Chapter XVII: My Ordination

We had walked for perhaps fifteen or twenty minutes before we came near our destination, the character of the neighbourhood gradually indicating that the spot we were seeking was near at hand. One or two enquiries sufficed to locate the house, a tumble-down old cottage that stood in a little from the street.

"Be you the minister?" asked a woman's voice, as she opened the door in answer to our knock, shading the lamp with her hand; "be you Mr. Laird?"

"Yes," said Gordon, "I came as soon as I got your message; and what can I do for you?" Although I think he surmised why she had sent for him; there is that in a mother's face and voice which only one kind of sorrow gives. Besides, he had seen a light burning dimly in the little room at the end of the house.

"It's our Jennie," the woman said, standing transfixed a moment as the light of the lamp fell on me. For I was still in my dinner dress; and I was holding the train up in my hand, and there were flowers in my hair. Neither of us, I imagine, had thought of this.

"This is my wife," said Gordon; and I never heard him say it with more tenderness or pride--nor had it ever sounded sweeter.

The sad and tired face, still wondering, gave me a faint smile of welcome as we passed within the door.

"You can stay in the room," she said, leading the way into what I supposed they might call the parlour. At least, there was a table in it, and one or two chromos on the wall; but I noticed a dishevelled couch in the corner, evidently for some tired watcher.

"Jennie's been wantin' ye for long," the woman said to Gordon as she set the lamp on the table; "but she's worse the night, an' me an' Martha got afraid. Besides, she was askin' for ye; she went to the Bethany Sunday-school, sir, and she often saw you when you was there"--this was Gordon's mission school--"you put your hand on her head once, at the festival, I think, an' poor Jennie never forgot it, she was that pleased. But I'm feared she'll never be back there again, sir," the woman's voice quivering as she turned her face away.

"What's the matter with your daughter?" I asked, for my whole heart went out to the woman in her grief.

"Well, ma'am, we don't hardly know. But it began with a cruel bad cough more'n six months ago--an' it keeps always gettin' a little worse. She got it at the factory--her and Martha both worked in the knittin' factory, an' the air was so bad, and the hours was so long; but she just had to keep workin' on, ma'am, 'cause their father's dead, and there's two younger than them. I earn a little now an' again, goin' out washin'--but it was really Jennie and Martha that kep' the home goin'," the woman concluded, heaving a weary sigh.

"What factory was your daughter in?" I asked.

"Oh, in Mr. Ashton's--Ashton & Quirk," the woman answered, "an' they don't seem to care anythin' for the hands--excep' gettin' the work out o' them," she added, with another sigh; "Jennie wanted to stop and rest, first along, when she wasn't feelin' good--but they said another girl would get her job if she stopped. So she had to go on as long as she could. I guess we'll go in now, sir; we won't be long, ma'am," as she led Gordon from the room.

As I sat alone I could hear the dull hacking cough at frequent intervals, sometimes with sounds of struggle and of choking. Then would come a stillness, broken by the low sound of voices; and soon I could catch Gordon's rich tones in prayer. I could not hear the words, but a nameless power seemed to accompany the sound; I knew that his very heart and life were being given to the holy task.

A few minutes later Gordon came softly into the room where I was waiting. "Come on in," he said; "come on in and see Jennie. I'm sure it would do her good."

I hesitated. "Is she dying?" I asked.

Gordon nodded. "It's consumption," he said.

"Oh, Gordon, don't ask me to go. I'm so frightened of death; and I couldn't help her any--I couldn't say a word," for if I ever felt my helplessness, it was then. "I'm afraid I would only be in the way," I supplemented, not without much sincerity.

"A loving heart's never in the way," my husband answered in the lowest tone. His face, radiant a moment before from its sacred duty, was now shadowed with sorrow; his eyes gave me a final glance of loneliness and longing as he turned to go back to the dying bed.

"Oh, Gordon, wait," I cried faintly, sudden resolve gathering in my heart. "Wait, darling, and I'll go," with which I hurried to his side. My reward was in his eyes. I could see them, even in the darkened hall through which we passed into the room of death.

Such a humble room it was, bare and unadorned. The bed stood in the corner, and even my untutored eyes saw at a glance that life's race was nearly run for her who lay upon it. Large, dark eyes looked out at me from the wasted face, wistful in death's mysterious appeal. Poor Jennie! she little knew how great was the ministry yet remaining to her.

For, as in a moment, the repulsion and the fear all left my heart, filling fast with a pity and a longing I could neither understand nor control. It must have been God's prompting, and nothing else. I saw nothing but the dying face. The mother was there; and Martha, her cheeks wet with tears; the younger pair, too, were standing near the bed. But I seemed to behold none of them--not even Gordon.

For I moved instinctively towards the bed, my gaze fixed on the dying girl. Her eyes seemed to call me; the lure of the eternal was within them, and I marvelled, little of spiritual insight though I had, at the deep tranquillity that lay far within. She smiled as she saw me coming closer, and I sat down on the bed beside her.

I could not but notice that her eyes rested on my face in eager wonder; she seemed to love to look, so constant was her gaze. And it was evident--so eternal is the womanly--that she was attracted by what I wore; my lovely gown, the lace upon its bosom, the diamond pendant with its chain about my neck, the rich flowers in my hair--all made their appeal to the dying eyes.

"Oh, it was lovely!" she murmured, after we had spoken a word or two.

"What was, dear?" I answered, for I had no idea.

"What he said--what your husband told me. He made it so easy--and so beautiful. I'm not afraid to die--not now, ma'am."

I marvelled as I beheld the strange serenity that seemed to wrap her like a garment. "Oh," she went on faintly, "it must be lovely to be able to do that; to be able to tell people, when they're dying, about the Saviour--and about heaven. Do you do it too, ma'am?"

I shrank before the pervading eyes, for they seemed to look through and through the soul with the penetrating power that death imparts. "No," I said tremblingly, "no, I don't believe I ever did."

"But you will, won't you?" she went on calmly; "he'll tell you how--and you'll tell it too. Oh, it comforts so--I believe it because he does," her eyes turning now in reverence to Gordon's face.

"Yes, dear, yes, I'll try," I faltered, and the eager eyes looked content. Something prompted me to put my hands to my hair, though I had forgotten the flowers were there. "Would you like them, Jennie?" as I placed them in the wasted hand. I had no need to ask, so grateful was the light that kindled the wan face.

"These comfort too," she murmured. Then suddenly: "Can you sing?--I love when people sing to me, if I love them."

"Not very well, Jennie," I answered, for I knew I could not trust my voice.

"Please do," she pleaded; "just some little song."

I turned to Gordon; he was standing above me. "Let us try," he said; "suppose we sing 'Forever with the Lord'?"

I consented. But a quick impulse came to me and I whispered to him: "One of your psalms, Gordon--that lovely one about the Valley."

I saw how glad he was. "You must sing it too," he said; and then, in tones of more than womanly gentleness, he began the noble strain.

"Yea though I walk in death's dark vale
Yet will I fear none ill,
For Thou art with me and Thy rod
And staff me comfort still."

I didn't know then, and hardly know exactly yet, what those two last lines really mean; but no one could fail to see their power. They have been often tested when life's lamp was burning low; and the far-off music of Immortality, whatever be the meaning of the words, echoes through them. Jennie's face was beautiful to see.

I had never had hour like to this. I can remember yet how, once or twice, the thought of all the revelry I had left behind floated before my eyes; the lights, the flowers, the richly appointed table, the sumptuous dinner, the circle of exalted guests in glorious array, the speech and the echoing song--but they all seemed to me now as the dust beneath my feet. Pale and tawdry, garish, did it all appear in contrast with the high reality of the scene that had succeeded it. It must have been God's miracle to my soul. I know not. But I speak only the simple truth when I say that what was about me now, the humble home, the squalid room, the dimly burning lamp, the wail of the broken-hearted, the pale light of death upon one wasted face; these stood before me as life, very life--and the other had receded into the phantom shadows of unreality and death. I felt as if I had found myself at last; I knew I had found my husband, long sundered by the cruel shadow my own foolish heart had cast; and I dimly hoped that the dear Father of us all had found us both.

An hour or two later Gordon beckoned me out into the little hall. "I guess we'll have to go now," he said; "it's almost midnight--and you'll be tired out."

"Don't," I said earnestly, "don't make me go, Gordon. How can we leave here?--she's dying. Do you think we'll ever see her again?"

Gordon's look of love was beautiful. "No," he said, "never again, here--and we'll wait, my darling," the words coming low and passionate. "Look," as he cast his eyes within the door, "she wants you--she's motioning for you."

Which was true enough, and in a moment I was bending over the dying form.

"You'll comfort mother, and Martha, won't you--and the children--when I'm gone? Poor Martha, she'll have it all to do now," the words coming faint and pitiful; "all the work, I mean--she works so hard. And she has to go to the factory, even after she sits up all night."

"I'll do all I can, dear," I promised, trying to speak calmly, though the tears were running down my cheeks. "I'll come and see them as often as I can."

"Call them all," she said, rousing herself.

I had not far to call. In a moment they were all about the bed. Then the emaciated arms stole out and laid hold of a rusty napkin, or towel, that lay upon the bed beside her. Slowly she unfolded it, producing its contents one by one.

"This is for you, Ernie," as she handed the little brother a many-coloured flashing tie; "I saved up to get it for you for Christmas--but then I knew I'd have to get it sooner. And I made this for you, Chrissie," as the thin hands held out a little pin-cushion to the younger sister. "And I want you to have my little locket for a keepsake, Martha; it's nearly new. And this is for you, mother," as the sobbing woman bent above her child; "it's my Sunday-school Bible--and it has the tickets I was saving for a prize; I can't ever use them now. And the book-marker that's in it is for you," as her eyes turned to Gordon; "I worked it for you myself, and I was going to give it to you the first Sunday you came down."

She sank back, exhausted. One by one they turned away, each bearing the precious treasure. Gordon held his book-marker out before him like a sacred thing, and I could see his breast heaving as his arm went round one of the children. My own eyes were streaming, for I had never witnessed scene so holy; the last will and testament of prince or magnate had never majesty like this.

Suddenly Jennie motioned me down beside her again. "I didn't have anything for you," she murmured in pitiful explanation, "because I didn't know you were coming. So I just give you my--my love," she faltered low, "and I want to tell you how much you've helped me--to die. And you'll often do it, won't you?" she went on, reverting to the request that must surely have been prompted by none but God Himself, every word burning its way to my inmost heart.

"Yes," I sobbed, "oh, yes, I will, if God will help me--but I can do so little."

"No," she whispered back, "no--so much. You don't know how much it helps, for a poor girl like me just to, just to see somebody that's--that's sweet and lovely," she said timidly--"and that wears pretty clothes. Just to see somebody that loves you, even if they didn't speak a word--that helps a lot."

I gently hushed the words. The little circle gathered around the bed again. The hours went slowly by.

Suddenly her eyes opened wide. "Sing that again," she murmured, struggling now for breath; "that about--about the vale. It's dark."

Gordon looked into my eyes; his hand touched mine. Then, in a tone that was part of tenderness and all of triumph, he began, my trembling voice blending with his own:

"Yea though I walk through death's dark vale
Yet will I fear none ill"

and just as we finished the Shepherd Psalm the wasted face lighted up with pallid beauty, the raptured eyes looked their last farewell, and the tired toiler passed into the rest of God.

It was a very solemn joy that wrapped our hearts as Gordon and I walked home together through the slowly breaking dawn. I knew that our life-song had begun at last, and my heart was filled with reverent ecstasy.

"Take me, Gordon," I said, as we entered and closed the door behind us. "Take me," the tears now flowing fast, "and never, never let me go."

"You're mine," was all his answer as his arms closed about me. "God gave me you, my darling."