THE ATTIC GUEST (continued 2)

I cannot say I was sorry when I heard voices in the library as we came in the house. And that's a bad sign when a girl's in love. There should be no such music to a love-lorn pair as dead silence in the library when they come home through the dark. When the poet sang of voices of the night I'm sure he meant just two.

The Presbytery meeting was evidently over, for they were all home, Mr. Furvell among them. Now I should have said at the outset that Mr. Furvell, although he was our pastor and much beloved at that, was really quite a Puritan of a man. And I was sure, as soon as he shook hands with me that night, that he was concerned about my soul.

"Did you enjoy the play, Miss Helen?" he said, looking as solemnly at me as though I had spent the evening where Dives was when he asked for a drop of water to cool his tongue.

"No," said I, "it was a fool play," whereat Mr. Furvell looked a little comforted.

"We had a beautiful service at the Presbytery," he went on, his solemnity but little diluted; "the Lord was with us, Miss Helen," with an intonation that implied a monopoly. "You'd have been more profited if you had been there. Don't you think so, Mr. Laird?"

I fancy none of us learned much from our visitor's reply. Whatever it was, it was quite evasive; but I remember that he looked at me instead of his questioner—and I felt a little rising anger that my own minister should have put me in this light before a stranger. He would have found out what a frivolous heathen I was quite soon enough, I thought, without any assistance of this kind from Mr. Furvell. The conversation seemed to flag a little after this, and it wasn't very long till Charlie and I slipped off into the library. I didn't slip as cheerfully as Charlie. And he hadn't got more than well begun upon a general criticism of Mr. Laird before uncle knocked at the door—uncle was a very cautious man—"We're going to have prayers; will you and Mr. Giddens come in to worship?"

Charlie gave a little gasp. "We're at our devotions right now ourselves," he said, so low that uncle could not hear. Then we had a swift little debate. I was for prayers, and Charlie said he believed they had brought that whole Presbytery together just to convert me. Which, I retorted, would be like training all the guns of the American navy on one little house fly.

Anyhow, we went in—even Charlie couldn't have done anything else—and the Reverend Gordon Laird had the Bible in his hand.

"Do you sing?" he suddenly enquired, looking up from the book.

"Who?" asked my Aunt Agnes, quite amazed.

"Oh! I mean, do you have singing at family worship? It's a very common custom in Scotland—they usually go together."

Of course we had never heard of such a thing. In fact, family worship in any form was one of the dainties we kept for visitors—if they were able to help themselves.

So Mr. Laird spoke a few words about their Scottish Psalmody—I had never heard the term before—and he said there were no hymns to touch them, for strength and grandeur. I consider this epoch-making, in a certain sense; for the psalms of David have been the songs in the house of my pilgrimage for long years now.

Suddenly uncle asked him to sing one for us. He seemed quite willing, and we all listened eagerly; except Charlie, who thought, I fancied, that it was a waste of precious time.

I love to sit and think again of that wonderful experience. Uncle was there, and my Aunt Agnes, and my precious mother; my promised husband, too, was of the little company. I can see again the look of expectation, surprise, and almost wonder as the young minister, with serious mien, sang us one of the psalms of his native land. He chose the eighty-ninth—I know them nearly all by number now. Our visitor's voice was not so cultured as some I have heard, but it was clear and sweet, and his ear was true,—and, best of all, his whole soul seemed to be in the great words as they rose slowly from his lips. The words are so noble that I must write them out.

So ran the mighty song. But I think we felt the grandeur of it most when he sang the next two lines:

which impressed me then, and still impresses me, as the most majestic union of words I ever heard in any form of religious song.

"That's wonderful!" said my mother as the psalm was finished.

"Beautiful!" contributed my uncle; "sounds like it ought to be sung by a race of giants."

"So it was," said Mr. Laird. "The martyrs have sung those words—hundreds of them. That psalm was a favourite with the Covenanters."

"The what?" interjected Mr. Giddens. "The Covenanters, did you say? Who were they?"

"The Covenanters," replied Mr. Laird. "And I consider that's the greatest name ever given to a band of men."

"Were they a religious sect?" asked Charlie.

"No, sir—they were a religious army," answered Mr. Laird. "And I've got their blood in my veins. Some of my ancestors laid down their lives for their faith—and this world never saw an aristocracy like to them." His cheeks were flushed, his whole face animated with a wonderful light—and he looked really beautiful. Never shall I forget the expression on the faces round me; they didn't know what to make of this so unfamiliar kind of man.

But Charlie was not through with the subject yet. "Well, that kind of thing may have suited them," he began again, "and there certainly is a kind of strength about it. But I don't like it as well as our church hymns," he continued, smiling.

"I didn't think you would," replied the minister, not smiling at all.

Then Mr. Laird took the Bible and went on with worship. He first read a bit from the Scriptures, though what part it was I cannot remember. After that he prayed. A beautiful, simple prayer—I thought it was so manly, though that's a strange word to apply to a prayer. But he never did think, as I came to know well enough later on, that God cares to have us abase ourselves just for the sake of doing so. Strangely enough, the only one thing I definitely remember about his prayer is that he said: "Give us a good night's rest," and it struck me as a beautifully simple petition.

There is one feature of that evening's worship that lingers with me very vividly. After we knelt down—his chair was a few feet from mine—Charlie crept over to the sofa where I was kneeling and bowed down beside me. It thrilled me so—perhaps not in terms of Charlie Giddens exactly—but it was the first time I ever thought of love and prayer going together. And I recall how overpoweringly it came to me that there could, surely, be nothing more sweet than this, that two who loved each other should pray together, and should feel that even death could never separate them, because their love was set in the light of the Invisible. Charlie took my hand, too, and I rather think his eyes were open—I know his face was turned to mine—but I couldn't be sure of this, for my own were tightly closed.

I went outside the door with Charlie after he had said good-night to all but me; and I do not think the silent night ever appeared so glorious before. There was no moon, but the stars were shining calmly overhead, and a sweet stillness, fragrant with the breath of spring, was all about us. I could hear the twittering of birds in the magnolia tree, and wondered if they were the love-lorn pair I had seen taking shelter there.

I fancy I was still thinking of the great words and the great thoughts of the swelling psalm, but Charlie seemed to have forgotten all about it. He evidently didn't want anything but me. And his voice was full of tender passion as he began and pressed his suit again—right away, he said, it must be right away. And he rang the changes a little on the yacht and Europe—I wished so much he hadn't mentioned these, for I felt, in a kind of hungry way, that they had nothing to do with the real case. He told me how much he loved me, and how empty life would be without me at his side—but this was in between, and I felt, away down in my heart, that he wasn't putting things in their proper places. But he put his arm about me, and kissed me, three or four times, I think. And then he tried again to make me promise—but I wouldn't.

"When we go abroad, we'll go and see where that parson used to herd the sheep," he said, and laughed. "It's a wonder he didn't bring his collie with him, isn't it?" and I felt my cheeks burn with resentment at the jest. But I didn't let him see it—for I felt I had no right to resent it. Besides, he had herded sheep on the hills—he said so himself—and that was the worst of it. I thought something like that then, at least, poor fool.

"Let me see its light again," said Charlie, taking my hand and looking at my engagement ring; "it makes the whole night radiant, doesn't it?" with which he kissed it, and held it to my lips that I might do the same. I couldn't help glancing proudly at it, too, for it was a beauty—and mother said no girl of our circle had ever had one so valuable.

Then Charlie went away and I went back into the parlour. They were all there except Mr. Laird.

"Well, I took him to the attic myself," said my Aunt Agnes, "and it was right amusing to see how he went on over it. I had told Lyn to light the fire, and it really looked cozy in the dark when we went in. He said it was a room fit for a king—said he felt sorry for the elder. Oh! he was just lovely about it."

My mother's mind was engrossed with something else. "Wasn't that mortifying at the table," she began, "about his having been a shepherd, I mean—he doesn't understand our way of looking at things here, or he'd never have mentioned it. I saw Mr. Giddens fairly jump in his chair."

"I thought it was lovely," I broke in with a vehemence I could not restrain; "I don't see any disgrace in that. I think it's all the more to his credit."

"Oh! no, of course, I don't mean it's any disgrace," my mother exclaimed, "but—it's so funny. It's so different from anything we've been used to."

"You're right there," said my uncle, rising and moving towards the gas jet, for he was sleepy. "That's the truth all right—he's different enough from what we usually see. I think he's refreshing, if you ask me. But he had better go slow about expressing his views on these niggers—if he doesn't want to get into trouble. That's one thing sure."

"I wish he had told us a little more about his folks," said my Aunt Agnes, yawning, and winding up her watch. "Did you notice he didn't tell us anything about his father, except that he was a shepherd—that he is a shepherd," she revised, "for he's still living. I do wonder if he's engaged," she added, placing the screen in front of the fire as she spoke.

"Of course," said I; "certainly he's engaged."

"How could you know?" queried my mother instantly.

"Well, of course, I don't—but why shouldn't he be?"

No argument could avail against this very easily, and the matter stood as before.

"Oh!" my uncle suddenly exclaimed, his hand upon the chandelier, "I forgot to give him this letter—Mr. Furvell gave it to me for him at the church; it was sent on in care of Dr. Paine. But he can get it in the morning," as he deposited it on the mantel.

I promptly crossed the room and picked it up.

"You inquisitive old maid!" said my mother in mild reproach. "Aren't you ashamed of yourself?" as I stood examining the missive.

"I wanted to see what the old country stamp is like," I answered calmly, my eyes still on the envelope. Aunt Agnes was looking over my shoulder in an instant.

"It's a man's handwriting," said she.

"Oh!" I said, "yes, I reckon it is."

"And it's got Virginia spelled with two n's," she added sorrowfully.

"You don't mean to say so!" said my mother, moving over to join us.

"The more the merrier," said my uncle; "and I'm going to put out the gas, if it had a dozen. All aboard for the upper deck."

Wherewith we all moved towards the stairs. "The last I saw of your Gordon Laird," said my aunt to me as we went up together, "he was standing with his face hidden in those roses."

"Oh!" said I, "did you tell him who it was took them to his room?"

"No, never thought of it."

"I'm so glad," said I—with a little sigh.

VIII "DEALINGS WITH THE SAMARITANS"

There's something lovely about having a lovely time. Now I know that looks like a very foolish sentence when one reads it over after having written it down. So many sentences are like that; you think they're strong, beautiful, full of meaning and bright with fancy, while you're getting them out—then they appear so pale and thin when you look them over. They're like the fish that you're playing in the water: "What a whopper," you say, "I've got this time!"—but how thin and small when it lies panting on the grass.

Yet I venture to repeat, as Mr. Furvell says in his sermons, I venture to repeat: there's something lovely about having a lovely time. In this, I mean, that it can never be taken away from you. There will, you know, be cold, dark days, and bitter disappointments, and burning tears, and emptiness of heart, till you quite forget that ever you were glad. But, even so, all these can never rob you of that one hour, or day, or month of pleasure unalloyed.

Mr. Laird used to say something like this in the long happy days that followed his arrival. It had not been hard to persuade him to prolong his visit. Fortunately for us, his friend Dr. Paine was engaged to go, the very next week, to the meeting of the General Assembly at Dallas; so it was arranged Mr. Laird should tarry with us till he returned, perhaps longer—for I think it was about decided that he was to take up mission work in Canada.

When I say those days were happy, I mean in a perfectly sane and unfeverish kind of way, of course, with no thought of—of what every woman looks for in every book she reads. That is, no calm and courageous thought of it; although I shouldn't wonder if something of that, more or less diluted, lies back of all real joy. Anyhow, Mr. Laird said that very thing, and more than once, about the unloseableness of one hour or day of real happiness. Whatever has been before of pain, or whatever may be ahead of sorrow, he said, neither the one nor the other can ever make pure gladness as if it had never been. It belongs to you forever, said the Reverend Gordon Laird.

I should have known that I had no right to be so happy. For one thing, Charlie had gone back to Savannah, and I should have been miserable over that, if conscience had been half as faithful as it should have been. Then, besides, he was waiting for my decision about Europe and the yacht—and I had no claim to happiness till that was settled. And, most of all, I wasn't sure about my love for him—very far from it—and so I should have been quite wretched.

But I wasn't. I was shamefully happy. We were all happy, I think, to see our visitor so thoroughly delighted with everything about him. After all is said and done, American people take it as a compliment when old-country folks seem to like them. I don't think we ever forget, even the most democratic of us, that they have dukes and lords across the sea. And Mr. Laird did seem so perfectly happy. For one thing, the weather was delightful, and morning after morning found him and me—there was no one else to act as cicerone—walking or driving about the lovely haunts that surrounded our quiet little city. Everything was in the glory of bud and blossom; fragrance was wafted on every breeze; the wistaria and the yellow jasmine were gathered from a thousand trees. Sometimes we had picnics too, making our way on our asthmatic little launch up the winding river; sometimes we went together to the oyster market at the wharf, where he seemed to be quite enchanted with the negroes' singing. "On the other side of Jordan," I remember, was a great favourite of his, and he used to get them to sing it again and again.

Indeed, everything connected with negroes seemed to have a strange fascination for Mr. Laird. This perplexed me considerably, and mortified me not a little too. Of course, having spent all my life among them, they were a commonplace lot to me, and I regarded them with the kindly disdain which marks every Southern girl's attitude to the negro race. But Mr. Laird seemed to find a new vein in them—and, besides, he was so intensely human and so tremendously interested in all human things. But he didn't know how volcanic was the ground he walked on when he came into contact with the darkies; and I may as well go aside here to tell how this provided the only jarring note in all that memorable visit.

One day we were all on the piazza, engaged in that most delightful occupation of waiting for dinner to be announced, catching savoury whiffs the while that betokened its near approach. All of a sudden a coal-black negress came through the back gate and stood at the foot of the porch steps. Beside her stood a little curly-headed boy, about three years of age, clinging to his mother's hand. She had been asking for something at the kitchen door, I think—they were always asking for something, those darkies. Of course we simply looked at her; I don't believe uncle quite did that—I think he pretended to be reading a newspaper. But Mr. Laird, in his impulsive way, went right down the steps and began talking to the woman. It was really aggravating to see how flattered she seemed to be by his attention. And then, to our horror—clergyman as he was and in full ministerial dress—Mr. Laird actually took that pickaninny up, and flung him onto his shoulder, pretending to be a horse or something of that sort. And the little negro dug his hands into Mr. Laird's ruddy locks, while his Anglo-Saxon steed made an exhibition of himself, galloping once or twice around the flower bed. The mother grinned with delight in a way that I knew fairly maddened uncle.

When Mr. Laird finally returned, panting, to his chair, uncle had quite a time controlling himself to speak.

"Do you know who that child is, sir?" said my uncle, keeping his voice under fine control.

"No," said Mr. Laird, innocent of everything; "no, I never saw him before—do you, Mr. Lundy?"

Uncle threw his newspaper on the floor without a word. Mr. Laird, still all unconscious, meekly stooped and picked it up. "I guess I'd better go and fix my hair before dinner," he said, running his fingers through the startled thatch.

"You'd better wash your hands, sir," said my uncle sternly, oblivious to muttered appeals from both Aunt Agnes and my mother; "I'll tell you who that child is, sir—it's a coon."

"What?" said Mr. Laird, beginning to apprehend.

"It's a coon, sir," my uncle repeated, as sternly as if he had been defining some cub of the jungle; "it's a nigger coon."

"Well?" said Mr. Laird, looking uncle very steadfastly in the eye.

"Well," echoed my uncle, "yes, well." Then he paused, but soon gathered fresh strength. "And I hardly need to tell you, I presume, sir, that it's not our custom to fondle darkey babies—they're supposed to soil white hands, sir," he declared, waxing warm.

Mr. Laird looked innocently at his own. "It hasn't injured mine any, Mr. Lundy," he said simply. "I don't quite understand what caused the—the panic," he concluded, still looking very steadfastly at uncle.

"Well, then, sir, I may as well tell you plainly that such an action as yours would be considered quite—quite improper, to say the least. We don't take familiarities like that with negro children."

"It's a harmless enough looking little chap," responded Mr. Laird, nodding towards the receding youngster. He was toddling along beside his mother, his hand in hers.

"They're harmless enough while you keep them in their place, sir," retorted my uncle. "But you must know that our people down here have their own way of doing that. And you don't understand the situation, sir, you don't understand the situation," repeated Uncle Henry, employing the favourite formula of the South. "For instance, I heard you express surprise at something the other day. You remember when Smallwood, the rector of the Coloured Episcopal Church, called to ask Mrs. Lundy for a subscription—you seemed horrified that he went to the back door, because he was a preacher and dressed up like a bishop."

Mr. Laird nodded.

"Well, sir, if he was the Archbishop of Canterbury—or the Pope of Rome—the back door's the place for him—so long as that's the colour of his skin. There isn't a self-respecting white family in the city but would shut the front door in his face. You understand, sir?"

"I don't think any more of them for that," was the quiet retort of Mr. Laird.

"That may be, sir. They'll stand your contempt, sir—but they won't let a pack of negroes walk all over 'em," my uncle's gorge rising again. "And I hope to God none of our neighbours saw you on the gallop round our back yard with a negro brat astride of you. You'd be finished here, sir, if they did. Just before that wench came in here with her young 'un, I was going to tell you that I met Mr. Furvell, and he asked me to give you an invitation, for him, to preach in our church next Sunday. Well, sir, I hope it'll stand all right—but if it got round town that you made a saddle-horse out of yourself for a nigger whelp to ride, you'd have the church to yourself, sir; I reckon a few old women might go to hear you, but you wouldn't have enough men there to take up the collection."

"I can't do it, Mr. Lundy," said the minister, with amazing quietness.

"Can't do what?" demanded uncle.

"Can't preach for your friend," replied the other. "I'm engaged."

"Engaged for what?"

"Engaged to preach."

"Where?" said uncle, quite forgetful now of the debate. I think the same question came in the same breath from my mother and Aunt Agnes.

"In the Coloured Methodist Church—I think they call it Zion," Mr. Laird informed us calmly. "I was there the other day at a funeral—pretty boisterous funeral it was, too—and the preacher got hold of me. They took up a collection," Mr. Laird laughed, "and that was how they located me. I didn't have anything but a shilling—a quarter, you call it. Well, he invited me to preach for him next Sabbath, and I agreed. So I won't be able to oblige Mr. Furvell."

"You agreed, sir?"

"Yes, Mr. Lundy, I agreed," repeated the stoical Scotchman.

"Good God!" said my Uncle Henry. My uncle was not a profane man—but this was something extra.

"Don't get excited, Henry, don't," began my mother; "Mr. Laird can easily change all that—he can get released from his engagement. He didn't know we wanted him in our church."

"I'm not excited, ma'am," puffed my uncle; "I was never calmer in my life—but the thing's preposterous, madam. It's utterly absurd—it's ridiculous."

"Yes, yes," broke in my Aunt Agnes, "of course, it's the easiest thing in the world to arrange. All Mr. Laird has to do is to explain to that coloured preacher that——"

"But I can't," interrupted Mr. Laird; "that is, I won't." The word fell strangely on the ears of Southern ladies. "I gave him my promise—and that's the end of it. I'll preach in Zion Church—or whatever they call it—next Sabbath morning. If the Lord will," he added, with what appeared to us all quite superfluous piety. I didn't know then that Scotch people never take any chances.

"But you don't realize what you're doing, sir," remonstrated my uncle; "you fail to realize——"

"I'm doing what no man will prevent," broke in our visitor, and his eye was flashing like the diamond on my finger; "I'm going to preach the Gospel to them, if I get the chance."

"That's all right," began my uncle, "that's all right in its way, but——"

"What's all right in its way?" demanded the Reverend Gordon Laird, his voice quite resounding now.

"That's all right—that Gospel business," explained my uncle, evidently a little at a loss. "The Gospel's all right in its place, but——

"Thank you," gave back Mr. Laird, his strong Scotch lip trembling, "you're very magnanimous, sir."

"But you don't know what you're exposing yourself to," pursued my uncle, apparently deaf to Mr. Laird's retort. "They'll make a fool of you in the pulpit, sir. I'll tell you something, sir. Your sermon will be wasted. We had a man here once—a white man—an evangelist, who expected to move on anyhow. And he tried this little trick of yours—he preached to those coons in their own church one day. And I heard later how they made a fool of him. He preached about folks having to use the means. Good sermon, too, sir. But he was no sooner through than the nigger preacher got up after him—and he said he'd give them a little illustration. Then he told them a ribald yarn, sir, right in the church; said he and his ten-year-old brother were in bed once, and they heard their mother telling their father of some devilment they'd been up to; and the father said he'd go up-stairs when he had finished his supper. Well, this nigger preacher went on to say he got up to pray—but his brother—his brother believed in using the means; and so he said he wouldn't pray, but he'd get up and put something on. That's what he told them, sir—an indecent tale—and the white preacher had to sit and hear it," concluded my uncle, his cheeks burning with indignation.

"I won't give the black brother a chance to illustrate," said Mr. Laird stolidly; "I'll close the service when I'm through." Then he laughed.

"You're trifling with me, sir," said my Uncle Henry chokingly, rising as he spoke. I saw the quick pallor come to the cheek of my Aunt Agnes; as for my mother, she was fairly trembling. As for me—well, I was terrified.

But just at this crisis a remarkable thing occurred. Mr. Laird didn't seem to notice my uncle's movement at all. Indeed, he was not looking in his direction, but sat gazing intently out towards the road that ran down to the river and the bridge. Involuntarily my eyes followed his, and a moment sufficed to reveal the object of his interest. For down the road towards us there crept a fragile figure, swaying unsteadily, overborne with weakness and her heavy load. This too was a negro woman, but cast in finer mould than the stalwart black who had disappeared from view. The one who had just hove in sight, as I could see even at that distance, was a comely creature, more white than black, but yet bearing the fatal hue.

She was heavy laden, as I have implied. One arm bore a great bundle enclosed in a white sheet—laundry, doubtless—while on the other she carried a plump and complacent infant, crowing as it came, in that fine oblivion of weight which marks the procession of the heaviest babies everywhere. The young mother was pressing towards the river; a rusty skiff lay beside the bridge, in which, no doubt, she was to make her way to the negro settlement on the farther shore. She seemed ready to faint from the fatigue of her double burden, yet she pressed on with almost rapid steps, as if she must keep up till she reached the boat.

It was this that had attracted the attention of Mr. Laird, so rapt in observance that he evidently did not mark my uncle's movements. For the latter had hardly risen before our visitor sprang quickly to his feet—I can see him now, the tall black-robed figure, with high brow and auburn hair—and strode down swiftly towards the road. Another moment brought him alongside of the exhausted negress, whose white eyes could be seen wearily surveying him as he approached. Without a word he seized both burdens from her arms, the baby held high aloft as he led the way down to the boat. The mother straightened herself and followed closely, as if she had taken a new lease of life—it was not all due to the burdens she had lost, I'm sure—and the heavy baby crowed with delight at this improved style of locomotion. When, lo—miserabile dictu! as I learned in Virgil—this second pickaninny, with that tonsorial instinct which seems to mark the race, plunged its pudgy fingers where those of its predecessor had held high revel one brief half hour agone, squealing for very joy as it clutched the auburn mane of the Reverend Gordon Laird.

"Don't that beat the—the Dutch?" muttered my Uncle Henry from the porch, gazing at the tall and supple form, the now laughing and half boyish face, as our guest strode on towards the river, the baby and the bale like feathers in his arms. A funny smile was on uncle's face, half of contempt, half of admiration. "Those two brats both into his hair!" he murmured to himself—"and I sure enough got into his wool," as the grin deepened on his face.

He stood gazing. Then, recalling his sacred principles, he broke out anew: "Good heavens, he's going over to Slabtown with her," for our undaunted guest had by this time landed the bale in the bow of the skiff. Still holding the baby high, he took the woman's hand and helped her over the gunwale into the boat. A moment later we could see his shirt-sleeves glistening in the sun, he himself seated in the middle of the skiff, starting to pull vigorously for the other shore.

"Let him go," said my uncle between his teeth; "he's chosen his company and he can have it. By heavens," he went on hotly, "I was never so insulted in my life. What the—the dickens kind of a man is this Scotchman anyhow?—I've seen men shot for less than this. I remember once in Texas——"

"But, Henry," ventured my Aunt Agnes, "you shouldn't be so hard on him—he doesn't understand our——"

"Then why the devil doesn't he keep his mouth shut?" snorted my uncle; "comin' down here—like those infernal Yankees—an' tryin' to teach us how to run our niggers. I've seen men reach for their hip pockets for less'n that," declared my uncle, glaring round the circle.

"Now, now, Henry," said my mother gently, "that'll do, Henry. You're not much of an assassin—you know that. Besides, you can't help admiring his pluck, can you, now?"

"He's too —— plucky," muttered Uncle Henry, gazing at the now distant boat. Then followed a season of calm, broken only by the soft voices of my aunt and mother as they tried to pour oil on the troubled waters.

"And what do you say? What's your opinion of your Gordon Laird—and his nigger friends?" uncle suddenly demanded, turning on me as stern an eye as dear old uncle could ever treat me to. I had not yet spoken.

"Do you want to know?" said I, straightening up.

"That's what I asked you for—what makes you so white?"

"I don't know. But I think he's glorious—just glorious," I said, looking very straight at uncle. "And I don't care who knows it," I added. I believe I stood up as I spoke—and I could feel my eyes flashing. "And you were horrid to him," I cried, my voice trembling.

"Helen," my mother broke in reproachfully, "you forget yourself, Helen. And do you know you're taking up with a stranger, against your uncle?"

But the latter didn't seem to hear what my mother said. He was staring at me in a way that let me know the battle was won. He was a true Southerner, was uncle, and if anything in the world appealed to him, it was courage. Yet he had by no means surrendered.

"Then you can meet him when he comes back," he said slowly in a minute, nodding towards the river; "you can meet him and say good-bye for the rest of us. You'll make our farewells to him, you see. And tell him the world is wide—you can remember that, can't you, Helen?"

I smiled up into uncle's face. "I won't say good-bye for anybody but Helen Randall," I replied, speaking just as slowly as he had done, "but I'll do that—if I have to. And I'll tell him—I'll tell him," I repeated, gazing down the sunlit river towards the sea, "that the world isn't so wide after all." And I know not why, but a strange thrill swept over me from head to foot; for the day was beautiful, and the fleecy clouds were overhead, and the air was laden with the sweet breath of flowers, and God's sunlight was on the river—and the river flowed on in silence to the sea.

Uncle Henry turned away and presently began a little pace up and down the piazza. Fragments of the storm could still be heard: "Preach the Gospel, indeed—act as assistant to a nigger. A pretty pass, when our guests turn nurse for darkey coons—the attic's too small for him now," as he crossed and recrossed the porch's sounding floor.

Presently he stopped and looked out over the river. The rest of us did not need to look—we had been watching all the time. And, away at the end of the long bridge—it was one of the longest in the state, nearly a mile—we could just descry the moving figure, all in black again, of our returning guest. He was coming back afoot, leaving the skiff to its owners.

Aunt Agnes took advantage of a long silence on uncle's part. "Well," she said, "I guess I'll order dinner served; we can't wait any longer."

"That's what I say," agreed my mother; "we may just as well go on—it'll be better anyhow," she added significantly.

"What?" said my Uncle Henry, turning round and looking at us.

"We were just saying we wouldn't wait dinner any longer," was the explanation, "and anyhow, 'twould be better to go on—ourselves. Considering everything, you know," and my Aunt Agnes sighed.

Uncle stopped still and straightened himself up. "There'll be no dinner till he comes," he said firmly, "if it's an hour. I hope I don't forget what's due to a guest," as he looked gravely round the circle, "and especially a stranger in a strange land." This was said with the air of a king and a very noble king at that.

"Call Lyn," he said suddenly to me.

I did so. "Where are those niggers anyhow?" he asked impatiently as he waited for her to appear. "I reckon they've all been watching the procession," jerking his thumb towards the river. "Oh, here she is," as the sable attendant pattered onto the porch. "Lyn, make me a mint-julep—make it good."

"Yes, sah!" said the vanishing servant.

"Lyn! Oh, Lyn," he called again in an instant.

"Yes, sah; heah I is, sah!"

"Make two mint-juleps—and make them both good."

IX LOVE'S TUTORSHIP

But those were happy days, as I have said already. Neither of us knew, I fancy, whence came the silent music that was slowly gathering in our hearts. But it was there, even though it came in secret strains, neither recognizing, neither declaring. Of course, I was an engaged girl—and I was trying to live up to it. I flaunted Charlie's ring, sometimes; and I often wrote to him, sitting in the very same room with Mr. Laird the while, at my own little desk in the corner. This itself had been one of Charlie's Christmas presents. And I kept Charlie's letters in the tiny drawer in the top, but I had so often been careless about it that mother saw to it herself that it was kept securely locked; I knew where the key was secreted—on the ledge above the library door. Mother said I really ought to carry it on a little gold chain around my neck; but I had no chain—and I never could bear to have things concealed about my person. Mother never glanced at his letters, of course—but I sometimes used to show her bits of mine after I had written them, and mother would suggest a word here and there, a little tenderer than the original, and I would stick them in like plums in a pudding. Indeed—I may as well tell it—mother rewrote a part of the one in which I kind of finally renounced any immediate prospect of Europe and the yacht. She said no member of our family had ever been so gifted with the pen as I—but that I was a little astray on the facts. So she fixed my letter in a way to prevent it being very final—for she said if it was ordained that I should go even yet, it would be wrong to make it impossible. I fancied at the time that this was a little like lending omnipotence a hand—but mother was an old-time Calvinist, especially on the subject of me and Charlie, so I presumed it must be all right to have it as she said.

I don't think any of them, and mother least of all, ever fancied that Mr. Laird had the remotest connection with my engagement to Charlie. For he was a minister—and that itself would be supposed to settle it as far as I was concerned. Besides, he was a minister without a church, a kind of free lance on a holiday. Then, too, we knew he was poor; he never said so, but there are always certain signs; and he took great care of his clothes, and seemed very cautious about money, except when he came across some one who was very poor. And I'm sure we all remembered, though we almost never spoke of it, that he had been a shepherd, and that his father was still keeping sheep on the hills of Scotland—it never seemed to embarrass him a bit to refer to this, which we all thought very strange.

Then, on the other hand, we hadn't the slightest reason—for a long time at least—to think he cared a single thing for me. Indeed, I was just a little piqued about this; one evening I took some fresh flowers to his room in the attic, and his diary was lying open on the table. I don't know why—I have no excuses to make at all—but my eye fell on the entry for the first day or two he had been with us. I only glanced at it—any girl would, I think—to see what he said about us. And I found references to uncle, and my mother, and Aunt Agnes—even to Lyn and Moses more than once—but not a single word about me. I didn't care a straw—only I had a good mind to take the violets down-stairs with me again. But I didn't.

I have always fancied I would have been a good deal more interested if I had thought he was engaged. But I soon made up my mind he wasn't, although I had declared so stoutly to the contrary. For he never seemed to want to be alone, especially in the twilight—and that's a sure sign; and he left all his letters lying around after he had written them; and when he sang, which he did very nicely, he preferred "Scots Wha' Ha'e" to "Annie Laurie"; and he was never melancholy, and never sighed—and he never asked the price of things you need for house-keeping. So all these signs convinced me thoroughly.

I have already said he didn't seem to care a thing for me. And yet—and yet! For one thing, he loved to hear me sing—and he taught me two or three of the old psalms that were in a leather-bound book he brought down-stairs one day. Then he seemed so happy when I said I thought them beautiful. And he talked with me so gently and reasonably about the darkey question that I finally came to admit he did right in preaching in that coloured church. And I wondered why he cared for what I thought at all. Besides all this, he tried to get my promise that I would take a class in the Sunday-school after he was gone—and I remember the gray kind of feeling I had inside of me when he spoke of going away. I wouldn't promise, for I was about as fit to teach a class as I was to be President of the United States—but I promised to help in the library.

By and by, though I can't tell how, we even came to speaking about Charlie. And he praised him, said he was such a clever business man, and handsome. I didn't think much of that; but one evening, when we were sitting on the shore all alone, he said he thought an engagement was such a sacred thing—and he urged me, in a veiled kind of way, always to be true to Charlie. And it was then I began to know—any true girl would know there was something, when he talked like that.

And it was through that—that kind of conversation, I mean—that it all came about. Because, by and by, I actually told him all about my misgivings and my fears. Of course I did it all loyally enough—I always praised Charlie, and always said I knew we'd likely be so happy because he was, already—and I would try to be. And I told him one day how Charlie was still urging me to consent that it should be soon, right away soon—and any one would have thought, if they watched his expression, that he was very concerned for Charlie's interests. For a strange paleness came upon his face when he broke a silence that seemed rather long, I fancy, to both of us.

"I think you should," he said, but his voice was so strange that I wondered where all his strength had gone to.

"What makes you say that?" I replied, and I don't believe my own voice was quite natural.

"Because I think you'd be happier," he answered—"and I want you to be happy." Then, for the first time, he looked at me, and his wonderful eyes were filled with a kind of yearning such as I never saw before. So different, indeed, from the look in Charlie's eyes, though nobody surely ever yearned more earnestly than Charlie.

"I'm about as happy now," I answered, "as any girl could hope to be."

He looked at me enquiringly, and I thought the paleness was deeper than before.

"Just like I am, I mean," I hastened to enlarge, "with a lovely house, and having a lovely time—and uncle and aunt and mother all so good to me."

"It isn't the same," he said.

"The same as what?" I pressed, knowing I should not. But I remember yet the thrill of peril and pain and joy that accompanied the words.

"The same as love—real love," he answered slowly. "It isn't the same at all—the other is a new life altogether. That's what makes life holy—and beautiful," he said, his voice so low I could scarcely hear. "That's the whole of life—every bit of it," he added softly.

I answered never a word. And in a moment he went on. "Yes, that's my highest wish for you, Miss Helen—that you may find a sphere worthy of you. For you'll forgive me, won't you, when I say you haven't found it yet? You've got a wonderful nature," he suddenly startled me with, "and you've got gifts and qualities that can be so useful, so wonderfully useful—and they can give you such deep happiness too," he went earnestly on, "if they only get a chance—if you only give them a chance; if they're developed, I mean. And nothing will ever ripen them but—but that."

"But what?" murmured I, who knew right well.

"But love," he answered gently. "No woman's life ever really ripens except through love. And—forgive me again, but I must say it—you're not getting the most out of life, living as you are now, Miss Helen."

I looked at him searchingly. "As I am now?" I echoed. "Why, what kind of life do you think I'm living?" But even as I spoke the words my own poor heart provided all the answer. I felt rising up within me a conception, not adequate or full, but quite sufficient at the time, of the hollowness and barrenness of the poor frivolous life I was living. And I knew, oh, so well, how far from the well-spring of real joy and peace were the glittering streams at which I had sipped so long.

"What do you mean?" I urged, for he had not spoken.

"Oh," he began slowly, "I guess you know. Nobody can have a nature like yours without knowing when it's not being satisfied. You have no work—no calling, I mean. And you don't have any recreation, except only pleasure—a little party here, and a picnic there, a card party yonder, and an afternoon tea somewhere else. You know what I mean—all those things—and a nature like yours can't live on confections," he added, smiling. "That's why I'll be glad—when the other happens."

"What other?" repeated I, who knew right well again.

"You know," he said; and the great eyes looked solemnly and wistfully into-mine.

"Do you mean when I marry Mr. Giddens?" said I, dwelling on the words, my eyes never taken from his face.

"Yes," he said; "that's what I mean." And his own eyes never flinched, although I could see the pallor deepen on his face. And I rejoiced, though I honestly believe I scarce knew why.

"What difference would—would that make?" I asked, looking away.

"It would fill your life," he answered quietly, "fill your life to overflowing."

"But I wouldn't give up those things even then—card-playing and dancing and everything like that. I've always done those things—and I love them, Mr. Laird. You don't understand me, I'm afraid. You see, your life has been a very different one from mine, hasn't it?"

"Wide as the poles asunder," he answered without looking at me. "I never knew any of those things. Yes, very different," he repeated. And he smiled.

"Your parents are very religious people, I suppose?" I ventured.

"My mother's not living," he said in a hushed voice. "She died when I was ten."

"And your father?" I asked in a burst of boldness.

"Yes," he said. We were sitting by the river at the time, and the sun was setting, and its last rays bathed the trees with amber light. His head was lying on the ground; and the dying sun shed its beauty on the wavy hair and the wonderfully modulated face. Modulated is the fitting word, for various voices spoke through the different features, yet the master note was tenderness, always so lovable in a man when it is joined to strength.

"I'd love to be religious," I said suddenly. "I believe I would have been, too, if I'd been a man."

He smiled. "Why would you like to be religious?" he said, picking up a pebble and throwing it far out into the river. "You've just said you love those other things so much."

"Oh, yes, I know I did. But I mean what I say, just the same. I admire that sort of people," I went on enthusiastically; "religious people, you know. Really good people—like you," I broke out recklessly. "I knew an awfully religious girl in Richmond once. She was naturally good, no struggle for her at all. Well, she married a minister,"—I laughed as I said it—"and nearly all her friends pity her so. She and her husband live in the country, and he takes care of his own horse—he has three stations. But I never pitied her," I declared earnestly; "I think it must be a perfectly lovely life—when your heart's in it. She loves him to distraction—and his work too; and she visits the people, and she teaches in the Sunday-school. Besides, she has two children—and I think he preaches all his sermons at her on Saturday nights and she fixes them up. But then, of course, she's fitted for that sort of thing—she can pray out loud," I concluded, nodding my head towards Mr. Laird as though this were the acme of all eulogy.

"There are better kinds of prayer than that," he answered, smiling again; "and I'm so glad you don't pity her," he added, turning his earnest eyes on me again.

"Why?" I could not help enquiring.

"Because I was afraid you would," he said meaningly—"and she doesn't need it. Where two hearts are in love with each other and their work—I wouldn't ask any higher heaven than that." Then he sighed; although, as I have said, he wasn't much given to sighing.

Then came my question. For days I had been burning to ask it; yet I marvel that I was ever bold enough to form the words.

"You talk like a specialist on that subject. Were you ever in love, Mr. Laird?" I shot the words out quickly; otherwise they never would have come.

He turned with swift movement and looked at me. It seemed to me he looked me over from head to foot, though I knew he wouldn't do anything so rude. The paleness was all gone now, I noticed, and I thought his lip trembled a little. It was a moment before he spoke.

"You've been very kind in giving me your confidence, haven't you, Miss Helen?" he asked, very gravely and slowly.

I stammered out my answer. "Forgive me, Mr. Laird," I began penitently; "I had no right to say what I did. And if I've told you anything about—about me and Charlie—it was only because it seemed easy to do it—because I wanted to. Because I trusted you," I added, wishing some one would suddenly appear.

But no one did, and Mr. Laird seemed so dreadfully calm. I was waiting, intending to say something more, when he went serenely on.

"Well, I can trust you, too," he said; "and it seems easy to tell you. And, anyhow, I don't know why I shouldn't. Yes, I was in love once, long ago. And I was engaged to be married," he continued, in that same tone of reverence with which he always spoke of matters such as this. "But it's long ago now—it was while I was in my second year in the university. And I had to give her up"—he smiled as he turned his eyes on mine—"had to give her up for another man. Her father, like mine, was a shepherd, and she was bright as a sunbeam and as pure as the dewdrop in the dell—that's a line from an old Scotch song," he interjected, smiling rather more broadly than I thought he should have done in mid-narrative of a tragedy like that. "But a fellow came home from across the sea—from Australia—and he was very rich."

"Did she give you up for him?" I asked, indignation in my voice.

"Not exactly," he answered; "but it amounted to that. She wrote and asked me to release her; said she had found she loved him best."

"And you gave her up?"

"Certainly," he said, and I thought what a magnificent man he was; "yes, what else could I do? Or what else could she do?"

"Didn't you hate her?"

"No, of course not—I think she did perfectly right. Anything else would have been false to both of us. And they got married very soon after—they have three bairns now," and I wondered how he could smile such a happy kind of smile.

"And do you think," I said, "do you think any girl would be justified in changing—if she found—if she found she loved somebody else?"

"Yes," he answered slowly. "Yes, I think she would. But she has no right to find out anything of the sort—I would never find it out," he concluded firmly.

"You wouldn't?—why wouldn't you?"

"Because I shouldn't," he said; "that's why I wouldn't—if I loved, I'd love always."

"Would you have loved her always?" I asked, wondering at my rashness.

"Yes," he said after a pause; "yes, if she had let me. Do you know, I believe it's getting chilly—shall we go home?"

To which proposal I gave swift assent—outwardly, at least. And as we walked along I marvelled at the restraint of the strong man beside me. I knew, or felt, rather, that his heart was a molten mass of fire—I couldn't have told why, but its burning heat was just as real to me as anything could be. I knew it was aflame; but he was as reserved, and cold, and strong, and silent as though we had been talking of something that had nothing to do with human hearts at all. I hated myself for the weakness I could not conceal. And I fairly loathed that Scotch girl who married the rich Australian—and I hoped all her children had flaming red hair, like I felt sure she had.

That same night I was chatting a while with uncle before he went to bed.

"And what is your majesty going to decide about Savannah—and the royal yacht—and Europe?" he suddenly enquired, after our talk had run a little on a kindred vein.

"I'm not going," I declared vehemently; "at least, not for a long time—I simply can't."

"I wouldn't either," he said meaningly, "if I were you—you'll be a fool if you do."

"Why?" demanded I.

"I reckon you know," said uncle; "if you don't, I won't tell you. And I don't blame you, honey. I think he's a true blue sort of chap—but he'll have to revise his views about the niggers."

Well, the result of the whole thing was this, that I spent a good half hour posting my diary that night. I too had begun a diary by this time—and I, too, took good care whose name shouldn't go into it. And the outcome of my half hour's pondering was this brief entry: "Have made up my mind that I can't marry Charlie—and I shall never, never marry the Reverend Gordon Laird."

X THE RIVER LEADING TO THE SEA

If there is one thing a girl loves more than another, it's being a martyr. If there is any such thing as sweet sorrow, that's where it may be found. And of all kinds of martyrdom the love kind is the sweetest. Now in all this a woman is so different from a man. A man enjoys the suffering that comes with love—if some one else does the suffering; but a woman glories in it—if some one else does the loving. And that was pretty much my case.

For I was having lots of love—from Charlie. This was all very well so far as it went; nor can it be denied that it went a considerable way. For every girl prizes a strong man's love, though she return it never so faintly. Like some preachers, she highly esteems a call—even if she has little or no thought of accepting it. But there is nothing, nothing in all the world, so troublesome as love; unless it utterly swamps you—then is the solution simple. But to have just enough to marry on, with no surplus for the years—that's dreadful. That is like launching some mighty ship when the tide is out—and it must be awful to hear the keel grating on the sand.

Yes, that's where the martydom comes in, to recall the noble word with which I began the chapter. And when the Judgment Day shall dawn—concerning which I have no doubt, but much misgiving—the most oft-repeated charge against our poor weak womanhood will be that we sold ourselves for nought. Some of our loveliest will be the first to learn, in that great day, how deadly was the barter of their bodies—and of so much more. I have often heard uncle say that when a horse is sold its halter always goes along—but no one ever told me that when a girl sells her body, that sale includes the soul. Reluctant, protesting, even horrified, it yet must cleave to its tenement of clay and meet the tenant's doom. And what a doom! if it be fitting destiny for those who have bartered the sanctity of life, some for bread, some for home, some for gold, some for fame, some for earthly station; and some, nobler these, for very hungriness of heart, crying out for the nameless something that shall satisfy the soul.

I hardly know just how or when I resigned myself to such a martyrdom. But I did. I decided to marry Charlie, right soon too—despite the defiant vow I had registered in my diary that night. One thing I'm sure of—and that is, that Europe and the yacht had mighty little to do with it. But whether it was because I feared Charlie might throw himself from the deck of the aforesaid yacht if I didn't marry him; or whether I felt it was a matter of honour; or whether I knew it would throw mother's life into eclipse; or whether I agreed with that semi-intelligent philosopher who once said that all life was a gamble in probabilities, or something of that sort, I cannot say. But anyhow, one midnight hour, I drew my pen through the first half of that diary vow, the part which declared I could never marry Charlie, and I left uninjured the savage promise to myself that I would never, never marry the Reverend Gordon Laird.

Besides, he had been horrid. Not in any positive sense, of course, for Mr. Laird was such a perfect gentleman. And yet he was a gentleman after a fashion I had never seen before. He was not in the least like our Southern gallants; he couldn't bow like them, nor make pretty speeches—and he wouldn't jump across the floor to pick up my handkerchief, though I once saw him give Dinah a hand up the back steps with a heavy block of ice that had slipped from her grasp and fallen to the bottom. And he never brought me flowers, or candies, except some wild violets he might sometimes pluck—and once he did give me some molasses taffy, of which his reverence himself partook with almost juvenile enthusiasm.

But he was scrupulously polite, and that's so hard for a girl to stand if she's interested in a man at all. And he seemed so strong, and self-possessed, that he was distant without meaning to be—the distance of a sort of superiority, all the worse because you knew he wasn't trying to make you realize it at all; and I had the intolerable feeling that his world was an altogether different one from mine, and that he was interested in things I didn't know about, yet which I felt might be just as much mine as his if I only had a chance. As it was, however, I was a good deal like a child standing knee high to some man whose face was half hidden by the telescope to his eye; if he knew you were there at all, you felt the very most he'd do would be to pat your head and ask you if you'd lost your ball.

I don't know what finally decided me. But anyhow I wrote Charlie a letter, and told him Yes. "Yes, right away," was the burden of what I said, "as soon as I can get ready." I thought at the time what a cruel term that was, "getting ready"—as if the milliner and dressmaker had any part to play in that. All the world I would have given to have known how to really "get ready" in my inmost heart and life. But I wrote the letter, and sealed it, and kissed it on the outside—which I felt was the proper thing to do—and then I placed it in the Bible on my dressing-table, taking quite a pious satisfaction in the fancy. Then I sat down and cried till my eyes were sore and the Bible all stained with bitter tears. Later on, I told my mother; her joy was quite enough for two, quite too much for me.

And I told Mr. Laird too. Some will ask why, and perhaps make merry over that delicate reserve which Southern women pride themselves upon. But let them ask, and let them make merry as they will. Besides, I had already told Mr. Laird so much that it was surely natural enough for me to tell him this. Moreover, was he not a minister—and what are they for if not to be confided in?

So I told him I was going to post a letter. It was the gathering dusk, for such a letter should never sure be launched in the garish light of day. Then I told him what was in it, or, at least, told him enough to let him know; for he was remarkably "quick in the uptake," to adopt a phrase of his own countrymen; I think I referred, too, to his own counsel in the matter.

He didn't speak for a little, nor could I see his face. But when he did break the silence, it was to say he'd walk to the post-office with me; he added that the exercise would do him good, since he hadn't had much of an appetite for supper—which was, I thought, one of the shabbiest speeches he could have framed. But I let him come.

"Why not row down?" he suddenly suggested as we came to the bend in the road beside the river. Our boat-house, its door wide open, was at the water's edge. "We can land within a square of the office," he enlarged.

I should have refused, I know; for the letter to Charlie was in my hand. But I didn't. And I remember yet the sense of sweet helplessness I felt as he turned and led the way to the boat-house. It all comes back to me again. I stand once more alone, outside, while the tall form disappeared within the low-roofed house. The sound of pushing and rolling I hear again as the boat emerged slowly from its home. The rattle of oars comes back, idly rolling to and fro in the rocking skiff; the metallic chink as they were being adjusted in the iron sockets; and the lapping waves, and the soft breath of evening, and the distant noises of the drowsy town. I remember, too, that there was neither moon nor star, the sky all veiled with the gentle haze that often marks our Southern spring. He rowed; and I sat in the armchair in the stern.

"You're going too far out," I said suddenly, for we were near the middle of the river.

"I want to get a last look at the place," he said, "and one can see better from out here. Doesn't the town look lovely in the dusk?—see all those twinkling lights."

"Yes," I agreed, "it's beautiful. Why do you say that?" I asked, trying to conceal the tremor in my voice.

"Say what?"

"What you said a moment ago—about a last look—why the last?"

"Because it is," he answered slowly, the oars hardly moving now. "I'm going away."

I looked down at the dimpling track my hand was making in the water.

"When?" I said; oh, so carelessly.

"To-morrow."

"Where?" as I caught at the little throb in my voice.

"To Canada—they've got an opening for me there. I'm going to take a mission field."

I made no response. But I knew for the first time, in all this life of mine, what it really meant to have a heart on fire. He was not looking, so he could not see the quick rise and fall of my bosom as I looked out through the deepening darkness towards the twinkling shore. I could see the dim outline of a few tall elms on the bank; and muffled sounds floated towards us across the darkling water. But what I remember most was the wonderful stillness that reigned without, while the first real heart-storm I had ever known raged deep within.

One hand was in the water, troubling the unconscious element; in the other I still held the letter I had written Charlie. And I leaned far out over the edge of the boat, withdrawing my gaze from the shore; but the silent river gave back nothing except murky blankness. Life had the selfsame colour to me then, poor child and changeling that I was. Suddenly I felt that his eyes were on me, though the gloom was deepening—and I trembled, actually trembled; if I had been alone with him in mid-ocean I could not have trembled more. Perhaps I glanced down the sullen river and remembered that its home was the far waiting sea.

Then he moved—and towards me. If there had been a mile between us, instead of a few paltry feet, I could not have been more conscious of his coming. For he never spoke, and I neither spoke nor stirred. In a moment he was beside me, or at my feet, or both. And such a transformation I had never seen. His voice was low and unsteady, choking almost, and I could catch the wonderful fire of his eyes as they were fastened on me in the gloom.

"Don't," I said faintly, "please don't—let us row in—we'll miss the mail."

But he made no movement, never even glancing at one of the oars which had been lifted from its socket and slipped with a little splash into the stream. The other sulked alone in the darkly dimpling water.

"Oh! Helen," he said in an altered voice, such a voice as I had never heard before, "you know—you know all I want to say."

He had hold of my hand, the one that held the letter. And still I did not move or speak. But a swift thought flashed through my mind; it was of another day, when another man had thus laid siege to me—and I knew now what life's real passion meant. Yes, I will tell it—and they may smile who will—my whole soul leaped in silent ecstasy, and triumph, and hope. But the greatest of these was hope. I knew, at long last, what it meant to love and to be loved—and no queen ever gloried in the hour of her coronation as I silently rejoiced in mine. I forgot that he was stronger than I, and greater, and nobler; forgot all about the strength of intellect that I had felt as a gulf between us; all the difference, too, of life's aim and purpose was sunk and forgotten now. I even forgot that he was a minister at all, set apart for life to duties and sacrifices for which I had neither gift nor inclination. I only knew I loved him, and that we were alone together—and that he was at my feet.

"Helen," he began again, "I'm going away—and you'll forget all about me, won't you, Helen?"

It was sweet to hear him speak my name. And his words would mean, of course, that he wanted me to forget—but I knew what they really meant, and I held every tone sacred to my heart.

Then I said, and the words were soft as the breeze about us: "I won't."

I knew it was wrong—for Charlie's letter was still in the hand he held. But it was glorious. Oh, how I revelled in the words I spoke! They were simple and insignificant, I know,—but the wild breath of a new-born love pulsed through them, and I could see by the kindled face, though the dark was round about us, how his heart had leaped to recognize their meaning. And then his own soul poured itself out in a great gust of passion, pure and holy and resistless and triumphant; all the strength and silentness and self-control that had provoked my wonder through the days seemed now to be turned to leaping flame as he told me—oh, so eloquently and yet so brokenly—of such a love as I had never dreamed could be offered any maiden's heart.

"Can you see that steeple there?" he said, his voice hoarse with feeling as he pointed to the distant town; "no, it's too dark—but I can see it. I see it even in my dreams. It was under its shadow I met you first, when your uncle and I were coming from the train. And I knew then, Helen—in that instant I knew, and have known ever since, that there was only one love for me—and it was you, my darling. And I knew, I knew, who put the roses in that attic room of mine—and they made the place like heaven to me ever since. And give me this, Helen—surrender it to me," he went on passionately, his fingers closing stealthily around the letter in my hand.

"I cannot," I cried, protesting, summoning what strength I might. "Oh, I cannot—that's my letter to Charlie."

His clasp relaxed a little. "I know," he said; "that's why I want it—and you cannot, you must not, send it now."

"But you told me, you told me more than once," I pleaded; "you said how true I ought to be—you know you did," and I trembled lest his own counsel should prevail.

He seemed to sink back a little—and awful silence reigned a moment. "But I didn't know," he soon began, new earnestness in his voice, "I only knew then that I loved you—and I could have given you up, I really could—but I didn't know then that you belonged to me—to me, my darling," his voice rising to the masterful with the words; "I didn't know then that God meant you for me, and that that was why He led my steps across the sea. I could have given you up—I swear I could," he cried almost fiercely, "if it had meant nothing but a wounded life for me—but when it's you—oh, when it's you, my darling, when your life would be wounded and broken too. For you love me, my own," and his voice had the tenderest strain that ever filled woman's heart with rapture; "don't you, Helen?" he went pleadingly on; "oh, say you do—or tell me, tell me, Helen, if you don't."

Then the silence of death reigned about us both, though heaven knows I tried my best to break it, but could make no sound. And then, then—with all the stealth of love and of a strong man's will—he gently drew the letter from my hand, my heart fluttering till it hurt, and without a word he tore it up, slowly, noiselessly, almost reverently, into a hundred pieces, and a moment later they fluttered through the dark out onto the bosom of the silent river.

I was like one in a dream, unspeaking still. Perhaps I had a great sense of weakness, even of wrong. But I do not think so. I only knew that life was changed to me in that wonderful hour, and that I cared nothing for the future, all that it might bring, all my unfitness for it. I only knew that I had found at last what my poor, tired, frivolous heart had been seeking in alien ways for long. And I knew that love's great lie, so desperately cherished, had retreated before Love's great Reality. And when he took me in his arms, so strong, so tight, I shut my eyes and rested there; and when he kissed me—only once—I prayed, a swift, wonderful prayer. And I knew at last that love was holy, stainless, and that God was good.

XI A MOTHER CONFESSOR

They were waiting for us when we got home, wondering a little why we were so late. We told them we had been on the river, and Mr. Laird apologized for the loss of the oar; I remember uncle said it was lucky he was able to paddle his own canoe.

I went into mother's room when I went up-stairs to fix my hair—and she noticed that Charlie's ring was absent from my hand. I expected her to, for it was a source of constant joy to her. Then I told her. I shall not describe the gust that followed, except to say that what I remember best about it was mother's appeal to my sense of unfitness for the life of a minister's wife. There was a lot more—Europe and the yacht were not forgotten—about the folly of giving myself to a life of obscurity and poverty when a very different one was open to me.

"I'm sick of money," I said foolishly; "I've always had nearly everything I wanted—and I wasn't happy."

"You'll know the difference when you don't have your uncle to give you everything you want," said my mother.

"He's been the kindest man that ever was," I agreed, "but no uncle that ever lived could give a girl everything she wants. There's only one can do that," I went on, for my heart was singing—"and I've found him at last."

It was then that mother appealed to me on the ground of my unfitness for the life I had chosen. And I must admit that did hit me pretty hard.

"Look at our minister's wife," she said; "she's meant for it. It's true she looks half starved, and she's always dowdy, and has to make a dress do for years—but she's happy in that kind of life."

"Maybe I'll be happy too," I ventured to predict.

"How could you be?" retorted my mother. "How could you ever hope to be, when you're not fitted for that kind of work? Mrs. Furvell can lead in prayer."

"Well, I can't," I said—"but I can follow. And Mr. Laird says that's better."

"And she can take the chair at meetings—and she knows how to talk to ministers when they come—and they say she looks over her husband's sermons, and makes suggestions."

"My husband's sermons won't need any," I made reply. And at this I blushed furiously: the word sounded like a beautiful judgment day. I knew how crimson my face and neck all grew, for I was standing in front of a pier glass at the time, my hair flowing down about my shoulders. And I wondered if I was beautiful—I hoped I was, but not for my own sake at all—I can honestly say no vanity was in my thought. Everything was different now.

"Of course," conceded my mother, "I believe in a girl marrying for love—but you haven't known him long enough. Now Charlie's different; you've known him so long."

"That's just where it comes in," said I, dimly groping for what I felt was a great point.

"What do you mean?" said mother.

"I don't know," I answered, which was gloriously true.

"Besides," digressed my mother, leaving this obscure point unsettled, "what reason have you got to think you'll ever get along agreeably with his folks?"

"I'd get along with Choctaw Indians," quoth I, "if it would make him any happier; besides, I won't have to—they're all in Scotland."

"Whose happiness do you mean?" enquired my mother, though she knew right well.

"Why, his—Mr. Laird's, of course."

"Are you going to call him Mr. Laird?" pursued my mother, for womanly curiosity will show itself even amid high tragedy.

"I reckon so—I don't know," and I laughed as I spoke; "that never occurred to me."

"He didn't ask you to—to call him Gordon?"

"Mercy, no—why should he?" I exclaimed aghast.

"Why shouldn't he?" replied my mother. "I remember the night your father asked me to marry him—but then, there's no use of that; that's all over now. When is he going to speak to me about it, Helen?"

"Oh, mother," I said, putting my arms about her neck, "you're such a woman! I know you're just counting the minutes till you'll be alone with him when he's pleading with you to give your daughter to him. That's the next best thing to getting a proposal yourself, isn't it, mother?"

But she was not yet ready for surrender. "It's very easy for you, Helen," she said seriously, "to treat it all as a trifling matter—but you don't know what a heavy heart you've given me. And there's another thing," she went on, a little timidly, I thought: "I suppose you don't forget that his father's a shepherd—a man that takes care of sheep, on the hills?" she enlarged.

"No, I haven't forgotten it," I answered, and I felt my colour rising, "nor has he forgotten. And I wouldn't care if his father were a chimney-sweep. Do you mean that, mother?" I demanded, my voice about as stern as she had ever heard it.

"Mean what, Helen?"

"Do you mean that that—about his father being a shepherd—should make any difference to me? When I love him?" I added, my voice shaking a little.

"No, child, no. No, of course not," my mother hastened to reply; "only it'll be a little awkward, I'm afraid. You've got to consider everything, you know."

"That's just what I'm doing," I retorted quickly. "And if he's good, and true, and noble—and he is—what difference does it make to me who his father is, or what he does? It won't be as awkward as to be married to a man you don't love—that's what I would call awkward," I cried, "and that's what nearly happened me. And he—Mr. Laird—he tore the letter up and threw it into the river, thank God!" as the tears that could no longer be restrained poured forth at last.

Her tender arms tightened about me as she soothed me with some explanation of what she meant, telling me meantime that I was tired and needing rest. Nor did the interview last much longer, being fruitful of but little satisfaction on either side. Mother loved me too well to make any real unpleasantness about it; and, before we finished, she laid most of her grief to the score of Charlie's broken heart. But she did add, rather sorrowfully, that in all probability now I would live and die without ever seeing Europe.

I believe there's no place where a girl so feels the trembling joy of love as in her own little room when first she returns to it with her lips still moist from the sacramental kiss. I have often wondered since why this is so. And I do not know. But I remember well, with quickening heart, that almost bridal hour. I did not light the gas—and I wondered at the time why I shrank from doing so—but kindled instead the candle on my dressing-table. The soft and tender light accorded better with my mood, and the flitting shadows that fell across the room seemed beautiful. When I was undressed and robed for the night, I sat long, my hair still flowing on my shoulders, before the pier glass, gazing into my own eyes for very joy. The shallow will say it was empty vanity; but it was not. It was a kind of communion time, searching, so far as I could, the mystic depths of a personality that had been so suddenly wakened to a new and holy life.

I know not how long I lingered thus, peering into the hidden future—once or twice I buried my hot face in my hands—marvelling at the ministry of love, before I put the candle out and went to bed. And then, strangely enough, there stole into my mind the verse Charlie used to love to hear me sing. I hummed it softly to myself:—

But now the words seemed all on fire and I wondered why their beauty had never appeared to me before. I lilted them again and again, the image of my lover, my first real lover, before me all the time—and I wondered when, if ever, I would sing the words for him.

But all of a sudden I felt that this was frivolous. For it was beginning to be borne in upon me—scarcely thought of in the first rush of joy—what manner of man this was whose lot I was to share. I was to be a minister's wife! With a wave of cowardice I hid my face under the snowy covers as I thought of it; while visions of other days, of dances and parties and cards, and all sorts of alien things, floated before my eyes. I fought against them all with an intensity they did not deserve, really trying to lead my thoughts into higher channels. And there came into my mind—which I have always considered an intervention from a Higher Source—a line or two of a psalm I had heard Mr. Laird sing more than once. The words came back to me so readily, and I said them over and over again to myself:—

and, almost before I knew it, I had slipped out of bed and was on my knees in prayer. I must confess that I barely knew how to pray—that is, outside of a little groove along which my devotions had tripped since I was a child. But this time I really did pray—out of my own heart—though I fear it was a very broken and halting prayer, a poor sort of thing compared to those finished efforts of Mrs. Furvell to which my mother had referred. Yet I think it was sincere. I asked God to guard my love—but especially his—and to not let anything happen to spoil it; and to help me give up everything that was wrong or frivolous, and to make me some help to him in his life-work.

I was hardly snuggled up in bed again before I heard Mr. Laird coming up-stairs to the attic. I suppose he had been doing some thinking on his own account, all alone in the parlour. His room was right over mine—and that was why I had such a luxurious night. For very soon he began walking up and down the floor—I don't think he knew I was just beneath—and he kept up that lonely tramp for hours. Every step he took was music to me. Back and forward, forward and back, he walked, and I could fairly see the tall, noble form, the serious face, the deep, penetrating eyes. Once or twice he stopped, for a few minutes; and I began to fear he didn't love me as he should. But soon the firm tread began again and then I knew how really dear I was.

Dozens of times since then, when I have teased him about it, he has told me those little silences came when he threw himself on his bed and snatched a few minutes' sleep; but that he knew I was listening, so he would shake himself, dash some cold water on his face or wrap a towel about his head, and start on his beat again. But I knew better—and anyhow, he confessed to me once that nothing short of chloroform could have kept him still that night.

When we assembled at breakfast the next morning Mr. Laird didn't eat anything except one little half slice of toast—and I could see how this appealed to mother, though she maintained a sad gravity throughout.

When the meal was finished he asked mother if he might have a few minutes with her alone. And she asked him what could it possibly be about!

XII THE WAIL OF THE LOWLY

It was "Gordon" now, always "Gordon"—though of course nobody called him that but me. For he had made yet another little addition to his visit—and he and I had improved the time. But his departure was near at hand.

And it does seem sad that what occurred had to happen just before he left. For everything had gone so beautifully. Mother, it is true, used to sigh sometimes, and once or twice expressed the hope that Charlie hadn't killed himself when he got the tidings and the ring. I had no such fears; for the brief note that came back informed me that he would say nothing till he came and saw me; which, he said, he would do as soon as some very urgent business would permit. But mother declared she knew this was only said to conceal the fact that he was prostrate in his bed.

I believe Aunt Agnes and Uncle Henry were quite composed about the whole affair—they thought so much of Gordon. And even mother was getting fond of him; she couldn't very well have helped it, he was so strong and tender and dignified and true. And I can't tell how happy it made me to see mother warming up to him; a few days before he intended to go away—and the very day of the explosion I am about to describe—I saw mother pull his hair. Just a little tug, it's true, a little playful pinch of a few of the auburn strands—but it filled my soul with joy, for I think it means more for certain kinds of women to give the hair a little pull like that than if they took the whole man into their arms. So I pretended not to see, lest my Gordon's hair should never be pulled again.

We were all pretty resigned, as I have said—especially Gordon and myself. And if Gordon had only gotten away to his Canadian field before that eventful night—or if every negro in the South had only died or been deported the day before—the whole tenor of our after lives might have been changed.

We were seated on the porch, uncle and Gordon and I. My mood, I fear, was a rather plaintive one, for I didn't know when my lover would be coming back. Uncle, however, seemed in a very jovial frame of mind; but the worst storms always come on the most placid evenings. He had just been telling Gordon that he thought I would make a pretty fair minister's wife after all.

"You know, Mr. Laird," he remarked in mock seriousness, "there's one feature of Helen's record that makes me think she's right religious after all."

"Let us have the symptoms," said Gordon, and he couldn't have looked at me more tenderly if he hadn't had a drop of Scotch blood in his whole make-up.

"Well, it's this," drawled my uncle; "I've never known Helen to miss a Sunday-school picnic since she was able to toddle—she'd go without her lessons before she'd miss one. Now don't you think that's a good sign?" and uncle indulged himself in the merriment his little joke deserved.

Gordon made some laughing response, I have forgotten what. And it was then that uncle began the fatal strain. It really seemed as if it had to be; for, ever since that other darkey outbreak, both men had been careful to steer clear of the dangerous topic.

"You'll have to look out," uncle began, "that those folks up North don't tramp on your wife's Southern corns." Gordon gave me a funny look—whether it referred to the sublime word, or the grotesque one, I couldn't tell. "For instance," uncle went on, "the first thing you know, some of them'll be expressing their opinion about slavery and airing their views on the whole question of the darkies. Now I want you to protect her from that—don't let them bring the subject up if you can help it. And, just as like as not, they'll be flaunting that Uncle Tom's Cabin nigger show under your noses. There was a company brought it down here once—but we read the riot act to them. It was 'Katy, bar the door' for them. Some of them just got off with their necks. And I want you to promise me, Helen, that you'll never look at their infernal show; they say it's all whips, and handcuffs, and bloodhounds, and all the rest of the lies that Harriet Beecher Stowe concocted. You'll promise me, won't you, Helen?"

"Don't trouble yourself about that, uncle," I answered evasively, being always a cautious maiden along certain lines; "most likely Mr. Laird doesn't know what you're talking about. Do you, Gordon?" I enquired, the change of name very sweet.

"Oh, yes," he promptly replied. "Yes, I've read the book—read it on the heathery hills, when I was quite a wee laddie."

"Did you ever read such a parcel of lies, sir?" demanded my uncle, fully expecting that there could be only one answer.

"I'm really not in a position to give an opinion," Gordon replied judiciously; "you see, I never saw slavery."

"Well, I have," uncle responded vigorously, "and the book's a bunch of lies. Of course, I suppose some brutes might mistreat their niggers. But it wasn't natural, sir—it wasn't to their interest to do so—a man wouldn't do it with his horse. And the niggers were enough sight happier then than they are now—they were perfectly contented, sir."

"That's the worst of it," said Gordon tersely.

"What say, sir? I don't know that I understand you."

"That was the saddest feature of it—that they were contented," repeated Gordon calmly; "that's what slavery did for them. But it seems to me, Mr. Lundy," he went on, warming a little to the argument, "it seems to me the book in question doesn't deny that most of the negroes were well used."

"It doesn't?" uncle began in a rather fiery tone; "it doesn't, doesn't it? It's the most one-sided book that was ever written—has niggers dying under the lash, and hunted with hounds, and all that sort of thing. What's that, if it isn't one-sided, sir?"

"As far as I remember, 'Uncle Tom's Cabin' impressed me as decidedly fair, quite impartial," Gordon ventured, his voice very calm.

"It's a pack of Yankee lies, sir," interrupted my uncle warmly.

Gordon flushed a little. "That's hardly argument, Mr. Lundy," he replied slowly. "You remind me of what Burke said of Samuel Johnson—he said Johnson's style of argument reminded him of a highwayman; if his pistol missed fire, he knocked you down with the butt end of it."

"What's that got to do with niggers?" enquired my uncle blankly.

"Nothing—just with the argument," answered Gordon. "I said I thought 'Uncle Tom's Cabin' impressed me as impartial—and you retorted it was Yankee lies. That's like calling Euclid a liar because you dissent from his proposition, as your great Lincoln said."

"He wasn't ours—and he isn't great," retorted uncle vigorously.

"Half of that may be true," Gordon answered in the most amiable tone. "But about the book—I'll state my position. Mrs. Stowe portrays three men, if I remember right, who had to do with slaves. Shelby, St. Clair, Legree, were the names, I think. Well, one of them, Legree, is depicted as a brute—but the other two were like fathers to their slaves. Now, if that isn't fair—two to one—I don't know what is," concluded Gordon placidly, "especially as you've just admitted yourself that the brutal type was always to be found, even if the exception."

I was growing nervous by this time, and with abundant cause. It was with a sense of hearty relief I heard Aunt Agnes hurrying towards the porch; and before the argument could further go, she blew in upon the scene with tidings of an invitation she had just received for me and Gordon for that very evening. I wasn't slow to make the most of the digression, and soon the ship of domestic peace was clear of the threatening rocks.

Yet I could see, all through the early evening, that the debate had left its impress upon Gordon. It was really wonderful how a question of this kind took hold of him; anything human, especially if connected with sorrow or injustice, seemed to kindle him as nothing else could do. More than once he harked back to it within the next hour or two when he and I were alone. "It's beyond my understanding," he broke out, "how any man—especially a Christian gentleman like your uncle—can defend an institution that made one man a slave of another."

"But they were good to them," I defended.

"Yet they were in bondage," was his terse reply; "and besides, Helen, you know they often had to sell them—even when they didn't want to. I've talked to coloured women on the streets here, who told me their children were sold away from them long years ago—and they've never seen them since. And they cried," he added, his voice taking what was almost a shrill note, plaintive with sympathy. "And I don't care if they did keep their slaves in luxury—-if they had clothed them in purple and fine linen and fanned them all day long—any institution that makes it possible for a child to be sold from his mother, it's—it's damnable," he declared passionately, "and neither God nor man could convince me to the contrary."

I was almost frightened at Gordon's vehemence—and I was powerless before his argument. A kind of chill foreboding had me in its grip, I knew not why, that his strange intensity on this so fiery theme was yet to work us ill. For, like other strangers, he had no conception of how deep, almost desperately deep, were the convictions of Southern men on the subject that seemed so thoroughly to engross him. He harboured the romantic notion that all men were created equal, as the framers of our Constitution solemnly decreed, their slaves cringing at their feet the while. He held the quixotic view, too, that it was wrong to cheat the darkies out of their votes—I always thought he was astray on this point, and I think so yet. Gordon contended, also, that they had the same kind of feelings as white folks—but I suppose that will be a debated point while time shall last. Gordon did not know, however, how necessary it was that the darkies should be kept in their proper place; nor did he know the long purgatory our Southland had gone through in the days of reconstruction, and carpetbaggers, and negro rule, and all that sort of thing. He had no idea of the fiery zeal with which white men had to guard their supremacy, enforcing the social distinction, keeping the negro where he belonged, piously preserving the curse of Ham upon him. In a word, Gordon hadn't grasped this fundamental truth—which the world may just as well accept first as last—that, no matter how the negro race may predominate in numbers, or grow in wealth, or develop in intelligence, the white man never will be ruled by the black man. And the only way to prevent his being on top is to keep him at the bottom. So I have heard ten thousand times—and so I heartily believe.