Chapter 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!