But some breath of other days was wafted in upon me; and I felt my heart leap beneath the wedding lace upon my bosom as the song gushed into my mind again.
The light was dim, the house disrobed, the piano out of tune. But I can still see the rapture in Gordon's face as mine turned up to meet it while the words came one by one:
"Still must you call me tender names
Still gently stroke my tresses;
Still shall my happy answering heart
Keep time to your caresses."
XXII
WHEN JOY AND SORROW MEET
"No, I'm never going back again," and the stamp of determination was on Harold's face as he spoke the words; "I'm never going back to school any more." He was gravely adjusting his books in the well-worn bag as he spoke, giving each one a final pat as if in last farewell. "I've been there too long," as he looked up at his father and me.
The room was small, the furniture shabby and worn now; for some years had passed since we came to live in the little house that still preserved to us an unbroken circle. We were all seated around the table in the dining-room—which was our only living-room—and Gordon had been telling Dorothy some wonderful story of red Indians when Harold's avowal had suddenly transfixed us all.
It is wonderful how a sudden wave of emotion gives prominence, in the memory, to everything connected with it. I could draw, even now, as accurate a picture of all the surroundings as though the event were but of yesterday. The room was small, as already described; but so was the house, for that matter. Yet there was something sweet and lovely, to me at least, about this tiny room that night—for my loved ones were all within it. I was sewing at the time, mending, of which there seemed to be no end; but every now and then my eyes would refresh themselves upon the little group. Gordon was still, despite the years, by far the handsomest of them all. The tokens of toil and care were not to be denied, but a deeper calm and sweetness could be seen upon the noble face as he bended over the golden locks of our little daughter. And very winsome was little Dorothy, laughing up into her father's eyes, reading there, as children are not slow to do, the signs of a consuming love. Grandfather Laird was dozing in the big armchair in the corner, his hand still resting on his shepherd's staff; dear old grandfather, whose race was nearly run, the strong Scottish face stamped more and more with the simple grandeur of his nature as he came nearer to the eternal verities on which his mind had dwelt so long.
I think my heart had gone out increasingly to grandfather as the years went by. Denied my own immediate circle in my girlhood's home, my affections had struck deep root amid all that Gordon loved. Perhaps I ought to say here that Gordon more than once had wanted me to go South again—and he would even have accompanied me. But I always felt it was too late, after my mother had entered into rest—besides, there always yawned before me the gulf that still lay between my uncle and my husband.
In addition to all this, to tell the honest truth, I don't know how we could have devised ways and means, even if I had been willing to visit my dear Southland again. For nobody will ever know the bitterness of the struggle that we entered upon with our departure from St. Andrew's. The pinching and paring and piteous penury that came with our change of lot lingers with me yet as a troubled dream. Yet I want to say, in case this story should ever see the light and anybody recognize its hero, that I never heard a word of complaint from Gordon's lips. If I loved him before I almost worshipped him now. With utter abandonment of devotion he gave himself to the struggling and sinful people of the needy quarter in which we made our home and among whom we found our work. All his buoyant vigour, his splendid intellect, his glorious heart, were given unreservedly to his lowly toil.