Part 18

He remembered afterwards, what he did not then remark, that the doctor, observing his rapt expression, came close with some whispered explanation—some discourse on the relaxation of the optic nerve as a result of physical collapse—something of that sort, and much more, did the good man stammer forth to eke out this miracle of God. But Harvey heard him not—nor saw him even—for the love-light in his mother’s eyes called him with imperious voice, and almost roughly did he snatch himself from Jessie’s grasp as he pressed forward with outstretched hands. He moved around the foot of the bed, his hands still extended; and as he did so he noticed, with wild surging joy, that the devouring eyes followed him as he went. The sensation, new, elemental, overpowering, almost overcame him; something of the sense of repossession of a long absent soul, or the kindling of a long extinguished fire, or the cessation of a long tormenting pain, laid hold upon his heart. As he drew near and bent low above the bed, his mother’s face was almost as a holy thing, so transfigured was it with its glow of love. The rapture in her eyes was such as conquerors know—for it was the moment of her triumph after the long battle with the years. And her lips moved as if they longed to chant the victor’s song; yet they were muffled soon—for the hands she laid upon the bended shoulders of her boy were hungry hands, and that strange strength so often vouchsafed the dying was loaned her as she drew the manly form, all quivering and broken now, close to her throbbing bosom. A moment only—for the yearning eyes would not be long denied—till she gently released the hidden face, holding him forth before her while the long thirsting orbs drank deep of holy gladness.

"Oh, Harvey," she murmured low, "Harvey, my son—my little son."

"Mother—my mother," he answered back, as his hand stroked the pallid cheek; for the new vision was as wonderful to him as her returning vision could be to her. "Oh, mother, don’t—don’t leave us now, dear mother," he sobbed in pleading, the child-note breaking through his voice again, "now, when we’ll all be so happy, mother."

She smiled and shook her head faintly; his plea seemed to find but faint lodgment in her mind. For she was otherwise employed; she gazed, as though she could never gaze enough, upon the loving, pleading face before her; she was searching for all that would reveal the soul behind—all that might speak of purity, and temperance, and victory; she was gathering traces of the years, the long curtained years through which his unfolding soul had been hidden from her sight. And her eyes wandered from his face only long enough to lift themselves to heaven in mute thanksgiving to that God whose truth and faithfulness are the strength and refuge of a mother’s heart.

Suddenly she turned restlessly upon her pillow, her gaze outgoing beyond Harvey’s now bended head.

"Oh, Jessie," she said with returning rapture, "oh, Jessie—my wee Jessie—my little daughter; oh, my darling," as she drew the awe-stricken face down beside her brother’s. There they nestled close, there as in blessed and unforgotten days, all the fragrance of the sorrow-riven past, all the portent of the love-lorn future mingling in baptism upon their almost orphaned heads.

The thin white fingers toyed with the girl’s lovely hair; "it’s so much darker," she half whispered as if to herself, "but it’s beautiful; your face, Jessie; let me see your face," she faltered, as the maiden turned her swimming eyes anew upon her mother. "Thank God," she murmured, "oh, let me say it while I can—He’s been so good to me. He’s kept us all—all—so graciously; and He’s—always—found the path. It was never—really—dark; and now He’s made it light at eventide," she half cried with a sudden gust of strength and gladness. "And I know—I’ve seen—before I go; it’ll make heaven beautiful," and she sank back, faint and exhausted, on her pillow.

The devoted doctor and the faithful friend had both slipped noiselessly from the room. They knew that love’s last Sacrament was being thus dispensed, the precious wine to be untasted more till these three should drink it new in the kingdom of God. But now Miss Adair, her love impelling her, ventured timidly back; she came gently over, so gently that she was unnoticed by the bending children, taking her place beside Harvey. She touched him on the shoulder; his eyes gave but a fleeting spark of recognition as they fell on what she held in her hand.

"I thought she’d like to see them," said the kindly woman; "she couldn’t before, you know," and as she spoke she bended above the bed, a look of expectation on her face as she held Harvey’s hood, and his medal, before the new-illumined eyes. The lamp’s dim light fell athwart them and they gleamed an instant as if in conscious pride.

The dying woman saw them; her eyes rested a moment on them both, and the kindly purposed neighbour made as if to put them in her hands. But the purpose died before she moved—for the mother’s glance showed her that these things were to her now but as the dust. The time was short; the night was coming fast; the dying eyes, so strangely lightened for this parting joy, were consecrated to one purpose and to that alone—and the gleaming gold and the flashing fabric lay unnoticed on the bed, the mother’s face still turned upon her children’s in yearning eagerness, as though she must prepare against the years that would hide them from her sight till the endless day should give them back to her undimmed gaze forever.

Few were the words that were spoken now. The stream of peace flowed silently; and the reunited three held their high carnival of love—and of strange sorrow-clouded joy—the long tragedy of their united lives breaking at last into the blessedness of resignation, resignation aglow with hope. For this pledge of God’s faithfulness was hailed by every heart; and they felt, though no lip voiced the great assurance, that life’s long shadows would at last be lost in love’s unclouded day.

Into a gentle, untroubled slumber their mother fell at length. When she awaked, her eyes leaped anew, fastening themselves upon her children as though the precious gift had been bestowed afresh.

"I had a lovely—dream," she faltered. "I saw you—both—little children—like you used to be. And I thought your father—was—there too. It was heaven," she went on, her face brightening with a far-off light; "I thought he was there—and all the—the struggle—was past and gone. You asked—me—once, dear—if he was there," her sweet smile turned on Harvey. "Not yet, dear—not yet—but——" She motioned him to bend down beside her. "Your father’s living," she whispered low, her shining eyes fixed on his. Jessie retreated, not knowing why, but the wonderful light told her that it was a great moment between mother and son. "He’s living," the awed voice whispered again—"but he’s afraid. He’ll come back—some day—Harvey. And you—you—must forgive him. He’ll tell you. And love him; tell him—I’m—waiting there. You must love him—and forgive him—and bring him——" Then she stopped, breathless.

The wonderful tidings seemed at first almost more than the son could bear. With face suffused and eyes aglow, he gazed upon his mother. Suddenly his lips began to move; he spoke like one who has descried something wonderful, and far away.

"Yes, mother," he whispered low, "yes, I’ll love him—I love him now; I’ll love him—like you love him. And I’ll bring him, mother, when he comes back; I’ll bring him—we’ll come together. I’ll tell him what you said," he cried, forgetful who might hear, "and then he’ll come—I know he’ll come," his face radiant with the thought.

"And Jessie," the mother murmured, "Jessie too."

"Yes, Jessie too," he answered; "come, Jessie—come," as he beckoned to her; she moved gently over and kneeled with him beside the bed.

The day had broken. And the glowing heralds of the approaching sun were making beautiful the path before him. Hill and dale, their shining outlines visible in the distance, were clothed in golden glory; the opal clouds announced the coming of their king; the fragrant trees, and the bursting buds, and the spreading blossoms, and the kindling sward, and the verdure-covered fields gave back the far-flung smile of light. Like a bride adorned for her husband, all stood in unconscious beauty as far as eye could reach.

"Look, mother, look," Harvey cried suddenly, gently lifting the dear head from the pillow as the sanctity of the scene impelled him. "Oh, mother, you can see them all," rapture and sorrow mingling in the tone.

The far-seeing eyes turned slowly towards the window, rested one brief, wonderful moment upon the wonderful sight, then turned away in ineffable tenderness and longing, fastening themselves again where they had been fixed before. For love is a mighty tyrant and the proudest kings must take their place as vassals in his train.

An instant later the dying eyes seemed to leap far beyond, beautiful with rapture. "Look, look," she cried as though the others were the blind, "look, oh look," her voice ringing clear with the last energy of death; "it’s lovelier yonder—where it’s always spring. Don’t you see, Harvey? Jessie, don’t you see? And baby’s there, Jessie—Harvey, the baby’s there—and she’s beckoning; look, look, it’s you—not me—she’s calling. Let us all go," she said, the voice dropping to faintness again, the eyes turning again upon her children; "let us—all—go; it’s so—lovely; and we’re—all—so tired," as the dear lips became forever still.

And the rejoicing sun came on, the riot of his joy untempered, no badge of mourning in his hand. And he greeted the motherless with unwonted gladness as he filled the little room with light, kissing the silent face as though he would wish it all joy of the well-won rest. For he knew, he knew the secret of it all. He knew Who had transfigured hill and dale and tree and flower with the glance of love; he knew the source of all life’s light and shade; he knew the afterward of God; he knew Death’s other, sweeter name.

But the motherless made no response. Still they knelt, one on each side of the unanswering form; and still, tightly clasped, each held a wasted hand.

*XXVII*

_*A BROTHER’S MASTERY*_

It was the following night, the last night of all. Harvey lay with wide staring eyes that sought in vain to pierce the darkness; he felt it were almost a sacrilege to sleep, even could he have done so, since there would lie never more beneath the long familiar roof the beloved form that he had never known absent for a single night. He suddenly realized this—and it leaped like fire in his brain—that he had never spent a night in this, the only home he had ever known, without the dear presence that must to-morrow be withdrawn. He recalled the comfort and the courage this had given him in many a trembling hour when the nameless fears of childhood gathered with the night; how sometimes, tormented by grotesque shapes and grotesquer fancies, his terror had vanished like a dream when he had heard her cough, or sigh, or break into the gentle tones he had early learned were between her soul and God. He recalled, too, that often, startled by some unreasoning fear, he would call out loudly in the night; and in a moment the gentle form would be beside his bed, her hand upon him as she caressed him with a word, which word became the lullaby upon whose liquid wave he was borne back to dreamland.

All this could never be again, he mused in bitter loneliness. As he dwelt upon it the thought became almost intolerable; and suddenly rising—for he had not yet undressed—he began noiselessly to descend the stairs, purposing to go out into the night; for there is healing in the cool cisterns of the midnight air. But he noticed, to his surprise, a light stealing from beneath Jessie’s door; instinctively he turned and knocked, his lonely heart glad of the sympathy he would not seek there in vain.

She bade him enter; obeying, he stood amazed as he beheld how his sister was employed. For Jessie was full dressed; it was after three o’clock, but she had made no preparations for retiring. Instead, she was seated on the bed, the room bestrewed with materials for the toil that was engrossing her. Cloth, of various kinds and in various shapes, separated fragments yet to be adjusted, were scattered about; scissors and spools and tape measures lay upon the bed on which the stooping form was seated. And Jessie herself, a lamp whose oil was almost exhausted stationed high above her, was sewing away as if for life itself; worn and weary, her fingers chafed and sore, a burning flush on either cheek, the tired shoulders stooped and bent, she was pressing on with her humble toil.

He uttered a quick exclamation of surprise, almost of reproach, as his eyes fell on the pitiful face and noticed the signs of drudgery about her. His first thought, as soon as he could collect himself, was that his sister was preparing the habiliments of mourning which her orphanhood would now demand. But sad and striking contrast, the fabric over which the fragile form was bent was of a far different kind. The material was of the richest and gayest sort, while yoke of rarest embroidery, and costly lace, and rich brocade, spoke of wealth and fashion far beyond their station.

Jessie started as if detected in some guiltful work; she even made one swift attempt to hide the handiwork that lay glistening across her knee.

Harvey closed the door; and there was more of sternness in his voice than she had ever heard before. "Jessie," he said gravely, "our mother’s lying dead downstairs."

Alas! the poor girl knew it well. And her only answer was a quick and copious gush of tears. It was pitiful to see her snatch the delicate creation and toss it quickly from her, lest her grief should stain it; then she rocked gently to and fro in a gust of sorrow.

"Oh, Harvey," she sobbed, "you didn’t mean that, brother. I know you didn’t mean it."

He was still in the dark. But the anguish of this dear heart, so loyal to him through the years, was more than he could stand. With one quick stride he took his place beside her on the bed, his arm encircling her with infinite tenderness.

"Don’t, sister," he said, "don’t cry like that; I didn’t mean it, dear—only I didn’t understand—I can’t understand."

She offered no explanation, sobbing gently a few minutes in his arms.

"I couldn’t understand, Jessie," he said again a little later.

"I couldn’t help it," she said at last without raising her head. "I didn’t want to sew, with mother lying dead—but I couldn’t help it. I really couldn’t. It’s not for me," she flung out at last, the long hidden secret surrendered after all. "It’s not for me—and I had to get it done. They insisted so—and I couldn’t afford to lose them—it’s for a party."

The blood left Harvey’s face, then surged hotly back to it again. His arms fell from about her and he sat like one in a trance. His eyes roved dumbly about the room, falling here and there upon many a thing, unnoticed in the first survey, that confirmed the assurance which now chilled him to the heart. Then his eyes turned to his sister’s face. It was averted, downcast—but he could see, what he had but casually remarked before, how the hand of toil had left its mark upon it. Sweet and tender and unselfish, courage and resolution in every line, he could now read the whole sad story of what lay behind. The worn fingers were interlocked upon her lap, and he could see how near the blood was to the very fingertips. And as he reflected, almost madly, upon the desperate necessity that had held her to her work under the very shadow of death, and driven her to it though with a broken heart; as he recalled the mysterious sources of support that had never failed him till his college course was done, a flood of sacred light broke upon it all—and the dear form before him, tired and wasted as it was, was gently drawn to his bosom with hands of reverent love, his murmuring lips pressed lightly to the burning cheeks in penitent devotion.

"Forgive me, sister," he pleaded in a faltering voice, "oh, forgive me; for I did not know—I did not know."

Her answer was never spoken; but it came.

It was not long till he had learned, and from her own reluctant lips, all the story of the toil and drudgery that had been thus so suddenly revealed. But, protest as he might, Jessie was resolved to press on with the work she had been engaged in.

"I’m just as well able to work as you are, Harvey," she said earnestly. "I certainly will not give up the store."

"But I’m sure of a position on the newspaper I was telling you about, Jessie," Harvey urged—"and I can at least help; I can always spare a little," he assured her confidently, "and there’s one thing you must do before very long," he went on eagerly; "you’ve really got to come and stay a while with Miss Farringall. She practically made me promise for you. Couldn’t somebody mind the store while you’re away?"

"I suppose so," Jessie relented enough to say; "Miss Adair could manage it well enough, of course. And I’d love to have a long visit with you, brother," she added fondly. "We’re all alone in the world now, Harvey," her voice trembling as the tired eyes filled to overflowing—"we haven’t anybody else but each other now."

Harvey looked her full in the face. "There’s another," he said in a whisper after a long silence.

Jessie started violently; then her demand for more light came swift and urgent.

As gently as he could, he broke to her the wonderful news. The girl was trembling from head to foot.

But her first thought seemed to be of her mother. "And that was it," she cried amid her sobs; "that was the sorrow mother carried about with her all the time. Oh, Harvey, I always knew there was something—I always felt mother had some burden she wouldn’t let us share with her—I always felt her heart was hungry for something she hoped she’d get before she died. Poor, poor mother—our dear, brave mother!"

Harvey staunched the tide of grief as best he could. Their talk turned, and naturally enough, to the hope of their father’s return some day, both promising the fulfillment of their mother’s dying wish.

"We’ll do just as mother would have done," the girl said in sweet simplicity; "and we’ll wait together, Harvey—we’ll watch and wait together."

"And you’ll help me, won’t you, sister?" Harvey asked suddenly.

"What to do?" Jessie said wonderingly.

"Just help me," he answered, his voice faltering. "Will you promise me that, Jessie; you don’t know yet all it means—just always to stick to me, and help me, and believe in me—till—till father comes?" he concluded, looking steadfastly into her wondering eyes. "Come with me, sister—come."

The darkness was at its deepest, the lamp-light now flickered into gloom, as he rose and led her gently from the room. Groping noiselessly, they two, the only living things about the house, crept downward to the chamber of the dead. The door creaked with a strange unearthly sound as Harvey pushed it open and drew his sister in beside him. Onward he pressed, his arm still supporting her, till they stood above the silent face. It lay in the pomp of the majestic silence, calmly awaiting the last earthly dawn that should ever break upon it, awaiting that slow-approaching hour when the last movement should be made, the last tender rudeness which would lay it, swaying slightly, upon the waiting bosom of the earth—and then the eternal stillness and the dark.

They stood long, no sound escaping them, above the noble face. Its dim outlines could be just discerned, calm and stately in the royal mien of death. They gazed long together. "I believe she’s near us," Harvey whispered. Then he drew her gently down till their faces met upon the unresponsive face of their precious dead.

A moment later he led her tenderly away. She passed first through the door; but he turned and looked back. The first gray streak of dawn was stealing towards his mother’s face; and he saw, or thought he saw, a look of deeper peace upon it than had ever been there before. And the still lips spoke their benediction and breathed their love upon her children—all the more her own because she dwelt with God.

*XXVIII*

_*A LIGHT AT MIDNIGHT*_

"There’s something—but I don’t know what it is. But there’s something; now Jessie, do sit up straight, and breathe deep—you know you promised me you’d breathe deep. Yes, there’s something wrong with Harvey."

If Jessie was not breathing very deep she was breathing very fast. Even Grey felt a nameless agitation in the domestic atmosphere, looking up with cat-like gravity into Miss Farringall’s troubled face. He had noticed, doubtless, that the mercurial spectacle, had been ascending and descending from nose to brow and from brow to nose with significant rapidity. Grey did not look at Jessie—except casually. She not been sufficiently long in the house—and belonged to one of the oldest and best-bred of feline families.

Still Jessie did not speak. But her hostess, dear soul, was ever equal to double duty. Like most maiden ladies, Miss Farringall had the dialogue gift abundantly developed; nor was it liable to perish through disuse.

"Yes," she went on as cheerfully as her perplexity would allow, "he’s been so different lately. He comes home at such strange hours, for him. And sometimes he waits a long time at the door, as if he didn’t know whether to come in or not. Of course," she added reassuringly, "no one else knows but me; Barlow never hears anything, for he’s dead all night—he never resurrects till half-past seven," a timid smile lighting her face a moment. "But Harvey’s different every way; all his fun and merriment are gone—and he seems so depressed and discouraged, as if he was being beaten in some fight his life depended on. I don’t know what to make of it at all."

Jessie’s face showed white in the gaslight; and her voice was far from steady. "Has this all been since—since mother died?" she asked, with eyes downcast and dim.

"Not altogether. No, not at all. I noticed it first, a while after he went on the _Argus_. He was so proud about getting on the staff—he got hold of a life of Horace Greeley in the library, and he used to joke about it and say some day he’d stand there too. But it began one morning—the change, I mean—and he’s never been the same since. And one night, just before he went out, he brought me an envelope and asked me to keep it till he came back. I’m not very sure, but I think there was money in it—and it was just at the end of the month too," she added significantly.

"Doesn’t he like newspaper life?" enquired Jessie.

"Oh, yes; I think he’s crazy about it. You see, with his education and his gifts—he’s a born writer—there isn’t any kind of business could suit him better. I think he has his own times with Mr. Crothers—he’s the city editor, a kind of manager. He’s a strange man, blusters and swears a good deal, I think—but he’s got a good heart, from what I can hear."

"Why don’t you have a confidential talk with Harvey?" suggested Jessie. "He’d tell you almost anything, I’m sure."

"I’ve thought of that. But I was going to ask you the very same thing. Why don’t you?—you’re his sister."

Jessie’s lip quivered. "I couldn’t," she said hesitatingly; "I couldn’t stand it. Besides, you know, I ought to go home to-morrow. Miss Adair’s expecting me—and she says the store always prospers better when I’m there myself; she’s had charge for ten days now, while I’ve been visiting here."