But before their purpose—what it was I know not, nor probably did they—before it could be carried out, another rushed to the grim theatre. It was my Uncle Henry, his hat gone, lost somewhere in the crowd. He leaped to where Gordon stood, and at his presence the men fell back.
"You shan't injure this man," he shouted hoarsely. "Not that I contend he doesn't deserve it—but he's my guest," the word echoing clear. "He's my guest," uncle repeated, for he knew the magic of the word; "he's a stranger amongst us—and an ignorant stranger at that. I'll take the fool home," he went on, casting at Gordon one of the most contemptuous glances I ever saw from human eyes, "and I'll deal with him myself. I'll promise you to deal with him—he's my guest. And you shall do as you please with the nigger."
I think the storm abated for a moment. Perhaps it would have subsided altogether, for stranger is a sacred name to Southern ears. But suddenly Colonel Mitford, still ashy pale with wrath, shouted to the crowd:
"He said they couldn't have more white blood in them than they've got—he said we're blended now," the words ending in a half snarl, half cry; for if there is anything under God's sky that makes Southern men drunk with fury it is just such a statement as Gordon had been rash enough to make.
Some one else shouted a confirmation of the Colonel's words, another added something Gordon had never said; and slowly, relentlessly, the crowd surged in again upon him. My uncle was rudely flung aside—I could hear his voice in protest through the storm. Then, exactly what I feared, some of the assassins, more maddened than the rest, jerked the rope from the negro's neck and flung it with a loud cry over Gordon's head. This was to the crowd what the taste of blood is to the tiger, and a fiendish yell broke from a hundred throats. It is not likely they really meant to kill him—but no one could forecast the limit of their violence.
I wouldn't have cared if there had been a million men and every man a Nero. I didn't will to do it, I didn't know I was doing it, didn't calculate what it meant at all. But I just felt I was stronger than them all, and that it was now or never. So, without word or cry, I sprang from behind that ancient elm and leaped to where Gordon stood. I could never remember that I pushed or elbowed through the crowd; I don't believe I did. There seemed to be an open path for me, and in far less time than it takes to tell I was at his side. I remember how close I was—so close that I caught the gleam of that awful negro's eyes and felt his breath upon my cheek as he panted in prospect of his doom. And in a flash I had torn that rope from Gordon's neck, flung it on the ground, stamped on it, as I turned and hurled defiance at the crowd in one long look that I felt myself was all of fire. Then I took Gordon's hand in mine, pointing silently towards the house. He followed me, and uncle walked behind.
I don't think the slightest resistance was offered us. The only protest was from Gordon himself. He would have lingered, had he had his way. But some word of mine—I know not what—settled that mad purpose in his mind; and he walked beside me, towering still, his head more erect, his bearing more kingly, than that of any of the throng who turned scornful eyes upon him as we went.
We were almost through the crowd when something happened that almost brought the mist of unconsciousness before my eyes, my head reeling, my heart spinning like a top. A voice, instantly familiar, spoke Gordon's name, hurling an epithet of contempt and hate so malignant that he turned a moment, as if he would seek and punish his assailant. Then he smiled disdainfully, took my arm tighter in his own, and walked calmly on.
I too turned—and the face I saw was the face of Charlie Giddens. His gaze met mine, and he sought to smile; but I could see his enmity to Gordon gleaming through it all, and I hope my eyes bore themselves as my heart would wish.
When we gained our home aunt and mother received us with weeping joy. But uncle uttered never a word. Instead, he went silently about the house, drawing tight the shutters on every window that looked upon the scene we had just deserted. For he knew what was transpiring now. As he came down the stairs, I met him in the hall and flung my arms about his neck. Not a word of chiding escaped his lips—he stroked my hair, and his tenderness was the tenderness of farewell.
I told him, with trembling voice, that I had seen Mr. Giddens in the throng. This did not surprise him. "I know it," he said; "he came in on the eleven o'clock train—he heard the noise, of course, and came up. Listen," he suddenly cried, as we heard a footfall on the porch, succeeded by a gentle knock at the door, "what's that? That'll be him—go inside, child," as he walked to the door to open it.
Gordon was sitting in the corner of the room, offering speech to nobody, when Mr. Giddens came in. The latter bowed with courtly grace to my mother and my aunt, casting on me a glance that showed he still hoped—perhaps more now than ever. Then he walked straight over till he stood in front of Gordon.
"Laird," he said, before any one could speak, "you've tried to ruin my happiness—and I've got to settle with you yet for that." Gordon sprang to his feet. "And you've outraged the sentiment of this city—and you've disgraced this home," the words coming out like pistol-shots, "and I want to know what you've got to say for yourself."
"Nothing—to you," said Gordon, his face looking a little terrible, his voice overflowing with contempt.
Mr. Giddens turned livid—and he made a motion backward with his hand, a motion familiar to all Southern men; it was towards his pocket. "If it weren't my respect for the house we're in," he hissed through his teeth, "I'd shoot you like a dog."
Gordon's face was now altogether terrible. He stepped closer to the Southerner, his eyes fastened on him like balls of flame. "I've heard other cowards talk like that," he said.
Then Mr. Giddens' hand flew forward, unarmed; and he struck Gordon full in the face. We were too late—we might as well have raced with lightning. Before we could speak or move, Gordon's mighty grip was on his throat, and he wrenched him back, back, till his head struck with a thud against the corner wall. There is something marvellous about these Scotchmen when madness seizes them. So reserved, so silent, so inscrutable, there is no race on earth so calm and none so deadly. And strength—such fearful strength! Still gripping him with grasp of iron, Gordon drew back his hand, every muscle in neck and wrist standing out like whip-cords as he gathered force for the blow.
Then suddenly his hand fell to his side; he seemed to shake himself free from his passion, as a man wakens himself from sleep; the mighty struggle showed in the quivering voice.
"I could kill you," he said with fearful quietness; "I could kill you now—go," as he released his antagonist, already purple.
Holding his hand to his throat, the hot blood cooled by now, Mr. Giddens staggered over towards my uncle. "Mr. Lundy," he began thickly, "we expect you to deal with this cur—as you said you would. He's brought disgrace on you—and he's insulted every lady in the South by what he did to-night—and we look to you to treat him as he deserves."
There was a queer smile about my uncle's mouth. For nearly a minute he did not speak, did not even look towards the man who had addressed him. Then he turned slowly round.
"Mr. Giddens," he began, in a voice that sounded strange from him, "I'll deal with him. Yes, sir, I reckon I'll deal with him."
"I knew you would, Mr. Lundy," the other returned eagerly; "I knew no Southern gentleman——"
"But I'll deal with youfirst, sir," my uncle interrupted stormily; "you knew—you knew, did you? Perhaps you didn't know that no gentleman allows another man to insult his guest. And that's what you've done, sir—that's what you've done—you struck a visitor in my house, struck him in the face, sir. There's the door, sir—the street's the place for you,—go," his voice rolling like thunder now.
Mr. Giddens ventured an amiable smile, stepping a little nearer to my uncle. I think he partly held out his hand. "Mr. Lundy," he began in a conciliatory tone, "I meant no disrespect to you. This really isn't necessary, Mr. Lundy. You and I were friends before we knew this—this Scotchman—was on the earth. And it seems a pity——"
"Go," thundered my uncle, pointing to the door. Then suddenly his voice grew white with ungovernable wrath, and he whipped a shining pistol from his pocket. "Go, by heavens," he cried huskily; "I had this ready for the nigger—but you'll get it if you speak another word. Go out that door—or you'll be carried out, by God," as he advanced nearer to the already retreating man.
When we were alone and all was still again, uncle silently motioned me to follow him. Gordon had already departed in silence to his room. Uncle took me into his own apartment and shut the door behind him.
"Helen," he began gravely, "I shall speak no word to—to your friend. Not a word. You must tell him."
"Tell him what?" I asked, who had no need to ask.
"I reckon you know," my uncle answered quietly. "He can stay here no longer, of course."
"No," I assented, my voice choking.
"But he needn't leave to-night—tell him he can stay the night. But to-morrow," he concluded significantly. I nodded.
"Will you go to him—some day, I mean?" he asked after a long pause.
"Yes," I faltered, with downcast head; "yes, some day."
"And leave me, Helen?"
"Yes."
"And your mother—and Aunt Agnes?"
"Yes," I murmured low, the hot tears dropping from my eyes.
"I suppose you know he can never come back here any more?" he began after a little, the words coming slowly and sadly.
"Yes," I answered; "yes, never any more."
"You're foolish, Helen," and his own voice was choking as he came over and put his arm around me. "When you remember he's a stranger; and then, your mother and I and——"
"Is that all?" I interrupted, sobbing.
"Yes," he said slowly, "yes, that's all."
"Then I'll tell him," I said brokenly; "I'll tell him now."
I stole up-stairs to the attic and knocked at Gordon's door. He opened it; then asked me if I would come in. I looked around; he had begun his simple packing. But he did not speak. Then I held out my arms—and I heard him murmur "Thank God" while he held me tight, so tight, as though he would never let me go.
I faltered out that uncle didn't want him to go until the morning.
"It's morning now," he said firmly, "and I'm just ready to go," from which resolve I was powerless to dissuade him. "I'll stay at the hotel till to-morrow evening," he added.
"But there's a morning train," I interrupted, looking up at him.
"I know—but I'm not going till the evening," he said quietly. I knew what he meant.
Suddenly he disengaged my arms and held me out in front of him. "Helen Randall," he said solemnly, "will you come to me?"
I buried my face again where it had been before; my tightening arms gave him answer. Then he kissed me, kissed me—only twice, I think—but he kissed me as maiden never was kissed before. And he bade me go; which I did after I had clung to him once more. And I remember how his poor face was bruised, where he had been struck the cruel blow.
I went to my room. Soon I heard him going down the stairs. I knew, from the sound of his steps, that he was carrying his valise. He saw Aunt Agnes in the hall, I believe, the only one who was there—and to her he said his last farewell. I heard the door close gently; I could catch the dying footfalls echoing through the night.
I opened my door before I went to bed. Something was resting against it. Picking it up eagerly, I scanned it beneath the light. It was the old Scotch psalm-book from which Gordon had sometimes sung. And the page was turned over to mark one of the psalms—the forty-sixth—which he had indicated with heavy strokes. My eyes swam as I read the great lines over and over again. They seemed just meant for us:
"God is our refuge and our strength,In straits a present aid;Therefore although the earth remove,We will not be afraid."
It refreshed me like a breath of mountain air to read the words; I was still murmuring them when I crept into bed. I resolved to try and learn the tune that was set to the noble psalm—Stroudwater it was called—and I wondered when I would sing it to Gordon in our own little home.
All of this, I remember, made me think that perhaps I wouldn't make such a bad minister's wife after all. I really loved the psalms. Yet I must confess, before this chapter finds its close, that a girl's heart takes a long time to change. I fear I was very weak and frivolous after all; I know I thought far more of Gordon, and of his love, than I did of religion or of the life-work that awaited me. Because, just as sleep was coming down about me, I found that my willful heart was chanting far other lines—and they seemed sweet and precious:
"Still must you call me tender names,Still gently stroke my tresses;Still shall my happy answering heartKeep time to your caresses."
It was to their music I fell asleep, and I slept like a little child. But I have come to think long since that the song and the psalm were not such distant relatives after all.
The year that followed Gordon's departure for the North was my growing year. It was the sweetest, dreariest, love-brightest, loneliest year of all my life—and it was, as I have said, my progress year. I mean, by that, it was the year which led me farthest in to the real secret of living and the real springs of life. Of course, it was a desolate twelvemonth; I never saw Gordon's face from its beginning to its close; and this was a new side of life to me, to discover that I could miss any one face so much. Nothing pleased me more than the sadness that used to settle down on me every now and then, especially in the twilight hour, when the dear absent one filled all my thought. There was a kind of royal state about my widowhood—if that sombre word can be applied to such a hopeful year—that made me feel I was set apart from all other girls, especially from those who had their happiness on tap right at their hands. Mine seemed to be fed from far-off fountains, farther up the hill; and I felt a kind of envious pity for those whose unromantic luxury it was to see their sweethearts every night. I walked by faith; but they by sight, I thought, paraphrasing a text of Scripture—which, it occurred to me, was the proper thing for a girl with such ministerial prospects as my own. But I suppose they pitied me in turn; which only goes to show what a self-rectifying world this is.
Besides, so far as my own household was concerned, I was deliciously alone. I learned, in this connection, something of the martyr's mysterious joy. If there was one thing beyond another that made me love Gordon more and more wildly every day, it was that my family hardly ever spoke his name. Excepting mother, of course; she was still my mother, if a disappointed and saddened one—and sometimes great freshets of tenderness and sympathy flowed from her heart over into mine. But uncle was so stern about it all, so consistently silent. If he had been a rejected lover himself he couldn't have handed me Gordon's daily letter more solemnly than he used to do when he came in with the mail.
These I always read alone in secret, putting them away afterwards with reverent hands—and I kept the key myself this time. And such letters as they were! I could be famous over all the world, if I chose to publish the love-letters of Gordon Laird—they were a combination of poetry and fire. Yet I had always read, and heard, that Scotchmen, even when in love, were as reserved and cold as their native mountains. Perhaps they are—but my Scotchman must have been a Vesuvius, with Eolian harp accompaniment, as the world would concede if they could once get their eyes upon his letters.
I valiantly renounced everything I thought questionable for a girl whose promised husband was a minister of the Gospel. I gave up cards, of course, though not without a pang. Sometimes I still went to card parties, but I never did anything worse than punch the score cards, which I could do quite dexterously. I never cared for the business though; if there's a mean occupation on earth, it's punching score cards while everybody else is having all the fun. I fancy I felt a good deal like those famous pugilists that drop down at last to holding a sponge, or something of that sort. I began, too, to take a faint interest in temperance; forswore claret punch forever; thought seriously, for several weeks, of giving up syllabubs; even went so far at table as to ask Aunt Agnes if she thought brandy sauce was quite the thing. Aunt said I didn't raise the question till after I had had two helpings. With regard to "the light fantastic," I never danced anything stronger than Sir Roger; used to play, sometimes, while the others waltzed—but that's deadly dry, like punching score cards, or holding a sponge when your fighting days are done.
About the brandy sauce, mother told me after that I needn't worry. Did I know how expensive brandy was, she said. And I had already told her how much salary Gordon was getting in his mission field in Canada. There is no need to mention it here—but it was mighty little. He had a country station, somewhere in the rural districts; of which, to my mind at least, Canada seemed to be almost entirely composed. For all I knew of that Dominion was from the geography we learned at school; it gave only a few paragraphs to our nearest neighbour nation—and these were clustered round a picture that would chill you to behold, the picture of a man without coat or vest, knee-deep in snow, lifting up his axe upon the trees of the forest.
Gordon's letters, of course, were full of his work and his people. And they didn't contain much that would likely attract a girl brought up as I had been. Little gatherings of people, mostly in country schoolhouses, deadly singing—which must have been hard on Gordon—rude companionship, humble lodgings and humbler fare, long rides and walks, scant results for all his toil. But he seemed to love his work and his people, and never complained. Once or twice he said they were woefully conservative in their theology, and that they were sternly set against all the views of modern scholarship, even though they didn't know what they were. To tell the truth, I didn't know myself, but I felt uneasy at the term; far from religious though I was, I yet always felt that there were no doctrines worth the name except the old ones—the older the better, thought I. And when I asked Mr. Furvell about it he said he hoped Gordon wasn't a disciple of Robertson Smith, and added something darkly about a "higher critic." I didn't know exactly what this last might be—the adjective might apply to Gordon all right, I reckoned, but I didn't like the noun.
Anyhow, we were going to be married; that was the principal thing to me, and I went bravely on making preparations for the greatest event of all my life. I hadn't much to bring Gordon as a dower—practically nothing, indeed—for my mother's modest income left no margin for that, and was so bequeathed that it could not survive her. But I wanted to bring him a good true heart and a sound body—with a few lovely things to clothe it. Every girl wants that, or ought to, at least.
Of course, it was a sad feature of the case that we were not to be married at our own home. I suppose we might have been. In fact, mother told me as much, and I knew she had it straight from uncle. But I knew right well that it couldn't be a happy wedding there, with matters as they were; and, besides, it would have raked into fire the smouldering embers of that awful blaze that I have told about already. And the whole town would have been agog—not in the way, either, that every girl likes a town to be when she gets married. So it was arranged that our wedding was to take place quietly in Baltimore, at the house of a girl friend of mine whose marriage had taken her there to live. Gordon was to meet me there—though I really believe he would have preferred to beard the lions in their den—and mother was to go North and see me launched on this unknown sea.
The first time I was ever angry with Gordon was about six weeks before our wedding day. He wrote me a long letter, full of details about the humbleness of his position, and the slimness of his prospects—and the scarcity of his cash. He wanted to go ahead, of course, he said; but he thought it only fair to tell me, accustomed as I had been to a life of comparative luxury, of the great sacrifice I was making, and to give me a chance even yet, should I shrink from it, to etc., etc. I wrote him that very night and I told him I'd marry him if we had only the north side of a corn-cob to live on, which I inwardly thought was a pretty vigorous stroke and worthy of a nimbler pen than mine. Gordon always kept that letter, he told me long after, lest the corn crop should ever fail.
It was a lovely wedding, though there were only four people besides ourselves to see it. Gordon held my hand so tight in his; and what I felt the most, and gloried in, was this—that he was so much stronger than I. My gown looked beautiful, they all said; and I cried a little—two things that are necessary, it seems to me, to any really successful wedding. I remember how Gordon cautioned me to be careful about packing my lovely dress, because, he explained, he wanted his people to see me at my best. This struck me as rather odd, considering the class of people I was to live among—I fancied a linsey-woolsey would please them as well as anything else. And I wondered when I would ever get a chance to wear the beautiful creation. But I had no idea of the surprise that was in store for me.
Mother went home by train. My husband and I started on our way by boat. It was a sweet and delicate suggestion on Gordon's part that we should go southward again for a day or two, to begin our married life under the dear familiar skies I loved so well. Wherefore we set sail that evening, exactly at seven o'clock, on the Old Bay Line, our destination to be Old Point Comfort, which we would reach the following morning.
It is really a pathetic thought that the bridal joy comes only once into a maiden's life, so quickly past and gone. It leads, no doubt—or ought to lead—into a deeper peace and a more steadfast love; but it leads, too, away from the tranquil care-free days of youth, on in to the storm and stress of life's long battle. I remember yet, with a thrill that never seems to die, the rapture of that hour as we steamed slowly out from Baltimore. There were not many passengers—none that we had ever seen before. We were alone—together. And by and by we found a place on a deserted corner of the deck, our chairs close together, our hands sometimes passionately clasping as we looked out over the darkening bay and thought in silence of the waiting years through which we were to be parted never more. By and by the rising moon clothed the bay in a robe of glory; and thus, with love and light about us, as happy as though no storm could ever disturb our lifelong way, we started on the long, long journey we were to take together.
"I've got some news for you, dear," Gordon suddenly startled me by saying.
"Do tell me quick, Gordon," said I. Only Gordon wasn't the name I used.
"Try and guess."
I thought a moment. "They've papered that old house," I said, "without waiting till I came," for Gordon had told me that the natives of his country parish had designs on the old stone manse against my arrival.
"Oh, no," he said, laughing. "No, it's good news—at least, I hope it may turn out to be."
"Oh," I exclaimed, drawing a long breath, "I'm so glad—the paper they'd choose would give me the jimjams, I know. Well, tell me."
"We're not going to the old stone manse at all," he said, turning and looking radiantly at me in the moonlight. "We're not going to Rocanville—I've got a call, Helen."
"Where?" I gasped, leaning forward with my elbows on his knees, caring not who saw. "And why didn't you tell me—— Oh, Gordon, did you feel you couldn't trust me?" my voice trembling a little as the first pang of conjugal sorrow smote my bosom.
He laughed; then stooped and kissed me, having previously cast a swift Scotch glance about the deck. "I'd trust you with my life, my darling," he murmured—which comforted me a good deal. "But I wasn't exactly sure till two or three days ago—and I wanted to surprise you—and I wanted always to think that when my Helen gave herself to me, she thought she was going into the wilds for love's sweet sake. So it will always be just as precious to me as if you had actually gone."
"But where are we going?" I pressed eagerly, not lingering on the sweetness; "don't keep me waiting, Gordon."
"To Old Point Comfort," he said with the most provoking deliberation.
"Don't tease me, dearest," I protested. Wonderful, isn't it, how brides always employ the tenderest names when they are just a little bit exasperated.
And then he told me where it was we were to begin our married life. The church that had called us was named St. Andrew's; and it was the leading church, Gordon said, in Hertford, a Canadian city that shall so be named. "At least," he hastened to add, "it's the richest church, has the richest class of people in it—whether that makes it the leading church or not."
"Oh, I'm so glad," I exclaimed breathlessly, my face aglow. "So that's why you wanted me to be so careful of my wedding dress? Isn't it all like a lovely fairy tale? And are we going there right away?"
"Yes—after we leave Point Comfort. I'm to be installed there a week from to-day—and there's to be a reception to us in the evening."
"Oh, lovely!" I cried; "I didn't think I'd get a chance to wear my finery at all. Do tell me all about it, Gordon," as I snuggled closer in the moonlight. The deck was gloriously deserted now.
"There isn't much to tell," he said, and I wondered why he wasn't more jubilant about it all. "They invited me to preach before them a few weeks ago. I went—never dreamed they would call me, though. But they did. And the church isn't such a very large one—but it's very fashionable; too fashionable, I fear. A minister isn't always happiest in a church like that, you know," and again I caught the note in his voice which showed he didn't regard the prospect with unmixed enthusiasm.
"But I know we'll be happy, dear," I reassured him, quite frank in my exultation; "that class of people will suit you so much better. They'll appreciate you—you'd have been wasted on those common people at that other outlandish place."
"Not wasted, dear," he answered quietly; "a man's never wasted where he does his best. But I'm glad for your sake," he went on more brightly; "I don't think I'd have gone, only I thought you'd be happier there."
"I'd be happy anywhere with you," I replied in bridal bliss. "I'd have come to you just the same if you'd been assistant minister of an Indian church at the North Pole. But I'm glad," my happy words went on, "I'm so glad we're going to be among congenial people. And I'm sure we'll have a lovely time—we'll have a lovely social life, I mean."
"I hate social life—society life, at least," Gordon suddenly broke out in a voice that quite startled me; "and if they think I'm going to be a gossipy tea-drinking parson, they'll soon find their mistake."
"But, Gordon," I remonstrated seriously, "you shouldn't look at it that way. Consider the influence you can have over them—that is, through their social life. I think the minister of rich people has the greatest chance in the world—to do them good, I mean. And I'll help you—I'll help you, dearest."
"How?" my husband enquired after a little pause.
"Well," I answered slowly; "oh, well, I like that sort of thing. I'm not much good, you know, at—at—religious work, prayer-meetings and things," I floundered on; "but I can—I can do that part, because I like it. I'll try and help you, Gordon—in that department, you know," I concluded, realizing, I fear, that it wasn't a very heroic field.
"I want my little wife to help me in all the departments," he answered, smiling. "And you will, won't you, dearest—you'll love my work for its own sake, won't you?"
Which I promised swiftly. "But I think I'll love it more in that kind of a church," I added frankly, "than I would at Rocanville. And of course I won't play cards with them, or dance—or anything like that," I affirmed piously, looking to Gordon for an approving smile; "but I suppose it won't be any harm for me to go to those things, will it, dear?"
"I hadn't thought of that," he said, looking out over the shining bay; "but I want my wife to find her life-work in mine—and to help me be a truer and better minister, no matter where our field of work may be."
All of which I promised, with the gladdest, happiest heart. And I told Gordon I wanted him to write me out a little prayer, a kind of missionary prayer, for opening meetings with, and all that sort of thing. Gordon said I was a ritualist.
Then we arose to go inside, for the night was growing chill.
"Is there any danger, Gordon," I asked as we walked through the saloon, "any danger, do you think, that my trunks won't get to Hertford the same day we do? They have the reception that night, you said."
"Oh, no," he said; "the trunks have gone on ahead already."
"I'm so glad," I answered; "it would be too bad to begin our work there with—with any handicap like that, you know."
It was evident there were plenty of rich people in St. Andrew's, as Gordon had told me. I hadn't been half an hour in the parlours of the church that evening of our reception before I was sure of that. My trunks had come to hand all right, and my wedding splendour was making what show it could, but it soon found its level among the costly gowns that were worn by many a fair dame that night. If I had wanted abundant evidence that Gordon was to be minister of a fashionable church, I had every reason to be satisfied. I had never seen so much rich religion in any one organization. Although, of course, the evening wasn't very much on the religious order. There was an opening prayer, I think, and the good brother who offered it prayed that they might all go out into the highways and byways and compel them to come in. I remember thinking most of them would have to change their clothes before they did any highway duty of that kind—and I felt sorry for the wanderers that might be introduced.
The people were very kind and cordial in their welcome. But I could see they expected me to realize what a superior sort of people they were, and what a fortunate sort of individual I was. They nearly all shook hands in the high pump-handle fashion that was almost unknown in the South; and they managed, in divers little ways, to let me know they were a very elaborate aggregation of Christian folks. I rather thought one or two of the best groomed of them looked at me as if I had no right to be so decently clothed myself.
The evening was far spent when, as my husband was talking to a lady, a very important looking man came up and shook her solemnly by the hand. "We're glad to welcome you, Mrs. Laird," he said; "I have already met your husband—and I hope you'll feel at home amongst us." Whereat Gordon got quite excited. "Oh," he broke in, "this is not my wife—here," as he beckoned to me, "this is Mrs. Laird"—and I hurried forward. I cast a swift glance at the woman he had taken for me, and my cheeks burned with indignation. She was very religious, as I learned afterwards—but she was forty if she was a day, and dressed as if she had just come out of the ark, and wore a bonnet that might have been an heirloom in the family. However, I forgave her, being secretly thankful that it was not I. She was a stranger, I learned, from another church.
In a few minutes Mr. Ashton—for such proved to be the gentleman's name—was deep in conversation with me and Gordon.
"Yes," he went on, after some casual remarks, "your husband has fell on his feet all right." I started a little at the grammar; for Mr. Ashton was bedecked in the best of clothes, and had one or two diamonds about his person into the bargain. "We had forty-three applications when our pulpit became vacant—and it was quite a strain, picking out the man. You see, this is a very remarkable congregation," he went on in quite a wealthy tone, "and it's not every man could just suit us. But I think you'll give us exactly what we want, Mr. Laird," he added, turning to Gordon; "your style suits me exactly," and he smiled very amiably at my husband.
"I haven't anything but the Gospel, Mr. Ashton," Gordon replied, a little distantly I thought, "and I suppose that's what any of the forty-three would have given you."
"Yes, yes," replied Mr. Ashton, toying with a ponderous seal that dangled from a very elaborate chain, "the Gospel's the thing. Give me the Gospel—and the old Gospel too—none of your new-fangled ideas for me. No man could have got St. Andrew's pulpit if I'd thought he believed there was two Isaiahs. You don't believe in those new-fangled notions, of course, do you, Mr. Laird?"
Gordon flushed slightly. "I don't concern myself much with whether a truth is old or new," he answered presently, "so long as I believe it's the truth. Even if it comes from the critics, I welcome truth from them as quickly as from any other source."
"Certainly, certainly," said Mr. Ashton loftily, knitting his brows the while, "to a certain extent, that is. But the old doctrines are good enough for me. And—as I was saying, Mrs. Laird—we've got a very rich congregation; very rich," he repeated, drawing in his breath, "and, I hope, not without a sense of its responsibility too. Last year we had a surplus of eight hundred dollars—no regular salary to pay, you see—and on my own motion, on my own motion, we voted seventy-five of it to foreign missions. None of us felt the poorer for it, I'm sure—and I hope we'll be kept faithful to the end," he went on piously, "faithful to the end, Mr. Laird," as he turned again and smiled at Gordon.
"I'd have gone in for giving the whole thing to missions," Gordon ventured boldly.
"Very good, Mr. Laird; very good indeed, to a certain extent. But we never expect our minister to bother with the finances," he said patronizingly. "Our last minister got into trouble that way—was always preaching about the poor; talked a great deal about giving, and that sort of thing—used to preach some very worldly sermons. And our people didn't take to it, didn't take to it at all, Mrs. Laird. To be quite frank, our people want the Gospel and nothing but the Gospel—I'm that way myself; none of your financial or political sermons for me," he concluded quite significantly. "If our minister looks after his pulpit and gets up the kind of sermons we expect him to give, we'll—we'll run the finances all right, Mr. Laird." Then he dangled his glittering fob again and smiled up at Gordon; for Gordon was half a head higher than he.
"I'm afraid we're keeping you too much to ourselves, Mr. Ashton," Gordon suddenly broke in, offering me his arm and starting to move away; "the others will want to speak to you," as he smilingly withdrew, a light in his eyes that I could interpret quite well, lost though it was on our prosperous parishioner. Before we left, Gordon enquired quietly about Mr. Ashton, and we learned that he owned a huge factory and was quite the richest man in the church. One or two declared he ran the whole institution, and that whatever he said was law. I don't think this cheered Gordon very much.
The two years that followed were trying ones for me. It seemed as if I were on exhibition on every hand, and I felt nearly all the time as if I were at some kind of a public meeting. The church had no end of societies, especially women's societies, and they all expected me to be present on every occasion. I did my best but it was pretty hard. I memorized the little prayer Gordon had written out for me—and broke down in the middle of it the first time I tried to deliver it. It was like being lost at sea. And one of the ladies afterwards, whose husband was very rich—he made it out of lard—told me not to be discouraged; she said their previous minister's wife made a living show of herself, time and time again, before she got to be able to pray properly. So I stopped right there, without further exhibition.
I bravely attempted teaching a class in the Sunday-school. Things didn't go so badly for the first three Sundays, although the boys asked some questions that dreadfully embarrassed me; I told them they must think these things out for themselves. But the fourth Sunday two of them fell to fighting—over a big glass alley—and they had a quite disgraceful time. There was bloodshed. It really quite unnerved me, as I didn't know the minute they might break out again; so in about six weeks I gave that up.
Another thing discouraged me a good deal—and that was that we were comparatively poor. Although the congregation was composed so largely of rich people, they seemed to think—and Mr. Ashton openly avowed—that nothing injured a minister's spiritual life like having too much money. So we were kept pretty safe that way. But there was one lovely thing about the salary—and that was, the manse; within which Gordon and I made our home as soon as we came to Hertford. It seemed a little small to me in comparison with uncle's big house at home; but we fixed it up till it was as sweet and cozy as any little home could be, and Gordon's delight was something to behold. He said it was like a palace to him, and I was its lovely queen. This was very melodious to me, for when Gordon said pretty things he meant them.
However, it was rather trying, after all, to be so much harder up than many of our people. Some of these seemed to love to ask me why we didn't keep horses; and whether or not we were going to Europe this summer; and how many servants we employed. They knew right well all the time that we had enough to do to keep ourselves, and that we were about as likely to go to Mars as to Europe—it comforted me a little to know I could have gone if I hadn't fallen in love with Gordon—and as for servants, we had only our red-headed Harriet; but she was first cousin to the wife of one of the richest men in the church. Their fathers were brothers, Harriet told me exultantly; but Harriet's had remained a mechanic, while Mrs. Newcroft's had become a manufacturer. Harriet generally got one afternoon in the week off; Mrs. Newcroft soon found this out, and always chose that day to call, lest Harriet should greet her as Mary Ann—which, in my opinion, she had a perfect right to do.
It was a funny aristocracy we had in Hertford—about as cheerful, and hopeful, and mushroomy an aggregation as you could find anywhere. So different from the South, it was; wealth didn't cut much of a figure with our old Southern families. But the patricians of Hertford, for the most part, had bought their way to the seats of the mighty; and nearly all the blue blood was financially blue. Some of the grand dames had been servants themselves in their early days; which was no disgrace to them, I'm sure, only it was amusing to see how they looked down on servants now. In fact, I often felt how discouraging must have been their arduous efforts to build up an aristocracy at all; things would have gone pretty well, had it not been for some mean old outsiders who would insist on remembering back thirty or forty years. Those within the sacred circle generously forgot—each for the other. They let bygones be bygones, to their mutual advantage. But outsiders had cruel memories. Wherefore, just when they were getting their aristocracy nicely established, some of these inconsiderate old-timers would go rummaging in the past; and, the first thing we knew, they would stumble on an anvil, or unearth a plough, or a hod, or something of that kind—whereat the blue-blooded had to begin all over again. For the descendants of hod, or plough, or anvil, had somehow developed the greatest scorn for these honest trade-marks of other days.
Gordon never said much to me—I heard him use the term "Shanghai nobility" once, with a smile—but I knew how he despised it all. I could see his eye flash sometimes when some of them were getting off their little speeches, trying to let us know in what lofty society they moved and what superior folks they were. Indeed, it became more and more clear to me that Gordon was never meant to be the minister of a rich congregation at all. His father was a shepherd—it used to mortify the grandees of St. Andrew's dreadfully to hear him say so—and Gordon was full of the simple sincerity and manly independence that I felt sure must have marked his ancestors. And I don't think Gordon ever preached a sermon without unconsciously making them feel that he was independent of them, if ever a man was, which was the simple truth, for my husband had his warrant from far higher hands than theirs, and I don't think he knew what it was to feel the fear of man.
Wherefore it came about, and it is not to be wondered at, that Gordon found a great deal of his work among the poor. Little by little, to the dismay of many of the aristocrats, he added to the number of the lowly that made their church home in St. Andrew's. And he founded, and cherished, a mission chapel in Swan Hollow, one of the most degraded parts of the city. I really believe the rich were jealous of the poor, for Gordon seemed to love them best and to be happiest when he was among them. But the poor people worshipped him for it—and I believe I did too.
Oh, how I envied him! For he seemed to have a source of happiness of which I knew nothing. I can remember, when my days were full of teas, and at-homes, and all sorts of social functions, how much more full and satisfying his life seemed to be than mine. Sometimes I would get Harriet to make a little jelly, or some delicacy of that sort, for the poor sick folks he used to tell me about; but Gordon gave them his heart, his life, his love—and that made all his work a perpetual joy to him. This was the deep spring from which he drank—and I had no part in it at all. I used to punch the score cards at evening parties, and sometimes I played for the dancers as before—thus did my poor hungry heart nibble at the phantom crumbs that fell from the rich man's table. But both my heart and I were starving.
It strikes me as wonderful, now that I sit and look back upon it all, how inevitably, and by what different paths, and under what varying influences I came closer to Gordon's side.
"Do you suppose we could afford a carriage for the Ashtons' dinner?" I asked Gordon one evening, the evening before the function in question.
Gordon hesitated. "I'm afraid not, my dear," he said; "surely it isn't very far to walk."
"Everybody else will have one," I remonstrated, a little ruefully.
"Well," he answered cheerfully, "most of them can afford it better than we can. And those who can't," as he smiled, rather disdainfully I thought, "a good many of those who can't, will have one just the same—even if they daren't look the butcher and the baker in the face. There are a good many like that in Hertford, you know—in St. Andrew's Church, for that matter, I'm afraid," he added. "But a minister couldn't afford that any better than the other," he concluded, reaching for the elaborate invitation I held in my hand the while.
"Gordon," I said suddenly, and I fear my face showed what prompted the question, "have you ever thought what a good time we'd have had, if you had been something else—if you had been a doctor, I mean, or a politician, or something of that sort? Or a lawyer," I added; "yes, a lawyer—what a stunning lawyer you'd have made, Gordon. You'd be getting five times your present income, if you'd been a lawyer."
"Nonsense," he said, in his rather blunt Scotch way.
"It's nothing of the sort," I answered. "You know as well as I do there are a dozen lawyers in Hertford who could buy and sell you over and over again, so far as money is concerned—and they haven't got half the brains you have—aren't in the same class with you as public speakers. And yet here you are, the minister of a lot of fashionable people and——"
"We have a good many now that aren't fashionable, thank heaven," he interrupted, as if he were quite proud of it; "you'd be surprised, Helen, if you only knew how many poor people have connected with St. Andrew's since I came. But that doesn't please you much, does it, dear?" a shadow coming over the eager face.
"Why?" I asked. Yet I knew the meaning and the truth of his words.
"You don't love the poor people," he answered, his words coming slow, as if with pain; his eyes pleadingly fixed on mine.
"What makes you say that, Gordon?" and my voice shook a little.
"Because I see it every day, dear. You don't care for that part of my work at all," and his voice was inexpressibly sad. "I know what you mean by what you've just said—about wishing I had been a lawyer."
"I didn't say I wished it—you know I didn't," I corrected vigorously.
"But that's what you meant. I know it—I've known it long. Oh, my darling," he suddenly broke out, like one owning at last to a long-hidden pain, "do you think I've been blind to it all? Do you think I haven't seen the noble efforts my brave little wife has made to be interested in my work—and all her disappointment that we're poor and humble—and her longing for the things that I can never give her. And yet you've been so lovely and unselfish about it all, my dear one, trying to hide it from me," and I could feel my cheeks burn with shame at the words. One of his arms was partly round my neck, his hand toying with my hair; and he drew me close and held me tight. The shelter was wondrous sweet.
"Oh, Gordon," I said, the tears coming as I spoke, "don't talk to me like that; please don't—you know I was so young. And I never had any experience like this—I was brought up so differently. And I do want to be happy—so much, I want to be happy. And you, dear, I want you to be happy too."
"And so I am," he exclaimed passionately—"except that I'm lonely; I'm so lonely, Helen. Oh, if you only loved the things I love, the poor, the sick, the sorrowing—if you only loved them all, and loved to help them—I wouldn't trade places with the richest and the grandest of them all."
"Oh, Gordon," I sobbed, "how could you say it?—you mean you'd trade now! And I've tried so hard."
He soothed me, caressing and comforting as though I were a child. "It's been hard for you, my darling," he murmured in my ear; "and you don't know all you've been to me—you really don't."
"It was only because I thought you were so clever," I sobbed out like a baby; "and I thought you weren't—weren't getting your reward."
"Oh, child, you don't know what rich rewards there are," he said dreamily; "what rich rewards—if men only knew where to look for them."
I lay a long time in his arms, the imposing invitation unheeded on the floor. And I longed—I believe I prayed in a faint kind of way—that I might yet know something of the secret joy that made up my husband's hire. Yet I was almost in despair; for the image of all that others did, and all they had, and the vision of what might also have been ours, kept recurring to my mind. I thought our life was pretty gray, its limits hard and stern, and I may as well be candid enough to say so. But I think I would have followed Gordon anywhere—if I could only have found the way. My gropings for it must have been pathetic.
"I'll give up the Ashtons' dinner," I said heroically at last, looking up at Gordon through my tears. I knew he would kiss me—and he did.
"But you shan't," he said firmly. "You'll go—and so will I. That's the one little triumph I'll never give up; I'm always so proud of my wife at times like that—we can beat them on their own ground." Then he stooped down and recovered the gleaming-edged cardboard from the floor.
This invitation was our passport to what was evidently to be a very swell dinner at the Ashtons'. They had a lion in the house—a mighty guest, I mean by that. He was a Sir; not only a Sir, but a Baronet; which, it seems, is a loftier brand, a repeating kind of Sir. His full name was Sir Austin Beachcroft, and he was a British brewer. His appearance gave abundant indication that he was one of his own best customers. Mr. Ashton, it seems, had met him while crossing the Atlantic, and the Baronet was graciously stopping off for a visit of a day or two on his way to the Rockies to hunt grizzlies. He arrived on a Saturday night; and it was impressive to see the solemn hush that came over the congregation in St. Andrew's when the Ashtons led their Baronet down the aisle the next morning. Mr. Ashton came first, and there was a look on his face that showed his doubt as to whether or not he was a mortal man. They came late, of course, but I attribute that to Mrs. Ashton—for that is a womanly wile. I caught a glimpse of her face as she passed—it bore a look of thankfulness, almost of heavenly bliss, as if she were now ready to depart in peace. In an adjoining pew I could see Harriet's cousin; vainly she strove to join the swelling psalm, gazing at the procession as though she considered the ways of Providence unjust.
The Baronet, throughout the service, bore himself as piously as though he had never heard of beer. Yet it was evident enough that he never for one moment forgot that he was a creation of his Sovereign. When the hymns were being sung, he looked abstractedly in front of him, as though they were addressed to him; at sudden intervals he would break in and sing about half a line, just to show that he was human like ourselves. Every now and then, while the sermon was in progress, he would cast a swift glance around to make sure that everybody was looking at him; finding that they were, a little jerk and a stare heavenward evinced the slight irritation that rank or genius is supposed to feel in being thus remarked. Once or twice he snapped his watch when Gordon didn't stop just when he might have done. This set me against him at once, for the sermon was a beautiful one; besides, I knew what ailed the Baronet—he wasn't accustomed to go so long without a sample of his wares. When the collection was taken up, he was human enough; even Mr. Ashton started a little at the size of his deposit; for he gave after the fashion of his fathers, which, as Gordon afterwards told me, was formed in the copper age.
Well, the very next night came the dinner; to which Gordon and I sallied forth. It does make a woman wince a little when she finds herself coming on foot to a gate quite surrounded by the carriages of her fellow guests. Harriet's cousin, I remember, alighted from her equipage just as I arrived, and we went in together; it was but poor comfort to reflect that my servant called her Mary Ann.
"You're the belle of the ball," Gordon whispered to me as we came down the stairs a few minutes later; "I'll bet a sovereign the Baronet will write home about you before he goes to bed."
"Don't be surprised," I answered gaily, "if I take to the woods as soon as I meet him—you know, I never saw a real two-legged lordling before."
We were duly presented, the Baronet staring at us as though we were so many pretty fawns reclaimed by civilization from the wilds. Harriet's cousin was as red in the face as a turkey-cock, and her attitude was one of reverence itself. Mr. Ashton stood apart in a state of semi-unconscious bliss, looking like a kind of glorified Barnum. His wife was torn between feverish glances towards the glittering table that could be seen in the distance and longing looks fixed upon the Baronet. She was wondering how she might properly surrender herself to be borne in to dinner.
In due time, however, we were all seated, my escort proving the wealthy husband of the woman who had comforted me about my prayer—he was the magnate who had made his money out of lard. My first remark to him, after we were seated, disclosed my ignorance of the proper pronunciation of his name. I suppose I was nervous. He corrected me, adding in fine original vein: "But call me what you like, as long as you don't call me too late for dinner," spreading his napkin over an expanse that indicated his counsel was probably serious enough.
At this juncture Mr. Ashton asked Gordon to say grace; and the tone of his request showed how highly honoured he considered both the Almighty and his minister to be by the observance. This finished, there followed that peculiar silence which so often wraps a self-conscious company, all of whom are bent on conducting themselves with unusual propriety.
But the Baronet was soon in midstream, his spirits rising higher and higher as he remarked the deference with which his every word was greeted. "Yes," he was saying when I first caught the drift of his talk, "I had a great time in New York—was fairly beset with their reporters, though, all wanting interviews. They're a great lot, those New Yorkers," he went grandly on, "nearly all of them either colonels or millionaires—any one who isn't one or the other is sure to be a judge. Greatest conglomeration of newly rich I ever saw in my life—but it's wonderful how they worship what they haven't got. A lot of humbugs," he added scornfully, "pretending to despise titles the way they do—and yet they fairly worship them. The Duke of Marlborough happened to be in New York the same time as me; and, really, there didn't seem to be anything else in the papers except our movements—we simply couldn't sneeze, without it being in the papers. Oh, they're very young yet," he added patronizingly, "they're very young indeed."
"Mrs. Laird's a Yankee, Sir Austin," one of the lady guests ventured timidly, designating me by a sideward glance. I dare say I wasn't hard to identify, for I know my cheeks were blazing and my eyes flashing. It's wonderful how much dearer your country grows when you're in exile.
The Baronet adjusted his monocle and looked at me with some interest across the table. "Well," he began with a very condescending smile, "there are some nice Yankees, you know—for instance," nodding at me as he spoke.
"I'm not a Yankee," I broke in with vehemence. "I'm no more a Yankee than you are, sir." I forgot all about the handle to his name.
"Were you addressing Sir Austin?" Mr. Ashton interrupted, meaning reproof; he was so horror-stricken that he had brought his erstwhile busy jaws to a sudden standstill.
"I was addressing anybody who calls me a Yankee," I retorted, controlling a voice that would shake in spite of me.
"Oh, Mrs. Laird," the informant of a moment ago interjected, "I always understood you were an American."
"I suppose I am," I returned, commanding a smile by this time—"but that's a very different being from a Yankee. And I don't know whether I am or not," I went on with a quite ardent heart; "because I'm a Southerner—my father was a Confederate soldier," I broke out, regardless of the canons of good taste, "and he was wounded twice at Gettysburg, so he was."
"Did he recover?" the Baronet enquired, in a tone that was meant to be sympathetic.
I stared at the man. "Did he recover?" I echoed; "how long do you think it is since Gettysburg was fought, Sir Austin?"
I verily believe the title was music to the man. In any case, he mellowed perceptibly. "It was a foolish question—from any one who has ever seen you," he admitted; "and they were a brave lot of men, even if they did get beaten," he continued cordially enough; "they put up a great fight, did those rebels, Mrs.—er?" as he paused for my name.
This was too much. "They weren't rebels," I flung back; "nobody has a right to call them rebels—they were soldiers fighting for their country—and they weren't beaten, they were starved," I added; and I wouldn't have cared if he had been the proudest duke in England.
The lordlet adjusted his monocle afresh and took a wondering look at me. I do not know what reply, if any, he was about to make; for just then came an interruption fraught with more of consequence than would have appeared likely on the surface.
"Mr. Laird's wanted, sir," announced a servant. Wherewith Gordon excused himself for a moment and hurried out to the hall.
"I'll have to ask you to let me run away, Mr. Ashton," he said, returning after a brief absence. "I'm afraid I'll have to go."
"What!" exclaimed our host incredulously; "have to go!—the dinner's only just begun, sir."
"I'm very sorry," replied my husband, "but I've been sent for—somebody wants me, and I must go," with which he turned back into the hall, for Mr. Ashton had already risen from his chair. He was still protesting as he followed him out; the talk around the table began again, but I could still catch the conversation in the hall.
"You can't possibly get away; I was counting on you, as you know, to propose the health of Sir Austin. I'll send word that you'll come the first thing in the morning—whoever it is that wants you."
I couldn't catch the response; but I knew right well what line it would take.
"No, I don't think they belong to St. Andrew's," I heard Gordon a moment later; "not as far as I know, at least. They're very poor, I should fancy, from the quarter they live in."
"Then it seems to me you're under no obligation to go," I could just hear Mr. Ashton saying, in a tone that chilled me; "you'll find it quite enough, I imagine, to look after your own people. What's the matter anyway?"
"I don't know," said Gordon, "but the messenger said they wanted me right away—it's a matter of duty, Mr. Ashton."
Just with this Mr. Ashton drew the door shut behind him. I did not wait to analyze the impulse that suddenly seized me, but hastily arose, with a word of apology to my hostess, and slipped swiftly out into the hall. I do not think either of the men noticed me.
"Well, all I've got to say is this," Mr. Ashton was exclaiming, "that I consider it a slight to my guest—a downright slight, sir; an insult, I might almost say, to Sir Austin Beachcroft. And I know he'll have his own opinion of it, sir—and you can explain to him yourself—I'll make no apologies for you, mind."
Gordon replied just the way I would have expected him to: "I don't care a rap for all the Sir Austins in the kingdom," he said, moving on up the stairs to get his coat; "it's probable some one's dying—and wants me."
Mr. Ashton followed a step or two up the stair. "I suppose I may take that to mean," his voice now thick with anger, "that you don't care a rap for me either; nor for anybody else of the people that—that hire you—and pay you, Mr. Laird," the words coming hot and hissing, his flaming face turned up towards Gordon at the top of the stairs.
I could see Gordon's eyes flash from where he stood. "If you think I'm your hired servant, Mr. Ashton—or anybody else's, when my duty's concerned—you'll find out your mistake. We needn't carry this discussion any further," as he turned and went into the dressing-room.
"I'll carry it further, sir," Mr. Ashton half shouted in a tone so loud I feared his knightly guest would hear; "I'll carry it till I teach you which side your bread's buttered on—I'll see you from the pulpit to the door. It was me that got you here—and I'll get you out, sir, I'll get you out," he flung as a parting threat, turning to make his way back to the dining-room.
My course was clear. I passed our angry host without a word as I climbed the stair; the most ardent days of love and courtship had never found my heart so hungry for the man I loved as it was that moment.
"You must not come," said Gordon, as I swept into the room where he was. "What made you leave, dear—please go back. Things are bad enough as they are."
But I sealed his lips with my burning own and held him one moment in my arms before I turned to make ready for departure. I could see his face brighten with a wonderful light, and I had my reward in the pride and fondness with which his eyes rested on me.
Nobody intercepted, nor did any speak to us, as we made our way out to the street. The night was dark, a few heavy rain-drops beating in our faces.
"Where are you going now?" Gordon asked me as we moved away from the gate.
"I don't know," said I—"only I'm going with you."
"My darling!" was all he said.
"I'm afraid there's going to be a storm," I predicted, looking up at the ill-omened sky after we had walked a little way in silence.
"The storm is past," he said, his arm stealing about me in the dark; "the night is growing beautiful to me—oh, my wife, my darling!"
We had walked for perhaps fifteen or twenty minutes before we came near our destination, the character of the neighbourhood gradually indicating that the spot we were seeking was near at hand. One or two enquiries sufficed to locate the house, a tumble-down old cottage that stood in a little from the street.
"Be you the minister?" asked a woman's voice, as she opened the door in answer to our knock, shading the lamp with her hand; "be you Mr. Laird?"
"Yes," said Gordon, "I came as soon as I got your message; and what can I do for you?" Although I think he surmised why she had sent for him; there is that in a mother's face and voice which only one kind of sorrow gives. Besides, he had seen a light burning dimly in the little room at the end of the house.
"It's our Jennie," the woman said, standing transfixed a moment as the light of the lamp fell on me. For I was still in my dinner dress; and I was holding the train up in my hand, and there were flowers in my hair. Neither of us, I imagine, had thought of this.
"This is my wife," said Gordon; and I never heard him say it with more tenderness or pride—nor had it ever sounded sweeter.
The sad and tired face, still wondering, gave me a faint smile of welcome as we passed within the door.
"You can stay in the room," she said, leading the way into what I supposed they might call the parlour. At least, there was a table in it, and one or two chromos on the wall; but I noticed a dishevelled couch in the corner, evidently for some tired watcher.
"Jennie's been wantin' ye for long," the woman said to Gordon as she set the lamp on the table; "but she's worse the night, an' me an' Martha got afraid. Besides, she was askin' for ye; she went to the Bethany Sunday-school, sir, and she often saw you when you was there"—this was Gordon's mission school—"you put your hand on her head once, at the festival, I think, an' poor Jennie never forgot it, she was that pleased. But I'm feared she'll never be back there again, sir," the woman's voice quivering as she turned her face away.
"What's the matter with your daughter?" I asked, for my whole heart went out to the woman in her grief.
"Well, ma'am, we don't hardly know. But it began with a cruel bad cough more'n six months ago—an' it keeps always gettin' a little worse. She got it at the factory—her and Martha both worked in the knittin' factory, an' the air was so bad, and the hours was so long; but she just had to keep workin' on, ma'am, 'cause their father's dead, and there's two younger than them. I earn a little now an' again, goin' out washin'—but it was really Jennie and Martha that kep' the home goin'," the woman concluded, heaving a weary sigh.
"What factory was your daughter in?" I asked.
"Oh, in Mr. Ashton's—Ashton & Quirk," the woman answered, "an' they don't seem to care anythin' for the hands—excep' gettin' the work out o' them," she added, with another sigh; "Jennie wanted to stop and rest, first along, when she wasn't feelin' good—but they said another girl would get her job if she stopped. So she had to go on as long as she could. I guess we'll go in now, sir; we won't be long, ma'am," as she led Gordon from the room.
As I sat alone I could hear the dull hacking cough at frequent intervals, sometimes with sounds of struggle and of choking. Then would come a stillness, broken by the low sound of voices; and soon I could catch Gordon's rich tones in prayer. I could not hear the words, but a nameless power seemed to accompany the sound; I knew that his very heart and life were being given to the holy task.
A few minutes later Gordon came softly into the room where I was waiting. "Come on in," he said; "come on in and see Jennie. I'm sure it would do her good."
I hesitated. "Is she dying?" I asked.
Gordon nodded. "It's consumption," he said.
"Oh, Gordon, don't ask me to go. I'm so frightened of death; and I couldn't help her any—I couldn't say a word," for if I ever felt my helplessness, it was then. "I'm afraid I would only be in the way," I supplemented, not without much sincerity.
"A loving heart's never in the way," my husband answered in the lowest tone. His face, radiant a moment before from its sacred duty, was now shadowed with sorrow; his eyes gave me a final glance of loneliness and longing as he turned to go back to the dying bed.
"Oh, Gordon, wait," I cried faintly, sudden resolve gathering in my heart. "Wait, darling, and I'll go," with which I hurried to his side. My reward was in his eyes. I could see them, even in the darkened hall through which we passed into the room of death.
Such a humble room it was, bare and unadorned. The bed stood in the corner, and even my untutored eyes saw at a glance that life's race was nearly run for her who lay upon it. Large, dark eyes looked out at me from the wasted face, wistful in death's mysterious appeal. Poor Jennie! she little knew how great was the ministry yet remaining to her.
For, as in a moment, the repulsion and the fear all left my heart, filling fast with a pity and a longing I could neither understand nor control. It must have been God's prompting, and nothing else. I saw nothing but the dying face. The mother was there; and Martha, her cheeks wet with tears; the younger pair, too, were standing near the bed. But I seemed to behold none of them—not even Gordon.
For I moved instinctively towards the bed, my gaze fixed on the dying girl. Her eyes seemed to call me; the lure of the eternal was within them, and I marvelled, little of spiritual insight though I had, at the deep tranquillity that lay far within. She smiled as she saw me coming closer, and I sat down on the bed beside her.
I could not but notice that her eyes rested on my face in eager wonder; she seemed to love to look, so constant was her gaze. And it was evident—so eternal is the womanly—that she was attracted by what I wore; my lovely gown, the lace upon its bosom, the diamond pendant with its chain about my neck, the rich flowers in my hair—all made their appeal to the dying eyes.
"Oh, it was lovely!" she murmured, after we had spoken a word or two.
"What was, dear?" I answered, for I had no idea.
"What he said—what your husband told me. He made it so easy—and so beautiful. I'm not afraid to die—not now, ma'am."
I marvelled as I beheld the strange serenity that seemed to wrap her like a garment. "Oh," she went on faintly, "it must be lovely to be able to do that; to be able to tell people, when they're dying, about the Saviour—and about heaven. Do you do it too, ma'am?"
I shrank before the pervading eyes, for they seemed to look through and through the soul with the penetrating power that death imparts. "No," I said tremblingly, "no, I don't believe I ever did."
"But you will, won't you?" she went on calmly; "he'll tell you how—and you'll tell it too. Oh, it comforts so—I believe it because he does," her eyes turning now in reverence to Gordon's face.
"Yes, dear, yes, I'll try," I faltered, and the eager eyes looked content. Something prompted me to put my hands to my hair, though I had forgotten the flowers were there. "Would you like them, Jennie?" as I placed them in the wasted hand. I had no need to ask, so grateful was the light that kindled the wan face.
"These comfort too," she murmured. Then suddenly: "Can you sing?—I love when people sing to me, if I love them."
"Not very well, Jennie," I answered, for I knew I could not trust my voice.
"Please do," she pleaded; "just some little song."
I turned to Gordon; he was standing above me. "Let us try," he said; "suppose we sing 'Forever with the Lord'?"
I consented. But a quick impulse came to me and I whispered to him: "One of your psalms, Gordon—that lovely one about the Valley."
I saw how glad he was. "You must sing it too," he said; and then, in tones of more than womanly gentleness, he began the noble strain.
"Yea though I walk in death's dark valeYet will I fear none ill,For Thou art with me and Thy rodAnd staff me comfort still."
I didn't know then, and hardly know exactly yet, what those two last lines really mean; but no one could fail to see their power. They have been often tested when life's lamp was burning low; and the far-off music of Immortality, whatever be the meaning of the words, echoes through them. Jennie's face was beautiful to see.
I had never had hour like to this. I can remember yet how, once or twice, the thought of all the revelry I had left behind floated before my eyes; the lights, the flowers, the richly appointed table, the sumptuous dinner, the circle of exalted guests in glorious array, the speech and the echoing song—but they all seemed to me now as the dust beneath my feet. Pale and tawdry, garish, did it all appear in contrast with the high reality of the scene that had succeeded it. It must have been God's miracle to my soul. I know not. But I speak only the simple truth when I say that what was about me now, the humble home, the squalid room, the dimly burning lamp, the wail of the broken-hearted, the pale light of death upon one wasted face; these stood before me as life, very life—and the other had receded into the phantom shadows of unreality and death. I felt as if I had found myself at last; I knew I had found my husband, long sundered by the cruel shadow my own foolish heart had cast; and I dimly hoped that the dear Father of us all had found us both.