Part 7

The doctor’s face was soft with grave compassion; long years of familiarity with human suffering had not chilled that sacred fire. Putting his arm about the youth’s shoulder, he drew the throbbing form close to him. "My boy," he began in a low voice, "I won’t deceive you. Your mother’s eyesight is almost gone. But still," he hastened on as the lad started and turned his pleading eyes up to the doctor’s face, "it might come back—you can never tell. It’s an affection of the optic nerve—it’s often aggravated by a violent shock of some kind—and I’ve had cases where it did come back. It might return, lad, might come very slowly or very suddenly—and I can say no more than that."

The poor boy never moved; the mournful eyes never wandered an instant from the doctor’s face. The silence seemed long; at least to the physician. One or two patients had arrived meantime, waiting in the outer room—and a coachman’s shining hat could be seen through the spacious window. But it did not dawn on Harvey that such a doctor could have any other care in all the world, or any serious duty except such as now engrossed them both.

"What are you going to do?" the physician said presently.

"I’m going back to my mother," the boy answered simply, picking up his hat.

"Oh, yes," and the other repressed a smile; "but I mean—what are you going to do at home? What will you go at in Glenallen—you go to school, don’t you?"

"I’m going to work all the time," Harvey replied resolutely, moving along the hall.

The doctor’s hand was on the door. "I’m sorry for you, my lad," he said gently. "But there’s always hope—we’re all God’s patients after all," he added earnestly.

Harvey put his hand against the opening door, his face turning in fullness of candour and trust towards the doctor.

"I’ve prayed about mother for a long time," he said; "is it any use to keep on, sir? You’re a specialist and you ought to know."

The doctor closed the door quite tight. "Don’t let any specialist settle that matter for you," he said a little hoarsely. "It often seems as if the good Lord wouldn’t begin till they get through. So you pray on, my lad—for there’s no healing, after all, but comes from God." Then he opened the door and the broken-hearted went out into the street.

Suffused and dim, blinking bravely through it all, were the mournful eyes as Harvey retraced his steps towards his mother; swift and deep was the train of thought that wound its way through his troubled mind. For there is no ally to deep and earnest thinking like a loving heart that anguish has bestirred—all true quickening of our mental faculties is the handiwork of the soul. Harvey saw the trees, the sky, the birds between—all different now, more precious, more wonderful to behold; for he saw them in the light of his mother’s deepening darkness, and the glory of all that was evanishing from her appeared the more beautiful, pitifully beautiful, to his own misty eyes.

Involuntarily he thought of the future; of the twilight years that lay beyond—and his inward eyes turned shuddering away. The years that were past, those at least that had come and gone before the threatening shadow first appeared, seemed to lie behind him like a lane of light. Poverty and obscurity and sorrow and care had been well content to abide together in their humble home—almost their only guests save love. Yet his memory now of those earlier years was only of their gladness, their happiness, their light—all the rest had vanished like a dream when one awakes. He remembered only that they two, the fatherless, had been wont to look deep and lovingly into the eyes that looked back their wealth of fondness into the children’s faces—night or day, day or night, that light was never quenched; they could see her and she could see them—and to look was to possess, though his early thoughts could not have defined this mystic truth, cherish it fondly though they did. But for the future—ah me! for the future, with blindness in a mother’s eyes.

Yet Harvey’s thought, swift and pensive as it was, was troubled by no prospect of burden for himself and by no apprehension of all the load that must be moved, under cover of the fast-falling dark, from his mother’s shoulders to his own. His thought was what must be called heart-thought, and that alone. If a fleeting view of new responsibilities, or a melting picture of his sister’s face, hung for a moment before the inward eye, it retreated fast before the great vision that flooded his soul with tenderness, the vision of a woman—and she his mother—sitting apart in the silence and the dark, the busy hands denied the luxury of work, the ever-open Bible closed before her, the great world of beauty receding into shadow; and, most of all, there rose before him the image of her face, unresponsive and unsmiling when the tender eyes of her own children should fall upon it, mutely searching, yearning silently for the answering sunshine of days that would come no more.

Without a word Harvey took his seat beside his mother. Her hand slipped quietly out and took his own, but without speech or sound—and in that moment Harvey learned, as he had never known before, how cruel are the lips of silence. Suddenly he noticed a cab, rolling idly along, the driver throwing his eyes hither and thither, poising like a kingfisher for its plunge.

The boy raised his hand in signal and the cabby swooped down upon him like one who has found his prey.

"Get in, mother—we’ll drive back," he said quietly.

His mother, startled beyond measure at the prospect of extravagance so unwonted, began to remonstrate, almost refusing. But a different note seemed to have come into Harvey’s voice, his words touched with something that indicated a new era, something of the authority that great compassion gives, and in a moment she found herself yielding with a dependent confidence she had never felt before.

"Where to?" asked the man.

"Anywhere," said Harvey—"somewhere near the station; I’ll tell you where."

"It’ll—it’ll cost a dollar," the man ventured, his hand still on the door and his eyes making a swift inventory of the boy’s rather unpromising apparel.

"I’ll pay you," the latter answered sternly. "Shut the door; close the window too," he ordered—"close both the windows. And don’t drive fast."

The spendthrift impulse must have been heaven-born and that vagrant chariot been piloted from afar. For they two within felt something of sanctuary peace as the driver vanished to his place and they found themselves alone—alone with each other and the sorrow that was deep and thrilling as their love. They could hear and feel the busy tide of life about them; the pomp of wealth and the tumult of business frowned from towering mansions, or swept indifferent by, knowing nothing, caring less, about those nestling two who were all alone in the mighty city—but they had each other, and the haughty world was shut out from them, all its cruel grandeur, all its surging billows powerless to rob them of what their stricken hearts held dear. And, if the truth were told, many a stately house and many a flashing carriage that passed them by, held less of love’s real wealth than did the mud-bespattered cab that creaked and rumbled on its way.

Several minutes elapsed before either spoke. Then the mother turned towards the silent lad, her face sweet in the wistful smile that stole across it.

"Did you find what you went back for, dear?" she asked.

Harvey cast one sharp agonized glance towards the gentle face—and it told him all. He knew then that the pain of either concealing or revealing was to be spared him; but his heart leaped in pity and in boundless love as he saw the light upon the worn face, the brave and tender signal that he knew the wounded spirit had furnished all for him.

He spoke no answer to her words; he knew that she expected none. But the answer came nevertheless, and in richer language than halting words could learn. For he rose half erect in the carriage, careless as to whether the world’s disdainful eye might see, his arms stealing around the yielding and now trembling form with a strength and passion that were the gift of the first really anguished hour his life had ever known.

The woman felt its power, caught its message, even inwardly rejoiced in the great security; pavilion like to this she had never found before in all her storm-swept life.

"Oh, Harvey," she murmured at last, "Harvey, my son, God’s been good to me; I’m almost happy when—when I feel how much you are to me now—and Jessie too," she added quickly; "poor Jessie—it’ll be hard for her."

Mutely, reverently, guided from on high, Harvey strove to speak the burden of his heart. But it ended only in tears and tender tokens of hand and lip, his sorrow outpouring the story of its pity and devotion as best it could.

"I’ll always take care of you, mother," he whispered; "always—just like you’ve taken care of us. And we’ll wait till you get better, mother—we’ll wait together."

His mother’s fingers were straying about his hair. "I know it, darling," she said; "some ways I’m so poor, Harvey; but other ways I’m wonderfully rich—the highest ways. And now, Harvey," straightening up as she spoke, "there’s something I want to attend to. You must tell the man to drive to a store where we get clothes—coats and things, you know. I want to get something."

"What?" asked Harvey suspiciously.

"It’s for you. It’s a winter coat—you know you haven’t one, Harvey."

Then followed a stout protest and then a vigorous debate. But the mother conquered. "You mustn’t forget that I’m your mother, Harvey," she finally urged, and Harvey had no response for that. But after they had alighted and the purchase had been duly made he contrived to withdraw the genial salesman beyond reach of his mother’s hearing.

"Have you got something the same price as this?" he asked hurriedly; "something for a lady—a cloak, or a dressing-gown—one that would fit, you know," he said, glancing in the direction of his mother.

The clerk was responsive enough; in a moment the exchange was effected, and Harvey, his mother’s arm linked with his, led the way out to the crowded street.

They made their way back to the station. As Harvey passed within its arching portals, he bethought himself sadly of the high hope, now almost dead and gone, that had upborne his heart when last he had passed beneath them. It seemed like months, rather than a few hours, so charged with suspense and feeling had those hours been.

The train was in readiness and they were soon settled for the homeward journey. But scarcely had they begun to move when the door before them opened and Cecil Craig made his appearance. He evidently knew that Harvey and his mother were aboard, for his eye roamed enquiringly over the passengers, resting as it fell on the two serious faces. Suddenly he seemed to note that Harvey had pre-empted the seat opposite to the one on which he and his mother had taken their places; a small valise and the parcel containing the surreptitious purchase were lying on it. Whereupon Cecil strode forward. "Take those things off," he hectored—"Want the whole train to yourself? Don’t you know that’s against the rules—I want to sit there."

Harvey had not seen him approaching, for his eyes had been furtively studying his mother’s face. He started, looking up at Cecil almost as though he were not there; then he quietly removed the encumbrances and even turned the seat for Cecil to take his place. He wondered dumbly to himself what might be the cause of this strange calmness, this absolute indifference; he did not know how a master-sorrow can make all lesser irritations like the dust.

"Keep it," Cecil said insolently. "I’m going back to the Pullman—I wanted to see who’d walk the plank to-day," casting at Harvey a contemptuous sneer the latter did not even see. And no thought of Cecil, or his insult, or his phantom triumph, mingled with Harvey’s grave reflections as they rolled swiftly homeward; he had other matters to consider, of more importance far.

*XIII*

_*THE DEWS OF SORROW*_

The dusk was gathering about them as the returning travellers wended their way along the almost deserted street. The dim outline of the slumbering hills could be seen across the river—for Glenallen had grown in a circle upon surrounding heights—and as Harvey’s eyes rested now and again upon them in the dying light of the summer day, he felt a secret sense of help and comfort, as if some one knew and cared for his clouded life. It seemed good to walk these streets again—so different from those of the city—with the familiar faces and the kindly voices; and often was he stopped and questioned, not without delicacy and chaste reserve, as to the outcome of their pilgrimage. Which gave his heart some balm, at least for the moment.

"Look, mother," he cried suddenly, forgetting in his eagerness; "look—I can see our light," his face glowing as if the gleam were from palace windows. His mother raised her head quickly, as if she also saw. Perhaps it was even clearer to her, though she beheld it not. But together they quickened their pace, for they knew that earth’s dearest shelter, how humble soever it might be, was just before.

And as they came closer, Harvey could see, the white frock showing clear against the shadows, the outline of his sister’s form. Poor child, the day had been long for her, waiting and wondering, the portent of the tidings that the night might bring mingling with all her childish thoughts. She was moving out from the door-step now, peering eagerly, starting forward or restraining herself again as doubt and certainty of the approaching pair impelled her. Suddenly she seemed to be quite sure, and with a little cry she bounded along the street, the eager footfalls pattering with the rapidity of love.

The mother knew that music well; her hand slipped out of Harvey’s grasp, the hungry arms outstretched as she felt the ardent form approaching—and in a moment, tears and laughter blending, the girlish arms were tight about the mother’s neck and warm kisses were healing the wound within. Presently Jessie withdrew her face from the heaving bosom, her eyes turned wistfully upon her mother’s, plaintively searching for the cure her childlike hope had expected to find obvious at a glance. Disappointment and pain spoke from her eyes—she could see no difference—and she turned almost reproachfully upon her brother.

"What did he—what——?" she began; but something on Harvey’s face fell like a forbidding finger on her lips and her question died in silence.

"I brought you something pretty from the city, Jessie," the mother broke in. She knew what had checked the words. "It’s in the satchel, dear—and we’ll open it as soon as we get home."

"What’s in that other bundle?" asked the child.

"It’s Harvey’s winter coat," replied the mother.

"I’m so glad," Jessie said simply. "And oh, I’ve got good news too," she went on enthusiastically. "I sold three pairs of those knitted stockings—all myself; and the man wouldn’t take any change—I only asked him once. It was thirty-one cents—and the money’s in the cup," she concluded eagerly as they passed within the little door, the bell above clanging their welcome home.

The valise was duly opened and Jessie’s present produced amid great elation. Only a simple blue sash, selected by her brother with grave deliberation from the assortment on a bargain counter that lay like victims on an altar; but Jessie’s joy was beautiful to behold, aided and abetted in it as she was by the other two, both mother and son trying on the flashing girdle, only to declare that it became Jessie best of all.

Suddenly the girl exclaimed: "Oh, Harvey, the chickens missed you so. I’m sure they did—Snappy wouldn’t take any supper. They’re in bed, of course, but I don’t think they’re sleeping—let’s just go out and see them. Come."

Harvey was willing enough, and the two sallied out together. But Jessie held her hand tight on the door, drowsy chucklings within all unheeded, as she turned her white face upon her brother.

"Now," she said imperiously, the voice low and strained, "tell me—tell me quick, Harvey."

"I thought you wanted me to see the chickens," he evaded.

"I hate the chickens—and that was a lie about Snappy’s supper. I just wanted to ask you about mother. Tell me quick, Harvey."

Harvey stammered something; but he needed to say no more—the girl sank sobbing at his feet.

"I knew it," she cried. "I just knew it—oh, mother, mother! And she’ll soon never see again, and it’ll always be night all the time—an’ she’ll never look at you or me any more, Harvey, she’ll never look at you or me again. An’ I got a little photograph took to-day, a little tintype—just five cents—an’ I thought she’d be able to see it when she came back. Oh, Harvey, Harvey," and the unhappy child, long years a struggler with poverty and cloud, poured forth, almost as with a woman’s voice, the first strain of anguish her little heart had ever known.

Harvey sank beside her, his arm holding her close. The twilight was now deepening into dark, a fitting mantel for these two enshadowed hearts. The still form of the bending brother, already giving promise of manhood’s strength, seemed, even in outward aspect, to speak of inner compassion as he bended over the slender and weaker frame of his little sister. Strong and fearless and true he was; and if any eye had been keen enough to penetrate that encircling gloom and catch a vision of all that lay behind the humble scene, the knightly soul of the struggling boy would have stood forth like a sheltering oak—so powerless, nevertheless, to shield the clinging life beside him, overswept as it was by the winds and waves of sorrow. But the purpose and the heart were there—the fatherless spreading gentle wings above the fatherless—and the scene was a holy one, typical of all humanity at its highest, and faintly faltering the story of the Cross. For if human tenderness and pity are not lights, broken though they be, of the great Heart Divine, then all life’s noblest voices are but mockery and lies.

"Don’t, Jessie, please don’t," he murmured, his own tears flowing fast. "It’ll only keep her from getting better—she’ll see your eyes all red an’——"

"She won’t—she can’t," sobbed the girl; "you know she can’t—she can’t see, Harvey," a fresh tide outbreaking at the thought.

"But she’ll feel it, Jessie. Mothers can feel everything like that—’specially everybody’s own mother," he urged, vainly trying to control his own grief. "And anyhow, the doctor said she might get better some time—perhaps all of a sudden. And we’ve got to help her, Jessie; and we’ve got to make her happy too—and we can—mother said we could," he cried, his tone growing firmer as the great life-work loomed before him.

Hope is the most contagious of all forms of health; and with wonderful gentleness and power the youthful comforter drew the sobbing heart beside him into the shelter of his own tender courage, the hiding-place of his own loving purpose. Soon Jessie was staring, wide-eyed, at her brother, as he unfolded the new duties they must perform together. That word itself was never used, but her heart answered, as all true hearts must ever answer, to the appeal of God.

"I’ll try, Harvey," she said at last. "I’ll do the best I can to help mother to get well—an’ I’ll get up in the mornings an’ make the porridge myself," she avowed, smiling, the first step showing clear.

Hand in hand they went back to the house, the light of eager purpose upon both their faces. As they entered, a familiar voice fell on Harvey’s ear.

"We was jest a-goin’ by,"—it was David Borland’s staccato—"an’ I thought I’d drop in an’ see if you was all safe home. Don’t take off your things, Madeline; we’re not a-visitin’," he said to the girl beside him. For she was bidding fair to settle for a protracted stay.

"Yes, we’re safe home, thank you," answered Mrs. Simmons, "and it’s lovely to get back. I’m a poor traveller."

"’Tain’t safe to travel much these days," rejoined Mr. Borland after he had greeted Harvey; whose face, as well as a fugitive word or two, hushed any queries that were on David’s lips—"so many accidents, I always feel skeery on the trains—must be hard to run Divine predestination on schedule, since they got them heavy engines on the light rails. I often think the undertakers is part of the railroad trust," he concluded, smiling sententiously into all the faces at once.

Some further conversation ensued, prompted in a general way by the excursion to the city, and dealing finally with the question of eminent city doctors and their merits.

"I only went onct to a big city man like that," David said reminiscently, "and it was about my eyes, too. You see, I rammed my shaving-brush into one, one evenin’ when I was shavin’ in the dusk. Well, I was awful skeery about what he’d charge—didn’t have much of the almighty needful in them days. An’ I heard he charged the Governor-General’s missus five thousand dollars, a week or two before, for takin’ a speck o’ dust out of her eye—castin’ out the mote, as the Scriptur says; I’d leave a sand-pit stay there before I’d shell out like that. Well, anyhow, I was skeered, ’cause I knew me an’ the nobility had the same kind of eyes. So I didn’t dress very good—wore some old togs. An’ after he got through—just about four minutes an’ a half—I asked him what was the damage. Says he: ’What do you do, Mr. Borland?’ ’I work in a foundry,’ says I. ’Oh, well,’ says he, ’call it five dollars.’ So I yanked out a roll o’ bills about the size of a hind quarter o’ beef, an’ I burrows till I gets a five—then I gives it to him. ’How do you come to have a wad like that, Mr. Borland,’ says he, ’if you work in a foundry?’ ’I own the foundry,’ says I, restorin’ the wad to where most Scotchmen carries their flask. ’Oh!’ says he, lookin’ hard at the little fiver. ’Oh, I’ll give you another toadskin,’ says I, ’jest to show there’s no hard feelin’.’ ’Keep it,’ says he—an’ he was laughin’ like a guinea hen, ’keep it, an’ buy a marble monument for yourself, and put at the bottom of it what a smart man you was,’" and David slapped his knee afresh in gleeful triumph. For the others, too, there was laughter and to spare; which very purpose David had designed his autobiography to accomplish. A moment later Madeline and her father were at the door, the little circle, laughing still, around him as they stepped without.

"You’re a terrible one for shakin’ hands, girl," David said to his daughter as they stood a moment on the step. "That’s a habit I never got much into me." For Madeline’s farewell had had much of meaning in it, the sweet face suffused with sympathy as she shook hands with all—the mother first, then Jessie, then Harvey—and the low voice had dropped a word or two that told the depth and sincerity of her feeling. When she said good-bye to Harvey, the pressure of her hand, light and fluttering as it was, found a response so warm and clinging that a quick flush overflowed her face, before which the other’s fell, so striking was its beauty, so full of deep significance the message of the strong and soulful eyes. Her father’s child was she, and the fascination of sorrow had early touched her heart.

The door was almost closed when David turned to call back lustily:

"Oh, Harvey—Harvey, Mr. Nickle wants to see you; Geordie Nickle, you know; an’ if you come round to my office to-morrow about half-past four, I think you’ll find him there. He’s got a great scheme on; he’s the whitest man I ever run acrost, I think—for a Scotchman."

*XIV*

_*THE WEIGHING OF THE ANCHOR*_