The Attic Guest: A Novel

by Robert E. Knowles

Our son had gone away, grief and hope mingling with the last farewell. That memory is with me yet. Indeed, I never rise early now, around five or six, without the feeling that some one dear to me is going far away. I remember the sweet calm of the early dawn, the first glad notes of the singing birds, careless of human tears, the sparkle of the dew upon the little lilac bush before the door, as we went past it with Harold's trunk. What a hard time I had to press into Harold's hand the poor little dollar I had saved from our scanty means as my own special gift—how pathetic it was to see the care with which he tucked it away in a painfully capacious pocketbook that grandfather had given him; how lonely it looked in the infinite space around it! And I remember how poor old grandfather noticed it, and how he bewailed himself that he had not kept till then the hundred pounds he had brought with him from Scotland. But this, his only wealth, had been "invested," as he had told us over and over again for months after the investment had been made. Poor grandfather! we had heard nothing for long of the speculation that had looked so rosy to him then.

And I remember, most vividly of all, what a time I had trying to comfort Gordon when he came back from the station. After all, perhaps I must admit that a father loves his son quite as much as his first-born girl. And it seemed strange that I had to be the strong one, but so it was. When evening came, and we had family prayers, Gordon's pleading didn't comfort me at all. But I had learned long before this that the new view of prayer refuses to concede that anything can change "the course of nature"—I hate that phrase—and teaches that it is only communion, pious meditation, and not supposed to be used for asking for what you want. So Gordon had gradually given up asking for particular things, though heaven knows there was enough to ask. Higher critics are the highway robbers of the soul.

Well, everything went along smoothly enough for nearly a year. Harold wrote twice a week, and seemed delighted with his work. He expected soon to be promoted, one of his last letters said; and Gordon told me that a general manager gets twenty thousand a year—that is, after he gets the position, of course. I used to think Harold was having a pretty lively time—socially, I mean—and he seemed to spend a good deal on clothes. But he did copying, and other things, out of hours, and made almost enough to pay his way. And we knew he was asked out a great deal, as bank clerks always are—and that's enough to turn any young fellow's head. Society seems to do its very best to ruin such youths as turn their footsteps towards a bank; Gordon said himself that most of these clerks do more credit to their tailor than their schoolmaster. As for me, if I had fifty sons not one of them would ever go into that profession with my consent—unless he began as general manager, with twenty thousand a year.

By and by Harold began to get interested in sports—mostly lacrosse, I think—and that was the portal to our Gethsemane. I shall not dwell upon the sad and bitter story. But one day a letter came from Carletonville; the envelope bore the bank's name, but the address was not in Harold's hand.

"It's about his promotion, Gordon," I said exultantly; "it's about Harold—he's been raised at last. You open it."

Gordon was radiant. "No, Helen," he said unselfishly; "he owes it more to you than me—open it yourself. He gets his financial ability from his mother," and he leaned forward to hear me read the news.

I opened it so carefully; for I meant to preserve it always—till he was general manager, at least. My eye ran swiftly over the contents and I fell with a loud outcry into Gordon's arms.

I scarcely need to tell the story further. The letter was not unkind—I remember remarking that, in a numb, mechanical way, in the midst of all the agony. There was even a little stern note of sympathy in it, as the authorities outlined the piteous tragedy. I suppose they knew we had human hearts. It was the old story; debt, then betting, then petty irregularities in the hope that the deficit would soon be overtaken. Then a little more; then a false signature—I cannot write the other word; then more—and the man who wrote us used the term embezzlement. That was when I fainted in Gordon's arms.

All that night I lay awake, alone. Gordon had left by the first train to go to Harold. I pleaded with him to bring our boy home with him. And I shall remember to all eternity how white his lips were when he said he would—if he could. I knew what he meant; and I fell to trembling so that I could hardly say good-bye. Then I went to bed and lay all night staring wildly into the dark. And that night, for the first time in all my married life, I cursed poverty—out loud I cursed it with bitter emphasis—the poverty that made us so helpless now. For I fancied, poor thing, that all would be well if the money could only be replaced. I cared nothing for the tokens of poverty that were all about me, the poor and ill-furnished house, the scanty wardrobe, the meagre larder—these were but trifles to me then. But I thought bitterly of the people I knew in Hertford who had plenty of money, once friends of ours, but lost to us now; and I silently impeached the poor people of our mission, as if they were somehow responsible for it all. I blamed Gordon, too—it was all due to his wandering from the beaten path—and I breathed out threatenings and slaughter against every German theologian that ever lived.

It was a couple of hours before the dawn when my heart suddenly fell to beating wildly—some one was gently trying the front door, the knob slowly moving back and forward. I listened, trembling; a moment later all was still. Then I heard steps moving round on the walk beneath my room; I rose and crept to the open window, finally summoning strength to call out a timid challenge.