Annie Laurie half turned. There was a consuming pity in her heart, and a great hope that Sam would not disappoint her. And he did not. He took three strides and stood by the man he had all his life called father.
“I reckon we won’t go back on the relationship,” he said. “If you took me out of an asylum and cared for me when I was little, I don’t mean to go back on you just now, sir, when you’re—when you’re down on your luck.”
“He’s not down on his luck,” said Annie Laurie in her clear tones. “He’s a lucky man to have the courage to bring back the thing he took that wasn’t his, Sam. Not everyone could have done it. You ought to feel proud of a father who could do that, Sam.”
“I am,” said Sam. “I’m mighty proud of him.”
Their youth, and the generosity of their youth, their desire to do the best they could for each other’s sake, had winged them up to that high place where Mercy sits. Azalea, watching them, thrilled to think they were her friends. They were doing precisely what Ma McBirney would have wished them to do if she had been there to advise them. They were not being just—they were much, much better than just. They were merciful. Annie Laurie went on:
“I don’t know how much money there is there, sir,” she said, pointing to the pile of bills on the table, “but I am sure there is a good deal and that you have given me back all you took.”
“All but two hundred dollars, miss. I gave Sam a hundred, and I used a hundred myself. I’ll pay it back some day, if I can.”
“What I was going to say was that I want you to count out a thousand dollars of that money for yourself. I’m not going to lend it to you. I don’t want you to go on thinking you have a debt like that. I know you’ve had a hard time, Mr. Disbrow. Father used to speak of it and feel sorry; and I’ve felt dreadfully sorry for you times and times. Now, you’re to take a thousand and just pretend, if you like, that my father willed it to you, and then you’re to go away where you can begin over with a little shop, or farm, and make your way.”
Pretend that Simeon Pace had willed it to him—Simeon Pace whom he had hated because Pace was a successful man and he an unsuccessful one! And Pace had felt sorry for him! But if that was the case, why hadn’t he helped him? Yet Hector Disbrow knew why—he knew it was because of his lazy ways and his bitter tongue, and for the first time in his life he saw himself as his neighbors had seen him, as a hang-dog man whom it was anything but pleasant to meet. Yes, he had missed the road, someway. He hadn’t known how to find the House of Good Will. He had broken his wife’s spirit, and had darkened the lives of the two children who lived beneath his roof. He had made a failure of everything—had even sunk to be a thief. And now here was this girl giving him another chance. And Sam was saying that he’d still be his son!
He was cold and hungry, worn with sleeplessness, shaken with the memory of the terrible voice that had cried in the mist, and this unexpected kindness was too much for him. He had not meant to do it—did not know that he ever could do such a thing—but he burst into the sobs of a broken man, and when Sam had led him to a chair he dropped his head on the table and wept.