Chapter XX: Harold's Sister--And Another

The next saddest thing to having no children is having only one. Parental sorrows are to be classified as follows. First, and greatest, if you haven't any; second, if you have only one. For there is no loneliness like the forlornness of a solitary bairn, to use a term of which Gordon was very fond; born to play, yet having none to play with; in need of chastening, yet denied the discipline of other children; hungry for fellowship, yet starving among its seniors. There is no desert so waste and weary as the Sahara that surrounds a solitary child.

Life has few moments of surpassing thrill and wonder. Yet there are some; and the loveliest thing about it all is this, that wealth cannot buy them, nor genius create them, nor rank command them. The impartialness of God is beautiful. A few of the superfluities do seem to be a little unevenly distributed--but the great holy luxuries of life are as freely vouchsafed the peasant as the king. The glory and the beauty of life itself; the shelter of a mother's arms and the deeper shelter of her heart; the first dismantling kiss of love; the earliest glimpse of your first-born's face--these are for the ploughman as well as the poet or the prince.

And there is another moment when life's so often tawny tide glows with the very light of heaven. It came to me and Gordon the day he led little Harold in, to look upon his sister's face. Ah, me! the tears start even yet when I recall the sacred scene. I was lying there, so weak, so happy. The slumbering babe lay beside me, gurgling now and then those mysterious sounds that a mother's heart translates so readily. I heard them coming--Harold and his father--the strong tread mingling musically with the patter of the little feet. Up the stairs they came, hand in hand along the hall, little Harold puffing with excitement, for he knew something wonderful was to be revealed. I raised my head and saw them as they entered the room.

Oh, my son, my son! why did I not value more those days of the dear childish face, as I saw it then? Why did I not realize that the sterner days were coming when those sweet features were to be buffeted by sorrow and assailed by sin? I see him now, the little torn straw hat above the neglected locks--for children _will_ run to seed when the mother is withdrawn--the plump, ruddy cheeks, all stained from the sand pile on the lawn, the dampness on the little forehead, the besmirched but becoming frock; and the eyes, wonderful eyes, so sober, so inquisitive, searching curiously for the unknown, breaking into shy laughter as they fell on me; the pudgy hand, quickly withdrawn from his father's; then the little frame, one half-bare leg dangling in the air, lifted high as Gordon held him up. I feel again the tremble in my fingers as I pulled back the shawl from about his sister's head, and see again the long look of wonder as my son gazed down upon the baby's face; I see the tiny throat swallow once or twice as his emotion gathered, and think of the vast realm in his heart that even his father and I cannot explore. Once again I see the refusing nod--his golden curls shaken the while--when I tell him to kiss his baby sister; his brooding eyes turned to mine, the outstretched arms, the rosy lips coming down to mine to be kissed; and I catch the mist in Gordon's eyes, my own swimming with tender joy, even as they are overflowing now so that I can hardly see to write.

The years flew swiftly by, unmarked by incident of note, but full of simple joy. Harold was well on his way in school--clever, like his father--and his sister had left the days of babyhood behind, when a new influence came into our quiet lives, a new Life into our little circle.

It was our daughter's birthday night, and Gordon had asked some friends to dinner. For, as I should have said before, he was simply crazy about Dorothy, which was the name we had bestowed upon our daughter--it had been my mother's. Nobody need tell me that a father's master passion is anything else than his first-born girl. Lots of men dissemble, I know, and profess to hold all their children in equal affection--but it's simply moonshine. If I'm a specialist in anything, it's children; and I have satisfied myself over and over again that a father, nineteen times out of twenty, is the bondsman of his eldest daughter. Dorothy looked like me; and I have a theory, which some cleverer brain will have to work out, that Gordon got her kind of mixed up with his sweetheart feelings, and loved the me that was in her, and the her that was in me. Anyhow, he was simply crazy about her, as I have said--and for years I thought it quite unfair how he made Harold play second fiddle for Her Majesty the Baby. And yet, strange though it sound, Harold was his very life--but we shall hear of this before my tale is told.

Well, as I have reported, Gordon must have a dinner party. It was to be in honour of Dorothy's original arrival, he said. So we invited some of the very nicest people in the church, some of the most clever and refined, and some of the unspoiled rich. (I believe the grand folks of St. Andrew's were coming to think more of Gordon every day.) And I got up the loveliest little dinner, with Harriet's aid of course, for she was as proud of Dorothy as we were ourselves.

The dinner was just in mid-career, and everything was going splendidly, when all of a sudden Harriet came to the dining-room door and beckoned to me. I could see by her face that it was something important.

"There's an old man here," she said as the door closed behind us, "and I thought I ought to call you--he says he's related."

"Related!" I echoed, "related to whom?"

"To Dr. Laird, ma'am," Harriet answered.

I knew there must be some mistake, since Gordon's relatives were all across the sea; besides, he had hardly any that I knew of, except his father.

I hurried out to the kitchen. As I entered, I saw the figure of a man well advanced in years; tall he was above the ordinary, but evidently stooped with toil. He rose from his chair as I approached, and bowed with a kind of native grace. Then he turned his face to mine and looked me over with one of the steadiest pairs of eyes that ever belonged to mortal. They were deeply set, keen and bright; high cheek bones on either side; ruddy complexion, significant of health; great wavy folds of snowy hair fell almost to his shoulders, those shoulders wrapped in a kind of grayish plaid; flowing beard, white as the locks above. His nose was prominent and strong, the mouth delicate, and firmly set, as though he had a mind of his own and knew how to use it. His clothes were coarse and plain, such as I fancied were worn by the peasants overseas; homespun stuff, I saw; and a flannel shirt, partly open, disclosed a sunburnt throat. He came forward and held out his hand, which I noticed was hard and rough, its clasp firm and strong; the other hand held a long staff, crooked at the top; a bundle, wrapped in a kind of shawl, lay at his feet.

"Is this the guidwife o' the hoose?" he asked, in a strong Scottish voice; "micht ye be Gordon's wife?"

I acknowledged that I was, my tone indicating that I wouldn't mind knowing who he was.

"I'm his faither," he said simply; "this'll be a graun' surprise to Gordon. Is he ben the hoose?" indicating the dining-room by a nod of his head.

"Yes," I said--"I'll call him out," my eyes fixed in a kind of fascination on the face and form before me. This was a new type to me; unfamiliar enough, but decidedly picturesque withal.

"I wunner will he ken me?" the old man said, a twinkle in his eye. "It's mony a lang day sin' he gaed awa'. But he'll mebbe be busy? Is there some o' his congregation wi' him?" for he heard the sound of voices.

"Oh, no," I said, "he can come all right--we're just having dinner."

"Mercy on us!" cried the stranger, "but ye're late wi' yir dinner; ha'e ye no' had onythin' sin' breakfast?"

I smiled, turning towards the door to call my husband. But he had evidently heard our voices, or something else had prompted him to come out, for he was already on his way to the kitchen. I stood silent, and his eyes turned upon the stranger. They rested there, it seemed to me, a good half minute before a sound escaped his lips. Then with a loud cry he leaped forward, holding out his arms. The hunger on the older face was pitiful to see. Sometimes clasping Gordon tight to his bosom, sometimes holding him back a little to look upon his face, the father heart seemed unable to drink its fill.

"Where did you come from, father?" Gordon asked, when speech at length returned.

"I cam' frae Scotland--where else?" his father answered, "richt frae the hills. An' I didna' let ye ken--I thocht 'twad be a bonnie surprise to ye. I landed at Montreal last nicht, an' then I cam' richt on. Whaur's the bairns?"

"They're inside," said Gordon; "you'll see them in a minute." Then followed a few minutes of swift questioning and answering. "But come on in with us now," Gordon suddenly broke in, taking his father's arm as he spoke, "come, till I introduce you to my friends--come, Helen."

I slipped behind the older man; and then, in Indian file, Gordon leading, we returned to our wondering guests. A fine procession, too, we must have made; Gordon in his spotless evening dress, I in my very finest--and between us, tall and stooped, his white locks shaking as he walked, his eagle eye fixing itself half defiantly and half appealingly upon the upturned faces, stood Gordon's father in his homespun, the Scotch shawl still about his shoulders, the huge safety-pin that held it gleaming in the brilliant light.

Gordon introduced him to every guest: "My father," he said to each, and no one could fail to see the radiance on his face. Then the old man was given a seat at Gordon's right, the arrears of dinner were brought quickly in, and in a moment our new visitor was the centre of attraction. Before taking his seat he stooped and kissed both the children, looking at them earnestly, then at their father, "The laddie's like yir mither, Gordon," he said, his voice trembling a little; "aye, he's got Elsie's mouth," wherewith he kissed him again, the lad looking up in wonder. "The wee lassie favours yirsel', Mrs. Laird."

"My name's Helen," I said quietly.

The strong face glowed with pleasure; and I could see what joy my amendment had given Gordon. "The wee girl has yir ain bonnie face, Helen," he corrected, hesitating a little before he spoke my name.

It's wonderful what homing instincts children have! For a few minutes later little Dorothy, usually so shy, slipped out of her chair and stole over beside her grandfather, looking wistfully up into his face. He took her on his knee, stroking her head with beautiful tenderness.

His plate of soup was now before him, but still Grandfather Laird did not begin. Finally, in some perplexity, he turned to Gordon. "I'll tak' a wee drappie speerits, Gordon, if you please; I maistly tak's juist what ye'd notice afore supper--forbye, I'm tired."

Gordon flushed, hesitating. "We haven't such a thing about the house, father--we really never keep it," he began in some embarrassment. "It isn't much of a custom out here, father."

The old man sighed as he took up the snow-white napkin beside his plate, pushing it a little farther away lest it should get soiled. "I'm dootin' this country's no' juist what it's thocht to be. The first mon I clappit my eye on in Montreal, he was a beggar, wi' a cup--an' I thocht everybody had plenty siller in Canady. An' noo it seems ye ha'ena' a drappie aboot the hoose. Weel, it's nae matter; I can dae wantin' it. But I'll no' begin wi'oot the blessin'," he added gravely. "Wull ye say it, Gordon?" nodding to his reverend son.

"No, father--you say it yourself," replied Gordon, bowing his head, in which he was speedily followed by all of us.

Then the old man, his hands outstretched, began a prayer of prodigious length. Adoration, confession, thanksgiving followed in regular order, the whole enriched with many a Scriptural quotation. I could not see the faces of our guests, but I knew right well how mystified they must be.

A little shy at first, dispensing diffident glances around the company as they tried to engage him in conversation, the patriarch soon began to feel with what cordiality we all regarded him. Wherewith he grew more and more communicative, this being evidently the occasion of his life; besides, and naturally enough, his heart was full to overflowing.

"It's hard to tak' it in, laddie," he said once or twice, laying down his knife and fork and turning full round to gaze at Gordon; "to think we're baith in Ameriky, and me in yir ain hoose--an' you sittin' wi' yin o' thae claw-hammer jackets on ye, like the gentry wear. It seems but the ither day ye were a wee bare-leggit laddie, helpin' yir faither mind the sheep. Ye was as gleg as a collie dog. I didna' think then, laddie, ye'd ever wag yir heid in a pulpit--but the ways o' Providence is wunnerfu'," as the honest eyes shone with pride and joy.

I saw one of our minor guests titter a little at this. She looked at Gordon rather as if she were sorry for him; fancied, no doubt, that he would be in sore straits of embarrassment to have his peasant father thus presented. But I never was prouder of my husband than I was that night. I actually felt my eyes grow dim more than once as I remarked the deference with which Gordon treated his father, so different though he was from what anybody would have expected. He seemed to delight to honour him; and while I suppose it was only natural for him to notice how far from cultured he was--reckoning from our standards--yet I know he reverenced him in his inmost heart for the unaffected goodness that none could fail to recognize.

Somebody, taking advantage of a momentary pause, asked the old man about his voyage.

"Oh," he began enthusiastically, and I knew by his tone that he was off; "oh, we had a graun' time a'thegither. I cam' i' the second cabin, nae doot," he went on without a particle of confusion, "for it didna' cost as muckle as the ither way; but there was a graun' lot o' passengers. We didna' ha'e ower muckle to eat, nae doot--but they gied us porridge morn an' nicht, sae we was fine. An' there was twa ministers wi' us," he went on, warming to his theme, "an' they preachit till us on the Sabbath day. It's wunnerfu', the difference there is in ministers. Yin o' them preachit in the mornin', an' the ither at nicht; the yin i' the mornin' was a puir feckless body; his sermon was a' aboot flowers, an' birds--an' the rainbow," this last coming out contemptuously; "he said a' thae things brocht us nearer God--did ye ever hear sic' haverin'? An' he said they a' taught us aboot th' Almichty--an' them as loved them wud be saved! I thocht mysel' wae, to ha'e to sit an' listen till him. But the ither mon--wha preachit till us at nicht--he had the root o' the matter in him, I tell ye. He preachit aboot sinners bein' turned intil hell--I ha'e the heids and pertikklers," he suddenly exclaimed, diving into a pocket for the same. "Here's his pints; first, naebody kens God wha doesna' ken the doctrines; second, thae wha doesna' ken will be lost," the gray beard shaking solemnly as he rolled out the truth; "third, them wha's lost is lost to a' eternity. Oh, it was a graun' discoorse, I'm tellin' ye. It was unco' refreshing after the baby broth we got i' the mornin'. I pit tuppence in the plate--but I didna' gie a farthin' in the mornin'. Are thae folk a' Presbyterians, Gordon?" he concluded by enquiring, nodding towards the assembled visitors.

"Mostly all, father," was Gordon's answer; "in fact, I believe they all are."

"Div ye teach them the Catechism, when ye're visitin'?" the old man pursued.

"Not very much, I'm afraid," answered Gordon, laughing; "you won't find things just the same here, father, as they are in old Scotland--not in that line, at least."

The old man's face clouded. "Thae things shouldna' change," he said solemnly; "sin doesna' change--and the truth o' God's aye the same, my son," as he looked down at the table. "I'm dootin' they're ower anxious aboot makin' money. They tell me maist everybody's rich in Canady--but I saw twa beggars in Montreal," he recalled a little ruefully. Then suddenly:

"I ha'e a wee pickle siller wi' me mysel', Gordon," the Scotch instinct showing in his voice; "only it's nae sae little!"

At this juncture my husband made heroic efforts to change the subject; but the old Scotchman was as intense about this as about graver matters. "Aye, I ha'e upwards o' a hunnerd pounds," he said impressively, glancing shyly at the company; "ye mind yir mither's Aunt Kirsty?--or mebbe ye never saw her? Weel, onyway, she died. An' she was lang aboot it, I tell ye, for she was ninety-four. Sae it was better for her to gang--better for us baith--an' she willed her wee bit belongings tae me--an' I sold them afore I left. An' yir faither was the prood mon at the funeral, Gordon--I was the chief mourner," he explained impressively; "I was the only yin there that was related to the corpse--and I walked ahint the bearers till the graveyard. A' the folk said I carried mysel' like a minister; the undertaker, he was an awfu' solemn mon--but I was solemner nor him; an' I kenned a' the time, mind ye, that I was the heir. That's hoo I got the siller to pay my way to Canady. But I ha'e a hunnerd pounds left, Gordon--an' I'm gaein' to invest it, after I look aboot a wee bit. Investments is awfu' profitable here, they tell me. It'll mak' a cozy pickle o' siller for me, wull it no', Gordon?"

"Don't count too much on it, father," Gordon answered; "money isn't just as universal here as you old-country people think." But the old man seemed reluctant to be convinced of this.

A little later in the evening we had some music. Most of the songs, I fear, were of the rather æsthetic type; and I fancied they appealed but little to our venerable friend. He sat quietly in a corner of the parlour, as if lost in thought. Every now and then his eyes would rove to Gordon's face, glowing with pride and affection. As for me, I knew not when I had been so fascinated. I simply sat and watched him, hardly knowing just what it was that held me so. Partly the picturesqueness of this rugged type, I suppose, and partly a dawning recognition of the sterling worth behind the stern exterior; genuineness was written all over him. Then I think I was beginning to love him for my husband's sake--I remember how the thought flashed on me that I never would have had Gordon but for him.

Suddenly, availing himself of a temporary lull, the old man cleared his throat: "I'll gie ye a sang mysel'," he offered; "nane o' yir highfalutin kind--but a guid auld yin o' Bobbie Burns. It minds me o' yir mither, Gordon," as he cleared his throat again with mighty din, preparatory to performance.

"I'll try and play for you if you tell me what it is, Mr. Laird," volunteered one of the ladies, moving towards the piano. I had seen grandfather eyeing her askance a little while before; indeed, I myself thought her evening dress was rather overdone about the shoulders--underdone, perhaps, would be a better word.

"No, no," replied the old man, with a disdainful wave of his hand, "yon clatter wud only throw me aff the tune. I'll sing the way the Almichty meant," with which he broke into a strong, clear baritone that would really have commanded attention in any company. More inspiring still, the whole soul of the man seemed to fuse with the touching words:

"My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream;
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream."

The applause that greeted the performance seemed to please the old man well. From many standpoints this was evidently the night of his life, and soon his enthusiasm knew no bounds. Not more than half an hour after, this first ovation still lingering gratefully in the performer's mind, one or two of the guests suggested that he favour us with another Scotch song, a proposal that soon grew into a general demand.

"I canna'," declined the old man, "I canna' juist the noo. But I'll tell ye what I'll dae wi' ye. I'll gie ye the Hielan' fling--that's fair graun', an' ye'll no' hae it in Canady. Gordon, gie me the bootjack, like a guid laddie--my shoon's ower heavy for dancin'--they're the lang-toppit kind."

"We've nothing of the sort, father," Gordon explained reluctantly.

"Ah, weel," he answered cheerfully, "ye'll dae fine yirsel'. Staun' aroon' wi' yir back till me--and let yon mon pit his back till ye," indicating an immaculate professor of burly form; who, apprehending, presented himself for Gordon's grasp, the latter in turn taking the already extended foot between his legs and gripping the boot tightly with his hands. Gordon's sire then lifted up the free foot upon his son, pushing mightily, and making a noise the while such as I have heard men employ when raising telegraph poles. A moment later Gordon and the professor were in a heap on the floor, a long boot with a red top between them. The second similarly removed, the old man moved solemnly out to the middle of the floor, called for a couple of walking sticks, laid them crosswise; then broke into the most fantastic dance, leaping to and fro above the imaginary swords, sometimes crouching low, sometimes springing high in air, sometimes whirling like a Dervish with outflowing arms, the whole enriched by an occasional savage yell that was first the terror, afterwards the delight, of one or two of the ladies. But all were entranced, and none more so than the performer himself.

Shortly after the excitement had subsided the guests began to make their farewells. But this struck the venerable Scotchman as quite irregular. "Hoots!" he cried, when one or two had proffered me their hands, "ye canna' gang till we've had worship; Gordon wadna' like it. Wha ever heard tell o' freens leavin' the manse wi'oot a word o' prayer? Gordon, tak' the Buik"; and his son, an amused smile playing about his lips, proceeded promptly to do as he was told.

"Are ye no' gaein' to sing?" the old man suddenly broke out, for Gordon was just starting to read.

"We don't usually, father; it's not customary here," was the answer.

"It's a sair custom," rejoined his father, "neglectin' to sing the praise o' Almichty God. But, onyway, we'll ha'e a psalm--I'll raise the tune mysel'," which purpose he carried into effect as soon as a selection had been made. "We'll tak' the eighty-ninth," he said presently; and as he launched the mighty strain I recognized the very words that had given me my first introduction to the psalms, that far-gone night in uncle's house:

"Oh, greatly blessed the people are
The joyful sound that know,"

he began, singing onward to the end. Gordon and I alone could join with him, but our leader seemed not to care. His whole heart and mind were absorbed in the great song of his fatherland, and he sang it as only an exile can. Face and voice and soul all seemed to bear witness to the truth of the noble verse which brought the psalm to an end. He looked like one of the old battling Covenanters themselves, his eyes closed, his head thrown back, one hand gently keeping time as he rolled out the crowning stanza:

"For God is our defense and He
To us doth safety bring;
The Holy One of Israel
Is our Almighty King."

Silence fell. Then Gordon moved over under the light and began to read the Scriptures. The passage he chose was that sublime chapter from Isaiah; and there were few could interpret through the voice as Gordon could. The old man sat, his eyes shaded by his hand, listening reverently. By and by Gordon came to the words: "My servant shall deal prudently ... he shall be exalted and extolled ... his visage was so marred more than any man and his form more than the sons of men."

"Expound yon," came as a sudden interruption.

Gordon looked up from the book. "What's that, father? Do what?"

"Expound the Word," his father repeated solemnly; "the minister should aye expound the passage. Tell the folk wha the prophet means."

Gordon turned a puzzled look on the page.

"Yon aboot the servant," his father explained; "the Suffering Servant, ye ken--Him wha's face was marred wi' cruel men. Ye ken wha the prophet's referrin' to, my son?"

Gordon understood. "I see what you mean," he answered slowly; "but I don't know that I'm quite clear about that myself. The best scholarship seems in doubt as to whether----"

But the old man was all on fire now. "I dinna' ken naethin' aboot yir scholars," he broke in vehemently, "an' I dinna' care. But yon bit refers to the Man o' Sorrows--ye ken that fine, div ye no'?--it's Christ the prophet means--an' Him sufferin' for sin. Gordon, expound the Word," and there was a stern grandeur about the pose and the voice of this champion of the truth that would have done credit to the ancient prophet himself.

"I cannot," said Gordon, his lips quite white; "not as you understand it, father--it isn't clear to me."

"Then close the Buik," said the old man sternly; "if it's no' the savour of life unto life, it'll be the savour o' death unto death."

And Gordon did. "You'll lead us in prayer, father," he said, his voice so low we could hardly hear.

His father seemed to hesitate a moment, looking timidly around upon the strangers. Then he slowly sank on his knees beside the chair, one hand resting on Dorothy's golden curls; and in a moment the Presence seemed about us. It was a wonderful prayer, and came as if out-breathed beneath the very shadow of the Cross.

Our guests took their leave in silence. After the children were tucked away I waited long up-stairs for Gordon; but I fell asleep at last, the sound of earnest voices still floating upward from the study. I knew it was a collision of the old school and the new--and I prayed on the father's side.