Turning, Van Landing looked into the little face upraised to his, then
lifted his hat. She was so enveloped in the big coat which came to her
heels that for half a moment he could not tell whether she was ten or
twenty. Then he smiled.
"Thank you," he said. "I don't know that I care to see. I don't know
why I stopped."
"Oh, but it is perfectly grand, seeing them is! You can see everything
up there"--a little bare hand was waved behind her in the direction of
the porch--"and nothing down here. And you looked like you wanted to
see. There have been kings and queens, and princes and princesses, and
dukes and duchesses, and sirs, and--" She looked up. "What's the lady
name for sir? 'Tisn't siress, is it?"
"I believe not." Van Landing laughed. "I didn't know there was so much
royalty in town." "There is. They are royals--that kind of people."
Her hand pointed in the direction of the house from which could be
heard faint strains of music. "They live in palaces, and wave wands,
and eat out of gold plates, and wear silk stockings in the morning,
and--oh, they do everything that's splendid and grand and magnificent
and--"
"Do you think people are splendid and grand and magnificent because
they live in palaces and wear--"
"Goodness gracious!" The big blue eyes surveyed the speaker with
uncertainty. "Are you one of them, too?"
"One what?"
"Damanarkists. Mr. Leimberg is one. He hates people who live in
palaces and wave wands and have _dee_-licious things to eat. He don't
believe in it. Mr. Ripple says it's because he's a damanarkist and
very dangerous. Mr. Leimberg thinks men like Mr. Ripple ought to be
tarred and feathered. He says he'd take the very last cent a person
had and give it to blood-suckers like that"--and again the red little
hand was waved toward the opposite side of the street. "Mr. Ripple
collects our rent. I guess it does take a lot of money to live in a
palace, but I'd live in one if I could, though I'd try not to be very
particular about rents and things. And I'd have chicken-pie for dinner
every day and hot oysters for supper every night; and I'd ask some
little girls sometimes to come and see me--that is, I think I would.
But maybe I wouldn't. It's right easy to forget in a palace, I guess.
Oh, look--there's somebody else going in! Hurry, mister, or you won't
see!"
Following the child up the flight of stone steps, Van Landing stood at
the top and looked across at the arriving cars, whose occupants were
immediately lost to sight in the tunnel, as his new acquaintance
called it, and then he looked at her.
Very blue and big and wonder-filled were her eyes, and, tense in the
effort to gain the last glimpse of the gorgeously gowned guests, she
stood on tiptoe, leaning forward eagerly, and suddenly Van Landing
picked her up and put her on top of the railing. Holding on to his
coat, the child laughed gaily.
"Aren't we having a good time?" Her breath was drawn in joyously.
"It's almost as good as being inside. Wouldn't you like to be? I
would. I guess the bride is beautiful, with real diamonds on her
slippers and in her hair, and--" She looked down on Van Landing. "My
father is in there. He goes to 'most all the scrimptious weddings that
have harps to them. He plays on the harp when the minister is saying
the words. Do you think it is going to be a very long wedding?"
A note of anxiety in the child's voice made Van Landing look at her
more closely, and as she raised her eyes to his something stirred
within him curiously. What an old little face it was! All glow and
eagerness, but much too thin and not half enough color, and the hat
over the loose brown curls was straw.
"I don't think it will be long." His voice was cheerfully decisive.
"That kind is usually soon over. Most of a wedding's time is taken in
getting ready for it. Did you say your father was over there?"
The child's head nodded. "They have a harp, so I know they are nice
people. Father can't give lessons any more, because he can't see but
just a teensy, weensy bit when the sun is shining. He used to play on
a big organ, and we used to have oysters almost any time, but that was
before Mother died. Father was awful sick after she died, and there
wasn't any money, and when he got well he was almost blind, and he
can't teach any more, and 'most all he does now is weddings and
funerals. I love him to go to weddings. He makes the others tell him
everything they see, and then he tells me, and we have the grandest
time making out we were sure enough invited, and talking of what we
thought was the best thing to eat, and whose dress was the prettiest,
and which lady was the loveliest--Oh, my goodness! Look there!"
Already some of the guests were departing; and Van Landing, looking at
his watch, saw it was twenty minutes past six. Obviously among those
present were some who failed to feel the enthusiasm for weddings that
his new friend felt. With a smile he put the watch away, and, placing
the child's feet more firmly on the railing, held her so that she
could rest against his shoulder. She could hardly be more than twelve
or thirteen, and undersized for that, but the oval face was one of
singular intelligence, and her eyes--her eyes were strangely like the
only eyes on earth he had ever loved, and as she settled herself more
comfortably his heart warmed curiously, warmed as it had not done for
years. Presently she looked down at him.
"I don't think you're a damanarkist." Her voice was joyous. "You're
so nice. Can you see good?"
"Very good. There isn't much to see. One might if it weren't for
that--"
"Old tunnel! I don't think they ought to have them if it isn't snowing
or raining. Oh, I do hope Father can come out soon! If I tell you
something will you promise not to tell, not even say it to yourself
out loud?" Her face was raised to his. "I'm going to get Father's
Christmas present to-night. We're going down-town when he is through
over there. He can't see me buy it, and it's something he wants
dreadfully. I've been saving ever since last Christmas. It's going to
cost two dollars and seventy-five cents." The eager voice trailed off
into an awed whisper. "That's an awful lot to spend on something
you're not bound to have, but Christmas isn't like any other time. I
spend millions in my mind at Christmas. Have you bought all your
things, Mr.--Mr.--don't even know your name." She laughed. "What's
your name, Mr. Man?"
Van Landing hesitated. Caution and reserve were inherent
characteristics. Before the child's eyes they faded.
"Van Landing," he said. "Stephen Van Landing."
"Mine is Carmencita. Father named me that because when I was a teensy
baby I kicked my feet so, and loved my tambourine best of all my
things. Have you bought all your Christmas gifts, Mr. Van--I don't
remember the other part."
"I haven't any to buy--and no one to buy for. That is--"
"Good gracious!" The child turned quickly; in her eyes and voice
incredulity was unrestrained. "I didn't know there was anybody in all
the world who didn't have anybody to buy for! Are you--are you very
poor, Mr. Van? You look very nice."
"I think I must be very poor." Van Landing fastened his glasses more
securely on his nose. "I'm quite sure of it. It has been long since I
cared to buy Christmas presents. I give a few, of course, but--"
"And don't you have Christmas dinner at home, and hang up your
stocking, and buy toys and things for children, and hear the music in
the churches? I know a lot of carols. Father taught me. I'll sing one
for you. Want me? Oh, I believe they are coming out! Father said they
wouldn't want him as long as the others. If I lived in a palace and
was a royal lady I'd have a harp longer than anything else, but Father
says it's on account of the food. Food is awful high, and people would
rather eat than hear harps. Oh, there's Father! I must go, Mr. Van.
Thank you ever so much for holding me."
With a movement that was scientific in its dexterity the child slipped
from Van Landing's arms and jumped from the railing to the porch, and
without so much as a turn of the head ran down the steps and across
the street. Darting in between two large motor-cars, Van Landing saw
her run forward and take the hand of a man who was standing near the
side-entrance of the house in which the wedding had taken place. It
was too dark to distinguish his face, and in the confusion following
the calling of numbers and the hurrying off of guests he felt
instinctively that the man shrank back, as is the way of the blind,
and an impulse to go over and lead him away made him start down the
steps.
At the foot he stopped. To go over was impossible. He would be
recognized. For half a moment he hesitated. It was his dinner hour,
and he should go home; but he didn't want to go home. The stillness
and orderliness of his handsome apartment was suddenly irritating. It
seemed a piece of mechanism made to go so smoothly and noiselessly
that every element of humanness was lacking in it; and with something
of a shiver he turned down the street and in the direction opposite to
that wherein he lived. The child's eyes had stirred memories that must
be kept down; and she was right. He was a poor man. He had a house,
but no home, and he had no Christmas presents to buy.