The Christmas Megapack

by Reginald Robert

  As she neared it she nodded to Van Landing and pointed to her father, who, hand on her shoulder, had kept close to her, then beckoned him to come nearer. “He can’t see, I know”—her voice was excited—“but take him away, won’t you? I wouldn’t have him guess it, not for anything on earth! I’ll be through in a minute.”

  In moments incredibly few, but to Van Landing tormentingly long, she was back again, and close to her heart she was hugging a tiny package with one hand, while the other was laid on her father’s arm. “I got it,” she whispered; “it’s perfectly beautiful.” She spoke louder. “I guess we’d better be going now. I know you’re hungry, and so am I. Come on. We can walk home, and then I’ll make the tea.”

  For a second Van Landing hesitated, then he followed the odd-looking couple out into the street, but as they started to turn the corner he stopped.

  “I say”—he cleared his throat to hide its embarrassed hesitation—“don’t you want to do me a favor? Where I live I don’t buy the things I eat, and I’ve often thought I’d like to. If you are going to make the tea and toast, why can’t I get the—the chicken, say, and some salad and things? That’s a good-looking window over there with cooked stuff in it. We’ll have a party and each put in something.”

  “Chicken?” Into his face the child gazed with pitying comprehension of his ignorance, and in her voice was shrill amusement. “Chicken! Did you ever price one? I have, when I’m having kings and queens taking dinner with me in my mind. People don’t have chicken ’cept at Christmas, and sometimes Sundays if there hasn’t been anybody out of work for a long time. Come on. I’ve got a box of sardines. Just think, Father, he wants to buy a chicken!”

  With a gay little laugh in which was shrewd knowledge of the unthinkableness of certain indulgences, the child slipped one arm through her father’s and another through Van Landing’s, and with a happy skip led the way down the poorly lighted street. A solid mass of dreary-looking houses, with fronts unrelieved by a distinguishing feature, stretched as far as the eye could see, and when a few blocks had been walked it was with a sense of relief that a corner was turned and Van Landing found himself at the foot of a flight of steps up which the child bounded and beckoned him to follow.

  The house was like the others, one of a long row, and dull and dark and dingy, but from its basement came a baby’s wailing, while from the floor above, as the hall was entered, could be heard the rapid click of a sewing-machine. Four flights of steps were mounted; then Carmencita took the key from her father’s pocket and opened the door.

  “This is our suite,” she said, and courtesied low. “Please strike a match, if you have one, Mr. Van. This house is very old, and history houses don’t have electric lights. The ghosts wouldn’t like it. Some of my best friends are ghosts. I’ll be back in a minute.”

  As she ran into the little hall room adjoining the large room which he saw comprised their “suite,” Van Landing lighted the lamp near the mantel and looked around. In the center was a marble-topped table, and on it a lamp, a work-basket, and several magazines with backs half gone. The floor was bare save for a small and worn rug here and there, and on the sills of the uncurtained windows two hardy geraniums were blooming bravely. A chest of drawers, a few chairs, a shelf of books, a rug-covered cot, a corner cupboard, a wash-stand behind a screen, and a small table near the stove, behind which a box of wood could be seen, completed its furnishings; and still, despite its bareness, there was something in it which was not in the place wherein he lived, and wonderingly he again looked around. Had he found himself in the moon or at the bottom of the Dead Sea it would be hardly less remarkable than finding himself here. Adventures of this sort were entirely out of his experience. As regulated as a piece of machinery his life had become of late, and the routine of office and club and house had been accepted as beyond escape, and the chance meeting of this little creature—

  “Oh, my goodness! I forgot to put the kettle on!”

  With a spring that came apparently from the door opposite the stove near which he was standing Carmencita was by his side, and, swift movement following swift movement, the lid of the stove was lifted, wood put in, the kettle of water put on, and the table drawn farther out in the floor. A moment more the lamp was lighted, her father’s coat and hat in place, his chair drawn up to the now roaring fire; then, with speculation in her eyes, she stood for half a moment, hands on hips, looking first at Van Landing and then at the cupboard in the corner.

  For the first time he saw well the slender little body out of its long, loose coat, the heavy, brown curls which tumbled over the oval face, the clear eyes that little escaped, so keen was their quality, and the thin legs with their small feet in large shoes, and as he looked he smiled.

  “Well,” he asked, “can I help you? You seem very uncertain.”

  “I am. Put your hat and coat over there”—she pointed to the covered cot close to the wall—“then come back and tell me.”

  He did as directed and, hands in pockets, stood again in front of her. “Is”—his face whitened—“is it about Miss Barbour? Can you send her word?”

  “Send now? I guess not!” On tiptoes the child looked for something on the mantel-piece. “We haven’t had supper yet, and I’m so hungry I could eat air. Besides, she has a class tonight—The Little Big Sisters. I’m one when I can go, but I can’t go often.” She waved her hand in the direction of her father. “I’ll send for her ’bout half past nine. Which do you like best, sardines with lemon on ’em, or toasted cheese on toast with syrup afterward? Which?”

  The tone was one of momentous inquiry. Miss Barbour’s coming was a matter that could wait, but supper necessitated a solemn decision which must be made at once. Hands clasped behind her, the blue eyes grew big with suspense, and again she repeated, “Which?”

  “I really don’t know. Both are very good. I believe I like sardines better than—Oh no, I don’t.” He had caught the flicker of disappointment in the anxious little face. “I mean I think toasted cheese the best thing to eat that’s going. Let’s have that!”

  “All right.” With another spring the child was at the cupboard, and swiftly she went to work. “Read to father, won’t you?” she called, without looking round. “In that magazine with the geranium leaf sticking out is where I left off. You’ll have to read right loud.”

  Drawing his chair close to the lighted lamp, Van Landing took his seat near the blind musician, and for the first time noticed the slender, finely formed fingers of the hands now resting on the arms of the chair in which he sat; noticed the shiny, well-worn coat and the lock of white hair that fell across the high forehead; saw the sensitive mouth; and as he looked he wondered as to the story that was his. An old one, perhaps. Born of better blood than his present position implied, he had evidently found the battle of life more than he was equal to, and, unfit to fight, he had doubtless slipped down and down in the scale of human society until today he and his child were dwellers on the borderland of the slums.

  He found the article and began to read. The technicalities of musical composition had never appealed to him, but, though by him the writer’s exhaustive knowledge of his subject was not appreciated, by his listener it was greatly so, and, in tense eagerness to miss no word, the latter leaned forward and kept his sightless eyes in the direction of the sound of his voice.

  Not for long could he read, however. In a few moments Carmencita’s hands were outstretched, and, giving one to each, she led them to the table, and at it he sat down as naturally as though it were a familiar occurrence. In the center was a glass jar with a spray of red geranium in it, and behind the earthen tea-pot the child presided with the ease of long usage. As she gave him his tea he noticed it was in the only unchipped cup, and on the one kept for herself there was no handle. Under his breath he swore softly. Why—He mentally shook himself. This was no time for why-ing.

  As an appetizer the toasted cheese on toasted bread was excellent, but the supper—if she had only let him get it. He ha
d not dared insist, and never had he been more consciously a guest, but could people live on fare so scant as this? It was like Frances to want to know how other people lived—and not to be content with knowing. But after she knew how could she sleep at night? Great God! If there was to be a day of judgment what could men say—men like himself and his friends?

  CHAPTER VII

  For half an hour longer Carmencita chatted gaily, offering dish after dish of imaginary food with the assurance that it would cause no sickness or discomfort, and at the child’s spirit and imagination Van Landing marveled. The years of ignorance and indifference, in which he had not cared to know what Frances knew all men should know, came back disquietingly, and he wondered if for him it were too late.

  As Carmencita got up to clear the table he took out his watch and looked at it, then put it quickly back lest she should see. Who was going to take the note? Why couldn’t he go to the place at which was held the class of Little Big Sisters and get Frances? With a quick indrawing breath he handed his host cigars.

  “I hope you smoke,” he said; “that is, if Carmencita does not object.”

  “Oh, I don’t object. Smoke!” Carmencita’s hand was waved. “After I wash the dishes I’ll write the note, then I’ll go down and get Noodles to take it. I’ll ask Mr. Robinsky to bring the harp up, Father. He brought it home for us; he’s a flute-er.” The explanation was made to Van Landing. “He always brings it home when Father and I are going somewhere else. Smoke, please. I love to smell smoke smell.”

  With a splash the remaining water in the tea-kettle was poured in the dish-pan, and for a few moments the clatter of knives and forks and spoons prevented talk. Over the blind man’s face crept the content that comes from a good cigar, and in silence he and his guest smoked while Carmencita did her work. Not long was there silence, however, for very shortly the child was on a stool at Van Landing’s feet, in her hands a pad of paper, and on her knee a backless magazine.

  For half a minute she looked in Van Landing’s face. “Isn’t it nice and funny—your being here? I like you.” Her voice was joyous. “If I tell you something, you won’t tell?” She leaned forward, hands on his knees. “This afternoon before I went out I asked God please to let something nice happen. There hasn’t anything very nice happened for so long, I was afraid He had forgot. What must I write, Mr. Van?”

  Into Van Landing’s face the color surged, then died away and left it strangely white. The child’s eyes were holding his, and he did not try to avoid them. It didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was to get Frances quickly.

  “Tell her I must see her tonight, that I must come to her. Why can’t I go to her, Carmencita?”

  “Because she doesn’t want anybody to come to see her that she doesn’t tell to come. She told me so herself, and I wouldn’t break her rules for a gold ring with a ruby in it. I know. I’ll tell her I’m bound to show her something tonight or I won’t sleep a wink. And you’ll be It! You can go in Father’s room, and when she comes in you will come out and say—What will you say, Mr. Van?”

  “I don’t know. Perhaps I sha’n’t say anything. Sometimes one can’t.”

  “I’ll look in that book I read once and see what he said, if you want me to. It was a beautiful book. It had an awful lot of love in it. I know what I’m going to write.”

  For some moments she wrote laboriously on the pad, which wabbled badly on her knees, then she folded the piece of paper and, getting up, went toward the door. Van Landing followed her.

  “The boy,” he said. “Will you give him this and tell him if the note is delivered to Miss Barbour personally there will be more when he comes back?” He held out his hand.

  As if not seeing aright, Carmencita looked closely at what was held toward her, then up in Van Landing’s face. “You must have plenty of money, if you haven’t any friends,” she said, and in her voice was faint suspicion. “Noodles can’t have that. He’d never go anywhere for me again if he got that much.” Her hand waved his away. “When he comes back, if you’ll give him a quarter he’ll stand on his head. It’s hard and hollow, and he makes right smart standing on it and wriggling his feet.” She shook her head. “It would ruin him to give him a dollar. Please read to Father.”

  Her visitor’s face flushed. Why couldn’t he remember? “Very well,” he said; “manage it your way. Tell him to hurry, will you?”

  Would she come? With his lips Stephen Van Landing was pronouncing the words of the article he had again begun to read to the blind harpist, but in his heart, which was beating thickly, other words were surging, and every now and then he wiped his forehead lest its dampness be seen by the child’s keen eyes. Would she come? Three years had passed since senseless selfishness on his part had made her spirit flare and she had given him back his ring. For a moment he had held it, and in the dancing flames of the logs upon the hearth in the library of her beautiful old-fashioned home its stones had gleamed brilliantly, flashed protesting fire; then he had dropped it in the blaze and turned and left the room. Had she forgotten, or had she suffered, too?

  With mechanical monotony the words continued to come from his lips, but his thoughts were afar off, and presently Carmencita took the magazine out of his hand.

  “Excuse me,” she said, “but Father is asleep, and you don’t know a word you’re saying. You might as well stop.”

  Putting the magazine on the table, Carmencita drew the stool on which she was sitting closer to Van Landing’s chair, and, hands clasped around her knees, looked up into his eyes. In hers was puzzled questioning.

  “I beg your pardon.” His face flushed under the grave scrutiny bent upon him. “I was reading abominably, but I couldn’t get my mind—”

  “I know,” Carmencita nodded understandingly. “I do that way sometimes when I’m saying one thing and thinking another, and Father always takes a little nap until I get out of the clouds. He says I spend a lot of my time in the clouds. I’m bound to soar sometimes. If I didn’t make out I wasn’t really and truly living here, on the top floor, with the Rheinhimers underneath, but just waiting for our house to be fixed up, I couldn’t stand it all the time. I’d go—” She hesitated, then again went on. “You see, it’s this way. There’re a lot of things I hate, but I’ve got to stand them, and the only way I can do it is to get away from them in my mind sometimes. Father says it’s the way we stand things that proves the kind of person we are; but Father is Father, and I am me, and letting out is a great relief. Did you ever feel as if you’re bound to say things sometimes?”

  “I’m afraid I’ve not only felt I had to say them, but I said them.” Van Landing looked at his watch. “Your Father is doubtless right, but—”

  “Noodles hasn’t had time to get back yet, and she might not be there.” Carmencita glanced toward the clock. “And Father is always right. He’s had to sit so many hours alone and think and think and think, that he’s had time to ask God about a good many things we don’t take time to ask about. I pray a lot, but my kind of prayers isn’t praying. They’re mostly asking, and Father says prayer is receiving—is getting God in you, I mean. I don’t understand, but he does, and he doesn’t ask for things like I do, but for patience and courage and—and things like that. No matter what happens, he keeps on trusting. I don’t. I’m not much of a truster. I want to do things my way, myself.” She leaned forward. “If I tell you something will you promise not to tell anybody, not even Miss Frances when—when it’s all right?”

  “I promise.”

  Van Landing nodded at the eager little face upraised to his. It was singularly attractive and appealing, and the varying emotions that swept over it indicated a temperament that took little in life calmly, or as a commonplace happening, and a surge of protest at her surroundings swept over him.

  “I promise,” he repeated. “I won’t tell.”

  “Cross your heart and shut your eyes and I will tell you.”

  Hands on his knees, Carmencita watched the awkward movements of Van Landing�
��s fingers, then she laughed joyously, but when she spoke her voice was in a whisper.

  “I’m writing a book.”

  “You are doing what?”

  “Writing a book! It’s perfectly grand. That is, some days it is, but most days it is a mess. It was a mess yesterday, and I burned up every single word I wrote last week. I’ll show it to you if you want to see it.”

  Without waiting for an answer Carmencita sprang to her feet, and with noiseless movement skipped across the room, and from the middle drawer of the chest between the windows took out a large flat box.

  “This is it.” Again taking her seat on the stool at Van Landing’s feet, she opened the box carefully. One by one she lifted out of it pieces of paper of varying size and color and held them toward her visitor, who, hands clasped between knees, was bending forward and watching with amazed interest the seemingly exhaustless contents of the box beside him.

  “I use pad-paper when I have it.” Several white sheets were laid in a pile by themselves. “But most of the chapters are on wrapping-paper. Mrs. Beckwith gives me all of hers, and so does Mrs. Rheinhimer when her children don’t chew it up before she can save it. That’s chapter fourteen. I don’t like it much, it’s so squshy, but I wrote it that way because I read in a newspaper once that slops sold better than anything else, and I’m writing this to sell, if I can.”

  “Have you named it?” Van Landing’s voice was as serious as Carmencita’s. “I’ve been told that a good title is a great help to a book. I hope yours will bring you a good deal of money, but—”