"In flight to-day aeroplane fell into Sea off Sardinia. Aeronaut
killed. Companion injured. Forgive abruptness. Wished get ahead of
newspapers."
For a moment she felt absolutely unconcerned, as if reading of the death of some stranger aeronaut, of Japan or South America. Then:
"I hope you've not got bad news, Mrs. May?" a concerned voice was saying. She was vaguely conscious that the hotel clerk who had given her the telegram was hovering distressfully before her. She had been standing up when she began to read the message. Now she was sitting down. But her voice sounded quite calm and natural in her own ears as she answered, "No, thank you very much. A surprise—that is all. A great surprise."
"You are all right?"
"Oh, quite—quite!"
"Nothing I can do for you?"
"Nothing, thanks. I will go up to my room."
Her first thought, when she could think connectedly, was to send her unfinished letter to Nick, with a few hastily scribbled words at the end—not about the pansies. And perhaps to enclose the telegram.
But she did neither. Two days passed before she sent the long diary letter, and when she did send it, nothing more had been written. She waited. She did not know what would happen. She did not even read the newspapers, though she knew there must be paragraphs, not tucked into corners, for this was, in a way, world's news. There had been "considerable interest."
On the third day she was given another telegram. This time the name at the bottom was the only name that could make her heart beat:
"I have seen what has happened. When will you let me come?"
He did not say "Will you let me come?" but "When." She thought if she did not answer soon he would come all the same. It seemed wonderful, unbelievable, that now there was no wrong, no cruelty, no terrible unwisdom in having him near her. But there was none. Even she could see none. So she telegraphed, not the immediate summons he hoped for and she was tempted to send him, but the message of her second thought. "Come; not yet, but on the day I have a home of my own to welcome you in. Till then, let me be alone with my thoughts of you."
The architect thought Mrs. May's impatience to get into her new house, and to have even the garden finished, a charming whim. As she seemed not to care how much money was spent, relays of men, many men, were put on to work night as well as day. Angela chose furniture in San Francisco, all made of beautiful California woods. "We shall have two homes," she thought. It was heavenly to say "we" again.
"You can have Christmas dinner at your own place," said the architect.
"Oh, but I want ChristmasEvethere!" Angela exclaimed. "Of all things, I want Christmas Eve!"
"Very well, I promise you Christmas Eve," the architect answered, almost as if she were a child.
But she was not a child. She was a woman loving and longing. Always she had wanted to have a happy Christmas Eve, and she had never had one since Franklin Merriam died.
At last she wrote: "I am going to have a house-warming at Christmas-time: only five guests, and you, Nick, are the principal one. The others, are Mrs. Harland, Mr. Falconer and his bride, and little Miss Wilkins, your school-teacher at Lucky Star. Some day I'll tell you how we renewed our acquaintance."
Nick did not care to know. He wanted to be the only guest: yet somehow he felt that she did not mean to disappoint him. She meant him to be happy that day—the day of Christmas Eve, when she asked him to come to her—at last. But how could she contrive, with other guests, not to let it be a disappointment?
She contrived it by letting him arrive first at the beautiful new house, which was as like as possible, in miniature, to the Mission Inn where they had once "made-believe." They did not speak when they met. Their hearts were too full. There was no question, "Will you marry me?" No answer, "Yes, I am free to love you now." But when the others came, Angela said:
"Congratulate me. I am engaged to the best and dearest man on earth, and I—am the happiest woman."