Chapter XXIV: "come, Ettrick; Yarrow, Come"

It was two long days before Gordon returned to me. He knew the worst, of course, but had lingered at Carletonville in the hope that he might get some trace of Harold. A telegram to me, and another from me to him, told enough to send him home at once. Poor Dorothy's eyes looked wonderingly upon us as her father held me in his arms so long and so silently after he came in the door. Grandfather turned his troubled face away, pretending to gaze out of the window.

"You look so old, Gordon," I said unguardedly, as I drew back to look once more on the haggard face.

"I _am_ old, my darling," was all his answer, as he drew me to him again.

I forget what we talked about that evening--it was a dreadsome hour. And I actually feared for Gordon. He seemed half crushed, and half defiant, sometimes breaking out into a flood of grief, sometimes sitting long in stony silence. I felt guilty in the thought that I was more composed than he; once or twice I caught myself admitting that my faith was stronger than his--but I dismissed the comparison as pharisaical. Yet that was my chief concern for my husband--I feared for the influence this sorrow would have on his secret life. I knew then, oh! how well I knew, that only one anchor could hold amid a storm like this. And the very ones who had taught me this were God and Gordon.

The gloaming was just deepening into dark when I came back to the study after telling Dorothy good-night; grandfather's chair was close beside Gordon's, the white head visible through the gloom.

"Noo's the time to use yir faith," the old man was saying softly; "naebody needs a licht till the mirk gathers roun' aboot them. An' there's ae thing, there's ae thing, my son, ye maun aye keep sayin' to yirsel': the laddie's juist as dear to God as he is to you an' Helen--if ye love him, it's because God loves us a'," and the quivering voice fell on my harrowed heart like music from some steeple far aloft. "Aye," he went on as if to himself, "Harold canna' wanner ayont the Faither's care--an' we can aye follow him wi' prayer.

"Rax Gordon the Buik, lassie," he suddenly said, after we had sat a while in silence.

I did as I was bidden and Gordon received it without a word. It seemed to me, though perhaps it was only fancy, as he held it a moment, then opened it slowly and began turning the pages over, that there was a reverent eagerness about it such as had long been wanting. I wondered, fearfully, if this new ministry were already working its blessed way. And he passed Hosea by, though he had been reading for some time from that section of the Scriptures; he had some books on those old writers that he was delving into, and he always read at family worship from the parts he was studying for himself--there was so much of this that I had really grown weary of the prophets, shameful though it may be to confess it. Gordon still turned the leaves, nor stopped till he came to the fourteenth of St. John: "Let not your heart be troubled," which he read with a trembling voice that interpreted it beyond all the power of German scholarship. It was like a great anthem to my soul that night, and I think I gloried as much in Gordon's voice as in the wonderful words.

When we knelt to pray I slipped over to Gordon's chair, and we bowed together, his hand tight clasped in mine. I prayed for Gordon all the time we were bended thus, my heart full of a kind of thankful joy that mingled strangely with the passion of loss and loneliness already there. The prayer was beautiful; and just before its close Gordon stopped, tried again, then faltered out with a kind of sob:

"And, oh, God, give us back our son--bring him back to us, oh, Father of us all." My heart leaped for joy, like one whose long night was almost past.

No word was spoken as grandfather and I slipped out a few minutes later; I went with him to his room, to see that everything was ready. "The guid Shepherd'll bring the wannerin' lamb hame yet," he said as I turned to go, the strong features struggling with emotion; "He'll bring them baith back--back till Himsel'--did ye no' tak' notice o' Gordon's prayer? He's comin' hame, thank God, he's comin' hame," and the old man's voice was touched with heavenly hope.

The next morning, grandfather was astir with the birds. The day was bright; and the weather--so long his daily care--was still a specialty of grandfather's. Indeed, he seemed to live more and more in the past, the farther it receded. For days he would talk of little else but the far-off Scottish hills, and the glint of the sun through the clouds upon the heather, and the solemn responsibilities of the lambing season, and the sagacity of his sheep-dogs, all of whose names he remembered. How often, especially, would he tell us of "Ettrick" and "Yarrow," two of his choicest collies, named for his native streams. "This wad be a graun' day for the sheep," or "there'll be mony a lammie i' the plaid-neuk the day," were frequent opinions of his when sunshine or storm provoked them.

Poor dear grandfather! Far though he was from his beloved Scotland, it was beautiful to see how deep and tranquil was the happiness of his heart. He knew, of course, how sore was our own poverty, and I think it chafed him sorely that he could not help. When he first came out to the Western world, and to his only child, I really believe he thought the hundred pounds he brought with him would make him well-to-do for life. His idea was that all investments, in this new land, break into golden harvest. So he had duly invested his hundred pounds--some eloquent agent had led him on--in some sort of mining stocks. Old-country people are so prone to think that the earth, on this new continent, and the waters under the earth, and the mountains on top of it, all turn to gold if you touch them. Well, he invested his hundred sovereigns, and that was the end of grandfather's financial career--but have I not told all about this already?

Yet he was happy in his children--for so he regarded us both--and in his children's children. But that morning, the morning after Gordon came home, he seemed collapsed with sorrow. Perhaps it was the reaction--I do not know--but it was evident, anyhow, with what absorbing love grandfather's heart had gone out to the now departed Harold. His face was thin and worn, as if he had been ill; his voice was husky and his step was slow. All through breakfast he never broke the silence except to speak of Harold, and it was pathetic to hear the various suggestions the loving heart conjured up as to the best way to get him back. He knew little about law, dear grandfather, except the law of love. Finally Gordon told him, perhaps too candidly, that Harold was doubtless by this time from under his country's flag, and that there was no absolution unless the money were refunded--not even then, he added, except by the grace of those whom he had wronged.

"He'll write to us onyway, will he no'?" grandfather asked plaintively at last.

"Oh, yes," I said quite confidently; "oh, yes, he'll write."

But Gordon seemed anxious to prepare me for possible disappointment. "He likely will, if he's getting on well," he said slowly, fearfully; "if he succeeds, wherever he is, I mean. If he doesn't, I'm--I'm afraid."

I dissented warmly from this. Harold loved his mother, I affirmed. And then I remember how Gordon said something about the change in a boy's whole nature that an experience of this kind is liable to bring about; a word or two about the moral sensibilities being blunted, or something of that sort. Whereat I flared up in warm remonstrance, breaking into eulogy of my son. It was not till afterwards that I realized how all my thought of Harold, when he came home that night, and when he went away, was always of his misfortune and never of his sin--almost as if he had been pitifully wronged. But I suppose that is the way of every woman's heart, and I cannot but think it is partly God's way too.

Early in the forenoon grandfather disappeared, sending word by a messenger that he had availed himself of an opportunity to go into the country. It was evening when he returned, but I never saw a man more changed. His face was aglow with strange enthusiasm and the signs of healing were upon him.

"I juist couldna' help it," he said apologetically as he entered, his shepherd's crook in his hand. "I was fair longin' to see the sheep, an' the hills, yince mair--my heart was sair for them. An' I got a chance wi' a mon that was gaein' oot--he was settin' up some kind o' machinnery. An' I had a graun' day on the hills," he went on delightedly; "it was fair graun'. There was a laddie mindin' some sheep--he was a fine laddie; he minded me o' Harold--and I helpit him a' the day. There wasna' ony heather, nae doot--but the hills were bonnie--and the laddie had a collie dog or twa that minded me o' hame. An' I carried yin puir wee lammie in my arms--it was ailin'--and I lilted the auld psalms yince mair aneath God's blue sky; it was maist as guid as hame," and the aged voice was all aglow with gladness.

"You had a lovely day for it, grandfather," I said, smiling.

"Aye," he answered, "it was a bonnie day--an' aboot yin or twa o'clock there cam' a wee bit rain--a Scotch mist, ye ken, and it minded me o' hame--oh, it's been a graun' day the day. But I canna' think what it was gied me sic' a longin' for the hills--it was fair fearsome--it's no' a'thegither canny, I'm dootin'," and the old man shook his head in an eerie kind of way, so characteristic of his race. "I'm gaein' to bed," he said, moving already towards the stair; "I'm fair din oot.

"What's yon black thing hangin' there?" he suddenly demanded, the keen eyes resting on the door at the back of the hall.

I paid little or no attention to the question, deeming it unimportant; we went on talking for a few minutes.

"Lassie," he suddenly broke out again, "run, lassie, an' see what's yon black thing hangin' on the door."

Dorothy went as directed. "It's mamma's rain coat," she said a moment later, returning with it in her hand.

"Aye," said the old man, apparently relieved, "aye, it's naethin' but a cloak--but it fashed me to look at it; I thocht it lookit like--like yin o' thae crape things," he added with an embarrassed little laugh. This gave me a queer creepy feeling at the time, but I thought little more about it then; it came back to us later on, however.

Grandfather went to bed immediately, and Gordon and I were not long behind him. It was about one o'clock, I think, or perhaps a little later, when I was wakened from my sleep by a strange sound, half groan, half cry. I went out at once into the hall and soon traced the sign of distress to grandfather's room. The old man was raised up in the bed, partly sitting; and the light I quickly kindled told the story in a flash as I glanced at the ashen face.

"It's my heart," he said huskily; "it's yin o' thae spells like I had lang syne. It winna' be lang, I'm dootin'."

I was terrified, for I thought I could descry the stamp of death already. There was a majestic calm, an unwonted stillness, upon the old man's face. I called Gordon at once; he evidently shared my fear, for he rushed away for a doctor. It was but a few minutes before he returned with the physician. The latter was not long in telling us the truth.

"It's simply a total collapse," he whispered to Gordon and me as we followed him out into the hall. "He can hardly live till the morning; yes, it's his heart--a case of syncope. Don't be alarmed if he grows delirious, or semi-delirious--they often do, just from sheer weakness. That roaming about the country, to-day, that you spoke of--and the excitement of it--have probably been too much for him."

"Shall we tell him?" asked Gordon, pale and trembling.

"Perhaps it would be just as well. Has he everything in order?--his will, I mean, and everything like that, you know?"

"That isn't important," said Gordon; "father had little to will--yet I think he ought to be told. But I cannot--I couldn't do it. Will you?"

The doctor nodded and turned slowly towards the room. We did not hear what he said, but a moment later grandfather faintly called for Gordon. We both went into the chamber of death.

"Rax me my wallet--you'll find it in the kist," said the old man, pointing towards a trunk in the corner of the room.

Gordon handed him a large leather case which a brief search revealed. The shaking hand fumbled a moment or two before it withdrew a somewhat bulky document. "This is what they gi'ed me for my hunnerd pounds," he said, a half-shamed smile coming over the strong features. "They ca'ed them stocks," he added, "stocks in a mine, ye ken. I got the shares for saxpence each--an' they said they was awfu' valuable--and I tuk a' they'd gie me for a hunnerd pounds." Then he named a certain mine in Northern Ontario, and I thought I saw the faintest smile on Gordon's face. He took the paper from his father's hand and laid it on the table.

"I made the shares ower to Helen, lang syne," the old man said humbly; "gin they turn oot to be worth onythin', they're for her. I didna' ken when I micht be ta'en awa'--an' it's aye weel to be ready."

I faltered some poor words of thanks which the sinking man did not seem to hear. A new, strange light came into his eyes as we waited beside his bed. The doctor had withdrawn now, powerless to do more.

"Gang an' fetch the plaidie," he suddenly directed, "the yin I used to wear at hame; an' pit it aboot my shoulders--the nicht's growin' cauld. An' I canna' find the sheep," he suddenly cried, half starting in his bed; "I hear them bleatin' on the hills--but I canna' find them a'."

Then his eyes, large and luminous with the light of the unseen, revolved slowly till they fixed themselves on Gordon. "Kneel doon, laddie," he said gently, yet with the majesty of a prophet, "kneel doon beside me."

Gordon knelt low by the bed; one trembling hand, outstretched, was laid upon his head. The dying eyes looked far beyond into the Unknown. "Gordon," he said, almost in a whisper, "I see yir mither--she's wi' us noo." I actually started and looked up, following the lifted gaze. "An' she's lookin' doon at ye, my son--an' the love is fair shinin' frae her een. It was her that made ye a minister, my laddie. When ye was a wee bit bairn, me and her gi'ed ye up to God; an' mony a night, when ye didna' ken, she bendit by yir bed an' pleaded wi' God to mak' ye a minister--a minister, my laddie, o' the Everlastin' Gospel. Div ye hear me, Gordon?"

"Yes, father, yes," and Gordon was sobbing now; "yes, I hear, father."

"An' she wants ye to keep the troth, my son. I'm gaein' to her noo--an' I'll tell her ye'll be a guid minister, Gordon, a guid minister o' the New Testament, leadin' puir sinners to the Cross. Wull ye no' bid me tell her that, my laddie?" and the dying lips paused for answer.

"Yes," faltered the broken man beside the bed, "yes, father, tell mother that."

The light of peace stole across the aged face. "I'm ready to gang noo," the gentle voice went on, "an' yir mither's beckonin'. I'm comin', mither; I'll be wi' ye soon. An' Gordon's comin' tae--an' Helen--an' they'll bring baith the bairns wi' them." Then his eyes turned slowly upon Gordon. "I'm ready to gang noo in peace," he said faintly--"but there's yin puir lammie," a troubled expression looking out from the dying eyes, "there's yin puir lammie that I canna' find. Oh, my son," the voice rising again and the prophet-like eyes fastened upon Gordon, "tak' guid care o' the sheep--it's an awesome thing to be an unfaithfu' shepherd; tak' care o' the sheep, my laddie--an' where's Harold? Is the bairn no' hame the nicht?"

Then swift delirium seemed to seize him, and he rose violently where he lay, the last eddy of life swirling in the sullen stream of death. "I canna' find the lamb that's wannered," he cried, in a voice that startled us; "I canna' find it, an' the mirk is fallin'. Ettrick, come!--ho! Yarrow. Where are ye, Yarrow? Find it, my bonnie--find it and bring it hame." Then suddenly the dying lips pressed themselves together and a faint whistle floated out on the midnight air.

I seized Gordon by the shoulder. "Hush," said my husband, his face like death itself; "hush--he's calling his dogs."

"They're breakin'," he cried despairingly; "the sheep's scatterin'--they're gaein' to wanner--where's my crook? Gordon, bide ye here, my laddie, till yir faither turns them back. Come, Ettrick--Yarrow, come!" and again the dread whistle floated from his lips.

We tried to compose him, speaking tender words. Slowly the look of peace stole back upon the old man's face. He lay with eyes almost closed. "They're a' hame noo," he murmured gently; "aye, they're a' safe in the fold, my laddie, an' they'll gang oot nae mair till the mirk is by--we can rest noo till the mornin'," as he lay back in calm content.

Suddenly the dying eyes were lifted to his son. "Lilt me a psalm," he murmured; "we'll sing afore we gang to sleep; but dinna' wake yir mither--yir mither's restin'."

"What shall I sing, father?" Gordon asked in an awesome voice.

"A psalm, my--laddie," the words coming faint and slow; "ye ken the yin I'm needin'--there's only yin psalm for a shepherd."

Gordon looked at me. One hand was in his father's; the other was outstretched to me, and I knelt beside him. Then with trembling voice, my clearer note mingling with Gordon's quivering bass, we sang together:

"The Lord's my shepherd, I'll not want--
He makes me down to lie,"

and just as we were midway in the majestic strain

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

the old shepherd passed through the valley with his Lord.