The day had broken. And the glowing heralds of the approaching sun were making beautiful the path before him. Hill and dale, their shining outlines visible in the distance, were clothed in golden glory; the opal clouds announced the coming of their king; the fragrant trees, and the bursting buds, and the spreading blossoms, and the kindling sward, and the verdure-covered fields gave back the far-flung smile of light. Like a bride adorned for her husband, all stood in unconscious beauty as far as eye could reach.
"Look, mother, look," Harvey cried suddenly, gently lifting the dear head from the pillow as the sanctity of the scene impelled him. "Oh, mother, you can see them all," rapture and sorrow mingling in the tone.
The far-seeing eyes turned slowly towards the window, rested one brief, wonderful moment upon the wonderful sight, then turned away in ineffable tenderness and longing, fastening themselves again where they had been fixed before. For love is a mighty tyrant and the proudest kings must take their place as vassals in his train.
An instant later the dying eyes seemed to leap far beyond, beautiful with rapture. "Look, look," she cried as though the others were the blind, "look, oh look," her voice ringing clear with the last energy of death; "it's lovelier yonder—where it's always spring. Don't you see, Harvey? Jessie, don't you see? And baby's there, Jessie—Harvey, the baby's there—and she's beckoning; look, look, it's you—not me—she's calling. Let us all go," she said, the voice dropping to faintness again, the eyes turning again upon her children; "let us—all—go; it's so—lovely; and we're—all—so tired," as the dear lips became forever still.
And the rejoicing sun came on, the riot of his joy untempered, no badge of mourning in his hand. And he greeted the motherless with unwonted gladness as he filled the little room with light, kissing the silent face as though he would wish it all joy of the well-won rest. For he knew, he knew the secret of it all. He knew Who had transfigured hill and dale and tree and flower with the glance of love; he knew the source of all life's light and shade; he knew the afterward of God; he knew Death's other, sweeter name.
But the motherless made no response. Still they knelt, one on each side of the unanswering form; and still, tightly clasped, each held a wasted hand.
XXVII
A BROTHER'S MASTERY
It was the following night, the last night of all. Harvey lay with wide staring eyes that sought in vain to pierce the darkness; he felt it were almost a sacrilege to sleep, even could he have done so, since there would lie never more beneath the long familiar roof the beloved form that he had never known absent for a single night. He suddenly realized this—and it leaped like fire in his brain—that he had never spent a night in this, the only home he had ever known, without the dear presence that must to-morrow be withdrawn. He recalled the comfort and the courage this had given him in many a trembling hour when the nameless fears of childhood gathered with the night; how sometimes, tormented by grotesque shapes and grotesquer fancies, his terror had vanished like a dream when he had heard her cough, or sigh, or break into the gentle tones he had early learned were between her soul and God. He recalled, too, that often, startled by some unreasoning fear, he would call out loudly in the night; and in a moment the gentle form would be beside his bed, her hand upon him as she caressed him with a word, which word became the lullaby upon whose liquid wave he was borne back to dreamland.
All this could never be again, he mused in bitter loneliness. As he dwelt upon it the thought became almost intolerable; and suddenly rising—for he had not yet undressed—he began noiselessly to descend the stairs, purposing to go out into the night; for there is healing in the cool cisterns of the midnight air. But he noticed, to his surprise, a light stealing from beneath Jessie's door; instinctively he turned and knocked, his lonely heart glad of the sympathy he would not seek there in vain.