_THE DANGER ZONE_
The stealthy dawn was just laying its gray hand on the slowly waking
world as I crept the next morning into my mother's room. I was
shivering a little, for our April mornings are often far from warm.
Besides, I was excited--and the night had been passed in sleeplessness.
"Is that you, child?" my mother asked, starting suddenly.
"Yes, are you asleep?"
"What's the matter? Are you sick?"
"No," I answered, creeping in; "but I want to talk to you. I'm
frightened."
"What frightened you?" and my mother's tone was louder--"anybody trying
to break in?"
"Oh, no, nothing like that," as I cuddled closer. "But I want to talk
to you--Mr. Giddens frightened me."
My mother was all awake. "Mr. Giddens, child," she exclaimed, rising a
little on the bed; "how on earth could he frighten you? Tell me how,"
the note in her voice more imperative now.
I was silent a moment, not knowing just how to begin. Perhaps I felt a
little ridiculous too.
"Tell me, Helen," my mother said presently, and quite firmly; "I'm
waiting."
"Well," I began hesitatingly; "well, it's this--he wants me to get
married."
My mother made an impatient poke at the bed-clothes. Then she partly
rose on her elbow. Then she turned her pillow, finally laying her head
back upon it.
"Helen Randall," she broke out, and her voice, like the dawn, had a
gray tinge about it, "Helen Randall, you're a silly little
goose--coming in here trembling, and waking me up and scaring me half
to death, only to tell me that the man you're engaged to wants to marry
you."
"But, mother," I began earnestly, "it's different--you don't
understand."
"Nonsense, child," she interrupted, "there isn't anything to
understand. What do folks get engaged for? What does any lover want,
except to get married? And this is the great fright you got; it seems
that you got engaged to a man, and then he alarms you by suggesting you
get married! Let's go to sleep," and my mother patted the pillow with
her cheek, preparing to resume the operation I had interrupted.
"But I won't go to sleep," persisted I. "You don't understand--Mr.
Giddens wants to marry me right off--right away soon." My mother
turned her head a little on the pillow. She was wakening fast.
"What's that you say?" she said.
I knew she had heard me quite well, but I repeated it willingly enough.
"I say he wants to get married--very soon. His family is going to
Europe shortly--and it seems his father says we can spend the first
part of our honeymoon on the _Sea-Nymph_, and then join them all in
Europe later on. And so Charlie has quite made up his mind that----"
"What's the _Sea-Nymph_?" interrupted my mother eagerly.
"It's the name of the yacht--a new yacht they've got."
"A yacht? A private yacht?" breathlessly asked my mother.
"Yes, a private yacht," I answered, not much elated about it either.
"I knew a family in Norfolk once that had a private yacht," my mother
reflected, just a little reverently. "And all those rich New York
people keep yachts at Newport," she added in a kindred tone.
"That doesn't matter much," I said, a trifle acridly; "half of the
people on them seem to be divorced, if you can believe the papers. But
Charlie's quite set on this plan of his--of theirs--and I'm distressed
to death about it. I don't want to just go right away so soon," and my
voice shook in spite of myself as I nestled a little closer to my
mother.
"What did you tell him, Helen?" she asked in a whisper.
"I said no--at first."
"And what after?"
"Nothing--that's the worst of it."
"Why? Why the worst of it?" pursued my mother.
"Because he thinks I will--and it frightens me."
"Helen," and mother's voice was quite reproachful, "I can't make you
out at all, child. You've promised to marry him--and I can't
understand you. Why, when your father wanted me to marry him I
couldn't get too early a day--and we didn't have any yacht either."
"No, but you had father," I interposed.
"That's foolish," said my mother. And I thought it was myself,
although I felt my rejoinder had a meaning I couldn't just explain.
We talked till the sun was pouring in through the eastern window; yet
we determined little else than this--that mother thought I should and I
was almost sure I couldn't.
I think we all felt better in the morning. Mother and I certainly did;
even Europe and a yacht didn't impress me so formidably as in the
ghostly dawn. We had shad for breakfast, fresh from its briny home;
and if shad be skillfully cooked it can colour all the succeeding day.
Wherefore, when we were all gathered on the porch in the glorious
sunshine mother immediately became communicative. She had previously
advised me that it would be better to say nothing to Uncle Henry or
Aunt Agnes about the subject that engrossed us both; this of itself was
almost a guarantee to me that mother would tell it all, for she
generally took this means of reserving that luxury to herself. So it
wasn't very long till she had told them all about it. Before she was
through, the private yacht had grown to dimensions of a man-of-war
fitted up in oriental splendour--and I had been all but presented to
half the crowned heads in Europe.
"And I've been telling Helen how foolish she is," she concluded
earnestly, looking to my aunt and uncle for confirmation of her view.
"It isn't every girl gets a chance of a honeymoon on a yacht, is it,
Henry?" nodding towards me over her shoulder.
But uncle didn't seem as agitated as he should have been. "Oh, I don't
know," he replied drawlingly, "it depends on your position on the
yacht. I suppose there'll be women aboard, cooks and such like, that
nobody'd envy very much."
"Position!" my mother ejaculated vigorously; "I should think the wife
of the owner would have position enough for anybody."
"Yes--if she owns _him_," replied my uncle slowly.
"Owns what?" echoed my mother. "What do you mean, Henry?"
"I mean if she owns _him_," repeated uncle cheerfully; "if she loves
him enough, you know--and if he does the same. Sooner be on an old
raft--if they really own each other," uncle went on quite seriously,
"than the finest ship in the world--if they don't."
"You're great on love," said mother; "and that's all right for a
beginning--but there are other things besides. I think love needs a
good solid foundation to build on," as she nodded emphatically towards
my uncle.
"Yachts aren't very solid things," retorted the latter calmly; "and
Europe's a long piece away. And if my views on love aren't what they
ought to be, blame Agnes there," as he looked in unevasive tenderness
towards his wife.
I caught the look she cast back at him; it made me think of the lonely
bridge. I glanced, too, at the bloom-laden magnolia--and the thought
flashed through my mind that an old raft, as uncle said, might be made
heavenly enough.
"When is Mr. Giddens going to call again?" my mother suddenly enquired.
"I heard him say he was going home on Monday."
"He's coming now," Aunt Agnes announced in a low voice; "yonder,
look--he's just coming past the Hickey's boat-house," her keen eye
studying the distant figure. "And who's that with him?" she exclaimed
a moment later; "why, it's Mr. Furvell, sure as the world. I reckon
he's coming here too--some news about the elder, likely enough. I
didn't know he and Mr. Giddens were acquainted."
"Neither they are," said my mother. "I reckon they just happened in
with each other."
"Shouldn't wonder if the dominie's shadowin' him," uncle ventured
gravely; "lookin' for a job, you see--this'll be worth two hundred to
him at the least, won't it, Helen?" as he looked quizzingly at me.
"At the very least," I answered; "I'm pretty expensive--as well as
dear," which little playfulness seemed to tickle uncle immensely. He
was proceeding to expound the humour to the others when mother
interrupted.
"Run to the door and meet them, Helen. And bring them right out to the
porch."
"I'd rather not," I demurred--"I'm shy." But the knocker had already
sounded and Lyddie had already started for the door. Uncle Henry
immediately arose and made his way to meet our friends. A minute later
we were all mingled in a kind of hand-shaking reel on the piazza.
"Mr. Giddens and I met at the wharf," explained Mr. Furvell; "we were
both taking a look at our noble river--it's superb in the morning
sunshine. So we walked up together."
"Most happy to see you both, I'm sure," said my Aunt Agnes cordially.
"Quite appropriate, I think, that we should hunt in couples," continued
Mr. Furvell, a significant twinkle in the minister's eye; "we're here
in different capacities--yet they naturally go together," he enlarged,
evidently desiring to be questioned.
Everybody waited. "Miss Helen will understand," he then went on
facetiously; "you see, I'm here as a preacher, and Mr. Giddens as a
worshipper," wherewith, much pleased at the success of his little jest,
Mr. Furvell led the chorus of applause himself.
"Well, if you're as earnest about your part as I am in mine, we've both
found our proper callings," rejoined Mr. Giddens, making a courtly bow.
"Let's take up the collection," said I, blushing furiously, and not
knowing what else to say.
"That'll come later," interjected my uncle, winking reverently at the
pastor. The pastor seemed to understand right well and took it nothing
amiss.
My mother's gaze was directed in undisguised admiration upon Charlie.
And very handsome he looked, I must admit, his face a little flushed by
the satisfaction of his happy speech, his eyes bright and tender, his
whole frame lithe and strong with abundant health. Then, besides, he
had lovely clothes, even though he was disfigured by two or three
blazing diamonds, two in his shirt-front, if I remember right, and one
on the little finger of his left hand. But I shouldn't complain; for I
had one brilliant beauty on my own hand--and he was its devoted source.
I think Charlie must have noticed my mother's steadfast gaze. In any
case her question came very suddenly, as if to relieve embarrassment:
"I hope your folks are all well at home, Mr. Giddens."
"Oh, yes, thank you, ma'am," he replied promptly; "they're busy
preparing for a long trip to Europe--they sail next month."
Whereat my mother quite involuntarily threw a swift glance at me. And
I believe, I'm almost sure, that Charlie's eyes followed hers.
"Oh, Mr. Giddens," I broke in, my burning cheeks attesting that it was
high time, "you don't know who's coming to be our guest to-day--we're
going to have an elder."
"What on earth's that?" said Charlie, twirling an ebony cane about with
his fingers.
"Oh, I forgot, you're not a Presbyterian. It's a man," I elucidated,
"a kind of an unordained minister. And he's going to stay here while
the Presbytery's meeting."
"Are they very solemn?" Charlie enquired; "they sound solemn. I
suppose he's about the same thing as we call a warden," for Charlie was
an Episcopalian.
"A notch higher," ventured Mr. Furvell; "they're in for life. I fancy
an elder's more like a bishop than anything you've got in your church."
"And he's going on the bridge deck," I added, pointing upward through
the porch roof.
"Helen means the attic," explained my Aunt Agnes; "and it does seem too
bad--but we can't help it without turning everything upside down."
"He'll never notice it," Mr. Giddens remarked assuringly. "I know in
Savannah, when we have those church pow-wows, half the householders
have to sleep in the bath. Is this bishop from the country?"
"I believe so," informed Mr. Furvell. "I think the Pollocksville elder
is to be your man."
"You'll have no end of fun with him," Charlie predicted. "Those old
Rubes are great. I hope you've got your bootjack handy, Mr. Lundy,"
addressing my uncle; "the old chap will need it sure."
"I'm not reckonin' on much fun with him," Uncle Henry answered dryly;
"that's not our custom with our guests. And I haven't got the
instrument you mention--but I'll pull his boots off myself, if he wants
any help."
There was just the slightest flush on uncle's cheek; hospitality was a
sacred thing to him.
"Oh, by the way," broke in Mr. Furvell, willing enough to turn the talk
into another channel, "I've just had word that we're going to have an
outsider at the Presbytery. Dr. Paine notified me to-day that he's
bringing an intimate friend that's visiting him for a while. I rather
think he's from Edinburgh--but I'm not sure of that. In any case, he's
a cleric--and one of our own kind. A young man, I rather think; he
wants to see something of our Southern life, Dr. Paine's letter said."
"Where's he going to stay?" Aunt Agnes enquired briskly. My aunt kept
the census of hosts and visitors for half the town.
"Well, that's just what I was going to speak about," replied the
minister. "You see, we'll have to get a place extra for him--unless he
can be billeted along with Dr. Paine, which I think rather unlikely.
And, if you all prefer it, I could send the elder somewhere else, and
give you the foreigner--just as you like, though."
"Whatever you think best," said Aunt Agnes, drawing her chair a little
closer. Such problems were the luxuries of life to her.
I know not what impulse prompted me, but I recall, as though it all
happened yesterday, the quick way I spoke up and said: "I believe we'll
take the Scotchman--I vote for the clergy."
"You can't," said my mother archly smiling. "You're not attentive
enough to them when we have them here--your preference runs too
distinctly along other lines."
"Oh, I don't know about that," said I. "Anyhow, I'm for the clergy
this time; I reckon it's the Scotch flavour that catches me--and then
perhaps he knew Carlyle," for this latter had been long a favourite of
mine and I had enjoyed many a good thrill--and many a good snooze--over
his books.
Mother smiled. "That's a little conceit of my daughter's," she said
apologetically to our visitors; "she thinks she'll write a book herself
some day." Ah me! how little she knew then that my only book would be
the story of my life, or so much of it as is worth the telling. And as
I write the words I wonder if any one will ever really read them--in a
real book.
"No, I fear he never saw Carlyle," informed Mr. Furvell; "he's too
young, I fancy. At least, that's the impression I got."
"Is he married?" Charlie suddenly broke in, holding the ebony cane out
before him as if in deadly earnest.
"No, he's not--I'm quite sure of that part," the minister answered
promptly; "for Dr. Paine said I mustn't have him stay where he'd be
liable to catch any affection of the heart."
"Then don't send him here," cried Charlie Giddens, "for this is the
danger zone." And everybody laughed but me.
"But really, speaking seriously, what do you think we'd better do about
it?" pressed my Aunt Agnes, rising to adjust an awning that had got
awry. Mental intensity with some women always runs to domestic
observation. "I'd hate to put an Edinburgh minister in the attic," she
continued thoughtfully.
"The attic hasn't anything to do with it," pronounced Uncle Henry,
silent hitherto. "But I say--I say," as he looked around the company,
"it's going to be the elder. I've made up my mind to that--I took a
notion to this Pollocksville elder as soon as I heard of him. So we'll
consider that settled, Mr. Furvell, if you please. I've got a queer
kind of a notion he's going to do us all good. When does his train
arrive, sir?"
"This evening at five," said Mr. Furvell. "I'll have him driven up to
the house."
"Thank you, I'll meet the train myself," said my uncle.
"But, Henry," his wife expostulated, "I made an engagement for you for
that very hour--Judge Burton and his wife are coming to call."
"Can't help it," said my uncle firmly; "not when there's a guest to be
met. I'll have to leave them to the ladies," from which resolve my
aunt knew well no argument could turn him.
It was only a few minutes before our little company broke up when Mr.
Furvell rose to go. Charlie took advantage of the confusion to suggest
that we two should retire to the parlour. "And you'll sing for me," he
said.
Half-way along the hall he remarked merrily: "Now's your chance to
begin your book, dear. Put your elder in it--and make the Edinburgh
parson die of a broken heart--and put me somewhere in the introduction."
"Maybe I will," I answered a little defiantly. "You think I can't
write, don't you?"
"You could do anything you like with anything--or anybody," he answered
gallantly; "but don't begin your literary work till we come back from
Europe," and his voice was all thrilling as he spoke, his eyes ardent
as they turned on me. And his hand went out and rested lovingly on
mine as I turned the music over--for we were now at the piano--and I
wondered why it was that I didn't lean forward like he did with eager
outstretched arms. But I didn't. Yet he kissed me--then I said I was
going to sing, as he had asked me, so it was all over in a minute.
"Sing that about the tresses," he whispered, bending over me. So I did
as he bade me. And the words came softly:
"Still must you call me tender names,
Still gently stroke my tresses."
But somehow I kept thinking about the elder that was so soon to come.
I know not why--it was through no will of mine--but the elder would
take shape before me as about five-and-twenty years of age; and he was
fair; and his accent was like to that of the Scotch Carlyle; and he had
a low-crowned hat of felt--and a coat of clerical design.
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."