An hour or two later Gordon beckoned me out into the little hall. "I guess we'll have to go now," he said; "it's almost midnight—and you'll be tired out."
"Don't," I said earnestly, "don't make me go, Gordon. How can we leave here?—she's dying. Do you think we'll ever see her again?"
Gordon's look of love was beautiful. "No," he said, "never again, here—and we'll wait, my darling," the words coming low and passionate. "Look," as he cast his eyes within the door, "she wants you—she's motioning for you."
Which was true enough, and in a moment I was bending over the dying form.
"You'll comfort mother, and Martha, won't you—and the children—when I'm gone? Poor Martha, she'll have it all to do now," the words coming faint and pitiful; "all the work, I mean—she works so hard. And she has to go to the factory, even after she sits up all night."
"I'll do all I can, dear," I promised, trying to speak calmly, though the tears were running down my cheeks. "I'll come and see them as often as I can."
"Call them all," she said, rousing herself.
I had not far to call. In a moment they were all about the bed. Then the emaciated arms stole out and laid hold of a rusty napkin, or towel, that lay upon the bed beside her. Slowly she unfolded it, producing its contents one by one.
"This is for you, Ernie," as she handed the little brother a many-coloured flashing tie; "I saved up to get it for you for Christmas—but then I knew I'd have to get it sooner. And I made this for you, Chrissie," as the thin hands held out a little pin-cushion to the younger sister. "And I want you to have my little locket for a keepsake, Martha; it's nearly new. And this is for you, mother," as the sobbing woman bent above her child; "it's my Sunday-school Bible—and it has the tickets I was saving for a prize; I can't ever use them now. And the book-marker that's in it is for you," as her eyes turned to Gordon; "I worked it for you myself, and I was going to give it to you the first Sunday you came down."
She sank back, exhausted. One by one they turned away, each bearing the precious treasure. Gordon held his book-marker out before him like a sacred thing, and I could see his breast heaving as his arm went round one of the children. My own eyes were streaming, for I had never witnessed scene so holy; the last will and testament of prince or magnate had never majesty like this.
Suddenly Jennie motioned me down beside her again. "I didn't have anything for you," she murmured in pitiful explanation, "because I didn't know you were coming. So I just give you my—my love," she faltered low, "and I want to tell you how much you've helped me—to die. And you'll often do it, won't you?" she went on, reverting to the request that must surely have been prompted by none but God Himself, every word burning its way to my inmost heart.
"Yes," I sobbed, "oh, yes, I will, if God will help me—but I can do so little."
"No," she whispered back, "no—so much. You don't know how much it helps, for a poor girl like me just to, just to see somebody that's—that's sweet and lovely," she said timidly—"and that wears pretty clothes. Just to see somebody that loves you, even if they didn't speak a word—that helps a lot."
I gently hushed the words. The little circle gathered around the bed again. The hours went slowly by.
Suddenly her eyes opened wide. "Sing that again," she murmured, struggling now for breath; "that about—about the vale. It's dark."
Gordon looked into my eyes; his hand touched mine. Then, in a tone that was part of tenderness and all of triumph, he began, my trembling voice blending with his own:
"Yea though I walk through death's dark valeYet will I fear none ill"
and just as we finished the Shepherd Psalm the wasted face lighted up with pallid beauty, the raptured eyes looked their last farewell, and the tired toiler passed into the rest of God.
It was a very solemn joy that wrapped our hearts as Gordon and I walked home together through the slowly breaking dawn. I knew that our life-song had begun at last, and my heart was filled with reverent ecstasy.
"Take me, Gordon," I said, as we entered and closed the door behind us. "Take me," the tears now flowing fast, "and never, never let me go."
"You're mine," was all his answer as his arms closed about me. "God gave me you, my darling."
It matters not how parched and bare the plain of life may be, one living spring of joy can enrich and beautify it all. One master gladness can make the heart strong against all the ills of life; it matters not how fierce and angry be the winds, if the heart have shelter. If God be for us who can be against us?
Gordon and I had certainly had our share of the ills of life; and the winds of trouble had found us out. Of course, it doesn't seem so hard to bear, now that it's past; but I reckon few young married couples ever encountered more head wind or sailed more troubled seas. I know everybody thinks their own troubles are the worst; if we could trade with other people for a week, we'd probably be glad to trade back when the time was up. Yet it cannot be denied, so far as we were concerned, that we had a good deal to sadden us.
To begin with, we were far from home and kindred. Gordon's relatives—he seldom spoke of any but his father—were far across the sea. Mine were a thousand miles away, in the sunny Southland, separated from me now by the unhappy storm that had gathered about my husband's head. We never spoke of going home; for Gordon, I knew, would not consider it, and I would not go without him.
Then, too, there was little now to take me there. My mother had passed away. It was a couple of years after we came to Canada that the end had come. Suddenly stricken with the hand of death while summering in the remote mountains of Western Virginia, the dear spirit had found its rest. I could not be notified till it was too late to go, even for the last sad offices; so I went not at all. The heavenly tenderness of my husband through all those days of sorrow lingers with me as a precious memory. Uncle Henry and Aunt Agnes wrote me once or twice, and always sympathetically enough. But it was evident that they recognized through it all how wide was the gulf that divided me from the days and scenes of girlhood. And they sent their "respects" to Gordon, which is about the politest form of epitaph that can be graven on the tomb of friendship.
It was in the very midst of this parched and dreary plain (to quote the words with which I began the chapter) that a spring of living joy suddenly flung forth its waters; amid the troublous winds, our hearts found the dearest of all earthly havens.
It seems hard to realize it now—but I don't believe Gordon and I were unhappy before baby came. Unhappy, I mean, because there wasn't any. I don't think we ever felt that life was poor and skimped and silent; I don't believe we looked and longed at all. No, we didn't—and that's the strangest part of it. The troubles that people with children had—the imprisonment by day—and the marches by night—and the plaintive serenades of the early dawn; the care and responsibility and disappointment, and often heartbreak, of later years—these were so frequently mentioned between us that I fear we came to indulge a kind of blasphemous complacency because we were immune. Then, too, we sometimes whispered the old sophistry that we had each other, in devotion undivided with another—which is nothing but a honeyed perjury.
Anyhow I know this, that in those pre-parental days I would ask people whom I had just met—and with no misgivings—as to whether or not they had any children. But I never dared to do it after the new love-birds began singing in my mother-heart. It seemed cruel, lest they should be compelled with shame to acknowledge they had none; even in my most inconsiderate years I would never ask a homely spinster if her dance card were full—if I may pluck an illustration from the giddy days of old.
It was with trembling joy that we drew near, never so near together, to this great gladness of our lives. Then came my great darkness; then the holy dawn. I swiftly forgot all about the darkness—for joy that a man was born into the world.
Gordon was beside me when I realized it all, showering little timid words of endearment down upon me as though he feared I were hardly able to stand them. His lip was quivering when I looked up; and I saw his glance turn from me to something that lay beside me on a pillow. A low gurgling kind of sound came from the little bundle on the top of it.
"Isn't that sweet?" I murmured—for I knew—my eyes fallen shut again. Gordon looked at me with overflowing eyes—then he turned and went softly out of the room.
I was faint and weak when he came back; but I held his hand, lest he should go away again.
"Say a little prayer for the baby," I whispered; "say it out loud," and Gordon knelt low beside the bed and prayed. But I noticed that all his prayer was for me, that I might be given back to him—and I told him, before he had time to get up, that he had forgotten about the baby. So he prayed again, for us both this time; and I don't think I ever before felt what a true priest of God was this man of mine, and I rejoiced that the new life which lay beside me was breath of his breath and soul of his soul. And I think we both forgot, in those blessed days, all the sorrows of the past, the turmoil of the present, the portent of the future.
What a new world it all turned out to me! A new heaven, indeed; and a new earth—which was more to us just then—as the Bible says. Everything was wonderful. I can remember yet the foolish delight with which one day I counted all the baby's toes—and found he had exactly ten. I knew, of course, that this had happened often enough before, but still it struck me as beautiful that they should have come out so even; a miscalculation, considering how many have to be outfitted for the journey, would have seemed pardonable in anybody's baby but my own. And I had never known before how intelligent a baby could be in its very early dawn. For instance, mine had a strange habit of lifting his little hand high above his head, then slowly letting it drop.
"I can't make out what that gesture means," his father (those words were a new strain of music) said to me one day as we bended over the babe together; "you don't suppose he sees that fly, do you?" referring to a winged intruder that was hovering, like ourselves, above our treasure.
"Oh, no," I answered; then suddenly, "Gordon, do you know, I believe I can tell what baby's trying to do. He's trying to pronounce the benediction, just as sure as anything. That's you in him, Gordon; he's going to be a minister."
"I believe that's just what he's doing," said Gordon, enchanted; "look—there he's doing it again."
"He does it just like you, Gordon," I repeated. "Nobody need ever tell me there's nothing in heredity. Isn't it wonderful?"
"It's mysterious," said Gordon, fascinated as he watched the little cleric; "we'll have to call him some name suitable for a minister."
"We'll call him Gordon," I said decisively—"that's a good Presbyterian name. I called him that this morning, all alone, and he looked up and cooed like as if he understood."
"We'll call him Harold, for your father, if you like," my husband proposed magnanimously.
"No, no," I said, "his name shall be Gordon. But we'll call it—I mean—we'll give mother's name to her—if he ever has a little sister."
"Mercy!" said Gordon, drawing his breath in fast.
"I always think just one's so lonely," I explained, my eyes fastened on the isolated posterity beside me. "I was just one—the only one in our family, you know."
"The only one in the world—for me," said Gordon, and he kissed me. "Look, your son's trying to sneeze: isn't it wonderful how soon they pick things up?"
"Ourson, dear," I corrected reproachfully, after I had helped baby through.
Gordon laughed. "We're a pair of idiots," he said. "We'll have to straighten up, Helen, or we'll spoil the youngster. I can see you're going to idolize him already."
"Love never spoiled anybody," I protested, "and it won't spoil him either."
"No," conceded Gordon, "but he mustn't be indulged too much. I believe in making them obey—and not giving in to them; that old adage about sparing the rod, you know."
"He shan't ever be touched," I exclaimed; "nobody shall ever lay a finger on my baby."
"Ourbaby," corrected Gordon, smiling.
"But about what you said about the rod," I resumed. "You don't surely mean——"
"Don't let us get excited, dear," and Gordon smiled down at me; "but of course children, and especially boys, must be taught to obey. That's one of the great advantages of a public school."
"He shan't ever go to a public school," I declared warmly. "No child of mine will ever be sent with a lot of common children—in one of those big schools."
"What will you do with them?" said Gordon, intensely interested.
"I'll teach them myself," said I. "I'll teach them together; I'll keep them together all the time. There's no influence on a boy like his little sister."
By this time Gordon was just as absorbed in them both as I was. "You can train the girl the way you like," he said, stroking my hair while he spoke; "that's a mother's privilege—but I'll have to take a hand with the boy. And I'm a firm believer in punishing them, when they need punishment."
"Gordon," I pleaded, as my eyes filled with tears, "do you mean to say you'd whip him?"
"Yes," said Gordon, very solemn; "yes, if he needs it."
"Oh, Gordon," I cried, for it was all very real to me, "you'll make him afraid of you; he'll learn to dislike you, Gordon—and that would break my heart," the words quivering as they came.
"There, there, dear," he said, gently caressing me, "don't let us say any more about it—perhaps I won't have to whip him much. All I mean is, that I don't believe in children getting their own way; we mustn't indulge him, I mean. And you know, dear," this coming with a very winning smile, "you know, I'm older—and I've had more experience than you, dear."
"No, you haven't, Gordon," I cried triumphantly; "you shouldn't say that. I've had just as many as you, Gordon—and I know them better; I've studied him more, right here with him all the time."
But just then our solitary descendant broke out with an imperious cry that indicated he wanted something. Gordon leaped to duty. "It's his bottle," he exclaimed excitedly, beginning a wild search on the table, under the pillow, beneath the bed, the quest continued in the bathroom and an adjoining chamber. "Yes, yes, baby," he kept saying as he searched; "yes, father'll get him his 'ittle bottle; he's hungy, is he, the tootsy wootsy? Yes, father'll bing it in a minute." The much desired article was finally discovered in the cradle beside the bed; and Gordon, in full canonicals, knelt lowly on the floor as he pacified the clamorous lips.
"I thought you didn't believe in giving them their own way?" said I.
"He's too little to know the difference yet," said the bending one, his back to me as he adjusted the mechanism anew.
"Oh, Gordon," I said, "you're very young, as a father—very young."
Our son was growing into a goodly lad (everything happened either before or after baby was born) when it first actually broke on me that Gordon's Doctorate had been a dear-bought prize. For Gordon was now a Doctor of Divinity—and he had won it by examination, too, long years of severe study and wide reading having gone before. I didn't begrudge the time, and the seclusion, this had implied; but I just hated the whole thing when I found out how it had affected Gordon's views. I never did believe much in ministers being such terrible students as many of them are; I verily believe as many preachers are spoiled by books as are helped by them, for they often grow less human while they're growing more profound. The Bible and the daily paper—truth and human life—some great preacher pronounced his two main books, and I'm inclined to agree with him. Gordon gave me one of his deep books to read once—Harnack, I think, was the name of the man who wrote it—and I went to sleep over it for my husband's sake but not for Mr. Harnack's. Gordon may call that kind of theology new, I thought, but it's not interesting.
The whole thing—about Gordon's views, I mean—came out this way. Of course I fancy a good many already suspected he was rather modern in his creed; especially Mr. Ashton, who became more orthodox every time he cut the wages of the poor girls in his factory. But I never knew, nor any one else, how far Gordon had drifted from the old moorings, till a certain evangelist came to hold a mission in Hertford. He was a converted prize-fighter—changed from a pounder into an ex-pounder, so to speak—and he loved to give us a whiff of his malodorous past every time he got a chance; I reckon he fancied any one who had had such a violent attack of sin was immune for the rest of his days. I went to hear him several times; but one night he said if he had to choose between a pack of cards in his house or a rattlesnake turned loose among his children, he'd take the snake. I knew then he was either a fool or a liar, one—and I had no mind to listen to either—so I never went near him again.
However, Gordon was presiding one night when this man was preaching; and the evangelist suddenly broke out with the statement that the most moral, or the most philanthropic, man in the whole world would get as hot a place in hell as the worst murderer or thief, if he didn't believe what he ought to believe.
"Isn't that so, Dr. Laird?" he said, turning to my husband.
"No," said Gordon, "it's not."
Well, as you may understand, there was something pretty to pay. The evangelist nearly fainted on the spot; as soon as he came to himself he asked them all to join in prayer—and he prayed that Gordon might be converted that very night. Gordon! whose shoe's latchet he was not worthy to unloose.
"You've denied your Master, sir," Mr. Ashton accused Gordon afterwards, having waited for him at the door; "you've repudiated the great doctrine of salvation—in the presence of a thousand people, sir."
Gordon motioned him aside. When he told me all about it afterwards, he avowed himself ashamed of the degree of temper he had shown, but I said I'd have been ashamed of him if he hadn't.
"What's this you accuse me of?" demanded Gordon.
"You aren't fit to be a minister," affirmed Mr. Ashton hotly; "I'm ashamed of you as the pastor of St. Andrew's, sir."
"Why?" pursued Gordon.
"Because our church, sir, our church has always been noted for its orthodoxy. We've always held to the simple Gospel—and you've gone back on it, sir. I knew it was coming; I could tell it by the things you preached about."
"What things?" although Gordon knew right well.
"Well, take last Sunday for instance; you preached on the duty of employers of labour—a lot of stuff about fresh air, and short hours, and taking care of sick hands—a lot of unspiritual stuff like that. When I go to church, sir, I want the Gospel, the simple Gospel—and nothing but the Gospel. Mr. Seybold's the same way; he says he's disgusted with many of your sermons, about worldly things. You stick to the Gospel, sir, and worldly things will take care of themselves," concluded Mr. Ashton, wagging his pious head.
"You mean Seybold the brewer, don't you?" enquired Gordon.
"Yes," said Mr. Ashton; "and he's one of the richest men in our church, as you know yourself."
"I don't know anything about it," was Gordon's curt reply; "but I don't wonder at his zeal for the Gospel—or yours either. I don't know any men that have more need to make their calling and election sure. He's a vampire, sir—and so are you."
"A what?" roared Mr. Ashton. "I'm a what?" He did not know what a vampire was, of course; but there was something in Gordon's voice and eye that made the word tell its meaning. Gordon would have withered him just the same if he had called him a rectangular hypotenuse.
"A vampire, I said," Gordon hurled back at him; "both of you live on the defenseless and the poor. It's sickening," and Gordon's voice rang higher, "to hear you, or him, prating about the Gospel, while he makes his wealth out of human misery—and you, you oppress the poor—you grind their faces, and you know it. You take your blood money from poor girls that have to toil in that sweat-box of yours—and you don't care whether they live or die, so long as they serve your selfish ends. I have visited more than one dying girl that got her death in your employ—as Jennie McMillan did—and you prance your horses past the door when they're dying, and even after the crape is on it, and you never stop to ask for them; and then you come prattling to me about not preaching the Gospel!"
Gordon paused; out of breath, I reckon. By this time quite a number of the crowd had eddied back, listening attentively, you may be sure, to this candid conversation. One or two of them gave me a detailed account later on.
"I appeal," blustered Mr. Ashton, "I appeal to those who know me. I spoke to you as an officer of St. Andrew's. I have been a faithful supporter of the church—and I've always paid my debts," he blurted out irrelevantly, hard put to it to make defense.
"Ye ha'ena'," a squeaking voice came suddenly from the bystanders.
Mr. Ashton turned sharply round. "I haven't?—where's the man that dares to say I haven't?" he hectored, searching the group for the interrupter.
"I'm the mon," came quietly from the lips of a little old Scotchman as he moved slowly to the front; "ye didna' pay oor Jock what ye owed him. He took the consumption workin' for ye," the squeaky voice went on, "an' when he lay deein', ye never lookit near him; an' the day o' his funeral, ye drove by the hoose wi'oot lookin' at us. An' he was a foreman till ye for mair nor twenty year," the plaintive indictment proceeded—"an' ye owed him a wee bit mark o' respec' like that. An' ye never paid it—but it's ower late noo." Then the little man slipped back among the bystanders; Mr. Ashton followed him, loudly protesting that the dead servant had got his wages regularly, the second Tuesday of every month.
Gordon took advantage of the diversion to move away; and the story, substantially as I have told it, was given to me on his arrival home.
I did not question him closely about the original cause of the discussion—about his theological views, I mean; but it started an uneasiness that grew upon me day by day. And a few weeks later I learned something more that did not reassure me much.
I was sitting with Harold—we had named our son Gordon Harold; but the latter half was what we called him, to avoid confusion—one evening in the study; two ministers, visitors to some church gathering and guests of ours, were talking on the piazza. By and by Harold grew silent, and so did I; which, I suppose, led the two brethren to think I had disappeared. And they talked freely.
"It's too bad," one of them said, whereat I sat up and listened, "that Laird's gone that way. He can't hold those views, and his pulpit, at the same time."
"Have you any idea what his views really are?" the other asked.
"They're anything but sound," his friend replied, "and that's the plain English of it. Any man who holds them has no right to be in the ministry." My blood began to sizzle. I knew this reverend brother—a comfortable pastor of a comfortable congregation, who spent most of his time simply trying to be "sound," to use his own word; saving doctrines and losing men, as I heard Gordon say once in a sermon.
"What are they?" persisted the other.
"Well," began the first, "I don't believe he's very sound on the miracles. And then, he contends we're all divine—doesn't deny the divinity of our Lord, however. But I think he often closes his prayer without saying 'for Christ's sake'; at least, so I've heard."
"Perhaps he means it just the same," suggested his companion.
"Then he ought to say it—a prayer that hasn't that doesn't go higher than the roof, in my opinion. And I believe he contends no man can explain the Atonement—from an intellectual standpoint, that is. He told me as much—I told him I could explain it all right. He replied that he interpreted it more by his heart than his reason. And that's dangerous ground, Mr. Forest, very dangerous ground."
"Is that all?" the other enquired, evidently not overcome by the arraignment.
"No, it's not. They say he believes prayer has no power to influence the course of events—regards it only as a kind of pious communion; doesn't believe in praying for anything in particular, I'm told. And he has his doubts as to who wrote the Hebrews. I told him it was Paul—but he still seemed to have doubts. And he thinks the Confession of Faith is too long and too intricate. That's dangerous too—it's the thin end of the wedge, Mr. Forest, the thin end of the wedge," and from where I sat I could hear the censor shut his lips.
"He's a mighty devoted minister, anyway," the other interposed; "I've had long talks with him myself. And there's only one thing troubles me—I'm afraid, I really am, that he clings too much to a merely ethical Christ. He's tinged with that, I'm sure; glories in Him as a Teacher, and Healer of mankind, and all that sort of thing. Laird's a great healer himself, you know—he's a marvel with the sick, and the sorrowing, and the poor. But I'm afraid he's drifting—he began with Drummond, and ended with Harnack." I recognized the soporific name.
"Oh, yes, there's another thing," resumed the orthodox one; "Laird has doubts as to whether or not sorrow comes from God. Affliction, you know; bereavement, suffering, the death of little children—everything like that. He's inclined, I'm afraid, to attribute it to another source—doesn't seem to be clear that it's God's will for us to suffer," and I could hear the comfortable one settling back in the softly-cushioned chair. "Now, that never troubles me at all—I always feel certain our sorest sorrows come from God; was just saying so yesterday to a woman whose little boy was drowned. He was her only child."
"Did you ever lose a child?" the other minister asked quietly.
"Oh, no, I've never had any trouble of that kind, thank God. Ours are all well and strong. By the way, Forest, our train goes in a little over an hour. I suppose we'll have dinner before we go—it's tea here, I believe, in the evening. Doesn't suit me altogether, either—I've had a new kind of life since I began taking dinner in the evening," as he rose from his chair and began to move restlessly about.
I glided away noiselessly like one in a dream. My heart was leaden, and I thought it was all for love of Gordon and dread of what might thus befall him. My principal thought, as I remember, was of his relation to his work—and his position—and his future. Yet I know now that what gave me the deepest pain was a trembling fear lest those things should slip fromme—as from him—the things I reckoned the foundation stones of the life that was so happy now. Without knowing it, ever since that night I saw Jennie die, the secret between my heart and Christ had been growing more rich and full. I esteemed Him the meeting-place whereon Gordon and I had found each other; and I feared, though I could not have put it into words, that distance from Him would mean distance from each other. Perhaps it was wrong; perhaps these two passions of my heart should have been reverently kept separate—but they were blended and intertwined in a union that was altogether holy.
I kissed Harold gently as I bended over his bed and tucked him in an hour later; he stirred in his sleep as my hot tears fell upon his face. Then I knelt beside him—I remembered how my mother used thus to kneel by me—and I prayed, pleadingly, in the new-found way that had grown so dear. My pleading was all for Gordon, passionate in its intercession, as though he were drifting out to sea, and God alone could bring him back.
I was hardly risen from my knees when Gordon came home. He came at once to where I was; and he smiled in that happy way he had, whenever he saw me bending over Harold. It always seemed to delight him so.
"You're an idolater, Helen, aren't you?" he said.
I clung to him in a very spasm of fondness, as if he were slipping from me. My heart cried out in a wild, hungry way, though my lips were still. I wanted to call him back, back to the shelter where our life's happiness began.
"And I don't blame you, dear," he went musingly on as he looked down on the rosy face; "life is all preface till you have children, isn't it?—the real volume comes after that."
"I could die for him," I said. (This was with a purpose. I was trying, for the first time, a lesson in theology. It struck me with a kind of amusing pain, my poor attempt to teach Gordon—Gordon so learned, so clever.)
"So could I," he murmured.
"It makes me understand how—how One died for us all," I faltered, coming to my point with desperate directness. How the angels must have smiled if they heard my first attempt at preaching! "It helps me understand how love and suffering must go together—God can't help it any more than we. If I were a preacher, Gordon, I'd preach that all the time."
He turned and looked at me in amazement. Then his arms went round me tight. "Darling," he said gently, "you're a lovely missionary—and I'm a heathen; I'm an idolater—like you—only you're my idol."
"But you believe that, don't you, Gordon?" I urged, "that—what I said? You do, don't you, Gordon?"
His eyes studied my face, and so gravely, for a moment.
"Is my wife growing alarmed about me too?" he said, half seriously; "don't be uneasy, darling—your husband's sound, all right. Only I still plead guilty to idolatry—kiss me, so I'll know you're human," he concluded, laughing.
I kissed him, and more than once. But my heart ached on.
The next saddest thing to having no children is having only one. Parental sorrows are to be classified as follows. First, and greatest, if you haven't any; second, if you have only one. For there is no loneliness like the forlornness of a solitary bairn, to use a term of which Gordon was very fond; born to play, yet having none to play with; in need of chastening, yet denied the discipline of other children; hungry for fellowship, yet starving among its seniors. There is no desert so waste and weary as the Sahara that surrounds a solitary child.
Life has few moments of surpassing thrill and wonder. Yet there are some; and the loveliest thing about it all is this, that wealth cannot buy them, nor genius create them, nor rank command them. The impartialness of God is beautiful. A few of the superfluities do seem to be a little unevenly distributed—but the great holy luxuries of life are as freely vouchsafed the peasant as the king. The glory and the beauty of life itself; the shelter of a mother's arms and the deeper shelter of her heart; the first dismantling kiss of love; the earliest glimpse of your first-born's face—these are for the ploughman as well as the poet or the prince.
And there is another moment when life's so often tawny tide glows with the very light of heaven. It came to me and Gordon the day he led little Harold in, to look upon his sister's face. Ah, me! the tears start even yet when I recall the sacred scene. I was lying there, so weak, so happy. The slumbering babe lay beside me, gurgling now and then those mysterious sounds that a mother's heart translates so readily. I heard them coming—Harold and his father—the strong tread mingling musically with the patter of the little feet. Up the stairs they came, hand in hand along the hall, little Harold puffing with excitement, for he knew something wonderful was to be revealed. I raised my head and saw them as they entered the room.
Oh, my son, my son! why did I not value more those days of the dear childish face, as I saw it then? Why did I not realize that the sterner days were coming when those sweet features were to be buffeted by sorrow and assailed by sin? I see him now, the little torn straw hat above the neglected locks—for childrenwillrun to seed when the mother is withdrawn—the plump, ruddy cheeks, all stained from the sand pile on the lawn, the dampness on the little forehead, the besmirched but becoming frock; and the eyes, wonderful eyes, so sober, so inquisitive, searching curiously for the unknown, breaking into shy laughter as they fell on me; the pudgy hand, quickly withdrawn from his father's; then the little frame, one half-bare leg dangling in the air, lifted high as Gordon held him up. I feel again the tremble in my fingers as I pulled back the shawl from about his sister's head, and see again the long look of wonder as my son gazed down upon the baby's face; I see the tiny throat swallow once or twice as his emotion gathered, and think of the vast realm in his heart that even his father and I cannot explore. Once again I see the refusing nod—his golden curls shaken the while—when I tell him to kiss his baby sister; his brooding eyes turned to mine, the outstretched arms, the rosy lips coming down to mine to be kissed; and I catch the mist in Gordon's eyes, my own swimming with tender joy, even as they are overflowing now so that I can hardly see to write.
The years flew swiftly by, unmarked by incident of note, but full of simple joy. Harold was well on his way in school—clever, like his father—and his sister had left the days of babyhood behind, when a new influence came into our quiet lives, a new Life into our little circle.
It was our daughter's birthday night, and Gordon had asked some friends to dinner. For, as I should have said before, he was simply crazy about Dorothy, which was the name we had bestowed upon our daughter—it had been my mother's. Nobody need tell me that a father's master passion is anything else than his first-born girl. Lots of men dissemble, I know, and profess to hold all their children in equal affection—but it's simply moonshine. If I'm a specialist in anything, it's children; and I have satisfied myself over and over again that a father, nineteen times out of twenty, is the bondsman of his eldest daughter. Dorothy looked like me; and I have a theory, which some cleverer brain will have to work out, that Gordon got her kind of mixed up with his sweetheart feelings, and loved the me that was in her, and the her that was in me. Anyhow, he was simply crazy about her, as I have said—and for years I thought it quite unfair how he made Harold play second fiddle for Her Majesty the Baby. And yet, strange though it sound, Harold was his very life—but we shall hear of this before my tale is told.
Well, as I have reported, Gordon must have a dinner party. It was to be in honour of Dorothy's original arrival, he said. So we invited some of the very nicest people in the church, some of the most clever and refined, and some of the unspoiled rich. (I believe the grand folks of St. Andrew's were coming to think more of Gordon every day.) And I got up the loveliest little dinner, with Harriet's aid of course, for she was as proud of Dorothy as we were ourselves.
The dinner was just in mid-career, and everything was going splendidly, when all of a sudden Harriet came to the dining-room door and beckoned to me. I could see by her face that it was something important.
"There's an old man here," she said as the door closed behind us, "and I thought I ought to call you—he says he's related."
"Related!" I echoed, "related to whom?"
"To Dr. Laird, ma'am," Harriet answered.
I knew there must be some mistake, since Gordon's relatives were all across the sea; besides, he had hardly any that I knew of, except his father.
I hurried out to the kitchen. As I entered, I saw the figure of a man well advanced in years; tall he was above the ordinary, but evidently stooped with toil. He rose from his chair as I approached, and bowed with a kind of native grace. Then he turned his face to mine and looked me over with one of the steadiest pairs of eyes that ever belonged to mortal. They were deeply set, keen and bright; high cheek bones on either side; ruddy complexion, significant of health; great wavy folds of snowy hair fell almost to his shoulders, those shoulders wrapped in a kind of grayish plaid; flowing beard, white as the locks above. His nose was prominent and strong, the mouth delicate, and firmly set, as though he had a mind of his own and knew how to use it. His clothes were coarse and plain, such as I fancied were worn by the peasants overseas; homespun stuff, I saw; and a flannel shirt, partly open, disclosed a sunburnt throat. He came forward and held out his hand, which I noticed was hard and rough, its clasp firm and strong; the other hand held a long staff, crooked at the top; a bundle, wrapped in a kind of shawl, lay at his feet.
"Is this the guidwife o' the hoose?" he asked, in a strong Scottish voice; "micht ye be Gordon's wife?"
I acknowledged that I was, my tone indicating that I wouldn't mind knowing who he was.
"I'm his faither," he said simply; "this'll be a graun' surprise to Gordon. Is he ben the hoose?" indicating the dining-room by a nod of his head.
"Yes," I said—"I'll call him out," my eyes fixed in a kind of fascination on the face and form before me. This was a new type to me; unfamiliar enough, but decidedly picturesque withal.
"I wunner will he ken me?" the old man said, a twinkle in his eye. "It's mony a lang day sin' he gaed awa'. But he'll mebbe be busy? Is there some o' his congregation wi' him?" for he heard the sound of voices.
"Oh, no," I said, "he can come all right—we're just having dinner."
"Mercy on us!" cried the stranger, "but ye're late wi' yir dinner; ha'e ye no' had onythin' sin' breakfast?"
I smiled, turning towards the door to call my husband. But he had evidently heard our voices, or something else had prompted him to come out, for he was already on his way to the kitchen. I stood silent, and his eyes turned upon the stranger. They rested there, it seemed to me, a good half minute before a sound escaped his lips. Then with a loud cry he leaped forward, holding out his arms. The hunger on the older face was pitiful to see. Sometimes clasping Gordon tight to his bosom, sometimes holding him back a little to look upon his face, the father heart seemed unable to drink its fill.
"Where did you come from, father?" Gordon asked, when speech at length returned.
"I cam' frae Scotland—where else?" his father answered, "richt frae the hills. An' I didna' let ye ken—I thocht 'twad be a bonnie surprise to ye. I landed at Montreal last nicht, an' then I cam' richt on. Whaur's the bairns?"
"They're inside," said Gordon; "you'll see them in a minute." Then followed a few minutes of swift questioning and answering. "But come on in with us now," Gordon suddenly broke in, taking his father's arm as he spoke, "come, till I introduce you to my friends—come, Helen."
I slipped behind the older man; and then, in Indian file, Gordon leading, we returned to our wondering guests. A fine procession, too, we must have made; Gordon in his spotless evening dress, I in my very finest—and between us, tall and stooped, his white locks shaking as he walked, his eagle eye fixing itself half defiantly and half appealingly upon the upturned faces, stood Gordon's father in his homespun, the Scotch shawl still about his shoulders, the huge safety-pin that held it gleaming in the brilliant light.
Gordon introduced him to every guest: "My father," he said to each, and no one could fail to see the radiance on his face. Then the old man was given a seat at Gordon's right, the arrears of dinner were brought quickly in, and in a moment our new visitor was the centre of attraction. Before taking his seat he stooped and kissed both the children, looking at them earnestly, then at their father, "The laddie's like yir mither, Gordon," he said, his voice trembling a little; "aye, he's got Elsie's mouth," wherewith he kissed him again, the lad looking up in wonder. "The wee lassie favours yirsel', Mrs. Laird."
"My name's Helen," I said quietly.
The strong face glowed with pleasure; and I could see what joy my amendment had given Gordon. "The wee girl has yir ain bonnie face, Helen," he corrected, hesitating a little before he spoke my name.
It's wonderful what homing instincts children have! For a few minutes later little Dorothy, usually so shy, slipped out of her chair and stole over beside her grandfather, looking wistfully up into his face. He took her on his knee, stroking her head with beautiful tenderness.
His plate of soup was now before him, but still Grandfather Laird did not begin. Finally, in some perplexity, he turned to Gordon. "I'll tak' a wee drappie speerits, Gordon, if you please; I maistly tak's juist what ye'd notice afore supper—forbye, I'm tired."
Gordon flushed, hesitating. "We haven't such a thing about the house, father—we really never keep it," he began in some embarrassment. "It isn't much of a custom out here, father."
The old man sighed as he took up the snow-white napkin beside his plate, pushing it a little farther away lest it should get soiled. "I'm dootin' this country's no' juist what it's thocht to be. The first mon I clappit my eye on in Montreal, he was a beggar, wi' a cup—an' I thocht everybody had plenty siller in Canady. An' noo it seems ye ha'ena' a drappie aboot the hoose. Weel, it's nae matter; I can dae wantin' it. But I'll no' begin wi'oot the blessin'," he added gravely. "Wull ye say it, Gordon?" nodding to his reverend son.
"No, father—you say it yourself," replied Gordon, bowing his head, in which he was speedily followed by all of us.
Then the old man, his hands outstretched, began a prayer of prodigious length. Adoration, confession, thanksgiving followed in regular order, the whole enriched with many a Scriptural quotation. I could not see the faces of our guests, but I knew right well how mystified they must be.
A little shy at first, dispensing diffident glances around the company as they tried to engage him in conversation, the patriarch soon began to feel with what cordiality we all regarded him. Wherewith he grew more and more communicative, this being evidently the occasion of his life; besides, and naturally enough, his heart was full to overflowing.
"It's hard to tak' it in, laddie," he said once or twice, laying down his knife and fork and turning full round to gaze at Gordon; "to think we're baith in Ameriky, and me in yir ain hoose—an' you sittin' wi' yin o' thae claw-hammer jackets on ye, like the gentry wear. It seems but the ither day ye were a wee bare-leggit laddie, helpin' yir faither mind the sheep. Ye was as gleg as a collie dog. I didna' think then, laddie, ye'd ever wag yir heid in a pulpit—but the ways o' Providence is wunnerfu'," as the honest eyes shone with pride and joy.
I saw one of our minor guests titter a little at this. She looked at Gordon rather as if she were sorry for him; fancied, no doubt, that he would be in sore straits of embarrassment to have his peasant father thus presented. But I never was prouder of my husband than I was that night. I actually felt my eyes grow dim more than once as I remarked the deference with which Gordon treated his father, so different though he was from what anybody would have expected. He seemed to delight to honour him; and while I suppose it was only natural for him to notice how far from cultured he was—reckoning from our standards—yet I know he reverenced him in his inmost heart for the unaffected goodness that none could fail to recognize.
Somebody, taking advantage of a momentary pause, asked the old man about his voyage.
"Oh," he began enthusiastically, and I knew by his tone that he was off; "oh, we had a graun' time a'thegither. I cam' i' the second cabin, nae doot," he went on without a particle of confusion, "for it didna' cost as muckle as the ither way; but there was a graun' lot o' passengers. We didna' ha'e ower muckle to eat, nae doot—but they gied us porridge morn an' nicht, sae we was fine. An' there was twa ministers wi' us," he went on, warming to his theme, "an' they preachit till us on the Sabbath day. It's wunnerfu', the difference there is in ministers. Yin o' them preachit in the mornin', an' the ither at nicht; the yin i' the mornin' was a puir feckless body; his sermon was a' aboot flowers, an' birds—an' the rainbow," this last coming out contemptuously; "he said a' thae things brocht us nearer God—did ye ever hear sic' haverin'? An' he said they a' taught us aboot th' Almichty—an' them as loved them wud be saved! I thocht mysel' wae, to ha'e to sit an' listen till him. But the ither mon—wha preachit till us at nicht—he had the root o' the matter in him, I tell ye. He preachit aboot sinners bein' turned intil hell—I ha'e the heids and pertikklers," he suddenly exclaimed, diving into a pocket for the same. "Here's his pints; first, naebody kens God wha doesna' ken the doctrines; second, thae wha doesna' ken will be lost," the gray beard shaking solemnly as he rolled out the truth; "third, them wha's lost is lost to a' eternity. Oh, it was a graun' discoorse, I'm tellin' ye. It was unco' refreshing after the baby broth we got i' the mornin'. I pit tuppence in the plate—but I didna' gie a farthin' in the mornin'. Are thae folk a' Presbyterians, Gordon?" he concluded by enquiring, nodding towards the assembled visitors.
"Mostly all, father," was Gordon's answer; "in fact, I believe they all are."
"Div ye teach them the Catechism, when ye're visitin'?" the old man pursued.
"Not very much, I'm afraid," answered Gordon, laughing; "you won't find things just the same here, father, as they are in old Scotland—not in that line, at least."
The old man's face clouded. "Thae things shouldna' change," he said solemnly; "sin doesna' change—and the truth o' God's aye the same, my son," as he looked down at the table. "I'm dootin' they're ower anxious aboot makin' money. They tell me maist everybody's rich in Canady—but I saw twa beggars in Montreal," he recalled a little ruefully. Then suddenly:
"I ha'e a wee pickle siller wi' me mysel', Gordon," the Scotch instinct showing in his voice; "only it's nae sae little!"
At this juncture my husband made heroic efforts to change the subject; but the old Scotchman was as intense about this as about graver matters. "Aye, I ha'e upwards o' a hunnerd pounds," he said impressively, glancing shyly at the company; "ye mind yir mither's Aunt Kirsty?—or mebbe ye never saw her? Weel, onyway, she died. An' she was lang aboot it, I tell ye, for she was ninety-four. Sae it was better for her to gang—better for us baith—an' she willed her wee bit belongings tae me—an' I sold them afore I left. An' yir faither was the prood mon at the funeral, Gordon—I was the chief mourner," he explained impressively; "I was the only yin there that was related to the corpse—and I walked ahint the bearers till the graveyard. A' the folk said I carried mysel' like a minister; the undertaker, he was an awfu' solemn mon—but I was solemner nor him; an' I kenned a' the time, mind ye, that I was the heir. That's hoo I got the siller to pay my way to Canady. But I ha'e a hunnerd pounds left, Gordon—an' I'm gaein' to invest it, after I look aboot a wee bit. Investments is awfu' profitable here, they tell me. It'll mak' a cozy pickle o' siller for me, wull it no', Gordon?"
"Don't count too much on it, father," Gordon answered; "money isn't just as universal here as you old-country people think." But the old man seemed reluctant to be convinced of this.
A little later in the evening we had some music. Most of the songs, I fear, were of the rather æsthetic type; and I fancied they appealed but little to our venerable friend. He sat quietly in a corner of the parlour, as if lost in thought. Every now and then his eyes would rove to Gordon's face, glowing with pride and affection. As for me, I knew not when I had been so fascinated. I simply sat and watched him, hardly knowing just what it was that held me so. Partly the picturesqueness of this rugged type, I suppose, and partly a dawning recognition of the sterling worth behind the stern exterior; genuineness was written all over him. Then I think I was beginning to love him for my husband's sake—I remember how the thought flashed on me that I never would have had Gordon but for him.
Suddenly, availing himself of a temporary lull, the old man cleared his throat: "I'll gie ye a sang mysel'," he offered; "nane o' yir highfalutin kind—but a guid auld yin o' Bobbie Burns. It minds me o' yir mither, Gordon," as he cleared his throat again with mighty din, preparatory to performance.
"I'll try and play for you if you tell me what it is, Mr. Laird," volunteered one of the ladies, moving towards the piano. I had seen grandfather eyeing her askance a little while before; indeed, I myself thought her evening dress was rather overdone about the shoulders—underdone, perhaps, would be a better word.
"No, no," replied the old man, with a disdainful wave of his hand, "yon clatter wud only throw me aff the tune. I'll sing the way the Almichty meant," with which he broke into a strong, clear baritone that would really have commanded attention in any company. More inspiring still, the whole soul of the man seemed to fuse with the touching words:
"My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream;Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream."
The applause that greeted the performance seemed to please the old man well. From many standpoints this was evidently the night of his life, and soon his enthusiasm knew no bounds. Not more than half an hour after, this first ovation still lingering gratefully in the performer's mind, one or two of the guests suggested that he favour us with another Scotch song, a proposal that soon grew into a general demand.
"I canna'," declined the old man, "I canna' juist the noo. But I'll tell ye what I'll dae wi' ye. I'll gie ye the Hielan' fling—that's fair graun', an' ye'll no' hae it in Canady. Gordon, gie me the bootjack, like a guid laddie—my shoon's ower heavy for dancin'—they're the lang-toppit kind."
"We've nothing of the sort, father," Gordon explained reluctantly.
"Ah, weel," he answered cheerfully, "ye'll dae fine yirsel'. Staun' aroon' wi' yir back till me—and let yon mon pit his back till ye," indicating an immaculate professor of burly form; who, apprehending, presented himself for Gordon's grasp, the latter in turn taking the already extended foot between his legs and gripping the boot tightly with his hands. Gordon's sire then lifted up the free foot upon his son, pushing mightily, and making a noise the while such as I have heard men employ when raising telegraph poles. A moment later Gordon and the professor were in a heap on the floor, a long boot with a red top between them. The second similarly removed, the old man moved solemnly out to the middle of the floor, called for a couple of walking sticks, laid them crosswise; then broke into the most fantastic dance, leaping to and fro above the imaginary swords, sometimes crouching low, sometimes springing high in air, sometimes whirling like a Dervish with outflowing arms, the whole enriched by an occasional savage yell that was first the terror, afterwards the delight, of one or two of the ladies. But all were entranced, and none more so than the performer himself.
Shortly after the excitement had subsided the guests began to make their farewells. But this struck the venerable Scotchman as quite irregular. "Hoots!" he cried, when one or two had proffered me their hands, "ye canna' gang till we've had worship; Gordon wadna' like it. Wha ever heard tell o' freens leavin' the manse wi'oot a word o' prayer? Gordon, tak' the Buik"; and his son, an amused smile playing about his lips, proceeded promptly to do as he was told.
"Are ye no' gaein' to sing?" the old man suddenly broke out, for Gordon was just starting to read.
"We don't usually, father; it's not customary here," was the answer.
"It's a sair custom," rejoined his father, "neglectin' to sing the praise o' Almichty God. But, onyway, we'll ha'e a psalm—I'll raise the tune mysel'," which purpose he carried into effect as soon as a selection had been made. "We'll tak' the eighty-ninth," he said presently; and as he launched the mighty strain I recognized the very words that had given me my first introduction to the psalms, that far-gone night in uncle's house:
"Oh, greatly blessed the people areThe joyful sound that know,"
he began, singing onward to the end. Gordon and I alone could join with him, but our leader seemed not to care. His whole heart and mind were absorbed in the great song of his fatherland, and he sang it as only an exile can. Face and voice and soul all seemed to bear witness to the truth of the noble verse which brought the psalm to an end. He looked like one of the old battling Covenanters themselves, his eyes closed, his head thrown back, one hand gently keeping time as he rolled out the crowning stanza:
"For God is our defense and HeTo us doth safety bring;The Holy One of IsraelIs our Almighty King."
Silence fell. Then Gordon moved over under the light and began to read the Scriptures. The passage he chose was that sublime chapter from Isaiah; and there were few could interpret through the voice as Gordon could. The old man sat, his eyes shaded by his hand, listening reverently. By and by Gordon came to the words: "My servant shall deal prudently ... he shall be exalted and extolled ... his visage was so marred more than any man and his form more than the sons of men."
"Expound yon," came as a sudden interruption.
Gordon looked up from the book. "What's that, father? Do what?"
"Expound the Word," his father repeated solemnly; "the minister should aye expound the passage. Tell the folk wha the prophet means."
Gordon turned a puzzled look on the page.
"Yon aboot the servant," his father explained; "the Suffering Servant, ye ken—Him wha's face was marred wi' cruel men. Ye ken wha the prophet's referrin' to, my son?"
Gordon understood. "I see what you mean," he answered slowly; "but I don't know that I'm quite clear about that myself. The best scholarship seems in doubt as to whether——"
But the old man was all on fire now. "I dinna' ken naethin' aboot yir scholars," he broke in vehemently, "an' I dinna' care. But yon bit refers to the Man o' Sorrows—ye ken that fine, div ye no'?—it's Christ the prophet means—an' Him sufferin' for sin. Gordon, expound the Word," and there was a stern grandeur about the pose and the voice of this champion of the truth that would have done credit to the ancient prophet himself.
"I cannot," said Gordon, his lips quite white; "not as you understand it, father—it isn't clear to me."
"Then close the Buik," said the old man sternly; "if it's no' the savour of life unto life, it'll be the savour o' death unto death."
And Gordon did. "You'll lead us in prayer, father," he said, his voice so low we could hardly hear.
His father seemed to hesitate a moment, looking timidly around upon the strangers. Then he slowly sank on his knees beside the chair, one hand resting on Dorothy's golden curls; and in a moment the Presence seemed about us. It was a wonderful prayer, and came as if out-breathed beneath the very shadow of the Cross.
Our guests took their leave in silence. After the children were tucked away I waited long up-stairs for Gordon; but I fell asleep at last, the sound of earnest voices still floating upward from the study. I knew it was a collision of the old school and the new—and I prayed on the father's side.
There could be but one end to this. Whether Gordon was right or wrong, he was not at one with the standards of his church. I really believe, although I shrink from saying it, that his idea ofsavingmen came more and more to be confused with the process of simplyhelpingthem. This sprang partly, of course, from his nobility of nature, from his large and loving heart—but it was wrong. Gordon, I think, believed in relieving men, then reforming them, both of which were to spell regeneration. And then, besides, he seemed to have adopted some theory about law, and the laws of nature—he knew more about evolution than any other man since Darwin—that had turned the once sweet luxury of prayer, real prayer, into nothing more than a sort of religious exercise. I don't believe he thought prayers that actually asked for things were of any use at all.
I suppose, too, although I never could find out much about this, that Gordon didn't just regard the Scriptures in the same way his brother ministers did; yet I knew he reverenced the Bible and simply lived among its teachings.
But there could, as I have said, be only one end to all of this—so far, I mean, as Gordon's relation to St. Andrew's was concerned. I felt from the beginning that it would be but a matter of time till he must forsake the pulpit he loved so well. There were two influences that contributed powerfully to this: the one was Gordon's honour—the other, Gordon's father. My husband had a fastidious conscience—and a faithful sire.
Grandfather had been with us long—I cannot say exactly how long—before matters actually came to a crisis. But I think he felt from the beginning, with the keen instinct of his kind, that Gordon's official ministry was at an end. One night, sitting in an adjoining room, I overheard the most of a long conversation between the father and the son. The burden of it did not greatly surprise me; grandfather had given me his mind on the matter before, or implied it anyhow, and more than once. But I knew that night that the crisis was at hand.
"Ye canna' dae onythin' else," the old man repeated once or twice; "when a minister gi'es up the fundamentals, it's no' richt for him to keep his kirk. A preacher wi'oot a gospel!—he's a sair objec'," the Scotch voice concluded pitifully.
I could catch the tone of almost bitter remonstrance in Gordon's answer. "Without a gospel, father!" he cried reproachfully; "surely you don't accuse me of that—surely you're going too far."
"Ye dinna' believe Christ died for sinners," the older man said sternly; "an' ony minister wha doesna' believe that—he's wi'oot a gospel, my son."
"You don't understand me, father," Gordon remonstrated earnestly; "you state the thing too severely—perhaps I don't just believe it in the way you do, but——"
"There's only the yin way to believe yon," interrupted his father; "you an' me's the same kind o' sinners, my son—an' we need the same kind o' a Saviour. Forbye, ye think we're a' divine, I'm dootin'; that's what they say aboot ye, onyway—an' I'm thinkin' I've gathered it from yir sermons mair nor once."
"Not exactly, father," I heard Gordon answer. "What I do teach is, that every man has the divine within him; and if we but appeal——"
"I dinna' ken what ye've got inside o' ye," broke in the champion of truth, "but I'm sick an' tired o' all inside o'me—naethin' but sin an' misery—naethin' but filthy rags," he added, careless of the unseemly metaphor. "An' there's mair—ye dinna' believe there's ony use in prayer; nae guid ava', forbye juist ha'ein' fellowship wi' God. An' ye dinna' believe there's ony use in prayin' for the things we want—ye dinna' think it maks ony difference; ye're feart o' the laws of natur'—ye think God's a servant in His ain hoose, like as if He couldna' dae onythin' He wants to dae."
"But I do believe in prayer, father—of course I do. Perhaps I don't just believe that it alters or affects the outward course of things; but at the same time——"
"Then ye maun settle it wi' the Word of God," the old man answered solemnly; "it aye bids us to ask for what we want; an' it tells us God's oor Heavenly Faither—an' what for wud He no' dae things for us, Him, wi' all power in His hands. Oh, my son, my son, ye'll change yir mind some day, I'm dootin', when yir sair heart's callin' oot for the love o' the livin' God."
And thus the sorrowful dialogue made its way.
I think it was the very next day Gordon told me he had resigned St. Andrew's. He told me his reason, too; which I knew already. My heart leaped towards the children, I remember, but I scarce knew why; tenderly, passionately, pityingly, my heart went out to my children, to whom I knew it would mean the most.
"Where will we go to live?" was one of the first questions I asked. For I did not seek, then, to turn Gordon from his purpose. I knew too well how impossible that would be; besides, I felt no honourable course was open to him but the one he had already chosen.
Gordon's face was very grave as he began to tell me of the only opening he saw before him.
"But you'll get another call, Gordon—and another church, won't you?" I asked, dimly fearing.
"No, no other call—and no other church," he answered firmly; "at least, no regular church, Helen;" with which he explained to me how the very reasons that prompted him to renounce St. Andrew's must hold him back from any similar position. "But I'll have a field of work just the same—of usefulness, too, please God," he added, in the lowest voice. "I can labour there without being responsible to any one but Him."
Then he told me all about the plan he had in view. He would take the little mission in Swan Hollow; this was the sunken part of the city in which he had so long carried on the work that had received so much of his care and love—the same to which Jennie McMillan had belonged, to whom I owed the happiness of all the years between.
"We've got a little church there," he said, a note of pride mingling with the sadness of his voice, "and it doesn't belong to anybody but ourselves. The people built it—and I helped them. It's just possible the Presbytery may try to interfere with me—but I don't think so. That's where I'm going to preach now, Helen; and I'll preach the truth as I believe it."
"But, Gordon," I remonstrated, "won't it be the same truth that you've preached in St. Andrew's?"
He did not answer immediately. And his face was clouded when his words came at length. "It won't be the same as St. Andrew's expects to hear—and wants to hear," he said; "they demand the old orthodox truths in the old orthodox way—and then they're through with them," he added a little bitterly; "till the next Sunday, at least."
"But aren't those the same truths your father believes?" I pressed, feeling the strength of my reply.
"Yes," he answered, "but my father believes them in his inmost heart—and he lives them."
"And don't you believe them in your inmost heart, Gordon?" I cried eagerly—"the way your father does?"
"No," he answered gravely, after a long pause, his face very white; "no, I don't believe them as my father does."
"Oh, Gordon," I pleaded with sudden entreaty, "come back—come back, my darling. You're drifting; oh, Gordon, you're drifting away from God—and me," for my soul's loneliness was about me like a mist.
"Don't," he said huskily, holding out his arms to me, "for God's sake don't make it any harder for me. No man can drift far if he tries to do good in his Master's name—and I intend, I honestly purpose, to give my life to those poor people at the mission. If any man will do His will, we're told, he shall know the doctrine. I'm going to try to do His will, Helen—and I want you close beside me, together, doing our life-work hand in hand. Then we can't be anything but happy, my darling," and his words rang with the note of life and courage.
I loved the people of the mission; and I loved the work. But the import of it all rose before me for a moment like a sullen cloud; the squalor of the homes; the ignorance of the people, loving and grateful though they were; the poverty on every hand; the obscurity of the position that must be ours; the pitiful support that we could hope to receive. And our cozy manse seemed to grow and dance before my eyes, clothed suddenly with palatial beauty. I could see little Dorothy, the big sunbonnet shading the dimpled face, as she picked dandelions on the lawn; and Harold, the treasure of my heart, as he swung into the hall and flung his school-bag on the table, calling aloud the while for mother. It is humiliating to write it down; but I think the question of our living, too, of simple bread and butter, actually presented itself to my saddened and bewildered mind.
I suppose it was weak and selfish of me—though I cared not for myself—when I flung myself into Gordon's arms and besought him as I did.
"Oh, Gordon," I pleaded amid my tears; "don't, dearest, for the children's sakes. It isn't too late yet, Gordon—have you thought of what this means?—we'll likely have to take Harold out of school."
He caressed me, trying to soothe me as he might a child. "I know what it means, Helen," he answered; "I've thought of all that. It breaks my heart to think of what it will bring to you—but I am helpless, dear, I'm helpless."
"Not me," I sobbed, "not me, Gordon; I'd go with you to the depths of Africa. But the children, Gordon—think of them. We're old," I cried—and I really believed it—"we're old, and our life is nearly done; but Harold and Dorothy are so young, and theirs is all before them. And don't—oh, Gordon, don't—for our children's sakes."
"What can I do, my child?" he murmured. "What else can I do?"
"Why, Gordon—do what I do. Oh, Gordon, all you need to do is to believe those things—the things I do, and the things your father does—and preach them, like you used to at the first. And then we won't need to go away at all. I believe the people really love you more now than they did years ago—and they'll keep on loving you—and then we won't have to, have to give up all this," I concluded, my tear-dim eyes looking wistfully up into his tired face.
He shook his head. "I must follow what light I have," he said.
"But, Gordon," I went on, still hoping against hope, "I'm sure it would come all right. We'll study those things out together, dear—and I'll help you. I've learned a lot about them, ever since that night—that night, you remember, when Jennie died. And I'll try and explain everything," I pleaded pitifully, the pathos of it all coming over me as I looked up at the strong and intellectual face, "and we'll both go on together—in the old paths—and I'll try so hard to help you, dear. Then we won't have to go away at all—or give up our house—and it's all so dark ahead of us, for the children, I mean."
"I can't sell my soul for bread, Helen," he answered solemnly; "and I know as well as you what it all means. My father's heart is nearly broken now."
"And, Gordon," I whispered, still pressing my poor plea, "there's another thing we'll do," as I drew his face down beside my lips.
"What, dearest?"
"We'll—we'll pray together, Gordon; every day," I faltered, "every day, that God will make us believe the right things. And He will—I know He will."
"I've prayed that for long," he murmured low. "Oh, my darling, I love you so," and his lips pressed themselves to mine with a reverence and a passion I had never felt before.
******
Let me write it down, for the comfort of every troubled heart, that the holiest hours in all life's retrospect are those that are clothed in sorrow. The years have fled; yet the years are with me still. And when one sits in the gloaming (as I sit now) and looks back at all the distant days, the lure that casts its spell upon the heart comes not from the radiant hour of mirth or ecstasy; nor from the period of glad prosperity; nor from the season of echoing mirth and laughter. Not there does Memory ask leave to linger. But it hovers long, in sweet and heartful reverie, about some hour of tender grief, some season of blessed pain—blessed always, tender evermore, because it has been glorified by love, robbed of all its bitterness by the loyalty of some dear heart that came closer and closer to your own amid the darkness.
The home of early married life is the heart's earthly home forever. I knew that now; and memory bathes the soul in tears as I recall our last night beneath the roof of that St. Andrew's manse. Everything was packed and ready. The new house, the tiny, shabby house that was next day to become our home, was waiting for our advent. The rude but loving hands of some of the helpers at the mission had joined with ours to make it ready. And for our living there, they were providing us with a little salary; pitifully small—but our children would have clothes and bread.
My heart was like to break; but we spent that last evening in unconquerable brightness. I know I was no less cheerful than Gordon—and ever and anon I wondered if his heart were as sad as mine. The most pitiful feature of it all was Dorothy's unconscious glee—moving was such great fun, she thought. Harold was old enough to catch the contagion of our pain—for pain will show through the best veneer that courage can provide.