OR three weeks she followed the song's advice. No one knew how long happiness would last. With her it had never lasted. He would leave her presently; already he was anticipating an early return to America.

“I shall feel terribly flat when you've gone,” she told him.

“But I'll write. I'll write you the longest letters.”

“Ah, but letters aren't the same as being together.”

He didn't seem to share her need of him, and it hurt. If he did share it, it was unconsciously. He had yet to awaken to what the need meant. She had allowed him to become too sure of her, perhaps; had she kept him more uncertain, he might have awakened. In any case, it was too late to alter attitudes now and to think up reasons.

He liked her in the jolliest kind of way as the most splendid of diversions; but she wasn't essential to him for all time—only for the present. She treasured no illusions about the longest letters. She knew men—the world was filled with women; out of sight would be out of mind. So every evening when he visited her, her heart was in her throat till she had made him confess that he had not yet received his embarkation orders. Some day he would tell her that he was going and would expect her to congratulate him. She would have to smile and pretend that she was glad for his sake. After that he would vanish and the long eventlessness would re-commence. He would write intimately and often at first; little by little new interests would claim him. There would be a blank and then, after a long silence, a printed announcement, curtly stating that he had found his happiness elsewhere.

She saw herself growing old. The children would spring up so quickly. She would be left with her pride, to dress and make herself beautiful for an anonymous someone whose coming was indefinitely postponed. Youth would go from her. For interminable evenings, stretching into decades, she would watch afternoons fade into evenings. Everything would grow quiet. She would sit beneath the lamp at her sewing. The whispering parrot would take pity on her and croak, “What shall we talk about?” Even that game would end one day, for Robbie would become a man and marry. When that had happened it wouldn't be truthful for the parrot to tell her that Robbie loved her best. She would listen for the clock to strike, the fire to rustle, the coals to drop in the grate. Towards midnight taxis would enter the square. Lovers would alight. She would hear the paying of the fare, the tapping of a woman's high-heeled shoes on the pavement, the slipping of the key into the latch, the opening and closing of the door, and then again the silence. She would fold up her work, turn out the lights and stand alone in the darkness, invisible as a ghost.

Ah, but he had not sailed yet. “Make hay, little girl, make hay.” His going was still only a threat. There was time, still time. She set a date to her respite. She would not gaze beyond it. If she could only have him till Christmas!

Meanwhile he kept loyally to his contract that they should be happy together. He gave her lavishly of his time. If he guessed how much the gift meant, he said nothing to show it. He was like a great, friendly schoolboy in his cheerfulness; he filled every niche of her desire. Now, in the afternoon, when he took the children on adventures, she found herself included. On the return home, he shared with her the solemn rite of seeing them safely in bed. Then forth they would sally on some fresh excursion. Always and increasingly there was the gnawing knowledge that the end was nearer in sight—that soon to each of the habits they were forming they would have to say, “We have done it for the last time.”

We, the bricks and mortar of the little house, watched her. We grew desperate, for we loved her. What we had observed and overheard by day we discussed together by night. If we could prevent it, we were determined that he should not go.

“But, if he goes,” creaked the staircase, “he may return. They used to say in my young days that the heart grows fonder through absence.”

“Rubbish,” banged the door on the first landing. “Rubbish, I say.”

“He'll go,” ticked the grandfather clock pessimistically. “He'll go. He'll go.”

“Not if I know it,” shouted the door and banged again.

We had come to a few nights before Christmas. Which night I do not remember, but I recall that we had started our decorations. Mistletoe was hanging in the hall. Holly had been arranged along the tops of the picture-frames. The children had been full of whisperings and secrets. Parcels had already begun to arrive. They were handed in with a crackling of paper and smuggled upstairs to a big cupboard in which they were hidden from prying eyes. The children were now in bed, sleeping quietly for fear of offending Santa Claus. The little lady was in the room where she worked, checking over her list of presents. She had got something for everyone but Robbie; she had postponed buying Robbie's present for a very special reason of which we were all aware. Perhaps it was superstition; perhaps a desperate hope. He had told her what he wanted; it didn't look as if she would be able to get it. “It's no good waiting,” she told herself; “I shall have to buy him something tomorrow.” Just then, as if in answer to her thoughts, an impatient rat-tat-tat re-sounded. It was his unmistakably, but he had never come so late as this before. All day she had listened and been full of foreboding; she had despaired of his ever coming. There was an interval after the door had been opened, during which he removed his coat. She could picture his awkwardness in doing it. Then the swift, leaping step of him mounting the stairs. Why had he delayed so long, only to come to her at the last moment in such a hurry? She rose from her chair to face him, her hands clenched and her body tense, as if to resist a physical blow. As he appeared in the doorway his lips were smiling. There was evidently something which he was bursting to tell her. On catching sight of her face he halted. His smile faded.

“What's the matter? What's happened?” She unclenched her hands and looked away from him. “Nothing.”

“There must be something. Something's troubling you. What have you been doing with yourself this evening?”

Her gaze came back to him. She smiled feebly. “Wondering whether you were coming and worrying over Robbie's present.”

“Robbie's present! That's nothing to worry over. We'II go together and choose one tomorrow. I'll have time.”

“Time!” She straightened up bravely, the way she had rehearsed the scene so often in her imagination. “Then it's true. You won't be here for Christmas? You're sailing?”

Her knowledge of his doings was uncanny. He came a step nearer, but she backed away. He realised her fear lest he should touch her. For a moment he was offended. Then, “My orders came today. How did you know? It was what I came to tell you.”

“How did I know!” She laughed unsteadily. “How does one know anything? The heart tells one things sometimes. You'll be busy tomorrow—so many other things to think about. Robbie's present doesn't matter. It's growing late... Good-bye.” He stood astonished at her abruptness. What had he done that she should be so anxious to rid herself of him? When he did not seem to see her proffered hand, but stared at her gloomily, her nerves broke. “Go. Why don't you go?” she cried fiercely. “You know you'll be happy.”

“You want me to go?” he asked quietly. Had she heard her own voice, she would have given way to weeping. With her handkerchief pressed tightly against her lips, she nodded.

He turned slowly, looked back from the threshold for a sign of relenting and dragged his way haltingly down the stairs. In the hall beneath the mistletoe he paused to listen. He fancied he had heard the muttering of sobbing. So long as he paused he heard nothing; it was only when he began to move that again he thought he heard it. Having flung his coat about his shoulders, he eased his arm into the sleeve. This wasn't what he had come for—a very different ending!

And now the chance of the little house had arrived. Windows, chairs, tables, walls, we had all pledged ourselves to help her. He attempted to let himself out; the frontdoor refused to budge. He pulled, tugged and worked at the latch without avail.

“Shan't go. Shan't go. Shan't go,” ticked the grandfather's clock excitedly. Then the usual thing happened, which always happened when the grandfather's clock got excited.

There was a horrible whirr of the spring running down; the weights dropped with a bang.

In the silence that followed he listened. She thought he had gone. There could be no mistake now; she was crying as if her heart would break.

The stairs creaked to warn her as he ascended. She could not have heard them, for when he stepped into the room she took no notice. She had sunk to the floor and lay with her face hidden in the cushions of the chair, with the gold light from the lamp spilling over her. For some moments he watched her—the shuddering rise and fall of her shoulders.

“You told me to go,” he said. “The little house won't let me; it was always kind to us.” And then, when she made no answer, “It's true. I've got my sailing orders. But it was you who told me to go.”

She was listening now. He knew that, for the half-moon shoulders had ceased to shudder. The smell of Jacqueminot drew him to her. Bending over her, he stole one hand from beneath the buried face. “Do I need to go?”

And still there was no answer. It was then that the old grey parrot spoke. He had pretended to be sleeping. “What shall we talk about?” he whispered hoarsely; and, when an interval had elapsed, “Robbie?”

The little lady, who had needed to be loved, lifted up her tear-stained face and the wounded officer who had wanted rest, bent lower.

“I don't need to go,” he whispered. “I came to bring you Robbie's present. He told me what he wanted.”

THE END