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.