Title: The Man from Glengarry: A Tale of the Ottawa
Author: Connor, Ralph
Language: English
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THE MAN FROM GLENGARRY

A TALE OF THE OTTAWA


By Ralph Connor



DEDICATION

TO THE MEN OF GLENGARRY WHO IN PATIENCE, IN COURAGE AND IN THE FEAR OF
GOD ARE HELPING TO BUILD THE EMPIRE OF THE CANADIAN WEST THIS BOOK IS
HUMBLY DEDICATED



PREFACE


The solid forests of Glengarry have vanished, and with the forests the
men who conquered them. The manner of life and the type of character to
be seen in those early days have gone too, and forever. It is part of
the purpose of this book to so picture these men and their times that
they may not drop quite out of mind. The men are worth remembering.
They carried the marks of their blood in their fierce passions, their
courage, their loyalty; and of the forest in their patience, their
resourcefulness, their self-reliance. But deeper than all, the mark that
reached down to their hearts’ core was that of their faith, for in
them dwelt the fear of God. Their religion may have been narrow, but
no narrower than the moulds of their lives. It was the biggest thing in
them. It may have taken a somber hue from their gloomy forests, but
by reason of a sweet, gracious presence dwelling among them it grew in
grace and sweetness day by day.

In the Canada beyond the Lakes, where men are making empire, the sons
of these Glengarry men are found. And there such men are needed. For
not wealth, not enterprise, not energy, can build a nation into sure
greatness, but men, and only men with the fear of God in their hearts,
and with no other. And to make this clear is also a part of the purpose
of this book.



CONTENTS


CHAPTER

I     THE OPEN RIVER

II    VENGEANCE IS MINE

III   THE MANSE IN THE BUSH

IV    THE RIDE FOR LIFE

V     FORGIVE US OUR DEBTS

VI    A NEW FRIEND

VII   MAIMIE

VIII  THE SUGARING-OFF

IX    A SABBATH DAY’S WORK

X     THE HOME-COMING OF THE SHANTYMEN

XI    THE WAKE

XII   SEED-TIME

XIII  THE LOGGING BEE

XIV   SHE WILL NOT FORGET

XV    THE REVIVAL

XVI   AND THE GLORY

XVII  LENOIR’S NEW MASTER

XVIII HE IS NOT OF MY KIND

XIX   ONE GAME AT A TIME

XX    HER CLINGING ARMS

XXI   I WILL REMEMBER

XXII  FORGET THAT I LOVED YOU

XXIII A GOOD, TRUE FRIEND

XXIV  THE WEST

XXV   GLENGARRY FOREVER



THE MAN FROM GLENGARRY


CHAPTER I

THE OPEN RIVER


The winter had broken early and the Scotch River was running ice-free
and full from bank to bank. There was still snow in the woods, and with
good sleighing and open rivers every day was golden to the lumbermen
who had stuff to get down to the big water. A day gained now might save
weeks at a chute farther down, where the rafts would crowd one another
and strive for right of way.

Dan Murphy was mightily pleased with himself and with the bit of the
world about him, for there lay his winter’s cut of logs in the river
below him snug and secure and held tight by a boom across the mouth,
just where it flowed into the Nation. In a few days he would have his
crib made, and his outfit ready to start for the Ottawa mills. He was
sure to be ahead of the big timber rafts that took up so much space,
and whose crews with unbearable effrontery considered themselves the
aristocrats of the river.

Yes, it was a pleasant and satisfying sight, some three solid miles of
logs boomed at the head of the big water. Suddenly Murphy turned his
face up the river.

“What’s that now, d’ye think, LeNware?” he asked.

LeNoir, or “LeNware,” as they all called it in that country, was Dan
Murphy’s foreman, and as he himself said, “for haxe, for hit (eat),
for fight de boss on de reever Hottawa! by Gar!” Louis LeNoir was a
French-Canadian, handsome, active, hardy, and powerfully built. He had
come from the New Brunswick woods some three years ago, and had wrought
and fought his way, as he thought, against all rivals to the proud
position of “boss on de reever,” the topmost pinnacle of a lumberman’s
ambition. It was something to see LeNoir “run a log” across the river
and back; that is, he would balance himself upon a floating log, and by
spinning it round, would send it whither he would. At Murphy’s question
LeNoir stood listening with bent head and open mouth. Down the river
came the sound of singing. “Don-no me! Ah oui! be dam! Das Macdonald
gang for sure! De men from Glengarrie, les diables! Dey not hout de
reever yet.” His boss went off into a volley of oaths--

“They’ll be wanting the river now, an’ they’re divils to fight.”

“We give em de full belly, heh? Bon!” said LeNoir, throwing back his
head. His only unconquered rival on the river was the boss of the
Macdonald gang.


     Ho ro, mo nighean donn bhoidheach,
     Hi-ri, mo nighean donn bhoidheach,
     Mo chaileag, laghach, bhoidheach,
        Cha phosainn ach thu.


Down the river came the strong, clear chorus of men’s voices, and soon a
“pointer” pulled by six stalwart men with a lad in the stern swung round
the bend into view. A single voice took up the song--


     ‘S ann tha mo run’s na beanntaibh,
     Far bheil mo ribhinn ghreannar,
     Mar ros am fasach shamhraidh
        An gleann fad o shuil.


After the verse the full chorus broke forth again--


     Ho ro, mo nighean, etc.


Swiftly the pointer shot down the current, the swaying bodies and
swinging oars in perfect rhythm with the song that rose and fell with
melancholy but musical cadence. The men on the high bank stood looking
down upon the approaching singers. “You know dem fellers?” said LeNoir.
Murphy nodded. “Ivery divil iv thim--Big Mack Cameron, Dannie Ross,
Finlay Campbell--the redheaded one--the next I don’t know, and yes! be
dad! there’s that blanked Yankee, Yankee Jim, they call him, an’ bad
luck till him. The divil will have to take the poker till him, for he’ll
bate him wid his fists, and so he will--and that big black divil is
Black Hugh, the brother iv the boss Macdonald. He’ll be up in the camp
beyant, and a mighty lucky thing for you, LeNoir, he is.”

“Bah!” spat LeNoir, “Dat beeg Macdonald I mak heem run like one leetle
sheep, one tam at de long Sault, bah! No good!” LeNoir’s contempt for
Macdonald was genuine and complete. For two years he had tried to meet
the boss Macdonald, but his rival had always avoided him.

Meantime, the pointer came swinging along. As it turned the point
the boy uttered an exclamation--“Look there!” The song and the rowing
stopped abruptly; the big, dark man stood up and gazed down the river,
packed from bank to bank with the brown saw-logs; deep curses broke from
him. Then he caught sight of the men on the bank. A word of command and
the pointer shot into the shore, and the next moment Macdonald Dubh,
or Black Hugh, as he was sometimes called, followed by his men, was
climbing up the steep bank.

“What the blank, blank, do these logs mean, Murphy?” he demanded,
without pause for salutation.

“Tis a foine avenin’ Misther Macdonald,” said Murphy, blandly offering
his hand, “an’ Hiven bliss ye.”

Macdonald checked himself with an effort and reluctantly shook hands
with Murphy and LeNoir, whom he slightly knew. “It is a fery goot
evening, indeed,” he said, in as quiet a voice as he could command, “but
I am inquiring about these logs.”

“Shure, an’ it is a dhry night, and onpolite to kape yez talking here.
Come in wid yez,” and much against his will Black Hugh followed Murphy
to the tavern, the most pretentious of a group of log buildings--once
a lumber camp--which stood back a little distance from the river, and
about which Murphy’s men, some sixty of them, were now camped.

The tavern was full of Murphy’s gang, a motley crew, mostly French
Canadians and Irish, just out of the woods and ready for any devilment
that promised excitement. Most of them knew by sight, and all by
reputation, Macdonald and his gang, for from the farthest reaches of the
Ottawa down the St. Lawrence to Quebec the Macdonald gang of Glengarry
men was famous. They came, most of them, from that strip of country
running back from the St. Lawrence through Glengarry County, known as
the Indian Lands--once an Indian reservation. They were sons of the men
who had come from the highlands and islands of Scotland in the early
years of the last century. Driven from homes in the land of their
fathers, they had set themselves with indomitable faith and courage to
hew from the solid forest, homes for themselves and their children that
none might take from them. These pioneers were bound together by ties of
blood, but also by bonds stronger than those of blood. Their loneliness,
their triumphs, their sorrows, born of their common life-long conflict
with the forest and its fierce beasts, knit them in bonds close and
enduring. The sons born to them and reared in the heart of the pine
forests grew up to witness that heroic struggle with stern nature and to
take their part in it. And mighty men they were. Their life bred in
them hardiness of frame, alertness of sense, readiness of resource,
endurance, superb self-reliance, a courage that grew with peril, and
withal a certain wildness which at times deepened into ferocity. By
their fathers the forest was dreaded and hated, but the sons, with
rifles in hand, trod its pathless stretches without fear, and with their
broad-axes they took toll of their ancient foe. For while in spring and
summer they farmed their narrow fields, and rescued new lands from the
brule; in winter they sought the forest, and back on their own farms or
in “the shanties” they cut sawlogs, or made square timber, their only
source of wealth. The shanty life of the early fifties of last century
was not the luxurious thing of to-day. It was full of privation, for
the men were poorly housed and fed, and of peril, for the making of the
timber and the getting it down the smaller rivers to the big water was
a work of hardship and danger. Remote from the restraints of law and
of society, and living in wild surroundings and in hourly touch with
danger, small wonder that often the shanty-men were wild and reckless.
So that many a poor fellow in a single wild carouse in Quebec, or more
frequently in some river town, would fling into the hands of sharks
and harlots and tavern-keepers, with whom the bosses were sometimes in
league, the earnings of his long winter’s work, and would wake to find
himself sick and penniless, far from home and broken in spirit.

Of all the shanty-men of the Ottawa the men of Glengarry, and of
Glengarry men Macdonald’s gang were easily first, and of the gang Donald
Bhain Macdonald, or Macdonald More, or the Big Macdonald, for he was
variously known, was not only the “boss” but best and chief. There was
none like him. A giant in size and strength, a prince of broad-axe men,
at home in the woods, sure-footed and daring on the water, free with
his wages, and always ready to drink with friend or fight with foe, the
whole river admired, feared, or hated him, while his own men followed
him into the woods, on to a jam, or into a fight with equal joyousness
and devotion. Fighting was like wine to him, when the fight was worth
while, and he went into the fights his admirers were always arranging
for him with the easiest good humor and with a smile on his face. But
Macdonald Bhain’s carousing, fighting days came to an abrupt stop about
three years before the opening of this tale, for on one of his summer
visits to his home, “The word of the Lord in the mouth of his servant
Alexander Murray,” as he was wont to say, “found him and he was a new
man.” He went into his new life with the same whole-souled joyousness as
had marked the old, and he announced that with the shanty and the river
he was “done for ever more.” But after the summer’s work was done, and
the logging over, and when the snap of the first frost nipped the leaves
from the trees, Macdonald became restless. He took down his broad-axe
and spent hours polishing it and bringing it to an edge, then he put it
in its wooden sheath and laid it away. But the fever was upon him, ten
thousand voices from the forest were shouting for him. He went away
troubled to his minister. In an hour he came back with the old good
humor in his face, took down the broad-axe again, and retouched it,
lovingly, humming the while the old river song of the Glengarry men--


     Ho ro mo nighean, etc.


He was going back to the bush and to the biggest fight of his life. No
wonder he was glad. Then his good little wife began to get ready his
long, heavy stockings, his thick mits, his homespun smock, and other
gear, for she knew well that soon she would be alone for another
winter. Before long the word went round that Macdonald Bhain was for the
shanties again, and his men came to him for their orders.

But it was not to the old life that Macdonald was going, and he gravely
told those that came to him that he would take no man who could not
handle his axe and hand-spike, and who could not behave himself.
“Behaving himself” meant taking no more whiskey than a man could carry,
and refusing all invitations to fight unless “necessity was laid upon
him.” The only man to object was his own brother, Macdonald Dubh, whose
temper was swift to blaze, and with whom the blow was quicker than the
word. But after the second year of the new order even Black Hugh fell
into line. Macdonald soon became famous on the Ottawa. He picked only
the best men, he fed them well, paid them the highest wages, and cared
for their comfort, but held them in strictest discipline. They would
drink but kept sober, they would spend money but knew how much was
coming to them. They feared no men even of “twice their own heavy and
big,” but would never fight except under necessity. Contracts began to
come their way. They made money, and what was better, they brought it
home. The best men sought to join them, but by rival gangs and by men
rejected from their ranks they were hated with deepest heart hatred. But
the men from Glengarry knew no fear and sought no favor. They asked only
a good belt of pine and an open river. As a rule they got both, and it
was peculiarly maddening to Black Hugh to find two or three miles of
solid logs between his timber and the open water of the Nation. Black
Hugh had a temper fierce and quick, and when in full flame he was a man
to avoid, for from neither man nor devil would he turn. The only man
who could hold him was his brother Macdonald Bhain, for strong man as
he was, Black Hugh knew well that his brother could with a single swift
grip bring him to his knees.

It was unfortunate that the command of the party this day should have
been Macdonald Dubh’s. Unfortunate, too, that it was Dan Murphy and his
men that happened to be blocking the river mouth. For the Glengarry men,
who handled only square timber, despised the Murphy gang as sawlog-men;
“log-rollers” or “mushrats” they called them, and hated them as Irish
“Papishes” and French “Crapeaux,” while between Dan Murphy and Macdonald
Dubh there was an ancient personal grudge, and to-day Murphy thought he
had found his time. There were only six of the enemy, he had ten times
the number with him, many of them eager to pay off old scores; and
besides there was Louis LeNoir as the “Boss Bully” of the river. The
Frenchman was not only a powerful man, active with hands and feet, but
he was an adept in all kinds of fighting tricks. Since coming to the
Ottawa he had heard of the big Macdonald, and he sought to meet him. But
Macdonald avoided him once and again till LeNoir, having never known
any one avoiding a fight for any reason other than fear, proclaimed
Macdonald a coward, and himself “de boss on de reever.” Now there was
a chance of meeting his rival and of forcing a fight, for the Glengarry
camp could not be far away where the big Macdonald himself would be.
So Dan Murphy, backed up with numbers, and the boss bully LeNoir,
determined that for these Macdonald men the day of settlement had
come. But they were dangerous men, and it would be well to take all
precautions, and hence his friendly invitation to the tavern for drinks.

Macdonald Dubh, scorning to show hesitation, though he suspected
treachery, strode after Murphy to the tavern door and through the crowd
of shanty-men filling the room. They were as ferocious looking a lot
of men as could well be got together, even in that country and in those
days--shaggy of hair and beard, dressed out in red and blue and green
jerseys, with knitted sashes about their waists, and red and blue and
green tuques on their heads. Drunken rows were their delight, and fights
so fierce that many a man came out battered and bruised to death or to
life-long decrepitude. They were sitting on the benches that ran round
the room, or lounging against the bar singing, talking, blaspheming. At
the sight of Macdonald Dubh and his men there fell a dead silence, and
then growls of recognition, but Murphy was not yet ready, and roaring
out “Dh-r-r-i-n-k-s,” he seized a couple of his men leaning against the
bar, and hurling them to right and left, cried, “Ma-a-ke room for yer
betthers, be the powers! Sthand up, bhoys, and fill yirsilves!”

Black Hugh and his men lined up gravely to the bar and were straightway
surrounded by the crowd yelling hideously. But if Murphy and his gang
thought to intimidate those grave Highlanders with noise, they were
greatly mistaken, for they stood quietly waiting for their glasses to
be filled, alert, but with an air of perfect indifference. Some eight or
ten glasses were set down and filled, when Murphy, snatching a couple
of bottles from the shelf behind the bar, handed them out to his men,
crying, “Here, ye bluddy thaves, lave the glasses to the gintlemen!”

There was no mistaking the insolence in his tone, and the chorus of
derisive yells that answered him showed that his remark had gone to the
spot.

Yankee Jim, who had kept close to Black Hugh, saw the veins in his
neck beginning to swell, and face to grow dark. He was longing to be
at Murphy’s throat. “Speak him fair,” he said, in a low tone, “there’s
rather a good string of ‘em raound.” Macdonald Dubh glanced about him.
His eye fell on his boy, and for the first time his face became anxious.
“Ranald,” he said, angrily, “take yourself out of this. It is no place
for you whatever.” The boy, a slight lad of seventeen, but tall and
well-knit, and with his father’s fierce, wild, dark face, hesitated.

“Go,” said his father, giving him a slight cuff.

“Here, boy!” yelled LeNoir, catching him by the arm and holding the
bottle to his mouth, “drink.” The boy took a gulp, choked, and spat
it out. LeNoir and his men roared. “Dat good whiskey,” he cried, still
holding the boy. “You not lak dat, hey?”

“No,” said the boy, “it is not good at all.”

“Try heem some more,” said LeNoir, thrusting the bottle at him again.

“I will not,” said Ranald, looking at LeNoir straight and fearless.

“Ho-ho! mon brave enfant! But you have not de good mannere. Come,
drink!” He caught the boy by the back of the neck, and made as if to
pour the whiskey down his throat. Black Hugh, who had been kept back by
Yankee Jim all this time, started forward, but before he could take a
second step Ranald, squirming round like a cat, had sunk his teeth into
LeNoir’s wrist. With a cry of rage and pain LeNoir raised the bottle and
was bringing it down on Ranald’s head, when Black Hugh, with one hand,
caught the falling blow, and with the other seized Ranald, and crying,
“Get out of this!” he flung him towards the door. Then turning to
LeNoir, he said, with surprising self-control, “It is myself that is
sorry that a boy of mine should be guilty of biting like a dog.”

“Sa-c-r-re le chien!” yelled LeNoir, shaking off Macdonald Dubh; “he is
one dog, and the son of a dog!” He turned and started for the boy. But
Yankee Jim had got Ranald to the door and was whispering to him. “Run!”
 cried Yankee Jim, pushing him out of the door, and the boy was off like
the wind. LeNoir pursued him a short way and returned raging.

Yankee Jim, or Yankee, as he was called for short, came back to
Macdonald Dubh’s side, and whispering to the other Highlanders, “Keep
your backs clear,” sat up coolly on the counter. The fight was sure to
come and there were seven to one against them in the room. If he could
only gain time. Every minute was precious. It would take the boy fifteen
minutes to run the two miles to camp. It would be half an hour before
the rest of the Glengarry men could arrive, and much fighting may be
done in that time. He must avert attention from Macdonald Dubh, who was
waiting to cram LeNoir’s insult down his throat. Yankee Jim had not
only all the cool courage but also the shrewd, calculating spirit of
his race. He was ready to fight, and if need be against odds, but he
preferred to fight on as even terms as possible.

Soon LeNoir came back, wild with fury, and yelling curses at the top of
his voice. He hurled himself into the room, the crowd falling back from
him on either hand.

“Hola!” he yelled, “Sacre bleu!” He took two quick steps, and springing
up into the air he kicked the stovepipe that ran along some seven feet
above the floor.

“Purty good kicking,” called out Yankee, sliding down from his seat.
“Used to kick some myself. Excuse ME.” He stood for a moment looking up
at the stovepipe, then without apparent effort he sprang into the air,
shot up his long legs, and knocked the stovepipe with a bang against the
ceiling. There was a shout of admiration.

“My damages,” he said to Pat Murphy, who stood behind the counter. “Good
thing there ain’t no fire. Thought it was higher. Wouldn’t care to kick
for the drinks, would ye?” he added to LeNoir.

LeNoir was too furious to enter into any contest so peaceful, but as he
specially prided himself on his high kick, he paused a moment and was
about to agree when Black Hugh broke in, harshly, spoiling all Yankee’s
plans.

“There is no time for such foolishness,” he said, turning to Dan Murphy.
“I want to know when we can get our timber out.”

“Depinds intoirly on yirsilf,” said Murphy.

“When will your logs be out of the way?”

“Indade an’ that’s a ha-r-r-d one,” laughed Murphy.

“And will you tell me what right hev you to close up the river?” Black
Hugh’s wrath was rising.

“You wud think now it wuz yirsilf that owned the river. An’ bedad it’s
the thought of yir mind, it is. An’ it’s not the river only, but the
whole creation ye an yir brother think is yours.” Dan Murphy was close up
to Macdonald Dubh by this time. “Yis, blank, blank, yir faces, an’ ye’d
like to turn better than yirsilves from aff the river, so ye wud, ye
black-hearted thaves that ye are.”

This, of course, was beyond all endurance. For answer Black Hugh smote
him sudden and fierce on the mouth, and Murphy went down.

“Purty one,” sang out Yankee, cheerily. “Now, boys, back to the wall.”

Before Murphy could rise, LeNoir sprang over him and lit upon Macdonald
like a cat, but Macdonald shook himself free and sprang back to the
Glengarry line at the wall.

“Mac an’ Diabboil,” he roared, “Glengarry forever!”

“Glengarry!” yelled the four Highlanders beside him, wild with the
delight of battle. It was a plain necessity, and they went into it with
free consciences and happy hearts.

“Let me at him,” cried Murphy, struggling past LeNoir towards Macdonald.

“Non! He is to me!” yelled LeNoir, dancing in front of Macdonald.

“Here, Murphy,” called out Yankee, obligingly, “help yourself this way.”
 Murphy dashed at him, but Yankee’s long arm shot out to meet him, and
Murphy again found the floor.

“Come on, boys,” cried Pat Murphy, Dan’s brother, and followed by half a
dozen others, he flung himself at Yankee and the line of men standing up
against the wall. But Yankee’s arms flashed out once, twice, thrice, and
Pat Murphy fell back over his brother; two others staggered across and
checked the oncoming rush, while Dannie Ross and big Mack Cameron had
each beaten back their man, and the Glengarry line stood unbroken.
Man for man they were far more than a match for their opponents, and
standing shoulder to shoulder, with their backs to the wall, they
taunted Murphy and his gang with all the wealth of gibes and oaths at
their command.

“Where’s the rest of your outfit, Murphy?” drawled Yankee. “Don’t seem’s
if you’d counted right.”

“It is a cold day for the parley voos,” laughed Big Mack Cameron. “Come
up, lads, and take a taste of something hot.”

Then the Murphy men, clearing away the fallen, rushed again. They strove
to bring the Highlanders to a clinch, but Yankee’s voice was high and
clear in command.

“Keep the line, boys! Don’t let ‘em draw you!” And the Glengarry men
waited till they could strike, and when they struck men went down and
were pulled back by their friends.

“Intil them, bhoys!” yelled Dan Murphy, keeping out of range himself.
“Intil the divils!” And again and again his men crowded down upon the
line against the wall, but again and again they were beaten down or
hurled back bruised and bleeding.

Meantime LeNoir was devoting himself to Black Hugh at one end of the
line, dancing in upon him and away again, but without much result. Black
Hugh refused to be drawn out, and fought warily on defense, knowing the
odds were great and waiting his chance to deliver one good blow, which
was all he asked.

The Glengarry men were enjoying themselves hugely, and when not shouting
their battle-cry, “Glengarry forever!” or taunting their foes, they were
joking each other on the fortunes of war. Big Mack Cameron, who held the
center, drew most of the sallies. He was easy-tempered and good-natured,
and took his knocks with the utmost good humor.

“That was a good one, Mack,” said Dannie Ross, his special chum, as a
sounding whack came in on Big Mack’s face. “As true as death I will be
telling it to Bella Peter. Bella, the daughter of Peter McGregor, was
supposed to be dear to Big Mack’s heart.

“What a peety she could not see him the now,” said Finlay Campbell. “Man
alive, she would say the word queeck!”

“‘Tis more than she will do to you whatever, if you cannot keep off that
crapeau yonder a little better,” said Big Mack, reaching for a Frenchman
who kept dodging in upon him with annoying persistence. Then Mack began
to swear Gaelic oaths.

“‘Tain’t fair, Mack!” called out Yankee from his end of the line, “bad
language in English is bad enough, but in Gaelic it must be uncommon
rough.” So they gibed each other. But the tactics of the enemy were
exceedingly irritating, and were beginning to tell upon the tempers of
the Highlanders.

“Come to me, ye cowardly little devil,” roared Mack to his persisting
assailant. “No one will hurt you! Come away, man! A-a-ah-ouch!” His cry
of satisfaction at having grabbed his man ended in a howl of pain, for
the Frenchman had got Mack’s thumb between his teeth, and was chewing it
vigorously.

“Ye would, would you, ye dog?” roared Big Mack. He closed his fingers
into the Frenchman’s gullet, and drew him up to strike, but on every
side hands reached for him and stayed his blow. Then he lost himself.
With a yell of rage he jambed his man back into the crowd, sinking his
fingers deeper and deeper into his enemy’s throat till his face grew
black and his head fell over on one side. But it was a fatal move
for Mack, and overcome by numbers that crowded upon him, he went down
fighting wildly and bearing the Frenchman beneath him. The Glengarry
line was broken. Black Hugh saw Mack’s peril, and knew that it
meant destruction to all. With a wilder cry than usual, “Glengarry!
Glengarry!” he dashed straight into LeNoir, who gave back swiftly,
caught two men who were beating Big Mack’s life out, and hurled them
aside, and grasping his friend’s collar, hauled him to his feet, and
threw him back against the wall and into the line again with his grip
still upon his Frenchman’s throat.

“Let dead men go, Mack,” he cried, but even as he spoke LeNoir, seeing
his opportunity, sprang at him and with a backward kick caught Macdonald
fair in the face and lashed him hard against the wall. It was the
terrible French ‘lash’ and was one of LeNoir’s special tricks. Black
Hugh, stunned and dazed, leaned back against the wall, spreading out his
hands weakly before his face. LeNoir, seeing victory within his grasp,
rushed in to finish off his special foe. But Yankee Jim, who, while
engaged in cheerfully knocking back the two Murphys and others who took
their turn at him, had been keeping an eye on the line of battle, saw
Macdonald’s danger, and knowing that the crisis had come, dashed across
the line, crying “Follow me, boys.” His long arms swung round his head
like the sails of a wind-mill, and men fell back from him as if they had
been made of wood. As LeNoir sprang, Yankee shot fiercely at him, but
the Frenchman, too quick for him, ducked and leaped upon Black Hugh, who
was still swaying against the wall, bore him down and jumped with his
heavy “corked” boots on his breast and face. Again the Glengarry line
was broken. At once the crowd surged about the Glengarry men, who now
stood back to back, beating off the men leaping at them from every side,
as a stag beats off dogs, and still chanting high their dauntless cry,
“Glengarry forever,” to which Big Mack added at intervals, “To hell with
the Papishes!” Yankee, failing to check LeNoir’s attack upon Black Hugh,
fought off the men crowding upon him, and made his way to the corner
where the Frenchman was still engaged in kicking the prostrate
Highlander to death.

“Take that, you blamed cuss,” he said, catching LeNoir in the jaw and
knocking his head with a thud against the wall. Before he could strike
again he was thrown against his enemy, who clutched him and held like a
vice.



CHAPTER II

VENGEANCE IS MINE


The Glengarry men had fought their fight, and it only remained for their
foes to wreak their vengeance upon them and wipe out old scores. One
minute more would have done for them, but in that minute the door came
crashing in. There was a mighty roar, “Glengarry! Glengarry!” and the
great Macdonald himself, with the boy Ranald and some half-dozen of
his men behind him, stood among them. On all hands the fight stopped. A
moment he stood, his great head and shoulders towering above the crowd,
his tawny hair and beard falling around his face like a great mane, his
blue eyes gleaming from under his shaggy eyebrows like livid lightning.
A single glance around the room, and again raising his battle-cry,
“Glengarry!” he seized the nearest shrinking Frenchman, lifted him high,
and hurled him smashing into the bottles behind the counter. His men,
following him, bounded like tigers on their prey. A few minutes of
fierce, eager fighting, and the Glengarry men were all freed and on
their feet, all except Black Hugh, who lay groaning in his corner.
“Hold, lads!” Macdonald Bhain cried, in his mighty voice. “Stop, I’m
telling you.” The fighting ceased.

“Dan Murphy!” he cried, casting his eye round the room, “where are you,
ye son of Belial?”

Murphy, crouching at the back of the crowd near the door, sought to
escape.

“Ah! there you are!” cried Macdonald, and reaching through the crowd
with his great, long arm, he caught Murphy by the hair of the head and
dragged him forward.

“R-r-r-a-a-t! R-r-r-a-a-t! R-r-r-a-a-t!” he snarled, shaking him till
his teeth rattled. “It is yourself that is the cause of this wickedness.
Now, may the Lord have mercy on your soul.” With one hand he gripped
Murphy by the throat, holding him at arm’s length, and raised his huge
fist to strike. But before the blow fell he paused.

“No!” he muttered, in a disappointed tone, “it is not good enough. I
will not be demeaning myself. Hence, you r-r-a-a-t!” As he spoke he
lifted the shaking wretch as if he had been a bundle of clothes, swung
him half round and hurled him crashing through the window.

“Is there no goot man here at all who will stand before me?” he raged
in a wild, joyous fury. “Will not two of you come forth, then?” No one
moved. “Come to me!” he suddenly cried, and snatching two of the enemy,
he dashed their heads together, and threw them insensible on the floor.

Then he caught sight of his brother for the first time lying in the
corner with Big Mack supporting his head, and LeNoir standing near.

“What is this? What is this?” he cried, striding toward LeNoir. “And is
it you that has done this work?” he asked, in a voice of subdued rage.

“Oui!” cried LeNoir, stepping back and putting up his hands, “das me;
Louis LeNoir! by Gar!” He struck himself on the breast as he spoke.

“Out of my way!” cried Macdonald, swinging his open hand on the
Frenchman’s ear. With a swift sweep he brushed LeNoir aside from his
place, and ignoring him stooped over his brother. But LeNoir was no
coward, and besides his boasted reputation was at stake. He thought
he saw his chance, and rushing at Macdonald as he was bending over his
brother, delivered his terrible ‘lash’. But Macdonald had not lived with
and fought with Frenchmen all these years without knowing their tricks
and ways. He saw LeNoir’s ‘lash’ coming, and quickly turning his head,
avoided the blow.

“Ah! would ye? Take that, then, and be quate!” and so saying, he caught
LeNoir on the side of the head and sent him to the floor.

“Keep him off a while, Yankee!” said Macdonald, for LeNoir was up again,
and coming at him.

Then kneeling beside his brother he wiped the bloody froth that was
oozing from his lips, and said in a low, anxious tone:

“Hugh, bhodaich (old man), are ye hurted? Can ye not speak to me, Hugh?”

“Oich-oh,” Black Hugh groaned. “It was a necessity--Donald man--and--he
took me--unawares--with his--keeck.”

“Indeed, and I’ll warrant you!” agreed his brother, “but I will be
attending to him, never you fear.”

Macdonald was about to rise, when his brother caught his arm.

“You will--not be--killing him,” he urged, between his painful gasps,
“because I will be doing that myself some day, by God’s help.”

His words and the eager hate in his face seemed to quiet Macdonald.

“Alas! alas!” he said, sadly, “it is not allowed me to smite him as
he deserves--‘Vengeance is mine saith the Lord,’ and I have solemnly
promised the minister not to smite for glory or for revenge! Alas!
alas!”

Then turning to LeNoir, he said, gravely: “It is not given me to punish
you for your coward’s blow. Go from me!” But LeNoir misjudged him.

“Bah!” he cried, contemptuously, “you tink me one baby, you strike me on
de head side like one little boy. Bon! Louis LeNware, de bes bully on de
Hottawa, he’s not ‘fraid for hany man, by Gar!” He pranced up and down
before Macdonald, working himself into a great rage, as Macdonald grew
more and more controlled.

Macdonald turned to his men with a kind of appeal--“I hev given my
promise, and Macdonald will not break his word.”

“Bah!” cried LeNoir, spitting at him.

“Now may the Lord give me grace to withstand the enemy,” said Macdonald,
gravely, “for I am greatly moved to take vengeance upon you.”

“Bah!” cried LeNoir again, mistaking Macdonald’s quietness and
self-control for fear. “You no good! Your brother is no good! Beeg
sheep! Beeg sheep! Bah!”

“God help me,” said Macdonald as if to himself. “I am a man of grace!
But must this dog go unpunished?”

LeNoir continued striding up and down, now and then springing high in
the air and knocking his heels together with blood-curdling yells.
He seemed to feel that Macdonald would not fight, and his courage and
desire for blood grew accordingly.

“Will you not be quate?” said Macdonald, rising after a few moments from
his brother’s side, where he had been wiping his lips and giving him
water to drink. “You will be better outside.”

“Oui! you strike me on the head side. Bon! I strike you de same way! By
Gar!” so saying he approached Macdonald lightly, and struck him a slight
blow on the cheek.

“Ay,” said Macdonald, growing white and rigid. “I struck you twice,
LeNoir. Here!” he offered the other side of his face. LeNoir danced up
carefully, made a slight pass, and struck the offered cheek.

“Now, that is done, will it please you to do it again?” said Macdonald,
with earnest entreaty in his voice. LeNoir must have been mad with his
rage and vanity, else he had caught the glitter in the blue eyes looking
through the shaggy hair. Again LeNoir approached, this time with greater
confidence, and dealt Macdonald a stinging blow on the side of the head.

“Now the Lord be praised,” he cried, joy breaking out in his face. “He
has delivered my enemy into my hand. For it is the third time he has
smitten me, and that is beyond the limit appointed by Himself.” With
this he advanced upon LeNoir with a glad heart. His conscience was clear
at last.

LeNoir stood up against his antagonist. He well knew he was about to
make the fight of his life. He had beaten men as big as Macdonald, but
he knew that his hope lay in keeping out of the enemy’s reach. So he
danced around warily. Macdonald followed him slowly. LeNoir opened with
a swift and savage reach for Macdonald’s neck, but failed to break the
guard and danced out again, Macdonald still pressing on him. Again
and again LeNoir rushed, but the guard was impregnable, and steadily
Macdonald advanced. That steady, relentless advance began to tell on the
Frenchman’s nerves. The sweat gathered in big drops on his forehead and
ran down his face. He prepared for a supreme effort. Swiftly retreating,
he lured Macdonald to a more rapid advance, then with a yell he doubled
himself into a ball and delivered himself head, hands, and feet into
Macdonald’s stomach. It is a trick that sometimes avails to break an
unsteady guard and to secure a clinch with an unwary opponent. But
Macdonald had been waiting for that trick. Stopping short, he leaned
over to one side, and stooping slightly, caught LeNoir low and tossed
him clear over his head. LeNoir fell with a terrible thud on his back,
but was on his feet again like a cat and ready for the ever-advancing
Macdonald. But though he had not been struck a single blow he knew that
he had met his master. That unbreakable guard, the smiling face with the
gleaming, unsmiling eyes, that awful unwavering advance, were too much
for him. He was pale, his breath came in quick gasps, and his eyes
showed the fear of a hunted beast. He prepared for a final effort.
Feigning a greater distress than he felt, he yielded weakly to
Macdonald’s advance, then suddenly gathering his full strength he sprang
into the air and lashed out backward at that hated, smiling face. His
boot found its mark, not on Macdonald’s face, but fair on his neck. The
effect was terrific. Macdonald staggered back two or three paces, but
before LeNoir could be at him, he had recovered sufficiently to maintain
his guard, and shake off his foe. At the yell that went up from Murphy’s
men, the big Highlander’s face lost its smile and became keen and cruel,
his eyes glittered with the flash of steel and he came forward once more
with a quick, light tread. His great body seemed to lose both size and
weight, so lightly did he step on tiptoe. There was no more pause, but
lightly, swiftly, and eagerly he glided upon LeNoir. There was something
terrifying in that swift, cat-like movement. In vain the Frenchman
backed and dodged and tried to guard. Once, twice, Macdonald’s fists
fell. LeNoir’s right arm hung limp by his side and he staggered back to
the wall helpless. Without an instant’s delay, Macdonald had him by the
throat, and gripping him fiercely, began to slowly bend him backward
over his knee. Then for the first time Macdonald spoke:

“LeNoir,” he said, solemnly, “the days of your boasting are over. You
will no longer glory in your strength, for now I will break your back to
you.”

LeNoir tried to speak, but his voice came in horrible gurgles. His face
was a ghastly greenish hue, lined with purple and swollen veins, his
eyes were standing out of his head, and his breath sobbing in raucous
gasps. Slowly the head went back. The crowd stood in horror-stricken
silence waiting for the sickening snap. Yankee, unable to stand it any
longer, stepped up to his chief, and in a most matter of fact voice
drawled out, “About an inch more that way I guess ‘ll do the trick, if
he ain’t double-jointed.”

“Aye,” said Macdonald, holding grimly on.

“Tonald,”--Black Hugh’s voice sounded faint but clear in the awful
silence--“Tonald--you will not--be killing--him. Remember that now. I
will--never--forgive you--if you will--take that--from my hands.”

The cry for vengeance smote Macdonald to the heart, and recalled him to
himself. He paused, threw back his locks from his eyes, then relaxing
his grip, stood up.

“God preserve me!” he groaned, “what am I about?”

For some time he remained standing silent, with head down as if not
quite sure of himself. He was recalled by a grip of his arm. He turned
and saw his nephew, Ranald, at his side. The boy’s dark face was pale
with passion.

“And is that all you are going to do to him?” he demanded. Macdonald
gazed at him.

“Do you not see what he has done?” he continued, pointing to his father,
who was still lying propped up on some coats. “Why did you not break his
back? You said you would! The brute, beast!”

He hurled out the words in hot hate. His voice pierced the noise of the
room. Macdonald stood still, gazing at the fierce, dark face in solemn
silence. Then he sadly shook his head.

“My lad, ‘Vengeance is mine saith the Lord.’ It would have pleased me
well, but the hand of the Lord was laid upon me and I could not kill
him.”

“Then it is myself will kill him,” he shrieked, springing like a wildcat
at LeNoir. But his uncle wound his arms around him and held him fast.
For a minute and more he struggled fiercely, crying to be set free,
till recognizing the uselessness of his efforts he grew calm, and said
quietly, “Let me loose, uncle; I will be quiet.” And his uncle set him
free. The boy shook himself, and then standing up before LeNoir said, in
a high, clear voice:

“Will you hear me, LeNoir? The day will come when I will do to you what
you have done to my father, and if my father will die, then by the life
of God [a common oath among the shanty-men] I will have your life for
it.” His voice had an unearthly shrillness in it, and LeNoir shrank
back.

“Whist, whist, lad! be quate!” said his uncle; “these are not goot
words.” The lad heeded him not, but sank down beside his father on the
floor. Black Hugh raised himself on his elbow with a grim smile on his
face.

“It is a goot lad whatever, but please God he will not need to keep his
word.” He laid his hand in a momentary caress upon his boy’s shoulder,
and sank back again, saying, “Take me out of this.”

Then Macdonald Bhain turned to Dan Murphy and gravely addressed him:

“Dan Murphy, it is an ungodly and cowardly work you have done this day,
and the curse of God will be on you if you will not repent.” Then he
turned away, and with Big Mack’s help bore his brother to the pointer,
followed by his men, bloody, bruised, but unconquered. But before he
left the room LeNoir stepped forward, and offering his hand, said, “You
mak friends wit’ me. You de boss bully on de reever Hottawa.”

Macdonald neither answered nor looked his way, but passed out in grave
silence.

Then Yankee Jim remarked to Dan Murphy, “I guess you’d better git them
logs out purty mighty quick. We’ll want the river in about two days.”
 Dan Murphy said not a word, but when the Glengarry men wanted the river
they found it open.

But for Macdonald the fight was not yet over, for as he sat beside his
brother, listening to his groans, his men could see him wreathing his
hands and chanting in an undertone the words, “Vengeance is mine saith
the Lord.” And as he sat by the camp-fire that night listening to
Yankee’s account of the beginning of the trouble, and heard how his
brother had kept himself in hand, and how at last he had been foully
smitten, Macdonald’s conflict deepened, and he rose up and cried aloud:

“God help me! Is this to go unpunished? I will seek him to-morrow.” And
he passed out into the dark woods.

After a few moments the boy Ranald slipped away after him to beg that he
might be allowed to go with him to-morrow. Stealing silently through the
bushes he came to where he could see the kneeling figure of his uncle
swaying up and down, and caught the sounds of words broken with groans:

“Let me go, O Lord! Let me go!” He pled now in Gaelic and again in
English. “Let not the man be escaping his just punishment. Grant me
this, O, Lord! Let me smite but once!” Then after a pause came the
words, “‘Vengeance is mine saith the Lord!’ Vengeance is mine! Ay, it
is the true word! But, Lord, let not this man of Belial, this Papish,
escape!” Then again, like a refrain would come the words, “Vengeance is
mine. Vengeance is mine,” in ever-deeper agony, till throwing himself on
his face, he lay silent a long time.

Suddenly he rose to his knees and so remained, looking steadfastly
before him into the woods. The wind came sighing through the pines with
a wail and a sob. Macdonald shuddered and then fell on his face again.
The Vision was upon him. “Ah, Lord, it is the bloody hands and feet
I see. It is enough.” At this Ranald slipped back awe-stricken to the
camp. When, after an hour, Macdonald came back into the firelight, his
face was pale and wet, but calm, and there was an exalted look in his
eyes. His men gazed at him with wonder and awe in their faces.

“Mercy on us! He will be seeing something,” said Big Mack to Yankee Jim.

“Seein’ somethin’? What? A bar?” inquired Yankee.

“Whist now!” said Big Mack, in a low voice. “He has the sight. Be quate
now, will you? He will be speaking.”

For a short time Macdonald sat gazing into the fire in silence, then
turning his face toward the men who were waiting, he said: “There will
be no more of this. ‘Vengeance is mine saith the Lord!’ It is not for
me. The Lord will do His own work. It is the will of the Lord.” And
the men knew that the last word had been said on that subject, and that
LeNoir was safe.



CHAPTER III

THE MANSE IN THE BUSH


Straight north from the St. Lawrence runs the road through the Indian
Lands. At first its way lies through open country, from which the forest
has been driven far back to the horizon on either side, for along the
great river these many years villages have clustered, with open fields
about them stretching far away. But when once the road leaves the
Front, with its towns and villages and open fields, and passes beyond
Martintown and over the North Branch, it reaches a country where the
forest is more a feature of the landscape. And when some dozen or more
of the crossroads marking the concessions which lead off to east and
west have been passed, the road seems to strike into a different world.
The forest loses its conquered appearance, and dominates everything.
There is forest everywhere. It lines up close and thick along the road,
and here and there quite overshadows it. It crowds in upon the little
farms and shuts them off from one another and from the world outside,
and peers in through the little windows of the log houses looking
so small and lonely, but so beautiful in their forest frames. At the
nineteenth cross-road the forest gives ground a little, for here the
road runs right past the new brick church, which is almost finished, and
which will be opened in a few weeks. Beyond the cross, the road leads
along the glebe, and about a quarter of a mile beyond the corner there
opens upon it the big, heavy gate that the members of the Rev. Alexander
Murray’s congregation must swing when they wish to visit the manse. The
opening of this gate, made of upright poles held by auger-holes in a
frame of bigger poles, was almost too great a task for the minister’s
seven-year-old son Hughie, who always rode down, standing on the hind
axle of the buggy, to open it for his father. It was a great relief
to him when Long John Cameron, who had the knack of doing things for
people’s comfort, brought his ax and big auger one day and made a kind
of cradle on the projecting end of the top bar, which he then weighted
with heavy stones, so that the gate, when once the pin was pulled out
of the post, would swing back itself with Hughie straddled on the top of
it.

It was his favorite post of observation when waiting for his mother to
come home from one of her many meetings. And on this particular March
evening he had been waiting long and impatiently.

Suddenly he shouted: “Horo, mamma! Horo!” He had caught sight of the
little black pony away up at the church hill, and had become so wildly
excited that he was now standing on the top bar frantically waving his
Scotch bonnet by the tails. Down the slope came the pony on the gallop,
for she knew well that soon Lambert would have her saddle off, and that
her nose would be deep into bran mash within five minutes more. But her
rider sat her firmly and brought her down to a gentle trot by the time
the gate was reached.

“Horo, mamma!” shouted Hughie, clambering down to open the gate.

“Well, my darling! have you been a good boy all afternoon?”

“Huh-huh! Guess who’s come back from the shanties!”

“I’m sure I can’t guess. Who is it?” It was a very bright and very
sweet face, with large, serious, gray-brown eyes that looked down on the
little boy.

“Guess, mamma!”

“Why, who can it be? Big Mack?”

“No!” Hughie danced delightedly. “Try again. He’s not big.”

“I am sure I can never guess. Whoa, Pony!” Pony was most unwilling to
get in close enough to the gate-post to let Hughie spring on behind his
mother.

“You’ll have to be quick, Hughie, when I get near again. There now!
Whoa, Pony! Take care, child!”

Hughie had sprung clean off the post, and lighting on Pony’s back just
behind the saddle, had clutched his mother round the waist, while the
pony started off full gallop for the stable.

“Now, mother, who is it?” insisted Hughie, as Lambert, the
French-Canadian man-of-all-work, lifted him from his place.

“You’ll have to tell me, Hughie!”

“Ranald!”

“Ranald?”

“Yes, Ranald and his father, Macdonald Dubh, and he’s hurted awful bad,
and--”

“Hurt, Hughie,” interposed the mother, gently.

“Huh-huh! Ranald said he was hurted.”

“Hurt, you mean, Hughie. Who was hurt? Ranald?”

“No; his father was hurted--hurt--awful bad. He was lying down in the
sleigh, and Yankee Jim--”

“Mr. Latham, you mean, Hughie.”

“Huh-huh,” went on Hughie, breathlessly, “and Yankee--Mr. Latham asked
if the minister was home, and I said ‘No,’ and then they went away.”

“What was the matter? Did you see them, Lambert?”

“Oui” (“Way,” Lambert pronounced it), “but dey not tell me what he’s
hurt.”

The minister’s wife went toward the house, with a shadow on her face.
She shared with her husband his people’s sorrows. She knew even better
than he the life-history of every family in the congregation. Macdonald
Dubh had long been classed among the wild and careless in the community,
and it weighed upon her heart that his life might be in danger.

“I shall see him to-morrow,” she said to herself.

For a few moments she stood on the doorstep looking at the glow in the
sky over the dark forest, which on the west side came quite up to the
house and barn.

“Look, Hughie, at the beautiful tints in the clouds, and see the dark
shadows pointing out toward us from the bush.” Hughie glanced a moment.

“Mamma,” he said, “I am just dead for supper.”

“Oh, not quite, I hope, Hughie. But look, I want you to notice those
clouds and the sky behind them. How lovely! Oh, how wonderful!”

Her enthusiasm caught the boy, and for a few moment she forgot even his
hunger, and holding his mother’s hand, gazed up at the western sky. It
was a picture of rare beauty that lay stretched out from the manse back
door. Close to the barn came the pasture-field dotted with huge stumps,
then the brule where the trees lay fallen across one another, over
which the fire had run, and then the solid wall of forest here and there
overtopped by the lofty crest of a white pine. Into the forest in the
west the sun was descending in gorgeous robes of glory. The treetops
caught the yellow light, and gleamed like the golden spires of some
great and fabled city.

“Oh, mamma, see that big pine top! Doesn’t it look like windows?” cried
Hughie, pointing to one of the lofty pine crests through which the sky
quivered like molten gold.

“And the streets of the city are pure gold,” said the mother, softly.

“Yes, I know,” said Hughie, confidently, for to him all the scenes and
stories of the Bible had long been familiar. “Is it like that, mamma?”

“Much better, ever so much better than you can think.”

“Oh, mamma, I’m just awful hungry!”

“Come away, then; so am I. What have you got, Jessie, for two very
hungry people?”

“Porridge and pancakes,” said Jessie, the minister’s “girl,” who not
only ruled in the kitchen, but using the kitchen as a base, controlled
the interior economy of the manse.

“Oh, goody!” yelled Hughie; “just what I like.” And from the plates of
porridge and the piles of pancakes that vanished from his plate no one
could doubt his word.

Their reading that night was about the city whose streets were of pure
gold, and after a little talk, Hughie and his baby brother were tucked
away safely for the night, and the mother sat down to her never-ending
task of making and mending.

The minister was away at Presbytery meeting in Montreal, and for ten
days his wife would stand in the breach. Of course the elders would take
the meeting on the Sabbath day and on the Wednesday evening, but for all
other ministerial duties when the minister was absent the congregation
looked to the minister’s wife. And soon it came that the sick and the
sorrowing and the sin-burdened found in the minister’s wife such help
and comfort and guidance as made the absence of the minister seem no
great trial after all. Eight years ago the minister had brought his wife
from a home of gentle culture, from a life of intellectual and artistic
pursuits, and from a circle of loving friends of which she was the pride
and joy, to this home in the forest. There, isolated from all congenial
companionship with her own kind, deprived of all the luxuries and of
many of the comforts of her young days, and of the mental stimulus of
that contact of minds without which few can maintain intellectual life,
she gave herself without stint to her husband’s people, with never a
thought of self-pity or self-praise. By day and by night she labored for
her husband and family and for her people, for she thought them hers.
She taught the women how to adorn their rude homes, gathered them into
Bible classes and sewing circles, where she read and talked and wrought
and prayed with them till they grew to adore her as a saint, and to
trust her as a leader and friend, and to be a little like her. And not
the women only, but the men, too, loved and trusted her, and the big
boys found it easier to talk to the minister’s wife than to the minister
or to any of his session. She made her own and her children’s clothes,
collars, hats, and caps, her husband’s shirts and neckties, toiling late
into the morning hours, and all without frown or shadow of complaint,
and indeed without suspicion that any but the happiest lot was hers, or
that she was, as her sisters said, “just buried alive in the backwoods.”
 Not she! She lived to serve, and the where and how were not hers to
determine. So, with bright face and brave heart, she met her days and
faced the battle. And scores of women and men are living better and
braver lives because they had her for their minister’s wife.

But the day had been long, and the struggle with the March wind pulls
hard upon the strength, and outside the pines were crooning softly,
and gradually the brave head drooped till between the stitches she
fell asleep. But not for many minutes, for a knock at the kitchen door
startled her, and before long she heard Jessie’s voice rise wrathful.

“Indeed, I’ll do no such thing. This is no time to come to the
minister’s house.”

For answer there was a mumble of words.

“Well, then, you can just wait until morning. She can go in the
morning.”

“What is it, Jessie?” The minister’s wife came into the kitchen.

“Oh, Ranald, I’m glad to see you back. Hughie told me you had come. But
your father is ill, he said. How is he?”

Ranald shook hands shyly, feeling much ashamed under Jessie’s sharp
reproof.

“Indeed, it was Aunt Kirsty that sent me,” said Ranald, apologetically.

“Then she ought to have known better,” said Jessie, sharply.

“Never mind, Jessie. Ranald, tell me about your father.”

“He is very bad indeed, and my aunt is afraid that--” The boy’s lip
trembled. Then he went on: “And she thought perhaps you might have some
medicine, and--”

“But what is the matter, Ranald?”

“He was hurted bad--and he is not right wise in his head.”

“But how was he hurt?”

Ranald hesitated.

“I was not there--I am thinking it was something that struck him.”

“Ah, a tree! But where did the tree strike him?”

“Here,” pointing to his breast; “and it is sore in his breathing.”

“Well, Ranald, if you put the saddle on Pony, I shall be ready in a
minute.”

Jessie was indignant.

“You will not stir a foot this night. You will send some medicine, and
then you can go in the morning.”

But the minister’s wife heeded her not.

“You are not walking, Ranald?”

“No, I have the colt.”

“Oh, that’s splendid. We’ll have a fine gallop--that is, if the moon is
up.”

“Yes, it is just coming up,” said Ranald, hurrying away to the stable
that he might escape Jessie’s wrath and get the pony ready.

It was no unusual thing for the minister and his wife to be called upon
to do duty for doctor and nurse. The doctor was twenty miles away. So
Mrs. Murray got into her riding-habit, threw her knitted hood over her
head, put some simple medicines into her hand-bag, and in ten minutes
was waiting for Ranald at the door.



CHAPTER IV

THE RIDE FOR LIFE


The night was clear, with a touch of frost in the air, yet with the
feeling in it of approaching spring. A dim light fell over the forest
from the half-moon and the stars, and seemed to fill up the little
clearing in which the manse stood, with a weird and mysterious radiance.
Far away in the forest the long-drawn howl of a wolf rose and fell, and
in a moment sharp and clear came an answer from the bush just at hand.
Mrs. Murray dreaded the wolves, but she was no coward and scorned to
show fear.

“The wolves are out, Ranald,” she said, carelessly, as Ranald came up
with the pony.

“They are not many, I think,” answered the boy as carelessly; “but--are
you--do you think--perhaps I could just take the medicine--and you will
come--”

“Nonsense, Ranald! bring up the pony. Do you think I have lived all this
time in Indian Lands to be afraid of a wolf?”

“Indeed, you are not afraid, I know that well!” Ranald shrank from
laying the crime of being afraid at the door of the minister’s wife,
whose fearlessness was proverbial in the community; “but maybe--” The
truth was, Ranald would rather be alone if the wolves came out.

But Mrs. Murray was in the saddle, and the pony was impatient to be off.

“We will go by the Camerons’ clearing, and then take their wood track.
It is a better road,” said Ranald, after they had got through the big
gate.

“Now, Ranald, you think I am afraid of the swamp, and by the Camerons’
is much longer.”

“Indeed, I hear them say that you are not afraid of the--of anything,”
 said Ranald, quickly, “but this road is better for the horses.”

“Come on, then, with your colt”; and the pony darted away on her
quick-springing gallop, followed by the colt going with a long, easy,
loping stride. For a mile they kept side by side till they reached the
Camerons’ lane, when Ranald held in the colt and allowed the pony to
lead. As they passed through the Camerons’ yard the big black dogs,
famous bear-hunters, came baying at them. The pony regarded them with
indifference, but the colt shied and plunged.

“Whoa, Liz!” Liz was Ranald’s contraction for Lizette, the name of the
French horse-trainer and breeder, Jules La Rocque, gave to her mother,
who in her day was queen of the ice at L’Original Christmas races.

“Be quate, Nigger, will you!” The dogs, who knew Ranald well, ceased
their clamor, but not before the kitchen door opened and Don Cameron
came out.

Don was about a year older than Ranald and was his friend and comrade.

“It’s me, Don--and Mrs. Murray there.”

Don gazed speechless.

“And what--” he began.

“Father is not well. He is hurted, and Mrs. Murray is going to see him,
and we must go.”

Ranald hurried through his story, impatient to get on.

“But are you going up through the bush?” asked Don.

“Yes, what else, Don?” asked Mrs. Murray. “It is a good road, isn’t it?”

“Oh, yes, I suppose it is good enough,” said Don, doubtfully, “but I
heard--”

“We will come out at our own clearing at the back, you know,” Ranald
hurried to say, giving Don a kick. “Whist, man! She is set upon going.”
 At that moment away off toward the swamp, which they were avoiding, the
long, heart-chilling cry of a mother wolf quavered on the still night
air. In spite of herself, Mrs. Murray shivered, and the boys looked at
each other.

“There is only one,” said Ranald in a low voice to Don, but they both
knew that where the she wolf is there is a pack not far off. “And we
will be through the bush in five minutes.”

“Come, Ranald! Come away, you can talk to Don any time. Good night,
Don.” And so saying she headed her pony toward the clearing and was off
at a gallop, and Ranald, shaking his head at his friend, ejaculated:

“Man alive! what do you think of that?” and was off after the pony.

Together they entered the bush. The road was well beaten and the horses
were keen to go, so that before many minutes were over they were half
through the bush. Ranald’s spirits rose and he began to take some
interest in his companion’s observations upon the beauty of the lights
and shadows falling across their path.

“Look at that very dark shadow from the spruce there, Ranald,” she
cried, pointing to a deep, black turn in the road. For answer there came
from behind them the long, mournful hunting-cry of the wolf. He was on
their track. Immediately it was answered by a chorus of howls from
the bush on the swamp side, but still far away. There was no need of
command; the pony sprang forward with a snort and the colt followed, and
after a few minutes’ running, passed her.

“Whow-oo-oo-oo-ow” rose the long cry of the pursuer, summoning help, and
drawing nearer.

“Wow-ee-wow,” came the shorter, sharper answer from the swamp, but much
nearer than before and more in front. They were trying to head off their
prey.

Ranald tugged at his colt till he got him back with the pony.

“It is a good road,” he said, quietly; “you can let the pony go. I will
follow you.” He swung in behind the pony, who was now running for dear
life and snorting with terror at every jump.

“God preserve us!” said Ranald to himself. He had caught sight of a dark
form as it darted through the gleam of light in front.

“What did you say, Ranald?” The voice was quiet and clear.

“It is a great pony to run whatever,” said Ranald, ashamed of himself.

“Is she not?”

Ranald glanced over his shoulder. Down the road, running with silent,
awful swiftness, he saw the long, low body of the leading wolf flashing
through the bars of moonlight across the road, and the pack following
hard.

“Let her go, Mrs. Murray,” cried Ranald. “Whip her and never stop.” But
there was no need; the pony was wild with fear, and was doing her best
running.

Ranald meantime was gradually holding in the colt, and the pony drew
away rapidly. But as rapidly the wolves were closing in behind him.
They were not more than a hundred yards away, and gaining every second.
Ranald, remembering the suspicious nature of the brutes, loosened his
coat and dropped it on the road; with a chorus of yelps they paused,
then threw themselves upon it, and in another minute took up the chase.

But now the clearing was in sight. The pony was far ahead, and Ranald
shook out his colt with a yell. He was none too soon, for the pursuing
pack, now uttering short, shrill yelps, were close at the colt’s heels.
Lizette, fleet as the wind, could not shake them off. Closer and ever
closer they came, snapping and snarling. Ranald could see them over his
shoulder. A hundred yards more and he would reach his own back lane. The
leader of the pack seemed to feel that his chances were slipping swiftly
away. With a spurt he gained upon Lizette, reached the saddle-girths,
gathered himself in two short jumps, and sprang for the colt’s throat.
Instinctively Ranald stood up in his stirrups, and kicking his foot
free, caught the wolf under the jaw. The brute fell with a howl under
the colt’s feet, and next moment they were in the lane and safe.

The savage brutes, discouraged by their leader’s fall, slowed down
their fierce pursuit, and hearing the deep bay of the Macdonalds’ great
deerhound, Bugle, up at the house, they paused, sniffed the air a
few minutes, then turned and swiftly and silently slid into the dark
shadows. Ranald, knowing that they would hardly dare enter the lane,
checked the colt, and wheeling, watched them disappear.

“I’ll have some of your hides some day,” he cried, shaking his fist
after them. He hated to be made to run.

He had hardly set the colt’s face homeward when he heard something
tearing down the lane to meet him. The colt snorted, swerved, and then
dropping his ears, stood still. It was Bugle, and after him came Mrs.
Murray on the pony.

“Oh, Ranald!” she panted, “thank God you are safe. I was afraid
you--you--” Her voice broke in sobs. Her hood had fallen back from her
white face, and her eyes were shining like two stars. She laid her hand
on Ranald’s arm, and her voice grew steady as she said: “Thank God, my
boy, and thank you with all my heart. You risked your life for mine. You
are a brave fellow! I can never forget this!”

“Oh, pshaw!” said Ranald, awkwardly. “You are better stuff than I am.
You came back with Bugle. And I knew Liz could beat the pony whatever.”
 Then they walked their horses quietly to the stable, and nothing more
was said by either of them; but from that hour Ranald had a friend ready
to offer life for him, though he did not know it then nor till years
afterward.



CHAPTER V

FORGIVE US OUR DEBTS


Macdonald Dubh’s farm lay about three miles north and west from the
manse, and the house stood far back from the cross-road in a small
clearing encircled by thick bush. It was a hard farm to clear, the
timber was heavy, the land lay low, and Macdonald Dubh did not make as
much progress as his neighbors in his conflict with the forest. Not but
that he was a hard worker and a good man with the ax, but somehow he did
not succeed as a farmer. It may have been that his heart was more in the
forest than in the farm. He was a famous hunter, and in the deer season
was never to be found at home, but was ever ranging the woods with his
rifle and his great deerhound, Bugle.

He made money at the shanties, but money would not stick to his fingers,
and by the time the summer was over most of his money would be gone,
with the government mortgage on his farm still unlifted. His habits
of life wrought a kind of wildness in him which set him apart from the
thrifty, steady-going people among whom he lived. True, the shanty-men
were his stanch friends and admirers, but then the shanty-men, though
well-doing, could hardly be called steady, except the boss of the
Macdonald gang, Macdonald Bhain, who was a regular attendant and stanch
supporter of the church, and indeed had been spoken of for an elder. But
from the church Macdonald Dubh held aloof. He belonged distinctly to the
“careless,” though he could not be called irreligious. He had all the
reverence for “the Word of God, and the Sabbath day, and the church”
 that characterized his people. All these held a high place in his
esteem; and though he would not presume to “take the books,” not being a
member of the church, yet on the Sabbath day when he was at home it was
the custom of the household to gather for the reading of the Word before
breakfast. He would never take his rifle with him through the woods on
the Sabbath, and even when absent from home on a hunting expedition,
when the Sabbath day came round, he religiously kept camp. It is true,
he did not often go to church, and when the minister spoke to him about
this, he always agreed that it was a good thing to go to church. When he
had no better excuse, he would apologize for his absence upon the ground
“that he had not the clothes.” The greater part of the trouble was
that he was shy and proud, and felt himself to be different from the
church-going people of the community, and shrank from the surprised
looks of members, and even from the words of approving welcome that
often greeted his presence in church.

It was not according to his desire that Ranald was sent to the manse.
That was the doing of his sister, Kirsty, who for the last ten years
had kept house for him. Not that there was much housekeeping skill about
Kirsty, as indeed any one might see even without entering Macdonald
Dubh’s house. Kirsty was big and strong and willing, but she had not
the most elemental ideas of tidiness. Her red, bushy hair hung in wisps
about her face, after the greater part of it had been gathered into a
tight knob at the back of her head. She was a martyr to the “neuralagy,”
 and suffered from a perennial cold in the head, which made it necessary
for her to wear a cloud, which was only removed when it could be
replaced by her nightcap. Her face always bore the marks of her labors,
and from it one could gather whether she was among the pots or busy with
the baking. But she was kindhearted, and, up to her light, sought to
fill the place left empty by the death of the wife and mother in that
home, ten years before.

When the minister’s wife opened the door, a hot, close, foul smell
rushed forth to meet her. Upon the kitchen stove a large pot of
pig’s food was boiling, and the steam and smell from the pot made
the atmosphere of the room overpoweringly fetid. Off the kitchen or
living-room were two small bedrooms, in one of which lay Macdonald Dubh.

Kirsty met the minister’s wife with a warm welcome. She helped her
off with her hood and coat, patting her on the shoulder the while, and
murmuring words of endearment.

“Ah, M’eudail! M’eudail bheg! and did you come through the night all the
way, and it is ashamed that I am to have sent for you, but he was very
bad and I was afraid. Come away! come away! I will make you a cup of
tea.” But the minister’s wife assured Kirsty that she was glad to come,
and declining the cup of tea, went to the room where Macdonald Dubh lay
tossing and moaning with the delirium of fever upon him. It was not long
before she knew what was required.

With hot fomentations she proceeded to allay the pain, and in half an
hour Macdonald Dubh grew quiet. His tossings and mutterings ceased and
he fell into a sleep.

Kirsty stood by admiring.

“Mercy me! Look at that now; and it is yourself that is the great
doctor!”

“Now, Kirsty,” said Mrs. Murray, in a very matter-of-fact tone, “we will
just make him a little more comfortable.”

“Yes,” said Kirsty, not quite sure how the feat was to be achieved. “A
little hot something for his inside will be good, but indeed, many’s the
drink I have given him,” she suggested.

“What have you been giving him, Kirsty?”

“Senny and dandylion, and a little whisky. They will be telling me it is
ferry good whatever for the stomach and bow’ls.”

“I don’t think I would give him any more of that; but we will try and
make him feel a little more comfortable.”

Mrs. Murray knew she was treading on delicate ground. The Highland pride
is quick to take offense.

“Sick people, you see,” she proceeded carefully, “need very frequent
changes--sheets and clothing, you understand.”

“Aye,” said Kirsty, suspiciously.

“I am sure you have plenty of beautiful sheets, and we will change these
when he wakes from his sleep.”

“Indeed, they are very clean, for there is no one but myself has slept
in them since he went away last fall to the shanties.”

Mrs. Murray felt the delicacy of the position to be sensibly increased.

“Indeed, that is right, Kirsty; one can never tell just what sort of
people are traveling about nowadays.”

“Indeed, and it’s true,” said Kirsty, heartily, “but I never let them in
here. I just keep them to the bunk.”

“But,” pursued Mrs. Murray, returning to the subject in hand, “it is
very important that for sick people the sheets should be thoroughly
aired and warmed. Why, in the hospital in Montreal they take the very
greatest care to air and change the sheets every day. You see so much
poison comes through the pores of the skin.”

“Do you hear that now?” said Kirsty, amazed. “Indeed, I would be often
hearing that those French people are just full of poison and such, and
indeed, it is no wonder, for the food they put inside of them.”

“O, no, “ said Mrs. Murray, “it is the same with all people, but
especially so with sick people.”

Kirsty looked as doubtful as was consistent with her respect for the
minister’s wife, and Mrs. Murray went on.

“So you will just get the sheets ready to change, and, Kirsty, a clean
night-shirt.”

“Night-shirt! and indeed, he has not such a thing to his name.” Kirsty’s
tone betrayed her thankfulness that her brother was free from the
effeminacy of a night-shirt; but noting the dismay and confusion on Mrs.
Murray’s face, she suggested, hesitatingly, “He might have one of my
own, but I am thinking it will be small for him across the back.”

“I am afraid so, Kirsty,” said the minister’s wife, struggling hard
with a smile. “We will just use one of his own white shirts.” But this
scandalized Kirsty as an unnecessary and wasteful luxury.

“Indeed, there is plenty of them in the chist, but he will be keeping
them for the communion season, and the funerals, and such. He will not
be wearing them in his bed, for no one will be seeing him there at all.”

“But he will feel so much better,” said Mrs. Murray, and her smile was
so sweet and winning that Kirsty’s opposition collapsed, and without
more words both sheets and shirt were produced.

As Kirsty laid them out she observed with a sigh: “Aye, aye, she was
the clever woman--the wife, I mean. She was good with the needle, and
indeed, at anything she tried to do.”

“I did not know her,” said Mrs. Murray, softly, “but every one tells me
she was a good housekeeper and a good woman.”

“She was that,” said Kirsty, emphatically, “and she was the light of his
eyes, and it was a bad day for Hugh when she went away.”

“Now, Kirsty,” said Mrs. Murray, after a pause, “before we put on these
clean things, we will just give him a sponge bath.”

Kirsty gasped.

“Mercy sakes! He will not be needing that in the winter, and he will be
getting a cold from it. In the summer-time he will be going to the river
himself. And how will you be giving him a bath whatever?”

Mrs. Murray carefully explained the process, again fortifying her
position by referring to the practices of the Montreal hospital, till,
as a result of her persuasions and instructions, in an hour after
Macdonald had awakened from his sleep he was lying in his Sabbath white
shirt and between fresh sheets, and feeling cleaner and more comfortable
than he had for many a day. The fever was much reduced, and he fell
again into a deep sleep.

The two women watched beside him, for neither would leave the other
to watch alone. And Ranald, who could not be persuaded to go up to
his loft, lay on the bunk in the kitchen and dozed. After an hour had
passed, Mrs. Murray inquired as to the nourishment Kirsty had given her
brother.

“Indeed, he will not be taking anything whatever,” said Kirsty, in a
vexed tone. “And it is no matter what I will be giving him.”

“And what does he like, Kirsty?”

“Indeed, he will be taking anything when he is not seek, and he is that
fond of buckwheat pancakes and pork gravy with maple syrup over them,
but would he look at it! And I made him new porridge to-night, but he
would not touch them.”

“Did you try him with gruel, Kirsty?”

“Mercy me, and is it Macdonald Dubh and gruel? He would be flinging the
‘feushionless’ stuff out of the window.”

“But I am sure it would be good for him if he could be persuaded to try
it. I should like to try him.”

“Indeed, and you may try. It will be easy enough, for the porridge are
still in the pot.”

Kirsty took the pot from the bench, with the remains of the porridge
that had been made for supper still in it, set it on the fire, and
pouring some water in it, began to stir it vigorously. It was thick and
slimy, and altogether a most repulsive-looking mixture, and Mrs. Murray
no longer wondered at Macdonald Dubh’s distaste for gruel.

“I think I will make some fresh, if you will let me, Kirsty--in the way
I make it for the minister, you know.”

Kirsty, by this time, had completely surrendered to Mrs. Murray’s
guidance, and producing the oatmeal, allowed her to have her way; so
that when Macdonald awoke he found Mrs. Murray standing beside him with
a bowl of the nicest gruel and a slice of thin dry toast.

He greeted the minister’s wife with grave courtesy, drank the gruel, and
then lay down again to sleep.

“Will you look at that now?” said Kirsty, amazed at Macdonald Dubh’s
forbearance. “He would not like to be offending you.”

Then Mrs. Murray besought Kirsty to go and lie down for an hour, which
Kirsty very unwillingly agreed to do.

It was not long before Macdonald began to toss and mutter in his sleep,
breaking forth now and then into wild cries and curses. He was fighting
once more his great fight in the Glengarry line, and beating back
LeNoir.

“Back, ye devil! Would ye? Take that, then. Come back, Mack!” Then
followed a cry so wild that Ranald awoke and came into the room.

“Bring in some snow, Ranald,” said the minister’s wife; “we will lay
some on his head.”

She bathed the hot face and hands with ice-cold water, and then laid a
snow compress on the sick man’s head, speaking to him in quiet, gentle
tones, till he was soothed again to sleep.

When the gray light of the morning came in through the little window,
Macdonald woke sane and quiet.

“You are better,” said Mrs. Murray to him.

“Yes,” he said, “I am very well, thank you, except for the pain here.”
 He pointed to his chest.

“You have been badly hurt, Ranald tells me. How did it happen?”

“Well,” said Macdonald, slowly, “it is very hard to say.”

“Did the tree fall on you?” asked Mrs. Murray.

Macdonald glanced at her quickly, and then answered: “It is very
dangerous work with the trees. It is wonderful how quick they will
fall.”

“Your face and breast seem very badly bruised and cut.”

“Aye, yes,” said Macdonald. “The breast is bad whatever.”

“I think you had better send for Doctor Grant,” Mrs. Murray said. “There
may be some internal injury.”

“No, no,” said Macdonald, decidedly. “I will have no doctor at me, and
I will soon be round again, if the Lord will. When will the minister be
home?”

But Mrs. Murray, ignoring his attempt to escape the subject, went on:
“Yes, but, Mr. Macdonald, I am anxious to have Doctor Grant see you, and
I wish you would send for him to-morrow.”

“Ah, well,” said Macdonald, not committing himself, “we will be seeing
about that. But the doctor has not been in this house for many a day.”
 Then, after a pause, he added, in a low voice, “Not since the day she
was taken from me.”

“Was she ill long?”

“Indeed, no. It was just one night. There was no doctor, and the women
could not help her, and she was very bad--and when it came it was a
girl--and it was dead--and then the doctor arrived, but he was too
late.” Macdonald Dubh finished with a great sigh, and the minister’s
wife said gently to him:

“That was a very sad day, and a great loss to you and Ranald.”

“Aye, you may say it; she was a bonnie woman whatever, and grand at the
spinning and the butter. And, oich-hone, it was a sad day for us.”

The minister’s wife sat silent, knowing that such grief cannot be
comforted, and pitying from her heart the lonely man. After a time she
said gently, “She is better off.”

A look of doubt and pain and fear came into Macdonald’s eyes.

“She never came forward,” he said, hesitatingly. “She was afraid to
come.”

“I have heard of her often, Mr. Macdonald, and I have heard that she was
a good and gentle woman.”

“Aye, she was that.”

“And kind to the sick.”

“You may believe it.”

“And she loved the house of God.”

“Aye, and neither rain nor snow nor mud would be keeping her from it,
but she would be going every Sabbath day, bringing her stockings with
her.”

“Her stockings?”

“Aye, to change her feet in the church. What else? Her stockings would
be wet with the snow and water.”

Mrs. Murray nodded. “And she loved her Saviour, Mr. Macdonald.”

“Indeed, I believe it well, but she was afraid she would not be having
‘the marks.’”

“Never you fear, Mr. Macdonald,” said Mrs. Murray. “If she loved her
Saviour she is with him now.”

He turned around to her and lifted himself eagerly on his elbow. “And do
you really think that?” he said, in a voice subdued and anxious.

“Indeed I do,” said Mrs. Murray, in a tone of certain conviction.

Macdonald sank back on his pillow, and after a moment’s silence, said,
in a voice of pain: “Oh, but it is a peety she did not know! It is a
peety she did not know. For many’s the time before--before--her hour
came on her, she would be afraid.”

“But she was not afraid at the last, Mr. Macdonald?”

“Indeed, no. I wondered at her. She was like a babe in its mother’s
arms. There was a light on her face, and I mind well what she said.”
 Macdonald paused. There was a stir in the kitchen, and Mrs. Murray,
glancing behind her, saw Ranald standing near the door intently
listening. Then Macdonald went on. “I mind well the words, as if it was
yesterday. ‘Hugh, my man,’ she said, ‘am no feared’ (she was from the
Lowlands, but she was a fine woman); ‘I haena the marks, but ‘m no
feared but He’ll ken me. Ye’ll tak’ care o’ Ranald, for, oh, Hugh! I ha’
gi’en him to the Lord. The Lord help you to mak’ a guid man o’ him.’”
 Macdonald’s voice faltered into silence, then, after a few moments, he
cried, “And oh! Mistress Murra’, I cannot tell you the often these words
do keep coming to me; and it is myself that has not kept the promise I
made to her, and may the Lord forgive me.”

The look of misery in the dark eyes touched Mrs. Murray to the heart.
She laid her hand on Macdonald’s arm, but she could not find words to
speak. Suddenly Macdonald recalled himself.

“You will forgive me,” he said; “and you will not be telling any one.”

By this time the tears were streaming down her face, and Mrs. Murray
could only say, brokenly, “You know I will not.”

“Aye, I do,” said Macdonald, with a sigh of content, and he turned his
face away from her to the wall.

“And now you let me read to you,” she said, softly, and taking from her
bag the Gaelic Bible, which with much toil she had learned to read since
coming to this Highland congregation, she read to him from the old Psalm
those words, brave, tender, and beautiful, that have so often comforted
the weary and wandering children of men, “The Lord is my Shepherd,” and
so on to the end. Then from psalm to psalm she passed, selecting such
parts as suited her purpose, until Macdonald turned to her again and
said, admiringly:

“It is yourself that has the bonnie Gaelic.”

“I am afraid,” she said, with a smile, “it is not really good, but it is
the best a south country woman can do.”

“Indeed, it is very pretty,” he said, earnestly.

Then the minister’s wife said, timidly, “I cannot pray in the Gaelic.”

“Oh, the English will be very good,” said Macdonald, and she knelt down
and in simple words poured out her heart in prayer. Before she rose from
her knees she opened the Gaelic Bible, and turned to the words of the
Lord’s Prayer.

“We will say this prayer together,” she said, gently.

Macdonald, bowing his head gravely, answered: “It is what she would
often be doing with me.”

There was still only one woman to this lonely hearted man, and with
a sudden rush of pity that showed itself in her breaking voice, the
minister’s wife began in Gaelic, “Our Father which art in heaven.”

Macdonald followed her in a whisper through the petitions until they
came to the words, “And forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors,”
 when he paused and would say no more. Mrs. Murray repeated the words of
the petition, but still there was no response. Then the minister’s wife
knew that she had her finger upon a sore spot, and she finished the
prayer alone.

For a time she sat silent, unwilling to probe the wound, and yet too
brave to flinch from what she felt to be duty.

“We have much to be forgiven,” she said, gently. “More than we can ever
forgive.” Still there was silence.

“And the heart that cannot forgive an injury is closed to the
forgiveness of God.”

The morning sun was gleaming through the treetops, and Mrs. Murray was
worn with her night’s vigil, and anxious to get home. She rose, and
offering Macdonald her hand, smiled down into his face, and said: “Good
by! We must try to forgive.”

As he took her hand, Macdonald’s dark face began to work, and he broke
forth into a bitter cry.

“He took me unawares! And it was a coward’s blow! and I will not forgive
him until I have given him what he deserves, if the Lord spares me!” And
then he poured forth, in hot and bitter words, the story of the great
fight. By the time he had finished his tale Ranald had come in from the
kitchen, and was standing with clenched fists and face pale with passion
at the foot of the bed.

As Mrs. Murray listened to this story her eyes began to burn, and when
it was over, she burst forth: “Oh, it was a cruel and cowardly and
brutal thing for men to do! And did you beat them off?” she asked.

“Aye, and that we did,” burst in Ranald. And in breathless haste and
with flashing eye he told them of Macdonald Bhain’s part in the fight.

“Splendid!” cried the minister’s wife, forgetting herself for the
moment.

“But he let him go,” said Ranald, sadly. “He would not strike him, but
just let him go.”

Then the minister’s wife cried again: “Ah, he is a great man, your
uncle! And a great Christian. Greater than I could have been, for I
would have slain him then and there.” Her eyes flashed, and the color
flamed in her face as she uttered these words.

“Aye,” said Macdonald Dubh, regarding her with deep satisfaction. His
tone and look recalled the minister’s wife, and turning to Ranald, she
added, sadly:

“But your uncle was right, Ranald, and we must forgive even as he did.”

“That,” cried Ranald, with fierce emphasis, “I will never do, until once
I will be having my hands on his throat.”

“Hush, Ranald!” said the minister’s wife. “I know it is hard, but we
must forgive. You see we MUST forgive. And we must ask Him to help us,
who has more to forgive than any other.”

But she said no more to Macdonald Dubh on that subject that morning. The
fire of the battle was in her heart, and she felt she could more easily
sympathize with his desire for vengeance than with the Christian grace
of forgiveness. But as they rode home together through the bush, where
death had trailed them so closely the night before, the sweet sunlight
and the crisp, fresh air, and all the still beauty of the morning,
working with the memory of their saving, rebuked and soothed and
comforted her, and when Ranald turned back from the manse door, she said
softly: “Our Father in heaven was very good to us, Ranald, and we should
be like him. He forgives and loves, and we should, too.”

And Ranald, looking into the sweet face, pale with the long night’s
trials, but tinged now with the faintest touch of color from the
morning, felt somehow that it might be possible to forgive.

But many days had to come and go, and many waters flow over the souls
of Macdonald Dubh and his son Ranald, before they were able to say,
“Forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors.”



CHAPTER VI

A NEW FRIEND


The night race with the wolves began a new phase of life for Ranald, for
in that hour he gained a friend such as it falls to few lads to have.
Mrs. Murray’s high courage in the bush, her skill in the sick-room, and
that fine spiritual air she carried with her made for her a place in his
imagination where men set their divinities. The hero and the saint in
her stirred his poetic and fervent soul and set it aglow with a feeling
near to adoration. To Mrs. Murray also the events of that night set
forth Ranald in a new light. In the shy, awkward, almost sullen lad
there had suddenly been revealed in those moments of peril the cool,
daring man, full of resource and capable of self-sacrifice. Her heart
went out toward him, and she set herself to win his confidence and to
establish a firm friendship with him; but this was no easy matter.

Macdonald Dubh and his son, living a half-savage life in their lonely
back clearing, were regarded by their neighbors with a certain degree of
distrust and fear. They were not like other people. They seldom mingled
in the social festivities of the community, and consequently were
more or less excluded from friendship and free intercourse with their
neighbors. Ranald, shy, proud, and sensitive, felt this exclusion, and
in return kept himself aloof even from the boys, and especially from the
girls, of his own age. His attendance at school was of a fragmentary and
spasmodic nature, and he never really came to be on friendly terms with
his fellow-pupils. His one friend was Don Cameron, whom the boys called
“Wobbles,” from his gait in running, whose father’s farm backed that
of Macdonald Dubh. And though Don was a year older, he gave to Ranald a
homage almost amounting to worship, for in all those qualities that
go to establish leadership among boys, Ranald was easily first. In the
sport that called for speed, courage, and endurance Ranald was chief
of all. Fleet of foot, there was no runner from the Twelfth to the
Twentieth that could keep him in sight, and when he stood up to fight,
the mere blaze of his eyes often won him victory before a blow was
struck. To Don, Ranald opened his heart more than to any one else; all
others he kept at a distance.

It was in vain that Mrs. Murray, in her daily visits to Macdonald Dubh,
sought to find out Ranald and to come to speech with him. Aunt Kirsty
never knew where he was, and to her calls, long and loud, from the back
door and from the front, no response ever came. It was Hughie Murray who
finally brought Ranald once more into touch with the minister’s wife.

They had come one early morning, Hughie with Fido “hitched” in a sled
driving over the “crust” on the snow banks by the roadside, and his
mother on the pony, to make their call upon the sick man. As they drew
near the house they heard a sound of hammering.

“That’s Ranald, mother!” exclaimed Hughie. “Let me go and find him. I
don’t want to go in.”

“Be sure you don’t go far away, then, Hughie; you know we must hurry
home to-day”; and Hughie faithfully promised. But alas for Hughie’s
promises! when his mother came out of the house with Kirsty, he was
within neither sight nor hearing.

“They will just be at the camp,” said Kirsty.

“The camp?”

“Aye, the sugaring camp down yonder in the sugar bush. It is not far off
from the wood road. I will be going with you.”

“Not at all, Kirsty,” said the minister’s wife. “I think I know where
it is, and I can go home that way quite well. Besides, I want to see
Ranald.” She did not say she would rather see him alone.

“Indeed, he is the quare lad, and he is worse since coming back from the
shanties.” Kirsty was evidently much worried about Ranald.

“Never mind,” said the minister’s wife, kindly; “we must just be
patient. Ranald is going on fast toward manhood, and he can be held only
by the heart.”

“Aye,” said Kirsty, with a sigh, “I doubt his father will never be able
any more to take a strap to him.”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Murray, smiling, “I’m afraid he is far beyond that.”

“Beyond it!” exclaimed Kirsty, astonished at such a doctrine. “Indeed,
and his father and his uncle would be getting it then, when they were as
beeg as they will ever be, and much the better were they for it.”

“I don’t think it would do for Ranald,” said the minister’s wife,
smiling again as she said good by to Kirsty. Then she took her way down
the wood road into the bush. She found the camp road easily, and after
a quarter of an hour’s ride, she heard the sound of an ax, and soon
came upon the sugar camp. Ranald was putting the finishing touches to a
little shanty of cedar poles and interwoven balsam brush, and Hughie was
looking on in admiration and blissful delight.

“Why, that’s beautiful,” said Mrs. Murray; “I should like to live in a
house like that myself.”

“Oh, mother!” shouted Hughie, “isn’t it splendid? Ranald and Don are
going to live in it all the sugaring time, and Ranald wants me to come,
too. Mayn’t I, mother? Aw, do let me.”

The mother looked down upon the eager face, smiled, and shook her head.
“What about the night, Hughie?” she said. “It will be very dark in the
woods here, and very cold, too. Ranald and Don are big boys and strong,
but I’m afraid my little boy would not be very comfortable sleeping
outside.”

“Oh, mother, we’ll be inside, and it’ll be awful warm--and oh, you might
let me!” Hughie’s tears were restrained only by the shame of weeping
before his hero, Ranald.

“Well, we will see what your father says when he comes home.”

“Oh, mother, he will just say ‘no’ right off, and--”

A shadow crossed his mother’s face, but she only answered quietly,
“Never mind just now, Hughie; we will think of it. Besides,” she added,
“I don’t know how much Ranald wants to be bothered with a wee boy like
you.”

Ranald gave her a quick, shy glance and answered:

“He will be no trouble, Mrs. Murray”; and then, noticing Hughie’s
imploring face, he ventured to add, “and indeed, I hope you will let him
come. I will take good care of him.”

Mrs. Murray hesitated.

“Oh, mother!” cried Hughie, seeing her hesitation, “just one night; I
won’t be a bit afraid.”

“No, I don’t believe you would,” looking down into the brave young face.
“But what about your mother, Hughie?”

“Oh, pshaw! you wouldn’t be afraid.” Hughie’s confidence in his mother’s
courage was unbounded.

“I don’t know about that,” she replied; and then turning to Ranald,
“How about our friends of the other night?” she said. “Will they not be
about?” Hughie had not heard about the wolves.

“Oh, there is no fear of them. We will keep a big fire all night, and
besides, we will have our guns and the dogs.”

“Guns!” cried Mrs. Murray. This was a new terror for her boy. “I’m
afraid I cannot trust Hughie where there are guns. He might--”

“Indeed, let me catch him touching a gun!” said Ranald, quickly, and
from his tone and the look in his face, Mrs. Murray felt sure that
Hughie would be safe from self-destruction by the guns.

“Well, well, come away, Hughie, and we will see,” said Mrs. Murray; but
Hughie hung back sulking, unwilling to move till he had got his mother’s
promise.

“Come, Hughie. Get Fido ready. We must hurry,” said his mother again.

Still Hughie hesitated. Then Ranald turned swiftly on him. “Did ye
hear your mother? Come, get out of this.” His manner was so fierce that
Hughie started immediately for his dog, and without another word of
entreaty made ready to go. The mother noted his quick obedience, and
smiling at Ranald, said: “I think I might trust him with you for a night
or two, Ranald. When do you think you could come for him?”

“We will finish the tapping to-morrow, and I could come the day after
with the jumper,” said Ranald, pointing to the stout, home-made sleigh
used for gathering the sap and the wood for the fire.

“Oh, I see you have begun tapping,” said Mrs. Murray; “and do you do it
yourself?”

“Why, yes, mother; don’t you see all those trees?” cried Hughie,
pointing to a number of maples that stood behind the shanty. “Ranald and
Don did all those, and made the spiles, too. See!” He caught up a spile
from a heap lying near the door. “Ranald made all these.”

“Why, that’s fine, Ranald. How do you make them? I have never seen one
made.”

“Oh, mother!” Hughie’s voice was full of pity for her ignorance. He had
seen his first that afternoon.

“And I have never seen the tapping of a tree. I believe I shall learn
just now, if Ranald will only show me, from the very beginning.”

Her eager interest in his work won Ranald from his reserve. “There is
not much to see,” he said, apologetically. “You just cut a natch in the
tree, and drive in the spile, and--”

“Oh, but wait,” she cried. “That’s just what I wanted to see. How do you
make the spile?”

“Oh, that is easy,” said Ranald. He took up a slightly concave chisel or
gouge, and slit a slim slab from off a block of cedar about a foot long.

“This is a spile,” he exclaimed. “We drive it into the tree, and the sap
runs down into the trough, you see.”

“No, I don’t see,” said the minister’s wife. She was too thoroughgoing
to do things by halves. “How do you drive this into the tree, and how do
you get the sap to run down it?”

“I will show you,” he said, and taking with him a gouge and ax, he
approached a maple still untapped. “You first make a gash like this.” So
saying, with two or three blows of his ax, he made a slanting notch in
the tree. “And then you make a place for the spile this way.” With the
back of his ax he drove his gouge into the corner of the notch, and then
fitted his spile into the incision so made.

“Ah, now I see. And you put the trough under the drip from the spile.
But how do you make the troughs?”

“I did not make them,” said Ranald. “Some of them father made, and some
of them belong to the Camerons. But it is easy enough. You just take a
thick slab of basswood and hollow it out with the adze.”

Mrs. Murray was greatly pleased. “I’m very much obliged to you, Ranald,”
 she said, “and I am glad I came down to see your camp. Now, if you will
ask me, I should like to see you make the sugar.” Had her request been
made before the night of their famous ride, Ranald would have found
some polite reason for refusal, but now he was rather surprised to find
himself urging her to come to a sugaring-off at the close of the season.

“I shall be delighted to come,” cried Mrs. Murray, “and it is very good
of you to ask me, and I shall bring my niece, who is coming with Mr.
Murray from town to spend some weeks with me.”

Ranald’s face fell, but his Highland courtesy forbade retreat. “If she
would care,” he said, doubtfully.

“Oh, I am sure she would be very glad! She has never been outside of the
city, and I want her to learn all she can of the country and the woods.
It is positively painful to see the ignorance of these city children in
regard to all living things--beasts and birds and plants. Why, many of
them couldn’t tell a beech from a basswood.”

“Oh, mother!” protested Hughie, aghast at such ignorance.

“Yes, indeed, it is dreadful, I assure you,” said his mother, smiling.
“Why, I know a grown-up woman who didn’t know till after she was married
the difference between a spruce and a pine.”

“But you know them all now,” said Hughie, a little anxious for his
mother’s reputation.

“Yes, indeed,” said his mother, proudly; “every one, I think, at least
when the leaves are out. So I want Maimie to learn all she can.”

Ranald did not like the idea any too well, but after they had gone
his thoughts kept turning to the proposed visit of Mrs. Murray and her
niece.

“Maimie,” said Ranald to himself. “So that is her name.” It had
a musical sound, and was different from the names of the girls he
knew--Betsy and Kirsty and Jessie and Marget and Jinny. It was finer
somehow than these, and seemed to suit better a city girl. He wondered
if she would be nice, but he decided that doubtless she would be
“proud.” To be “proud” was the unpardonable sin with the Glengarry
boy. The boy or girl convicted of this crime earned the contempt of all
self-respecting people. On the whole, Ranald was sorry she was coming.
Even in school he was shy with the girls, and kept away from them. They
were always giggling and blushing and making one feel queer, and they
never meant what they said. He had no doubt Maimie would be like the
rest, and perhaps a little worse. Of course, being Mrs. Murray’s niece,
she might be something like her. Still, that could hardly be. No girl
could ever be like the minister’s wife. He resolved he would turn Maimie
over to Don. He remembered, with great relief, that Don did not mind
girls; indeed, he suspected Don rather enjoyed playing the “forfeit”
 games at school with them, in which the penalties were paid in kisses.
How often had he shuddered and admired from a distance, while Don and
the others played those daring games! Yes, Don would do the honors for
Maimie. Perhaps Don would even venture to play “forfeits” with her.
Ranald felt his face grow hot at this thought. Then, with sudden
self-detection, he cried, angrily, aloud: “I don’t care; let him; he may
for all I care.”

“Who may what?” cried a voice behind him. It was Don himself.

“Nothing,” said Ranald, blushing shamefacedly.

“Why, what are you mad about?” asked Don, noticing his flushed face.

“Who is mad?” said Ranald. “I am not mad whatever.”

“Well, you look mighty like it,” said Don. “You look mad enough to
fight.”

But Ranald, ignoring him, simply said, “We will need to be gathering the
sap this evening, for the troughs will be full.”

“Huh-huh,” said Don. “I guess we can carry all there is to-day, but we
will have to get the colt to-morrow. Got the spiles ready?”

“Enough for to-day,” said Ranald, wondering how he could tell Don of
the proposed visit of Mrs. Murray and her niece. Taking each a bundle of
spiles and an ax, the boys set out for the part of the sugar bush as yet
untapped, and began their work.

“The minister’s wife and Hughie were here just now,” began Ranald.

“Huh-huh, I met them down the road. Hughie said he was coming day after
to-morrow.”

“Did Mrs. Murray tell you--”

“Tell me what?”

“Did she tell you she would like to see a sugaring-off?”

“No; they didn’t stop long enough to tell me anything. Hughie shouted at
me as they passed.”

“Well,” said Ranald, speaking slowly and with difficulty, “she wanted
bad to see the sugar-making, and I asked her to come.”

“You did, eh? I wonder at you.”

“And she wanted to bring her niece, and--and--I let her,” said Ranald.

“Her niece! Jee-roo-sa-LEM!” cried Don. “Do you know who her niece is?”

“Not I,” said Ranald, looking rather alarmed.

“Well, she is the daughter of the big lumberman, St. Clair, and she is a
great swell.”

Ranald stood speechless.

“That does beat all,” pursued Don; “and you asked her to our camp?”

Then Ranald grew angry. “And why not?” he said, defiantly. “What is
wrong about that?”

“O, nothing much,” laughed Don, “if I had done it, but for you, Ranald!
Why, what will you do with that swell young lady from the city?”

“I will just do nothing,” said Ranald. “There will be you and Mrs.
Murray, and--”

“Oh, I say,” burst in Don, “that’s bully! Let’s ask some of the boys,
and--your aunt, and--my mother, and--some of the girls.”

“Oh, shucks!” said Ranald, angrily. “You just want Marget Aird.”

“You get out!” cried Don, indignantly; “Marget Aird!” Then, after a
pause, he added, “All right, I don’t want anybody else. I’ll look after
Mrs. Murray, and you and Maimie can do what you like.”

This combination sounded so terrible to Ranald that he surrendered at
once; and it was arranged that there should be a grand sugaring-off, and
that others besides the minister’s wife and her niece should be invited.

But Mrs. Murray had noticed the falling of Ranald’s face at the mention
of Maimie’s visit to the camp, and feeling that she had taken him at
a disadvantage, she determined that she would the very next day put
herself right with him. She was eager to follow up the advantage she had
gained the day before in establishing terms of friendship with Ranald,
for her heart went out to the boy, in whose deep, passionate nature she
saw vast possibilities for good or ill. On her return from her daily
visit to Macdonald Dubh, she took the camp road, and had the good
fortune to find Ranald alone, “rigging up” his kettles preparatory
to the boiling. But she had no time for kettles to-day, and she went
straight to her business.

“I came to see you, Ranald,” she said, after she had shaken hands with
him, “about our sugaring-off. I’ve been thinking that it would perhaps
be better to have no strangers, but just old friends, you and Don and
Hughie and me.”

Ranald at once caught her meaning, but found himself strangely unwilling
to be extricated from his predicament.

“I mean,” said Mrs. Murray, frankly, “we might enjoy it better without
my niece; and so, perhaps, we could have the sugaring when I come to
bring Hughie home on Friday. Maimie does not come till Saturday.”

Her frankness disarmed Ranald of his reserve. “I know well what you
mean,” he said, without his usual awkwardness, “but I do not mind now
at all having your niece come; and Don is going to have a party.” The
quiet, grave tone was that of a man, and Mrs. Murray looked at the boy
with new eyes. She did not know that it was her own frank confidence
that had won like confidence from him.

“How old are you, Ranald?” she said, in her wonder.

“I will be going on eighteen.”

“You will soon be a man, Ranald.” Ranald remained silent, and she went
on earnestly: “A strong, good, brave man, Ranald.”

The blood rushed to the boy’s face with a sudden flood, but still he
stood silent.

“I’m going to give you Hughie for two days,” she continued, in the same
earnest voice; and leaning down over her pony’s neck toward him: “I want
him to know strong and manly boys. He is very fond of you, Ranald. He
thinks you are better than any man in the world.” She paused, her lips
parting in a smile that made Ranald’s heart beat quick. Then she went on
with a shy hesitancy: “Ranald, I know the boys sometimes drop words they
should not and tell stories unfit to hear”; the blood was beginning
to show in her cheek; “and I would not like my little boy--” Her voice
broke suddenly, but recovering quickly she went on in grave, sweet
tones: “I trust him to you, Ranald, for this time and afterward. He
looks up to you. I want him to be a good, brave man, and to keep his
heart pure.” Ranald could not speak, but he looked steadily into Mrs.
Murray’s eyes as he took the hand she offered, and she knew he was
pledging himself to her.

“You’ll come for him to-morrow,” she said, as she turned away. By this
time Ranald had found his voice.

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied. “And I will take good care of him.”

Once more Mrs. Murray found herself looking at Ranald as if seeing him
for the first time. He had the solemn voice and manner of a man making
oath of allegiance, and she rode away with her heart at rest concerning
her little boy. With Ranald, at least, he would be safe.

            *         *         *         *         *

Those two days had been for Hughie long and weary, but at last the great
day came for him, as all great days will come for those who can wait.
Ranald appeared at the manse before the breakfast was well begun, and
Hughie, with the unconscious egoism of childhood, was for rushing off
without thought of preparation for himself or of farewell for those left
behind. Indeed, he was for leaving his porridge untasted, declaring he
“wasn’t a bit hungry,” but his mother brought him to his senses.

“No breakfast, no sugar bush to-day, Hughie,” she said; “we cannot send
men out to the woods that cannot eat breakfast, can we, Ranald?”

Hughie at once fell upon his porridge with vigor, while Ranald, who was
much too shy to eat at the minister’s table, sat and waited.

After breakfast was over, Jessie was called in for the morning worship,
without which no day was ever begun in the manse. At worship in the
minister’s house every one present took part. It was Hughie’s special
joy to lead the singing of the psalm. His voice rose high and clear,
even above his mother’s, for he loved to sing, and Ranald’s presence
inspired him to do his best. Ranald had often heard the psalm sung in
the church--


      I to the hills will lift mine eyes,
      From whence doth come mine aid;


and the tune was the old, familiar “French,” but somehow it was all new
to him that day. The fresh voices and the crisp, prompt movement of the
tune made Ranald feel as if he had never heard the psalm sung before. In
the reading he took his verse with the others, stumbling a little, not
because the words were too big for him, but because they seemed to run
into one another. The chapter for the day contained Paul’s injunction to
Timothy, urging him to fidelity and courage as a good soldier of Jesus
Christ.

When the reading was done, Mrs. Murray told them a story of a young man
who had shed his blood upon a Scottish moor because he was too brave to
be untrue to his lord, and then, in a few words, made them all see
that still some conflict was being waged, and that there was still
opportunity for each to display loyal courage and fidelity.

In the prayer that followed, the first thing that surprised Ranald was
the absence of the set forms and tones of prayer, with which he was
familiar. It was all so simple and real. The mother was telling the
great Father in heaven her cares and anxieties, and the day’s needs
for them all, sure that he would understand and answer. Every one was
remembered--the absent head of the family and those present; the young
man worshiping with them, that he might be a true man and a good soldier
of Jesus Christ; and at the close, the little lad going away this
morning, that he might be kept from all harm and from all evil thoughts
and deeds. The simple beauty of the words, the music in the voice, and
the tender, trustful feeling that breathed through the prayer awakened
in Ranald’s heart emotions and longings he had never known before, and
he rose from his knees feeling how wicked and how cruel a thing it would
be to cause one of these little ones to stumble.

After the worship was over, Hughie seized his Scotch bonnet and rushed
for the jumper, and in a few minutes his mother had all the space not
taken up by him and Ranald packed with blankets and baskets.

“Jessie thinks that even great shanty-men like you and Don and Hughie
will not object to something better than bread and pork.”

“Indeed, we will not,” said Ranald, heartily.

Then Hughie suddenly remembered that he was actually leaving home, and
climbing out of the jumper, he rushed at his mother.

“Oh, mother, good by!” he cried.

His mother stooped and put her arms about him. “Good by, my darling,”
 she said, in a low voice; “I trust you to be a good boy, and, Hughie,
don’t forget your prayers.”

Then came to Hughie, for the first time, the thought that had been in
the mother’s heart all the morning, that when night came he would lie
down to sleep, for the first time in his life, without the nightly story
and her good-night kiss.

“Mother,” whispered the little lad, holding her tight about the neck,
“won’t you come, too? I don’t think I like to go away.”

He could have said no more comforting word, and the mother, whose heart
had been sore enough with her first parting from her boy, was more than
glad to find that the pain was not all on her side; so she kissed him
again, and said, in a cheery voice: “Now have a good time. Don’t trouble
Ranald too much, and bring me back some sugar.” Her last word braced the
lad as nothing else could.

“Oh, mother, I’ll bring you heaps!” he cried, and with the vision of
what he would bring home again shining vividly before his eyes, he got
through the parting without tears, and was soon speeding down the lane
beside Ranald, in the jumper.

The mother stood and watched the little figure holding tight to Ranald
with one hand, and with the other waving frantically his bonnet by the
tails, till at last the bush hid him from her sight. Then she turned
back again to the house that seemed so empty, with her hand pressed hard
against her side and her lip quivering as with sharp pain.

“How foolish!” she said, impatiently to herself; “he will be home in two
days.” But in spite of herself she went again to the door, and looked
long at the spot where the bush swallowed up the road. Then she went
upstairs and shut her door, and when she came down again there was that
in her face that told that her heart had had its first touch of the
sword that, sooner or later, must pierce all mothers’ hearts.



CHAPTER VII

MAIMIE


Before Hughie came back from the sugar camp, the minister had returned
from the presbytery, bringing with him his wife’s niece, Maimie St.
Clair, who had come from her home in a Western city to meet him. Her
father, Eugene St. Clair, was president of Raymond and St. Clair Lumber
Company. Nineteen years before this time he had married Mrs. Murray’s
eldest sister, and established his home with every prospect of a
prosperous and happy life, but after three short, bright years of almost
perfect joy, his young wife, his heart’s idol, after two days’ illness,
fluttered out from her beautiful home, leaving with her broken-hearted
husband her little boy and a baby girl two weeks old. Then Eugene St.
Clair besought his sister to come out from England and preside over his
home and care for his children; and that he might forget his grief, he
gave himself, heart and mind, to his business. Wealth came to him, and
under his sister’s rule his home became a place of cultured elegance and
a center of fashionable pleasure.

Miss Frances St. Clair was a woman of the world, proud of her
family-tree, whose root disappeared in the depths of past centuries, and
devoted to the pursuit and cultivation of those graces and manners that
are supposed to distinguish people of birth and breeding from the common
sort. Indeed, from common men and things she shrank almost with horror.
The entrance of “trade” into the social sphere of her life she would
regard as an impertinent intrusion. It was as much as she could bear
to allow the approach of “commerce,” which her brother represented. She
supposed, of course, there must be people to carry on the trades and
industries of the country--very worthy people, too--but these were
people one could not be expected to know. Miss St. Clair thanked heaven
that she had had the advantages of an English education and up-bringing,
and she lamented the stubborn democratic opinions of her brother,
who insisted that Harry should attend the public school. She was not
surprised, therefore, though greatly grieved, that Harry chose his
friends in school with a fine disregard of “their people.” It was with
surprise amounting to pain that she found herself one day introduced by
her nephew to Billie Barclay, who turned out to be the son of Harry’s
favorite confectioner. To his aunt’s remonstrance it seemed to Harry a
sufficient reply that Billy was a “brick” and a shining “quarter” on the
school Rugby team.

“But, Harry, think of his people!” urged his aunt.

“Oh, rot!” replied her irreverent nephew; “I don’t play with his
people.”

“Yes, but Harry, you don’t expect to make him your friend?”

“But he is my friend, and I don’t care what his people are. Besides, I
think his governor is a fine old boy, and I know he gives us jolly good
taffy.”

“But, Harry,” answered his aunt, in despair, “you are positively
dreadful. Why can’t you make friends in your own set? There is Hubert
Evans and the Langford boys.”

“Evans!” snorted Harry, with contempt; “beastly snob, and the Langfords
are regular Mollies!” Whereupon Miss St. Clair gave up her nephew as
impossible. But Billie did not repeat his visit to his friend Harry’s
home. Miss Frances St. Clair had a way of looking through her pince-nez
that even a boy could understand and would seek to avoid.

With Maimie, Miss St. Clair achieved better results. She was a gentle
girl, with an affectionate, yielding disposition, tending towards
indolence and self-indulgence. Her aunt’s chief concern about her was
that she should be frocked and mannered as became her position. Her
education was committed to a very select young ladies’ school, where
only the daughters of the first families ever entered. What or how they
were taught, her aunt never inquired. She felt quite sure that the lady
principal would resent, as indeed she ought, any such inquiry. Hence
Maimie came to have a smattering of the English poets, could talk in
conversation-book French, and could dash off most of the notes of a few
waltzes and marches from the best composers, her piece de resistance,
however, being “La Priere d’une Vierge.” She carried with her from
school a portfolio of crayons of apparently very ancient and very
battered castles; and water-colors of landscapes, where the water was
quite as solid as the land. True, she was quite unable to keep her own
small accounts, and when her father chanced to ask her one day to do for
him a simple addition, he was amazed to find that only after the third
attempt did she get it right; but, in the eyes of her aunt, these were
quite unimportant deficiencies, and for young ladies she was not sure
but that the keeping of accounts and the adding of figures were almost
vulgar accomplishments. Her father thought otherwise, but he was a busy
man, and besides, he shrank from entering into a region strange to him,
but where his sister moved with assured tread. He contented himself with
gratifying his daughter’s fancies and indulging her in every way allowed
him by her system of training and education. The main marvel in the
result was that the girl did not grow more selfish, superficial, and
ignorant than she did. Something in her blood helped her, but more, it
was her aunt’s touch upon her life. For every week a letter came from
the country manse, bringing with it some of the sweet simplicity of the
country and something like a breath of heaven.

She was nearing her fifteenth birthday, and though almost every letter
brought an invitation to visit the manse in the backwoods, it was only
when the girl’s pale cheek and languid air awakened her father’s anxiety
that she was allowed to accept the invitation to spend some weeks in the
country.

            *         *         *         *         *

When Ranald and Hughie drove up to the manse on Saturday evening in the
jumper the whole household rushed forth to see them. They were worth
seeing. Burned black with the sun and the March winds, they would have
easily passed for young Indians. Hughie’s clothes were a melancholy and
fluttering ruin; and while Ranald’s stout homespun smock and trousers
had successfully defied the bush, his dark face and unkempt hair, his
rough dress and heavy shanty boots, made him appear, to Maimie’s eyes,
an uncouth, if not pitiable, object.

“Oh, mother!” cried Hughie, throwing himself upon her, “I’m home again,
and we’ve had a splendid time, and we made heaps of sugar, and I’ve
brought you a whole lot.” He drew out of his pockets three or four cakes
of maple sugar. “There is one for each,” he said, handing them to his
mother.

“Here, Hughie,” she replied, “speak to your cousin Maimie.”

Hughie went up shyly to his cousin and offered a grimy hand. Maimie,
looking at the ragged little figure, could hardly hide her disgust as
she took the dirty, sticky little hand very gingerly in her fingers. But
Hughie was determined to do his duty to the full, even though Ranald was
present, and shaking his cousin’s hand with great heartiness, he held up
his face to be kissed. He was much surprised, and not a little relieved,
when Maimie refused to notice his offer and turned to look at Ranald.

She found him scanning her with a straight, searching look, as if
seeking to discover of what sort she was. She felt he had noticed her
shrinking from Hughie, and was annoyed to find herself blushing under
his keen gaze. But when Mrs. Murray presented Ranald to her niece,
it was his turn to blush and feel awkward, as he came forward with a
triangular sort of movement and offered his hand, saying, with an access
of his Highland accent, “It is a fine day, ma’am.” It required all
Maimie’s good manners to keep back the laugh that fluttered upon her
lips.

Slight as it was, Ranald noticed the smile, and turning from her
abruptly to Mrs. Murray, said: “We were thinking that Friday would be a
good day for the sugaring-off, if that will do you.”

“Quite well, Ranald,” said the minister’s wife; “and it is very good of
you to have us.”

She, too, had noted Maimie’s smile, and seeing the dark flush on
Ranald’s cheek, she knew well what it meant.

“Come and sit down a little, Ranald,” she said, kindly; “I have got some
books here for you and Don to read.”

But Ranald would not sit, nor would he wait a moment. “Thank you,
ma’am,” he said, “but I will need to be going.”

“Wait, Ranald, a moment,” cried Mrs. Murray. She ran into the next
room, and in a few moments returned with two or three books and some
magazines. “These,” she said, handing him the books, “are some of Walter
Scott’s. They will be good for week-days; and these,” giving him the
magazines, “you can read after church on Sabbath.”

The boy’s eyes lighted up as he thanked Mrs. Murray, and he shook hands
with her very warmly. Then, with a bow to the company, and without
looking at Maimie again, he left the room, with Hughie following at his
heels. In a short time Hughie came back full of enthusiastic praise of
his hero.

“Oh, mother!” he cried, “he is awful smart. He can just do anything.
He can make a splendid bed of balsam brush, and porridge, and pancakes,
and--and--and--everything.”

“A bed of balsam brush and porridge! What a wonderful boy he must be,
Hughie,” said Maimie, teasing him. “But isn’t he just a little queer?”

“He’s not a bit queer,” said Hughie, stoutly. “He is the best, best,
best boy in all the world.”

“Indeed! how extraordinary!” said Maimie; “you wouldn’t think so to look
at him.”

“I think he is just splendid,” said Hughie; “don’t you, mother?”

“Indeed, he is fery brown whatever,” mocked Maimie, mimicking Ranald’s
Highland tongue, a trick at which she was very clever, “and--not just
fery clean.”

“You’re just a mean, mean, red-headed snip!” cried Hughie, in a rage,
“and I don’t like you one bit.”

But Maimie was proud of her golden hair, so Hughie’s shot fell harmless.

“And when will you be going to the sugaring-off, Mistress Murray?” went
on Maimie, mimicking Ranald so cleverly that in spite of herself Mrs.
Murray smiled.

It was his mother’s smile that perfected Hughie’s fury. Without a word
of threat or warning, he seized a dipper of water and threw it over
Maimie, soaking her pretty ribbons and collar, and was promptly sent
upstairs to repent.

“Poor Hughie!” said his mother, after he had disappeared; “Ranald is his
hero, and he cannot bear any criticism of him.”

“He doesn’t look much of a hero, auntie,” said Maimie, drying her face
and curls.

“Very few heroes do,” said her aunt, quietly. “Ranald has noble
qualities, but he has had very few advantages.”

Then Mrs. Murray told her niece how Ranald had put himself between her
and the pursuing wolves. Maimie’s blue eyes were wide with horror.

“But, auntie,” she cried, “why in the world do you go to such places?”

“What places, Maimie?” said the minister, who had come into the room.

“Why, those awful places where the wolves are.”

“Indeed, you may ask why,” said the minister, gravely. He had heard the
story from his wife the night before. “But it would need a man to be on
guard day and night to keep your aunt from ‘those places.’”

“Yes, and your uncle, too,” said Mrs. Murray, shaking her head at her
husband. “You see, Maimie, we live in ‘those places’; and after all,
they are as safe as any. We are in good keeping.”

“And was Hughie out all night with those two boys in those woods,
auntie?”

“Oh, there was no danger. The wolves will not come near a fire, and the
boys have their dogs and guns,” said Mrs. Murray; “besides, Ranald is to
be trusted.”

“Trusted?” said the minister; “indeed, I would not trust him too far. He
is just wild enough, like his father before him.”

“Oh, papa, you don’t know Ranald,” said his wife, warmly; “nor his
father either, for that matter. I never did till this last week. They
have kept aloof from everything, and really--”

“And whose fault is that?” interrupted the minister. “Why should they
keep aloof from the means of grace? They are a godless lot, that’s what
they are.” The minister’s indignation was rising.

“But, my dear,” persisted Mrs. Murray, “I believe if they had a
chance--”

“Chance!” exclaimed the minister; “what more chance do they want? Have
they not all that other people have? Macdonald Dubh is rarely seen at
the services on the Lord’s day, and as for Ranald, he comes and goes at
his own sweet will.”

“Let us hope,” said his wife, gently, “they will improve. I believe
Ranald would come to Bible class were he not so shy.”

“Shy!” laughed the minister, scornfully; “he is not too shy to stand up
on the table before a hundred men after a logging and dance the Highland
fling, and beautifully he does it, too,” he added.

“But for all that,” said his wife, “he is very shy.”

“I don’t like shy people,” said Maimie; “they are so awkward and
dreadful to do with.”

“Well,” said her aunt, quietly, “I rather like people who are not too
sure of themselves, and I think all the more of Ranald for his shyness
and modesty.”

“Oh, Ranald’s modesty won’t disable him,” said the minister. “For my
part, I think he is a daring young rascal; and indeed, if there is any
mischief going in the countryside you may be sure Ranald is not far
away.”

“Oh, papa, I don’t think Ranald is a BAD boy,” said his wife, almost
pleadingly.

“Bad? I’m sure I don’t know what you call it. Who let off the dam last
year so that the saw-mill could not run for a week? Who abused poor
Duncie MacBain so that he was carried home groaning?”

“Duncie MacBain!” exclaimed his wife, contemptuously; “great, big, soft
lump, that he is. Why, he’s a man, as big as ever he’ll be.”

“Who broke the Little Church windows till there wasn’t a pane left?”
 pursued the minister, unheeding his wife’s interruption.

“It wasn’t Ranald that broke the church windows, papa,” piped Hughie
from above.

“How do you know, sir? Who did it, then?” demanded his father.

“It wasn’t Ranald, anyway,” said Hughie, stoutly.

“Who was it, then? Tell me that,” said his father again.

“Hughie, go to your room and stay there, as I told you,” said his
mother, fearing an investigation into the window-breaking episode,
of which Hughie had made full confession to her as his own particular
achievement, in revenge for a broken window in the new church.

“I think,” continued Mr. Murray, as if closing the discussion, “you’ll
find that your Ranald is not the modest, shy, gentle young man you think
him to be, but a particularly bold young rascal.”

“Poor Ranald,” sighed his wife; “he has no mother, and his father has
just let him grow up wild.”

“Aye, that’s true enough,” assented her husband, passing into his study.

But he could have adopted no better means of awakening Maimie’s interest
in Ranald than by the recital of his various escapades. Women love good
men, but are interested in men whose goodness is more or less impaired.
So Maimie was determined that she would know more of Ranald, and hence
took every opportunity of encouraging Hughie to sing the praises of his
hero and recount his many adventures. She was glad, too, that her aunt
had fixed the sugaring-off for a time when she could be present. But
neither at church on Sunday nor during the week that followed did she
catch sight of his face, and though Hughie came in with excited reports
now and then of having seen or heard of Ranald, Maimie had to content
herself with these; and, indeed, were it not that the invitation had
already been given, and the day fixed for her visit to the camp, the
chances are that Maimie’s acquaintance with Ranald would have ended
where it began, in which case both had been saved many bitter days.



CHAPTER VIII

THE SUGARING-OFF


The sugar time is, in many ways, the best of all the year. It is
the time of crisp mornings, when “the crust bears,” and the boys go
crunching over all the fields and through the woods; the time, too, of
sunny noons and chilly nights. Winter is still near, but he has lost
most of his grip, and all his terror. For the earth has heard the call
of spring from afar, and knows that soon she will be seen, dancing her
shy dances, in the sunny spaces of the leafless woods. Then, by and by,
from all the open fields the snow is driven back into the fence corners,
and lies there in soiled and sullen heaps. In the woods it still lies
deep; but there is everywhere the tinkle of running water, and it is not
long till the brown leaf carpet begins to show in patches through the
white. Then, overhead, the buds begin to swell and thrill with the new
life, and when it is broad noon, all through the woods a thousand voices
pass the glad word that winter’s day is gone and that all living things
are free. But when night draws up over the treetops, and the shadows
steal down the forest aisles, the jubilant voices die down and a chill
fear creeps over all the gleeful, swelling buds that they have been
too sure and too happy; and all the more if, from the northeast, there
sweeps down, as often happens, a stinging storm of sleet and snow,
winter’s last savage slap. But what matters that? The very next
day, when the bright, warm rays trickle down through the interlacing
branches, bathing the buds and twigs and limbs and trunks and flooding
all the woods, the world grows surer of its new joy. And so, in
alternating hope and fear, the days and nights go by, till an evening
falls when the air is languid and a soft rain comes up from the south,
falling all night long over the buds and trees like warm, loving
fingers. Then the buds break for very joy, and timid green things push
up through the leaf-mold; and from the swamps the little frogs begin
to pipe, at first in solo, but soon in exultant chorus, till the whole
moist night is vocal, and then every one knows that the sugar time is
over, and troughs and spiles are gathered up, and with sap-barrels and
kettles, are stored in the back shed for another year.

But no rain came before the night fixed for the sugaring-off. It was a
perfect sugar day, warm, bright, and still, following a night of sharp
frost. The long sunny afternoon was deepening into twilight when the
Camerons drove up to the sugar-camp in their big sleigh, bringing with
them the manse party. Ranald and Don, with Aunt Kirsty, were there to
receive them. It was one of those rare evenings of the early Canadian
spring. The bare woods were filled with the tangled rays of light from
the setting sun. Here and there a hillside facing the east lay in
shadow that grew black where the balsams and cedars stood in clumps. But
everywhere else the light fell sweet and silent about the bare trunks,
filling the long avenues under the arching maple limbs with a yellow
haze.

In front of the shanty the kettles hung over the fire on a long pole
which stood in an upright crutch at either end. Under the big kettle the
fire was roaring high, for the fresh sap needed much boiling before the
syrup and taffy could come. But under the little kettle the fire burned
low, for that must not be hurried.

Over the fire and the kettles Ranald presided, black, grimy, and silent,
and to Don fell the duty of doing the honors of the camp; and right
worthily did he do his part. He greeted his mother with reverence,
cuffed his young brother, kissed his little sister Jennie, tossing her
high, and welcomed with warm heartiness Mrs. Murray and her niece. The
Airds had not yet come, but all the rest were there. The Finlaysons and
the McKerachers, Dan Campbell’s boys, and their sister Betsy, whom every
one called “Betsy Dan,” redheaded, freckled, and irrepressible; the
McGregors, and a dozen or more of the wildest youngsters that could be
found in all the Indian Lands. Depositing their baskets in the shanty,
for they had no thought of fasting, they crowded about the fire.

“Attention!” cried Don, who had a “gift of the gab,” as his mother
said. “Ladies and gentlemen, the program for this evening is as follows:
games, tea, and taffy, in the order mentioned. In the first, all MUST
take part; in the second, all MAY take part; but in the third, none NEED
take part.”

After the laughter and the chorus of “Ohs” had subsided, Don proceeded:
“The captains for the evening are, Elizabeth Campbell, better known
as ‘Betsy Dan,’ and John Finlayson, familiar to us all as ‘Johnnie the
Widow,’ two young people of excellent character, and I believe, slightly
known to each other.”

Again a shout went up from the company, but Betsy Dan, who cared not at
all for Don’s banter, contented herself with pushing out her lower lip
at him with scorn, in that indescribable manner natural to girls, but to
boys impossible.

Then the choosing began. Betsy Dan, claiming first choice by virtue of
her sex, immediately called out, “Ranald Macdonald.”

But Ranald shook his head. “I cannot leave the fire,” he said, blushing;
“take Don there.”

But Betsy demurred. “I don’t want Don,” she cried. “Come on, Ranald; the
fire will do quite well.” Betsy, as indeed did most of the school-girls,
adored Ranald in her secret heart, though she scorned to show it.

But Ranald still refused, till Don said, “It is too bad, Betsy, but
you’ll have to take me.”

“Oh, come on, then!” laughed Betsy; “you will be better than nobody.”

Then it was Johnnie the Widow’s choice: “Maimie St. Clair.”

Maimie hesitated and looked at her aunt, who said, “Yes, go, my dear, if
you would like.”

“Marget Aird!” cried Betsy, spying Marget and her brothers coming down
the road. “Come along, Marget; you are on my side--on Don’s side, I
mean.” At which poor Marget, a tall, fair girl, with sweet face and shy
manner, blushed furiously, but, after greeting the minister’s wife and
the rest of the older people, she took her place beside Don.

The choosing went on till every one present was taken, not even Aunt
Kirsty being allowed to remain neutral in the coming games. For an hour
the sports went on. Racing, jumping, bear, London bridge, crack the
whip, and lastly, forfeits.

Meantime Ranald superintended the sap-boiling, keeping on the opposite
side of the fire from the ladies, and answering in monosyllables any
questions addressed to him. But when it was time to make the tea, Mrs.
Cameron and Kirsty insisted on taking charge of this, and Mrs. Murray,
coming round to Ranald, said: “Now, Ranald, I came to learn all about
sugar-making, and while the others are making tea, I want you to teach
me how to make sugar.”

Ranald gladly agreed to show her all he knew. He had been feeling
awkward and miserable in the noisy crowd, but especially in the presence
of Maimie. He had not forgotten the smile of amusement with which
she had greeted him at the manse, and his wounded pride longed for an
opportunity to pour upon her the vials of his contempt. But somehow,
in her presence, contempt would not arise within him, and he was driven
into wretched silence and self-abasement. It was, therefore, with
peculiar gratitude that he turned to Mrs. Murray as to one who both
understood and trusted him.

“I thank you for the books, Mrs. Murray,” he began, in a low, hurried
voice. “They are just wonderful. That Rob Roy and Ivanhoe, oh! they are
the grand books.” His face was fairly blazing with enthusiasm. “I never
knew there were such books at all.”

“I am very glad you like them, Ranald,” said Mrs. Murray, in tones of
warm sympathy, “and I shall give you as many as you like.”

“I cannot thank you enough. I have not the words,” said the boy, looking
as if he might fall down at her feet. Mrs. Murray was greatly touched
both by his enthusiasm and his gratitude.

“It is a great pleasure to me, Ranald, that you like them,” she said,
earnestly. “I want you to love good books and good men and noble deeds.”

Ranald stood listening in silence.

“Then some day you will be a good and great man yourself,” she added,
“and you will do some noble work.”

The boy stood looking far away into the woods, his black eyes filled
with a mysterious fire. Suddenly he threw back his head and said, as
if he had forgotten Mrs. Murray’s presence, “Yes, some day I will be a
great man. I know it well.”

“And good,” softly added Mrs. Murray.

He turned and looked at her a moment as if in a dream. Then, recalling
himself, he answered, “I suppose that is the best.”

“Yes, it is the best, Ranald,” she replied. “No man is great who is not
good. But come now and give me my lesson.”

Ranald stepped out into the bush, and from a tree near by he lifted a
trough of sap and emptied it into the big kettle.

“That’s the first thing you do with the sap,” he said.

“How? Carry every trough to the kettle?”

“Oh, I see,” laughed Ranald. “You must have every step.”

“Yes, indeed,” she replied, with determination.

“Well, here it is.”

He seized a bucket, went to another tree, emptied the sap from the
trough into the bucket, and thence into the barrel, and from the barrel
into the big kettle.

“Then from the big kettle into the little one,” he said, catching up a
big dipper tied to a long pole, and transferring the boiling sap as he
spoke from one kettle to another.

“But how can you tell when it is ready?” asked Mrs. Murray.

“Only by tasting. When it is very sweet it must go into the little
kettle.”

“And then?”

Her eager determination to know all the details delighted him beyond
measure.

“Then you must be very careful indeed, or you will lose all your day’s
work, and your sugar besides, for it is very easy to burn.”

“But how can you tell when it is ready?”

“Oh, you must just keep tasting every few minutes till you think you
have the syrup, and then for the sugar you must just boil it a little
longer.”

“Well,” said Mrs. Murray, “when it is ready what do you do?”

“Then,” he said, “you must quickly knock the fire from under it, and
pour it into the pans, stirring it till it gets nearly cool.”

“And why do you stir it?” she asked.

“Oh, to keep it from getting too hard.”

“Now I have learned something I never knew before,” said the minister’s
wife, delightedly, “and I am very grateful to you. We must help each
other, Ranald.”

“Indeed, it is little I can do for you,” he said, shyly.

“You do not know how much I am going to ask you to do,” she said,
lightly. “Wait and see.”

At that moment a series of shrieks rose high above the shouting and
laughter of the games, and Maimie came flying down toward the camp,
pursued by Don, with the others following.

“Oh, auntie!” she panted, “he’s going to--going to--” she paused, with
cheeks burning.

“It’s forfeits, Mrs. Murray,” explained Don.

“Hoot, lassie,” said Mrs. Cameron; “it will not much hurt you, anyway.
They that kiss in the light will not kiss in the dark.”

“She played, and lost her forfeit,” said Don, unwilling to be jeered at
by the others for faint-heartedness. “She ought to pay.”

“I’m afraid, Don, she does not understand our ways,” said Mrs. Murray,
apologetically.

“Be off, Don,” said his mother. “Kiss Marget there, if you can--it will
not hurt her--and leave the young lady alone.”

“It’s just horrid of them, auntie,” said Maimie, indignantly, as the
others went back to their games.

“Indeed,” said Mrs. Cameron, warmly, “if you will never do worse than
kiss a laddie in a game, it’s little harm will be coming to you.”

But Maimie ignored her.

“Is it not horrid, auntie?” she said.

“Well, my dear, if you think so, it is. But not for these girls, who
play the game with never a thought of impropriety and with no shock to
their modesty. Much depends on how you think about these things.”

But Maimie was not satisfied. She was indignant at Don for offering
to kiss her, but as she stood and watched the games going on under the
trees--the tag, the chase, the catch, and the kiss--she somehow began to
feel as if it were not so terrible after all, and to think that perhaps
these girls might play the game and still be nice enough. But she had
no thought of going back to them, and so she turned her attention to
the preparations for tea, now almost complete. Her aunt and Ranald were
toasting slices of bread at the big blazing fire, on forks made out of
long switches.

“Let me try, auntie,” she said, pushing up to the fire between her aunt
and Ranald. “I am sure I can do that.”

“Be careful of that fire,” said Ranald, sharply, pulling back her skirt,
that had blown dangerously near the blaze. “Stand back further,” he
commanded.

Mamie looked at him, surprise, indignation, and fear struggling for the
mastery. Was this the awkward boy that had blushed and stammered before
her a week ago?

“It’s very dangerous,” he explained to Mrs. Murray, “the wind blows out
the flames.”

As he spoke he handed Maimie his toasting stick and retired to the other
side of the fire, and began to attend to the boiling sap.

“He needn’t be such a bear,” pouted Maimie.

“My dear,” replied her aunt, “what Ranald says is quite true. You cannot
be too careful in moving about the fire.”

“Well, he needn’t be so cross about it,” said Maimie. She had never been
ordered about before in her life, and she did not enjoy the experience,
and all the more at the hands of an uncouth country boy. She watched
Ranald attending to the fire and the kettles, however, with a new
respect. He certainly had no fear of the fire, but moved about it and
handled it with the utmost sang-froid. He had a certain grace, too, in
his movements that caught her eye, and she wished he would come nearer
so that she could speak to him. She had considerable confidence in her
powers of attraction. As if to answer her wish, Ranald came straight to
where her aunt and she were standing.

“I think it will be time for tea now,” he said, with a sudden return of
his awkward manner, that made Maimie wonder why she had ever been afraid
of him. “I will tell Don,” he added, striding off toward the group of
boys and girls, still busy with their games under the trees.

Soon Don’s shout was heard: “Tea, ladies and gentlemen; take your seats
at the tables.” And speedily there was a rush and scramble, and in a few
moments the great heaps of green balsam boughs arranged around the fire
were full of boys and girls pulling, pinching, and tumbling over one
another in wild glee.

The toast stood in brown heaps on birch-bark plates beside the fire, and
baskets were carried out of the shanty bulging with cakes; the tea
was bubbling in the big tin tea-pail, and everything was ready for the
feast. But Ranald had caught Mrs. Murray’s eye, and at a sign from her,
stood waiting with the tea-pail in his hand.

“Come on with the tea, Ranald,” cried Don, seizing a plate of toast.

“Wait a minute, Don,” said Ranald, in a low tone.

“What’s the matter?”

But Ranald stood still, looking silently at the minister’s wife. Then,
as all eyes turned toward her, she said, in a gentle, sweet voice,
“I think we ought to give thanks to our Father in heaven for all this
beauty about us and for all our joy.”

At once Ranald took off his hat, and as the boys followed his example,
Mrs. Murray bowed her head and in a few, simple words lifted up the
hearts of all with her own in thanksgiving for the beauty of the woods
and sky above them, and all the many gifts that came to fill their lives
with joy.

It was not the first time that Ranald had heard her voice in prayer, but
somehow it sounded different in the open air under the trees and in the
midst of all the jollity of the sugaring-off. With all other people
that Ranald knew religion seemed to be something apart from common days,
common people, and common things, and seemed, besides, a solemn and
terrible experience; but with the minister’s wife, religion was a part
of her every-day living, and seemed to be as easily associated with her
pleasure as with anything else about her. It was so easy, so simple, so
natural, that Ranald could not help wondering if, after all, it was the
right kind. It was so unlike the religion of the elders and all the good
people in the congregation. It was a great puzzle to Ranald, as to many
others, both before and since his time.

After tea was over the great business of the evening came on. Ranald
announced that the taffy was ready, and Don, as master of ceremonies,
immediately cried out: “The gentlemen will provide the ladies with
plates.”

“Plates!” echoed the boys, with a laugh of derision.

“Plates,” repeated Don, stepping back to a great snowbank, near a balsam
clump, and returning with a piece of “crust.” At once there was a scurry
to the snowbank, and soon every one had a snow plate ready. Then Ranald
and Don slid the little kettle along the pole off the fire, and with
tin dippers began to pour the hot syrup upon the snow plates, where it
immediately hardened into taffy. Then the pulling began. What fun there
was, what larks, what shrieks, what romping and tumbling, till all were
heartily tired, both of the taffy and the fun.

Then followed the sugar-molding. The little kettle was set back on the
fire and kept carefully stirred, while tin dishes of all sorts, shapes,
and sizes--milk-pans, pattie-pans, mugs, and cups--well greased with
pork rind, were set out in order, imbedded in snow.

The last act of all was the making of “hens’ nests.” A dozen or so of
hens’ eggs, blown empty, and three goose eggs for the grown-ups, were
set in snow nests, and carefully filled from the little kettle. In a few
minutes the nests were filled with sugar eggs, and the sugaring-off was
over.

There remained still a goose egg provided against any mishap.

“Who wants the goose egg?” cried Don, holding it up.

“Me!” “me!” “me!” coaxed the girls on every side.

“Will you give it to me, Don, for the minister?” said Mrs. Murray.

“Oh, yes!” cried Maimie, “and let me fill it.”

As she spoke, she seized the dipper, and ran for the kettle.

“Look out for that fire,” cried Don, dropping the egg into its snowbed.
He was too late. A little tongue of flame leaped out from under the
kettle, nipped hold of her frock, and in a moment she was in a blaze.
With a wild scream she sprang back and turned to fly, but before she had
gone more than a single step Ranald, dashing the crowd right and left,
had seized and flung her headlong into the snow, beating out the flames
with his bare hands. In a moment all danger was over, and Ranald lifted
her up. Still screaming, she clung to him, while the women all ran to
her. Her aunt reached her first.

“Hush, Maimie; hush, dear. You are quite safe now. Let me see your face.
There now, be quiet, child. The danger is all over.”

Still Maimie kept screaming. She was thoroughly terrified.

“Listen to me,” her aunt said, in an even, firm voice. “Do not be
foolish. Let me look at you.”

The quiet, firm voice soothed her, and Maimie’s screams ceased. Her aunt
examined her face, neck, and arms for any signs of fire, but could find
none. She was hardly touched, so swift had been her rescue. Then Mrs.
Murray, suddenly putting her arms round about her niece, and holding her
tight, cried: “Thank God, my darling, for his great kindness to you and
to us all. Thank God! thank God!”

Her voice broke, but in a moment, recovering herself, she went on, “And
Ranald, too! noble fellow!”

Ranald was standing at the back of the crowd, looking pale, disturbed,
and awkward. Mrs. Murray, knowing how hateful to him would be any
demonstrations of feeling, went to him, and quietly held out her hand,
saying: “It was bravely done, Ranald. From my heart, I thank you.”

For a moment or two she looked steadily into his face with tears
streaming down her cheeks. Then putting her hands upon his shoulders,
she said, softly:

“For her dear, dead mother’s sake, I thank you.”

Then Maimie, who had been standing in a kind of stupor all this while,
seemed suddenly to awake, and running swiftly toward Ranald, she put out
both hands, crying: “Oh, Ranald, I can never thank you enough!”

He took her hands in an agony of embarrassment, not knowing what to do
or say. Then Maimie suddenly dropped his hands, and throwing her arms
about his neck, kissed him, and ran back to her aunt’s side.

“I thought you didn’t play forfeits, Maimie,” said Don, in a grieved
voice. And every one was glad to laugh.

Then the minister’s wife, looking round upon them all, said: “Dear
children, God has been very good to us, and I think we ought to give him
thanks.”

And standing there by the fire, they bowed their heads in a new
thanksgiving to Him whose keeping never fails by day or night. And then,
with hearts and voices subdued, and with quiet good nights, they went
their ways home.

But as the Cameron sleigh drove off with its load, Maimie looked back,
and seeing Ranald standing by the fire, she whispered to her aunt: “Oh,
auntie! Isn’t he just splendid?”

But her aunt made no reply, seeing a new danger for them both, greater
than that they had escaped.



CHAPTER IX

A SABBATH DAY’S WORK


The Sabbath that followed the sugaring-off was to Maimie the most
remarkable Sabbath of her life up to that day. It was totally unlike the
Sabbath of her home, which, after the formal “church parade,” as
Harry called it, in the morning, her father spent in lounging with his
magazine and pipe, her aunt in sleeping or in social gossip with such
friends as might drop in, and Harry and Maimie as best they could.

The Sabbath in the minister’s house, as in the homes of his people, was
a day so set apart from other days that it had to be approached. The
Saturday afternoon and evening caught something of its atmosphere. No
frivolity, indeed no light amusement, was proper on the evening that put
a period to the worldly occupations and engagements of the week. That
evening was one of preparation. The house, and especially the kitchen,
was thoroughly “redd up.” Wood, water, and kindlings were brought in,
clothes were brushed, boots greased or polished, dinner prepared, and
in every way possible the whole house, its dwellers, and its belongings,
made ready for the morrow. So, when the Sabbath morning dawned, people
awoke with a feeling that old things had passed away and that the whole
world was new. The sun shone with a radiance not known on other days. He
was shining upon holy things, and lighting men and women to holy duties.
Through all the farms the fields lay bathed in his genial glow, at rest,
and the very trees stood in silent worship of the bending heavens. Up
from stable and from kitchen came no sounds of work. The horses knew
that no wheel would turn that day in labor, and the dogs lay sleeping in
sunny nooks, knowing as well as any that there was to be no hunting or
roaming for them that day, unless they chose to go on a free hunt; which
none but light-headed puppies or dissipated and reprobate dogs would
care to do.

Over all things rest brooded, and out of the rest grew holy thoughts
and hopes. It was a day of beginnings. For the past, broken and stained,
there was a new offer of oblivion and healing, and the heart was
summoned to look forward to new life and to hope for better things, and
to drink in all those soothing, healing influences that memory and faith
combine to give; so that when the day was done, weary and discouraged
men and women began to feel that, perhaps after all they might be able
to endure and even to hope for victory.

The minister rose earlier on Sabbath than on other days, the
responsibility of his office pressing hard upon him. Breakfast was more
silent than usual, ordinary subjects of conversation being discouraged.
The minister was preoccupied and impatient of any interruption of his
thoughts. But his wife came to the table with a sweeter serenity than
usual, and a calm upon her face that told of hidden strength. Even
Maimie could notice the difference, but she could only wonder. The
secret of it was hidden from her. Her aunt was like no other woman that
she knew, and there were many things about her too deep for Maimie’s
understanding.

After worship, which was brief but solemn and intense, Lambert hurried
to bring round to the front the big black horse, hitched up in the
carryall, and they all made speed to pack themselves in, Maimie and her
aunt in front, and Hughie on the floor behind with his legs under the
seat; for when once the minister was himself quite ready, and had got
his great meerschaum pipe going, it was unsafe for any one to delay him
a single instant.

The drive to the church was an experience hardly in keeping with the
spirit of the day. It was more exciting than restful. Black was a horse
with a single aim, which was to devour the space that stretched out
before him, with a fine disregard of consequence. The first part of the
road up to the church hill and down again to the swamp was to Black, as
to the others, an unmixed joy, for he was fresh from his oats and eager
to go, and his driver was as eager to let him have his will.

But when the swamp was reached, and the buggy began to leap from log
to log of the corduroy, Black began to chafe in impatience of the rein
which commanded caution. Indeed, the passage of the swamp was always
more or less of an adventure, the result of which no one could foretell,
and it took all Mrs. Murray’s steadiness of nerve to repress an
exclamation of terror at critical moments. The corduroy was Black’s
abomination. He longed to dash through and be done with it; but, however
much the minister sympathized with Black’s desire, prudence forbade that
his method should be adopted. So from log to log, and from hole to hole,
Black plunged and stepped with all the care he could be persuaded to
exercise, every lurch of the carryall bringing a scream from Maimie in
front and a delighted chuckle from Hughie behind. His delight in the
adventure was materially increased by his cousin’s terror.

But once the swamp was crossed, and Black found himself on the firm
road that wound over the sand-hills and through the open pine woods, he
tossed his great mane back from his eyes, and getting his head set off
at a pace that foreboded disaster to anything trying to keep before him,
and in a short time drew up at the church gates, his flanks steaming and
his great chest white with foam.

“My!” said Maimie, when she had recovered her breath sufficiently to
speak, “is that the church?” She pointed to a huge wooden building about
whose door a group of men were standing.

“Huh-huh, that’s it,” said Hughie; “but we will soon be done with the
ugly old thing.”

The most enthusiastic member of the congregation could scarcely call the
old church beautiful, and to Maimie’s eyes it was positively hideous.
No steeple or tower gave any hint of its sacred character. Its
weather-beaten clapboard exterior, spotted with black knots, as if
stricken with some disfiguring disease, had nothing but its row of
uncurtained windows to distinguish it from an ordinary barn.

They entered by the door at the end of the church, and proceeded down
the long aisle that ran the full length of the building, till they came
to a cross aisle that led them to the minister’s pew at the left side
of the pulpit, and commanding a view of the whole congregation. The main
body of the church was seated with long box pews with hinged doors. But
the gallery that ran round three sides was fitted with simple benches.
Immediately in front of the pulpit was a square pew which was set apart
for the use of the elders, and close up to the pulpit, and indeed as
part of this structure, was a precentor’s desk. The pulpit was, to
Maimie’s eyes, a wonder. It was an octagonal box placed high on one
side of the church on a level with the gallery, and reached by a spiral
staircase. Above it hung the highly ornate and altogether extraordinary
sounding-board and canopy. There was no sign of paint anywhere, but
the yellow pine, of which seats, gallery, and pulpit were all made, had
deepened with age into a rich brown, not unpleasant to the eye.

The church was full, for the Indian Lands people believed in going
to church, and there was not a house for many miles around but was
represented in the church that day. There they sat, row upon row of men,
brawny and brown with wind and sun, a notable company, worthy of their
ancestry and worthy of their heritage. Beside them sat their wives,
brown, too, and weather-beaten, but strong, deep-bosomed, and with faces
of calm content, worthy to be mothers of their husbands’ sons. The girls
and younger children sat with their parents, modest, shy, and reverent,
but the young men, for the most part, filled the back seats under
the gallery. And a hardy lot they were, as brown and brawny as their
fathers, but tingling with life to their finger-tips, ready for
anything, and impossible of control except by one whom they feared as
well as reverenced. And such a man was Alexander Murray, for they knew
well that, lithe and brawny as they were, there was not a man of them
but he could fling out of the door and over the fence if he so wished;
and they knew, too, that he would be prompt to do it if occasion arose.
Hence they waited for the word of God with all due reverence and fear.

In the square pew in front of the pulpit sat the elders, hoary, massive,
and venerable. The Indian Lands Session were worth seeing. Great men
they were, every one of them, excepting, perhaps, Kenneth Campbell,
“Kenny Crubach,” as he was called, from his halting step. Kenny was
neither hoary nor massive nor venerable. He was a short, grizzled man
with snapping black eyes and a tongue for clever, biting speech;
and while he bore a stainless character, no one thought of him as
an eminently godly man. In public prayer he never attained any great
length, nor did he employ that tone of unction deemed suitable in this
sacred exercise. He seldom “spoke to the question,” but when he did
people leaned forward to listen, and more especially the rows of the
careless and ungodly under the gallery. Kenny had not the look of an
elder, and indeed, many wondered how he had ever come to be chosen for
the office. But the others all had the look of elders, and carried with
them the full respect and affection of the congregation. Even the young
men under the gallery regarded them with reverence for their godly
character, but for other things as well; for these old men had been
famous in their day, and tales were still told about the firesides of
the people of their prowess in the woods and on the river.

There was, for instance, Finlay McEwen, or McKeowen, as they all
pronounced it in that country, who, for a wager, had carried a
four-hundred-pound barrel upon each hip across the long bridge over the
Scotch River. And next him sat Donald Ross, whose very face, with its
halo of white hair, bore benediction with it wherever he went. What a
man he must have been in his day! Six feet four inches he stood in his
stocking soles, and with “a back like a barn door,” as his son Danny,
or “Curly,” now in the shanty with Macdonald Bhain, used to say, in
affectionate pride. Then there was Farquhar McNaughton, big, kindly, and
good-natured, a mighty man with the ax in his time. “Kirsty’s Farquhar”
 they called him, for obvious reasons. And a good thing for Farquhar it
was that he had had Kirsty at his side during these years to make his
bargains for him and to keep him and all others to them, else he would
never have become the substantial man he was.

Next to Farquhar was Peter McRae, the chief of a large clan of
respectable, and none too respectable, families, whom all alike held
in fear, for Peter ruled with a rod of iron, and his word ran as law
throughout the clan. Then there was Ian More Macgregor, or “Big John
Macgregor,” as the younger generation called him, almost as big as
Donald Ross and quite as kindly, but with a darker, sadder face.
Something from his wilder youth had cast its shadow over his life. No
one but his minister and two others knew that story, but the old man
knew it himself, and that was enough. One of those who shared his secret
was his neighbor and crony, Donald Ross, and it was worth a journey of
some length to see these two great old men, one with the sad and the
other with the sunny face, stride off together, staff in hand, at the
close of the Gaelic service, to Donald’s home, where the afternoon would
be spent in discourse fitting the Lord’s day and in prayer.

The only other elder was Roderick McCuiag, who sat, not in the elders’
pew, but in the precentor’s box, for he was the Leader of Psalmody.
“Straight Rory,” as he was called by the irreverent, was tall, spare,
and straight as a ramrod. He was devoted to his office, jealous of
its dignity, and strenuous in his opposition to all innovations in
connection with the Service of Praise. He was especially opposed to
the introduction of those “new-fangled ranting” tunes which were
being taught the young people by John “Alec” Fraser in the weekly
singing-school in the Nineteenth, and which were sung at Mrs. Murray’s
Sabbath evening Bible class in the Little Church. Straight Rory had been
educated for a teacher in Scotland, and was something of a scholar.
He loved school examinations, where he was the terror of pupils and
teachers alike. His acute mind reveled in the metaphysics of theology,
which made him the dread of all candidates who appeared before the
session desiring “to come forward.” It was to many an impressive sight
to see Straight Rory rise in the precentor’s box, feel round, with much
facial contortion, for the pitch--he despised a tuning-fork--and then,
straightening himself up till he bent over backwards, raise the chant
that introduced the tune to the congregation. But to the young men under
the gallery he was more humorous than impressive, and it is to be feared
that they waited for the precentor’s weekly performance with a delighted
expectation that never flagged and that was never disappointed. It was
only the flash of the minister’s blue eye that held their faces rigid
in preternatural solemnity, and forced them to content themselves with
winks and nudges for the expression of their delight.

As Maimie’s eye went wandering shyly over the rows of brown faces that
turned in solemn and steadfast regard to the minister’s pew, Hughie
nudged her and whispered: “There’s Don. See, in the back seat by the
window, next to Peter Ruagh yonder; the red-headed fellow.”

He pointed to Peter McRae, grandson of “Peter the Elder.” There was no
mistaking that landmark.

“Look,” cried Hughie, eagerly, pointing with terrible directness
straight at Don, to Maimie’s confusion.

“Whisht, Hughie,” said his mother softly.

“There’s Ranald, mother,” said the diplomatic Hughie, knowing well that
his mother would rejoice to hear that bit of news. “See, mother, just in
front of Don, there.”

Again Hughie’s terrible finger pointed straight into the face of the
gazing congregation.

“Hush, Hughie,” said his mother, severely.

Maimie knew a hundred eyes were looking straight at the minister’s pew,
but for the life of her she could not prevent her eye following the
pointing finger, till it found the steady gaze of Ranald fastened upon
her. It was only for a moment, but in that moment she felt her heart
jump and her face grow hot, and it did not help her that she knew that
the people were all wondering at her furious blushes. Of course the
story of the sugaring-off had gone the length of the land and had formed
the subject of conversation at the church door that morning, where
Ranald had to bear a good deal of chaff about the young lady, and her
dislike of forfeits, till he was ready to fight if a chance should but
offer. With unspeakable rage and confusion, he noticed Hughie’s pointing
finger. He caught, too, Maimie’s quick look, with the vivid blush that
followed. Unfortunately, others besides himself had noticed this, and
Don and Peter Ruagh, in the seat behind him, made it the subject of
congratulatory remarks to Ranald.

At this point the minister rose in the pulpit, and all waited with
earnest and reverent mien for the announcing of the psalm.

The Rev. Alexander Murray was a man to be regarded in any company and
under any circumstances, but when he stood up in his pulpit and faced
his congregation he was truly superb. He was above the average height,
of faultless form and bearing, athletic, active, and with a “spring in
every muscle.” He had coal-black hair and beard, and a flashing blue eye
that held his people in utter subjection and put the fear of death upon
evil-doers under the gallery. In every movement, tone, and glance there
breathed imperial command.

“Let us worship God by singing to His praise in the one hundred and
twenty-first psalm:


     ‘I to the hills will lift mine eyes,
      From whence doth come mine aid.’”


His voice rang out over the congregation like a silver bell, and Maimie
thought she had never seen a man of such noble presence.

After the reading of the psalm the minister sat down, and Straight Rory
rose in his box, and after his manner, began feeling about for the first
note of the chant that would introduce the noble old tune “St. Paul’s.”
 A few moments he spent twisting his face and shoulders in a manner that
threatened to ruin the solemnity of the worshipers under the gallery,
till finally he seemed to hit upon the pitch desired, and throwing back
his head and closing one eye, he proceeded on his way. Each line he
chanted alone, after the ancient Scottish custom, after which the
congregation joined with him in the tune. The custom survived from the
time when psalm-books were in the hands of but few and the “lining” of
the psalm was therefore necessary.

There was no haste to be done with the psalm. Why should there be? They
had only one Sabbath in the week, and the whole day was before them.
The people surrendered themselves to the lead of Straight Rory with
unmistakable delight in that part of “the exercises” of the day in which
they were permitted to audibly join. But of all the congregation, none
enjoyed the singing more than the dear old women who sat in the front
seats near the pulpit, their quiet old faces looking so sweet and pure
under their snow-white “mutches.” There they sat and sang and quavered,
swaying their bodies with the tune in an ecstasy of restful joy.

Maimie had often heard St. Paul’s before, but never as it was chanted
by Straight Rory and sung by the Indian Lands congregation that day.
The extraordinary slides and slurs almost obliterated the notes of the
original tune, and the “little kick,” as Maimie called it, at the end of
the second line, gave her a little start.

“Auntie,” she whispered, “isn’t it awfully queer?”

“Isn’t it beautiful?” her aunt answered, with an uncertain smile. She
was remembering how these winding, sliding, slurring old tunes had
affected her when first she heard them in her husband’s church years
ago. The stately movement, the weird quavers, and the pathetic cadences
had in some mysterious way reached the deep places in her heart, and
before she knew, she had found the tears coursing down her cheeks and
her breath catching in sobs. Indeed, as she listened to-day, remembering
these old impressions, the tears began to flow, till Hughie, not
understanding, crept over to his mother, and to comfort her, slipped
his hand into hers, looking fiercely at Maimie as if she were to
blame. Maimie, too, noticed the tears and sat wondering, and as the
congregation swung on through the verses of the grand old psalm there
crept into her heart a new and deeper emotion than she had ever known.

“Listen to the words, Maimie dear,” whispered her aunt. And as Maimie
listened, the noble words, borne on the mighty swing of St. Paul’s,
lifted up by six hundred voices--for men, women, and children were
singing with all their hearts--awakened echoes from great deeps within
her as yet unsounded. The days for such singing are, alas! long gone.
The noble rhythm, the stately movement, the continuous curving stream of
melody, that once marked the praise service of the old Scottish church,
have given place to the light, staccato tinkle of the revival chorus, or
the shorn and mutilated skeleton of the ancient psalm tune.

But while the psalm had been moving on in its solemn and stately way,
Ranald had been enduring agony at the hands of Peter Ruagh sitting just
behind him. Peter, whose huge, clumsy body was a fitting tabernacle for
the soul within, labored under the impression that he was a humorist,
and indulged a habit of ponderous joking, trying enough to most people,
but to one of Ranald’s temperament exasperating to a high degree. His
theme was Ranald’s rescue of Maimie, and the pauses of the singing he
filled in with humorous comments that, outside, would have produced only
weariness, but in the church, owing to the strange perversity of human
nature, sent a snicker along the seat. Unfortunately for him, Ranald’s
face was so turned that he could not see it, and so he had no hint of
the wrath that was steadily boiling up to the point of overflow.

They were nearing the close of the last verse of the psalm, when Hughie,
whose eyes never wandered long from Ranald’s direction, uttered a sharp
“Oh, my!” There was a shuffling confusion under the gallery, and when
Maimie and her aunt looked, Peter Ruagh’s place was vacant.

By this time the minister was standing up for prayer. His eye, too,
caught the movement in the back seat.

“Young men,” he said, sternly, “remember you are in God’s house. Let me
not have to mention your names before the congregation. Let us pray.”

As the congregation rose for prayer, Mrs. Murray noticed Peter Ruagh
appear from beneath the book-board and quietly slip out by the back door
with his hand to his face and the blood streaming between his fingers;
and though Ranald was standing up straight and stiff in his place, Mrs.
Murray could read from his rigid look the explanation of Peter’s bloody
face. She gave her mind to the prayer with a sore heart, for she had
learned enough of those wild, hot-headed youths to know that before
Peter Ruagh’s face would be healed more blood would have to flow.

The prayer proceeded in its leisurely way, indulging here and there
in quiet reverie, or in exultant jubilation over the “attributes,”
 embracing in its worldwide sweep “the interests of the kingdom” far and
near, and of that part of humanity included therein present and to come,
and buttressing its petitions with theological argument, systematic and
unassailable. Before the close, however, the minister came to deal with
the needs of his own people. Old and young, absent and present, the
sick, the weary, the sin-burdened--all were remembered with a warmth
of sympathy, with a directness of petition, and with an earnestness of
appeal that thrilled and subdued the hearts of all, and made even the
boys, who had borne with difficulty the last half-hour of the long
prayer, forget their weariness.

The reading of Scripture followed the prayer. In this the minister
excelled. His fine voice and his dramatic instinct combined to make this
an impressive and beautiful portion of the service. But to-day much of
the beauty and impressiveness of the reading was lost by the frequent
interruptions caused by the entrance of late comers, of whom, owing to
the bad roads, there were a larger number than usual. The minister was
evidently annoyed, not so much by the opening and shutting of the door
as by the inattention of his hearers, who kept turning round their heads
to see who the new arrivals were. At length the minister could bear it
no longer.

“My dear people,” he said, pausing in the reading, “never mind those
coming in. Give you heed to the reading of God’s Word, and if you must
know who are entering, I will tell you. Yes,” he added, deliberately,
“give you heed to me, and I will let you know who these late comers
are.”

With that startling declaration, he proceeded with the reading, but had
not gone more than a few verses when “click” went the door-latch. Not
a head turned. It was Malcolm Monroe, slow-going and good-natured, with
his quiet little wife following him.

The minister paused, looking toward the door, and announced: “My dear
people, here comes our friend Malcolm Monroe, and his good wife with
him, and a long walk they have had. Come away, Malcolm; come away; we
will just wait for you.”

Malcolm’s face was a picture. Surprise, astonishment, and confusion
followed each other across his stolid countenance; and with quicker pace
than he was ever known to use in his life before, he made his way to
his seat. No sooner had the reading began again when once more the
door clicked. True to his promise, the minister paused and cheerfully
announced to his people: “This, my friends, is John Campbell, whom
you all know as ‘Johnnie Sarah,’ and we are very glad to see him, for,
indeed, he has not been here for some time. Come away, John; come away,
man,” he added, impatiently, “for we are all waiting for you.”

Johnnie Sarah stood paralyzed with amazement and seemed uncertain
whether to advance or to turn and flee. The minister’s impatient
command, however, decided him, and he dropped into the nearest seat with
all speed, and gazed about him as if to discover where he was. He had
no sooner taken his seat than the door opened again, and some half-dozen
people entered. The minister stood looking at them for some moments and
then said, in a voice of resignation: “Friends, these are some of our
people from the Island, and there are some strangers with them. But
if you want to know who they are, you will just have to look at them
yourselves, for I must get on with the reading.”

Needless to say, not a soul of the congregation, however consumed with
curiosity, dared to look around, and the reading of the chapter went
gravely on to the close. To say that Maimie sat in utter astonishment
during this extraordinary proceeding would give but a faint idea of her
state of mind. Even Mrs. Murray herself, who had become accustomed to
her husband’s eccentricities, sat in a state of utter bewilderment, not
knowing what might happen next; nor did she feel quite safe until the
text was announced and the sermon fairly begun.

Important as were the exercises of reading, praise, and prayer, they
were only the “opening services,” and merely led up to the event of the
day, which was the sermon. And it was the event, not only of the day,
but of the week. It would form the theme of conversation and afford food
for discussion in every gathering of the people until another came to
take its place. To-day it lasted a full hour and a half, and was an
extraordinary production. Calm, deliberate reasoning, flights of vivid
imagination, passionate denunciation, and fervid appeal, marked its
course. Its subject was the great doctrine of Justification by Faith,
and it contained a complete system of theology arranged with reference
to that doctrine. Ancient heresies were attacked and exposed with
completeness amounting to annihilation. Modern errors, into which our
“friends” of the different denominations had fallen, were deplored and
corrected, and all possible misapplications of the doctrine to practical
life guarded against. On the positive side the need, the ground, the
means, the method, the agent, the results, of Justification, were fully
set forth and illustrated. There were no anecdotes and no poetry.
The subject was much too massive and tremendous to permit of any such
trifling.

As the sermon rolled on its majestic course, the congregation listened
with an attentive and discriminating appreciation that testified to
their earnestness and intelligence. True, one here and there dropped
into a momentary doze, but his slumber was never easy, for he was
harassed by the terrible fear of a sudden summons by name from the
pulpit to “awake and give heed to the message,” which for the next few
minutes would have an application so personal and pungent that it would
effectually prevent sleep for that and some successive Sabbaths. The
only apparent lapse of attention occurred when Donald Ross opened his
horn snuff-box, and after tapping solemnly upon its lid, drew forth a
huge pinch of snuff and passed it to his neighbor, who, after helping
himself in like manner, passed the box on. That the lapse was only
apparent was made evident by the air of abstraction with which this
operation was carried on, the snuff being held between the thumb and
forefinger for some moments, until a suitable resting-place in the
sermon was reached.

When the minister had arrived at the middle of the second head, he made
the discovery, as was not frequently the case, that the remotest limits
of the alloted time had been passed, and announcing that the subject
would be concluded on the following Sabbath, he summarily brought the
English service to a close, and dismissed the congregation with a brief
prayer, two verses of a psalm, and the benediction.

When Maimie realized that the service was really over, she felt as
if she had been in church for a week. After the benediction the
congregation passed out into the churchyard and disposed themselves in
groups about the gate and along the fences discussing the sermon and
making brief inquiries as to the “weal and ill” of the members of their
families. Mrs. Murray, leaving Hughie and Maimie to wander at will,
passed from group to group, welcomed by all with equal respect and
affection. Young men and old men, women and girls alike, were glad to
get her word. To-day, however, the young men were not at first to be
seen, but Mrs. Murray knew them well enough to suspect that they would
be found at the back of the church, so she passed slowly around the
church, greeting the people as she went, and upon turning the corner she
saw a crowd under the big maple, the rendezvous for the younger portion
of the congregation before “church went in.” In the center of the
group stood Ranald and Don, with Murdie, Don’s eldest brother, a huge,
good-natured man, beside them, and Peter Ruagh, with his cousin Aleck,
and others of the clan. Ranald was standing, pale and silent, with his
head thrown back, as his manner was when in passion. The talk was mainly
between Aleck and Murdie, the others crowding eagerly about and putting
in a word as they could. Murdie was reasoning good-humoredly, Aleck
replying fiercely.

“It was good enough for him,” Mrs. Murray heard Don interject, in a
triumphant tone, to Murdie. But Murdie shut him off sternly.

“Whisht, Don, you are not talking just now.”

Don was about to reply when he caught sight of Mrs. Murray. “Here’s the
minister’s wife,” he said, in a low tone, and at once the group parted
in shamefaced confusion. But Murdie kept his face unmoved, and as Mrs.
Murray drew slowly near, said, in a quiet voice of easy good-humor, to
Aleck, who was standing with a face like that of a detected criminal:
“Well, we will see about it to-morrow night, Aleck, at the post-office,”
 and he faced about to meet Mrs. Murray with an easy smile, while Aleck
turned away. But Mrs. Murray was not deceived, and she went straight to
the point.

“Murdie,” she said, quietly, when she had answered his greeting, “will
you just come with me a little; I want to ask you about something.”
 And Murdie walked away with her, followed by the winks and nods of the
others.

What she said Murdie never told, but he came back to them more
determined upon peace than ever. The difficulty lay, not with the
good-natured Peter, who was ready enough to settle with Ranald, but with
the fiery Aleck, who represented the non-respectable section of the
clan McRae, who lived south of the Sixteenth, and had a reputation for
wildness. Fighting was their glory, and no one cared to enter upon a
feud with any one of them. Murdie had interfered on Ranald’s behalf,
chiefly because he was Don’s friend, but also because he was unwilling
that Ranald should be involved in a quarrel with the McRaes, which he
knew would be a serious affair for him. But now his strongest reason for
desiring peace was that he had pledged himself to the minister’s wife
to bring it about in some way or other. So he took Peter off by himself,
and without much difficulty, persuaded him to act the magnanimous part
and drop the quarrel.

With Ranald he had a harder task. That young man was prepared to see his
quarrel through at whatever consequences to himself. He knew the McRaes,
and knew well their reputation, but that only made it more impossible
for him to retreat. But Murdie knew better than to argue with him, so
he turned away from him with an indifferent air, saying: “Oh, very well.
Peter is willing to let it drop. You can do as you please, only I know
the minister’s wife expects you to make it up.”

“What did she say to you, then?” asked Ranald, fiercely.

“She said a number of things that you don’t need to know, but she said
this, whatever, ‘He will make it up for my sake, I know.’”

Ranald stood a moment silent, then said, suddenly: “I will, too,” and
walking straight over to Peter, he offered his hand, saying, “I was too
quick, Peter, and I am willing to take as much as I gave. You can go
on.”

But Peter was far too soft-hearted to accept that invitation, and
seizing Ranald’s hand, said, heartily: “Never mind, Ranald, it was my
own fault. We will just say nothing more about it.”

“There is the singing, boys,” said Murdie. “Come away. Let us go in.”

He was all the more anxious to get the boys into the church when he saw
Aleck making toward them. He hurried Peter in before him, well pleased
with himself and his success as peacemaker, but especially delighted
that he could now turn his face toward the minister’s pew, without
shame. And as he took his place in the back seat, with Peter Ruagh
beside him, the glance of pride and gratitude that flashed across the
congregation to him from the gray-brown eyes made Murdie feel more
than ever pleased at what he had been able to do. But he was somewhat
disturbed to notice that neither Ranald nor Don nor Aleck had followed
him into the church, and he waited uneasily for their coming.

In the meantime Straight Rory was winding his sinuous way through
Coleshill, the Gaelic rhythm of the psalm allowing of quavers and turns
impossible in the English.

In the pause following the second verse, Murdie was startled at the
sound of angry voices from without. More than Murdie heard that sound.
As Murdie glanced toward the pulpit he saw that the minister had risen
and was listening intently.

“Behold--the--sparrow--findeth--out--” chanted the precentor.

“You are a liar!” The words, in Aleck’s fiery voice outside, fell
distinctly upon Murdie’s ear, though few in the congregation seemed to
have heard. But while Murdie was making up his mind to slip out, the
minister was before him. Quickly he stepped down the pulpit stairs,
psalm-book in hand, and singing as he went, walked quietly to the back
door, and leaving his book on the window-sill, passed out. The singing
went calmly on, for the congregation were never surprised at anything
their minister did.

The next verse was nearly through, when the door opened, and in came
Don, followed by Aleck, looking somewhat disheveled and shaken up,
and two or three more. In a few moments the minister came in, took his
psalm-book from the window-sill, and striking up with the congregation,
“Blest is the man whose strength thou art,” marched up to the pulpit
again, with only an added flash in his blue eyes and a little more
triumphant swing to his coat-tails to indicate that anything had taken
place. But Murdie looked in vain for Ranald to appear, and waited,
uncertain what to do. He had a wholesome fear of the minister, more
especially in his present mood. Instinctively he turned toward the
minister’s pew, and reading the look of anxious entreaty from the pale
face there, he waited till the congregation rose for prayer and then
slipped out, and was seen no more in church that day.

On the way home not a word was said about the disturbance. But after the
evening worship, when the minister had gone to his study for a smoke,
Hughie, who had heard the whole story from Don, told it to his mother
and Maimie in his most graphic manner.

“It was not Ranald’s fault, mother,” he declared. “You know Peter would
not let him alone, and Ranald hit him in the nose, and served him right,
too. But they made it all up, and they were just going into the church
again, when that Aleck McRae pulled Ranald back, and Ranald did not want
to fight at all, but he called Ranald a liar, and he could not help it,
but just hit him.”

“Who hit who?” said Maimie. “You’re not making it very clear, Hughie.”

“Why, Ranald, of course, hit Aleck, and knocked him over, too,” said
Hughie, with much satisfaction; “and then Aleck--he is an awful fighter,
you know--jumped on Ranald and was pounding him just awful, the great
big brute, when out came papa. He stepped up and caught Aleck by the
neck and shook him just like a baby, saying, all the time, ‘Would ye? I
will teach you to fight on the Sabbath day! Here! in with you, every
one of you!’ and he threw him nearly into the door, and then they all
skedaddled into the church, I tell you, Don said. They were pretty badly
scart, too, but Don did not know what papa did to Ranald, and he did not
know where Ranald went, but he is pretty badly hurted, I am sure. That
great big Aleck McRae is old enough to be his father. Wasn’t it mean of
him, mother?”

Poor Hughie was almost in tears, and his mother, who sat listening too
eagerly to correct her little boy’s ethics or grammar, was as nearly
overcome as he. She wished she knew where Ranald was. He had not
appeared at the evening Bible class, and Murdie had reported that he
could not find him anywhere.

She put Hughie to bed, and then saw Maimie to her room. But Maimie was
very unwilling to go to bed.

“Oh, auntie,” she whispered, as her aunt kissed her good night, “I
cannot go to sleep!” And then, after a pause, she said, shyly, “Do you
think he is badly hurt?”

Then the minister’s wife, looking keenly into the girl’s face, made
light of Ranald’s misfortune.

“Oh, he will be all right,” she said, “as far as his hurt is concerned.
That is the least part of his trouble. You need not worry about that.
Good night, my dear.” And Maimie, relieved by her aunt’s tone, said
“good night” with her heart at rest.

Then Mrs. Murray went into the study, determined to find out what had
passed between her husband and Ranald. She found him lying on his couch,
luxuriating in the satisfaction of a good day’s work behind him, and
his first pipe nearly done. She at once ventured upon the thing that lay
heavy upon her heart. She began by telling all she knew of the trouble
from its beginning in the church, and then waited for her husband’s
story.

For some moments he lay silently smoking.

“Ah, well,” he said, at length, knocking out his pipe, “perhaps I was a
little severe with the lad. He may not have been so much to blame.”

“Oh, papa! What did you do?” said his wife, in an anxious voice.

“Well,” said the minister, hesitating, “I found that the young
rascal had struck Aleck McRae first, and a very bad blow it was. So I
administered a pretty severe rebuke and sent him home.”

“Oh, what a shame!” cried his wife, in indignant tears. “It was far more
the fault of Peter and Aleck and the rest. Poor Ranald!”

“Now, my dear,” said the minister, “you need not fear for Ranald. I do
not suppose he cares much. Besides, his face was not fit to be seen, so
I sent him home. Well, it--”

“Yes,” burst in his wife, “great, brutal fellow, to strike a boy like
that!”

“Boy?” said her husband. “Well, he may be, but not many men would
dare to face him.” Then he added, “I wish I had known--I fear I
spoke--perhaps the boy may feel unjustly treated. He is as proud as
Lucifer.”

“Oh, papa!” said his wife, “what did you say?”

“Nothing but what was true. I just told him that a boy who would break
the Lord’s Day by fighting, and in the very shadow of the Lord’s house,
when Christian people were worshiping God, was acting like a savage, and
was not fit for the company of decent folk.”

To this his wife made no reply, but went out of the study, leaving the
minister feeling very uncomfortable indeed. But by the end of the second
pipe he began to feel that, after all, Ranald had got no more than
was good for him, and that he would be none the worse of it; in which
comforting conviction he went to rest, and soon fell into the sleep
which is supposed to be the right of the just.

Not so his wife. Wearied though she was with the long day, its
excitements and its toils, sleep would not come. Anxious thoughts about
the lad she had come to love as if he were her own son or brother kept
crowding in upon her. The vision of his fierce, dark, stormy face held
her eyes awake and at length drew her from her bed. She went into the
study and fell upon her knees. The burden had grown too heavy for her to
bear alone. She would share it with Him who knew what it meant to bear
the sorrows and the sins of others.

As she rose, she heard Fido bark and whine in the yard below, and going
to the window, she saw a man standing at the back door, and Fido fawning
upon him. Startled, she was about to waken her husband, when the man
turned his face so that the moonlight fell upon it, and she saw Ranald.
Hastily she threw on her dressing-gown, put on her warm bedroom slippers
and cloak, ran down to the door, and in another moment was standing
before him, holding him by the shoulders.

“Ranald!” she cried, breathlessly, “what is it?”

“I am going away,” he said, simply. “And I was just passing by--and--”
 he could not go on.

“Oh, Ranald!” she cried, “I am glad you came this way. Now tell me
where you are going.”

The boy looked at her as if she had started a new idea in his mind, and
then said, “I do not know.”

“And what are you going to do, Ranald?”

“Work. There is plenty to do. No fear of that.”

“But your father, Ranald?”

The boy was silent for a little, and then said, “He will soon be well,
and he will not be needing me, and he said I could go.” His voice broke
with the remembrance of the parting with his father.

“And why are you going, Ranald?” she said, looking into his eyes.

Again the boy stood silent.

“Why do you go away from your home and your father, and--and--all of us
who love you?”

“Indeed, there is no one,” he replied, bitterly; “and I am not for
decent people. I am not for decent people. I know that well enough.
There is no one that will care much.”

“No one, Ranald?” she asked, sadly. “I thought--” she paused, looking
steadily into his face.

Suddenly the boy turned to her, and putting out both his hands, burst
forth, his voice coming in dry sobs: “Oh, yes, yes! I do believe you.
I do believe you. And that is why I came this way. I wanted to see your
door again before I went. Oh, I will never forget you! Never, never, and
I am glad I am seeing you, for now you will know--how much--” The boy
was unable to proceed. His sobs were shaking his whole frame, and to his
shy Highland Scotch nature, words of love and admiration were not easy.
“You will not be sending me back home again?” he pleaded, anticipating
her. “Indeed, I cannot stay in this place after to-day.”

But the minister’s wife kept her eyes steadily upon his face without a
word, trying in vain to find her voice, and the right words to say. She
had no need of words, for in her face, pale, wet with her flowing tears,
and illumined with her gray-brown eyes, Ranald read her heart.

“Oh!” he cried again, “you are wanting me to stay, and I will be ashamed
before them all, and the minister, too. I cannot stay. I cannot stay.”

“And I cannot let you go, Ranald, my boy,” she said, commanding her
voice to speech. “I want you to be a brave man. I don’t want you to be
afraid of them.”

“Afraid of them!” said the boy, in scornful surprise. “Not if they were
twice as more and twice as beeg.”

Mrs. Murray saw her advantage, and followed it up.

“And the minister did not know the whole truth, Ranald, and he was sorry
he spoke to you as he did.”

“Did he say that?” said Ranald, in surprise. It was to him, as to any
one in that community, a terrible thing to fall under the displeasure of
the minister and to be disgraced in his eyes.

“Yes, indeed, Ranald, and he would be sorry if you should go away. I am
sure he would blame himself.”

This was quite a new idea to the boy. That the minister should think
himself to be in the wrong was hardly credible.

“And how glad we would be,” she continued, earnestly, “to see you prove
yourself a man before them all.”

Ranald shook his head. “I would rather go away.”

“Perhaps, but it’s braver to stay, and to do your work like a man.” And
then, allowing him no time for words, she pictured to him the selfish,
cowardly part the man plays who marches bravely enough in the front
ranks until the battle begins, but who shrinks back and seeks an easy
place when the fight comes on, till his face fell before her in shame.
And then she showed him what she would like him to do, and what she
would like him to be in patience and in courage, till he stood once more
erect and steady.

“Now, Ranald,” she said, noting the effect of her words upon him, “what
is it to be?”

“I will go back,” he said, simply; and turning with a single word of
farewell, he sprang over the fence and disappeared in the woods. The
minister’s wife stood looking the way he went long after he had passed
out of sight, and then, lifting her eyes to the radiant sky with its
shining lights, “He made the stars also,” she whispered, and went up to
her bed and laid her down and slept in peace. Her Sabbath day’s work was
done.



CHAPTER X

THE HOME-COMING OF THE SHANTYMEN


For some weeks Ranald was not seen by any one belonging to the manse.
Hughie reported that he was not at church, nor at Bible class, and
although this was not in itself an extraordinary thing, still
Mrs. Murray was uneasy, and Hughie felt that church was a great
disappointment when Ranald was not there.

In their visits to Macdonald Dubh the minister and his wife never
could see Ranald. His Aunt Kirsty could not understand or explain his
reluctance to attend the public services, nor his unwillingness to
appear in the house on the occasion of the minister’s visits. “He is
busy with the fences and about the stables preparing for the spring’s
work,” she said; “but, indeed, he is very queer whatever, and I cannot
make him out at all.” Macdonald Dubh himself said nothing. But the books
and magazines brought by the minister’s wife were always read. “Indeed,
when once he gets down to his book,” his aunt complained, “neither his
bed nor his dinner will move him.”

The minister thought little of the boy’s “vagaries,” but to his wife
came many an anxious thought about Ranald and his doings. She was more
disappointed than she cared to confess, even to herself, that the boy
seemed to be quite indifferent to the steadily deepening interest in
spiritual things that marked the members of her Bible class.

While she was planning how to reach him once more, an event occurred
which brought him nearer to her than he had ever been before. As they
were sitting one evening at tea, the door unexpectedly opened, and
without announcement, in walked Ranald, splashed with hard riding, pale,
and dazed. Without a word of reply to the greetings that met him from
all at the table, he went straight to the minister’s wife, handed her
an opened letter, and stood waiting. It was addressed to Ranald himself,
and was the first he had ever received in his life. It was from Yankee
Jim, and read as follows:


Dear Ranald--The Boss aint feelin like ritin much and the rest of the
boys is all broke up, and so he told me to rite to you and to tell you
some purty bad news. I don’t know how to go about it, but the fact is,
Mack Cameron got drownded yesterday tryin to pull a little fool of a
Frenchman out of the river just below the Lachine. We’d just got through
the rough water and were lyin nice and quiet, gettin things together
again when that ijit Frenchman got tite and got tryin some fool trick or
other walking a timber stick and got upsot into the wet. I’d a let him
go, you bet, but Mack cudn’t stand to see him bobbin up and down so he
ripped off and in after him. He got him too, but somehow the varmint
gripped him round the neck. They went down but we got em out purty
quick and the Frenchman come round all right, but somehow Mack wouldn’t,
choked appearinly by that tarnel little fool who aint worth one of
Mack’s fingers, and if killin him wud do any good, then he wudn’t be
livin long. We are all feelin purty bad. We are comin’ home on Thursday
by Cornwall, eight or ten of us. The rest will go on with the rafts. The
Boss says, better have rigs to meet us and Mack. That’s all. I haint
no good at weepin’, never was, wish I cud somehow, it might ease off a
feller a little, but tell you what, Ranald, I haint felt so queer since
I was a boy lookin at my mother in her coffin. There was nothin mean
about Mack. He was good to the heart. He wud do his work slick and never
a growl or a groan, and when you wanted a feller to your back, Mack was
there. I know there aint no use goin on like this. All I say is, ther’s
a purty big hole in the world for us to-night. Boss says you’d better
tell the minister. He says he’s good stuff and he’ll know what to do at
Mack’s home. No more at present. Good-bye. Yours truely,

J. LATHAM.


The minister’s wife began reading the letter, wondering not a little
at Ranald’s manner, but when she came to the words, “Mack Cameron got
drownded,” she laid the letter down with a little cry. Her husband came
quickly to her, took up the letter, and read it to the end.

“I will go at once,” he said, and rang the bell. “Tell Lambert to
put Black in the buggy immediately, Jessie,” he said, when the maid
appeared. “Do you think you ought to go, my dear?”

“Yes, yes, I shall be ready in a moment; but, oh, what can we do or
say?”

“Perhaps you had better not go. It will be very trying,” said the
minister.

“Oh, yes, I must go. I must. The poor mother!” Then she turned to Ranald
as the minister left the room. “You are going home, Ranald, I suppose,”
 she said.

“No, I was thinking I would go to tell the people. Donald Ross will
go, and the Campbells, and Farquhar McNaughton’s light wagon would be
best--for the--for Mack. And then I will go round by the McGregors.”

Ranald had been thinking things out and making his plans.

“But that will be a long round for you,” said Mrs. Murray. “Could not we
go by the Campbells’, and they will send word to Donald Ross?”

“I think it would be better for me to go, to make sure of the teams.”

“Very well, then. Good by, Ranald,” said the minister’s wife, holding
out her hand to him.

But still Ranald lingered. “It will be hard on Bella Peter,” he said, in
a low voice, looking out of the window.

“Bella Peter? Bella McGregor?”

“Yes,” said Ranald, embarrassed and hesitating. “She was Mack’s--Mack
was very fond of her, whatever.”

“Oh, Ranald!” she cried, “do you say so? Are you sure of that?”

“Yes, I am sure,” said Ranald, simply. “The boys in the shanty would be
teasing Mack about it, and one day Mack told me something, and I know
quite well.”

“I will go to her,” said Mrs. Murray.

“That will be very good,” said Ranald, much relieved. “And I will be
going with you that way.”

As Mrs. Murray left the room, Maimie came around to where Ranald was
standing and said to him, gently, “You knew him well, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” replied Ranald, in an indifferent tone, as if unwilling to talk
with her about it.

“And you were very fond of him?” went on Maimie.

Ranald caught the tremor in her voice and looked at her. “Yes,” he said,
with an effort. “He was good to me in the camp. Many’s the time he made
it easy for me. He was next to Macdonald Bhain with the ax, and, man,
he was the grand fighter--that is,” he added, adopting the phrase of
the Macdonald gang, “when it was a plain necessity.” Then, forgetting
himself, he began to tell Maimie how Big Mack had borne himself in
the great fight a few weeks before. But he had hardly well begun when
suddenly he stopped with a groan. “But now he is dead--he is dead. I
will never see him no more.”

He was realizing for the first time his loss. Maimie came nearer him,
and laying her hand timidly on his arm, said, “I am sorry, Ranald”;
and Ranald turned once more and looked at her, as if surprised that she
should show such feeling.

“Yes,” he said, “I believe you are sorry.”

Her big blue eyes filled suddenly with tears.

“Do you wonder that I am sorry? Do you think I have no heart at all?”
 she burst forth, impetuously.

“Indeed, I don’t know,” said Ranald. “Why should you care? You do not
know him.”

“But haven’t you just told me how splendid he was, and how good he was
to you, and how much you thought of him, and--” Maimie checked her rush
of words with a sudden blush, and then hurried on to say, “Besides,
think of his mother, and all of them.”

While Maimie was speaking, Ranald had been scanning her face as if
trying to make up his mind about her.

“I am glad you are sorry,” he said, slowly, gazing with so searching a
look into her eyes that she let them fall.

At this moment Mrs. Murray entered ready for her ride.

“Is the pony come?” she asked.

“Indeed, it is the slouch I am,” said Ranald, and he hurried off to the
stable, returning in a very short time with the pony saddled.

“You would not care to go with your uncle, Maimie?” said Mrs. Murray, as
Lambert drove up Black in the buggy.

“No, auntie, I think not,” said Maimie. “I will take care of Hughie and
the baby.”

“Good by, then, my dear,” said Mrs. Murray, kissing her.

“Good by, Ranald,” said Maimie, as he turned away to get his colt.

“Good by,” he said, awkwardly. He felt like lifting his cap, but
hesitated to do anything so extremely unnatural. With the boys in that
country such an act of courtesy was regarded as a sign of “pride,” if
not of weakness.

Their way lay along the concession line for a mile, and then through the
woods by the bridle-path to Peter McGregor’s clearing. The green grass
ran everywhere--along the roadside, round the great stump roots, over
the rough pasture-fields, softening and smoothing wherever it went. The
woods were flushing purple, with just a tinge of green from the bursting
buds. The balsams and spruces still stood dark in the swamps, but the
tamaracks were shyly decking themselves in their exquisite robes of
spring, and through all the bush the air was filled with soft sounds
and scents. In earth and air, in field and forest, life, the new spring
life, ran riot. How strangely impertinent death appeared, and how
unlovely in such a world of life!

As they left the concession road and were about to strike into the
woods, Mrs. Murray checked her pony, and looking upon the loveliness
about her, said, softly, “How beautiful it all is!”

There was no response from Ranald, and Mrs. Murray, glancing at his
gloomy face, knew that his heart was sore at the thought of the pain
they were bearing with them. She hesitated a few moments, and then said,
gently: “And I saw a new heaven and a new earth. And there shall be no
more death.”

But still Ranald made no reply, and they rode on through the bush in
silence till they came to the clearing beyond. As they entered the
brule, Ranald checked his colt, and holding up his hand, said, “Listen!”

Through the quiet evening air, sweet and clear as a silver bell, came
the long, musical note of the call that brings the cows home for the
milking. It was Bella’s voice: “Ko--boss, ko--boss, ko--boss!”

Far across the brule they could see her standing on a big pine stump
near the bars, calling to her cows that were slowly making toward her
through the fallen timber, pausing here and there to crop an especially
rich mouthful, and now and then responding to her call with soft
lowings. Gently Bella chid them. “Come, Blossom, come away now; you are
very lazy. Come, Lily; what are you waiting for? You slow old poke!”
 Then again the long, musical note: “Ko--boss, ko--boss, ko--boss!”

Ranald groaned aloud, “Och-hone! It will be her last glad hour,” he
said; “it is a hard, hard thing.”

“Poor child, poor child!” said Mrs. Murray; “the Lord help her. It will
be a cruel blow.”

“That it is, a cruel blow,” said Ranald, bitterly; so bitterly that Mrs.
Murray glanced at him in surprise and saw his face set in angry pain.

“The Lord knows best, Ranald,” she said, gravely, “and loves best, too.”

“It will break her heart, whatever,” answered Ranald, shortly.

“He healeth the broken in heart,” said Mrs. Murray, softly. Ranald made
no reply, but let the colt take her way through the brule toward the
lane into which Bella had now got her cows. How happy the girl was! Joy
filled every tone of her voice. And why not? It was the springtime, the
time of life and love. Long winter was gone, and soon her brothers would
be back from the shanties. “And Mack, too,” she whispered to her happy
heart.


     “And are ye sure the news is true?
        And are ye sure he’s weel?
      Is this a time to think o’ wark?
        Ye jades, fling by your wheel.

     “For there’s nae luck aboot the hoose,
        There’s nae luck ava,
      There’s little pleesure in the hoose
        When oor gude man’s awa.”


So she sang, not too loud; for the boys were at the barn and she would
never hear the end of it.

“Well, Bella, you are getting your cows home. How are you, my dear?”

Bella turned with a scarlet face to meet the minister’s wife, and her
blushes only became deeper when she saw Ranald, for she felt quite
certain that Ranald would understand the meaning of her song.

“I will go on with the cows,” said Ranald, in a hoarse voice, and Mrs.
Murray, alighting, gave him her pony to lead.

Peter McGregor was a stern man to his own family, and to all the world,
with the single exception of his only daughter, Bella. His six boys he
kept in order with a firm hand, and not one of them would venture to
take a liberty with him. But Bella had no fear of his grim face and
stern ways, and “just twiddled her father round her finger,” as her
mother said, with a great show of impatience. But, in spite of all
her petting from her big brothers and her father, Bella remained quite
unspoiled, the light of her home and the joy of her father’s heart. It
had not escaped the father’s jealous eye that Big Mack Cameron found
occasion for many a visit to the boys on an evening when the day’s work
was done, and that from the meetings he found his shortest way home
round by the McGregor’s. At first the old man was very gruff with him,
and was for sending him about his business, but his daughter’s happy
face, and the light in her eyes, that could mean only one thing, made
him pause, and after a long and sleepless night, he surprised his
daughter the next morning with a word of gentle greeting and an unusual
caress, and thenceforth took Big Mack to his heart. Not that any word or
explanation passed between them; it had not come to that as yet; but
Big Mack felt the change, and gave him thenceforth the obedience and
affection of a son.

The old man was standing in the yard, waiting to help with the milking.

Ranald drove the cows in, and then, tying up the horses, went straight
to him.

“I bring bad news, Mr. McGregor,” he said, anxious to get done with his
sad task. “There has been an accident on the river, and Mack Cameron is
drowned.”

“What do you say, boy?” said Peter, in a harsh voice.

“He was trying to save a Frenchman, and when they got him out he was
dead,” said Ranald, hurrying through his tale, for he saw the two
figures coming up the lane and drawing nearer.

“Dead!” echoed the old man. “Big Mack! God help me.”

“And they will be wanting a team,” continued Ranald, “to go to Cornwall
to-morrow.”

The old man stood for a few moments, looking stupidly at Ranald. Then,
lifting his hat from his gray head, he said, brokenly: “My poor girl!
Would God I had died for him.”

Ranald turned away and stood looking down the lane, shrinking from the
sight of the old man’s agony. Then, turning back to him, he said: “The
minister’s wife is coming yonder with Bella.”

The old man started, and with a mighty effort commanding himself, said,
“Now may God help me!” and went to meet his daughter.

Through the gloom of the falling night Ranald could see the frightened
white face and the staring, tearless eyes. They came quite near before
Bella caught sight of her father. For a moment she hesitated, till the
old man, without a word, beckoned her to him. With a quick little run
she was in his arms, where she lay moaning, as if in sore bodily pain.
Her father held her close to him, murmuring over her fond Gaelic words,
while Ranald and Mrs. Murray went over to the horses and stood waiting
there.

“I will go now to Donald Ross,” Ranald said, in a low voice, to the
minister’s wife. He mounted the colt and was riding off, when Peter
called him back.

“The boys will take the wagon to-morrow,” he said.

“They will meet at the Sixteenth at daylight,” replied Ranald; and then
to Mrs. Murray he said, “I will come back this way for you. It will soon
be dark.”

But Bella, hearing him, cried to her: “Oh, you will not go?”

“Not if you need me, Bella,” said Mrs. Murray, putting her arms around
her. “Ranald will run in and tell them at home.” This Ranald promised to
do, and rode away on his woeful journey; and before he reached home that
night, the news had spread far and wide, from house to house, like a
black cloud over a sunny sky.

The home-coming of the men from the shanties had ever been a time of
rejoicing in the community. The Macdonald gang were especially welcome,
for they always came back with honor and with the rewards of their
winter’s work. There was always a series of welcoming gatherings in the
different homes represented in the gang, and there, in the midst of the
admiring company, tales would be told of the deeds done and the trials
endured, of the adventures on the river and the wonders of the cities
where they had been. All were welcome everywhere, and none more than Big
Mack Cameron. Brimming with good nature, and with a remarkable turn for
stories, he was the center of every group of young people wherever he
went; and at the “bees” for logging or for building or for cradling, Big
Mack was held in honor, for he was second in feats of strength only to
Macdonald Bhain himself. It was with no common grief that people heard
the word that they were bringing him home dead.

At the Sixteenth next morning, before the break of day, Ranald stood in
the gloom waiting for the coming of the teams. He had been up most of
the night and he was weary in body and sore at heart, but Macdonald
Bhain had trusted him, and there must be no mistake. One by one the
teams arrived. First to appear was Donald Ross, the elder. For years he
had given over the driving of his team to his boys, but to-day he felt
that respect to the family demanded his presence on such an errand as
this; and besides, he knew well that his son Dannie, Mack’s special
chum, would expect him to so honor the home-coming of his dead friend.
Peter McGregor, fearing to leave his daughter for that long and lonely
day, sent his son John in his place. It was with difficulty that Mack’s
father, Long John Cameron, had been persuaded to remain with the mother
and to allow Murdie to go in his stead.

The last to arrive was Farquhar McNaughton, Kirsty’s Farquhar, with his
fine black team and new light wagon. To him was to be given the honor
of bearing the body home. Gravely they talked and planned, and then left
all to Ranald to execute.

“You will see to these things, Ranald, my man,” said Donald Ross, with
the air of one giving solemn charge. “Let all things be done decently
and in order.”

“I will try,” said Ranald, simply. But Farquhar McNaughton looked at him
doubtfully.

“It is a peety,” he said, “there is not one with more experience. He is
but a lad.”

But Donald Ross had been much impressed with Ranald’s capable manner the
night before.

“Never you fear, Farquhar,” he replied; “Ranald is not one to fail us.”

As Ranald stood watching the wagons rumbling down the road and out of
sight, he felt as if years must have passed since he had received the
letter that had laid on him the heavy burden of this sad news. That his
uncle, Macdonald Bhain, should have sent the word to him brought Ranald
a sense of responsibility that awakened the man in him, and he knew he
would feel himself a boy no more. And with that new feeling of manhood
stirring within him, he went about his work that day, omitting no detail
in arrangement for the seemly conduct of the funeral.

Night was falling as the wagons rumbled back again from Cornwall,
bringing back the shantymen and their dead companion. Up through the
Sixteenth, where a great company of people stood silent and with bared
heads, the sad procession moved, past the old church, up through the
swamp, and so onward to the home of the dead. None of the Macdonald gang
turned aside to their homes till they had given their comrade over
into the keeping of his own people. By the time the Cameron’s gate was
reached the night had grown thick and black, and the drivers were glad
enough of the cedar bark torches that Ranald and Don waved in front of
the teams to light the way up the lane. In silence Donald Ross, who was
leading, drove up his team to the little garden gate and allowed the
great Macdonald and Dannie to alight.

At the gate stood Long John Cameron, silent and self-controlled, but
with face showing white and haggard in the light of the flaring torches.
Behind him, in the shadow, stood the minister. For a few moments they
all remained motionless and silent. The time was too great for words,
and these men knew when it was good to hold their peace. At length
Macdonald Bhain broke the silence, saying in his great deep voice, as he
bared his head: “Mr. Cameron, I have brought you back your son, and God
is my witness, I would his place were mine this night.”

“Bring him in, Mr. Macdonald,” replied the father, gravely and steadily.
“Bring him in. It is the Lord; let Him do what seemeth Him good.”

Then six of the Macdonald men came forward from the darkness, Curly and
Yankee leading the way, and lifted the coffin from Farquhar’s wagon, and
reverently, with heads uncovered, they followed the torches to the door.
There they stopped suddenly, for as they reached the threshold, there
arose a low, long, heart-smiting cry from within. At the sound of that
cry Ranald staggered as if struck by a blow, and let his torch fall to
the ground. The bearers waited, looking at each other in fear.

“Whisht, Janet, woman!” said Long John, gravely. “Your son is at the
door.”

“Ah, indeed, that he is, that he is! My son! My son!”

She stood in the doorway with hands uplifted and with tears streaming
down her face. “Come in, Malcolm; come in, my boy. Your mother is
waiting for you.”

Then they carried him in and laid him in the “room,” and retiring to the
kitchen, sat down to watch the night.

In half an hour the father came out and found them there.

“You have done what you could, Mr. Macdonald,” he said, addressing him
for all, “and I will not be unmindful of your kindness. But now you can
do no more. Your wife and your people will be waiting you.”

“And, please God, in good time they will be seeing us. As for me, I will
neither go to my home nor up into my bed, but I will watch by the man
who was my faithful friend and companion till he is laid away.”

And in this mind he and his men remained firm, taking turns at the
watching all that night and the next day.

As Macdonald finished speaking, the minister came into the kitchen,
bringing with him the mother and the children. The men all rose to their
feet, doing respect to the woman and to her grief. When they were seated
again, the minister rose and said: “My friends, this is a night for
silence and not for words. The voice of the Lord is speaking in our
ears. It becomes us to hear, and to submit ourselves to His holy will.
Let us pray.”

As Ranald listened to the prayer, he could not help thinking how
different it was from those he was accustomed to hear from the pulpit.
Solemn, simple, and direct, it lifted the hearts of all present up to
the throne of God, to the place of strength and of peace. There was
no attempt to explain the “mystery of the Providence,” but there was
a sublime trust that refused to despair even in the presence of
impenetrable darkness.

After the minister had gone, Macdonald Bhain took Ranald aside and asked
him as to the arrangements for the funeral. When Ranald had explained to
him every detail, Macdonald laid his hand on his nephew’s shoulder and
said, kindly, “It is well done, Ranald. Now you will be going home, and
in the morning you will see your aunt, and if she will be wishing to
come to the wake to-morrow night, then you will bring her.”

Then Ranald went home, feeling well repaid for his long hours of anxiety
and toil.



CHAPTER XI

THE WAKE


The wake was an important feature in the social life of the people of
Indian Lands. In ancient days, in the land of their forefathers, the
wake had been deemed a dire necessity for the safeguarding of the dead,
who were supposed to be peculiarly exposed to the malicious attacks
of evil spirits. Hence, with many lighted candles, and with much
incantation, friends would surround the body through the perilous hours
of darkness. It was a weird and weary vigil, and small wonder if it
appeared necessary that the courage and endurance of the watchers should
be fortified with copious draughts of “mountain dew,” with bread and
cheese accompaniments. And the completeness of their trust in the
efficacy of such supports was too often evidenced by the condition of
the watchers toward the dawn of the morning. And, indeed, if the spirits
were not too fastidious, and if they had so desired, they could have
easily flown away, not only with the “waked,” but with the “wakers” as
well.

But those days and those notions had long passed away. The wake still
remained, but its meaning and purpose had changed. No longer for the
guarding of the dead, but for the comfort of the living, the friends
gathered to the house of mourning and watched the weary hours. But
Highland courtesy forbade that the custom of refreshing the watchers
should be allowed to die out, and hence, through the night, once and
again, the whisky, bread, and cheese were handed around by some close
friend of the family, and were then placed upon the table for general
use. It was not surprising that, where all were free to come and
welcome to stay, and where anything like scantiness in providing or
niggardliness in serving would be a matter of family disgrace, the wake
often degenerated into a frolic, if not a debauch. In order to check
any such tendency, it had been the custom of late years to introduce
religious services, begun by the minister himself and continued by the
elders.

As the evening fell, a group of elders stood by the back door of Long
John Cameron’s sorrow-stricken home, talking quietly over the sad event
and arranging for the “exercises” of the night. At a little distance
from them sat Yankee, with Ranald beside him, both silent and listening
somewhat indifferently to the talk of the others. Yankee was not in his
element. He was always welcome in the homes of his comrades, for he was
ready with his tongue and clever with his fingers, but with the graver
and religious side of their lives he had little in common. It was,
perhaps, this feeling that drew him toward Macdonald Dubh and Ranald, so
that for weeks at a time he would make their house his home. He had “no
use for wakes,” as he said himself, and had it not been that it was one
of the gang that lay dead within, Yankee would have avoided the house
until all was over and the elders safely away.

Of the elders, only four were present as yet: Donald Ross, who was ever
ready to bring the light of his kindly face to cheer the hearts of the
mourners; Straight Rory, who never, by any chance, allowed himself
to miss the solemn joy of leading the funeral psalm; Peter McRae, who
carried behind his stern old face a heart of genuine sympathy; and Kenny
Crubach, to whom attendance at funerals was at once a duty and a horror.

Donald Ross, to whom all the elders accorded, instinctively, the place
of leader, was arranging the order of “the exercises.”

“Mr. McCuaig,” he said to Straight Rory, “you will take charge of the
singing. The rest of us will, in turn, give out a psalm and read a
portion of Scripture with a few suitable remarks, and lead in prayer. We
will not be forgetting, brethren,” said old Donald, “that there will be
sore hearts here this night.’

Straight Rory’s answer was a sigh so woeful and so deep that Yankee
looked over at him and remarked in an undertone to Ranald, “He ain’t so
cheerful as he might be. He must feel awful inside.”

“It is a sad and terrible day for the Camerons,” said Peter McRae.

“Aye, it is sad, indeed,” replied Donald Ross. “He was a good son and
they will be missing him bad. It is a great loss.”

“Yes, the loss is great,” said Peter, grimly. “But, after all, that is a
small thing.”

Straight Rory sighed again even more deeply than before. Donald Ross
said nothing.

“What does the old duck mean, anyhow?” said Yankee to Ranald.

The boy made no reply. His heart was sick with horror at Peter’s
meaning, which he understood only too well.

“Aye,” went on Peter, “it is a terrible, mysterious Providence, and a
heavy warning to the ungodly and careless.”

“He means me, I guess,” remarked Yankee to Ranald.

“It will perhaps be not amiss to any of us,” said Kenny Crubach,
sharply.

“Indeed, that is true,” said Donald Ross, in a very humble voice.

“Yes, Mr. Ross,” said Peter, ignoring Kenny Crubach, “but at times the
voice of Providence cannot be misunderstood, and it will not do for
the elders of the church to be speaking soft things when the Lord is
speaking in judgment and wrath.”

Donald was silent, while Straight Rory assented with a heartrending
“Aye, aye,” which stirred Yankee’s bile again.

“What’s he talkin’ about? He don’t seem to be usin’ my language,” he
said, in a tone of wrathful perplexity. Ranald was too miserable to
answer, but Kenny was ready with his word.

“Judgment and wrath,” he echoed, quickly. “The man would require to be
very skillful whatever in interpreting the ways of Providence, and very
bold to put such a meaning into the death of a young man such as Malcolm
yonder.” The little man’s voice was vibrating with feeling.

Then Yankee began to understand. “I’ll be gol-blamed to a cinder!” he
exclaimed, in a low voice, falling back upon a combination that seemed
more suitable to the circumstances. “They ain’t sendin’ him to hell,
are they?” He shut up the knife with which he had been whittling with a
sharp snap, and rising to his feet, walked slowly over to the group of
elders.

“Far be it from me to judge what is not to be seen,” said Peter. “But
we are allowed and commanded to discern the state of the heart by the
fruits.”

“Fruits?” replied Kenny, quickly. “He was a good son and brother and
friend; he was honest and clean, and he gave his life for another at the
last.”

“Exactly so,” said Peter. “I am not denying much natural goodness, for
indeed he was a fine lad; but I will be looking for the evidence that he
was in a state of grace. I have not heard of any, and glad would I be to
hear it.”

The old man’s emotion took the sharpness out of Kenny’s speech, but he
persisted, stoutly, “Goodness is goodness, Mr. McRae, for all that.”

“You will not be holding the Armenian doctrine of works, Mr. Campbell?”
 said Peter, severely. “You would not be pointing to good works as a
ground of salvation?”

Yankee, who had been following the conversation intently, thought he saw
meaning in it at last.

“If I might take a hand,” he said, diffidently, “I might contribute
somethin’ to help you out.”

Peter regarded him a little impatiently. He had forgotten the concrete,
for the moment, in the abstract, and was donning his armor for a battle
with Kenny upon the “fundamentals.” Hence he was not too well pleased
with Yankee’s interruption. But Donald Ross gladly welcomed the
diversion. The subject was to him extremely painful.

“We will be glad,” he said to Yankee, “to hear you, Mr. Latham.”

“Well,” said Yankee, slowly, “from your remarks I gathered that you
wanted information about the doings of--” he jerked his head toward the
house behind him. “Now, I want to say,” he continued, confidentially,
“you’ve come to the right shop, for I’ve ate and slept, I’ve worked and
fought, I’ve lived with him by day and by night, and right through he
was the straightest, whitest man I ever seen, and I won’t except the
boss himself.” Yankee paused to consider the effect of this statement,
and to allow its full weight to be appreciated; and then he continued:
“Yes, sir, you may just bet your--you may be right well sure,”
 correcting himself, “that you’re safe in givin’”--here he dropped
his voice, and jerked his head toward the house again--“in givin’ the
highest marks, full value, and no discount. Why,” he went on, with an
enthusiasm rare in him, “ask any man in the gang, any man on the river,
if they ever seen or heard of his doin’ a mean or crooked thing, and if
you find any feller who says he did, bring him here, and, by”--Yankee
remembered himself in time--“and I give you my solemn word that I’ll eat
him, hat and boots.” Yankee brought his bony fist down with a whack into
his hand. Then he relapsed into his lazy drawl again: “No, siree, hoss!
If it’s doin’s you’re after, don’t you be slow in bankin’ your little
heap on HIS doin’s.”

Donald Ross grasped Yankee’s hand and shook it hard. “I will be thanking
you for that word,” he said, earnestly.

But Peter felt that the cause of truth demanded that he should speak
out. “Mr. Latham,” he said, solemnly, “what you have been saying is
very true, no doubt, but if a man is not ‘born again he cannot see the
kingdom of God.’ These are the words of the Lord himself.”

“Born again!” said Yankee. “How? I don’t seem to get you. But I guess
the feller that does the right thing all round has got a purty good
chance.”

“It is not a man’s deeds, we are told,” said Peter, patiently, “but his
heart.”

“There you are,” said Yankee, warmly, “right again, and that’s what I
always hold to. It’s the heart a man carries round in his inside. Never
mind your talk, never mind your actin’ up for people to see. Give me the
heart that is warm and red, and beats proper time, you bet. Say! you’re
all right.” Yankee gazed admiringly at the perplexed and hopeless Peter.

“I am afraid you are not remembering what the Apostle Paul said, Mr.
Latham,” said Peter, determined to deal faithfully with Yankee. “‘By the
deeds of the law shall no flesh be justified.’”

It was now Yankee’s turn to gaze helplessly at Peter. “I guess you have
dropped me again,” he said, slowly.

“Man,” said Peter, with a touch of severity, “you will need to be more
faithful with the Word of God. The Scriptures plainly declare, Mr.
Latham, that it is impossible for a man to be saved in his natural
state.”

Yankee looked blank at this.

“The prophet says that the plowing and sowing, the very prayers, of the
wicked are an abomination to the Lord.”

“Why, now you’re talkin’, but look here.” Yankee lowered his tone. “Look
here, you wouldn’t go for to call”--here again he jerked his head toward
the house--“wicked, would you? Fur if you do, why, there ain’t any more
conversation between you and me.”

Yankee was terribly in earnest.

“‘There is none righteous, no, not one,’” quoted Peter, with the air of
a man who forces himself to an unpleasant duty.

“That’s so, I guess,” said Yankee, meditatively, “but it depends some on
what you mean. I don’t set myself up for any copy-book head-line, but
as men go--men, say, just like you here--I’d put--I’d put him alongside,
wouldn’t you? You expect to get through yourself, I judge?”

This was turning the tables somewhat sharply upon Peter, but Yankee’s
keen, wide-open eyes were upon him, and his intensely earnest manner
demanded an answer.

“Indeed, if it will be so, it will not be for any merit of my own, but
only because of the mercy of the Lord in Christ Jesus.” Peter’s tone was
sincerely humble.

“Guess you’re all right,” said Yankee, encouragingly; “and as for--as
for--him--don’t you worry about that. You may be dead sure about his
case.”

But Peter only shook his head hopelessly. “You are sorely in need of
instruction, Mr. Latham,” he said, sadly. “We cannot listen to our
hearts in this matter. We must do honor to the justice of God, and the
word is clear, ‘Ye must be born again.’ Nothing else avails.” Peter’s
tone was final.

Then Yankee drew a little nearer to him, as if settling down to work.

“Now look here. You let me talk awhile. I ain’t up in your side of
the business, but I guess we are tryin’ to make the same point. Now
supposin’ you was in for a hoss race, which I hope ain’t no offense,
seein’ it ain’t likely but suppose, and to take first money you had to
perdoose a two-fifteen gait. ‘Purty good lick,’ says you; ‘now where
will I get the nag?’ Then you sets down and thinks, and, says you, ‘By
gum, which of course you wouldn’t, but supposin’ says you, ‘a Blue Grass
bred is the hoss for that gait’; and you begin to inquire around, but
there ain’t no Blue Grass bred stock in the country, and that race is
creepin’ up close. One day, just when you was beginnin’ to figure on
takin’ the dust to the hull field, you sees a colt comin’ along the road
hittin’ up a purty slick gait. ‘Hello,’ says you, ‘that looks likely,’
and you begin to negotiate, and you finds out that colt’s all right and
her time’s two-ten. Then you begin to talk about the weather and the
crops until you finds out the price, and you offer him half money. Then,
when you have fetched him down to the right figure, you pulls out your
wad, thinkin’ how that colt will make the rest look like a line of
fence-posts. ‘But hold on,’ says you, ‘is this here colt Blue Grass
bred?’ ‘Blue Grass! Not much. This here’s Grey Eagle stock, North
Virginny’ says he. ‘Don’t want her,’ says you. ‘What’s the matter with
the colt?’ says he. ‘Nothin’, only she ain’t Blue Grass. Got to be Blue
Grass.’ ‘But she’s got the gait, ain’t she?’ ‘Yes, the gait’s all right,
action fine, good-looking, too, nothing wrong, but she ain’t Blue Grass
bred.’ And so you lose your race. Now what kind of a name would you call
yourself?”

Peter saw Yankee’s point, but he only shook his head more hopelessly
than before, and turned to enter the house, followed by Straight Rory,
still sighing deeply, and old Donald Ross. But Kenny remained a moment
behind the others, and offering his hand to Yankee, said: “You are a
right man, and I will be proud to know you better.”

Yankee turned a puzzled face to Kenny. “I say,” he inquired, in an
amazed voice, “do you think he didn’t catch on to me?”

Kenny nodded. “Yes, he understood your point.”

“But look here,” said Yankee, “they don’t hold that--that he is--”
 Yankee paused. The thought was too horrible, and these men were experts,
and were supposed to know.

“It’s hard to say,” said Kenny, diplomatically.

“See here,” said Yankee, facing Kenny squarely, “you’re a purty
level-headed man, and you’re up in this business. Do you think with
them? No monkeying. Straight talk now.” Yankee was in no mood to be
trifled with. He was in such deadly earnest that he had forgotten all
about Ranald, who was now standing behind him, waiting, with white face
and parted lips, for Kenny’s answer.

“Whisht!” said Kenny, pointing into the kitchen behind. Yankee looked
and saw Bella Peter and her father entering. But Ranald was determined
to know Kenny’s opinion.

“Mr. Campbell,” he whispered, eagerly, and forgetting the respect due to
an elder, he grasped Kenny’s arm, “do you think with them?”

“That I do not,” said Kenny, emphatically, and Yankee, at that word,
struck his hand into Kenny’s palm with a loud smack.

“I knew blamed well you were not any such dumb fool,” he said,
softening his speech in deference to Kenny’s office and the surrounding
circumstances. So saying, he went away to the stable, and when Ranald
and his uncle, Macdonald Bhain, followed a little later to put up Peter
McGregor’s team, they heard Yankee inside, swearing with a fluency and
vigor quite unusual with him.

“Whisht, man!” said Macdonald Bhain, sternly. “This is no place or time
to be using such language. What is the matter with you, anyway?”

But Macdonald could get no satisfaction out of him, and he said to his
nephew, “What is it, Ranald?”

“It is the elders, Peter McRae and Straight Rory,” said Ranald,
sullenly. “They were saying that Mack was--that Mack was--”

“Look here, boss,” interrupted Yankee, “I ain’t well up in Scriptures,
and don’t know much about these things, and them elders do, and they
say--some of them, anyway--are sending Mack to hell. Now, I guess you’re
just as well up as they are in this business, and I want your solemn
opinion.” Yankee’s face was pale, and his eyes were glaring like a wild
beast’s. “What I say is,” he went on, “if a feller like Mack goes to
hell, then there ain’t any. At least none to scare me. Where Mack is
will be good enough for me. What do you say, boss?”

“Be quiet, man,” said Macdonald Bhain, gravely, but kindly. “Do you not
know you are near to blasphemy there? But I forgive you for the sore
heart you have; and about poor Mack yonder, no one will be able to say
for certain. I am a poor sinner, and the only claim I have to God’s
mercy is the claim of a poor sinner. But I will dare to say that I have
hope in the Lord for myself, and I will say that I have a great deal
more for Mack.”

“I guess that settles it all right, then,” said Yankee, drawing a big
breath of content and biting off a huge chew from his plug. “But what
the blank blank,” he went on, savagely, “do these fellers mean, stirring
up a man’s feelin’s like that? Seem to be not a bad sort, either,” he
added, meditatively.

“Indeed, they are good men,” said Macdonald Bhain, “but they will not be
knowing Mack as I knew him. He never made any profession at all, but he
had the root of the matter in him.”

Ranald felt as if he had wakened out of a terrible nightmare, and
followed his uncle into the house, with a happier heart than he had
known since he had received Yankee’s letter.

As they entered the room where the people were gathered, Donald Ross was
reading the hundred and third psalm, and the words of love and pity and
sympathy were dropping from his kindly lips like healing balm upon
the mourning hearts, and as they rose and fell upon the cadences of
“Coleshill,” the tune Straight Rory always chose for this psalm, the
healing sank down into all the sore places, and the peace that passeth
understanding began to take possession of them.

Softly and sweetly they sang, the old women swaying with the music:


     “For, as the heaven in its height
        The earth surmounteth far,
      So great to those that do him fear,
        His tender mercies are.”


When they reached that verse, the mother took up the song and went
bravely on through the words of the following verse:


     “As far as east is distant from
        The west, so far hath he
      From us removed, in his love,
        All our iniquity.”


As she sang the last words her hand stole over to Bella, who sat beside
her quiet but tearless, looking far away. But when the next words rose
on the dear old minor strains,


     “Such pity as a father hath
      Unto his children dear,”


Bella’s lip began to tremble, and two big tears ran down her pale
cheeks, and one could see that the sore pain in her heart had been a
little eased.

After Donald Ross had finished his part of the “exercises,” he called
upon Kenny Crubach, who read briefly, and without comment, the exquisite
Scottish paraphrase of Luther’s “little gospel”:


     “Behold the amazing gift of love
        The Father hath bestowed
      On us, the sinful sons of men,
        To call us sons of God--”


and so on to the end.

All this time Peter McRae, the man of iron, had been sitting with
hardening face, his eyes burning in his head like glowing coals; and
when Donald Ross called upon him for “some words of exhortation and
comfort suitable to the occasion,” without haste and without hesitation
the old man rose, and trembling with excitement and emotion, he began
abruptly: “An evil spirit has been whispering to me, as to the prophet
of old, ‘Speak that which is good,’ but the Lord hath delivered me from
mine enemy, and my answer is, ‘As the Lord liveth, what the Lord said
unto me, that will I speak’; and it is not easy.”

As the old man paused, a visible terror fell upon all the company
assembled. The poor mother sat looking at him with the look of one
shrinking from a blow, while Bella Peter’s face expressed only startled
fear.

“And this is the word of the Lord this night to me,” the elder went on,
his voice losing its tremor and ringing out strong and clear: “‘There is
none righteous, no, not one, for all have sinned and come short of the
glory of God. He that believeth shall be saved, and he that believeth
not shall be damned.’ That is my message, and it is laid upon me as a
sore burden to hear the voice of the Lord in this solemn Providence, and
to warn one and all to flee from the wrath to come.”

He paused long, while men could hear their hearts beat. Then, raising
his voice, he cried aloud: “Woe is me! Alas! it is a grievous burden.
The Lord pity us all, and give grace to this stricken family to kiss the
rod that smites.”

At this word the old man’s voice suddenly broke, and he sat down amid
an awful silence. No one could misunderstand his meaning. As the awful
horror of it gradually made its way into her mind, Mrs. Cameron threw up
her apron over her head and rocked in an agony of sobs, while Long John
sat with face white and rigid. Bella Peter, who had been gazing with
a fascinated stare upon the old elder’s face while he was speaking his
terrible words, startled by Mrs. Cameron’s sobs, suddenly looked wildly
about as if for help, and then, with a wild cry, fled toward the door.
But before she had reached it a strong hand caught her and a great
voice, deep and tender, commanded her: “Wait, lassie, sit down here a
meenute.” It was Macdonald Bhain. He stood a short space silent before
the people, then, in a voice low, deep, and thrilling, he began: “You
have been hearing the word of the Lord through the lips of his servant,
and I am not saying but it is the true word; but I believe that the Lord
will be speaking by different voices, and although I hev not the gift,
yet it is laid upon me to declare what is in my heart, and a sore heart
it is, and sore hearts hev we all. But I will be thinking of a fery
joyful thing, and that is that ‘He came to call, not the righteous, but
sinners,’ and that in His day many sinners came about Him and not one
would He turn away. And I will be remembering a fery great sinner who
cried out in his dying hour, ‘Lord, remember me,’ and not in vain. And
I’m thinking that the Lord will be making it easy for men to be saved,
and not hard, for He was that anxious about it that He gave up His own
life. But it is not given me to argue, only to tell you what I know
about the lad who is lying yonder silent. It will be three years since
he will be coming on the shanties with me, and from the day that he left
his mother’s door, till he came back again, never once did he fail me in
his duty in the camp, or on the river, or in the town, where it was fery
easy to be forgetting. And the boys would be telling me of the times
that he would be keeping them out of those places. And it is not soon
that Dannie Ross will be forgetting who it was that took him back from
the camp when the disease was upon him and all were afraid to go near
him, and for seex weeks, by day and by night, watched by him and was not
thinking of himself at all. And sure am I that the lessons he would be
hearing from his mother and in the Bible class and in the church were
not lost on him whatever. For on the river, when the water was quiet
and I would be lying in the tent reading, it is often that Mack Cameron
would come in and listen to the Word. Aye, he was a good lad”--the great
voice shook a little--“he would not be thinking of himself, and at the
last, it was for another man he gave his life.”

Macdonald stood for a few moments silent, his face working while he
struggled with himself. And then all at once he grew calm, and throwing
back his head, he looked through the door, and pointing into the
darkness, said: “And yonder is the lad, and with him a great company,
and his face is smiling, and, oh! it is a good land, a good land!” His
voice dropped to a whisper, and he sank into his seat.

“God preserve us!” Kenny Crubach ejaculated; but old Donald Ross rose
and said, “Let us call upon the name of the Lord.” From his prayer it
was quite evident that for him at least all doubts and fears as to poor
Mack’s state were removed. And even Peter McRae, subdued not so much by
any argument of Macdonald Bhain’s as by his rapt vision, followed old
Donald’s prayer with broken words of hope and thanksgiving; and it was
Peter who was early at the manse next morning to repeat to the minister
the things he had seen and heard the night before. And all next day,
where there had been the horror of unnamable fear, hope and peace
prevailed.

The service was held under the trees, and while the mother and Bella
Peter sat softly weeping, there was no bitterness in their tears, for
the sermon breathed of the immortal hope, and the hearts of all were
comforted. There was no parade of grief, but after the sermon was over
the people filed quietly through the room to take the last look, and
then the family, with Bella and her father, were left alone a few
moments with their dead, while the Macdonald men kept guard at the door
till the time for “the lifting” would come.

After Long John passed out, followed by the family, Macdonald Bhain
entered the room, closed the lid down upon the dead face, and gave the
command to bear him forth.

So, with solemn dignity, as befitted them, they carried Big Mack from
his home to Farquhar McNaughton’s light wagon. Along the concession
road, past the new church, through the swamp, and on to the old
churchyard the long procession slowly moved. There was no unseemly
haste, and by the time the last words were spoken, and the mound
decently rounded, the long shadows from the woods lay far across the
fields. Quietly the people went their ways homeward, back to their life
and work, but for many days they carried with them the memory of those
funeral scenes. And Ranald, though he came back from Big Mack’s grave
troubled with questions that refused to be answered, still carried with
him a heart healed of the pain that had torn it these last days. He
believed it was well with his friend, but about many things he was
sorely perplexed, and it was this that brought him again to the
minister’s wife.



CHAPTER XII

SEED-TIME


The day after Big Mack’s funeral, Ranald was busy polishing Lizette’s
glossy skin, before the stable door. This was his favorite remedy for
gloomy thoughts, and Ranald was full of gloomy thoughts to-day. His
father, though going about the house, was still weak, and worse than
all, was fretting in his weakness. He was oppressed with the terrible
fear that he would never again be able to do a man’s work, and Ranald
knew from the dark look in his father’s face that day and night the
desire for vengeance was gnawing at his heart, and Ranald also knew
something of the bitterness of this desire from the fierce longing that
lay deep in his own. Some day, when his fingers would be feeling for
LeNoir’s throat, he would drink long and fully that sweet draught of
vengeance. He knew, too, that it added to the bitterness in his father’s
heart to know that, in the spring’s work that every warm day was
bringing nearer, he could take no part; and that was partly the cause of
Ranald’s gloom. With the slow-moving oxen, he could hardly hope to get
the seed in in time, and they needed the crop this year if ever they
did, for last year’s interest on the mortgage was still unpaid and the
next installment was nearly due.

As he was putting the finishing touches upon Lisette’s satin skin,
Yankee drove up to the yard with his Fox horse and buckboard. His box
was strapped on behind, and his blankets, rolled up in a bundle, filled
the seat beside him.

“Mornin’,” he called to Ranald. “Purty fine shine, that, and purty
fine mare, all round,” he continued, walking about Lisette and noting
admiringly her beautiful proportions.

“Purty fine beast,” he said, in a low tone, running his hands down her
legs. “Guess you wouldn’t care to part with that mare?”

“No,” said Ranald, shortly; but as he spoke his heart sank within him.

“Ought to fetch a fairly good figure,” continued Yankee, meditatively.
“Le’s see. She’s from La Roque’s Lisette, ain’t she? Ought to have some
speed.” He untied Lisette’s halter. “Take her down in the yard yonder,”
 he said to Ranald.

Ranald threw the halter over Lisette’s neck, sprang on her back, and
sent her down the lane at a good smart pace. At the bottom of the lane
he wheeled her, and riding low upon her neck, came back to the barn like
a whirlwind.

“By jings!” exclaimed Yankee, surprised out of his lazy drawl; “she’s
got it, you bet your last brick. See here, boy, there’s money into that
animal. Thought I would like to have her for my buckboard, but I have
got an onfortunit conscience that won’t let me do up any partner, so I
guess I can’t make any offer.”

Ranald stood beside Lisette, his arm thrown over her beautiful neck, and
his hand fondling her gently about the ears. “I will not sell her.” His
voice was low and fierce, and all the more so because he knew that
was just what he would do, and his heart was sick with the pain of the
thought.

“I say,” said Yankee, suddenly, “cudn’t bunk me in your loft, cud you!
Can’t stand the town. Too close.”

The confining limitations of the Twentieth, that metropolitan center of
some dozen buildings, including the sawmill and blacksmith shop, were
too trying for Yankee’s nervous system.

“Yes, indeed,” said Ranald, heartily. “We will be very glad to have you,
and it will be the very best thing for father.”

“S’pose old Fox cud nibble round the brule,” continued Yankee, nodding
his head toward his sorrel horse. “Don’t think I will do much drivin’
machine business. Rather slow.” Yankee spent the summer months selling
sewing-machines and new patent churns.

“There’s plenty of pasture,” said Ranald, “and Fox will soon make
friends with Lisette. She is very kind, whatever.”

“Ain’t ever hitched her, have you?” said Yankee.

“No.”

“Well, might hitch her up some day. Guess you wudn’t hurt the
buckboard.”

“Not likely,” said Ranald, looking at the old, ramshackle affair.

“Used to drive some myself,” said Yankee. But to this idea Ranald did
not take kindly.

Yankee stood for a few moments looking down the lane and over the
fields, and then, turning to Ranald, said, “Guess it’s about ready to
begin plowin’. Got quite a lot of it to do, too, ain’t you?”

“Yes,” said Ranald, “I was thinking I would be beginning to-morrow.”

“Purty slow business with the oxen. How would it do to hitch up Lisette
and old Fox yonder?”

Then Ranald understood the purpose of Yankee’s visit.

“I would be very glad,” said Ranald, a great load lifting from his
heart. “I was afraid of the work with only the oxen.” And then, after
a pause, he added, “What did you mean about buying Lisette?” He was
anxious to have that point settled.

“I said what I meant,” answered Yankee. “I thought perhaps you would
rather have the money than the colt; but I tell you what, I hain’t got
money enough to put into that bird, and don’t you talk selling to any
one till we see her gait hitched up. But I guess a little of the plow
won’t hurt for a few weeks or so.”

Next day Lisette left behind her forever the free, happy days of
colthood. At first Ranald was unwilling to trust her to any other hands
than his own, but when he saw how skillfully and gently Yankee handled
her, soothing her while he harnessed and hitched her up, he recognized
that she was safer with Yankee than with himself, and allowed him to
have the reins.

They spent the morning driving up and down the lane with Lisette and
Fox hitched to the stone-boat. The colt had been kindly treated from
her earliest days, and consequently knew nothing of fear. She stepped
daintily beside old Fox, fretting and chafing in the harness, but
without thought of any violent objection. In the afternoon the colt
was put through her morning experience, with the variation that the
stone-boat was piled up with a fairly heavy load of earth and stone. And
about noon the day following, Lisette was turning her furrow with all
the steadiness of a horse twice her age.

Before two weeks were over, Yankee, with the horses, and Ranald, with
the oxen, had finished the plowing, and in another ten days the fields
lay smooth and black, with the seed harrowed safely in, waiting for the
rain.

Yankee’s visit had been a godsend, not only to Ranald with his work,
but also to Macdonald Dubh. He would talk to the grim, silent man by the
hour, after the day’s work was done, far into the night, till at length
he managed to draw from him the secret of his misery.

“I will never be a man again,” he said, bitterly, to Yankee. “And there
is the farm all to pay for. I have put it off too long and now it is too
late, and it is all because of that--that--brute beast of a Frenchman.”

“Mean cuss!” ejaculated Yankee.

“And I am saying,” continued Macdonald Dubh, opening his heart still
further, “I am saying, it was no fair fight, whatever. I could whip him
with one hand. It was when I was pulling out Big Mack, poor fellow, from
under the heap, that he took me unawares.”

“That’s so,” assented Yankee. “Blamed lowdown trick.”

“And, oh, I will be praying God to give me strength just to meet him!
I will ask no more. But,” he added, in bitter despair, “there is no use
for me to pray. Strength will come to me no more.”

“Well,” said Yankee, brightly, “needn’t worry about that varmint. He
ain’t worth it, anyhow.”

“Aye, he is not worth it, indeed, and that is the man who has brought me
to this.” That was the bitter part to Macdonald Dubh. A man he despised
had beaten him.

“Now look here,” said Yankee, “course I ain’t much good at this, but
if you will just quit worryin’, I’ll undertake to settle this little
account with Mr. LeNware.”

“And what good would that be to me?” said Macdonald Dubh. “It is myself
that wants to meet him.” It was not so much the destruction of LeNoir
that he desired as that he should have the destroying of him. While
he cherished this feeling in his heart, it was not strange that the
minister in his visits found Black Hugh unapproachable, and concluded
that he was in a state of settled “hardness of heart.” His wife knew
better, but even she dared not approach Macdonald Dubh on that subject,
which had not been mentioned between them since the morning he had
opened his heart to her. The dark, haggard, gloomy face haunted her. She
longed to help him to peace. It was this that sent her to his brother,
Macdonald Bhain, to whom she told as much of the story as she thought
wise.

“I am afraid he will never come to peace with God until he comes to
peace with this man,” she said, sadly, “and it is a bitter load that he
is carrying with him.”

“I will talk with him,” answered Macdonald Bhain, and at the end of the
week he took his way across to his brother’s home.

He found him down in the brule, where he spent most of his days toiling
hard with his ax, in spite of the earnest entreaties of Ranald. He was
butting a big tree that the fire had laid prone, but the ax was falling
with the stroke of a weak man.

As he finished his cut, his brother called to him, “That is no work for
you, Hugh; that is no work for a man who has been for six weeks in his
bed.”

“It is work that must be done, however,” Black Hugh answered, bitterly.

“Give me the ax,” said Macdonald Bhain. He mounted the tree as his
brother stepped down, and swung his ax deep into the wood with a mighty
blow. Then he remembered, and stopped. He would not add to his brother’s
bitterness by an exhibition of his mighty, unshaken strength. He stuck
the ax into the log, and standing up, looked over the brule. “It is a
fine bit of ground, Hugh, and will raise a good crop of potatoes.”

“Aye,” said Macdonald Dubh, sadly. “It has lain like this for three
years, and ought to have been cleared long ago, if I had been doing my
duty.”

“Indeed, it will burn all the better for that,” said his brother,
cheerfully. “And as for the potatoes, there is a bit of my clearing that
Ranald might as well use.”

But Black Hugh shook his head. “Ranald will use no man’s clearing but
his own,” he said. “I am afraid he has got too much of his father in him
for his own good.”

Macdonald Bhain glanced at his brother’s face with a look of mingled
pity and admiration. “Ah,” he said, “Hugh, it’s a proud man you are.
Macdonalds have plenty of that, whatever, and we come by it good enough.
Do you remember at home, when our father”--and he went off into a
reminiscence of their boyhood days, talking in gentle, kindly, loving
tones, till the shadow began to lift from his brother’s face, and he,
too, began to talk. They spoke of their father, who had always been to
them a kind of hero; and of their mother, who had lived, and toiled, and
suffered for her family with uncomplaining patience.

“She was a good woman,” said Macdonald Bhain, with a note of tenderness
in his voice. “And it was the hard load she had to bear, and I would to
God she were living now, that I might make up to her something of what
she suffered for me.”

“And I am thankful to God,” said his brother, bitterly, “that she is
not here to see me now, for it would but add to the heavy burden I often
laid upon her.”

“You will not be saying that,” said Macdonald Bhain. “But I am saying
that the Lord will be honored in you yet.”

“Indeed, there is not much for me,” said his brother, gloomily, “but the
sick-bed and six feet or more of the damp earth.”

“Hugh, man,” said his brother, hastily, “you must not be talking like
that. It is not the speech of a brave man. It is the speech of a man
that is beaten in his fight.”

“Beaten!” echoed his brother, with a kind of cry. “You have said the
word. Beaten it is, and by a man that is no equal of mine. You know
that,” he said, appealing, almost anxiously, to his brother. “You know
that well. You know that I am brought to this”--he held up his gaunt,
bony hands--“by a man that is no equal of mine, and I will never be
able to look him in the face and say as much to him. But if the Almighty
would send him to hell, I would be following him there.”

“Whisht, Hugh,” said Macdonald Bhain, in a voice of awe. “It is a
terrible word you have said, and may the Lord forgive you.”

“Forgive me!” echoed his brother, in a kind of frenzy. “Indeed, he will
not be doing that. Did not the minister’s wife tell me as much?”

“No, no,” said his brother. “She would not be saying that.”

“Indeed, that is her very word,” said Black Hugh.

“She could not say that,” said his brother, “for it is not the Word of
God.”

“Indeed,” replied Black Hugh, like a man who had thought it all out,
“she would be reading it out of the Book to me that unless I would be
forgiving, that--that--” he paused, not being able to find a word, but
went on--“then I need not hope to be forgiven my own self.”

“Yes, yes. That is true,” assented Macdonald Bhain. “But, by the grace
of God, you will forgive, and you will be forgiven.”

“Forgive!” cried Black Hugh, his face convulsed with passion. “Hear
me!”--he raised his hand to heaven.--“If I ever forgive--”

But his brother caught his arm and drew it down swiftly, saying:
“Whisht, man. Don’t tempt the Almighty.” Then he added, “You would not
be shutting yourself out from the presence of the Lord and from the
presence of those he has taken to himself?”

His brother stood silent a few moments, his hard, dark face swept with a
storm of emotions. Then he said, brokenly: “It is not for me, I doubt.”

But his brother caught him by the arm and said to him, “Hear me, Hugh.
It is for you.”

They walked on in silence till they were near the house. Ranald and
Yankee were driving their teams into the yard.

“That is a fine lad,” said Macdonald Bhain, pointing to Ranald.

“Aye,” said his brother; “it is a pity he has not a better chance. He
is great for his books, but he has no chance whatever, and he will be a
bowed man before he has cleared this farm and paid the debt on it.”

“Never you fear,” said his brother. “Ranald will do well. But, man, what
a size he is!”

“He is that,” said his father, proudly. “He is as big as his father, and
I doubt some day he may be as good a man as his uncle.”

“God grant he may be a better!” said Macdonald Bhain, reverently.

“If he be as good,” said his brother, kindly, “I will be content; but I
will not be here to see it.”

“Whisht, man,” said his brother, hastily. “You are not to speak such
things, nor have them in your mind.”

“Ah,” said Macdonald Dubh, sadly, “my day is not far off, and that I
know right well.”

Macdonald Bhain flung his arm hastily round his brother’s shoulder. “Do
not speak like that, Hugh,” he said, his voice breaking suddenly. And
then he drew away his arm as if ashamed of his emotion, and said, with
kindly dignity, “Please God, you will see many days yet, and see your
boy come to honor among men.”

But Black Hugh only shook his head in silence.

Before they came to the door, Macdonald Bhain said, with seeming
indifference, “You have not been to church since you got up, Hugh. You
will be going to-morrow, if it is a fine day?”

“It is too long a walk, I doubt,” answered his brother.

“That it is, but Yankee will drive you in his buckboard,” said Macdonald
Bhain.

“In the buckboard?” said Macdonald Dubh. “And, indeed, I was never in a
buckboard in my life.”

“It is not too late to begin to-morrow,” said his brother, “and it will
do you good.”

“I doubt that,” said Black Hugh, gloomily. “The church will not be doing
me much good any more.”

“Do not say such a thing; and Yankee will drive you in his buckboard
to-morrow.”

His brother did not promise, but next day the congregation received a
shock of surprise to see Macdonald Dubh walk down the aisle to his place
in the church. And through all the days of the spring and summer his
place was never empty; and though the shadow never lifted from his face,
the minister’s wife felt comforted about him, and waited for the day of
his deliverance.



CHAPTER XIII

THE LOGGING BEE


Macdonald Bhain’s visit to his brother was fruitful in another way.
After taking counsel with Yankee and Kirsty, he resolved that he would
speak to his neighbors and make a “bee,” to attack the brule. He knew
better than to consult either his brother or his nephew, feeling sure
that their Highland pride would forbid accepting any such favor, and all
the more because it seemed to be needed. But without their leave the bee
was arranged, and in the beginning of the following week the house of
Macdonald Dubh was thrown into a state of unparalleled confusion, and
Kirsty went about in a state of dishevelment that gave token that
the daily struggle with dirt had reached the acute stage. From top
to bottom, inside and outside, everything that could be scrubbed was
scrubbed, and then she settled about her baking, but with all caution,
lest she should excite her brother’s or her nephew’s suspicion. It was
a good thing that little baking was required, for the teams that brought
the men with their axes and logging-chains for the day’s work at the
brule brought also their sisters and mothers with baskets of provisions.
A logging bee without the sisters and mothers with their baskets would
hardly be an unmixed blessing.

The first man to arrive with his team was Peter McGregor’s Angus, and
with him came his sister Bella. He was shortly afterward followed
by other teams in rapid succession--the Rosses, the McKerachers, the
Camerons, both Don and Murdie, the Rory McCuaigs, the McRaes, two or
three families of them, the Frasers, and others--till some fifteen teams
and forty men, and boys, who thought themselves quite men, lined up in
front of the brule.

The bee was a great affair, for Macdonald Bhain was held in high regard
by the people; and besides this, the misfortune that had befallen his
brother, and the circumstances under which it had overtaken him, had
aroused in the community a very deep sympathy for him, and people were
glad of the opportunity to manifest this sympathy. And more than all,
a logging bee was an event that always promised more or less excitement
and social festivity.

Yankee was “boss” for the day. This position would naturally have fallen
to Macdonald Bhain, but at his brother’s bee, Macdonald Bhain shrank
from taking the leading place.

The men with the axes went first, chopping up the half-burned logs into
lengths suitable for the burning-piles, clearing away the brushwood,
and cutting through the big roots of the fire-eaten stumps so that
they might more easily be pulled. Then followed the teams with their
logging-chains, hauling the logs to the piles, jerking out and drawing
off the stumps whose huge roots stuck up high into the air, and drawing
great heaps of brush-wood to aid in reducing the heavy logs to ashes.
At each log-pile stood a man with a hand-spike to help the driver to get
the log into position, a work requiring strength and skill, and above
all, a knowledge of the ways of logs which comes only by experience. It
was at this work that Macdonald Bhain shone. With his mighty strength he
could hold steady one end of a log until the team could haul the other
into its place.

The stump-pulling was always attended with more or less interest and
excitement. Stumps, as well as logs, have their ways, and it takes a
long experience to understand the ways of stumps.

In stump-hauling, young Aleck McGregor was an expert. He rarely failed
to detect the weak side of a stump. He knew his team, and what was
of far greater importance, his team knew him. They were partly of
French-Canadian stock, not as large as Farquhar McNaughton’s big, fat
blacks, but “as full of spirit as a bottle of whisky,” as Aleck himself
would say. Their first tentative pulls at the stump were taken with
caution, until their driver and themselves had taken the full measure of
the strength of the enemy. But when once Aleck had made up his mind that
victory was possible, and had given them the call for the final effort,
then his team put their bodies and souls into the pull, and never drew
back till something came. Their driver was accustomed to boast that
never yet had they failed to honor his call.

Farquhar’s handsome blacks, on the other hand, were never handled after
this fashion. They were slow and sure and steady, like their driver.
Their great weight gave them a mighty advantage in a pull, but never,
in all the solemn course of their existence, had they thrown themselves
into any doubtful trial of strength. In a slow, steady haul they were
to be relied upon; but they never could be got to jerk, and a jerk is
an important feature in stump-hauling tactics. To-day, however, a new
experience was awaiting them. Farquhar was an old man and slow, and
Yankee, while he was unwilling to hurry him, was equally unwilling that
his team should not do a full day’s work. He persuaded Farquhar that his
presence was necessary at one of the piles, not with the hand-spike,
but simply to superintend the arranging of the mass for burning. “For it
ain’t every man,” Yankee declared, “could build a pile to burn.” As for
his team, Yankee persuaded the old man that Ranald was unequaled in
handling horses; that last winter no driver in the camp was up to him.
Reluctantly Farquhar handed his team over to Ranald, and stood for some
time watching the result of the new combination.

Ranald was a born horseman. He loved horses and understood them. Slowly
he moved the blacks at their work, knowing that horses are sensitive to
a new hand and voice, and that he must adapt himself to their ways, if
he would bring them at last to his. Before long Farquhar was contented
to go off to his pile, satisfied that his team was in good hands, and
not sorry to be relieved of the necessity of hurrying his pace through
the long, hot day, as would have been necessary in order to keep up with
the other drivers.

For each team a strip of the brule was marked out to clear after the
axes. The logs, brush, and stumps had to be removed and dragged to the
burning-piles. Aleck, with his active, invincible French-Canadians,
Ranald with Farquhar’s big, sleek blacks, and Don with his father’s
team, worked side by side. A contest was inevitable, and before an hour
had passed Don and Aleck, while making a great show of deliberation,
were striving for the first place, with Aleck easily leading. Like a
piece of machinery, Aleck and his team worked together. Quickly and
neatly both driver and horses moved about their work with perfect
understanding of each other. With hardly a touch of the lines, but
almost entirely by word of command, Aleck guided his team. And when he
took up the whiffletrees to swing them around to a log or stump,
his horses wheeled at once into place. It was beautiful to see them,
wheeling, backing, hauling, pulling, without loss of time or temper.

With Don and his team it was all hard work. His horses were willing and
quick enough, but they were ill-trained and needed constant tugging at
the lines. In vain Don shouted and cracked his whip, hurrying his team
to his pile and back again; the horses only grew more and more awkward,
while they foamed and fretted and tired themselves out.

Behind came Ranald, still humoring his slow-going team with easy hand
and quiet voice. But while he refrained from hurrying his horses, he
himself worked hard, and by his good judgment and skill with the chain,
and in skidding the logs into his pile, in which his training in the
shanty had made him more than a match for any one in the field, many
minutes were saved.

When the cowbell sounded for dinner, Aleck’s team stepped off for the
barn, wet, but fresh and frisky as ever, and in perfect heart. Don’s
horses appeared fretted and jaded, while Ranald brought in his blacks
with their glossy skins white with foam where the harness had chafed,
but unfretted, and apparently as ready for work as when they began.

“You have spoiled the shine of your team,” said Aleck, looking over
Ranald’s horses as he brought them up to the trough. “Better turn them
out for the afternoon. They can’t stand much more of that pace.”

Aleck was evidently trying to be good-natured, but he could not hide the
sneer in his tone. They had neither of them forgotten the incident at
the church door, and both felt that it would not be closed until more
had been said about it. But to-day, Ranald was in the place of host,
and it behooved him to be courteous, and Aleck was in good humor with
himself, for his team had easily led the field; and besides, he was
engaged in a kind and neighborly undertaking, and he was too much of
a man to spoil it by any private grudge. He would have to wait for his
settlement with Ranald.

During the hour and a half allowed for dinner, Ranald took his horses to
the well, washed off their legs, removed their harness, and led them to
a cool spot behind the barn, and there, while they munched their oats,
he gave them a good hard rub-down, so that when he brought them into the
field again, his team looked as glossy and felt as fresh as before they
began the day’s work.

As Ranald appeared on the field with his glossy blacks, Aleck glanced at
the horses, and began to feel that, in the contest for first place, it
was Ranald he had to fear, with his cool, steady team, rather than
Don. Not that any suspicion crossed his mind that Farquhar McNaughton’s
sleek, slow-going horses could ever hold their own with his, but he made
up his mind that Ranald, at least, was worth watching.

“Bring up your gentry,” he called to Ranald, “if you are not too fine
for common folks. Man, that team of yours,” he continued, “should never
be put to work like this. Their feet should never be off pavement.”

“Never you mind,” said Ranald, quietly. “I am coming after you, and
perhaps before night the blacks may show you their heels yet.”

“There’s lots of room,” said Aleck, scornfully, and they both set to
work with all the skill and strength that lay in themselves and in their
teams.

For the first hour or two Ranald was contented to follow, letting
his team take their way, but saving every moment he could by his own
efforts. So that, without fretting his horses in the least, or without
moving them perceptibly out of their ordinary gait, he found himself a
little nearer to Aleck than he had been at noon; but the heavy lifting
and quick work began to tell upon him. His horses, he knew, would not
stand very much hurrying. They were too fat for any extra exertion in
such heat, and so Ranald was about to resign himself to defeat, when he
observed that in the western sky clouds were coming up. At the same time
a cool breeze began to blow, and he took fresh heart. If he could hurry
his team a little more, he might catch Aleck yet; so he held his own a
little longer, preserving the same steady pace, until the clouds from
the west had covered all the sky. Then gradually he began to quicken his
horses’ movements and to put them on heavier loads. Wherever opportunity
offered, instead of a single log, or at most two, he would take three or
four for his load; and in ways known only to horsemen, he began to stir
up the spirit of his team, and to make them feel something of his own
excitement.

To such good purpose did he plan, and so nobly did his team respond to
his quiet but persistent pressure, that, ere Aleck was aware, Ranald was
up on his flank; and then they each knew that until the supper-bell
rang he would have to use to the best advantage every moment of time and
every ounce of strength in himself and his team if he was to win first
place.

Somehow the report of the contest went over the field, till at length it
reached the ears of Farquhar. At once the old man, seized with anxiety
for his team, and moved by the fear of what Kirsty might say if the
news ever reached her ears, set off across the brule to remonstrate with
Ranald, and if necessary, rescue his team from peril.

But Don saw him coming, and knowing that every moment was precious, and
dreading lest the old man would snatch from Ranald the victory which
seemed to be at least possible for him, he arrested Farquhar with a call
for assistance with a big log, and then engaged him in conversation upon
the merits of his splendid team.

“And look,” cried he, admiringly, “how Ranald is handling them! Did you
ever see the likes of that?”

The old man stood watching for a few moments, doubtfully enough, while
Don continued pouring forth the praises of his horses, and the latter,
as he noticed Farquhar’s eyes glisten with pride, ventured to hint that
before the day was done “he would make Aleck McRae and his team look
sick. And without a hurt to the blacks, too,” he put in, diplomatically,
“for Ranald is not the man to hurt a team.” And as Farquhar stood and
watched Ranald at his work, and noted with surprise how briskly and
cleverly the blacks swung into their places, and detected also with
his experienced eye that Aleck was beginning to show signs of hurry, he
entered into the spirit of the contest, and determined to allow his team
to win victory for themselves and their driver if they could.

The ax men had finished their “stent.” It wanted still an hour of
supper-time, and surely if slowly, Ranald was making toward first place.
The other teams were left far behind with their work, and the whole
field began to center attention upon the two that were now confessedly
engaged in desperate conflict at the front. One by one the ax men drew
toward the end of the field, where Ranald and Aleck were fighting out
their fight, all pretense of deliberation on the part of the drivers
having by this time been dropped. They no longer walked as they hitched
their chains about the logs or stumps, but sprang with eager haste to
their work. One by one the other teamsters abandoned their teams and
moved across the field to join the crowd already gathered about the
contestants. Among them came Macdonald Bhain, who had been working at
the farthest corner of the brule. As soon as he arrived upon the scene,
and understood what was going on, he cried to Ranald: “That will do now,
Ranald; it will be time to quit.”

Ranald was about to stop, and indeed had checked his horses, when Aleck,
whose blood was up, called out tauntingly, “Aye, it would be better for
him and his horses to stop. They need it bad enough.”

This was too much for even Farquhar’s sluggish blood. “Let them go,
Ranald!” he cried. “Let them go, man! Never you fear for the horses, if
you take down the spunk o’ yon crowing cock.”

It was just what Ranald needed to spur him on--a taunt from his foe and
leave from Farquhar to push his team.

Before each lay a fallen tree cut into lengths and two or three
half-burned stumps. Ranald’s tree was much the bigger. A single length
would have been an ordinary load for the blacks, but their driver felt
that their strength and spirit were both equal to much more than this.
He determined to clear away the whole tree at a single load. As soon as
he heard Farquhar’s voice, he seized hold of the whiffletrees, struck
his team a sharp blow with the lines--their first blow that day--swung
them round to the top of the tree, ran the chain through its swivel,
hooked an end round each of the top lengths, swung them in toward the
butt, unhooked his chain, gathered all three lengths into a single
load, faced his horses toward the pile, and shouted at them. The blacks,
unused to this sort of treatment, were prancing with excitement, and
when the word came they threw themselves into their collars with a
fierceness that nothing could check, and amid the admiring shouts of the
crowd, tore the logs through the black soil and landed them safely at
the pile. It was the work of only a few minutes to unhitch the chain,
haul the logs, one by one, into place, and dash back with his team at
the gallop for the stumps, while Aleck had still another load of logs to
draw.

Ranald’s first stump came out with little trouble, and was borne at full
speed to the pile. The second stump gave him more difficulty, and before
it would yield he had to sever two or three of its thickest roots.

Together the teams swung round to their last stump. The excitement in
the crowd was intense. Aleck’s team was moving swiftly and with the
steadiness of clockwork. The blacks were frantic with excitement and
hard to control. Ranald’s last stump was a pine of medium size, whose
roots were partly burned away. It looked like an easy victim. Aleck’s
was an ugly-looking little elm.

Ranald thought he would try his first pull without the use of the ax.
Quickly he backed up his team to the stump, passed the chain round a
root on the far side, drew the big hook far up the chain, hitched it so
as to give the shortest possible draught, threw the chain over the top
of the stump to give it purchase, picked up his lines, and called to
his team. With a rush the blacks went at it. The chain slipped up on
the root, tightened, bit into the wood, and then the blacks flung back.
Ranald swung them round the point and tried them again, but still the
stump refused to budge.

All this time he could hear Aleck chopping furiously at his elm-roots,
and he knew that unless he had his stump out before his rival had his
chain hitched for the pull the victory was lost.

For a moment or two he hesitated, looking round for the ax.

“Try them again, Ranald,” cried Farquhar. “Haw them a bit.”

Once more Ranald picked up the lines, swung his horses round to the
left, held them steady a moment or two, and then with a yell sent them
at their pull. Magnificently the blacks responded, furiously tearing up
the ground with their feet. A moment or two they hung straining on their
chain, refusing to come back, when slowly the stump began to move.

“You have got it,” cried Farquhar. “Gee them a point or two.”

But already Ranald had seen that this was necessary, and once more
backed his team to readjust the chain which had slipped off the top. As
he fastened the hook he heard a sharp “Back!” behind him, and he knew
that the next moment Aleck’s team would be away with their load. With a
yell he sprang at his lines, lashed the blacks over the back, and called
to them once more. Again his team responded, and with a mighty heave,
the stump came slowly out, carrying with it what looked like half a ton
of earth. But even as it heaved, he heard Aleck’s call and the answering
crash, and before he could get his team a-going, the French-Canadians
were off for their pile at a gallop, with the lines flying in the air
behind them. A moment later he followed, the blacks hauling their stump
at a run.

Together he and Aleck reached the pile. It only remained now to unhook
the chain. In vain he tugged and hauled. The chain was buried deep
beneath the stump and refused to move, and before he could swing his
team about and turn the stump over, he heard Aleck’s shout of victory.

But as he dropped his chain and was leisurely backing his horses, he
heard old Farquhar cry, “Hurry, man! Hurry, for the life of you!”

Without waiting to inquire the reason, Ranald wheeled his team, gave the
stump a half turn, released his chain, and drove off from the pile, to
find Aleck still busy hooking his chain to his whiffletree.

Aleck had had the same difficulty in freeing his chain as Ranald, but
instead of trying to detach it from the stump, he had unhooked the other
end, and then, with a mighty backward jerk, had snatched it from the
stump. But before he could attach it to his place on the whiffletree
again, Ranald stood ready for work.

“A win, lad! A win!” cried old Farquhar, more excited than he had been
for years.

“It is no win,” said Aleck, hotly.

“No, no, lads,” said Macdonald Bhain, before Farquhar could reply. “It
is as even a match as could well be. It is fine teams you both have got,
and you have handled them well.”

But all the same, Ranald’s friends were wildly enthusiastic over what
they called his victory, and Don could hardly keep his hands off him,
for very joy.

Aleck, on the other hand, while claiming the victory because his team
was at the pile first, was not so sure of it but that he was ready
to fight with any one venturing to dispute his claim. But the men all
laughed at him and his rage, until he found it wiser to be good-humored
about it.

“Yon lad will be making as good a man as yourself,” said Farquhar,
enthusiastically, to Macdonald Bhain, as Ranald drove his team to the
stable.

“Aye, and a better, pray God,” said Macdonald Bhain, fervently, looking
after Ranald with loving eyes. There was no child in his home, and his
brother’s son was as his own.

Meanwhile Don had hurried on, leaving his team with Murdie that he
might sing Ranald’s praises to “the girls,” with whom Ranald was highly
popular, although he avoided them, or perhaps because he did so, the
ways of women being past understanding.

To Mrs. Murray and Maimie, who with the minister and Hughie, had come
over to the supper, he went first with his tale. Graphically he depicted
the struggle from its beginning to the last dramatic rush to the pile,
dilating upon Ranald’s skill and pluck, and upon the wonderful and
hitherto unknown virtues of Farquhar’s shiny blacks.

“You ought to see them!” cried Don. “You bet they never moved in their
lives the way they did today. Tied him!” he continued. “Tied him! Beat
him, I say, but Macdonald Bhain says ‘Tied him’--Aleck McRae, who thinks
himself so mighty smart with his team.”

Don forgot in his excitement that the McRaes and their friends were
there in numbers.

“So he is,” cried Annie Ross, one of Aleck’s admirers. “There is not a
man in the Indian Lands that can beat Aleck and his team.”

“Well,” exulted Don, “a boy came pretty near it to-day.”

But Annie only stuck out her lip at him in the inimitable female manner,
and ran off to add to the mischief that Don had already made between
Ranald and his rival.

But now the day’s work was over, and the hour for the day’s event had
come, for supper was the great event to which all things moved at bees.
The long tables stood under the maple trees, spread with the richest,
rarest, deadliest dainties known to the housewives and maidens of the
countryside. About the tables stood in groups the white-aproned girls,
tucked and frilled, curled and ribboned into all degrees of bewitching
loveliness. The men hurried away with their teams, and then gave
themselves to the serious duty of getting ready for supper, using many
pails of water in their efforts to remove the black from the burnt wood
of the brule.

At length the women lost all patience with them, and sent Annie
Ross, with two or three companions, to call them to supper. With arms
intertwined, and with much chattering and giggling, the girls made
their way to the group of men, some of whom were engaged in putting the
finishing touches to their toilet.

“Supper is ready,” cried Annie, “and long past ready. You need not be
trying to fix yourselves up so fine. You are just as bad as any girls.
Oh!” Her speech ended in a shriek, which was echoed by the others, for
Aleck McRae rushed at them, stretching out his black hands toward them.
But they were too quick for him, and fled for protection to the safe
precincts of the tables.

At length, when the last of the men had made themselves, as they
thought, presentable, they began to make their approach to the tables,
slowly and shyly for the most part, each waiting for the other. Aleck
McRae, however, knew little of shyness, but walked past the different
groups of girls, throwing on either hand a smile, a wink, or a word, as
he might find suitable.

Suddenly he came upon the group where the minister’s wife and her niece
were standing. Here, for the moment, his ease forsook him, but Mrs.
Murray came to meet him with outstretched hand.

“So you still retain your laurels?” she said, with a frank smile. “I
hear it was a great battle.”

Aleck shook hands with her rather awkwardly. He was not on the easiest
terms with the minister and his wife. He belonged distinctly to the
careless set, and rather enjoyed the distinction.

“Oh, it was not much,” he said; “the teams were well matched.”

“Oh, I should like to have been there. You should have told us
beforehand.”

“Oh, it was more than I expected myself,” he said. “I didn’t think it
was in Farquhar’s team.”

He could not bring himself to give any credit to Ranald, and though Mrs.
Murray saw this, she refused to notice it. She was none the less anxious
to win Aleck’s confidence, because she was Ranald’s friend.

“Do you know my niece?” she said, turning to Maimie.

Aleck looked into Maimie’s face with such open admiration that she felt
the blush come up in her cheeks.

“Indeed, she is worth knowing, but I don’t think she will care to take
such a hand as that,” he said, stretching out a hand still grimy in
spite of much washing. But Maimie had learned something since coming to
her aunt, and she no longer judged men by the fit of their clothes, or
the color of their skin, or the length of their hair; and indeed, as she
looked at Aleck, with his close-buttoned smock, and overalls with the
legs tucked neatly into the tops of his boots, she thought he was the
trimmest figure she had seen since coming to the country. She took
Aleck’s hand and shook it warmly, the full admiration in his handsome
black eyes setting her blood tingling with that love of conquest that
lies in every woman’s heart. So she flung out her flag of war, and
smiled back at him her sweetest.

“You have a fine team, I hear,” she said, as her aunt moved away to
greet some of the other men, who were evidently waiting to get a word
with her.

“That I have, you better believe,” replied Aleck, proudly.

“It was very clever of Ranald to come so near beating you, wasn’t it?”
 she said, innocently. “He must be a splendid driver.”

“He drives pretty well,” admitted Aleck. “He did nothing else all last
winter in the shanties.”

“He is so young, too,” went on Maimie. “Just a boy, isn’t he?”

Aleck was not sure how to take this. “He does not think so,” he
answered, shortly. “He thinks he is no end of a man, but he will have to
learn something before he is much older.”

“But he can drive, you say,” continued Maimie, wickedly keeping her
finger on the sore spot.

“Oh, pshaw!” replied Aleck, boldly. “You think a lot of him, don’t you?
And I guess you are a pair.”

Maimie tossed her head at this. “We are very good friends, of course,”
 she said, lightly. “He is a very nice boy, and we are all fond of him;
but he is just a boy; he is Hughie’s great friend.”

“A boy, is he?” laughed Aleck. “That may be, but he is very fond of
you, whatever, and indeed, I don’t wonder at that. Anybody would be,” he
added, boldly.

“You don’t know a bit about it,” said Maimie, with cheeks glowing.

“About what?”

“About Ranald and--and--what you said.”

“What I said? About being fond of you? Indeed, I know all about that.
The boys are all broke up, not to speak of myself.”

This was going a little too fast for Maimie. She knew nothing, as yet,
of the freedom of country banter. She was new to the warfare, but she
was not going to lower her flag or retreat. She changed the subject.
“Your team must have been very tired.”

“Tired!” exclaimed Aleck, “not a bit. They will go home like birds. Come
along with me, and you will see.”

Maimie gasped. “I--” she hesitated, glanced past Aleck, blushed, and
stammered.

Aleck turned about quickly and saw Ranald staring at Maimie. “Oh,” he
said, banteringly, “I see. You would not be allowed.”

“Allowed!” echoed Maimie. “And why not, pray? Who will hinder me?”

But Aleck only shrugged his shoulders and looked at Ranald, who passed
on to his place at the table, black as a thunder-cloud. Maimie was
indignant at him. What right had he to stare and look so savage? She
would just show him. So she turned once more to Aleck, and with a gay
laugh, cried, “Some day I will accept your invitation, so just make
ready.”

“Any day, or every day, and the more days the better,” cried Aleck, as
he sat down at the table, where all had now taken their places.

The supper was a great success. With much laughter and chaffing, the
girls flitted from place to place, pouring cups of tea and passing the
various dishes, urging the men to eat, till, as Don said, they were
“full to the neck.”

When all had finished, Mr. Murray, who sat at the head of the table,
rose in his place and said: “Gentlemen, before we rise from this table,
which has been spread so bountifully for us, I wish to return thanks on
behalf of Mr. Macdonald to the neighbors and friends who have gathered
to-day to assist in this work. Mr. Macdonald asked me to say that he is
all the more surprised at this kindness, in that he feels himself to be
so unworthy of it. I promised to speak this word for him, but I do not
agree with the sentiment. Mr. Macdonald is a man whom we all love, and
in whose misfortune we deeply sympathize, and I only hope that this
Providence may be greatly blessed to him, and that we will all come to
know him better, and to see God’s hand in his misfortune.”

The minister then, after some further remarks expressive of the good
will of the neighbors for Mr. Macdonald, and in appreciation of the kind
spirit that prompted the bee, returned thanks, and the supper was over.

As the men were leaving the table, Aleck watched his opportunity and
called to Maimie, when he was sure Ranald could hear, “Well, when will
you be ready for that drive?”

And Maimie, who was more indignant at Ranald than ever because he had
ignored all her advances at supper, and had received her congratulations
upon his victory with nothing more than a grunt, answered Aleck
brightly. “Oh, any day that you happen to remember.”

“Remember!” cried Aleck; “then that will be every day until our ride
comes off.”

A few minutes later, as Ranald was hitching up Farquhar’s team, Aleck
passed by, and in great good humor with himself, chaffingly called out
to Ranald in the presence of a number of the men, “That’s a fine girl
you’ve got, Ranald. But you better keep your eye on her.”

Ranald made no reply. He was fast losing command of himself.

“Pretty skittish to handle, isn’t she?” continued Aleck.

“What y’re talkin’ ‘bout? That Lisette mare?” said Yankee, walking round
to Ranald’s side. “Purty slick beast, that. Guess there ain’t anythin’
in this country will make her take dust.”

Then in a low voice he said to Ranald, hurriedly, “Don’t you mind him;
don’t you mind him. You can’t touch him to-day, on your own place. Let
me handle him.”

“No,” said Aleck. “We were talking about another colt of Ranald’s.”

“What’s that?” said Yankee, pretending not to hear. “Yes, you bet,” he
continued. “Ranald can handle her all right. He knows something about
horses, as I guess you have found out, perhaps, by this time. Never saw
anything so purty. Didn’t know your team had got that move in them, Mr.
McNaughton,” Yankee went on to Farquhar, who had just come up.

“Indeed, they are none the worse of it,” said Farquhar, rubbing his
hands over the sleek sides of his horses.

“Worse!” cried Yankee. “They’re worth a hundred dollars more from this
day on.”

“I don’t know that. The hundred dollars ought to go upon the driver,”
 said Farquhar, putting his hand kindly upon Ranald’s shoulder.

But this Ranald warmly repudiated. “They are a great team,” he said to
Farquhar. “And they could do better than they did to-day if they were
better handled.’

“Indeed, it would be difficult to get that,” said Farquhar, “for, in
my opinion, there is not a man in the country that could handle them as
well.”

This was too much for Aleck, who, having by this time got his horses
hitched, mounted his wagon seat and came round to the door at a gallop.

“Saved you that time, my boy,” said Yankee to Ranald. “You would have
made a fool of yourself in about two minutes more, I guess.”

But Ranald was still too wrathful to be grateful for Yankee’s help. “I
will be even with him someday,” he said, between his teeth.

“I guess you will have to learn two or three things first,” said Yankee,
slowly.

“What things?”

“Well, how to use your head, first place, and then how to use your
hands. He is too heavy for you. He would crumple you up in a couple of
minutes.”

“Let him, then,” said Ranald, recklessly.

“Rather onpleasant. Better wait awhile till you learn what I told you.”

“Yankee,” said Ranald, after a pause, “will you show me?”

“Why, sartin sure,” said Yankee, cheerfully. “You have got to lick him
some day, or he won’t be happy; and by jings! it will be worth seein’,
too.”

By this time Farquhar had come back from saying good by to Macdonald
Dubh and Mr. and Mrs. Murray, who were remaining till the last.

“You will be a man yet,” said Farquhar, shaking Ranald’s hand. “You
have got the patience and the endurance.” These were great virtues in
Farquhar’s opinion.

“Not much patience, I am afraid,” said Ranald. “But I am glad you
trusted me with your team.”

“And any day you want them you can have them,” said Farquhar, his
reckless mood leading him to forget Kirsty for the moment.

“Thank you, sir,” said Ranald, wondering what Kirsty would look like
should he ever venture to claim Farquhar’s offer.

One by one the teams drove away with their loads, till only the minister
and his party were left. Away under the trees Mr. Murray was standing,
earnestly talking to Macdonald Dubh. He had found the opportunity he had
long waited for and was making the most of it. Mrs. Murray was busy with
Kirsty, and Maimie and Hughie came toward the stable where Yankee and
Ranald were still standing. As soon as Ranald saw them approaching he
said to Yankee, abruptly, “I am going to get the minister’s horse,” and
disappeared into the stable. Nor did he come forth again till he heard
his father calling to him: “What is keeping you, Ranald? The minister is
waiting for his horse.”

“So you won a great victory, Ranald, I hear,” said the minister, as
Ranald brought Black to the door.

“It was a tie,” said Ranald.

“Oh, Ranald!” cried Hughie, “you beat him. Everybody says so. You had
your chain hitched up and everything before Aleck.”

“I hear it was a great exhibition, not only of skill, but of endurance
and patience, Ranald,” said the minister. “And these are noble virtues.
It is a great thing to be able to endure.”

But Ranald made no reply, busying himself with Black’s bridle. Mrs.
Murray noticed his gloom and guessed its cause.

“We will see you at the Bible class, Ranald,” she said, kindly, but
still Ranald remained silent.

“Can you not speak, man?” said his father. “Do you not hear the
minister’s wife talking to you?”

“Yes,” said Ranald, “I will be there.”

“We will be glad to see you,” said Mrs. Murray, offering him her hand.
“And you might come in with Hughie for a few minutes afterward,” she
continued, kindly, for she noted the misery in his face.

“And we will be glad to see you, too, Mr. Macdonald, if it would not be
too much for you, and if you do not scorn a woman’s teaching.”

“Indeed, I would be proud,” said Macdonald Dubh, courteously, “as far as
that is concerned, for I hear there are better men than me attending.”

“I am sure Mrs. Murray will be glad to see you, Mr. Macdonald,” said the
minister.

“I will be thinking of it,” said Macdonald Dubh, cautiously. “And you
are both very kind, whatever,” he said, losing for a time his habitual
gloom.

“Well, then, I will look for you both,” said Mrs. Murray, as they were
about to drive off, “so do not disappoint me.”

“Good by, Ranald,” said Maimie, offering Ranald her hand.

“Good by,” said Ranald, holding her hand for a moment and looking hard
into her eyes, “and I hope you will enjoy your ride, whatever.”

Then Maimie understood Ranald’s savage manner, and as she thought it
over she smiled to herself. She was taking her first sips of that cup,
to woman’s lips the sweetest, and she found it not unpleasant. She had
succeeded in making one man happy and another miserable. But it was when
she said to herself, “Poor Ranald!” that she smiled most sweetly.



CHAPTER XIV

SHE WILL NOT FORGET


If Mrs. Murray was not surprised to see Macdonald Dubh and Yankee walk
in on Sabbath evening and sit down in the back seat, her class were.
Indeed the appearance of these two men at the class was considered an
event so extraordinary as to give a decided shock to those who regularly
attended, and their presence lent to the meeting an unusual interest,
and an undertone of excitement. To see Macdonald Dubh, whose attendance
at the regular Sabbath services was something unusual, present at a
religious meeting which no one would consider it a duty to attend, was
enough in itself to excite surprise, but when Yankee came in and sat
beside him, the surprise was considerably intensified. For Yankee was
considered to be quite outside the pale, and indeed, in a way, incapable
of religious impression. No one expected Yankee to be religious. He was
not a Presbyterian, knew nothing of the Shorter Catechism, not to speak
of the Confession of Faith, and consequently was woefully ignorant of
the elements of Christian knowledge that were deemed necessary to any
true religious experience.

It was rumored that upon Yankee’s first appearance in the country, some
few years before, he had, in an unguarded moment, acknowledged that
his people had belonged to the Methodists, and that he himself “leaned
toward” that peculiar sect. Such a confession was in itself enough to
stamp him, in the eyes of the community, as one whose religious history
must always be attended with more or less uncertainty. Few of them had
ever seen a Methodist in the flesh. There were said to be some at Moose
Creek (Mooscrick, as it was called), but they were known only by report.
The younger and more untraveled portion of the community thought of them
with a certain amount of awe and fear.

It was no wonder, then, that Yankee’s appearance in Bible class
produced a sensation. It was an evening of sensations, for not only were
Macdonald Dubh and Yankee present, but Aleck McRae had driven up a load
of people from below the Sixteenth. Ranald regarded his presence with
considerable contempt.

“It is not much he cares for the Bible class, whatever,” he confided to
Don, who was sitting beside him.

But more remarkable and disturbing to Ranald than the presence of Aleck
McRae, was that of a young man sitting between Hughie and Maimie in the
minister’s pew. He was evidently from the city. One could see that from
his fine clothes and his white shirt and collar. Ranald looked at him
with deepening contempt. “Pride” was written all over him. Not only did
he wear fine clothes, and a white shirt and collar, but he wore them
without any sign of awkwardness or apology in his manner, and indeed
as if he enjoyed them. But the crowning proof of his “pride,” Don noted
with unutterable scorn.

“Look at him,” he said, “splits his head in the middle.”

Ranald found himself wondering how the young fop would look sitting in
a pool of muddy water. How insufferable the young fellow’s manners were!
He sat quite close to Maimie, now and then whispering to her, evidently
quite ignorant of how to behave in church. And Maimie, who ought to
know better, was acting most disgracefully as well, whispering back and
smiling right into his face. Ranald was thoroughly ashamed of her. He
could not deny that the young fellow was handsome, hatefully so, but he
was evidently stuck full of conceit, and as he let his eyes wander
over the congregation assembled, with a bold and critical stare, making
remarks to Maimie in an undertone which could be heard over the church,
Ranald felt his fingers twitching. The young man was older than Ranald,
but Ranald would have given a good deal for an opportunity to “take him
with one hand.”

At this point Ranald’s reflections were interrupted by Mrs. Murray
rising to open the class.

“Will some one suggest a Psalm?” she asked, her cheek, usually pale,
showing a slight color. It was always an ordeal for her to face her
class, ever since the men had been allowed to come, and the first
moments were full of trial to her. Only her conscience and her fine
courage kept her from turning back from this, her path of duty.

At once, from two or three came responses to her invitation, and a Psalm
was chosen.

The singing was a distinct feature of the Bible class. There was nothing
like it, not only in the other services of the congregation, but in
any congregation in the whole county. The young people that formed that
Bible class have long since grown into old men and women, but the echoes
of that singing still reverberate through the chambers of their hearts
when they stand up to sing certain tunes or certain Psalms. Once a week,
through the long winter, they used to meet and sing to John “Aleck’s”
 sounding beat for two or three hours. They learned to sing, not only the
old psalm tunes but psalm tunes never heard in the congregation before,
as also hymns and anthems. The anthems and hymns were, of course, never
used in public worship. They were reserved for the sacred concert which
John “Aleck” gave once a year. It was in the Bible class that he and his
fellow enthusiasts found opportunity to sing their new Psalm tunes, with
now and then a hymn. When John “Aleck,” a handsome, broad-shouldered,
six-footer, stood up and bit his tuning-fork to catch the pitch, the
people straightened up in their seats and prepared to follow his lead.
And after his great resonant voice had rolled out the first few notes
of the tune, they caught him up with a vigor and enthusiasm that carried
him along, and inspired him to his mightiest efforts. Wonderful singing
it was, full toned, rhythmical and well balanced.

With characteristic courage, the minister’s wife had chosen Paul’s
Epistle to the Romans for the subject of study, and to-night the
lesson was the redoubtable ninth chapter, that arsenal for Calvinistic
champions. First the verses were repeated by the class in concert, and
the members vied with each other in making this a perfect exercise, then
the teaching of the chapter was set forth in simple, lucid speech. The
last half hour was devoted to the discussion of questions, raised either
by the teacher or by any member of the class. To-night the class was
slow in asking questions. They were face to face with the tremendous
Pauline Doctrine of Sovereignty. It was significant that by Macdonald
Dubh, his brother, and the other older and more experienced members of
the class, the doctrine was regarded as absolutely inevitable and
was accepted without question, while by Yankee and Ranald and all the
younger members of the class, it was rejected with fierce resentment.
The older men had been taught by the experience of long and bitter
years, that above all their strength, however mighty, a power,
resistless and often inscrutable, determined their lives. The younger
men, their hearts beating with conscious power and freedom, resented
this control, or accepting it, refused to assume the responsibility for
the outcome of their lives. It was the old, old strife, the insoluble
mystery; and the minister’s wife, far from making light of it, allowed
its full weight to press in upon the members of her class, and wisely
left the question as the apostle leaves it, with a statement of the
two great truths of Sovereignty and Free Will without attempting the
impossible task of harmonizing these into a perfect system. After a
half-hour of discussion, she brought the lesson to a close with a very
short and very simple presentation of the practical bearing of the great
doctrine. And while the mystery remained unsolved, the limpid clearness
of her thought, the humble attitude of mind, the sympathy with doubt,
and above all, the sweet and tender pathos that filled her voice, sent
the class away humbled, subdued, comforted, and willing to wait the day
of clearer light. Not that they were done with Pharaoh and his untoward
fate; that occupied them for many a day.

The class was closed with prayer and singing. As a kind of treat, the
last singing was a hymn and they stood up to sing it. It was Perronet’s
great hymn sung to old Coronation, and when they came to the refrain,
“Crown him Lord of all,” the very rafters of the little church rang with
the mighty volume of sound. The Bible class always closed with a
great outburst of singing, and as a rule, Ranald went out tingling and
thrilling through and through. But tonight, so deeply was he exercised
with the unhappy doom of the unfortunate king of Egypt, from which,
apparently, there was no escape, fixed as it was by the Divine decree,
and oppressed with the feeling that the same decree would determine the
course of his life, he missed his usual thrill. He was walking off by
himself in a perplexed and downcast mood, avoiding every one, even
Don, and was nearly past the minister’s gate when Hughie, excited and
breathless, caught up to him and exclaimed: “Oh, Ranald, was not that
splendid? Man, I like to hear John ‘Aleck’ sing ‘Crown him’ that way.
And I say,” he continued, “mother wants you to come in.”

Then all at once Ranald remembered the young man who had behaved so
disgracefully in church.

“No,” he said, firmly, “I must be hurrying home. The cows will be to
milk yet.”

“Oh, pshaw! you must come,” pleaded Hughie. “We will have some singing.
I want you to sing bass. Perhaps John ‘Aleck’ will come in.” This was
sheer guessing, but it was good bait. But the young man with “his head
split in the middle” would be there, and perhaps Maimie would be “going
on,” with him as she did in the Bible class.

“You will tell your mother I could not come,” he said. “Yankee and
father are both out, and there will be no one at home.”

“Well, I think you are pretty mean,” said Hughie, grievously
disappointed. “I wanted you to come in, and mother wanted Cousin Harry
to see you.”

“Cousin Harry?”

“Yes; Maimie’s brother came last night, you know, and Maimie is going
back with him in two weeks.”

“Maimie’s brother. Well, well, is that the nice-looking fellow that sat
by you?”

“Huh-huh, he is awful nice, and mother wanted--”

“Indeed he looks it, I am sure,” Ranald said, with sudden enthusiasm; “I
would just like to know him. If I thought Yankee would--”

“Oh, pshaw! Of course Yankee will milk the cows,” exclaimed Hughie.
“Come on, come on in. And Ranald went to meet one of the great nights of
his life.

“Here is Ranald!” called Hughie at the top of his voice, as he entered
the room where the family were gathered.

“You don’t say so, Hughie?” answered his cousin, coming forward. “You
ought to make that fact known. We all want to hear it.”

Ranald liked him from the first. He was not a bit “proud” in spite of
his fine clothes and his head being “split in the middle.”

“You’re the chap,” he said, stretching out his hand to Ranald, “that
snatched Maimie from the fire. Mighty clever thing to do. We have heard
a lot about you at our house. Why, every week--”

“Let some one else talk, Harry,” interrupted Maimie, with cheeks
flaming. “We are going to have some singing now. Here is auntie. Mayn’t
we use the piano?”

“Why, yes, I suppose so,” said Mrs. Murray. “I was glad to see your
father there to-night,” she said to Ranald.

“And Yankee, mother.”

“Hush, Hughie; you must call people by their right names. Now let us
have some singing. I hear Ranald is singing bass these days.”

“And bully good bass, too,” cried Hughie. “John ‘Aleck’ says that it’s
the finest bass in the whole singing school.”

“Well, Hughie,” said his mother, quietly, “I don’t think it is necessary
to shout even such pleasant information as that. Now go to your singing,
and I shall listen.”

She lay back in the big chair, looking so pale and weary that Harry
hardly believed it was the same woman that had just been keeping a
hundred and fifty people keenly alert for an hour and a half, and
leading them with such intellectual and emotional power.

“That class is too hard for you, auntie,” he said. “If I were your
husband I would not let you keep it on.”

“But you see my husband is not here. He is twelve miles away.”

“Then I would lock you up, or take you with me.”

“Oh!” cried Hughie, “I would much rather teach the Bible class than
listen to another sermon.”

“Something in that,” said his cousin, “especially if I were the
preacher, eh?” at which they all laughed.

It was a happy hour for Ranald. He had been too shy to join the singing
school, and had never heard any part singing till he began to attend the
Bible class. There he made the delightful discovery that, without any
instruction, he could join in the bass, and had made, also, the further
discovery that his voice, which he had thought rough and coarse, and for
a year past, worse than ever, could reach to extraordinary depths. One
Sabbath evening, it chanced that John “Aleck,” who always had an ear
open for a good voice, heard him rolling out his deep bass, and seizing
him on the spot, had made him promise to join the singing school. There
he discovered a talent and developed a taste for singing that delighted
his leader’s heart, and opened out to himself a new world. The piano,
too, was a new and rare treat to Ranald. In all the country there was no
other, and even in the manse it was seldom heard, for Mrs. Murray found
little time, amid the multitude of household and congregational duties,
to keep up her piano practice. That part of her life, with others of
like kind, she had been forced to lose.

But since Maimie’s coming, the piano had been in daily use, and even on
the Sabbath days, though not without danger to the sensibilities of the
neighbors, she had used it to accompany the hymns with which the day
always closed.

“Let us have the parts,” cried Hughie. “Maimie and I will take the air,
and Ranald will take the bass. Cousin Harry, can you sing?”

“Oh, I’ll hum.”

“Nonsense,” said Maimie, “he sings tenor splendidly.”

“Oh, that’s fine!” cried Hughie, with delight. He himself was full of
music. “Come on, Ranald, you stand up behind Maimie, you will need to
see the notes; and I will sit here,” planting himself beside his mother.

So Hughie arranged it all, and for an hour the singing went on, the
favorite hymns of each being sung in turn. For the most part, Mrs.
Murray sat silent, but now and then she would join with the others,
singing alto when she did so, by Hughie’s special direction. Her voice
was not strong, but it was true, mellow, and full of music. Hughie loved
to hear her sing alto, and more especially because he liked to join in
with her, which he was too shy to do alone, even in his home, and which
he would never think of doing in the Bible class, or in the presence of
any of the boys who might, for this reason, think him “proud.” When they
came to Hughie’s turn, he chose the hymn by Bliss, recently published,
“Whosoever will,” the words seem to strike him tonight.

“Mother,” he said, after singing it through, “does that mean everybody
that likes?”

“Yes, my dear, any one that wishes.”

“Pharaoh, mother?”

“Yes, Pharaoh, too.”

“But, mother, you said he could not possibly.”

“Only because he did not want to.”

“But he could not, even if he did want to.”

“I hope I did not say that,” said his mother, smiling at the eager and
earnest young face.

“No, auntie,” said Harry, taking up Hughie’s cause, “not exactly, but
something very like it. You said that Pharaoh could not possibly have
acted in any other way than he did.”

“Yes, I said that.”

“Not even if he wanted to?” asked Hughie.

“Oh, I did not say that.”

“The Lord hardened Pharaoh’s heart,” quoted Ranald, who knew his Bible
better than Harry.

“Yes, that is it,” said Harry, “and so that made it impossible for
Pharaoh to do anything else. He could not help following after those
people.”

“Why not?” said Mrs. Murray. “What made him follow? Now just think, what
made him follow after those people?”

“Why, he wanted to get them back,” said Hughie.

“Quite true,” said his mother. “So you see, he did exactly as he wanted
to.”

“Then you mean the Lord had nothing to do with it?” asked Ranald.

“No, I could not say that.”

“Then,” said Harry, “Pharaoh could not help himself. Now, could he?”

“He did what he wished to do,” said his aunt.

“Yes,” said Ranald, quickly, “but could he help wishing to do what he
did?”

“If he had been a different man, more humble minded, and more willing to
be taught, he would not have wished to do what he did.”

“Mother,” said Hughie, changing his ground a little, and lowering his
voice, “do you think Pharaoh is lost, and all his soldiers, and--and all
the people who were bad?”

Mrs. Murray looked at him in silence for a few moments, then said, very
sadly, “I can’t answer that question, Hughie. I do not know.”

“But, mother,” persisted Hughie, “are not wicked people lost?”

“Yes, Hughie,” replied his mother, “all those who do not repent of their
sins and cry to God for mercy.”

“Oh, mother,” cried Hughie, “forever?”

His mother did not reply.

“Will He never let them out, mother?” continued Hughie, in piteous
appeal.

“Listen to me, Hughie,” said his mother, very gently. “We know very
little about this. Would you be very sorry, even for very bad men?”

“Oh, mother,” cried Hughie, his tender little heart moved with a great
compassion, “think of a whole year, all summer long, and all winter
long. I think I would let anybody out.”

“Then, Hughie, dear,” said his mother, “remember that God is much kinder
than you are, and has a heart far more tender, and while He will be just
and must punish sin, He will do nothing unjust or unkind, you may be
quite sure of that. Do not forget how He gave up His own dear son for
us.”

Poor Hughie could bear it no longer. He put his head in his mother’s lap
and sobbed out, “Oh, mother, I hope he will let them out.”

As he uttered this pitiful little cry, his cousin Harry got up from his
chair, and moved across to the window, while Maimie openly wiped her
eyes, but Ranald sat with his face set hard, and his eyes gleaming,
waiting eagerly for Mrs. Murray’s answer.

The mother stroked Hughie’s head softly, and while her tears fell on the
brown curls, said to him, “You would not be afraid to trust your mother,
Hughie, and our Father in heaven loves us all much more than I love
you.”

And with that Hughie was content.

“Now let us sing one more hymn,” said his mother. “It’s my choice.”
 And she chose one of the new hymns which they had just learned in the
singing school, and of which Hughie was very fond, the children’s hymn,
“Come to the Saviour.” While they were singing they heard Mr. Murray
drive into the yard.

“There’s papa,” said Mrs. Murray. “He will be tired and hungry,” and she
hurried out to meet her husband, followed by Harry and Hughie, leaving
Ranald and Maimie in the room together. Ranald had never been alone with
her before, nor indeed had he ever spent five minutes of his life alone
with any girl before now. But he did not feel awkward or shy; he was
thinking now, as he had been thinking now and then through the whole
evening, of only one thing, that Maimie was going away. That would
make a great difference to him, so great that he was conscious of a
heart-sinking at the mere thought of it. During the last weeks, his life
had come to move about a center, and that center was Maimie; and now
that she was going away, there would be nothing left. Nothing, that is,
that really mattered. But the question he was revolving in his mind was,
would she forget all about him. He knew he would never forget her, that
was, of course, impossible, for so many things would remind him of her.
He would never see the moonlight falling through the trees as it fell
that night of the sugaring-off, without thinking of her. He would never
see the shadows in the evening, or hear the wind in the leaves, without
thinking of her. The church and the minister’s pew, the manse and all
belonging to it would remind him of Maimie. He would recall how she
looked at different times and places, the turn of her head, the way her
hair fell on her neck, her laugh, the little toss of her chin, and the
curve in her lips. He would remember everything about her. Would she
remember him, or would she forget him? That was the question burning
in his heart; and that question he must have settled, and this was the
time.

But though these thoughts and emotions were rushing through his brain
and blood, he felt strangely quiet and self-controlled as he walked over
to her where she stood beside the piano, and looking into her eyes with
an intensity of gaze she could not meet, said, in a low, quick voice:
“You are going away?”

“Yes,” she replied, so startled that the easy smile with which she had
greeted him faded out of her face. “In two weeks I shall be gone.”

“Gone!” echoed Ranald. “Yes, you will be gone. Will you forget me?” His
tone was almost stern.

“Why, no,” she said, in a surprised voice. “Of course not. Did not you
save my life? You will be far more likely to forget me.”

“No,” he said, simply, as if that possibility need not be considered. “I
will never forget you. I will always be thinking of you. Will you think
of me?” he persisted.

“Why, certainly. Wouldn’t I be a very ungrateful girl if I did not?”

“Ungrateful!” exclaimed Ranald, impatiently. “What I did was nothing.
Forget that. Do you not understand me? I will be thinking of you every
day, in the morning and at night, and I never thought of any one else
before for a day. Will you be thinking of me?”

There was a movement in the kitchen, and they could hear the minister
talking to Harry; and some one was moving toward the door.

“Tell me, Maimie, quick,” said Ranald, and though his voice was intense
and stern, there was appeal in it as well.

She took a step nearer him, and looking up into his face, said, in a
whisper, “Yes, Ranald, I will always remember you, and think of you.”

Swiftly, almost fiercely, he threw his arms about her, and kissed her
lips, then he stood back looking at her.

“I could not help it,” he said, boldly. “You made me.”

“Made you?” exclaimed Maimie, her face hot with blushes.

“Yes, you made me. I could not help it,” he repeated. “And I do not care
if you are angry. I am glad I did it.”

“Glad?” echoed Maimie again, not knowing what to say.

“Yes, glad,” he said, exultantly. “Are you?”

She made no reply. The door opened behind them. She sank down upon the
piano-stool and let her hands fall upon the keys.

“Are you?” he demanded, ignoring the interruption.

With her head low down, while she struck the chords of the hymn they had
just sung, she said, hesitatingly, “I am not sorry.”

“Sorry for what?” said Harry.

“Oh, nothing,” said Maimie, lightly.

“Nobody is, if he has got any sense.”

Then Mrs. Murray came in. “Won’t you stay for supper, Ranald? You must
be hungry.”

“No, thank you,” said Ranald. “I must go now.”

He shook hands with an ease and freedom that the minister had never seen
in him, and went out.

“That young man is coming on,” said the minister. “I never saw any one
change and develop as he has in the last few months. Let me see. He is
only eighteen, isn’t he, and he might be twenty-one.” The minister spoke
as if he were not too well pleased with this precocity in Ranald.

But little did Ranald care. That young man was striding homeward through
the night, his head striking the stars. His path lay through the woods,
and when he came to the “sugar camp” road, he stood still, and let the
memories of the night when he had snatched Maimie from the fire troop
through his mind. Suddenly he thought of Aleck McRae, and laughed aloud.

“Poor Aleck,” he said. Aleck seemed so harmless to him now. And then he
stood silent, motionless, looking straight toward the stars, but seeing
them not. He was remembering Maimie’s face when she said, “Yes, Ranald,
I will always remember you and think of you”; and then the thought of
what followed, sent the blood jumping through his veins.

“She will not forget,” he said aloud, and went on his way. It was his
happy night, the happiest of his life thus far, and he would always be
happy. What difference could anything make?



CHAPTER XV

THE REVIVAL


Those last days of Maimie’s visit sped by on winged feet. To Ranald they
were brimming with happiness, every one of them. It was the slack time
of the year, between seeding and harvest, and there was nothing much
to keep him at home. And so, with Harry, his devoted companion, Ranald
roamed the woods, hitching up Lisette in Yankee’s buckboard, put her
through her paces, and would now and then get up such bursts of speed as
took Harry’s breath away; and more than all, there was the chance of
a word with Maimie. He had lost much of his awkwardness. He went about
with an air of mastery, and why not? He had entered upon his kingdom.
The minister noticed and wondered; his wife noticed and smiled
sometimes, but oftener sighed, wisely keeping silence, for she knew that
in times like this the best words were those unspoken.

The happiest day of all for Ranald was the last, when, after a long
tramp with Harry through the woods, he drove him back to the manse,
coming up from the gate to the door like a whirlwind.

As Lisette stood pawing and tossing her beautiful head, Mrs. Murray, who
stood with Maimie watching them drive up, cried out, admiringly: “What a
beauty she is!”

“Isn’t she!” cried Harry, enthusiastically. “And such a flyer! Get in,
auntie, and see.”

“Do,” said Ranald; “I would be very glad. Just to the church hill and
back.”

“Go, auntie,” pleaded Harry. “She is wonderful.”

“You go, Maimie,” said her aunt, to whom every offered pleasure simply
furnished an opportunity of thought for others.

“Nonsense!” cried Harry, impatiently. “You might gratify yourself a
little for once in your life. Besides,” he added, with true brotherly
blindness, “it’s you Ranald wants. At least he talks enough about you.”

“Yes, auntie, do go! It will be lovely,” chimed in Maimie, with
suspicious heartiness.

So, with many protestations, Mrs. Murray took her place beside Ranald
and was whirled off like the wind. She returned in a very few minutes,
her hair blown loose till the little curls hung about her glowing face
and her eyes shining with excitement.

“Oh, she is perfectly splendid!” she exclaimed. “And so gentle. You must
go, Maimie, if only to the gate.” And Maimie went, but not to turn at
even the church hill.

For a mile down the concession road Ranald let Lisette jog at an easy
pace while he told Maimie some of his aims and hopes. He did not mean
to be a farmer nor a lumberman. He was going to the city, and there
make his fortune. He did not say it in words, but his tone, his manner,
everything about him, proclaimed his confidence that some day he
would be a great man. And Maimie believed him, not because it seemed
reasonable, or because there seemed to be any ground for his confidence,
but just because Ranald said it. His superb self-confidence wrought in
her assurance.

“And then,” he said, proudly, “I am going to see you.”

“Oh, I hope you will not wait till then,” she answered.

“I do not know,” he said. “I cannot tell, but it does not matter much. I
will be always seeing you.”

“But I will want to see you,” said Maimie.

“Yes,” said Ranald, “I know you will,” as if that were a thing to be
expected. “But you will be coming back to your aunt here.” But of this
Maimie could not be sure.

“Oh, yes, you will come,” he said, confidently; “I am sure you will
come. Harry is coming, and you will come, too.” And having settled this
point, he turned Lisette and from that out gave his attention to his
driving. The colt seemed to realize the necessity of making a display
of her best speed, and without any urging, she went along the concession
road, increasing her speed at every stride till she wheeled in at the
gate. Then Ranald shook the lines over her back and called to her.
Magnificently Lisette responded, and swept up to the door with such
splendid dash that the whole household greeted her with waving applause.
As the colt came to a stand, Maimie stepped out from the buckboard, and
turning toward Ranald, said in a low, hurried voice: “O, Ranald, that
was splendid, and I am so happy; and you will be sure to come?”

“I will come,” said Ranald, looking down into the blue eyes with a look
so long and steady and so full of passionate feeling that Maimie knew he
would keep his word.

Then farewells were said, and Ranald turned away, Harry and Mrs. Murray
watching him from the door till he disappeared over the church hill.

“Well, that’s the finest chap I ever saw,” said Harry, with emphasis.
“And what a body he has! He would make a great half-back.”

“Poor Ranald! I hope he will make a great and good man,” said his aunt,
with a ring of sadness in her voice.

“Why poor, auntie?”

“I’m sure I do not know,” she said, with a very uncertain smile playing
about her mouth. Then she went upstairs and found Maimie sitting at the
window overlooking the church hill, and once more she knew how golden is
silence. So she set to work to pack Maimie’s trunk for her.

“It will be a very early start, Maimie,” she said, “and so we will get
everything ready to-night.”

“Yes, auntie,” said Maimie, going to her and putting her arms about her.
“How happy I have been, and how good you have been to me!”

“And how glad I have been to have you!” said her aunt.

“Oh, I will never forget you! You have taught me so much that I never
knew before. I see everything so differently. It seems easy to be good
here, and, oh! I wish you were not so far away from me, auntie. I am
afraid--afraid--”

The tears could no longer be denied. She put her head in her aunt’s lap
and sobbed out her heart’s overflow. For an hour they sat by the open
trunk, forgetting all about the packing, while her aunt talked to Maimie
as no one had ever talked to her before; and often, through the long
years of suffering that followed, the words of that evening came to
Maimie to lighten and to comfort an hour of fear and sorrow. Mrs. Murray
was of those to whom it is given to speak words that will not die with
time, but will live, for that they fall from lips touched with the fire
of God.

Before they had finished their talk Harry came in, and then Mrs. Murray
told them about their mother, of her beauty and her brightness and her
goodness, but mostly of her goodness.

“She was a dear, dear girl,” said their aunt, “and her goodness was of
the kind that makes one think of a fresh spring morning, so bright,
so sweet, and pure. And she was beautiful, too. You will be like her,
Maimie,” and, after a pause, she added, softly, “And, most of all, she
loved her Saviour, and that was the secret of both her beauty and her
goodness.”

“Auntie,” said Harry, suddenly, “don’t you think you could come to us
for a visit? It would do father--I mean it would be such a great thing
for father, and for me, too, for us all.”

Mrs. Murray thought of her home and all its ties, and then said,
smiling: “I am afraid, Harry, that could hardly be. Besides, my dear
boy, there is One who can always be with you, and no one can take His
place.”

“All the same, I wish you could come,” said Harry. “When I am here I
feel like doing something with my life, but at home I only think of
having fun.”

“But, Harry,” said his aunt, “life is a very sacred and very precious
thing, and at all costs, you must make it worthy of Him who gave it to
you.”

Next morning, when Harry was saying “Farewell” to his aunt, she put her
arms round him, and said: “Your mother would have wished you to be a
noble man, and you must not disappoint her.”

“I will try, auntie,” he said, and could say no more.

For the next few weeks the minister and his wife were both busy and
anxious. For more than eight years they had labored with their people
without much sign of result. Week after week the minister poured into
his sermons the strength of his heart and mind, and then gave them to
his people with all the fervor of his nature. Week after week his wife,
in her women’s meetings and in her Bible class, lavished freely upon
them the splendid riches of her intellectual and spiritual powers, and
together in the homes of the people they wrought and taught. At times
it seemed to the minister that they were spending their strength for
naught, and at such times he bitterly grudged, not his own toils, but
those of his wife. None knew better than he how well fitted she was,
both by the native endowments of her mind and by the graces of her
character, to fill the highest sphere, and he sometimes grew impatient
that she should spend herself without stint and reap no adequate reward.

These were his thoughts as he lay on his couch, on the evening of the
last Sabbath in the old church, after a day’s work more than usually
exhausting. The new church was to be opened the following week. For
months it had been the burden of their prayers that at the dedication
of their church, which had been built and paid for at the cost of
much thought and toil, there should be some “signal mark of the divine
acceptance.” No wonder the minister was more than usually depressed
to-night.

“There is not much sign of movement among the dry bones,” he said to his
wife. “They are as dry and as dead as ever.”

His wife was silent for some time, for she, too, had her moments of
doubt and fear, but she said: “I think there is some sign. The people
were certainly much impressed this morning, and the Bible class was very
large, and they were very attentive.”

“So they are every day,” said the minister, rather bitterly. “But what
does it amount to? There is not a sign of one of these young people
‘coming forward.’ Just think, only one young man a member of the church,
and he hasn’t got much spunk in him. And many of the older men remain as
hard as the nether millstone.”

“I really think,” said his wife, “that a number of the young people
would ‘come forward’ if some one would make a beginning. They are all
very shy.”

“So you always say,” said her husband, with a touch of impatience;
“but there is no shyness in other things, in their frolics and their
fightings. I am sure this last outrageous business is enough to break
one’s heart.”

“What do you mean?” said his wife.

“Oh, I suppose you will hear soon enough, so I need not try to keep it
from you. It was Long John Cameron told me. It is strange that Hughie
has not heard. Indeed, perhaps he has, but since his beloved Ranald is
involved, he is keeping it quiet.”

“What is it?” said his wife, anxiously.

“Oh, nothing less than a regular pitched battle between the McGregors
and the McRaes of the Sixteenth, and all on Ranald’s account, too, I
believe.”

Mrs. Murray sat in silent and bitter disappointment. She had expected
much from Ranald. Her husband went on with his tale.

“It seems there was an old quarrel between young Aleck McRae and Ranald,
over what I cannot find out; and young Angus McGregor, who will do
anything for a Macdonald, must needs take Ranald’s part, with the result
that that hot-headed young fire-eater Aleck McRae must challenge the
whole clan McGregor. So it was arranged, on Sunday morning, too, mind
you, two weeks ago, after the service, that six of the best of each side
should meet and settle the business. Of course Ranald was bound to be
into it, and begged and pleaded with the McGregors that he should be one
of the six; and I hear it was by Yankee’s advice that his request was
granted. That godless fellow, it seems, has been giving Ranald daily
lessons with the boxing-gloves, and to some purpose, too, as the fight
proved. It seems that young Aleck McRae, who is a terrible fighter,
and must be forty pounds heavier than Ranald, was, by Ranald’s especial
desire and by Yankee’s arrangement, pitted against the boy, and by
the time the fight was over, Ranald, although beaten and bruised to
a ‘bloody pulp,’ as Long John said, had Aleck thoroughly whipped. And
nobody knows what would have happened, so fierce was the young villain,
had not Peter McGregor and Macdonald Bhain appeared upon the scene. It
appears Aleck had been saying something about Maimie, Long John did not
know what it was; but Ranald was determined to finish Aleck up there and
then. It must have been a disgusting and terrible sight; but Macdonald
Bhain apparently settled them in a hurry; and what is more, made them
all shake hands and promise to drop the quarrel thenceforth. I fancy
Ranald’s handling of young Aleck McRae did more to bring about the
settlement than anything else. What a lot of savages they are!”
 continued the minister. “It really does not seem much use to preach to
them.”

“We must not say that, my dear,” said his wife, but her tone was none
too hopeful. “I must confess I am disappointed in Ranald. Well,” she
continued, “we can only wait and trust.”

From Hughie, who had had the story from Don, and who had been pledged to
say nothing of it, she learned more about the fight.

“It was Aleck’s fault, mother,” he said, anxious to screen his hero.
“He said something about Maimie, that Don wouldn’t tell me, at the
blacksmith shop in the Sixteenth, and Ranald struck him and knocked him
flat, and he could not get up for a long time. Yankee has been showing
him how. I am going to learn, mother,” interjected Hughie. “And then
Angus McGregor took Ranald’s part, and it was all arranged after church,
and Ranald was bound to be in it, and said he would stop the whole thing
if not allowed. Don said he was just terrible. It was an awful fight.
Angus McGregor fought Peter McRae, Aleck’s brother, you know and--”

“Never mind, Hughie,” said his mother. “I don’t want to hear of it. It
is too disgusting. Was Ranald much hurt?”

“Oh, he was hurt awful bad, and he was going to be licked, too. He
wouldn’t keep cool enough, and he wouldn’t use his legs.”

“Use his legs?” said his mother; “what do you mean?”

“That’s what Don says, and Yankee made him. Yankee kept calling to him,
‘Now get away, get away from him! Use your legs! Get away from him!’ and
whenever Ranald began to do as he was told, then he got the better of
Aleck, and he gave Aleck a terrible hammering, and Don said if Macdonald
Bhain had not stopped them Aleck McRae would not have been able to walk
home. He said Ranald was awful. He said he never saw him like he was
that day. Wasn’t it fine, mother?”

“Fine, Hughie!” said his mother. “It is anything but fine. It is simply
disgusting to see men act like beasts. It is very, very sad. I am very
much disappointed in Ranald.”

“But, mother, Ranald couldn’t help it. And anyway, I am glad he gave
that Aleck McRae a good thrashing. Yankee said he would never be right
until he got it.”

“You must not repeat what Yankee says,” said his mother. “I am afraid
his influence is not of the best for any of those boys.”

“Oh, mother, he didn’t set them on,” said Hughie, who wanted to be fair
to Yankee. “It was when he could not help it that he told Ranald how to
do. I am glad he did, too.”

“I am very, very sorry about it,” said his mother, sadly. It was a
greater disappointment to her than she cared to acknowledge either to
her husband or to herself.

But the commotion caused in the community by the fight was soon
swallowed up in the interest aroused by the opening of the new church,
an event for which they had made long and elaborate preparation. The big
bazaar, for which the women had been sewing for a year or more, was held
on Wednesday, and turned out to be a great success, sufficient money
being realized to pay for the church furnishing, which they had
undertaken to provide.

The day following was the first of the “Communion Season.” In a Highland
congregation the Communion Seasons are the great occasions of the year.
For weeks before, the congregation is kept in mind of the approaching
event, and on the Thursday of the communion week the season opens with a
solemn fast day.

The annual Fast Day, still a national institution in Scotland, although
it has lost much of its solemnity and sacredness in some places, was
originally associated with the Lord’s Supper, and was observed with
great strictness in the matter of eating and drinking; and in Indian
Lands, as in all congregations of that part of the country, the custom
of celebrating the Fast Day was kept up. It was a day of great solemnity
in the homes of the people of a godly sort. There was no cooking of
meals till after “the services,” and indeed, some of them tasted
neither meat nor drink the whole day long. To the younger people of the
congregation it was a day of gloom and terror, a kind of day of doom.
Even to those advanced in godliness it brought searchings of heart,
minute and diligent, with agonies of penitence and remorse. It was a
day, in short, in which conscience was invited to take command of the
memory and the imagination to the scourging of the soul for the soul’s
good. The sermon for the day was supposed to stimulate and to aid
conscience in this work.

For the communion service Mr. Murray always made it a point to have the
assistance of the best preachers he could procure, and on this occasion,
when the church opening was combined with the sacrament, by a special
effort two preachers had been procured--a famous divine from Huron
County, that stronghold of Calvinism, and a college professor who had
been recently appointed, but who had already gained a reputation as a
doctrinal preacher, and who was, as Peter McRae reported, “grand on the
Attributes and terrible fine on the Law.” To him was assigned the honor
of preaching the Fast Day sermon, and of declaring the church “open.”

The new church was very different from the old. Instead of the high
crow’s nest, with the wonderful sounding-board over it, the pulpit was
simply a raised platform partly inclosed, with the desk in front. There
was no precentor’s box, over the loss of which Straight Rory did not
grieve unduly, inasmuch as the singing was to be led, in the English
at least, by John “Aleck.” Henceforth the elders would sit with their
families. The elders’ seat was gone; Peter McRae’s wrath at this being
somewhat appeased by his securing for himself one of the short side
seats at the right of the pulpit, from which he could command a view
of both the minister and the congregation--a position with obvious
advantages. The minister’s pew was at the very back of the church.

It was a great assemblage that gathered in the new church to hear the
professor discourse, as doubtless he would, it being the Fast Day, upon
some theme of judgment. With a great swing of triumph in his voice, Mr.
Murray rose and announced the Hundredth Psalm. An electric thrill went
through the congregation as, with a wave of his hand, he said: “Let us
rise and sing. Now, John, Old Hundred.”

Never did John “Aleck” and the congregation of Indian Lands sing as
they did that morning. It was the first time that the congregation, as
a whole, had followed the lead of that great ringing voice, and they
followed with a joyous, triumphant shout, as of men come to victory.


     “For why?  The Lord our God is good,”


rolled out the majestic notes of Old Hundred.

“What’s the matter, mother?” whispered Hughie, who was standing up in
the seat that he might look on his mother’s book.

“Nothing, darling,” said his mother, her face radiant through her tears.
After long months of toil and waiting, they were actually singing praise
to God in the new church.

When the professor arose, it was an eager, responsive congregation that
waited for his word. The people were fully prepared for a sermon that
would shake them to their souls’ depths. The younger portion shivered
and shrank from the ordeal; the older and more experienced shivered
and waited with not unpleasing anticipations; it did them good, that
remorseless examination of their hearts’ secret depravities. To some it
was a kind of satisfaction offered to conscience, after which they could
more easily come to peace. With others it was an honest, heroic effort
to know themselves and to right themselves with their God.

The text was disappointing. “Above all these things, put on charity,
which is the bond of perfectness,” read the professor from that
exquisite and touching passage which begins at the twelfth verse of the
fifteenth chapter of Colossians. “Love, the bond of perfectness,” was
his theme, and in simple, calm, lucid speech he dilated upon the beauty,
the excellence, and the supremacy of this Christian grace. It was the
most Godlike of all the virtues, for God was love; and more than zeal,
more than knowledge, more than faith, it was “the mark” of the new
birth.

Peter McRae was evidently keenly disappointed, and his whole bearing
expressed stern disapproval. And as the professor proceeded, extolling
and illustrating the supreme grace of love, Peter’s hard face grew
harder than ever, and his eyes began to emit blue sparks of fire. This
was no day for the preaching of smooth things. The people were there to
consider and to lament their Original and Actual sin; and they expected
and required to hear of the judgments of the Lord, and to be summoned to
flee from the wrath to come.

Donald Ross sat with his kindly old face in a glow of delight, but
with a look of perplexity on it which his furtive glances in Peter’s
direction did not help to lessen. The sermon was delighting and touching
him, but he was not quite sure whether this was a good sign in him or
no. He set himself now and then to find fault with the sermon, but the
preacher was so humble, so respectful, and above all, so earnest, that
Donald Ross could not bring himself to criticise.

The application came under the third head. As a rule, the application to
a Fast Day sermon was delivered in terrifying tones of thunder or in an
awful whisper. But to-day the preacher, without raising his voice, began
to force into his hearers’ hearts the message of the day.

“This is a day for self-examination,” he said, and his clear, quiet
tones fell into the ears of the people with penetrating power. “And
self-examination is a wise and profitable exercise. It is an exercise of
the soul designed to yield a discovery of sin in the heart and life, and
to induce penitence and contrition and so secure pardon and peace. But
too often, my friends,” and here his voice became a shade softer,
“it results in a self-righteous and sinful self-complaisance. What is
required is a simple honesty of mind and spiritual illumination, and
the latter cannot be without the former. There are those who are ever
searching for ‘the marks’ of a genuinely godly state of heart, and
they have the idea that these marks are obscure and difficult for plain
people to discover. Make no mistake, my brethren, they are as easily
seen as are the apples on a tree. The fruits of the spirit are as
discernible to any one honest enough and fearless enough to look; and
the first and supreme of all is that which we have been considering this
morning. The question for you and for me, my brethren, is simply
this: Are our lives full of the grace of love? Do not shrink from the
question. Do not deceive yourselves with any substitutes; there are many
offering zeal, the gift of prayer or of speech, yea, the gift of faith
itself. None of these will atone for the lack of love. Let each ask
himself, Am I a loving man?”

With quiet persistence he pursued them into all their relations in
life--husbands and wives, fathers and sons, neighbor and neighbor. He
would not let them escape. Relentlessly he forced them to review their
habits of speech and action, their attitude toward each other as church
members, and their attitude toward “those without.” Behind all refuges
and through all subterfuges he made his message follow them, searching
their deepest hearts. And then, with his face illumined as with divine
fire, he made his final appeal, while he reminded them of the Infinite
love that had stooped to save, and that had wrought itself out in the
agonies of the cross. And while he spoke his last words, all over the
church the women were weeping, and strong men were sitting trembling and
pale.

After a short prayer, the professor sat down. Then the minister rose,
and for some little time stood facing his people in silence, the gleam
in his eyes showing that his fervent Highland nature was on fire.

“My people,” he began, and his magnificent voice pealed forth like a
solemn bell, “this is the message of the Lord. Let none dare refuse to
hear. It is a message to your minister, it is a message to you. You are
anxious for ‘the marks.’ Search you for this mark.” He paused while
the people sat looking at him in fixed and breathless silence. Then,
suddenly, he broke forth into a loud cry: “Where are your children at
this solemn time of privilege? Fathers, where are your sons? Why were
they not with you at the Table? Are you men of love? Are you men of
love, or by lack of love are you shutting the door of the Kingdom
against your sons with their fightings and their quarrelings?” Then,
raising his hands high, he lifted his voice in a kind of wailing chant:
“Woe unto you! Woe unto you! Your house is left unto you desolate, and
the voice of love is crying over you. Ye would not! Ye would not! O,
Lamb of God, have mercy upon us! O, Christ, with the pierced hands,
save us!” Again he paused, looking upward, while the people waited with
uplifted white faces.

“Behold,” he cried, in a soul-thrilling voice, “I see heaven open, and
Jesus standing at the right hand of God, and I hear a voice, ‘Turn ye,
turn ye. Why will ye die?’ Lord Jesus, they will not turn.” Again he
paused. “Listen. Depart from me, ye cursed, into everlasting fire.
Depart ye! Nay, Lord Jesus! not so! Have mercy upon us!” His voice broke
in its passionate cry. The effect was overwhelming. The people swayed
as trees before a mighty wind, and a voice cried aloud from the
congregation: “God be merciful to me, a sinner!”

It was Macdonald Dubh. At that loud cry, women began to sob, and some of
the people rose from their seats.

“Be still,” commanded the minister. “Rend your hearts and not your
garments. Let us pray.” And as he prayed, the cries and sobs subsided
and a great calm fell upon all. After prayer, the minister, instead of
giving out a closing psalm, solemnly charged the people to go to their
homes and to consider that the Lord had come very near them, and adjured
them not to grieve the Holy Spirit of God. Then he dismissed them with
the benediction.

The people went out of the church, subdued and astonished, speaking, if
at all, in low tones of what they had seen and heard.

Immediately after pronouncing the benediction, the minister came down to
find Macdonald Dubh, but he was nowhere to be seen. Toward evening Mrs.
Murray rode over to his house, but found that he had not returned from
the morning service.

“He will be at his brother’s,” said Kirsty, “and Ranald will drive over
for him.”

Immediately Ranald hitched up Lisette and drove over to his uncle’s, but
as he was returning he sent in word to the manse, his face being not yet
presentable, that his father was nowhere to be found. It was Macdonald
Bhain that found him at last in the woods, prone upon his face, and in
an agony.

“Hugh, man,” he cried, “what ails you?” But there were only low groans
for answer.

“Rise up, man, rise up and come away.”

Then from the prostrate figure he caught the words, “Depart from me!
Depart from me! That is the word of the Lord.”

“That is not the word,” said Macdonald Bhain, “for any living man,
but for the dead. But come, rise, man; the neighbors will be here in a
meenute.” At that Black Hugh rose.

“Let me away,” he said. “Let me not see them. I am a lost man.”

And so his brother brought him home, shaken in spirit and exhausted in
body with his long fast and his overpowering emotion. All night through
his brother watched with him alone, for Macdonald Dubh would have no one
else to see him, till, from utter exhaustion, toward the dawning of the
day, he fell asleep.

In the early morning the minister and his wife drove over to see him,
and leaving his wife with Kirsty, the minister passed at once into
Macdonald Dubh’s room. But, in spite of all his reasoning, in spite of
all his readings and his prayers, the gloom remained unbroken except by
occasional paroxysms of fear and remorse.

“There is no forgiveness! There is no forgiveness!” was the burden of
his cry.

In vain the minister proclaimed to him the mercy of God. At length he
was forced to leave him to attend the “Question Meeting” which was to be
held in the church that day. But he left his wife behind him.

Without a word, Mrs. Murray proceeded to make the poor man comfortable.
She prepared a dainty breakfast and carried it in to him, and then she
sat beside him while he fell into a deep sleep.

It was afternoon when Macdonald Dubh awoke and greeted her with his
wonted grave courtesy.

“You are better, Mr. Macdonald,” she said, brightly. “And now I will
make you a fresh cup of tea”; and though he protested, she hurried out,
and in a few moments brought him some tea and toast. Then, while he
lay in gloomy silence, she read to him, as she did once before from his
Gaelic psalm book, without a word of comment. And then she began to tell
him of all the hopes she had cherished in connection with the opening of
the new church, and how that day she had felt at last the blessing had
come.

“And, O, Mr. Macdonald,” she said, “I was glad to hear you cry, for then
I knew that the Spirit of God was among us.”

“Glad!” said Macdonald Dubh, faintly.

“Yes, glad. For a cry like that never comes but when the Spirit of God
moves in the heart of a man.”

“Indeed, I will be thinking that He has cast me off forever,” he said,
wondering at this new phase of the subject.

“Then you must thank Him, Mr. Macdonald, that He has not so done; and
the sure proof to you is that He has brought you to cry for mercy. That
is a glad cry, in the ears of the Saviour. It is the cry of the sheep in
the wilderness, that discovers him to the shepherd.” And then, without
argument, she took him into her confidence and poured out to him all her
hopes and fears for the young people of the congregation, and especially
for Ranald, till Macdonald Dubh partly forgot his own fears in hers. And
then, just before it was time for Kirsty to arrive from the “Question
Meeting,” she took her Gaelic Bible and opened at the Lord’s Prayer, as
she had done once before.

“It is a terrible thing to be unforgiven, Mr. Macdonald,” she said,
“by man or by God. And God is unwilling that any of us should feel that
pain, and that is why he is so free with his offer of pardon to all who
come with sorrow to him. They come with sorrow to him now, but they will
come to him some day with great joy.” And then she spoke a little of the
great company of the forgiven before the throne, and at the very last,
a few words about the gentle little woman that had passed out from
Macdonald Dubh’s sight so many years before. Then, falling on her knees,
she began in the Gaelic,


     “Our Father which art in Heaven.”


Earnestly and brokenly Macdonald Dubh followed, whispering the petitions
after her. When they came to


     “Forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors,”


Macdonald Dubh broke forth: “Oh, it is a little thing, whatever! It is
little I have to forgive.” And then, in a clear, firm voice, he repeated
the words after her to the close of the prayer.

Then Mrs. Murray rose, and taking him by the hand to bid him good
by, she said, slowly: “‘For if ye forgive men their trespasses, your
heavenly Father will also forgive you your trespasses.’ You have
forgiven, Mr. Macdonald.”

“Indeed, it is nothing,” he said, earnestly.

“Then,” replied Mrs. Murray, “the Lord will not break his promise to
you.” And with that she went away.

On Saturday morning the session met before the service for the day. In
the midst of their deliberations the door opened and Macdonald Bhain
and his brother, Macdonald Dubh, walked in and stood silent before
the elders. Mr. Murray rose astonished, and coming forward, said to
Macdonald Bhain: “What is it, Mr. Macdonald? You wish to see me?”

“I am here,” he said, “for my own sake and for my brother’s. We wish to
make confession of our sins, in that we have not been men of love, and
to seek the forgiveness of God.”

The minister stood and gazed at him in amazed silence for some moments,
and then, giving his hand to Macdonald Dubh, he said, in a voice husky
with emotion: “Come away, my brother. The Lord has a welcome for you.”

And there were no questions that day asked in the session before
Macdonald Dubh received his token.



CHAPTER XVI

AND THE GLORY


The first communion in the new church was marked by very great
solemnity. There were few new members, but among the older men who had
hitherto kept “back from the table” there was a manifest anxiety, and
among the younger people a very great seriousness. The “coming forward”
 of Macdonald Dubh was an event so remarkable as to make a great
impression not only upon all the Macdonald men who had been associated
with him so many years in the lumbering, but also upon the whole
congregation, to whom his record and reputation were well known. His
change of attitude to the church and all its interests, as well as his
change of disposition and temperament, were so striking as to leave in
no one’s mind any doubt as to the genuineness of his “change of heart,”
 and every week made this more apparent. A solemn sense of responsibility
and an intensity of earnestness seemed to possess him, while his
humility and gentleness were touching to see.

On the evening of Monday, the day of thanksgiving in the Sacrament Week,
a great congregation assembled for the closing meeting of the Communion
Season. During the progress of the meeting, Mr. Murray and the ministers
assisting him became aware that they were in the presence of some
remarkable and mysterious phenomenon. The people listened to the Word
with an intensity, response, and eagerness that gave token of a state
of mind and heart wholly unusual. Here and there, while the psalms were
being sung or prayers being offered, women and men would break down in
audible weeping; and in the preaching the speaker was conscious of a
power possessing him that he could not explain.

At length the last psalm was given out, and the congregation, contrary
to their usual custom, by the minister’s direction, rose to sing.
As John “Aleck” led the people in that great volume of praise, the
ministers held a hasty consultation in the pulpit. The professor had
never seen anything so marvelous; Mr. Murray was reminded of the days of
W. C. Burns. The question was, What was to be done? Should the meetings
be continued, or should they close tonight? They had a great fear of
religious excitement. They had seen something of the dreadful reaction
following a state of exalted religious feeling. It was the beginning of
harvest, too. Would it be advisable to call the people from their hard
work in the fields to nightly meetings?

At length, as the congregation were nearing the close of the psalm,
the professor spoke. “Brethren,” he said, “this is not our work. Let us
leave it to the Lord to decide. Put the question to the people and abide
by their decision.”

After the psalm was sung, the minister motioned the congregation to
their seats, and without comment or suggestion, put before them the
question that had been discussed in the pulpit. Was it their desire that
the meetings should be continued or not? A deep, solemn silence lay
upon the crowded church, and for some time no one moved. Then the
congregation were startled to see Macdonald Dubh rise slowly from his
place in the middle of the church.

“Mr. Murray,” he said, in a voice that vibrated strangely, “you will
pardon me for letting my voice be heard in this place. It is the voice
of a great sinner.”

“Speak, Mr. Macdonald,” said the minister, “and I thank God for the
sound of your voice in His house.”

“It is not for me to make any speeches here. I will only make bold to
give my word that the meetings be continued. It may be that the Lord,
who has done such great things for me, will do great things for others
also.” And with that he sat down.

“I will take that for a motion,” said the minister. “Will any one second
it?”

Kenny Crubach at once rose and said: “We are always slow at following
the Lord. Let us go forward.”

The minister waited for some moments after Kenny had spoken, and then
said, in a voice grave and with a feeling of responsibility in it: “You
have heard these brethren, my people. I wait for the expression of your
desire.”

Like one man the great congregation rose to their feet. It was a scene
profoundly impressive, and with these serious-minded, sober people, one
that indicated overwhelming emotion.

And thus the great revival began.

For eighteen months, night after night, every night in the week except
Saturday, the people gathered in such numbers as to fill the new church
to the door. Throughout all the busy harvest season, in spite of
the autumn rains that filled the swamps and made the roads almost
impassable, in the face of the driving snows of winter, through the
melting ice of the spring, and again through the following summer and
autumn, the great revival held on. No fictitious means were employed
to stir the emotions of the people or to kindle excitement among them.
There were neither special sermons nor revival hymns. The old doctrines
were proclaimed, but proclaimed with a fullness and power unknown at
other times. The old psalms were sung, but sung perhaps as they had
never been before. For when John “Aleck’s” mighty voice rolled forth in
its full power, and when his band of trained singers followed, lifting
onward with them the great congregation--for every man, woman, and
child sang with full heart and open throat--the effect was something
altogether wonderful and worth hearing. Each night there was a sermon by
the minister, who, for six months, till his health broke down, had sole
charge of the work. Then the sermon was followed by short addresses or
prayers by the elders, and after that the minister would take the men,
and his wife the women, for closer and more personal dealing.

As the revival deepened it became the custom for others than the elders
to take part, by reading a psalm or other Scripture, without comment, or
by prayer. There was a shrinking from anything like a violent display of
emotion, and from any unveiling of the sacred secrets of the heart, but
Scripture reading or quoting was supposed to express the thoughts, the
hopes, the fears, the gratitude, the devotion, that made the religious
experience of the speaker. This was as far as they considered it safe or
seemly to go.

One of the first, outside the ranks of the elders, to take part in this
way was Macdonald Dubh; then Long John Cameron followed; then Peter
McGregor and others of the men of maturer years. A distinct stage in the
revival was reached when young Aleck McRae rose to read his Scripture.
He was quickly followed by Don, young Findlayson, and others of
that age, and from that time onward the old line that had so clearly
distinguished age from youth in respect to religious duty and privilege,
was obliterated forever. It had been a strange, if not very doubtful,
phenomenon to see a young man “coming forward,” or in any way giving
indication of religious feeling. But this would never be again.

It was no small anxiety and grief to Mrs. Murray that Ranald, though he
regularly attended the meetings, seemed to remain unmoved by the tide of
religious feeling that was everywhere surging through the hearts of
the people. The minister advised letting him alone, but Mrs. Murray was
anxiously waiting for the time when Ranald would come to her. That time
came, but not until long months of weary waiting on her part, and of
painful struggle on his, had passed.

From the very first of the great movement his father threw himself into
it with all the earnest intensity of his nature, but at the same time
with a humility that gave token that the memory of the wild days of his
youth and early manhood were never far away from him. He was eager to
serve in the work, and was a constant source of wonder to all who had
known him in his youth and early manhood. At all the different meetings
he was present. Nothing could keep him away. “Night cometh,” he said to
his brother, who was remonstrating with him. His day’s work was drawing
to its close.

But Ranald would not let himself see the failing of his father’s health,
and when, in the harvest, the slightest work in the fields would send
his father panting to the shade, Ranald would say, “It is the hot
weather, father. When the cool days come you will be better. And why
should you be bothering yourself with the work, anyway? Surely Yankee
and I can look after that.” And indeed they seemed to be quite fit to
take off the harvest.

Day by day Ranald swung his cradle after Yankee with all a man’s
steadiness till all the grain was cut; and by the time the harvest
was over, Ranald had developed a strength of muscle and a skill in the
harvest work that made him equal of almost any man in the country. He
was all the more eager to have the harvest work done in time, that his
father might not fret over his own inability to help. For Ranald could
not bear to see the look of disappointment that sometimes showed itself
in his father’s face when weakness drove him from the field, and it was
this that made him throw himself into the work as he did. He was careful
also to consult with his father in regard to all the details of the
management of the farm, and to tell him all that he was planning to do
as well as all that was done. His father had always been a kind of hero
to Ranald, who admired him for his prowess with the gun and the ax, as
well as for his great strength and courage. But ever since calamity
had befallen him, the boy’s heart had gone out to his father in a new
tenderness, and the last months had drawn the two very close together.
It was a dark day for Ranald when he was forced to face the fact that
his father was growing daily weaker. It was his uncle, Macdonald Bhain,
who finally made him see it.

“Your father is failing, Ranald,” he said one day toward the close of
harvest.

“It is the hot weather,” said Ranald. “He will be better in the fall.”

“Ranald, my boy,” said his uncle, gravely, “your father will fade with
the leaf, and the first snow will lie upon him.”

And then Ranald fairly faced the fact that before long he would be alone
in the world. Without any exchange of words, he and his father came to
understand each other, and they both knew that they were spending
their last days on earth together. On the son’s side, they were days of
deepening sorrow; but with the father, every day seemed to bring him
a greater peace of mind and a clearer shining of the light that never
fades. To his son, Macdonald Dubh never spoke of the death that he felt
to be drawing nearer, but he often spoke to him of the life he would
like his son to live. His only other confidant in these matters was the
minister’s wife. To her Macdonald Dubh opened up his heart, and to her,
more than to any one else, he owed his growing peace and light; and it
was touching to see the devotion and the tenderness that he showed to
her as often as she came to see him. With his brother, Macdonald Bhain,
he made all the arrangements necessary for the disposal of the farm and
the payment of the mortgage.

Ranald had no desire to be a farmer, and indeed, when the mortgage was
paid there would not be much left.

“He will be my son,” said Macdonald Bhain to his brother; “and my home
will be his while I live.”

So in every way there was quiet preparation for Macdonald Dubh’s going,
and when at last the day came, there was no haste or fear.

It was in the afternoon of a bright September day, as the sun was
nearing the tops of the pine-trees in the west. His brother was
supporting him in his strong arms, while Ranald knelt by the bedside.
Near him sat the minister’s wife, and at a little distance Kirsty.

“Lift me up, Tonal,” said the dying man; “I will be wanting to see the
sun again, and then I will be going. I will be going to the land where
they will not need the light of the sun. Tonal, bhodaich, it is the
good brother you have been to me, and many’s the good day we have had
together.”

“Och, Hugh, man. Are you going from me?” said Macdonald Bhain, with
great sorrow in his voice.

“Aye, Tonal, for a little.” Then he looked for a few moments at Kirsty,
who was standing at the foot of the bed.

“Come near me, Kirsty,” he said; and Kirsty came to the bedside.

“You have always been kind to me and mine, and you were kind to HER as
well, and the reward will come to you.” Then he turned to Mrs. Murray,
and said, with a great light of joy in his eyes: “It is you that came to
me as the angel of God with a word of salvation, and forever more I will
be blessing you.” And then he added, in a voice full of tenderness,
“I will be telling her about you.” He took Mrs. Murray’s hand and
tremblingly lifted it to his lips.

“It has been a great joy to me,” said Mrs. Murray, with difficulty
steadying her voice, “to see you come to your Saviour, Mr. Macdonald.”

“Aye, I know it well,” he said; and then he added, in a voice that sank
almost to a whisper, “Now you will be reading the prayer.” And Mrs.
Murray, opening her Gaelic Bible, repeated in her clear, soft voice, the
words of the Lord’s Prayer. Through all the petitions he followed her,
until he came to the words, “Forgive us our debts.” There he paused.

“Ranald, my man,” he said, raising his hand with difficulty and laying
it upon the boy’s head, “you will listen to me now. Some day you will
find the man that brought me to this, and you will say to him that your
father forgave him freely, and wished him all the blessing of God. You
will promise me this, Ranald?” said Macdonald Dubh.

“Yes, father,” said Ranald, lifting his head, and looking into his
father’s face.

“And, Ranald, you, too, will be forgiving him?” But to this there was no
reply. Ranald’s head was buried in the bed.

“Ah,” said Macdonald Dubh, with difficulty, “you are your father’s son;
but you will not be laying this bitterness upon me now. You will be
forgiving him, Ranald?”

“Oh, father!” cried Ranald, with a breaking voice, “how can I forgive
him? How can I forgive the man who has taken you away from me?”

“It is no man,” replied his father, “but the Lord himself; the Lord who
has forgiven your father much. I am waiting to hear you, Ranald.”

Then, with a great sob, Ranald broke forth: “Oh, father, I will forgive
him,” and immediately became quiet, and so continued to the end.

After some moments of silence, Macdonald Dubh looked once more toward
the minister’s wife, and a radiant smile spread over his face.

“You will be finishing,” he said.

Her face was wet with tears, and for a few moments she could not speak.
But it was no time to fail in duty, so, commanding her tears, with a
clear, unwavering voice she went on to the end of the prayer--

“For thine is the kingdom and the power and the glory, forever and ever.
Amen.”

“Glory!” said Macdonald Dubh after her. “Aye, the Glory. Ranald, my boy,
where are you? You will be following me, lad, to the Glory. SHE will be
asking me about you. You will be following me, lad?”

The anxious note in his voice struck Ranald to the heart.

“Oh, father, it is what I want,” he replied, brokenly. “I will try.”

“Aye,” said Macdonald Dubh, “and you will come. I will be telling HER.
Now lay me down, Tonal; I will be going.”

Macdonald Bhain laid him quietly back on his pillow, and for a moment he
lay with his eyes closed.

Once more he opened his eyes, and with a troubled look upon his face,
and in a voice of doubt and fear, he cried: “It is a sinful man, O Lord,
a sinful man.”

His eyes wandered till they fell on Mrs. Murray’s face, and then the
trouble and fear passed out of them, and in a gentler voice he said:
“Forgive us our debts.” Then, feeling with his hand till it rested on
his son’s head, Macdonald Dubh passed away, at peace with men and with
God.

There was little sadness and no bitter grief at Macdonald Dubh’s
funeral. The tone all through was one of triumph, for they all knew his
life, and how sore the fight had been, and how he had won his victory.
His humility and his gentleness during the last few weeks of his life
had removed all the distance that had separated him from the people,
and had drawn their hearts toward him; and now in his final triumph they
could not find it in their hearts to mourn.

But to Ranald the sadness was more than the triumph. Through the wild,
ungoverned years of his boyhood his father had been more than a father
to him. He had been a friend, sharing a common lot, and without much
show of tenderness, understanding and sympathizing with him, and now
that his father had gone from him, a great loneliness fell upon the lad.

The farm and its belongings were sold. Kirsty brought with her the big
box of blankets and linen that had belonged to Ranald’s mother. Ranald
took his mother’s Gaelic Bible, his father’s gun and ax, and with the
great deerhound, Bugle, and his colt, Lisette, left the home of his
childhood behind him, and with his Aunt Kirsty, went to live with his
uncle.

Throughout the autumn months he was busy helping his uncle with the
plowing, the potatoes, and the fall work. Soon the air began to nip,
and the night’s frost to last throughout the shortening day, and then
Macdonald Bhain began to prepare wood for the winter, and to make all
things snug about the house and barn; and when the first fall of snow
fell softly, he took down his broad-ax, and then Ranald knew that the
gang would soon be off again for the shanties. That night his uncle
talked long with him about his future.

“I have no son, Ranald,” he said, as they sat talking; “and, for your
father’s sake and for your own, it is my desire that you should become
a son to me, and there is no one but yourself to whom the farm would go.
And glad will I be if you will stay with me. But, stay or not, all that
I have will be yours, if it please the Lord to spare you.”

“I would want nothing better,” said Ranald, “than to stay with you and
work with you, but I do not draw toward the farm.”

“And what else would you do, Ranald?”

“Indeed, I know not,” said Ranald, “but something else than farming. But
meantime I should like to go to the shanties with you this winter.”

And so, when the Macdonald gang went to the woods that winter, Ranald,
taking his father’s ax, went with them. And so clever did the boy prove
himself that by the time they brought down their raft in the spring
there was not a man in all the gang that Macdonald Bhain would sooner
have at his back in a tight place than his nephew Ranald. And, indeed,
those months in the woods made a man out of the long, lanky boy, so
that, on the first Sabbath after the shantymen came home, not many in
the church that day would have recognized the dark-faced, stalwart youth
had it not been that he sat in the pew beside Macdonald Bhain. It was
with no small difficulty that the minister’s wife could keep her little
boy quiet in the back seat, so full of pride and joy was he at the
appearance of his hero; but after the service was over, Hughie could
be no longer restrained. Pushing his way eagerly through the crowd, he
seized upon Ranald and dragged him to his mother.

“Here he is, mother!” he exclaimed, to Ranald’s great confusion, and to
the amusement of all about him. “Isn’t he splendid?”

And as Ranald greeted Mrs. Murray with quiet, grave courtesy, she felt
that his winter in the woods and on the river had forever put behind him
his boyhood, and that henceforth he would take his place among the men.
And looking at his strong, composed, grave face, she felt that that
place ought not to be an unworthy one.



CHAPTER XVII

LENOIR’S NEW MASTER


The shantymen came back home to find the revival still going on. Not a
home but had felt its mighty power, and not a man, woman, or even child
but had come more or less under its influence. Indeed, so universal
was that power that Yankee was heard to say, “The boys wouldn’t go in
swimmin’ without their New Testaments”--not but that Yankee was in very
fullest sympathy with the movement. He was regular in his attendance
upon the meetings all through spring and summer, but his whole previous
history made it difficult for him to fully appreciate the intensity and
depth of the religious feeling that was everywhere throbbing through the
community.

“Don’t see what the excitement’s for,” he said to Macdonald Bhain one
night after meeting. “Seems to me the Almighty just wants a feller to do
the right thing by his neighbor and not be too independent, but go ‘long
kind o’ humble like and keep clean. Somethin’ wrong with me, perhaps,
but I don’t seem to be able to work up no excitement about it. I’d like
to, but somehow it ain’t in me.”

When Macdonald Bhain reported this difficulty of Yankee’s to Mrs.
Murray, she only said: “‘What doth the Lord require of thee, but to do
justly, and to love mercy, and to walk humbly with thy God?’” And with
this Macdonald Bhain was content, and when he told Yankee, the latter
came as near to excitement as he ever allowed himself. He chewed
vigorously for a few moments, then, slapping his thigh, he exclaimed:
“By jings! That’s great. She’s all right, ain’t she? We ain’t all built
the same way, but I’m blamed if I don’t like her model.”

But the shantymen noticed that the revival had swept into the church,
during the winter months, a great company of the young people of the
congregation; and of these, a band of some ten or twelve young men, with
Don among them, were attending daily a special class carried on in the
vestry of the church for those who desired to enter training for the
ministry.

Mrs. Murray urged Ranald to join this class, for, even though he had no
intention of becoming a minister, still the study would be good for him,
and would help him in his after career. She remembered how Ranald had
told her that he had no intention of being a farmer or lumberman. And
Ranald gladly listened to her, and threw himself into his study, using
his spare hours to such good purpose throughout the summer that he
easily kept pace with the class in English, and distanced them in his
favorite subject, mathematics.

But all these months Mrs. Murray felt that Ranald was carrying with him
a load of unrest, and she waited for the time when he would come to her.
His uncle, Macdonald Bhain, too, shared her anxiety in regard to Ranald.

“He is the fine, steady lad,” he said one night, walking home with her
from the church; “and a good winter’s work has he put behind him. He is
that queeck, there is not a man like him on the drive; but he is not the
same boy that he was. He will not be telling me anything, but when the
boys will be sporting, he is not with them. He will be reading his book,
or he will be sitting by himself alone. He is like his father in the
courage of him. There is no kind of water he will not face, and no man
on the river would put fear on him. And the strength of him! His arms
are like steel. But,” returning to his anxiety, “there is something
wrong with him. He is not at peace with himself, and I wish you could
get speech with him.”

“I would like it, too,” replied Mrs. Murray. “Perhaps he will come to
me. At any rate, I must wait for that.”

At last, when the summer was over, and the harvest all gathered in, the
days were once more shortening for the fall, Ranald drove Lisette one
day to the manse, and went straight to the minister’s wife and opened up
his mind to her.

“I cannot keep my promise to my father, Mrs. Murray,” he said, going
at once to the heart of his trouble. “I cannot keep the anger out of my
heart. I cannot forgive the man that killed my father. I will be waking
at night with the very joy of feeling my fingers on his throat, and I
feel myself longing for the day when I will meet him face to face and
nothing between us. But,” he added, “I promised my father, and I
must keep my word, and that is what I cannot do, for the feeling of
forgiveness is not here,” smiting his breast. “I can keep my hands off
him, but the feeling I cannot help.”

For a long time Mrs. Murray let him go on without seeking to check the
hot flow of his words and without a word of reproof. Then, when he had
talked himself to silence, she took her Bible and read to him of the
servant who, though forgiven, took his fellow-servant by the throat,
refusing to forgive. And then she turned over the leaves and read once
more: “‘God commendeth his love toward us, in that, while we were yet
sinners, Christ died for us.’”

She closed the book and sat silent, waiting for Ranald to speak.

“I know,” he said, deliberately; “I have read that often through the
winter, but it does not help the feeling I have. I think it only makes
it worse. There is some one holding my arm, and I want to strike.”

“And do you forget,” said Mrs. Murray, and her voice was almost stern,
“and do you forget how, for you, God gave His Son to die?”

Ranald shook his head. “I am far from forgetting that.”

“And are you forgetting the great mercy of God to your father?”

“No, no,” said Ranald; “I often think of that. But when I think of that
man, something stirs within me and I cannot see, for the daze before
my eyes, and I know that some day I will be at him. I cannot help my
feeling.”

“Ranald,” said Mrs. Murray, “have you ever thought how he will need
God’s mercy like yourself? And have you never thought that perhaps he
has never had the way of God’s mercy put before him? To you the Lord has
given much, to him little. It is a terrible thing to be ungrateful for
the mercy of God; and it is a shameful thing. It is unworthy of any true
man. How can any one take the fullness of God’s mercy and his patience
every day, and hold an ungrateful heart?”

She did not spare him, and as Ranald sat and listened, his life and
character began to appear to him small and mean and unworthy.

“The Lord means you to be a noble man, Ranald--a man with the heart and
purpose to do some good in the world, to be a blessing to his fellows;
and it is a poor thing to be so filled up with selfishness as to have no
thought of the honor of God or of the good of men. Louis LeNoir has done
you a great wrong, but what is that wrong compared with the wrong you
have done to Him who loved you to His own death?”

Then she gave him her last word: “When you see Louis LeNoir, think of
God’s mercy, and remember you are to do him good and not evil.”

And with that word in his heart, Ranald went away, ashamed and humbled,
but not forgiving. The time for that had not yet come. But before he
left for the shanties, he saw Mrs. Murray again to say good by. He met
her with a shamed face, fearing that she must feel nothing but contempt
for him.

“You will think ill of me,” he said, and in spite of his self-control
his voice shook. “I could not bear that.”

“No, I could never think ill of you, Ranald, but I would be grieved to
think that you should fail of becoming a noble man, strong and brave;
strong enough to forgive and brave enough to serve.”

Once more Ranald went to the woods, with earnest thoughts in his
mind, hoping he should not meet LeNoir, and fighting out his battle
to victory; and by the time the drive had reached the big water next
spring, that battle was almost over. The days in the silent woods and
the nights spent with his uncle in the camp, and afterward in his cabin
on the raft, did their work with Ranald.

The timber cut that year was the largest that had ever been known on the
Upper Ottawa. There was great crowding of rafts on the drive, and for
weeks the chutes were full, and when the rafts were all brought together
at Quebec, not only were the shores lined and Timber Cove packed, but
the broad river was full from Quebec to Levis, except for the steamboat
way which must be kept open.

For the firm of Raymond & St. Clair this meant enormous increase of
business, and it was no small annoyance that at this crisis they should
have detected their Quebec agent in fraud, and should have been forced
to dismiss him. The situation was so critical that Mr. St. Clair
himself, with Harry as his clerk, found it necessary to spend a month in
Quebec. He took with him Maimie and her great friend Kate Raymond, the
daughter of his partner, and established himself in the Hotel Cheval
Blanc.

On the whole, Maimie was not sorry to visit the ancient capital of
Canada, though she would have chosen another time. It was rather
disappointing to leave her own city in the West, just at the beginning
of the spring gayeties. It was her first season, and the winter had been
distinguished by a series of social triumphs. She was the toast of all
the clubs and the belle of all the balls. She had developed a rare and
fascinating beauty, and had acquired an air so distingue that even her
aunt, Miss St. Clair, was completely satisfied. It was a little hard for
her to leave the scene of her triumphs and to abandon the approaching
gayeties.

But Quebec had its compensations, and then there were the De Lacys, one
of the oldest English families of Quebec. The St. Clairs had known them
for many years. Their blood was unquestionably blue, they were wealthy,
and besides, the only son and representative of the family was now
lieutenant, attached to the garrison at the Citadel. Lieutenant De
Lacy suggested possibilities to Maimie. Quebec might be endurable for a
month.

“What a lovely view, and how picturesque!”

Maimie was standing at the window looking down upon the river with its
fleet of rafts. Beside her stood Kate, and at another window Harry.

“What a lot of timber!” said Harry. “And the town is just full of
lumbermen. A fellow said there must be six thousand of them, so there
will be lots of fun.”

“Fun!” exclaimed Kate.

“Fun! rather. These fellows have been up in the woods for some five
or six months, and when they get to town where there is whisky
and--and--that sort of thing, they just get wild. They say it is awful.”

“Just horrible!” said Maimie, in a disgusted tone.

“But splendid,” said Kate; “that is, if they don’t hurt any one.”

“Hurt anybody!” exclaimed Harry. “Oh, not at all; they are always
extremely careful not to hurt any one. They are as gentle as lambs.
I say, let us go down to the river and look at the rafts. De Lacy was
coming up, but it is too late now for him. Besides, we might run across
Maimie’s man from Glengarry.”

“Maimie’s man from Glengarry!” exclaimed Kate. “Has she a man there,
too?”

“Nonsense, Kate!” said Maimie, blushing. “He is talking about Ranald,
you know. One of Aunt Murray’s young men, up in Glengarry. You have
heard me speak of him often.”

“Oh, the boy that pulled you out of the fire,” said Kate.

“Yes,” cried Harry, striking an attitude, “and the boy that for love of
her entered the lists, and in a fistic tournament upheld her fair name,
and--”

“Oh, Harry, do have some sense!” said Maimie, impatiently. “Hush, here
comes some one; Lieutenant De Lacy, I suppose.”

It was the lieutenant, handsome, tall, well made, with a high-bred
if somewhat dissipated face, an air of blase indifference a little
overdone, and an accent which he had brought back with him from Oxford,
and which he was anxious not to lose. Indeed, the bare thought of the
possibility of his dropping into the flat, semi-nasal of his native land
filled the lieutenant with unspeakable horror.

“We were just going down to the river,” said Maimie, after the
introductions were over, “but I suppose it is all old to you, and you
would not care to go?”

“Aw, charmed, I’m sure.” (The lieutenant pronounced it “shuah.”) “But it
is rathaw, don’t you know, not exactly clean.”

“He is thinking of his boots,” said Harry, scornfully, looking down at
the lieutenant’s shining patent leathers.

“Really,” said the lieutenant, mildly, “awfully dirty street, though.”

“But we want to see the shantymen,” said Kate, frankly.

“Oh, the men! Very proper, but not so very discriminating, you know.”

“I love the shantymen,” exclaimed Kate, enthusiastically. “Maimie told
me all about them.”

“By Jove! I’ll join to-morrow,” exclaimed the lieutenant with gentle
excitement.

“They would not have you,” answered Kate. “Besides, you would have to
eat pork and onions and things.”

The lieutenant shuddered, gazing reproachfully at Kate.

“Onions!” he gasped; “and you love them?”

“Let us go along, then,” said Harry. “We will have a look at them,
anyway.”

“From the windward side, I hope,” said the lieutenant, gently.

“I am going right on the raft,” declared Kate, stoutly, “if we can only
find Ranald.”

“Meaning who, exactly?” questioned De Lacy.

“A lumberman whom Maimie adores.”

“How happy!” said De Lacy.

“Nonsense, Lieutenant De Lacy,” said Maimie, impatiently and a little
haughtily; “he is a friend of my aunt’s up in the county of Glengarry.”

“No nonsense about it,” said Harry, indignant that his sister should
seem indifferent to Ranald. “He is a great friend of us all; and you
will see--she will fly into his arms.”

“Heaven forbid!” ejaculated the lieutenant, much shocked.

“Harry, how can you be so--?” said Maimie, much annoyed. “What will the
lieutenant think of me?”

“Ah, if I only might tell!” said the lieutenant, looking at her with
languishing eyes. But already Kate was downstairs and on her way to the
street.

As they neared the lower town, the narrow streets became more and more
crowded with men in the shantymen’s picturesque dress, and they had some
difficulty in making their way through the jolly, jostling crowds. As
they were nearing the river, they saw coming along the narrow sidewalk
a burly French-Canadian, dressed in the gayest holiday garb of the
shantymen.--red shirt and sash, corduroys tucked into red top-boots, a
little round soft hat set upon the back of his black curls, a gorgeous
silk handkerchief around his neck, and a big gold watch-chain with
seals at his belt. He had a bold, handsome face, and swaggered along the
sidewalk, claiming it all with an assurance fortified by whisky enough
to make him utterly regardless of any but his own rights.

“Hello!” he shouted, as he swaggered along. “Make way, I’m de boss bully
on de reever Hottawa.” It was his day of glory, and it evidently pleased
him much that the people stood aside to let him pass. Then he broke into
song:--


     “En roulant ma boule roulant,
        En roulant me boule.”


“This, I suppose, is one of your beloved shantymen,” said the
lieutenant, turning to Kate, who was walking with Harry behind.

“Isn’t he lovely!” exclaimed Kate.

“Oh,” cried Maimie, in terror, “let us get into a shop!”

“Quite unnecessary, I assure you,” said the lieutenant, indifferently;
“I have not the least idea that he will molest you.”

The lumberman by this time had swaggered up to the party, expecting them
to make way, but instead, De Lacy stiffened his shoulder, caught the
Frenchman in the chest, and rolled him off into the street. Surprised
and enraged, the Frenchman turned to demolish the man who had dared to
insult the “boss bully on de reever Hottawa.”

“Vous n’avez pas remarque la demoiselle,” said the lieutenant, in a tone
of politeness.

The lumberman, who had swaggered up ready to strike, glanced at Maimie,
took off his hat, and made a ceremonious bow.

“Eh bien! Non! Pardon, Mams’elle.”

“Bon jour,” said Lieutenant De Lacy, with a military salute, and moved
on, leaving the lumberman staring after them as if he had seen a vision.

“Beauty and the Beast,” murmured the lieutenant. “Thought I was in for
it, sure. Really wonderful, don’t you know!”

“Do you think we had better go on?” said Maimie, turning to Kate and
Harry.

“Why not? Why, certainly!” they exclaimed.

“These horrid men,” replied Maimie.

“Dear creatures!” said the lieutenant, glancing at Kate with a mildly
pathetic look. “Sweet, but not always fragrant.”

“Oh, they won’t hurt us. Let us go on.”

“Certainly, go on,” echoed Harry, impatiently.

“Safe enough, Miss St. Clair, but,” pulling out his perfumed
handkerchief, “rather trying.”

“Oh, get on, De Lacy,” cried Harry, and so they moved on.

The office of Raymond & St. Clair stood near the wharves. Harry paused
at the door, not quite sure whether to go in or not. It was easy to
discover work in that office.

“You might ask if Ranald has come,” said Kate. “Maimie is too shy.”

Harry returned in a few moments, quite excited.

“The Macdonald gang are in, and the Big Macdonald was here not half an
hour ago, and Ranald is down at the raft beyond the last wharf. I know
the place.”

“Oh, do let us go on!” cried Kate, to whom Harry had been extolling
Ranald on the way down. “You really ought to inspect your timber, Harry,
shouldn’t you?”

“Most certainly, and right away. No saying what might happen.”

“Awful slush,” said the lieutenant, glancing at Maimie’s face. “Do you
think the timber wouldn’t keep for a week?”

“Oh, rubbish! A week!” cried Harry. “He is thinking of his boots again.”

To be quite fair to the lieutenant, it was Maimie’s doubtful face,
rather than his shiny boots, that made him hesitate. She was evidently
nervous and embarrassed. The gay, easy manner which was her habit was
gone.

“I think perhaps we had better go, since we are here,” she said,
doubtfully.

“Exactly; it is what I most desired,” said the lieutenant, gallantly.

Scores of rafts lay moored along the wharves and shore, and hundred
of lumbermen were to be seen everywhere, not only on the timber and
wharves, but crowding the streets and the doors of the little saloons.

For half an hour they walked along, watching the men at work with the
timber on the river. Some were loading the vessels lying at anchor, some
were shifting the loose timber about. When they reached the end of the
last wharf, they saw a strapping young lumberman, in a shanty costume
that showed signs of the woods, running some loose sticks of timber
round the end of the raft. With great skill he was handling his pike,
walking the big sticks and running lightly over the timber too small to
carry him, balancing himself on a single stick while he moved the timber
to the bit of open water behind the raft, and all with a grace and
dexterity that excited Kate’s admiration to the highest degree.

“Rather clever, that,” said the lieutenant, lazily. “Hello! close call,
that; ha! bravo!” It was not often the lieutenant allowed himself the
luxury of excitement, but the lumberman running his timber slipped his
pike pole and found himself balancing on the edge of open water. With a
mighty spring he cleared the open space, touched a piece of small timber
that sank under him, and at the next spring landed safe on the raft.
Maimie’s scream sounded with the lieutenant’s “bravo.” At the cry the
young fellow looked up. It was Ranald.

“Hello, there!” cried Harry; and with an answering shout, Ranald, using
his pike as a jumping-pole, cleared the open space, ran lightly over the
floating sticks, and with another spring reached the shore. Without a
moment’s hesitation he dropped his pole and came almost running toward
them, his face radiant with delight.

“Maimie!” he exclaimed, holding out his hand, wet and none too clean.

“How do you do?” said Maimie. She had noticed the look of surprise and
mild disgust on the lieutenant’s face, and she was embarrassed. Ranald
was certainly not lovely to look at. His shirt was open at the neck,
torn, and dirty. His trousers and boots were much the worse of their
struggle with the bush.

“This is Mr. Macdonald, Lieutenant De Lacy,” Maimie hurried to say. The
lieutenant offered a limp hand.

“Chawmed, I’m suah,” he murmured.

“What?” said Ranald.

“Lovely weather,” murmured the lieutenant again, looking at his fingers
that Ranald had just let go.

“Well, old chap,” said Harry, grasping Ranald’s hand and throwing his
arm about his shoulder, “I am awfully glad to find you. We have
been hunting you for half an hour. But hold up, here you are. Let me
introduce you to Miss Kate Raymond, the best girl anywhere.”

Kate came forward with a frank smile. “I am very glad to meet you,”
 she said. “I have heard so much about you, and I am going to call you
Ranald, as they all do.”

“How lovely!” sighed De Lacy.

Her greeting warmed Ranald’s heart that somehow had been chilled in
the meeting. Something was wrong. Was it this fop of a soldier, or had
Maimie changed? Ranald glanced at her face. No, she was the same, only
more beautiful than he had dreamed.

But while she was shaking hands with him, there flashed across his mind
the memory of the first time he had seen her, and the look of amusement
upon her face then, that had given him such deadly offense. There was
no amusement now, but there was embarrassment and something else. Ranald
could not define it, but it chilled his heart, and at once he began to
feel how badly dressed he was. The torn shirt, the ragged trousers, and
the old, unshapely boots that he had never given a thought to before,
now seemed to burn into his flesh. Unconsciously he backed away and
turned to go.

“Where are you off to?” cried Harry; “do you think we are going to let
you go now? We had hard enough work finding you. Come up to the office
and see the governor. He wants to see you badly.”

Ranald glanced at the lieutenant, immaculate except where the slush had
speckled his shiny boots, and then at his own ragged attire. “I think I
will not go up now,” he said.

“Well, come up soon,” said Maimie, evidently relieved.

“No!” said Kate, impetuously, “come right along now.” As she spoke she
ranged herself beside him.

For a moment or two Ranald hesitated, shot a searching glance at
Maimie’s face, and then, with a reckless laugh, said, “I will go now,”
 and set off forthwith, Kate proudly marching at one side, and Harry on
the other, leaving Maimie and the lieutenant to follow after.

And a good thing it was for Ranald that he did go that day with Harry to
his “governor’s” office. They found the office in a “swither,” as Harry
said, over the revelations of fraud that were coming to light every
day--book-keeper, clerk, and timber-checker having all been in
conspiracy to defraud the company.

“Where have you been, Harry?” said his father in an annoyed tone as his
son entered the office. “You don’t seem to realize how much there is to
do just now.”

“Looking up Ranald, father,” said Harry, cheerfully.

“Ah, the young man from Glengarry?” said Mr. St. Clair, rising. “I am
glad to know you, and to thank you in person for your prompt courage in
saving my daughter.”

“Lucky dog!” groaned the lieutenant, in an undertone to Maimie.

Mr. St. Clair spoke to Ranald of his father and his uncle in words of
highest appreciation, and as Ranald listened, the reckless and hard look
which had been gathering ever since his meeting with Maimie passed away,
and his face became earnest and touched with a tender pride.

“I hear about you frequently from my sister, Mr. Macdonald--or shall
I say Ranald?” said Mr. St. Clair, kindly. “She apparently thinks
something of you.”

“I am proud to think so,” replied Ranald, his face lighting up as he
spoke; “but every one loves her. She is a wonderful woman, and good.”

“Yes,” said Mr. St. Clair, “that’s it; wonderful and good.”

Then Maimie drew nearer. “How is auntie?” she said. “What a shame not to
have asked before!”

“She was very well last fall,” said Ranald, looking keenly into Maimie’s
face; “but she is working too hard at the meetings.”

“Meetings!” exclaimed Harry.

“Aye, for a year and more she has been at them every night till late.”

“At meetings for a year! What meetings?” cried Harry, astonished.

“Oh, Harry, you know about the great revival going on quite well,” said
Maimie.

“Oh, yes. I forgot. What a shame! What is the use of her killing herself
that way?”

“There is much use,” said Ranald, gravely. “They are making bad men
good, and the whole countryside is new, and she is the heart of it all.”

“I have no doubt about that,” said Mr. St. Clair. “She will be the head
and heart and hands and feet.”

“You’re just right, governor,” said Harry, warmly. “There is no woman
living like Aunt Murray.”

There was silence for a few moments. Then Mr. St. Clair said suddenly:
“We are in an awful fix here. Not a man to be found that we can depend
upon for book-keeper, clerk, or checker.”

Harry coughed slightly.

“Oh, of course, Harry is an excellent book-keeper,” Harry bowed low;
“while he is at it,” added Mr. St. Clair.

“Very neat one,” murmured the lieutenant.

“Now, father, do not spoil a fine compliment in that way,” cried Harry.

“But now the checker is gone,” said Mr. St. Clair, “and that is
extremely awkward.”

“I say,” cried Harry, “what will you give me for a checker right now?”

Mr. St. Clair looked at him and then at the lieutenant.

“Pardon me, Mr. St. Clair,” said that gentleman, holding up his hand. “I
used to check a little at Rugby, but--”

“Not you, by a long hand,” interrupted Harry, disdainfully.

“This awfully charming brother of yours, so very frank, don’t you know!”
 said the lieutenant, softly, to Maimie, while they all laughed.

“But here is your man, governor,” said Harry, laying his hand on Ranald.

“Ranald!” exclaimed Mr. St. Clair. “Why, the very man! You understand
timber, and you are honest.”

“I will answer for both with my head,” said Harry.

“What do you say, Ranald?” said Mr. St. Clair. “Will you take a day to
think it over?”

“No,” said Ranald; “I will be your checker.” And so Ranald became part
of the firm of Raymond & St. Clair.

“Come along, Ranald,” said Harry. “We will take the girls home, and then
come back to the office.”

“Yes, do come,” said Kate, heartily. Maimie said nothing.

“No,” said Ranald; “I will go back to the raft first, and then come to
the office. Shall I begin tonight?” he said to Mr. St. Clair.

“To-morrow morning will do, Ranald,” said Mr. St. Clair. “Come up to the
hotel and see us tonight.” But Ranald said nothing. Then Maimie went up
to him.

“Good by, just now,” she said, smiling into his face. “You will come and
see us to-night, perhaps?”

Ranald looked at her, while the blood mounted slowly into his dark
cheek, and said: “Yes, I will come.”

“What’s the matter with you, Maimie?” said Harry, indignantly, when they
had got outside. “You would think Ranald was a stranger, the way you
treat him.”

“And he is just splendid! I wish he had pulled ME out of the fire,”
 cried Kate.

“You might try the river,” said the lieutenant. “I fancy he would go in.
Looks that sort.”

“Go in?” cried Harry, “he would go anywhere.” The lieutenant made no
reply. He evidently considered that it was hardly worth the effort to
interest himself in the young lumberman, but before he was many hours
older he found reason to change his mind.

After taking the young ladies to their hotel there was still an hour
till the lieutenant’s dinner, so, having resolved to cultivate the St.
Clair family, he proposed accompanying Harry back to the office.

As they approached the lower portion of the town they heard wild shouts,
and sauntering down a side street, they came upon their French-Canadian
friend of the afternoon. He was standing with his back against a wall
trying to beat off three or four men, who were savagely striking and
kicking at him, and crying the while: “Gatineau! Gatineau!”

It was the Gatineau against the Ottawa.

“Our friend seems to have found the object of his search,” said the
lieutenant, as he stood across the street looking at the melee.

“I say, he’s a good one, isn’t he?” cried Harry, admiring the Ottawa’s
dauntless courage and his fighting skill.

“His eagerness for war will probably be gratified in a few minutes, by
the look of things,” replied the lieutenant.

The Gatineaus were crowding around, and had evidently made up their
minds to bring the Ottawa champion to the dust. That they were numbers
to one mattered not at all. There was little chivalry in a shantymen’s
fight.

“Ha! Rather a good one, that,” exclaimed the lieutenant, mildly
interested. “He put that chap out somewhat neatly.” He lit a cigar and
stood coolly watching the fight.

“Where are the Ottawas--the fellow’s friends?” said Harry, much excited.

“I rather think they camp on another street further down.”

The Ottawa champion was being sorely pressed, and it looked as if in a
moment or two more he would be down.

“What a shame!” cried Harry.

“Well,” said the lieutenant, languidly, “it’s beastly dirty, but the
chap’s done rather well, so here goes.”

Smoking his cigar, and followed by Harry, he pushed across the street to
the crowd, and got right up to the fighters.

“Here, you fellows,” he called out, in a high, clear voice, “what the
deuce do you mean, kicking up such a row? Come now, stop, and get out of
here.”

The astonished crowd stopped fighting and fell back a little. The calm,
clear voice of command and her majesty’s uniform awed them.

“Mon camarade!” said the lieutenant, removing his cigar and saluting,
“rather warm, eh?”

“You bet! Ver’ warm tam,” was the reply.

“Better get away, mon ami. The odds are rather against you,” said the
lieutenant. “Your friends are some distance down the next street.
You better go along.” So saying, he stepped out toward the crowd of
Gatineaus who were consulting and yelling.

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” he said, politely, waving his little cane. Those
immediately in front gave back, allowed the lieutenant, followed by the
Ottawa man and Harry, to pass, and immediately closed in behind.
They might have escaped had it not been that the Ottawa man found it
impossible to refrain from hurling taunts at them and inviting them to
battle. They had gone not more than two blocks when there was a rush
from behind, and before they could defend themselves they were each in
the midst of a crowd, fighting for their lives. The principal attack
was, of course, made upon the Ottawa man, but the crowd was quite
determined to prevent the lieutenant and Harry from getting near him. In
vain they struggled to break through the yelling mass of Gatineaus, who
now had become numerous enough to fill the street from wall to wall,
and among whom could be seen some few of the Ottawa men trying to force
their way toward their champion. By degrees both Harry and De Lacy
fought their way to the wall, and toward each other.

“Looks as if our man had met his Waterloo,” said the lieutenant, waiting
for his particular man to come again.

“What a lot of beasts they are!” said Harry, disgustedly, beating off
his enemy.

“Hello! Here they come again. We shall have to try another shot, I
suppose,” said the lieutenant, as the crowd, which had for a few moments
surged down the street, now came crushing back, with the Ottawa leader,
and some half-dozen of his followers in the center.

“Well, here goes,” said De Lacy, leaving the wall and plunging into the
crowd, followed by Harry. As they reached the center a voice called out:
“A bas les Anglais!”

And immediately the cry, a familiar enough one in those days, was taken
up on all sides. The crowd stiffened, and the attack upon the center
became more determined than ever. The little company formed a circle,
and standing back to back, held their ground for a time.

“Make for the wall. Keep together,” cried De Lacy, pushing out toward
the side, and followed by his company. But, one by one, the Ottawas
were being dragged down and trampled beneath the “corked” boots of their
foes, till only two of them, with their leader, beside Harry and De
Lacy, were left.

At length the wall was gained. There they faced about and for a time
held their lives safe. But every moment fresh men rushed in upon them,
yelling their cries, “Gatineau! Gatineau! A bas les Anglais!”

The Ottawa leader was panting hard, and he could not much longer hold
his own. His two companions were equally badly off. Harry was pale and
bleeding, but still in good heart. The lieutenant was unmarked as yet,
and coolly smoking his cigar, but he knew well that unless help arrived
their case was hopeless.

“We can’t run,” he remarked, calmly, “but a dignified and speedy retreat
is in order if it can be executed. There is a shop a little distance
down here. Let us make for it.”

But as soon as they moved two more of the Ottawas were dragged down and
trampled on.

“It begins to look interesting,” said the lieutenant to Harry. “Sorry
you are into this, old chap. It was rather my fault. It is so beastly
dirty, don’t you know.”

“Oh, fault be hanged!” cried Harry. “It’s nobody’s fault, but it looks
rather serious. Get back, you brute!” So saying, he caught a burly
Frenchman under the chin with a straight left-hander and hurled him back
upon the crowd.

“Ah, rather pretty,” said the lieutenant, mildly. “It is not often you
can just catch them that way.” They were still a few yards from the shop
door, but every step of their advance had to be fought.

“I very much fear we can’t make it,” said the lieutenant, quietly to
Harry. “We had better back up against the wall here and fight it out.”

But as he spoke they heard a sound of shouting down the street a little
way, which the Ottawa leader at once recognized, and raising his voice
he cried: “Hottawa! Hottawa! Hottawa a moi!”

Swiftly, fiercely, came the band of men, some twenty of them, cleaving
their way through the crowd like a wedge. At their head, and taller
than the others, fought two men, whose arms worked with the systematic
precision of piston-rods, and before whom men fell on either hand as if
struck with sledge-hammers.

“Hottawa a moi!” cried the Ottawa champion again, and the relieving
party faced in his direction.

“I say,” said the lieutenant, “that first man is uncommonly like your
Glengarry friend.”

“What, Ranald?” cried Harry. “Then we are all right. I swear it is,” he
said, after a few moments, and then, remembering the story of the great
fight on the Nation, which he had heard from Hughie and Maimie, he
raised the Macdonald war-cry: “Glengarry! Glengarry!”

Ranald paused and looked about him.

“Here, Ranald!” yelled Harry, waving his white handkerchief. Then Ranald
caught sight of him.

“Glengarry!” he cried, and sprang far into the crowd in Harry’s
direction.

“Glengarry! Glengarry forever!” echoed Yankee--for he it was--plunging
after his leader.

Swift and sharp like the thrust of a lance, the Glengarry men pierced
the crowd, which gave back on either side, and soon reached the group at
the wall.

“How in the world did YOU get here?” cried Ranald to Harry; then,
looking about him, cried: “Where is LeNware? I heard he was being killed
by the Gatineaus, and I got a few of our men and came along.”

“LeNware? That is our Canadian friend, I suppose,” said the lieutenant.
“He was here a while ago. By Jove! There he is.”

Surrounded by a crowd of the Gatineaus, LeNoir, for he was the leader of
the Ottawas, was being battered about and like to be killed.

“Glengarry!” cried Ranald, and like a lion he leaped upon them, followed
by Yankee and the others. Right and left he hurled the crowd aside, and
seizing LeNoir, brought him out to his own men.

“Who are you?” gasped LeNoir. “Why, no, it ees not possible. Yes, it is
Yankee for sure! And de Macdonald gang, but”--turning to Ranald--“who
are YOU?” he said again.

“Never mind,” said Ranald, shortly, “let us get away now, quick! Go on,
Yankee.”

At once, with Yankee leading, the Glengarry men marched off the field of
battle bearing with them the rescued party. There was no time to lose.
The enemy far outnumbered them, and would soon return to the attack.

“But how did you know we were in trouble, Ranald?” said Harry as he
marched along.

“I didn’t know anything about you,” said Ranald. “Some one came and said
that the bully of the Ottawa was being killed, so I came along.”

“And just in time, by Jove!” said the lieutenant, aroused from his
languor for once. “It was a deucedly lucky thing, and well done, too,
‘pon my soul.”

That night, as Ranald and his uncle were in their cabin on the raft
talking over the incidents of the day, and Ranald’s plans for the
summer, a man stood suddenly in the doorway.

“I am Louis LeNoir,” he said, “and I have some word to say to de young
Macdonald. I am sore here,” he said, striking his breast. “I cannot
spik your languige. I cannot tell.” He stopped short, and the tears
came streaming down his face. “I cannot tell,” he repeated, his breast
heaving with mighty sobs. “I would be glad to die--to mak’ over--to not
mak’--I cannot say de word--what I do to your fadder. I would give my
life,” he said, throwing out both his hands. “I would give my life. I
cannot say more.”

Ranald stood looking at him for a few moments in silence when he
finished; then he said slowly and distinctly, “My father told me to say
that he forgave you everything, and that he prayed the mercy of God for
you, and,” added Ranald, more slowly, “I--forgive--you--too.”

The Frenchman listened in wonder, greatly moved, but he could only
reiterate his words: “I cannot spik what I feel here.”

“Sit down, Mr. LeNoir,” said Macdonald Bhain, gravely, pointing to a
bench, “and I will be telling you something.”

LeNoir sat down and waited.

“Do you see that young man there?” said Macdonald Bhain, pointing to
Ranald. “He is the strongest man in my gang, and indeed, I will not be
putting him below myself.” Here Ranald protested. “And he has learned to
use his hands as I cannot. And of all the men I have ever seen since I
went to the woods, there is not one I could put against him. He could
kill you, Mr. LeNoir.”

The Frenchman nodded his head and said: “Das so. Das pretty sure.”

“Yes, that is very sure,” said Macdonald Bhain. “And he made a vow to
kill you,” went on Macdonald Bhain, “and to-night he saved your life. Do
you know why?”

“No, not me.”

“Then I will be telling you. It is the grace of God.”

LeNoir stared at him, and then Macdonald Bhain went on to tell him how
his brother had suffered and struggled long, and how the minister’s wife
had come to him with the message of the forgiveness of the great
God. And then he read from Ranald’s English Bible the story of the
unforgiving debtor, explaining it in grave and simple speech.

“That was why,” he concluded. “It was because he was forgiven, and on
his dying bed he sent you the word of forgiveness. And that, too, is the
very reason, I believe, why the lad here went to your help this day.”

“I promised the minister’s wife I would do you good and not ill, when it
came to me,” said Ranald. “But I was not feeling at all like forgiving
you. I was afraid to meet you.”

“Afraid?” said LeNoir, wondering that any of that gang should confess to
fear.

“Yes, afraid of what I would do. But now, tonight, it is gone,” said
Ranald, simply, “I can’t tell you how.”

“Das mos’ surprise!” exclaimed LeNoir. “Ne comprenne pas. I never see
lak dat, me!”

“Yes, it is wonderful,” said Macdonald Bhain. “It is very wonderful. It
is the grace of God,” he said again.

“You mak’ de good frien’ wit me?” asked LeNoir, rising and putting his
hand out to Macdonald Bhain. Macdonald Bhain rose from his place and
stepped toward the Frenchman, and took his hand.

“Yes, I will be friends with you,” he said, gravely, “and I will seek
God’s mercy for you.”

Then LeNoir turned to Ranald, and said; “Will you be frien’ of me? Is it
too moche?”

“Yes,” said Ranald, slowly, “I will be your friend, too. It is a little
thing,” he added, unconsciously quoting his father’s words. Then LeNoir
turned around to Macdonald Bhain, and striking an attitude, exclaimed:
“See! You be my boss, I be your man--what you call--slave. I work for
noting, me. Das sure.”

Macdonald Bhain shook his head.

“You could not belong to us,” he said, and explained to him the terms
upon which the Macdonald men were engaged. LeNoir had never heard of
such terms.

“You not drink whisky?”

“Not too much,” said Macdonald Bhain.

“How many glass? One, two, tree?”

“I do not know,” said Macdonald Bhain. “It depends upon the man. He must
not take more than is good for him.”

“Bon!” said LeNoir, “das good. One glass he mak’ me feel good. Two das
nice he mak’ me feel ver fonny. Three glass yes das mak’ me de frien’
of hevery bodie. Four das mak’ me feel big; I walk de big walk; I am de
bes’ man all de place. Das good place for stop, eh?”

“No,” said Macdonald Bhain, gravely, “you need to stop before that.”

“Ver’ good. Ver’ good me stop him me. You tak’ me on for your man?”

Macdonald Bhain hesitated. LeNoir came nearer him and lowering his
voice said: “I’m ver’ bad man me. I lak to know how you do dat--what you
say--forgive. You show me how.”

“Come to me next spring,” said Macdonald Bhain.

“Bon!” said LeNoir. “I be dere on de Nation camp.”

And so he was. And when Mrs. Murray heard of it from Macdonald Bhain
that summer, she knew that Ranald had kept his word and had done LeNoir
good and not evil.



CHAPTER XVIII

HE IS NOT OF MY KIND


The story of the riot in which Ranald played so important a part filled
the town and stirred society to its innermost circles--those circles,
namely, in which the De Lacys lived and moved. The whole town began
talking of the Glengarry men, and especially of their young leader who
had, with such singular ability and pluck, rescued the Ottawas with
Harry and Lieutenant De Lacy, from their perilous position.

The girls had the story from Harry’s lips, and in his telling of it,
Ranald’s courage and skill certainly lost nothing; but to Maimie, while
it was pleasant enough for her to hear of Ranald’s prowess, and while
she enjoyed the reflected glory that came to her as his friend, the
whole incident became altogether hateful and distressing. She found
herself suddenly famous in her social world; every one was talking of
her, but to her horror, was connecting Ranald’s name with her’s in a
most significant way. It was too awful, and if her Aunt Frances should
hear of it, the consequences would be quite too terrible for her to
imagine. She must stop the talk at once. Of course she meant to be kind
to Ranald; he had done her great service, and he was her Aunt Murray’s
friend, and besides, she liked him; how much she hardly cared to say to
herself. She had liked him in Glengarry. There was no doubt of that, but
that was two years ago, and in Glengarry everything was different! There
every one was just as good as another, and these people were all her
Aunt Murray’s friends. Here the relations were changed. She could not
help feeling that however nice he might be, and however much she might
like him, Ranald was not of her world.

“Well, tell him so; let him see that,” said Kate, with whom Maimie was
discussing her difficulty.

“Yes, and then he would fly off and I--we would never see him again,”
 said Maimie. “He’s as proud as--any one!”

“Strange, too,” said Kate, “when he has no money to speak of!”

“You know I don’t mean that, and I don’t think it’s very nice of you.
You have no sympathy with me!”

“In what way?”

“Well, in this very unpleasant affair; every one is talking about Ranald
and me, as if I--as if we had some understanding.”

“And have you not? I thought--” Kate hesitated to remind Maimie of
certain confidences she had received two years ago after her friend had
returned from Glengarry.

“Oh, absurd--just a girl and boy affair,” said Maimie, impatiently.

“Then there’s nothing at all,” said Kate, with a suspicion of eagerness
in her voice.

“No, of course not--that is, nothing really serious.”

“Serious? You mean you don’t care for him at all?” Kate looked straight
at her friend.

“Oh, you are so awfully direct. I don’t know. I do care; he’s nice in
many ways, and he’s--I know he likes me and--I would hate to wound him,
but then you know he’s not just one of us. You know what I mean!”

“Not exactly,” said Kate, quietly. “Do you mean he is not educated?”

“Oh, no, I don’t mean education altogether. How very tiresome you are!
He has no culture, and manners, and that sort of thing.”

“I think he has very fine manners. He is a little quaint, but you can’t
call him rude.”

“Oh, no, he’s never rude; rather abrupt, but oh, dear, don’t you know?
What would Aunt Frank say to him?”

Kate’s lip curled a little. “I’m very sure I can’t say, but I can
imagine how she would look.”

“Well, that’s it--”

“But,” went on Kate, “I can imagine, too, how Ranald would look back at
her if he caught her meaning.”

“Well, perhaps,” said Maimie, with a little laugh, “and that’s just it.
Oh, I wish he were--”

“A lieutenant?” suggested Kate.

“Well, yes, I do,” said Maimie, desperately.

“And if he were, you would marry him,” said Kate, a shade of contempt in
her tone that Maimie failed to notice.

“Yes, I would.”

Kate remained silent.

“There now, you think I am horrid, I know,” said Maimie. “I suppose you
would marry him if he were a mere nobody!”

“If I loved him,” said Kate, with slow deliberation, and a slight tremor
in her voice, “I’d marry him if he were--a shantyman!”

“I believe you would,” said Maimie, with a touch of regret in her voice;
“but then, you’ve no Aunt Frank!”

“Thank Providence,” replied Kate, under her breath.

“And I’m sure I don’t want to offend her. Just listen to this.” Maimie
pulled out a letter, and turning over the pages, found the place and
began to read: “‘I am so glad to hear that you are enjoying your stay in
Quebec’--um-um-um--‘fine old city’--um-um-um--‘gates and streets,’ ‘old
days’--um-um-um--‘noble citadel,’ ‘glorious view’--um-um-um-um--‘finest
in the world’--No, that isn’t it--Oh, yes, here it is: ‘The De Lacys
are a very highly connected English family and very old friends of my
friends, the Lord Archers, with whom I visited in England, you know.
The mother is a dear old lady--so stately and so very particular--with
old-fashioned ideas of breeding and manners, and of course, very
wealthy. Her house in Quebec is said to be the finest in the Province,
and there are some English estates, I believe, in their line. Lieutenant
De Lacy is her only son, and from what you say, he seems to be a very
charming young man. He will occupy a very high place someday. I suppose
Kate will’--um-um-um--‘Oh yes, and if Mrs. De Lacy wishes you to visit
her you might accept’--um-um--um--‘and tell Kate that I should be
delighted if she could accompany me on a little jaunt through the
Eastern States. I have asked permission of her father, but she wrote you
herself about that, didn’t she?--um-um-um--And then listen to this!
‘How very odd you should have come across the young man from Glengarry
again--Mac Lennon, is it? Mac-something-or-other! Your Aunt Murray seems
to consider him a very steady and worthy young man. I hope he may not
degenerate in his present circumstances and calling, as so many of his
class do. I am glad your father was able to do something for him. These
people ought to be encouraged.’ Now you see!” Maimie’s tone was quite
triumphant.

“Yes,” said Kate! “I do see! These people should be encouraged to make
our timber for us that we may live in ease and luxury, and even to save
us from fire and from blood-thirsty mobs, as occasions may offer, but as
for friendships and that sort of thing--”

“Oh, Kate,” burst in Maimie, almost in tears, “you are so very unkind.
You know quite well what I mean.”

“Yes, I know quite well; you would not invite Ranald, for instance,
to dine at your house, to meet your Aunt Frank and the Evanses and
the Langfords and the Maitlands,” said Kate, spacing her words with
deliberate indignation.

“Well, I would not, if you put it in that way,” said Maimie, petulantly,
“and you wouldn’t either!”

“I would ask him to meet every Maitland of them if I could,” said Kate,
“and it wouldn’t hurt them either.”

“Oh, you are so peculiar,” said Maimie, with a sigh of pity.

“Am I,” said Kate; “ask Harry,” she continued, as that young man came
into the room.

“No, you needn’t mind,” said Maimie; “I know well he will just side with
you. He always does.”

“How very amiable of me,” said Harry; “but what’s the particular issue?”

“Ranald,” said Kate.

“Then I agree at once. Besides, he is coming to supper next Sunday
evening!”

“Oh, Harry,” exclaimed Maimie, in dismay, “on Sunday evening?”

“He can’t get off any other night; works all night, I believe, and would
work all Sunday, too, if his principles didn’t mercifully interfere. He
will be boss of the concern before summer is over.”

“Oh, Harry,” said Maimie, in distress, “and I asked Lieutenant De Lacy
and his friend, Mr. Sims, for Sunday evening--”

“Sims,” cried Harry; “little cad!”

“I’m sure he’s very nice,” said Maimie, “and his family--”

“Oh, hold up; don’t get on to your ancestor worship,” cried Harry,
impatiently. “Anyway, Ranald’s coming up Sunday evening.”

“Well, it will be very awkward,” said Maimie.

“I don’t see why,” said Kate.

“Oh,” cried Harry, scornfully, “he will have on his red flannel shirt
and a silk handkerchief, and his trousers will be in his boots; that’s
what Maimie is thinking of!”

“You are very rude, Harry,” said Maimie. “You know quite well that
Ranald will not enjoy himself with the others. He has nothing in common
with them.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that Maimie,” said Kate; “I will talk to
Ranald.” But Maimie was not quite sure how she should like that.

“You are just your Aunt Frank over again,” said Harry, in a disgusted
tone; “clothes and people!”

Maimie was almost in tears.

“I think you are both very unkind. You know Ranald won’t enjoy it. He
will be quite miserable, and--they’ll just laugh at him!”

“Well, they’d better laugh at him when he isn’t observing,” said Harry.

“Do you think Ranald would really mind?” interposed Kate, addressing
Harry. “Do you think he will feel shy and awkward? Perhaps we’d better
have him another evening.”

“No,” said Harry, decidedly; “he is coming, and he’s coming on Sunday
evening. He can’t get off any other night, and besides, I’d have to lie
to him, and he has an unpleasant way of finding you out when you are
doing it, and once he does find out why he is not asked for Sunday
evening, then you may say good by to him for good and all.”

“Oh, no fear of that,” said Maimie, confidently; “Ranald has good sense,
and I know he will come again.”

“Well,” cried Harry, “if you are not going to treat him as you would
treat De Lacy and that idiotic Sims, I won’t bring him!” And with that
he flung out of the room.

But Harry changed his mind, for next Sunday evening as the young ladies
with De Lacy and his friend were about to sit down to supper in their
private parlor, Harry walked in with Ranald, and announced in triumph:
“The man from Glengarry!” Maimie looked at him in dismay, and indeed she
well might, for Ranald was dressed in his most gorgeous shanty array,
with red flannel shirt and silk handkerchief, and trousers tucked into
his boots. Sims gazed at him as if he were an apparition. It was Kate
who first broke the silence.

“We are delighted to see you,” she cried, going forward to Ranald with
hands outstretched; “you are become quite a hero in this town.”

“Quite, I assure you,” said the lieutenant, in a languid voice, but
shaking Ranald heartily by the hand.

Then Maimie came forward and greeted him with ceremonious politeness
and introduced him to Mr. Sims, who continued to gaze at the shantyman’s
attire with amused astonishment.

The supper was not a success; Ranald sat silent and solemn, eating
little and smiling not at all, although Mr. Sims executed his very best
jokes. Maimie was nervous and visibly distressed, and at the earliest
possible moment broke up the supper party and engaged in conversation
with the lieutenant and his witty friend, leaving Harry and Kate to
entertain Ranald. But in spite of all they could do a solemn silence
would now and then overtake the company, till at length Maimie grew
desperate, and turning to Ranald, said: “What are you thinking of? You
are looking very serious?”

“He is ‘thinking of home and mother,’” quoted Mr. Sims, in a thin,
piping voice, following his quotation with a silly giggle.

Kate flushed indignantly. “I am quite sure his thoughts will bear
telling,” she said.

“I am sure they would,” said Maimie, not knowing what to say. “What were
they, Ran--Mr. Macdonald?”

“I was thinking of you,” said Ranald, gravely, looking straight at her.

“How lovely,” murmured the lieutenant.

“And of your aunt, Mrs. Murray, and of what they would be doing this
night--”

“And what would that be?” said Kate, coming to the relief of her friend.
But Ranald was silent.

“I know,” cried Harry. “Let’s see, it is ten o’clock; they will all be
sitting in the manse dining-room before the big fire; or, no, they will
be in the parlor where the piano is, and John ‘Aleck’ will be there,
and they will be singing”; and he went on to describe his last Sabbath
evening, two years before, in the Glengarry manse. As he began to
picture his aunt and her work, his enthusiasm carried him away, and made
him eloquent.

“I tell you,” he concluded, “she’s a rare woman, and she has a hundred
men there ready to die for her, eh, Ranald?”

“Yes,” said Ranald, and his deep voice vibrated with intense feeling.
“They would just die for her, and why not? She is a great woman and a
good.” His dark face was transformed, and his eyes glowed with an inner
light.

In the silence that followed Kate went to the harmonium and began to
play softly. Ranald stood up as to go, but suddenly changed his mind,
and went over and stood beside her.

“You sing, don’t you?” said Kate, as she played softly.

“You ought to just hear him,” said Harry.

“Oh, what does he sing?”

“I only sing the psalm tunes in church,” said Ranald, “and a few hymns.”

“Ye gods!” ejaculated the lieutenant to Maimie, “psalms and hymns; and
how the fellow knocked those Frenchmen about!”

“Sing something, Kate, won’t you?” said Maimie, and Kate, without a word
began the beautiful air from Mendelssohn’s St. Paul:--


     “But the Lord is mindful of His own,”


singing it with a power of expression marvellous in so young a girl.
Then, without further request, she glided into the lovely aria, “O Rest
in the Lord.” It was all new and wonderful to Ranald. He did not dream
that such majesty and sweetness could be expressed in music. He sat
silent with eyes looking far away, and face alight with the joy that
filled his soul.

“Oh, thanks, very much,” murmured the lieutenant, when Kate had
finished. “Lovely thing that aria, don’t you know?”

“Very nice,” echoed Mr. Sims, “and so beautifully done, too.”

Ranald looked from one to the other in indignant surprise, and then
turning away from them to Kate, said, in a tone almost of command: “Sing
it again.”

“I’ll sing something else,” she said. “Did you ever hear--”

“No, I never heard anything at all like that,” interrupted Ranald. “Sing
some more like the last.”

The deep feeling showing in his face and in his tone touched Kate.

“How would this do?” she replied. “It is a little high for me, but I’ll
try.”

She played a few introductory chords, and then began that sweetest bit
of the greatest of all the oratorios “He shall Feed His Flock.” And from
that passed into the soul-moving “He Was Despised” from the same noble
work. The music suited the range and quality of her voice perfectly, and
she sang with her heart thrilling in response to the passionate feeling
in the dark eyes fixed upon her face. She had never sung to any one who
listened as Ranald now listened to her. She forgot the others. She
was singing for him, and he was compelling her to her best. She was
conscious of a subtle sense of mastery overpowering her, and with a
strange delight she yielded herself to that commanding influence; but
as she sang she began to realize that he was thinking not of her, but of
her song, and soon she, too, was thinking of it. She knew that his eyes
were filled with the vision of “The Man of Sorrows” of whom she sang,
and before she was aware, the pathos of that lonely and despised life,
set forth in the noble words of the ancient prophet, was pouring forth
in the great Master’s music.

When the song was ended, no one spoke for a time, and even Mr. Sims
was silent. Then the lieutenant came over to the harmonium, and leaning
toward Kate, said, in an earnest voice, unusual with him, “Thank you
Miss Raymond. That was truly great.”

“Great indeed;” said Harry, with enthusiasm. “I never heard you sing
like that before, Kate.”

But Ranald sat silent, finding no words in which to express the thoughts
and feelings her singing had aroused in him.

There is that in noble music which forbids unreality, rebukes frivolity
into silence, subdues ignoble passions, soothes the heart’s sorrow, and
summons to the soul high and holy thoughts. It was difficult to begin
the conversation; the trivial themes of the earlier part of the evening
seemed foreign to the mood that had fallen upon the company. At length
Mr. Sims ventured to remark, with a giggle: “It’s awfully fine, don’t
you know, but a trifle funereal. Makes one think of graves and that
sort of thing. Very nice, of course,” he added, apologetically, to Kate.
Ranald turned and regarded the little man for some moments in silence,
and then, with unutterable scorn, exclaimed: “Nice! man, it’s wonderful,
wonderful to me whatever! Makes me think of all the great things I ever
saw.”

“What things?” Kate ventured to say.

For a few moments Ranald paused, and then replied: “It makes me think
of the big pine trees waving and wailing over me at night, and the big
river rolling down with the moonlight on it--and--other things.”

“What other things, Ranald,” persisted Kate.

But Ranald shook his head and sat silent for some time. Then he rose
abruptly.

“I will be going now,” he said.

“You will come again soon, Ranald,” said Maimie, coming toward him with
a look on her face that reminded him of the days in the Glengarry manse.
She had forgotten all about his red shirt and silk handkerchief. As
Ranald caught that look a great joy leaped into his eyes for a moment,
then faded into a gaze of perplexity.

“Yes, do come,” added Kate.

“Will you sing again?” he asked, bluntly.

“Yes, indeed,” she replied, with a slight blush, “if you want me to.”

“I will come. When? To-morrow night?”

“Yes, certainly, to-morrow night,” said Kate, blushing deeply now, for
she noticed the slight smile on Harry’s face, and the glance that passed
between Mr. Sims and the lieutenant. Then Ranald said good night.

“I have never had such pleasure in my life,” he said, holding her hand
a moment, and looking into her eyes that sparkled with a happy light.
“That is,” he added, with a swift glance at Maimie, “from music or
things like that.”

Kate caught the glance, and the happy light faded from her eyes.

“Good night,” said Ranald, offering his hand to Maimie. “I am glad I
came now. It makes me think of the last night at the manse, although I
am always thinking of it,” he added, simply, with a touch of sadness in
his voice. Maimie’s face grew hot with blushes.

“Yes,” she answered, hurriedly. “Dear Aunt Murray!”

He stood a moment or two as if about to speak, while Maimie waited in
an agony of fear, not knowing what to expect in this extraordinary young
man. Then he turned abruptly away, and with a good night to De Lacy and
a nod to Mr. Sims, strode from the room.

“Great Caesar’s ghost!” exclaimed the lieutenant; “pardon me, but has
anything happened? That young man now and then gives me a sense of
tragedy. What HAS taken place?” he panted, weakly.

“Nonsense,” laughed Maimie, “your nervous system is rather delicate.”

“Ah, thanks, no doubt that’s it. Miss Kate, how do you feel?”

“I,” said Kate, waking suddenly, “thank you, quite happy.”

“Happy,” sighed De Lacy. “Ah, fortunate young man!”

“Great chap, that,” cried Harry, coming back from seeing Ranald to the
door.

“Very,” said De Lacy, so emphatically that every one laughed.

“Some one really ought to dress him, though,” suggested Mr. Sims, with a
slight sneer.

“Why?” said Kate, quietly, facing him.

“Oh, well, you know, Miss Raymond,” stammered Mr. Sims, “that sort of
attire, you know, is hardly the thing for the drawing-room, you know.”

“He is a shantyman,” said Maimie, apologetically, “and they all dress
like that. I don’t suppose that he has any other clothes with him.”

“Oh, of course,” assented Mr. Sims, retreating before this double
attack.

“Besides,” continued Kate, “it is good taste to dress in the garb of
your profession, isn’t it, Lieutenant De Lacy?”

“Oh, come now, Miss Kate, that’s all right,” said the lieutenant, “but
you must draw the line somewhere, you know. Those colors now you must
confess are a little startling.”

“You didn’t mind the colors when he saved you the other day from that
awful mob!”

“One for you, De Lacy,” cried Harry.

“Quite right,” answered the lieutenant, “but don’t mistake me. I
distinguish between a fellow and his clothes.”

“For my part,” said Kate, “I don’t care how a man is dressed; if I like
him, I like him should he appear in a blanket and feathers.”

“Don’t speak of it,” gasped the lieutenant.

“Do let’s talk of something else,” said Maimie, impatiently.

“Delighted, I am sure,” said De Lacy; “and that reminds me that madam
was thinking of a picnic down the river this week--just a small company,
you know. The man would drive her down and take the hamper and things,
and we would go down by boat. Awful pull back, though,” he added,
regretfully, “but if it should give any pleasure--delighted, you know,”
 bowing gallantly to the ladies.

“Delightful!” cried Maimie.

“And Ranald pulls splendidly,” said Kate.

Maimie looked at her, wondering how she knew that. “I don’t think Ranald
can get away every day. I’m sure he can’t; can he, Harry?” she said.

“No,” said Harry, “no more can I, worse luck! The governor is sticking
awfully close to work just now.”

“And, of course, you can’t be spared,” said Kate, mockingly. “But
couldn’t you both come later? We could wait tea for you.

“Might,” said Harry. “I shall make my best endeavor for your sake,”
 bowing toward Kate, “but I am doubtful about Ranald. Perhaps we’d better
not--”

“Why, certainly, old chap,” said the lieutenant, “what’s the matter?”

“Well, the fact is,” blurted out Harry, desperately, “I don’t want to
drag in Ranald. I like him awfully, but you may feel as if he were not
quite one of us. You know what I mean; your mother doesn’t know him.”

Harry felt extremely awkward knowing that he came perilously near to
suspecting the lieutenant of the most despicable snobbery.

“Why, certainly,” repeated the lieutenant. “That’s all right. Bring your
Glengarry man along if any one wants him.”

“I do,” said Kate, decidedly.

“Kismet,” replied the lieutenant. “It is decreed. The young man must
come, for I suspect he is very much ‘one of us.’” But of this the
lieutenant was not quite so certain by the time the day of the picnic
had arrived.



CHAPTER XIX

ONE GAME AT A TIME


The Glengarry men were on the Montreal boat leaving for home. Macdonald
Bhain’s farewell to his nephew was full of sadness, for he knew that
henceforth their ways would lie apart, and full of solemn warnings
against the dangers of the city where Ranald was now to be.

“It is a wicked place, and the pitfalls are many, and they are not in
the places where the eyes will be looking for them. Ye are taking the
way that will be leading you from us all, and I will not be keeping you
back, nor will I be laying any vows upon you. You will be a true
man, and you will keep the fear of God before your eyes, and you will
remember that a Macdonald never fails the man that trusts him.” And long
after the great man was gone his last words kept tugging at Ranald’s
heart: “Ranald, lad, remember us up yonder in the Indian Lands,” he
said, holding his hand with a grip that squeezed the bones together; “we
will be always thinking of you, and more than all, at the Bible class
and the meetings she will be asking for you and wondering how you are
doing, and by night and by day the door will be on the latch for your
coming; for, laddie, laddie, you are a son to me and more!” The break in
the big Macdonald’s voice took away from Ranald all power of speech, and
without a word of reply, he had to let his uncle go.

Yankee’s good by was characteristic. “Well, guess I’ll git along. Wish
you were comin’ back with us, but you’ve struck your gait, I guess, and
you’re goin’ to make quite a dust. Keep your wind till the last quarter;
that’s where the money’s lost. I ain’t ‘fraid of you; you’re green, but
they can’t break you. Keep your left eye on the suckers. There ain’t no
danger from the feller that rips and rares and gits up on his hind legs,
but the feller that sidles raound and sorter chums it up to you and
wants to pay fer your drinks, by Jings, kick him. And say,” Yankee’s
voice here grew low and impressive, “git some close. These here are all
right for the woods, but with them people close counts an awful lot.
It’s the man inside that wins, but the close is outside. Git ‘em and git
‘em good; none of your second-hand Jew outfits. It’ll cost, of course,
but--(here Yankee closed up to Ranald) but here’s a wad; ain’t no
pertickaler use to me.”

Then Ranald smote him in the chest and knocked him back against a lumber
pile.

“I know you,” he cried; “you would be giving me the coat off your back.
If I would be taking money from any man I’d take it from you, but let me
tell you I will have no money that I do not earn;” then, seeing Yankee’s
disappointed face, he added, “but indeed, I owe you for your help to
me--and--mi--mine, when help was needed sore, more than I can ever pay
back.” Then, as they shook hands, Ranald spoke again, and his voice was
none too steady. “And I have been thinking that I would like you to have
Lisette, for it may be a long time before I will be back again, and I
know you will be good to her; and if ever I need your help in this way,
I promise I will come to you.”

Yankee chewed his quid of tobacco hard and spat twice before he could
reply. Then he answered slowly: “Now look-ye-here, I’ll take that little
mare and look after her, but the mare’s yours and if--and if--which I
don’t think will happen--if you don’t come back soon, why--I will send
you her equivalent in cash; but I’d ruther see--I’d ruther see you come
back for it!”

It was with a very lonely heart that Ranald watched out of sight the
steamboat that carried to their homes in the Indian Lands the company
of men who had been his comrades for the long months in the woods and
on the river, and all the more that he was dimly realizing that this
widening blue strip of flowing river was separating him forever from the
life he so passionately loved. As his eyes followed them he thought of
the home-coming that he would have shared; their meetings at the church
door, the grave handshakings from the older folk, the saucy “horos” from
the half-grown boys, the shy blushing glances from the maidens, and last
and dearest of all, the glad, proud welcome in the sweet, serious face
with the gray-brown eyes. It was with the memory of that face in his
heart that he turned to meet what might be coming to him, with the
resolve that he would play the man.

“Hello, old chap, who’s dead?” It was Harry’s gay voice. “You look like
a tomb.” He put his arm through Ranald’s and walked with him up the
street.

“Where are you going now?” he asked, as Ranald walked along in silence.

“To get some clothes.”

“Thank the great powers!” ejaculated Harry to himself.

“What?”

“And where are you going to get them?”

“I do not know--some store, I suppose.” Ranald had the vaguest notions
not only of where he should go, but of the clothes in which he ought to
array himself, but he was not going to acknowledge this to his friend.

“You can’t get any clothes fit to wear in this town,” said Harry,
in high contempt. Ranald’s heart sank. “But come along, we will find
something.”

As they passed in front of the little French shops, with windows filled
inside and out with ready-made garments, Ranald paused to investigate.

“Oh! pshaw,” cried Harry, “don’t know what you’ll get here. We’ll find
something better than this cheap stuff,” and Ranald, glad enough of
guidance, though uncertain as to where it might lead him, followed
meekly.

“What sort of a suit do you want?” said Harry.

“I don’t know,” said Ranald, doubtfully. It had never occurred to him
that there could be any great difference in suits. There had never been
any choosing of suits with him.

“Like yours, I suppose,” he continued, glancing at Harry’s attire, but
adding, cautiously, “if they do not cost too much.”

“About forty dollars,” said Harry, lightly; then, noticing the dismayed
look on Ranald’s face, he added quickly, “but you don’t need to spend
that much, you know. I say, you let me manage this thing.” And
fortunate it was for Ranald that he had his friend’s assistance in this
all-important business, but it took all Harry’s judgment, skill, and
delicacy of handling to pilot his friend through the devious ways
of outfitters, for Ranald’s ignorance of all that pertained to a
gentleman’s wardrobe was equaled only by the sensitive pride on the
one hand that made him shrink from appearing poor and mean, and by his
Scotch caution on the other that forbade undue extravagance. It was
a hard hour and a half for them both, but when all was over, Ranald’s
gratitude more than repaid Harry for his pains.

“Come up to-night,” said Harry, as they stood at the door of the Hotel
du Nord, where Ranald had taken up his quarters.

“No,” said Ranald, abruptly, unconsciously glancing down at his rough
dress.

“Then I’ll come down here,” said Harry, noting the glance.

“I will be very glad,” replied Ranald, his face lighting up, for he was
more afraid than he cared to show of the lonely hours of that night. It
would be the first night in his life away from his own kin and friends.
But he was not so glad when, after tea, as he stood at the door of the
hotel, he saw sauntering toward him not only Harry, but also Lieutenant
De Lacy and his friend Mr. Sims.

“These fellows would come along,” explained Harry; “I told them you
didn’t want them.”

“Showed how little he knew,” said the lieutenant. “I told him you would
be delighted.”

“Will you come in?” said Ranald, rather grudgingly, “though there is
nothing much inside.”

“What a bear,” said Mr. Sims to Harry, disgustedly, in a low voice.

“Nothing much!” said the lieutenant, “a good deal I should say from what
one can hear.”

“Oh, that is nothing,” replied Ranald; “the boys are having some games.”

The bar-room was filled with men in shanty dress, some sitting with
chairs tipped back against the wall, smoking the black French “twist”
 tobacco; others drinking at the bar; and others still at the tables that
stood in one corner of the room playing cards with loud exclamations and
oaths of delight or disgust, according to their fortune. The lieutenant
pushed his way through the crowd, followed by the others.

“A jolly lot, by Jove!” he exclaimed, looking with mild interest on the
scene, “and with the offer of some sport, too,” he added, glancing at
the card-players in the corner, where men were losing their winter’s
wages.

“What will you take?” said Ranald, prompted by his Highland sense of
courtesy, “and would you have it in the next room?”

“Anywhere,” said the lieutenant, with alacrity; “a little brandy and
soda for me; nothing else in these places is worth drinking.”

Ranald gave the order, and with some degree of pride, noticed the
obsequious manner of the bar-tender toward him and his distinguished
guests. They passed into an inner and smaller room, lit by two or three
smoky lamps in brackets on the walls. In this room, sitting at one
of the tables, were two Frenchmen playing ecarte. As the lieutenant
entered, one of them glanced up and uttered an exclamation of
recognition.

“Ah, it is our warlike friend,” cried De Lacy, recognizing him in
return; “you play this game also,” he continued in French.

“Not moche,” said LeNoir, for it was he, with a grand salute. “Will the
capitaine join, and his friends?”

Ranald shook his head and refused.

“Come along,” said the lieutenant, eagerly, to Ranald. The game was his
passion. “Mr. Sims, you will; Harry, what do you say?”

“I will look on with Ranald.”

“Oh, come in Macdonald,” said the lieutenant, “the more the better, and
we’ll make it poker. You know the game?” he said, turning to LeNoir;
“and your friend--I have not the pleasure--”

“Mr. Rouleau,” said Ranald and LeNoir together, presenting the young
Frenchman who spoke and looked like a gentleman.

“Do you play the game?” said the lieutenant.

“A verie leetle, but I can learn him.”

“That’s right,” cried the lieutenant, approvingly.

“What do you say, Ranald,” said Harry, who also loved the game.

“No,” said Ranald, shortly, “I never play for money.”

“Make it pennies,” said Mr. Sims, with a slight laugh.

“Go on, De Lacy,” said Harry, angry at Mr. Sims’s tone. “You’ve got
four--that’ll do!”

“Oh, very well,” said De Lacy, his easy, languid air returning to him.
“What shall it be--quarter chips with a dollar limit? Brandy and soda,
Mr. LeNoir? And you, Mr. Rouleau? Two more glasses, garcon,” and the
game began.

From the outset Rouleau steadily won till his chips were piled high in
front of him.

“You play the game well,” said the lieutenant. “Shall we raise the
limit?”

“As you lak,” said Rouleau, with a polite bow.

“Let’s make it five dollars,” suggested Mr. Sims, to which all agreed.

But still the game was Rouleau’s, who grew more and more excited with
every win. The lieutenant played coolly, and with seeming indifference,
in which he was imitated by Mr. Sims, the loss of a few dollars being a
matter of small moment to either.

“It would make it more interesting if we made it a dollar to play,” at
length said Mr. Sims. The suggestion was accepted, and the game went
on. At once the luck began to turn, and in a half hour’s play Rouleau’s
winnings disappeared and passed over to the lieutenant’s hand. In
spite of his bad luck, however, Rouleau continued to bet eagerly and
recklessly, until Ranald, who hated to see the young lumberman losing
his season’s wages, suggested that the game come to an end.

“The night is early,” said the lieutenant, “but if you have had enough,”
 he said, bowing to LeNoir and Rouleau.

“Non!” exclaimed Rouleau, “the fortune will to me encore. We mak it de
two-dollar to play. Dat will brak de luck.”

“I think you ought to stop it,” said Harry.

But the demon of play had taken full possession of both Rouleau and the
lieutenant and they were not to be denied. Rouleau took from his pocket
a roll of bills and counted them.

“Fifty dollars,” he cried. “Bon! I play him, me!”

The others deposited a like sum before them, and the game proceeded.
The deal was De Lacy’s. After a few moment’s consideration, Mr. Sims and
LeNoir each drew three cards. In a tone of triumph which he could not
altogether suppress, Rouleau exclaimed “Dees are good enough for me.”
 The lieutenant drew one card, and the betting began.

Twice Rouleau, when it came to his turn, bet the limit, the others
contenting themselves by “raising” one dollar. On the third round
LeNoir, remarking, “Das leetle too queek for me,” dropped out.

Once more Rouleau raised the bet to the limit, when Mr. Sims refused,
and left the game to him and the lieutenant. There was no mistaking
the eager triumph in the Frenchman’s pale face. He began to bet more
cautiously, his only fear being that his opponent would “call” too
soon. Dollar by dollar the bet was raised till at last Rouleau joyously
gathered his last chips, raised the bet once more by the limit,
exclaiming, as he did so, “Alas! dere ees no more!”

He had played his season’s wages that night, but now he would recover
all.

De Lacy, whose coolness was undisturbed, though his face showed signs of
his many brandy-and-sodas, covered the bet.

“Hola!” exclaimed Rouleau in triumph. “Eet ees to me!” He threw down his
cards and reached for the pile.

“Excuse me,” said the lieutenant, quietly looking at Rouleau’s cards.
“Ah, a straight flush, queen high.” Coolly he laid his cards on the
table. “Thought you might have had the ace,” he said, languidly, leaning
back in his chair. He, too, held a straight flush, but with the king.

Rouleau gazed thunderstruck.

“Mort Dieu!” he exclaimed, excitedly. “The deal was from you.”

“Mine,” said De Lacy, quietly, looking up at the excited Frenchman.

“Ah,” cried Rouleau, beside himself. “It is--what you call? One cheat!
cheat!”

The lieutenant sat up straight in his chair.

“Do you mean that I cheated you?” he said, with slow emphasis. “Beware
what you say.”

“Oui!” cried the Frenchman; “sacr-r-re--so I mean!”

Before the words had well left his lips, and before any one could
interfere De Lacy shot out his arm, lifted the Frenchman clear off his
feet, and hurled him to the floor.

“Stop! you coward!” Ranald stood before the lieutenant with eyes blazing
and breath coming quick.

“Coward?” said De Lacy, slowly.

“You hit a man unprepared.”

“You are prepared, I suppose,” replied De Lacy, deliberately.

“Yes! Yes!” cried Ranald, eagerly, the glad light of battle coming into
his eyes.

“Good,” said De Lacy, slowly putting back his chair, and proceeding to
remove his coat.

“Glengarry!” cried LeNoir, raising the battle cry he had cause to
remember so well; and flinging off his coat upon the floor, he patted
Ranald on the back, yelling, “Go in, bully boy!”

“Shut the door, LeNoir,” said Ranald, quickly, “and keep it shut.”

“De Lacy,” cried Harry, “this must not go on! Ranald, think what you are
doing!”

“You didn’t notice his remark, apparently, St. Clair,” said the
lieutenant, calmly.

“Never mind,” cried Harry, “he was excited, and anyway the thing must
end here.”

“There is only one way. Does he retract?” said De Lacy, quietly.

“Ranald,” Harry cried, beseechingly, “you know he is no coward; you did
not mean that.”

By this time Ranald had himself in hand.

“No,” he said, regretfully, forcing himself to speak the truth. “I know
he is no coward; I have seen him where no coward would be, but,” he
added, “he struck a man unguarded, and that was a coward’s blow.”

“Macdonald,” said De Lacy deliberately, “you are right. True, he called
me a cheat, but I should have given him time. Still,” he added, rolling
up his sleeves, “I hope you will not deprive yourself or me of the
privilege of settling this little business.”

“I will be glad,” said Ranald, his eyes once more lighting up. “Very
glad indeed, if you wish.”

“Nonsense,” cried Harry, passionately, “I tell you I will not have it.
He has given you ample apology, De Lacy; and you, Ranald, I thought a
Macdonald never fought except for sufficient cause!” Harry remembered
the fighting rule of the Macdonald gang.

“That is true,” said Ranald, gravely, “but it was a cruel blow,”
 pointing to Rouleau, who, supported by LeNoir, was sitting on a chair,
his face badly cut and bleeding, “and that, too, after taking from him
the wages of six months in the bush!”

“I suppose you admit the game was fair,” said the lieutenant, moving
nearer to Ranald, the threat in his tone evident to all.

“The game was fair,” said Ranald, facing De Lacy, “but I will say the
lad was no fair match for you!”

“He chose to risk his money, which you were not willing to do.” De Lacy
felt that he was being put in an unpleasant light and was determined to
anger Ranald beyond control. Ranald caught the sneer.

“If I did not play,” he cried, hotly, “it was for no fear of you or any
of you. It was no man’s game whatever,” he continued, contemptuously.

“Now, De Lacy,” cried Harry, again, “let this stop. The man who fights
will first fight me!”

“Perhaps Mr. Macdonald would show us how the game should be played,”
 said Mr. Sims, coming as near to a sneer as he dared.

“It would not be hard to show you this game,” said Ranald, ignoring Mr.
Sims, and looking the lieutenant in the eyes, “or perhaps the other!”

“Good!” cried Harry, gladly seizing the opportunity of averting a fight.
“The game! Take your places, gentlemen!”

The lieutenant hesitated for a moment, as if uncertain what to do. Then,
with a slight laugh, he said, “Very well, one thing at a time, the other
can wait.”

“Come on!” cried Harry, “who goes in? LeNoir, you?”

LeNoir looked at Ranald.

“What you say?”

“No,” said Ranald, shortly, “this is my game!” With that he turned
aside from the table and spoke a few words in a low tone to LeNoir,
who assisted Rouleau from the room, and after some minutes’ absence,
returned with a little linen bag. Ranald took the bag and began to count
out some money upon the table before him.

“I will play to one hundred dollars,” he said.

The lieutenant and Mr. Sims each laid the same amount before them upon
the table.

“I have not so much on me,” said Harry, “but perhaps my I. O. U. will
do.”

“What shall we say,” said Mr. Sims, “a dollar to play and five dollars
limit?”

“Say five and twenty-five,” said De Lacy, who was commanding himself
with a great effort.

“Is that too high?” said Harry, looking toward Ranald.

“No,” said Ranald, “the higher the better.”

It was soon evident that Ranald knew the game. He had learned it during
the long winter nights in the shanty from Yankee, who was a master at
it, and he played it warily and with iron nerve. He seemed to know as
by instinct when to retreat and when to pursue; and he played with the
single purpose of bleeding the lieutenant dry. Often did he refuse to
take toll of Harry or Mr. Sims when opportunity offered, but never once
did he allow the lieutenant to escape.

“You flatter me,” said the lieutenant, sarcastically, as Ranald’s
purpose became increasingly clear.

“I will have from you all you have won,” replied Ranald, in a tone of
such settled resolve that it seemed as if nothing could prevent the
accomplishment of his purpose. In vain the lieutenant sought to brace
his nerves with his brandy-and-sodas. He played now recklessly and again
with over-caution, while Ranald, taking advantage of every slip and
every sign of weakness, followed him with relentless determination.

With such stakes the game was soon over. It was not long before the
lieutenant was stripped of his hundred, while Harry and Mr. Sims had
each lost smaller amounts.

“You will try another hundred?” said the lieutenant, burning to get
revenge.

Without a word Ranald laid down his hundred; the others did likewise,
and once more the game proceeded. There was no change in Ranald’s play.
Thorough knowledge of the game, absolute self-command, an instinctive
reading of his opponent’s mind, and unswerving purpose soon brought
about the only result possible. The lieutenant’s second hundred with a
part of Harry’s and Mr. Sims’s passed into Ranald’s possession.

Again De Lacy challenged to play.

“No,” said Ranald, “I have done.” He put back into his linen bag his one
hundred dollars, counted out two hundred, and gave it to LeNoir, saying:
“That is Rouleau’s,” and threw the rest upon the table. “I want no man’s
money,” he said, “that I do not earn.”

The lieutenant sprang to his feet.

“Hold!” he cried, “you forget, there is something else!”

“No,” said Ranald, as Harry and Mr. Sims put themselves in De Lacy’s
way, “there is nothing else to-night; another day, and any day you wish,
you can have the other game,” and with that he passed out of the room.



CHAPTER XX

HER CLINGING ARMS


The ancient capital of Canada--the old gray queen of the mighty St.
Lawrence--is a city of many charms and of much stately beauty. Its
narrow, climbing streets, with their quaint shops and curious gables,
its old market, with chaffering habitant farmers and their wives,
are full of living interest. Its noble rock, crowned with the ancient
citadel, and its sweeping tidal river, lend it a dignity and majestic
beauty that no other city knows; and everywhere about its citadel and
walls, and venerable, sacred buildings, there still linger the romance
and chivalry of heroic days long gone. But there are times when neither
the interests of the living present nor the charms of the romantic past
can avail, and so a shadow lay upon Maimie’s beautiful face as she sat
in the parlor of the Hotel de Cheval Blanc, looking out upon the mighty
streets and the huddled roofs of the lower town. She held in her hand an
open note.

“It is just awfully stupid,” she grumbled, “and I think pretty mean of
him!”

“Of whom, may I ask?” said Kate, pausing in her singing, “or is there
any need? What says the gallant lieutenant?”

Maimie tossed her the note.

“The picnic is postponed. Well, of course the rain told us that; and he
is unavoidably prevented from calling, and entreats your sympathy and
commiseration. Well, that’s a very nice note, I am sure.”

“Where has he been these three days! He might have known it would be
stupid, and Harry gives one no satisfaction.” Maimie was undeniably
cross. “And Ranald, too,” she went on, “where has he been? Not even your
music could bring him!” with a little spice of spite. “I think men are
just horrid, anyway.”

“Especially when they will keep away,” said Kate.

“Well, what are they good for if not to entertain us? I wish we could do
without them! But I do think Ranald might have come.”

“Well,” said Kate, emphatically, “I can’t see why you should expect
him.”

“Why not?”

“I think you ought to know.”

“I, how should I know?” Maimie’s innocent blue eyes were wide open with
surprise.

“Nonsense,” cried Kate, with impatience rare in her, “don’t be absurd,
Maimie; I am not a child.”

“What do YOU mean?”

“You needn’t tell me you don’t know why Ranald comes. Do you want him to
come?”

“Why, of course I do; how silly you are.”

“Well,” said Kate, deliberately, “I would rather be silly than cruel and
unkind.”

“Why, Kate, how dreadful of you!” exclaimed Maimie; “‘cruel and
unkind!’”

“Yes.” said Kate; “you are not treating Ranald well. You should not
encourage him to--to--care for you when you do not mean to--to--go on
with it.”

“Oh, what nonsense; Ranald is not a baby; he will not take any hurt.”

“Oh, Maimie,” said Kate, and her voice was low and earnest, “Ranald is
not like other men. He does not understand things. He loves you and he
will love you more every day if you let him. Why don’t you let him go?”

“Let him go!” cried Maimie, “who’s keeping him?” But as she spoke the
flush in her cheek and the warm light in her eye told more clearly than
words that she did not mean to let him go just then.

“You are,” said Kate, “and you are making him love you.”

“Why, how silly you are,” cried Maimie; “of course he likes me, but--”

“No, Maimie,” said Kate, with sad earnestness, “he loves you; you can
see it in the way he looks at you; in his voice when he speaks and--oh,
you shouldn’t let him unless you mean to--to--go on. Send him right
away!” There were tears in Kate’s dark eyes.

“Why, Katie,” cried Maimie, looking at her curiously, “what difference
does it make to you? And besides, how can I send him away? I just treat
him as I do Mr. De Lacy.”

“De Lacy!” cried Kate, indignantly. “De Lacy can look after himself, but
Ranald is different. He is so serious and--and so honest, and he means
just what he says, and you are so nice to him, and you look at him in
such a way!”

“Why, Kate, do you mean that I try to--” Maimie was righteously
indignant.

“You perhaps don’t know,” continued Kate, “but you can’t help being
fascinating to men; you know you are, and Ranald believes you so,
and--and you ought to be quite straightforward with him!” Poor Kate
could no longer command her voice.

“There, now,” said Maimie, caressing her friend, not unpleased with
Kate’s description of her; “I’m going to be good. I will just be horrid
to both of them, and they’ll go away! But, oh, dear, things are all
wrong! Poor Ranald,” she said to herself, “I wonder if he will come to
the picnic on Saturday?”

Kate looked at her friend a moment and wiped away her tears.

“Indeed I hope he will not,” she said, indignantly, “for I know you mean
to just lead him on. I have a mind to tell him.”

“Tell him what?” said Maimie, smiling.

“Just what you mean to do.”

“I wish you would tell me that.”

“Now I tell you, Maimie,” said Kate, “if you go on with Ranald so any
longer I will just tell him you are playing with him.”

“Do,” said Maimie, scornfully, “and be careful to make clear to him at
the same time that you are speaking solely in his interest!”

Kate’s face flushed red at the insinuation, and then grew pale. She
stood for some time looking in silence at her friend, and then with a
proud flash of her dark eyes, she swept from the room without a word,
nor did Maimie see her again that afternoon, though she stood outside
her door entreating with tears to be forgiven. Poor Kate! Maimie’s shaft
had gone too near a vital spot, and the wound amazed and terrified her.
Was it for Ranald’s sake alone she cared? Yes, surely it was. Then why
this sharp new pain under the hand pressing hard upon her heart?

Oh, what did that mean? She put her face in her pillow to hide the red
that she knew was flaming in her cheeks, and for a few moments gave
herself up to the joy that was flooding her whole heart and soul and all
her tingling veins. Oh, how happy she was. For long she had heard of the
Glengarry lad from Maimie and more from Harry till there had grown up
in her heart a warm, admiring interest. And now she had come to know him
for herself! How little after all had they told her of him. What a man
he was! How strong and how fearless! How true-hearted and how his eyes
could fill with love! She started up. Love? Love? Ah, where was her joy!
How chill the day had grown and how hateful the sunlight on the river.
She drew down the blind and threw herself once more upon the bed,
shivering and sick with pain--the bitterest that heart can know. Once
more she started up.

“She is not worthy of him!” she exclaimed, aloud; “her heart is not deep
enough; she does not, cannot love him, and oh, if some one would only
let him know!”

She would tell him herself. No! No! Maimie’s sharp arrow was quivering
still in her heart. Once more she threw herself upon the bed. How could
she bear this that had stricken her? She would go home. She would go to
her mother to-morrow. Go away forever from--ah--could she? No, anything
but that! She could not go away.

Over the broad river the warm sunlight lay with kindly glow, and the
world was full of the soft, sweet air of spring, and the songs of mating
birds; but the hours passed, and over the river the shadows began to
creep, and the whole world grew dark, and the songs of the birds were
hushed to silence. Then, from her room, Kate came down with face serene,
and but for the eyes that somehow made one think of tears, without a
sign of the storm that had swept her soul. She did not go home. She was
too brave for that. She would stay and fight her battle to the end.

That was a dreary week for Ranald. He was lonely and heartsick for the
woods and for his home and friends, but chiefly was he oppressed with
the sense of having played the fool in his quarrel with De Lacy, whom he
was beginning to admire and like. He surely might have avoided that; and
yet whenever he thought of the game that had swept away from Rouleau all
his winter’s earnings, and of the cruel blow that had followed, he felt
his muscles stiffen and his teeth set tight in rage. No, he would do it
all again, nor would he retreat one single step from the position he had
taken, but would see his quarrel through to the end. But worst of all
he had not seen Maimie all the week. His experience with Harry in the
ordering of his suit had taught him the importance of clothes, and he
now understood as he could not before, Maimie’s manner to him. “That
would be it,” he said to himself, “and no wonder. What would she do with
a great, coarse tyke like me!” Then, in spite of all his loyalty,
he could not help contrasting with Maimie’s uncertain and doubtful
treatment of him, the warm, frank friendliness of Kate. “SHE did not
mind my clothes,” he thought, with a glow of gratitude, but sharply
checking himself, he added, “but why should she care?” It rather pleased
him to think that Maimie cared enough to feel embarrassed at his rough
dress. So he kept away from the Hotel de Cheval Blanc till his new
suit should be ready. It was not because of his dress, however, that he
steadily refused Harry’s invitation to the picnic.

“No, I will not go,” he said, with blunt decision, after listening to
Harry’s pleading. “It is Lieutenant De Lacy’s picnic, and I will have
nothing to do with him, and indeed he will not be wanting me!”

“Oh, he’s forgotten all about that little affair,” cried Harry.

“Has he? Indeed then if he is a man he has not!”

“I guess he hasn’t remembered much of anything for the last week,” said
Harry, with a slight laugh.

“Why not?”

“Oh, pshaw, he’s been on a big tear. He only sobered up yesterday.”

“Huh!” grunted Ranald, contemptuously. He had little respect for a man
who did not know when he had had enough. “What about his job?” he asked.

“His job? Oh, I see. His job doesn’t worry him much. He’s absent on
sick-leave. But he’s all fit again and I know he will be disappointed if
you do not come to-morrow.”

“I will not go,” said Ranald, with final decision, “and you can tell him
so, and you can tell him why.”

And Harry did tell him with considerable fullness and emphasis not only
of Ranald’s decision, but also Ranald’s opinion of him, for he felt that
it would do that lordly young man no harm to know that a man whom he was
inclined to patronize held him in contempt and for cause. The lieutenant
listened for a time to all Harry had to say with apparent indifference,
then suddenly interrupting him, he said: “Oh, I say, old chap,
I wouldn’t rub it in if I were you. I have a more or less vague
remembrance of having rather indulged in heroics. One can’t keep his
head with poker and unlimited brandy-and-sodas; they don’t go together.
It’s a thing I almost never do; never in a big game, but the thing got
interesting before I knew. But I say, that Glengarry chap plays a mighty
good game. Must get him on again. Feels hot, eh? I will make that all
right, and what’s the French chap’s name--Boileau, Rondeau, eh? Rouleau.
Yes, and where could one see him?”

“I can find out from LeNoir, who will be somewhere near Ranald. You
can’t get him away from him.”

“Well, do,” said the lieutenant, lazily. “Bring LeNoir to see me. I owe
that Rouleau chap an apology. Beastly business! And I’ll fix it up with
Macdonald. He has the right of it, by Jove! Rather lucky, I fancy, he
didn’t yield to my solicitations for a try at the other game--from what
I remember of the street riot, eh? Would not mind having a go with him
with the gloves, though. I will see him to-morrow morning. Keep your
mind at rest.”

Next morning when LeNoir came to his work he was full of the
lieutenant’s praises to Ranald.

“Das fine feller le Capitaine, eh? Das de Grand Seigneur for sure! He’s
mak eet all right wit Rouleau! He’s pay de cash money and he’s mak eet
de good posish for him, an’ set him up the champagne, too, by gar!”

“Huh,” grunted Ranald. “Run that crib around the boom there LeNoir;
break it up and keep your gang moving to-day!”

“Bon!” said LeNoir, with alacrity. “I give ‘em de big move, me!”

But however unwilling Ranald was to listen to LeNoir singing the
lieutenant’s praises, when he met Harry at noon in the office he was
even more enthusiastic than LeNoir in his admiration of De Lacy.

“I never saw the likes of him,” he said. “He could bring the birds out
of the trees with that tongue of his. Indeed, I could not have done what
he did whatever. Man, but he is a gentleman!”

“And are you going this evening?”

“That I am,” said Ranald. “What else could I do? I could not help
myself; he made me feel that mean that I was ready to do anything.”

“All right,” said Harry, delighted, “I will take my canoe around for you
after six.”

“And,” continued Ranald, with a little hesitation, “he told me he would
be wearing a jersey and duck trousers, and I think that was very fine of
him.”

“Why, of course,” said Harry, quite mystified, “what else would he
wear?”

Ranald looked at him curiously for a moment, and said: “A swallow-tail,
perhaps, or a blanket, maybe,” and he turned away leaving Harry more
mystified than ever.

Soon after six, Harry paddled around in his canoe, and gave the stern to
Ranald. What a joy it was to him to be in a canoe stern again; to feel
the rush of the water under his knees; to have her glide swiftly on her
soundless way down the full-bosomed, sunbathed river; to see her put her
nose into the little waves and gently, smoothly push them asunder with
never a splash or swerve; to send her along straight and true as an
arrow in its flight, and then flip! flip to swing her off a floating
log or around an awkward boat lumbering with clumsy oars. That was to be
alive again. Oh, the joy of it! Of all things that move to the will of
man there is none like the canoe. It alone has the sweet, smooth glide,
the swift, silent dart answering the paddle sweep; the quick swerve
in response to the turn of the wrist. Ranald felt as if he could have
gladly paddled on right out to the open sea; but sweeping around a bend
a long, clear call hailed them, and there, far down at the bottom of a
little bay, at the foot of the big, scarred, and wrinkled rock the smoke
and glimmer of the camp-fire could be seen. A flip of the stern paddle,
and the canoe pointed for the waving figure, and under the rhythmic
sweep of the paddles, sped like an arrow down the waters, sloping to the
shore. There, on a great rock, stood Kate, directing their course.

“Here’s a good landing,” she cried. Right at the rock dashed the canoe
at full speed. A moment more and her dainty nose would be battered out
of all shape on the cruel rock, but a strong back stroke, a turn of the
wrist, flip, and she lay floating quietly beside the rock.

“Splendid!” cried Kate.

“Well done, by Jove!” exclaimed the lieutenant, who was himself an
expert with the paddle.

“I suppose you have no idea how fine you look,” cried Kate.

“And I am quite sure,” answered Harry, “you have no suspicion of what
a beautiful picture you all make.” And a beautiful picture it was: the
great rocky cliff in the background, tricked out in its new spring green
of moss and shrub and tree; the grassy plot at its foot where a little
stream gurgled out from the rock; the blazing camp-fire with the little
group about it; and in front the sunlit river. How happy they all were!
And how ready to please and to be pleased. Even little Mr. Sims had his
charm. And at the making of the tea, which Kate had taken in charge with
Ranald superintending, what fun there was with burning of fingers
and upsetting of kettles! And then, the talk and the laughter at the
lieutenant’s brilliant jokes, and the chaffing of the “lumbermen” over
their voracious appetites! It was an hour of never-to-be-forgotten
pleasure. They were all children again, and with children’s hearts were
happy in childhood’s simple joys. And why not? There are no joys purer
than those of the open air; of grass and trees flooded with the warm
light and sweet scents of the soft springtime. Too soon it all came
to an end, and then they set off to convoy the stately old lady to her
carriage at the top of the cliff. Far in front went Kate, disdaining
the assistance of Harry and Mr. Sims, who escorted her. Near at hand
the lieutenant was in attendance upon Maimie, who seemed to need his
constant assistance; for the way was rough, and there were so many
jutting points of rock for wonderful views, and often the very prettiest
plants were just out of reach. Last of all came Madame De Lacy, climbing
the steep path with difficulty and holding fast to Ranald’s arm. With
charming grace she discoursed of the brave days of old in which her
ancestors had played a worthy part. An interesting tale it was, but in
spite of all her charm of speech, and grace of manner, Ranald could not
keep his mind from following his heart and eyes that noted every step
and move of the beautiful girl, flitting in and out among the trees
before them. And well it was that his eyes were following so close; for,
as she was reaching for a dainty spray of golden birch, holding by the
lieutenant’s hand, the treacherous moss slipped from under Maimie’s
feet, and with a piercing shriek she went rolling down the sloping
mountain-side, dragging her escort with her. Like a flash of light
Ranald dropped madame’s arm, and seizing the top of a tall birch that
grew up from the lower ledge, with a trick learned as a boy in the
Glengarry woods, he swung himself clear over the edge, and dropping
lightly on the mossy bank below, threw himself in front of the rolling
bodies, and seizing them held fast. In another moment leaving the
lieutenant to shift for himself, Ranald was on his knees beside Maimie,
who lay upon the moss, white and still. “Some water, for God’s sake!”
 he cried, hoarsely, to De Lacy, who stood dazed beside him, and then,
before the lieutenant could move, Ranald lifted Maimie in his arms, as
if she had been an infant, and bore her down to the river’s edge, and
laid her on the grassy bank. Then, taking up a double handful of water,
he dashed it in her face. With a little sigh she opened her eyes, and
letting them rest upon his face, said, gently, “Oh, Ranald, I am so glad
you--I am so sorry I have been so bad to you.” She could say no more,
but from her closed eyes two great tears made their way down her pale
cheeks.

“Oh, Maimie, Maimie,” said Ranald, in a broken voice, “tell me you are
not hurt.”

Again she opened her eyes and said, “No, I am not hurt, but you will
take me home; you will not leave me!” Her fingers closed upon his hand.

With a quick, strong clasp, he replied: “I will not leave you.”

In a few minutes she was able to sit up, and soon they were all about
her, exclaiming and lamenting.

“What a silly girl I am,” she said, with a little tremulous laugh, “and
what a fright I must have given you all!”

“Don’t rise, my dear,” said Madame De Lacy, “until you feel quite
strong.”

“Oh, I am quite right,” said Maimie, confidently; “I am sure I am not
hurt in the least.”

“Oh, I am so thankful!” cried Kate.

“It is the Lord’s mercy,” said Ranald, in a voice of deep emotion.

“Are you quite sure you are not hurt?” said Harry, anxiously.

“Yes, I really think I am all right, but what a fright I must look!”

“Thank God!” said Harry fervently; “I guess you’re improving,” at which
they all laughed.

“Now I think we must get home,” said Madame De Lacy. “Do you think you
can walk, Maimie?”

“Oh, yes,” cried Maimie, and taking Ranald’s hand, she tried to stand
up, but immediately sank back with a groan.

“Oh, it is my foot,” she said, “I am afraid it is hurt.”

“Let me see!” cried Harry. “I don’t think it is broken,” he said, after
feeling it carefully, “but I have no doubt it is a very bad sprain. You
can’t walk for certain.”

“Then we shall have to carry her,” said Madame De Lacy, and she turned
to her son.

“I fear I can offer no assistance,” said the lieutenant, pointing to his
arm which was hanging limp at his side.

“Why, Albert, are you hurt? What is the matter? You are hurt!” cried his
mother, anxiously.

“Not much, but I fear my arm is useless. You might feel it,” he said to
Ranald.

Carefully Ranald passed his hand down the arm.

“Say nothing,” whispered the lieutenant to him. “It’s broken. Tie it up
some way.” Without a word Ranald stripped the bark of a birch tree,
and making a case, laid the arm in it and bound it firmly with his silk
handkerchief.

“We ought to have a sling,” he said, turning to Kate.

“Here,” said Madame De Lacy, untying a lace scarf from her neck, “take
this.”

Kate took the scarf, and while Ranald held the arm in place she deftly
made it into a sling.

“There,” said the lieutenant, “that feels quite comfortable. Now let’s
go.”

“Come, Maimie, I’ll carry you up the hill,” said Harry.

“No,” said Ranald, decidedly, “she will go in the canoe. That will be
easier.”

“Quite right,” said the lieutenant. “Sims, perhaps you will give my
mother your arm, and if Miss Kate will be kind enough to escort me, we
can all four go in the carriage; but first we shall see the rest of the
party safely off.”

“Come, then, Maimie,” said Harry, approaching his sister; “let me carry
you.”

But Maimie glanced up at Ranald, who without a word, lifted her in his
arms.

“Put your arm about his neck, Maimie,” cried Harry, “you will go more
comfortably that way. Ranald won’t mind,” he added, with a laugh.

At the touch of her clinging arms the blood mounted slowly into Ranald’s
neck and face, showing red through the dark tan of his skin.

“How strong you are,” said Maimie, softly, “and how easily you carry me.
But you would soon tire of me,” she added with a little laugh.

“I would not tire forever,” said Ranald, as he laid her gently down in
the canoe.

“I shall send the carriage to the wharf for you,” said Madame De Lacy,
“and you will come right home to me, and you, too, Miss Raymond.”

Ranald took his place in the stern with Maimie reclining in the canoe so
as to face him.

“You are sure you are comfortable,” he said, with anxious solicitude in
his tone.

“Quite,” she replied, with a cosy little snuggle down among the cushions
placed around her.

“Then let her go,” cried Ranald, dipping in his paddle.

“Good by,” cried Kate, waving her hand at them from the rock. “We’ll
meet you at the wharf. Take good care of your invalid, Ranald.”

With hardly a glance at her Ranald replied: “You may be sure of that,”
 and with a long, swinging stroke shot the canoe out into the river. For
a moment or two Kate stood looking after them, and then, with a weary
look in her face, turned, and with the lieutenant, followed Madame De
Lacy and Mr. Sims.

“You are tired,” said the lieutenant, looking into her face.

“Yes,” she replied, with a little sigh, “I think I am tired.”

The paddle home was all too short to Ranald, but whether it took minutes
or hours he could not have told. As in a dream he swung his paddle and
guided his canoe. He saw only the beautiful face and the warm light
in the bright eyes before him. He woke to see Kate on the wharf before
them, and for a moment he wondered how she came there. Once more, as he
bore her from the canoe to the carriage, he felt Maimie’s arms clinging
about his neck and heard her whisper, “You will not leave me, Ranald,”
 and again he replied, “No, I will not leave you.”

Swiftly the De Lacy carriage bore them through the crooked, climbing
streets of the city and out along the country road, then up a stately
avenue of beeches, and drew up before the stone steps, of a noble old
chateau. Once more Ranald lifted Maimie in his arms and carried her up
the broad steps, and through the great oak-paneled hall into Madame De
Lacy’s own cosy sitting-room, and there he laid her safely in a snug
nest of cushions prepared for her. There was nothing more to do, but to
say good by and come away, but it was Harry that first brought this to
Ranald’s mind.

“Good by, Ranald,” said Maimie, smiling up into his face. “I cannot
thank you for all you have done to-day, but I am sure Madame De Lacy
will let you come to see me sometimes.”

“I shall be always glad to see you,” said the little lady, with gentle,
old-fashioned courtesy, “for we both owe much to you this day.”

“Thank you,” said Ranald, quietly, “I will come,” and passed out of the
room, followed by Harry and Kate.

At the great hall door, Kate stood and watched them drive away, waving
her hand in farewell.

“Good by,” cried Harry, “don’t forget us in your stately palace,” but
Ranald made no reply. He had no thought for her. But still she stood and
watched the carriage till the beeches hid it from her view, and then,
with her hand pressed against her side, she turned slowly into the hall.

As the carriage rolled down the stately avenue, Ranald sat absorbed in
deepest thought, heeding not his companion’s talk.

“What’s the matter with you, Ranald? What are you thinking of?” at last
cried Harry, impatiently.

“What?” answered Ranald, in strange confusion, “I cannot tell you.”
 Unconsciously as he spoke he put up his hand to his neck, for he was
still feeling the pressure of those clinging arms, and all the way back
the sounds of the rolling wheels and noisy, rattling streets wrought
themselves into one sweet refrain, “You will not leave me, Ranald,” and
often in his heart he answered, “No, I will not,” with such a look on
his face as men wear when pledging life and honor.



CHAPTER XXI

I WILL REMEMBER


The Albert was by all odds the exclusive club in the capital city of
upper Canada, for men were loath to drop the old name. Its members
belonged to the best families, and moved in the highest circles, and the
entre was guarded by a committee of exceeding vigilance. They had a very
real appreciation of the rights and privileges of their order, and they
cherished for all who assayed to enter the most lofty ideal. Not wealth
alone could purchase entrance within those sacred precincts unless,
indeed, it were of sufficient magnitude and distributed with judicious
and unvulgar generosity. A tinge of blue in the common red blood of
humanity commanded the most favorable consideration, but when there was
neither cerulean tinge of blood nor gilding of station the candidate for
membership in the Albert was deemed unutterable in his presumption, and
rejection absolute and final was inevitable. A single black ball shut
him out. So it came as a surprise to most outsiders, though not to
Ranald himself, when that young gentleman’s name appeared in the list of
accepted members in the Albert. He had been put up by both Raymond and
St. Clair, but not even the powerful influence of these sponsors would
have availed with the members had it not come to be known that young
Macdonald was a friend of Captain De Lacy’s of Quebec, don’t you
know! and a sport, begad, of the first water; for the Alberts favored
athletics, and loved a true sport almost as much as they loved a lord.
They never regretted their generous concession in this instance, for
during the three years of his membership, it was the Glengarry Macdonald
that had brought glory to their club more than any half dozen of their
other champions. In their finals with the Montrealers two years ago,
it was he, the prince of all Canadian half-backs, as every one
acknowledged, who had snatched victory from the exultant enemy in the
last quarter of an hour. Then, too, they had never ceased to be grateful
for the way in which he had delivered the name of their club from
the reproach cast upon it by the challenge long flaunted before their
aristocratic noses by the cads of the Athletic, when he knocked out in
a bout with the gloves, the chosen representative of that ill-favored
club--a professional, too, by Jove, as it leaked out later.

True, there were those who thought him too particular, and undoubtedly
he had peculiar ideas. He never drank, never played for money, and he
never had occasion to use words in the presence of men that would be
impossible before their mothers and sisters; and there was a quaint,
old-time chivalry about him that made him a friend of the weak and
helpless, and the champion of women, not only of those whose sheltered
lives had kept them fair and pure, but of those others as well, sad-eyed
and soul-stained, the cruel sport of lustful men. For his open scorn of
their callous lust some hated him, but all with true men’s hearts loved
him.

The club-rooms were filling up; the various games were in full swing.

“Hello, little Merrill!” Young Merrill looked up from his billiards.

“Glengarry, by all the gods!” throwing down his cue, and rushing at
Ranald. “Where in this lonely universe have you been these many months,
and how are you, old chap?” Merrill was excited.

“All right, Merrill?” inquired the deep voice.

“Right, so help me--” exclaimed Merrill, solemnly, lifting up his hand.
“He’s inquiring after my morals,” he explained to the men who were
crowding about; “and I don’t give a blank blank who knows it,” continued
little Merrill, warmly, “my present magnificent manhood,” smiting
himself on the breast, “I owe to that same dear old solemnity there,”
 pointing to Ranald.

“Shut up, Merrill, or I’ll spank you,” said Ranald.

“You will, eh?” cried Merrill, looking at him. “Look at him vaunting his
beastly fitness over the frail and weak. I say, men, did you ever behold
such condition! See that clear eye, that velvety skin, that--Oh, I say!
pax! pax! peccavi!”

“There,” said Ranald, putting him down from the billiard-table, “perhaps
you will learn when to be seen.”

“Brute,” murmured little Merrill, rubbing the sore place; “but ain’t he
fit?” he added, delightedly. And fit he looked. Four years of hard work
and clean living had done for him everything that it lies in years to
do. They had made of the lank, raw, shanty lad a man, and such a man as
a sculptor would have loved to behold. Straight as a column he stood two
inches over six feet, but of such proportions that seeing him alone, one
would never have guessed his height. His head and neck rose above his
square shoulders with perfect symmetry and poise. His dark face, tanned
now to a bronze, with features clear-cut and strong, was lit by a pair
of dark brown eyes, honest, fearless, and glowing with a slumbering fire
that men would hesitate to stir to flame. The lines of his mouth told
of self-control, and the cut of his chin proclaimed a will of iron, and
altogether, he bore himself with an air of such quiet strength and cool
self-confidence that men never feared to follow where he led. Yet there
was a reserve about him that set him a little apart from men, and a kind
of shyness that saved him from any suspicion of self-assertion. In vain
he tried to escape from the crowd that gathered about him, and more
especially from the foot-ball men, who utterly adored him.

“You can’t do anything for a fellow that doesn’t drink,” complained
Starry Hamilton, the big captain of the foot-ball team.

“Drink! a nice captain you are, Starry,” said Ranald, “and Thanksgiving
so near.”

“We haven’t quite shut down yet,” explained the captain.

“Then I suppose a cigar is permitted,” replied Ranald, ordering the
steward to bring his best. In a few minutes he called for his mail, and
excusing himself, slipped into one of the private rooms. The manager of
the Raymond & St. Clair Company and prominent clubman, much sought after
in social circles, he was bound to find letters of importance awaiting
him, but hastily shuffling the bundle, he selected three, and put the
rest in his pocket.

“So she’s back,” he said to himself, lifting up one in a square
envelope, addressed in large, angular writing. He turned it over in his
hand, feasting his eyes upon it, as a boy holds a peach, prolonging the
blissful anticipation. Then he opened it slowly and read:


MY DEAR RANALD: All the way home I was hoping that on my return, fresh
from the “stately homes of England,” and from association with lords and
dukes and things, you would be here to receive your share of the luster
and aroma my presence would shed (that’s a little mixed, I fear); but
with a most horrible indifference to your privileges you are away at the
earth’s end, no one knows where. Father said you were to be home to-day,
so though you don’t in the least deserve it, I am writing you a note of
forgiveness; and will you be sure to come to my special party to-morrow
night? I put it off till to-morrow solely on your account, and in spite
of Aunt Frank, and let me tell you that though I have seen such heaps of
nice men, and all properly dear and devoted, still I want to see you, so
you must come. Everything else will keep. Yours,

MAIMIE.


Over and over again he read the letter, till the fire in his eyes began
to gleam and his face became radiant with a tender glow.

“‘Yours, Maimie,’ eh? I wonder now what she means,” he mused. “Seven
years and for my life I don’t know yet, but to-morrow night--yes,
to-morrow night, I will know!” He placed the letter in its envelope and
put it carefully in his inside pocket. “Now for Kate, dear old girl, no
better anywhere.” He opened his letter and read:


DEAR RANALD: What a lot of people will be delighted to see you back!
First, dear old Dr. Marshall, who is in despair over the Institute,
of which he declares only a melancholy ruin will be left if you do not
speedily return. Indeed, it is pretty bad. The boys are quite terrible,
and even my “angels” are becoming infected. Your special pet, Coley,
after reducing poor Mr. Locke to the verge of nervous prostration, has
“quit,” and though I have sought him in his haunts, and used my very
choicest blandishments, he remains obdurate. To my remonstrances, he
finally deigned to reply: “Naw, they ain’t none of ‘em any good no more;
them ducks is too pious for me.” I don’t know whether you will consider
that a compliment or not. So the Institute and all its people will
welcome you with acclaims of delight and sighs of relief. And some one
else whom you adore, and who adores you, will rejoice to see you. I have
begged her from Maimie for a few precious days. But that’s a secret, and
last of all and least of all, there is

Your friend,

KATE.

P. S.--Of course you will be at the party to-morrow night. Maimie looks
lovelier than ever, and she will be so glad to see you.

K.


“What a trump she is,” murmured Ranald; “unselfish, honest to the core,
and steady as a rock. ‘Some one else whom you adore.’ Who can that be?
By Jove, is it possible? I will go right up to-night.”

His last letter was from Mr. St. Clair, who was the chief executive of
the firm. He glanced over it hurriedly, then with a curious blending
of surprise, perplexity, and dismay on his face, he read it again with
careful deliberation:


MY DEAR RANALD: Welcome home! We shall all be delighted to see you.
Your letter from North Bay, which reached me two days ago, contained
information that places us in rather an awkward position. Last May, just
after you left for the north, Colonel Thorp, of the British-American
Coal and Lumber Company, operating in British Columbia and Michigan,
called to see me, and made an offer of $75,000 for our Bass River
limits. Of course you know we are rather anxious to unload, and at first
I regarded his offer with favor. Soon afterwards I received your first
report, sent apparently on your way up. I thereupon refused Colonel
Thorp’s offer. Then evidently upon the strength of your report, which I
showed him, Colonel Thorp, who by the way is a very fine fellow, but a
very shrewd business man, raised his offer to an even hundred thousand.
This offer I feel inclined to accept. To tell you the truth, we have
more standing timber than we can handle, and as you know, we are really
badly crippled for ready money. It is a little unfortunate that your
last report should be so much less favorable in regard to the east half
of the limits. However, I don’t suppose there is any need of mentioning
that to Colonel Thorp, especially as his company are getting a good
bargain as it is, and one which of themselves, they could not possibly
secure from the government. I write you this note in case you should run
across Colonel Thorp in town to-morrow, and inadvertently say something
that might complicate matters. I have no doubt that we shall be able to
close the deal in a few days.

Now I want to say again how delighted we all are to have you back. We
never realized how much we were dependent upon you. Mr. Raymond and I
have been talking matters over, and we have agreed that some changes
ought to be made, which I venture to say will not be altogether
disagreeable to you. I shall see you first thing in the morning about
the matter of the limits.

Maimie has got home, and is, I believe, expecting you at her party
to-morrow night. Indeed, I understand she was determined that it should
not come off until you had returned, which shows she shares the opinion
of the firm concerning you.

I am yours sincerely,

EUGENE ST. CLAIR.


Ranald sat staring at the letter for a long time. He saw with perfect
clearness Mr. St. Clair’s meaning, and a sense of keen humiliation
possessed him as he realized what it was that he was expected to do.
But it took some time for the full significance of the situation to dawn
upon him. None knew better than he how important it was to the firm that
this sale should be effected. The truth was if the money market should
become at all close the firm would undoubtedly find themselves in
serious difficulty. Ruin to the company meant not only the blasting of
his own prospects, but misery to her whom he loved better than life; and
after all, what he was asked to do was nothing more than might be done
any day in the world of business. Every buyer is supposed to know the
value of the thing he buys, and certainly Colonel Thorp should not
commit his company to a deal involving such a large sum of money without
thoroughly informing himself in regard to the value of the limits in
question, and when he, as an employee of the Raymond and St. Clair
Lumber Company, gave in his report, surely his responsibility ceased. He
was not asked to present any incorrect report; he could easily make
it convenient to be absent until the deal was closed. Furthermore, the
chances were that the British-American Coal and Lumber Company would
still have good value for their money, for the west half of the limits
was exceptionally good; and besides, what right had he to besmirch the
honor of his employer, and to set his judgment above that of a man
of much greater experience? Ranald understood also Mr. St. Clair’s
reference to the changes in the firm, and it gave him no small
satisfaction to think that in four years he had risen from the position
of lumber checker to that of manager, with an offer of a partnership;
nor could he mistake the suggestion in Mr. St. Clair’s closing words.
Every interest he had in life would be furthered by the consummation
of the deal, and would be imperiled by his refusing to adopt Mr. St.
Clair’s suggestion. Still, argue as he might, Ranald never had any
doubt as to what, as a man of honor, he ought to do. Colonel Thorp was
entitled to the information that he and Mr. St. Clair alone possessed.
Between his interests and his conscience the conflict raged.

“I wish I knew what I ought to do,” he groaned, all the time battling
against the conviction that the information he possessed should by
rights be given to Colonel Thorp. Finally, in despair of coming to
a decision, he seized his hat, saying, “I will go and see Kate,” and
slipping out of a side door, he set off for the Raymond home. “I will
just look up Coley on the way,” he said to himself, and diving down an
alley, he entered a low saloon with a billiard hall attached. There, as
he had expected, acting as marker, he found Coley.

Mike Cole, or Coley, as his devoted followers called him, was king of
St. Joseph’s ward. Everywhere in the ward his word ran as law. About
two years ago Coley had deigned to favor the Institute with a visit, his
gang following him. They were welcomed with demonstrations of joy, and
regaled with cakes and tea, all of which Coley accepted with lordly
condescension. After consideration, Coley decided that the night classes
might afford a not unpleasant alternative on cold nights, to alley-ways
and saloons, and he allowed the gang to join. Thenceforth the successful
conduct of the classes depended upon the ability of the superintendent
to anticipate Coley’s varying moods and inclinations, for that young man
claimed and exercised the privilege of introducing features agreeable to
the gang, though not necessarily upon the regular curriculum of study.
Some time after Ranald’s appearance in the Institute as an assistant, it
happened one night that a sudden illness of the superintendent laid upon
his shoulders the responsibility of government. The same night it
also happened that Coley saw fit to introduce the enlivening but quite
impromptu feature of a song and dance. To this Ranald objected, and was
invited to put the gang out if he was man enough. After the ladies
had withdrawn beyond the reach of missiles, Ranald adopted the unusual
tactics of preventing exit by locking the doors, and then immediately
became involved in a discussion with Coley and his followers. It cost
the Institute something for furniture and windows, but thenceforth in
Ranald’s time there was peace. Coley ruled as before, but his sphere of
influence was limited, and the day arrived when it became the ambition
of Coley’s life to bring the ward and its denizens into subjection to
his own over-lord, whom he was prepared to follow to the death. But like
any other work worth doing, this took days and weeks and months.

“Hello, Coley!” said Ranald, as his eyes fell upon his sometime ally and
slave. “If you are not too busy I would like you to go along with me.”

Coley looked around as if seeking escape.

“Come along,” said Ranald, quietly, and Coley, knowing that anything but
obedience was impossible, dropped his marking and followed Ranald out of
the saloon.

“Well, Coley, I have had a great summer,” began Ranald, “and I wish very
much you could have been with me. It would have built you up and made a
man of you. Just feel that,” and he held out his arm, which Coley
felt with admiring reverence. “That’s what the canoe did,” and then he
proceeded to give a graphic account of his varied adventures by land and
water during the last six months. As they neared Mr. Raymond’s house,
Ranald turned to Coley and said: “Now I want you to cut back to the
Institute and tell Mr. Locke, if he is there, that I would like him to
call around at my office to-morrow. And furthermore, Coley, there’s no
need of your going back into that saloon. I was a little ashamed to see
one of my friends in a place like that. Now, good night, and be a man,
and a clean man.”

Coley stood with his head hung in abject self-abasement, and then
ventured to say, “I couldn’t stand them ducks nohow!”

“Who do you mean?” said Ranald.

“Oh, them fellers that runs the Institute now, and so I cut.”

“Now look here, Coley,” said Ranald, “I wouldn’t go throwing stones at
better men than yourself, and especially at men who are trying to do
something to help other people and are not so beastly mean as to think
only of their own pleasure. I didn’t expect that of you, Coley. Now quit
it and start again,” and Ranald turned away.

Coley stood looking after him for a few moments in silence, and then
said to himself, in a voice full of emphasis: “Well, there’s just one
of his kind and there ain’t any other.” Then he set out at a run for the
Institute.

It was Kate herself who came to answer Ranald’s ring.

“I knew it was you,” she cried, with her hand eagerly outstretched and
her face alight with joy. “Come in, we are all waiting for you, and
prepare to be surprised.” When they came to the drawing-room she flung
open the door and with great ceremony announced “The man from Glengarry,
as Harry would say.”

“Hello, old chap!” cried Harry, springing to his feet, but Ranald
ignored him. He greeted Kate’s mother warmly for she had shown him a
mother’s kindness ever since he had come to the city, and they were
great friends, and then he turned to Mrs. Murray, who was standing
waiting for him, and gave her both his hands.

“I knew from Kate’s letter,” he said, “that it would be you, and I
cannot tell you how glad I am.” His voice grew a little unsteady and he
could say no more. Mrs. Murray stood holding his hands and looking into
his face.

“It cannot be possible,” she said, “that this is Ranald Macdonald! How
changed you are!” She pushed him a little back from her. “Let me look at
you; why, I must say it, you are really handsome!”

“Now, auntie,” cried Harry, reprovingly, “don’t flatter him. He is
utterly ruined now by every one, including both Kate and her mother.”

“But really, Harry,” continued Mrs. Murray, in a voice of delighted
surprise, “it is certainly wonderful; and I am so glad! And I have been
hearing about your work with the boys at the Institute, and I cannot
tell you the joy it gave me.”

“Oh, it is not much that I have done,” said Ranald, deprecatingly.

“Indeed, it is a noble work and worthy of any man,” said Mrs. Murray,
earnestly, “and I thank God for you.”

“Then,” said Ranald, firmly, “I owe it all to yourself, for it is you
that set me on this way.”

“Listen to them admiring each other! It is quite shameless,” said Harry.

Then they began talking about Glengarry, of the old familiar places, of
the woods and the fields, of the boys and girls now growing into men and
women, and of the old people, some of whom were passed away. Before long
they were talking of the church and all the varied interests centering
in it, but soon they went back to the theme that Glengarry people
everywhere are never long together without discussing--the great
revival. Harry had heard a good deal about it before, but to Kate
and her mother the story was mostly new, and they listened with eager
interest as Mrs. Murray and Ranald recalled those great days. With eyes
shining, and in tones of humble, grateful wonder they reminded each
other of the various incidents, the terrors, the struggles, the joyful
surprises, the mysterious powers with which they were so familiar during
those eighteen months. Then Mrs. Murray told of the permanent results;
how over three counties the influence of the movement was still felt,
and how whole congregations had been built up under its wonderful power.

“And did you hear,” she said to Ranald, “that Donald Stewart was
ordained last May?”

“No,” replied Ranald; “that makes seven, doesn’t it?”

“Seven what?” said Kate.

“Seven men preaching the Gospel to-day out of our own congregation,”
 replied Mrs. Murray.

“But, auntie,” cried Harry, “I have always thought that all that must
have been awfully hard work.”

“It was,” said Ranald, emphatically; and he went on to sketch Mrs.
Murray’s round of duties in her various classes and meetings connected
with the congregation.

“Besides what she has to do in the manse!” exclaimed Harry; “but it’s a
mere trifle, of course, to look after her troop of boys.”

“How can you do it?” said Kate, gazing at her in admiring wonder.

“It isn’t so terrible as Harry thinks. That’s my work, you see,” said
Mrs. Murray; “what else would I do? And when it goes well it is worth
while.”

“But, auntie, don’t you feel sometimes like getting away and having a
little fun? Own up, now.”

“Fun?” laughed Mrs. Murray.

“Well, not fun exactly, but a good time with things you enjoy so much,
music, literature, and that sort of thing. Do you remember, Kate, the
first time you met auntie, when we took her to Hamlet?”

Kate nodded.

“She wasn’t quite sure about it, but I declare till I die I will never
forget the wonder and the delight in her face. I tell you I wept that
night, but not at the play. And how she criticised the actors; even
Booth himself didn’t escape,” continued Harry; “and so I say it’s a
beastly shame that you should spend your whole life in the backwoods
there and have so little of the other sort of thing. Why you are made
for it!”

“Harry,” answered Mrs. Murray, in surprise, “that was my work, given
me to do. Could I refuse it? And besides after all, fun, as you say,
passes; music stops; books get done with; but those other things, the
things that Ranald and I have seen, will go on long after my poor body
is laid away.”

“But still you must get tired,” persisted Harry.

“Yes, I get tired,” she replied, quietly. At the little touch of
weariness in the voice, Kate, who was looking at the beautiful face, so
spiritual, and getting, oh, so frail, felt a sudden rush of tears in
her eyes. But there was no self-pity in that heroic soul. “Yes, I get
tired,” she repeated, “but, Harry, what does that matter? We do our work
and then we will rest. But oh, Harry, my boy, when I come to your city
and see all there is to do, I wish I were a girl again, and I wonder at
people thinking life is just for fun.”

Harry, like other young men, hated to be lectured, but from his aunt he
never took anything amiss. He admired her for her brilliant qualities,
and loved her with a love near to worship.

“I say, auntie,” he said, with a little uncertain laugh, “it’s like
going to church to hear you, only it’s a deal more pleasant.”

“But, Harry, am I not right?” she replied, earnestly. “Do you think that
you will get the best out of your life by just having fun? Oh, do you
know when I went with Kate to the Institute the other night and saw
those boys my heart ached. I thought of my own boys, and--” The voice
ceased in a pathetic little catch, the sensitive lips trembled, the
beautiful gray-brown eyes filled with sudden tears. For a few moments
there was silence; then, with a wavering smile, and a gentle, apologetic
air, she said: “But I must not make Harry think he is in church.”

“Dear Aunt Murray,” cried Harry, “do lecture me. I’d enjoy it, and you
can’t make it too strong. You are just an angel.” He left his seat, and
going over to her chair, knelt down and put his arms about her.

“Don’t you all wish she was your aunt?” he said, kissing her.

“She IS mine,” cried Kate, smiling at her through shining tears.

“She’s more,” said Ranald, and his voice was husky with emotion.

But with the bright, joyous little laugh Ranald knew so well, she
smoothed back Harry’s hair, and kissing him on the forehead, said: “I am
sure you will do good work some day. But I shall be quite spoiled here;
I must really get home.”

As Ranald left the Raymond house he knew well what he should say to Mr.
St. Clair next morning. He wondered at himself that he had ever been in
doubt. He had been for an hour in another world where the atmosphere was
pure and the light clear. Never till that night had he realized the
full value of that life of patient self-sacrifice, so unconscious of its
heroism. He understood then, as never before, the mysterious influence
of that gentle, sweet-faced lady over every one who came to know her,
from the simple, uncultured girls of the Indian Lands to the young men
about town of Harry’s type. Hers was the power of one who sees with open
eyes the unseen, and who loves to the forgetting of self those for whom
the Infinite love poured Itself out in death.

“Going home, Harry?” inquired Ranald.

“Yes, right home; don’t want to go anywhere else to-night. I say, old
chap, you’re a better and cleaner man than I am, but it ain’t your
fault. That woman ought to make a saint out of any man.”

“Man, you would say so if you knew her,” said Ranald, with a touch of
impatience; “but then no one does know her. They certainly don’t down in
the Indian Lands, for they don’t know what she’s given up.”

“That’s the beauty of it,” replied Harry; “she doesn’t feel it that way.
Given up? not she! She thinks she’s got everything that’s good!”

“Well,” said Ranald, thoughtfully, after a pause, “she knows, and she’s
right.”

When they came to Harry’s door Ranald lingered just a moment. “Come in a
minute,” said Harry.

“I don’t know; I’m coming in to-morrow.”

“Oh, come along just now. Aunt Frank is in bed, but Maimie will be up,”
 said Harry, dragging him along to the door.

“No, I think not to-night.” While they were talking the door opened and
Maimie appeared.

“Ranald,” she cried, in an eager voice, “I knew you would be at Kate’s,
and I was pretty sure you would come home with Harry. Aren’t you coming
in?”

“Where’s Aunt Frank?” asked Harry.

“She’s upstairs,” said Maimie.

“Thank the Lord, eh?” added Harry, pushing in past her.

“Go away in and talk to her,” said Maimie. Then turning to Ranald and
looking into his devouring eyes, she said, “Well? You might say you’re
glad to see me.” She stood where the full light of the doorway revealed
the perfect beauty of her face and figure.

“Glad to see you! There is no need of saying that,” replied Ranald,
still gazing at her.

“How beautiful you are, Maimie,” he added, bluntly.

“Thank you, and you are really quite passable.”

“And I AM glad to see you.”

“That’s why you won’t come in.”

“I am coming to-morrow night.”

“Everybody will be here to-morrow night.”

“Yes, that’s certainly a drawback.”

“And I shall be very busy looking after my guests. Still,” she added,
noticing the disappointment in his face, “it’s quite possible--”

“Exactly,” his face lighting up again.

“Have you seen father’s study?” asked Maimie, innocently.

“No,” replied Ranald, wonderingly. “Is it so beautiful?”

“No, but it’s upstairs, and--quiet.”

“Well?” said Ranald.

“And perhaps you might like to see it to-morrow night.”

“How stupid I am. Will you show it to me?”

“I will be busy, but perhaps Harry--”

“Will you?” said Ranald, coming close to her, with the old imperative in
his voice.

Maimie drew back a little.

“Do you know what you make me think of?” she asked, lowering her voice.

“Yes, I do. I have thought of it every night since.”

“You were very rude, I remember.”

“You didn’t think so then,” said Ranald, boldly.

“I ought to have been very angry,” replied Maimie, severely.

“But you weren’t, you know you weren’t; and do you remember what you
said?”

“What I said? How awful of you; don’t you dare! How can I remember?”

“Yes, you do remember, and then do you remember what _I_ said?”

“What YOU said indeed! Such assurance!”

“I have kept my word,” said Ranald, “and I am coming to-morrow night.
Oh, Maimie, it has been a long, long time.” He came close to her and
caught her hand, the slumbering fire in his eyes blazing now in flame.

“Don’t, don’t, I’m sure there’s Aunt Frank. No, no,” she pleaded, in
terror, “not to-night, Ranald!”

“Then will you show me the study to-morrow night?”

“Oh, you are very mean. Let me go!”

“Will you?” he demanded, still holding her hand.

“Yes, yes, you ought to be ashamed of yourself. My hand is quite sore.
There, now, good night. No, I won’t shake hands! Well, then, if you must
have it, good night.”



CHAPTER XXII

FORGET THAT I LOVED YOU


“The night for dreaming, but the morn for seeing.” And so Ranald found
it; for with the cold, calm light of the morning, he found himself
facing his battle with small sense of victory in his blood. He knew he
had to deal that morning with the crisis of his life. Upon the issue his
whole future would turn, but his heart without haste or pause preserved
its even beat. The hour of indecision had passed. He saw his way and he
meant to walk it. What was beyond the turn was hid from his eyes, but
with that he need not concern himself now. Meantime he would clear away
some of this accumulated correspondence lying on his desk. In the midst
of his work Harry came in and laid a bundle of bills before him.

“Here you are, old chap,” he said, quietly. “That’s the last of it.”

Ranald counted the money.

“You are sure you can spare all this? There is no hurry, you know.”

“No,” said Harry, “I can’t spare it, but it’s safer with you than with
me, and besides, it’s yours. And I owe you more than money.” He drew
a deep breath to steady himself, and then went on: “And I want to say,
Ranald, that I have bet my last stake.”

Ranald pushed back his chair and rose to his feet.

“Now that’s the best thing I’ve heard for some time,” he said, offering
Harry his hand; “and that’s the last of that business.”

He sat down, drew in his chair, and turning over his papers with a
nervousness that he rarely showed, he continued: “And, Harry, I want you
to do something for me. Before you go home this afternoon, will you come
in here? I may want to send a note to Maimie by you.”

“But--” began Harry.

“Wait a moment. I want to prevent all possibility of mistake. There may
be a reply, and Harry, old chap, I’d rather not answer any questions.”

Harry gazed at him a moment in perplexity. “All right, Ranald,” he said,
quietly, “you can trust me. I haven’t the ghost of an idea what’s up,
but I know you’re square.”

“Thanks, old fellow,” said Ranald, “I will never give you reason to
change your opinion. Now get out; I’m awfully busy.”

For some minutes after Harry had left the room Ranald sat gazing before
him into space.

“Poor chap, he’s got his fight, too, but I begin to think he’ll win,” he
said to himself, and once more returned to his work. He had hardly begun
his writing when the inner door of his office opened and Mr. St. Clair
came in. His welcome was kindly and cordial, and Ranald’s heart,
which had been under strong discipline all morning, leaped up in warm
response.

“You had a pleasant trip, I hope?” inquired Mr. St. Clair.

“Fine most of the way. Through May and June the flies were bad, but not
so bad as usual, they said, and one gets used to them.”

“Good sport?”

“Never saw anything like it. What a country that is!” cried Ranald, his
enthusiasm carrying him away. “Fishing of all kinds and superb. In those
little lonely lakes you get the finest black and white bass, beauties
and so gamy. In the bigger waters, maskalonge and, of course, any amount
of pike and pickerel. Then we were always running up against deer, moose
and red, and everywhere we got the scent of bear. Could have loaded a
boat with furs in a week.”

“We must go up some day,” replied Mr. St. Clair. “Wish I could get away
this fall, but the fact is we are in shallow water, Ranald, and we can’t
take any chances.”

Ranald knew well how serious the situation was. “But,” continued Mr. St.
Clair, “this offer of the British-American Lumber and Coal Company is
most fortunate, and will be the saving of us. With one hundred thousand
set free we are certain to pull through this season, and indeed, the
financial stringency will rather help than hinder our operations. Really
it is most fortunate. Indeed,” he added, with a slight laugh, “as my
sister-in-law would say, quite providential!”

“I have no doubt of that,” said Ranald, gravely; “but, Mr. St. Clair--”

“Yes, no doubt, no doubt,” said Mr. St. Clair, hastening to recover the
tone, which by his unfortunate reference to Mrs. Murray, he had lost.
The thought of her was not in perfect harmony with purely commercial
considerations. “The fact is,” he continued, “that before this offer
came I was really beginning to despair. I can tell you that now.”

Ranald felt his heart tighten.

“One does not mind for one’s self, but when family interests are
involved--but that’s all over now, thank God!”

Ranald tried to speak, but his mind refused to suggest words. His
silence, however, was enough for Mr. St. Clair, who, with nervous haste
once more changed the theme. “In my note to you last night--you got it,
I suppose--I referred to some changes in the firm.”

Ranald felt that he was being crowded against the ropes. He must get
to freer fighting ground. “I think before you go on to that, Mr. St.
Clair,” he began, “I ought to--”

“Excuse me, I was about to say,” interrupted Mr. St. Clair, hastily,
“Mr. Raymond and I have felt that we must strengthen our executive. As
you know, he has left this department almost entirely to me, and he now
realizes what I have long felt, that the burden has grown too heavy for
one to carry. Naturally we think of you, and I may say we are more than
glad, though it is a very unusual thing in the business world, that
we can, with the fullest confidence, offer you a partnership.” Mr. St.
Clair paused to allow the full weight of this announcement to sink into
his manager’s mind.

Then Ranald pulled himself together. He must break free or the fight
would be lost before he had struck a blow.

“I need not say,” he began once more, “how greatly gratified I am by
this offer, and I feel sure you will believe that I am deeply grateful.”
 Ranald’s voice was low and even, but unknown to himself there was in
it a tone of stern resolve that struck Mr. St. Clair’s ear. He knew his
manager. That tone meant war. Hastily he changed his front.

“Yes, yes, we are quite sure of that,” he said, with increasing
nervousness, “but we are thinking of our own interests as well as
yours. Indeed, I feel sure”--here his voice became even more kindly and
confidential--“that in advancing your position and prospects we are--I
am only doing what will bring myself the greatest satisfaction in the
end, for you know, Ranald, I--we do not regard you as a stranger.”
 Ranald winced and grew pale. “We--my family--have always felt toward you
as--well, in fact, as if you were one of us.”

Mr. St. Clair had delivered his last and deadliest blow and it found
Ranald’s heart, but with pain blanching his cheek Ranald stood up
determined to end the fight. It was by no means easy for him to
strike. Before him he saw not this man with his ingenious and specious
pleading--it would not have been a difficult matter to have brushed him
aside--but he was looking into the blue eyes of the woman he had for
seven years loved more than he loved his life, and he knew that when his
blow fell it would fall upon the face that, only a few hours ago, had
smiled upon him, and upon the lips that had whispered to him, “I will
remember, Ranald.” Yet he was none the less resolved. With face set and
bloodless, and eyes of gleaming fire, he faced the man that represented
what was at once dearest in life and what was most loathsome in conduct.

“Give me a moment, Mr. St. Clair,” he said, with a note of authority
in his tone. “You have made me an offer of a position such as I could
hardly hope to expect for years to come, but I value it chiefly because
it means you have absolute confidence in me; you believe in my ability
and in my integrity. I am determined that you will never have cause to
change your opinion of me. You are about to complete a deal involving a
very large sum of money. I have a report here,” tapping his desk, “which
you have not yet seen.”

“It really doesn’t matter!” interjected Mr. St. Clair; “you see, my dear
fellow--”

“It matters to me. It is a report which not only you ought to have, but
which, in justice, the buyer of the Bass River Limits ought to see. That
report, Mr. St. Clair, ought to be given to Colonel Thorp.”

“This is sheer folly,” exclaimed Mr. St. Clair, impatiently.

“It is the only honorable course.”

“Do you mean to insult me, sir?”

“There is only one other thing I would rather not do,” said Ranald, in
a grave voice, “and that is refuse Colonel Thorp the information he is
entitled to from us.”

“Sir!” exclaimed Mr. St. Clair, “this is outrageous, and I demand an
apology or your resignation!”

“Colonel Thorp,” announced a clerk, opening the door.

“Tell Colonel Thorp I cannot--ah, Colonel Thorp, I am glad to see you.
Will you step this way?” opening the door leading to his own office.

The colonel, a tall, raw-boned, typical “Uncle Sam,” even to the chin
whisker and quid of tobacco, had an eye like an eagle. He shot a keen
glance at Mr. St. Clair and then at Ranald.

“Yes,” he said, helping himself to a chair, “this here’s all right. This
is your manager, eh?”

“Mr. Macdonald,” said Mr. St. Clair, introducing him.

“How do you do? Heard about you some,” said the colonel, shaking hands
with him. “Quite a knocker, I believe. Well, you rather look like it.
Used to do some myself. Been up north, so the boss says. Good country,
eh?”

“Fine sporting country, Colonel,” interrupted St. Clair. “The game, Mr.
Macdonald says, come right into your tent and bed to be shot.”

“Do, eh?” The colonel’s eagle eye lighted up. “Now, what sort of game?”

“Almost every kind, Colonel,” replied Ranald.

“Don’t say! Used to do a little myself. Moose?”

“Yes, I saw a number of moose and any amount of other deer and, of
course, plenty of bear.”

“Don’t say! How’d you come to leave them? Couldn’t have done it myself,
by the great Sam! Open timber?”

“Well,” replied Ranald, slowly, “on the east of the Bass River--”

“All that north country, Colonel,” said Mr. St. Clair, “is pretty much
the same, I imagine; a little of all kinds.”

“Much water, streams, and such?”

“Yes, on the west side of the Bass there is plenty of water, a number of
small streams and lakes, but--”

“Oh, all through that north country, Colonel, you are safe in having a
canoe in your outfit,” said Mr. St. Clair, again interrupting Ranald.

“Lots of water, eh? Just like Maine, ha, ha!” The colonel’s quiet
chuckle was good to hear.

“Reminds me”--here he put his hand into his inside pocket and pulled out
a flask, “excuse the glass,” he said, offering it to Mr. St. Clair, who
took a slight sip and handed it back.

“Have a little refreshment,” said the colonel, offering it to Ranald.

“I never take it, thank you.”

“Don’t? Say, by the great Sam, how’d you get through all that wet
country? Wall, it will not hurt you to leave it alone,” solemnly winking
at St. Clair, and taking a long pull himself. “Good for the breath,” he
continued, putting the flask in his pocket. “Now, about those limits of
mine, the boss here has been telling you about our deal?”

“A little,” said Ranald.

“We’ve hardly had time to look into anything yet,” said Mr. St. Clair;
“but if you will step into my office, Colonel, I have the papers and
maps there.” Mr. St. Clair’s tone was anxious. Once more the colonel
shot a glance at him.

“You have been on the spot, I judge,” he said to Ranald, rising and
following Mr. St. Clair.

“Yes, over it all.”

“Wall, come along, you’re the map we want, eh? Maps are chiefly for
purposes of deception, I have found, ha, ha! and there ain’t none of ‘em
right,” and he held the door for Ranald to enter.

Mr. St. Clair was evidently annoyed. Unfolding a map he laid it out on
the table. “This is the place, I believe,” he said, putting his finger
down upon the map.

“Ain’t surveyed, I judge,” said the colonel to Ranald.

“No, only in part; the old Salter lines are there, but I had to go away
beyond these.”

“Warn’t ‘fraid of gettin’ lost, eh? Ha, ha! Wall show us your route.”

Ranald put his finger on the map, and said: “I struck the Bass River
about here, and using that as a base, first explored the whole west
side, for, I should say, about ten miles back from the river.”

“Don’t say! How’d you grub? Game mostly?”

“Well, we carried some pork and Hudson Bay hard tack and tea, and of
course, we could get all the fish and game we wanted.”

“Lots of game, eh? Small and big?” The colonel was evidently much
interested in this part of Ranald’s story. “By the great Sam, must go up
there!”

“It would do you all the good in the world, Colonel,” said Mr. St.
Clair, heartily. “You must really go up with your men and help them lay
out the ground, you know.”

“That’s so! Now if you were lumbering in there, how’d you get the timber
out?”

“Down the Bass River to Lake Nipissing,” said Ranald, pointing out the
route.

“Yes, but how’d you get it to the Bass? These limits, I understand, lie
on both sides of the Bass, don’t they?”

“Yes.”

“And the Bass cuts through it the short way?”

“Yes.”

“Wall, does that mean six or eight or ten miles of a haul?”

“On the west side,” replied Ranald, “no. There are a number of small
streams and lakes which you could utilize.”

“And on the east side?”

“You see, Colonel,” broke in Mr. St. Clair, “that whole country is one
net-work of water-ways. Notice the map here; and there are always a
number of lakes not marked.”

“That is quite true,” said Ranald, “as a rule; but on the east side--”

“Oh, of course,” said Mr. St. Clair, hastily, “you will find great
differences in different parts of the country.”

Mr. St. Clair folded up the map and threw it on the table.

“Let’s see,” said the colonel, taking up the map again. “Now how about
the camps, Mr. Macdonald, where do you locate them?”

“I have a rough draught here in which the bases for camps are
indicated,” said Ranald, ignoring the imploring and angry looks of his
chief.

“Let’s have a look at ‘em,” said the colonel.

“Oh, you haven’t shown me this,” said Mr. St. Clair, taking the draught
from Ranald.

“No, sir, you have not seen my final report.”

“No, not yet, of course. We have hardly had time yet, Colonel, but Mr.
Macdonald will make a copy of this for you and send it in a day or two,”
 replied Mr. St. Clair, folding up the sketch, nervously, and placing it
on his desk. The colonel quietly picked up the sketch and opened it out.

“You have got that last report of yours, I suppose,” he said, with a
swift glance at Mr. St. Clair. That gentleman’s face was pallid and
damp; his whole fortune hung on Ranald’s reply. It was to him a moment
of agony.

Ranald glanced at his face, and paused. Then drawing his lips a little
tighter, he said: “Colonel Thorp, my final report has not yet been
handed in. Mr. St. Clair has not seen it. In my judgment--” here Mr. St.
Clair leaned his hand hard upon his desk--“you are getting full value
for your money, but I would suggest that you go yourself or send your
inspector to explore the limits carefully before you complete the deal.”

Colonel Thorp, who had been carefully scanning the sketch in his hand,
suddenly turned and looked Ranald steadily in the eye. “These marks on
the west side mean camps?”

“Yes.”

“There are very few on the east side?”

“There are very few; the east side is inferior to the west.”

“Much?”

“Yes, much inferior.”

“But in your opinion the limit is worth the figure?”

“I would undertake to make money out of it; it is good value.”

The colonel chewed hard for a minute, then turning to Mr. St. Clair, he
said: “Wall, Mr. St. Clair, I’ll give you one hundred thousand for your
limit; but by the great Sam, I’d give twice the sum for your manager, if
he’s for sale! He’s a man!” The emphasis on the he was ever so slight,
but it was enough. Mr. St. Clair bowed, and sinking down into his chair,
busied himself with his papers.

“Wall,” said the colonel, “that’s settled; and that reminds me,” he
added, pulling out his flask, “good luck to the Bass River Limits!”

He handed the flask to Mr. St. Clair, who eagerly seized it and took a
long drink.

“Goes good sometimes,” said the colonel, innocently. “Wall, here’s
lookin’ at you,” he continued, bowing toward Ranald; “and by the great
Sam, you suit me well! If you ever feel like a change of air, indicate
the same to Colonel Thorp.”

“Ah, Colonel,” said Mr. St. Clair, who had recovered his easy, pleasant
manner, “we can sell limits but not men.”

“No, by the great Sammy,” replied the colonel, using the more emphatic
form of his oath, “ner buy ‘em! Wall,” he added, “when you have the
papers ready, let me know. Good day!”

“Very good, Colonel, good by, good by!”

The colonel did not notice Mr. St. Clair’s offered hand, but nodding to
Ranald, sauntered out of the office, leaving the two men alone. For a
few moments Mr. St. Clair turned over his papers in silence. His face
was flushed and smiling.

“Well, that is a most happy deliverance, Ranald,” he said, rubbing his
hands. “But what is the matter? You are not well.”

White to the lips, Ranald stood looking at his chief with a resolved
face.

“Mr. St. Clair, I wish to offer you my resignation as manager.”

“Nonsense, Ranald, we will say no more about that. I was a little hasty.
I hope the change I spoke of will go into immediate effect.”

“I must beg to decline.” The words came slowly, sternly from Ranald’s
white lips.

“And why, pray?”

“I have little doubt you can discover the reason, Mr. St. Clair. A few
moments ago, for honorable dealing, you would have dismissed me. It is
impossible that I should remain in your employ.”

“Mr. Macdonald, are you serious in this? Do you know what you are doing?
Do you know what you are saying?” Mr. St. Clair rose and faced his
manager.

“Only too well,” said Ranald, with lips that began to quiver, “and all
the more because of what I must say further. Mr. St. Clair, I love your
daughter. I have loved her for seven years. It is my one desire in life
to gain her for my wife.”

Mr. St. Clair gazed at him in utter astonishment.

“And in the same breath,” he said at length, “you insult me and ask my
permission.”

“It is vain to ask your permission, I fear, but it is right that you
should know my desire and my purpose.”

“Your purpose?”

“My unalterable purpose.”

“You take my daughter out of my house in--in spite of my teeth?” Mr. St.
Clair could hardly find words.

“She will come with me,” said Ranald, a little proudly.

“And may I ask how you know? Have you spoken to my daughter?”

“I have not spoken to her openly.” The blood rose in his dark face. “But
I believe she loves me.”

“Well, Mr. Macdonald, your confidence is only paralleled by your
prodigious insolence.”

“I hope not,” said Ranald, lowering his head from its proud pose. “I
have no desire to be insolent.”

Once more Mr. St. Clair looked at him in silence. Then slowly and with
quiet emphasis, he said: “Mr. Macdonald, you are a determined man, but
as God lives, this purpose of yours you will never carry out. I know
my daughter, I think, better than you know her, and I tell you,” here
a slight smile of confidence played for a moment on his face, “she will
never be your wife.”

Ranald bowed his head.

“It shall be as she wills,” he said, in a grave, almost sad, voice. “She
shall decide,” and he passed into his office.

All day long Ranald toiled at his desk, leaving himself no time for
thought. In the late afternoon Harry came in on his way home.

“Thanks, old chap,” said Ranald, looking up from his work; “sha’n’t be
able to come to-night, I am sorry to say.”

“Not come?” cried Harry.

“No, it is impossible.”

“What rot, and Maimie has waited ten days for you. Come along!”

“It is quite impossible, Harry,” said Ranald, “and I want you to take
this note to Maimie. The note will explain to her.”

“But, Ranald, this is--”

“And, Harry, I want to tell you that this is my last day here.”

Harry gazed at him speechless.

“Mr. St. Clair and I have had a difference that can never be made right,
and to-night I leave the office for good.”

“Leave the office for good? Going to leave us? What the deuce can the
office do without you? And what does it all mean? Come, Ranald, don’t be
such a confounded sphynx! Why do you talk such rubbish?”

“It is true,” said Ranald, “though I can hardly realize it myself; it is
absolutely and finally settled; and I say, old man, don’t make it
harder for me. You don’t know what it means to me to leave this place,
and--you, and--all!” In spite of his splendid nerve Ranald’s voice shook
a little. Harry gazed at him in amazement.

“I will give your note to Maimie,” he said, “but you will be back here
if I know myself. I’ll see father about this.”

“Now, Harry,” said Ranald, rising and putting his hand on his shoulder,
“you are not going to mix up in this at all; and for my sake, old chap,
don’t make any row at home. Promise me,” said Ranald again holding him
fast.

“Well, I promise,” said Harry, reluctantly, “but I’ll be hanged if I
understand it at all; and I tell you this, that if you don’t come back
here, neither shall I.”

“Now you are talking rot, Harry,” said Ranald, and sat down again to his
desk. Harry went out in a state of dazed astonishment. Alone Ranald sat
in his office writing steadily except that now and then he paused to let
a smile flutter across his stern, set face, as a gleam of sunshine over
a rugged rock on a cloudy day. He was listening to his heart, whose
every beat kept singing the refrain, “I love her, I love her; she will
come to me!”

At that very moment Maimie was showing her Aunt Murray her London
dresses and finery, and recounting her triumphs in that land of social
glory.

“How lovely, how wonderfully lovely they are,” said Mrs. Murray,
touching the beautiful fabrics with fond fingers; “and I am sure they
will suit you well, my dear. Have you worn most of them?”

“No, not all. This one I wore the evening I went with the Lord Archers
to the Heathcote’s ball. Lord Heathcote, you know, is an uncle of
Captain De Lacy.”

“Was Captain De Lacy there?” inquired Mrs. Murray.

“Yes, indeed,” cried Maimie, “and we had a lovely time!” either the
memory of that evening brought the warm blushes to her face, or it may
be the thought of what she was about to tell her aunt; “and Captain De
Lacy is coming to-morrow.”

“Coming to-morrow?”

“Yes, he has written to Aunt Frank, and to papa as well.”

Mrs. Murray sat silent, apparently not knowing what to say, and Maimie
stood with the dress in her hands waiting for her aunt to speak. At
length Mrs. Murray said: “You knew Captain De Lacy before, I think.”

“Oh, I have known him for a long time, and he’s just splendid, auntie,
and he’s coming to--” Maimie paused, but her face told her secret.

“Do you mean he is going to speak to your father about you, Maimie?”
 Maimie nodded. “And are you glad?”

“He’s very handsome, auntie, and very nice, and he’s awfully well
connected, and that sort of thing, and when Lord Heathcote dies he has a
good chance of the estates and the title.”

“Do you love him, Maimie?” asked her aunt, quietly.

Maimie dropped the dress, and sitting down upon a low stool, turned her
face from her aunt, and looked out of the window.

“Oh, I suppose so, auntie,” she said. “He’s very nice and gentlemanly
and I like to be with him--”

“But, Maimie, dear, are you not sure that you love him?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Maimie, petulantly. “Are you not pleased,
auntie?”

“Well, I confess I am surprised. I do not know Captain De Lacy, and
besides I thought it was--I thought you--” Mrs. Murray paused, while
Maimie’s face grew hot with fiery blushes, but before she could reply
they heard Harry’s step on the stairs, and in a moment he burst into the
room.

“Ranald isn’t coming!” he exclaimed. “Here’s a note for you, Maimie.
But what the--but what he means,” said Harry, checking himself, “I can’t
make out.”

“Not coming?” cried Maimie, the flush fading from her face. “What can
he mean?” She opened the note, and as she read the blood rushed
quickly into her face again, and as quickly fled, leaving her pale and
trembling.

“Well, what does he say?” inquired Harry, bluntly.

“He says it is impossible for him to come tonight,” said Maimie, putting
the note into her bosom.

“Huh!” grunted Harry, and flung out of the room.

Immediately Maimie pulled out the note.

“Oh, auntie,” she cried, “I am so miserable; Ranald is not coming and he
says--there read it.” She hurriedly thrust the note into Mrs. Murray’s
hands, and Mrs. Murray, opening it, read:


MY DEAR MAIMIE: It is impossible for me to go to you tonight. Your
father and I have had a difference so serious that I can never enter his
house again, but I am writing now to tell you what I meant to tell you
to-night. I love you, Maimie. I love you with all my heart and soul. I
have loved you since the night I pulled you from the fire.


“Maimie,” said Mrs. Murray, handing her back the note, “I do not think
you ought to give me this. That is too sacred for any eyes but your
own.”

“Oh, I know, auntie, but what can I do? I am so sorry for Ranald! What
shall I do, auntie?”

“My dear child, in this neither I nor any one can advise you. You must
be true to yourself.”

“Oh, I wish I knew what to do!” cried Maimie. “He wants me to tell
him--” Maimie paused, her face once more covered with blushes, “and I do
not know what to say!”

“What does your heart say, Maimie?” said Mrs. Murray, quietly.

“Oh, auntie, I am so miserable!”

“But, Maimie,” continued her aunt, “in this matter, as I said before,
you must be true to yourself. Do you love Ranald?”

“Oh, auntie, I cannot tell,” cried Maimie, putting her face in her
hands.

“If Ranald were De Lacy would you love him?”

“Oh yes, yes, how happy I would be!”

Then Mrs. Murray rose. “Maimie, dear,” she said, and her voice was very
gentle but very firm, “let me speak to you for your dear mother’s sake.
Do not deceive yourself. Do not give your life for anything but love.
Ranald is a noble man and he will be a great man some day, and I love
him as my own son, but I would not have you give yourself to him unless
you truly loved him.” She did not mention De Lacy’s name nor utter a
word in comparison of the two, but listening to her voice, Maimie knew
only too well whither her love had gone.

“Oh, auntie,” she cried, “I cannot bear it!”

“Yes, Maimie dear, you can bear to do the right, for there is One in
whose strength we can do all things.”

Before Maimie could reply her Aunt Frances came in.

“It is dinner-time,” she announced, “and your father has just come in,
Maimie, and we must have dinner over at once.”

Maimie rose, and going to the glass, smoothed back her hair. Her Aunt
Frances glanced at her face and then at Mrs. Murray, and as if fearing
Maimie’s reply, went on hurriedly, “You must look your very best
to-night, and even better to-morrow,” she said, smiling, significantly.
She came and put her hands on Maimie’s shoulders, and kissing her, said:
“Have you told your Aunt Murray who is coming to-morrow? I am sure
I’m very thankful, my dear, you will be very happy. It is an excellent
match. Half the girls in town will be wild with envy. He has written a
very manly letter to your father, and I am sure he is a noble fellow,
and he has excellent prospects. But we must hurry down to dinner,” she
said, turning to Mrs. Murray, who with a look of sadness on her pale
face, left the room without a word.

“Ranald is not coming,” said Maimie, when her Aunt Murray had gone.

“Indeed, from what your father says,” cried Aunt Frank, indignantly, “I
do not very well see how he could. He has been most impertinent.”

“You are not to say that, Aunt Frank,” cried Maimie. “Ranald could not
be impertinent, and I will not hear it.” Her tone was so haughty and
fierce that Aunt Frank thought it wiser to pursue this subject no
further.

“Well,” she said, as she turned to leave the room, “I’m very glad he has
the grace to keep away tonight. He has always struck me as a young man
of some presumption.”

When the door closed upon her Maimie tore the note from her bosom and
pressed it again and again to her lips: “Oh, Ranald, Ranald,” she cried,
“I love you! I love you! Oh, why can it not be? Oh, I cannot--I cannot
give him up!” She threw herself upon her knees and laid her face in
the bed. In a few minutes there came a tap at the door, and her Aunt
Frances’s voice was heard, “Maimie, your father has gone down; we must
not delay.” The tone was incisive and matter-of-fact. It said to Maimie,
“Now let’s have no nonsense. Be a sensible woman of the world.” Maimie
rose from her knees. Hastily removing all traces of tears from her face,
and glancing in the glass, she touched the little ringlets into place
and went down to dinner.

It was a depressing meal. Mr. St. Clair was irritable; Harry perplexed
and sullen; Maimie nervously talkative. Mrs. Murray was heroically
holding herself in command, but the look of pain in her eyes and the
pathetic tremor on her lips belied the brave smiles and cheerful words
with which she seconded Aunt Frank.

After dinner the company separated, for there were still preparations
to make for the evening. As Mrs. Murray was going to her room, she met
Harry in the hall with his hat on.

“Where are you going, Harry?”

“Anywhere,” he growled, fiercely, “to get out of this damnable
hypocrisy! Pardon me, Aunt Murray, I can’t help it, it IS damnable, and
a whole lot of them are in it!”

Then Mrs. Murray came, and laying her hand on his arm, said: “Don’t go,
Harry; don’t leave me; I want some one; come upstairs.”

Harry stood looking at the sweet face, trying to smile so bravely in
spite of the tremulous lips.

“You are a dear, brave little woman,” he said, hanging up his hat, “and
I’ll be hanged if I don’t stay by you. Come along upstairs.” He stooped,
and lifting her in his arms in spite of her laughing protests, carried
her upstairs to her room. When they came down to the party they both
looked braver and stronger.

The party was a great success. The appointments were perfect; the music
the best that could be had, and Maimie more beautiful than ever. In
some mysterious way, known only to Aunt Frank, the rumor of Maimie’s
approaching engagement got about among the guests and produced an
undertone of excitement to the evenings gayety. Maimie was too excited
to be quite natural, but she had never appeared more brilliant and
happy, and surely she had every cause. She had achieved a dizzy summit
of social success that made her at once the subject of her friends’
congratulations and her rivals’ secret envy, and which was the more
delightful it would be hard to say. Truly, she was a fortunate girl,
but still the night was long, and she was tired of it all before it was
over. The room seemed empty, and often her heart gave a leap as her eyes
fell upon some form that appeared more handsome and striking than others
near, but only to sink again in disappointment when a second glance told
her that it was only some ordinary man. Kate, too, kept aloof in a very
unpleasant way, and Harry, devoting himself to Kate, had not done his
duty. But in spite of everything the party had been a great success,
and when it was over Maimie went straight to bed to sleep. She knew that
Ranald would be awaiting the answer to his note, but she could not bring
herself to face what she knew would be an ordeal that might murder sleep
for her, and sleep she must have, for she must be her best to-morrow. It
would have been better for all involved had she written her answer that
night; otherwise Ranald would not have been standing at her door in the
early afternoon asking to see her. It was Aunt Frances who came down
to the drawing-room. As Ranald stood up and bowed, she adjusted her
pince-nez upon her aristocratic nose, and viewed him.

“You are wishing to see Miss St. Clair,” she said, in her very chilliest
tone.

“I asked to see Maimie,” said Ranald, looking at her with cool, steady
eyes.

“I must say, Mr. Macdonald, that after your conduct to my brother
yesterday, I am surprised you should have the assurance to enter his
house.”

“I would prefer not discussing office matters with you,” said Ranald,
politely, and with a suspicion of a smile. “I have come to see Maimie.”

“That, I am glad to say, is impossible, for she is at present out with
Captain De Lacy who has just arrived from the East to--see--to--in
short, on a very special errand.”

For a moment Ranald stood without reply.

“She is out, you say?” he answered at length.

“She is out with Captain De Lacy.” He caught the touch of triumph in her
voice.

“Will she be back soon?” inquired Ranald, looking baffled.

“Of course one cannot tell in such a case,” answered Miss St. Clair,
“but I should think not.” Miss St. Clair was enjoying herself. It did
her good to see this insolent, square-jawed young man standing helpless
before her.

“It is important that I should see her,” said Ranald, after a few
moments’ thought. “I shall wait.” Had Miss St. Clair known him better
she would have noticed with some concern the slow fires kindling in his
eyes. As it was she became indignant.

“That, Mr. Macdonald, you shall not; and allow me to say frankly that
your boldness--your insolence--I may say, is beyond all bounds.”

“Insolence, and when?” Ranald was very quiet.

“You come to the house of your employer, whom you have insulted, and
demand to see his daughter.”

“I have a right to see her.”

“Right? What right have you, pray?”

Then Ranald stood up and looked Miss St. Clair full in the face with
eyes fairly alight.

“Miss St. Clair, have you ever known what it is to love with all your
soul and heart?” Miss St. Clair gasped. “Because if not, you will not
understand me; if you have you will know why I must see Maimie. It is
seven years now since I began to love her. I remember the spot in
the woods; I see the big tree there behind her and the rising ground
stretching away to the right. I see the place where I pulled her out of
the fire. Every morning since that time I have waked with the thought of
her; every night my eyes have closed with a vision of her before me. It
is for her I have lived and worked. I tell you she is mine! I love her!
I love her, and she loves me. I know it.” His words came low, fierce,
and swift.

Miss St. Clair stood breathless. What a man he looked and how handsome
he was!

With but a moment’s pause Ranald went on, but his voice took a gentler
tone. “Miss St. Clair, do you understand me? Yes, I know you do.” The
blood came flowing suddenly to her thin cheeks. “You say she is out with
Captain De Lacy, and you mean me to think that she is to give herself to
him. He loves her, I know, but I say she is mine! Her eyes have told me
that. She is mine, I tell you, and no man living will take her from me.”
 The fire that always slumbered in his eyes was now blazing in full fury.
The great passion of his life was raging through his soul, vibrating in
his voice, and glowing in his dark face. Miss St. Clair sat silent, and
then motioned him to a seat.

“Mr. Macdonald,” she said, with grave courtesy, “you are too late, I
fear. I did not realize--Maimie will never be yours. I know my niece.”
 At the sad earnestness of her voice, Ranald’s face began to grow pale.

“I will wait for her,” he said, quietly.

“I beg you will not.”

“I will wait,” he repeated, with lips tight pressed.

“It is vain, Mr. Macdonald, I assure you. Spare yourself and her. I know
what--I could have--” Her voice grew husky.

“I will wait,” once more replied Ranald, the lines of his face growing
tense.

Miss St. Clair rose and gave him her hand. “I will send a friend to you,
and I beg you to excuse me,” Ranald bowed gravely, “and to forgive me,”
 and she left the room. Ranald heard her pass through the hall and up the
stairs and then a door closed behind her. Before he had time to gather
his thoughts together he heard a voice outside that made his heart stand
still. Then the front door opened quickly and Maimie and De Lacy stood
in the hall. She was gayly talking. Ranald rose and stood with his back
to the door. Before him was a large mirror which reflected the hall
through the open door. He stood waiting for them to enter.

“Hang up your hat, Captain De Lacy, then go in and find a chair while I
run upstairs,” cried Maimie, gayly. “You must learn your way about here
now.”

“No,” said De Lacy, in a low, distinct voice. “I can wait no longer,
Maimie.”

She looked at him a moment as if in fear.

“Come,” he said, holding out his hands to her. “There was no chance in
the park, and I can wait no longer.” Slowly she came near. “My darling,
my sweetheart,” he said, in a low voice full of intense passion. Then,
while she lay in his arms, he kissed her on the lips twice. Ranald stood
gazing in the mirror as if fascinated. As their lips met a low groan
burst from him. He faced about, and with a single step, stood in the
doorway. Shriek after shriek echoed through the house as Maimie sprang
from De Lacy’s arms and shrank back to the wall.

“Great heavens,” cried De Lacy, “why it’s Macdonald! What the deuce do
you mean coming in on people like that?”

“What is it, Maimie,” cried her Aunt Frank, hurrying down stairs.

Then she saw Ranald standing in the doorway, with face bloodless,
ghastly, livid. Quickly she went up to him, and said, in a voice
trembling and not ungentle: “Oh, why did you wait, Mr. Macdonald; go
away now, go away.”

Ranald turned and looked at her with a curious uncomprehending gaze, and
then said, “Yes, I will go away.” He took a step toward Maimie, his eyes
like lurid flames. She shrank from him, while De Lacy stepped in his
path. With a sweep of his arm he brushed De Lacy aside, hurling him
crashing against the wall, and stood before the shrinking girl.

“Good by, Maimie; forget that I loved you once.”

The words came slowly from his pallid lips. For some moments he stood
with his burning eyes fastened upon her face. Then he turned slowly from
her and groped blindly for his hat. Miss St. Clair hurried toward him,
found his hat, and putting it in his hand, said, in a broken voice,
while tears poured down her cheeks: “Here it is; good by, good by.”

He looked at her a moment as if in surprise, and then, with a smile of
rare sweetness on his white lips, he said, “I thank you,” and passed
out, going feebly like a man who has got a death wound.



CHAPTER XXIII

A GOOD TRUE FRIEND


It was springtime and the parks and avenues were in all the dainty
splendor of their new leaves. The afternoon May sun was flooding the
city with gold and silver light, and all the air was tremulous with the
singing of birds. A good day it was to live if one could only live in
the sunny air within sight of the green leaves and within sound of the
singing birds. A day for life and love it was; at least so Kate thought
as she drew up her prancing team at the St. Clair house where Harry
stood waiting for her.

“DEAR Kate,” he cried, “how stunning you are! I love you!”

“Come, Harry, jump up! Breton is getting excited.”

“Stony-hearted wretch,” grumbled Harry. “Did you hear me tell you I love
you?”

“Nonsense, Harry, jump in; I’ll report to Lily Langford.”

“Don’t tell,” pleaded Harry, “and do keep Breton on all fours. This
isn’t a circus. You terrify me.”

“We have only time to make the train, hurry up!” cried Kate. “Steady, my
boys.”

“Some day, Kate, those ‘boys’ of yours will be your death or the death
of some of your friends,” said Harry, as he sprang in and took his place
beside Kate. “That Breton ought to be shot. It really affects my heart
to drive with you.”

“You haven’t any, Harry, you know that right well, so don’t be alarmed.”

“Quite true,” said Harry, sentimentally, “not since that night, don’t
you remember, Kate, when you--”

“Now, Harry, I only remind you that I always tell my girl friends
everything you say. It is this wedding that’s got into your blood.”

“I suppose so,” murmured Harry, pensively; “wish it would get into
yours. Now seriously, Kate, at your years you ought--”

“Harry,” said Kate, indignantly, “I really don’t need you at the
station. I can meet your aunt quite well without you. Shall I set you
down here, or drive you to the office?”

“Oh, not to the office, I entreat! I entreat! Anything but that! Surely
I may be allowed this day! I shall be careful of your sensitive points,
but I do hope this wedding of Maimie’s will give you serious thoughts.”

Kate was silent, giving her attention doubtless to her team. Then, with
seeming irrelevance, she said: “Didn’t I see Colonel Thorp yesterday in
town?”

“Yes, the old heathen! I haven’t forgiven him for taking off Ranald as
he did.”

“He didn’t take off Ranald. Ranald was going off anyway.”

“How do you know?” said Harry.

“I know,” replied Kate, with a little color in her cheek. “He told me
himself.”

“Well, old Thorp was mighty glad to get him; I can tell you that. The
old sinner!”

“He’s just a dear!” cried Kate. “Yes, he was glad to get Ranald. What a
splendid position he gave him.”

“Oh, yes, I know, he adores you like all the rest, and so you think him
a dear.”

But this Kate ignored for the team were speeding along at an alarming
pace. With amazing skill and dash she threaded her way through the
crowded streets with almost no checking of her speed.

“Do be careful,” cried Harry, as the wheels of their carriage skimmed
the noses of the car-horses. “I am quite sure my aunt will not be able
to recognize me.”

“And why not?”

“Because I shall be gray-haired by the time I reach the station.”

“There’s the train I do believe,” cried Kate, flourishing her whip over
her horses’ backs. “We must not be late.”

“If we ever get there alive,” said Harry.

“Here we are sure enough.”

“Shall I go to the train?”

“No, indeed,” cried Kate. “Do you think I am going to allow any one to
meet MY Aunt Murray but myself? I shall go; you hold the horses.”

“I am afraid, really,” cried Harry, pretending terror.

“Oh, I fancy you will do,” cried Kate, smiling sweetly, as she ran off
to meet the incoming train. In a few moments she returned with Mrs.
Murray and carrying a large, black valise.

“Hello, auntie dear,” cried Harry. “You see I can’t leave these brutes
of Kate’s, but believe me it does me good to see you. What a blessing a
wedding is to bring you to us. I suppose you won’t come again until it
is Kate’s or mine.”

“That would be sure to bring me,” cried Mrs. Murray, smiling her bright
smile, “provided you married the right persons.”

“Why, auntie,” said Harry, dismally, “Kate is so unreasonable. She won’t
take even me. You see she’s so tremendously impressed with herself, and
all the fellows spoil her.”

By this time Kate had the reins and Harry had climbed into the back
seat.

“Dear old auntie,” he said, kissing his aunt, “I am really delighted
to see you. But to return to Kate. Look at her! Doesn’t she look like a
Roman princess?”

“Now, Harry, do be sensible, or I shall certainly drive you at once to
the office,” said Kate, severely.

“Oh, the heartlessness of her. She knows well enough that Colonel Thorp
is there, and she would shamelessly exult over his abject devotion. She
respects neither innocent youth nor gray hairs, as witness myself and
Colonel Thorp.”

“Isn’t he a silly boy, auntie?” said Kate, “and he is not much improving
with age.”

“But what’s this about Colonel Thorp?” said Mrs. Murray. “Sometimes
Ranald writes of him, in high terms, too.”

“Well, you ought to hear Thorp abuse Ranald. Says he’s ruining the
company with his various philanthropic schemes,” said Harry, “but you
can never tell what he means exactly. He’s a wily old customer.”

“Don’t believe him, auntie,” said Kate, with a sagacious smile. “Colonel
Thorp thinks that the whole future of his company and of the Province
depends solely upon Ranald. It is quite ridiculous to hear him, while
all the time he is abusing him for his freaks.”

“It must be a great country out there, though,” said Harry, “and what a
row they are making over Confederation.”

“What do you mean, Harry?” said Mrs. Murray. “We hear so little in the
country.”

“Well, I don’t know exactly, but those fellows in British Columbia are
making all sorts of threats that unless this railway is built forthwith
they will back out of the Dominion, and some of them talk of annexation
with the United States. Don’t I wish I was there! What a lucky fellow
Ranald is. Thorp says he’s a big gun already. No end of a swell. Of
course, as manager of a big concern like the British-American Coal and
Lumber Company, he is a man of some importance.”

“I don’t think he is taking much to do with public questions,” said
Kate, “though he did make a speech at New Westminster not long ago. He
has been up in those terrible woods almost ever since he went.”

“Hello, how do you know?” said Harry, looking at her suspiciously; “I
get a fragment of a note from Ranald now and then, but he is altogether
too busy to remember humble people.”

“I hear regularly from Coley. You remember Coley, don’t you?” said Kate,
turning to Mrs. Murray.

“Oh, yes, that’s the lad in whom Ranald was so interested in the
Institute.”

“Yes,” replied Kate; “Coley begged and prayed to go with Ranald, and so
he went.”

“She omits to state,” said Harry, “that she also ‘begged and prayed’ and
further that she outfitted the young rascal, though I’ve reason to thank
Providence for removing him to another sphere.”

“How does it affect you?” said Mrs. Murray.

“Why, haven’t you heard, Aunt Murray, of the tremendous heights to which
I have attained? I suppose she didn’t tell you of her dinner party. That
was after you had left last fall. It was a great bit of generalship.
Some of Ranald’s foot-ball friends, Little Merrill, Starry Hamilton,
that’s the captain, you know, and myself among them, were asked to
a farewell supper by this young lady, and when the men had well
drunk--fed, I mean--and were properly dissolved in tears over the
prospect of Ranald’s departure, at a critical moment the Institute
was introduced as a side issue. It was dear to Ranald’s heart. A most
effective picture was drawn of the Institute deserted and falling into
ruins, so to speak, with Kate heroically struggling to prevent utter
collapse. Could this be allowed? No! a thousand times no! Some one would
be found surely! Who would it be! At this juncture Kate, who had been
maintaining a powerful silence, smiled upon Little Merrill, who being
distinctly inflammable, and for some mysterious reason devoted to
Ranald, and for an even more mysterious reason devoted to Kate, swore
he’d follow if some one would lead. What could I do? My well-known
abilities naturally singled me out for leadership, so to prevent any
such calamity, I immediately proposed that if Starry Hamilton, the great
foot-ball chief, would command this enterprise I would follow. Before
the evening was over the Institute was thoroughly manned.”

“It is nearly half true, aunt,” said Kate.

“And by our united efforts,” continued Harry, “the Institute has
survived the loss of Ranald.”

“I cannot tell you how overjoyed I am, Harry, that both of my boys are
taking hold of such good work, you here and Ranald in British Columbia.
He must have a very hard time of it, but he speaks very gratefully of
Colonel Thorp, who, he says, often opposes but finally agrees with his
proposals.”

Harry laughed aloud. “Agrees, does he? And do you know why? I remember
seeing him one day, and he was in a state of wild fury at Ranald’s
notions. I won’t quote his exact words. The next day I found him in a
state of bland approval. Then I learn incidentally that in the meantime
Kate has been giving him tea and music.”

“Don’t listen to his mean insinuations, auntie,” said Kate, blushing a
little.

Mrs. Murray turned and looked curiously into her face and smiled, and
then Kate blushed all the more.

“I think that may explain some things that have been mysterious to me,”
 she said.

“Oh, what, auntie?” cried Harry; “I am most anxious to know.”

“Never mind,” said Mrs. Murray; “I will explain to Kate.”

“That won’t help me any. She is a most secretive person, twiddles us all
round her fingers and never lets us know anything until it’s done. It is
most exasperating. Oh, I say, Kate,” added Harry, suddenly, “would you
mind dropping me at the florist’s here?”

“Why? Oh, I see,” said Kate, drawing in her team. “How do you do, Lily?
Harry is anxious to select some flowers,” she said, bowing to a very
pretty girl on the sidewalk.

“Kate, do stop it,” besought Harry, in a low voice, as he leaped out of
the carriage. “Good by, auntie, I’ll see you this evening. Don’t believe
all Kate tells you,” he added, as they drove away.

“Are you too tired for a turn in the park,” said Kate, “or shall we
drive home?”

A drive is always pleasant. Besides, one can talk about some things with
more freedom in a carriage than face to face in one’s room. The horses
require attention at critical moments, and there are always points of
interest when it is important that conversation should be deflected from
the subject in hand, so since Mrs. Murray was willing, Kate turned into
the park. For an hour they drove along its shady, winding roads while
Mrs. Murray talked of many things, but mostly of Ranald, and of the
tales that the Glengarry people had of him. For wherever there was
lumbering to be done, sooner or later there Glengarry men were to be
found, and Ranald had found them in the British Columbia forests. And
to their people at home their letters spoke of Ranald and his doings
at first doubtfully, soon more confidently, but always with pride. To
Macdonald Bhain a rare letter came from Ranald now and then, which he
would carry to Mrs. Murray with a difficult pretense of modesty. For
with Macdonald Bhain, Ranald was a great man.

“But he is not quite sure of him,” said Mrs. Murray. “He thinks it is a
very queer way of lumbering, and the wages he considers excessive.”

“Does he say that?” asked Kate. “That’s just what Colonel Thorp says his
company are saying. But he stands up for Ranald even when he can’t see
that his way is the best. The colonel is not very sure about Ranald’s
schemes for the men, his reading-room, library, and that sort of thing.
But I’m sure he will succeed.” But Kate’s tone belied her confident
words.

Mrs. Murray noticed the anxiety in Kate’s voice. “At least we are
sure,” she said, gently, “that he will do right, and after all that is
success.”

“I know that right well,” replied Kate; “but it is hard for him out
there with no one to help him or to encourage him.”

Again Mrs. Murray looked at Kate, curiously.

“It must be a terrible place,” Kate went on, “especially for one like
Ranald, for he has no mind to let things go. He will do a thing as it
ought to be done, or not at all.” Soon after this Kate gave her mind to
her horses, and in a short time headed them for home.

“What a delightful drive we have had,” said Mrs. Murray, gratefully, as
Kate took her upstairs to her room.

“I hope I have not worried you with my dismal forebodings,” she said,
with a little laugh.

“No, dear,” said Mrs. Murray, drawing her face down to the pillow where
Kate had made her lay her head. “I think I understand,” she added, in a
whisper.

Then Kate laid her face beside that of her friend and whispered, “Oh,
auntie, it is so hard for him”; but Mrs. Murray stroked her head softly
and said: “There is no fear, Kate; all will be well with him.”

Immediately after dinner Kate carried Mrs. Murray with her to her own
room, and after establishing her in all possible comfort, she began to
read extracts from Coley’s letters.

“Here is the first, auntie; they are more picturesque than elegant, but
if you knew Coley, you wouldn’t mind; you’d be glad to get any letter
from him.” So saying Kate turned her back to the window, a position with
the double advantage of allowing the light to fall upon the paper and
the shadow to rest upon her face, and so proceeded to read:


DEAR MISS KATE: We got here--(“That is to New Westminster.”) last night,
and it is a queer town. The streets run every way, the houses are all
built of wood, and almost none of them are painted. The streets are full
of all sorts of people. I saw lots of Chinamen and Indians. It makes
a feller feel kind o’ queer as if he was in some foreign country.
The hotel where we stopped was a pretty good lookin’ place. Of course
nothin’ like the hotel we stopped at in San Francisco. It was pretty
fine inside, but after supper when the crowd began to come in to the
bar you never saw such a gang in your life! They knew how to sling their
money, I can tell you. And then they begun to yell and cut up. I tell
you it would make the Ward seem like a Sunday school. The Boss, that’s
what they call him here, I guess didn’t like it much, and I don’t think
you would, either. Next morning we went to look at the mills. They are
just sheds with slab roofs. I don’t think much of them myself, though I
don’t know much about mills. The Boss went round askin’ questions and
I don’t think he liked the look of them much either. I know he kept
his lips shut pretty tight as we used to see him do sometimes in the
Institute. I am awful glad he brought me along. He says I have got to
write to you at least once a month, and I’ve got to take care of my
writin’ too and get the spellin’ right. When I think of the fellers back
in the alleys pitchin’ pennies I tell you I’d ruther die than go back.
Here a feller feels he’s alive. I wish I’d paid more attention to my
writin’ in the night school, but I guess I was pretty much of a fool
them days, and you were awful good to me. The Boss says that a man must
always pay his way, and when I told him I wanted to pay for them clothes
you gave me he looked kind o’ funny, but he said “that’s right,” so I
want you to tell me what they cost and I will pay you first thing, for
I’m goin’ to be a man out in this country. We’re goin’ up the river
next week and see the gangs workin’ up there in the bush. It’s kind o’
lonesome here goin’ along the street and lookin’ people in the faces to
see if you can see one you know. Lots of times I though I did see some
one I knew but it wasn’t. Good by, I’ll write you soon again.

Yours truly,

MICHAEL COLE.


“The second letter,” Kate went on, “is written from the camp, Twentymile
Camp, he calls it. He tells how they went up the river in the steamer,
taking with them some new hands for their camp, and how these men came
on board half drunk, and how all the way up to Yale they were drinking
and fighting. It must have been horrible. After that they went on
smaller boats and then by wagons. On the roads it must have been
terrible. Coley seems much impressed with the big trees. He says:”


“These big trees are pretty hard to write about without sayin’ words the
Boss don’t allow. It makes you think of bein’ in St. Michaels, it’s so
quiet and solemn-like, and I never felt so small in all my life. The
Boss and me walked the last part of the way, and got to camp late and
pretty tired, and the men we brought in with us was all pretty mad, but
the Boss never paid no attention to ‘em but went whistlin’ about as if
everything was lovely. We had some pork and beans for supper, then went
to sleep in a bunk nailed up against the side of the shanty. It was as
hard as a board, but I tell you it felt pretty good. Next day I went
wanderin’ ‘round with the foreman and the Boss. I tell you I was afraid
to get very far away from ‘em, for I’d be sure to get lost; the bush is
that thick that you can’t see your own length ahead of you. That night,
when the Boss and me and the foreman was in the shanty they call the
office, after supper, we heard a most awful row. ‘What’s that?’ says
the Boss. ‘O, that’s nothin’,’ says the foreman; ‘the boys is havin’ a
little fun, I guess.’ He didn’t say anything, but went on talkin’, but
in a little while the row got worse, and we heard poundin’ and smashin’.
‘Do you allow that sort of thing?’ says the Boss. ‘Well,’ he says,
‘Guess the boys got some whiskey last night. I generally let ‘em alone.’
‘Well,’ says the Boss, quiet-like, ‘I think you’d better go in and
stop it.’ ‘Not if I know myself,’ says the foreman, ‘I ain’t ordered my
funeral yet.’ ‘Well, we’ll go in and see, anyway,’ says the Boss. I tell
you I was kind o’ scared, but I thought I might as well go along. When
we got into the sleepin’ shanty there was a couple of fellers with
hand-spikes breakin’ up the benches and knockin’ things around most
terrible. ‘Say, boys,’ yelled the foreman, and then he began to swear
most awful. They didn’t seem to pay much attention, but kept on knockin’
around and swearin’. ‘Come, now,’ says the foreman, kind o’ coaxin’
like, ‘this ain’t no way to act. Get down and behave yourselves.’ But
still they didn’t pay no attention. Then the Boss walked up to the
biggest one, and when he got quite close to ‘em they all got still
lookin’ on. ‘I’ll take that hand-spike,’ says the Boss. ‘Help yourself,’
says the man swingin’ it up. I don’t know what happened, it was done
so quick, but before you could count three that feller was on his knees
bleedin’ like a pig and the hand-spike was out of the door, and the Boss
walks up to the other feller and says, ‘Put that hand-spike outside.’ He
begun to swear. ‘Put it out,’ says the Boss, quiet-like, and the feller
backs up and throws his hand-spike out. And the Boss up and speaks and
says, ‘Look here, men, I don’t want to interfere with nobody, and won’t
while he behaves himself, but there ain’t goin’ to be any row like that
in this camp. Say, you ought to have seen ‘em! They sat like the gang
used to in the night school, and then he turned and walked out and we
all follered him. I guess they ain’t used to that sort of thing in this
camp. I heard the men talkin’ next day pretty big of what they was goin’
to do, but I don’t think they’ll do much. They don’t look that kind.
Anyway, if there’s goin’ to be a fight, I’d feel safer with the Boss
than with the whole lot of ‘em.”


“The letter after this,” went on Kate, “tells of what happened the
Sunday following.”


“We’d gone out in the afternoon, Boss and me, for a walk, and when we
got back the camp was just howlin’ drunk, and the foreman was worst of
all. They kind o’ quieted down for a little when we come in and let us
get into the office, but pretty soon they began actin’ up funny again
and swearin’ most awful. Then I see the Boss shut up his lips hard, and
I says to myself ‘Look out for blood.’ Then he starts over for the bunk
shanty. I was mighty scared, and follered him close. Just as we shoved
open the door a bottle come singin’ through the air and smashed to a
thousand bits on the beam above. ‘Is that the kind of cowards you
are?’ says the Boss, quite cool. He didn’t speak loud, but I tell you
everybody heard him and got dead still. ‘No, Boss,’ says one feller,
‘not all.’ ‘The man that threw that bottle,’ says the boss, ‘is a
coward, and the meanest kind. He’s afraid to step out here for five
minutes.’ Nobody moved. ‘Step up, ye baste,’ says an Irishman, ‘or it’s
mesilf will kick ye out of the camp.’ And out the feller comes. It was
the same duck that the Boss scared out of the door the first night.
‘Sthand up till ‘im Billie,’ says the Irishman; ‘we’ll see fair play.
Sthand up to the gintleman.’ ‘Billie,’ says the Boss, and his eyes was
blazin’ like candles; ‘yer goin’ to leave this camp to-morrow mornin’.
You can take your choice; will you get onto your knees now or later?’
With that Billie whipped out a knife and rushes at him; but the Boss
grabs his wrist and gives it a twist, and the knife fell onto the floor.
The Boss holds him like a baby, and picks up the knife and throws it
into the fire. ‘Now,’ says he, ‘get onto your knees. Quick!’ And the
feller drops on his knees, and bellered like a calf.

“‘Let’s pray,’ says some one, and the crowd howls. ‘Give us yer hand,
Boss,’ says the Irishman. ‘Yer the top o’ this gang.’ The Irishman
shoves out his clipper, and the Boss takes it in an easy kind of a way.
My you o’t to seen that Irishman squirm. ‘Howly Mither!’ he yells, and
dances round, ‘what do ye think yer got?’ and he goes off lookin’ at his
fingers, and the Boss stands lookin’ at ‘em, and says, ‘You’r a nice
lot of fellers, you don’t deserve it; but I’m goin’ to treat you fair.
I know you feel Sunday pretty slow, and I’ll try to make it better for
you; but I want you to know that I won’t have any more row in this
camp, and I won’t have any man here that can’t behave himself. To-morrow
morning, YOU,’ pointin’ at the foreman, ‘and you, Billie,’ and YOU,
pointin’ at another chap, leave the camp, and they did too, though they
begged and prayed to let ‘em stay, and by next Sunday we had a lot
of papers and books, with pictures in ‘em, and a bang-up dinner, and
everything went nice. I am likin’ it fine. I’m time-keeper, and look
after the store; but I drive the team too every chance I get, and I’d
ruther do that a long way. But many a night I tell you when the Boss and
me is alone we talk about you and the Institute fellers, and the Boss--”


“Well, that’s all,” said Kate, “but isn’t it terrible? Aren’t they
dreadful?”

“Poor fellows,” said Mrs. Murray; “it’s a very hard life for them.”

“But isn’t it awful, auntie? They might kill him,” said Kate.

“Yes, dear,” said Mrs. Murray, in a soothing voice, “but it sounds worse
to us perhaps than it is.”

Mrs. Murray had not lived in the Indian Lands for nothing.

“Oh, if anything should happen to him?” said Kate, with sudden
agitation.

“We must just trust him to the great Keeper,” said Mrs. Murray, quietly,
“in Whose keeping all are safe whether there or here.”

Then going to her valise, she took out a letter and handed it to Kate,
saying: “That’s his last to me. You can look at it, Kate.”

Kate took the letter and put it in her desk. “I think, perhaps, we had
better go down now,” she said; “I expect Colonel Thorp has come. I think
you will like him. He seems a little rough, but he is a gentleman, and
has a true heart,” and they went downstairs.

It is the mark of a gentleman to know his kind. He has an instinct
for what is fine and offers ready homage to what is worthy. Any one
observing Colonel Thorp’s manner of receiving Mrs. Murray would have
known him at once for a gentleman, for when that little lady came into
the drawing-room, dressed in her decent silk gown, with soft white lace
at her throat, bearing herself with sweet dignity, and stepping with
dainty grace on her toes, after the manner of the fine ladies of the
old school, and not after the flat-footed, heel-first modern style, the
colonel abandoned his usual careless manner and rose and stood rigidly
at attention.

“Auntie, this is my friend, Colonel Thorp,” said Kate.

“Proud to know you madam,” said the colonel, with his finest military
bow.

“And I am glad to meet Colonel Thorp; I have heard so much of him
through my friends,” and she smiled at him with such genuine kindliness
that the gallant colonel lost his heart at once.

“Your friends have been doing me proud,” he said, bowing to her and then
to Kate.

“Oh, you needn’t look at me,” said Kate; “you don’t imagine I have been
saying nice things about you? She has other friends that think much of
you.”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Murray, “Ranald has often spoken of you, Colonel Thorp,
and of your kindness,” said Mrs. Murray.

The colonel looked doubtful. “Well, I don’t know that he thinks much of
me. I have had to be pretty hard on him.”

“Why?” asked Mrs. Murray.

“Well, I reckon you know him pretty well,” began the colonel.

“Well, she ought to,” said Kate, “she brought him up, and his many
virtues he owes mostly to my dear aunt’s training.”

“Oh, Kate, you must not say that,” said Mrs. Murray, gravely.

“Then,” said the colonel, “you ought to be proud of him. You produced a
rare article in the commercial world, and that is a man of honor. He is
not for sale, and I want to say that I feel as safe about the company’s
money out there as if I was settin’ on it; but he needs watching,” added
the colonel, “he needs watching.”

“What do you mean?” said Mrs. Murray, whose pale face had flushed with
pleasure and pride at the colonel’s praise of Ranald.

“Too much philanthropy,” said the colonel, bluntly; “the
British-American Coal and Lumber Company ain’t a benevolent society
exactly.”

“I am glad you spoke of that, Colonel Thorp; I want to ask you about
some things that I don’t understand. I know that the company are
criticising some of Ranald’s methods, but don’t know why exactly.”

“Now, Colonel,” cried Kate, “stand to your guns.”

“Well,” said the colonel, “I am going to execute a masterly retreat,
as they used to say when a fellow ran away. I am going to get behind my
company. They claim, you see, that Ranald ain’t a paying concern.”

“But how?” said Mrs. Murray.

Then the colonel enumerated the features of Ranald’s management most
severely criticised by the company. He paid the biggest wages going; the
cost of supplies for the camps was greater, and the company’s stores
did not show as large profits as formerly; “and of course,” said the
colonel, “the first aim of any company is to pay dividends, and the
manager that can’t do that has to go.”

Then Mrs. Murray proceeded to deal with the company’s contentions,
going at once with swift intuition to the heart of the matter. “You
were speaking of honor a moment ago, Colonel. There is such a thing in
business?”

“Certainly, that’s why I put that young man where he is.”

“That means that the company expect him to deal fairly by them.”

“That’s about it.”

“And being a man of honor, I suppose he will also deal fairly by the men
and by himself.”

“I guess so,” said the colonel.

“I don’t pretend to understand the questions fully, but from Ranald’s
letters I have gathered that he did not consider that justice was being
done either to the men or to the company. For instance, in the matter
of stores--I may be wrong in this, you will correct me, Colonel--I
understand it was the custom to charge the men in the camps for the
articles they needed prices three or four times what was fair.”

“Well,” said the colonel, “I guess things WERE a little high, but that’s
the way every company does.”

“And then I understand that the men were so poorly housed and fed and so
poorly paid that only those of the inferior class could be secured.”

“Well, I guess they weren’t very high-class,” said the colonel, “that’s
right enough.”

“But, Colonel, if you secure a better class of men, and you treat them
in a fair and honorable way with some regard to their comfort you ought
to get better results in work, shouldn’t you?”

“Well, that’s so,” said the colonel; “there never was such an amount
of timber got out with the same number of men since the company started
work, but yet the thing don’t pay, and that’s the trouble. The concern
must pay or go under.”

“Yes, that’s quite true, Colonel,” said Mrs. Murray; “but why doesn’t
your concern pay?”

“Well, you see, there’s no market; trade is dull and we can’t sell to
advantage.”

“But surely that is not your manager’s fault,” said Mrs. Murray, “and
surely it would be an unjust thing to hold him responsible for that.”

“But the company don’t look at things in that light,” said the colonel.
“You see they figure it this way, stores ain’t bringing in the returns
they used to, the camps cost a little more, wages are a little higher,
there ain’t nothing coming in, and they say, Well, that chap out there
means well with his reading-rooms for the mill hands, his library in the
camp, and that sort of thing, but he ain’t sharp enough!”

“Sharp enough! that’s a hard word, Colonel,” said Mrs. Murray,
earnestly, “and it may be a cruel word, but if Ranald were ever so sharp
he really couldn’t remove the real cause of the trouble. You say he has
produced larger results than ever before, and if the market were normal
there would be larger returns. Then, it seems to me, Colonel, that if
Ranald suffers he is suffering, not because he has been unfaithful or
incompetent, but because the market is bad, and that I am certain you
would not consider fair.”

“You must not be too hard on us,” said the colonel. “So far as I
am concerned, I think you are right, but it is a hard thing to make
business men look at these things in anything but a business way.”

“But it should not be hard, Colonel,” said Mrs. Murray, with sad
earnestness, “to make even business men see that when honor is the price
of dividends the cost is too great,” and without giving the colonel an
opportunity of replying, she went on with eager enthusiasm to show how
the laws of the kingdom of heaven might be applied to the great problems
of labor. “And it would pay, Colonel,” she cried, “it would pay in
money, but far more it would pay in what cannot be bought for money--in
the lives and souls of men, for unjust and uncharitable dealing injures
more the man who is guilty of it than the man who suffers from it in the
first instance.”

“Madam,” answered the colonel, gravely, “I feel you are right, and I
should be glad to have you address the meeting of our share-holders,
called for next month, to discuss the question of our western business.”

“Do you mean Ranald’s position?” asked Kate.

“Well, I rather think that will come up.”

“Then,” said Mrs. Murray, unconsciously claiming the colonel’s
allegiance, “I feel sure there will be one advocate at least for fair
and honorable dealing at that meeting.” And the colonel was far too
gallant to refuse to acknowledge the claim, but simply said: “You may
trust me, madam; I shall do my best.”

“I only wish papa were here,” said Kate. “He is a share-holder, isn’t
he? And wish he could hear you, auntie, but he and mamma won’t be home
for two weeks.”

“Oh, Kate,” cried Mrs. Murray, “you make me ashamed, and I fear I have
been talking too much.”

At this point Harry came in. “I just came over to send you to bed,” he
said, kissing his aunt, and greeting the others. “You are all to look
your most beautiful to-morrow.”

“Well,” said the colonel, slowly, “that won’t be hard for the rest of
you, and it don’t matter much for me, and I hope we ain’t going to lose
our music.”

“No, indeed!” cried Kate, sitting down at the piano, while the colonel
leaned back in his easy chair and gave himself up to an hour’s unmingled
delight.

“You have given more pleasure than you know to a wayfaring man,” he
said, as he bade her good night.

“Come again, when you are in town, you are always welcome, Colonel
Thorp,” she said.

“You may count me here every time,” said the colonel. Then turning to
Mrs. Murray, with a low bow, he said, “you have given me some ideas
madam, that I hope may not be quite unfruitful, and as for that young
man of yours, well--I--guess--you ain’t--hurt his cause any. We’ll put
up a fight, anyway.”

“I am glad to have met you, Colonel Thorp,” said Mrs. Murray, “and I am
quite sure you will stand up for what is right,” and with another bow
the colonel took his leave.

“Now, Harry, you must go, too,” said Kate; “you can see your aunt again
after to-morrow, and I must get my beauty sleep, besides I don’t want
to stand up with a man gaunt and hollow-eyed for lack of sleep,” and she
bundled him off in spite of his remonstrances. But eager as Kate was for
her beauty sleep, the light burned late in her room; and long after
she had seen Mrs. Murray snugly tucked in for the night, she sat with
Ranald’s open letter in her hand, reading it till she almost knew it by
heart. It told, among other things, of his differences with the
company in regard to stores, wages, and supplies, and of his efforts to
establish a reading-room at the mills, and a library at the camps; but
there was a sentence at the close of the letter that Kate read over and
over again with the light of a great love in her eyes and with a cry of
pain in her heart. “The magazines and papers that Kate sends are a great
boon. Dear Kate, what a girl she is! I know none like her; and what
a friend she has been to me ever since the day she stood up for me at
Quebec. You remember I told you about that. What a guy I must have been,
but she never showed a sign of shame. I often think of that now, how
different she was from another! I see it now as I could not then--a man
is a fool once in his life, but I have got my lesson and still have a
good true friend.” Often she read and long she pondered the last words.
It was so easy to read too much into them. “A good, true friend.” She
looked at the words till the tears came. Then she stood up and looked at
herself in the glass.

“Now, young woman,” she said, severely, “be sensible and don’t dream
dreams until you are asleep, and to sleep you must go forthwith.” But
sleep was slow to come, and strange to say, it was the thought of the
little woman in the next room that quieted her heart and sent her to
sleep, and next day she was looking her best. And when the ceremony was
over, and the guests were assembled at the wedding breakfast, there were
not a few who agreed with Harry when, in his speech, he threw down his
gage as champion for the peerless bridesmaid, whom for the hour--alas,
too short--he was privileged to call his “lady fair.” For while Kate
had not the beauty of form and face and the fascination of manner that
turned men’s heads and made Maimie the envy of all her set, there was
in her a wholesomeness, a fearless sincerity, a noble dignity, and that
indescribable charm of a true heart that made men trust her and love her
as only good women are loved. At last the brilliant affair was all over,
the rice and old boots were thrown, the farewell words spoken, and tears
shed, and then the aunts came back to the empty and disordered house.

“Well, I am glad for Maimie,” said Aunt Frank; “it is a good match.”

“Dear Maimie,” replied Aunt Murray, with a gentle sigh, “I hope she will
be happy.”

“After all it is much better,” said Aunt Frank.

“Yes, it is much better,” replied Mrs. Murray; and then she added, “How
lovely Kate looked! What a noble girl she is,” but she did not explain
even to herself, much less to Aunt Frank, the nexus of her thoughts.



CHAPTER XXIV

THE WEST


The meeting of the share-holders of the British-American Lumber and
Coal Company was, on the whole, a stormy one, for the very best of
reasons--the failure of the company to pay dividends. The annual report
which the president presented showed clearly that there was a slight
increase in expenditure and a considerable falling off in sales, and it
needed but a little mathematical ability to reach the conclusion that
in a comparatively short time the company would be bankrupt. The
share-holders were thoroughly disgusted with the British Columbia end
of the business, and were on the lookout for a victim. Naturally their
choice fell upon the manager. The concern failed to pay. It was the
manager’s business to make it pay and the failure must be laid to his
charge. Their confidence in their manager was all the more shaken by the
reports that had reached them of his peculiar fads--his reading-room,
library, etc. These were sufficient evidence of his lack of business
ability. He was undoubtedly a worthy young man, but there was every
ground to believe that he was something of a visionary, and men with
great hesitation intrust hard cash to the management of an idealist. It
was, perhaps, unfortunate for Mr. St. Clair that he should be appealed
to upon this point, for his reluctance to express an opinion as to the
ability of the manager, and his admission that possibly the young man
might properly be termed a visionary, brought Colonel Thorp sharply to
his feet.

“Mr. St. Clair,” said the colonel, in a cool, cutting voice, “will not
hesitate to bear testimony to the fact that our manager is a man whose
integrity cannot be tampered with. If I mistake not, Mr. St. Clair has
had evidence of this.”

Mr. St. Clair hastened to bear the very strongest testimony to the
manager’s integrity.

“And Mr. St. Clair, I have no doubt,” went on the colonel, “will be
equally ready to bear testimony to the conspicuous ability our manager
displayed while he was in the service of the Raymond and St. Clair
Lumber Company.”

Mr. St. Clair promptly corroborated the colonel’s statement.

“We are sure of two things, therefore,” continued the colonel, “that
our manager is a man of integrity, and that he has displayed conspicuous
business ability in his former positions.”

At this point the colonel was interrupted, and his attention was called
to the fact that the reports showed an increase of expenditure for
supplies and for wages, and on the other hand a falling off in the
revenue from the stores. But the colonel passed over these points as
insignificant. “It is clear,” he proceeded, “that the cause of failure
does not lie in the management, but in the state of the market. The
political situation in that country is very doubtful, and this has an
exceedingly depressing effect upon business.”

“Then,” interrupted a share-holder, “it is time the company should
withdraw from that country and confine itself to a district where the
market is sure and the future more stable.”

“What about these fads, Colonel?” asked another share-holder; “these
reading-rooms, libraries, etc? Do you think we pay a man to establish
that sort of thing? To my mind they simply put a lot of nonsense
into the heads of the working-men and are the chief cause of
dissatisfaction.” Upon this point the colonel did not feel competent to
reply; consequently the feeling of the meeting became decidedly hostile
to the present manager, and a resolution was offered demanding his
resignation. It was also agreed that the board of directors should
consider the advisability of withdrawing altogether from British
Columbia, inasmuch as the future of that country seemed to be very
uncertain. Thereupon Colonel Thorp rose and begged leave to withdraw his
name from the directorate of the company. He thought it was unwise to
abandon a country where they had spent large sums of money, without a
thorough investigation of the situation, and he further desired to enter
his protest against the injustice of making their manager suffer for a
failure for which he had in no way been shown to be responsible. But the
share-holders refused to even consider Colonel Thorp’s request, and both
the president and secretary exhausted their eloquence in eulogizing his
value to the company. As a compromise it was finally decided to continue
operations in British Columbia for another season. Colonel Thorp
declared that the reforms and reorganization schemes inaugurated by
Ranald would result in great reductions in the cost of production, and
that Ranald should be given opportunity to demonstrate the success or
failure of his plans; and further, the political situation doubtless
would be more settled. The wisdom of this decision was manifested later.

The spirit of unrest and dissatisfaction appeared again at the next
annual meeting, for while conditions were improving, dividends were
not yet forthcoming. Once again Colonel Thorp successfully championed
Ranald’s cause, this time insisting that a further test of two seasons
be made, prophesying that not only would the present deficit disappear,
but that their patience and confidence would be amply rewarded.

Yielding to pressure, and desiring to acquaint himself with actual
conditions from personal observation, Colonel Thorp concluded to visit
British Columbia the autumn preceding the annual meeting which was to
succeed Ranald’s period of probation.

Therefore it was that Colonel Thorp found himself on the coast steamship
Oregon approaching the city of Victoria. He had not enjoyed his voyage,
and was, consequently, in no mood to receive the note which was handed
him by a brisk young man at the landing.

“Who’s this from, Pat,” said the colonel, taking the note.

“Mike, if you please, Michael Cole, if you don’t mind; and the note is
from the boss, Mr. Macdonald, who has gone up the country, and can’t be
here to welcome you.”

“Gone up the country!” roared the colonel; “what the blank, blank, does
he mean by going up the country at this particular time?”

But Mr. Michael Cole was quite undisturbed by the colonel’s wrath. “You
might find the reason in the note,” he said, coolly, and the colonel,
glaring at him, opened the note and read:


“MY DEAR COLONEL THORP: I am greatly disappointed in not being able to
meet you. The truth is I only received your letter this week. Our mails
are none too prompt, and so I have been unable to re-arrange my plans.
I find it necessary to run up the river for a couple of weeks. In the
meantime, thinking that possibly you might like to see something of
our country, I have arranged that you should join the party of the
Lieutenant Governor on their trip to the interior, and which will take
only about four weeks’ time. The party are going to visit the most
interesting districts of our country, including both the famous mining
district of Cariboo and the beautiful valley of the Okanagan. Mr. Cole,
my clerk, will introduce you to Mr. Blair, our member of Parliament for
Westminster, who will present you to the rest of the party. Mr. Blair, I
need not say, is one of the brightest business men in the West. I shall
meet you at Yale on your return. If it is absolutely impossible for you
to take this trip, and necessary that I should return at once, Mr. Cole
will see that a special messenger is sent to me, but I would strongly
urge that you go, if possible.

“With kind regards.”


“Look here, young man,” yelled the colonel, “do you think I’ve come all
this way to go gallivanting around the country with any blank, blank
royal party?”

“I don’t know, Colonel,” said young Cole, brightly; “but I tell you I’d
like mighty well to go in your place.”

“And where in the nation IS your boss, and what’s he after, anyway?”

“He’s away up the river looking after business, and pretty big business,
too,” said Coley, not at all overawed by the colonel’s wrath.

“Well, I hope he knows himself,” said the colonel.

“Oh, don’t make any mistake about that, Colonel,” said young Cole; “he
always knows where he’s going and what he wants, and he gets it.” But
the colonel made no reply, nor did he deign to notice Mr. Michael Cole
again until they had arrived at the New Westminster landing.

“The boss didn’t know,” said Coley, approaching the colonel with some
degree of care, “whether you would like to go to the hotel or to his
rooms; you can take your choice. The hotel is not of the best, and he
thought perhaps you could put up with his rooms.”

“All right,” said the colonel; “I guess they’ll suit me.”

The colonel made no mistake in deciding for Ranald’s quarters. They
consisted of two rooms that formed one corner of a long, wooden,
single-story building in the shape of an L. One of these rooms Ranald
made his dining-room and bedroom, the other was his office. The rest
of the building was divided into three sections, and constituted a
dining-room, reading-room, and bunk-room for the men. The walls of these
rooms were decorated not inartistically with a few colored prints
and with cuts from illustrated papers, many and divers. The furniture
throughout was home-made, with the single exception of a cabinet organ
which stood in one corner of the reading-room. On the windows of the
dining-room and bunk-room were green roller blinds, but those of the
reading-room were draped with curtains of flowered muslin. Indeed the
reading-room was distinguished from the others by a more artistic and
elaborate decoration, and by a greater variety of furniture. The room
was evidently the pride of the company’s heart. In Ranald’s private room
the same simplicity in furniture and decoration was apparent, but when
the colonel was ushered into the bedroom his eye fell at once upon two
photographs, beautifully framed, hung on each side of the mirror.

“Hello, guess I ought to know this,” he said, looking at one of them.

Coley beamed. “You do, eh? Well, then, she’s worth knowin’ and there’s
only one of her kind.”

“Don’t know about that, young man,” said the colonel, looking at the
other photograph; “here’s one that ought to go in her class.”

“Perhaps,” said Coley, doubtfully, “the boss thinks so, I guess, from
the way he looks at it.”

“Young man, what sort of a fellow’s your boss?” said the colonel,
suddenly facing Coley.

“What sort?” Coley thought a moment. “Well, ‘twould need a good
eddication to tell, but there’s only one in his class, I tell you.”

“Then he owes it to this little woman,” pointing to one of the
photographs, “and she,” pointing to the other, “said so.”

“Then you may bet it’s true.”

“I don’t bet on a sure thing,” said the colonel, his annoyance vanishing
in a slow smile, his first since reaching the province.

“Dinner’ll be ready in half an hour, sir,” said Coley, swearing
allegiance in his heart to the man that agreed with him in regard to the
photograph that stood with Coley for all that was highest in humanity.

“John,” he said, sharply, to the Chinese cook, “got good dinner, eh?”

“Pitty good,” said John, indifferently.

“Now, look here, John, him big man.” John was not much impressed. “Awful
big man, I tell you, big soldier.” John preserved a stolid countenance.

“John,” said the exasperated Coley, “I’ll kick you across this room and
back if you don’t listen to me. Want big dinner, heap good, eh?”

“Huh-huh, belly good,” replied John, with a slight show of interest.

“I say, John, what you got for dinner, eh?” asked Coley, changing his
tactics.

“Ham, eggs, lice,” answered the Mongolian, imperturbably.

“Gee whiz!” said Coley, “goin’ to feed the boss’ uncle on ham and eggs?”

“What?” said John, with sudden interest, “Uncle boss, eh?”

“Yes,” said the unblushing Coley.

“Huh! Coley heap fool! Get chicken, quick! meat shop, small, eh?” The
Chinaman was at last aroused. Pots, pans, and other utensils were in
immediate requisition, a roaring fire set a-going, and in three-quarters
of an hour the colonel sat down to a dinner of soup, fish, and fowl,
with various entrees and side dishes that would have done credit to a
New York chef. Thus potent was the name of the boss with his cook.

John’s excellent dinner did much to soothe and mollify his guest;
but the colonel was sensitive to impressions other than the purely
gastronomic, for throughout the course of the dinner, his eyes wandered
to the photographs on the wall, and in fancy he was once more in the
presence of the two women, to whom he felt pledged in Ranald’s behalf.
“It’s a one-horse looking country, though,” he said to himself, “and no
place for a man with any snap. Best thing would be to pull out, I
guess, and take him along.” And it was in this mind that he received the
Honorable Archibald Blair, M. P. P., for New Westminster, president of
the British Columbia Canning Company, recently organized, and a director
in half a dozen other business concerns.

“Colonel Thorp, this is Mr. Blair, of the British Columbia Canning
Company,” said Coley, with a curious suggestion of Ranald in his manner.

“Glad to welcome a friend of Mr. Macdonald’s,” said Mr. Blair, a little
man of about thirty, with a shrewd eye and a kindly frank manner.

“Well, I guess I can say the same,” said Colonel Thorp, shaking hands.
“I judge his friends are of the right sort.”

“You’ll find plenty in this country glad to class themselves in that
list,” laughed Mr. Blair; “I wouldn’t undertake to guarantee them all,
but those he lists that way, you can pretty well bank on. He’s a young
man for reading men.”

“Yes?” said the colonel, interrogatively; “he’s very young.”

“Young, for that matter so are we all, especially on this side the water
here. It’s a young man’s country.”

“Pretty young, I judge,” said the colonel, dryly. “Lots of room to
grow.”

“Yes, thank Providence!” said Mr. Blair, enthusiastically; “but there’s
lots of life and lots to feed it. But I’m not going to talk, Colonel. It
is always wasted breath on an Easterner. I’ll let the country talk. You
are coming with us, of course.”

“Hardly think so; my time is rather limited, and, well, to tell the
truth; I’m from across the line and don’t cater much to your royalties.”

“Royalties!” exclaimed Mr. Blair. “Oh, you mean our governor. Well,
that’s good rather, must tell the governor that.” Mr. Blair laughed long
and loud. “You’ll forget all that when you are out with us an hour. No,
we think it well to hedge our government with dignity, but on this trip
we shall leave the gold lace and red tape behind.”

“How long do you propose to be gone?”

“About four weeks. But I make you a promise. If after the first week you
want to return from any point, I shall send you back with all speed. But
you won’t want to, I guarantee you that. Why, my dear sir, think of
the route,” and Mr. Blair went off into a rapturous description of the
marvels of the young province, its scenery, its resources, its climate,
its sport, playing upon each string as he marked the effect upon his
listener. By the time Mr. Blair’s visit was over, the colonel had made
up his mind that he would see something of this wonderful country.

Next day Coley took him over the company’s mills, and was not a little
disappointed to see that the colonel was not impressed by their size or
equipment. In Coley’s eyes they were phenomenal, and he was inclined to
resent the colonel’s lofty manner. The foreman, Mr. Urquhart, a shrewd
Scotchman, who had seen the mills of the Ottawa River and those in
Michigan as well, understood his visitor’s attitude better; and besides,
it suited his Scotch nature to refuse any approach to open admiration
for anything out of the old land. His ordinary commendation was,
“It’s no that bad”; and his superlative was expressed in the daring
concession, “Aye, it’ll maybe dae, it micht be waur.” So he followed the
colonel about with disparaging comments that drove Coley to the verge of
madness. When they came to the engine room, which was Urquhart’s pride,
the climax was reached.

“It’s a wee bit o’ a place, an’ no fit for the wark,” said Urquhart,
ushering the colonel into a snug little engine-room, where every bit of
brass shone with dazzling brightness, and every part of the engine moved
in smooth, sweet harmony.

“Slick little engine,” said the colonel, with discriminating admiration.

“It’s no that bad the noo, but ye sud hae seen it afore Jem, there, took
a hand o’ it--a wheezin’ rattlin’ pechin thing that ye micht expect tae
flee in bits for the noise in the wame o’t. But Jemmie sorted it till
it’s nae despicable for its size. But it’s no fit for the wark. Jemmie,
lad, just gie’t its fill an’ we’ll pit the saw until a log,” said
Urquhart, as they went up into the sawing-room where, in a few minutes,
the colonel had an exhibition of the saw sticking fast in a log for lack
of power.

“Man, yon’s a lad that kens his trade. He’s frae Gleska. He earns his
money’s warth.”

“How did you come to get him?” said the colonel, moved to interest by
Urquhart’s unwonted praise.

“Indeed, just the way we’ve got all our best men. It’s the boss picked
him oot o’ the gutter, and there he is earnin’ his twa and a half a
day.”

“The boss did that, eh?” said the colonel, with one of his swift glances
at the speaker.

“Aye, that he did, and he’s only one o’ many.”

“He’s good at that sort of business, I guess.”

“Aye, he kens men as ye can see frae his gang.”

“Doesn’t seem to be able to make the company’s business pay,” ventured
the colonel.

“D’ye think ye cud find one that cud?” pointing to the halting saw. “An
that’s the machine that turned oot thae piles yonder. Gie him a chance,
though, an’ when the stuff is deesposed of ye’ll get y’re profit.”
 Urquhart knew what he was about, and the colonel went back with Coley
to his rooms convinced of two facts, that the company had a plant that
might easily be improved, but a manager that, in the estimation of those
who wrought with him, was easily first in his class. Ranald could have
adopted no better plan for the enhancing of his reputation than by
allowing Colonel Thorp to go in and out among the workmen and his
friends. More and more the colonel became impressed with his manager’s
genius for the picking of his men and binding them to his interests, and
as this impression deepened he became the more resolved that it was
a waste of good material to retain a man in a country offering such a
limited scope for his abilities.

But after four weeks spent in exploring the interior, from Quesnelle to
Okanagan, and in the following in and out the water-ways of the coast
line, the colonel met Ranald at Yale with only a problem to be solved,
and he lost no time in putting it to his manager.

“How in thunder can I get those narrow-gauge, hidebound Easterners to
launch out into business in this country?”

“I can’t help you there, Colonel. I’ve tried and failed.”

“By the great Sam, so you have!” said the colonel, with a sudden
conviction of his own limitations in the past. “No use tryin’ to tell
‘em of this,” swinging his long arm toward the great sweep of the Fraser
Valley, clothed with a mighty forest. “It’s only a question of holdin’
on for a few years, the thing’s dead sure.”

“I have been through a good part of it,” said Ranald, quietly, “and I am
convinced that here we have the pick of Canada, and I venture to say
of the American Continent. Timber, hundreds of square miles of it,
fish--I’ve seen that river so packed with salmon that I couldn’t shove
my canoe through--”

“Hold on, now,” said the colonel, “give me time.”

“Simple, sober truth of my own proving,” replied Ranald. “And you saw a
fringe of the mines up in the Cariboo. The Kootenai is full of gold and
silver, and in the Okanagan you can grow food and fruits for millions of
people. I know what I am saying.”

“Tell you what,” said the colonel, “you make me think you’re speakin’
the truth anyhow.” Then, with a sudden inspiration, he exclaimed: “By
the great Sammy, I’ve got an idea!” and then, as he saw Ranald waiting,
added, “But I guess I’ll let it soak till we get down to the mill.”

“Do you think you could spare me, Colonel?” asked Ranald, in a dubious
voice; “I really ought to run through a bit of timber here.”

“No, by the great Sam, I can’t! I want you to come right along,” replied
the colonel, with emphasis.

“What is he saying, Colonel?” asked Mr. Blair.

“Wants to run off and leave me to paddle my way home alone. Not much! I
tell you what, we have some important business to do before I go East.
You hear me?”

“And besides, Macdonald, I want you for that big meeting of ours next
week. You simply must be there.”

“You flatter me, Mr. Blair.”

“Not a bit; you know there are a lot of hot-heads talking separation and
that sort of thing, and I want some level-headed fellow who is in with
the working men to be there.”

And as it turned out it was a good thing for Mr. Blair and for the cause
he represented that Ranald was present at the great mass-meeting held
in New Westminster the next week. For the people were exasperated beyond
all endurance at the delay of the Dominion in making good the solemn
promises given at the time of Confederation, and were in a mood to
listen to the proposals freely made that the useless bond should be
severed. “Railway or separation,” was the cry, and resolutions embodying
this sentiment were actually proposed and discussed. It was Ranald’s
speech, every one said, that turned the tide. His calm logic made clear
the folly of even considering separation; his knowledge of, and his
unbounded faith in, the resources of the province, and more than all,
his impassioned picturing of the future of the great Dominion reaching
from ocean to ocean, knit together by ties of common interest, and a
common loyalty that would become more vividly real when the provinces
had been brought more closely together by the promised railway. They
might have to wait a little longer, but it was worth while waiting, and
there was no future in any other policy. It was his first speech at a
great meeting, and as Mr. Blair shook him warmly by the hand, the crowd
burst into enthusiastic cries, “Macdonald! Macdonald!” and in one of
the pauses a single voice was heard, “Glengarry forever!” Then again
the crowd broke forth, “Glengarry! Glengarry!” for all who knew Ranald
personally had heard of the gang that were once the pride of the Ottawa.
At that old cry Ranald’s face flushed deep red, and he had no words to
answer his friends’ warm congratulations.

“Send him East,” cried a voice.

“Yes, yes, that’s it. Send him to Ottawa to John A. It’s the same clan!”

Swiftly Mr. Blair made up his mind. “Gentlemen, that is a good
suggestion. I make it a motion.” It was seconded in a dozen places,
and carried by a standing vote. Then Ranald rose again and modestly
protested that he was not the man to go. He was quite unknown in the
province.

“We know you!” the same voice called out, followed by a roar of
approval.

“And, besides,” went on Ranald, “it is impossible for me to get away;
I’m a working man and not my own master.”

Then the colonel, who was sitting on the platform, rose and begged to be
heard. “Mr. Chairman and gentlemen, I ain’t a Canadian--”

“Never mind! You can’t help that,” sang out a man from the back, with a
roar of laughter following.

“But if I weren’t an American, I don’t know anything that I’d rather
be.” (Great applause.) “Four weeks ago I wouldn’t have taken your
province as a gift. Now I only wish Uncle Sam could persuade you to
sell.” (Cries of “He hasn’t got money enough. Don’t fool yourself.”)
“But I want to say that this young man of mine,” pointing to Ranald,
“has given you good talk, and if you want him to go East, why, I’ll let
him off for a spell.” (Loud cheers for the colonel and for Macdonald.)

A week later a great meeting in Victoria indorsed the New Westminster
resolutions with the added demand that the railway should be continued
to Esquinalt according to the original agreement. Another delegate was
appointed to represent the wishes of the islanders, and before Ranald
had fully realized what had happened he found himself a famous man, and
on the way to the East with the jubilant colonel.

“What was the great idea, Colonel, that struck you at Yale?” inquired
Ranald, as they were fairly steaming out of the Esquinalt harbor.

“This is it, my boy!” exclaimed the colonel, slapping him on the back.
“This here trip East. Now we’ve got ‘em over the ropes, by the great
and everlasting Sammy!” the form of oath indicating a climax in the
colonel’s emotion.

“Got who?” inquired Ranald, mystified.

“Them gol-blamed, cross-road hayseeds down East.” And with this the
colonel became discreetly silent. He knew too well the sensitive pride
of the man with whom he had to deal, and he was chiefly anxious now that
Ranald should know as little as possible of the real object of his going
to British Columbia.

“We’ve got to make the British-American Coal and Lumber Company know the
time of day. It’s gittin’-up time out in this country. They were talkin’
a little of drawin’ out.” Ranald gasped. “Some of them only,” the
colonel hastened to add, “but I want you to talk like you did the other
night, and I’ll tell my little tale, and if that don’t fetch ‘em then
I’m a Turk.”

“Well, Colonel, here’s my word,” said Ranald, deliberately, “if the
company wish to withdraw they may do so, but my future is bound up with
that of the West, and I have no fear that it will fail me. I stake my
all upon the West.”



CHAPTER XXV

GLENGARRY FOREVER


The colonel was an experienced traveler, and believed in making himself
comfortable. Ranald looked on with some amusement, and a little wonder,
while the colonel arranged his things about the stateroom.

“May as well make things comfortable while we can,” said the colonel,
“we have the better part of three days before us on this boat, and if
it gets rough, it is better to have things neat. Now you go ahead,” he
added, “and get your things out.”

“I think you are right, Colonel. I am not much used to travel, but I
shall take your advice on this.”

“Well, I have traveled considerable these last twenty years,” replied
the colonel. “I say, would you mind leaving those out?”

“What?”

“Those photos. They’re the two you had up by the glass in your room,
aren’t they?” Ranald flushed a little.

“Of course it ain’t for every one to see, and I would not ask you, but
those two ain’t like any other two that I have seen, and I have seen a
good many in forty years.” Ranald said nothing, but set the photographs
on a little bracket on the wall.

“There, that makes this room feel better,” said the colonel. “That there
is the finest, sweetest, truest girl that walks this sphere,” he said,
pointing at Kate’s photograph, “and the other, I guess you know all
about her.”

“Yes, I know about her,” said Ranald, looking at the photograph; “it is
to her I owe everything I have that is any good. And Colonel,” he added,
with an unusual burst of confidence, “when my life was broken off short,
that woman put me in the way of getting hold of it again.”

“Well, they both think a pile of you,” was the colonel’s reply.

“Yes, I think they do,” said Ranald. “They are not the kind to forget
a man when he is out of sight, and it is worth traveling two thousand
miles to see them again.”

“Ain’t it queer, now, how the world is run?” said the colonel. “There’s
two women, now, the very best; one has been buried all her life in a
little hole in the woods, and the other is giving herself to a fellow
that ain’t fit to carry her boots.”

“What!” said Ranald, sharply, “Kate?”

“Yes, they say she is going to throw herself away on young St. Clair.
He is all right, I suppose, but he ain’t fit for her.” Ranald suddenly
stooped over his valise and began pulling out his things.

“I didn’t hear of that,” he said.

“I did,” said the colonel; “you see he is always there, and acting as if
he owned her. He stuck to her for a long time, and I guess she got tired
holding out.”

“Harry is a very decent fellow,” said Ranald, rising up from his
unpacking; “I say, this boat’s close. Let us go up on deck.”

“Wait,” said the colonel, “I want to talk over our plans, and we can
talk better here.”

“No,” said Ranald; “I want some fresh air. Let us go up.” And without
further words, he hurried up the gangway. It was some time before
Colonel Thorp found him in the bow of the boat, and immediately began to
talk over their plans.

“You spoke of going to Toronto first thing,” he said to Ranald.

“Yes,” said Ranald; “but I think I ought to go to Ottawa at once, and
then I shall see my people in Glengarry for a few days. Then I will be
ready for the meeting at Bay City any time after the second week.”

“But you have not put Toronto in there,” said the colonel; “you are not
going to disappoint that little girl? She would take it pretty hard.
Mind you, she wants to see you.”

“Oh, of course I shall run in for a day.”

“Well,” said the colonel, “I want to give you plenty of time. I will
arrange that meeting for a month from to-day.”

“No, no,” said Ranald, impatiently; “I must get back to the West. Two
weeks will do me.”

“Well, we will make it three,” said the colonel. He could not understand
Ranald’s sudden eagerness to set out for the West again. He had spoken
with such enthusiastic delight of his visit to Toronto, and now he was
only going to run in for a day or so. And if Ranald himself were asked,
he would have found it difficult to explain his sudden lack of interest,
not only in Toronto, but in everything that lay in the East. He was
conscious of a deep, dull ache in his heart, and he could not quite
explain it.

After the colonel had gone down for the night, Ranald walked the deck
alone and resolutely faced himself. His first frank look within revealed
to him the fact that his pain had come upon him with the colonel’s
information that Kate had given herself to Harry. It was right that he
should be disappointed. Harry, though a decent enough fellow, did not
begin to be worthy of her; and indeed no one that he knew was worthy of
her. But why should he feel so sorely about it? For years Harry had
been her devoted slave. He would give her the love of an honest man, and
would surround her with all the comforts and luxuries that wealth could
bring. She would be very happy. He had no right to grieve about it.
And yet he did grieve. The whole sky over the landscape of his life had
suddenly become cold and gray. During these years Kate had grown to be
much to him. She had in many ways helped him in his work. The thought of
her and her approval had brought him inspiration and strength in many an
hour of weakness and loneliness. She had been so loyal and so true from
the very first, and it was a bitter thing to feel that another had come
between them. Over and over again he accused himself of sheer madness.
Why should she not love Harry? That need not make her any less his
friend. But in spite of his arguments, he found himself weary of the
East and eager to turn away from it. He must hurry on at once to Ottawa,
and with all speed get done his business there.

At Chicago he left the colonel with a promise to meet him in three weeks
at the headquarters of the British-American Coal and Lumber Company at
Bay City. He wired to Ottawa, asking an appointment with the government,
and after three days’ hard travel found himself in the capital of the
Dominion. The premier, Sir John A. Macdonald, with the ready courtesy
characteristic of him, immediately arranged for a hearing of the
delegation from British Columbia. Ranald was surprised at the
indifference with which he approached this meeting. He seemed to have
lost capacity for keen feeling of any kind. Sir John A. MacDonald and
his cabinet received the delegation with great kindness, and in every
possible way strove to make them feel that the government was genuinely
interested in the western province, and were anxious to do all that
could be done in their interest. In the conference that ensued, the
delegate for Victoria took a more prominent part, being an older man,
and representing the larger and more important constituency. But when
Sir John began to ask questions, the Victoria delegate was soon beyond
his depth. The premier showed such an exactness of knowledge and
comprehensiveness of grasp that before long Ranald was appealed to for
information in regard to the resources of the country, and especially
the causes and extent of the present discontent.

“The causes of discontent are very easy to see,” said Ranald; “all
British Columbians feel hurt at the failure of the Dominion government
to keep its solemn obligations.”

“Is there nothing else now, Mr. Macdonald?”

“There may be,” said Ranald, “some lingering impatience with the
government by different officials, and there is a certain amount of
annexation sentiment.”

“Ah,” said Sir John, “I think we have our finger upon it now.”

“Do not over-estimate that,” said Ranald; “I believe that there are only
a very few with annexation sentiments, and all these are of American
birth. The great body of the people are simply indignant at, and
disappointed with, the Dominion government.”

“And would you say there is no other cause of discontent, Mr.
Macdonald?” said Sir John, with a keen look at Ranald.

“There is another cause, I believe,” said Ranald, “and that is the party
depression, but that depression is due to the uncertainty in regard
to the political future of the province. When once we hear that the
railroad is being built, political interest will revive.”

“May I ask where you were born?” said Sir John.

“In Glengarry,” said Ranald, with a touch of pride in his voice.

“Ah, I am afraid your people are not great admirers of my government,
and perhaps you, Mr. Macdonald, share in the opinion of your county.”

“I have no opinion in regard to Dominion politics. I am for British
Columbia.”

“Well, Mr. Macdonald,” said Sir John, rising, “that is right, and you
ought to have your road.”

“Do I understand you to say that the government will begin to build the
road at once?” said Ranald.

“Ah,” smiled Sir John, “I see you want something definite.”

“I have come two thousand miles to get it. The people that sent me
will be content with nothing else. It is a serious time with us, and I
believe with the whole of the Dominion.”

“Mr. Macdonald,” said Sir John, becoming suddenly grave, “believe me, it
is a more serious time than you know, but you trust me in this matter.”

“Will the road be begun this year?” said Ranald.

“All I can say to-day, Mr. Macdonald,” said Sir John, earnestly, “is
this, that if I can bring it about, the building of the road will be
started at once.”

“Then, Sir John,” said Ranald, “you may depend that British Columbia
will be grateful to you,” and the interview was over.

Outside the room, he found Captain De Lacy awaiting him.

“By Jove, Macdonald, I have been waiting here three-quarters of an hour.
Come along. Maimie has an afternoon right on, and you are our lion.”
 Ranald would have refused, but De Lacy would not accept any apology, and
carried him off.

Maimie’s rooms were crowded with all the great social and political
people of the city. With an air of triumph, De Lacy piloted Ranald
through the crowd and presented him to Maimie. Ranald was surprised
to find himself shaking hands with the woman he had once loved, with
unquickened pulse and nerves cool and steady. Here Maimie, who was
looking more beautiful than ever, and who was dressed in a gown of
exquisite richness, received Ranald with a warmth that was almost
enthusiastic.

“How famous you have become, Mr. Macdonald,” she said, offering him her
hand; “we are all proud to say that we know you.”

“You flatter me,” said Ranald, bowing over her hand.

“No, indeed. Every one is talking of the young man from the West. And
how handsome you are, Ranald,” she said, in a low voice, leaning toward
him, and flashing at him one of her old-time glances.

“I am not used to that,” he said, “and I can only reply as we used to in
school, ‘You, too.’”

“Oh, now you flatter me,” cried Maimie, gayly; “but let me introduce you
to my dear friend, Lady Mary Rivers. Lady Mary, this is Mr. Macdonald
from British Columbia, you know.”

“Oh, yes,” said Lady Mary, with a look of intelligence in her beautiful
dark eyes, “I have heard a great deal about you. Let me see, you opposed
separation; saved the Dominion, in short.”

“Did I, really?” said Ranald, “and never knew it.”

“You see, he is not only famous but modest,” said Maimie; “but that
is an old characteristic of his. I knew Mr. Macdonald a very long time
ago.”

“Very,” said Ranald.

“When we were quite young.”

“Very young,” replied Ranald, with great emphasis.

“And doubtless very happy,” said Lady Mary.

“Happy,” said Ranald, “yes, so happy that I can hardly bear to think of
those days.”

“Why so?” inquired Lady Mary.

“Because they are gone.”

“But all days go and have to be parted with.”

“Oh, yes, Lady Mary. That is true and so many things die with them, as,
for instance, our youthful beliefs and enthusiasms. I used to believe in
every one, Lady Mary.”

“And now in no one?”

“God forbid! I discriminate.”

“Now, Lady Mary,” replied Maimie, “I want my lion to be led about and
exhibited, and I give him over to you.”

For some time Ranald stood near, chatting to two or three people to whom
Lady Mary had introduced him, but listening eagerly all the while to
Maimie talking to the men who were crowded about her. How brilliantly
she talked, finding it quite within her powers to keep several men busy
at the same time; and as Ranald listened to her gay, frivolous talk,
more and more he became conscious of an unpleasantness in her tone. It
was thin, shallow, and heartless.

“Can it be possible,” he said to himself, “that once she had the power
to make my heart quicken its beat?”

“Tell me about the West,” Lady Mary was saying, when Ranald came to
himself.

“If I begin about the West,” he replied, “I must have both time and
space to deliver myself.”

“Come, then. We shall find a corner,” said Lady Mary, and for half an
hour did Ranald discourse to her of the West, and so eloquently
that Lady Mary quite forgot that he was a lion and that she had been
intrusted with the duty of exhibiting him. By and by Maimie found them.

“Now, Lady Mary, you are very selfish, for so many people are wanting to
see our hero, and here is the premier wanting to see you.”

“Ah, Lady Mary,” said Sir John, “you have captured the man from
Glengarry, I see.”

“I hope so, indeed,” said Lady Mary; “but why from Glengarry? He is from
the West, is he not?”

“Once from Glengarry, now from the West, and I hope he will often come
from the West, and he will, no doubt, if those people know what is good
for them.” And Sir John, skillfully drawing Ranald aside, led him
to talk of the political situation in British Columbia, now and then
putting a question that revealed a knowledge so full and accurate that
Ranald exclaimed, suddenly, “Why, Sir John, you know more about the
country than I do!”

“Not at all, not at all,” replied Sir John; and then, lowering his
voice to a confidential tone, he added, “You are the first man from that
country that knows what I want to know.” And once more he plied Ranald
with questions, listening eagerly and intelligently to the answers so
enthusiastically given.

“We want to make this Dominion a great empire,” said Sir John, as he
said good by to Ranald, “and we are going to do it, but you and men like
you in the West must do your part.”

Ranald was much impressed by the premier’s grave earnestness.

“I will try, Sir John,” he said, “and I shall go back feeling thankful
that you are going to show us the way.”

“Going so soon?” said Maimie, when he came to say good by. “Why I
have seen nothing of you, and I have not had a moment to offer you my
congratulations,” she said, with a significant smile. Ranald bowed his
thanks.

“And Kate, dear girl,” went on Maimie, “she never comes to see me now,
but I am glad she will be so happy.”

Ranald looked at her steadily for a moment or two, and then said,
quietly, “I am sure I hope so, and Harry is a very lucky chap.”

“Oh, isn’t he,” cried Maimie, “and he is just daft about her. Must you
go? I am so sorry. I wanted to talk about old times, the dear old days.”
 The look in Maimie’s eyes said much more than her words.

“Yes,” said Ranald, with an easy, frank smile; “they were dear days,
indeed; I often think of them. And now I must really go. Say good by to
De Lacy for me.”

He came away from her with an inexplicable feeling of exultation. He had
gone with some slight trepidation in his heart, to meet her, and it was
no small relief to him to discover that she had lost all power over him.

“What sort of man could I have been, I wonder?” he asked himself; “and
it was only three years ago.”

Near the door Lady Mary stopped him. “Going so early, and without saying
good by?” she said, reproachfully.

“I must leave town to-night,” he replied, “but I am glad to say good by
to you.”

“I think you ought to stay. I am sure His Excellency wants to see you.”

“I am sure you are good to think so, but I am also quite sure that he
has never given a thought to my insignificant self.”

“Indeed he has. Now, can’t you stay a few days? I want to see more--we
all want to hear more about the West.”

“You will never know the West by hearing of it,” said Ranald, offering
his hand.

“Good by,” she said, “I am coming.”

“Good,” he said, “I shall look for you.”

As Ranald approached his hotel, he saw a man that seemed oddly familiar,
lounging against the door and as he drew near, he discovered to his
astonishment and joy that it was Yankee.

“Why, Yankee!” he exclaimed, rushing at him, “how in the world did you
come to be here, and what brought you?”

“Well, I came for you, I guess. Heard you were going to be here and
were comin’ home afterwards, so I thought it would be quicker for you
to drive straight across than to go round by Cornwall, so I hitched up
Lisette and came right along.”

“Lisette! You don’t mean to tell me? How is the old girl? Yankee, you
have done a fine thing. Now we will start right away.”

“All right,” said Yankee.

“How long will it take us to get home?”

“‘Bout two days easy goin,’ I guess. Of course if you want, I guess we
can do it in a day and a half. She will do all you tell her.”

“Well, we will take two days,” said Ranald.

“I guess we had better take a pretty early start,” said Yankee.

“Can’t we get off to-night?” inquired Ranald, eagerly. “We could get out
ten miles or so.”

“Yes,” replied Yankee. “There’s a good place to stop, about ten miles
out. I think we had better go along the river road, and then take down
through the Russell Hills to the Nation Crossing.”

In half an hour they were off on their two days’ trip to the Indian
Lands. And two glorious days they were. The open air with the suggestion
of the coming fall, the great forests with their varying hues of green
and brown, yellow and bright red, and all bathed in the smoky purple
light of the September sun, these all combined to bring to Ranald’s
heart the rest and comfort and peace that he so sorely needed. And when
he drove into his uncle’s yard in the late afternoon of the second day,
he felt himself more content to live the life appointed him; and if
anything more were needed to strengthen him in this resolution, and
to fit him for the fight lying before him, his brief visit to his home
brought it to him. It did him good to look into the face of the great
Macdonald Bhain once more, and to hear his deep, steady voice welcome
him home. It was the face and the voice of a man who had passed through
many a sore battle, and not without honor to himself. And it was good,
too, to receive the welcome greetings of his old friends and to feel
their pride in him and their high expectation of him. More than ever, he
resolved that he would be a man worthy of his race.

His visit to the manse brought him mingled feelings of delight and
perplexity and pain. The minister’s welcome was kind, but there was a
tinge of self-complacent pride in it. Ranald was one of “his lads,” and
he evidently took credit to himself for the young man’s success. Hughie
regarded him with reserved approval. He was now a man and teaching
school, and before committing himself to his old-time devotion, he had
to adjust his mind to the new conditions. But before the evening was
half done Ranald had won him once more. His tales of the West, and of
how it was making and marring men, of the nation that was being built
up, and his picture of the future that he saw for the great Dominion,
unconsciously revealed the strong manhood and the high ideals in the
speaker, and Hughie found himself slipping into the old attitude of
devotion to his friend.

But it struck Ranald to the heart to see the marks of many a long day’s
work upon the face of the woman who had done more for him than all the
rest of the world. Her flock of little children had laid upon her a load
of care and toil, which added to the burden she was already trying to
carry, was proving more than her delicate frame could bear. There were
lines upon her face that only weariness often repeated cuts deep; but
there were other lines there, and these were lines of heart pain, and
as Ranald watched her closely, with his heart running over with love and
pity and indignation for her, he caught her frequent glances toward her
first born that spoke of anxiety and fear.

“Can it be the young rascal is bringing her anything but perfect
satisfaction and joy in return for the sacrifice of her splendid life?”
 he said to himself. But no word fell from her to show him the secret
of her pain, it was Hughie’s own lips that revealed him, and as the lad
talked of his present and his future, his impatience of control, his
lack of sympathy to all higher ideals, his determination to please
himself to the forgetting of all else, his seeming unconsciousness of
the debt he owed to his mother, all these became easily apparent. With
difficulty Ranald restrained his indignation. He let him talk for some
time and then opened out upon him. He read him no long lecture, but his
words came forth with such fiery heat that they burned their way clear
through all the faults and flimsy selfishness of the younger man till
they reached the true heart of him. His last words Hughie never forgot.

“Do you know, Hughie,” he said, and the fire in his eyes seemed to burn
into Hughie’s, “do you know what sort of woman you have for a mother?
And do you know that if you should live to be a hundred years, and
devoted every day of your life to the doing of her pleasure, you could
not repay the debt you owe her? Be a man, Hughie. Thank God for her, and
for the opportunity of loving and caring for her.”

The night of his first visit to the manse Ranald had no opportunity for
any further talk with the minister’s wife, but he came away with the
resolve that before his week’s visit was over, he would see her alone.
On his return home, however, he found waiting him a telegram from
Colonel Thorp, mailed from Alexandria, announcing an early date for the
meeting of shareholders at Bay City, so that he found it necessary to
leave immediately after the next day, which was the Sabbath. It was
no small disappointment to him that he was to have no opportunity of
opening his heart to his friend. But as he sat in his uncle’s seat
at the side of the pulpit, from which he could catch sight of the
minister’s pew, and watched the look of peace and quiet courage grow
upon her face till all the lines of pain and care were quite smoothed
out, he felt his heart fill up with a sense of shame for all his
weakness, and his soul knit itself into the resolve that if he should
have to walk his way, bearing his cross alone, he would seek the same
high spirit of faith and patience and courage that he saw shining in her
gray-brown eyes.

After the service he walked home with the minister’s wife, seeking
opportunity for a few last words with her. He had meant to tell her
something of his heart’s sorrow and disappointment, for he guessed that
knowing and loving Kate as she did, she would understand its depth and
bitterness. But when he told her of his early departure, and of the fear
that for many years he could not return, his heart was smitten with a
great pity for her. The look of disappointment and almost of dismay he
could not understand until, with difficulty, she told him how she had
hoped that he was to spend some weeks at home and that Hughie might be
much with him.

“I wish he could know you better, Ranald. There is no one about here to
whom he can look up, and some of his companions are not of the best.”
 The look of beseeching pain in her eyes was almost more than Ranald
could bear.

“I would give my life to help you,” he said, in a voice hoarse and
husky.

“I know,” she said, simply; “you have been a great joy to me, Ranald,
and it will always comfort me to think of you, and of your work, and I
like to remember, too, how you helped Harry. He told me much about you,
and I am so glad, especially as he is now to be married.”

“Yes, yes,” replied Ranald, hurriedly; “that will be a great thing for
him.” Then, after a pause, he added: “Mrs. Murray, the West is a hard
country for young men who are not--not very firmly anchored, but if at
any time you think I could help Hughie and you feel like sending him to
me, I will gladly do for him all that one man can do for another. And
all that I can do will be a very poor return for what you have done for
me.”

“It’s little I have done, Ranald,” she said, “and that little has been
repaid a thousand-fold, for there is no greater joy than that of seeing
my boys grow into good and great men and that joy you have brought me.”
 Then she said good by, holding his hand long, as if hating to let him
go.

“I will remember your promise, Ranald,” she said, “for it may be that
some day I shall need you.” And when the chance came to Ranald before
many years had gone, he proved himself not unworthy of her trust.

               *        *        *        *       *

At the meeting of share-holders of the British-American Coal and Lumber
Company, held in Bay City, the feeling uppermost in the minds of those
present was one of wrath and indignation at Colonel Thorp, for he
still clung to the idea that it would be unwise to wind up the British
Columbia end of the business. The colonel’s speech in reply was a
triumph of diplomacy. He began by giving a detailed and graphic account
of his trip through the province, lighting up the narrative with
incidents of adventure, both tragic and comic, to such good purpose that
before he had finished his hearers had forgotten all their anger. Then
he told of what he had seen of Ranald’s work, emphasizing the largeness
of the results he had obtained with his very imperfect equipment.
He spoke of the high place their manager held in the esteem of the
community as witness his visit to Ottawa as representative, and lastly
he touched upon his work for the men by means of the libraries and
reading-room. Here he was interrupted by an impatient exclamation on the
part of one of the share-holders. The colonel paused, and fastening
his eye upon the impatient share-holder, he said, in tones cool and
deliberate: “A gentleman says, ‘Nonsense!’ I confess that before my
visit to the West I should have said the same, but I want to say right
here and now, that I have come to the opinion that it pays to look
after your men--soul, mind, and body. You’ll cut more lumber, get better
contracts, and increase your dividends. There ain’t no manner of doubt
about that. Now,” concluded the colonel, “you may still want to close up
that business, but before you do so, I want you to hear Mr. Macdonald.”

After some hesitation, Ranald was allowed to speak for a few minutes.
He began by expressing his amazement that there should be any thought
on the part of the company of withdrawing from the province at the very
time when other firms were seeking to find entrance. He acknowledged
that the result for the last years did not warrant any great confidence
in the future of their business, but a brighter day had dawned, the
railroad was coming, and he had in his pocket three contracts that it
would require the company’s whole force for six months to fulfill, and
these contracts would be concluded the day the first rail was laid.

“And when will that be?” interrupted a shareholder, scornfully.

“I have every assurance,” said Ranald, quietly, “from the premier
himself, that the building of the railroad will be started this fall.”

“Did Sir John A. MacDonald give you a definite promise?” asked the man,
in surprise.

“Not exactly a promise,” said Ranald.

A chorus of scornful “Ohs” greeted this admission.

“But the premier assured me that all his influence would be thrown in
favor of immediate construction.”

“For my part,” replied the share-holder, “I place not the slightest
confidence in any such promise as that.”

“And I,” said Ranald, calmly, “have every confidence that work on the
line will be started this fall.” And then he went on to speak of the
future that he saw stretching out before the province and the whole
Dominion. The feeling of opposition in the air roused him like a call
to battle, and the thought that he was pleading for the West that he
had grown to love, stimulated him like a draught of strong wine. In the
midst of his speech the secretary, who till that moment had not been
present, came into the room with the evening paper in his hand. He gave
it to the president, pointing out a paragraph. At once the president,
interrupting Ranald in his speech, rose and said, “Gentlemen, there
is an item of news here that I think you will all agree bears somewhat
directly upon this business.” He then read Sir John A. MacDonald’s
famous telegram to the British Columbia government, promising that the
Canadian Pacific Railway should be begun that fall. After the cheers had
died away, Ranald rose again, and said, “Mr. President and gentlemen,
there is no need that I should say anything more. I simply wish to add
that I return to British Columbia next week, but whether as manager for
this company or not that is a matter of perfect indifference to me.” And
saying this, he left the room, followed by Colonel Thorp.

“You’re all right, pardner,” said the colonel, shaking him vigorously by
the hand, “and if they don’t feel like playing up to your lead, then,
by the great and everlasting Sammy, we will make a new deal and play it
alone!”

“All right, Colonel,” said Ranald; “I almost think I’d rather play it
without them and you can tell them so.”

“Where are you going now?” said the colonel.

“I’ve got to go to Toronto for a day,” said Ranald; “the boys are
foolish enough to get up a kind of dinner at the Albert, and besides,”
 he added, resolutely, “I want to see Kate.”

“Right you are,” said the colonel; “anything else would be meaner than
snakes.”

But when Ranald reached Toronto, he found disappointment awaiting him.
The Alberts were ready to give him an enthusiastic reception, but to his
dismay both Harry and Kate were absent. Harry was in Quebec and Kate
was with her mother visiting friends at the Northern Lake, so Ranald was
forced to content himself with a letter of farewell and congratulation
upon her approaching marriage. In spite of his disappointment, Ranald
could not help acknowledging a feeling of relief. It would have been
no small ordeal to him to have met Kate, to have told her how she had
helped him during his three years’ absence, without letting her suspect
how much she had become to him, and how sore was his disappointment that
she could never be more than friend to him, and indeed, not even that.
But his letter was full of warm, frank, brotherly congratulation and
good will.

The dinner at the Albert was in every way worthy of the club and of the
occasion, but Ranald was glad to get it over. He was eager to get away
from the city associated in his mind with so much that was painful.

At length the last speech was made, and the last song was sung, and the
men in a body marched to the station carrying their hero with them.
As they stood waiting for the train to pull out, a coachman in livery
approached little Merrill.

“A lady wishes to see Mr. Macdonald, sir,” he said, touching his hat.

“Well, she’s got to be quick about it,” said Merrill. “Here, Glengarry,”
 he called to Ranald, “a lady is waiting outside to see you, but I say,
old chap, you will have to make it short, I guess it will be sweet
enough.”

“Where is she?” said Ranald to the coachman.

“In here, sir,” conducting him to the ladies’ waiting-room, and taking
his place at the door outside. Ranald hurried into the room, and there
stood Kate.

“Dear Kate!” he cried, running toward her with both hands outstretched,
“this is more than kind of you, and just like your good heart.”

“I only heard last night, Ranald,” she said, “from Maimie, that you were
to be here to-day, and I could not let you go.” She stood up looking so
brave and proud, but in spite of her, her lips quivered.

“I have waited to see you so long,” she said, “and now you are going
away again.”

“Don’t speak like that, Kate,” said Ranald, “don’t say those things. I
want to tell you how you have helped me these three lonely years, but I
can’t, and you will never know, and now I am going back. I hardly dared
to see you, but I wish you everything that is good. I haven’t seen Harry
either, but you will wish him joy for me. He is a very lucky fellow.”

By this time Ranald had regained control of himself, and was speaking
in a tone of frank and brotherly affection. Kate looked at him with a
slightly puzzled air.

“I’ve seen Maimie,” Ranald went on, “and she told me all about it, and
I am--yes, I am very glad.” Still Kate looked a little puzzled, but the
minutes were precious, and she had much to say.

“Oh, Ranald!” she cried, “I have so much to say to you. You have become
a great man, and you are good. I am so proud when I hear of you,” and
lowering her voice almost to a whisper, “I pray for you every day.”

As Ranald stood gazing at the beautiful face, and noticed the quivering
lips and the dark eyes shining with tears she was too brave to let fall,
he felt that he was fast losing his grip of himself.

“Oh, Kate,” he cried, in a low, tense voice, “I must go. You have been
more to me than you will ever know. May you both be happy.”

“Both?” echoed Kate, faintly.

“Yes,” cried Ranald, hurriedly, “Harry will, I’m sure, for if any one
can make him happy, you can.”

“I?” catching her breath, and beginning to laugh a little hysterically.

“What’s the matter, Kate? You are looking white.”

“Oh,” cried Kate, her voice broken between a sob and a laugh, “won’t
Harry and Lily enjoy this?”

Ranald gazed at her in fear as if she had suddenly gone mad.

“Lily?” he gasped.

“Yes, Lily,” cried Kate; “didn’t you know Lily Langford, Harry’s dearest
and most devoted?”

“No,” said Ranald; “and it is not you?”

“Not me,” cried Kate, “not in the very least.”

“Oh, Kate, tell me, is this all true? Are you still free? And is there
any use?”

“What do you mean?” cried Kate, dancing about in sheer joy, “you silly
boy.”

By this time Ranald had got hold of her hands.

“Look here, old chap,” burst in Merrill, “your train’s going. Oh, beg
pardon.”

“Take the next, Ranald.”

“Merrill,” said Ranald, solemnly, “tell the fellows I’m not going on
this train.”

“Hoorah!” cried little Merrill, “I guess I’ll tell ‘em you are gone. May
I tell the fellows, Kate?”

“What?” said Kate, blushing furiously.

“Yes, Merrill,” cried Ranald, in a voice strident with ecstasy, “you may
tell them. Tell the whole town.”

Merrill rushed to the door. “I say, fellows,” he cried, “look here.”

The men came trooping at his call, but only to see Ranald and Kate
disappearing through the other door.

“He’s not going,” cried Merrill, “he’s gone. By Jove! They’ve both
gone.”

“I say, little man,” said big Starry Hamilton, “call yourself together
if you can. Who’ve both gone? In short, who is the lady?”

“Why, Kate Raymond, you blessed idiot!” cried Merrill, rushing for the
door, followed by the whole crowd.

“Three cheers for Macdonald!” cried Starry Hamilton, as the carriage
drove away, and after the three cheers and the tiger, little Merrill’s
voice led them in the old battle-cry, heard long ago on the river, but
afterward on many a hard-fought foot-ball field, “Glengarry forever!”





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