He was too tired, too utterly relaxed by warmth and medicine, to think
clearly. To-morrow he would find Carmencita, and she should get the
things the children wanted. They were very strange, the places and
people he had seen to-day. Of course he had known about such places
and people, read about them, heard about them, but seeing for one's
self was different. There were a lot of bummers among these people he
had passed; much of their misery was of their own making (he had made
much of his), but the wonder was they were no worse.
Bold, bad faces, cold, pinched, hungry ones, eager, earnest, pathetic
and joyous, worn and weary, burdened and care-free, they again passed
before him, misty and ill-defined, as though the snow still veiled and
made them hazy, and none of them he knew. He wished they would stop
passing. He was very tired. They, too, were tired. Would they for
ever be passing before him, these people, these little children, he
had seen to-day? If they would go away he could think more clearly,
could think of Frances. She was here, in the house with him. At first
it had seemed strange, but it wasn't strange. It would be strange if
she were not here when he needed her, wanted her so. To-morrow would
not be too late. One could do a good deal on Christmas eve. Everybody
had been busy except himself. He would telephone to-morrow and tell
Herrick to close the office and give Miss Davis holiday until after
New-Year.
But she had nowhere to go. He had heard her tell Herrick so, and
Herrick had nowhere to go, either. Both lived in boarding-houses, he
supposed. He had never thought to ask. Herrick was a faithful old
plodder--never would be anything else--but he couldn't get on without
him. He ought to raise his salary. Why didn't Herrick ask for more
money if he wanted it? And then he could get married. Why didn't he
get married, anyhow? Once or twice he had seen him talking to Miss
Davis about something that evidently wasn't business. She was a pretty
little thing and quick as lightning--just the opposite of old
Herrick. Wouldn't it be funny if they were in love; not, of course,
like--
They had nowhere to go Christmas. If Frances would let them they might
come here--no, not here, but at his home, their home. His home was
Frances's. It wouldn't be home for him if it weren't for her also. He
would ask her. And Carmencita and her blind father, they could come,
too. It would be horrible to have a Christmas dinner of sardines or
toasted cheese and crackers--or one in a boarding-house. Other people
might think it queer that he should have accidentally met Carmencita,
and that Carmencita should have mentioned the name of Miss Barbour,
and that he should have walked miles and miles--it must have been
thousands of miles--trying to find her, and, after all, did not find
her. She found him. But it wasn't queer. He had been looking for her
ever since--for three years he had been looking for her, and what one
looks for long enough one always finds. To-morrow--to-morrow--would
--be--Christmas eve.
He opened his eyes slowly. The sun was blinding, and he blinked.
Mother McNeil and the doctor were standing at the foot of the bed,
and as he rubbed his eyes they laughed.
"It's a merry Christmas you're to have, my son, after all, and it's
wanting to be up and after it you are, if I'm a judge of looks." And
Van Landing's hand, holding the coverlid close to his neck, was patted
understandingly by Mother McNeil. "Last night the doctor was a bit
worried about your head--you took your time in coming to--but I didn't
believe it was as bad as he feared, and it's well it wasn't, for it's
a grand day in which to be living, and you'll need your head. Is it
coffee or tea, now, that you like best for breakfast? And an egg and a
bit of toast, doctor, I think will taste well. I'll get them." And
without answer Mother McNeil was gone.
The doctor sat down, felt his patient's pulse, took his temperature,
investigated the cut on the forehead, then got up. "You're all right."
His tone was one of gruff relief. "One inch nearer your temple,
however--You can get up if you wish. Good day." And he, too, was gone
before Van Landing could ask a question or say a word of thanks.
It was bewildering, perplexing, embarrassing, and for a moment he
hesitated. Then he got up. He was absurdly shaky, but his head was
clear, and in his heart humility that was new and sweet. The day was
great, and the sun was shining as on yesterday one would not have
dreamed it could ever shine again. Going over to the door, he locked
it and hurriedly began to dress. His clothes had a rough, dry
appearance that made them hardly recognizable, and to get on his
shoes, which evidently had been dried near the furnace, was difficult.
In the small mirror over the bureau, as he tied his cravat, his face
reflected varying emotions: disgust at his soiled collar, relief that
he was up again, and gratitude that made a certain cynicism, of late
becoming too well defined, fade into quiet purpose.
Unlocking the door, he went back to the window and looked across at
the long row of houses, as alike as shriveled peas in a dry pod, and
down on the snow-covered streets. Brilliantly the sun touched here and
there a bit of cornice below a dazzling gleaming roof, and threw rays
of rainbow light on window-pane and iron rail, outlined or hidden
under frozen foam; and the dirt and ugliness of the usual day were
lost in the white hush of mystery.
Not for long would there be transforming effect of the storm,
however. Already the snow was being shoveled from door-steps and
sidewalks, and the laughter of the boys as they worked, the scraping
of their shovels, the rumble of wagon-wheels, which were making deep
brown ruts in the middle of the street, reached him with the muffled
sound of something far away, and, watching, he missed no detail of
what was going on below.
"Goodness gracious! I've almost cried myself to death! And she found
you--found you!"
Van Landing turned sharply. The door was open, though he had not heard
the knock, and with a spring Carmencita was beside him, holding his
hands and dancing as if demented with a joy no longer to be held in
restraint.
"Oh, Mr. Van, I've almost died for fear I wouldn't find you in time!
And you're here at Mother McNeil's, and all yesterday I looked and
looked, and I couldn't remember your last name, and neither could
Father. And Miss Frances was away until night, and I never prayed so
hard and looked so hard in my life! Oh, Mr. Van, if you are a
stranger, I love you, and I'm so glad you're found!"
She stopped for breath, and Van Landing, stooping, lifted Carmencita's
face and kissed it.
"You are my dear friend, Carmencita." His voice, as his hands, was a
bit shaky. "I, too, am very glad--and grateful. Will you ask her to
come, ask her to let me see her? I cannot wait any longer."
"You'll have to." Carmencita's eyes were big and blue in sudden
seriousness. "The Little Big Sisters have their tree to-night, and
she's got a million trillion things to do to-day, and she's gone out.
She's awful glad you're better, though. I asked her, and she said she
was. And I asked her why she didn't marry you right straight away, or
to-morrow if she didn't have time to-day, and--"
"You did what, Carmencita?"
"That. I asked her that. What's the use of wasting time? I told her
you'd like a wife for a Christmas gift very much, if she was the wife.
Wouldn't you? Wouldn't you really and truly rather have her than
anything else?"
Van Landing turned and looked out of the window. The child's eyes and
earnest, eager face could not be met in the surge of hot blood which
swept over him, and his throat grew tight. All his theories and ideas
were becoming but confused upheaval in the manipulations of fate, or
what you will, that were bringing strange things to pass, and he no
longer could think clearly or feel calmly. He must get away before he
saw Frances.
"Wouldn't you, Mr. Van?"
In the voice beside him was shy entreaty and appeal, and, hands
clasped behind her, Carmencita waited.
"I would." Van Landing made effort to smile, but in his eyes was no
smiling. Into them had come sudden purpose. "I shall ask her to marry
me to-morrow."
Arms extended to the limit of their length, Carmencita whirled round
and round the room, then, breathless, stopped and, taking Van
Landing's hand, lifted it to her lips.
"I kiss your hand, my lord, and bring you greetings from your faithful
subjects! I read that in a book. I'll be the subject. Isn't it grand
and magnificent and glorious?" She stopped. "She hasn't any new
clothes. A lady can't get married without new clothes, can she? And
she won't have time to get any on Christmas eve. Whether she'll do it
or not, you'll have to make her, Mr. Van, or you'll lose her again.
You've--got--to--just--make--her!"
Carmencita's long slender forefinger made a jab in Van Landing's
direction, and her head nodded with each word uttered. But before he
could answer, Mother McNeil, with breakfast on a tray, was in the room
and Carmencita was out.
Sitting down beside him, as he asked her to do, Van Landing told her
how it happened he was there, told her who he was. Miss Barbour was
under her care. She had once been his promised wife. He was trying to
find her when he fell, or fainted, or whatever it was, that he might
ask her again to marry him. Would she help him?
In puzzled uncertainty Mother McNeil had listened, fine little folds
wrinkling her usually smooth forehead, and her keen eyes searching the
face before her; then she got up.
"I might have known it would end like this. Well, why not?" Hands on
her hips, she smiled in the flushed face looking into hers. Van
Landing had risen, and his hands, holding the back of his chair,
twitched badly. "The way of love is the way of life. If she will marry
you--God bless you, I will say. It's women like Frances the work we're
in is needing. But it's women like her that men need, too. She's out,
but she asked me to wish you a very happy Christmas."