"Think hard, Father--oh, _please_ think hard! It was Van--Van--"
Carmencita, hands clutched tightly behind her back, leaned forward on
her tiptoes and anxiously peered into her father's face for sign of
dawning memory. "If I hadn't been so Christmas-crazy I'd have listened
better, but I wasn't thinking about his name. Can't you--_can't_ you
remember the last part? It was Van--Van--"
Slowly her father shook his head. "I wish I could, Carmencita. I don't
hear well of late and I didn't catch his name. You called him Mr.
Van."
"I called him that for short. I'm a cutting-down person even in
names." The palms of Carmencita's hands came together and her fingers
interlocked. "If I'd had more sense and manners I'd have called his
name right from the first, and we wouldn't have lost him. I could
have found him to-day if I'd known what to look for in the
telephone-book, or if Miss Frances had been at Mother McNeil's. She
might as well be lost, too, but she'll be back at seven, and that's
why I am going now, so as to be there the minute she gets in, to ask
her what his--"
"She might not like your asking, Carmencita. You must be careful,
child. Miss Barbour is not a lady one can--"
"Not a lady one can what?" Carmencita stopped her nervous swaying, and
the big blue eyes looked questioningly at her father. "Was there ever
a lady who didn't want to find her lost lover if he was looking for
her? That's what he is. And she wants to find him, if she don't know
it exactly. She's working it off down here with us children, but she's
got something on her mind. He's it. We've got to find him, Father--got
to!"
With a dexterous movement of her fingers Carmencita fastened the
buttons of her coat and pulled her hat down on her head. "I'm going
back to Mother McNeil's," she said, presently, and the large and
half-worn rubbers which she had tied on over her shoes were looked at
speculatively. "The Damanarkist is going to take me. As soon as Miss
Frances tells me Mr. Van's name I'll telephone him to come quick, but
I won't tell her that. She might go away again. In that slushy book I
read the girl ought to have been shook. She was dying dead in love
with her sweetheart and treated him like he was a poodle-dog. Miss
Frances wouldn't do that, but I don't know what she might do, and I'm
not going to tell her any more than I can help. I want her to think it
just happened. Good-by, and go to sleep if you want to, but don't
smoke, please. You might drop the sparks on your coat. Good-by."
With a swift kiss she was gone and, meeting the Damanarkist, who was
waiting outside the door, they went down the three flights of steps
and out into the street. The wind was biting, and, turning up the
collar of her coat, Carmencita put her hands in her pockets and made
effort to walk rapidly through the thick snow into which her feet sank
with each step. For some minutes conversation was impossible. Heads
ducked to keep out of their faces the fast-falling flakes, they
trudged along in silence until within a few doors of Mother McNeil's
house, and then Carmencita looked up.
"Do--do you ever pray, Mr. Leimberg--pray hard, I mean?"
"Pray!" The Damanarkist drew in his breath and laughed with smothered
scorn. "Pray! Why should I pray? I cut out prayer when I was a kid.
No, I don't pray."
"It's a great comfort, praying is." Carmencita's hand was taken out of
her pocket and slipped through the arm of her disillusioned friend.
"Sometimes you're just bound to pray. It's like breathing--you can't
help it. It--it just rises up. I prayed yesterday for--for something,
and it pretty near happened, but--"
"And you think your praying helped to make it happen!" Mr. Leimberg
drew Carmencita's hand farther through his arm, and his lips twisted
in contemptuous pity. "You think there is a magician up--oh,
somewhere, who makes things happen, do you? Think--"
"Yes." Carmencita's feet skipped in spite of the clogging snow. "I
think that somewhere there is Somebody who knows about everything, but
I don't think He means us to ask for anything we want just because we
want it and don't do a lick to get it. I've been praying for months
and months about my temper and stamping my foot when I get mad, and
if I remember in time and hold down the up-comings my prayers are
always answered; but when I let go and forget--" Carmencita whistled a
long, low, significant note. "I guess then I don't want to be
answered. I want to smash something. But I didn't pray yesterday about
tempers and stamping. It was pretty near a miracle that I asked for,
though I said I wasn't asking for miracles or--"
"All people who pray ask for miracles. Since the days when men feared
floods and famines and pestilence and evil spirits they have cried out
for protection and propitiated what to them were gods." The
Damanarkist spit upon the ground as if to spew contempt of pretense
and cupidity. "I've no patience with it. If there is a God, He knows
the cursed struggle life is with most of us; and if there isn't,
prayer is but a waste of time."
Carmencita lifted her eyes and for a moment looked in the dark, thin
face, embittered by the losing battle of life, as if she had not heard
aright, then she laughed softly.
"If I didn't know you, dear Mr. Damanarkist, I'd think you really
meant it--what you said. And you don't. I don't guess there's anybody
in all the world who doesn't pray sometimes. Something in you does it
by itself, and you can't keep it back. You just wait until you feel
all lost and lonely and afraid, or so glad you are ready to sing out
loud, then you'll do it--inside, if you don't speak out. If I prayed
harder to have more sense and not talk so much, and not say what I
think about people, and not hate my ugly clothes so, and despise the
smell of onions and cabbage and soap-suds, I might get more answers,
but you can't get answers just by praying. You've got to work like the
mischief, and be a regular policeman over yourself and nab the bad
things the minute they poke their heads out. If I'd prayed differently
yesterday I wouldn't have been looking for--for somebody all to-day,
and be a jumping-jack to-night for fear I won't find him. Did--did you
ever have a sweetheart, Mr. Damanarkist?" Before answer could be made
Mother McNeil's house was reached, and with steps that were leaps
Carmencita was at the door, and a moment later inside. Finding that
Miss Frances had returned, she called to Mr. Leimberg to come for her
on his way back from the station library where he was to get his book,
and breathlessly she ran to Miss Barbour's door and knocked violently
upon it.
To the "come in" she entered, eyes big and shining, and cheeks stung
into color by the bitter wind; and with a rush forward the hands of
her adored friend were caught and held with a tight and nervous grip.
"Miss Frances! Miss Frances!"
Two arms were flung around Miss Barbour's waist, and for a moment the
curly brown head was buried on her breast and words refused to come;
instead came breathing short and quick; then Carmencita looked up.
"What--oh, what is his name, Miss Frances? He was found and now is
lost, and I promised--I promised I'd get you for him!"
Frances Barbour lifted the excited little face and kissed it. "What's
the matter, Carmencita? You look as if you'd seen a ghost, and you're
talking as if--"
"I'm crazy--I'm not. And there isn't any time to lose. He said he
_must_ find you before Christmas. There isn't a soul to make Christmas
for him, and he hasn't anybody to buy things for, and he's as lonely
as a--a desert person, and he doesn't want any one but you. Oh, Miss
Frances, what is his name?"
Frances Barbour leaned back in the chair in which she had taken her
seat, and her face whitened. "What are you talking about, and who
is--"
"I'm talking about--Him." On her knees Carmencita crouched against her
friend's chair, and her long, slender fingers intertwined with those
which had suddenly grown nerveless. "I'm talking about your
sweetheart, Miss Frances. I found him for you, and then I lost him.
I'll tell you how it happened after I know all of his name and--If you
had seen his face when I told him I knew you and knew where you lived
you'd hurry, you'd--"
"If he wishes to see me, why doesn't he--I mean--" Sudden color surged
into the face turned from the child's eager eyes. "What are we talking
about, Carmencita? There is evidently some mistake."
"There is. An awful one. It's three years old. And we're talking about
the gentleman Father and I met yesterday and lost last night. You're
his sweetheart, and he wants you for Christmas and for ever after, and
he may be dead by to-morrow if he doesn't find you. He came to our
house, and I wrote you a note to come, too, and when you didn't do it
he looked as if he'd been hit in the face and couldn't breathe good,
and he stumbled down the steps like a blind man, and we'd forgot to
tell him our name, and he didn't know the number of our house, and--"
She paused for breath and brushed back the curls from her face. "I
know he's been looking all day. Where does he live, Miss Frances, and
what is his name?"
"If you will tell me of whom you are talking I will tell you whether
or not I know him. Until you do--"
"I told you I didn't remember any of his name but the Van part. Don't
you know the name of the person you love best on earth? It's his name
I want."
Frances Barbour got up and walked over to the bureau and opened its
top drawer. "You are asking questions that in any one else I would not
permit, Carmencita. I am sure you do not mean to be--"
"I don't mean anything but that I want to know all of Mr. Van's name,
and if you don't tell me you are not a Christian!"
With a change of expression Carmencita sprang to her feet and, hands
clasped behind her back, she stood erect, her eyes blazing with
indignation. "If you don't tell him where you are, don't let him come,
I'll think it's all just make-believe and put on, your coming and
doing for people you don't really and truly know, and doing nothing
for those you do, and letting the ones you love best be lonely and
miserable and having Christmas all by themselves when they're starving
hungry for you. What is his name?" Carmencita's voice was high and
shrill, and her foot was stamped vehemently. "What is his name?"
"Stephen Van Landing."
Face to face, Frances Barbour and Carmencita looked into each other's
eyes, then with a leap Carmencita was out of the room and down the
steps and at the telephone. With hands that trembled she turned the
pages of the book she was holding upside down, then with disgust at
her stupidity she righted it and ran her finger down the long line of
V's. Finding at last the name she wanted, she called the number, then
closed her eyes and prayed fervently, feverishly, and half-aloud the
words came jerkily:
"O God, please let him be home, and let him get down here quick before
Miss Frances goes out. She and Mother McNeil are going somewhere and
won't be back until eleven, and that would be too late for him to
come, and--Hello!" The receiver was jammed closer to her ear. "Is
that Mr. Van Landing's house? Is he home? He--he--isn't home!" The
words came in a little wail. "Oh, he must be home! Are you
sure--_sure_? Where can I get him? Where is he? You don't know--hasn't
been at the office all day and hasn't telephoned? He's looking--I mean
I guess he's, trying to find somebody. Who is this talking? It's--it's
a friend of his, and tell him the minute he comes in to call up Pelham
4293 and ask for Miss Frances Barbour, who wants to talk to him. And
listen. Tell him if she's out to come to 14 Custer Street, to Mother
McNeil's, and wait until she gets home. Write it down. Got it? Yes,
that's it. Welcome. Good-by."
The receiver was hung upon its hook, and for a moment Carmencita
stared at the wall; then her face sobered. The strain and tension of
the day gave way, and the high hopes of the night before went out as
at the snuffing of a candle. Presently she nodded into space.
"I stamped my foot at Miss Frances. _Stamped my foot_! And I got mad,
and was impertinent, and talked like a gutter girl to a sure-enough
lady. Talked like--"
Her teeth came down on her lips to stop their sudden quivering, and
the picture on the wall grew blurred and indistinct.
"There isn't any use in praying." Two big tears rolled down her cheeks
and fell upon her hands. "I might as well give up."