Gwen found out how slender was her cousin’s store for Christmas gifts, and was more moved by the thought of trying to make so many purchases with a sum which she would have spent on one gift than she would have been by more biting forms of poverty, probably because this touched her personal experience. The result was that she and Gladys went off on private shopping tours of their own, and when the day came for packing the box which Jan was to express to Crescendo beautiful presents came forth from secret nooks in the girls’ rooms, and Jan was overwhelmed with the vision of the delight with which the beaming faces so far away would gleam as the undreamed-of riches were unpacked.
Even Jerry was inspired by the universal outpouring for the Crescendo children, and nobly tucked, unseen by any eye, into a corner of the box the rubber top of her discarded bottle, to which she still had recourse in moments of anguish or when she lay down to sleep, in spite of the dignity of three years.
How could Christmas be anything but merry, after all, when it brought such treasures as met Jan’s opening eyes on that morning? A watch from her uncle, as tiny as it could be and keep time; its beautiful long chain and chatelaine pin, from her aunt; the set of Dickens, which she coveted, from Gwen; a charming little brooch of enameled green leaves and mistletoe berries, from Gladys; a muff given in Viva’s and Jerry’s name; a fan from Jack; and, best of all, a book from Sydney, who, as he handed it to her, said with an honest blush: “I earned the money for this, Miss Lochinvar, trying to be a man, as you suggested, so I have a right to give it to you. I can’t give you your five dollars yet, but I’ll do that, too, later.”
Three days after Christmas came the play. Jan never knew precisely how that evening passed. It was a whirl of light and color and excitement to her, but delightful beyond all telling. It seemed to her that there never could be again such talented creatures brought together as the girls proved. She could not criticize—all were wonderful to her, and she saw no faults in any one’s acting. But if there were degrees in the marvelous geniuses before her she felt proudly that the highest were her own family, for Gwen’s haughty, yet animated, rendering of the duchess seemed to unsophisticated Miss Lochinvar to prove that she should give up her dreams of authorship and painting, and tread the boards without delay, the glorious equal of Bernhardt and Duse.
Nor, in another way, was Gladys inferior—so graceful, dainty and charming was her rendering of the princess. Jan was so proud of her cousins that at one point she stood still, quite unconscious that a burst of applause from the audience was intended for her and not for Gwen, who had to pinch her and whisper to her to bow, or humble Jan would not have acknowledged her favors.
It was fairyland to roll homeward in one’s own carriage after the play with one’s fellow-actresses, rumpling one’s high-piled, powdered hair recklessly against the carriage cushions, and burying one’s nose luxuriously in the flowers which the usher had handed up to each young artist, and which filled the carriage with their fragrance.
“It would never do for me to take to playacting and dressing up too often,” said Jan with a sigh of delight and regret as the carriage pulled up at the door, and Susan began to gather up the trophies. “If I had much of this sort of thing I wouldn’t be any good for real things.”
“You would soon get used to them and not care so much,” said Gladys with a touch of her old-time superiority and the air of an experienced woman of the world.
“I think New Year’s is a queer, no-kind-of-a-sort of a day,” said Gladys disconsolately on that morning. It was raining, and there was an air of melancholy abroad which justified a dismal view of the holiday.
“I know it!” exclaimed Gwen. “Christmas is over, and school and lessons are just ahead, and yet it is a holiday and you feel as though you ought to be having a good time, but you’re not. I never did like New Year’s day.”