_"COME, ETTRICK; YARROW, COME"_
It was two long days before Gordon returned to me. He knew the worst,
of course, but had lingered at Carletonville in the hope that he might
get some trace of Harold. A telegram to me, and another from me to
him, told enough to send him home at once. Poor Dorothy's eyes looked
wonderingly upon us as her father held me in his arms so long and so
silently after he came in the door. Grandfather turned his troubled
face away, pretending to gaze out of the window.
"You look so old, Gordon," I said unguardedly, as I drew back to look
once more on the haggard face.
"I _am_ old, my darling," was all his answer, as he drew me to him
again.
I forget what we talked about that evening--it was a dreadsome hour.
And I actually feared for Gordon. He seemed half crushed, and half
defiant, sometimes breaking out into a flood of grief, sometimes
sitting long in stony silence. I felt guilty in the thought that I was
more composed than he; once or twice I caught myself admitting that my
faith was stronger than his--but I dismissed the comparison as
pharisaical. Yet that was my chief concern for my husband--I feared
for the influence this sorrow would have on his secret life. I knew
then, oh! how well I knew, that only one anchor could hold amid a storm
like this. And the very ones who had taught me this were God and
Gordon.
The gloaming was just deepening into dark when I came back to the study
after telling Dorothy good-night; grandfather's chair was close beside
Gordon's, the white head visible through the gloom.
"Noo's the time to use yir faith," the old man was saying softly;
"naebody needs a licht till the mirk gathers roun' aboot them. An'
there's ae thing, there's ae thing, my son, ye maun aye keep sayin' to
yirsel': the laddie's juist as dear to God as he is to you an'
Helen--if ye love him, it's because God loves us a'," and the quivering
voice fell on my harrowed heart like music from some steeple far aloft.
"Aye," he went on as if to himself, "Harold canna' wanner ayont the
Faither's care--an' we can aye follow him wi' prayer.
"Rax Gordon the Buik, lassie," he suddenly said, after we had sat a
while in silence.
I did as I was bidden and Gordon received it without a word. It seemed
to me, though perhaps it was only fancy, as he held it a moment, then
opened it slowly and began turning the pages over, that there was a
reverent eagerness about it such as had long been wanting. I wondered,
fearfully, if this new ministry were already working its blessed way.
And he passed Hosea by, though he had been reading for some time from
that section of the Scriptures; he had some books on those old writers
that he was delving into, and he always read at family worship from the
parts he was studying for himself--there was so much of this that I had
really grown weary of the prophets, shameful though it may be to
confess it. Gordon still turned the leaves, nor stopped till he came
to the fourteenth of St. John: "Let not your heart be troubled," which
he read with a trembling voice that interpreted it beyond all the power
of German scholarship. It was like a great anthem to my soul that
night, and I think I gloried as much in Gordon's voice as in the
wonderful words.
When we knelt to pray I slipped over to Gordon's chair, and we bowed
together, his hand tight clasped in mine. I prayed for Gordon all the
time we were bended thus, my heart full of a kind of thankful joy that
mingled strangely with the passion of loss and loneliness already
there. The prayer was beautiful; and just before its close Gordon
stopped, tried again, then faltered out with a kind of sob:
"And, oh, God, give us back our son--bring him back to us, oh, Father
of us all." My heart leaped for joy, like one whose long night was
almost past.
No word was spoken as grandfather and I slipped out a few minutes
later; I went with him to his room, to see that everything was ready.
"The guid Shepherd'll bring the wannerin' lamb hame yet," he said as I
turned to go, the strong features struggling with emotion; "He'll bring
them baith back--back till Himsel'--did ye no' tak' notice o' Gordon's
prayer? He's comin' hame, thank God, he's comin' hame," and the old
man's voice was touched with heavenly hope.
The next morning, grandfather was astir with the birds. The day was
bright; and the weather--so long his daily care--was still a specialty
of grandfather's. Indeed, he seemed to live more and more in the past,
the farther it receded. For days he would talk of little else but the
far-off Scottish hills, and the glint of the sun through the clouds
upon the heather, and the solemn responsibilities of the lambing
season, and the sagacity of his sheep-dogs, all of whose names he
remembered. How often, especially, would he tell us of "Ettrick" and
"Yarrow," two of his choicest collies, named for his native streams.
"This wad be a graun' day for the sheep," or "there'll be mony a lammie
i' the plaid-neuk the day," were frequent opinions of his when sunshine
or storm provoked them.
Poor dear grandfather! Far though he was from his beloved Scotland, it
was beautiful to see how deep and tranquil was the happiness of his
heart. He knew, of course, how sore was our own poverty, and I think
it chafed him sorely that he could not help. When he first came out to
the Western world, and to his only child, I really believe he thought
the hundred pounds he brought with him would make him well-to-do for
life. His idea was that all investments, in this new land, break into
golden harvest. So he had duly invested his hundred pounds--some
eloquent agent had led him on--in some sort of mining stocks.
Old-country people are so prone to think that the earth, on this new
continent, and the waters under the earth, and the mountains on top of
it, all turn to gold if you touch them. Well, he invested his hundred
sovereigns, and that was the end of grandfather's financial career--but
have I not told all about this already?
Yet he was happy in his children--for so he regarded us both--and in
his children's children. But that morning, the morning after Gordon
came home, he seemed collapsed with sorrow. Perhaps it was the
reaction--I do not know--but it was evident, anyhow, with what
absorbing love grandfather's heart had gone out to the now departed
Harold. His face was thin and worn, as if he had been ill; his voice
was husky and his step was slow. All through breakfast he never broke
the silence except to speak of Harold, and it was pathetic to hear the
various suggestions the loving heart conjured up as to the best way to
get him back. He knew little about law, dear grandfather, except the
law of love. Finally Gordon told him, perhaps too candidly, that
Harold was doubtless by this time from under his country's flag, and
that there was no absolution unless the money were refunded--not even
then, he added, except by the grace of those whom he had wronged.
"He'll write to us onyway, will he no'?" grandfather asked plaintively
at last.
"Oh, yes," I said quite confidently; "oh, yes, he'll write."
But Gordon seemed anxious to prepare me for possible disappointment.
"He likely will, if he's getting on well," he said slowly, fearfully;
"if he succeeds, wherever he is, I mean. If he doesn't, I'm--I'm
afraid."
I dissented warmly from this. Harold loved his mother, I affirmed.
And then I remember how Gordon said something about the change in a
boy's whole nature that an experience of this kind is liable to bring
about; a word or two about the moral sensibilities being blunted, or
something of that sort. Whereat I flared up in warm remonstrance,
breaking into eulogy of my son. It was not till afterwards that I
realized how all my thought of Harold, when he came home that night,
and when he went away, was always of his misfortune and never of his
sin--almost as if he had been pitifully wronged. But I suppose that is
the way of every woman's heart, and I cannot but think it is partly
God's way too.
Early in the forenoon grandfather disappeared, sending word by a
messenger that he had availed himself of an opportunity to go into the
country. It was evening when he returned, but I never saw a man more
changed. His face was aglow with strange enthusiasm and the signs of
healing were upon him.
"I juist couldna' help it," he said apologetically as he entered, his
shepherd's crook in his hand. "I was fair longin' to see the sheep,
an' the hills, yince mair--my heart was sair for them. An' I got a
chance wi' a mon that was gaein' oot--he was settin' up some kind o'
machinnery. An' I had a graun' day on the hills," he went on
delightedly; "it was fair graun'. There was a laddie mindin' some
sheep--he was a fine laddie; he minded me o' Harold--and I helpit him
a' the day. There wasna' ony heather, nae doot--but the hills were
bonnie--and the laddie had a collie dog or twa that minded me o' hame.
An' I carried yin puir wee lammie in my arms--it was ailin'--and I
lilted the auld psalms yince mair aneath God's blue sky; it was maist
as guid as hame," and the aged voice was all aglow with gladness.
"You had a lovely day for it, grandfather," I said, smiling.
"Aye," he answered, "it was a bonnie day--an' aboot yin or twa o'clock
there cam' a wee bit rain--a Scotch mist, ye ken, and it minded me o'
hame--oh, it's been a graun' day the day. But I canna' think what it
was gied me sic' a longin' for the hills--it was fair fearsome--it's
no' a'thegither canny, I'm dootin'," and the old man shook his head in
an eerie kind of way, so characteristic of his race. "I'm gaein' to
bed," he said, moving already towards the stair; "I'm fair din oot.
"What's yon black thing hangin' there?" he suddenly demanded, the keen
eyes resting on the door at the back of the hall.
I paid little or no attention to the question, deeming it unimportant;
we went on talking for a few minutes.
"Lassie," he suddenly broke out again, "run, lassie, an' see what's yon
black thing hangin' on the door."
Dorothy went as directed. "It's mamma's rain coat," she said a moment
later, returning with it in her hand.
"Aye," said the old man, apparently relieved, "aye, it's naethin' but a
cloak--but it fashed me to look at it; I thocht it lookit like--like
yin o' thae crape things," he added with an embarrassed little laugh.
This gave me a queer creepy feeling at the time, but I thought little
more about it then; it came back to us later on, however.
Grandfather went to bed immediately, and Gordon and I were not long
behind him. It was about one o'clock, I think, or perhaps a little
later, when I was wakened from my sleep by a strange sound, half groan,
half cry. I went out at once into the hall and soon traced the sign of
distress to grandfather's room. The old man was raised up in the bed,
partly sitting; and the light I quickly kindled told the story in a
flash as I glanced at the ashen face.
"It's my heart," he said huskily; "it's yin o' thae spells like I had
lang syne. It winna' be lang, I'm dootin'."
I was terrified, for I thought I could descry the stamp of death
already. There was a majestic calm, an unwonted stillness, upon the
old man's face. I called Gordon at once; he evidently shared my fear,
for he rushed away for a doctor. It was but a few minutes before he
returned with the physician. The latter was not long in telling us the
truth.
"It's simply a total collapse," he whispered to Gordon and me as we
followed him out into the hall. "He can hardly live till the morning;
yes, it's his heart--a case of syncope. Don't be alarmed if he grows
delirious, or semi-delirious--they often do, just from sheer weakness.
That roaming about the country, to-day, that you spoke of--and the
excitement of it--have probably been too much for him."
"Shall we tell him?" asked Gordon, pale and trembling.
"Perhaps it would be just as well. Has he everything in order?--his
will, I mean, and everything like that, you know?"
"That isn't important," said Gordon; "father had little to will--yet I
think he ought to be told. But I cannot--I couldn't do it. Will you?"
The doctor nodded and turned slowly towards the room. We did not hear
what he said, but a moment later grandfather faintly called for Gordon.
We both went into the chamber of death.
"Rax me my wallet--you'll find it in the kist," said the old man,
pointing towards a trunk in the corner of the room.
Gordon handed him a large leather case which a brief search revealed.
The shaking hand fumbled a moment or two before it withdrew a somewhat
bulky document. "This is what they gi'ed me for my hunnerd pounds," he
said, a half-shamed smile coming over the strong features. "They ca'ed
them stocks," he added, "stocks in a mine, ye ken. I got the shares
for saxpence each--an' they said they was awfu' valuable--and I tuk a'
they'd gie me for a hunnerd pounds." Then he named a certain mine in
Northern Ontario, and I thought I saw the faintest smile on Gordon's
face. He took the paper from his father's hand and laid it on the
table.
"I made the shares ower to Helen, lang syne," the old man said humbly;
"gin they turn oot to be worth onythin', they're for her. I didna' ken
when I micht be ta'en awa'--an' it's aye weel to be ready."
I faltered some poor words of thanks which the sinking man did not seem
to hear. A new, strange light came into his eyes as we waited beside
his bed. The doctor had withdrawn now, powerless to do more.
"Gang an' fetch the plaidie," he suddenly directed, "the yin I used to
wear at hame; an' pit it aboot my shoulders--the nicht's growin' cauld.
An' I canna' find the sheep," he suddenly cried, half starting in his
bed; "I hear them bleatin' on the hills--but I canna' find them a'."
Then his eyes, large and luminous with the light of the unseen,
revolved slowly till they fixed themselves on Gordon. "Kneel doon,
laddie," he said gently, yet with the majesty of a prophet, "kneel doon
beside me."
Gordon knelt low by the bed; one trembling hand, outstretched, was laid
upon his head. The dying eyes looked far beyond into the Unknown.
"Gordon," he said, almost in a whisper, "I see yir mither--she's wi' us
noo." I actually started and looked up, following the lifted gaze.
"An' she's lookin' doon at ye, my son--an' the love is fair shinin'
frae her een. It was her that made ye a minister, my laddie. When ye
was a wee bit bairn, me and her gi'ed ye up to God; an' mony a night,
when ye didna' ken, she bendit by yir bed an' pleaded wi' God to mak'
ye a minister--a minister, my laddie, o' the Everlastin' Gospel. Div
ye hear me, Gordon?"
"Yes, father, yes," and Gordon was sobbing now; "yes, I hear, father."
"An' she wants ye to keep the troth, my son. I'm gaein' to her
noo--an' I'll tell her ye'll be a guid minister, Gordon, a guid
minister o' the New Testament, leadin' puir sinners to the Cross. Wull
ye no' bid me tell her that, my laddie?" and the dying lips paused for
answer.
"Yes," faltered the broken man beside the bed, "yes, father, tell
mother that."
The light of peace stole across the aged face. "I'm ready to gang
noo," the gentle voice went on, "an' yir mither's beckonin'. I'm
comin', mither; I'll be wi' ye soon. An' Gordon's comin' tae--an'
Helen--an' they'll bring baith the bairns wi' them." Then his eyes
turned slowly upon Gordon. "I'm ready to gang noo in peace," he said
faintly--"but there's yin puir lammie," a troubled expression looking
out from the dying eyes, "there's yin puir lammie that I canna' find.
Oh, my son," the voice rising again and the prophet-like eyes fastened
upon Gordon, "tak' guid care o' the sheep--it's an awesome thing to be
an unfaithfu' shepherd; tak' care o' the sheep, my laddie--an' where's
Harold? Is the bairn no' hame the nicht?"
Then swift delirium seemed to seize him, and he rose violently where he
lay, the last eddy of life swirling in the sullen stream of death. "I
canna' find the lamb that's wannered," he cried, in a voice that
startled us; "I canna' find it, an' the mirk is fallin'. Ettrick,
come!--ho! Yarrow. Where are ye, Yarrow? Find it, my bonnie--find it
and bring it hame." Then suddenly the dying lips pressed themselves
together and a faint whistle floated out on the midnight air.
I seized Gordon by the shoulder. "Hush," said my husband, his face
like death itself; "hush--he's calling his dogs."
"They're breakin'," he cried despairingly; "the sheep's
scatterin'--they're gaein' to wanner--where's my crook? Gordon, bide
ye here, my laddie, till yir faither turns them back. Come,
Ettrick--Yarrow, come!" and again the dread whistle floated from his
lips.
We tried to compose him, speaking tender words. Slowly the look of
peace stole back upon the old man's face. He lay with eyes almost
closed. "They're a' hame noo," he murmured gently; "aye, they're a'
safe in the fold, my laddie, an' they'll gang oot nae mair till the
mirk is by--we can rest noo till the mornin'," as he lay back in calm
content.
Suddenly the dying eyes were lifted to his son. "Lilt me a psalm," he
murmured; "we'll sing afore we gang to sleep; but dinna' wake yir
mither--yir mither's restin'."
"What shall I sing, father?" Gordon asked in an awesome voice.
"A psalm, my--laddie," the words coming faint and slow; "ye ken the yin
I'm needin'--there's only yin psalm for a shepherd."
Gordon looked at me. One hand was in his father's; the other was
outstretched to me, and I knelt beside him. Then with trembling voice,
my clearer note mingling with Gordon's quivering bass, we sang together:
"The Lord's my shepherd, I'll not want--
He makes me down to lie,"
and just as we were midway in the majestic strain
"Yea though I walk through death's dark vale
Yet will I fear none ill"
the old shepherd passed through the valley with his Lord.