Part 8

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--“And _he ’s_ no 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.

XXII

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 folks _used_ to 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 come _here_--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. _You_ can help--”

“I ’ll do naught for him,” said the man sternly. “She’s within door, and ye can ask _her_. 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.”

XXIII

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.

XXIV

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.”

“_Why_ can’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 he _let_ ’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. “Do _you_ know a bad man?”

“Yes--I know one.” It was a modest little drawl--an assertion of wisdom tinged with importance. “He’s a _very_ bad 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.”

“But _you_ must 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.