"Sit doon, David," he enjoined, nodding vehemently towards his friend, "an' gie an auld man a chance. Ladies an' gentlemen," he went on, directing his remarks to the company, "I'll ask ye to fill yir glasses wi' guid cauld water for to drink the toast I'll gie ye—naethin'll fit the man I'm gaein' to mention as weel as that; there's nae mixture aboot him, as ye ken. I'm wantin' all o' ye to drink a cup o' kindness to the man we love mair when he's puir nor we ever did afore. Here's to yin o' th' Almichty's masterpieces, David Borland—an' may He leave him amang us till He taks him till Himsel'."
Geordie paused, his glass high in air. And the fervid guests arose to drink that toast as surely toast had never been drunk before. With a bumper and with three times three, and calling David's name aloud after a fashion that showed it had the years behind it, and with outgoing glances that spoke louder than words, every face searching his own in trust and sympathy and love, they did honour to the host who should entertain them there no more.
It was almost too much for David. He arose when his guests had resumed their seats, and stood long looking down without a word. But he began at last, timidly, hesitatingly, emotion and language gradually making their way together as his eyes were slowly lifted to rest upon the faces of his friends. He referred frankly to the occasion that had brought them together, thus to bid farewell to the scene of many happy gatherings. "Folks say I'm beaten," he went on, "but that ain't true. I'm not beaten. I've lost a little—but I've saved more," as he looked affectionately around. "I'm not really much poorer than I was. I never cared a terrible lot about money; 'twas the game more. Just like boys with marbles; they don't eat 'em, they don't drink 'em—but they like to win 'em."
Then he referred to the justice of the power that disturbs the security of human comfort, though he employed no such terms as those. "A fellow's got to take the lean with the fat," he said resignedly; "hasn't got no right to expect the clock'll strike twelve every time. A miller that sets his wheel by the spring freshet, he'd be a fool," he announced candidly, knowing no term more accurate, "'cause it's bound to drop some time. Of course, it comes tougher to get poor than to be poor; it's worse to be impoverished than jest to be poor, as our friend Harvey here would say; he's a scholar, you know, and a B.A. at that," he added, turning his eyes with the others towards Harvey's conscious face.
"A stoot heart tae a steep brae, David!" broke in Geordie's voice as he leaned forward, his admiring gaze fixed on his friend.
"Them's my sentiments," assented David, smiling back at the dauntless Scotchman. "I mind a woman out in Illinois—she was terrible rich, and she got terrible poor all of a sudden. Well, she had to wash her own dishes, after the winds descended an' the floods blew and beat upon her house, as the Scriptur' says—an' she jest put on every diamond ring she had to her name an' went at it. That's Mr. Nickle's meanin', my friends, I take it—an' that's jest what I'm goin' to do myself. I don't know exactly what I'm agoin' to go at," he went on thoughtfully; "I've got a kind of an offer to be a kind of advisin' floor-walker for the line I've been at—an' maybe I'll take it an' keep my hand in a bit. We're goin' to live in a little cottage—an' there'll always be heaps o' room for you all. An' we're goin' to manage all right," he went on, his eye lighting at what was to follow; "I've got an arrangement made with Madeline here. We won't have a terrible lot of help round the house; so she's goin' to attend to the furnace in the winter—an' I'm goin' to look after it in the summer. So we'll get along all right, all right. An' now, friends," he continued seriously, "I must hump it to a close, as the preachers say. But there's one thing—don't believe all Mr. Nickle tells you about me; I ain't near as good as he says. These Scotchmen's terrible on epitaphs when they once get started. An' he's like all the rest o' them—when he likes a man he swallows him whole. But I want to thank you all for helpin' us to make the last night so jolly. I don't find it hard myself, for I'm as certain as I ever was of anythin' it's all for the best. I want you to give that hymn out again next Sunday, doctor," and David's face had no trace of merriment as he turned to look for his pastor by his side; "oh, I forgot the doctor goes home early—but I'll ask him anyhow, an' we'll sing it louder'n we ever did before. It's been runnin' in my mind an awful lot lately: 'With mercy an' with judgment'—you can't beat them words much; it's the old comfortin' thought about Who's weavin' the web. So now I jest want to thank everybody here for comin'—we've had good happy years together, an' there's more to follow yet, please God," he predicted reverently as he resumed his seat, the deep silence that reigned about him being more impressive than the most boisterous applause.
The pause which followed was broken by a suggestion, low and muffled at first, gradually finding louder voice and at last openly endorsed by Geordie Nickle, that "auld lang syne" would be a fitting sequel to what had gone before. David hailed the proposal with delight.
"We'll sing it now," he said enthusiastically, "an' we'll have the old doxology right after—they're both sacred songs, to my way o' thinkin'," as he beckoned to Geordie to take his place beside him, the company rising to voice the love-bright classic.
But just as cordial hands were outgoing to loyal hands outstretched to meet them, the door-bell broke in with sudden clamour, and some one on the outer edge of the circle called aloud the name of Harvey Simmons. There was something ominous in the tone, and one at least detected the paleness of Harvey's cheek as he hurried towards the door. A moment sufficed the breathless messenger to communicate what he had to tell, and in an instant Harvey had turned swiftly towards the wondering company. He spoke no word, offered no explanation, but his eye fell on Jessie's in silent intimation of what she already seemed to fear. Noiselessly she slipped from the now voiceless circle, joining her brother as they both passed swiftly out into the night.
XXVI