Part 15

Grave and kindly were the salutations of her visitors, equally sincere and dignified the greetings in return. After some irrelevant conversation, David introduced the purpose of their visit with the tact that never fails a kindly heart, bidding his friend tell the rest; and the half-knitted stocking fell idle on her lap as the silent listener composed herself bravely to hear the tidings that something assured her would be far from welcome.

Once or twice she checked a rising sigh, and once or twice she nervously resumed the knitting that had been given over; but no other sign bespoke the sorrow and disappointment that possessed her. If any wave of pain passed over the gentle face, it found no outlet in the sightless eyes. Geordie kept nothing back; the whole story of their present situation—and of their consequent helplessness to further aid her scholar son—was faithfully rehearsed. And the very tone of his voice bore witness to the sincerity of his statement that the whole calamity had no more painful feature than the one it was their mission now to tell.

"I’m content," she said quietly when Mr. Nickle had concluded. "I’ll not deny that the hope of—of what’s evidently not to be—has made the days bright for me ever since Harvey went away," she went on, as if her life had never known darkness; "but he’s had a good start, and he can never lose what he’s got already—and maybe the way’ll be opened up yet; it’s never been quite closed on us," she added reverently, "though it often looked dark enough. The promise to the poor and the needy never seems to fail. And I’m sure Harvey’ll find something to do—and oh," she broke in more eagerly than before, "I know the very first thing he’d want me to do is to thank you both for your great kindness, your wonderful kindness to us all," she concluded, both hands going out in the darkness to hold for a moment the hands of her benefactors.

The conversation was not much longer continued, both Geordie and David retreating before the brave and trustful resignation as they never would have done before lamentation or repining. And after they had gone Jessie and her mother sat long together in earnest consultation; for the one was as resolved as the other that something must be done to avert the impending disaster.

"Just to think, mother, he’d be a B.A. if he could only finish with his class," said Jessie; "and then, then he could be nearly any thing he liked, after that. If only business were a little better in the shop," she sighed.

"But it’s losing, Jessie," the mother replied, forcing the candid declaration. "I can tell that myself—often I count how many times the bell above the door rings in a day; and it’s growing less, I’ve noticed that for a year now. It’s all because Glenallen’s growing so fast, too—that’s the worst of it; what helps others seems to hurt us."

Jessie understood, the anomaly having been often discussed before; it had been discussed, too, in the more pretentious shops, though in a far different frame of mind. "We’ve got along so well this far—we’ve got almost used to doing without things," she said with a plaintive smile, "and it seems such a pity to have to stop when the goal’s in sight."

"If I were only stronger," mused the mother; "but I’m not," she added quietly, the pale face turning towards Jessie’s—"your mother’s not gaining any; you can see that, can’t you, dear?"

Jessie’s protest was swift and passionate. "You mustn’t talk that way," she cried appealingly; "you’ve spoken like that once or twice—and I won’t hear of it," the voice quivering in its intensity. "You’re going to get well—I’m almost sure you will. And there’s nothing more I’d let you do," her eyes glowing with the ardour of her purpose, "if you were as well and strong as ever in your life."

Mrs. Simmons smiled, but the smile was full of sadness.

"Have it as you will, my child," she said, "but there’s no use shutting our eyes to the truth—it’s for your own sake I spoke of it, Jessie. When you write to Harvey, do you tell him I’m gaining, dear?" a smile on the patient face.

Jessie was silent a moment. "Don’t, mother don’t," she pleaded. "Let’s talk about what we’ll do for Harvey. Oh, mother," the arms going about the fragile form in a passion of devotion, "it seems as if your troubles would never end; it’s been one long round of care and struggle and pain for you ever since I can remember. And this last seems the worst, for I know how you’ve lived for Harvey. And it shan’t all be for nothing; we’ll get through with it somehow—I know we will."

"You shouldn’t pity me so, my daughter," and the mother’s voice was as calm as the untroubled face. "I really don’t think you know how much happiness I’ve had; I often feel there’s nothing so close to joy as sorrow. And you and Harvey have been so good—and I’m so proud of him. The way’s always been opened up for us; and God has strengthened me, and comforted me, beyond what I ever thought was possible. And besides, dear," the voice low and thrilling with the words that were to come, "besides, Jessie, I’ve had a wonderful feeling lately that it’s getting near the light—it’s like a long tunnel, but I’ve caught glimpses of beauty sometimes that tell me the long darkness is nearly over. Oh, my darling," she went on in the same thrilling voice, holding her close in a kind of rapture, "I never was so sure before—not even when I could see all around—never so sure—that it’s all light after all, and my very darkness has been the light of God. I don’t know why I should cry like this," she sobbed, for the tears were now falling fast, "for I’m really happy—even with all this new trouble; but for days and days lately I’ve kept saying to myself: ’They need no candle, neither light of the sun’—and I can’t think of it without crying, because I know it’s true."

Very skillfully did Jessie endeavour to turn the conversation into other channels; her own sinking heart told her too well that her inmost thought was not far different from her mother’s. For the dear face was daily growing more pale and thin, and the springs of vitality seemed to be slowly ebbing. But on this she would not permit her mind to dwell.

"Don’t you think we could get some bright girl to mind the shop, mother; some young girl, you know, that wouldn’t cost very much? Because I’ve just been thinking—I’ve got a kind of a plan—I’ve been wondering if I couldn’t make enough to help Harvey through. You know, mother, I can sew pretty well—Miss Adair told me only yesterday I managed quite as well as the girls with a regular training, and she just as much as offered me work. And I’ll see her about it this very day; we could get some one to mind the shop for a great deal less than I could make—and Harvey could have the rest. You wouldn’t object, would you, mother? I wouldn’t go out to sew; some of the girls take the work home with them, and so could I. Or, if I was doing piece-work, I might be able to mind the store myself at the same time—there seems to be so little to do now," she added, looking a little ruefully towards the silent shop.

The expression of pain deepened on the mother’s face as she listened. Yet she did not demur, although the inner vision brought the tired features of the unselfish girl before her. "It seems hard," she said at length; "I was always hoping you’d soon have it a little easier—but this will only make it harder for you."

"But not for long," Jessie interrupted cheerily; "just till Harvey’s through—and then he’ll be able to make lots of money. And maybe you and I’ll be able to go away somewhere for a little rest," she added hopefully, her eyes resting long on the pallid face.

"Harvey must never know," the mother suddenly affirmed; "we’ll have to keep it from him, whatever happens, for I know he wouldn’t consent to it for a moment. Where are you going, Jessie?" for she knew, her sense of every movement quickened by long exercise, that the girl was making preparations to go out.

"I’m going to see Miss Adair, mother. I won’t be long—but now that my mind’s set on it, I can’t rest till I find out. If I can only get that arranged, it’ll make it so much brighter for us all."

The mother sat alone with many conflicting thoughts, marvelling at all that so enriched her life, dark though it was, and bearing about with it a burden that no heart could share.

Jessie’s errand was successful, as such errands are prone to be; and only those who understand life’s hidden streams could have interpreted the radiance on the maiden’s face as she returned to announce her indenture unto toil, new gladness springing from new sacrifice, for such is the mysterious source whose waters God hath bidden to be blessed.

David was absorbed in a very sober study as he walked slowly homeward. Not that he shrank from the personal sacrifice that his present circumstances were about to demand, or that any sense of dishonour clouded his thought of the business career that seemed about to close—from this he was absolutely free. But he was feeling, and for the first time, how keen the sting of defeat can be to a man whose long and valiant struggle against relentless odds has at last proved unavailing.

Still reflecting on this and many other things, he suddenly heard himself accosted by a familiar voice; turning round, he saw Mr. Craig hurrying towards him.

"Going home, Borland?" said the former as he came up with him; "I’ll just walk along with you if you are—I want to talk to you."

David’s mind lost no time in its calculation as to what the subject of this conversation would likely be; during all his period of struggle, well known and widely discussed as it had been, Mr. Craig had never approached him before. David felt an unconscious stiffening of the lip, he scarce knew why.

"I wanted to tell you, Borland, for one thing," Mr. Craig began as they walked along, "how much I feel for you in the hard luck you’re having."

"Thank you kindly," said David promptly.

"I don’t suppose I’m just able to sympathize as well as lots of men could," Mr. Craig observed; "unbroken success doesn’t fit one for that sort of thing."

"Oh!" said David, volumes in the tone.

"Well," said the other, not by any means oblivious to the intonation, "I suppose it does sound kind of egotistical—but I guess it’s true just the same. I suppose I’m what might be called a successful man."

"I reckon you might be _called_ that, all right," said David, getting out his knife and glancing critically at a willow just ahead. The spirit of whittling invariably arose within him when his emotions were aroused.

"What do you mean?" Mr. Craig enquired, a little ardently. He had noticed David’s emphasis on one particular word.

"I don’t mean nothin’," responded David, making a willow branch his own.

"You seem to doubt a little whether I’ve really been successful or not?" ventured the other, looking interrogatively at his companion.

"Depends," said David laconically; "you’ve been terrible successful outside."

"I don’t just follow you," Mr. Craig declared with deliberate calmness. "I don’t suppose we judge people by the inside of them—at least I don’t."

"I do," answered David nonchalantly. "A fellow can’t help it—look at this here gad; it looked elegant from the outside," holding it up to show the wound his knife had made.

"What’s the matter with it?" Mr. Craig rejoined, pretending to look closely.

"It’s rotten," said David.

"What do you mean by that?" Mr. Craig demanded rather more sharply.

"I don’t mean nothin’," responded David.

"Then it hasn’t anything to do with the question of success?"

"That’s an awful big question," David answered adroitly, "an’ folks’ll get a terrible jolt in their opinions about it some day, I reckon—like the rich fool got; an’ he thought he was some pun’kins, too. Nobody can’t tell jest who’s a success," he went on, peeling the willow as he spoke. "I reckon folks calls me the holiest failure in these parts—but I’m a terrible success some ways," he went on calmly.

"What ways?" Mr. Craig enquired rather too quickly for courtesy.

"Oh, nothin’ much—only under the bark—if it’s anywheres," David jerked out, still vigorously employed on the willow. "But there ain’t no good of pursuin’ them kind of thoughts," he suddenly digressed, making a final slash at the now denuded branch; "they’re too high-class for a fellow that never went to school after he left it—let’s talk about somethin’ worldly. They say you’re goin’ to be Glenallen’s first mayor; goin’ to open the ball—ain’t that so?"

Abating his pace, Mr. Craig drew closer to David, a pleased expression displacing the rather decided frown that had been gathering.

"To tell the truth, now that you’ve mentioned it," he began confidentially, "that’s the very thing I wanted to talk about. Of course, there’s no use in my pretending I don’t want the office, for I do—the whole thing is in being the _first_ mayor, you see, after Glenallen’s incorporated. Kind of an historical event, you understand—and, and there seems to be a little misunderstanding," he went on a trifle hesitatingly, "between you and me. I find there’s a tendency to—to elect you—that is, in some quarters," he explained, "and I thought we might come to a kind of an agreement, you understand."

"What kind?" David asked innocently.

"Oh, well, you understand. Of course, I know you wouldn’t care for the office—not at present, at least. I’ve felt perfectly free to say as much whenever the matter was mentioned to me."

"You’re terrible cheerful about resignin’ for other people," rejoined David with some spirit; "some folks is terrible handy at makin’ free with other folks’ affairs."

"Oh, well, you know what I mean—you’ve got your hands full——"

"They’re not terrible full," David corrected dismally.

"And besides, you see," Mr. Craig went bravely on, "you’re not British born—you were born in Ohio, weren’t you?"

"Not much," David informed him; "there’s no Buckeye about me—I was born in Abe Lincoln’s State. Peoria’s where I dawned—and he often used to stop at my father’s house when he was attendin’ court." David was evidently ready to be delivered of much further information, but the candidate had no mind to hear it.

"Well, anyhow," he interrupted, "I think it’d be more fitting that the first mayor should have been born under the British flag. But you don’t mean to say you think you’ll stand?" he suddenly enquired, evidently determined to ascertain the facts without further parley.

"Couldn’t jest say," David replied with rather provoking deliberation; "you see, I’ll have a good deal o’ time lyin’ round loose, now that I’m givin’ up business for my health," this with a mournful grin. "So mebbe I’ll be in the hands o’ my friends—that there expression’s one I made up myself," he added, turning a broad smile upon his friend’s very sober face. Mr. Craig, to tell the exact truth, grew quite pale as he heard the ominous words. For his heart had been sorely set on the immortality the first mayorship of Glenallen would confer, and he knew how doubtful would be the issue of a contest between David and himself.

"I was thinking," he began a little excitedly, "perhaps we could make some arrangement that would be—would be to our mutual advantage," he blurted out at last; "perhaps—perhaps I could give you a little lift; I could hardly expect you to withdraw for nothing. And now that you’re in financial difficulties, so to speak, I thought perhaps a little quiet assistance mightn’t go amiss."

But David had come to a dead standstill, his eyes flashing as they fastened themselves on the other’s face. "D’ye mean to say you’re tryin’ to bribe me?" he demanded, his voice husky.

"Oh, no, Mr. Borland—oh, no, I only meant we might find common ground if——"

"Common ground! Common scoundrelism!" David broke in vehemently; "you must think I’m devilish poor, Mr. Craig," his voice rising with his emotion, "an’ it appears to me a man has to be sunk mighty low afore he could propose what you’ve done. I’ve bore a heap, God knows—but no man never dared insult me like this afore; if that’s one o’ the things you’ve got to do if you’re pure British stock, then I thank the Lord I’m a mongrel."

"Be calm, Mr. Borland," implored his friend suavely, "you don’t understand."

"I understand all right," shouted David; "a man don’t need much breedin’ of any kind to understand the likes o’ you—you want a man that’s lost all he’s got, to sell himself into the bargain," the withered cheek burning hot as David made his arraignment.

"Now, Mr. Borland, do be reasonable—I mean nothing of the sort. I only wanted to give you a helping hand—of course, if you can do without it——"

"Yes, thank God," and David’s voice was quite shaky, "I can do without it all right. I can do without your dirty money—-an’ everybody else’s for that matter—but I can’t do without a conscience that ain’t got no blot on it, an’ I can’t do without a clean name like my father left it to me," he went hotly on, his flushed face and swift-swallowing throat attesting how deeply he felt what he was saying.

"Oh, come now, Borland," Mr. Craig urged, reaching out a hand towards his shoulder, "come off your high horse—preachin’ isn’t your strong point, you know."

"I ain’t preachin’," David retorted vigorously. "I’m practisin’—an’ that’s a horse of a different colour," he added, casting about to recall the amiability that had almost vanished.

"There’s no need for any trouble between us, Borland," Mr. Craig began blandly; "’twouldn’t be seemly, considering all that’s liable to happen—if things go on as they’re likely to," he added significantly. "We’ll need to be on the best of terms if we’re going to be relations, you know."

"What’s that you’re sayin’?—relations, did you say?" David was quite at a loss to understand, and yet a dim fear, suggested not so long before, passed for a moment through his mind.

"Yes, relations," returned Mr. Craig, smiling amiably; "these young folks have a way of making people relations without consulting them—at least, till they’ve gone and settled it themselves. I guess you understand all right."

A hot flush flowed over David’s cheek. "Do you—do you mean my Madeline?" he stammered, staring like one who did not see.

"Well, maybe—but I mean my Cecil just as much. All this won’t make any difference to Cecil."

"What won’t?" David groped, the words coming as if unguided, his thoughts gone on another mission.

"Oh, these little difficulties of yours—all this financial tangle, I mean; your failure, as they call it round town. That’ll never budge Cecil."

The men were still standing, neither thinking of direction or of progress. But David moved close up to the other, his eyes fixed on the shrewd face with relentless sternness.

"It don’t need to make no difference," he said through set teeth. "There ain’t nothin’ to get different—if you mean your son, Craig—or if you mean my daughter, Craig," the words prancing out like a succession of mettled steeds; "either you or him’s the biggest fool God ever let loose. There ain’t no human power, nor no other kind, can jine them two together. Perhaps I’ll have to go beggin’—but I’ll take Madeline along with me afore she’ll ever go down the pike with any one like your Cecil, as you call him." David paused for breath.

"She’d be mighty lucky if she got him," Cecil’s father retorted haughtily. "One would think you were the richest man in the county to hear you talk."

David’s face was closer than ever. "Craig," he said, his voice low and taut, "there’s mebbe some that’s good enough for Madeline—I ain’t a-sayin’—but th’ Almighty never made no man yet that my daughter’d be lucky if she got. An’ I know I’m poor; an’ I know I’ve got to take to the tall timbers out o’ there—where she was born," the words coming with a little gulp as he pointed in the direction of his home, "but I’m a richer man, Craig, than you ever knew how to be. An’ you can go back to your big house, an’ I’m goin’ to hunt a little one for us—but I wouldn’t trade you if every pebble on your carriage drive was gold. An’ I’m happier’n you ever knew how to be. An’ your Cecil can’t never have our Madeline. An’ when it comes to budgin’, like you was talkin’ about, I reckon I can do my share of not budgin’, Craig—an’ you can put that in your pipe an’ smoke it."

David started to move on; he was panting just a little. But Mr. Craig stopped him; and the sneer in his words was quite noticeable:

"I suppose you’ll be giving her to your charity student—she’ll be head clerk in the Simmons’ store yet, I shouldn’t wonder."

David was not difficult to detain. He stared hard for a moment before speaking. "Mebbe they’re poor," he said at length, "an’ mebbe his blind mother has to skimp an’ save—that settles any one for you all right. But it wouldn’t take me no longer to decide between that there charity student an’ your son, than it would to decide—to decide between you an’ God," he concluded hotly, turning and starting resolutely on his way. "Now you know my ideas about success," he flung over his shoulder as he pressed on; "you’re a success, you know, a terrible success—I’m a failure, thank heaven," his face set steadfastly towards home, bright with the hallowed light that, thought of his treasure there kept burning through all life’s storm and darkness.

But Mr. Craig fired the last shot. "I wish you luck with the coming-out party," he called after him mockingly; "be sure and have it worthy of the young lady—and of her father’s fortune," he added, the tone indicating what satisfaction the thrust afforded him.

David answered never a word. But the taunt set him pondering, nevertheless; once or twice he stopped almost still, though his pace was brisk, and something in his face reflected the purpose forming within him. When he reached his home he found Madeline and her mother together; they were still employed with the sombre task of selecting what should be the survivors among their domestic treasures.

"How did Mrs. Simmons take it?" Madeline asked almost impatiently, as he drew her down in the chair beside him.

"She took it like as if she believed in God," David answered solemnly; "an’ she took it that way ’cause she does—that’s more," he added emphatically. "But I’ve got somethin’ to say—somethin’ important."

Both waited eagerly to hear. "Tell me quick," said Madeline.

"Well, it’s this. I don’t want nothin’ touched here—not till after what I’m goin’ to tell you. We’ll have to waltz out o’ here, of course," he said, looking gravely around the room; "but it’ll be some considerable time yet—an’ as long as we’re here, we’ll be here, see? An’ we’re goin’ to have your comin’-out party, Madeline—we’re goin’ to have it the last night. So it’ll be a comin’-out party, an’ a goin’-out one, at the same time—ain’t that an elegant idea? An’ it’ll be a dandy, too—there’ll be high jinks till nobody can’t see anybody else for dust. An’ we’re goin’ to have things jest like they are now—no use o’ kickin’ down your scaffold till you’re through with it," he concluded, chucking Madeline under the chin in his jubilation.

Madeline and her mother gasped a little as they exchanged glances. Mrs. Borland was the first to speak. "Don’t you think it’ll throw a gloom over everything, David, when everybody’ll know what—what’s going to happen?"

"If anybody begins that kind o’ throwin’, I’ll throw them out sideways," David replied fiercely. "Most certainly it won’t. Everybody’d always be slingin’ gloom round, if that’d do it—’cause nobody ever knows what’s goin’ to happen any time. Leastways, nobody only One—an’ He ain’t never gloomy, for all He knows. Anyhow, nothin’ ain’t goin’ to happen—’cept to the furniture," he added scornfully, glancing at the doomed articles that stood about.

"One good thing," Madeline suggested radiantly, "there’ll be nothing to hide—everybody’ll know they’re expected to be jolly."