XXI

_"LOVE'S OLD SWEET SONG"_

There could be but one end to this. Whether Gordon was right or wrong,

he was not at one with the standards of his church. I really believe,

although I shrink from saying it, that his idea of _saving_ men came

more and more to be confused with the process of simply _helping_ them.

This sprang partly, of course, from his nobility of nature, from his

large and loving heart--but it was wrong. Gordon, I think, believed in

relieving men, then reforming them, both of which were to spell

regeneration. And then, besides, he seemed to have adopted some theory

about law, and the laws of nature--he knew more about evolution than

any other man since Darwin--that had turned the once sweet luxury of

prayer, real prayer, into nothing more than a sort of religious

exercise. I don't believe he thought prayers that actually asked for

things were of any use at all.

I suppose, too, although I never could find out much about this, that

Gordon didn't just regard the Scriptures in the same way his brother

ministers did; yet I knew he reverenced the Bible and simply lived

among its teachings.

But there could, as I have said, be only one end to all of this--so

far, I mean, as Gordon's relation to St. Andrew's was concerned. I

felt from the beginning that it would be but a matter of time till he

must forsake the pulpit he loved so well. There were two influences

that contributed powerfully to this: the one was Gordon's honour--the

other, Gordon's father. My husband had a fastidious conscience--and a

faithful sire.

Grandfather had been with us long--I cannot say exactly how

long--before matters actually came to a crisis. But I think he felt

from the beginning, with the keen instinct of his kind, that Gordon's

official ministry was at an end. One night, sitting in an adjoining

room, I overheard the most of a long conversation between the father

and the son. The burden of it did not greatly surprise me; grandfather

had given me his mind on the matter before, or implied it anyhow, and

more than once. But I knew that night that the crisis was at hand.

"Ye canna' dae onythin' else," the old man repeated once or twice;

"when a minister gi'es up the fundamentals, it's no' richt for him to

keep his kirk. A preacher wi'oot a gospel!--he's a sair objec'," the

Scotch voice concluded pitifully.

I could catch the tone of almost bitter remonstrance in Gordon's

answer. "Without a gospel, father!" he cried reproachfully; "surely

you don't accuse me of that--surely you're going too far."

"Ye dinna' believe Christ died for sinners," the older man said

sternly; "an' ony minister wha doesna' believe that--he's wi'oot a

gospel, my son."

"You don't understand me, father," Gordon remonstrated earnestly; "you

state the thing too severely--perhaps I don't just believe it in the

way you do, but----"

"There's only the yin way to believe yon," interrupted his father; "you

an' me's the same kind o' sinners, my son--an' we need the same kind o'

a Saviour. Forbye, ye think we're a' divine, I'm dootin'; that's what

they say aboot ye, onyway--an' I'm thinkin' I've gathered it from yir

sermons mair nor once."

"Not exactly, father," I heard Gordon answer. "What I do teach is,

that every man has the divine within him; and if we but appeal----"

"I dinna' ken what ye've got inside o' ye," broke in the champion of

truth, "but I'm sick an' tired o' all inside o' _me_--naethin' but sin

an' misery--naethin' but filthy rags," he added, careless of the

unseemly metaphor. "An' there's mair--ye dinna' believe there's ony

use in prayer; nae guid ava', forbye juist ha'ein' fellowship wi' God.

An' ye dinna' believe there's ony use in prayin' for the things we

want--ye dinna' think it maks ony difference; ye're feart o' the laws

of natur'--ye think God's a servant in His ain hoose, like as if He

couldna' dae onythin' He wants to dae."

"But I do believe in prayer, father--of course I do. Perhaps I don't

just believe that it alters or affects the outward course of things;

but at the same time----"

"Then ye maun settle it wi' the Word of God," the old man answered

solemnly; "it aye bids us to ask for what we want; an' it tells us

God's oor Heavenly Faither--an' what for wud He no' dae things for us,

Him, wi' all power in His hands. Oh, my son, my son, ye'll change yir

mind some day, I'm dootin', when yir sair heart's callin' oot for the

love o' the livin' God."

And thus the sorrowful dialogue made its way.

I think it was the very next day Gordon told me he had resigned St.

Andrew's. He told me his reason, too; which I knew already. My heart

leaped towards the children, I remember, but I scarce knew why;

tenderly, passionately, pityingly, my heart went out to my children, to

whom I knew it would mean the most.

"Where will we go to live?" was one of the first questions I asked.

For I did not seek, then, to turn Gordon from his purpose. I knew too

well how impossible that would be; besides, I felt no honourable course

was open to him but the one he had already chosen.

Gordon's face was very grave as he began to tell me of the only opening

he saw before him.

"But you'll get another call, Gordon--and another church, won't you?" I

asked, dimly fearing.

"No, no other call--and no other church," he answered firmly; "at

least, no regular church, Helen;" with which he explained to me how the

very reasons that prompted him to renounce St. Andrew's must hold him

back from any similar position. "But I'll have a field of work just

the same--of usefulness, too, please God," he added, in the lowest

voice. "I can labour there without being responsible to any one but

Him."

Then he told me all about the plan he had in view. He would take the

little mission in Swan Hollow; this was the sunken part of the city in

which he had so long carried on the work that had received so much of

his care and love--the same to which Jennie McMillan had belonged, to

whom I owed the happiness of all the years between.

"We've got a little church there," he said, a note of pride mingling

with the sadness of his voice, "and it doesn't belong to anybody but

ourselves. The people built it--and I helped them. It's just possible

the Presbytery may try to interfere with me--but I don't think so.

That's where I'm going to preach now, Helen; and I'll preach the truth

as I believe it."

"But, Gordon," I remonstrated, "won't it be the same truth that you've

preached in St. Andrew's?"

He did not answer immediately. And his face was clouded when his words

came at length. "It won't be the same as St. Andrew's expects to

hear--and wants to hear," he said; "they demand the old orthodox truths

in the old orthodox way--and then they're through with them," he added

a little bitterly; "till the next Sunday, at least."

"But aren't those the same truths your father believes?" I pressed,

feeling the strength of my reply.

"Yes," he answered, "but my father believes them in his inmost

heart--and he lives them."

"And don't you believe them in your inmost heart, Gordon?" I cried

eagerly--"the way your father does?"

"No," he answered gravely, after a long pause, his face very white;

"no, I don't believe them as my father does."

"Oh, Gordon," I pleaded with sudden entreaty, "come back--come back, my

darling. You're drifting; oh, Gordon, you're drifting away from

God--and me," for my soul's loneliness was about me like a mist.

"Don't," he said huskily, holding out his arms to me, "for God's sake

don't make it any harder for me. No man can drift far if he tries to

do good in his Master's name--and I intend, I honestly purpose, to give

my life to those poor people at the mission. If any man will do His

will, we're told, he shall know the doctrine. I'm going to try to do

His will, Helen--and I want you close beside me, together, doing our

life-work hand in hand. Then we can't be anything but happy, my

darling," and his words rang with the note of life and courage.

I loved the people of the mission; and I loved the work. But the

import of it all rose before me for a moment like a sullen cloud; the

squalor of the homes; the ignorance of the people, loving and grateful

though they were; the poverty on every hand; the obscurity of the

position that must be ours; the pitiful support that we could hope to

receive. And our cozy manse seemed to grow and dance before my eyes,

clothed suddenly with palatial beauty. I could see little Dorothy, the

big sunbonnet shading the dimpled face, as she picked dandelions on the

lawn; and Harold, the treasure of my heart, as he swung into the hall

and flung his school-bag on the table, calling aloud the while for

mother. It is humiliating to write it down; but I think the question

of our living, too, of simple bread and butter, actually presented

itself to my saddened and bewildered mind.

I suppose it was weak and selfish of me--though I cared not for

myself--when I flung myself into Gordon's arms and besought him as I

did.

"Oh, Gordon," I pleaded amid my tears; "don't, dearest, for the

children's sakes. It isn't too late yet, Gordon--have you thought of

what this means?--we'll likely have to take Harold out of school."

He caressed me, trying to soothe me as he might a child. "I know what

it means, Helen," he answered; "I've thought of all that. It breaks my

heart to think of what it will bring to you--but I am helpless, dear,

I'm helpless."

"Not me," I sobbed, "not me, Gordon; I'd go with you to the depths of

Africa. But the children, Gordon--think of them. We're old," I

cried--and I really believed it--"we're old, and our life is nearly

done; but Harold and Dorothy are so young, and theirs is all before

them. And don't--oh, Gordon, don't--for our children's sakes."

"What can I do, my child?" he murmured. "What else can I do?"

"Why, Gordon--do what I do. Oh, Gordon, all you need to do is to

believe those things--the things I do, and the things your father

does--and preach them, like you used to at the first. And then we

won't need to go away at all. I believe the people really love you

more now than they did years ago--and they'll keep on loving you--and

then we won't have to, have to give up all this," I concluded, my

tear-dim eyes looking wistfully up into his tired face.

He shook his head. "I must follow what light I have," he said.

"But, Gordon," I went on, still hoping against hope, "I'm sure it would

come all right. We'll study those things out together, dear--and I'll

help you. I've learned a lot about them, ever since that night--that

night, you remember, when Jennie died. And I'll try and explain

everything," I pleaded pitifully, the pathos of it all coming over me

as I looked up at the strong and intellectual face, "and we'll both go

on together--in the old paths--and I'll try so hard to help you, dear.

Then we won't have to go away at all--or give up our house--and it's

all so dark ahead of us, for the children, I mean."

"I can't sell my soul for bread, Helen," he answered solemnly; "and I

know as well as you what it all means. My father's heart is nearly

broken now."

"And, Gordon," I whispered, still pressing my poor plea, "there's

another thing we'll do," as I drew his face down beside my lips.

"What, dearest?"

"We'll--we'll pray together, Gordon; every day," I faltered, "every

day, that God will make us believe the right things. And He will--I

know He will."

"I've prayed that for long," he murmured low. "Oh, my darling, I love

you so," and his lips pressed themselves to mine with a reverence and a

passion I had never felt before.

* * * * *

Let me write it down, for the comfort of every troubled heart, that the

holiest hours in all life's retrospect are those that are clothed in

sorrow. The years have fled; yet the years are with me still. And

when one sits in the gloaming (as I sit now) and looks back at all the

distant days, the lure that casts its spell upon the heart comes not

from the radiant hour of mirth or ecstasy; nor from the period of glad

prosperity; nor from the season of echoing mirth and laughter. Not

there does Memory ask leave to linger. But it hovers long, in sweet

and heartful reverie, about some hour of tender grief, some season of

blessed pain--blessed always, tender evermore, because it has been

glorified by love, robbed of all its bitterness by the loyalty of some

dear heart that came closer and closer to your own amid the darkness.

The home of early married life is the heart's earthly home forever. I

knew that now; and memory bathes the soul in tears as I recall our last

night beneath the roof of that St. Andrew's manse. Everything was

packed and ready. The new house, the tiny, shabby house that was next

day to become our home, was waiting for our advent. The rude but

loving hands of some of the helpers at the mission had joined with ours

to make it ready. And for our living there, they were providing us

with a little salary; pitifully small--but our children would have

clothes and bread.

My heart was like to break; but we spent that last evening in

unconquerable brightness. I know I was no less cheerful than

Gordon--and ever and anon I wondered if his heart were as sad as mine.

The most pitiful feature of it all was Dorothy's unconscious

glee--moving was such great fun, she thought. Harold was old enough to

catch the contagion of our pain--for pain will show through the best

veneer that courage can provide.

Both the children, and their grandfather too, were in bed and sound

asleep when Gordon and I went up-stairs together about ten o'clock. We

went into the children's room, for they were still unparted, the little

bed nestling close to the big one; and we stood long above the

slumbering forms, our eyes swimming as we looked.

"I wonder if it's really so," I heard Gordon murmur.

"What, darling?" I said.

"That God pities us--like we pity them," the sentence finished in a

broken voice. "It solves all life's problems--if that's really so."

I could make no answer. But I bowed and kissed Harold's lovely brow;

then Dorothy's.

"Come with me, Gordon," I said gently, after we had stood a while in

silence, starting to move across the hall.

He followed me into our own room. "This is harder than all the rest,"

I said brokenly; "this is the dearest and sacredest room in the world

to me. Oh, Gordon," and I was sobbing now, "surely they'll let

me--whoever comes here after us--surely they'll let me come sometimes

and see it, won't they, Gordon?"

His arms were so strong, his voice so tender. "Why, dearest, why?

What makes this room so sacred to you?"

"Oh, don't you know?" and the words could hardly come for sobbing;

"this is where they were born, Gordon--where they both were born. It

was right there I lay when I first saw Harold's face. Oh, Gordon, I

can't--I don't know how to give it up."

His eyes were full of pity and his voice was quivering. "Yes," he

said, "yes, it's holy--but we have the children left, my darling," and

he began to lead me gently from the room. Nor did he stop till we were

standing where we had stood before, looking down on the unconscious

forms.

"I'm going down to the study for a while," he said a little later; "I

won't be long," as he began to descend the stairs, his footsteps

echoing through the dismantled house.

I went back to my room, weeping, and sat down upon one of the trunks

that stood about. Suddenly an impulse came to me--I think it must have

been from heaven--and I sprang to my feet, burrowing eagerly towards

the bottom of the trunk.

Ten minutes later I stole down the stairs. I was arrayed in my wedding

gown. The years may have chafed it some, but they had not availed

against its beauty and its richness. The pearl trimming--and those

other radiant things that have no name--shone triumphant in the light.

And I had about my neck, and on my bosom, some precious lace that I had

removed long years before. The hall was almost empty--little there but

our piano, that had been dragged out and left close beside the door.

There was a mirror, too, still undisturbed upon the wall; and I paused

before it just as I had done that golden day in Baltimore when Gordon

was waiting to take me as his own forever. My eyes rested lovingly on

the sweet and stainless vesture--it still fitted me like a glove, thank

heaven--and then wandered to the face above. Long, long I gazed into

the answering eyes, the past lying deep within them like water in some

amber spring. The face was older, of course, and the signs of toil and

care were on it; but the golden glow of love, I felt, clothed it with a

peace--and a beauty too--which it never knew on that far-off wedding

day. Poverty and hardship, I knew, were waiting at the gate; obscurity

and struggle were to be our portion. But my husband was sitting in the

room just beyond the door; my children--oh, the wealth and sweetness of

the word!--my children's breathing I could almost hear; the years were

past and gone, from whose hands I had received them all--and in that

hour my wedding robes glistened with a holier light than time can cast,

and the bridal bliss sprang like a fountain in my heart.

"Why so long?" Gordon suddenly sang out; "come in."

"I'm coming, dear," I said, and I felt the blitheness of my voice as it

echoed through the hall. Very softly I stepped in and stood before him

as he sat beside the dying fire.

His eyes devoured me with love; they roamed mostly about my

dress--which was exactly what I wanted. I think he glanced once or

twice about the room, its denuded bareness contrasting strangely with

the rich robe I wore. Then he rose and took me into his arms--far,

deep in--as into a mighty refuge. "You never looked so sweet, my

darling--the years haven't touched it," was all he said. But he kissed

my hair, my neck, my lips.

It was nearly an hour later when we arose to go up-stairs, and I was

still in all my glory as we moved out, Gordon's arm still about me,

into the echoing hall.

"Sing something," he suddenly requested as we passed the piano. It

stood in sullen silence, as if it knew this to be a move for the worse.

My hands roved over the keys for a little; it was hard to know what

would suit the hour.

But some breath of other days was wafted in upon me; and I felt my

heart leap beneath the wedding lace upon my bosom as the song gushed

into my mind again.

The light was dim, the house disrobed, the piano out of tune. But I

can still see the rapture in Gordon's face as mine turned up to meet it

while the words came one by one:

"Still must you call me tender names

Still gently stroke my tresses;

Still shall my happy answering heart

Keep time to your caresses."