“Och! wurra, wurra, that iver I shtooped to desate,” the old man murmured. “What will I do wid juty sayin’ ‘go forrard,’ an’ juty sayin’ ‘go back’? ’Tis most thirty miles from the shantymen’s hut to that lonely little house, an’ I can’t take the journey over ag’in. Whist there, mither, wid your callin’ to the colleen, or ’tis cracked me heart will be intoirely. Aisy now! the voice av you is far away loike, an’ yet ’tis plain as thunder in me ears. Sure, I thought the fun av the wurrld was in this thing, an’ I meant no harm at all—whist there, mither dear! They do be waitin’ fer me up at Merle,—thim an’ the Christmas fun—an’ Christmas only comin’ wanst a year!—an’ there’s the wager besides. Och! wurra, wurra, what will I do? I must go on, but ’tisn’t wid me the darlint can be goin’.”
He recognized that very clearly now when it was almost too late. His home as the child dreamed of it and his home as it really was were two very different things. He couldn’t take her to the tavern at Merle, with its rough, carousing crowd—such fun was not for her—and he had nowhere else to go. Then he thought of the road ever getting darker and darker, of the frozen lake with its treacherous ice that he must cross, of the night growing colder—he knew how to keep himself warm, but it was another matter where she was concerned. And when he went driving into Merle to claim his bet his hand might not be steady—that had happened so often before! and there was that ugly bit just below the tavern, where even the most careful driver must pick his way warily; but with a little child—the thought made him giddy. No—no—no—he couldn’t take her with him, that was impossible! And equally he saw, because he knew himself so well, he couldn’t take her back to her mother’s longing arms. He couldn’t go back! He sat quite still, turning over different plans in his mind, while the precious minutes slipped by unheeded. Finally his brow cleared a trifle. There was but one solution to the difficulty—the lumbermen might help him—must help him; he would see that they had no choice in the matter. As he reached this decision some of his old reckless daring came back to him; but he bore himself in a shamefaced fashion, and with none of his usual jauntiness, though he straightened his shoulders, and tried to appear unconcerned. He began to whistle, too, as if to silence the wailing cry that still pursued the sleigh—he would not let himself listen.
“Och! child,” he said, looking down at the little maid, “’tis sorry I am fer ye, darlint, but ’twill all come right in the mornin’—throubles always do. Whist now! ’tis sorriest I am fer mesilf, since I can’t help mesilf at all—I bein’ what I am, ye see.”
He put his hand into his coat, and though his fingers came in contact with the flat bottle, they did not draw it forth; they groped farther, past the inner coat and beneath the blouse, to something that hung against his chest suspended from a cord. When he brought out his hand it held a dingy little bag. He stripped off the outer covering, disclosing a cheap gilt locket and the half of a broken sixpence. With shaking fingers he took a wisp of hair from the trinket, and wrapping it up again thrust it back into his breast; but the locket and the coin he folded in a bit of newspaper, and stooped once more to the child.
“Sure, it ain’t a dolly that will shut its eyes, mavourneen, that I do be givin’ ye fer a Christmas gift,” he whispered; “but mebbe ye’ll like it fer the sake av wan as loved it. An’ God Almighty an’ all the howly saints bless ye feriver an’ iver, amin.”
She stirred at his touch and opened her eyes, misty still with sleep. For a moment she looked at him in some doubt, then, as she struggled into a sitting position, she laughed gayly.
“Oh! it’s really and truly you.” Her glance swept their surroundings. “And are we home now—at your very home? Is that it?”
The walls of the lumbermen’s hut showed indistinctly through the clearing. It was almost dark; the night that comes swiftly in the north lands was folding its mantle like a great soft wing over the whole country, though in the west there was still a faint streak of rose, as if the day was sorry to go, and so it lingered in that little tender time between the lights, when one can dream best of all.
“Is that home?” she asked again, very softly.
“Listen, Swateheart. But first take this wee packidge—Aisy, now! ye mustn’t fale the edges—an’ shtow it away in your pocket if ye have wan; ’tis not to be looked at, nor so much as prodded, mind ye, till sunrise to-morry. Remimber! An’ second—faith, me second is hardest fer me, fer ’tis good-by I must be sayin’.”