Part 17
Looking down, one of the first to be descried was David Borland himself, as blithe and cheerful as though he were beginning, rather than concluding, his sojourn in the spacious house. He was chatting earnestly with Dr. Fletcher, interrupting the conversation now and then to greet some new-arriving guest. Near him was his wife, absorbed in the pleasant duty of receiving the steadily increasing throng who were to taste for the last time the hospitality for which that home had long been famous.
But all others, and there were many whom Harvey recognized at a glance, were soon forgotten as his eyes rested on one whose face, suddenly appearing, filled all the room with light. For Madeline was making her way into the ample hall, flushed and radiant; her brow, never so serene before, was slightly moistened from the evening’s warmth, while the wonderful hair, still bright and sunny, glistened in the softly shaded light. Aglow with excitement, her cheeks seemed to boast a colour he had never seen before, the delicate pink and white blending as on the face of childhood; and the splendid eyes, crowning all, were suffused with feeling. The significance of the hour and the animation of the scene united to create a sort of chastened mirthfulness, brimming with dignity and hope, yet still revealing how seriously she recognized the vicissitude time had brought, how well she knew the import of the change already at the door.
Harvey stood still on the landing, gazing down unobserved, his eyes never turning from the face whose beauty seemed to unfold before him as he stood. Yet not mere beauty, either—he did not think of beauty, nor would he have so described what charmed him with a strange thrill he had never owned before—but the rich expression, rather, of an inward life that had deepened and mellowed with the years. Great sense was there, for one thing—and in the last appeal this feature of womanhood is irresistible to a truly manly heart; and her face spoke of love, large and generous, as if the weary and the troubled would ever find in her a friend; cheerfulness, courage, hope, the dignity of purity, the sweetness that marks those who have been cherished but not pampered and indulged but not petted, all combined to provide a loveliness of countenance that fairly ravished his heart as he peered through spreading palms upon the unconscious face beneath.
Yet the joy he felt was not unmingled. For he could see, as a moment later he did see, that other eyes were turned with equal ardour in the same direction as his own. Madeline’s appearance was a kind of triumphal entry; and there followed her, willing courtiers, two or three of the gallants of the place, whose function it evidently was to bear the glorious groups of flowers that various admirers had sent. Harvey’s face darkened a little as he noted that Cecil was among them; though, to tell the truth, his seemed the most careless gaze of all—if admiration marked it, it was hungry admiration and nothing more. But the flowers he was carrying were pure; he had asked leave to carry them—and they themselves could not protest, shrink as they might from the unfitting hand. Others, nobler spirits, had burdens of equal fragrance, all fresh and beautiful as became the object of their homage.
Slowly Harvey moved down the stairs. The proprieties were forgotten—all else as well—as he passed Mr. and Mrs. Borland by, the one glancing at him with obvious admiration, the other with impatient questioning. He was standing close in front of Madeline before she knew that he was there at all; suddenly raising her head as she turned from speaking with a friend, the soulful eyes fell full on his. She did her best—but the tides of life are strong and willful, and this one overswept the swift barrier she strove to interpose, as straws are swept before a storm. And the flood outpoured about him, surging as it smote the passion that leaped to meet it, the silent tumult beating like sudden pain on heart and ears and eyes, its mingled agony and rapture engulfing him till everything seemed to swim before him as before a drunken man.
What voices silent things possess! And how God speaks through dull inanimate creatures as by the living lips of love! And what tell-tale tongues have the most trivial things to peal out life’s holiest messages! For he saw—dimly at first and with a kind of shock, then clearly and with exultant certainty—he saw what was in her hand. It was only a bunch of simple flowers; but they were sorry looking things compared to their rivals whose fragrance filled the air, and the languor of death was upon them—yes, thank God, their bloom was faded, their freshness gone. For he recognized them, he knew them; and in the swift foment of his mind he even saw again the hard commercial face of the man from whom he had bought them, again the hard spared coins he had extracted from the poor total his poverty had left him, his heart the while leaping within him as though it could stand imprisonment no more. Dimly, vaguely, he saw behind her the noble clusters that other hands had sent—but other hands than hers were bearing them—and his were in her own, in the one that was bared in careless beauty as her glove hung indifferent from the wrist, unconscious of all that had displaced it. Careless observers had doubtless noted the dying flowers, marvelled mayhap; they knew not how instinct they were with life, how fadeless against the years their memory was to sweeten and enrich.
He stood silent a moment with his hand half-outstretched, his eyes divided between the flowers beneath and the face above. His soul outpoured itself through them in a riot of joy he had neither desire nor power to restrain. Madeline stood like some lovely thing at bay, her eyes aglow, their message half of high reproach and half of passionate welcome.
"You told me you weren’t coming," she said in protesting tones, the words audible to no one but himself; "and I didn’t expect you," her lips parted, her breath coming fast and fitfully, as though she were exhausted in the chase. Her radiant face was glorified—she knew it not—by the rich tides of life that leaped and bounded there, disporting themselves in the hour they had awaited long. Yet her whole attitude was marked by a strange aloofness, the wild air of liberty that is assumed by captive things; and her voice was almost controlled again as she repeated her remark.
"You said you weren’t coming;" the words voiced an interrogative.
"So I did," he acknowledged, his eyes roaming about her face; "but I came," he added absently, a heavenly stupidity possessing him.
"How’s your mother?" she asked, struggling back.
"She’s not at all well," he answered, the tone full of real meaning; for this was a realm as sacred to him as the other.
She was trying to replace her glove, the latter stubbornly resisting.
"Please button this for me," as she held out her arm. He tried eagerly enough; but his hand trembled like an aspen. Her own was equally unsteady, and progress was divinely slow. He paused, looking helplessly up into her face; her hand fell by her side. Before either knew that he was near, Cecil’s voice broke in: "Allow me, Madeline," he said; "I’m an old hand at operations like this—I’ll do it for you, Madeline," as though he gloried in the name, and almost before she knew it he had seized her arm, swiftly accomplishing his purpose.
Madeline was regal now, her very pose marked by unconscious pride. "Thank you," she said, still sweetly, "but I don’t believe I want it fastened now—it’s quite warm here, isn’t it?" and with a quick gesture she slipped it from her hand, moving forward towards her father. Harvey stood still where he was; but the new heaven and the new earth had come.
The evening wore on; nor could any gathering have been enriched with more of feeling than pervaded the triumphant hours. All seemed to forget the occasion that had convened them, remembering nothing but the valued friends who were still to be their own, even if outward circumstances were about to undergo the change so defiantly acknowledged. The crowning feature came when the simple supper was finished and the table partially cleared; for they who would remember David Borland at his best must think of him as he appeared when he called the guests to order and bade them fill their glasses high.
"Take your choice of lemonade or ginger ale," he cried with a voice like a heightening breeze; and they who knew him well silently predicted the best of David’s soul for the assembled guests that night. "There ain’t nothin’ stronger," he went on with serious mien; "drinks is always soft when times is hard—but drink hearty, friends, an’ give the old house a good name."
Possibly there was the slightest symptom of a tremor in his voice as it referred thus to what he held so dear, now about to be surrendered; but a moment later the old indomitable light was kindled in his eye, the strong face beaming with the unquenched humour that had been such a fountain in his own life and the lives of others. Something of new dignity was noticeable in his entire bearing, the bearing of a man who, if beaten, had been beaten in honourable battle, resolved still to retain all that was dearest to his heart; this explained the look of pride with which he marked, as he could hardly fail to mark, the affection and respect with which every eye regarded him as he stood before his friends.
The toast to the King, and one other, had been disposed of, David proceeding merrily to launch another, when suddenly he was interrupted by Geordie Nickle, who rose from his place at the further end of the table.
"Sit doon, David," he enjoined, nodding vehemently towards his friend, "an’ gie an auld man a chance. Ladies an’ gentlemen," he went on, directing his remarks to the company, "I’ll ask ye to fill yir glasses wi’ guid cauld water for to drink the toast I’ll gie ye—naethin’ll fit the man I’m gaein’ to mention as weel as that; there’s nae mixture aboot him, as ye ken. I’m wantin’ all o’ ye to drink a cup o’ kindness to the man we love mair when he’s puir nor we ever did afore. Here’s to yin o’ th’ Almichty’s masterpieces, David Borland—an’ may He leave him amang us till He taks him till Himsel’."
Geordie paused, his glass high in air. And the fervid guests arose to drink that toast as surely toast had never been drunk before. With a bumper and with three times three, and calling David’s name aloud after a fashion that showed it had the years behind it, and with outgoing glances that spoke louder than words, every face searching his own in trust and sympathy and love, they did honour to the host who should entertain them there no more.
It was almost too much for David. He arose when his guests had resumed their seats, and stood long looking down without a word. But he began at last, timidly, hesitatingly, emotion and language gradually making their way together as his eyes were slowly lifted to rest upon the faces of his friends. He referred frankly to the occasion that had brought them together, thus to bid farewell to the scene of many happy gatherings. "Folks say I’m beaten," he went on, "but that ain’t true. I’m not beaten. I’ve lost a little—but I’ve saved more," as he looked affectionately around. "I’m not really much poorer than I was. I never cared a terrible lot about money; ’twas the game more. Just like boys with marbles; they don’t eat ’em, they don’t drink ’em—but they like to win ’em."
Then he referred to the justice of the power that disturbs the security of human comfort, though he employed no such terms as those. "A fellow’s got to take the lean with the fat," he said resignedly; "hasn’t got no right to expect the clock’ll strike twelve every time. A miller that sets his wheel by the spring freshet, he’d be a fool," he announced candidly, knowing no term more accurate, "’cause it’s bound to drop some time. Of course, it comes tougher to _get_ poor than to _be_ poor; it’s worse to be impoverished than jest to be poor, as our friend Harvey here would say; he’s a scholar, you know, and a B.A. at that," he added, turning his eyes with the others towards Harvey’s conscious face.
"A stoot heart tae a steep brae, David!" broke in Geordie’s voice as he leaned forward, his admiring gaze fixed on his friend.
"Them’s my sentiments," assented David, smiling back at the dauntless Scotchman. "I mind a woman out in Illinois—she was terrible rich, and she got terrible poor all of a sudden. Well, she had to wash her own dishes, after the winds descended an’ the floods blew and beat upon her house, as the Scriptur’ says—an’ she jest put on every diamond ring she had to her name an’ went at it. That’s Mr. Nickle’s meanin’, my friends, I take it—an’ that’s jest what I’m goin’ to do myself. I don’t know exactly what I’m agoin’ to go at," he went on thoughtfully; "I’ve got a kind of an offer to be a kind of advisin’ floor-walker for the line I’ve been at—an’ maybe I’ll take it an’ keep my hand in a bit. We’re goin’ to live in a little cottage—an’ there’ll always be heaps o’ room for you all. An’ we’re goin’ to manage all right," he went on, his eye lighting at what was to follow; "I’ve got an arrangement made with Madeline here. We won’t have a terrible lot of help round the house; so she’s goin’ to attend to the furnace in the winter—an’ I’m goin’ to look after it in the summer. So we’ll get along all right, all right. An’ now, friends," he continued seriously, "I must hump it to a close, as the preachers say. But there’s one thing—don’t believe all Mr. Nickle tells you about me; I ain’t near as good as he says. These Scotchmen’s terrible on epitaphs when they once get started. An’ he’s like all the rest o’ them—when he likes a man he swallows him whole. But I want to thank you all for helpin’ us to make the last night so jolly. I don’t find it hard myself, for I’m as certain as I ever was of anythin’ it’s all for the best. I want you to give that hymn out again next Sunday, doctor," and David’s face had no trace of merriment as he turned to look for his pastor by his side; "oh, I forgot the doctor goes home early—but I’ll ask him anyhow, an’ we’ll sing it louder’n we ever did before. It’s been runnin’ in my mind an awful lot lately: ’With mercy an’ with judgment’—you can’t beat them words much; it’s the old comfortin’ thought about Who’s weavin’ the web. So now I jest want to thank everybody here for comin’—we’ve had good happy years together, an’ there’s more to follow yet, please God," he predicted reverently as he resumed his seat, the deep silence that reigned about him being more impressive than the most boisterous applause.
The pause which followed was broken by a suggestion, low and muffled at first, gradually finding louder voice and at last openly endorsed by Geordie Nickle, that "auld lang syne" would be a fitting sequel to what had gone before. David hailed the proposal with delight.
"We’ll sing it now," he said enthusiastically, "an’ we’ll have the old doxology right after—they’re both sacred songs, to my way o’ thinkin’," as he beckoned to Geordie to take his place beside him, the company rising to voice the love-bright classic.
But just as cordial hands were outgoing to loyal hands outstretched to meet them, the door-bell broke in with sudden clamour, and some one on the outer edge of the circle called aloud the name of Harvey Simmons. There was something ominous in the tone, and one at least detected the paleness of Harvey’s cheek as he hurried towards the door. A moment sufficed the breathless messenger to communicate what he had to tell, and in an instant Harvey had turned swiftly towards the wondering company. He spoke no word, offered no explanation, but his eye fell on Jessie’s in silent intimation of what she already seemed to fear. Noiselessly she slipped from the now voiceless circle, joining her brother as they both passed swiftly out into the night.
*XXVI*
*"*_*THE FAIR SWEET MORN AWAKES*_*"*
Darkness was about them, dense and silent; nor were the shadows that wrapped their hearts less formidable. For something seemed to tell Harvey that one of life’s great hours was approaching, like to which there is none other to be confronted by a lad’s loving soul. Involuntarily, almost unconsciously, his hand went out in the darkness in search of his sister’s; warm but trembling, it stole into his own. And thus, as in the far-off days of childhood, they went on through the dark together, the slight and timid one clinging to the strong and fearless form beside her. But now both hearts were chilled with fear—not of uncanny shadows, or grotesque shapes by the wayside, or nameless perils, as had been the case in other days—but of that mysterious foe, one they had never faced before, ever recognized as an enemy to be some day reckoned with, but now knocking at the gate. Yet, awful though they knew this enemy to be, their feet scarce seemed to touch the ground, so swiftly did they hurry on to meet him, counting every moment lost that held them back from the parting struggle. Hand in hand they pressed forward, these children of the shadows.
"Did they say she was dying, Harvey?" Jessie asked in an awesome voice, little more than a whisper.
"That’s what they thought," he answered, his hand tightening on hers; "she thought so herself."
The girl tried in vain to check the cry that broke from her lips. "Don’t, sister, don’t," he pleaded, his own voice in ruins; "maybe she won’t leave us yet—but if she does, if she does, she’ll see—she’ll see again, Jessie." The emotion that throbbed in the great prediction showed how a mother’s blindness can lay its hand on children’s hearts through long and clouded years.
"But she won’t see us, Harvey, she won’t see us before she goes. Oh, Harvey, I’ve longed so much for that, just that mother might see us—even if it was only once—before she dies. And, you know, the doctor said if it came it would come suddenly; and I’ve always thought every morning that perhaps it might come that day. And now," the sobbing voice went on, "now—if she goes away—she won’t have seen us at all. And we always prayed, Harvey; we prayed always for that," she added, half-rebelliously. Her brother answered never a word. Instead, he took a firmer grasp upon his sister’s hand and strode resolutely on. By this time his head was lifted high and his eye was kindled with a strange and burning glow, his heart leaping like a frightened thing the while; for he could descry the light of their cottage home. Tiny and insignificant, that home stood wrapped in darkness save for that one sombre beacon-light—but the flickering gleam that rose and fell seemed to call him to the most majestic of all earthly scenes, such scenes as lend to hovel or to palace the same unearthly splendour.
"Will she know us, do you think?" Jessie whispered as they pushed open the unlocked door and went on into the dimly lighted house. Harvey did not seem to hear, so bent was he on the solemn quest, ascending the stair swiftly but silently, his sister’s hand still tight within his own. As they came near the top they could just catch, through the half-open door, the outline of their mother’s face, the stamp of death unmistakably upon it; she lay white and still upon her pillow, two forms bending above her, one of which they recognized at once as the doctor’s. Whereat suddenly, as if unable to go farther, Harvey stopped and stood still; Jessie did likewise, turning with low sobs and flinging herself into her brother’s arms, her face hidden while he held her close, silently endeavouring to comfort the stricken heart.
"Don’t, Jessie," he whispered gently. "Let us make it easier for her if we can—and let us think of all it means to her—all it’ll bring back again. Come," the last word spoken with subdued passion, courage and anguish blending. They went in together, slowly, each seeming to wait for the other to lead the way. Their look, their movements, their manner of walk, the very way they leaned forward to peer with eager, awe-inspired eyes upon their mother’s face—all spoke of childhood; everything reverted in this great hour to the sweet simplicity of that period of life that had bound them to their mother in sacred helplessness. The primal passion flowed anew. And the two who crossed the floor together, tip-toeing towards the bed whereon their only earthly treasure lay, were now no more a laurel-laden man and a maiden woman-grown, waging the stern warfare life had thrust upon them; but they were simply boy and girl again, hand linked in hand as in the far departed days when two stained and tiny palms had so often lain one within the other—boy and girl, their hearts wrung with that strange grief that would be powerless against us all, could we but remain grown-up men and women. For the kingdom of sorrow resembles the kingdom of heaven, in this, at least, that we enter farthest in when we become like little children; and an all-wise Father has saved many a man from incurable maturity by the rejuvenating touch of sorrow, by the youth-renewing ministry of tears.
"Look, oh, Harvey, look," Jessie suddenly whispered in strange, excited tones. Subdued though her voice was, a kind of storm swept through it. Harvey started, looked afresh—and saw; and instinctively, almost convulsively, he turned and clutched Jessie tightly by the arm. She too was clinging to him in a very spasm of trembling.
"She sees us," came Jessie’s awesome tidings, her face half-hidden on her brother’s shoulder.
"She sees us," he echoed absently, his face turning again towards the bed, his eyes resuming the wondrous quest.
He gazed, unspeaking, as one might gaze who sees within the veil. All else was forgotten, even great Death—so jealous of all rivals—whose presence had filled the room a moment or two agone. And the silent years beyond—ah me! the aching silence after a mother’s voice is hushed—were unthought of now. And the grim and boding shade of orphanhood, deepening from twilight into dark, was unavailing against the new-born light that flooded all his soul with joy.
For he saw—and the bitter memories of bygone years fled before the vision as the night retreats before the dawn—he saw a smile upon his mother’s face, the smile he had not seen for years; unforgotten, for it had mingled with his dreams—but it had vanished from her eyes when those eyes had looked their last upon her children’s faces. Yes, it was in her eyes—brightness he had often seen before on cheek and lip, merriment even—but this was the heart’s loving laughter breaking through the soul’s clear window as it had been wont to do before that window had been veiled in gloom.