Terry. Charles Goff Thomson
to contribute to the sum of peace on earth and to give pleasure to those whom he loved.
His gift to Deane had approached even his exacting criterion of what was fit for her. He envied the skin its rapturous reception, the sparkle of bright eyes its beauty would invoke. It was characteristic that his vision did not carry him to the daily contact of pink toes he had assigned as its function. And it was characteristic of him, too, that he did not think of the gifts which had come for him.
He would see the elders, he mused, and apologize for what must have seemed to them a deliberate flaunting of their standards … he had been a little careless, lately … he would remedy that … it was a good town—his failure to settle down had been a fault … he would find something to do, worth doing—and do it. … Deane's friendship might ripen into something mellower, and then. …
He reached into an inner pocket and withdrew a telegram, bending nearer the fireplace to read it.
Washington, D. C.
Richard Terry, Crampville, Vermont.
Wire will you accept commission second lieutenant Philippine Constabulary period immediate decision essential period if you accept wire date you will be able to sail from San Francisco
Wilson Insular Bureau
The glow from the fire which ruddied his face revealed the struggle of the minute before decision came. With an expression curiously mingled of renunciation and relief he tossed the paper among the glowing embers. He rose as the sheet took fire and in the brief flash of light which marked the consumption of the telegram he saw a familiar-looking package on the library table in the shadow cast by his big chair. He carried it to the now fainter glow of the hearth and saw that it was addressed to him in Deane's trim hand. He opened it eagerly, to see what form her remembrance had taken.
It was the fox-skin, returned. Vague, trouble-eyed, he read the inclosed note.
Dear Dick:—
I am sending you back your present. Father insists, because you secured it on Sunday.
It hurts me, Dick, dreadfully, but you know how he feels about such things.
It is the loveliest present I ever received—and it makes me want to cry, sometimes, when I think of your doing such things for me and thinking about me as you do. I AM crying, now, Dick.
Though I can not have it, your present will always be mine—I can never forget that you were good enough to wish me to have it.
And will you accept my very best wishes that your Christmas may be a very merry one.
Deane.
He sank back into the chair again, sickened. … "That your Christmas may be a very merry one."
Susan, first down in the morning, raised the curtains to the brilliant Christmas morning, and turned to find him sitting in the chilled room before the dead fire. Shocked by the haggard face, she hurried to him.
"Dick, are you sick?" As she sank by the side of his chair her hand brushed against the rich fur which lay across his knees, and she understood. She placed a pitying arm about his shoulders.
"I feared it, Dick—I feared it! You know how he is—her father. I'll never speak to him again as long as—" She burst into tears.
Gently he withdrew her arm and took her hand in his.
"It's all right, Sue, it's—all—right."
Through her tears she read the pain that lurked in his eyes, the agony that betrayed the patient smile. She sobbed convulsively, heartsick in her helplessness to ease this young brother to whom she had been half mother.
"That's what you always say—about everything: 'it will be all right.' When you were a boy it was always the same—'it's all right.'"
He comforted her with quiet words till the storm abated. Then, "I'm going to miss you, Sue-sister," he said.
She stood up, comprehension dawning in her wide eyes.
"You're going away!"
He nodded gravely.
Slowly, fearfully, she asked, "When?"
"To-night."
"Way off to—those—Philippines?"
He nodded, then unable to bear longer the hurt in her tremulous face, he sought refuge in the ridiculous; he struck an attitude.
"I'm going in quest of adventure—riches—romance! I'm going to sail the Spanish Main—seek golden doubloons—maids in distress—the Fountain of Youth! I'm going to cross strange waters—travel untraveled forest … see unseen peoples … know unknown hills. … "
An odd light flickered in his eyes, as if he half believed what he spoke. Fanny appeared at the kitchen door and with her cheery call of "Merry Christmas," the light faded from his face as he turned in quick response.
He turned to his sister in mock reproof: "Shure and it's ye that has not yet wished me aven a dacent top o' the marnin', let alone the gratin's of the sason! Shame on ye—ye heartless, thoughtless, loveless—"
He broke off, laughing at her bewilderment: she never could keep apace with his quick moods. Noting a tear still glistening he took her cheeks between his hands and kissed the wet eyes, then asked her to get word to Deane that he would be over some time during the evening.
Surprised and pleased that he should ask her to participate in his affair with Deane, she hurried to the desk set in a deep bay window.
Ellis, sleepy-eyed, came down with his hearty greetings of the day, and was surprised to find Sue bent earnestly over her writing.
"Say," he said, "can't you wait till after breakfast to thank everybody for their presents? What's the rush? Say, Dick, did you hear yet what Bruce gave to the lady of his heart? No? Well, he out-Bruced Bruce this time! He gave her a patented, electric foot-warmer!"
Terry smiled his appreciation of Ellis' chuckling loyalty and escaped upstairs to his room. Ellis wandered aimlessly over to the Christmas table and noted the number of unopened packages marked with Terry's name, then called up from the foot of the stairs:
"Come right down here, you ungrateful Non-christian, and see what Santa Claus brought you! You got more than any of us and—"
He desisted as he suddenly became aware of his wife's frantic signals, and reading the grievous trouble in her twitching face, he went to her.
Susan, entering Terry's room at dusk, found him standing at the window staring out into the evening, watching the shadows paint out one by one the landmarks he had known from boyhood. Two large leather bags, packed but still open, stood at the side of the bed. The two frames which had held the pictures of his father and mother lay upon the table, empty, beside letters addressed to Father Jennings, Doctor Mather, and Tony Ricorro.
He did not hear her but continued at the window, his relaxed shoulders giving an unwonted aspect of frailty to his body. She tiptoed out of the room, crept back again to look through brimming eyes at the lonely figure silhouetted against the darkening window, then stumbled into her own room and closed the door.
Terry returned to Deane in the sitting room after bidding her father and mother a courteously friendly farewell. Mr. Hunter, vaguely disturbed, had followed his wife upstairs reluctantly; he was not quite confident that his decision regarding the fox skin had been justified, and would have been glad had Terry given him opportunity to discuss it. In a moment his voice sounded down to them as he defended himself against his irate spouse.
"I don't care what you say, Marthy, he's got to settle down and—"
Then their door closed.
For a long time Deane and Terry stood voiceless, each leaden with a dull misery. The shock of his announcement had paled her and she stared hopelessly at him out of wide blue eyes, her full red lips aquiver at the hurt she read in the gray eyes and the