Entering his room and pausing only to remove his boots, Harvey flung

himself with a stifled groan upon the bed. How long he had lain there

before interruption came, he neither knew nor cared. For the unclosed

eyes were staring out into the darkness, his brain half-maddened with

its activity of pain. Nearly everything that concerned his entire life

seemed to float before him as his hot eyes ransacked the productive

dark. Childhood days, with their deep poverty and their deeper wealth;

the light and music of their darkened, sorrow-shaded home; the plaintive

enterprise of their little store; the friends and playmates of those

early days—and one friend, if playmate never; the broadened life of

college, and all his discovery of himself, his powers, his

possibilities, his perils; the one epoch-making night of life, its light

above the brightness of the sun—his burning face hid itself in the

pillow, his hands tight clenched as those half-withered flowers in

Madeline’s hand rose before him, his hopes more faded now than they.

Then came the holy scene that had followed fast, so wonderfully vivid

now—for in the dark he could see his mother’s dying face with strange

distinctness, the dear eyes open wide and filled with tender light as

they turned upon her son, the thin hands outstretched as if to call the

tired one to the comfort of her love.

The glow of filial passion lingered but a moment on the haggard face.

For other memories followed fast. How he had bidden farewell to Jessie,

returning to the city with high resolve to snatch nobler gains than the

poor laurels her secret heroism had enabled him to win—his hood and

medal flitted for a moment through his thought, only to be cast aside as

paltry baubles, garish trifles, with their dying sheen; how, later, he

had secured a worthy place on the news staff of one of the leading

dailies of the city, his heart high with hope for the career that should

await him; how his gifts and his opportunity had conspired to confirm

the hope.

Clouds and darkness were about the remainder of his reverie. But part

of it had to do with his hour of joy and triumph. He felt again the

jubilance, the separate sort of thrill, that had possessed him when the

great "scoop" had been accomplished—to use the vivid metaphor that

journalists employ. And he recalled the annual banquet—he could see

many of the faces through the dark—at which his own name had been called

aloud, actually requested as he had been to propose the toast to the

paper it was his pride to serve. Then came the brief, fatal struggle as

the glasses were lifted high. He ground his teeth as he remembered

Oliver—once friend and chum, now fiend and enemy; and Harvey’s thought

of him was lurid with a kind of irrational hate—for Oliver had spurred

and stung him to his fall with one or two quick sentences that seemed

cogent enough at the time; the appeal had been to shame, and to what was

due the concern that had honoured him, and to other things of that kind;

in any case, it had all been like lashing a horse that hesitates before

a hurdle. And he had leaped it—oh, God, he thought to himself, this cad

against his mother! He had leaped it. And then the slumbering passion

that had sprung anew to life within him—not passion perhaps, nor yet

appetite either—but a kind of personal devil that had tangled its will

all up with his own, and had seemed to laugh at his feeble struggling,

and to exult like one who had won again an unforgotten victory, running

riot in fiendish glee since his prowess had prevailed once more. Harvey

held his hands to his burning brow as he recalled the pitiful resistance

that had followed; he could feel the ever-tightening grasp again, like

the relentless coils of the sea-monsters he had read about so often; he

recalled how his soul had fluttered its poor protest, like some helpless

bird, against this cruel hand that was bound to have its will with

it—and how struggle and promise and pledge and prayer had all seemed to

be in vain.

He thought, too, but only for a moment—he could not, would not longer

dwell upon it—of the shameful peace he had found at last; the peace of

the vanquished; such peace as servile souls enjoy, for it can be

purchased cheap—and the evil memory of it all surged over him like

hissing waves. Nearly a week had followed, such a week as any mother,

bending above the cradle of her child, might pray God to—

But this was like groping in a morgue—and it must stop. He rose half

erect from his bed, shaking himself like one who tries to clamber back

from the slough of evil dreams. Just at this moment a knock came to the

door; his soul leaped towards the sound—it was a human touch at least,

thank God, and he needed some such Blucher for such a Waterloo.

"Come in," he said huskily, lest reinforcement of any sort whatever

might escape.

And she came. Without a word, but her whole being fragrant of sympathy

and love, she moved unhesitatingly towards the bed. She caught, as she

came nearer, the fateful fumes. And she knew—the most innocent are the

most sensitive to the breath of sin—but her heart only melted with a

tenderer compassion, her arms outstretched in yearning, taking the

stalwart frame into what seemed to him like the very guardianship of

God.

"Oh, Harvey," the voice thrilling with the melody of love; "oh, my

brother."

He clung closer to her, without speaking.

"Tell me, Harvey—won’t you tell me?" He could feel the care-wrung bosom

heaving.

Still no word.

"We’ve never had any secrets, brother—won’t you tell me, Harvey?"

"You know," after a long pause.

Still silence. Why did she breathe so fast?

"Don’t you know, Jessie?"

Silence long—"Yes, I know," she said, "and I never loved you as I love

you now."

Then the flood-gates were rolled back and the tide burst forth. Oh, the

luxury of it; the sweetness of it—to feel, nay, to know, that there was

one life that clung to him, trusted him, loved him, through all the

waste and shame! And the blessed relief it gave; to tell it all,

keeping nothing back, blaming no other—not even Oliver—breathing out the

story of the struggle and the overthrow and the humiliation and the

anguish. And in that hour Hope, long absent and aloof, came back and

nestled in his heart again. On he went, the story long and intimate and

awful, coming closer and closer by many and circuitous routes to the

very soul of things, hovering about the Name he almost dreaded now to

speak, yet yearned with a great longing to pronounce; his soul was

crying out for all that was behind his mother’s name, the comfort and

sympathy and power which he felt, dimly but unconquerably, could not be

stifled in a distant grave.

"Do you think she knows?" he asked at last, in a tone so low that even

Jessie could scarcely hear.

They could catch the sound of the wind upon the grass as they waited,

both waited. "Yes," as she trembled closer, "yes, thank God."

He started so suddenly as to frighten her. The conflict-riven face

peered into hers through the dark.

"What?" he asked sternly. "What did you say?"

"I think she knows," the calm voice answered. "I’m sure God knows—and it

makes it easier."

He held her out at arm’s length, still staring at her through the gloom.

"What?—I thought sorrows were all past and over—for her," the words

coming as a bitter questioning.

Jessie’s face, serene with such composure as only sorrow gives, was held

close to his own. "We cannot tell," she whispered low; "that is between

her and God—they both know."

He struggled silently with the deep meaning of her words.

"You see," sweet girlishness in the voice again, "you see, Harvey, they

know what’s farther on—oh, brother, brother dear, it’ll be better yet,"

her voice breaking now with an emotion she could control no longer; "it

won’t always be like this, Harvey—you won’t do it any more, will you,

brother?" sobbing as she buried her face beside his own. "We’ve had so

much trouble, Harvey—the joy’s only been the moments, and the sorrow’s

been the years—and we got mother safe home," the quivering voice went

on, "and I thought we’d follow on together—and—some day—we’d find our

father. And you won’t make it all dark again, will you, Harvey? You’ll

fight—and I’ll fight—we’ll fight it out together, Harvey. It seems

nothing now, what we had before—I mean, it doesn’t seem a bit hard just

to be poor—if we can only keep each other, Harvey," and the poor

trembling form, so long buffeted by life’s rude billows, clung to the

only shelter left her, her soul outbreathing its passionate appeal.

There was more of silence than of speech while they waited long

together. He could feel the beating of the brave and trustful heart

beside his own; this seemed to bring him calm and courage. In a

mysterious way, she seemed to link his wounded life anew to all the

sacred past, all the unstained days, all the conflict for which he had

had strength and to spare, all the holy memories that had drifted so far

from him now, a yawning gulf between.

"Won’t you come home with me, Harvey?" she said at length.

"Why?"

"Well, perhaps it would help us both. I was going to ask you to come

anyhow—for one thing, I wanted you to help Mr. Borland," she added

quickly, glad of the fitting plea. "He’s going to run for mayor, you

know—and I thought you’d like to do what you can."

Harvey smiled. "I guess my own contest will give me enough to do," he

said rather bitterly. "It was good of you to ask me, Jessie—but I’ll

stay on my own battlefield," his lips tightly shut.

A long silence reigned again. "Look," he cried suddenly, "it’s getting

light."

Jessie turned and looked. And the wondrous miracle crept on its mystic

way; healing, refreshing, soothing, rich with heavenly promise and aglow

with heavenly hope, telling its great story and bidding every benighted

heart behold the handiwork of God, the silent metaphor was uttering

forth the lesson of the returning day. For the new heaven and the new

earth were appearing, fresh with unspotted beauty, recurring witnesses

to the regenerating power of the All-sanguine One.

"It’s getting light," she echoed dreamily. "Do you remember that line,

Harvey, mother used to love so much?"

"No; what line?"

"It’s a hymn line," she answered softly. "’The dawn of heaven

breaks’—I’m sure she sees this, too. Look at the clouds yonder, all gold

and purple—it’s going to be a lovely day."

"It’s going to be a new day," he said, gazing long in silence at the

distant fount of light.

*XXIX*

_*HOW DAVID SWEPT THE FIELD*_

"Go and wash your hands, Madeline, before you fix your father’s tie. I

little thought my daughter would ever come to this—filling those

wretched kerosene lamps; it’s bad enough to have to come down to lamps,

without having to fill them," and Mrs. Borland sighed the sigh of the

defrauded and oppressed.

"Don’t worry about me, mother; if you only knew how much better a girl’s

complexion shows with them than with the gas, you wouldn’t abuse them

so. All right, father, I’ll put the finishing touches on you in a

minute—what did you say was the hour for the meeting? I wish I could

go—one of the hardest things about being a girl is that you can’t go to

political meetings," and Madeline’s merry face showed how seriously she

regarded the handicap.

"Them lamps is all right, mother—they come of good old stock," and David

regarded a tall, umbrageous one with something very like affection;

"that there one was the last light that shined on my father’s face," he

added reminiscently, "an’ I’m awful glad we kept it. The meetin’s at

half-past eight, Madeline. An’ don’t feel bad ’cause you can’t go—us

politicians has our own troubles," he continued with mock gravity; "it

was this kind o’ thing killed Daniel Webster—an’ I’m not feelin’

terrible peart myself. But I’m goin’ to wear my Sunday choker," he

concluded cheerfully enough, holding his tie out to Madeline, the

dimpled hands now ready for the important duty.

"Tie it carefully, Madeline—if your father’s going to resign, he should

look his best when he’s doing it," and Mrs. Borland surveyed the

operation with a critical eye. "I’ll warrant you Mr. Craig’ll be dressed

like a lord."

"I ain’t goin’ to resign, mother—I’m only goin’ to withdraw," David

corrected gravely. "There’s all the difference in the world between

resignin’ an’ withdrawin’; any one can resign, but it takes a terrible

smart man to withdraw. You’ve got to be a politician, like me, afore

you know what a terrible difference there is between words like them;

can’t be too careful, when you’re a politician—for your country’s sake,

you know. No, mother—no, you don’t—I ain’t goin’ to wear that long

black coat."

"Oh, father," began Madeline.

"But, David," his wife remonstrated, interrupting, "remember you’re

going to make a speech—and when would you wear it, if not to-night? I’m

sure Mr. Craig’ll have on the best coat he’s got—and that tweed’s

getting so shabby."

"I won’t go back on it when it’s gettin’ old an’ seedy," David retorted

vigorously; "I know what that feels like myself. It stuck to me when I

seen better days, an’ I’m not goin’ to desert it now—I ain’t that kind

of a man. An’ if Craig wants to dress up like an undertaker, that’s his

funeral. Besides, a fellow’s ideas comes easier in an old coat—an

orator’s got to consider all them things, you know. Confound this

dickie, it won’t stay down—I believe Madeline put ’east in it," as he

smote his swelling bosom, bidding it subside.

"I’m sorry you’re not going to stand, David; I believe you’d be elected

if you’d only run. I always hoped you’d be the first mayor of

Glenallen—let me just brush that coat before you go," and Mrs. Borland

fell upon it with right good-will.

"Words is funny things," mused David, as he suffered himself to be

turned this way and that for the operation; "’specially with orators an’

politicians. If a fellow stands, that means he’s runnin’—don’t scrape my

neck like that, mother," ducking evasively as he spoke. "It’s somethin’

like what I heard a fellow say at the Horse Show; he says, ’the judges

look a horse all over—them fellows don’t overlook nothin’,’ says he.

No, I ain’t goin’ to stand, mother; nor I won’t run, neither. I’ll jest

sit down. You see, a fellow that lives in a cottage this size, there

ain’t nothin’ else for him to do—not unless he’s a fool. Don’t brush my

hat like that, mother; you’re skinnin’ it—what did it ever do to you?

Well, good-bye, mother; I’m a candidate now—but I’ll only jest be a man

when I get back. I won’t even be an orator, I reckon. Good-bye,

Madeline—wrap that there black coat up in them camp-fire balls," he

directed, nodding towards the rejected black.

"I’m going with you as far as the gate, father; you’ve got to have some

kind of a send-off."

"That’s all right, daughter; welcome the comin’, part the speedin’

guest, as the old proverb says."

"Speed the parting guest, you mean, David," Mrs. Borland amended

seriously.

"Same thing, an hour after he’s gone," David responded cheerily; "feed

him’d be better’n either of ’em, to my way o’ thinkin’," as he started

forth on his momentous mission.

Mrs. Borland was not far astray in her prediction. For when at length

the two candidates—and there were but two—ascended the platform in the

crowded hall, David’s rival was resplendent in a new suit of which the

far-descending coat was the most conspicuous feature. Mr. Craig had

fitting notions as to what became the prospective mayor of a town which

had never enjoyed such an ornament before.

And his speech was almost as elongated as the garment aforesaid, largely

composed of complacent references to the prosperity the town had enjoyed

as the product of his own. Surreptitious hints to the effect that only

the commercially successful should aspire to municipal honours were not

wanting. "It’s a poor assurance that a man can manage public affairs,

if he can’t look after his own successfully," he said, as David sat

meekly listening; "and," he went on in a sudden burst of feeling,

hastening to the conclusion of his speech, "I may, I think, fairly claim

to have been a successful man. And I won’t deny that I’m proud of it.

But, fellow citizens, nothing in all this world could give me so great

pride as to be elected the first chief-magistrate of this growing town.

I’ve known something of life’s honours," he declared grandiloquently,

"and I’ve mingled some with the great ones of the earth; at least,"

hesitating a little, "I did when I was a child. And just here I’ll tell

you a little incident that I can never refer to without feeling my heart

beat high with pride." (Mr. Craig had no little fluency as a public

speaker when he discoursed of things concerning himself.) "As many of

you know, my father was a gentleman of leisure—and he travelled widely.

Well, I can still recall one winter we spent in Spain—I was but a

child—but I can remember being at a great public meeting in Madrid.

Some members of the Royal family were there," he declared, as he paused

to see the effect on the gaping sons of toil, "and I remember, as if it

were but yesterday, how, when the Infanta was going down the aisle and I

was standing gazing up into her face, she laid her hand upon my boyish

head as she passed me. I’ll not deny, fellow citizens, that that touch

has been sacred to me ever since—but I say to the working-men before me

to-night that I consider it a greater honour to hold the horny hand of

the working-man, the hands that will mark the ballots that shall bring

me the crowning honour of my life," and the candidate gathered up the

folds of his spreading coat as he resumed his seat, smiling benignly

down upon the rather unresponsive crowd.

For many of his auditors were decidedly in the dark as to the source of

this honour that had befallen him in ancient Spain.

"What kind of a animal was that, Tom, that tetched him on the head?" one

bronzed toiler asked of his companion as he still gazed, bewildered

rather, on the reclining Mr. Craig. "Did he say a elephant—sounded

summat like that anyhow, didn’t it?"

"No, no," the other answered, a little impatiently; "what would

elephants be doin’ at a public meetin’? He said ’twas a infantum—I heard

him myself."

"What’s a infantum?" the first persisted earnestly.

"Oh—well. Well, it’s a kind of a baby—only it’s feminine," he explained

learnedly. "An’ I think it’s got somethin’ to do wi’ the cholery—don’t

talk, there’s Mr. Borland gettin’ up. Hurrah," he shouted, joining in

the general chorus, and glad of this very opportune escape.

David began very haltingly. Yet he could not but feel the cordiality of

his welcome; and his glance, at first rather furtive and shy, became

more confident as he gradually felt the ground beneath his feet. "I

ain’t much used to public speakin’," he started hesitatingly; "never

made but one speech like this before. They were a little obstreperous

when I began, but before I got through you could have—have heard a

crowbar drop," he affirmed, to the delight of his audience. "I can’t

sling it off like my friend Mr. Craig, here; mebbe it’s because I’ve not

moved in them royal circles," he ventured as soberly as he could.

"Though I think I’ve got him beat when it comes to rubbin’ noses with

the quality. I’ve done a little in that line myself—when I was a little

shaver, too. None o’ them royal folks ever patted me on the head—but I

threw up all over Abe Lincoln once. Old Abe used to stop at my father’s

in Peoria when he was ridin’ the circuit," David explained carefully;

"an’ once he picked me up—I was jest a baby—an’ threw me up to the

ceilin’; then I done the same when I came down—too soon after dinner,

you see," he added, his words lost in the mirth that stormed about him.

"But other ways, I ain’t what you’d call a successful man, I reckon," he

went on, the quotation obvious. "I’ve always been kind o’ scared, ever

since I was a young fellow, for fear I’d be too successful—that is, the

way some folks reckon success. I knew a terrible successful man in

Illinois one time—he was that successful that he got richer than any

other man in the county. An’ he got so fond o’ bein’ successful that he

nearly gave up eatin’—jest to be more successful. He got that fond of it

that by and by he wouldn’t even spend the money for gettin’ his hair

cut; he used to soak his head, in the winter, an’ then stand outside

till it froze stiff—then he’d break it off. He was a terrible

successful man, to his way o’ thinkin’," David went on gravely, the

crowd rocking to and fro in a spasm of delight. "So I think, my

friends, I’d better jest own up I’ve been a failure. An’ I thank you,

more’n I can say, for wantin’ me to be your first mayor—but I’m goin’ to

sit back quiet an’ give some better man the job. For one thing, I’m

gettin’ to be an old man—an’ that’s a disease that don’t heal much.

Besides, I’ll have enough to do to make a livin’. I won’t deny I used

to wake up nights an’ think it’d be fine to be the first boss o’ the

whole town; but I reckon it ain’t comin’ my way—it ain’t intended to be

wove into my web, by the looks o’ things. But I thank you for—for your

love," David blurted out, vainly searching for a better word. "An’ what

kind o’ gives me a lump in my throat, is the way I see how the men that

used to work for me is the loyalest to me now. That’s terrible rich

pay—an’ I can stand here to-night an’ say, afore God an’ man, that I’ve

tried to be more a friend than a boss. Your joys has been my joys, an’

your sorrows has been my sorrows," his voice quivering a little as he

spoke the gracious words; "an’ I ain’t disgraced—if I did get beat in

business. This here’s far sweeter to me now than if it’d come my way

when I was livin’ in the big house, wadin’ round knee-deep in clover.

It’s when a fellow’s down he loves to find out how many true friends

he’s got; any old torn umbrella’s just as good as a five dollar one—till

the rain’s peltin’ down on him—an’ then he knows the difference. So I

can’t do nothin’ but thank you all, an’ tell you how glad you’ve made

me. I’ll be all right," he concluded with heroic bearing, "I’ll get my

bite an’ my sup, an’ I’ll go down to my rest in peace; an’ I’m

richer—far richer than I ever thought. It’s friends that make a fellow

rich; an’ I intend keepin’ them as long as I live—an’ after, too," he

concluded, turning from his chair to add the words, electrical in their

effect.

Then came a scene, such a scene as gladdens the heart of but one man in

a generation. All sorts and conditions of men joined in the storm of

protest, refusing to permit David to withdraw his name. Many, mostly

toil-stained working-men, struggled for the floor. Testimonies came

thick and fast, volunteered with glowing ardour.

"He never used to pass my little girl on the street without givin’ her a

nickel or a dime—most always a dime," a burly blacksmith roared, his

voice as powerful as his muscle.

"Mr. Borland kept me on when times was hard," an old man proclaimed in a

squeaky voice; "he kept me mowin’ the grass four times a week, when

everythin’ was burnt up wi’ the drooth."

"He sent my little boy to the Children’s Hospital in the city," another

informed the thrilling multitude; "an’ now he can run like a deer—it was

hip-disease."

"He sat up two nights hand-runnin’ with Jake Foley when he had ammonia

in both lungs," imparted one of the lustiest of David’s former workmen,

"an’ the next day they found ten dollars in a sugar jug; an’ when they

axed him if he done it he said they wanted to insult him—said it was the

same as axin’ a man if he’d been tastin’. But we ain’t all fools,"

concluded the witness, his indignant eulogy cheered to the echo.

After a valiant struggle the chairman secured order, Mr. Craig looking

on with the expression that children wear when they see their tiny craft

being borne out to sea. The noble electors demanded a vote; which, duly

taken, voiced the overwhelming desire that David should be their man.

Whereupon Mr. Craig, not slow to remark the signs of the times,

possessed himself of a very imposing hat and made as if to leave the

platform, the crowd suddenly subsiding as it became evident he had a

word to say before retiring.

"I’m done with municipal life from this time on," he declared hotly, as

quiet was restored. "I’m not going to enter the lists with a man that

has proved—that hasn’t proved—with David Borland," he concluded,

floundering. "If the town can do without me, I guess I can do without

the town."

"You’d better go and travel abroad in them foreign parts, an’ mebbe——" a

voice from the audience began to advise.

"That’s mean," David cried above the returning din; "that’s mean—sit

down, Mr. Craig," turning with a grace even those who knew him best

would hardly have thought he could command.

"I withdraw," Mr. Craig shouted hotly.

"But don’t go yet," David pleaded in the most unconventional voice. "I

don’t like to see a man withdrawin’ that way." Somewhat mollified, Mr.

Craig resumed his seat.

Loud demands for a speech finally brought David to his feet again.

"Well, friends," he began, "I’m all used up. I never expected nothin’

like this—an’ I don’t hardly know what to say. But I can’t—I jest can’t

refuse now," he said, his words lost in a mighty cheer. "I didn’t know

you all felt that way—so much. An’ I believe I’m gladder for—for two

people that ain’t here to-night," he said in a low, earnest voice, "than

for any other reason in the world. An’ I’ll—I’ll take it—if Mr. Craig

here’ll help me," suddenly turning towards his rival of a moment before.

"He knows lots more about them things than me," moving over to where he

sat, "an’ if he’ll promise to help, we’ll—we’ll run the show together."

There being now no other candidate, the returning-officer declared Mr.

Borland the first mayor; and the vanquished, yielding to the great soul

that challenged him, took the other’s hand in his.

*XXX*

_*A JOURNALIST’S INJUNCTIONS*_

"I don’t believe we’ll ever find him, Harvey. We have so little clue—and

almost all we can do is wait." Jessie sighed; her life had had so much

of waiting.

"That’s the hard part of it," her brother answered, "but what else can

we do; it does seem hard to think one’s own father is living somewhere,

and yet we may live and die without ever seeing him. I’ve tried all the

poor little ways I can—but they’re so ineffectual. Yet I don’t think

there’s ever a day my mind doesn’t go out to him. Mother said,

though—she said he’d come back some day."

"What did she mean?" Jessie asked eagerly.

"I don’t know," said Harvey. "That is, I don’t know just what was in

her mind. And she told me about his—his weakness," the brother’s face

flushing with the words. "And if I ever succeed enough—if I ever get

rich enough, I mean—I’ll begin a search everywhere for him; she said no

father ever loved his children more," and Harvey’s eyes were very

wistful as they looked into his sister’s.

Jessie was silent a while. "You’re—you’re going to succeed, aren’t you,

brother?" she said, timidly. "If father ever does come back—he’ll—he’ll

find we’ve—conquered, won’t he, Harvey?"

Harvey’s answer was very slow in coming. Finally he reached out and

took his sister’s hand; the words rang hopefully.

"I feel somehow, I don’t know why, Jessie, but I feel somehow as if I

were just at the turning of the tide. Nobody’ll ever know what a

fearful fight it’s been—but I don’t think I’ll have to struggle like

this much longer. It’s like fighting in the waves for your life—but I

think it’s nearly over. I don’t want you to go home again for a little,

Jessie."

"What do you mean, Harvey? Do you mean anything particular’s going to

happen?"

He hesitated. "I don’t know—but I think so. I’ve always had a feeling

to-morrow’d be a better day than yesterday. I’ve always felt as if

something lay beyond; and when I reached it—and passed it, everything

would be different then."

There are few who know it—but the uncertainty of life is life’s greatest

stimulus. That is, the sense of further possibilities, unexpected

happenings, developments not to be foreseen. This is true of the poor,

the enslaved, the broken-hearted; it is no less true of the caressed of

fortune and the favourites of fate. The veil that hides to-morrow’s face

is life’s chiefesf source of zest, not excepting love itself. Men’s

hearts would break if they could descry the plain beyond and search its

level surface to the end; wherefore the All-wise has broken the long way

to fragments, every turn in the road, the long, winding road, a

well-spring of hope and expectation. The most dejected heart, proclaim

its hopelessness as it may, still cherishes a secret confidence that

things cannot always thus remain; downcast and tear-bedimmed, those eyes

are still turned towards the morrow, or the morning, or the

spring-time—for by such different symbols God would teach us how ill He

brooks monotony.

Especially is this true of one who struggles with his sin. Beaten again

and again, vows turned to shame and resolutions to reproach, conscience

and will trodden under foot of appetite, the wearied warrior still

trusts that to-morrow will turn the battle from the gate. Something

will turn up; if he could but get a fresh start, or if he could escape

from boon companions, or if he were once braced up a bit, or if this did

not worry and that beset—all these varied tones does Hope’s indomitable

voice assume. Sad and pitiful enough, we say; and we smile at what we

call the weakness of poor humanity—but it all bears witness to that

hopeful anguish which is bred of manifold temptations; it is the earnest

expectation of the creature waiting for the manifestation of the sons of

God.

"Not enough snap about any of this stuff, I tell you, Simmons." The

time was an hour and a half after Harvey had bidden Jessie, again Miss

Farringall’s willing guest, good-bye, and gone forth to his work until

the midnight. The words were those of Mr. Timothy Crothers, city editor

and director in chief of the _Morning Argus_. Mr. Crothers had taken

off his collar an hour before, which was silently accepted by the staff

as a storm-signal of the most accurate kind. Cold let it be without or

hot, Mr. Crothers’ sanctum soon became a torrid region when once he had

removed his neck apparel—and Harvey looked up with more of expectation

than surprise, having already witnessed the divestiture.

"It makes a man hot under the collar," Mr. Crothers pursued wrathily,

giving a phantom jerk in the neighbourhood of his neck, "to have stuff

like this brought in to him; it’s as dry as Presbyterian preaching."

"Isn’t it true, Mr. Crothers?" Harvey asked, calmly opening his knife

and applying it to an exhausted pencil. "That’s the first quality for

news, isn’t it?"

"First qualities be hanged," quoth Mr. Crothers contemptuously. "And it

isn’t news at all—it’s chloroform. Nothing’s news that doesn’t make

people sit up; you’ll never make a newspaper man till you learn how to

spice things up—lots of pepper, red pepper at that. A paper that can’t

make ’em sneeze will never earn its salt."

"Are you referring to the report I wrote of the game with the Scotch

bowlers, Mr. Crothers?" Harvey enquired, nodding towards a confused

cluster of well-scrawled pages on the table.

"Yes, mostly that; you don’t make the thing bite. It’s nearly all about

how they played—and we don’t get twenty bowlers here from Scotland every

year."

"About how they played!" echoed Harvey. "What else is there?"

"Everything else. Nobody cares a fig about how they played. Serve up

something about the Johnnies themselves—something real interesting.

That’s the whole thing. Now, for instance, look at some of this other

stuff," and Mr. Crothers took a chair close to Harvey, settling down to

business; "here you have an item about a law being enforced by the

Government, to provide that all dangerous lunatics must be confined in

asylums. Don’t you see what’s the proper thing to say about that?"

"No," said Harvey. "It strikes me that’s an occasion for saying mighty

little."

"Nothing of the sort. It’s a bully fine chance to say that this means

the organ across the way will lose its editor. Everybody’ll enjoy that,

don’t you see?"

"The editor won’t," said Harvey.

"Of course, he won’t—that’s just the point. And here’s another

case—about the Hon. Mr. Worthing being struck by a street car. I notice

you have him sitting up already. That won’t do; a paper that cures them

as quick as that won’t be able to pay its office-boy soon. Of course,

it’s true enough, I dare say—he’s probably playing billiards in his

home, with a trained nurse answering the front door; like enough, he’s

sitting up all night going over his accident policies. But we’ve got to

have him bandaged to the teeth—the public loves lots of arnica and

sticking plaster—and he’s struggling for consciousness—and he’s got to

be crying out every now and then as if he were being ground to powder;

and his wife’s going into swoons and coming out of them like a train

running tunnels in the Rockies. Besides, we’ve got to lambaste the

Company; the street-car line is our municipal

assassin—Moloch—Juggernaut—all that sort of thing. But both those words

should be in—and you can’t use words like that if their victim’s going

to be down street to-morrow."

"You should have a staff of novelists," suggested Harvey.

"And here—here’s a capital illustration of what I mean," Mr. Crothers

hurried on, ignoring the innuendo. "I see Rev. Dr. Blakeley comes out

with the announcement that there’s no such place as hell—do you know

what I’d say there, Simmons?"

"You’d say you had no objections, I should think," Harvey’s face

lighting with unfamiliar merriment.

"I wouldn’t—the public doesn’t care a tinker’s malediction whether I

object or not. There’s a great chance there for a civic stroke—I’d say

this information throws us back on Blankville," and Mr. Crothers named

with much contempt a rival city fifty miles away. "It’s little gems

like that, that make a paper readable. I see a fellow in that same city

was arrested for kissing girls on the street; then he was examined and

found insane. Well, the thing to say there, is, that any one who had

ever seen their girls would have known the man was crazy. News is like

food, Simmons—everything depends on how it’s prepared; nobody likes it

raw."

"But what about that game with the Scotchmen?" Harvey ventured, inwardly

rather chagrined with the verdict on his handiwork.

"Well, you’ve got it chuck full of points about the game—and that’s no

good. It’s got to be interesting. You’ve got to give it a human touch.

There’s one of the Scotch bowlers, for instance, old Sanderson from

Edinburgh—they say he’s worth eleven millions. Well, I’m told there’s

an old fellow that sweeps out a little struggling church on Cedar

Street—he’s its caretaker—and I’m told he used to go to school with

Sanderson. Now, it’s the simplest thing in the world to have that old

geezer come around to the green with his feather duster in his hand—and

Sanderson stares at him a minute; then he recognizes him all of a

sudden, and the old dodgers fall to and hug each other like two old

maids. And have them both weep—especially Sanderson, because he’s rich.

And some of those other millionaires should go off to the edge of the

lawn and blow their nose—you understand—the human touch, as I said.

Make Sanderson go home with the old geezer for supper; might just as

well—it wouldn’t hurt him."

"Sanderson wouldn’t relish the caretaker’s bill of fare, I’m afraid,"

Harvey said significantly.

"I guess you’re right. And that brings me back to the thing I intended

particularly to speak about. Those Scotchmen were properly beaten, as

your score-card shows. But you don’t give the real reason—and it’s the

kind of a reason everybody likes to hear about. For all you say, any

one would think it was a mere matter of skill. Now, of course, we all

know the reason—it’s the moist time they were having that licked them.

Most of them were full. Of course, it wouldn’t do to put it that

way—nobody’d enjoy that. But it’s a capital chance for some delicate

word-painting—keep it kind of veiled. Say something like this: ’our

genial visitors drank deep of the spirit that was much in evidence

throughout the game.’ Or, better still: ’our genial visitors became

more and more animated by their national spirit as the game wore on—some

of them seemed quite full of it.’ Or something like this: ’in liquid

prowess our British cousins far outran us—if, indeed, that be the proper

verb, since many of our friends were in various degrees of horizontality

before the game was finished.’ You see, a description like that appeals

to the imagination—it’s subtle—keeps readers guessing. Or this would be

a fine way of putting it: ’it was evident yesterday that the little

finger plays an important part in the ancient game of bowling on the

green’—something like that. What I’m getting at, Simmons, is

this—there’s a great chance there for something humorous, and a

journalist ought to make the most of it. What makes you look so glum,

Simmons?—I don’t believe you’ve got much sense of humour yourself."

Harvey made no response. But his face was resting on his hand, and

there must have been something in the plaintive eyes that engaged the

attention of Mr. Crothers. He could hardly fail to see that all of a

sudden Harvey had become deaf to his tuition; and, more remarkable, the

care-worn face seemed but to grow graver as his monitor pursued his

praise of mirth.

"You’re looking rather blue, Simmons," he added after a keen scrutiny,

Harvey still remaining silent; "but that needn’t prevent you writing

lots of funny things. Some of the funniest things ever written, or

spoken, have been done by people with broken hearts inside of them.

Take an actor for instance—doubling up his audience, and his own little

girl dying at home—most likely asking why father doesn’t come, too;

queer tangled world this, my boy, and nobody feels its pulse better than

us fellows. Anything the matter, Simmons?" he suddenly enquired, for

Harvey’s lips were pale; and the chief could see a quiver, as of pain,

overrun his face.

Harvey’s voice had a wealth of passion in it. "You’ll have to get some

other fellow to see the humorous side of—of—of that thing," he said.

"What do you mean? What thing?" asked the dumfoundered Crothers.

"That drink business—God! it’s no comedy," and Crothers started as he

saw the perspiration breaking out on Harvey’s brow, his face a

battlefield, his hands clenched as if he saw an enemy.

Crothers indulged in a low whistle, his eyes never moving from Harvey’s

face. For the veteran journalist was no child. He knew the marks of

strife when he saw them; experience partly, and sympathy still more, had

fitted him to tell the difference between a man sporting in the surf and

a man fighting for his life against the undertow. And one keen look

into the depths of Harvey’s outpouring eyes told him he was in the

presence of a tragedy. He rose and put his hand on Harvey’s shoulder;

familiar with tender ways it was not—but it was a human hand, and a

human heart had laid it there.

"Simmons," he said, and the usually gruff voice had a gentle note;

"Simmons, I know what you mean. May as well tell you straight, I’ve

heard a little—and I’ve seen a little, too. And I should have known

better than talk like that to you. And we all believe you’ll win out

yet, old chap. Now I’ll tell you what I think you ought to do. You

ought to go away somewhere for a little trip—there’s nothing helps a man

in a fight of this kind like having his attention taken up with

something else. I’ll keep your place open for you here—and if you could

get a couple of congenial fellows to go off with you for a little

holiday you’d be like a new man when you came back. Strictly

water-waggon fellows, of course," he added with a smile. "I know it’s a

hard fight, my boy—but buckle right down to it. And you go right home

now—you’re played clean out, I can see that—and take a good sleep till

noon. Then you skip out just as soon as you can arrange it and have a

ripping good holiday; that’ll set you up better than anything else.

Good-night now—or good-morning, rather, I guess. And remember this

above all things, Simmons—keep your mind diverted, always be sure and

keep your mind diverted," with which advice Mr. Crothers rose to

accompany Harvey to the door.

*XXXI*

_*THE TROUGH OF THE WAVE*_

He was glad to be alone. Lesser conflicts crave the help and

inspiration of human company; but there comes a time when a man knows

the battle must be fought out alone against the principalities and

powers that no heart, however strong or loving, can help him to

withstand. For no other can discern his enemy but himself.

Harvey turned with swift steps towards home. He thought of his waiting

room, with everything that could contribute to self-respect and comfort;

and of Miss Farringall, whose increasing devotion seldom failed to find

a voice, no matter how late the hour of his return. But as he hurried

along he marvelled at the strange craving that gnawed persistently

within. The action of his heart seemed weak; his lips were parched; his

hands were shaky, his nerves a-tingle, while a nameless terror, as if of

impending ill, cast its shadow over him. And through it all burned the

dreadful thirst, tyrannical, insistent, tormenting.

Resolved to resist to the last, he was still pressing steadily on.

Suddenly he stopped almost still, his eyes fixed upon a light in an

upper window. His heart leaped as he saw a tall form pass between him

and the lamp. For he recognized it, or thought he did. The room was

Oliver’s—that same Oliver as had goaded him to that fatal toast—and it

was quite a common experience for that worthy to be playing host through

the small hours of the morning. A sense of peril smote Harvey as he

looked; yet, reflecting a moment, he assured himself that he would find

around that brilliant light two or three whose blithe companionship

would help to beat back the evil spirit that assailed him. A chat on

matters journalistic, a good laugh, an hour or two of human fellowship

would give him relief from this infernal craving. Besides, what hope for

him if he could not resist a little temptation, should such present

itself?

So his resolve was quickly formed; putting his fingers to his mouth, a

shrill whistle brought a familiar face to the window.

"Jumping Jehoshaphat! is that you, Simmons?" was the exclamation that

greeted Harvey as soon as he was recognized. "Come on up—we were just

speaking of you. I’ll be down to the door in less than half a minute."

The allotted time had scarce elapsed when Palmer, for such was the name

of the cordial blade—clerk in a mercantile house and friend to

Oliver—was at the door. Taking Harvey’s arm he guided him cheerfully

through the somewhat dingy hall, ushering him into a rather dishevelled

room, in separate corners of which sat the hospitable Oliver and another

boon companion, Scottie Forrester by name. Like Oliver, Scottie was in

newspaper life; his apprenticeship had been served in Glasgow.

"Brethren," Palmer said solemnly as they entered, "I know you’re always

glad when we can bring in any poor wanderer from the highways or byways.

I want you to be kind to the stranger for my sake—he hasn’t had anything

to eat since his last meal."

"Sit down, Simmons," directed Oliver. "Don’t mind Palmer—he’s

farm-bred, you know, and he thinks it’s a deuce of an achievement to sit

up at night. He used to have to go to bed with the calves."

"Now I sit up with the goats," rejoined the once rustic Palmer,

producing a pipe and calmly proceeding to equip it. "But I ought to be

in bed. I’m played out. I was so tired at dinner to-night I went to

sleep over the salad course."

"Oh, Lord," broke in Forrester; "hear him prattling about night

dinners—and he never had anything but bread and molasses for supper on

the farm. And hear him giving us that guff about the salad course, as

if he was the son of a duke. If you’d lived in Glasgow, my boy, they’d

have brought you to time pretty quick. A man’s got to be a gentleman

over there, I tell you, before he has evening dinners and all that sort

of thing—did you drink out of the finger-bowls, Palmer?"

"You needn’t talk, Scottie," growled Oliver. "You write your letters at

the Arlington—and you get your dinner for fifteen cents at Webb’s, at

the counter, with your hat on."

"You’re a liar," retorted Scottie, meaning no offense whatever. "I’ve

got as good blood inside of me as any man in this city; my mother was

born in Auchterarder Castle and——"

"I wouldn’t be found dead in a root-house with a name like that,"

interrupted the agricultural Palmer. "Anyhow, I guess she was the

cook—and what’s more, nobody here cares what you’ve got inside of you.

But there’s poor Simmons—he’s our guest—and he looks as if he hadn’t put

anything inside of him for a dog’s age. Where’s the restorative,

Scottie? It’s always you that had it last."

Scottie arose and walked solemnly to a little cupboard in the wall.

"I’ll inform you, Mr. Simmons," he began gravely, his back still turned

to the company, "that we’re here for a double purpose. First, we were

having a little intellectual conference on—on the rise and fall of the

Russian empire, as a great authority put it. You see, we’re a kind of a

Samuel Johnson coterie—and this is a kind of a Cheshire Cheese. I was

there once when I was in London."

"He went to London with cattle," informed Oliver, striking a match—"he

was a swine herd in Scotland."

"And I’m Samuel Johnson," pursued Forrester, unruffled; "and Palmer,

he’s Boswell. And we have a great time discussing things."

"Who’s Oliver?" Harvey enquired with faint interest.

"Oh, yes, I forgot him; Oliver’s the cuspidor—you ought to be right in

the middle of the room, Oliver," he continued amiably, turning round

with a large black bottle in his hand. "And the other purpose we’re

here for, Mr. Simmons, is to celebrate Palmer’s birthday. We don’t know

exactly how old he is—he’s lied about his age so long that he’s not sure

himself. But this is his birthday, anyhow; and they sent him up a

little present from the farm. It’s a superior brand of raspberry

vinegar, made by an aged aunt that’s worth twenty thousand and won’t

die."

"Stop your jack-assery, Forrester," broke in Palmer; "you can’t fool

Simmons—he’s got his eye on the label."

Which was true enough. Harvey’s eye was gleaming, staring, like some

pallid woodsman’s when it catches the glare of an Indian’s fire.

"That’s all right, Simmons," explained Forrester calmly; "the bottle

happens to bear an honoured Glasgow name—and the liquid is worthy of it.

There isn’t a headache in a hogshead—try it and see."

Harvey’s lips were white and dry. "No, thank you, Forrester," he said

in a harsh voice that sounded far away. "I won’t take any."

"Take a little for Palmer’s stomach’s sake—he’s had enough."

Harvey refused again. Destitute was his answer of all merriment or

banter. He stood bolt upright, fixed as a statue, his eyes still on the

big black thing Forrester was holding out in front of him. "Not any,

Forrester," he said; "I don’t want any, I tell you."

"Let him alone, Scottie," interrupted Palmer. "Simmons is on the

water-waggon, to-night anyhow—and besides, that stuff’s a dollar and a

half a quart."

Forrester was about to comply when Oliver suddenly arose from his

lounging position and shuffled out to where the two were standing. He

had already familiarized himself with the bottle sufficiently to be in a

rather hectoring mood.

"Go and sit down, Forrester," he growled out; "I guess I’m the host

here. And I don’t blame Simmons for turning up his nose," he went on as

he turned and opened a little cabinet—"poking a black bottle in front of

a man as if he were a coal-heaver; we’re not on the Glasgow cattle

market," he added contemptuously, producing a couple of glasses and

handing one to Harvey. "Here, Simmons, drink like a gentleman—and I’ll

drink with you." And the sweat came out on Harvey’s forehead as the

stuff poured out, gurgling enticingly as it broke from the bottle’s

mouth. "Here, this is yours; and we’ll drink to the _Morning

Argus_—it’ll belong to you some day. I heard to-day it’s going to change

hands soon anyhow."

The mention of the name lent a wealth of resolution to Harvey’s wavering

will. He recalled, his heart maddening at the memory, how Oliver had

pressed this self-same toast before.

"I won’t, Oliver," he said, controlling himself. "I don’t want any."

"Come now, Simmons, don’t be foolish; you’ve had a hard night’s work,

and you look all in—just a night cap to help you sleep."

"Look here, Oliver," Harvey’s voice rising a little, "I guess I know my

own mind. I tell you I won’t drink. I’m under promise. I’m bound over

not to take anything; and I’ve got more at stake on it than I can afford

to lose—so you may as well shut up."

Oliver came a step nearer. "You can’t bluff me, old man," he said

through his teeth, his heavy eyes snapping. "And anyhow, I’ll pay it,"

he blustered, holding out the fuming glass, a leer of dogged cunning on

his face. "I’ll pay your stake, Simmons."

"You go to hell," hissed Harvey, striking out wildly, one hand smashing

the bottle in fragments to the floor, the other clutching Oliver by the

throat; "you infernal blood-sucker," as he pressed him backward to the

wall.

Palmer and Forrester sprang towards the men; but before they were able

to interfere, Harvey had hurled Oliver against the table, which crashed

to the floor in a heap, Oliver mingling with the wreckage. While his

guests were helping him to his feet, Harvey strode towards the door; the

accursed fumes rose about him like evil spirits, importunate and deadly,

clutching at the very heart-strings of his will.

Pale and trembling, he turned when he reached the door. "Anything more

to pay?" he muttered, nodding towards Oliver; "does he want to continue

the argument?"

Oliver made a stifled protest, but his friends united to declare that

the debate was at an end. "Come back, Simmons," appealed Palmer; "don’t

let our little evening break up like this—Oliver’s got no kick coming.

Sit down."

But Harvey uttered an inaudible malediction and slammed the door behind

him. They could hear him finding his way along the unlighted hall.

"You got what was coming to you, old chap," Palmer informed his host;

"nobody’s got any right to badger a fellow the way you did Simmons.

It’s worse than setting fire to a barn—you’re a damned incendiary," he

concluded, resuming the smoke that had been so effectually interrupted.

While the debate, thus happily begun, went on its vigorous way, Harvey

was walking aimlessly about the street, caring little whither his steps

might lead him. After the first gust of excitement had subsided a new

and delicious sense of victory possessed him. Not from having worsted

Oliver—that was quite forgotten—but from having met and conquered his

temptation. His breath came fast as he recalled, how stern and sore had

the conflict been; but a kind of elation he had never known before

mingled with the memory of it all. For he had won—and under the most

trying circumstances—and he smiled to himself as he thought how he had

passed through the ordeal. Its most hopeful feature was for the future;

it was a pledge of how he might hope to prevail if the fight should ever

be renewed. Reassured, he even fell to thinking of other things; of his

promise to his mother—had she seen his struggle and gloried in his

victory, he wondered; and of Jessie, faithful ally; and of his

profession and his progress in it. He recalled, as though it had

occurred long ago, Oliver’s prediction that he would some day own the

_Argus_—and his fierce anger towards Oliver abated a little. Yet all

this was insignificant, he reflected, compared to the progress he was

making along higher lines.

But the elation did not last. Fatigue crept upon him. And he was

chilled; he was hungry, too. Besides, the nervous strain had been a

severe one, and the reaction was correspondingly acute. Gradually the

tide ceased to flow, then stood stationary a moment—then began ebbing

fast. And the sense of victory paled and died; the thrill of exultation

passed away; the ardour of battle and of conquest chilled within him.

And again his lips became parched, his hand again unsteady, his nerves

again unstrung. And the dreadful thirst returned. To the swept and

garnished house the evil spirit crept back with muffled tread, hopeful

of a better tenure.

The stoutest castle is easily taken if its lord has ceased to watch. Or

if he be absent, the capture is easier still—especially if he be gone to

feast on former battle fields where his right arm brought him victory.

Wherefore Harvey’s second struggle was brief and pitiful; the enemy had

caught him unawares. And more shrill and impatient than before was the

whistle that sounded soon again beneath Oliver’s still lighted window.

And his welcome was not less cordial, Oliver himself taking the leading

part.

"What in thunder’s the matter, Simmons?" enquired Palmer; "you look as

if you’d been through a threshing machine."

Harvey paid no attention. His blood-shot eyes looked about the room,

searching for something. His hand was shaking, and every now and then he

ran his tongue over the withered lips; the blood seemed to have left his

cheek.

"I’ve changed my mind," he began huskily; "I’m not well—and I’ll take

some of that, if you don’t mind. Just a little—but I’ve got to get

braced up or I’ll collapse."

Forrester whistled. "The spring’s gone dry, old man," he said. "I’m

cruel sorry—but it was that little gesture of yours that did it."

Harvey’s eyes looked around imploringly. The pungent fumes were still

rising from the floor, goading his appetite to madness.

"I’m afraid that’s right, Simmons," added Oliver; "there’s a teaspoonful

there in the heel of the bottle—but it’s not enough to make a swallow."

"Where is it?" muttered Harvey, starting to where the broken fragments

lay.

He found it; and even those who had tried so hard to overbear him a

little while before cast pitying glances as he stooped down, trembling,

lifting the bottom of the bottle in both his shaky hands, lifting it

carefully and holding it to his lips till the last drop was drained.

It was but a few minutes till he resumed the quest. "Must be some more

lying round somewhere," he said, with a smile that was pitiful to see.

"Afraid not," said Oliver; "that was the last."

"What’s in that cabinet?" Harvey urged, rising to his feet.

"No go, Simmons, I’m afraid," muttered Forrester; "if there was any

round, Oliver’d know it—when he gives up, there ain’t any."

Harvey got up and went over to Palmer, throwing his arm about his

shoulder. "I say, old man," he began, controlling his voice as best he

could, "you don’t know how bad I’m feeling. And you’ve got a flask with

you, haven’t you, Palmer?—I wouldn’t ask you, only I’m feeling so tough.

Had a hard time of it in the office to-night."

Palmer looked hard at him. "If I had a tankful I wouldn’t give you a

drop, Simmons," he said.

Harvey winced. And he stood looking into Palmer’s face like a guilty

man, his eyes gradually turning away in confusion before the other’s

searching gaze. A hot flush of shame, not yet unfamiliar flowed over

cheek and brow. But it was only for a moment—these better symptoms

retreated before the flame that consumed him. "I’m going out," he said

presently, his eyes turning heavily from one face to the other, his

parched lips trembling.

"If you’ve got to have it, I think I know a place we can get in—I’m sure

I do," drawled Oliver, yawning. "But bed’s the place for all of us."

Harvey was all alive. "Come on, old chap," he exclaimed eagerly;

"that’s a good fellow—here’s your hat. It won’t take long," he added

assuringly, moving towards the door.

There was little reluctance on Oliver’s part. And a few minutes later

the two went out together arm in arm, the victor and the vanquished—but

vanquished both. It was Harvey who clung close, almost fondly, to the

other; no memory of Oliver’s share in his undoing, no hatred of the

assassin-hand tempered the flow of fellowship between them now.

The morning had not yet come. But passion’s gust was over and sated

appetite refused.

"I’m going home," said Harvey, his voice unnatural, his feet unsteady.

"Not yet," said Oliver—"let’s make a night of it."

"A night of it!" exclaimed the other bitterly. "Good God, Oliver!"

"Come on," said his companion doggedly. "Come with me—we’ll both see

the thing through."

"Come where?" said Harvey.

"You’ll see. Come down this alley here—wait a minute."

Three or four minutes had elapsed; they were still walking.

"There," said Oliver, standing still; "can you see that light?—there, in

that upper window."

He saw it. It gleamed sinister, significant, through the mirk; blacker

than the deepest darkness was its baneful light.

"What about it?" said Harvey.

Oliver said something in a low voice; then he laughed.

Simmons turned full on his companion. The moon was setting, but its

latest beams still shed a fitful light. And they showed Harvey’s face

flushed and worn, the eyes unnatural in their heaviness and gloom. But

there was a strange redeeming light in them as they fixed themselves on

Oliver, the light of indignant scorn; any who had known his mother would

have recognized something of the old-time light that had glowed from her

face before the darkness veiled it.

Harvey’s heavy eyes flashed as he spoke. "Oliver," he said, and the

tone was haughty, old-time pride struggling against fearful odds as the

sun writhes its way through the mist; "Oliver, if you’re going to the

devil, you can go alone. I’m not quite gone yet, thank God. I’m a good

many kinds of a fool, I know—but I’m not that kind—I’m not a sot. And

Oliver," coming closer up to him, "I’ll admit I’m as much to blame for

to-night as you are—but we’re done, Oliver, now. We’re done with each

other—forever. D’ye hear, Oliver?" as he turned and started back up the

shadowy lane.

Oliver blinked after him a moment; then he went on towards the light,

into the darkness.

*XXXII*

_*HARVEY’S UNSEEN DELIVERER*_

The succeeding day was melting softly into dusk.

While it may be true that none can utterly affirm, it is equally true

that none can finally deny, the ministry of the dead. Probably none

altogether rejects the thought except those who disbelieve in the

immortality of the soul. For if death be but the disenthrallment of the

spirit, and its engraftment on the infinite, how thus should its noblest

passion cease or its holiest industry suffer interruption? We may not

know; though mayhap we may still receive. If beneficiaries we are of

the unforgetting dead, we are unconscious of it—and this too shall swell

the sum of that great surprise that awaits us in eternity.

Some unconscious influence had brooded about Harvey through the day.

Except for a few brief minutes with Miss Farringall and Jessie, during

which neither had spoken much, the long hours had been spent alone. And

the solitude had seemed to teem at times; with what, he scarcely knew.

Shame and discomfiture and fear had thronged his heart, and the day was

one of such humiliation as cloistered monk might rejoice to know. Not

that he was conscious of the process, nor did he even inwardly call it

by any such name as that. But he knew that he had been beaten—beaten,

too, in the very hour that had thrilled with the confidence of victory.

More than once, recounting his defects one by one, and recalling his

frequent vows, was he on the verge of self-contempt; against this he

fought as if for life.

As the day wore slowly by, the struggle deepened. A strange

heart-chilling fear of the night began to possess him. Looking from the

window of his room, he could see the westering sun and the lengthening

shadows; both seemed to point the hour of returning conflict.

He tried in vain to dismiss this strange misgiving. The sun crept slowly

closer to the glowing west, and its silent course seemed to have

something ominous about it, solemnly departing as if it knew the peril

of the crafty dark. He tried to read, but his eyes slipped on the

words. Turning to one of his dead mother’s letters, he sought the

comfort of the loving words; but he found no shelter there, and the

relentless thirst kept deepening in his heart. Then he tried to recall

some of the gayer scenes of departed college days; their mirth was

turned to ashes now.

Finally, and with a bounding heart, like a fugitive whose eyes descry

some long-sought place of refuge, he bethought himself of the Bible his

mother had hidden in his trunk when first he had left her care.

Reverently, passionately, hopefully he made his way to many a tree of

life within it—but its shade seemed riven above him and the fierce heat

still searched his soul.

With a stifled cry he sprang from the bed, despairing of reinforcement

elsewhere than in his own beleaguered heart. He would fight it out,

though the fight should kill him. The strange sinking fell again upon

his spirit and the unearthly fires burned anew within him. His lips

again were parched and his shaking hand all but refused to do the

bidding of his will. He had not tasted food throughout the day; yet the

thought of food was intolerable. What tormented him most was the

thought, presenting itself again and again, that if he had but the

smallest allowance of stimulant the pain would be at an end and the

threatened collapse averted. But he knew how false and seductive was

the plea, and resisted. Yet what could he do?—this unequal conflict

could not endure. The perspiration stood in beads upon his brow, though

he was shaken with chills as by an ague. Defiant, his resolution rallied

as he noted the symptoms of his weakness. A kind of grim anger gathered

as he felt the deadly persistence of his enemy; and his step was almost

firm as he walked to the door of his room. He locked it swiftly,

putting the key in his pocket, stamping his foot as he turned away.

This seemed to help him some. It made him feel at least that he had

come to close quarters with his destroyer, shut up alone with his dread

antagonist. Herein was the hopefulness of the situation, that he had

come to recognize the strength of his enemy and the portent of the

struggle. Had he been locked in the same room with a madman the

situation could not have been more real.

Suddenly a strange thing befell him. Some would explain it in terms of

an overwrought nervous system, some in terms of a disordered fancy. It

matters not. But Harvey heard, amid the wild tumult of that twilight

hour—he heard his mother’s voice. Only once it came—and the sweet notes

slowly died, like the tones of some rich bell across a waste of

waters—but he heard it and his whole soul stood still to listen. He

caught its message in an instant; the whole meaning of it was

wonderfully clear, and his heart answered and obeyed with instant

gladness. For it seemed to point the way to rest, and victory, and

healing.

He glanced at his watch. There was just time to catch the train; and

without pause or hesitation he unlocked the door and passed out into the

street. A word to a servant, to allay wonder at his absence, was his

only farewell.

What greyhound of the seas is swift enough to outrun the greedy gulls

that follow? And what heart, however swiftly borne, can escape its

besetting sin? It may ascend up into heaven, or make its bed in hell, or

take the wings of the morning, or plunge into the lair of darkness—but

temptation never quits the chase. Thus was poor Harvey pursued as the

bounding train plunged through the darkness towards his far-off boyhood

home. Still the battle waged, and still the fangs of appetite kept

groping for his heart and clutching at his will. But he endured as

seeing the invisible; and the City of Refuge came ever nearer.

As they came closer to Glenallen—when they were almost there—peering

through the dark, he caught now and then a fleeting glimpse of the

scenes of other days; fences that he had climbed; elms beneath whose

shelter he had played; braes he had roamed and burns he had waded and

brooks he had fished, he smiled, as the inward pain still smote him and

the dreadful craving burned—it seemed all but impossible that life could

have changed so much, the evening shadows threatening before its noon

had come. And he felt, in a dim unreasoning way—what other men have

felt—as if he had been somehow tricked out of the sweetness of youth,

its glory faded and its fruitage withered before he had known they were

there.

The streets of his native town were hushed as he hurried towards his

home. Nearing the familiar scene, he paused, standing still. He felt a

kind of awesome fear and his head was bowed as he crept close to the

humble door. Suddenly he lifted his eyes, survey ing the

well-remembered outlines through the gloom. And suddenly they seemed

transfigured before him, speaking out their welcome in tender silence as

though they recognized the heart-sore wanderer. It was with little

difficulty that he effected an entrance, a half-hidden window in the

rear yielding readily.

The stillness within almost overcame him. Yet there must have been holy

power in it; for the evil spirit that had haunted him seemed to retreat

before it; and his groping eyes fell now on this familiar thing and now

on that, each an ally to his struggling soul. He could see but dimly,

but they were all beautiful, each telling some story of the sacred days

that would come no more. He felt his way through the little hall into

the room where he had last looked upon his mother’s face. He stood

where he had stood before—and he looked down. Long musing, he turned

and made his way up-stairs. As he passed the half-open door on his way,

he could see the shadowy outline of the little store, as Miss Adair had

left it for the night, the petty wares consorting ill with the

significance of the hour. Yet the nobility of all for which it stood

broke afresh upon him.

Ascending the creaking stairs, he stopped and listened. It seemed as if

some voice must speak—for silence like to this he had never known

before. But all was still, wondrously still—this was the silence of

death. He glanced into Jessie’s room; relics of her sore toil were

still scattered about; all was as she had left it when she had started

on her visit to the city.

Then he entered his mother’s room. With head bowed low and with

noiseless step, as devout pilgrims invade some holy shrine, he passed

within the door. Then he lifted his eyes—the night seemed to stay its

hand—and he could see here and there traces of his mother’s life, many

of them undisturbed. An apron that she used to wear, folded now and

spotless white, laid aside by Jessie’s loving hands; a knitted shawl

that had so often enclosed the fragile form; the unfinished knitting

from which the needles should never be withdrawn. Then he gave a great

start, muffling a cry—for he thought he saw a face. But it was his own,

moving in shadowy whiteness as he passed the little mirror—he marvelled

at his timidity amid such scenes of love.

He sank on the bed and buried his face in his hands. He was trembling,

yet not with fear. But something seemed to tell him that he was not

alone; no tempter, no turgid appetite, no relentless passion assailed

him now. He was safe, he felt, like some ancient fugitive falling

breathless before a sacred altar—but he felt that he was not alone.

Some unseen power seemed to be about him, an influence so gentle, a

caress so tender, a keeping so holy as time could not provide. He did

not seek to reason with the strange sensation, or to solve, or to

define; but his soul lay open to the mystic influence in helplessness

and hope, the ministry of the awful silence having its way with his

broken and baffled life.

Almost without knowing it, he rose and made his way to the little table

by the window; something dark lay upon it. The touch told him in a

moment what it was—his mother’s Bible, that Jessie had begged him to

leave for her. His hand trembled as he took it up; it opened of itself

and he peered downward on the well-worn page. But it was dark, and he

could only see enough to know that one particular verse was gently

underscored. Fumbling for a match, he lit it and its glow fell upon the

words:

"Unto Him that is able to keep you from falling and to present you

faultless."

The message flashed upon his soul with the import of eternal hope. He

closed the book violently, as if something might escape, and sank again

upon the bed. He felt as if God Himself had spoken through the shadows

and the silence. His face was again buried in his hands, but his heart

was running riot with its exuberance of feeling, of purpose, of hope

from far-off fountains fed. There gleamed before him a vision of the

reality of it all, the real truth that a worsted heart may find strength

somewhere higher up, away beyond this scene of human struggle—and that

the most stained and wasted life might yet become a holy thing, again

presented to the great God whose grace had saved it, a faultless life at

last.

Thus he sat, nor knew how long, while the regenerating moments flew. He

was recalled by feeling something fall at his feet. Stooping, he picked

it up; it was a letter, fallen from the leaves of the book he held. A

brief search revealed a candle on a chair beside the bed. This he lit,

holding the fitful flame above the missive now spread out before him.

The letter was from his mother and addressed to him. A swift look at the

date explained why it had never been sent—she had been busy with it when

he had unexpectedly returned the night of Madeline’s party. His eyes

burned their way over the opening sentences, all uneven as they were,

the unsteady hand having found its course as best it could. And the

gentle epistle had come to a sudden close—the letter had never been

completed. But his eyes were fixed in almost fierce intensity upon the

last words—probably the last the dear hand had ever written. "And I’m

praying, my son," thus ran the great assurance, "as I shall never cease

to pray, that He will make His grace sufficient for you and that..."

He arose, recalling where his mother was wont to pray. Had she not told

him, and had Jessie not spoken of it often? Beside his own bed, he

knew—there, where he once had slept the sleep of childhood in the

innocent and happy days of yore; there had been her altar, where,

kneeling before God, she had pleaded that the keeping and guidance of

the Highest might be vouchsafed her absent son. Thither he turned his

steps, his heart aflame within him; one hand still held his mother’s

Bible, the other the precious letter. And he laid them both before the

Throne, sacred things, familiar to the all-seeing Eye, pledges of a

faith that must not be denied.

The silence still reigned about the bended form. But it was vocal with

unspoken vows, the vows of a soul that unseen hands, wasted once and

worn but radiant now and beautiful, had beckoned to the Mercy Seat. He

could not see the bending face; he could not know the exultation of the

triumphant one—but he knew that the dear spirit shared with him the

rapture of that hour when his mother’s prayers were answered, when his

soul came back to God.

*XXXIII*

_*PLAIN LIVING AND HIGH THINKING*_

The day slipped past in quiet solitude, marked by the peace of penitence

and inward chastening; convalescence is the sweetest experience of the

soul and the outlook to the eternal is its rest. Harvey felt in no

hurry to leave the pavilion-home, thronged as it was with blessed

memories. But when the evening fell, a curious eagerness quickened his

steps towards David Borland’s altered home. He had not visited it

before. Drawing near, the first figure he descried was that of David

himself, engaged in the very diminutive garden that lay beside the

house. He had not noticed Harvey’s approach. A shade of pain darkened

the eye of the younger man as, unobserved, he took a keen survey of the

older face. For not alone was David more thin and worn; his cheeks had

lost their colour, pinched and pale, and it required no special

acuteness to detect how changed he was from the robust David of former

years. Suddenly lifting his head, Mr. Borland saw Harvey close at hand;

he dropped the light tool he was holding, hurrying to greet the visitor.

"You’re as welcome as a registered letter," he cried in his old hearty

way; "come on an’ sit down—there’s nothin’ tastes so good in a new house

as an old friend. I’ve been hungerin’ for a mouthful of you. I was

jest doin’ a little work," he explained—"when a fellow’s got to work

hard, nothin’ makes it so easy as doin’ a little more. I’m goin’ to

raise some flowers," he went on, pointing to a tiny bed; "nothin’ pays

like flowers—it pays better than manufacturin’, I think sometimes.

Here, sit beside me on the bench," for David seemed willing to rest.

"How’s Jessie?" he asked presently, his general observations concluded.

"Lovely," answered Harvey. "She’s visiting Miss Farringall."

"So I believe. They say Miss Farringall’s lovely too, ain’t she?"

Harvey pronounced a eulogy.

"She’s an old maid, ain’t she?"

"I suppose some would call her that," was Harvey’s rather deliberate

reply.

"Oh, that’s all right," David assured him; "I don’t mean no disrespect.

Most old maids is reg’lar angels—with variations. I often tell the

missus if I was ever left alone I’d probably marry again, out of respect

for her—there’s nothin’ like an encore to show you’ve enjoyed the first

performance—an’ I always say I’d take an old maid. Of course, I might

change my mind," David went on gravely; "most old fools does, takes up

with some little gosling that ought to be in school. An’ I’ve noticed

how the fellows that yelps the loudest at the funeral begins takin’

notice the soonest—they don’t most gen’rally stay in long for repairs,"

he concluded solemnly, scraping the clay from his boot-heel as he spoke.

"If Miss Farringall’s an old maid," Harvey resumed, "she’s one of the

nicest I ever knew—and one of the happiest too, I think."

"Old maids is pretty much all happy," pronounced David, "that is, when

they stop strugglin’—but most of ’em dies hard. They’d all be happy if

they’d only do what I heard a preacher advisin’ once. I was mad as a

hatter, too."

"What about?" asked Harvey wonderingly.

"Well, I’ll tell you. It was at a funeral in a church—last year, I

think—an’ after the service was over he came out to the front o’ the

pulpit. ’The congregation ’ll remain seated,’ says he, ’till the casket

has went down the aisle; then the mourners will follow, an’ the clergy

’ll follow them. After that,’ says he, ’after that, the congregation

will quietly retire.’ Quietly, mind you!" said David sternly; "did he

think we was goin’ to give three cheers for the corpse, I wonder?" and

he looked earnestly at Harvey for approval of his indignation. "But

I’ve often thought, jest the same, how much happier everybody’d be,

’specially old maids, if they’d only retire quietly."

"I’ll have to tell that to the editor of the funny column," Harvey said

when his composure had returned; "and I’ll send it on to you when it

appears in the _Argus_."

"I’m a subscriber to that paper now," David said complacently; "how ’re

you gettin’ along?—like the editin’ business pretty good?"

"Fine," Harvey assured him cordially. Then he told, as modestly as he

could, of what success he had achieved and of his prospects of

promotion.

"Where you got the start was goin’ into it as soon as you left school,"

David averred; "there’s nothin’ like gettin’ at your work early. That’s

why I advise gettin’ up a little afore day—for other folks. You see,

you’ll get the hang of it—of editin’, I mean—afore you’re set in your

ways. If you want to succeed these days, you’ve got to take time by the

fetlock, as one of them old philosophers said. That’s what makes all

the difference between two fellows; one’ll waste his time gallivantin’

round, while the other’s learnin’ all about his business an’ gettin’

ready for somethin’ big. Now, there’s poor Cecil, for instance—you’ve

heard what’s come o’ Cecil?"

"No," answered Harvey, sitting up very straight. "No, I haven’t heard

anything—has anything happened?"

"Oh, nothin’ terrible important. Only he’s off for Africa—went last

week. He was foolin’ an’ fiddlin’ round, spongin’ on his father—an’ he

got into one or two little scrapes. An’ his father kind o’ got tired of

it—an’ Cecil got a chance of some kind of a job with some company that’s

buildin’ a railroad or somethin’ in South Africa. An’ the old man let

him go—so he’s gone," David concluded earnestly, "an’ I reckon punchin’

mules is about the highest position o’ trust he’ll be occupyin’. Let’s

go into the house."

"Is Cecil going to stay long in Africa?" Harvey asked as they walked

along.

"He won’t likely be back to tea very often," ventured David. "Jemima!

I’m so short in the wind now," his breath coming fast. "I don’t much

calculate he’ll be back till the walkin’s good—unless the old man

fetches him," a droll smile showing on David’s face, as they entered the

little house.

"Sorry Madeline’s not in," Mr. Borland began as he sank into a chair;

"she works pretty steady now, poor child—they say she’s a reg’lar

dabster at that wood-work. She paints chiny too," he went on, pride in

the voice—"I think she’s out at Hyman’s, burnin’ it, this evenin’. Sit

down, Harvey," motioning towards a chair, for his guest was standing in

a spasm of attentiveness. "It’s a bit different from the old place,

ain’t it?" as he looked round the humble room.

"It’s just as good," said Harvey bluntly, rather at a loss.

"That’s where you’re shoutin’," David responded, something of his

old-time vigour in the tone. "It’s jest every bit as good. When I’m

settin’ here in the evenin’—I don’t work so very hard; they gave me a

nice easy job at the office—an’ Madeline’s puttin’ on my slippers or

runnin’ her fingers round my old gray head, when I shut my eyes I can’t

tell the difference. Never did set in only one chair," he mused as if to

himself, "never did wear but one pair o’ slippers, never did have but

one Madeline to cure my headaches an’ my heartaches an’ everythin’ like

that. An’ I like the lamp better’n the old sulky gas—an’ we’ve got the

best pump in the county," he went on enthusiastically—"right out there;

it’s far better’n the old tap water. So we’re jest as happy, Harvey."

Harvey smiled, and lovingly, at the beaming face.

"An’ I can prove it," the old man suddenly resumed. "I can prove it,"

he repeated eagerly. "See that fireplace there?" pointing to the hearth

on which the wood was already laid. "Put a match to it, Harvey—you’re

younger than me. Set it agoin’, Harvey, an’ I’ll show you—it’s gettin’

coolish, anyhow."

Harvey did as directed. The shavings led the flame upward to the little

twigs, and the twigs hurried it on to the willing cedar, and the cedar

lit the way to the gnarled pine knots; these opened their bosoms to the

flame and soon the leaping tongues began their glad crusade against the

shadows, a revelry of sight and sound flooding the room with light and

music.

"There!" cried David jubilantly. "Tell me the difference if you

can—ain’t that the very same as it used to be in the great big house?

Didn’t I tell you I could prove it?—there ain’t no difference, Harvey;

it’s jest the very same," he repeated once again, rejoicing in the great

truth he found so difficult to express. "An’ that’s what I always

trained myself to believe," he went on after a long pause. "I always

believed in simple livin’—even when I had lots o’ chance the other way.

Didn’t I, Harvey?" he pursued, gazing into the other’s eyes through the

glow.

"That you did, Mr. Borland," Harvey affirmed. "And that’s why it comes

so easy to you now."

"That was how I knew poor Mr. Craig was on the wrong tack," David

pursued thoughtfully. "I spotted the signs as soon as they began; when

he started callin’ his sideboard a ’buffy’—an’ when he began sayin’

’blue mange’ instead o’ cornstarch; I heard him at his own table—an’

callin’ ’Johnny-cake’ corn-cake—an’ referrin’ to the cuspidor when he

meant a spittoon—when he began them tony names, I knew it was all up

with poor Mr. Craig. When a man gets so dainty that his horses stop

sweatin’ an’ begin perspirin’, he ain’t much good for common folks after

that. That’s why Mr. Craig wanted so bad to be mayor—jest that buffy

idea, same thing," David explained pityingly. "An’ then it wasn’t long

till he made the foolishest break of all," he went on; "d’ye know what

it was?" as he looked enquiringly at Harvey; "you’d never guess."

"No idea," admitted Harvey.

"Well, he began takin’ his dinner at supper time. Leastways, he began

callin’ it dinner—an’ it’s a terrible bad sign when a fellow begins

takin’ dinner when the dew’s fallin’. His old father used to say:

’Well, I reckon it’s time to feed again,’ but Craig always said he

guessed he’d have to go home to dinner—an’ he wasn’t never the same man

after he begun that kind o’ foolishness," David affirmed seriously.

"The only other man I ever heard callin’ supper dinner was a terrible

rich fellow from New York. He had a summer cottage on Lake Joseph; he

used to bring his own doctor with him, an’ his own minister—an’ his own

undertaker. An’ he took his dinner about bedtime," David concluded

mournfully.

"Makin’ out pretty good at the newspaper business, Harvey?" David asked

presently, some minor themes disposed of.

Harvey pondered. He was thinking of many things. "Do you mean

financially, Mr. Borland?" he asked at length.

"Yes, I reckon so; you’re climbin’ up the ladder a bit, ain’t you?"

"I’m getting along pretty well, that way," Harvey replied. "And I think

I’m getting an insight into the business. They say the _Argus_ is going

to change hands—but that won’t affect my position at all."

"Pity you couldn’t get a-hold of it," said David reflectively. "But

don’t worry about that, my boy. Don’t never be disappointed if success

don’t come as fast as you think it should. It nearly always slips

through a fellow’s fingers at the last—so don’t get set up on it. I’m

gettin’ to be an old man now; an’ if there’s one thing I’ve learned

better’n another, it’s how a man don’t have them things in his own

hands. I believe every man’s jest runnin’ on the time-table that’s laid

out for him; an’ he’ll spoil everythin’ if he tries too much to

interfere. Often we think we’re terrible smart. An’ mebbe we are—but

we find out sooner or later we’ve got to walk the plank, an’ it’s queer

how we get jockeyed jest when we think we’re at the winnin’ post. We’re

pretty handy with the rod an’ the reel—but God handles the landin’-net

Himself. That’s why the biggest ones most gen’rally always get away,"

and David nodded his head seriously as he peered into Harvey’s eyes.

"I’d sooner win along other lines than that," mused Harvey.

"Than what?"

"Than the money way. That isn’t everything."

"That there was a beautiful thing you done in the cemetery," David

digressed suddenly. "That there was high finance."

"What?" asked the bewildered Harvey.

"You know," said the other—"your mother’s gravestone. I didn’t know

nothin’ about it till Madeline took some flowers out one evenin’. That

was lovely, Harvey."

Harvey’s voice was thick. "That was the first money I ever saved, Mr.

Borland," he said after a long silence; "the only money I ever saved."

"Savin’s like them is holy," David said simply. "An’ I’m goin’ to tell

you somethin’, Harvey," as he braced himself for the purpose. "An’ I’m

goin’ to trust you not to tell any one—not any one in the world."

Harvey turned to gaze into the earnest face.

"I don’t know jest why it should be so hard to tell," David began

calmly. "But it’s this, Harvey—my day’s jest about done—I ain’t goin’

to be here much longer, Harvey. No, don’t now, please," he pleaded as

he stretched out his hand towards the livid youth, already leaping to

his feet. "Don’t, Harvey, don’t—but it’s true. An’ I’ve known it a

good while now; the doctor told me long ago," he continued calmly. "My

old heart thinks it’s jest about quittin’ time, it seems. An’ I don’t

blame it a terrible lot—it’s had a long day’s work, an’ I reckon it’s a

good deal like me, kind o’ ready for its rest," the tired voice went on.

"That’s where the trouble is, anyhow," he affirmed placidly, "but I

never told nobody—a fellow ought to burn his own smoke, I think, an’ not

let it trouble other people. But I’ve told you now, Harvey—so you won’t

be so terrible surprised when ... And besides," his voice breaking for

the first time, "besides—I wanted to tell you somethin’ else, my boy—I

wanted to tell you—how—how much I loved you, Harvey—for fear—for fear I

mightn’t have another chance," as the tired face went downward to his

hands, the hot tears trickling between the fingers that were so thin and

worn.

The room was hushed in silence as Harvey’s tear-stained face was bowed

beside his friend. He spoke no word, and no touch of tenderness was

felt except the slow tightening of his arm about the furrowed neck,

holding the quivering form close in strong and silent fondness. David

spoke at length. "I want you to come along with me, Harvey."

"Where?" Harvey asked in a startled voice.

"Oh, not there," said David, smiling. "You thought I meant the long,

long road. No, not that; but I’m goin’ to the communion, Harvey—that’s

what I meant—I’m goin’ to join the church."

"I’m glad," said Harvey after a long stillness.

"I nearly joined once afore," David went on. "I reckon you remember when

I had that meetin’ with the elders—kind o’ run agin a snag, I did. An’

mebbe I ain’t much worthier yet—but I see it different. I ain’t much of

a Christian, I know—but I’m a kind of a sinner saved by grace. An’ I’d

kind o’ like to own up in front of everybody afore—afore it’s too late,"

he said, his voice almost inaudible.

"When?" asked Harvey.

"Next Sunday," answered David. "But I didn’t go up agin the elders this

time, mind you—I wouldn’t," he went on stoutly. "It seems to me a

fellow ain’t no more called on to tell a lot of elders—human

elders—about them things, an’ his soul, than he is to tell ’em about his

love-makin’; so I jest went to Dr. Fletcher, an’ I told him what I felt

about—about Christ—an’ I said I felt like I’d had a bid from some One

higher up. An’ Dr. Fletcher said no elder wasn’t to have a look-in this

time. So I’m goin’, Harvey—an’ it’d be an awful comfort if you an’ me

went together. It’s quite a spell since you was there, ain’t it,

Harvey?"

The fire had gone out upon the hearth. And Harvey spoke never a word

amid the thickening gloom.

*XXXIV*

_*THE OVERFLOWING HOUR*_

The light had almost faded from the sky and the stealthy shadows were

settling down about Glenallen as Harvey strode towards one of the hills

that kept their ancient watch about the town. He did not know whither

his course was tending; nor did he greatly care, for many and

conflicting were the thoughts that employed him as he walked.

Still fresh and vivid, almost overpowering sometimes, was his sense of

loss and shame. The defilement of his besetting sin, and the

humiliation of a life so nearly honeycombed, and the tragedy of a will

so nearly sold to slavery—all these had their stern influence on his

soul. The bruised and beaten past rose afresh before him; and if ever

human heart felt its own weakness, and human life its own unworthiness,

it was as Harvey Simmons climbed that solitary hill amid the deepening

dusk. Mingling with his sense of shame was the realization of all that

it must cost him—for his manhood would refuse to claim what only a

worthier manhood could fairly win.

Passing strange it was that at that very moment, the moment of true

self-reproach and humiliation, his roving eyes should suddenly have been

startled as they fell on two white-clad figures that were climbing the

hill behind him. One of them he recognized in an instant—it was

Madeline—and his heart almost frightened him, so violently did it leap.

He struggled to repress the rising tide—for the test had come sooner

than he thought—but a thrill of passion swept through all his frame.

Yet his resolve strengthened in his heart—the purpose that had been

forming within him through many days. The resolve of a hero, too, it

was; and the native strength of the man flowed anew, stern and

unconquerable, as he made the great renunciation. Not that he loved the

less; the more, rather. And not because he doubted that her heart

answered, if perhaps less ardently, to his own. He saw again, as he had

never ceased to see, the withered flowers in her hand. That picture he

had cherished ever since, deep hidden in his deepest heart—patiently

waiting, till his achievements and his station should warrant him to

come back and drink to all eternity where he had but sipped before.

He knew now that this should never be. He thought, and swift and lurid

was the image, of his own father, and of his mother’s broken heart, and

of the baneful legacy that had been his own—and of the shrouded chapter

that had been so carefully kept from him, tight shut like the chamber of

the dead. He knew, besides all this, that he loved too well to offer

Madeline a life that was not intrinsically worthy; if accounted worthy,

it could only be by the shelter of a living lie. Thus was his resolve

taken, anguish-born. Yet his hungering heart cried out that it could

not go its way in silence—this luxury at least it claimed, to tell its

story and to say farewell.

He turned and made his way downward to the approaching pair. Lifting

his hat as he came close, he spoke Madeline’s name and stood still. Her

surprise seemed to seal her lips at first, but he could see through the

gloaming what inflamed his heart afresh.

"I heard you were in Glenallen," her low voice began, "but I didn’t

expect to see you. When did you come? Oh, pardon me, let me introduce

you to my friend," as she spoke her companion’s name.

He removed his hat again and bowed. One or two commonplaces passed.

"Where are you going?" Harvey asked abruptly.

"We’re going to see a little girl that’s sick; she lives on the first

farm outside the town. She’s one of my class," Madeline explained, "and

I asked Miss Brodie to accompany me—my friend lives in that house

yonder," pointing to a residence near the foot of the hill; "it gets

dark so early now."

"I’ll go with you myself," said Harvey.

"What?" was all Madeline said, her voice unsteady.

"I’ll go with you myself," he repeated; "Miss Brodie won’t mind—we’ll

see her home first. I wish to speak with you," and without further

explanation he turned to lead the way to Miss Brodie’s home.

Madeline’s protest came, but it was weak and trembling. And her

companion spoke no word except to give assent. For there seemed to be

some strange authority about the silent man; something in his voice, or

manner, or in the drawn face that looked into the distance through the

fading light. They could not tell; but they followed as he led.

Madeline’s hand trembled as it made its way into her friend’s; a moment

later she withdrew it, walking on alone. But her bosom rose and fell

with the movement of that eternal mystery that so many a maiden’s heart

has known, that none has ever solved. And her eyes were moist and dim,

she knew not why; and now and then a strange quiver shook the graceful

form, protesting, reluctant, half-rebellious, yet at the mercy of

something she could neither fathom nor deny.

Bidding Miss Brodie good-night, they retraced their steps and pressed on

towards the outskirts of the town. Perhaps both wondered why they

walked so fast, Madeline wondering, indeed, why she walked at all. But

there was something indescribably sweet about the strange mastery in

which he seemed to hold her—and her eyes smiled, though she was

trembling, as she looked ahead into the waiting shadows.

"That’s the house." These were the first words that broke the

stillness, and they came from Madeline’s lips—"that’s where she lives,"

pointing to a distant light.

"Who?" and Harvey turned his eyes upon her.

"The child I’m going to see—I told you."

Silence still; and still they walked on together. Once she stumbled over

an uneven plank. His hand went out swiftly to her arm, and as he

touched it his whole frame swayed towards her. In an instant his hand

was withdrawn; but not before a faint outbreak flowed from her lips. He

looked down at her through the darkness—her face was deadly white.

"I don’t believe I’ll go," she said weakly; "I’ll go to-morrow."

He pointed into the darkness. "I want to speak with you," he said,

striding on.

A little murmur surged to her lips. She checked it. "Will you wait for

me—till I come out, Harvey?" the last word coming slow.

"I can’t."

"What?" she said, her tone firmer, her pace abating.

"I cannot wait," he said; "you can’t go in till—after."

She cast a swift glance upwards—but his eyes were forward bent. He

pressed swiftly on. She walked beside him.

Suddenly he paused, then stood still. He listened intently; no sound

but the desultory barking of a distant watch-dog. He looked about—and

the voiceless night seemed to contain no other but those twain. He

could see the blinking light in the window, the one Madeline had pointed

to; it made the solitude deeper, like a far-off gleam at sea.

"Let us go in here and sit down," he said, pointing towards a little

clearance under the shadow of two spreading oaks that towered above an

intervening thicket.

They stepped down from the rickety sidewalk. And they crossed the dusty

road, neither speaking; and the dew glistened on their feet as they went

on into the thickening grass—and Madeline could hear her poor heart

beating, but she uttered never a word.

It is the glory of a strong woman that she sometimes may be weak; nay,

that she must be, by very token of her strength. For her strength hath

its home in love and in her capacity to love—there is her crown and

there the well-spring of her beauty and her charm. Yet this knows its

highest strength in weakness; and its victory is in surrender. And the

greatest moment in the life of the noblest woman is when convention and

propriety and custom—and the tyranny of the social code—yea, when even

her own native pride, her womanly reticence, her insistence on all that

a woman may demand, are defiantly renounced; when these all lie in ruins

at her feet, scorned and forgotten by reason of the torrent of her love;

when beauty’s tresses lie dishevelled, and its robes of dignity are

stained with tears, then is woman’s wild eternal heart at its very

noblest in all the abandon of the passion that sets it free from every

tie save one.

Wherefore Madeline—she of the beauteous face and of the snow-white

heart—went on with Harvey where he led. Down from the pavement she

stepped, down into the earthly road, reckless of the dainty fabric that

the dust leaped to stain; and she walked on into the glistening grass,

and her eyes saw the waiting oak and the vast sky behind. And the night

was dark, and even the distant blinking light was hidden; and she could

hear the soft language of the mother bird that kept her love-taught

vigil, and the whippoorwill’s cry came in mellow waves across the

rippling woods—and the great tender arms of the holy night were about

them all.

"Let us sit here," and Harvey motioned towards a giant log that lay

beneath the oaks. "And I’ll tell you, Madeline."

She raised one white hand to her throat as she took her place; even then

he noticed the delicate tapering fingers, so well fitted for the work to

which her father had referred. Something seemed to be choking her, so

long were the white fingers held to the soft flesh above. The other

hand went out absently, uplifted, and she held tight to the

soft-swinging branch of the ancient oak, for the leaves bended about

them where they sat.

"Very well, Harvey," she said. "Isn’t it about father—didn’t you see

him this evening?" Commonplace questions enough they were; and her

heart had clutched wildly at them as her hand had seized the bough above

her. But commonplace the words were not—a surge of fire made them glow

and gleam, to him at least, her troubled soul sweeping through them like

a flood. For her voice was shaking as she asked the simple questions;

and her arm was still outstretched as she clung to the yielding

bough—and the white fingers still pressed the quivering throat.

"No, it isn’t about that," he said, his voice as low as the voices of

the night. She never moved. But he heard, actually heard, her lips as

they slowly parted—and her breath came as if she were resting from a

race.

"It’s about us—oh, Madeline, it’s about us," he began, and his words

came swift, as if they were driven out by force. "You know, you know,

Madeline, all that’s in my heart—all that’s been there for years. Ever

since I worked for your father—ever since we went to school—ever since

that night beside my baby sister’s grave—and since you came to see

mother when she got blind—and since I went to college—and always,

always, Madeline, through all the years. You know, Madeline, you know."

Then his words poured out in a passionate stream, swirling like waves

about her, and he told her what they both had known long, what neither

had ever heard before. The maiden’s eyes shone dim; and one hand

clutched tighter at the crushed and broken twigs; the other slipped from

the quivering throat, pressed now to the paining bosom. And the moist

lips were parted still, but the speech that flowed between was silent as

her listening soul.

"And I’ve told you the worst, Madeline," he vowed at length. "I was

determined to tell you the worst, before I go away, before I go away to

take up the struggle against my sin—alone. And to win—to conquer," he

added low. "So I’m not worthy, Madeline—and the future’s uncertain—and

I know it and you know it. And nobody but God can ever tell what it has

meant to me to say all I’ve said to-night; and it’s all because I love

you so... Oh, Madeline," and the strong voice struggled in vain to keep

on its way; too late, it broke and trembled, the pain and passion

bursting through it as he bowed his head and hid his face. "So I’m

going away," he murmured low, "I’m going away."

The sighing wind was hushed and the mother bird was silent and the

whippoorwill was dumb.

"Harvey, don’t."

It was such a gentle note, barely audible, like the first faint cry of

some wood-born nestling when it sees the light. But it filled and

flooded all his soul. He raised his head, so slowly, from his hands; and

slowly he turned his face till his eyes rested full upon her. The moon

had risen and he could see her beauty. Both hands were lying now in the

white folds of her dress, and between them were the crushed and broken

leaves, their fragrance outstealing from their wounds. The branch she

had released was still swaying to and fro. But Madeline saw it not; nor

aught else beside. The veiled and glistening eyes were looking far

beyond; he could not tell whether they were fixed on the darkling

thicket or on the crescent moon. But while his gaze stole upward to her

face a night-bird in the thicket piped softly to its mate—and he saw her

eyes search the frowning shade. Then they were still. But he could see

the radiance on cheek and brow, and he felt the life-stream that her

eyes outpoured, aglow with the emotion of her soul. Her bosom rose and

fell, nor did she seem to know—again and yet again the candour of her

love spoke thus. And while he looked she slowly turned her head. He

noted, even then, and in the gathering light, the wealth of lovely hair,

the fair purity of her forehead, the mystic lure of her quivering lips,

the throb that beat swiftly in her throat, soft and white like the

lily’s bloom—but they all were lost in the glory of her wondrous eyes.

These were transfigured; surrender, conquest, yearning, pity, pride, the

joy of possession and the rapture of captivity—all that unite to make

that mysterious tide called passion, looked their meaning from her face.

Her breath, fresh from the parted lips, floated outward till it touched

his face—and to him spreading oak and whispering grove and shadowy

thicket and crescent moon had ceased to be. He saw her eyes alone, his

soul swimming towards them through the torrent; his finger-tips touched

her shoulders first—and she was there—and the soft form yielded, and the

glory slowly faded as the eyelids fell, and the fragrance of her breath

made life a holy thing forever as he drew her into the strong shelter of

his love.

*XXXV*

*"*_*INTO HIS HOUSE OF WINE*_*"*

They came up the little hill together. And many eyes were turned on

them in wonder as they went up the aisle, David still leaning on the

strong man beside him. It was Robert McCaig who took the token from Mr.

Borland’s hand, and his own told its welcome by its lingering clasp.

They were almost at David’s pew, Madeline and her mother already seated

there, when Harvey stood still and whispered. "Let us go to my mother’s

seat," he said.

David’s assent was quick and cordial. He knew the sacrament of love;

and the look with which Madeline and her mother followed them showed

that they recognized the higher claim.

Very beautiful was the service of that holy hour. The opening psalm

breathed the spirit of penitence and trust. When Dr. Fletcher rose to

pray, his face was illumined with such joy as there is in the presence

of the angels when a new star swims into the firmament of heaven. And

his prayer gave thanks for the cloud of witnesses that compassed them

about, and for those who had gone out from them along the upward path of

pain.

Wonderful stillness wrapped the worshippers about as the elders went

slowly down the aisle with the symbols of redeeming love. It was not

his accustomed place, but Geordie Nickle bore the bread and wine to

where David and Harvey sat. His eyes shone with a great light as he

placed the emblems first in David’s shaking hand; and the moist eyes

were upturned to God; and his lips moved while he stood before them in

the grand dignity of his priestly office. The compassion glowing on his

face was worthy of the Cross.

David and Harvey bowed their heads together, the old man and the young.

The one was touched with the whitening frost of years, the other with

the dew of youth. But their lips were moist with the same holy wine and

their hearts were kindred in their trembling hope. Before them both

arose the vision of a Saviour’s face; but the old man’s thought was of

eternal rest, and the other’s was of the battling years beyond.

Harvey’s mind flew quickly over all the bygone days. Love and

loneliness, conflict and respite, hope and despair, victory and

overthrow passed before him—and all seemed now to have conspired towards

this holy hour. He felt that the way had been chosen for him amid

life’s perplexing paths; that an unseen Hand had been at the helm; that

the prayer and purpose of another’s life had led him back to the path

from which he had departed, fulfilling the design of an All-wise

Sovereign Will.

David gave a little start of surprise when Dr. Fletcher announced the

closing hymn.

"He done that for me," he whispered to Harvey; "he knows it’s mine."

They rose to sing the noble song. The great words rolled slowly out

from many reverent lips:

"The sands of time are sinking."