"Just what I surmised," he said; "he's suffering from what the German
physicians call 'the sad heart'--and all this derangement is due to the
sympathy between the brain and the nerves. Highly-strung organism, you
see--intense emotional nature, that's evident; all this disturbance is
a result of tension--the strain was simply too much for him. But he'll
recover all right--only it will take time, time and rest."
A consultation followed soon; and the result of it all was that Gordon
was to be removed to other scenes just as early as he would be able to
travel. I watched by him night and day, and soon the first storm of
emotion was succeeded by a deep and silent calm that I found almost
harder to be borne than the other. He would sit by the hour poring
over Harold's old school books, or gazing at some boyish photographs of
the wanderer, or holding his cricket bat or butterfly net lovingly in
his hands. Sometimes he spoke of him, but not often. When I told him
we were going away for a little holiday he consented readily enough.
"Where shall we go, Gordon?" I asked him, with but little hope that he
would choose.
"We'll go to Old Point Comfort," he answered unhesitatingly; "that's
where we went before."
I had to turn away. For there came before me, with a flash of memory,
the days to which I knew my husband's words referred. Old Point
Comfort, of dear and blessed memory!--thither had we turned our steps
the night of our wedding day, going forth by the moonlit bay on our
love-bright journey, the future years, with all the thorny paths that
awaited us, veiled in the mist of happiness that arose from our singing
hearts. Ah me! I could see again the unseamed face, the hair
untouched by time, the swimming eyes of love, when my lover was still
young and joyous, unworn with toil and care.
"That's where we'll go," I answered; "we'll go to Old Point, Gordon."
The arrangements for our journey were soon complete. I do not think,
even were it possible, that I would willingly forego all the
discipline--and the blessing--that our years of poverty had brought me;
but now I blessed the providence that had made it possible for me to
take Gordon away like this. Money was not lacking now--thanks to
grandfather and that blessed mine--and I joyed over it as men rejoice
in harvest or as robbers that divide the spoil.
The evening before the very day we were to start, something occurred
which wrung my heart as nothing, not even the loss of Harold, had ever
done before. I had been compelled to leave Gordon for a little while,
some detail of preparation demanding my attention. Returning to the
study, our usual resort, I found it empty; and my heart chilled with
fear.
"Come, Helen," I suddenly heard Gordon's voice crying from without;
"oh, Helen, come, come quick." There was a strange note of excitement,
even of rapture, in the voice that called me.
Hatless, coatless, I rushed out into the frosty night. And just across
the way, in a large adjoining yard, I could see Gordon hurrying fast
toward a little pond in the distance. Sometimes he looked back and
called me, then hurried on again, the strange exultation still sounding
in his voice. When I overtook him, he was clasping in his arms a
wondering boy, a solitary skater on the frozen pond.
"It's our boy, mother--oh, Helen, he's come at last. It's Harold,
mother"--and I noticed in the failing light that the lad was actually
about Harold's size and form. "I knew you'd come back, Harold," he
cried as he held the youth to his bosom; "oh, my son, I knew you'd
come--but what made you stay away so long? And are you cold,
Harold?--I've been so afraid you might be cold." Then he held the
startled boy out before him, his eyes lingering with pitiful intentness
on the face he held upturned to his own. "You've grown some," he said
fondly, "but you're my own Harold yet--come, come on home now with me
and mother. Your bed's all ready for you, Harold; and Dorothy will be
so glad--she's lonely, she's lonely for you, Harold."
I stood transfixed and mute with grief. Then the lad made some reply,
I know not what. But he broke the awful silence with a word--and
Gordon's hands fell to his side like lead. He stood a moment under the
trembling stars, then stooped and gazed long into the face that had
filled his soul with fleeting rapture. Slowly he turned, looked a
moment upward at the wintry sky, then silently moved towards me.
"It isn't Harold," he said after a long pause, his eyes searching my
face with unutterable yearning; "it's somebody else's boy--let us go
home again," as we started back hand in hand. The clock in an
adjoining steeple struck the hour as we went our way; and its knell is
with me yet.
The next day saw us off upon our southward journey, Dorothy and Gordon
and I. The doctor had filled me with high hope; the change of air, and
especially of scene, he said, were almost sure to do great things for
my dear one. And the very features that alarmed me most were those by
which he seemed to be reassured. The very acuteness of the malady, he
said, was its most hopeful sign. I have often thought of this since
and applied it to many things other than bodily infirmities; the acute
is the transient, let all sufferers bear in mind, and all who think
life's battle hard.
We arrived at Old Point in the morning, and the balmy air and genial
skies seemed to help Gordon from the first. Oh, sweet Southern air and
sweeter Southern skies! how unspeakably dear to me I knew not till I
thus returned after all the maze of years. It was so delicious to hear
again the soft Southern accent, to catch the liquid voices of the
negroes, to breathe in the fragrance of the flowers that bloom in our
dear Southland even in November.
I remembered--what woman would forget?--the very room that had been
ours when we were there in that same hotel on our bridal tour so long
ago, the dearest little room, with a tiny balcony that looked out upon
the ocean. And I arranged that we should have it now--I would take no
other. Not a word did I say to Gordon. But the first night we were
there, after Dorothy had been safely stored away, I was sitting beside
him, looking out over the moonlit harbour. The night was hushed, the
ocean calm; voices of darkey stevedores floated softly up to us as they
moved hither and thither with their creaking wheelbarrows on the wharf.
Suddenly Gordon turned his face full on mine in the moonlight.
"Helen," he began huskily, "do you know what room this is, Helen?"
I yielded to his arms as he slowly drew me within their shelter; "it's
where we were before--when you were my bride, my lovely, lovely bride,"
he said softly; "did you know it, Helen?"
I nodded, smiling up to his bending face. "Yes, I knew it, darling," I
said; "that's why I chose it, Gordon."
I know not why it was--I suppose no one could explain it--but the dawn
came to us, and the darkness rolled away, in that blessed hour. Tears
came at last to Gordon; slowly at first; then in copious flow; then in
a gush of feeling that wrung his whole form till it shook and sobbed
like the frame of a little child. Passionately he held me, his kisses
falling on my lips while he murmured such words of love as the days of
courtship had never heard.
"It was like this before," he cried, pointing to the radiant sea; "the
moon shone on it, just like this. And we were so happy then,
darling--we didn't know of the long years, with their care and sorrow,
that stretched before us. And you've been so good, Helen, so true and
faithful--and so brave; whatever I've done, or been, I owe to you, my
darling," and through all the gust of passion his voice had a
naturalness, his eye a new-found calm, that told me the long dark night
was past.
"We were so happy then, weren't we, dear?" he said again after a little
stillness.
"I'm happier now," I answered, nestling in.
"Why?" he exclaimed. Then, suddenly discerning: "I know why--it's
because we have the children now. Isn't that why, Helen--isn't it
Dorothy and Harold?"
I told him Yes; and the fancy, if it can so be called, seemed to help
and comfort him. "Yes," he said musingly, "it's wonderful, isn't it,
how we could have been happy then at all--when we didn't have them.
But God gave them to us, didn't He, Helen?"
"Yes," I murmured, my face hidden; "yes, God gave them."
"And they're still His to give," he went on, a great peace in his voice
such as it thrilled my soul to feel; "they're still His to give. And I
know--I'm almost sure--that He'll give us Harold back again. Something
tells me that it's coming near; I knew it when I looked out on the
water--when the dark fled before the light that flooded it. Don't you
think so, my darling?"
I forget just what my answer was; but we sat long, soothing and
comforting each other, drinking deep from Memory's spring. By and by
Gordon fell asleep with his head resting on my arm, the moonlight still
playing on the pure and lovely features as we sat by the open window.
I brooded above him, thanking God for the change I could see upon the
care-worn face. The tide had turned, the reaction had come at last,
the strife of battle seemed spent and gone. All night long he slept
the sleep of a little child; the morning found him bright and tranquil,
and his first waking word was to say that he was well.
For a couple of weeks, or perhaps a little longer we lingered on in our
quiet retreat, every hour blissful with its evidence of returning
strength. Gordon spoke often of Harold, but always now with a sweet
trustfulness that was beautiful to see; I really believe God made him
well by touching his spirit with the calm of a childlike faith. It was
a miracle, I have never ceased to think, let the critics say what they
will. And as his strength came back his heart began to turn wistfully
towards his work; I really don't believe any one ever knew how much he
loved St. Andrew's, and had loved it all through the years.
I protested against his returning, but in vain. So it was all arranged
that we were to start home on the following Monday. The evening
before, Gordon preached for a clergyman whose acquaintance he had
formed, the minister of a little Methodist church not far away. I was
there, of course; and the sermon was one of the noblest I ever heard
Gordon give. It was from the words: "Casting all your care upon Him,"
and I know every listener felt that the message was heaven-born.
After the service was finished I was going down the aisle alone, when
suddenly I heard some one pronounce my name.
"Miss Helen!" said the voice, and bygone years rolled back upon me at
the tone.
I swung around, wildly excited. It was a voice from home. "Mr.
Slocum!" I cried, so loud that everybody stood still and looked at me;
"Frank Slocum!--Oh, Frank!" and I stood gasping in the aisle. It was
one of the friends of my early girlhood--the same who had been my
escort to the ball that far departed night when we had first discussed
the Presbytery, and the attic guest it was to bring us.
"I wa'n't right sure," he began, rosy as the dawn; "but some one told
me the preacher was Mr. Laird--then I knew you were Mrs. Laird."
"Oh, Frank!" I cried, "please call me Helen," for the music of it was
refreshing; "come away--come, and go home with me and Gordon."
I believe Gordon enjoyed that evening with Frank quite as much as I,
which is saying a good deal. He said afterwards that I reminded him of
a child running hither and thither through a flower-strewn glade,
plucking whatever her hands could reach. Thus did I gather news from
Frank. My questions rained in on him from every point of the compass,
leaping from one subject to another like a peewee on the shore.
(That's a kind of witches' dance in metaphors, I know, but they all
mean the same thing anyhow.) I cross-questioned Frank about everything
and everybody, while Gordon sat listening with an amused expression on
his face. Particularly did I put him through his facings about my old
schoolgirl friends. The first question, without exception, was as to
how many children they had--till this became so chronic that Frank
would begin with this himself, not waiting to be asked. It saddened me
some to learn that several of them had twice as many as I. One old
friend, Sadie Henderson, had exactly three times as many--but two of
them came at once, so that they didn't really count. Others, moreover,
had none at all, which brought Gordon and me pretty well up on the
average.
Frank had little to say about Uncle Henry and Aunt Agnes except that
they were getting older, which I would have surmised myself. Besides,
Frank had a sensitive nature; and I suppose he remembered the stormy
scene when Gordon left my uncle's house. I fancied, in a woman's
instinctive way, that there was something he wanted to say to me alone.
And I was right enough. For when I walked with him as far as the hotel
piazza, while we were gazing out over the shimmering sea Frank told me
something that proved to be a word of destiny.
"You all are going back by New York, you said?" he began, looking up
significantly. The idiom sounded sweet--_you all_--how long since I
had heard that brace of words before!
"Yes," I answered; "why?"
"Well, I'll tell you something interesting; I didn't care to say it
before your husband, for fear it might affect his plans--I know how
matters stand between him and your uncle, you know--but I think you
ought to be told. Your uncle's in New York."
"What?" I gasped, and I felt the colour leave my cheek; "uncle's
what?--he's where?"
"He's in New York," Frank repeated calmly. "I've just come from
there--we were staying at the same hotel."
"And Aunt Agnes?" I asked swiftly, my eyes fixed on him in the gloom.
"No, Mrs. Lundy's at home--your uncle went up on some business, I
believe. Mighty successful too, as far as I could judge," Frank added.
I cared nothing for this. "What hotel, Frank?" I demanded eagerly;
"tell me the hotel."
"The St. Denis--opposite Grace Church, you know."
Little more was said and I soon bade Frank farewell. Then I walked
slowly back to Gordon, trying to compose myself, struggling to subject
my impulse to my judgment. But it was of no use. My heart was the
heart of childhood once again; all I knew was this, that a few hours
would bring us to New York, that we had intended going there
anyhow--and that my uncle was within reach of one who had never ceased
to love him.
I paused a moment before I opened the door and went in where Gordon was
still sitting, gazing out on the ever fascinating scene.
"Well, dear, did you pump him dry?" he asked jauntily as I entered.
"Oh, Gordon," and now I was on his knee (woman's throne of power) with
his face between my hands; "oh, Gordon, don't say No. Don't,
Gordon--won't you do this for me, this, that I'm going to ask?"
Soon I had poured out the whole story to him. I noticed his brow
darken a little at first, and the quivering lip told how much I had
asked of him.
But Gordon was all gold through and through; he always was, my Gordon
was, from that first hour when my eyes fell upon his face till now; and
the love of this later day, although I suppose folks call us old,
exceeds that early ardour as the noontide mocks the dawn.
"Yes, my wife," he said, stroking my hair and looking with almost
pitying fondness on my face; "yes, brave heart and true--you were his
before you were mine. And we'll go, Helen--we'll both go."