"I ha'e a wee pickle siller wi' me mysel', Gordon," the Scotch instinct showing in his voice; "only it's nae sae little!"
At this juncture my husband made heroic efforts to change the subject; but the old Scotchman was as intense about this as about graver matters. "Aye, I ha'e upwards o' a hunnerd pounds," he said impressively, glancing shyly at the company; "ye mind yir mither's Aunt Kirsty?—or mebbe ye never saw her? Weel, onyway, she died. An' she was lang aboot it, I tell ye, for she was ninety-four. Sae it was better for her to gang—better for us baith—an' she willed her wee bit belongings tae me—an' I sold them afore I left. An' yir faither was the prood mon at the funeral, Gordon—I was the chief mourner," he explained impressively; "I was the only yin there that was related to the corpse—and I walked ahint the bearers till the graveyard. A' the folk said I carried mysel' like a minister; the undertaker, he was an awfu' solemn mon—but I was solemner nor him; an' I kenned a' the time, mind ye, that I was the heir. That's hoo I got the siller to pay my way to Canady. But I ha'e a hunnerd pounds left, Gordon—an' I'm gaein' to invest it, after I look aboot a wee bit. Investments is awfu' profitable here, they tell me. It'll mak' a cozy pickle o' siller for me, wull it no', Gordon?"
"Don't count too much on it, father," Gordon answered; "money isn't just as universal here as you old-country people think." But the old man seemed reluctant to be convinced of this.
A little later in the evening we had some music. Most of the songs, I fear, were of the rather æsthetic type; and I fancied they appealed but little to our venerable friend. He sat quietly in a corner of the parlour, as if lost in thought. Every now and then his eyes would rove to Gordon's face, glowing with pride and affection. As for me, I knew not when I had been so fascinated. I simply sat and watched him, hardly knowing just what it was that held me so. Partly the picturesqueness of this rugged type, I suppose, and partly a dawning recognition of the sterling worth behind the stern exterior; genuineness was written all over him. Then I think I was beginning to love him for my husband's sake—I remember how the thought flashed on me that I never would have had Gordon but for him.
Suddenly, availing himself of a temporary lull, the old man cleared his throat: "I'll gie ye a sang mysel'," he offered; "nane o' yir highfalutin kind—but a guid auld yin o' Bobbie Burns. It minds me o' yir mither, Gordon," as he cleared his throat again with mighty din, preparatory to performance.
"I'll try and play for you if you tell me what it is, Mr. Laird," volunteered one of the ladies, moving towards the piano. I had seen grandfather eyeing her askance a little while before; indeed, I myself thought her evening dress was rather overdone about the shoulders—underdone, perhaps, would be a better word.
"No, no," replied the old man, with a disdainful wave of his hand, "yon clatter wud only throw me aff the tune. I'll sing the way the Almichty meant," with which he broke into a strong, clear baritone that would really have commanded attention in any company. More inspiring still, the whole soul of the man seemed to fuse with the touching words:
"My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream;
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream."
The applause that greeted the performance seemed to please the old man well. From many standpoints this was evidently the night of his life, and soon his enthusiasm knew no bounds. Not more than half an hour after, this first ovation still lingering gratefully in the performer's mind, one or two of the guests suggested that he favour us with another Scotch song, a proposal that soon grew into a general demand.
"I canna'," declined the old man, "I canna' juist the noo. But I'll tell ye what I'll dae wi' ye. I'll gie ye the Hielan' fling—that's fair graun', an' ye'll no' hae it in Canady. Gordon, gie me the bootjack, like a guid laddie—my shoon's ower heavy for dancin'—they're the lang-toppit kind."