"Up-stairs right now?"
"Yes."
"In the attic?"
"That's where he is."
Charlie returned the hat to its peg. Then he took off his overcoat,
disclosing a faultless evening dress, for the theatre was our objective
point that night.
"What kind of a cove is this parson?" he enquired carelessly.
"He's about your age," said I.
"Nice?"
"Uncle thinks so," I answered cautiously.
"How does your mother like him--has she looked him over?"
"I really don't know--he's only been here an hour or two. You
certainly do look nice to-night, Charlie."
"How long is this cleric going to stay?" he pursued.
"I don't know. I heard uncle telling him to stay as long as he could."
"What denomination is he?"
"Belongs to the true church," said I.
"I thought Mr. Furvell said he was Presbyterian."
"So he is--he's from Edinburgh. And he's vastly interested in the
darkies. They don't grow 'em over there, it seems. He got on pretty
thin ice with uncle--they were talking the nigger problem."
"They must have been hard up for conversation," said Mr. Giddens, with
a little curl of the lip.
"But they weren't," I protested; "he's a splendid talker--hush, there
he's coming now," as I heard a footfall on the stair. "Come and meet
him."
I introduced the two men to each other. They stood talking a little in
the hall--and I watched them while I listened. Charlie was in full
dress, as I have said, with diamond accompaniment; Mr. Laird was in his
clericals. They stood close together, chatting very pleasantly; I
thought I had never seen two finer types of men, both strong and
straight and tall--though Charlie wasn't quite so tall. The Southerner
had the keenest face, I thought, bright and animated, with eager,
penetrating eyes, and his whole bearing was that of a high-minded and
successful man of the world. They were discussing "futures" at the
time, I think, suggested doubtless by preliminary remarks about the
weather and the prospect of the cotton crop. I know I was surprised to
observe that the Reverend Gordon Laird was by no means ignorant of the
subject; strange subject, too, when you come to think of it--_futures_,
which comprise a great deal more than cotton!
Perhaps Charlie had the keener face, as I have said, but there was more
of insight in Mr. Laird's. His were the more wistful eyes, as if they
were looking for something not to be found on the surface. And really,
of the two, the Scotchman seemed to be doing the most of the
inspecting; I mean, by that, that Charlie didn't appear to have the
slightest chance to patronize him, as business men are so apt to do
with clergymen. For the minister, his clerical coat and collar to the
contrary notwithstanding, impressed one as having a certain order of
business that was just as important as the other's; and he seemed to
pride himself on it, too, in a reserved sort of way. In fact, I should
hardly say this at all, since I don't know exactly how I could defend
it--but there was an undefinable something about him that made one feel
Mr. Laird reckoned his work quite as necessary to the world's good as
that of any prosperous business man, even of a wealthy ship-owner from
Savannah.
"Have you been long in our country, sir?" Mr. Giddens took advantage of
the first pause to enquire.
"No," said the other. "I'm quite a tenderfoot--it's only two weeks
since I landed at New York. I came straight South to see Dr. Paine; he
took a post-graduate session in Edinburgh, and I met him there. We
scraped up quite a friendship--and that's how I came to visit him."
"Do you sail from New York, returning, Mr. Laird?" I ventured, thinking
I ought to bear some part in the conversation.
"That's all very uncertain," he answered thoughtfully; "I've been in
communication with the Colonial Committee; and it's just possible I may
take work in Canada. They're sorely in need of men there, it seems."
"It's a wonderful country," pronounced Charlie; "I spent a week once
between Montreal and Quebec. There's untold wealth in Canada, if it
were only exploited."
"That's what I have heard," said Mr. Laird; "and I'd like to lend a
hand," he added quietly, the earnestness of his eyes interpreting his
words. But Charlie evidently did not understand him.
"You mean in the way of investment, sir?"
"Yes," said the Reverend Gordon Laird; "yes, I guess that's it--yes,
investment."
This somewhat enigmatical conversation was terminated by the advent of
the other members of the family, all quite ready for the supper that
was waiting. And a decidedly animated circle it was that surrounded
our well-laden board. Uncle was in fine spirits, as he ever was when
he had congenial company, and the honours of his attention were pretty
evenly divided between the Scotchman and the Southerner.
It was delightful to watch the interest and surprise of our clerical
guest, so new and different did everything appear to him. For our dear
Southland has fashions all its own, each one of them more delicious
than another. Perhaps this is especially true of what we eat, and of
how we go about it. We had a coloured boy with a long feather fan
whose duty it was to guard us from the flies. This amused him vastly;
especially once when my aunt motioned him to look--the dusky Washington
was almost asleep, leaning against the wall. And so many of our dishes
seemed to strike the foreigner as the newest and most palatable things
on earth. We had the savoury rock in little fish-shaped dishes--they
looked all ready to swim--and sweet potatoes and corn bread and fried
chicken, and hot biscuits too, and a lot of other things Scotchmen
never see. It was lovely to watch Aunt Agnes' face, brightening with
every recurring exclamation of surprise or pleasure from our visitor.
On the other hand he was hardly less interesting to us. A really new
type is something to which a little Southern town is seldom treated--we
are so fearfully native-born. And Gordon Laird (the Reverend can't be
always used) seemed to bring with him the flavour of the world without.
His accent was so different, as I have said; and many of his terms were
so unfamiliar to us. For instance, we soon remarked that he referred
to the Episcopal church as the Church of England; and once or twice he
spoke of the "Kirk Session," which had to be explained; and he rarely
used the term "pastor," or "preacher," as we did--it was always
"minister" with him. It was most interesting, too, to hear him talk of
Edinburgh, of its castle, its Holyrood, its Princes Street, its Scott's
monument, its haunts of Knox and memories of Burns.
"Fo' de Lawd, Miss Helen, dat new preacher, he's got a heap o'
learnin'," Lyddie said one day, "an' he knows how to let it out, dat's
sho'."
That very first night, that first supper, I mean, found us all
listening with great intentness to his description of much we had
hardly ever heard of before. I remember he spoke of higher criticism,
giving the names of two or three great Scottish scholars, and he seemed
a little disappointed to find we had never heard of the latter and but
little more than heard of the former. He spoke, it seemed to me, as if
this higher criticism were a matter of great importance, almost as if
it were troubling his own soul--but this I did not understand till long
after.
The discussion ran so steadily along church lines that even Charlie,
who was not very strong on matters ecclesiastical, contributed a
question.
"What church does your Queen belong to, Mr. Laird?" he asked.
"To the Presbyterian," replied our guest, looking very candidly at the
questioner; "when she is in Scotland, that is."
"Oh," said Charlie, "I always thought she belonged to the State church."
"So she does," replied the other, "and that is the State church of
Scotland."
"Miss Helen thinks that's fine," broke in my uncle. "I'm sure her
far-off ancestors must have been Scotch Presbyterians, Mr. Laird.
She's a regular Puritan--in theory."
"Then you'll be going to the service at the opening of Presbytery
to-night, Miss Randall," said Mr. Laird, turning to me.
I was silent, not knowing just what to say. Yet I felt that uncle's
statement was quite just all the time. For, ever since a child, I had
had a kind of passionate devotion to the church of my fathers; yet it
is only fair to add that if there was one girl in all our town who
would not have been called religious, who would, in fact, have been
called a gay society girl--what a poor garish definition that seems to
me now!--I was that very one.
"What her uncle says about Helen reminds me of something I must tell
you, Mr. Laird," began my mother, breaking the silence that had
followed his rather pointed question. "I always taught her the Shorter
Catechism when she was a little girl--made her learn it, at least--and
one Sunday afternoon I was following her around the yard trying to get
her to answer what is Sanctification; well, she suddenly turned to me,
and what do you think she said?"
"Couldn't imagine, I'm sure," answered Mr. Laird.
"'What's the use, mother,' she said, 'of teaching me all this--when
perhaps I won't marry a Presbyterian at all?'"
"All the more need of it then," replied our guest amid the laugh that
followed; "it won't be wasted anyhow, whoever the lucky man may be.
It's wonderful how that catechism stays with you, when once it gets in
the blood. I learned it on the hills of Scotland," he went on, his
deep eyes brightening as if the memory gave him joy, "and I hardly ever
wander now in wild or lonely regions without its great words coming
back to me. They go well together, I always think--they're both lofty."
"On the hills?" echoed Mr. Giddens, who had never lived outside the
city; "did your father send you there to learn it?--pretty hard lines,
I should say."
"Oh, no," Mr. Laird answered simply, "my work lay there. I used to
take care of sheep on the hills--I was a herd laddie, as they call them
in Scotland. My father is a shepherd."