_HAROLD'S SISTER--AND ANOTHER._
The next saddest thing to having no children is having only one.
Parental sorrows are to be classified as follows. First, and greatest,
if you haven't any; second, if you have only one. For there is no
loneliness like the forlornness of a solitary bairn, to use a term of
which Gordon was very fond; born to play, yet having none to play with;
in need of chastening, yet denied the discipline of other children;
hungry for fellowship, yet starving among its seniors. There is no
desert so waste and weary as the Sahara that surrounds a solitary child.
Life has few moments of surpassing thrill and wonder. Yet there are
some; and the loveliest thing about it all is this, that wealth cannot
buy them, nor genius create them, nor rank command them. The
impartialness of God is beautiful. A few of the superfluities do seem
to be a little unevenly distributed--but the great holy luxuries of
life are as freely vouchsafed the peasant as the king. The glory and
the beauty of life itself; the shelter of a mother's arms and the
deeper shelter of her heart; the first dismantling kiss of love; the
earliest glimpse of your first-born's face--these are for the ploughman
as well as the poet or the prince.
And there is another moment when life's so often tawny tide glows with
the very light of heaven. It came to me and Gordon the day he led
little Harold in, to look upon his sister's face. Ah, me! the tears
start even yet when I recall the sacred scene. I was lying there, so
weak, so happy. The slumbering babe lay beside me, gurgling now and
then those mysterious sounds that a mother's heart translates so
readily. I heard them coming--Harold and his father--the strong tread
mingling musically with the patter of the little feet. Up the stairs
they came, hand in hand along the hall, little Harold puffing with
excitement, for he knew something wonderful was to be revealed. I
raised my head and saw them as they entered the room.
Oh, my son, my son! why did I not value more those days of the dear
childish face, as I saw it then? Why did I not realize that the
sterner days were coming when those sweet features were to be buffeted
by sorrow and assailed by sin? I see him now, the little torn straw
hat above the neglected locks--for children _will_ run to seed when the
mother is withdrawn--the plump, ruddy cheeks, all stained from the sand
pile on the lawn, the dampness on the little forehead, the besmirched
but becoming frock; and the eyes, wonderful eyes, so sober, so
inquisitive, searching curiously for the unknown, breaking into shy
laughter as they fell on me; the pudgy hand, quickly withdrawn from his
father's; then the little frame, one half-bare leg dangling in the air,
lifted high as Gordon held him up. I feel again the tremble in my
fingers as I pulled back the shawl from about his sister's head, and
see again the long look of wonder as my son gazed down upon the baby's
face; I see the tiny throat swallow once or twice as his emotion
gathered, and think of the vast realm in his heart that even his father
and I cannot explore. Once again I see the refusing nod--his golden
curls shaken the while--when I tell him to kiss his baby sister; his
brooding eyes turned to mine, the outstretched arms, the rosy lips
coming down to mine to be kissed; and I catch the mist in Gordon's
eyes, my own swimming with tender joy, even as they are overflowing now
so that I can hardly see to write.
The years flew swiftly by, unmarked by incident of note, but full of
simple joy. Harold was well on his way in school--clever, like his
father--and his sister had left the days of babyhood behind, when a new
influence came into our quiet lives, a new Life into our little circle.
It was our daughter's birthday night, and Gordon had asked some friends
to dinner. For, as I should have said before, he was simply crazy
about Dorothy, which was the name we had bestowed upon our daughter--it
had been my mother's. Nobody need tell me that a father's master
passion is anything else than his first-born girl. Lots of men
dissemble, I know, and profess to hold all their children in equal
affection--but it's simply moonshine. If I'm a specialist in anything,
it's children; and I have satisfied myself over and over again that a
father, nineteen times out of twenty, is the bondsman of his eldest
daughter. Dorothy looked like me; and I have a theory, which some
cleverer brain will have to work out, that Gordon got her kind of mixed
up with his sweetheart feelings, and loved the me that was in her, and
the her that was in me. Anyhow, he was simply crazy about her, as I
have said--and for years I thought it quite unfair how he made Harold
play second fiddle for Her Majesty the Baby. And yet, strange though
it sound, Harold was his very life--but we shall hear of this before my
tale is told.
Well, as I have reported, Gordon must have a dinner party. It was to
be in honour of Dorothy's original arrival, he said. So we invited
some of the very nicest people in the church, some of the most clever
and refined, and some of the unspoiled rich. (I believe the grand
folks of St. Andrew's were coming to think more of Gordon every day.)
And I got up the loveliest little dinner, with Harriet's aid of course,
for she was as proud of Dorothy as we were ourselves.
The dinner was just in mid-career, and everything was going splendidly,
when all of a sudden Harriet came to the dining-room door and beckoned
to me. I could see by her face that it was something important.
"There's an old man here," she said as the door closed behind us, "and
I thought I ought to call you--he says he's related."
"Related!" I echoed, "related to whom?"
"To Dr. Laird, ma'am," Harriet answered.
I knew there must be some mistake, since Gordon's relatives were all
across the sea; besides, he had hardly any that I knew of, except his
father.
I hurried out to the kitchen. As I entered, I saw the figure of a man
well advanced in years; tall he was above the ordinary, but evidently
stooped with toil. He rose from his chair as I approached, and bowed
with a kind of native grace. Then he turned his face to mine and
looked me over with one of the steadiest pairs of eyes that ever
belonged to mortal. They were deeply set, keen and bright; high cheek
bones on either side; ruddy complexion, significant of health; great
wavy folds of snowy hair fell almost to his shoulders, those shoulders
wrapped in a kind of grayish plaid; flowing beard, white as the locks
above. His nose was prominent and strong, the mouth delicate, and
firmly set, as though he had a mind of his own and knew how to use it.
His clothes were coarse and plain, such as I fancied were worn by the
peasants overseas; homespun stuff, I saw; and a flannel shirt, partly
open, disclosed a sunburnt throat. He came forward and held out his
hand, which I noticed was hard and rough, its clasp firm and strong;
the other hand held a long staff, crooked at the top; a bundle, wrapped
in a kind of shawl, lay at his feet.
"Is this the guidwife o' the hoose?" he asked, in a strong Scottish
voice; "micht ye be Gordon's wife?"
I acknowledged that I was, my tone indicating that I wouldn't mind
knowing who he was.
"I'm his faither," he said simply; "this'll be a graun' surprise to
Gordon. Is he ben the hoose?" indicating the dining-room by a nod of
his head.
"Yes," I said--"I'll call him out," my eyes fixed in a kind of
fascination on the face and form before me. This was a new type to me;
unfamiliar enough, but decidedly picturesque withal.
"I wunner will he ken me?" the old man said, a twinkle in his eye.
"It's mony a lang day sin' he gaed awa'. But he'll mebbe be busy? Is
there some o' his congregation wi' him?" for he heard the sound of
voices.
"Oh, no," I said, "he can come all right--we're just having dinner."
"Mercy on us!" cried the stranger, "but ye're late wi' yir dinner; ha'e
ye no' had onythin' sin' breakfast?"
I smiled, turning towards the door to call my husband. But he had
evidently heard our voices, or something else had prompted him to come
out, for he was already on his way to the kitchen. I stood silent, and
his eyes turned upon the stranger. They rested there, it seemed to me,
a good half minute before a sound escaped his lips. Then with a loud
cry he leaped forward, holding out his arms. The hunger on the older
face was pitiful to see. Sometimes clasping Gordon tight to his bosom,
sometimes holding him back a little to look upon his face, the father
heart seemed unable to drink its fill.
"Where did you come from, father?" Gordon asked, when speech at length
returned.
"I cam' frae Scotland--where else?" his father answered, "richt frae
the hills. An' I didna' let ye ken--I thocht 'twad be a bonnie
surprise to ye. I landed at Montreal last nicht, an' then I cam' richt
on. Whaur's the bairns?"
"They're inside," said Gordon; "you'll see them in a minute." Then
followed a few minutes of swift questioning and answering. "But come
on in with us now," Gordon suddenly broke in, taking his father's arm
as he spoke, "come, till I introduce you to my friends--come, Helen."
I slipped behind the older man; and then, in Indian file, Gordon
leading, we returned to our wondering guests. A fine procession, too,
we must have made; Gordon in his spotless evening dress, I in my very
finest--and between us, tall and stooped, his white locks shaking as he
walked, his eagle eye fixing itself half defiantly and half appealingly
upon the upturned faces, stood Gordon's father in his homespun, the
Scotch shawl still about his shoulders, the huge safety-pin that held
it gleaming in the brilliant light.
Gordon introduced him to every guest: "My father," he said to each, and
no one could fail to see the radiance on his face. Then the old man
was given a seat at Gordon's right, the arrears of dinner were brought
quickly in, and in a moment our new visitor was the centre of
attraction. Before taking his seat he stooped and kissed both the
children, looking at them earnestly, then at their father, "The
laddie's like yir mither, Gordon," he said, his voice trembling a
little; "aye, he's got Elsie's mouth," wherewith he kissed him again,
the lad looking up in wonder. "The wee lassie favours yirsel', Mrs.
Laird."
"My name's Helen," I said quietly.
The strong face glowed with pleasure; and I could see what joy my
amendment had given Gordon. "The wee girl has yir ain bonnie face,
Helen," he corrected, hesitating a little before he spoke my name.
It's wonderful what homing instincts children have! For a few minutes
later little Dorothy, usually so shy, slipped out of her chair and
stole over beside her grandfather, looking wistfully up into his face.
He took her on his knee, stroking her head with beautiful tenderness.
His plate of soup was now before him, but still Grandfather Laird did
not begin. Finally, in some perplexity, he turned to Gordon. "I'll
tak' a wee drappie speerits, Gordon, if you please; I maistly tak's
juist what ye'd notice afore supper--forbye, I'm tired."
Gordon flushed, hesitating. "We haven't such a thing about the house,
father--we really never keep it," he began in some embarrassment. "It
isn't much of a custom out here, father."
The old man sighed as he took up the snow-white napkin beside his
plate, pushing it a little farther away lest it should get soiled.
"I'm dootin' this country's no' juist what it's thocht to be. The
first mon I clappit my eye on in Montreal, he was a beggar, wi' a
cup--an' I thocht everybody had plenty siller in Canady. An' noo it
seems ye ha'ena' a drappie aboot the hoose. Weel, it's nae matter; I
can dae wantin' it. But I'll no' begin wi'oot the blessin'," he added
gravely. "Wull ye say it, Gordon?" nodding to his reverend son.
"No, father--you say it yourself," replied Gordon, bowing his head, in
which he was speedily followed by all of us.
Then the old man, his hands outstretched, began a prayer of prodigious
length. Adoration, confession, thanksgiving followed in regular order,
the whole enriched with many a Scriptural quotation. I could not see
the faces of our guests, but I knew right well how mystified they must
be.
A little shy at first, dispensing diffident glances around the company
as they tried to engage him in conversation, the patriarch soon began
to feel with what cordiality we all regarded him. Wherewith he grew
more and more communicative, this being evidently the occasion of his
life; besides, and naturally enough, his heart was full to overflowing.
"It's hard to tak' it in, laddie," he said once or twice, laying down
his knife and fork and turning full round to gaze at Gordon; "to think
we're baith in Ameriky, and me in yir ain hoose--an' you sittin' wi'
yin o' thae claw-hammer jackets on ye, like the gentry wear. It seems
but the ither day ye were a wee bare-leggit laddie, helpin' yir faither
mind the sheep. Ye was as gleg as a collie dog. I didna' think then,
laddie, ye'd ever wag yir heid in a pulpit--but the ways o' Providence
is wunnerfu'," as the honest eyes shone with pride and joy.
I saw one of our minor guests titter a little at this. She looked at
Gordon rather as if she were sorry for him; fancied, no doubt, that he
would be in sore straits of embarrassment to have his peasant father
thus presented. But I never was prouder of my husband than I was that
night. I actually felt my eyes grow dim more than once as I remarked
the deference with which Gordon treated his father, so different though
he was from what anybody would have expected. He seemed to delight to
honour him; and while I suppose it was only natural for him to notice
how far from cultured he was--reckoning from our standards--yet I know
he reverenced him in his inmost heart for the unaffected goodness that
none could fail to recognize.
Somebody, taking advantage of a momentary pause, asked the old man
about his voyage.
"Oh," he began enthusiastically, and I knew by his tone that he was
off; "oh, we had a graun' time a'thegither. I cam' i' the second
cabin, nae doot," he went on without a particle of confusion, "for it
didna' cost as muckle as the ither way; but there was a graun' lot o'
passengers. We didna' ha'e ower muckle to eat, nae doot--but they gied
us porridge morn an' nicht, sae we was fine. An' there was twa
ministers wi' us," he went on, warming to his theme, "an' they preachit
till us on the Sabbath day. It's wunnerfu', the difference there is in
ministers. Yin o' them preachit in the mornin', an' the ither at
nicht; the yin i' the mornin' was a puir feckless body; his sermon was
a' aboot flowers, an' birds--an' the rainbow," this last coming out
contemptuously; "he said a' thae things brocht us nearer God--did ye
ever hear sic' haverin'? An' he said they a' taught us aboot th'
Almichty--an' them as loved them wud be saved! I thocht mysel' wae, to
ha'e to sit an' listen till him. But the ither mon--wha preachit till
us at nicht--he had the root o' the matter in him, I tell ye. He
preachit aboot sinners bein' turned intil hell--I ha'e the heids and
pertikklers," he suddenly exclaimed, diving into a pocket for the same.
"Here's his pints; first, naebody kens God wha doesna' ken the
doctrines; second, thae wha doesna' ken will be lost," the gray beard
shaking solemnly as he rolled out the truth; "third, them wha's lost is
lost to a' eternity. Oh, it was a graun' discoorse, I'm tellin' ye.
It was unco' refreshing after the baby broth we got i' the mornin'. I
pit tuppence in the plate--but I didna' gie a farthin' in the mornin'.
Are thae folk a' Presbyterians, Gordon?" he concluded by enquiring,
nodding towards the assembled visitors.
"Mostly all, father," was Gordon's answer; "in fact, I believe they all
are."
"Div ye teach them the Catechism, when ye're visitin'?" the old man
pursued.
"Not very much, I'm afraid," answered Gordon, laughing; "you won't find
things just the same here, father, as they are in old Scotland--not in
that line, at least."
The old man's face clouded. "Thae things shouldna' change," he said
solemnly; "sin doesna' change--and the truth o' God's aye the same, my
son," as he looked down at the table. "I'm dootin' they're ower
anxious aboot makin' money. They tell me maist everybody's rich in
Canady--but I saw twa beggars in Montreal," he recalled a little
ruefully. Then suddenly:
"I ha'e a wee pickle siller wi' me mysel', Gordon," the Scotch instinct
showing in his voice; "only it's nae sae little!"
At this juncture my husband made heroic efforts to change the subject;
but the old Scotchman was as intense about this as about graver
matters. "Aye, I ha'e upwards o' a hunnerd pounds," he said
impressively, glancing shyly at the company; "ye mind yir mither's Aunt
Kirsty?--or mebbe ye never saw her? Weel, onyway, she died. An' she
was lang aboot it, I tell ye, for she was ninety-four. Sae it was
better for her to gang--better for us baith--an' she willed her wee bit
belongings tae me--an' I sold them afore I left. An' yir faither was
the prood mon at the funeral, Gordon--I was the chief mourner," he
explained impressively; "I was the only yin there that was related to
the corpse--and I walked ahint the bearers till the graveyard. A' the
folk said I carried mysel' like a minister; the undertaker, he was an
awfu' solemn mon--but I was solemner nor him; an' I kenned a' the time,
mind ye, that I was the heir. That's hoo I got the siller to pay my
way to Canady. But I ha'e a hunnerd pounds left, Gordon--an' I'm
gaein' to invest it, after I look aboot a wee bit. Investments is
awfu' profitable here, they tell me. It'll mak' a cozy pickle o'
siller for me, wull it no', Gordon?"
"Don't count too much on it, father," Gordon answered; "money isn't
just as universal here as you old-country people think." But the old
man seemed reluctant to be convinced of this.
A little later in the evening we had some music. Most of the songs, I
fear, were of the rather æsthetic type; and I fancied they appealed but
little to our venerable friend. He sat quietly in a corner of the
parlour, as if lost in thought. Every now and then his eyes would rove
to Gordon's face, glowing with pride and affection. As for me, I knew
not when I had been so fascinated. I simply sat and watched him,
hardly knowing just what it was that held me so. Partly the
picturesqueness of this rugged type, I suppose, and partly a dawning
recognition of the sterling worth behind the stern exterior;
genuineness was written all over him. Then I think I was beginning to
love him for my husband's sake--I remember how the thought flashed on
me that I never would have had Gordon but for him.
Suddenly, availing himself of a temporary lull, the old man cleared his
throat: "I'll gie ye a sang mysel'," he offered; "nane o' yir
highfalutin kind--but a guid auld yin o' Bobbie Burns. It minds me o'
yir mither, Gordon," as he cleared his throat again with mighty din,
preparatory to performance.
"I'll try and play for you if you tell me what it is, Mr. Laird,"
volunteered one of the ladies, moving towards the piano. I had seen
grandfather eyeing her askance a little while before; indeed, I myself
thought her evening dress was rather overdone about the
shoulders--underdone, perhaps, would be a better word.
"No, no," replied the old man, with a disdainful wave of his hand, "yon
clatter wud only throw me aff the tune. I'll sing the way the Almichty
meant," with which he broke into a strong, clear baritone that would
really have commanded attention in any company. More inspiring still,
the whole soul of the man seemed to fuse with the touching words:
"My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream;
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream."
The applause that greeted the performance seemed to please the old man
well. From many standpoints this was evidently the night of his life,
and soon his enthusiasm knew no bounds. Not more than half an hour
after, this first ovation still lingering gratefully in the performer's
mind, one or two of the guests suggested that he favour us with another
Scotch song, a proposal that soon grew into a general demand.
"I canna'," declined the old man, "I canna' juist the noo. But I'll
tell ye what I'll dae wi' ye. I'll gie ye the Hielan' fling--that's
fair graun', an' ye'll no' hae it in Canady. Gordon, gie me the
bootjack, like a guid laddie--my shoon's ower heavy for
dancin'--they're the lang-toppit kind."
"We've nothing of the sort, father," Gordon explained reluctantly.
"Ah, weel," he answered cheerfully, "ye'll dae fine yirsel'. Staun'
aroon' wi' yir back till me--and let yon mon pit his back till ye,"
indicating an immaculate professor of burly form; who, apprehending,
presented himself for Gordon's grasp, the latter in turn taking the
already extended foot between his legs and gripping the boot tightly
with his hands. Gordon's sire then lifted up the free foot upon his
son, pushing mightily, and making a noise the while such as I have
heard men employ when raising telegraph poles. A moment later Gordon
and the professor were in a heap on the floor, a long boot with a red
top between them. The second similarly removed, the old man moved
solemnly out to the middle of the floor, called for a couple of walking
sticks, laid them crosswise; then broke into the most fantastic dance,
leaping to and fro above the imaginary swords, sometimes crouching low,
sometimes springing high in air, sometimes whirling like a Dervish with
outflowing arms, the whole enriched by an occasional savage yell that
was first the terror, afterwards the delight, of one or two of the
ladies. But all were entranced, and none more so than the performer
himself.
Shortly after the excitement had subsided the guests began to make
their farewells. But this struck the venerable Scotchman as quite
irregular. "Hoots!" he cried, when one or two had proffered me their
hands, "ye canna' gang till we've had worship; Gordon wadna' like it.
Wha ever heard tell o' freens leavin' the manse wi'oot a word o'
prayer? Gordon, tak' the Buik"; and his son, an amused smile playing
about his lips, proceeded promptly to do as he was told.
"Are ye no' gaein' to sing?" the old man suddenly broke out, for Gordon
was just starting to read.
"We don't usually, father; it's not customary here," was the answer.
"It's a sair custom," rejoined his father, "neglectin' to sing the
praise o' Almichty God. But, onyway, we'll ha'e a psalm--I'll raise
the tune mysel'," which purpose he carried into effect as soon as a
selection had been made. "We'll tak' the eighty-ninth," he said
presently; and as he launched the mighty strain I recognized the very
words that had given me my first introduction to the psalms, that
far-gone night in uncle's house:
"Oh, greatly blessed the people are
The joyful sound that know,"
he began, singing onward to the end. Gordon and I alone could join
with him, but our leader seemed not to care. His whole heart and mind
were absorbed in the great song of his fatherland, and he sang it as
only an exile can. Face and voice and soul all seemed to bear witness
to the truth of the noble verse which brought the psalm to an end. He
looked like one of the old battling Covenanters themselves, his eyes
closed, his head thrown back, one hand gently keeping time as he rolled
out the crowning stanza:
"For God is our defense and He
To us doth safety bring;
The Holy One of Israel
Is our Almighty King."
Silence fell. Then Gordon moved over under the light and began to read
the Scriptures. The passage he chose was that sublime chapter from
Isaiah; and there were few could interpret through the voice as Gordon
could. The old man sat, his eyes shaded by his hand, listening
reverently. By and by Gordon came to the words: "My servant shall deal
prudently ... he shall be exalted and extolled ... his visage was so
marred more than any man and his form more than the sons of men."
"Expound yon," came as a sudden interruption.