The two men went on their way a moment later, uncle swinging the valise quite playfully to show how light it was. "I hope to see you later," said the Reverend Gordon Laird as I started on; "and perhaps I'll be introduced to that cream you're going to get," he added, in quite a non ministerial way.
"Not till it's whipped," said I, holding the pitcher in both hands.
"That's when it'll be good," replied the cleric, something of the moralist in his voice this time.
I had gone but a little way when I suddenly stopped, looked back, calculated. For an idea had come to me—and I knew a short cut home. A hasty flight through a neighbour's yard, straight under an old pine tree that George Washington was credited with planting, along a narrow alley that led to our back garden, would bring me there before those deliberate two would have arrived.
Three minutes later I was in the sitting-room, breathless almost. "It's a minister," I said, "a young minister—and he's Scotch as heather." I have often wondered since where I got this expression; but I believe I heard it from old McLaughlin. He was the only Scotchman in our whole town, and he always wore a shawl to church, and put a penny on the plate.
"Who?" said Aunt Agnes and my mother in unison. They were both in black silk, for they knew it was train time. And my aunt had donned two real tortoise-shell combs that came from Tiffany's.
"Our elder," I gasped, standing the pitcher on the mantel; "he isn't an elder at all. He's a minister—with one of those vests that fit around the throat like a sweater—the same as the Episcopalians wear—and fair hair. And I ran back to tell you not to put him in the attic," I concluded, lifting my eyes heavenward as I spoke.
"A sweater vest and fair hair!" my aunt echoed in mock gravity; "is that all he has on?"
"Not put him in the attic?" exclaimed my mother, scornful of merriment at such an hour; "why shouldn't we put him there—where would you have him put?"
"Any of the rooms," I answered promptly; "my room."
"Mercy, child, we'd have to get all your things out of it and turn everything upside down," my mother returned seriously, "and they'll be here in a few minutes. What happened to the elder?"
"I don't know. I don't remember. Uncle did say something about why he didn't come—I think he's sick, or dead, or something. But I'm not sure. And we can easily keep Mr. Laird down-stairs till we get things changed around. It wouldn't need much—men never look into drawers and closets like women do," I assured them.
"Mr. Laird!" echoed both my auditors almost in chorus. "Is that his name?"
"Yes," I said, "his name's Laird—Gordon Laird."
"Goodness me!" exclaimed my mother, "but you've made good progress. I hope you didn't call him Gordon. How old is he?"
"I don't know," I retorted, treating the thrust with silence, "and I don't care—I don't care anything about him. You know I'm not much on preachers—and anyhow, I'm going to the theatre to-night with Charlie. But I took all this trouble for your sakes," I went on in a rather injured tone; "I didn't suppose you'd want to coop anybody like him up at the top of the house. But I don't care," I concluded vehemently.
My Aunt Agnes was at the window. "They're coming," she announced, without turning her head. "Your Uncle Henry certainly should have sent Moses for that valise—and he certainly is tall."
Mother by this time was at the window too. "He isn't any taller than Mr. Giddens," she pronounced, after a little silence.
"Well, what are you going to do about it?" I said, a trifle petulantly, for they both seemed to have forgotten I was there.
"Really I hardly know," my aunt began reflectively; "it does seem hardly the thing to——"
"There's no use talking about it," my mother broke in; "it's too late to make any change now. And anyhow, Henry wouldn't like it, I'm sure—he'd think it wasn't fair to the elder."
"Sacred to the memory of the elder from Pollocksville," chanted my aunt solemnly.
"All right," I said, reaching towards the mantel for the pitcher, "just as you like. He's not my guest—and I'm going for the cream."
And I reflected as I went—or if I didn't, I have often done so since—how full is life of this same proceeding. Thwarted plans and broken promises and disappointed hopes—yet all that remains for us is to take up our humdrum tasks again, to pick up our waiting pitcher and go our way through some back alley and across some homely yard—for the cream.
They were still on the porch when I got back. And Mr. Laird was swinging away in one of the big easy chairs, as much at home as if he had known us all his life. His hat was lying on the floor and his hair was hardly a bit red in the failing light. He rose as I came on to the porch.
"Did you get the cream?" he asked seriously, as if it were a matter of importance.
"Oh, yes," I said, "Lyn's thrashing away at it by this time. She's our cook, you know," I added informatively.
"I'm vastly interested in these darkies," he said as we both sat down. "We have very few of them in Edinburgh—the thermometer doesn't agree with them. They're quite a study, aren't they?" pointing as he spoke to a sable boy who was carrying a pail across the yard.
"You'll find the life here very different, won't you, sir?" my uncle remarked; "but I suppose you hear a great deal, even in Scotland, of what's called the 'Nigger problem,' don't you?"
"Yes," returned our visitor, "we're reminded of it rather startlingly sometimes—by what we see in the newspapers. But I suppose such despatches—about lynch law, I mean—are decidedly exaggerated."
Uncle's face clouded a little. "I never saw any of your papers, of course," he said; "but I should fancy 'twould be difficult to exaggerate much about some things that have happened in the South, sir."
"Then there must be some terrible scenes of brutality," rejoined Mr. Laird, looking about the circle in an evident attempt to make the conversation general.
"That depends on what you call brutality, sir," my uncle answered, his voice suddenly intense, his eyes fixed very earnestly on his guest. "We reckon here, sir—all Southern gentlemen reckon—that people who have only heard of these things, and who are not—who aren't familiar with the situation; we reckon, sir, that they're hardly justified in pronouncing an opinion."
I think Aunt Agnes must have scented danger ahead. In any case she suddenly gave the conversation a mighty jerk in another direction. "Oh, by the way, Henry," she began, as if it had everything to do with the race question, "have you any idea what happened the elder from Pollocksville?"
If uncle felt any surprise at the rather violent digression he concealed it remarkably well. "Yes," he answered calmly. "Mr. Furvell got word about him at the last minute. It seems he has thirteen children, and one got lost—you'd think he had enough left, wouldn't you? But he got in quite a fuss about it, and that's why he wasn't able to get away. So we'd have been left without a guest altogether if our friend hadn't happened along," and my uncle made a courtly little bow in the direction of Mr. Laird.
"Oh, I see," said the latter, evidently very interested. "I'm an alternative then. Well, I'm here anyhow—and that's the main thing."
"Oh, no, Mr. Laird, there was no alternative about it," broke in my aunt, "nothing of the sort. If our elder had come you were to go with Dr. Paine to Mrs. Keen's—and then we'd have lost you," smiling very sweetly as she spoke.
"Weel," replied Mr. Laird jocosely, "'it's an ill wind that blaws naebody guid,' as they say in my country. If it hadn't been for that youngster straying away, I wouldn't have been here. So I'm an advocate of large families from this time on."
"So am I," said my Aunt Agnes.
"But there's a matter in connection with the elder we expected," my mother began rather timidly, "and it's something that's troubling us a little."
Mr. Laird looked as if he would like to be enlightened.
"And I may just as well tell you now," went on my mother; "it's about where we were going to put him—and that's where we have to put you."
"That's the worst of it," ejaculated my Aunt Agnes.
"You see," resumed my mother, "we thought you were going to be an elder—and we were going to put him in the attic," the dread tidings coming at last with a splash. "And we do hope you won't mind, Mr. Laird—you see if we had ever thought——"
"We won't make any apologies to our guest," my uncle now broke in, his tone indicating that he wouldn't object to being heard. "You're welcome as the flowers in May, Mr. Laird—and there's a fireplace in your room in the attic. I may be wrong, but it's always seemed to me if a fellow's got a welcome and an open fire, the attic's just as good as the parlour."
Mr. Laird looked delighted. "I'm in love with it already," he responded gleefully; "I wouldn't trade it for any room in the house. I couldn't imagine," he went on mirthfully, "what was coming. I thought it must be the dog-kennel, or a dark closet, or a wood-shed; but an attic—and a fireplace! Why, bless my heart, there's nothing in the world I love like an attic—secluded, lofty, roomy—it's the best place in the house. Let us see it now."
"Where's Moses?" said my uncle; "he'll take your valise up for you. It's plain, but it's comfortable, Mr. Laird. And if you like it, there's just one way I want you to show it."
"And what might that be?" asked our visitor.
"Don't be in any hurry about leaving," said my uncle with serious air.
"No, we'll think you don't like it if you are," chimed in my aunt.
"Where's Moses?" asked uncle again.
"I don't know where Moses is," said the Reverend Gordon Laird, his face as sober as a judge, "but one thing I do know—I've heard of Southern hospitality, and the half was never told."
Uncle bowed; Aunt Agnes smiled graciously. As for me, I had disappeared.
"What have you been up to now? You certainly did get out of the way in a hurry—you've been up to the attic yourself, haven't you, now?" for mother saw that I was flurried and out of breath when I returned.
It was a little while before I owned up. But I reckoned they'd find out sooner or later anyhow. "Well," I said at last, "yes, if you will know. I ran up and put my silver toilet set on the dresser—it helped ever so much to make things look decent. And I took up those roses from the library—they make the whole room look different."
"Those roses!" my mother echoed; "why, child, Mr. Giddens sent you those roses just this morning—they're American beauties, Helen."
"I know it," I answered calmly, "so they'll be something new—to him. Besides, there's some respect due a clergyman from Edinburgh."
Charlie dropped in for supper that evening. I don't remember whether or not he was specially invited and it doesn't matter. He came while everybody except myself was in the last stages of preparation for the evening meal; I was in the hall as he came in.
The first thing that caught his eye—after me—was the clerical hat that hung between two of uncle's broad-rimmed grays. He put it on and made very merry over it. It was decidedly too large for him too; as soon as he noticed that, he tipped it jauntily to the back of his head—even then it looked big. The Reverend Gordon's attic was certainly the best room in his bodily edifice.
"Your elder didn't turn up?" said Charlie.
"No, he didn't come."
"And you got the clergyman?"
I nodded.
"Up-stairs right now?"
"Yes."
"In the attic?"
"That's where he is."
Charlie returned the hat to its peg. Then he took off his overcoat, disclosing a faultless evening dress, for the theatre was our objective point that night.
"What kind of a cove is this parson?" he enquired carelessly.
"He's about your age," said I.
"Nice?"
"Uncle thinks so," I answered cautiously.
"How does your mother like him—has she looked him over?"
"I really don't know—he's only been here an hour or two. You certainly do look nice to-night, Charlie."
"How long is this cleric going to stay?" he pursued.
"I don't know. I heard uncle telling him to stay as long as he could."
"What denomination is he?"
"Belongs to the true church," said I.
"I thought Mr. Furvell said he was Presbyterian."
"So he is—he's from Edinburgh. And he's vastly interested in the darkies. They don't grow 'em over there, it seems. He got on pretty thin ice with uncle—they were talking the nigger problem."
"They must have been hard up for conversation," said Mr. Giddens, with a little curl of the lip.
"But they weren't," I protested; "he's a splendid talker—hush, there he's coming now," as I heard a footfall on the stair. "Come and meet him."
I introduced the two men to each other. They stood talking a little in the hall—and I watched them while I listened. Charlie was in full dress, as I have said, with diamond accompaniment; Mr. Laird was in his clericals. They stood close together, chatting very pleasantly; I thought I had never seen two finer types of men, both strong and straight and tall—though Charlie wasn't quite so tall. The Southerner had the keenest face, I thought, bright and animated, with eager, penetrating eyes, and his whole bearing was that of a high-minded and successful man of the world. They were discussing "futures" at the time, I think, suggested doubtless by preliminary remarks about the weather and the prospect of the cotton crop. I know I was surprised to observe that the Reverend Gordon Laird was by no means ignorant of the subject; strange subject, too, when you come to think of it—futures, which comprise a great deal more than cotton!
Perhaps Charlie had the keener face, as I have said, but there was more of insight in Mr. Laird's. His were the more wistful eyes, as if they were looking for something not to be found on the surface. And really, of the two, the Scotchman seemed to be doing the most of the inspecting; I mean, by that, that Charlie didn't appear to have the slightest chance to patronize him, as business men are so apt to do with clergymen. For the minister, his clerical coat and collar to the contrary notwithstanding, impressed one as having a certain order of business that was just as important as the other's; and he seemed to pride himself on it, too, in a reserved sort of way. In fact, I should hardly say this at all, since I don't know exactly how I could defend it—but there was an undefinable something about him that made one feel Mr. Laird reckoned his work quite as necessary to the world's good as that of any prosperous business man, even of a wealthy ship-owner from Savannah.
"Have you been long in our country, sir?" Mr. Giddens took advantage of the first pause to enquire.
"No," said the other. "I'm quite a tenderfoot—it's only two weeks since I landed at New York. I came straight South to see Dr. Paine; he took a post-graduate session in Edinburgh, and I met him there. We scraped up quite a friendship—and that's how I came to visit him."
"Do you sail from New York, returning, Mr. Laird?" I ventured, thinking I ought to bear some part in the conversation.
"That's all very uncertain," he answered thoughtfully; "I've been in communication with the Colonial Committee; and it's just possible I may take work in Canada. They're sorely in need of men there, it seems."
"It's a wonderful country," pronounced Charlie; "I spent a week once between Montreal and Quebec. There's untold wealth in Canada, if it were only exploited."
"That's what I have heard," said Mr. Laird; "and I'd like to lend a hand," he added quietly, the earnestness of his eyes interpreting his words. But Charlie evidently did not understand him.
"You mean in the way of investment, sir?"
"Yes," said the Reverend Gordon Laird; "yes, I guess that's it—yes, investment."
This somewhat enigmatical conversation was terminated by the advent of the other members of the family, all quite ready for the supper that was waiting. And a decidedly animated circle it was that surrounded our well-laden board. Uncle was in fine spirits, as he ever was when he had congenial company, and the honours of his attention were pretty evenly divided between the Scotchman and the Southerner.
It was delightful to watch the interest and surprise of our clerical guest, so new and different did everything appear to him. For our dear Southland has fashions all its own, each one of them more delicious than another. Perhaps this is especially true of what we eat, and of how we go about it. We had a coloured boy with a long feather fan whose duty it was to guard us from the flies. This amused him vastly; especially once when my aunt motioned him to look—the dusky Washington was almost asleep, leaning against the wall. And so many of our dishes seemed to strike the foreigner as the newest and most palatable things on earth. We had the savoury rock in little fish-shaped dishes—they looked all ready to swim—and sweet potatoes and corn bread and fried chicken, and hot biscuits too, and a lot of other things Scotchmen never see. It was lovely to watch Aunt Agnes' face, brightening with every recurring exclamation of surprise or pleasure from our visitor.
On the other hand he was hardly less interesting to us. A really new type is something to which a little Southern town is seldom treated—we are so fearfully native-born. And Gordon Laird (the Reverend can't be always used) seemed to bring with him the flavour of the world without. His accent was so different, as I have said; and many of his terms were so unfamiliar to us. For instance, we soon remarked that he referred to the Episcopal church as the Church of England; and once or twice he spoke of the "Kirk Session," which had to be explained; and he rarely used the term "pastor," or "preacher," as we did—it was always "minister" with him. It was most interesting, too, to hear him talk of Edinburgh, of its castle, its Holyrood, its Princes Street, its Scott's monument, its haunts of Knox and memories of Burns.
"Fo' de Lawd, Miss Helen, dat new preacher, he's got a heap o' learnin'," Lyddie said one day, "an' he knows how to let it out, dat's sho'."
That very first night, that first supper, I mean, found us all listening with great intentness to his description of much we had hardly ever heard of before. I remember he spoke of higher criticism, giving the names of two or three great Scottish scholars, and he seemed a little disappointed to find we had never heard of the latter and but little more than heard of the former. He spoke, it seemed to me, as if this higher criticism were a matter of great importance, almost as if it were troubling his own soul—but this I did not understand till long after.
The discussion ran so steadily along church lines that even Charlie, who was not very strong on matters ecclesiastical, contributed a question.
"What church does your Queen belong to, Mr. Laird?" he asked.
"To the Presbyterian," replied our guest, looking very candidly at the questioner; "when she is in Scotland, that is."
"Oh," said Charlie, "I always thought she belonged to the State church."
"So she does," replied the other, "and that is the State church of Scotland."
"Miss Helen thinks that's fine," broke in my uncle. "I'm sure her far-off ancestors must have been Scotch Presbyterians, Mr. Laird. She's a regular Puritan—in theory."
"Then you'll be going to the service at the opening of Presbytery to-night, Miss Randall," said Mr. Laird, turning to me.
I was silent, not knowing just what to say. Yet I felt that uncle's statement was quite just all the time. For, ever since a child, I had had a kind of passionate devotion to the church of my fathers; yet it is only fair to add that if there was one girl in all our town who would not have been called religious, who would, in fact, have been called a gay society girl—what a poor garish definition that seems to me now!—I was that very one.
"What her uncle says about Helen reminds me of something I must tell you, Mr. Laird," began my mother, breaking the silence that had followed his rather pointed question. "I always taught her the Shorter Catechism when she was a little girl—made her learn it, at least—and one Sunday afternoon I was following her around the yard trying to get her to answer what is Sanctification; well, she suddenly turned to me, and what do you think she said?"
"Couldn't imagine, I'm sure," answered Mr. Laird.
"'What's the use, mother,' she said, 'of teaching me all this—when perhaps I won't marry a Presbyterian at all?'"
"All the more need of it then," replied our guest amid the laugh that followed; "it won't be wasted anyhow, whoever the lucky man may be. It's wonderful how that catechism stays with you, when once it gets in the blood. I learned it on the hills of Scotland," he went on, his deep eyes brightening as if the memory gave him joy, "and I hardly ever wander now in wild or lonely regions without its great words coming back to me. They go well together, I always think—they're both lofty."
"On the hills?" echoed Mr. Giddens, who had never lived outside the city; "did your father send you there to learn it?—pretty hard lines, I should say."
"Oh, no," Mr. Laird answered simply, "my work lay there. I used to take care of sheep on the hills—I was a herd laddie, as they call them in Scotland. My father is a shepherd."
I felt, rather than saw, the consternation that came on every face.
"What did you say about your father?" my uncle asked involuntarily, looking up impulsively from his plate. Now, uncle was a gentleman, if ever one was born, but this intimation fairly swept him off his feet. "You were speaking about your father, were you not?" he amended, thinking the question more delicate in this form.
"Yes," said Mr. Laird, evidently quite unconscious of having caused a sensation. "I was saying my father is a shepherd. He takes care, along with other herds, of the gentlemen's flocks in Scotland—in Midlothian. The shepherd gets so many sheep for himself each year—that's part of his hire, you see."
"Yes, yes, I see," rejoined my uncle. "Have some more of the ice-cream, Mr. Laird. Washington, pass the ice-cream to the gentleman." It was funny, had it not been so real, to see uncle's consternation. This was something new to my patrician relative.
"Do let me help you to a little more of this chocolate cake," broke in my aunt.
"And your coffee cup is empty," added my mother. Both showed the sudden perturbation that had laid hold of uncle, for which the only outlet was this sudden freshet of hospitality.
"No, thank you," our guest answered quietly, "I've had quite enough—you Southerners would soon kill a man with kindness. Yes," he went on, resuming the interrupted theme, "the catechism goes well with the shepherd's crook; if there's any one calling in the world that's been productive of plain living and high thinking, it's the shepherd's."
"Half of that programme appeals to me," laughed Charlie Giddens, helping himself generously to the chocolate cake. "I'm afraid I'd make a poor shepherd." Charlie seemed unable to keep his eyes from Mr. Laird's face; this candour of biography was quite beyond him.
"But it's a fact," our Scotch visitor went on quite earnestly; "it's wonderful the difference there has been, as a class, between the shepherds and the ploughmen, in Scotland. The shepherds have been so much superior; their eyes were constantly lifted to the hills, you see, and the others had to keep theirs on the ground. Besides, their work developed a sense of responsibility—and it took a tender man to make a good shepherd. Oh, yes, the shepherds of Scotland have been a noble race of men."
"And your father is still living in Scotland?" enquired my mother from across the table.
"Yes," he answered; "yes, he's still living."
"That's a phase of life we haven't been privileged to see," my uncle remarked, concluding quite a lengthy silence; "indeed, we haven't seen anything of your Scottish life at all. I have often thought I'd love especially to see Edinburgh."
"I'd sooner see the shepherds on the hills," cried I. "I'd love to see the heather—and the mists rolling back over the mountains, like I've read about in Scott."
"Have you never been to the old world, Miss Helen?" our guest enquired of me.
"No, never," I replied; "I've never been from under the stars and stripes."
"But she's contemplating a European trip, Mr. Laird," Mr. Giddens broke in, looking very knowingly at me.
"Yes," chimed my mother, a playful smile lurking about her mouth, "perhaps you'll meet over there before very long."
Mr. Laird turned and looked at me. I know my face betrayed me. But if he put two and two together he didn't give us the result. "I hope you'll bring your mother with you when you come," was all he said.
"But Mrs. Randall's a poor sailor," quoth Charlie Giddens.
"So am I," was my remark.
"Then you must choose a fair-weather season for your voyage," pressed Charlie, maintaining an excellent gravity.
"But you can't always tell," said I. "Often the storms don't come till you get out to sea."
We went to the theatre that night, Charlie and I, as we had arranged. But one-half of us didn't enjoy it very much. The play was a light, frivolous thing, and I so defined it to Charlie before the second act was through.
"I thought you liked the gay and festive sort," he said; "I do believe this preachers' convocation is having a depressing influence on you," which remark I resented not a little; whatever my weaknesses were, I knew susceptibility to the clergy was not one of them.
"Nothing of the sort," I retorted; "but the thing isn't true to life—life was never one long cackle like that. Besides, they haven't any fire on, and it's cold—and I'm going home after the next act."
Which I did, sure enough, and took Charlie with me. Our seats were near the front; and I must confess I did enjoy our procession down the aisle. I could see the looks of admiration on every hand—of envy, too, from some maidenly and matronly eyes.
Charlie was so tall and straight and handsome, and had such an original head of hair. Besides, most of our townspeople knew he was an aristocrat—our little city made a specialty of aristocracy—and absolutely all of them knew that he was rich. The darkies had a good deal to do with this, I fancy. My admirer had come from far away, from a city, too, and all the sons of Ham invest the stranger from a distance with the glory of wealth untold. But white folks aren't so very different after all; it's a very odd sort of girl that doesn't take some satisfaction out of these far-travelled pilgrims that come hundreds of miles, and stay several days at the best hotel, just to worship at her feet. A local sweetheart is all very well in his way—but the whole town doesn't know when he comes. Besides, it's so convenient for the local to pay his homage that it may mean very much or very little. But when a lover comes across a couple of states, leaving behind him a big city—and all the girls that are sorry to see him go, that's the best of it—that is something else, as we used to say in the South. It means his temperature must be about a hundred and twenty in the shade, as I have heard Uncle Henry say many a time.
Yes, I was proud enough of Charlie as we walked the full length of the theatre that night, he keeping close behind and carrying my white opera cloak on his arm. I remember an old maid—and they are the best authority on such matters—telling me that Charlie had a very caressing way of carrying a cloak, as if it were a sacred thing. I have thought quite a little over this, and I believe there's something in it.
I cannot say I was sorry when I heard voices in the library as we came in the house. And that's a bad sign when a girl's in love. There should be no such music to a love-lorn pair as dead silence in the library when they come home through the dark. When the poet sang of voices of the night I'm sure he meant just two.
The Presbytery meeting was evidently over, for they were all home, Mr. Furvell among them. Now I should have said at the outset that Mr. Furvell, although he was our pastor and much beloved at that, was really quite a Puritan of a man. And I was sure, as soon as he shook hands with me that night, that he was concerned about my soul.
"Did you enjoy the play, Miss Helen?" he said, looking as solemnly at me as though I had spent the evening where Dives was when he asked for a drop of water to cool his tongue.
"No," said I, "it was a fool play," whereat Mr. Furvell looked a little comforted.
"We had a beautiful service at the Presbytery," he went on, his solemnity but little diluted; "the Lord was with us, Miss Helen," with an intonation that implied a monopoly. "You'd have been more profited if you had been there. Don't you think so, Mr. Laird?"
I fancy none of us learned much from our visitor's reply. Whatever it was, it was quite evasive; but I remember that he looked at me instead of his questioner—and I felt a little rising anger that my own minister should have put me in this light before a stranger. He would have found out what a frivolous heathen I was quite soon enough, I thought, without any assistance of this kind from Mr. Furvell. The conversation seemed to flag a little after this, and it wasn't very long till Charlie and I slipped off into the library. I didn't slip as cheerfully as Charlie. And he hadn't got more than well begun upon a general criticism of Mr. Laird before uncle knocked at the door—uncle was a very cautious man—"We're going to have prayers; will you and Mr. Giddens come in to worship?"
Charlie gave a little gasp. "We're at our devotions right now ourselves," he said, so low that uncle could not hear. Then we had a swift little debate. I was for prayers, and Charlie said he believed they had brought that whole Presbytery together just to convert me. Which, I retorted, would be like training all the guns of the American navy on one little house fly.
Anyhow, we went in—even Charlie couldn't have done anything else—and the Reverend Gordon Laird had the Bible in his hand.
"Do you sing?" he suddenly enquired, looking up from the book.
"Who?" asked my Aunt Agnes, quite amazed.
"Oh! I mean, do you have singing at family worship? It's a very common custom in Scotland—they usually go together."
Of course we had never heard of such a thing. In fact, family worship in any form was one of the dainties we kept for visitors—if they were able to help themselves.
So Mr. Laird spoke a few words about their Scottish Psalmody—I had never heard the term before—and he said there were no hymns to touch them, for strength and grandeur. I consider this epoch-making, in a certain sense; for the psalms of David have been the songs in the house of my pilgrimage for long years now.
Suddenly uncle asked him to sing one for us. He seemed quite willing, and we all listened eagerly; except Charlie, who thought, I fancied, that it was a waste of precious time.
I love to sit and think again of that wonderful experience. Uncle was there, and my Aunt Agnes, and my precious mother; my promised husband, too, was of the little company. I can see again the look of expectation, surprise, and almost wonder as the young minister, with serious mien, sang us one of the psalms of his native land. He chose the eighty-ninth—I know them nearly all by number now. Our visitor's voice was not so cultured as some I have heard, but it was clear and sweet, and his ear was true,—and, best of all, his whole soul seemed to be in the great words as they rose slowly from his lips. The words are so noble that I must write them out.
"Oh! greatly blessed the people areThe joyful sound that know—In brightness of Thy face, oh, Lord,They ever on shall go.
"They in Thy name shall all the dayRejoice exceedinglyAnd in Thy righteousness shall theyExalted be on high."
So ran the mighty song. But I think we felt the grandeur of it most when he sang the next two lines:
"Because the glory of their strengthDoth only stand in Thee,"
which impressed me then, and still impresses me, as the most majestic union of words I ever heard in any form of religious song.
"That's wonderful!" said my mother as the psalm was finished.
"Beautiful!" contributed my uncle; "sounds like it ought to be sung by a race of giants."
"So it was," said Mr. Laird. "The martyrs have sung those words—hundreds of them. That psalm was a favourite with the Covenanters."
"The what?" interjected Mr. Giddens. "The Covenanters, did you say? Who were they?"
"The Covenanters," replied Mr. Laird. "And I consider that's the greatest name ever given to a band of men."
"Were they a religious sect?" asked Charlie.
"No, sir—they were a religious army," answered Mr. Laird. "And I've got their blood in my veins. Some of my ancestors laid down their lives for their faith—and this world never saw an aristocracy like to them." His cheeks were flushed, his whole face animated with a wonderful light—and he looked really beautiful. Never shall I forget the expression on the faces round me; they didn't know what to make of this so unfamiliar kind of man.
But Charlie was not through with the subject yet. "Well, that kind of thing may have suited them," he began again, "and there certainly is a kind of strength about it. But I don't like it as well as our church hymns," he continued, smiling.
"I didn't think you would," replied the minister, not smiling at all.
Then Mr. Laird took the Bible and went on with worship. He first read a bit from the Scriptures, though what part it was I cannot remember. After that he prayed. A beautiful, simple prayer—I thought it was so manly, though that's a strange word to apply to a prayer. But he never did think, as I came to know well enough later on, that God cares to have us abase ourselves just for the sake of doing so. Strangely enough, the only one thing I definitely remember about his prayer is that he said: "Give us a good night's rest," and it struck me as a beautifully simple petition.
There is one feature of that evening's worship that lingers with me very vividly. After we knelt down—his chair was a few feet from mine—Charlie crept over to the sofa where I was kneeling and bowed down beside me. It thrilled me so—perhaps not in terms of Charlie Giddens exactly—but it was the first time I ever thought of love and prayer going together. And I recall how overpoweringly it came to me that there could, surely, be nothing more sweet than this, that two who loved each other should pray together, and should feel that even death could never separate them, because their love was set in the light of the Invisible. Charlie took my hand, too, and I rather think his eyes were open—I know his face was turned to mine—but I couldn't be sure of this, for my own were tightly closed.
I went outside the door with Charlie after he had said good-night to all but me; and I do not think the silent night ever appeared so glorious before. There was no moon, but the stars were shining calmly overhead, and a sweet stillness, fragrant with the breath of spring, was all about us. I could hear the twittering of birds in the magnolia tree, and wondered if they were the love-lorn pair I had seen taking shelter there.
I fancy I was still thinking of the great words and the great thoughts of the swelling psalm, but Charlie seemed to have forgotten all about it. He evidently didn't want anything but me. And his voice was full of tender passion as he began and pressed his suit again—right away, he said, it must be right away. And he rang the changes a little on the yacht and Europe—I wished so much he hadn't mentioned these, for I felt, in a kind of hungry way, that they had nothing to do with the real case. He told me how much he loved me, and how empty life would be without me at his side—but this was in between, and I felt, away down in my heart, that he wasn't putting things in their proper places. But he put his arm about me, and kissed me, three or four times, I think. And then he tried again to make me promise—but I wouldn't.
"When we go abroad, we'll go and see where that parson used to herd the sheep," he said, and laughed. "It's a wonder he didn't bring his collie with him, isn't it?" and I felt my cheeks burn with resentment at the jest. But I didn't let him see it—for I felt I had no right to resent it. Besides, he had herded sheep on the hills—he said so himself—and that was the worst of it. I thought something like that then, at least, poor fool.
"Let me see its light again," said Charlie, taking my hand and looking at my engagement ring; "it makes the whole night radiant, doesn't it?" with which he kissed it, and held it to my lips that I might do the same. I couldn't help glancing proudly at it, too, for it was a beauty—and mother said no girl of our circle had ever had one so valuable.
Then Charlie went away and I went back into the parlour. They were all there except Mr. Laird.
"Well, I took him to the attic myself," said my Aunt Agnes, "and it was right amusing to see how he went on over it. I had told Lyn to light the fire, and it really looked cozy in the dark when we went in. He said it was a room fit for a king—said he felt sorry for the elder. Oh! he was just lovely about it."
My mother's mind was engrossed with something else. "Wasn't that mortifying at the table," she began, "about his having been a shepherd, I mean—he doesn't understand our way of looking at things here, or he'd never have mentioned it. I saw Mr. Giddens fairly jump in his chair."
"I thought it was lovely," I broke in with a vehemence I could not restrain; "I don't see any disgrace in that. I think it's all the more to his credit."
"Oh! no, of course, I don't mean it's any disgrace," my mother exclaimed, "but—it's so funny. It's so different from anything we've been used to."
"You're right there," said my uncle, rising and moving towards the gas jet, for he was sleepy. "That's the truth all right—he's different enough from what we usually see. I think he's refreshing, if you ask me. But he had better go slow about expressing his views on these niggers—if he doesn't want to get into trouble. That's one thing sure."
"I wish he had told us a little more about his folks," said my Aunt Agnes, yawning, and winding up her watch. "Did you notice he didn't tell us anything about his father, except that he was a shepherd—that heisa shepherd," she revised, "for he's still living. I do wonder if he's engaged," she added, placing the screen in front of the fire as she spoke.
"Of course," said I; "certainly he's engaged."
"How could you know?" queried my mother instantly.
"Well, of course, I don't—but why shouldn't he be?"
No argument could avail against this very easily, and the matter stood as before.
"Oh!" my uncle suddenly exclaimed, his hand upon the chandelier, "I forgot to give him this letter—Mr. Furvell gave it to me for him at the church; it was sent on in care of Dr. Paine. But he can get it in the morning," as he deposited it on the mantel.
I promptly crossed the room and picked it up.
"You inquisitive old maid!" said my mother in mild reproach. "Aren't you ashamed of yourself?" as I stood examining the missive.
"I wanted to see what the old country stamp is like," I answered calmly, my eyes still on the envelope. Aunt Agnes was looking over my shoulder in an instant.
"It's a man's handwriting," said she.
"Oh!" I said, "yes, I reckon it is."
"And it's got Virginia spelled with two n's," she added sorrowfully.
"You don't mean to say so!" said my mother, moving over to join us.
"The more the merrier," said my uncle; "and I'm going to put out the gas, if it had a dozen. All aboard for the upper deck."
Wherewith we all moved towards the stairs. "The last I saw of your Gordon Laird," said my aunt to me as we went up together, "he was standing with his face hidden in those roses."
"Oh!" said I, "did you tell him who it was took them to his room?"
"No, never thought of it."
"I'm so glad," said I—with a little sigh.
There's something lovely about having a lovely time. Now I know that looks like a very foolish sentence when one reads it over after having written it down. So many sentences are like that; you think they're strong, beautiful, full of meaning and bright with fancy, while you're getting them out—then they appear so pale and thin when you look them over. They're like the fish that you're playing in the water: "What a whopper," you say, "I've got this time!"—but how thin and small when it lies panting on the grass.
Yet I venture to repeat, as Mr. Furvell says in his sermons, I venture to repeat: there's something lovely about having a lovely time. In this, I mean, that it can never be taken away from you. There will, you know, be cold, dark days, and bitter disappointments, and burning tears, and emptiness of heart, till you quite forget that ever you were glad. But, even so, all these can never rob you of that one hour, or day, or month of pleasure unalloyed.
Mr. Laird used to say something like this in the long happy days that followed his arrival. It had not been hard to persuade him to prolong his visit. Fortunately for us, his friend Dr. Paine was engaged to go, the very next week, to the meeting of the General Assembly at Dallas; so it was arranged Mr. Laird should tarry with us till he returned, perhaps longer—for I think it was about decided that he was to take up mission work in Canada.
When I say those days were happy, I mean in a perfectly sane and unfeverish kind of way, of course, with no thought of—of what every woman looks for in every book she reads. That is, no calm and courageous thought of it; although I shouldn't wonder if something of that, more or less diluted, lies back of all real joy. Anyhow, Mr. Laird said that very thing, and more than once, about the unloseableness of one hour or day of real happiness. Whatever has been before of pain, or whatever may be ahead of sorrow, he said, neither the one nor the other can ever make pure gladness as if it had never been. It belongs to you forever, said the Reverend Gordon Laird.
I should have known that I had no right to be so happy. For one thing, Charlie had gone back to Savannah, and I should have been miserable over that, if conscience had been half as faithful as it should have been. Then, besides, he was waiting for my decision about Europe and the yacht—and I had no claim to happiness till that was settled. And, most of all, I wasn't sure about my love for him—very far from it—and so I should have been quite wretched.
But I wasn't. I was shamefully happy. We were all happy, I think, to see our visitor so thoroughly delighted with everything about him. After all is said and done, American people take it as a compliment when old-country folks seem to like them. I don't think we ever forget, even the most democratic of us, that they have dukes and lords across the sea. And Mr. Laird did seem so perfectly happy. For one thing, the weather was delightful, and morning after morning found him and me—there was no one else to act as cicerone—walking or driving about the lovely haunts that surrounded our quiet little city. Everything was in the glory of bud and blossom; fragrance was wafted on every breeze; the wistaria and the yellow jasmine were gathered from a thousand trees. Sometimes we had picnics too, making our way on our asthmatic little launch up the winding river; sometimes we went together to the oyster market at the wharf, where he seemed to be quite enchanted with the negroes' singing. "On the other side of Jordan," I remember, was a great favourite of his, and he used to get them to sing it again and again.
Indeed, everything connected with negroes seemed to have a strange fascination for Mr. Laird. This perplexed me considerably, and mortified me not a little too. Of course, having spent all my life among them, they were a commonplace lot to me, and I regarded them with the kindly disdain which marks every Southern girl's attitude to the negro race. But Mr. Laird seemed to find a new vein in them—and, besides, he was so intensely human and so tremendously interested in all human things. But he didn't know how volcanic was the ground he walked on when he came into contact with the darkies; and I may as well go aside here to tell how this provided the only jarring note in all that memorable visit.
One day we were all on the piazza, engaged in that most delightful occupation of waiting for dinner to be announced, catching savoury whiffs the while that betokened its near approach. All of a sudden a coal-black negress came through the back gate and stood at the foot of the porch steps. Beside her stood a little curly-headed boy, about three years of age, clinging to his mother's hand. She had been asking for something at the kitchen door, I think—they were always asking for something, those darkies. Of course we simply looked at her; I don't believe uncle quite did that—I think he pretended to be reading a newspaper. But Mr. Laird, in his impulsive way, went right down the steps and began talking to the woman. It was really aggravating to see how flattered she seemed to be by his attention. And then, to our horror—clergyman as he was and in full ministerial dress—Mr. Laird actually took that pickaninny up, and flung him onto his shoulder, pretending to be a horse or something of that sort. And the little negro dug his hands into Mr. Laird's ruddy locks, while his Anglo-Saxon steed made an exhibition of himself, galloping once or twice around the flower bed. The mother grinned with delight in a way that I knew fairly maddened uncle.
When Mr. Laird finally returned, panting, to his chair, uncle had quite a time controlling himself to speak.
"Do you know who that child is, sir?" said my uncle, keeping his voice under fine control.
"No," said Mr. Laird, innocent of everything; "no, I never saw him before—do you, Mr. Lundy?"
Uncle threw his newspaper on the floor without a word. Mr. Laird, still all unconscious, meekly stooped and picked it up. "I guess I'd better go and fix my hair before dinner," he said, running his fingers through the startled thatch.
"You'd better wash your hands, sir," said my uncle sternly, oblivious to muttered appeals from both Aunt Agnes and my mother; "I'll tell you who that child is, sir—it's a coon."
"What?" said Mr. Laird, beginning to apprehend.
"It's a coon, sir," my uncle repeated, as sternly as if he had been defining some cub of the jungle; "it's a nigger coon."
"Well?" said Mr. Laird, looking uncle very steadfastly in the eye.
"Well," echoed my uncle, "yes, well." Then he paused, but soon gathered fresh strength. "And I hardly need to tell you, I presume, sir, that it's not our custom to fondle darkey babies—they're supposed to soil white hands, sir," he declared, waxing warm.
Mr. Laird looked innocently at his own. "It hasn't injured mine any, Mr. Lundy," he said simply. "I don't quite understand what caused the—the panic," he concluded, still looking very steadfastly at uncle.
"Well, then, sir, I may as well tell you plainly that such an action as yours would be considered quite—quite improper, to say the least. We don't take familiarities like that with negro children."
"It's a harmless enough looking little chap," responded Mr. Laird, nodding towards the receding youngster. He was toddling along beside his mother, his hand in hers.
"They're harmless enough while you keep them in their place, sir," retorted my uncle. "But you must know that our people down here have their own way of doing that. And you don't understand the situation, sir, you don't understand the situation," repeated Uncle Henry, employing the favourite formula of the South. "For instance, I heard you express surprise at something the other day. You remember when Smallwood, the rector of the Coloured Episcopal Church, called to ask Mrs. Lundy for a subscription—you seemed horrified that he went to the back door, because he was a preacher and dressed up like a bishop."
Mr. Laird nodded.
"Well, sir, if he was the Archbishop of Canterbury—or the Pope of Rome—the back door's the place for him—so long as that's the colour of his skin. There isn't a self-respecting white family in the city but would shut the front door in his face. You understand, sir?"
"I don't think any more of them for that," was the quiet retort of Mr. Laird.
"That may be, sir. They'll stand your contempt, sir—but they won't let a pack of negroes walk all over 'em," my uncle's gorge rising again. "And I hope to God none of our neighbours saw you on the gallop round our back yard with a negro brat astride of you. You'd be finished here, sir, if they did. Just before that wench came in here with her young 'un, I was going to tell you that I met Mr. Furvell, and he asked me to give you an invitation, for him, to preach in our church next Sunday. Well, sir, I hope it'll stand all right—but if it got round town that you made a saddle-horse out of yourself for a nigger whelp to ride, you'd have the church to yourself, sir; I reckon a few old women might go to hear you, but you wouldn't have enough men there to take up the collection."
"I can't do it, Mr. Lundy," said the minister, with amazing quietness.
"Can't do what?" demanded uncle.
"Can't preach for your friend," replied the other. "I'm engaged."
"Engaged for what?"
"Engaged to preach."
"Where?" said uncle, quite forgetful now of the debate. I think the same question came in the same breath from my mother and Aunt Agnes.
"In the Coloured Methodist Church—I think they call it Zion," Mr. Laird informed us calmly. "I was there the other day at a funeral—pretty boisterous funeral it was, too—and the preacher got hold of me. They took up a collection," Mr. Laird laughed, "and that was how they located me. I didn't have anything but a shilling—a quarter, you call it. Well, he invited me to preach for him next Sabbath, and I agreed. So I won't be able to oblige Mr. Furvell."
"You agreed, sir?"
"Yes, Mr. Lundy, I agreed," repeated the stoical Scotchman.
"Good God!" said my Uncle Henry. My uncle was not a profane man—but this was something extra.
"Don't get excited, Henry, don't," began my mother; "Mr. Laird can easily change all that—he can get released from his engagement. He didn't know we wanted him in our church."
"I'm not excited, ma'am," puffed my uncle; "I was never calmer in my life—but the thing's preposterous, madam. It's utterly absurd—it's ridiculous."
"Yes, yes," broke in my Aunt Agnes, "of course, it's the easiest thing in the world to arrange. All Mr. Laird has to do is to explain to that coloured preacher that——"
"But I can't," interrupted Mr. Laird; "that is, I won't." The word fell strangely on the ears of Southern ladies. "I gave him my promise—and that's the end of it. I'll preach in Zion Church—or whatever they call it—next Sabbath morning. If the Lord will," he added, with what appeared to us all quite superfluous piety. I didn't know then that Scotch people never take any chances.
"But you don't realize what you're doing, sir," remonstrated my uncle; "you fail to realize——"
"I'm doing what no man will prevent," broke in our visitor, and his eye was flashing like the diamond on my finger; "I'm going to preach the Gospel to them, if I get the chance."
"That's all right," began my uncle, "that's all right in its way, but——"
"What's all right in its way?" demanded the Reverend Gordon Laird, his voice quite resounding now.
"That's all right—that Gospel business," explained my uncle, evidently a little at a loss. "The Gospel's all right in its place, but——
"Thank you," gave back Mr. Laird, his strong Scotch lip trembling, "you're very magnanimous, sir."
"But you don't know what you're exposing yourself to," pursued my uncle, apparently deaf to Mr. Laird's retort. "They'll make a fool of you in the pulpit, sir. I'll tell you something, sir. Your sermon will be wasted. We had a man here once—a white man—an evangelist, who expected to move on anyhow. And he tried this little trick of yours—he preached to those coons in their own church one day. And I heard later how they made a fool of him. He preached about folks having to use the means. Good sermon, too, sir. But he was no sooner through than the nigger preacher got up after him—and he said he'd give them a little illustration. Then he told them a ribald yarn, sir, right in the church; said he and his ten-year-old brother were in bed once, and they heard their mother telling their father of some devilment they'd been up to; and the father said he'd go up-stairs when he had finished his supper. Well, this nigger preacher went on to say he got up to pray—but his brother—his brother believed in using the means; and so he said he wouldn't pray, but he'd get up and put something on. That's what he told them, sir—an indecent tale—and the white preacher had to sit and hear it," concluded my uncle, his cheeks burning with indignation.
"I won't give the black brother a chance to illustrate," said Mr. Laird stolidly; "I'll close the service when I'm through." Then he laughed.
"You're trifling with me, sir," said my Uncle Henry chokingly, rising as he spoke. I saw the quick pallor come to the cheek of my Aunt Agnes; as for my mother, she was fairly trembling. As for me—well, I was terrified.
But just at this crisis a remarkable thing occurred. Mr. Laird didn't seem to notice my uncle's movement at all. Indeed, he was not looking in his direction, but sat gazing intently out towards the road that ran down to the river and the bridge. Involuntarily my eyes followed his, and a moment sufficed to reveal the object of his interest. For down the road towards us there crept a fragile figure, swaying unsteadily, overborne with weakness and her heavy load. This too was a negro woman, but cast in finer mould than the stalwart black who had disappeared from view. The one who had just hove in sight, as I could see even at that distance, was a comely creature, more white than black, but yet bearing the fatal hue.
She was heavy laden, as I have implied. One arm bore a great bundle enclosed in a white sheet—laundry, doubtless—while on the other she carried a plump and complacent infant, crowing as it came, in that fine oblivion of weight which marks the procession of the heaviest babies everywhere. The young mother was pressing towards the river; a rusty skiff lay beside the bridge, in which, no doubt, she was to make her way to the negro settlement on the farther shore. She seemed ready to faint from the fatigue of her double burden, yet she pressed on with almost rapid steps, as if she must keep up till she reached the boat.
It was this that had attracted the attention of Mr. Laird, so rapt in observance that he evidently did not mark my uncle's movements. For the latter had hardly risen before our visitor sprang quickly to his feet—I can see him now, the tall black-robed figure, with high brow and auburn hair—and strode down swiftly towards the road. Another moment brought him alongside of the exhausted negress, whose white eyes could be seen wearily surveying him as he approached. Without a word he seized both burdens from her arms, the baby held high aloft as he led the way down to the boat. The mother straightened herself and followed closely, as if she had taken a new lease of life—it was not all due to the burdens she had lost, I'm sure—and the heavy baby crowed with delight at this improved style of locomotion. When, lo—miserabile dictu!as I learned in Virgil—this second pickaninny, with that tonsorial instinct which seems to mark the race, plunged its pudgy fingers where those of its predecessor had held high revel one brief half hour agone, squealing for very joy as it clutched the auburn mane of the Reverend Gordon Laird.
"Don't that beat the—the Dutch?" muttered my Uncle Henry from the porch, gazing at the tall and supple form, the now laughing and half boyish face, as our guest strode on towards the river, the baby and the bale like feathers in his arms. A funny smile was on uncle's face, half of contempt, half of admiration. "Those two brats both into his hair!" he murmured to himself—"and I sure enough got into his wool," as the grin deepened on his face.
He stood gazing. Then, recalling his sacred principles, he broke out anew: "Good heavens, he's going over to Slabtown with her," for our undaunted guest had by this time landed the bale in the bow of the skiff. Still holding the baby high, he took the woman's hand and helped her over the gunwale into the boat. A moment later we could see his shirt-sleeves glistening in the sun, he himself seated in the middle of the skiff, starting to pull vigorously for the other shore.
"Let him go," said my uncle between his teeth; "he's chosen his company and he can have it. By heavens," he went on hotly, "I was never so insulted in my life. What the—the dickens kind of a man is this Scotchman anyhow?—I've seen men shot for less than this. I remember once in Texas——"
"But, Henry," ventured my Aunt Agnes, "you shouldn't be so hard on him—he doesn't understand our——"
"Then why the devil doesn't he keep his mouth shut?" snorted my uncle; "comin' down here—like those infernal Yankees—an' tryin' to teach us how to run our niggers. I've seen men reach for their hip pockets for less'n that," declared my uncle, glaring round the circle.
"Now, now, Henry," said my mother gently, "that'll do, Henry. You're not much of an assassin—you know that. Besides, you can't help admiring his pluck, can you, now?"
"He's too —— plucky," muttered Uncle Henry, gazing at the now distant boat. Then followed a season of calm, broken only by the soft voices of my aunt and mother as they tried to pour oil on the troubled waters.
"And what do you say? What's your opinion of your Gordon Laird—and his nigger friends?" uncle suddenly demanded, turning on me as stern an eye as dear old uncle could ever treat me to. I had not yet spoken.
"Do you want to know?" said I, straightening up.
"That's what I asked you for—what makes you so white?"
"I don't know. But I think he's glorious—just glorious," I said, looking very straight at uncle. "And I don't care who knows it," I added. I believe I stood up as I spoke—and I could feel my eyes flashing. "And you were horrid to him," I cried, my voice trembling.
"Helen," my mother broke in reproachfully, "you forget yourself, Helen. And do you know you're taking up with a stranger, against your uncle?"
But the latter didn't seem to hear what my mother said. He was staring at me in a way that let me know the battle was won. He was a true Southerner, was uncle, and if anything in the world appealed to him, it was courage. Yet he had by no means surrendered.
"Then you can meet him when he comes back," he said slowly in a minute, nodding towards the river; "you can meet him and say good-bye for the rest of us. You'll make our farewells to him, you see. And tell him the world is wide—you can remember that, can't you, Helen?"
I smiled up into uncle's face. "I won't say good-bye for anybody but Helen Randall," I replied, speaking just as slowly as he had done, "but I'll do that—if I have to. And I'll tell him—I'll tell him," I repeated, gazing down the sunlit river towards the sea, "that the world isn't so wide after all." And I know not why, but a strange thrill swept over me from head to foot; for the day was beautiful, and the fleecy clouds were overhead, and the air was laden with the sweet breath of flowers, and God's sunlight was on the river—and the river flowed on in silence to the sea.
Uncle Henry turned away and presently began a little pace up and down the piazza. Fragments of the storm could still be heard: "Preach the Gospel, indeed—act as assistant to a nigger. A pretty pass, when our guests turn nurse for darkey coons—the attic's too small for him now," as he crossed and recrossed the porch's sounding floor.
Presently he stopped and looked out over the river. The rest of us did not need to look—we had been watching all the time. And, away at the end of the long bridge—it was one of the longest in the state, nearly a mile—we could just descry the moving figure, all in black again, of our returning guest. He was coming back afoot, leaving the skiff to its owners.
Aunt Agnes took advantage of a long silence on uncle's part. "Well," she said, "I guess I'll order dinner served; we can't wait any longer."
"That's what I say," agreed my mother; "we may just as well go on—it'll be better anyhow," she added significantly.
"What?" said my Uncle Henry, turning round and looking at us.
"We were just saying we wouldn't wait dinner any longer," was the explanation, "and anyhow, 'twould be better to go on—ourselves. Considering everything, you know," and my Aunt Agnes sighed.
Uncle stopped still and straightened himself up. "There'll be no dinner till he comes," he said firmly, "if it's an hour. I hope I don't forget what's due to a guest," as he looked gravely round the circle, "and especially a stranger in a strange land." This was said with the air of a king and a very noble king at that.
"Call Lyn," he said suddenly to me.
I did so. "Where are those niggers anyhow?" he asked impatiently as he waited for her to appear. "I reckon they've all been watching the procession," jerking his thumb towards the river. "Oh, here she is," as the sable attendant pattered onto the porch. "Lyn, make me a mint-julep—make it good."
"Yes, sah!" said the vanishing servant.
"Lyn! Oh, Lyn," he called again in an instant.
"Yes, sah; heah I is, sah!"
"Make two mint-juleps—and make them both good."
But those were happy days, as I have said already. Neither of us knew, I fancy, whence came the silent music that was slowly gathering in our hearts. But it was there, even though it came in secret strains, neither recognizing, neither declaring. Of course, I was an engaged girl—and I was trying to live up to it. I flaunted Charlie's ring, sometimes; and I often wrote to him, sitting in the very same room with Mr. Laird the while, at my own little desk in the corner. This itself had been one of Charlie's Christmas presents. And I kept Charlie's letters in the tiny drawer in the top, but I had so often been careless about it that mother saw to it herself that it was kept securely locked; I knew where the key was secreted—on the ledge above the library door. Mother said I really ought to carry it on a little gold chain around my neck; but I had no chain—and I never could bear to have things concealed about my person. Mother never glanced at his letters, of course—but I sometimes used to show her bits of mine after I had written them, and mother would suggest a word here and there, a little tenderer than the original, and I would stick them in like plums in a pudding. Indeed—I may as well tell it—mother rewrote a part of the one in which I kind of finally renounced any immediate prospect of Europe and the yacht. She said no member of our family had ever been so gifted with the pen as I—but that I was a little astray on the facts. So she fixed my letter in a way to prevent it being very final—for she said if it was ordained that I should go even yet, it would be wrong to make it impossible. I fancied at the time that this was a little like lending omnipotence a hand—but mother was an old-time Calvinist, especially on the subject of me and Charlie, so I presumed it must be all right to have it as she said.
I don't think any of them, and mother least of all, ever fancied that Mr. Laird had the remotest connection with my engagement to Charlie. For he was a minister—and that itself would be supposed to settle it as far as I was concerned. Besides, he was a minister without a church, a kind of free lance on a holiday. Then, too, we knew he was poor; he never said so, but there are always certain signs; and he took great care of his clothes, and seemed very cautious about money, except when he came across some one who was very poor. And I'm sure we all remembered, though we almost never spoke of it, that he had been a shepherd, and that his father was still keeping sheep on the hills of Scotland—it never seemed to embarrass him a bit to refer to this, which we all thought very strange.
Then, on the other hand, we hadn't the slightest reason—for a long time at least—to think he cared a single thing for me. Indeed, I was just a little piqued about this; one evening I took some fresh flowers to his room in the attic, and his diary was lying open on the table. I don't know why—I have no excuses to make at all—but my eye fell on the entry for the first day or two he had been with us. I only glanced at it—any girl would, I think—to see what he said about us. And I found references to uncle, and my mother, and Aunt Agnes—even to Lyn and Moses more than once—but not a single word about me. I didn't care a straw—only I had a good mind to take the violets down-stairs with me again. But I didn't.
I have always fancied I would have been a good deal more interested if I had thought he was engaged. But I soon made up my mind he wasn't, although I had declared so stoutly to the contrary. For he never seemed to want to be alone, especially in the twilight—and that's a sure sign; and he left all his letters lying around after he had written them; and when he sang, which he did very nicely, he preferred "Scots Wha' Ha'e" to "Annie Laurie"; and he was never melancholy, and never sighed—and he never asked the price of things you need for house-keeping. So all these signs convinced me thoroughly.
I have already said he didn't seem to care a thing for me. And yet—and yet! For one thing, he loved to hear me sing—and he taught me two or three of the old psalms that were in a leather-bound book he brought down-stairs one day. Then he seemed so happy when I said I thought them beautiful. And he talked with me so gently and reasonably about the darkey question that I finally came to admit he did right in preaching in that coloured church. And I wondered why he cared for what I thought at all. Besides all this, he tried to get my promise that I would take a class in the Sunday-school after he was gone—and I remember the gray kind of feeling I had inside of me when he spoke of going away. I wouldn't promise, for I was about as fit to teach a class as I was to be President of the United States—but I promised to help in the library.
By and by, though I can't tell how, we even came to speaking about Charlie. And he praised him, said he was such a clever business man, and handsome. I didn't think much of that; but one evening, when we were sitting on the shore all alone, he said he thought an engagement was such a sacred thing—and he urged me, in a veiled kind of way, always to be true to Charlie. And it was then I began to know—any true girl would know there was something, when he talked like that.
And it was through that—that kind of conversation, I mean—that it all came about. Because, by and by, I actually told him all about my misgivings and my fears. Of course I did it all loyally enough—I always praised Charlie, and always said I knew we'd likely be so happy because he was, already—and I would try to be. And I told him one day how Charlie was still urging me to consent that it should be soon, right away soon—and any one would have thought, if they watched his expression, that he was very concerned for Charlie's interests. For a strange paleness came upon his face when he broke a silence that seemed rather long, I fancy, to both of us.