CHRISTMAS VISITORS

Waikato Times, Volume 118, Issue 19762, 18 December 1935, Page 16 (Supplement)

CHRISTMAS VISITORS

{By Thomas Cobb.)

✓ TS EVELYN Minter never felt very “merry” during the week before Christmas, for the reason that more than one misfortune had happened to her at this time of the year. It seemed a long time since she was engaged to Roger Esdaile, and looking back, she told herself that she had been too harsh and intolerant. It was not as if he had been really dissipated. He had worked hard at the hospital, but there had been an unusually elaborate students’ “rag,” and while trying to rescue one of his chums, Roger had been himself arrested, brought before a magistrate the next morning, severely reprimanded and fined. Evelyn s father had made what Roger called a “song” about the affair, the consequence being that she had returned his ring. A year later she had seen the announcement of his wedding, and then during the early days of the war, had followed his example, though she had protested that she she should never marry. Her husband was killed in France before the birth of her boy. She had not seen Roger since, nor expected to see him again, but she learnt from the newspaper that he had lost his wife. Evelyn Minter lived in a small, suburban house with one maid and Dickey, but at the age of three, just as he was becoming the most engaging little companion, he died —a few days before Christmas, so that he was naturally much in her thoughts at this season, and no!—she found it impossible to feel very “merry.” She was not yet thirty, and everybody said she was prettier than ever. She led a secluded life, and even hesitated when she was asked to help with the decoration of the church. The weather was not very seasonable, for while the afternoon of Christmas Eve was uncomfortably foggy, the air felt quite warm when she set forth after luncheon. She had made up her mind to go to the church, aftei' all, and spent a couple of hours amidst a bevy of cheerful girls, twining holly wreaths around the pillars, and affixing crosses to the pulpit. A Sudden Standstill. By four o’clock, however, she felt she had had enough of it, and stealing quietly away, she passed out at the west door, and then came to a sudden standstill. Just beyond the threshold, facing her, stood a small child, who, curiously, reminded her of her own, whom she had lost. Not that Dickey would have been allowed to have such ragged clothes or such a grubby face. But this boy, also, had a sort of halo of fair, curly hair, and large blue eyes, to say nothing of his rather large, projecting ears and a suggestion of something elfish in his appearance. His head was bare as the light from an electric lamp fell upon it, and behind him was the dark foggy churchyard. If Dickie had lived he would have been about the same age, too —about seven. “What are you doing here?” asked Evelyn, stooping to bring herself to his level. She had a gentle sympathetic voice. “Don’t you think you ought to be indoors at home?” ' Without answering, he looked into her face with a grave kind of smile, and as her hand hung by her side, to her surprise he snuggled his own tiny one into it. Her direction lay to the left, and she certainly had no intention to go out of her way this uninviting afternoon, yet when the child, still holding her hand, turned to the right, she allowed him to lead her without the slightest resistance. It was impossible to see many feet ahead, but he seemed to know his way perfectly, and on reaching the main road, he steered her across it, and past the shops with flaring lights, turkeys and geese in some windows, huge joints of beef and mutton in others, or sugared cakes, and that sort of thing, though he scarcely glanced at them. He might have been blind as well as dumb. When Evelyn spoke, his only answer was one of his grave smiles, and soon she began to speculate how much farther he intended to take her. Yet the strange thing was, perhaps, because he reminded her more and more of what Dickie would have been, that the notion of going back did not occur to her. Leaving the mam road, they walked along some poorer streets, till they came to a row of tall houses, let out in tenements, and each sheltering several families. At one of these, the child stopped, but instead of going to the front door, he led Evelyn down the area steps, and she saw a window without a blind, lighted by a single gas jet hanging from the middle of the grimy ceiling of a squalid room, which no doubt, in palmier days, had been a kitchen. Standing in the area, Evelyn saw a boy who looked about nine, who wore a pair of knickerbockers and a dark flannel shirt with one brace, and a girl, who might be two years younger. She was sitting on the bare floor, sobbing violently, while the boy, leaning forward in his broken-backed chair, seemed to be trying to amuse her by making cats’ cradles with a very short, knotted piece of string. Reminded of Dickie. Evelyn was too deeply interested in what was going on in the room, to be awaie that her hand was no longer being held, till glancing down suddenly, she could see nothing of the child who had brought her so far out of her way. Of course he might have slipped in at the door while her attention was distracted, and anyhow, lie had vanished. Evelyn felt sorry. She would have liked to learn something about him, to have helped him in some way, if possible, because he had reminded her so forcibly of Dickie. But ho had disappeared and she was alone in the dark area, and as she stood there a gramophone in one of the upper rooms began to play ragtime. Scarcely hesitating, she entered the basement passage, groping her way till she reached a door on her right, opening which she was confronted by two startled children, the boy jumping to his feet while his hands were still united by the cats cradle, the girl leaving off crying to gaze at the visitor. On a deal table in the middle of the room, lay a pat of margarine with half a loaf. In this was stuck a sprig of holly, and as she looked at it Evelyn could not speak for a moment. “Was it a little brother of yours who brought me here?” she suggested presently. , ~ “We haven’t got a brother,” answered the

boy. , , _ , “Where is your father? ’ asked Evelyn. “Father's dead ” "And your mother?” said Evelyn hastily. "They’ took mother away to the hospital this morning,” sobbed the little girl. "Then who,” demanded Evelyn, ‘‘is looking after you two children?” "I'm looking after Annie,” said the boy.

"And,” said his sister, “I’m looking after Henry, I am.” , “Do you know,” asked Evelyn, ‘that tomorrow will be Christmas Day?” “It would,” cried Henry, “if mother was here.” What Evelyn Said. Evelyn stood looking down at their upturned faces, and her own became flushed by excitement. It seemed that she was bound to say what she did, without staying to consider whether it was wise or unwise. If she had thought about it,. in all probability she would have acted quite differently, because there were several difficulties in the way, and what would Mary have to say about it! Mary had lived with her ever since her marriage, and her wishes could by no means be safely ignored. “Now, how should you like to spend Christmas with me?” said Evelyn. “Oh, very much indeed,” exclaimed Annie. “Rather!” said Henry. “I hope,” said Evelyn, “you can eat turkey?” “I say, Annie,” cried the boy, smacking his lips. , “Do you think you could come now? asked Evelyn. Turning his back, Henry picked up a particularly ragged-looking jacket from the floor and began to struggle to get his arms into the sleeves. “Mother was going to mend my hat,’ said Annie, “only she was took bad and Mrs Kemp fetched the doctor and they took her away ” “Who is Mrs Kemp?” demanded Evelyn, and learnt that she was the lady on the second floor, who owned the gramophone. The children led the way to her room and presently she came to speak to them on the landing, a stout, florrid faced woman, who explained that the little Larkins ought to have been fetched to the workhouse, only she supposed, it being Christmas, everybody was so busy. Mrs Larkin, she said, was as hard a working woman as ever lived, but she was going to have an operation and might get through or might not. If the lady was kind enough to take the children for a day or two, Mrs Kemp was sure no one would have any objection. , . So Evelyn, having given the woman her visiting card, returned to the basement, and put on Annie’s jacket, though as the brim had come off her black straw hat, and the blue feather was hanging by a thread, she suggested that it should be left behind.

No Sign of the Little Child,

Outside in the area, she could see nothing of the child who had brought her, though she would certainly have been thankful for somebody to show the way home. On turning the corner, however, she rejoiced to see the lamps of a taxicab—she felt certain it was a taxi—which had just set down a tall, clean-shaven man with a small bag in his hand. “Number 12 Stanford Gardens,” said Evelyn. . “I’m afraid you’ve made a mistake,; answered the chauffeur. “This is a private car.” “Perhaps, you can tell me the nearest way,” said Evelyn, for the fog seemed more dense than ever. As she spoke the tall, clean-shaven man with the small bag, drew nearer. “I shall be in the house half an hour,” he cried, raising his hat. “There will be plenty of time to drive you to Stanford Gardens and to get back ” Suddenly he broke off. “Good Heavens! Evelyn!” he added, and she stepped back grasping the door of the car for support. Before she felt able to say a word, he was opening the door, “I musn’t keep my patient waiting,” he said. “Suppose you jump in.” It had been the most surprising afternoon and now Evelyn was riding in Roger Esdaile’s car with a ragged boy and gin, whom she scarcely knew what to do with. If she had not seen that solemn faced child outside the church, if he had not reminded her so forcibly of Dickie, she would never have met Roger again. Not that the encounter was really of the least importance. They were like ships that pass in the night, one going one way, one another, but still the glimpse of him had given her ineffable pleasure. If she had been more reasonable she would have been his wife, and notwithstanding her hurried, impulsive union with Dickie's father, Roger’s place had never been filled. The Children Overawed. Meanwhile it was necessary to talk to the children, who seemed a little overawed, and on reaching home and letting herself in, she left them, standing very close together in the hall, while she went to prepare Mary’s mind. Still, there was a difference of opinion the instant she saw the Christmas visitors. While Evelyn suggested food as the first consideration, Mary insisted on baths. “I thought,” suggested Evelyn, “that while we were having tea, you wouldn’t mind going to High Street to buy some cheap clothes. Then they could put on everything clean.” This was an irresistible argument and in a quarter of an hour, Evelyn was sitting at the dining-room table, facing her guests, who almost choked themselves with the eggs, in their haste to get to the cakes. It was some time before the meal ended, and soon afterwards, Mary returned with a great parcel. She suggested that when Henry and Annie had had their baths it would be time for bed, but Evelyn reminded her that there was the holly to put up and no doubt they would like to help. “Besides,” she added, “it will take you some time to get the beds ready.”

When they came downstairs again, Evelyn scarcely recognised them! Henry had a suit something like a sea-scout’s, and Annie looked extremely proud of her new blue smock. Their faces shone, their hair had been combed and during the next hour they thoroughly enjoyed their experience, Henry perched on the top of the steps, while Annie, half way up, handed the holly and mistletoe for him to fix behind the picture frames. Their Christmas Stockings. "Now, you musn’t forget to hang your stockings to the door handles,” said Evelyn, when at last she bade them "good-night,” though she scarcely knew what to fill them with. She managed, however, to find some oranges, almonds and raisins and nuts, and at half past nine the same evening she had just finished her task, when the front door bell rang, and a minute later Mary opened the sitting-room door. “Dr. Esdaile,” she announced, and rising hastily, Evelyn held out her hand. “You must forgive me for disturbing you so late.” he said, “but I have had a rather busy day.”

Author of: “Hermione Comes Home,” “Joana Sets to Work,” “The Late Mr Beverley,” etc., etc.

“Of course,” murmured Evelyn, “I am— I am very pleased.” She was not remarkably tall, and still holding her hand, he stood with his neck slightly bent, looking down into her eyes. “Well, I hoped it was possible you might be,” he answered. “I imagine,” he continued, as they both sat down, “you know as much about me as I about you. All my information came from the newspapers. You married ” “Not for some months after your own wedding,” she said. “Ah well,” Roger returned, you seemed so tremendously determined, you know, that I couldn’t • persuade myself it was of the slightest use to try my luck again. But I have never forgotten those old days. I never shall. I live in a different world. I have the jolliest of boys. You lost yours,” he added. “Four years ago, almost to a day,” she said with a sigh. “I couldn’t make out what in the world you were doing with those two wastrels in the fog this afternoon,” he suggested. Her Afternoon’s Adventures. Then she began to describe her afternoon’s adventures, explaining how she had seen the grave-faced child at the church door, how he had reminded her of Dickie, and that when he took her hand, she seemed as a matter of course to allow him to take her where he pleased. He had conducted her to the Larkin children, and there again, she seemed to lose the power of volition. She was impelled to bring them away from their squalid, desolate surroundings, and they in their turn had brought her into contact with her present companion. “Well, I owe them something for that, anyhow,” cried Roger. “But the fact of the matter is that the children appealed to your sympathy. Your heart was touched and you put aside convention, as,” Roger added, “you would probably not have been capable of doing—say, ten years or so ago.” “I thought of having my turkey for them at half-past one,” suggested Evelyn. “Is that intended as an invitation for me?” he asked. “Of course, I should be delighted if you could come.”“I should have to bring the youngster.” “Why, of course,” said Evelyn. “And,” Roger continued, “I will make a point of looking in at the municipal hospital in the morning to hear how Mrs Larkin is getting along.” He was able to tell Henry and Annie that their mother would be able to go to a convalescent hospital, it was expected in about a fortnight, and Evelyn fell in love with Billy at first sight. It have been that Roger had warned him, but he fell into line with the other children at. once; he had brought some of his Christmas presents, too, including a large box of crackers and Evelyn felt thankful that Roger was there to carve the turkey. During the afternoon, Henry could not be induced to leave Billy’s model railway engine, while Annie retired to a corner with a jigsaw puzzle. When the time came, they did not like going to bed, though they were too sleepy to sit up, and Roger asked Evelyn to bring them to his house on Boxing Day. It was a large house, and they played at hide and seek all over it, Roger and Evelyn being meanwhile left to themselves.

“I have been wondering,” he suggested, “what you are going to do with these kids till their mother is able to take charge of them again.” "I shall keep them with me,” answered Evelyn. "And when Mrs Larkin is sent to the convalescent home, I intend to take them to the same place, wherever it may be. I can’t bear to think of sending them back to that dreadful basement, though I can’t imagine how I can prevent their going.” "I fancy we ought to be able to hit upon some method between us, if we give our minds to it,” urged Roger. “Ah yes, if you will help me!” she murmured. “Those Youngsters Brought us Together.” “Evelyn,” he said, “those youngsters brought us together again. That puts me in their debt.” “I suppose,” she said, “you could have found me any time the last four or five years, if you had particularly wanted to.” “That is true,” he admitted. “So that, obviously, you didn’t want to.” “Shall I tell you the truth?” he asked, with a smile, “I fancy I know without being told,” she insisted. “After the way I treated you, when I refused to listen to what you had to say, you thought I was ” She was seated on a large chesterfybld which he had pushed before the fire, and now rising from his chair, he took his place by her side, his arm stretched out behind her. “I was afraid,” he said, “that you might be a little too good for human nature’s daily food, you know.” “Then you’re not sorry I have turned out worse than you thought me?” she cried. “Supposo we leave it at that —for the \ immediate present,” he answered. “Those youngsters sound as if they were having a good time, anyhow!” They could be heard scampering up and down stairs, shouting, laughing to their heart’s content. “How curiously things come about,” said Evelyn. “You may think me ridiculously superstitious! But that grave-look-ing- child at the church door carried back by memory to my own darling. When ho took my hand I seemed bound to let him lead me where he liked. As soon as I saw the little Larkins, he disappeared as if his work was done. Roger,” Evelyn added, “after you had gone last night, I wondered whether there really had been a child of flesh and blood after all.” “You felt his hand,” suggested Roger. “I imagined that I did. But where did he come from? Where did he go to?” “Of course,” answered Roger, “he lived in the same house as the other youngsters. After wandering about in the mist, he was church. He took your hand because he knew, as children do, that you were sympathetic. lie was pining for companionship on his way home, and as soon as he got there, well, I’m afraid he dropped you.” “Oh dear!” cried Evelyn, “1 suppose your prosaic explanation must be right. Still it:—it seems rather wonderful that he should have led me to—where he did,” she said. Roger Esdaile’s hand dropped to her waist. “Everything in the world is wonderful — especially you,” he answered, and the last few years seemed to be blotted out in spite of all that had happened in them. As the children shouted and laughed on the other side of the door, Roger drew Evelyn closer. (The End.)