IN HONOUR'S WAYS
O memories that bless and burn,
O barren gain and bitter loss,
I kiss each bead and try at last to learn
To kiss the cross.
_----My Rosary._
ARTHUR went to Brandon that night, presumably on business relating to
his house-furnishing. Not even Martha knew the nature of his visit to
the Wheat City. It was late in the evening when he arrived, so late
that he was unable to make any inquiries, but was forced to spend the
night in uncertainty, with only his own gloomy thoughts for company.
The varied night sounds of the city smote on his unaccustomed ear.
The long hall of the hotel echoed the passing of many feet; doors
slammed at intervals, and once a raucous voice called loudly for
"Towels for '53'"; from the room next his came the sound of talking
and laughter; farther down the hall a young baby cried dismally.
Through the babel of voices came the regular pink-pank of a banjo in
the parlour below. Outside, the wind raged against the frosted
windows, train-bells rang and whistles blew all night long, and the
pounding of horses' feet on the pavement never ceased--there seemed
to be one long procession of heavy drays passing down the street.
In the quiet of his own house on Plover Creek Arthur had almost
forgotten the outside world that never sleeps--the rushing, careless,
inexorable world, that cannot be stayed or entreated. He had lived
his life in the country, and he loved its silent places, the kindly
silences of the country nights that lie so soothingly on the heart
and brain. To-night, the roar of the Brandon street was full of evil
significance, for this man, this interloper, whom his soul hated so
bitterly, was part of the great uncaring throng that surged past;
this rushing, jostling, aggressive life was what he stood for, this
man who had stolen from him his heart's dearest treasure.
All night long Arthur lay staring into the darkness, trying to, fight
out the greatest battle of his life; on one side Thursa and the
memory of her kisses on his cheek, and on the other side honour and
honesty, and all the traditions of his house; sometimes telling
himself sternly that there was but one course open to him, and then,
suddenly overcome by his love for her, crying out bitterly that he
would never, never give her up. The pitch-black night seemed
interminable to him, but dawn came at last, deep blue behind the
frost-ferns on the window, slowly fading to pale azure, then suddenly
changing to rosiest pink as the sun rolled up over the sandhills of
the Assiniboine and sent his cheerful rays over an untroubled white
world.
At half-past eight Arthur was walking the street. No one would
imagine, to look at the quietly dressed young Englishman, that he was
going through a severe mental struggle. Without any difficulty he
found the store for which he was looking. The words on the sign, "J.
C. Smeaton & Co., Dry Goods," in black and gold, seemed charged with
open hostility.
A group of women stood in front of the door waiting for it to be
opened. They were looking longingly at the window display of lace
blouses, which were going to be sold, according to a staring sign,
at half the regular price. They were the typical bargain-hunters,
sharp-eyed and distrustful, and not particularly amiable. Early
rising on a cold winter morning is at the best no aid to amiability,
even if by the effort a ten-dollar blouse is bought for five.
The waiting group were discussing sales in general, and one woman was
disposed to think that all sales were snares and delusions--she lived
on Eighteenth Street, and had had to get up very early. Another woman
exonerated herself from complicity in the matter of sales by saying
that her sister-in-law had telephoned her to come down and get her a
waist; she would never have come for herself, never! There was only
one real optimist in the crowd--of course, optimism does not usually
flourish before breakfast. She declared that Smeaton's sales were all
right. If Smeaton advertised a sale it was a sale. People could say
what they liked about Jack Smeaton, but she had always found him
straight as a string.
Arthur hurried away--the woman's crude words of praise for the man he
hated struck him like a blow between the eyes.
Arthur went first to a Church of England clergyman whom he knew
slightly, and made inquiries. The clergyman was unable to give any
information about the young man. He knew him well by sight, he said,
but he had never spoken to him. He directed Arthur to go to one of
the wardens of his church, a Mr. Bevan, who was one of the old-timers
in Brandon and knew everybody.
To Mr. Bevan's office Arthur went, and waited there an hour, for the
senior member of the firm of Bevan & Wallace, real estate brokers,
did not begin the day very early. However, he did come at last, and
looked sharply at Arthur's eager face as he made known his business.
"Smeaton?" Mr. Bevan cried, when Arthur was through speaking. "What
do I know about young Jack Smeaton? What do you know about him? If
you can tell me anything that he has been up to that is very bad,
I'll be glad to hear it, the cheeky young beggar. Think of it! Last
fall he went out making political speeches--I heard him! He's a rabid
Grit, too, will stop at nothing to get a vote. Oh, yes, I know Jack
Smeaton."
"Would you call him a man of honour?" Arthur asked.
"Man of honour?" the old man cried excitedly. "Bless your heart, what
have I just told you? Didn't I say he was a Grit? Why don't you
listen, man, to what I am telling you?" His voice fell to a
confidential whisper. "Young Jack Smeaton is one of the strongest
Grits in this city, and he has a very great influence on the young
men, for they like him, mind you. Oh, he is a bad one, a deep one,
and don't you forget it."
"Would you consider him a man worthy of trust?" Arthur said eagerly,
trying to pierce through the old man's political prejudice.
"Trust!" the other man repeated, scorn, wonder, contempt in
his voice. "Young man, where were you at the time of the last
election? You talk like a man from Mars. Didn't you hear about the
ballot-stuffing that went on here? How do you suppose the Grits
carried this constituency? No, sir; I would not trust him, or any
of them."
Arthur rose to go.
"My advice to you, young man, is to have no dealings with Jack
Smeaton. He's pretty nearly sure to influence you, for, mind you, he
has a way with him."
Arthur walked back to his room at the hotel with many conflicting
emotions struggling in his heart. Jack Smeaton was evidently a man of
strong character, and a flirtation such as he had carried on with
Thursa would mean nothing to him--he had probably forgotten it by
this time. Couldn't he honestly go back and tell Thursa that one of
the church-wardens, to whom the clergyman had sent him for
information, had told him emphatically to have nothing to do with
Jack Smeaton? Thursa would ask to know nothing further. She had said,
with that sweet look in her face, that if he came back and told her
to forget this fellow she would marry him and do her best. Arthur
recalled every tone of her dear voice, the touch of her soft little
hands, as she drew his face down to hers when she said this. Thursa
was his own. She had come from England as his affianced wife. What
right had this adventurer to steal her away from him? Arthur clenched
his fists and raged at the man who had done him this injury. He would
go back to Thursa in the morning, and they would be happy yet. This
man's name would never be mentioned again.
Arthur was not nearly so happy in this resolve as he expected to be.
There was a distinct uneasiness in his heart that increased as the
day went on. At five o'clock he stood outside the Smeaton store, to
which he seemed drawn by a strange fascination. The man who was so
largely in his thoughts was, no doubt, only a few feet away from him,
happy, careless, prosperous, arrogant, having his own way by hook or
crook. The clock struck the half-hour. The store would be closed six.
Arthur started back to the hotel. What did he care when the store
closed? It was nothing to him. At the corner of Rosser and Eighth
Street some Salvation Army people were holding a meeting, and as he
passed through the crowd the tinkle of their cymbals in a familiar
tune came to his ear. Then a dozen voices, clear and distinct, broke
into singing:
If some poor wandering child of Thine,
Has spurned to-day the voice divine,
Now, Lord, the gracious work begin,
Let him no more lie down in sin.
It brought him back to the old life at home, this dear old hymn of
his childhood, with its old-fashioned, monotonous tune, and it
awakened in his consciousness the voices he was trying hard to
silence. A light shone in upon him and showed him a straight path, a
hard road, set with thorns, which he must follow. The colour suddenly
went from Arthur's face as he realized which way the path of honour
led.
Abide with me from morn till eve,
For without Thee I cannot live.
sang the Army, while Arthur, pale and trembling on the outer edge of
the crowd, leaned against a lamppost for support. He did not hear the
words they were singing, but the old tune beat into heart and brain
the memories of his home and childhood. He saw his father's saintly
face, proud and strong, unstained by any compromise with evil, and it
called to him across the sea to play the man.
The Army had sung the hymn all through, and now they were kneeling in
prayer; a thin-voiced girl led the petitions, while the others,
frequently interjected exclamations of thanksgiving. Arthur did not
hear a word of it, but into his troubled heart there came peace and
the strength of God, which alone is able to make a man swear to his
own hurt.
He walked rapidly back to the store he had left and asked to see Mr.
Smeaton. Mr. Smeaton had his hat and coat on, about to leave the
store, but he came back, and, taking Arthur into his office, offered
him a chair.
Arthur remained standing, and, without speaking, gave the young man a
searching glance. What he saw was a muscular young fellow, of about
his own age, with clear gray eyes and curling brown hair. He was
faultlessly dressed, and had an unmistakably straightforward
expression and countenance.
"What can I do for you?" the young merchant asked.
Without a word Arthur took from his pocket Thursa's telegram. His
hand trembled, and he had a queer, dizzy feeling as he did it, but he
put it safely in the other man's hand.
Away across the sea, in the Rectory of St. Agnes, a gray-haired
father and mother were praying for their boy so far away, and their
prayer for him that day was not that he might have wealth, or ease,
or fame, or the praise of men, nor that he might always gain his
heart's desire--not that at all; they asked for him a greater gift
still--that he might always walk in honour's ways.
Jack Smeaton's face was illumined with joy as he read Thursa's
telegram.
"Did she send me this? Where is she? I want to see her--who are you?"
he asked, all in one breath.
Something in Arthur's face told him who he was. "You are Arthur," he
said gently.
Arthur nodded.
The two young men stood looking at each other, but for a full minute
neither spoke.
"I have only one question to ask you, Mr. Smeaton," Arthur said at
last. "Do you love her?"
"I do," the other man replied, "as God hears me." And Arthur, looking
into his clear gray eyes, believed him, and his last hope vanished.
"I feel like a miserable sneak in your presence," Jack Smeaton said
humbly. "Upon my word, that enchanting little beauty turned my brain.
Isn't she the most bewitching little girl in all the world?"
"I have always thought so," Arthur said quietly. "I have behaved
badly to you, Mr.----"
"Wemyss," Arthur said.
"Mr. Wemyss, and I humbly apologize."
"It is not necessary," Arthur said, with an effort. "Her happiness is
the only thing to be considered. She was only a child when she gave
me her promise, only seventeen, and I can see now that she would not
be happy with me."
"Come with me now, Mr. Wemyss. I want you to meet my people. They
will be glad to have you stay for dinner."
"Thank you," Arthur said, trying hard to speak naturally. "I would
rather not."
"I shall go back with you to-morrow, if I may," Mr. Smeaton said. "I
cannot just say to you all that is in my heart, but you have taught
me a lesson on what it is to be a gentleman."
He held out his hand, which Arthur took without hesitation, and they
parted.
That night as Jack Smeaton was selecting a pearl necklace for Thursa,
along with all sorts of other beautiful gifts, he was pondering
deeply one thought--that perhaps, after all, successive generations
of gentle breeding do count for something in the make-up of a man,
and having a bishop in the family may help a little, too.