WHAT are you doing?” She was standing on tiptoe, her eyes barely over the edge of the table, watching Simeon’s pencil as it moved over the paper.
The pencil continued its curious tracks. Simeon’s eyes were fixed on it intently. There was no reply.
She watched it a few minutes in silence. She and Simeon were good friends. They did not mind the silence, but he would answer—if he heard—“What are you doing?” It was very quiet—but firm—in the clear, high voice.
He looked down. Then he smiled into the level eyes. “I’m drawing a map,” he said.
She found a chair and pushed it to the table. She climbed into it and knelt with her fat arms folded in front of her on the table, bending toward the paper.
Simeon paid no heed to her. The pencil went its absent-minded way.
It was no unusual thing for them to be silent a long while, with an occasional smile or nod between them, she intent on grave matters, Simeon following hazy, wavering thoughts.
But he had never chosen to make pictures. This was something important and different. She leaned closer, her shoulder touching his. “Is that a pig?” she asked politely. Her finger indicated a shape in one corner.
“That is a mountain,” said Simeon. He sketched in a tree or two to verify it.
“It ’s a funny mountain,” she said. She drew in her breath a little, watching the pencil respectfully.
“It is full of beautiful things,” said Simeon.
She bent closer to examine it. “Can you see them?” She lifted serious eyes to his.
“Yes, I see them—very plain. There is iron and copper and lead—” his pencil touched the paper, here and there, in little dots, “and silver.”
“And gold—” said the child in a soft, monotonous voice. They were playing a game.
“Not much gold, I’m afraid,” said Simeon, shaking his head, “but it is a wonderful mountain full of beautiful things—that can’t get out.”
“Whycan’t they get out?” she demanded as if some foolish mystery lay behind his talk.
He hesitated a moment. “A bad man keeps them there,” he said. “He has the key.”
“Won’t helet’em out?” It was a shrewd little wondering, groping question toward the truth, but it was full of sing-song happiness.
She nestled closer while the pencil went its way, drawing two long lines that stretched side by side across the paper. They readied the mountain and stopped.
“What is that?” she asked.
“That is a railroad that the bad man will build,” he said, putting in some extra lines.
They watched the pencil in silence.
“I know a bad man,” she said idly, as if it were not important, but worth mentioning since it concerned Ellen.
“Do you?” The surprise in the tone was partly real. “Doyouknow a bad man?”
“Yes—I know one.” It was a modest little drawl—an assertion of wisdom tinged with importance. “He’s averybad man,” she added.
“No?”
The half-teasing note did not touch her. “He kills folks—He killed my father,” she said tersely. The words were light on her tongue, but she nodded to him with deep serious eyes that his could not fathom. Something in the eyes hurt him—a kind of trust and ignorance and deep appeal. He put his arm protectingly about the little form, drawing it close.
“You must not say things like that, Ellen.”
“Gran’ther says it.”
“Butyoumust not.... You will not say it again—?” It was half a command. “Don’t ever say it again, Ellen.”
“No—o—” It was reassuring and polite-half drawled; and it dismissed the subject idly—They had dwelt on it too long.
“Where is the key?” She was dipping toward the paper, peering close.
“The key?” He stared a little—“Oh—yes—This is the key.” His pencil touched the parallel lines.
“That ’s a railroad,” she said promptly.
He smiled. “It is the key, too—See—” He drew more lines rapidly, “When this touches the mountain, the iron and silver will come pouring out and it will run down this track—here, and here—” The pencil moved fast.
She followed it with grave eyes. She drew a deep breath and leaned closer to him. She lifted her face with a smile. It had caught the glow in his—but she did not speak.
He fell to sketching again and she nestled in his arm. By-and-by she put out a short finger. “Does folks live there—or Brownies!” she said, half whispering the words.
He looked up absently—“Where—Oh—on the mountain?—People live there—I suppose—”
“You ever seen them?”
“No,”—still absently.
She sighed a little. “I like folks,” she said.
“What?” He paused in his thought and looked at her with a smile—tolerant and old—“You like folks, do you?” The look teased her.
She nodded gravely. “They ’ll be glad—” Her finger was tapping at the mountain—“They ’llliketo have the beautiful things comepouring out—” She spread her hands with a little gesture of beneficent plenty.
He stared at her a minute—then he laughed. “I suppose they will.... I had n’t thought of it.” His eyes dwelt on her fondly.
“Yes.—They ’ll like it.—They ’re nice folks.”
“How doyouknow?—You seen them?” They often played like this.
“I know.” She nodded wisely. “There’s fahvers and muwers and little uns—bairns-like me.” She was looking at something far away—Then her eyes flashed back to his. “They ’ll like it,” she said swiftly, “They ’ll help—They ’ll bring out the beautiful things—great handfuls!” She threw them out with her lavish little hands.
He caught them both in one of his. But he was not looking at her. He was seeing something far off... something the child’s words made him see.... He looked at it so long that one of the hands freed itself and reached up to the intent face, stroking it.... Then he looked down and saw her. He smiled at her—with deep eyes... with the little shadow playing in them—far back.... “So you love folks?” he said slowly.
“We must e’en love everybody,” she repeated as if it were a lesson.
“Everybody?” He looked at her, a little startled at the words.
The clear eyes lifted themselves—“Gran-’ther says we must do justice to all men,” she said gravely. “But Grannie says we must forgi’e ’em—she says we must e’enlove’em.”
“Then you must love him—the bad man.” He said the words half teasingly, half gravely.
Her face clouded. But the eyes were untroubled. “I don’t finkanybodyloveshim,” she said simply, “But Grannie says we e’en must.” She gave a little sigh.
“So you will!”
“Yes—I love him.”
The voice was full of her ignorance—a kind of sing-song chant, but somehow it gripped him strangely.... As if he heard in some inner world—faint, ringing little bells of joy and sadness and the mystery of life.
He sat in front of the fire brooding absently. He had been alone all day—ever since John left in the early morning. The boy was coming back tonight. He had said that he would come—but that Simeon must not wait for him; he must go to bed as usual. It was late now, but Simeon in front of the fire waited impatiently.... A strange loneliness was on him. Outside the snow had been falling fitfully all day. The ground was covered with still whiteness. Across the waste of snow he heard a distant clock strike softly and far away—eight—nine—ten—and still he waited, brooding there by the fire. He wanted to see some one—to touch a friendly hand—before he fell into the deep sleep that would cut him off. A strange yearning toward his fellowmen had come upon him in the last days. The child’s words followed him wistfully—“We must e’en love ’em,” he whispered to himself, wondering at the strange tugging at his heart—Tiny cords seemed to reach out from him, threading their way, spreading wide-seeking men and women.
He rose and paced the little room. He was not the man who had entered it ten weeks ago—broken, helpless in weakness. His step on the floor was firm and the hand that reached out to the tongs was steady in its grip. He readjusted a log in the fireplace and replaced the tongs. Then he stood looking down at the fire. He had grown fond of the flames—leaping there. He would miss them when he went back to his office—and the cold town house. He glanced about the little room affectionately.
... The boy had filled it with love and thoughtfulness from the first day. It was sweet now with pine and spruce and hemlock—fastened everywhere—running along the walls and heaped in corners. The boy had brought it in from the woods for Christmas Day. The scent of it was like the woods themselves—Something mysterious and deep was in the room. The woods were in the room. The man breathed deep and looked around him.... How he would miss it all.... But his work was waiting... and he was ready. He stretched out an arm straight from the shoulder and looked with quiet pride at the hand. It did not quiver, by a breath, from its place. The arm dropped at his side.... He was ready... almost. The shadow flickered across his face. It retreated to his eyes and crouched ... waiting. He sat down before the andirons and looked defiantly into the hot coals.... Some senseless, half-crazed words mumbled at him.... He shrugged his shoulder.... He would not hear them. The firm hand had clinched itself on his knee.... A face grew out of the fire, red-eyed and old and imbecile. It swung before his gaze full of hatred and leering malice, and the clinched hand lifted itself. ... The face was fading, line by line, in the flickering light. The mumbled words grew faint. They sank to a whisper... and died away. ... It was the voice of the child—clear and low, “We must e’en forgi’e ’em.”
He sank hack, wiping the heads from his forehead. He stared before him—seeking a way out.... He had offered the man money.... He had given him the farm, free of rent—and it was a good farm, they said—the Bardwell farm—Was it not enough?... He brooded on it, sitting there. The loneliness outside crept into the room.... The snow had ceased to fall, and through the uncurtained window he caught a glimpse of light shining. He got up and went to the window and looked out. The white clouds seemed to be being drawn across the sky by unseen hands; beyond them the stars shone clear. The snowy landscape glowed faint beneath them.... Suddenly he uttered an exclamation and turned away. He crossed quickly to the door and threw it open and stood peering out.
A little figure was coming up the path, nodding and blowing—Her curls were afloat and her little face glowed in the light from the door.
“I ’m coming,” she panted heavily, “I ’ve got here.”
“I should think you had.” His voice was stern. But he had gathered her in his arms, holding her close. She struggled a little and he set her down. “I ’m wet,” she announced—“I’m most wet fru, I guess.”
He found some old underclothing of John’s and took off the wet things, holding them up, one by one, to the light and looking at her reproachfully. She had come apparently in her nightdress, with the addition of an extra shirt, one stocking, one legging, a pair of overshoes and her little fur coat and cap.
“I could n’t find my Fings,” she explained, “not all of my fings—in the dark.”
“What did you come for?” asked Simeon severely.
Her rosy happiness precluded sentiment—and kindness.
She glanced at the glowing fire and then at his face. She looked down at her pink toes, peeping from below John’s drawers—The drawers wrinkled grotesquely on the fat legs and she tried to hold them up a little as she approached him, humbly.... Simeon was angry—She could see it from the tail of her eye, as she drew nearer with downcast head. “I wanted to see Santa Claus,” she said. She had come very close now and she put out a fat hand, resting it on his knee.
He bent a little toward her. “You should have waited till tomorrow, child. Don’t you know I shall have to take you back—”
She lifted a stricken face.
“—in the cold and snow,” went on Simeon unheeding.
Her lip quivered. With a bound she had buried her face in his breast.—“Don’t take me, Cinnamon!” she wailed—“Please don’t take me—back!”
“But your grandfather and grandmother will worry—”
She lifted a reassuring, streaming face, “They don’tknowabout me,” she sobbed, “I am sound asleep.” She snuffed a little and fumbled in the capacious folds of John’s undershirt for a handkerchief.
Simeon produced his and she accepted it meekly. She wiped her cheeks with it and stowed it away. “I peeked—” she said, “in the door and they was asleep—both of ’em—and Gran’ther was a-snorin’—”
“Suppose they wake up,” said Simeon.
She looked at him piteously. “Santa Claus can’t come to our house,” she said. Her lip trembled.
“Why not?”
“He can’t get in.”
“Oh.”
“They ’ve shut up the chimbley.” She moved a fat hand toward the fireplace—“I cried about it,” she explained, “and then I went to sleep—I prayed too, but that did n’t do any good,” she threw in. “And then I waked up in the dark and ’membered you, and that’s how I come.” She nestled to him.
His arms were close around her. “You shall stay till the clock strikes twelve—that’s when he comes—”
She nodded sagely.
“And then I ’ll carry you home.”
She sank back with a little sigh of content. The pink toes cuddled themselves in the warm folds and the moist eyes rested dreamily on the coals.
Simeon, holding her in his arms, had a sense of life—its goodness and fullness. The loneliness had fled from the little room. It was filled with love, and the world outside was full of friendliness—It held them close.
The child stirred a little. “We did n’t hung up my stocking,” she said drowsily.
Simeon looked down at the stocking steaming with faint warmth from the fire. “It ’s too wet,” he said.
She roused herself and sat up—“Don’t I have no stockings?” she demanded.
He hesitated. Then he got up and brought one of his own and suspended it from the corner of the shelf.
She surveyed it with dubious content. A little question flitted, and she raised an anxious, startled face. “He might fink it was yours,” she said.
“We ’ll tell him,” said Simeon, “the minute he comes.”
“I ’lltell him.” The eyes had flashed wide. They shone dizzily—the little hands clasped themselves—“I ’lltell him,” she whispered.
“All right.”
She sat very straight, her gaze fixed on the exact spot where he should come.... Her shoulders drooped a little, but she caught them at it and shook them sternly. Then the eyes blinked—once—twice, and the brown curls nodded. The watching figure was sinking inch by inch into the great folds that enwrapped it. She lifted a heavy, dreamy face to Simeon’s—“I can’t keep—awake—Cinnamon,” she breathed—very wistful—with little jerks between.
“Never mind, dear.” He laid a hand on the bending head. “Go to sleep. I ’ll wake you when he comes.”
With a deep sigh, the head sank against the strong shoulder. The firelight played across the little figure in its clumsy garments; it touched the sleeping face and tipped the nodding curls.
Simeon watched it, the world in his heart speaking low.
I’ ve lighted the lantern for ye, Hugh.” The rays of the lantern shone on the meek, wrinkled face, bringing out faint lines and lighting up the yellow-white hair that framed it. The hair was a little rough from the pillow. She had not thought to smooth it since—wakened by some inner voice—she had risen to see that all was well with the bairns.
“She ’s been long gone,” she said, looking up to him as he drew on his great mittens and reached for the lantern. “The pillow was cold.” The face beneath the wrinkled lines tried hard to hold itself steady.
“You ’re not to worrit, Ellen. I ’ll find her. I ’ll bring her back.” He had thrown open the door and the cold air rushed in.
She shrank a little from it, staring at the dark. “She ’ll be fey,” she said, “wi’ the cold and wet and dark. I must have the kettle hot.” She turned toward the stove.
He stooped to examine the snow in the light from the door. Then he lifted himself, a look of satisfaction in the grim face. “Shut the door, Ellen,” he called, “I ’ll follow ’em now in the dark.”
She came quavering. “Can ye see, Hugh!” She strained her eyes toward him.
“Shut the door,” he said. “I can follow—wi’ this.” He lifted the lantern a little and she saw the old face, stern and hopeful.
She shut the door and watched through the window as the great figure lunged away. The lantern swayed from side to side with the huge strides, as if a drunken man carried it across the wastes. But the lantern went straight. It was making for the oak wood.
The sky overhead was sown thick with stars, flung like a royal canopy above the earth. The shepherds keeping watch over their flocks would have needed no other light to guide them, and Hugh Tomlinson, stooping to the little fat tracks that spudded through the snow, had little need of the lantern that swung from his great hand. The tracks led straight across the country without swerving to left or right. They crossed the wood and came into the open.... He followed them fiercely, like a great dog, unheeding whither they might lead. Suddenly, with a muffled cry, he stopped....
Straight before him ran the creek and out from the bank stretched a frail band of ice. Beyond—the water swirled black and sluggish. He hurried to the brink and stood staring—not a sound to break the silence. He strained his eyes across the thin edge of ice. Surely it could not have borne the weight of a tiny child. He wheeled about and looked up to the stars. They twinkled in their places—remote and glad. There was no help in them. Slowly his eyes dropped.... He started—shading them, as if from a vision, peering forward. There in the window of the little house, gleamed a light.
He strode forward blindly, his eyes fixed on it. As he drew near, he sank to his knees, creeping almost on all fours; but at the window he clutched the sill and raised himself.... Within the green-trimmed room with its glinting light and soft glow sat the man and the child—asleep before the fire. The child’s head rested against the man’s breast and his face drooped till his cheek touched the modeling curls.
For a moment Hugh Tomlinson eyed the sweet scene—like some gaunt wolf at the window. Then he strode to the door and throwing it open entered without knocking.
The man at the fire looked up with startled glance. He had been dreaming, and it might have been an apparition of his dream that loomed in, out of the night.
The two men regarded each other.
The gaunt one stepped forward a pace. “Gi’e her to me,” he said. “She belongs to me.”
“And I thought she was mine,” said Simeon. A sad little smile played about his lips. He moved toward the man, holding out his hand. “Forgive me, Tomlinson,” he said.
The Scotchman did not touch the outstretched hand. He looked down at it dourly. “Gi’e her to me,” he repeated.
Then, as they stood confronting each other, the bells rang.... They sounded faint across the snowy waste, striking the hour. The last stroke died upon the air, and silence settled in the little room—with greenness and the scent of firs.
“Peace on earth, good-will toward men,” said Simeon in a low voice. “Make it peace for me, Hugh Tomlinson.”
“Gi’e her to me,” said Tomlinson again.
The man made no reply, but the child reached up a sleepy hand and slipped it about his neck. “I love Cinnamon,” she said drowsily.
Then the Scotchman came nearer. The bony hand did not lift itself from his side and there was no softening of the grim face—“The Lord do unto ye as ye have done unto me and mine, Simeon Tetlow,” he said solemnly.
He reached out his arms for the child and the man surrendered her to them—gently, that the sleeping lids might not wake. The old Scotchman gathered her in, close—the folds of his great-coat wrapped protectingly about her. Then, his eyes bent hungrily upon her, without a backward look, he went out into the night.
Simeon Tetlow watched him go, with quiet smile. His hands had dropped to his sides.
Thoughts played across the thin face—gleams of light and humor and gentleness. He lifted his head, with a quick glance about the fragrant room. The fire had died down, but a soft light glowed everywhere. He sat down holding out his hands to the warmth, the quiet smile still resting on his face and the shadow in the eyes fading before it, flickering away to its place in the night. The eyes shone with swift, new light; it played upon the face as it bent to the coals—the intent, human eyes gazing at something there.... Slowly the vision lifted itself—shining rails gleamed upon the night. They lay upon the land, the silvery tracings branching left and right. A white light shone from them. Simeon Tetlow, looking with rapt gaze, saw a new world. The curse could not touch him here.... It could never touch him again. Something cold and hard had snapped at a word. The forgiveness he had begged of the stern Scotchman had come to him... . There had been no curse... only the hardness and bitterness in his heart—that would not say “Forgive.” The word had lingered at the door of his lips through weeks of pain and the darkness—wandering rebellion, sick fancies.... “Forgive me, Hugh.” He had said it—low and humble, unawares, out of the depths... and suddenly he had stood erect. “Forgive me, Hugh.” He whispered it again, looking into the deep coals. ... Troops of faces filed before him and he stretched out dumb hands to them. The coals deepened and spread, and the great road lay among them. His eyes rested on it wistfully. A still, clear light was on the country-side.... Miles of wheat and corn, great tracks of prairie, mountains of ore—lighted by it. But his eye swept them as a bird sweeps river and wood and plain in its homing flight.... The light was falling on the faces of men and women and children and the faces were turned tohim—waiting. The coals had died to a tiny spark. He rose and put on fresh wood and the flames leaped and ran up the green walls. He fell to musing again.... The dream held him.... Life opened.... Softly the bells were ringing in that other world.... Little peals that broke and rang—great swinging bells. He bent his head to the sound. It grew, and died away to lightest touch and rang again, clear and fresh.... It was nearer now... nearer—He turned his head. The sound had stopped—at the very door—The boy had come!
Before he could rise from his place, the door swung open to the freshness of the night and the boy was at his side.... “Merry Christmas, sir.” He bent swiftly to the lifted, smiling face—“You are better,” he cried, bending nearer in the flickering light, doubting and eager.
“I amwell, John!” He was on his feet, both hands outstretched to the boy.
They stood thus, the fire leaping on their faces, their hands clasped. ... Then they drew apart smiling.... The man moved his hand toward the dusky, fragrant room. “I am ready to go,” he said.
The young face lighted. “We need you, sir. We need you the worst way!”
“At the office?” Simeon motioned to a chair. “Sit down—Tell me.”
The young man shook his head. “Not tonight.” He looked at his watch. “It is after one. You must sleep.”
“I shall sleep,” said Simeon contentedly. “And tomorrow we will talk it over,” said John.
“Tomorrow we will go,” said the man.
The old Scotchman, striding through the snow, was holding the child fiercely to him. She had not stirred since he folded the great coat about her and he felt the warmth nestling there close to his heart. But the heart beat hot and resentful. Under his breath he swore and muttered as he stumbled through the wood, straying from the path and finding it again with gaunt step. The lantern gripped in his tense hand would have lighted the faint track through the snow. But he did not look down. His eyes were on a light that glimmered and shifted among the trees, shining across the long fields of snow beyond.... Ellen was waiting, her heart sore for the bairn. He clasped the little form closer and strode on-bitterness in his heart.... “Curse him—!” He had robbed them of work and their good name and now he would take the child ... luring her from them through the dark and cold, making her love him. The great arms strained her close as he stumbled on, coming with each uncertain step nearer to the glimmering light till it fell full in his face from the uncurtained window and he flung open the door and strode in.
She looked up with quick glance. Then a little cry broke from her—“Ye did na’ find her!”
He opened the great-coat where she lay like a flower, and the grandmother came close bending to the soft vision. Her hand touched the limp one that hung down, its soft, pink palm upturned.
“The little hand!” she whispered like a slow caress, “It ’s warm, Hugh!” She lifted her eyes to his face.
“Aye—warm.” There was no light in the stern face. “Ye best put her in bed.” He held her out—a little from him—and the child stirred. Her sleepy eyes opened and smiled to them and closed slowly. The little smile faded to a dream and the lips groped with words and breathed a name softly—“Cin-na-mon—”
The grandmother gave a startled glance. “She is fey!” she said.
“‘Cinnamon!—’ what does she mean—‘Cinnamon’?”
The old man looked resentful and said nothing.
The sleepy lips shaped themselves again—“Gran-nie.” It slipped into a little sigh of content as she nestled into the arms that reached out to her.
The old woman smoothed the tumbled hair and rocked her shoulders gently to the cradling of her arms. “Where was she, Hugh?—Where did ye find her!”
“Where she ’d no right to he,” he said grimly.
“She’d no right but to be in her bed,” said the grandmother softly.
“Ye ’d best put her there,” he responded, looking down at the sleeping flower-face with unfathomable eyes.
When she came back she found him sitting by the stove, his gaze fixed gloomily on its black surface, his body bent forward and his great hands swung loosely before him.
She stirred the fire a little and pushed back the kettle on the stove. “We ’re no needing it, the night,” she said with happy face.
But there was no happiness in the old face across the stove.
“What is it, Hugh?” She was looking at him with keen, gentle eyes that searched his soul.
“Sim Tetlow,” he said briefly.
Her hand dropped from the kettle—“Ye ’ve seen him, the night!”
“He had the bairn,” said Hugh. “He was holding it—in his arms—like his own.” He looked up to her—bitter hatred in the red-rimmed eyes.
But she came close to him, her soft dress making no sound. “He cared for the bairn!” It was half a question—a little cry of disbelief and longing—“He cared for the bairn!”
“He were holding her,” said Hugh gruffly—“Same as you—or me.” He lifted his hand with a swift gesture—“Curse—”
She caught the hand, holding it to her bosom, forcing it there—“No—Hugh—no,” she breathed the words with little gasps—“Ye ’ll no curse—we maun—”
He turned on her savagely, struggling for a minute to free his hand. Then his eyes dropped. “Ye ’re a woman,” he said grimly. “Ye ’ve no call to know.”
She stroked the hand with thin, knotted fingers, but her lips made no reply.
He looked up under fierce brows. “I ’ll do to him as he ’s done to me.” He said the words with deep accent.
“No,—no”—
He swept aside the words—“He took away my engine,” he said with slow wrath—
“But ye slept, Hugh—And ye could not help the sleeping!” It was a little cry of defence.
“I’d been waking, the night and the day—and the night again,” he replied fiercely, “and Islept—Is sleepin’ a crime!—She was safe on the sidin’,” he added. “There was no harm to Her—”
She waited with bent head. So many times they had lived through the steps of his disgrace—
“An’ then he gi’e me the switch. He were kind an’ just. He gi’e me theswitchto tend—” Impotent bitterness filled the words—“we—that’d drove the best engines on the road! Tendin’ a switch—in the freight yard—” His head sunk a little.
“Ye was old, Hugh.” It was the little cry again.
“An’ he will be old!” he broke in with tense, swift gesture—“Old before his time, bent and broke! Oh, Lord—” He lifted his gaunt face, “Gi’e him to me! Gi’e him intomyhand!” The keen eyes, fixed on something unseen, stared before him. Hope struggled in them—a bitter, disbelieving hope. “Gi’e him into my hand!”—he whispered.... “into my hand!” He bent forward, staring at the vision. Then the face changed subtly. He drew a quick, deep breath.... His head had dropped to his breast.
She bent above him, “Hugh—” She called it to the unseeing eyes—“Hugh!”
He drew back a little dazed. The look in the face broke—“Why, Ellen—woman.” He put his arm almost tenderly about her—“What frighted ye?” he asked.
“Ye ’ll not harm him?” she cried. She leaned against him, her anxious, questioning eyes searching his face.
“I ’ll not harm him,” said the man briefly, “except the Lord deliver him into my hand—I have it for a sign.”
Her Scotch blood thrilled to the vague menace of the words. She pressed closer to him, her thin hands raised to his coat, grasping it on either side. She looked up into his face—“Hugh, ye must forgi’e—ye must e’en—”
“I must e’en do the Lord’s will,” he said sternly. He loosed the clinging hands—“Ye must sleep, Ellen,” he said more gently.
Her hands had dropped. They hung loose at her sides. But her meek eyes were still on his face. “Ye will forgi’e him,” she whispered low, under her breath.
But his face gave no sign that he heard. He put out the lantern and raked together the coals in the stove, covering them carefully with ashes to save the smouldering heat. “Come to bed, Ellen,” he said when it was done, “the bairn is safe. Ye can sleep now.”
Who is managing?” said Simeon.
They had finished breakfast and sat with chairs pushed back from the table. It was the first question he had asked about the road. He had devoted himself to the business of getting well as thoroughly as to any business he had ever undertaken. But he was well now. “Who is managing!’ he said quietly.
The young man looked at him with a frank smile. “Nobody is managing,” he said—“That ’s the worst of it. I ’ve beendoingthings—things thathadto be done—and trying to stave off other people’s managing.”
Simeon nodded quickly. “That ’s the best thing could have happened. I hope you ’ve done it.”
“Well, not altogether—The men in the office were all right.... But the directors fidgeted some—”
“Corbin,” said Simeon, “I know.”
The young man nodded.
“Oh, I know,” said Simeon testily. “And Dickerman, I suppose—yes, yes, I know—Go ahead now—Tell me everything.” He leaned forward with elbows on the table—the old alert look in his eyes.
When the recital was finished, he stood up, stretching his arms with a gesture of content. “It might be worse,” he said.
“You may find it worse than you think,” said the young man, “No head to anything.”
“Just legs and arms,” said Simeon. He laid his hand in passing on the boy’s shoulder. “I’d rather have legs and arms—good ones—than any heads I know of—except my own,” he added laughing. “When do we go?”
“I brought down the special last night. She’s at Bridgewater.”
“Stetson with her! That ’s good. We start tonight—Get there at ten—Sleep home—Ready for business.”
John smiled at the old, quick orders and went out to set them in motion. He looked up to the clear, keen sky with a sudden lightness of heart. A new day had come. Perhaps the tortoise had something the same feeling when Atlas stooped his shoulder to the world.
By night, the little house was stripped of its belongings. Some of them were packed in bags and boxes and the rest were to be stored in the loft overhead. The boughs of spruce and hemlock and pine had been taken down from the walls and burned in the fireplace during the day. The room was filled with the sweet, pungent odor.
At the last minute John had hurried to the woods and brought back an armful of fresh boughs—spruce and pine, hemlock and blue-berried cedar—clustered thick—and trailing green vines. He tossed them lightly into the back of the sleigh and sprang in.
The special was waiting on the siding. They saw the little, flying puffs rise from her and float on the clear air.... Stetson was ready—with steam up—They would be off at once.
The baggage master came forward to help with the bags. He spoke a word in John’s ear as he passed him.
The young man glanced quickly toward the engine that puffed and chugged at the head of the little train. He helped Simeon into the car and hurried forward. The man standing by the engine looked at him with troubled eyes.
“He’s sick,” he said slowly, as John came up. “He was took bad just after he came down.” He nodded toward the baggage room, “He told me to fire Up—ready to go ahead. Said you’d know what to do.”
The young man turned toward the baggage room. The engineer, out of a heap of blankets, spread across some trunks, regarded him somberly. “I can’t do it,” he said, “I don’t dare. It gripes too hard when it comes. It’s easier now, for a minute—But it ’ll come back.” He writhed a little as he spoke.
“You must n’t stay here,” said John quickly. He looked about him.
The man put out a hand. “I’m going,” he said, “as soon as she starts. I waited for you.” John nodded. “Is there anyone—on the others?” He motioned toward the yard.
The man shook his head gloomily—“Freights,” he said. A kind of subtle pride underran the words—“I would n’t trust ’em with Her.”
The young man lifted his head—A swift thought had crossed his face. “I saw Tomlinson on the street as we drove in—Could he-?”
The man stared at him—“Old Tomlinson?” Justice weighed in the tone. “You can ask him,” he said grudgingly at last.
“He ’s all right for it?” questioned John.
The man writhed a little in his place. But justice held—“He’s all right if he says so,” he answered. His teeth bit at the under lip, holding it firm, and he breathed hard. “He’s first-class—Tomlinson. He won’tsayhe can take her unless he’s able. You can trust Tomlinson—same as you would me.” The pride of brotherhood breathed in the words—lifting them mightily.
“I ’ll see him,” said John.
The hand held him back. “Don’t urge him.” He gasped a little for breath between the words. “If he says he can do it—let him take Her.”
“I understand,” said John. “I ’ll send some one for you.” He was gone from the room.
As he passed the car, he hesitated a minute. Then he sprang up the step and went in. “All ready!” said Simeon looking up.
“Stetson ’s sick—Shall we wait over?”
“Wait over? No! Get somebody—Getanybody!” He threw out the words.
The young man hesitated a minute. He had not mentioned Tomlinson’s name to Simeon. Something had always pulled him back when he had thought to do it. “There’s a man—” he said slowly—“lives here—He ’s not running now—”
“Competent?” said Simeon.
“Stetson says so.”
“Get him.”
Tomlinson, one foot on the sleigh, looked at him under keen, shaggy brows. He glanced toward the station, with its wreathing, drifting lines of smoke. He shook his head. “I’m going home,” he said. He threw the halter into the sleigh and knocked the snow from his boots against the side.
John watched him silently, as he climbed in and gathered up the reins in big,-mittened hands.
“We need you, Hugh,” he said slowly.
The old man nodded—impassive. “Can’t go,” he said.
“Why not!”
“She ’llbe waiting.” He pulled a little on the reins.
“Send some one home with the team—There’s Russell! Get him.”
The Scotchman glanced with indifferent eye at a man crossing the street. “I ’ve got my chores to do.” He pulled again on the reins.
The old horse lifted his head.
John laid a hand on the sleigh. “See here, Hugh. We need you—There’s no one else—He told me to get you.”
The pull on the reins was checked. “Whotold you!”
“President Tetlow. He ’s waiting—” He motioned toward the track where the special was blowing off steam. Hugh’s eye followed the motion. It dropped to the young man. “He told you—Sim Tetlow—” he demanded, “He wantsme!”
“Yes. He wants you—But not if you ’re not up to it—” He had remembered Stetson’s words.
The old man leaned forward, winding the reins slowly around the whip. “I ’ll take Her,” he said.
“You ’re not afraid!” said John. Something in the face disturbed him.
“I ’ll take Her,” said Hugh briefly.
“Stetson’s jumpers are in the cab,” said John as they came down the platform.
“Too short,” said the old man. He was striding with mighty step.
John glanced at him. “That ’s so—The coat’s all right.”
“Like enough,” said Hugh absently. His face had an absorbed look—The eyes beneath the fur cap gleamed like little points of light. When they reached the engine, the light broke and ran over his face. He mounted to the cab and laid his hand on the lever—“I ’ll take her down, Johnny—Don’t you worry.” He nodded to the young man standing below.
The face cleared. “All right, Hugh—It’s the President of the Road you ’re carrying, you know.”
“Aye—It ’s Sim Tetlow—I know,” said Hugh. He opened the lever a little.
The young man hurried toward the car.
“All right!” asked Simeon as he came in. The train was in slow motion.
“All right,” said John.
Supper was brought in and they ate it leisurely, watching the light change and fade upon the hills and darkness settle down outside. Simeon’s eyes came back to the young man’s face. “I mean to know this country,” he said, “every mile of it.”
The young man smiled a little. “Don’t you know it now!”
“I don’t know anything,” said Simeon. “I was born last night.—I was born last night,” he said looking at the black window in a reverie. “Who lives along here?” He nodded toward the darkness. “What kind of people!”
John peered out. “Winchendon, we just passed, was n’t it? I don’t know. I’ve never been here.”
“Ever lived outside of Bridgewater!” said Simeon.
“No, sir.”
“Tell me about that.”
“About—!” The lifted eyebrows held it.
Simeon nodded. “About anything. Steel works—button shop—everything.”
John thought a minute—“You know as much as I do—more. They do a big business.”
“What kind of men?” asked Simeon brusquely.
“Men?—In the works—you mean?”
“In them—over them—on top—outside, inside,” said Simeon. “You know ’em, don’t you? Lived with ’em—been to school with ’em—?”
“Oh—if you mean that—!” A smile had come into the puzzled face.
“I mean that,” said Simeon. He had lighted a cigar and was watching the tip intently.
The cigar went out and was relighted many times before the story of Bridgewater was finished. The slow mind of the narrator wandered in and out through the past, nudged by keen, quick questions from the nervous listener beside him. Little things loomed large—big things faded and slipped away in John’s vision. It had been a mighty day for Bridgewater when the county house was built; but Simeon scoffed at the court-house and listened with rapt face to the story of two truckmen that John knew who had quarreled over their stand and made up, and joined against a third and held up the transportation of Bridgewater for three days.
Simeon sighed a little. “I ’ve never lived,” he said slowly. “I’ve made money—I’ve sat with my face close to a board, making money, studying moves—I’ve played a good game—” He said it grimly—“But I ’ve never lived yet. My father always said ‘Go in to win,’ and there was n’t any mother.” He said the words between the puffs.... “And then I married—” He waited a minute—“Yes—I guess I lived—a year. But I did n’t know-then.”
There was silence in the car. The train sped through soft, even darkness. The engine shrieked at a solitary grade crossing and was past.
The man lifted his head. There was a deep smile in his eyes.... “It ’s all going to be different,” he said slowly, “Just wait till we get things in hand—I ’m going over the road.”... He drew a map from his pocket and spread it on the table.... “Here is a place I want to know.” He pointed to a corner of the map, “They ’re always making a fuss up there—saying the road’s got to come their way. The division superintendent says it won’t pay—They say it will. I ’m going up.”
John leaned forward—“Chester County.” He spelled the name across the map. “My father knows Chester County.”
Simeon looked up with quick stare... “Your father?”
“He lived there when he was a boy.”
“I must know him,” said Simeon. “I ’ll take him with me.”
John smiled at the picture—but underneath the smile ran a swift sense of his father’s presence—its slow, steadying power upon the nervous, hurrying man. He would rest in the stolid strength of it. “I ’ll bring him to see you,” he said.
“Yes—What is your mother like?—You have not told me about your mother.” He gazed at the boy deeply.
“There’s no one like her,” said John. “I could n’t tell you. Nobody could tell about Mother.” His glance had traveled to the rack overhead where the fragrant boughs hung out, filling the air with light fragrance—He saw the light in her face and her hands held out to them—He smiled.
Simeon sighed and moved restlessly. He held another match to the cigar and his eye, as it followed the steady hand, filled with quick pride.
John was watching the hand, too, and the eyes of the two men met.
“I ’m all right,” said Simeon, throwing away the match with a little laugh.
“You ’re all right,” said John with deeper meaning.
“And I ’m a young man.” He rose and paced a few steps in the car—“I ’m forty-three—You don’t call that old?”
The eyes watching him smiled.
“That is not old,” said Simeon. He stretched himself to his full height, rapping his chest softly. He threw out his arm—toward the night. “I’m just beginning,” he said.
The brakeman passed through the car-carrying something on his arm. A piece of old cloth, a bit of signal flag, was thrown carelessly across it.
John’s eye followed him to the rear of the car. After a minute he got up and went to the door. He opened it and stepped onto the platform. The brakeman was bending over the end of the car, peering down at something. He tested it once or twice with his hand before he scrambled to his feet. “It ’s the red,” he said as he saw who stood beside him. “It don’t burn right—”
“Yes—What’s up?” The train was swirling through the dark and they held to the guard-rail as they faced each other.
In his cab, at the other end of the train, the old Scotchman, his body braced to the swing of the wheels, leaned out, looking back with tense eyes.
“Can ye see her, Jim?”
The fireman leaned beside him, for a moment, piercing the dark with swift, keen glance, “Nothing there,” he said.
The train, on the down grade by the river, ran with swift ease through the night.... No sight—no sound.... Only the great river to the left slipping—dark and still, and the stars overhead.
But the two men leaned back, scenting the dark with swift gaze.
“Nothing there,” said the fireman, peering out, “You must ’a’—”
He paused—with quick turn.
A long, low whistle broke the night, echoing against the distant hills.
The eyes of the two men met. Tomlinson’s hand raised itself with startled thrust. The answering shriek tore the night.... Once—twice—in hoarse demand....
Again the low, seeking call among the hills. Then silence and the black river slipping by.
The fireman sprang to his place.
Tomlinson’s hand upon the lever quickened its hold, drawing it tense. “We take no chances,” he said. The engine trembled beneath and leaped to swifter stride. It swayed through the night. The furnace door flew open and heaven blazed with roar and glow and swift heat. The faces of the two men, lurid in the white glare, confronted each other. Then darkness, and the swift rush of steel on steel—crunching, heavy beats of sound—and the thrusting roar and smoke.... They were swinging the bend of the curve now, where the road leaves the river under the mountain to track across country. Tomlinson, his body half thrown from the cab, strained back, his peering eyes searching the distant curve. He drew his hand across them.
“She ’s there, Jim!.... Look!” The shaking hand flung the words.
The fireman leaped to his side. A glimmer—a flash—twinkled gleams on the far curve.
“It ’s Her!” muttered Tomlinson.
“86,” said the fireman.
“The heaviest on the road.” Tomlinson’s hand reached Up....
She was running at frightful speed. His quick eye gaged her flight as he sounded the high, shrill call of warning.... She had not slowed for the curve.... She was not slowing now! Again the whistle sounded its savage cry.
And the note came back—echoing among the hills in little peals that laughed.
“Ah—she had heard.... she knew they were there... They were safe now.” The hand on the lever released its grip.... Gleason was running her. He was safe—Ten miles more.... Simeon Tetlow, swaying at ease in his parlor car, need not fear.... They were picked men on the road—and he ran them hard. They would bring him through....
Once more Tomlinson leaned out, looking back with a grim smile.... His startled gaze threw itself—She wasnotslowing—“Jim!” It was hoarse like a whisper—“Jim!—Look!”
But the fireman, bending to his flaming pot, had not heard.
The red eyes blazed again to the night.... “Jim!—” The hoarse cry shook the night.
The man sprang forward.
“Look!” He flung a hand.
The man leaned out. “God!” he said—He strained his eyes.... “The brakes don’t grip,” he cried fiercely.... “She’s running wild!” The words drove with the flying wind. He drew back, lifting a white face. “Down grade,” he whispered.
“Aye—down grade,” said Tomlinson, quietly. “Pile on the coal, Jim!” He flung the throttle wide. A great light broke across his face. “Pile on the coal, Jim!” The engine sprang.—“Stuff her,” he cried.
Again the flare and roar to the night—Great flying sparks.... Glory and fierce heat and the mighty power that throbbed to leap its bounds.... Winged thrust—horns and hoofs, and spilling flame....
The old engineer, his hand on the lever, balanced himself to the plunging flight. His small, peering eyes held the track ahead—they laid down the road before the wheels. And somewhere—far within—his soul laughed.... In the hollow of his hand he held him—The man who had scorned him—thrust him out.... “You shall never touch throttle or brake or switch on this road.” The wheels ground out the words. They beat them to powder and flung them—with hitter laugh and roar—upon the night.... He would not trust! And now he lay, like a baby, swung to the sound of wheels. Tomlinson laughed and set his teeth and leaned forward, squaring his shoulders.... His feet gripped the bounding floor. He would carry him safe.... They need not fear Tomlinson... .
Back in the car, Simeon Tetlow, absorbed in his map, looked up absently ... his glance on the swaying lamps—“They ’re taking us down pretty fast,” he said.
The young man nodded. He was sitting across the table, his head Testing on his hand, his eyes, with their quiet light, fixed on Simeon’s face. He had not stirred since he came in from the platform ten minutes ago.
Simeon, working on his map, looked up now and then with a little smile, and the quiet eyes smiled back. But something hungry had crept into them—a look of protection and longing—as if they would shield something helpless.
The train, in its heavy swing, lurched a little and Simeon looked up with a scowl that was half a laugh. The pencil had scrawled a curious, zigzag course across the paper. “I don’t seem to be running this road,” he said, “I might as well give up.” He pushed the map from him and looked at his watch—“9:40—Where are ye?”
“Just past Dunlop’s crossing,” said John..... At nine-forty, 86 was due at the crossing—the time-table in his pocket told it to him—five minutes off. Someone had blundered and she was in their block—close behind them—pressing upon them.... But the dull face gave no sign.
“Twenty minutes,” said Simeon. He stretched his arms with a little yawn—“We ’ll be in by ten—you think!”
“I think we shall be in before ten,” said the boy. His voice was very quiet, but the man looked up and saw the light in the eyes.
He leaned forward. “What is it, John?”
“Nothing, sir—” He said the words slowly. “I was only wishing I could do something for you.”
“Why, Boy—” He turned his head a little, listening—The shrill whistle had sounded—“What’s that!”
“Some train at Dunlop’s” said John.
The train beneath them seemed gathering itself in mighty leaps.
In the cab, the old engineer, with tense body and set teeth, laughed grimly—“I ’ll bring him in—I ’ll bring him in!”
The miles leaped behind them, flying. And behind them the express pounded heavily—soulless—massive—blind... five miles now—three—And the Scotchman laughed with the great lurches of his cab—
The lights of the upper station flashed past... then the lights of the yard... he threw the lever swiftly into place. The roar slackened and fell and ceased. The special was gliding easily down to her berth in the terminal shed.
The express, under control now, halted at the upper station, her blind eye glimmering through the dusk toward the little train that ran—smooth—safe, on its way. She gave a shrill cry—and puffed—impatient to be off.
Simeon put away the map in his pocket. He looked out into the busy yard as they drew in—little lights... slow-pulling freights—busy engines puffing up and down—smoke and grime. His own work. His heart leaped to it as he stepped from the car, and he lifted up his face to the great train shed—as in some great cathedral one looks up—and waits.... Whirling, drifting smoke—soaring and shimmering into the high roof.... Bells and voices and the sound of murmured calls... crimson torches flaring—skimming along the platforms—diving under engines—with hungry, peering eyes.... He took it in for a moment with deep, full breath before they swung down the platform.
Beside the engine an old man was bending with flaring torch, thrusting it into the heart of her, searching with careful eye for any harm that had come.
“Oh—Tomlinson!” said John.
The figure straightened itself and wheeled about, torch in hand.... His glance fell on the President of the Road and he stepped forward, a solemn look in the keen, blue eyes. He reached out a gaunt hand. The face, beneath its grime, held a deep, quiet power—“I forgi’e ye, Simeon Tetlow,” he said slowly. “I forgi’e ye,—now.”
The President of the Road took the grimy hand in his, with firm grip. “It ’s all right, Tomlinson, all right.”
He stood for a moment looking up at the tall figure, covered with oil and dirt—the smoke-stained face full of a kind of dignity.... “You brought us down fast, Tomlinson,” said the President of the Road with a little smile.
“Aye, I brought ye fast,” said Tomlinson. But there was no smile in the words.
He was gazing over their heads at something beyond them.
The express had come to rest in the next berth and the great engine loomed above them—breathing softly—full of pride and strength.
The three men looked at her for a minute, as if a magnet held them. Then the crowd, pouring out of the express, bore down upon them and swept them along. Tomlinson climbed back to his place in the cab, watching the two men until they were lost to sight in the jostling, hurrying throng. The express was a long one and the crowd streamed past... pushing, laughing... voices called... cramped limbs stretched themselves after the long ride and hurried a little; the platform resounded to light steps.
The engineer of the express leaned from his window, on folded arms, looking down. He was a quiet man with thoughtful eyes and a serious face.... The eyes raised themselves and looked across at Tomlinson—above the heads of the happy, hurrying crowd—a straight, slow glance. Then he lifted his hand to him—the sign of the brotherhood—as one who salutes an equal.
And Tomlinson lifted his hand in return.
Simeon emerged from the wicket gate, looking about with happy glance. The popcorn boy, scurrying to his place, the lights flaring and blazing, cabmen shouting—it was beautiful-all of it. He fell into the old, brisk walk and John, hurrying beside him, could hardly keep pace with it... . Joy was everywhere tonight—sound and bustle and quick-moving crowd. The nervous, hurrying frame vibrated to the city as a child to its mother’s touch, or the heart to music.... He was back among his own—exile was done.... They pressed upon him—past him—around him. He jostled elbows, and was glad. He could have stretched out his hands to them—every one. The grasp of the old Scotchman’s fingers lingered with him still—It crept np his arm in tiny thrills and warmed his heart. He must do something better for Tomlinson. There was strength in the old man still—with a grip like that! He rubbed his hand and shook his fingers a little ruefully at the very thought of it. How the old fellow had loomed—there on the platform—tall and grim! Then—in a flash—he saw him... in the green room, his head lifted high, his face stem... the very scent of the room was in the vision, pungent and fresh.
He drew a quick breath and threw back his head with a little impatient gesture. “I shall never get out of those woods,” he said. “I can smell them—yet! lean smell them here.”...
The boy glanced at him with swift twinkle. “Look behind you, sir.”
Simeon flashed back a quick look. Behind them was the porter, laden with bags and mgs. and bundles, and on his great shoulders the green branches swayed and nodded as he moved. They framed the big face with its gleaming smile—like some grotesque, dark-skinned dryad in the smoky station.
Simeon’s eye sought the boy’s—a little anxiously, it seemed, “Going to trim the office?” he said.
He laughed back. “I ’m carrying them home to her.”
He called a carriage, and the porter stowed away the boxes and bags and mgs, piling the mass of pine and spruce on the seat in front of them till the carriage was filled with its subtle fragrance.
Simeon leaned forward in the half light and plucked a little spray of the cedar, placing it in his coat. “That is for me,” he said, smiling a little, as he buttoned the coat over it, “the rest is for her.”
The great office building loomed at the right as they drove, and he glanced out quickly. “Same old place!” he said. His face wore a contented look and his hand reached out, in the dim light, to the stubby one resting on the boy’s knee and closed upon it for a moment with firm grasp.... “Tomorrow, Boy,” he said, “we begin again.”
“Tomorrow, sir,” replied the boy.
He entered the house lightly, but not so lightly that her sensitive ear did not catch the sound and hold itself attent to listen—“John?” Her voice searched the darkness. “John?—Is it you?”
He came in swiftly—“Bad mother!” He dropped on his knees beside her and laid his cool cheek to hers.... “Bad mother—to lie awake!” Her hand reached up to stroke his face.... “How fragrant you are—like the woods!”