CHAPTER XXXII.

NORINE’S CHRISTMAS PRESENT.

It was late at night when Conway reached New York--too late to go to Jim’s, he thought; so he was driven through the raging storm to a hotel.

He was tired and worn out after his long ride, but he could not sleep; so, after registering and leaving some directions with the clerk regarding his room, he buttoned his overcoat closely around him, and strode forth into the storm. He was worn and anxious from the repeated shocks his nerves had withstood, and he felt gloomy over his future prospects with Norine. The last obstacle had been removed, and he felt sure of winning her--in time.

But this additional delay, after all his patient waiting, oppressed him with gloomy forebodings. She would want to wait a year, at least, he thought; for although she had been a widow all these years, her husband was just dead, and he did not doubt that Norine would insist on waiting the full year.

He was tired and sick of all this waiting and longing for the unobtainable. He would have to go back to his old life, he thought, wearily, and perhaps it would be better if they were never to meet again. But even as he thought this he was walking mechanically in the direction of Norine’s house.

It was long after midnight now, and he certainly could not expect to see any one at that hour. Yet he walked back and forth in front of the house, and watched the windows with the eagerness of a young lover.

“She is well,” he murmured at last, with a sigh of relief, “or there would be lights shining;” and he passed the house for the last time, and returned to the hotel. “How silly it all is!” he thought, with some vexation, as he brushed the wet snow from his clothes. “I go wandering around her house like a lovesick boy, instead of going to bed like a sensible man. I have waited all these years; surely I can wait until morning.”

He could not see that he was any nearer to her than he had been a year ago. But he could see her in the morning; there was some consolation in that, and still more consolation in the thought that he had her love. It was selfish in him, no doubt. But it consoled him somewhat to think that she would be waiting now as well as he. As if the pains of separation could be lessened any by the knowledge that she was suffering as well as he.

He had intended to be with them early in the morning; but sleep had chained him down as if in revenge for his nonsensical exertion on the previous night. And it was well along toward noon when he arrived at their door.

“I am so glad you are come,” cried Norine, as she met him with outstretched hands. “We did not know when to expect you, and you did not write,” pouting a little.

He gathered the two small hands closely in his. He was satisfied. At least she was glad to see him.

“I did not think to write,” he said, looking at her fondly. “And I did not know that I could get away until just before I started.”

“You are so good,” said Norine, “to take all that trouble off Jim’s hands; but you see he had me to take care of, so he could not stay.”

Conway laughed lightly.

“It was no great matter. But now I think of it, Jim might have given me the easier job.”

“What was that?” inquired Norine, raising her brows.

“What was it? Why, taking care of you, of course.”

They were standing together by the window; but at his words, and the fond smile that accompanied them, she moved a little away from him. In her joy at seeing her lover she had forgotten for a moment.

Conway noticed the movement and sighed bitterly.

“No doubt you were better pleased as it was,” he said gloomily; and he turned and made a pretense of looking over some books on the table, that she might not see his face.

Norine followed him: she laid her hand softly upon his arm and looked up into his averted face.

“You do not think that, Lester,” she said, her lips trembling a little. “And you must not be cruel. It is not my fault, dear.”

He turned impulsively and caught her to his heart.

“I was a brute,” he said passionately; “but I could not help it, dear. I will not hurt you again.”

Norine disengaged herself, palpitating a little from the ardor of his embrace.

“You are not quite a brute,” she smiled, panting a little. “But you are dreadfully strong, and you must not do that again either--yet;” and she ran laughing out of the room just as Jim came in.

“Hello, old man!” cried that worthy gayly; “so you got back safe, eh? Well, I’m mighty glad to see you;” and he shook Conway’s hand heartily.

“I am safe enough,” returned Conway lightly. “But I have got a large sum of money here belonging to you, and I am glad you have come to relieve me.”

“Well, I’ll lock up the money,” said Jim prudently, “and we will talk matters over after dinner.”

Jim appeared to be in no hurry to listen to Conway’s accounting, for he excused himself immediately after dinner on a plea of business, and left Conway and his sister alone.

“I am glad he has gone, the dear fellow,” Norine said, after he had left the room, “for I want you to help me.”

“In what way?” inquired Conway.

“In my shopping, sir,” replied Norine gravely. “Did you ever go shopping with a woman?”

“No; I have never had that pleasure.”

Norine laughed.

“Wait till we return before you call it a pleasure,” she cried gayly. “But then, seriously, I must buy some presents for Jim and Clinton, and the people at home.” Norine always referred to the farm as home. “And you must help me, for I can not imagine what to get.”

“I will do all I can,” replied Conway; “but I doubt the value of my assistance.”

“Oh, you can help me, I know,” smiled Norine; and then added demurely: “And I will promise you a Christmas present to pay you for your trouble--something that I think you will value;” and with that she slipped away to get ready.

“We will not take the carriage,” she said, when she returned. “It will only delay us; and besides, I want to see the windows.”

And they started out together to walk the streets pretty much as they had gone on their long walks through the woods at home. They went to several establishments, where the windows were dressed for holiday display, and returned home at dark, tired but satisfied.

“We shall go again to-morrow!” cried Norine, delighted. “We have spent so much time looking in the windows that I have not bought one half of all I wanted.”

After supper, the two men retired to the cozy little room that Jim had fitted up for his office and smoking room. Other folks would probably have dignified the apartment by calling it a study; but with them it was simply Jim’s room, and the lack of tone in the appellation detracted nothing from its all-pervading air of cozy comfort.

After they got their pipes filled and properly lighted, they entered into the discussion of business; and Conway explained the terms he had made in the sale of the land, and also the disposition they had made of Clinton’s interest in the Morain business.

Jim was highly pleased with it all.

“The confounded business is settled now,” he said, “and I am mighty glad to be rid of it. It is astonishing how things do happen,” he continued thoughtfully. “If any one here had offered me one half that amount for the land, I would have taken it quick. It was more accident than anything else that caused me to take that trip; but it was a mighty lucky accident for all of us.”

“Lucky!” ejaculated Conway, astonished.

Surely, he thought, Jim is not becoming so sordid as to care nothing for his sister’s feelings.

“Why, yes, lucky,” continued Jim, smoking complacently. “I don’t mean as regards money alone; although that, of course, is worth considering. But just think of Norine and yourself.”

“Mighty lucky for us, I fancy,” said Conway moodily.

“Of course it was,” assented Jim. “You see, we know he is dead now; he can not trouble us again.”

“He is certainly dead this time,” said Conway, getting up and pacing the floor. “I hope the boy won’t turn out like his father. Not that I think there is any danger of it; but such traits are sometimes inherited.”

“I doubt that,” argued Jim. “Man is essentially a creature of circumstances. No man is a villain from choice. Suppose now that Norine had had her money when they were married, do you suppose he would ever have left her?”

“Not as long as the money lasted, at any rate.”

“There you do him an injustice. He would not have spent her money. He would have added to it. He was ambitious,” continued Jim, forgetting to smoke in the heat of his argument. “He was ambitious, and the money would have given him a chance to gratify his ambition; that is all. Probably if things had been different, I should have been proud of my brother-in-law. It was all a matter of chance.”

“Is it a matter of chance that you and I are honest men?” asked Conway, greatly amused.

“Yes; I think it is,” retorted Jim coolly. “You are not ambitious enough to be dishonest; and I have everything I need, so there is no temptation.”

“Were you not honest before you became rich?”

“Yes--from choice; no one ever gave me a chance to be dishonest then.”

Conway laughed.

“Don’t trust too much to chance,” he said. “You have heard the old saying, ‘Fools trust to chances; wise men make them.’”

“That only shows that a fool’s wisdom is sometimes best,” retorted Jim.

Conway did not continue the discussion.

“Norine may not be pleased at my giving away so much money belonging to her son,” he said, to change the subject.

“She would not have touched it,” replied Jim. “You did quite right, and she will thank you for it when she knows.”

As he spoke he drew a mass of papers from the desk in front of him, and set busily to work arranging them in neat piles.

Conway lay back in his easy-chair, and watched him lazily through the smoke.

“You seem to be busy,” he said at last.

“Yes,” replied Jim, continuing his work, “Time is almost up now, and I want to leave things in good order when I go. I don’t want to take the chances of being called back to attend to something just as my trip begins to get interesting.”

Conway made no reply. There was something in Jim’s words that grated on him.

This was the first time the contemplated voyage had been spoken of since their late trouble. And while he had hardly dared hope that it might be postponed, he certainly had not expected to hear it spoken of in this cool manner.

It hurt him to think that they could go on with their pleasant preparations, and show no consideration for his pain.

“But, after all, it is only the way of the world,” he thought sadly. “I have no right to expect them to be sorrowful because I must. I had better get away from here as soon as possible. I can only mar their enjoyment by staying.”

And he went to bed that night fully determined that the next day should be his last with them.

But it was not. He spoke at the breakfast table of his proposed departure; but neither the brother nor sister would listen to it.

“You will not go until after Christmas,” pleaded Norine. “That is only a few days now, and you will stay with us until then.”

“Of course he will,” interrupted Jim grandly. “We could not get along without him.”

Conway protested weakly; but it was of no use.

“The idea,” pouted Norine, when Jim had taken his letters and left them alone. “You are very anxious to leave me, and you used to pretend that you liked me, too.”

“Was it all pretense?” inquired Conway.

“I’m sure I don’t know,” replied Norine, arching her brows. “You are very anxious to leave me.”

“Well, I will stay; and you will remember it as one thing I did to please you;” and he bit his lips with vexation as soon as he said it.

Norine looked at him for a moment in a puzzled way.

“Of course if it does not please you,” she began coldly; and then seeing his mortification, she laughed heartily. “You are a goose,” she said; “but you will stay to please me.”

“I did not mean that quite,” stammered Conway, flushing with mortification. “I will be glad to stay, since you wish it.”

“That is a good boy.” And she came around the table, and rested her hands upon his shoulders. “And remember, I am going to give you a Christmas present. Will you value it?”

And she looked down at him wistfully.

Conway reached over and seized her hands and looked up into her face.

“I will value it,” he said.

“All your life?”

“All my life. Am I to help you choose it?”

Norine laughed a little, satisfied, happy laugh.

“No, you can not choose it,” she said; but with that same wistful look on her face. “You can reject it if you don’t like it.”

Conway laughed. He was not likely to reject anything she gave him.

And shortly after they went on their shopping expedition; and the shopping expeditions were carried on to such an extent that they spent the greater part of each of the few remaining days before Christmas in wandering around the streets together and looking into the shop windows.

But the remaining days were very few and very short, Conway thought; and before they had fairly done their shopping, the time had slipped around, and Christmas had come.

Conway had bought a present each for Jim and Norine, and little Clinton was happy in the abundance he had received.

There had been a general interchange of gifts over the breakfast table, but Conway had not received his promised present from Norine. He had forgotten it, apparently, for she looked at him wistfully several times without discovering any traces of disappointment in his face; and after the happy morning meal was over, and they were alone, she said softly:

“You have not got my present yet, Lester.”

“There! I knew there was something lacking. Did you forget me?”

“No,” she answered, coming closer to him and speaking softly and timidly; “I did not forget you. But, oh, Lester! are you sure that you will always value my gift?”

And she looked at him with her eyes swimming in tears.

“Value it?” cried Conway, puzzled at her earnestness. “I will value it dearly.”

“All your life?” coming closer.

“All my life.”

“There it is, then,” she said, blushing and trembling.

And she put her little closed fist into his hand.

Conway turned the little soft hand over, and stupidly opened the little pink fingers. It was empty.

He was very pale now, and trembled from eagerness.

“Oh, Norine!” he cried huskily, “what am I to understand: that you will come to me now--that I need not wait?”

She nodded shyly.

“If you want me,” she whispered; and then she disappeared, completely swallowed up in her lover’s embrace.

“Hello!” exclaimed Jim, when he burst into the room some time after, and caught them in the same position. “I say,” he went on, gazing coolly at them, “any time you get through with my sister, I would like to have a look at her myself.”

“But I am not going to get through with her,” replied Conway. “We are going to be married at once. We need not wait.”

“Pooh! I knew that,” answered Jim loftily. “I am glad, though, that you have got sense enough to be happy at last.”

“You will not think it wrong that I did not wait--after what has happened?” asked Norine timidly, appearing for a moment after Jim had left.

Conway made no answer in words, but he held her close, very close to him, and looked down into her blushing face; and I don’t suppose, really, that any words were necessary.

* * * * *

Nestling at the foot of a cloud-capped mountain, in one of the most romantic spots in Germany, there is a little rustic village. It is a very little village--and being somewhat out of the beaten track of continental tourists--a very quiet one. It is not a “show town,” and I doubt if it can be found in the guide books. But it is a very pleasant little place for all that.

Just the place one would choose if tired of scrambling over mountains and wandering through “show” places, one simply desired to rest. Everything about the little village is slumbrous and restful. Even the ruddy-cheeked children move slowly around, and the very animals seem to spend their life in a perpetual doze.

There was a party of travelers in the little village now, and the landlord of the one little inn was at his wits’ end to provide for them, for these were Americans, and wealthy. Oh, very wealthy, and altogether it was a piece of good fortune that seldom came to the sleepy-looking landlord.

You could see one of these great people now seated in front of the little red-tiled inn, and really, as he sat there with a big pipe in his mouth and a cold-looking mug of beer on the little table beside him, he did not look to be such a _very_ great personage after all.

It is only one year since we saw him last, and beyond a deeper tinge of bronze on his face, and a look of supreme contentment all over him, he has changed very little. There is the same kindly smile on his face, and altogether, Herr Doctor, as he is called in the little village, looks as if he were at peace with the world.

He turns lazily in his chair as a ponderous traveling carriage dashes up to the little inn, and springs to his feet with an exclamation of surprise. He has seen a face at the carriage window, and he evidently recognizes it; for he drops his pipe as he springs to his feet, and hurries out into the little court where the carriage stands.

It is Lettie’s face he sees, and Lettie, colder, prouder, and more beautiful than of yore, drops her mask of cold indifference as she welcomes him.

Yes, it is Lettie, and beside her, looking many years younger than when we met him last, is her husband, and he grins contentedly as his eyes rest on his beautiful young wife; for, like Herr Doctor, old Pat is at peace with the world.

There is very little time for conversation, for they do not leave the carriage at all; but there is time enough for old Pat to tell of Fanny’s elegant establishment in Chicago, where, as the rich “Mrs. Elwell,” she has got into “society” at last.

There is also time enough for Conway to tell about that little son of his, whose coming into the world has caused them to stop at this restful little place. He tells of it proudly, and speaks lovingly of the little mother who is not yet able to get downstairs. Whereat Lettie’s face becomes a trifle paler, and a look of great yearning comes into her eyes, and the ponderous carriage drives on with a cracking of the whip and a merry jingling of bells, and the doctor hurries upstairs to tell the little mother his wonderful news.

Back in one of the coolest rooms of the little inn, also with a pipe in his mouth, is another of these great people; and as he lies back in an easy-chair and blows clouds of smoke from his lips, we will look over his shoulder and note what he sees in the rolling clouds of smoke.

There is no wife in the smoke of Jim’s future, and no little children of his own. Instead, he sees a pleasant, cheery room, with rosy-cheeked, bright-eyed children clustering around the fire--bright, happy children, who above all things else prize the one dusky hour in the evening when “Uncle Jim” is with them.

He sees the child of his heart--his sister’s firstborn--steadily mounting to fame in the profession that he has chosen for him. He sees the grandfather sink into his grave, blessing him with his last breath for the years of peaceful happiness that _he_ has given him. And there arises before him like incense the prayers of gratitude from numberless hearts that _he_ has relieved of their burdens. And he blows the smoke away to find his sister and her husband--who is still her lover--standing before him, and he hears her murmur, as she kisses him fondly:

“Dear old Jim, how much we all love you!”

THE END.

No. 1125 of THE NEW EAGLE SERIES, entitled “Loyal Unto Death,” by Mrs. Alex McVeigh Miller, is a romance in which a loyal heart, after passing through tragedy and sorrow, is rewarded with love and happiness.

Transcriber’s notes:

Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected.

Table of contents has been added and placed into the public domain by the transcriber.