_"TO OLD POINT COMFORT, DEAR"_
I shall begin this chapter, perhaps the closing chapter of my artless
story, with the simple statement that we were back again in St.
Andrew's Church. This restoration was effected about seven months
after the incident with which the last chapter had its close. How it
came about, or why, I shall not pause to tell. But there was a vacancy
there--in St. Andrew's, that is--and the thought of nearly the whole
congregation had gradually turned towards Gordon. He had proved his
worth, had fought a fight so stern and long, and had come out of it
with a faith so clear and a power so manifest, that it was only natural
they should covet his ministry again.
He returned gladly enough, pride and gratitude mingling in his heart;
and the Presbytery seemed rejoiced to welcome him within their fold
again. He still retained Swan Hollow--this he insisted upon--as a kind
of associate charge. They gave him an assistant, and Gordon selected a
young minister fresh from Edinboro', for Scotchmen are the most
clannish of all living things--and they worked the two places together,
taking the morning and evening services alternately.
Going back to the church was gladsome enough to me. But it was the
veriest trifle compared with our return to the dear old manse, where
our children had been born. What memories thronged about us when the
nightfall found us once again beneath the roof of St. Andrew's Manse!
A few were there to welcome us; we tried to make merry with them--but
my heart ached till they should be gone. And then, hand in hand as in
other days, Gordon and I went up-stairs to the little room where our
treasures used to lie. Only one was there that night, our lovely
Dorothy, and she lay in slumbering beauty where she used to sleep
before. The other bed was beside hers as in the days of yore--I had
directed that it should be so--but it was empty.
Poor Gordon! All the joy, the triumph even, of his return to the scene
of our former life was lost in sorrow because that bed was empty.
"I'd sooner be in the poorest hovel, Helen," he said as he stood beside
the unused couch, "if Harold were only back--Harold and Dorothy. Our
cup of happiness would be full, wouldn't it, dear, if both were only
here?"
"But he'll come back some day," I tried to assure him; "that's why I
have his bed all ready--everything has always come right, Gordon, even
if it did come late."
"If we only knew where he is," Gordon went on, not seeming to hear;
"but it looks as if we'd never learn. Do you know," and the strong
voice was choked with tears again, "do you know, Helen, what I wonder
every night before I go to sleep?"
"No, what is it, Gordon?"
"I always wonder if he's cold--or hungry. But especially if he's cold.
Oh, surely there's nothing so sweet to a father as tucking his children
up at night--so they won't be cold. After we left here, the home we
went to was so little, and so hard to heat--but don't you remember how
we used to go in and tuck them up, so warm and cozy?"
I tried my best to comfort him, though my heart had its own load to
carry. For the dark mystery still hung about us; we had heard never a
word from Harold. His debt was paid--as has been told, or implied,
already--and nothing really stood in the way of his coming back except
that we did not know where to find him. And every effort to discern
his whereabouts had ended in utter failure. But we still kept the
little tryst, still kept praying on, still hoping and trusting that the
Great Father would staunch the wound which no human hand could heal.
The summer passed and still no tidings came.
Then I began to fear seriously for Gordon. The very splendour of his
make-up was his peril; it is ever so with natures such as his. And his
sorrow seemed to find expression in an ever more passionate devotion to
his work, a devotion that was making him the idol of his people, even
if it brought him daily nearer to collapse.
Which came at last. It was one Sabbath in early November, and Gordon
had preached that morning from the text, "I will arise and go unto my
father." I suppose it was the tragedy whose home was his own broken
heart that inspired him; in any case, he poured his soul out that day
with a passion and pathos such as none could have imagined who did not
feel the torrent of his power. He seemed to interpret the very heart
of a lonely and imploring God.
But what the effort took out of him nobody saw but me. That he was
utterly exhausted was evident as he walked home after church, but I
thought little of it; yet, even then, I noticed a strange incoherency
in his speech, and a tremulousness about his voice, that boded ill.
The collapse came during the afternoon; by eventide he was not my
Gordon any more, his mind wandering far, voicing itself in strange
plaint and heart-breaking appeal, the name of his absent Harold
sounding through it all in pitiful refrain.
I don't think the physician I called in haste that day knew anything
about the skeleton closet in our home--it is wonderful how soon people
forget, even those who know you best--but he located the hidden wound
with wonderful acuteness. "It's an utter collapse," he said; "what
might be called a severe form of nervous breakdown--it generally occurs
with people of strong emotional temperament. Has your husband had any
great shock?--or has he been carrying any specially heavy burden,
probably for months?"