"_ANGELS UNAWARES_"
I presented him to my wife and to my host, whose cordiality was worthy
of his wealth and his success. Perhaps he was thinking of an hour like
unto this when, so many long years before, he too had reached New
Jedboro by night, friendless and poor, also craving work, beginning that
steady climb which had brought him to the dizzy heights of wealth and
influence.
For memories of poverty, like poor relations, should not be thrust out
at wealth's back gate, but should have a choice room in the mansion at
whose door the sated heart will often knock, seeking rest.
My wife has frequently told me that she liked Angus from the start
because he seemed so robed in health and draped in a kind of pathetic
modesty, with eyes whose colour she was certain would not fade. How
women do love the metaphors of millinery! How better than the sage of
Chelsea they understand the philosophy of clothes! But she also added
that she was charmed by the way he spoke his mother's name, for in his
tone she caught the flavour of a quick caress; and woman is more facile
far than man in her translation of these Hebraic breathings. Besides
all this, he held the gate open as she passed through into our manse
estate; she still remarks that this was a little thing, but contends
that he did it in a great way.
We showed the tired stranger to his room. Distinguished guests we have
had beneath the roof of St. Cuthbert's manse. We once had Major Pond,
the great cicerone of great lecturers; he had brought Ian Maclaren to
our town, who in turn brought the spring to all of us, beguiling
moisture even from long-sullen clouds.
He had stayed with Mr. Blake, which was but fair, for these are wealth's
real prerogatives; but the genial Major stayed with us. We were greatly
charmed, for he charmed us till two o'clock in the morning; and my wife,
fearful that she might stampede him to his bed, rose at intervals and
hid her face in the geranium window when she had to yawn. But it was the
clock and not the Major that provoked these mild convulsions. He
rehearsed to us his glorious achievements with his "stars." Some few
plaints he had, wherein he "wept o'er his wounds," but almost all his
tales were "tales of valour done." He told the number of his "stars,"
vividly described how he held them in his right hand, pointed out to us
how one "star" differeth from another "star" in glory, and went to bed
at last with the air of a man who had gilded the Pleiades, brushed up
Castor and Pollux, and house-cleaned the heavens generally.
Stanley, Farrar, Beecher, and a score of others filtered through him as
he sat by our humble fire, turning his telescope this way and that as a
sportsman turns his gun, while the very clock ticked slow to listen. My
wife became quite confused, probably sun-struck, for she has since
affirmed that the Major claimed to have been present at the birth of
every one of these famous men on whom he early resolved to confer
immortality. My recollection of his night's autobiography is rather that
of a lane of dazzling light, in which there stood now one and now
another giant, but all alike clinging to the Major's hand.
But this does not exhaust our list of the famous men whose ponderous
heads have pressed the pillow whereon the exiled Angus now laid his own
to rest. For we once had the Moderator. The Moderator of what? some
unsophisticated gentile will wish to know. Of the General Assembly, of
course, for that is the Westminster Assembly of Divines in recurring
resurrection, and it hath its unadjourning court in heaven, as the
ambushed correspondent of the Hebrews doth inform us. Which proves, my
precentor tells me, that the New Jerusalem is a Presbyterian city and
singeth nothing but the psalms.
The Moderator, as I have already said, abode with us over night, and we
almost begrudged the sleeping hours, for, if you will waste sleep upon a
Moderator, let it be when he is preaching and not when he is filling
your house with dignity and smoke. For the Moderator loved his pipe, and
so did I, and together we revelled in those clouds before which all
other clouds retreat. What a great leveller is that democrat, tobacco.
For while we smoked we were both moderators, and even an Assembly clerk
could not have told which was which. Twice, too, the Moderator filled
from my pouch, with no air of patronage, and I shall never forget it of
him. When he went to his bed, still redolent of Virginia, he asked me
for a little soda water, very little, he said emphatically. I brought it
to him, and passing by his door a moment later, I heard a low gurgling
sound like that of an infant brook, then silence, then an honest
smack--soon after there emerged a festive flavour, a healing aroma,
sweetly distilling. As I went back to our room, I said to my wife, "What
a fine spirit a Moderator can shed through a house," in which opinion
she agreed, though she knew not what I said. I was all but asleep when
she aroused me with--
"Tom, why is a Moderator called a Moderator?"
"Because he takes it moderately, dear," I answered, being only in the
twilight of intelligence.
"Takes what, Tom?" she asked.
"His honours, sweetheart--go to sleep."
But although we have had great guests like these, I do not know that I
was ever more glad with the thought of a sleeping stranger than with the
knowledge that this homeless lad was beneath our roof that night. For he
who homes the honest poor has borrowed the guests of God, and a mother's
wandering son is His peculiar care.
I knew that the great Executor of all praying mothers leaves them not
long indebted to any man; He Himself shall speak with their creditors in
the gate.
X
_My PIOUS PROFLIGATE_
My wandering but faithful pen, whose every child, though homely, is its
legitimate own, must now forsake Angus and his fortunes for a season. It
shall again return to him, _if it be spared_. For the good folk of St.
Cuthbert's have taught me to insert this phrase at every seasonable
opening--indeed, they deem it fitting for every season, and the very
first marriage in New Jedboro at which I officiated afforded a vivid
proof of this.
The young couple were just emerging from the heavenly operation, still
somewhat under the celestial chloroform, when Ronald M'Gregor admonished
them. His admonition was after a fashion almost ministerial, for Ronald
had once culled himself from out the common herd as meant for a
minister, and had abandoned his pursuit only when he found that he had
every qualification except the gifts.
"Ye maun bear in mind," he said, "that ye're nae mair twa, but ae flesh;
an' ye'll bide wi' ane anither till deith shall ye pairt--that is, gin
ye're spared."
Meantime, this friendly pen must record this news of Angus, that the
very morning he left St. Cuthbert's manse he entered upon his
apprentice term in the great iron manufactory of which Mr. Blake was the
head and the propelling power; for behind every engine is the ingenuity,
not of many men, but of one.
And leaving him there to ply his fortune and to confront that unseen
antagonist against whom every ambitious man plays move and move about, I
betake myself again to the records of St. Cuthbert's.
Yet I find it hard to dismiss the lad, for his is a besetting face, and
besides, it stubbornly appears above the main current of all the story I
have yet to tell.
My fortunes with these strange Scotch folk must be recorded, and chief
among my handiwork I think of Geordie Lorimer. For he was a typical
Scot, and supremely so in this, that he could be both very religious and
very bad. Of which the remarkable thing lies here, that he was both of
these at one and the self-same time.
Now, although I am an Irishman, and boast the most romantic blood of
time, yet must I frankly admit that few countrymen of mine have such
facility. Many of them there are who could be religious, and more who
could be bad, with spontaneous ease, but few there be who know how to be
both at once. But Geordie did. He was a profligate, but a pious
profligate; a terror he was, but he was a holy terror. Mind you well, I
do not mean to impugn Geordie's sincerity in the last appeal; not for
one moment, for I believe implicitly that Geordie, in the very heart of
him, meant to do well. Indeed, I will go further, and say that in his
very soul he wished to be closer to God; for he could not well help that
wish--it was his inseparable heritage from a saintly father, long a
beloved elder in St. Cuthbert's, whose sacred suit of "blacks" Geordie
had inherited, himself wearing them to the sacrament till the session
denied him his token, and shut him out, blacks and all. The memory of
his mother's life was still fragrant to hundreds, fresh and dewy in
love's unwithering morn; upon the tide of prayer had Geordie's infant
life been launched, and its gentle waves, faint but palpable, still
sought to lave his soul.
How many a Northern island-life, bleak and wild, is redeemed from utter
destruction by that great gulfstream, the prayers of a mother who was in
league with God! Thus it came about that Geordie Lorimer's life was a
muddy stream, still tinged with the crystal waters of its hill-born
spring. He had made the ghastly find, that when he would do good, evil
was present with him; to will was present with him, but how to perform
that which was good he found not. For Geordie had, alas! a stronger
thirst than that for righteousness. He was given to "tasting," a
homeopathic word which Scotsmen use to indicate a trough. I soon heard
of him as incorrigibly religious but incorrigibly dry.
Geordie was the best-known character in New Jedboro, as well known as
the town pump, the one famed for its outgiving, the other for its
intaking powers, but both alike for liquid prowess. His principal
occupation was in his wife's name, being a boarding-house whose inmates
were secretly and shamefully proud of Geordie's unique superiority in
his own particular line, for he could outdrink the countryside.
The very Saturday which preceded my Sunday as a candidate of St.
Cuthbert's (they afterwards told me) Geordie was in the kindly grip of
the town constable, who was bearing him towards the jail, his victim
loudly proclaiming to the world that the guardian of the law had
arrested him only when he, Geordie, had refused to treat for the
eleventh time.
"He tret the ainst, an' I tret ten times or mair," Geordie was
vehemently affirming to a sympathetic street. Turning a corner, they met
no less a personage than Sandy Weir, the session clerk.
"Sandy, dinna let him tak' me to the lock-up. There's to be a new
minister i' the kirk," he cried, "an' I maun gang to hear him preach the
morn. Sandy, wull ye no' bid him no' to tak' me to the lock-up?"
But Sandy was a man under authority, having elders under him, and he
refrained, knowing the boundaries of his power.
Passing along a quiet street some years after this, I beheld the
unreforming Geordie in a savage fight with a kindred spirit, who drew
his inspiration from the same source as his antagonist; for many a cork
they had released together. The two men fought like tigers, abandoning
themselves the more cheerfully to the combat they both knew would end in
a renewal of brotherhood and beer. This thought lent a sanguine
enthusiasm to their every effort, for each felt it a point of honour to
make the engagement worthy of the "treaty" (a fitting word) that awaited
them at the Travellers' Rest.
Above the din of battle I heard a voice emerging from Geordie's head,
which head emerged from his opponent's oxter--
"Dinna mark me, Jock, dinna mark me; for we're gaun to hae the bairn
baptized i' the kirk the morn," and I knew not which to admire more,
Geordie's moral versatility, or the beautiful comity of war.
Geordie did appear in the kirk with the bairn the next morning,
unmarked, except by unusual solemnity. He did not take the vows, of
course--these were assumed by his long-suffering and devoted wife; but
Geordie felt he should be there as collateral security.
I coveted Geordie's soul, and longed to add his regeneration to the new
Acts of the Apostles. No opportunity to speak with him was ever allowed
to slip, and one came to me whose details I must recount. There had been
an election for the town council, which had, half in joke and half in
jealousy, returned Geordie as the councillor of his ward; for our
glorious manhood suffrage, as some one has pointed out, makes Judas
Iscariot as influential at the polls as the Apostle Paul.
Returning, the night of the election, from a sickbed visit, I overtook
the jubilant Geordie, full of emotion and other things. His locomotion
was irregular and spasmodic, his course original, picturesque, and
variable. Geordie was having it out with the law of gravitation.
He was as a ship returning from Jamaica, a precious cargo of spirits in
its hold, and labouring heavily in the trough of the sea. I essayed to
take his arm, intending to be his wheelsman home, but it was like trying
to board a vessel in a storm; for Geordie had at least a hundred routes
which he must traverse with impartial feet. After I had somewhat managed
to adopt his swing, I sought to deal faithfully with him, though it was
like preaching from the plunging deck of a ship at sea, while the breath
of my swaying auditor suggested that the aforesaid cargo had sprung a
leak.
He was raising a double pæan to voice a twofold joy: the first, the joy
of triumph in the recent contest; the second, the historic and
imperishable joy that he was a Scotsman born.
"Yon whelp I skelpit the day was naething but an Irishman," he cried
loftily. "I canna get Robbie Burns' graun' words oot o' my heid: 'The
Scotsmen staun' an' Irish fa'--let him on wi' me,'" and on this wave of
martial spirit Geordie took another plunge at right angles from our
previous course, bearing me after him like a skiff tied to a schooner
amid stormy seas.
After we had put about and regained our bearings, I nimbly took
advantage of this patriotic opening, having ever a quick mind for the
transition of ideas.
"Yes, Geordie, many good things are Scotch, and many Scotch things are
good. Some misguided persons think even that Scotch liquor is good. Now,
George----" But I got no further. This time Geordie swung around before
me, like a boat that trusts its moorings--
"Ye're richt, minister; wha wad hae thocht ye kent the difference? But
ye're richt--a' whusky is guid, but some's mair guid nor ithers, an'
Scotch is mair guid nor ony ithers. Those feckless Irish fowk aye tak'
the speerits o' oor native land gin they hae the siller, which isna
likely. An' I dinna blame them muckle."
I now saw that there was no opening along this line, favourable at first
sight as it had appeared. The attack must be plain and straight.
"Geordie," I began, "this is a pitiable situation for a minister to be
in, and you know, George----"
"That's a' richt, minister--dinna fash yersel'. I'll no' mention it to a
soul. Mony's the time I hae been fou masel', 'peetiably seetivated,' as
ye ca' it, bein' mair learned nor me; to be honest wi' ye, I'm juist a
wee bit 'peetiably seetivated' this vera nicht. But I'll tak' ye hame
for a' that, an nane'll hear tell o't frae Geordie Lorimer."
Then he plunged again, propelled by the sense of a new responsibility,
and for a minute we two performed, unaided and alone, the several
different parts of an eight-hand reel.
Nevertheless, I relinquished not my hold, for I was truly attached to
the fellow, and in due time we made a mile, though I know the cyclometer
would have recorded ten. More hopeful, I was steaming on, a clerical
tugboat, when of a sudden Geordie stopped, pointing with his right leg
high in air, trusting me and his left to perform the relief duty thus
demanded.
"Yon's ma coo, ma Ayrshire coo," he exclaimed, pointing with his initial
leg to the white-faced cow which lay among its kindred, its jaw gently
swinging.
"The beast disna ken," I heard him mutter; then he suddenly bolted,
breaking his tether, and before I could recover him he had shambled on
to the road with the gait of a delirious camel, and kicking his innocent
property from behind, cried out--
"Get oot o' that. Sic like a thing, to be lyin' wi' the common herd.
Mind ye, ye're no' an or'nary man's coo--ye're a cooncillor's coo." Then
he retraced his labyrinthian steps in a corresponding swath.
As we drew near his humble gate (how often Geordie had made that last
port with pain), he muttered to himself reflectively--
"I gied him hell," referring doubtless to the vanquished candidate.
Whereat I took him to task right sternly, giving him sharply to
understand that such language was an insult to his minister and friend.
In reply, he fell upon me, literally and figuratively, with tones of
reproachful tenderness.
"Minister," he said, "I own ye as a faithfu' guide." ("You'd better,"
said I to myself, for I was weary.) "I own ye as a faithfu' guide, an' I
wudna gie ye pain. For we've had oor ain times thegither. I micht maist
say as 'at 'We twa hae paiddled i' the burn,' only it wudna be becomin'.
But aboot that word--I've heard ye say yirsel' frae the pulpit as how
hell is a maist awfu' feelin' i' the breist. Verra well, dinna ye think
as hoo yon Irish whelp I skelpit the day 'll hae a waesome feelin' i'
his breist? That's a' the meanin' I desired till convey. It's nae wrang
when it's expoun'it. Guid-nicht till ye, minister."