With an impatient movement of her hands she got up and went over to the window. There was no duty about it. It was love that called him to her. She should not have let Carmencita go without finding from her how it happened that she had met Stephen Van Landing on Custer Street. She must go to Carmencita and ask her. If he were really looking for her they might spend Christmas together. The blood surged hotly to her face, and the beating of her heart made her hands unsteady. If together—
A noise behind made her turn. Hand on the door-knob, Carmencita was standing in the hall, her head inside the room. All glow was gone, and hope and excitement had yielded to dejection and despair.
“I just came to beg your pardon for—for stamping my foot, and I’m sorry I said what I did.” The big blue eyes looked down on the floor and one foot twisted around the other. “It isn’t any use to forgive me. I’m not worth forgiving. I’m not worth—”
The door was slammed violently, and before Miss Barbour could reach the hall Carmencita was down the steps and out into the street, where the Damanarkist was waiting.
CHAPTER XI
Late into the night Stephen Van Landing kept up his hurried walking. Again and again he had stopped and made inquiries of policemen, of children, of men and women, but no one knew that of which he asked. A blind man who played the harp, a child named Carmencita, a boy called Noodles, a settlement house, he supposed, over which Mother Somebody presided—these were all he had to go on. To ask concerning Miss Barbour was impossible. He could not bring himself to call her name. He would have to go to headquarters for help. Tomorrow would be Christmas eve. He would not spend Christmas alone—or in the usual way.
“Say, mister, don’t you wish you was a boy again? Get out the way!”
With a push the boy swept by him, pulling on a self-constructed sleigh a still smaller boy, and behind the two swarmed a bunch of yelling youngsters who, as they passed, pelted him with snow. One of them stopped to tie the string of his shoe, and, looking down, Van Landing saw—Noodles.
With a swift movement he reached down to grab him, but, thinking it was a cop, the boy was up and gone with a flash and in half a moment was out of sight. As swiftly as the boy Van Landing ran down the street and turned the corner he had seen the boy turn. His heart was beating thickly, his breath came unevenly, and the snow was blinding, but there was no thought of stopping. He bumped into a man coming toward him, and two hats flew in the air and on the pavement, but he went on. The hat did not matter, only Noodles mattered, and Noodles could no longer be seen. Down the street, around first one corner and then another, he kept on in fierce pursuit for some moments; then, finding breathing difficult, he paused and leaned against the step railing of a high porch, to better get his bearings. Disappointment and fury were overmastering him. It was impossible and absurd to have within one’s grasp what one had been looking for all day and part of two nights, and have it slip away like that.
“Come on. No use—that—” The policeman’s voice was surly. “If you’ll walk quiet I won’t ring up. If you don’t you’ll get a free ride. Come on.”
“Come on?” Van Landing put his hand to his head. His hat was gone. He looked down at his feet. They were soaking wet. His overcoat was glazed with a coating of fine particles of ice, and his hands were trembling. He had eaten practically nothing since his lunch of Tuesday, had walked many miles, and slept but a few hours after a night of anxious searching, and suddenly he felt faint and sick.
“Come on?” he repeated. “Come where?”
“Where you belong.” The policeman’s grasp was steadying. “Hurry up. I can’t wait here all night.”
“Neither can I.” Van Landing took out his handkerchief and wiped his face. “I wish you’d get my hat.” The crowd was pressing closer. He was losing time and must get away. Besides, he could not trust himself. The man’s manner was insolent, and he was afraid he would kick him. Instead he slipped some money in his hand.
“Mistake, my friend. You’d have your trouble for nothing if you took me in. There’s no charge save running. I want to find a boy who passed me just now. Name is Noodles. Know him?”
For a moment the cop hesitated. The man’s voice, dress, manner, were not the sort seen in this section, and the bill slipped in his hand had a yellow tinge—still—
“I’ve dropped my hat. Get it, will you?” Van Landing threw some change in the still gathering crowd, and as they scampered for it he turned to the policeman, then caught hold of the railing. A hateful faintness was coming over him again. On the edge of the crowd a girl with a middle-aged woman had stopped, and the girl was making her way toward him.
“What is it, Mr. Cronklin? Not one of our boys?” The clear voice reached him as if at his side. He steadied himself, stared, and tried to speak.
“Frances,” he said, and held out his hands. “You’ve made me walk so far, Frances, and Christmas is—”
In the snow his feet slipped. The cop was such a fool. He had never fainted in his life.
Some one was standing near him. Who was it, and where was he? This wasn’t his room. On his elbow, he looked around. Nothing was familiar. It must be a woman’s room; he could see photographs and a pin-cushion on the bureau, and flowers were growing on a table near the window. The bed he was in was small and white. His was big and brass. What had happened? Slowly it came to him, and he started to get up, then fell back. The surge of blood receded, and again there was giddiness. Had he lost her? Had she, too, slipped out of his hands because of his confounded fall? It was a durned outrage that he should have fallen. Who was that man with his back to the bed?
The man turned. “All right, are you? That’s good!” His pulse was felt with professional fingers, but in the doctor’s voice was frank interest. “You were pretty nearly frozen, man. It’s well she saw you.”
“Where is she?” Van Landing sat up. “Where are my clothes? I must get up.”
“I guess not.” The doctor laughed, but his tone was as decisive as his act. Van Landing was pushed back on the pillow and the covering pulled up. “Do you mean Miss Barbour?”
“Yes. Where is Miss Barbour?”
The doctor wrote something on a slip of paper. “Downstairs, waiting to hear how you are. I’ll go down and tell her. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Where am I? Whose house is this?”
“Your house at present.” The doctor laughed again. “It’s Mother McNeil’s house, but all who need it use it, and you needed it, all right. You struck your head on the bottom step of the porch three doors from here. Had it been an inch nearer the temple—Pretty bad knock-out, as it was, but you’ll be all right tomorrow. If you wake up in a couple of hours take another one of these”—a pill was obediently swallowed—“but you’re to see no one until I see you again. No talking.”
“Sorry, but I must see Miss Barbour.” In Van Landing’s voice was sharp fear. “Christmas isn’t over yet? I haven’t missed it, have I? Are you sure she’s in this house?”
“Sure. She’s getting ready for tomorrow. Tomorrow will be the busiest day in the year. It’s Christmas eve.”
Van Landing slipped down in the bed and his face went deep in the pillows. Reaction was on. A horrible fear that he was going to cry, going to do some abominably childish thing, made him stuff the covering in his mouth and press his feet hard against the foot of the bed. He would not be cheated out of Christmas! He had believed he hated it, thought he wanted to be dead during it, and now if it were over and nothing done—Presently he spoke.
“Will you ask Miss Barbour if I may speak to her in the morning—before she goes out? My name is Van Landing—Stephen Van Landing. I was a friend of hers once.”
“One now.” The doctor’s voice was dryly emphatic. “Lucky she recognized you. Rather startled her, finding an old friend so unexpectedly.” Over his spectacles his kind, shrewd eyes looked down on the man in the bed. “I’ll see her. Miss Barbour is an exceptional woman, but she’s a woman, which means when she knows you are all
right she may not have time to see you. At present she’s outside your door. That’s her knock. Guess she’s got the milk.”
With breath held, Van Landing listened. Very low were the words spoken, then the door was closed again. His heart was calling to her. The long and empty years in which he had hoped against hope, and yet could make no effort to find her, faded as mist fades before the light that dawns and glows; and to say no word when she was near, to hold hands still that longed to outstretch, to make no sign when he would kneel for pardon at her feet—it was not to be endured. He would not wait; the doctor must let her in!
But it was not the doctor who was at his bed. It was a short, plump woman of more than middle age, with twinkling gray eyes and firm, kind hands and a cheery voice.
“It’s the milk, my son,” she said, and the steaming glass was held to his lips. “When you’ve had it you will sleep like a baby. It’s warm, are you—and the feet good and hot? Let me feel that water-bag? Bless my soul if it’s even lukewarm, and your feet still shivery! It’s no wonder, for they were ice itself when they brought you in.”
With dexterous fingers the hot-water bag was withdrawn from the foot of the bed and Mother McNeil was out of the room. Back again, she slipped it close to his feet, tucked in the covering, patted the pillows, and, lowering the light, turned to leave the room. At the door she stopped.
“Is there anything you’re needing, my son—anything I can do for you?”
For a moment there was silence, broken only by the ticking of a tiny clock on the mantel, then Van Landing spoke.
“Yes.” His voice was boyishly low. “Will you ask Miss Barbour if I may see her tomorrow before she goes out? I must see her.”
“Of course I will. And you can tell her how it happened that you were right near our door when you fell, and you didn’t even know she was in town. Very few of her uptown friends know. There wasn’t time for both uptown and downtown, and there were things she wanted to find out. She tells me you are an old friend, and I’m glad you’ve come across each other again. It pleases some folks to believe in chance, but I get more comfort thinking God has His own way. Good night, Mr. Van Landing. Good dreams—good dreams!”
The door was closed softly, and under the bedclothes Van Landing again buried his face in the pillows, and his lips twitched. Chance—was it chance or was it God? If only God would give him a chance!
CHAPTER XII
He was too tired, too utterly relaxed by warmth and medicine, to think clearly. Tomorrow he would find Carmencita, and she should get the things the children wanted. They were very strange, the places and people he had seen today. Of course he had known about such places and people, read about them, heard about them, but seeing for one’s self was different. There were a lot of bummers among these people he had passed; much of their misery was of their own making (he had made much of his), but the wonder was they were no worse.
Bold, bad faces, cold, pinched, hungry ones, eager, earnest, pathetic and joyous, worn and weary, burdened and care-free, they again passed before him, misty and ill-defined, as though the snow still veiled and made them hazy, and none of them he knew. He wished they would stop passing. He was very tired. They, too, were tired. Would they for ever be passing before him, these people, these little children, he had seen today? If they would go away he could think more clearly, could think of Frances. She was here, in the house with him. At first it had seemed strange, but it wasn’t strange. It would be strange if she were not here when he needed her, wanted her so. Tomorrow would not be too late. One could do a good deal on Christmas eve. Everybody had been busy except himself. He would telephone tomorrow and tell Herrick to close the office and give Miss Davis holiday until after New-Year.
But she had nowhere to go. He had heard her tell Herrick so, and Herrick had nowhere to go, either. Both lived in boarding-houses, he supposed. He had never thought to ask. Herrick was a faithful old plodder—never would be anything else—but he couldn’t get on without him. He ought to raise his salary. Why didn’t Herrick ask for more money if he wanted it? And then he could get married. Why didn’t he get married, anyhow? Once or twice he had seen him talking to Miss Davis about something that evidently wasn’t business. She was a pretty little thing and quick as lightning—just the opposite of old Herrick. Wouldn’t it be funny if they were in love; not, of course, like—
They had nowhere to go Christmas. If Frances would let them they might come here—no, not here, but at his home, their home. His home was Frances’s. It wouldn’t be home for him if it weren’t for her also. He would ask her. And Carmencita and her blind father, they could come, too. It would be horrible to have a Christmas dinner of sardines or toasted cheese and crackers—or one in a boarding-house. Other people might think it queer that he should have accidentally met Carmencita, and that Carmencita should have mentioned the name of Miss Barbour, and that he should have walked miles and miles—it must have been thousands of miles—trying to find her, and, after all, did not find her. She found him. But it wasn’t queer. He had been looking for her ever since—for three years he had been looking for her, and what one looks for long enough one always finds. Tomorrow—tomorrow—would—be—Christmas eve.
He opened his eyes slowly. The sun was blinding, and he blinked. Mother McNeil and the doctor were standing at the foot of the bed, and as he rubbed his eyes they laughed.
“It’s a merry Christmas you’re to have, my son, after all, and it’s wanting to be up and after it you are, if I’m a judge of looks.” And Van Landing’s hand, holding the coverlid close to his neck, was patted understandingly by Mother McNeil. “Last night the doctor was a bit worried about your head—you took your time in coming to—but I didn’t believe it was as bad as he feared, and it’s well it wasn’t, for it’s a grand day in which to be living, and you’ll need your head. Is it coffee or tea, now, that you like best for breakfast? And an egg and a bit of toast, doctor, I think will taste well. I’ll get them.” And without answer Mother McNeil was gone.
The doctor sat down, felt his patient’s pulse, took his temperature, investigated the cut on the forehead, then got up. “You’re all right.” His tone was one of gruff relief. “One inch nearer your temple, however—You can get up if you wish. Good day.” And he, too, was gone before Van Landing could ask a question or say a word of thanks.
It was bewildering, perplexing, embarrassing, and for a moment he hesitated. Then he got up. He was absurdly shaky, but his head was clear, and in his heart humility that was new and sweet. The day was great, and the sun was shining as on yesterday one would not have dreamed it could ever shine again. Going over to the door, he locked it and hurriedly began to dress. His clothes had a rough, dry appearance that made them hardly recognizable, and to get on his shoes, which evidently had been dried near the furnace, was difficult. In the small mirror over the bureau, as he tied his cravat, his face reflected varying emotions: disgust at his soiled collar, relief that he was up again, and gratitude that made a certain cynicism, of late becoming too well defined, fade into quiet purpose.
Unlocking the door, he went back to the window and looked across at the long row of houses, as alike as shriveled peas in a dry pod, and down on the snow-covered streets. Brilliantly the sun touched here and there a bit of cornice below a dazzling gleaming roof, and threw rays of rainbow light on window-pane and iron rail, outlined or hidden under frozen foam; and the dirt and ugliness of the usual day were lost in the white hush of mystery.
Not for long would there be transforming effect of the storm, however. Already the snow was being shoveled from door-steps and sidewalks, and the laughter of the boys as they worked, the scraping of their shovels, the rumble of wagon-wheels, which were making deep brown ruts in the middle of the street, reached him with the muffled sound of something far away, and, watching, he missed no detail of what was going on below.
“Goodness gracious! I’ve almost cried myself to death! And she found you—found you!”
Van Landing turned shar
ply. The door was open, though he had not heard the knock, and with a spring Carmencita was beside him, holding his hands and dancing as if demented with a joy no longer to be held in restraint.
“Oh, Mr. Van, I’ve almost died for fear I wouldn’t find you in time! And you’re here at Mother McNeil’s, and all yesterday I looked and looked, and I couldn’t remember your last name, and neither could Father. And Miss Frances was away until night, and I never prayed so hard and looked so hard in my life! Oh, Mr. Van, if you are a stranger, I love you, and I’m so glad you’re found!”
She stopped for breath, and Van Landing, stooping, lifted Carmencita’s face and kissed it.
“You are my dear friend, Carmencita.” His voice, as his hands, was a bit shaky. “I, too, am very glad—and grateful. Will you ask her to come, ask her to let me see her? I cannot wait any longer.”
“You’ll have to.” Carmencita’s eyes were big and blue in sudden seriousness. “The Little Big Sisters have their tree tonight, and she’s got a million trillion things to do today, and she’s gone out. She’s awful glad you’re better, though. I asked her, and she said she was. And I asked her why she didn’t marry you right straight away, or tomorrow if she didn’t have time today, and—”
“You did what, Carmencita?”
“That. I asked her that. What’s the use of wasting time? I told her you’d like a wife for a Christmas gift very much, if she was the wife. Wouldn’t you? Wouldn’t you really and truly rather have her than anything else?”
Van Landing turned and looked out of the window. The child’s eyes and earnest, eager face could not be met in the surge of hot blood which swept over him, and his throat grew tight. All his theories and ideas were becoming but confused upheaval in the manipulations of fate, or what you will, that were bringing strange things to pass, and he no longer could think clearly or feel calmly. He must get away before he saw Frances.
The Christmas Megapack Page 49