Satherwaite, '02, threw his overcoat across the broad mahogany table,regardless of the silver and cut-glass furnishings, shook the meltingsnowflakes from his cap and tossed it atop the coat, half kicked, halfshoved a big leathern armchair up to the wide fireplace, dropped himselfinto it, and stared moodily at the flames.
Satherwaite was troubled. In fact, he assured himself, drawing his handsomefeatures into a generous scowl, that he was, on this Christmas eve, themost depressed and bored person in the length and breadth of New England.Satherwaite was not used to being depressed, and boredom was a stateusually far remote from his experience; consequently, he took it worse.With something between a groan and a growl, he drew a crumpled telegramfrom his pocket. The telegram was at the bottom of it all. He read itagain:
E. SATHERWAITE,
Randolph Hall, Cambridge.
Advise your not coming. Aunt Louise very ill.
Merry Christmas.
PHIL.
"' Merry Christmas!'" growled Satherwaite, throwing the offending sheet ofbuff paper into the flames. "Looks like it, doesn't it? Confound Phil'sAunt Louise, anyway! What business has she getting sick at Christmas time?Not, of course, that I wish the old lady any harm, but it--it--well, it'swretched luck."
When at college, Phil was the occupant of the bedroom that lay in darknessbeyond the half-opened door to the right. He lived, when at home, in a big,rambling house in the Berkshires, a house from the windows of which onecould see into three states and overlook a wonderful expanse of wooded hilland sloping meadow; a house which held, besides Phil, and Phil's father andmother and Aunt Louise and a younger brother, Phil's sister. Satherwaitegrowled again, more savagely, at the thought of Phil's sister; not, be itunderstood, at that extremely attractive young lady, but at the fate whichwas keeping her from his sight.
Satherwaite had promised his roommate to spend Christmas with him, therebybringing upon himself pained remonstrances from his own family,remonstrances which, Satherwaite acknowledged, were quite justifiable. Hisbags stood beside the door. He had spent the early afternoon verypleasurably in packing them, carefully weighing the respective merits of aprimrose waistcoat and a blue-flannel one, as weapons wherewith to impressthe heart of Phil's sister. And now--!
He kicked forth his feet, and brought brass tongs and shovel clattering onthe hearth. It relieved his exasperation.
The fatal telegram had reached him at five o'clock, as he was on the pointof donning his coat. From five to six, he had remained in a torpor ofdisappointment, continually wondering whether Phil's sister would care. Atsix, his own boarding house being closed for the recess, he had trudgedthrough the snow to a restaurant in the square, and had dined miserably onlukewarm turkey and lumpy mashed potatoes. And now it was nearly eight, andhe did not even care to smoke. His one chance of reaching his own home thatnight had passed, and there was nothing for it but to get through theinterminable evening somehow, and catch an early train in the morning. Thetheaters in town offered no attraction. As for his club, he had stopped inon his way from dinner, and had fussed with an evening paper, until theuntenanted expanse of darkly furnished apartments and the unaccustomedstillness had driven him forth again.
He drew his long legs under him, and arose, crossing the room and drawingaside the deep-toned hangings before the window. It was still snowing.Across the avenue, a flood of mellow light from a butcher's shop was thrownout over the snowy sidewalk. Its windows were garlanded with Christmasgreens and hung with pathetic looking turkeys and geese. Belated shopperspassed out, their arms piled high with bundles. A car swept by, its dronemuffled by the snow. The spirit of Christmas was in the very air.Satherwaite's depression increased and, of a sudden, inaction becameintolerable. He would go and see somebody, anybody, and make them talk tohim; but, when he had his coat in his hands, he realized that even thiscomfort was denied him. He had friends in town, nice folk who would be gladto see him any other time, but into whose family gatherings he could nomore force himself to-night than he could steal. As for the men he knew incollege, they had all gone to their homes or to those of somebody else.
Staring disconsolately about the study, it suddenly struck him that theroom looked disgustingly slovenly and unkempt. Phil was such an untidybeggar! He would fix things up a bit. If he did it carefully andmethodically, no doubt he could consume a good hour and a half that way. Itwould then be half past nine. Possibly, if he tried hard, he could use upanother hour bathing and getting ready for bed.
As a first step, he removed his coat from the table, and laid it carefullyacross the foot of the leather couch. Then he placed his damp cap on oneend of the mantel. The next object to meet his gaze was a well-wornnotebook. It was not his own, and it did not look like Phil's. The mysterywas solved when he opened it and read, "H.G. Doyle--College House," on thefly leaf. He remembered then. He had borrowed it from Doyle almost a weekbefore, at a lecture. He had copied some of the notes, and had forgotten toreturn the book. It was very careless of him; he would return it as soonas--Then he recollected having seen Doyle at noon that day, coming from oneof the cheaper boarding houses. It was probable that Doyle was spendingrecess at college. Just the thing--he would call on Doyle!
It was not until he was halfway downstairs that he remembered the book. Hewent back for it, two steps at a time. Out in the street, with the fluffyflakes against his face, he felt better. After all, there was no use ingetting grouchy over his disappointment; Phil would keep; and so wouldPhil's sister, at least until Easter; or, better yet, he would get Phil totake him home with him over Sunday some time. He was passing the shops now,and stopped before a jeweler's window, his eye caught by a ratherjolly-looking paper knife in gun metal. He had made his purchases forChristmas and had already dispatched them, but the paper knife lookedattractive and, if there was no one to give it to, he could keep ithimself. So he passed into the shop, and purchased it.
"Put it into a box, will you?" he requested. "I may want to send it away."
Out on the avenue again, his thoughts reverted to his prospective host. Thevisit had elements of humor. He had known Doyle at preparatory school, andsince then, at college, had maintained the acquaintance in a casual way. Heliked Doyle, always had, just as any man must like an honest, earnest,gentlemanly fellow, whether their paths run parallel or cross only at rareintervals. He and Doyle were not at all in the same coterie, Satherwaite'sfriends were the richest, and sometimes the laziest, men in college;Doyle's were--well, presumably men who, like himself, had only enough moneyto scrape through from September to June, who studied hard for degrees,whose viewpoint of university life must, of necessity, be widely separatedfrom Satherwaite's. As for visiting Doyle, Satherwaite could not rememberever having been in his room but once, and that was long ago, in theirFreshman year.
Satherwaite had to climb two flights of steep and very narrow stairs, andwhen he stood at Doyle's door, he thought he must have made a mistake. Fromwithin came the sounds of very unstudious revelry, laughter, a snatch ofsong, voices raised in good-natured argument. Satherwaite referred again tothe fly leaf of the notebook; there was no error. He knocked and, inobedience to a cheery "Come in!" entered.
He found himself in a small study, shabbily furnished, but cheerful andhomelike by reason of the leaping flames in the grate and the blue haze oftobacco smoke that almost hid its farther wall. About the room sat six men,their pipes held questioningly away from their mouths and their eyes fixedwonderingly, half resentfully, upon the intruder. But what caught and heldSatherwaite's gaze was a tiny Christmas tree, scarcely three feet high,which adorned the center of the desk. Its branches held toy candles, as yetunlighted, and were festooned with strings of crimson cranberries andcolored popcorn, while here and there a small package dangled amidst thegreenery.
"How are you, Satherwaite?"
Doyle, tall, lank and near-sighted, arose and moved forward, withoutstretched hand. He was plainly embarrassed, as was every other occupantof the study, Satherwaite included. The laughter and talk had subsided.Doyle's guests politely removed their gaze from the newcomer, and returnedtheir pipes to their lips. But the newcomer was intruding, and knew it, andhe was consequently embarrassed. Embarrassment, like boredom, was a novelsensation to him, and he speedily decided that he did not fancy it. He heldout Doyle's book.
"I brought this back, old man. I don't know how I came to forget it. I'mawfully sorry, you know; it was so very decent of you to lend it to me.Awfully sorry, really."
Doyle murmured that it didn't matter, not a particle; and wouldn'tSatherwaite sit down?
No, Satherwaite couldn't stop. He heard the youth in the fadedcricket-blazer tell the man next to him, in a stage aside, that this was"Satherwaite, '02, an awful swell, you know." Satherwaite again declaredthat he could not remain.
Doyle said he was sorry; they were just having a little--a sort of aChristmas-eve party, you know. He blushed while he explained, and wonderedwhether Satherwaite thought them a lot of idiots, or simply a parcel ofsentimental kids. Probably Satherwaite knew some of the fellows? he wenton.
Satherwaite studied the assemblage, and replied that he thought not, thoughhe remembered having seen several of them at lectures and things. Doylemade no move toward introducing his friends to Satherwaite, and, to relievethe momentary silence that followed, observed that he supposed it wasgetting colder. Satherwaite replied, absently, that he hadn't noticed, butthat it was still snowing. The youth in the cricket-blazer fidgeted in hischair. Satherwaite was thinking.
Of course, he was not wanted there; he realized that. Yet, he was of half amind to stay. The thought of his empty room dismayed him. The cheer andcomfort before him appealed to him forcibly. And, more than all, he waspossessed of a desire to vindicate himself to this circle of narrow-mindedcritics. Great Scott! just because he had some money and went with someother fellows who also had money, he was to be promptly labeled "snob," andtreated with polite tolerance only. By Jove, he would stay, if only topunish them for their narrowness!
"You're sure I shan't be intruding, Doyle?" he asked.
Doyle gasped in amazement. Satherwaite removed his coat. A shiver ofconsternation passed through the room. Then the host found his tongue.
"Glad to have you. Nothing much doing. Few friends, Quiet evening. Let metake your coat."
Introductions followed. The man in the cricket-blazer turned out to beDoak, '03, the man who had won the Jonas Greeve scholarship; a small youthwith eaglelike countenance was Somers, he who had debated so brilliantlyagainst Princeton; a much-bewhiskered man was Ailworth, of the Law School;Kranch and Smith, both members of Satherwaite's class, completed the party.Satherwaite shook hands with those within reach, and looked for a chair.Instantly everyone was on his feet; there was a confused chorus of "Takethis, won't you?" Satherwaite accepted a straight-backed chair with part ofits cane seat missing, after a decent amount of protest; then a heavy,discouraging silence fell. Satherwaite looked around the circle. Everyonesave Ailworth and Doyle was staring blankly at the fire. Ailworth droppedhis eyes gravely; Doyle broke out explosively with:
"Do you smoke, Satherwaite?"
"Yes, but I'm afraid--" he searched his pockets perfunctorily--"I haven'tmy pipe with me." His cigarette case met his searching fingers, but somehowcigarettes did not seem appropriate.
"I'm sorry," said Doyle, "but I'm afraid I haven't an extra one. Any of youfellows got a pipe that's not working?"
Murmured regrets followed. Doak, who sat next to Satherwaite, put a hand inhis coat pocket, and viewed the intruder doubtingly from around the cornersof his glasses.
"It doesn't matter a bit," remarked Satherwaite heartily.
"I've got a sort of a pipe here," said Doak, "if you're not overparticularwhat you smoke."
Satherwaite received the pipe gravely. It was a blackened briar, whose bowlwas burned halfway down on one side, from being lighted over the gas, andwhose mouthpiece, gnawed away in long usage, had been reshaped with aknife. Satherwaite examined it with interest, rubbing the bowl gently onhis knee. He knew, without seeing, that Doak was eying him with mingleddefiance and apology, and wondering in what manner a man who was used tomeerschaums and gold-mounted briars would take the proffer of his worn-outfavorite; and he knew, too, that all the others were watching. He placedthe stem between his lips, and drew on it once or twice, with satisfaction.
"It seems a jolly old pipe," he said; "I fancy you must be rather fond ofit. Has anyone got any 'baccy?"
Five pouches were tendered instantly.
Satherwaite filled his pipe carefully. He had won the first trick, he toldhimself, and the thought was pleasurable. The conversation had started upagain, but it was yet perfunctory, and Satherwaite realized that he wasstill an outsider. Doyle gave him the opportunity he wanted.
"Isn't it something new for you to stay here through recess?" he asked.
Then Satherwaite told about Phil's Aunt Louise and the telegram; about hisdismal dinner at the restaurant and the subsequent flight from the tomblikesilence of the club; how he had decided, in desperation, to clean up hisstudy, and how he had come across Doyle's notebook. He told it rather well;he had a reputation for that sort of thing, and to-night he did his best.He pictured himself to his audience on the verge of suicide frommelancholia, and assured them that this fate had been averted only throughhis dislike of being found lifeless amid such untidy surroundings. Hedecked the narrative with touches of drollery, and was rewarded with thegrins that overspread the faces of his hearers. Ailworth noddedappreciatingly, now and then, and Doak even slapped his knee once andgiggled aloud. Satherwaite left out all mention of Phil's sister,naturally, and ended with:
"And so, when I saw you fellows having such a Christian, comfortable sortof a time, I simply couldn't break away again. I knew I was risking gettingmyself heartily disliked, and really I wouldn't blame you if you arose enmasse and kicked me out. But I am desperate. Give me some tobacco fromtime to time, and just let me sit here and listen to you; it will, be akindly act to a homeless orphan."
"Shut up!" said Doyle heartily; "we're glad to have you, of course." Theothers concurred. "We--we're going to light up the tree after a bit. We doit every year, you know. It's kind of--of Christmassy when you don't gethome for the holidays, you see. We give one another little presentsand--and have rather a bit of fun out of it. Only--" he hesitateddoubtfully--"only I'm afraid it may bore you awfully."
"Bore me!" cried Satherwaite; "why, man alive, I should think it would bethe jolliest sort of a thing. It's just like being kids again." He turnedand observed the tiny tree with interest.
"And do you mean that you all give one another presents, and keep itsecret, and--and all that?"
"Yes; just little things, you know," answered Doak deprecatingly.
"It's the nearest thing to a real Christmas that I've known for sevenyears," said Ailworth gravely. Satherwaite observed him wonderingly.
"By Jove!" he murmured; "seven years! Do you know, I'm glad now I am goinghome, instead of to Sterner's for Christmas. A fellow ought to be with hisown folks, don't you think?"
Everybody said yes heartily and there was a moment of silence in the room.Presently Kranch, whose home was in Michigan, began speaking reminiscentlyof the Christmases he had spent when a lad in the pine woods. He made theothers feel the cold and the magnitude of the pictures he drew, and, for aspace, Satherwaite was transported to a little lumber town in a clearing,and stood by excitedly, while a small boy in jeans drew woolenmittens--wonderful ones of red and gray--from out a Christmas stocking. AndSomers told of a Christmas he had once spent in a Quebec village; andAilworth followed him with an account of Christmas morning in a Maine-coastfishing town.
Satherwaite was silent. He had no Christmases of his own to tell about;they would have been sorry, indeed, after the others; Christmases in a bigPhiladelphia house, rather staid and stupid days, as he remembered themnow, days lacking in any delightful element of uncertainty, but filled withwonderful presents so numerous that the novelty had worn away from them erebedtime. He felt that, somehow, he had been cheated out of a pleasure whichshould have been his.
The tobacco pouches went from hand to hand. Christmas-giving had alreadybegun; and Satherwaite, to avoid disappointing his new friends, had tosmoke many more pipes than was good for him. Suddenly they found themselvesin darkness, save for the firelight. Doyle had arisen stealthily and turnedout the gas. Then, one by one, the tiny candles flickered and flared bluelyinto flame. Some one pulled the shades from before the two windows, and theroom was hushed. Outside they could see the flakes falling silently,steadily, between them and the electric lights that shone across theavenue. It was a beautiful, cold, still world of blue mists. A gong clangedsoftly, and a car, well-nigh untenanted, slid by beneath them, its windows,frosted halfway up, flooding the snow with mellow light. Some one besideSatherwaite murmured gently:
"Good old Christmas!"
The spell was broken, Satherwaite sighed--why, he hardly knew--and turnedaway from the window. The tree was brilliantly lighted now, and the stringsof cranberries caught the beams ruddily. Doak stirred the fire, and Doyle,turning from a whispered consultation with some of the others, approachedSatherwaite.
"Would you mind playing Santa Claus--give out the presents, you know; wealways do it that way?"
Satherwaite would be delighted; and, better to impersonate that famous oldgentleman, he turned up the collar of his jacket, and put each hand up theopposite sleeve, looking as benignant as possible the while.
"That's fine!" cried Smith; "but hold on, you need a cap!"
He seized one from the window seat, a worn thing of yellowish-brown otter,and drew it down over Satherwaite's ears. The crowd applauded merrily.
"Dear little boys and girls," began Satherwaite in a quavering voice.
"No girls!" cried Doak.
"I want the cranberries!" cried Smith; "I love cranberries."
"I get the popcorn, then!" That was the sedate Ailworth.
"You'll be beastly sick," said Doak, grinning jovially through his glasses.
Satherwaite untied the first package from its twig. It bore theinscription, "For Little Willie Kranch." Everyone gathered around while therecipient undid the wrappings, and laid bare a penwiper adorned with a tinycrimson football. Doak explained to Satherwaite that Kranch had playedfootball just once, on a scrub team, and had heroically carried the balldown a long field, and placed it triumphantly under his own goal posts.This accounted for the laughter that ensued.
"Sammy Doak" received a notebook marked "Mathematics 3a." The point of thisallusion was lost to Satherwaite, for Doak was too busy laughing to explainit. And so it went, and the room was in a constant roar of mirth. Doyle wasconferring excitedly with Ailworth across the room. By and by, he stoleforward, and, detaching one of the packages from the tree, erased and wroteon it with great secrecy. Then he tied it back again, and retired to thehearth, grinning expectantly, until his own name was called, and he wasshoved forward to receive a rubber pen-holder.
Presently, Satherwaite, working around the Christmas tree, detached apackage, and frowned over the address.
"Fellows, this looks like--like Satherwaite, but--" he viewed theassemblage in embarrassment--"but I fancy it's a mistake."
"Not a bit," cried Doyle; "that's just my writing."
"Open it!" cried the others, thronging up to him.
Satherwaite obeyed, wondering. Within the wrappers was a pocket memorandumbook, a simple thing of cheap red leather. Some one laughed uncertainly.Satherwaite, very red, ran his finger over the edges of the leaves,examined it long, as though he had never seen anything like it before, andplaced it in his waistcoat pocket.
"I--I--" he began.
"Chop it off!" cried some one joyously.
"I'm awfully much obliged to--to whoever--"
"It's from the gang," said Doyle.
"With a Merry Christmas," said Ailworth.
"Thank you--gang," said Satherwaite.
The distribution went on, but presently, when all the rest were crowdingabout Somers, Satherwaite whipped a package from his pocket and, writing onit hurriedly, was apparently in the act of taking it from the tree, whenthe others turned again.
"Little Harry Doyle," he read gravely.
Doyle viewed the package in amazement. He had dressed the tree himself.
"Open it up, old man!"
When he saw the gun-metal paper knife, he glanced quickly at Satherwaite.He was very red in the face. Satherwaite smiled back imperturbably. Theknife went from hand to hand, awakening enthusiastic admiration.
"But, I say, old man, who gave--?" began Smith.
"I'm awfully much obliged, Satherwaite," said Doyle, "but, really, Icouldn't think of taking--"
"Chop it off!" echoed Satherwaite. "Look here, Doyle, it isn't the sort ofthing I'd give you from choice; it's a useless sort of toy, but I justhappened to have it with me; bought it in the square on the way to give tosome one, I didn't know who, and so, if you don't mind, I wish you'd acceptit, you know. It'll do to put on the table or--open cans with. If you'drather not take it, why, chuck it out of the window!"
"It isn't that," cried Doyle; "it's only that it's much too fine----"
"Oh, no, it isn't," said Satherwaite. "Now, then, where's 'Little AlfieAilworth'?"
Small candy canes followed the packages, and the men drew once more aroundthe hearth, munching the pink and white confectionery enjoyingly. Smithinsisted upon having the cranberries, and wore them around his neck. Thepopcorn was distributed equally, and the next day, in the parlor car,Satherwaite drew his from a pocket together with his handkerchief.
Some one struck up a song, and Doyle remembered that Satherwaite had beenin the Glee Club. There was an instant clamor for a song, and Satherwaite,consenting, looked about the room.
"Haven't any thump box," said Smith. "Can't you go it alone?"
Satherwaite thought he could, and did. He had a rich tenor voice, and hesang all the songs he knew. When it could be done, by hook or by crook, theothers joined in the chorus; not too loudly, for it was getting late andproctors have sharp ears. When the last refrain had been repeated for thethird time, and silence reigned for the moment, they heard the bell in thenear-by tower. They counted its strokes; eight--nine--ten--eleven--twelve.
"Merry Christmas, all!" cried Smith.
In the clamor that ensued, Satherwaite secured his coat and hat. He shookhands all around. Smith insisted upon sharing the cranberries with him, andso looped a string gracefully about his neck. When Satherwaite backed outthe door he still held Doak's pet pipe clenched between his teeth, andDoak, knowing it, said not a word.
"Hope you'll come back and see us," called Doyle.
"That's right, old man, don't forget us!" shouted Ailworth.
And Satherwaite, promising again and again not to, stumbled his way downthe dark stairs.
Outside, he glanced gratefully up at the lighted panes. Then he grinned,and, scooping a handful of snow, sent it fairly against the glass.Instantly, the windows banged up, and six heads thrust themselves out.
"Good night! Merry Christmas, old man! Happy New Year!"
Something smashed softly against Satherwaite's cheek. He looked back. Theywere gathering snow from the ledges and throwing snowballs after him.
"Good shot!" he called. "Merry Christmas!"
The sound of their cries and laughter followed him far down the avenue.
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