The Attic Guest: A Novel

by Robert E. Knowles

"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.