It seemed to her that with a heart woefully heavy and filled with fear she was walking slowly and yet purposefully along a winding road, a rather pretty road in the woods. She did not want to continue her walk, but she was forced to, something stronger than herself bearing her on.
Presently around a bend she came to an opening, a veritable open-air theatre and there far off upstage she spied what at first seemed a small figure, but as she came nearer, which perforce she had to, she came to see that the figure was not so small but so bowed and shrunken with woe, with the weight of some such terrific tragedy that it had forfeited its normal stature.
Still under the spell of her strange compulsion, she came close to the figure, she put her hand on its shoulder. She could not see the face, but yet she said, she heard herself say, without an instant’s hesitation in a flat, dreary voice: “What is it, Malory?”
For all its stupor of grief, the figure whirled on her then in a very cyclone of passion and anger—and she descried not as she had expected the grief-stricken countenance of her lover, but the horrid gaping face of the Comic Mask, its mouth distorted to its fullest, reviling words issuing from those eternally open lips.
She turned and fled then in a horror and terror so complete, so devastating that it was impossible to describe it. And presently she stumbled and fell down, down into an abyss of blackness . . . she lay there unconscious,—she, the dreamer, was conscious of her unconsciousness. And finally, it seemed to her, a tall dark figure appeared from a distance and picked her up. . . .
• • • • •
A horrible dream! Melissa who was never nervous, who had her mother Judy’s imperviousness to shock came down to her breakfast pallid and worn and preoccupied. To her Aunt’s anxious question she admitted she didn’t feel “so good” but she could manage to go to school. However, she hung about the house until the last moment, picking up objects and putting them down. And when she went to the door, Aunt Sal accompanying her as she sometimes did, she turned suddenly and nestled her head, as a small child might, snugly, confidingly against her Aunt’s warm soft bosom, against the heart of Sarah Strange for whom life held no further fears, seeing she had met them and left them behind her.
Aunt Sal felt the touch of the young troubled head upon her all day. She hummed pleasantly to herself in the comfortable, sunny kitchen, dwelling upon the pleasant action. Her passionate, generous nature crammed by circumstances into its mould of impassivity craved an outlet. She had long regretted within herself Laurentine’s lack of demonstrativeness. . . . Perhaps after Laurentine married—and left—she would find another daughter, a real little girl in this child of Judy Strange.
• • • • •
Melissa unconscious meanwhile that her own woe could be the source of such a real innocent, fundamental pleasure, meandered to school, and was reproved by Miss Scarlett for inattention in her English class. Her distraction, lessened finally by a glimpse of Malory in the student’s cafeteria at lunch time, was gradually dissipated. She was still languid however, and although thanks to Harry Rob-bins, she had not seen Malory the day before, she sent him a note proffering no explanations, but telling him that she would be unable to see him that afternoon in the Romany Road. “Perhaps I’ll never see him there again,” she told herself wearily. It was too much like the road in her dream.
CHAPTER XXVII
THE weather suddenly accepting its responsibility, Christmas arrived in due time as Christmas should. Red Brook on Christmas Eve bore out the scene on the conventional Christmas card. There must be something very basic and true, Malory For-ten thought, plodding his way through the soft-falling clinging snow, in a scene or a remark which was depicted or uttered again and again. Here for instance was the individual house, the moon visible over its peaked roof, its windows bright with light all over the dwelling, its children glimpsed through those same windows uncurtained and unshaded, busied about a Christmas Tree. Over beyond loomed a thin church spire, and just above him in the sky there should be—there certainly was—the star.
Somehow the accuracy, the truthfulness of the scene to type both magnified and appeased the pain in his own young aching heart. Like many boys and men, Malory had a very definite sense of what a home should be . . . perhaps if in his home there had been the warmth, the jollity and the light which one expects on Christmas Eve, he might have with sheer masculine perversity, turned both his thoughts and footsteps elsewhere and sought a far different and less suitable means of spending the occasion. As it was, thwarted, baffled, embittered by the presence of the increased gloom which the holiday season seemed to bring to his cheerless household, he would have sacrificed every hope almost that he had for the future to have been able to see enacted within his walls the scenes which he was sure were being enacted in every normal household in Red Brook that night.
In spite of continued disappointments, he had thought that Reba in some way—he had long since ceased expecting anything of his mother or of Harriett—would have responded to the supremeness of the Christmas season. After all this was his first Chritmas home, he was a boy, he was young. Great Scott, what did those folks of his have in their veins anyway! And what in God’s name was the matter with them, he’d like to know! If Aunt Viny—good old sport if ever there was one—had only lived, he might have asked her. But Aunt Viny was dead now, lying straight and still under her first blanket of snow . . . could the dead feel the change in seasons he wondered, trying to think what the bare negation of life must mean. . . .
Only last Christmas Aunt Viny had given him the best party! True she would ask only the grandchildren of her own pet cronies, whereas there were one or two new (!), very new Philadelphians whom her very slightly more democratic nephew would gladly have welcomed. But after the guests arrived, Aunt Viny made it clear that they might do as they pleased; the old lady’s only password to “society” being a valid claim to “old Philadelphian-ism.” Having satisfied that, one might do what he wished. They had had a good time, “raising sand,” (Aunt Viny’s equivalent for the modern “whoopee,”) dancing a discreet forerunner of the rhumba, dispensing beribboned gifts. . . .
Late this afternoon Reba had come into his room and had placed on his bed a large flat package wrapped in a most un-Christmas-like covering of whitey-brown paper—the edges pinned together. How Malory’s taste revolted at that!
“You might just as well have your presents now Malory,” she said faintly. “Harriett and I will be out serving a party to-night, so we’ll be sleeping late, and mother never gets up on Christmas Day. She’s gone to bed now . . . if you should go out you won’t disturb her coming back will you? ... If you want me to I’ll take your present in to her for you.”
He’d give it to her himself when he saw her, he told her just as audibly. He was really suffering from the restraint which he felt he must put on the unreasoning anger welling within him. . . .
After she left he examined the bundle—two suits of underwear, two pairs of heavy worsted gloves—greeny-gray—with ugly, shapeless fingers, a whisk broom, a black neck-tie—a black neck-tie with small white rings in it! A tie old for a man of fifty! He left the articles reclining on their paper covering on the bed.
Melissa had given him a half-dozen fine handkerchiefs, the large size that made a fellow feel so opulent. They were monogrammed in simple, elegant lettering. With them had come a pair of heavy, short, tan gloves and a small pencil in silver and black marcasite. . . . He hadn’t given her his present yet; it hadn’t been completed until late this afternoon. . . . That was it, he’d go over to Melissa’s this evening and hand the gift, a little monogrammed wrist watch in white gold—to whomever came to the door. No proud cousin could find fault with that! She’d probably take him for a messenger. If he could just set foot in Melissa’s house to-night he would take it as an omen that next year she would be in his.
“She will, too,” he vowed silently.
• • • • •
He started on his rounds early—there were cand
y for Kitty Brown, a copy of “Moby Dick” for Herbert Tucker whose family he liked. The Tuckers hailed him in, they made him sit down to supper. “We’ve got baked beans,” Mrs. Tucker said hospitably, “it’s so hard to decide what you’re going to eat just before Christmas. You’ve got your mind so set on turkey and mince-meat. But boys always like baked beans.”
It was great to be sitting in the warm cozy room, Malory thought, gratefully stowing away man-like portions of beans and corn-bread. They pressed him to stay. “We’re not having company,” Mrs. Tucker explained amiably, “we just like the family to be together on a night like this. Herbert usually goes out on New Year’s Eve but he always stays home with his mother on Christmas Eve, don’t you, Herbert?” She bustled out into the kitchen without waiting for an answer.
The boys grinned at each other in complete understanding.
“You know how it is,” Herbert explained, whimsically resigned. He didn’t really mind; his father and he had a perpetual conflict on at chess.
Malory stopped at Kitty’s; met her sister Gertrude home for the holidays. A nice restful girl he thought, with none of Kitty’s aimless activity. He pushed on to Mrs. Ismay’s at whose house Mrs. Tucker had asked him to leave a small package. He liked Mrs. Ismay immediately, accepted her pleasant invitation to “drop in any evening, Doctor likes young men.” He would go there sometime he thought definitely, she seemed such a fine sort. . . . Melissa’s cousin called there too he remembered, maybe he’d meet her and make a good impression. . . . Wasn’t it just his luck though to have absolutely no home and then to fall in love with a girl whose home he couldn’t visit either?
“Well there’ll only be six months more of it,” he muttered and came to Melissa’s house.
• • • • •
Assuredly this house ran true to type; its windows were blazing, its curtains up high. Malory stepped across the lawn in the soft snow up to, but not on, the front porch, and peered through the window. He saw a dark brown slender woman of about forty-five he judged—she had small, well-defined features. Then he saw Laurentine smiling and excited handing Christmas trinkets to Dr. Denleigh who, mounted on a step-ladder was trimming a fine, tall Christmas Tree.
“Gosh what a beautiful girl!” thought Malory. “What a wow of a girl I” He shifted his position to see Laurentine better. Another man was standing there, middle-aged, in his overcoat, hat in hand, apparently ready to leave. Dr. Ismay, he saw later. Probably he had come over to bring a remembrance from his wife. Melissa wasn’t there. He walked around to the side of the house and saw for the first time the Chinaberry Tree with its circular hexagonal seat under it. It was only a skeleton now with here and there a leaf fluttering in the chilly night, but the moon sifting through its branches cast a pattern on the smooth snow about its base and made the tree more enchanting than ever.
Malory stopped to look at it, his quick mind visualizing it in its real glory. He said aloud what he’d said about Laurentine: “Gosh what a beautiful tree! Why didn’t Melissa ever tell me about this?” He started to knock on the side door but desisted, for fear one of the others might answer him and he did so want to see Melissa.
There was another room in back—that must be the kitchen, surely she must be in there, she wouldn’t be up in her room alone on a night like this.
The kitchen windows were wide but shallow and placed high. Malory looking about the yard in the clear moonlight found a soap-box and stood on it to peer in the window. Yes there she was in a white dress with a bright yellow smock; she was standing near an old-fashioned kitchen range, the oven-door was open and from it she had evidently drawn a pan of cookies.
“He tapped softly on the door. Without a moment’s hesitation, she opened it. “Malory I oh Malory I Come in!”
He came in. He kissed her. His girl, Christmas Eve, the warm, safe room with its aura of living about it! “I suppose I should say, ‘Together, at last.’”
She laughed with him. “Malory this is the best present! How’d you dare come ?”
“That reminds me, I’ve got your present—was that a hint—young lady?” He began to tap his various pockets, handed her a small package, “Don’t open it ’til to-morrow morning—thus sparing my blushes. Melissa Paul you wouldn’t dare tell me you’re making ginger cookies!”
“I certainly am; all hot and hot, and softy-like before they get cold you know. Wait a minute.” She vanished through the door ran through the sewing-room, peeped into the room where the others were. She came back her face glowing. “I told them to be very good and stay in there and later on I’d bring them something. Take off your overcoat and stay awhile;” she helped him with it. “Oh Malory, Malory to think you’re actually in my house. ... I think that’s a good sign. . . . I’ve been so troubled Malory . . . but now I believe everything will be all right.”
He had on galoshes, but recklessly she bade him take those off too. He sat by the kitchen fire and she fed him hot gingerbread and cider and sandwiches which, already prepared, appeared fresh and dainty swathed in a thick white napkin. And all the time she was piling similar viands on a huge tray which she set in turn on a rolling tea table. Trundling this she disappeared again, returned for plates and glasses, disappeared for a last moment and reappeared triumphant.
“There, that ought to hold them. They won’t even think of me for the next hour.” She dragged up a chair beside him, rested her head in one of her rare gestures of familiarity against his arm. “Malory, isn’t it too grand? Have you opened your presents yet? Did you like them?”
“Like them? Look here!” He pulled one of the handkerchiefs from his pocket and flourished it. Another pocket in his vest revealed the smart new pencil.
“You shouldn’t have used them so soon—? greedy!”
“I couldn’t help it, Honey. Know what I’ve been thinking about Melissa ?”
“No, tell me!”
“This time, next year, we’ll be together, you and I in our own home. Say it and believe it.” She said it and didn’t believe it, though she wanted to.
He looked around at the kitchen, its bright orderliness, the rows and rows of shining gaily colored plates, the clever furniture, the Dutch clock on the wall. Colonel Halloway had fitted out the place thoroughly, but that was long ago. Laurentine was responsible for bringing it thus up-to-date.
“You’ve never told me anything at all about your folks, you know, Melissa,” he said looking around him with frank curiosity. “I had no idea you lived like this. I had no idea any colored folks in Red Brook lived like this. What’s your aunt’s husband do?”
“He’s dead,” said Melissa uneasily. “Malory I hate to hurry you but I think you’d better go—see I’m going to put these ginger-snaps in your pocket.” She wrapped them in a small fringed napkin. “Which I know I’ll never see again,” she teased him.
“You bet you won’t. All right, Honey. I’ll be going, but I’m so glad I came, aren’t you glad? Perhaps we can manage it again.”
“Perhaps,” she said breathlessly. “Here I’ll slip outside with you.” She snatched a fleecy pink and white wool scarf from a hook, wrapped it around her rosy face in the old-fashioned style of the fascinator and stepped out into the path with him. “My boots are around on the side porch. I left them there this afternoon. I’ll slip them on and walk a block with you.”
But once near the side porch he remembered the Chinaberry Tree again. “Why didn’t you ever tell me about it, Melissa ? Here you’ve got your boots on, let’s sit under it for a minute. Wait, I’ll brush the snow off—and you can sit on the famous handkerchief. . . . Why this place is too good to be true; isn’t it really just the right place for a lover—and his lass?”
“Yes, it is,” she agreed faintly. Why on earth must she remember, sitting here with Malory her lover, the many, many times she had sat thus with Asshur?
“Listen, Malory, I’ll have to be going in—I’ll take cold and then anyway they might come out in the kitchen and miss me.”
“Of cou
rse they will, better run along in. But let me tell you something, young lady. In the spring, come warm weather we’re going to sit out under this tree many’s the night.”
“How can we?”
“Easily enough. What time do your folks go to bed?”
“Oh I don’t know. Ten, half-past ten, eleven except when Laurentine’s at Mrs. Ismay’s or Dr. Denbigh’s here.”
“Well, we wouldn’t expect to meet every night,” he said reasonably. . . . “Say your cousin is a stunning looking girl. Why didn’t you ever tell me about her? ’Fraid I might look at her too hard?”
She laughed at that. “Silly she’s years older than you.”
“Well, we’ll slip out while the fair Laurentine and her mother are sleeping—I’ll probably be here already—and we can talk and make plans. That’s better than the Romany Road, Melissa, for you’ll be already home then. I hate to see you starting off by yourself when you leave the Road.”
She thought this over in silence. “Yes, yes, why I guess that would be better. I’m sorry darling—my teeth are chattering. Do go Malory.”
Once beyond the radius of the Chinaberry Tree her uneasiness left her, her old adoration for him surged up. She put her arms about his neck in a sudden abandonment of love and regret at his going.
“Good-night, Malory. Merry Christmas, Malory.”
“Merry Christmas, Melissa. Don’t forget to come to Kitty’s to-morrow.”
“I’ll come right after dinner.”
“And we’re having our own dinner you remember the next day at Pompton Lakes.”
“Oh yes and I’m to bring the celery.”
He walked off thinking it hadn’t been such a bad Christmas Eve after all. “And when I know I don’t have to have another one like it, I imagine this will be a very sweet and romantic memory,” he told himself sensibly.
• • • • •