"What," he said, "are you going to do Saturday evening? Are you free? Because I was wondering how you would like to hear the Messiah with me. I have a couple of tickets and nobody to go with me. You see, I'm sort of a stranger around here and haven't had much time to get acquainted during the term time. I've been carrying a pretty heavy schedule. I thought you looked like the kind of girl who likes music, so I decided to take the chance. Are you free?"
Sylvia caught her breath! The Messiah!
"Oh, I'd love it!" she said, and a soft flush stole up into her cheeks. "But--" And a cloud drifted over the brightness of her face as she remembered what had happened in their household.
"Oh, is there a 'but'?" he asked disappointedly. "I was afraid there might be, this time of year and all, and everybody has their own holiday affairs, of course."
"Well," said Sylvia, looking up wistfully, "there isn't exactly a 'but.' And it might not turn out to be anything after all. It was just that I wasn't quite sure but that I would have to be home that night----Saturday night you said? I would love to go. I've never happened to hear the Messiah. But I couldn't be sure till I see. . ." Her voice trailed off unhappily. "But that wouldn't be fair to you. You can get plenty of people who would just jump at the chance to go with you, I'm sure, and I might not be sure whether I could go till the last minute."
"That's all right by me," he said amusedly. "I'd rather take the chance with you than not. There's nobody I know that I want to take but you, so if it happens at the last minute that you can't go, I'll just give the ticket to the most wistful old musician at the door, standing in line."
Sylvia's laugh rippled out briefly.
"That's a nice thought," she said, "but maybe I'll get worried about the old musician by the door and think I ought to stay home anyway."
He grinned.
"Now, just for that, I'll give him a ticket anyway, so you can't have him for an excuse."
"Oh, but I don't need an excuse. I would love to go if things at home are--so I won't be needed."
He studied her for another instant and then smiled.
"Thank you," he said. "I just wanted to be sure you would really enjoy going. Because since you've developed an unprecedented interest and charitable spirit toward the unknown elderly musician, I wouldn't want to be uncertain that you were classing me with him. You wouldn't go to the concert during the holiday just to befriend a lonely student, would you?"
"Oh, I might," said Sylvia nonchalantly, twinkling her eyes toward him and then growing serious suddenly.
"I really would love to go," she said gravely, "and I feel honored that you have asked me. You see, I heard Doc Wharton say the other day that you were the most brilliant man he had in his class this year and you were going to make your mark in the world someday, so I shall be terribly disappointed if I can't go."
"Baloney!" said the young man suddenly. "Doc Wharton is full of soft soap. You don't mean he said that to you?"
"No, but I sat just behind him at a table in the library, and he was talking to one of the English professors. He was talking in a low tone as if it were confidential. I shouldn't have been listening, of course; that is, I didn't know I was listening until I heard your name, and naturally my attention was drawn. So, you see, I feel very much flattered that you have asked me--"
"Say," he interrupted, "if you're going to get that way----"
Sylvia suddenly laughed.
"No, I'll not pain you with further praise," she said, "but seriously, I just wanted you to realize that if I don't go it's not because I don't want to. I certainly do. I'm just afraid of how things are going to turn out. However, I'll do my best."
She gave him a bright smile as they parted and went to their different classes, and the morning was less gloomy because of their brief talk. How grand it would be if she could only go to that concert with Rance Nelius! But of course, she couldn't. Even if Mother didn't let Rex bring his wife home, there would likely be a great gloom over the house, and it wouldn't be very kind or considerate for her to run away, supposedly to have a good time. Well, at least it didn't have to be decided at once. The time was three days off. Maybe Rex and----well--Rex wouldn't have to come home yet. She could talk it over with Mother and see what she thought about it.
She settled to her studying, but all the morning whenever the thought of what Rex had done hit her consciousness with a sudden dull thud, there was also a luminousness in her thoughts that put a light of golden hope into things as she remembered Rance and his invitation.
But, oh, if things were only normal. If Rex hadn't written Mother right out of the blue that way that he was married! How could Rex have done a thing like that? Rex, who loved Mother so much! Oh, maybe it wasn't so. Maybe he just wrote that for a joke! Could he be so cruel?
And then it was all to do over again, her reasoning.
***
The high school was full of the atmosphere of Christmas. Holiday cheer pervaded the atmosphere. It met Stan and Fae as they mounted the steps and went down the hall to their respective rooms. Spicy odor of spruce trees, festive garlands of laurel ropes and holly wreaths, mysterious packages carried furtively and hidden in desks.
"Stan, Miss Marian wants you to go up to the assembly room and help decorate the big tree on the platform." An excited brown-eyed maiden accosted Stan as he reached the door of his classroom. "She says it's necessary to have someone at the head of it that has some sense and a little bit of artistic ability. I'm glad she picked you instead of Rue Pettigrew. He takes so many airs on himself and thinks he can lord it over everybody."
Ordinarily, Stan was quite willing to perform such offices for Miss Marian, who was his favorite teacher. And it would usually have been twice welcome to get such a message from the lips of Mary Elizabeth Remley, who had sweet brown eyes and didn't seem to know it herself; in fact, he had just now been thinking of letting her wear his class pin.
But the cloud of the family catastrophe had been resting heavily upon him on the way to school, and he drew a frown.
"Heck!" he said, annoyed. "I don't see how I'm going to do that. I haven't quite finished copying my essay, and it has to be handed in today." He put on an old, worried look and met her eyes, the brown eyes with a sudden disappointed look in them.
"Oh!" she said. She had thought he would be pleased. "Well, I'll go and tell her. Perhaps she'll ask Hanford Edsell instead. He never gets to do anything."
But Stan shook his head.
"Naw! Don't say anything to her. She's got enough worries of her own. I'll manage it somehow. But, heck, can you beat it? These extras are always coming in just when you least expect them."
"Couldn't I copy your essay, Stan? You're typing it, aren't you? I can do it without mistakes." The brown eyes met his wistfully, and Stan's face cleared into sudden sunshine.
"Thanks, awfully, Mary Lizbeth; that's pretty swell of you to offer, but I've got to make a few changes in the last part. I guess I'd better do it myself. But don't you worry; I'll make out. Are you coming along up to the assembly room, or have you got something else to do? If you haven't, you might hand me up things to put on the tree. You've got pretty good taste yourself!"
Mary Elizabeth's eyes blazed into pleasure.
"Sure I'll come. Miss Marian thought there'd be someplace where I could help." And she swung into step with him as they climbed the stairs to the assembly room where the great tree was already in place in the middle of the platform.
Oh, hang! said Stan to himself in the midst of his answering smile to the brown-eyed girl. There I go! Makin' up to Lizbeth! And I just got done vowing I'd never look at a girl as long as I live, after what my fool brother has done, spoiling Christmas and everything for us all, getting married before he gets educated!
Thus he chided himself as he climbed the ladder. And then Mary Elizabeth brought him a lovely silver star to hang on the very top of the tree, and he stooped over and looked into her sweet brown eyes that were so unaware of their own loveliness and forgot all about
his resolves, working happily away, the cloud all gone from his brow.
There were so many girls and fellows there, all working so eagerly, hanging laurel and holly and wreaths, and they were all so merry and full of laughter and jokes--how could one remember amid all that about the sorrow that had come at home? He was here now, in school, and must go through with it. Mother had said that. This was what he must do now, and do it well. So he gave himself to the tree and took each emblem or ball or crystal angel or thread of silver from the eager young hand of the brown-eyed girl and hung it in place, as though it were a sacred trust. So it was not till the tree was finished--every light in place, every thread of tinsel hanging straight like an icicle--and he came down from the ladder and went to his desk to try to work over that last page of his essay that the horror of home came back to his young heart and gripped it with a more mature pain than any he had yet experienced in his young life.
***
Down on the floor below, Fae had been surrounded by her special friends, all clamoring at once to tell her the latest developments concerning the Christmas play in which she had a part.
"You know, Betty Lou is mad, Fae, and says she won't be in the play at all because Miss Jenkins won't let her wear pajamas instead of a nightgown when she comes out to hang up her stocking. She says everybody will laugh at her, that nobody wears nightgowns now, and anyway, she's got some lovely new silk pajamas and she wants to wear them. But Miss Jenkins says it's an old-time play and pajamas wouldn't be in character, and if Betty Lou says any more about it, we can't have the play. But I told her you know the part and could take her place."
"Say, Fae," burst in another girl, "whyn't you go an' talk to Betty Lou? She likes you. Maybe you can make her see some sense."
"Say, Fae! What do you think!" cried another friend. "Helen Doremus says we're too old to be in a play that has dolls in it. Isn't she silly? The dolls aren't going to be in all the stockings, only the little ones. And anyway, I told her it was too late for her to begin to find fault. But she says she's not coming to the play unless they leave the dolls out of all the stockings. Someone might misunderstand."
"Yes, but you haven't heard the worst one yet, Fae," called her special friend, Ruby Holbrook. "Mae Phantom wants to be a fairy with a sparkling wand and silver shoes, and she's written some poetry to recite while she goes around looking at the stockings before we wake up. Isn't that the limit? If Miss Jenkins stands for that, I'm going to quit. I won't have her messing in our play. She hasn't been in our school long enough to go bossing things like that."
"Say, Fae," said the youngest girl of all, "Millie Burton and Howard Jenks have the measles, and I was over there playing games with them night before last. Wouldn't that be awful if I should come down with them before the play, when I have such a long part to recite?"
"It's lucky most of the rest of us have had the measles," said another girl coldly.
And amid it all Fae forgot the sorrow she had left behind at home and let the Christmas cheer and excitement surge happily over her.
"Say, did you bring your money for the teacher's present? Well, you better get it in pretty quick, or they'll not be able to pay for it, and I think it ought to be wrapped and ready or there'll be some hitch."
"Say, who's going to present the gift to the teacher, now that Howard Jenks has the measles? I think Fae Garland ought to. She learns things quicker than anybody, and she's the best reciter. Besides, she never makes mistakes."
All these things warmed Fae's young heart, so that it was only now and then that a memory would come and hit her in the region of her stomach with an awful sickening thud and make her dizzy and sick. Then some new excitement would banish it for a while.
***
Back at home Mary Garland sat at the telephone and heard the bland masculine tones of the village butcher, instead of her son's voice.
"Mrs. Garland, I have some very nice fresh-killed capons this morning. I was wondering how you would like me to send up a couple?"
"No! No capons, thank you! No, not today!" Mary Garland's voice rose crisp and businesslike out of the depths of despair, with a touch of almost exasperation at the poor butcher who was doing his best to make a sale.
Then she hung up and dropped her hand in her lap, coming into sharp contact with the letter addressed in Paul's handwriting. With a start she hastened to open it. Here, here would be the explanation at last! The consolation, perhaps! Her trembling fingers removed the letter, a hasty scrawl, and her anxious eyes read:
Dear Mother,
I'm sending home two suits that I shall need in the holidays. Please send for Harris to have them cleaned and be sure to get them back by Saturday. Stress that! No time to write more. Exams going well. Terribly busy! Take care of yourself.
Hastily,
Paul
The mother dropped back limply into her chair and tried to stop the whirling in her heart and head. Tried to think what she should do. Paul's letter hadn't told her a thing. What ought she to do? She must do something. Not Paul! She must not disturb Paul until his afternoon class was over. Painfully, carefully, she turned the matter over and at last decided to send a telegram to Rex. It might be Rex would hesitate to talk to her on the telephone lest their conversation should be overheard. Very well, she would telegraph to him and make him realize what he had done to them all. She would make it brisk and to the point. A message that he could not misunderstand. One that would at least bring him to the telephone at once.
She did not hesitate long for words, and she sent it forth, brief and clear-cut and unmistakable. It read:
Come home immediately.
Mother
After it was sent beyond recall, she sat down again and stared at the wall, trying to figure out what Rex's reaction would be to it, and not till then did it occur to her that he might think she meant he was to bring his wife along, and that was the last thing she wanted just now. What she wanted was Rex by himself. Rex, her boy, that she might gently question him and find out by watching his clear eyes just what it all meant. That would be the key to what she ought to do.
Yet if it was really so, and Rex was married, there was nothing to do but make the best of it. Or was that right? It sounded heathenish.
With a deep, pitiful sigh, she dropped upon her knees.
"Oh, God," she prayed, quietly into her pillow, "have I done wrong? Have I somehow failed in bringing up my boy? I must have, or he would not have done a thing like this. Even if the girl is all right, it can't be the best thing that he should be married so young, before he is ready to go out into the world and fend for himself. Even though there is money to give him a start, his father would never feel I should turn it over to him at this age. Oh, God, if I've wandered, won't You set me right? Won't You show me what to do? Won't You take care of this for me? Because I cannot see the matter for myself."
The telephone began to ring, and Mary Garland arose and went to answer it, but somehow she felt as if the great weight of the burden had been rolled from her heart. She had done the only thing there was to do--she had put the matter in God's hands. It was too great for her to handle, and He was the only one who could possibly take care of it.
It was Stanley on the telephone.
"Say, Mother, Mr. Hanley wants me to help him a little while at noon. Do you mind if I get a bite here at the lunch counter and don't come home? There's still a lot to do about the decorations, and he doesn't like to let all the kids in on it. D'ya mind?"
"No, that's all right, Stanley."
"Say, Mother, anything else happen yet?"
"No, dear. Not yet." Mary Garland's voice choked unsteadily.
"Don't ya need me, Mother? If ya do, I'll tell 'em I can't stay taday."
"No, dear, it's all right! Don't worry. There's nothing you could do now even if you were here."
She was trembling all over when she hung up. Now why should she get all wrought up like that? Hadn't she any self-control? Just because she had thought that might be Rex and she wa
sn't sure what she ought to say to him! She must get hold of herself and not go all to pieces this way. She must be self-controlled by the time the children came home. Fae would be coming soon now.
It was Sylvia who called next.
"Mother, are you all right?"
"Why, of course, child. Why shouldn't I be all right?"
"Well, of course," said Sylvia cheerfully, "you would be all right if the heavens fell." And she laughed a little catchy sorrowful laugh. "Well, Mother, if you don't mind, I'll get a glass of milk and not come home till two o'clock. There's a little studying I'd like to do before the examination tomorrow, and if I do it here I won't have to lug so many books home."
"That's all right, Sylvia dear."
Mary Garland was getting control of her voice and making it sound quite cheerful.
"Mother, did you do anything about it yet?"
"Don't let's discuss it over the telephone, dear," said her mother gently. "Don't worry. Everything will come right in due time."
"Oh, do you think so, Mother?"
"Why, certainly," said Mary Garland, trying to speak briskly. "Hasn't God always taken care of us?"
"Oh!" said Sylvia, startled that matters had reached the crisis of depending on God to straighten them out. "Mother, are you sure you don't need me?"
"Why, of course," said Mary Garland. "Now cheer up and get your studying out of the way while you have the time."
Fae was the last one to call.
"Muvver, they've got some awful nice-smelling macaroni and cheese at the lunch counter, and some little raisin pies. Would you mind if I stayed for lunch? Stan isn't coming home, he says, and I just hate that long walk all alone. May Beverly is going to stay today. Most of the girls are staying. We have a rehearsal of the play after lunch, besides, so maybe I'll be late coming home."