"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.