A Little Book for Christmas by Cyrus Townsend Brady (freda ebook reader .txt) 📖

contain things of value.

Marking the position of the combination knob, he turned out the light and waited again. The quiet of the night continued unbroken. A swift inspection convinced him that the lock was only an ordinary combination. With proper--or improper--tools he could have opened it easily. Even without tools, such were his delicately trained ear and his wonderfully trained fingers that he thought he could feel and hear the combination. He knelt down by the knob and began to turn it slowly, listening and feeling for the fall of the tumblers. Several times he almost got it, only to fail at the end, but by repeated trials and unexampled patience, his heart beating like a trip-hammer the while, he finally mastered the combination and opened the safe door.

In his excitement when he felt the door move he swung it outward sharply. It had not been used for some time evidently and the hinges creaked. He checked the door and listened again. Was he to be balked after so much success? He was greatly relieved at the absence of sound. It was quite dark in the room. He could see nothing but the safe. He reached his hand in and discovered it was filled with bulky articles covered with some kind of cloth, silver evidently.

He decided that he must have a look and again he switched on the light. Yes, his surmise had been correct. The safe was filled with silver. There was a small steel drawer in the middle of it. He had a broad bladed jack-knife in his pocket and at the risk of snapping the blade he forced the lock and drew out the drawer. It was filled with papers. He lifted the first one and stood staring at it in astonishment, for it was an envelope which bore his name, written by a hand which had long since mouldered away in the dust of a grave.


V


Before he could open the envelope, there broke on his ear a still small voice, not that of conscience, not that of God; the voice of a child--but does not God speak perhaps as often through the lips of childhood as in any other way--and conscience, too?

"Are you Santa Claus?" the voice whispered in his ear.

"Crackerjack" dropped the paper and turned like a flash, knife upraised in his clenched hand, to confront a very little girl and a still smaller boy staring at him in open-eyed astonishment, an astonishment which was without any vestige of alarm. He looked down at the two and they looked up at him, equal bewilderment on both sides.

"I sought dat Santy Claus tame down de chimney," said the younger of the twain, whose pajamas bespoke the nascent man.

"In all the books he has a long white beard. Where's yours?" asked the coming woman.

This innocent question no less than the unaffected simplicity and sincerity of the questioner overpowered "Crackerjack." He sank back into a convenient chair and stared at the imperturbable pair. There was a strange and wonderful likeness in the sweet-faced golden-haired little girl before him to the worn, haggard, and ill-clad little girl who lay shivering in the mean bed in the upper room where God was not--or so he fancied.

"You're a little girl, aren't you?" he whispered.

No voice had been or was raised above a whisper. It was a witching hour and its spell was upon them all.

"Yes."

"What is your name?"

"Helen."

Now Helen had been "Crackerjack's" mother's name and it was the name of his own little girl, and although everybody else called her Nell, to him she was always Helen.

"And my name's John," volunteered the other child.

"John!" That was extraordinary!

"What's your other name?"

"John William."

The man stared again. Could this be coincidence merely? John was his own name and William that of his brother.

"I mean what is your last name?"

"Carstairs," answered the little girl. "Now you tell us who you are. You aren't Santa Claus, are you? I don't hear any reindeers outside, or bells, and you haven't any pack, and you're not by the fireplace where our stockings are."

[Illustration: "I sought dat Santy Claus tame down de chimney," said the younger of the twain.]

"No," said the man, "I'm not exactly Santa Claus, I'm his friend--I--"

What should he say to these children? In his bewilderment for the moment he actually forgot the letter which he still held tightly in his hand.

"Dat's muvver's safe," continued the little boy. "She keeps lots o' things in it. It's all hers but dat drawer. Dat's papa's and--"

"I think I hear some one on the stairs," broke in the little girl suddenly in great excitement. "Maybe that's Santa Claus."

"Perhaps it is," said the man, who had also heard. "You wait and watch for him. I'll go outside and attend to his reindeer."

He made a movement to withdraw, but the girl caught him tightly by the hand.

"If you are his friend," she said, "you can introduce us. You know our names and--"

The golden opportunity was gone.

"Don't say a word," whispered the man quickly. "We'll surprise him. Be very still."

He reached his hand up and turned out the light. He half hoped he might be mistaken, or that in the darkness they would not be seen, but no. They all heard the footsteps on the stair. They came down slowly, and it was evident that whoever was approaching was using every precaution not to be heard. "Crackerjack" was in a frightful situation. He did not know whether to jerk himself away from the two children, for the boy had clasped him around the leg and the girl still held his hand, or whether to wait.

The power of decision suddenly left him, for the steps stopped before the door. There was a little click as a hand pressed a button on the wall and the whole room was flooded with light from the great electrolier in the centre. Well, the game was up. "Crackerjack" had been crouching low with the children. He rose to his feet and looked straightly enough into the barrel of a pistol held by a tall, severe looking man in a rich silk dressing robe, who confronted him in the doorway. Two words broke from the lips of the two men, the same words that had fallen from their lips when they met ten years before.

"John!" cried the elder man, laying the weapon on a nearby table.

"Will!" answered "Crackerjack" in the same breath.

As if to mark the eternal difference as before, the one was clothed in habiliments of wealth and luxury, the other in the rags and tatters of poverty and shame.

"Why, that isn't Santa Claus," instantly burst out the little girl, "that's papa."

"Dis is Santy Claus's friend, papa," said the little boy. "We were doin' to su'prise him. He said be very still and we minded."

"So this is what you have come to, John," said the elder man, but there was an unwonted gentleness in his voice.

"I swear to God I didn't know it was your house. I just came in here because the window was open."

The other pointed to the safe.

"But you were--"

"Of course I was. You don't suppose I wandered in for fun, do you? I've got a little girl of my own, and her name's Helen, too; our mother's name."

The other brother nodded.

"She's hungry and cold and there's no Christmas for her or her mother."

"Oh, Santy has been here already," cried Master John Williams, running toward the great fireplace, having just that moment discovered the bulging stockings and piles of gifts. His sister made a move in the same direction, for at the other corner hung her stocking and beneath it her pile, but the man's hand unconsciously tightened upon her hand and she stopped.

"I'll stay with you," she said, after a moment of hesitation. "Tell me more about your Helen."

"There's nothing to tell." He released her hand roughly. "You musn't touch me," he added harshly. "Go."

"You needn't go, my dear," said her father quickly. "Indeed, I think, perhaps--"

"Is your Helen very poor?" quietly asked the little girl, possessing herself of his hand again, "because if she is she can have"--she looked over at the pile of toys--"Well, I'll see. I'll give her lots of things, and--"

"What's this?" broke out the younger man harshly, extending his hand with the letter in it toward the other.

"It is a letter to you from our father."

"And you kept it from me?" cried the other.

"Read it," said William Carstairs.

With trembling hands "Crackerjack" tore it open. It was a message of love and forgiveness penned by a dying hand.

"If I had had this then I might have been a different man," said the poor wretch.

"There is another paper under it, or there should be, in the same drawer," went on William Carstairs, imperturbably. "Perhaps you would better read that."

John Carstairs needed no second invitation. He turned to the open drawer and took out the next paper. It was a copy of a will. The farm and business had been left to William, but one half of it was to be held in trust for his brother. The man read it and then he crushed the paper in his hand.

"And that, too, might have saved me. My God!" he cried, "I've been a drunken blackguard. I've gone down to the very depths. I have been in State's prison. I was, I am, a thief, but I never would have withheld a dying man's forgiveness from his son. I never would have kept a poor wretch who was crazy with shame and who drank himself into crime out of his share of the property."

Animated by a certain fell purpose, he leaped across the room and seized the pistol.

"Yes, and I have you now!" he cried. "I'll make you pay."

He levelled the weapon at his brother with a steady hand.

"What are you doin' to do wif that pistol?" said young John William, curiously looking up from his stocking, while Helen cried out. The little woman acted the better part. With rare intuition she came quickly and took the left hand of the man and patted it gently. For one thing, her father was not afraid, and that reassured her. John Carstairs threw the pistol down again. William Carstairs had never moved.

"Now," he said, "let me explain."

"Can you explain away this?"

"I can. Father's will was not opened until the day after you left. As God is my judge I did not know he had written to you. I did not know he had left anything to you. I left no stone unturned in an endeavour to find you. I employed the best detectives in the land, but we found no trace of you whatever. Why, John, I have only been sorry once that I let you go that night, that I spoke those words to you, and that has been all the time."

"And where does this come from?" said the man, flinging his arm up and confronting the magnificent room.

"It came from the old farm. There was oil on it and I sold it for a great price. I was happily married. I came here and have been successful in business. Half of it all is yours."

"I won't take it."