But now the words seemed all on fire and I wondered why their beauty had never appeared to me before. I lilted them again and again, the image of my lover, my first real lover, before me all the time—and I wondered when, if ever, I would sing the words for him.
But all of a sudden I felt that this was frivolous. For it was beginning to be borne in upon me—scarcely thought of in the first rush of joy—what manner of man this was whose lot I was to share. I was to be a minister's wife! With a wave of cowardice I hid my face under the snowy covers as I thought of it; while visions of other days, of dances and parties and cards, and all sorts of alien things, floated before my eyes. I fought against them all with an intensity they did not deserve, really trying to lead my thoughts into higher channels. And there came into my mind—which I have always considered an intervention from a Higher Source—a line or two of a psalm I had heard Mr. Laird sing more than once. The words came back to me so readily, and I said them over and over again to myself:—
"I to the hills will lift mine eyes
From whence doth come mine aid,"
and, almost before I knew it, I had slipped out of bed and was on my knees in prayer. I must confess that I barely knew how to pray—that is, outside of a little groove along which my devotions had tripped since I was a child. But this time I really did pray—out of my own heart—though I fear it was a very broken and halting prayer, a poor sort of thing compared to those finished efforts of Mrs. Furvell to which my mother had referred. Yet I think it was sincere. I asked God to guard my love—but especially his—and to not let anything happen to spoil it; and to help me give up everything that was wrong or frivolous, and to make me some help to him in his life-work.
I was hardly snuggled up in bed again before I heard Mr. Laird coming up-stairs to the attic. I suppose he had been doing some thinking on his own account, all alone in the parlour. His room was right over mine—and that was why I had such a luxurious night. For very soon he began walking up and down the floor—I don't think he knew I was just beneath—and he kept up that lonely tramp for hours. Every step he took was music to me. Back and forward, forward and back, he walked, and I could fairly see the tall, noble form, the serious face, the deep, penetrating eyes. Once or twice he stopped, for a few minutes; and I began to fear he didn't love me as he should. But soon the firm tread began again and then I knew how really dear I was.
Dozens of times since then, when I have teased him about it, he has told me those little silences came when he threw himself on his bed and snatched a few minutes' sleep; but that he knew I was listening, so he would shake himself, dash some cold water on his face or wrap a towel about his head, and start on his beat again. But I knew better—and anyhow, he confessed to me once that nothing short of chloroform could have kept him still that night.
When we assembled at breakfast the next morning Mr. Laird didn't eat anything except one little half slice of toast—and I could see how this appealed to mother, though she maintained a sad gravity throughout.
When the meal was finished he asked mother if he might have a few minutes with her alone. And she asked him what could it possibly be about!