_LOVE'S VICTORY OVER SIN_
The curtain of the night had fallen--and human souls were on their
trial; for human life is then behind the scenes, and the candour of its
purity or shame comes with the shelter of the falling night. In their
noblest acts, and in their basest deeds, men are aided by the impartial
dark. Both alike she screens, though with fickle folds, retreating when
she hears the first footfall of the dawn; then is every man's work made
manifest of what sort it is--and the great judgment day shall be but
relentless light.
The landscape no longer glimmered on the sight when Michael Blake set
out from the little inn, his heart burning with fear. And hope heaped
fuel on the flame, for fear would die if it were not for hope. He walked
on beneath the stately elms, their far-spread branches whispering as he
passed, for they knew well his step, and wondered that it hurried so. He
paused at the spring and drank again, but his thirst was still
unquenched.
He looked about him at the holy night; and surging shame flooded neck
and face with crimson. For it had been thus and there, amid the
sanctities of the night, and by their trysting-place, that the soul's
great wound was made, the blood oozing ever since, oozing still. Memory,
ermine-robed, half enchantress and half avenger, turned her face full on
his as he sat by the spring; but he turned his own away and started on,
ever on.
"Oh, my God! Give me a chance," he cried, "give me a chance," and the
darkness answered not, but the whispering trees seemed to have the
woman-voice.
He sees the light now; it is the harbour light, and Michael Blake
presses swiftly on, his heart upbraiding the laggard feet.
He stands now before the door, but that same heart, strangely wavering,
refuses to go in. The hour has struck for Michael Blake, the hour for
which his soul has waited long; but strange forces seek to hold him
back. The chiefest of these is fear; he feels he is hurrying his
judgment day, and when God would punish men, thinks he, He endows them
with deep and burning love--for otherwise He cannot speak to them in the
eternal tongue. The trembling man turns as if to go back.
"It is too light," he murmured, "still too light," for the memory of
another night has arisen upon him with judgment in its wings.
As he moves noiselessly from the door-step, he pauses by the window. It
is partly open, for the night is mild. A woman's figure moves before it,
so close that he could almost touch--and his arms go out unbidden, God's
retrievers, though they knew it not. He controls himself, and steps back
a pace, for she has passed to the other side of the room. Beside an old
chest of drawers she kneels, and his heart burns with eager passion as
he beholds the beauty of her face. Time, and sorrow, and God, have
worked together. Unto them all she hath submitted, and they have held to
their holy task till the beauty of peace rewards their secret toil.
She is lifting something from the drawer and the light falls upon it.
Another, and still another, she takes up in her gentle hands, smiling
down on them the while--they are a child's outgrown possessions, bits of
clothing some, and some, broken toys, such as mothers take into their
immortal keeping when children have spurned them from their own.
And what is that, shining bright, held longer than the others, still
smiling down upon it, her bosom heaving more heavily than before? He
knows, he knows--it is a little brooch, so little, but of gold, given
her long ago in the first glad sacrifice of love. She kisses it, and the
tears fall fast upon it, the lovely face suffused. It is tenderly
restored to its hiding-place, and the graceful form is full-bowed now.
He can see the white clasped hands, and the movement of the pure lips he
also sees. The words he cannot catch--for God is close, and the voice is
low. But the fragrance of prayer steals out to him, and the Interpreter,
once called the Man of Sorrows, tells him for whom she prays. "Make me
worthy, oh, God," he cries, his heart melted within him. Again he turns
to the door, and this time he falters not, but knocks. In a moment it is
opened.
"Guid evenin' sir," said the woman's voice. "I canna see ye for the
dark; is it some one I ken?" for wayfarers often sought guidance at her
door.
"No, I fear you do not know me," the man responded, "and I crave your
pardon for thus disturbing you. I have travelled far."
"Will ye come in? Or is there something I can do?"
"No, thank you," said the man; "I have travelled far and am thirsty. I
seek but a draught of water, and I shall go on my way."
"I'll sune gie ye that," replied the woman's cheery voice, "but what's
here is mebbe raither warm. Bide ye here till I rin doon to the spring."
The sweet face gleamed in the candle-light as she turned within, picking
up a light plaid shawl, so strong is habit, which she threw across her
shoulders. The tall gracious form was gone a moment, one darksome
moment, returning instantly, a pitcher in her hand. Down the steps she
tripped, and out into the night, her white gown mingling with the
darkness.
Michael Blake stealthily followed her, his heart in wild tumult again.
Her pace was swift and he found it difficult to keep the path. But again
he saw the flutter of white before him, and he knew that it was Janet,
none other, the same whom he had held so close in other days. He ran a
little, panting as he ran, his thirst a torment now--for the chase was
of the soul. He is not far from her.
"Janet," he cried.
She stopped and stood still, as a deer stops when it hears the hunter's
voice.