How It Happened Part 10

Again Van Landing laughed. "I think perhaps I am drunk, but not in the way you mean, Carmencita. It's a matter of spirits, however. Something has gone to my head, or perhaps it's my heart. But I know very well what I'm doing. There's one thing more. I forgot to tell you. I have a little friend who has done a good deal for me. I want to get her a present or two--some clothes and things that girls like. Your size, I think, would fit her. I'd like--"

"Is she rich or poor?"

Van Landing hesitated. "She is rich. She has a wonderful imagination and can see all sorts of things that others don't see, and her friends are--"

"Kings and queens, and fairies and imps, and ghosts and devils. I know. I've had friends like that. Does she like pink or blue?"

"I think she likes--blue." Again Van Landing hesitated. Silks and satins might be Carmencita's choice. Silks and satins would not do. "I don't mean she has money, and I believe she'd rather have practical things."

"No, she wouldn't! Girls hate practical things." The long, loose, shabby coat was touched lightly. "This is practical. Couldn't she have one pair of s.h.i.+ny slippers, just one, with buckles on them? Maybe she's as Cinderellary as I am. I'd rather stick my foot out with a diamond-buckle slipper on it than eat. I do when my princess friends call, and they always say: 'Oh, Carmencita, what a charming foot you have!' And that's it. _That_!" And Carmencita's foot with it's coa.r.s.e and half-worn shoe was held out at full length. "But we've got to hurry, or we won't be at the Green Tea-pot by two o'clock. Come on."

With amazing discrimination Carmencita made her purchases, and only once or twice did she overstep the limitations of practicality and insist upon a present that could be of little use to its recipient.

For the giving of joy the selection of a pair of s.h.i.+ning slippers, a blue satin sash, and a string of amber beads were eminently suitable, however, and, watching, Van Landing saw her eyes gleam over the precious possessions she was supposedly buying for some one else, a child of her own age, and he made no objection to the selections made.

"Even if she don't wear them she will have them." And Carmencita drew a long, deep sigh of satisfaction. "It's so nice to know you have got something you can peep at every now and then. It's like eating when you're hungry. Oh, I do hope she'll like them! Is it two, Mr. Van?"

It was ten minutes to two, and, putting Carmencita into the bundle-packed cab, Van Landing ordered the latter to the Green Tea-pot, then, getting in, leaned back, took off his hat, and wiped his forehead. Tension seemed suddenly to relax and his heart for a moment beat thickly; then with a jerk he sat upright. Carmencita was again absorbed in watching the crowds upon the streets, and, when the cab stopped, jumped as if awakened from a dream.

"Are we here already? Oh, my goodness! There she is!"

Miss Barbour was going in the doorway, and as Van Landing saw the straight, slender figure, caught the turn of the head, held in the way that was hers alone, the years that were gone slipped out of memory and she was his again. His--With a swift movement he was out of the cab and on the street and about to follow her when Carmencita touched him on the arm.

"Let me go first. She doesn't know you're coming. We'll get a table near the door."

The crowd separated them, but through it Carmencita wriggled her way quickly and disappeared. Waiting, Van Landing saw her rush up to Miss Barbour, then slip in a chair at a table whose occupants were leaving, and motion Frances to do the same. As the tired little waitress, after taking off the soiled cloth and putting on a fresh one, went away for necessary equipment Van Landing opened the door and walked in and to the table and held out his hand.

"You would not let me thank you this morning. May I thank you now for--"

[Ill.u.s.tration: "YOU WOULD NOT LET ME THANK YOU THIS MORNING. MAY I THANK YOU NOW FOR--"]

"Finding him?" Carmencita leaned halfway over the table, and her big blue eyes looked anxiously at first one and then the other. "He was looking for you, Miss Frances; he'd been looking all day and all night because he'd just heard you were somewhere down here, and he's come to have lunch with us, and--Oh, it's Christmas, Miss Frances, and please tell him--say something, do something! He's been waiting three years, and he can't wait another minute. Gracious! that smells good!"

The savory dish that pa.s.sed caused a turn in Carmencita's head, and Frances Barbour, looking into the eyes that were looking into hers, held out her hand. At sight of Van Landing her face had colored richly, then the color had left it, leaving it white, and in her eyes was that he had never seen before.

"There is nothing for which to thank me." Her voice with its freshness and sweetness stirred as of old, but it was low. She smiled slightly.

"I am very glad you are all right this morning. I did not know you knew our part of the town." Her hand was laid on Carmencita's.

"I didn't until I met your little friend. I had never been in it before. I know it now very well."

"And he was so fighting mad because he couldn't see you when I sent the note that he went out, not knowing where he was or how to get back, and when his senses came on again and he tried to find out he couldn't find, and he walked 'most all night and was lost like people in a desert who go round and round. And the next day he walked all day long and 'most froze, and he'd pa.s.sed Mother McNeil's house a dozen times and didn't know it; and he was chasing Noodles and just leaning against that railing when the cop came and you came. Oh, Miss Frances, it's Christmas! Won't you please make up and--When are we going to eat?"

Miss Barbour's hand closed over Carmencita's twisting ones, and into her face again sprang color; then she laughed. "We are very hungry, Mr. Van Landing. Would you mind sitting down so we can have lunch?"

An hour later Carmencita leaned back in her chair, hands in her lap and eyes closed. Presently one hand went out. "Don't ask me anything for a minute, will you? I've got to think about something. When you're ready to go let me know."

Through the meal Carmencita's flow of words and flow of spirits had saved the silences that fell, in spite of effort, between Van Landing and Miss Barbour, and under the quiet poise so characteristic of her he had seen her breath come unsteadily. Could he make her care for him again? With eyes no longer guarded he looked at her, leaned forward.

"From here," he said, "where are you going?"

"Home. I mean to Mother McNeil's. Carmencita says you and she have done my shopping." She smiled slightly and lifted a gla.s.s of water to her lips. "The tree is to be dressed this afternoon, and to-night the children come."

"And I--when can I come?"

"You?" She glanced at Carmencita, who was now sitting with her chin on the back of her chair, arms clasping the latter, watching the strange and fascinating scene of people ordering what they wanted to eat and eating as much of it as they wanted. "I don't know. I am very busy.

After Christmas, perhaps."

"You mean for me there is to be no Christmas? Am I to be for ever kept outside, Frances?"

"Outside?" She looked up and away. "I have no home. We are both--outside. To have no home at Christmas is--" Quickly she got up.

"We must go. It is getting late, and there is much to do."

For one swift moment she let his eyes hold hers, and in his burned all the hunger of the years of loss; then, taking up her m.u.f.f, she went toward the door. On the street she hesitated, then held out her hand.

"Good-by, Mr. Van Landing. I hope you will have a happy Christmas."

"Do you?" Van Landing opened the cab door. "Get in, please. I will come in another cab." Stooping, he pushed aside some boxes and bundles and made room for Carmencita. "I'll be around at four to help dress the tree. Wait until I come." He nodded to the cabman; then, lifting his hat, he closed the door with a click and, turning, walked away.

"Carmencita! oh, Carmencita!" Into the child's eyes the beautiful ones of her friend looked with sudden appeal, and the usually steady hands held those of Carmencita with frightened force. "What have you done?

What have you done?"

"Done?" Carmencita's fingers twisted into those of her beloved, and her laugh was joyous. "Done! Not much yet. I've just begun. Did--did you know you were to have a grand Christmas present, Miss Frances? You are. It's--it's alive!"

CHAPTER XV

The time intervening before his return to help with the tree was spent by Van Landing in a certain establishment where jewels were kept and in telephoning Peterkin; and the orders to Peterkin were many. At four o'clock he was back at Mother McNeil's.

In the double parlor of the old-fas.h.i.+oned house, once the home of wealth and power, the tree was already in place, and around it, in crowded confusion, were boxes and barrels, and bundles and toys, and clothes and shoes, and articles of unknown name and purpose, and for a moment he hesitated. Hands in his pockets, he looked first at Mother McNeil and then at a little lame boy on the floor beside an open trunk, out of which he was taking gaily-colored ornaments and untangling yards of tinsel; and then he looked at Frances, who, with a big ap.r.o.n over her black dress, with its soft white collar open at the throat, was holding a pile of empty stockings in her hands.

"You are just in time, my son." Mother McNeil beamed warmly at the uninvited visitor. "When a man can be of service, it's let him serve, I say, and if you will get that step-ladder over there and fix this angel on the top of the tree it will save time. Jenkins has gone for more tinsel and more bread. We didn't intend at first to have sandwiches and chocolate--just candy and nuts and things like that--but it's so cold and snowy Frances thought something good and hot would taste well. You can slice the bread, Mr. Van Landing. Four sandwiches apiece for the boys and three for the girls are what we allow." She looked around. "Hand him that angel, Frances, and show him where to put it. I've got to see about the cakes."

Never having fastened an angel to the top of a tree, for a half-moment Van Landing was uncertain how to go about it, fearing exposure of ignorance and awkwardness; then with a quick movement he was up the ladder and looking down at the girl who was handing him a huge paper doll dressed in the garments supposedly worn by the dwellers of mansions in the sky, and as he took it he laughed.

"This is a very worldly-looking angel. She apparently enjoys the blowing of her trumpet. Stand off, will you, and see if that's right?"

Van Landing fastened the doll firmly to the top of the tree. "Does she show well down there?"

It was perfectly natural that he should be here and helping. True, he had never heard of Mother McNeil and her home until two nights before, never had dressed a Christmas tree before, or before gone where he was not asked, but things of that sort no longer mattered. What mattered was that he had found Frances, that it was the Christmas season, and he was at last learning the secret of its hold on human hearts and sympathies. There was no time to talk, but as he looked he watched, with eyes that missed no movement that she made, the fine, fair face that to him was like no other on earth, and, watching, he wondered if she, too, wondered at the naturalness of it all.

The years that had pa.s.sed since he had seen her had left their imprint. She had known great sorrow, also she had traveled much, and, though about her were the grace and courage of old, there was something else, something of nameless and compelling appeal, and he knew that she, too, knew the loneliness of life.

Quickly they worked, and greater and greater grew the confusion of the continually appearing boxes and bundles, and, knee-deep, Mother McNeil surveyed them, hands on her hips, and once or twice she brushed her eyes.

"It's always the way, my son. If you trust people they will not fail you. When we learn how to understand there will be less hate and more help in the world. Jenkins, bring that barrel of apples and box of oranges over here and get a knife for Mr. Van Landing to cut the bread for the sandwiches. It's time to make them. Matilda, call Abraham in.

He can slice the ham and cheese. There must be plenty. Boys are hollow. Frances, have you seen my scissors?"

Out of what seemed hopeless confusion and chaotic jumbling, out of excited coming and going, and unanswered questions, and slamming of doors, and hurried searchings, order at last evolved, and, feeling very much as if he'd been in a football match, Van Landing surveyed the rooms with a sense of personal pride in their completeness. Around the tree, placed between the two front windows, were piled countless packages, each marked, and from the mantelpiece hung a row of bulging stockings, reinforced by huge mounds of the same on the floor, guarded already by old Fetch-It. Holly and cedar gave color and fragrance, and at the uncurtained windows wreaths, hung by crimson ribbons, sent a welcome to the waiting crowd outside.