Part 9

“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 ’ll _like_ to have the beautiful things come _pouring 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 do _you_ know?--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’en _love_ ’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 fink _anybody_ loves _him_,” 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.

XXV

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’t _know_ about 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 ’ll_ tell him.” The eyes had flashed wide. They shone dizzily--the little hands clasped themselves--“_I ’ll_ tell 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.

XXVI

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 to _him_--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 am _well_, 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.

XXVII

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 I _slept_--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 the _switch_ to 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 into _my_ hand!” 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.