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.