Chapter XVI: A Knightly Guest

"Do you suppose we could afford a carriage for the Ashtons' dinner?" I asked Gordon one evening, the evening before the function in question.

Gordon hesitated. "I'm afraid not, my dear," he said; "surely it isn't very far to walk."

"Everybody else will have one," I remonstrated, a little ruefully.

"Well," he answered cheerfully, "most of them can afford it better than we can. And those who can't," as he smiled, rather disdainfully I thought, "a good many of those who can't, will have one just the same--even if they daren't look the butcher and the baker in the face. There are a good many like that in Hertford, you know--in St. Andrew's Church, for that matter, I'm afraid," he added. "But a minister couldn't afford that any better than the other," he concluded, reaching for the elaborate invitation I held in my hand the while.

"Gordon," I said suddenly, and I fear my face showed what prompted the question, "have you ever thought what a good time we'd have had, if you had been something else--if you had been a doctor, I mean, or a politician, or something of that sort? Or a lawyer," I added; "yes, a lawyer--what a stunning lawyer you'd have made, Gordon. You'd be getting five times your present income, if you'd been a lawyer."

"Nonsense," he said, in his rather blunt Scotch way.

"It's nothing of the sort," I answered. "You know as well as I do there are a dozen lawyers in Hertford who could buy and sell you over and over again, so far as money is concerned--and they haven't got half the brains you have--aren't in the same class with you as public speakers. And yet here you are, the minister of a lot of fashionable people and----"

"We have a good many now that aren't fashionable, thank heaven," he interrupted, as if he were quite proud of it; "you'd be surprised, Helen, if you only knew how many poor people have connected with St. Andrew's since I came. But that doesn't please you much, does it, dear?" a shadow coming over the eager face.

"Why?" I asked. Yet I knew the meaning and the truth of his words.

"You don't love the poor people," he answered, his words coming slow, as if with pain; his eyes pleadingly fixed on mine.

"What makes you say that, Gordon?" and my voice shook a little.

"Because I see it every day, dear. You don't care for that part of my work at all," and his voice was inexpressibly sad. "I know what you mean by what you've just said--about wishing I had been a lawyer."

"I didn't say I wished it--you know I didn't," I corrected vigorously.

"But that's what you meant. I know it--I've known it long. Oh, my darling," he suddenly broke out, like one owning at last to a long-hidden pain, "do you think I've been blind to it all? Do you think I haven't seen the noble efforts my brave little wife has made to be interested in my work--and all her disappointment that we're poor and humble--and her longing for the things that I can never give her. And yet you've been so lovely and unselfish about it all, my dear one, trying to hide it from me," and I could feel my cheeks burn with shame at the words. One of his arms was partly round my neck, his hand toying with my hair; and he drew me close and held me tight. The shelter was wondrous sweet.

"Oh, Gordon," I said, the tears coming as I spoke, "don't talk to me like that; please don't--you know I was so young. And I never had any experience like this--I was brought up so differently. And I do want to be happy--so much, I want to be happy. And you, dear, I want you to be happy too."

"And so I am," he exclaimed passionately--"except that I'm lonely; I'm so lonely, Helen. Oh, if you only loved the things I love, the poor, the sick, the sorrowing--if you only loved them all, and loved to help them--I wouldn't trade places with the richest and the grandest of them all."

"Oh, Gordon," I sobbed, "how could you say it?--you mean you'd trade now! And I've tried so hard."

He soothed me, caressing and comforting as though I were a child. "It's been hard for you, my darling," he murmured in my ear; "and you don't know all you've been to me--you really don't."

"It was only because I thought you were so clever," I sobbed out like a baby; "and I thought you weren't--weren't getting your reward."

"Oh, child, you don't know what rich rewards there are," he said dreamily; "what rich rewards--if men only knew where to look for them."

I lay a long time in his arms, the imposing invitation unheeded on the floor. And I longed--I believe I prayed in a faint kind of way--that I might yet know something of the secret joy that made up my husband's hire. Yet I was almost in despair; for the image of all that others did, and all they had, and the vision of what might also have been ours, kept recurring to my mind. I thought our life was pretty gray, its limits hard and stern, and I may as well be candid enough to say so. But I think I would have followed Gordon anywhere--if I could only have found the way. My gropings for it must have been pathetic.

"I'll give up the Ashtons' dinner," I said heroically at last, looking up at Gordon through my tears. I knew he would kiss me--and he did.

"But you shan't," he said firmly. "You'll go--and so will I. That's the one little triumph I'll never give up; I'm always so proud of my wife at times like that--we can beat them on their own ground." Then he stooped down and recovered the gleaming-edged cardboard from the floor.

This invitation was our passport to what was evidently to be a very swell dinner at the Ashtons'. They had a lion in the house--a mighty guest, I mean by that. He was a Sir; not only a Sir, but a Baronet; which, it seems, is a loftier brand, a repeating kind of Sir. His full name was Sir Austin Beachcroft, and he was a British brewer. His appearance gave abundant indication that he was one of his own best customers. Mr. Ashton, it seems, had met him while crossing the Atlantic, and the Baronet was graciously stopping off for a visit of a day or two on his way to the Rockies to hunt grizzlies. He arrived on a Saturday night; and it was impressive to see the solemn hush that came over the congregation in St. Andrew's when the Ashtons led their Baronet down the aisle the next morning. Mr. Ashton came first, and there was a look on his face that showed his doubt as to whether or not he was a mortal man. They came late, of course, but I attribute that to Mrs. Ashton--for that is a womanly wile. I caught a glimpse of her face as she passed--it bore a look of thankfulness, almost of heavenly bliss, as if she were now ready to depart in peace. In an adjoining pew I could see Harriet's cousin; vainly she strove to join the swelling psalm, gazing at the procession as though she considered the ways of Providence unjust.

The Baronet, throughout the service, bore himself as piously as though he had never heard of beer. Yet it was evident enough that he never for one moment forgot that he was a creation of his Sovereign. When the hymns were being sung, he looked abstractedly in front of him, as though they were addressed to him; at sudden intervals he would break in and sing about half a line, just to show that he was human like ourselves. Every now and then, while the sermon was in progress, he would cast a swift glance around to make sure that everybody was looking at him; finding that they were, a little jerk and a stare heavenward evinced the slight irritation that rank or genius is supposed to feel in being thus remarked. Once or twice he snapped his watch when Gordon didn't stop just when he might have done. This set me against him at once, for the sermon was a beautiful one; besides, I knew what ailed the Baronet--he wasn't accustomed to go so long without a sample of his wares. When the collection was taken up, he was human enough; even Mr. Ashton started a little at the size of his deposit; for he gave after the fashion of his fathers, which, as Gordon afterwards told me, was formed in the copper age.

Well, the very next night came the dinner; to which Gordon and I sallied forth. It does make a woman wince a little when she finds herself coming on foot to a gate quite surrounded by the carriages of her fellow guests. Harriet's cousin, I remember, alighted from her equipage just as I arrived, and we went in together; it was but poor comfort to reflect that my servant called her Mary Ann.

"You're the belle of the ball," Gordon whispered to me as we came down the stairs a few minutes later; "I'll bet a sovereign the Baronet will write home about you before he goes to bed."

"Don't be surprised," I answered gaily, "if I take to the woods as soon as I meet him--you know, I never saw a real two-legged lordling before."

We were duly presented, the Baronet staring at us as though we were so many pretty fawns reclaimed by civilization from the wilds. Harriet's cousin was as red in the face as a turkey-cock, and her attitude was one of reverence itself. Mr. Ashton stood apart in a state of semi-unconscious bliss, looking like a kind of glorified Barnum. His wife was torn between feverish glances towards the glittering table that could be seen in the distance and longing looks fixed upon the Baronet. She was wondering how she might properly surrender herself to be borne in to dinner.

In due time, however, we were all seated, my escort proving the wealthy husband of the woman who had comforted me about my prayer--he was the magnate who had made his money out of lard. My first remark to him, after we were seated, disclosed my ignorance of the proper pronunciation of his name. I suppose I was nervous. He corrected me, adding in fine original vein: "But call me what you like, as long as you don't call me too late for dinner," spreading his napkin over an expanse that indicated his counsel was probably serious enough.

At this juncture Mr. Ashton asked Gordon to say grace; and the tone of his request showed how highly honoured he considered both the Almighty and his minister to be by the observance. This finished, there followed that peculiar silence which so often wraps a self-conscious company, all of whom are bent on conducting themselves with unusual propriety.

But the Baronet was soon in midstream, his spirits rising higher and higher as he remarked the deference with which his every word was greeted. "Yes," he was saying when I first caught the drift of his talk, "I had a great time in New York--was fairly beset with their reporters, though, all wanting interviews. They're a great lot, those New Yorkers," he went grandly on, "nearly all of them either colonels or millionaires--any one who isn't one or the other is sure to be a judge. Greatest conglomeration of newly rich I ever saw in my life--but it's wonderful how they worship what they haven't got. A lot of humbugs," he added scornfully, "pretending to despise titles the way they do--and yet they fairly worship them. The Duke of Marlborough happened to be in New York the same time as me; and, really, there didn't seem to be anything else in the papers except our movements--we simply couldn't sneeze, without it being in the papers. Oh, they're very young yet," he added patronizingly, "they're very young indeed."

"Mrs. Laird's a Yankee, Sir Austin," one of the lady guests ventured timidly, designating me by a sideward glance. I dare say I wasn't hard to identify, for I know my cheeks were blazing and my eyes flashing. It's wonderful how much dearer your country grows when you're in exile.

The Baronet adjusted his monocle and looked at me with some interest across the table. "Well," he began with a very condescending smile, "there are some nice Yankees, you know--for instance," nodding at me as he spoke.

"I'm not a Yankee," I broke in with vehemence. "I'm no more a Yankee than you are, sir." I forgot all about the handle to his name.

"Were you addressing Sir Austin?" Mr. Ashton interrupted, meaning reproof; he was so horror-stricken that he had brought his erstwhile busy jaws to a sudden standstill.

"I was addressing anybody who calls me a Yankee," I retorted, controlling a voice that would shake in spite of me.

"Oh, Mrs. Laird," the informant of a moment ago interjected, "I always understood you were an American."

"I suppose I am," I returned, commanding a smile by this time--"but that's a very different being from a Yankee. And I don't know whether I am or not," I went on with a quite ardent heart; "because I'm a Southerner--my father was a Confederate soldier," I broke out, regardless of the canons of good taste, "and he was wounded twice at Gettysburg, so he was."

"Did he recover?" the Baronet enquired, in a tone that was meant to be sympathetic.

I stared at the man. "Did he recover?" I echoed; "how long do you think it is since Gettysburg was fought, Sir Austin?"

I verily believe the title was music to the man. In any case, he mellowed perceptibly. "It was a foolish question--from any one who has ever seen you," he admitted; "and they were a brave lot of men, even if they did get beaten," he continued cordially enough; "they put up a great fight, did those rebels, Mrs.--er?" as he paused for my name.

This was too much. "They weren't rebels," I flung back; "nobody has a right to call them rebels--they were soldiers fighting for their country--and they weren't beaten, they were starved," I added; and I wouldn't have cared if he had been the proudest duke in England.

The lordlet adjusted his monocle afresh and took a wondering look at me. I do not know what reply, if any, he was about to make; for just then came an interruption fraught with more of consequence than would have appeared likely on the surface.

"Mr. Laird's wanted, sir," announced a servant. Wherewith Gordon excused himself for a moment and hurried out to the hall.

"I'll have to ask you to let me run away, Mr. Ashton," he said, returning after a brief absence. "I'm afraid I'll have to go."

"What!" exclaimed our host incredulously; "have to go!--the dinner's only just begun, sir."

"I'm very sorry," replied my husband, "but I've been sent for--somebody wants me, and I must go," with which he turned back into the hall, for Mr. Ashton had already risen from his chair. He was still protesting as he followed him out; the talk around the table began again, but I could still catch the conversation in the hall.

"You can't possibly get away; I was counting on you, as you know, to propose the health of Sir Austin. I'll send word that you'll come the first thing in the morning--whoever it is that wants you."

I couldn't catch the response; but I knew right well what line it would take.

"No, I don't think they belong to St. Andrew's," I heard Gordon a moment later; "not as far as I know, at least. They're very poor, I should fancy, from the quarter they live in."

"Then it seems to me you're under no obligation to go," I could just hear Mr. Ashton saying, in a tone that chilled me; "you'll find it quite enough, I imagine, to look after your own people. What's the matter anyway?"

"I don't know," said Gordon, "but the messenger said they wanted me right away--it's a matter of duty, Mr. Ashton."

Just with this Mr. Ashton drew the door shut behind him. I did not wait to analyze the impulse that suddenly seized me, but hastily arose, with a word of apology to my hostess, and slipped swiftly out into the hall. I do not think either of the men noticed me.

"Well, all I've got to say is this," Mr. Ashton was exclaiming, "that I consider it a slight to my guest--a downright slight, sir; an insult, I might almost say, to Sir Austin Beachcroft. And I know he'll have his own opinion of it, sir--and you can explain to him yourself--I'll make no apologies for you, mind."

Gordon replied just the way I would have expected him to: "I don't care a rap for all the Sir Austins in the kingdom," he said, moving on up the stairs to get his coat; "it's probable some one's dying--and wants me."

Mr. Ashton followed a step or two up the stair. "I suppose I may take that to mean," his voice now thick with anger, "that you don't care a rap for me either; nor for anybody else of the people that--that hire you--and pay you, Mr. Laird," the words coming hot and hissing, his flaming face turned up towards Gordon at the top of the stairs.

I could see Gordon's eyes flash from where he stood. "If you think I'm your hired servant, Mr. Ashton--or anybody else's, when my duty's concerned--you'll find out your mistake. We needn't carry this discussion any further," as he turned and went into the dressing-room.

"I'll carry it further, sir," Mr. Ashton half shouted in a tone so loud I feared his knightly guest would hear; "I'll carry it till I teach you which side your bread's buttered on--I'll see you from the pulpit to the door. It was me that got you here--and I'll get you out, sir, I'll get you out," he flung as a parting threat, turning to make his way back to the dining-room.

My course was clear. I passed our angry host without a word as I climbed the stair; the most ardent days of love and courtship had never found my heart so hungry for the man I loved as it was that moment.

"You must not come," said Gordon, as I swept into the room where he was. "What made you leave, dear--please go back. Things are bad enough as they are."

But I sealed his lips with my burning own and held him one moment in my arms before I turned to make ready for departure. I could see his face brighten with a wonderful light, and I had my reward in the pride and fondness with which his eyes rested on me.

Nobody intercepted, nor did any speak to us, as we made our way out to the street. The night was dark, a few heavy rain-drops beating in our faces.

"Where are you going now?" Gordon asked me as we moved away from the gate.

"I don't know," said I--"only I'm going with you."

"My darling!" was all he said.

"I'm afraid there's going to be a storm," I predicted, looking up at the ill-omened sky after we had walked a little way in silence.

"The storm is past," he said, his arm stealing about me in the dark; "the night is growing beautiful to me--oh, my wife, my darling!"