Le Saboteur: I.

Le Saboteur

Being a few months in the life of an American pilot

By O.R. Kirkpatrick and C.C. Gaylord

Chapter I.
Arrivée

It was only one small part of the geographic generality known to those who weren’t there as “the Front”. It was a small station platform next to a junction of several railroad tracks. There was no station house, for it had been blown up so many times that the army had given up rebuilding it. The station was used mainly by troop trains moving soldiers up to the front trenches. In fact, the trains came through several times a day, but for all this the little station looked singularly deserted. Only one poor chap occupied the wooden platform. He was settled on his rucksack, which was the only seat available, and scanned the horizon every now and then. There was scarcely anything to be seen on the desolate landscape, save a few shattered trees and houses. Off in the distance the flash of artillery pieces and the muffled roar brought back on the wind told of human company about five miles to the east, but this did not seem to bring the fellow any satisfaction.
He wasn’t a common soldier, actually. The wings on his uniform denoted him as a pilot and his manner as an American. He seemed impatient—which was excusable, since the train had left him there a full fifteen minutes before and evening was coming on. Presently, he heard the sound of an engine and a staff car emerged from the dusk with its headlamps lit. There were four chaps inside and they were just wrapping up the chorus of a song when they pulled up.
“Are you the new replacement?” came a voice from inside the vehicle.
“Is this 11 squadron?”
“That’s right; hop in!”
“Took you long enough,” said the new man, stepping in. “What did you do, stop to visit some French girls on the way?”
“Ha ha!” laughed the captain jovially. “Frank, this chap’s in a hurry; step on it, eh?”
The driver cheerfully did as he was told and the staff car sprang forward. As if on signal, the men started up their song again (they had three verses left to sing). They sang rather loudly and somewhat off-key, but this did not seem to trouble them.
“Here, stow it!” cried the captain suddenly. “Introductions, everybody!” And he proceeded to introduce the three men with him.
“This is Woodward, Hayes and Kearns. I’m Randolph. Quentin’s my first name, but it’s not important. It’s too dark to see us, but you’ll recognize us later by our voices.”
“I’m Roger Allison.”
“Second luey?”
“Yes.”
“How many hours have you had?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean how many hours have you flown, all together?”
“Oh. 57.”
“Not bad. Some fellows that come in have had only 40 or so.”

“57’s decent,” said Hayes.
“Have you ever flown a SPAD before?” asked Kearns.
“No.”
“What did you fly in training, Nieuports?”
“Avro 504s,” he replied tersely.
“Well, SPADs are a bit different, but you’ll get used to them soon enough. Nothing so difficult about a SPAD, really! I learned to fly one in a couple of hours. We were flying Nieuport 28s before we switched over, you know. Nieuports are all right, but they haven’t the speed.”
“Really.”
“Oh, yes. Why, I—”
“When do I start shooting Huns?” asked Allison abruptly.
“You haven’t been in combat before, have you?” asked Randolph.
“No.”
“Well, we’ll take you up for practice a few times just until you get the hang of it.”
“That won’t take long, I hope?”
“Not more than a day or two.”
They were interrupted by Hayes and Kearns breaking forth into “Smiles” and Randolph and Woodward joined them.
“What’s that for?” asked Allison, as soon as there was an intermission.
“What?”
“That singing.”
“Oh, we like to exercise our lungs a bit,” said Hayes.
“Actually, the real reason is because our gramophone broke and we miss it, we’re so terribly fond of music,” explained Kearns. “The major promised to get us a new one but I think he’s forgotten about it, so we sing extra loudly when he's about to sort of give him a hint.”
“We’re coming up on the airdrome,” said Hayes.
“Right, boys,” said Randolph, “let’s let them know we’re coming. All together now!”
“♪ So we sang the chorus from Atlanta to the ♫ sea—ee,
“While we were ♪ marching through Geor—gia!” ♪
“Hullo!” came a voice from the direction of the barracks.
“Hullo yourself! Has the major given orders yet?”
“He’s just going to. You’d better hurry in. Do you have the replacement?”
“Yes, he’s here. Roger Allison. This chap is George Farnsworth.”
“Hullo.” (Farnsworth.)
“Very nice.” (Allison.)
“Come on fellows,” said Randolph.
They entered a large room that was the main eating and lounging area of the barracks. It was lit by dim kerosene lamps which hung from the ceiling and jumped every time a shell exploded in the distance. The major, along with his adjutant, entered from his office on the opposite side of the room and the men assembled around him expectantly. After glancing at Kearns, who was the only one still talking, the major took out a sheet of paper and proceeded to give the orders for the next day. In 11 squadron there were three flights named A, B, and C. The new man, Allison, was relegated to "C" flight.
“Each of you will be obliged to make several patrols tomorrow,” the major concluded, “so I suggest you get all the sleep you can this evening. That’s all, men. Good night.”
The men dispersed quietly.
“One word with you, Randolph,” said the major.
“Yes, sir?”
“I’d like you to take the two new men up tomorrow morning. See that they know how to manage their ‘planes and their guns and teach them a few combat maneuvers.”
“Right.”
“That’s all.”
They saluted and parted.
“Our sleeping quarters are upstairs,” said Randolph to Allison. “I’ll show you your bed.”
“Not on your life. I can never get to sleep before ten o’clock.”
“You’ll have to get up at five.”
“Don’t bother about me. Where’s the bar?”
“Over there next to the kitchen. Goodnight.” And he disappeared up the stairs.
“Where’s Allison?” asked Kearns as Randolph entered the room.
“Downstairs. Not coming to bed yet.”
“Seems an ill-mannered fellow, doesn’t he?” asked Farnsworth.
"Yes," said Hayes. "Why did you laugh when he said that about the French girls?"
"I thought he was making a joke," Randolph confessed. "You don't think he really meant it, do you?"
"I wouldn't be surprised if he did."
"I don’t think he likes me very much, anyhow,” said Kearns. “He kept giving me dirty looks. Renhard’s a pleasant fellow, though. I wonder where he is, anyway?”
Randolph got into bed.
“Remember what the major said,” he hinted.
“Renhard sings, anyway,” said Hayes. “He doesn’t just sit and glower like, well, you-know-who.”
“Maybe he was irritable because he was hungry,” suggested Kearns. “We got back too late for him to get supper. Probably waited several hours before we picked him up, too. Oh well, we couldn’t help it that the major’s car broke down. Too bad we’re not better at fixing things.”
“Goodnight!” said Randolph, pulling the covers over his head.
“It was a good supper, too,” said Kearns, who hadn’t heard.
“But it’s just as well because there wasn’t very much of it,” said a chap by the name of Morgan.
“I’d say they were both cut from the same mold,” said Woodward, thoughtfully.
“Who?” asked several voices.
“Allison and Renhard.”
Everyone was surprised because Woodward rarely gave his opinion without being asked for it.
“Oh, no, Renhard’s a good fellow,” said Farnsworth, and everyone else agreed.
It is to be deduced by this statement that Allison was not a “good fellow”.

Allison found a lamp in the deserted bar and lighted it. He lit his cigarette with the same match and inspected the cupboard.
“What, no whisky? Siphon bottle full of soda water, but what good does that do me? Empty cognac bottle—don’t they ever stock this bar? Ah, a bottle of gin. That’s something, anyway. Now for a glass.”
“I could use some of that when you’ve finished.”
Allison turned to see another pilot standing on the other side of the counter. He slid the bottle towards him.
“I should think this place were full of teetotalers,” he said.
“Is it?” asked the man. “I wouldn’t know. I’ve only been here two days. Are you new as well?”
“Yes. Allison’s my name.”
“Bertram Renhard.”
Allison shook his hand mechanically. He didn’t much enjoy the man’s company. He had the ugliest mug Allison had ever seen, and on top of that the fellow looked like a German (perhaps you know what I mean).
“Where are you from?” asked the fellow matily.
“Arkansas. Where do you come from?” Germany, he thought.
“New York. Are you fond of flying?”
“Well,” he started to pour himself another glass of gin, but found that Renhard had finished off the bottle.
“Oh, did I drink it all? I’m sorry.”
“Never mind,” said Allison. “What were you saying about flying?”
“I asked you if you liked it.”
“Yes. What about you?”
“Oh, not really. I joined an air squadron mostly to get out of the trenches.”
“Oh, were you in the trenches?”
“Since last November.”
“Well, can’t say I blame you for wanting to get out of ‘em.”
The lamps shook under the influence of another artillery explosion.
“Infernal racket!” said Allison, starting slightly.
“Ah, you’ll get used to it,” said Renhard.
“Are there ever any air raids on this place?”
“Not as I know. The Germans generally stay on their own side of the lines.”
“What, don’t they ever take the offensive?”
“Not very often.”
“Cowards!”
“It’s very sensible of them. If any of our men get shot down over there they’ll be taken captive—if they survive the crash, that is—while the Germans that get shot down go scot free.”
“But that’s no way to fight a war.”
“Why not? What difference does it make as long as you win?”
A light broke over Allison’s face.
“Why, you’re right, aren’t you?”
“Of course I am.”
“Yes, but I mean, I never thought about it. What, after all, is the use of all that stuff about honor and glory? It doesn’t really pay in the end.”
Renhard turned his glass seemingly idly.
“It’s rather funny, really. If you ask me, it’s all a plot. They tell you all this about duty and everything just so they can get you to do what they want.”
“Well, I’m not fighting for duty’s sake,” said Allison. “I came out here to kill Germans. All that about this war being a ‘moral war’ is ridiculous. I’ll just bet those fellows upstairs are full of silly notions about saving Belgians, or something like that. We know better, don’t we?”
Renhard smiled.

A House-ful

By C. C. Gaylord

“God rest ye, merry gentlemen, let nothing you dismay—remember Christ our Saviour was born on Christmas Day.”
It was the first time anyone had carolled at that house in more than twenty years, but there was nothing particularly surprising about that; it was not a cheerful house. It was gloomy in a grand and dismal way, rather like a gravestone. No ivy grew on the grey walls; no grass grew beside the steps; no Christmas wreath hung on the door, although it was Christmas Eve. It really was the nicest house on the street, but it looked like something that had been forgotten for a very long time.
Miss Edwina Wetherburne lived there. She was not like her house; she was old and grey, but she was not grand or gloomy at all. Very few people knew this because she seldom went out, and only her sister, Miss Theresa lived with her. They never had Christmas at the gloomy house and they were surprised to hear someone carolling at their door.
“Who is it, Edwina?” asked Miss Theresa, as they sat sewing in the parlour.
“It is a boy,” said Miss Edwina, looking out the window.
“I wonder what he wants,” said Miss Theresa crossly. “He hasn’t any business carolling here. I suppose he wants us to give him something.”
“I wonder why he is out so late,” said Miss Edwina. “It’s dreadfully dark out there.”
“Why don’t you tell Andrew to send him away?” said Miss Theresa. (Andrew was the butler.) Miss Edwina pretended not to hear. She thought the singing was lovely. It reminded her of all the old Christmases she’d had when she was a little girl, when carollers had come every year, and there had been presents and good things to eat. Of course, that was long ago and every year they had had less and less of a Christmas until now they had none. It was too much trouble. But Christmas had been nice when they’d had it, and Miss Edwina sometimes wished that they could have another one. They might have a lovely big dinner with all the trimmings—a goose and all that—for they were very rich, and the house was very big. But they did not have many friends left whom they could invite, and so there would not be enough guests to eat the dinner if they had one.
Miss Edwina thought about this problem so much that she forgot to sew. Miss Theresa thought she would go tell Andrew to send the boy away herself, but the boy ended his song and started off down the street. Miss Edwina jumped up. “We must give him something!” she said.
“Whatever for?” said Miss Theresa.
“Why, it’s Christmas Eve, you know,”
“What has that got to do with it? I wouldn’t give him anything. I’m sure he’s not in need of charity.”
“But he looks as if he were cold. I’m going to bring him in, at least,” said Miss Edwina.
There was nothing Miss Theresa could say to this. She followed Miss Edwina into the hall.
Miss Edwina opened the great oak front door and put her head out. The boy was already far down the street, but he turned and came running back when Miss Edwina called him. He came in, all red and blowing from running so hard. Miss Edwina asked him if he would like some warm milk.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, blowing on his hands and beating them on his coat. Miss Theresa didn’t like the boy. She sniffed and went back into the parlour.
“What is your name?” asked Miss Edwina.
“It’s Davy,” said the boy.
"Where do you live?"
“At the boarding school on 33rd Street.”
“Isn’t that a great ways to walk from here?” said Miss Edwina in wonder.
“Oh no,” said the boy. “I walk all over the town almost. I like to walk.”
Andrew brought the warm milk just then. Davy drank it slowly, looking about him at the fine furnishings.
“Do you like my house?” asked Miss Edwina.
“Yes’m,” said Davy. “It’s awful dark, though.”
“That’s because it’s winter, and it gets dark early,” said Miss Edwina.
“I’d like to see it all lit up,” said Davy. “I bet it would look grand enough for the president.”
Miss Edwina tried to remember what the house looked like all lit up (it hadn’t been for more than twenty years). It did seem as though it had been grand. She had never noticed how dark it was now.
“Grand enough for the president!” she said. “That would be fine!”
“Why don’t you have it all dressed up for Christmas, with holly and everything?” asked Davy.
“It’s too much trouble,” said Miss Edwina.
“Well, you should see how we dressed up the school,” said Davy. “We went out to the country and brought back some pine branches and things, Dick and I did. Dick’s one of the teachers at the school, and me and him are friends. He’s not very old, leastways not for a teacher, he’s not yet twenty; he just works at the school because he hasn’t got any parents and no money. He’s awful smart, too. Anyway, we thought that everyone ought to make Christmas special even if he has to spend it at school. That’s why we fixed the school up so nice.”
“Do you have to spend Christmas at school?” asked Miss Edwina sympathetically.
“Yes,” said Davy. “Dick does too. Father can’t send for me and Dick’s got no place to go. I don’t mind it so much now that we’ve dressed up the school, though. It looks real Christmas-y and elegant now.”
He told her how each room looked after they’d dressed it up. Miss Edwina listened in wonder. What an interesting boy Davy was! She wished she might fix up her house for Christmas. But then, Miss Theresa wouldn’t approve.
Davy had finished the milk and said he’d better go before it got any darker. The streetlamps were lighted already. Miss Edwina followed him to the door and let him out. But she put her head out after him.
“Will you come see me tomorrow?” she asked.
“All right,” said Davy. Then he added, “It’s Christmas, you know.”
“Oh yes, so it is,” said Miss Edwina. Then she had an idea. “Will you come have Christmas dinner with me?” she asked.
“Oh, I can’t,” said Davy. “I promised Dick I’d have dinner with him. We were going to cook some potatoes and things like that and pretend it’s the dinner we’d have if we were home. We’ll be the only folks at school on Christmas Day, so you see I can’t let Dick down.”
“Both of you come,” said Miss Edwina. “We’ll have a real Christmas dinner--you wait and see.”
"That'll be splendid," said Davy, "Dick won’t be able to believe it.” He hesitated for a moment. “I know of another fellow who hasn’t got any dinner either. Would you mind if he came too?”
“Oh no, I don’t mind; bring all the folks you want to,” said Miss Edwina.
“Golly,” said Davy. “Will you have enough food? I eat a lot.”
“Oh yes, there will be enough.”
Davy looked uncertain, though. “Do you s’pose she will mind?” he asked. He meant Miss Theresa.
“She’s going to visit her cousin tomorrow, so she won’t be here.”
“Golly,” said Davy again, and turned and ran off up the street.

Miss Edwina went to bed early so that Miss Theresa should not guess her secret and spoil everything. She was really very much afraid of her sister although Miss Edwina was the elder. Miss Theresa had always had her own way and she had become used to ordering everyone else about.
All the next morning Miss Edwina waited impatiently for Miss Theresa to leave. Miss Theresa always took a long time about dressing, but at last she was gone and Miss Edwina hurried down to the kitchen to discuss dinner with Cook. Cook thought it a very queer idea to have a lot of strange folks over for Christmas dinner, but she helped Miss Edwina write out a list of dishes to have. “These things will take all day to make, mum,” she said.
“Well, we’ll have a late dinner at five o’clock, then. They’ll be done by then, won’t they?”
Cook thought they would, so they sent a boy around to the shops for ingredients.
Such a lot of work there was! Miss Edwina and the housemaid saw to readying the Dining Room for the evening. They set out the best china that old Mr. Wetherburne had had at his splendid Christmas Dinners of other years, when it seemed that half the town came and it took days to get all the food ready. He was very proud of his fine parties and he’d made the biggest room in his house the Dining Room. Of course, then the Wetherburnes had been one of the most notable families in the town; now they were almost forgotten. But Miss Edwina was remembering the old Christmases more and more and put things just as they had been at the last truly splendid dinner they’d had before their father died more than twenty years ago.
“Sakes, mum, don’t you think it would be better to set up the regular dining room?” asked the maid, looking around the immense room.
“No, I want to eat in here,” insisted Miss Edwina. “It will seem more like old times.” The maid had not worked at the old house back in those days and she did not understand Miss Edwina, but she thought the room looked wonderful.
There was a healthy hammering on the door, and Miss Edwina ran to open it before Andrew, for she expected it to be Davy. It was indeed Davy. He came in smiling cheerfully and saying his friends would be along soon. Miss Edwina took him into the Dining Room and showed him her Christmas preparations. He thought them splendid, but was a bit doubtful when it came to the dinner table. “I don’t think there are enough places,” he said.
“Well, we can always set more,” said Miss Edwina. “How many do you think we’ll need?”
Just then there was a knock at the door, and Andrew opened it. It was a shabby German professor with a very difficult accent. He had brought a leg of mutton as a present for Miss Edwina. She sent it down to the kitchen for Cook to fix for dinner. There was another knock and a French cook appeared. He’d brought Miss Edwina a bottle of sherry (for cooking) which he took down to the kitchen himself and began to help Cook with dinner, too. Then the other guests began to arrive. The doorbell would not seem to stop ringing; it had never been worked so hard! First there was a little organ grinder; then an old Mammy; then a policeman who was off duty; a tramp; a tram-conductor; and a little Irish laundress with her sister, her sister’s husband who was a steel-worker, and their six children.

There seemed to be no end of guests, and when Miss Edwina looked out the front window she could see a long stream of them coming up the street. They were all very poor and shabby and they did not seem to belong at all on the grand avenue, but they did not care. They came right on up to the old grey house at the end of the street, sure of a welcome. They trooped in smiling and wishing Miss Edwina a Merry Christmas, and almost all of them brought something: a jar of pickles, perhaps, or a basket of onions. Miss Edwina would never have had enough food for all of them otherwise. She’d sent out Andrew for more things and the errand boy, too, when he’d returned, and still she was worried about the quantity of food. She went into the kitchen and looked anxiously at the lovely things that Cook and the Frenchman and some other helpful guests were preparing: surely it would never feed them all! Davy came and drew her penitently aside.
“I’m awful sorry,” he said. “I didn’t know there’d be so many, but you see, I told some of ‘em and Dick told some of ‘em, and some of ‘em told some others. Anyway, they’ve none of them Christmas dinners—not good ones, anyhow—and I knew you wouldn’t send them away.”
“No, of course I won’t,” said Miss Edwina. “They shall all be fed somehow; but, oh dear, what is keeping Andrew? Thank goodness we’ve plenty of china!”

In all of the excitement Miss Theresa was quite forgotten. She had left earlier than she’d meant to and so stopped at the Reverend’s. It was nearly noon when she reached her cousin’s house. She intended to stay the whole afternoon, for her cousin Margaret did not make much of Christmas and Miss Theresa liked it that way. They ate dinner and then sat in the parlour. Miss Margaret crocheted and Miss Theresa embroidered. They talked a good deal as they always did, though most of their talk was very dull.
“How is Edwina doing these days?” said Miss Margaret. “I don’t see much of her anymore.”
“No, she doesn’t go out often,” said Miss Theresa. “I myself don’t make as many calls as I used to; we’ve so few acquaintances left that it doesn’t seem worth the trouble.”
“I don’t suppose you get much company in that old house?’
“No, only the Reverend sometimes.”
“I don’t see why you don’t sell it and buy a smaller one.”
“It has been in the family so long I don’t see how I ever could.”
“Well, I shouldn’t want to live in that big, draughty old house,” said Miss Margaret. “I should be afraid of ghosts. And it must cost a great deal to keep up.”
“It does, rather, but then Father provided very well for us in his will.”
“Yes, I suppose he must have left you a nice sum. Of course, after he left poor Robert out of it. By the way, have you heard from your brother since he went away?”
“No,” said Miss Theresa shortly. “I told him when he left that I never wanted to hear from him again. And you needn’t call him ‘poor’ either. If Father left him out of the will it was his own fault.”
“Well, I never thought it was very fair to poor Robert, but then, I don’t suppose I know anything about it.”
“You don’t,” said Miss Theresa loftily.
“Anyway,” Miss Margaret continued, “I thought you’d be missing him at Christmas time. It was Christmas Eve he was sent away, wasn’t it? I remember what a scandal it caused. And then Uncle had the biggest dinner he could get up the next day. To show Robert what he must miss, I suppose.”
Miss Theresa pressed her lips together and tugged at her stitching.
Now there is something which you must be told, and that is that when Miss Theresa was a young lady she had a very bright and handsome brother whom she was very fond of. This was the start of all the trouble: a friend was going to Europe for a year and wanted Miss Theresa to go with her. Of course, Miss Theresa wanted very much to go, but there was not enough money. The Wetherburnes were very rich, of course, but a trip to Europe was very expensive, and Mr. Wetherburne had just invested a large sum in business affairs. Besides, her brother Robert needed money for college. Miss Theresa asked if Robert could take a year off of college so she could go to Europe, but her father was adamant on this point. Robert was at the head of his class; he could not take a year off just then. Miss Theresa was exceedingly disappointed and blamed Robert for it, which was very unfair of her.
A few months after this a dreadful thing happened: Robert ran out of money. Mr. Wetherburne had given him all he had needed, but if Robert had a fault it was that he was too kind-hearted. A friend of his had gotten into a fix and needed money badly. Robert had loaned him his expecting to be paid back before he needed it, but when the time came the friend was unable to pay, and what was Robert to do? Mr. Wetherburne was very angry. He had warned Robert about his friends. They were poor, generally, and Robert could not help but give them money when they needed it. His father thought he should keep company with people who had a great deal of money like the Wetherburnes did. Robert thought this was silly. He did not see why, if the fellows were honest and hard working, he should not befriend them. They deserved his help, for they studied harder than the rich young men who went to college for fun.
Of course, it made it worse that Miss Theresa had not been able to go to Europe because of Robert, and here he was wasting his money. Miss Theresa was angry, too, and took her father’s side in the matter. They both insisted that he force the other fellow to return the money if it meant his friend selling all he owned and quitting college. Robert refused. He said his friend would not do such a thing to him and he certainly did not intend to hurt his friend so. They argued for several days about it, and many hot words were said, but at last Mr. Wetherburne said that if Robert would not get the money back, he himself would. He would take the fellow to court. Robert said he wouldn’t stay in the house another minute if he did. His father said if he felt that way about it he had better go, and Robert went. So ended Mr. Wetherburne’s fine hopes for his eldest son. He was very upset about it and would never mention Robert’s name until he died. Nothing had been heard of Robert since he went away, and nobody knew what had become of him.
“It was twenty-five years ago, wasn’t it?” said Miss Margaret. “It’s strange you should never have heard from him.”
“I never wanted to,” said Miss Theresa.
“I wonder that he should never write,” said Miss Margaret.
“I wish you would talk about something else,” said Miss Theresa crossly.
“Well, I will. But I am glad that I had nothing to do with it, and I do not envy you your conscience, Theresa.”
“My conscience?” cried Miss Theresa. “Why, it was Father who sent him away; how was I to blame?”
“True,” said Miss Margaret, “but it was you who spoke against Robert first and last. It might have gone no further than a disagreement if it wasn’t for you.”
“But I never spoke of him disowning Robert,” said Miss Theresa. “I would rather he hadn’t. I was only angry with Robert and wanted him to leave for a time.”
“But you know everyone always blamed you,” said Miss Margaret.
Miss Theresa hadn’t known. It was an unpleasant discovery.
“Did they really think that I would want Father to disown Robert so Edwina and I could have the money?” she asked.
“I don’t suppose they thought exactly that, but most people think that you ought to let Robert have his own back now that the quarrel is all over.”
“I shall do nothing of the kind!” said Miss Theresa. “If Robert wants the money he ought to come and get it. Besides, he was just as much to blame as I was—if I was to blame at all,” she added quickly.
“Well, I didn’t think you would do it,” said Miss Margaret. “You always were just like your father, and I never saw a more proud and stubborn man than he was.”
“I’m not stubborn, and you shouldn’t speak ill of the dead!” said Miss Theresa. She and Miss Margaret never got along very well, even though they were grown-up ladies, and their visits often ended in quarrels.
They both said some very cross things to each other until at last Miss Theresa got up in a huff. “I might as well not stay any longer,” she said, gathering up her things. “A fine Christmas indeed!”
“Well, go along home then,” said Miss Margaret, “and send Edwina next time. She at least will listen to reason although she won’t lift a finger without your leave.”
Miss Theresa stormed out the door and started for her house, kicking at the patches of snow on the sidewalk as she went. To tell the truth, her conscience was troubling her very much. Of course, it had troubled her before, but then only once in a while and she had been able to hush it up again right away. The truth was that she had often felt it was her fault that her brother had gone away, but she had told herself again and again, with many good reasons, why it wasn’t. Still, she’d thought of her brother—especially at Christmas time, and often she wondered what had become of him. He hadn’t had much money of his own. Sometimes she imagined him in a threadbare coat with a battered hat and a lean, hungry face. Did he get enough to eat? Was he cold at Christmas time? As quickly as these fancies came Miss Theresa would dismiss them. It hadn’t been her fault, she’d say. If Robert came back she would welcome him and give him anything he wanted. But she knew Robert was every bit as proud as she was. He would never come back.
As she walked home the thoughts came to her faster and faster, and the more they came the more she blamed Robert, her father, or Cousin Margaret, and the more cross she became. She was in a dreadful, black humour when she turned onto her own avenue. It was late in the afternoon and growing dark. All the houses on the street spread a soft Christmas glow from their windows, and—Miss Theresa could scarcely believe her eyes—the old gloomy mansion at the end of the street was lit up brighter than all the others! Lights burned in every room, the chandelier in the great hall was lit, and Andrew had bought a holly wreath and hung it on the front door. Miss Theresa stood aghast. How dare Miss Edwina do such a thing? Did she mean to burn the house down? Gathering up her skirts, she flew down the street like a storm cloud (and looked a great deal like one in her black silk dress).
Miss Edwina, unaware of her sister’s approach—and a good thing, too—had got everything in order at last. The tables were all set, enough chairs had been found to go around them, and the room itself was hung with holly and evergreens. If you had seen how the room looked before, you would have thought it was magic! Of course, it had really been Andrew and the errand boy buying out all the shops, but it was a wonder in itself that they had gotten it all up in time. There was only one thing lacking now, and it worried Davy. He hadn’t arrived yet—Dick, the English teacher and the guest of honour.
“He said he would stop to get you a present and would be along later,” said Davy.
“Never mind,” said Miss Edwina, “we’ll wait for him. I’m sure he won’t be long.”
She went down to the kitchen to see how long the food could wait.
It was good for her she did so, for no sooner had she disappeared down the stairs, when Miss Theresa entered at the front door all ready to scold her. But Miss Theresa was shocked once again. What were all those people doing there? The house seemed to be full of them—and such people! Three little Irish children slid down the hall-stair banister, a portly policeman dropped cigar ash on the rug, an Italian man drummed on the piano-forte, and a grocer and his great orange cat sat in Miss Theresa’s chair. In every room she found quantities of guests making themselves at home with the greatest ease; every one of them was poor and shabby, and every one of them wished her a Merry Christmas.
She rushed into the hall calling wildly for Miss Edwina, when the door opened again and a young man came in, beaming and hiding a package behind his back. Miss Theresa looked for one long moment at him and then sank into a chair sobbing. Dick (for it was he) looked at Davy, who had just come in from the Dining Room, and asked him what was the matter with the poor lady. Of course, Davy didn’t know, but they both hated to see her cry, so they went one on each side of her and patted her back and asked her repeatedly what was the matter. Presently, Miss Edwina (for she hadn’t seen Miss Theresa yet) banged a pan to call everyone to the table and the guests all ran clattering into the Dining Room, but Dick and Davy did not like to leave Miss Theresa. She still sat with her face in her handkerchief, only sobbing out “Robert, Robert,” every now and then, for when she had seen Dick standing in the doorway with his shabby clothes and kind, cheerful face, he had looked so much like what she’d imagined her brother looking that she was struck with remorse worse than ever, and no saying “It wasn’t my fault” would help. At last she cried “Robert Wetherburne!”
Dick started.
“Robert Wetherburne!” he repeated. “Did you know my father?”
“Your father!” said Miss Theresa.
“Yes, my father’s name was Robert Wetherburne,” said Dick. “Did you know him?”
“Where is he?” asked Miss Theresa.
“He died when I was very young,” said Dick.
“Oh!” cried Miss Theresa, and again put her face into her handkerchief. Now it was too late to say she was sorry.
Dick was very sympathetic. After all, his father had been a very fine man; no wonder anyone who used to know him would be very sorry to hear he was dead.
At last Miss Theresa spoke again. “Robert Wetherburne was my brother, and I am your aunt,” she said. “Did your father never tell you about me?”
“No,” said Dick. “I didn’t know that I had an aunt.”
“I’m sorry,” said Miss Theresa. “It was my fault, really—it was all my fault.” And here she could not go on but began to cry again. Perhaps it was her fault that Robert was dead.
Dick felt very sorry for her, but he could not think of anything to say.
Presently Miss Theresa continued. “Your grandfather disowned your father a long time ago. I don’t suppose he would have if it hadn’t been for me. You see, I was angry with your father, too. But I’m very sorry now, and I wish you could forgive me. It’s too late now to ask Robert to—oh, dear!”
“Of course I will forgive you,” said Dick quickly, “And I’m sure my father forgave you long ago.”
“But if it weren’t for me you would be rich,” sniffed Miss Theresa.
“Oh,” said Dick, “I don’t mind—about the money, I mean. Please don’t cry. Father wouldn’t want you to feel so bad about it. I’m sure you’re sorry enough. I am glad to find that I have an aunt. I thought I was all on my own in the world, and I was feeling rather lonely—today, especially.”
Miss Theresa was consoled then, and Miss Edwina was called, and everything was explained. Both of the aunts insisted on Dick coming to live with them, for he was in hard circumstances (he had pawned his watch to buy their present, and that was what had made him so late), and everything was settled satisfactorily. Then they remembered their guests, who were so hungry that they were rapping their spoons on the table to keep from putting them into the food, and Miss Theresa went in on Dick’s arm, and Miss Edwina on Davy’s, and the Reverend and his wife came by just then and so stayed to dinner (the Reverend said grace), and the servants ate with everyone else instead of serving, so everyone passed the dishes and nobody minded.
Never had there been such a Christmas Dinner! It looked as though the whole town was there. It was a bigger dinner than any of old Mr. Wetherburne’s, and everyone had a better time, for no one saw anything wrong in reaching for things or tucking one’s napkin into one’s collar.
There was a roast goose, of course, and roast chicken, and roast beef, and sausages, and olives, and pies, and hundreds of rolls, and a dish of sauerkraut, and just heaps of other things.
There was enough food for everyone, and after dinner they played games—cards and forfeits and hide-and-seek, and several people tried sliding down the banister, although some of them did not find it very nice as they came down too hard. They sang songs around the piano-forte, and ate nuts all over the house, and a great many of them fell asleep on the sofas because they were having too good of a time to go home.
At last they thought they had really stayed too long, and everyone began to gather up wraps and things, when they heard a sound of singing. There were carollers at the door! They had been going home after a long day, very tired, but seeing all the lights in the old house they had decided to stop there last of all. They were singing away, with the snow falling about them, and this is what they were singing:
“God rest ye, merry gentlemen, let nothing you dismay;
Remember Christ our Saviour was born on Christmas Day
To save us all from Satan’s power when we were gone astray,
Oh, tidings of comfort and joy—comfort and joy!
Oh, tidings of comfort and joy!”

THE END