Part 23

"I heard you were in Glenallen," her low voice began, "but I didn’t expect to see you. When did you come? Oh, pardon me, let me introduce you to my friend," as she spoke her companion’s name.

He removed his hat again and bowed. One or two commonplaces passed.

"Where are you going?" Harvey asked abruptly.

"We’re going to see a little girl that’s sick; she lives on the first farm outside the town. She’s one of my class," Madeline explained, "and I asked Miss Brodie to accompany me—my friend lives in that house yonder," pointing to a residence near the foot of the hill; "it gets dark so early now."

"I’ll go with you myself," said Harvey.

"What?" was all Madeline said, her voice unsteady.

"I’ll go with you myself," he repeated; "Miss Brodie won’t mind—we’ll see her home first. I wish to speak with you," and without further explanation he turned to lead the way to Miss Brodie’s home.

Madeline’s protest came, but it was weak and trembling. And her companion spoke no word except to give assent. For there seemed to be some strange authority about the silent man; something in his voice, or manner, or in the drawn face that looked into the distance through the fading light. They could not tell; but they followed as he led. Madeline’s hand trembled as it made its way into her friend’s; a moment later she withdrew it, walking on alone. But her bosom rose and fell with the movement of that eternal mystery that so many a maiden’s heart has known, that none has ever solved. And her eyes were moist and dim, she knew not why; and now and then a strange quiver shook the graceful form, protesting, reluctant, half-rebellious, yet at the mercy of something she could neither fathom nor deny.

Bidding Miss Brodie good-night, they retraced their steps and pressed on towards the outskirts of the town. Perhaps both wondered why they walked so fast, Madeline wondering, indeed, why she walked at all. But there was something indescribably sweet about the strange mastery in which he seemed to hold her—and her eyes smiled, though she was trembling, as she looked ahead into the waiting shadows.

"That’s the house." These were the first words that broke the stillness, and they came from Madeline’s lips—"that’s where she lives," pointing to a distant light.

"Who?" and Harvey turned his eyes upon her.

"The child I’m going to see—I told you."

Silence still; and still they walked on together. Once she stumbled over an uneven plank. His hand went out swiftly to her arm, and as he touched it his whole frame swayed towards her. In an instant his hand was withdrawn; but not before a faint outbreak flowed from her lips. He looked down at her through the darkness—her face was deadly white.

"I don’t believe I’ll go," she said weakly; "I’ll go to-morrow."

He pointed into the darkness. "I want to speak with you," he said, striding on.

A little murmur surged to her lips. She checked it. "Will you wait for me—till I come out, Harvey?" the last word coming slow.

"I can’t."

"What?" she said, her tone firmer, her pace abating.

"I cannot wait," he said; "you can’t go in till—after."

She cast a swift glance upwards—but his eyes were forward bent. He pressed swiftly on. She walked beside him.

Suddenly he paused, then stood still. He listened intently; no sound but the desultory barking of a distant watch-dog. He looked about—and the voiceless night seemed to contain no other but those twain. He could see the blinking light in the window, the one Madeline had pointed to; it made the solitude deeper, like a far-off gleam at sea.

"Let us go in here and sit down," he said, pointing towards a little clearance under the shadow of two spreading oaks that towered above an intervening thicket.

They stepped down from the rickety sidewalk. And they crossed the dusty road, neither speaking; and the dew glistened on their feet as they went on into the thickening grass—and Madeline could hear her poor heart beating, but she uttered never a word.

It is the glory of a strong woman that she sometimes may be weak; nay, that she must be, by very token of her strength. For her strength hath its home in love and in her capacity to love—there is her crown and there the well-spring of her beauty and her charm. Yet this knows its highest strength in weakness; and its victory is in surrender. And the greatest moment in the life of the noblest woman is when convention and propriety and custom—and the tyranny of the social code—yea, when even her own native pride, her womanly reticence, her insistence on all that a woman may demand, are defiantly renounced; when these all lie in ruins at her feet, scorned and forgotten by reason of the torrent of her love; when beauty’s tresses lie dishevelled, and its robes of dignity are stained with tears, then is woman’s wild eternal heart at its very noblest in all the abandon of the passion that sets it free from every tie save one.

Wherefore Madeline—she of the beauteous face and of the snow-white heart—went on with Harvey where he led. Down from the pavement she stepped, down into the earthly road, reckless of the dainty fabric that the dust leaped to stain; and she walked on into the glistening grass, and her eyes saw the waiting oak and the vast sky behind. And the night was dark, and even the distant blinking light was hidden; and she could hear the soft language of the mother bird that kept her love-taught vigil, and the whippoorwill’s cry came in mellow waves across the rippling woods—and the great tender arms of the holy night were about them all.

"Let us sit here," and Harvey motioned towards a giant log that lay beneath the oaks. "And I’ll tell you, Madeline."

She raised one white hand to her throat as she took her place; even then he noticed the delicate tapering fingers, so well fitted for the work to which her father had referred. Something seemed to be choking her, so long were the white fingers held to the soft flesh above. The other hand went out absently, uplifted, and she held tight to the soft-swinging branch of the ancient oak, for the leaves bended about them where they sat.

"Very well, Harvey," she said. "Isn’t it about father—didn’t you see him this evening?" Commonplace questions enough they were; and her heart had clutched wildly at them as her hand had seized the bough above her. But commonplace the words were not—a surge of fire made them glow and gleam, to him at least, her troubled soul sweeping through them like a flood. For her voice was shaking as she asked the simple questions; and her arm was still outstretched as she clung to the yielding bough—and the white fingers still pressed the quivering throat.

"No, it isn’t about that," he said, his voice as low as the voices of the night. She never moved. But he heard, actually heard, her lips as they slowly parted—and her breath came as if she were resting from a race.

"It’s about us—oh, Madeline, it’s about us," he began, and his words came swift, as if they were driven out by force. "You know, you know, Madeline, all that’s in my heart—all that’s been there for years. Ever since I worked for your father—ever since we went to school—ever since that night beside my baby sister’s grave—and since you came to see mother when she got blind—and since I went to college—and always, always, Madeline, through all the years. You know, Madeline, you know." Then his words poured out in a passionate stream, swirling like waves about her, and he told her what they both had known long, what neither had ever heard before. The maiden’s eyes shone dim; and one hand clutched tighter at the crushed and broken twigs; the other slipped from the quivering throat, pressed now to the paining bosom. And the moist lips were parted still, but the speech that flowed between was silent as her listening soul.

"And I’ve told you the worst, Madeline," he vowed at length. "I was determined to tell you the worst, before I go away, before I go away to take up the struggle against my sin—alone. And to win—to conquer," he added low. "So I’m not worthy, Madeline—and the future’s uncertain—and I know it and you know it. And nobody but God can ever tell what it has meant to me to say all I’ve said to-night; and it’s all because I love you so... Oh, Madeline," and the strong voice struggled in vain to keep on its way; too late, it broke and trembled, the pain and passion bursting through it as he bowed his head and hid his face. "So I’m going away," he murmured low, "I’m going away."

The sighing wind was hushed and the mother bird was silent and the whippoorwill was dumb.

"Harvey, don’t."

It was such a gentle note, barely audible, like the first faint cry of some wood-born nestling when it sees the light. But it filled and flooded all his soul. He raised his head, so slowly, from his hands; and slowly he turned his face till his eyes rested full upon her. The moon had risen and he could see her beauty. Both hands were lying now in the white folds of her dress, and between them were the crushed and broken leaves, their fragrance outstealing from their wounds. The branch she had released was still swaying to and fro. But Madeline saw it not; nor aught else beside. The veiled and glistening eyes were looking far beyond; he could not tell whether they were fixed on the darkling thicket or on the crescent moon. But while his gaze stole upward to her face a night-bird in the thicket piped softly to its mate—and he saw her eyes search the frowning shade. Then they were still. But he could see the radiance on cheek and brow, and he felt the life-stream that her eyes outpoured, aglow with the emotion of her soul. Her bosom rose and fell, nor did she seem to know—again and yet again the candour of her love spoke thus. And while he looked she slowly turned her head. He noted, even then, and in the gathering light, the wealth of lovely hair, the fair purity of her forehead, the mystic lure of her quivering lips, the throb that beat swiftly in her throat, soft and white like the lily’s bloom—but they all were lost in the glory of her wondrous eyes. These were transfigured; surrender, conquest, yearning, pity, pride, the joy of possession and the rapture of captivity—all that unite to make that mysterious tide called passion, looked their meaning from her face.

Her breath, fresh from the parted lips, floated outward till it touched his face—and to him spreading oak and whispering grove and shadowy thicket and crescent moon had ceased to be. He saw her eyes alone, his soul swimming towards them through the torrent; his finger-tips touched her shoulders first—and she was there—and the soft form yielded, and the glory slowly faded as the eyelids fell, and the fragrance of her breath made life a holy thing forever as he drew her into the strong shelter of his love.

*XXXV*

*"*_*INTO HIS HOUSE OF WINE*_*"*

They came up the little hill together. And many eyes were turned on them in wonder as they went up the aisle, David still leaning on the strong man beside him. It was Robert McCaig who took the token from Mr. Borland’s hand, and his own told its welcome by its lingering clasp.

They were almost at David’s pew, Madeline and her mother already seated there, when Harvey stood still and whispered. "Let us go to my mother’s seat," he said.

David’s assent was quick and cordial. He knew the sacrament of love; and the look with which Madeline and her mother followed them showed that they recognized the higher claim.

Very beautiful was the service of that holy hour. The opening psalm breathed the spirit of penitence and trust. When Dr. Fletcher rose to pray, his face was illumined with such joy as there is in the presence of the angels when a new star swims into the firmament of heaven. And his prayer gave thanks for the cloud of witnesses that compassed them about, and for those who had gone out from them along the upward path of pain.

Wonderful stillness wrapped the worshippers about as the elders went slowly down the aisle with the symbols of redeeming love. It was not his accustomed place, but Geordie Nickle bore the bread and wine to where David and Harvey sat. His eyes shone with a great light as he placed the emblems first in David’s shaking hand; and the moist eyes were upturned to God; and his lips moved while he stood before them in the grand dignity of his priestly office. The compassion glowing on his face was worthy of the Cross.

David and Harvey bowed their heads together, the old man and the young. The one was touched with the whitening frost of years, the other with the dew of youth. But their lips were moist with the same holy wine and their hearts were kindred in their trembling hope. Before them both arose the vision of a Saviour’s face; but the old man’s thought was of eternal rest, and the other’s was of the battling years beyond.

Harvey’s mind flew quickly over all the bygone days. Love and loneliness, conflict and respite, hope and despair, victory and overthrow passed before him—and all seemed now to have conspired towards this holy hour. He felt that the way had been chosen for him amid life’s perplexing paths; that an unseen Hand had been at the helm; that the prayer and purpose of another’s life had led him back to the path from which he had departed, fulfilling the design of an All-wise Sovereign Will.

David gave a little start of surprise when Dr. Fletcher announced the closing hymn.

"He done that for me," he whispered to Harvey; "he knows it’s mine."

They rose to sing the noble song. The great words rolled slowly out from many reverent lips:

"The sands of time are sinking."

It was when they came to the soul’s great boast

"With mercy and with judgment My web of time He wove,"

that Harvey turned his eyes towards David; and his heart melted as he saw the tears rolling down the withered cheeks. David’s head was bowed, for it hurt him sore that men should see. But there had come about him such a tide of feeling—all his chequered life rising up before him—and such a sense of the abundant grace that had made the shadows beautiful with light, that his soul dissolved in gratitude to the Hand that guided and the Heart that planned through all the labyrinth of years.

Other lips were still, and Harvey’s among them, when they reached the closing lines:

"Amid the shades of evening While sinks life’s lingering sand I hail the glory dawning In Immanuel’s land."

But those who were beside him marvelled at the strong rich tones with which David sounded the exultant note. His voice was no more the voice of age; and the scars of battle had vanished from his face. Strong and victorious came the swelling strain, and his uplifted eyes had the glow of unconquerable youth. He had caught the lights of Home.

*XXXVI*

_*A MISTRESS OF FINANCE*_

"Some men are born lucky—and some get lucky—and some have the confoundedst kind of good luck thrust upon them," affirmed Mr. Crothers, nodding towards a letter in Harvey’s hand.

"I’m just going to read this over once more; it really seems too good to be true," was Harvey’s rather irrelevant reply, his eyes fastened again upon the letter.

"You’re dead right. If any one had told me, that night three months ago—you remember our conversation then—that you’d be given a position like that so early in your career, I’d have laughed at them. I don’t think I ever knew a man get as quick promotion in the newspaper business as you’ve had, Simmons. I really don’t. But then you’ve got the education—and the material above the eyes—and that’s the whole outfit. Well, I can’t do any more than congratulate you, old man," and the sincerity of Mr. Crothers’ words was evident as Harvey looked across the table into the deep-set eyes.

"You’ve had more to do with it than anybody else, I’m sure," Harvey returned; "and I’ll do all I can to make good. I’ll expect you to——"

"I’ll tell you something I’ve been thinking of for quite a while," the other broke in, lowering his voice and leaning far over the table. "If we could only get a hold of the business—the paper, I mean—the whole box and dice! The thing’s going to change hands, as you know; everybody has known that, since the president got the collectorship of customs—and it would be worth more to us than to anybody else. We could run it to the Queen’s taste—the whole shooting-match. But I suppose there’s no use talking—can’t make bricks without straw. Of course, I’ve saved a little chicken-feed—not enough, though—there, that’s my total," as he pencilled some figures on a blotting-pad and passed it over; "and if you could duplicate it—or a little better—we’d have the thing in our mitt. But I suppose there’s no use thinking about it?" looking rather eagerly at Harvey, nevertheless.

"Out of the question," answered Harvey decisively, leaning back in his chair; "you can’t get blood from a turnip, or, as Geordie Nickle, a Glenallen friend of mine, would say, you can’t take the breeks off a Hielan’man. I haven’t any money, that’s the English of it. Of course," a tinge of pleasure in the tone, "I’ll have a pretty good salary now—but what’s that for a plunge like this?" as he pushed the blotting-pad back across the table.

"About as good as a dozen of eggs for an army," Mr. Crothers agreed disconsolately. "Oh, well, we’ll just have to make out the best we can—but I’m mighty glad of your good luck, old man, just the same."

Both men turned to their work. Harvey’s first move was to ring for a stenographer. But he changed his mind. "I won’t need you for a few minutes," he said; "I’ll write this one myself."

The letter closed as follows: "... So it’s come at last, sister—and your days of drudgery are past. They will always be a sacred memory to me, for I wonder if any man ever came to his own through as noble sacrifice as has filled all your life for me, yours and mother’s. Now, Jessie, be sure and do as I’ve told you. Sell your business—lock, stock, and barrel—or give it away; make Miss Adair a present of it, or rent it to her, or anything you like. Only one thing remember—you’ll rest now, and all my good fortune will be spoiled unless you share it with me.

Your ever loving "HARVEY."

Even Grey started with surprise when Harvey arrived home that night an hour earlier than usual. And Miss Farringall’s face brightened suddenly as Harvey’s knock at the door of her sitting-room was followed by the appearance of a very radiant face. He had a letter in his hand.

"I want to speak first," she said impulsively, divining his purpose.

"Yes, Miss Farringall," he said enquiringly.

"It’s something I’ve wanted to ask you for a long time—and I’m going to do it now," she added very softly, rising and moving to the window; "did your mother ever—did she ever speak to you about your father, Harvey?"

Harvey’s answer was slow. "Yes," he said at length.

"Did you know he’s living?" she asked after a long pause.

"Yes," and Harvey’s voice was little more than audible. "My mother told me that when she was dying. Why?" he asked resolutely, moving to where she stood.

"I only wished to know, dear," and her tone breathed gentleness as she turned and fixed her pensive eyes on his. "I knew he was living, and——"

"Where—do you know where?" he broke out, almost with a cry. "My mother didn’t know, and——"

"No, I don’t know where," she interrupted, her eyes now looking far without; "but I know he’s living yet. We’ll both know more some day—what’s in that letter, Harvey?" the voice betokening that the subject was dismissed, at least for the present.

"It’s something you’ll be glad to read," he answered absently as he handed it to her.

Deep silence reigned a while.

"I knew it, Harvey," she said when she had finished. "I expected this—I was waiting for you to come home. I wanted to see you very much. Can you think what for?"

"I don’t know," Harvey answered abstractedly, musing still.

"Barlow," she called.

"Yes, mum," a sepulchral voice answered from the hall, followed a moment later by the apparition of the never distant servant.

"You know the vault, Barlow?"

"Yes, mum," replied its guardian of years.

"And the box in the lower left-hand corner?"

"Yes, mum."

"And the paper we deposited there yesterday?"

"Yes, mum."

"That Dr. Wallis helped me to draw?"

"Yes, mum."

"Then bring it to me at once."

"Yes, mum," and Barlow turned in his tracks as he had done for a quarter of a century.

He was back in a moment. "You can go now, Barlow—and shut the door. Take Grey, and don’t stand outside. Go and count the spoons."

"Yes, mum," and the immobile Barlow departed to make the oft-repeated inventory.

"I expected this to come, Harvey," she began as soon as they were alone. "I know the president of the _Argus_—or of the company, or whatever you call it. I’m not such a hermit as some people think. But I’ve been wishing for something better for you, Harvey—can you guess what it is?" her words ending in a nervous little cough.

Harvey’s face showed how innocent he was of any such knowledge.

"Well, it keeps running in my mind that you ought to own that paper."

Harvey gave a little laugh. "That’s what Mr. Crothers was saying," he began confusedly; "he thinks we could do wonders if we had it between us—but of course it’s out of the question. It would cost—oh, I don’t know how much."

"I know all about that," and Miss Farringall’s cheek had a strangely heightened colour. "I’ve looked into all that," she added in a low tone; "and do you think you could? Would Mr. Crothers really make a good partner?"

Harvey stared. "He’s a jewel, Miss Farringall, every way—but why do——"

"Excuse me," Miss Farringall interrupted with authority. "Let me proceed. I want to make an investment. I want to buy a business that belongs to you and Jessie. Sign that paper, please," as she handed him the document Barlow had brought.

Amazement took possession of Harvey as he read.

"Close your lips, Harvey—when you’re excited, breathe deep; it’s a great sedative," and Miss Farringall smiled as she watched his face.

Harvey laid the paper down with a gasp. "But, Miss Farringall," he began excitedly, breathing as best he could, "the proposition is preposterous—a sum of money such as this for a paltry outfit like that little store in Glenallen! The whole thing isn’t worth——"

"Be careful, Harvey Simmons, be careful, now," Miss Farringall broke in sternly. "You haven’t read the agreement. Maybe the price does look big—but did you see all I’m to get in return?"

Harvey shook the document excitedly. "You ask the business—the stock, and the good-will—and neither the one nor the other’s worth one tithe of——"

"Wait a minute," broke in the prospective purchaser; "I ask more than that. The vendor goes with the sale," she announced, rising to her feet. "It’s that way in the paper—Jessie goes with it; I buy her too. I can do what I like with the business—and Jessie comes to me. Yes," she cried, her voice shaking in its eagerness, "that’s what I want the most—and Jessie’s willing. I’ve found that out top—and she’s to be mine, to keep and care for. And she’s to be shipped here, right side up with care, and she’s to give me value for my money every time I see her sweet face and hear her merry laugh. I’ve spent a lot repairing this old house—but that’s the kind of repair it’s been needing for long years, and it’s going to get it now. When you get the purchase money you can invest it as you like; it’ll be your own—only sign, Harvey, sign now. I’ve got the price all ready," her voice ringing with merry music as she brandished a bulky envelope before his eyes.