_THE NEWS A BROKER BROUGHT_
Nor did the congregation fail to come. Gordon had wonderful powers, as
everybody must know by this time--he had always had them--and now he
had a wonderful message. His heart, and not his brain, was now the
source of his splendid sermons; a wounded heart at that--and it is from
the crushed and broken flower that the sweetest perfume breathes. So
it was no wonder that his humble pulpit became like a golden fount to
parched and thirsty souls; and the pathway trodden by the throng that
pressed about it became ever more deep and wide.
People came to Gordon's little church from every part of Hertford. I
did not wonder at this, for rich and poor alike will crowd about a
spring; but little by little it became evident that not a few of our
worshippers were from Gordon's old congregation in St. Andrew's. It's
wonderful how everybody loves a hero--especially if the hero doesn't
know he's one. I was the first to notice this; or, at least, the first
to say anything about it. Gordon gave no sign of exultation, but I
knew it filled his heart to overflowing. Strangely enough, one of
those who by and by were most regular in attendance was Mr. Ashton
himself, his first appearance almost striking Gordon dumb. But I
always thought he really began to esteem my husband that night Gordon
dealt so faithfully with him. Besides, he had lost his own son--by the
more kindly way of death--and I attributed it partly, too, to that. It
matters not.
This feature of our congregation--the attendance of St. Andrew's folk,
I mean--became so pronounced at last that it began to be rumoured about
the city that many of them would like to call their old minister back
again, if he would return to their denomination. I spoke of it once to
Gordon--my heart could not conceal its eagerness--but he received it
after such a fashion that I mentioned it no more. Not then, at least.
But I'm afraid I hoped and longed; for I was born a woman, and pride
died hard within me.
Our means were still as meagre, our struggle as sore as ever.
Besides--and how pitiful was the effort--we were trying in a poor
helpless way to save a little for the payment of Harold's debt; we
tried to set aside just so much as his schooling would have cost, if he
had never left us. Every penny thus laid away had our hearts' blood
upon it; and was, I doubt not, precious in His sight who gave those two
mites their fame.
Things were at their very darkest along this line about four or five
months after Harold went away. And it was just then something happened
that showed conclusively which way the ruling passion of Gordon's heart
was turned.
I was almost weeping over my accounts that night. These I kept in a
ridiculously large scribbling book, marking down the smallest item of
expenditure; for Gordon entrusted our finances to my hands, if so
elaborate a term may be devoted to so scanty an exchequer. Generally I
brought the account out pretty even at the close of every
week--"sundries" were a great help towards this happy end. But this
particular night everything seemed all "through other," to quote a
favourite phrase of grandfather's. Nothing was clear except that there
was a deficit--and that was dreadfully evident; but even the
all-adjusting sundries could not show just how or whence it came.
So there we sat, I with the big scribbling book before me, a freshly
sharpened pencil in my hand, a cloud of perplexity on my brow, gazing,
a little moistly I'm afraid, at the plaintive statement of receipts and
expenditure.
"Never mind, Helen," Gordon said, "you've done the best you can--and I
know you've made every dollar go as far as any woman in the world could
do. Don't bother any more about it--charge that deficit up to profit
and loss and call it square."
"But it's nothing to laugh about," I answered gloomily; "we're going
behind, Gordon--just as sure as anything, we're going behind."
"Only financially," he said lightly; "we're going ahead other ways, my
dear."
"But that's a lot," I protested.
"It doesn't seem much to me," Gordon replied, the lightness all
vanished now.
"What do you mean?" I said, looking up a little testily, I fear.
"Oh, only this; when anybody has a sorrow so much greater--like
ours--financial troubles don't amount to much. I want Harold--oh,
Helen, I want our boy back again," with which he broke out, strong man
though he was, into such a storm of crying as would have done credit to
the tearfullest of women.
This puzzled, almost alarmed, me. Indeed, I was beginning to fear, and
not without more reasons than one, that the long tension of grief and
disappointment were proving too much for Gordon's intense and sensitive
nature. I looked at him a moment as he sat before me with his head
bowed in his hands; then I did what I believe was the very wisest
thing--I comforted him for a little as best I could in my woman's way,
though my heart was just as heavy as his own; then I said we really
must go on with our accounts. And in a minute or two we were both
bended once again above the big scribbling book, going into every item
as carefully as though we were auditing the books of the Bank of
England.
Suddenly, just as I was declaring that the butcher must have sent that
same bill twice, a ring came to the door. I was glad. Gordon answered
the summons, as he always did at night. And, to my amazement, our
visitor turned out to be a Mr. Bradwin, one of the well-known brokers
of Hertford, and a prominent member of our old congregation in St.
Andrew's.
"Excuse my calling at this time of night, Dr. Laird," he apologized,
after he was seated and a few words of greeting had passed between us;
"but the fact is I've just received some news that I think you'll find
decidedly interesting"--I cannot be positive, but I really think he
glanced about the shabbily furnished room as he spoke--"and I couldn't
wait till to-morrow to tell you."
"I hope it's good news, Mr. Bradwin," said Gordon, a very faint smile
playing on his face.
My impulsive nature got the better of my judgment. "Is it about St.
Andrew's, Mr. Bradwin?" I asked in an eager voice, my eyes leaping from
his face to Gordon's.
"No, it isn't," replied our caller, and my eyes fell. "But it's good
news for all that--decidedly good news, I should say. It's about
something a little more important--to you, at least; something that has
more to do with your happiness, I fancy."
Gordon sprang to his feet and his voice rang out like a pistol-shot:
"It's about Harold, sir--it's about our boy!" He was standing in front
of Mr. Bradwin now, his cheeks like snow, his eyes like fire. It was
almost awful to see him. "Thank God," he cried, his voice half a laugh
and half a cry; "you've heard where he is, haven't you?--and you've
come to tell us. Why didn't we think of it before, Helen?--we might
have known that was the news that couldn't wait. Tell me, sir--tell us
both," and in his eagerness he bent over and took the astonished man by
the shoulders.
A moment later his withdrawn hands were clasped upon his eyes with a
gesture of inexpressible grief and he was groping his way to a chair.
No word had been uttered; but the denial spoke from Mr. Bradwin's face,
or else he shook his head in disavowal--I could not see, but I knew
that the hope glowing a moment since in Gordon's heart was in ashes
now. Our visitor's news was not of Harold.
"I'm so sorry," Mr. Bradwin began confusedly; "I forgot all about
that--about your son; and I really almost hate now to tell you what I
was so anxious to tell a little while ago. But it's good news, at any
rate--even if it's not the best." Having said this he paused, looking
from one to the other of his auditors.
"What is it, Mr. Bradwin?" I asked, not a little curious.
"It's about some stocks--some shares," replied the broker, feeling a
little more at ease with the familiar words; "such assets--stocks, I
mean, especially mining stocks--are always springing little surprises
on the people that hold them. Both ways, Mrs. Laird, you know--both
good and bad," as he smiled, a little artificially I thought, at me.
"But in this case I'm glad to be able to say the surprise is a pleasant
one--a decidedly pleasant one, Mrs. Laird; indeed, uncommonly so, I
should say. Quite beyond the ordinary, as I think you'll agree."
I stammered out something about my ignorance of all such matters.
Gordon said nothing, for interest was now dead within him.
"You are aware, of course," Mr. Bradwin resumed, "you're aware, Mrs.
Laird, that the shares are in your name?--they were transferred to you
by Mr. Laird, your husband's father, before his death."
"Oh," I exclaimed, beginning to remember; "you mean those papers
grandfather gave us?"
"Precisely, madam--at least, I presume we're thinking of the same
thing. Your father-in-law invested five hundred dollars, a hundred
pounds rather, in the mine--and they've just struck a fine vein of
silver--the richest yet discovered in New Ontario, there's no doubt of
that. The old gentleman got his shares for a song--about ten cents
each, I believe--and now they've jumped to an almost fabulous price.
So the profit is tremendous," as Mr. Bradwin drew his chair close up to
mine, all embarrassment vanished now.
"How much are they worth?" I asked with feminine precipitancy.
Mr. Bradwin drew a pencil from his pocket and reached over to the table
for a piece of paper. It did seem funny that the scrap he picked up
and began to cover with figures was that wretched butcher's bill that
had been giving Gordon and me so much trouble a few minutes before.
"Surely I've made a mistake," he said after a little silence; "it seems
an incredibly large amount. No, that must be it," drawing in his
breath in an awe-stricken kind of way after he had revised his
reckoning at least three times; "yes, your shares are worth that, at
the very lowest computation," and he handed the greasy butcher's bill,
transfigured and glorified now, over to my shaking hand. "I'm
commissioned to offer you that much, madam, for every share you hold."
I don't think I heard him. My first move was to Gordon's desk in the
corner, a great womanlike fear seizing me lest the precious papers had
been lost, or that they might reveal something to disturb this fairy
dream. I fumbled in one of the drawers; they were there; I drew them
forth. Yes, it was just as the broker had assured me. The number of
shares was so plain that he who ran might read.
"Hold on to those certificates, Mrs. Laird," I think I heard Mr.
Bradwin say; "there's a heap of happiness in them." But I paid no
attention to his words as I moved over, my eyes so cloudy I could
hardly see, to where my husband still sat in silence. I cared nothing
that a stranger was looking on, thought of nothing, remembered nothing
but the long years of bitter poverty and secret struggle through which
poor Gordon had carried on his work so bravely. I threw myself into
his arms, my whole frame shaken with the emotion that would not be
repressed; I clasped him about the neck, the precious documents crushed
in my fevered grasp as I drew the yielding head gently down upon my
bosom, faltering out as best I could the tidings that our poverty was
ended and our days of darkness past and gone. And I told him how I
loved him for all the splendid courage and silent self-denial that he
would never need to practice more.
"I'd advise you not to sell outright, madam--that's my advice to you as
a friend," the broker's voice announced in a monotone. I looked up a
moment--the man's back was turned; (wherefore I have thought more
kindly of brokers ever since). "Your best way will be to sell a
certain amount--and retain an interest; an interest, Mrs. Laird.
They're going ahead to develop the mine--and then you're sure of both,
Mrs. Laird. And I--I congratulate you, madam."
I fear my response was very scant, if indeed any came at all. At any
rate, Mr. Bradwin withdrew a minute or two later, announcing his
purpose to return the following day.
But it could not have been more than a minute or two after his
departure when we heard the footfall of some one ascending the steps to
the door. "He must be coming back," I said; "I suppose he's forgotten
something."
"I don't think it's a man's step," said Gordon; "it's a boy, if I'm not
mistaken."
His surmise was correct. A boy it was, and a very agitated and urgent
boy at that. He was ragged too.
"I want you to come with me," the lad broke out as soon as he was
admitted, fixing his earnest gaze on Gordon. "I was at Bethany
Sunday-school last Sunday--and I know you--and I want you to come home
with me quick," twirling his battered hat in his hand as he spoke.
"What's your name, my boy?" asked Gordon, moving over to him.
"It's Tim--Tim Rayfield--an' we live on Finner's Flats," naming the
most notorious section of the city, part of it bordering on Gordon's
parish.
"Do you always attend Bethany, Tim?" asked Gordon, smiling down at the
desperately earnest face.
"No, sir, wasn't there only once," answered the boy; "but I learned a
lot--an' won't you come, sir? There ain't no time to lose. My
father's dyin', sir--an' I want you to get him in."
"What?" and Gordon's face was full of amazement; "in where?--where do
you want me to get your father in?--you mean the hospital, do you, my
boy?"
"No, sir--into heaven. That's what the teacher said about it last
Sunday--about when folks was dyin'--an' how they get 'em in. An' dad,
he's dyin'--an' I want you to get him in."
The face of the poor ignorant child was aglow with its eagerness of
hope and fear. The signs of poverty and neglect were everywhere about
him, and the ill-nourished frame told how severe had life's struggle
been to him. But the glint of the Eternal was on the grimy face,
upturned to Gordon in wistful entreaty. His plea was the plea of love,
his prayer the prayer of faith; and the scene could not have been more
holy if some white-robed priest had been interceding before the Throne.
Gordon's arms went out impulsively towards the lad; I believe he put
them a moment about his neck.
"Yes, my boy," he said in an unsteady voice; "yes, I'll go. And we'll
get your father in--yes, please God, we'll get him in."
They went out together into the darkness, the boy leading the way with
such haste as stirs the feet of those who race with death. And I was
left alone, the little table still littered with the relics of our
financial conference. The stainful butcher's bill lay on top of
all--and the magic document, with its story of our shares, was still
held tightly in my hand.
I did not open it again; but I sat long looking at it--and it struck me
even then how helpless it was to aid in the real tragedies of life.