"Turn down the page--mark the place," he said, handing me the volume.
"I'm afeared I'd soon be driftin' again if we lost it."
"I'll mark some other passages too," I suggested, "some almost equally
beautiful."
"That there one's enough," he said, sinking back faintly on his pillow.
I sang him a hymn, the one that dying men should always hear; and then
I had a little prayer with him. His hands were folded and his eyes
were closed. When I rose from my knees he whispered something that I
shall treasure while memory lasts. But it needed only a glance to see
that the end was near. I opened the door to call his wife and child
back to him.
"Did you get him in, sir--did you get my father in?" were the first
words that greeted me as little Tim's eyes leaped to mine.
"Yes, my boy--yes, please God, your father will get in," though I could
hardly speak for the tears that choked me, so full of elemental power
was the pleading of the child.
"Come, Nancy," and the old tar's voice was very tender; "come close up
beside me. My foot ain't hurtin', Nancy--an' my heart ain't
hurtin'--nothin's hurtin' any more. I've cast anchor."
"What d'ye say, Gus?" his wife asked in a wondering voice.
"I've cast anchor--where the preacher read. You'll leave the book,
sir?" his voice swelling for a moment--"an' you're sure ye marked the
place?"
"Yes," I said, "I'll leave it--and it's marked."
"Call me mate," the strange impulse prompting him again.
"I marked it, mate--and I turned down the page."
"Then sing me that again--that bit about the gale."
"What gale, mate?"
"That gale--the gale of life--that's how it went before."
I knew now what he meant. Nancy's face was in her hands and little
Tim's eyes were fixed lovingly on me as I began. When I came to the
lines:
"Hide me, oh my Saviour hide
Till the storm of life is past"
the dying man suddenly interrupted: "That'll do," he said, his voice
barely audible, "that's the bit--that's enough--that, an' the place ye
marked."
We were soon all standing by his bed. The struggle was quickly over.
Suddenly his face assumed an expression of peace so deep that I thought
the harbour had been really won. But his eyes opened wide and both
hands went feebly out; Nancy took one in hers, the other clasped by
little Tim.
"The anchor holds," he murmured; "Nancy, the anchor holds."
A moment later his wife turned from the bed, her apron to her face,
groping her way with bitter outcry towards the adjoining room. Tim
followed; and through the open door I could hear the boy's shaking
voice:
"Don't cry, mammy; oh, mammy, don't cry so hard. Dad got in,
mother--the preacher got him in."
* * * * *
I sat up till Gordon got home that night, for I had much to discuss
with him. The precious document, with its wizard tidings of mining
shares, was still before me as he entered; and I broke out with some
word about what Mr. Bradwin had said. But when I looked up and saw the
far-off look of peace on Gordon's face, I knew it was sprung from some
other source than this.
"You seem so happy, Gordon," I said; "what makes it?"
He told me; but when he spoke about that last scene--he has called it
the anchor scene ever since--his voice faltered so he could hardly go
on.
"We'll put these away to-night," I said, picking up the papers. "But
what do you intend to do with--with the money, Gordon?"
"I hadn't thought of it," he answered calmly. Then, after a pause;
"but I think we'll enlarge the chapel. It needs it, you know--and this
seems like a glorious chance to do it."
I wonder if my face showed my dissent. At any rate, I took the mighty
charter and restored it to the desk. "There's one thing we'll do
first, Gordon," I said in a voice that implied finality, "and you won't
dispute it, either."
"What is it, Helen?" his words full of wonder.
"We'll pay that--that debt of Harold's," I said, my face averted as I
leaned over the desk.
He was silent for long. "Yes, Helen," he answered quietly at length;
"yes, we'll do that first--that's as holy as the other. Oh, Harold, my
son, my son--I wonder where Harold is to-night," the words ringing with
a nameless pain.