CHRISTMAS
The weeks went slowly by and Christmas came to the little house in
Tarrytown. He had become resigned but not reconciled to Nellie's
continued and rather persistent absence, regarding it as the sinister
proclamation of her intention to carry out the plan for separation in
spite of all that he could do to avert the catastrophe. His devotion
to Phoebe was more intense than ever; it had reached the stage of
being pathetic.
True to his word, he wrote to Mr. Davis, who in time responded, saying
that he could give him a place at the soda fountain in May, but that
the wages would of necessity be quite small, owing to the fact that
the Greeks had invaded Blakeville with the corner fruit stands and
soft-drink fountains. He could promise him eight dollars a week, or
ten dollars if he would undertake to come to the store at six A.M. and
sweep up, a task now performed by the proprietor himself, who found
himself approaching an age and a state of health that craved a feast
of luxury and ease hitherto untasted.
Harvey was in considerable doubt as to his ability to live on ten
dollars a week and support Phoebe, as well as to begin the task of
reimbursing Nellie for her years of sacrifice. Still, it was better
than nothing at all, so he accepted Mr. Davis' ten-dollar-a-week offer
and sat back to wait for the coming of the first of May.
In the meantime he would give Nellie some return for her money by
doing the work now performed by Annie--or, more advisedly speaking, a
portion of it. He would conduct Phoebe to the kindergarten and call
for her at the close of sessions, besides dressing her in the morning,
sewing on buttons for her, undressing her at night, and all such jobs
as that, with the result that Annie came down a dollar a week in her
wages and took an extra afternoon out. In this way he figured he could
save Nellie at least thirty dollars. He also did the janitor's work
about the place and looked after the furnace, creating a salvage of
three dollars and a half a month. Moreover, instead of buying a new
winter suit and replacing his shabby ulster with one more comely and
presentable, he decided to wear his fall suit until January and then
change off to his old blue serge spring suit, which still seemed far
from shiny, so far as he could see.
And so it was that Nellie's monthly check for $150 did very nicely.
Any morning at half-past eight, except Sunday, you could have seen him
going down the street with Phoebe at his side, her hand in his, bound
for the kindergarten. He carried her little lunch basket and whistled
merrily when not engaged in telling her about Santa Claus. She
startled him one day by asking:--
"Are you going to be Santy this year, daddy, or is mamma?"
He looked down at the rich little fur coat and muff Nellie had
outfitted her with, at the expensive hat and the silk muffler, and
sighed.
"If you ask questions, Santy won't come at all," he said, darkly.
"He's a mighty cranky old chap, Santy is."
He did not take up physical culture with Professor Flaherty, partly on
account of the expense, partly because he found that belabouring
cannel coal and shaking down the furnace was more developing than he
had expected. Raking the autumn leaves out of the front yard also was
harder than he had any idea it would be. He was rather glad it was not
the season for the lawn mower.
Down in his heart he hoped that Nellie would come out for Christmas,
but he knew there was no chance of it. She would have two performances
on that day. He refrained from telling Phoebe until the very last
minute that her mother would not be out for the holiday. He hadn't the
heart to do it.
He broke the news then by telling the child that her mother was
snowbound and couldn't get there. An opportune fall of snow the day
before Christmas gave him the inspiration.
He set up the little Christmas tree in the back parlour, assisted by
Bridget and Annie, after Phoebe had gone to bed on Christmas Eve. She
had urged him to read to her about Tiny Tim, but he put her off with
the announcement that Santa was likely to be around early on account
of the fine sleighing, and if he saw that she wasn't asleep in bed he
might skip the house entirely.
The expressman, in delivering several boxes from town that afternoon,
had said to his helper:--
"That little fellow that came to the door was Nellie Duluth's husband,
Mr.--Mr.----Say, look on the last page there and see what his name is.
He's a cheap skate. A dime! Wot do you think of that?" He held up the
dime Harvey had given him and squinted at it as if it were almost too
small to be seen with the naked eye.
Nellie sent "loads" of presents to Phoebe--toys, books, candies,
fruits, pretty dresses, a velvet coat, a tiny pair of opera glasses,
strings of beads, bracelets, rings--dozens of things calculated to set
a child mad with delight. There were pocketbooks, handkerchiefs,
squirrel stoles and muffs for each of the servants, a box of cigars
for the postman, another for the milkman, and a five-dollar bill for
the janitor.
There was nothing for Harvey.
He looked for a long time at the envelope containing the five-dollar
bill, an odd little smile creeping into his eyes. He was the janitor,
he remembered. After a moment of indecision he slipped the bill into
another envelope, which he marked "Charity" and laid aside until
morning brought the mendicant who, with bare fingers and frosted lips,
always came to play his mournful clarionet in front of the house.
Surreptitiously he searched the two big boxes carefully, inwardly
hoping that she had not forgotten--nay, ignored--him. But there was
nothing there, not even a Christmas card! It was the first Christmas
she had....
The postman brought a small box addressed to Phoebe. The handwriting
was strange, but he thought nothing of it. He thought it was nice of
Butler to remember his little one and lamented the fact that he had
not bought something for the little Butlers, of whom there were seven.
He tied a red ribbon around the sealed package and hung it on the
tree.
After it was all over he went upstairs and tried to read "Dombey &
Son." But a mist came over his blue eyes and his vision carried him
far beyond the printed page. He was not thinking of Nellie, but of his
old mother, who had never forgotten to send him a Christmas present.
Ah, if she were alive he would not be wondering to-night why Santa
Claus had passed him by.
He rubbed his eyes with his knuckles, closed "Dombey & Son" for the
night, and went to bed, turning his thoughts to the row of tiny
stockings that hung from the mantelpiece downstairs--for Phoebe had
put to use all that she could find--and then let them drift on through
space to an apartment near Central Park, where Kris Kringle had
delivered during the day a little packet containing the brooch he had
purchased for his wife out of the money he had preserved from the sale
of his watch some weeks before.
He was glad he had sent Nellie a present.
Bright and early the next morning he was up to have a final look at
the tree before Phoebe came down. A blizzard was blowing furiously;
the windows were frosted; the house was cheerless. He built the fires
in the grates and sat about with his shoulders hunched up till the
merry crackle of the coals put warmth into his veins. The furnace! He
thought of it in time, and hurried to the basement to replenish the
fires. They were out. He had forgotten them the night before. Bridget
found him there later on, trying to start the kindling in the two
furnaces.
"I clean forgot 'em last night," he said, sheepishly.
"I don't wonder, sor," said Bridget, quite genially for a cold
morning. "Do you be after going upstairs this minute, sor. I'll have
them roaring in two shakes av a lamb's tail. Mebby there's good news
for yez up there. Annie's at the front door this minute, taking a
telegram from the messenger bye, sor. Merry Christmas to ye, sor."
"Merry Christmas, Bridget!" cried he, gaily. His heart had leaped at
the news she brought. A telegram from Nellie! Hurrah! He rushed
upstairs without brushing the coal dust from his hands.
The boy was waiting for his tip. Harvey gave him a quarter and wished
him a merry Christmas.
"A miserable day to be out," said he, undecided whether to ask the
half-frozen lad to stay and have a bite of breakfast or to let him go
out into the weather.
"It's nothin' when you gets used to it," said the blue-capped
philosopher, and took his departure.
"But it's the getting used to it," said Harvey to Annie as she handed
him the message. He tore open the envelope. She saw the light die out
of his eyes.
The message was from Ripton, the manager, and read:--
"Please send Phoebe in with the nurse to see the matinée to-day."
The invitation was explicit enough. He was not wanted.
If he had a secret inclination to ignore the command altogether, it
was frustrated by his own short-sightedness. He gulped, and then read
the despatch aloud for the benefit of the maid. When it was too late
he wished he had not done so.
Annie beamed. "Oh, sir, I've always wanted to see Miss Duluth act. I
will take good care of Phoebe."
He considered it beneath his dignity to invite her into a conspiracy
against the child, so he gloomily announced that he would go in with
them on the one-o'clock train and stay to bring them out.
The Christmas tree was a great success. Phoebe was in raptures. He
quite forgot his own disappointment in watching her joyous antics. As
the distributor of the presents that hung on the gaily trimmed and
dazzling cedar, he came at last to the little package from Butler. It
contained a beautiful gold chain, at the end of which hung suspended a
small diamond-studded slipper--blue enamel, fairly covered with rose
diamonds.
Phoebe screamed with delight. Her father's face was a study.
"Why, they are diamonds!" he murmured. "Surely Butler wouldn't be
giving presents like this." A card fluttered to the floor. He picked
it up and read:--"A slipper for my little Cinderella. Keep it and it
will bring good luck."
There was no name, but he knew who had sent it. With a cry of rage he
snatched the dainty trinket from her hand and threw it on the floor,
raising his foot to stamp it out of shape with his heel. His first
vicious attempt missed the slipper altogether, and before he could
repeat it the child was on the floor clutching it in her fingers,
whimpering strangely. The servants looked on in astonishment.
He drew back, mumbling something under his breath. In a moment he
regained control of himself.
"It--it isn't meant for you, darling," he said, hoarsely. "Santy left
it here by mistake. We will send it back to him. It belongs to some
other poor little girl."
"But I am Cinderella!" she cried. "Mr. Fairy-fax said so. He told
Santy to bring it to me. Please, daddy--please!"
He removed it gently from her fingers and dropped it into his pocket.
His face was very white.
"Santy isn't that kind of a man," he said, without rhyme or reason.
"Now, don't cry, dearie. Here's another present from mamma. See!"
Later in the morning, after she had quite forgotten the slipper, he
put it back in the box, wrapped it carefully, and addressed the
package to L. Z. Fairfax, in New York City, without explanation or
comment.
[Illustration: Copyright, 1911, by Dodd, Mead & Company
Phoebe]
Before the morning was half over he was playing with Phoebe and her
toys quite as childishly and gleefully as she, his heart in the fun
she was having, his mind almost wholly cleared of the bitterness and
rancour that so recently had filled it to overflowing.
The three of them floundered through the snowdrifts to the station,
laughing and shouting with a merriment that proved infectious. The
long-obscured sun came out and caught the disease, for he smiled
broadly, and the wind gave over snarling and smirked with an
amiability that must have surprised the shivering horses standing
desolate in front of certain places wherein their owners partook of
Christmas cheer that was warm.
Harvey took Phoebe and the nurse to the theatre in a cab. He went up
to the box-office window and asked for the two tickets. The seller was
most agreeable. He handed out the little envelope with the words:--
"A packed house to-day, Mr.--Mr.--er--ah, and--sold out for to-night.
Here you are, with Miss Duluth's compliments--the best seats in the
house. And here is a note for--er--yes, for the nurse."
Annie read the note. It was from Nellie, instructing her to bring
Phoebe to her dressing-room after the performance, where they would
have supper later on.
Harvey saw them pass in to the warm theatre and then slowly wandered
out to the bleak, wind-swept street. There was nothing for him to do;
nowhere that he could go to seek cheerful companions. For an hour or
more he wandered up and down Broadway, his shoulders hunched up, his
mittened hands to his ears, water running from his nose and eyes, his
face the colour of the setting sun. Half-frozen, he at last ventured
into a certain café, a place where he had lunched no fewer than
half-a-dozen times, and where he thought his identity might have
remained with the clerk at the cigar stand.
There were men at the tables, smoking and chatting hilariously. At one
of them sat three men, two of whom were actors he had met. Summoning
his courage, he approached them with a well-assumed air of
nonchalance.
"Merry Christmas," was his greeting. The trio looked at him with no
sign of recognition. "How are you. Mr. Brackley? How are you, Joe?"
The two actors shook hands with him without much enthusiasm, certainly
without interest.
Light dawned on one of them. "Oh," said he, cheerlessly, "how are you?
I couldn't place you at first." He did not offer to introduce him to
the stranger, but proceeded to enlighten the other players. "It's--oh,
you know--Nellie Duluth's husband."
The other fellow nodded and resumed his conversation with the third
man. At the same time the speaker leaned forward to devote his
attention to the tale in hand, utterly ignoring the little man, who
stood with his hand on the back of the vacant chair.
Harvey waited for a few moments. "What will you have to drink?" he
asked, shyly dropping into the chair. They stared at him and shook
their heads.
"That seat's engaged," said the one called "Joe," gruffly.
Harvey got up instantly. "Oh," he said, in a hesitating manner. They
went on with their conversation as if he were not there. After a
moment he moved away, his ears burning, his soul filled with
mortification and shame. In a sort of daze he approached the cigar
stand and asked for a box of cigarettes.
"What kind?" demanded the clerk, laying down his newspaper.
Harvey smiled engagingly. "Oh, the kind I usually get!" he said,
feeling sure that the fellow remembered him and the quality he
smoked.
"What's that?" snapped the clerk, scowling.
The purchaser hastily mentioned a certain kind of cigarette, paid for
it after the box had been tossed at him, and walked away. Fixed in his
determination to stay in the place until he was well thawed out, he
took a seat at a little table near the stairway and ordered a hot
lemonade.
He was conscious of a certain amount of attention from the tables
adjacent to the trio he had accosted. Several loud guffaws came to his
ears as he sipped the boiling drink. Taking an unusually copious
swallow, he coughed and spluttered as the liquid scalded his tongue
and palate. The tears rushed to his eyes. From past experience he knew
that his tongue would be sore for at least a week. He had such a
tender tongue, Nellie said.
For half an hour he sat there dreaming and brooding. It was much
better than tramping the streets. A clock on the opposite wall pointed
to four o'clock. The matinée would be over at a quarter to five.
Presently he looked again. It was five minutes past four. Really it
wasn't so bad waiting after all; not half so bad as he had thought it
would be.
Some one tapped him on the shoulder. He looked up with a start. The
manager of the place stood at his elbow.
"This isn't a railway station, young feller," he said, harshly.
"You'll have to move on. These tables are for customers."
"But I've bought----"
"Now, don't argue about it. You heard what I said. Move along."
The man's tone was peremptory. Poor Harvey looked around as if in
search of a single benevolent face, and then, without a word of
protest, arose and moved quickly toward the door. His eyes were fixed
in a glassy stare on the dancing, elusive doorway. He wondered if he
could reach it before he sank through the floor. Somehow he had the
horrible feeling that just as he opened it to go out some one would
kick him from behind. He could almost feel the impact of the boot and
involuntarily accelerated his speed as he opened the door to pass into
the biting air of the now darkening street.
"I hate this damned town," said he to himself over and over again as
he flung himself against the gale that almost blew him off his feet.
When he stopped to take his bearings, he was far above Longacre Square
and still going in the wrong direction. He was befuddled. A policeman
told him in hoarse, muffled tones to go back ten blocks or so if he
wanted to find the theatre where Nellie Duluth was playing.
A clock in an apothecary's shop urged him to hurry. When he came to
the theatre, the newsboys were waiting for the audience to appear. He
was surrounded by a mob of boys and men shouting the extras.
"Is the show out?" he asked one of them.
"No, sir!" shouted the boy, eagerly. "Shall I call up your automobile,
mister!"
"No, thank you," said Harvey through his chattering teeth. For a
moment he felt distinctly proud and important. So shrewd a judge of
humanity as a New York "newsy" had taken him to be a man of parts. For
awhile he had been distressed by the fear, almost the conviction, that
he was regarded by all New York as a "jay."
Belying his suddenly acquired air of importance, he hunched himself up
against the side of the building, partly sheltered from the wind, and
waited for the crowd to pour forth. With the appearance of the first
of those home-goers he would repair to the stage door, and, once
behind the scenes, was quite certain that he would receive an
invitation from Nellie to join the gay little family supper party in
her dressing-room.
When the time came, however, he approached the doorman with
considerable trepidation. He had a presentiment that there would be
"no admittance." Sure enough, the grizzled doorman, poking his head
out, gruffly informed him that no one was allowed "back" without an
order from the manager. Harvey explained who he was, taking it for
granted that the man did not know him with his coat-collar turned
up.
"I know you, all right," said the man, not unkindly. "I'd like to let
you in, but--you see----" He coughed and looked about rather
helplessly, avoiding the pleading look in the visitor's eyes.
"It's all right," Nellie's husband assured him, but an arm barred the
way.
"I've got strict orders not to admit you," blurted out the doorman,
hating himself.
"Not to admit me!" said Harvey, slowly.
"I'm sorry, sir. Orders is orders."
"But my little girl is there."
"Yes, sir, I understand. The orders are for you, sir, not for the
kid." Struck by the look in the little man's eyes he hastened to say,
"Maybe if you saw Mr. Ripton out front and sent a note in to Miss
Duluth, she'd change her mind and----"
"Good Lord!" fell from Harvey's lips as he abruptly turned away to
look for a spot where he could hide himself from every one.
Two hours later, from his position at the mouth of the alley, he saw a
man come out of the stage door and blow a whistle thrice. He was
almost perishing with cold; he was sure that his ears were frozen. A
sharp snap at the top of each of them and a subsequent warmth urged
him to press quantities of snow against them, obeying the old rule
that like cures like. From the kitchens of a big restaurant came the
odours of cooking foodstuffs. He was hungry on this Merry Christmas
night, but he would not leave his post. He had promised to wait for
Phoebe and take her out home with him in the train.
With the three blasts of the whistle he stirred his numb feet and
edged nearer to the stage door. A big limousine came rumbling up the
alley from behind, almost running him down. The fur-coated chauffeur
called him unspeakable names as he passed him with the emergency
brakes released.
Before he could reach the entrance, the door flew open and a small
figure in fur coat and a well known white hat was bundled into the
machine by a burly stage hand. A moment later Annie clambered in, the
door was slammed and the machine started ahead.
He shouted as he ran, but his cry was not heard. As the car careened
down the narrow lane, throwing snow in all directions, he dropped into
a dejected, beaten walk. Slowly he made his way in the trail of the
big car--it was too dark for him to detect the colour, but he felt it
was green--and came at last to the mouth of the alley, desolate,
bewildered, hurt beyond all understanding.
For an instant he steadied himself against the icy wall of a building,
trying to make up his mind what to do next. Suddenly it occurred to
him that if he ran hard and fast he could catch the train--the
seven-thirty--and secure a bit of triumph in spite of circumstances.
He went racing up the street toward Sixth Avenue, dodging head-lowered
pedestrians with the skill of an Indian, and managed to reach
Forty-second Street without mishap or delay. Above the library he was
stopped by a policeman, into whose arms he went full tilt, almost
bowling him over. The impact dazed him. He saw many stars on the
officer's breast. As he looked they dwindled into one bright and
shining planet and a savage voice was bellowing:--
"Hold still or I'll bat you over the head!"
"I'm--I'm trying to make the seven-thirty," he panted, wincing under
the grip on his arm.
"We'll see about that," growled the policeman.
"For Heaven's sake, Mr. Policeman, I haven't done anything. Honest,
I'm in a hurry. My little girl's on that train. We live in Tarrytown.
She'll cry her eyes out if I----"
"What was you running for?"
"For it," said Harvey, at the end of a deep breath.
"It's only seven-five now," said the officer, suspiciously.
"Well, it's the seven-ten I want, then," said Harvey, hastily.
"I guess I'll hold you here and see if anybody comes chasin' up after
you. Not a word, now. Close your trap."
As no one came up to accuse the prisoner of murder, theft, or
intoxication, the intelligent policeman released him at the expiration
of fifteen minutes. A crowd had collected despite the cold. Harvey was
always to remember that crowd of curious people; he never ceased
wondering where they came from and why they were content to stand
there shivering in the zero weather when there were stoves and steam
radiators everywhere to be found. To add to his humiliation at least a
dozen men and boys, not satisfied with the free show as far as it had
gone, pursued him to the very gates in the concourse.
"Darned loafers!" said Harvey, hotly, but under his breath, as he
showed his ticket and his teeth at the same time. Then he rushed for
the last coach and swung on as it moved out.
Now, if I were inclined to be facetious or untruthful I might easily
add to his troubles by saying that he got the wrong train, or
something of the sort, but it is not my purpose to be harder on him
than I have to be.
It was the right train, and, better still, Annie and Phoebe were in
the very last seat of the very last coach. With a vast sigh he dropped
into a vacant seat ahead of them and began fanning himself with his
hat, to the utter amazement of onlookers, who had been disturbed by
his turbulent entrance.
The newspaper Annie was reading fell from her hands.
"My goodness, sir! Where did you come from?" she managed to inquire.
"I've been--dining--at--Sherry's," he wheezed. "Annie, will you look
and see if my ears are frozen?"
"They are, sir. Good gracious!"
He realised that he had been indiscreet.
"I--I sat in a draught," he hastened to explain. "Did you have a nice
time, Phoebe?"
The child was sleepy. "No," she said, almost sullenly. His heart gave
a bound. "Mamma wouldn't let me eat anything. She said I'd get fat."
"You had quite enough to eat, Phoebe," said Annie.
"I didn't," said Phoebe.
"Never mind," said her father, "I'll take you to Sherry's some day."
"When, daddy?" she cried, wide awake at once. "I like to go to places
with you."
He faltered. "Some day after mamma has gone off on the road. We'll be
terribly gay, while she's away, see if we ain't."
Annie picked up the paper and handed it to him.
"Miss Duluth ain't going on the road, sir," she said. "It's in the
paper."
He read the amazing news. Annie, suddenly voluble, gave it to him by
word of mouth while he read. It was all there, she said, to prove
what she was telling him. "Just as if I couldn't read!" said Harvey,
as he began the article all over again after perusing the first few
lines in a perfectly blank state of mind.
"Yes, sir, the doctor says she can't stand it on the road. She's got
nervous prosperity and she's got to have a long rest. That Miss Brown
is going to take her place in the play after this week and Miss Duluth
is going away out West to live for awhile to get strong again.
She----What is the name of the town, Phoebe?"
"Reno," said Phoebe, promptly.
"But the name of the town isn't in the paper, sir," Annie informed
him. "It's a place where people with complications go to get rid of
them, Miss Nellie says. The show won't be any good without her, sir. I
wouldn't give two cents to see it."
He sagged down in the seat, a cold perspiration starting out all over
his body.
"When does she go--out there!" he asked, as in a dream.
"First of next week. She goes to Chicago with the company and then
right on out to--to--er--to----"
"Reno," said he, lifelessly.
"Yes, sir."
He did not know how long afterward it was that he heard Phoebe saying
to him, her tired voice barely audible above the clacking of the
wheels:--
"I want a drink of water, daddy."
His voice seemed to come back to him from some far-away place. He
blinked his eyes several times and said, very wanly:--
"You mustn't drink water, dearie. It will make you fat."