CHAPTER VICHRISTMAS DAY

“‘Patty-cake, patty-cake, baker’s man—’”

Shawe moved cautiously across the room, and paused at the door to look back at the old man softly clapping his palms together. Something in his glance recalled Jerome to a sense of his surroundings; he got up in his turn and joined his companion.

“Ye’ll keep an eye out fer them deers, won’t yer?” he whispered anxiously. “Christmus Eve they all kneel in the woods an’ look up to he’vin, ye know. Thet’s Injin talk ’roun’ here from way back; some o’ the oldest fellers swear their folks seed the thing done. Can’t say ’xactly ez I b’lieve it myself, but ’twould be a purty sight—an’ anyways, ye jes’ watch out.Wal, luck to ye, lad, luck to ye.”

“Oh! you’ll see me again, never fear,” Shawe said lightly, to cover the other’s concern. “I’m a bad penny. So long!”

He let himself out into the night, closing the door speedily, and with as little noise as possible; but quick as he had been, a blast of the nipping air filled the room. Jerome hurriedly drew the blankets closer about his little charge; then he stooped to the fire, coaxing it into a brighter glow.

“Fer a bad penny,” he mumbled, as he went back to his place, “Shawe rings oncommon true. There ain’t nary of us ez would ha’ thought o’ doin’ what he’s a-doin’—nary a blessed one of us. I swan he’s dif’runt somehow—kinder apart, but square—square. Never knowed nothin’ ’bout Shawe; hed to take him on his face value, so to say; he ain’t a gabbler ’bout himself, but gen-i-al—gen-i-al—an’ oncommon quick-witted inter the barg’in. We’d a-waited till Kingdom come afore we’d thought ’bout fillin’ them stockin’s ef he hedn’t started the game; an’ ’twas him ez heerd her callin’ when the rest of us was deef ez postses. Hmm! mebbe—” but praise and conjecture alike were silenced as the grizzled head dropped forward and the old chopper fell into a heavy doze.

Shawe, meanwhile, oblivious to both, thrust his hands deep into his pockets, and started off on his lonely errand. It might prove fruitless, but results were not forhim to consider; his was to do the duty of the moment, and by the moment. Nor did it seem to him that he was doing anything to be especially commended. He had been driven out into the night by his thoughts of the distress in the child’s home, and once they had taken possession of him it was impossible to stay warm and comfortable in his bunk. He simply had to go—he could not wait. Besides, he told himself, it wasn’t much; he had been out on nights to which this, bitter as it was, was balmy by comparison. He had faced gales, terrible as that chill wind which the old Moslem fable says will blow over the earth in the last days, and yet had come safely through. There was no air stirring at this time; the intense silentcold of the North wrapped everything close. He was guarded against it, however, and while he could keep in rapid motion he had little to fear from its searching tooth.

He drove his hands deeper into his pockets and strode on. The way had been broken through some weeks earlier and was well defined; there was no chance of missing it. In the clearing the night was as bright as day; under the light of the moon the snow lay like an immense silver shield across which the trees threw bars of shadow; but as the road wound through the woods the brightness retreated in great measure, shimmering only here and there through the high trunks, striking off a gleam from this snowy head and that, or shivering down like a lance of steel as if to pierce the deeper blackness which crouched beyond.

Shawe knew no fear. He passed on silently and as swiftly as possible, casting a wary glance around occasionally; but he seemed to be the only living creature abroad that night. The deer, if there were any, were not stirring, or his eyes, perhaps, were too sceptical to witness the simple spectacle of their adoration. There was no sign of life anywhere. It was almost as if it were the end of the world, and he the last man—the last of creation—left on earth, so wide and empty were the spaces about him; the great vault overhead, in which the moon and stars rode calmly, was out of his pygmy reach.

Presently, as the trees grewsparser and the road showed its slighter depression through the plain of snow lying beyond like some frozen sea, he became conscious of life and motion close at his side. With the instinct of the woodland creatures, he held himself perfectly tense, and waited. Then right across his path there lumbered a huge, clumsy shape, its breath showing like smoke on the moonlit air. Suddenly great drops of moisture stood out on Shawe’s face as if it were mid-summer, and his weight of furs had become intolerable; he had never felt fear before, yet now panic gripped him. It was not the thought of physical hurt that appalled him, but rather the sense of the utter futility of his endeavor. So the end had come; and over there, still very far away,a little child’s mother was sobbing—he could almost hear her moans.

He stirred his hand from his pocket to his belt, and grasped the butt of his pistol, drawing it forth swiftly. It might not be too late! His finger was firm as iron as it touched the trigger; but the next instant the beast slouched noisily into the shadows beyond. There was no other sound—had been no other sound; the cartridges lay unused in their chambers. Shawe lowered his hand. He had not been dreaming, he told himself; he could swear to that. And the animal was no creature of fancy; he had seen it quite plainly, had felt its breath as it passed, had met the dull stare of its eyes. It was real,—as real as he was at that moment, yet he had not firedbecause there had seemed no need—the beast had simply disregarded him. Then suddenly Shawe laughed aloud, not boisterously, but very gently,—the way you do sometimes when something has happened that seems almost too good to be true, and the quick tears rush into your eyes,—I think, perhaps, they were in his also.

“It’s the peace of God,” he said softly to himself, “the peace of God—”

For on the moment he remembered the old tradition he had heard in many lands, that on the night before Christmas, from the day’s close to the day’s coming, there is no slaughter anywhere among the beasts; that the fiercest and most savage of them all are as harmless as doves to one another, and evento their natural enemy—man. He put his pistol back into his belt, unspeakably glad that no shot of his had broken the holy truce. It was useless to try to account for what had happened. To believe in the legend, or to laugh it away and attribute the animal’s indifference to some natural cause. The whole experience—dream, or reality—left him throbbing with a sense of gratitude that nothing had interfered with his mission. The thought seemed to lend him greater activity, as if his moccasined feet had suddenly become winged. There could be no loitering anywhere while the mother mourned for her little one, her voice crying vaguely, vainly, through that wonder-space of time when, because of another Little Child,God’s peace wrapped the earth close.

There were no landmarks discernible. Terry would have recognized certain ones, as would also some of the lumbermen; but to Shawe, who was a stranger, the whole country was unfamiliar; all he could do, therefore, was to lessen the distance step by step, knowing that while he kept the road he could not miss his destination. Yet he never lost heart, nor was he particularly tired. As boy and man, much of his time had been spent in the open. He was used to hardships, rough weather, and great exertion; the present undertaking seemed slight compared to others he had known.

Presently the white light of early dawn crept faintly up,—little Peep o’ Day he’s called,—a tiny fellow, truly, to be sent out to fight the darkness, and yet so persistent and undaunted that every moment he glowed more confidently at his task, and grew bigger and bigger with his efforts. The moon had looked scornfully at the coming of such an adversary; but now she paled visibly, and called in her routed army of moonbeams, while below,—the sleeping world laughed here and there at the contest, stirring out of its slumbers. As soon as his duties were accomplished, the little champion stole away, losing himself in the brightness that filled the sky, and made it and the land look like tinted silver; but nobody missed him, for the morning was at hand. There was a gorgeous,rosy flush along the east melting into purple, out of which the sun came up like a wonderful flower, opening slowly, first pink, then yellow, then red—and it was Christmas Day!

Shawe’s eyes gladdened at the sight, though he did not pause; he couldn’t—oh! now less than ever—now, he must hurry—hurry. Back in the shantymen’s hut the little child was already waking, he knew, and her glee was filling the house; but in her home others were waking, too,—they had not slept,—and listening in vain for the music of her laughter. He must hurry! So he kept on; but somehow, though he was beginning to be very tired, the going was much easier. Joy comes with the morning, and new hope; all thedoubts and fears of the night disappear; they are some of the foes little Peep o’ Day vanquishes so triumphantly. Shawe couldn’t feel despondent in that beautiful world while the still morning brightened around him, especially when every step brought him nearer his goal. He laughed like a boy, and shouted out “Merry Christmas!” though there was no one by to answer his greeting; but the clear cold air bore it wide, and it helped to swell the chorus going up all over the earth.

He ran a few paces, so wonderfully light-hearted had he grown, and flung out his arms, clapping them against his body to warm himself; then he sobered down—outwardly. Nobody would ever have supposed that the tall, furclad figure with head bent a trifle, and only a bit of his face visible between his big cap and high collar was the bearer of joyful news. For one thing, he was walking quite stolidly, and your happy messengers are always winged; and for another, he was looking neither to left nor right. Wasn’t he?—Then why did he start suddenly, and throw back his head, laughing up again at the sky? Why?—Because just in front of him there was a house,—an ugly, squat little house, the glass in its windows twinkling in the sun. He drew nearer, and his heart, that had almost instantly rushed into his throat, fell back to its proper place with a most discouraging thump. The house seemed uninhabited,—deserted,—as if the people whohad lived there had grown tired of being so far from the settlement, and had gone back to be with their kind, perhaps to stay there always, or at least over this day of festivity. It was impossible to associate a merry Christmas with this sober, grown-up abode. A closer approach, however, revealed a small thread of smoke issuing from the chimney; but otherwise, the general air of dreariness about the place—its loneliness, its empty, staring windows—chilled Shawe more than the winter night had done.

He went quickly up to the door, over snow that had been tracked by the passing of many feet; there were footprints everywhere,—great marks of a man’s boot, and the smaller ones of a woman’s ora girl’s shoe. The sight turned him a little giddy. Was this his goal—could his happy news be spoken here? He tried to shout, but his voice seemed frozen in his throat; he fell to trembling. He—he could not speak. He tried again, choking out a faint sound. There was no sign from the silent house that his call had been heard,—no stir, no movement of life. He flung himself against the door, and battered it with his fists. The waiting seemed like eternity to him; then his hand sought the knob, turned it, and the door flew wide. He stared half dazed into the narrow passage-way with the stairs climbing at one side; all the light seemed out in the world behind him; the place was dim and chill. For a moment he paused,then his voice sounded through the silence.

“Halloo! Halloo! Is a little child missing here?”

There was a quick sound of running feet overhead, an opening door, and a woman’s scream.

“Uncle—Uncle, have you—”

The cry went up from below:

“Is a little child missing here?”

Something darted down the stairs; one wouldn’t have said it was anything human, so swift was the motion; yet swifter than the flying feet, and very piteously human were the words that came from the mother’s heart:

“Is—is—she—dead?”

“No, I tell you, no; she’s alive and well. She’s at Thornby’s logging-camp—don’t faint! She’s all right; she’s safe, I tell you; don’t—”

Shawe was only just in time to catch the swaying form in his arms, and for the moment, as he stood there, holding the unconscious woman, he was unable to think what to do. It didn’t seem possible to him that the joy of his message could harm her; perhaps he ought to have broken it more gently—but how could he? It had to be told—— No—no—the joy couldn’t harm her! A little air, a touch of snow on her temples, and she would be herself again. He lifted his burden and turned to the open door. The clear light from without came searchingly in upon the still face on his breast, showing its pinched lines of distress and the ravages the tears hadmade in its fairness; he started at the sight, and uttered a sharp exclamation.

The keen air revived her; she stirred a trifle with a low moan; a minute later her eyelids fluttered, and her words came disjointedly in little sobbing breaths:

“Safe, my precious, safe—thank God, oh! thank——” The cold whipped a tinge of color into her lips; her eyes opened wide, and she stared up into Shawe’s face. A look of bewilderment suddenly clouded their gaze.

“You,” she said softly, “you—Humphrey?”

She did not move from his arm; but very slowly she lifted her hand and touched him wonderingly, her fingers lingering over his coat, and creeping up and up to his cheek.

“You, Humphrey—”

Something like a sob broke from him.

“Elisabeth!” he cried.

“I don’t understand,” she said weakly. “It was so very long ago—oh! is it really you? I—I—thought you would never come back—so long ago—and you were angry—we were both angry; but I was the one to blame——”

“No, no, no,” he interrupted, “mine was the real fault. I knew that when it was too late, but I couldn’t let you know. Before we could make our port the ship was wrecked—oh! it’s a sad story. Most of the crew were lost; but the few of us who were saved lived somehow on that desolate little island waiting—hoping—fearing—through those interminable months before the rescue came. Then we were carried off to the other side of the world, and from place to place,—wanderers on the face of the globe; but I got home at last, and—there was no home for me—you had gone away, you and Baby. They couldn’t tell me where, but I searched for you, my girl, I searched for you. I wouldn’t give up looking—I meant to find you—and it was so useless—”

She clung closer to him, stroking his quivering face with gentle fingers.

“I thought you never meant to come back,” she whispered, “and I wanted to beg you to come. I wanted to tell you I was really the most to blame, but I didn’t knowwhere to send a letter—I had to keep still. Oh! I waited so patiently, and every day was a year. Then when you didn’t come, I couldn’t bear the neighbors’ pity; it—it hurt!—so I stole away one night with Betty. We went to a big city where no one knew us, and we were very poor. I didn’t mind much for myself, only for Baby. It was so hard to find work, I—I almost gave up. Then I remembered Uncle Steven, my mother’s half-brother, who used to be with us a good deal when I was a child. I knew he was all alone out here, and I felt he would help Betty and me in our troubles. And he was so good—he is so good! He didn’t even wait to answer my letter; he came to find us instead, and he brought us back to sharehis home with him. That was three years ago—— But you, how is it you are here?”

“It’s a long story, Bess, darling. I’ve knocked around everywhere. I hadn’t the heart to settle to anything, you know,—hunting, trapping, whatever offered. I’d try first one thing and then another. Something made me come over here—I don’t know what it was—I simply had to come. I was on my way to the Northwest, and passed through Wistar three weeks ago, never dreaming you were so near; then I went on to the logging-camp and stopped there for a time, but I’d made all my plans to leave to-morrow——” his voice trembled, and he rested his face against hers. “Oh!” he went on brokenly, “I might havemissed you altogether; we might never have met again—never—if it hadn’t been for Santa Claus’ sweetheart——”

She looked up curiously, interrupting him with a quick exclamation, and bit by bit the account of the little child’s arrival at the lumber-camp was told.

“But didn’t you know right away who she was?” the mother asked jealously when he paused.

“Dear, I didn’t. She was such a baby when I left,—scarcely two years old, you remember. There was a likeness, though, to you that troubled me, but I told myself I was fanciful. I’ve seen that likeness so many times,—it has been upper-most in my mind, going with me everywhere, eluding me everywhere. And, her name was different—Hammond.”

“That’s uncle’s name; he would have her called so. Then you came all that way not knowing who she was, nor for my sake?”

“Yes,” he answered honestly, “I only thought of the sorrow in the stricken household. I didn’t think of you at all. And yet it was for your sake, too. Ah! Bess dear, my heart has been very tender for all mothers since I left you to fend for the little one alone. I can never make up for that—”

“Hush!” she interposed, “you have made up. Even if I’d been somebody else, and Betty somebody else, it would have atoned and doubly atoned for you to do what you have done,”—she laughed unsteadily, she was sohappy that her words had become hopelessly tangled. “You know what I mean,” she finished.

“I know,” he smiled back.

“But you ought to have recognized Betty at once; there was no excuse.”

“I thought she was a dear little tot.”

“Why, Humphrey, she’s the very dearest, the sweetest, the most precious, the—”

He stopped the loving catalogue with a kiss.

“You’ll let me stay and find that out for myself, won’t you?” he asked humbly.

She clung to him, trembling all over, her face quite drawn and white.

“It won’t take long—oh! you must stay longer than that.”

“I’ll stay till the end, please God,” he said very solemnly.

As they stood together, faintly from the distance there came the sound of bells; the spirit of the blessed season filled the air,—the cheer, the peace, the good-will. North, south, east, west, along the happy roads that lead around the world, the message ran. Oh! very beautiful are the roads of the world, but surely the most beautiful of them all is little Forgiveness Lane that winds through tangles and briers, and over stony and waste places, from heart to heart and climbs at last up to the very gates of heaven.

THE day was several hours older when Humphrey and Elisabeth Shawe started for Thornby’s camp. Before that time, however, poor Uncle Steven, weary and disheartened and looking suddenly like an old, old man, had returned from his futile search in and around Wistar, accompanied by a number of the inhabitants of the little town who were eager to lend what aid they could, although they realized how unavailing their efforts must prove.

They had expected to find the house wrapped in gloom, but instead, as they stopped at its door, a young woman with a radiantly happy face ran toward them crying out the joyful news. Then a mighty shout went up from the sleighs,—no one knew who started it, but it grew and grew, until it seemed to reach the sky, and when it died away—it was a long while before that happened, because it was always breaking out again—there was a great blowing of noses and clearing of throats, as if an epidemic of influenza was raging among them all. As soon as quiet was restored every one went within-doors to find Shawe, who was resting under the strictest orders not to move, and who was allowed to remain quiet no longer. There would be ample time on another day to get over his fatigue; forthe present he had to submit to being made much of. Such a shaking of hands as took place then,—Uncle Steven started it,—and such hearty wishes as were poured forth! It wasn’t Merry Christmas just once, but it was Merry, merry Christmas over and over again, until the house rocked with the noise. And there were no reproaches in word, or thought, about that sad past, with its mistakes and misunderstandings, it was all blotted out,—just as the snow stretched its sparkling whiteness over the earth, hiding many an ugly spot, so the beautiful mantle of charity lay close over what had been.

Finally, at Shawe’s insistence, the sleigh was made ready. Not Uncle Steven’s shabby cutter, butthe roomier one of the most important citizen of Wistar, who had been among the first to offer his services to find the little child. It was heaped high with robes from the other sleighs, until its gorgeousness and comfort were something to wonder at, and four horses were harnessed to it; then the best driver climbed up in front with much pride and, as soon as the husband and wife had taken their places behind him, he cracked his whip briskly, in a hurry to be gone. Again the air was rent with cheers, and amid the tumult the horses sprang forward. Ah! they were very different from sober old Danny and Whitefoot; they fairly flew over the road that had seen the jolly progress of Santa Claus and his little sweetheart the previousday, and that solemn faring southward through the night of the messenger bearing his good tidings. The bells rang out merrily,—the gayest, gladdest tune,—and the spirits of the sky, the plains, the woods, laughed back in an ecstasy of delight, echoing the happiness everywhere; as far as eye could reach the snow twinkled and shone as if with rapture that Christmas Day. There was hardly any speech among the travellers, but joy sat very close to their hearts, and no one objected to the silence.

At last the logging-camp was reached, and, as the horses drew up with a great shaking of their bells, the door of the shanty flew open, and a body of men trooped out to greet the newcomers. Theyhad all heard of Shawe’s errand from old Jerome,—all but the child, who was kept in ignorance, because no one knew what its result would be,—and at sight of their former comrade a shout of welcome—and something more—something deeper—burst from them, to be echoed again and again. Under cover of the happy sounds Shawe, too moved for any words, jumped from the sleigh and turned to help his wife; but she scarcely touched his hand, springing past him as if she were winged. Only too well the men knew who the shining-eyed woman was, yet they had no greeting for her,—the exultation in her face silenced them all; they opened a way speedily for her to pass through, and then turned by common accord tolook at the sight that would meet her. As if they could see with her eyes! And yet the picture was an unforgettable one to them.

They saw the rude familiar room, beautiful as it had never been until the previous night, with the huge fire blazing at one side, and on the hearth old Jerome bending down to the child, who, at the clatter without, had risen from her play, the skirt of her gown gathered up over a store of her new treasures as she turned wonderingly toward the door. The men, still looking, saw the little hand relax its hold hastily, so that the precious hoard fell to the floor unheeded—forgotten. The small face changed from bright to brighter,—to brightest,—they had not believed that possible,—and then they saw nothing but two figures running toward each other and meeting in a close embrace, and they heard the cries uttered in shaking voices, “Muvver—” “Dear, my little own!” mingle and lose themselves in breaking sobs and a low peal of rippling laughter.

“I swan thet hick’ry makes the ’tarnallest smoke,” Jerome muttered a moment later, “it do beat all”—he stopped, choking over the words,—“it do beat all,” he said again, blinking around with misty eyes.

Some one laughed unsteadily, and some one else coughed, then a third person sneezed—and so the charm was broken. The mother raised her head and gazed over the little shoulder at the other occupants of the room with a look of deepest gratitude. How good every one was! Her thought was plainer to them all than the most eloquent words would have been. Indeed, words were not necessary at all. Betty, in the silence, turned, and still resting in the encircling arm, smiled right and left on her many friends, then her eyes came back to the face she loved so well, and she patted it with fond fingers.

“It’s the very happiest Christmas now,” she laughed, “’thout you ’twasn’t half so nice. Did dear Santa Claus bring you, too?”

“You can never guess,” Elisabeth Shawe answered, the delight in her voice vibrating like a bell. “It was some one far better and kinder than Santa Claus, though you and I, darling, have much tothank that old man for, and we’ll bless him all our days. Listen, sweet.”

For a moment the woman bent close to whisper in the rosy ear, then, as if she realized that the men who had been so tender to her child had earned a right to share in the new-found happiness, she told the story aloud. She spoke very simply so the little hearer might understand,—indeed, it was meant chiefest for her,—but the others crowding near were not denied a glimpse of the great joy the morning had brought into three lives.

“Not daddy,” Betty screamed, as the full truth dawned upon her, “not my very own, own daddy!”

She didn’t wait for an answer but ran swiftly to Shawe, who wasstanding just behind, and threw herself into his arms.

“Oh! you won’t be a far-away daddy ever any more, will you?” she cried.

“Never any more,” he answered brokenly, then he gathered her close to his breast and kissed her.

The men looked on shy-eyed and silent in the presence of that boundless content. Who could say anything? Who could speak? Betty’s laughter, as her father released his hold and she slipped to the floor, acted like magic upon them all; in a moment a deafening hubbub filled the room. After it had subsided a little the Kid, who had served as master of ceremonies on several occasions, assumed the leadership; though he was the youngest of them,heknewhow things were managed out in the great world. Therefore he escorted Mrs. Shawe to the seat of honor with his very best company manner,—and there never was a manner like it anywhere, so his comrades heartily declared, and I’m quite sure they were right!

The great barrel-chair which Jerome usually occupied was drawn up to the centre of the hearth, and as soon as her mother was seated Betty brought all her new treasures and displayed them with great pride, while the men nudged one another slyly as the former owners were recognized; no matter how hard they tried to appear unconscious, a quirk of pleasure, or a I-mustn’t-appear-as-if-I-had-ever-seen-that-before look was a sure indication when all other signsfailed. And Betty always found them out, shouting gleefully at each discovery, while her mother smiled in gratitude, no less pleased than the little one. Well, why shouldn’t they be glad, too, to give all that pleasure? Somehow there was such a cosey, comfortable feeling about it they felt good all over, and they couldn’t keep quiet,—that was too much to expect! So the old room rang again and again with their mirth.

“Sing to us now, dear, my little own,” Elisabeth Shawe said, when the gifts had been duly admired, “sing the old song about this blessed day.”

Betty leaned against her mother’s shoulder within the happy circle of her arm.

“You too,” she whispered, “just like we always do?”

“Yes, darling, in our own way.”

The child’s glance went round the room, taking in the joyful faces that smiled back at her in friendly fashion; then she met her father’s eyes, and, reaching out, she took his hand in hers, drawing it close, until it rested on that other hand above her heart. A moment later she began to sing in her sweet little thread of a voice:

“‘I saw three ships come sailing in,On Christmas Day—on Christmas Day,I saw three ships come sailing in,On Christmas Day in the morning.’”

Elisabeth Shawe took up the next verse:

“‘Oh! they sailed into Bethlehem,On Christmas Day—on Christmas Day,Oh! they sailed into Bethlehem,On Christmas Day in the morning.’”

It was Betty’s turn:

“‘And all the bells on earth shall ringOn Christmas Day—on Christmas Day,And all the bells on earth shall ringOn Christmas Day in the morning.’”

Again there came the fuller, richer tones of the sweet antiphony:

“‘And all the angels in heaven shall sing,On Christmas Day—on Christmas Day,’”

The voices of mother and child blended in unison, filling the room with happy, rippling music:

“‘And all the angels in heaven shall singOn Christmas Day in the morning.’”

At a signal from Shawe the men joined in the next verse, waiting for the first line to be given, and then going on with the simple iteration, until the little carol became a mighty triumphal chorus:

“‘And all the souls on earth shall singOn Christmas Day—on Christmas Day,And all the souls on earth shall singOn Christmas Day in the morning.’”

“Dang thet hick’ry,” old Jerome grumbled in the hush that followed, “it do set a man splutterin’ ez never was!”

THE END

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