Norman Reid, M. A

Front matter

NORMAN REID, M.A. NORMAN KECE1VES THE NEWS OF HIS ELECTION. — J'<-(.l< ■ L*. Frontispiece. NOEMAN REID, M.A. CY JESSIE PATEICK F^NDLAY, AUTHOR OF 'THE LOST TIDE.' 'Nemesis will have her dues, And all our struggles and our toils Tighter wind the giant coils.' —Emerson. OLIPHANT ANDERSON & FERRIER EDINBURGH AND 24 OLD BAILEY LONDON PRINTED BY MORRISON AND GIBB, EDINBURGH FOR OLIPHANT ANDERSON & FERRIER EDJNBUROJI_4k£D LONDON TO /Ifo2 /ifootber CONTENTS. CHAP. PAGB I. THE BECKONING FUTURE, ..... 9 II. LOVE AND ART, ...... 17 III. FATHEK AND DAUGHTER, . . . . .25 IV. THE RULING ELDER, . ..... 33 v. clara's choice, . . . . . .48 VI. LOVE LIES BLEEDING, . . . . .57 vii. alone! ....... 70 VIII. FIRST IMPRESSIONS, . . . . . .79 IX. THE RULING ELDER IN A NEW LIGHT, . . .86 X. WITH THE STREAM! . . . . . .95 XI. ' JIM THE SOCIALIST,' ..... 103 XII.

A CLOUD NO BIGGER THAN A MAN'S HAND, . 116 XIII. AN OLD STORY, ...... 127 XIV. MOTHER AND SON, ...... 136 XV. BLIND MYSIE, . ... . . . .144 XVI. LOVE BIDES ITS TIME, . . . . ■ 159 XVII. JIM'S DILEMMA, ...... 168 XVIII. AN EVENING RENCONTRE, . . . . .183 XIX. THE WIDENING BREACH, ..... 197 Contents. 8 CHAP. PAGE XX. THE SCENE IN THE FOUNDRY, . . . 207 XXI. A TRAGIC FAREWELL, ..... 216 XXII. CLARA'S CONFESSION, ..... 225 XXIII. 'A LITTLE CHILD SHALL LEAD THEM,' . . . 235 XXIV. A STORMY MEETING, ..... 247 XXV. DE PROFUNDIS ! . . . . . . 256 xxvi. katie's resolve, ...... 267 xxvu. nemesis, . . . . . . .277 XXVIII. biting the DUST, ...... 286 XXIX. HUSBAND AND WIFE, ..... 294 XXX. A GOOD NEW YEAR I .....

Chapter I. The Beckoning Future

We call our sorrows Destiny, but ought Rather to name our high successes so. Lowell. Y story opens on a crisp morning in February a few years ago. The hard ground was as chill and silvery grey as hoar-frost could make it ; the black and leafless trees looked nipped and rigid, as if resisting the extreme cold that threatened to freeze the rising sap within and to snap the tense branches and twigs, and thus save the crows much labour in their nest-building operations next month. The iron sky and the iron earth seemed to be drawing together as threateningly as the ever-contracting Iron Shroud of gruesome fame ; and every body with the slightest pretensions to the possession of a weather-eye felt safe in predicting a not far distant fall of snow. Commend me to a morning like this for enhancing the charms of a certain cosy, fire-bright parlour in Melville Terrace, Edinburgh, where on each side of the radiant hearth stand capacious lounging-chairs, and where the breakfast-table displays various appetising dainties upon a cloth whose spotless white does not chill the very marrow, like the woolly fabric of snow which Dame Nature is weaving behind the sullen grey clouds visible from the window.

The sole occupant of this room was a young man, who would have been appropriately introduced, one would think, in an attitude of luxurious and slippered ease, either doing justice to the 'good things of this life' on the table or enjoying his morning paper while he toasted his toes in front of the blazing fire. The Eev. Norman Eeid, M.A., however, was not thus engaged. He was standing by the window with his hands in his pockets, gazing with evident impatience through the scanty fringe of trees that bordered the frosty expanse of the Meadows. He had just breakfasted, and the morning paper invited him to a cosy nook by the fire ; nevertheless he lingered by the window with a pucker of anxiety on his brow, awaiting the arrival of his letters — or to speak more correctly, hoping for the arrival of one special letter.

Let us glance at him while Destiny — in the shape of the limping,blue-cold postman, sowing his paper harvest of joys and sorrows as he moves along — is rapidly approaching. He is of an unusually tall and massive figure, the possession of which one would almost grudge to a minister, The Beckoning Future. 11 whose sacred calling is not supposed to necessitate particu larly herculean proportions, were it not for the corre spondingly massive head and face, plainly indicative of an intellectual and spiritual endowment absolutely essential to one whose business it is to interest and influence men. The face is grave and strong for one so young. It is full of dormant power, but also alive with the sensitive lights and shadows of emotion. There is sympathy in it and sober self-restraint, with more than a hint of firm determination.

The whole personality, indeed, is that of one who will probably prove a mighty power either for good or ill. Which of those opposing powers, 0 swift advancing Destiny, will turn the scales that Fortune with bandaged eyes poises in her unseen hand ? His clustering yellow hair shades a broad, projecting forehead which makes a somewhat stern retreat for his prominent and eager grey eyes, and his nose is of that delicate aquiline type in which the nostrils seem to quiver with every passing breath of emotion. The lower part of his face, however, lacks the spiritual significance hinted in brow and eyes. It is very decidedly aggressive ; and the wide, full-lipped mouth, half-hidden by a moustache of golden brown, is quite in keeping with the stubborn curves of the clean-shaven chin. About two years before the story opens he had finished a distinguished curriculum at the University and the New College of Edinburgh, and since then he had been diligently acquiring experience to fit him for his life-work by acting as missionary-assistant to a zealous city minister.

He had lately received an invitation to preach as a candidate for the vacant charge of Free St. John's, Otter ton — an important manufacturing town near the West Coast of Scotland. The congregation was one of the largest and most influential in that quarter of the country, and the Rev. Norman Eeid, who had the modesty of real ability, wondered not a little why an unordained and com paratively friendless preacher like himself should have been thought of in connection with a charge so far distant from Edinburgh and so justly considered a prize in the ministerial world. He had gone to Otterton to preach, and while there he learned from a gentleman who had with somewhat master ful kindness taken possession of him as his guest, a Mr. Morgan, a large employer of labour in the town and the leading elder in Free St. John's, that it was to him mainly he owed the invitation that had puzzled him.

Mr. Morgan, as it turned out, had chanced to hear him preach in a church in Glasgow two or three months previously, and had been so much attracted by his appearance and impressed by his ability and spirituality — as he told him with slightly condescending frankness — that he had there and then determined, if a vacancy should occur in Free St. John's, — a not unlikely contingency owing to the serious illness of the then pastor, — to exert whatever influence he possessed to secure him as the next minister of the congregation. The young preacher was also informed by the same suave authority that he had made a most favourable impression on the minds of the people, and that he might The Beckoning Future. 13 in a week or two expect to hear the result of the election, which would take place at the beginning of February.

It was now the fourth day of that month, and hence Mr. Reid's anxious outlook for the postman. He had just turned round with a shiver, half the effect of the intense cold, half the nervous outcome of hope deferred, and had walked to the far end of the room, when the post man's shrill whistle and sharp pull at the bell were heard, and a minute or two later Katie Lawson, his housekeeper, entered, bearing on a salver a letter with the Otterton post-mark on the corner of the envelope. He came forward and snatched at it eagerly, while Katie stood observing his anxiety with a smile. ' I'm thinkin' there's guid news in that letter. Folk wad surely no' send such a lang screed to ane they wanted to hae nae mair ado wi',' said she shrewdly as he turned over to the second page. But the young man was too much engrossed to hear her, so she began to busy herself about the room, waiting, with the familiarity of an old and privileged servant, to hear the news which the letter con tained.

Mrs. Lawson, however, deserves a special word of description not only on account of her personal qualities but because of the prominent part she is to play in this most veracious chronicle. She was a little and spare woman of about fifty years of age ; and, although her face had the wrinkled bloom of a late apple, her sandy hair and colourless eyes gave her, it was difficult to tell how, the look of a highly-intelligent ferret. Her bunchy wincey skirts, just revealing her trimly-shod feet, combined with her quaint coif of muslin, and bibbed apron of the same daintily-clean material, to give her a neat and old-fashioned air which never failed to win admiring attention. I don't think, however, that Katie had chosen her unique attire with an eye to any thing so frivolous as the picturesque, for she was a frugal soul and was ' wearing out,' I suspect, the personal plenishing of an equally frugal but loDg-deceased grand mother.

Norman had never known the love and care of a father, and although, through the death of a wealthy relative whose existence had only become known to his mother by means of an advertisement asking for information regarding herself, she had about twelve years before this fallen heir to a small fortune, Mrs. Reid had had a long and severe struggle to educate her only child ; and after the need for the economy and toil of earlier years had departed her health had given way, and for the last few years she had spent the winter and spring in Mentone, where she at present was. Katie had been in that lady's service since before Norman's birth, and both mother and son owed much to her unwearying devotion. She was consequently regarded rather as a friend than a mere dependant, and was a sharer in all the joys and sorrows of the little household. ' It's all right, Katie; I've been unanimously elected ! ' cried Norman, looking up from the letter with a c-lad light in his face. ' Eh, that's grand news !

I hope it may be for your The Beckoning Future. 15 guid,' said she brightly. ' No' that ye need to be telt that God's glory comes before the guid o' men ! Eh, but your mother will be a prood woman when she hears the news ! ' ' Yes ; I must write to her at once, so I'll give you all the particulars afterwards, Katie,' replied Norman, sitting down to his desk with a happy face, while Katie removed the breakfast-tray and retired to her own domain. After his letter was finished Norman rose and prepared for an encounter with the keen north wind, which was beginning to bluster across the Meadows and to break up the uniform grey of the sky into toppling crags of flying vapour. The silver mist of the hoar-frost had disappeared beneath the advancing steps of noon, and as Norman walked rapidly over the grass towards Lauriston Place, where dwelt one who had also an interest in his future prospects, the ' ineffectual sun ' blinked for a moment between two flying rifts of cloud and he took it for an omen of good import, for, stalwart giant though he was, at that moment his heart was fluttering like any woman's with mingled emotions of love and hope and fear.

For the mainspring of his happiness was nothing more substantial than the capricious smile on a girl's face, and his hopes fluctuated according to the variable sunshine and shadow visible thereon. Sometimes, indeed, he had allowed himself to be momentarily beguiled by the sweet, vague dreams of love from the thought of practical success in his sacred calling and even from a consideration of its more spiritual aspects. To-day, however, his thoughts of work and love were harmoniously blended, for the intelligence of his elec tion to a more independent and important sphere of labour than he had hitherto occupied had come to give a quickened purpose to his love ; and it was with this purpose beating high in his bosom that he at length found him self in front of the house wherein dwelt the lady of his love.

Chapter II Love And Art

Accuse me not, beseech thee, that 1 wear Too calm and sad a face in front of thine For we two look two ways. E. B. Browning. ORMAN entered a lofty stone passage and, after ascending two flights of stairs, he paused on the narrow landing and knocked at a door whereon a shining plate of brass, which was all that emerged from the gloom, set forth the name of Allan Porteous, drawing-master. The door was opened by a young girl whose slight figure was clad in a shabby gown of grey, over which she wore a painting -blouse of brown linen, picturesquely brightened by touches of blue. On the thumb of her left hand she bore a palette, and her right was stretched forth to Norman in eager welcome. 'Ah, Norman, I knew your knock ! ' she said brightly. ' How dare you come and steal my morning light ? ' They entered the studio as she spoke, and, while Norman found room for his hat amid the miscellaneous articles that littered the table, she laid aside her palette B and brushes with a scarcely audible sigh.

But Norman heard it, and said somewhat sharply, — ' Don't let me disturb you, Clara. Go on, pray ; you can work and talk at the same time, I suppose.' 'That is exactly what I cannot do, you silly boy,' she said, sitting down beside him on the rickety couch that adorned the studio ; 'especially when I see such burning impatience in your face. Come, what news from Otterton ? ' Norman drew her closer and, putting his arm round her slender waist, said, 'The best of news. I have been unanimously elected to Free St. John's ; and now, my darling, I can offer you a home. We can be married very soon now.' She abruptly withdrew herself from his embrace and, rising, moved over to the window and stood in the shadowy recess. Norman also rose hastily and stood in a pained silence which, being at all times uncertain of Clara's moods, he feared to break.

But his face showed his bitter disappointment, for in the first flush of his bright future prospects he had fully counted upon the warm sympathy of his betrothed. The truth was that Clara Porteous had given her lover only a divided love. He had won her consent to become his wife in spite of her almost passionate protestations that she did not, and never could, love him as she did her art. She was an enthusiastic artist, the only child of a clever Bohemian drawing-master who sacrificed every thing, his daughter's talent included, to his unscrupulous appetite for drink. He succeeded in wrenching a pre carious livelihood from a constantly-changing class of Love and Art. 19 pupils and from the sale of the promising sketches pro duced by Clara's indefatigable brush — at a cost to her of which he in his selfishness never dreamed.

She never complained, she never told her callous fathei that his conduct checked her dearest aspirations, and that his insatiable demands hindered her from doing justice to that genius whose restless clamouring for worthy expression made her life at once a glory and a martyr dom. Ah, how often had she wept in secret over those daily disillusions that clouded her sensitive soul, — the harsh reproofs, the never-ending worries about money, the sordid atmosphere enveloping her life, that would fain have breathed a nobler air ! All these were burdens lying heavily upon her youth ful shoulders, and, although to one of a practical or easy temperament their power to annoy would have been but slight, for her they were omnipotent to darken the days and to scatter into elusive fragments the rainbow-like inspirations and the haunting dreams of fame that came to cheer her in the silent night.

The struggle against circumstance was visible in the pale, pinched face wherein her dark eyes shone with unnatural lustre, in the harsh lines of care that looked so incongruous upon the girlish brow — for she was but twenty years old — and in the pathetic and almost habitual droop of her graceful shoulders. ' Have you nothing to say, Clara ? ' asked Norman at length. ' I am very glad that you have been successful. I am AI.A. 20 pleased for your sake, Norman ; and your mother too will be pleased,' she rejoined in a low voice. ' Is that all you have to say ? Oh, Clara, how dis appointing you are ! What is it all worth to me if you will not share it ? ' ' Norman,' she said, turning vehemently towards him, ' I wish that you would go away and begin your new life — and forget me. Oh, I wish that you would forget me !

I see more clearly every day that I ought never to have owned that I loved you.' He tossed his head impatiently, and his voice was stern as he replied, 'Must we fight that old battle over again ? How often have I assured you that you obeyed your truest instinct when you owned your love ? You will persist in tormenting yourself and me, but oh, my darling, I will never give you up ! I will never allow you to wrong your woman's heart for the sake of a romantic dream of fame.' ' Do you call my longing after perfection in my art a dream ? ' said Clara in a hurt tone, while her eyes filled with tears. ' It is my life-work,' she protested ; — ' of that I am sure. Why should I thus struggle against love if it were not so ? ' ' You are too much alone, Clara — you brood over that canvas,' said Norman, pointing to a picture standing on the easel, ' until you grow morbid and visionary.' Clara shook her head. 'No,' she said sadly; 'I am happiest at my work, and that is what troubles me, Norman, when I think of my promise to you.

I cannot reconcile love Love and Art. 21 and art. I wisli I could, for I love you dearly, although ' — ' I will never let you go as long as you say you love me ! ' cried Norman, going towards her and kissing her with passionate tenderness. 'You shall not sacrifice your truest — your womanly — vocation for a girl's romantic dream of fame, I repeat ! ' ' Ah, do not say that you think I shall fail in my art !' cried Clara wistfully. ' I thought that you believed in me. It will be very dreary for me if I have not your faith in me to sustain me ! ' ' You sweet, inconsistent darling ! ' said Norman with a smile ; ' if you are sure of success, what does it matter whether your poor discarded lover believes in you or not ? But I do believe in you. I believe that you have got a distinct gift, but I understand you better than you do yourself, Clara, and I know that even fame would be powerless to bring happiness to you if you thus renounce love.

What pleasure can fame bring to a lonely heart ? Believe me, dearest, the sweetest drop in the cup of earthly success is the recognition and proud, fond praise of those who are nearest and dearest.' ' It may be so, Norman, but I do not seem to have room in my heart for both love and art.' She spoke almost deprecatingly, and he wondered for a moment if she was really as cold as she seemed ; but, remembering other scenes in which love had proved the conqueror, he made yet another appeal. ' If you will be my wife, Clara, I will give you all that you desire — leisure to pursue your art ' — IvLA 22 She interrupted him hastily. ' Do not tempt me, Norman ! You know very well that a minister's wife ought to have no vocation that might distract her from the duties of her position ; and art is no dilettante fad that can be taken up or flung aside at a moment's notice.

It is a life-long toil, but it is the grandest thing on earth ! ' she cried with an almost frantic enthusiasm in her dark eyes ; 'and I cannot relegate to any secondary position this God-given gift of mine. Ah, Norman, do you think that my lonely childhood has been filled with dreams, my sorrowful youth with aspirations after art for nought ? ' ' Do you then consider my love nought ? ' said he bitterly as he paced up and down the floor. ' You do not think of my suffering, Clara. How can you condemn me to stand aside and watch you struggling against such fearful odds, and yet stretch forth no hand to help you ? Oh, my darling, strong men have failed, as you will '— ' Norman, do not say it ! ' she cried passionately. ' I shall succeed if I live.' ' Ay, there it is ! If you live ! Clara, Clara, how am I to endure the bitter knowledge that you actually lack sufficient daily bread, while I have enough and to spare?' She held up a deprecating hand with a sob which went to his heart. ' Oh, my darling, you know that I speak the truth !

Why — why will you persist in following a career in which even strong men faint by the way ? ' ' I am driven toward it. It is my fate,' said she simply. Love and Art. 23 ' If I die, there is an end of it ; but I shall not die — I have hope ! ' she cried with a new light in her eyes. ' No one can live on hope,' said he sadly. ' Will hope buy you bread, or even the materials for your art ? Oh, darling, come to me ! I will shield you from every wind that blows.' She shivered as the yearning tones of his voice thrilled her heart, but she shook her head as she again said, ' Norman, do not urge me. I dare not cherish your love — not alone because of my art. There is my father ' — She paused with a blush of shame. ' Your father ! ' cried Norman scornfully ; ' he is not worth the name ! Will you actually sacrifice your happiness and mine for the sake of a — a scoundrel ?' This was a strong epithet to use in connection with the father of the girl he loved.

She fronted him, straight and indignant, with a cry of horror upon her lips. ' You forget yourself strangely,' she said. ' Whatever he is, you have no right to call him that to me. My mother left him to my care on her death-bed.' ' That was reversing the natural state of the relation ship,' retorted Norman angrily ; ' and your mother never dreamed that he would become — what he is. If she had foreseen it, she would not have so hampered you.' ' Hush, hush ' I know he is bad, but for my mother's sake he is a sacred charge to me. Therefore, Norman, I will not bring disgrace upon you by marrying you.' Norman moved about impatiently. ' AVhere is he to-day ? ' said he suddenly. Clara did not answer him ; she merely stood looking down with a burning face. ' Is he drinking again ? ' cried Norman indignantly. ' Clara, Clara, this is no home for you ! ' ' This is the only home for me,' she said with pathos ; ' but it humiliates me to see you here.

Norman, do not grieve for me. Go away ; forget me ' — ' For God's sake do not mock me ! ' he cried desperately. ' Am I likely to forget you ? But I will go away just now. I shall be in Edinburgh for some weeks yet ; I will see you again before I leave for Otterton. But oh, Clara ! think again before you fling love aside for such a barren life as this ! ' He waved his hand through the studio ; then snatchiug his hat, he rushed away, too grieved to observe the usual courtesies of leave-taking.

Chapter III. Father And Daughter

0 that men should put an enemy in their mouths, to steal away their brains ! Othello. fiT|i||| OXG after the last echoes of Norman's steps m li/lvA awa7> Clara sat motionless and m _-_W_ pondering in a chair by the window. She truly loved him, and sometimes the longing for the affection and sympathy which would be hers if she became his wife threatened to conquer the strong purpose that dominated her inner life. She detested the slipshod existence to which she was condemned, for her instincts were thoroughly womanly and dainty, and all that was best in her was at war with her sordid environment. And now, in the seclusion of the studio — an austerely bare place it was in spite of many feminine contrivances to make it comfortable — she owned to herself how pleasant life would be, surrounded with love and ease and beautified by the luxurious colours and costly bric-a brac in which her artistic soul delighted.

Yes ; in spite of her passionate protestations of attachment to the art that 2". was to bring her fame, she might probably have swerved in her purpose but for the dead-weight of her vicious father which hung upon her, effectually preventing the monotonous pendulum of life from swaying aside. But for that she might have yielded to her lover's pleading and have made an attempt to live the dual life of wife and artist. She moved uneasily in her chair as her quick imagination summoned the figure of her father before her — selfish, disreputable, hopelessly shabby — and she acknowledged with a sigh that the sweet lot of wifehood could never be hers as long as her father lived ; then with a start once more she returned to her old allegiance, and she vowed a hundred times that for art she would live and die.

At last the sound of stumbling footsteps ascending the stair — oh, so different from the manly tread of her lover ! — warned her of her father's approach. She rose and, opening the studio door, stood waiting to admit him. He entered, and, pushing past his daughter with a lurch in his drunken gait, halted in the middle of the floor, blink ing foolishly at the pale sunlight that hurt his bleared and heavy eyes and acceutuated with pitiless severity every point of degradation in his once handsome physique. His dress was negligent and shabby, his grey hair lay in unkempt masses about his sodden temples which still retained faint traces of intellectual power, and his eyes were like his daughter's — soft, large, and brown — but how different was the soul that looked through these brown orbs of father and daughter !

Father and Daughter. 27 He looked as if the divine soul given to every man at his birth had forsaken its unlovely dwelling-place, leaving it to the baleful occupancy of an evil spirit ; while she stood gazing at him, her eyes preternaturally large with unshed tears and expressive of such mingled shrinking and pity that her father might well have taken them for those of an accusing angel. ' Don't stand staring there ! ' he cried angrily. ' How often must I tell you, Clara, that you admit too much sunshine into the studio ? What on earth is to be gained by working in such a crude light ? But of course you know better than your father, whose only aim in life is to form your style and find buyers for your pictures.' Clara moved aside with a sigh. Too well she knew where most of the money thus obtained went.

Her father continued to talk in tremulous and peevish tones, and she saw that his nerves were quite unstrung by his drinking bout. She sat down patiently, knowing from experience that he must be allowed to have his say, but wishing — ah, how intensely ! — that the ordeal was over. ' A pretty lot of snubbing I have had to endure from that fellow Richardson,' he complained. ' The cad posi tively refuses to give me another shilling until I bring him something more attractive to buyers than those paltry daubs of children and fruit. He says they just lie about his premises — nobody will buy them. You'll ruin your self, Clara, if you repeat yourself in such trivial work : if you want to get on, you must really go in for some thing important.' Clara half started from her seat and glanced with a look of dismay towards the easel whereon still stood her unfinished picture.