Little did either of them dream how the object of their wonderings had been employed while they were sequestered in their peaceful nook.Having left the table, Harvey loitered about till varying sounds assured him that the meal he had abandoned was completed. Then he strode along till he stood beside the drowsy sorrel, still doing spasmodic battle with the flies. Unbuttoning his coat, he removed the tarts and hid them in a hollow log; their confinement had not improved them much. Then he stood a while, pondering. A relieved and purposeful expression at length indicated that his mind was formed. But considerable time elapsed before a wandering urchin hove in sight—and such a being was absolutely necessary. The boy who thus suddenly appeared was evidently bent on an inspection of the animal, looking even from afar with the critical eye that universal boyhood turns upon a horse. The youngster drifted nearer and nearer; he was contriving to chew a slab of tamarack gum and eat an apple at one and the self-same time, which tempered his gait considerably.Harvey nimbly slipped the noose in the bridle rein, the strap dangling free; the horse was quite oblivious, trying to snatch a little sleep between skirmishes."Hello there!" Harvey called to the boy, "come here—I want you to run a message."The boy responded with a slightly quickened pace, and was almost at his side when he suddenly stood still and emitted a dreary howl."What's the matter?" Harvey asked, slightly alarmed, the sorrel waking completely and looking around at the newcomer."I bit my tongue," the urchin wailed, disgorging his varied grist as he spoke. The dual process had been too complicated for him and he cautiously pasted the gum about a glass alley, storing both away in his breeches pocket. Then he bent his undivided powers upon the apple."That'll soon be all right," Harvey assured him—"rub it with your gums," he directed luminously. "Don't you see that horse is loose?—well, I want you to run back and tell Cecil Craig his horse has got untied; don't tell him who said so.""What'll you give me?" enquired he of the wounded tongue, extending the injured member with telescopic fluency, squinting one eye violently down to survey it. "Is it bleedin'?" he asked tenderly."No—'tisn't even cut," Harvey responded curtly, examining it seriously, nevertheless, with the sympathy that belongs to boyhood. "Let it back—you look like a jay-bird."The other withdrew it reluctantly, the distorted eye slowly recovering its orbit till it rested on Harvey's face. "What'll you give me?" he asked again, making another savage onslaught on the apple.Harvey fumbled in his pocket, rather dismayed. But his face lightened as his hand came forth. "I'll give you this tooth-brush," he said, holding out a sorely wasted specimen. "I found it on the railroad track—some one dropped it, I guess. Or I'll give you this garter," exposing a gaudy circlet of elastic, fatigued and springless; "I found it after the circus moved away."The smaller boy's face lit up a moment at reference to the sacred institution whose departure had left life so dreary."Charlie Winter found a shirt-stud an' half a pair of braces there," he said sympathetically; "he gave the shirt-stud to his sister, but he wears the braces hisself," he added, completing the humble tale."Which'll you take?" Harvey enquired abruptly, fearful lest the sorrel might awaken to his liberty."I don't want that," the younger said contemptuously, glancing at the emaciated tooth-brush; "we've got one at home—a better one than that. An' I don't wear garters," he added scornfully, glancing downwards at his bare legs, "except on Sundays, an' I've got one for that—the left leg never comes down. Haven't you got anything else?" he queried, looking searchingly in the direction of Harvey's pocket."No, that's all I've got," returned Harvey as he restored the tooth-brush to its resting-place, still hopeful, however, of the garter. "It'll make an awful good catapult," he suggested seriously."Let me see it," said the bargainer.Harvey handed it to him. "I'll hold your apple," he offered."Oh, never mind," the other replied discreetly; "I'll just hold it in my mouth," the memory of similar service and its tragic outcome floating before him. The boy took the flaming article in his hand and drew it back, snapping it several times against the sole of his uplifted foot."All right," he said, withdrawing what survived of the apple, "it's a little mushy—but I'll take it."The errand having been repeated in detail, the youngster departed to perform it, an apple stem—but never a core—falling by the wayside as he went. Harvey gazed towards the brow of the hill till he caught the first glimpse of a hurrying form, then slipped in behind the tree, carefully concealed.Cecil Craig came apace, for he could see the dangling strap at a little distance. Hurriedly retying the horse, he was about to retrace his steps when he suddenly felt himself in the grip of an evidently hostile hand, securely attached from behind to the collar of his coat."Now you can ask me those questions if you like," he heard a rather hoarse voice saying; and writhing round he looked into a face flaming with a wrath that was rekindling fast.Young Craig both squirmed and squealed; but the one was as fruitless as the other. Harvey was bent on dealing faithfully with him; and lack of spirit, rather than of strength, made the struggle a comparatively unequal one. After the preliminary application was completed, he dragged Craig to where he had hidden the rhubarb tarts, still crestfallen from solitary confinement."Why don't you make some more jokes about the tarts my mother made?" Harvey enquired hotly; "you were real funny about them just before dinner." This reference to his mother seemed to fan the flame of his wrath anew, and another application was the natural result."Let me go," Cecil gasped. "I was only joking—ouch! I was just joking, I say," as he tried to release himself from Harvey's tightening grip."So'm I," retorted Harvey; "just a piece of play, the same as yours—only we're kind o' slow at seeing the fun of it, eh?" shaking the now solemn humourist till his hair rose and fell—"I'd have seen the point a good deal quicker if my mother hadn't worked so hard," he went on, flushing with the recollection and devoting himself anew to the facetious industry. "Pick up those tarts," he thundered suddenly.Cecil looked incredulously at his antagonist. One glance persuaded him and he slowly picked up one by the outer edge."Take 'em all—the whole three," Harvey directed in a low tense tone. Which Cecil immediately did, not deeming the time opportune to refuse."Now give them to your horse," Harvey said; "you know you said you'd a good mind to feed him with them.""I won't do it," Cecil declared stoutly. "I'll fight before I do it."Harvey smiled. "It won't do to have any fighting," he said amiably. "I'll just give them to him myself—you better come along," he suggested, tightening his grip as he saw Cecil glancing fondly towards the brow of the hill, visions of a more peaceful scene calling him to return.Harvey escorted his captive to the horse's head; the equine was now wide awake and taking a lively interest in the animated interview; such preparations for mounting he had never seen before. But he was evidently disinclined to be drawn into the argument; for when Harvey held the rhubarb pie, rather battle-worn now, beneath his nose, he sniffed contemptuously and turned scornfully away.Cecil, somewhat convalescent, indulged a sneering little laugh. "Your little joke don't work," he said. "Pompey won't look at "em.""You'll wish he had, before you're through with them," Harvey returned significantly—"you've got to eat them between you.""Got to what?—between who?" Cecil gasped, years of grammatical instruction wasted now as the dread prospect dawned grim and gray; "I don't understand you," he faltered, turning remarkably white for one so utterly in the dark."It doesn't need much understanding," Harvey returned laconically. "Go ahead."Then the real struggle began; compared to this difference of opinion, and the physical demonstration wherein it found expression, the previous encounter was but as kittens' frolic in the sun.The opening argument concluded after a protracted struggle, Harvey emerged uppermost, still pressing his hospitality upon the prostrate Cecil. "May as well walk the plank," he was saying; "besides, they're getting dryer all the time," he informed him as a friend."Let me up," gurgled Cecil. Harvey promptly released him; seated on a log, the latter began to renew the debate."I've had my dinner," he pleaded; "an' I ate all I could.""A little more won't hurt you—always room at the top, you know. Anyhow it's just dessert," responded Harvey, holding out one of the tarts. Whereat Cecil again valiantly refused—and a worthy demonstration followed.The conquered at last kissed the rod and the solemn operation began, Harvey cheerfully breaking off chunk after chunk and handing them to the weary muncher. "There's lots of poor children in New York would be glad to get them," he said in answer to one of Cecil's most vigorous protests."Say," murmured the stall-fed as he paused, almost mired in the middle of tart number two, "let me take the rest home an' eat 'em there—I'll really eat 'em—on my honour; I promise you," he declared solemnly."I'm surprised a fellow brought up like you would think of carryin' stuff home to eat it—that's bad form. Here, take it—shut your eyes and open your mouth," commanded his keeper, holding another generous fragment to his lips."I say," gulped Cecil plaintively, "give us a drink—it's chokin' me.""Shouldn't drink at your meals," returned Harvey; "bad for your digestion—but I guess a drop or two won't hurt you. Here, come this way—put on your cap—an' fetch that along," pointing at the surviving tart; "the exercise'll do you good," and he led the way downwards to a little brook meandering through the woods. No hand was on the victim's collar now; poor Cecil was in no shape for flight."Give us your cap," said Harvey, thrusting it into the sparkling water and holding the streaming receptacle to Cecil's lips; "that's enough—that'll do just now; don't want you to get foundered.""I've had enough," groaned the guest a minute later, as if the moment had only come; "I've got it nearly all down—an' I hate crusts. I won't; by heavens, I tell you I won't," bracing himself as vigorously as his cargo would permit."I'm the one to say when you've had enough," Harvey retorted shortly, throwing himself into battle array as he spoke, "an' you bet you'll eat the crusts—I'll teach you to eat what's set before you an' make no remarks about the stuff—specially when it's not your own," he said, reverting to the original offense and warming up at the recollection. "You'd make a great fight, wouldn't you—fightin' you'd be like fightin' a bread-puddin'," he concluded scornfully.Cecil munched laboriously on. "There," Harvey suddenly interrupted, "now you've had enough—that wasn't rhubarb you were eatin'," he flung contemptuously at him; "'twas crow—an' that'll teach you to make sport of folks you think beneath you. You'll have some food for thought for a while—you'd better walk round a bit," he concluded with a grin as he turned and strode away, leaving the inlaid Cecil alone with his burdened bosom.XIITHE ENCIRCLING GLOOMReal boyhood, with its cheerfulness amid present cares and its oblivion to those that were yet to come, was almost past. Such at least would have been the opinion of any accurate observer if he had noted Harvey's face that summer morning as he pressed along the city street. A deeper seriousness than mere years bestow looked out from the half-troubled, half-hopeful gaze; not that it was ill-becoming—the contrary rather—for there was something of steady resoluteness in his eyes that attested his purpose to play some worthy part in this fevered life whose stern and warlike face had already looked its challenge to his own.How pathetic were many a poor procession—and how romantic too—if we could but see the invisibles that accompany the humblest trudgers on the humblest street!For Memory and Hope and Fear and Sorrow and silent Pain—Death too, noiselessly pursuing—and Love, chiefest of them all, mute and anguished often-times, crowding Death aside and battling bravely in the shadowy struggle; how often might all these be seen accompanying the lowly, had we but the lightened vision!Thus was it there that summer day. The careless noticed nothing but a well developed lad, his poor clothes as carefully repaired and brushed as faithful hands could make them for his visit to the city; and they saw beside him only a white-faced woman, her whole mien marked by timidity and gentleness, as if she felt how poor and small was the part she played in the surging life about her. Both made their way carefully, keeping close in under the shadow of the buildings, as if anxious to escape the jostling throng. The woman's hand was in her son's; she seemed to be trusting altogether to his guidance and protection, and very tenderly he shielded her from the little perils of the street. Timidly, yet right eagerly, they made their way—for the quest was a great one; and all the years to come, they knew, were wrapped in the bosom of that anxious hour."Hadn't we better get on one of those street cars, mother?" the boy asked, glancing wistfully at a passing trolley. "I'm sure you're tired.""How much does it cost, Harvey?" the mother asked."I'm not very sure, but I think it's ten cents for us both," he answered, relaxing his pace.The mother pressed on anew. "We can't afford it, dear," she said; "it'll take such a lot to pay the doctor—we'll have to save all we can; and I'm not very tired," she concluded, taking his hand again.When, after much of scrutiny and more of enquiry, they stood at length before the doctor's imposing place, both instinctively stopped and gazed a little, the outlines of the stately house floating but very dimly before the woman's wistful eyes."Will we ask him how much it costs before we go in?" Harvey's mother asked him anxiously.The boy pondered a moment. "I don't think so," he said at length; "he mightn't like it.""But perhaps we haven't got enough.""Well, we can send the rest after we get home—I've got the raspberry money left."The woman sighed and smiled together, permitting herself to be led on up the steps.Harvey's hand was on the bell: "You don't suppose he'll do anything to you, will he, mother? He won't hurt you, will he?""No, no, child, of course not; he'll make me well," his mother said reassuringly. In a moment the bell was answered and the excited pair were ushered in.Nothing could have been more kindly than their reception at the hands of the eminent doctor; nor could the most distinguished patient have been more carefully and sympathetically examined. Almost breathless, Harvey sat waiting for the verdict.But the doctor was very vague in his conclusions. "You must use this lotion. And—and we'll hope for the best," he said; "and whenever you're in the city you must come and see me—don't make a special trip for that purpose, of course," he added cautiously."Why?" Harvey asked acutely.The doctor made an evasive reply. Harvey's face was dark."How much is it?" he said in a hollow voice, his hand going to his pocket as he spoke."Oh, that's not important—we'll just leave that till you're in the city again," said the kindly doctor, shaking Harvey playfully by the shoulder."I'd sooner pay it now, sir; I've got—I've got some money," declared the boy."Well, all right," returned the physician; "let me see—how would a dollar appeal to you? My charge will be one dollar," he said gravely.Harvey was busy unwinding his little roll. "It's not very much," he said without looking up; "I thought 'twould be a lot more than that—I haven't got anything smaller than five dollars, sir.""Neither have I—what a rich bunch we are," the doctor answered quickly; "I tell you—I'm liable to be up in Glenallen some of these days for a bowling match; I'll just collect it then," leading the way towards the door as he spoke, his farewell full of cordial cheer.Neither mother nor son uttered a word till they were some little distance from the doctor's office. Suddenly the former spoke."The world's full of trouble, Harvey—but I believe it's fuller of kindness. It's wonderful how many tender-hearted folks there are. Wasn't it good of him?"Harvey made no answer, but his hand loosened itself from hers. "I believe I—I forgot something," he said abruptly. "Just wait here, mother; I'll be back in just a minute—you can rest here, see," leading her to a bench on the green sward of a little crescent not much more than half a stone's throw away.A minute later he was back in the doctor's office, the surprised physician opening the door himself. "What's the matter, boy—forgotten something?" he queried."No," Harvey answered stoutly, his face very white; "but I knew you didn't tell me everything, sir—and I want to know. I want you to tell me now, quick—mother's waiting.""Why do you want to know, laddie?""Because she's my mother, sir. And I've got a little sister at home—and I'm going to take care of them both; and I want to know if mother's eyes are going to get better, sir," he almost panted, one statement chasing the other as fast as the words could come.The doctor's face was soft with grave compassion; long years of familiarity with human suffering had not chilled that sacred fire. Putting his arm about the youth's shoulder, he drew the throbbing form close to him. "My boy," he began in a low voice, "I won't deceive you. Your mother's eyesight is almost gone. But still," he hastened on as the lad started and turned his pleading eyes up to the doctor's face, "it might come back—you can never tell. It's an affection of the optic nerve—it's often aggravated by a violent shock of some kind—and I've had cases where it did come back. It might return, lad, might come very slowly or very suddenly—and I can say no more than that."The poor boy never moved; the mournful eyes never wandered an instant from the doctor's face. The silence seemed long; at least to the physician. One or two patients had arrived meantime, waiting in the outer room—and a coachman's shining hat could be seen through the spacious window. But it did not dawn on Harvey that such a doctor could have any other care in all the world, or any serious duty except such as now engrossed them both."What are you going to do?" the physician said presently."I'm going back to my mother," the boy answered simply, picking up his hat."Oh, yes," and the other repressed a smile; "but I mean—what are you going to do at home? What will you go at in Glenallen—you go to school, don't you?""I'm going to work all the time," Harvey replied resolutely, moving along the hall.The doctor's hand was on the door. "I'm sorry for you, my lad," he said gently. "But there's always hope—we're all God's patients after all," he added earnestly.Harvey put his hand against the opening door, his face turning in fullness of candour and trust towards the doctor."I've prayed about mother for a long time," he said; "is it any use to keep on, sir? You're a specialist and you ought to know."The doctor closed the door quite tight. "Don't let any specialist settle that matter for you," he said a little hoarsely. "It often seems as if the good Lord wouldn't begin till they get through. So you pray on, my lad—for there's no healing, after all, but comes from God." Then he opened the door and the broken-hearted went out into the street.Suffused and dim, blinking bravely through it all, were the mournful eyes as Harvey retraced his steps towards his mother; swift and deep was the train of thought that wound its way through his troubled mind. For there is no ally to deep and earnest thinking like a loving heart that anguish has bestirred—all true quickening of our mental faculties is the handiwork of the soul. Harvey saw the trees, the sky, the birds between—all different now, more precious, more wonderful to behold; for he saw them in the light of his mother's deepening darkness, and the glory of all that was evanishing from her appeared the more beautiful, pitifully beautiful, to his own misty eyes.Involuntarily he thought of the future; of the twilight years that lay beyond—and his inward eyes turned shuddering away. The years that were past, those at least that had come and gone before the threatening shadow first appeared, seemed to lie behind him like a lane of light. Poverty and obscurity and sorrow and care had been well content to abide together in their humble home—almost their only guests save love. Yet his memory now of those earlier years was only of their gladness, their happiness, their light—all the rest had vanished like a dream when one awakes. He remembered only that they two, the fatherless, had been wont to look deep and lovingly into the eyes that looked back their wealth of fondness into the children's faces—night or day, day or night, that light was never quenched; they could see her and she could see them—and to look was to possess, though his early thoughts could not have defined this mystic truth, cherish it fondly though they did. But for the future—ah me! for the future, with blindness in a mother's eyes.Yet Harvey's thought, swift and pensive as it was, was troubled by no prospect of burden for himself and by no apprehension of all the load that must be moved, under cover of the fast-falling dark, from his mother's shoulders to his own. His thought was what must be called heart-thought, and that alone. If a fleeting view of new responsibilities, or a melting picture of his sister's face, hung for a moment before the inward eye, it retreated fast before the great vision that flooded his soul with tenderness, the vision of a woman—and she his mother—sitting apart in the silence and the dark, the busy hands denied the luxury of work, the ever-open Bible closed before her, the great world of beauty receding into shadow; and, most of all, there rose before him the image of her face, unresponsive and unsmiling when the tender eyes of her own children should fall upon it, mutely searching, yearning silently for the answering sunshine of days that would come no more.Without a word Harvey took his seat beside his mother. Her hand slipped quietly out and took his own, but without speech or sound—and in that moment Harvey learned, as he had never known before, how cruel are the lips of silence. Suddenly he noticed a cab, rolling idly along, the driver throwing his eyes hither and thither, poising like a kingfisher for its plunge.The boy raised his hand in signal and the cabby swooped down upon him like one who has found his prey."Get in, mother—we'll drive back," he said quietly.His mother, startled beyond measure at the prospect of extravagance so unwonted, began to remonstrate, almost refusing. But a different note seemed to have come into Harvey's voice, his words touched with something that indicated a new era, something of the authority that great compassion gives, and in a moment she found herself yielding with a dependent confidence she had never felt before."Where to?" asked the man."Anywhere," said Harvey—"somewhere near the station; I'll tell you where.""It'll—it'll cost a dollar," the man ventured, his hand still on the door and his eyes making a swift inventory of the boy's rather unpromising apparel."I'll pay you," the latter answered sternly. "Shut the door; close the window too," he ordered—"close both the windows. And don't drive fast."The spendthrift impulse must have been heaven-born and that vagrant chariot been piloted from afar. For they two within felt something of sanctuary peace as the driver vanished to his place and they found themselves alone—alone with each other and the sorrow that was deep and thrilling as their love. They could hear and feel the busy tide of life about them; the pomp of wealth and the tumult of business frowned from towering mansions, or swept indifferent by, knowing nothing, caring less, about those nestling two who were all alone in the mighty city—but they had each other, and the haughty world was shut out from them, all its cruel grandeur, all its surging billows powerless to rob them of what their stricken hearts held dear. And, if the truth were told, many a stately house and many a flashing carriage that passed them by, held less of love's real wealth than did the mud-bespattered cab that creaked and rumbled on its way.Several minutes elapsed before either spoke. Then the mother turned towards the silent lad, her face sweet in the wistful smile that stole across it."Did you find what you went back for, dear?" she asked.Harvey cast one sharp agonized glance towards the gentle face—and it told him all. He knew then that the pain of either concealing or revealing was to be spared him; but his heart leaped in pity and in boundless love as he saw the light upon the worn face, the brave and tender signal that he knew the wounded spirit had furnished all for him.He spoke no answer to her words; he knew that she expected none. But the answer came nevertheless, and in richer language than halting words could learn. For he rose half erect in the carriage, careless as to whether the world's disdainful eye might see, his arms stealing around the yielding and now trembling form with a strength and passion that were the gift of the first really anguished hour his life had ever known.The woman felt its power, caught its message, even inwardly rejoiced in the great security; pavilion like to this she had never found before in all her storm-swept life."Oh, Harvey," she murmured at last, "Harvey, my son, God's been good to me; I'm almost happy when—when I feel how much you are to me now—and Jessie too," she added quickly; "poor Jessie—it'll be hard for her."Mutely, reverently, guided from on high, Harvey strove to speak the burden of his heart. But it ended only in tears and tender tokens of hand and lip, his sorrow outpouring the story of its pity and devotion as best it could."I'll always take care of you, mother," he whispered; "always—just like you've taken care of us. And we'll wait till you get better, mother—we'll wait together."His mother's fingers were straying about his hair. "I know it, darling," she said; "some ways I'm so poor, Harvey; but other ways I'm wonderfully rich—the highest ways. And now, Harvey," straightening up as she spoke, "there's something I want to attend to. You must tell the man to drive to a store where we get clothes—coats and things, you know. I want to get something.""What?" asked Harvey suspiciously."It's for you. It's a winter coat—you know you haven't one, Harvey."Then followed a stout protest and then a vigorous debate. But the mother conquered. "You mustn't forget that I'm your mother, Harvey," she finally urged, and Harvey had no response for that. But after they had alighted and the purchase had been duly made he contrived to withdraw the genial salesman beyond reach of his mother's hearing."Have you got something the same price as this?" he asked hurriedly; "something for a lady—a cloak, or a dressing-gown—one that would fit, you know," he said, glancing in the direction of his mother.The clerk was responsive enough; in a moment the exchange was effected, and Harvey, his mother's arm linked with his, led the way out to the crowded street.They made their way back to the station. As Harvey passed within its arching portals, he bethought himself sadly of the high hope, now almost dead and gone, that had upborne his heart when last he had passed beneath them. It seemed like months, rather than a few hours, so charged with suspense and feeling had those hours been.The train was in readiness and they were soon settled for the homeward journey. But scarcely had they begun to move when the door before them opened and Cecil Craig made his appearance. He evidently knew that Harvey and his mother were aboard, for his eye roamed enquiringly over the passengers, resting as it fell on the two serious faces. Suddenly he seemed to note that Harvey had pre-empted the seat opposite to the one on which he and his mother had taken their places; a small valise and the parcel containing the surreptitious purchase were lying on it. Whereupon Cecil strode forward. "Take those things off," he hectored—"Want the whole train to yourself? Don't you know that's against the rules—I want to sit there."Harvey had not seen him approaching, for his eyes had been furtively studying his mother's face. He started, looking up at Cecil almost as though he were not there; then he quietly removed the encumbrances and even turned the seat for Cecil to take his place. He wondered dumbly to himself what might be the cause of this strange calmness, this absolute indifference; he did not know how a master-sorrow can make all lesser irritations like the dust."Keep it," Cecil said insolently. "I'm going back to the Pullman—I wanted to see who'd walk the plank to-day," casting at Harvey a contemptuous sneer the latter did not even see. And no thought of Cecil, or his insult, or his phantom triumph, mingled with Harvey's grave reflections as they rolled swiftly homeward; he had other matters to consider, of more importance far.XIIITHE DEWS OF SORROWThe dusk was gathering about them as the returning travellers wended their way along the almost deserted street. The dim outline of the slumbering hills could be seen across the river—for Glenallen had grown in a circle upon surrounding heights—and as Harvey's eyes rested now and again upon them in the dying light of the summer day, he felt a secret sense of help and comfort, as if some one knew and cared for his clouded life. It seemed good to walk these streets again—so different from those of the city—with the familiar faces and the kindly voices; and often was he stopped and questioned, not without delicacy and chaste reserve, as to the outcome of their pilgrimage. Which gave his heart some balm, at least for the moment."Look, mother," he cried suddenly, forgetting in his eagerness; "look—I can see our light," his face glowing as if the gleam were from palace windows. His mother raised her head quickly, as if she also saw. Perhaps it was even clearer to her, though she beheld it not. But together they quickened their pace, for they knew that earth's dearest shelter, how humble soever it might be, was just before.And as they came closer, Harvey could see, the white frock showing clear against the shadows, the outline of his sister's form. Poor child, the day had been long for her, waiting and wondering, the portent of the tidings that the night might bring mingling with all her childish thoughts. She was moving out from the door-step now, peering eagerly, starting forward or restraining herself again as doubt and certainty of the approaching pair impelled her. Suddenly she seemed to be quite sure, and with a little cry she bounded along the street, the eager footfalls pattering with the rapidity of love.The mother knew that music well; her hand slipped out of Harvey's grasp, the hungry arms outstretched as she felt the ardent form approaching—and in a moment, tears and laughter blending, the girlish arms were tight about the mother's neck and warm kisses were healing the wound within. Presently Jessie withdrew her face from the heaving bosom, her eyes turned wistfully upon her mother's, plaintively searching for the cure her childlike hope had expected to find obvious at a glance. Disappointment and pain spoke from her eyes—she could see no difference—and she turned almost reproachfully upon her brother."What did he—what——?" she began; but something on Harvey's face fell like a forbidding finger on her lips and her question died in silence."I brought you something pretty from the city, Jessie," the mother broke in. She knew what had checked the words. "It's in the satchel, dear—and we'll open it as soon as we get home.""What's in that other bundle?" asked the child."It's Harvey's winter coat," replied the mother."I'm so glad," Jessie said simply. "And oh, I've got good news too," she went on enthusiastically. "I sold three pairs of those knitted stockings—all myself; and the man wouldn't take any change—I only asked him once. It was thirty-one cents—and the money's in the cup," she concluded eagerly as they passed within the little door, the bell above clanging their welcome home.The valise was duly opened and Jessie's present produced amid great elation. Only a simple blue sash, selected by her brother with grave deliberation from the assortment on a bargain counter that lay like victims on an altar; but Jessie's joy was beautiful to behold, aided and abetted in it as she was by the other two, both mother and son trying on the flashing girdle, only to declare that it became Jessie best of all.Suddenly the girl exclaimed: "Oh, Harvey, the chickens missed you so. I'm sure they did—Snappy wouldn't take any supper. They're in bed, of course, but I don't think they're sleeping—let's just go out and see them. Come."Harvey was willing enough, and the two sallied out together. But Jessie held her hand tight on the door, drowsy chucklings within all unheeded, as she turned her white face upon her brother."Now," she said imperiously, the voice low and strained, "tell me—tell me quick, Harvey.""I thought you wanted me to see the chickens," he evaded."I hate the chickens—and that was a lie about Snappy's supper. I just wanted to ask you about mother. Tell me quick, Harvey."Harvey stammered something; but he needed to say no more—the girl sank sobbing at his feet."I knew it," she cried. "I just knew it—oh, mother, mother! And she'll soon never see again, and it'll always be night all the time—an' she'll never look at you or me any more, Harvey, she'll never look at you or me again. An' I got a little photograph took to-day, a little tintype—just five cents—an' I thought she'd be able to see it when she came back. Oh, Harvey, Harvey," and the unhappy child, long years a struggler with poverty and cloud, poured forth, almost as with a woman's voice, the first strain of anguish her little heart had ever known.Harvey sank beside her, his arm holding her close. The twilight was now deepening into dark, a fitting mantel for these two enshadowed hearts. The still form of the bending brother, already giving promise of manhood's strength, seemed, even in outward aspect, to speak of inner compassion as he bended over the slender and weaker frame of his little sister. Strong and fearless and true he was; and if any eye had been keen enough to penetrate that encircling gloom and catch a vision of all that lay behind the humble scene, the knightly soul of the struggling boy would have stood forth like a sheltering oak—so powerless, nevertheless, to shield the clinging life beside him, overswept as it was by the winds and waves of sorrow. But the purpose and the heart were there—the fatherless spreading gentle wings above the fatherless—and the scene was a holy one, typical of all humanity at its highest, and faintly faltering the story of the Cross. For if human tenderness and pity are not lights, broken though they be, of the great Heart Divine, then all life's noblest voices are but mockery and lies."Don't, Jessie, please don't," he murmured, his own tears flowing fast. "It'll only keep her from getting better—she'll see your eyes all red an'——""She won't—she can't," sobbed the girl; "you know she can't—she can't see, Harvey," a fresh tide outbreaking at the thought."But she'll feel it, Jessie. Mothers can feel everything like that—'specially everybody's own mother," he urged, vainly trying to control his own grief. "And anyhow, the doctor said she might get better some time—perhaps all of a sudden. And we've got to help her, Jessie; and we've got to make her happy too—and we can—mother said we could," he cried, his tone growing firmer as the great life-work loomed before him.Hope is the most contagious of all forms of health; and with wonderful gentleness and power the youthful comforter drew the sobbing heart beside him into the shelter of his own tender courage, the hiding-place of his own loving purpose. Soon Jessie was staring, wide-eyed, at her brother, as he unfolded the new duties they must perform together. That word itself was never used, but her heart answered, as all true hearts must ever answer, to the appeal of God."I'll try, Harvey," she said at last. "I'll do the best I can to help mother to get well—an' I'll get up in the mornings an' make the porridge myself," she avowed, smiling, the first step showing clear.Hand in hand they went back to the house, the light of eager purpose upon both their faces. As they entered, a familiar voice fell on Harvey's ear."We was jest a-goin' by,"—it was David Borland's staccato—"an' I thought I'd drop in an' see if you was all safe home. Don't take off your things, Madeline; we're not a-visitin'," he said to the girl beside him. For she was bidding fair to settle for a protracted stay."Yes, we're safe home, thank you," answered Mrs. Simmons, "and it's lovely to get back. I'm a poor traveller.""'Tain't safe to travel much these days," rejoined Mr. Borland after he had greeted Harvey; whose face, as well as a fugitive word or two, hushed any queries that were on David's lips—"so many accidents, I always feel skeery on the trains—must be hard to run Divine predestination on schedule, since they got them heavy engines on the light rails. I often think the undertakers is part of the railroad trust," he concluded, smiling sententiously into all the faces at once.Some further conversation ensued, prompted in a general way by the excursion to the city, and dealing finally with the question of eminent city doctors and their merits."I only went onct to a big city man like that," David said reminiscently, "and it was about my eyes, too. You see, I rammed my shaving-brush into one, one evenin' when I was shavin' in the dusk. Well, I was awful skeery about what he'd charge—didn't have much of the almighty needful in them days. An' I heard he charged the Governor-General's missus five thousand dollars, a week or two before, for takin' a speck o' dust out of her eye—castin' out the mote, as the Scriptur says; I'd leave a sand-pit stay there before I'd shell out like that. Well, anyhow, I was skeered, 'cause I knew me an' the nobility had the same kind of eyes. So I didn't dress very good—wore some old togs. An' after he got through—just about four minutes an' a half—I asked him what was the damage. Says he: 'What do you do, Mr. Borland?' 'I work in a foundry,' says I. 'Oh, well,' says he, 'call it five dollars.' So I yanked out a roll o' bills about the size of a hind quarter o' beef, an' I burrows till I gets a five—then I gives it to him. 'How do you come to have a wad like that, Mr. Borland,' says he, 'if you work in a foundry?' 'I own the foundry,' says I, restorin' the wad to where most Scotchmen carries their flask. 'Oh!' says he, lookin' hard at the little fiver. 'Oh, I'll give you another toadskin,' says I, 'jest to show there's no hard feelin'.' 'Keep it,' says he—an' he was laughin' like a guinea hen, 'keep it, an' buy a marble monument for yourself, and put at the bottom of it what a smart man you was,'" and David slapped his knee afresh in gleeful triumph. For the others, too, there was laughter and to spare; which very purpose David had designed his autobiography to accomplish. A moment later Madeline and her father were at the door, the little circle, laughing still, around him as they stepped without."You're a terrible one for shakin' hands, girl," David said to his daughter as they stood a moment on the step. "That's a habit I never got much into me." For Madeline's farewell had had much of meaning in it, the sweet face suffused with sympathy as she shook hands with all—the mother first, then Jessie, then Harvey—and the low voice had dropped a word or two that told the depth and sincerity of her feeling. When she said good-bye to Harvey, the pressure of her hand, light and fluttering as it was, found a response so warm and clinging that a quick flush overflowed her face, before which the other's fell, so striking was its beauty, so full of deep significance the message of the strong and soulful eyes. Her father's child was she, and the fascination of sorrow had early touched her heart.The door was almost closed when David turned to call back lustily:"Oh, Harvey—Harvey, Mr. Nickle wants to see you; Geordie Nickle, you know; an' if you come round to my office to-morrow about half-past four, I think you'll find him there. He's got a great scheme on; he's the whitest man I ever run acrost, I think—for a Scotchman."
Little did either of them dream how the object of their wonderings had been employed while they were sequestered in their peaceful nook.
Having left the table, Harvey loitered about till varying sounds assured him that the meal he had abandoned was completed. Then he strode along till he stood beside the drowsy sorrel, still doing spasmodic battle with the flies. Unbuttoning his coat, he removed the tarts and hid them in a hollow log; their confinement had not improved them much. Then he stood a while, pondering. A relieved and purposeful expression at length indicated that his mind was formed. But considerable time elapsed before a wandering urchin hove in sight—and such a being was absolutely necessary. The boy who thus suddenly appeared was evidently bent on an inspection of the animal, looking even from afar with the critical eye that universal boyhood turns upon a horse. The youngster drifted nearer and nearer; he was contriving to chew a slab of tamarack gum and eat an apple at one and the self-same time, which tempered his gait considerably.
Harvey nimbly slipped the noose in the bridle rein, the strap dangling free; the horse was quite oblivious, trying to snatch a little sleep between skirmishes.
"Hello there!" Harvey called to the boy, "come here—I want you to run a message."
The boy responded with a slightly quickened pace, and was almost at his side when he suddenly stood still and emitted a dreary howl.
"What's the matter?" Harvey asked, slightly alarmed, the sorrel waking completely and looking around at the newcomer.
"I bit my tongue," the urchin wailed, disgorging his varied grist as he spoke. The dual process had been too complicated for him and he cautiously pasted the gum about a glass alley, storing both away in his breeches pocket. Then he bent his undivided powers upon the apple.
"That'll soon be all right," Harvey assured him—"rub it with your gums," he directed luminously. "Don't you see that horse is loose?—well, I want you to run back and tell Cecil Craig his horse has got untied; don't tell him who said so."
"What'll you give me?" enquired he of the wounded tongue, extending the injured member with telescopic fluency, squinting one eye violently down to survey it. "Is it bleedin'?" he asked tenderly.
"No—'tisn't even cut," Harvey responded curtly, examining it seriously, nevertheless, with the sympathy that belongs to boyhood. "Let it back—you look like a jay-bird."
The other withdrew it reluctantly, the distorted eye slowly recovering its orbit till it rested on Harvey's face. "What'll you give me?" he asked again, making another savage onslaught on the apple.
Harvey fumbled in his pocket, rather dismayed. But his face lightened as his hand came forth. "I'll give you this tooth-brush," he said, holding out a sorely wasted specimen. "I found it on the railroad track—some one dropped it, I guess. Or I'll give you this garter," exposing a gaudy circlet of elastic, fatigued and springless; "I found it after the circus moved away."
The smaller boy's face lit up a moment at reference to the sacred institution whose departure had left life so dreary.
"Charlie Winter found a shirt-stud an' half a pair of braces there," he said sympathetically; "he gave the shirt-stud to his sister, but he wears the braces hisself," he added, completing the humble tale.
"Which'll you take?" Harvey enquired abruptly, fearful lest the sorrel might awaken to his liberty.
"I don't want that," the younger said contemptuously, glancing at the emaciated tooth-brush; "we've got one at home—a better one than that. An' I don't wear garters," he added scornfully, glancing downwards at his bare legs, "except on Sundays, an' I've got one for that—the left leg never comes down. Haven't you got anything else?" he queried, looking searchingly in the direction of Harvey's pocket.
"No, that's all I've got," returned Harvey as he restored the tooth-brush to its resting-place, still hopeful, however, of the garter. "It'll make an awful good catapult," he suggested seriously.
"Let me see it," said the bargainer.
Harvey handed it to him. "I'll hold your apple," he offered.
"Oh, never mind," the other replied discreetly; "I'll just hold it in my mouth," the memory of similar service and its tragic outcome floating before him. The boy took the flaming article in his hand and drew it back, snapping it several times against the sole of his uplifted foot.
"All right," he said, withdrawing what survived of the apple, "it's a little mushy—but I'll take it."
The errand having been repeated in detail, the youngster departed to perform it, an apple stem—but never a core—falling by the wayside as he went. Harvey gazed towards the brow of the hill till he caught the first glimpse of a hurrying form, then slipped in behind the tree, carefully concealed.
Cecil Craig came apace, for he could see the dangling strap at a little distance. Hurriedly retying the horse, he was about to retrace his steps when he suddenly felt himself in the grip of an evidently hostile hand, securely attached from behind to the collar of his coat.
"Now you can ask me those questions if you like," he heard a rather hoarse voice saying; and writhing round he looked into a face flaming with a wrath that was rekindling fast.
Young Craig both squirmed and squealed; but the one was as fruitless as the other. Harvey was bent on dealing faithfully with him; and lack of spirit, rather than of strength, made the struggle a comparatively unequal one. After the preliminary application was completed, he dragged Craig to where he had hidden the rhubarb tarts, still crestfallen from solitary confinement.
"Why don't you make some more jokes about the tarts my mother made?" Harvey enquired hotly; "you were real funny about them just before dinner." This reference to his mother seemed to fan the flame of his wrath anew, and another application was the natural result.
"Let me go," Cecil gasped. "I was only joking—ouch! I was just joking, I say," as he tried to release himself from Harvey's tightening grip.
"So'm I," retorted Harvey; "just a piece of play, the same as yours—only we're kind o' slow at seeing the fun of it, eh?" shaking the now solemn humourist till his hair rose and fell—"I'd have seen the point a good deal quicker if my mother hadn't worked so hard," he went on, flushing with the recollection and devoting himself anew to the facetious industry. "Pick up those tarts," he thundered suddenly.
Cecil looked incredulously at his antagonist. One glance persuaded him and he slowly picked up one by the outer edge.
"Take 'em all—the whole three," Harvey directed in a low tense tone. Which Cecil immediately did, not deeming the time opportune to refuse.
"Now give them to your horse," Harvey said; "you know you said you'd a good mind to feed him with them."
"I won't do it," Cecil declared stoutly. "I'll fight before I do it."
Harvey smiled. "It won't do to have any fighting," he said amiably. "I'll just give them to him myself—you better come along," he suggested, tightening his grip as he saw Cecil glancing fondly towards the brow of the hill, visions of a more peaceful scene calling him to return.
Harvey escorted his captive to the horse's head; the equine was now wide awake and taking a lively interest in the animated interview; such preparations for mounting he had never seen before. But he was evidently disinclined to be drawn into the argument; for when Harvey held the rhubarb pie, rather battle-worn now, beneath his nose, he sniffed contemptuously and turned scornfully away.
Cecil, somewhat convalescent, indulged a sneering little laugh. "Your little joke don't work," he said. "Pompey won't look at "em."
"You'll wish he had, before you're through with them," Harvey returned significantly—"you've got to eat them between you."
"Got to what?—between who?" Cecil gasped, years of grammatical instruction wasted now as the dread prospect dawned grim and gray; "I don't understand you," he faltered, turning remarkably white for one so utterly in the dark.
"It doesn't need much understanding," Harvey returned laconically. "Go ahead."
Then the real struggle began; compared to this difference of opinion, and the physical demonstration wherein it found expression, the previous encounter was but as kittens' frolic in the sun.
The opening argument concluded after a protracted struggle, Harvey emerged uppermost, still pressing his hospitality upon the prostrate Cecil. "May as well walk the plank," he was saying; "besides, they're getting dryer all the time," he informed him as a friend.
"Let me up," gurgled Cecil. Harvey promptly released him; seated on a log, the latter began to renew the debate.
"I've had my dinner," he pleaded; "an' I ate all I could."
"A little more won't hurt you—always room at the top, you know. Anyhow it's just dessert," responded Harvey, holding out one of the tarts. Whereat Cecil again valiantly refused—and a worthy demonstration followed.
The conquered at last kissed the rod and the solemn operation began, Harvey cheerfully breaking off chunk after chunk and handing them to the weary muncher. "There's lots of poor children in New York would be glad to get them," he said in answer to one of Cecil's most vigorous protests.
"Say," murmured the stall-fed as he paused, almost mired in the middle of tart number two, "let me take the rest home an' eat 'em there—I'll really eat 'em—on my honour; I promise you," he declared solemnly.
"I'm surprised a fellow brought up like you would think of carryin' stuff home to eat it—that's bad form. Here, take it—shut your eyes and open your mouth," commanded his keeper, holding another generous fragment to his lips.
"I say," gulped Cecil plaintively, "give us a drink—it's chokin' me."
"Shouldn't drink at your meals," returned Harvey; "bad for your digestion—but I guess a drop or two won't hurt you. Here, come this way—put on your cap—an' fetch that along," pointing at the surviving tart; "the exercise'll do you good," and he led the way downwards to a little brook meandering through the woods. No hand was on the victim's collar now; poor Cecil was in no shape for flight.
"Give us your cap," said Harvey, thrusting it into the sparkling water and holding the streaming receptacle to Cecil's lips; "that's enough—that'll do just now; don't want you to get foundered."
"I've had enough," groaned the guest a minute later, as if the moment had only come; "I've got it nearly all down—an' I hate crusts. I won't; by heavens, I tell you I won't," bracing himself as vigorously as his cargo would permit.
"I'm the one to say when you've had enough," Harvey retorted shortly, throwing himself into battle array as he spoke, "an' you bet you'll eat the crusts—I'll teach you to eat what's set before you an' make no remarks about the stuff—specially when it's not your own," he said, reverting to the original offense and warming up at the recollection. "You'd make a great fight, wouldn't you—fightin' you'd be like fightin' a bread-puddin'," he concluded scornfully.
Cecil munched laboriously on. "There," Harvey suddenly interrupted, "now you've had enough—that wasn't rhubarb you were eatin'," he flung contemptuously at him; "'twas crow—an' that'll teach you to make sport of folks you think beneath you. You'll have some food for thought for a while—you'd better walk round a bit," he concluded with a grin as he turned and strode away, leaving the inlaid Cecil alone with his burdened bosom.
XII
THE ENCIRCLING GLOOM
Real boyhood, with its cheerfulness amid present cares and its oblivion to those that were yet to come, was almost past. Such at least would have been the opinion of any accurate observer if he had noted Harvey's face that summer morning as he pressed along the city street. A deeper seriousness than mere years bestow looked out from the half-troubled, half-hopeful gaze; not that it was ill-becoming—the contrary rather—for there was something of steady resoluteness in his eyes that attested his purpose to play some worthy part in this fevered life whose stern and warlike face had already looked its challenge to his own.
How pathetic were many a poor procession—and how romantic too—if we could but see the invisibles that accompany the humblest trudgers on the humblest street!
For Memory and Hope and Fear and Sorrow and silent Pain—Death too, noiselessly pursuing—and Love, chiefest of them all, mute and anguished often-times, crowding Death aside and battling bravely in the shadowy struggle; how often might all these be seen accompanying the lowly, had we but the lightened vision!
Thus was it there that summer day. The careless noticed nothing but a well developed lad, his poor clothes as carefully repaired and brushed as faithful hands could make them for his visit to the city; and they saw beside him only a white-faced woman, her whole mien marked by timidity and gentleness, as if she felt how poor and small was the part she played in the surging life about her. Both made their way carefully, keeping close in under the shadow of the buildings, as if anxious to escape the jostling throng. The woman's hand was in her son's; she seemed to be trusting altogether to his guidance and protection, and very tenderly he shielded her from the little perils of the street. Timidly, yet right eagerly, they made their way—for the quest was a great one; and all the years to come, they knew, were wrapped in the bosom of that anxious hour.
"Hadn't we better get on one of those street cars, mother?" the boy asked, glancing wistfully at a passing trolley. "I'm sure you're tired."
"How much does it cost, Harvey?" the mother asked.
"I'm not very sure, but I think it's ten cents for us both," he answered, relaxing his pace.
The mother pressed on anew. "We can't afford it, dear," she said; "it'll take such a lot to pay the doctor—we'll have to save all we can; and I'm not very tired," she concluded, taking his hand again.
When, after much of scrutiny and more of enquiry, they stood at length before the doctor's imposing place, both instinctively stopped and gazed a little, the outlines of the stately house floating but very dimly before the woman's wistful eyes.
"Will we ask him how much it costs before we go in?" Harvey's mother asked him anxiously.
The boy pondered a moment. "I don't think so," he said at length; "he mightn't like it."
"But perhaps we haven't got enough."
"Well, we can send the rest after we get home—I've got the raspberry money left."
The woman sighed and smiled together, permitting herself to be led on up the steps.
Harvey's hand was on the bell: "You don't suppose he'll do anything to you, will he, mother? He won't hurt you, will he?"
"No, no, child, of course not; he'll make me well," his mother said reassuringly. In a moment the bell was answered and the excited pair were ushered in.
Nothing could have been more kindly than their reception at the hands of the eminent doctor; nor could the most distinguished patient have been more carefully and sympathetically examined. Almost breathless, Harvey sat waiting for the verdict.
But the doctor was very vague in his conclusions. "You must use this lotion. And—and we'll hope for the best," he said; "and whenever you're in the city you must come and see me—don't make a special trip for that purpose, of course," he added cautiously.
"Why?" Harvey asked acutely.
The doctor made an evasive reply. Harvey's face was dark.
"How much is it?" he said in a hollow voice, his hand going to his pocket as he spoke.
"Oh, that's not important—we'll just leave that till you're in the city again," said the kindly doctor, shaking Harvey playfully by the shoulder.
"I'd sooner pay it now, sir; I've got—I've got some money," declared the boy.
"Well, all right," returned the physician; "let me see—how would a dollar appeal to you? My charge will be one dollar," he said gravely.
Harvey was busy unwinding his little roll. "It's not very much," he said without looking up; "I thought 'twould be a lot more than that—I haven't got anything smaller than five dollars, sir."
"Neither have I—what a rich bunch we are," the doctor answered quickly; "I tell you—I'm liable to be up in Glenallen some of these days for a bowling match; I'll just collect it then," leading the way towards the door as he spoke, his farewell full of cordial cheer.
Neither mother nor son uttered a word till they were some little distance from the doctor's office. Suddenly the former spoke.
"The world's full of trouble, Harvey—but I believe it's fuller of kindness. It's wonderful how many tender-hearted folks there are. Wasn't it good of him?"
Harvey made no answer, but his hand loosened itself from hers. "I believe I—I forgot something," he said abruptly. "Just wait here, mother; I'll be back in just a minute—you can rest here, see," leading her to a bench on the green sward of a little crescent not much more than half a stone's throw away.
A minute later he was back in the doctor's office, the surprised physician opening the door himself. "What's the matter, boy—forgotten something?" he queried.
"No," Harvey answered stoutly, his face very white; "but I knew you didn't tell me everything, sir—and I want to know. I want you to tell me now, quick—mother's waiting."
"Why do you want to know, laddie?"
"Because she's my mother, sir. And I've got a little sister at home—and I'm going to take care of them both; and I want to know if mother's eyes are going to get better, sir," he almost panted, one statement chasing the other as fast as the words could come.
The doctor's face was soft with grave compassion; long years of familiarity with human suffering had not chilled that sacred fire. Putting his arm about the youth's shoulder, he drew the throbbing form close to him. "My boy," he began in a low voice, "I won't deceive you. Your mother's eyesight is almost gone. But still," he hastened on as the lad started and turned his pleading eyes up to the doctor's face, "it might come back—you can never tell. It's an affection of the optic nerve—it's often aggravated by a violent shock of some kind—and I've had cases where it did come back. It might return, lad, might come very slowly or very suddenly—and I can say no more than that."
The poor boy never moved; the mournful eyes never wandered an instant from the doctor's face. The silence seemed long; at least to the physician. One or two patients had arrived meantime, waiting in the outer room—and a coachman's shining hat could be seen through the spacious window. But it did not dawn on Harvey that such a doctor could have any other care in all the world, or any serious duty except such as now engrossed them both.
"What are you going to do?" the physician said presently.
"I'm going back to my mother," the boy answered simply, picking up his hat.
"Oh, yes," and the other repressed a smile; "but I mean—what are you going to do at home? What will you go at in Glenallen—you go to school, don't you?"
"I'm going to work all the time," Harvey replied resolutely, moving along the hall.
The doctor's hand was on the door. "I'm sorry for you, my lad," he said gently. "But there's always hope—we're all God's patients after all," he added earnestly.
Harvey put his hand against the opening door, his face turning in fullness of candour and trust towards the doctor.
"I've prayed about mother for a long time," he said; "is it any use to keep on, sir? You're a specialist and you ought to know."
The doctor closed the door quite tight. "Don't let any specialist settle that matter for you," he said a little hoarsely. "It often seems as if the good Lord wouldn't begin till they get through. So you pray on, my lad—for there's no healing, after all, but comes from God." Then he opened the door and the broken-hearted went out into the street.
Suffused and dim, blinking bravely through it all, were the mournful eyes as Harvey retraced his steps towards his mother; swift and deep was the train of thought that wound its way through his troubled mind. For there is no ally to deep and earnest thinking like a loving heart that anguish has bestirred—all true quickening of our mental faculties is the handiwork of the soul. Harvey saw the trees, the sky, the birds between—all different now, more precious, more wonderful to behold; for he saw them in the light of his mother's deepening darkness, and the glory of all that was evanishing from her appeared the more beautiful, pitifully beautiful, to his own misty eyes.
Involuntarily he thought of the future; of the twilight years that lay beyond—and his inward eyes turned shuddering away. The years that were past, those at least that had come and gone before the threatening shadow first appeared, seemed to lie behind him like a lane of light. Poverty and obscurity and sorrow and care had been well content to abide together in their humble home—almost their only guests save love. Yet his memory now of those earlier years was only of their gladness, their happiness, their light—all the rest had vanished like a dream when one awakes. He remembered only that they two, the fatherless, had been wont to look deep and lovingly into the eyes that looked back their wealth of fondness into the children's faces—night or day, day or night, that light was never quenched; they could see her and she could see them—and to look was to possess, though his early thoughts could not have defined this mystic truth, cherish it fondly though they did. But for the future—ah me! for the future, with blindness in a mother's eyes.
Yet Harvey's thought, swift and pensive as it was, was troubled by no prospect of burden for himself and by no apprehension of all the load that must be moved, under cover of the fast-falling dark, from his mother's shoulders to his own. His thought was what must be called heart-thought, and that alone. If a fleeting view of new responsibilities, or a melting picture of his sister's face, hung for a moment before the inward eye, it retreated fast before the great vision that flooded his soul with tenderness, the vision of a woman—and she his mother—sitting apart in the silence and the dark, the busy hands denied the luxury of work, the ever-open Bible closed before her, the great world of beauty receding into shadow; and, most of all, there rose before him the image of her face, unresponsive and unsmiling when the tender eyes of her own children should fall upon it, mutely searching, yearning silently for the answering sunshine of days that would come no more.
Without a word Harvey took his seat beside his mother. Her hand slipped quietly out and took his own, but without speech or sound—and in that moment Harvey learned, as he had never known before, how cruel are the lips of silence. Suddenly he noticed a cab, rolling idly along, the driver throwing his eyes hither and thither, poising like a kingfisher for its plunge.
The boy raised his hand in signal and the cabby swooped down upon him like one who has found his prey.
"Get in, mother—we'll drive back," he said quietly.
His mother, startled beyond measure at the prospect of extravagance so unwonted, began to remonstrate, almost refusing. But a different note seemed to have come into Harvey's voice, his words touched with something that indicated a new era, something of the authority that great compassion gives, and in a moment she found herself yielding with a dependent confidence she had never felt before.
"Where to?" asked the man.
"Anywhere," said Harvey—"somewhere near the station; I'll tell you where."
"It'll—it'll cost a dollar," the man ventured, his hand still on the door and his eyes making a swift inventory of the boy's rather unpromising apparel.
"I'll pay you," the latter answered sternly. "Shut the door; close the window too," he ordered—"close both the windows. And don't drive fast."
The spendthrift impulse must have been heaven-born and that vagrant chariot been piloted from afar. For they two within felt something of sanctuary peace as the driver vanished to his place and they found themselves alone—alone with each other and the sorrow that was deep and thrilling as their love. They could hear and feel the busy tide of life about them; the pomp of wealth and the tumult of business frowned from towering mansions, or swept indifferent by, knowing nothing, caring less, about those nestling two who were all alone in the mighty city—but they had each other, and the haughty world was shut out from them, all its cruel grandeur, all its surging billows powerless to rob them of what their stricken hearts held dear. And, if the truth were told, many a stately house and many a flashing carriage that passed them by, held less of love's real wealth than did the mud-bespattered cab that creaked and rumbled on its way.
Several minutes elapsed before either spoke. Then the mother turned towards the silent lad, her face sweet in the wistful smile that stole across it.
"Did you find what you went back for, dear?" she asked.
Harvey cast one sharp agonized glance towards the gentle face—and it told him all. He knew then that the pain of either concealing or revealing was to be spared him; but his heart leaped in pity and in boundless love as he saw the light upon the worn face, the brave and tender signal that he knew the wounded spirit had furnished all for him.
He spoke no answer to her words; he knew that she expected none. But the answer came nevertheless, and in richer language than halting words could learn. For he rose half erect in the carriage, careless as to whether the world's disdainful eye might see, his arms stealing around the yielding and now trembling form with a strength and passion that were the gift of the first really anguished hour his life had ever known.
The woman felt its power, caught its message, even inwardly rejoiced in the great security; pavilion like to this she had never found before in all her storm-swept life.
"Oh, Harvey," she murmured at last, "Harvey, my son, God's been good to me; I'm almost happy when—when I feel how much you are to me now—and Jessie too," she added quickly; "poor Jessie—it'll be hard for her."
Mutely, reverently, guided from on high, Harvey strove to speak the burden of his heart. But it ended only in tears and tender tokens of hand and lip, his sorrow outpouring the story of its pity and devotion as best it could.
"I'll always take care of you, mother," he whispered; "always—just like you've taken care of us. And we'll wait till you get better, mother—we'll wait together."
His mother's fingers were straying about his hair. "I know it, darling," she said; "some ways I'm so poor, Harvey; but other ways I'm wonderfully rich—the highest ways. And now, Harvey," straightening up as she spoke, "there's something I want to attend to. You must tell the man to drive to a store where we get clothes—coats and things, you know. I want to get something."
"What?" asked Harvey suspiciously.
"It's for you. It's a winter coat—you know you haven't one, Harvey."
Then followed a stout protest and then a vigorous debate. But the mother conquered. "You mustn't forget that I'm your mother, Harvey," she finally urged, and Harvey had no response for that. But after they had alighted and the purchase had been duly made he contrived to withdraw the genial salesman beyond reach of his mother's hearing.
"Have you got something the same price as this?" he asked hurriedly; "something for a lady—a cloak, or a dressing-gown—one that would fit, you know," he said, glancing in the direction of his mother.
The clerk was responsive enough; in a moment the exchange was effected, and Harvey, his mother's arm linked with his, led the way out to the crowded street.
They made their way back to the station. As Harvey passed within its arching portals, he bethought himself sadly of the high hope, now almost dead and gone, that had upborne his heart when last he had passed beneath them. It seemed like months, rather than a few hours, so charged with suspense and feeling had those hours been.
The train was in readiness and they were soon settled for the homeward journey. But scarcely had they begun to move when the door before them opened and Cecil Craig made his appearance. He evidently knew that Harvey and his mother were aboard, for his eye roamed enquiringly over the passengers, resting as it fell on the two serious faces. Suddenly he seemed to note that Harvey had pre-empted the seat opposite to the one on which he and his mother had taken their places; a small valise and the parcel containing the surreptitious purchase were lying on it. Whereupon Cecil strode forward. "Take those things off," he hectored—"Want the whole train to yourself? Don't you know that's against the rules—I want to sit there."
Harvey had not seen him approaching, for his eyes had been furtively studying his mother's face. He started, looking up at Cecil almost as though he were not there; then he quietly removed the encumbrances and even turned the seat for Cecil to take his place. He wondered dumbly to himself what might be the cause of this strange calmness, this absolute indifference; he did not know how a master-sorrow can make all lesser irritations like the dust.
"Keep it," Cecil said insolently. "I'm going back to the Pullman—I wanted to see who'd walk the plank to-day," casting at Harvey a contemptuous sneer the latter did not even see. And no thought of Cecil, or his insult, or his phantom triumph, mingled with Harvey's grave reflections as they rolled swiftly homeward; he had other matters to consider, of more importance far.
XIII
THE DEWS OF SORROW
The dusk was gathering about them as the returning travellers wended their way along the almost deserted street. The dim outline of the slumbering hills could be seen across the river—for Glenallen had grown in a circle upon surrounding heights—and as Harvey's eyes rested now and again upon them in the dying light of the summer day, he felt a secret sense of help and comfort, as if some one knew and cared for his clouded life. It seemed good to walk these streets again—so different from those of the city—with the familiar faces and the kindly voices; and often was he stopped and questioned, not without delicacy and chaste reserve, as to the outcome of their pilgrimage. Which gave his heart some balm, at least for the moment.
"Look, mother," he cried suddenly, forgetting in his eagerness; "look—I can see our light," his face glowing as if the gleam were from palace windows. His mother raised her head quickly, as if she also saw. Perhaps it was even clearer to her, though she beheld it not. But together they quickened their pace, for they knew that earth's dearest shelter, how humble soever it might be, was just before.
And as they came closer, Harvey could see, the white frock showing clear against the shadows, the outline of his sister's form. Poor child, the day had been long for her, waiting and wondering, the portent of the tidings that the night might bring mingling with all her childish thoughts. She was moving out from the door-step now, peering eagerly, starting forward or restraining herself again as doubt and certainty of the approaching pair impelled her. Suddenly she seemed to be quite sure, and with a little cry she bounded along the street, the eager footfalls pattering with the rapidity of love.
The mother knew that music well; her hand slipped out of Harvey's grasp, the hungry arms outstretched as she felt the ardent form approaching—and in a moment, tears and laughter blending, the girlish arms were tight about the mother's neck and warm kisses were healing the wound within. Presently Jessie withdrew her face from the heaving bosom, her eyes turned wistfully upon her mother's, plaintively searching for the cure her childlike hope had expected to find obvious at a glance. Disappointment and pain spoke from her eyes—she could see no difference—and she turned almost reproachfully upon her brother.
"What did he—what——?" she began; but something on Harvey's face fell like a forbidding finger on her lips and her question died in silence.
"I brought you something pretty from the city, Jessie," the mother broke in. She knew what had checked the words. "It's in the satchel, dear—and we'll open it as soon as we get home."
"What's in that other bundle?" asked the child.
"It's Harvey's winter coat," replied the mother.
"I'm so glad," Jessie said simply. "And oh, I've got good news too," she went on enthusiastically. "I sold three pairs of those knitted stockings—all myself; and the man wouldn't take any change—I only asked him once. It was thirty-one cents—and the money's in the cup," she concluded eagerly as they passed within the little door, the bell above clanging their welcome home.
The valise was duly opened and Jessie's present produced amid great elation. Only a simple blue sash, selected by her brother with grave deliberation from the assortment on a bargain counter that lay like victims on an altar; but Jessie's joy was beautiful to behold, aided and abetted in it as she was by the other two, both mother and son trying on the flashing girdle, only to declare that it became Jessie best of all.
Suddenly the girl exclaimed: "Oh, Harvey, the chickens missed you so. I'm sure they did—Snappy wouldn't take any supper. They're in bed, of course, but I don't think they're sleeping—let's just go out and see them. Come."
Harvey was willing enough, and the two sallied out together. But Jessie held her hand tight on the door, drowsy chucklings within all unheeded, as she turned her white face upon her brother.
"Now," she said imperiously, the voice low and strained, "tell me—tell me quick, Harvey."
"I thought you wanted me to see the chickens," he evaded.
"I hate the chickens—and that was a lie about Snappy's supper. I just wanted to ask you about mother. Tell me quick, Harvey."
Harvey stammered something; but he needed to say no more—the girl sank sobbing at his feet.
"I knew it," she cried. "I just knew it—oh, mother, mother! And she'll soon never see again, and it'll always be night all the time—an' she'll never look at you or me any more, Harvey, she'll never look at you or me again. An' I got a little photograph took to-day, a little tintype—just five cents—an' I thought she'd be able to see it when she came back. Oh, Harvey, Harvey," and the unhappy child, long years a struggler with poverty and cloud, poured forth, almost as with a woman's voice, the first strain of anguish her little heart had ever known.
Harvey sank beside her, his arm holding her close. The twilight was now deepening into dark, a fitting mantel for these two enshadowed hearts. The still form of the bending brother, already giving promise of manhood's strength, seemed, even in outward aspect, to speak of inner compassion as he bended over the slender and weaker frame of his little sister. Strong and fearless and true he was; and if any eye had been keen enough to penetrate that encircling gloom and catch a vision of all that lay behind the humble scene, the knightly soul of the struggling boy would have stood forth like a sheltering oak—so powerless, nevertheless, to shield the clinging life beside him, overswept as it was by the winds and waves of sorrow. But the purpose and the heart were there—the fatherless spreading gentle wings above the fatherless—and the scene was a holy one, typical of all humanity at its highest, and faintly faltering the story of the Cross. For if human tenderness and pity are not lights, broken though they be, of the great Heart Divine, then all life's noblest voices are but mockery and lies.
"Don't, Jessie, please don't," he murmured, his own tears flowing fast. "It'll only keep her from getting better—she'll see your eyes all red an'——"
"She won't—she can't," sobbed the girl; "you know she can't—she can't see, Harvey," a fresh tide outbreaking at the thought.
"But she'll feel it, Jessie. Mothers can feel everything like that—'specially everybody's own mother," he urged, vainly trying to control his own grief. "And anyhow, the doctor said she might get better some time—perhaps all of a sudden. And we've got to help her, Jessie; and we've got to make her happy too—and we can—mother said we could," he cried, his tone growing firmer as the great life-work loomed before him.
Hope is the most contagious of all forms of health; and with wonderful gentleness and power the youthful comforter drew the sobbing heart beside him into the shelter of his own tender courage, the hiding-place of his own loving purpose. Soon Jessie was staring, wide-eyed, at her brother, as he unfolded the new duties they must perform together. That word itself was never used, but her heart answered, as all true hearts must ever answer, to the appeal of God.
"I'll try, Harvey," she said at last. "I'll do the best I can to help mother to get well—an' I'll get up in the mornings an' make the porridge myself," she avowed, smiling, the first step showing clear.
Hand in hand they went back to the house, the light of eager purpose upon both their faces. As they entered, a familiar voice fell on Harvey's ear.
"We was jest a-goin' by,"—it was David Borland's staccato—"an' I thought I'd drop in an' see if you was all safe home. Don't take off your things, Madeline; we're not a-visitin'," he said to the girl beside him. For she was bidding fair to settle for a protracted stay.
"Yes, we're safe home, thank you," answered Mrs. Simmons, "and it's lovely to get back. I'm a poor traveller."
"'Tain't safe to travel much these days," rejoined Mr. Borland after he had greeted Harvey; whose face, as well as a fugitive word or two, hushed any queries that were on David's lips—"so many accidents, I always feel skeery on the trains—must be hard to run Divine predestination on schedule, since they got them heavy engines on the light rails. I often think the undertakers is part of the railroad trust," he concluded, smiling sententiously into all the faces at once.
Some further conversation ensued, prompted in a general way by the excursion to the city, and dealing finally with the question of eminent city doctors and their merits.
"I only went onct to a big city man like that," David said reminiscently, "and it was about my eyes, too. You see, I rammed my shaving-brush into one, one evenin' when I was shavin' in the dusk. Well, I was awful skeery about what he'd charge—didn't have much of the almighty needful in them days. An' I heard he charged the Governor-General's missus five thousand dollars, a week or two before, for takin' a speck o' dust out of her eye—castin' out the mote, as the Scriptur says; I'd leave a sand-pit stay there before I'd shell out like that. Well, anyhow, I was skeered, 'cause I knew me an' the nobility had the same kind of eyes. So I didn't dress very good—wore some old togs. An' after he got through—just about four minutes an' a half—I asked him what was the damage. Says he: 'What do you do, Mr. Borland?' 'I work in a foundry,' says I. 'Oh, well,' says he, 'call it five dollars.' So I yanked out a roll o' bills about the size of a hind quarter o' beef, an' I burrows till I gets a five—then I gives it to him. 'How do you come to have a wad like that, Mr. Borland,' says he, 'if you work in a foundry?' 'I own the foundry,' says I, restorin' the wad to where most Scotchmen carries their flask. 'Oh!' says he, lookin' hard at the little fiver. 'Oh, I'll give you another toadskin,' says I, 'jest to show there's no hard feelin'.' 'Keep it,' says he—an' he was laughin' like a guinea hen, 'keep it, an' buy a marble monument for yourself, and put at the bottom of it what a smart man you was,'" and David slapped his knee afresh in gleeful triumph. For the others, too, there was laughter and to spare; which very purpose David had designed his autobiography to accomplish. A moment later Madeline and her father were at the door, the little circle, laughing still, around him as they stepped without.
"You're a terrible one for shakin' hands, girl," David said to his daughter as they stood a moment on the step. "That's a habit I never got much into me." For Madeline's farewell had had much of meaning in it, the sweet face suffused with sympathy as she shook hands with all—the mother first, then Jessie, then Harvey—and the low voice had dropped a word or two that told the depth and sincerity of her feeling. When she said good-bye to Harvey, the pressure of her hand, light and fluttering as it was, found a response so warm and clinging that a quick flush overflowed her face, before which the other's fell, so striking was its beauty, so full of deep significance the message of the strong and soulful eyes. Her father's child was she, and the fascination of sorrow had early touched her heart.
The door was almost closed when David turned to call back lustily:
"Oh, Harvey—Harvey, Mr. Nickle wants to see you; Geordie Nickle, you know; an' if you come round to my office to-morrow about half-past four, I think you'll find him there. He's got a great scheme on; he's the whitest man I ever run acrost, I think—for a Scotchman."