Part 21

"Jumping Jehoshaphat! is that you, Simmons?" was the exclamation that greeted Harvey as soon as he was recognized. "Come on up—we were just speaking of you. I’ll be down to the door in less than half a minute."

The allotted time had scarce elapsed when Palmer, for such was the name of the cordial blade—clerk in a mercantile house and friend to Oliver—was at the door. Taking Harvey’s arm he guided him cheerfully through the somewhat dingy hall, ushering him into a rather dishevelled room, in separate corners of which sat the hospitable Oliver and another boon companion, Scottie Forrester by name. Like Oliver, Scottie was in newspaper life; his apprenticeship had been served in Glasgow.

"Brethren," Palmer said solemnly as they entered, "I know you’re always glad when we can bring in any poor wanderer from the highways or byways. I want you to be kind to the stranger for my sake—he hasn’t had anything to eat since his last meal."

"Sit down, Simmons," directed Oliver. "Don’t mind Palmer—he’s farm-bred, you know, and he thinks it’s a deuce of an achievement to sit up at night. He used to have to go to bed with the calves."

"Now I sit up with the goats," rejoined the once rustic Palmer, producing a pipe and calmly proceeding to equip it. "But I ought to be in bed. I’m played out. I was so tired at dinner to-night I went to sleep over the salad course."

"Oh, Lord," broke in Forrester; "hear him prattling about night dinners—and he never had anything but bread and molasses for supper on the farm. And hear him giving us that guff about the salad course, as if he was the son of a duke. If you’d lived in Glasgow, my boy, they’d have brought you to time pretty quick. A man’s got to be a gentleman over there, I tell you, before he has evening dinners and all that sort of thing—did you drink out of the finger-bowls, Palmer?"

"You needn’t talk, Scottie," growled Oliver. "You write your letters at the Arlington—and you get your dinner for fifteen cents at Webb’s, at the counter, with your hat on."

"You’re a liar," retorted Scottie, meaning no offense whatever. "I’ve got as good blood inside of me as any man in this city; my mother was born in Auchterarder Castle and——"

"I wouldn’t be found dead in a root-house with a name like that," interrupted the agricultural Palmer. "Anyhow, I guess she was the cook—and what’s more, nobody here cares what you’ve got inside of you. But there’s poor Simmons—he’s our guest—and he looks as if he hadn’t put anything inside of him for a dog’s age. Where’s the restorative, Scottie? It’s always you that had it last."

Scottie arose and walked solemnly to a little cupboard in the wall. "I’ll inform you, Mr. Simmons," he began gravely, his back still turned to the company, "that we’re here for a double purpose. First, we were having a little intellectual conference on—on the rise and fall of the Russian empire, as a great authority put it. You see, we’re a kind of a Samuel Johnson coterie—and this is a kind of a Cheshire Cheese. I was there once when I was in London."

"He went to London with cattle," informed Oliver, striking a match—"he was a swine herd in Scotland."

"And I’m Samuel Johnson," pursued Forrester, unruffled; "and Palmer, he’s Boswell. And we have a great time discussing things."

"Who’s Oliver?" Harvey enquired with faint interest.

"Oh, yes, I forgot him; Oliver’s the cuspidor—you ought to be right in the middle of the room, Oliver," he continued amiably, turning round with a large black bottle in his hand. "And the other purpose we’re here for, Mr. Simmons, is to celebrate Palmer’s birthday. We don’t know exactly how old he is—he’s lied about his age so long that he’s not sure himself. But this is his birthday, anyhow; and they sent him up a little present from the farm. It’s a superior brand of raspberry vinegar, made by an aged aunt that’s worth twenty thousand and won’t die."

"Stop your jack-assery, Forrester," broke in Palmer; "you can’t fool Simmons—he’s got his eye on the label."

Which was true enough. Harvey’s eye was gleaming, staring, like some pallid woodsman’s when it catches the glare of an Indian’s fire.

"That’s all right, Simmons," explained Forrester calmly; "the bottle happens to bear an honoured Glasgow name—and the liquid is worthy of it. There isn’t a headache in a hogshead—try it and see."

Harvey’s lips were white and dry. "No, thank you, Forrester," he said in a harsh voice that sounded far away. "I won’t take any."

"Take a little for Palmer’s stomach’s sake—he’s had enough."

Harvey refused again. Destitute was his answer of all merriment or banter. He stood bolt upright, fixed as a statue, his eyes still on the big black thing Forrester was holding out in front of him. "Not any, Forrester," he said; "I don’t want any, I tell you."

"Let him alone, Scottie," interrupted Palmer. "Simmons is on the water-waggon, to-night anyhow—and besides, that stuff’s a dollar and a half a quart."

Forrester was about to comply when Oliver suddenly arose from his lounging position and shuffled out to where the two were standing. He had already familiarized himself with the bottle sufficiently to be in a rather hectoring mood.

"Go and sit down, Forrester," he growled out; "I guess I’m the host here. And I don’t blame Simmons for turning up his nose," he went on as he turned and opened a little cabinet—"poking a black bottle in front of a man as if he were a coal-heaver; we’re not on the Glasgow cattle market," he added contemptuously, producing a couple of glasses and handing one to Harvey. "Here, Simmons, drink like a gentleman—and I’ll drink with you." And the sweat came out on Harvey’s forehead as the stuff poured out, gurgling enticingly as it broke from the bottle’s mouth. "Here, this is yours; and we’ll drink to the _Morning Argus_—it’ll belong to you some day. I heard to-day it’s going to change hands soon anyhow."

The mention of the name lent a wealth of resolution to Harvey’s wavering will. He recalled, his heart maddening at the memory, how Oliver had pressed this self-same toast before.

"I won’t, Oliver," he said, controlling himself. "I don’t want any."

"Come now, Simmons, don’t be foolish; you’ve had a hard night’s work, and you look all in—just a night cap to help you sleep."

"Look here, Oliver," Harvey’s voice rising a little, "I guess I know my own mind. I tell you I won’t drink. I’m under promise. I’m bound over not to take anything; and I’ve got more at stake on it than I can afford to lose—so you may as well shut up."

Oliver came a step nearer. "You can’t bluff me, old man," he said through his teeth, his heavy eyes snapping. "And anyhow, I’ll pay it," he blustered, holding out the fuming glass, a leer of dogged cunning on his face. "I’ll pay your stake, Simmons."

"You go to hell," hissed Harvey, striking out wildly, one hand smashing the bottle in fragments to the floor, the other clutching Oliver by the throat; "you infernal blood-sucker," as he pressed him backward to the wall.

Palmer and Forrester sprang towards the men; but before they were able to interfere, Harvey had hurled Oliver against the table, which crashed to the floor in a heap, Oliver mingling with the wreckage. While his guests were helping him to his feet, Harvey strode towards the door; the accursed fumes rose about him like evil spirits, importunate and deadly, clutching at the very heart-strings of his will.

Pale and trembling, he turned when he reached the door. "Anything more to pay?" he muttered, nodding towards Oliver; "does he want to continue the argument?"

Oliver made a stifled protest, but his friends united to declare that the debate was at an end. "Come back, Simmons," appealed Palmer; "don’t let our little evening break up like this—Oliver’s got no kick coming. Sit down."

But Harvey uttered an inaudible malediction and slammed the door behind him. They could hear him finding his way along the unlighted hall.

"You got what was coming to you, old chap," Palmer informed his host; "nobody’s got any right to badger a fellow the way you did Simmons. It’s worse than setting fire to a barn—you’re a damned incendiary," he concluded, resuming the smoke that had been so effectually interrupted.

While the debate, thus happily begun, went on its vigorous way, Harvey was walking aimlessly about the street, caring little whither his steps might lead him. After the first gust of excitement had subsided a new and delicious sense of victory possessed him. Not from having worsted Oliver—that was quite forgotten—but from having met and conquered his temptation. His breath came fast as he recalled, how stern and sore had the conflict been; but a kind of elation he had never known before mingled with the memory of it all. For he had won—and under the most trying circumstances—and he smiled to himself as he thought how he had passed through the ordeal. Its most hopeful feature was for the future; it was a pledge of how he might hope to prevail if the fight should ever be renewed. Reassured, he even fell to thinking of other things; of his promise to his mother—had she seen his struggle and gloried in his victory, he wondered; and of Jessie, faithful ally; and of his profession and his progress in it. He recalled, as though it had occurred long ago, Oliver’s prediction that he would some day own the _Argus_—and his fierce anger towards Oliver abated a little. Yet all this was insignificant, he reflected, compared to the progress he was making along higher lines.

But the elation did not last. Fatigue crept upon him. And he was chilled; he was hungry, too. Besides, the nervous strain had been a severe one, and the reaction was correspondingly acute. Gradually the tide ceased to flow, then stood stationary a moment—then began ebbing fast. And the sense of victory paled and died; the thrill of exultation passed away; the ardour of battle and of conquest chilled within him. And again his lips became parched, his hand again unsteady, his nerves again unstrung. And the dreadful thirst returned. To the swept and garnished house the evil spirit crept back with muffled tread, hopeful of a better tenure.

The stoutest castle is easily taken if its lord has ceased to watch. Or if he be absent, the capture is easier still—especially if he be gone to feast on former battle fields where his right arm brought him victory.

Wherefore Harvey’s second struggle was brief and pitiful; the enemy had caught him unawares. And more shrill and impatient than before was the whistle that sounded soon again beneath Oliver’s still lighted window. And his welcome was not less cordial, Oliver himself taking the leading part.

"What in thunder’s the matter, Simmons?" enquired Palmer; "you look as if you’d been through a threshing machine."

Harvey paid no attention. His blood-shot eyes looked about the room, searching for something. His hand was shaking, and every now and then he ran his tongue over the withered lips; the blood seemed to have left his cheek.

"I’ve changed my mind," he began huskily; "I’m not well—and I’ll take some of that, if you don’t mind. Just a little—but I’ve got to get braced up or I’ll collapse."

Forrester whistled. "The spring’s gone dry, old man," he said. "I’m cruel sorry—but it was that little gesture of yours that did it."

Harvey’s eyes looked around imploringly. The pungent fumes were still rising from the floor, goading his appetite to madness.

"I’m afraid that’s right, Simmons," added Oliver; "there’s a teaspoonful there in the heel of the bottle—but it’s not enough to make a swallow."

"Where is it?" muttered Harvey, starting to where the broken fragments lay.

He found it; and even those who had tried so hard to overbear him a little while before cast pitying glances as he stooped down, trembling, lifting the bottom of the bottle in both his shaky hands, lifting it carefully and holding it to his lips till the last drop was drained.

It was but a few minutes till he resumed the quest. "Must be some more lying round somewhere," he said, with a smile that was pitiful to see.

"Afraid not," said Oliver; "that was the last."

"What’s in that cabinet?" Harvey urged, rising to his feet.

"No go, Simmons, I’m afraid," muttered Forrester; "if there was any round, Oliver’d know it—when he gives up, there ain’t any."

Harvey got up and went over to Palmer, throwing his arm about his shoulder. "I say, old man," he began, controlling his voice as best he could, "you don’t know how bad I’m feeling. And you’ve got a flask with you, haven’t you, Palmer?—I wouldn’t ask you, only I’m feeling so tough. Had a hard time of it in the office to-night."

Palmer looked hard at him. "If I had a tankful I wouldn’t give you a drop, Simmons," he said.

Harvey winced. And he stood looking into Palmer’s face like a guilty man, his eyes gradually turning away in confusion before the other’s searching gaze. A hot flush of shame, not yet unfamiliar flowed over cheek and brow. But it was only for a moment—these better symptoms retreated before the flame that consumed him. "I’m going out," he said presently, his eyes turning heavily from one face to the other, his parched lips trembling.

"If you’ve got to have it, I think I know a place we can get in—I’m sure I do," drawled Oliver, yawning. "But bed’s the place for all of us."

Harvey was all alive. "Come on, old chap," he exclaimed eagerly; "that’s a good fellow—here’s your hat. It won’t take long," he added assuringly, moving towards the door.

There was little reluctance on Oliver’s part. And a few minutes later the two went out together arm in arm, the victor and the vanquished—but vanquished both. It was Harvey who clung close, almost fondly, to the other; no memory of Oliver’s share in his undoing, no hatred of the assassin-hand tempered the flow of fellowship between them now.

The morning had not yet come. But passion’s gust was over and sated appetite refused.

"I’m going home," said Harvey, his voice unnatural, his feet unsteady.

"Not yet," said Oliver—"let’s make a night of it."

"A night of it!" exclaimed the other bitterly. "Good God, Oliver!"

"Come on," said his companion doggedly. "Come with me—we’ll both see the thing through."

"Come where?" said Harvey.

"You’ll see. Come down this alley here—wait a minute."

Three or four minutes had elapsed; they were still walking.

"There," said Oliver, standing still; "can you see that light?—there, in that upper window."

He saw it. It gleamed sinister, significant, through the mirk; blacker than the deepest darkness was its baneful light.

"What about it?" said Harvey.

Oliver said something in a low voice; then he laughed.

Simmons turned full on his companion. The moon was setting, but its latest beams still shed a fitful light. And they showed Harvey’s face flushed and worn, the eyes unnatural in their heaviness and gloom. But there was a strange redeeming light in them as they fixed themselves on Oliver, the light of indignant scorn; any who had known his mother would have recognized something of the old-time light that had glowed from her face before the darkness veiled it.

Harvey’s heavy eyes flashed as he spoke. "Oliver," he said, and the tone was haughty, old-time pride struggling against fearful odds as the sun writhes its way through the mist; "Oliver, if you’re going to the devil, you can go alone. I’m not quite gone yet, thank God. I’m a good many kinds of a fool, I know—but I’m not that kind—I’m not a sot. And Oliver," coming closer up to him, "I’ll admit I’m as much to blame for to-night as you are—but we’re done, Oliver, now. We’re done with each other—forever. D’ye hear, Oliver?" as he turned and started back up the shadowy lane.

Oliver blinked after him a moment; then he went on towards the light, into the darkness.

*XXXII*

_*HARVEY’S UNSEEN DELIVERER*_

The succeeding day was melting softly into dusk.

While it may be true that none can utterly affirm, it is equally true that none can finally deny, the ministry of the dead. Probably none altogether rejects the thought except those who disbelieve in the immortality of the soul. For if death be but the disenthrallment of the spirit, and its engraftment on the infinite, how thus should its noblest passion cease or its holiest industry suffer interruption? We may not know; though mayhap we may still receive. If beneficiaries we are of the unforgetting dead, we are unconscious of it—and this too shall swell the sum of that great surprise that awaits us in eternity.

Some unconscious influence had brooded about Harvey through the day. Except for a few brief minutes with Miss Farringall and Jessie, during which neither had spoken much, the long hours had been spent alone. And the solitude had seemed to teem at times; with what, he scarcely knew. Shame and discomfiture and fear had thronged his heart, and the day was one of such humiliation as cloistered monk might rejoice to know. Not that he was conscious of the process, nor did he even inwardly call it by any such name as that. But he knew that he had been beaten—beaten, too, in the very hour that had thrilled with the confidence of victory. More than once, recounting his defects one by one, and recalling his frequent vows, was he on the verge of self-contempt; against this he fought as if for life.

As the day wore slowly by, the struggle deepened. A strange heart-chilling fear of the night began to possess him. Looking from the window of his room, he could see the westering sun and the lengthening shadows; both seemed to point the hour of returning conflict.

He tried in vain to dismiss this strange misgiving. The sun crept slowly closer to the glowing west, and its silent course seemed to have something ominous about it, solemnly departing as if it knew the peril of the crafty dark. He tried to read, but his eyes slipped on the words. Turning to one of his dead mother’s letters, he sought the comfort of the loving words; but he found no shelter there, and the relentless thirst kept deepening in his heart. Then he tried to recall some of the gayer scenes of departed college days; their mirth was turned to ashes now.

Finally, and with a bounding heart, like a fugitive whose eyes descry some long-sought place of refuge, he bethought himself of the Bible his mother had hidden in his trunk when first he had left her care. Reverently, passionately, hopefully he made his way to many a tree of life within it—but its shade seemed riven above him and the fierce heat still searched his soul.

With a stifled cry he sprang from the bed, despairing of reinforcement elsewhere than in his own beleaguered heart. He would fight it out, though the fight should kill him. The strange sinking fell again upon his spirit and the unearthly fires burned anew within him. His lips again were parched and his shaking hand all but refused to do the bidding of his will. He had not tasted food throughout the day; yet the thought of food was intolerable. What tormented him most was the thought, presenting itself again and again, that if he had but the smallest allowance of stimulant the pain would be at an end and the threatened collapse averted. But he knew how false and seductive was the plea, and resisted. Yet what could he do?—this unequal conflict could not endure. The perspiration stood in beads upon his brow, though he was shaken with chills as by an ague. Defiant, his resolution rallied as he noted the symptoms of his weakness. A kind of grim anger gathered as he felt the deadly persistence of his enemy; and his step was almost firm as he walked to the door of his room. He locked it swiftly, putting the key in his pocket, stamping his foot as he turned away.

This seemed to help him some. It made him feel at least that he had come to close quarters with his destroyer, shut up alone with his dread antagonist. Herein was the hopefulness of the situation, that he had come to recognize the strength of his enemy and the portent of the struggle. Had he been locked in the same room with a madman the situation could not have been more real.

Suddenly a strange thing befell him. Some would explain it in terms of an overwrought nervous system, some in terms of a disordered fancy. It matters not. But Harvey heard, amid the wild tumult of that twilight hour—he heard his mother’s voice. Only once it came—and the sweet notes slowly died, like the tones of some rich bell across a waste of waters—but he heard it and his whole soul stood still to listen. He caught its message in an instant; the whole meaning of it was wonderfully clear, and his heart answered and obeyed with instant gladness. For it seemed to point the way to rest, and victory, and healing.

He glanced at his watch. There was just time to catch the train; and without pause or hesitation he unlocked the door and passed out into the street. A word to a servant, to allay wonder at his absence, was his only farewell.

What greyhound of the seas is swift enough to outrun the greedy gulls that follow? And what heart, however swiftly borne, can escape its besetting sin? It may ascend up into heaven, or make its bed in hell, or take the wings of the morning, or plunge into the lair of darkness—but temptation never quits the chase. Thus was poor Harvey pursued as the bounding train plunged through the darkness towards his far-off boyhood home. Still the battle waged, and still the fangs of appetite kept groping for his heart and clutching at his will. But he endured as seeing the invisible; and the City of Refuge came ever nearer.

As they came closer to Glenallen—when they were almost there—peering through the dark, he caught now and then a fleeting glimpse of the scenes of other days; fences that he had climbed; elms beneath whose shelter he had played; braes he had roamed and burns he had waded and brooks he had fished, he smiled, as the inward pain still smote him and the dreadful craving burned—it seemed all but impossible that life could have changed so much, the evening shadows threatening before its noon had come. And he felt, in a dim unreasoning way—what other men have felt—as if he had been somehow tricked out of the sweetness of youth, its glory faded and its fruitage withered before he had known they were there.

The streets of his native town were hushed as he hurried towards his home. Nearing the familiar scene, he paused, standing still. He felt a kind of awesome fear and his head was bowed as he crept close to the humble door. Suddenly he lifted his eyes, survey ing the well-remembered outlines through the gloom. And suddenly they seemed transfigured before him, speaking out their welcome in tender silence as though they recognized the heart-sore wanderer. It was with little difficulty that he effected an entrance, a half-hidden window in the rear yielding readily.

The stillness within almost overcame him. Yet there must have been holy power in it; for the evil spirit that had haunted him seemed to retreat before it; and his groping eyes fell now on this familiar thing and now on that, each an ally to his struggling soul. He could see but dimly, but they were all beautiful, each telling some story of the sacred days that would come no more. He felt his way through the little hall into the room where he had last looked upon his mother’s face. He stood where he had stood before—and he looked down. Long musing, he turned and made his way up-stairs. As he passed the half-open door on his way, he could see the shadowy outline of the little store, as Miss Adair had left it for the night, the petty wares consorting ill with the significance of the hour. Yet the nobility of all for which it stood broke afresh upon him.