Part 9

No tears, no outward sign, marked the emotion of the soulful moment, and soon Harvey and Mr. Borland had started for the station. Once, and only once, did the youth look behind; and he saw his mother’s tender face, unseeing, but still turned in wistful yearning towards her departing son. Jessie was clinging to her skirts, her face hidden—but the mother’s was bright in its strength and hopefulness, and the image sank into his heart, never to be effaced.

It was evident, from the long silence he preserved, that David was reflecting upon things in general. Harvey was coming to understand him pretty well, and knew that the product would be forthcoming shortly. Nor was he disappointed.

"They’re great on givin’ advice, ain’t they?"

"Who?" enquired Harvey, smiling in advance.

"Them Scotch folks—they’d like awful well to be omnipotent, wouldn’t they? It’s pretty nigh the only thing they think they lack. It’s great fun to hear a Scotchman layin’ down the law; they don’t see no use in havin’ ten commandments unless they’re kept—by other people."

"You’re not referring to Mr. Nickle, are you?" ventured Harvey.

"Oh, no! bless my soul. Geordie’s all wool and sixteen ounces to the pound," responded Mr. Borland, prodigal of his metaphors. "That’s what set me thinkin’ of Scotchmen in general, ’cause they’re so different from Geordie. That was an elegant programme he fired at you there; what’s this it was, again?—oh, yes, ’when it’s stiff climbin’, keep your powder dry’—somethin’ like that, wasn’t it?"

"He gave it the Scotch," answered Harvey, "’a stoot heart tae a steep brae,’ I think it was."

"That’s what I said," affirmed David, "an’ it’s a bully motto. It’s mine," he avowed, turning and looking gravely at Harvey. "I heard a fellow advertisin’ a nigger show onct; he was on top of the tavern sheds, with a megaphone. ’If you can’t laugh, don’t come,’ he was bellerin’—an’ I thought it was elegant advice. Kind o’ stuck to me all these years. You take it yourself, boy, an’ act on it—you’ll have lots of hard ploughin’ afore you’re through."

"It suits me all right," Harvey responded cheerfully; "they say laughter’s good medicine."

"The very best—every one should have a hogshead a day; it washes out your insides, you see. If a man can’t laugh loud, he ain’t a good man, I say. I was talkin’ about that to Robert McCaig the other day—you know him, he’s the elder—terrible nice man he was, too, till he got religion—an’ then he took an awful chill. By and by he got to be an elder—an’ then he froze right to the bottom. Well, he’s agin laughin’—says it’s frivolous, you see. I told him the solemnest people was the frivolousest—used the rich fool for an illustration; he was terrible solemn, but he was a drivellin’ _ejut_ inside, to my way o’ thinkin’. Robert up an’ told me we don’t read of the Apostle Paul ever laughin’—thought he had me. What do you think I gave him back?"

"Couldn’t imagine," said Harvey, quite truthfully.

"’That don’t prove nothin’,’ says I; ’we don’t ever read of him takin’ a bath, or gettin’ his hair cut,’ says I, ’but it was him that said godliness was next to cleanliness.’ An’ Robert got mad about it—that’s how I knew I had him beat. He said I was irreverent—but that ain’t no argyment, is it?" appealed David seriously.

His companion’s opinion, doubtless favourable, was hindered of expression by the snort of the approaching locomotive, signal for a sprint that was rather vigorous for further exchange of views. There was barely time for the purchase of a ticket and the checking of the trunk, the conductor already standing with one eye on the baggage truck and the other on the grimy figure that protruded from the engine window.

"I ain’t Scotch," David said hurriedly, as he and Harvey stood together at the rear platform of the train, "but I had a father, for all that, just the same as all them Sandys seem to have. An’ when I was pikin’ out to find the trail—it’s a long time ago—the old man stood just like I’m standin’ here with you, an’ he says to me: ’David,’ he says, ’trust in God an’ do your duty.’ An’ I believe them’s the best runnin’ orders on the road. The old Sandys can’t beat that much, can they?"

Harvey had no chance to make reply; for almost in the same breath David went on, thrusting an envelope into his hand as he spoke: "Here’s a letter of interduction I want you to present to a fellow in the city—he’s the teller in the Merchants’ Bank, an’ you might find him helpful," David concluded with a hemispheric grin; "hope you’ll endorse my suggestion," he added, the grin becoming spherical.

Harvey tried to protest as best he could, protest and gratitude mingling; but the train was already moving out and his communications were chiefly in tableau.

"That’s all right," David roared above the din; "good-bye, my boy. Remember Geordie Nickle’s motto—an’ don’t blow out the gas."

*XV*

_*A PARENTAL PARLEY*_

"Better eat all you can, Madeline; you can’t never tell when you’re goin’ to have your last square meal these days," and David deposited another substantial helping on his daughter’s plate.

"Why, father, what’s the matter? What’s making you so despondent all of a sudden?" Madeline asked in semi-seriousness, following her father’s advice the while.

"You don’t understand your father, Madeline—he’s always joking, you know," interjected Mrs. Borland. "You shouldn’t make light of such solemn matters, David," she went on, turning to her husband, "hunger’s nothing to jest about."

"Exactly what I was sayin’," responded David, "an’ if things goes on like they promise now, you an’ Madeline’ll have to take in washin’ to support this family—that’s the gospel truth."

"I don’t believe father’s in fun," Madeline persisted. "Anything go wrong to-day with business matters?" she enquired, looking across the table at her father.

That David was in earnest was obvious enough. "Everything wrong, appearin’ly," he said, rolling up his napkin and returning it to its ring. "The men’s goin’ to strike—seems to me there’s a strike every other alternate day," he went on. "Doin’ business nowadays is like a bird tryin’ to hatch out eggs when they’re cuttin’ down the tree—some o’ them darned firebrands from St. Louis have been stirrin’ up the men; a lot o’ lazy man-eaters," he concluded vehemently.

"What do the men want, David?" his wife asked innocently.

Mr. Borland looked at her incredulously. "What do they want—the same old thing they’ve been wantin’ ever since Adam went into the fruit business—less work an’ more pay. An’ they’ve appointed a couple o’ fellows—a delegation they call it—to wait on the manufacturers privately an’ present their claims. There’s two different fellows to interview each man—an’ they’re comin’ here to-night. They didn’t tell me they was comin’—I jest heard it casual."

"To-night!" echoed Mrs. Borland, "where’ll they sit?"

"Chairs, I reckon," replied her spouse.

"You’re so facetious, David. Where’ll they sit when they’re talking to you?—you know what I mean."

"Oh, I reckon we’ll have it out in the den—there’ll be lots o’ growlin’, anyhow. I’m not worryin’ much about where they sit; it’s the stand they take that troubles me the most," and David indulged a well-earned smile.

"You’re very gay about it, father," Madeline chimed in, "making merry with the English language."

"There’s no use o’ bein’ gay when everything all right, daughter; that’s like turnin’ on the light when it’s twelve o’clock noon. But when things is breakin’ up on you, then’s your time to cut up dog a little. I’m a terrible believer in sunshine, Madeline—the home-made kind, in particular. I always tell the croakers that every man should have a sunshine plant inside of him—when the outside kind gives out, why, let him start his little mill inside, an’ then he’s independent as a pig on ice. An’ really, it’s kind o’ natural—there’s nothin’ so refreshin’ as difficulties, in a certain sense. Leastways, that’s the kind of an animal I am—when I’m on the turf, give me a hurdle now an’ again to make it interestin’."

"Is this a pretty stiff business hurdle you’ve got to get over now?" asked Madeline, as she smiled admiringly at the home-bred philosophy.

"Well, it’s stiff enough. Of course, I’ve done pretty good in the foundry—ain’t in it for my health. But it’s terrible uncertain; you know the Scriptur’ says the first shall be last—an’ it’s often that way in business. We’re really not makin’ hardly any money these days; of course, if you tell the men that, they—they close one eye," said David, illustrating the process as he spoke. "Where are you off to, Madeline?" he asked abruptly, for his daughter had passed into the hall and was putting on her cloak.

"I’m going for my lesson—I’m taking wood-carving, you know. Pretty soon I’ll be able to do it myself; and then I’m going to make lots of pretty things and sell them. My class and I are going to support four India famine children," she said proudly.

"Bully for you! You’ll do the carvin’, an’ they’ll do the eatin’—I suppose that’s the idea."

Madeline’s merry laughter was still pealing as she closed the door behind her. Mrs. Borland turned a rather fretful face to her husband.

"She’s taken a class in Sunday-school," she said, lifting her eyebrows to convey some idea of her opinion on the subject. "I did my best to dissuade her, but it was no use."

"What in thunder did you want to prevent her for?" asked David.

"Oh, well, you understand. They’re a very ordinary lot, I’m afraid—just the kind of children I’ve always tried to keep her away from. I never heard one of their names before."

"I think she’s a reg’lar brick to tackle them," returned her husband. "It does me good to see Madeline takin’ that turn—nearly all the girls her age is jest about as much use as a sofa-tidy, with their teas an’ five-o’clocks an’ at-homes, an’ all them other diseases," David continued scornfully. "It’s all right to have girls learned——"

"Taught, David," corrected his wife.

"It’s the same thing," retorted Mr. Borland. "I’m too old for you to learn me them new words, mother—it’s all right, as I was sayin’, to get them learned an’ taught how to work in china, an’ ivory, an’ wood an’ hay an’ stubble, as the good book says, but it’s far better to see them workin’ a little in human bein’s. It must be terrible interestin’ to try your hand on an immortal soul—them kind o’ productions lasts a while. So don’t go an’ cool her off, mother—you let her stick to them kids without names if she wants to."

"But she tells me, David, she tells me some of them come to Sunday-school without washing their hands or faces."

"Tell her to wear buckskin mits," said Mr. Borland gravely.

"It’s all very well to laugh, David—but they seem to have all sorts of things wrong with them. Madeline told me one day how she couldn’t get the attention of the class because one of them kept winding and unwinding a rag on his sore finger for all the class to see it; he said a rat bit it in the night."

"Rough on rats’d soon fix them," said David reflectively; "I mind out in the barn one time——"

"But I’m serious, David," remonstrated Mrs. Borland; "and there’s something else I hardly like to tell you. But only last Sunday Madeline was telling me—she laughed about it, but I didn’t—how she asked one of the boys why he wasn’t there the Sunday before, and he said: ’Please, ma’am, I had the shingles.’"

"Shingles ain’t catchin’," declared David, as he gasped for breath. "Ha, ha, ha!" he roared, "that’s the richest I’ve heard since the nigger show. Ha, ha! that’s a good one—that’s the kind of a class I’d like to have. None o’ your silk-sewed kids for me, with their white chiffon an’ pink bows! It seems a sin for them teachers to have so much fun on Sundays, don’t it?" and David extricated his shank from beneath the table, venting his mirth upon it with many a resounding slap.

Mrs. Borland sighed discouragedly. "Well," she said at length, "I suppose there are greater troubles in life than that. In fact, I was just thinking of one of them when you were speaking about where you’d entertain the men when they come to-night."

"I’m afeard what I’ll say won’t entertain them a terrible lot," said David, passing his cup for further stimulus as he thought of the ordeal.

"Well, about where you’ll talk to them, then," amended Mrs. Borland. "My trouble’s something the same. Only it’s about the servants; at least it’s about Letitia—she’s the new one. It seems she belongs to a kind of an Adventist church, and she told me this morning that the Rev. Mr. Gurkle, the minister, is coming up to call on her some afternoon this week. And she asked where would she receive him! Receive him, mind you, David—she’s going to _receive_! And she asked me where—asked me where she’d receive him."

"Well, that was natural enough. What did you tell her?" David asked, marvelling at the agitation of which the feminine mind is capable.

"Why, I told her where else would she receive him except in the kitchen—you don’t suppose my maids are going to entertain their company in the parlour, do you, David?"

Mr. Borland turned his face reflectively towards the wall, gazing at the lurid painting of a three-year-old who had been the pride of last year’s fair. Finally he spoke: "Yes, Martha, I reckon she will. I ain’t much of an interfere!—but there ain’t agoin’ to to be no minister of the Gospel set down in the kitchen in this house. Black clothes is too easy stained. Besides, it ain’t the way I was raised."

"But, David, surely you don’t——"

"Yes, I do—that’s jest exactly what I do. I know this Gurkle man—dropped into his church one night when some revival meetin’s was goin’ on. He’s a little sawed-off fellow, with a wig—an’ his cuffs has teeth like a bucksaw—an’ he wears a white tie that looks like a horse’s hames. An’ he has an Adam’s apple like a door-knocker; it kept goin’ an’ comin’ that night, for there was a terrible lot of feelin’ in the meetin’. An’ Mr. Gurkle was a cryin’ part of the time, an’ he’s that cross-eyed that the tears run over the bridge of his nose, both different ways. But I believe he’s a good little man—an there ain’t goin’ to be no minister asquintin’ round the kitchen in this house. He’s goin’ to the parlour, mother. The kitchen’s all right for courtin’—come in there myself the other night when Mary had her steady company; there was three chairs—an’ two of ’em was empty. That’s all right for courtin’—it don’t need no conveniences, nor no light, nor nothin’. Two young folks an’ a little human natur’s all you need for that. But prayin’ an’ sayin’ catechism’s hard enough at the best; so I reckon they’ll have to do it in the parlour, mother," and Mr. Borland rose from his chair and moved slowly towards the window, patting his wife playfully on the shoulder as he passed.

"By George, here they are," he suddenly exclaimed; "I believe that’s them comin’ now."

"Who?" asked his consort, not with much zest of tone. She was still ruminating on her maid’s religious advantages.

"It’s the delegation—it’s them two fellows that’s goin’ to present the claims of the union. They’re turnin’ in at the carriage gate, sure’s you’re livin’."

"I’m going up-stairs," announced Mrs. Borland. "I’ve got to fill out some invitations for an at-home next week—you don’t mind my leaving, David?"

"No, no, mother, certainly not. Far better for you not to be around. You see, certain kinds o’ labour agitators is always complainin’ that the manufacturers jest lives among beautiful things; an’ you’re the principal one in this house, mother; so I reckon you better slope," and David’s hand was very gentle as it went out to touch the frosting locks. Mrs. Borland smiled indifferently at the compliment, secretly hugging it the while. Every true woman does likewise; the proffered pearl is carelessly glanced at and permitted to fall to the ground—then she swiftly covers it with one nimble foot, and solitary hours yet to come are enriched by communion with its radiance.

*XVI*

_*DAVID THE DIPLOMAT*_

His wife was hardly half-way up the stairs before David was in the height of perfervid activity. "I’ll have an at-home myself," he muttered under his breath; "I’ll have a male at-home," as he rang the bell.

"Yes, Mr. Borland," said the maid, parishioner to the Rev. Mr. Gurkle, as she appeared in answer.

"Take all them dishes away," he instructed breathlessly; "all the eatin’ stuff, I mean," waving his hand over the suggestive ruins. "Is there any salt herrin’s in the house?"

"Yes, sir, there’s always herrin’s on Friday; we keep ’em for Thomas—Thomas is a Roman," she said solemnly, an expression on her face that showed she was thinking of the judgment day.

David grinned. "I’ll bet the Pope couldn’t tell one from a mutton chop to save his life," he said; "but anyhow, put three herrin’s on the table—an’ a handful o’ soda crackers—an’ some prunes," he directed quickly, "an’ make some green tea—make it strong enough to float a man-o’-war. By George, there’s the bell—when everything fixed, you come in to the sittin’-room an’ tell me supper’s ready—supper, mind, Letitia."

Then he hurried through the hall to the door, flinging it wide open.

"Why, if this ain’t you, Mr. Hunter," he cried delightedly, "an’ I’m blamed if this ain’t Mr. Glady," giving a hand to each. "Come away in. Come on in to the sittin’-room—parlours always makes me think it’s Sunday."

The men followed in a kind of dream. Mr. Hunter’s embarrassment took a delirious form, the poor man spending several minutes in a vain attempt to hang his hat on the antlers of a monster head about three feet beyond his utmost reach. Finally it fell into a bowl of goldfish that stood beneath the antlers; great was the agitation among the finny inmates, but it was nothing as compared to Mr. Hunter’s.

"That’s all right," David sang out cheerily; "reckon they thought it was an eclipse o’ the sun," he suggested. "Fling your lid on the floor—I hate style when you have visitors," whereupon Mr. Hunter, fearful of further accident, bended almost to his knees upon the floor and deposited the dripping article carefully beneath the sofa. Mr. Glady, more self-possessed, resorted to his pocket-handkerchief, his hat still safe upon his head. Hiding his face in the copious calico, he blew a blast so loud and clear, that the little fishes, mistaking it for Gabriel’s trump, rose with cue accord to the surface—and David’s favourite collie answered loudly from the kitchen. Compelled by a sense of propriety to reappear from the bandana, Mr. Glady began hurriedly to sit down and was about to sink upon the glass top of a case of many-coloured eggs, Madeline’s especial pride, when David flew between.

"Don’t," he cried appealingly, "them’s fowl’s eggs—an’ anyhow, this ain’t the clockin’ season," whereupon Mr. Glady leaped so far forward again that he collided with a small replica of the Venus de Milo on a mahogany stand, the goddess and the mahogany both oscillating a little with the impact.

Mr. Glady stared at the delicate creation, then cast quick glances about the floor. "Did I break off those arms?" he asked excitedly, pale as death.

"Oh bless you, no—she was winged when she was born," said David, trying to breathe naturally, and imploring the men to be seated, whereat they slowly descended into chairs, as storm-bruised vessels creep into their berths.

When both were safely lodged a deep silence fell. David looked expectantly from one to the other and each of the visitors looked appealingly towards his mate. Finally Mr. Glady brought his lips apart with a smack: "We come—we come to see you, Mr. Borland, because you’re an employer of labour and——"

"By George, I’m glad to hear that," David chimed in gleefully; "that’s elegant—there’d be less jawin’ between labour an’ capital if there was more visitin’ back an’ furrit like this. I can’t tell you how tickled I am to see you both. I don’t have many visitors," he went on rather mournfully, "that is, in a social way. A good many drops out to see me with subscription lists—but they never bring their knittin’," David added with a melancholy smile. "Most o’ my evenin’s is very lonely. I’ve seen me wearyin’ so bad that I asked the missus to play on the pianner—an’ one night I shaved three times, to pass the time."

"Please, Mr. Borland, supper’s on the table," said a small voice at the door.

David leaped to his feet. "Come on, Mr. Hunter—come away, Mr. Glady, an’ we’ll get outside o’ somethin’," taking an arm of each and turning towards the door.

The men faintly protested, pleading a similar previous operation; but David overbore them with sweeping cordiality. "Let’s go through the motions anyhow," he said. "I’m an awful delicate eater myself; the bite I eat, you could put in—in a hogshead," turning an amiable grin on his guests. "Here, you sit there, Mr. Hunter—an’ I guess that’s your stall, Mr. Glady; I’m sorry my missus can’t come—she’s workin’. An’ my daughter’s away somewhere workin’ at wood—turnin’ an honest penny. Will you ask a blessin’, Mr. Hunter?"

Mr. Hunter stared pitifully at his host. "Tom there’ll ask it," he said, his lips very dry; "he used to go to singin’-school in the church."

Mr. Glady’s head was bowed waiting. "Mr. Hunter’ll do it himself," he said, without moving a muscle; "his wife’s mother’s a class-leader in the Methodists."

Whereupon the piously connected man, escape impossible now, began to emit a low subterranean rumble, like the initial utterances of a bottle full of water when it is turned upside down. But it was music to the ear of Mr. Glady, listening in rigid reverence.

"What church do you go to, Mr. Glady?" David asked as he poured out a cup of tea, its vigour obvious. "Both sugar and cream, eh—Letitia, have we any sugar round the house?"

"There’s a barrel an’ a half," the servant responded promptly.

"Oh, yes, I see—fetch the half; we live awful plain, Mr. Glady. Don’t go to no church, did you say? Terrible mistake—why don’t you?"

"Well," his guest responded slowly, "I look at it this way: if a fellow works all week—like us toilers does—he wants to rest on Sunday. That’s our rest day."

"Terrible mistake," repeated David; "two spoonfuls?—it’s the workin’ men that needs church the most. I was readin’ in a book the other day—it was either the ’Home Physician’ or the dictionary, I forget which—how the Almighty trains the larks in England to scoot up in the air an’ sing right over the heads o’ the toilers, as you call ’em—the fellows workin’ in the fields. You see, the Almighty knows they’re the kind o’ people needs it most—an’ they hear more of it than lords an’ ladies does. An’ it’s them kind o’ folks everywhere that needs entertainment the most; an’ I don’t think there’s anythin’ entertains you like a church, the way it gets at the muscles you don’t use every day. If you go to sleep, that rests you; an’ if you keep awake, it ventilates you—so you gain either way. Oh, yes, every one should go to some church," he concluded seriously.

"That’s all right for rich manufacturers," broke in Mr. Hunter; "it’s easy to enjoy a sermon when you’re thinkin’ of the five-course dinner you’ll get when it’s over. But when you’ve nothin’ afore your eyes only a dish of liver—an’ mebbe scorched—a sermon don’t go quite so good."