The two days were a strange mixture of sensations and emotions.
Helen had picked over Bleich’s stock pretty carefully and could
duplicate from it few of the burned articles, could find acceptable
substitutes for fewer. There followed an exhausting pursuit of
the unattainable through a bewildering series of toy-shops and
department-stores. We spent most of our time at counters and much of
the remainder in a taxicab.
In a way it was very trying. I did not mind the smells and bad air and
other mere physical discomforts. But the mental strain continually
intensified. Helen’s confidence that Amy would be restored to us was
steadily waning and her outward exhibition of it was becoming more
and more artificial, and consciously sustained, and more and more
of an effort. She was coming to foresee, in spite of herself, that
our Christmas celebration would be a most terrible mockery of our
bereavement. She was forcing herself not to confess it to herself and
not to show it to me. The strain told on her. It told on me to watch
it, to see the inevitable crash coming nearer and nearer and to try to
put away from myself the pictures of her collapse, of her probable loss
of reason, of her possible death, which my imagination kept thrusting
before me.
On the other hand Helen was to all appearance, if one had no prevision
by which to read her, her most charming self. Her manner to shop-girls
and other sales-people was a delight to watch. Her little speeches to
me were full of her girlish whimsicality and unexpectedness. Her good
will towards all the world, her resolution that everything must come
right and would come right haloed her in a sort of aureole of romance.
Our lunches were ideal hours, full of the atmosphere of courtship, of
lovemaking, of exquisite companionship. In spite of my forebodings, I
caught the contagion of the Christmas shopping crowds; in spite of her
self-deception Helen revelled in it. The purpose to make as many people
as possible as happy as might be irradiated Helen with the light of
fairyland; her resolve to be happy herself in spite of everything made
her a sort of fairy queen. I found myself less and less anxious and
more and more almost expectant. I knew Helen was looking for Amy every
instant. I found myself in the same state of mind.
Our lunch on Christmas Eve was a strange blend of artificiality and
genuine exhilaration. After it we had but one purchase to make.
“We are in no hurry,” Helen said. “Let’s take a horse-hansom for old
sake’s sake.”
In it we were like boy and girl together until the jeweler’s was
reached.
There gloom, in spite of us, settled down over our hopes and feelings.
Helen walked to the hansom like a gray ghost. Like the whisper of some
far-off stranger I heard myself order the driver to take us home.
In the hansom we sat silent, looking straight in front of us at
nothing. I stole a glance at Helen and saw a tear in the corner of her
eye. I sat choking.
All at once she seized my hand.
“Look!” she exclaimed, “Look!”
I looked where she pointed, but discerned nothing to account for her
excitement.
“What is it?” I queried.
“The old man!” she exclaimed.
“What old man?” I asked bewildered.
“The old man on the puzzle,” she told me. “The old man who was leading
Amy.”
Then I was sure she was demented. To humor her I asked:
“The old man with the brown coat?”
“Yes,” she said eagerly. “The old man with the long gray hair over his
collar.”
“With the walking stick?” I inquired.
“Yes,” she answered. “With the crooked walking stick.”