The time intervening before his return to help with the tree was spent
by Van Landing in a certain establishment where jewels were kept and
in telephoning Peterkin; and the orders to Peterkin were many. At four
o'clock he was back at Mother McNeil's.
In the double parlor of the old-fashioned house, once the home of
wealth and power, the tree was already in place, and around it, in
crowded confusion, were boxes and barrels, and bundles and toys, and
clothes and shoes, and articles of unknown name and purpose, and for a
moment he hesitated. Hands in his pockets, he looked first at Mother
McNeil and then at a little lame boy on the floor beside an open
trunk, out of which he was taking gaily-colored ornaments and
untangling yards of tinsel; and then he looked at Frances, who, with a
big apron over her black dress, with its soft white collar open at the
throat, was holding a pile of empty stockings in her hands.
"You are just in time, my son." Mother McNeil beamed warmly at the
uninvited visitor. "When a man can be of service, it's let him serve,
I say, and if you will get that step-ladder over there and fix this
angel on the top of the tree it will save time. Jenkins has gone for
more tinsel and more bread. We didn't intend at first to have
sandwiches and chocolate--just candy and nuts and things like
that--but it's so cold and snowy Frances thought something good and
hot would taste well. You can slice the bread, Mr. Van Landing. Four
sandwiches apiece for the boys and three for the girls are what we
allow." She looked around. "Hand him that angel, Frances, and show him
where to put it. I've got to see about the cakes."
Never having fastened an angel to the top of a tree, for a half-moment
Van Landing was uncertain how to go about it, fearing exposure of
ignorance and awkwardness; then with a quick movement he was up the
ladder and looking down at the girl who was handing him a huge paper
doll dressed in the garments supposedly worn by the dwellers of
mansions in the sky, and as he took it he laughed.
"This is a very worldly-looking angel. She apparently enjoys the
blowing of her trumpet. Stand off, will you, and see if that's right?"
Van Landing fastened the doll firmly to the top of the tree. "Does she
show well down there?"
It was perfectly natural that he should be here and helping. True, he
had never heard of Mother McNeil and her home until two nights before,
never had dressed a Christmas tree before, or before gone where he was
not asked, but things of that sort no longer mattered. What mattered
was that he had found Frances, that it was the Christmas season, and
he was at last learning the secret of its hold on human hearts and
sympathies. There was no time to talk, but as he looked he watched,
with eyes that missed no movement that she made, the fine, fair face
that to him was like no other on earth, and, watching, he wondered if
she, too, wondered at the naturalness of it all.
The years that had passed since he had seen her had left their
imprint. She had known great sorrow, also she had traveled much, and,
though about her were the grace and courage of old, there was
something else, something of nameless and compelling appeal, and he
knew that she, too, knew the loneliness of life.
Quickly they worked, and greater and greater grew the confusion of
the continually appearing boxes and bundles, and, knee-deep, Mother
McNeil surveyed them, hands on her hips, and once or twice she brushed
her eyes.
"It's always the way, my son. If you trust people they will not fail
you. When we learn how to understand there will be less hate and more
help in the world. Jenkins, bring that barrel of apples and box of
oranges over here and get a knife for Mr. Van Landing to cut the bread
for the sandwiches. It's time to make them. Matilda, call Abraham in.
He can slice the ham and cheese. There must be plenty. Boys are
hollow. Frances, have you seen my scissors?"
Out of what seemed hopeless confusion and chaotic jumbling, out of
excited coming and going, and unanswered questions, and slamming of
doors, and hurried searchings, order at last evolved, and, feeling
very much as if he'd been in a football match, Van Landing surveyed
the rooms with a sense of personal pride in their completeness. Around
the tree, placed between the two front windows, were piled countless
packages, each marked, and from the mantelpiece hung a row of bulging
stockings, reinforced by huge mounds of the same on the floor,
guarded already by old Fetch-It. Holly and cedar gave color and
fragrance, and at the uncurtained windows wreaths, hung by crimson
ribbons, sent a welcome to the waiting crowd outside.
If he were not here he would be alone, with nothing to do. And
Christmas eve alone! He drew in his breath and looked at Frances. In
her face was warm, rich color, and her eyes were gay and bright, but
she was tired. She would deny it if asked. He did not have to ask. If
only he could take her away and let her rest!
She was going up-stairs to change her dress. Half-way up the steps he
called her, and, leaning against the rail of the banisters, he looked
up at her.
"When you come down I must see you, Frances--and alone. I shall wait
here for you."
"I cannot see you alone. There will be no time."
"Then we must make time. I tell you I must see you." Something in her
eyes made him hesitate. He must try another way. "Listen, Frances. I
want you to do me a favor. There's a young girl in my office, my
stenographer, who is to be married to-morrow to my head clerk. She is
from a little town very far from here and has no relatives, no
intimate friends near enough to go to. She lives in a boarding-house,
and she can't afford to go home to be married. I have asked Herrick to
bring her to my apartment to-morrow and marry her there. I would like
her to have--Carmencita and her father are coming, and I want you to
come, too. It would make things nicer for her. Will you come--you and
Mother McNeil?"
Over the banisters the beautiful eyes looked down into Van Landing's.
Out of them had gone guarding. In them was that which sent the blood
in hot surge through his heart. "I would love to come, but I am going
out of town to-morrow--going--"
"Home?" In Van Landing's voice was unconcealed dismay. The glow of
Christmas, new and warm and sweet, died sharply, leaving him cold and
full of fear. "Are you going home?"
She shook her head. "I have no home. That is why I am going away
to-morrow. Mother McNeil will have her family here, and I'd be--I'd be
an outsider. It's everybody's home day--and when you haven't a home--"
She turned and went a few steps farther on to where the stairs
curved, then suddenly she sat down and crumpled up and turned her face
to the wall. With leaps that took the steps two at a time Van Landing
was beside her.
"Frances!" he said, "Frances!" and in his arms he held her close.
"You've found out, too! Thank God, you've found out, too!"
Below, a door opened and some one was in the hall. Quickly Frances was
on her feet. "You must not, must not, Stephen--not here!"
"Goodness gracious! they've done made up."
At the foot of the steps Carmencita, as if paralyzed with delight,
stood for a moment, then, shutting tight her eyes, ran back whence she
came; at the door she stopped.
"Carmencita! Carmencita!" It was Van Landing's voice. She turned her
head. "Come here, Carmencita. I have something to tell you."
Eyes awed and shining, Carmencita came slowly up the steps. Reaching
them, with a spring she threw her arms around her dear friend's neck
and kissed her lips again and again and again, then held out her hands
to the man beside her. "Is--is it to be to-morrow, Mr. Van?"
"It is to be to-morrow, Carmencita."
For a half-moment there was quivering silence; then Van Landing spoke
again. "There are some things I must attend to to-night. Early
to-morrow I will come for you, Frances, and in Dr. Pierson's church we
will be married. Herrick and Miss Davis are coming at one o'clock, and
my--wife must be there to receive them. And you, too, Carmencita--you
and your father. We are going to have--" Van Landing's voice was
unsteady. "We are going to have Christmas at home, Frances. Christmas
at home!"