_MY ORDINATION_
We had walked for perhaps fifteen or twenty minutes before we came near
our destination, the character of the neighbourhood gradually
indicating that the spot we were seeking was near at hand. One or two
enquiries sufficed to locate the house, a tumble-down old cottage that
stood in a little from the street.
"Be you the minister?" asked a woman's voice, as she opened the door in
answer to our knock, shading the lamp with her hand; "be you Mr. Laird?"
"Yes," said Gordon, "I came as soon as I got your message; and what can
I do for you?" Although I think he surmised why she had sent for him;
there is that in a mother's face and voice which only one kind of
sorrow gives. Besides, he had seen a light burning dimly in the little
room at the end of the house.
"It's our Jennie," the woman said, standing transfixed a moment as the
light of the lamp fell on me. For I was still in my dinner dress; and
I was holding the train up in my hand, and there were flowers in my
hair. Neither of us, I imagine, had thought of this.
"This is my wife," said Gordon; and I never heard him say it with more
tenderness or pride--nor had it ever sounded sweeter.
The sad and tired face, still wondering, gave me a faint smile of
welcome as we passed within the door.
"You can stay in the room," she said, leading the way into what I
supposed they might call the parlour. At least, there was a table in
it, and one or two chromos on the wall; but I noticed a dishevelled
couch in the corner, evidently for some tired watcher.
"Jennie's been wantin' ye for long," the woman said to Gordon as she
set the lamp on the table; "but she's worse the night, an' me an'
Martha got afraid. Besides, she was askin' for ye; she went to the
Bethany Sunday-school, sir, and she often saw you when you was
there"--this was Gordon's mission school--"you put your hand on her
head once, at the festival, I think, an' poor Jennie never forgot it,
she was that pleased. But I'm feared she'll never be back there again,
sir," the woman's voice quivering as she turned her face away.
"What's the matter with your daughter?" I asked, for my whole heart
went out to the woman in her grief.
"Well, ma'am, we don't hardly know. But it began with a cruel bad
cough more'n six months ago--an' it keeps always gettin' a little
worse. She got it at the factory--her and Martha both worked in the
knittin' factory, an' the air was so bad, and the hours was so long;
but she just had to keep workin' on, ma'am, 'cause their father's dead,
and there's two younger than them. I earn a little now an' again,
goin' out washin'--but it was really Jennie and Martha that kep' the
home goin'," the woman concluded, heaving a weary sigh.
"What factory was your daughter in?" I asked.
"Oh, in Mr. Ashton's--Ashton & Quirk," the woman answered, "an' they
don't seem to care anythin' for the hands--excep' gettin' the work out
o' them," she added, with another sigh; "Jennie wanted to stop and
rest, first along, when she wasn't feelin' good--but they said another
girl would get her job if she stopped. So she had to go on as long as
she could. I guess we'll go in now, sir; we won't be long, ma'am," as
she led Gordon from the room.
As I sat alone I could hear the dull hacking cough at frequent
intervals, sometimes with sounds of struggle and of choking. Then
would come a stillness, broken by the low sound of voices; and soon I
could catch Gordon's rich tones in prayer. I could not hear the words,
but a nameless power seemed to accompany the sound; I knew that his
very heart and life were being given to the holy task.
A few minutes later Gordon came softly into the room where I was
waiting. "Come on in," he said; "come on in and see Jennie. I'm sure
it would do her good."