The Attic Guest: A Novel

by Robert E. Knowles

"No," he answered gravely, after a long pause, his face very white; "no, I don't believe them as my father does."

"Oh, Gordon," I pleaded with sudden entreaty, "come back—come back, my darling. You're drifting; oh, Gordon, you're drifting away from God—and me," for my soul's loneliness was about me like a mist.

"Don't," he said huskily, holding out his arms to me, "for God's sake don't make it any harder for me. No man can drift far if he tries to do good in his Master's name—and I intend, I honestly purpose, to give my life to those poor people at the mission. If any man will do His will, we're told, he shall know the doctrine. I'm going to try to do His will, Helen—and I want you close beside me, together, doing our life-work hand in hand. Then we can't be anything but happy, my darling," and his words rang with the note of life and courage.

I loved the people of the mission; and I loved the work. But the import of it all rose before me for a moment like a sullen cloud; the squalor of the homes; the ignorance of the people, loving and grateful though they were; the poverty on every hand; the obscurity of the position that must be ours; the pitiful support that we could hope to receive. And our cozy manse seemed to grow and dance before my eyes, clothed suddenly with palatial beauty. I could see little Dorothy, the big sunbonnet shading the dimpled face, as she picked dandelions on the lawn; and Harold, the treasure of my heart, as he swung into the hall and flung his school-bag on the table, calling aloud the while for mother. It is humiliating to write it down; but I think the question of our living, too, of simple bread and butter, actually presented itself to my saddened and bewildered mind.

I suppose it was weak and selfish of me—though I cared not for myself—when I flung myself into Gordon's arms and besought him as I did.

"Oh, Gordon," I pleaded amid my tears; "don't, dearest, for the children's sakes. It isn't too late yet, Gordon—have you thought of what this means?—we'll likely have to take Harold out of school."

He caressed me, trying to soothe me as he might a child. "I know what it means, Helen," he answered; "I've thought of all that. It breaks my heart to think of what it will bring to you—but I am helpless, dear, I'm helpless."

"Not me," I sobbed, "not me, Gordon; I'd go with you to the depths of Africa. But the children, Gordon—think of them. We're old," I cried—and I really believed it—"we're old, and our life is nearly done; but Harold and Dorothy are so young, and theirs is all before them. And don't—oh, Gordon, don't—for our children's sakes."

"What can I do, my child?" he murmured. "What else can I do?"

"Why, Gordon—do what I do. Oh, Gordon, all you need to do is to believe those things—the things I do, and the things your father does—and preach them, like you used to at the first. And then we won't need to go away at all. I believe the people really love you more now than they did years ago—and they'll keep on loving you—and then we won't have to, have to give up all this," I concluded, my tear-dim eyes looking wistfully up into his tired face.