"So I did," he acknowledged, his eyes roaming about her face; "but I came," he added absently, a heavenly stupidity possessing him.
"How's your mother?" she asked, struggling back.
"She's not at all well," he answered, the tone full of real meaning; for this was a realm as sacred to him as the other.
She was trying to replace her glove, the latter stubbornly resisting.
"Please button this for me," as she held out her arm. He tried eagerly enough; but his hand trembled like an aspen. Her own was equally unsteady, and progress was divinely slow. He paused, looking helplessly up into her face; her hand fell by her side. Before either knew that he was near, Cecil's voice broke in: "Allow me, Madeline," he said; "I'm an old hand at operations like this—I'll do it for you, Madeline," as though he gloried in the name, and almost before she knew it he had seized her arm, swiftly accomplishing his purpose.
Madeline was regal now, her very pose marked by unconscious pride. "Thank you," she said, still sweetly, "but I don't believe I want it fastened now—it's quite warm here, isn't it?" and with a quick gesture she slipped it from her hand, moving forward towards her father. Harvey stood still where he was; but the new heaven and the new earth had come.
The evening wore on; nor could any gathering have been enriched with more of feeling than pervaded the triumphant hours. All seemed to forget the occasion that had convened them, remembering nothing but the valued friends who were still to be their own, even if outward circumstances were about to undergo the change so defiantly acknowledged. The crowning feature came when the simple supper was finished and the table partially cleared; for they who would remember David Borland at his best must think of him as he appeared when he called the guests to order and bade them fill their glasses high.
"Take your choice of lemonade or ginger ale," he cried with a voice like a heightening breeze; and they who knew him well silently predicted the best of David's soul for the assembled guests that night. "There ain't nothin' stronger," he went on with serious mien; "drinks is always soft when times is hard—but drink hearty, friends, an' give the old house a good name."
Possibly there was the slightest symptom of a tremor in his voice as it referred thus to what he held so dear, now about to be surrendered; but a moment later the old indomitable light was kindled in his eye, the strong face beaming with the unquenched humour that had been such a fountain in his own life and the lives of others. Something of new dignity was noticeable in his entire bearing, the bearing of a man who, if beaten, had been beaten in honourable battle, resolved still to retain all that was dearest to his heart; this explained the look of pride with which he marked, as he could hardly fail to mark, the affection and respect with which every eye regarded him as he stood before his friends.
The toast to the King, and one other, had been disposed of, David proceeding merrily to launch another, when suddenly he was interrupted by Geordie Nickle, who rose from his place at the further end of the table.