The Attic Guest: A Novel

by Robert E. Knowles

I shall begin this chapter, perhaps the closing chapter of my artless story, with the simple statement that we were back again in St. Andrew's Church. This restoration was effected about seven months after the incident with which the last chapter had its close. How it came about, or why, I shall not pause to tell. But there was a vacancy there—in St. Andrew's, that is—and the thought of nearly the whole congregation had gradually turned towards Gordon. He had proved his worth, had fought a fight so stern and long, and had come out of it with a faith so clear and a power so manifest, that it was only natural they should covet his ministry again.

He returned gladly enough, pride and gratitude mingling in his heart; and the Presbytery seemed rejoiced to welcome him within their fold again. He still retained Swan Hollow—this he insisted upon—as a kind of associate charge. They gave him an assistant, and Gordon selected a young minister fresh from Edinboro', for Scotchmen are the most clannish of all living things—and they worked the two places together, taking the morning and evening services alternately.

Going back to the church was gladsome enough to me. But it was the veriest trifle compared with our return to the dear old manse, where our children had been born. What memories thronged about us when the nightfall found us once again beneath the roof of St. Andrew's Manse! A few were there to welcome us; we tried to make merry with them—but my heart ached till they should be gone. And then, hand in hand as in other days, Gordon and I went up-stairs to the little room where our treasures used to lie. Only one was there that night, our lovely Dorothy, and she lay in slumbering beauty where she used to sleep before. The other bed was beside hers as in the days of yore—I had directed that it should be so—but it was empty.

Poor Gordon! All the joy, the triumph even, of his return to the scene of our former life was lost in sorrow because that bed was empty.

"I'd sooner be in the poorest hovel, Helen," he said as he stood beside the unused couch, "if Harold were only back—Harold and Dorothy. Our cup of happiness would be full, wouldn't it, dear, if both were only here?"

"But he'll come back some day," I tried to assure him; "that's why I have his bed all ready—everything has always come right, Gordon, even if it did come late."

"If we only knew where he is," Gordon went on, not seeming to hear; "but it looks as if we'd never learn. Do you know," and the strong voice was choked with tears again, "do you know, Helen, what I wonder every night before I go to sleep?"

"No, what is it, Gordon?"

"I always wonder if he's cold—or hungry. But especially if he's cold. Oh, surely there's nothing so sweet to a father as tucking his children up at night—so they won't be cold. After we left here, the home we went to was so little, and so hard to heat—but don't you remember how we used to go in and tuck them up, so warm and cozy?"

I tried my best to comfort him, though my heart had its own load to carry. For the dark mystery still hung about us; we had heard never a word from Harold. His debt was paid—as has been told, or implied, already—and nothing really stood in the way of his coming back except that we did not know where to find him. And every effort to discern his whereabouts had ended in utter failure. But we still kept the little tryst, still kept praying on, still hoping and trusting that the Great Father would staunch the wound which no human hand could heal.