Part 45

"Come in, come in," I said cordially, for he was dear to me, and we had the bond of a common sorrow. "Have you forgotten something?"

"No," he answered, "but I hae minded something. I didna speak when a' the ithers spoke; but I want to tell ye something by yirsel'. I think ye ought to ken. It has to dae wi' yir decision.

"Ye mind wee Issie? Well, the mornin' ye came back frae Charleston, she was lyin' white an' still on the pillow. She hadna spoke a' through the nicht, an' we a' thocht she wad speak nae mair--but at six o'clock yir train blew afore it came into the station. An' wee Issie stirred on the pillow. Her lips moved an' I pit doon my ear.

"'He'll be on that train,' she whispered low. 'Wha'll be on the train?' I askit her. 'The minister,' was a' she said.

"I was alane wi' her, an' I said: 'Mebbe so, Issie.' Then she spoke nae mair for a little, but soon she said: 'God'll bring him back to open the gate for me before I go. Grandfather,' she said, 'he first told me of the gate and he said I would find it beautiful when I got close--and so it is--but I want him to push it farther open, for I am so weak and tired. I'm sure God will bring him home in time.'"

My eyes were wet, and I could only take the old man's hand in mine, the silent token that the greatest argument of all had been kept until the last.

"There's mair of us," he said, as the sobs shook his feeble frame, "there's mair of us wha's comin' near the gate. I'm no' far frae it mysel'. An' I want ye to wait my turn; I want ye to bide wi' us till ye see me through the gate. A stranger wadna be the same. I maun be gaun."

It is long now since Issie's grandfather followed her through the gate. He too found it beautiful; for I walked with him till even I could see its glory. It swung wide open, for he was welcome home; and I caught a glimpse of the splendour just beyond. I heard, too, rapturous snatches of the song they sing in that better land. It may have been fancy, yet I am sure I heard the old precentor's voice, and Issie's holy strain was clearer still; but it was the new song, and these two blended wondrous well.

XXVI

LOVE'S SINGING SACRIFICE

Death is kinder than we think. None other knew the way by which the little foundling's mother had gone forth. But death knew it well, having often passed over it before; and the orphan's cry was more than he could bear. So he took him in his kindly arms and bore him on to his mother, smiling at the cruel names by which he was accustomed to be called.

It is death's way to take the jewel only, for the road is long; and who will may have the casket. Wherefore the affrighted undertaker bore the latter by night to its resting-place, for he knew that path and had often trodden it before. But he was not a deep sea pilot, like the other.

Angus was left alone. A faithful man, himself a smallpox graduate, was his only companion. Strict care was kept before the door of the now deserted house, for panic hath its home in the heart of that dread disease, though not so dreadful as we think.

Some of the misguided folk of New Jedboro fumigated themselves at every mention of Angus' name, sleeping meantime side by side with some consumptive form, knowing not that death slept between them. But the great science of life is, and hath ever been, the recognition of life's real enemies.

Angus was alone--and fallen. The foundling's plague was upon him, and there was none to care for him but the faithful servant, smallpox-proof as he happily knew himself to be.

The very night of the poor waif's hasty burial, a note was handed in at our kitchen door. It was from the health officer of New Jedboro:

"Can you find a nurse for Mr. Strachan?" it ran. "He has no one with him but Foster, who has had the disease, and I need not tell you the necessity for a woman's care. I have tried the hospital, but no nurse will volunteer. Whoever goes, of course, will be under quarantine, as the guard has orders to let no one enter or leave the house. Perhaps you may know of some poor woman, or some kind of woman, who will undertake the duty. If you do, I have ordered the guard to let her into the house on presentation of this note."

My wife and I were sitting in the study when the letter was handed to me. "I will run down to Mrs. Barrie's," I said, after long thinking. "She is not so much of a nurse, but she is less of a coward; and I know she has taken care of diphtheria."

"I will walk down with you," said my wife; "perhaps a woman's influence won't be amiss on such an errand."

We were soon ready and went out into the winter night.

"Isn't that too bad?" I suddenly exclaimed, as we were turning into Mrs. Barrie's house. "I have forgotten that letter--and the health officer says that whoever goes must have it. Shall we go back for it?"

"Not at all, she would have retired before we get back. And in any case she would not go till the morning, and you can give it to her before that," said my long tried adviser.

"Very well, let us go in."

We had left Margaret at home. She was often absent from our study fire, not in peevishness, or gloom, for they were foreign to her nature; but still she bore evidence of her great renunciation.

As I have said, she was much alone, deeming it, I doubt not, due to her lover that she should share his solitude, even if separately borne. She sought to fill up that which was behind of the sufferings of the man she loved. This I make no doubt was her secret delight; for only a woman knows the process of that joy which is exhaled when sorrow and love flow mingled down.

Margaret had not been beside our study fire that winter night. But on our departure she came down from her half widowed room to sit beside it. It was the same hearth she had kindled in other days "in expectation of a guest." As she entered the room, her eye fell upon the note which I had left lying in my chair. A glance at it revealed to her Angus' name. It was soon perused and it needed to be read but once. Swift action followed, for there is no such thinker as the heart; and if women were on the Bench to-morrow, "Judgment reserved" would vanish from our judicial records.

Margaret's decision was taken before she laid the letter down, and a flush of eager joy glowed on her face. In a moment she was back in her room, quickly moving here and there, gathering this and that together, bending over a small travelling-bag that lay upon the bed. Her ruling thought was one of gladness, even joy--and the traveller's joy at that. Who does not know the sudden thrill of rapture when there comes to us a sudden summons to a long and unexpected journey?

And Margaret was starting on a long journey, how long, only God could tell. She thought of this as she glanced about the pretty room that had shared her secret thoughts since childhood, that had seen the awaking of her love, and had oftentimes kept with her the vigil of unsleeping joy. More than once the poor little room had feared it was soon to be outgrown, and left far behind; but still at night Margaret would return to its pure protection, and still it knew the fragrance of a virgin's trembling love.