Part 21 (1/2)
Henry raised the club.
But as he did so-stay, what was that? Far away behind the cedar swamp the deep booming of the bell of the village church began to strike out midnight. One, two, three, its tones came clear across the crisp air. Almost at the same moment the clock below began with deep strokes to mark the midnight hour; from the farmyard chicken coop a rooster began to crow twelve times, while the loud lowing of the cattle and the soft cooing of the hogs seemed to usher in the morning of Christmas with its message of peace and goodwill.
The club fell from Henry's hand and rattled on the floor.
The sleeper woke, and sat up.
”Father! Mother!” he cried.
”My son, my son,” sobbed the father, ”we had guessed it was you.
We had come to wake you.”
”Yes, it is I,” said William, smiling to his parents, ”and I have brought the million dollars. Here it is,” and with that he unstrapped the belt from his waist and laid a million dollars on the table.
”Thank Heaven!” cried Anna, ”our troubles are at an end. This money will help clear the mortgage-and the greed of Pinchem & Co. cannot harm us now.”
”The farm was mortgaged!” said William, aghast.
”Ay,” said the farmer, ”mortgaged to men who have no conscience, whose greedy hand has nearly brought us to the grave. See how she has aged, my boy,” and he pointed to Anna.
”Father,” said William, in deep tones of contrition, ”I am Pinchem & Co. Heaven help me! I see it now. I see at what expense of suffering my fortune was made. I will restore it all, these million dollars, to those I have wronged.”
”No,” said his mother softly. ”You repent, dear son, with true Christian repentance. That is enough. You may keep the money. We will look upon it as a trust, a sacred trust, and every time we spend a dollar of it on ourselves we will think of it as a trust.”
”Yes,” said the farmer softly, ”your mother is right, the money is a trust, and we will restock the farm with it, buy out the Jones's property, and regard the whole thing as a trust.”
At this moment the door of the room opened. A woman's form appeared. It was Caroline, robed in one of Anna's directoire nightgowns.
”I heard your voices,” she said, and then, as she caught sight of Henry, she gave a great cry.
”My husband!”
”My wife,” said Henry, and folded her to his heart.
”You have left Sing Sing?” cried Caroline with joy.
”Yes, Caroline,” said Henry. ”I shall never go back.”
Gaily the reunited family descended. Anna carried the lamp, Henry carried the club. William carried the million dollars.
The tamarack fire roared again upon the hearth. The b.u.t.termilk circulated from hand to hand. William and Henry told and retold the story of their adventures. The first streak of the Christmas morn fell through the door-pane.
”Ah, my sons,” said John Enderby, ”henceforth let us stick to the narrow path. What is it that the Good Book says: 'A straight line is that which lies evenly between its extreme points.'”
X. - The Man in Asbestos: An Allegory of the Future
TO begin with let me admit that I did it on purpose. Perhaps it was partly from jealousy.
It seemed unfair that other writers should be able at will to drop into a sleep of four or five hundred years, and to plunge head-first into a distant future and be a witness of its marvels.