Charity turned to look at the clock, but was obliged to move across the room before she could see through the gathering dusk, that it was—six o’clock!
She resolutely but hurriedly drew on her cloak, as she had done a few hours before, in her own country home; and bidding good-bye to her friends with lips which she could not keep from quivering, declined all offer of escort and once more turned her face toward that busy center of the holiday, the market. To and fro she went among the kind-hearted dealers, with her one question repeated over and over until she was sick at heart. No one had seen Tom since morning, one or two looked at her a little curiously, and once a great burly fellow engaged her very closely in conversation as a tall man in helmet and brass buttons passed them, half carrying, half dragging a poor, battered creature over the slippery sidewalk. It was an old, white-haired man of whose wretched, drunken, despairing face she caught a glimpse, as the throng of idle spectators swept by. Something in the manner of her kind friend made her look up quickly at him. He grew redder than ever, and quickly turned away his head; but it was too late; she knew the truth at last. Tom was like—that!
After what seemed days of anguish she found herself in the stifling atmosphere of the railroad station, where she would have to wait two hours for a homeward-bound train. She shrank into a corner and tried to forget herself in sleep, but every faculty was on the alert with an unnatural tension. Women with tired faces and illy dressed babies sank upon the seats about her and silently waited for their trains, or in jarring, monotonous voices, and the minor keys always used by late passengers, discussed the ailments of their neighbors and the high price of goods. A crowd of rough fellows sauntered by outside the windows and filled the air with coarse jokes and snatches of ribald song. Charity clenched her little hands that Tom had kissed under the princess-pine and endured it all, with her eyes on the grimy face of the clock, until the train backed into the station and bore her away.
At a little before midnight she reached her own home. While she stood on the worn door-stone, her whole frame trembling from exhaustion and the long agony of that evening, her eyes fell on Tom’s footprints of the night before. For one moment a hard look came into her face; then she suddenly stooped, kissed the light snow as if it had been a cold, dead face, and moaning, “O Tom, Tom, how could you!” with a sob like that of a hurt child, turned and went in out of the night. And this was her Christmas Eve.
IV
When Charity awoke next morning the sun was shining cheerfully in upon the smooth yellow floor of her little room and its mats of braided rags. The sky was of the bluest and the earth of the whitest; a flock of sparrows were wishing each other Merry Christmas in the boughs of an old appletree near by; the cattle in the barn, contentedly ruminating over their morning allowance of hay, seemed rehearsing to each other the old story of the manger and the wonderful night in Palestine. As these pleasant sights and sounds stole in upon the girl’s senses, a happy smile broke upon her lips and she felt at peace with the whole world. Then came, like a flash of red lightning out of the sparkling blue sky, the memory of the preceding day. Her brain reeled under the shock of returning recollection, as, one by one, every kindly evasive word of her informants came back to her. But Charity was a girl of quick impulses and decided action. In five minutes she had made up her mind what to do. Half an hour later she was standing behind grandmother’s chair at Farmer Ralston’s with white face and set lips. The family, she found, were somewhat concerned about Tom’s absence, but they had not been in any real alarm, as he might have changed his plans and remained in the city, leaving Charity with her friends for the night. Now they crowded about her, all asking questions at once, and growing momently more frightened at her silence. She managed to tell them that Tom had not kept his appointment—that she could learn nothing definite about him—that she had guessed from what little information she had been able to obtain, that he had been taken sick and carried to the hospital—or somewhere; it was nothing serious, she was sure, and at any rate she was going up to the city that morning on the train to find out all about it. Tom’s father was too old and feeble to undertake the trip, and his sister had better not leave home that day—Christmas. She could do better alone, as she knew the streets pretty well (here her voice failed her a little), and besides, it would only worry Tom to see them all coming. So she went as she wished to, alone.
