PAGE 9
Two Christmases
by
Roderick winced. He saw that his secret was out. He was at the Scotchman’s mercy, and he knew it. “They’re stowed in t’ hollow of t’ old trunk, fifty yards back of t’ tilt, damn you,” he snarled, and tried to roll over, groaning bitterly with pain of both body and soul.
The pity of it appealed straight to Malcolm’s generous heart, and his grip relaxed instantly. He strove to make the other more comfortable, moving him gently in his great arms.
“Forget it, Mr. Norman,” he said. “No one shall ever know unless you tell ’em. I’ll give you my word for that.” The sick man said nothing. His deep breathing, painfully drawn, was, however, enough in that dead silence to warn Malcolm of the struggle going on so close to him–a struggle so much more momentous than one of tooth and claw. He slipped his hand into that of the other and held it gently.
“You’re very hot, sir,” he remarked, just for something to say. “Shall I get you some cold water?”
But still there was no answer. Evidently the man’s mind was engrossed with other thoughts. A long pause followed.
“Mr. Norman, for God’s sake, forget it. No one’s been hurt but yourself. If there’s been any wrong, it’s all forgiven and forgotten long ago. Let’s just begin again. Remember ‘t is Christmas Eve night.”
Still there was no reply, but McCrea’s intuition saved him from the mistake of saying more. The stillness became uncanny. Then an almost imperceptible pressure of the sick man’s hand sent a thrill vibrating through the Scotchman’s soul. Yes, and he had himself returned the pressure before he knew it. A shiver passed over the sick man’s frame and the silence was broken by a sob.
With an innate sense of fellow-feeling, Malcolm laid down the other’s hand, rose, and went out without a word. The night was perfect with the glorious light of the waning moon. His mind was at once made up. He would be home by daylight and back again with his dogs by midday, with stimulants and blankets, and could have Roderick in Nancy’s skilled hands before night.
Noiselessly opening the door, he filled the stove once more, piled up spare billets close to the bedside, laid out what food was left, placed his kettle full of water on the ground within reach of the sick man, and, just whispering, “I’ll be back soon, sir,” disappeared into the night.
How fast he sped only the stars and moon shall say. But joy lent him wings which brought him home before daylight. His faithful dogs, keeping their watch and ward out in the snow around his house, first brought the news to Nancy that her man was back so soon.
A few minutes served to explain how matters stood, and in a few more everything was ready. The coach-box was strapped on the komatik. The bearskin rug and a feather bed were lashed inside it, with all the restoratives loving care could think of, and with the music of the wild barking of the dogs echoing from the mountain and valley, the sledge went whirling back over the crisp snow–the team no less excited than Malcolm himself at this unexpected call for their services.
Everything was silent as once more they approached the scene of trouble. The dogs, panting and tired, having had no spell since they started, no longer broke the stillness with their barking. Malcolm hitched them up a hundred yards or so from the tilt, preferring to approach it on foot. He had long ago noticed that no smoke was coming from the funnel and it made his heart sink, for even in the woods the cold was intense.
Malcolm always says that he knew the meaning of it before he opened the door. Roderick Norman had gone to spend his first Christmas in happier hunting-grounds.