HE went slowly toward the door—a bent old man. But at the door, he paused and looked back, his lip moving tremulously.
John sprang toward him. “What is it, sir?”
“I can’t—go away—not before the fifth-two weeks. Blake must give me that two weeks!Youknow what it means—if I go now!” His voice was harsh and he lifted his gaunt, shaking hand to the broad shoulder that bent toward him. “It’s ruin—John—for the road! Ican’tdo it! It’s mylife!”
The strong hand reached up to the quivering one and drew it down, holding it fast. “You shall not go, sir. You shall stay here till the fifth—and save the road.” The low, quiet tone was full of confidence.
But Simeon’s voice broke across it harshly. “Blake said he would n’t give me a day—not twenty-four hours!” he said hoarsely, “You should have heard him talk!” He shuddered a little.
“Never mind, sir,” said John. “Youshallstay—if you want to.”
The helpless eyes devoured his face. “I can’t!” He half whispered the words. “I’m afraid!”
“Listen, sir.” John’s face was close to his and a kind of power seemed to pass from the clear eyes into the wavering ones. “You shall stay if you want to.”
“If I want to?” repeated Simeon vaguely.
“Yes. Listen.” He had led him back to his chair and placed him in it. “Now I will tell you.”
Simply, as if to a child, John laid the plan before him. It was not something new—thought of on the spur of the moment. For weeks the youth had seen the approach of some such crisis as this and his slow mind had been making ready for it, working out the details with careful exactness. If the road could be tided over the semi-annual meeting, everything was saved. In spite of the attacks of the C. B. and L. and in spite of Simeon’s quixotic schemes for the country, there would be a comfortable dividend to declare. And with Simeon at the head of the table—not a wreck apparently, but the competent, keen-witted man whom the directors knew and trusted—all would be well. After that, let rumors get abroad—The directors would buy up any frightened stock that might be thrown on the market. There could be no attack on the road—with their confidence unshaken.
Simeon’s face, as he listened, lost its strained-look and his lips seemed to move to the slow words that unfolded the plan to him.
“You could do it?” questioned John.
“I could do it,” said Simeon with a deep breath. “It ’s easy—after what I have been through.”
“You are to do as I tell you—exactly?”
“There’s Blake,” said Simeon, the look of fear coming back to his face.
“I ’ll see Blake,” said John promptly. “Now, you are going home to rest, sir. I ’ll write the letter to Tomlinson and then I ’m through.”
“Yes—yes, write the letter to Tomlinson,” said Simeon. “The sooner the better.”
And John, as he sat down to write it, had no glimpse of the clue that was laughing at him, to his face, while his pen moved over the paper; he had no suspicion that the farm, offered rent free, was a last desperate attempt to lift a Scotch curse.... He saw only Tomlinson’s face—when he should read the letter—and the children playing on the Bardwell farm.
The physician gave his consent reluctantly. “You may be able to carry it through, but it’s a great risk. He ought to stop now—at once.”
“He ’s more quiet, sir,” said John, “less nervous. He wants to sleep—falls asleep at his desk sometimes.”
Dr. Blake smiled a little grimly. “The next stage he will not be so quiet,” he said. “Best not tempt nature too far.”
John’s face grew thoughtful. “It would kill him to do it.”
“To stop now—What ’s the difference-two weeks, or now?”
He listened as John laid the facts of the case before him. “But he’s rich—even if the road goes to pieces. Better lose the road than his reason—his life!”
John smiled. “I think the road is his reason—his life. He has lived in it so long that he does n’t quite know, I think, which is Road and which is Simeon Tetlow.”
The physician was looking with interest at this stupid, slow-speaking young man, who seemed to put his finger so exactly on the truth.
He nodded. “Yes, I know—organic, almost But there are other roads. He could build up another. He ’s a young man still—young in years. Let him recover and he will be as eager to fight as ever.”
“It is n’t quite that, sir.” The slow mind groped for prosaic words in which to clothe Simeon’s radiant dream. “He’s not fighting just for the love of it. He thinks the country has been injured—the road has made money out of it without paying back—and he wants to make good. If the road goes to pieces—if the C. B. and L. buys it up—he could never do it. I think it would kill him.”
The physician’s head was bent in thought. “So Sim Tetlow loves men—like that—as much as that!” He looked up candidly. “Do you know I should have said that there was nobody in the world he would turn his hand over for. And now you tell me he’s been killing himself for farmers.”
The young man’s face flushed a little. “I don’t think it’s farmers, sir—nor—nor—anybody. It’s just thecountry!”
The physician looked at him a minute—“I see—it ’s impersonal.”
“Yes, sir. But the country is like a person to him. I think he loves it. And I know he wants to make up for the harm he’s done it. It would kill him to give up—now.... Two weeks will do it.”
“Well—Well. You take the risk, you understand?”
“Yes, sir.” The clear eyes met his.
The physician’s looked into them with quiet scrutiny. “You ’re very fond of him,” he said.
“I love him, sir,” said the young man.
“I don’t know why you should,” said the physician.
The slow smile met his. “I don’t know, either. I think he needs me.”
“I think he does,” said the physician drily, “more than he knows.”
THE morning of the fifth of October was keen and crisp; a hint of frost lay on the grass and the air was filled with decks of light. It was a beautiful country that the “R. and Q.” passed through—hills and valleys, long stretches of wood and wide sweeps of grain, and slopes where the orchards crept to the sky, the trees gold and green, and burdened with fruit.
To the directors of the “R. and Q.,” looking out from their comfortable parlor cars on the trees and fields as they sped toward Bayport, it seemed a land of fatness and dividends. Tetlow would attend to all those trees. He had never failed them since the first day he laid his nervous, wiry hand upon the road; he had wrested the last cent from it; and the road—trees, barns, elevators—jingled into their pockets. They beamed upon the fertile land as they journeyed through, noting the signs of plenty with philanthropic eye.... There had been rumors of trouble, complaints, shortage of cars. What wonder—with branches loaded to the ground, or propped with staves, and the grain bending with its weight. They smiled at each other. They knew their man—a giant—keen-sighted and far-reaching—feared through the country up and down. When he lifted his hand, the little animals scudded to their holes, and lesser men made way for him. If the directors did not put the figure into words, they felt it—through all their comfortable being, as they slid along. Simeon Tetlow—great man-prosperous “R. and Q.”—fortunate directors!
They felt it as they took their way to the offices of the “R. and Q.” and seated themselves in the capacious chairs about the green table. Tetlow was a little late—they looked inquiringly toward the door. He was not often late... sometimes hurried and driven, but never late.... Was Simeon Tetlow late! The door opened and he came in with a little flurry, dipping subtly to left and right, in short brusque greeting, and taking his seat. They settled back in their chairs, scarcely noting the short, square young man, a little to the left, who followed in his wake.
But when Simeon was seated, the young man remained standing and they took him in with careless glance.
Their eyes returned to Tetlow. But he motioned with a slight gesture to the young man and they looked at him again.
He stepped forward with a little smile. “President Tetlow cannot speak,” he said.
They looked with startled eyes at the president of the road. He nodded reassuringly and touched his throat with his hand. He opened his lips as if to speak, but no sound came. He shook his head.
Then they understood. He had lost his voice—a cold, probably, or unusual strain upon it. They nodded their sympathy to him, as if they, too, were suddenly struck dumb. He smiled acknowledgment and touched his throat and motioned to the boy.
He had stood with eyes lowered, waiting while the pantomime went on; it was the only part that he feared. He had drilled his patient carefully. But his breath came a little fast.... So many things might happen. ... Then he looked up and met the directors’ gaze fixed upon him expectantly. He consulted the paper in his hand and bent to the pile that lay on the table before him.
“President Tetlow wishes to present first the report as a whole.” He took up a handful of the papers. “He has had duplicate copies made for further reference.” He passed the handful of papers to the senior director at the right of the board.
It was a thrifty device—thought out in the night watches while he could not sleep... Simeon had never before allowed written reports. This was unexpected convenience.
The senior member reached out his hand with a bland smile, swinging his gold eyeglasses to his nose and surveying the figures. He nodded affably.
The young man stood watching with slow look while the papers traveled down the length of the table.... It was only a guess at human nature. ... Would it work? Would they study the figures—or Simeon Tetlow’s face? There was too much written on it for them not to see if they sat there and looked at it. His eyes deepened as he watched them, waiting respectfully on their convenience. The last paper reached the hand stretched out for it and he glanced swiftly up and down the double row of faces.... every eye buried in a paper.
He drew a quick breath and began to read in clear, even tone. There was no sense of hurry in the voice, but the words passed in swift flow. He knew to a minute how long it would take and how long Simeon Tetlow would keep the cool, inscrutable smile.
He was listening, his head a little bent, to the even flow of words. John did not dare to think ahead or see more than one minute at a time. For two weeks his one thought had been to get through this meeting.... He had planned, the day carefully.... It was after the periods of heavy sleep that Simeon was most like himself and he had wakened him from a long nap this morning, brushing his clothes and placing the papers in his hand.
“It is the fifth, sir,” he had said.
And Simeon had looked at him with a bit of the old, keen smile.
“You are to meet the directors,” said John close in his ear, “You remember?” He looked at him anxiously.
Simeon had nodded reassuringly. “I know.I ’mall right—I canlookall right.” He had said it almost like himself.
And then John had taken him by the arm and led him to the door of the Room and pushed him in. Only at the door had he dared release his hold.
But he need not have feared. To the president of the “B. and Q.” Road, the green table—with those mighty, iron-bounded men around it—was like a challenge. He had entered the room with positive eclat; and now he sat with quiet face listening to the report, a little cynical smile edging his lips.
It was the look the directors knew well
They trusted it as they looked up from their paper.....It was the old, dividend look.
John’s eye dropped to it for a moment and his voice quickened a little. He had come to a difficult part of the report. It was delicate treading here—“Equipment for the coming year: Thirty-nine new engines will be needed—twelve of the big Pacific type, the numbers running from 3,517 to 3,528, and ten combination fast freight and passenger engines of the 2,000 series. The other seventeen....”
He felt the hoard quiver subtly. They stirred in their places. He knew, without looking up, the inquiring glances gathering on the impassive face at the head of the table.... “The other seventeen will be switching engines and the heaviest kind of freight engines...” The voice went quietly on, but his hand had dropped ever so lightly on the shoulder beside him as he turned a page of the report. The shoulder straightened beneath the touch.
The president of the road looked up and nodded to the swift, darting glances—once—twice, the old, keen, reassuring look—intrepid and cool.
The directors turned the pages with easier fingers, but a new alertness was in the air. These were details that any one could grasp—with their implications.... “Six hundred box cars—forty passenger coaches, each to cost $6,500.” The look of sleepy content was banished from the board.
But the president of the road met the glances that traveled toward him, with steady front. The figures had startled the directors, but they seemed as music in his ears. “Thirty-nine engines—twelve of the big Pacific type—” sang to him! He sat a little straighter, his quick nod assenting to each detail and vouching for items that might so easily have stirred a challenge.
The directors had no eyes for the young man taking the papers from Tetlow’s hand, reading them one by one. He was hardly more than a Voice. They did not note that the stubby hand as it reached out to take a paper from the trembling one closed upon it firmly for a minute and that the hand ceased to shake. When the next item was read, the hand lifted itself from the table with a little gesture of pride and assent. The proposed improvements and equipment would cost a round million,—But the road could stand a million dollars—and more.... The lifted hand had said this eloquently before it dropped.
The room breathed more easily, and into the voice that read the items there crept a quiet note of relief.
Twenty minutes more.
Ten minutes—now...
Five minutes....
The president of the road swayed a little toward the table. He might be consulting the paper in his hand—it was the last one—before he handed it to the sturdy young man beside him to read.
The young man leaning toward him to take it, blotted out for a moment the thin, bent figure. When his shoulders straightened themselves again, the president of the “R. and Q.” was erect in his chair, his inscrutable face turned toward the directors.
The young man read rapidly from the paper. It was a summary of items. They had the substance of it already. This only gathered it into smaller compass for them, the quiet voice seemed to assure them, as it went swiftly to the end.
“There is one point not included in the formal report that the President intended to speak to you about.” He had laid down the paper and was looking at them.
They returned the glance, finding a certain pleasure in this sturdy young man.
Simeon looked up with a little, startled glance.... The hand touched his arm carelessly and rested there while the voice went on speaking.
“It had been President Tetlow’s wish to ask for a leave of absence—to take effect at your pleasure—”
The arm beneath the hand stirred and Simeon ’s mouth opened with an inarticulate sound.
The directors glanced at him with sympathetic, humorous smile.
The senior director was on his feet proposing a motion—Three other directors, all on their feet, were seconding it—It was carried with a little informal hurst of enthusiasm.
Simeon rose to his feet. It was as if he thought that he could respond.
The directors were looking at him with expectant faces.
He bowed toward them and opened his lips—and broke into a long, deep, helpless cough.
John put up his hand to the directors, smiling, and escorted him swiftly to the door....
There was a pleasant hurry of sound among the directors, a getting into light overcoats and shaking of hands, a murmur of dividends, and a rush for trains.
Up in the little office Simeon Tetlow stood by the window. He held up his hand—groping, trembling toward the light—He looked at it, and tried to hold it still—and still looked at it—the light falling faintly through it.... “They trust me, John! They trustme!But how dare they trust me!” The shaking hand flickered its quivering, helpless dance against the light.
The young man drew it down, covering it with his own. “They trust you, sir, because you’ve never failed them,” he said quietly.
The assistant bookkeeper was finishing his accounts for the night. He made another entry and blotted’ it before he closed the book and looked up, with a little offhand nod.
The young man moved toward him. “President Tetlow asked me to tell you something, Harrington.” They were alone in the room, but he spoke in a low tone.
The bookkeeper’s shoulders squared themselves a little. He had expected this. He had known it would come—with the directors’ meeting. He jabbed his pen in a cup of shot and lifted his face sullenly. “Well?” His tone, too, was low.
“They raised you five hundred at the meeting,” said John.
The bookkeeper stared at him. Then his eyes dropped. He studied his nails for a minute. “What are you talking about?” he muttered.
“Five hundred dollars—to begin Monday,” said John.
The bookkeeper looked up under his lids, without lifting his head. “What do you mean?” he said slowly.
John waited a minute. When he spoke, a little smile edged the words. “I thought you’d like to know right off—So you could write the C. B. and L. that you won’t be able to do anything for them after today.”
“Did n’t it work?” sneered the man.
“It worked too well,” said John. “They’ve lost a good twenty thousand these two weeks—trying to fix it—and the twenty thousand is ours. But we don’t do business that way—not unless we have to,” he added with slow emphasis.
The man looked up. “How are you going to keep tab on me?” he demanded.
“Won’t the five hundred keep tab?” asked John.
The man’s smile was wintry. “The C. B. and L. did better,” he said.
“Yes—they knew what they were paying for—they thought they knew. The ‘R. and Q.’ does n’t.”
The man stirred a little. “All right. It’s a go.” He took up his pen and tried the nib on his thumb nail. His eyes were fixed on it. “Cheaper to fire me,” he said, dipping the pen into the ink.
“Do you think so?” said John. “Wait a minute, Harrington.”
The pen paused.
“The ‘R. and Q.’ will need straight men the next six months—men that will stand by!”
The man nodded. He was not looking np. “I have an idea, somehow—” The young man hesitated. Then he laughed out. “I’ve watched you, you know,” he said frankly, “I ’ve had an eye on you.”
“Two of them,” said Harrington.
“Yes, and I ’ve come to think you may be one of the best men the road’s got.”
“That’s whatI’vethought,” said the man drily.
“I don’t know how you came to be in this C. B. and L. mixup,” said John quickly, “but I think you stood by them as long as you could—”
“That’s me,” said the man.
“—and did their dirty work for them,” added John.
The man’s face clouded a little.
“The ‘R. and Q.’ wants that kind of men for clean work—” He paused, seeking the right words. “I ’m not clever, you know,” said John. He raised his clear eyes to the man’s face.
The face sneered a little—then it changed subtly. “I believe you ’re speaking God’s truth,” he said soberly.
“I believe I am,” said John. “I ’m not clever—I know it. But the road needs men that are—Men that know enough to be rascals and won’t,” he added quietly.
The man looked at him a minute. Then he laughed—a long, full laugh. It had a hint of fellowship in it.—“You ’re a rum un,” he said.
John smiled. “Thank you.” He held out his hand. “It ’sa bargain?”
The man hesitated a minute. Then he took the hand. “I should think I could give five hundred dollars’ worth of honesty—and I ’d like to give as much over as I can afford.” He said it lightly. But there was a little ring to the words, and the sullen look had vanished from his face.
“That’s all right,” said John. He nodded and was gone.
The assistant bookkeeper sat staring at the pen in his hand—“A rascal,” he chuckled, “but not a fool rascal!—He said it straight, did n’t he?” He chuckled again. He drew the sheet of paper toward him. Then he looked up as if a sudden thought had struck him—“Andhe ’sno fool either!” he said slowly. The pen began its letter to the manager of the C. B. and L.
When the letter reached the manager, he threw it on his desk with an exclamation of disgust.
“What’s up?” said the superintendent.
“Harrington.”
“What?”
“Backed out,” said the manager.
“More money?”
“I don’t think so.” He consulted the letter. “Says he’s sick of it—the whole business.”
“Virtuous?—His virtue has n’t been of much use the last few weeks,” suggested the superintendent.
“Nobody ’s any use,” said the manager tartly. The two weeks’ losses had worn on his nerves.... “There ’s a man in that office I should like to get,” added the manager after a minute. “He’s young—sort of a boy. But I ’ve a notion we could use him—if we knew what he ’d cost.”
The manager of the C. B. and L. meditated, off and on, the next few days, what John would cost. He never arrived at any conclusion that quite satisfied him. Just as he had fixed upon the bait that should tempt a young man who had his way to make in the world—a pair of clear blue eyes confronted him, shining mistily. There was a deep, still glow about that boy when he spoke of Tetlow that made him feel the boy was beyond him.
The manager of the C. B. and L. was a practical man and when, in the process of calculation, he ran up against eyes of a young man, he swore softly under his breath.
John was turning the question in his mind all day—where the president should spend his vacation. But each route that he blocked out presented at some point an insuperable obstacle, and he was forced hack to the starting point to begin over.... The place must be far enough from the road so that Simeon would not be reminded of its existence, yet near enough for John to return to his mother at an hour’s notice.
He had watched her with special care in the days that preceded the directors’ meeting.... If she should grow worse and he could not leave her?
But His mind had come to rest hopefully in the look in her face. She would not fail him. She was even more eager than he in planning for his absence—Caleb would be with her, and in the city it was easier than in Bridgewater to get help—the cooking and baking, some of it, could be bought from the little white shop around the corner.—She entered into the plan as if the journey were to be made for her sake rather than for Simeon’s. And John, watching her, knew that she was really better. The change to the new house and its surroundings had been good for her. There was even a little pink tinge in her cheeks sometimes and she declared that the very cracks in the ceiling of the new house were restful to look at as she lay in bed. She had never known how full of pain and wakefulness the old cracks were until they had been suddenly lifted from her. The new cracks should have only hope in them, she said, with a little smile; they should be filled with beautiful things—the light that came in at the east window for her—she had not had an east window at home—and Caleb’s pleasure in his new work and in his garden. Her window overlooked the garden and she lay for hours looking out at it and at the sky.... There was not much in the garden yet. But Caleb pottered about in it, setting out the roots and shrubs he had brought from home, preparing the asparagus bed and strawberry beds, and trimming up the few trees and shrubs that bordered it. He was very contented working in the warm October sun inside the high fence. The roots of his being stirred softly, making ready to strike down into the new mold and rest there gently as they had rested in the old garden at home. By spring he would hardly know the change—any more than the daffodils and the jonquils that he had planted in a corner by the fence with some lilies of the valley.
He had been at work in the garden the day of the directors’ meeting, and he watched the Boy as he came slowly up the street, his head bent in thought. Caleb gathered up his tools with little regretful, backward looks. He had meant to set out that last row of asparagus tonight—But it was late and the boy looked tired. He set the asparagus plants in the little shed he had improvised for his tools and covered them carefully against the night air. Then he went into the house.
The mother and the Boy were talking in the next room softly and he thought he would not disturb them. He fussed about, setting the table and making tea. Even when they were seated at table, Caleb paid little heed to what was being said; his mind was still digging in the garden, out in the soft mold.
Then a word caught his ear and he looked up. “What’s that you were saying, Johnny—about a farm!”
“It ’s about President Tetlow. He has to go away, you know!”
Caleb’s interest relaxed. “I thought it was something about a farm.” He returned to his plate.
“I said I wished there were some farm he could go to—”
“Farms enough,” said Caleb.
“Do you know a good one?” The boy and his mother both leaned forward. They had turned the question over and over; they had not once thought of Caleb who knew the region by heart.
He chewed slowly. “There ’s a place up Chester County way,” he said at last, his eyes fixed on it as he chewed. “I used to work there when I was a boy.”
“That’s too far away,” said John.
“You want to be nearby, do ye?”
“But not too near the railroad.”
Caleb’s slow mind started on its new quest.
“There ’s a place up from Bridgewater a ways—It ’s off the road. You might hear a toot clear nights, maybe—but much as ever—”
“Who owns it?”
Caleb shook his head. “Nice folksusedto live there—the Griswolds—but I heerd somewhere ’t they’d sold—”
A quick look shot into the boy’s face. “You don’t mean the old Bardwell farm!”
“That ’s the place,” said Caleb—“I was thinking about that little house on the creek, about half a mile, cross lots, from the farmhouse. Anybody ’d be quiet enough there.”
“The Tomlinsons are there,” said John thoughtfully.
“There by the creek!” asked Caleb.
“No, in the farmhouse. I don’t suppose there’s anybody in the little house.”
“It could be fitted up,” said his mother quickly. “That ’s better than boarding; and you must not do the work—with all that will come on you besides. Mrs. Tomlinson would cook for you.”
“Ellen Tomlinson is a powerful good cook,” said Caleb solemnly. “I ’ve et her victuals many a time.”
“I ’ll go down tomorrow,” said John. “We can have the little house, I know—It belongs to the road—and I ’ll put in a few camping things. If Ellen won’t cook for us, we ’ll make shift somehow.”
“You must not do it,” said his mother.
“It’s good air,” said Caleb, “—High up.”
“And very still there—the top of the world,” said his mother with a little flitting sigh.
“It’s just the place,” said John. Then he hesitated a minute. Hugh Tomlinson’s face had suddenly flashed before him—the red-rimmed eyes and the high, quavering voice.... Would Simeon object to his presence? He had always refused to speak of Tomlinson and he was gruffly silent when his name was mentioned.... But he had put him on the farm—rent-free—and he had sent the cheque—a thousand dollars.... John weighed the chances... and even while he hesitated, an instinct deeper than reason told him that the old Scotchman’s presence must be concealed from Simeon.... He might not mind. But there must be no risk.
“Tomorrow,” he said, “I ’ll go down to see the Tomlinsons and get the house ready.”
The old Scotchman surveyed him with keen eyes. “He wants to come here?—Sim Tetlow wants to comehere—to this farm!”
“Not here,” said John. “He ’ll be at the little house—down by the creek, you know.” The switchman was silent for a little. “A man can do what he likes wi’ his own,” he said at last gruffly. “He owns the farm—I ’ll go—”
“I hope you won’t go,” John said quickly. “We need some one to cook for us—good nourishing food—and I was going to ask your wife—?”
The old man’s eyes still pierced him. “Ye think Sim Tetlow ’ll get well on food ’t my Ellen ’d cook?—Choke him!” he said.
John waited a minute. “I was n’t going to tell him who cooked it—I thought he did n’t need to know.” He turned and looked at the man beside him. “He needs all the help we can give him, Hugh. He’s desperate.”
A slow, deep smile had come into the Scotch eyes—They glimmered to little points and sought the distant horizon. “He must e’en take his fate,” said the old man grimly, “wi’ the rest o’ us.”
“But we can help him,” said John. “I feel it.Youcan help—”
“I ’ll do naught for him,” said the man sternly. “She’s within door, and ye can askher. If she ’ll cook for Sim Tetlow, I ’ll bide by what she says. I ’ll not lift a hand to hinder—or help.” He moved toward the bam, walking with huge strides, like some grim, implacable fate.
John watched him for a moment. Then he turned and knocked on the farmhouse door.
When he lifted the latch, the little old woman by the stove looked up, bending gentle eyes upon him. She set down the frying-pan and came forward, The smile in her face like the October sunshine outside. “It’s Johnny Bennett,” she said, “and I was telling Hugh, but the morning, I’d be glad to see him.”
The young man took the outstretched hand with a sudden lifting of heart. He forgot the gaunt figure striding from him and saw only the gentle, wrinkled face in its prim Scotch cap, beaming with light.
In a dozen words he had laid the story before her. She listened with intent eyes, her fingers plaiting the edge of her apron in tiny folds. When he had finished, the apron dropped from her fingers and she smoothed the pleats one by one.
“He’s been a hard man to us, Johnny.”
“Yes.”
“But I ’ll do it for ye.”
“I knew you would.” It came from a full heart, and she smiled a little to him as she gave a final, smoothing touch to the apron. “He sent us the check, and it was bitter bread we bought wi’ it. But the bread I bake for him will be sweet,” she said.
“Thank you, Ellen.” He held out his hand. “It ’s good in you to do it, and what money can pay for—you shall have, you know.”
“Money won’t pay for the bread I shall bake him, Johnny,” she said slowly. “But he’s welcome to it and may the Lord bless it—to him.”
SIMEON Tetlow, in the little house by the creek, was growing stronger.
There had been days of waiting-long, slow days, when he sat dully passive, staring before him, or lay on the camp bed in a deep sleep. When he woke, he took the food that John brought him and fell asleep again.
Little by little, unseen fingers had come in the silence and smoothed the lines from the sleeping face, touching the fevered cheeks to coolness.... He slept now like a child, breathing lightly, and when he woke, his eyes were clear and fresh—only somewhere in the depths lurked a little shadow that nothing could efface.
The shadow kept tally on their days. When it lightened, John’s heart sang, and when it deepened, he set himself anew to his task.
For the first days he had not left his patient night or day—except for brief journeys across the woodlot to the farmhouse to bring the food that Ellen cooked. Later, when Simeon was able to walk a little and needed less care, he had made occasional trips to the office of the road.
It was during one of these trips that a new factor had entered into the case. The young man had been gone since early morning and the house was very quiet, deepening in the long silence to a kind of presence. The October sun poured in at the windows and a late fly buzzed in the light on the pane.
Simeon glanced at it. Then he went and stood by the window looking out. His eye traveled along the little path that lost itself in the bushes and undergrowth at the left. It was a path that John had unwittingly worn in his daily journeys to the farmhouse. But Simeon did not know this, he did not even know that it was a path. He did not guess that along it a child was trudging, bringing him health in both her fat little hands.
He went back and sat down by the fire, sighing a little. It was an open fire that blazed and crackled, and as he watched it he dozed.
The hand on the latch startled him and he sat up—awake.... John was early.... He turned his expectant face to the door. It swung open silently, as if unseen hands had pushed it, and he sprang up trembling. ... No one was there.... Then his eye dropped a little and he stood still—staring at her.
She was very little, and she was very round and fat, and her cheeks laughed and her curls danced, and her stout little legs, in their heavy stockings, had a sturdy sense of achievement. She looked at him gravely. Then she turned and placing both hands on the door pushed it shut.
He had not stirred from his place. His eyes were following her, half doubting.... She was not more real than some of the visions that had haunted his tired eyes.... But much more charming!
She confronted the closed door for a moment with a little air of triumph. Then she nodded at it and turned and came toward him across the room, her face lifted.
But still he did not speak. He had moistened his lips a little with his tongue and his breath came quickly.
She seated herself on a packing box that served as a chair and crossed her fat legs at the ankle. She nodded gravely. “I am Ellen,” she said in a clear, sweet voice, “Who are you?”
He moistened his lips again, still staring. Then a humorous light crept into his eyes. “I am—Simeon,” he said gravely.
She nodded again. “I like Cinnamon. Granny makes them—round ones—cookies. I like ’em.”
“And who is Grannie?” he asked.
“She is—Grannie,” replied the child. “Do you live here?” Her direct eyes were on his face.
“Yes, I—live—here.” He said the words slowly and a little sadly.
“Who does your work?” she asked promptly.
He leaned toward her, very serious. “A fairy,” he said.
She slipped from the box and came toward him, her face aglow. “Where is it?” she demanded. She stood before him very straight—courage and health and belief in every line of the swift little body.
He half put out a hand, but she stirred a little and he withdrew it, leaning back in his chair and gazing with half-shut eyes into the flame. “You can’t see a fairy, you know,” he said quietly.
She had bent forward, a hand on either knee, peering intently into the fire. She straightened herself—“Don’t you see it?” she asked. “Not ever?” A disappointed look was in the eyes.
He shook his head. “They come at night, you know.”
The brown eyes searched his face. Then the curls wagged from side to side. “That’s a Brownie that comes at night,” she said reprovingly.
He looked his surprise. “Is it, indeed—a Brownie!”
She nodded. “Grannie told me.”
She came nearer and placed her little fat hand on his knee. “I like you,” she said.
He scarcely breathed and his face, as he leaned back in the chair, was very still.
She tipped forward and peered into it. “Are you asleep?” she asked. It was almost a whisper—solicitous, but firm.
He shook his head. The tired eyes opened and looked at her, full of a kind of sweet light. “I am—resting,” he said.
She nestled a little nearer to him, carelessly, and looked into the fire. Presently she hummed to herself....a little crooning song—half words, half happiness: Then she left him and wandered about the room, touching things with grave, respectful touches, but with liveliest curiosity in the peering brown eyes. When she had finished, she went toward the door. “I am going, now,” she announced.
He dared not put out a finger to stay her and his eyes did not lift themselves from the flames. “Come again,” he said carelessly.
“Yes,” she replied. It was a very grave little word—full of assurance and comradeship.
Then she opened the door and went out.
The fire flared in the sudden gust and he looked around. The door—too heavy for her to close—swung wide to the October sun, and down the path the sturdy brown figure was trudging, holding intent on its way.
Simeon moved to the door and stood looking after it. The sun shone clear.... Everywhere the serene, level light and in the midst of it, moving steadily on, a quaint, sturdy figure.... He put up his hand impatiently, brushing aside something that hindered his gaze. When he withdrew the hand, he looked down at it and thrust it out of sight, perplexed and savage and stirred.... “God bless me!” he said, “I’m growing soft!”
He closed the door and went back to the seat by the fire, wondering a little that he should care.
“She will not come,” he said as he looked into the deep coals. But in his heart he knew. She came again and again—sometimes every day and sometimes with long intervals between. When this occurred, Simeon would grow restless and go often to the window to look where the path emerged from the undergrowth. It never seemed to occur to him to follow the path.
He had showed, from the first, a curious indifference to his surroundings. They had not come by the way of Bridgewater, but had left the train at a small station farther up the road and driven across country eight or ten miles, by night, to the Bardwell farm and the little house on the creek. To Simeon, in the long empty days that followed his arrival, the place had no existence. He hardly knew more than that he ate and slept and that John was always at hand—to turn his pillow or speak to him or replace the light coverlet when it slipped off.
And as strength came to him and they walked every day a little distance from the house, his indifference to the outer world persisted. He asked no questions. His mind followed no roads. Sometimes on misty nights, when the long, slow whistle sounded across the low hills, John would watch him curiously. But the head was not lifted from the brooding hand by the fire. The road had slipped out of memory, perhaps—or grown dim in the visions that haunted his gaze. If he knew where John went, on the days when he was absent, he made no reference to it.
Only when the child came, his mind reached out. It reached out to a little path that lost itself in the underbrush and rustling oak leaves. He would stand for hours, looking at it wistfully when she did not come. But he never set foot in the path. It was hers and she came and went as she pleased.
With a kind of canny Scotch wisdom, the child had refrained from speaking at home of her visits. She may have been uneasily afraid that they would be forbidden if discovered, and she concealed them carefully, not only from her grandparents, but from her little brother who was her only companion. It was not always easy to evade him and, then, there were days when she did not come. But she guarded Simeon’s secret jealously, as if he were some helpless thing she had come upon unawares in her trudgings up and down the farm. And from the day she first strayed into the half-defined path that John’s feet had worn between the house and the farm, she did not cease to haunt it.