The Attic Guest: A Novel

by Robert E. Knowles

Then the old man, his hands outstretched, began a prayer of prodigious length. Adoration, confession, thanksgiving followed in regular order, the whole enriched with many a Scriptural quotation. I could not see the faces of our guests, but I knew right well how mystified they must be.

A little shy at first, dispensing diffident glances around the company as they tried to engage him in conversation, the patriarch soon began to feel with what cordiality we all regarded him. Wherewith he grew more and more communicative, this being evidently the occasion of his life; besides, and naturally enough, his heart was full to overflowing.

"It's hard to tak' it in, laddie," he said once or twice, laying down his knife and fork and turning full round to gaze at Gordon; "to think we're baith in Ameriky, and me in yir ain hoose—an' you sittin' wi' yin o' thae claw-hammer jackets on ye, like the gentry wear. It seems but the ither day ye were a wee bare-leggit laddie, helpin' yir faither mind the sheep. Ye was as gleg as a collie dog. I didna' think then, laddie, ye'd ever wag yir heid in a pulpit—but the ways o' Providence is wunnerfu'," as the honest eyes shone with pride and joy.

I saw one of our minor guests titter a little at this. She looked at Gordon rather as if she were sorry for him; fancied, no doubt, that he would be in sore straits of embarrassment to have his peasant father thus presented. But I never was prouder of my husband than I was that night. I actually felt my eyes grow dim more than once as I remarked the deference with which Gordon treated his father, so different though he was from what anybody would have expected. He seemed to delight to honour him; and while I suppose it was only natural for him to notice how far from cultured he was—reckoning from our standards—yet I know he reverenced him in his inmost heart for the unaffected goodness that none could fail to recognize.

Somebody, taking advantage of a momentary pause, asked the old man about his voyage.

"Oh," he began enthusiastically, and I knew by his tone that he was off; "oh, we had a graun' time a'thegither. I cam' i' the second cabin, nae doot," he went on without a particle of confusion, "for it didna' cost as muckle as the ither way; but there was a graun' lot o' passengers. We didna' ha'e ower muckle to eat, nae doot—but they gied us porridge morn an' nicht, sae we was fine. An' there was twa ministers wi' us," he went on, warming to his theme, "an' they preachit till us on the Sabbath day. It's wunnerfu', the difference there is in ministers. Yin o' them preachit in the mornin', an' the ither at nicht; the yin i' the mornin' was a puir feckless body; his sermon was a' aboot flowers, an' birds—an' the rainbow," this last coming out contemptuously; "he said a' thae things brocht us nearer God—did ye ever hear sic' haverin'? An' he said they a' taught us aboot th' Almichty—an' them as loved them wud be saved! I thocht mysel' wae, to ha'e to sit an' listen till him. But the ither mon—wha preachit till us at nicht—he had the root o' the matter in him, I tell ye. He preachit aboot sinners bein' turned intil hell—I ha'e the heids and pertikklers," he suddenly exclaimed, diving into a pocket for the same. "Here's his pints; first, naebody kens God wha doesna' ken the doctrines; second, thae wha doesna' ken will be lost," the gray beard shaking solemnly as he rolled out the truth; "third, them wha's lost is lost to a' eternity. Oh, it was a graun' discoorse, I'm tellin' ye. It was unco' refreshing after the baby broth we got i' the mornin'. I pit tuppence in the plate—but I didna' gie a farthin' in the mornin'. Are thae folk a' Presbyterians, Gordon?" he concluded by enquiring, nodding towards the assembled visitors.

"Mostly all, father," was Gordon's answer; "in fact, I believe they all are."

"Div ye teach them the Catechism, when ye're visitin'?" the old man pursued.

"Not very much, I'm afraid," answered Gordon, laughing; "you won't find things just the same here, father, as they are in old Scotland—not in that line, at least."

The old man's face clouded. "Thae things shouldna' change," he said solemnly; "sin doesna' change—and the truth o' God's aye the same, my son," as he looked down at the table. "I'm dootin' they're ower anxious aboot makin' money. They tell me maist everybody's rich in Canady—but I saw twa beggars in Montreal," he recalled a little ruefully. Then suddenly: