Part 36 (1/2)

As he grew to believe in the youth's sincerity, Trenholme thought he perceived that, although he had asked what would be the probable direction of the enthusiast's wanderings, the dentist was really stricken with doubt as to whether the prediction might not possibly be correct, and longed chiefly to know Trenholme's mind on that important matter.

”This crazy fellow is astray in his interpretation of Scripture,” he said, ”if he believes that it teaches that the Second Advent is now imminent; and his fixing upon to-night is, of course, quite arbitrary.

G.o.d works by growth and development, not by violent miracle. If you study the account of our Lord's first coming, you see that, not only was there long preparation, but that the great miracle was hidden in the beautiful disguise of natural processes. We must interpret all special parts of the inspired Word by that which we learn of its Author in the whole of His revelation, otherwise we should not deal as reverently with it as we deal with the stray words of any human author.”

The young man, if he did not understand, was certainly comforted by this official opinion.

”I'm glad to hear you look upon it in that light,” he said approvingly, ”for, to tell the truth, if I thought the millennium was coming to-night I'd be real scared, although I've lived better than most young men of my age do; but, some way, the millennium isn't the sort of thing I seem to hanker after very much. I suppose, though, people as good as you would like nothing so well as to see it begin at once.”

Trenholme looked down at the sheet of paper before him, and absently made marks upon it with his pen. He was thinking of the spiritual condition of a soul which had no ardent desire for the advent of its Lord, but it was not of the young man he was thinking.

”Of course,” the latter continued, ”I didn't suppose myself there was anything in it--at least”--candidly--”I didn't in the day-time; but when I found he'd gone out in the dark, and thought of all the times I'd heard him praying--” he broke off. ”He's real good. I'm a better fellow for having lived with him so long, but I wish to goodness I'd never caught him.”

The word ”caught,” so expressive of the American's relation to the wanderer, roused Trenholme's attention, and he asked now with interest, ”May I inquire why you did take possession of him and bring him here?”

”Well, as to that, I don't know that I'd like to tell,” said the young man, frankly. ”Since I've lived with him I've seen my reasons to be none of the best.” He fidgeted now, rising, cap in hand. ”I ought to go and look after him,” he said, ”if I only knew where to go.”

It struck Trenholme that Harkness had an idea where to go, and that his questioning was really a prelude to its announcement. ”Where do _you_ think he has gone?”

”Well, if you ask me what I think, Princ.i.p.al--but, mind, I haven't a word of proof of it--I think he's gone up the mountain, and that he's not gone there alone.”

”What do you mean?”

”I mean that I think drunken Job's wife, and old McNider, and some more of the Second Advent folks, will go with him, expecting to be caught up.”

”Impossible!” cried Trenholme, vehemently. Then more soberly, ”Even if they had such wild intentions, the weather would, of course, put a stop to it.”

Harkness did not look convinced. ”Job's threatened to beat his wife to death if she goes, and it's my belief she'll go.”

He twirled his hat as he spoke. He was, in fact, trying to get the responsibility of his suspicions lightened by sharing them with Trenholme at this eleventh hour, but his hearer was not so quickly roused.

”If you believe that,” he said coolly, ”you ought to give information to the police.”

”The police know all that I know. They've heard the people preaching and singing in the streets. I can't make them believe the story if they don't. They'd not go with me one step on a night like this--not one step.”

There was a short silence. Trenholme was weighing probabilities. On the whole, he thought the police were in the right of it, and that this young man was probably carried away by a certain liking for novel excitement.

”In any case,” he said aloud, ”I don't see what I can do in the matter.”

Harkness turned to leave as abruptly as he had come in. ”If you don't, I see what I can do. I'm going along there to see if I can find them.”

”As you are in a way responsible for the old man, perhaps that is your duty,” replied Trenholme, secretly thinking that on such roads and under such skies the volatile youth would not go very far.

A blast of wind entered the house door as Harkness went out of it, scattering Trenholme's papers, causing his study lamp to flare up suddenly, and almost extinguis.h.i.+ng it.

Trenholme went on with his writing, and now a curious thing happened.

About nine o'clock he again heard steps upon his path, and the bell rang. Thinking it a visitor, he stepped to the door himself, as he often did. There was no one there but a small boy, bearing a large box on his shoulders. He asked for Mrs. Martha. ”Have you got a parcel for her?”

said Trenholme, thinking his housekeeper had probably retired, as she did not come to the door. The boy signified that he had, and made his way into the light of the study door. Trenholme saw now, by the label on the box, that he had come from the largest millinery establishment the place could boast. It rather surprised him that the lean old woman should have been purchasing new apparel there, but there was nothing to be done but tell the boy to put out the contents of the box and be gone.

Accordingly, upon a large chair the boy laid a white gown of delicate material, and went away.