The Mystics | Page 3

back!
I'll win it back!"
And, with a sobbing laugh, his mother would drop her sewing and draw
him to her heart in a sudden yearning of love and pride.
In such surroundings and in such an atmosphere he passed sixteen years;
then the first upheaval of his life took place. His father died.
His first recollection--when the terrible necessities of the event were
past, and his own grief and consternation had partially subsided--was
the remembrance of his mother calling him to her room; of her kissing
him, crying over him and telling him of the resolve she had taken to
write and make known his existence to his uncle in Scotland.
The confession at first overwhelmed him. His own pride, his sense of
loyalty to his father's memory prompted him to cry out against the idea
as against a sacrilege. Then slowly his boyish, immature mind grasped
something of the nobility that prompted the decision--something of the
inexpressible love that counted sentiment and personal dignity as
nothing beside his own future; and in a passion of gratitude he flung his
arms about his mother, repeating the old childish vows with a new and
deeper force.
So the letter to Scotland was despatched; and a time of sharp suspense
followed for mother and son. Then, one never-to-be-forgotten day, the
answer arrived.
Andrew Henderson wrote unemotionally. He expressed formal regret
for his brother's death, but evinced no interest in his sister-in-law's
position. He briefly described himself as living an isolated life in a
small house on the sea-coast, a dozen miles from the family home
which had remained untenanted since his father's death. He admitted
that with advancing years the duties of life had begun to weigh upon
him, diverting his mind and time from the graver pursuits to which his
life was devoted; finally he grudgingly suggested that, should his

nephew care to undertake the duties of secretary at a salary of sixty
pounds a year, he might find a home with him.
The immediate feeling that followed the reading of the letter was
fraught with chilling disappointment. On the moment, pride again
asserted itself, urging a swift refusal of the rich man's proposal; then
once more the patience that had kept Mrs. Henderson brave and gentle
during seventeen years of wearing poverty made itself felt. All thought
of personal grievance faded from her mind as she pointed out the
urgent necessity of John's being seen and known by this uncle, whose
only relation and ostensible heir he was. She talked for long, wisely and
kindly--as mothers talk out of the unselfish fulness of their hearts--and
with every word the golden castles of her imagination rose tower on
tower to form the citadel in which her son was to reign supreme.
So wisely and so lovingly did she talk that she persuaded not only the
boy, but herself, into the belief that he had but to reach Scotland to
make his inheritance sure; and before the day closed she wrote to
Andrew Henderson accepting his offer. A week later the whole light of
her life went out, as she watched the train steam out of the station,
carrying John northward.
Upon the days that followed his arrival in Scotland there is no need to
dwell. He came as a stranger, and as a stranger he was introduced by
his uncle to the routine of work expected of him. No mention was made
of his recent loss, no suggestion was given that his mother should make
her double bereavement easier by visits to her son. Whatever of hope or
sentiment he had brought with him, he was left to destroy or smother as
best he could.
The first week resolved itself into one round of boyish homesickness
and desolation; then gradually, as the marvellous healing properties of
youth began to stir, a new feeling awakened in his mind--a sense of
curiosity concerning the strange old man whom fate, by a twist of the
wheel, had made the arbiter of his life. Even to one so young and
inexperienced, it was impossible to know Andrew Henderson and not
to feel that some strange peculiarity set him apart from other men. In
his ascetic face, in his large, light-blue eyes, in his extraordinary air of

abstraction and aloofness from mundane things, there was something
that fascinated and repelled; and with a wondering interest the boy
studied these things, trying in his unformed way to reconcile them with
his narrow experience of human nature.
For many weeks he sought without success for some key to the attitude
of this new-found relative. Then one evening--when solution seemed
least near--the key, metaphorically speaking, fell at his feet. Returning
home from a ramble over the headland, his observant eye was caught
by the sight of a narrow foot-track that,