Chapter XI: Part 11

"Oh, not there," said David, smiling. "You thought I meant the long, long road. No, not that; but I’m goin’ to the communion, Harvey—that’s what I meant—I’m goin’ to join the church."

"I’m glad," said Harvey after a long stillness.

"I nearly joined once afore," David went on. "I reckon you remember when I had that meetin’ with the elders—kind o’ run agin a snag, I did. An’ mebbe I ain’t much worthier yet—but I see it different. I ain’t much of a Christian, I know—but I’m a kind of a sinner saved by grace. An’ I’d kind o’ like to own up in front of everybody afore—afore it’s too late," he said, his voice almost inaudible.

"When?" asked Harvey.

"Next Sunday," answered David. "But I didn’t go up agin the elders this time, mind you—I wouldn’t," he went on stoutly. "It seems to me a fellow ain’t no more called on to tell a lot of elders—human elders—about them things, an’ his soul, than he is to tell ’em about his love-makin’; so I jest went to Dr. Fletcher, an’ I told him what I felt about—about Christ—an’ I said I felt like I’d had a bid from some One higher up. An’ Dr. Fletcher said no elder wasn’t to have a look-in this time. So I’m goin’, Harvey—an’ it’d be an awful comfort if you an’ me went together. It’s quite a spell since you was there, ain’t it, Harvey?"

The fire had gone out upon the hearth. And Harvey spoke never a word amid the thickening gloom.

*XXXIV*

_*THE OVERFLOWING HOUR*_

The light had almost faded from the sky and the stealthy shadows were settling down about Glenallen as Harvey strode towards one of the hills that kept their ancient watch about the town. He did not know whither his course was tending; nor did he greatly care, for many and conflicting were the thoughts that employed him as he walked.

Still fresh and vivid, almost overpowering sometimes, was his sense of loss and shame. The defilement of his besetting sin, and the humiliation of a life so nearly honeycombed, and the tragedy of a will so nearly sold to slavery—all these had their stern influence on his soul. The bruised and beaten past rose afresh before him; and if ever human heart felt its own weakness, and human life its own unworthiness, it was as Harvey Simmons climbed that solitary hill amid the deepening dusk. Mingling with his sense of shame was the realization of all that it must cost him—for his manhood would refuse to claim what only a worthier manhood could fairly win.

Passing strange it was that at that very moment, the moment of true self-reproach and humiliation, his roving eyes should suddenly have been startled as they fell on two white-clad figures that were climbing the hill behind him. One of them he recognized in an instant—it was Madeline—and his heart almost frightened him, so violently did it leap. He struggled to repress the rising tide—for the test had come sooner than he thought—but a thrill of passion swept through all his frame.

Yet his resolve strengthened in his heart—the purpose that had been forming within him through many days. The resolve of a hero, too, it was; and the native strength of the man flowed anew, stern and unconquerable, as he made the great renunciation. Not that he loved the less; the more, rather. And not because he doubted that her heart answered, if perhaps less ardently, to his own. He saw again, as he had never ceased to see, the withered flowers in her hand. That picture he had cherished ever since, deep hidden in his deepest heart—patiently waiting, till his achievements and his station should warrant him to come back and drink to all eternity where he had but sipped before.

He knew now that this should never be. He thought, and swift and lurid was the image, of his own father, and of his mother’s broken heart, and of the baneful legacy that had been his own—and of the shrouded chapter that had been so carefully kept from him, tight shut like the chamber of the dead. He knew, besides all this, that he loved too well to offer Madeline a life that was not intrinsically worthy; if accounted worthy, it could only be by the shelter of a living lie. Thus was his resolve taken, anguish-born. Yet his hungering heart cried out that it could not go its way in silence—this luxury at least it claimed, to tell its story and to say farewell.

He turned and made his way downward to the approaching pair. Lifting his hat as he came close, he spoke Madeline’s name and stood still. Her surprise seemed to seal her lips at first, but he could see through the gloaming what inflamed his heart afresh.

"I heard you were in Glenallen," her low voice began, "but I didn’t expect to see you. When did you come? Oh, pardon me, let me introduce you to my friend," as she spoke her companion’s name.

He removed his hat again and bowed. One or two commonplaces passed.

"Where are you going?" Harvey asked abruptly.

"We’re going to see a little girl that’s sick; she lives on the first farm outside the town. She’s one of my class," Madeline explained, "and I asked Miss Brodie to accompany me—my friend lives in that house yonder," pointing to a residence near the foot of the hill; "it gets dark so early now."

"I’ll go with you myself," said Harvey.

"What?" was all Madeline said, her voice unsteady.

"I’ll go with you myself," he repeated; "Miss Brodie won’t mind—we’ll see her home first. I wish to speak with you," and without further explanation he turned to lead the way to Miss Brodie’s home.

Madeline’s protest came, but it was weak and trembling. And her companion spoke no word except to give assent. For there seemed to be some strange authority about the silent man; something in his voice, or manner, or in the drawn face that looked into the distance through the fading light. They could not tell; but they followed as he led. Madeline’s hand trembled as it made its way into her friend’s; a moment later she withdrew it, walking on alone. But her bosom rose and fell with the movement of that eternal mystery that so many a maiden’s heart has known, that none has ever solved. And her eyes were moist and dim, she knew not why; and now and then a strange quiver shook the graceful form, protesting, reluctant, half-rebellious, yet at the mercy of something she could neither fathom nor deny.

Bidding Miss Brodie good-night, they retraced their steps and pressed on towards the outskirts of the town. Perhaps both wondered why they walked so fast, Madeline wondering, indeed, why she walked at all. But there was something indescribably sweet about the strange mastery in which he seemed to hold her—and her eyes smiled, though she was trembling, as she looked ahead into the waiting shadows.

"That’s the house." These were the first words that broke the stillness, and they came from Madeline’s lips—"that’s where she lives," pointing to a distant light.

"Who?" and Harvey turned his eyes upon her.

"The child I’m going to see—I told you."

Silence still; and still they walked on together. Once she stumbled over an uneven plank. His hand went out swiftly to her arm, and as he touched it his whole frame swayed towards her. In an instant his hand was withdrawn; but not before a faint outbreak flowed from her lips. He looked down at her through the darkness—her face was deadly white.

"I don’t believe I’ll go," she said weakly; "I’ll go to-morrow."

He pointed into the darkness. "I want to speak with you," he said, striding on.

A little murmur surged to her lips. She checked it. "Will you wait for me—till I come out, Harvey?" the last word coming slow.

"I can’t."

"What?" she said, her tone firmer, her pace abating.

"I cannot wait," he said; "you can’t go in till—after."

She cast a swift glance upwards—but his eyes were forward bent. He pressed swiftly on. She walked beside him.

Suddenly he paused, then stood still. He listened intently; no sound but the desultory barking of a distant watch-dog. He looked about—and the voiceless night seemed to contain no other but those twain. He could see the blinking light in the window, the one Madeline had pointed to; it made the solitude deeper, like a far-off gleam at sea.

"Let us go in here and sit down," he said, pointing towards a little clearance under the shadow of two spreading oaks that towered above an intervening thicket.

They stepped down from the rickety sidewalk. And they crossed the dusty road, neither speaking; and the dew glistened on their feet as they went on into the thickening grass—and Madeline could hear her poor heart beating, but she uttered never a word.

It is the glory of a strong woman that she sometimes may be weak; nay, that she must be, by very token of her strength. For her strength hath its home in love and in her capacity to love—there is her crown and there the well-spring of her beauty and her charm. Yet this knows its highest strength in weakness; and its victory is in surrender. And the greatest moment in the life of the noblest woman is when convention and propriety and custom—and the tyranny of the social code—yea, when even her own native pride, her womanly reticence, her insistence on all that a woman may demand, are defiantly renounced; when these all lie in ruins at her feet, scorned and forgotten by reason of the torrent of her love; when beauty’s tresses lie dishevelled, and its robes of dignity are stained with tears, then is woman’s wild eternal heart at its very noblest in all the abandon of the passion that sets it free from every tie save one.

Wherefore Madeline—she of the beauteous face and of the snow-white heart—went on with Harvey where he led. Down from the pavement she stepped, down into the earthly road, reckless of the dainty fabric that the dust leaped to stain; and she walked on into the glistening grass, and her eyes saw the waiting oak and the vast sky behind. And the night was dark, and even the distant blinking light was hidden; and she could hear the soft language of the mother bird that kept her love-taught vigil, and the whippoorwill’s cry came in mellow waves across the rippling woods—and the great tender arms of the holy night were about them all.

"Let us sit here," and Harvey motioned towards a giant log that lay beneath the oaks. "And I’ll tell you, Madeline."

She raised one white hand to her throat as she took her place; even then he noticed the delicate tapering fingers, so well fitted for the work to which her father had referred. Something seemed to be choking her, so long were the white fingers held to the soft flesh above. The other hand went out absently, uplifted, and she held tight to the soft-swinging branch of the ancient oak, for the leaves bended about them where they sat.

"Very well, Harvey," she said. "Isn’t it about father—didn’t you see him this evening?" Commonplace questions enough they were; and her heart had clutched wildly at them as her hand had seized the bough above her. But commonplace the words were not—a surge of fire made them glow and gleam, to him at least, her troubled soul sweeping through them like a flood. For her voice was shaking as she asked the simple questions; and her arm was still outstretched as she clung to the yielding bough—and the white fingers still pressed the quivering throat.

"No, it isn’t about that," he said, his voice as low as the voices of the night. She never moved. But he heard, actually heard, her lips as they slowly parted—and her breath came as if she were resting from a race.

"It’s about us—oh, Madeline, it’s about us," he began, and his words came swift, as if they were driven out by force. "You know, you know, Madeline, all that’s in my heart—all that’s been there for years. Ever since I worked for your father—ever since we went to school—ever since that night beside my baby sister’s grave—and since you came to see mother when she got blind—and since I went to college—and always, always, Madeline, through all the years. You know, Madeline, you know." Then his words poured out in a passionate stream, swirling like waves about her, and he told her what they both had known long, what neither had ever heard before. The maiden’s eyes shone dim; and one hand clutched tighter at the crushed and broken twigs; the other slipped from the quivering throat, pressed now to the paining bosom. And the moist lips were parted still, but the speech that flowed between was silent as her listening soul.

"And I’ve told you the worst, Madeline," he vowed at length. "I was determined to tell you the worst, before I go away, before I go away to take up the struggle against my sin—alone. And to win—to conquer," he added low. "So I’m not worthy, Madeline—and the future’s uncertain—and I know it and you know it. And nobody but God can ever tell what it has meant to me to say all I’ve said to-night; and it’s all because I love you so... Oh, Madeline," and the strong voice struggled in vain to keep on its way; too late, it broke and trembled, the pain and passion bursting through it as he bowed his head and hid his face. "So I’m going away," he murmured low, "I’m going away."

The sighing wind was hushed and the mother bird was silent and the whippoorwill was dumb.

"Harvey, don’t."

It was such a gentle note, barely audible, like the first faint cry of some wood-born nestling when it sees the light. But it filled and flooded all his soul. He raised his head, so slowly, from his hands; and slowly he turned his face till his eyes rested full upon her. The moon had risen and he could see her beauty. Both hands were lying now in the white folds of her dress, and between them were the crushed and broken leaves, their fragrance outstealing from their wounds. The branch she had released was still swaying to and fro. But Madeline saw it not; nor aught else beside. The veiled and glistening eyes were looking far beyond; he could not tell whether they were fixed on the darkling thicket or on the crescent moon. But while his gaze stole upward to her face a night-bird in the thicket piped softly to its mate—and he saw her eyes search the frowning shade. Then they were still. But he could see the radiance on cheek and brow, and he felt the life-stream that her eyes outpoured, aglow with the emotion of her soul. Her bosom rose and fell, nor did she seem to know—again and yet again the candour of her love spoke thus. And while he looked she slowly turned her head. He noted, even then, and in the gathering light, the wealth of lovely hair, the fair purity of her forehead, the mystic lure of her quivering lips, the throb that beat swiftly in her throat, soft and white like the lily’s bloom—but they all were lost in the glory of her wondrous eyes. These were transfigured; surrender, conquest, yearning, pity, pride, the joy of possession and the rapture of captivity—all that unite to make that mysterious tide called passion, looked their meaning from her face.

Her breath, fresh from the parted lips, floated outward till it touched his face—and to him spreading oak and whispering grove and shadowy thicket and crescent moon had ceased to be. He saw her eyes alone, his soul swimming towards them through the torrent; his finger-tips touched her shoulders first—and she was there—and the soft form yielded, and the glory slowly faded as the eyelids fell, and the fragrance of her breath made life a holy thing forever as he drew her into the strong shelter of his love.

*XXXV*

*"*_*INTO HIS HOUSE OF WINE*_*"*

They came up the little hill together. And many eyes were turned on them in wonder as they went up the aisle, David still leaning on the strong man beside him. It was Robert McCaig who took the token from Mr. Borland’s hand, and his own told its welcome by its lingering clasp.

They were almost at David’s pew, Madeline and her mother already seated there, when Harvey stood still and whispered. "Let us go to my mother’s seat," he said.

David’s assent was quick and cordial. He knew the sacrament of love; and the look with which Madeline and her mother followed them showed that they recognized the higher claim.

Very beautiful was the service of that holy hour. The opening psalm breathed the spirit of penitence and trust. When Dr. Fletcher rose to pray, his face was illumined with such joy as there is in the presence of the angels when a new star swims into the firmament of heaven. And his prayer gave thanks for the cloud of witnesses that compassed them about, and for those who had gone out from them along the upward path of pain.

Wonderful stillness wrapped the worshippers about as the elders went slowly down the aisle with the symbols of redeeming love. It was not his accustomed place, but Geordie Nickle bore the bread and wine to where David and Harvey sat. His eyes shone with a great light as he placed the emblems first in David’s shaking hand; and the moist eyes were upturned to God; and his lips moved while he stood before them in the grand dignity of his priestly office. The compassion glowing on his face was worthy of the Cross.

David and Harvey bowed their heads together, the old man and the young. The one was touched with the whitening frost of years, the other with the dew of youth. But their lips were moist with the same holy wine and their hearts were kindred in their trembling hope. Before them both arose the vision of a Saviour’s face; but the old man’s thought was of eternal rest, and the other’s was of the battling years beyond.

Harvey’s mind flew quickly over all the bygone days. Love and loneliness, conflict and respite, hope and despair, victory and overthrow passed before him—and all seemed now to have conspired towards this holy hour. He felt that the way had been chosen for him amid life’s perplexing paths; that an unseen Hand had been at the helm; that the prayer and purpose of another’s life had led him back to the path from which he had departed, fulfilling the design of an All-wise Sovereign Will.

David gave a little start of surprise when Dr. Fletcher announced the closing hymn.

"He done that for me," he whispered to Harvey; "he knows it’s mine."

They rose to sing the noble song. The great words rolled slowly out from many reverent lips:

"The sands of time are sinking."

It was when they came to the soul’s great boast

"With mercy and with judgment
My web of time He wove,"

that Harvey turned his eyes towards David; and his heart melted as he saw the tears rolling down the withered cheeks. David’s head was bowed, for it hurt him sore that men should see. But there had come about him such a tide of feeling—all his chequered life rising up before him—and such a sense of the abundant grace that had made the shadows beautiful with light, that his soul dissolved in gratitude to the Hand that guided and the Heart that planned through all the labyrinth of years.

Other lips were still, and Harvey’s among them, when they reached the closing lines:

"Amid the shades of evening
While sinks life’s lingering sand
I hail the glory dawning
In Immanuel’s land."

But those who were beside him marvelled at the strong rich tones with which David sounded the exultant note. His voice was no more the voice of age; and the scars of battle had vanished from his face. Strong and victorious came the swelling strain, and his uplifted eyes had the glow of unconquerable youth. He had caught the lights of Home.

*XXXVI*

_*A MISTRESS OF FINANCE*_

"Some men are born lucky—and some get lucky—and some have the confoundedst kind of good luck thrust upon them," affirmed Mr. Crothers, nodding towards a letter in Harvey’s hand.

"I’m just going to read this over once more; it really seems too good to be true," was Harvey’s rather irrelevant reply, his eyes fastened again upon the letter.

"You’re dead right. If any one had told me, that night three months ago—you remember our conversation then—that you’d be given a position like that so early in your career, I’d have laughed at them. I don’t think I ever knew a man get as quick promotion in the newspaper business as you’ve had, Simmons. I really don’t. But then you’ve got the education—and the material above the eyes—and that’s the whole outfit. Well, I can’t do any more than congratulate you, old man," and the sincerity of Mr. Crothers’ words was evident as Harvey looked across the table into the deep-set eyes.

"You’ve had more to do with it than anybody else, I’m sure," Harvey returned; "and I’ll do all I can to make good. I’ll expect you to——"

"I’ll tell you something I’ve been thinking of for quite a while," the other broke in, lowering his voice and leaning far over the table. "If we could only get a hold of the business—the paper, I mean—the whole box and dice! The thing’s going to change hands, as you know; everybody has known that, since the president got the collectorship of customs—and it would be worth more to us than to anybody else. We could run it to the Queen’s taste—the whole shooting-match. But I suppose there’s no use talking—can’t make bricks without straw. Of course, I’ve saved a little chicken-feed—not enough, though—there, that’s my total," as he pencilled some figures on a blotting-pad and passed it over; "and if you could duplicate it—or a little better—we’d have the thing in our mitt. But I suppose there’s no use thinking about it?" looking rather eagerly at Harvey, nevertheless.

"Out of the question," answered Harvey decisively, leaning back in his chair; "you can’t get blood from a turnip, or, as Geordie Nickle, a Glenallen friend of mine, would say, you can’t take the breeks off a Hielan’man. I haven’t any money, that’s the English of it. Of course," a tinge of pleasure in the tone, "I’ll have a pretty good salary now—but what’s that for a plunge like this?" as he pushed the blotting-pad back across the table.

"About as good as a dozen of eggs for an army," Mr. Crothers agreed disconsolately. "Oh, well, we’ll just have to make out the best we can—but I’m mighty glad of your good luck, old man, just the same."

Both men turned to their work. Harvey’s first move was to ring for a stenographer. But he changed his mind. "I won’t need you for a few minutes," he said; "I’ll write this one myself."

The letter closed as follows: "... So it’s come at last, sister—and your days of drudgery are past. They will always be a sacred memory to me, for I wonder if any man ever came to his own through as noble sacrifice as has filled all your life for me, yours and mother’s. Now, Jessie, be sure and do as I’ve told you. Sell your business—lock, stock, and barrel—or give it away; make Miss Adair a present of it, or rent it to her, or anything you like. Only one thing remember—you’ll rest now, and all my good fortune will be spoiled unless you share it with me.

Your ever loving
"HARVEY."

Even Grey started with surprise when Harvey arrived home that night an hour earlier than usual. And Miss Farringall’s face brightened suddenly as Harvey’s knock at the door of her sitting-room was followed by the appearance of a very radiant face. He had a letter in his hand.

"I want to speak first," she said impulsively, divining his purpose.

"Yes, Miss Farringall," he said enquiringly.

"It’s something I’ve wanted to ask you for a long time—and I’m going to do it now," she added very softly, rising and moving to the window; "did your mother ever—did she ever speak to you about your father, Harvey?"

Harvey’s answer was slow. "Yes," he said at length.

"Did you know he’s living?" she asked after a long pause.

"Yes," and Harvey’s voice was little more than audible. "My mother told me that when she was dying. Why?" he asked resolutely, moving to where she stood.

"I only wished to know, dear," and her tone breathed gentleness as she turned and fixed her pensive eyes on his. "I knew he was living, and——"

"Where—do you know where?" he broke out, almost with a cry. "My mother didn’t know, and——"

"No, I don’t know where," she interrupted, her eyes now looking far without; "but I know he’s living yet. We’ll both know more some day—what’s in that letter, Harvey?" the voice betokening that the subject was dismissed, at least for the present.

"It’s something you’ll be glad to read," he answered absently as he handed it to her.

Deep silence reigned a while.

"I knew it, Harvey," she said when she had finished. "I expected this—I was waiting for you to come home. I wanted to see you very much. Can you think what for?"

"I don’t know," Harvey answered abstractedly, musing still.

"Barlow," she called.

"Yes, mum," a sepulchral voice answered from the hall, followed a moment later by the apparition of the never distant servant.

"You know the vault, Barlow?"

"Yes, mum," replied its guardian of years.

"And the box in the lower left-hand corner?"

"Yes, mum."

"And the paper we deposited there yesterday?"

"Yes, mum."

"That Dr. Wallis helped me to draw?"

"Yes, mum."

"Then bring it to me at once."

"Yes, mum," and Barlow turned in his tracks as he had done for a quarter of a century.

He was back in a moment. "You can go now, Barlow—and shut the door. Take Grey, and don’t stand outside. Go and count the spoons."

"Yes, mum," and the immobile Barlow departed to make the oft-repeated inventory.

"I expected this to come, Harvey," she began as soon as they were alone. "I know the president of the _Argus_—or of the company, or whatever you call it. I’m not such a hermit as some people think. But I’ve been wishing for something better for you, Harvey—can you guess what it is?" her words ending in a nervous little cough.

Harvey’s face showed how innocent he was of any such knowledge.

"Well, it keeps running in my mind that you ought to own that paper."

Harvey gave a little laugh. "That’s what Mr. Crothers was saying," he began confusedly; "he thinks we could do wonders if we had it between us—but of course it’s out of the question. It would cost—oh, I don’t know how much."

"I know all about that," and Miss Farringall’s cheek had a strangely heightened colour. "I’ve looked into all that," she added in a low tone; "and do you think you could? Would Mr. Crothers really make a good partner?"

Harvey stared. "He’s a jewel, Miss Farringall, every way—but why do——"

"Excuse me," Miss Farringall interrupted with authority. "Let me proceed. I want to make an investment. I want to buy a business that belongs to you and Jessie. Sign that paper, please," as she handed him the document Barlow had brought.

Amazement took possession of Harvey as he read.

"Close your lips, Harvey—when you’re excited, breathe deep; it’s a great sedative," and Miss Farringall smiled as she watched his face.

Harvey laid the paper down with a gasp. "But, Miss Farringall," he began excitedly, breathing as best he could, "the proposition is preposterous—a sum of money such as this for a paltry outfit like that little store in Glenallen! The whole thing isn’t worth——"

"Be careful, Harvey Simmons, be careful, now," Miss Farringall broke in sternly. "You haven’t read the agreement. Maybe the price does look big—but did you see all I’m to get in return?"

Harvey shook the document excitedly. "You ask the business—the stock, and the good-will—and neither the one nor the other’s worth one tithe of——"

"Wait a minute," broke in the prospective purchaser; "I ask more than that. The vendor goes with the sale," she announced, rising to her feet. "It’s that way in the paper—Jessie goes with it; I buy her too. I can do what I like with the business—and Jessie comes to me. Yes," she cried, her voice shaking in its eagerness, "that’s what I want the most—and Jessie’s willing. I’ve found that out top—and she’s to be mine, to keep and care for. And she’s to be shipped here, right side up with care, and she’s to give me value for my money every time I see her sweet face and hear her merry laugh. I’ve spent a lot repairing this old house—but that’s the kind of repair it’s been needing for long years, and it’s going to get it now. When you get the purchase money you can invest it as you like; it’ll be your own—only sign, Harvey, sign now. I’ve got the price all ready," her voice ringing with merry music as she brandished a bulky envelope before his eyes.

Harvey gazed long into the triumphant face. Then he moved slowly up to her, holding out his arms, and she put her own about his neck with hurrying, passionate eagerness and held him tight. When, released, he looked again into the flushed and quivering face, the swimming eyes seemed not to see his own, fixed in yearning on the silent desk that held the secret of the years.

*XXXVII*

_*THE CONQUEROR’S HOME-GOING*_

"You’re wanted on the long-distance line, Mr. Simmons; Glenallen wants to speak with you," was the message that interrupted Harvey and Mr. Crothers in the midst of a very delightful conference; the future of the _Morning Argus_ was the subject of discussion.

"Somebody wanting to congratulate you," ventured Mr. Crothers; "tell them the new firm’s flourishing so far," a smile of great satisfaction on his face. The fulfillment of the ambition of half a life-time had filled Mr. Crothers’ cup to overflowing.

Five minutes later Harvey had returned, the gladness vanished from his eyes.

"What’s the matter, Simmons?—nothing gone wrong, I hope."

"I’ve got to leave within ten minutes," Harvey answered, stooping to arrange some scattered papers on his desk. "I’ll just have time to catch the Glenallen train. The dearest friend I have in the world is dying, they tell me—and he wants me."

"Who?" asked Mr. Crothers, rising from his seat.

"Mr. Borland—David Borland. You’ve often heard me speak of him."

Mr. Crothers’ countenance fell. "I should think I have; I almost feel as if I knew him, you’ve given me so much of his philosophy. I always hoped I might meet him—what’s like the trouble?"

"Heart," said Harvey, unable to say more.

"That was where his homely philosophy came from, I should say," ventured Mr. Crothers; "it’s the best brand too."

Harvey nodded. A few minutes later he was gone.

The evening sun was prodigal of its beauty. And once, when Harvey lifted up his eyes to look, he could see the flashing windows of David’s old-time residence, its stately outlines showing clear against the sombre trees behind. But the little house on which his eyes were fastened now—where a great soul was preparing for its flight—seemed far the grander of the two. For it was clothed with the majesty of things invisible and the outlook from its humbler windows was to the Eternal.

He entered without knocking; and Mrs. Borland was the first to meet him.

"He’s sinking fast," she said, greeting Harvey with a warmth he had not known before. "He can still speak with us, though—and he’s been asking for you."

"Who’s with him?" asked Harvey.

"Just Madeline. We sent for Dr. Fletcher—but he’s away, attending some meeting of ministers. Mr. Nickle’s coming, though—he’ll soon be here now."

Harvey stood a minute at the door before he entered David’s room. Madeline looked up and smiled; but her father’s eyes were turned away, fixed on the distant hills. The gaze of the younger man rested long and lovingly on the pallid face upon the pillow. Never had David looked so grand before. The thin, responsive lips; the care-worn face, compassion and sympathy in every line; the crown of silvery hair, so whitened since Harvey saw it last; the large, far-seeing eyes, homes of the faith and hope that had upborne his life and made it beautiful, out-gazing now beyond the things of time, calm with the last long peace—all these gave to the face that spiritual beauty which is the handiwork of God.

Harvey drew closer to the bed. David slowly turned his head; his eyes met Harvey’s, and he held out his hand.

"I knew you’d come," he said gently; we’re all together now—all but Geordie."

Harvey’s answer was a warmer pressure of the wasted hand.

"The sands is runnin’ fast," David said with a faint smile—"the battle’ll soon be done. An’ I’m pretty tired, Harvey."

Harvey was still standing by the bed, bowed, still holding David’s hand. And the dying man could see the tears that were making their way down the quivering cheeks.

"Don’t, Harvey," he implored; "this ain’t no time for that. Madeline, read that bit again."

The girl lifted the Bible from the bed. "She knows the place I want—it’s John the fourteenth," David said, his face turned to Harvey’s. "We love all the places—they’re all beautiful. There’s lovely shade in the Psalms when the hot sun’s beatin’ down—an’ it’s all good; but John the fourteenth’s like a deep, clear spring, an’ that’s where we stay the most—weary travellers loves a spring," and the dying man turned his eyes eagerly on the book Madeline had opened.

"Let not your heart be troubled.... In My Father’s house are many mansions; if it were not so I would have told you." Thus flowed the stream of love; and David closed his eyes, drinking deep indeed of the living tide.

"Ain’t that beautiful?" he said, his voice thrilled with passionate gladness. "I like that about the mansions the best, I think. Everybody loves a mansion. I got turned out o’ one—the one our Madeline was born in; but this’ll be a far better one, an’ me an’ Madeline an’ mother’ll live there always, an’ nobody can’t ever turn us out. It’s our Father’s," he added reverently.

Mrs. Borland was bending over him. "Don’t talk, David," she pleaded; "it’s too much for your strength."

He gazed up at her. "I want to give a—a testimony—afore I go," he said falteringly. "I jest want to own up that I always loved God—lots o’ folks didn’t think so—an’ He always loved me, an’ picked the path for me. An’ He made everythin’ to happen as it did; an’ I believe I’m thankfuller for the things I didn’t want to happen than for the ones I did—He seen the best, ’cause He was higher up. Madeline, sing for me," he appealed with failing breath; "sing a children’s hymn—that one about the river," his eyes gently closing as he lay back upon the pillow.

"He always loved that one," his wife whispered brokenly to Harvey. "It’s so simple. We can’t, David," as she bended over him, "we can’t sing now."

"I can, mother," and Madeline’s voice was firm. The others’ eyes were hidden, but Madeline’s were fixed steadfastly on her father’s as the crystal notes came low and sweet:

"Soon we’ll reach the silvery river
Soon our pilgrimage shall cease;
Soon our happy hearts shall quiver
With the melody of peace,"

and the dying lips broke in once or twice in a plaintive effort to swell the triumph strain.

The singing ceased. But David’s eyes still rested on his daughter. Then they were turned on Harvey, as he stood beside her; they seemed, indeed, to rest on both at once. And their meaning could be easily read. Suddenly he motioned them down beside him; the girl was trembling, her pale lips quivering slightly, for she had interpreted her father’s look.

David feebly raised his hands till one touched each bended head. "You’ll sing that hymn—that river hymn—often, together—won’t you; in your—own home," drawing the bowed heads closer down—"in your happy home?" he faltered.

For a moment neither moved nor spoke. Then, in strong and passionate silence, Harvey slowly lifted his face till his eyes spoke their great vow to the dying man; and, unashamed, he placed his arm gently, resolutely, about the maiden’s bended form, holding her close with a fondness that kindled all his face with light. But Madeline’s was hidden, her head still bended low.

David’s face was wonderful in its glow of love and gladness. Suddenly his gaze went out beyond the plighted pair.

"Geordie!" he said, the name breathed out in tenderness as his misty eyes saw the well-loved form coming slowly through the door.

The aged man came over, leaning heavily on his staff, his face suffused with a gentleness that flowed from his very heart. He bended low above his dying friend, dumbly groping for his hand. He still leaned heavily on his staff, for his outgoing pilgrimage, too, was close at hand. And the two men looked long without a word; the memories of happy years passed from soul to soul; in silence their eyes still rested on each other, but the troth of many years was plighted once again as they stood at the parting of the ways. And both knew the promise was to all eternity.

Slowly David drew the strong Scottish face down beside his own. Then he said something in a tone so low that no other ear could hear; Geordie’s answer was in a trembling whisper—but both spoke a language not of time.

"Lift me up, Geordie—Harvey, lift me up," David’s feeble voice broke out a moment later. "I want to look once more," his eyes turning to the window. The sun had set, and the gilded west was bathed in glory as they tenderly lifted the wasted form, the weary head resting on the bosom of his child.

David’s eyes, wondrously lightened now, rested long on the crimson pathway. "It’s a lovely road to go!" he murmured, gazing at the lane of light. "I’m glad I’m not goin’ in the dark—things looks so strange in the dark. An’ I’m glad..."

It was Geordie Nickle who bended low, as though he were love’s best interpreter, passionately listening for the ebbing words. The receding tide flowed back in a moment, and David’s voice came clearer: "An’ I’m glad it’s the evenin’—things looks clearest in the evenin’ or the mornin’—it’s the long afternoon that’s dark."

Geordie was almost on his knees beside him, the strong Scottish face wrung with its depth of feeling. "Oh, David," he cried with the eagerness of a child, "ye’ll sune be hame. An’ we’re all comin’—we’ll no’ be lang. An’ oor Faither’s hoose has mony mansions—if it were na’ so..." but the choking voice refused.

"He’d have—let us know," the dying man added gently, completing the mighty promise. "It’s gettin’ dark," he whispered suddenly, looking up into Madeline’s eyes; "it’s time for Him to come—I don’t know the way."

In a moment his whole expression had undergone a change, such a change as comes to darkening hill-tops when the morning sun loves them into life. Light covered his face as with a flood. The weary eyes opened wide, the eager hands outstretched. "It’s all bright now," he faltered—"an’ He’s comin’—He’s comin’, like He said. I knew—He’d—come."

They were bending low about him; his weeping wife breathed a long farewell. But Madeline saw the last movement of the dying lips, and the yearning eyes seemed to bid her listen. Her face was veiled with reverent love as she stooped to catch the parting breath; it came, and her face became transfigured as by the light of God.

"I’m jest home," she heard him murmur; "I’m jest home."

Gently they let the dear form sink back to its long, long rest. Geordie softly closed the eyes, never to give their light again. Then the aged man, his frame shaken with the sobs he could not repress, bent down and kissed the furrowed brow.

"His battle’s past," he said, the words struggling out like driftwood through the surge, "an’ he was a guid soldier."

And the conqueror lay in noble stillness, the glory of the departed day abiding on his face.

*XXXVIII*

_*THE FLEEING SHADOWS*_

It was long after midnight, and Harvey’s night’s work was almost done. He was the last one left in the office, and, as far as his duties were concerned, everything was almost ready for the waiting press. He had just snapped his watch with an exclamation of surprise at the lateness of the hour as he hurriedly turned to conclude his writing, when he fancied he heard a noise on the step outside his office door.

He thought nothing of it; and the pen flowed faster than before. But only a couple of minutes more had passed when a similar sound fell upon his ear. And it disturbed him strangely. Perhaps he was nervous, for the strain of the night’s work had been severe enough—and he was alone. The sound, to his ears at least, had something unusual and ominous about it—yet he knew not why.

He turned again to complete his work, his glance searching the room a moment before he did so. But the disturbance had come from without—the room was just as his associates had left it. He tried to concentrate his attention; yet a strange feeling possessed him—he felt in a vague, restless way, as though he were being watched. His office at the very top of the building was almost lonely in its separation; from the half-open windows the sleeping city might be seen, wrapped in the trailing garments of the dark. His mind seemed strangely sensitive, a-quiver almost, as if some influence were borne in upon him from the haunted chambers of the night.

Suddenly, impelled by some mysterious impulse, he flung his pen upon the table and turned his gaze over his shoulder with a swift motion, fixing his eyes on the large pane of glass that formed the upper portion of the door.

Involuntarily he uttered a startled cry—for he could see, two or three inches from the pane, a human face. And the eyes were wide, and fastened upon him with almost fierce intensity. The bearded face was pallid and haggard—but the eyes were the outstanding features, gleaming with a nameless significance that spoke of a soul stirred with passion. They never flinched—even as Harvey sprang from his chair they did not turn away. Nothing could be seen but the face—and the impact of the unmoving eyes was terrific.

Harvey stood a moment, trembling. The face never moved. Then he strode swiftly to the door and flung it wide.

"What’s the meaning of this, sir?" he demanded sternly. "What’s your business here?"

The man’s eyes moved only enough to wander slowly about his face. He waited till Harvey’s lips were framing other words, his hand now on the door as if to slam it shut. Then he walked slowly in, his face still turned upon the other’s. He shut the door himself.

"I want you to look at something," said the man, and the voice was deep and passionate.

He was clad in the meanest garments; poor repairs were on them here and there. The signs of poverty were everywhere about him, and his whole appearance was that of one who had suffered much amid the billows of misfortune. He seemed to be struggling hard to resummon something he had lost—the quivering lips and the despairing eyes told that he had been beaten in the fight, yet not without stern resistance, nor yet left without flickerings of the old-time fire. His spirit seemed broken, yet not utterly destroyed.

"What are you doing here? What’s your business?" Harvey demanded; the man was fumbling in the pocket of his coat.

"I’m a printer," he answered, "and one of your foremen gave me work to-day. I only began to-night—and I came upstairs to see you. _I knew you were here._"

Something in the way he uttered these last words clutched at Harvey’s heart. "I knew you were here," the man repeated, nodding his head slowly, his eyes again on Harvey. And they seemed to melt with a strange wild longing, following him with a kind of defiant wistfulness. Somehow, like a faint and fleeting dream, Jessie’s face—or an expression Harvey had often seen upon it—passed like a wraith between him and the bearded man.

"Who are you?" he said huskily.

The man’s eyes rested a moment on the floor—and he was trembling where he stood. Slowly he raised them till they rested on Harvey’s pallid face. Then they looked long and silently at each other, the dread and voiceless dialogue waging—that awesome interchange of soul with soul that makes men tremble, when eyes speak to answering eyes as lightning calls from peak to peak.

"I’m your father," the low voice said at last, the deep eyes leaping towards him in a strange mastery of strength and passion.

Harvey gave a cry and started back. The man followed him, straightening as he came, the hungering face out-held a little, pursuing still. The younger man retreated farther, gasping; and his eyes, like something suddenly released, raced about the unkempt form, surveying boots and clothes and beard and brow in an abandonment of candour.

"No, no," he murmured as he kept creeping back, the man following still; "no, no, it cannot be."

The stranger’s hand was outstretched now. Something whitish was in it—and something black. "Look," he said, his lips parting in a weird, unearthly smile, "look, and deny it if you can; it’s a photograph—and a letter."

Harvey stood still; then took them from the outstretched hand. The gas jet was just above. He read the letter first—it was his mother’s handiwork. And the letter breathed of love, and hope, and of impatient joy at their approaching wedding-day.

Then he held the sharp-edged tin-type up before him. And then he knew. For his eye fell first on his mother’s face, sweet with the new-born joy of motherhood. And a laughing babe was in her arms—and the man beside her, one hand resting on her shoulder, was the man whose panting breath he heard, whose burning eyes were fixed upon him now.

"That’s you," the man said hoarsely; "and that’s your mother—baby wasn’t born. And I hadn’t ever drunk a drop then," he added, a bleating cry mingling with the words.

Harvey stood long, looking down. Once the stranger put out his hand—but he drew back with the picture, gazing still. The tide of battle rose and fell within him. Then his hand shook like an aspen, his whole frame trembled, his sight grew blurred and dim. Yet through the gust of tears he looked again upon the haggard face—and again, more clearly than before, something of Jessie’s swam before him. A moment later, and his soul, surging like the ocean in a storm, went out in primal passion to the quivering man; swiftly, overmasteringly, as if forevermore, he took him in his arms.

* * * * * *

"If you’ll help me, my son—if you’ll help me, I’ll try again." The flickering gas jet still gave its light above them and the silent stars still watched the sleeping city. And the son still held his father in the clasp of a long-slumbering, new-awakened love.

"We’ll fight it out together—and we’ll win," the lips of youth replied. "I know all about it, father—and I’ll help all I can. I promised mother—I promised to bring you, father. Mother’s waiting; and I said we’d come together—and Jessie, too."

"Will Jessie love me?" the broken voice enquired, the tone plaintive with mingled love and fear.

"She’s always loved you, father," and the son’s voice was thrilling with compassion. "We’re both your children," and it was pitiful to see the strong lips struggling; "we’re your children—and we promised mother."

Thus the gentle stream flowed on. And as they talked a new peace flowed into the haunted eyes; and the blessed tidings of those he loved—of her whose sweet face was even now upon its pillow, and of the one who dwelt with God—came with balm and healing to his soul.

"I’ll try, Harvey," he said again—"and I’ll trust your mother’s God."

As Harvey guided him out into the night the quiet stars above him seemed to be the very sentinels of heaven. And he marvelled that this wondrous charge had come to him at last—over all the waste of years; and that the secret plan of the Unseen, its deep design unchanging, had entrusted to his hand the fulfillment of his mother’s prayers.

It was night again; but beautiful. And if any of the Glenallen slumberers, a moment waking, heard upon the pavement the tread of two silent men, they knew not how holy was the mission that impelled these pilgrims of the night. They paused but once, these two; before a weather-beaten little house, empty now, its grimy shop-window staring out into the dark. But the older man seemed as if he could not look enough; like cathedral to reverent saint this squalid building was to him. Once the younger man pointed to an upper window—no light gleamed from it now—but the other’s eyes, even when they had left it far behind, turned to caress it with lingering tenderness.

They passed together through the gate that guarded the little city of the dead. The moon was hidden; and no word passed between them as they made their way to the holy of holies where lay their precious dead. But Harvey’s hand went out to his father’s; and thus they went on together, hand in hand through the darkness, as children go beneath life’s morning sun.

They stopped beside two grassy graves. Nearest to them, at their dewy feet, lay the larger mound; the baby’s nestled close beside it. The older man’s head, uncovered, was bowed in reverence; even in the dark Harvey could see the stamp of eternity upon his face. The son’s love, unspeaking, went out in silent passion to his father; so near he seemed, so dear, so much his own in that holy hour. Yet the broken heart beside him carried a load of anguish of which the son knew nothing; it was torn by a tragedy and rended by a memory no other heart could share—and the weary eyes looked covetously at the quiet resting-place beside the waiting dead.

His tears fell—on the baby’s grave. He leaned over, as if he saw—first above the one, turning again to the other—and God was busy meantime with the wound, the long bleeding, unstaunched wound.

Harvey touched him on the shoulder. He looked a moment into his son’s face, almost as if surprised to see him there. Then his eyes turned again to the lowly mounds, and he sank on his knees between them. Reverently, the yearning of the years finding now a voice, he stooped low till his lips touched the sod above the mother’s face. Then his own was upturned to the distant sky, the lips moving.

Harvey knew the broken vow was for God alone. He turned away. The moon stole gently forth from the passing cloud; and, as he turned, his eye fell on the new-illumined verse graven on the simple stone:

"UNTIL THE DAY BREAK AND THE SHADOWS
FLEE AWAY"

THE END

* * * * * * * *

*By Robert E. Knowles*

_The Attic Guest_

_The Web of Time_

_The Dawn at Shanty Bay_
Decorated and Illustrated by Griselda M. McClure

_The Undertow_
A Tale of Both Sides of the Sea

_St. Cuthbert’s_
A Parish Romance