"With mercy and with judgment
My web of time He wove,"
that Harvey turned his eyes towards David; and his heart melted as he
saw the tears rolling down the withered cheeks. David’s head was bowed,
for it hurt him sore that men should see. But there had come about him
such a tide of feeling—all his chequered life rising up before him—and
such a sense of the abundant grace that had made the shadows beautiful
with light, that his soul dissolved in gratitude to the Hand that guided
and the Heart that planned through all the labyrinth of years.
Other lips were still, and Harvey’s among them, when they reached the
closing lines:
"Amid the shades of evening
While sinks life’s lingering sand
I hail the glory dawning
In Immanuel’s land."
But those who were beside him marvelled at the strong rich tones with
which David sounded the exultant note. His voice was no more the voice
of age; and the scars of battle had vanished from his face. Strong and
victorious came the swelling strain, and his uplifted eyes had the glow
of unconquerable youth. He had caught the lights of Home.
*XXXVI*
_*A MISTRESS OF FINANCE*_
"Some men are born lucky—and some get lucky—and some have the
confoundedst kind of good luck thrust upon them," affirmed Mr. Crothers,
nodding towards a letter in Harvey’s hand.
"I’m just going to read this over once more; it really seems too good to
be true," was Harvey’s rather irrelevant reply, his eyes fastened again
upon the letter.
"You’re dead right. If any one had told me, that night three months
ago—you remember our conversation then—that you’d be given a position
like that so early in your career, I’d have laughed at them. I don’t
think I ever knew a man get as quick promotion in the newspaper business
as you’ve had, Simmons. I really don’t. But then you’ve got the
education—and the material above the eyes—and that’s the whole outfit.
Well, I can’t do any more than congratulate you, old man," and the
sincerity of Mr. Crothers’ words was evident as Harvey looked across the
table into the deep-set eyes.
"You’ve had more to do with it than anybody else, I’m sure," Harvey
returned; "and I’ll do all I can to make good. I’ll expect you to——"
"I’ll tell you something I’ve been thinking of for quite a while," the
other broke in, lowering his voice and leaning far over the table. "If
we could only get a hold of the business—the paper, I mean—the whole box
and dice! The thing’s going to change hands, as you know; everybody has
known that, since the president got the collectorship of customs—and it
would be worth more to us than to anybody else. We could run it to the
Queen’s taste—the whole shooting-match. But I suppose there’s no use
talking—can’t make bricks without straw. Of course, I’ve saved a little
chicken-feed—not enough, though—there, that’s my total," as he pencilled
some figures on a blotting-pad and passed it over; "and if you could
duplicate it—or a little better—we’d have the thing in our mitt. But I
suppose there’s no use thinking about it?" looking rather eagerly at
Harvey, nevertheless.
"Out of the question," answered Harvey decisively, leaning back in his
chair; "you can’t get blood from a turnip, or, as Geordie Nickle, a
Glenallen friend of mine, would say, you can’t take the breeks off a
Hielan’man. I haven’t any money, that’s the English of it. Of course,"
a tinge of pleasure in the tone, "I’ll have a pretty good salary now—but
what’s that for a plunge like this?" as he pushed the blotting-pad back
across the table.
"About as good as a dozen of eggs for an army," Mr. Crothers agreed
disconsolately. "Oh, well, we’ll just have to make out the best we
can—but I’m mighty glad of your good luck, old man, just the same."
Both men turned to their work. Harvey’s first move was to ring for a
stenographer. But he changed his mind. "I won’t need you for a few
minutes," he said; "I’ll write this one myself."
The letter closed as follows: "... So it’s come at last, sister—and your
days of drudgery are past. They will always be a sacred memory to me,
for I wonder if any man ever came to his own through as noble sacrifice
as has filled all your life for me, yours and mother’s. Now, Jessie, be
sure and do as I’ve told you. Sell your business—lock, stock, and
barrel—or give it away; make Miss Adair a present of it, or rent it to
her, or anything you like. Only one thing remember—you’ll rest now, and
all my good fortune will be spoiled unless you share it with me.
Your ever loving
"HARVEY."
Even Grey started with surprise when Harvey arrived home that night an
hour earlier than usual. And Miss Farringall’s face brightened suddenly
as Harvey’s knock at the door of her sitting-room was followed by the
appearance of a very radiant face. He had a letter in his hand.
"I want to speak first," she said impulsively, divining his purpose.
"Yes, Miss Farringall," he said enquiringly.
"It’s something I’ve wanted to ask you for a long time—and I’m going to
do it now," she added very softly, rising and moving to the window; "did
your mother ever—did she ever speak to you about your father, Harvey?"
Harvey’s answer was slow. "Yes," he said at length.
"Did you know he’s living?" she asked after a long pause.
"Yes," and Harvey’s voice was little more than audible. "My mother told
me that when she was dying. Why?" he asked resolutely, moving to where
she stood.
"I only wished to know, dear," and her tone breathed gentleness as she
turned and fixed her pensive eyes on his. "I knew he was living, and——"
"Where—do you know where?" he broke out, almost with a cry. "My mother
didn’t know, and——"
"No, I don’t know where," she interrupted, her eyes now looking far
without; "but I know he’s living yet. We’ll both know more some
day—what’s in that letter, Harvey?" the voice betokening that the
subject was dismissed, at least for the present.
"It’s something you’ll be glad to read," he answered absently as he
handed it to her.
Deep silence reigned a while.
"I knew it, Harvey," she said when she had finished. "I expected this—I
was waiting for you to come home. I wanted to see you very much. Can
you think what for?"
"I don’t know," Harvey answered abstractedly, musing still.
"Barlow," she called.
"Yes, mum," a sepulchral voice answered from the hall, followed a moment
later by the apparition of the never distant servant.
"You know the vault, Barlow?"
"Yes, mum," replied its guardian of years.
"And the box in the lower left-hand corner?"
"Yes, mum."
"And the paper we deposited there yesterday?"
"Yes, mum."
"That Dr. Wallis helped me to draw?"
"Yes, mum."
"Then bring it to me at once."
"Yes, mum," and Barlow turned in his tracks as he had done for a quarter
of a century.
He was back in a moment. "You can go now, Barlow—and shut the door.
Take Grey, and don’t stand outside. Go and count the spoons."
"Yes, mum," and the immobile Barlow departed to make the oft-repeated
inventory.
"I expected this to come, Harvey," she began as soon as they were alone.
"I know the president of the _Argus_—or of the company, or whatever you
call it. I’m not such a hermit as some people think. But I’ve been
wishing for something better for you, Harvey—can you guess what it is?"
her words ending in a nervous little cough.
Harvey’s face showed how innocent he was of any such knowledge.
"Well, it keeps running in my mind that you ought to own that paper."
Harvey gave a little laugh. "That’s what Mr. Crothers was saying," he
began confusedly; "he thinks we could do wonders if we had it between
us—but of course it’s out of the question. It would cost—oh, I don’t
know how much."
"I know all about that," and Miss Farringall’s cheek had a strangely
heightened colour. "I’ve looked into all that," she added in a low
tone; "and do you think you could? Would Mr. Crothers really make a
good partner?"