Part 12

was all that was written there. But every character was aflame with fondness, and every word was a vision, bright with tender beauty, fragrant of the unselfish courage that had filled their lowly lives with a gladness denied to many a richer home. The very waywardness of the writing, the lines aslant and broken, enhanced the dauntless love that penned them; and Harvey’s lips were touched to the mute symbols with reverent passion.

Still swimming, his eyes fell again upon the page, and he noticed—what he had not seen before—that something had been written at the lower corner. Isaiah 66:13, it said; and a moment later he had found the text. The full heart overflowed as he read: "As one whom his mother comforteth so will I comfort you." With a stifled sob, and still repeating the wonderful words, he sank on his knees beside the bed. And as he did so there arose before him the vision of other days, long departed now, when he had thus knelt for his evening prayer; a tranquil face looked down again upon the childish form, and he could almost feel the chill of little feet seeking cover while he prayed; the warm hands held his own, reverently folded together, and amid the stillness that wrapped his heart there floated out, with a silvery sound like that of an evening bell, the tones of the dear voice that had been so quick to prompt his childish memory or to recall his wandering thoughts. The hurried ending, the impulsive uprising, the swift relapse into boyish merriment, the plunge into the waiting crib, the good-night kiss, the sudden descent of darkness, the salvo of farewells the cozy cuddling into the arms of slumber—all these came back to him with a preciousness he had never felt before.

His loneliness, prompted by every reminiscence, slowly turned to prayer. He tried to thank God for all the treasure his soul possessed in the dear ones at home, and to ask for strength to be worthy of love and sacrifice so great. He promised to be true; a swift memory of his mother’s fear lest dormant appetite should prove his foe mingled with his prayer a moment, and was gone. For the whole burden of his pleading seemed to revolve again and again about the love-laden text that had taken such a hold upon his heart, till at last he only repeated it over and over before God: "As one whom his mother comforteth so will I comfort you." Suddenly he paused; for he felt, though he knew not why, that his mother too was kneeling by the Mercy Seat—distant far, sundered by weary miles, yet he could not dispel the assurance, which warmed and caressed his very life, that another kept her sacred midnight vigil. And as he thought of Jessie’s slumbering face, and of the other’s, upturned in pleading for her son, a deeper peace than he had known before crept about him, the loneliness vanished like a mist, and but a few minutes passed before he slept the sweet sleep of all homeless lads who trust the keeping of their mother’s God.

*XIX*

_*A BRUSH WITH DEATH*_

It was quite in vain that Harvey tried to read. For two much-loved faces, one worn and grave, the other bright and hopeful, kept coming and going between him and his book. Another, too, whose setting was a wealth of golden hair.

"You seem in a hurry to get on—guess you’re going home," broke in a voice from the seat immediately opposite his own in the crowded car.

Harvey smiled and laid his book aside. "I’m in a hurry all right," he answered, "though I don’t know that looking at one’s watch every few minutes helps matters much. But I don’t relish the idea of being late."

"Student, aren’t you?" asked the man, nodding towards a pin in evidence on Harvey’s coat.

"Yes—I’m just going home for a little visit."

"Been long at college?"

"A couple of years," answered Harvey; "they go rather slowly when a fellow’s anxious to get through. Say, isn’t this train going at a tremendous pace? What’s the matter?" his voice rising as he clutched savagely at the side of the seat.

It was too late for his companion to make reply—already he was being caught into the current of the storm.

What followed defies description. Harvey’s first thought was of some irregularity that would last but a moment—he could not realize that the worst had happened. A shrill voice from another part of the car cried out that they were off the rail, but he swiftly rejected the suggestion. An instant later he was as one struggling for his life. The engine had never left the rail and the driver was quite unconscious of the situation. Dragged ruthlessly along, the car leaped and bounded like a living thing: it seemed, like a runaway horse, to be stampeded by its own wild plunging as it was flung from side to side, bouncing almost clear of the road-bed with every revolution of the wheels.

Flung into the corner by the window, Harvey braced himself as best he could with hands and feet, dimly marvelling at the terrible length of time the process seemed to last. He glanced upward at the bell-rope, swingly wildly; but he knew any attempt to reach it would be disastrous, if not fatal. Still the mad thing tore on; shrieks and cries rose above the din; parcels and valises were everywhere battering about as if flung from catapults; one or two of the passengers cried out in plaintive wrath, some as if remonstrating with a mettlesome steed, others as if appealing for a chance against the sudden violence. Harvey remembered, long after, how he had said to himself that he was still alive—and uninjured—and that all might yet be well, if it would only stop.

Confused and terrified though he was, his senses worked with almost preternatural acuteness; he remarked the spasmodic eagerness with which men clutched at one another, muttering the while like contestants in a mighty struggle; the very grotesqueness of the thing flashed upon his mind an instant, as, the car taking its last desperate bound, he saw strong men flung about like feathers in a gale; two or three near him, shouting wildly, were tossed to the very ceiling of the car, their limbs outflung as when athletes jump high in air. Then the coach was pitched headlong; the man to whom he had spoken but a moment before was hurled through the spacious window, and the overturning car sealed his lips with eternal silence; two stalwart men fell full on Harvey’s crouching form—darkness wrapped him about as the car ploughed its way down the steep embankment.

"This is death," he said involuntarily, and aloud, as the dread descent was being accomplished. Many things—much that could never be reproduced, more that could never be uttered—swam before him in the darkness. A sort of reverent curiosity possessed his soul, hurrying, as he believed himself to be, into the eternal. He was to know now! All of which he had so often heard, and thought, and conjectured, was about to unfold itself before him. A swift sense of the insignificance of all things save one—such an estimate as he had never had before—and a great conception of the transcendent claim of the eternal, swept through his mind. Then suddenly—as if emerging from the very wreck of things, illumining all the darkness and clothing the storm with a mysterious calm, there arose the vision of his mother’s face. A moment later all was still; blessed stillness, and like to the quietness of death. The car was motionless.

But only for a moment did the stillness reign. Then came the wild surging of human voices, like the sound of many waters; appeal, frenzied fear, tormenting pain, pitiful enquiry—all blended to make it such a discord of human sounds as he had never heard before. It froze his soul amid all the agony of suspense he himself was bearing. For that human load was still upon him, still holding him pinned tight in the corner of the now overturned and shattered car; how much more might hold him down, he could not tell. And with this came his first real taste of terror; the thought of imprisonment beneath the heavy wreckage—and then the outbreaking fire—tore for a moment through his mind.

But already he could feel the forms above his own writhing in their effort to rise; one, his thigh fractured, gave over with a loud cry of pain. The other was trying to lift him as gently as he might. Soon both were from above him. The moment that followed thrilled with suspense—Harvey almost shrank from the attempt to straighten himself up lest he might find himself pinned beneath the deadly truck. But he tried—and he was free. And he could see through the window of the door, upside down as it was, the sparkling sunshine, never so beautiful before.

With a gasp of joy he bounded towards it—then stopped suddenly, checked by the rebuke of what he saw about him. For—let it be recorded to the praise of human nature and the credit of sorrow’s ministry—every man who was unhurt seemed engaged with those who were. Strong, selfish-looking men, utter strangers, men who had sat scowling behind their newspapers or frowning because some child’s boisterousness disturbed them, could now be seen bending with tender hands and tenderer words above some groaning sufferer, intent only on securing the removal of the helpless from the threatened wreck.

Not threatened alone, alas! For even as they were struggling towards the sweet beguiling light a faint puff of smoke floated idly in about them; and the first to notice it—not with loud outcry but with hushed gasp of terror—was one unhappy man whom the most desperate efforts had failed to free from the wreckage. But as the car gradually filled with the smoke, and as, a little later, a distant crackling could be heard, the stifled moan became a cry, and the cry at length a shrieking appeal for deliverance from the living death that kept ever creeping nearer.

"My God," he cried frantically, "you can’t leave me here—I’ll burn to death," his eyes shining with a strange unearthly light; "I’ll burn to death," he repeated in grim simplicity.

Harvey never left him till the all-conquering flame had all but kindled his own garments; half-blind, soaking with perspiration, gasping for breath, he at last turned his back upon the awful scene and staggered away. The waters of death were now surging about the man—if the unfitting metaphor may be allowed. As he groped his way towards the brow of the up-torn declivity, Harvey stumbled on the silent form of the man who had sat beside him in the coach—a brakeman was hurrying towards it with a sheet. Then dense darkness flowed about, and kind unconsciousness delivered him.

* * * * * *

"You’ve made as good progress as any man could look for," the doctor said; "don’t you think so, Mr. Nickle? He’s been lucky all through, to my mind; two broken ribs, and a twisted elbow, was getting off pretty well—considering what he came through. Another week will do wonders."

"It’s bad eneuch," rejoined the cautious Scotchman; "but it micht hae been waur."

"Well, old chap, I guess I’ll have to go," the doctor said as he began putting on his gloves; "just have patience and you’ll be all right. What you’ll feel most will be the result of the shock—don’t get discouraged if you sag sometimes, and feel as if the bottom were falling out of everything. You’ll likely have queer spells of depression—all that sort of thing, you know. ’Twouldn’t be a bad idea to take a little spirits when you feel one coming on; and if a little doesn’t help, take a little more," he concluded, laughing.

Mrs. Simmons’ face was white and drawn; but she controlled herself, and no word escaped her lips. When the doctor left the room she followed him, closing the door behind her. A few minutes later he returned:

"Oh, I’ve just been thinking over that matter, Harvey," he began carelessly, "and I believe this prescription would be a fully better stimulant," producing pencil and pad and beginning to write.

He remarked how Harvey received the advice—the latter’s lips were pale, and the doctor could see them quivering. "Don’t fool with the other at all," he added impressively: "I don’t believe it would do you a bit of good."

Geordie Nickle lingered after the doctor had taken his departure; but he found it quite impossible to engage Harvey in conversation. "I hae nae doot a’ this sair experience’ll be for some guid purpose," he began, the face of the saintly man suffused with the goodness of his heart; "only dinna let it be wasted, laddie. A wasted sickness is a sair thing, an’ a wasted sorrow’s waur—but there’s naethin’ sae sad as to look intil the face o’ death, wi’oot bein’ a different man to a’ eternity. It’s a waesome thing when a soul snatches spoils frae death—an’ then wastes them on life, my laddie," earnestness and affection mingling in the eyes that were turned on Harvey’s chair.

But Harvey’s response was disappointing. "If I could only sleep a little better, Mr. Nickle. I’m really all right except for my nerves. Yes, what you say is very true, Mr. Nickle."

After one or two equally fruitless attempts, the old man seemed to realize the hopelessness of his efforts. "Weel," he said pleasantly, "I maun be gaein’—yon’s the kirk bell that’s ringin’. Why, there’s David," he cried suddenly, looking out of the window; "I’ll juist gie ye intil Mr. Borland’s care. I think yir mither said she’s gaein’ till the kirk—we’ll gang thegither," as the kindly patriarch made a brief farewell, withdrawing to join Mrs. Simmons and guide her to the house of prayer.

"Hello, Harvey! Why, you’re lookin’ like a morning-glory," was David’s salutation as he drew his chair up beside Harvey’s. "I jest thought I’d drop in an’ look you over a bit when Madeline an’ her mother was at church. Ought to be there myself, I know," he went on, a reproachful smile on his face; "but it’s such an elegant mornin’—an’ besides, I’m doin’ penance. I remembered it’s jest two years ago to-day, by the day o’ the month, since I traded horses with Jim Keyes—an’ I thought mebbe I shouldn’t have took any boot—so I thought I’d jest punish myself by stayin’ away from the meetin’ this mornin’. How’re you keepin’, Harvey?" he concluded earnestly, his elbows on his knees as he peered into the patient’s face.

"I’m not bad," said Harvey—"only a little grouchy. Is that really the reason you’re not going to church this morning, Mr. Borland?" he asked, a slight note of impatience in the tone. David might have noticed, indeed, that Harvey seemed ill at ease, and as if he would as soon have been alone.

David stared at him. "That there accident must have bumped all the humoursomeness out o’ you," he said, grinning. "No, of course it’s not—but Dr. Fletcher ain’t goin’ to preach to-day. That’s the real reason. An’ he’s got a fellow from Bluevale rattlin’ round in his place; can’t stand him at all. He’s terrible long—an’ the hotter, the longer. They say he dives terrible deep; an’ mebbe he does—but he comes up uncommon dry," and David turned a very droll smile on his auditor. "The last time I heard him, he preached more’n fifty minutes—passed some excellent stoppin’-places, too," David reflected amiably; "but the worst of it was when he come to conclude—it was like tyin’ up one o’ them ocean liners at the dock, so much backin’ up an’ goin’ furrit again, an’ semi-demi-quaverin’ afore he got plumb still. That’s the principal reason I’m punishin’ myself like this," he added gravely. "Say, Harvey, what’s makin’ you so kind o’ skeery like?—anythin’ hurtin’ you?"

Harvey cleared his throat nervously. "I say, Mr. Borland," he began nervously, "would you do something for me?"

David, very serious now, drew his chair closer.

"You bet—if I can. What is it?"

Harvey stood up and walked unsteadily towards the table. Then he thrust the little paper the doctor had left into a book. "I wonder if you’d go to the drug-store for me," he began rather huskily, "and get me a little—a little spirits—or something like that; spirits would be the best thing, I think—the doctor spoke of that. I’m just about all in, Mr. Borland—and I think if I were only braced up a little—just to tide me over, you know," he stammered, his courage failing him a little as David’s steady eyes gazed into his own.

David looked long in silence. Then he rose, and without a word he took Harvey in his arms. Slowly they tightened round the trembling form, the old man holding the young as though he would shelter him till some cruel storm were past. Tighter still he held him, one hand patting him gently on the shoulder as though he were a little child.

Harvey yielded to the embrace—and understood. When at length David partially released him, he looked into the face before him. The eyes that met his own were swimming, and David’s face was aglow with the yearning and compassion that only great souls can know.

"Oh, Harvey," the shaking voice began, hardly above a whisper, "I love you like my own son. Don’t, Harvey—for God’s sake, don’t; kill your mother some other way," and again he drew the now sobbing lad close to his bosom.

A moment later he whispered something in Harvey’s ear. It was a question—and Harvey nodded, his face still hidden.

"I thought so," David murmured. "I thought so—an’ there’s only one way out, my boy, there’s only one way out. An’ it’s by fightin’—jest like folks fight consumption, only far harder. That ain’t nothin’ to this. Jest by fightin’, Harvey—an’ gettin’ some One to help you. All them other ways—like pledges, an’ promises, an’ all that—they’re jest like irrigatin’ a desert with one o’ them sprayin’-machines for your throat. I ain’t much of a Christian, I know—but there ain’t nothin’ any good ’cept what Dr. Fletcher calls the grace of God. An’ if you think it’d help any, from an old fellow like me—I’ll—I’ll try it some, every mornin’ an’ night; ’twouldn’t do no harm, anyway," and the protecting arms again drew the yielding form into the refuge of his loving and believing heart.

Only a few more sentences passed between the two; only a few minutes longer did David wait. But when he passed by the church on his homeward way his head was bowed, and his face was like to the faces of those whose lips are moist with the sacramental wine.

*XX*

_*THE RESTORING OF A SOUL*_

"And you think you’ll go back to-morrow, Harvey? Are you sure you feel strong enough, my son? Your voice is weak."

Harvey’s answer was confident enough. But pale he certainly was—and the resolute face showed signs of abundant struggle, and a new seriousness sat on the well-developed brow. "I think life’ll be all different to me now, mother," he went on; "a fellow can hardly go through what I have, without seeing things in a different light. I didn’t think so much of it when Mr. Nickle said it, but it’s been running through my mind a lot lately—he said what a terrible thing it is for a fellow to snatch spoils from death and then waste them on his after life."

"He’s a godly man," the mother rejoined musingly. "He’s been like a light to me in my darkness—often I think my heart would have broken if it hadn’t been for him. When things looked darkest, and he’d drop in for a little talk, I always seemed to be able to take up the load and go on again. He and Mr. Borland have been good angels to us all," and the sightless face was bright with many a gladsome memory.

"Mother, when you speak of darkness—and loads—do you mean—do you mean about your sight?"

His mother reached out, instinctively guided, and laid a thin hand on one of Harvey’s. "Do I speak much about loads, my son, and darkness?" she asked in a gentle voice. "For I’ve always asked for grace to say little of such things as those."

"But you haven’t answered me, mother," the son persisted. "Mother," he went on, sitting up straight, his voice arresting her startlingly, "you’ve been more to me, I think, than ever mother was to a son before. But I know, mother—at least, I think I know—I’m almost sure you’ve never told me all that troubles you; I feel sometimes as if there were some sealed book I’ve never been allowed to see. Don’t you understand, mother?"

"What do you mean, my son? How could it be so?"

"Well, mother," he went on, his voice low and serious, "look at it this way. You know how easily a mother kind of scents out anything like that about a son—just by a kind of instinct. Well, don’t you think sons love mothers just as much as mothers love sons?—and don’t they have the same kind of intuitions? Don’t you understand, mother?"

She drew him closer to her side. "Yes, my son," she said after a long silence; "yes, I understand, my darling. If I understand anything, it’s that. And I’m going to ask you something, Harvey—you’ll forgive me, my boy, won’t you? But what you’ve just said opens the door for what I’m going to ask. And I’ve wanted to do it ever since you came home."

Harvey’s heart told him what was coming. The very faculty he had been trying to define was pursuing its silent quest, he knew. And no movement, no exclamation betrayed surprise or resentment when his mother whispered her trembling enquiry in his ear.

Perhaps he had never learned as well the luxury of a mother’s love. Once or twice he looked up wistfully, as though his mother’s eyes must be pouring their message into his, so full and rich was the tide of her outflowing love, strong, compassionate, healing, But the curtain still veiled the light of the luminous soul behind—and he realized then, as never before, that his loss had been almost equal to her own. Yet the soulful tones went far to make amends, caressing him with tenderness, inspiring him with courage, as little by little they drew from him the story of the days.

"It all went so well for a long time, mother," he said, much having been said before. "Perhaps too well. I got the scholarship, as you know—and then another—and I was elected one of the inter-collegiate debaters. Then I got on the first eleven; perhaps that pleased me most of all; and I used to go to the other towns and cities often, to play. And I was so happy and comfortable at Miss Farringall’s—she’s been so good to me. And I gradually met a lot of nice people in the city; and I had quite a little of social life—that was how it happened," he said in a minor tone, his eyes on the floor.

The mother said nothing, asked nothing. A moment later he went on of his own accord. "I don’t mean to make excuses, mother," he began, "but I didn’t really deliberately break the promise I gave you—and that comforts me a lot. But it was one night I was out at a Southern family’s home—they had just come lately to the city, and Dr. Wallis knew them. Well, they had refreshments; and they had a lot of queer Southern dishes. One was a little tiny thing—they called it a syllabub, or something like that; I had never heard of it before. And I took it—it had wine in it—and oh, mother," his eye lighting and his voice heightening at the memory, "no one will ever know—it was like as if something took fire. I didn’t know what it meant—I seemed so helpless. And I fought and I struggled—and I prayed—and I wrote out my promise to you and I used to read it over and over. And I was beaten, mother—I couldn’t help it," he cried pitifully, his voice echoing every note of pain—"and then I felt everything was up and I had nothing more to fight for, and I just—oh, I can’t tell you; it maddens me when I think of it—nobody’ll ever know it all. And Miss Farringall tried so to help me—so did Dr. Wallis—but I wouldn’t let anybody. I turned on them," he exclaimed fiercely; "and I tried to forget about you, mother—I tried to forget about you and Jessie. Then I played the coward. I came back afterwards to Miss Farringall, and I—I borrowed money from her;" he forced the words like one who tells a crime. "And after that——"