XXIVTHE VICTOR'S SPOILS"Of course you ought to go. I've got a kind of feeling, though I don't know why, that the whole party will be spoiled if you're not there.""Spoiled! Spoiled for whom?""Oh, for somebody—I guess you know all right."It was Miss Farringall who was pressing her advice so vigorously; Harvey the beneficiary. They were seated in the little room in which they had first met, everything in the same perfect order, the fire still singing its song of unconquerable cheer, the antique desk in the corner still guarding its hidden secrets. The domestic Grey, the added dignity of years upon him, had come to regard the one-time intruder with almost the same affection that he lavished on his mistress in his own devoted, purring way. He was slumbering now on Harvey's knee, and, could he have interpreted the significance of human glances, he might have seen the fondness with which the woman's eyes were often turned upon the manly face beside her."If I thought Miss Borland really wanted me to come," mused Harvey."Maybe Miss Borland doesn't care very much," his friend retorted quickly, "but I'm sure Madeline wants you," her eyebrows lifted reproachfully as she spoke.Harvey smiled in return. "Of course, it would give me a chance to see mother," he said reflectively; "and Jessie says she's very poorly. Perhaps I really ought to go—Jessie's quite anxious about her.""I think both reasons are good ones," Miss Farringall said after a little silence. "Do you know, Harvey," she went on, a shade almost of sadness coming over her face, "I feel more and more that there's only one thing in life worth gaining—and one should never trifle with it. If you lose that, you lose everything—no matter how much else you may have of money, or luxury—even of friends," she said decisively; "even of friends—if you miss that other."Harvey, slightly at a loss, fumbled about for something to say. "You have everything that money can provide, Miss Farringall—and that's a good deal," he added, magnifying the lonely asset as best he could."Yes, perhaps I have—and maybe it is," she said as if to herself. Then neither spoke for a long interval. But finally Miss Farringall turned towards Harvey with a peculiar expression, as if she had just come to a decision after much inward debate."Would you like to hear something I've never told any one else?" she said impressively—"not even to the rector. He has a second wife," she explained, smiling, "and they're always dangerous.""If you wish to trust me with it," was Harvey's answer."Well, I will—and you'll tell me whether I did right or not. It's not a long story, and I'll tell it as directly as I can. It's about a man—a gentleman," she corrected. "No, I never loved him—doesn't this language sound strange from me?" as she noticed the surprise on Harvey's face. "But it was—it was different with him. He was a married man, too. And his wife was very rich—richer than he was. And she hated him—they lived in the same house, but that was all; a proud, selfish woman; so selfish, she was."Miss Farringall rose and moved to the window, gazing long on the leafy scene about her. The silence was broken suddenly by the butler's voice, his approach as noiseless as ever."Please, Miss Farringall, the rector's here—he's in the hall. And he wants to know——""Tell him he can't," Miss Farringall said softly, without turning her eyes from the window."Yes, mum," as the impassive countenance vanished.Harvey did not speak, did not even look towards the silent figure at the window. He knew, and waited. Presently the woman turned and silently resumed her chair."It was different with him, as I said," she slowly began again—"not that I ever encouraged him; it terrified me when I found it out. Well, one day when we were alone together, he—he forgot himself," a slight tremor of the gentle form and a deep flush upon the cheek betokening the vividness of the memory. "And I fled from him—and I vowed we should never meet again," the sad face lighting up with the echo of a far-off purpose. "And I kept the vow for years," she went on, gazing into the fire—for there it is that the dead years, embalmed of mystic forces, may be seen by sorrow-brightened eyes.Harvey waited again, silent still. And once again the strange narrative was resumed. "But I broke it at last," she said. "He was dying—a slow, painful disease. And he had everything money could give him; he had everything that anybody wants—except that one thing. His wife went on in her old, idle, fashionable way, caring nothing, of course. Well, one day he sent for me—it was his wife who brought the message; she knew nothing of what had happened, of course, and she told me of his request and asked me if I wouldn't come and sit with him sometimes. And I went—I went often—used to read to him; many different books at first, mostly poetry—but as it came nearer the end it was hardly ever anything but the Bible.... The end came at last. And just the day before he died he said to me: 'It'll be to-morrow—to-morrow about this time.' Then he took a big envelope from under his pillow, and he said: 'This'll be good-bye; God bless you for what you've been to a dying man. And I want you to do this. I want you to come to my grave a year from the night of the day I'm buried—and open this envelope there—but not for a year.' And we said good-bye. Well, I couldn't refuse the request of a dying man—I did as he asked me. But I waited a year and four days, Harvey," and Miss Farringall's voice was quite triumphant; "I waited that long because I knew no man would believe a woman could do it.... And that's how I'm situated as I am, Harvey. I don't think anybody ever knew—I guess nobody cared; principally stocks, simply transferred. Do you think I did right, Harvey?" she asked after a pause."Yes," said Harvey quickly, unable to take his eyes from her face."Not that the envelope ever did me very much good," she went on. "I often think how much happier I'd have been if I'd been poor—and had had that other. But it wasn't to be. And all this never made me happy—there was only one could have done that; and he went out of my life long ago—long ago now," she said, her gaze scanning his face in wistful scrutiny, her heart busy with the photograph entombed in the silent desk before her."So I think you certainly ought to go, as I said," she resumed, quietly reverting to the original topic. "I know the signs," she added in plaintive playfulness—"even if they do call me an old maid; I shouldn't wonder if they know the signs best of all. But this is all nonsense," straightening herself resolutely in her chair, "and has nothing to do with what we're talking about. When is the party, Harvey?""It's Friday night week—the very day after I graduate. And they leave the old home the next day—I told you all about Mr. Borland's failure. It seems they've been prepared to leave for some months—and now it's actually come. Mr. Borland gave up everything to his creditors, I believe. And this is a notion of his own—just like him, too—that they'll celebrate the last night in their old home this way; he's going to have Madeline's coming-out party for a finish. Quite an original idea, isn't it?""Will that young fellow from your town be there?—Mr. Craig, you know?" asked Miss Farringall, without answering his question. She did not look at Harvey as she asked her own."Oh, yes," Harvey answered, "he'll be there, of course—he's very attentive." Harvey's eyes were also turned away."Who's he attentive to?""Why, to Miss Borland—to Madeline, of course. He's been that for a long time.""Are you sure?""Yes. At least, I suppose so. Why?" Harvey asked wonderingly."Oh, nothing much—only I heard his affections were divided; another Glenallen girl, I heard.""What was the name?" asked Harvey, interestedly."I did hear, I think—it doesn't matter. Please don't ask me any more—really, I'm ashamed of myself, I'm getting to be such a silly old gossip. Tell me, are you going to get the medal when you graduate?"The look on the face before her showed that the conversation had turned his thoughts towards something more absorbing than college premiums, covetable though they be; he too was coming to realize that life has only one great prize, and but one deep source of springing joy."I have my doubts about the medal," Harvey answered after a pause; "I'm afraid of Echlin—but I'll give him a race for it. I think I'm sure of my degree, all right. That's another reason inclines me to go home next week," he added cheerfully; "I want to give my sheepskin to my mother; it's more hers and Jessie's than it is mine—and I want them to see my hood, too, when I get one; and the medal," his face brightening, "if I should have the luck to win it. But there's another thing that troubles me a little," he added with a dolorous smile, "and that is that I haven't got anything to wear, as the ladies say. I haven't a dress suit, you know—and I'm afraid anything else'll be a little conspicuous there."Miss Farringall smiled the sweetest, saddest smile, as she turned her face to Harvey's. "Oh, child," she said, "you're very young; and you're certainly very unfamiliar with the woman-heart. A girl doesn't care a fig for dress suits—I think they rather admire men who dress originally," she went on assuringly; "I know I did, then. And besides, it's all to your credit that you haven't one—I think that's one of the fine things about you, that you haven't got so many things you might have had, if you'd been a little more selfish," she said, almost fondly."Talk about not being selfish," Harvey broke in ardently; "I'm a monster of selfishness compared to some others I could name—you ought to see my mother and my sister," he concluded proudly."I hope I may some day," she answered. "But meantime—about what you'll wear. I'd wear the medal if I were you. But tell me first," she went on in a woman's own persistent way, "that you'll accept the invitation. Can't you make up your mind?"Harvey was silent for a moment. "No," came his answer decisively, "I don't think I will. I'm going to decline with thanks—self-denial's good for a fellow sometimes.""Some kinds of self-denial are sinful," said Miss Farringall quietly; "but they bring their own punishment—and it lasts for years." She sighed, and the light upon her face was half of yearning, half of love."Is our Tam hame frae Edinburgh yet?" Such were the last wandering words of an aged brother of the great Carlyle, dying one summer night as the Canadian sun shed its glory for the last time upon his face. Thrice twenty years had flown since, fraternal pride high surging in his heart, he had clung to his mother's skirts while she waited at the bend of the road for the returning Tom. Carrying his shoes, lest they be needlessly worn, was that laddie wont to come from the halls of learning where he had scanned the page of knowledge with a burning heart—carrying his shoes, but with his laurels thick upon him, his advent the golden incident to that humble home in all their uneventful year. And in death's magic hour the thrilling scene was reënacted as the brother heart of the far-wandered one roamed back to the halcyon days of boyhood.The same spirit of pride, the same devotion of love, brooded over the happy circle as Harvey sat this placid evening between his mother and sister in the home that had furnished him so little of luxury, so much of welcome and of love. He was home, and he was theirs. Trembling joy mingled with the mother's voice as now and then she broke in with kindly speech upon the story Harvey found himself telling again and again. The story was of his career in general, and of the last great struggle in particular; how he had shut himself up to his work in a final spasm of devotion, pausing only to eat and sleep till the final trials were over and the victory won. And the great day, his graduation day, was described over and over, both listeners in a transport of excitement while he told, modestly as he might, of the ovation that had greeted him when he was called forward to receive his hard-won honours."And you're a B.A., Harvey, now—a real B.A., aren't you, Harvey?" Jessie cried ecstatically. "It seems almost too good to be true."Harvey merely smiled; but his mother spoke for him. "Of course he is," she answered quietly; "it'll be on all his letters. But the medal, Harvey—oh, my son, I always knew you'd win it," her voice low and triumphant. "I can hardly just believe it; out of all those students—with their parents so rich and everything—that my own son carried it off from them all. And has it your name on it, Harvey?—with the degree on it too?" she enquired eagerly."Of course," said Harvey, "it's in my trunk—and my hood's there too; they're both there, mother. It's a beautiful hood—and I'll show them to you if you'll wait a moment," he exclaimed impulsively, rising as he spoke.But his eyes met Jessie's and a darkness like the darkness of death fell upon them both. Jessie was trembling from head to foot, her hand going up instinctively to her face as if she had been struck. Harvey's pale cheek and quivering lips betrayed the agony that wrung him."Forgive me, mother," his broken voice implored as he flung himself down beside her, his arms encircling her; "forgive me, my mother—I forgot, oh, I forgot," as he stroked the patient face with infinite gentleness, his hands caressing the delicate cheeks again and again."He didn't mean it, mother—he didn't mean it," Jessie cried, drawing near to them; "he just forgot, mother—he just forgot," the words throbbing with love for both.But the mother's voice was untouched by pain. "Don't grieve like that, my darling," she pleaded, pressing Harvey's hands close to her cheek; "I know it was nothing, my son—I know just how it happened. And why will you mourn so for me, my children?" she went on in calm and tender tones, her arms encircling both. "Surely I've given you no reason for this—haven't I often told you how bright it is about me? And something makes me sure it's getting near the light. Don't you remember, dear, how the doctor said it might all come suddenly?—and I feel it's coming, coming fast; I feel sure God's leading me near the light.""Are you, mother?" Harvey asked. The question came simply, earnestly, almost awesomely."Yes, dear; yes, I'm sure.""We always asked for that. Harvey and I have, every day—haven't we, Harvey?" Jessie broke in eagerly.Harvey nodded, his gaze still on his mother's face. For the light that sat upon it in noble calm entranced him. No words could have spoken more plainly of the far-off source that kindled it; and a dim, holy sense of the grandeur of her outlook, the loftiness of her peace, the eternal warrant of her claim, took possession of his soul. The beauty that clothed her was not of time; and no words of tender dissembling could conceal the exultant hope that bespoke how the days of her darkness should be ended.The silence was broken by his mother's voice. "Go and get them, Harvey—bring your medal and your hood. Bring them to your mother, my son," she said, as she released him to do her bidding.He was gone but a moment; returning, he bore in one hand the golden token, his name inwoven with its gleam. The other held his academic hood, its mystic white and purple blending to attest the scholar's station; he had thrown his college gown about him.Mutely standing, he placed the medal in his mother's hands. They shook as they received it, the thin fingers dumbly following its inscription, both hands enclosing it tightly, thrilling to the glad sensation. Then he held the hood out towards her, stammering some poor explanation of its material and its meaning."Put it on, Harvey," she said.He swiftly slipped it about his neck, the flowing folds falling down from his shoulders. Involuntarily he bended before his mother, and the poor white hands went out in loving quest of the dear-bought symbol, tracing its form from end to end, lingering fondly over every fold. She spoke no word—but the trembling fingers still roved about the glowing laurel as her scholar boy stood silent before her, and the hot tears fell thick and fast upon it. For the memory of other days, days of poverty and stress; and the vision of the childish face as she had last beheld it; and the thought of all the hidden struggle, more bitter than he ever knew, that had thus brought back her once unknown child in triumph to his mother's home—back, too, in unchanged devotion and unabated love, to lay his trophies at the feet of her who bore him—all these started the burning tears that trickled so fast from the unseeing eyes and fell in holy stains upon the spotless emblem.Clocks are the very soul of cruelty, relentless most when loving hearts most wish that they would stay their hands. The ebbing moments, inconsiderate of all but duty, tell off the hours of our gladness, even of sacramental gladness, with unpitying faithfulness. And yet, strange as it may seem, how blessed is the law that will not let us know when the last precious moments are on the wing! How often do devoted hearts toy with them carelessly, or waste them in unthinking levity, or drug them with unneeded slumber, or squander them in wanton silence, as though they were to last forever! How the most prodigal would garner them, and the most frivolous employ, if it were only known that these are the last golden sands that glisten their parting message before they glide into the darkness!We may not know. As these two did not; and the last unconscious hour was spent in the company of another. "It's so good of you to come and sit with me, Miss Adair, while the children are at the party," was Mrs. Simmons' welcome to the kindly acquaintance as she entered. "Jessie's going on ahead—she promised to give Madeline some little help, so she had to go earlier. Won't you need to be starting soon, Harvey?""I'm going just in a minute, mother," her son answered. "And you should have seen our Jessie," he digressed, turning to their visitor. "She never looked sweeter in her life. And the dress that she had on, she made it herself, she said—I didn't know Jessie was so accomplished.""Oh, Jessie's made many a—she's made many an admirer, by her dresses," the adroit Miss Adair concluded, noticing a quick movement of Mrs. Simmons in her direction, and suddenly recalling the injunction she had forgotten."I'm so sorry her flowers were withered," Harvey broke in, quite unconscious of what had been averted. "I sent her some from the city—but they were so wilted when they came that I didn't want her to take them.""Wait a minute, Harvey—I'll go with you a step or two," his mother interrupted as her son stooped to bid her good-night. "Please excuse me, Miss Adair; I'll be back in a minute," taking Harvey's arm as he turned towards the door."It was so thoughtful of you to send those flowers to Jessie," she said as they moved slowly along the silent street; "she was quite enraptured when they came.""I sent some to—to Madeline too," Harvey informed her hesitatingly. "You see, I didn't expect, till this morning, to go to the party at all—and I wrote Madeline declining. So she isn't expecting me. Jessie promised not to tell her I had changed my mind; and in my letter I told Madeline I was sending the flowers in my place—but I'm afraid they'll be withered too. What's the matter, mother?" for her whole weight seemed suddenly to come upon his arm."Nothing, dear; nothing much," she said, a little pantingly. "Let us sit here a minute," sinking on an adjoining step. "I've had these off and on lately," she added, trying to smile. "I'm better now—the doctor says it's some little affection of the heart. I guess it's just a rush of happiness," she suggested bravely, smiling as she turned her face full on Harvey's."I'm so happy, my son—so proud and happy. You've done so well; and God has watched over you so wonderfully—and protected you." Then her voice fell almost to a whisper, faltering with the words she wanted to speak, yet shrank from uttering. These spoken, she listened as intently as if for the footfall of approaching death."No, mother," he answered low, "no, never once since—yet I won't say I haven't felt it; I know I have, more than once. If I'm where it is—even if I catch the odour of liquor—the appetite seems to come back. And it frightened me terribly; it was like the baying of hounds," drawing closer as he spoke."That's like what your father used to say," she whispered, quivering."But never once, mother—never a single time, since. I've always remembered that first night you came into my room—and that other time.""And I," she cried eagerly, "haven't I? I've been there many a night since then, when Jessie was asleep—I used to try and imagine it was you, Harvey," she said, turning her face on his in the uncertain light.The gentle colloquy flowed on while the shadows deepened about the whispering pair, the one happy because youth's radiance overshone his path, the other peaceful because a deeper, truer light was gathering in her heart. One cloud, and one alone, impaired the fullness of his joy; and that was, what even his hopeful heart could not deny, that his mother's strength was obviously less than when he had seen her last. But all the devotion of the years seemed gathered up into this gracious hour; the mother, mysteriously impelled, seemed loath to let the interview be at an end, though she knew Harvey must soon be gone."You'd better hurry now, dear," she said when their own door was reached; "no, no, I can go in alone all right—on with you to the party, Harvey; they can't any of them be happier than I am to-night. And tell Madeline, for me, there's only one chick like mine in the world—and whoever gets——"The remainder of the message was lost in laughing protest as the good-byes were said; the mother stole softly in to her patient guest, her son hurrying on to the gathering revelry.XXVWHAT MADE THE BALL SO FINE?Harvey could not forbear to indulge a glance through the flaming windows as he drew near the house. He noted, a little ruefully it must be said, that almost every gentleman guest was attired after the conventional fashion he had predicted; but a moment's reasoning repelled any threatening embarrassment with scorn. Pressing bravely on, he had soon deposited his hat and coat, and after a minute or two of waiting in the dressing-room began his descent of the stairs to mingle with the animated scene.Looking down, one of the first to be descried was David Borland himself, as blithe and cheerful as though he were beginning, rather than concluding, his sojourn in the spacious house. He was chatting earnestly with Dr. Fletcher, interrupting the conversation now and then to greet some new-arriving guest. Near him was his wife, absorbed in the pleasant duty of receiving the steadily increasing throng who were to taste for the last time the hospitality for which that home had long been famous.But all others, and there were many whom Harvey recognized at a glance, were soon forgotten as his eyes rested on one whose face, suddenly appearing, filled all the room with light. For Madeline was making her way into the ample hall, flushed and radiant; her brow, never so serene before, was slightly moistened from the evening's warmth, while the wonderful hair, still bright and sunny, glistened in the softly shaded light. Aglow with excitement, her cheeks seemed to boast a colour he had never seen before, the delicate pink and white blending as on the face of childhood; and the splendid eyes, crowning all, were suffused with feeling. The significance of the hour and the animation of the scene united to create a sort of chastened mirthfulness, brimming with dignity and hope, yet still revealing how seriously she recognized the vicissitude time had brought, how well she knew the import of the change already at the door.Harvey stood still on the landing, gazing down unobserved, his eyes never turning from the face whose beauty seemed to unfold before him as he stood. Yet not mere beauty, either—he did not think of beauty, nor would he have so described what charmed him with a strange thrill he had never owned before—but the rich expression, rather, of an inward life that had deepened and mellowed with the years. Great sense was there, for one thing—and in the last appeal this feature of womanhood is irresistible to a truly manly heart; and her face spoke of love, large and generous, as if the weary and the troubled would ever find in her a friend; cheerfulness, courage, hope, the dignity of purity, the sweetness that marks those who have been cherished but not pampered and indulged but not petted, all combined to provide a loveliness of countenance that fairly ravished his heart as he peered through spreading palms upon the unconscious face beneath.Yet the joy he felt was not unmingled. For he could see, as a moment later he did see, that other eyes were turned with equal ardour in the same direction as his own. Madeline's appearance was a kind of triumphal entry; and there followed her, willing courtiers, two or three of the gallants of the place, whose function it evidently was to bear the glorious groups of flowers that various admirers had sent. Harvey's face darkened a little as he noted that Cecil was among them; though, to tell the truth, his seemed the most careless gaze of all—if admiration marked it, it was hungry admiration and nothing more. But the flowers he was carrying were pure; he had asked leave to carry them—and they themselves could not protest, shrink as they might from the unfitting hand. Others, nobler spirits, had burdens of equal fragrance, all fresh and beautiful as became the object of their homage.Slowly Harvey moved down the stairs. The proprieties were forgotten—all else as well—as he passed Mr. and Mrs. Borland by, the one glancing at him with obvious admiration, the other with impatient questioning. He was standing close in front of Madeline before she knew that he was there at all; suddenly raising her head as she turned from speaking with a friend, the soulful eyes fell full on his. She did her best—but the tides of life are strong and willful, and this one overswept the swift barrier she strove to interpose, as straws are swept before a storm. And the flood outpoured about him, surging as it smote the passion that leaped to meet it, the silent tumult beating like sudden pain on heart and ears and eyes, its mingled agony and rapture engulfing him till everything seemed to swim before him as before a drunken man.What voices silent things possess! And how God speaks through dull inanimate creatures as by the living lips of love! And what tell-tale tongues have the most trivial things to peal out life's holiest messages! For he saw—dimly at first and with a kind of shock, then clearly and with exultant certainty—he saw what was in her hand. It was only a bunch of simple flowers; but they were sorry looking things compared to their rivals whose fragrance filled the air, and the languor of death was upon them—yes, thank God, their bloom was faded, their freshness gone. For he recognized them, he knew them; and in the swift foment of his mind he even saw again the hard commercial face of the man from whom he had bought them, again the hard spared coins he had extracted from the poor total his poverty had left him, his heart the while leaping within him as though it could stand imprisonment no more. Dimly, vaguely, he saw behind her the noble clusters that other hands had sent—but other hands than hers were bearing them—and his were in her own, in the one that was bared in careless beauty as her glove hung indifferent from the wrist, unconscious of all that had displaced it. Careless observers had doubtless noted the dying flowers, marvelled mayhap; they knew not how instinct they were with life, how fadeless against the years their memory was to sweeten and enrich.He stood silent a moment with his hand half-outstretched, his eyes divided between the flowers beneath and the face above. His soul outpoured itself through them in a riot of joy he had neither desire nor power to restrain. Madeline stood like some lovely thing at bay, her eyes aglow, their message half of high reproach and half of passionate welcome."You told me you weren't coming," she said in protesting tones, the words audible to no one but himself; "and I didn't expect you," her lips parted, her breath coming fast and fitfully, as though she were exhausted in the chase. Her radiant face was glorified—she knew it not—by the rich tides of life that leaped and bounded there, disporting themselves in the hour they had awaited long. Yet her whole attitude was marked by a strange aloofness, the wild air of liberty that is assumed by captive things; and her voice was almost controlled again as she repeated her remark."You said you weren't coming;" the words voiced an interrogative."So I did," he acknowledged, his eyes roaming about her face; "but I came," he added absently, a heavenly stupidity possessing him."How's your mother?" she asked, struggling back."She's not at all well," he answered, the tone full of real meaning; for this was a realm as sacred to him as the other.She was trying to replace her glove, the latter stubbornly resisting."Please button this for me," as she held out her arm. He tried eagerly enough; but his hand trembled like an aspen. Her own was equally unsteady, and progress was divinely slow. He paused, looking helplessly up into her face; her hand fell by her side. Before either knew that he was near, Cecil's voice broke in: "Allow me, Madeline," he said; "I'm an old hand at operations like this—I'll do it for you, Madeline," as though he gloried in the name, and almost before she knew it he had seized her arm, swiftly accomplishing his purpose.Madeline was regal now, her very pose marked by unconscious pride. "Thank you," she said, still sweetly, "but I don't believe I want it fastened now—it's quite warm here, isn't it?" and with a quick gesture she slipped it from her hand, moving forward towards her father. Harvey stood still where he was; but the new heaven and the new earth had come.The evening wore on; nor could any gathering have been enriched with more of feeling than pervaded the triumphant hours. All seemed to forget the occasion that had convened them, remembering nothing but the valued friends who were still to be their own, even if outward circumstances were about to undergo the change so defiantly acknowledged. The crowning feature came when the simple supper was finished and the table partially cleared; for they who would remember David Borland at his best must think of him as he appeared when he called the guests to order and bade them fill their glasses high."Take your choice of lemonade or ginger ale," he cried with a voice like a heightening breeze; and they who knew him well silently predicted the best of David's soul for the assembled guests that night. "There ain't nothin' stronger," he went on with serious mien; "drinks is always soft when times is hard—but drink hearty, friends, an' give the old house a good name."Possibly there was the slightest symptom of a tremor in his voice as it referred thus to what he held so dear, now about to be surrendered; but a moment later the old indomitable light was kindled in his eye, the strong face beaming with the unquenched humour that had been such a fountain in his own life and the lives of others. Something of new dignity was noticeable in his entire bearing, the bearing of a man who, if beaten, had been beaten in honourable battle, resolved still to retain all that was dearest to his heart; this explained the look of pride with which he marked, as he could hardly fail to mark, the affection and respect with which every eye regarded him as he stood before his friends.The toast to the King, and one other, had been disposed of, David proceeding merrily to launch another, when suddenly he was interrupted by Geordie Nickle, who rose from his place at the further end of the table."Sit doon, David," he enjoined, nodding vehemently towards his friend, "an' gie an auld man a chance. Ladies an' gentlemen," he went on, directing his remarks to the company, "I'll ask ye to fill yir glasses wi' guid cauld water for to drink the toast I'll gie ye—naethin'll fit the man I'm gaein' to mention as weel as that; there's nae mixture aboot him, as ye ken. I'm wantin' all o' ye to drink a cup o' kindness to the man we love mair when he's puir nor we ever did afore. Here's to yin o' th' Almichty's masterpieces, David Borland—an' may He leave him amang us till He taks him till Himsel'."Geordie paused, his glass high in air. And the fervid guests arose to drink that toast as surely toast had never been drunk before. With a bumper and with three times three, and calling David's name aloud after a fashion that showed it had the years behind it, and with outgoing glances that spoke louder than words, every face searching his own in trust and sympathy and love, they did honour to the host who should entertain them there no more.It was almost too much for David. He arose when his guests had resumed their seats, and stood long looking down without a word. But he began at last, timidly, hesitatingly, emotion and language gradually making their way together as his eyes were slowly lifted to rest upon the faces of his friends. He referred frankly to the occasion that had brought them together, thus to bid farewell to the scene of many happy gatherings. "Folks say I'm beaten," he went on, "but that ain't true. I'm not beaten. I've lost a little—but I've saved more," as he looked affectionately around. "I'm not really much poorer than I was. I never cared a terrible lot about money; 'twas the game more. Just like boys with marbles; they don't eat 'em, they don't drink 'em—but they like to win 'em."Then he referred to the justice of the power that disturbs the security of human comfort, though he employed no such terms as those. "A fellow's got to take the lean with the fat," he said resignedly; "hasn't got no right to expect the clock'll strike twelve every time. A miller that sets his wheel by the spring freshet, he'd be a fool," he announced candidly, knowing no term more accurate, "'cause it's bound to drop some time. Of course, it comes tougher togetpoor than tobepoor; it's worse to be impoverished than jest to be poor, as our friend Harvey here would say; he's a scholar, you know, and a B.A. at that," he added, turning his eyes with the others towards Harvey's conscious face."A stoot heart tae a steep brae, David!" broke in Geordie's voice as he leaned forward, his admiring gaze fixed on his friend."Them's my sentiments," assented David, smiling back at the dauntless Scotchman. "I mind a woman out in Illinois—she was terrible rich, and she got terrible poor all of a sudden. Well, she had to wash her own dishes, after the winds descended an' the floods blew and beat upon her house, as the Scriptur' says—an' she jest put on every diamond ring she had to her name an' went at it. That's Mr. Nickle's meanin', my friends, I take it—an' that's jest what I'm goin' to do myself. I don't know exactly what I'm agoin' to go at," he went on thoughtfully; "I've got a kind of an offer to be a kind of advisin' floor-walker for the line I've been at—an' maybe I'll take it an' keep my hand in a bit. We're goin' to live in a little cottage—an' there'll always be heaps o' room for you all. An' we're goin' to manage all right," he went on, his eye lighting at what was to follow; "I've got an arrangement made with Madeline here. We won't have a terrible lot of help round the house; so she's goin' to attend to the furnace in the winter—an' I'm goin' to look after it in the summer. So we'll get along all right, all right. An' now, friends," he continued seriously, "I must hump it to a close, as the preachers say. But there's one thing—don't believe all Mr. Nickle tells you about me; I ain't near as good as he says. These Scotchmen's terrible on epitaphs when they once get started. An' he's like all the rest o' them—when he likes a man he swallows him whole. But I want to thank you all for helpin' us to make the last night so jolly. I don't find it hard myself, for I'm as certain as I ever was of anythin' it's all for the best. I want you to give that hymn out again next Sunday, doctor," and David's face had no trace of merriment as he turned to look for his pastor by his side; "oh, I forgot the doctor goes home early—but I'll ask him anyhow, an' we'll sing it louder'n we ever did before. It's been runnin' in my mind an awful lot lately: 'With mercy an' with judgment'—you can't beat them words much; it's the old comfortin' thought about Who's weavin' the web. So now I jest want to thank everybody here for comin'—we've had good happy years together, an' there's more to follow yet, please God," he predicted reverently as he resumed his seat, the deep silence that reigned about him being more impressive than the most boisterous applause.The pause which followed was broken by a suggestion, low and muffled at first, gradually finding louder voice and at last openly endorsed by Geordie Nickle, that "auld lang syne" would be a fitting sequel to what had gone before. David hailed the proposal with delight."We'll sing it now," he said enthusiastically, "an' we'll have the old doxology right after—they're both sacred songs, to my way o' thinkin'," as he beckoned to Geordie to take his place beside him, the company rising to voice the love-bright classic.But just as cordial hands were outgoing to loyal hands outstretched to meet them, the door-bell broke in with sudden clamour, and some one on the outer edge of the circle called aloud the name of Harvey Simmons. There was something ominous in the tone, and one at least detected the paleness of Harvey's cheek as he hurried towards the door. A moment sufficed the breathless messenger to communicate what he had to tell, and in an instant Harvey had turned swiftly towards the wondering company. He spoke no word, offered no explanation, but his eye fell on Jessie's in silent intimation of what she already seemed to fear. Noiselessly she slipped from the now voiceless circle, joining her brother as they both passed swiftly out into the night.XXVI"THE FAIR SWEET MORN AWAKES"Darkness was about them, dense and silent; nor were the shadows that wrapped their hearts less formidable. For something seemed to tell Harvey that one of life's great hours was approaching, like to which there is none other to be confronted by a lad's loving soul. Involuntarily, almost unconsciously, his hand went out in the darkness in search of his sister's; warm but trembling, it stole into his own. And thus, as in the far-off days of childhood, they went on through the dark together, the slight and timid one clinging to the strong and fearless form beside her. But now both hearts were chilled with fear—not of uncanny shadows, or grotesque shapes by the wayside, or nameless perils, as had been the case in other days—but of that mysterious foe, one they had never faced before, ever recognized as an enemy to be some day reckoned with, but now knocking at the gate. Yet, awful though they knew this enemy to be, their feet scarce seemed to touch the ground, so swiftly did they hurry on to meet him, counting every moment lost that held them back from the parting struggle. Hand in hand they pressed forward, these children of the shadows."Did they say she was dying, Harvey?" Jessie asked in an awesome voice, little more than a whisper."That's what they thought," he answered, his hand tightening on hers; "she thought so herself."The girl tried in vain to check the cry that broke from her lips. "Don't, sister, don't," he pleaded, his own voice in ruins; "maybe she won't leave us yet—but if she does, if she does, she'll see—she'll see again, Jessie." The emotion that throbbed in the great prediction showed how a mother's blindness can lay its hand on children's hearts through long and clouded years."But she won't see us, Harvey, she won't see us before she goes. Oh, Harvey, I've longed so much for that, just that mother might see us—even if it was only once—before she dies. And, you know, the doctor said if it came it would come suddenly; and I've always thought every morning that perhaps it might come that day. And now," the sobbing voice went on, "now—if she goes away—she won't have seen us at all. And we always prayed, Harvey; we prayed always for that," she added, half-rebelliously. Her brother answered never a word. Instead, he took a firmer grasp upon his sister's hand and strode resolutely on. By this time his head was lifted high and his eye was kindled with a strange and burning glow, his heart leaping like a frightened thing the while; for he could descry the light of their cottage home. Tiny and insignificant, that home stood wrapped in darkness save for that one sombre beacon-light—but the flickering gleam that rose and fell seemed to call him to the most majestic of all earthly scenes, such scenes as lend to hovel or to palace the same unearthly splendour."Will she know us, do you think?" Jessie whispered as they pushed open the unlocked door and went on into the dimly lighted house. Harvey did not seem to hear, so bent was he on the solemn quest, ascending the stair swiftly but silently, his sister's hand still tight within his own. As they came near the top they could just catch, through the half-open door, the outline of their mother's face, the stamp of death unmistakably upon it; she lay white and still upon her pillow, two forms bending above her, one of which they recognized at once as the doctor's. Whereat suddenly, as if unable to go farther, Harvey stopped and stood still; Jessie did likewise, turning with low sobs and flinging herself into her brother's arms, her face hidden while he held her close, silently endeavouring to comfort the stricken heart."Don't, Jessie," he whispered gently. "Let us make it easier for her if we can—and let us think of all it means to her—all it'll bring back again. Come," the last word spoken with subdued passion, courage and anguish blending. They went in together, slowly, each seeming to wait for the other to lead the way. Their look, their movements, their manner of walk, the very way they leaned forward to peer with eager, awe-inspired eyes upon their mother's face—all spoke of childhood; everything reverted in this great hour to the sweet simplicity of that period of life that had bound them to their mother in sacred helplessness. The primal passion flowed anew. And the two who crossed the floor together, tip-toeing towards the bed whereon their only earthly treasure lay, were now no more a laurel-laden man and a maiden woman-grown, waging the stern warfare life had thrust upon them; but they were simply boy and girl again, hand linked in hand as in the far departed days when two stained and tiny palms had so often lain one within the other—boy and girl, their hearts wrung with that strange grief that would be powerless against us all, could we but remain grown-up men and women. For the kingdom of sorrow resembles the kingdom of heaven, in this, at least, that we enter farthest in when we become like little children; and an all-wise Father has saved many a man from incurable maturity by the rejuvenating touch of sorrow, by the youth-renewing ministry of tears."Look, oh, Harvey, look," Jessie suddenly whispered in strange, excited tones. Subdued though her voice was, a kind of storm swept through it. Harvey started, looked afresh—and saw; and instinctively, almost convulsively, he turned and clutched Jessie tightly by the arm. She too was clinging to him in a very spasm of trembling."She sees us," came Jessie's awesome tidings, her face half-hidden on her brother's shoulder."She sees us," he echoed absently, his face turning again towards the bed, his eyes resuming the wondrous quest.He gazed, unspeaking, as one might gaze who sees within the veil. All else was forgotten, even great Death—so jealous of all rivals—whose presence had filled the room a moment or two agone. And the silent years beyond—ah me! the aching silence after a mother's voice is hushed—were unthought of now. And the grim and boding shade of orphanhood, deepening from twilight into dark, was unavailing against the new-born light that flooded all his soul with joy.For he saw—and the bitter memories of bygone years fled before the vision as the night retreats before the dawn—he saw a smile upon his mother's face, the smile he had not seen for years; unforgotten, for it had mingled with his dreams—but it had vanished from her eyes when those eyes had looked their last upon her children's faces. Yes, it was in her eyes—brightness he had often seen before on cheek and lip, merriment even—but this was the heart's loving laughter breaking through the soul's clear window as it had been wont to do before that window had been veiled in gloom.He remembered afterwards, what he did not then remark, that the doctor, observing his rapt expression, came close with some whispered explanation—some discourse on the relaxation of the optic nerve as a result of physical collapse—something of that sort, and much more, did the good man stammer forth to eke out this miracle of God. But Harvey heard him not—nor saw him even—for the love-light in his mother's eyes called him with imperious voice, and almost roughly did he snatch himself from Jessie's grasp as he pressed forward with outstretched hands. He moved around the foot of the bed, his hands still extended; and as he did so he noticed, with wild surging joy, that the devouring eyes followed him as he went. The sensation, new, elemental, overpowering, almost overcame him; something of the sense of repossession of a long absent soul, or the kindling of a long extinguished fire, or the cessation of a long tormenting pain, laid hold upon his heart. As he drew near and bent low above the bed, his mother's face was almost as a holy thing, so transfigured was it with its glow of love. The rapture in her eyes was such as conquerors know—for it was the moment of her triumph after the long battle with the years. And her lips moved as if they longed to chant the victor's song; yet they were muffled soon—for the hands she laid upon the bended shoulders of her boy were hungry hands, and that strange strength so often vouchsafed the dying was loaned her as she drew the manly form, all quivering and broken now, close to her throbbing bosom. A moment only—for the yearning eyes would not be long denied—till she gently released the hidden face, holding him forth before her while the long thirsting orbs drank deep of holy gladness."Oh, Harvey," she murmured low, "Harvey, my son—my little son.""Mother—my mother," he answered back, as his hand stroked the pallid cheek; for the new vision was as wonderful to him as her returning vision could be to her. "Oh, mother, don't—don't leave us now, dear mother," he sobbed in pleading, the child-note breaking through his voice again, "now, when we'll all be so happy, mother."She smiled and shook her head faintly; his plea seemed to find but faint lodgment in her mind. For she was otherwise employed; she gazed, as though she could never gaze enough, upon the loving, pleading face before her; she was searching for all that would reveal the soul behind—all that might speak of purity, and temperance, and victory; she was gathering traces of the years, the long curtained years through which his unfolding soul had been hidden from her sight. And her eyes wandered from his face only long enough to lift themselves to heaven in mute thanksgiving to that God whose truth and faithfulness are the strength and refuge of a mother's heart.Suddenly she turned restlessly upon her pillow, her gaze outgoing beyond Harvey's now bended head."Oh, Jessie," she said with returning rapture, "oh, Jessie—my wee Jessie—my little daughter; oh, my darling," as she drew the awe-stricken face down beside her brother's. There they nestled close, there as in blessed and unforgotten days, all the fragrance of the sorrow-riven past, all the portent of the love-lorn future mingling in baptism upon their almost orphaned heads.The thin white fingers toyed with the girl's lovely hair; "it's so much darker," she half whispered as if to herself, "but it's beautiful; your face, Jessie; let me see your face," she faltered, as the maiden turned her swimming eyes anew upon her mother. "Thank God," she murmured, "oh, let me say it while I can—He's been so good to me. He's kept us all—all—so graciously; and He's—always—found the path. It was never—really—dark; and now He's made it light at eventide," she half cried with a sudden gust of strength and gladness. "And I know—I've seen—before I go; it'll make heaven beautiful," and she sank back, faint and exhausted, on her pillow.The devoted doctor and the faithful friend had both slipped noiselessly from the room. They knew that love's last Sacrament was being thus dispensed, the precious wine to be untasted more till these three should drink it new in the kingdom of God. But now Miss Adair, her love impelling her, ventured timidly back; she came gently over, so gently that she was unnoticed by the bending children, taking her place beside Harvey. She touched him on the shoulder; his eyes gave but a fleeting spark of recognition as they fell on what she held in her hand."I thought she'd like to see them," said the kindly woman; "she couldn't before, you know," and as she spoke she bended above the bed, a look of expectation on her face as she held Harvey's hood, and his medal, before the new-illumined eyes. The lamp's dim light fell athwart them and they gleamed an instant as if in conscious pride.The dying woman saw them; her eyes rested a moment on them both, and the kindly purposed neighbour made as if to put them in her hands. But the purpose died before she moved—for the mother's glance showed her that these things were to her now but as the dust. The time was short; the night was coming fast; the dying eyes, so strangely lightened for this parting joy, were consecrated to one purpose and to that alone—and the gleaming gold and the flashing fabric lay unnoticed on the bed, the mother's face still turned upon her children's in yearning eagerness, as though she must prepare against the years that would hide them from her sight till the endless day should give them back to her undimmed gaze forever.Few were the words that were spoken now. The stream of peace flowed silently; and the reunited three held their high carnival of love—and of strange sorrow-clouded joy—the long tragedy of their united lives breaking at last into the blessedness of resignation, resignation aglow with hope. For this pledge of God's faithfulness was hailed by every heart; and they felt, though no lip voiced the great assurance, that life's long shadows would at last be lost in love's unclouded day.Into a gentle, untroubled slumber their mother fell at length. When she awaked, her eyes leaped anew, fastening themselves upon her children as though the precious gift had been bestowed afresh."I had a lovely—dream," she faltered. "I saw you—both—little children—like you used to be. And I thought your father—was—there too. It was heaven," she went on, her face brightening with a far-off light; "I thought he was there—and all the—the struggle—was past and gone. You asked—me—once, dear—if he was there," her sweet smile turned on Harvey. "Not yet, dear—not yet—but——" She motioned him to bend down beside her. "Your father's living," she whispered low, her shining eyes fixed on his. Jessie retreated, not knowing why, but the wonderful light told her that it was a great moment between mother and son. "He's living," the awed voice whispered again—"but he's afraid. He'll come back—some day—Harvey. And you—you—must forgive him. He'll tell you. And love him; tell him—I'm—waiting there. You must love him—and forgive him—and bring him——" Then she stopped, breathless.The wonderful tidings seemed at first almost more than the son could bear. With face suffused and eyes aglow, he gazed upon his mother. Suddenly his lips began to move; he spoke like one who has descried something wonderful, and far away."Yes, mother," he whispered low, "yes, I'll love him—I love him now; I'll love him—like you love him. And I'll bring him, mother, when he comes back; I'll bring him—we'll come together. I'll tell him what you said," he cried, forgetful who might hear, "and then he'll come—I know he'll come," his face radiant with the thought."And Jessie," the mother murmured, "Jessie too.""Yes, Jessie too," he answered; "come, Jessie—come," as he beckoned to her; she moved gently over and kneeled with him beside the bed.The day had broken. And the glowing heralds of the approaching sun were making beautiful the path before him. Hill and dale, their shining outlines visible in the distance, were clothed in golden glory; the opal clouds announced the coming of their king; the fragrant trees, and the bursting buds, and the spreading blossoms, and the kindling sward, and the verdure-covered fields gave back the far-flung smile of light. Like a bride adorned for her husband, all stood in unconscious beauty as far as eye could reach."Look, mother, look," Harvey cried suddenly, gently lifting the dear head from the pillow as the sanctity of the scene impelled him. "Oh, mother, you can see them all," rapture and sorrow mingling in the tone.The far-seeing eyes turned slowly towards the window, rested one brief, wonderful moment upon the wonderful sight, then turned away in ineffable tenderness and longing, fastening themselves again where they had been fixed before. For love is a mighty tyrant and the proudest kings must take their place as vassals in his train.An instant later the dying eyes seemed to leap far beyond, beautiful with rapture. "Look, look," she cried as though the others were the blind, "look, oh look," her voice ringing clear with the last energy of death; "it's lovelier yonder—where it's always spring. Don't you see, Harvey? Jessie, don't you see? And baby's there, Jessie—Harvey, the baby's there—and she's beckoning; look, look, it's you—not me—she's calling. Let us all go," she said, the voice dropping to faintness again, the eyes turning again upon her children; "let us—all—go; it's so—lovely; and we're—all—so tired," as the dear lips became forever still.And the rejoicing sun came on, the riot of his joy untempered, no badge of mourning in his hand. And he greeted the motherless with unwonted gladness as he filled the little room with light, kissing the silent face as though he would wish it all joy of the well-won rest. For he knew, he knew the secret of it all. He knew Who had transfigured hill and dale and tree and flower with the glance of love; he knew the source of all life's light and shade; he knew the afterward of God; he knew Death's other, sweeter name.But the motherless made no response. Still they knelt, one on each side of the unanswering form; and still, tightly clasped, each held a wasted hand.
XXIV
THE VICTOR'S SPOILS
"Of course you ought to go. I've got a kind of feeling, though I don't know why, that the whole party will be spoiled if you're not there."
"Spoiled! Spoiled for whom?"
"Oh, for somebody—I guess you know all right."
It was Miss Farringall who was pressing her advice so vigorously; Harvey the beneficiary. They were seated in the little room in which they had first met, everything in the same perfect order, the fire still singing its song of unconquerable cheer, the antique desk in the corner still guarding its hidden secrets. The domestic Grey, the added dignity of years upon him, had come to regard the one-time intruder with almost the same affection that he lavished on his mistress in his own devoted, purring way. He was slumbering now on Harvey's knee, and, could he have interpreted the significance of human glances, he might have seen the fondness with which the woman's eyes were often turned upon the manly face beside her.
"If I thought Miss Borland really wanted me to come," mused Harvey.
"Maybe Miss Borland doesn't care very much," his friend retorted quickly, "but I'm sure Madeline wants you," her eyebrows lifted reproachfully as she spoke.
Harvey smiled in return. "Of course, it would give me a chance to see mother," he said reflectively; "and Jessie says she's very poorly. Perhaps I really ought to go—Jessie's quite anxious about her."
"I think both reasons are good ones," Miss Farringall said after a little silence. "Do you know, Harvey," she went on, a shade almost of sadness coming over her face, "I feel more and more that there's only one thing in life worth gaining—and one should never trifle with it. If you lose that, you lose everything—no matter how much else you may have of money, or luxury—even of friends," she said decisively; "even of friends—if you miss that other."
Harvey, slightly at a loss, fumbled about for something to say. "You have everything that money can provide, Miss Farringall—and that's a good deal," he added, magnifying the lonely asset as best he could.
"Yes, perhaps I have—and maybe it is," she said as if to herself. Then neither spoke for a long interval. But finally Miss Farringall turned towards Harvey with a peculiar expression, as if she had just come to a decision after much inward debate.
"Would you like to hear something I've never told any one else?" she said impressively—"not even to the rector. He has a second wife," she explained, smiling, "and they're always dangerous."
"If you wish to trust me with it," was Harvey's answer.
"Well, I will—and you'll tell me whether I did right or not. It's not a long story, and I'll tell it as directly as I can. It's about a man—a gentleman," she corrected. "No, I never loved him—doesn't this language sound strange from me?" as she noticed the surprise on Harvey's face. "But it was—it was different with him. He was a married man, too. And his wife was very rich—richer than he was. And she hated him—they lived in the same house, but that was all; a proud, selfish woman; so selfish, she was."
Miss Farringall rose and moved to the window, gazing long on the leafy scene about her. The silence was broken suddenly by the butler's voice, his approach as noiseless as ever.
"Please, Miss Farringall, the rector's here—he's in the hall. And he wants to know——"
"Tell him he can't," Miss Farringall said softly, without turning her eyes from the window.
"Yes, mum," as the impassive countenance vanished.
Harvey did not speak, did not even look towards the silent figure at the window. He knew, and waited. Presently the woman turned and silently resumed her chair.
"It was different with him, as I said," she slowly began again—"not that I ever encouraged him; it terrified me when I found it out. Well, one day when we were alone together, he—he forgot himself," a slight tremor of the gentle form and a deep flush upon the cheek betokening the vividness of the memory. "And I fled from him—and I vowed we should never meet again," the sad face lighting up with the echo of a far-off purpose. "And I kept the vow for years," she went on, gazing into the fire—for there it is that the dead years, embalmed of mystic forces, may be seen by sorrow-brightened eyes.
Harvey waited again, silent still. And once again the strange narrative was resumed. "But I broke it at last," she said. "He was dying—a slow, painful disease. And he had everything money could give him; he had everything that anybody wants—except that one thing. His wife went on in her old, idle, fashionable way, caring nothing, of course. Well, one day he sent for me—it was his wife who brought the message; she knew nothing of what had happened, of course, and she told me of his request and asked me if I wouldn't come and sit with him sometimes. And I went—I went often—used to read to him; many different books at first, mostly poetry—but as it came nearer the end it was hardly ever anything but the Bible.... The end came at last. And just the day before he died he said to me: 'It'll be to-morrow—to-morrow about this time.' Then he took a big envelope from under his pillow, and he said: 'This'll be good-bye; God bless you for what you've been to a dying man. And I want you to do this. I want you to come to my grave a year from the night of the day I'm buried—and open this envelope there—but not for a year.' And we said good-bye. Well, I couldn't refuse the request of a dying man—I did as he asked me. But I waited a year and four days, Harvey," and Miss Farringall's voice was quite triumphant; "I waited that long because I knew no man would believe a woman could do it.... And that's how I'm situated as I am, Harvey. I don't think anybody ever knew—I guess nobody cared; principally stocks, simply transferred. Do you think I did right, Harvey?" she asked after a pause.
"Yes," said Harvey quickly, unable to take his eyes from her face.
"Not that the envelope ever did me very much good," she went on. "I often think how much happier I'd have been if I'd been poor—and had had that other. But it wasn't to be. And all this never made me happy—there was only one could have done that; and he went out of my life long ago—long ago now," she said, her gaze scanning his face in wistful scrutiny, her heart busy with the photograph entombed in the silent desk before her.
"So I think you certainly ought to go, as I said," she resumed, quietly reverting to the original topic. "I know the signs," she added in plaintive playfulness—"even if they do call me an old maid; I shouldn't wonder if they know the signs best of all. But this is all nonsense," straightening herself resolutely in her chair, "and has nothing to do with what we're talking about. When is the party, Harvey?"
"It's Friday night week—the very day after I graduate. And they leave the old home the next day—I told you all about Mr. Borland's failure. It seems they've been prepared to leave for some months—and now it's actually come. Mr. Borland gave up everything to his creditors, I believe. And this is a notion of his own—just like him, too—that they'll celebrate the last night in their old home this way; he's going to have Madeline's coming-out party for a finish. Quite an original idea, isn't it?"
"Will that young fellow from your town be there?—Mr. Craig, you know?" asked Miss Farringall, without answering his question. She did not look at Harvey as she asked her own.
"Oh, yes," Harvey answered, "he'll be there, of course—he's very attentive." Harvey's eyes were also turned away.
"Who's he attentive to?"
"Why, to Miss Borland—to Madeline, of course. He's been that for a long time."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes. At least, I suppose so. Why?" Harvey asked wonderingly.
"Oh, nothing much—only I heard his affections were divided; another Glenallen girl, I heard."
"What was the name?" asked Harvey, interestedly.
"I did hear, I think—it doesn't matter. Please don't ask me any more—really, I'm ashamed of myself, I'm getting to be such a silly old gossip. Tell me, are you going to get the medal when you graduate?"
The look on the face before her showed that the conversation had turned his thoughts towards something more absorbing than college premiums, covetable though they be; he too was coming to realize that life has only one great prize, and but one deep source of springing joy.
"I have my doubts about the medal," Harvey answered after a pause; "I'm afraid of Echlin—but I'll give him a race for it. I think I'm sure of my degree, all right. That's another reason inclines me to go home next week," he added cheerfully; "I want to give my sheepskin to my mother; it's more hers and Jessie's than it is mine—and I want them to see my hood, too, when I get one; and the medal," his face brightening, "if I should have the luck to win it. But there's another thing that troubles me a little," he added with a dolorous smile, "and that is that I haven't got anything to wear, as the ladies say. I haven't a dress suit, you know—and I'm afraid anything else'll be a little conspicuous there."
Miss Farringall smiled the sweetest, saddest smile, as she turned her face to Harvey's. "Oh, child," she said, "you're very young; and you're certainly very unfamiliar with the woman-heart. A girl doesn't care a fig for dress suits—I think they rather admire men who dress originally," she went on assuringly; "I know I did, then. And besides, it's all to your credit that you haven't one—I think that's one of the fine things about you, that you haven't got so many things you might have had, if you'd been a little more selfish," she said, almost fondly.
"Talk about not being selfish," Harvey broke in ardently; "I'm a monster of selfishness compared to some others I could name—you ought to see my mother and my sister," he concluded proudly.
"I hope I may some day," she answered. "But meantime—about what you'll wear. I'd wear the medal if I were you. But tell me first," she went on in a woman's own persistent way, "that you'll accept the invitation. Can't you make up your mind?"
Harvey was silent for a moment. "No," came his answer decisively, "I don't think I will. I'm going to decline with thanks—self-denial's good for a fellow sometimes."
"Some kinds of self-denial are sinful," said Miss Farringall quietly; "but they bring their own punishment—and it lasts for years." She sighed, and the light upon her face was half of yearning, half of love.
"Is our Tam hame frae Edinburgh yet?" Such were the last wandering words of an aged brother of the great Carlyle, dying one summer night as the Canadian sun shed its glory for the last time upon his face. Thrice twenty years had flown since, fraternal pride high surging in his heart, he had clung to his mother's skirts while she waited at the bend of the road for the returning Tom. Carrying his shoes, lest they be needlessly worn, was that laddie wont to come from the halls of learning where he had scanned the page of knowledge with a burning heart—carrying his shoes, but with his laurels thick upon him, his advent the golden incident to that humble home in all their uneventful year. And in death's magic hour the thrilling scene was reënacted as the brother heart of the far-wandered one roamed back to the halcyon days of boyhood.
The same spirit of pride, the same devotion of love, brooded over the happy circle as Harvey sat this placid evening between his mother and sister in the home that had furnished him so little of luxury, so much of welcome and of love. He was home, and he was theirs. Trembling joy mingled with the mother's voice as now and then she broke in with kindly speech upon the story Harvey found himself telling again and again. The story was of his career in general, and of the last great struggle in particular; how he had shut himself up to his work in a final spasm of devotion, pausing only to eat and sleep till the final trials were over and the victory won. And the great day, his graduation day, was described over and over, both listeners in a transport of excitement while he told, modestly as he might, of the ovation that had greeted him when he was called forward to receive his hard-won honours.
"And you're a B.A., Harvey, now—a real B.A., aren't you, Harvey?" Jessie cried ecstatically. "It seems almost too good to be true."
Harvey merely smiled; but his mother spoke for him. "Of course he is," she answered quietly; "it'll be on all his letters. But the medal, Harvey—oh, my son, I always knew you'd win it," her voice low and triumphant. "I can hardly just believe it; out of all those students—with their parents so rich and everything—that my own son carried it off from them all. And has it your name on it, Harvey?—with the degree on it too?" she enquired eagerly.
"Of course," said Harvey, "it's in my trunk—and my hood's there too; they're both there, mother. It's a beautiful hood—and I'll show them to you if you'll wait a moment," he exclaimed impulsively, rising as he spoke.
But his eyes met Jessie's and a darkness like the darkness of death fell upon them both. Jessie was trembling from head to foot, her hand going up instinctively to her face as if she had been struck. Harvey's pale cheek and quivering lips betrayed the agony that wrung him.
"Forgive me, mother," his broken voice implored as he flung himself down beside her, his arms encircling her; "forgive me, my mother—I forgot, oh, I forgot," as he stroked the patient face with infinite gentleness, his hands caressing the delicate cheeks again and again.
"He didn't mean it, mother—he didn't mean it," Jessie cried, drawing near to them; "he just forgot, mother—he just forgot," the words throbbing with love for both.
But the mother's voice was untouched by pain. "Don't grieve like that, my darling," she pleaded, pressing Harvey's hands close to her cheek; "I know it was nothing, my son—I know just how it happened. And why will you mourn so for me, my children?" she went on in calm and tender tones, her arms encircling both. "Surely I've given you no reason for this—haven't I often told you how bright it is about me? And something makes me sure it's getting near the light. Don't you remember, dear, how the doctor said it might all come suddenly?—and I feel it's coming, coming fast; I feel sure God's leading me near the light."
"Are you, mother?" Harvey asked. The question came simply, earnestly, almost awesomely.
"Yes, dear; yes, I'm sure."
"We always asked for that. Harvey and I have, every day—haven't we, Harvey?" Jessie broke in eagerly.
Harvey nodded, his gaze still on his mother's face. For the light that sat upon it in noble calm entranced him. No words could have spoken more plainly of the far-off source that kindled it; and a dim, holy sense of the grandeur of her outlook, the loftiness of her peace, the eternal warrant of her claim, took possession of his soul. The beauty that clothed her was not of time; and no words of tender dissembling could conceal the exultant hope that bespoke how the days of her darkness should be ended.
The silence was broken by his mother's voice. "Go and get them, Harvey—bring your medal and your hood. Bring them to your mother, my son," she said, as she released him to do her bidding.
He was gone but a moment; returning, he bore in one hand the golden token, his name inwoven with its gleam. The other held his academic hood, its mystic white and purple blending to attest the scholar's station; he had thrown his college gown about him.
Mutely standing, he placed the medal in his mother's hands. They shook as they received it, the thin fingers dumbly following its inscription, both hands enclosing it tightly, thrilling to the glad sensation. Then he held the hood out towards her, stammering some poor explanation of its material and its meaning.
"Put it on, Harvey," she said.
He swiftly slipped it about his neck, the flowing folds falling down from his shoulders. Involuntarily he bended before his mother, and the poor white hands went out in loving quest of the dear-bought symbol, tracing its form from end to end, lingering fondly over every fold. She spoke no word—but the trembling fingers still roved about the glowing laurel as her scholar boy stood silent before her, and the hot tears fell thick and fast upon it. For the memory of other days, days of poverty and stress; and the vision of the childish face as she had last beheld it; and the thought of all the hidden struggle, more bitter than he ever knew, that had thus brought back her once unknown child in triumph to his mother's home—back, too, in unchanged devotion and unabated love, to lay his trophies at the feet of her who bore him—all these started the burning tears that trickled so fast from the unseeing eyes and fell in holy stains upon the spotless emblem.
Clocks are the very soul of cruelty, relentless most when loving hearts most wish that they would stay their hands. The ebbing moments, inconsiderate of all but duty, tell off the hours of our gladness, even of sacramental gladness, with unpitying faithfulness. And yet, strange as it may seem, how blessed is the law that will not let us know when the last precious moments are on the wing! How often do devoted hearts toy with them carelessly, or waste them in unthinking levity, or drug them with unneeded slumber, or squander them in wanton silence, as though they were to last forever! How the most prodigal would garner them, and the most frivolous employ, if it were only known that these are the last golden sands that glisten their parting message before they glide into the darkness!
We may not know. As these two did not; and the last unconscious hour was spent in the company of another. "It's so good of you to come and sit with me, Miss Adair, while the children are at the party," was Mrs. Simmons' welcome to the kindly acquaintance as she entered. "Jessie's going on ahead—she promised to give Madeline some little help, so she had to go earlier. Won't you need to be starting soon, Harvey?"
"I'm going just in a minute, mother," her son answered. "And you should have seen our Jessie," he digressed, turning to their visitor. "She never looked sweeter in her life. And the dress that she had on, she made it herself, she said—I didn't know Jessie was so accomplished."
"Oh, Jessie's made many a—she's made many an admirer, by her dresses," the adroit Miss Adair concluded, noticing a quick movement of Mrs. Simmons in her direction, and suddenly recalling the injunction she had forgotten.
"I'm so sorry her flowers were withered," Harvey broke in, quite unconscious of what had been averted. "I sent her some from the city—but they were so wilted when they came that I didn't want her to take them."
"Wait a minute, Harvey—I'll go with you a step or two," his mother interrupted as her son stooped to bid her good-night. "Please excuse me, Miss Adair; I'll be back in a minute," taking Harvey's arm as he turned towards the door.
"It was so thoughtful of you to send those flowers to Jessie," she said as they moved slowly along the silent street; "she was quite enraptured when they came."
"I sent some to—to Madeline too," Harvey informed her hesitatingly. "You see, I didn't expect, till this morning, to go to the party at all—and I wrote Madeline declining. So she isn't expecting me. Jessie promised not to tell her I had changed my mind; and in my letter I told Madeline I was sending the flowers in my place—but I'm afraid they'll be withered too. What's the matter, mother?" for her whole weight seemed suddenly to come upon his arm.
"Nothing, dear; nothing much," she said, a little pantingly. "Let us sit here a minute," sinking on an adjoining step. "I've had these off and on lately," she added, trying to smile. "I'm better now—the doctor says it's some little affection of the heart. I guess it's just a rush of happiness," she suggested bravely, smiling as she turned her face full on Harvey's.
"I'm so happy, my son—so proud and happy. You've done so well; and God has watched over you so wonderfully—and protected you." Then her voice fell almost to a whisper, faltering with the words she wanted to speak, yet shrank from uttering. These spoken, she listened as intently as if for the footfall of approaching death.
"No, mother," he answered low, "no, never once since—yet I won't say I haven't felt it; I know I have, more than once. If I'm where it is—even if I catch the odour of liquor—the appetite seems to come back. And it frightened me terribly; it was like the baying of hounds," drawing closer as he spoke.
"That's like what your father used to say," she whispered, quivering.
"But never once, mother—never a single time, since. I've always remembered that first night you came into my room—and that other time."
"And I," she cried eagerly, "haven't I? I've been there many a night since then, when Jessie was asleep—I used to try and imagine it was you, Harvey," she said, turning her face on his in the uncertain light.
The gentle colloquy flowed on while the shadows deepened about the whispering pair, the one happy because youth's radiance overshone his path, the other peaceful because a deeper, truer light was gathering in her heart. One cloud, and one alone, impaired the fullness of his joy; and that was, what even his hopeful heart could not deny, that his mother's strength was obviously less than when he had seen her last. But all the devotion of the years seemed gathered up into this gracious hour; the mother, mysteriously impelled, seemed loath to let the interview be at an end, though she knew Harvey must soon be gone.
"You'd better hurry now, dear," she said when their own door was reached; "no, no, I can go in alone all right—on with you to the party, Harvey; they can't any of them be happier than I am to-night. And tell Madeline, for me, there's only one chick like mine in the world—and whoever gets——"
The remainder of the message was lost in laughing protest as the good-byes were said; the mother stole softly in to her patient guest, her son hurrying on to the gathering revelry.
XXV
WHAT MADE THE BALL SO FINE?
Harvey could not forbear to indulge a glance through the flaming windows as he drew near the house. He noted, a little ruefully it must be said, that almost every gentleman guest was attired after the conventional fashion he had predicted; but a moment's reasoning repelled any threatening embarrassment with scorn. Pressing bravely on, he had soon deposited his hat and coat, and after a minute or two of waiting in the dressing-room began his descent of the stairs to mingle with the animated scene.
Looking down, one of the first to be descried was David Borland himself, as blithe and cheerful as though he were beginning, rather than concluding, his sojourn in the spacious house. He was chatting earnestly with Dr. Fletcher, interrupting the conversation now and then to greet some new-arriving guest. Near him was his wife, absorbed in the pleasant duty of receiving the steadily increasing throng who were to taste for the last time the hospitality for which that home had long been famous.
But all others, and there were many whom Harvey recognized at a glance, were soon forgotten as his eyes rested on one whose face, suddenly appearing, filled all the room with light. For Madeline was making her way into the ample hall, flushed and radiant; her brow, never so serene before, was slightly moistened from the evening's warmth, while the wonderful hair, still bright and sunny, glistened in the softly shaded light. Aglow with excitement, her cheeks seemed to boast a colour he had never seen before, the delicate pink and white blending as on the face of childhood; and the splendid eyes, crowning all, were suffused with feeling. The significance of the hour and the animation of the scene united to create a sort of chastened mirthfulness, brimming with dignity and hope, yet still revealing how seriously she recognized the vicissitude time had brought, how well she knew the import of the change already at the door.
Harvey stood still on the landing, gazing down unobserved, his eyes never turning from the face whose beauty seemed to unfold before him as he stood. Yet not mere beauty, either—he did not think of beauty, nor would he have so described what charmed him with a strange thrill he had never owned before—but the rich expression, rather, of an inward life that had deepened and mellowed with the years. Great sense was there, for one thing—and in the last appeal this feature of womanhood is irresistible to a truly manly heart; and her face spoke of love, large and generous, as if the weary and the troubled would ever find in her a friend; cheerfulness, courage, hope, the dignity of purity, the sweetness that marks those who have been cherished but not pampered and indulged but not petted, all combined to provide a loveliness of countenance that fairly ravished his heart as he peered through spreading palms upon the unconscious face beneath.
Yet the joy he felt was not unmingled. For he could see, as a moment later he did see, that other eyes were turned with equal ardour in the same direction as his own. Madeline's appearance was a kind of triumphal entry; and there followed her, willing courtiers, two or three of the gallants of the place, whose function it evidently was to bear the glorious groups of flowers that various admirers had sent. Harvey's face darkened a little as he noted that Cecil was among them; though, to tell the truth, his seemed the most careless gaze of all—if admiration marked it, it was hungry admiration and nothing more. But the flowers he was carrying were pure; he had asked leave to carry them—and they themselves could not protest, shrink as they might from the unfitting hand. Others, nobler spirits, had burdens of equal fragrance, all fresh and beautiful as became the object of their homage.
Slowly Harvey moved down the stairs. The proprieties were forgotten—all else as well—as he passed Mr. and Mrs. Borland by, the one glancing at him with obvious admiration, the other with impatient questioning. He was standing close in front of Madeline before she knew that he was there at all; suddenly raising her head as she turned from speaking with a friend, the soulful eyes fell full on his. She did her best—but the tides of life are strong and willful, and this one overswept the swift barrier she strove to interpose, as straws are swept before a storm. And the flood outpoured about him, surging as it smote the passion that leaped to meet it, the silent tumult beating like sudden pain on heart and ears and eyes, its mingled agony and rapture engulfing him till everything seemed to swim before him as before a drunken man.
What voices silent things possess! And how God speaks through dull inanimate creatures as by the living lips of love! And what tell-tale tongues have the most trivial things to peal out life's holiest messages! For he saw—dimly at first and with a kind of shock, then clearly and with exultant certainty—he saw what was in her hand. It was only a bunch of simple flowers; but they were sorry looking things compared to their rivals whose fragrance filled the air, and the languor of death was upon them—yes, thank God, their bloom was faded, their freshness gone. For he recognized them, he knew them; and in the swift foment of his mind he even saw again the hard commercial face of the man from whom he had bought them, again the hard spared coins he had extracted from the poor total his poverty had left him, his heart the while leaping within him as though it could stand imprisonment no more. Dimly, vaguely, he saw behind her the noble clusters that other hands had sent—but other hands than hers were bearing them—and his were in her own, in the one that was bared in careless beauty as her glove hung indifferent from the wrist, unconscious of all that had displaced it. Careless observers had doubtless noted the dying flowers, marvelled mayhap; they knew not how instinct they were with life, how fadeless against the years their memory was to sweeten and enrich.
He stood silent a moment with his hand half-outstretched, his eyes divided between the flowers beneath and the face above. His soul outpoured itself through them in a riot of joy he had neither desire nor power to restrain. Madeline stood like some lovely thing at bay, her eyes aglow, their message half of high reproach and half of passionate welcome.
"You told me you weren't coming," she said in protesting tones, the words audible to no one but himself; "and I didn't expect you," her lips parted, her breath coming fast and fitfully, as though she were exhausted in the chase. Her radiant face was glorified—she knew it not—by the rich tides of life that leaped and bounded there, disporting themselves in the hour they had awaited long. Yet her whole attitude was marked by a strange aloofness, the wild air of liberty that is assumed by captive things; and her voice was almost controlled again as she repeated her remark.
"You said you weren't coming;" the words voiced an interrogative.
"So I did," he acknowledged, his eyes roaming about her face; "but I came," he added absently, a heavenly stupidity possessing him.
"How's your mother?" she asked, struggling back.
"She's not at all well," he answered, the tone full of real meaning; for this was a realm as sacred to him as the other.
She was trying to replace her glove, the latter stubbornly resisting.
"Please button this for me," as she held out her arm. He tried eagerly enough; but his hand trembled like an aspen. Her own was equally unsteady, and progress was divinely slow. He paused, looking helplessly up into her face; her hand fell by her side. Before either knew that he was near, Cecil's voice broke in: "Allow me, Madeline," he said; "I'm an old hand at operations like this—I'll do it for you, Madeline," as though he gloried in the name, and almost before she knew it he had seized her arm, swiftly accomplishing his purpose.
Madeline was regal now, her very pose marked by unconscious pride. "Thank you," she said, still sweetly, "but I don't believe I want it fastened now—it's quite warm here, isn't it?" and with a quick gesture she slipped it from her hand, moving forward towards her father. Harvey stood still where he was; but the new heaven and the new earth had come.
The evening wore on; nor could any gathering have been enriched with more of feeling than pervaded the triumphant hours. All seemed to forget the occasion that had convened them, remembering nothing but the valued friends who were still to be their own, even if outward circumstances were about to undergo the change so defiantly acknowledged. The crowning feature came when the simple supper was finished and the table partially cleared; for they who would remember David Borland at his best must think of him as he appeared when he called the guests to order and bade them fill their glasses high.
"Take your choice of lemonade or ginger ale," he cried with a voice like a heightening breeze; and they who knew him well silently predicted the best of David's soul for the assembled guests that night. "There ain't nothin' stronger," he went on with serious mien; "drinks is always soft when times is hard—but drink hearty, friends, an' give the old house a good name."
Possibly there was the slightest symptom of a tremor in his voice as it referred thus to what he held so dear, now about to be surrendered; but a moment later the old indomitable light was kindled in his eye, the strong face beaming with the unquenched humour that had been such a fountain in his own life and the lives of others. Something of new dignity was noticeable in his entire bearing, the bearing of a man who, if beaten, had been beaten in honourable battle, resolved still to retain all that was dearest to his heart; this explained the look of pride with which he marked, as he could hardly fail to mark, the affection and respect with which every eye regarded him as he stood before his friends.
The toast to the King, and one other, had been disposed of, David proceeding merrily to launch another, when suddenly he was interrupted by Geordie Nickle, who rose from his place at the further end of the table.
"Sit doon, David," he enjoined, nodding vehemently towards his friend, "an' gie an auld man a chance. Ladies an' gentlemen," he went on, directing his remarks to the company, "I'll ask ye to fill yir glasses wi' guid cauld water for to drink the toast I'll gie ye—naethin'll fit the man I'm gaein' to mention as weel as that; there's nae mixture aboot him, as ye ken. I'm wantin' all o' ye to drink a cup o' kindness to the man we love mair when he's puir nor we ever did afore. Here's to yin o' th' Almichty's masterpieces, David Borland—an' may He leave him amang us till He taks him till Himsel'."
Geordie paused, his glass high in air. And the fervid guests arose to drink that toast as surely toast had never been drunk before. With a bumper and with three times three, and calling David's name aloud after a fashion that showed it had the years behind it, and with outgoing glances that spoke louder than words, every face searching his own in trust and sympathy and love, they did honour to the host who should entertain them there no more.
It was almost too much for David. He arose when his guests had resumed their seats, and stood long looking down without a word. But he began at last, timidly, hesitatingly, emotion and language gradually making their way together as his eyes were slowly lifted to rest upon the faces of his friends. He referred frankly to the occasion that had brought them together, thus to bid farewell to the scene of many happy gatherings. "Folks say I'm beaten," he went on, "but that ain't true. I'm not beaten. I've lost a little—but I've saved more," as he looked affectionately around. "I'm not really much poorer than I was. I never cared a terrible lot about money; 'twas the game more. Just like boys with marbles; they don't eat 'em, they don't drink 'em—but they like to win 'em."
Then he referred to the justice of the power that disturbs the security of human comfort, though he employed no such terms as those. "A fellow's got to take the lean with the fat," he said resignedly; "hasn't got no right to expect the clock'll strike twelve every time. A miller that sets his wheel by the spring freshet, he'd be a fool," he announced candidly, knowing no term more accurate, "'cause it's bound to drop some time. Of course, it comes tougher togetpoor than tobepoor; it's worse to be impoverished than jest to be poor, as our friend Harvey here would say; he's a scholar, you know, and a B.A. at that," he added, turning his eyes with the others towards Harvey's conscious face.
"A stoot heart tae a steep brae, David!" broke in Geordie's voice as he leaned forward, his admiring gaze fixed on his friend.
"Them's my sentiments," assented David, smiling back at the dauntless Scotchman. "I mind a woman out in Illinois—she was terrible rich, and she got terrible poor all of a sudden. Well, she had to wash her own dishes, after the winds descended an' the floods blew and beat upon her house, as the Scriptur' says—an' she jest put on every diamond ring she had to her name an' went at it. That's Mr. Nickle's meanin', my friends, I take it—an' that's jest what I'm goin' to do myself. I don't know exactly what I'm agoin' to go at," he went on thoughtfully; "I've got a kind of an offer to be a kind of advisin' floor-walker for the line I've been at—an' maybe I'll take it an' keep my hand in a bit. We're goin' to live in a little cottage—an' there'll always be heaps o' room for you all. An' we're goin' to manage all right," he went on, his eye lighting at what was to follow; "I've got an arrangement made with Madeline here. We won't have a terrible lot of help round the house; so she's goin' to attend to the furnace in the winter—an' I'm goin' to look after it in the summer. So we'll get along all right, all right. An' now, friends," he continued seriously, "I must hump it to a close, as the preachers say. But there's one thing—don't believe all Mr. Nickle tells you about me; I ain't near as good as he says. These Scotchmen's terrible on epitaphs when they once get started. An' he's like all the rest o' them—when he likes a man he swallows him whole. But I want to thank you all for helpin' us to make the last night so jolly. I don't find it hard myself, for I'm as certain as I ever was of anythin' it's all for the best. I want you to give that hymn out again next Sunday, doctor," and David's face had no trace of merriment as he turned to look for his pastor by his side; "oh, I forgot the doctor goes home early—but I'll ask him anyhow, an' we'll sing it louder'n we ever did before. It's been runnin' in my mind an awful lot lately: 'With mercy an' with judgment'—you can't beat them words much; it's the old comfortin' thought about Who's weavin' the web. So now I jest want to thank everybody here for comin'—we've had good happy years together, an' there's more to follow yet, please God," he predicted reverently as he resumed his seat, the deep silence that reigned about him being more impressive than the most boisterous applause.
The pause which followed was broken by a suggestion, low and muffled at first, gradually finding louder voice and at last openly endorsed by Geordie Nickle, that "auld lang syne" would be a fitting sequel to what had gone before. David hailed the proposal with delight.
"We'll sing it now," he said enthusiastically, "an' we'll have the old doxology right after—they're both sacred songs, to my way o' thinkin'," as he beckoned to Geordie to take his place beside him, the company rising to voice the love-bright classic.
But just as cordial hands were outgoing to loyal hands outstretched to meet them, the door-bell broke in with sudden clamour, and some one on the outer edge of the circle called aloud the name of Harvey Simmons. There was something ominous in the tone, and one at least detected the paleness of Harvey's cheek as he hurried towards the door. A moment sufficed the breathless messenger to communicate what he had to tell, and in an instant Harvey had turned swiftly towards the wondering company. He spoke no word, offered no explanation, but his eye fell on Jessie's in silent intimation of what she already seemed to fear. Noiselessly she slipped from the now voiceless circle, joining her brother as they both passed swiftly out into the night.
XXVI
"THE FAIR SWEET MORN AWAKES"
Darkness was about them, dense and silent; nor were the shadows that wrapped their hearts less formidable. For something seemed to tell Harvey that one of life's great hours was approaching, like to which there is none other to be confronted by a lad's loving soul. Involuntarily, almost unconsciously, his hand went out in the darkness in search of his sister's; warm but trembling, it stole into his own. And thus, as in the far-off days of childhood, they went on through the dark together, the slight and timid one clinging to the strong and fearless form beside her. But now both hearts were chilled with fear—not of uncanny shadows, or grotesque shapes by the wayside, or nameless perils, as had been the case in other days—but of that mysterious foe, one they had never faced before, ever recognized as an enemy to be some day reckoned with, but now knocking at the gate. Yet, awful though they knew this enemy to be, their feet scarce seemed to touch the ground, so swiftly did they hurry on to meet him, counting every moment lost that held them back from the parting struggle. Hand in hand they pressed forward, these children of the shadows.
"Did they say she was dying, Harvey?" Jessie asked in an awesome voice, little more than a whisper.
"That's what they thought," he answered, his hand tightening on hers; "she thought so herself."
The girl tried in vain to check the cry that broke from her lips. "Don't, sister, don't," he pleaded, his own voice in ruins; "maybe she won't leave us yet—but if she does, if she does, she'll see—she'll see again, Jessie." The emotion that throbbed in the great prediction showed how a mother's blindness can lay its hand on children's hearts through long and clouded years.
"But she won't see us, Harvey, she won't see us before she goes. Oh, Harvey, I've longed so much for that, just that mother might see us—even if it was only once—before she dies. And, you know, the doctor said if it came it would come suddenly; and I've always thought every morning that perhaps it might come that day. And now," the sobbing voice went on, "now—if she goes away—she won't have seen us at all. And we always prayed, Harvey; we prayed always for that," she added, half-rebelliously. Her brother answered never a word. Instead, he took a firmer grasp upon his sister's hand and strode resolutely on. By this time his head was lifted high and his eye was kindled with a strange and burning glow, his heart leaping like a frightened thing the while; for he could descry the light of their cottage home. Tiny and insignificant, that home stood wrapped in darkness save for that one sombre beacon-light—but the flickering gleam that rose and fell seemed to call him to the most majestic of all earthly scenes, such scenes as lend to hovel or to palace the same unearthly splendour.
"Will she know us, do you think?" Jessie whispered as they pushed open the unlocked door and went on into the dimly lighted house. Harvey did not seem to hear, so bent was he on the solemn quest, ascending the stair swiftly but silently, his sister's hand still tight within his own. As they came near the top they could just catch, through the half-open door, the outline of their mother's face, the stamp of death unmistakably upon it; she lay white and still upon her pillow, two forms bending above her, one of which they recognized at once as the doctor's. Whereat suddenly, as if unable to go farther, Harvey stopped and stood still; Jessie did likewise, turning with low sobs and flinging herself into her brother's arms, her face hidden while he held her close, silently endeavouring to comfort the stricken heart.
"Don't, Jessie," he whispered gently. "Let us make it easier for her if we can—and let us think of all it means to her—all it'll bring back again. Come," the last word spoken with subdued passion, courage and anguish blending. They went in together, slowly, each seeming to wait for the other to lead the way. Their look, their movements, their manner of walk, the very way they leaned forward to peer with eager, awe-inspired eyes upon their mother's face—all spoke of childhood; everything reverted in this great hour to the sweet simplicity of that period of life that had bound them to their mother in sacred helplessness. The primal passion flowed anew. And the two who crossed the floor together, tip-toeing towards the bed whereon their only earthly treasure lay, were now no more a laurel-laden man and a maiden woman-grown, waging the stern warfare life had thrust upon them; but they were simply boy and girl again, hand linked in hand as in the far departed days when two stained and tiny palms had so often lain one within the other—boy and girl, their hearts wrung with that strange grief that would be powerless against us all, could we but remain grown-up men and women. For the kingdom of sorrow resembles the kingdom of heaven, in this, at least, that we enter farthest in when we become like little children; and an all-wise Father has saved many a man from incurable maturity by the rejuvenating touch of sorrow, by the youth-renewing ministry of tears.
"Look, oh, Harvey, look," Jessie suddenly whispered in strange, excited tones. Subdued though her voice was, a kind of storm swept through it. Harvey started, looked afresh—and saw; and instinctively, almost convulsively, he turned and clutched Jessie tightly by the arm. She too was clinging to him in a very spasm of trembling.
"She sees us," came Jessie's awesome tidings, her face half-hidden on her brother's shoulder.
"She sees us," he echoed absently, his face turning again towards the bed, his eyes resuming the wondrous quest.
He gazed, unspeaking, as one might gaze who sees within the veil. All else was forgotten, even great Death—so jealous of all rivals—whose presence had filled the room a moment or two agone. And the silent years beyond—ah me! the aching silence after a mother's voice is hushed—were unthought of now. And the grim and boding shade of orphanhood, deepening from twilight into dark, was unavailing against the new-born light that flooded all his soul with joy.
For he saw—and the bitter memories of bygone years fled before the vision as the night retreats before the dawn—he saw a smile upon his mother's face, the smile he had not seen for years; unforgotten, for it had mingled with his dreams—but it had vanished from her eyes when those eyes had looked their last upon her children's faces. Yes, it was in her eyes—brightness he had often seen before on cheek and lip, merriment even—but this was the heart's loving laughter breaking through the soul's clear window as it had been wont to do before that window had been veiled in gloom.
He remembered afterwards, what he did not then remark, that the doctor, observing his rapt expression, came close with some whispered explanation—some discourse on the relaxation of the optic nerve as a result of physical collapse—something of that sort, and much more, did the good man stammer forth to eke out this miracle of God. But Harvey heard him not—nor saw him even—for the love-light in his mother's eyes called him with imperious voice, and almost roughly did he snatch himself from Jessie's grasp as he pressed forward with outstretched hands. He moved around the foot of the bed, his hands still extended; and as he did so he noticed, with wild surging joy, that the devouring eyes followed him as he went. The sensation, new, elemental, overpowering, almost overcame him; something of the sense of repossession of a long absent soul, or the kindling of a long extinguished fire, or the cessation of a long tormenting pain, laid hold upon his heart. As he drew near and bent low above the bed, his mother's face was almost as a holy thing, so transfigured was it with its glow of love. The rapture in her eyes was such as conquerors know—for it was the moment of her triumph after the long battle with the years. And her lips moved as if they longed to chant the victor's song; yet they were muffled soon—for the hands she laid upon the bended shoulders of her boy were hungry hands, and that strange strength so often vouchsafed the dying was loaned her as she drew the manly form, all quivering and broken now, close to her throbbing bosom. A moment only—for the yearning eyes would not be long denied—till she gently released the hidden face, holding him forth before her while the long thirsting orbs drank deep of holy gladness.
"Oh, Harvey," she murmured low, "Harvey, my son—my little son."
"Mother—my mother," he answered back, as his hand stroked the pallid cheek; for the new vision was as wonderful to him as her returning vision could be to her. "Oh, mother, don't—don't leave us now, dear mother," he sobbed in pleading, the child-note breaking through his voice again, "now, when we'll all be so happy, mother."
She smiled and shook her head faintly; his plea seemed to find but faint lodgment in her mind. For she was otherwise employed; she gazed, as though she could never gaze enough, upon the loving, pleading face before her; she was searching for all that would reveal the soul behind—all that might speak of purity, and temperance, and victory; she was gathering traces of the years, the long curtained years through which his unfolding soul had been hidden from her sight. And her eyes wandered from his face only long enough to lift themselves to heaven in mute thanksgiving to that God whose truth and faithfulness are the strength and refuge of a mother's heart.
Suddenly she turned restlessly upon her pillow, her gaze outgoing beyond Harvey's now bended head.
"Oh, Jessie," she said with returning rapture, "oh, Jessie—my wee Jessie—my little daughter; oh, my darling," as she drew the awe-stricken face down beside her brother's. There they nestled close, there as in blessed and unforgotten days, all the fragrance of the sorrow-riven past, all the portent of the love-lorn future mingling in baptism upon their almost orphaned heads.
The thin white fingers toyed with the girl's lovely hair; "it's so much darker," she half whispered as if to herself, "but it's beautiful; your face, Jessie; let me see your face," she faltered, as the maiden turned her swimming eyes anew upon her mother. "Thank God," she murmured, "oh, let me say it while I can—He's been so good to me. He's kept us all—all—so graciously; and He's—always—found the path. It was never—really—dark; and now He's made it light at eventide," she half cried with a sudden gust of strength and gladness. "And I know—I've seen—before I go; it'll make heaven beautiful," and she sank back, faint and exhausted, on her pillow.
The devoted doctor and the faithful friend had both slipped noiselessly from the room. They knew that love's last Sacrament was being thus dispensed, the precious wine to be untasted more till these three should drink it new in the kingdom of God. But now Miss Adair, her love impelling her, ventured timidly back; she came gently over, so gently that she was unnoticed by the bending children, taking her place beside Harvey. She touched him on the shoulder; his eyes gave but a fleeting spark of recognition as they fell on what she held in her hand.
"I thought she'd like to see them," said the kindly woman; "she couldn't before, you know," and as she spoke she bended above the bed, a look of expectation on her face as she held Harvey's hood, and his medal, before the new-illumined eyes. The lamp's dim light fell athwart them and they gleamed an instant as if in conscious pride.
The dying woman saw them; her eyes rested a moment on them both, and the kindly purposed neighbour made as if to put them in her hands. But the purpose died before she moved—for the mother's glance showed her that these things were to her now but as the dust. The time was short; the night was coming fast; the dying eyes, so strangely lightened for this parting joy, were consecrated to one purpose and to that alone—and the gleaming gold and the flashing fabric lay unnoticed on the bed, the mother's face still turned upon her children's in yearning eagerness, as though she must prepare against the years that would hide them from her sight till the endless day should give them back to her undimmed gaze forever.
Few were the words that were spoken now. The stream of peace flowed silently; and the reunited three held their high carnival of love—and of strange sorrow-clouded joy—the long tragedy of their united lives breaking at last into the blessedness of resignation, resignation aglow with hope. For this pledge of God's faithfulness was hailed by every heart; and they felt, though no lip voiced the great assurance, that life's long shadows would at last be lost in love's unclouded day.
Into a gentle, untroubled slumber their mother fell at length. When she awaked, her eyes leaped anew, fastening themselves upon her children as though the precious gift had been bestowed afresh.
"I had a lovely—dream," she faltered. "I saw you—both—little children—like you used to be. And I thought your father—was—there too. It was heaven," she went on, her face brightening with a far-off light; "I thought he was there—and all the—the struggle—was past and gone. You asked—me—once, dear—if he was there," her sweet smile turned on Harvey. "Not yet, dear—not yet—but——" She motioned him to bend down beside her. "Your father's living," she whispered low, her shining eyes fixed on his. Jessie retreated, not knowing why, but the wonderful light told her that it was a great moment between mother and son. "He's living," the awed voice whispered again—"but he's afraid. He'll come back—some day—Harvey. And you—you—must forgive him. He'll tell you. And love him; tell him—I'm—waiting there. You must love him—and forgive him—and bring him——" Then she stopped, breathless.
The wonderful tidings seemed at first almost more than the son could bear. With face suffused and eyes aglow, he gazed upon his mother. Suddenly his lips began to move; he spoke like one who has descried something wonderful, and far away.
"Yes, mother," he whispered low, "yes, I'll love him—I love him now; I'll love him—like you love him. And I'll bring him, mother, when he comes back; I'll bring him—we'll come together. I'll tell him what you said," he cried, forgetful who might hear, "and then he'll come—I know he'll come," his face radiant with the thought.
"And Jessie," the mother murmured, "Jessie too."
"Yes, Jessie too," he answered; "come, Jessie—come," as he beckoned to her; she moved gently over and kneeled with him beside the bed.
The day had broken. And the glowing heralds of the approaching sun were making beautiful the path before him. Hill and dale, their shining outlines visible in the distance, were clothed in golden glory; the opal clouds announced the coming of their king; the fragrant trees, and the bursting buds, and the spreading blossoms, and the kindling sward, and the verdure-covered fields gave back the far-flung smile of light. Like a bride adorned for her husband, all stood in unconscious beauty as far as eye could reach.
"Look, mother, look," Harvey cried suddenly, gently lifting the dear head from the pillow as the sanctity of the scene impelled him. "Oh, mother, you can see them all," rapture and sorrow mingling in the tone.
The far-seeing eyes turned slowly towards the window, rested one brief, wonderful moment upon the wonderful sight, then turned away in ineffable tenderness and longing, fastening themselves again where they had been fixed before. For love is a mighty tyrant and the proudest kings must take their place as vassals in his train.
An instant later the dying eyes seemed to leap far beyond, beautiful with rapture. "Look, look," she cried as though the others were the blind, "look, oh look," her voice ringing clear with the last energy of death; "it's lovelier yonder—where it's always spring. Don't you see, Harvey? Jessie, don't you see? And baby's there, Jessie—Harvey, the baby's there—and she's beckoning; look, look, it's you—not me—she's calling. Let us all go," she said, the voice dropping to faintness again, the eyes turning again upon her children; "let us—all—go; it's so—lovely; and we're—all—so tired," as the dear lips became forever still.
And the rejoicing sun came on, the riot of his joy untempered, no badge of mourning in his hand. And he greeted the motherless with unwonted gladness as he filled the little room with light, kissing the silent face as though he would wish it all joy of the well-won rest. For he knew, he knew the secret of it all. He knew Who had transfigured hill and dale and tree and flower with the glance of love; he knew the source of all life's light and shade; he knew the afterward of God; he knew Death's other, sweeter name.
But the motherless made no response. Still they knelt, one on each side of the unanswering form; and still, tightly clasped, each held a wasted hand.