The Big Book of Christmas

by Anton Chekhov

  Enough of this, however. Nan and Bess Harley were established with Grace Mason, in Chicago, expecting to have a fine time. Nan tried to put all home troubles off her mind.

  The girls occupied a beautiful large suite together on the third floor, with a bath all their own, and a maid to wait upon them. Grace was used to this; but she was a very simple-minded girl, and the presence of a tidy, be-aproned and be-capped maid not much older than herself, did not particularly impress Grace one way or another.

  “I feel like a queen,” Bess confessed, luxuriously. “I can say: ’Do thus and so,’ and ’tis done. I might say: ‘Off with his head!’ if one of my subjects displeased me, and he would be guillotined before you could wink an eye.”

  “How horrid!” said Grace, the shy. “I never could feel that way.”

  “It would never do for Elizabeth to be a grand vizer, or sultan, or satrap,” Nan remarked laughingly.

  “Who wants to be a ‘shawl-strap’? Not I!” cried Bess, gaily. “I am Queen Bess, monarch of all I survey. Katie!”— the neat little maid had just entered the room—­“will you hand me the book I was reading in the other room? I’m too weak to rise. Oh, thanks!”

  Grace laughed; but Nan looked a little grave as Katie disappeared again.

  “Don’t, honey,” Nan said to her thoughtless chum. “It isn’t nice. The poor girl has necessary work enough without your making up thing’s for her to do. She is on her feet from morning till night. She tells me that her ankles swell dreadfully sometimes, and that is awful for a young girl like her.”

  “Why, Nan!” Grace cried, “how did you know?”

  “Katie told me,” repeated Nan.

  “But— but she never told me,” expostulated their hostess.

  “I don’t suppose you ever saw her crying, as I did, while she was setting the dinner table. It was last evening. She had been on her feet more than usual yesterday. The doctor tells her that her arches are breaking down; but she cannot afford to have arch supports made at present, because her mother needs all the money Katie can earn.”

  “Mercy!” gasped Bess. “Did you ever see such a girl as Nan? She already knows all the private history of that girl.”

  “No, I do not,” said Nan, with some indignation. “I never asked her a thing. She just told me. Lots of girls who have to go out to service are troubled with their arches breaking down. Especially when the floors are polished wood with nothing but rugs laid down. Bare floors may be very sanitary; but they are hard on the feet.”

  “There you go!” sighed Bess, “with a lot of erudite stuff that we don’t understand. I wish you wouldn’t.”

  “I know why Katie, and other people as well, love to tell Nan all their troubles,” said Grace, softly. “Because she is sympathetic. I am afraid I ought to have known about poor Katie’s feet.”

  The very next day the little serving maid was sent by Mrs. Mason to the orthopedic shoe shop to be measured for her arch supports and shoes. But it was Nan whom poor Katie caught alone in a dark corner of the hall when she came back, and humbly kissed.

  “An’ bless yer swate heart, Miss, for ’twas yer kind thought stirred up Miss Grace to tell the mistress. Bless yer swate heart again, I say!”

  Nan kept this to herself, of course; but it pleased her very much that the word she had dropped had had such a splendid result. Grace, she knew, was a lovable girl and never exacting with the servants; and Mrs. Mason was good to her people, too. But it was a rather perfunctory sort of goodness, spurred by little real knowledge of their individual needs.

  After this, it was quite noticeable that Grace was even more considerate of Katie and the other maids. Nan Sherwood had had little experience with domestic servants; but the appreciation of noblesse oblige was strong within her soul.

  The girls’ time, both day and evening, was fully occupied. The Masons’ was a large household, and there seemed to be always company. It was almost like living in a hotel, only above and over all the freedom and gaiety of the life there, was the impression that it was a real home, and that the Mason family lived a very intimate existence, after all.

  Walter and his father were close chums. Grace and her mother were like two very loving sisters. The smaller children were still with their governess and nurse most of the time. But there were times in every day when the whole family was together in private, with the rest of the household shut out.

  There was always something going on for the young folk. The day’s activities were usually planned at the general breakfast table. One day Nan had two hours of the forenoon on her hands, while her chum and Grace went shopping with Mrs. Mason. Nan did not like shopping— much.

  “Not unless I can have lots of money in my pocket-book, and be extravagant,” she said, laughing.

  “You never were extravagant in your life!” declared Bess, in refutation of this.

  However, Nan was left alone and Walter found it out. He had brought his black horse down from Freeling with him. He sent for this and the cutter, and insisted that Nan go with him through the park.

  Nan went, and would have had a delightful time had it not been for a single incident. As they turned back, suddenly there met them a very handsome, heavy, family sleigh, the pair of horses jingling their harness-bells proudly, and with tossing plumes and uniformed coachman and footman.

  “Goodness!” gasped Nan, as she saw a girl in furs lean far out of the great sleigh and wave her muff to Walter.

  It was Linda Riggs. Linda quite ignored Nan’s presence behind the black horse.

  “A Moving Scene”

  Nan did not refuse to go shopping every time her school friends went. The big Chicago stores appealed to her just as much as to any country girl who ever fell under their charm. In the Windy City the department stores— that mammoth of modern commerce— is developed to the highest degree.

  It was like wandering through an Alladin’s Palace for Nan to walk about Wilson-Meadows, Galsig-Wheelwrights, or any of the other big stores. And it was because she was so much interested in what she saw, that she wandered one day away from her friends and found herself in the jewelry department, where the French novelties loaded the trays and were displayed in the cases.

  Nan forgot her friends— and the flight of time. It was not alone the pretty things displayed that interested her, but the wonderfully dressed women who paraded through the aisles of the store.

  She found herself beside a beautifully dressed woman, in a loose, full-flowing fur garment, with fur hat to match, who, it seemed to Nan, was quite the most fashionable person she had ever beheld. The woman had a touch of rouge upon her otherwise pale cheeks; her eyebrows were suspiciously penciled; her lips were slightly ruddy. Nevertheless, she was very demure and very much the lady in appearance.

  She was idly turning over lavalliéres on a tray— holding them up for inspection, and letting the pretty chains run through her fingers to drop into the tray again, like sparkling water.

  “I don’t think I care for any of these, don’t you know?” she drawled, but very pleasantly. “I’m sorry— really.”

  She turned away from the counter. Nan was close by and had been secretly watching the pretty woman more than she had the lavalliéres. The clerk— rather an attractive girl with curly, black hair and very pink cheeks; quite an excitable young thing— suddenly leaned over the counter and whispered:

  “Oh, madam! Pray! The special lavalliére I showed you is not here.”

  “What do you say, child?” demanded the woman, haughtily. “Do you miss anything?”

  “The special lavalliére I showed you, madam,” gasped the girl. “Forgive me—do! But I am responsible for all I take out of the case!”

  “It is a mistake,” said the woman, coldly. “I haven’t the thing— surely.”

  “It is not here!” wailed the clerk, still in a low key, but fingering madly among the chains upon the tray. “Oh, ma’am! it will cost me twenty dollars!”

  The woman turned slowly and her eyes— placid blue be
fore— now shone with an angry light. Her gaze sought the counter— then the excited clerk— lastly, Nan!

  “I haven’t your lavalliére,” she said, and although her voice was stern, it was low. “I haven’t your lavalliére. How about this girl, here?” and she indicated Nan, with an air of superb indifference.

  “Oh, madam!” gasped the clerk.

  “Don’t! don’t!” begged Nan. “Oh! you know I haven’t it!”

  At that moment Nan felt a severe grasp upon her arm. She could not have run had she so desired. Her heart grew cold; her face flushed to fiery red. All neighboring eyes were turned on her.

  In department stores like this the management finds it very unwise to make any disturbance over a case of loss or robbery. The store detective held on to Nan’s arm; but he waited for developments.

  “What is this all about, Miss Merwin?” he demanded of the clerk.

  “I am charged with stealing a twenty-dollar lavalliére!” exclaimed the customer.

  “Oh, impossible, madam!” said the detective, evidently recognizing her.

  “Then this girl, who was nearest, may have it,” said madam, sharply.

  Nan was very much frightened; yet her sense of honesty came to her rescue. She cried:

  “Why should I be accused? I am innocent— I assure you, I would not do such a thing. Why! I have more than twenty dollars in my purse right now. I will show you. Why should I steal what I can buy?”

  To Nan Sherwood this question seemed unanswerable. But the store detective scarcely noticed. He looked at the lovely woman and asked:

  “Madam is sure this girl took the lavalliére?”

  “Oh, mercy, no! I would not accuse anybody of such a thing,” responded the woman, in her low voice.

  “But we know who you are, madam, we do not know this girl,” said the detective, doubtfully. “You are a customer whom the store is glad to serve. This girl is quite unknown to us. I have no doubt but she is guilty— as you say.”

  He shook the troubled Nan by the arm. The girl was trying to control herself— to keep from breaking down and crying. Somehow, she felt that that would not help her in the least.

  Without warning, a low voice spoke at Nan’s side: “I know this girl. Of what is she accused?”

  Only a few beside the detective and Nan heard the words.

  “Of stealing something from the counter,” said the man.

  “I should not be surprised.” The girl who had spoken, still whispered to the detective. “I know who she is. Her father is already in trouble on a similar charge. This girl tried to take a hand-bag of mine once. I never did think she was any better than she should be.”

  It was Linda Riggs. She stood with flushed face, looking at Nan, and although but few customers heard what she said, the latter felt as though she should sink through the floor.

  “Ah-ha!” exclaimed the pompous detective, holding Nan’s arm with a tighter grip. “You’ll come with me to the superintendent’s office to be searched.”

  Nothing but the vindictive expression of Linda’s face kept Nan Sherwood from bursting into tears. She was both hurt and frightened by this situation. And to have her father’s name mentioned in such an affair— perhaps printed in the papers! This thought terrified her as much as the possibility that she, herself, might be put in jail.

  Rather unsophisticated about police proceedings was Nan, and she saw jail yawning for her just beyond the superintendent’s office, whether the lost lavalliére was found in her possession or not.

  But instantly, before the detective could remove the trembling girl from the spot, or many curious people gather to stare and comment upon the incident, the wonderfully dressed woman said to the detective in her careless drawl:

  “Wait! Quite dramatic, I must say. So this other girl steps in and accuses our young heroine— without being asked even? I would doubt such testimony seriously, were I you, sir.”

  “But, madam!” exclaimed the man.

  “What a situation— for the film!” pursued the woman, raising her lorgnette to look first at Nan and then at Linda Riggs. The latter was flushing and paling by turns—­fearful at what she had done to her schoolmate, yet glad she had done it, too!

  As the customer wheeled slowly in her stately way to view the railroad magnate’s daughter, the clerk uttered a stifled cry, and on the heels of it the detective dropped Nan’s arm to hop around the woman in great excitement.

  “Wait, madam! wait, madam! wait!” he reiterated. “It is here— it is here!”

  “What is the matter with you, pray?” asked the woman, curiously. “Have you taken leave of your senses? Why don’t you stand still?”

  “The lavalliére!” gasped the man and, reaching suddenly, he plucked the dangling chain from an entangling frog on her fur garment. “Here it is, madam!” he cried, with immense satisfaction.

  “Now, fancy!” drawled the woman.

  Linda slipped out of sight behind some other people. Nan felt faint— just as though she would drop. The clerk and the detective were lavish in their apologies to Nan. As for the woman whose garment had been the cause of all the trouble, she merely laughed.

  “Fancy!” she said, in her low, pleasant drawl. “Just fancy! had I not chanced to be known to you, and a customer of the store, I might have been marched up to the superintendent’s office myself. It really is a wonderfully good situation for a film— a real moving picture scene made to order.”

  The Runaways Again

  Nan was ordinarily brave enough. But the disgrace of this scene— in which the fashionably attired woman merely saw the dramatic possibilities— well nigh broke the girl’s spirit. If she moved from this place she feared the whispering people would follow her; if she remained, they would remain to gape and wonder.

  The troubled girl glanced hurriedly around. Was there no escape? Suppose her chum and Mrs. Mason and Grace should appear, searching for her?

  The floodgates of her tears were all but raised when the placid woman who had caused all the trouble turned suddenly to her.

  “I do owe an apology to you, my dear,” she said. “I see you feel very badly about it. Don’t. It really is not worth thinking of. You evidently have a spiteful enemy in that girl who has run away. But, of course, my dear, such unfounded accusations have no weight in the minds of sensible people.” She seemed quite to have forgotten that hers was the first accusation.

  She glanced about disdainfully upon the group of whispering women and girls. Some of them quite evidently recognized her. How could they help it, when her features were so frequently pictured on the screen? But Nan had not identified this woman with the great actress-director, whose films were being talked of from ocean to ocean.

  “Come, my dear,” she said. “We can find a quieter place to talk, I know. And I do wish to know you better.”

  Whether it were unwise or not, Nan Sherwood found it impossible to refuse the request of so beautiful a woman. Nan immediately fell under the charm of her beauty and her voice. She went with her dumbly and forgot the unpleasant people who stood about and stared. The lovely woman’s light hand upon her arm, too, took away the memory of the detective’s stern grasp.

  The actress led her to the nearest elevator where a coin slipped into the palm of the elevator man caused him to shoot them up to another floor without delay. In this way all the curious ones lost trace of Nan and her new friend. In a few moments they were sitting in one of the tea-rooms where a white-aproned maid served them with tea and sweets at Madam’s command.

  “That is what you need, my dear,” said Nan’s host. “Our unfailing nerve-reviver and satisfier— tea. What would our sex do without it? And how do we manage to keep our complexions as we do, and still imbibe hogsheads of tea?”

  She laughed and pinched Nan’s cheek. “You have a splendid complexion yourself, child. And there’s quite some film-charm in your features, I can see. Of course, you have never posed?”

  “For moving pictures?” gasped Nan, at last waking up to wh
at the woman meant. “Oh, no, indeed!”

  “You are not like most other young girls, then?” said the woman. “You haven’t the craze to act in the silent drama?”

  “I never thought of such a thing,” Nan innocently replied. “Film companies do not hire girls of my age, do they?”

  “Not unless they are wonderfully well adapted for the work,” agreed the actress. “But I am approached every week— I was going to say, every day— by girls no older than you, who think they have genius for the film-stage.”

  “Oh!” exclaimed Nan, beginning at last to take interest in something besides her recent unpleasant experience. “Do you make moving pictures?”

  The actress raised her eyes and clasped her hands, invoking invisible spirits to hear. “At last! a girl who is not tainted by the universal craze for the movies— and who does not know me! There are still worlds for me to conquer,” murmured the woman. “Yes, my child,” she added, to the rather abashed Nan, “I am a maker of films.”

  “You— you must excuse me,” Nan hastened to say. “I expect I ought to know all about you; but I lived quite a long time in the Michigan woods, and then, lately, I have been at boarding school, and we have no movies there.”

  “Your excuses are accepted, my dear,” the actress-director said demurely. “It is refreshing, I assure you, to meet a girl like you.”

  “I— I suppose you see so many,” Nan said eagerly. “Those looking for positions in your company, I mean. You do not remember them all?”

  “Oh, mercy, no, my dear!” drawled the woman. “I see hundreds.”

  “Two girls I know of have recently come to Chicago looking for positions with moving picture concerns,” explained Nan, earnestly. “They are country girls, and their folks want them to come home.”