Both the children, and their grandfather too, were in bed and sound asleep when Gordon and I went up-stairs together about ten o'clock. We went into the children's room, for they were still unparted, the little bed nestling close to the big one; and we stood long above the slumbering forms, our eyes swimming as we looked.
"I wonder if it's really so," I heard Gordon murmur.
"What, darling?" I said.
"That God pities us—like we pity them," the sentence finished in a broken voice. "It solves all life's problems—if that's really so."
I could make no answer. But I bowed and kissed Harold's lovely brow; then Dorothy's.
"Come with me, Gordon," I said gently, after we had stood a while in silence, starting to move across the hall.
He followed me into our own room. "This is harder than all the rest," I said brokenly; "this is the dearest and sacredest room in the world to me. Oh, Gordon," and I was sobbing now, "surely they'll let me—whoever comes here after us—surely they'll let me come sometimes and see it, won't they, Gordon?"
His arms were so strong, his voice so tender. "Why, dearest, why? What makes this room so sacred to you?"
"Oh, don't you know?" and the words could hardly come for sobbing; "this is where they were born, Gordon—where they both were born. It was right there I lay when I first saw Harold's face. Oh, Gordon, I can't—I don't know how to give it up."
His eyes were full of pity and his voice was quivering. "Yes," he said, "yes, it's holy—but we have the children left, my darling," and he began to lead me gently from the room. Nor did he stop till we were standing where we had stood before, looking down on the unconscious forms.
"I'm going down to the study for a while," he said a little later; "I won't be long," as he began to descend the stairs, his footsteps echoing through the dismantled house.
I went back to my room, weeping, and sat down upon one of the trunks that stood about. Suddenly an impulse came to me—I think it must have been from heaven—and I sprang to my feet, burrowing eagerly towards the bottom of the trunk.
Ten minutes later I stole down the stairs. I was arrayed in my wedding gown. The years may have chafed it some, but they had not availed against its beauty and its richness. The pearl trimming—and those other radiant things that have no name—shone triumphant in the light. And I had about my neck, and on my bosom, some precious lace that I had removed long years before. The hall was almost empty—little there but our piano, that had been dragged out and left close beside the door. There was a mirror, too, still undisturbed upon the wall; and I paused before it just as I had done that golden day in Baltimore when Gordon was waiting to take me as his own forever. My eyes rested lovingly on the sweet and stainless vesture—it still fitted me like a glove, thank heaven—and then wandered to the face above. Long, long I gazed into the answering eyes, the past lying deep within them like water in some amber spring. The face was older, of course, and the signs of toil and care were on it; but the golden glow of love, I felt, clothed it with a peace—and a beauty too—which it never knew on that far-off wedding day. Poverty and hardship, I knew, were waiting at the gate; obscurity and struggle were to be our portion. But my husband was sitting in the room just beyond the door; my children—oh, the wealth and sweetness of the word!—my children's breathing I could almost hear; the years were past and gone, from whose hands I had received them all—and in that hour my wedding robes glistened with a holier light than time can cast, and the bridal bliss sprang like a fountain in my heart.
"Why so long?" Gordon suddenly sang out; "come in."
"I'm coming, dear," I said, and I felt the blitheness of my voice as it echoed through the hall. Very softly I stepped in and stood before him as he sat beside the dying fire.
His eyes devoured me with love; they roamed mostly about my dress—which was exactly what I wanted. I think he glanced once or twice about the room, its denuded bareness contrasting strangely with the rich robe I wore. Then he rose and took me into his arms—far, deep in—as into a mighty refuge. "You never looked so sweet, my darling—the years haven't touched it," was all he said. But he kissed my hair, my neck, my lips.
It was nearly an hour later when we arose to go up-stairs, and I was still in all my glory as we moved out, Gordon's arm still about me, into the echoing hall.
"Sing something," he suddenly requested as we passed the piano. It stood in sullen silence, as if it knew this to be a move for the worse.
My hands roved over the keys for a little; it was hard to know what would suit the hour.
But some breath of other days was wafted in upon me; and I felt my heart leap beneath the wedding lace upon my bosom as the song gushed into my mind again.
The light was dim, the house disrobed, the piano out of tune. But I can still see the rapture in Gordon's face as mine turned up to meet it while the words came one by one:
"Still must you call me tender namesStill gently stroke my tresses;Still shall my happy answering heartKeep time to your caresses."
"No, I'm never going back again," and the stamp of determination was on Harold's face as he spoke the words; "I'm never going back to school any more." He was gravely adjusting his books in the well-worn bag as he spoke, giving each one a final pat as if in last farewell. "I've been there too long," as he looked up at his father and me.
The room was small, the furniture shabby and worn now; for some years had passed since we came to live in the little house that still preserved to us an unbroken circle. We were all seated around the table in the dining-room—which was our only living-room—and Gordon had been telling Dorothy some wonderful story of red Indians when Harold's avowal had suddenly transfixed us all.
It is wonderful how a sudden wave of emotion gives prominence, in the memory, to everything connected with it. I could draw, even now, as accurate a picture of all the surroundings as though the event were but of yesterday. The room was small, as already described; but so was the house, for that matter. Yet there was something sweet and lovely, to me at least, about this tiny room that night—for my loved ones were all within it. I was sewing at the time, mending, of which there seemed to be no end; but every now and then my eyes would refresh themselves upon the little group. Gordon was still, despite the years, by far the handsomest of them all. The tokens of toil and care were not to be denied, but a deeper calm and sweetness could be seen upon the noble face as he bended over the golden locks of our little daughter. And very winsome was little Dorothy, laughing up into her father's eyes, reading there, as children are not slow to do, the signs of a consuming love. Grandfather Laird was dozing in the big armchair in the corner, his hand still resting on his shepherd's staff; dear old grandfather, whose race was nearly run, the strong Scottish face stamped more and more with the simple grandeur of his nature as he came nearer to the eternal verities on which his mind had dwelt so long.
I think my heart had gone out increasingly to grandfather as the years went by. Denied my own immediate circle in my girlhood's home, my affections had struck deep root amid all that Gordon loved. Perhaps I ought to say here that Gordon more than once had wanted me to go South again—and he would even have accompanied me. But I always felt it was too late, after my mother had entered into rest—besides, there always yawned before me the gulf that still lay between my uncle and my husband.
In addition to all this, to tell the honest truth, I don't know how we could have devised ways and means, even if I had been willing to visit my dear Southland again. For nobody will ever know the bitterness of the struggle that we entered upon with our departure from St. Andrew's. The pinching and paring and piteous penury that came with our change of lot lingers with me yet as a troubled dream. Yet I want to say, in case this story should ever see the light and anybody recognize its hero, that I never heard a word of complaint from Gordon's lips. If I loved him before I almost worshipped him now. With utter abandonment of devotion he gave himself to the struggling and sinful people of the needy quarter in which we made our home and among whom we found our work. All his buoyant vigour, his splendid intellect, his glorious heart, were given unreservedly to his lowly toil.
And I think I can say, with all regard to modesty, that I honestly tried to help him. His people grew as dear to me, I verily believe, as they were to him. Of course, my work was largely in our humble home, which I tried to make as bright and comfortable for Gordon as I could. The children, too, filled my life with busy joy—but I gave every hour I could spare, and all the strength I could command, to help Gordon in his noble drudgery.
I hardly know what I would have done, through all those trying days, if it had not been for grandfather. For one thing, his influence over Harold, now in the perilous paths of youth, filled my heart with thankful gladness. His devotion to his grandson became the passion of his life; he seemed unhappy if Harold was out of his sight, and the boy's future was his absorbing thought.
Then, besides, grandfather's life was so full of Christian peace; and his faith, in spite of the awful disappointment that Gordon's course had brought him, remained true and tranquil through it all. I really think he was the best Christian I ever knew. And how he comforted me, no one will ever know till all such secrets be revealed. For ours was a common sorrow. Soon it became evident to us both that Gordon, nobly devoted though he was, was turning more and more from the old truths that his father held so dear. Nor were they, I think, less precious to myself; the deeper the darkness grew, and the more Gordon seemed to turn from the truths that had blessed my life, the more my troubled heart seemed to find its refuge in the great realities of a Divine Saviour, and an atoning Lord, and a Heavenly Father who answers prayer; and I always found grandfather's sorrowing spirit seeking the same solace as my own.
I see them all again as they sat that night about the table; the quick motion of Gordon's head is vivid to me now, as he turned from the clamorous Dorothy and gave all his attention to his son.
"I've been at school too long," Harold repeated firmly, "and now I'm going to do something—to earn my own living."
"What makes you say that, my son?" Gordon asked, the pallor on his face betraying his emotion.
"Because I've found out all about it," Harold replied confidently; "surely you don't think I'm such a stupid as not to see all it has meant to you and mother—all the sacrifice, I mean—and all the struggle you've had to keep me going—and all the things you've had to give up. I know how poor we are," he went on passionately, "and I should have stopped long ago, and tried to help instead of being a burden to you." Then he quoted one or two of his proofs, which simple womanly pride forbids me to record; but they were true enough, and it nearly broke my heart to see the sadness on Gordon's face. For there was almost nothing he could say, and his poor remonstrances were of no avail.
"Look at mother," Harold broke out vehemently; "look at mother's dress. It's the same one she's had for years—and it's mended," he added in fiery sadness, "and it's the only one she has in the world except just one for Sundays—and it's shabby, too. And that's all for me, for me and Dorothy—but especially for me—and I'm not going to stand it any longer. Besides, I've got a place—and I'm going to begin on Monday. I'm going away to Carletonville. But I'll be home for Christmas," the fiery tone melting into tenderness as he rose from his seat and came over beside me.
For he had caught the expression of my face. Ah me! there are few moments in a woman's life like to that which announces the outgoing of her child from her home, how humble soever that home may be, Especially if the outgoing one be her first-born son! It was as if a knife had gone through my heart.
"But, what are you going to do, my boy?—what kind of work, I mean?" I asked in a trembling voice, the garment I was mending falling unheeded to the floor.
"It's a bank," he answered proudly; "Mr. Duncan got me in. I didn't say anything to anybody till I got it settled. But I wrote the application myself—and they said it was the best letter they ever got from an applicant," a slight flush of pride on the boyish face. "And Mr. Duncan says there's other work I can get to do—at nights—and I'll be able to support myself from the start," his breath coming fast with growing excitement as he turned his eyes first on his father and then on me.
"You shan't," I cried, with sudden fear, as it broke on me that he was actually going away. Our poverty was as nothing then. "Oh, Harold, you mustn't—I cannot let you go," and I clung to him as though he were going away that selfsame hour.
Gordon seemed unable to speak, sitting still and staring at the boy. Harold's cheeks were glowing and his eyes were sparkling; his arm was still about me.
Suddenly my husband found a voice, breaking out into a torrent of remonstrance. Really, it was quite unlike him to grow so agitated—but Gordon's whole life was in his children. "If your mother and I can stand it, there's no reason why you should object," he pleaded, after many other arguments had been pressed in vain. But Harold was immovable; his word had been passed, he said, and he would not recede from it.
"Let the laddie gang," came suddenly from grandfather's chair in the corner. I think we had forgotten he was there. "It's the auld way o' the world—the bairnies must leave the nest some time," he added, his own voice shaking. "An' his faither's God wull ha'e him in His guid an' holy keeping—the Almichty'll find the path for him. Come here, my laddie," and he held out his arms. Harold came over, wondering; the patriarch laid his hands in blessing on his head, and then committed him to God in words of such beauty as I think I never heard before.
But Gordon protested long and earnestly. "Anything but the bank," he said at last; "I cannot bear, my son, to think of you in a bank."
"That's what I think," I cried, eagerly seconding; "they make them work so hard—and it's all indoors—and Harold's not overly strong," I pleaded, careless of the splendid form that stood beside grandfather's chair.
"That has nothing to do with it," Gordon interrupted in his abrupt way; "it's not of that I'm thinking at all. It's the peril of the thing, my son—the danger, the temptations—just to think of the money that passes through a lad's hands when he's put into a bank. And that's how so many of them are ruined—for time and eternity," he added solemnly.
"Oh, Gordon," I cried in protest, "you don't mean stealing, Gordon, stealing money—you don't mean that?"
"That's exactly what I mean," said Gordon, untrained to subterfuge. "I mean the peril of handling so much money."
Whereat I fell into a storm of dissent, half in excitement, half in anger, as though my son had been accused already. I fear I spoke words harsh and unreasonable, but my defense must be that I was all unstrung with sudden grief and fear. Till by and by I was as violent in my demand for his father's consent as I had been in denial of my own, so strange are the cross-currents that trouble a woman's heart.
But we might as well have all been silent, so far as any effect on Harold was concerned. He had promised and he was going—and that was the end of it. So the outcome of the whole matter was a kind of tacit agreement, before we parted for the night, that Harold was to have his way.
When Gordon and I were in our own room, the door tightly shut, I pleaded with him to accept a plan that my poor bewildered mind had conjured up. "Let me write to uncle," was the burden of my cry; "if our boy is leaving us because we're not able to support him, uncle could change all that; he could at least undertake to complete his education—and I know he will, I know he will."
But Gordon's face was like marble. In the last appeal a Scotchman is always Scotch—and I knew Gordon was thinking of that last night when he had been all but turned from uncle's door. "Not while we have a crust to eat or a hand to toil," he said, in a tone so low and resolute that I actually feared to press my argument with another word; "no child of mine shall be dependent on his father's enemy;" which language smote me to the heart—nor do I think Gordon would have uttered it in a calmer mood.
Before we put out the light, his face still white and drawn, he took me by the hand and led me towards the bed. We knelt and prayed together—but my heart was bleeding. And anyhow—it is hard to write it down—Gordon and I didn't seem so close together now, when we prayed, as we once had been. I had the phantom feeling that we prayed apart. He had beckoned me, years before, in to faith's Holy Place where the Divine Saviour waited for us both; I had faltered in, groping for the way, bringing a broken and contrite heart—and I had found my husband gone.
It was the deep dark before the dawn when I slipped noiselessly into Harold's room—and I prayed beside his bed. I loved to hear him breathing; and I wondered if God could hearme—my soul, I mean, half panting in its loneliness.
When I began this chapter it was with the purpose of telling about grandfather's home-going. But not to his beloved Scotland, of whose heathery hills he seemed to think more fondly and speak more longingly as the years went by. It never lost its charm for us, this loving talk of the old Scotch shepherd about the far-off hills and valleys of his native land; even I, who had never been near them at all, came to be quite familiar with those sunlit slopes, their glistening heather, their babbling springs, their bleating flocks that roamed from base to brow. No, not to Bonnie Scotland—as he fondly called it—but to a fairer clime, did the weary shepherd turn his face at last.
But before I come to this I must tell of something else; something I would to God might be left unrecorded, for my pen is aching while I write. But this other—what I am about to tell—had its own part, I think, in starting dear old grandfather on the long journey from which he will return no more. For it is about Harold, who was grandfather's idol, as I have already said.
Our son had gone away, grief and hope mingling with the last farewell. That memory is with me yet. Indeed, I never rise early now, around five or six, without the feeling that some one dear to me is going far away. I remember the sweet calm of the early dawn, the first glad notes of the singing birds, careless of human tears, the sparkle of the dew upon the little lilac bush before the door, as we went past it with Harold's trunk. What a hard time I had to press into Harold's hand the poor little dollar I had saved from our scanty means as my own special gift—how pathetic it was to see the care with which he tucked it away in a painfully capacious pocketbook that grandfather had given him; how lonely it looked in the infinite space around it! And I remember how poor old grandfather noticed it, and how he bewailed himself that he had not kept till then the hundred pounds he had brought with him from Scotland. But this, his only wealth, had been "invested," as he had told us over and over again for months after the investment had been made. Poor grandfather! we had heard nothing for long of the speculation that had looked so rosy to him then.
And I remember, most vividly of all, what a time I had trying to comfort Gordon when he came back from the station. After all, perhaps I must admit that a father loves his son quite as much as his first-born girl. And it seemed strange that I had to be the strong one, but so it was. When evening came, and we had family prayers, Gordon's pleading didn't comfort me at all. But I had learned long before this that the new view of prayer refuses to concede that anything can change "the course of nature"—I hate that phrase—and teaches that it is only communion, pious meditation, and not supposed to be used for asking for what you want. So Gordon had gradually given up asking for particular things, though heaven knows there was enough to ask. Higher critics are the highway robbers of the soul.
Well, everything went along smoothly enough for nearly a year. Harold wrote twice a week, and seemed delighted with his work. He expected soon to be promoted, one of his last letters said; and Gordon told me that a general manager gets twenty thousand a year—that is, after he gets the position, of course. I used to think Harold was having a pretty lively time—socially, I mean—and he seemed to spend a good deal on clothes. But he did copying, and other things, out of hours, and made almost enough to pay his way. And we knew he was asked out a great deal, as bank clerks always are—and that's enough to turn any young fellow's head. Society seems to do its very best to ruin such youths as turn their footsteps towards a bank; Gordon said himself that most of these clerks do more credit to their tailor than their schoolmaster. As for me, if I had fifty sons not one of them would ever go into that profession with my consent—unless he began as general manager, with twenty thousand a year.
By and by Harold began to get interested in sports—mostly lacrosse, I think—and that was the portal to our Gethsemane. I shall not dwell upon the sad and bitter story. But one day a letter came from Carletonville; the envelope bore the bank's name, but the address was not in Harold's hand.
"It's about his promotion, Gordon," I said exultantly; "it's about Harold—he's been raised at last. You open it."
Gordon was radiant. "No, Helen," he said unselfishly; "he owes it more to you than me—open it yourself. He gets his financial ability from his mother," and he leaned forward to hear me read the news.
I opened it so carefully; for I meant to preserve it always—till he was general manager, at least. My eye ran swiftly over the contents and I fell with a loud outcry into Gordon's arms.
I scarcely need to tell the story further. The letter was not unkind—I remember remarking that, in a numb, mechanical way, in the midst of all the agony. There was even a little stern note of sympathy in it, as the authorities outlined the piteous tragedy. I suppose they knew we had human hearts. It was the old story; debt, then betting, then petty irregularities in the hope that the deficit would soon be overtaken. Then a little more; then a false signature—I cannot write the other word; then more—and the man who wrote us used the term embezzlement. That was when I fainted in Gordon's arms.
All that night I lay awake, alone. Gordon had left by the first train to go to Harold. I pleaded with him to bring our boy home with him. And I shall remember to all eternity how white his lips were when he said he would—if he could. I knew what he meant; and I fell to trembling so that I could hardly say good-bye. Then I went to bed and lay all night staring wildly into the dark. And that night, for the first time in all my married life, I cursed poverty—out loud I cursed it with bitter emphasis—the poverty that made us so helpless now. For I fancied, poor thing, that all would be well if the money could only be replaced. I cared nothing for the tokens of poverty that were all about me, the poor and ill-furnished house, the scanty wardrobe, the meagre larder—these were but trifles to me then. But I thought bitterly of the people I knew in Hertford who had plenty of money, once friends of ours, but lost to us now; and I silently impeached the poor people of our mission, as if they were somehow responsible for it all. I blamed Gordon, too—it was all due to his wandering from the beaten path—and I breathed out threatenings and slaughter against every German theologian that ever lived.
It was a couple of hours before the dawn when my heart suddenly fell to beating wildly—some one was gently trying the front door, the knob slowly moving back and forward. I listened, trembling; a moment later all was still. Then I heard steps moving round on the walk beneath my room; I rose and crept to the open window, finally summoning strength to call out a timid challenge.
"Mother, it's me—it's Harold, mother," came a subdued voice from below.
I almost fainted for very joy. I was never so happy before in all my life; an intoxicating sense of gladness, rioting like a flood, rushed over me as I turned and flew down-stairs to the door. A moment later my arms were about my son as I led him, sometimes laughing, sometimes crying, back to my room. I remember how tight I closed the door behind us, as if we were to be shut in together forevermore. And then he crept into bed beside me, just as he had done in the dear old days when he was a little fellow; and I lay with my cheek close to his, my arms about him, no word of reproach, even of enquiry coming from my lips. A strange unreasoning joy it was that possessed me—I might have known it could not last—and I called him by all the old tender boyish names while my hands roamed among his hair, sometimes descending to trace the features of his face, just to make sure that he was there. I remember how, more than once, there flitted before me a vision of the far-off days when he had lain a babe beside me, nourished at my breast—at which I held him closer than before, my bosom aching with its load of love.
He told me all about it; about the tragedy; and I listened like one dead. I know now what they feel who stand before the Great White Throne, awaiting the word of destiny. Harold's voice grew lower as his speech went on, and as it grew nearer to the dawn. He seemed to fear the return of morning. And slowly, with ghostly outline, it was made clear to me that he could not linger—that he was not my own at all. They were likely in quest of him even now, cruel men, scornful of a mother's love; perhaps already hurrying towards his father's house. My arms were strong, I knew, infinitely strong—and they closed about him again in a passion of possession. Yet I knew how weak and powerless they would be if that other arm, the law's mighty arm, should be outstretched upon him.
So I bade him go. First with gentle entreaty, then with insistent urgency, then with vehemence of command, I thrust him from my crying heart. I arose, groping for some garments that might help the disguise he would surely need—with feeble cunning I refused to light a lamp—searching for this and that to serve our piteous purpose. With what difficulty, I remember, did I find one of Gordon's old hats, dusting it carefully, and changing its shape from one form to another to make it look more natural on Harold's head.
Soon we were at the door. The dawn was glimmering. "Go, my darling," I said hoarsely, "there will be few about when you catch the morning train. Come to me once again—put your arms around me, tight—kiss me, my son."
But he did not move, looking down shame-facedly at the ground. Again I besought him to be gone.
"How can I?" he said abruptly at last, the words like to choke him; "I have no money, mother."
This smote me like a blow. But suddenly and with a little cry of joy—such strange eddies are there in the stream of sorrow—I remembered a few dollars I had sorely saved for the purchase of the new gown I needed so. I sprang back into the house and reappeared in a moment with the scanty savings—I caught the rumble of distant wheels and knew the world would be soon astir. Harold's face fell as he glanced at the money I thrust so triumphantly into his hand; it was not enough—I might have known it could not be enough.
We stood together, bowed with disappointment. Suddenly the rumbling wheels came nearer, till, as they hove in sight around a corner, I saw it was the milkman's wagon. A quick inspiration came to me as I bade Harold slip back into the house. The milkman's ruddy face showed its surprise as his eyes fell on me, for he was accustomed to leave his wares at the back door and go upon his way. I greeted him as calmly as I could; and then, not without shame, I boldly asked him if he could lend me a little money. "A friend of mine is going away," I said, "on the morning train—and he doesn't happen to have quite enough."
The honest swain, nothing doubting, fumbled in his pockets, finally producing a good deal more than my poor savings had amounted to. I took the money from him, my heart beating wildly at the sudden deliverance. Then I went in to Harold and put it in his hand. It hurt me, beyond words to tell, to see the confusion and pain with which the poor lad took the money, though it was from his mother. Then his eyes suddenly filled with tears. "Can't I say good-bye to Dorothy?" he said brokenly; "I want to say good-bye to Dorothy."
The tenderness of his tone almost overcame me. I put my arm about him and we went up-stairs together, quickly, for the time was passing. We could hear grandfather's heavy breathing as we passed his door; Harold looked in wistfully, but I shook my head. Dorothy was sound asleep, her golden curls dishevelled on the pillow, her lips slightly parted, a much worn doll emerging from beneath one arm. My eyes only glanced at her, then turned to Harold's face, silently filling as I saw the evidences of his grief. He stood a moment above the bed, then stooped and kissed the rosy face; she stirred, smiling in her sleep, her hand unconsciously moving towards her doll. He kissed her again, unwisely—and the blue eyes opened wide.
"Harold," she murmured sleepily, "dear Harold—I knew you'd come home—I dreamed you were never going away any more."
The boy's lips were quivering, and we turned softly towards the door. But Dorothy, still only half awake, uttered a plaintive protest. "Don't go away, Harold," she mumbled, "get into your bed, Harold—your own beds," one half-opened eye indicating an unused couch beside her. "Say your prayers and then come—kneel down there, Harold," drawing the battered doll away from the side of the bed.
He looked at me. I motioned; and we knelt together, Harold's hand close beside the vagrant curls. His voice was faint and faltering:
"Now I lay me down to sleep,I pray the Lord my soul to keep;If I should die before I wakeI pray the Lord my soul to take."
He paused, preparing to arise. "Say the rest," Dorothy murmured, "say it all, Harold."
Again he looked at me. Then his face sank between his hands and once more the broken voice went on: "God bless father, and mother, and Dorothy—and bless Harold and make him a good boy, for Christ's sake. Amen."
The little monitor seemed satisfied, slipping back again into the stream of slumber. Harold and I went gently down the stairs. I spoke no word but held him to my bosom, aching still, with such a fierce flame of longing as I had never known before. I opened the door; even then I paused to adjust the hat, so large and serious looking, on his head. He passed out, his face averted, and started running on his way—on, on, away from home, away from his mother's empty arms.
I went back to the room where his sister lay. Long I stood above the vacant bed, wondering bitterly why I had not gloried more in those old golden days when two dear tiny heads lay upon the pillows there. A few minutes after I heard the whistling of a train; I sank beside the empty bed and tried to pray—but my lips, I know not why, could frame no words except the words of Harold's prayer.
It was two long days before Gordon returned to me. He knew the worst, of course, but had lingered at Carletonville in the hope that he might get some trace of Harold. A telegram to me, and another from me to him, told enough to send him home at once. Poor Dorothy's eyes looked wonderingly upon us as her father held me in his arms so long and so silently after he came in the door. Grandfather turned his troubled face away, pretending to gaze out of the window.
"You look so old, Gordon," I said unguardedly, as I drew back to look once more on the haggard face.
"Iamold, my darling," was all his answer, as he drew me to him again.
I forget what we talked about that evening—it was a dreadsome hour. And I actually feared for Gordon. He seemed half crushed, and half defiant, sometimes breaking out into a flood of grief, sometimes sitting long in stony silence. I felt guilty in the thought that I was more composed than he; once or twice I caught myself admitting that my faith was stronger than his—but I dismissed the comparison as pharisaical. Yet that was my chief concern for my husband—I feared for the influence this sorrow would have on his secret life. I knew then, oh! how well I knew, that only one anchor could hold amid a storm like this. And the very ones who had taught me this were God and Gordon.
The gloaming was just deepening into dark when I came back to the study after telling Dorothy good-night; grandfather's chair was close beside Gordon's, the white head visible through the gloom.
"Noo's the time to use yir faith," the old man was saying softly; "naebody needs a licht till the mirk gathers roun' aboot them. An' there's ae thing, there's ae thing, my son, ye maun aye keep sayin' to yirsel': the laddie's juist as dear to God as he is to you an' Helen—if ye love him, it's because God loves us a'," and the quivering voice fell on my harrowed heart like music from some steeple far aloft. "Aye," he went on as if to himself, "Harold canna' wanner ayont the Faither's care—an' we can aye follow him wi' prayer.
"Rax Gordon the Buik, lassie," he suddenly said, after we had sat a while in silence.
I did as I was bidden and Gordon received it without a word. It seemed to me, though perhaps it was only fancy, as he held it a moment, then opened it slowly and began turning the pages over, that there was a reverent eagerness about it such as had long been wanting. I wondered, fearfully, if this new ministry were already working its blessed way. And he passed Hosea by, though he had been reading for some time from that section of the Scriptures; he had some books on those old writers that he was delving into, and he always read at family worship from the parts he was studying for himself—there was so much of this that I had really grown weary of the prophets, shameful though it may be to confess it. Gordon still turned the leaves, nor stopped till he came to the fourteenth of St. John: "Let not your heart be troubled," which he read with a trembling voice that interpreted it beyond all the power of German scholarship. It was like a great anthem to my soul that night, and I think I gloried as much in Gordon's voice as in the wonderful words.
When we knelt to pray I slipped over to Gordon's chair, and we bowed together, his hand tight clasped in mine. I prayed for Gordon all the time we were bended thus, my heart full of a kind of thankful joy that mingled strangely with the passion of loss and loneliness already there. The prayer was beautiful; and just before its close Gordon stopped, tried again, then faltered out with a kind of sob:
"And, oh, God, give us back our son—bring him back to us, oh, Father of us all." My heart leaped for joy, like one whose long night was almost past.
No word was spoken as grandfather and I slipped out a few minutes later; I went with him to his room, to see that everything was ready. "The guid Shepherd'll bring the wannerin' lamb hame yet," he said as I turned to go, the strong features struggling with emotion; "He'll bring them baith back—back till Himsel'—did ye no' tak' notice o' Gordon's prayer? He's comin' hame, thank God, he's comin' hame," and the old man's voice was touched with heavenly hope.
The next morning, grandfather was astir with the birds. The day was bright; and the weather—so long his daily care—was still a specialty of grandfather's. Indeed, he seemed to live more and more in the past, the farther it receded. For days he would talk of little else but the far-off Scottish hills, and the glint of the sun through the clouds upon the heather, and the solemn responsibilities of the lambing season, and the sagacity of his sheep-dogs, all of whose names he remembered. How often, especially, would he tell us of "Ettrick" and "Yarrow," two of his choicest collies, named for his native streams. "This wad be a graun' day for the sheep," or "there'll be mony a lammie i' the plaid-neuk the day," were frequent opinions of his when sunshine or storm provoked them.
Poor dear grandfather! Far though he was from his beloved Scotland, it was beautiful to see how deep and tranquil was the happiness of his heart. He knew, of course, how sore was our own poverty, and I think it chafed him sorely that he could not help. When he first came out to the Western world, and to his only child, I really believe he thought the hundred pounds he brought with him would make him well-to-do for life. His idea was that all investments, in this new land, break into golden harvest. So he had duly invested his hundred pounds—some eloquent agent had led him on—in some sort of mining stocks. Old-country people are so prone to think that the earth, on this new continent, and the waters under the earth, and the mountains on top of it, all turn to gold if you touch them. Well, he invested his hundred sovereigns, and that was the end of grandfather's financial career—but have I not told all about this already?
Yet he was happy in his children—for so he regarded us both—and in his children's children. But that morning, the morning after Gordon came home, he seemed collapsed with sorrow. Perhaps it was the reaction—I do not know—but it was evident, anyhow, with what absorbing love grandfather's heart had gone out to the now departed Harold. His face was thin and worn, as if he had been ill; his voice was husky and his step was slow. All through breakfast he never broke the silence except to speak of Harold, and it was pathetic to hear the various suggestions the loving heart conjured up as to the best way to get him back. He knew little about law, dear grandfather, except the law of love. Finally Gordon told him, perhaps too candidly, that Harold was doubtless by this time from under his country's flag, and that there was no absolution unless the money were refunded—not even then, he added, except by the grace of those whom he had wronged.
"He'll write to us onyway, will he no'?" grandfather asked plaintively at last.
"Oh, yes," I said quite confidently; "oh, yes, he'll write."
But Gordon seemed anxious to prepare me for possible disappointment. "He likely will, if he's getting on well," he said slowly, fearfully; "if he succeeds, wherever he is, I mean. If he doesn't, I'm—I'm afraid."
I dissented warmly from this. Harold loved his mother, I affirmed. And then I remember how Gordon said something about the change in a boy's whole nature that an experience of this kind is liable to bring about; a word or two about the moral sensibilities being blunted, or something of that sort. Whereat I flared up in warm remonstrance, breaking into eulogy of my son. It was not till afterwards that I realized how all my thought of Harold, when he came home that night, and when he went away, was always of his misfortune and never of his sin—almost as if he had been pitifully wronged. But I suppose that is the way of every woman's heart, and I cannot but think it is partly God's way too.
Early in the forenoon grandfather disappeared, sending word by a messenger that he had availed himself of an opportunity to go into the country. It was evening when he returned, but I never saw a man more changed. His face was aglow with strange enthusiasm and the signs of healing were upon him.
"I juist couldna' help it," he said apologetically as he entered, his shepherd's crook in his hand. "I was fair longin' to see the sheep, an' the hills, yince mair—my heart was sair for them. An' I got a chance wi' a mon that was gaein' oot—he was settin' up some kind o' machinnery. An' I had a graun' day on the hills," he went on delightedly; "it was fair graun'. There was a laddie mindin' some sheep—he was a fine laddie; he minded me o' Harold—and I helpit him a' the day. There wasna' ony heather, nae doot—but the hills were bonnie—and the laddie had a collie dog or twa that minded me o' hame. An' I carried yin puir wee lammie in my arms—it was ailin'—and I lilted the auld psalms yince mair aneath God's blue sky; it was maist as guid as hame," and the aged voice was all aglow with gladness.
"You had a lovely day for it, grandfather," I said, smiling.
"Aye," he answered, "it was a bonnie day—an' aboot yin or twa o'clock there cam' a wee bit rain—a Scotch mist, ye ken, and it minded me o' hame—oh, it's been a graun' day the day. But I canna' think what it was gied me sic' a longin' for the hills—it was fair fearsome—it's no' a'thegither canny, I'm dootin'," and the old man shook his head in an eerie kind of way, so characteristic of his race. "I'm gaein' to bed," he said, moving already towards the stair; "I'm fair din oot.
"What's yon black thing hangin' there?" he suddenly demanded, the keen eyes resting on the door at the back of the hall.
I paid little or no attention to the question, deeming it unimportant; we went on talking for a few minutes.
"Lassie," he suddenly broke out again, "run, lassie, an' see what's yon black thing hangin' on the door."
Dorothy went as directed. "It's mamma's rain coat," she said a moment later, returning with it in her hand.
"Aye," said the old man, apparently relieved, "aye, it's naethin' but a cloak—but it fashed me to look at it; I thocht it lookit like—like yin o' thae crape things," he added with an embarrassed little laugh. This gave me a queer creepy feeling at the time, but I thought little more about it then; it came back to us later on, however.
Grandfather went to bed immediately, and Gordon and I were not long behind him. It was about one o'clock, I think, or perhaps a little later, when I was wakened from my sleep by a strange sound, half groan, half cry. I went out at once into the hall and soon traced the sign of distress to grandfather's room. The old man was raised up in the bed, partly sitting; and the light I quickly kindled told the story in a flash as I glanced at the ashen face.
"It's my heart," he said huskily; "it's yin o' thae spells like I had lang syne. It winna' be lang, I'm dootin'."
I was terrified, for I thought I could descry the stamp of death already. There was a majestic calm, an unwonted stillness, upon the old man's face. I called Gordon at once; he evidently shared my fear, for he rushed away for a doctor. It was but a few minutes before he returned with the physician. The latter was not long in telling us the truth.
"It's simply a total collapse," he whispered to Gordon and me as we followed him out into the hall. "He can hardly live till the morning; yes, it's his heart—a case of syncope. Don't be alarmed if he grows delirious, or semi-delirious—they often do, just from sheer weakness. That roaming about the country, to-day, that you spoke of—and the excitement of it—have probably been too much for him."
"Shall we tell him?" asked Gordon, pale and trembling.
"Perhaps it would be just as well. Has he everything in order?—his will, I mean, and everything like that, you know?"
"That isn't important," said Gordon; "father had little to will—yet I think he ought to be told. But I cannot—I couldn't do it. Will you?"
The doctor nodded and turned slowly towards the room. We did not hear what he said, but a moment later grandfather faintly called for Gordon. We both went into the chamber of death.
"Rax me my wallet—you'll find it in the kist," said the old man, pointing towards a trunk in the corner of the room.
Gordon handed him a large leather case which a brief search revealed. The shaking hand fumbled a moment or two before it withdrew a somewhat bulky document. "This is what they gi'ed me for my hunnerd pounds," he said, a half-shamed smile coming over the strong features. "They ca'ed them stocks," he added, "stocks in a mine, ye ken. I got the shares for saxpence each—an' they said they was awfu' valuable—and I tuk a' they'd gie me for a hunnerd pounds." Then he named a certain mine in Northern Ontario, and I thought I saw the faintest smile on Gordon's face. He took the paper from his father's hand and laid it on the table.
"I made the shares ower to Helen, lang syne," the old man said humbly; "gin they turn oot to be worth onythin', they're for her. I didna' ken when I micht be ta'en awa'—an' it's aye weel to be ready."
I faltered some poor words of thanks which the sinking man did not seem to hear. A new, strange light came into his eyes as we waited beside his bed. The doctor had withdrawn now, powerless to do more.
"Gang an' fetch the plaidie," he suddenly directed, "the yin I used to wear at hame; an' pit it aboot my shoulders—the nicht's growin' cauld. An' I canna' find the sheep," he suddenly cried, half starting in his bed; "I hear them bleatin' on the hills—but I canna' find them a'."
Then his eyes, large and luminous with the light of the unseen, revolved slowly till they fixed themselves on Gordon. "Kneel doon, laddie," he said gently, yet with the majesty of a prophet, "kneel doon beside me."
Gordon knelt low by the bed; one trembling hand, outstretched, was laid upon his head. The dying eyes looked far beyond into the Unknown. "Gordon," he said, almost in a whisper, "I see yir mither—she's wi' us noo." I actually started and looked up, following the lifted gaze. "An' she's lookin' doon at ye, my son—an' the love is fair shinin' frae her een. It was her that made ye a minister, my laddie. When ye was a wee bit bairn, me and her gi'ed ye up to God; an' mony a night, when ye didna' ken, she bendit by yir bed an' pleaded wi' God to mak' ye a minister—a minister, my laddie, o' the Everlastin' Gospel. Div ye hear me, Gordon?"
"Yes, father, yes," and Gordon was sobbing now; "yes, I hear, father."
"An' she wants ye to keep the troth, my son. I'm gaein' to her noo—an' I'll tell her ye'll be a guid minister, Gordon, a guid minister o' the New Testament, leadin' puir sinners to the Cross. Wull ye no' bid me tell her that, my laddie?" and the dying lips paused for answer.
"Yes," faltered the broken man beside the bed, "yes, father, tell mother that."
The light of peace stole across the aged face. "I'm ready to gang noo," the gentle voice went on, "an' yir mither's beckonin'. I'm comin', mither; I'll be wi' ye soon. An' Gordon's comin' tae—an' Helen—an' they'll bring baith the bairns wi' them." Then his eyes turned slowly upon Gordon. "I'm ready to gang noo in peace," he said faintly—"but there's yin puir lammie," a troubled expression looking out from the dying eyes, "there's yin puir lammie that I canna' find. Oh, my son," the voice rising again and the prophet-like eyes fastened upon Gordon, "tak' guid care o' the sheep—it's an awesome thing to be an unfaithfu' shepherd; tak' care o' the sheep, my laddie—an' where's Harold? Is the bairn no' hame the nicht?"
Then swift delirium seemed to seize him, and he rose violently where he lay, the last eddy of life swirling in the sullen stream of death. "I canna' find the lamb that's wannered," he cried, in a voice that startled us; "I canna' find it, an' the mirk is fallin'. Ettrick, come!—ho! Yarrow. Where are ye, Yarrow? Find it, my bonnie—find it and bring it hame." Then suddenly the dying lips pressed themselves together and a faint whistle floated out on the midnight air.
I seized Gordon by the shoulder. "Hush," said my husband, his face like death itself; "hush—he's calling his dogs."
"They're breakin'," he cried despairingly; "the sheep's scatterin'—they're gaein' to wanner—where's my crook? Gordon, bide ye here, my laddie, till yir faither turns them back. Come, Ettrick—Yarrow, come!" and again the dread whistle floated from his lips.
We tried to compose him, speaking tender words. Slowly the look of peace stole back upon the old man's face. He lay with eyes almost closed. "They're a' hame noo," he murmured gently; "aye, they're a' safe in the fold, my laddie, an' they'll gang oot nae mair till the mirk is by—we can rest noo till the mornin'," as he lay back in calm content.
Suddenly the dying eyes were lifted to his son. "Lilt me a psalm," he murmured; "we'll sing afore we gang to sleep; but dinna' wake yir mither—yir mither's restin'."
"What shall I sing, father?" Gordon asked in an awesome voice.
"A psalm, my—laddie," the words coming faint and slow; "ye ken the yin I'm needin'—there's only yin psalm for a shepherd."
Gordon looked at me. One hand was in his father's; the other was outstretched to me, and I knelt beside him. Then with trembling voice, my clearer note mingling with Gordon's quivering bass, we sang together:
"The Lord's my shepherd, I'll not want—He makes me down to lie,"
and just as we were midway in the majestic strain
"Yea though I walk through death's dark valeYet will I fear none ill"
the old shepherd passed through the valley with his Lord.
Grandfather was right. The Good Shepherd had brought Gordon back. I am quite at a loss to tell just how the change came about, or what its actual evidences were—but the great ministry in accomplishing it was the ministry of sorrow. Sorrow and love—that ever undivided pair—seemed to have conspired for their perfect work. It began, I think, with the crushing weight that fell upon our hearts in the loss of Harold and in all the shame and anguish connected with it. That was God's way, I have always thought, of teaching Gordon how much a father's heart can suffer—and the inevitable outcome of that is the Cross itself if God our Father be. How could His love escape love's inevitable pain, any more than ours? Then, besides, grandfather's home-going had been a second ordination for Gordon, and the ministry that followed was new and beautiful. So was mine, if I may designate my poor service by such a lofty word; for now I knew beyond a peradventure that God hears and answers prayer. I verily believe grandfather and I prayed him back between us.
The very day after Gordon's father entered into rest I was sitting in the gloaming, thinking of the life that had gone from us; one never knows how dear is an aged life, till the silver-haired presence is withdrawn. And I heard something that started my heart singing heavenward with gratitude.
Gordon and Dorothy were at the piano, on which our daughter now loved to show her new-found skill. And softly on the evening air there floated out to me the strains of the hymn he had asked her to play. Surely there is no music, this side of heaven, so sweet as that which a man's strong voice and a girl's fluttering note combine to make.
"We'll sing it again," I heard Gordon saying; "every word is golden, Dorothy. Come now:
'Jesus loves me, He who diedHeaven's gate to open wide;He will wash away my sinLet His little child come in'"
and then followed some words of Gordon's which I could hardly catch. But I heard enough to know that he was teaching our little girl the great and blessed doctrine which he himself had learned by his mother's knee. How I gloried in this new theology, asserting once again its holy spell upon my husband's heart, no human tongue can tell.
The months went by. And if ever a man was happy in his work, that man was Gordon Laird. In his work, I say—for our home lay still under the shadow of its great and bitter sorrow. After one or two unsatisfactory letters, followed by a final one of despairing note, no word had come from Harold. This was what Gordon had feared. Those months stand out before me now, each one almost separate in its pain, like sombre mountain peaks robed in cloud. I know all about the anguish of those who roam some desert waste searching for a spring, or with parched lips upturned to the unsoftening skies. The slowly dying hope, the burning fever whenever I heard the postman's knock, the sickening disappointment, all surge again like a turgid flood about me when I allow my mind to dwell on those days of silence.
Yet if I suffered I believe Gordon, in a deep, silent way, suffered even more. My heart ached more for him than for myself. I almost came to change my mind as to which of the children had first place in Gordon's heart—it seemed to cry out now for Harold as for nothing else on earth. Although, and I write it gladly for the comfort of some like stricken soul, all this worked its gracious ministry upon his troubled life. Embattled long as his spirit had been with inward misgiving and silent doubt, this last dark mystery would have wrought sore havoc, I cannot but believe, had it not been so terrible. Its very fierceness of attack drove him in upon the Lord whom he had found afresh; and his soul found its comfort in simplicity of faith and childlike urgency of prayer. The songs we shall sing in the Yonderland shall give their chiefest praise for the burdens that were too heavy to be borne alone.
I have spoken of Gordon's urgency of prayer. It was he, not I, who suggested that we should have a set time, every morning, when we should pray for nothing else but this—that Harold might be brought back to us. And it was Gordon, not I, who led Dorothy to include in her evening prayer the plea that God would bring her brother home.
Yes, I think sometimes that the great Father led my husband into the wilderness for this very purpose, to make him a minister after His own heart. I said to him once, just about the time we first began to realize we weren't going to hear from Harold:
"All this won't affect your life-work, will it, Gordon—your preaching, I mean?" for it was only natural, after all that had transpired, that I should have some secret misgivings.
His answer lingers with me like a chime of bells, though it came in tones subdued and low: "No," he said; "no—I'm going to preach now to broken hearts."
"Then you'll never lack a congregation, my darling," was the response I made; and I have always thought it was given me in that hour what to speak.
Nor did the congregation fail to come. Gordon had wonderful powers, as everybody must know by this time—he had always had them—and now he had a wonderful message. His heart, and not his brain, was now the source of his splendid sermons; a wounded heart at that—and it is from the crushed and broken flower that the sweetest perfume breathes. So it was no wonder that his humble pulpit became like a golden fount to parched and thirsty souls; and the pathway trodden by the throng that pressed about it became ever more deep and wide.
People came to Gordon's little church from every part of Hertford. I did not wonder at this, for rich and poor alike will crowd about a spring; but little by little it became evident that not a few of our worshippers were from Gordon's old congregation in St. Andrew's. It's wonderful how everybody loves a hero—especially if the hero doesn't know he's one. I was the first to notice this; or, at least, the first to say anything about it. Gordon gave no sign of exultation, but I knew it filled his heart to overflowing. Strangely enough, one of those who by and by were most regular in attendance was Mr. Ashton himself, his first appearance almost striking Gordon dumb. But I always thought he really began to esteem my husband that night Gordon dealt so faithfully with him. Besides, he had lost his own son—by the more kindly way of death—and I attributed it partly, too, to that. It matters not.
This feature of our congregation—the attendance of St. Andrew's folk, I mean—became so pronounced at last that it began to be rumoured about the city that many of them would like to call their old minister back again, if he would return to their denomination. I spoke of it once to Gordon—my heart could not conceal its eagerness—but he received it after such a fashion that I mentioned it no more. Not then, at least. But I'm afraid I hoped and longed; for I was born a woman, and pride died hard within me.
Our means were still as meagre, our struggle as sore as ever. Besides—and how pitiful was the effort—we were trying in a poor helpless way to save a little for the payment of Harold's debt; we tried to set aside just so much as his schooling would have cost, if he had never left us. Every penny thus laid away had our hearts' blood upon it; and was, I doubt not, precious in His sight who gave those two mites their fame.
Things were at their very darkest along this line about four or five months after Harold went away. And it was just then something happened that showed conclusively which way the ruling passion of Gordon's heart was turned.
I was almost weeping over my accounts that night. These I kept in a ridiculously large scribbling book, marking down the smallest item of expenditure; for Gordon entrusted our finances to my hands, if so elaborate a term may be devoted to so scanty an exchequer. Generally I brought the account out pretty even at the close of every week—"sundries" were a great help towards this happy end. But this particular night everything seemed all "through other," to quote a favourite phrase of grandfather's. Nothing was clear except that there was a deficit—and that was dreadfully evident; but even the all-adjusting sundries could not show just how or whence it came.
So there we sat, I with the big scribbling book before me, a freshly sharpened pencil in my hand, a cloud of perplexity on my brow, gazing, a little moistly I'm afraid, at the plaintive statement of receipts and expenditure.
"Never mind, Helen," Gordon said, "you've done the best you can—and I know you've made every dollar go as far as any woman in the world could do. Don't bother any more about it—charge that deficit up to profit and loss and call it square."
"But it's nothing to laugh about," I answered gloomily; "we're going behind, Gordon—just as sure as anything, we're going behind."
"Only financially," he said lightly; "we're going ahead other ways, my dear."
"But that's a lot," I protested.
"It doesn't seem much to me," Gordon replied, the lightness all vanished now.
"What do you mean?" I said, looking up a little testily, I fear.
"Oh, only this; when anybody has a sorrow so much greater—like ours—financial troubles don't amount to much. I want Harold—oh, Helen, I want our boy back again," with which he broke out, strong man though he was, into such a storm of crying as would have done credit to the tearfullest of women.
This puzzled, almost alarmed, me. Indeed, I was beginning to fear, and not without more reasons than one, that the long tension of grief and disappointment were proving too much for Gordon's intense and sensitive nature. I looked at him a moment as he sat before me with his head bowed in his hands; then I did what I believe was the very wisest thing—I comforted him for a little as best I could in my woman's way, though my heart was just as heavy as his own; then I said we really must go on with our accounts. And in a minute or two we were both bended once again above the big scribbling book, going into every item as carefully as though we were auditing the books of the Bank of England.
Suddenly, just as I was declaring that the butcher must have sent that same bill twice, a ring came to the door. I was glad. Gordon answered the summons, as he always did at night. And, to my amazement, our visitor turned out to be a Mr. Bradwin, one of the well-known brokers of Hertford, and a prominent member of our old congregation in St. Andrew's.
"Excuse my calling at this time of night, Dr. Laird," he apologized, after he was seated and a few words of greeting had passed between us; "but the fact is I've just received some news that I think you'll find decidedly interesting"—I cannot be positive, but I really think he glanced about the shabbily furnished room as he spoke—"and I couldn't wait till to-morrow to tell you."
"I hope it's good news, Mr. Bradwin," said Gordon, a very faint smile playing on his face.
My impulsive nature got the better of my judgment. "Is it about St. Andrew's, Mr. Bradwin?" I asked in an eager voice, my eyes leaping from his face to Gordon's.
"No, it isn't," replied our caller, and my eyes fell. "But it's good news for all that—decidedly good news, I should say. It's about something a little more important—to you, at least; something that has more to do with your happiness, I fancy."
Gordon sprang to his feet and his voice rang out like a pistol-shot: "It's about Harold, sir—it's about our boy!" He was standing in front of Mr. Bradwin now, his cheeks like snow, his eyes like fire. It was almost awful to see him. "Thank God," he cried, his voice half a laugh and half a cry; "you've heard where he is, haven't you?—and you've come to tell us. Why didn't we think of it before, Helen?—we might have known that was the news that couldn't wait. Tell me, sir—tell us both," and in his eagerness he bent over and took the astonished man by the shoulders.
A moment later his withdrawn hands were clasped upon his eyes with a gesture of inexpressible grief and he was groping his way to a chair. No word had been uttered; but the denial spoke from Mr. Bradwin's face, or else he shook his head in disavowal—I could not see, but I knew that the hope glowing a moment since in Gordon's heart was in ashes now. Our visitor's news was not of Harold.
"I'm so sorry," Mr. Bradwin began confusedly; "I forgot all about that—about your son; and I really almost hate now to tell you what I was so anxious to tell a little while ago. But it's good news, at any rate—even if it's not the best." Having said this he paused, looking from one to the other of his auditors.
"What is it, Mr. Bradwin?" I asked, not a little curious.
"It's about some stocks—some shares," replied the broker, feeling a little more at ease with the familiar words; "such assets—stocks, I mean, especially mining stocks—are always springing little surprises on the people that hold them. Both ways, Mrs. Laird, you know—both good and bad," as he smiled, a little artificially I thought, at me. "But in this case I'm glad to be able to say the surprise is a pleasant one—a decidedly pleasant one, Mrs. Laird; indeed, uncommonly so, I should say. Quite beyond the ordinary, as I think you'll agree."
I stammered out something about my ignorance of all such matters. Gordon said nothing, for interest was now dead within him.
"You are aware, of course," Mr. Bradwin resumed, "you're aware, Mrs. Laird, that the shares are in your name?—they were transferred to you by Mr. Laird, your husband's father, before his death."
"Oh," I exclaimed, beginning to remember; "you mean those papers grandfather gave us?"
"Precisely, madam—at least, I presume we're thinking of the same thing. Your father-in-law invested five hundred dollars, a hundred pounds rather, in the mine—and they've just struck a fine vein of silver—the richest yet discovered in New Ontario, there's no doubt of that. The old gentleman got his shares for a song—about ten cents each, I believe—and now they've jumped to an almost fabulous price. So the profit is tremendous," as Mr. Bradwin drew his chair close up to mine, all embarrassment vanished now.
"How much are they worth?" I asked with feminine precipitancy.
Mr. Bradwin drew a pencil from his pocket and reached over to the table for a piece of paper. It did seem funny that the scrap he picked up and began to cover with figures was that wretched butcher's bill that had been giving Gordon and me so much trouble a few minutes before.
"Surely I've made a mistake," he said after a little silence; "it seems an incredibly large amount. No, that must be it," drawing in his breath in an awe-stricken kind of way after he had revised his reckoning at least three times; "yes, your shares are worth that, at the very lowest computation," and he handed the greasy butcher's bill, transfigured and glorified now, over to my shaking hand. "I'm commissioned to offer you that much, madam, for every share you hold."
I don't think I heard him. My first move was to Gordon's desk in the corner, a great womanlike fear seizing me lest the precious papers had been lost, or that they might reveal something to disturb this fairy dream. I fumbled in one of the drawers; they were there; I drew them forth. Yes, it was just as the broker had assured me. The number of shares was so plain that he who ran might read.
"Hold on to those certificates, Mrs. Laird," I think I heard Mr. Bradwin say; "there's a heap of happiness in them." But I paid no attention to his words as I moved over, my eyes so cloudy I could hardly see, to where my husband still sat in silence. I cared nothing that a stranger was looking on, thought of nothing, remembered nothing but the long years of bitter poverty and secret struggle through which poor Gordon had carried on his work so bravely. I threw myself into his arms, my whole frame shaken with the emotion that would not be repressed; I clasped him about the neck, the precious documents crushed in my fevered grasp as I drew the yielding head gently down upon my bosom, faltering out as best I could the tidings that our poverty was ended and our days of darkness past and gone. And I told him how I loved him for all the splendid courage and silent self-denial that he would never need to practice more.
"I'd advise you not to sell outright, madam—that's my advice to you as a friend," the broker's voice announced in a monotone. I looked up a moment—the man's back was turned; (wherefore I have thought more kindly of brokers ever since). "Your best way will be to sell a certain amount—and retain an interest; an interest, Mrs. Laird. They're going ahead to develop the mine—and then you're sure of both, Mrs. Laird. And I—I congratulate you, madam."
I fear my response was very scant, if indeed any came at all. At any rate, Mr. Bradwin withdrew a minute or two later, announcing his purpose to return the following day.
But it could not have been more than a minute or two after his departure when we heard the footfall of some one ascending the steps to the door. "He must be coming back," I said; "I suppose he's forgotten something."
"I don't think it's a man's step," said Gordon; "it's a boy, if I'm not mistaken."
His surmise was correct. A boy it was, and a very agitated and urgent boy at that. He was ragged too.
"I want you to come with me," the lad broke out as soon as he was admitted, fixing his earnest gaze on Gordon. "I was at Bethany Sunday-school last Sunday—and I know you—and I want you to come home with me quick," twirling his battered hat in his hand as he spoke.
"What's your name, my boy?" asked Gordon, moving over to him.
"It's Tim—Tim Rayfield—an' we live on Finner's Flats," naming the most notorious section of the city, part of it bordering on Gordon's parish.
"Do you always attend Bethany, Tim?" asked Gordon, smiling down at the desperately earnest face.
"No, sir, wasn't there only once," answered the boy; "but I learned a lot—an' won't you come, sir? There ain't no time to lose. My father's dyin', sir—an' I want you to get him in."
"What?" and Gordon's face was full of amazement; "in where?—where do you want me to get your father in?—you mean the hospital, do you, my boy?"
"No, sir—into heaven. That's what the teacher said about it last Sunday—about when folks was dyin'—an' how they get 'em in. An' dad, he's dyin'—an' I want you to get him in."
The face of the poor ignorant child was aglow with its eagerness of hope and fear. The signs of poverty and neglect were everywhere about him, and the ill-nourished frame told how severe had life's struggle been to him. But the glint of the Eternal was on the grimy face, upturned to Gordon in wistful entreaty. His plea was the plea of love, his prayer the prayer of faith; and the scene could not have been more holy if some white-robed priest had been interceding before the Throne.
Gordon's arms went out impulsively towards the lad; I believe he put them a moment about his neck.
"Yes, my boy," he said in an unsteady voice; "yes, I'll go. And we'll get your father in—yes, please God, we'll get him in."
They went out together into the darkness, the boy leading the way with such haste as stirs the feet of those who race with death. And I was left alone, the little table still littered with the relics of our financial conference. The stainful butcher's bill lay on top of all—and the magic document, with its story of our shares, was still held tightly in my hand.
I did not open it again; but I sat long looking at it—and it struck me even then how helpless it was to aid in the real tragedies of life.