Chapter XI: A Mother Confessor

They were waiting for us when we got home, wondering a little why we were so late. We told them we had been on the river, and Mr. Laird apologized for the loss of the oar; I remember uncle said it was lucky he was able to paddle his own canoe.

I went into mother's room when I went up-stairs to fix my hair--and she noticed that Charlie's ring was absent from my hand. I expected her to, for it was a source of constant joy to her. Then I told her. I shall not describe the gust that followed, except to say that what I remember best about it was mother's appeal to my sense of unfitness for the life of a minister's wife. There was a lot more--Europe and the yacht were not forgotten--about the folly of giving myself to a life of obscurity and poverty when a very different one was open to me.

"I'm sick of money," I said foolishly; "I've always had nearly everything I wanted--and I wasn't happy."

"You'll know the difference when you don't have your uncle to give you everything you want," said my mother.

"He's been the kindest man that ever was," I agreed, "but no uncle that ever lived could give a girl everything she wants. There's only one can do that," I went on, for my heart was singing--"and I've found him at last."

It was then that mother appealed to me on the ground of my unfitness for the life I had chosen. And I must admit that _did_ hit me pretty hard.

"Look at our minister's wife," she said; "she's meant for it. It's true she looks half starved, and she's always dowdy, and has to make a dress do for years--but she's happy in that kind of life."

"Maybe I'll be happy too," I ventured to predict.

"How could you be?" retorted my mother. "How could you ever hope to be, when you're not fitted for that kind of work? Mrs. Furvell can lead in prayer."

"Well, I can't," I said--"but I can follow. And Mr. Laird says that's better."

"And she can take the chair at meetings--and she knows how to talk to ministers when they come--and they say she looks over her husband's sermons, and makes suggestions."

"My husband's sermons won't need any," I made reply. And at this I blushed furiously: the word sounded like a beautiful judgment day. I knew how crimson my face and neck all grew, for I was standing in front of a pier glass at the time, my hair flowing down about my shoulders. And I wondered if I was beautiful--I hoped I was, but not for my own sake at all--I can honestly say no vanity was in my thought. Everything was different now.

"Of course," conceded my mother, "I believe in a girl marrying for love--but you haven't known him long enough. Now Charlie's different; you've known him so long."

"That's just where it comes in," said I, dimly groping for what I felt was a great point.

"What do you mean?" said mother.

"I don't know," I answered, which was gloriously true.

"Besides," digressed my mother, leaving this obscure point unsettled, "what reason have you got to think you'll ever get along agreeably with his folks?"

"I'd get along with Choctaw Indians," quoth I, "if it would make him any happier; besides, I won't have to--they're all in Scotland."

"Whose happiness do you mean?" enquired my mother, though she knew right well.

"Why, his--Mr. Laird's, of course."

"Are you going to call him Mr. Laird?" pursued my mother, for womanly curiosity will show itself even amid high tragedy.

"I reckon so--I don't know," and I laughed as I spoke; "that never occurred to me."

"He didn't ask you to--to call him Gordon?"

"Mercy, no--why should he?" I exclaimed aghast.

"Why shouldn't he?" replied my mother. "I remember the night your father asked me to marry him--but then, there's no use of that; that's all over now. When is he going to speak to me about it, Helen?"

"Oh, mother," I said, putting my arms about her neck, "you're such a woman! I know you're just counting the minutes till you'll be alone with him when he's pleading with you to give your daughter to him. That's the next best thing to getting a proposal yourself, isn't it, mother?"

But she was not yet ready for surrender. "It's very easy for you, Helen," she said seriously, "to treat it all as a trifling matter--but you don't know what a heavy heart you've given me. And there's another thing," she went on, a little timidly, I thought: "I suppose you don't forget that his father's a shepherd--a man that takes care of sheep, on the hills?" she enlarged.

"No, I haven't forgotten it," I answered, and I felt my colour rising, "nor has he forgotten. And I wouldn't care if his father were a chimney-sweep. Do you mean that, mother?" I demanded, my voice about as stern as she had ever heard it.

"Mean what, Helen?"

"Do you mean that that--about his father being a shepherd--should make any difference to me? When I love him?" I added, my voice shaking a little.

"No, child, no. No, of course not," my mother hastened to reply; "only it'll be a little awkward, I'm afraid. You've got to consider everything, you know."

"That's just what I'm doing," I retorted quickly. "And if he's good, and true, and noble--and he is--what difference does it make to me who his father is, or what he does? It won't be as awkward as to be married to a man you don't love--that's what I _would_ call awkward," I cried, "and that's what nearly happened me. And he--Mr. Laird--he tore the letter up and threw it into the river, thank God!" as the tears that could no longer be restrained poured forth at last.

Her tender arms tightened about me as she soothed me with some explanation of what she meant, telling me meantime that I was tired and needing rest. Nor did the interview last much longer, being fruitful of but little satisfaction on either side. Mother loved me too well to make any real unpleasantness about it; and, before we finished, she laid most of her grief to the score of Charlie's broken heart. But she did add, rather sorrowfully, that in all probability now I would live and die without ever seeing Europe.

I believe there's no place where a girl so feels the trembling joy of love as in her own little room when first she returns to it with her lips still moist from the sacramental kiss. I have often wondered since why this is so. And I do not know. But I remember well, with quickening heart, that almost bridal hour. I did not light the gas--and I wondered at the time why I shrank from doing so--but kindled instead the candle on my dressing-table. The soft and tender light accorded better with my mood, and the flitting shadows that fell across the room seemed beautiful. When I was undressed and robed for the night, I sat long, my hair still flowing on my shoulders, before the pier glass, gazing into my own eyes for very joy. The shallow will say it was empty vanity; but it was not. It was a kind of communion time, searching, so far as I could, the mystic depths of a personality that had been so suddenly wakened to a new and holy life.

I know not how long I lingered thus, peering into the hidden future--once or twice I buried my hot face in my hands--marvelling at the ministry of love, before I put the candle out and went to bed. And then, strangely enough, there stole into my mind the verse Charlie used to love to hear me sing. I hummed it softly to myself:--

"Still must you call me tender names
Still gently stroke my tresses;
Still shall my happy answering heart
Keep time to your caresses."

But now the words seemed all on fire and I wondered why their beauty had never appeared to me before. I lilted them again and again, the image of my lover, my first real lover, before me all the time--and I wondered when, if ever, I would sing the words for him.

But all of a sudden I felt that this was frivolous. For it was beginning to be borne in upon me--scarcely thought of in the first rush of joy--what manner of man this was whose lot I was to share. I was to be a minister's wife! With a wave of cowardice I hid my face under the snowy covers as I thought of it; while visions of other days, of dances and parties and cards, and all sorts of alien things, floated before my eyes. I fought against them all with an intensity they did not deserve, really trying to lead my thoughts into higher channels. And there came into my mind--which I have always considered an intervention from a Higher Source--a line or two of a psalm I had heard Mr. Laird sing more than once. The words came back to me so readily, and I said them over and over again to myself:--

"I to the hills will lift mine eyes
From whence doth come mine aid,"

and, almost before I knew it, I had slipped out of bed and was on my knees in prayer. I must confess that I barely knew how to pray--that is, outside of a little groove along which my devotions had tripped since I was a child. But this time I really did pray--out of my own heart--though I fear it was a very broken and halting prayer, a poor sort of thing compared to those finished efforts of Mrs. Furvell to which my mother had referred. Yet I think it was sincere. I asked God to guard my love--but especially his--and to not let anything happen to spoil it; and to help me give up everything that was wrong or frivolous, and to make me some help to him in his life-work.

I was hardly snuggled up in bed again before I heard Mr. Laird coming up-stairs to the attic. I suppose he had been doing some thinking on his own account, all alone in the parlour. His room was right over mine--and that was why I had such a luxurious night. For very soon he began walking up and down the floor--I don't think he knew I was just beneath--and he kept up that lonely tramp for hours. Every step he took was music to me. Back and forward, forward and back, he walked, and I could fairly see the tall, noble form, the serious face, the deep, penetrating eyes. Once or twice he stopped, for a few minutes; and I began to fear he didn't love me as he should. But soon the firm tread began again and then I knew how really dear I was.

Dozens of times since then, when I have teased him about it, he has told me those little silences came when he threw himself on his bed and snatched a few minutes' sleep; but that he knew I was listening, so he would shake himself, dash some cold water on his face or wrap a towel about his head, and start on his beat again. But I knew better--and anyhow, he confessed to me once that nothing short of chloroform could have kept him still that night.

When we assembled at breakfast the next morning Mr. Laird didn't eat anything except one little half slice of toast--and I could see how this appealed to mother, though she maintained a sad gravity throughout.

When the meal was finished he asked mother if he might have a few minutes with her alone. And she asked him what could it possibly be about!