Part 4

"No, nothing—they wanted something we didn’t have; I sent them to Ford’s," referring to a more elaborate establishment on an adjoining street. "I was speaking about you going to the elders’ meeting, Harvey—I’ll go with you as far as the church, as I said. And you mustn’t be afraid, son; they’ll be glad you’re going to join the church. And you must just answer what they ask you, the same as you do to me at home."

"Will they ask me the catechism, mother?"

"Some of the questions, most likely. Be sure you know ’effectual calling’—I think they nearly always ask ’effectual calling.’"

"I know that one all right," the boy answered. "I said it to Jessie four times last night—do you think there’ll be others there to join the church, mother?"

"I couldn’t say for sure, but it’s likely there’ll be some. I guess it’s almost time to go now, dear," she said rising. "Jessie, you’ll do the best you can if anybody comes in—I’ll not be long."

"Will it be all right about—about you finding your way back, mother?" Harvey asked slowly, his voice full of solicitude.

"Of course, child, of course—you and Jessie are growing quite foolish about me. I’m not so bad as that," she protested. "Why, I can tell the day of the month, when I stand up close to the calendar—this is the 23d," she affirmed reassuringly, stepping out into the night with Harvey clinging close beside her.

Neither spoke much as they walked on towards the village church. Often, when she thought the boy’s eyes were not upon her, the woman lifted her own upward to the silent stars; the night always rested her, something of its deep tranquillity passing into the tired heart that had known so much of battle. And yet the long struggle had left upon her face the marks of peace rather than the scars of conflict. Of merriment, there were traces few or none, although sufficient provocation could recall the old-time sparkle to the eyes that had been so often dimmed; but something noble was there instead, a placid beauty such as comes alone from resignation, born of a heart that has found its rest in a Strength and Tenderness which dwell beyond the hills of time. If one could have caught a vision of that face, upturned to the radiant sky above her, the glimpse would have disclosed features of shapely strength, marked by great patience, the eyes full of brooding gentleness and love, conscious of the stern battle that composed her life, but conscious, too—and this it was that touched the face with passion—of invisible resources, of an unseen Ally that mysteriously bore her on.

"Let us go in here a minute," the mother said when they were almost at the church.

Harvey followed her, unquestioning. He knew whither her feet were turned, for he had often followed that well-marked path before, often with toddling feet. They entered the quiet churchyard, passing many an imposing monument, threading their way with reverent steps among the graves, careful that no disrespect should be shown the humblest sleeper. On they pressed, the dew glistening upon their shoes as they walked, their very breathing audible amid the oppressive silence. Gradually the woman’s steps grew slower; and as she crept close to an unmarked grave that lay among the untitled mounds around it, the slender frame trembled slightly, drawing her poor shawl closer as she halted with downcast eyes, gazing at the silent sepulchre as it lay bathed in the lonely light of the new-risen moon. The boy stood behind her for a moment, then crept close to her, his hand gliding into hers; the woman’s closed about it passionately, its warmth stealing inward to her heart.

"I think I remember when baby died," Harvey began, after they had stood long together by the grave; "I was asleep, wasn’t I, mother? I remember in the morning."

"Yes, dear," said his mother, her voice tremulous; "yes, you were asleep—I was with baby when she died."

"Was father there too, mother?"

"Yes, Harvey, yes—pull that weed, dear; there, at the foot of baby’s grave."

"Did father cry when baby died, mother?—like you did, mother?"

"I don’t know, dear—yes, I think so. We’ll have to bring some fresh flowers soon, won’t we, Harvey?" the mother’s lips trembling.

"Yes, mother, I’ll pick some pretty ones to-morrow. Did father die long after baby, mother?" the boy pursuing the dread subject with the strange persistence wherewith children so often probe a secret wound.

"No, my son—yes, I mean; yes, Harvey, it was the same night, I think," her nervous fingers roving about Harvey’s uncovered head.

"You _think_, mother?" the tone full of surprise.

"It was near the same time, Harvey," she answered hurriedly, unable to control her voice. "I can’t tell you now, son—some day, perhaps. But mother was so sorry about baby that she hardly knows—don’t ask me any more about it, Harvey," she suddenly pleaded; "never any more—some day I’ll tell you all about your father, and all you’ve asked me so often. But don’t ask me any more, my son—it makes mother feel bad," as she bent over to kiss the curious lips.

He could see the tears upon his mother’s cheeks, and he inwardly resolved that her bidding should be done, silently wondering the while what this mysterious source of pain might be.

After a long silence the boy’s voice was heard again: "Weren’t baby’s eyes shut when she died, mother?"

"Yes, darling—yes, they were closed in death," and the unforgetting heart beat fast at the tender memory.

"But they’re open now, aren’t they, mother?—and wasn’t it God that did it?"

"Yes, Harvey, they’re open now—God opened them, I’m sure."

"Couldn’t He make people see all right before they’re dead, mother? Couldn’t He do it for you?"

"Yes, child—yes, He could if He wanted to."

"And why wouldn’t He want to?" the boy asked wonderingly. "I’m sure He could; and I’ve been asking Him to do it for us Himself—if we couldn’t get the money for the doctor to do it. Wasn’t that right, mother?"

The moon, high now, looked down upon the lonely pair; they stood together, they two, beside the unresponsive grave, the elder face bathed in tears, the younger unstained by grief and wistful with the eager trust of childhood. The insignia of poverty was upon them both, and the boy shivered slightly in the chill air; but the great romance and tragedy of life were interwoven there, love and hope and sorrow playing the parts they had so often played before. The woman stooped down amid the glistening grass and took her child into her arms, pressing him close to her troubled bosom, her face against his cheek, while her eyes roved still about his sister’s grave.

"We must go on," she murmured presently. "Can you see a light in the church?"

"Did you join when you were just a girl, mother?" the boy asked, his lips close to her ear.

"Yes," she replied, "I was very young when I joined."

"Did father ever join the church?" Harvey went on, releasing his face to gaze about the sleeping city.

"No, dear—no, your father never was a member of the church," she said softly.

"Wasn’t he good enough? Wouldn’t they let him?" the lad asked wonderingly.

"They never—they never refused him," his mother faltered. "But he never thought he was good enough."

"But he was, wasn’t he?" the boy pursued.

"Yes, dear—yes, he was once—he often was. He always meant to be good; he loved you, Harvey. And he made me promise that some day I would tell you why he thought—why he thought he wasn’t good enough. He was afraid you might be the same; it was something he—something he couldn’t help very well—I’ll tell you some day, Harvey. Who’s that?" she whispered excitedly, pointing towards a shadowy figure that was winding its way silently towards them.

His mother straightened up as she spoke, Harvey’s hand tight clasped in hers again. The figure came swiftly on.

"It’s Madeline," the boy said rather excitedly. "It’s Madeline Borland—I guess she’s going to join too."

Which proved indeed to be the case. "I knew it was you," the girl began, almost breathless as she came up to them. "The beadle said it was you, Harvey; Julia walked to the church with me, and she’s waiting till I join. I thought perhaps we might go in together; I don’t want to go in alone." Harvey could see in the dim light how eagerly the girl’s eyes were searching his mother’s face. He did not withdraw his hand, but unconsciously straightened himself in quiet dignity.

"This is my mother," he said simply, quite unfamiliar with the modes of introduction; "and that’s Miss Borland, mother."

"Please don’t say that," the girl interrupted. "I think you might call me Madeline; anyhow, I heard you call me Madeline to your mother," as she stepped gently around the foot of the grave and extended her hand to Harvey’s mother. The older woman was evidently struck by the girl’s beauty, by the simple grace and kindliness of her manner. At any rate she held the outstretched hand rather long in hers, gazing on the sweet face upturned in the quivering light.

"And this—this is my sister’s grave," Harvey’s subdued voice added a moment later.

The girl said nothing, turning a solemn gaze upon the lowly mound. She had been long familiar with the quiet acre, but this was perhaps the first time she had realized the dread personality that clothes the grave with dignity.

"You haven’t any treasure here, have you, Miss Madeline?" the mother asked timidly, when the pause had become almost painful.

"No, not any," the girl answered in hushed tones; "we haven’t even got a plot—I never had a little sister," she affirmed, the moistening eyes turning now to Harvey’s face. He looked down, then up again, and the soulful gaze was still fixed upon him. A kind of wave, strange and unfamiliar, seemed to bathe his soul; he did not wish to look longer, and yet a sort of spell seemed to keep his eyes fastened on her face. The girl’s look was eloquent of much that neither he nor she was able to interpret, the first venture out to sea on the part of either soul.

"Doesn’t it seem strange that we should meet here—here at your sister’s grave," she said slowly, after the gaze of both had fallen. "Of course, we’ve often seen each other at school—but this is our first real meeting, isn’t it?" she went on, gazing now towards the light that twinkled feebly in the distant church.

"Yes," he answered simply, "yes, it is—I guess we’d better go. Do you know the catechism?" he digressed, beginning to move forward, half leading his mother by the hand.

"No, I don’t. Father doesn’t believe in catechisms,—I wanted him to join along with me, but he said he wasn’t good enough. Only he said he’d see—it would be just like him to come without my knowing."

"That’s what my father said," Harvey interjected quickly; "and my mother says he was often good—only of course it’s too late now," a little sigh escaping with the words.

"Perhaps they join them in heaven," the girl suggested in an awestruck voice. "Father says that’s where the real joining’s done; if your father was good, I’m sure they’d join him," she concluded earnestly, looking into both the serious faces as she spoke.

"Don’t you think maybe they would, mother?" pleaded the boy. The habit of a lifetime committed everything to the mother for final judgment.

"That’s in God’s hands, dear," the delicate face glancing upward through the mist. "I’m sure God would do it if He could—we’d better hurry on; they’ll be waiting for us in the church."

The little procession wound its way back to the humble temple, Harvey still holding his mother by the hand, Madeline following close behind. And the shadowy home of the little child was left alone in the silence and the dark.

The youthful pair disappeared within the ivy-grown door. The mother, her dim eyes still more dimmed by tears, turned upon her homeward way, a troubled expression on her face. Why had she not told him more, she wondered to herself—something about his father, and the cruel appetite that had been his shame and his undoing? And her lips moved in trembling prayer that God would save her son from the blight of his father’s life, that the dread heritage might never wrap his life in the same lurid flame.

*VIII*

_*OF SUCH IS THE KINGDOM*_

The predominant national type among the Glenallen folks was Scotch, and that distinctly. David Borland was one of the few exceptions; and the good folk about him had varied explanations for the baffling fact that he, American-bred though he was, had been one of the most prosperous men of the community. Some maintained that his remote ancestry must have come from the land o’ cakes, even though he himself were oblivious to heaven’s far-off goodness. Others contended that his long association with a Scottish neighbourhood had inoculated him with something of their distinctive power; while the profounder minds acknowledged frankly that the ways of Providence were mysterious, and that this lonely spectacle of an alien mortal, handicapped from birth and yet rising to affluence and distinction, was but an evidence of the Omnipotence that had wrought the miracle.

But if, in matters temporal, the historic Scotch stock of Glenallen had been compelled to divide the spoil with those of lesser origin, the control of affairs ecclesiastical was carefully reserved for Scottish hands alone. This went without saying. Over every door of church officialdom, and especially of the eldership, he who ran might read: "No Irish need apply,"—and the restriction included all to whom heaven had denied the separate advantage of Scottish birth or ancestry.

Wherefore it came about that the assembled elders who on this particular night awaited the arrival of applicants for church-membership were about as formidable to look upon as any half dozen of mere men could be. The dignity of their office filled the little room and the sense of responsibility sat gravely on every face. Two there were among them, newly elected to the office—the highest office in the gift of their fellow-men—and these two were fairly dripping with new-born solemnity. The older men, relaxing with the years, had discarded some of the sombre drapery that the newer elders wrapt about them with pious satisfaction.

Æneas Ramsay, one of the veterans, had ventured to ask one of the newly ordained if they would finish the threshing at his farm to-morrow. The question was put before the meeting had well begun, and was whispered in the ear at that; but the shock was easily seen on the new elder’s face, who, recovering in a moment, informed his senior that they would discuss the matter after the "sederunt" was adjourned. Which purely Presbyterian term rolled from his lips with the luxurious unction known to Presbyterian elders, and to them alone.

The Session had been constituted, and good old Sandy McKerracher had led in prayer, the other elders standing through the exercise. Most of them had one foot upon a chair, the elbow resting on the knee and the chin upon the hand, before Sandy had concluded. In fact, the precaution of an adjoining chair was seldom overlooked by any when the Moderator named Sandy for this solemn duty, his staying powers famous for fifty years. The chief emphasis of his prayer was laid on the appeal to Infinite Love that none of the intending communicants might eat and drink damnation to themselves. This was a favourite request with all of them on such occasions—excepting one elder, and good Dr. Fletcher himself—and it was largely because of this that the Moderator was wont to see the Session constituted before the candidates were admitted to the room.

"There’s some bringin’ their lines frae ither kirks," Robert MaCaig began, when the Moderator asked if there were any candidates for membership, "but there’s nae mair nor twa to join on profession o’ faith," he added, turning a despondent eye upon his brother elders. "We used to hae a dizzen or mair."

"Twa souls is an awfu’ lot, Robert—twa never dyin’ souls!" It was Geordie Nickle who sounded the hopeful note. He was the saintliest elder of them all, and the saintliest are the sanguinest. "We maun be thankfu’ for twa mair to own the Saviour’s name," he added reverently.

"But they’re only bairns," Robert urged; "there’s no’ a muckle man among them."

"That’s a’ the better," returned Geordie; "the Maister was aye glad to hae the bairns come—ca’ them in," he said, the slightest note of impatience in his voice.

A moment later Harvey and Madeline were ushered in, very shy and embarrassed, their downcast eyes fluttering upwards now and then to the stern faces fixed upon them.

There was considerable skirmishing of a preliminary sort, the elders’ questions booming out solemnly like minute guns. Suddenly Robert McCaig proceeded to business.

"We’ll tak a rin ower the fundamentals," he said, brandishing the age-worn term as though he had just invented it. "What is original sin?" he demanded; "tell the Moderator what’s original sin."

"The Moderator kens fine himsel’," Andrew Fummerton whispered to the elder at his right, smiling grimly. But the man beside him scarcely heard, for every mind was intent with the process under way; scores of times had they witnessed it before, but it was again as new and absorbing as the prowess of a fisherman landing his reluctant prize.

There was a long silence, still as death. Suddenly Willie Gillespie fell to sneezing; he it was at whose farm the threshers had been that day, and who had been profanely questioned by Æneas Ramsay, as already told. Perhaps it was the day’s dust that provoked the outburst; but, from whatever cause, the explosion was remarkable in its power and duration, one detonation following another with heightening tumult till the final booming was worthy of the noblest efforts of modern artillery. As the bombardment increased in power, the elders unconsciously braced themselves a little on their chairs, dismayed at the unseemly outbreak, considering the place and the occasion.

Harvey, for the life of him, could not forbear to smile; this human symptom was reassuring to him amid the statuesque solemnity of the room—it made original sin less ghostly, somehow, and he looked almost gratefully at the dynamic Willie. This latter worthy, recoiling like a smoking cannon, groped frankly for his nose as if apprehensive that it had been discharged; finding it uninjured, he repaired hastily to the tail pocket of a black coat that had sustained the dignity of a previous generation in the eldership, extracting therefrom a lurid pocket-handkerchief—that is, originally lurid—but now as variously bedecked as though the threshers had enjoyed its common ministry that day. Whereupon there ensued a succession of reports, inferior only to their mighty predecessors themselves, resembling nothing so much as the desultory firing that succeeds the main attack.

"Ye was askin’ what might be original sin," Willie murmured apologetically from behind the faithful handkerchief, swishing it back and forward on his nose the while as though he were polishing the knocker on a door; he glanced apologetically towards Mr. McCaig as he spoke, anxious to repair the connection he had so violently disturbed.

"If my memory serves me," Robert returned severely, "if my memory serves me, that is what we was dealin’ wi’—order’s a graun’ thing at a meetin’ o’ sic a kind as this," he added sternly, his gaze following the disappearing banner now being reëntombed.

"What is original sin, laddie? Mebbe the lassie can gie me the answer," he suggested, Harvey’s silence impressing him as incurable.

"I’m not very sure," faltered Madeline—"was it the kind at the beginning?"

Robert McCaig had no desire to be unnecessarily severe; therefore turned enquiringly to his colleagues, implying that the verdict lay with them.

"Very good, child, very good," Dr. Fletcher said approvingly. "It’s very hard to answer Mr. McCaig’s question—he’d find it difficult enough himself. What is it, Harvey?" he asked, smiling at the boy, who seemed to have an idea ready.

"I’m not very sure either; but isn’t it—isn’t it the kind that doesn’t wear off?" the lad ventured timidly, rather ashamed of the description after it was finished.

"Capital, my boy; first-rate!" the minister cried delightedly. "That’s better than anything I learned in college. I don’t believe any one could get much nearer to it than that—now we’ll just pass from this," smiling around at the elders as he made the suggestion; "there are other things more important—has any of the elders anything else to ask?"

It was not long before two or three of them were in full cry again. Stern questions, weighty interrogatives, suggestive of the deepest mysteries, were propounded to the youthful pair as complacently as though they were being asked how many pints make a gallon. One wanted to know their view of the origin of evil, following this by a suggestion that they should each give a brief statement of the doctrine of the Trinity. Another urged that they should describe in brief the process of regeneration. Still another asked if they could repeat the books of the Bible backwards—any one, he said, could do it the old way—and one good elder capped the climax by saying he would like to hear them tell how to reconcile the free agency of man with the sovereignty of God.

But just at this juncture Geordie Nickle rose, his face beaming with tenderness, and addressed the chair.

"They’re fashin’ the bairns, Moderator," he said gently. "Wull ye no’ let me pit a wee bit question or twa till them mysel’?"

The Moderator was evidently but too well pleased, and his nod gave Geordie the right of way. The old man moved to where Harvey and Madeline were seated, taking his stand partially behind them, his hands resting gently on the heads of both.

"I mind fine the nicht I joined the kirk mysel’," he began; "it was the winter my mither gaed awa, an’ I think God answered her prayer, to mak her glad afore she went—but the elders askit me some o’ thae vera questions—an’ I kent then hoo far they was frae the soul," he said gravely, looking compassionately on the faces now upturned to his own. "Sae I’m juist gaein’ to ask ye what I was wishin’ they’d ask frae me. Div ye no’ love the Saviour, lassie—and div ye no’ ken He’s the son o’ God?" he asked reverently, tenderly. "Div ye no’ ken that, lassie?—an’ the same wi’ yirsel’, my laddie?—I’m sure ye’re baith trustin’ Him, to the savin’ o’ the soul; are ye no’, bairnies?" and the old man’s face shone as the great truth kindled his own simple soul.

Harvey and Madeline nodded eager assent, a muffled affirmative breaking from their lips.

"An’ ye ken the Saicrament’s juist the meetin’-place where He breaks bread wi’ His children, and where they say, afore a’ the folk, that they love Him, and trust Him, an’ want to be aye leal an’ true till Him, and show forth His death till He come—div ye no’ ken it that way?" the kindly voice went on, his hands still resting on the youthful heads.

Harvey answered first: "That’s what I’d like to be—that’s what I want to do," he said simply.

"I want to, too—I’m the same as Harvey," Madeline faltered sweetly.

Then Geordie Nickle straightened himself and turned towards Dr. Fletcher. "Moderator," he said earnestly, "we canna mak the way mair open nor the Maister made it; an’ I move that these twa be received intil full communion, an’ their names—the Clerk kens what they are—be added to the roll o’ communicants in good standin’ i’ the kirk."

This was carried without further protest and ordered to be done forthwith.

*IX*

_*A BELATED ENQUIRER*_

The youthful candidates had hardly left the room when the beadle, compared with whose solemnity the gravity of the elders was frivolity itself, announced that a further candidate was in waiting.