Reporter had to say. "Some day when you have become a great editor," she
assured him at parting, "I shall refer proudly to the afternoon when we
sat together in a cave and ate ice cream."
"Oh, now, Miss Bentley," the Reporter protested in some embarrassment,
"I'm sure I shall always think of it with pride, whatever I get to be,
though that probably won't be much."
This conversation was not without its influence upon Miss Bentley's
subsequent attitude toward the Candy Man. That some one else had found
him a unique and interesting personality was reassuring, and the
thought that he might be engaged on some secret mission was novel and
suggestive. She began to reconsider and readjust, and in future,
although she still avoided the Y.M.C.A. corner, she allowed her thoughts
to turn once in a while in that direction.
Meanwhile she paid two more visits to the Miser's library, on these
occasions laying deliberate siege to his reserve with all the charm of
her bright friendliness. She asked questions about his beloved prints;
intelligent questions, for Margaret Elizabeth had grown up in an
atmosphere of appreciation for things rare and fine. She chatted about
her father and his work, and even ventured some wise advice about fresh
air and its tonic effect. Indeed, it is a cause for wonder that she was
able at the same time to collect the material which took shape later in
that most erudite paper.
Under this invasion of youth and gaiety, the sombre, student atmosphere
became charged with a new, electric current. It was not owing solely to
Miss Bentley, however, for Sunday evening now frequently found the Candy
Man dropping in sociably to chat with Mr. Knight in his library.
In these days the Miser often sat leaning his head on his hand, a
meditative, half whimsical expression on his face, as if he found both
wonder and amusement in the chance that had so strangely brought these
young people across his threshold.
One Sunday afternoon the Pennington motor, having deposited Margaret
Elizabeth at the Vandegrift gate, with a scornful snort went on its
swift way to more select regions. It was the first really cold weather
of the season, and while she waited at the door Margaret Elizabeth
examined the thermometer, and then buried her nose in her muff.
"Dear me!" she exclaimed impatiently. "Why doesn't somebody come?"
She rang again with no uncertain touch upon the button this time, and
then, crunching across the frozen grass, peeped in at her own window,
where a glimpse of smouldering fire rewarded her. She returned to the
door to ring and rap, still with no response.
This was a most unusual state of affairs, for it was an inexorable
decree of Dr. Prue's that the telephone must never be left alone.
Somebody must have gone to sleep. The cold and the darkness deepened and
it became more and more evident that she was locked out. What should
she do? After canvassing the situation thoroughly, she could think of
nothing for it but to seek refuge with the Miser. Her acquaintance in
the neighbourhood was limited. Miss Kitty the dressmaker had gone to
vespers, and her cottage was dark. The apartment house was too far away.
From the Miser's library she could watch for the light which would
betoken the waking up of the delinquent one. So across the street, her
nose in her muff, ran Margaret Elizabeth.
The little housekeeper, Mrs. Sampson, who opened the door, was all
solicitude. Such a cold evening to be locked out! She knew Mr. Knight
would be glad to have her wait in the library. He had stepped out for
a little walk, though she had warned him it was too cold. Thus saying,
Mrs. Sampson ushered her in, and followed to see if the fire was all it
should be.
It was, for the Candy Man had just given it a vigorous poking and put on
fresh coal. The room was full of its pleasant light.
Mrs. Sampson was surprised to find him there. "Miss Bentley, this is
Mr. Reynolds, a friend of Mr. Knight's," she explained, adding that Miss
Bentley was locked out, and wished to sit by the window and watch for
her uncle to come back. "And if you'll excuse me, Miss Bentley, the cook
has her Sunday evenings out, and I get supper myself," she added as she
withdrew.
Margaret Elizabeth and the Candy Man faced each other in silence for a
second or two, then she said, very gravely indeed, "I am glad to meet
you, Mr. Reynolds."
"Thank you, Miss Bentley. May I give you a chair?" he asked.
"Thank you, I will sit here by the window." The window was some distance
from the fire, but as she sat down Margaret Elizabeth loosened her furs
as if she felt its heat.
The Candy Man waited, uncertain what course he should pursue.
"Please sit down, Mr. Reynolds. I should like to talk to you, now the
opportunity has so unexpectedly offered." She regarded him still
seriously, her hands clasped within her large muff. "I think you owe me
an explanation."
"I am not sure I understand." The Candy Man's heart was beating in an
absurd and disconcerting way, but he would keep his head and follow her
lead.
"Of course you are aware that you allowed me to talk to you that morning
in the park, in a--most unsuitable manner, without even----"
"How could I?" cried the Candy Man entreatingly. "I did not know."
"Did not know what?" demanded Miss Bentley sternly, as he hesitated.
"I thought perhaps--I was dreadfully lonely, you see, and I thought--it
was preposterous--but I hoped you--don't you see?--didn't mind talking
to an unknown Candy Man."
"Oh! was that it?" exclaimed Margaret Elizabeth in a tone difficult to
interpret. Did she think it preposterous, or not? It seemed to indicate
she found something preposterous. "Then you were disappointed in me,"
she added.
Never would the Candy Man admit such a thing. He had realised since then
what a cad he must have seemed, but----
"That, however, is neither here nor there," she continued, "since I did
not recognise you. It was----"
"Preposterous?" he suggested.
"Yes, preposterous, to suppose that I could. Why, it was nearly dark
that afternoon, and I----"
"Please don't rub it in. I know. You see I knew you so well."
"Me?" cried Margaret Elizabeth.
"I had seen you pass, I mean."
Again Miss Bentley said "Oh!" adding: "You are also the person who
laughed when I made an idiotic remark about lighthouses in the grocery."
The Candy Man protested. He had not laughed.
"Your eyes laughed. That is how I first discovered my mistake. Your
resemblance to Mr. McAllister is remarkable."
"So I have been told." The Candy Man shrugged his shoulders, ever so
little.
"However, to go back, I think you owe me an explanation, Mr. Reynolds,
considering how you allowed me to talk to you under a false impression.
I am not absolutely lacking in grey matter," she added, while a smile
curled her lips, "and I think you owe it to me to tell me why you became
a Candy Man."
"In return for the Fairy Godmother idea?" he asked mischievously.
Miss Bentley's brows drew together. "If you knew how bitterly I have
regretted all the foolish things I said that day, you would not laugh,"
she cried.
"Do not say that, please, Miss Bentley. I beg your pardon, and I am not
laughing. I could not. If you only knew what it all meant to me. How
I----"
His distress was so genuine that Margaret Elizabeth was touched. "Well,
never mind now. It can't be helped, and I am willing to have it in
return for the Fairy Godmother nonsense, if you choose to put it so."
And now perforce the Candy Man must explain himself.
"You see," he began, "I had been knocked out of everything through
a bad accident that occurred at my home near Chicago--a runaway.
Speaking of grey matter, there was some doubt for a time whether mine
was not permanently injured. However, I gradually recovered, but I was
still forbidden for another six months at least to do any brain work,
and ordered by my doctor to loaf in the fresh air. Doing nothing when
you are longing to get to work is no easy job. I left home with the
intention of going South, and stopped off here for no particular reason.
Perhaps I should have said that I have no family. My father died
something over a year ago. Oddly enough, in front of the station here
I met an Irish woman, once a servant in my father's house. She was
overjoyed to see me, and poured out her troubles. Her son, who ran a
candy wagon, had been taken ill with fever, and his employers would not
promise to keep the place for him, and altogether she was in hard lines,
this boy being the main support of a large family. So now you see how
the idea occurred to me. To amuse myself and keep the boy's place. And
having no family or friends to be disgraced----"
"No one has intimated there was any disgrace about it," Miss Bentley
interrupted. "At worst it can be called eccentric. It was also very,
very kind."
"Oh, now, Miss Bentley, thank you, but I can't let you overrate that.
Any help I have given was merely by the way. You must remember I was
in need of some occupation, and I assure you it has been very much of
a lark."
"Yes?" said Miss Bentley. "Then no doubt before long you will be writing
'The Impressions of a Candy Man,' or 'Life as Seen from a Candy Wagon.'
It will be new."
"Thanks for the suggestion, I'll consider it. But for the chance that
made me a Candy Man I should have missed a great deal--for one thing, a
realisation of the opportunity that awaits the Fairy Godmother Society."
"But Tim will soon be about again," said Margaret Elizabeth.
"Then I must look out for another job; but your remark implies some
further knowledge of Tim. I was not aware I had mentioned his name
even."
Miss Bentley bit her lip, then decided to smile frankly. "I met Tim
the other day," she said. "My cousin, Dr. Vandegrift, often visits St.
Mary's, and I sometimes go with her. Tim is a nice boy, and full of
praises for the kind gentleman who has done so much for him."
"And also, let me add, for the lovely young lady who gave him a red
rose, and----"
Margaret Elizabeth laughed. There was no getting ahead of this Candy
Man. Had he known all along, or had he just guessed? "I see a light at
last," she said, rising. "I must go, or they will be wondering what has
become of me." ...
"Yes, I know it was my afternoon in," said Uncle Bob plaintively, while
Margaret Elizabeth made toast at the grate and Dr. Prue set the table.
"I merely ran over to the drug store for a second, but Barlow was there
and I got to talking."
"It is quite unnecessary to explain, but I do wish, father, you would
refrain from speaking as if you were required to stay in. It was your
own proposition to let Nancy go. I could have made other arrangements."
Dr. Prue was aggrieved. There was no telling how many telephone calls
had been unanswered.
Margaret Elizabeth laughed. "You are absolutely untrustworthy, Uncle
Bob. Hereafter I shall carry a latch key."
"By the way, who was that young man who brought you home?" the doctor
asked.
"His name is Reynolds. He is a stranger here. I have met him once or
twice." This casual explanation was accompanied by side glances which
indicated to Uncle Bob that there was more in it than appeared on the
surface.
Margaret Elizabeth had been extremely reserved upon the subject of the
Candy Man. Uncle Bob had not heard a word of it till now, when, beside
the Little Red Chimney hearth, supper having been cleared away, and Dr.
Prue resting with a book on the office lounge, she told him the whole
story.
"You don't say so! That beats anything I ever heard. Well, I said it
would come out all right, didn't I?" Margaret Elizabeth's narrative was
punctured, as Mrs. Partington would have said, with many exclamations
such as these.
"I own you were right. It isn't as bad as it seemed. He is really very
gentlemanly and nice. Still, it is a bit awkward too," she added
thoughtfully.
It is possible she was thinking of Mrs. Gerrard Pennington at the
moment.
CHAPTER TEN
_In which the Little Red Chimney keeps Festival, and the Candy Man
receives an unexpected Invitation._
The Candy Man, letting himself in at his lodging house, one gloomy
Sunday afternoon, stumbled upon a deputation of pigeons, in a state
of fluttering impatience.
"She said to wait, and we thought you were never, never coming!" was
their chorus.
"Never is a long day," said the Candy Man. "What will you have?"
It appeared they were the bearers of a missive which read briefly and
to the point: "Her ladyship requests the pleasure of the Candy Man's
presence at the Pigeons' Christmas Tree, at four o'clock this
afternoon."
It had seemed to the Candy Man that he was altogether outside the
holiday world, that for him Christmas had ended with his visit to the
hospital that afternoon. He had ventured to send a basket of fruit to
his fellow lodgers, the invalid professor and his wife, and had played
Santa Claus to two or three newsboys who frequented the Y.M.C.A. corner
and to the small Malones, and the state of his exchequer scarcely
warranted anything more. The social calendar in the morning paper
overflowed with festivities for the week, and he had pleased his fancy
by picturing Miss Bentley, radiant and lovely, in the midst of them. He,
the lonely Candy Man, without the pale, could yet enjoy her pleasure in
imagination. And lo! this lonely Candy Man was bidden to a tree on
Christmas Eve, by her ladyship. He could not believe his eyes.
"It takes you a long time to read it," said Virginia. "You'd better
come. It's late."
Dark was beginning to fall outside, but the Little Red Chimney room was
full of firelight when the Candy Man was ushered in, in the wake of the
children, by cordial Uncle Bob. It was a frolicsome, magical light that
played about a row of red stockings hanging from the shelf above it;
that advanced to the farthest corner and then retreated; that coaxed and
dared the unlighted Christmas tree by the piano to wake up and do its
part; that gleamed in Miss Bentley's hair as she seated the pigeons in
a semicircle on the rug.
Was it the magic of the firelight, or the absence of the grey hat, or
the blue frock with its deep white collar, or, or--The Candy Man got no
further with his questions, for just then Margaret Elizabeth turned and
gave him her hand, explaining that they were so much stiller when they
sat on the floor. She added that it was very good of him to come--a
purely conventional and entirely inaccurate statement. He was also
instructed to sit on the sofa with Uncle Bob.
"And now," began Miss Bentley, standing with her back to the row of red
stockings and looking into the upturned faces, "we are going to be
rather quiet, for this, you know, is both Christmas Eve and Sunday.
First, we'll sing 'While Shepherds Watched,' very softly."
She sat down at the piano and struck a few chords, then her voice rose,
clear and sweet, the pigeons following her lead, a bit quaveringly at
first, but doing wonderfully well considering they were not song birds.
"She's been training them for weeks," Uncle Bob whispered.
After this came "Stille Nacht," and Uncle Bob joined in, and then the
Candy Man, and presently the entrance of Dr. Prue was proclaimed by a
vigorous alto. The effect was most gratifying to the performers, and
from the piano Margaret Elizabeth murmured, "Very good."
When the singing was over she took her seat on a low ottoman in the
midst of the children, who drew closer. "Next," she said, patting the
hand Virginia slipped within her arm, "comes the story, which on
Christmas Eve everybody should either hear or read for himself."
Stillness fell on the Little Red Chimney room, the pigeons listened in
breathless absorption, while, forgetting herself and her audience, her
hands loosely clasped on her knees, Margaret Elizabeth began the story
which, as often as it may be told, yet throbs with tenderness and
wonder. As she went on her eyes grew dark and deep, and in her face
shone something more than the sweetness and charm hitherto so endearing.
Was it a prophecy? A glimpse into the unsounded heart of her?
Dr. Prue shaded her eyes with her hand; Uncle Bob wiped his glasses; the
Candy Man's soul was stirred within him, but he gave no sign.
"And they brought gifts, gold, frankincense and myrrh, to the little
Child in the manger; so now in keeping his birthday, we give each other
gifts and are happy because of the wonderful night so long ago," ended
Margaret Elizabeth.
After that it was no longer still in the Little Red Chimney room. Uncle
Bob set the tree alight, and her ladyship distributed the red stockings.
Nobody was left out, not even the Candy Man, or Nancy and Jenny hovering
in the background.
Upon occasions like the Pigeons' Christmas Tree we long to linger, but
they are evanescent. The Candy Man must see the children home after a
few brief words with Miss Bentley.
"The Fairy Godmother Society must have been organised, and my name
entered among its beneficiaries," he told her.
"I am glad if you liked it," she replied. "I thought you would.
To-morrow I am going to Pennington Park to stay till after New Year's,
but Christmas Eve belonged by rights to the Little Red Chimney." She
smiled, and the Candy Man nodded understandingly.
This much in the midst of the chatter that accompanied the putting on of
small coats and leggings.
"And I may hope that I am forgiven?" he had a chance to add as she gave
him her hand at parting.
Miss Bentley's eyes twinkled. "It will do no harm to hope," she told
him.
The Candy Man, his red stocking protruding from his overcoat pocket,
conducted the noisy flock to their homes, then turning southward he
walked on and on toward the edge of the town. As is fitting on Christmas
Eve, a fine snow had begun to fall, sifting silently over everything,
transforming even the ugly and pitiful with a mantle of beauty.
The Candy Man, striding on through the night, felt an unreasoning joy as
he thought of Margaret Elizabeth telling the story with the firelight on
her face. The world seemed throbbing with expectancy. Who could tell
what splendid event awaited its near fulfilment?
CHAPTER ELEVEN
_In which a radical change of atmosphere is at once noticed; which
shows how Miss Bentley repents of a too coming-on disposition, and lends
an ear to the advantages of wealth._
The Christmas fire was not cold upon the hearth of the Little Red
Chimney before Miss Bentley was whisked away to other scenes, into an
atmosphere so different that of necessity things took on another aspect.
Mrs. Gerrard Pennington found intense satisfaction in her niece's social
success. Given every advantage, she pointed out, one could never tell
how a girl would take, and Dick had brought up his daughter in such an
odd way. Yet in spite of everything, even this awkward arrangement of
living in two places, Margaret Elizabeth was popular beyond her fondest
hopes.
There were not wanting those who remarked that it would be a marvel if
she were not spoiled. Probably they were right, and Margaret Elizabeth,
at the flood tide of her social career, courted, fêted, the kingdoms of
this world at her feet, was in danger.
"And who sent this?" Mrs. Pennington demanded.
It was Christmas Day, and "this" was an Indian basket of holly and
mistletoe, conspicuous, among many costly floral offerings, by its
simplicity. The card which accompanied it read, "To her Ladyship, from
the Candy Man," but this Mrs. Pennington had not seen.
"Oh," answered her niece, "I don't know how to tell you who he is. He is
a stranger here--a Mr. Reynolds. I met him at Mr. Knight's, where you
remember I went to get some material for my paper for the Tuesday Club."
This was all true, and, unaccompanied by a heightened colour, might
have allayed her aunt's lurking suspicions, born of that unexplained
interview in the park with some one who was not Augustus.
Only once had Mrs. Pennington referred to this, asking half jokingly if
Margaret Elizabeth had ever discovered the identity of that person;
putting a somewhat disdainful emphasis upon "person."
"Never," Margaret Elizabeth could at that time assure her, and she
added, "I do not expect to, and certainly do not wish to."
Mrs. Pennington, however, had her intuitions in regard to this unknown
individual. She anticipated his reappearance, and, like a wise general,
in time of peace prepared for war. Keeping her vague fears to herself,
she increased her vigilance.
Annoyed because of that uncalled-for blush, far away from the Little Red
Chimney, with fairy-tales forgot, Margaret Elizabeth repeated her aunt's
question. After all, who was Mr. Reynolds? That which had so lately
seemed an adventure compounded of kindliness and fun, she now beheld
only as an awkward situation. She began to feel that she had overstepped
the bounds in asking him to the Christmas tree; and the red stocking!
What nonsense! Why should she have felt concerned over his loneliness?
Were there not many lonely people in the world? Might he not infer from
it all a rather excessive interest in him and his affairs? Her interview
with Tim at the hospital, for instance, though it had come about by the
purest chance, looked on the surface as if she had been bent upon
investigating him.
The Candy Man's offering, which she at first found so happily
significant and appropriate, now began to seem almost a piece of
presumption. It lay ignored if not forgotten, till its brown and
withered contents were tossed into the fire by one of the maids. Did
Miss Bentley wish her to save the basket?
No, Miss Bentley cared nothing for it. Or, wait--she liked sweet grass,
and on second thought she would keep it.
Never had the holiday season been so gay. There was not time for a
minute's connected thought. Margaret Elizabeth honestly tried to keep
her promise to stop and reflect for at least ten minutes a day, but
either she went to sleep, or fell into a waking dream that bore small
relation to the sober realities upon which she was supposed to dwell.
There were guests at Pennington Park for the holidays--English friends
of her uncle and aunt, persons of a broader culture than Margaret
Elizabeth had ever before encountered. They afforded her an object
lesson of the best that accrues from wealth and tradition, and is only
to be attained by means of them. Within herself she was aware of an
aptitude of her own for these things.
But half divining her niece's mood, Mrs. Gerrard Pennington skilfully
and subtly fostered it, and Augustus McAllister, with unexpected tact,
followed her lead.
Augustus was genuinely in love, and it brought out the best that was
in him. For the first time in his life something resembling humility
manifested itself, a humility which sat gracefully upon the possessor
of variously estimated millions. It seemed to say: "Here is one who,
although not brilliant, may be led into any desirable path." And with
his other substantial attractions he combined his full share of good
looks.
To be unresponsive was not in Miss Bentley's make-up, and the attentions
of Augustus assumed in these days a delicate and pleasing character.
What girl could be indifferent to the prestige born of the generally
accepted opinion that the position of mistress of the Towers was hers
for the word?
In truth, all this homage--and Augustus was far from being alone in
it--was to Margaret Elizabeth an exciting game, that need not be taken
too seriously. It was only when she thought of the Candy Man that she
became serious and annoyed. How impossible, in the atmosphere of
Pennington Park, appeared any explanation or justification of so absurd
a position as his!
[Illustration: COUSIN AUGUSTUS]
When, after a morning recital by the Musical Club, Miss Bentley was seen
walking down the avenue with Augustus McAllister, society seized upon it
as confirming an interesting rumour. It was absurd, of course. Margaret
Elizabeth did it quite innocently. She really felt the need of exercise
in the open air, and could not very easily dismiss Mr. McAllister, who
had accompanied her aunt and herself to the concert, and who also felt
the need of air.
Did she think of the Candy Man when they passed the Y.M.C.A. corner?
Yes, she did. Though she gave not so much as half a glance in the
direction of the Candy Wagon, she hoped he was not too busy to observe.
It might counteract possible false impressions in the past.