第22章 CHAPTER IV(4)

"They'll want,some of them,to spend their money before to-morrow;and others would like to be able to rise up comfortably drunk Christmas morning,"the superintendent had suggested.Mr.Mulrady had just signed a number of checks indicating his largess to those devoted adherents with the same unostentatious,undemonstrative,matter-of-fact manner that distinguished his ordinary business.

The men had received it with something of the same manner.A half-humorous "Thank you,sir"--as if to show that,with their patron,they tolerated this deference to a popular custom,but were a little ashamed of giving way to it--expressed their gratitude and their independence.

"I reckon that the old lady and Mamie are having a high old time in some of them gilded pallises in St.Petersburg or Berlin about this time.Them diamonds that I ordered at Tiffany ought to have reached 'em about now,so that Mamie could cut a swell at Christmas with her war-paint.I suppose it's the style to give presents in furrin'countries ez it is here,and I allowed to the old lady that whatever she orders in that way she is to do in Californy style--no dollar-jewelry and galvanized-watches business.If she wants to make a present to any of them nobles ez has been purlite to her,it's got to be something that Rough-and-Ready ain't ashamed of.Ishowed you that pin Mamie bought me in Paris,didn't I?It's just come for my Christmas present.No!I reckon I put it in the safe,for them kind o'things don't suit my style:but s'pose I orter sport it to-morrow.It was mighty thoughtful in Mamie,and it must cost a lump;it's got no slouch of a pearl in it.I wonder what Mamie gave for it?""You can easily tell;the bill is here.You paid it yesterday,"said Slinn.There was no satire in the man's voice,nor was there the least perception of irony in Mulrady's manner,as he returned quietly,--"That's so;it was suthin'like a thousand francs;but French money,when you pan it out as dollars and cents,don't make so much,after all."There was a few moments'silence,when he continued,in the same tone of voice,"Talkin'o'them things,Slinn,I've got suthin'for you."He stopped suddenly.Ever watchful of any undue excitement in the invalid,he had noticed a slight flush of disturbance pass over his face,and continued carelessly,"But we'll talk it over to-morrow;a day or two don't make much difference to you and me in such things,you know.

P'raps I'll drop in and see you.We'll be shut up here.""Then you're going out somewhere?"asked Slinn,mechanically.

"No,"said Mulrady,hesitatingly.It had suddenly occurred to him that he had nowhere to go if he wanted to,and he continued,half in explanation,"I ain't reckoned much on Christmas,myself.

Abner's at the Springs;it wouldn't pay him to come here for a day--even if there was anybody here he cared to see.I reckon I'll hang round the shanty,and look after things generally.I haven't been over the house upstairs to put things to rights since the folks left.But YOU needn't come here,you know."He helped the old man to rise,assisted him in putting on his overcoat,and than handed him the cane which had lately replaced his crutches.

"Good-by,old man!You musn't trouble yourself to say 'Merry Christmas'now,but wait until you see me again.Take care of yourself."He slapped him lightly on the shoulder,and went back into his private office.He worked for some time at his desk,and then laid his pen aside,put away his papers methodically,placing a large envelope on his private secretary's vacant table.He then opened the office door and ascended the staircase.He stopped on the first landing to listen to the sound of rain on the glass skylight,that seemed to echo through the empty hall like the gloomy roll of a drum.It was evident that the searching water had found out the secret sins of the house's construction,for there were great fissures of discoloration in the white and gold paper in the corners of the wall.There was a strange odor of the dank forest in the mirrored drawing-room,as if the rain had brought out the sap again from the unseasoned timbers;the blue and white satin furniture looked cold,and the marble mantels and centre tables had taken upon themselves the clamminess of tombstones.Mr.Mulrady,who had always retained his old farmer-like habit of taking off his coat with his hat on entering his own house,and appearing in his shirt-sleeves,to indicate domestic ease and security,was obliged to replace it,on account of the chill.He had never felt at home in this room.Its strangeness had lately been heightened by Mrs.

Mulrady's purchase of a family portrait of some one she didn't know,but who,she had alleged,resembled her "Uncle Bob,"which hung on the wall beside some paintings in massive frames.Mr.

Mulrady cast a hurried glance at the portrait that,on the strength of a high coat-collar and high top curl--both rolled with equal precision and singular sameness of color--had always glared at Mulrady as if HE was the intruder;and,passing through his wife's gorgeous bedroom,entered the little dressing-room,where he still slept on the smallest of cots,with hastily improvised surroundings,as if he was a bailiff in "possession."He didn't linger here long,but,taking a key from a drawer,continued up the staircase,to the ominous funeral marches of the beating rain on the skylight,and paused on the landing to glance into his son's and daughter's bedrooms,duplicates of the bizarre extravagance below.If he were seeking some characteristic traces of his absent family,they certainly were not here in the painted and still damp blazoning of their later successes.He ascended another staircase,and,passing to the wing of the house,paused before a small door,which was locked.Already the ostentatious decorations of wall and passages were left behind,and the plain lath-and-plaster partition of the attic lay before him.He unlocked the door,and threw it open.