Part 8

Surely the years love best to ply their industry among the young. For two or three of them, each taking up the work where its predecessor laid it down, can transform a youth or maiden to an extent that is really wonderful. Perhaps this is because the young lend themselves so cheerfully to everything that makes for change, and resent all tarrying on life’s alluring way. They love to make swift calls at life’s chief ports, so few in number though they be; they are impatient to try the open sea beyond, unrecking that the last harbour and the long, long anchorage are all too near at hand.

The difference that these silent craftsmen can soon make upon a face might have been easily visible to any observant eye, had such an eye been cast one evening upon the still unbroken circle of the Simmons home. The mother had changed but little; nor had anything changed to her—unless it were that all upon which her eyes had closed shone brighter in the light that memory imparts. Still holding her secret hidden deep, her fondness for those left to her seemed but to deepen as the hope of her husband’s return grew more and more faint within. If the hidden tragedy delved an ever deeper wound under cover of her silence, it had no outward token but an intenser love towards those from whom she had so long concealed it.

But Jessie and Harvey had turned the time to good account. For the former had almost left behind the stage of early childhood, merging now into the roundness and plumpness—and consciousness, too—that betoken a girl’s approach to the sunlit hills of womanhood.

Yet Harvey had changed the most of all. The stalwart form had taken to itself the proportions of opening manhood—height, firmness, breadth of shoulders, length of limb, all made a strong and comely frame. The poise of the head indicated resolute activity, and the evening light that now played upon his face revealed a countenance in which sincerity, seriousness, hopefulness, might be traced by a practiced eye. Humour, too, was there—that twin sister unto seriousness—maintaining its own place in the large eyes that had room for other things beside; and the glance that was sometimes turned upon the autumn scene without, but oftener upon his mother and his sister, was eloquent of much that lay behind. The tuition of his soul had left its mark upon his face. Early begun and relentlessly continued, it had taught him much of life, of life’s ways and life’s severities—not a little, too, of the tactics she demands from all who would prevail in the stern battle for which he had been compelled so early to enlist. New duties, unusual responsibilities, severe mental exercise such as serious study gives, stern self-denial, constant thought of others, these had conspired to provide the manly seriousness upon the still almost boyish face.

Autumn reigned without, as has been already said, and in robes of gold. Glowing and glorious, the oak and the elm and the maple wrapt in bridal garments, glad nature went onward to her death, mute preceptress to pagan Christians as to how they too should die.

A graver autumn reigned within. For the little circle was to be broken on the morrow, and the humble home was passing through one of earth’s truest crises, giving up an inmate to the storm and peril of the great world without. The world itself may smile, stretching forth indifferent hands to receive the outgoing life; what cares the ocean for another swimmer as he joins the struggling throng?—but was the surrender ever made without tumult and secret tears?

"Look, look," Jessie cried, as she turned her face a moment from the pane; "there goes Cecil and Madeline—I guess he’s taking her for a farewell drive."

In spite of himself, Harvey joined his sister at the window.

"Is Madeline with him?" he said, throwing quite an unusual note of carelessness into the words.

"Yes, that’s the second time they’ve driven past here—at least, I’m almost sure it was them before," Jessie averred, straining her neck a little to follow the disappearing carriage.

"I wonder what he’ll do with his horse when he’s away," Harvey pursued, bent on an irrelevant theme, and thankful that the light was dim. The inward riot that disturbed him would have been much allayed could he have known that the parade before their door was of Madeline’s own contriving; presuming, that is, that he understood the combination of the woman-heart.

"Doesn’t it seem strange, Harvey, that you and Cecil should start for the University the very same day?—he’s going on the same train in the morning, isn’t he?" enquired Jessie, her eyes abandoning their pursuit.

"I think so," her brother answered carelessly. "Jessie," he digressed decisively, "I want you to promise me something. I’m going to write you a letter every week, and I want you to take and read it—or nearly all of it; sometimes there’ll be bits you can’t—to Mr. Nickle. If it weren’t for him—for him and Mr. Borland—I wouldn’t be going to college at all, as you know."

"That I will," the sister answered heartily; "I think he’s just the dearest old man. And I can manage it easily enough—there’s hardly a day but he comes into the store to buy something. He and Mr. Borland always seem to be wanting something, something that we’ve always got, too. They must eat an awful lot of sweet stuff between them. And every time Mr. Nickle comes in, he says: ’Weel, hoo’s the scholarship laddie the day?’—he’s awfully proud about you getting the scholarship, Harvey."

Her brother’s face brightened. "Well there’s one thing I’m mighty glad of," he said, "and that is that I won’t be very much of a charge for my first year at any rate—that hundred and fifty will help to see me through."

"But you mustn’t stint yourself, Harvey," the mother broke in with tender tone. "You must get a nice comfortable place to board in, and have a good warm bed—and lots of good nourishing things to eat. I know I’ll often be waking up in the night and wondering if you’re cold. Do you know, dear," she went on, her voice trembling a little, "we’ve never been a night separated since you were born—it’s going to be hard for a while, I’m afraid," she said a little brokenly as the youth nestled down beside her, his head resting on her lap as in the old childhood days.

"It’ll be harder for me, mother," he said; "but I think I’d be almost happy if you were well again. It nearly breaks my heart to think of leaving you here in—in the dark," he concluded, his arm stealing fondly about her neck.

The woman bended low to his caress. "Don’t, Harvey—you mustn’t. It’s not the dark—it’s never dark where Christ abides," she broke out with a fervour that almost startled him, for it was but rarely that she spoke like this. "I’ve got so much to thank God for, my son—it’s always light where love makes it light. And I’m so proud and happy that you’re going to get the chance you need, Harvey. Oh, but He’s been good to my little ones," she cried, her voice thrilling with the note of real gratitude that is heard, strangely enough, only from those who sit among the shadows. The noblest notes of praise have come from lips of pain.

"You’ll write to me, won’t you, mother?—you’ll tell Jessie what to say, and it’ll be almost like getting it from yourself."

"Oh, yes," she answered quickly, "and I’ll always be able to sign my name. And if you’re ever in trouble, Harvey—or if you’re ever tempted—and that’s sure to come in a great city like the one you’re going to—remember your mother’s praying for you. I’m laid aside, I know, my son, and there’s not much now that I can do; but there’s one thing left to me—I have the throne of grace; and if any one knows its comfort, surely it’s your mother."

"Mother, won’t you tell me something?" he interrupted decisively.

"What is it, my son?"

"Isn’t there something else, mother—some other sorrow, I mean—that I don’t know about? I’ve had a feeling for a long time that there was—was something else."

The mother was long in answering. But she raised her hand and drew his arm tighter about her neck, the protecting love very sweet. "There’s nothing but what I get grace to bear—don’t ask me more, my child," and as she spoke the bending boy felt the hot tears begin to fall. They soon came thick and fast, for the mother’s heart was melting within her, and as he felt the sacred drops upon his head the son’s soul rose up in purpose and devotion, making its solemn vow that he would be worthy of a love so great.

The evening wore away, every hour precious to them all. Very simple and homely were the counsels that fell from the mother’s lips; that he must be careful about making new acquaintances, especially such as would hail him on the street, and speak his name, and cite his friends in witness—they doubtless all knew about the scholarship money; that he must study with his light behind him—not in front—and never later than half-past ten; that a couple of pairs of stockings, at the very least, must always be on hand in case of wet feet and resultant colds; that if cold in bed, he must ask for extra covering—he simply must not be afraid to ask for what he wants; that he must be very careful on those crowded city streets, especially of the electric cars; that in case of illness he must telegraph immediately, regardless of expense; that he must not forsake the Bible-class on Sabbath afternoons, but find one there and enroll himself at once; that he must accept gladly if fine people asked him to their homes, caring nothing though other students may be better dressed than he—they didn’t get the scholarship, anyhow.

And Harvey promised all. More than likely that he took the admonitions lightly; he was not so much concerned with them as with the conflicting emotions that possessed him, eager joy that the battle was about to begin in earnest and yearning sympathy for the devoted hearts he was to leave behind. If all to which he was going forth loomed before him as a battle, it was as a delicious battle, whose process should be perpetual pleasure, its issue decisive victory. No thought of its real peril, its subtle conflict, its despairing hours, marred the prospect of the beckoning years; he knew not how he would yet revise his estimates as to who are our real enemies, nor did he dream that his fiercest foes would be found within—and that the battle of inward living is, after all has been said and done, the battle of life itself.

"And now, my children," the mother said at last when the evening was far spent, "we’d better go to our rest, for we’ll need to be up early in the morning. But I want to have a little prayer with you before we part—we’ll just kneel here;" and she sank beside her chair, an arm about either child. It was quite dark, for none seemed to wish a light—they knew it could add nothing to the mother’s vision—and in simple, earnest words, sometimes choking with the emotion she could not control, she committed her treasures to her God. "Oh, keep his youthful feet, our Father," the trustful voice implored, "and never let them wander from the path; help him in his studies and strengthen him in his soul—and keep us here at home in Thy blessed care, and let us all meet again. For Jesus’ sake."

The light—that light that they enjoy who need no candle’s glow—was about them as they arose, the mother’s hand in Jessie’s as they turned away. Harvey sought the shelter of the room that was so soon to be his no more. He closed the door as he entered, falling on his knees beside the bed to echo his mother’s prayer. Then he hurriedly undressed and was soon fast asleep.

It was hours after, the silent night hurrying towards the dawn, when he suddenly awoke, somewhat startled. For he felt a hand upon his brow, and the clothes were tight about him. Looking up, he dimly discerned his mother’s face; white-robed, she was bending over him.

"Don’t be frightened, Harvey; go to sleep, dear—it’s only me. I wanted to tuck you in once more, like I used to do when you were little. Oh, Harvey," and a half cry escaped her as she bent down and put her arms about him, "I don’t know how to give you up—but go to sleep, dear, go to sleep."

But Harvey was now wide awake, clinging to his mother. "Don’t go," he said, "stay with me a little."

There was a long silence. At last Harvey spoke:

"What are you thinking about, mother?"

The woman drew her shawl tighter about her shoulders and settled herself on the bed. "I think I’ll tell you, Harvey," she said in a whisper; "it seems easier to tell you in the dark—and when Jessie’s asleep."

"What is it?" he asked eagerly. "Is it anything that’s hard to say?"

"Yes, my son, it’s hard to tell—but I think I ought to tell it. Are you wide awake, Harvey?"

"Yes, mother. What is it?" he asked again.

"Do you remember, Harvey, the night you went to join the church?—and how I walked with you as far as the door?—and we went into the cemetery together? Don’t you remember, Harvey?"

"Yes, mother, of course I do. But why?"

"Can you remember how, when we were standing at the baby’s grave, you asked me why your father never joined the church, and I said he didn’t think he was good enough—and you asked me why, and I said I’d tell you some time. Do you remember that, my son?"

"Yes," Harvey answered slowly, his mind working fast.

"Well, I’m going to tell you now. Your father was so good to me, Harvey—at least, nearly always. But he used"—she buried her face in the pillow—"this is what I’m going to tell you, Harvey; he used—he used to drink sometimes."

The form beside her lay still as death. "Sometimes he used to—we were so happy, till that began. And oh, Harvey, nobody can ever know what a dreadful struggle it is, till they’ve seen it as I saw it. For he loved you, my son, he loved you and Jessie like his own soul—and it was the company he got into—and some discouragements—and things like that, that were to blame for it. But the struggle was terrible, Harvey—like fighting with one of those dreadful snakes that winds itself about you. And I could do so little to help him."

She could feel his breath coming fast, his lips almost against her cheek. A little tremor preceded his question. "Was he—was father all right when he died?"

It was well he could not see the tell-tale lips, nor catch the quiver that wrung the suffering face. "Oh, Harvey," she began tremblingly, "I asked you never to speak of that—it hurts me so. And I wanted to tell you," she hurried evasively on, "that his own father had the same failing before him. And I’m so frightened, Harvey, so frightened—about you—you know it often descends from father to son. And when I think of you all alone in the big city—oh, Harvey, I want you to——" and the rest was smothered in sobs as the sorrow-riven bosom rose and fell, the tears streaming from the sightless eyes.

Both of Harvey’s arms were tight about his mother, his broken voice whispering his vow with passionate affection.

"Never, mother, never; I promise," he murmured. "Oh, my mother, you’ve had so much of sorrow—if you want me, I won’t go away at all. I’ll stay and take care of you and Jessie, if you want me, mother," the strong arms clinging tighter. But she hushed the suggestion with a word, gently withdrawing herself and kissing him good-night again.

"Go to sleep, my son," she said gently; "you’ve got a long journey before you," and he knew the significance of the words; "God has given me far more of joy than sorrow," as she felt her way to the door and onwards to her room.

Long he lay awake, engulfed in a very tumult of thoughts and memories; finally he fell into a restless slumber. The day was dimly breaking when he suddenly awoke, thinking he heard a noise. Stealing from his bed, he crept across the room, peering towards his mother’s. He could see her in the uncertain light; she was bending over his trunk, the object of her solicitude for many a previous day, and her hands were evidently groping for something within. Soon they reappeared, and he could see a Bible in them, new and beautiful. She had a pen in one hand, and for a moment she felt about the adjoining table for the ink-well she knew was there. Finding it, the poor ill-guided pen sought the fly-leaf of the book she held; it took long, but it was love’s labour and was done with care. She waited till the ink was dry, then closed the volume, kissed it with longing tenderness and replaced it in the trunk. Rising, she made her way to a chest of drawers, opened one or two before her hands fell on what she wanted, and then produced a little box carefully wrapped in oilcloth. Some little word she scrawled upon it, and the unpretentious parcel—only some simple luxury that a mother’s love had provided against sterner days—was deposited at the very bottom of the trunk. She closed the lid and kneeled reverently beside the now waiting token of departure; Harvey crept back to his bed again, his sight well-nigh as dim as hers. When the little family gathered the next morning at the breakfast-table the mother’s face bore a look of deep content, as if some burden had been taken from her mind. And the valiant display of cheerfulness on the part of all three was quite successful, each marvelling at the sprightliness of the other two. They were just in the middle of the meal when the tinkling bell called Jessie to the shop. A moment later she returned, bearing a resplendent cluster of roses. "They’re for you, Harvey," she said, "and I think it’s a great shame—boys never care anything for flowers. They ought to be for me." But she did not hand them to her brother, nor did he seem to expect them. For she walked straight to the mother’s chair, holding them before her; and the patient face sank among them, drinking deep of their rich fragrance.

"Who sent them, Jessie?" her brother asked with vigorous brevity.

"I don’t know—the boy wouldn’t tell. He said ’a party’ gave him ten cents to hand them in—and the party didn’t want the name given. I hate that ’party’ business; you can’t tell whether it’s a man or a woman. I guess it wasn’t a man, though—look at the ribbon."

One would have said that Harvey thought so too, judging by the light on his face. "I’ll take the ribbon," he said, "and just one rose—you and mother can have the rest."

"Then you’re sure it wasn’t a man sent them?" returned the knowing Jessie.

"No, I’m not—what makes you say that?"

"Well—what are you taking the ribbon for, if you’re not?"

"Because—because, well, because it’s useful, for one thing; I can tie my lunch up in it, or a book or two—anything like that," Harvey replied, smiling at his adroit defense. "Who’s this—why, if it’s not Mr. Nickle and Mr. Borland!" rising as he spoke to greet the most welcome guests.

"Ye’ll hae to pardon us, Mrs. Simmons," Geordie’s cheery voice was the first to say; "David here brocht me richt through the shop, richt ben the hoose, wi’oot rappin’. We wantit to say good-bye till the laddie—only he’s mair a man nor a laddie noo."

"It was Mr. Nickle that dragged me in by the scuff o’ the neck," interjected Mr. Borland, nodding to all the company at once. "When he smelt the porridge, you couldn’t see him for dust. Hello! where’d you get the roses?—look awful like the vintage out at our place. Don’t rise, Mrs. Simmons; we just dropped in to tell Harvey tra-la-la."

"I’m glad to find ye’re at the porridge, laddie," Geordie said genially, as he took the chair Jessie had handed him. "The porridge laddies aye leads their class at the college, they tell me—dinna let them gie ye ony o’ yon ither trash they’re fixin’ up these days to dae instead o’ porridge; there’s naethin’ like the guid auld oatmeal."

"You Scotch folks give me a pain," broke in David; "how any one can eat the stuff, I can’t make out. The fact is, I don’t believe Scotchmen like it themselves—only it’s cheap, an’ it fills up the hired men so they can’t eat anythin’ else. Unless it’s because their ancestors ate it," he continued thoughtfully. "I’ll bet my boots there’s Scotchmen in Glenallen that’s eatin’ porridge to-day jest because their grandfathers ate it; an’ they’ll put it down if it kills ’em—an’ their kids’ll eat it too or else they’ll know the reason why. It’d be just the same if it was bran—they’d have to walk the plank. But there ain’t no horse blood in me, thank goodness," he concluded fervently.

"Jealousy’s an awfu’ sair disease," retorted Geordie, smiling pitifully at the alien; "but we canna a’ be Scotch."

"I’m so glad you came in," Harvey began, turning to his visitors as the laughter subsided; "we were just speaking of your kindness last night—and I’m glad to have a chance to thank you again just before I go away."

"Stap it," Geordie interrupted sternly. "That’s plenty o’ that kind o’ thing—I’ll gang oot if there’s ony mair, mind ye," he declared vehemently, for there are few forms of pain more intolerable to natures such as his.

"You’ll have to be careful, Harvey," cautioned Mr. Borland; "he’s one o’ the kind that don’t want their left hand to know the stunt their right hand’s doin’. Very few Scotchmen likes the left hand to get next to what the right one’s at—it wouldn’t know much, poor thing, in the most o’ cases," he added pitifully—"but our friend here’s a rare kind of a Scotchman. By George, them’s terrible fine roses," he digressed, taking a whiff of equine proportions.

"I canna gang till the station wi’ ye, Harvey—David’s gaein’," said Geordie Nickle, taking his staff and rising to his feet, "but guid-bye, my laddie, an’ the blessin’ o’ yir mither’s God be wi’ ye," and the kindly hand was unconsciously laid on Harvey’s head. "We’re expectin’ graun’ things o’ ye at the college. I mind fine the mornin’ I left my faither’s hoose in Hawick; he aye lifted the tune himsel’ at family worship—an’ that mornin’, I mind the way his voice was quaverin’. These was the words:

’Oh, spread Thy coverin’ wings around Till all our wanderin’s cease,’

an’ I dinna ken onythin’ better for yirsel’ the day. Guid-bye, my laddie—an’ ’a stoot heart tae a steep brae’, ye ken."

As Harvey returned from seeing the old man to the door, Jessie beckoned him aside into his room, not yet set to rights after his fitful slumbers of the night before.

"Harvey," she began in very serious tones, "I only want to say a word; it’s to give a promise—and to get one. And I want you to promise me faithfully, Harvey."

"What is it, sister?" he asked, his gaze resting fondly on the girlish face.

"Well, it’s just this. You see this room?" Harvey nodded. "And this bed?—you know I’m going to have your room after you’re gone. Well, it’s about mother—I’m going to pray for her here every night; right here," touching the side of the bed as she spoke. "Dr. Fletcher said it would be sure to help—I mean for her sight to come back again; I asked him once at Sunday-school."

"The doctor in the city told me that, too," broke in her brother.

"Dr. Fletcher knows better’n him," the other declared firmly—"he said God made lots o’ people see because other people prayed. An’ I want you to always ask the same thing—at the same time, Harvey, at the very same time; an’ when I’m asking here, I’ll know you’re doing the very same wherever you are. You’ll promise me, won’t you, Harvey?"

Harvey’s heart was full; and the unsteadiness that marked his words was not from any lack of sympathy and purpose. "What time, Jessie?" he asked in a moment. "Would eight o’clock be a good time?"

"I don’t think so," the girl said after pondering a moment. "You see, I’ll often be in bed at eight—I’m going to work very hard, you know. I think half-past seven would be better."

Thus was the solemn tryst arranged, and Harvey bade his sister good-bye before he passed without for the last farewell to his mother.