Part 16

"Sure thing!" echoed David, utterly delighted. "I’m goin’ to have that on the invitations—there ain’t goin’ to be no ’Answer P.D.Q.’ on the left-hand corner; I’m goin’ to have somethin’ else—I’m goin’ to have what that cove on the tavern sheds yelled through the megaphone: ’If you can’t laugh don’t come.’ I often told you about him, didn’t I?—well, that’s the prescription’s goin’ to be on the admission tickets."

Considerable further dialogue was terminated by a very serious question from the prospective débutante. "Won’t it look kind of strange, father?" she ventured rather timidly, "going to all that expense—just at this particular time?"

David put his arms about her very tenderly, smiling down into the sober face. "There ain’t goin’ to be no champagne, Madeline," he said quietly, "nor no American beauties—there’ll jest be one of heaven’s choicest. It’ll be an awful simple party—an’ awful sweet. An’ music don’t cost nothin’; neither does love, nor friends, nor welcomes—the best things is the cheapest. An’ I’ll show them all one thing," he went on very gravely, his eyes filling as they were bended on his child, "one thing that ain’t expensive—but awful dear," the words faltering as they left his lips.

*XXIV*

_*THE VICTOR’S SPOILS*_

"Of course you ought to go. I’ve got a kind of feeling, though I don’t know why, that the whole party will be spoiled if you’re not there."

"Spoiled! Spoiled for whom?"

"Oh, for somebody—I guess you know all right."

It was Miss Farringall who was pressing her advice so vigorously; Harvey the beneficiary. They were seated in the little room in which they had first met, everything in the same perfect order, the fire still singing its song of unconquerable cheer, the antique desk in the corner still guarding its hidden secrets. The domestic Grey, the added dignity of years upon him, had come to regard the one-time intruder with almost the same affection that he lavished on his mistress in his own devoted, purring way. He was slumbering now on Harvey’s knee, and, could he have interpreted the significance of human glances, he might have seen the fondness with which the woman’s eyes were often turned upon the manly face beside her.

"If I thought Miss Borland really wanted me to come," mused Harvey.

"Maybe Miss Borland doesn’t care very much," his friend retorted quickly, "but I’m sure Madeline wants you," her eyebrows lifted reproachfully as she spoke.

Harvey smiled in return. "Of course, it would give me a chance to see mother," he said reflectively; "and Jessie says she’s very poorly. Perhaps I really ought to go—Jessie’s quite anxious about her."

"I think both reasons are good ones," Miss Farringall said after a little silence. "Do you know, Harvey," she went on, a shade almost of sadness coming over her face, "I feel more and more that there’s only one thing in life worth gaining—and one should never trifle with it. If you lose that, you lose everything—no matter how much else you may have of money, or luxury—even of friends," she said decisively; "even of friends—if you miss that other."

Harvey, slightly at a loss, fumbled about for something to say. "You have everything that money can provide, Miss Farringall—and that’s a good deal," he added, magnifying the lonely asset as best he could.

"Yes, perhaps I have—and maybe it is," she said as if to herself. Then neither spoke for a long interval. But finally Miss Farringall turned towards Harvey with a peculiar expression, as if she had just come to a decision after much inward debate.

"Would you like to hear something I’ve never told any one else?" she said impressively—"not even to the rector. He has a second wife," she explained, smiling, "and they’re always dangerous."

"If you wish to trust me with it," was Harvey’s answer.

"Well, I will—and you’ll tell me whether I did right or not. It’s not a long story, and I’ll tell it as directly as I can. It’s about a man—a gentleman," she corrected. "No, I never loved him—doesn’t this language sound strange from me?" as she noticed the surprise on Harvey’s face. "But it was—it was different with him. He was a married man, too. And his wife was very rich—richer than he was. And she hated him—they lived in the same house, but that was all; a proud, selfish woman; so selfish, she was."

Miss Farringall rose and moved to the window, gazing long on the leafy scene about her. The silence was broken suddenly by the butler’s voice, his approach as noiseless as ever.

"Please, Miss Farringall, the rector’s here—he’s in the hall. And he wants to know——"

"Tell him he can’t," Miss Farringall said softly, without turning her eyes from the window.

"Yes, mum," as the impassive countenance vanished.

Harvey did not speak, did not even look towards the silent figure at the window. He knew, and waited. Presently the woman turned and silently resumed her chair.

"It was different with him, as I said," she slowly began again—"not that I ever encouraged him; it terrified me when I found it out. Well, one day when we were alone together, he—he forgot himself," a slight tremor of the gentle form and a deep flush upon the cheek betokening the vividness of the memory. "And I fled from him—and I vowed we should never meet again," the sad face lighting up with the echo of a far-off purpose. "And I kept the vow for years," she went on, gazing into the fire—for there it is that the dead years, embalmed of mystic forces, may be seen by sorrow-brightened eyes.

Harvey waited again, silent still. And once again the strange narrative was resumed. "But I broke it at last," she said. "He was dying—a slow, painful disease. And he had everything money could give him; he had everything that anybody wants—except that one thing. His wife went on in her old, idle, fashionable way, caring nothing, of course. Well, one day he sent for me—it was his wife who brought the message; she knew nothing of what had happened, of course, and she told me of his request and asked me if I wouldn’t come and sit with him sometimes. And I went—I went often—used to read to him; many different books at first, mostly poetry—but as it came nearer the end it was hardly ever anything but the Bible.... The end came at last. And just the day before he died he said to me: ’It’ll be to-morrow—to-morrow about this time.’ Then he took a big envelope from under his pillow, and he said: ’This’ll be good-bye; God bless you for what you’ve been to a dying man. And I want you to do this. I want you to come to my grave a year from the night of the day I’m buried—and open this envelope there—but not for a year.’ And we said good-bye. Well, I couldn’t refuse the request of a dying man—I did as he asked me. But I waited a year and four days, Harvey," and Miss Farringall’s voice was quite triumphant; "I waited that long because I knew no man would believe a woman could do it.... And that’s how I’m situated as I am, Harvey. I don’t think anybody ever knew—I guess nobody cared; principally stocks, simply transferred. Do you think I did right, Harvey?" she asked after a pause.

"Yes," said Harvey quickly, unable to take his eyes from her face.

"Not that the envelope ever did me very much good," she went on. "I often think how much happier I’d have been if I’d been poor—and had had that other. But it wasn’t to be. And all this never made me happy—there was only one could have done that; and he went out of my life long ago—long ago now," she said, her gaze scanning his face in wistful scrutiny, her heart busy with the photograph entombed in the silent desk before her.

"So I think you certainly ought to go, as I said," she resumed, quietly reverting to the original topic. "I know the signs," she added in plaintive playfulness—"even if they do call me an old maid; I shouldn’t wonder if they know the signs best of all. But this is all nonsense," straightening herself resolutely in her chair, "and has nothing to do with what we’re talking about. When is the party, Harvey?"

"It’s Friday night week—the very day after I graduate. And they leave the old home the next day—I told you all about Mr. Borland’s failure. It seems they’ve been prepared to leave for some months—and now it’s actually come. Mr. Borland gave up everything to his creditors, I believe. And this is a notion of his own—just like him, too—that they’ll celebrate the last night in their old home this way; he’s going to have Madeline’s coming-out party for a finish. Quite an original idea, isn’t it?"

"Will that young fellow from your town be there?—Mr. Craig, you know?" asked Miss Farringall, without answering his question. She did not look at Harvey as she asked her own.

"Oh, yes," Harvey answered, "he’ll be there, of course—he’s very attentive." Harvey’s eyes were also turned away.

"Who’s he attentive to?"

"Why, to Miss Borland—to Madeline, of course. He’s been that for a long time."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. At least, I suppose so. Why?" Harvey asked wonderingly.

"Oh, nothing much—only I heard his affections were divided; another Glenallen girl, I heard."

"What was the name?" asked Harvey, interestedly.

"I did hear, I think—it doesn’t matter. Please don’t ask me any more—really, I’m ashamed of myself, I’m getting to be such a silly old gossip. Tell me, are you going to get the medal when you graduate?"

The look on the face before her showed that the conversation had turned his thoughts towards something more absorbing than college premiums, covetable though they be; he too was coming to realize that life has only one great prize, and but one deep source of springing joy.

"I have my doubts about the medal," Harvey answered after a pause; "I’m afraid of Echlin—but I’ll give him a race for it. I think I’m sure of my degree, all right. That’s another reason inclines me to go home next week," he added cheerfully; "I want to give my sheepskin to my mother; it’s more hers and Jessie’s than it is mine—and I want them to see my hood, too, when I get one; and the medal," his face brightening, "if I should have the luck to win it. But there’s another thing that troubles me a little," he added with a dolorous smile, "and that is that I haven’t got anything to wear, as the ladies say. I haven’t a dress suit, you know—and I’m afraid anything else’ll be a little conspicuous there."

Miss Farringall smiled the sweetest, saddest smile, as she turned her face to Harvey’s. "Oh, child," she said, "you’re very young; and you’re certainly very unfamiliar with the woman-heart. A girl doesn’t care a fig for dress suits—I think they rather admire men who dress originally," she went on assuringly; "I know I did, then. And besides, it’s all to your credit that you haven’t one—I think that’s one of the fine things about you, that you haven’t got so many things you might have had, if you’d been a little more selfish," she said, almost fondly.

"Talk about not being selfish," Harvey broke in ardently; "I’m a monster of selfishness compared to some others I could name—you ought to see my mother and my sister," he concluded proudly.

"I hope I may some day," she answered. "But meantime—about what you’ll wear. I’d wear the medal if I were you. But tell me first," she went on in a woman’s own persistent way, "that you’ll accept the invitation. Can’t you make up your mind?"

Harvey was silent for a moment. "No," came his answer decisively, "I don’t think I will. I’m going to decline with thanks—self-denial’s good for a fellow sometimes."

"Some kinds of self-denial are sinful," said Miss Farringall quietly; "but they bring their own punishment—and it lasts for years." She sighed, and the light upon her face was half of yearning, half of love.

"Is our Tam hame frae Edinburgh yet?" Such were the last wandering words of an aged brother of the great Carlyle, dying one summer night as the Canadian sun shed its glory for the last time upon his face. Thrice twenty years had flown since, fraternal pride high surging in his heart, he had clung to his mother’s skirts while she waited at the bend of the road for the returning Tom. Carrying his shoes, lest they be needlessly worn, was that laddie wont to come from the halls of learning where he had scanned the page of knowledge with a burning heart—carrying his shoes, but with his laurels thick upon him, his advent the golden incident to that humble home in all their uneventful year. And in death’s magic hour the thrilling scene was reënacted as the brother heart of the far-wandered one roamed back to the halcyon days of boyhood.

The same spirit of pride, the same devotion of love, brooded over the happy circle as Harvey sat this placid evening between his mother and sister in the home that had furnished him so little of luxury, so much of welcome and of love. He was home, and he was theirs. Trembling joy mingled with the mother’s voice as now and then she broke in with kindly speech upon the story Harvey found himself telling again and again. The story was of his career in general, and of the last great struggle in particular; how he had shut himself up to his work in a final spasm of devotion, pausing only to eat and sleep till the final trials were over and the victory won. And the great day, his graduation day, was described over and over, both listeners in a transport of excitement while he told, modestly as he might, of the ovation that had greeted him when he was called forward to receive his hard-won honours.

"And you’re a B.A., Harvey, now—a real B.A., aren’t you, Harvey?" Jessie cried ecstatically. "It seems almost too good to be true."

Harvey merely smiled; but his mother spoke for him. "Of course he is," she answered quietly; "it’ll be on all his letters. But the medal, Harvey—oh, my son, I always knew you’d win it," her voice low and triumphant. "I can hardly just believe it; out of all those students—with their parents so rich and everything—that my own son carried it off from them all. And has it your name on it, Harvey?—with the degree on it too?" she enquired eagerly.

"Of course," said Harvey, "it’s in my trunk—and my hood’s there too; they’re both there, mother. It’s a beautiful hood—and I’ll show them to you if you’ll wait a moment," he exclaimed impulsively, rising as he spoke.

But his eyes met Jessie’s and a darkness like the darkness of death fell upon them both. Jessie was trembling from head to foot, her hand going up instinctively to her face as if she had been struck. Harvey’s pale cheek and quivering lips betrayed the agony that wrung him.

"Forgive me, mother," his broken voice implored as he flung himself down beside her, his arms encircling her; "forgive me, my mother—I forgot, oh, I forgot," as he stroked the patient face with infinite gentleness, his hands caressing the delicate cheeks again and again.

"He didn’t mean it, mother—he didn’t mean it," Jessie cried, drawing near to them; "he just forgot, mother—he just forgot," the words throbbing with love for both.

But the mother’s voice was untouched by pain. "Don’t grieve like that, my darling," she pleaded, pressing Harvey’s hands close to her cheek; "I know it was nothing, my son—I know just how it happened. And why will you mourn so for me, my children?" she went on in calm and tender tones, her arms encircling both. "Surely I’ve given you no reason for this—haven’t I often told you how bright it is about me? And something makes me sure it’s getting near the light. Don’t you remember, dear, how the doctor said it might all come suddenly?—and I feel it’s coming, coming fast; I feel sure God’s leading me near the light."

"Are you, mother?" Harvey asked. The question came simply, earnestly, almost awesomely.

"Yes, dear; yes, I’m sure."

"We always asked for that. Harvey and I have, every day—haven’t we, Harvey?" Jessie broke in eagerly.

Harvey nodded, his gaze still on his mother’s face. For the light that sat upon it in noble calm entranced him. No words could have spoken more plainly of the far-off source that kindled it; and a dim, holy sense of the grandeur of her outlook, the loftiness of her peace, the eternal warrant of her claim, took possession of his soul. The beauty that clothed her was not of time; and no words of tender dissembling could conceal the exultant hope that bespoke how the days of her darkness should be ended.

The silence was broken by his mother’s voice. "Go and get them, Harvey—bring your medal and your hood. Bring them to your mother, my son," she said, as she released him to do her bidding.

He was gone but a moment; returning, he bore in one hand the golden token, his name inwoven with its gleam. The other held his academic hood, its mystic white and purple blending to attest the scholar’s station; he had thrown his college gown about him.

Mutely standing, he placed the medal in his mother’s hands. They shook as they received it, the thin fingers dumbly following its inscription, both hands enclosing it tightly, thrilling to the glad sensation. Then he held the hood out towards her, stammering some poor explanation of its material and its meaning.

"Put it on, Harvey," she said.

He swiftly slipped it about his neck, the flowing folds falling down from his shoulders. Involuntarily he bended before his mother, and the poor white hands went out in loving quest of the dear-bought symbol, tracing its form from end to end, lingering fondly over every fold. She spoke no word—but the trembling fingers still roved about the glowing laurel as her scholar boy stood silent before her, and the hot tears fell thick and fast upon it. For the memory of other days, days of poverty and stress; and the vision of the childish face as she had last beheld it; and the thought of all the hidden struggle, more bitter than he ever knew, that had thus brought back her once unknown child in triumph to his mother’s home—back, too, in unchanged devotion and unabated love, to lay his trophies at the feet of her who bore him—all these started the burning tears that trickled so fast from the unseeing eyes and fell in holy stains upon the spotless emblem.

Clocks are the very soul of cruelty, relentless most when loving hearts most wish that they would stay their hands. The ebbing moments, inconsiderate of all but duty, tell off the hours of our gladness, even of sacramental gladness, with unpitying faithfulness. And yet, strange as it may seem, how blessed is the law that will not let us know when the last precious moments are on the wing! How often do devoted hearts toy with them carelessly, or waste them in unthinking levity, or drug them with unneeded slumber, or squander them in wanton silence, as though they were to last forever! How the most prodigal would garner them, and the most frivolous employ, if it were only known that these are the last golden sands that glisten their parting message before they glide into the darkness!

We may not know. As these two did not; and the last unconscious hour was spent in the company of another. "It’s so good of you to come and sit with me, Miss Adair, while the children are at the party," was Mrs. Simmons’ welcome to the kindly acquaintance as she entered. "Jessie’s going on ahead—she promised to give Madeline some little help, so she had to go earlier. Won’t you need to be starting soon, Harvey?"

"I’m going just in a minute, mother," her son answered. "And you should have seen our Jessie," he digressed, turning to their visitor. "She never looked sweeter in her life. And the dress that she had on, she made it herself, she said—I didn’t know Jessie was so accomplished."

"Oh, Jessie’s made many a—she’s made many an admirer, by her dresses," the adroit Miss Adair concluded, noticing a quick movement of Mrs. Simmons in her direction, and suddenly recalling the injunction she had forgotten.

"I’m so sorry her flowers were withered," Harvey broke in, quite unconscious of what had been averted. "I sent her some from the city—but they were so wilted when they came that I didn’t want her to take them."

"Wait a minute, Harvey—I’ll go with you a step or two," his mother interrupted as her son stooped to bid her good-night. "Please excuse me, Miss Adair; I’ll be back in a minute," taking Harvey’s arm as he turned towards the door.

"It was so thoughtful of you to send those flowers to Jessie," she said as they moved slowly along the silent street; "she was quite enraptured when they came."

"I sent some to—to Madeline too," Harvey informed her hesitatingly. "You see, I didn’t expect, till this morning, to go to the party at all—and I wrote Madeline declining. So she isn’t expecting me. Jessie promised not to tell her I had changed my mind; and in my letter I told Madeline I was sending the flowers in my place—but I’m afraid they’ll be withered too. What’s the matter, mother?" for her whole weight seemed suddenly to come upon his arm.

"Nothing, dear; nothing much," she said, a little pantingly. "Let us sit here a minute," sinking on an adjoining step. "I’ve had these off and on lately," she added, trying to smile. "I’m better now—the doctor says it’s some little affection of the heart. I guess it’s just a rush of happiness," she suggested bravely, smiling as she turned her face full on Harvey’s.

"I’m so happy, my son—so proud and happy. You’ve done so well; and God has watched over you so wonderfully—and protected you." Then her voice fell almost to a whisper, faltering with the words she wanted to speak, yet shrank from uttering. These spoken, she listened as intently as if for the footfall of approaching death.

"No, mother," he answered low, "no, never once since—yet I won’t say I haven’t felt it; I know I have, more than once. If I’m where it is—even if I catch the odour of liquor—the appetite seems to come back. And it frightened me terribly; it was like the baying of hounds," drawing closer as he spoke.

"That’s like what your father used to say," she whispered, quivering.

"But never once, mother—never a single time, since. I’ve always remembered that first night you came into my room—and that other time."

"And I," she cried eagerly, "haven’t I? I’ve been there many a night since then, when Jessie was asleep—I used to try and imagine it was you, Harvey," she said, turning her face on his in the uncertain light.

The gentle colloquy flowed on while the shadows deepened about the whispering pair, the one happy because youth’s radiance overshone his path, the other peaceful because a deeper, truer light was gathering in her heart. One cloud, and one alone, impaired the fullness of his joy; and that was, what even his hopeful heart could not deny, that his mother’s strength was obviously less than when he had seen her last. But all the devotion of the years seemed gathered up into this gracious hour; the mother, mysteriously impelled, seemed loath to let the interview be at an end, though she knew Harvey must soon be gone.

"You’d better hurry now, dear," she said when their own door was reached; "no, no, I can go in alone all right—on with you to the party, Harvey; they can’t any of them be happier than I am to-night. And tell Madeline, for me, there’s only one chick like mine in the world—and whoever gets——"

The remainder of the message was lost in laughing protest as the good-byes were said; the mother stole softly in to her patient guest, her son hurrying on to the gathering revelry.

*XXV*

_*WHAT MADE THE BALL SO FINE?*_

Harvey could not forbear to indulge a glance through the flaming windows as he drew near the house. He noted, a little ruefully it must be said, that almost every gentleman guest was attired after the conventional fashion he had predicted; but a moment’s reasoning repelled any threatening embarrassment with scorn. Pressing bravely on, he had soon deposited his hat and coat, and after a minute or two of waiting in the dressing-room began his descent of the stairs to mingle with the animated scene.