Part 13

Thus ran the piteous tale. The mother spoke no word for long, staunching the flowing wound as best she could and by such means as only mothers know. And she mutely wondered once or twice whether this—or that other night—had brought the deeper darkness.

But when his voice was still; when the poor wild wailing that had rung through it all had hushed itself, as it were, within the shoreless deep of her great, pitying love, she asked him another question:

"How much did you borrow from Miss Farringall, Harvey?" the voice as calm as if no storm of grief had ever swept it.

"Five dollars, mother," he answered, the crimson face averted. "But I know one or two things I can deny myself this term—and that’ll pay it back;" the glance that stole towards his mother was the look of years agone.

Without a word, dignity in every movement, she rose and made her way to a little bowl that stood on the table. From it she took an envelope, her fingers searching it; then she handed him its contents, the exact amount.

He broke out in loud protest; but she was firm. "You haven’t anything there that you can afford to give up," she said quietly, "and we can afford this, dear—but not the other. Take it for mother’s sake," as she thrust the bill into his hand. It was worn and faded; but his eyes fell upon it as upon a sacred thing, hallowed by the love and sacrifice and courage that had wakened many a holy vow in his heart before. As they did now again, this latest token burning the hand that held it, melting the heart that answered its appeal of love.

And the mother’s tryst began anew; closer than ever she clung to her unseen Helper; more passionately than before she turned her waiting eyes towards the long tarrying Light.

*XXI*

_*A HEATED DEBATE*_

The years had left Harvey wiser than when first he entered college. The passing months, each opening the door a little wider, had admitted him farther and farther to the secrets of the new life about him—farther too, for that matter, into the mystery of life itself, the great complicated maze of which college life is at once the portal and the type.

And as he stood in the main hall of the great Gothic building this bright spring morning, a reminiscent smile played about his lips as he recalled the day, far distant now, whereon he had first gazed in wonder on the animated scene. For that had been an epoch-marking day in Harvey’s life. The very stateliness of the surroundings had filled him with a subdued awe he had never felt before, and his breath had come quicker at the thought that he, a humble child of poverty, was really a successor to the many great and famous men who had walked these halls before him. His gown was faded and rusty now, but he could recall the thrill with which he had first donned it years ago, the only badge of rank he had ever worn. And how fascinated he had been by the restless throng of students that buzzed about him that opening day, each intent upon his own pursuit, and all, or nearly all, indifferent to the plain-clad stranger who felt himself the very least among them. Some, with serious faces, had hurried towards the professors’ rooms or gravely consulted the time-table already posted in the hall; while others, oblivious to the portent of the day, had seemed to hail it only as the gateway to a life of gaiety, entering at last upon the long-anticipated freedom their earlier lives had been denied.

Not a few had moved idly about, turning blank faces here and there, all unquickened by the stimulus of the atmosphere and the challenge of the hour—dumb driftwood in life’s onmoving stream. And some there had been—on these Harvey’s gaze had lingered longest—who were evidently there by virtue of a heroism not their own, their plainness of apparel and soberness of mien attesting the struggle that lay behind the opportunity they had no mind to waste.

He was opening a letter from Jessie now, handed to him from the morning mail; and the tide of youth flowed unnoticed about him as he devoured it, still standing on the spacious stair that led upward from the main entrance of the college. The smile on his face deepened as he read; for the letter was full of cheery tidings, all about their every-day toilful life, quickened as it had been by the good news concerning his progress in his studies. "We’re quite sure you’ll get another scholarship," wrote the hopeful Jessie. And then followed the news of the village—much regarding Dr. Fletcher and the church, and a reference to the hard times that were paralyzing business—and a dark hint or two about the struggle David Borland was having to pull through; but it was rumoured, too, that Geordie Nickle was giving him a hand, and doubtless he would outride the storm. And Cecil had been home two or three times lately, the letter went on to say—and he and Madeline had been seen a good deal together, and everybody knew how anxious Mrs. Borland was that it should come to something—but everybody wondered, too, what was coming of Cecil’s work in the meantime; these things the now unsmiling Harvey read towards the close of the letter. And the last page or so was all about their mother, her sight giving as yet no sign of improvement, and her general health causing Jessie no little alarm. But they were hoping for the best and were looking forward with great eagerness to Harvey’s return when the college year should be ended.

Harvey was still standing with the letter in his hand when a voice broke in on his meditations.

"Well, old sport, you look as if you’d just heard from your sweetheart," as Harvey looked quickly up. It was Cecil himself, and he stopped before his fellow student as if inclined to talk. For much of the antagonism between the two had been dissolved since both had come to college, Cecil being forced to recognize a foeman worthy of his steel when they had met on an arena where birth and patrimony go for nothing. A few casual meetings had led to relations of at least an amicable sort; once or twice, indeed, he had sought Harvey’s aid in one or two branches of study in which his townsman was much more capable than himself. But such occasions were obviously almost at an end. For the most uninitiated might have diagnosed Cecil’s case as he stood that spring morning before the one he had so long affected to despise.

A false ideal of life, and of what constitutes life’s enjoyment, and a nature pampered from childhood into easy self-indulgence, together with strong native passions and ample means wherewith to foster them, had made their handiwork so plain that he who ran might read. The face that now was turned on Harvey was stained and spotted with marks significant of much, the complexion mottled and sallow, the eye muddy and restless, the voice unnaturally harsh and with the old-time ring departed—such a voice as years sometimes give. Real solicitude marked Harvey’s gaze as it rested on the youth before him; something of a sense of kinship, because of old-time associations—in spite of all that had occurred to mar it—and a feeling that in some indefinable way the part of protector was laid upon him, mingled with his thoughts as he noted the symptoms of the ill-spent years.

"From your very own, isn’t it?" Cecil bantered again, looking towards the letter in Harvey’s hand.

"You’re right enough; that’s exactly where it came from," the other answered, smiling.

"I was just thinking about you," Cecil went on; "I’ve kind of chucked classes for this session—going to study up in the summer and take the ’sup’s’ in the fall. I’ve been too busy to work much here," he explained with a grimace—"but that’s not what I wanted to speak to you about; some of the fellows asked me to bring you round to a little meeting we’re going to have this evening—seven to eight o’clock—we’re going to the theatre after it’s over. It’s something kind of new; Randolph got on to it down in Boston, and they say it’s fairly sweeping the country. I believe myself it’s the nearest thing to the truth, in the religious line, anybody’s discovered yet."

"What is it?" Harvey asked interestedly.

"Well, it’s a kind of religious meeting, as I said," Cecil informed him—"only it’s new—at least it’s new here; it’s a kind of theosophy, you know—and many of the strongest minds in the world believe in it," he added confidently. "That’s why we want you to sample it."

Harvey waited a little before answering. "I’ve heard a bit about it," he said at length; "I’ve read about it some—and I’d advise you to leave that sort of thing alone, Craig."

"You’re not fair," the other retorted; "you’ve never heard it expounded, have you, now?"

Harvey admitted that he had never had that privilege.

"Then I want you to come to-night," urged Cecil; "come and give it a trial anyhow."

A little further parley ended in Harvey’s consenting to attend the gathering of the faithful, not, however, without much candid prediction of the issue.

Seven o’clock found him there. The believers, some thirteen or fourteen in all, were already assembled, and Harvey’s scrutiny of the different faces was swift and eager. Some few he recognized as those of earnest students, men of industry and intelligence. Others, the light of eager expectation on them as though the mystery of life were at last to be laid bare, belonged to men of rather shallow intellect, novelty-mongers, quick to yield to a seductive phrase or a plausible theory, men with just enough enterprise of soul to put out from shore, yet not enough to take their bearings or to find a pathway in the deep beyond. And two or three, conspicuous amongst whom was Cecil, were evidently hospitable to any theory, however fanciful, that would becalm the inward storm of their own making, and promise healing to secret wounds of shame, and absolve from penalties already pressing for fulfillment. Not intellectual unrest, but moral ferment, had been the tide wherewith they had drifted from the moorings they were now endeavouring to forget and professing to despise.

The little room was fairly full and Harvey was seated on a small table in the corner. The proceedings were opened by a solemn-visaged youth who evidently felt the responsibility of his office. For he paused long, looking both around him and above, before he proceeded to read some ponderous passages from a book, evidently their ritual.

Much of this was punctuated by ejaculatory eulogies of one, Lao-tsze. Harvey had never heard this name before, but the expounder pronounced it frequently in terms of decided reverence; and he was at great pains to convey to his hearers his dependence upon this man of unpronounceable name as the fountain-head of inspiration and guidance.

The solemn disquisition ended, several others added their testimony to the light and comfort this teaching had afforded them, one or two venturing further to expound some doctrines which all seemed to find precious in proportion as they were obscure. Such phrases as "explication of the Divine Essence," "deduction of the phenomenal universe," "unity imminent in the whole," were freely dispensed, the listening faces answering with the light of intelligence, the light most resolutely produced where the shades were deepest. "Paracelsus" was a name several hastened to pronounce, and familiarly, as though he were an old-time friend. One very small student with a very bespotted face broke his long silence by rising to solemnly declare that since he had been following the new light he had come to the conclusion that God was the great "terminus ad quem," taking a moment longer to express his surprise and disappointment that all men did not so discern the truth in its simplicity.

Another rose to deplore that so little was known of the life of the great and good Lao-tsze, but comforted his hearers with the assurance that this distant dignitary had been reincarnate in a certain American poet, whose name he mentioned, well known as a wandering printer whose naked lucubrations were given at intervals to a startled world. This later apostle then received his share of eulogy, after which the ardent neophyte quoted copiously from his works, scattering the leaves of grass among the listening circle.

Exhausted, the speaker surrendered the floor to another, who launched into a glorification of the great Chinaman—and his successor—amounting to a deification. To all of which Harvey listened in respectful weariness, for he knew something of one of them at least, and of his works. Suddenly the devotee introduced the great name of Jesus Christ; for purposes of comparison alone did he quote the latter name, conceding to the founder of the Christian faith a place among the good and great, but making no attempt to conceal the deeper homage he accorded to the other.

This was too much for the visitor, who could hardly believe his ears. Indifference had gradually taken the form of contempt, this in turn deepening to disgust as he listened to what at first struck him as shallow platitude, descending later to what he esteemed as blasphemous vulgarity. Deeper than he knew was his faith in the One his mother had taught his childish lips to bless; and, as there rose before him a vision of the humble life that same faith had so enriched and strengthened, of the heavenly light that had gilded her darksome path, of the sweetness and patience that this light and faith had so wonderfully wrought, his soul rose up in a kind of lofty wrath that overbore all considerations which might have sealed his lips. Moreover, a casual glance at his watch informed him that it was exactly half-past seven—and the covenant he had scarcely ever forgotten at that hour was secretly and silently fulfilled.

Rising during a momentary silence, he was received with a murmur of subdued applause. But the appreciation of the circle was short-lived.

"Did I understand the last speaker to say," he asked in a low, intense voice, "that he puts that man he quoted from—that American poet—alongside of, or ahead of, Jesus Christ?—as a moral character, I mean, and as a teacher of men?"

The youth thus addressed made some evasive reply, not, however, revising his classification in the least.

"Then listen here," exclaimed Harvey as he reached for the volume of poems lying on the table. "I’ll read you something more from your master." Hastily turning the leaves, he found the passage he was in search of after some little difficulty, and began slowly to read the words, their malodour befouling the atmosphere as they came.

One of the faithful rose to his feet with a loud exclamation of protest. But Harvey overbore him. "If he’s all you say he is, you can’t reasonably object," he declared; "I’m not reading anything but what he wrote," still releasing the stainful stream.

Harvey flung the book on the table as he finished. "The gutter’s the place for that thing," he blurted out contemptuously; "that’s where it came from—a reprobate that deserted his own children, children of shame though they were, and gave himself to kindling the lowest passions of humanity—these be your gods, oh Israel," he went on scornfully. "I’ll crave permission to retire now, if that’s the best you’ve got to help a fellow that finds the battle hard enough already—I’ll hold to the old faith till I get some better substitute than this," moving towards the door as he spoke.

The leader almost angrily challenged him. "Perhaps our friend will tell us what he knows about ’the old faith,’ as he calls it, and why he clings to it so devotedly—it’s not often we get a chance to hear from a real Christian," he added jeeringly, "and it’s a poor cause that won’t stand argument."

A chorus of voices approved the suggestion. "If you’ve got one good solid intellectual argument for it, let us hear it," one student cried defiantly. "We’ve had these believers on general principles with us before."

Harvey turned, his hand already on the door, his face white and drawn. "Yes," he cried hotly, "I’ll give you one reason—just one—for the faith that’s in me. I don’t profess to be much of a Christian—but I know one reason that goes for more with me than all the mouthings I’ve heard here to-night. It’s worth a mountain of such stuff."

"Let’s have it, then," the leader said, moving closer to where Harvey stood. "Give us your overwhelming argument."

Harvey cast a haughty glance at him and those behind him.

"I will," he thundered; "it’s my mother, by God," he cried passionately, the hot blood surging through his brain—"do you hear that—it’s my mother."

There was a brief hush, for they must be reprobate indeed who would not recognize that sovereign plea. But one intrepid spirit soon broke the silence; a young stalwart of nineteen or twenty, towering among the rest, was quickly to the fore with his verdict. "Just what I expected," he drawled derisively; "the old story of a mother’s influence; you forget, my dear fellow," turning towards Harvey as he spoke, "how credulous the woman-heart is by nature—and how easily they imagine anything they really want to believe. Besides, we haven’t the advantage of knowing your saintly relative," he added, something very like a sneer in the voice.

He was evidently bent on developing his idea, but the words had hardly left his lips before Harvey had brushed aside those who stood between as he flung himself towards the speaker. His eyes were aflame, and his burning cheek and flashing eye told how deep the taunt had struck. He did not stop till his face was squarely opposite the other’s, his lips as tense as though they would never speak again.

"Gemmell," he said, calling the man by name, "I don’t know whether you mean to insult me or not—but I’ll find out. You don’t know anything about my mother—and she’s not to be made the subject of discussion here. But I know her; and I know the miracle her dark life’s been. And if you say that that’s all been just her imagination, and her credulity, then I say you’re a liar and a cad—and if you want to continue this argument outside, by heavens, here’s the door—and here’s the invitation, —— you," as he smote the astonished debater full in the face. Parrying the return blow, his lips white and livid, he turned to lead the way outside. His fuming antagonist made as if to follow him; but two or three, springing between the men, undertook the part of peacemakers. Perhaps Cecil’s efforts were as influential as any. "Let the thing drop, Gemmell," he counselled his friend in a subdued voice; "I know him of old—and he’s the very devil in a fight."

Whatever the cause, the fact remains that when Harvey paused a minute or two outside the door he found himself joined by none but Craig himself.

"Come on," said the latter, "what’s the use of making fools of ourselves over religion? Come on, and we’ll go to the theatre. I told you we intended going there after anyhow—but I doubt if the others will be going now; so we’ll just go ourselves. There won’t be anything very fine to hear, perhaps—but there’ll be something real interesting to look at," with a laugh that his companion could hardly fail to understand. But Harvey was thinking very little of what his guide was saying, his mind sufficiently employed with the incident just concluded, and he hardly realized whither he was being led till he found himself before the box-office in the lobby. A rubicund face within was the background for a colossal cigar that protruded half-way through the wicket; Cecil was enquiring from the source of the cigar as to the price of tickets.

Rallying, Harvey made his protest and turned to go away. "I’ve got to work to-night," he said; "it’s too near exams."

Craig laughed. "Don’t get nervous," he retorted significantly. "I’ll pay the shot—it’s only half a dollar each."

Whereat Harvey, the pride of youth high within him, strode back to the window, almost pushing his companion from him as he deposited his money and pressed on into the crowded gallery.

Not more than half an hour had passed when the spectacular side, as Cecil had so confidently predicted, grew more and more pronounced.

"I told you," he whispered excitedly to Harvey; "look at that one in the blue gauze skirt," leaning forward in ardent interest as he spoke.

Harvey’s answer was given a few minutes later when, without a word to the enchanted Cecil, he rose and quietly slipped towards the door and downward to the street. "Money with blood on it, too," he half muttered hotly to himself as he passed the office that had received the hard-won coin.

Hurrying towards home, he suddenly noticed a heavy dray backed up against the window of an office; evidently the moving was being done by night, that the day’s work might not be interrupted. Pausing a moment to watch, the stormy face brightened a little as he stepped up to the man in charge of the waggon. There were only two, which made Harvey more hopeful of his scheme.

"Want any help?" he asked abruptly.

"You’re right we do," the man answered promptly. "Another of our men was to be here to-night, but he hasn’t turned up—I’ll bet a five he’s in the gods over there," nodding towards the festive resort that Harvey had deserted.

"How long will it take?" enquired the student.

The man reflected a moment. "Oh, I guess about two hours," he surmised; "that is, to get the things out and then get them hoisted in at Richmond Street."

"How much’ll you give me if I help you?"

"I’ll give you forty cents—and you’ll have a free ride," said the man jocosely.

"Make it fifty," proposed Harvey. "I owe half a dollar—I’ll do it for fifty cents."

"All right," replied the teamster, whereat Harvey flung the coat from his back and the burden from his conscience. And the face which Miss Farringall was now coming to await so eagerly was very bright when he got home that night, her own beaming as she marked its light.

*XXII*

_*BREAKERS AHEAD*_

There is a peace, deep and mysterious, which only the defeated know. It is familiar to those who, struggling long to avert a crisis, find that their strivings must be all in vain. The student long in doubt; the politician weary of his battle; the business man fighting against bankruptcy—all these have marvelled at the strange composure that is born when the last hope of victory is dead. Many an accountant and confidential clerk, contriving through haunted years to defer the discovery which must some day lay bare his shame, has felt this mysterious calm when destiny has at last received him to her iron bosom. And who has not observed the same in some life struggling against weakness and disease?—when the final verdict is announced and Death already beckons, the first wild tumult of alarm and anguish will presently be hushed into a silent and majestic peace.

David Borland’s kindly eyes had less of merriment than in the earlier years. The old explosive spark was there indeed, unconquerable still; but the years had endowed the face with a gentle seriousness, not visible before, which yet became it rather better than the merriment it had unconsciously displaced. And there were signs that other enemies than the passing years had wrought their havoc on the mobile face. For care and conflict, hope of victory to-day and fear of overthrow to-morrow, had wrought such changes as the years could not effect.

Yet there was more of peace in the serious eyes than there had been of yore. Madeline was beside him as he sat this morning by the window, gazing long in silence at the handiwork of spring without. Soft wavy clouds floated in the sky, pressing serenely on their way as if there were no such things as tumult and pain and disappointment in the world beneath them; the air was vocal with many a songster’s jubilation that his exile was past and gone; the bursting trees and new-born flowers and tender grass all joined the silent anthem that acclaims the regeneration of the year—and David thought they had never seemed so beautiful.