Christine

CHRISTINE By Fred McLaughlin "I wrote him a letter about you, Chrissy." "Your — your father, Bert?" "Sure, Chrissy, I tell him everything. He's a dandy; you'd love him. He's the finest pal a fellow ever had." Bert's eyes are brown — a brown so clear you can almost see the thoughts forming behind them. "What did you — tell him, Bert?" A sudden fear overwhelmed me. "Me? I told him everything. I told him that you helped me with my stories, that you write essays and sketches for magazines, that you are small and awfully sweet, that you are blond and that you have the exquisite prettiness of a bit of very fine china." "That I am — thirty?" I faltered. "Yes, Chrissy; that you are thirty, and that you look twenty — and that I love you." "Bert!" I cried. "You couldn't have told him that. He'll mis- understand and — " "I want him to misunderstand." " — and he'll come up here." I could hardly keep back the tears. "I'm afraid of your father, Bert; I don't know why, for I've never seen him, but I am. He will be angry." "He's never angry, Chrissy," said the boy simply. "But when you tell him that you love me, he will think — what will he think?" Bert had been sitting on a rug at my feet, his head against the carved chair arm. Now he turned and faced me, a warm tenderness in his deep brown eyes. "I was nearly ten when my mother died," he said slowly. "My mental pictures of her are very beautiful, Chrissy; memories of her are very sweet. There are things you say — and things you do * * * the fine interest you take in my work, the thoughts you have instilled in me." His voice- faltered a bit, and then he went on: "Sometimes I imagine I can see her looking at me through your eyes. I guess you are a sort of reincarnation." I twisted my fingers in his thick brown hair. "You love me like — like that, Bert?" "I want to; I owe you so much, Chrissy/' His face brightened. "You have no idea how fully Dad understands things; he even knows what you're thinking about." "You are twenty, Bert," I explained with heavy conviction; "a big, strong, broad-shouldered man, a man who will do great things in this world. Your father knows you will — expects it, and when you

CHRISTINE 745 write him that I am a widow, that I am thirty and look twenty, that I have helped you, that I am — er — pretty, and that you love me, he will think of me as — " Bert laughed. , "He will think you are the most wonderful woman!" "Hopeless!" I gasped. "He will come up here — and I cannot face him." "You don't know Dad," said the young man. "When he learns that you have been an inspiration to me, that you have stood like a sweet, blond Muse, at my shoulder and have guided my groping mind through a literary maze, that you have helped me choose the proper word, the simple phrase — that simplicity which makes for strength — " "Bert," I cried, "there are times when I find it difficult to keep from kissing you!" He laughed. "Who is your Dad; you know you have never told me?" "He was a pretty big manufacturer until Mother died. After that he traveled a good deal. He's1 Senator now, and people in Washington like him." "Of course," I said; "go on." "He's been everywhere, Chrissy; you ought to hear him tell about it. And the way he can tell 'em! He can make you cry, dear, and then while you are crying he will tell you something so funny that you are laughing with the tears still in your eyes." The young man sobered suddenly. "One night he told me about the Lusitania." "The Lusitania? Bert — what is his first name?" "Daniel — and he has all the faith and all the courage of the first Daniel." "Daniel Coleman," I whispered. Strange that I had never connected the names. "Bert," I said huskily, "was Daniel Coleman on the Lusitania when it went down?" He nodded. "Yes, Chrissy." The young man's face wavered in a sudden mist of tears, then cleared, and I studied him. Odd, that J hadn't noticed. Bert had the same rugged features, the square jaw, the wavy brown hair, the knack of looking at you frankly, unwaveringly, when he talked to you. Eight years! Once in a while it is given a woman to look into the eyes of a man and find them clean. Such had been the eyes of Mr. Coleman, and now, in those of his son, I found the same clear purity; the fine, spiritual sweetness that all women look for and few women find. Daniel Coleman and I had walked the deck of the Lusitania in the moonlight. We had talked, somehow, of things that lay nearest our hearts. I had told him about the flaming youth who waited for me in London — Captain Bennett, an American who had joined the Canadian forces; and Daniel Coleman had told me about a boy of

746 IMPROMEMENT ERA twelve, and an angel Mother who waited somewhere for both of them. In the few days that I knew him he put something fine and sweet into my life; and, when the desperate pandemonium of that Friday afternoon broke loose he had sought me out, wrapped me in a great-coat, and carried me to one of the lifeboats. He had shouldered his way through, put me safely and carefully into the boat, then he had leaned down and said softly, "God bles9 you!" I had held him for an instant and kissed him; he had stood back, smiling, while I cried good-byes through my tears. Fate gave me Bennett for a few short, glorious weeks, and then the great God of War took him away from me forever. Bert reached up a tentative hand and touched my hair. "What's the matter, Chrissy; are you dreaming? You have been looking into my eyes for five minutes." "Your father never married again, did he, Bert?" Somehow I was sure that he hadn't. "No, Chrissy, he didn't, but he has been both father and mother to me. You know it's an awfully fine thing to be able to think of your father as the greatest man you ever knew. He made nigger- shooters for me, and showed me how to shoot 'em; there was not a boy in the neighborhood who could beat him at marbles; he taught me how to skate, to sail that tiny cat-boat of ours; he played tennis with me — and golf. In all my life, Chrissy, I have kept no secrets from him; he has been broad-minded, forgiving, understanding." "And because of all that," I said, my heart full of a strange elation, "you are what you are, Bert — fine and manly and decent." When the doorbell rang I knew intuitively that Senator Daniel Coleman stood outside. I had dressed with a good deal of car£. I looked around the apartment. It was neat and pretty and homey, and I knew he would like it; yet, I was afraid. I knew I would find a sort of prototype of Bert; a little taller perhaps, a little austere, a little broader of shoulders, a little more rugged of features. There would be a bit of gray in the wavy brown hair, a soft light in the clear eyes, a sweetness of soul — a broad under- standing. The floor lamp only half lighted the livingroom. He looked around, vaguely, and seeing my proffered hand, took it and held it for a moment. "Mrs. Bennett?" he asked with a slightly rising inflection. I nodded. Somehow I couldn't speak. Eight years before I had kissed him good-bye — and cried. Except that the broad shoulders were a little bowed, and the voice pitched a trifle lower, and lines of care — or of mental concen-

CHRISTINE 747 tration — touched his face, I could find no physical change in him. There was no gray in his hair. I led him to a chair near the shaded lamp, where he stood until \ had found another chair and had moved it away from the circle of light. I caught a fleeting smile and knew that my subterfuge had been appreciated. He cleared his throat. He spoke gently: "Bert said you were thirty and looked twenty." "Yes," I whispered. "I have no real right to be here," he continued apologetically, his eyes on the rug, "and if you find my visit at all distasteful — or disconcerting — " I finally found my voice. "Not at all, Senator; I am very glad to see you." He looked up, startled, for a second, then his eyes sought the rug again. "Bert is all I have, Mrs. Bennett; I have tried to put into the boy everything of myself that was good." "He has a lot of good," I said gently. "Thank you; you have done a deal for him, and, if I may, I'd like to thank you for that." "Bert has been a joy," I said. "You — love him?" he faltered. "I guess I do." He sighed. "I wish to be entirely fair. Whatever Bert wants that is good for him I shall make every effort to aia him to get. He wrote me that. he loves you." , "He told me that he had written you," I murmured. Senator Coleman laughed. "It is very good to be able to be frank, don't you think?" "It's the only way." "My boy and I," he continued, "have read each other's lives like open books. Do you see?" "I am very glad," I said. I got up and went to the door and snapped on the electrics, flooding the room with brilliant light. I turned and found Daniel Coleman on his feet. He was1 staring at me, a light of recognition dawning in his eyes. "Mrs. Bennett!" he gasped. "Wait a minute — let's see * * Christine." Both of his hands were outstretched. "Christine — by Jove!" I took his hands. It seemed, to me that a great protecting wall had suddenly been built between me and the world. Peace and con- tentment, and a great happiness came into my life. I looked into his eyes again — and right on into his soul. The years fell away from us.

748 IMPROMEMENT ERA "Bert was right," he said after a pause which I knew he needed for self-control; "you are thirty, and you look twenty." His eyes went over me — clean, fine, approving. "How beautiful you are, Christine!" I was glad, for I wanted him to think I was beautiful. All my fear had gone. Life seemed so sure now, so safe. My feet had fallen into pleasant paths; the world had become — all at once — a beautiful, glorious place wherein to live. I saw worship, newborn, in his eyes, and I was glad — glad. "The last time I saw you — " he began. "The last time I saw you," I interrupted, "you put me in a lifeboat — and whispered, 'God bless you!' Then you stood back — waiting." "And you kissed me," he said, laughingly, " — and cried." "I'm crying now; wait a minute." I pictured the fine gentleman standing on the deck, while the lifeboats filled — just waiting. "I suppose you stood there and waited — " "Of course." He laughed. "I went down with the infernal thing, and swam for hours, and the water — even for May — was wretchedly cold." He came close to me and held out his arms. "I have never for- gotten," he said. "Nor I." Came an awkward silence. "You said — 'God bless you'," I whispered. "And you kissed me," he answered. The doorbell rang. I waited. "God bless you," he whispered softly. I stood on tiptoe and kissed him. The bell rang again. "Bert!" he gasped in sudden horror and contrition. "He loves you, Christine — the boy loves you — and now I have — " "Don't worry; that's Bert," I said, opening the door. The young man caught sight of my flaming face. "Jove, Chrissy — you're pretty!" "Come in, dear," I urged. Then he saw the Senator. "Dad!" He hurled himself into his father's arms. The frank, open love, the easy camraderie, the full understanding of the two men was a beautiful thing to see. "What's up?" cried the boy. "You look too — too — " "Mrs. Bennett has just promised to marry me." Bert caught me in his strong young arms and, for the first time, kissed me. "Gee, Chrissy," he said happily" — didn't I say you would love him?" Washington, D. C.