Part 22

Ascending the creaking stairs, he stopped and listened. It seemed as if some voice must speak—for silence like to this he had never known before. But all was still, wondrously still—this was the silence of death. He glanced into Jessie’s room; relics of her sore toil were still scattered about; all was as she had left it when she had started on her visit to the city.

Then he entered his mother’s room. With head bowed low and with noiseless step, as devout pilgrims invade some holy shrine, he passed within the door. Then he lifted his eyes—the night seemed to stay its hand—and he could see here and there traces of his mother’s life, many of them undisturbed. An apron that she used to wear, folded now and spotless white, laid aside by Jessie’s loving hands; a knitted shawl that had so often enclosed the fragile form; the unfinished knitting from which the needles should never be withdrawn. Then he gave a great start, muffling a cry—for he thought he saw a face. But it was his own, moving in shadowy whiteness as he passed the little mirror—he marvelled at his timidity amid such scenes of love.

He sank on the bed and buried his face in his hands. He was trembling, yet not with fear. But something seemed to tell him that he was not alone; no tempter, no turgid appetite, no relentless passion assailed him now. He was safe, he felt, like some ancient fugitive falling breathless before a sacred altar—but he felt that he was not alone. Some unseen power seemed to be about him, an influence so gentle, a caress so tender, a keeping so holy as time could not provide. He did not seek to reason with the strange sensation, or to solve, or to define; but his soul lay open to the mystic influence in helplessness and hope, the ministry of the awful silence having its way with his broken and baffled life.

Almost without knowing it, he rose and made his way to the little table by the window; something dark lay upon it. The touch told him in a moment what it was—his mother’s Bible, that Jessie had begged him to leave for her. His hand trembled as he took it up; it opened of itself and he peered downward on the well-worn page. But it was dark, and he could only see enough to know that one particular verse was gently underscored. Fumbling for a match, he lit it and its glow fell upon the words:

"Unto Him that is able to keep you from falling and to present you faultless."

The message flashed upon his soul with the import of eternal hope. He closed the book violently, as if something might escape, and sank again upon the bed. He felt as if God Himself had spoken through the shadows and the silence. His face was again buried in his hands, but his heart was running riot with its exuberance of feeling, of purpose, of hope from far-off fountains fed. There gleamed before him a vision of the reality of it all, the real truth that a worsted heart may find strength somewhere higher up, away beyond this scene of human struggle—and that the most stained and wasted life might yet become a holy thing, again presented to the great God whose grace had saved it, a faultless life at last.

Thus he sat, nor knew how long, while the regenerating moments flew. He was recalled by feeling something fall at his feet. Stooping, he picked it up; it was a letter, fallen from the leaves of the book he held. A brief search revealed a candle on a chair beside the bed. This he lit, holding the fitful flame above the missive now spread out before him. The letter was from his mother and addressed to him. A swift look at the date explained why it had never been sent—she had been busy with it when he had unexpectedly returned the night of Madeline’s party. His eyes burned their way over the opening sentences, all uneven as they were, the unsteady hand having found its course as best it could. And the gentle epistle had come to a sudden close—the letter had never been completed. But his eyes were fixed in almost fierce intensity upon the last words—probably the last the dear hand had ever written. "And I’m praying, my son," thus ran the great assurance, "as I shall never cease to pray, that He will make His grace sufficient for you and that..."

He arose, recalling where his mother was wont to pray. Had she not told him, and had Jessie not spoken of it often? Beside his own bed, he knew—there, where he once had slept the sleep of childhood in the innocent and happy days of yore; there had been her altar, where, kneeling before God, she had pleaded that the keeping and guidance of the Highest might be vouchsafed her absent son. Thither he turned his steps, his heart aflame within him; one hand still held his mother’s Bible, the other the precious letter. And he laid them both before the Throne, sacred things, familiar to the all-seeing Eye, pledges of a faith that must not be denied.

The silence still reigned about the bended form. But it was vocal with unspoken vows, the vows of a soul that unseen hands, wasted once and worn but radiant now and beautiful, had beckoned to the Mercy Seat. He could not see the bending face; he could not know the exultation of the triumphant one—but he knew that the dear spirit shared with him the rapture of that hour when his mother’s prayers were answered, when his soul came back to God.

*XXXIII*

_*PLAIN LIVING AND HIGH THINKING*_

The day slipped past in quiet solitude, marked by the peace of penitence and inward chastening; convalescence is the sweetest experience of the soul and the outlook to the eternal is its rest. Harvey felt in no hurry to leave the pavilion-home, thronged as it was with blessed memories. But when the evening fell, a curious eagerness quickened his steps towards David Borland’s altered home. He had not visited it before. Drawing near, the first figure he descried was that of David himself, engaged in the very diminutive garden that lay beside the house. He had not noticed Harvey’s approach. A shade of pain darkened the eye of the younger man as, unobserved, he took a keen survey of the older face. For not alone was David more thin and worn; his cheeks had lost their colour, pinched and pale, and it required no special acuteness to detect how changed he was from the robust David of former years. Suddenly lifting his head, Mr. Borland saw Harvey close at hand; he dropped the light tool he was holding, hurrying to greet the visitor.

"You’re as welcome as a registered letter," he cried in his old hearty way; "come on an’ sit down—there’s nothin’ tastes so good in a new house as an old friend. I’ve been hungerin’ for a mouthful of you. I was jest doin’ a little work," he explained—"when a fellow’s got to work hard, nothin’ makes it so easy as doin’ a little more. I’m goin’ to raise some flowers," he went on, pointing to a tiny bed; "nothin’ pays like flowers—it pays better than manufacturin’, I think sometimes. Here, sit beside me on the bench," for David seemed willing to rest. "How’s Jessie?" he asked presently, his general observations concluded.

"Lovely," answered Harvey. "She’s visiting Miss Farringall."

"So I believe. They say Miss Farringall’s lovely too, ain’t she?"

Harvey pronounced a eulogy.

"She’s an old maid, ain’t she?"

"I suppose some would call her that," was Harvey’s rather deliberate reply.

"Oh, that’s all right," David assured him; "I don’t mean no disrespect. Most old maids is reg’lar angels—with variations. I often tell the missus if I was ever left alone I’d probably marry again, out of respect for her—there’s nothin’ like an encore to show you’ve enjoyed the first performance—an’ I always say I’d take an old maid. Of course, I might change my mind," David went on gravely; "most old fools does, takes up with some little gosling that ought to be in school. An’ I’ve noticed how the fellows that yelps the loudest at the funeral begins takin’ notice the soonest—they don’t most gen’rally stay in long for repairs," he concluded solemnly, scraping the clay from his boot-heel as he spoke.

"If Miss Farringall’s an old maid," Harvey resumed, "she’s one of the nicest I ever knew—and one of the happiest too, I think."

"Old maids is pretty much all happy," pronounced David, "that is, when they stop strugglin’—but most of ’em dies hard. They’d all be happy if they’d only do what I heard a preacher advisin’ once. I was mad as a hatter, too."

"What about?" asked Harvey wonderingly.

"Well, I’ll tell you. It was at a funeral in a church—last year, I think—an’ after the service was over he came out to the front o’ the pulpit. ’The congregation ’ll remain seated,’ says he, ’till the casket has went down the aisle; then the mourners will follow, an’ the clergy ’ll follow them. After that,’ says he, ’after that, the congregation will quietly retire.’ Quietly, mind you!" said David sternly; "did he think we was goin’ to give three cheers for the corpse, I wonder?" and he looked earnestly at Harvey for approval of his indignation. "But I’ve often thought, jest the same, how much happier everybody’d be, ’specially old maids, if they’d only retire quietly."

"I’ll have to tell that to the editor of the funny column," Harvey said when his composure had returned; "and I’ll send it on to you when it appears in the _Argus_."

"I’m a subscriber to that paper now," David said complacently; "how ’re you gettin’ along?—like the editin’ business pretty good?"

"Fine," Harvey assured him cordially. Then he told, as modestly as he could, of what success he had achieved and of his prospects of promotion.

"Where you got the start was goin’ into it as soon as you left school," David averred; "there’s nothin’ like gettin’ at your work early. That’s why I advise gettin’ up a little afore day—for other folks. You see, you’ll get the hang of it—of editin’, I mean—afore you’re set in your ways. If you want to succeed these days, you’ve got to take time by the fetlock, as one of them old philosophers said. That’s what makes all the difference between two fellows; one’ll waste his time gallivantin’ round, while the other’s learnin’ all about his business an’ gettin’ ready for somethin’ big. Now, there’s poor Cecil, for instance—you’ve heard what’s come o’ Cecil?"

"No," answered Harvey, sitting up very straight. "No, I haven’t heard anything—has anything happened?"

"Oh, nothin’ terrible important. Only he’s off for Africa—went last week. He was foolin’ an’ fiddlin’ round, spongin’ on his father—an’ he got into one or two little scrapes. An’ his father kind o’ got tired of it—an’ Cecil got a chance of some kind of a job with some company that’s buildin’ a railroad or somethin’ in South Africa. An’ the old man let him go—so he’s gone," David concluded earnestly, "an’ I reckon punchin’ mules is about the highest position o’ trust he’ll be occupyin’. Let’s go into the house."

"Is Cecil going to stay long in Africa?" Harvey asked as they walked along.

"He won’t likely be back to tea very often," ventured David. "Jemima! I’m so short in the wind now," his breath coming fast. "I don’t much calculate he’ll be back till the walkin’s good—unless the old man fetches him," a droll smile showing on David’s face, as they entered the little house.

"Sorry Madeline’s not in," Mr. Borland began as he sank into a chair; "she works pretty steady now, poor child—they say she’s a reg’lar dabster at that wood-work. She paints chiny too," he went on, pride in the voice—"I think she’s out at Hyman’s, burnin’ it, this evenin’. Sit down, Harvey," motioning towards a chair, for his guest was standing in a spasm of attentiveness. "It’s a bit different from the old place, ain’t it?" as he looked round the humble room.

"It’s just as good," said Harvey bluntly, rather at a loss.

"That’s where you’re shoutin’," David responded, something of his old-time vigour in the tone. "It’s jest every bit as good. When I’m settin’ here in the evenin’—I don’t work so very hard; they gave me a nice easy job at the office—an’ Madeline’s puttin’ on my slippers or runnin’ her fingers round my old gray head, when I shut my eyes I can’t tell the difference. Never did set in only one chair," he mused as if to himself, "never did wear but one pair o’ slippers, never did have but one Madeline to cure my headaches an’ my heartaches an’ everythin’ like that. An’ I like the lamp better’n the old sulky gas—an’ we’ve got the best pump in the county," he went on enthusiastically—"right out there; it’s far better’n the old tap water. So we’re jest as happy, Harvey."

Harvey smiled, and lovingly, at the beaming face.

"An’ I can prove it," the old man suddenly resumed. "I can prove it," he repeated eagerly. "See that fireplace there?" pointing to the hearth on which the wood was already laid. "Put a match to it, Harvey—you’re younger than me. Set it agoin’, Harvey, an’ I’ll show you—it’s gettin’ coolish, anyhow."

Harvey did as directed. The shavings led the flame upward to the little twigs, and the twigs hurried it on to the willing cedar, and the cedar lit the way to the gnarled pine knots; these opened their bosoms to the flame and soon the leaping tongues began their glad crusade against the shadows, a revelry of sight and sound flooding the room with light and music.

"There!" cried David jubilantly. "Tell me the difference if you can—ain’t that the very same as it used to be in the great big house? Didn’t I tell you I could prove it?—there ain’t no difference, Harvey; it’s jest the very same," he repeated once again, rejoicing in the great truth he found so difficult to express. "An’ that’s what I always trained myself to believe," he went on after a long pause. "I always believed in simple livin’—even when I had lots o’ chance the other way. Didn’t I, Harvey?" he pursued, gazing into the other’s eyes through the glow.

"That you did, Mr. Borland," Harvey affirmed. "And that’s why it comes so easy to you now."

"That was how I knew poor Mr. Craig was on the wrong tack," David pursued thoughtfully. "I spotted the signs as soon as they began; when he started callin’ his sideboard a ’buffy’—an’ when he began sayin’ ’blue mange’ instead o’ cornstarch; I heard him at his own table—an’ callin’ ’Johnny-cake’ corn-cake—an’ referrin’ to the cuspidor when he meant a spittoon—when he began them tony names, I knew it was all up with poor Mr. Craig. When a man gets so dainty that his horses stop sweatin’ an’ begin perspirin’, he ain’t much good for common folks after that. That’s why Mr. Craig wanted so bad to be mayor—jest that buffy idea, same thing," David explained pityingly. "An’ then it wasn’t long till he made the foolishest break of all," he went on; "d’ye know what it was?" as he looked enquiringly at Harvey; "you’d never guess."

"No idea," admitted Harvey.

"Well, he began takin’ his dinner at supper time. Leastways, he began callin’ it dinner—an’ it’s a terrible bad sign when a fellow begins takin’ dinner when the dew’s fallin’. His old father used to say: ’Well, I reckon it’s time to feed again,’ but Craig always said he guessed he’d have to go home to dinner—an’ he wasn’t never the same man after he begun that kind o’ foolishness," David affirmed seriously. "The only other man I ever heard callin’ supper dinner was a terrible rich fellow from New York. He had a summer cottage on Lake Joseph; he used to bring his own doctor with him, an’ his own minister—an’ his own undertaker. An’ he took his dinner about bedtime," David concluded mournfully.

"Makin’ out pretty good at the newspaper business, Harvey?" David asked presently, some minor themes disposed of.

Harvey pondered. He was thinking of many things. "Do you mean financially, Mr. Borland?" he asked at length.

"Yes, I reckon so; you’re climbin’ up the ladder a bit, ain’t you?"

"I’m getting along pretty well, that way," Harvey replied. "And I think I’m getting an insight into the business. They say the _Argus_ is going to change hands—but that won’t affect my position at all."

"Pity you couldn’t get a-hold of it," said David reflectively. "But don’t worry about that, my boy. Don’t never be disappointed if success don’t come as fast as you think it should. It nearly always slips through a fellow’s fingers at the last—so don’t get set up on it. I’m gettin’ to be an old man now; an’ if there’s one thing I’ve learned better’n another, it’s how a man don’t have them things in his own hands. I believe every man’s jest runnin’ on the time-table that’s laid out for him; an’ he’ll spoil everythin’ if he tries too much to interfere. Often we think we’re terrible smart. An’ mebbe we are—but we find out sooner or later we’ve got to walk the plank, an’ it’s queer how we get jockeyed jest when we think we’re at the winnin’ post. We’re pretty handy with the rod an’ the reel—but God handles the landin’-net Himself. That’s why the biggest ones most gen’rally always get away," and David nodded his head seriously as he peered into Harvey’s eyes.

"I’d sooner win along other lines than that," mused Harvey.

"Than what?"

"Than the money way. That isn’t everything."

"That there was a beautiful thing you done in the cemetery," David digressed suddenly. "That there was high finance."

"What?" asked the bewildered Harvey.

"You know," said the other—"your mother’s gravestone. I didn’t know nothin’ about it till Madeline took some flowers out one evenin’. That was lovely, Harvey."

Harvey’s voice was thick. "That was the first money I ever saved, Mr. Borland," he said after a long silence; "the only money I ever saved."

"Savin’s like them is holy," David said simply. "An’ I’m goin’ to tell you somethin’, Harvey," as he braced himself for the purpose. "An’ I’m goin’ to trust you not to tell any one—not any one in the world."

Harvey turned to gaze into the earnest face.

"I don’t know jest why it should be so hard to tell," David began calmly. "But it’s this, Harvey—my day’s jest about done—I ain’t goin’ to be here much longer, Harvey. No, don’t now, please," he pleaded as he stretched out his hand towards the livid youth, already leaping to his feet. "Don’t, Harvey, don’t—but it’s true. An’ I’ve known it a good while now; the doctor told me long ago," he continued calmly. "My old heart thinks it’s jest about quittin’ time, it seems. An’ I don’t blame it a terrible lot—it’s had a long day’s work, an’ I reckon it’s a good deal like me, kind o’ ready for its rest," the tired voice went on. "That’s where the trouble is, anyhow," he affirmed placidly, "but I never told nobody—a fellow ought to burn his own smoke, I think, an’ not let it trouble other people. But I’ve told you now, Harvey—so you won’t be so terrible surprised when ... And besides," his voice breaking for the first time, "besides—I wanted to tell you somethin’ else, my boy—I wanted to tell you—how—how much I loved you, Harvey—for fear—for fear I mightn’t have another chance," as the tired face went downward to his hands, the hot tears trickling between the fingers that were so thin and worn.

The room was hushed in silence as Harvey’s tear-stained face was bowed beside his friend. He spoke no word, and no touch of tenderness was felt except the slow tightening of his arm about the furrowed neck, holding the quivering form close in strong and silent fondness. David spoke at length. "I want you to come along with me, Harvey."

"Where?" Harvey asked in a startled voice.

"Oh, not there," said David, smiling. "You thought I meant the long, long road. No, not that; but I’m goin’ to the communion, Harvey—that’s what I meant—I’m goin’ to join the church."

"I’m glad," said Harvey after a long stillness.

"I nearly joined once afore," David went on. "I reckon you remember when I had that meetin’ with the elders—kind o’ run agin a snag, I did. An’ mebbe I ain’t much worthier yet—but I see it different. I ain’t much of a Christian, I know—but I’m a kind of a sinner saved by grace. An’ I’d kind o’ like to own up in front of everybody afore—afore it’s too late," he said, his voice almost inaudible.

"When?" asked Harvey.

"Next Sunday," answered David. "But I didn’t go up agin the elders this time, mind you—I wouldn’t," he went on stoutly. "It seems to me a fellow ain’t no more called on to tell a lot of elders—human elders—about them things, an’ his soul, than he is to tell ’em about his love-makin’; so I jest went to Dr. Fletcher, an’ I told him what I felt about—about Christ—an’ I said I felt like I’d had a bid from some One higher up. An’ Dr. Fletcher said no elder wasn’t to have a look-in this time. So I’m goin’, Harvey—an’ it’d be an awful comfort if you an’ me went together. It’s quite a spell since you was there, ain’t it, Harvey?"

The fire had gone out upon the hearth. And Harvey spoke never a word amid the thickening gloom.

*XXXIV*

_*THE OVERFLOWING HOUR*_

The light had almost faded from the sky and the stealthy shadows were settling down about Glenallen as Harvey strode towards one of the hills that kept their ancient watch about the town. He did not know whither his course was tending; nor did he greatly care, for many and conflicting were the thoughts that employed him as he walked.

Still fresh and vivid, almost overpowering sometimes, was his sense of loss and shame. The defilement of his besetting sin, and the humiliation of a life so nearly honeycombed, and the tragedy of a will so nearly sold to slavery—all these had their stern influence on his soul. The bruised and beaten past rose afresh before him; and if ever human heart felt its own weakness, and human life its own unworthiness, it was as Harvey Simmons climbed that solitary hill amid the deepening dusk. Mingling with his sense of shame was the realization of all that it must cost him—for his manhood would refuse to claim what only a worthier manhood could fairly win.

Passing strange it was that at that very moment, the moment of true self-reproach and humiliation, his roving eyes should suddenly have been startled as they fell on two white-clad figures that were climbing the hill behind him. One of them he recognized in an instant—it was Madeline—and his heart almost frightened him, so violently did it leap. He struggled to repress the rising tide—for the test had come sooner than he thought—but a thrill of passion swept through all his frame.

Yet his resolve strengthened in his heart—the purpose that had been forming within him through many days. The resolve of a hero, too, it was; and the native strength of the man flowed anew, stern and unconquerable, as he made the great renunciation. Not that he loved the less; the more, rather. And not because he doubted that her heart answered, if perhaps less ardently, to his own. He saw again, as he had never ceased to see, the withered flowers in her hand. That picture he had cherished ever since, deep hidden in his deepest heart—patiently waiting, till his achievements and his station should warrant him to come back and drink to all eternity where he had but sipped before.

He knew now that this should never be. He thought, and swift and lurid was the image, of his own father, and of his mother’s broken heart, and of the baneful legacy that had been his own—and of the shrouded chapter that had been so carefully kept from him, tight shut like the chamber of the dead. He knew, besides all this, that he loved too well to offer Madeline a life that was not intrinsically worthy; if accounted worthy, it could only be by the shelter of a living lie. Thus was his resolve taken, anguish-born. Yet his hungering heart cried out that it could not go its way in silence—this luxury at least it claimed, to tell its story and to say farewell.

He turned and made his way downward to the approaching pair. Lifting his hat as he came close, he spoke Madeline’s name and stood still. Her surprise seemed to seal her lips at first, but he could see through the gloaming what inflamed his heart afresh.