The Christmas Megapack

by Reginald Robert

  “Are we here already? Oh, my goodness! There she is!”

  Miss Barbour was going in the doorway, and as Van Landing saw the straight, slender figure, caught the turn of the head, held in the way that was hers alone, the years that were gone slipped out of memory and she was his again. His—With a swift movement he was out of the cab and on the street and about to follow her when Carmencita touched him on the arm.

  “Let me go first. She doesn’t know you’re coming. We’ll get a table near the door.”

  The crowd separated them, but through it Carmencita wriggled her way quickly and disappeared. Waiting, Van Landing saw her rush up to Miss Barbour, then slip in a chair at a table whose occupants were leaving, and motion Frances to do the same. As the tired little waitress, after taking off the soiled cloth and putting on a fresh one, went away for necessary equipment Van Landing opened the door and walked in and to the table and held out his hand.

  “You would not let me thank you this morning. May I thank you now for—”

  “Finding him?” Carmencita leaned halfway over the table, and her big blue eyes looked anxiously at first one and then the other. “He was looking for you, Miss Frances; he’d been looking all day and all night because he’d just heard you were somewhere down here, and he’s come to have lunch with us, and—Oh, it’s Christmas, Miss Frances, and please tell him—say something, do something! He’s been waiting three years, and he can’t wait another minute. Gracious! that smells good!”

  The savory dish that passed caused a turn in Carmencita’s head, and Frances Barbour, looking into the eyes that were looking into hers, held out her hand. At sight of Van Landing her face had colored richly, then the color had left it, leaving it white, and in her eyes was that he had never seen before.

  “There is nothing for which to thank me.” Her voice with its freshness and sweetness stirred as of old, but it was low. She smiled slightly. “I am very glad you are all right this morning. I did not know you knew our part of the town.” Her hand was laid on Carmencita’s.

  “I didn’t until I met your little friend. I had never been in it before. I know it now very well.”

  “And he was so fighting mad because he couldn’t see you when I sent the note that he went out, not knowing where he was or how to get back, and when his senses came on again and he tried to find out he couldn’t find, and he walked ’most all night and was lost like people in a desert who go round and round. And the next day he walked all day long and ’most froze, and he’d passed Mother McNeil’s house a dozen times and didn’t know it; and he was chasing Noodles and just leaning against that railing when the cop came and you came. Oh, Miss Frances, it’s Christmas! Won’t you please make up and—When are we going to eat?”

  Miss Barbour’s hand closed over Carmencita’s twisting ones, and into her face again sprang color; then she laughed. “We are very hungry, Mr. Van Landing. Would you mind sitting down so we can have lunch?”

  An hour later Carmencita leaned back in her chair, hands in her lap and eyes closed. Presently one hand went out. “Don’t ask me anything for a minute, will you? I’ve got to think about something. When you’re ready to go let me know.”

  Through the meal Carmencita’s flow of words and flow of spirits had saved the silences that fell, in spite of effort, between Van Landing and Miss Barbour, and under the quiet poise so characteristic of her he had seen her breath come unsteadily. Could he make her care for him again? With eyes no longer guarded he looked at her, leaned forward.

  “From here,” he said, “where are you going?”

  “Home. I mean to Mother McNeil’s. Carmencita says you and she have done my shopping.” She smiled slightly and lifted a glass of water to her lips. “The tree is to be dressed this afternoon, and tonight the children come.”

  “And I—when can I come?”

  “You?” She glanced at Carmencita, who was now sitting with her chin on the back of her chair, arms clasping the latter, watching the strange and fascinating scene of people ordering what they wanted to eat and eating as much of it as they wanted. “I don’t know. I am very busy. After Christmas, perhaps.”

  “You mean for me there is to be no Christmas? Am I to be for ever kept outside, Frances?”

  “Outside?” She looked up and away. “I have no home. We are both—outside. To have no home at Christmas is—” Quickly she got up. “We must go. It is getting late, and there is much to do.”

  For one swift moment she let his eyes hold hers, and in his burned all the hunger of the years of loss; then, taking up her muff, she went toward the door. On the street she hesitated, then held out her hand. “Good-by, Mr. Van Landing. I hope you will have a happy Christmas.”

  “Do you?” Van Landing opened the cab door. “Get in, please. I will come in another cab.” Stooping, he pushed aside some boxes and bundles and made room for Carmencita. “I’ll be around at four to help dress the tree. Wait until I come.” He nodded to the cabman; then, lifting his hat, he closed the door with a click and, turning, walked away.

  “Carmencita! oh, Carmencita!” Into the child’s eyes the beautiful ones of her friend looked with sudden appeal, and the usually steady hands held those of Carmencita with frightened force. “What have you done? What have you done?”

  “Done?” Carmencita’s fingers twisted into those of her beloved, and her laugh was joyous. “Done! Not much yet. I’ve just begun. Did—did you know you were to have a grand Christmas present, Miss Frances? You are. It’s—it’s alive!”

  CHAPTER XV

  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 le
arning 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 upstairs to change her dress. Halfway 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 tomorrow 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 tomorrow 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 tomorrow—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 tomorrow. 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 tomorrow, Mr. Van?”

  “It is to be tomorrow, Carmencita.”

  For a half-moment there was quivering silence; then Van Landing spoke again. “There are some things I must attend to tonight. Early tomorrow 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!”

  CHAPTER XVI

  Lifting herself on her elbow, Carmencita listened. There was no sound save the ticking of the little clock on the mantel. For a moment she waited, then with a swift movement of her hand threw back the covering on the cot, slipped from it, and stood, barefooted, in her nightgown, in the middle of the floor. Head on the side, one hand to her mouth, the other outstretched as if for silence from some one unseen, she raised herself on tiptoe and softly, lightly, crossed the room to the door opening into the smaller room wherein her father slept. Hand on the knob, she listened, and, the soft breathing assuring her he was asleep, she closed the door, gave a deep sigh of satisfaction, and hurried back to the cot, close to which she sat down, put on her stockings, and tied on her feet a pair of worn woolen slippers, once the property of her prudent and practical friend, Miss Cattie Burns. Slipping on her big coat over her gown, she tiptoed to the mantel, lighted the candle upon it, and looked at the clock.

  “Half past twelve,” she said, “and Father’s stocking not filled yet!”

  As she got down from the chair on which she had stood to see the hour her foot caught in the ripped hem of her coat. She tripped, and would have fallen had she not steadied herself against the table close to the stove, and as she did so she laughed under her breath. “Really this kimono is much too long.” She looked down on the loosened hem. “And I oughtn’t to wear my best accordion-pleated pale-blue crepe de Chine and shadow lace when I am so busy. But dark-gray things are so unbecoming, and, besides, I may have a good deal of company tonight. The King of Love and the Queen of Hearts may drop in, and I wouldn’t have time to change. Miss Lucrecia Beck says I’m going to write a book when I’m big, I’m so fond of making up and of love-things. She don’t know I’ve written one already. If he hadn’t happened to be standing on that corner looking so—so—I don’t know what, exactly, but so something I couldn’t help running down and asking him to come up—I never would have had the day I’ve had today and am going to have tomorrow.”

  Stooping, she pinned the hem of her coat carefully, then, stretching out her arms, stood on her tiptoes and spun noiselessly round and round. “Can’t help it!” she said, as if to some one who objected. “I’m so glad I’m living, so glad I spoke to him, and know him, that I’m bound to let it out. Father says I mustn’t speak to strangers; but I’d have to be dead not to talk, and I didn’t think about his being a man. He looked so lonely.”

  With quick movements a big gingham apron was tied over the bulky coat, and, putting the candle on the table in the middle of the room, Carmencita began to move swiftly from c
ot to cupboard, from chairs to bookshelves, and from behind and under each bundles and boxes of varying sizes were brought forth and arrayed in rows on the little table near the stove. As the pile grew bigger so did her eyes, and in her cheeks, usually without color, two spots burned deep and red. Presently she stood off and surveyed her work and, hands clasped behind, began to count, her head nodding with each number.

  “Thirteen big ones and nineteen little ones,” she said, “and I don’t know a thing that’s in one of them. Gracious! this is a nice world to live in! I wonder what makes people so good to me? Mrs. Robinsky brought up those six biggest ones tonight.” Lightly her finger was laid on each. “She said they were left with her to be sent up tomorrow morning, but there wouldn’t be a thing to send if she waited, as the children kept pinching and poking so to see what was in them. I’d like to punch myself. Noodles gave me that.” Her head nodded at a queer-shaped package wrapped in brown paper and tied with green cord. “He paid nineteen cents for it. He told me so. I didn’t pay but five for what I gave him. He won’t brush his teeth or clean his finger-nails, and I told him I wasn’t going to give him a thing if he didn’t, but I haven’t a bit of hold-out-ness at Christmas. I wonder what’s in that?”

  Cautiously her hand was laid on a box wrapped in white tissue-paper and tied with red ribbons. “I’ll hate to open it and see, it looks so lovely and Christmasy, but if I don’t see soon I’ll die from wanting to know. It rattled a little when I put it on the table. It’s Miss Frances’s present, and I know it isn’t practical. She’s like I am. She don’t think Christmas is for plain and useful things. She thinks it’s for pleasure and pretty ones. I wonder—” Her hands were pressed to her breast, and on tiptoes she leaned quiveringly toward the table. “I wonder if it could be a new tambourine with silver bells on it! If it is I’ll die for joy, I’ll be so glad! I broke mine tonight. I shook it so hard when I was dancing after I got home from the tree that—Good gracious! I’ve caught my foot again! These diamond buckles on my satin slippers are always catching the chiffon ruffles on my petticoats. I oughtn’t to wear my best things when I’m busy, but I can’t stand ugly ones, even to work in. Mercy! it’s one o’clock, and the things for Father’s stocking aren’t out yet.”