Part 4

"That depends on what you call brutality, sir," my uncle answered, his voice suddenly intense, his eyes fixed very earnestly on his guest. "We reckon here, sir--all Southern gentlemen reckon--that people who have only heard of these things, and who are not--who aren't familiar with the situation; we reckon, sir, that they're hardly justified in pronouncing an opinion."

I think Aunt Agnes must have scented danger ahead. In any case she suddenly gave the conversation a mighty jerk in another direction. "Oh, by the way, Henry," she began, as if it had everything to do with the race question, "have you any idea what happened the elder from Pollocksville?"

If uncle felt any surprise at the rather violent digression he concealed it remarkably well. "Yes," he answered calmly. "Mr. Furvell got word about him at the last minute. It seems he has thirteen children, and one got lost--you'd think he had enough left, wouldn't you? But he got in quite a fuss about it, and that's why he wasn't able to get away. So we'd have been left without a guest altogether if our friend hadn't happened along," and my uncle made a courtly little bow in the direction of Mr. Laird.

"Oh, I see," said the latter, evidently very interested. "I'm an alternative then. Well, I'm here anyhow--and that's the main thing."

"Oh, no, Mr. Laird, there was no alternative about it," broke in my aunt, "nothing of the sort. If our elder had come you were to go with Dr. Paine to Mrs. Keen's--and then we'd have lost you," smiling very sweetly as she spoke.

"Weel," replied Mr. Laird jocosely, "'it's an ill wind that blaws naebody guid,' as they say in my country. If it hadn't been for that youngster straying away, I wouldn't have been here. So I'm an advocate of large families from this time on."

"So am I," said my Aunt Agnes.

"But there's a matter in connection with the elder we expected," my mother began rather timidly, "and it's something that's troubling us a little."

Mr. Laird looked as if he would like to be enlightened.

"And I may just as well tell you now," went on my mother; "it's about where we were going to put him--and that's where we have to put you."

"That's the worst of it," ejaculated my Aunt Agnes.

"You see," resumed my mother, "we thought you were going to be an elder--and we were going to put him in the attic," the dread tidings coming at last with a splash. "And we do hope you won't mind, Mr. Laird--you see if we had ever thought----"

"We won't make any apologies to our guest," my uncle now broke in, his tone indicating that he wouldn't object to being heard. "You're welcome as the flowers in May, Mr. Laird--and there's a fireplace in your room in the attic. I may be wrong, but it's always seemed to me if a fellow's got a welcome and an open fire, the attic's just as good as the parlour."

Mr. Laird looked delighted. "I'm in love with it already," he responded gleefully; "I wouldn't trade it for any room in the house. I couldn't imagine," he went on mirthfully, "what was coming. I thought it must be the dog-kennel, or a dark closet, or a wood-shed; but an attic--and a fireplace! Why, bless my heart, there's nothing in the world I love like an attic--secluded, lofty, roomy--it's the best place in the house. Let us see it now."

"Where's Moses?" said my uncle; "he'll take your valise up for you. It's plain, but it's comfortable, Mr. Laird. And if you like it, there's just one way I want you to show it."

"And what might that be?" asked our visitor.

"Don't be in any hurry about leaving," said my uncle with serious air.

"No, we'll think you don't like it if you are," chimed in my aunt.

"Where's Moses?" asked uncle again.

"I don't know where Moses is," said the Reverend Gordon Laird, his face as sober as a judge, "but one thing I do know--I've heard of Southern hospitality, and the half was never told."

Uncle bowed; Aunt Agnes smiled graciously. As for me, I had disappeared.

"What have you been up to now? You certainly did get out of the way in a hurry--you've been up to the attic yourself, haven't you, now?" for mother saw that I was flurried and out of breath when I returned.

It was a little while before I owned up. But I reckoned they'd find out sooner or later anyhow. "Well," I said at last, "yes, if you will know. I ran up and put my silver toilet set on the dresser--it helped ever so much to make things look decent. And I took up those roses from the library--they make the whole room look different."

"Those roses!" my mother echoed; "why, child, Mr. Giddens sent you those roses just this morning--they're American beauties, Helen."

"I know it," I answered calmly, "so they'll be something new--to him. Besides, there's some respect due a clergyman from Edinburgh."

VI

_THE GLINT OF THE HEATHER_

Charlie dropped in for supper that evening. I don't remember whether or not he was specially invited and it doesn't matter. He came while everybody except myself was in the last stages of preparation for the evening meal; I was in the hall as he came in.

The first thing that caught his eye--after me--was the clerical hat that hung between two of uncle's broad-rimmed grays. He put it on and made very merry over it. It was decidedly too large for him too; as soon as he noticed that, he tipped it jauntily to the back of his head--even then it looked big. The Reverend Gordon's attic was certainly the best room in his bodily edifice.

"Your elder didn't turn up?" said Charlie.

"No, he didn't come."

"And you got the clergyman?"

I nodded.

"Up-stairs right now?"

"Yes."

"In the attic?"

"That's where he is."

Charlie returned the hat to its peg. Then he took off his overcoat, disclosing a faultless evening dress, for the theatre was our objective point that night.

"What kind of a cove is this parson?" he enquired carelessly.

"He's about your age," said I.

"Nice?"

"Uncle thinks so," I answered cautiously.

"How does your mother like him--has she looked him over?"

"I really don't know--he's only been here an hour or two. You certainly do look nice to-night, Charlie."

"How long is this cleric going to stay?" he pursued.

"I don't know. I heard uncle telling him to stay as long as he could."

"What denomination is he?"

"Belongs to the true church," said I.

"I thought Mr. Furvell said he was Presbyterian."

"So he is--he's from Edinburgh. And he's vastly interested in the darkies. They don't grow 'em over there, it seems. He got on pretty thin ice with uncle--they were talking the nigger problem."

"They must have been hard up for conversation," said Mr. Giddens, with a little curl of the lip.

"But they weren't," I protested; "he's a splendid talker--hush, there he's coming now," as I heard a footfall on the stair. "Come and meet him."

I introduced the two men to each other. They stood talking a little in the hall--and I watched them while I listened. Charlie was in full dress, as I have said, with diamond accompaniment; Mr. Laird was in his clericals. They stood close together, chatting very pleasantly; I thought I had never seen two finer types of men, both strong and straight and tall--though Charlie wasn't quite so tall. The Southerner had the keenest face, I thought, bright and animated, with eager, penetrating eyes, and his whole bearing was that of a high-minded and successful man of the world. They were discussing "futures" at the time, I think, suggested doubtless by preliminary remarks about the weather and the prospect of the cotton crop. I know I was surprised to observe that the Reverend Gordon Laird was by no means ignorant of the subject; strange subject, too, when you come to think of it--_futures_, which comprise a great deal more than cotton!

Perhaps Charlie had the keener face, as I have said, but there was more of insight in Mr. Laird's. His were the more wistful eyes, as if they were looking for something not to be found on the surface. And really, of the two, the Scotchman seemed to be doing the most of the inspecting; I mean, by that, that Charlie didn't appear to have the slightest chance to patronize him, as business men are so apt to do with clergymen. For the minister, his clerical coat and collar to the contrary notwithstanding, impressed one as having a certain order of business that was just as important as the other's; and he seemed to pride himself on it, too, in a reserved sort of way. In fact, I should hardly say this at all, since I don't know exactly how I could defend it--but there was an undefinable something about him that made one feel Mr. Laird reckoned his work quite as necessary to the world's good as that of any prosperous business man, even of a wealthy ship-owner from Savannah.

"Have you been long in our country, sir?" Mr. Giddens took advantage of the first pause to enquire.

"No," said the other. "I'm quite a tenderfoot--it's only two weeks since I landed at New York. I came straight South to see Dr. Paine; he took a post-graduate session in Edinburgh, and I met him there. We scraped up quite a friendship--and that's how I came to visit him."

"Do you sail from New York, returning, Mr. Laird?" I ventured, thinking I ought to bear some part in the conversation.

"That's all very uncertain," he answered thoughtfully; "I've been in communication with the Colonial Committee; and it's just possible I may take work in Canada. They're sorely in need of men there, it seems."

"It's a wonderful country," pronounced Charlie; "I spent a week once between Montreal and Quebec. There's untold wealth in Canada, if it were only exploited."

"That's what I have heard," said Mr. Laird; "and I'd like to lend a hand," he added quietly, the earnestness of his eyes interpreting his words. But Charlie evidently did not understand him.

"You mean in the way of investment, sir?"

"Yes," said the Reverend Gordon Laird; "yes, I guess that's it--yes, investment."

This somewhat enigmatical conversation was terminated by the advent of the other members of the family, all quite ready for the supper that was waiting. And a decidedly animated circle it was that surrounded our well-laden board. Uncle was in fine spirits, as he ever was when he had congenial company, and the honours of his attention were pretty evenly divided between the Scotchman and the Southerner.

It was delightful to watch the interest and surprise of our clerical guest, so new and different did everything appear to him. For our dear Southland has fashions all its own, each one of them more delicious than another. Perhaps this is especially true of what we eat, and of how we go about it. We had a coloured boy with a long feather fan whose duty it was to guard us from the flies. This amused him vastly; especially once when my aunt motioned him to look--the dusky Washington was almost asleep, leaning against the wall. And so many of our dishes seemed to strike the foreigner as the newest and most palatable things on earth. We had the savoury rock in little fish-shaped dishes--they looked all ready to swim--and sweet potatoes and corn bread and fried chicken, and hot biscuits too, and a lot of other things Scotchmen never see. It was lovely to watch Aunt Agnes' face, brightening with every recurring exclamation of surprise or pleasure from our visitor.

On the other hand he was hardly less interesting to us. A really new type is something to which a little Southern town is seldom treated--we are so fearfully native-born. And Gordon Laird (the Reverend can't be always used) seemed to bring with him the flavour of the world without. His accent was so different, as I have said; and many of his terms were so unfamiliar to us. For instance, we soon remarked that he referred to the Episcopal church as the Church of England; and once or twice he spoke of the "Kirk Session," which had to be explained; and he rarely used the term "pastor," or "preacher," as we did--it was always "minister" with him. It was most interesting, too, to hear him talk of Edinburgh, of its castle, its Holyrood, its Princes Street, its Scott's monument, its haunts of Knox and memories of Burns.

"Fo' de Lawd, Miss Helen, dat new preacher, he's got a heap o' learnin'," Lyddie said one day, "an' he knows how to let it out, dat's sho'."

That very first night, that first supper, I mean, found us all listening with great intentness to his description of much we had hardly ever heard of before. I remember he spoke of higher criticism, giving the names of two or three great Scottish scholars, and he seemed a little disappointed to find we had never heard of the latter and but little more than heard of the former. He spoke, it seemed to me, as if this higher criticism were a matter of great importance, almost as if it were troubling his own soul--but this I did not understand till long after.

The discussion ran so steadily along church lines that even Charlie, who was not very strong on matters ecclesiastical, contributed a question.

"What church does your Queen belong to, Mr. Laird?" he asked.

"To the Presbyterian," replied our guest, looking very candidly at the questioner; "when she is in Scotland, that is."

"Oh," said Charlie, "I always thought she belonged to the State church."

"So she does," replied the other, "and that is the State church of Scotland."

"Miss Helen thinks that's fine," broke in my uncle. "I'm sure her far-off ancestors must have been Scotch Presbyterians, Mr. Laird. She's a regular Puritan--in theory."

"Then you'll be going to the service at the opening of Presbytery to-night, Miss Randall," said Mr. Laird, turning to me.

I was silent, not knowing just what to say. Yet I felt that uncle's statement was quite just all the time. For, ever since a child, I had had a kind of passionate devotion to the church of my fathers; yet it is only fair to add that if there was one girl in all our town who would not have been called religious, who would, in fact, have been called a gay society girl--what a poor garish definition that seems to me now!--I was that very one.

"What her uncle says about Helen reminds me of something I must tell you, Mr. Laird," began my mother, breaking the silence that had followed his rather pointed question. "I always taught her the Shorter Catechism when she was a little girl--made her learn it, at least--and one Sunday afternoon I was following her around the yard trying to get her to answer what is Sanctification; well, she suddenly turned to me, and what do you think she said?"

"Couldn't imagine, I'm sure," answered Mr. Laird.

"'What's the use, mother,' she said, 'of teaching me all this--when perhaps I won't marry a Presbyterian at all?'"

"All the more need of it then," replied our guest amid the laugh that followed; "it won't be wasted anyhow, whoever the lucky man may be. It's wonderful how that catechism stays with you, when once it gets in the blood. I learned it on the hills of Scotland," he went on, his deep eyes brightening as if the memory gave him joy, "and I hardly ever wander now in wild or lonely regions without its great words coming back to me. They go well together, I always think--they're both lofty."

"On the hills?" echoed Mr. Giddens, who had never lived outside the city; "did your father send you there to learn it?--pretty hard lines, I should say."

"Oh, no," Mr. Laird answered simply, "my work lay there. I used to take care of sheep on the hills--I was a herd laddie, as they call them in Scotland. My father is a shepherd."

I felt, rather than saw, the consternation that came on every face.

"What did you say about your father?" my uncle asked involuntarily, looking up impulsively from his plate. Now, uncle was a gentleman, if ever one was born, but this intimation fairly swept him off his feet. "You were speaking about your father, were you not?" he amended, thinking the question more delicate in this form.

"Yes," said Mr. Laird, evidently quite unconscious of having caused a sensation. "I was saying my father is a shepherd. He takes care, along with other herds, of the gentlemen's flocks in Scotland--in Midlothian. The shepherd gets so many sheep for himself each year--that's part of his hire, you see."

"Yes, yes, I see," rejoined my uncle. "Have some more of the ice-cream, Mr. Laird. Washington, pass the ice-cream to the gentleman." It was funny, had it not been so real, to see uncle's consternation. This was something new to my patrician relative.

"Do let me help you to a little more of this chocolate cake," broke in my aunt.

"And your coffee cup is empty," added my mother. Both showed the sudden perturbation that had laid hold of uncle, for which the only outlet was this sudden freshet of hospitality.

"No, thank you," our guest answered quietly, "I've had quite enough--you Southerners would soon kill a man with kindness. Yes," he went on, resuming the interrupted theme, "the catechism goes well with the shepherd's crook; if there's any one calling in the world that's been productive of plain living and high thinking, it's the shepherd's."

"Half of that programme appeals to me," laughed Charlie Giddens, helping himself generously to the chocolate cake. "I'm afraid I'd make a poor shepherd." Charlie seemed unable to keep his eyes from Mr. Laird's face; this candour of biography was quite beyond him.

"But it's a fact," our Scotch visitor went on quite earnestly; "it's wonderful the difference there has been, as a class, between the shepherds and the ploughmen, in Scotland. The shepherds have been so much superior; their eyes were constantly lifted to the hills, you see, and the others had to keep theirs on the ground. Besides, their work developed a sense of responsibility--and it took a tender man to make a good shepherd. Oh, yes, the shepherds of Scotland have been a noble race of men."

"And your father is still living in Scotland?" enquired my mother from across the table.

"Yes," he answered; "yes, he's still living."

"That's a phase of life we haven't been privileged to see," my uncle remarked, concluding quite a lengthy silence; "indeed, we haven't seen anything of your Scottish life at all. I have often thought I'd love especially to see Edinburgh."

"I'd sooner see the shepherds on the hills," cried I. "I'd love to see the heather--and the mists rolling back over the mountains, like I've read about in Scott."

"Have you never been to the old world, Miss Helen?" our guest enquired of me.

"No, never," I replied; "I've never been from under the stars and stripes."

"But she's contemplating a European trip, Mr. Laird," Mr. Giddens broke in, looking very knowingly at me.

"Yes," chimed my mother, a playful smile lurking about her mouth, "perhaps you'll meet over there before very long."

Mr. Laird turned and looked at me. I know my face betrayed me. But if he put two and two together he didn't give us the result. "I hope you'll bring your mother with you when you come," was all he said.

"But Mrs. Randall's a poor sailor," quoth Charlie Giddens.

"So am I," was my remark.

"Then you must choose a fair-weather season for your voyage," pressed Charlie, maintaining an excellent gravity.

"But you can't always tell," said I. "Often the storms don't come till you get out to sea."

VII

_THE GLORY OF THEIR STRENGTH_

We went to the theatre that night, Charlie and I, as we had arranged. But one-half of us didn't enjoy it very much. The play was a light, frivolous thing, and I so defined it to Charlie before the second act was through.

"I thought you liked the gay and festive sort," he said; "I do believe this preachers' convocation is having a depressing influence on you," which remark I resented not a little; whatever my weaknesses were, I knew susceptibility to the clergy was not one of them.

"Nothing of the sort," I retorted; "but the thing isn't true to life--life was never one long cackle like that. Besides, they haven't any fire on, and it's cold--and I'm going home after the next act."

Which I did, sure enough, and took Charlie with me. Our seats were near the front; and I must confess I did enjoy our procession down the aisle. I could see the looks of admiration on every hand--of envy, too, from some maidenly and matronly eyes.

Charlie was so tall and straight and handsome, and had such an original head of hair. Besides, most of our townspeople knew he was an aristocrat--our little city made a specialty of aristocracy--and absolutely all of them knew that he was rich. The darkies had a good deal to do with this, I fancy. My admirer had come from far away, from a city, too, and all the sons of Ham invest the stranger from a distance with the glory of wealth untold. But white folks aren't so very different after all; it's a very odd sort of girl that doesn't take some satisfaction out of these far-travelled pilgrims that come hundreds of miles, and stay several days at the best hotel, just to worship at her feet. A local sweetheart is all very well in his way--but the whole town doesn't know when he comes. Besides, it's so convenient for the local to pay his homage that it may mean very much or very little. But when a lover comes across a couple of states, leaving behind him a big city--and all the girls that are sorry to see him go, that's the best of it--that is something else, as we used to say in the South. It means his temperature must be about a hundred and twenty in the shade, as I have heard Uncle Henry say many a time.

Yes, I was proud enough of Charlie as we walked the full length of the theatre that night, he keeping close behind and carrying my white opera cloak on his arm. I remember an old maid--and they are the best authority on such matters--telling me that Charlie had a very caressing way of carrying a cloak, as if it were a sacred thing. I have thought quite a little over this, and I believe there's something in it.

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?"