The Monroe family were holding a Christmas reunion at the old
Prince Edward Island homestead at White Sands. It was the first
time they had all been together under one roof since the death of
their mother, thirty years before. The idea of this Christmas
reunion had originated with Edith Monroe the preceding spring,
during her tedious convalescence from a bad attack of pneumonia
among strangers in an American city, where she had not been able
to fill her concert engagements, and had more spare time in which
to feel the tug of old ties and the homesick longing for her own
people than she had had for years. As a result, when she
recovered, she wrote to her second brother, James Monroe, who
lived on the homestead; and the consequence was this gathering of
the Monroes under the old roof-tree. Ralph Monroe for once laid
aside the cares of his railroads, and the deceitfulness of his
millions, in Toronto and took the long-promised, long-deferred
trip to the homeland. Malcolm Monroe journeyed from the far
western university of which he was president. Edith came,
flushed with the triumph of her latest and most successful
concert tour. Mrs. Woodburn, who had been Margaret Monroe, came
from the Nova Scotia town where she lived a busy, happy life as
the wife of a rising young lawyer. James, prosperous and hearty,
greeted them warmly at the old homestead whose fertile acres had
well repaid his skillful management.
They were a merry party, casting aside their cares and years, and
harking back to joyous boyhood and girlhood once more. James had
a family of rosy lads and lasses; Margaret brought her two
blue-eyed little girls; Ralph's dark, clever-looking son
accompanied him, and Malcolm brought his, a young man with a
resolute face, in which there was less of boyishness than in his
father's, and the eyes of a keen, perhaps a hard bargainer. The
two cousins were the same age to a day, and it was a family joke
among the Monroes that the stork must have mixed the babies,
since Ralph's son was like Malcolm in face and brain, while
Malcolm's boy was a second edition of his uncle Ralph.
To crown all, Aunt Isabel came, too--a talkative, clever, shrewd
old lady, as young at eighty-five as she had been at thirty,
thinking the Monroe stock the best in the world, and beamingly
proud of her nephews and nieces, who had gone out from this
humble, little farm to destinies of such brilliance and influence
in the world beyond.
I have forgotten Robert. Robert Monroe was apt to be forgotten.
Although he was the oldest of the family, White Sands people, in
naming over the various members of the Monroe family, would add,
"and Robert," in a tone of surprise over the remembrance of his
existence.
He lived on a poor, sandy little farm down by the shore, but he
had come up to James' place on the evening when the guests
arrived; they had all greeted him warmly and joyously, and then
did not think about him again in their laughter and conversation.
Robert sat back in a corner and listened with a smile, but he
never spoke. Afterwards he had slipped noiselessly away and gone
home, and nobody noticed his going. They were all gayly busy
recalling what had happened in the old times and telling what had
happened in the new.
Edith recounted the successes of her concert tours; Malcolm
expatiated proudly on his plans for developing his beloved
college; Ralph described the country through which his new
railroad ran, and the difficulties he had had to overcome in
connection with it. James, aside, discussed his orchard and his
crops with Margaret, who had not been long enough away from the
farm to lose touch with its interests. Aunt Isabel knitted and
smiled complacently on all, talking now with one, now with the
other, secretly quite proud of herself that she, an old woman of
eighty-five, who had seldom been out of White Sands in her life,
could discuss high finance with Ralph, and higher education with
Malcolm, and hold her own with James in an argument on drainage.
The White Sands school teacher, an arch-eyed, red-mouthed bit a
girl--a Bell from Avonlea--who boarded with the James Monroes,
amused herself with the boys. All were enjoying themselves
hugely, so it is not to be wondered at that they did not miss
Robert, who had gone home early because his old housekeeper was
nervous if left alone at night.
He came again the next afternoon. From James, in the barnyard,
he learned that Malcolm and Ralph had driven to the harbor, that
Margaret and Mrs. James had gone to call on friends in Avonlea,
and that Edith was walking somewhere in the woods on the hill.
There was nobody in the house except Aunt Isabel and the teacher.
"You'd better wait and stay the evening," said James,
indifferently. "They'll all be back soon."
Robert went across the yard and sat down on the rustic bench in
the angle of the front porch. It was a fine December evening, as
mild as autumn; there had been no snow, and the long fields,
sloping down from the homestead, were brown and mellow. A weird,
dreamy stillness had fallen upon the purple earth, the windless
woods, the rain of the valleys, the sere meadows. Nature seemed
to have folded satisfied hands to rest, knowing that her long,
wintry slumber was coming upon her. Out to sea, a dull, red
sunset faded out into somber clouds, and the ceaseless voice of
many waters came up from the tawny shore.
Robert rested his chin on his hand and looked across the vales
and hills, where the feathery gray of leafless hardwoods was
mingled with the sturdy, unfailing green of the conebearers. He
was a tall, bent man, with thin, gray hair, a lined face, and
deeply-set, gentle brown eyes--the eyes of one who, looking
through pain, sees rapture beyond.
He felt very happy. He loved his family clannishly, and he was
rejoiced that they were all again near to him. He was proud of
their success and fame. He was glad that James had prospered so
well of late years. There was no canker of envy or discontent in
his soul.
He heard absently indistinct voices at the open hall window above
the porch, where Aunt Isabel was talking to Kathleen Bell.
Presently Aunt Isabel moved nearer to the window, and her words
came down to Robert with startling clearness.
"Yes, I can assure you, Miss Bell, that I'm real proud of my
nephews and nieces. They're a smart family. They've almost all
done well, and they hadn't any of them much to begin with. Ralph
had absolutely nothing and to-day he is a millionaire. Their
father met with so many losses, what with his ill-health and the
bank failing, that he couldn't help them any. But they've all
succeeded, except poor Robert--and I must admit that he's a total
failure."
"Oh, no, no," said the little teacher deprecatingly.
"A total failure!" Aunt Isabel repeated her words emphatically.
She was not going to be contradicted by anybody, least of all a
Bell from Avonlea. "He has been a failure since the time he was
born. He is the first Monroe to disgrace the old stock that way.
I'm sure his brothers and sisters must be dreadfully ashamed of
him. He has lived sixty years and he hasn't done a thing worth
while. He can't even make his farm pay. If he's kept out of
debt it's as much as he's ever managed to do."
"Some men can't even do that," murmured the little school
teacher. She was really so much in awe of this imperious, clever
old Aunt Isabel that it was positive heroism on her part to
venture even this faint protest.
"More is expected of a Monroe," said Aunt Isabel majestically.
"Robert Monroe is a failure, and that is the only name for him."
Robert Monroe stood up below the window in a dizzy, uncertain
fashion. Aunt Isabel had been speaking of him! He, Robert, was
a failure, a disgrace to his blood, of whom his nearest and
dearest were ashamed! Yes, it was true; he had never realized it
before; he had known that he could never win power or accumulate
riches, but he had not thought that mattered much. Now, through
Aunt Isabel's scornful eyes, he saw himself as the world saw
him--as his brothers and sisters must see him. THERE lay the
sting. What the world thought of him did not matter; but that
his own should think him a failure and disgrace was agony. He
moaned as he started to walk across the yard, only anxious to
hide his pain and shame away from all human sight, and in his
eyes was the look of a gentle animal which had been stricken by a
cruel and unexpected blow.
Edith Monroe, who, unaware of Robert's proximity, had been
standing on the other side of the porch, saw that look, as he
hurried past her, unseeing. A moment before her dark eyes had
been flashing with anger at Aunt Isabel's words; now the anger
was drowned in a sudden rush of tears.
She took a quick step after Robert, but checked the impulse. Not
then--and not by her alone--could that deadly hurt be healed.
Nay, more, Robert must never suspect that she knew of any hurt.
She stood and watched him through her tears as he went away
across the low-lying shore fields to hide his broken heart under
his own humble roof. She yearned to hurry after him and comfort
him, but she knew that comfort was not what Robert needed now.
Justice, and justice only, could pluck out the sting, which
otherwise must rankle to the death.
Ralph and Malcolm were driving into the yard. Edith went over to
them.
"Boys," she said resolutely, "I want to have a talk with you."
The Christmas dinner at the old homestead was a merry one. Mrs.
James spread a feast that was fit for the halls of Lucullus.
Laughter, jest, and repartee flew from lip to lip. Nobody
appeared to notice that Robert ate little, said nothing, and sat
with his form shrinking in his shabby "best" suit, his gray head
bent even lower than usual, as if desirous of avoiding all
observation. When the others spoke to him he answered
deprecatingly, and shrank still further into himself.
Finally all had eaten all they could, and the remainder of the
plum pudding was carried out. Robert gave a low sigh of relief.
It was almost over. Soon he would be able to escape and hide
himself and his shame away from the mirthful eyes of these men
and women who had earned the right to laugh at the world in which
their success gave them power and influence. He--he--only--was
a failure.
He wondered impatiently why Mrs. James did not rise. Mrs. James
merely leaned comfortably back in her chair, with the righteous
expression of one who has done her duty by her fellow creatures'
palates, and looked at Malcolm.
Malcolm rose in his place. Silence fell on the company;
everybody looked suddenly alert and expectant, except Robert. He
still sat with bowed head, wrapped in his own bitterness.
"I have been told that I must lead off," said Malcolm, "because I
am supposed to possess the gift of gab. But, if I do, I am not
going to use it for any rhetorical effect to-day. Simple,
earnest words must express the deepest feelings of the heart in
doing justice to its own. Brothers and sisters, we meet to-day
under our own roof-tree, surrounded by the benedictions of the
past years. Perhaps invisible guests are here--the spirits of
those who founded this home and whose work on earth has long been
finished. It is not amiss to hope that this is so and our family
circle made indeed complete. To each one of us who are here in
visible bodily presence some measure of success has fallen; but
only one of us has been supremely successful in the only things
that really count--the things that count for eternity as well as
time--sympathy and unselfishness and self-sacrifice.
"I shall tell you my own story for the benefit of those who have
not heard it. When I was a lad of sixteen I started to work out
my own education. Some of you will remember that old Mr. Blair
of Avonlea offered me a place in his store for the summer, at
wages which would go far towards paying my expenses at the
country academy the next winter. I went to work, eager and
hopeful. All summer I tried to do my faithful best for my
employer. In September the blow fell. A sum of money was
missing from Mr. Blair's till. I was suspected and discharged in
disgrace. All my neighbors believed me guilty; even some of my
own family looked upon me with suspicion--nor could I blame them,
for the circumstantial evidence was strongly against me."
Ralph and James looked ashamed; Edith and Margaret, who had not
been born at the time referred to, lifted their faces innocently.
Robert did not move or glance up. He hardly seemed to be
listening.
"I was crushed in an agony of shame and despair," continued
Malcolm. "I believed my career was ruined. I was bent on
casting all my ambitions behind me, and going west to some place
where nobody knew me or my disgrace. But there was one person
who believed in my innocence, who said to me, 'You shall not give
up--you shall not behave as if you were guilty. You are
innocent, and in time your innocence will be proved. Meanwhile
show yourself a man. You have nearly enough to pay your way next
winter at the Academy. I have a little I can give to help you
out. Don't give in--never give in when you have done no wrong.'
"I listened and took his advice. I went to the Academy. My
story was there as soon as I was, and I found myself sneered at
and shunned. Many a time I would have given up in despair, had
it not been for the encouragement of my counselor. He furnished
the backbone for me. I was determined that his belief in me
should be justified. I studied hard and came out at the head of
my class. Then there seemed to be no chance of my earning any
more money that summer. But a farmer at Newbridge, who cared
nothing about the character of his help, if he could get the work
out of them, offered to hire me. The prospect was distasteful
but, urged by the man who believed in me, I took the place and
endured the hardships. Another winter of lonely work passed at
the Academy. I won the Farrell Scholarship the last year it was
offered, and that meant an Arts course for me. I went to Redmond
College. My story was not openly known there, but something of
it got abroad, enough to taint my life there also with its
suspicion. But the year I graduated, Mr. Blair's nephew, who, as
you know, was the real culprit, confessed his guilt, and I was
cleared before the world. Since then my career has been what is
called a brilliant one. But"--Malcolm turned and laid his hand
on Robert's thin shoulder--"all of my success I owe to my brother
Robert. It is his success--not mine--and here to-day, since we
have agreed to say what is too often left to be said over a
coffin lid, I thank him for all he did for me, and tell him that
there is nothing I am more proud of and thankful for than such a
brother."
Robert had looked up at last, amazed, bewildered, incredulous.
His face crimsoned as Malcolm sat down. But now Ralph was
getting up.
"I am no orator as Malcolm is," he quoted gayly, "but I've got a
story to tell, too, which only one of you knows. Forty years
ago, when I started in life as a business man, money wasn't so
plentiful with me as it may be to-day. And I needed it badly. A
chance came my way to make a pile of it. It wasn't a clean
chance. It was a dirty chance. It looked square on the surface;
but, underneath, it meant trickery and roguery. I hadn't enough
perception to see that, though--I was fool enough to think it was
all right. I told Robert what I meant to do. And Robert saw
clear through the outward sham to the real, hideous thing
underneath. He showed me what it meant and he gave me a
preachment about a few Monroe Traditions of truth and honor. I
saw what I had been about to do as he saw it--as all good men and
true must see it. And I vowed then and there that I'd never go
into anything that I wasn't sure was fair and square and clean
through and through. I've kept that vow. I am a rich man, and
not a dollar of my money is 'tainted' money. But I didn't make
it. Robert really made every cent of my money. If it hadn't
been for him I'd have been a poor man to-day, or behind prison
bars, as are the other men who went into that deal when I backed
out. I've got a son here. I hope he'll be as clever as his
Uncle Malcolm; but I hope, still more earnestly, that he'll be as
good and honorable a man as his Uncle Robert."
By this time Robert's head was bent again, and his face buried in
his hands.
"My turn next," said James. "I haven't much to say--only this.
After mother died I took typhoid fever. Here I was with no one
to wait on me. Robert came and nursed me. He was the most
faithful, tender, gentle nurse ever a man had. The doctor said
Robert saved my life. I don't suppose any of the rest of us here
can say we have saved a life."
Edith wiped away her tears and sprang up impulsively.
"Years ago," she said, "there was a poor, ambitious girl who had
a voice. She wanted a musical education and her only apparent
chance of obtaining it was to get a teacher's certificate and
earn money enough to have her voice trained. She studied hard,
but her brains, in mathematics at least, weren't as good as her
voice, and the time was short. She failed. She was lost in
disappointment and despair, for that was the last year in which
it was possible to obtain a teacher's certificate without
attending Queen's Academy, and she could not afford that. Then
her oldest brother came to her and told her he could spare enough
money to send her to the conservatory of music in Halifax for a
year. He made her take it. She never knew till long afterwards
that he had sold the beautiful horse which he loved like a human
creature, to get the money. She went to the Halifax
conservatory. She won a musical scholarship. She has had a
happy life and a successful career. And she owes it all to her
brother Robert--"
But Edith could go no further. Her voice failed her and she sat
down in tears. Margaret did not try to stand up.
"I was only five when my mother died," she sobbed. "Robert was
both father and mother to me. Never had child or girl so wise
and loving a guardian as he was to me. I have never forgotten
the lessons he taught me. Whatever there is of good in my life
or character I owe to him. I was often headstrong and willful,
but he never lost patience with me. I owe everything to Robert."
Suddenly the little teacher rose with wet eyes and crimson
cheeks.
"I have something to say, too," she said resolutely. "You have
spoken for yourselves. I speak for the people of White Sands.
There is a man in this settlement whom everybody loves. I shall
tell you some of the things he has done."
"Last fall, in an October storm, the harbor lighthouse flew a
flag of distress. Only one man was brave enough to face the
danger of sailing to the lighthouse to find out what the trouble
was. That was Robert Monroe. He found the keeper alone with a
broken leg; and he sailed back and made--yes, MADE the
unwilling and terrified doctor go with him to the lighthouse. I
saw him when he told the doctor he must go; and I tell you that
no man living could have set his will against Robert Monroe's at
that moment.
"Four years ago old Sarah Cooper was to be taken to the
poorhouse. She was broken-hearted. One man took the poor,
bed-ridden, fretful old creature into his home, paid for medical
attendance, and waited on her himself, when his housekeeper
couldn't endure her tantrums and temper. Sarah Cooper died two
years afterwards, and her latest breath was a benediction on
Robert Monroe--the best man God ever made.
"Eight years ago Jack Blewitt wanted a place. Nobody would hire
him, because his father was in the penitentiary, and some people
thought Jack ought to be there, too. Robert Monroe hired
him--and helped him, and kept him straight, and got him started
right--and Jack Blewitt is a hard-working, respected young man
to-day, with every prospect of a useful and honorable life.
There is hardly a man, woman, or child in White Sands who doesn't
owe something to Robert Monroe!"
As Kathleen Bell sat down, Malcolm sprang up and held out his
hands.
"Every one of us stand up and sing Auld Lang Syne," he cried.
Everybody stood up and joined hands, but one did not sing.
Robert Monroe stood erect, with a great radiance on his face and
in his eyes. His reproach had been taken away; he was crowned
among his kindred with the beauty and blessing of sacred
yesterdays.
When the singing ceased Malcolm's stern-faced son reached over
and shook Robert's hands.
"Uncle Rob," he said heartily, "I hope that when I'm sixty I'll
be as successful a man as you."
"I guess," said Aunt Isabel, aside to the little school teacher,
as she wiped the tears from her keen old eyes, "that there's a
kind of failure that's the best success."