"Excuse me," Miss Farringall interrupted with authority. "Let me
proceed. I want to make an investment. I want to buy a business that
belongs to you and Jessie. Sign that paper, please," as she handed him
the document Barlow had brought.
Amazement took possession of Harvey as he read.
"Close your lips, Harvey—when you’re excited, breathe deep; it’s a great
sedative," and Miss Farringall smiled as she watched his face.
Harvey laid the paper down with a gasp. "But, Miss Farringall," he
began excitedly, breathing as best he could, "the proposition is
preposterous—a sum of money such as this for a paltry outfit like that
little store in Glenallen! The whole thing isn’t worth——"
"Be careful, Harvey Simmons, be careful, now," Miss Farringall broke in
sternly. "You haven’t read the agreement. Maybe the price does look
big—but did you see all I’m to get in return?"
Harvey shook the document excitedly. "You ask the business—the stock,
and the good-will—and neither the one nor the other’s worth one tithe
of——"
"Wait a minute," broke in the prospective purchaser; "I ask more than
that. The vendor goes with the sale," she announced, rising to her
feet. "It’s that way in the paper—Jessie goes with it; I buy her too. I
can do what I like with the business—and Jessie comes to me. Yes," she
cried, her voice shaking in its eagerness, "that’s what I want the
most—and Jessie’s willing. I’ve found that out top—and she’s to be
mine, to keep and care for. And she’s to be shipped here, right side up
with care, and she’s to give me value for my money every time I see her
sweet face and hear her merry laugh. I’ve spent a lot repairing this
old house—but that’s the kind of repair it’s been needing for long
years, and it’s going to get it now. When you get the purchase money
you can invest it as you like; it’ll be your own—only sign, Harvey, sign
now. I’ve got the price all ready," her voice ringing with merry music
as she brandished a bulky envelope before his eyes.
Harvey gazed long into the triumphant face. Then he moved slowly up to
her, holding out his arms, and she put her own about his neck with
hurrying, passionate eagerness and held him tight. When, released, he
looked again into the flushed and quivering face, the swimming eyes
seemed not to see his own, fixed in yearning on the silent desk that
held the secret of the years.
*XXXVII*
_*THE CONQUEROR’S HOME-GOING*_
"You’re wanted on the long-distance line, Mr. Simmons; Glenallen wants
to speak with you," was the message that interrupted Harvey and Mr.
Crothers in the midst of a very delightful conference; the future of the
_Morning Argus_ was the subject of discussion.
"Somebody wanting to congratulate you," ventured Mr. Crothers; "tell
them the new firm’s flourishing so far," a smile of great satisfaction
on his face. The fulfillment of the ambition of half a life-time had
filled Mr. Crothers’ cup to overflowing.
Five minutes later Harvey had returned, the gladness vanished from his
eyes.
"What’s the matter, Simmons?—nothing gone wrong, I hope."
"I’ve got to leave within ten minutes," Harvey answered, stooping to
arrange some scattered papers on his desk. "I’ll just have time to
catch the Glenallen train. The dearest friend I have in the world is
dying, they tell me—and he wants me."
"Who?" asked Mr. Crothers, rising from his seat.
"Mr. Borland—David Borland. You’ve often heard me speak of him."
Mr. Crothers’ countenance fell. "I should think I have; I almost feel
as if I knew him, you’ve given me so much of his philosophy. I always
hoped I might meet him—what’s like the trouble?"
"Heart," said Harvey, unable to say more.
"That was where his homely philosophy came from, I should say," ventured
Mr. Crothers; "it’s the best brand too."
Harvey nodded. A few minutes later he was gone.
The evening sun was prodigal of its beauty. And once, when Harvey
lifted up his eyes to look, he could see the flashing windows of David’s
old-time residence, its stately outlines showing clear against the
sombre trees behind. But the little house on which his eyes were
fastened now—where a great soul was preparing for its flight—seemed far
the grander of the two. For it was clothed with the majesty of things
invisible and the outlook from its humbler windows was to the Eternal.
He entered without knocking; and Mrs. Borland was the first to meet him.
"He’s sinking fast," she said, greeting Harvey with a warmth he had not
known before. "He can still speak with us, though—and he’s been asking
for you."
"Who’s with him?" asked Harvey.
"Just Madeline. We sent for Dr. Fletcher—but he’s away, attending some
meeting of ministers. Mr. Nickle’s coming, though—he’ll soon be here
now."
Harvey stood a minute at the door before he entered David’s room.
Madeline looked up and smiled; but her father’s eyes were turned away,
fixed on the distant hills. The gaze of the younger man rested long and
lovingly on the pallid face upon the pillow. Never had David looked so
grand before. The thin, responsive lips; the care-worn face, compassion
and sympathy in every line; the crown of silvery hair, so whitened since
Harvey saw it last; the large, far-seeing eyes, homes of the faith and
hope that had upborne his life and made it beautiful, out-gazing now
beyond the things of time, calm with the last long peace—all these gave
to the face that spiritual beauty which is the handiwork of God.
Harvey drew closer to the bed. David slowly turned his head; his eyes
met Harvey’s, and he held out his hand.
"I knew you’d come," he said gently; we’re all together now—all but
Geordie."
Harvey’s answer was a warmer pressure of the wasted hand.
"The sands is runnin’ fast," David said with a faint smile—"the
battle’ll soon be done. An’ I’m pretty tired, Harvey."
Harvey was still standing by the bed, bowed, still holding David’s hand.
And the dying man could see the tears that were making their way down
the quivering cheeks.
"Don’t, Harvey," he implored; "this ain’t no time for that. Madeline,
read that bit again."
The girl lifted the Bible from the bed. "She knows the place I
want—it’s John the fourteenth," David said, his face turned to Harvey’s.
"We love all the places—they’re all beautiful. There’s lovely shade in
the Psalms when the hot sun’s beatin’ down—an’ it’s all good; but John
the fourteenth’s like a deep, clear spring, an’ that’s where we stay the
most—weary travellers loves a spring," and the dying man turned his eyes
eagerly on the book Madeline had opened.
"Let not your heart be troubled.... In My Father’s house are many
mansions; if it were not so I would have told you." Thus flowed the
stream of love; and David closed his eyes, drinking deep indeed of the
living tide.
"Ain’t that beautiful?" he said, his voice thrilled with passionate
gladness. "I like that about the mansions the best, I think. Everybody
loves a mansion. I got turned out o’ one—the one our Madeline was born
in; but this’ll be a far better one, an’ me an’ Madeline an’ mother’ll
live there always, an’ nobody can’t ever turn us out. It’s our
Father’s," he added reverently.
Mrs. Borland was bending over him. "Don’t talk, David," she pleaded;
"it’s too much for your strength."
He gazed up at her. "I want to give a—a testimony—afore I go," he said
falteringly. "I jest want to own up that I always loved God—lots o’
folks didn’t think so—an’ He always loved me, an’ picked the path for
me. An’ He made everythin’ to happen as it did; an’ I believe I’m
thankfuller for the things I didn’t want to happen than for the ones I
did—He seen the best, ’cause He was higher up. Madeline, sing for me,"
he appealed with failing breath; "sing a children’s hymn—that one about
the river," his eyes gently closing as he lay back upon the pillow.
"He always loved that one," his wife whispered brokenly to Harvey.
"It’s so simple. We can’t, David," as she bended over him, "we can’t
sing now."
"I can, mother," and Madeline’s voice was firm. The others’ eyes were
hidden, but Madeline’s were fixed steadfastly on her father’s as the
crystal notes came low and sweet:
"Soon we’ll reach the silvery river
Soon our pilgrimage shall cease;
Soon our happy hearts shall quiver
With the melody of peace,"
and the dying lips broke in once or twice in a plaintive effort to swell
the triumph strain.
The singing ceased. But David’s eyes still rested on his daughter.
Then they were turned on Harvey, as he stood beside her; they seemed,
indeed, to rest on both at once. And their meaning could be easily
read. Suddenly he motioned them down beside him; the girl was
trembling, her pale lips quivering slightly, for she had interpreted her
father’s look.
David feebly raised his hands till one touched each bended head.
"You’ll sing that hymn—that river hymn—often, together—won’t you; in
your—own home," drawing the bowed heads closer down—"in your happy
home?" he faltered.
For a moment neither moved nor spoke. Then, in strong and passionate
silence, Harvey slowly lifted his face till his eyes spoke their great
vow to the dying man; and, unashamed, he placed his arm gently,
resolutely, about the maiden’s bended form, holding her close with a
fondness that kindled all his face with light. But Madeline’s was
hidden, her head still bended low.
David’s face was wonderful in its glow of love and gladness. Suddenly
his gaze went out beyond the plighted pair.
"Geordie!" he said, the name breathed out in tenderness as his misty
eyes saw the well-loved form coming slowly through the door.
The aged man came over, leaning heavily on his staff, his face suffused
with a gentleness that flowed from his very heart. He bended low above
his dying friend, dumbly groping for his hand. He still leaned heavily
on his staff, for his outgoing pilgrimage, too, was close at hand. And
the two men looked long without a word; the memories of happy years
passed from soul to soul; in silence their eyes still rested on each
other, but the troth of many years was plighted once again as they stood
at the parting of the ways. And both knew the promise was to all
eternity.
Slowly David drew the strong Scottish face down beside his own. Then he
said something in a tone so low that no other ear could hear; Geordie’s
answer was in a trembling whisper—but both spoke a language not of time.
"Lift me up, Geordie—Harvey, lift me up," David’s feeble voice broke out
a moment later. "I want to look once more," his eyes turning to the
window. The sun had set, and the gilded west was bathed in glory as
they tenderly lifted the wasted form, the weary head resting on the
bosom of his child.
David’s eyes, wondrously lightened now, rested long on the crimson
pathway. "It’s a lovely road to go!" he murmured, gazing at the lane of
light. "I’m glad I’m not goin’ in the dark—things looks so strange in
the dark. An’ I’m glad..."
It was Geordie Nickle who bended low, as though he were love’s best
interpreter, passionately listening for the ebbing words. The receding
tide flowed back in a moment, and David’s voice came clearer: "An’ I’m
glad it’s the evenin’—things looks clearest in the evenin’ or the
mornin’—it’s the long afternoon that’s dark."
Geordie was almost on his knees beside him, the strong Scottish face
wrung with its depth of feeling. "Oh, David," he cried with the
eagerness of a child, "ye’ll sune be hame. An’ we’re all comin’—we’ll
no’ be lang. An’ oor Faither’s hoose has mony mansions—if it were na’
so..." but the choking voice refused.
"He’d have—let us know," the dying man added gently, completing the
mighty promise. "It’s gettin’ dark," he whispered suddenly, looking up
into Madeline’s eyes; "it’s time for Him to come—I don’t know the way."
In a moment his whole expression had undergone a change, such a change
as comes to darkening hill-tops when the morning sun loves them into
life. Light covered his face as with a flood. The weary eyes opened
wide, the eager hands outstretched. "It’s all bright now," he
faltered—"an’ He’s comin’—He’s comin’, like He said. I knew—He’d—come."
They were bending low about him; his weeping wife breathed a long
farewell. But Madeline saw the last movement of the dying lips, and the
yearning eyes seemed to bid her listen. Her face was veiled with
reverent love as she stooped to catch the parting breath; it came, and
her face became transfigured as by the light of God.
"I’m jest home," she heard him murmur; "I’m jest home."
Gently they let the dear form sink back to its long, long rest. Geordie
softly closed the eyes, never to give their light again. Then the aged
man, his frame shaken with the sobs he could not repress, bent down and
kissed the furrowed brow.
"His battle’s past," he said, the words struggling out like driftwood
through the surge, "an’ he was a guid soldier."
And the conqueror lay in noble stillness, the glory of the departed day
abiding on his face.
*XXXVIII*
_*THE FLEEING SHADOWS*_
It was long after midnight, and Harvey’s night’s work was almost done.
He was the last one left in the office, and, as far as his duties were
concerned, everything was almost ready for the waiting press. He had
just snapped his watch with an exclamation of surprise at the lateness
of the hour as he hurriedly turned to conclude his writing, when he
fancied he heard a noise on the step outside his office door.
He thought nothing of it; and the pen flowed faster than before. But
only a couple of minutes more had passed when a similar sound fell upon
his ear. And it disturbed him strangely. Perhaps he was nervous, for
the strain of the night’s work had been severe enough—and he was alone.
The sound, to his ears at least, had something unusual and ominous about
it—yet he knew not why.
He turned again to complete his work, his glance searching the room a
moment before he did so. But the disturbance had come from without—the
room was just as his associates had left it. He tried to concentrate
his attention; yet a strange feeling possessed him—he felt in a vague,
restless way, as though he were being watched. His office at the very
top of the building was almost lonely in its separation; from the
half-open windows the sleeping city might be seen, wrapped in the
trailing garments of the dark. His mind seemed strangely sensitive,
a-quiver almost, as if some influence were borne in upon him from the
haunted chambers of the night.
Suddenly, impelled by some mysterious impulse, he flung his pen upon the
table and turned his gaze over his shoulder with a swift motion, fixing
his eyes on the large pane of glass that formed the upper portion of the
door.
Involuntarily he uttered a startled cry—for he could see, two or three
inches from the pane, a human face. And the eyes were wide, and
fastened upon him with almost fierce intensity. The bearded face was
pallid and haggard—but the eyes were the outstanding features, gleaming
with a nameless significance that spoke of a soul stirred with passion.
They never flinched—even as Harvey sprang from his chair they did not
turn away. Nothing could be seen but the face—and the impact of the
unmoving eyes was terrific.
Harvey stood a moment, trembling. The face never moved. Then he strode
swiftly to the door and flung it wide.
"What’s the meaning of this, sir?" he demanded sternly. "What’s your
business here?"
The man’s eyes moved only enough to wander slowly about his face. He
waited till Harvey’s lips were framing other words, his hand now on the
door as if to slam it shut. Then he walked slowly in, his face still
turned upon the other’s. He shut the door himself.
"I want you to look at something," said the man, and the voice was deep
and passionate.
He was clad in the meanest garments; poor repairs were on them here and
there. The signs of poverty were everywhere about him, and his whole
appearance was that of one who had suffered much amid the billows of
misfortune. He seemed to be struggling hard to resummon something he
had lost—the quivering lips and the despairing eyes told that he had
been beaten in the fight, yet not without stern resistance, nor yet left
without flickerings of the old-time fire. His spirit seemed broken, yet
not utterly destroyed.
"What are you doing here? What’s your business?" Harvey demanded; the
man was fumbling in the pocket of his coat.
"I’m a printer," he answered, "and one of your foremen gave me work
to-day. I only began to-night—and I came upstairs to see you. _I knew
you were here._"
Something in the way he uttered these last words clutched at Harvey’s
heart. "I knew you were here," the man repeated, nodding his head
slowly, his eyes again on Harvey. And they seemed to melt with a
strange wild longing, following him with a kind of defiant wistfulness.
Somehow, like a faint and fleeting dream, Jessie’s face—or an expression
Harvey had often seen upon it—passed like a wraith between him and the
bearded man.
"Who are you?" he said huskily.
The man’s eyes rested a moment on the floor—and he was trembling where
he stood. Slowly he raised them till they rested on Harvey’s pallid
face. Then they looked long and silently at each other, the dread and
voiceless dialogue waging—that awesome interchange of soul with soul
that makes men tremble, when eyes speak to answering eyes as lightning
calls from peak to peak.
"I’m your father," the low voice said at last, the deep eyes leaping
towards him in a strange mastery of strength and passion.
Harvey gave a cry and started back. The man followed him, straightening
as he came, the hungering face out-held a little, pursuing still. The
younger man retreated farther, gasping; and his eyes, like something
suddenly released, raced about the unkempt form, surveying boots and
clothes and beard and brow in an abandonment of candour.
"No, no," he murmured as he kept creeping back, the man following still;
"no, no, it cannot be."
The stranger’s hand was outstretched now. Something whitish was in
it—and something black. "Look," he said, his lips parting in a weird,
unearthly smile, "look, and deny it if you can; it’s a photograph—and a
letter."
Harvey stood still; then took them from the outstretched hand. The gas
jet was just above. He read the letter first—it was his mother’s
handiwork. And the letter breathed of love, and hope, and of impatient
joy at their approaching wedding-day.
Then he held the sharp-edged tin-type up before him. And then he knew.
For his eye fell first on his mother’s face, sweet with the new-born joy
of motherhood. And a laughing babe was in her arms—and the man beside
her, one hand resting on her shoulder, was the man whose panting breath
he heard, whose burning eyes were fixed upon him now.
"That’s you," the man said hoarsely; "and that’s your mother—baby wasn’t
born. And I hadn’t ever drunk a drop then," he added, a bleating cry
mingling with the words.
Harvey stood long, looking down. Once the stranger put out his hand—but
he drew back with the picture, gazing still. The tide of battle rose
and fell within him. Then his hand shook like an aspen, his whole frame
trembled, his sight grew blurred and dim. Yet through the gust of tears
he looked again upon the haggard face—and again, more clearly than
before, something of Jessie’s swam before him. A moment later, and his
soul, surging like the ocean in a storm, went out in primal passion to
the quivering man; swiftly, overmasteringly, as if forevermore, he took
him in his arms.
* * * * * *
"If you’ll help me, my son—if you’ll help me, I’ll try again." The
flickering gas jet still gave its light above them and the silent stars
still watched the sleeping city. And the son still held his father in
the clasp of a long-slumbering, new-awakened love.
"We’ll fight it out together—and we’ll win," the lips of youth replied.
"I know all about it, father—and I’ll help all I can. I promised
mother—I promised to bring you, father. Mother’s waiting; and I said
we’d come together—and Jessie, too."
"Will Jessie love me?" the broken voice enquired, the tone plaintive
with mingled love and fear.
"She’s always loved you, father," and the son’s voice was thrilling with
compassion. "We’re both your children," and it was pitiful to see the
strong lips struggling; "we’re your children—and we promised mother."
Thus the gentle stream flowed on. And as they talked a new peace flowed
into the haunted eyes; and the blessed tidings of those he loved—of her
whose sweet face was even now upon its pillow, and of the one who dwelt
with God—came with balm and healing to his soul.
"I’ll try, Harvey," he said again—"and I’ll trust your mother’s God."
As Harvey guided him out into the night the quiet stars above him seemed
to be the very sentinels of heaven. And he marvelled that this wondrous
charge had come to him at last—over all the waste of years; and that the
secret plan of the Unseen, its deep design unchanging, had entrusted to
his hand the fulfillment of his mother’s prayers.
It was night again; but beautiful. And if any of the Glenallen
slumberers, a moment waking, heard upon the pavement the tread of two
silent men, they knew not how holy was the mission that impelled these
pilgrims of the night. They paused but once, these two; before a
weather-beaten little house, empty now, its grimy shop-window staring
out into the dark. But the older man seemed as if he could not look
enough; like cathedral to reverent saint this squalid building was to
him. Once the younger man pointed to an upper window—no light gleamed
from it now—but the other’s eyes, even when they had left it far behind,
turned to caress it with lingering tenderness.
They passed together through the gate that guarded the little city of
the dead. The moon was hidden; and no word passed between them as they
made their way to the holy of holies where lay their precious dead. But
Harvey’s hand went out to his father’s; and thus they went on together,
hand in hand through the darkness, as children go beneath life’s morning
sun.
They stopped beside two grassy graves. Nearest to them, at their dewy
feet, lay the larger mound; the baby’s nestled close beside it. The
older man’s head, uncovered, was bowed in reverence; even in the dark
Harvey could see the stamp of eternity upon his face. The son’s love,
unspeaking, went out in silent passion to his father; so near he seemed,
so dear, so much his own in that holy hour. Yet the broken heart beside
him carried a load of anguish of which the son knew nothing; it was torn
by a tragedy and rended by a memory no other heart could share—and the
weary eyes looked covetously at the quiet resting-place beside the
waiting dead.
His tears fell—on the baby’s grave. He leaned over, as if he saw—first
above the one, turning again to the other—and God was busy meantime with
the wound, the long bleeding, unstaunched wound.
Harvey touched him on the shoulder. He looked a moment into his son’s
face, almost as if surprised to see him there. Then his eyes turned
again to the lowly mounds, and he sank on his knees between them.
Reverently, the yearning of the years finding now a voice, he stooped
low till his lips touched the sod above the mother’s face. Then his own
was upturned to the distant sky, the lips moving.
Harvey knew the broken vow was for God alone. He turned away. The moon
stole gently forth from the passing cloud; and, as he turned, his eye
fell on the new-illumined verse graven on the simple stone:
"UNTIL THE DAY BREAK AND THE SHADOWS
FLEE AWAY"