Part 11

Dr. Wallis gave the brazen door-knob an uncommonly vigorous tug. "She likes you to ring as if you meant it," he explained to Harvey, the distant product of his violence pealing and repealing through the house.

"We’ll likely have to wait a little while," the doctor remarked; "she never lets a servant come to the door till she peeks through that upper left-hand window herself. Don’t look," he added hurriedly; "she mightn’t let us in if she catches any one looking."

After a few minutes’ further waiting, the harsh grating of the heavy bolt and the violent turning of the reluctant handle were followed by the apparition of a head of iron gray, a pair of absolutely emotionless eyes fixed upon the visitors in turn. Dr. Wallis nodded, the man barely returning his salutation as he led the way into a large and solemnly furnished apartment on the left. Harvey’s principal impression was of the height of the ceiling and the multitude of mirrors that confronted him on every hand; there seemed to be a goodly assemblage in the room, so often were its two solitary inmates reproduced.

Harvey and the doctor were still engaged in a mental inventory of the room, its paintings, bronzes, and what not, all claiming their attention, when the solemn head of iron gray reappeared at the door.

"Miss Farringall says she’ll see you in her room," said the sphinx, his lips closing with an audible smack; whereupon the scanty procession was reformed, following the servant as he led the way up a winding flight of stairs. The man knocked at the door of a small sitting-room, precipitately retiring as soon as he had pushed it partly open.

*XVIII*

_*VOICES OF THE PAST*_

Harvey followed his companion inside, peering eagerly for what awaited them. The mistress of the house fitted her surroundings well. She was reclining in an ample chair, a half-emptied cup of tea on a little table beside her. She was evidently much above medium height, spare and thin, a rusty dressing-gown folded loosely about her. Her hair was quite gray, and quite at liberty, not at all ill-becoming to the large, strong features, and the well-formed head. The brow was broad and high, wrinkled slightly, and furrowed deeply down the centre; high cheek-bones, a rather mobile mouth, a complexion still unfaded, joined with the bright penetrating eyes to make a decidedly interesting countenance. The face looked capable of tenderness, yet as if tenderness had cost her dear. A pair of gold-rimmed glasses sat shimmering on her brow; one swift shuffle of the face reduced them to their proper sphere.

"Barlow didn’t tell me there were two," she said, without looking at the doctor. She was looking beyond him at the stranger’s face. "He’s got both arms anyhow, thank heaven," she said, looking at Harvey. "He nearly always brings people with one arm, that want help," she explained to the newcomer, motioning towards a chair.

"This is Mr. Simmons, Miss Farringall," the doctor began blandly. "I took the liberty——"

"I know him," she interrupted gently, still surveying Harvey. "Didn’t you hear me talking to him? And I know all about the liberty too—I do wish Barlow would count people before he shows them up."

"How do you feel to-day, Miss Farringall?" enquired the physician.

"Better," replied his patient. "I gave Barlow that medicine you sent me—I always feel better after Barlow takes it. Is your friend going to be a doctor?" she went on in the same breath, inclining her head towards Harvey.

"Oh, no, he’s going to the university—he’s a student," the doctor informed her.

"That’s quite different—that’ll save somebody’s life. What did you bring him for?" she demanded frankly, turning the keen eyes for the first time from Harvey’s face and fastening them on the doctor’s.

"Well, he was with me; he’s a friend of Dr. Horton’s and mine—and I thought I’d just bring him in. This is his first day. Besides," and the wily tactician paused a moment, "I wanted to ask your advice."

"I’ll charge you doctor’s rates," said the spinster, restoring her spectacles to their former altitude.

"That’s cheap enough for anything," retorted the other. "And anyhow, I’ll take the usual time to pay it. But seriously, Miss Farringall, I want your counsel on a matter we’re both interested in. You see, I’ve promised to help Mr. Simmons get a boarding-house if I can, and I thought you might know of some suitable place—you’ve lived so long in the city," he explained with an amiable smile.

"That’s remarkably true," interrupted the lady as she rattled the spoon in the cup beside her—"and I’ve knocked about so much; lived in the streets, haven’t I?—been a kind of a city missionary, I suppose. What kind of a place does your friend want?" she enquired with mock seriousness.

"Oh, any nice quiet place," answered the intrepid doctor, "with plain honest people that’ll make him comfortable. He wants quiet—and refinement—more than anything else, I should say."

"If I had my things on, I’d just go out now and enquire around among the neighbours," the woman avowed gravely, trying to control two very rebellious corners about her mouth. "Where do you come from, sir?" she asked abruptly, turning on the silent Harvey.

"From the country, Miss Farringall—from a place called Glenallen."

"Parents living?"

"My mother’s living, ma’am; she lives alone—except, I have a sister."

"What’s her name?"

"Jessie."

"Sensible name. Are you a churchman?"

"Yes, Miss Farringall—at least I hope so."

"High?"

"No," answered Harvey, wondering slightly. "No, just Presbyterian."

"Oh!" said Miss Farringall, "I see. But you can repeat the creed?"

"Oh, yes, we learned that at school."

"And if you were living in a—in a church family, you’d be willing to come in to prayers when the rector came? You’d be quite willing, I suppose?"

"I’d love to," said Harvey fervently.

"And do you love animals?"

"A good many," Harvey answered cautiously.

"Birds?"

"I love birds," said Harvey.

"Dogs?"

"Better still," replied the interrogated.

"Cats?"

"Sometimes. Of course, Miss Farringall, I won’t have a great deal of time to devote to pets. I’ll have to study pretty hard; it’s largely through the kindness of a couple of friends that I have the chance to——"

But his interrogator was already ringing a hand-bell with great vigour.

"Barlow," she said, as the butler reappeared, "bring Grey here."

"Yes, mum," murmured the mobile servant as he disappeared, returning a minute later with a large specimen of the feline tribe at his heels. The animal was mewing loudly as it came. Barlow turned and departed as his four-footed companion bolted in at the open door.

Miss Farringall made a slight outward motion with her hands and the cat promptly sprang into her lap. Then he turned to survey the company, wasting only the briefest glance on the doctor’s familiar face, but subjecting Harvey to the scrutiny that his strangerhood seemed to render necessary.

"You may go, Grey," the woman said in an almost inaudible voice, whereupon the cat slowly descended, standing still a moment to continue its examination of the stranger. Gradually it drew closer, rubbing its sides at length against Harvey’s ankles, still scrutinizing the face above. Harvey smiled, whereat the creature looked more intently than before.

"Don’t speak," whispered Miss Farringall, "I believe he’s going to——" the prediction lost in a little gasp of excitement as the feline suddenly bounded into Harvey’s lap, thence to his shoulder, its tail aloft like a banner, while a gentle purring issued forth as it began an affectionate circuit of Harvey’s head.

Miss Farringall’s face was radiant, her spectacles now at high mast as a result of much facial contortion. "You can stay here if you like, Mr. Simmons, till—till I find a place for you," she said, her eyes still fixed in admiration on the cat. Dr. Wallis said nothing, inwardly blessing the whole feline race.

"You’re very kind, ma’am," Harvey began, his face crimson with an excitement he could hardly explain. "And I’ll be good to Grey," he added desperately, not knowing what else to say.

"You mustn’t feed him, mind," the other broke out intensely—"not a mouthful of anything. And no thanks, if you please; I never knew Grey to make a mistake. Besides, there’s something about you that reminds me of—of somebody else," she concluded, her tone softened into unwonted gentleness.

"Was he a relative, Miss Farringall?" the doctor ventured, anxious that the reference should be appropriately received.

"Who said he was a he at all?" retorted his friend, turning suddenly upon him as she groped aloft for the departed spectacles.

"You can have the room over the dining-room," she went on, addressing Harvey again; "it opens on the lawn, and you must leave your window open summer and winter—wherever you maybe in winter," she corrected; "and breathe deep—breathe deep of the fresh air of heaven. Are you a deep breather, Mr. Simmons?" she enquired anxiously.

"I’ve never thought much about it," said Harvey frankly; "but I’ll try and learn, Miss Farringall," quenching a smile as he looked up at the earnest face.

"It’s life," she assured him earnestly, "pure life."

"Miss Farringall’s right," the doctor added gravely. "There’s nothing more connected with life than breathing. I’ve often noticed that in my practice."

But the irreverent reflection was wasted on the zealous heart of Miss Farringall. "Where are you going to stay to-night?" she asked; "it’ll soon be dark."

Harvey hesitated. "I thought I’d just take him home with me," the doctor volunteered; "then he could come here to-morrow."

"Where’s your trunk?" pursued the hostess.

"It’s at the station," said Harvey; "I’ve got the check."

"Barlow’ll attend to having it sent up; there’s really no reason for him going away from here to-night. I’m willing—you and Grey are credentials enough for me," she added, her face relaxing into a more pronounced smile than Harvey had seen there before.

Dr. Wallis was already moving towards the door. The grave Barlow had it open in advance. "You’ll let us know in good time when you get another place for my friend, Miss Farringall—that is, when he has to leave."

"Oh, yes, I’ll attend to that," she assured him. "Don’t let Grey get out, Barlow—it’s too cold for him. Keep your mouth closed, Barlow—breathe through your nose," for the sudden shock of the intelligence that the doctor’s words implied, the idea slowly filtering in upon him that a stranger was to pass the night beneath that sacred roof, had thrown poor Barlow’s mouth as wide open as his ears.

"Miss Farringall’ll let you know when you’ve got to leave, Mr. Simmons," said Dr. Wallis as he glanced furtively at Harvey, winking violently the while. "You’ll feel more comfortable, I’m sure," he resumed, his features quite composed again as he turned towards the mistress of the house, "to have a man around at nights—there have been two cases of house-breaking on this street lately."

"I know that," she answered with bated breath; "I’m often afraid at nights. I thought some one was breaking in last night; I was so sure of it that I turned on the light and began reading the prayer for those in peril on the sea—but it was just Barlow snoring. You snore like Niagara Falls, don’t you, Barlow?"

"Yes, mum," replied the accomplished, without moving a muscle.

With a last cheery word to Harvey, and promising to return soon, Dr. Wallis withdrew, leaving the new-found relation to work itself out as best it could. Harvey waited a few minutes amid the mirrors in the parlour while his room was being prepared for its new occupant; to which he was promptly conducted by Miss Farringall herself, Barlow having retired for repairs to a very startled system.

"I should think your trunk would be here a little after supper," she said as she showed him in, "and I’d advise you to change your flannels when it comes. Excuse my advice on such matters," she added, a delicate little flush stealing to her cheek, "but I’m old enough to be your mother—and besides, it’s getting quite cool outside. I think there’s nothing so wholesome as warm flannels—warm flannels and deep breathing. Sometimes I think people wouldn’t ever die if they’d only change their flannels when the weather changes—and keep on breathing deep," she concluded, drawing a profound breath the while, her lips locked like a vice. "Supper’ll be ready in half an hour."

Then she hurried back to her little sitting-room, the kindly bosom rising and falling as she faithfully pursued the wondrous treatment. Gaining the room, she immediately rang the bell, and a moment later the partially recovered butler stood before her. He, too, had had a treatment; for which cause he breathed as lightly as the demands of nature would permit.

"Hand me that box from my secretary, Barlow—that ebony box."

He obeyed; and Miss Farringall held it a moment in her hands, then adjusted a tiny key and turned the lock. A queer little tremor rippled over her lips as the thin fingers groped a moment at the very bottom of the box. Those same fingers showed just the least unsteadiness as they released the dim gold clasp that bound a jet-black frame, which, opening, disclosed the portrait of a man about twenty-two or twenty-three years of age. She held it musingly in front of her a moment. Then she held it out towards Barlow, who promptly moved forward like some statue out-marching from its niche, his arms rigid by his side.

"You’ve never seen that before, Barlow?"

"No, mum."

"Who do you think it’s like, Barlow?"

"I couldn’t say, mum."

"Don’t you think it resembles that visitor of ours—that young man Dr. Wallis brought this evening?"

"Yes, mum," Barlow assented, almost before she had finished her question.

"Do you think it very much like him, Barlow?"

"It’s his livin’ image, mum," said the talking statue.

"You can go, Barlow."

"Yes, mum," said Barlow, already gone.

The woman sat alone in the fading light, the picture still before her. Suddenly she started, started as violently, almost, as if the dead face before her had broken into speech. Again the bell awoke the echoes of the lonely house, and again the servant stalked like a shadow to the door.

"Barlow, what did Dr. Wallis say was that young man’s name?"

"I couldn’t say, mum," answered Barlow, with the air of one who has been charged with murder. Even in the shadow he noticed the whiteness of the lips that questioned him.

"Well, find it out then," she exclaimed, her voice rising as she half rose in her chair—"find it out, I say. What do you suppose you’re here for, if it’s not to know who’s in the house?"

"Yes, mum," Barlow responded, his tone now the tone of the convicted.

"Never mind that—go and find out the name. Tell him we’ll need to know when the postman brings the letters—tell him anything—go now," as the menial vanished in the direction of Harvey’s room.

It was but a moment till he was back. "It’s Simmons, mum—he says it’s Simmons."

Miss Farringall was now erect. "What was his father’s name?—his mother lives alone, he told me. Ask him what was his father’s name—this minute, hear."

Barlow was back in even less time than before. "Simmons," he said solemnly; "it seems his father’s name was Simmons too, mum."

His mistress advanced a step or two towards him; the faithful Barlow bowed his head like one ready to be offered. "Go back," she said in a low tense tone, "go back and ask him what his father’s first name was. I want to know. And if you blunder this time, sir, you’ll walk out of my house, mind."

"Yes, mum," agreed the man, lifting his eyes devotedly as he spoke, and vanishing into the outer gloom.

"Edward, mum," he informed her in a moment, "Edward Simmons—and he says what might you want to know for, mum."

A wave of indescribable emotion swept over the woman’s face. She walked slowly to the window, gazing blindly out at the encroaching shadows of the autumn night. She saw the lurid sky beyond the city’s utmost fringe, still crimson with the gilding of a departed sun, touched with the colour that was fading fast; even as she looked, the once radiant clouds were turning cold and gray, the ashen hue of age displacing the splendour of their transient joy. And the withered leaves, contemptuously tossed by the rising wind, moaned about the knees of many a heartless tree that had once flaunted them so proudly, whispering the story of their beauty to both earth and sky. But the silent gazer saw little of the autumn scene. For the grave and tender eyes were fixed on something far beyond it, far behind, nestling in the bosom of departed years; and what they saw was blighted with no decay of autumn, but stood fresh and beautiful in the light of summer. Green fields they saw, and tender bud and opening blossom everywhere, the very clouds beautiful in noble gloom because of the unconquerable sun. And that sun was Love—and the face she saw amid it all was the face of Edward Simmons.

Her eyes suddenly seemed to withdraw themselves from the scene without, turning wistfully upon the picture she still held in her hand. Only a moment did they linger there before they were turned again upon the autumn world without. And lo! The blackness of it all, its loneliness, all the pathos of the withered summer, seemed now to rise up before the woman’s creative gaze; the sky, with its mystic tragedy as the glow surrendered to the gloom, the unbannered trees, the hurrying, homeless leaves, the dirge of the mournful wind—all these were deepened and darkened by that other vision of summer gladness that now was past and gone. For there is no mmistrant to sorrow like the sweet face of some dead happiness; it is June that gives November all its bitterness.

Long musing, she turned at last from the window, again summoning the faithful servant.

"Barlow," she said, the tone quite low, "go to the vault—look in that lower left-hand drawer and bring me a parcel of papers there. They’re only newspapers," she added, "all tied together; bring them here."

A few minutes later Barlow handed her the parcel. "Shall I light the gas, mum?" he asked, turning at the door.

"No, thank you; I don’t want it—but you can kindle the fire."

Then she sat, the papers and the photograph in her lap, till the crackling flame was bright. And again the wistful eyes pored over the past as though it were an open book. Far clearer now she saw it than before. For every leaping tongue of flame babbled of other days while the hearth-fire plied its ancient subtle industry, calling up long-vanished faces as it ever does, rebuilding the ruined past, echoing once again the long silent tones of love—and the panorama of the bygone years passed in a lane of light between the burning eyes and the mystic fire, both knowing, both caring, both sorrowing.

It was almost dark when the spare and slender form rose from the chair, moving to the secretary in the corner of the room. From the lowest compartment of it she lifted, very gently, a little bundle of letters. Then she picked up the photograph again, extracting an old newspaper from the parcel before her; a quick glance at its date confirmed what she already knew. Then, with the old daguerreotype and the old letters and the old faded newspaper in her hand, she sank upon a hassock that lay beside the fire—the fire too was old, so old and dear—and she smiled to herself as she settled down in the old girlish way, the lonely blaze greeting her as it flung its glow again upon the flushed and quivering face, as dear to it as in the gladder days of yore. One by one she turned them over—the picture and the letters and the paper—the whole story of her life was there. The shadows gathered deeper and darker as she sat and fondled these precious things, the only real treasure of all her treasure-laden house—but the fire burned on as brightly as in other days, as brightly as if it had never faltered through the years.

It was a new sensation that crept about Harvey Simmons’ heart that night, such a sensation as can come only to the youth who is denied for the first time the vision of his mother’s face. It seemed strange to have said good-night to nobody in the old familiar way, to hear no reassuring sound of voices indistinctly chatting in the distance, as Jessie’s and his mother’s always could be heard, and to give or hear no final word of mirth or message as the lamp went out and the comfortable couch received him.

The room appointed to him was replete with all that might minister to comfort, even rich and elegant in its appointments. How often Harvey had wished his own humble home had boasted such a room, not for himself but for another; yet, now that he had come into possession of all he had so often envied, how paltry and insignificant it seemed, how far beneath what he had imagined—and how gladly he would have exchanged it all for his little room at home, if he might have but again been near the dear ones from whom he had never been parted a single night in all the course of his uneventful life.

His eyes fell upon a little table in the corner, generously furnished with materials for writing. It was, in consequence, very late before he committed himself to sleep. Yet he had only written two letters, the first to his mother, a faithful and exhaustive narrative of every hour since he had seen her last. It was a new experience to him, and he wondered a little at the almost mysterious ease with which he filled page after page. It was a new-found joy, this of writing—and both intellect and emotion entered into the task with a zest and instinct that surprised himself.

The second letter was begun with much misgiving, and after long consideration. For it was to Madeline, to whom, in a kind of way he was quite at a loss to understand, his thought went out in his loneliness—far more, indeed, than it had ever done when he lived beside her. Much misgiving about this second letter there was, as has been said; and yet he felt it could not be unwelcome since its purpose was so far from personal—for its main story was of the little child and the poor family of whom he had come to know through his contact with Dr. Wallis. And he knew Madeline would love to help, in some way her own delicate judgment would suggest. But before he was through his pen had rather run away with him; and some of his impressions of the new life about him, with a little, too, that treated of life in general, had sighed itself in a kind of lonely soliloquy through the expanding pages. And he read this second letter over twice, correcting it with great care, a process the first had been denied.

His trunk had been duly delivered, as Miss Farringall had assured him it should be, and it was with a kind of reverent tenderness that the lonely stranger raised the lid and surveyed all his poor belongings, each one lying where it had been placed by the loving hands that were now so far away. The care-worn face rose again before him as he bended over these last tokens of his mother’s devoted care; and instinctively, with a dumb sense that she would have wished it so, he searched first for the sacred book he had seen her place there. He soon found it, and carrying it to where the light might fall upon it, he turned wistfully to the fly-leaf. Still with his eyes fixed on it he sat down on the bed beside him, the dim mist gathering as the poor misguided handwriting looked up at him in all the eloquence of sightless love:

"_Dear Harvey_ _From his loving mother_"