The funny little doll lay asleep, very neat and straight, just in the
center of the bed, the covers drawn up like a shawl, one cheek pressed
against the pillow, its fair mane streaming out behind, as if it were
advancing doggedly against a high wind. There was no creature in the
world more helpless, yet it was not alert, not timid, as defenseless
little animals are; it slept in utter confidence and security.
And that confidence seemed to Ross almost terrible. The tiny creature,
breathing so tranquilly, took for granted all possible kindness and
protection from him. It had asked him for food; it had offered a kiss.
He stood looking down at it with considerable anxiety, yet with the
hint of a smile on his lips.
“Made yourself at home, didn’t you?” he thought.
As he looked, the child gave an impatient flounce, and threw one arm
over her head. Ross drew nearer, frowning a little; bent over to
examine that arm, that ruffled sleeve.
“I don’t believe—” he muttered, and very carefully pulled out the
covers from the foot of the bed. His suspicions were confirmed; she
was fully dressed, even to her shoes.
“Must be darned uncomfortable!” he thought. He hesitated a moment,
half afraid to touch her; but at last he cautiously unbuttoned one
slipper. She did not stir. He drew off the slipper, then the other
one; then the socks, and tucked in the covers again.
“Poor little devil!” he said to himself. “Poor little devil! I
wonder—”
A great yawn interrupted him.
“I’ll think about this in the morning,” he thought; “but I’m going to
get some sleep now—before anything else happens.”
For, coming from the cold of his vigil into this warmth was making him
intolerably drowsy. He took off his collar and sat down to remove
those objectionable puttees.
As this unprincipled intruder had so coolly taken possession of the
bed, he would have to sleep on the couch in the sitting room, but that
didn’t trouble him. He felt that he could sleep anywhere, and that
nothing—absolutely nothing—could keep him awake ten minutes longer.
A sound from below startled him. Some one was unlocking the door.
In his blind fatigue, he was ready to ignore even that. He didn’t
_care_ who came; he wanted to go to sleep.
But he remembered the tiny creature in the bed, the creature who
expected his protection, and that roused him. Closing the bedroom
door, he went to the head of the stairs, and, in a voice husky with
sleep, but distinctly threatening, called out:
“Who’s that?”
“Me,” answered Eddy’s voice.
Even before he saw the boy, Ross was aware that there was something
amiss with Eddy tonight. His voice was different; he climbed the
stairs so slowly. He came into the sitting room, and flung down the
bag he was carrying.
“I’m all in!” he said.
He looked it. His face was haggard and white; his glossy hair was no
longer combed back, but flopped untidily over his forehead. There was
nothing jaunty about Eddy now. He was weary, grimy, and dispirited.
“Been doing overtime,” he explained. “Lot of wires down in that storm
last night.”
“Look here!” said Ross. “There’s a child here—a baby. I don’t know
whose it is, or how it got here. But it’s asleep in there. Better not
disturb it.”
“Wha-at!” cried Eddy. He looked amazed, he spoke in a tone of
amazement, but there was something—
“By Heaven!” thought Ross. “You’ve got the other key to the garage, my
lad! And the child didn’t come through a locked door.”
“A kid!” Eddy repeated.
“Queer, isn’t it?” Ross inquired, sarcastically. “If not peculiar!”
Eddy glanced at him, and then sat down and lit a cigarette.
“I’ll say it’s queer!” he observed.
“Especially as I’d left the door locked when I went out.”
Again Eddy glanced at him.
“Did you—what did they say—over at the house?” he asked.
“Oh, nothing much!”
He observed, with satisfaction, that this answer alarmed Eddy.
“Well, lissen here,” he said. “Who did you tell? Old Jones?”
“I don’t remember,” Ross declared.
“But—” Eddy began, and stopped.
“I’m going to turn in now,” said Ross. “Afraid you’ll have to put up
with the chair again tonight.”
He crossed the room to the couch and lay down there. He was only
partly undressed, and he put his shoes beside him, and his overcoat
across his feet, because, in this nightmare existence, he had to be
prepared for every impossible emergency.
“But I’ll get some sleep anyhow!” he thought, defiantly.
He stretched out, with a sigh of relief, and closed his eyes, when an
almost inaudible sound, like the faintest echo of his own sigh, made
him glance up again. He saw that Eddy had buried his face in his
hands, and sat there, his slight shoulders hunched, his young head
bent, in an attitude of misery and dejection.
And Ross was sorry for him. All through his confused and heavy dreams
that night ran a little thread of pity, of regret and pain, which he
could not understand. Only, he felt that in this adventure there was
more than the tragedy of death.
When he opened his eyes again, the room was filled with a strange,
pale light, unfamiliar to him. Dawn? It was more like twilight. He
raised himself on one elbow and looked out of the window, and, for the
first time in his life, he saw the snow.
Thick and fast the flakes went spinning by, tapping lightly against
the glass, and, out beyond, he saw that all the world was white. White
and unimaginably still. He had seen plenty of pictures of snow-covered
landscapes, but he had never known the _feel_ of a snowstorm, the odd
tingle in the air, the sense of hushed expectancy.
He was amazed and delighted with it. Old and forgotten fancies of his
childhood stirred in him now; queer little memories of glittering
Christmas cards, of fairy tales. He remembered a story his mother had
read to him, so very long ago, about a Snow Queen.
And it was good for him to remember these things, after so many
ungracious years, just as it was good to see the snow, after so long a
time of tropic sun and rain. He knew that it was good, and for a
little time he was content, watching the snow fall.
But his destiny was not inclined to allow him many peaceful moments
just then. Before he had even begun to think of his complicated
anxieties, a sound from the next room brought the whole burden upon
him like an avalanche. It was the child’s voice.
He jumped up from the couch, and then he noticed that Eddy had gone.
He frowned, not knowing whether this was a disaster or a thing of no
importance, and, without stopping to put on his shoes, went across to
the bedroom door and turned the knob. He had come so quietly that no
one had heard him, and he was able to observe a curious scene.
Eddy was on his knees, his head bowed before the little girl, who sat
on the bed, lifting strands of his glossy hair and pulling them out to
their fullest extent, with a grave and thoughtful air.
“Lookit here!” whispered Eddy. “I wish you’d quit that, baby!”
“You dot funny, flippety-floppety hair,” said she.
“Well, anyway, hold your foot still, won’t you?” he entreated.
Ross saw, then, that Eddy was trying to put the child’s socks on, and
getting no intelligent coöperation from her.
“What are you doing that for?” he asked.
Eddy sprang to his feet like a cat. He looked at Ross, and Ross looked
at him, and the little girl lay back on the bed and began jouncing up
and down.
“Well,” Eddy replied, slowly, “if you really want to know, it was me
brought her here, and now I’m goin’ to take her away again; that’s
all.”
Once more Ross was conscious of a disarming pity for the boy. He
thought he had never seen a human creature who looked so unhappy.
“Look here, Eddy!” he remarked. “Who is she, anyhow?”
“Her?” said Eddy. “Why, what does it matter?”
Ross was silent for a moment.
“I—I’m interested in the little girl,” he said, half ashamed of this
weakness. “I’d like to know where she’s going.”
“Gawd knows,” said Eddy, briefly.
“What do you mean?”
“She can’t stay here,” said Eddy. “That’s one sure thing.”
Again he looked at Ross, with a strange intensity, as if he were
trying desperately to read that quite unreadable face.
“If you’re really interested in the kid—” he began.
“I am,” said Ross.
Eddy sat down on the bed.
“I don’t believe you told them, over at the house,” he continued.
“’Cause, if they knew, they’d of—”
“No, I didn’t,” said Ross.
“Then nobody knows she’s here—but me and you?”
“That’s all.”
“Well,” said Eddy.
Again Ross had a distinct warning of danger, and again he defied it,
standing there stubbornly resistant to all the ill winds that might
blow.
“This kid,” Eddy pointed out—“she hasn’t got anybody in the world.”
As if by common consent, they both turned to look at the child. She
was holding the rabbit aloft, and trying to touch it with one little
bare foot; she was quite happy; with superb unconcern she left her
fate in the hands of these two young men.
“I’d explain it to you, if I could,” Eddy went on; “but I can’t, just
now. Later on, maybe. Only, she can’t stay here. I got to take her
away before anybody sees her.” He paused. “I know somewheres I could
leave her today, and bring her back here tonight, all right, only
after that—”
A dim and monstrous suspicion stirred in Ross, but he would not
examine it. He did not want to understand.
“After that,” he said, “I’ll look after her.”