The Burglar and the Blizzard Part 9

But Billy continued to eye his host. "Oh, no, you don't," he said warily. "Not unless you move back. Do move, there's a good fellow." And Geoffrey laughed and moved, somewhat to the girl's mystification. She forgot to wonder, however, in pursuing the more wonderful train of thought which had already been occupying her. Suppose that their plans for her relief had been decided differently, suppose her brother had come for her instead of the magnificent stranger, with what different eyes she might now be looking on life--this ecstasy as Holland had defined it. Curious to know by what accident she had been so blessed, she asked:

"Why was it, Billy, that you did not come after me yourself?"

"Just what I said to him," replied McVay eagerly. "If I said once, I said a dozen times: 'Holland, it is my duty and pleasure, it is my _right_ to go,' but ..." McVay shrugged his shoulders, "when he once gets an idea into his head, it takes a gimlet to get it out."

"Upon my word, Billy," the girl said indignantly, "I don't think you ought to talk like that even in fun. You know perfectly well that Mr.

Holland only insisted on going because he thought he was better able to bear the physical strain."

"Physical strain!" exclaimed McVay colouring to the roots of his sandy hair, from pure annoyance; "I don't know what you mean,... Holland is, of course, a larger man than I, but not stronger.... Oh, well, as far as mere brute force goes, perhaps, but in the matter of bearing physical strain, you betray the most absurd ignorance. It is well known scientifically that medium-sized men like myself, when their muscles are at all developed (and you know my muscles), are better fitted for endurance than any of these over-grown giants."

"Then," said she calmly, "if you knew you were better fitted I can't see why you did not go."

"You are not quite fair to your brother," said Geoffrey interrupting, for McVay looked as if he would explode in another moment under the sense of injustice. "He did propose going himself, but I would not let him; I--I made it a personal matter."

"Very personal," replied McVay with feeling. "I'll just explain how it was. Last night, as soon as I realised how bad the storm was, I made up my mind that I had better attempt to enter the house. I succeeded after some trouble, came to this room, turned on the light--a spooky thing; an empty house, picked up a book, had quite forgotten my position, the world, everything, when a voice at my elbow said: 'Fond of reading?' I was never more surprised in my life. I felt distinctly caught,--an interloper. And to make matters worse, I saw that Holland did not at once recognise me. I made every effort to leave, but he would not hear of such a thing. He made it perfectly plain in fact that it was his wish to keep me. I yielded. That, I think, Holland, is a pretty accurate account of the night's proceeding, isn't it?"

Geoffrey did not answer. His soul rebelled at the farce, and at McVay's irrepressible enjoyment of his own abilities. As Holland met the twinkling joy of those small blue eyes, he wondered if he would not be doing mankind a favour by putting a bullet into McVay before the dawn of another day. Unconscious of this possibility, McVay continued to his sister:

"Well, it has all been a painful experience for you, my dear... a long and dangerous adventure for a woman, but you were at least warmly clad.

A handsome coat, is it not, Holland?"

"Very," said Geoffrey chillingly.

"Now that coat," McVay went on unchilled, "was a real bargain. I may say I paid nothing for it,--little more than the trouble of taking it home.

Although from another point of view, its price was pretty high...."

"Really, Billy, I don't think Mr. Holland is interested in our bargains."

"In _some_, he is."

"Yes, indeed," said Geoffrey, eyeing McVay with a warning glance, "I think I know of just about a dozen people who will want a circ.u.mstantial account of all of them."

"Now there, Holland, there is one of your philistine words,--circ.u.mstantial! It takes all poetry, all imagination out of a subject. Do you know, the only connotation--(are you familiar with that word?)--the only suggestion it has for me is a _jury_?"

He scored distinctly. Geoffrey had nothing to say in reply.

It was McVay himself, who, disliking a pause, observed that it was almost time to begin on the preparation of the Christmas dinner. They all rose as if glad of a break. As they pa.s.sed out of the door, Geoffrey laid his hand on McVay's arm.

"Why do you deliberately try to exasperate me?" he said.

McVay smiled. "Why do little boys lay their tongues to lamp-posts in freezing weather? Don't I amuse you? Be candid."

"No."

McVay looked regretful. "As I remembered you, Holland, as a boy, you had more sense of humour," he said gently.

VI

In the kitchen McVay made it evident that his talents were for organisation rather than for hard labour. He drew a chair near the wall, and tilting back at his ease, watched Geoffrey and Cecilia at work.

Geoffrey, engaged in lighting the range-fire, looked up at her as she moved about filling the kettle and was.h.i.+ng out pots and pans, and thought that he and she presented the aspect of a young couple of the labouring cla.s.s with no further ambition than to keep a roof over their heads. He almost had it in his heart to wish that they were.

She proved herself infinitely more capable than the two men had been, discovering tins of b.u.t.ter and soup and sardines, a package of hominy, apples and potatoes in the cellar, and an old box of wedding cake, which, with a burning brandy sauce, she declared would serve very well for plum-pudding.

Manual labour was such a novelty to Geoffrey that he soon forgot even his irritation against McVay and the triangular intercourse was more friendly than before, until marred by an unfortunate incident.

He was standing in the middle of the kitchen with a steaming pot in each hand, when McVay, without warning, advanced toward him, handkerchief in hand, exclaiming:

"My dear fellow, such a s.m.u.t on your forehead, pray allow me--"

[Ill.u.s.tration: "MY DEAR FELLOW--PRAY ALLOW ME"]

"Look out," roared Geoffrey, realising how easily in another second his revolver might be taken from him. The tone was alarming, and McVay sprang back ten feet. "I was afraid of burning you with the soup,"

Geoffrey explained politely.

"I own you made me jump," said McVay.

The girl said nothing, and Geoffrey feared the incident had made an unfortunate impression on her.

It appeared to be completely forgotten, however, when they presently sat down to their Christmas dinner, of which they all expressed themselves as inordinately proud. There was canned soup, and sardines and toasted biscuits, canned corned beef, potatoes and fried hominy, bacon and a potato salad, a bottle of champagne, and finally the wedding cake.

Now to say that by the time dessert was put on table McVay was drunk would be to do him a gross injustice. All the more genial side of this nature, however, was distinctly emphasised. The better part of a quart of champagne had not produced any signs of intoxication; his eye was clear, his speech perfect, and he was more than usually aware of his own powers, confident of appreciation.

As he finished his share of cake, he rose to his feet, and leaning the tips of his fingers on the table, addressed Geoffrey.

"My dear Holland," he said, "I will not wish you a Merry Christmas, for it has already been as merry as it has lain within my poor capacity to make it. Let me, however, express my own grat.i.tude to you for this delightful occasion. You have referred to the fare as meagre, to our position as constrained, but believe me, I am not exaggerating when I say that I so little agree with you that I am confident that, during many of the remaining years of my life I shall look back to this Christmas as one of unusual luxury and freedom. It is, perhaps, the warm glow of friends.h.i.+p that gilds all small discomforts, for in situations like ours characters are tested, and yours, Holland," he paused impressively, "has stood the test."

Geoffrey bowed gratefully, and McVay continued:

"I have here a slight token in honour of the day. It is of little pecuniary value, but between us, Holland, pecuniary value is no longer mentioned. I feel that it will be recommended to you more than mere worth could recommend it by the fact that it is peculiarly my own,--my own as few human possessions can be said to be. I offer it," he said, drawing from his pocket a square flat little package, "with best wishes for a happy New Year."

[Ill.u.s.tration: "I HAVE HERE A SLIGHT TOKEN, IN HONOR OF THE DAY"]

The idea that McVay was going to give him a present had never crossed Geoffrey's mind, and now it struck him as so characteristic, so perfectly in keeping with McVay's consuming desire to triumph in minor matters, that he was able to smile pleasantly and receive it appropriately. He exchanged a glance of real appreciation with the donor, and received a grave bow in return.

Cecilia smiled, too, "I don't know exactly why you should think Mr.

Holland wants your picture, Billy," she said.

"It may be of the greatest service to him," said McVay.

The girl turned to Geoffrey. "I can't make a speech like Billy's," she said, "but I have a small present for you which I hope you won't despise because it is not new. I mean I have worn it myself for some time, and I hope _you_ will now, in remembrance of the time when you sheltered the houseless." She held out on her pink palm a flat gold pencil with a single topaz set in the top.

The thing was of some value and Geoffrey, looking up, caught McVay's eye in which danced such a delicious merriment that Geoffrey's half-formed question was answered. McVay was undergoing such paroxysms of delight at the idea that Geoffrey was about to become a receiver of stolen goods that he could not well conceal it. And instinctively Geoffrey drew back his hand. The next moment he realised that he must at once accept the gift with decent grat.i.tude, whatever he might choose to do with it afterward, but unfortunately the girl had noticed his hesitation.

She said nothing whatsoever, but she closed her hand on the pencil, rose from the table, and left them to dispose of the remains of the feast as best they could.