DELCHER, a retired Presbyterian clergyman.
BERNAL LINFORD}
ALLAN LINFORD } his grandsons.
CLAYTON LINFORD, Their father, of the artistic temperament, and versatile.
CLYTEMNESTRA, Housekeeper for Delcher.
COUSIN BILL J., a man with a splendid past.
NANCY CREALOCK, A wondering child and woman.
AUNT BELL, Nancy's worldly guide, who, having lived in Boston, has "broadened into the higher unbelief."
MISS ALVIRA ABNEY, Edom's leading milliner, captivated by Cousin Bill J.
MILO BARRUS, The village atheist.
THE STRONG PERSON, of the "Gus Levy All-star Shamrock Vaudeville."
CALEB WEBSTER, a travelled Edomite.
CYRUS BROWETT, a New York capitalist and patron of the Church.
MRS. DONALD WYETH, an appreciative parishioner of Allan Linford.
THE REV MR. WHITTAKER, a Unitarian.
FATHER RILEY, of the Church of Rome.
THE SEEKER
BOOK ONE—THE AGE OF FABLE
CHAPTER I
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How the Christmas Saint was Proved
The whispering died away as they heard heavy steps and saw a line of light under the shut door. Then a last muffled caution from the larger boy on the cot.
"Now, remember! There ain't any, but don't you let on there ain't—else he won't bring you a single thing!
"Before the despairing soul on the trundle-bed could pierce the vulnerable heel of this, the door opened slowly to the broad shape of Clytemnestra. One hand shaded her eyes from the candle she carried, and she peered into the corner where the two beds were, a flurry of eagerness in her face, checked by stoic self-mastery.
At once from the older boy came the sounds of one who breathes labouredly in deep sleep after a hard day. But the littler boy sat rebelliously up, digging combative fists into eyes that the light tickled. Clytemnestra warmly rebuked him, first simulating the frown of the irritated.
"Now, Bernal! Wide awake! My days alive! You act like a wild Indian's little boy. This'll never do. Now you go right to sleep this minute, while I watch you. Look how fine and good Allan is." She spoke low, not to awaken the one virtuous sleeper, who seemed thereupon to breathe with a more swelling and obtrusive rectitude.
"Clytie—now—ain't there any Santa Claus?"
"Now what a sinful question that is!"
"But is there?"
"Don't he bring you things?"
"Oh, there ain't any!" There was a sullen desperation in this, as of one done with quibbles. But the woman still paltered wretchedly.
"Well, if you don't lie down and go to sleep quicker'n a wink I bet you anything he won't bring you a single play-pretty."
There came an unmistakable blare of triumph into the busy snore on the cot.
But the heart of the skeptic was sunk. This evasion was more disillusioning than downright confession. A moment the little boy regarded her, wholly in sorrow, with big eyes that blinked alarmingly. Then came his last shot; the final bullet which the besieged warrior will sometimes reserve for his own destruction. There could no longer be any pretense between them. Bravely he faced her.
"Now—you just needn't try to keep it from me any longer! I know there ain't any——" One tensely tragic second he paused to gather himself—"It's all over town!" There being nothing further to live for, he delivered himself to grief—to be tortured and destroyed.
Clytie set the candle on the bureau and came to hover him. Within the pressing arms and upon the proffered bosom he wept out one of those griefs that may not be told—that only the heart can understand. Yet, when the first passion of it was spent she began to reassure him, begging him not to be misled by idle gossip; to take not even her own testimony, but to wait and see what he would see. At last he listened and was a little soothed. It appeared that Santa Claus was one you might believe in or might not. Even Clytie seemed to be puzzled about him. He could see that she overflowed with belief in him, yet he could not make her confess it in plain straight words. The meat of it was that good children found things on Christmas morning which must have been left by some one—if not by Santa Claus, then by whom? Did the little boy believe, for example, that Milo Barrus did it? He was the village atheist, and so bad a man that he loved to spell God with a little g.
He mused upon this while his tears dried, finding it plausible. Of course it couldn't be Milo Barrus, so it must be Santa Claus. Was Clytie certain some presents would be there in the morning? If he went directly to sleep, she was.
Hereupon the larger boy on the cot, who had for some moments listened in forgetful silence, became again virtuously asleep in a public manner.
But the littler boy must yet have talk. Could the bells of Santa Claus be heard when he came?
Clytie had known some children, of exceptional merit, it was true, who claimed to have heard his bells on certain nights when they had gone early to sleep.
Why would he never leave anything for a child that got up out of bed and caught him at it? Suppose one had to get up for a drink.
Because it broke the charm.
But if a very, very good child just happened to wake up while he was in the room, and didn't pay the least attention to him, or even look sidewise or anything——
Even this were hazardous, it seemed; though if the child were indeed very good all might not yet be lost.
"Well, won't you leave the light for me? The dark gets in my eyes."
But this was another adverse condition, making everything impossible. So she chided and reassured him, tucked the covers once more about his neck, and left him, with a final comment on
