Front matter (continued 7)

It was Geordie Nickle who bended low, as though he were love's best interpreter, passionately listening for the ebbing words. The receding tide flowed back in a moment, and David's voice came clearer: "An' I'm glad it's the evenin'—things looks clearest in the evenin' or the mornin'—it's the long afternoon that's dark."

Geordie was almost on his knees beside him, the strong Scottish face wrung with its depth of feeling. "Oh, David," he cried with the eagerness of a child, "ye'll sune be hame. An' we're all comin'—we'll no' be lang. An' oor Faither's hoose has mony mansions—if it were na' so..." but the choking voice refused.

"He'd have—let us know," the dying man added gently, completing the mighty promise. "It's gettin' dark," he whispered suddenly, looking up into Madeline's eyes; "it's time for Him to come—I don't know the way."

In a moment his whole expression had undergone a change, such a change as comes to darkening hill-tops when the morning sun loves them into life. Light covered his face as with a flood. The weary eyes opened wide, the eager hands outstretched. "It's all bright now," he faltered—"an' He's comin'—He's comin', like He said. I knew—He'd—come."

They were bending low about him; his weeping wife breathed a long farewell. But Madeline saw the last movement of the dying lips, and the yearning eyes seemed to bid her listen. Her face was veiled with reverent love as she stooped to catch the parting breath; it came, and her face became transfigured as by the light of God.

"I'm jest home," she heard him murmur; "I'm jest home."

Gently they let the dear form sink back to its long, long rest. Geordie softly closed the eyes, never to give their light again. Then the aged man, his frame shaken with the sobs he could not repress, bent down and kissed the furrowed brow.

"His battle's past," he said, the words struggling out like driftwood through the surge, "an' he was a guid soldier."

And the conqueror lay in noble stillness, the glory of the departed day abiding on his face.

XXXVIII

THE FLEEING SHADOWS

It was long after midnight, and Harvey's night's work was almost done. He was the last one left in the office, and, as far as his duties were concerned, everything was almost ready for the waiting press. He had just snapped his watch with an exclamation of surprise at the lateness of the hour as he hurriedly turned to conclude his writing, when he fancied he heard a noise on the step outside his office door.

He thought nothing of it; and the pen flowed faster than before. But only a couple of minutes more had passed when a similar sound fell upon his ear. And it disturbed him strangely. Perhaps he was nervous, for the strain of the night's work had been severe enough—and he was alone. The sound, to his ears at least, had something unusual and ominous about it—yet he knew not why.

He turned again to complete his work, his glance searching the room a moment before he did so. But the disturbance had come from without—the room was just as his associates had left it. He tried to concentrate his attention; yet a strange feeling possessed him—he felt in a vague, restless way, as though he were being watched. His office at the very top of the building was almost lonely in its separation; from the half-open windows the sleeping city might be seen, wrapped in the trailing garments of the dark. His mind seemed strangely sensitive, a-quiver almost, as if some influence were borne in upon him from the haunted chambers of the night.

Suddenly, impelled by some mysterious impulse, he flung his pen upon the table and turned his gaze over his shoulder with a swift motion, fixing his eyes on the large pane of glass that formed the upper portion of the door.

Involuntarily he uttered a startled cry—for he could see, two or three inches from the pane, a human face. And the eyes were wide, and fastened upon him with almost fierce intensity. The bearded face was pallid and haggard—but the eyes were the outstanding features, gleaming with a nameless significance that spoke of a soul stirred with passion. They never flinched—even as Harvey sprang from his chair they did not turn away. Nothing could be seen but the face—and the impact of the unmoving eyes was terrific.

Harvey stood a moment, trembling. The face never moved. Then he strode swiftly to the door and flung it wide.

"What's the meaning of this, sir?" he demanded sternly. "What's your business here?"

The man's eyes moved only enough to wander slowly about his face. He waited till Harvey's lips were framing other words, his hand now on the door as if to slam it shut. Then he walked slowly in, his face still turned upon the other's. He shut the door himself.

"I want you to look at something," said the man, and the voice was deep and passionate.

He was clad in the meanest garments; poor repairs were on them here and there. The signs of poverty were everywhere about him, and his whole appearance was that of one who had suffered much amid the billows of misfortune. He seemed to be struggling hard to resummon something he had lost—the quivering lips and the despairing eyes told that he had been beaten in the fight, yet not without stern resistance, nor yet left without flickerings of the old-time fire. His spirit seemed broken, yet not utterly destroyed.

"What are you doing here? What's your business?" Harvey demanded; the man was fumbling in the pocket of his coat.

"I'm a printer," he answered, "and one of your foremen gave me work to-day. I only began to-night—and I came upstairs to see you. I knew you were here."

Something in the way he uttered these last words clutched at Harvey's heart. "I knew you were here," the man repeated, nodding his head slowly, his eyes again on Harvey. And they seemed to melt with a strange wild longing, following him with a kind of defiant wistfulness. Somehow, like a faint and fleeting dream, Jessie's face—or an expression Harvey had often seen upon it—passed like a wraith between him and the bearded man.

"Who are you?" he said huskily.

The man's eyes rested a moment on the floor—and he was trembling where he stood. Slowly he raised them till they rested on Harvey's pallid face. Then they looked long and silently at each other, the dread and voiceless dialogue waging—that awesome interchange of soul with soul that makes men tremble, when eyes speak to answering eyes as lightning calls from peak to peak.

"I'm your father," the low voice said at last, the deep eyes leaping towards him in a strange mastery of strength and passion.

Harvey gave a cry and started back. The man followed him, straightening as he came, the hungering face out-held a little, pursuing still. The younger man retreated farther, gasping; and his eyes, like something suddenly released, raced about the unkempt form, surveying boots and clothes and beard and brow in an abandonment of candour.

"No, no," he murmured as he kept creeping back, the man following still; "no, no, it cannot be."

The stranger's hand was outstretched now. Something whitish was in it—and something black. "Look," he said, his lips parting in a weird, unearthly smile, "look, and deny it if you can; it's a photograph—and a letter."

Harvey stood still; then took them from the outstretched hand. The gas jet was just above. He read the letter first—it was his mother's handiwork. And the letter breathed of love, and hope, and of impatient joy at their approaching wedding-day.

Then he held the sharp-edged tin-type up before him. And then he knew. For his eye fell first on his mother's face, sweet with the new-born joy of motherhood. And a laughing babe was in her arms—and the man beside her, one hand resting on her shoulder, was the man whose panting breath he heard, whose burning eyes were fixed upon him now.

"That's you," the man said hoarsely; "and that's your mother—baby wasn't born. And I hadn't ever drunk a drop then," he added, a bleating cry mingling with the words.

Harvey stood long, looking down. Once the stranger put out his hand—but he drew back with the picture, gazing still. The tide of battle rose and fell within him. Then his hand shook like an aspen, his whole frame trembled, his sight grew blurred and dim. Yet through the gust of tears he looked again upon the haggard face—and again, more clearly than before, something of Jessie's swam before him. A moment later, and his soul, surging like the ocean in a storm, went out in primal passion to the quivering man; swiftly, overmasteringly, as if forevermore, he took him in his arms.

* * * * * *

"If you'll help me, my son—if you'll help me, I'll try again." The flickering gas jet still gave its light above them and the silent stars still watched the sleeping city. And the son still held his father in the clasp of a long-slumbering, new-awakened love.

"We'll fight it out together—and we'll win," the lips of youth replied. "I know all about it, father—and I'll help all I can. I promised mother—I promised to bring you, father. Mother's waiting; and I said we'd come together—and Jessie, too."

"Will Jessie love me?" the broken voice enquired, the tone plaintive with mingled love and fear.

"She's always loved you, father," and the son's voice was thrilling with compassion. "We're both your children," and it was pitiful to see the strong lips struggling; "we're your children—and we promised mother."

Thus the gentle stream flowed on. And as they talked a new peace flowed into the haunted eyes; and the blessed tidings of those he loved—of her whose sweet face was even now upon its pillow, and of the one who dwelt with God—came with balm and healing to his soul.

"I'll try, Harvey," he said again—"and I'll trust your mother's God."

As Harvey guided him out into the night the quiet stars above him seemed to be the very sentinels of heaven. And he marvelled that this wondrous charge had come to him at last—over all the waste of years; and that the secret plan of the Unseen, its deep design unchanging, had entrusted to his hand the fulfillment of his mother's prayers.

It was night again; but beautiful. And if any of the Glenallen slumberers, a moment waking, heard upon the pavement the tread of two silent men, they knew not how holy was the mission that impelled these pilgrims of the night. They paused but once, these two; before a weather-beaten little house, empty now, its grimy shop-window staring out into the dark. But the older man seemed as if he could not look enough; like cathedral to reverent saint this squalid building was to him. Once the younger man pointed to an upper window—no light gleamed from it now—but the other's eyes, even when they had left it far behind, turned to caress it with lingering tenderness.

They passed together through the gate that guarded the little city of the dead. The moon was hidden; and no word passed between them as they made their way to the holy of holies where lay their precious dead. But Harvey's hand went out to his father's; and thus they went on together, hand in hand through the darkness, as children go beneath life's morning sun.

They stopped beside two grassy graves. Nearest to them, at their dewy feet, lay the larger mound; the baby's nestled close beside it. The older man's head, uncovered, was bowed in reverence; even in the dark Harvey could see the stamp of eternity upon his face. The son's love, unspeaking, went out in silent passion to his father; so near he seemed, so dear, so much his own in that holy hour. Yet the broken heart beside him carried a load of anguish of which the son knew nothing; it was torn by a tragedy and rended by a memory no other heart could share—and the weary eyes looked covetously at the quiet resting-place beside the waiting dead.

His tears fell—on the baby's grave. He leaned over, as if he saw—first above the one, turning again to the other—and God was busy meantime with the wound, the long bleeding, unstaunched wound.

Harvey touched him on the shoulder. He looked a moment into his son's face, almost as if surprised to see him there. Then his eyes turned again to the lowly mounds, and he sank on his knees between them. Reverently, the yearning of the years finding now a voice, he stooped low till his lips touched the sod above the mother's face. Then his own was upturned to the distant sky, the lips moving.

Harvey knew the broken vow was for God alone. He turned away. The moon stole gently forth from the passing cloud; and, as he turned, his eye fell on the new-illumined verse graven on the simple stone:

"UNTIL THE DAY BREAK AND THE SHADOWS FLEE AWAY"

THE END

* * * * * * * *

By Robert E. Knowles

The Attic Guest

The Web of Time

The Dawn at Shanty Bay

Decorated and Illustrated by Griselda M. McClure

The Undertow

A Tale of Both Sides of the Sea

St. Cuthbert's

A Parish Romance