Part 3

"Shouldn't wonder if the dominie's shadowin' him," uncle ventured gravely; "lookin' for a job, you see--this'll be worth two hundred to him at the least, won't it, Helen?" as he looked quizzingly at me.

"At the very least," I answered; "I'm pretty expensive--as well as dear," which little playfulness seemed to tickle uncle immensely. He was proceeding to expound the humour to the others when mother interrupted.

"Run to the door and meet them, Helen. And bring them right out to the porch."

"I'd rather not," I demurred--"I'm shy." But the knocker had already sounded and Lyddie had already started for the door. Uncle Henry immediately arose and made his way to meet our friends. A minute later we were all mingled in a kind of hand-shaking reel on the piazza.

"Mr. Giddens and I met at the wharf," explained Mr. Furvell; "we were both taking a look at our noble river--it's superb in the morning sunshine. So we walked up together."

"Most happy to see you both, I'm sure," said my Aunt Agnes cordially.

"Quite appropriate, I think, that we should hunt in couples," continued Mr. Furvell, a significant twinkle in the minister's eye; "we're here in different capacities--yet they naturally go together," he enlarged, evidently desiring to be questioned.

Everybody waited. "Miss Helen will understand," he then went on facetiously; "you see, I'm here as a preacher, and Mr. Giddens as a worshipper," wherewith, much pleased at the success of his little jest, Mr. Furvell led the chorus of applause himself.

"Well, if you're as earnest about your part as I am in mine, we've both found our proper callings," rejoined Mr. Giddens, making a courtly bow.

"Let's take up the collection," said I, blushing furiously, and not knowing what else to say.

"That'll come later," interjected my uncle, winking reverently at the pastor. The pastor seemed to understand right well and took it nothing amiss.

My mother's gaze was directed in undisguised admiration upon Charlie. And very handsome he looked, I must admit, his face a little flushed by the satisfaction of his happy speech, his eyes bright and tender, his whole frame lithe and strong with abundant health. Then, besides, he had lovely clothes, even though he was disfigured by two or three blazing diamonds, two in his shirt-front, if I remember right, and one on the little finger of his left hand. But I shouldn't complain; for I had one brilliant beauty on my own hand--and he was its devoted source.

I think Charlie must have noticed my mother's steadfast gaze. In any case her question came very suddenly, as if to relieve embarrassment: "I hope your folks are all well at home, Mr. Giddens."

"Oh, yes, thank you, ma'am," he replied promptly; "they're busy preparing for a long trip to Europe--they sail next month."

Whereat my mother quite involuntarily threw a swift glance at me. And I believe, I'm almost sure, that Charlie's eyes followed hers.

"Oh, Mr. Giddens," I broke in, my burning cheeks attesting that it was high time, "you don't know who's coming to be our guest to-day--we're going to have an elder."

"What on earth's that?" said Charlie, twirling an ebony cane about with his fingers.

"Oh, I forgot, you're not a Presbyterian. It's a man," I elucidated, "a kind of an unordained minister. And he's going to stay here while the Presbytery's meeting."

"Are they very solemn?" Charlie enquired; "they sound solemn. I suppose he's about the same thing as we call a warden," for Charlie was an Episcopalian.

"A notch higher," ventured Mr. Furvell; "they're in for life. I fancy an elder's more like a bishop than anything you've got in your church."

"And he's going on the bridge deck," I added, pointing upward through the porch roof.

"Helen means the attic," explained my Aunt Agnes; "and it does seem too bad--but we can't help it without turning everything upside down."

"He'll never notice it," Mr. Giddens remarked assuringly. "I know in Savannah, when we have those church pow-wows, half the householders have to sleep in the bath. Is this bishop from the country?"

"I believe so," informed Mr. Furvell. "I think the Pollocksville elder is to be your man."

"You'll have no end of fun with him," Charlie predicted. "Those old Rubes are great. I hope you've got your bootjack handy, Mr. Lundy," addressing my uncle; "the old chap will need it sure."

"I'm not reckonin' on much fun with him," Uncle Henry answered dryly; "that's not our custom with our guests. And I haven't got the instrument you mention--but I'll pull his boots off myself, if he wants any help."

There was just the slightest flush on uncle's cheek; hospitality was a sacred thing to him.

"Oh, by the way," broke in Mr. Furvell, willing enough to turn the talk into another channel, "I've just had word that we're going to have an outsider at the Presbytery. Dr. Paine notified me to-day that he's bringing an intimate friend that's visiting him for a while. I rather think he's from Edinburgh--but I'm not sure of that. In any case, he's a cleric--and one of our own kind. A young man, I rather think; he wants to see something of our Southern life, Dr. Paine's letter said."

"Where's he going to stay?" Aunt Agnes enquired briskly. My aunt kept the census of hosts and visitors for half the town.

"Well, that's just what I was going to speak about," replied the minister. "You see, we'll have to get a place extra for him--unless he can be billeted along with Dr. Paine, which I think rather unlikely. And, if you all prefer it, I could send the elder somewhere else, and give you the foreigner--just as you like, though."

"Whatever you think best," said Aunt Agnes, drawing her chair a little closer. Such problems were the luxuries of life to her.

I know not what impulse prompted me, but I recall, as though it all happened yesterday, the quick way I spoke up and said: "I believe we'll take the Scotchman--I vote for the clergy."

"You can't," said my mother archly smiling. "You're not attentive enough to them when we have them here--your preference runs too distinctly along other lines."

"Oh, I don't know about that," said I. "Anyhow, I'm for the clergy this time; I reckon it's the Scotch flavour that catches me--and then perhaps he knew Carlyle," for this latter had been long a favourite of mine and I had enjoyed many a good thrill--and many a good snooze--over his books.

Mother smiled. "That's a little conceit of my daughter's," she said apologetically to our visitors; "she thinks she'll write a book herself some day." Ah me! how little she knew then that my only book would be the story of my life, or so much of it as is worth the telling. And as I write the words I wonder if any one will ever really read them--in a real book.

"No, I fear he never saw Carlyle," informed Mr. Furvell; "he's too young, I fancy. At least, that's the impression I got."

"Is he married?" Charlie suddenly broke in, holding the ebony cane out before him as if in deadly earnest.

"No, he's not--I'm quite sure of that part," the minister answered promptly; "for Dr. Paine said I mustn't have him stay where he'd be liable to catch any affection of the heart."

"Then don't send him here," cried Charlie Giddens, "for this is the danger zone." And everybody laughed but me.

"But really, speaking seriously, what do you think we'd better do about it?" pressed my Aunt Agnes, rising to adjust an awning that had got awry. Mental intensity with some women always runs to domestic observation. "I'd hate to put an Edinburgh minister in the attic," she continued thoughtfully.

"The attic hasn't anything to do with it," pronounced Uncle Henry, silent hitherto. "But I say--I say," as he looked around the company, "it's going to be the elder. I've made up my mind to that--I took a notion to this Pollocksville elder as soon as I heard of him. So we'll consider that settled, Mr. Furvell, if you please. I've got a queer kind of a notion he's going to do us all good. When does his train arrive, sir?"

"This evening at five," said Mr. Furvell. "I'll have him driven up to the house."

"Thank you, I'll meet the train myself," said my uncle.

"But, Henry," his wife expostulated, "I made an engagement for you for that very hour--Judge Burton and his wife are coming to call."

"Can't help it," said my uncle firmly; "not when there's a guest to be met. I'll have to leave them to the ladies," from which resolve my aunt knew well no argument could turn him.

It was only a few minutes before our little company broke up when Mr. Furvell rose to go. Charlie took advantage of the confusion to suggest that we two should retire to the parlour. "And you'll sing for me," he said.

Half-way along the hall he remarked merrily: "Now's your chance to begin your book, dear. Put your elder in it--and make the Edinburgh parson die of a broken heart--and put me somewhere in the introduction."

"Maybe I will," I answered a little defiantly. "You think I can't write, don't you?"

"You could do anything you like with anything--or anybody," he answered gallantly; "but don't begin your literary work till we come back from Europe," and his voice was all thrilling as he spoke, his eyes ardent as they turned on me. And his hand went out and rested lovingly on mine as I turned the music over--for we were now at the piano--and I wondered why it was that I didn't lean forward like he did with eager outstretched arms. But I didn't. Yet he kissed me--then I said I was going to sing, as he had asked me, so it was all over in a minute.

"Sing that about the tresses," he whispered, bending over me. So I did as he bade me. And the words came softly:

"Still must you call me tender names, Still gently stroke my tresses."

But somehow I kept thinking about the elder that was so soon to come. I know not why--it was through no will of mine--but the elder would take shape before me as about five-and-twenty years of age; and he was fair; and his accent was like to that of the Scotch Carlyle; and he had a low-crowned hat of felt--and a coat of clerical design.

V

_AN ALTERNATIVE_

Some things never happen more than once. And these one never can forget.

I remember exactly what I wore that evening; what it was, is of no consequence to any one but me. I have a few fragments of it yet, tatters mostly--but their colour never seems to fade.

And I can recall the errand that took me forth. It was to get some cream; for what we had didn't know when it was whipped. Such was the simple mission on which I started out, and I had a little pitcher in my hand; even then the days were almost past in which a Southern girl thought such a thing beneath her.

I hadn't gone very far when I saw Uncle Henry coming towards me. He was evidently homeward bound, returning from the train. And there was somebody with him; I could see a tall form, clothed in black, beside him--and uncle, to my surprise, was carrying a valise.

I don't know why it was, but instantly my pace slackened till I stood almost still. And once I turned and looked back towards the house; I think I held the pitcher out in front of me as if I were pointing with it. I really believe I was contemplating a retreat, but just then uncle sang out something in his cheery way; this let me know I was recognized and expected, whereat I walked calmly on to meet them.

As I came closer I kept my eyes fixed as steadfastly on uncle as though I had been looking for him all my life. I believe I bowed to him as he came up; how ridiculous it all seems now.

"Where are you off to, Helen?" he asked, glancing at the jug.

"I'm going to Humphrey's," I said, gazing into the empty pitcher; "going for cream--ours at home won't whip." Then I felt how silly this must sound to a stranger. For I knew, without being told, that this was no country elder, and that he had never heard of Pollocksville.

"Let me introduce Mr. Lord," said my uncle, paying no further attention to my remark; "the Reverend Mr. Lord--the friend of Dr. Paine's that Mr. Furvell told us about. He's to be our guest. Mr. Lord, this is my niece, Miss Helen Randall."

The stranger lifted his hat--it was a low-crowned felt--and bowed. His bow was deferential enough, but it lacked the Southern touch. Less low, less obeisant, sooner finished. And he seemed rather surprised when I extended my hand--I noticed how firm and strong was his--and he didn't bow low again when he took it, as a Southern man would have done. Nor did he hold his hat in his hand while we spoke together; this I remarked particularly.

"My name's not Lord, Mr. Lundy," he said with a smile as he turned from me; "it's Laird--not a great difference, I'll admit. Only that's the Scotch of it."

"Is that so?" said my uncle interestedly. "They do sound something alike, don't they? Perhaps I'm further wrong," he went on smilingly; "it just occurs to me I should say Dr. Laird. Are you a doctor, sir?" enquired Uncle Henry respectfully.

The other smiled. "No," he answered slowly, "I'm quite undecorated. You see, D.D.'s aren't quite so--so generously distributed," the smile widening, "on our side of the water. You've either got to be very brilliant--or very prosy--to get one there."

"I'm sure you're not one of those two," declared my uncle.

"I'd like to know which one," said the stranger; "however, we'll lave it go at that, as an Irish friend of mine says. But anyhow, I'm not a doctor--very plain name mine is, Mr. Lundy; just plain Laird, Gordon Laird. Let me carry that bag," he suddenly digressed, reaching for the valise; "it's pretty heavy--two or three sermons there, you know."

His offer of assistance was stoutly rejected, as any one who knew Uncle Henry could easily have foretold.

I was silent all this time. But I was busy making notes; and my pen flows easily, as if its story were of yesterday, while I record the impressions that came so fast and have remained so long. I recall how strange the Scottish voice sounded to me, not harsh and strident as I thought all Scottish voices were, but refined and cultured. The way he rolled his "r's" and sounded his final "ings" was in decided contrast to our Southern way of slurring the one and mincing the other. Rather pleasing, too, I thought it. He was tall--taller than uncle--and his figure was of athletic build, erect and supple, as if he had given himself freely to exercise out-of-doors. Especially noticeable were the shoulders, so broad and so well held back, giving the chest an appearance of greater expansion than it really had. But I think the face impressed me most of all. It was ruddy, as the sea-polished faces of those Scotchmen are so apt to be; a strong Scottish face it was, serious, almost stern when in repose--all Scotchmen naturally think much about Eternity--and yet the lips, thin and mobile, looked as if laughter were never far away. The mouth was really remarkable, evidently framed for public speech, although its proximity to a very resolute jaw lent it a look of Scottish fixity that really wasn't there at all, even if he was the Reverend Gordon Laird. His forehead was high--a little too narrow, I thought, to meet my view of what Carlyle would have admired--and evidently harboured much within; for I have a theory that foreheads shine if there is anything bright behind them, as cathedral windows are lightened by an altar fire. This high brow lost itself in a very comely head of hair; auburn, I must frankly state it was, but a very superior kind of auburn, the semi-ruddy wavelets having half a mind to curl after a fashion of youthful days. I verily believe they would have curled, had it not been for the close-buttoned vest and clerical coat he wore; these canonicals never could have kept their dignity in the neighbourhood of kinky hair. The nose was big, as all the best men's noses are. It stood out in a personal kind of way, like an independent promontory; and it had the slightest little terminal tilt--it wasn't turned up, it was aspiring.

This, I think, describes fairly well the man who was not an elder and had never heard of Pollocksville. All except the eyes, which deserve a separate paragraph. In fact, there would be no paragraphs and no chapters and no literature at all, were it not for the eyes of men--women too--and all that lies behind the eyes, all the soul of things and the passion of life and the foregleams of Eternity. Well, the eyes of the Reverend Gordon Laird were just such as the Reverend Gordon Laird had a right to have. I'm sure there is no Presbytery in Christendom, nor any bishop, nor any other human judge or authority who could as well determine just what brand of eyes would match that particular name, as could a simple maiden who had never met this certain sort of man before. And I thought the eyes and the name were a perfect match. They--the eyes, I mean--were nearer brown than anything else; the kind of eyes that could never be content to be one particular hue--they seemed to have got their blend from the sky, which, as everybody knows, selects no colour but takes toll of all. And they were frank, so frank and honest--eager, too, inquisitive, in a reverent sort of way; penetrating they seemed to be--the more penetrating because they were rather veiled--and they looked to be in quest of truth, and love, and life. Yes, life; I think the eyes of the Reverend Gordon Laird had more of life in them than any others I have ever seen--not bright, or animated, or brilliant, or anything of that sort; but life, with all its mystery and loneliness and longing, seemed to lie deep in them, like water in a silent well.

The two men went on their way a moment later, uncle swinging the valise quite playfully to show how light it was. "I hope to see you later," said the Reverend Gordon Laird as I started on; "and perhaps I'll be introduced to that cream you're going to get," he added, in quite a non ministerial way.

"Not till it's whipped," said I, holding the pitcher in both hands.

"That's when it'll be good," replied the cleric, something of the moralist in his voice this time.

I had gone but a little way when I suddenly stopped, looked back, calculated. For an idea had come to me--and I knew a short cut home. A hasty flight through a neighbour's yard, straight under an old pine tree that George Washington was credited with planting, along a narrow alley that led to our back garden, would bring me there before those deliberate two would have arrived.

Three minutes later I was in the sitting-room, breathless almost. "It's a minister," I said, "a young minister--and he's Scotch as heather." I have often wondered since where I got this expression; but I believe I heard it from old McLaughlin. He was the only Scotchman in our whole town, and he always wore a shawl to church, and put a penny on the plate.

"Who?" said Aunt Agnes and my mother in unison. They were both in black silk, for they knew it was train time. And my aunt had donned two real tortoise-shell combs that came from Tiffany's.

"Our elder," I gasped, standing the pitcher on the mantel; "he isn't an elder at all. He's a minister--with one of those vests that fit around the throat like a sweater--the same as the Episcopalians wear--and fair hair. And I ran back to tell you not to put him in the attic," I concluded, lifting my eyes heavenward as I spoke.

"A sweater vest and fair hair!" my aunt echoed in mock gravity; "is that all he has on?"

"Not put him in the attic?" exclaimed my mother, scornful of merriment at such an hour; "why shouldn't we put him there--where would you have him put?"

"Any of the rooms," I answered promptly; "my room."

"Mercy, child, we'd have to get all your things out of it and turn everything upside down," my mother returned seriously, "and they'll be here in a few minutes. What happened to the elder?"

"I don't know. I don't remember. Uncle did say something about why he didn't come--I think he's sick, or dead, or something. But I'm not sure. And we can easily keep Mr. Laird down-stairs till we get things changed around. It wouldn't need much--men never look into drawers and closets like women do," I assured them.

"Mr. Laird!" echoed both my auditors almost in chorus. "Is that his name?"

"Yes," I said, "his name's Laird--Gordon Laird."

"Goodness me!" exclaimed my mother, "but you've made good progress. I hope you didn't call him Gordon. How old is he?"

"I don't know," I retorted, treating the thrust with silence, "and I don't care--I don't care anything about him. You know I'm not much on preachers--and anyhow, I'm going to the theatre to-night with Charlie. But I took all this trouble for your sakes," I went on in a rather injured tone; "I didn't suppose you'd want to coop anybody like him up at the top of the house. But I don't care," I concluded vehemently.

My Aunt Agnes was at the window. "They're coming," she announced, without turning her head. "Your Uncle Henry certainly should have sent Moses for that valise--and he certainly is tall."

Mother by this time was at the window too. "He isn't any taller than Mr. Giddens," she pronounced, after a little silence.

"Well, what are you going to do about it?" I said, a trifle petulantly, for they both seemed to have forgotten I was there.

"Really I hardly know," my aunt began reflectively; "it does seem hardly the thing to----"

"There's no use talking about it," my mother broke in; "it's too late to make any change now. And anyhow, Henry wouldn't like it, I'm sure--he'd think it wasn't fair to the elder."

"Sacred to the memory of the elder from Pollocksville," chanted my aunt solemnly.

"All right," I said, reaching towards the mantel for the pitcher, "just as you like. He's not my guest--and I'm going for the cream."

And I reflected as I went--or if I didn't, I have often done so since--how full is life of this same proceeding. Thwarted plans and broken promises and disappointed hopes--yet all that remains for us is to take up our humdrum tasks again, to pick up our waiting pitcher and go our way through some back alley and across some homely yard--for the cream.

They were still on the porch when I got back. And Mr. Laird was swinging away in one of the big easy chairs, as much at home as if he had known us all his life. His hat was lying on the floor and his hair was hardly a bit red in the failing light. He rose as I came on to the porch.

"Did you get the cream?" he asked seriously, as if it were a matter of importance.

"Oh, yes," I said, "Lyn's thrashing away at it by this time. She's our cook, you know," I added informatively.

"I'm vastly interested in these darkies," he said as we both sat down. "We have very few of them in Edinburgh--the thermometer doesn't agree with them. They're quite a study, aren't they?" pointing as he spoke to a sable boy who was carrying a pail across the yard.

"You'll find the life here very different, won't you, sir?" my uncle remarked; "but I suppose you hear a great deal, even in Scotland, of what's called the 'Nigger problem,' don't you?"

"Yes," returned our visitor, "we're reminded of it rather startlingly sometimes--by what we see in the newspapers. But I suppose such despatches--about lynch law, I mean--are decidedly exaggerated."

Uncle's face clouded a little. "I never saw any of your papers, of course," he said; "but I should fancy 'twould be difficult to exaggerate much about some things that have happened in the South, sir."

"Then there must be some terrible scenes of brutality," rejoined Mr. Laird, looking about the circle in an evident attempt to make the conversation general.