Part 14

"There isn’t nothin’ can take that away from us, Madeline," he said at last, obviously as much to himself as to the girl beside him.

"What, father?" she enquired softly.

"Oh, lots o’ things—all the real things, that is. All that’s lovely; all I’m lookin’ at now—nobody can’t take them away, the trees, an’ the flowers, an’ the birds. No matter how poor we get, they’re some o’ the things thieves can’t break through an’ steal, as the Scriptur’ says," he mused, gazing far over the meadow at the orchard in its bridal robes, and beyond them both to the distant grandeur of the sky.

"Will we really have to give up very much, father?" the girl ventured, unconsciously turning as she spoke and permitting her eyes to rove a moment about the richly furnished home.

David was silent quite a while. His face seemed wrung with a pain he could not control, and his hands went out gently towards the girl’s head.

"Let it down, daughter," he said quietly.

"What, father? Let what down?"

"I like it better the old way, dear," he said in answer, already releasing the wealth of lovely hair; "let it fall over your shoulders the way it used to do, Madeline," as the flowing tresses, but little darkened by the darkening years, scattered themselves as in other days. "Now sit here, Madeline—come. No, you’re not heavy, child; I’ve got kind o’ used to carryin’ loads these days—an’ this always seems to make ’em lighter," as she nestled in his arms.

Another long silence followed, broken at last by David’s brave, trembling voice. "This is the hardest part o’ the whole business, Madeline," he said resolutely. "But I just found out the worst this mornin’ —an’ I ain’t goin’ to keep nothin’ back. I’ve failed, daughter; I’ve failed—leastways, I’ve failed in business. I don’t think I’ve failed no other way, thank God," he added in firmer tone, but still struggling with his words. "There won’t be no stain, Madeline," his lips touching the flowing strands as he spoke; "but things got awful tight—an’ I made one last terrible effort—an’ it failed; it failed, Madeline."

The girl’s arm was about his neck. "I knew there wouldn’t be any stain," she murmured as her face was bended downward to his own; "not with my father—and it won’t stop us being happy, will it?" she added hopefully, looking into the care-worn eyes.

"No, dear, no," responded David—"only there’s just one thing troubles me the most. It’s about Geordie Nickle. He bought a lot o’ the stock; I felt at the time he done it just to help me—an’ I didn’t ask him—an’ I kind o’ hoped it’d all come out all right. But it didn’t, Madeline—an’ Geordie’s lost an awful lot. I don’t know if he has more left—but I’m hopin’ so. There ain’t no better man in the world than him. One of the things that’s always kept me believin’ in God, is—is just Geordie Nickle. Men like him does more to keep faith livin’ than all the colleges an’ all the professors in the world; he’s a beautiful argument for religion, is Geordie Nickle—he kind o’ proves God, just the same as one sunbeam proves the sun," David concluded, his eyes still fixed on other credentials in the silent glory that wrapped earth and sky.

It was some time before Madeline spoke again. "Poor old father," she said gently; "what you must have suffered all these long months—more than mother and I ever thought of."

"It’s been years, child," the father answered softly; "lots o’ times I thought I couldn’t stand it no longer—but it came awful easy at the last," he suddenly exclaimed. "It was a kind of a relief when I knew the worst—real funny, how calm I took it. It’s a little like some women I seen once at an afternoon five-o’clock at-home," he went on dryly, a droll smile stealing over his face; "they was eatin’ them little rough cakes they call macaronies—an’ I was watchin’ two or three of the nobbiest of ’em. Well, they nibbled an’ nibbled so dainty, like a mouse at a hunk o’ cheese—an’ then, when they thought nobody wasn’t lookin’, they just stuck the whole thing in an’ swallowed it like a bullfrog does a fly, an’ then passed their cup as calm as you please for another helpin’ o’ tea. That’s a good deal the way I took my medicine when I got the last dose of it—had a kind of a feelin’ of relief. Didn’t you never notice how easy an’ quiet a stream runs when it’s past the waterfall? Shouldn’t wonder if this feelin’ I’ve got’s somethin’ the same as the way some fellows enjoys gettin’ a tooth yanked after they’ve been holdin’ hot salt to it every night for a month," and David heaved a reminiscent sigh as the memory of his own sleepless nights drifted before him for a moment.

Very low, much of it inarticulate, some of it altogether silent, was the language with which Madeline sought to comfort the weary and wounded heart, little knowing how successful she was; the father held her closer and closer to him; and the swiftly slipping treasures around them, that must soon be sacrificed, seemed more and more insignificant as the preciousness of love’s possessions grew more real and more dear.

"Do you know, Madeline, they tell me I won’t be worth nothin’ when everythin’s sold—an’ I only hope there’ll be enough for everybody—they tell me I won’t be worth nothin’—but I never felt richer than I do this minute," the words coming from lips half hidden among the golden hair. "They can all go to thunder about their assets, so long’s I’ve got this one—Bradstreet’s an awful liar about how much a man’s worth," he added almost gleefully, holding Madeline’s soft hand to his furrowed cheek.

"And I never loved you so much as I do right now," the girl responded, employing his own words, her hand wandering among the gray. "Only I’m so sorry for mother—she was so fond of all the things. Where do you suppose we’ll live, father?" she asked him timidly after a pause.

Mr. Borland made no reply for a little, his eyes fixed upon a lane of sunbeams that came dancing through the window.

"I can’t exactly say, Madeline," he began slowly. "Only I reckon it’ll be a little place, wherever it is—but them’s often the kind that has the most room," he went on reflectively; "I’m sure there’ll be room for everybody we love, an’ every one that loves us. I often think how it was the One that hadn’t no place to lay His head that offered everybody else a place to rest in," he mused reverently; "an’ I think it ought to be a little that way with folks, no matter how poor they get."

Before his words were ended Madeline had slipped from his arms; looking up, David could just see her disappearing as she hurried up the stairs. Half in sorrow, half in jubilance, he was still holding communion with his thoughts when she returned, the dancing sunbeams falling athwart her face as she resumed the place she had deserted.

"I’ve got something to tell you, father," she began excitedly, drawing a tiny paper book from its envelope. "It’s just a little surprise—but I’m so glad I’m able to do it. No, father, you mustn’t refuse," she protested as she saw him beginning to speak, his eyes remarking what she held in her hand. "I saved this all myself, father; I began over two years ago—it’s nearly three hundred dollars," she declared jubilantly after a fitting pause, "and I was going to get something with it—something special, something wonderful—it doesn’t matter now what it was—besides, I wanted you to see how saving I could be. But now I want you to take it all, father," the eager face, so unfamiliar with financial magnitudes, radiant with loving expectation, "and pay those awful creditors. Won’t that help, father?—won’t it help?" she cried again, not knowing what to make of the expression on her father’s face.

David Borland’s hands shook as he took the little pass-book. His head was bowed over it and the silence lasted till a hot blur fell upon it, a message from afar.

"Yes," he murmured huskily. "Yes, thank God, it helps; more than any man can tell till he’s got a broken heart like mine," he said passionately, the long stifled tide of grief and care bursting forth at last. "It more than helps—it heals," he murmured iow again, holding the pass-book close over his brimming eyes. "Who’s that?" he suddenly digressed sharply, the deathlike stillness broken by a knock at the door. "Who’s got to go an’ come now of all times?" as he released the wondering girl, already moving forward to answer the summons.

"Come in, come in," David heard her cry delightedly a moment later, his own face brightening as he recognized the voice. Instinctively he rose as if to rush across the room and bid welcome to the visitor; yet something seemed to check the impulse as he sank back in his chair, an expression of deepening pain on the tired face. But the resolve formed strong within him again and the voice rang like a trumpet.

"Come in, Mr. Nickle," it cried, echoing Madeline’s, "come in, an’ welcome. I see by your face you know it all—an’ I knew you wouldn’t be long o’ comin’. Sit down—here, alongside o’ me."

A man shall be as a refuge from the storm; so runs the ancient message that has shed its music on multitudes of troubled hearts. And how wonderfully true! How mysterious the shelter that one life affords another, if only that life be strong and true; gifted it need not be, nor cultured, nor nimble with tender words nor skilled in caressing ways—for these are separate powers and sparingly distributed. But let the life be true, simple and sincere and brave, and its very existence is a hiding-place; no word may be spoken, or aim achieved, or device employed, but yet the very being of a strong and earnest man remains the noblest pavilion for the defeated and the sad.

How oftentimes the peace of surrender is deepened by an experience of friendship such as comes only to the vanquished! And friendship’s sweetest voice is heard by the despairing heart. Thus it was with David Borland as his friend sat beside him, so grave and tender, his very look betokening that he knew all about the long, bitter conflict, as he obviously knew the disaster that had marked its close. He sat long in comparative silence, only a word at intervals to show that he was following David’s story.

"An’ I feel worse over that than all the rest," David said at length, "to think you lost by me. But I’ll see yet that no man will lose a cent by me, if I’m spared long enough—there’s a heap o’ work in these old bones yet," he went on bravely, "if only——"

"And what about me, father?—what about me?" Madeline broke in, drawing near with half outstretched hands; "I’m going to work too—there isn’t any one in this house as strong as I am," she affirmed, her glowing face and flashing eyes indicating the sincerity of her words.

David Borland almost groaned as he took the extended hands. "Oh, child, they’re so soft, they’re so soft and tender. And you’ll never do a day’s work while your old dad can work for you," he said tenderly, gazing into the deep passion of her eyes.

"Won’t I though? I’ll show you, father," she cried in sweet defiance. "Do you think I’m nothing but an ornament, a useless ornament?" she asked reproachfully. "Why can’t a woman bear her part in the battle just as well as men?—I’m going to do it, anyhow. I know how to do lots of things; I can teach, or sew, or do woodwork—or I can learn stenography—it doesn’t matter which; only we’ll fight it out together, father, you and me—and mother," she added dutifully.

David’s eyes were swimming with loving admiration. Once or twice he tried to utter what he felt, but the words seemed to choke before they reached his lips. Finally he found the very ones he wanted. "Madeline, you’re a thoroughbred," was all he said; but the girl knew the greatness of the eulogy.

David turned again to his visitor. "Please don’t think I’m buttin’ in where I’ve no business—but I can’t keep from wonderin’ if—if—if this has took everythin’," he said in much embarrassment. "That’s been kind of hauntin’ me for months."

The old man smiled. "I dinna feel it maitters muckle aboot mysel’," he answered slowly. "I’ll hae what I’ll be needin’ till I gang till my rest, I’m thinkin’," he went on quietly; "an’ ony way, I gaed intill’t wi’ my eyes open—but I thocht it was for the best. There’s juist ae maitter that’s giein’ me mair trouble than anither."

"What’s that?" David asked abruptly; "I’ll bet all I haven’t got it’s not yourself."

"Weel, ye’re richt—it’s no mysel’," Geordie answered; "I could thole it better if it was. It’s the laddie—it’s Harvey, ye ken. You an’ me’ll no’ be able to help him ony mair—an’ the laddie was daein’ fine at the college; an’ I’m dootin’ it’ll be a sair blow on his puir mither to tak’ him awa. Does she ken?" he asked, slowly raising his head towards David.

"I don’t think so," said his friend; "but I suppose she’ll have to be told sooner or later."

"Hoo lang will it be till the laddie’s through?"

"He gets his degree the next graduating class," volunteered Madeline, her face showing the keenness of her interest. "It’s not so very, very long," she added wistfully, looking as unconcerned as possible.

Then the old man began in the quietest and most natural way to tell David and Madeline all about his circumstances, the simple story touched with the pathos of an utterly unselfish heart. For his chief concern was evidently not for himself at all—he would have enough with strict economy to keep a roof still above his head—but his grief for Harvey’s interrupted career was sincere and deep. He recognized fully, and admitted frankly, that it would take what little was left him to supply the humblest necessities of his remaining years. But this seemed to give him little or no disquietude; his thoughts were divided between Harvey and his mother, and he seemed troubled as to how the latter should be apprised of the cloud that had brought this additional darkness to her life.

"She’ll no’ learn it frae the lips o’ gossip, if I can help it," he said resolutely at last, his staff coming down with emphasis on the floor.

"Go easy on that Turkey rug, Mr. Nickle," David interrupted with valorous merriment; "it belongs to my creditors now, you know."

Geordie permitted himself to abandon his line of thought long enough to say: "Ye dinna mean to tell me, David, that ye’ll hae to part wi’ a’ yir bonnie bit things aboot the hoose?"

David never flinched as he looked straight into the sober eyes.

"All that’s of any value," he answered resolutely; "no stolen plumage for me—I’ve no desire for it, thank God," he added cheerily. "I don’t want nothin’ but a few little necessaries—an’ a couple o’ luxuries, such as this here," drawing Madeline within his arm as he spoke; "it’s great how the law can’t get at a fellow’s real treasures. Just what I was sayin’ to you a few minutes ago, Madeline—the things that counts the most is the things that’s left, no matter how poor a fellow gets."

Geordie’s eyes were shining with delight; such philosophy as this touched the inmost heart of him.

"Ye’re richt, David, ye’re richt," he cried fervently. "Man, but it’s bonnie to see ye takin’ the chastenin’ o’ th’ Almichty like ye dae. I was sair feart for ye, when I found oot what was gaein’ to happen. But ye’ve got the richt o’t, David, ye’ve got the richt o’t," the old man went on earnestly; "it’s a sair loss, nae doot—but it canna rob ye o’ what ye love the most. An’ I’ll tell ye anither thing, David," he pursued, his voice the prophet voice, "it canna rob ye o’ the providence o’ God—it canna change the purpose o’ His will for ye," and Geordie’s outstretched hand, not often or lightly so extended, took David’s in its own. "But aboot Harvey’s mither," he suddenly resumed, recalling the thread that had been broken; "she’ll no’ hear what’s happened frae the lips o’ gossip. I’ll tell her mysel’," he affirmed, the resolution forming swiftly; "an’ I’ll dae it when I’m gaein’ hame frae here," proceeding forthwith to button up his coat preparatory to departure.

"I’ll go with you," David said quietly. "There’s no reason why I shouldn’t. I’ve a lot to regret, but nothin’ to be ashamed of—nothin’ to be ashamed of, as I said afore. Where’s your mother, Madeline?—I want to see her afore I go."

"She’s up-stairs," Madeline answered in rather a subdued tone. "I think she’s looking over some things."

David sighed as he rose and turned towards the stair. Reaching the room above, he found his wife gazing upon the rich contents of several receptacles whose treasures were outturned upon the floor. He sat down beside her on the bed, making rather a plaintive attempt to comfort the heart whose sorrow he knew was different from his own.

"I’m going to keep everything of Madeline’s I can," she said, after some preliminary conversation. "Poor child, she was looking forward so to her coming-out party—but I guess that’s all a thing of the past now," she sighed. "And everybody said you were going to be elected the town’s first mayor, too. I was counting so much on that—but of course they won’t do it now. But do you know, David, there’s one bit of consolation left to us—and that’s about Madeline. I think, I think, David, she’ll be provided for, all right, before very long," smiling significantly as she made the prediction.

"How?" David asked, quite dumfoundered, yet not without a kind of chill sensation in the region of his heart.

"Oh, the old way," responded his wife; "the old, old way, David. I’ve seen signs of it, I think—at least I’ve seen signs that some one else wouldn’t mind taking care of her, some one that would be able to give her quite as much as we ever did," she concluded, a note of decided optimism in the voice.

David sat up straight and gasped. "Surely," he began in a hoarse voice, "surely you ain’t talkin’ about—about matrimony, are you, mother?"

Madeline’s mother smiled assentingly. "That’s the old, old way, David—I guess that’s what it’ll end in, if things go on all right. Don’t look so stormy, David—I should think you’d be glad."

"Glad!" cried David, his voice rising like a wind. "Good Lord, glad—glad, if a fellow’s goin’ to lose everything an’ then be left alone," he half wailed; "you expect a fellow to be glad if he gets news that he might have to part with the dearest thing he’s got?" he went on boisterously. "But I’m makin’ a goat o’ myself," chastening his tone as he continued; "there ain’t no such thing goin’ to happen. Who in thunder do you imagine wants our Madeline?—I’d like to see the cuss that’d——"

"But, David," his wife interrupted rather eagerly, "wait till I tell you who it is—or perhaps you know—it’s Cecil; and I’m quite sure he’d be ever so attentive, if Madeline would only permit it. And I don’t suppose any young gentleman of our acquaintance has the prospects Cecil has."

David’s face wore a strange expression; half of pity it seemed to be and half of fiery wrath. "That’s so, mother," he said in quite a changed voice; "if all reports is true there ain’t many with prospects like his—he’ll get what’s comin’ to him, I reckon. But there’s one thing I’m goin’ to tell you, mother," and the woman started at the changed tone of the words, so significant in its sternness, "an’ I’ll jest tell it to you now—an’ it’s this. Mebbe we’ll have to beg our bread afore we’re through—but Cecil ain’t never goin’ to have our Madeline—not if me an’ God can help it," whereat he turned and went almost noiselessly from the room, his white lips locked in silence. And Madeline wondered why his eyes rested so yearningly on her when he returned, filled with such hungering tenderness as though he were to see her never more.

*XXIII*

_*INGENUITY OF LOVE*_

Neither Geordie nor David spoke a word as they went down the steps and passed slowly along the avenue that led from the gate to the house. But just as they opened the gate David turned and took a long wistful survey of the scene behind.

"It’ll be quite a twist to leave it all," he said, trying to smile. "I’ve got so kind o’ used to it—there’s a terrible pile o’ difference between _bein’_ poor an’ _gettin’_ poor," he added reflectively.

"But ye’d hae to gang awa an’ leave it, suner or later," Geordie suggested; "it comes to us a’—an’ it’s only a wee bit earlier at the maist."

"That’s dead true," assented David; "sometimes I think th’ Almighty sends things like this to get us broke in for the other—a kind of rehearsal for eternity," he concluded, quite solemnly for him. "Look there, Mr. Nickle," he suddenly digressed, pointing towards the house, "d’ye see that upper left-hand window, with the light shinin’ on it, an’ the curtain blowin’ out?—well, that’s where Madeline was born. It’s kind o’ hard," he said, so softly that Geordie scarcely heard.

"But ye hae the lassie wi’ ye yet—the licht’s aye shinin’ frae her bonnie face," Geordie replied consolingly.

"Poor child, she’s had to scrape up most o’ the sunshine for our home herself this last while," responded David, "but it ain’t goin’ to be that way after this—when things is dark, that’s the time for faces to be bright, ain’t it?—even if a fellow does lose all he’s got. Do you know, Mr. Nickle," he went on very earnestly, "I’ve a kind of a feelin’ a man should be ashamed of himself, if all his money’s done for him is to make him miserable when it’s gone. I mean this," turning and smiling curiously towards Geordie, "if a fellow’s had lots o’ money, an’ all the elegant things it gets him, it ought to kind o’ fit him for doin’ without it. I don’t believe you catch my meanin’—but money, an’ advantages, ought to do that much for the man that’s had ’em, to learn him how to do without ’em if he has to—it ought to dig wells in him somewhere that won’t dry up when his money takes the wings o’ the mornin’ an’ flies away, as the Scriptur’ says."

"Yon’s graun’ doctrine, David," Geordie assented eagerly; "forbye, there’s’ anither thing it ought to dae for a man—it should let him ken hoo easy thae man-made streams dry up, an’ what sair things they are to minister till the soul. An’ they should make him seek the livin’ water, so he’ll thirst nae mair forever. I seem to ken that better mysel’ than I’ve ever done afore."

"Mebbe that’s part o’ the plan," David made reply; "’cause how a fellow takes a thing like this here that’s happened me, depends ’most altogether on jest one thing—an’ I’ll tell you what it is—whether he takes it good or bad depends on whether he believes there’s any plan in the business at all. I mean some One else’s plan, of course. There’s a terrible heap o’ comfort in jest believin’ there’s a plan. When things was all fine sailin’ with me, I always held to the plan idea—always kep’ pratin’ about the web a higher hand was weavin’ for us all—an’ I ain’t agoin’ to go back on it now," he added with unwonted vehemence. "No, sir, I never believed more in God’s weavin’ than I do this minute. ’Tain’t jest the way I’d like it wove—but then we don’t see only the one side," he added resignedly. "D’ye know, Mr. Nickle, we’re terrible queer critters, ain’t we? It really is one of the comicalest things about us, that we don’t believe th’ Almighty’s plan for us is as good as our own plan for ourselves. Funny too, ain’t it, now?" he pursued, "an’ the amusin’ part o’ the whole business is this, how the folks that’s most religious often kicks the hardest when they ain’t allowed to do their share o’ the weavin’," he concluded, looking earnestly into his friend’s face.

Geordie’s reply found expression more by his eyes than by word of mouth. But both were interrupted by their journey’s end, for by this time they had arrived at the little store. Entering and enquiring for Mrs. Simmons, they were conducted by Jessie into the unpretentious sitting-room where Harvey’s mother was seated in the solitary armchair that adorned the room, her hands busy with the knitting that gave employment to the passing hours.