There is a certain stimulus in grief which lends unreal strength to
endure, but Nature will be avenged in a physical and emotional
reaction, all the more terrible that it is unexpected. Then the full
weight of the sorrow presses upon the heart already exhausted, and the
sense of loss becomes the more painful because it can be fairly
estimated, and the empty place can be more truly measured because it is
seen in its relation to the ordinary life.
So it was with Shock. The first sharp stab of grief was over, and now
he carried with him the long ache of a wound that would not heal for
many a day. His mother had filled a large part of his life. As far back
into childhood as his memory could go, there she stood between him and
the great world, his sure defence against all evil, his refuge in all
sorrow; and as he grew into manhood she made for herself a larger and
larger place in his thought and in his life. He well knew how she had
toiled and denied herself comforts and endured hardships that he might
gain that height of every Scottish mother's ambition for her son, a
college education, and he gave her full reward in the love of his heart
and the thoughtful devotion of his life. All his interests and
occupations, his studies, his mission work in the Ward, his triumphs on
the football field, all he shared with her, and until the last year no
one had ever challenged her place of supremacy in his heart. His future
was built about his mother. She was to share his work, her home was to
be in his manse, she was to be the centre about which his life would
swing; and since coming to the West he had built up in imagination a
new life structure, in which his mother had her own ancient place. In
this new and fascinating work of exploring, organising, and upbuilding
he felt sure, too, of his mother's eager sympathy and her wise
understanding.
It had been the happiest of all his fancies that his mother should
preside over the new home, the opening of which had been attended with
such pride and joy. She would be there to live with him every day,
watching him go out and waiting for him to come in.
Now all that was gone. As his mind ran along its accustomed grooves
every turn of thought smote him with a pang sharp and sudden. She was
no longer a part of the plan. All had to be taken down, the parts
readjusted, the structure rebuilt. He began to understand the
Convener's words, "This is a hard country." It demanded a man's life in
all the full, deep meaning of the word; his work, of course of body and
brain, but his heart as well, and his heart's treasures.
In the midst of his depression and bewilderment Ike brought him a
letter which had lain two weeks at the Fort, and whose date was now
some four weeks old. It was from Brown and ran thus:
My Dear Old Chap:
I do not know how to begin this letter. The terribly sudden and awful
calamity that has overtaken us has paralysed my mind, and I can hardly
think straight. One thing that stands out before me, wiping out almost
every other thought, is that our dear Betty is no more. You cannot
imagine it, I know, for though I saw her in her coffin, so sweet and
lovely, but oh! so still, I cannot get myself to believe it. The
circumstances concerning her death, too, were awfully sad, so sad that
it simply goes beyond any words I have to describe them. I will try to
be coherent; but, though I shall give you an account of what happened,
I cannot begin to convey the impression upon my mind. Well, let me try.
You know Mrs. Fairbanks has been opposed all along to The Don's
attentions to Betty, and has tried her best to block him. After you
left, the opposition grew more determined. Why, for the life of me, I
cannot say. She had apparently made up her mind that The Don must quit.
She worked every kind of scheme, but it was no good. That plucky little
girl, in her own bright, jolly way, without coming to an open break,
would not give back an inch, and The Don kept coming to the house just
because Betty insisted. He would have quit long before, poor chap. You
know how proud he is.
Well, Mrs. Fairbanks set to work to gain her purpose. She somehow got
wind of the kind of life The Don lived in this city years ago. She set
enquiries on foot and got hold of the facts pretty well. You know all
about it, so I need not tell you. Poor chap, he had his black spots,
sure enough. She furthermore got Lloyd somehow to corroborate her
facts. Just how much he looked up for her I don't know, but I tell you
I have quit Lloyd. He is a blanked cad. I know I should not write this,
and you will hate to read it, but it is the truth. His conduct during
the whole business has been damnable! damnable! damnable! I gnash my
teeth as I write.
When she had everything ready she sprung her mine. It was in her own
house one evening, when Lloyd, The Don, and I were there, and the
Fairbanks' new minister, Hooper, a young Trinity man, who has been a
close friend of The Don's, I don't know how long, but some years at
least. A fine fellow. God bless him, say I, again and again.
The Don and Betty had been going it pretty strong that evening, rather
unnecessarily so, I think; and Mrs. Fairbanks got more and more worked
up, until she seemed to lose her head. As The Don was saying good night
she spoke up and said in that haughty way of hers, "Mr. Balfour, the
time has come when we must say good-bye, and I must ask you to
discontinue your visits to this house, and your intimacy with my
daughter."
Well, we all sat up, I can tell you. The Don went white, and red, and
white again. Betty walked over and stood by his side, her eyes all
blazing.
"Mamma," she cried, "what are you saying against the man I love! Do you
mean to--"
"Betty," said her mother in her haughtiest and coldest and calmest
voice, "before you go any further, listen to me. I do not choose that
my daughter, pure and unsullied, should give herself to a roue and a
libertine."
The Don took a step toward her and said: "Mrs. Fairbanks, someone has
misled you. What you say is false, absolutely and utterly false." Betty
glanced proudly up into his face.
"False!" cried Mrs. Fairbanks. "Then, Mr. Balfour, you force me to ask,
did you not live for some months with a woman on Jarvis Street? Were
you not a constant visitor at houses of ill repute for months in this
city?"
Poor Don! I can see him yet. His face grew livid, his eyes staring, as
he stood there without a word.
"Don," cried Betty, "tell her it is false!" and she lifted her little
head proudly. "Tell her it is false, and I don't care who says it is
true." Still The Don stood speechless.
"Alas! my poor child," said Mrs. Fairbanks, "he could not say so. I
have the proof in my hand." And she pulled a letter out of her pocket.
"It is true, and much more--too true. Mr. Lloyd here knows this to be
true. Is it not so, Mr. Lloyd? If this is not true, speak." The poor
old Don turned his eyes imploringly toward Lloyd, like a man hanging on
his last hope, but Lloyd, the beast! mumbled and stuttered something or
other. Betty ran to him, caught him by the arm and shook him. "Speak
out!" she said. "Say it is all a lie!" The Lloyd said in a thick kind
of voice, "I cannot say so."
Betty turned back to The Don, and may God keep me from ever seeing a
face like hers again. "Say it isn't true!" she said, putting her hand
on his arm; and as he stood still, white and speechless, she gave a
kind of cry of fear, and horror, and I don't know what else. "Oh, Don,
can this be true--and--you kissed me!"
Then The Don pulled himself together, turned to Mrs. Fairbanks, and
began to speak, the words pouring out in a perfect torrent. "Mrs.
Fairbanks, you must listen to me. What you say was true of me eight
years ago. I came here a mere boy. I fell in with a bad lot--I had
plenty of money, and I confess I went bad. That was eight years ago.
Then I met your daughters, and came into your home. From that time I
have never done a dishonourable thing, my life has been clean. Ever
since I touched your daughter's hand my hands have never touched
anything unclean. The first day I saw her, eight years ago, I loved
her, and since then I have been true in heart and in life to her. For
my shameful past God knows I have repented bitterly, bitterly, and have
sought forgiveness; and no man lives in this town, or any other, who
can point to anything of which I am ashamed to speak here."
Poor Betty! She looked from one to the other in a frightened kind of
way, and when The Don had finished his confession she gave a cry the
like of which I never heard, "Oh, mother, take me away!" I have heard
of hearts being broken. I think hers was broken then.
I tell you we were all in a whirl. The Don fell on his knees beside
her, taking hold of her skirts. "Oh, Betty, won't you forgive me? God
have mercy on me! Won't you forgive me? I have done many things of
which I am ashamed, but I have never been untrue to you in thought or
in deed. Never, never, so help me God!" He clutched the hem of her
dress, kissing it over and over again. It was a ghastly sight, I can
tell you. Betty shrank from him, drawing her skirts away. "Come away,
my daughter," said Mrs. Fairbanks. "There is nothing more to be said."
As she turned away up spake little Hooper. God bless him, the little
five-footer, every inch clear grit. "Mrs. Fairbanks, one minute. Pardon
me if I say a word. I am this young man's friend, and I am your
minister. I have known this man for six years. I have known him
intimately. I believe he carries a clean, pure heart, and he has lived
a hard-working, honourable life. If he has sinned, he has repented, and
God has forgiven him. Should not you?"
Mrs. Fairbanks turned impatiently on him. "Mr. Hooper, forgiveness is
one thing, and friendship another."
"No, thank God!" cried the little chap. "No, forgiveness is not one
thing and friendship another. Forgiveness means friendship, and
welcome, and love, with God and with man." I could have hugged the
little man where he stood.
Then Mrs. Fairbanks seemed to lose her head, and she blazed out in a
perfect fury. "Do you mean deliberately to say that this man," pointing
to The Don, who was still on his knees, with his face in his hands,
"that this man should be received into my house?"
"Mrs. Fairbanks," said Hooper, "is there not a place for the repentant
and absolved, even with the saints of God?"
Mrs. Fairbanks lost herself completely. "Mr. Hooper," she cried, "this
is outrageous. I tell you, forgiven or not, repentant or not; never
will he, or such as he, enter my doors or touch my daughter's hand.
Never while I live."
Then Hooper drew himself up. He seemed to me six feet tall. He lifted
his hand, and spoke with the kind of solemnity that you expect to come
from the altar. "Then listen to me, Mrs. Fairbanks. You say you would
not receive him or such as him into your house. You invite me often to
your home, and here I constantly meet men who are known in society as
rakes and roues. You know it, and all society women know it, too. If
you cared to take half the trouble you have taken in this case, you
could find out all the facts. You are a woman of society, and you know
well what I say is true. I have seen you in this room place your
daughter in the arms of a man you knew to be a drunkard, and must have
suspected was a libertine. These men have the entree to every good
family in the city, and though their character is known, they are
received everywhere. They have wealth and family connection. Do not
attempt to deny it, Mrs. Fairbanks. I know society, and you know it
well. If you strike off the names of those men whose lives, not have
been in the past, but are to-day unclean and unworthy, you will have to
make a very large blank in your dancing list." Then the little fellow's
voice broke right down. "Forgive me if I have spoken harshly. I beseech
you, hear me. You are doing a great wrong to my friend, a cruel wrong.
I pledge you my name and honour he is a good man, and he is worthy of
your daughter. God has covered his sin: why have you dared to uncover
it?" And then, in the tone that he uses in reading his prayers, he went
on, "In the name of the Saviour of the sinful and lost, I ask you, I
entreat you, receive him."
You would think that would have melted the heart of a she-devil, let
alone a woman, but that woman stood there, cold, white, and unmoved.
"Is that all, Mr. Hooper?" she said. "Then my answer is--never! And as
for you, his eloquent advocate, I never wish to see you again. Come,
Betty."
As they began to move off The Don, who was still on his knees, looked
up and reached out his hands toward the poor girl with a cry that
stabbed my heart through and through. "I want your forgiveness, Betty,
only your forgiveness." She paused, took a step towards him, then
putting her hands over her face she stood still, shuddering. Her mother
caught her and drew her away.
The Don rose slowly. He seemed stupefied. He turned toward Hooper, and
said in a hoarse kind of whisper: "She's gone! Oh, God, I have lost
her!" He felt his way out to the hall like a blind man. Helen put out
her hand to stop him, but he went on, never noticing. She followed him
to the hall, weeping bitterly, and crying, "Come back, Don, come back!"
Without waiting to get coat or hat, he rushed out. "Go and get him,"
Helen cried to us, and we followed him as fast as we could. When I got
out he had reached the gate, and was fumbling at the catch. "Hold on,
Don, where are you going?" I cried. "To hell! to hell! to hell!" My
dear chap, that cry of his made me believe in hell; for, if lost
spirits cry when the devils get hold of them, they will cry like that.
It was the most unearthly, horrible sound I have ever heard, and may
God save me from hearing the like again.
Next day I tried to see Betty, but it was no use, she would see no one.
And soon after I heard she was ill, typhoid fever. It had been working
on her for some time. There was almost no hope from the very first. She
became delirious at once, and in her raving kept calling on The Don for
forgiveness. Your mother was a great help to them, relieving the nurse.
They all seemed to depend upon her. Of course, I was in and out every
day, and brought reports to The Don, who haunted our house day and
night. I never saw a fellow suffer like that. He slept hardly any, ate
nothing at all, but wandered about the town, spending most of his time
at Hooper's when he was not with us.
After the delirium passed Betty asked for me. When I saw her looking so
white and thin--you would think you could see through her hands--I tell
you it broke me all up. She beckoned me to her, and when I bent over
her she whispered: "Find The Don and bring him." At first her mother
refused, saying he should never come with her consent. It was mighty
hard, I tell you. But the afternoon of the same day Helen came flying
over to tell us that the doctor had said there was only a very slight
chance for Betty, and that if her mother persisted in her refusal he
would not be responsible for the consequences, that her mother had
yielded, and I was to bring The Don. I tell you, I made time down to
his rooms, and brought, him to the house.
There was no one in the room but the nurse and the doctor when he
entered. She was expecting us, and as we entered she opened her eyes
and asked, "Is he here?" The nurse beckoned him to approach, and The
Don came and knelt at her bed. He was very steady and quiet. She put
out her hand and drew him toward her. She was the calmest of us all. "I
want you to forgive me, Don," she said, and her voice was wonderfully
clear. Poor chap, he went all to pieces for a minute or two and,
holding her fingers, kissed them over and over again. "I want you to
forgive me, Don," she said again. "I thought I was better than God."
The poor fellow could only keep kissing her fingers. "My lips, Don, my
lips," and The Don kissed her on the lips twice, murmuring in a broken
voice, "My darling, my love, my love."
Then she looked up and smiled that old smile of hers--you remember, so
bright and so merry? By Jove, it broke me all up. And she said: "Now we
are all right, aren't we?" The doctor came and touched The Don. "No,
doctor," she said, "I am quite quiet. See, I am going to sleep. I want
you to stay there, Don. Good-night."
Mrs. Fairbanks and Helen came in. Helen gave The Don her hand, but Mrs.
Fairbanks paid no attention to him. Betty opened her eyes, saw her
mother and smiled. "Dear mother," she said, "see, there's Don." Mrs.
Fairbanks hesitated slightly, then reached out her hand across the bed.
"Thank you, dear mother," Betty said. "You must be good to him." Then
after a little while she said dreamily, like a tired child: "God
forgives us all, and we must forgive." She let her eyes rest on The
Don's face. "Good-night, Don, dear," she said, "I am going to sleep."
That was her last word, Shock. Just think of it--Betty's last word. I
cannot realise it at all. I wish my story ended there, but it does not.
For a time we sat there, the doctor hoping that a turn for the better
had come, but in about an hour the nurse noticed a change, and called
him. He came quickly, felt her pulse, injected something or other into
her arm. She opened her eyes. You remember how she would open those
lovely brown eyes of hers when anything surprised her. Well, she opened
them just that way, smiled brightly on one and then another, let her
eyes rest on The Don, gave a little sigh and closed them, and they
never opened again. "She is gone," the doctor said, and we all crowded
near. "Yes, she is gone," he said again.
Then The Don stood up, and putting out his hand to Mrs. Fairbanks,
said: "Mrs. Fairbanks, I want to thank you for allowing me to come."
But she drew herself away from him, refusing to touch his hand, and
motioning him off.
Poor chap! He turned back to the bed, kneeled down, touched the soft
brown hair with his hands, kissed the fingers again, and then without a
word went out. If anyone can tell me what that woman's heart is made
of, I would like to know.
The day of the funeral The Don brought me a little bunch of lilies of
the valley, saying, "It is for her" I gave them to Helen, and I saw
them afterwards in the hands that lay folded across her breast.
I have not seen him since, but Hooper tells me he said he was going out
to you. I hope to Heaven he will not go bad. I don't think he will. Of
course, he feels very bitterly about Lloyd and Mrs. Fairbanks.
Now, that is all my story. It makes a great difference to all our set
here, but I will tell you what I have told no living soul, and that is,
that the world will never be the same to me again. I am not much given
to sentiment, as you know, and nobody ever suspected it. I do not think
she did herself. But I loved that little girl better than my life, and
I would have given my soul for her any day.
I know you will feel this terribly. How often I have wished that you
could have been with us. The best I could do was to send you this
wretched, incoherent scrawl. Your friend as ever, BROWN.
P.S.--Do you know anything about the British-American Gold and Silver
Mining Company, or something like that? There is a chap here, manager
or director, or something. Ambherg, I think his name is. He speaks as
if he knew you, or knew something about you. He is a great friend of
the Fairbanks. Lots of money, and that sort of thing. I did not like
the way he spoke about you. I felt like giving him a smack. Do you know
him, or anything about the company?
Your mother has not been very well since Betty's death. I think she
found the strain pretty heavy. She has caught a little cold, I am
afraid. B.
Brown's letter did for Shock what nothing else could have done: it
turned his mind away from himself and his sorrow. Not that he was in
any danger of morbid brooding over his loss, or of falling into that
last and most deplorable of all human weaknesses, self-pity, but grief
turns the heart in upon itself, and tends to mar the fine bloom of an
unselfish spirit.
As he finished reading Brown's letter Shock's heart was filled with
love and pity for his friend. "Poor fellow!" he said. "I wonder where
he is now. His is a hard lot indeed." And as he read the letter over
and over his pity for his friend deepened, for he realised that in his
cup of sorrow there had mingled the gall of remorse and the bitterness
of hate.
In another week two other letters came, each profoundly affecting Shock
and his life. One was from Helen, giving a full account of his mother's
illness and death, telling how beautifully the Superintendent had taken
part in the funeral service, and preserving for her son those last
precious messages of love and gratitude, of faith and hope, which
become the immortal treasures of the bereaved heart. As he read Helen's
letter Shock caught a glimpse of the glory of that departing. Heaven
came about him, and the eternal things, that by reason of the nearness
of the material world too often become shadowy, took on a reality that
never quite left him. Where his mother was henceforth real things must
be.
The letter closed with a few precious sentences of love and sympathy
from Helen, but in these Shock, reading with his heart in his eyes, and
longing for more than he could rightly find in them, thought he could
detect a kind of reserve, a reserve which he could not interpret, and
he laid down the letter with painful uncertainty. Was her love more
than she cared to tell, or was it less than she knew he would desire?
From Helen's letter Shock turned to Mrs. Fairbanks' and read:
My Dear Mr. Macgregor:
We all deeply sympathise with you in your great loss, as I know you
will with us in our grief. We can hardly speak of it yet. It is so new
and so terribly sudden that we have not been able fully to realise it.
My great comfort in this terrible sorrow is my daughter Helen. Mr.
Lloyd, too, has proved himself a true friend. Indeed, I do not know
what we should have done without him. We are more and more coming to
lean upon him. You will not have heard yet that we have been so greatly
attracted by Mr. Lloyd's preaching, and influenced by our regard for
him personally, that we have taken sittings in the Park Church.
Helen, I am glad to say, is beginning to take an interest in the church
and its work, and as time goes on I think her interest will grow. I
should be glad indeed that it should be so, for our relations with Mr.
Lloyd are very close; and, in fact, I may tell you what is yet a
secret, that he has intimated to me his desire to make Helen his wife.
Helen is very favourably disposed to him, and all our circle of friends
would rejoice in this as an ideal marriage. Mr. Lloyd belongs to her
own set in society, is a gentleman of culture and high character, and
in every way suitable. As for myself, in my loneliness I could not
endure the thought of losing my only daughter, at all, and her marriage
would be a great blow to me were it not that her home is to be so close
at hand.
There is one thing, however, about which Helen is sensitive. She cannot
rid herself of a feeling that she is in a manner bound to you on
account of her foolish and impetuous words, uttered under the
excitement of your departure; but I am sure you would never think of
holding her because of those words, uttered in a moment of great
feeling, and I also feel sure that you would not in any way interfere
with her happiness, or do anything that would hinder the consummation
of a marriage so eminently suitable in every way.
We hear of you and of your work occasionally. It must be a terrible
country, and a very depressing life. The loneliness and isolation must
be well-nigh overwhelming. I am sure you have all our sympathy. I
suppose work of this kind must be done, and it is a good thing that
there are men of such rugged strength and such courage as you have, who
seem to be fitted for this kind of work.
Now, my dear Mr. Macgregor, in your answer I think that a few words of
assurance to Helen on the points I have suggested would be greatly
appreciated, and would do much to remove difficulties that now stand in
the way of her happiness and mine.
Yours very sincerely,
E. Fairbanks.
It was then that Shock drank to the dregs his full cup of bitter
sorrow. The contrasts suggested by Mrs. Fairbanks' letter stood out
vividly before him. He thought of Helen's beautiful home, where she was
surrounded with all the luxuries of a cultured life; he thought of her
circle of friends, of the life work to which, as Lloyd's wife, she
would be permitted to take up; he thought, too, of her mother's claim
upon her. And then he looked about upon his bare room, with its log
walls, its utter absence of everything that suggested refinement; he
thought of the terrible isolation that in these days had become so
depressing even to himself; he thought of all the long hours of weary
yearning for the sight and touch of all that he held dear, and for the
sake of the girl to whom he had given his heart's love in all its
unsullied purity and in all its virgin freshness he made his decision.
He took up his cross, and though his heart bled he pressed his lips
upon it.
His letter to Mrs. Fairbanks was brief and clear.
"I thank you for your sympathy," he wrote, "and I grieve with you in
your great sorrow."
"In regard to what you write concerning Miss Helen, you have made
yourself perfectly clear, and I wish to repeat now what I said on the
morning of my leaving home: that Miss Helen is to consider herself in
no sense bound to me. She is perfectly free, as free as if she had not
spoken. I fully realise the possibility of mistaking one's feelings
under the stress of such emotional excitement. The sphere of work
opening out before her is one in every way suited to her, and one in
which she will find full scope for her splendid powers of heart and
mind, and I shall be glad to know that her happiness is assured. At the
same time, truth demands that I should say that my feelings toward her
have not changed, nor will they ever change; and, while I cannot ask
her to share a life such as mine, I shall never cease to love her."
In Shock's preaching, and in his visitation of his people, a new spirit
made itself felt. There was no less energy, but there was an added
sweetness, and a deeper sympathy. He had entered upon the way of the
Cross, and the bruising of his heart distilled all its tenderness in
word and deed. Isis preaching was marked by a new power, a new
intensity; and when, after the evening service, they gathered about the
organ to spend an hour in singing their favourite hymns, than most of
all they were conscious of the change in him. The closer they drew
toward him the more tender did they find his heart to be.
The loneliness of the days that followed was to Shock unspeakable.
There was no one to whom he could unburden himself. His face began to
show the marks of the suffering within. Instead of the ruddy, full,
round, almost boyish appearance, it became thin and hard, and cut with
deep lines.
The doctor, who now made his home in Loon Lake, became anxious about
his friend, but he was too experienced and too skilled a physician to
be deceived as to the cause of Shock's changed appearance.
"It is not sickness of the body," he remarked to Ike, who was talking
it over with him, "but of the mind, and that, my friend, is the most
difficult to treat."
"Well," said Ike, "when I hear him speak in meetin', and see him git on
one of them smiles of his, I come purty nigh makin' a fool of myself. I
guess I'll have to quit goin' to church."
"No, I do not think you will quit, Ike, my boy," said the doctor. "You
have become thoroughly well inoculated. You could not, if you tried."
"Well, I surmise it would be difficult, but I wish somethin' would
happen."