It was "Gordon" now, always "Gordon"—though of course nobody called him that but me. For he had made yet another little addition to his visit—and he and I had improved the time. But his departure was near at hand.
And it does seem sad that what occurred had to happen just before he left. For everything had gone so beautifully. Mother, it is true, used to sigh sometimes, and once or twice expressed the hope that Charlie hadn't killed himself when he got the tidings and the ring. I had no such fears; for the brief note that came back informed me that he would say nothing till he came and saw me; which, he said, he would do as soon as some very urgent business would permit. But mother declared she knew this was only said to conceal the fact that he was prostrate in his bed.
I believe Aunt Agnes and Uncle Henry were quite composed about the whole affair—they thought so much of Gordon. And even mother was getting fond of him; she couldn't very well have helped it, he was so strong and tender and dignified and true. And I can't tell how happy it made me to see mother warming up to him; a few days before he intended to go away—and the very day of the explosion I am about to describe—I saw mother pull his hair. Just a little tug, it's true, a little playful pinch of a few of the auburn strands—but it filled my soul with joy, for I think it means more for certain kinds of women to give the hair a little pull like that than if they took the whole man into their arms. So I pretended not to see, lest my Gordon's hair should never be pulled again.
We were all pretty resigned, as I have said—especially Gordon and myself. And if Gordon had only gotten away to his Canadian field before that eventful night—or if every negro in the South had only died or been deported the day before—the whole tenor of our after lives might have been changed.
We were seated on the porch, uncle and Gordon and I. My mood, I fear, was a rather plaintive one, for I didn't know when my lover would be coming back. Uncle, however, seemed in a very jovial frame of mind; but the worst storms always come on the most placid evenings. He had just been telling Gordon that he thought I would make a pretty fair minister's wife after all.
"You know, Mr. Laird," he remarked in mock seriousness, "there's one feature of Helen's record that makes me think she's right religious after all."
"Let us have the symptoms," said Gordon, and he couldn't have looked at me more tenderly if he hadn't had a drop of Scotch blood in his whole make-up.
"Well, it's this," drawled my uncle; "I've never known Helen to miss a Sunday-school picnic since she was able to toddle—she'd go without her lessons before she'd miss one. Now don't you think that's a good sign?" and uncle indulged himself in the merriment his little joke deserved.
Gordon made some laughing response, I have forgotten what. And it was then that uncle began the fatal strain. It really seemed as if it had to be; for, ever since that other darkey outbreak, both men had been careful to steer clear of the dangerous topic.
"You'll have to look out," uncle began, "that those folks up North don't tramp on your wife's Southern corns." Gordon gave me a funny look—whether it referred to the sublime word, or the grotesque one, I couldn't tell. "For instance," uncle went on, "the first thing you know, some of them'll be expressing their opinion about slavery and airing their views on the whole question of the darkies. Now I want you to protect her from that—don't let them bring the subject up if you can help it. And, just as like as not, they'll be flaunting that Uncle Tom's Cabin nigger show under your noses. There was a company brought it down here once—but we read the riot act to them. It was 'Katy, bar the door' for them. Some of them just got off with their necks. And I want you to promise me, Helen, that you'll never look at their infernal show; they say it's all whips, and handcuffs, and bloodhounds, and all the rest of the lies that Harriet Beecher Stowe concocted. You'll promise me, won't you, Helen?"