When the store was reached Van Landing for the first time was able to
see distinctly the faces of Carmencita and her father, and as for a
moment he watched the slim little body in its long coat, once the
property, undoubtedly, of a much bigger person, saw her eager,
wonder-filled eyes, and the wistful mouth which had learned to smile
at surrender, the strings of his heart twisted in protest, and for the
"damanarkist" of whom she had spoken, for the moment he had sympathy
of which on yesterday there would have been no understanding. She
could not be more than twelve or thirteen, he thought, but condition
and circumstance had made her a woman in many matters, and the art of
shopping she knew well. Slowly, very slowly, she made her way to the
particular counter at which her precious purchase was to be made,
lingering here and there to gaze at things as much beyond her hope of
possession as the stars of heaven; and, following her slow-walking,
Van Landing could see her eyes brighten and yearn, her lips move, her
hand outstretch to touch and then draw back quickly, and also every
now and then he could see her shake her head.
"What is it?" he asked. "Why do you do that? Is there anything in here
you would like to get, besides the thing you came for?"
"Anything I'd like to get!" The words were repeated as if not heard
aright. "Anybody would know you'd never been a girl. There isn't much
in here I wouldn't like to get if I didn't have to pay for it."
"But not rattles and dolls and drums and pop-guns and boxing-gloves
and all the other things you've looked at. Girls of your age--"
"This girl wasn't looking at them for herself. I'm 'most grown up now.
But everybody on our street has got a baby, and a lot of children
besides. Mrs. Perry has twins and a baby, and Mrs. Latimer always has
two on a bottle at the same time. I'm just buying things in my mind.
It's the only way I can buy 'em, and Christmas wouldn't be Christmas
if you couldn't buy some way. Sallie Simcoe will go crazy if she don't
get a doll that whistles. She saw one in a window once. It was a
Whistling Jim and cost a dollar. She won't get it. Oh, here it is, Mr.
Van! Here's the counter where the jewelry things are."
As she neared it she nodded to Van Landing and pointed to her father,
who, hand on her shoulder, had kept close to her, then beckoned him to
come nearer. "He can't see, I know"--her voice was excited--"but take
him away, won't you? I wouldn't have him guess it, not for _anything_
on earth! I'll be through in a minute."
In moments incredibly few, but to Van Landing tormentingly long, she
was back again, and close to her heart she was hugging a tiny package
with one hand, while the other was laid on her father's arm. "I got
it," she whispered; "it's perfectly beautiful." She spoke louder. "I
guess we'd better be going now. I know you're hungry, and so am I.
Come on. We can walk home, and then I'll make the tea."
For a second Van Landing hesitated, then he followed the odd-looking
couple out into the street, but as they started to turn the corner he
stopped.
"I say"--he cleared his throat to hide its embarrassed
hesitation--"don't you want to do me a favor? Where I live I don't
buy the things I eat, and I've often thought I'd like to. If you are
going to make the tea and toast, why can't I get the--the chicken,
say, and some salad and things? That's a good-looking window over
there with cooked stuff in it. We'll have a party and each put in
something."
"Chicken?" Into his face the child gazed with pitying comprehension of
his ignorance, and in her voice was shrill amusement. "_Chicken!_ Did
you ever price one? I have, when I'm having kings and queens taking
dinner with me in my mind. People don't have chicken 'cept at
Christmas, and sometimes Sundays if there hasn't been anybody out of
work for a long time. Come on. I've got a box of sardines. Just think,
Father, he wants to buy a _chicken_!"
With a gay little laugh in which was shrewd knowledge of the
unthinkableness of certain indulgences, the child slipped one arm
through her father's and another through Van Landing's, and with a
happy skip led the way down the poorly lighted street. A solid mass of
dreary-looking houses, with fronts unrelieved by a distinguishing
feature, stretched as far as the eye could see, and when a few blocks
had been walked it was with a sense of relief that a corner was
turned and Van Landing found himself at the foot of a flight of steps
up which the child bounded and beckoned him to follow.
The house was like the others, one of a long row, and dull and dark
and dingy, but from its basement came a baby's wailing, while from the
floor above, as the hall was entered, could be heard the rapid click
of a sewing-machine. Four flights of steps were mounted; then
Carmencita took the key from her father's pocket and opened the door.
"This is our suite," she said, and courtesied low. "Please strike a
match, if you have one, Mr. Van. This house is very old, and history
houses don't have electric lights. The ghosts wouldn't like it. Some
of my best friends are ghosts. I'll be back in a minute."
As she ran into the little hall room adjoining the large room which he
saw comprised their "suite," Van Landing lighted the lamp near the
mantel and looked around. In the center was a marble-topped table, and
on it a lamp, a work-basket, and several magazines with backs half
gone. The floor was bare save for a small and worn rug here and there,
and on the sills of the uncurtained windows two hardy geraniums were
blooming bravely. A chest of drawers, a few chairs, a shelf of books,
a rug-covered cot, a corner cupboard, a wash-stand behind a screen,
and a small table near the stove, behind which a box of wood could be
seen, completed its furnishings; and still, despite its bareness,
there was something in it which was not in the place wherein he lived,
and wonderingly he again looked around. Had he found himself in the
moon or at the bottom of the Dead Sea it would be hardly less
remarkable than finding himself here. Adventures of this sort were
entirely out of his experience. As regulated as a piece of machinery
his life had become of late, and the routine of office and club and
house had been accepted as beyond escape, and the chance meeting of
this little creature--
"Oh, my goodness! I forgot to put the kettle on!"
With a spring that came apparently from the door opposite the stove
near which he was standing Carmencita was by his side, and, swift
movement following swift movement, the lid of the stove was lifted,
wood put in, the kettle of water put on, and the table drawn farther
out in the floor. A moment more the lamp was lighted, her father's
coat and hat in place, his chair drawn up to the now roaring fire;
then, with speculation in her eyes, she stood for half a moment, hands
on hips, looking first at Van Landing and then at the cupboard in the
corner.
For the first time he saw well the slender little body out of its
long, loose coat, the heavy, brown curls which tumbled over the oval
face, the clear eyes that little escaped, so keen was their quality,
and the thin legs with their small feet in large shoes, and as he
looked he smiled.
"Well," he asked, "can I help you? You seem very uncertain."
"I am. Put your hat and coat over there"--she pointed to the covered
cot close to the wall--"then come back and tell me."
He did as directed and, hands in pockets, stood again in front of her.
"Is"--his face whitened--"is it about Miss Barbour? Can you send her
word?"
"Send now? I guess not!" On tiptoes the child looked for something on
the mantel-piece. "We haven't had supper yet, and I'm so hungry I
could eat air. Besides, she has a class to-night--The Little Big
Sisters. I'm one when I can go, but I can't go often." She waved her
hand in the direction of her father. "I'll send for her 'bout half
past nine. Which do you like best, sardines with lemon on 'em, or
toasted cheese on toast with syrup afterward? Which?"
The tone was one of momentous inquiry. Miss Barbour's coming was a
matter that could wait, but supper necessitated a solemn decision
which must be made at once. Hands clasped behind her, the blue eyes
grew big with suspense, and again she repeated, "Which?"
"I really don't know. Both are very good. I believe I like sardines
better than--Oh no, I don't." He had caught the flicker of
disappointment in the anxious little face. "I mean I think toasted
cheese the best thing to eat that's going. Let's have that!"
"All right." With another spring the child was at the cupboard, and
swiftly she went to work. "Read to father, won't you?" she called,
without looking round. "In that magazine with the geranium leaf
sticking out is where I left off. You'll have to read right loud."
Drawing his chair close to the lighted lamp, Van Landing took his seat
near the blind musician, and for the first time noticed the slender,
finely formed fingers of the hands now resting on the arms of the
chair in which he sat; noticed the shiny, well-worn coat and the lock
of white hair that fell across the high forehead; saw the sensitive
mouth; and as he looked he wondered as to the story that was his. An
old one, perhaps. Born of better blood than his present position
implied, he had evidently found the battle of life more than he was
equal to, and, unfit to fight, he had doubtless slipped down and down
in the scale of human society until to-day he and his child were
dwellers on the borderland of the slums.
He found the article and began to read. The technicalities of musical
composition had never appealed to him, but, though by him the writer's
exhaustive knowledge of his subject was not appreciated, by his
listener it was greatly so, and, in tense eagerness to miss no word,
the latter leaned forward and kept his sightless eyes in the direction
of the sound of his voice.
Not for long could he read, however. In a few moments Carmencita's
hands were outstretched, and, giving one to each, she led them to the
table, and at it he sat down as naturally as though it were a familiar
occurrence. In the center was a glass jar with a spray of red geranium
in it, and behind the earthen tea-pot the child presided with the
ease of long usage. As she gave him his tea he noticed it was in the
only unchipped cup, and on the one kept for herself there was no
handle. Under his breath he swore softly. Why--He mentally shook
himself. This was no time for why-ing.
[Illustration: "WHICH DO YOU LIKE BEST, SARDINES WITH LEMON ON 'EM, OR
TOASTED CHEESE ON TOAST?"]
As an appetizer the toasted cheese on toasted bread was excellent, but
the supper--if she had only let him get it. He had not dared insist,
and never had he been more consciously a guest, but could people live
on fare so scant as this? It was like Frances to want to know how
other people lived--and not to be content with knowing. But after she
knew how could she sleep at night? Great God! If there was to be a day
of judgment what could men say--men like himself and his friends?