He determined, however, to extract a promise from her before giving in.
“I will consent, Nellie, on the condition that you stop seeing this fellow Fairfax and riding around in his big green car. I won’t stand for that.”
Nellie smiled, more to herself than to him. She had Fairfax in the meshes. He was safe. The man was madly in love with her. The instant she was freed from Harvey he stood ready to become her husband—Fairfax, with all his money and all his power.
And that is precisely what she was aiming at. She could afford to smile, but somehow she was coming to feel that this little man who was now her husband had it in him, after all, to put up a fierce and desperate fight for his own. If he were pushed to the wall he would fight back like a wildcat, and well she knew that there would be disagreeable features in the fray.
“If you are going to talk like that I’ll never speak to you again,” she said, banishing the smile. “Don’t you trust me?”
“Sure,” he said, and he meant it. “That’s not the point.”
“See here, Harve,” she said, abruptly putting her hands on his shoulders and looking squarely into his eyes, “I want you to believe me when I say that I am a—a—well, a good woman.”
“I believe it,” he said, solemnly. Then, as an after-thought, “and I want to say the same thing for myself.”
“I’ve never doubted you,” said she, fervently.“Now, go home and let things stand as they are. Write to Mr. Davis tonight.”
“I will. I say, won’t you give me a kiss?”
She hesitated, still calculating.
“Yes, if you promise not to tell anybody,” she said, with mock solemnity. As she expected, he took it seriously.
“Do you suppose I go ’round telling people I’ve kissed my wife?”
Then she gave him a peck on the cheek and let it go as a kiss.
“When will you be out to see us?”
“Soon, I hope,” she said, quickly. “Now go, Harve, I’m going to lie down and rest. Kiss Phoebe for me.”
He got to the door. She was fairly pushing him.
“I feel better,” he said, taking a long breath.
“So do I,” said she.
He paused for a moment to frown in some perplexity.
“Say, Nell, I left my cane in a street car coming down. Do you think it would be worth while to advertise for it?”
CHAPTER V
CHRISTMAS
The weeks went slowly by and Christmas came to the little house in Tarrytown. He had become resigned but not reconciled to Nellie’s continued and rather persistent absence, regarding it as the sinister proclamation of her intention to carry out the plan for separation in spite of all that he could do to avert the catastrophe. His devotion to Phoebe was more intense than ever; it had reached the stage of being pathetic.
True to his word, he wrote to Mr. Davis, who in time responded, saying that he could give him a place at the soda fountain in May, but that the wages would of necessity be quite small, owing to the fact that the Greeks had invaded Blakeville with the corner fruit stands and soft-drink fountains. He could promise him eight dollars a week, or ten dollars if he would undertake to come to the store at sixa.m. and sweep up, a task now performed by the proprietor himself, who found himself approaching an age and a state of health that craved a feast of luxury and ease hitherto untasted.
Harvey was in considerable doubt as to his ability to live on ten dollars a week and support Phoebe, as well as to begin the task of reimbursing Nellie for her years of sacrifice. Still, it was better than nothing at all, so he accepted Mr. Davis’ ten-dollar-a-week offer and sat back to wait for the coming of the first of May.
In the meantime he would give Nellie some return for her money by doing the work now performed by Annie—or, more advisedly speaking, a portion of it. He would conduct Phoebe to the kindergarten and call for her at the close of sessions, besides dressing her in the morning, sewing on buttons for her, undressing her at night, and all such jobs as that, with the result that Annie came down a dollar a week in her wages and took an extra afternoon out. In this way he figured he could save Nellie at least thirty dollars. He also did the janitor’s work about the place and looked after the furnace, creating a salvage of three dollars and a half a month. Moreover, instead of buying a new winter suit and replacing his shabby ulster with one more comely and presentable, he decided to wear his fall suit until January and then change off to his old blue serge spring suit, which still seemed far from shiny, so far as he could see.
And so it was that Nellie’s monthly check for $150 did very nicely.
Any morning at half-past eight, except Sunday, you could have seen him going down the street with Phoebe at his side, her hand in his, bound for the kindergarten. He carried her little lunch basket and whistled merrily when not engaged in telling her about Santa Claus. She startled him one day by asking:—
“Are you going to be Santy this year, daddy, or is mamma?”
He looked down at the rich little fur coat and muff Nellie had outfitted her with, at the expensive hat and the silk muffler, and sighed.
“If you ask questions, Santy won’t come at all,” he said, darkly. “He’s a mighty cranky old chap, Santy is.”
He did not take up physical culture with Professor Flaherty, partly on account of the expense, partly because he found that belabouring cannel coal and shaking down the furnace was more developing than he had expected. Raking the autumn leaves out of the front yard also was harder than he had any idea it would be. He was rather glad it was not the season for the lawn mower.
Down in his heart he hoped that Nellie would come out for Christmas, but he knew there was no chance of it. She would have two performances on that day. He refrained from telling Phoebe until the very last minute that her mother would not be out for the holiday. He hadn’t the heart to do it.
He broke the news then by telling the child that her mother was snowbound and couldn’t get there. An opportune fall of snow the day before Christmas gave him the inspiration.
He set up the little Christmas tree in the back parlour, assisted by Bridget and Annie, after Phoebe had gone to bed on Christmas Eve. She had urged him to read to her about Tiny Tim, but he put her off with the announcement that Santa was likely to be around early on account of the fine sleighing, and if he saw that she wasn’t asleep in bed he might skip the house entirely.
The expressman, in delivering several boxes from town that afternoon, had said to his helper:—
“That little fellow that came to the door was Nellie Duluth’s husband, Mr.—Mr.—Say, look on the last page there and see what his name is. He’s a cheap skate. A dime! Wot do you think of that?” He held up the dime Harvey had given him and squinted at it as if it were almost too small to be seen with the naked eye.
Nellie sent “loads” of presents to Phoebe—toys, books, candies, fruits, pretty dresses, a velvet coat, a tiny pair of opera glasses, strings of beads, bracelets, rings—dozens of things calculated to set a child mad with delight. There were pocketbooks, handkerchiefs, squirrel stoles and muffs for each of the servants, a box of cigars for the postman, another for the milkman, and a five-dollar bill for the janitor.
There was nothing for Harvey.
He looked for a long time at the envelope containing the five-dollar bill, an odd little smile creeping into his eyes. He was the janitor, he remembered. After a moment of indecision he slipped the bill into another envelope, which he marked “Charity” and laid aside until morning brought the mendicant who, with bare fingers and frosted lips, always came to play his mournful clarionet in front of the house.
Surreptitiously he searched the two big boxes carefully, inwardly hoping that she had not forgotten—nay, ignored—him. But there was nothing there, not even a Christmas card! It was the first Christmas she had.…
The postman brought a small box addressed to Phoebe. The handwriting was strange, but he thought nothing of it. He thought it was nice of Butler to remember his little on
e and lamented the fact that he had not bought something for the little Butlers, of whom there were seven. He tied a red ribbon around the sealed package and hung it on the tree.
After it was all over he went upstairs and tried to read “Dombey & Son.” But a mist came over his blue eyes and his vision carried him far beyond the printed page. He was not thinking of Nellie, but of his old mother, who had never forgotten to send him a Christmas present. Ah, if she were alive he would not be wondering tonight why Santa Claus had passed him by.
He rubbed his eyes with his knuckles, closed“Dombey & Son” for the night, and went to bed, turning his thoughts to the row of tiny stockings that hung from the mantelpiece downstairs—for Phoebe had put to use all that she could find—and then let them drift on through space to an apartment near Central Park, where Kris Kringle had delivered during the day a little packet containing the brooch he had purchased for his wife out of the money he had preserved from the sale of his watch some weeks before.
He was glad he had sent Nellie a present.
Bright and early the next morning he was up to have a final look at the tree before Phoebe came down. A blizzard was blowing furiously; the windows were frosted; the house was cheerless. He built the fires in the grates and sat about with his shoulders hunched up till the merry crackle of the coals put warmth into his veins. The furnace! He thought of it in time, and hurried to the basement to replenish the fires. They were out. He had forgotten them the night before. Bridget found him there later on, trying to start the kindling in the two furnaces.
“I clean forgot ’em last night,” he said, sheepishly.
“I don’t wonder, sor,” said Bridget, quite genially for a cold morning. “Do you be after going upstairs this minute, sor. I’ll have them roaring in two shakes av a lamb’s tail. Mebby there’s good news for yez up there. Annie’s at the front door this minute, taking a telegram from the messenger bye, sor. Merry Christmas to ye, sor.”
“Merry Christmas, Bridget!” cried he, gaily. His heart had leaped at the news she brought. A telegram from Nellie! Hurrah! He rushed upstairs without brushing the coal dust from his hands.
The boy was waiting for his tip. Harvey gave him a quarter and wished him a merry Christmas.
“A miserable day to be out,” said he, undecided whether to ask the half-frozen lad to stay and have a bite of breakfast or to let him go out into the weather.
“It’s nothin’ when you gets used to it,” said the blue-capped philosopher, and took his departure.
“But it’s the getting used to it,” said Harvey to Annie as she handed him the message. He tore open the envelope. She saw the light die out of his eyes.
The message was from Ripton, the manager, and read:—
“Please send Phoebe in with the nurse to see the matinée today.”
The invitation was explicit enough. He was not wanted.
If he had a secret inclination to ignore the command altogether, it was frustrated by his own short-sightedness. He gulped, and then read the despatch aloud for the benefit of the maid. When it was too late he wished he had not done so.
Annie beamed. “Oh, sir, I’ve always wanted to see Miss Duluth act. I will take good care of Phoebe.”
He considered it beneath his dignity to invite her into a conspiracy against the child, so he gloomily announced that he would go in with them on the one-o’clock train and stay to bring them out.
The Christmas tree was a great success. Phoebe was in raptures. He quite forgot his own disappointment in watching her joyous antics. As the distributor of the presents that hung on the gaily trimmed and dazzling cedar, he came at last to the little package from Butler. It contained a beautiful gold chain, at the end of which hung suspended a small diamond-studded slipper—blue enamel, fairly covered with rose diamonds.
Phoebe screamed with delight. Her father’s face was a study.
“Why, they are diamonds!” he murmured.“Surely Butler wouldn’t be giving presents like this.” A card fluttered to the floor. He picked it up and read:—“A slipper for my little Cinderella. Keep it and it will bring good luck.”
There was no name, but he knew who had sent it. With a cry of rage he snatched the dainty trinket from her hand and threw it on the floor, raising his foot to stamp it out of shape with his heel. His first vicious attempt missed the slipper altogether, and before he could repeat it the child was on the floor clutching it in her fingers, whimpering strangely. The servants looked on in astonishment.
He drew back, mumbling something under his breath. In a moment he regained control of himself.
“It—it isn’t meant for you, darling,” he said, hoarsely. “Santy left it here by mistake. We will send it back to him. It belongs to some other poor little girl.”
“But I am Cinderella!” she cried. “Mr. Fairy-fax said so. He told Santy to bring it to me. Please, daddy—please!”
He removed it gently from her fingers and dropped it into his pocket. His face was very white.
“Santy isn’t that kind of a man,” he said, without rhyme or reason. “Now, don’t cry, dearie. Here’s another present from mamma. See!”
Later in the morning, after she had quite forgotten the slipper, he put it back in the box, wrapped it carefully, and addressed the package to L. Z. Fairfax, in New York City, without explanation or comment.
Before the morning was half over he was playing with Phoebe and her toys quite as childishly and gleefully as she, his heart in the fun she was having, his mind almost wholly cleared of the bitterness and rancour that so recently had filled it to overflowing.
The three of them floundered through the snowdrifts to the station, laughing and shouting with a merriment that proved infectious. The long-obscured sun came out and caught the disease, for he smiled broadly, and the wind gave over snarling and smirked with an amiability that must have surprised the shivering horses standing desolate in front of certain places wherein their owners partook of Christmas cheer that was warm.
Harvey took Phoebe and the nurse to the theatre in a cab. He went up to the box-office window and asked for the two tickets. The seller was most agreeable. He handed out the little envelope with the words:—
“A packed house today, Mr.—Mr.—er—ah, and—sold out for tonight. Here you are, with Miss Duluth’s compliments—the best seats in the house. And here is a note for—er—yes, for the nurse.”
Annie read the note. It was from Nellie, instructing her to bring Phoebe to her dressing-room after the performance, where they would have supper later on.
Harvey saw them pass in to the warm theatre and then slowly wandered out to the bleak, wind-swept street. There was nothing for him to do; nowhere that he could go to seek cheerful companions. For an hour or more he wandered up and down Broadway, his shoulders hunched up, his mittened hands to his ears, water running from his nose and eyes, his face the colour of the setting sun. Half-frozen, he at last ventured into a certain café, a place where he had lunched no fewer than half-a-dozen times, and where he thought his identity might have remained with the clerk at the cigar stand.
There were men at the tables, smoking and chatting hilariously. At one of them sat three men, two of whom were actors he had met. Summoning his courage, he approached them with a well-assumed air of nonchalance.
“Merry Christmas,” was his greeting. The trio looked at him with no sign of recognition.“How are you. Mr. Brackley? How are you, Joe?”
The two actors shook hands with him without much enthusiasm, certainly without interest.
Light dawned on one of them. “Oh,” said he, cheerlessly, “how are you? I couldn’t place you at first.” He did not offer to introduce him to the stranger, but proceeded to enlighten the other players. “It’s—oh, you know—Nellie Duluth’s husband.”
The other fellow nodded and resumed his conversation with the third man. At the same time the speaker leaned forward to devote his attention to the tale in hand, utterly ignoring the little man, who stood with his hand on the back of the
vacant chair.
Harvey waited for a few moments. “What will you have to drink?” he asked, shyly dropping into the chair. They stared at him and shook their heads.
“That seat’s engaged,” said the one called“Joe,” gruffly.
Harvey got up instantly. “Oh,” he said, in a hesitating manner. They went on with their conversation as if he were not there. After a moment he moved away, his ears burning, his soul filled with mortification and shame. In a sort of daze he approached the cigar stand and asked for a box of cigarettes.
“What kind?” demanded the clerk, laying down his newspaper.
Harvey smiled engagingly. “Oh, the kind I usually get!” he said, feeling sure that the fellow remembered him and the quality he smoked.
“What’s that?” snapped the clerk, scowling.
The purchaser hastily mentioned a certain kind of cigarette, paid for it after the box had been tossed at him, and walked away. Fixed in his determination to stay in the place until he was well thawed out, he took a seat at a little table near the stairway and ordered a hot lemonade.
He was conscious of a certain amount of attention from the tables adjacent to the trio he had accosted. Several loud guffaws came to his ears as he sipped the boiling drink. Taking an unusually copious swallow, he coughed and spluttered as the liquid scalded his tongue and palate. The tears rushed to his eyes. From past experience he knew that his tongue would be sore for at least a week. He had such a tender tongue, Nellie said.
For half an hour he sat there dreaming and brooding. It was much better than tramping the streets. A clock on the opposite wall pointed to four o’clock. The matinée would be over at a quarter to five. Presently he looked again. It was five minutes past four. Really it wasn’t so bad waiting after all; not half so bad as he had thought it would be.
Some one tapped him on the shoulder. He looked up with a start. The manager of the place stood at his elbow.
“This isn’t a railway station, young feller,”he said, harshly. “You’ll have to move on. These tables are for customers.”
The George Barr McCutcheon Megapack: 25 Classic Novels and Stories Page 223