Swiftly the hours of the happy day flew by. Charity completed her
humble purchases, which, after all, were hardly more than an excuse
for accompanying Tom to the city, and drank her fill of the joyous
sights and sounds on every side. Early in the afternoon it occurred to
her to surprise Tom at his post before the hour they had named.
Accordingly she dressed herself for the walk, putting into her pocket
a little purse she had bought as a Christmas gift for him, and
planning to give it to him then and there, so that he might bring home
in it the results of the day’s sales. With a little inquiry she found
her way through the crowded streets to the market, which was like a
huge beehive--except that the bees had no stings. For on everybody’s
face was the starlight of Christmas, and good-will toward men reigned
supreme. The sidewalks outside the market were simple avenues of
evergreen. It hung in festoons from the sides of the buildings and
overhead; it bubbled over from innumerable boxes and barrels, and ran
along the snowy curbstone in a fragrant stream. Rows of trees leaned
complacently against the posts and each other, meditating on glories
to come; holly glistened and twinkled in the red winter sunlight at
every window, and a few stout, jolly-looking marketmen had even
procured sprays of real English mistletoe, which they hung proudly
over their shop doors; but the full advantage of which, judging from
the freedom with which they allowed no end of pretty girls to pass to
and fro under it without molestation, they by no means appreciated.
Charity was delighted with everything, and half expected to see the
jovial “Ghost of Christmas Present” himself seated amidst the heaps
of plenty, scattering good things right and left. Failing of him, the
next best would certainly be Tom; whom, however, she sought in vain.
It was just three o’clock when she started again, a little wearily,
for the house.
“I must have just missed him,” she thought, “and he’ll be there
waiting for me.”
No, Tom was not there, and had not been seen. Charity fingered the
purse in her pocket a little nervously, and waited. How brightly the
sun shone in the quiet street where her friends lived! The snow had
begun to melt here and there, and children, finding it properly moist
for their play, were tumbling about in it and making forts, men, and
snowballs. One keen-eyed little fellow moulded a lot of large
oblong-shaped balls, and came with an armful before the window where
Charity sat, making a mocking bow to her, and calling out:
“Who wants to buy my nice melons! Here’s your fine fresh fruit; all
ripe; all ripe!”
Still no Tom. Charity tried to talk with her hosts, but it was hard
work, and she was glad when they left her to wait silently with her
eyes on the distant street corner where she had last seen him and his
evergreen. People came and went along the brick sidewalk. There were
little icy spots just in front of her window, where the gutter had
discharged the drip from the roof, and it had frozen in ridges the
night before. She became dully interested in watching the passers-by
get over this place. Some approached it cautiously and crept with
timid steps across the treacherous surface; some did not see it at
all until they were fairly upon it, and escaped with a slide and a
bound; some avoided it altogether by making a wide circuit into the
street; children slid fearlessly upon it, making sport of what was so
dangerous to their elders. One strong, well-built man--a clergyman he
appeared from his dress--started across it boldly but carefully,
slipped midway, and fell with such a crash that the girl uttered an
involuntary cry and started up from her chair; but the man regained
his feet and limped away, with an ugly stain across his shoulder and a
bit of red on his white hands.
While Charity gazed pityingly after him, a twinkling light appeared
far down the street; then another, and another. It could not be that
the lamps were being lighted! Yes, the short December day was over--it
was Christmas Eve.
Charity turned to look at the clock, but was obliged to move across
the room before she could see through the gathering dusk, that it
was--six o’clock!
She resolutely but hurriedly drew on her cloak, as she had done a few
hours before, in her own country home; and bidding good-bye to her
friends with lips which she could not keep from quivering, declined
all offer of escort and once more turned her face toward that busy
center of the holiday, the market. To and fro she went among the
kind-hearted dealers, with her one question repeated over and over
until she was sick at heart. No one had seen Tom since morning, one
or two looked at her a little curiously, and once a great burly fellow
engaged her very closely in conversation as a tall man in helmet and
brass buttons passed them, half carrying, half dragging a poor,
battered creature over the slippery sidewalk. It was an old,
white-haired man of whose wretched, drunken, despairing face she
caught a glimpse, as the throng of idle spectators swept by. Something
in the manner of her kind friend made her look up quickly at him. He
grew redder than ever, and quickly turned away his head; but it was
too late; she knew the truth at last. Tom was like--_that_!
After what seemed days of anguish she found herself in the stifling
atmosphere of the railroad station, where she would have to wait two
hours for a homeward-bound train. She shrank into a corner and tried
to forget herself in sleep, but every faculty was on the alert with an
unnatural tension. Women with tired faces and illy dressed babies sank
upon the seats about her and silently waited for their trains, or in
jarring, monotonous voices, and the minor keys always used by late
passengers, discussed the ailments of their neighbors and the high
price of goods. A crowd of rough fellows sauntered by outside the
windows and filled the air with coarse jokes and snatches of ribald
song. Charity clenched her little hands that Tom had kissed under the
princess-pine and endured it all, with her eyes on the grimy face of
the clock, until the train backed into the station and bore her away.
At a little before midnight she reached her own home. While she stood
on the worn door-stone, her whole frame trembling from exhaustion and
the long agony of that evening, her eyes fell on Tom’s footprints of
the night before. For one moment a hard look came into her face; then
she suddenly stooped, kissed the light snow as if it had been a cold,
dead face, and moaning, “O Tom, Tom, how could you!” with a sob like
that of a hurt child, turned and went in out of the night. And this
was her Christmas Eve.