I have asked Gordon to write down for me his experiences of that night. Two considerations led me to this course: first, because the incident had so much to do with his own soul's life, his faith, his future ministry; second, because Gordon was so much more able than I, when one of life's great events was concerned, to tell it as it should be told.
When I asked him to undertake this duty—to write out the story of that midnight errand—I practically had to tell him I was putting our life experience, or a large portion of it, down in black and white. But I don't think Gordon ever suspected it was meant for other eyes than those of our own immediate dear ones—and one of the great moments of my life will be when my husband sees this book, if, indeed, it shall ever deserve a name so great.
Here is Gordon's story of that night, just as he wrote it out himself—I told him my story began with a foreword, so he said he'd have one too.
******
Foreword:
I am writing this, so personal though it seem, because Helen wants it. If it hadn't been for the children's mother, their father never could have told what he is now about to write. Some time, perhaps long after my poor day's work is done, they may read this page from the volume of their father's life. May the same grace enrich, the same truth ennoble their youthful lives: "The angel that redeemed me from all evil bless" them both, as a father's lips prayed long ago.
******
When little Tim Rayfield told me he wanted me to "get his father in," I knew one of the crucial moments of my life had come. Indeed, I felt the hour was almost as critical for me as for Tim's dying father. Why, I need not state at length. But perhaps I ought to say this much, that I felt a new sense of power as I pressed on through the night with Tim's grimy hand in mine. I use the word "new" advisedly—for I must tell, no matter whose eye may yet read the confession, that, for some years before, I had shrunk from such scenes as these in helplessness and despair; I had lost the joy of the miraculous in my ministry; I can honestly say that I always tried to be faithful to every duty, but little by little the glory and the power of a Supernatural Gospel had slipped away from me.
I have seen people smile when I use the word "supernatural" as the only fitting term to characterize a gospel. But such as smile have very smiling lives. The word—and all that is behind the word—has a very different meaning when laughter is banished from the lips, when the voice of joy is hushed, when some fateful sorrow falls and we can only stumble on through the encircling gloom. Such an hour came to me, filled with a bitterness worse than death; it was then I found my Lord anew. When the billows overswept and whelmed me I learned to pray; when the shadows closed in about me I descried the Divine Friend among them; when I lost my boy, and my father-heart was broken, I learned of One who gave His own Son, His well-beloved Son.
Let me revise my words. It was not I who "found my Lord"; but He found me—He and Helen—and they sought me hand in hand.
"That's the room," said Tim, panting from his haste, for the little fellow had led me at great speed; "there, d'ye see that light in the window—that upstairs window?"
I saw, and in a moment we were climbing a decrepit stair. Groping our way along an unlighted passage, my guide, still clinging to my hand, turned sharply into the squalid home. It consisted evidently of two rooms, the inner of which contained the couch whereon lay Tim's sinking father.
The boy never stopped till he had led me to the very edge of the bed. A few tattered covers wrapped the form of the dying man. His face, already conforming to the stamp of death, told the story of a lifetime's sin. Nobody could look upon it without reading there the tokens of a life of passion and excess. The heavy eyes looked up sullenly into my face as I stood above him.
"It's the preacher, Gus—don't," pleaded a woman who bent above him; for his lips were framing some word she evidently feared my ears would catch. "Don't, Gus—he's goin' to help you if he can; Tim fetched him—he's the preacher from the Hollow, an' Tim seen him last Sunday."
The man's set features seemed to relax a little as I took his hand. I hesitated as to how I should best begin—but he opened the way himself.
"I'm all ready for sea, boss," he broke out with a gasping laugh; "last voyage, looks like—an' nobody don't know the port. But I've got my papers, Cap'n—I've got my papers, an' I'll have to sail."
"Don't mind him, sir," his wife said in a hushed voice; "he's an old sailor, you see—only two years since he quit the sea and come here to live. He got his left foot hurt—an' that's what's killin' him now—he's got gangarene, sir."
"Goin' to be a dirty night, boss, by the looks o' things," the dying tar broke in with pitiful bravado; "the wind's risin', ain't it—better shorten sail, eh?"
I put my face close to his. "Do you want a pilot, my friend?" I asked him low.
"Don't call me that," he retorted gruffly; "call me mate—I was mate on theDolphinwhen that dam crowbar fell on my foot."
"Don't you want a pilot, mate?" I asked again.
"Where to take me?" looking far through the window into the dark.
"To the harbour," I answered softly.
"I don't know where it is."
"He knows."
"Say," and the eyes were now fixed very intently on me; "I'm goin' to ask ye a question. An' I want an answer straight—no tackin' or manoeuvrin'—d'ye think I'm dyin', Cap'n?"
"Yes," I answered; "yes, you're dying, sir."
"Then get him in," broke out poor Tim with a piteous wail as he presented himself in front of me and looked up into my face; "please get him in quick, afore he dies—that's what I fetched you for, sir—oh, please get him in."
I had seen the day when I almost feared to be alone with a dying man. What I had to say, in those days, could be as well said to others as to him. But now, as Tim besought me, and as his father looked up with eyes in which a yearning hope was already to be seen, I felt that no others must be near while I sought to help his soul. So I asked Tim and his mother if they would withdraw to the adjoining room—they should be called, I said, if the summons came apace.
Then I closed the door—for this hour had more than bridal holiness—and I gave myself in love to the dying soul. The mock heroism, the banter, fell off from him like a garment, for I think he saw I believed in God. I need not tell, must not reveal, all he disclosed to me from the dark storehouse of a wasted past. But I met him, and his crimson sins, and his accusing conscience—I met them all, and at every turn, with the Cross of the Lord Jesus and with the all-atoning grace of God. How I gloried in that hour in the great evangel! And how there rolled about me, with tides ample like the ocean's, the thought of the magnitude and infinitude of the love of Christ! And how—oh, blessed memory to my long beleaguered soul—I witnessed the ancient miracle with joy, marvelling anew at the greatness and glory of the Gospel, scorning with high contempt all that would raise its feeble hand against such power as may be seen wherever a sinful soul meets with the pardoning Lord!
Over and over again I read to him from the third of John: "God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten son," its richness growing on my own soul as well as his.
"Let me see that," said the dying mate; "I want to look at it—every cap'n reads the log himself."
I gave him the book and held the lamp above him.
"Ye haven't got another of them, have ye, sir?" he asked wistfully.
"Of what?" said I.
"Of this here book—I want to read it when you're gone; or Tim—Tim could read it to me."
I told him, of course, that I would leave the book.
"Turn down the page—mark the place," he said, handing me the volume. "I'm afeared I'd soon be driftin' again if we lost it."
"I'll mark some other passages too," I suggested, "some almost equally beautiful."
"That there one's enough," he said, sinking back faintly on his pillow.
I sang him a hymn, the one that dying men should always hear; and then I had a little prayer with him. His hands were folded and his eyes were closed. When I rose from my knees he whispered something that I shall treasure while memory lasts. But it needed only a glance to see that the end was near. I opened the door to call his wife and child back to him.
"Did you get him in, sir—did you get my father in?" were the first words that greeted me as little Tim's eyes leaped to mine.
"Yes, my boy—yes, please God, your father will get in," though I could hardly speak for the tears that choked me, so full of elemental power was the pleading of the child.
"Come, Nancy," and the old tar's voice was very tender; "come close up beside me. My foot ain't hurtin', Nancy—an' my heart ain't hurtin'—nothin's hurtin' any more. I've cast anchor."
"What d'ye say, Gus?" his wife asked in a wondering voice.
"I've cast anchor—where the preacher read. You'll leave the book, sir?" his voice swelling for a moment—"an' you're sure ye marked the place?"
"Yes," I said, "I'll leave it—and it's marked."
"Call me mate," the strange impulse prompting him again.
"I marked it, mate—and I turned down the page."
"Then sing me that again—that bit about the gale."
"What gale, mate?"
"That gale—the gale of life—that's how it went before."
I knew now what he meant. Nancy's face was in her hands and little Tim's eyes were fixed lovingly on me as I began. When I came to the lines:
"Hide me, oh my Saviour hideTill the storm of life is past"
the dying man suddenly interrupted: "That'll do," he said, his voice barely audible, "that's the bit—that's enough—that, an' the place ye marked."
We were soon all standing by his bed. The struggle was quickly over. Suddenly his face assumed an expression of peace so deep that I thought the harbour had been really won. But his eyes opened wide and both hands went feebly out; Nancy took one in hers, the other clasped by little Tim.
"The anchor holds," he murmured; "Nancy, the anchor holds."
A moment later his wife turned from the bed, her apron to her face, groping her way with bitter outcry towards the adjoining room. Tim followed; and through the open door I could hear the boy's shaking voice:
"Don't cry, mammy; oh, mammy, don't cry so hard. Dad got in, mother—the preacher got him in."
******
I sat up till Gordon got home that night, for I had much to discuss with him. The precious document, with its wizard tidings of mining shares, was still before me as he entered; and I broke out with some word about what Mr. Bradwin had said. But when I looked up and saw the far-off look of peace on Gordon's face, I knew it was sprung from some other source than this.
"You seem so happy, Gordon," I said; "what makes it?"
He told me; but when he spoke about that last scene—he has called it the anchor scene ever since—his voice faltered so he could hardly go on.
"We'll put these away to-night," I said, picking up the papers. "But what do you intend to do with—with the money, Gordon?"
"I hadn't thought of it," he answered calmly. Then, after a pause; "but I think we'll enlarge the chapel. It needs it, you know—and this seems like a glorious chance to do it."
I wonder if my face showed my dissent. At any rate, I took the mighty charter and restored it to the desk. "There's one thing we'll do first, Gordon," I said in a voice that implied finality, "and you won't dispute it, either."
"What is it, Helen?" his words full of wonder.
"We'll pay that—that debt of Harold's," I said, my face averted as I leaned over the desk.
He was silent for long. "Yes, Helen," he answered quietly at length; "yes, we'll do that first—that's as holy as the other. Oh, Harold, my son, my son—I wonder where Harold is to-night," the words ringing with a nameless pain.
I shall begin this chapter, perhaps the closing chapter of my artless story, with the simple statement that we were back again in St. Andrew's Church. This restoration was effected about seven months after the incident with which the last chapter had its close. How it came about, or why, I shall not pause to tell. But there was a vacancy there—in St. Andrew's, that is—and the thought of nearly the whole congregation had gradually turned towards Gordon. He had proved his worth, had fought a fight so stern and long, and had come out of it with a faith so clear and a power so manifest, that it was only natural they should covet his ministry again.
He returned gladly enough, pride and gratitude mingling in his heart; and the Presbytery seemed rejoiced to welcome him within their fold again. He still retained Swan Hollow—this he insisted upon—as a kind of associate charge. They gave him an assistant, and Gordon selected a young minister fresh from Edinboro', for Scotchmen are the most clannish of all living things—and they worked the two places together, taking the morning and evening services alternately.
Going back to the church was gladsome enough to me. But it was the veriest trifle compared with our return to the dear old manse, where our children had been born. What memories thronged about us when the nightfall found us once again beneath the roof of St. Andrew's Manse! A few were there to welcome us; we tried to make merry with them—but my heart ached till they should be gone. And then, hand in hand as in other days, Gordon and I went up-stairs to the little room where our treasures used to lie. Only one was there that night, our lovely Dorothy, and she lay in slumbering beauty where she used to sleep before. The other bed was beside hers as in the days of yore—I had directed that it should be so—but it was empty.
Poor Gordon! All the joy, the triumph even, of his return to the scene of our former life was lost in sorrow because that bed was empty.
"I'd sooner be in the poorest hovel, Helen," he said as he stood beside the unused couch, "if Harold were only back—Harold and Dorothy. Our cup of happiness would be full, wouldn't it, dear, if both were only here?"
"But he'll come back some day," I tried to assure him; "that's why I have his bed all ready—everything has always come right, Gordon, even if it did come late."
"If we only knew where he is," Gordon went on, not seeming to hear; "but it looks as if we'd never learn. Do you know," and the strong voice was choked with tears again, "do you know, Helen, what I wonder every night before I go to sleep?"
"No, what is it, Gordon?"
"I always wonder if he's cold—or hungry. But especially if he's cold. Oh, surely there's nothing so sweet to a father as tucking his children up at night—so they won't be cold. After we left here, the home we went to was so little, and so hard to heat—but don't you remember how we used to go in and tuck them up, so warm and cozy?"
I tried my best to comfort him, though my heart had its own load to carry. For the dark mystery still hung about us; we had heard never a word from Harold. His debt was paid—as has been told, or implied, already—and nothing really stood in the way of his coming back except that we did not know where to find him. And every effort to discern his whereabouts had ended in utter failure. But we still kept the little tryst, still kept praying on, still hoping and trusting that the Great Father would staunch the wound which no human hand could heal.
The summer passed and still no tidings came.
Then I began to fear seriously for Gordon. The very splendour of his make-up was his peril; it is ever so with natures such as his. And his sorrow seemed to find expression in an ever more passionate devotion to his work, a devotion that was making him the idol of his people, even if it brought him daily nearer to collapse.
Which came at last. It was one Sabbath in early November, and Gordon had preached that morning from the text, "I will arise and go unto my father." I suppose it was the tragedy whose home was his own broken heart that inspired him; in any case, he poured his soul out that day with a passion and pathos such as none could have imagined who did not feel the torrent of his power. He seemed to interpret the very heart of a lonely and imploring God.
But what the effort took out of him nobody saw but me. That he was utterly exhausted was evident as he walked home after church, but I thought little of it; yet, even then, I noticed a strange incoherency in his speech, and a tremulousness about his voice, that boded ill. The collapse came during the afternoon; by eventide he was not my Gordon any more, his mind wandering far, voicing itself in strange plaint and heart-breaking appeal, the name of his absent Harold sounding through it all in pitiful refrain.
I don't think the physician I called in haste that day knew anything about the skeleton closet in our home—it is wonderful how soon people forget, even those who know you best—but he located the hidden wound with wonderful acuteness. "It's an utter collapse," he said; "what might be called a severe form of nervous breakdown—it generally occurs with people of strong emotional temperament. Has your husband had any great shock?—or has he been carrying any specially heavy burden, probably for months?"
I told him as much as I thought was necessary.
"Just what I surmised," he said; "he's suffering from what the German physicians call 'the sad heart'—and all this derangement is due to the sympathy between the brain and the nerves. Highly-strung organism, you see—intense emotional nature, that's evident; all this disturbance is a result of tension—the strain was simply too much for him. But he'll recover all right—only it will take time, time and rest."
A consultation followed soon; and the result of it all was that Gordon was to be removed to other scenes just as early as he would be able to travel. I watched by him night and day, and soon the first storm of emotion was succeeded by a deep and silent calm that I found almost harder to be borne than the other. He would sit by the hour poring over Harold's old school books, or gazing at some boyish photographs of the wanderer, or holding his cricket bat or butterfly net lovingly in his hands. Sometimes he spoke of him, but not often. When I told him we were going away for a little holiday he consented readily enough.
"Where shall we go, Gordon?" I asked him, with but little hope that he would choose.
"We'll go to Old Point Comfort," he answered unhesitatingly; "that's where we went before."
I had to turn away. For there came before me, with a flash of memory, the days to which I knew my husband's words referred. Old Point Comfort, of dear and blessed memory!—thither had we turned our steps the night of our wedding day, going forth by the moonlit bay on our love-bright journey, the future years, with all the thorny paths that awaited us, veiled in the mist of happiness that arose from our singing hearts. Ah me! I could see again the unseamed face, the hair untouched by time, the swimming eyes of love, when my lover was still young and joyous, unworn with toil and care.
"That's where we'll go," I answered; "we'll go to Old Point, Gordon."
The arrangements for our journey were soon complete. I do not think, even were it possible, that I would willingly forego all the discipline—and the blessing—that our years of poverty had brought me; but now I blessed the providence that had made it possible for me to take Gordon away like this. Money was not lacking now—thanks to grandfather and that blessed mine—and I joyed over it as men rejoice in harvest or as robbers that divide the spoil.
The evening before the very day we were to start, something occurred which wrung my heart as nothing, not even the loss of Harold, had ever done before. I had been compelled to leave Gordon for a little while, some detail of preparation demanding my attention. Returning to the study, our usual resort, I found it empty; and my heart chilled with fear.
"Come, Helen," I suddenly heard Gordon's voice crying from without; "oh, Helen, come, come quick." There was a strange note of excitement, even of rapture, in the voice that called me.
Hatless, coatless, I rushed out into the frosty night. And just across the way, in a large adjoining yard, I could see Gordon hurrying fast toward a little pond in the distance. Sometimes he looked back and called me, then hurried on again, the strange exultation still sounding in his voice. When I overtook him, he was clasping in his arms a wondering boy, a solitary skater on the frozen pond.
"It's our boy, mother—oh, Helen, he's come at last. It's Harold, mother"—and I noticed in the failing light that the lad was actually about Harold's size and form. "I knew you'd come back, Harold," he cried as he held the youth to his bosom; "oh, my son, I knew you'd come—but what made you stay away so long? And are you cold, Harold?—I've been so afraid you might be cold." Then he held the startled boy out before him, his eyes lingering with pitiful intentness on the face he held upturned to his own. "You've grown some," he said fondly, "but you're my own Harold yet—come, come on home now with me and mother. Your bed's all ready for you, Harold; and Dorothy will be so glad—she's lonely, she's lonely for you, Harold."
I stood transfixed and mute with grief. Then the lad made some reply, I know not what. But he broke the awful silence with a word—and Gordon's hands fell to his side like lead. He stood a moment under the trembling stars, then stooped and gazed long into the face that had filled his soul with fleeting rapture. Slowly he turned, looked a moment upward at the wintry sky, then silently moved towards me.
"It isn't Harold," he said after a long pause, his eyes searching my face with unutterable yearning; "it's somebody else's boy—let us go home again," as we started back hand in hand. The clock in an adjoining steeple struck the hour as we went our way; and its knell is with me yet.
The next day saw us off upon our southward journey, Dorothy and Gordon and I. The doctor had filled me with high hope; the change of air, and especially of scene, he said, were almost sure to do great things for my dear one. And the very features that alarmed me most were those by which he seemed to be reassured. The very acuteness of the malady, he said, was its most hopeful sign. I have often thought of this since and applied it to many things other than bodily infirmities; the acute is the transient, let all sufferers bear in mind, and all who think life's battle hard.
We arrived at Old Point in the morning, and the balmy air and genial skies seemed to help Gordon from the first. Oh, sweet Southern air and sweeter Southern skies! how unspeakably dear to me I knew not till I thus returned after all the maze of years. It was so delicious to hear again the soft Southern accent, to catch the liquid voices of the negroes, to breathe in the fragrance of the flowers that bloom in our dear Southland even in November.
I remembered—what woman would forget?—the very room that had been ours when we were there in that same hotel on our bridal tour so long ago, the dearest little room, with a tiny balcony that looked out upon the ocean. And I arranged that we should have it now—I would take no other. Not a word did I say to Gordon. But the first night we were there, after Dorothy had been safely stored away, I was sitting beside him, looking out over the moonlit harbour. The night was hushed, the ocean calm; voices of darkey stevedores floated softly up to us as they moved hither and thither with their creaking wheelbarrows on the wharf.
Suddenly Gordon turned his face full on mine in the moonlight. "Helen," he began huskily, "do you know what room this is, Helen?"
I yielded to his arms as he slowly drew me within their shelter; "it's where we were before—when you were my bride, my lovely, lovely bride," he said softly; "did you know it, Helen?"
I nodded, smiling up to his bending face. "Yes, I knew it, darling," I said; "that's why I chose it, Gordon."
I know not why it was—I suppose no one could explain it—but the dawn came to us, and the darkness rolled away, in that blessed hour. Tears came at last to Gordon; slowly at first; then in copious flow; then in a gush of feeling that wrung his whole form till it shook and sobbed like the frame of a little child. Passionately he held me, his kisses falling on my lips while he murmured such words of love as the days of courtship had never heard.
"It was like this before," he cried, pointing to the radiant sea; "the moon shone on it, just like this. And we were so happy then, darling—we didn't know of the long years, with their care and sorrow, that stretched before us. And you've been so good, Helen, so true and faithful—and so brave; whatever I've done, or been, I owe to you, my darling," and through all the gust of passion his voice had a naturalness, his eye a new-found calm, that told me the long dark night was past.
"We were so happy then, weren't we, dear?" he said again after a little stillness.
"I'm happier now," I answered, nestling in.
"Why?" he exclaimed. Then, suddenly discerning: "I know why—it's because we have the children now. Isn't that why, Helen—isn't it Dorothy and Harold?"
I told him Yes; and the fancy, if it can so be called, seemed to help and comfort him. "Yes," he said musingly, "it's wonderful, isn't it, how we could have been happy then at all—when we didn't have them. But God gave them to us, didn't He, Helen?"
"Yes," I murmured, my face hidden; "yes, God gave them."
"And they're still His to give," he went on, a great peace in his voice such as it thrilled my soul to feel; "they're still His to give. And I know—I'm almost sure—that He'll give us Harold back again. Something tells me that it's coming near; I knew it when I looked out on the water—when the dark fled before the light that flooded it. Don't you think so, my darling?"
I forget just what my answer was; but we sat long, soothing and comforting each other, drinking deep from Memory's spring. By and by Gordon fell asleep with his head resting on my arm, the moonlight still playing on the pure and lovely features as we sat by the open window. I brooded above him, thanking God for the change I could see upon the care-worn face. The tide had turned, the reaction had come at last, the strife of battle seemed spent and gone. All night long he slept the sleep of a little child; the morning found him bright and tranquil, and his first waking word was to say that he was well.
For a couple of weeks, or perhaps a little longer we lingered on in our quiet retreat, every hour blissful with its evidence of returning strength. Gordon spoke often of Harold, but always now with a sweet trustfulness that was beautiful to see; I really believe God made him well by touching his spirit with the calm of a childlike faith. It was a miracle, I have never ceased to think, let the critics say what they will. And as his strength came back his heart began to turn wistfully towards his work; I really don't believe any one ever knew how much he loved St. Andrew's, and had loved it all through the years.
I protested against his returning, but in vain. So it was all arranged that we were to start home on the following Monday. The evening before, Gordon preached for a clergyman whose acquaintance he had formed, the minister of a little Methodist church not far away. I was there, of course; and the sermon was one of the noblest I ever heard Gordon give. It was from the words: "Casting all your care upon Him," and I know every listener felt that the message was heaven-born.
After the service was finished I was going down the aisle alone, when suddenly I heard some one pronounce my name.
"Miss Helen!" said the voice, and bygone years rolled back upon me at the tone.
I swung around, wildly excited. It was a voice from home. "Mr. Slocum!" I cried, so loud that everybody stood still and looked at me; "Frank Slocum!—Oh, Frank!" and I stood gasping in the aisle. It was one of the friends of my early girlhood—the same who had been my escort to the ball that far departed night when we had first discussed the Presbytery, and the attic guest it was to bring us.
"I wa'n't right sure," he began, rosy as the dawn; "but some one told me the preacher was Mr. Laird—then I knew you were Mrs. Laird."
"Oh, Frank!" I cried, "please call me Helen," for the music of it was refreshing; "come away—come, and go home with me and Gordon."
I believe Gordon enjoyed that evening with Frank quite as much as I, which is saying a good deal. He said afterwards that I reminded him of a child running hither and thither through a flower-strewn glade, plucking whatever her hands could reach. Thus did I gather news from Frank. My questions rained in on him from every point of the compass, leaping from one subject to another like a peewee on the shore. (That's a kind of witches' dance in metaphors, I know, but they all mean the same thing anyhow.) I cross-questioned Frank about everything and everybody, while Gordon sat listening with an amused expression on his face. Particularly did I put him through his facings about my old schoolgirl friends. The first question, without exception, was as to how many children they had—till this became so chronic that Frank would begin with this himself, not waiting to be asked. It saddened me some to learn that several of them had twice as many as I. One old friend, Sadie Henderson, had exactly three times as many—but two of them came at once, so that they didn't really count. Others, moreover, had none at all, which brought Gordon and me pretty well up on the average.
Frank had little to say about Uncle Henry and Aunt Agnes except that they were getting older, which I would have surmised myself. Besides, Frank had a sensitive nature; and I suppose he remembered the stormy scene when Gordon left my uncle's house. I fancied, in a woman's instinctive way, that there was something he wanted to say to me alone. And I was right enough. For when I walked with him as far as the hotel piazza, while we were gazing out over the shimmering sea Frank told me something that proved to be a word of destiny.
"You all are going back by New York, you said?" he began, looking up significantly. The idiom sounded sweet—you all—how long since I had heard that brace of words before!
"Yes," I answered; "why?"
"Well, I'll tell you something interesting; I didn't care to say it before your husband, for fear it might affect his plans—I know how matters stand between him and your uncle, you know—but I think you ought to be told. Your uncle's in New York."
"What?" I gasped, and I felt the colour leave my cheek; "uncle's what?—he's where?"
"He's in New York," Frank repeated calmly. "I've just come from there—we were staying at the same hotel."
"And Aunt Agnes?" I asked swiftly, my eyes fixed on him in the gloom.
"No, Mrs. Lundy's at home—your uncle went up on some business, I believe. Mighty successful too, as far as I could judge," Frank added.
I cared nothing for this. "What hotel, Frank?" I demanded eagerly; "tell me the hotel."
"The St. Denis—opposite Grace Church, you know."
Little more was said and I soon bade Frank farewell. Then I walked slowly back to Gordon, trying to compose myself, struggling to subject my impulse to my judgment. But it was of no use. My heart was the heart of childhood once again; all I knew was this, that a few hours would bring us to New York, that we had intended going there anyhow—and that my uncle was within reach of one who had never ceased to love him.
I paused a moment before I opened the door and went in where Gordon was still sitting, gazing out on the ever fascinating scene.
"Well, dear, did you pump him dry?" he asked jauntily as I entered.
"Oh, Gordon," and now I was on his knee (woman's throne of power) with his face between my hands; "oh, Gordon, don't say No. Don't, Gordon—won't you do this for me, this, that I'm going to ask?"
Soon I had poured out the whole story to him. I noticed his brow darken a little at first, and the quivering lip told how much I had asked of him.
But Gordon was all gold through and through; he always was, my Gordon was, from that first hour when my eyes fell upon his face till now; and the love of this later day, although I suppose folks call us old, exceeds that early ardour as the noontide mocks the dawn.
"Yes, my wife," he said, stroking my hair and looking with almost pitying fondness on my face; "yes, brave heart and true—you were his before you were mine. And we'll go, Helen—we'll both go."
The mighty city seemed hushed as I made my way along the corridor of the old hotel. But I suppose the hush was from my heart.
"You'll wait here, will you, ma'am?" and the bellboy opened the door of the retired little parlour as he spoke. "I'll bring Mr. Lundy in a minute. Yes, I think he's in, ma'am; his room's on this floor. Don't you want me to take him your card?"
"No," I answered; "just tell him a lady wants to see him here—an old friend of his."
The boy disappeared along the shadowy hall. I had but a few minutes to wait. "This here's the door, sir," I heard the boy direct; and then I could catch the shuffling step, not yet forgotten, as a tall and bended form came slowly into the room. Keen and curious was the glance that came from the enquiring eyes, swiftly searching amid the failing light.
I knew him. Only a glance I had, but it was enough to revive the memories of girlhood, to carry me back over all the waste of years, to recall with lightning speed the love and laughter of the days that were no more. My heart leaped within me as I saw the change that time had made. Uncle was an old man now, and the years had bowed the erect and stalwart frame; snowy white was the hair that had been but streaked with gray when I saw it last; more serious than of old, but flashing the same kindling light, the same lofty pride, were the kindly eyes whose glow no years could quench or dim.
"Oh, uncle!" I sobbed, the storm breaking as in a moment; "oh, uncle! Uncle dear, it's me—it's your little girl—it's Helen."
He had started back as I moved towards him. But my voice arrested him, that wondrous feature that changes not with changing years. A moment he stood, as though he had heard the trump of doom itself. Then, like an aspen, from head to foot he trembled—and the fear flashed through my mind that I had acted with cruel haste.
But the great cry which broke from him—no articulate word—rang with such fullness of joy and strength as to dispel my every fear. A moment later I was in his arms. He bore me to the window, those arms as strong as in other days, smoothing back my hair as he leaned over and peered into my face.
"Oh, God!" the words coming like a prayer; "it's Helen—she's come back. But it's been so long—and your hair's getting gray, Helen—and you look older than when you went away."
I smiled, gazing up at him in sweet content. "Count the years, uncle."
"The years!" he broke out with the old fiery intenseness; "count the years—haven't I counted them?—and the days, and the hours—waiting, always waiting. Oh, Helen, it's been long—it's been so long. But what could I do?—what could any gentleman have done, when I passed my word that—— If your husband——"
I laid my finger on his lips; then leaned up and kissed them. And our speech flowed back, half of it almost incoherent, into the sweeter channels that laved the happy past in which we were both content to dwell. Much of it was of my mother, my sainted mother, for whom life's conflict had so long been over—and uncle's tears were mingled with my own.
"There's only one thing I reproach you for now, Helen," the gentle voice began, when the dusk had deepened into dark; "one thing you should have done—and that would have made our happiness complete."
"What's that, uncle?" I asked, greatly wondering.
"You should have brought Gordon with you—the only difference there was, was with him, you know. Surely he doesn't think I'm one of those old vipers that carries things till death?" his voice less steady than before.
"He's here," I said softly; "he's down-stairs."
Uncle sprang to his feet as if the years had withheld their enfeebling hand. "Bring him up—send for him at once," he ordered, as though commanding a regiment of soldiers. "Ring the bell—where's that boy?—are the servants all asleep? These rascally dogs they've got in the North—I wouldn't give Moses or any good nigger for a bushel of them. And are your children—is the little girl with him now?"
His question cut me like a knife. For I had kept back part of our life's story, the bitter part, when uncle had enquired about our children. We only brought one of them, I had said—but hoped he might see Harold later on. Which was true enough, so true, alas!
"I don't need you," uncle said abruptly as a servant's head appeared at the door. "I'll go to him," he announced to me—"I'll go to Gordon. I hope I don't forget what's becoming in a Southern gentleman—besides, he's come far enough. You wait here—I'd know him in a thousand, unless he's enough sight plainer than he used to be. Always did have a hankerin' for him, I believe, like a nigger for a watermelon. You wait here, Helen," and he made his way, straightening himself with all the old-time dignity, upon his courtly errand.
It was the following evening, the evening of a day that had been filled with unmixed gladness to me and Gordon. If it had not been for that one skeleton closet—which I need not name—the whole house of life would have been one big banqueting hall to his heart and mine. More than once, through that happy day, I noticed Gordon's laughter die away in silence and the brightness leave his eye as there evidently floated before him the vision of the one absent face. Indeed, he said as much to me, that all the gladness only threw into darker contrast the abiding cloud that was always in our sky.
But uncle had been so lovely to us both this day; and we had just finished dinner at some resort he had discovered where Southern dishes, new and old, were to be had in all their glory. We were all seated now in uncle's room; and the dear old man was directing all his powers of persuasion upon my husband.
"It's the purest play I ever saw in my life," he urged, one hand holding Gordon by the knee; "it's as good as a sermon. I've heard heaps o' sermons that didn't do me as much good as 'The Old Homestead,' I tell you."
"I was never at the theatre in my life," my husband made reply, "except twice I went to see Irving—and I don't altogether believe in it."
"This is far better'n Irving," uncle urged; "and you'll preach better after it."
"I don't feel much in the mood for theatres," Gordon responded; "my days for merriment are past, I fear," which came with a smile that showed he didn't quite believe it.
"That's the very time to go," insisted uncle; "that's when you want to get the cobwebs blown out of you—and this'll do it all right."
"I'll leave it to Helen," Gordon suddenly exclaimed; "if she wants to go, I'll give in."
Five minutes before, I can frankly say, I had hoped Gordon would carry his point. The theatre, that particular night, had no charm for me. Yet now that Gordon had left the matter in my hands, some mysterious impulse settled my resolve at once. Nobody need tell me that women, true women, live far from the unseen. For my resolve was taken on the instant, so suddenly and confidently that it amazed myself.
"We'll go," I said quietly. "The play sounds good; I'm sure I've heard of it before—and I want to see it, Gordon."
Three-quarters of an hour later we were seated five or six rows from the footlights, watching the haymakers gathered about the moss-grown bucket that gives its charm to the opening scene of "The Old Homestead." But the play had not proceeded far before I began to regret bitterly that we had not stayed away. When it dawned on me that the plot centred about an absent boy, a son for whom a father sought in vain, I knew that Gordon's Gethsemane was deepened by every word and act. This particular kind of anguish was realistic enough to us both, without any representation so vivid. Yet we had to sit there, uncle alternately laughing and weeping at our side, and witness the rehearsal of all we knew so well. I was sitting beside Gordon; and I covertly got a hold of his hand, pressing it silently to let him know my heart was aching too. I found myself, almost before I knew it, leaning forward in an agony of interest and suspense as the great emotions of a parent's love and loneliness were set forth in terrible reality. It was as if Gordon's heart and mine were both laid bare that night; and I found myself wondering if all this meant to any others in that crowded throng what it meant to us.
Uncle was enraptured at our fixity; he knew not the source of our deadly interest. "Didn't I tell you?" he whispered to Gordon as the tension came near its height; "ever see anything like that before? Isn't that true to life, eh?"
Gordon never spoke, his eyes looking far beyond, as fixed as though set on death itself.
"Isn't that true to life?" uncle repeated, accustomed to being answered.
"Yes, oh, God, yes—yes, it's true," I heard poor Gordon falter as he bowed forward and covered his face with his hands. Uncle, dumb with wonder now, uttered never a word. I prayed for strength.
The tide ebbed and flowed, as is the way in plays, laughter and tears following each other in quick succession. A wave of mirth—about the pillar box incident, I think, when the old man imagines the collector is robbing the mails—had just overswept the audience when Gordon whispered to me that he could stand it no longer.
"Don't go yet, Gordon," I whispered; "I think he's going to find him," and I saw his face white with the pallor of the dead.
He made no reply; but, clutching his hat, he rose to go, swaying unsteadily where he stood.
I began reaching for my wraps and was just rising to follow. He paused to wait for me, holding out his hand, I think—of this I am not sure. But just before we turned to go, my eyes were cast in one farewell glance upon the stage. My head reeled; my heart stood still; my lips clave together, parched and dry.
"Oh, Gordon," I cried, bleating, "look, Gordon, look," swimming towards him even as I pointed at the stage.
His towering figure turned where he stood; and his burning eyes, aglow with the passion that was rending him, leaped to where I still pointed with outstretched hand. Then I straightened myself too, as one might gather his soul for the Judgment Day, and joined my gaze with his. The eyes of all in the house were upon us, I suppose—but I shall never know. We stood together, oblivious to all except the destiny of weal or woe that waited us, looking, both looking, as the eye of the Eternal itself might look. We could not—we dared not—be sure, lest we might court the bitterness of death. The light was not bright enough, or true enough—for us to stake our souls. We feared exceedingly; and for each other; wherefore neither spoke any word.
The scene was the great Broadway scene, where the anguished father finds his son at last. And the tattered youth upon whom that father—that acting father—gazed, on him our eyes were set in dreadful silence, in questioning that involved our souls. We could not—we dared not—know; but suddenly the old man on the stage—oh! the perjured wastery of simulated love like that—broke forth with a wild outcry of love and rapture as he leaped towards the soiled and wasted prodigal before him.
And then—and then—mingling with the father's chant, there came from the bowed and broken wanderer one single note; a little cry, a muffled plaint of penitence and hope. It was such a little sound, subdued and faltering as became a broken heart, and it was almost lost in the father's louder strain—but I heard it, and my soul laid hold of God. Only a stifled cry—but it was the same I had heard when I first came out of the valley and my new-born baby boy lay helpless at my breast; the same I had heard a thousand times when he was hurt or wronged and toddled in to me with the boyish story of his grief; the same I had heard when he came home that night and told me of his sin; the same I had heard when he bent above his sleeping sister and kissed her a long farewell.
"Oh, Gordon," I said, fainting, "it's Harold—it's our Harold!"
He knew it too. And he left me where I was, half conscious in uncle's arms. I see it all again, dismantled though I was, as in a dream. The curtain dropped just as uncle's arm received me, as Gordon glided towards the narrow half-hidden passageway leading to the stage. Slowly it fell, right down close to the floor, shutting out the last fragment of the vision that had flooded our hearts with heaven. Ah, me! no one there—not even uncle—knew that for us life's curtain had really risen, the play, the wonderful play of life, only just begun.
The orchestra had softly started some subdued and sympathetic air; I knew not, nor yet do know, what strain it was—but it fell on my reviving heart with the sweetness of such music as angels make—and my eyes flew after Gordon as he was swallowed up of the shadowy passageway that led back to that mysterious region where actors are men and women, players now no more. I think somebody, some hireling who knew not what he did, tried to turn Gordon from his course—as well have tried to stop Niagara. I fancy I caught a glimpse of him as he swept the intruder by—his eye was flashing, fearful in its purpose of love and power, as though he were asserting his claim to life itself.
He never stopped—this was described to me afterwards—till he stood beside the pair of actors, the old man and the young, already repairing to the dressing-room behind. And the old man's face, so they told me, was a study to behold as he was swiftly brushed aside, dispossessed, the unreality swallowed up of Life as Gordon took the tattered form into the arms that long emptiness had clothed with almost savage strength.
"Oh, my son! Oh, Harold, my son, my son!" was Gordon's low cry that all about could hear; for the stillness of the grave was on every heart. "Come, come, we'll go to mother," came a moment later as he turned and tried to lead Harold gently away.
I do not know all the son said to the father. But Gordon told me after how Harold clung to him as though he were hiding for his life, speaking no word, but burying his face as though none must see the shame—or the holy gladness; and in a minute or two, though I know not how long it was, some one in authority said that the play must go on, that the audience would be impatient and indignant.
"Then come, my son," said Gordon; "get your clothes on, Harold, and we'll go—your mother, your mother knows it's you," his face radiant, I ween, as it turned upon his boy.
But Harold wouldn't—the play must be finished, he said, and he must take his part. Harold's face was resolute, his father said, his words full of determination, when he avowed his purpose to stay till his work was done. And really—it was one of the most amusing sides of my husband's character I ever saw—when Gordon told me this his face fairly shone with pride. "The lad wouldn't forsake his duty," he said, as proudly as if Harold had been a foreign missionary instead of a play-actor; it was too funny to hear Gordon, with the views I knew him to hold about the theatre, belauding Harold because he wouldn't leave his post even at such a time as that.
So his father came back and resumed his place beside me. No word escaped his lips, but his eyes spoke the language of Everlasting Life as they were fixed a moment on my own. Uncle gazed at him—I suppose everybody did—but he knew that question or answer had no place in an hour such as this. And the curtain rolled up again—ah, me! how different now—and my hand was once more in Gordon's; but now I could feel the strain of gratitude and gladness that his happy heart was chanting. Our eyes were fixed on Harold only; I heard his voice amid that closing revelry—and my wild heart leaped in my bosom as though my son were born to me anew.
We were home at last. In the hotel, I mean, in Gordon's room and mine—for uncle had gone to rest. Only a little tiny bit of a room it was—but it was home; for we had Harold—and Dorothy was asleep in an adjoining room.
Gordon went out for a little. He said he wanted to enquire about trains—but I knew why he left us alone together. Gordon was an eloquent minister—but I was Harold's mother. And there are queens and priestesses, as well as kings and priests, unto God. Which Gordon knew.
It was while he and I were still alone with each other that Harold broke out with bitter plaint of penitence, so full of gusty sorrow, of self-reproach, of broken vows and purposes. I shall not, must not, write it down. It was all holy to me, and shall ever be; for the breath of spring was in it, and I knew then that God had brought him back, all back, the broken heart sick of the sin and shame that he now hated and deplored. My son was alive again, I knew in that moment; lost had he been indeed—but God had kept aglow his memory of the Home-light that never had gone out.
"I couldn't tell this to anybody else," the faltering voice said as his face was hidden on my bosom—"not even to father—what I'm going to tell you now. But I'm going to——"
"Tell it to God, my son," and I kissed the quivering lips.
Gordon came back just after that. I think he must have known our souls had come close to each other and to Him. For a great peace was on his face—and yet it shone with a kind of human happiness that I thought was truly spiritual. He simply didn't seem to think there was anything that needed reproach, or explanation, or forgiveness. He talked with Harold about his old friends, his old games, his old pursuits; and about what we would do, and see, before we returned to Hertford. Then pretty soon he said it was time we were all in bed, and, in the most natural way, that we would have worship before we separated. So he took the Bible. But, before he opened it, he started one of the old familiar psalms, just as we had always done at home.
"We'll sing the one hundred and twenty-sixth," he said, with something of grandeur in his manner that reminded me of Harold's grandfather; for that is one of the sublimities of the Scottish race. I have heard both Gordon and his father declare that something could be found in the psalms to suit every occasion, no matter what. But I wondered what could express the emotion of such a time as this. "We'll sing the one hundred and twenty-sixth," Gordon repeated, already pitching the key to the "grave sweet melody" of a tune that bore the happy name of St. Andrew's. And we sat in silence as he sang
"When Zion's bondage God turned backAs men that dreamed were we;Then filled with laughter was our mouthOur tongue with melody."
Harold's head was bowed; my eyes were fixed on Gordon. For my heart was busy with the thrilling memory of that long distant night when I first had heard the power of that earnest voice, first learned the grandeur of these mighty songs. Gordon seemed unconscious of our presence. His eyes were lifted up, beyond the things of time: he was like one lost among the hills, transported by their grandeur. Something more than human ecstasy throbbed through his voice when he sang the verse:
"As streams of water in the southOur bondage, Lord, recall;Who sow in tears, a reaping timeOf joy enjoy they shall."
Then he read some selection from the Scriptures. It was very short; and he read it slowly, his eyes never lifted from the page. When he prayed, he talked with God—all I can remember was the way he said "Our Father."
It was long after midnight when he and I went to our rest—we sat talking for hours and hours, and Harold was asleep in the room next to ours. Just before we put out our light Gordon suddenly turned to me, and his face was as youthful as when I saw it first.
"Helen, let us go and tuck Harold in—so he won't be cold."
I smiled, for I couldn't but remember Harold's age, but I threw a wrapper about me and Gordon and I went in together. We tucked him in, one on either side; I don't know whether Harold knew or not, but he played the part of childhood once again—when we kissed him good-night he turned a little in his sleep and smiled.
I sometimes wonder what the other guests thought of our behaviour at breakfast the next morning. Uncle was simply ridiculously happy, even boisterously so. And he wouldn't hear to any dissent from the project that possessed his mind. We must all go South with him, and that was the end of it. He and Aunt Agnes had never had a difference in all their married life, he said, but the trouble would begin right there if he went back without us! And he settled the whole thing an hour later by suddenly appearing, after a very mysterious absence, and flaunting in our faces the tickets for the entire party. They were taken via the Old Dominion Line; and the little sea voyage would be the very thing for all of us,—and Harold had assured him that a release from his company could be easily arranged. So Gordon left it to me again—and I left it to Harold, and Harold elected to see his mother's old Virginia home. Dorothy lent loud approval.
Thirty-six hours later we were in the dear old Southern town, driving from the old familiar station along the old familiar street. My heart was full; its burden was partly sadness, altogether song.
"Stop here," Gordon suddenly said to the driver as we turned on to a street neither of us was likely to forget. "Come, Helen," as he held out his hand to help me from my seat.
I knew. It was under that very elm, just opposite the church, I had first come face to face with love—even if I did have a pitcher in my hand,going for the cream.
"Drive on," said Gordon; "we'll join you later," and the carriage rolled away.
We followed, slowly; sometimes looking up into the deep shade of the bending elms, sometimes into each other's faces; with much of speech we walked—of silence, sweeter silence, more.
Soon a turn in the road brought us in full view of uncle's house. There it stood, ivy-clad, the same stately, frowning structure, looking forth at us as calmly as though we had gone away but yesterday. There was the magnolia tree beside the steps of stone, not now in bloom but still spreading forth in umbrageous beauty. And there, just beyond, flowing still, its copious stream unfailing, rolled the shining river; rolling on, as time rolls on, unhasting, unresting, bearing all its burdens in silence to the sea. The years had passed and fled, yet the selfsame wavelets could be seen—oh, parable of Time! And the bridge was there; repaired and strengthened some, yet the same bridge it was on which I had seen the love-lorn pair seek the shelter of the dark. And I felt a shudder thrill my frame as I descried the very pier that had been the scene of the tragedy but for which Gordon had never made his noble protest; but for which, our long years of exile had never been. I looked away.
Aunt Agnes was at the door as we climbed the steps of stone. She led me in and closed it tight before she told me, with love's speech of silentness, all the joy of welcome that was in her heart. She was thinking, and I was thinking, of the absent one—oh! why these ever-absent ones?—whose face was now withdrawn forever. I roamed the hall; I wandered about the broad porch; I drank my fill of the library, dearest of them all—my mother's face met me at every turn. And I wondered, with passionate hope that it might be so, if she knew that her child had returned to the scene of girlhood days once more; if she knew how laden with the spoils of time I came, rich in the harvest that love and sorrow give, anointed by the holy hand of suffering, by life's fleeting vanities beguiled no more.
"Show Harold through the house, Helen," uncle said to me when supper was over and the first tumult had subsided; "let him see the old place from cellar to attic. It will be his some day, I reckon," and his tone and glance left no doubt as to what he meant.
I did as he directed, partly. All but the attic. Not yet must any enter there but me. I soon restored Harold to the merry circle—and then my steps turned, almost reverently, towards that upper room. It did not take me long, what I had to do, for love's task is soon accomplished. And I knew it would not be in vain—I knew that Gordon would not fail me. Yet my heart beat fast as I turned at the attic door and looked back once more before I went down-stairs. Everything was perfect—and the gentle breeze was ruffling the curtain of the tiny window.
They were all in bed when Gordon and I betook ourselves to the room set apart for us. It was just above the parlour, the largest and most imposing apartment in all that roomy house. A large mahogany bed was planted, immovable, in the centre; hand-carving, richly wrought, made the ceiling and mantel things of beauty; oil-paintings hung upon the lofty wall; soft draperies bedecked the windows.
We closed the door and Gordon looked about the splendid room. I began unpacking a valise that lay upon the floor.
Suddenly he came over and stood beside me. One hand touched my shoulder and I looked up.
"We're not going to sleep here," he said quietly.
"Why?" I asked. "Where?" although I knew, and my bounding heart bespoke my joy.
"You know—come," with which he took up the valise and led the way aloft.
The roof was low and I think Gordon really bowed his head a little as we passed within that attic door. The same discarded articles, finding their limbo here, stood about the walls. But the fire was crackling on the hearth; the coverings on the bed were snowy white; the silver toilet-set on the old bureau was the same I had laid there so stealthily years before. And on the little table in the corner was a bowl of the choicest roses, their fragrance floating through the room.
I looked at Gordon. Perhaps I was just a little disappointed that he did not speak. His eyes rested on the fire, turned to the roses, lingering long.
"That's the same fire," he said slowly.
"Oh, Gordon," and I laughed; "how can you say that?"
"The very same," he persisted; "it never has gone out. And the roses too; they're the very same—they've never faded."
"I thought you'd want to come here," I said, stupidly enough; but I knew not what else to say. "You know, you said—long ago, when you first came here—you said you always loved an attic."
"Yes," he said simply, his eyes fixed on me; "yes, I do."
"Why?" I asked, though I knew it was such a foolish question.
He stood a long time silent in the firelight, his eyes never moving from my face. "Because it's nearest heaven," he answered low; "come, Helen"—and his arms were open wide.
THE END
********
By Robert E. Knowles
The Attic Guest
The Web of Time
The Dawn at Shanty BayDecorated and Illustrated by Griselda M. McClure.
The UndertowA Tale of Both Sides of the Sea
St. Cuthbert'sA Parish Romance