The Alternative, Page 5

  CHAPTER V

  HIS FIRST HOLIDAY

  Two days passed before Mr. Van Pycke, senior, in diligent and somewhatwrathful quest of his son, came to know that the young man had accepteda position as secretary to Mr. Krosson.

  "I can't believe it," said Mr. Van Pycke, a sudden pallor almostretrieving the lost complexion at the end of his nose. He then wentabout the search in earnest, ultimately discovering his son in his roomat the club, busily engaged in superintending the packing of cherishedPenates.

  "Is what I hear true, Bosworth?" demanded the old gentleman, withoutpreliminaries.

  "Sit down, dad. Try that trunk. The chairs seem to be occupied by oddsand ends." Bosworth was in his shirt sleeves. His hands were dirty, andthere was a long dark streak across his brow. "I'm moving."

  "Moving? What the devil's the meaning of all this?" sputtered hisfather, kicking a package of rugs out of the way.

  "I can't afford to live here on twenty-five hundred a year," said hisson, genially. The perspiring porters retired to the hall.

  "But you have twelve thou--"

  "And I have decided to save that twelve thousand. My salary will have todo for a few years, dad."

  "Your salary? Then it is true?" It was almost a wail.

  "It does seem too good to be true, doesn't it? I am like you, dad. Ididn't believe any one would hire me. But Mr. Krosson seems to thinkI've got it in me to--"

  "Bosworth," interrupted his father, sternly, "I won't permit you to makean ass of yourself. I forbid you--"

  "Hold on, dad," said Bosworth, rather shortly. "We won't discuss itunless we can do so agreeably. I'm going into this thing with all myheart, and I mean to stick to it. There's an end to that. I'm tired ofleading an absolutely useless, butterfly life."

  "But, my boy, my boy," groaned the other, "this step will blast everyprospect of a suitable marriage. Demmit all, no one will marry you."

  "I'm not so sure of that," said his son, sticking his hands into hispockets and breathing deeply. "I think, if I'm careful, I can make avery suitable marriage."

  "Rubbish! Who'd marry a secretary?" sniffed Mr. Van Pycke, jabbing achair-back with his cane.

  Bosworth radiated joy. "I would!" he cried so emphatically that Mr. VanPycke almost rose to his toes.

  "That's not the point, sir," said he, a little bewildered. "You can'tmarry yourself."

  Bosworth laughed softly, but ventured no explanation to the odd remark.If, during the next ten minutes, his father noticed a detached,far-away look in the young man's eyes, he attributed it to the force ofhis own arguments. Just as he was beginning to feel that he hadsucceeded in turning the thoughtful young man from his suicidal course,Bosworth came to himself with a start.

  "Beg pardon, dad; my mind must have been wandering. What were yousaying?"

  "Do--do you mean to tell me you haven't heard what I've been saying toyou?" roared the old gentleman, coming to his feet.

  "I'm sorry; but, you see, this new undertaking is on my mind all thetime. It's a rather serious step I'm taking and I can't help giving it agood deal of thought. Mr. Krosson says he'll raise my salary at the endof--"

  But Mr. Van Pycke was standing over him, his face red with anger.

  "I brought you up as a gentleman, sir, and this is what comes of it.What would your poor mother say? She, too, expected you to be agentleman, sir. Your grandfather expected it. All Van Pyckes aregentlemen. You are the first to forget yourself, sir. By Gad, sir, Isuppose you'll marry a shop girl or a stenographer. That's what you'lldo! After the way in which I've brought you up and educated you and allthat. And with the Van Pycke name and traditions at your command! It'sso demmed preposterous that I can't express myself adequately. It's--"

  "It's no use, dad," said Bosworth, simply. "I'm lost."

  "You could marry that little Hebbins girl next week if you--"

  "I'm going to marry for love, dad," said his son.

  Mr. Van Pycke opened his lips to say something, thought better of it,and stalked majestically out of the room. In the hall he encountered thetwo porters.

  "Is Mr. Bosworth ready for us now, Mr.--" began one of the men, verydeferentially, for Mr. Van Pycke was very well known in the club.

  "Get out of my way!" roared Mr. Van Pycke.

  The next morning, it being a Sunday at that, Bosworth sustained a blowthat shook him mightily. In his box he found a curt letter from hisfather.

  "My dear son," it read, "I neglected to announce my coming marriage toyou at our last meeting. I dare say it was because I was so upset. I amto be married to Mrs. Scoville on the third of January. If you can getaway from the shop, or the office, or whatever it is, at three o'clockon that day, I will be very much gratified to see you at the ceremony.Your loving father."

  Bosworth clapped his hand to his brow, glaring at the note.

  "He's gone clean daffy!" he groaned. "Scoville? Why, he must know she'salready--Great Scott! He means the old one!--the pelican!--that's who hemeans. The good Lord deliver us!"

  He was genuinely distressed. The dowager Mrs. Scoville, of all women!For a long time he stood in the window, staring out over the housetops,his heart full of pity for his wayward parent.

  "Poor old dad!" he said over and over again. "He's paying an awfulprice for the privilege of remaining a gentleman to the end. Hang itall! I would have taken care of him. I'd have given him half of myincome--yes, two thirds of it--sooner than see him sell out to that oldtigress. I'll see him at once. I'll make the proposition to him. He maybe able to crawl out of it."

  He soon discovered that an appeal of any sort was out of the question.The Sunday papers announced the approaching marriage of the venerablesociety leaders. As a man of honor, Van Dieman Van Pycke could not nowretreat.

  "Poor dad!" said Bosworth a hundred times that day. He could not banishthe calamity from his mind. Thoughts of Mary Pembroke crept infrequently to chasten his ill humor, but even a developing interest inthat adorable creature failed to overcome the shock he had received.

  He ended by writing a long, boyish letter of congratulation and wellwishes to his father, closing with the ingenuous hope that he might livelong to enjoy the fruits of his folly.

  The next day, bright and early, he was at the office of the great Mr.Krosson, a bit nervous, but withal full of the confidence that will notbe gainsaid. Every man in the club, on that momentous Sunday, hadcongratulated him on the step he was taking. Somehow, he was beginningto feel that he was no longer "Buzzy" Van Pycke. He was almost astranger to himself.

  Christmas came on Friday. By that time he was fairly well acquaintedwith the inner offices of Mr. Krosson. The novelty was wearing off, buthis ambition was being constantly whetted by signs of achievement thatmet him, no matter which way he looked in contemplation of his newenvironment. To his surprise and gratification--and also to hisconsternation--society was not ready to drop him. As a matter of fact,he was more sought after than ever. Most of his time as secretary to Mr.Krosson was spent in declining the invitations that poured in upon himfrom admiring hostesses who, far from disdaining him, frankly intimatedthat they liked him the better for the step he had taken. Old Mrs.Beeker, society's leader, halted him in Fifth Avenue the day beforeChristmas and leaned from her carriage window to tell him that she wasproud of him.

  "Women despise idlers and dawdlers, my dear boy," she said. "Makesomething of yourself. If you should happen to get a wife, beat heroccasionally."

  His personal effects had been removed to less conspicuous rooms inSeventy-seventh Street. He was at home there every evening.

  "I wonder if this will last," he said to himself more than once in thosefirst days.

  He was off to Princeton on the noon train, more pleasurably excited thanhe had been in many a day. He had asked Mr. Krosson if his services werenecessary at the office on Christmas day.

  "If not, I think I will run down to Princeton to spend the holiday withfriends."

  "I thought you were going to drop out of society, Bosworth," said thecapitalist, put
ting his hand on the young man's shoulder.

  Bosworth flushed. "I expect to, Mr. Krosson, but I'm not going into amonastery," he said.

  "I'm glad you were not one of the guests at that ridiculous DeFoe-Scoville wedding," said his old friend and new master. "That was thelimit in outrages."

  "It was very daring," said Bosworth, swallowing hard.

  He had seven bundles and a suit case on the seat in front of him whenthe train pulled out of Jersey City. In his pocket was a great bunch ofnewspaper clippings, intended for the private eye of the new Mrs. DeFoe's one-time secretary. He wondered how she would take the caustic,sometimes scurrilous things the editors were saying about the nowhistoric wedding. Few if any of them left a shred on which the bridecould depend for support if she ever presumed to apply to New Yorksociety for reestablishment. He was distressed by the fear that MaryPembroke would take to heart the bitter things that were being said ofher benefactress. He discovered, later on, that Mrs. De Foe had quitefully prepared the girl for the avalanche of criticism. And so it wasthat Mary was able to smile when he showed her the clippings.

  "I'm still her private secretary, Mr. Van Pycke," she said, "andtherefore I cannot discuss her private affairs with any one. As Mr.Krosson's secretary, you wouldn't think of discussing his affairs, wouldyou?"

  But we are getting ahead of the story, or, more properly speaking, aheadof the train. When he got down at Princeton, with his bundles and hisbag, he was surprised and not a little mortified by the half-checkedshriek of laughter that greeted him from the shelter of the stationbuilding. She had come down to meet him. He had not expected it. But itwas most unkind of her to laugh at him. The bundles contained Christmaspresents for the children, he had lugged them about at greatinconvenience, and--He was thinking these things, but not venturing toexpress them aloud.

  "Forgive me," she cried, hurrying over to him. "You _are_ so funny withall those packages."

  He promptly set them down, regardless, and shook hands with her. Hisears were a bit red. On second thoughts, he didn't blame her forlaughing. He now recalled that other people had smiled as he crowdedthrough the aisle of the car, but he had not noticed it at the time onaccount of a certain abstractedness that had to do with the future andnot the present.

  "I didn't expect you," he said. "It's awfully good of you to meet me.Merry Christmas!"

  "To you the same," she cried, meeting his gaze with one in whichhappiness shone brightly. "I had a dark purpose in meeting you here, Mr.Van Pycke. It's very mysterious."

  "Splendid!" he said. "I've always wanted to be a conspirator."

  "Let me take some of the packages--yes, do! I insist! You areridiculous, carrying all these things. I have a cab around the corner.We'll--"

  "A cab!" he exclaimed, dropping a picture puzzle with considerableeffect. "My dear Miss Pembroke, we can't afford cabs! They'reluxuries."

  "You won't say so when you see this one," she said gayly. Together theycollected the bundles, large and small, and hurried off to the waitingcab. There was some doubt as to which should go in first, the passengersor the parcels.

  "If we get in first, there will be no room for the bundles," said he."And if we put them in first, there'll be no room for us." The venerabledriver scratched his head in perplexity.

  "We could make two loads of it, sir," he said. "I c'n take your wife andhalf the bundles up first and come back--"

  "It isn't to be thought off," interrupted Bosworth, quickly. "Don't youremember me, Tobias?"

  "It--it ain't Mr. Van Pycke? Well, by gracious! It beats the--"

  Bosworth checked him in time. To Miss Pembroke he said: "Tobias drove meall the way from the freshman class to the senior."

  "I knew it, Mr. Van Pycke. That's why I engaged him."

  Tobias was suddenly confused. "Excuse me, I was thinking of anothergentleman when I said wife, sir. My mistake, sir. It sha'n't happenagain."

  "Don't make rash statements like that, Tobias," said Bosworth, boldly."You can't tell what will happen."

  "Put the bundles in, Tobias," said Miss Pembroke quietly, far fromamused. "Mr. Van Pycke must ride on the seat with you. He has done it agreat many times, if tradition is to be trusted."

  "My dear Miss Pembroke--"

  "Drive us into the alley at the rear of Mr. Pembroke's house, please.We're going in through the kitchen, Mr. Van Pycke. There's to be aChristmas tree at three o'clock. You are to be Santa Claus. I'll secreteyou in the butler's pantry until it is time for you to appear. Now,please don't object. We have the fur coat and the whiskers and the redcap. All you have to do is to come in and play you're delighted. Youwill read off the names and--now, _do_ be nice! You know it will begreat fun."

  He could not resist the appeal in her eyes. It seemed to him that to bedisagreeable about it--or even reluctant--would be the most dastardlycrime imaginable. He caught the spirit.

  "Great fun? It will be gorgeous!"

  "Oh, lovely," she cried. "Hurry up, please. It's after two, and I stillhave to put some things on the tree."

  She squeezed into the decrepit little hack, laughing joyously. Hescrambled up beside Tobias, clinging manfully to less than ten inches ofseat, a splendid grin on his face all the way across town, utterlyoblivious to the curious stares of Christmas pedestrians who passed themby.

  He was thinking only of her smile of delight and of the amazing changeit had wrought in him--like a flash, so to speak. Already Christmas wasbeginning to mean a great deal to him.

  The chatty Tobias, reminiscent and more or less paternal, swung into analley entrance in course of time,--not without a smug uplifting of hisleft eyebrow,--and trotted his venerable nag onward until a sharprapping on the window-glass from within brought him to a rather heroicstop between two widely separated back gates.

  "Drive on to the next gate," called out the young lady, partly openingthe door. Bosworth almost fell off in his valiant attempt to catch aglimpse of her face.

  With a great deal of stealth and no small amount of suppressed, eagerlaughter, they made their way into the kitchen of the quaint old house.

  Half an hour later Mr. Bosworth Van Pycke, suffering somewhat from stagefright but buoyed by the promise of unequivocal success in his new role,bounded from the pantry into the dining-room, befurred and bewhiskered,with nothing showing but his nose, greatly to the delight andconsternation of a dozen small children who shrieked with excitement.

  He had appeared with some success in amateur theatricals and had ledcotillions under the most nerve-racking conditions, but never before hadhe come plump against an audience of children. It was rather terrifying.He halted in the middle of the room, to the left of the brilliantlylighted, tinselled tree with its load of presents, and there he stuck,spellbound, until the shrill voice of one less awed than the rest brokethe hush that had fallen upon the expectant group in the row of chairsbeyond.

  "Hello, Santy!" piped up this small, confident voice. Bosworth couldnot afford to be outdone in politeness. He responded:

  "Hello, Mr. What's-your-name!"

  "What a pretty voice you have," called out a pink little girl.

  Right there Bosworth forgot his lines. He was to say something aboutChristmas coming but once a year and that Santa Claus loved nice littlegirls and boys, after which he was to appeal to Miss Pembroke forassistance in distributing the presents. But the ingenuous complimentupset him. He made his appeal to Miss Pembroke first, and it was rathera piteous one at that. She flew at once to his relief. In two minutes hewas talking volubly, even brilliantly, shouting back at the children andmaking himself so generously noisy that he would have been very muchshocked if he could have stepped outside and heard himself.

  Four or five nurses in the background giggled and simpered; thehousemaid and the cook grinned so amiably that Miss Pembroke had realhopes that she could keep them in Princeton for the rest of the winter.

  "The Pembroke infants are the only poor man's blessings in the crowd,Mr. Van Pycke," said Mary in a gay aside. "The others have everything.But the
y are having a good time, aren't they?"

  "They're not having half so good a time as I am," he said eagerly. Bythis time he was thoroughly imbued with the spirit of the hour. "I neverknew Christmas could be so good to grown-ups. Why, it's--it's ripping!"

  Once at the top of a stepladder, he burst into uncontrollable laughter,seemingly for no reason on earth. It had just occurred to him to wonderwhat his friends in New York would say if they could see him now! MissPembroke looked up in some surprise.

  "What is it?" she called rather anxiously.

  "Nothing," he replied hastily. "A hang-over laugh from my youth, that'sall. This is the first chance it's had to escape."

  At last the tree was completely shorn of its wealth; nothing but thetinsel, the pop-corn, and the tin candlesticks were left. In front ofeach child stretched a new panorama of possessions. Each little one wasa person of vast and suddenly acquired wealth; arrogantly wealthy waseach, at that, for no one admitted the superiority of another'sacquisitions. We were all wealthy on the Christmas days of long ago.

  Bosworth had the satisfaction of knowing that his own presents to thesmall Pembrokes were received with wild acclaim. He could not helprecalling certain presents he had bestowed on former Christmases, uponmore mature ladies, who received them as a matter of tribute and withhardly so much as a sigh of pleasure.

  Then the children were herded into the library with their toys and theirsweetmeats, pursued by anxious, colic-fearing nurses. Bosworth, very hotand very happy, retired to the pantry to remove his great coat, hiswhiskers, and his cotton wig (the latter the handiwork of Miss Pembroke,who, whatever else she might have been proficient in, was not asuccessful wig-maker).

  She appeared in the swinging door, her face flushed and her eyesglowing.

  "Wasn't it fun?" she cried.

  He was picking cotton from his hair. He paused in this operation tostare at her, entranced.

  "By Jove!" he murmured, his soul leaping to his eyes. As if fascinated,he advanced slowly, his hands extended to clasp hers. She drew back everso slightly, confused by the look in his eyes. She gave him her hands,however,--warm, firm little hands that hesitated a long time beforeresponding to the grip he gave them.

  "Do you know," he said, irrelevant but serious to the point ofperplexing her, "I believe I've never had you out of my mind during allthese years? I haven't realized it before, but now I honestly believeit's true. You've been here--in my brain--all this time. That's why noone else ever really got in. Mary Pembroke, you are still the loveliestgirl I've ever seen--just as you were fourteen years ago. You are justas wonderful to me now as you were then--even though you were eight andyellow-haired and lived in the cabin _de luxe_. It's--it's marvelous.You've been lying dormant in my memory--in my heart--all these years.Now you are suddenly revived. It's a terribly queer sensation. I--Idon't believe I'll get over it."

  She withdrew her hands; her lids wavered before his steady gaze.Something ineffably sweet crept into the dark eyes; a quick, almostimperceptible quiver flashed over her chin, and her lips parted intremulous protest against the possibility of jest.

  "I'm--I 'm glad that you do remember me," she said, with a vague littlesmile.

  "I loved you--oh, how I loved you on that long-ago voyage," he saidrecklessly. "I used to lie awake half the night in my berth, lamentingthe fact that I was so ungainly and so homely, and so utterly unfit tobe a story-book hero to you. I had a terrible fear that my legs wouldalways be beanpoles and that my chest would never grow to evenrespectable proportions. I thought my ears were big and--"

  "They _were_ big," she interposed, the mysterious quaver still in hervoice.

  "They were like bat's ears, only bigger," he agreed dismally. "And Ihated my freckles and despaired of my hair, which would curl up at theback of my neck. All this time you were so lovely, so perfect, soadorable--"

  "What a rhapsodist you are!" she cried.

  "You didn't possess a single flaw--not one," he announced firmly. "Everyboy on the boat was perishing of love for you. By Jove, you knew it,too."

  "Oh, you forget how young I was!"

  "At any rate, you knew I was sick over you. And for months after welanded in New York--yes, until long after I went away toboarding-school--you were the princess of my dreams, the treasure of myheart. Then I thought I had forgotten you. You slipped back into mymemory and hid yourself completely away. There you stayed snugly,serenely, quite as if I had stored you in a safety deposit box, all thewhile growing more beautiful, more lovely, more valuable. Last week Iopened the box and took you out. I was amazed to find that you hadalways been there. I had put you there as a little girl, and when I cameto take you out, you were a beautiful lady. I'd been treasuring you upthrough all these years without really knowing it. I never knew I was sorich."

  A sudden panic assailed her. She realized, without warning, that she wasbeing made love to, and that underneath his fanciful declarations therewas something real, and strong, and earnest. She might have laughed athim and chided him for his gallantry had it not been for one distressingobstacle: he, Bosworth Van Pycke, had been lying just as snugly allthese years in the deepest recesses of her heart. Unlike him, however,she had never quite forgotten the flaxen-haired lad of the steamship.

  "It's so very nice of you to say--" she began.

  "I mean it all, too--every word of it," he said gently. "It's all comeback to me--"

  "Don't you think we'd better go in where the children are?" she askednervously, backing toward the door, the light in her eyes very bright."This--this, Mr. Van Pycke, is the pantry."

  He flushed. "I--I dare say it does seem rather like backstairsgallantry," he said, in genuine humility.

  "I didn't mean it in that way," she cried instantly. "It was the mostbeautiful thought I've ever heard expressed." She stopped suddenly. "Areyou coming?"

  "Not until I've said the rest of it," he said, looking over hisshoulder. Then, with fierce eagerness, drawing closer to her: "I adoredyou when you were eight. You may call it boyish impulse or whatever youlike. Be that as it may, I've never loved any one else. A hundred timesI've tried to picture the face, the form, the character of the girl I'dreally come to love. Always there came to my mind a face--not a child'sface, but a child's face grown to a woman's. It was always the same. Theface of the little girl who grew up in my brain without beingobserved--without a sign that she was there. When she was fifteen, shewas fifteen to my dreams; when she was twenty, I imagined her as such.She grew up with me. Every year I saw the change in the girl I picturedas the one I could love. No other came up to that ideal. There could beno other, for there was a real girl there all the time. I loved youyears ago, Mary Pembroke, and I must tell you that--"

  "Oh, you mustn't say it--you mustn't!" she cried, tremulously, puttingout her hand. "It--it doesn't seem real--it wouldn't seem honest.Please, please don't treat it lightly. Don't spoil it all by--"

  "I never was so serious," he said. "I--I didn't mean to shock you. Itmust sound foolish to you. Of course, I've never meant anything to you.It's all on my side. I've been too abrupt. I've been an awful ass toblurt it out to you so soon. Why, you can't help looking upon me as atotal stranger. You haven't thought of me in years and years."

  "Oh, I haven't forgotten the spindle-shanked boy," she said in a verylow voice. "You may not have known it, my friend, but I was very deeplyin love with you in the days of the old _Campania_. I was--"

  "You were! You really were?" he cried, with difficulty reducing it to ahalf whisper.

  "I was a very impressionable child," she said, regaining all of her lostground as only a woman can when carried to the last extremity.

  "And--and I _may_ have a chance even now?" he cried, his eyes gleaming.

  She pushed the swing-door open with her elbow and demurely held it ajarfor him, a soft smile on her lips that he did not then understand andnever was to understand, being a male.

  "You are Santa Claus, not Romeo," she said. He also missed the flutterin her voice and entirely overlooked the
fact that she was breathingquickly.

  He followed her into the dining-room, strangely subdued. They came bythe light of a window. There, with an impulsive gesture and a quicklaugh, she halted him. Her amused eyes were taking in his tumbled hair.

  "Wait," she said. "Do you mind if I pick some of the cotton out of yourhair?"

  "Not at all," he said with alacrity.

  "Lean over," she said. He did so. Very daintily, very deftly she pulledthe stray wisps of cotton from his hair, so deftly, in fact, that hescarcely felt the touch of her fingers, although his whole beingthrilled with the delicious sensation of contact. For years he was toremember that infinite minute and a half. He knew how pleased Samsonmust have been while his strength was being shorn, even though theparable says he slept.

  A trifle dazed by exaltation, he followed her into the library. Thechildren who had greeted him vociferously as Santa Claus were nowstrangely silent and tongue-tied in the presence of a mere human,--butonly for a moment.

  "Oh, it's Mr. Pycke!" screamed the pinkest one of them all. "I knowhim!"

  Whereupon she announced that he had come down from New York to see hersister Mary and was going to stay for dinner and play bear.

  "Do you mind being left alone with them for a few minutes?" asked Mary."I must go up to father's room. He is quite helpless, you know."

  "I'd forgotten to ask how he's feeling to-day," he murmured contritely.

  The tears suddenly rushed to her eyes. A very pathetic smile and a shakeof her head was the only answer he received. She left him standingthere, surrounded by glad, expectant revelers, prey to a most unusualdepression--as swift as it was surprising. His heart, overflowing with anew sensation of tenderness and pity, followed the slender figure up thestairs; there was but little of it left below to encourage the gleefulspirits of the care-free lads and lassies.

  For some unexplained reason, which he afterward sought to attribute tohysteria, he hugged the pink little Pembroke girl with unnecessaryardor, and would have kissed her older sister if he could have caughther.

  When Miss Pembroke came downstairs half an hour later, she found himplaying bear, with tiny Miss Florence leading him about the room at theend of a long red ribbon. His hair was rumpled and his face was flushed,and it seemed that he was gasping for breath--whether from exertion orbecause the ribbon was choking him, she could not tell. She rescued himat once.

  "I like it," he cried. "It's fun to be a kiddie once more. As a matterof fact, you know, I never really had a kid's life. I'm having the timeof my life."

  "Why, they 're wearing you out," she cried. "May I ask what you wererepresenting?"

  "A bear!" shouted eleven voices. Bosworth gravely nodded.

  "He was going to be a trained seal, only we couldn't get a tub for himto lie on," said Mary's nine-year-old worshiper.

  Miss Pembroke laughed gayly. "I understood you to say last week, Mr. VanPycke, that you were through with menagerie performances for all time."There was a witchery in her eyes that enthralled him.

  "This is different," he protested in some confusion. "I draw the line atgrown-up tomfoolery. It may interest you to know that I was a horse justbefore you came in. They've all had a ride on my back. This chap here,when I wasn't looking, took those cavalry spurs from the mantelpieceover there and, by Jove! he _did_ get me moving!"

  The children shrieked with glee.

  "You poor man!" Mary cried, genuinely troubled over his experiences."You've had a dreadful time. I'll save you before it grows any worse.Come upstairs, won't you, please? Father is very eager to meet you."

  "But I've promised to be another horse," he said loyally.

  "It wasn't a horse," corrected one of the boys. "You have been that. Yousaid you'd be a jackass. None of us ever saw a jackass."

  "You said you could be a jackass without half trying, Mr. Van Pycke,"said the little pink Pembroke.

  Mr. Van Pycke fled. His charming hostess overtook him in the hall,where, in dire humility, he had paused to wait for her. She was havingimmense difficulty to keep her face straight and serene.

  "I--I wonder if the little beggars think I _am_ such an idiot as Iseem," was his unhappy lamentation.

  "They adore you!" she cried. "You have been too splendid for anything. Iam so afraid you have been bored by--"

  "If you don't banish that pathetic droop from the corners of your--youradorable mouth, I'll do something positively desperate," he interrupted,folding' his arms resolutely so that he couldn't, by any chance, do it.

  She smiled at him, quite confidingly,--greatly to his disappointment,for he had rather hoped for consternation,--and said:

  "It is banished." Then she started up the stairs. "Come. I'll show youto your room first. You may come into father's room when you havebrushed your hair. It looks positively savage."

  "My room?" he murmured, coming close behind her.

  "Yes. Don't you expect to dress for dinner, sir?"

  "Oh, I can't put you to the trouble of--"

  "You are to stop here--in this house, Mr. Van Pycke. Your room is allready for you. I was compelled to turn you out in the cold the othernight and I was so sorry. Now you are in my own home, you must stay--tomake up for the other time. My father expects you to stay."

  "Over night?" he said unbelievingly.

  "Unless, of course, you've something else you'd rather do," she saidquickly.

  "Why--why," he stammered, his head swimming with delight, "there'snothing in the world I'd rather do than to stay here. It seemsincredible."

  "There's a train up at eight in the morning," she announced calmly."You'll be called at six-thirty. Breakfast at seven. Bacon and eggs andpopovers. Is that all right?"

  "There's only one thing lacking," he cried, his heart leaping. They werestanding quite close to each other at the head of the stairs.

  "If our home isn't--"

  "If you'll promise to come down to breakfast, I'll never get over thejoy of this visit," he said.

  "I always have breakfast with the children." He looked askance. "Atseven o'clock," she vouchsafed.

  "By Jove!" was all he could gasp in his delirium.

  "That's father's door at the end of the hall. Come in there when you areready. I'll be with him. Don't be long. Your room is here."

  He watched her until she closed her father's door behind her. Then hewent into the sweet little bedroom across the hall, sat down ratherheavily upon the edge of a couch, pulled his collar away from his throatas if that act were necessary to let the blood back from his head, andmurmured over and over again, in the haziest manner imaginable:

  "Who would have thought it could come like this? Who would have dreamedit?"

  * * * * *

  Eleven o'clock that night. A fire in the library grate; logs cracklingand the sap singing; the smell of live wood burning; the musketry ofpopping sparks; the swirl of smoke into the drafty chimney. New logs hadjust found their place of duty upon the half-starved fire behind theancient "dogs." A sturdy poking had put life into the lazy embers. Itwas high time, indeed. For an hour the fire had gone neglected,unheeded. The chill of a bitter night had come creeping into the room,slowly conquering the warmth that had reigned supreme. Outside the windhad begun to whistle with a wilder glee; the creeking of wagon-wheels onthe frozen roadway grew louder and more angrily insistent; a desolatecornet, far off in the Christmas air, sobbed its pathetic song to thefickle ear of the night.

  Two sentinels had stood watch over the fire for hours. It died as theywatched it, and yet they did not see.

  Not unlike another fire, a week old and long since dead, was this one,and not unlike the soft glow of another fire-light was that which playedon the serene faces of the two sentinels who sat side by side andwatched their charge eke out its life. But on that other night thesesentinels were not lovers.

  She shivered. He had been telling her of the world that was ahead ofthem and of all the joys it was to hold for him. He had told her that hewould care for her all his life--that
he would take care of her to theend of hers.

  It was then that she smiled fairly, a dear little pucker coming betweenher eyes.

  "I know, Bosworth, dear," she said quaintly, "but would you mind takinga little care of me now? I am freezing. Please poke up the fire."

  It was not until then that the fireplace renewed its roar of gladness,supported by his tardy but vigorous conscience.

  Together they stood before the resulting blaze. Her hands were in his,clasped close to his breast. Her eyes were closed. He kissed the lids.

  "Her eyes were closed. He kissed the lids."]

  "Fourteen years is a long time, Bosworth, dear, for two people to loveeach other without knowing it," she said, ever so softly, freeing onehand only that it might be slipped up to his cheek and then to his hair.

  THE END