The Attic Guest: A Novel

by Robert E. Knowles

And I think I can say, with all regard to modesty, that I honestly tried to help him. His people grew as dear to me, I verily believe, as they were to him. Of course, my work was largely in our humble home, which I tried to make as bright and comfortable for Gordon as I could. The children, too, filled my life with busy joy—but I gave every hour I could spare, and all the strength I could command, to help Gordon in his noble drudgery.

I hardly know what I would have done, through all those trying days, if it had not been for grandfather. For one thing, his influence over Harold, now in the perilous paths of youth, filled my heart with thankful gladness. His devotion to his grandson became the passion of his life; he seemed unhappy if Harold was out of his sight, and the boy's future was his absorbing thought.

Then, besides, grandfather's life was so full of Christian peace; and his faith, in spite of the awful disappointment that Gordon's course had brought him, remained true and tranquil through it all. I really think he was the best Christian I ever knew. And how he comforted me, no one will ever know till all such secrets be revealed. For ours was a common sorrow. Soon it became evident to us both that Gordon, nobly devoted though he was, was turning more and more from the old truths that his father held so dear. Nor were they, I think, less precious to myself; the deeper the darkness grew, and the more Gordon seemed to turn from the truths that had blessed my life, the more my troubled heart seemed to find its refuge in the great realities of a Divine Saviour, and an atoning Lord, and a Heavenly Father who answers prayer; and I always found grandfather's sorrowing spirit seeking the same solace as my own.

I see them all again as they sat that night about the table; the quick motion of Gordon's head is vivid to me now, as he turned from the clamorous Dorothy and gave all his attention to his son.

"I've been at school too long," Harold repeated firmly, "and now I'm going to do something—to earn my own living."

"What makes you say that, my son?" Gordon asked, the pallor on his face betraying his emotion.

"Because I've found out all about it," Harold replied confidently; "surely you don't think I'm such a stupid as not to see all it has meant to you and mother—all the sacrifice, I mean—and all the struggle you've had to keep me going—and all the things you've had to give up. I know how poor we are," he went on passionately, "and I should have stopped long ago, and tried to help instead of being a burden to you." Then he quoted one or two of his proofs, which simple womanly pride forbids me to record; but they were true enough, and it nearly broke my heart to see the sadness on Gordon's face. For there was almost nothing he could say, and his poor remonstrances were of no avail.

"Look at mother," Harold broke out vehemently; "look at mother's dress. It's the same one she's had for years—and it's mended," he added in fiery sadness, "and it's the only one she has in the world except just one for Sundays—and it's shabby, too. And that's all for me, for me and Dorothy—but especially for me—and I'm not going to stand it any longer. Besides, I've got a place—and I'm going to begin on Monday. I'm going away to Carletonville. But I'll be home for Christmas," the fiery tone melting into tenderness as he rose from his seat and came over beside me.

For he had caught the expression of my face. Ah me! there are few moments in a woman's life like to that which announces the outgoing of her child from her home, how humble soever that home may be, Especially if the outgoing one be her first-born son! It was as if a knife had gone through my heart.

"But, what are you going to do, my boy?—what kind of work, I mean?" I asked in a trembling voice, the garment I was mending falling unheeded to the floor.