bonnie to see ye takin’ the chastenin’ o’ th’ Almichty like ye dae. I
was sair feart for ye, when I found oot what was gaein’ to happen. But
ye’ve got the richt o’t, David, ye’ve got the richt o’t," the old man
went on earnestly; "it’s a sair loss, nae doot—but it canna rob ye o’
what ye love the most. An’ I’ll tell ye anither thing, David," he
pursued, his voice the prophet voice, "it canna rob ye o’ the providence
o’ God—it canna change the purpose o’ His will for ye," and Geordie’s
outstretched hand, not often or lightly so extended, took David’s in its
own. "But aboot Harvey’s mither," he suddenly resumed, recalling the
thread that had been broken; "she’ll no’ hear what’s happened frae the
lips o’ gossip. I’ll tell her mysel’," he affirmed, the resolution
forming swiftly; "an’ I’ll dae it when I’m gaein’ hame frae here,"
proceeding forthwith to button up his coat preparatory to departure.
"I’ll go with you," David said quietly. "There’s no reason why I
shouldn’t. I’ve a lot to regret, but nothin’ to be ashamed of—nothin’
to be ashamed of, as I said afore. Where’s your mother, Madeline?—I
want to see her afore I go."
"She’s up-stairs," Madeline answered in rather a subdued tone. "I think
she’s looking over some things."
David sighed as he rose and turned towards the stair. Reaching the room
above, he found his wife gazing upon the rich contents of several
receptacles whose treasures were outturned upon the floor. He sat down
beside her on the bed, making rather a plaintive attempt to comfort the
heart whose sorrow he knew was different from his own.
"I’m going to keep everything of Madeline’s I can," she said, after some
preliminary conversation. "Poor child, she was looking forward so to
her coming-out party—but I guess that’s all a thing of the past now,"
she sighed. "And everybody said you were going to be elected the town’s
first mayor, too. I was counting so much on that—but of course they
won’t do it now. But do you know, David, there’s one bit of consolation
left to us—and that’s about Madeline. I think, I think, David, she’ll be
provided for, all right, before very long," smiling significantly as she
made the prediction.
"How?" David asked, quite dumfoundered, yet not without a kind of chill
sensation in the region of his heart.
"Oh, the old way," responded his wife; "the old, old way, David. I’ve
seen signs of it, I think—at least I’ve seen signs that some one else
wouldn’t mind taking care of her, some one that would be able to give
her quite as much as we ever did," she concluded, a note of decided
optimism in the voice.
David sat up straight and gasped. "Surely," he began in a hoarse voice,
"surely you ain’t talkin’ about—about matrimony, are you, mother?"
Madeline’s mother smiled assentingly. "That’s the old, old way, David—I
guess that’s what it’ll end in, if things go on all right. Don’t look
so stormy, David—I should think you’d be glad."
"Glad!" cried David, his voice rising like a wind. "Good Lord,
glad—glad, if a fellow’s goin’ to lose everything an’ then be left
alone," he half wailed; "you expect a fellow to be glad if he gets news
that he might have to part with the dearest thing he’s got?" he went on
boisterously. "But I’m makin’ a goat o’ myself," chastening his tone as
he continued; "there ain’t no such thing goin’ to happen. Who in
thunder do you imagine wants our Madeline?—I’d like to see the cuss
that’d——"
"But, David," his wife interrupted rather eagerly, "wait till I tell you
who it is—or perhaps you know—it’s Cecil; and I’m quite sure he’d be
ever so attentive, if Madeline would only permit it. And I don’t
suppose any young gentleman of our acquaintance has the prospects Cecil
has."
David’s face wore a strange expression; half of pity it seemed to be and
half of fiery wrath. "That’s so, mother," he said in quite a changed
voice; "if all reports is true there ain’t many with prospects like
his—he’ll get what’s comin’ to him, I reckon. But there’s one thing I’m
goin’ to tell you, mother," and the woman started at the changed tone of
the words, so significant in its sternness, "an’ I’ll jest tell it to
you now—an’ it’s this. Mebbe we’ll have to beg our bread afore we’re
through—but Cecil ain’t never goin’ to have our Madeline—not if me an’
God can help it," whereat he turned and went almost noiselessly from the
room, his white lips locked in silence. And Madeline wondered why his
eyes rested so yearningly on her when he returned, filled with such
hungering tenderness as though he were to see her never more.
*XXIII*
_*INGENUITY OF LOVE*_
Neither Geordie nor David spoke a word as they went down the steps and
passed slowly along the avenue that led from the gate to the house. But
just as they opened the gate David turned and took a long wistful survey
of the scene behind.
"It’ll be quite a twist to leave it all," he said, trying to smile.
"I’ve got so kind o’ used to it—there’s a terrible pile o’ difference
between _bein’_ poor an’ _gettin’_ poor," he added reflectively.
"But ye’d hae to gang awa an’ leave it, suner or later," Geordie
suggested; "it comes to us a’—an’ it’s only a wee bit earlier at the
maist."
"That’s dead true," assented David; "sometimes I think th’ Almighty
sends things like this to get us broke in for the other—a kind of
rehearsal for eternity," he concluded, quite solemnly for him. "Look
there, Mr. Nickle," he suddenly digressed, pointing towards the house,
"d’ye see that upper left-hand window, with the light shinin’ on it, an’
the curtain blowin’ out?—well, that’s where Madeline was born. It’s kind
o’ hard," he said, so softly that Geordie scarcely heard.
"But ye hae the lassie wi’ ye yet—the licht’s aye shinin’ frae her
bonnie face," Geordie replied consolingly.
"Poor child, she’s had to scrape up most o’ the sunshine for our home
herself this last while," responded David, "but it ain’t goin’ to be
that way after this—when things is dark, that’s the time for faces to be
bright, ain’t it?—even if a fellow does lose all he’s got. Do you know,
Mr. Nickle," he went on very earnestly, "I’ve a kind of a feelin’ a man
should be ashamed of himself, if all his money’s done for him is to make
him miserable when it’s gone. I mean this," turning and smiling
curiously towards Geordie, "if a fellow’s had lots o’ money, an’ all the
elegant things it gets him, it ought to kind o’ fit him for doin’
without it. I don’t believe you catch my meanin’—but money, an’
advantages, ought to do that much for the man that’s had ’em, to learn
him how to do without ’em if he has to—it ought to dig wells in him
somewhere that won’t dry up when his money takes the wings o’ the
mornin’ an’ flies away, as the Scriptur’ says."
"Yon’s graun’ doctrine, David," Geordie assented eagerly; "forbye,
there’s’ anither thing it ought to dae for a man—it should let him ken
hoo easy thae man-made streams dry up, an’ what sair things they are to
minister till the soul. An’ they should make him seek the livin’ water,
so he’ll thirst nae mair forever. I seem to ken that better mysel’ than
I’ve ever done afore."
"Mebbe that’s part o’ the plan," David made reply; "’cause how a fellow
takes a thing like this here that’s happened me, depends ’most
altogether on jest one thing—an’ I’ll tell you what it is—whether he
takes it good or bad depends on whether he believes there’s any plan in
the business at all. I mean some One else’s plan, of course. There’s a
terrible heap o’ comfort in jest believin’ there’s a plan. When things
was all fine sailin’ with me, I always held to the plan idea—always kep’
pratin’ about the web a higher hand was weavin’ for us all—an’ I ain’t
agoin’ to go back on it now," he added with unwonted vehemence. "No,
sir, I never believed more in God’s weavin’ than I do this minute.
’Tain’t jest the way I’d like it wove—but then we don’t see only the one
side," he added resignedly. "D’ye know, Mr. Nickle, we’re terrible
queer critters, ain’t we? It really is one of the comicalest things
about us, that we don’t believe th’ Almighty’s plan for us is as good as
our own plan for ourselves. Funny too, ain’t it, now?" he pursued, "an’
the amusin’ part o’ the whole business is this, how the folks that’s
most religious often kicks the hardest when they ain’t allowed to do
their share o’ the weavin’," he concluded, looking earnestly into his
friend’s face.
Geordie’s reply found expression more by his eyes than by word of mouth.
But both were interrupted by their journey’s end, for by this time they
had arrived at the little store. Entering and enquiring for Mrs.
Simmons, they were conducted by Jessie into the unpretentious
sitting-room where Harvey’s mother was seated in the solitary armchair
that adorned the room, her hands busy with the knitting that gave
employment to the passing hours.
Grave and kindly were the salutations of her visitors, equally sincere
and dignified the greetings in return. After some irrelevant
conversation, David introduced the purpose of their visit with the tact
that never fails a kindly heart, bidding his friend tell the rest; and
the half-knitted stocking fell idle on her lap as the silent listener
composed herself bravely to hear the tidings that something assured her
would be far from welcome.
Once or twice she checked a rising sigh, and once or twice she nervously
resumed the knitting that had been given over; but no other sign bespoke
the sorrow and disappointment that possessed her. If any wave of pain
passed over the gentle face, it found no outlet in the sightless eyes.
Geordie kept nothing back; the whole story of their present
situation—and of their consequent helplessness to further aid her
scholar son—was faithfully rehearsed. And the very tone of his voice
bore witness to the sincerity of his statement that the whole calamity
had no more painful feature than the one it was their mission now to
tell.
"I’m content," she said quietly when Mr. Nickle had concluded. "I’ll
not deny that the hope of—of what’s evidently not to be—has made the
days bright for me ever since Harvey went away," she went on, as if her
life had never known darkness; "but he’s had a good start, and he can
never lose what he’s got already—and maybe the way’ll be opened up yet;
it’s never been quite closed on us," she added reverently, "though it
often looked dark enough. The promise to the poor and the needy never
seems to fail. And I’m sure Harvey’ll find something to do—and oh," she
broke in more eagerly than before, "I know the very first thing he’d
want me to do is to thank you both for your great kindness, your
wonderful kindness to us all," she concluded, both hands going out in
the darkness to hold for a moment the hands of her benefactors.
The conversation was not much longer continued, both Geordie and David
retreating before the brave and trustful resignation as they never would
have done before lamentation or repining. And after they had gone
Jessie and her mother sat long together in earnest consultation; for the
one was as resolved as the other that something must be done to avert
the impending disaster.
"Just to think, mother, he’d be a B.A. if he could only finish with his
class," said Jessie; "and then, then he could be nearly any thing he
liked, after that. If only business were a little better in the shop,"
she sighed.
"But it’s losing, Jessie," the mother replied, forcing the candid
declaration. "I can tell that myself—often I count how many times the
bell above the door rings in a day; and it’s growing less, I’ve noticed
that for a year now. It’s all because Glenallen’s growing so fast,
too—that’s the worst of it; what helps others seems to hurt us."
Jessie understood, the anomaly having been often discussed before; it
had been discussed, too, in the more pretentious shops, though in a far
different frame of mind. "We’ve got along so well this far—we’ve got
almost used to doing without things," she said with a plaintive smile,
"and it seems such a pity to have to stop when the goal’s in sight."
"If I were only stronger," mused the mother; "but I’m not," she added
quietly, the pale face turning towards Jessie’s—"your mother’s not
gaining any; you can see that, can’t you, dear?"
Jessie’s protest was swift and passionate. "You mustn’t talk that way,"
she cried appealingly; "you’ve spoken like that once or twice—and I
won’t hear of it," the voice quivering in its intensity. "You’re going
to get well—I’m almost sure you will. And there’s nothing more I’d let
you do," her eyes glowing with the ardour of her purpose, "if you were
as well and strong as ever in your life."
Mrs. Simmons smiled, but the smile was full of sadness.
"Have it as you will, my child," she said, "but there’s no use shutting
our eyes to the truth—it’s for your own sake I spoke of it, Jessie.
When you write to Harvey, do you tell him I’m gaining, dear?" a smile on
the patient face.
Jessie was silent a moment. "Don’t, mother don’t," she pleaded. "Let’s
talk about what we’ll do for Harvey. Oh, mother," the arms going about
the fragile form in a passion of devotion, "it seems as if your troubles
would never end; it’s been one long round of care and struggle and pain
for you ever since I can remember. And this last seems the worst, for I
know how you’ve lived for Harvey. And it shan’t all be for nothing;
we’ll get through with it somehow—I know we will."
"You shouldn’t pity me so, my daughter," and the mother’s voice was as
calm as the untroubled face. "I really don’t think you know how much
happiness I’ve had; I often feel there’s nothing so close to joy as
sorrow. And you and Harvey have been so good—and I’m so proud of him.
The way’s always been opened up for us; and God has strengthened me, and
comforted me, beyond what I ever thought was possible. And besides,
dear," the voice low and thrilling with the words that were to come,
"besides, Jessie, I’ve had a wonderful feeling lately that it’s getting
near the light—it’s like a long tunnel, but I’ve caught glimpses of
beauty sometimes that tell me the long darkness is nearly over. Oh, my
darling," she went on in the same thrilling voice, holding her close in
a kind of rapture, "I never was so sure before—not even when I could see
all around—never so sure—that it’s all light after all, and my very
darkness has been the light of God. I don’t know why I should cry like
this," she sobbed, for the tears were now falling fast, "for I’m really
happy—even with all this new trouble; but for days and days lately I’ve
kept saying to myself: ’They need no candle, neither light of the
sun’—and I can’t think of it without crying, because I know it’s true."
Very skillfully did Jessie endeavour to turn the conversation into other
channels; her own sinking heart told her too well that her inmost
thought was not far different from her mother’s. For the dear face was
daily growing more pale and thin, and the springs of vitality seemed to
be slowly ebbing. But on this she would not permit her mind to dwell.
"Don’t you think we could get some bright girl to mind the shop, mother;
some young girl, you know, that wouldn’t cost very much? Because I’ve
just been thinking—I’ve got a kind of a plan—I’ve been wondering if I
couldn’t make enough to help Harvey through. You know, mother, I can
sew pretty well—Miss Adair told me only yesterday I managed quite as
well as the girls with a regular training, and she just as much as
offered me work. And I’ll see her about it this very day; we could get
some one to mind the shop for a great deal less than I could make—and
Harvey could have the rest. You wouldn’t object, would you, mother? I
wouldn’t go out to sew; some of the girls take the work home with them,
and so could I. Or, if I was doing piece-work, I might be able to mind
the store myself at the same time—there seems to be so little to do
now," she added, looking a little ruefully towards the silent shop.
The expression of pain deepened on the mother’s face as she listened.
Yet she did not demur, although the inner vision brought the tired
features of the unselfish girl before her. "It seems hard," she said at
length; "I was always hoping you’d soon have it a little easier—but this
will only make it harder for you."
"But not for long," Jessie interrupted cheerily; "just till Harvey’s
through—and then he’ll be able to make lots of money. And maybe you and
I’ll be able to go away somewhere for a little rest," she added
hopefully, her eyes resting long on the pallid face.
"Harvey must never know," the mother suddenly affirmed; "we’ll have to
keep it from him, whatever happens, for I know he wouldn’t consent to it
for a moment. Where are you going, Jessie?" for she knew, her sense of
every movement quickened by long exercise, that the girl was making
preparations to go out.
"I’m going to see Miss Adair, mother. I won’t be long—but now that my
mind’s set on it, I can’t rest till I find out. If I can only get that
arranged, it’ll make it so much brighter for us all."
The mother sat alone with many conflicting thoughts, marvelling at all
that so enriched her life, dark though it was, and bearing about with it
a burden that no heart could share.
Jessie’s errand was successful, as such errands are prone to be; and
only those who understand life’s hidden streams could have interpreted
the radiance on the maiden’s face as she returned to announce her
indenture unto toil, new gladness springing from new sacrifice, for such
is the mysterious source whose waters God hath bidden to be blessed.
David was absorbed in a very sober study as he walked slowly homeward.
Not that he shrank from the personal sacrifice that his present
circumstances were about to demand, or that any sense of dishonour
clouded his thought of the business career that seemed about to
close—from this he was absolutely free. But he was feeling, and for the
first time, how keen the sting of defeat can be to a man whose long and
valiant struggle against relentless odds has at last proved unavailing.
Still reflecting on this and many other things, he suddenly heard
himself accosted by a familiar voice; turning round, he saw Mr. Craig
hurrying towards him.
"Going home, Borland?" said the former as he came up with him; "I’ll
just walk along with you if you are—I want to talk to you."
David’s mind lost no time in its calculation as to what the subject of
this conversation would likely be; during all his period of struggle,
well known and widely discussed as it had been, Mr. Craig had never
approached him before. David felt an unconscious stiffening of the lip,
he scarce knew why.
"I wanted to tell you, Borland, for one thing," Mr. Craig began as they
walked along, "how much I feel for you in the hard luck you’re having."
"Thank you kindly," said David promptly.
"I don’t suppose I’m just able to sympathize as well as lots of men
could," Mr. Craig observed; "unbroken success doesn’t fit one for that
sort of thing."
"Oh!" said David, volumes in the tone.
"Well," said the other, not by any means oblivious to the intonation, "I
suppose it does sound kind of egotistical—but I guess it’s true just the
same. I suppose I’m what might be called a successful man."
"I reckon you might be _called_ that, all right," said David, getting
out his knife and glancing critically at a willow just ahead. The
spirit of whittling invariably arose within him when his emotions were
aroused.
"What do you mean?" Mr. Craig enquired, a little ardently. He had
noticed David’s emphasis on one particular word.
"I don’t mean nothin’," responded David, making a willow branch his own.
"You seem to doubt a little whether I’ve really been successful or not?"
ventured the other, looking interrogatively at his companion.
"Depends," said David laconically; "you’ve been terrible successful
outside."
"I don’t just follow you," Mr. Craig declared with deliberate calmness.
"I don’t suppose we judge people by the inside of them—at least I
don’t."
"I do," answered David nonchalantly. "A fellow can’t help it—look at
this here gad; it looked elegant from the outside," holding it up to
show the wound his knife had made.
"What’s the matter with it?" Mr. Craig rejoined, pretending to look
closely.
"It’s rotten," said David.
"What do you mean by that?" Mr. Craig demanded rather more sharply.
"I don’t mean nothin’," responded David.
"Then it hasn’t anything to do with the question of success?"
"That’s an awful big question," David answered adroitly, "an’ folks’ll
get a terrible jolt in their opinions about it some day, I reckon—like
the rich fool got; an’ he thought he was some pun’kins, too. Nobody
can’t tell jest who’s a success," he went on, peeling the willow as he
spoke. "I reckon folks calls me the holiest failure in these parts—but
I’m a terrible success some ways," he went on calmly.
"What ways?" Mr. Craig enquired rather too quickly for courtesy.
"Oh, nothin’ much—only under the bark—if it’s anywheres," David jerked
out, still vigorously employed on the willow. "But there ain’t no good
of pursuin’ them kind of thoughts," he suddenly digressed, making a
final slash at the now denuded branch; "they’re too high-class for a
fellow that never went to school after he left it—let’s talk about
somethin’ worldly. They say you’re goin’ to be Glenallen’s first mayor;
goin’ to open the ball—ain’t that so?"
Abating his pace, Mr. Craig drew closer to David, a pleased expression
displacing the rather decided frown that had been gathering.
"To tell the truth, now that you’ve mentioned it," he began
confidentially, "that’s the very thing I wanted to talk about. Of
course, there’s no use in my pretending I don’t want the office, for I
do—the whole thing is in being the _first_ mayor, you see, after
Glenallen’s incorporated. Kind of an historical event, you
understand—and, and there seems to be a little misunderstanding," he
went on a trifle hesitatingly, "between you and me. I find there’s a
tendency to—to elect you—that is, in some quarters," he explained, "and
I thought we might come to a kind of an agreement, you understand."
"What kind?" David asked innocently.
"Oh, well, you understand. Of course, I know you wouldn’t care for the
office—not at present, at least. I’ve felt perfectly free to say as much
whenever the matter was mentioned to me."
"You’re terrible cheerful about resignin’ for other people," rejoined
David with some spirit; "some folks is terrible handy at makin’ free
with other folks’ affairs."
"Oh, well, you know what I mean—you’ve got your hands full——"
"They’re not terrible full," David corrected dismally.
"And besides, you see," Mr. Craig went bravely on, "you’re not British
born—you were born in Ohio, weren’t you?"
"Not much," David informed him; "there’s no Buckeye about me—I was born
in Abe Lincoln’s State. Peoria’s where I dawned—and he often used to
stop at my father’s house when he was attendin’ court." David was
evidently ready to be delivered of much further information, but the
candidate had no mind to hear it.
"Well, anyhow," he interrupted, "I think it’d be more fitting that the
first mayor should have been born under the British flag. But you don’t
mean to say you think you’ll stand?" he suddenly enquired, evidently
determined to ascertain the facts without further parley.
"Couldn’t jest say," David replied with rather provoking deliberation;
"you see, I’ll have a good deal o’ time lyin’ round loose, now that I’m
givin’ up business for my health," this with a mournful grin. "So mebbe
I’ll be in the hands o’ my friends—that there expression’s one I made up
myself," he added, turning a broad smile upon his friend’s very sober
face. Mr. Craig, to tell the exact truth, grew quite pale as he heard
the ominous words. For his heart had been sorely set on the immortality
the first mayorship of Glenallen would confer, and he knew how doubtful
would be the issue of a contest between David and himself.
"I was thinking," he began a little excitedly, "perhaps we could make
some arrangement that would be—would be to our mutual advantage," he
blurted out at last; "perhaps—perhaps I could give you a little lift; I
could hardly expect you to withdraw for nothing. And now that you’re in
financial difficulties, so to speak, I thought perhaps a little quiet
assistance mightn’t go amiss."
But David had come to a dead standstill, his eyes flashing as they
fastened themselves on the other’s face. "D’ye mean to say you’re
tryin’ to bribe me?" he demanded, his voice husky.
"Oh, no, Mr. Borland—oh, no, I only meant we might find common ground
if——"
"Common ground! Common scoundrelism!" David broke in vehemently; "you
must think I’m devilish poor, Mr. Craig," his voice rising with his
emotion, "an’ it appears to me a man has to be sunk mighty low afore he
could propose what you’ve done. I’ve bore a heap, God knows—but no man
never dared insult me like this afore; if that’s one o’ the things
you’ve got to do if you’re pure British stock, then I thank the Lord I’m
a mongrel."
"Be calm, Mr. Borland," implored his friend suavely, "you don’t
understand."
"I understand all right," shouted David; "a man don’t need much breedin’
of any kind to understand the likes o’ you—you want a man that’s lost
all he’s got, to sell himself into the bargain," the withered cheek
burning hot as David made his arraignment.
"Now, Mr. Borland, do be reasonable—I mean nothing of the sort. I only
wanted to give you a helping hand—of course, if you can do without it——"
"Yes, thank God," and David’s voice was quite shaky, "I can do without
it all right. I can do without your dirty money—-an’ everybody else’s
for that matter—but I can’t do without a conscience that ain’t got no
blot on it, an’ I can’t do without a clean name like my father left it
to me," he went hotly on, his flushed face and swift-swallowing throat
attesting how deeply he felt what he was saying.
"Oh, come now, Borland," Mr. Craig urged, reaching out a hand towards
his shoulder, "come off your high horse—preachin’ isn’t your strong
point, you know."
"I ain’t preachin’," David retorted vigorously. "I’m practisin’—an’
that’s a horse of a different colour," he added, casting about to recall
the amiability that had almost vanished.
"There’s no need for any trouble between us, Borland," Mr. Craig began
blandly; "’twouldn’t be seemly, considering all that’s liable to
happen—if things go on as they’re likely to," he added significantly.
"We’ll need to be on the best of terms if we’re going to be relations,
you know."
"What’s that you’re sayin’?—relations, did you say?" David was quite at
a loss to understand, and yet a dim fear, suggested not so long before,
passed for a moment through his mind.
"Yes, relations," returned Mr. Craig, smiling amiably; "these young
folks have a way of making people relations without consulting them—at
least, till they’ve gone and settled it themselves. I guess you
understand all right."
A hot flush flowed over David’s cheek. "Do you—do you mean my
Madeline?" he stammered, staring like one who did not see.
"Well, maybe—but I mean my Cecil just as much. All this won’t make any
difference to Cecil."
"What won’t?" David groped, the words coming as if unguided, his
thoughts gone on another mission.
"Oh, these little difficulties of yours—all this financial tangle, I
mean; your failure, as they call it round town. That’ll never budge
Cecil."
The men were still standing, neither thinking of direction or of
progress. But David moved close up to the other, his eyes fixed on the
shrewd face with relentless sternness.
"It don’t need to make no difference," he said through set teeth.
"There ain’t nothin’ to get different—if you mean your son, Craig—or if
you mean my daughter, Craig," the words prancing out like a succession
of mettled steeds; "either you or him’s the biggest fool God ever let
loose. There ain’t no human power, nor no other kind, can jine them two
together. Perhaps I’ll have to go beggin’—but I’ll take Madeline along
with me afore she’ll ever go down the pike with any one like your Cecil,
as you call him." David paused for breath.
"She’d be mighty lucky if she got him," Cecil’s father retorted
haughtily. "One would think you were the richest man in the county to
hear you talk."
David’s face was closer than ever. "Craig," he said, his voice low and
taut, "there’s mebbe some that’s good enough for Madeline—I ain’t
a-sayin’—but th’ Almighty never made no man yet that my daughter’d be
lucky if she got. An’ I know I’m poor; an’ I know I’ve got to take to
the tall timbers out o’ there—where she was born," the words coming with
a little gulp as he pointed in the direction of his home, "but I’m a
richer man, Craig, than you ever knew how to be. An’ you can go back to
your big house, an’ I’m goin’ to hunt a little one for us—but I wouldn’t
trade you if every pebble on your carriage drive was gold. An’ I’m
happier’n you ever knew how to be. An’ your Cecil can’t never have our
Madeline. An’ when it comes to budgin’, like you was talkin’ about, I
reckon I can do my share of not budgin’, Craig—an’ you can put that in
your pipe an’ smoke it."
David started to move on; he was panting just a little. But Mr. Craig
stopped him; and the sneer in his words was quite noticeable:
"I suppose you’ll be giving her to your charity student—she’ll be head
clerk in the Simmons’ store yet, I shouldn’t wonder."
David was not difficult to detain. He stared hard for a moment before
speaking. "Mebbe they’re poor," he said at length, "an’ mebbe his blind
mother has to skimp an’ save—that settles any one for you all right.
But it wouldn’t take me no longer to decide between that there charity
student an’ your son, than it would to decide—to decide between you an’
God," he concluded hotly, turning and starting resolutely on his way.
"Now you know my ideas about success," he flung over his shoulder as he
pressed on; "you’re a success, you know, a terrible success—I’m a
failure, thank heaven," his face set steadfastly towards home, bright
with the hallowed light that, thought of his treasure there kept burning
through all life’s storm and darkness.
But Mr. Craig fired the last shot. "I wish you luck with the coming-out
party," he called after him mockingly; "be sure and have it worthy of
the young lady—and of her father’s fortune," he added, the tone
indicating what satisfaction the thrust afforded him.
David answered never a word. But the taunt set him pondering,
nevertheless; once or twice he stopped almost still, though his pace was
brisk, and something in his face reflected the purpose forming within
him. When he reached his home he found Madeline and her mother
together; they were still employed with the sombre task of selecting
what should be the survivors among their domestic treasures.
"How did Mrs. Simmons take it?" Madeline asked almost impatiently, as he
drew her down in the chair beside him.
"She took it like as if she believed in God," David answered solemnly;
"an’ she took it that way ’cause she does—that’s more," he added
emphatically. "But I’ve got somethin’ to say—somethin’ important."
Both waited eagerly to hear. "Tell me quick," said Madeline.
"Well, it’s this. I don’t want nothin’ touched here—not till after what
I’m goin’ to tell you. We’ll have to waltz out o’ here, of course," he
said, looking gravely around the room; "but it’ll be some considerable
time yet—an’ as long as we’re here, we’ll be here, see? An’ we’re goin’
to have your comin’-out party, Madeline—we’re goin’ to have it the last
night. So it’ll be a comin’-out party, an’ a goin’-out one, at the same
time—ain’t that an elegant idea? An’ it’ll be a dandy, too—there’ll be
high jinks till nobody can’t see anybody else for dust. An’ we’re goin’
to have things jest like they are now—no use o’ kickin’ down your
scaffold till you’re through with it," he concluded, chucking Madeline
under the chin in his jubilation.
Madeline and her mother gasped a little as they exchanged glances. Mrs.
Borland was the first to speak. "Don’t you think it’ll throw a gloom
over everything, David, when everybody’ll know what—what’s going to
happen?"
"If anybody begins that kind o’ throwin’, I’ll throw them out sideways,"
David replied fiercely. "Most certainly it won’t. Everybody’d always
be slingin’ gloom round, if that’d do it—’cause nobody ever knows what’s
goin’ to happen any time. Leastways, nobody only One—an’ He ain’t never
gloomy, for all He knows. Anyhow, nothin’ ain’t goin’ to happen—’cept
to the furniture," he added scornfully, glancing at the doomed articles
that stood about.
"One good thing," Madeline suggested radiantly, "there’ll be nothing to
hide—everybody’ll know they’re expected to be jolly."
"Sure thing!" echoed David, utterly delighted. "I’m goin’ to have that
on the invitations—there ain’t goin’ to be no ’Answer P.D.Q.’ on the
left-hand corner; I’m goin’ to have somethin’ else—I’m goin’ to have
what that cove on the tavern sheds yelled through the megaphone: ’If you
can’t laugh don’t come.’ I often told you about him, didn’t I?—well,
that’s the prescription’s goin’ to be on the admission tickets."
Considerable further dialogue was terminated by a very serious question
from the prospective débutante. "Won’t it look kind of strange, father?"
she ventured rather timidly, "going to all that expense—just at this
particular time?"
David put his arms about her very tenderly, smiling down into the sober
face. "There ain’t goin’ to be no champagne, Madeline," he said
quietly, "nor no American beauties—there’ll jest be one of heaven’s
choicest. It’ll be an awful simple party—an’ awful sweet. An’ music
don’t cost nothin’; neither does love, nor friends, nor welcomes—the
best things is the cheapest. An’ I’ll show them all one thing," he went
on very gravely, his eyes filling as they were bended on his child, "one
thing that ain’t expensive—but awful dear," the words faltering as they
left his lips.
*XXIV*
_*THE VICTOR’S SPOILS*_
"Of course you ought to go. I’ve got a kind of feeling, though I don’t
know why, that the whole party will be spoiled if you’re not there."
"Spoiled! Spoiled for whom?"
"Oh, for somebody—I guess you know all right."
It was Miss Farringall who was pressing her advice so vigorously; Harvey
the beneficiary. They were seated in the little room in which they had
first met, everything in the same perfect order, the fire still singing
its song of unconquerable cheer, the antique desk in the corner still
guarding its hidden secrets. The domestic Grey, the added dignity of
years upon him, had come to regard the one-time intruder with almost the
same affection that he lavished on his mistress in his own devoted,
purring way. He was slumbering now on Harvey’s knee, and, could he have
interpreted the significance of human glances, he might have seen the
fondness with which the woman’s eyes were often turned upon the manly
face beside her.
"If I thought Miss Borland really wanted me to come," mused Harvey.
"Maybe Miss Borland doesn’t care very much," his friend retorted
quickly, "but I’m sure Madeline wants you," her eyebrows lifted
reproachfully as she spoke.
Harvey smiled in return. "Of course, it would give me a chance to see
mother," he said reflectively; "and Jessie says she’s very poorly.
Perhaps I really ought to go—Jessie’s quite anxious about her."
"I think both reasons are good ones," Miss Farringall said after a
little silence. "Do you know, Harvey," she went on, a shade almost of
sadness coming over her face, "I feel more and more that there’s only
one thing in life worth gaining—and one should never trifle with it. If
you lose that, you lose everything—no matter how much else you may have
of money, or luxury—even of friends," she said decisively; "even of
friends—if you miss that other."
Harvey, slightly at a loss, fumbled about for something to say. "You
have everything that money can provide, Miss Farringall—and that’s a
good deal," he added, magnifying the lonely asset as best he could.
"Yes, perhaps I have—and maybe it is," she said as if to herself. Then
neither spoke for a long interval. But finally Miss Farringall turned
towards Harvey with a peculiar expression, as if she had just come to a
decision after much inward debate.
"Would you like to hear something I’ve never told any one else?" she
said impressively—"not even to the rector. He has a second wife," she
explained, smiling, "and they’re always dangerous."
"If you wish to trust me with it," was Harvey’s answer.
"Well, I will—and you’ll tell me whether I did right or not. It’s not a
long story, and I’ll tell it as directly as I can. It’s about a man—a
gentleman," she corrected. "No, I never loved him—doesn’t this language
sound strange from me?" as she noticed the surprise on Harvey’s face.
"But it was—it was different with him. He was a married man, too. And
his wife was very rich—richer than he was. And she hated him—they lived
in the same house, but that was all; a proud, selfish woman; so selfish,
she was."
Miss Farringall rose and moved to the window, gazing long on the leafy
scene about her. The silence was broken suddenly by the butler’s voice,
his approach as noiseless as ever.
"Please, Miss Farringall, the rector’s here—he’s in the hall. And he
wants to know——"
"Tell him he can’t," Miss Farringall said softly, without turning her
eyes from the window.
"Yes, mum," as the impassive countenance vanished.
Harvey did not speak, did not even look towards the silent figure at the
window. He knew, and waited. Presently the woman turned and silently
resumed her chair.
"It was different with him, as I said," she slowly began again—"not that
I ever encouraged him; it terrified me when I found it out. Well, one
day when we were alone together, he—he forgot himself," a slight tremor
of the gentle form and a deep flush upon the cheek betokening the
vividness of the memory. "And I fled from him—and I vowed we should
never meet again," the sad face lighting up with the echo of a far-off
purpose. "And I kept the vow for years," she went on, gazing into the
fire—for there it is that the dead years, embalmed of mystic forces, may
be seen by sorrow-brightened eyes.
Harvey waited again, silent still. And once again the strange narrative
was resumed. "But I broke it at last," she said. "He was dying—a slow,
painful disease. And he had everything money could give him; he had
everything that anybody wants—except that one thing. His wife went on
in her old, idle, fashionable way, caring nothing, of course. Well, one
day he sent for me—it was his wife who brought the message; she knew
nothing of what had happened, of course, and she told me of his request
and asked me if I wouldn’t come and sit with him sometimes. And I
went—I went often—used to read to him; many different books at first,
mostly poetry—but as it came nearer the end it was hardly ever anything
but the Bible.... The end came at last. And just the day before he died
he said to me: ’It’ll be to-morrow—to-morrow about this time.’ Then he
took a big envelope from under his pillow, and he said: ’This’ll be
good-bye; God bless you for what you’ve been to a dying man. And I want
you to do this. I want you to come to my grave a year from the night of
the day I’m buried—and open this envelope there—but not for a year.’
And we said good-bye. Well, I couldn’t refuse the request of a dying
man—I did as he asked me. But I waited a year and four days, Harvey,"
and Miss Farringall’s voice was quite triumphant; "I waited that long
because I knew no man would believe a woman could do it.... And that’s
how I’m situated as I am, Harvey. I don’t think anybody ever knew—I
guess nobody cared; principally stocks, simply transferred. Do you
think I did right, Harvey?" she asked after a pause.
"Yes," said Harvey quickly, unable to take his eyes from her face.
"Not that the envelope ever did me very much good," she went on. "I
often think how much happier I’d have been if I’d been poor—and had had
that other. But it wasn’t to be. And all this never made me
happy—there was only one could have done that; and he went out of my
life long ago—long ago now," she said, her gaze scanning his face in
wistful scrutiny, her heart busy with the photograph entombed in the
silent desk before her.
"So I think you certainly ought to go, as I said," she resumed, quietly
reverting to the original topic. "I know the signs," she added in
plaintive playfulness—"even if they do call me an old maid; I shouldn’t
wonder if they know the signs best of all. But this is all nonsense,"
straightening herself resolutely in her chair, "and has nothing to do
with what we’re talking about. When is the party, Harvey?"
"It’s Friday night week—the very day after I graduate. And they leave
the old home the next day—I told you all about Mr. Borland’s failure.
It seems they’ve been prepared to leave for some months—and now it’s
actually come. Mr. Borland gave up everything to his creditors, I
believe. And this is a notion of his own—just like him, too—that
they’ll celebrate the last night in their old home this way; he’s going
to have Madeline’s coming-out party for a finish. Quite an original
idea, isn’t it?"
"Will that young fellow from your town be there?—Mr. Craig, you know?"
asked Miss Farringall, without answering his question. She did not look
at Harvey as she asked her own.
"Oh, yes," Harvey answered, "he’ll be there, of course—he’s very
attentive." Harvey’s eyes were also turned away.
"Who’s he attentive to?"
"Why, to Miss Borland—to Madeline, of course. He’s been that for a long
time."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes. At least, I suppose so. Why?" Harvey asked wonderingly.
"Oh, nothing much—only I heard his affections were divided; another
Glenallen girl, I heard."
"What was the name?" asked Harvey, interestedly.
"I did hear, I think—it doesn’t matter. Please don’t ask me any
more—really, I’m ashamed of myself, I’m getting to be such a silly old
gossip. Tell me, are you going to get the medal when you graduate?"
The look on the face before her showed that the conversation had turned
his thoughts towards something more absorbing than college premiums,
covetable though they be; he too was coming to realize that life has
only one great prize, and but one deep source of springing joy.
"I have my doubts about the medal," Harvey answered after a pause; "I’m
afraid of Echlin—but I’ll give him a race for it. I think I’m sure of
my degree, all right. That’s another reason inclines me to go home next
week," he added cheerfully; "I want to give my sheepskin to my mother;
it’s more hers and Jessie’s than it is mine—and I want them to see my
hood, too, when I get one; and the medal," his face brightening, "if I
should have the luck to win it. But there’s another thing that troubles
me a little," he added with a dolorous smile, "and that is that I
haven’t got anything to wear, as the ladies say. I haven’t a dress
suit, you know—and I’m afraid anything else’ll be a little conspicuous
there."
Miss Farringall smiled the sweetest, saddest smile, as she turned her
face to Harvey’s. "Oh, child," she said, "you’re very young; and you’re
certainly very unfamiliar with the woman-heart. A girl doesn’t care a
fig for dress suits—I think they rather admire men who dress
originally," she went on assuringly; "I know I did, then. And besides,
it’s all to your credit that you haven’t one—I think that’s one of the
fine things about you, that you haven’t got so many things you might
have had, if you’d been a little more selfish," she said, almost fondly.
"Talk about not being selfish," Harvey broke in ardently; "I’m a monster
of selfishness compared to some others I could name—you ought to see my
mother and my sister," he concluded proudly.
"I hope I may some day," she answered. "But meantime—about what you’ll
wear. I’d wear the medal if I were you. But tell me first," she went
on in a woman’s own persistent way, "that you’ll accept the invitation.
Can’t you make up your mind?"
Harvey was silent for a moment. "No," came his answer decisively, "I
don’t think I will. I’m going to decline with thanks—self-denial’s good
for a fellow sometimes."
"Some kinds of self-denial are sinful," said Miss Farringall quietly;
"but they bring their own punishment—and it lasts for years." She
sighed, and the light upon her face was half of yearning, half of love.
"Is our Tam hame frae Edinburgh yet?" Such were the last wandering
words of an aged brother of the great Carlyle, dying one summer night as
the Canadian sun shed its glory for the last time upon his face. Thrice
twenty years had flown since, fraternal pride high surging in his heart,
he had clung to his mother’s skirts while she waited at the bend of the
road for the returning Tom. Carrying his shoes, lest they be needlessly
worn, was that laddie wont to come from the halls of learning where he
had scanned the page of knowledge with a burning heart—carrying his
shoes, but with his laurels thick upon him, his advent the golden
incident to that humble home in all their uneventful year. And in
death’s magic hour the thrilling scene was reënacted as the brother
heart of the far-wandered one roamed back to the halcyon days of
boyhood.
The same spirit of pride, the same devotion of love, brooded over the
happy circle as Harvey sat this placid evening between his mother and
sister in the home that had furnished him so little of luxury, so much
of welcome and of love. He was home, and he was theirs. Trembling joy
mingled with the mother’s voice as now and then she broke in with kindly
speech upon the story Harvey found himself telling again and again. The
story was of his career in general, and of the last great struggle in
particular; how he had shut himself up to his work in a final spasm of
devotion, pausing only to eat and sleep till the final trials were over
and the victory won. And the great day, his graduation day, was
described over and over, both listeners in a transport of excitement
while he told, modestly as he might, of the ovation that had greeted him
when he was called forward to receive his hard-won honours.
"And you’re a B.A., Harvey, now—a real B.A., aren’t you, Harvey?" Jessie
cried ecstatically. "It seems almost too good to be true."
Harvey merely smiled; but his mother spoke for him. "Of course he is,"
she answered quietly; "it’ll be on all his letters. But the medal,
Harvey—oh, my son, I always knew you’d win it," her voice low and
triumphant. "I can hardly just believe it; out of all those
students—with their parents so rich and everything—that my own son
carried it off from them all. And has it your name on it, Harvey?—with
the degree on it too?" she enquired eagerly.
"Of course," said Harvey, "it’s in my trunk—and my hood’s there too;
they’re both there, mother. It’s a beautiful hood—and I’ll show them to
you if you’ll wait a moment," he exclaimed impulsively, rising as he
spoke.
But his eyes met Jessie’s and a darkness like the darkness of death fell
upon them both. Jessie was trembling from head to foot, her hand going
up instinctively to her face as if she had been struck. Harvey’s pale
cheek and quivering lips betrayed the agony that wrung him.
"Forgive me, mother," his broken voice implored as he flung himself down
beside her, his arms encircling her; "forgive me, my mother—I forgot,
oh, I forgot," as he stroked the patient face with infinite gentleness,
his hands caressing the delicate cheeks again and again.
"He didn’t mean it, mother—he didn’t mean it," Jessie cried, drawing
near to them; "he just forgot, mother—he just forgot," the words
throbbing with love for both.
But the mother’s voice was untouched by pain. "Don’t grieve like that,
my darling," she pleaded, pressing Harvey’s hands close to her cheek; "I
know it was nothing, my son—I know just how it happened. And why will
you mourn so for me, my children?" she went on in calm and tender tones,
her arms encircling both. "Surely I’ve given you no reason for
this—haven’t I often told you how bright it is about me? And something
makes me sure it’s getting near the light. Don’t you remember, dear,
how the doctor said it might all come suddenly?—and I feel it’s coming,
coming fast; I feel sure God’s leading me near the light."
"Are you, mother?" Harvey asked. The question came simply, earnestly,
almost awesomely.
"Yes, dear; yes, I’m sure."
"We always asked for that. Harvey and I have, every day—haven’t we,
Harvey?" Jessie broke in eagerly.
Harvey nodded, his gaze still on his mother’s face. For the light that
sat upon it in noble calm entranced him. No words could have spoken
more plainly of the far-off source that kindled it; and a dim, holy
sense of the grandeur of her outlook, the loftiness of her peace, the
eternal warrant of her claim, took possession of his soul. The beauty
that clothed her was not of time; and no words of tender dissembling
could conceal the exultant hope that bespoke how the days of her
darkness should be ended.
The silence was broken by his mother’s voice. "Go and get them,
Harvey—bring your medal and your hood. Bring them to your mother, my
son," she said, as she released him to do her bidding.
He was gone but a moment; returning, he bore in one hand the golden
token, his name inwoven with its gleam. The other held his academic
hood, its mystic white and purple blending to attest the scholar’s
station; he had thrown his college gown about him.
Mutely standing, he placed the medal in his mother’s hands. They shook
as they received it, the thin fingers dumbly following its inscription,
both hands enclosing it tightly, thrilling to the glad sensation. Then
he held the hood out towards her, stammering some poor explanation of
its material and its meaning.
"Put it on, Harvey," she said.
He swiftly slipped it about his neck, the flowing folds falling down
from his shoulders. Involuntarily he bended before his mother, and the
poor white hands went out in loving quest of the dear-bought symbol,
tracing its form from end to end, lingering fondly over every fold. She
spoke no word—but the trembling fingers still roved about the glowing
laurel as her scholar boy stood silent before her, and the hot tears
fell thick and fast upon it. For the memory of other days, days of
poverty and stress; and the vision of the childish face as she had last
beheld it; and the thought of all the hidden struggle, more bitter than
he ever knew, that had thus brought back her once unknown child in
triumph to his mother’s home—back, too, in unchanged devotion and
unabated love, to lay his trophies at the feet of her who bore him—all
these started the burning tears that trickled so fast from the unseeing
eyes and fell in holy stains upon the spotless emblem.
Clocks are the very soul of cruelty, relentless most when loving hearts
most wish that they would stay their hands. The ebbing moments,
inconsiderate of all but duty, tell off the hours of our gladness, even
of sacramental gladness, with unpitying faithfulness. And yet, strange
as it may seem, how blessed is the law that will not let us know when
the last precious moments are on the wing! How often do devoted hearts
toy with them carelessly, or waste them in unthinking levity, or drug
them with unneeded slumber, or squander them in wanton silence, as
though they were to last forever! How the most prodigal would garner
them, and the most frivolous employ, if it were only known that these
are the last golden sands that glisten their parting message before they
glide into the darkness!
We may not know. As these two did not; and the last unconscious hour
was spent in the company of another. "It’s so good of you to come and
sit with me, Miss Adair, while the children are at the party," was Mrs.
Simmons’ welcome to the kindly acquaintance as she entered. "Jessie’s
going on ahead—she promised to give Madeline some little help, so she
had to go earlier. Won’t you need to be starting soon, Harvey?"
"I’m going just in a minute, mother," her son answered. "And you should
have seen our Jessie," he digressed, turning to their visitor. "She
never looked sweeter in her life. And the dress that she had on, she
made it herself, she said—I didn’t know Jessie was so accomplished."
"Oh, Jessie’s made many a—she’s made many an admirer, by her dresses,"
the adroit Miss Adair concluded, noticing a quick movement of Mrs.
Simmons in her direction, and suddenly recalling the injunction she had
forgotten.
"I’m so sorry her flowers were withered," Harvey broke in, quite
unconscious of what had been averted. "I sent her some from the city—but
they were so wilted when they came that I didn’t want her to take them."
"Wait a minute, Harvey—I’ll go with you a step or two," his mother
interrupted as her son stooped to bid her good-night. "Please excuse
me, Miss Adair; I’ll be back in a minute," taking Harvey’s arm as he
turned towards the door.
"It was so thoughtful of you to send those flowers to Jessie," she said
as they moved slowly along the silent street; "she was quite enraptured
when they came."
"I sent some to—to Madeline too," Harvey informed her hesitatingly.
"You see, I didn’t expect, till this morning, to go to the party at
all—and I wrote Madeline declining. So she isn’t expecting me. Jessie
promised not to tell her I had changed my mind; and in my letter I told
Madeline I was sending the flowers in my place—but I’m afraid they’ll be
withered too. What’s the matter, mother?" for her whole weight seemed
suddenly to come upon his arm.
"Nothing, dear; nothing much," she said, a little pantingly. "Let us
sit here a minute," sinking on an adjoining step. "I’ve had these off
and on lately," she added, trying to smile. "I’m better now—the doctor
says it’s some little affection of the heart. I guess it’s just a rush
of happiness," she suggested bravely, smiling as she turned her face
full on Harvey’s.
"I’m so happy, my son—so proud and happy. You’ve done so well; and God
has watched over you so wonderfully—and protected you." Then her voice
fell almost to a whisper, faltering with the words she wanted to speak,
yet shrank from uttering. These spoken, she listened as intently as if
for the footfall of approaching death.
"No, mother," he answered low, "no, never once since—yet I won’t say I
haven’t felt it; I know I have, more than once. If I’m where it is—even
if I catch the odour of liquor—the appetite seems to come back. And it
frightened me terribly; it was like the baying of hounds," drawing
closer as he spoke.
"That’s like what your father used to say," she whispered, quivering.
"But never once, mother—never a single time, since. I’ve always
remembered that first night you came into my room—and that other time."
"And I," she cried eagerly, "haven’t I? I’ve been there many a night
since then, when Jessie was asleep—I used to try and imagine it was you,
Harvey," she said, turning her face on his in the uncertain light.
The gentle colloquy flowed on while the shadows deepened about the
whispering pair, the one happy because youth’s radiance overshone his
path, the other peaceful because a deeper, truer light was gathering in
her heart. One cloud, and one alone, impaired the fullness of his joy;
and that was, what even his hopeful heart could not deny, that his
mother’s strength was obviously less than when he had seen her last.
But all the devotion of the years seemed gathered up into this gracious
hour; the mother, mysteriously impelled, seemed loath to let the
interview be at an end, though she knew Harvey must soon be gone.
"You’d better hurry now, dear," she said when their own door was
reached; "no, no, I can go in alone all right—on with you to the party,
Harvey; they can’t any of them be happier than I am to-night. And tell
Madeline, for me, there’s only one chick like mine in the world—and
whoever gets——"
The remainder of the message was lost in laughing protest as the
good-byes were said; the mother stole softly in to her patient guest,
her son hurrying on to the gathering revelry.
*XXV*
_*WHAT MADE THE BALL SO FINE?*_
Harvey could not forbear to indulge a glance through the flaming windows
as he drew near the house. He noted, a little ruefully it must be said,
that almost every gentleman guest was attired after the conventional
fashion he had predicted; but a moment’s reasoning repelled any
threatening embarrassment with scorn. Pressing bravely on, he had soon
deposited his hat and coat, and after a minute or two of waiting in the
dressing-room began his descent of the stairs to mingle with the
animated scene.
Looking down, one of the first to be descried was David Borland himself,
as blithe and cheerful as though he were beginning, rather than
concluding, his sojourn in the spacious house. He was chatting
earnestly with Dr. Fletcher, interrupting the conversation now and then
to greet some new-arriving guest. Near him was his wife, absorbed in
the pleasant duty of receiving the steadily increasing throng who were
to taste for the last time the hospitality for which that home had long
been famous.
But all others, and there were many whom Harvey recognized at a glance,
were soon forgotten as his eyes rested on one whose face, suddenly
appearing, filled all the room with light. For Madeline was making her
way into the ample hall, flushed and radiant; her brow, never so serene
before, was slightly moistened from the evening’s warmth, while the
wonderful hair, still bright and sunny, glistened in the softly shaded
light. Aglow with excitement, her cheeks seemed to boast a colour he
had never seen before, the delicate pink and white blending as on the
face of childhood; and the splendid eyes, crowning all, were suffused
with feeling. The significance of the hour and the animation of the
scene united to create a sort of chastened mirthfulness, brimming with
dignity and hope, yet still revealing how seriously she recognized the
vicissitude time had brought, how well she knew the import of the change
already at the door.
Harvey stood still on the landing, gazing down unobserved, his eyes
never turning from the face whose beauty seemed to unfold before him as
he stood. Yet not mere beauty, either—he did not think of beauty, nor
would he have so described what charmed him with a strange thrill he had
never owned before—but the rich expression, rather, of an inward life
that had deepened and mellowed with the years. Great sense was there,
for one thing—and in the last appeal this feature of womanhood is
irresistible to a truly manly heart; and her face spoke of love, large
and generous, as if the weary and the troubled would ever find in her a
friend; cheerfulness, courage, hope, the dignity of purity, the
sweetness that marks those who have been cherished but not pampered and
indulged but not petted, all combined to provide a loveliness of
countenance that fairly ravished his heart as he peered through
spreading palms upon the unconscious face beneath.
Yet the joy he felt was not unmingled. For he could see, as a moment
later he did see, that other eyes were turned with equal ardour in the
same direction as his own. Madeline’s appearance was a kind of
triumphal entry; and there followed her, willing courtiers, two or three
of the gallants of the place, whose function it evidently was to bear
the glorious groups of flowers that various admirers had sent. Harvey’s
face darkened a little as he noted that Cecil was among them; though, to
tell the truth, his seemed the most careless gaze of all—if admiration
marked it, it was hungry admiration and nothing more. But the flowers
he was carrying were pure; he had asked leave to carry them—and they
themselves could not protest, shrink as they might from the unfitting
hand. Others, nobler spirits, had burdens of equal fragrance, all fresh
and beautiful as became the object of their homage.
Slowly Harvey moved down the stairs. The proprieties were forgotten—all
else as well—as he passed Mr. and Mrs. Borland by, the one glancing at
him with obvious admiration, the other with impatient questioning. He
was standing close in front of Madeline before she knew that he was
there at all; suddenly raising her head as she turned from speaking with
a friend, the soulful eyes fell full on his. She did her best—but the
tides of life are strong and willful, and this one overswept the swift
barrier she strove to interpose, as straws are swept before a storm.
And the flood outpoured about him, surging as it smote the passion that
leaped to meet it, the silent tumult beating like sudden pain on heart
and ears and eyes, its mingled agony and rapture engulfing him till
everything seemed to swim before him as before a drunken man.
What voices silent things possess! And how God speaks through dull
inanimate creatures as by the living lips of love! And what tell-tale
tongues have the most trivial things to peal out life’s holiest
messages! For he saw—dimly at first and with a kind of shock, then
clearly and with exultant certainty—he saw what was in her hand. It was
only a bunch of simple flowers; but they were sorry looking things
compared to their rivals whose fragrance filled the air, and the languor
of death was upon them—yes, thank God, their bloom was faded, their
freshness gone. For he recognized them, he knew them; and in the swift
foment of his mind he even saw again the hard commercial face of the man
from whom he had bought them, again the hard spared coins he had
extracted from the poor total his poverty had left him, his heart the
while leaping within him as though it could stand imprisonment no more.
Dimly, vaguely, he saw behind her the noble clusters that other hands
had sent—but other hands than hers were bearing them—and his were in her
own, in the one that was bared in careless beauty as her glove hung
indifferent from the wrist, unconscious of all that had displaced it.
Careless observers had doubtless noted the dying flowers, marvelled
mayhap; they knew not how instinct they were with life, how fadeless
against the years their memory was to sweeten and enrich.
He stood silent a moment with his hand half-outstretched, his eyes
divided between the flowers beneath and the face above. His soul
outpoured itself through them in a riot of joy he had neither desire nor
power to restrain. Madeline stood like some lovely thing at bay, her
eyes aglow, their message half of high reproach and half of passionate
welcome.
"You told me you weren’t coming," she said in protesting tones, the
words audible to no one but himself; "and I didn’t expect you," her lips
parted, her breath coming fast and fitfully, as though she were
exhausted in the chase. Her radiant face was glorified—she knew it
not—by the rich tides of life that leaped and bounded there, disporting
themselves in the hour they had awaited long. Yet her whole attitude
was marked by a strange aloofness, the wild air of liberty that is
assumed by captive things; and her voice was almost controlled again as
she repeated her remark.
"You said you weren’t coming;" the words voiced an interrogative.
"So I did," he acknowledged, his eyes roaming about her face; "but I
came," he added absently, a heavenly stupidity possessing him.
"How’s your mother?" she asked, struggling back.
"She’s not at all well," he answered, the tone full of real meaning; for
this was a realm as sacred to him as the other.
She was trying to replace her glove, the latter stubbornly resisting.
"Please button this for me," as she held out her arm. He tried eagerly
enough; but his hand trembled like an aspen. Her own was equally
unsteady, and progress was divinely slow. He paused, looking helplessly
up into her face; her hand fell by her side. Before either knew that he
was near, Cecil’s voice broke in: "Allow me, Madeline," he said; "I’m an
old hand at operations like this—I’ll do it for you, Madeline," as
though he gloried in the name, and almost before she knew it he had
seized her arm, swiftly accomplishing his purpose.
Madeline was regal now, her very pose marked by unconscious pride.
"Thank you," she said, still sweetly, "but I don’t believe I want it
fastened now—it’s quite warm here, isn’t it?" and with a quick gesture
she slipped it from her hand, moving forward towards her father. Harvey
stood still where he was; but the new heaven and the new earth had come.
The evening wore on; nor could any gathering have been enriched with
more of feeling than pervaded the triumphant hours. All seemed to
forget the occasion that had convened them, remembering nothing but the
valued friends who were still to be their own, even if outward
circumstances were about to undergo the change so defiantly
acknowledged. The crowning feature came when the simple supper was
finished and the table partially cleared; for they who would remember
David Borland at his best must think of him as he appeared when he
called the guests to order and bade them fill their glasses high.
"Take your choice of lemonade or ginger ale," he cried with a voice like
a heightening breeze; and they who knew him well silently predicted the
best of David’s soul for the assembled guests that night. "There ain’t
nothin’ stronger," he went on with serious mien; "drinks is always soft
when times is hard—but drink hearty, friends, an’ give the old house a
good name."
Possibly there was the slightest symptom of a tremor in his voice as it
referred thus to what he held so dear, now about to be surrendered; but
a moment later the old indomitable light was kindled in his eye, the
strong face beaming with the unquenched humour that had been such a
fountain in his own life and the lives of others. Something of new
dignity was noticeable in his entire bearing, the bearing of a man who,
if beaten, had been beaten in honourable battle, resolved still to
retain all that was dearest to his heart; this explained the look of
pride with which he marked, as he could hardly fail to mark, the
affection and respect with which every eye regarded him as he stood
before his friends.
The toast to the King, and one other, had been disposed of, David
proceeding merrily to launch another, when suddenly he was interrupted
by Geordie Nickle, who rose from his place at the further end of the
table.
"Sit doon, David," he enjoined, nodding vehemently towards his friend,
"an’ gie an auld man a chance. Ladies an’ gentlemen," he went on,
directing his remarks to the company, "I’ll ask ye to fill yir glasses
wi’ guid cauld water for to drink the toast I’ll gie ye—naethin’ll fit
the man I’m gaein’ to mention as weel as that; there’s nae mixture aboot
him, as ye ken. I’m wantin’ all o’ ye to drink a cup o’ kindness to the
man we love mair when he’s puir nor we ever did afore. Here’s to yin o’
th’ Almichty’s masterpieces, David Borland—an’ may He leave him amang us
till He taks him till Himsel’."
Geordie paused, his glass high in air. And the fervid guests arose to
drink that toast as surely toast had never been drunk before. With a
bumper and with three times three, and calling David’s name aloud after
a fashion that showed it had the years behind it, and with outgoing
glances that spoke louder than words, every face searching his own in
trust and sympathy and love, they did honour to the host who should
entertain them there no more.
It was almost too much for David. He arose when his guests had resumed
their seats, and stood long looking down without a word. But he began
at last, timidly, hesitatingly, emotion and language gradually making
their way together as his eyes were slowly lifted to rest upon the faces
of his friends. He referred frankly to the occasion that had brought
them together, thus to bid farewell to the scene of many happy
gatherings. "Folks say I’m beaten," he went on, "but that ain’t true.
I’m not beaten. I’ve lost a little—but I’ve saved more," as he looked
affectionately around. "I’m not really much poorer than I was. I never
cared a terrible lot about money; ’twas the game more. Just like boys
with marbles; they don’t eat ’em, they don’t drink ’em—but they like to
win ’em."
Then he referred to the justice of the power that disturbs the security
of human comfort, though he employed no such terms as those. "A
fellow’s got to take the lean with the fat," he said resignedly; "hasn’t
got no right to expect the clock’ll strike twelve every time. A miller
that sets his wheel by the spring freshet, he’d be a fool," he announced
candidly, knowing no term more accurate, "’cause it’s bound to drop some
time. Of course, it comes tougher to _get_ poor than to _be_ poor; it’s
worse to be impoverished than jest to be poor, as our friend Harvey here
would say; he’s a scholar, you know, and a B.A. at that," he added,
turning his eyes with the others towards Harvey’s conscious face.
"A stoot heart tae a steep brae, David!" broke in Geordie’s voice as he
leaned forward, his admiring gaze fixed on his friend.
"Them’s my sentiments," assented David, smiling back at the dauntless
Scotchman. "I mind a woman out in Illinois—she was terrible rich, and
she got terrible poor all of a sudden. Well, she had to wash her own
dishes, after the winds descended an’ the floods blew and beat upon her
house, as the Scriptur’ says—an’ she jest put on every diamond ring she
had to her name an’ went at it. That’s Mr. Nickle’s meanin’, my
friends, I take it—an’ that’s jest what I’m goin’ to do myself. I don’t
know exactly what I’m agoin’ to go at," he went on thoughtfully; "I’ve
got a kind of an offer to be a kind of advisin’ floor-walker for the
line I’ve been at—an’ maybe I’ll take it an’ keep my hand in a bit.
We’re goin’ to live in a little cottage—an’ there’ll always be heaps o’
room for you all. An’ we’re goin’ to manage all right," he went on, his
eye lighting at what was to follow; "I’ve got an arrangement made with
Madeline here. We won’t have a terrible lot of help round the house; so
she’s goin’ to attend to the furnace in the winter—an’ I’m goin’ to look
after it in the summer. So we’ll get along all right, all right. An’
now, friends," he continued seriously, "I must hump it to a close, as
the preachers say. But there’s one thing—don’t believe all Mr. Nickle
tells you about me; I ain’t near as good as he says. These Scotchmen’s
terrible on epitaphs when they once get started. An’ he’s like all the
rest o’ them—when he likes a man he swallows him whole. But I want to
thank you all for helpin’ us to make the last night so jolly. I don’t
find it hard myself, for I’m as certain as I ever was of anythin’ it’s
all for the best. I want you to give that hymn out again next Sunday,
doctor," and David’s face had no trace of merriment as he turned to look
for his pastor by his side; "oh, I forgot the doctor goes home early—but
I’ll ask him anyhow, an’ we’ll sing it louder’n we ever did before.
It’s been runnin’ in my mind an awful lot lately: ’With mercy an’ with
judgment’—you can’t beat them words much; it’s the old comfortin’
thought about Who’s weavin’ the web. So now I jest want to thank
everybody here for comin’—we’ve had good happy years together, an’
there’s more to follow yet, please God," he predicted reverently as he
resumed his seat, the deep silence that reigned about him being more
impressive than the most boisterous applause.
The pause which followed was broken by a suggestion, low and muffled at
first, gradually finding louder voice and at last openly endorsed by
Geordie Nickle, that "auld lang syne" would be a fitting sequel to what
had gone before. David hailed the proposal with delight.
"We’ll sing it now," he said enthusiastically, "an’ we’ll have the old
doxology right after—they’re both sacred songs, to my way o’ thinkin’,"
as he beckoned to Geordie to take his place beside him, the company
rising to voice the love-bright classic.
But just as cordial hands were outgoing to loyal hands outstretched to
meet them, the door-bell broke in with sudden clamour, and some one on
the outer edge of the circle called aloud the name of Harvey Simmons.
There was something ominous in the tone, and one at least detected the
paleness of Harvey’s cheek as he hurried towards the door. A moment
sufficed the breathless messenger to communicate what he had to tell,
and in an instant Harvey had turned swiftly towards the wondering
company. He spoke no word, offered no explanation, but his eye fell on
Jessie’s in silent intimation of what she already seemed to fear.
Noiselessly she slipped from the now voiceless circle, joining her
brother as they both passed swiftly out into the night.
*XXVI*
*"*_*THE FAIR SWEET MORN AWAKES*_*"*
Darkness was about them, dense and silent; nor were the shadows that
wrapped their hearts less formidable. For something seemed to tell
Harvey that one of life’s great hours was approaching, like to which
there is none other to be confronted by a lad’s loving soul.
Involuntarily, almost unconsciously, his hand went out in the darkness
in search of his sister’s; warm but trembling, it stole into his own.
And thus, as in the far-off days of childhood, they went on through the
dark together, the slight and timid one clinging to the strong and
fearless form beside her. But now both hearts were chilled with
fear—not of uncanny shadows, or grotesque shapes by the wayside, or
nameless perils, as had been the case in other days—but of that
mysterious foe, one they had never faced before, ever recognized as an
enemy to be some day reckoned with, but now knocking at the gate. Yet,
awful though they knew this enemy to be, their feet scarce seemed to
touch the ground, so swiftly did they hurry on to meet him, counting
every moment lost that held them back from the parting struggle. Hand
in hand they pressed forward, these children of the shadows.
"Did they say she was dying, Harvey?" Jessie asked in an awesome voice,
little more than a whisper.
"That’s what they thought," he answered, his hand tightening on hers;
"she thought so herself."
The girl tried in vain to check the cry that broke from her lips.
"Don’t, sister, don’t," he pleaded, his own voice in ruins; "maybe she
won’t leave us yet—but if she does, if she does, she’ll see—she’ll see
again, Jessie." The emotion that throbbed in the great prediction
showed how a mother’s blindness can lay its hand on children’s hearts
through long and clouded years.
"But she won’t see us, Harvey, she won’t see us before she goes. Oh,
Harvey, I’ve longed so much for that, just that mother might see us—even
if it was only once—before she dies. And, you know, the doctor said if
it came it would come suddenly; and I’ve always thought every morning
that perhaps it might come that day. And now," the sobbing voice went
on, "now—if she goes away—she won’t have seen us at all. And we always
prayed, Harvey; we prayed always for that," she added,
half-rebelliously. Her brother answered never a word. Instead, he took
a firmer grasp upon his sister’s hand and strode resolutely on. By this
time his head was lifted high and his eye was kindled with a strange and
burning glow, his heart leaping like a frightened thing the while; for
he could descry the light of their cottage home. Tiny and
insignificant, that home stood wrapped in darkness save for that one
sombre beacon-light—but the flickering gleam that rose and fell seemed
to call him to the most majestic of all earthly scenes, such scenes as
lend to hovel or to palace the same unearthly splendour.
"Will she know us, do you think?" Jessie whispered as they pushed open
the unlocked door and went on into the dimly lighted house. Harvey did
not seem to hear, so bent was he on the solemn quest, ascending the
stair swiftly but silently, his sister’s hand still tight within his
own. As they came near the top they could just catch, through the
half-open door, the outline of their mother’s face, the stamp of death
unmistakably upon it; she lay white and still upon her pillow, two forms
bending above her, one of which they recognized at once as the doctor’s.
Whereat suddenly, as if unable to go farther, Harvey stopped and stood
still; Jessie did likewise, turning with low sobs and flinging herself
into her brother’s arms, her face hidden while he held her close,
silently endeavouring to comfort the stricken heart.
"Don’t, Jessie," he whispered gently. "Let us make it easier for her if
we can—and let us think of all it means to her—all it’ll bring back
again. Come," the last word spoken with subdued passion, courage and
anguish blending. They went in together, slowly, each seeming to wait
for the other to lead the way. Their look, their movements, their
manner of walk, the very way they leaned forward to peer with eager,
awe-inspired eyes upon their mother’s face—all spoke of childhood;
everything reverted in this great hour to the sweet simplicity of that
period of life that had bound them to their mother in sacred
helplessness. The primal passion flowed anew. And the two who crossed
the floor together, tip-toeing towards the bed whereon their only
earthly treasure lay, were now no more a laurel-laden man and a maiden
woman-grown, waging the stern warfare life had thrust upon them; but
they were simply boy and girl again, hand linked in hand as in the far
departed days when two stained and tiny palms had so often lain one
within the other—boy and girl, their hearts wrung with that strange
grief that would be powerless against us all, could we but remain
grown-up men and women. For the kingdom of sorrow resembles the kingdom
of heaven, in this, at least, that we enter farthest in when we become
like little children; and an all-wise Father has saved many a man from
incurable maturity by the rejuvenating touch of sorrow, by the
youth-renewing ministry of tears.
"Look, oh, Harvey, look," Jessie suddenly whispered in strange, excited
tones. Subdued though her voice was, a kind of storm swept through it.
Harvey started, looked afresh—and saw; and instinctively, almost
convulsively, he turned and clutched Jessie tightly by the arm. She too
was clinging to him in a very spasm of trembling.
"She sees us," came Jessie’s awesome tidings, her face half-hidden on
her brother’s shoulder.
"She sees us," he echoed absently, his face turning again towards the
bed, his eyes resuming the wondrous quest.
He gazed, unspeaking, as one might gaze who sees within the veil. All
else was forgotten, even great Death—so jealous of all rivals—whose
presence had filled the room a moment or two agone. And the silent
years beyond—ah me! the aching silence after a mother’s voice is
hushed—were unthought of now. And the grim and boding shade of
orphanhood, deepening from twilight into dark, was unavailing against
the new-born light that flooded all his soul with joy.
For he saw—and the bitter memories of bygone years fled before the
vision as the night retreats before the dawn—he saw a smile upon his
mother’s face, the smile he had not seen for years; unforgotten, for it
had mingled with his dreams—but it had vanished from her eyes when those
eyes had looked their last upon her children’s faces. Yes, it was in
her eyes—brightness he had often seen before on cheek and lip, merriment
even—but this was the heart’s loving laughter breaking through the
soul’s clear window as it had been wont to do before that window had
been veiled in gloom.
He remembered afterwards, what he did not then remark, that the doctor,
observing his rapt expression, came close with some whispered
explanation—some discourse on the relaxation of the optic nerve as a
result of physical collapse—something of that sort, and much more, did
the good man stammer forth to eke out this miracle of God. But Harvey
heard him not—nor saw him even—for the love-light in his mother’s eyes
called him with imperious voice, and almost roughly did he snatch
himself from Jessie’s grasp as he pressed forward with outstretched
hands. He moved around the foot of the bed, his hands still extended;
and as he did so he noticed, with wild surging joy, that the devouring
eyes followed him as he went. The sensation, new, elemental,
overpowering, almost overcame him; something of the sense of
repossession of a long absent soul, or the kindling of a long
extinguished fire, or the cessation of a long tormenting pain, laid hold
upon his heart. As he drew near and bent low above the bed, his
mother’s face was almost as a holy thing, so transfigured was it with
its glow of love. The rapture in her eyes was such as conquerors
know—for it was the moment of her triumph after the long battle with the
years. And her lips moved as if they longed to chant the victor’s song;
yet they were muffled soon—for the hands she laid upon the bended
shoulders of her boy were hungry hands, and that strange strength so
often vouchsafed the dying was loaned her as she drew the manly form,
all quivering and broken now, close to her throbbing bosom. A moment
only—for the yearning eyes would not be long denied—till she gently
released the hidden face, holding him forth before her while the long
thirsting orbs drank deep of holy gladness.
"Oh, Harvey," she murmured low, "Harvey, my son—my little son."
"Mother—my mother," he answered back, as his hand stroked the pallid
cheek; for the new vision was as wonderful to him as her returning
vision could be to her. "Oh, mother, don’t—don’t leave us now, dear
mother," he sobbed in pleading, the child-note breaking through his
voice again, "now, when we’ll all be so happy, mother."
She smiled and shook her head faintly; his plea seemed to find but faint
lodgment in her mind. For she was otherwise employed; she gazed, as
though she could never gaze enough, upon the loving, pleading face
before her; she was searching for all that would reveal the soul
behind—all that might speak of purity, and temperance, and victory; she
was gathering traces of the years, the long curtained years through
which his unfolding soul had been hidden from her sight. And her eyes
wandered from his face only long enough to lift themselves to heaven in
mute thanksgiving to that God whose truth and faithfulness are the
strength and refuge of a mother’s heart.
Suddenly she turned restlessly upon her pillow, her gaze outgoing beyond
Harvey’s now bended head.
"Oh, Jessie," she said with returning rapture, "oh, Jessie—my wee
Jessie—my little daughter; oh, my darling," as she drew the awe-stricken
face down beside her brother’s. There they nestled close, there as in
blessed and unforgotten days, all the fragrance of the sorrow-riven
past, all the portent of the love-lorn future mingling in baptism upon
their almost orphaned heads.
The thin white fingers toyed with the girl’s lovely hair; "it’s so much
darker," she half whispered as if to herself, "but it’s beautiful; your
face, Jessie; let me see your face," she faltered, as the maiden turned
her swimming eyes anew upon her mother. "Thank God," she murmured, "oh,
let me say it while I can—He’s been so good to me. He’s kept us
all—all—so graciously; and He’s—always—found the path. It was
never—really—dark; and now He’s made it light at eventide," she half
cried with a sudden gust of strength and gladness. "And I know—I’ve
seen—before I go; it’ll make heaven beautiful," and she sank back, faint
and exhausted, on her pillow.
The devoted doctor and the faithful friend had both slipped noiselessly
from the room. They knew that love’s last Sacrament was being thus
dispensed, the precious wine to be untasted more till these three should
drink it new in the kingdom of God. But now Miss Adair, her love
impelling her, ventured timidly back; she came gently over, so gently
that she was unnoticed by the bending children, taking her place beside
Harvey. She touched him on the shoulder; his eyes gave but a fleeting
spark of recognition as they fell on what she held in her hand.
"I thought she’d like to see them," said the kindly woman; "she couldn’t
before, you know," and as she spoke she bended above the bed, a look of
expectation on her face as she held Harvey’s hood, and his medal, before
the new-illumined eyes. The lamp’s dim light fell athwart them and they
gleamed an instant as if in conscious pride.
The dying woman saw them; her eyes rested a moment on them both, and the
kindly purposed neighbour made as if to put them in her hands. But the
purpose died before she moved—for the mother’s glance showed her that
these things were to her now but as the dust. The time was short; the
night was coming fast; the dying eyes, so strangely lightened for this
parting joy, were consecrated to one purpose and to that alone—and the
gleaming gold and the flashing fabric lay unnoticed on the bed, the
mother’s face still turned upon her children’s in yearning eagerness, as
though she must prepare against the years that would hide them from her
sight till the endless day should give them back to her undimmed gaze
forever.
Few were the words that were spoken now. The stream of peace flowed
silently; and the reunited three held their high carnival of love—and of
strange sorrow-clouded joy—the long tragedy of their united lives
breaking at last into the blessedness of resignation, resignation aglow
with hope. For this pledge of God’s faithfulness was hailed by every
heart; and they felt, though no lip voiced the great assurance, that
life’s long shadows would at last be lost in love’s unclouded day.
Into a gentle, untroubled slumber their mother fell at length. When she
awaked, her eyes leaped anew, fastening themselves upon her children as
though the precious gift had been bestowed afresh.
"I had a lovely—dream," she faltered. "I saw you—both—little
children—like you used to be. And I thought your father—was—there too.
It was heaven," she went on, her face brightening with a far-off light;
"I thought he was there—and all the—the struggle—was past and gone. You
asked—me—once, dear—if he was there," her sweet smile turned on Harvey.
"Not yet, dear—not yet—but——" She motioned him to bend down beside her.
"Your father’s living," she whispered low, her shining eyes fixed on
his. Jessie retreated, not knowing why, but the wonderful light told
her that it was a great moment between mother and son. "He’s living,"
the awed voice whispered again—"but he’s afraid. He’ll come back—some
day—Harvey. And you—you—must forgive him. He’ll tell you. And love
him; tell him—I’m—waiting there. You must love him—and forgive him—and
bring him——" Then she stopped, breathless.
The wonderful tidings seemed at first almost more than the son could
bear. With face suffused and eyes aglow, he gazed upon his mother.
Suddenly his lips began to move; he spoke like one who has descried
something wonderful, and far away.
"Yes, mother," he whispered low, "yes, I’ll love him—I love him now;
I’ll love him—like you love him. And I’ll bring him, mother, when he
comes back; I’ll bring him—we’ll come together. I’ll tell him what you
said," he cried, forgetful who might hear, "and then he’ll come—I know
he’ll come," his face radiant with the thought.
"And Jessie," the mother murmured, "Jessie too."
"Yes, Jessie too," he answered; "come, Jessie—come," as he beckoned to
her; she moved gently over and kneeled with him beside the bed.
The day had broken. And the glowing heralds of the approaching sun were
making beautiful the path before him. Hill and dale, their shining
outlines visible in the distance, were clothed in golden glory; the opal
clouds announced the coming of their king; the fragrant trees, and the
bursting buds, and the spreading blossoms, and the kindling sward, and
the verdure-covered fields gave back the far-flung smile of light. Like
a bride adorned for her husband, all stood in unconscious beauty as far
as eye could reach.
"Look, mother, look," Harvey cried suddenly, gently lifting the dear
head from the pillow as the sanctity of the scene impelled him. "Oh,
mother, you can see them all," rapture and sorrow mingling in the tone.
The far-seeing eyes turned slowly towards the window, rested one brief,
wonderful moment upon the wonderful sight, then turned away in ineffable
tenderness and longing, fastening themselves again where they had been
fixed before. For love is a mighty tyrant and the proudest kings must
take their place as vassals in his train.
An instant later the dying eyes seemed to leap far beyond, beautiful
with rapture. "Look, look," she cried as though the others were the
blind, "look, oh look," her voice ringing clear with the last energy of
death; "it’s lovelier yonder—where it’s always spring. Don’t you see,
Harvey? Jessie, don’t you see? And baby’s there, Jessie—Harvey, the
baby’s there—and she’s beckoning; look, look, it’s you—not me—she’s
calling. Let us all go," she said, the voice dropping to faintness
again, the eyes turning again upon her children; "let us—all—go; it’s
so—lovely; and we’re—all—so tired," as the dear lips became forever
still.
And the rejoicing sun came on, the riot of his joy untempered, no badge
of mourning in his hand. And he greeted the motherless with unwonted
gladness as he filled the little room with light, kissing the silent
face as though he would wish it all joy of the well-won rest. For he
knew, he knew the secret of it all. He knew Who had transfigured hill
and dale and tree and flower with the glance of love; he knew the source
of all life’s light and shade; he knew the afterward of God; he knew
Death’s other, sweeter name.
But the motherless made no response. Still they knelt, one on each side
of the unanswering form; and still, tightly clasped, each held a wasted
hand.
*XXVII*
_*A BROTHER’S MASTERY*_
It was the following night, the last night of all. Harvey lay with wide
staring eyes that sought in vain to pierce the darkness; he felt it were
almost a sacrilege to sleep, even could he have done so, since there
would lie never more beneath the long familiar roof the beloved form
that he had never known absent for a single night. He suddenly realized
this—and it leaped like fire in his brain—that he had never spent a
night in this, the only home he had ever known, without the dear
presence that must to-morrow be withdrawn. He recalled the comfort and
the courage this had given him in many a trembling hour when the
nameless fears of childhood gathered with the night; how sometimes,
tormented by grotesque shapes and grotesquer fancies, his terror had
vanished like a dream when he had heard her cough, or sigh, or break
into the gentle tones he had early learned were between her soul and
God. He recalled, too, that often, startled by some unreasoning fear,
he would call out loudly in the night; and in a moment the gentle form
would be beside his bed, her hand upon him as she caressed him with a
word, which word became the lullaby upon whose liquid wave he was borne
back to dreamland.
All this could never be again, he mused in bitter loneliness. As he
dwelt upon it the thought became almost intolerable; and suddenly
rising—for he had not yet undressed—he began noiselessly to descend the
stairs, purposing to go out into the night; for there is healing in the
cool cisterns of the midnight air. But he noticed, to his surprise, a
light stealing from beneath Jessie’s door; instinctively he turned and
knocked, his lonely heart glad of the sympathy he would not seek there
in vain.
She bade him enter; obeying, he stood amazed as he beheld how his sister
was employed. For Jessie was full dressed; it was after three o’clock,
but she had made no preparations for retiring. Instead, she was seated
on the bed, the room bestrewed with materials for the toil that was
engrossing her. Cloth, of various kinds and in various shapes,
separated fragments yet to be adjusted, were scattered about; scissors
and spools and tape measures lay upon the bed on which the stooping form
was seated. And Jessie herself, a lamp whose oil was almost exhausted
stationed high above her, was sewing away as if for life itself; worn
and weary, her fingers chafed and sore, a burning flush on either cheek,
the tired shoulders stooped and bent, she was pressing on with her
humble toil.
He uttered a quick exclamation of surprise, almost of reproach, as his
eyes fell on the pitiful face and noticed the signs of drudgery about
her. His first thought, as soon as he could collect himself, was that
his sister was preparing the habiliments of mourning which her
orphanhood would now demand. But sad and striking contrast, the fabric
over which the fragile form was bent was of a far different kind. The
material was of the richest and gayest sort, while yoke of rarest
embroidery, and costly lace, and rich brocade, spoke of wealth and
fashion far beyond their station.
Jessie started as if detected in some guiltful work; she even made one
swift attempt to hide the handiwork that lay glistening across her knee.
Harvey closed the door; and there was more of sternness in his voice
than she had ever heard before. "Jessie," he said gravely, "our mother’s
lying dead downstairs."
Alas! the poor girl knew it well. And her only answer was a quick and
copious gush of tears. It was pitiful to see her snatch the delicate
creation and toss it quickly from her, lest her grief should stain it;
then she rocked gently to and fro in a gust of sorrow.
"Oh, Harvey," she sobbed, "you didn’t mean that, brother. I know you
didn’t mean it."
He was still in the dark. But the anguish of this dear heart, so loyal
to him through the years, was more than he could stand. With one quick
stride he took his place beside her on the bed, his arm encircling her
with infinite tenderness.
"Don’t, sister," he said, "don’t cry like that; I didn’t mean it,
dear—only I didn’t understand—I can’t understand."
She offered no explanation, sobbing gently a few minutes in his arms.
"I couldn’t understand, Jessie," he said again a little later.
"I couldn’t help it," she said at last without raising her head. "I
didn’t want to sew, with mother lying dead—but I couldn’t help it. I
really couldn’t. It’s not for me," she flung out at last, the long
hidden secret surrendered after all. "It’s not for me—and I had to get
it done. They insisted so—and I couldn’t afford to lose them—it’s for a
party."
The blood left Harvey’s face, then surged hotly back to it again. His
arms fell from about her and he sat like one in a trance. His eyes
roved dumbly about the room, falling here and there upon many a thing,
unnoticed in the first survey, that confirmed the assurance which now
chilled him to the heart. Then his eyes turned to his sister’s face. It
was averted, downcast—but he could see, what he had but casually
remarked before, how the hand of toil had left its mark upon it. Sweet
and tender and unselfish, courage and resolution in every line, he could
now read the whole sad story of what lay behind. The worn fingers were
interlocked upon her lap, and he could see how near the blood was to the
very fingertips. And as he reflected, almost madly, upon the desperate
necessity that had held her to her work under the very shadow of death,
and driven her to it though with a broken heart; as he recalled the
mysterious sources of support that had never failed him till his college
course was done, a flood of sacred light broke upon it all—and the dear
form before him, tired and wasted as it was, was gently drawn to his
bosom with hands of reverent love, his murmuring lips pressed lightly to
the burning cheeks in penitent devotion.
"Forgive me, sister," he pleaded in a faltering voice, "oh, forgive me;
for I did not know—I did not know."
Her answer was never spoken; but it came.
It was not long till he had learned, and from her own reluctant lips,
all the story of the toil and drudgery that had been thus so suddenly
revealed. But, protest as he might, Jessie was resolved to press on with
the work she had been engaged in.
"I’m just as well able to work as you are, Harvey," she said earnestly.
"I certainly will not give up the store."
"But I’m sure of a position on the newspaper I was telling you about,
Jessie," Harvey urged—"and I can at least help; I can always spare a
little," he assured her confidently, "and there’s one thing you must do
before very long," he went on eagerly; "you’ve really got to come and
stay a while with Miss Farringall. She practically made me promise for
you. Couldn’t somebody mind the store while you’re away?"
"I suppose so," Jessie relented enough to say; "Miss Adair could manage
it well enough, of course. And I’d love to have a long visit with you,
brother," she added fondly. "We’re all alone in the world now, Harvey,"
her voice trembling as the tired eyes filled to overflowing—"we haven’t
anybody else but each other now."
Harvey looked her full in the face. "There’s another," he said in a
whisper after a long silence.
Jessie started violently; then her demand for more light came swift and
urgent.
As gently as he could, he broke to her the wonderful news. The girl was
trembling from head to foot.
But her first thought seemed to be of her mother. "And that was it," she
cried amid her sobs; "that was the sorrow mother carried about with her
all the time. Oh, Harvey, I always knew there was something—I always
felt mother had some burden she wouldn’t let us share with her—I always
felt her heart was hungry for something she hoped she’d get before she
died. Poor, poor mother—our dear, brave mother!"
Harvey staunched the tide of grief as best he could. Their talk turned,
and naturally enough, to the hope of their father’s return some day,
both promising the fulfillment of their mother’s dying wish.
"We’ll do just as mother would have done," the girl said in sweet
simplicity; "and we’ll wait together, Harvey—we’ll watch and wait
together."
"And you’ll help me, won’t you, sister?" Harvey asked suddenly.
"What to do?" Jessie said wonderingly.
"Just help me," he answered, his voice faltering. "Will you promise me
that, Jessie; you don’t know yet all it means—just always to stick to
me, and help me, and believe in me—till—till father comes?" he
concluded, looking steadfastly into her wondering eyes. "Come with me,
sister—come."
The darkness was at its deepest, the lamp-light now flickered into
gloom, as he rose and led her gently from the room. Groping
noiselessly, they two, the only living things about the house, crept
downward to the chamber of the dead. The door creaked with a strange
unearthly sound as Harvey pushed it open and drew his sister in beside
him. Onward he pressed, his arm still supporting her, till they stood
above the silent face. It lay in the pomp of the majestic silence,
calmly awaiting the last earthly dawn that should ever break upon it,
awaiting that slow-approaching hour when the last movement should be
made, the last tender rudeness which would lay it, swaying slightly,
upon the waiting bosom of the earth—and then the eternal stillness and
the dark.
They stood long, no sound escaping them, above the noble face. Its dim
outlines could be just discerned, calm and stately in the royal mien of
death. They gazed long together. "I believe she’s near us," Harvey
whispered. Then he drew her gently down till their faces met upon the
unresponsive face of their precious dead.
A moment later he led her tenderly away. She passed first through the
door; but he turned and looked back. The first gray streak of dawn was
stealing towards his mother’s face; and he saw, or thought he saw, a
look of deeper peace upon it than had ever been there before. And the
still lips spoke their benediction and breathed their love upon her
children—all the more her own because she dwelt with God.
*XXVIII*
_*A LIGHT AT MIDNIGHT*_
"There’s something—but I don’t know what it is. But there’s something;
now Jessie, do sit up straight, and breathe deep—you know you promised
me you’d breathe deep. Yes, there’s something wrong with Harvey."
If Jessie was not breathing very deep she was breathing very fast. Even
Grey felt a nameless agitation in the domestic atmosphere, looking up
with cat-like gravity into Miss Farringall’s troubled face. He had
noticed, doubtless, that the mercurial spectacle, had been ascending and
descending from nose to brow and from brow to nose with significant
rapidity. Grey did not look at Jessie—except casually. She not been
sufficiently long in the house—and belonged to one of the oldest and
best-bred of feline families.
Still Jessie did not speak. But her hostess, dear soul, was ever equal
to double duty. Like most maiden ladies, Miss Farringall had the
dialogue gift abundantly developed; nor was it liable to perish through
disuse.
"Yes," she went on as cheerfully as her perplexity would allow, "he’s
been so different lately. He comes home at such strange hours, for him.
And sometimes he waits a long time at the door, as if he didn’t know
whether to come in or not. Of course," she added reassuringly, "no one
else knows but me; Barlow never hears anything, for he’s dead all
night—he never resurrects till half-past seven," a timid smile lighting
her face a moment. "But Harvey’s different every way; all his fun and
merriment are gone—and he seems so depressed and discouraged, as if he
was being beaten in some fight his life depended on. I don’t know what
to make of it at all."
Jessie’s face showed white in the gaslight; and her voice was far from
steady. "Has this all been since—since mother died?" she asked, with
eyes downcast and dim.
"Not altogether. No, not at all. I noticed it first, a while after he
went on the _Argus_. He was so proud about getting on the staff—he got
hold of a life of Horace Greeley in the library, and he used to joke
about it and say some day he’d stand there too. But it began one
morning—the change, I mean—and he’s never been the same since. And one
night, just before he went out, he brought me an envelope and asked me
to keep it till he came back. I’m not very sure, but I think there was
money in it—and it was just at the end of the month too," she added
significantly.
"Doesn’t he like newspaper life?" enquired Jessie.
"Oh, yes; I think he’s crazy about it. You see, with his education and
his gifts—he’s a born writer—there isn’t any kind of business could suit
him better. I think he has his own times with Mr. Crothers—he’s the city
editor, a kind of manager. He’s a strange man, blusters and swears a
good deal, I think—but he’s got a good heart, from what I can hear."
"Why don’t you have a confidential talk with Harvey?" suggested Jessie.
"He’d tell you almost anything, I’m sure."
"I’ve thought of that. But I was going to ask you the very same thing.
Why don’t you?—you’re his sister."
Jessie’s lip quivered. "I couldn’t," she said hesitatingly; "I couldn’t
stand it. Besides, you know, I ought to go home to-morrow. Miss
Adair’s expecting me—and she says the store always prospers better when
I’m there myself; she’s had charge for ten days now, while I’ve been
visiting here."
Miss Farringall sighed. "I wish I could coax you out of that," she
said. "Why will you go away so soon, Jessie? These days you’ve been
here have been such a joy; I’m such a lonely creature," she added
glancing out at the silent, dimly-lighted hall. "There’s hardly ever
anybody around now but Barlow—and he’s a ghost. Of course, Dr. Wallis
comes when I send for him—but we always quarrel. Then, of course, the
rector comes every little while—but he’s a kind of a prayer-book with
clothes on; he gets solemner every day. What I’m getting to hate about
him," she went on, vehemently, "is that he has his mind made up to be
solemn, and he’s not meant for it—red-headed men with freckles never
are," she affirmed decisively. "But you and Harvey, you almost seem,
Jessie—you might have been my own children, I think sometimes," a queer
little tremor in the voice, the withered cheek flushing suddenly. But
Jessie did not remark the strange tenderness of the glance she cast
towards the treasure-hiding desk in the corner. "Some day I want to tell
you——"
But her voice suddenly died away in silence as both women turned their
eyes eagerly towards the door. For they could see the approaching form
of the subject of their conversation. And it needed but a glance to
confirm the opinion Miss Farringall had already expressed. Harvey was
making his way heavily up the stairs, his step slow and uncertain, his
whole bearing significant of defeat. As he passed the door a faint
plaintive smile played upon the face that was turned a moment on the
familiar forms within; the face was haggard and pale, the eyes heavy and
slightly bloodshot, the expression sad and despondent. Yet the old
chivalrous light was there; clouded it was as if by shame and
self-reproach, yet with native pride and honour flashing through it all
as though the fires of a stern and unceasing conflict were glowing far
within.
Jessie started as if to greet him. But something checked her—she would
wait till they were alone.