St. Nicholas/Volume 32/Number 2/Locking-in Of Lisbeth
Christmas was the same as any other day to Judge Blair. He lived alone, and ate his Christmas dinner alone, and never gave presents. In fact, he was like the miller of Dee; for, since he cared for nobody, of course nobody cared for him.
On Christmas eve the judge stayed late at his office. His clerks left at five.
“A merry Christmas, Judge!” said Miss Jenkins, his type-writer, as she tied on a thick veil.
The judge looked up from his papers and stared at her over his glasses.
“What 's that? Oh— thank you, Miss Jenkins.” But he did not return her greeting, and timid little Miss Jenkins blushed, and wondered if she had been too bold.
At half-past six a waiter from a near-by restaurant brought in a light supper. The judge often supped at his office when he had an important case on hand. It saved time.
“A merry Christmas, suh.’” said the darky, when he had arranged the tray in front of the old gentleman.
“Hum? Oh, ah, yes—you may call for the tray later, George,” said the judge, and George departed crestfallen; and if he banged the door on which was painted in imposing gilt letters,
Attorney-at-law,
a little more vigorously than was necessary, why, who shall blame him?
The judge read over his brief while he ate, pausing now and then to pick up his lead-pencil and make corrections in his neat legal hand.
Suddenly he straightened up and looked around the room.
“Now what was that?” he murmured, looking up over his eye-glasses.
Top, tap, came a sound against the pane. He listened a moment, and then went back to his work; but, hearing it again, he rose and went to the window, and raised the shade.
There was a narrow space between the building in which the judge had his offices on the fourth floor and the big public school next to it. But the snow sifted in between, and it was very dark.
Suddenly out of the blackness came the end of a long wand, which hit the window-pane once, twice, quite sharply before the judge raised the sash with a bang.
“Who ’s that?” he cried harshly.
“Please,” said a very small voice across the way.
“Who ’s there?” asked the judge, peering into the darkness.
“It’s me,” said the little voice.
“Who ’s ‘me’?” demanded the judge.
“Lisbeth.”
“Where are you?”
“In the school-room. I ’ve tried and tried to get out, but I ’m locked in; and I ’ve been here all the afternoon,” the voice wailed.
“What?” exclaimed the judge.
“Yes, sir. I came back to get my books; and the girls had all gone home, and I s’pose the janitor thought everybody was out and locked the outside door; and I banged and banged, but nobody heard me.”
“Why did n’t you call before?”
“I tried to, but could n’t make you hear, until I thought of the pointer.”
“The yellow glare showed a pale little face with earnest blue eyes.”
“Well, well, well,” said the judge. Then he lighted a match,
“Lean out a bit and let me see you,” he commanded.
The yellow glare showed a pale little face with earnest blue eyes, red-rimmed from crying, and fair hair braided in a thick braid.
“Why have n’t your people looked you up?” the old gentleman asked querulously, as the light went out.
“I have n't any people,” sighed Lisbeth, “only my sister.”
“How old is she?”
“Oh, she 'll soon be sixteen, and she works at Roby’s ribbon counter, She won't get home till late to-night, ‘cause they don’t shut up until late on Christmas eve.”
“Hum,” said the judge, crustily, “I suppose I ‘ll have to look after you.”
He went back to his desk, and Lisbeth, shivering at the open window, saw him pick up the telephone receiver.
Suddenly he put it down and came back to the window.
“Are you hungry?” he asked.
“Awfully,” said the little voice in the darkness,
“Why did n‘t you say so before,” questioned the judge, testily—“before I ate up my dinner?”
“I could n’t make you hear, you know,” was the patient answer.
“Well, there ’s nothing left but some crackers and a pickle.”
“Oh, a pickle!” Lisbeth’s sigh was rapturous.
“Crackers and a pickle, _Do you want them?”
“Ob, yes, thank you.” Lisbeth wondered how the judge could ask such a question, But the judge had gone back to his desk and was emptying the dish of crackers into a large manila envelop. He laid the pickle on top, pinned the flap, and tied a string around the whole.
“Reach over your pointer,” he directed; and when Lisbeth had laid it across the chasm between the buildings, he hung the package upon it, and in another minute the little girl had drawn it over.
“Is it all right?” asked the judge, as he heard the crackle of the paper.
“Oh, yes, indeed! It is a delicious pickle, perfecty delicious.”
“Hum,” said the judge again, but this time there was just the ghost of a smile on his old face as he went over to the telephone, called up police headquarters, and gave a peremptory order.
“They ‘ll be up in a minute to let you out,” he informed Lisbeth, as he came back to the window; “and now I 've got to work, and you 'd better shut the window.”
“It ‘s very dark,” quavered the little voice.
Somewhere back in the judge’s past there had been a little child who at night would say, “It is very dark, father; stay with me,” and the judge had stayed, and had held the little clinging fingers until the child slept. But when the child grew to he a man, he had married a lady who did not please the judge, although she was sweet and good; but she was poor, and the judge was proud, and had wished for greater things from his son. And so the son had gone away, and for years the old man had shut his heart to all tenderness; but now the little voice woke memories, so that the judge’s tone was softer when he spoke again:
“Are you afraid?”
“It ’s dreadful lonesome,” was the wistful answer, “and it ’s awfully nice to have you to talk to.”
“Oh, is it?” said the flattered judge. “Well, you ’ve got to wrap up if you stand there. It ’s freezing cold.”
“Oh, I did n’t think!” Lisbeth’s tone was worried. “You will take cold. Oh, please shut your window.”
But this the judge refused to do.
“I ’ll put my overcoat on, and pass Miss Jenkins’s cape over to you. It ’s the first time I have ever seen any reason for her having it here,” he grumbled as he took it from its hook.
So while the important case waited for the judge’s review, the two shrouded figures sat at opposite windows, while between them the snow came down faster and faster. The judge’s office was brilliantly lighted, and Lisbeth could see every expression of the old man’s face; but the judge could see nothing of the little girl, so that her voice seemed to come from out of the night.
While they waited thus, Lisbeth told the judge about her older sister, who had taken care of them both ever since their father died, and how Lisbeth kept house when she was not at school; and, best of all, she told him that she had saved twenty-five cents to spend for Christmas presents, and she was going to buy a pair of gloves for sister.
“And what will you have for Christmas?” asked the judge, interested in spite of himself.
“Oh, sister ‘ll give me something,” said the child, cheerfully.“ “Prob‘ly it will be something useful. If she gives me a dress she can‘t give me any toys or candy, And then, besides, she had to spend fifty cents for the chicken—they ’re so ’spensive.”
“Chicken?” asked the judge.
“Yes, for our dinner. We ’re going to divide with the McGafneys on the top floor. They 're awfully poor, and there ’s four children, but we 're going to boil the chicken, and have lots of gravy and potatoes, so as to make enough. At first we thought we would n’t ask them, and have enough ourselves for once; but sister decided that Christmas was the time to make other people happy, and of course it is.”
“Of course,” assented the judge, feeling very small indeed when he thought of his gruff reply to Miss Jenkins, and of how he had sent poor George away without even a Christmas wish.
On and on chatted the little voice in the darkness, while the judge, listening, felt the ice melt around his old heart.
“I shall have to eat my dinner all alone tomorrow,” he found himself confiding, presently.
“Oh, you poor man!” cried the little girl. “Maybe we ‘ll have enough—I ‘ll ask my sister—” But before she could finish her invitation a loud knock echoed through the building.
“They ’ve come,” said the judge. “Now you just sit still until they come upstairs and get you; don’t go bumping around in the dark. I ‘ll go down and see them.” And out he rushed, leaving Lisbeth to face his lighted window alone.
The police having found the janitor, the door was quickly opened: the lights soon flared in the halls; and in a minute Lisbeth was surrounded by a little crowd composed of two jolly policemen, the janitor, and a half-dozen people who had watched the opening of the door.
“You ‘d better take her straight to the station, Murphy,” said one policeman to the other, “and they can send her home from there.”
“You won‘t do anything of the kind,” said a commanding voice; and the judge came in, panting from his climb up the steps, his shoulders powdered with snow, but with all the dignity that belongs to a judge, so that the policemen at sight of him touched their caps and the stragglers looked at him respectfully.
“Order a carriage, Murphy,” he said; and in less time than it takes to tell it, Lisbeth found herself on the soft cushions, with the judge beside her.
“I ‘ll take her, Judge, if you ‘re too busy,” said Murphy, with bis hand on the carriage door.
But the judge had forgotten his important case. The clinging fingers, the look in the trustful blue eyes, made his old heart leap.
“Thank you, Murphy,” he said; “I ‘ll look after her. And oh, ah—a merry Christmas, Murphy!” and he left the officer bewildered by the unusual kindliness of his tone.
As they rolled along, he pulled out his watch.
“What time did you say your sister would get home?” he said.
“Not much before twelve o'clock.”
“It ‘s only eight now,” said the judge, “so I shall get you something to eat.”
The rest of the evening was a dream to the little girl. The wonderful dining-room at the great hotel, where there were flowers and cut glass and silver on the lovely white tables, where palms lined the walls and turned the room into a tropical bower, where lights glowed under pink shades, where there was an orchestra, and where she had the most delicious things to eat—oysters and chops and a fairy-like pudding which the judge called “souflé” and which tasted better than ice-cream.
And in that wonderful dream every one turned around and smiled at the shabby little fair-haired girl, and at the tall, stately old gentleman with her; and when they went out, a beautiful lady, all in velvet and furs, stooped down and smiled into the child’s happy face. “A merry Christmas, dear!” she said cheerily, and then she looked at the judge. “What a lovely thing you arc doing!” she murmured, and the judge bowed.
“Thank you, madam,” he said stiffly, but his old eyes shone.
Then into the carriage again, to stop at a big store to buy presents for the judge’s friends. For all of a sudden the judge discovered that Miss Jenkins was overworked and faithful, and aught to have gloves and a big box of candy and a new book; but her greatest treasure was a card on which was written in a neat hand, “To Miss Jenkins. A merry Christmas, and many of them.”
Then for George, the waiter, he bought a pocket-book, and tucked a bill into it; he ordered many things for sore old acquaintances and then he chose a lovely red coat and hat and warm black furs for Lisbeth, and a blue coat and hat for the sister, which were to be changed if they did n’t fit; and while the clerk helped the little girl put on her new things, he went up to the toy department and gave an order that made the saleswomen think him a second Santa Claus.
When they were once more in the carriage, he ordered the driver to go to Roby’s.
A crowd of girls streamed out from the doors of the big store as they drove up, but Lisbeth made straight for a slender figure in a thin old coat, As the dainty red-robed figure threaded its way between the staring girls, one of them cried:
“Marcella, Marcella Blair, it ’s Lisbeth!”
Within the carriage the judge sat up straight and looked out at the sound of that name. She had called her “Marcella Blair,” and he was Marcellus Blair!
Before Marcella could think or understand, they were in the carriage together, the sisters and an excited old gentleman, who kept asking questions: “Who was your father?” “How came you to be named Marcella?”
“After my grandfather,” said the dazed Marcella; ‘he was Marcellus Blair.”
“Every one turned around and smiled at the shabby little fair-haired girl, and the stately old gentleman with her.”
And then the judge told her joyfully that he was Marcellus Blair and her grandfather, and—well, it was all so wonderful that Lisbeth simply sat speechless, and clasped her hands very tightly, and wondered if she were dreaming,
“And I have a letter from my father to you, sir,” explained Marcella, shyly. “He tried to find you after mother’s death. But you were abroad, and then—he died—and after that I did not know what to do.”
“Why did n’t you bunt me up?” demanded the judge. “Why did n’t you hunt me up?”
“I tried to once.” said Marcella, “but the city was so big—”
“Oh, oh,” groaned the judge, “and all this time I have been so lonely!”
And then Lisbeth tucked her hand into his.
“But you will never be lonely any mire, grandfather,” she said.
And he was n’t; for he took Marcella and Lisbeth home with him that very night, and the next day the McGafneys had all of the chicken for themselves and Marcella and Lisbeth ate turkey and plum-pudding in the judge’s great diningroom; and that night, as the happy three sat in the library in front of a roaring fire, Lisbeth laid her head on her grandfather’s shoulder.
“It was lucky I was locked in, grandfather,” she said, “or you might not have found us.”
But the judge, with one arm around her waist and the other reached out to Marcella. shook his head.
“Don’t talk of luck, dearie.” he said, “It was something more than that; it was Providence.”
