Chapter 1

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AND THUS HE CAME

A Christmas Fantasy

by

CYRUS TOWNSEND BRADY

Pictures by Walter B. Everett

G.P. Putnam's Sons New York and London The Knickerbocker Press

1916

To the Beloved Memory of Little Betty

Contents

I.--THE BABY II.--THE CHILD III.--THE FRIEND IV.--THE WORKMAN V.--THE COMFORTER VI.--THE BURDEN BEARER VII.--THE THORN CROWNED VIII.--THE BROKEN-HEARTED IX.--THE FORGIVER OF SINS X.--THE GIVER OF LIFE XI.--THE STILLER OF THE STORM

Illustrations

"NO, NO," SAID THE WOMAN, "I CAN'T GO WITH YOU NOW" (Frontispiece)

AFTER A TIME SHE FELL DOWN ON HER KNEES. SHE PRESSED THEM AGAINST HER FACE

SHE LAID HER HAND UPON THE KNOB OF THE CHURCH DOOR

"IT IS HE," WHISPERED THE PRIEST; "HIS SORROW WAS GREATER THAN MINE"

ABSOLVO TE

THE CRY FOR BREAD

I

The Baby

"A LITTLE CHILD SHALL LEAD THEM"

I

The Baby

The heavy perfume of rare blossoms, the wild strains of mad music, the patter of flying feet, the murmur of speech, the ring of laughter, filled the great hall. Now and again a pair of dancers, peculiarly graceful and particularly daring, held the center of the floor for a moment while the room rang with applause.

Into alcoves, screened and flower-decked, couples wandered. In the dancing-space hands were clasped, bosoms rose and fell, hearts throbbed, pulses beat, and moving bodies kept time to rhythmic sound.

Suddenly the music stopped, the conversation ceased, the laughter died away. Almost, as it were, poised in the air, the dancers stood amazed. One looked to another in surprise. Something stole throughout the room which was neither music, nor lights, nor fragrance, but which was life--a presence!

"Do you see that child?" asked the wildest of the dancers of her escort. "There," she pointed. "He looks like a very little boy."

"I see nothing," said the man, who still held her in the clasp of his arm.

"He is strangely dressed, although I see him indistinctly, vaguely," whispered the woman. "He wears a long white robe and there is a kind of light about his face. See, he is looking at us."

"I see nothing," repeated the man in low tones. "The heat, the light, the music, have disturbed you; let me get you--"

"I want nothing," interposed the woman, waving the man aside and drawing away from his arm. "Don't you see him, there?"

She made a step toward the center of the room. She stopped, put her hand to her head.

"Why, he is gone," she exclaimed.

"Good," said the man, while at that instant the room suddenly rang with cries: "Go on with the music, the dance is not half over." He extended his arm to the woman again. "Our dance is not finished."

"Yes, it is," she said as the flying feet once more twinkled across the polished floor, as everybody took a long breath and a new start apparently unconscious of the pause.

"It is over for me. What I saw!"

"What did you see?"

"I don't know, but I'm going back home to my child. Good-night."

* * * * *

Yes, the music had stopped suddenly. The man in the farthest alcove turned to his companion. They were hidden by a group of palms.

"I wonder why?" queried the woman. She was deathly pale. Her eyes were dark with fear, yet alight with passionate determination.

"When it begins," said the man tenderly, "we will slip away. My car is outside. Everything is ready."

"That is my husband over there," said the woman.

"Yes," said the man, "he won't trouble you any more."

"That woman with him is leaving him," she said. "I wonder why." She turned suddenly with a great start. "There is somebody here," she whispered, staring into the back of the alcove.

"Nonsense," said the man, throwing a glance around the recess. "There's nobody here but you and I. We are alone together, as we shall be hereafter, when we have taken the step."

"But that child," whispered the woman, "with his strange vesture and his wonderful face. His eyes look at me so."

"There is no child there, my dear," urged the man; "you are overwrought, excited, nervous. The music starts. Let us go."

He stretched out his hand to the woman, but as he came nearer she shrank back with her own hand on her heart.

"Oh," she said faintly, "he's gone."

"Of course he's gone," he answered soothingly. "Now is our time to get away. Let me--"

"No, no," said the woman. "I can't go with you now. It wouldn't be right."

"But you knew that before," pleaded the man. "Besides--"

"Yes, but I can't do it. He was there! His eyes spoke--I--don't touch me," she said; "I'm going back to my husband. Don't follow."

II

The Child

"SUFFER THE LITTLE CHILDREN TO COME UNTO ME"

II

The Child

The employees had all gone home, carrying with them Christmas checks and hearty greetings from the great man whose beck and nod they followed. He sat in his private office absolutely alone. He had some serious matters to consider and did not want any interruptions. His balance-sheet for the year had been made up according to the custom of the firm before Christmas instead of on New Year's Day. He examined it again. It showed tremendous profit. The mills were turning out quantities of material, the demand for which was greater and the cost of production less than ever before.

"I tell you," said the man to himself, "it was a master-stroke to displace the men with children in the mills. They have reduced the cost by four fifths. War has made the prices go up. This is not wealth, it is riches beyond calculation."

He picked up a letter, read it over. It was a proposal from the superintendent to clear more land, to build more buildings, to install more machines, to employ more children and increase the profits greatly.

"I'll do it," said the man. "We can crush opposition absolutely. I'll control the markets of the world. I'll build a fortune upon this foundation so great that no one can comprehend it."

He stopped, leaned back in his chair, lifted his eyes up toward the ceiling of the room and saw beyond it the kingdoms of this world and the means unlimited to make him lord and master. He gave no thought to the foundations, only to the structure erected by his fancy. How long he indulged in dreams he scarcely realized, but presently he put his hands on the arms of the chair and started to rise, saying,

"I'll telegraph the superintendent to go ahead."

He had scarcely formulated the words when right in front of him, seated on his desk, he saw a young lad regarding him intently. He stopped, petrified, in the position he had assumed.

"How did you get in? What are you doing here?" he asked. There was no answer. "Come," said the man, shrinking back. "I can't imagine how you got in here. If my people had not all gone I should hold them to strict account. As it is, you--"

The room was suddenly filled with people. They came crowding through the walls from every side and pressed close to him. Such people he had never seen: wan, worn, stunted, pinched, starved, joyless. They were all children, meagerly clothed, badly nourished, ill developed. They were quite silent. They did not cry. They did not protest. They did not argue. They did not plead. They did not laugh. They just looked at him. They made no sound of any sort. He had children of his own and he had known many children. He had never known so many gathered together without a smile or a laugh.

His eye wandered around the room. They were very close to him and yet they did not touch him. He turned to the desk where the lad had sat, but he was no longer there and yet he well remembered his face. He knew exactly how he looked. He turned to the nearest child and in some strange way, although the poor, wretched face had not changed, his look suggested the lad who had been his first visitor. He turned to another and another. They all looked back at him in the same way with the same eyes.

He threw his head up again and saw the castle of success of which he had dreamed. He looked down again. This was the foundation. Slowly his hand went to the desk. The little crowding figures drew back to give him freedom of movement as he stretched his hand out for a telegraph-blank. He drew it to him. He seized a pen and wrote rapidly:

"Build no more mills, take the children out of those already in operation, put men in their places. We will be content with less profit in the future."

He read over the telegram. The telephone was close at hand. He called up the telegraph-office, dictated it and directed it to be sent immediately. He had been so engrossed in this task that he had noticed nothing else. Now he looked up. The room was still filled with children, but they were all laughing. It was a soundless laugh, and yet he heard it. And then the room was empty save for the child he had seen first and vaguely. He had just time to catch a smile from his lips and then he, too, was gone as silently and as strangely as he had appeared.

Was it a dream? No, there was the telegram in his hand! Had he sent it? Again he called up the office on the telephone.

"Did you get a message from me just a minute ago?"

"Yes, do you want to recall it?"

The man thought a second.

"No," he said quietly--was it to himself or to his vanished visitors?--"let it go. Merry Christmas."

III

The Friend

"INASMUCH AS YE HAVE DONE IT UNTO ONE OF THE LEAST OF THESE, MY BRETHREN"

III

The Friend

"Is the story of the Christ Child true, Mommy?" quivered one little, thin voice.

"Yes, they told us it was over at the mission Sunday-school," said the littlest child.

"I don't believe it," answered the mother. "God ain't never done much for me."

"It's Christmas eve, ain't it?" asked the boy, climbing up on the thin knees of the threadbare woman and nestling his thin face against a thinner breast which the rags scarcely covered decently.

"Yes, it's Christmas eve."

"And that's the day He came, ain't it?" urged the oldest girl.

"They say so."

"Don't you believe it, Mommy?"

"I used to believe it when I was a girl. I believed it before your father died, but now--"

"Don't you believe it now?" repeated the first child.

"How can I believe it? You're old enough to understand. That's the last scuttle of coal we got. We ate the last bit of bread for supper to-night."

"They say," put in the little boy, "that if you hang up your stockings, Santa Claus'll fill 'em, 'cause of the Christ Child."

"Don't you believe it, Sonny," said the mother desperately.

"I'm going to hang up mine and see," said the littlest girl.

"He's got too many other children to look after," said the woman, "to care for the likes of us, I'm afraid, and--"

"But my Sunday-school teacher said He came to poor people special. He was awful poor Himself. Why, He was born in a stable. That's awful poor, ain't it?" asked the boy.

"When I was a girl," answered the mother, "I lived on a farm and we had a stable there that was a palace to this hole we live in now. No, you'd better not hang up your stockings, none of you."

"And you don't believe in Him, Mommy?"

"No. What would be the use if you hung 'em up and didn't find anything in 'em in the morning?"

"It'd be awful, but I believe in Him," said the littlest girl. "I don't think God has forgot us, really. I'm going to try."

"I tell you 'tain't no use."

"Oh, yes, it is."

"I'm sure it ain't. But have it your own way," said the woman. "If someone would fill your stockings with milk and bread and--"

"I want a turkey," said the oldest girl.

"And cranberry sauce," added the boy.

"I want a doll-baby in mine," said the littlest girl.

The mother hid her face and groaned aloud.

"You ain't sick, are you, Mommy?"

"I guess so. Come, you'd better say your prayers and go to bed. We don't have to keep the fire going so hard when you're all covered up."

It did not take long for the three little youngsters to divest themselves of the rags of clothing they wore. They slept in what passed for their underclothes, so there was no donning of white gowns for the night.

"Here are our stockings, Mommy," said the oldest, handing three ragged, almost footless, black stockings to the woman.

"It's no use, I tell you. I can't do it."

"It won't do any harm, Mommy," urged the girl.

"Do you believe in it, too?" asked the mother, and the girl shook her head. "You won't be disappointed in the morning if there's nothing in 'em?"

"No, I suppose it will be because Santa Claus was too busy."

With nervous fingers the woman hung the three stockings near the window. She was hungry, she was cold, she was broken, she was a mother. She could scarcely keep from crying.

"Maybe you'll be glad you did it," said the littlest girl drowsily.

"Ain't you comin' to bed, too, Mommy?" asked the oldest, beneath the covers over the mattress on the floor.

"In a little while."

"And you won't forget to say your prayers?"

"I ain't said 'em for months, ever since your father was killed, and we got so poor."

"But you'll say 'em to-night 'cause it's Christmas eve?"

"Yes, to-night," said the mother; "now you go to sleep."

"Are you waitin' for him to come, Mommy?" asked the littlest girl, who was very sleepy.

"Yes," said the mother.

Presently, as she sat in the dark, having turned out the light, the deep breathing of the children told her they were asleep. She rose quietly, stepped to the window, and stood looking at the three shapeless, tattered stockings. She was high up in the tenement and the moonlight came softly over the house roofs of the city into the bare, cold, cheerless room. She stared at the stockings and tears streamed down her wasted cheeks. She had hung them low at the suggestion of the littlest girl so the children could easily get at them in the morning.

After a time she fell down on her knees. She pressed them against her face. She did not say anything. She could scarcely think anything. She just knelt there until something gently drew her head around. She dropped the stockings. She put her right hand on the window-ledge to steady herself and looked backward.

No sound save the breathing of the children and her own stifled sobs had broken the silence; the door was shut, but a man was there, a man of strange vesture seen dimly in the moon's radiance, yet there was a kind of light about his face. She could see his features. They were those of a man in middle years. They were lined with care. He had seen life on its seamy side. The woman felt that he had known poverty and loneliness. She stared up at him.

"I didn't believe," she whispered; "it cannot be. I thought we were forgotten."

The man slowly raised his hand. The moonlight struck fair upon it. She saw that it was calloused, the hand of a man who toiled. It was extended over her head. There was no bodily touch, but her head bent low down until she rested it upon her hands upon the floor. When she looked up, the room was empty. There was no sound save the breathing of the children and the throb of her own heart which beat wildly in the fearful hollow of her ear.

She heard a sound of strange footsteps outside the door. There was a crackle as of paper, the soft sound of things laid upon the floor, a gentle rapping on the panels, a light laugh, a rustle of draperies, footsteps moving away. As in a dream she got to her feet, she knew not how. She opened the door.

The hall was dimly illuminated. Her feet struck a little heap of joy-bringing parcels. She leaned back against the door-jamb, her hand to her heart, trembling. What could it mean?

A tiny voice broke the silence. It was the littlest girl turning over in her sleep, murmuring incoherently and then clearly:

"If you only believe, that's enough; if you only believe."

IV

The Workman

"IS NOT THIS THE CARPENTER?"

IV

The Workman

In the mean squalid room back of the saloon half a score of men were assembled. They were all young in years, in other things not youthful. Some of them lounged against the wall. Some sat at tables. All were drinking. The air was foul with smoke and reeked with the odor of vile liquor.

"We've got two jobs on hand to-night," said the leader of the gang. "There's a crib to be cracked an' a guy to be croaked. Red, you an' Gypsie an' the Gunney will crack the crib. It's dead easy. Only an old man an' his wife. The servants are out except one an' he's fixed. I'll give you the layout presently. The other job's harder. Kid, I'll put you in charge, an' as it's got to be done early to-night I'll give you the orders now. He'll be at The Montmorency at ten o'clock. Someone will call him out to the street."

"Who?"

"Never mind who. You'll be there in the car."

"Whose car?"

"Never mind whose. Why're you askin' so many questions? It'll take you an' the four to The Montmorency at ten o'clock. When he comes out every one of you let go, the whole bunch, understand. If they don't find five bullets in him there'll be trouble to-morrow."

"What do we get out of it?"

"A hundred apiece fer you an' a hundred an' fifty fer me fer engineerin' the job. Christmas money! You get me?"

"Of course. How'll we know who we've got to shoot?"

"I'll be there myself on the sidewalk. I'll point him out to you."

"The police?"

"They're fixed."

"Easy enough," said the Kid, the youngest of the gang.

"Well, you guys," said the leader pointing out four of the men, "will go with the Kid. The car'll be at the door in half an hour."

"Now, gimme my orders," said Red.

The gang leader scribbled something on a bit of paper.

"You go to that number with these two guys between midnight an' two in the mornin'. You'll find a back winder open. Here's the combination of the safe. The silver'll be in that."

"Jewels?"

"In a wall cabinet upstairs. It'll be unlocked."

"An' if they make any noise?"

"Croak 'em, of course. But don't make no noise doin' it. Better use a blackjack. We're not sure about the cop on that beat."

"I understand."

"Well, git your gats and make ready. Before we go, the drinks'll be on me. Fill up, men," he added, first pouring himself a liberal glassful, "an' here's to bringin' it off easy."

With deep relish the toast was drunk by all save Red and the Kid. Red set his glass down on the table. The Kid dropped his to the floor.

"There's somebody else in the room," whispered Red.

"Yes, yonder by the door," said the Kid. "You c'n jest see him."

"Don't be a fool," said the gang leader. "There's nobody here but us."

"He's wearin' strange clothes," said Red.

"He looks like a carpenter by his kit o' tools," said the Kid.

"Here, pull yourselves together, men," said the gang leader; "you're dippy, there's nobody here. Where's your nerve?"

But Red made no move to obey. He thrust his glass from him and rose and leaned over the table staring. The other men shrank back glancing at the two figures, for the Kid had also dashed the proffered glass aside.

"I see him," he said, "he's lookin' at me, he's lookin' through me."

In his excitement he took a step forward and the table went over with a crash. The two men passed their hands over their eyes in bewilderment.

"Why, there ain't nobody here," said the Kid.

"But I seen him I tell you," persisted Red.

"And so did I."

"Well, he's gone, whoever he was, accordin' to your own showin'," said the gang leader contemptuously. "Now brace up. Take your liquor. Get a move on youse."

"Not me," exclaimed Red suddenly.

"Nor me," said the Kid.

"What d'ye mean?"

"I won't do it."

"Neither will I."

Both men moved to the door. The gang leader sprang to intercept them, his arms upraised, his hands clenched.

"Lemme pass," said Red.

"Are you goin' to give us away?"

"No," answered Red. "But you don't rob no house, an' you don't kill no man to-night."

"You all know what that means," cried the leader. "Here you men grab 'em."

But the rest of the gang hung back.

"Mebbe they did see somethin'," said one.

"You cowardly dogs," cried the leader.

"We won't mention no names to nobody," said the Kid, "but you can't pull them jobs off. We'll jest warn 'em."

"You swore you'd be true to the gang, that you'd obey orders an' follow directions."

"We won't give ye away but I'm goin' to quit the gang an' go to work," said Red.

"Me too," said the Kid.

"Work! Hell!" exclaimed the gang leader, but they shoved him out of the way and went out of the door.

V

Comforter

"NEITHER DO I CONDEMN THEE"

V

The Comforter

She was a daughter of shame. Even inexperience could see that as she wandered up and down the streets of the town, desperate, impelled to go on by a force too strong for her to resist. She trod the pavement, yet loathed the necessity and hated herself for her compliance. She had only to look forward to the jail or the hospital; yet there was always the river. Had it come to that? Was there nothing else?

She lifted her eyes from the stone walk as hard as the heart of the world, and found herself opposite a brightly lighted building. She leaned against the door. From within came the sound of music, the strains of a hymn, words of prayer. The light streamed about her face from the stained window. This was a Church of God. Stained window, stained woman, confronting each other in the night!

There was no God for her. There might have been once, but she had committed the unpardonable sin against society and society was God. There was no place for her anywhere, save the jail or the hospital or the river. That last was the best. The street was deserted. She had thought it not a good place in which to ply her trade! She made a step forward and stopped.

In her pathway stood a figure seen dimly in the darkness. It stood in the shadow beyond the broad light from the painted window. There was something strangely familiar about it. She glanced up at that window. Had the figure there stepped down and embodied itself vaguely on the walk before her?

What was this strange figure? Who was he? As she stared, the outline drew nearer. A man vested in long white draperies confronted her. He was bareheaded and appeared insensible to the cold in which she shivered. She put out her hand and something folded it back upon her breast. She opened her lips and something sealed them.

As she watched, the figure slowly moved. It bent forward and went slowly down on its knees on the sidewalk. The white hand began to trace strange, mysterious, unknown, incomprehensible characters upon the pavement. She watched with bated breath, some memory of another sinful woman of whom she had heard in childhood coming back to her prostrate mind. Yes, and there behind the figure stood others, hateful and hating, very violent, passionate men. She stared from the handwriting in the dust to these others and they faded away. She was alone with the kneeling figure and, as she looked, it too vanished in the chill air.

She bent over the pavement. There was nothing there, yet she had received a message. After a last glance she turned away, new courage, new life, new hope in her heart.

She mounted the steps, she laid her hand upon the knob of the church door, she turned it and went bravely within.

VI

The Burden Bearer

"HE, BEARING HIS CROSS, WENT FORTH"

VI

The Burden Bearer

The sound of the running feet of the man smashing through the burned stubble ceased abruptly. He stopped at the threshold of the door. No friendly bark of dog welcomed him. From the barn there came no gentle lowing of cattle, no homely clucking of chickens. Like the house the byre too had been ruined, gutted with flame.