CHAPTER II.
MIDWINTER.
The spring had advanced to the end of April. It was the eve of
Allan's wedding-day. Midwinter and he had sat talking together at
the great house till far into the night--till so far that it had
struck twelve long since, and the wedding day was already some
hours old.
For the most part the conversation had turned on the bridegroom's
plans and projects. It was not till the two friends rose to go to
rest that Allan insisted on making Midwinter speak of himself.
"We have had enough, and more than enough, of _my_ future," he
began, in his bluntly straightforward way. "Let's say something
now, Midwinter, about yours. You have promised me, I know, that,
if you take to literature, it shan't part us, and that, if you go
on a sea-voyage, you will remember, when you come back, that my
house is your home. But this is the last chance we have of being
together in our old way; and I own I should like to know--" His
voice faltered, and his eyes moistened a little. He left the
sentence unfinished.
Midwinter took his hand and helped him, as he had often helped
him to the words that he wanted in the by-gone time.
"You would like to know, Allan," he said, "that I shall not bring
an aching heart with me to your wedding day? If you will let me
go back for a moment to the past, I think I can satisfy you."
They took their chairs again. Allan saw that Midwinter was moved.
"Why distress yourself?" he asked, kindly--"why go back to the
past?"
"For two reasons, Allan. I ought to have thanked you long since
for the silence you have observed, for my sake, on a matter that
must have seemed very strange to you. You know what the name is
which appears on the register of my marriage, and yet you have
forborne to speak of it, from the fear of distressing me. Before
you enter on your new life, let us come to a first and last
understanding about this. I ask you--as one more kindness to
me--to accept my assurance (strange as the thing may seem to you)
that I am blameless in this matter; and I entreat you to believe
that the reasons I have for leaving it unexplained are reasons
which, if Mr. Brock was living, Mr. Brock himself would approve."
In those words he kept the secret of the two names; and left the
memory of Allan's mother, what he had found it, a sacred memory
in the heart of her son.
"One word more," he went on--"a word which will take us, this
time, from past to future. It has been said, and truly said,
that out of Evil may come Good. Out of the horror and the misery
of that night you know of has come the silencing of a doubt which
once made my life miserable with groundless anxiety about you
and about myself. No clouds raised by my superstition will ever
come between us again. I can't honestly tell you that I am more
willing now than I was when we were in the Isle of Man to take
what is called the rational view of your Dream. Though I know
what extraordinary coincidences are perpetually happening in
the experience of all of us, still I cannot accept coincidences
as explaining the fulfillment of the Visions which our own eyes
have seen. All I can sincerely say for myself is, what I think it
will satisfy you to know, that I have learned to view the purpose
of the Dream with a new mind. I once believed that it was sent
to rouse your distrust of the friendless man whom you had taken
as a brother to your heart. I now _know_ that it came to you
as a timely warning to take him closer still. Does this help
to satisfy you that I, too, am standing hopefully on the brink of
a new life, and that while we live, brother, your love and mine
will never be divided again?"
They shook hands in silence. Allan was the first to recover
himself. He answered in the few words of kindly assurance which
were the best words that he could address to his friend.
"I have heard all I ever want to hear about the past," he said;
"and I know what I most wanted to know about the future.
Everybody says, Midwinter, you have a career before you, and
I believe that everybody is right. Who knows what great things
may happen before you and I are many years older?"
"Who _need_ know?" said Midwinter, calmly. "Happen what may, God
is all-merciful, God is all-wise. In those words your dear old
friend once wrote to me. In that faith I can look back without
murmuring at the years that are past, and can look on without
doubting to the years that are to come."
He rose, and walked to the window. While they had been speaking
together the darkness had passed. The first light of the new day
met him as he looked out, and rested tenderly on his face.