Chapter IV: Part 4

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."

*XIV*

_*THE WEIGHING OF THE ANCHOR*_

Surely the years love best to ply their industry among the young. For two or three of them, each taking up the work where its predecessor laid it down, can transform a youth or maiden to an extent that is really wonderful. Perhaps this is because the young lend themselves so cheerfully to everything that makes for change, and resent all tarrying on life’s alluring way. They love to make swift calls at life’s chief ports, so few in number though they be; they are impatient to try the open sea beyond, unrecking that the last harbour and the long, long anchorage are all too near at hand.

The difference that these silent craftsmen can soon make upon a face might have been easily visible to any observant eye, had such an eye been cast one evening upon the still unbroken circle of the Simmons home. The mother had changed but little; nor had anything changed to her—unless it were that all upon which her eyes had closed shone brighter in the light that memory imparts. Still holding her secret hidden deep, her fondness for those left to her seemed but to deepen as the hope of her husband’s return grew more and more faint within. If the hidden tragedy delved an ever deeper wound under cover of her silence, it had no outward token but an intenser love towards those from whom she had so long concealed it.

But Jessie and Harvey had turned the time to good account. For the former had almost left behind the stage of early childhood, merging now into the roundness and plumpness—and consciousness, too—that betoken a girl’s approach to the sunlit hills of womanhood.

Yet Harvey had changed the most of all. The stalwart form had taken to itself the proportions of opening manhood—height, firmness, breadth of shoulders, length of limb, all made a strong and comely frame. The poise of the head indicated resolute activity, and the evening light that now played upon his face revealed a countenance in which sincerity, seriousness, hopefulness, might be traced by a practiced eye. Humour, too, was there—that twin sister unto seriousness—maintaining its own place in the large eyes that had room for other things beside; and the glance that was sometimes turned upon the autumn scene without, but oftener upon his mother and his sister, was eloquent of much that lay behind. The tuition of his soul had left its mark upon his face. Early begun and relentlessly continued, it had taught him much of life, of life’s ways and life’s severities—not a little, too, of the tactics she demands from all who would prevail in the stern battle for which he had been compelled so early to enlist. New duties, unusual responsibilities, severe mental exercise such as serious study gives, stern self-denial, constant thought of others, these had conspired to provide the manly seriousness upon the still almost boyish face.

Autumn reigned without, as has been already said, and in robes of gold. Glowing and glorious, the oak and the elm and the maple wrapt in bridal garments, glad nature went onward to her death, mute preceptress to pagan Christians as to how they too should die.

A graver autumn reigned within. For the little circle was to be broken on the morrow, and the humble home was passing through one of earth’s truest crises, giving up an inmate to the storm and peril of the great world without. The world itself may smile, stretching forth indifferent hands to receive the outgoing life; what cares the ocean for another swimmer as he joins the struggling throng?—but was the surrender ever made without tumult and secret tears?

"Look, look," Jessie cried, as she turned her face a moment from the pane; "there goes Cecil and Madeline—I guess he’s taking her for a farewell drive."

In spite of himself, Harvey joined his sister at the window.

"Is Madeline with him?" he said, throwing quite an unusual note of carelessness into the words.

"Yes, that’s the second time they’ve driven past here—at least, I’m almost sure it was them before," Jessie averred, straining her neck a little to follow the disappearing carriage.

"I wonder what he’ll do with his horse when he’s away," Harvey pursued, bent on an irrelevant theme, and thankful that the light was dim. The inward riot that disturbed him would have been much allayed could he have known that the parade before their door was of Madeline’s own contriving; presuming, that is, that he understood the combination of the woman-heart.

"Doesn’t it seem strange, Harvey, that you and Cecil should start for the University the very same day?—he’s going on the same train in the morning, isn’t he?" enquired Jessie, her eyes abandoning their pursuit.

"I think so," her brother answered carelessly. "Jessie," he digressed decisively, "I want you to promise me something. I’m going to write you a letter every week, and I want you to take and read it—or nearly all of it; sometimes there’ll be bits you can’t—to Mr. Nickle. If it weren’t for him—for him and Mr. Borland—I wouldn’t be going to college at all, as you know."

"That I will," the sister answered heartily; "I think he’s just the dearest old man. And I can manage it easily enough—there’s hardly a day but he comes into the store to buy something. He and Mr. Borland always seem to be wanting something, something that we’ve always got, too. They must eat an awful lot of sweet stuff between them. And every time Mr. Nickle comes in, he says: ’Weel, hoo’s the scholarship laddie the day?’—he’s awfully proud about you getting the scholarship, Harvey."

Her brother’s face brightened. "Well there’s one thing I’m mighty glad of," he said, "and that is that I won’t be very much of a charge for my first year at any rate—that hundred and fifty will help to see me through."

"But you mustn’t stint yourself, Harvey," the mother broke in with tender tone. "You must get a nice comfortable place to board in, and have a good warm bed—and lots of good nourishing things to eat. I know I’ll often be waking up in the night and wondering if you’re cold. Do you know, dear," she went on, her voice trembling a little, "we’ve never been a night separated since you were born—it’s going to be hard for a while, I’m afraid," she said a little brokenly as the youth nestled down beside her, his head resting on her lap as in the old childhood days.

"It’ll be harder for me, mother," he said; "but I think I’d be almost happy if you were well again. It nearly breaks my heart to think of leaving you here in—in the dark," he concluded, his arm stealing fondly about her neck.

The woman bended low to his caress. "Don’t, Harvey—you mustn’t. It’s not the dark—it’s never dark where Christ abides," she broke out with a fervour that almost startled him, for it was but rarely that she spoke like this. "I’ve got so much to thank God for, my son—it’s always light where love makes it light. And I’m so proud and happy that you’re going to get the chance you need, Harvey. Oh, but He’s been good to my little ones," she cried, her voice thrilling with the note of real gratitude that is heard, strangely enough, only from those who sit among the shadows. The noblest notes of praise have come from lips of pain.

"You’ll write to me, won’t you, mother?—you’ll tell Jessie what to say, and it’ll be almost like getting it from yourself."

"Oh, yes," she answered quickly, "and I’ll always be able to sign my name. And if you’re ever in trouble, Harvey—or if you’re ever tempted—and that’s sure to come in a great city like the one you’re going to—remember your mother’s praying for you. I’m laid aside, I know, my son, and there’s not much now that I can do; but there’s one thing left to me—I have the throne of grace; and if any one knows its comfort, surely it’s your mother."

"Mother, won’t you tell me something?" he interrupted decisively.

"What is it, my son?"

"Isn’t there something else, mother—some other sorrow, I mean—that I don’t know about? I’ve had a feeling for a long time that there was—was something else."

The mother was long in answering. But she raised her hand and drew his arm tighter about her neck, the protecting love very sweet. "There’s nothing but what I get grace to bear—don’t ask me more, my child," and as she spoke the bending boy felt the hot tears begin to fall. They soon came thick and fast, for the mother’s heart was melting within her, and as he felt the sacred drops upon his head the son’s soul rose up in purpose and devotion, making its solemn vow that he would be worthy of a love so great.

The evening wore away, every hour precious to them all. Very simple and homely were the counsels that fell from the mother’s lips; that he must be careful about making new acquaintances, especially such as would hail him on the street, and speak his name, and cite his friends in witness—they doubtless all knew about the scholarship money; that he must study with his light behind him—not in front—and never later than half-past ten; that a couple of pairs of stockings, at the very least, must always be on hand in case of wet feet and resultant colds; that if cold in bed, he must ask for extra covering—he simply must not be afraid to ask for what he wants; that he must be very careful on those crowded city streets, especially of the electric cars; that in case of illness he must telegraph immediately, regardless of expense; that he must not forsake the Bible-class on Sabbath afternoons, but find one there and enroll himself at once; that he must accept gladly if fine people asked him to their homes, caring nothing though other students may be better dressed than he—they didn’t get the scholarship, anyhow.

And Harvey promised all. More than likely that he took the admonitions lightly; he was not so much concerned with them as with the conflicting emotions that possessed him, eager joy that the battle was about to begin in earnest and yearning sympathy for the devoted hearts he was to leave behind. If all to which he was going forth loomed before him as a battle, it was as a delicious battle, whose process should be perpetual pleasure, its issue decisive victory. No thought of its real peril, its subtle conflict, its despairing hours, marred the prospect of the beckoning years; he knew not how he would yet revise his estimates as to who are our real enemies, nor did he dream that his fiercest foes would be found within—and that the battle of inward living is, after all has been said and done, the battle of life itself.

"And now, my children," the mother said at last when the evening was far spent, "we’d better go to our rest, for we’ll need to be up early in the morning. But I want to have a little prayer with you before we part—we’ll just kneel here;" and she sank beside her chair, an arm about either child. It was quite dark, for none seemed to wish a light—they knew it could add nothing to the mother’s vision—and in simple, earnest words, sometimes choking with the emotion she could not control, she committed her treasures to her God. "Oh, keep his youthful feet, our Father," the trustful voice implored, "and never let them wander from the path; help him in his studies and strengthen him in his soul—and keep us here at home in Thy blessed care, and let us all meet again. For Jesus’ sake."

The light—that light that they enjoy who need no candle’s glow—was about them as they arose, the mother’s hand in Jessie’s as they turned away. Harvey sought the shelter of the room that was so soon to be his no more. He closed the door as he entered, falling on his knees beside the bed to echo his mother’s prayer. Then he hurriedly undressed and was soon fast asleep.

It was hours after, the silent night hurrying towards the dawn, when he suddenly awoke, somewhat startled. For he felt a hand upon his brow, and the clothes were tight about him. Looking up, he dimly discerned his mother’s face; white-robed, she was bending over him.

"Don’t be frightened, Harvey; go to sleep, dear—it’s only me. I wanted to tuck you in once more, like I used to do when you were little. Oh, Harvey," and a half cry escaped her as she bent down and put her arms about him, "I don’t know how to give you up—but go to sleep, dear, go to sleep."

But Harvey was now wide awake, clinging to his mother. "Don’t go," he said, "stay with me a little."

There was a long silence. At last Harvey spoke:

"What are you thinking about, mother?"

The woman drew her shawl tighter about her shoulders and settled herself on the bed. "I think I’ll tell you, Harvey," she said in a whisper; "it seems easier to tell you in the dark—and when Jessie’s asleep."

"What is it?" he asked eagerly. "Is it anything that’s hard to say?"

"Yes, my son, it’s hard to tell—but I think I ought to tell it. Are you wide awake, Harvey?"

"Yes, mother. What is it?" he asked again.

"Do you remember, Harvey, the night you went to join the church?—and how I walked with you as far as the door?—and we went into the cemetery together? Don’t you remember, Harvey?"

"Yes, mother, of course I do. But why?"

"Can you remember how, when we were standing at the baby’s grave, you asked me why your father never joined the church, and I said he didn’t think he was good enough—and you asked me why, and I said I’d tell you some time. Do you remember that, my son?"

"Yes," Harvey answered slowly, his mind working fast.

"Well, I’m going to tell you now. Your father was so good to me, Harvey—at least, nearly always. But he used"—she buried her face in the pillow—"this is what I’m going to tell you, Harvey; he used—he used to drink sometimes."

The form beside her lay still as death. "Sometimes he used to—we were so happy, till that began. And oh, Harvey, nobody can ever know what a dreadful struggle it is, till they’ve seen it as I saw it. For he loved you, my son, he loved you and Jessie like his own soul—and it was the company he got into—and some discouragements—and things like that, that were to blame for it. But the struggle was terrible, Harvey—like fighting with one of those dreadful snakes that winds itself about you. And I could do so little to help him."

She could feel his breath coming fast, his lips almost against her cheek. A little tremor preceded his question. "Was he—was father all right when he died?"

It was well he could not see the tell-tale lips, nor catch the quiver that wrung the suffering face. "Oh, Harvey," she began tremblingly, "I asked you never to speak of that—it hurts me so. And I wanted to tell you," she hurried evasively on, "that his own father had the same failing before him. And I’m so frightened, Harvey, so frightened—about you—you know it often descends from father to son. And when I think of you all alone in the big city—oh, Harvey, I want you to——" and the rest was smothered in sobs as the sorrow-riven bosom rose and fell, the tears streaming from the sightless eyes.

Both of Harvey’s arms were tight about his mother, his broken voice whispering his vow with passionate affection.

"Never, mother, never; I promise," he murmured. "Oh, my mother, you’ve had so much of sorrow—if you want me, I won’t go away at all. I’ll stay and take care of you and Jessie, if you want me, mother," the strong arms clinging tighter. But she hushed the suggestion with a word, gently withdrawing herself and kissing him good-night again.

"Go to sleep, my son," she said gently; "you’ve got a long journey before you," and he knew the significance of the words; "God has given me far more of joy than sorrow," as she felt her way to the door and onwards to her room.

Long he lay awake, engulfed in a very tumult of thoughts and memories; finally he fell into a restless slumber. The day was dimly breaking when he suddenly awoke, thinking he heard a noise. Stealing from his bed, he crept across the room, peering towards his mother’s. He could see her in the uncertain light; she was bending over his trunk, the object of her solicitude for many a previous day, and her hands were evidently groping for something within. Soon they reappeared, and he could see a Bible in them, new and beautiful. She had a pen in one hand, and for a moment she felt about the adjoining table for the ink-well she knew was there. Finding it, the poor ill-guided pen sought the fly-leaf of the book she held; it took long, but it was love’s labour and was done with care. She waited till the ink was dry, then closed the volume, kissed it with longing tenderness and replaced it in the trunk. Rising, she made her way to a chest of drawers, opened one or two before her hands fell on what she wanted, and then produced a little box carefully wrapped in oilcloth. Some little word she scrawled upon it, and the unpretentious parcel—only some simple luxury that a mother’s love had provided against sterner days—was deposited at the very bottom of the trunk. She closed the lid and kneeled reverently beside the now waiting token of departure; Harvey crept back to his bed again, his sight well-nigh as dim as hers. When the little family gathered the next morning at the breakfast-table the mother’s face bore a look of deep content, as if some burden had been taken from her mind. And the valiant display of cheerfulness on the part of all three was quite successful, each marvelling at the sprightliness of the other two. They were just in the middle of the meal when the tinkling bell called Jessie to the shop. A moment later she returned, bearing a resplendent cluster of roses. "They’re for you, Harvey," she said, "and I think it’s a great shame—boys never care anything for flowers. They ought to be for me." But she did not hand them to her brother, nor did he seem to expect them. For she walked straight to the mother’s chair, holding them before her; and the patient face sank among them, drinking deep of their rich fragrance.

"Who sent them, Jessie?" her brother asked with vigorous brevity.

"I don’t know—the boy wouldn’t tell. He said ’a party’ gave him ten cents to hand them in—and the party didn’t want the name given. I hate that ’party’ business; you can’t tell whether it’s a man or a woman. I guess it wasn’t a man, though—look at the ribbon."

One would have said that Harvey thought so too, judging by the light on his face. "I’ll take the ribbon," he said, "and just one rose—you and mother can have the rest."

"Then you’re sure it wasn’t a man sent them?" returned the knowing Jessie.

"No, I’m not—what makes you say that?"

"Well—what are you taking the ribbon for, if you’re not?"

"Because—because, well, because it’s useful, for one thing; I can tie my lunch up in it, or a book or two—anything like that," Harvey replied, smiling at his adroit defense. "Who’s this—why, if it’s not Mr. Nickle and Mr. Borland!" rising as he spoke to greet the most welcome guests.

"Ye’ll hae to pardon us, Mrs. Simmons," Geordie’s cheery voice was the first to say; "David here brocht me richt through the shop, richt ben the hoose, wi’oot rappin’. We wantit to say good-bye till the laddie—only he’s mair a man nor a laddie noo."

"It was Mr. Nickle that dragged me in by the scuff o’ the neck," interjected Mr. Borland, nodding to all the company at once. "When he smelt the porridge, you couldn’t see him for dust. Hello! where’d you get the roses?—look awful like the vintage out at our place. Don’t rise, Mrs. Simmons; we just dropped in to tell Harvey tra-la-la."

"I’m glad to find ye’re at the porridge, laddie," Geordie said genially, as he took the chair Jessie had handed him. "The porridge laddies aye leads their class at the college, they tell me—dinna let them gie ye ony o’ yon ither trash they’re fixin’ up these days to dae instead o’ porridge; there’s naethin’ like the guid auld oatmeal."

"You Scotch folks give me a pain," broke in David; "how any one can eat the stuff, I can’t make out. The fact is, I don’t believe Scotchmen like it themselves—only it’s cheap, an’ it fills up the hired men so they can’t eat anythin’ else. Unless it’s because their ancestors ate it," he continued thoughtfully. "I’ll bet my boots there’s Scotchmen in Glenallen that’s eatin’ porridge to-day jest because their grandfathers ate it; an’ they’ll put it down if it kills ’em—an’ their kids’ll eat it too or else they’ll know the reason why. It’d be just the same if it was bran—they’d have to walk the plank. But there ain’t no horse blood in me, thank goodness," he concluded fervently.

"Jealousy’s an awfu’ sair disease," retorted Geordie, smiling pitifully at the alien; "but we canna a’ be Scotch."

"I’m so glad you came in," Harvey began, turning to his visitors as the laughter subsided; "we were just speaking of your kindness last night—and I’m glad to have a chance to thank you again just before I go away."

"Stap it," Geordie interrupted sternly. "That’s plenty o’ that kind o’ thing—I’ll gang oot if there’s ony mair, mind ye," he declared vehemently, for there are few forms of pain more intolerable to natures such as his.

"You’ll have to be careful, Harvey," cautioned Mr. Borland; "he’s one o’ the kind that don’t want their left hand to know the stunt their right hand’s doin’. Very few Scotchmen likes the left hand to get next to what the right one’s at—it wouldn’t know much, poor thing, in the most o’ cases," he added pitifully—"but our friend here’s a rare kind of a Scotchman. By George, them’s terrible fine roses," he digressed, taking a whiff of equine proportions.

"I canna gang till the station wi’ ye, Harvey—David’s gaein’," said Geordie Nickle, taking his staff and rising to his feet, "but guid-bye, my laddie, an’ the blessin’ o’ yir mither’s God be wi’ ye," and the kindly hand was unconsciously laid on Harvey’s head. "We’re expectin’ graun’ things o’ ye at the college. I mind fine the mornin’ I left my faither’s hoose in Hawick; he aye lifted the tune himsel’ at family worship—an’ that mornin’, I mind the way his voice was quaverin’. These was the words:

’Oh, spread Thy coverin’ wings around
Till all our wanderin’s cease,’

an’ I dinna ken onythin’ better for yirsel’ the day. Guid-bye, my laddie—an’ ’a stoot heart tae a steep brae’, ye ken."

As Harvey returned from seeing the old man to the door, Jessie beckoned him aside into his room, not yet set to rights after his fitful slumbers of the night before.

"Harvey," she began in very serious tones, "I only want to say a word; it’s to give a promise—and to get one. And I want you to promise me faithfully, Harvey."

"What is it, sister?" he asked, his gaze resting fondly on the girlish face.

"Well, it’s just this. You see this room?" Harvey nodded. "And this bed?—you know I’m going to have your room after you’re gone. Well, it’s about mother—I’m going to pray for her here every night; right here," touching the side of the bed as she spoke. "Dr. Fletcher said it would be sure to help—I mean for her sight to come back again; I asked him once at Sunday-school."

"The doctor in the city told me that, too," broke in her brother.

"Dr. Fletcher knows better’n him," the other declared firmly—"he said God made lots o’ people see because other people prayed. An’ I want you to always ask the same thing—at the same time, Harvey, at the very same time; an’ when I’m asking here, I’ll know you’re doing the very same wherever you are. You’ll promise me, won’t you, Harvey?"

Harvey’s heart was full; and the unsteadiness that marked his words was not from any lack of sympathy and purpose. "What time, Jessie?" he asked in a moment. "Would eight o’clock be a good time?"

"I don’t think so," the girl said after pondering a moment. "You see, I’ll often be in bed at eight—I’m going to work very hard, you know. I think half-past seven would be better."

Thus was the solemn tryst arranged, and Harvey bade his sister good-bye before he passed without for the last farewell to his mother.

No tears, no outward sign, marked the emotion of the soulful moment, and soon Harvey and Mr. Borland had started for the station. Once, and only once, did the youth look behind; and he saw his mother’s tender face, unseeing, but still turned in wistful yearning towards her departing son. Jessie was clinging to her skirts, her face hidden—but the mother’s was bright in its strength and hopefulness, and the image sank into his heart, never to be effaced.

It was evident, from the long silence he preserved, that David was reflecting upon things in general. Harvey was coming to understand him pretty well, and knew that the product would be forthcoming shortly. Nor was he disappointed.

"They’re great on givin’ advice, ain’t they?"

"Who?" enquired Harvey, smiling in advance.

"Them Scotch folks—they’d like awful well to be omnipotent, wouldn’t they? It’s pretty nigh the only thing they think they lack. It’s great fun to hear a Scotchman layin’ down the law; they don’t see no use in havin’ ten commandments unless they’re kept—by other people."

"You’re not referring to Mr. Nickle, are you?" ventured Harvey.

"Oh, no! bless my soul. Geordie’s all wool and sixteen ounces to the pound," responded Mr. Borland, prodigal of his metaphors. "That’s what set me thinkin’ of Scotchmen in general, ’cause they’re so different from Geordie. That was an elegant programme he fired at you there; what’s this it was, again?—oh, yes, ’when it’s stiff climbin’, keep your powder dry’—somethin’ like that, wasn’t it?"

"He gave it the Scotch," answered Harvey, "’a stoot heart tae a steep brae,’ I think it was."

"That’s what I said," affirmed David, "an’ it’s a bully motto. It’s mine," he avowed, turning and looking gravely at Harvey. "I heard a fellow advertisin’ a nigger show onct; he was on top of the tavern sheds, with a megaphone. ’If you can’t laugh, don’t come,’ he was bellerin’—an’ I thought it was elegant advice. Kind o’ stuck to me all these years. You take it yourself, boy, an’ act on it—you’ll have lots of hard ploughin’ afore you’re through."

"It suits me all right," Harvey responded cheerfully; "they say laughter’s good medicine."

"The very best—every one should have a hogshead a day; it washes out your insides, you see. If a man can’t laugh loud, he ain’t a good man, I say. I was talkin’ about that to Robert McCaig the other day—you know him, he’s the elder—terrible nice man he was, too, till he got religion—an’ then he took an awful chill. By and by he got to be an elder—an’ then he froze right to the bottom. Well, he’s agin laughin’—says it’s frivolous, you see. I told him the solemnest people was the frivolousest—used the rich fool for an illustration; he was terrible solemn, but he was a drivellin’ _ejut_ inside, to my way o’ thinkin’. Robert up an’ told me we don’t read of the Apostle Paul ever laughin’—thought he had me. What do you think I gave him back?"

"Couldn’t imagine," said Harvey, quite truthfully.

"’That don’t prove nothin’,’ says I; ’we don’t ever read of him takin’ a bath, or gettin’ his hair cut,’ says I, ’but it was him that said godliness was next to cleanliness.’ An’ Robert got mad about it—that’s how I knew I had him beat. He said I was irreverent—but that ain’t no argyment, is it?" appealed David seriously.

His companion’s opinion, doubtless favourable, was hindered of expression by the snort of the approaching locomotive, signal for a sprint that was rather vigorous for further exchange of views. There was barely time for the purchase of a ticket and the checking of the trunk, the conductor already standing with one eye on the baggage truck and the other on the grimy figure that protruded from the engine window.

"I ain’t Scotch," David said hurriedly, as he and Harvey stood together at the rear platform of the train, "but I had a father, for all that, just the same as all them Sandys seem to have. An’ when I was pikin’ out to find the trail—it’s a long time ago—the old man stood just like I’m standin’ here with you, an’ he says to me: ’David,’ he says, ’trust in God an’ do your duty.’ An’ I believe them’s the best runnin’ orders on the road. The old Sandys can’t beat that much, can they?"

Harvey had no chance to make reply; for almost in the same breath David went on, thrusting an envelope into his hand as he spoke: "Here’s a letter of interduction I want you to present to a fellow in the city—he’s the teller in the Merchants’ Bank, an’ you might find him helpful," David concluded with a hemispheric grin; "hope you’ll endorse my suggestion," he added, the grin becoming spherical.

Harvey tried to protest as best he could, protest and gratitude mingling; but the train was already moving out and his communications were chiefly in tableau.

"That’s all right," David roared above the din; "good-bye, my boy. Remember Geordie Nickle’s motto—an’ don’t blow out the gas."

*XV*

_*A PARENTAL PARLEY*_

"Better eat all you can, Madeline; you can’t never tell when you’re goin’ to have your last square meal these days," and David deposited another substantial helping on his daughter’s plate.

"Why, father, what’s the matter? What’s making you so despondent all of a sudden?" Madeline asked in semi-seriousness, following her father’s advice the while.

"You don’t understand your father, Madeline—he’s always joking, you know," interjected Mrs. Borland. "You shouldn’t make light of such solemn matters, David," she went on, turning to her husband, "hunger’s nothing to jest about."

"Exactly what I was sayin’," responded David, "an’ if things goes on like they promise now, you an’ Madeline’ll have to take in washin’ to support this family—that’s the gospel truth."

"I don’t believe father’s in fun," Madeline persisted. "Anything go wrong to-day with business matters?" she enquired, looking across the table at her father.

That David was in earnest was obvious enough. "Everything wrong, appearin’ly," he said, rolling up his napkin and returning it to its ring. "The men’s goin’ to strike—seems to me there’s a strike every other alternate day," he went on. "Doin’ business nowadays is like a bird tryin’ to hatch out eggs when they’re cuttin’ down the tree—some o’ them darned firebrands from St. Louis have been stirrin’ up the men; a lot o’ lazy man-eaters," he concluded vehemently.

"What do the men want, David?" his wife asked innocently.

Mr. Borland looked at her incredulously. "What do they want—the same old thing they’ve been wantin’ ever since Adam went into the fruit business—less work an’ more pay. An’ they’ve appointed a couple o’ fellows—a delegation they call it—to wait on the manufacturers privately an’ present their claims. There’s two different fellows to interview each man—an’ they’re comin’ here to-night. They didn’t tell me they was comin’—I jest heard it casual."

"To-night!" echoed Mrs. Borland, "where’ll they sit?"

"Chairs, I reckon," replied her spouse.

"You’re so facetious, David. Where’ll they sit when they’re talking to you?—you know what I mean."

"Oh, I reckon we’ll have it out in the den—there’ll be lots o’ growlin’, anyhow. I’m not worryin’ much about where they sit; it’s the stand they take that troubles me the most," and David indulged a well-earned smile.

"You’re very gay about it, father," Madeline chimed in, "making merry with the English language."

"There’s no use o’ bein’ gay when everything all right, daughter; that’s like turnin’ on the light when it’s twelve o’clock noon. But when things is breakin’ up on you, then’s your time to cut up dog a little. I’m a terrible believer in sunshine, Madeline—the home-made kind, in particular. I always tell the croakers that every man should have a sunshine plant inside of him—when the outside kind gives out, why, let him start his little mill inside, an’ then he’s independent as a pig on ice. An’ really, it’s kind o’ natural—there’s nothin’ so refreshin’ as difficulties, in a certain sense. Leastways, that’s the kind of an animal I am—when I’m on the turf, give me a hurdle now an’ again to make it interestin’."

"Is this a pretty stiff business hurdle you’ve got to get over now?" asked Madeline, as she smiled admiringly at the home-bred philosophy.

"Well, it’s stiff enough. Of course, I’ve done pretty good in the foundry—ain’t in it for my health. But it’s terrible uncertain; you know the Scriptur’ says the first shall be last—an’ it’s often that way in business. We’re really not makin’ hardly any money these days; of course, if you tell the men that, they—they close one eye," said David, illustrating the process as he spoke. "Where are you off to, Madeline?" he asked abruptly, for his daughter had passed into the hall and was putting on her cloak.

"I’m going for my lesson—I’m taking wood-carving, you know. Pretty soon I’ll be able to do it myself; and then I’m going to make lots of pretty things and sell them. My class and I are going to support four India famine children," she said proudly.

"Bully for you! You’ll do the carvin’, an’ they’ll do the eatin’—I suppose that’s the idea."

Madeline’s merry laughter was still pealing as she closed the door behind her. Mrs. Borland turned a rather fretful face to her husband.

"She’s taken a class in Sunday-school," she said, lifting her eyebrows to convey some idea of her opinion on the subject. "I did my best to dissuade her, but it was no use."

"What in thunder did you want to prevent her for?" asked David.

"Oh, well, you understand. They’re a very ordinary lot, I’m afraid—just the kind of children I’ve always tried to keep her away from. I never heard one of their names before."

"I think she’s a reg’lar brick to tackle them," returned her husband. "It does me good to see Madeline takin’ that turn—nearly all the girls her age is jest about as much use as a sofa-tidy, with their teas an’ five-o’clocks an’ at-homes, an’ all them other diseases," David continued scornfully. "It’s all right to have girls learned——"

"Taught, David," corrected his wife.

"It’s the same thing," retorted Mr. Borland. "I’m too old for you to learn me them new words, mother—it’s all right, as I was sayin’, to get them learned an’ taught how to work in china, an’ ivory, an’ wood an’ hay an’ stubble, as the good book says, but it’s far better to see them workin’ a little in human bein’s. It must be terrible interestin’ to try your hand on an immortal soul—them kind o’ productions lasts a while. So don’t go an’ cool her off, mother—you let her stick to them kids without names if she wants to."

"But she tells me, David, she tells me some of them come to Sunday-school without washing their hands or faces."

"Tell her to wear buckskin mits," said Mr. Borland gravely.

"It’s all very well to laugh, David—but they seem to have all sorts of things wrong with them. Madeline told me one day how she couldn’t get the attention of the class because one of them kept winding and unwinding a rag on his sore finger for all the class to see it; he said a rat bit it in the night."

"Rough on rats’d soon fix them," said David reflectively; "I mind out in the barn one time——"

"But I’m serious, David," remonstrated Mrs. Borland; "and there’s something else I hardly like to tell you. But only last Sunday Madeline was telling me—she laughed about it, but I didn’t—how she asked one of the boys why he wasn’t there the Sunday before, and he said: ’Please, ma’am, I had the shingles.’"

"Shingles ain’t catchin’," declared David, as he gasped for breath. "Ha, ha, ha!" he roared, "that’s the richest I’ve heard since the nigger show. Ha, ha! that’s a good one—that’s the kind of a class I’d like to have. None o’ your silk-sewed kids for me, with their white chiffon an’ pink bows! It seems a sin for them teachers to have so much fun on Sundays, don’t it?" and David extricated his shank from beneath the table, venting his mirth upon it with many a resounding slap.

Mrs. Borland sighed discouragedly. "Well," she said at length, "I suppose there are greater troubles in life than that. In fact, I was just thinking of one of them when you were speaking about where you’d entertain the men when they come to-night."

"I’m afeard what I’ll say won’t entertain them a terrible lot," said David, passing his cup for further stimulus as he thought of the ordeal.

"Well, about where you’ll talk to them, then," amended Mrs. Borland. "My trouble’s something the same. Only it’s about the servants; at least it’s about Letitia—she’s the new one. It seems she belongs to a kind of an Adventist church, and she told me this morning that the Rev. Mr. Gurkle, the minister, is coming up to call on her some afternoon this week. And she asked where would she receive him! Receive him, mind you, David—she’s going to _receive_! And she asked me where—asked me where she’d receive him."

"Well, that was natural enough. What did you tell her?" David asked, marvelling at the agitation of which the feminine mind is capable.

"Why, I told her where else would she receive him except in the kitchen—you don’t suppose my maids are going to entertain their company in the parlour, do you, David?"

Mr. Borland turned his face reflectively towards the wall, gazing at the lurid painting of a three-year-old who had been the pride of last year’s fair. Finally he spoke: "Yes, Martha, I reckon she will. I ain’t much of an interfere!—but there ain’t agoin’ to to be no minister of the Gospel set down in the kitchen in this house. Black clothes is too easy stained. Besides, it ain’t the way I was raised."

"But, David, surely you don’t——"

"Yes, I do—that’s jest exactly what I do. I know this Gurkle man—dropped into his church one night when some revival meetin’s was goin’ on. He’s a little sawed-off fellow, with a wig—an’ his cuffs has teeth like a bucksaw—an’ he wears a white tie that looks like a horse’s hames. An’ he has an Adam’s apple like a door-knocker; it kept goin’ an’ comin’ that night, for there was a terrible lot of feelin’ in the meetin’. An’ Mr. Gurkle was a cryin’ part of the time, an’ he’s that cross-eyed that the tears run over the bridge of his nose, both different ways. But I believe he’s a good little man—an there ain’t goin’ to be no minister asquintin’ round the kitchen in this house. He’s goin’ to the parlour, mother. The kitchen’s all right for courtin’—come in there myself the other night when Mary had her steady company; there was three chairs—an’ two of ’em was empty. That’s all right for courtin’—it don’t need no conveniences, nor no light, nor nothin’. Two young folks an’ a little human natur’s all you need for that. But prayin’ an’ sayin’ catechism’s hard enough at the best; so I reckon they’ll have to do it in the parlour, mother," and Mr. Borland rose from his chair and moved slowly towards the window, patting his wife playfully on the shoulder as he passed.

"By George, here they are," he suddenly exclaimed; "I believe that’s them comin’ now."

"Who?" asked his consort, not with much zest of tone. She was still ruminating on her maid’s religious advantages.

"It’s the delegation—it’s them two fellows that’s goin’ to present the claims of the union. They’re turnin’ in at the carriage gate, sure’s you’re livin’."

"I’m going up-stairs," announced Mrs. Borland. "I’ve got to fill out some invitations for an at-home next week—you don’t mind my leaving, David?"

"No, no, mother, certainly not. Far better for you not to be around. You see, certain kinds o’ labour agitators is always complainin’ that the manufacturers jest lives among beautiful things; an’ you’re the principal one in this house, mother; so I reckon you better slope," and David’s hand was very gentle as it went out to touch the frosting locks. Mrs. Borland smiled indifferently at the compliment, secretly hugging it the while. Every true woman does likewise; the proffered pearl is carelessly glanced at and permitted to fall to the ground—then she swiftly covers it with one nimble foot, and solitary hours yet to come are enriched by communion with its radiance.

*XVI*

_*DAVID THE DIPLOMAT*_

His wife was hardly half-way up the stairs before David was in the height of perfervid activity. "I’ll have an at-home myself," he muttered under his breath; "I’ll have a male at-home," as he rang the bell.

"Yes, Mr. Borland," said the maid, parishioner to the Rev. Mr. Gurkle, as she appeared in answer.

"Take all them dishes away," he instructed breathlessly; "all the eatin’ stuff, I mean," waving his hand over the suggestive ruins. "Is there any salt herrin’s in the house?"

"Yes, sir, there’s always herrin’s on Friday; we keep ’em for Thomas—Thomas is a Roman," she said solemnly, an expression on her face that showed she was thinking of the judgment day.

David grinned. "I’ll bet the Pope couldn’t tell one from a mutton chop to save his life," he said; "but anyhow, put three herrin’s on the table—an’ a handful o’ soda crackers—an’ some prunes," he directed quickly, "an’ make some green tea—make it strong enough to float a man-o’-war. By George, there’s the bell—when everything fixed, you come in to the sittin’-room an’ tell me supper’s ready—supper, mind, Letitia."

Then he hurried through the hall to the door, flinging it wide open.

"Why, if this ain’t you, Mr. Hunter," he cried delightedly, "an’ I’m blamed if this ain’t Mr. Glady," giving a hand to each. "Come away in. Come on in to the sittin’-room—parlours always makes me think it’s Sunday."