CHAPTER XXVI
IN HONOUR'S WAYS
O memories that bless and burn, O barren gain and bitter loss, I kiss each bead and try at last to learn To kiss the cross.
_----My Rosary._
ARTHUR went to Brandon that night, presumably on business relating tohis house-furnishing. Not even Martha knew the nature of his visit tothe Wheat City. It was late in the evening when he arrived, so latethat he was unable to make any inquiries, but was forced to spend thenight in uncertainty, with only his own gloomy thoughts for company.The varied night sounds of the city smote on his unaccustomed ear.The long hall of the hotel echoed the passing of many feet; doorsslammed at intervals, and once a raucous voice called loudly for"Towels for '53'"; from the room next his came the sound of talkingand laughter; farther down the hall a young baby cried dismally.Through the babel of voices came the regular pink-pank of a banjo inthe parlour below. Outside, the wind raged against the frostedwindows, train-bells rang and whistles blew all night long, and thepounding of horses' feet on the pavement never ceased--there seemedto be one long procession of heavy drays passing down the street.
In the quiet of his own house on Plover Creek Arthur had almostforgotten the outside world that never sleeps--the rushing, careless,inexorable world, that cannot be stayed or entreated. He had livedhis life in the country, and he loved its silent places, the kindlysilences of the country nights that lie so soothingly on the heartand brain. To-night, the roar of the Brandon street was full of evilsignificance, for this man, this interloper, whom his soul hated sobitterly, was part of the great uncaring throng that surged past;this rushing, jostling, aggressive life was what he stood for, thisman who had stolen from him his heart's dearest treasure.
All night long Arthur lay staring into the darkness, trying to, fightout the greatest battle of his life; on one side Thursa and thememory of her kisses on his cheek, and on the other side honour andhonesty, and all the traditions of his house; sometimes tellinghimself sternly that there was but one course open to him, and then,suddenly overcome by his love for her, crying out bitterly that hewould never, never give her up. The pitch-black night seemedinterminable to him, but dawn came at last, deep blue behind thefrost-ferns on the window, slowly fading to pale azure, then suddenlychanging to rosiest pink as the sun rolled up over the sandhills ofthe Assiniboine and sent his cheerful rays over an untroubled whiteworld.
At half-past eight Arthur was walking the street. No one wouldimagine, to look at the quietly dressed young Englishman, that he wasgoing through a severe mental struggle. Without any difficulty hefound the store for which he was looking. The words on the sign, "J.C. Smeaton & Co., Dry Goods," in black and gold, seemed charged withopen hostility.
A group of women stood in front of the door waiting for it to beopened. They were looking longingly at the window display of laceblouses, which were going to be sold, according to a staring sign,at half the regular price. They were the typical bargain-hunters,sharp-eyed and distrustful, and not particularly amiable. Earlyrising on a cold winter morning is at the best no aid to amiability,even if by the effort a ten-dollar blouse is bought for five.
The waiting group were discussing sales in general, and one woman wasdisposed to think that all sales were snares and delusions--she livedon Eighteenth Street, and had had to get up very early. Another womanexonerated herself from complicity in the matter of sales by sayingthat her sister-in-law had telephoned her to come down and get her awaist; she would never have come for herself, never! There was onlyone real optimist in the crowd--of course, optimism does not usuallyflourish before breakfast. She declared that Smeaton's sales were allright. If Smeaton advertised a sale it was a sale. People could saywhat they liked about Jack Smeaton, but she had always found himstraight as a string.
Arthur hurried away--the woman's crude words of praise for the man hehated struck him like a blow between the eyes.
Arthur went first to a Church of England clergyman whom he knewslightly, and made inquiries. The clergyman was unable to give anyinformation about the young man. He knew him well by sight, he said,but he had never spoken to him. He directed Arthur to go to one ofthe wardens of his church, a Mr. Bevan, who was one of the old-timersin Brandon and knew everybody.
To Mr. Bevan's office Arthur went, and waited there an hour, for thesenior member of the firm of Bevan & Wallace, real estate brokers,did not begin the day very early. However, he did come at last, andlooked sharply at Arthur's eager face as he made known his business.
"Smeaton?" Mr. Bevan cried, when Arthur was through speaking. "Whatdo I know about young Jack Smeaton? What do you know about him? Ifyou can tell me anything that he has been up to that is very bad,I'll be glad to hear it, the cheeky young beggar. Think of it! Lastfall he went out making political speeches--I heard him! He's a rabidGrit, too, will stop at nothing to get a vote. Oh, yes, I know JackSmeaton."
"Would you call him a man of honour?" Arthur asked.
"Man of honour?" the old man cried excitedly. "Bless your heart, whathave I just told you? Didn't I say he was a Grit? Why don't youlisten, man, to what I am telling you?" His voice fell to aconfidential whisper. "Young Jack Smeaton is one of the strongestGrits in this city, and he has a very great influence on the youngmen, for they like him, mind you. Oh, he is a bad one, a deep one,and don't you forget it."
"Would you consider him a man worthy of trust?" Arthur said eagerly,trying to pierce through the old man's political prejudice.
"Trust!" the other man repeated, scorn, wonder, contempt inhis voice. "Young man, where were you at the time of the lastelection? You talk like a man from Mars. Didn't you hear about theballot-stuffing that went on here? How do you suppose the Gritscarried this constituency? No, sir; I would not trust him, or anyof them."
Arthur rose to go.
"My advice to you, young man, is to have no dealings with JackSmeaton. He's pretty nearly sure to influence you, for, mind you, hehas a way with him."
Arthur walked back to his room at the hotel with many conflictingemotions struggling in his heart. Jack Smeaton was evidently a man ofstrong character, and a flirtation such as he had carried on withThursa would mean nothing to him--he had probably forgotten it bythis time. Couldn't he honestly go back and tell Thursa that one ofthe church-wardens, to whom the clergyman had sent him forinformation, had told him emphatically to have nothing to do withJack Smeaton? Thursa would ask to know nothing further. She had said,with that sweet look in her face, that if he came back and told herto forget this fellow she would marry him and do her best. Arthurrecalled every tone of her dear voice, the touch of her soft littlehands, as she drew his face down to hers when she said this. Thursawas his own. She had come from England as his affianced wife. Whatright had this adventurer to steal her away from him? Arthur clenchedhis fists and raged at the man who had done him this injury. He wouldgo back to Thursa in the morning, and they would be happy yet. Thisman's name would never be mentioned again.
Arthur was not nearly so happy in this resolve as he expected to be.There was a distinct uneasiness in his heart that increased as theday went on. At five o'clock he stood outside the Smeaton store, towhich he seemed drawn by a strange fascination. The man who was solargely in his thoughts was, no doubt, only a few feet away from him,happy, careless, prosperous, arrogant, having his own way by hook orcrook. The clock struck the half-hour. The store would be closed six.
Arthur started back to the hotel. What did he care when the storeclosed? It was nothing to him. At the corner of Rosser and EighthStreet some Salvation Army people were holding a meeting, and as hepassed through the crowd the tinkle of their cymbals in a familiartune came to his ear. Then a dozen voices, clear and distinct, brokeinto singing:
If some poor wandering child of Thine, Has spurned to-day the voice divine, Now, Lord, the gracious work begin, Let him no more lie down in sin.
It brought him back to the old life at home, this dear old hymn ofhis childhood, with its old-fashioned, monotonous tune, and ita
wakened in his consciousness the voices he was trying hard tosilence. A light shone in upon him and showed him a straight path, ahard road, set with thorns, which he must follow. The colour suddenlywent from Arthur's face as he realized which way the path of honourled.
Abide with me from morn till eve, For without Thee I cannot live.
sang the Army, while Arthur, pale and trembling on the outer edge ofthe crowd, leaned against a lamppost for support. He did not hear thewords they were singing, but the old tune beat into heart and brainthe memories of his home and childhood. He saw his father's saintlyface, proud and strong, unstained by any compromise with evil, and itcalled to him across the sea to play the man.
The Army had sung the hymn all through, and now they were kneeling inprayer; a thin-voiced girl led the petitions, while the others,frequently interjected exclamations of thanksgiving. Arthur did nothear a word of it, but into his troubled heart there came peace andthe strength of God, which alone is able to make a man swear to hisown hurt.
He walked rapidly back to the store he had left and asked to see Mr.Smeaton. Mr. Smeaton had his hat and coat on, about to leave thestore, but he came back, and, taking Arthur into his office, offeredhim a chair.
Arthur remained standing, and, without speaking, gave the young man asearching glance. What he saw was a muscular young fellow, of abouthis own age, with clear gray eyes and curling brown hair. He wasfaultlessly dressed, and had an unmistakably straightforwardexpression and countenance.
"What can I do for you?" the young merchant asked.
Without a word Arthur took from his pocket Thursa's telegram. Hishand trembled, and he had a queer, dizzy feeling as he did it, but heput it safely in the other man's hand.
Away across the sea, in the Rectory of St. Agnes, a gray-hairedfather and mother were praying for their boy so far away, and theirprayer for him that day was not that he might have wealth, or ease,or fame, or the praise of men, nor that he might always gain hisheart's desire--not that at all; they asked for him a greater giftstill--that he might always walk in honour's ways.
Jack Smeaton's face was illumined with joy as he read Thursa'stelegram.
"Did she send me this? Where is she? I want to see her--who are you?"he asked, all in one breath.
Something in Arthur's face told him who he was. "You are Arthur," hesaid gently.
Arthur nodded.
The two young men stood looking at each other, but for a full minuteneither spoke.
"I have only one question to ask you, Mr. Smeaton," Arthur said atlast. "Do you love her?"
"I do," the other man replied, "as God hears me." And Arthur, lookinginto his clear gray eyes, believed him, and his last hope vanished.
"I feel like a miserable sneak in your presence," Jack Smeaton saidhumbly. "Upon my word, that enchanting little beauty turned my brain.Isn't she the most bewitching little girl in all the world?"
"I have always thought so," Arthur said quietly. "I have behavedbadly to you, Mr.----"
"Wemyss," Arthur said.
"Mr. Wemyss, and I humbly apologize."
"It is not necessary," Arthur said, with an effort. "Her happiness isthe only thing to be considered. She was only a child when she gaveme her promise, only seventeen, and I can see now that she would notbe happy with me."
"Come with me now, Mr. Wemyss. I want you to meet my people. Theywill be glad to have you stay for dinner."
"Thank you," Arthur said, trying hard to speak naturally. "I wouldrather not."
"I shall go back with you to-morrow, if I may," Mr. Smeaton said. "Icannot just say to you all that is in my heart, but you have taughtme a lesson on what it is to be a gentleman."
He held out his hand, which Arthur took without hesitation, and theyparted.
That night as Jack Smeaton was selecting a pearl necklace for Thursa,along with all sorts of other beautiful gifts, he was ponderingdeeply one thought--that perhaps, after all, successive generationsof gentle breeding do count for something in the make-up of a man,and having a bishop in the family may help a little, too.
The Second Chance Page 26