The Prospector Part 12

"I was about to say," replied Brown, in the sweetest of tones, "that if these two who are most interested, and who are extremely sane and reasonable persons, have come to an agreement upon a question, I'd bank on that decision as being about the thing." At which Helen gave his arm a quick squeeze.

"Well, mother," said Betty, "I think he's fine, and I never admired him so much as now. You know he may never see her again, and she has the whole of his heart."

"Not quite, I guess," said Brown in a low tone to Helen, who, blus.h.i.+ng vividly, replied in like tone, "You seem to be remarkably well informed."

"I know," said Brown confidently. "But he is a mine of blind stupidity!

If some one would dig him up, explore him--blast him, in short!

Confound him!"

But when the Superintendent learned of all that Shock's decision involved, he made a point to insert among his mult.i.tudinous engagements a visit to the Macgregor cottage.

"It was a great scene, I a.s.sure you," said Brown, who was describing it afterwards to the young ladies.

"Those two old Spartans, all ice and granite outside, all molten lava within, stood up looking at each other a minute or two without the quiver of an eyelid and then the old chief burred out:"

"'You are to be congratulated upon your son, Mrs. Macgregor.'"

"'Ay,' said she in a matter of fact tone, 'he will be doing his duty, I warrant.'"

"'And, believe me, your mutual sacrifice has not been unnoticed.'"

"'It is not great beside His own, but it iss all we could. It iss our life.'"

"The old chap bowed like a prince and then his voice burred like a buzz saw as he answered, 'Remember I did not ask you for him!'"

"'No, it wa.s.s not you.'"

"'But I want to tell you,' said the chief, 'I am proud to get a son who for the Cause can forsake such a mother, and I thank G.o.d for the mother that can give up such a son.'"

"And then he gripped her hand with that downward pull of his,--he gave it to me once when he heard I was Shock's friend, and nearly jerked me off my feet,--and without more words he was gone, while I stood behind them like a blubbering idiot."

"Oh, isn't she a dear!" exclaimed Betty, "poor thing."

"Poor thing!" echoed Helen warmly, "indeed she doesn't think so. She's as proud of him as she can be, and feels herself rich in his love; and so she is."

Her tone and manner struck Brown with sudden pity.

"Hang his stupidity!" he said to himself, "can't the old bloke see. But he has not such a blamed low opinion of himself that he can't imagine any girl, much less a girl like that, looking at him, and even if he did come to see it he would not think of asking her to share the life he's going to out there; and, by Jove! it would be hard enough for her.

I guess I won't take the responsibility of interfering in this business."

But Brown had no need to interfere. Mrs. Fairbanks, of all people, did what was necessary. On the morning of Shock's departure it was she who declared that someone should take pity on "that dear old lady," and should stand by her in her hour of "desertion."

"So I think I shall drive over this afternoon; and, Helen, perhaps you had better come with me. You seem to have great influence with her."

But Helen was of quite another mind. She shrank from intruding upon what she knew would be a sacred hour to mother and son. But when Mrs.

Fairbanks expressed her determination to go Helen finally agreed to accompany her.

"Oh, let's all go, mother," said Betty.

"I do not think they will want you, Betty, but you may go along," and so the three ladies proceeded in the afternoon to the Macgregor home.

But at the parting of Shock and his mother there were no tears or lamentations, or at least none that any could witness. Through the long night before, they each knew the other to be keeping the watch of love and agony; yet, each alone, they drank the cup of sacrifice. It was only when the morning was nearing that Shock could bear it no longer, and hastily dressing he came into his mother's room and kneeling by her bedside put his arms about her.

"Mother, mother, why have you not been sleeping?" he whispered.

His mother turned to him and took his head to her bosom in a close embrace, but no words came from her.

"But, mother, don't be grieving like this," sobbed Shock, "or how can I leave you at all."

"Laddie, laddie, why did you come in to me? I had minded to give you up without tears, and this iss my hour of weakness. There now, let your head lie there. Whist! lad, och-hone. It iss twenty-four years since first you lay there, lad, and though grief ha.s.s come to me many's the day, yet never through you, never once through you, and you will be remembering that, lad. It will comfort you after--after--after I'm gone."

"Gone, mother!" cried Shock in surprise.

"Yess, for this iss the word given to me this night, that you will see my face no more."

"Oh, mother! mother! don't say that word, for I cannot bear it," and poor Shock buried his face in the pillow, while his great frame shook with sobs.

"Whist now, laddie! There now. It iss the Lord."

Her voice grew steady and grave. "It iss the Lord, and He gave you to me for these few happy years, and, Shock, man, you will be heeding me."

Shock turned his face toward her again and laid his face close to her cheek.

"Remember, I gave you to Himself in convenant that day, and that covenant you will keep now and--afterwards, and I must be keeping it too."

"Yes, mother," said Shock brokenly, while he held her tight. "But it is only for two years, and then I will be coming home, or you to me, and before that, perhaps."

"Yes, yes, laddie, it may be--it may be," said his mother soothingly, "but whether or no, we will not be taking back with the one hand what we give with the other. I had minded to give you without tears, but--but oh, lad, you are all--all--all--I have. There is no one left to me."

There was a long silence between them. Under cover of darkness they let their tears freely mingle. In all his life Shock had never seen his mother sob, and now he was heart--stricken with grief and terror.

"Whist now, mother, you must not cry like that. Surely G.o.d will be good to us, and before long I will get a little place for you yonder. Why should you not come to me? There are missionaries' wives out there," he said.

"No, lad," his mother replied quietly, "I will not be deceiving myself, nor you. And yet it may be the Lord's will. But go away now and lie you down. You will need to sleep a bit, to-morrow will be a hard day to you."

For twenty years and more she had thought first of her boy, and now, even in the midst of her own great sorrow, she thought mostly of him and his grief.

"Let me stay here, mother," whispered Shock. And so in each other's arms they lay, and from sheer exhaustion both soon fell asleep.

The morning's sun was s.h.i.+ning through the c.h.i.n.k by the curtain when Mrs. Macgregor awoke. Gently she slipped out of the bed and before dressing lighted the kitchen fire, put on the kettle for the tea and the pot for the porridge. Then she dressed herself and stepping about on tiptoe prepared breakfast, peering in now and then at her sleeping son.

It was with a face calm and strong, and even bright, that she went in at last to waken him.

"Now, mother," exclaimed Shock, springing off the bed, "this is really too bad, and I meant to give you your breakfast in bed to-day."

"Ay, it's myself knew that much," she cried with a little laugh of delight.

"Oh, but you're hard to manage," said Shock severely, "but wait until I get you out yonder in my own house."