Part 19

Miss Farringall sighed. "I wish I could coax you out of that," she said. "Why will you go away so soon, Jessie? These days you’ve been here have been such a joy; I’m such a lonely creature," she added glancing out at the silent, dimly-lighted hall. "There’s hardly ever anybody around now but Barlow—and he’s a ghost. Of course, Dr. Wallis comes when I send for him—but we always quarrel. Then, of course, the rector comes every little while—but he’s a kind of a prayer-book with clothes on; he gets solemner every day. What I’m getting to hate about him," she went on, vehemently, "is that he has his mind made up to be solemn, and he’s not meant for it—red-headed men with freckles never are," she affirmed decisively. "But you and Harvey, you almost seem, Jessie—you might have been my own children, I think sometimes," a queer little tremor in the voice, the withered cheek flushing suddenly. But Jessie did not remark the strange tenderness of the glance she cast towards the treasure-hiding desk in the corner. "Some day I want to tell you——"

But her voice suddenly died away in silence as both women turned their eyes eagerly towards the door. For they could see the approaching form of the subject of their conversation. And it needed but a glance to confirm the opinion Miss Farringall had already expressed. Harvey was making his way heavily up the stairs, his step slow and uncertain, his whole bearing significant of defeat. As he passed the door a faint plaintive smile played upon the face that was turned a moment on the familiar forms within; the face was haggard and pale, the eyes heavy and slightly bloodshot, the expression sad and despondent. Yet the old chivalrous light was there; clouded it was as if by shame and self-reproach, yet with native pride and honour flashing through it all as though the fires of a stern and unceasing conflict were glowing far within.

Jessie started as if to greet him. But something checked her—she would wait till they were alone.

Entering his room and pausing only to remove his boots, Harvey flung himself with a stifled groan upon the bed. How long he had lain there before interruption came, he neither knew nor cared. For the unclosed eyes were staring out into the darkness, his brain half-maddened with its activity of pain. Nearly everything that concerned his entire life seemed to float before him as his hot eyes ransacked the productive dark. Childhood days, with their deep poverty and their deeper wealth; the light and music of their darkened, sorrow-shaded home; the plaintive enterprise of their little store; the friends and playmates of those early days—and one friend, if playmate never; the broadened life of college, and all his discovery of himself, his powers, his possibilities, his perils; the one epoch-making night of life, its light above the brightness of the sun—his burning face hid itself in the pillow, his hands tight clenched as those half-withered flowers in Madeline’s hand rose before him, his hopes more faded now than they. Then came the holy scene that had followed fast, so wonderfully vivid now—for in the dark he could see his mother’s dying face with strange distinctness, the dear eyes open wide and filled with tender light as they turned upon her son, the thin hands outstretched as if to call the tired one to the comfort of her love.

The glow of filial passion lingered but a moment on the haggard face. For other memories followed fast. How he had bidden farewell to Jessie, returning to the city with high resolve to snatch nobler gains than the poor laurels her secret heroism had enabled him to win—his hood and medal flitted for a moment through his thought, only to be cast aside as paltry baubles, garish trifles, with their dying sheen; how, later, he had secured a worthy place on the news staff of one of the leading dailies of the city, his heart high with hope for the career that should await him; how his gifts and his opportunity had conspired to confirm the hope.

Clouds and darkness were about the remainder of his reverie. But part of it had to do with his hour of joy and triumph. He felt again the jubilance, the separate sort of thrill, that had possessed him when the great "scoop" had been accomplished—to use the vivid metaphor that journalists employ. And he recalled the annual banquet—he could see many of the faces through the dark—at which his own name had been called aloud, actually requested as he had been to propose the toast to the paper it was his pride to serve. Then came the brief, fatal struggle as the glasses were lifted high. He ground his teeth as he remembered Oliver—once friend and chum, now fiend and enemy; and Harvey’s thought of him was lurid with a kind of irrational hate—for Oliver had spurred and stung him to his fall with one or two quick sentences that seemed cogent enough at the time; the appeal had been to shame, and to what was due the concern that had honoured him, and to other things of that kind; in any case, it had all been like lashing a horse that hesitates before a hurdle. And he had leaped it—oh, God, he thought to himself, this cad against his mother! He had leaped it. And then the slumbering passion that had sprung anew to life within him—not passion perhaps, nor yet appetite either—but a kind of personal devil that had tangled its will all up with his own, and had seemed to laugh at his feeble struggling, and to exult like one who had won again an unforgotten victory, running riot in fiendish glee since his prowess had prevailed once more. Harvey held his hands to his burning brow as he recalled the pitiful resistance that had followed; he could feel the ever-tightening grasp again, like the relentless coils of the sea-monsters he had read about so often; he recalled how his soul had fluttered its poor protest, like some helpless bird, against this cruel hand that was bound to have its will with it—and how struggle and promise and pledge and prayer had all seemed to be in vain.

He thought, too, but only for a moment—he could not, would not longer dwell upon it—of the shameful peace he had found at last; the peace of the vanquished; such peace as servile souls enjoy, for it can be purchased cheap—and the evil memory of it all surged over him like hissing waves. Nearly a week had followed, such a week as any mother, bending above the cradle of her child, might pray God to—

But this was like groping in a morgue—and it must stop. He rose half erect from his bed, shaking himself like one who tries to clamber back from the slough of evil dreams. Just at this moment a knock came to the door; his soul leaped towards the sound—it was a human touch at least, thank God, and he needed some such Blucher for such a Waterloo.

"Come in," he said huskily, lest reinforcement of any sort whatever might escape.

And she came. Without a word, but her whole being fragrant of sympathy and love, she moved unhesitatingly towards the bed. She caught, as she came nearer, the fateful fumes. And she knew—the most innocent are the most sensitive to the breath of sin—but her heart only melted with a tenderer compassion, her arms outstretched in yearning, taking the stalwart frame into what seemed to him like the very guardianship of God.

"Oh, Harvey," the voice thrilling with the melody of love; "oh, my brother."

He clung closer to her, without speaking.

"Tell me, Harvey—won’t you tell me?" He could feel the care-wrung bosom heaving.

Still no word.

"We’ve never had any secrets, brother—won’t you tell me, Harvey?"

"You know," after a long pause.

Still silence. Why did she breathe so fast?

"Don’t you know, Jessie?"

Silence long—"Yes, I know," she said, "and I never loved you as I love you now."

Then the flood-gates were rolled back and the tide burst forth. Oh, the luxury of it; the sweetness of it—to feel, nay, to know, that there was one life that clung to him, trusted him, loved him, through all the waste and shame! And the blessed relief it gave; to tell it all, keeping nothing back, blaming no other—not even Oliver—breathing out the story of the struggle and the overthrow and the humiliation and the anguish. And in that hour Hope, long absent and aloof, came back and nestled in his heart again. On he went, the story long and intimate and awful, coming closer and closer by many and circuitous routes to the very soul of things, hovering about the Name he almost dreaded now to speak, yet yearned with a great longing to pronounce; his soul was crying out for all that was behind his mother’s name, the comfort and sympathy and power which he felt, dimly but unconquerably, could not be stifled in a distant grave.

"Do you think she knows?" he asked at last, in a tone so low that even Jessie could scarcely hear.

They could catch the sound of the wind upon the grass as they waited, both waited. "Yes," as she trembled closer, "yes, thank God."

He started so suddenly as to frighten her. The conflict-riven face peered into hers through the dark.

"What?" he asked sternly. "What did you say?"

"I think she knows," the calm voice answered. "I’m sure God knows—and it makes it easier."

He held her out at arm’s length, still staring at her through the gloom. "What?—I thought sorrows were all past and over—for her," the words coming as a bitter questioning.

Jessie’s face, serene with such composure as only sorrow gives, was held close to his own. "We cannot tell," she whispered low; "that is between her and God—they both know."

He struggled silently with the deep meaning of her words.

"You see," sweet girlishness in the voice again, "you see, Harvey, they know what’s farther on—oh, brother, brother dear, it’ll be better yet," her voice breaking now with an emotion she could control no longer; "it won’t always be like this, Harvey—you won’t do it any more, will you, brother?" sobbing as she buried her face beside his own. "We’ve had so much trouble, Harvey—the joy’s only been the moments, and the sorrow’s been the years—and we got mother safe home," the quivering voice went on, "and I thought we’d follow on together—and—some day—we’d find our father. And you won’t make it all dark again, will you, Harvey? You’ll fight—and I’ll fight—we’ll fight it out together, Harvey. It seems nothing now, what we had before—I mean, it doesn’t seem a bit hard just to be poor—if we can only keep each other, Harvey," and the poor trembling form, so long buffeted by life’s rude billows, clung to the only shelter left her, her soul outbreathing its passionate appeal.

There was more of silence than of speech while they waited long together. He could feel the beating of the brave and trustful heart beside his own; this seemed to bring him calm and courage. In a mysterious way, she seemed to link his wounded life anew to all the sacred past, all the unstained days, all the conflict for which he had had strength and to spare, all the holy memories that had drifted so far from him now, a yawning gulf between.

"Won’t you come home with me, Harvey?" she said at length.

"Why?"

"Well, perhaps it would help us both. I was going to ask you to come anyhow—for one thing, I wanted you to help Mr. Borland," she added quickly, glad of the fitting plea. "He’s going to run for mayor, you know—and I thought you’d like to do what you can."

Harvey smiled. "I guess my own contest will give me enough to do," he said rather bitterly. "It was good of you to ask me, Jessie—but I’ll stay on my own battlefield," his lips tightly shut.

A long silence reigned again. "Look," he cried suddenly, "it’s getting light."

Jessie turned and looked. And the wondrous miracle crept on its mystic way; healing, refreshing, soothing, rich with heavenly promise and aglow with heavenly hope, telling its great story and bidding every benighted heart behold the handiwork of God, the silent metaphor was uttering forth the lesson of the returning day. For the new heaven and the new earth were appearing, fresh with unspotted beauty, recurring witnesses to the regenerating power of the All-sanguine One.

"It’s getting light," she echoed dreamily. "Do you remember that line, Harvey, mother used to love so much?"

"No; what line?"

"It’s a hymn line," she answered softly. "’The dawn of heaven breaks’—I’m sure she sees this, too. Look at the clouds yonder, all gold and purple—it’s going to be a lovely day."

"It’s going to be a new day," he said, gazing long in silence at the distant fount of light.

*XXIX*

_*HOW DAVID SWEPT THE FIELD*_

"Go and wash your hands, Madeline, before you fix your father’s tie. I little thought my daughter would ever come to this—filling those wretched kerosene lamps; it’s bad enough to have to come down to lamps, without having to fill them," and Mrs. Borland sighed the sigh of the defrauded and oppressed.

"Don’t worry about me, mother; if you only knew how much better a girl’s complexion shows with them than with the gas, you wouldn’t abuse them so. All right, father, I’ll put the finishing touches on you in a minute—what did you say was the hour for the meeting? I wish I could go—one of the hardest things about being a girl is that you can’t go to political meetings," and Madeline’s merry face showed how seriously she regarded the handicap.

"Them lamps is all right, mother—they come of good old stock," and David regarded a tall, umbrageous one with something very like affection; "that there one was the last light that shined on my father’s face," he added reminiscently, "an’ I’m awful glad we kept it. The meetin’s at half-past eight, Madeline. An’ don’t feel bad ’cause you can’t go—us politicians has our own troubles," he continued with mock gravity; "it was this kind o’ thing killed Daniel Webster—an’ I’m not feelin’ terrible peart myself. But I’m goin’ to wear my Sunday choker," he concluded cheerfully enough, holding his tie out to Madeline, the dimpled hands now ready for the important duty.

"Tie it carefully, Madeline—if your father’s going to resign, he should look his best when he’s doing it," and Mrs. Borland surveyed the operation with a critical eye. "I’ll warrant you Mr. Craig’ll be dressed like a lord."

"I ain’t goin’ to resign, mother—I’m only goin’ to withdraw," David corrected gravely. "There’s all the difference in the world between resignin’ an’ withdrawin’; any one can resign, but it takes a terrible smart man to withdraw. You’ve got to be a politician, like me, afore you know what a terrible difference there is between words like them; can’t be too careful, when you’re a politician—for your country’s sake, you know. No, mother—no, you don’t—I ain’t goin’ to wear that long black coat."

"Oh, father," began Madeline.

"But, David," his wife remonstrated, interrupting, "remember you’re going to make a speech—and when would you wear it, if not to-night? I’m sure Mr. Craig’ll have on the best coat he’s got—and that tweed’s getting so shabby."

"I won’t go back on it when it’s gettin’ old an’ seedy," David retorted vigorously; "I know what that feels like myself. It stuck to me when I seen better days, an’ I’m not goin’ to desert it now—I ain’t that kind of a man. An’ if Craig wants to dress up like an undertaker, that’s his funeral. Besides, a fellow’s ideas comes easier in an old coat—an orator’s got to consider all them things, you know. Confound this dickie, it won’t stay down—I believe Madeline put ’east in it," as he smote his swelling bosom, bidding it subside.

"I’m sorry you’re not going to stand, David; I believe you’d be elected if you’d only run. I always hoped you’d be the first mayor of Glenallen—let me just brush that coat before you go," and Mrs. Borland fell upon it with right good-will.

"Words is funny things," mused David, as he suffered himself to be turned this way and that for the operation; "’specially with orators an’ politicians. If a fellow stands, that means he’s runnin’—don’t scrape my neck like that, mother," ducking evasively as he spoke. "It’s somethin’ like what I heard a fellow say at the Horse Show; he says, ’the judges look a horse all over—them fellows don’t overlook nothin’,’ says he. No, I ain’t goin’ to stand, mother; nor I won’t run, neither. I’ll jest sit down. You see, a fellow that lives in a cottage this size, there ain’t nothin’ else for him to do—not unless he’s a fool. Don’t brush my hat like that, mother; you’re skinnin’ it—what did it ever do to you? Well, good-bye, mother; I’m a candidate now—but I’ll only jest be a man when I get back. I won’t even be an orator, I reckon. Good-bye, Madeline—wrap that there black coat up in them camp-fire balls," he directed, nodding towards the rejected black.

"I’m going with you as far as the gate, father; you’ve got to have some kind of a send-off."

"That’s all right, daughter; welcome the comin’, part the speedin’ guest, as the old proverb says."

"Speed the parting guest, you mean, David," Mrs. Borland amended seriously.

"Same thing, an hour after he’s gone," David responded cheerily; "feed him’d be better’n either of ’em, to my way o’ thinkin’," as he started forth on his momentous mission.

Mrs. Borland was not far astray in her prediction. For when at length the two candidates—and there were but two—ascended the platform in the crowded hall, David’s rival was resplendent in a new suit of which the far-descending coat was the most conspicuous feature. Mr. Craig had fitting notions as to what became the prospective mayor of a town which had never enjoyed such an ornament before.

And his speech was almost as elongated as the garment aforesaid, largely composed of complacent references to the prosperity the town had enjoyed as the product of his own. Surreptitious hints to the effect that only the commercially successful should aspire to municipal honours were not wanting. "It’s a poor assurance that a man can manage public affairs, if he can’t look after his own successfully," he said, as David sat meekly listening; "and," he went on in a sudden burst of feeling, hastening to the conclusion of his speech, "I may, I think, fairly claim to have been a successful man. And I won’t deny that I’m proud of it. But, fellow citizens, nothing in all this world could give me so great pride as to be elected the first chief-magistrate of this growing town. I’ve known something of life’s honours," he declared grandiloquently, "and I’ve mingled some with the great ones of the earth; at least," hesitating a little, "I did when I was a child. And just here I’ll tell you a little incident that I can never refer to without feeling my heart beat high with pride." (Mr. Craig had no little fluency as a public speaker when he discoursed of things concerning himself.) "As many of you know, my father was a gentleman of leisure—and he travelled widely. Well, I can still recall one winter we spent in Spain—I was but a child—but I can remember being at a great public meeting in Madrid. Some members of the Royal family were there," he declared, as he paused to see the effect on the gaping sons of toil, "and I remember, as if it were but yesterday, how, when the Infanta was going down the aisle and I was standing gazing up into her face, she laid her hand upon my boyish head as she passed me. I’ll not deny, fellow citizens, that that touch has been sacred to me ever since—but I say to the working-men before me to-night that I consider it a greater honour to hold the horny hand of the working-man, the hands that will mark the ballots that shall bring me the crowning honour of my life," and the candidate gathered up the folds of his spreading coat as he resumed his seat, smiling benignly down upon the rather unresponsive crowd.

For many of his auditors were decidedly in the dark as to the source of this honour that had befallen him in ancient Spain.

"What kind of a animal was that, Tom, that tetched him on the head?" one bronzed toiler asked of his companion as he still gazed, bewildered rather, on the reclining Mr. Craig. "Did he say a elephant—sounded summat like that anyhow, didn’t it?"

"No, no," the other answered, a little impatiently; "what would elephants be doin’ at a public meetin’? He said ’twas a infantum—I heard him myself."

"What’s a infantum?" the first persisted earnestly.

"Oh—well. Well, it’s a kind of a baby—only it’s feminine," he explained learnedly. "An’ I think it’s got somethin’ to do wi’ the cholery—don’t talk, there’s Mr. Borland gettin’ up. Hurrah," he shouted, joining in the general chorus, and glad of this very opportune escape.