"It's morning now," he said firmly, "and I'm just ready to go," from
which resolve I was powerless to dissuade him. "I'll stay at the hotel
till to-morrow evening," he added.
"But there's a morning train," I interrupted, looking up at him.
"I know--but I'm not going till the evening," he said quietly. I knew
what he meant.
Suddenly he disengaged my arms and held me out in front of him. "Helen
Randall," he said solemnly, "will you come to me?"
I buried my face again where it had been before; my tightening arms
gave him answer. Then he kissed me, kissed me--only twice, I
think--but he kissed me as maiden never was kissed before. And he bade
me go; which I did after I had clung to him once more. And I remember
how his poor face was bruised, where he had been struck the cruel blow.
I went to my room. Soon I heard him going down the stairs. I knew,
from the sound of his steps, that he was carrying his valise. He saw
Aunt Agnes in the hall, I believe, the only one who was there--and to
her he said his last farewell. I heard the door close gently; I could
catch the dying footfalls echoing through the night.
I opened my door before I went to bed. Something was resting against
it. Picking it up eagerly, I scanned it beneath the light. It was the
old Scotch psalm-book from which Gordon had sometimes sung. And the
page was turned over to mark one of the psalms--the forty-sixth--which
he had indicated with heavy strokes. My eyes swam as I read the great
lines over and over again. They seemed just meant for us:
"God is our refuge and our strength,
In straits a present aid;
Therefore although the earth remove,
We will not be afraid."
It refreshed me like a breath of mountain air to read the words; I was
still murmuring them when I crept into bed. I resolved to try and
learn the tune that was set to the noble psalm--Stroudwater it was
called--and I wondered when I would sing it to Gordon in our own little
home.
All of this, I remember, made me think that perhaps I wouldn't make
such a bad minister's wife after all. I really loved the psalms. Yet
I must confess, before this chapter finds its close, that a girl's
heart takes a long time to change. I fear I was very weak and
frivolous after all; I know I thought far more of Gordon, and of his
love, than I did of religion or of the life-work that awaited me.
Because, just as sleep was coming down about me, I found that my
willful heart was chanting far other lines--and they seemed sweet and
precious:
"Still must you call me tender names,
Still gently stroke my tresses;
Still shall my happy answering heart
Keep time to your caresses."
It was to their music I fell asleep, and I slept like a little child.
But I have come to think long since that the song and the psalm were
not such distant relatives after all.