From the Improvement Era, December 1928 –

The Magic Cord

By Stella Pugmire Rich

“Are you my daddy?”

Dan Walters, half way down the car steps, turned sharply. he was not prepared for the quality in that voice or the sight of the sturdy little face that gazed at him curiously from the back seat of the waiting Ford.

“This isn’t Kent, Aunt Martha?” he asked incredulously of the old woman who sat beside the child.

“Yes, I am,” the boy cried, “and I could tell you by your picture.” He leaned out of the car better to view his tall, broad-shouldered father.

“Sit down,” the woman’s harsh voice commanded. “You’re pulling the quilt off me.” And then peering out of near-sighted eyes at her nephew, she continued, “Land sakes, Dan, six years in Cuba hasn’t changed your body but your face is a heap sight older.”

“And you, Aunt Martha; rheumatism as bad as ever?”

“Worse,” she answered shortly, “and sitting here in the cold doesn’t help it any.”

“That’s right.” Dan threw his traveling bag into the car, thinking as he did so that there were things about Aunt Martha which the years hadn’t changed either. She still aroused the old antagonism in him.

He swung himself into the front seat, shook hands with the old neighbor at the wheel, and with a rattle the car was off.

The air was biting cold but only a fringe of snow lined the hard frozen road. Usually Jackson Hole was buried in snow in December. Dan drew his coat closer around him and watched the flying landscape.

“Look! look! Aunt Martha and you,” a chubby hand pounded fiercely at Dan’s back, “there’s some baby Christmas trees having a party.”

A group of young pines stood alone on the mountain side, their green almost black in the fast fading twilight. Dan Walters gave a quick glance at them and then looked at his son. The little face with its rapt look gave his heart a queer twist. How many times he had seen that self-same expression on Helen’s face!

“No more of that,” he told himself sternly. “Life is through hurting me.”

It was dark when the car drew up before his aunt’s house. The two curtainless windows, yellow with lamp-light, cut the gloom like a cat’s eyes. Dan had always hated those windows since the day he, an orphaned, home-sick lad of twelve, had sought the shelter of his aunt’s roof. He remembered having once asked her why she didn’t fix her windows like other people’s, and she had answered shortly that she had nothing to hide from the world.

Eliza, Aunt Martha’s dull-witted daughter, threw open the kitchen door and a shaft of light revealed a freshly scrubbed threshold. At sight of it a spiritual nausea seized Dan. It was the one physical thing that he remembered as he had stumbled out of the house that day after Helen’s funeral.

He had gone there with the nurse to leave the baby, for Aunt Martha had insisted upon having it. “We can’t leave it for strangers, even if I’m not able to take care of it,” and Dan, numb with grief over his loss, had accepted her offer.

The child disposed of, he could make a clean break. A ranger’s life now was unbearable. He’d take up that Cuba proposition. No trailing, raveled threads there to hold him to his past.

The responsibility of fatherhood troubled him not at all. It was as yet unborn. There was no room for anything but the ache of Helen’s death and a desire to get away. When the nurse, hoping to lighten the dread message she was forced to give him, had placed the child in his arms, he had looked at it with dull anger.

“Take it away,” he said. “I never want to see it.”

And not once in the six years that followed had his attitude toward his son changed. Superintending a sugar plantation left little time even for grief and the memory of his sorrow, becoming dimmer each day, would ultimately have died, as had thoughts of his son, except that Aunt Martha’s letter made this home-coming imperative.

The Melbournes wanted to adopt Kent, to fill a vacancy left by the death of their own child. Dan must do something about him anyway. She couldn’t keep him any longer. Her rheumatism was getting worse and Kent was a handful for an uncrippled person. Dan must come home and see about it. Personally she thought he’d better let them adopt the child.

And Dan, reading the letter in far-away Cuba, had decided Aunt Martha was right, provided the Melbournes were the proper kind of people. All he knew about them was the fact that the man had succeeded him as ranger.

If he could but arrange the whole thing by mail! But something in his nature forbade that. Much as he shrank from opening up the past again by a visit to old-home scenes, he must see these people personally. Mighty lucky thing the New York office was calling him in for a conference. He would take two weeks off and clear up the child’s future once and for all. Might as well sell “Crow’s Nest,” too, while he was about it. The sooner the last cord was cut the better.

“Supper’s ready,” Aunt Martha announced presently, as Eliza dished food from the stove to the red-covered table. The heavy bowls of steaming soup filled the air with a pleasant aroma almost forgotten in a country where one eats for coolness. Aunt Martha did set a good table – no doubt about that. Those doughnuts – Dan hadn’t tasted anything like them for years! Now if Aunt Martha would just retire and let one eat in peace. It wasn’t so bad, though. While eating good food one could afford to ignore much of her nagging. Dan closed his ears and began to relax and a pleasant silence, seemingly, settled over the room.

A loud sucking sound suddenly disturbed the quiet. Kent had attempted a hazardous thing. A long noodle half-way down his throat choked him.

Aunt Martha turned swiftly, her anger so vehement that Dan found himself feeling guilty. The thousands of times that same look and sharp words had cut in on his own pleasure could not be forgotten.

“For that,” she said, “you get no more supper tonight. Put on your coat and mittens and take the milk down to Melbournes.”

The boy got up slowly. Dan saw him regarding Aunt Martha with eyes of smouldering hate. It was an awful expression for a six-year-old.

“Poor little kid,” he thought; “I know just how he feels. The next thing he’ll probably be smoking behind the barn as a protest against her everlasting meanness, or will run away.”

It had been criminal to leave the child with her at all. He should have known better. They were as two instruments keyed to different pitches. No harmony could ever result. She had been hard enough to live with when he was a boy. He saw now that the years had added hardness. Thank heaven the Melbournes were coming tomorrow. He knew without seeing them that he would give his full consent to the adoption.

“Are you afraid of the dark, Kent?” he asked kindly, as the boy went out the door with the bottle of milk. Kent shook his head.

“Afraid?” Aunt Martha gave a short laugh. “I wish he were. I’d know how to punish him then. He’s absolutely fearless. I want you back here in twenty minutes,” she called. “Don’t you dare stop to visit.” And then to Dan. “Mrs. Melbourne was up yesterday to see if they could keep Kent over Christmas but I told them they’d get plenty of him if you decided to let them adopt him.”

When the child returned, all bitterness had vanished from his face. “I know the best story about Christmas Eve,” he announced. “Mrs. Melbourne comed half way home with me and she told me about it.”

“Well, keep it to yourself. I want it quiet here. Eliza, bring his sleepers. It’s ten o’clock. Time he was in bed.”

“Oh, Aunt Martha, can’t I stay up? I bet he’d like to hear that story.” There was a note of wistfulness in the child’s voice. It trailed over the last words as if he hoped the verdict might be repealed.

Aunt Martha had turned her back. “Don’t notice their coaxings and they’ll quit,” she said to Dan.

“Perhaps you can tell me in the morning, Kent,” the father added. “It’s pretty late for little boys to be up.”

The child made no further comment. Dan noticed that he laid his clothes away with a neatness foreign to a normal boy – Aunt Martha’s eyes were upon him.

As his naked little figure slipped into the sleeping garments the thought struck Dan that it would be fun to romp with this little chap, but a lifetime of repression of his own play instincts left him aghast at his own desire.

Kent picked up his candle and trudged off toward the big door that led upstairs. Something touching about the lonely little figure stirred the man’s heart. He reached out a hand and patted the boy on the shoulder as he passed.

“Good night, son,” and stopped embarrassed at that strange word on his lips.

A light overspread the child’s face. “Goodnight, Daddy, and Merry Christmas.”

The big door swung open. The flickering light of the candle swayed to and fro in the gulf of darkness beyond. Up the narrow stairs Kent went with one quick backward glance.

The house closed in upon Dan like an enemy. Now that the boy was gone he felt that he could not stand to stay in this influence another minute. He longed for the dull apathy of his Cuban life where the old resentment toward Aunt Martha, the newly opened wounds of Helen’s death and these heart twistings that Kent gave him were unknown. He was glad that he had planned to stay but two nights. But why stay that long – why stay more than one? His mind worked rapidly. If he went up to “Crow’s Nest” tonight and made an inventory of the things there he could arrange by letter with his lawyer to list the place for sale. He would see the Melbournes tomorrow morning and have someone drive him over to Victor in time to catch the evening train.

“Aunt Martha,” he said. “I’m going up to ‘Crow’s Nest’ tonight to see about some things before I list the cabin for sale.”

“Land sakes, Dan, that’s too far tonight.”

“Nothing of the sort. It’s only a mile. The walk will do me good.”

“Well, suit yourself, but bring in that parcel from the granary first. It’s something the Melbournes left for Kent. I got him some warm underclothes. I don’t take much stock in Christmas, but the Melbournes do.”

As Dan unwrapped the parcel, a sled, long, red and shiny, came into view, and suddenly he found himself ashamed that he had forgotten it was Christmas – a time when one remembers little children with gifts. He had never once thought of it, but these Melbournes had. They had sent a sled to his boy. Why hadn’t he thought of it himself? True, he had always been generous with the check he had sent Aunt Martha for Kent’s keep, but he had left the matter of presents to her, and by her own words she didn’t take much stock in Christmas. Yet, she was no more to blame than he was. It would be fun to watch that youngster’s face when he saw the sled – but he wished he had been the giver instead of the Melbournes.

But why let thought like this disturb him? Tomorrow he would be far away from it all.

When he came in Eliza had gone to bed and Aunt Martha was wrapping a flat iron in a flannel for her lame foot.

“Your candle is on the kitchen table, Dan. Sleep in the east room upstairs,” she called to him as she closed her bedroom door. Dan put the candle in his pocket and went out into the night. The little log houses clustering around the church looked cold and bleak, but he strode on through the pines until his own cabin came into view. He unlocked the door and struck a light. Fumbling in his pocket, he brought out the candle and placed it in a weird pine-cone candlestick he had made years before.

Investigation showed wood still in the shanty at the back. He carried it in, placed it in the crude rock fireplace and soon had the flames leaping eagerly up the chimney. he drew up a rough chair that his own hands had fashioned. He would sit here by the fire for a few minutes and then go through things.

There in the window a brightly painted clay flower pot still supported some withered stocks. Wild flowers Helen had gathered. He drew in a long breath. He had built this cabin the first year he had been a ranger – a release from Aunt Martha’s nagging during the few months his work kept him in this vicinity. High on a steep incline, it was the last step between the little scattered town and the dense forest beyond. He was just finishing it when Helen had walked into it and into his heart as well. She had been the new teacher in the little town below and had brought the children out for a picnic.

“What ‘crow’s nest’ is this?” She had inquired gaily at the doorway, the children peering in behind her.

“This crow’s nest,” he answered.”Won’t you come in and inspect it?”

“You don’t mind if I do?”

Dan hadn’t minded in the least and before the year was over Helen had entered again – this time as a bride. For one blissful month they had lived here honeymooning, before her mother’s death had called her East. Afterward Dan had been transferred to another district, so the little cabin stood as they had left it. But what a month it had been! The cozy little suppers before the fire, the breath of wild flowers with which she decked the room, the hundred and one things that had made the little cabin alive with happiness. The stenciled burlap at the windows was Helen’s work. The birch-bark magazine rack with its oddly twisted legs had been built at her suggestion. Everywhere were evidences of her beauty-loving touch.

Dan heaped more wood on the fire and began savagely to list the pieces of furniture. He had thought that this black despair was all behind him. If only the wind would stop howling! The whole thing was getting on his nerves.

There on a shelf were a few scattered books, favorites they had kept out for that first summer’s reading. He picked up Omar’s Rubaiyat, and as he did so a piece of paper fluttered to the floor. His toe caught the end of it and sent it flying toward the fire. Some old memorandum. He was always tucking things away. And yet, that hardly looked like his notes. He picked it up. The paper was thick and creamy and he thought he caught a faint odor of violets. Something of Helen’s! It was dated September 21, 1921, and began “Mother, dearest.”

September 21 – the very day she had received word of her mother’s death. She must have begun that letter before the telegram came, and then, in her grief and the excitement of leaving, either he or she had tucked it away in that book.

“Can you realize who addresses you?” it read. “Mrs. Dan Walters: – yes, really. I can hardly realize it myself but Dan solemnly assures me that it is true.

“A whole month of heaven. We’ve hiked, spent blissful hours in making furniture for our ‘Crow’s Nest,’ and last night we stayed up until four o’clock reading An American Idyll. At my suggestion we’ve actually cleared and enlarged a natural depression below our big piny spring for a bath. No city comforts lacking here! It’s such fun to don bathing suits and take a nice shivery dip before breakfast.

“Oh, but mother, you should have seen Dan’s face when I first splashed over with this pagan suggestion of an out-door bathroom. He looked so shocked! You see, he’s just learning to play and he’s half afraid of happiness – poor boy – he’s been denied so much of it. His boyhood must have been tragic, though he doesn’t say so even to me. I can’t describe Aunt Martha to you but she’s everything you are not. If we ever have children they are going to live in a glorified home life like ours was, mother dear. Do you remember that fairy story you used to tell me about that shiny magic cord that bound all our own family to our own hearthstone? The golden strands were love, the dark flecks, heartache, and woven in together they gave a strength that couldn’t be broken. Don’t you see, mother, what I have to make up to Dan? He’s missed so –.” A little splash of ink told of an abrupt stop.

Dan’s eyes were wet.

At that moment a gust of wind tore open the door. He reached blindly to close it and the candle went out. The wind continued to rage at the door. It rattled the windows, shrieked around the house corners and then, spent, died away in a wail up the canyon.

A death-like silence followed, shattered a moment after by a crunching sound as if someone dragged a heavy object across the frozen ground. At the door it stopped. Dan was not particularly afraid but he grasped a half-burned pine knot before he threw open the door.

There on the threshold stood his son and behind him he dragged a shiny red sled.

“It’s just been born to me,” he gasped, out of breath.

“But Kent,” his father cried, drawing the boy into the shadowy room. “Why are you here? You don’t mean to tell me that you came up the hill all alone?”

“Oh, that’s nothin’. I come up here lots of times. You see,” he explained, “I ain’t never afraid to go away from Aunt Martha’s and I’ve got you to go back with.”

“But Kent, how did you know I was here?”

“I listened at the keyhole when you told Aunt Martha,” he answered innocently. “I’d been here before but it started to snow and the old wind about losted me, and I had to bring my sled. I couldn’t leave that, could I?”

I listened at the keyhole. In a flash Dan saw the child’s philosophy. The things you wanted to do most must be done on the sly. Aunt Martha stopped every natural thing. His boy, his own flesh and blood, left to an influence like that! And he himself had done it, even when he had known Aunt Martha as he did. Even now he was contemplating letting the Melbournes take his child completely away from him. It had taken a letter from the dead to shake the scales from his eyes. Yes, he had surely lost that golden cord.

He took his boy in his arms. At the touch fo the little hands upon his neck something broke within him. Torturers of remorse of which he had never dreamed, exultation, humility, love, all fought for supremacy and as they fought a part of him was dimly conscious that this agony must be like physical birth.

“I’m glad you comed home to me, daddy,” Kent whispered shyly.

The prodigal son must have felt like this when he felt his father’s arms around him. Here the roles were reversed. He was the prodigal and the child was welcoming him back. Six years of eating husks when this awaited him. For husks were husks whether you called them lotus blossoms or not. What a fool he’d been!

if God and Helen would forgive him, he would make it up to Kent some way. What Helen had planned to do for him he must do alone for their son. Kent must meet life joyously, spontaneously, honorably. It was his work to guide and develop that poetic imagination that made parties for Christmas trees. He must teach Kent not to run away from sorrow as he had done – that meeting it gives one added strength.

“Oh, daddy, why couldn’t we stay up here a whole long time? It doesn’t hold you in like Aunt Martha’s house.”

“Son, that’s just what we’ll do. Here, you curl up in my overcoat till morning. We’ll go down early enough to get there before Aunt Martha gets up. We’ll get covers and food and come back for a day or two before I take you to Cuba. What do you say?”

“Why, daddy – daddy, I feel like I was made new.”

Just before daybreak the man and boy started for town. The ground was white with snow, which still fell in large, lazy flakes. Through the rich green of the pines opened a vista of the town and beyond it the eastern sky.

“Here, son, better get on my back. I’ll pull the sled.”

They went on in silence for a space and then: “Say, son, what was that story you wanted to tell me last night?”

“Oh, it was somethin’ about an angel singing ‘Unto you a child is born’ – Oh, but look, daddy, it’s getting light.”

“Yes, son,” Dan answered humbly, “it’s getting light.”