoors;
and they shine warmly against the cold outdoors that is like the cold of
other seasons not so kind. We set our hundred candles on the Tree and
keep them bright throughout the Christmas-time, for while they shine
upon us we have light to see this life, not as a battle, but as the
march of a mighty Fellowship! Ladies and gentlemen, I thank you!”
He bowed to right and left, as to an audience politely applauding, and,
lifting the table and its burden, withdrew; while old Bob again set his
fiddle to his chin and scraped the preliminary measures of a quadrille.
Beasley was back in an instant, shouting as he came: “TAKE your
pardners! Balance ALL!”
And then and there, and all by himself, he danced a quadrille,
performing at one and the same time for four lively couples. Never in my
life have I seen such gyrations and capers as were cut by that
long-legged, loose-jointed, miraculously flying figure. He was in the
wildest motion without cessation, never the fraction of an instant
still; calling the figures at the top of his voice and dancing them
simultaneously; his expression anxious but polite (as is the habit of
other dancers); his hands extended as if to swing his partner or corner,
or “opposite lady”; and his feet lifting high and flapping down in an
old-fashioned step. “FIRST four, forward and back!” he shouted. “Forward
and SALUTE! BALANCE to corners! SWING pardners! GR-R-RAND
Right-and-Left!”
I think the combination of abandon and decorum with which he performed
that “Grand Right-and-Left” was the funniest thing I have ever seen. But
I didn't laugh at it.
Neither did Miss Apperthwaite.
“NOW do you believe me?” Peck was arguing, fiercely, with Mr.
Schulmeyer. “Is he crazy, or ain't he?”
“He is,” Grist agreed, hoarsely. “He is a stark, starin', ravin',
roarin' lunatic! And the nigger's humorin' him!”
They were all staring, open-mouthed and aghast, into the lighted room.
“Do you see where it puts US?” Simeon Peck's rasping voice rose high.
“I guess I do!” said Grist. “We come out to buy a barn, and got a house
and lot fer the same money. It's the greatest night's work you ever
done, Sim Peck!”
“I guess it is!”
“Shake on it, Sim.”
They shook hands, exalted with triumph.
“This'll do the work,” giggled Peck. “It's about two-thousand per cent.
better than the story we started to git. Why, Dave Beasley'll be in a
padded cell in a month! It'll be all over town to-morrow, and he'll have
as much chance fer governor as that nigger in there!” In his ecstasy he
smote Dowden deliriously in the ribs. “What do you think of your
candidate NOW?”
“Wait,” said Dowden. “Who came in the hacks that Grist saw?”
This staggered Mr. Peck. He rubbed his mitten over his woollen cap as if
scratching his head. “Why,” he said, slowly--“who in Halifax DID come in
them hacks?”
“The Hunchbergs,” said I.
“Who's the Hunchbergs? Where--”
“Listen,” said Dowden.
“FIRST couple, FACE out!” shouted Beasley, facing out with an invisible
lady on his akimboed arm, while old Bob sawed madly at A New Coon in
Town.
“SECOND couple, FALL in!” Beasley wheeled about and enacted the second
couple.
“THIRD couple!” He fell in behind himself again.
“FOURTH couple, IF you please! BALANCE--ALL!--I beg your pardon, Miss
Molanna, I'm afraid I stepped on your train.--SASHAY ALL!”
After the “sashay”--the noblest and most dashing bit of gymnastics
displayed in the whole quadrille--he bowed profoundly to his invisible
partner and came to a pause, wiping his streaming face. Old Bob
dexterously swung A New Coon into the stately measures of a triumphal
march.
“And now,” Beasley announced, in stentorian tones, “if the ladies will
be so kind as to take the gentlemen's arms, we will proceed to the
dining-room and partake of a slight collation.”
Thereupon came a slender piping of joy from that part of the room
screened from us by the Tree.
“Oh, Cousin David Beasley, that was the BEAUTIFULLEST quadrille ever
danced in the world! And, please, won't YOU take Mrs. Hunchberg out to
supper?”
Then into the vision of our paralyzed and dumfounded watchers came the
little wagon, pulled by the old colored woman, Bob's wife, in her best,
and there, propped upon pillows, lay Hamilton Swift, Junior, his soul
shining rapture out of his great eyes, a bright spot of color on each of
his thin cheeks. He lifted himself on one elbow, and for an instant
something seemed to be wrong with the brace under his chin.
Beasley sprang to him and adjusted it tenderly. Then he bowed
elaborately toward the mantel-piece.
“Mrs. Hunchberg,” he said, “may I have the honor?” And offered his arm.
“And I must have MISTER Hunchberg,” chirped Hamilton. “He must walk with
me.”
“He tells ME,” said Beasley, “he'll be mighty glad to. And there's a
plate of bones for Simpledoria.”
“You lead the way,” cried the child; “you and Mrs. Hunchberg.”
“Are we all in line?” Beasley glanced back over his shoulder. “HOO-ray!
Now, let us on. Ho! there!”
“BR-R-RA-vo!” applauded Mister Swift.
And Beasley, his head thrown back and his chest out, proudly led the
way, stepping nobly and in time to the exhilarating measures. Hamilton
Swift, Junior, towed by the beaming old mammy, followed in his wagon,
his thin little arm uplifted and his fingers curled as if they held a
trusted hand.
When they reached the door, old Bob rose, turned in after them, and,
still fiddling, played the procession and himself down the hall.
And so they marched away, and we were left staring into the empty
room....
“My soul!” said the “Journal” reporter, gasping. “And he did all
THAT--just to please a little sick kid!”
“I can't figure it out,” murmured Sim Peck, piteously.
“_I_ can,” said the “Journal” reporter. “This story WILL be all over
town to-morrow.” He glanced at me, and I nodded. “It'll be all over
town,” he continued, “though not in any of the papers--and I don't
believe it's going to hurt Dave Beasley's chances any.”
Mr. Peck and his companions turned toward the street; they went
silently.
The young man from the “Journal” overtook them. “Thank you for sending
for me,” he said, cordially. “You've given me a treat. I'm FER Beasley!”
Dowden put his hand on my shoulder. He had not observed the third figure
still remaining.
“Well, sir,” he remarked, shaking the snow from his coat, “they were
right about one thing: it certainly was mighty low down of Dave not to
invite ME--and you, too--to his Christmas party. Let him go to thunder
with his old invitations, I'm going in, anyway! Come on. I'm plum
froze.”
There was a side door just beyond the bay-window, and Dowden went to it
and rang, loud and long. It was Beasley himself who opened it.
“What in the name--” he began, as the ruddy light fell upon Dowden's
face and upon me, standing a little way behind. “What ARE you
two--snow-banks? What on earth are you fellows doing out here?”
“We've come to your Christmas party, you old horse-thief!” Thus Mr.
Dowden.
“HOO-ray!” said Beasley.
Dowden turned to me. “Aren't you coming?”
“What are you waiting for, old fellow?” said Beasley.