Chapter 5

      Table of Contents

      It was the afternoon of the day before Christmas. Mrs. Alexander had been driving about all the morning, leaving presents at the houses of her friends. She lunched alone, and as she rose from the table she spoke to the butler: “Thomas, I am going down to the kitchen now to see Norah. In half an hour you are to bring the greens up from the cellar and put them in the library. Mr. Alexander will be home at three to hang them himself. Don’t forget the stepladder, and plenty of tacks and string. You may bring the azaleas upstairs. Take the white one to Mr. Alexander’s study. Put the two pink ones in this room, and the red one in the drawing-room.”

      A little before three o’clock Mrs. Alexander went into the library to see that everything was ready. She pulled the window shades high, for the weather was dark and stormy, and there was little light, even in the streets. A foot of snow had fallen during the morning, and the wide space over the river was thick with flying flakes that fell and wreathed the masses of floating ice. Winifred was standing by the window when she heard the front door open. She hurried to the hall as Alexander came stamping in, covered with snow. He kissed her joyfully and brushed away the snow that fell on her hair.

      “I wish I had asked you to meet me at the office and walk home with me, Winifred. The Common is beautiful. The boys have swept the snow off the pond and are skating furiously. Did the cyclamens come?”

      “An hour ago. What splendid ones! But aren’t you frightfully extravagant?”

      “Not for Christmas-time. I’ll go upstairs and change my coat. I shall be down in a moment. Tell Thomas to get everything ready.”

      When Alexander reappeared, he took his wife’s arm and went with her into the library. “When did the azaleas get here? Thomas has got the white one in my room.”

      “I told him to put it there.”

      “But, I say, it’s much the finest of the lot!”

      “That’s why I had it put there. There is too much color in that room for a red one, you know.”

      Bartley began to sort the greens. “It looks very splendid there, but I feel piggish to have it. However, we really spend more time there than anywhere else in the house. Will you hand me the holly?”

      He climbed up the stepladder, which creaked under his weight, and began to twist the tough stems of the holly into the frame-work of the chandelier.

      “I forgot to tell you that I had a letter from Wilson, this morning, explaining his telegram. He is coming on because an old uncle up in Vermont has conveniently died and left Wilson a little money — something like ten thousand. He’s coming on to settle up the estate. Won’t it be jolly to have him?”

      “And how fine that he’s come into a little money. I can see him posting down State Street to the steamship offices. He will get a good many trips out of that ten thousand. What can have detained him? I expected him here for luncheon.”

      “Those trains from Albany are always late. He’ll be along sometime this afternoon. And now, don’t you want to go upstairs and lie down for an hour? You’ve had a busy morning and I don’t want you to be tired to-night.”

      After his wife went upstairs Alexander worked energetically at the greens for a few moments. Then, as he was cutting off a length of string, he sighed suddenly and sat down, staring out of the window at the snow. The animation died out of his face, but in his eyes there was a restless light, a look of apprehension and suspense. He kept clasping and unclasping his big hands as if he were trying to realize something. The clock ticked through the minutes of a half-hour and the afternoon outside began to thicken and darken turbidly. Alexander, since he first sat down, had not changed his position. He leaned forward, his hands between his knees, scarcely breathing, as if he were holding himself away from his surroundings, from the room, and from the very chair in which he sat, from everything except the wild eddies of snow above the river on which his eyes were fixed with feverish intentness, as if he were trying to project himself thither. When at last Lucius Wilson was announced, Alexander sprang eagerly to his feet and hurried to meet his old instructor.

      “Hello, Wilson. What luck! Come into the library. We are to have a lot of people to dinner to-night, and Winifred’s lying down. You will excuse her, won’t you? And now what about yourself? Sit down and tell me everything.”

      “I think I’d rather move about, if you don’t mind. I’ve been sitting in the train for a week, it seems to me.” Wilson stood before the fire with his hands behind him and looked about the room. “You HAVE been busy. Bartley, if I’d had my choice of all possible places in which to spend Christmas, your house would certainly be the place I’d have chosen. Happy people do a great deal for their friends. A house like this throws its warmth out. I felt it distinctly as I was coming through the Berkshires. I could scarcely believe that I was to see Mrs. Bartley again so soon.”

      “Thank you, Wilson. She’ll be as glad to see you. Shall we have tea now? I’ll ring for Thomas to clear away this litter. Winifred says I always wreck the house when I try to do anything. Do you know, I am quite tired. Looks as if I were not used to work, doesn’t it?” Alexander laughed and dropped into a chair. “You know, I’m sailing the day after New Year’s.”

      “Again? Why, you’ve been over twice since I was here in the spring, haven’t you?”

      “Oh, I was in London about ten days in the summer. Went to escape the hot weather more than anything else. I shan’t be gone more than a month this time. Winifred and I have been up in Canada for most of the autumn. That Moorlock Bridge is on my back all the time. I never had so much trouble with a job before.” Alexander moved about restlessly and fell to poking the fire.

      “Haven’t I seen in the papers that there is some trouble about a tidewater bridge of yours in New Jersey?”

      “Oh, that doesn’t amount to anything. It’s held up by a steel strike. A bother, of course, but the sort of thing one is always having to put up with. But the Moorlock Bridge is a continual anxiety. You see, the truth is, we are having to build pretty well to the strain limit up there. They’ve crowded me too much on the cost. It’s all very well if everything goes well, but these estimates have never been used for anything of such length before. However, there’s nothing to be done. They hold me to the scale I’ve used in shorter bridges. The last thing a bridge commission cares about is the kind of bridge you build.”

      When Bartley had finished dressing for dinner he went into his study, where he found his wife arranging flowers on his writing-table.

      “These pink roses just came from Mrs. Hastings,” she said, smiling, “and I am sure she meant them for you.”

      Bartley looked about with an air of satisfaction at the greens and the wreaths in the windows. “Have you a moment, Winifred? I have just now been thinking that this is our twelfth Christmas. Can you realize it?” He went up to the table and took her hands away from the flowers, drying them with his pocket handkerchief. “They’ve been awfully happy ones, all of them, haven’t they?” He took her in his arms and bent back, lifting her a little and giving her a long kiss. “You are happy, aren’t you Winifred? More than anything else in the world, I want you to be happy. Sometimes, of late, I’ve thought you looked as if you were troubled.”

      “No; it’s only when you are troubled and harassed that I feel worried, Bartley. I wish you always seemed as you do to-night. But you don’t, always.” She looked earnestly and inquiringly into his eyes.

      Alexander took her two hands from his shoulders and swung them back and forth in his own, laughing his big blond laugh.

      “I’m