"There," said Oliver, standing still; "can you see that light?—there, in that upper window."
He saw it. It gleamed sinister, significant, through the mirk; blacker than the deepest darkness was its baneful light.
"What about it?" said Harvey.
Oliver said something in a low voice; then he laughed.
Simmons turned full on his companion. The moon was setting, but its latest beams still shed a fitful light. And they showed Harvey's face flushed and worn, the eyes unnatural in their heaviness and gloom. But there was a strange redeeming light in them as they fixed themselves on Oliver, the light of indignant scorn; any who had known his mother would have recognized something of the old-time light that had glowed from her face before the darkness veiled it.
Harvey's heavy eyes flashed as he spoke. "Oliver," he said, and the tone was haughty, old-time pride struggling against fearful odds as the sun writhes its way through the mist; "Oliver, if you're going to the devil, you can go alone. I'm not quite gone yet, thank God. I'm a good many kinds of a fool, I know—but I'm not that kind—I'm not a sot. And Oliver," coming closer up to him, "I'll admit I'm as much to blame for to-night as you are—but we're done, Oliver, now. We're done with each other—forever. D'ye hear, Oliver?" as he turned and started back up the shadowy lane.
Oliver blinked after him a moment; then he went on towards the light, into the darkness.
XXXII
HARVEY'S UNSEEN DELIVERER
The succeeding day was melting softly into dusk.