XV

_"OUR LADY OF THE SNOWS"_

It was evident there were plenty of rich people in St. Andrew's, as

Gordon had told me. I hadn't been half an hour in the parlours of the

church that evening of our reception before I was sure of that. My

trunks had come to hand all right, and my wedding splendour was making

what show it could, but it soon found its level among the costly gowns

that were worn by many a fair dame that night. If I had wanted

abundant evidence that Gordon was to be minister of a fashionable

church, I had every reason to be satisfied. I had never seen so much

rich religion in any one organization. Although, of course, the

evening wasn't very much on the religious order. There was an opening

prayer, I think, and the good brother who offered it prayed that they

might all go out into the highways and byways and compel them to come

in. I remember thinking most of them would have to change their

clothes before they did any highway duty of that kind--and I felt sorry

for the wanderers that might be introduced.

The people were very kind and cordial in their welcome. But I could

see they expected me to realize what a superior sort of people they

were, and what a fortunate sort of individual I was. They nearly all

shook hands in the high pump-handle fashion that was almost unknown in

the South; and they managed, in divers little ways, to let me know they

were a very elaborate aggregation of Christian folks. I rather thought

one or two of the best groomed of them looked at me as if I had no

right to be so decently clothed myself.

The evening was far spent when, as my husband was talking to a lady, a

very important looking man came up and shook her solemnly by the hand.

"We're glad to welcome you, Mrs. Laird," he said; "I have already met

your husband--and I hope you'll feel at home amongst us." Whereat

Gordon got quite excited. "Oh," he broke in, "this is not my

wife--here," as he beckoned to me, "this is Mrs. Laird"--and I hurried

forward. I cast a swift glance at the woman he had taken for me, and

my cheeks burned with indignation. She was very religious, as I

learned afterwards--but she was forty if she was a day, and dressed as

if she had just come out of the ark, and wore a bonnet that might have

been an heirloom in the family. However, I forgave her, being secretly

thankful that it was not I. She was a stranger, I learned, from

another church.

In a few minutes Mr. Ashton--for such proved to be the gentleman's

name--was deep in conversation with me and Gordon.

"Yes," he went on, after some casual remarks, "your husband has fell on

his feet all right." I started a little at the grammar; for Mr. Ashton

was bedecked in the best of clothes, and had one or two diamonds about

his person into the bargain. "We had forty-three applications when our

pulpit became vacant--and it was quite a strain, picking out the man.

You see, this is a very remarkable congregation," he went on in quite a

wealthy tone, "and it's not every man could just suit us. But I think

you'll give us exactly what we want, Mr. Laird," he added, turning to

Gordon; "your style suits me exactly," and he smiled very amiably at my

husband.

"I haven't anything but the Gospel, Mr. Ashton," Gordon replied, a

little distantly I thought, "and I suppose that's what any of the

forty-three would have given you."

"Yes, yes," replied Mr. Ashton, toying with a ponderous seal that

dangled from a very elaborate chain, "the Gospel's the thing. Give me

the Gospel--and the old Gospel too--none of your new-fangled ideas for

me. No man could have got St. Andrew's pulpit if I'd thought he

believed there was two Isaiahs. You don't believe in those new-fangled

notions, of course, do you, Mr. Laird?"

Gordon flushed slightly. "I don't concern myself much with whether a

truth is old or new," he answered presently, "so long as I believe it's

the truth. Even if it comes from the critics, I welcome truth from

them as quickly as from any other source."

"Certainly, certainly," said Mr. Ashton loftily, knitting his brows the

while, "to a certain extent, that is. But the old doctrines are good

enough for me. And--as I was saying, Mrs. Laird--we've got a very rich

congregation; very rich," he repeated, drawing in his breath, "and, I

hope, not without a sense of its responsibility too. Last year we had

a surplus of eight hundred dollars--no regular salary to pay, you

see--and on my own motion, on my own motion, we voted seventy-five of

it to foreign missions. None of us felt the poorer for it, I'm

sure--and I hope we'll be kept faithful to the end," he went on

piously, "faithful to the end, Mr. Laird," as he turned again and

smiled at Gordon.

"I'd have gone in for giving the whole thing to missions," Gordon

ventured boldly.

"Very good, Mr. Laird; very good indeed, to a certain extent. But we

never expect our minister to bother with the finances," he said

patronizingly. "Our last minister got into trouble that way--was

always preaching about the poor; talked a great deal about giving, and

that sort of thing--used to preach some very worldly sermons. And our

people didn't take to it, didn't take to it at all, Mrs. Laird. To be

quite frank, our people want the Gospel and nothing but the Gospel--I'm

that way myself; none of your financial or political sermons for me,"

he concluded quite significantly. "If our minister looks after his

pulpit and gets up the kind of sermons we expect him to give,

we'll--we'll run the finances all right, Mr. Laird." Then he dangled

his glittering fob again and smiled up at Gordon; for Gordon was half a

head higher than he.

"I'm afraid we're keeping you too much to ourselves, Mr. Ashton,"

Gordon suddenly broke in, offering me his arm and starting to move

away; "the others will want to speak to you," as he smilingly withdrew,

a light in his eyes that I could interpret quite well, lost though it

was on our prosperous parishioner. Before we left, Gordon enquired

quietly about Mr. Ashton, and we learned that he owned a huge factory

and was quite the richest man in the church. One or two declared he

ran the whole institution, and that whatever he said was law. I don't

think this cheered Gordon very much.

The two years that followed were trying ones for me. It seemed as if I

were on exhibition on every hand, and I felt nearly all the time as if

I were at some kind of a public meeting. The church had no end of

societies, especially women's societies, and they all expected me to be

present on every occasion. I did my best but it was pretty hard. I

memorized the little prayer Gordon had written out for me--and broke

down in the middle of it the first time I tried to deliver it. It was

like being lost at sea. And one of the ladies afterwards, whose

husband was very rich--he made it out of lard--told me not to be

discouraged; she said their previous minister's wife made a living show

of herself, time and time again, before she got to be able to pray

properly. So I stopped right there, without further exhibition.

I bravely attempted teaching a class in the Sunday-school. Things

didn't go so badly for the first three Sundays, although the boys asked

some questions that dreadfully embarrassed me; I told them they must

think these things out for themselves. But the fourth Sunday two of

them fell to fighting--over a big glass alley--and they had a quite

disgraceful time. There was bloodshed. It really quite unnerved me,

as I didn't know the minute they might break out again; so in about six

weeks I gave that up.

Another thing discouraged me a good deal--and that was that we were

comparatively poor. Although the congregation was composed so largely

of rich people, they seemed to think--and Mr. Ashton openly

avowed--that nothing injured a minister's spiritual life like having

too much money. So we were kept pretty safe that way. But there was

one lovely thing about the salary--and that was, the manse; within

which Gordon and I made our home as soon as we came to Hertford. It

seemed a little small to me in comparison with uncle's big house at

home; but we fixed it up till it was as sweet and cozy as any little

home could be, and Gordon's delight was something to behold. He said

it was like a palace to him, and I was its lovely queen. This was very

melodious to me, for when Gordon said pretty things he meant them.

However, it was rather trying, after all, to be so much harder up than

many of our people. Some of these seemed to love to ask me why we

didn't keep horses; and whether or not we were going to Europe this

summer; and how many servants we employed. They knew right well all

the time that we had enough to do to keep ourselves, and that we were

about as likely to go to Mars as to Europe--it comforted me a little to

know I could have gone if I hadn't fallen in love with Gordon--and as

for servants, we had only our red-headed Harriet; but she was first

cousin to the wife of one of the richest men in the church. Their

fathers were brothers, Harriet told me exultantly; but Harriet's had

remained a mechanic, while Mrs. Newcroft's had become a manufacturer.

Harriet generally got one afternoon in the week off; Mrs. Newcroft soon

found this out, and always chose that day to call, lest Harriet should

greet her as Mary Ann--which, in my opinion, she had a perfect right to

do.

It was a funny aristocracy we had in Hertford--about as cheerful, and

hopeful, and mushroomy an aggregation as you could find anywhere. So

different from the South, it was; wealth didn't cut much of a figure

with our old Southern families. But the patricians of Hertford, for

the most part, had bought their way to the seats of the mighty; and

nearly all the blue blood was financially blue. Some of the grand

dames had been servants themselves in their early days; which was no

disgrace to them, I'm sure, only it was amusing to see how they looked

down on servants now. In fact, I often felt how discouraging must have

been their arduous efforts to build up an aristocracy at all; things

would have gone pretty well, had it not been for some mean old

outsiders who would insist on remembering back thirty or forty years.

Those within the sacred circle generously forgot--each for the other.

They let bygones be bygones, to their mutual advantage. But outsiders

had cruel memories. Wherefore, just when they were getting their

aristocracy nicely established, some of these inconsiderate old-timers

would go rummaging in the past; and, the first thing we knew, they

would stumble on an anvil, or unearth a plough, or a hod, or something

of that kind--whereat the blue-blooded had to begin all over again.

For the descendants of hod, or plough, or anvil, had somehow developed

the greatest scorn for these honest trade-marks of other days.

Gordon never said much to me--I heard him use the term "Shanghai

nobility" once, with a smile--but I knew how he despised it all. I

could see his eye flash sometimes when some of them were getting off

their little speeches, trying to let us know in what lofty society they

moved and what superior folks they were. Indeed, it became more and

more clear to me that Gordon was never meant to be the minister of a

rich congregation at all. His father was a shepherd--it used to

mortify the grandees of St. Andrew's dreadfully to hear him say so--and

Gordon was full of the simple sincerity and manly independence that I

felt sure must have marked his ancestors. And I don't think Gordon

ever preached a sermon without unconsciously making them feel that he

was independent of them, if ever a man was, which was the simple truth,

for my husband had his warrant from far higher hands than theirs, and I

don't think he knew what it was to feel the fear of man.

Wherefore it came about, and it is not to be wondered at, that Gordon

found a great deal of his work among the poor. Little by little, to

the dismay of many of the aristocrats, he added to the number of the

lowly that made their church home in St. Andrew's. And he founded, and

cherished, a mission chapel in Swan Hollow, one of the most degraded

parts of the city. I really believe the rich were jealous of the poor,

for Gordon seemed to love them best and to be happiest when he was

among them. But the poor people worshipped him for it--and I believe I

did too.

Oh, how I envied him! For he seemed to have a source of happiness of

which I knew nothing. I can remember, when my days were full of teas,

and at-homes, and all sorts of social functions, how much more full and

satisfying his life seemed to be than mine. Sometimes I would get

Harriet to make a little jelly, or some delicacy of that sort, for the

poor sick folks he used to tell me about; but Gordon gave them his

heart, his life, his love--and that made all his work a perpetual joy

to him. This was the deep spring from which he drank--and I had no

part in it at all. I used to punch the score cards at evening parties,

and sometimes I played for the dancers as before--thus did my poor

hungry heart nibble at the phantom crumbs that fell from the rich man's

table. But both my heart and I were starving.

It strikes me as wonderful, now that I sit and look back upon it all,

how inevitably, and by what different paths, and under what varying

influences I came closer to Gordon's side.