fJction
in
by Susan Seavy
Art by Ben E. Denison
yiERRY chhisas, Sybil! Merry Christ-
I VI mas, honey!"
Sybil groaned thickly.
The voice continued. "The kids are up!"
Elsie's voice was clear and happy. Elsie
herself, seen through sleep-blurred eyes,
was neatly robed and brushed, although it
was five o'clock on a cold snowy morning
and Sybil preferred sleeping until noon. "I
thought you'd enjoy seeing them open their
presents," Elsie called.
"Must I?"
"Why no. Of course not. I'm sorry I
disturbed you. I didn't "
Sybil heard Elsie going away and pushed
herself toward the dark healer, sleep, but
found the pool drained. She was awake.
She put her hands over her eyes as if to
shut out memory, but memory had waked
with her. She saw the way he looked: dark
hair just beginning to gray; dark eyes the
bold, penetrating eyes of a reporter; hand
some nose and a strong mouth. She saw his
mouth smiling its rather famous smile, not
at her but at Nola Emerson, and her heart
squeezed itself together and hurt.
Robert James, one of the more famous
foreign correspondents, who had seen the
beautiful women of every country and
whom no woman could interest for long
he had to be the- man whom Sybil's foolish
heart chose to fasten itself upon.
At that, she had held his attention for
more than a month. She had been care
lessly impetuous, carelessly beautiful, and
Bob had been fascinated.
Sybil's friends reminded her of his repu
tation, and she shrugged, laughing, pretend
ing disinterest. But, Elsie, who had known
him longer than any, said, "Bob likes you,
Sybil," and Sybil found herself suddenly
near tears, coldly aware that for her it was
Bob James or no one.
Sybil came to an abrupt halt. The
tree, glorious in this moment of tri
umph, shed its colored lights into
the room. Beside it stood Bob James.
The Christmas-morning noise forced it
self upon her with a storm of running feet
making soft thunder in the carpeted hall,
and children shouting above the thunder.
It was a rule of the Marsden house that
the first child up on Christmas morning
should wake the others and that each must
wait until all were dressed.
Sybil had been grateful to Elsie and Paul
Marsden these last six months. She lived a
busy, exciting life, but the lovely apartment
of which she had dreamed all through a
barren, orphaned adolescence had turned
into a kind of prison, haunted by loneliness.
The Marsdens had sensed this and had let
her sit for a while by the fire of their hap
piness. There were nights when she even
chose to baby-sit for them instead of at
tending one of the endless parties.
Sybil was glad when Elsie had invited
her to spend the Christmas week end
with them. She'd shopped carefully for the
children, trying to see how their faces
would light up as they tore off the wrap
pings, wanting to watch as they did it. A
child's spoken thanks meant little, being
an act dictated by his elders. The true
thanks was on his face.
It was October when she bought the
presents, and it was the middle of Novem
ber when Bob James came home from
Europe. There were weeks of happiness
when loneliness became only a ghost. True,
Bob had declined Elsie's invitation to
Christmas dinner, having some previous
plan, but he was coming to the Marsdens'
Christmas Eve party and that was enough.
Snow fell early and stayed on the ground.
Children pressed steamy noses against the
great windows, women loaded with pack
ages pushed against each other, the whole
face of mankind looked happy. It seemed to
Sybil that all the world was merry, and she
herself the maddest, merriest of all.
But Nola Emerson came on Christmas
Eve. Her blonde hair caressed her shoul
ders with a satin touch, her body was made
to be molded by black velvet. Her eyes,
clear and tranquil, clung to the eyes of Bob
James. Her full red mouth was dimpled at
the corners, which seemed slightly incongruous.
12 Family Weekly, December 21, J95J