Chapter XXI: "love's Old Sweet Song"

There could be but one end to this. Whether Gordon was right or wrong, he was not at one with the standards of his church. I really believe, although I shrink from saying it, that his idea of _saving_ men came more and more to be confused with the process of simply _helping_ them. This sprang partly, of course, from his nobility of nature, from his large and loving heart--but it was wrong. Gordon, I think, believed in relieving men, then reforming them, both of which were to spell regeneration. And then, besides, he seemed to have adopted some theory about law, and the laws of nature--he knew more about evolution than any other man since Darwin--that had turned the once sweet luxury of prayer, real prayer, into nothing more than a sort of religious exercise. I don't believe he thought prayers that actually asked for things were of any use at all.

I suppose, too, although I never could find out much about this, that Gordon didn't just regard the Scriptures in the same way his brother ministers did; yet I knew he reverenced the Bible and simply lived among its teachings.

But there could, as I have said, be only one end to all of this--so far, I mean, as Gordon's relation to St. Andrew's was concerned. I felt from the beginning that it would be but a matter of time till he must forsake the pulpit he loved so well. There were two influences that contributed powerfully to this: the one was Gordon's honour--the other, Gordon's father. My husband had a fastidious conscience--and a faithful sire.

Grandfather had been with us long--I cannot say exactly how long--before matters actually came to a crisis. But I think he felt from the beginning, with the keen instinct of his kind, that Gordon's official ministry was at an end. One night, sitting in an adjoining room, I overheard the most of a long conversation between the father and the son. The burden of it did not greatly surprise me; grandfather had given me his mind on the matter before, or implied it anyhow, and more than once. But I knew that night that the crisis was at hand.

"Ye canna' dae onythin' else," the old man repeated once or twice; "when a minister gi'es up the fundamentals, it's no' richt for him to keep his kirk. A preacher wi'oot a gospel!--he's a sair objec'," the Scotch voice concluded pitifully.

I could catch the tone of almost bitter remonstrance in Gordon's answer. "Without a gospel, father!" he cried reproachfully; "surely you don't accuse me of that--surely you're going too far."

"Ye dinna' believe Christ died for sinners," the older man said sternly; "an' ony minister wha doesna' believe that--he's wi'oot a gospel, my son."

"You don't understand me, father," Gordon remonstrated earnestly; "you state the thing too severely--perhaps I don't just believe it in the way you do, but----"

"There's only the yin way to believe yon," interrupted his father; "you an' me's the same kind o' sinners, my son--an' we need the same kind o' a Saviour. Forbye, ye think we're a' divine, I'm dootin'; that's what they say aboot ye, onyway--an' I'm thinkin' I've gathered it from yir sermons mair nor once."

"Not exactly, father," I heard Gordon answer. "What I do teach is, that every man has the divine within him; and if we but appeal----"

"I dinna' ken what ye've got inside o' ye," broke in the champion of truth, "but I'm sick an' tired o' all inside o' _me_--naethin' but sin an' misery--naethin' but filthy rags," he added, careless of the unseemly metaphor. "An' there's mair--ye dinna' believe there's ony use in prayer; nae guid ava', forbye juist ha'ein' fellowship wi' God. An' ye dinna' believe there's ony use in prayin' for the things we want--ye dinna' think it maks ony difference; ye're feart o' the laws of natur'--ye think God's a servant in His ain hoose, like as if He couldna' dae onythin' He wants to dae."

"But I do believe in prayer, father--of course I do. Perhaps I don't just believe that it alters or affects the outward course of things; but at the same time----"

"Then ye maun settle it wi' the Word of God," the old man answered solemnly; "it aye bids us to ask for what we want; an' it tells us God's oor Heavenly Faither--an' what for wud He no' dae things for us, Him, wi' all power in His hands. Oh, my son, my son, ye'll change yir mind some day, I'm dootin', when yir sair heart's callin' oot for the love o' the livin' God."

And thus the sorrowful dialogue made its way.

I think it was the very next day Gordon told me he had resigned St. Andrew's. He told me his reason, too; which I knew already. My heart leaped towards the children, I remember, but I scarce knew why; tenderly, passionately, pityingly, my heart went out to my children, to whom I knew it would mean the most.

"Where will we go to live?" was one of the first questions I asked. For I did not seek, then, to turn Gordon from his purpose. I knew too well how impossible that would be; besides, I felt no honourable course was open to him but the one he had already chosen.

Gordon's face was very grave as he began to tell me of the only opening he saw before him.

"But you'll get another call, Gordon--and another church, won't you?" I asked, dimly fearing.

"No, no other call--and no other church," he answered firmly; "at least, no regular church, Helen;" with which he explained to me how the very reasons that prompted him to renounce St. Andrew's must hold him back from any similar position. "But I'll have a field of work just the same--of usefulness, too, please God," he added, in the lowest voice. "I can labour there without being responsible to any one but Him."

Then he told me all about the plan he had in view. He would take the little mission in Swan Hollow; this was the sunken part of the city in which he had so long carried on the work that had received so much of his care and love--the same to which Jennie McMillan had belonged, to whom I owed the happiness of all the years between.

"We've got a little church there," he said, a note of pride mingling with the sadness of his voice, "and it doesn't belong to anybody but ourselves. The people built it--and I helped them. It's just possible the Presbytery may try to interfere with me--but I don't think so. That's where I'm going to preach now, Helen; and I'll preach the truth as I believe it."

"But, Gordon," I remonstrated, "won't it be the same truth that you've preached in St. Andrew's?"

He did not answer immediately. And his face was clouded when his words came at length. "It won't be the same as St. Andrew's expects to hear--and wants to hear," he said; "they demand the old orthodox truths in the old orthodox way--and then they're through with them," he added a little bitterly; "till the next Sunday, at least."

"But aren't those the same truths your father believes?" I pressed, feeling the strength of my reply.

"Yes," he answered, "but my father believes them in his inmost heart--and he lives them."

"And don't you believe them in your inmost heart, Gordon?" I cried eagerly--"the way your father does?"

"No," he answered gravely, after a long pause, his face very white; "no, I don't believe them as my father does."

"Oh, Gordon," I pleaded with sudden entreaty, "come back--come back, my darling. You're drifting; oh, Gordon, you're drifting away from God--and me," for my soul's loneliness was about me like a mist.

"Don't," he said huskily, holding out his arms to me, "for God's sake don't make it any harder for me. No man can drift far if he tries to do good in his Master's name--and I intend, I honestly purpose, to give my life to those poor people at the mission. If any man will do His will, we're told, he shall know the doctrine. I'm going to try to do His will, Helen--and I want you close beside me, together, doing our life-work hand in hand. Then we can't be anything but happy, my darling," and his words rang with the note of life and courage.

I loved the people of the mission; and I loved the work. But the import of it all rose before me for a moment like a sullen cloud; the squalor of the homes; the ignorance of the people, loving and grateful though they were; the poverty on every hand; the obscurity of the position that must be ours; the pitiful support that we could hope to receive. And our cozy manse seemed to grow and dance before my eyes, clothed suddenly with palatial beauty. I could see little Dorothy, the big sunbonnet shading the dimpled face, as she picked dandelions on the lawn; and Harold, the treasure of my heart, as he swung into the hall and flung his school-bag on the table, calling aloud the while for mother. It is humiliating to write it down; but I think the question of our living, too, of simple bread and butter, actually presented itself to my saddened and bewildered mind.

I suppose it was weak and selfish of me--though I cared not for myself--when I flung myself into Gordon's arms and besought him as I did.

"Oh, Gordon," I pleaded amid my tears; "don't, dearest, for the children's sakes. It isn't too late yet, Gordon--have you thought of what this means?--we'll likely have to take Harold out of school."

He caressed me, trying to soothe me as he might a child. "I know what it means, Helen," he answered; "I've thought of all that. It breaks my heart to think of what it will bring to you--but I am helpless, dear, I'm helpless."

"Not me," I sobbed, "not me, Gordon; I'd go with you to the depths of Africa. But the children, Gordon--think of them. We're old," I cried--and I really believed it--"we're old, and our life is nearly done; but Harold and Dorothy are so young, and theirs is all before them. And don't--oh, Gordon, don't--for our children's sakes."

"What can I do, my child?" he murmured. "What else can I do?"

"Why, Gordon--do what I do. Oh, Gordon, all you need to do is to believe those things--the things I do, and the things your father does--and preach them, like you used to at the first. And then we won't need to go away at all. I believe the people really love you more now than they did years ago--and they'll keep on loving you--and then we won't have to, have to give up all this," I concluded, my tear-dim eyes looking wistfully up into his tired face.

He shook his head. "I must follow what light I have," he said.

"But, Gordon," I went on, still hoping against hope, "I'm sure it would come all right. We'll study those things out together, dear--and I'll help you. I've learned a lot about them, ever since that night--that night, you remember, when Jennie died. And I'll try and explain everything," I pleaded pitifully, the pathos of it all coming over me as I looked up at the strong and intellectual face, "and we'll both go on together--in the old paths--and I'll try so hard to help you, dear. Then we won't have to go away at all--or give up our house--and it's all so dark ahead of us, for the children, I mean."

"I can't sell my soul for bread, Helen," he answered solemnly; "and I know as well as you what it all means. My father's heart is nearly broken now."

"And, Gordon," I whispered, still pressing my poor plea, "there's another thing we'll do," as I drew his face down beside my lips.

"What, dearest?"

"We'll--we'll pray together, Gordon; every day," I faltered, "every day, that God will make us believe the right things. And He will--I know He will."

"I've prayed that for long," he murmured low. "Oh, my darling, I love you so," and his lips pressed themselves to mine with a reverence and a passion I had never felt before.

* * * * *

Let me write it down, for the comfort of every troubled heart, that the holiest hours in all life's retrospect are those that are clothed in sorrow. The years have fled; yet the years are with me still. And when one sits in the gloaming (as I sit now) and looks back at all the distant days, the lure that casts its spell upon the heart comes not from the radiant hour of mirth or ecstasy; nor from the period of glad prosperity; nor from the season of echoing mirth and laughter. Not there does Memory ask leave to linger. But it hovers long, in sweet and heartful reverie, about some hour of tender grief, some season of blessed pain--blessed always, tender evermore, because it has been glorified by love, robbed of all its bitterness by the loyalty of some dear heart that came closer and closer to your own amid the darkness.

The home of early married life is the heart's earthly home forever. I knew that now; and memory bathes the soul in tears as I recall our last night beneath the roof of that St. Andrew's manse. Everything was packed and ready. The new house, the tiny, shabby house that was next day to become our home, was waiting for our advent. The rude but loving hands of some of the helpers at the mission had joined with ours to make it ready. And for our living there, they were providing us with a little salary; pitifully small--but our children would have clothes and bread.

My heart was like to break; but we spent that last evening in unconquerable brightness. I know I was no less cheerful than Gordon--and ever and anon I wondered if his heart were as sad as mine. The most pitiful feature of it all was Dorothy's unconscious glee--moving was such great fun, she thought. Harold was old enough to catch the contagion of our pain--for pain will show through the best veneer that courage can provide.

Both the children, and their grandfather too, were in bed and sound asleep when Gordon and I went up-stairs together about ten o'clock. We went into the children's room, for they were still unparted, the little bed nestling close to the big one; and we stood long above the slumbering forms, our eyes swimming as we looked.

"I wonder if it's really so," I heard Gordon murmur.

"What, darling?" I said.

"That God pities us--like we pity them," the sentence finished in a broken voice. "It solves all life's problems--if that's really so."

I could make no answer. But I bowed and kissed Harold's lovely brow; then Dorothy's.

"Come with me, Gordon," I said gently, after we had stood a while in silence, starting to move across the hall.

He followed me into our own room. "This is harder than all the rest," I said brokenly; "this is the dearest and sacredest room in the world to me. Oh, Gordon," and I was sobbing now, "surely they'll let me--whoever comes here after us--surely they'll let me come sometimes and see it, won't they, Gordon?"

His arms were so strong, his voice so tender. "Why, dearest, why? What makes this room so sacred to you?"

"Oh, don't you know?" and the words could hardly come for sobbing; "this is where they were born, Gordon--where they both were born. It was right there I lay when I first saw Harold's face. Oh, Gordon, I can't--I don't know how to give it up."

His eyes were full of pity and his voice was quivering. "Yes," he said, "yes, it's holy--but we have the children left, my darling," and he began to lead me gently from the room. Nor did he stop till we were standing where we had stood before, looking down on the unconscious forms.

"I'm going down to the study for a while," he said a little later; "I won't be long," as he began to descend the stairs, his footsteps echoing through the dismantled house.

I went back to my room, weeping, and sat down upon one of the trunks that stood about. Suddenly an impulse came to me--I think it must have been from heaven--and I sprang to my feet, burrowing eagerly towards the bottom of the trunk.

Ten minutes later I stole down the stairs. I was arrayed in my wedding gown. The years may have chafed it some, but they had not availed against its beauty and its richness. The pearl trimming--and those other radiant things that have no name--shone triumphant in the light. And I had about my neck, and on my bosom, some precious lace that I had removed long years before. The hall was almost empty--little there but our piano, that had been dragged out and left close beside the door. There was a mirror, too, still undisturbed upon the wall; and I paused before it just as I had done that golden day in Baltimore when Gordon was waiting to take me as his own forever. My eyes rested lovingly on the sweet and stainless vesture--it still fitted me like a glove, thank heaven--and then wandered to the face above. Long, long I gazed into the answering eyes, the past lying deep within them like water in some amber spring. The face was older, of course, and the signs of toil and care were on it; but the golden glow of love, I felt, clothed it with a peace--and a beauty too--which it never knew on that far-off wedding day. Poverty and hardship, I knew, were waiting at the gate; obscurity and struggle were to be our portion. But my husband was sitting in the room just beyond the door; my children--oh, the wealth and sweetness of the word!--my children's breathing I could almost hear; the years were past and gone, from whose hands I had received them all--and in that hour my wedding robes glistened with a holier light than time can cast, and the bridal bliss sprang like a fountain in my heart.

"Why so long?" Gordon suddenly sang out; "come in."

"I'm coming, dear," I said, and I felt the blitheness of my voice as it echoed through the hall. Very softly I stepped in and stood before him as he sat beside the dying fire.

His eyes devoured me with love; they roamed mostly about my dress--which was exactly what I wanted. I think he glanced once or twice about the room, its denuded bareness contrasting strangely with the rich robe I wore. Then he rose and took me into his arms--far, deep in--as into a mighty refuge. "You never looked so sweet, my darling--the years haven't touched it," was all he said. But he kissed my hair, my neck, my lips.

It was nearly an hour later when we arose to go up-stairs, and I was still in all my glory as we moved out, Gordon's arm still about me, into the echoing hall.

"Sing something," he suddenly requested as we passed the piano. It stood in sullen silence, as if it knew this to be a move for the worse.

My hands roved over the keys for a little; it was hard to know what would suit the hour.

But some breath of other days was wafted in upon me; and I felt my heart leap beneath the wedding lace upon my bosom as the song gushed into my mind again.

The light was dim, the house disrobed, the piano out of tune. But I can still see the rapture in Gordon's face as mine turned up to meet it while the words came one by one:

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