I

WILLIARD sat down to his evening meal. He was later than usual. The dining-room of the boarding-house was deserted, save for the presence of the maid servant, who was sweeping the crumbs from the tablecloth. His entrance was acknowledged by a sour smile. Williard was a sort of pariah to the narrow minds of that household, who could not associate greatness of soul with failure and poverty.

"You won't get much," said the maid. "We are too busy with to-morrow's Christmas dinner."

To-morrow's Christmas dinner! Williard drew the bread-dish toward him rather mechanically. To-morrow's Christmas dinner! It was Christmas Eve to-night, and he had forgotten! All that day he had wondered why every face looked so eager and bright in the office, why the jostling crowds in the streets were so merry and good-humored. To-morrow was Christmas, and he had forgotten!

The maid grumblingly fetched what remained of the supper. The hanging lamp sputtered for lack of oil to feed upon; and all the food tasted vaguely of kerosene. But Williard made no complaint; he was hungry. To-morrow's Christmas dinner!

He was tired. Great names had danced before his eyes that day: names resounding the fickle world's applause and the jingle of her inconsiderate largess. Not that he envied them, no; rather that they taught him to despair. In the daytime he read proof in the attic of a large publishing house; this was existence, it was bread and butter. But at night, in his little hall bedroom, where the clamors of the city streets sounded murmurous and indistinct, he still clung to the fragments of early dreams. His verses and stories, lofty and proud, lacked something, for they found no entrance to the garden of fame, which is at best full of false flowers and spurious scents.

For ten years he had striven to attain; and he had failed. He had come to New York, as thousands of others had come, with hope and her thousand stars, to see them fade away one by one from the firmament of his dreams. The world has no patience with failure, no treasures for the obscure defeat. Ah, to see one's own people, dressed in clear, beautiful type, move across the white pages, from margin to margin, thinking, acting, speaking! To unravel the scheme of life, with its loves, ambitions and revenges—was there any rapture, any pleasure, half so fine?

The harsh voice of the maid brought him out of his idle dream: for to be a poet is to dream and to suffer.

"There's a letter under your door," said the girl. "Didn't know you were coming home to supper, so I didn't put it under your plate."

"Thank you."

"I guess you've struck an heiress; that letter smells of sachet powder," she added, sailing through the swinging door to the kitchen.

Williard folded his napkin and rose. Christmas Eve! Where were the old days in the little white village, the straw rides, the candy pulls, the great logs in the fireplace? Where had youth gone so suddenly? He climbed the two flights of stairs to his room, struck a match, and knelt before the door. Yes, there was a letter. He held it to his nose and inhaled the delicate odor of violets. A thrill passed through him, a thrill that was a mixture of joy, sorrow, love, bitterness and regret.

He unlocked the door, entered the room and lighted the gas. How well he knew the stroke of each letter! How many times in the old days had that feathery tracing brought cheer and comfort to him! And now she was gone; out of his meager circle she had passed for ever. Riches! What a fortress! What a parapet to scale! What a barrier! The mighty dollar now bastioned and sentineled her as the drab granite and men-at-arms had surrounded the unhappy princesses of feudal times.

From time to time he had read of her; this duke or that prince was following her about, from resort to resort. She had written once, but he had not had the courage to answer that letter. Paris, London, Berlin! Her beauty and her wealth had conquered each city in its turn. Heigh-ho! He held the letter as a lover holds a woman's hand: dreamily, dim-eyed, motionless. Finally he broke the seal.

Dear John:

Home again! Near to Mother Earth again, to the old habits, old longings, old friends. I am never going away again. Now, John, I am giving a little Christmas Eve dinner to-night, informally, to five literary celebrities (four who are known and one who will be), and I want you more than any one else. Why? Well, you are a staff of oak to lean upon—sound and sturdy and impervious to the storms. I want visions of the old days, and somehow they will not come back vividly unless you help me to conjure them. Do you remember souviens-toi?... But never mind. I'll ask the question of you when we meet. No excuses, John, no previous engagements. If you have an excuse, destroy it; an engagement, break it. This is a command. If you do not come I shall never forgive you. What do you care if the celebrities have never heard of you? I am sure that not one of them is your peer at heart and mind. I am tired, John, tired of false praises and flattery, tired of worldly things; and somehow your voice is going to rest me. Come at half after eight. Nell.

Home again! She was home! A dizziness fell upon him for a space, and all things grew blurred and indistinct. When the vapor passed he returned the letter to its envelope, opened a drawer in his bureau, and brought forth an old handkerchief case. In it there were withered flowers, scraps of ribbon, a broken fan, and packets of old letters. He took out one of the packets, raised the ribbon (torn from some gown of hers), and slid under this latest letter, which would probably be the last.

Yes, he would go. And if the celebrities loosed their covert and fatuous smiles when his back was turned, so be it. His poverty was clean and honorable. He dressed slowly, and once he gazed into the mirror. The face he saw there was not inspiring, lined and hollowed as it was; but its pallor lent a refinement to it, that tender, proud refinement which describes a lofty soul, full of gentleness and nobility.

From time to time he approached the window. How the snow whirled, eddied, sank, and whirled again! The arc lamps became luminous clouds. He looked at his shoes. Could he afford a cab? And yet, could he afford to appear before her, his shoes wet, his clothes damp with snow? He decided in favor of the cab. It was Christmas Eve; a little luxury would not be wrong.

By-and-by he stepped out of the boarding-house into the storm. Clouds of moist feathery particles surged over him, and crept inside his rusty velvet collar. Suddenly he discovered a handsome coupÉ standing in front. The footman was walking up and down while the driver beat his hands across his breast. Williard did not understand what this elegant equipage was doing in such a street. Even as he cogitated, the footman descried him and approached.

"Beg pardon, sir; Mr. Williard?" he inquired.

"Yes, I am Mr. Williard," was the wondering answer.

"Then we are just in time, sir!" The footman ran to the coupÉ and opened the door respectfully.

"You have made a mistake, my man," said Williard. "I did not order—"

"We are from Miss Wycklift's," said the footman.

Her carriage! And she had sent it to his boarding-house for fear he might slip past!

"Are you certain?" he asked, still in doubt.

"If you are Mr. Williard there isn't a particle of doubt, sir." The tone was perfectly respectful, and did more to determine Williard than anything else.

"Very well," he said.

He entered the luxurious carriage and the door slammed behind him. Presently he was on the way to see the one woman in all the world. Her carriage! What a delicate bit of charity it was, savoring of a thoughtful mind and a warm heart! She knew, then, of his continued poverty and wished to save him the embarrassment of going to a dinner in a surface car. There was not the least hint of patronage in the act; it was simply one of those fine and thoughtful impulses of which only a noble woman is capable. He recalled the first night he had taken her to the opera. There had been no other woman half so lovely—he had thought only of her. Fool that he was to surrender to this idle dream: but oh! it had been so sweet.

There was a jar, and the carriage and Williard's reverie came to a sudden pause. The door opened and the footman's head appeared.

"Here we are, sir!"

Williard, still dazed, alighted. He mounted the steps to the door, and with no little timidity he pushed the electric button. Riches! How the hateful word buzzed in his ears!

II

A PRIM little maid opened the door. She took his hat and coat, and directed him to the warm and cozy library. As he saw no one about he believed that he had committed the unpardonable offense of coming too early. It was so long since he had been "out." He wandered among the bookcases and soon forgot where he was, for he possessed the poet's enthusiasm for rare books. The atmosphere seemed spirituous of Balzac, Thackeray, Dumas, Dickens, Scott, Hugo and all the tender poets he loved so well. And here, right under his hand, was a rare copy of Tristram Shandy. Dear, guileless old Uncle Toby! And then he became conscious of a Presence.

He turned, and beheld her standing in the doorway. Beautiful, beautiful! The ivory pallor of her complexion, the shadowy wine of her hair, her brilliant eyes, the glistening whiteness of her neck and arms! He stood like stone, incapable of animation. Then he took in a deep breath: he wished to possess absolute control over himself before he touched her hand. Oh, he needed no fire to warm his veins, the blood of which gushed into his brain like the floods of spring torrents!

"John!" she cried.

She floated toward him, her hands outstretched, a smile of welcome on her lips. He touched her hands with some uncertainty. It was all so like a dream.

"So you are home again?" he said, finding only this commonplace question among all the beautiful phrases he had invented for her benefit.

"And I am glad to be home, John; glad. I knew you would come."

"How in the world could I help it?" smiling. "It was very kind of you to send your carriage. A carriage is a luxury in which I do not often indulge. I couldn't invent any excuse; I had no engagement. Besides, I would have come anyway."

She laughed, and drew two chairs to the blazing grate and motioned him to be seated.

"Do you know," he began, "but for your note I might have forgotten all about its being Christmas Eve? To what terrible depths a man falls to be able to confess such a sacrilege! But a lonely man forgets the customs of his youth. There is no Christmas spirit where there are no children, no family ties. I'm a hermit."

"Tell me all about yourself, John," she urged, cleverly seating herself so that she might see him easily, while he, to see her, would have to turn his head.

"There isn't much to say. I've just gone right on making a failure."

"There is no such thing as failure, John. Failure means effort, and effort is never failure."

"That is a pretty way of putting it. Well, then, let me say that I am still unsuccessful. Fame has knocked on my door with soft gloves, and I have not heard her; and Fortune never had me on her visiting list." He stared into the fire.

He was quite unconscious of her minute examination. How changed he was, poor boy! He was not growing old; he was aging. What had wrought this change? Work? A long series of defeats? Unrewarded toil? She leaned back in her chair, and the light in her eyes would have blinded Williard had he turned just then.

"What have you been doing this long year?" he asked presently.

"Wanderlust. I have flitted from place to place, always dissatisfied."

"Dissatisfied—you?"

"Yes, John. To be truly unhappy is to be rich and unhappy. It is the hope of some time being rich that dulls the unhappiness of the poor. Money buys only inanimate things."

"I have heard of you sometimes."

"What have you heard?"

"There was a prince or duke, I forget which."

"He wanted to marry me," lightly.

"And you?"

"It was amusing. Some busybody would always manage to introduce me as the rich Miss Wycklift; and then the comedy would begin. Perhaps I was spiteful; but I knew that it was only my money."

"Have you ever looked in your mirror?" Williard asked naively.

"I spend a part of the day before it," she confessed.

"But money is not everything. It is quite possible that these men loved you for your own sake."

"Loved for one's own sake," mused the girl. "Yes, that is how I would have it. But how in the world is a rich girl going to tell? I am superstitious. For three or four years I have been carrying this little amulet," she said, holding out for his inspection a silver, thimble-like trinket. "It represents St. Joseph, the patron saint of spinsters. An old French nurse gave it to me, and said that if I offered prayers to St. Joseph I should some day find the man I loved and who loved me. I do not want to be a spinster."

"That is a graceful sentiment."

"Not wanting to be a spinster?"

"Oh, that is not only graceful but commendable," smiling. Then he added gravely: "Have your prayers been answered?"

"Yes."

Silence.

"Well?" he said, with the slightest tremor.

"Only he hasn't said anything yet."

He moved restlessly. It was all so sad. Yet it was best so. Once he knew her to be beyond his reach he could bring to an end his foolish dream.

"I wonder how I shall begin to tell you my romance," she resumed. "Society has done so many evil things in the name of formality. It has laid down impossible and inhuman rules, destroying freedom of thought and action. To these rules we must conform or be ostracized. Might a woman tell a man she loves him, John?"

"That depends wholly upon her knowledge that he loves her."

"So if a woman knows that a man loves her she may, in the pursuit of happiness, tell that man?"

"I see no reason why not. To love is natural. Love is stronger than logic, stronger than formality. But this should always be borne in mind: for a woman to propose to a man, the man must be her equal in all things—wealth of mind and wealth of purse."

"Oh, now you are going back to the conventionality of things," she protested. "How I hate conventional mediocrity! I have hated it ever since I came to this horrid city. Don't you sometimes long for the old days, John: the sermons in stones, the good in everything?"

"Yes, sometimes."

"Well, I am going back to the old village in the spring. John," softly, "why didn't you answer my letter?"

"The little orbit around which I take my flight could scarce interest you," lamely. "There were princes and dukes in your train, and great fÊtes, and bewildering cities besides."

"It hurt," she said simply.

"Hurt? Have I hurt you?" the repressed tenderness in his voice shaking him. "Oh, if I had known that you really wanted to hear from me!"

"And why should I not? Were we not boy and girl together? And you always wrote such charming letters, cheerful and hopeful and sunshiny. There never was any worldliness, nor cynicism. I have kept all your letters; and even now I find myself returning to them, as one returns to old friends."

He clasped and unclasped his hands nervously.

"Cheerful and hopeful and sunshiny," she went on. "The man I love is like that. He is good and cheerful and brave. Nobody ever hears him complain. But he is poor, John, dreadfully poor; and what makes it so hard, he is dreadfully proud. So I must put my own pride underfoot and tell him that he is wrong to spoil two lives, simply because I am rich and he is poor. And if he rejects me I shall throw away this little amulet, and lose faith in everything."

Williard had nothing to say. Rather he saw himself once more in his little hall bedroom, his face buried in packets of old letters.

"Dinner is served." The butler appeared.

Williard rose.

"Come, sir," she said as the butler went out.

Somehow her hand slid comfortably into his and she guided him through the hall. The touch of her hand was ecstasy.

"There was a time when you used to kiss my hand," she said.

With the forgotten gallantry of olden times suddenly returned, he bent his head and kissed the hand in his, to hide his dimming eyes!

They then entered the dining-room. Covers had been laid for six. There was a candle at each plate, but upon four of the plates rested books! The poet looked at the girl: ah, the brave and merry eyes that met his!

"Permit me, Mr. Williard," she said, making a courtesy, "to introduce you to the celebrities. Yonder is Mr. Thackeray, and next to him is Mr. Dickens; on the opposite side are MM. de Balzac and Dumas. Behold Mr. Esmond and Mr. Copperfield, the kindly Cousin Pons and the brave D'Artagnan! Ah, John, I was so afraid that you might invent an excuse that I took to this little subterfuge. Do you forgive me?"

"I would have come anyway."

"Why?"

"Because."

"That is a woman's answer."

"Well, because I wanted to see you."

"That is better."

What a fine dinner it was! With that tact of which only a woman of the world is capable she drew him out by degrees. He became animated, merry, witty; all the channels of his broadly educated mind loosed their currents. He was the poet and the man of letters.

"But what would you do in my place, John?" she asked finally.

"As to what?"

"As to the man whose poverty keeps him outside my gates; this man I love, whose pride is striving to cheat me out of that which is mine own?"

All the light went out of Williard's eyes. He had forgotten!

"You are sure he loves you?"

"Oh, yes!"

"Well," with a forced smile, "this is the last week of leap year; why not ask him? Custom allows such action once in four years."

"You are not laughing?"

"No, I am not laughing," truthfully enough.

"John—will you marry me?" Her voice was low, like music in a church.

How still everything suddenly grew!

"Will you marry me, John; or will you break my heart with your foolish pride?"

He stared at her dumbly. She balanced the image of St. Joseph in her hand.

"Shall I toss it into the fire?" she asked presently, a weariness stealing into her tones.

He tried to speak, but could not. She made as though to fling the image into the fire, when he leaned across the table and caught her hand.

"I'm a miserable coward," he said, choking.

"So am I, John. I was afraid I might lose you."