Chapter IX: Love's Tutorship

But those were happy days, as I have said already. Neither of us knew, I fancy, whence came the silent music that was slowly gathering in our hearts. But it was there, even though it came in secret strains, neither recognizing, neither declaring. Of course, I was an engaged girl--and I was trying to live up to it. I flaunted Charlie's ring, sometimes; and I often wrote to him, sitting in the very same room with Mr. Laird the while, at my own little desk in the corner. This itself had been one of Charlie's Christmas presents. And I kept Charlie's letters in the tiny drawer in the top, but I had so often been careless about it that mother saw to it herself that it was kept securely locked; I knew where the key was secreted--on the ledge above the library door. Mother said I really ought to carry it on a little gold chain around my neck; but I had no chain--and I never could bear to have things concealed about my person. Mother never glanced at his letters, of course--but I sometimes used to show her bits of mine after I had written them, and mother would suggest a word here and there, a little tenderer than the original, and I would stick them in like plums in a pudding. Indeed--I may as well tell it--mother rewrote a part of the one in which I kind of finally renounced any immediate prospect of Europe and the yacht. She said no member of our family had ever been so gifted with the pen as I--but that I was a little astray on the facts. So she fixed my letter in a way to prevent it being very final--for she said if it was ordained that I should go even yet, it would be wrong to make it impossible. I fancied at the time that this was a little like lending omnipotence a hand--but mother was an old-time Calvinist, especially on the subject of me and Charlie, so I presumed it must be all right to have it as she said.

I don't think any of them, and mother least of all, ever fancied that Mr. Laird had the remotest connection with my engagement to Charlie. For he was a minister--and that itself would be supposed to settle it as far as I was concerned. Besides, he was a minister without a church, a kind of free lance on a holiday. Then, too, we knew he was poor; he never said so, but there are always certain signs; and he took great care of his clothes, and seemed very cautious about money, except when he came across some one who was very poor. And I'm sure we all remembered, though we almost never spoke of it, that he had been a shepherd, and that his father was still keeping sheep on the hills of Scotland--it never seemed to embarrass him a bit to refer to this, which we all thought very strange.

Then, on the other hand, we hadn't the slightest reason--for a long time at least--to think he cared a single thing for me. Indeed, I was just a little piqued about this; one evening I took some fresh flowers to his room in the attic, and his diary was lying open on the table. I don't know why--I have no excuses to make at all--but my eye fell on the entry for the first day or two he had been with us. I only glanced at it--any girl would, I think--to see what he said about us. And I found references to uncle, and my mother, and Aunt Agnes--even to Lyn and Moses more than once--but not a single word about me. I didn't care a straw--only I had a good mind to take the violets down-stairs with me again. But I didn't.

I have always fancied I would have been a good deal more interested if I had thought he was engaged. But I soon made up my mind he wasn't, although I had declared so stoutly to the contrary. For he never seemed to want to be alone, especially in the twilight--and that's a sure sign; and he left all his letters lying around after he had written them; and when he sang, which he did very nicely, he preferred "Scots Wha' Ha'e" to "Annie Laurie"; and he was never melancholy, and never sighed--and he never asked the price of things you need for house-keeping. So all these signs convinced me thoroughly.

I have already said he didn't seem to care a thing for me. And yet--and yet! For one thing, he loved to hear me sing--and he taught me two or three of the old psalms that were in a leather-bound book he brought down-stairs one day. Then he seemed so happy when I said I thought them beautiful. And he talked with me so gently and reasonably about the darkey question that I finally came to admit he did right in preaching in that coloured church. And I wondered why he cared for what I thought at all. Besides all this, he tried to get my promise that I would take a class in the Sunday-school after he was gone--and I remember the gray kind of feeling I had inside of me when he spoke of going away. I wouldn't promise, for I was about as fit to teach a class as I was to be President of the United States--but I promised to help in the library.

By and by, though I can't tell how, we even came to speaking about Charlie. And he praised him, said he was such a clever business man, and handsome. I didn't think much of that; but one evening, when we were sitting on the shore all alone, he said he thought an engagement was such a sacred thing--and he urged me, in a veiled kind of way, always to be true to Charlie. And it was then I began to know--any true girl would know there was something, when he talked like that.

And it was through that--that kind of conversation, I mean--that it all came about. Because, by and by, I actually told him all about my misgivings and my fears. Of course I did it all loyally enough--I always praised Charlie, and always said I knew we'd likely be so happy because he was, already--and I would try to be. And I told him one day how Charlie was still urging me to consent that it should be soon, right away soon--and any one would have thought, if they watched his expression, that he was very concerned for Charlie's interests. For a strange paleness came upon his face when he broke a silence that seemed rather long, I fancy, to both of us.

"I think you should," he said, but his voice was so strange that I wondered where all his strength had gone to.

"What makes you say that?" I replied, and I don't believe my own voice was quite natural.

"Because I think you'd be happier," he answered--"and I want you to be happy." Then, for the first time, he looked at me, and his wonderful eyes were filled with a kind of yearning such as I never saw before. So different, indeed, from the look in Charlie's eyes, though nobody surely ever yearned more earnestly than Charlie.

"I'm about as happy now," I answered, "as any girl could hope to be."

He looked at me enquiringly, and I thought the paleness was deeper than before.

"Just like I am, I mean," I hastened to enlarge, "with a lovely house, and having a lovely time--and uncle and aunt and mother all so good to me."

"It isn't the same," he said.

"The same as what?" I pressed, knowing I should not. But I remember yet the thrill of peril and pain and joy that accompanied the words.

"The same as love--real love," he answered slowly. "It isn't the same at all--the other is a new life altogether. That's what makes life holy--and beautiful," he said, his voice so low I could scarcely hear. "That's the whole of life--every bit of it," he added softly.

I answered never a word. And in a moment he went on. "Yes, that's my highest wish for you, Miss Helen--that you may find a sphere worthy of you. For you'll forgive me, won't you, when I say you haven't found it yet? You've got a wonderful nature," he suddenly startled me with, "and you've got gifts and qualities that can be so useful, so wonderfully useful--and they can give you such deep happiness too," he went earnestly on, "if they only get a chance--if you only give them a chance; if they're developed, I mean. And nothing will ever ripen them but--but that."

"But what?" murmured I, who knew right well.

"But love," he answered gently. "No woman's life ever really ripens except through love. And--forgive me again, but I must say it--you're not getting the most out of life, living as you are now, Miss Helen."

I looked at him searchingly. "As I am now?" I echoed. "Why, what kind of life do you think I'm living?" But even as I spoke the words my own poor heart provided all the answer. I felt rising up within me a conception, not adequate or full, but quite sufficient at the time, of the hollowness and barrenness of the poor frivolous life I was living. And I knew, oh, so well, how far from the well-spring of real joy and peace were the glittering streams at which I had sipped so long.

"What do you mean?" I urged, for he had not spoken.

"Oh," he began slowly, "I guess you know. Nobody can have a nature like yours without knowing when it's not being satisfied. You have no work--no calling, I mean. And you don't have any recreation, except only pleasure--a little party here, and a picnic there, a card party yonder, and an afternoon tea somewhere else. You know what I mean--all those things--and a nature like yours can't live on confections," he added, smiling. "That's why I'll be glad--when the other happens."

"What other?" repeated I, who knew right well again.

"You know," he said; and the great eyes looked solemnly and wistfully into-mine.

"Do you mean when I marry Mr. Giddens?" said I, dwelling on the words, my eyes never taken from his face.

"Yes," he said; "that's what I mean." And his own eyes never flinched, although I could see the pallor deepen on his face. And I rejoiced, though I honestly believe I scarce knew why.

"What difference would--would that make?" I asked, looking away.

"It would fill your life," he answered quietly, "fill your life to overflowing."

"But I wouldn't give up those things even then--card-playing and dancing and everything like that. I've always done those things--and I love them, Mr. Laird. You don't understand me, I'm afraid. You see, your life has been a very different one from mine, hasn't it?"

"Wide as the poles asunder," he answered without looking at me. "I never knew any of those things. Yes, very different," he repeated. And he smiled.

"Your parents are very religious people, I suppose?" I ventured.

"My mother's not living," he said in a hushed voice. "She died when I was ten."

"And your father?" I asked in a burst of boldness.

"Yes," he said. We were sitting by the river at the time, and the sun was setting, and its last rays bathed the trees with amber light. His head was lying on the ground; and the dying sun shed its beauty on the wavy hair and the wonderfully modulated face. Modulated is the fitting word, for various voices spoke through the different features, yet the master note was tenderness, always so lovable in a man when it is joined to strength.

"I'd love to be religious," I said suddenly. "I believe I would have been, too, if I'd been a man."

He smiled. "Why would you like to be religious?" he said, picking up a pebble and throwing it far out into the river. "You've just said you love those other things so much."

"Oh, yes, I know I did. But I mean what I say, just the same. I admire that sort of people," I went on enthusiastically; "religious people, you know. Really good people--like you," I broke out recklessly. "I knew an awfully religious girl in Richmond once. She was naturally good, no struggle for her at all. Well, she married a minister,"--I laughed as I said it--"and nearly all her friends pity her so. She and her husband live in the country, and he takes care of his own horse--he has three stations. But I never pitied her," I declared earnestly; "I think it must be a perfectly lovely life--when your heart's in it. She loves him to distraction--and his work too; and she visits the people, and she teaches in the Sunday-school. Besides, she has two children--and I think he preaches all his sermons at her on Saturday nights and she fixes them up. But then, of course, she's fitted for that sort of thing--she can pray out loud," I concluded, nodding my head towards Mr. Laird as though this were the acme of all eulogy.

"There are better kinds of prayer than that," he answered, smiling again; "and I'm so glad you don't pity her," he added, turning his earnest eyes on me again.

"Why?" I could not help enquiring.

"Because I was afraid you would," he said meaningly--"and she doesn't need it. Where two hearts are in love with each other and their work--I wouldn't ask any higher heaven than that." Then he sighed; although, as I have said, he wasn't much given to sighing.

Then came my question. For days I had been burning to ask it; yet I marvel that I was ever bold enough to form the words.

"You talk like a specialist on that subject. Were you ever in love, Mr. Laird?" I shot the words out quickly; otherwise they never would have come.

He turned with swift movement and looked at me. It seemed to me he looked me over from head to foot, though I knew he wouldn't do anything so rude. The paleness was all gone now, I noticed, and I thought his lip trembled a little. It was a moment before he spoke.

"You've been very kind in giving me your confidence, haven't you, Miss Helen?" he asked, very gravely and slowly.

I stammered out my answer. "Forgive me, Mr. Laird," I began penitently; "I had no right to say what I did. And if I've told you anything about--about me and Charlie--it was only because it seemed easy to do it--because I wanted to. Because I trusted you," I added, wishing some one would suddenly appear.

But no one did, and Mr. Laird seemed so dreadfully calm. I was waiting, intending to say something more, when he went serenely on.

"Well, I can trust you, too," he said; "and it seems easy to tell you. And, anyhow, I don't know why I shouldn't. Yes, I was in love once, long ago. And I was engaged to be married," he continued, in that same tone of reverence with which he always spoke of matters such as this. "But it's long ago now--it was while I was in my second year in the university. And I had to give her up"--he smiled as he turned his eyes on mine--"had to give her up for another man. Her father, like mine, was a shepherd, and she was bright as a sunbeam and as pure as the dewdrop in the dell--that's a line from an old Scotch song," he interjected, smiling rather more broadly than I thought he should have done in mid-narrative of a tragedy like that. "But a fellow came home from across the sea--from Australia--and he was very rich."

"Did she give you up for him?" I asked, indignation in my voice.

"Not exactly," he answered; "but it amounted to that. She wrote and asked me to release her; said she had found she loved him best."

"And you gave her up?"

"Certainly," he said, and I thought what a magnificent man he was; "yes, what else could I do? Or what else could she do?"

"Didn't you hate her?"

"No, of course not--I think she did perfectly right. Anything else would have been false to both of us. And they got married very soon after--they have three bairns now," and I wondered how he could smile such a happy kind of smile.

"And do you think," I said, "do you think any girl would be justified in changing--if she found--if she found she loved somebody else?"

"Yes," he answered slowly. "Yes, I think she would. But she has no right to find out anything of the sort--I would never find it out," he concluded firmly.

"You wouldn't?--why wouldn't you?"

"Because I shouldn't," he said; "that's why I wouldn't--if I loved, I'd love always."

"Would you have loved _her_ always?" I asked, wondering at my rashness.

"Yes," he said after a pause; "yes, if she had let me. Do you know, I believe it's getting chilly--shall we go home?"

To which proposal I gave swift assent--outwardly, at least. And as we walked along I marvelled at the restraint of the strong man beside me. I knew, or felt, rather, that his heart was a molten mass of fire--I couldn't have told why, but its burning heat was just as real to me as anything could be. I knew it was aflame; but he was as reserved, and cold, and strong, and silent as though we had been talking of something that had nothing to do with human hearts at all. I hated myself for the weakness I could not conceal. And I fairly loathed that Scotch girl who married the rich Australian--and I hoped all her children had flaming red hair, like I felt sure she had.

That same night I was chatting a while with uncle before he went to bed.

"And what is your majesty going to decide about Savannah--and the royal yacht--and Europe?" he suddenly enquired, after our talk had run a little on a kindred vein.

"I'm not going," I declared vehemently; "at least, not for a long time--I simply can't."

"I wouldn't either," he said meaningly, "if I were you--you'll be a fool if you do."

"Why?" demanded I.

"I reckon you know," said uncle; "if you don't, I won't tell you. And I don't blame you, honey. I think he's a true blue sort of chap--but he'll have to revise his views about the niggers."

Well, the result of the whole thing was this, that I spent a good half hour posting my diary that night. I too had begun a diary by this time--and I, too, took good care whose name shouldn't go into it. And the outcome of my half hour's pondering was this brief entry: "Have made up my mind that I can't marry Charlie--and I shall never, never marry the Reverend Gordon Laird."