Chapter V: An Alternative

Some things never happen more than once. And these one never can forget.

I remember exactly what I wore that evening; what it was, is of no consequence to any one but me. I have a few fragments of it yet, tatters mostly--but their colour never seems to fade.

And I can recall the errand that took me forth. It was to get some cream; for what we had didn't know when it was whipped. Such was the simple mission on which I started out, and I had a little pitcher in my hand; even then the days were almost past in which a Southern girl thought such a thing beneath her.

I hadn't gone very far when I saw Uncle Henry coming towards me. He was evidently homeward bound, returning from the train. And there was somebody with him; I could see a tall form, clothed in black, beside him--and uncle, to my surprise, was carrying a valise.

I don't know why it was, but instantly my pace slackened till I stood almost still. And once I turned and looked back towards the house; I think I held the pitcher out in front of me as if I were pointing with it. I really believe I was contemplating a retreat, but just then uncle sang out something in his cheery way; this let me know I was recognized and expected, whereat I walked calmly on to meet them.

As I came closer I kept my eyes fixed as steadfastly on uncle as though I had been looking for him all my life. I believe I bowed to him as he came up; how ridiculous it all seems now.

"Where are you off to, Helen?" he asked, glancing at the jug.

"I'm going to Humphrey's," I said, gazing into the empty pitcher; "going for cream--ours at home won't whip." Then I felt how silly this must sound to a stranger. For I knew, without being told, that this was no country elder, and that he had never heard of Pollocksville.

"Let me introduce Mr. Lord," said my uncle, paying no further attention to my remark; "the Reverend Mr. Lord--the friend of Dr. Paine's that Mr. Furvell told us about. He's to be our guest. Mr. Lord, this is my niece, Miss Helen Randall."

The stranger lifted his hat--it was a low-crowned felt--and bowed. His bow was deferential enough, but it lacked the Southern touch. Less low, less obeisant, sooner finished. And he seemed rather surprised when I extended my hand--I noticed how firm and strong was his--and he didn't bow low again when he took it, as a Southern man would have done. Nor did he hold his hat in his hand while we spoke together; this I remarked particularly.

"My name's not Lord, Mr. Lundy," he said with a smile as he turned from me; "it's Laird--not a great difference, I'll admit. Only that's the Scotch of it."

"Is that so?" said my uncle interestedly. "They do sound something alike, don't they? Perhaps I'm further wrong," he went on smilingly; "it just occurs to me I should say Dr. Laird. Are you a doctor, sir?" enquired Uncle Henry respectfully.

The other smiled. "No," he answered slowly, "I'm quite undecorated. You see, D.D.'s aren't quite so--so generously distributed," the smile widening, "on our side of the water. You've either got to be very brilliant--or very prosy--to get one there."

"I'm sure you're not one of those two," declared my uncle.

"I'd like to know which one," said the stranger; "however, we'll lave it go at that, as an Irish friend of mine says. But anyhow, I'm not a doctor--very plain name mine is, Mr. Lundy; just plain Laird, Gordon Laird. Let me carry that bag," he suddenly digressed, reaching for the valise; "it's pretty heavy--two or three sermons there, you know."

His offer of assistance was stoutly rejected, as any one who knew Uncle Henry could easily have foretold.

I was silent all this time. But I was busy making notes; and my pen flows easily, as if its story were of yesterday, while I record the impressions that came so fast and have remained so long. I recall how strange the Scottish voice sounded to me, not harsh and strident as I thought all Scottish voices were, but refined and cultured. The way he rolled his "r's" and sounded his final "ings" was in decided contrast to our Southern way of slurring the one and mincing the other. Rather pleasing, too, I thought it. He was tall--taller than uncle--and his figure was of athletic build, erect and supple, as if he had given himself freely to exercise out-of-doors. Especially noticeable were the shoulders, so broad and so well held back, giving the chest an appearance of greater expansion than it really had. But I think the face impressed me most of all. It was ruddy, as the sea-polished faces of those Scotchmen are so apt to be; a strong Scottish face it was, serious, almost stern when in repose--all Scotchmen naturally think much about Eternity--and yet the lips, thin and mobile, looked as if laughter were never far away. The mouth was really remarkable, evidently framed for public speech, although its proximity to a very resolute jaw lent it a look of Scottish fixity that really wasn't there at all, even if he was the Reverend Gordon Laird. His forehead was high--a little too narrow, I thought, to meet my view of what Carlyle would have admired--and evidently harboured much within; for I have a theory that foreheads shine if there is anything bright behind them, as cathedral windows are lightened by an altar fire. This high brow lost itself in a very comely head of hair; auburn, I must frankly state it was, but a very superior kind of auburn, the semi-ruddy wavelets having half a mind to curl after a fashion of youthful days. I verily believe they would have curled, had it not been for the close-buttoned vest and clerical coat he wore; these canonicals never could have kept their dignity in the neighbourhood of kinky hair. The nose was big, as all the best men's noses are. It stood out in a personal kind of way, like an independent promontory; and it had the slightest little terminal tilt--it wasn't turned up, it was aspiring.

This, I think, describes fairly well the man who was not an elder and had never heard of Pollocksville. All except the eyes, which deserve a separate paragraph. In fact, there would be no paragraphs and no chapters and no literature at all, were it not for the eyes of men--women too--and all that lies behind the eyes, all the soul of things and the passion of life and the foregleams of Eternity. Well, the eyes of the Reverend Gordon Laird were just such as the Reverend Gordon Laird had a right to have. I'm sure there is no Presbytery in Christendom, nor any bishop, nor any other human judge or authority who could as well determine just what brand of eyes would match that particular name, as could a simple maiden who had never met this certain sort of man before. And I thought the eyes and the name were a perfect match. They--the eyes, I mean--were nearer brown than anything else; the kind of eyes that could never be content to be one particular hue--they seemed to have got their blend from the sky, which, as everybody knows, selects no colour but takes toll of all. And they were frank, so frank and honest--eager, too, inquisitive, in a reverent sort of way; penetrating they seemed to be--the more penetrating because they were rather veiled--and they looked to be in quest of truth, and love, and life. Yes, life; I think the eyes of the Reverend Gordon Laird had more of life in them than any others I have ever seen--not bright, or animated, or brilliant, or anything of that sort; but life, with all its mystery and loneliness and longing, seemed to lie deep in them, like water in a silent well.

The two men went on their way a moment later, uncle swinging the valise quite playfully to show how light it was. "I hope to see you later," said the Reverend Gordon Laird as I started on; "and perhaps I'll be introduced to that cream you're going to get," he added, in quite a non ministerial way.

"Not till it's whipped," said I, holding the pitcher in both hands.

"That's when it'll be good," replied the cleric, something of the moralist in his voice this time.

I had gone but a little way when I suddenly stopped, looked back, calculated. For an idea had come to me--and I knew a short cut home. A hasty flight through a neighbour's yard, straight under an old pine tree that George Washington was credited with planting, along a narrow alley that led to our back garden, would bring me there before those deliberate two would have arrived.

Three minutes later I was in the sitting-room, breathless almost. "It's a minister," I said, "a young minister--and he's Scotch as heather." I have often wondered since where I got this expression; but I believe I heard it from old McLaughlin. He was the only Scotchman in our whole town, and he always wore a shawl to church, and put a penny on the plate.

"Who?" said Aunt Agnes and my mother in unison. They were both in black silk, for they knew it was train time. And my aunt had donned two real tortoise-shell combs that came from Tiffany's.

"Our elder," I gasped, standing the pitcher on the mantel; "he isn't an elder at all. He's a minister--with one of those vests that fit around the throat like a sweater--the same as the Episcopalians wear--and fair hair. And I ran back to tell you not to put him in the attic," I concluded, lifting my eyes heavenward as I spoke.

"A sweater vest and fair hair!" my aunt echoed in mock gravity; "is that all he has on?"

"Not put him in the attic?" exclaimed my mother, scornful of merriment at such an hour; "why shouldn't we put him there--where would you have him put?"

"Any of the rooms," I answered promptly; "my room."

"Mercy, child, we'd have to get all your things out of it and turn everything upside down," my mother returned seriously, "and they'll be here in a few minutes. What happened to the elder?"

"I don't know. I don't remember. Uncle did say something about why he didn't come--I think he's sick, or dead, or something. But I'm not sure. And we can easily keep Mr. Laird down-stairs till we get things changed around. It wouldn't need much--men never look into drawers and closets like women do," I assured them.

"Mr. Laird!" echoed both my auditors almost in chorus. "Is that his name?"

"Yes," I said, "his name's Laird--Gordon Laird."

"Goodness me!" exclaimed my mother, "but you've made good progress. I hope you didn't call him Gordon. How old is he?"

"I don't know," I retorted, treating the thrust with silence, "and I don't care--I don't care anything about him. You know I'm not much on preachers--and anyhow, I'm going to the theatre to-night with Charlie. But I took all this trouble for your sakes," I went on in a rather injured tone; "I didn't suppose you'd want to coop anybody like him up at the top of the house. But I don't care," I concluded vehemently.

My Aunt Agnes was at the window. "They're coming," she announced, without turning her head. "Your Uncle Henry certainly should have sent Moses for that valise--and he certainly is tall."

Mother by this time was at the window too. "He isn't any taller than Mr. Giddens," she pronounced, after a little silence.

"Well, what are you going to do about it?" I said, a trifle petulantly, for they both seemed to have forgotten I was there.

"Really I hardly know," my aunt began reflectively; "it does seem hardly the thing to----"

"There's no use talking about it," my mother broke in; "it's too late to make any change now. And anyhow, Henry wouldn't like it, I'm sure--he'd think it wasn't fair to the elder."

"Sacred to the memory of the elder from Pollocksville," chanted my aunt solemnly.

"All right," I said, reaching towards the mantel for the pitcher, "just as you like. He's not my guest--and I'm going for the cream."

And I reflected as I went--or if I didn't, I have often done so since--how full is life of this same proceeding. Thwarted plans and broken promises and disappointed hopes--yet all that remains for us is to take up our humdrum tasks again, to pick up our waiting pitcher and go our way through some back alley and across some homely yard--for the cream.

They were still on the porch when I got back. And Mr. Laird was swinging away in one of the big easy chairs, as much at home as if he had known us all his life. His hat was lying on the floor and his hair was hardly a bit red in the failing light. He rose as I came on to the porch.

"Did you get the cream?" he asked seriously, as if it were a matter of importance.

"Oh, yes," I said, "Lyn's thrashing away at it by this time. She's our cook, you know," I added informatively.

"I'm vastly interested in these darkies," he said as we both sat down. "We have very few of them in Edinburgh--the thermometer doesn't agree with them. They're quite a study, aren't they?" pointing as he spoke to a sable boy who was carrying a pail across the yard.

"You'll find the life here very different, won't you, sir?" my uncle remarked; "but I suppose you hear a great deal, even in Scotland, of what's called the 'Nigger problem,' don't you?"

"Yes," returned our visitor, "we're reminded of it rather startlingly sometimes--by what we see in the newspapers. But I suppose such despatches--about lynch law, I mean--are decidedly exaggerated."

Uncle's face clouded a little. "I never saw any of your papers, of course," he said; "but I should fancy 'twould be difficult to exaggerate much about some things that have happened in the South, sir."

"Then there must be some terrible scenes of brutality," rejoined Mr. Laird, looking about the circle in an evident attempt to make the conversation general.

"That depends on what you call brutality, sir," my uncle answered, his voice suddenly intense, his eyes fixed very earnestly on his guest. "We reckon here, sir--all Southern gentlemen reckon--that people who have only heard of these things, and who are not--who aren't familiar with the situation; we reckon, sir, that they're hardly justified in pronouncing an opinion."

I think Aunt Agnes must have scented danger ahead. In any case she suddenly gave the conversation a mighty jerk in another direction. "Oh, by the way, Henry," she began, as if it had everything to do with the race question, "have you any idea what happened the elder from Pollocksville?"

If uncle felt any surprise at the rather violent digression he concealed it remarkably well. "Yes," he answered calmly. "Mr. Furvell got word about him at the last minute. It seems he has thirteen children, and one got lost--you'd think he had enough left, wouldn't you? But he got in quite a fuss about it, and that's why he wasn't able to get away. So we'd have been left without a guest altogether if our friend hadn't happened along," and my uncle made a courtly little bow in the direction of Mr. Laird.

"Oh, I see," said the latter, evidently very interested. "I'm an alternative then. Well, I'm here anyhow--and that's the main thing."

"Oh, no, Mr. Laird, there was no alternative about it," broke in my aunt, "nothing of the sort. If our elder had come you were to go with Dr. Paine to Mrs. Keen's--and then we'd have lost you," smiling very sweetly as she spoke.

"Weel," replied Mr. Laird jocosely, "'it's an ill wind that blaws naebody guid,' as they say in my country. If it hadn't been for that youngster straying away, I wouldn't have been here. So I'm an advocate of large families from this time on."

"So am I," said my Aunt Agnes.

"But there's a matter in connection with the elder we expected," my mother began rather timidly, "and it's something that's troubling us a little."

Mr. Laird looked as if he would like to be enlightened.

"And I may just as well tell you now," went on my mother; "it's about where we were going to put him--and that's where we have to put you."

"That's the worst of it," ejaculated my Aunt Agnes.

"You see," resumed my mother, "we thought you were going to be an elder--and we were going to put him in the attic," the dread tidings coming at last with a splash. "And we do hope you won't mind, Mr. Laird--you see if we had ever thought----"

"We won't make any apologies to our guest," my uncle now broke in, his tone indicating that he wouldn't object to being heard. "You're welcome as the flowers in May, Mr. Laird--and there's a fireplace in your room in the attic. I may be wrong, but it's always seemed to me if a fellow's got a welcome and an open fire, the attic's just as good as the parlour."

Mr. Laird looked delighted. "I'm in love with it already," he responded gleefully; "I wouldn't trade it for any room in the house. I couldn't imagine," he went on mirthfully, "what was coming. I thought it must be the dog-kennel, or a dark closet, or a wood-shed; but an attic--and a fireplace! Why, bless my heart, there's nothing in the world I love like an attic--secluded, lofty, roomy--it's the best place in the house. Let us see it now."

"Where's Moses?" said my uncle; "he'll take your valise up for you. It's plain, but it's comfortable, Mr. Laird. And if you like it, there's just one way I want you to show it."

"And what might that be?" asked our visitor.

"Don't be in any hurry about leaving," said my uncle with serious air.

"No, we'll think you don't like it if you are," chimed in my aunt.

"Where's Moses?" asked uncle again.

"I don't know where Moses is," said the Reverend Gordon Laird, his face as sober as a judge, "but one thing I do know--I've heard of Southern hospitality, and the half was never told."

Uncle bowed; Aunt Agnes smiled graciously. As for me, I had disappeared.

"What have you been up to now? You certainly did get out of the way in a hurry--you've been up to the attic yourself, haven't you, now?" for mother saw that I was flurried and out of breath when I returned.

It was a little while before I owned up. But I reckoned they'd find out sooner or later anyhow. "Well," I said at last, "yes, if you will know. I ran up and put my silver toilet set on the dresser--it helped ever so much to make things look decent. And I took up those roses from the library--they make the whole room look different."

"Those roses!" my mother echoed; "why, child, Mr. Giddens sent you those roses just this morning--they're American beauties, Helen."

"I know it," I answered calmly, "so they'll be something new--to him. Besides, there's some respect due a clergyman from Edinburgh."