Christmas this year was very different—Christmas Eve, especially. There was not quite the old exuberance6; that could never return in this grayer sadder world,—or perhaps it was merely that Julie and Stacey and Jimmie were grown-up now. But there was a genial7 friendly warmth in the atmosphere. And then there were three children this year. They chattered8 and laughed and stamped impatiently in the long hall that led from the library to the big drawing-room where the tree was being prepared, and when at last the drawing-room doors were thrown open and the brilliant tree was displayed all three gave a howl of joy that would have satisfied even Dickens.
Mr. Carroll was extraordinarily9 good on such occasions. He delivered the presents—not too slowly, not too rapidly—from the great pile about the base of the tree, with a pleasant easy grace and sometimes a little speech. His own gifts he laid aside in a corner, to open later. They made an imposing10 heap, too; for many people outside of the family delighted to remember Mr. Carroll. Women, especially. He had great success with women and remained quite unspoiled by it, accepting it with apparent unconsciousness, or as a matter of course, as an aristocrat11 accepts his position. Old wives of old friends, young wives of friends’ sons, daughters of friends, spinsters to whom he had been kind,—he stirred all of them to liking12. Perhaps it was Mr. Carroll’s good looks or his grace of manner or his goodness of heart or his youthful spirit or all of them together—Stacey did not know; but he recognized his father’s fascination13 and looked with affectionate amusement at the growing pile of prettily14 wrapped gifts. But it did not occur to Stacey that he himself had inherited that attractiveness to women; for he had inherited the unconsciousness of it along with the trait.
The three boys were making a tremendous racket, Julie was flushed and talkative, Jimmy Prout, a colored paper cap on his good-looking head, was lolling easily in his chair and drawing discordant15 wails16 from a toy accordion17. Only Catherine seemed subdued18. She sat near Julie, whom she liked warmly, and smiled and spoke19 quietly at times, but there was a faint tremulousness about her lips and a sensitiveness, as to pain, in the look of her eyes, that Stacey, who caught quickly the slightest change in Catherine, perceived clearly. Perhaps it was her shyness in all this confusion. Stacey did not know. She had not seemed quite herself of late.
The party broke up finally. Julie took her husband and her delirious20 son home, and Mr. Carroll and Stacey were left with Catherine and her two boys. Jackie, exhausted21 with happiness, sat on his mother’s lap and played sleepily with a mechanical mouse; Carter leaned against Stacey’s knee; Mr. Carroll sat, relaxed, in a chair near his gifts, which he showed no eagerness to open. The tree was lifeless, all its little colored candles extinguished, and the floor was strewn with ribbon and tissue-paper. The room held the quiet sadness that broods over a festival that is finished.
Catherine spoke first, setting Jackie on his feet and rising. “Thank you, Mr. Carroll, for everything,” she murmured. “I cannot—express how good you have been. And you, Stacey.”
The men had risen, too. “Why, my dear girl,” Mr. Carroll returned, “you’ve given us far more happiness than we you.”
She shook her head. “I must take the boys up now,” she said. “I’ve promised, as it’s Christmas Eve, to stay with them just for once while they undress.”
“You’ll come back, Catherine?” Stacey asked.
“Yes,” she replied, without looking at him, “I’ll come back.”
“Well, sir,” said Stacey gaily22, when he was left with his father, “aren’t you going to open all those bundles?”
“Presently! Presently!” Mr. Carroll replied. “I’ll carry them up to my study.”
“Oh, I say!” Stacey protested, “I want to see what you’ve got.”
His father shook his head. “There’s something better than that waiting for us,” he remarked, with a smile. “In the dining-room. A bottle of Pol Roger and some sandwiches and so forth23. Come along!”
“Well, rather!” Stacey exclaimed. “What a happy thought! I’m starved, too,—to say nothing of my thirst. You never eat anything at dinner in the excitement of this sort of thing.”
He wondered a bit that his father had not suggested their waiting for Catherine, then understood suddenly that this was a handsome tribute to himself, an effort to express wordlessly that they two, father and son, were close friends who needed no one else to help them achieve intimacy24. But the first thing Mr. Carroll did was to prepare carefully and set aside a plate of good things to eat. “For Catherine,” he explained. Then, with a boyish smile at Stacey, he took the bottle from the cooler, uncorked it, and poured the hissing25 pale-gold wine into the delicate flaring26 glasses.
“Aren’t you ashamed to violate the laws of your country in this way?” asked Stacey.
“I’m not doing that,” Mr. Carroll returned. “When it comes to whiskey I do some considerable violating, but this champagne27 has been in my cellar for years. To your health, son!”
“To yours, sir!” Stacey replied cordially. They touched glasses and drank.
They talked, like the good friends they were, in an easy desultory28 way while they sipped29 the wine and ate a little. But all at once Mr. Carroll became silent, then suddenly looked across at his son.
“Stacey,” he said, “don’t be a fool!”
It was an odd speech, but the oddest thing about it was the tone, which was not rough like the words, but pleading, almost cajoling. Mr. Carroll might have been saying: “Do me a favor, won’t you?”
Stacey grinned. “Try not to,” he said. “Explain.”
But his father was filling Stacey’s glass, and, when he had finished doing this, took more time than seemed necessary to replace the bottle in the cooler and adjust the napkin about its neck. And even then he did not reply at once.
“Well,” he said at last, with an obvious effort, and not looking at his son, “I mean to say—why the devil don’t you ask Catherine to marry you?”
Stacey, who had lifted his glass, started so that some of the yellow liquid spilled over upon the table-cloth. He leaned back in his chair, amazed and shocked.
“Where will you find any one who’s shown herself as good and sweet and courageous31?” Mr. Carroll went on, almost belligerently32, as though Catherine’s merits were in question.
“Nowhere,” Stacey replied soberly. It was abhorrent33 to him to see his deepest emotion, which he hardly admitted even to himself, spilled over the table, like the wine.
“Well, then?”
“There is—Phil,” Stacey muttered.
“Phil is dead,” Mr. Carroll answered gravely. “We have all felt his loss. He was a noble character. And you were his closest friend—”
“Just for that—”
“Just for that he would trust Catherine to you gladly. It would not be he to stand between you.”
“No,” Stacey said in a stifled34 voice, “I suppose not. It is not Phil, but— Please, sir!” he begged.
His father nodded. “Pretty cheeky of me, I admit, son,” he said gruffly. “Wouldn’t blame you if you’d grown angry, but you understand how I mean it—er—”
“That’s all right, dad. I know,” Stacey replied quickly.
They finished their supper in an awkward silence.
“Well,” said Mr. Carroll, rising, “I suppose I’d better get those presents of mine and open them. There’ll be a lot of notes to write in reply.”
Stacey followed him back to the littered drawing-room, mechanically almost, because he did not know what else to do. “Want any help, sir?” he asked.
“No, thanks,” said his father, his arms full of bundles. “I’ll be down again after a while.” And he went out.
Stacey, left alone, stared after him, then walked restlessly down the hall to the library. It was painful to him that his father should have divined his feelings. But this was not the worst. The worst was that, if his father had understood him, so, assuredly, had Catherine. This grieved Stacey deeply. He had been so careful, he thought; he had never meant to let her see what he felt for her. But she did know. Of course she knew! How stupid he had been! No wonder he found her changed! He could see it all now. His father, it seemed, believed that Catherine could care for Stacey as he for her; but Stacey knew better. She was shocked and saddened by her discovery, uncertain what to do—whether to go away or not, generously anxious not to give pain, all her peace of mind gone. Poor Catherine! Stacey was furious with himself. But this did no good—not the least bit. He shook off his anger impatiently. What was to be done about it? That was the point. How without putting things into words—which always made them worse—was he to let Catherine know that she could count on him, that he would be merely the friend she wanted him to be? He was puzzling over it when she entered the room.
She looked startled when she saw that he was there alone, and paused just inside the door as though half inclined to retreat. It hurt Stacey keenly that she should be afraid of him—and with reason. He had risen and stood facing her, but across the room from her.
“Won’t you—come in?” he asked. “Or would you rather go somewhere else—the dining-room? There’s luncheon35 ready for you in there.”
She shook her head. “No,” she answered, “and I’m not hungry.” But she did not come farther into the room, and, though she smiled waveringly, Stacey saw the expression of pain—or perhaps fear—in her eyes.
“Catherine,” he began in a low voice, after a moment, “why is it so hard—and dangerous—to be frank?”
“Ought it to be either?” she replied gently. She looked at him steadily36 as she spoke, but the expression on her face was odd and troubled. There was compassion37 in it, though; he felt that strongly. Of course! A generous emotion would always be dominant38 in Catherine.
He came a little nearer to her. “Catherine,” he said, “I have not meant ever to—” then broke off. It was worse to say things than to leave them unspoken, and she would understand them anyway. He tried desperately39 to call the whole subject off. “Oh,” he remarked, with a positively40 sepulchral41 gaiety, “Christmas is too emotional! We’re good friends, aren’t we? and that’s all that matters.”
But she continued to gaze at him in that same odd manner. The very pose of her body made her seem like a creature at bay.
And suddenly Stacey’s thoughts were swept away like so much rubbish by a wave of sure emotion. He took a step toward Catherine, stretching out his hands impulsively42, and all at once she was in his arms, trembling and weeping, her lips raised to his.
“Ah, Stacey, didn’t you know I loved you?” she murmured presently. “Your father knew.”
“Wh-when?”
“Since the evening you quarreled.”
“Oh,” Stacey cried, “was it—for love that you defended me?”
“You—might call it that.”
“I think,” she said gently, holding his hand against her cheek, “that men can hardly ever think in facts; they must think in patterns; and anything that will not fit into a pattern they find wrong. But I want to tell you the truth. I have always loved you, Stacey, always! It was not disloyalty. I am sure Phil knew. I loved you and him. It was different. I can’t make you understand.”
Stacey, very shaken and confused, and not understanding anything save (humbly) that this was giving on a scale beyond what was credible44, drew her to him and kissed her hot face.
“Oh, Stacey,” she murmured, “I feel so—immodest!”
“Aha!” he interrupted, laughing unsteadily, “now who’s thinking not like an individual but like the whole female sex?” And at this she, too, laughed a little.
They sat there, close together, scarcely speaking. But it came over Stacey in a rush that in his love for Catherine there was a touch of what he had felt for Marian and something more—far more! Truth, fact. It was complete. This was reality. There was nothing left out.
“Catherine,” he cried, “you are not only a grown woman; you are a little girl, too. And so I’m not afraid of you any longer—I always was, a little, you know. Now I’m not.”
“That’s odd,” she said shyly, “because I—have also been afraid of you, a little.”
“But really? On account of my temper, I suppose. You’re right. I’ve a rotten temper,” he said remorsefully45.
She smiled. “No, not on account of your temper. I think,” she explained, grave now, “it was the—the serenity46 you have achieved, Stacey dear.”
He drew away to stare at her, but before he could speak the door of the room opened and Mr. Carroll entered, then paused abruptly47.
Catherine saw him first and hurried to his side, clasping his hand in both of hers and laying her head against his shoulder.
Mr. Carroll reached out his other hand to grasp Stacey’s and gazed at his son with shining eyes.
“Oh, Mr. Carroll, do you mind?” Catherine cried softly.
“Mind, my dear!” he replied. “Isn’t it exactly what I’ve hoped for?” And he bent48 over and kissed her cheek, then made her sit down beside him on the divan, while Stacey stood a little way off, looking at them.
“Er—where are you thinking of living?” Mr. Carroll asked presently in a carefully matter-of-fact voice, while he slowly clipped off the end of a cigar.
Stacey flashed a swift questioning glance at Catherine. “Why,” he remarked then deliberately49, “what with the scarcity50 of houses and all, we were rather thinking of staying on here.”
“Well,” said Mr. Carroll, “if you will, you will, I suppose.” But he had paused to light his cigar before speaking, and it had taken him rather longer than usual.
THE END.
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1
stiffened
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| 加强的 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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apprehensively
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| adv.担心地 | |
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debonair
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| adj.殷勤的，快乐的 | |
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exuberance
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| n.丰富；繁荣 | |
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genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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8
chattered
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| （人）喋喋不休( chatter的过去式 )； 唠叨； （牙齿）打战； （机器）震颤 | |
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9
extraordinarily
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| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
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imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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11
aristocrat
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| n.贵族，有贵族气派的人，上层人物 | |
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liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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prettily
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| adv.优美地；可爱地 | |
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discordant
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| adj.不调和的 | |
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wails
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| 痛哭，哭声( wail的名词复数 ) | |
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accordion
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| n.手风琴；adj.可折叠的 | |
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subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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19
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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delirious
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| adj.不省人事的，神智昏迷的 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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hissing
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| n. 发嘶嘶声, 蔑视 动词hiss的现在分词形式 | |
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flaring
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| a.火焰摇曳的，过份艳丽的 | |
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champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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28
desultory
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| adj.散漫的，无方法的 | |
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29
sipped
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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30
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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31
courageous
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| adj.勇敢的，有胆量的 | |
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32
belligerently
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33
abhorrent
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| adj.可恶的，可恨的，讨厌的 | |
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stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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35
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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36
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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dominant
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| adj.支配的，统治的；占优势的；显性的；n.主因，要素，主要的人(或物)；显性基因 | |
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desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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sepulchral
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| adj.坟墓的，阴深的 | |
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impulsively
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| adv.冲动地 | |
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divan
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| n.长沙发；（波斯或其他东方诗人的）诗集 | |
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credible
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| adj.可信任的，可靠的 | |
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45
remorsefully
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| adv.极为懊悔地 | |
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46
serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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47
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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48
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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50
scarcity
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| n.缺乏，不足，萧条 | |
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