The Web of Time

by Robert E. Knowles

As they came closer to Glenallen—when they were almost there—peering through the dark, he caught now and then a fleeting glimpse of the scenes of other days; fences that he had climbed; elms beneath whose shelter he had played; braes he had roamed and burns he had waded and brooks he had fished, he smiled, as the inward pain still smote him and the dreadful craving burned—it seemed all but impossible that life could have changed so much, the evening shadows threatening before its noon had come. And he felt, in a dim unreasoning way—what other men have felt—as if he had been somehow tricked out of the sweetness of youth, its glory faded and its fruitage withered before he had known they were there.

The streets of his native town were hushed as he hurried towards his home. Nearing the familiar scene, he paused, standing still. He felt a kind of awesome fear and his head was bowed as he crept close to the humble door. Suddenly he lifted his eyes, survey ing the well-remembered outlines through the gloom. And suddenly they seemed transfigured before him, speaking out their welcome in tender silence as though they recognized the heart-sore wanderer. It was with little difficulty that he effected an entrance, a half-hidden window in the rear yielding readily.

The stillness within almost overcame him. Yet there must have been holy power in it; for the evil spirit that had haunted him seemed to retreat before it; and his groping eyes fell now on this familiar thing and now on that, each an ally to his struggling soul. He could see but dimly, but they were all beautiful, each telling some story of the sacred days that would come no more. He felt his way through the little hall into the room where he had last looked upon his mother's face. He stood where he had stood before—and he looked down. Long musing, he turned and made his way up-stairs. As he passed the half-open door on his way, he could see the shadowy outline of the little store, as Miss Adair had left it for the night, the petty wares consorting ill with the significance of the hour. Yet the nobility of all for which it stood broke afresh upon him.

Ascending the creaking stairs, he stopped and listened. It seemed as if some voice must speak—for silence like to this he had never known before. But all was still, wondrously still—this was the silence of death. He glanced into Jessie's room; relics of her sore toil were still scattered about; all was as she had left it when she had started on her visit to the city.

Then he entered his mother's room. With head bowed low and with noiseless step, as devout pilgrims invade some holy shrine, he passed within the door. Then he lifted his eyes—the night seemed to stay its hand—and he could see here and there traces of his mother's life, many of them undisturbed. An apron that she used to wear, folded now and spotless white, laid aside by Jessie's loving hands; a knitted shawl that had so often enclosed the fragile form; the unfinished knitting from which the needles should never be withdrawn. Then he gave a great start, muffling a cry—for he thought he saw a face. But it was his own, moving in shadowy whiteness as he passed the little mirror—he marvelled at his timidity amid such scenes of love.

He sank on the bed and buried his face in his hands. He was trembling, yet not with fear. But something seemed to tell him that he was not alone; no tempter, no turgid appetite, no relentless passion assailed him now. He was safe, he felt, like some ancient fugitive falling breathless before a sacred altar—but he felt that he was not alone. Some unseen power seemed to be about him, an influence so gentle, a caress so tender, a keeping so holy as time could not provide. He did not seek to reason with the strange sensation, or to solve, or to define; but his soul lay open to the mystic influence in helplessness and hope, the ministry of the awful silence having its way with his broken and baffled life.

Almost without knowing it, he rose and made his way to the little table by the window; something dark lay upon it. The touch told him in a moment what it was—his mother's Bible, that Jessie had begged him to leave for her. His hand trembled as he took it up; it opened of itself and he peered downward on the well-worn page. But it was dark, and he could only see enough to know that one particular verse was gently underscored. Fumbling for a match, he lit it and its glow fell upon the words:

"Unto Him that is able to keep you from falling and to present you faultless."

The message flashed upon his soul with the import of eternal hope. He closed the book violently, as if something might escape, and sank again upon the bed. He felt as if God Himself had spoken through the shadows and the silence. His face was again buried in his hands, but his heart was running riot with its exuberance of feeling, of purpose, of hope from far-off fountains fed. There gleamed before him a vision of the reality of it all, the real truth that a worsted heart may find strength somewhere higher up, away beyond this scene of human struggle—and that the most stained and wasted life might yet become a holy thing, again presented to the great God whose grace had saved it, a faultless life at last.

Thus he sat, nor knew how long, while the regenerating moments flew. He was recalled by feeling something fall at his feet. Stooping, he picked it up; it was a letter, fallen from the leaves of the book he held. A brief search revealed a candle on a chair beside the bed. This he lit, holding the fitful flame above the missive now spread out before him. The letter was from his mother and addressed to him. A swift look at the date explained why it had never been sent—she had been busy with it when he had unexpectedly returned the night of Madeline's party. His eyes burned their way over the opening sentences, all uneven as they were, the unsteady hand having found its course as best it could. And the gentle epistle had come to a sudden close—the letter had never been completed. But his eyes were fixed in almost fierce intensity upon the last words—probably the last the dear hand had ever written. "And I'm praying, my son," thus ran the great assurance, "as I shall never cease to pray, that He will make His grace sufficient for you and that..."