THE MILKSTAND CLUB
He that sees clear is gentlest of his words,
And that's not truth that hath the heart to kill.
--ARCHIBALD LAMPMAN.
The Cameron homestead could scarcely be said to belong to Elmbrook, but
formed a suburb all by itself. It was a comfortable-looking red-brick,
set away back in its orchards and fields, and was further cut off from
the village by the ravine where the mill-stream ran.
Perhaps this was partly the reason why the Cameron family seemed a
little exclusive. There was a deep suspicion throughout Elmbrook that
old lady Cameron, as she was called, thought herself above ordinary
folks, and unconsciously Elmbrook thought so, too. The father had died
when the children were all little, but she had kept them together
through poverty and hardship, imbuing them all with her splendid,
self-sacrificing spirit, until now the elder ones had each taken an
honorable position in life. James, the eldest, lived on the farm, and
had lately paid off the mortgage and built a new house and barn; Hugh
was a lawyer in a neighboring city; Mary was married to a minister--the
greatest achievement of all; Elsie promised to be a singer, and by
making special sacrifices the family had succeeded in giving her a
year's training under the best teachers in the land; Malcolm was going
to be a doctor, had finished his second year with honors, in fact; and
Jean and Archie were still to be given their chance.
Old lady Cameron's brother-in-law, Uncle Hughie, was the best-known
member of the family. He was the village philosopher, and spent his
time hobbling about the farm, doing such odd jobs as his rheumatism
would permit, and "rastlin'" out the problem of human life. He was
sitting on the milkstand just now, his small, stooped body almost
covered by his straw hat, his long beard sweeping his knees. He was
swinging his feet, and singing, in a high, quavering voice, his
favorite song, "The March o' the Cameron Men."
When Sawed-Off Wilmott started a cheese factory down on the Lake Simcoe
road each of his patrons had built, just at the gate, a small platform,
called a milkstand, from which the cans were collected. The Cameron
milkstand had a flight of steps leading up to it, and a grove of
plum-trees surrounding. It was a fine place to sit, of an evening, for
one could be isolated and yet see all that was going on up in the
village. Here Uncle Hughie regularly gathered about him a little group
of friends. Next to the minister, he was considered the most learned
man in the community, and the Cameron milkstand was a sort of
high-class club, where only the serious-minded were admitted, and where
one heard all sorts of profound subjects discussed, such as astronomy
and the destiny of the British Empire.
To-night the club was to assemble for a special purpose. Uncle Hughie
had promised the minister that they would all accompany him down the
ravine to give a welcome and a kind word to the poor tramp who had come
to live in Sandy McQuarry's old shanty by the Drowned Lands. So the
philosopher was waiting for his friends, and as he sang he gazed
expectantly up the village street.
From across the ravine, growing purple in the evening shadows, came the
sound of children's voices at play, and the joyous bark of a dog. Down
in the river pasture hoarse shouts, mingled with a dull thud, thud,
told that the young men were playing football. Women could be seen
gossiping across from their home gates, for while the men might gather
in groups at the store or the post-office, Elmbrook was not
sufficiently advanced to have yet felt the woman's club movement. The
soft, plashy sound of the little waterfall, pouring down under the
bridge, made a charming accompaniment to the mingled harmony.
"_Oh, there's many a man o' the Cameron Clan,_"
sang Uncle Hughie.
There was a ring of triumph in his voice, for he had finished the whole
line with one start, a most unusual achievement. He generally started
on a high key, and as the tune climbed up the word "Cameron" was far
beyond the range of human voice. He would make a shrieking attempt at
it, collapse, and start again, quite cheerfully. But by some strange
misunderstanding between his ear and his vocal cords, no matter how
deep he might lay the foundations of his song, he would raise upon it
such a lofty structure that the pinnacle was sure to be unattainable.
He always saw the heights ahead, and made a gasping effort to gain
them, his voice strained to its utmost, his face wearing a look of
agony. He failed many a time, but invariably succeeded in the end, and
with a broad smile of triumph would sweep into the refrain:
"_I hear the pibroch sounding, sounding,
Deep o'er the mountain and glen._"
Old Uncle Hughie's whole pain-racked life had been like that song. He
was always striving for the heights, often slipping back, frequently
failing just as the top was reached, but ever starting off again with
renewed hope and faith, and in the end always attaining.
There was a wild patter of feet down the lane, and a harum-scarum girl,
half woman, half child, came scrambling recklessly over the fence, and
tumbled upon the ground at his feet. She sprang up and tossed her hair
back from her handsome, mischievous face.
"He's coming!" she announced tragically. "Where'll I hide? I saw him
paddlin' across the creek like a silly old gosling!"
Uncle Hughie's golden-brown eyes danced with laughter.
"Hoots, toots! Och, hoch, but it is the foolish lass you will be!
Poor Davy, ech, poor lad! When I would be going sparkin' the lassies,
it wasn't running away they would be."
"Oh, but then you must have been so handsome and so fine, Uncle
Hughie," said the girl diplomatically. "If I go up into the village
will you tell mother you said I might?"
Uncle Hughie was not impervious to flattery, but he looked doubtful.
Running up into the village in the evening was strictly forbidden to
the younger members of the Cameron household.
"I'll jump into the pond if he comes," she declared. "Go on, Uncle
Hughie. Aw, haven't you got some errand for me?"
"Well, well," said the old man indulgently, "let me see. Oh, yes, now.
You might jist be stepping up to Sandy McQuarry's and tell him not to
be forgetting that this is the night to go and see poor John McIntyre."
"Goody! You're a duck, Uncle Hughie. John McIntyre--isn't that the
tramp you found in the hollow?"
"Yes; but indeed I will be thinking that it's no ordinary tramp he will
be, whatever. Poor man, eh, eh, poor buddy. If ever the Lord would be
laying His hand heavier on a man than He did on Job, that man's John
McIntyre, or I will be mistaken. Ay, and it would be a fine Hielan'
name, too--McIntyre."
The girl danced away up the street, dodging skilfully from tree to
tree, and keeping a sharp eye on the figure climbing leisurely up the
bank of the ravine.
"Don't be forgetting, Jeannie, child," the old man called after her,
"not to let Sandy know the minister will be coming."
The girl nodded over her shoulder, and Uncle Hughie continued his talk
to the milkstand.
"Ay, yes, oh, yes indeed. The peety of it, the peety of it. Well,
well. Hoots! The Almighty will be knowing all about you, John
McIntyre. Oh, yes, indeed, never fear. I will be thinking He will be
meaning you some good yet. Oh, yes, yes, never you fear----
"_'Oh, there's many a man o' the Ca----'_"
His voice broke on the high note, and he did not start again, for a
figure was coming down the street toward the bridge. It was Silas
Long, storekeeper, postmaster and astronomer, with his telescope under
his arm. He paused on the bridge, where he was joined by several
others. They came straying down the street in aimless fashion, hands
in pockets, shoulders drooping. It was the custom to assemble in the
most casual manner, for it would never do to confess, even to oneself,
that one had started deliberately to spend an evening in idleness.
The group straggled slowly forward, Silas Long, William Winters, the
blacksmith, Jake Sawyer, and a new member of the club, a very small
person, whose red, curly hair shone like a halo in the light of the
evening sun. Holding this little figure by the hand, Jake Sawyer
walked along with a tremendous swagger, the proudest man in the county
of Simcoe.
Another man was strolling toward them across the golden-lighted pasture
field. It was John Cross, Jake Sawyer's partner, called Spectacle
John, to distinguish him from a half dozen other John Crosses who
didn't wear spectacles. At sight of him Uncle Hughie sniffed, and
ejaculated "Huts!" Spectacle John was an Irishman, of a rather
frivolous turn of mind, and the philosopher disapproved of him, and
discouraged his attendance. Moreover, he and Silas Long were always at
variance, and when the two met the milkstand lost its dignity and
became a center of futile argument.
One by one they arrived, and dropped upon the steps of the milkstand or
the pile of stones by the gate, with a casual remark about the weather.
In Elmbrook one did not say "Good-morning" or "Good-evening," in
greeting; but "Fine day," "Cold night," as the case might be. So as
each man sank into his place, with a sigh for the long day's toil, he
remarked "Fine night," looking far off at the horizon, and Uncle Hughie
also examined that boundary, and remarked "Fine." As Jake Sawyer
seated himself, and raised the youngest orphan to his knee, he added
proudly, "An' a fine boy, too, eh, folks?"
"Oh, yes, indeed! And indeed, yes!" cried Uncle Hughie, patting the
little, curly head, and resorting to the Gaelic for terms sufficiently
endearing.
"And how many are there in your family now, Jake?" inquired Spectacle
John facetiously. "Got another carload shipped since I seen ye last?"
The company laughed heartily. The women of the village regarded the
Sawyers' large family as a serious problem, but the men treated it as a
huge joke.
"Aw, I bet my head any one o' yous would be glad to own a family half
as smart," remarked Jake proudly. "Golly, Miss Weir says that oldest
boy kin go through the 'rithmetic like a runaway team; an' as for the
girls, well, sirs"--Jake slapped his knee--"there jist ain't anythin'
they can't' do 'round the house, an' Hannah'll tell you the same."
"There don't seem to be much they can't do 'round the mill," grunted
Spectacle John, whose days were made weary routing his partner's family
from his place of business. "You won't raise that oldest boy if he
shows his face to me 'round the mill again, I promise you that."
"Speakin' o' mills," said William Winters, "when I was at Neeag'ra
Falls I seen a mill that you could put this whole village into an'
never notice it, an' it run by electricity, too."
The population of the milkstand settled more firmly into its place.
When the blacksmith got started on his favorite topic there was no
knowing when he might stop. He had visited the Toronto Exhibition and
Niagara Falls one autumn, and ever since had lived in the afterglow of
that achievement. Not the most astounding phenomena that the milkstand
could produce, either in song or story, but he could far surpass from
the wonderful experiences of that visit. The Niagara Falls mill was
only half finished when a new arrival interrupted.
"Fine night," said a voice with a deep Scottish burr.
"Fine," acquiesced the milkstand.
"Oh, and it will be you, Sandy?" said Uncle Hughie, making room for the
newcomer beside him. "Come away, man, come away."
Sandy McQuarry was a thick-set man, with a face like a Skye terrier.
He stood looking down at the contented, round-shouldered assembly, with
little columns of smoke curling up from pipes of peace, and his
disapproving brows bristled as though he were about to burst into loud
barking.
"Jeannie said ye wanted me," he remarked, by way of explaining his
presence. Sandy McQuarry was a busy man, and a great money-maker, and
did not want any one to think he could afford to spend his evenings in
idle gossip on a milkstand, as some folks did.
"Oh, yes, indeed, it would be very kind of you to be troubling. You
must jist be coming with us to see that poor McIntyre body now, down in
your shanty. And what would you be thinking of him?"
"He's a dour body. Ah couldna git a ceevil word oot o' him."
"He would mebby be a good workman, for all?" said Uncle Hughie
insinuatingly.
"Ah dinna ken. He's got a bad e'e in his heid, yon man."
"Hoots! It's not wicked the man would be!" cried Uncle Hughie
indignantly. "It's a broken heart that ails him, or I'll be mistaken."
"That's jist what I say," agreed Jake Sawyer. "I jist got one squint
at him yisterday, when I was down at the Drowned Lands, huntin' our
oldest"--Jake tried in vain to keep the quiver of pride from his
voice--"an' he looked to me like a dog that was meant to be
good-natured, but had jist been kicked straight ahead till it turned
surly."
"I'm thinkin' ye could surely give him some light job, Sandy,"
continued old Hughie. "Night watchman, now--it's the only job he could
be doin', he's that sick, poor body."
Sandy McQuarry looked obstinate. "I was thinkin' o' settin' our Peter
at that job this summer."
"Eh? But you could be helping the Lord to give the poor man better
days, Sandy, and that would be grand work, whatever. Eh, indeed,
indeed, we can never tell, when we do a kind act, how far it will
reach." Uncle Hughie began to grow philosophical. "Here would be
Jake, now, taking all these lambs into his home, and the Lord only can
tell how much good it will do to other people he will be knowing
nothing about. Oh, indeed, when we would be giving the Lord a helping
hand, it would jist be starting all the machinery in the world, and
mebby beyond it."
"That there's true, 'Ughie, that's true!" cried Silas Long, laying down
his telescope. "Wen you're doin' the right thing by your neighbor
you're jist 'elpin' along the turnin' o' the earth."
There was an impatient movement from Spectacle John. Silas had touched
their chief point of dispute. The shape and motions of the planet they
inhabited had long served as a fierce battle-ground between these two.
The astronomer held the generally accepted opinion on these matters,
and could prove Columbus' theory beyond gainsaying. But, whether from
honest disbelief, or a stubborn resolve to disagree with his adversary
upon all subjects, Spectacle John scouted his arguments as moonshine.
"The turnin' o' the earth!" he repeated scornfully. "You'll never
catch me takin' a hand at anny such fool chore as that!"
Uncle Hughie gazed indignantly over the golden mill-pond and hummed
"The March o' the Cameron Men."
"Well, sir, that McIntyre man has a hard row to hoe," said Jake Sawyer,
wisely steering away from the dangerous topic. "It's a caution now,
ain't it, how some folks seems to have everything they want in this
world, an' others gets all the things nobody wants?"
"Man, did you ever think what a queer, botched-up world we live in,
anyhow?" inquired William Winters, who, whenever he found himself
beyond the influence of his well-managed home, was always in a
rebellious state. "The minister, now, 'ud like to make ye believe
everything's ordered for our good, but it don't look that way to me.
Gosh! Sometimes, when I'm patchin' up somethin' at the shop, I think I
could take my hammer an' bang things up into better shape myself than
the Almighty's done."
"Lord love ye, William!" cried Silas Long in alarm. "Take care wot
ye're sayin'!"
"Well, when I was at Neeag'ra Falls," persisted the blacksmith, "there
was a man preachin' there on the streets that said he didn't believe
there was any God at all----"
'"Ere, William," interrupted the astronomer, shoving his telescope into
Winters' hand, as one would give a new toy to a complaining child, "you
take a squint through this 'ere spyglass, an' if you ain't convinced in
five minutes that there is a God, well, sir, you can smash it, that's
all."
Sandy McQuarry regarded the blacksmith sternly. For sufficient reasons
of his own, he never entered the Elmbrook church, but for all that he
was as strict in religious matters as he was at gaining a penny in a
bargain.
"Ye've no right to creeticize the Almighty yon way, Weeliam," he
admonished. "If He wishes to make one vessel to honor, and another,
such as this MacIntyre, to dishonor, it is the Lord's wull, an' we maun
jist abide by it."
The blacksmith, one eye inside the telescope, paid no attention.
"That's so," agreed Spectacle John, with suspicious cordiality,
"especially as He's made an occasional vessel jist to hold money."
"That's better than bein' a bag to hold wund, like some folks you
admire, John," said Sandy McQuarry with deep meaning.
"Lookee 'ere, Sandy," said Silas Long solemnly, "criticizin' the
minister is next thing to criticizin' the Almighty. You'd better take
a warnin'." His voice dropped to a whisper. "It ain't safe, Sandy,
now, that's wot it ain't."
Sandy McQuarry grunted scornfully. "Ony man," he announced darkly,
"that's so licht in his heid that he doesna ken ony better than to
liken the land o' Burns to a few miles o' barren stones, is no a fit
person to expound the Word o' God."
The milkstand began to look uncomfortable. There had been a day when
Sandy McQuarry was an elder in the church, and as stanch a friend as
the minister possessed. But just the summer before he had been
grievously offended. Mr. Scott had gone on the annual excursion of the
Sons of Scotland to Muskoka. Here the endless chain of jeweled lakes,
the fairy islands floating on the dark waters, the rugged, barren rocks
set in masses of soft greenery, and above all the wild spirit of
freedom that pervaded this new beauty land, had enchanted the
minister's tired soul. So, upon his return, he had declared in a
tea-meeting speech at the church that Muskoka reminded him of Scotland.
The next Sabbath Sandy McQuarry drove past the Elmbrook church and
worshiped, fifteen miles away, with the Glenoro congregation, and there
he had worshiped ever since.
"Och, well, indeed," remarked Uncle Hughie, wisely reverting to an
earlier subject, "it will be a question that puzzles the greatest men
in the world, why some people must suffer. But, indeed, it is our own
selves that will be responsible. And as long as there will be one man
sinning in this world the race must suffer. Oh, yes, we will not be
beginning to learn that lesson yet, but will be fighting against each
other! Och, hoch! it will be a peety, indeed. But it will all come
out right in the end, never you fear. He came to show us how it's
done, oh, yes. The Almighty will be knowing what He is about, indeed."
"It's my opinion that the Almighty lets things go pretty much as they
please," grumbled the blacksmith. "When I was at Neeag'ra Falls----"
"Hoots!" cried the philosopher impatiently, "that would be jist child's
talk, William. There will be an unerring law governing everything man
does, jist as there's a law governing----" He hesitated for a
comparison.
"The movements o' this 'ere ball that we're standin' on," finished
Silas Long, with marked emphasis, and a meaning glance at his
unbelieving enemy.
"Standin' on a ball!" repeated Spectacle John wearily. "We'd better
all go an' join a circus, an' be done with it!"
"Well," said Jake Sawyer reasonably, "most o' the eddicated folks'll
tell you that's what the world is. Miss Weir, now, was tellin' that to
our twins jist to-day."
Spectacle John sniffed. "Huh! That young Graham, that teached here
before her, was loony on the same notion. He's sit up half the night
argifyin' with me that the earth was spinnin' 'round like a dog after
its tail. I uster ask him how it was we didn't tumble off when we was
danglin', head downward, in the dark, an' that uster to give him the
blind staggers every time. He was a terror for argifyin', though, that
chap; an' one night he got me to give in that it was mebby round like a
cheese and us livin' on the flat top. It was in Sawed-Off Wilmott's
cheese factory he was shootin' off that time. Well, I went that far,
but further than that there's no livin' man'll get me to go."
A tall figure had crossed the bridge and was nearing the group. There
was a perceptible stir, and all conversation ceased. "'Ere's the
minister," said Silas Long. "We'd better get started."
"Mr. Scott's been tryin' all day to get a light job for that McIntyre,"
said Jake Sawyer innocently, "but he don't seem to've got anything easy
enough yet."
Uncle Hughie darted a warning glance at the indiscreet miller, but it
was too late.
"He'll be well looked after, then, I'm thinkin'," said Sandy, promptly
rising. "There'll be no need o' me goin' with ye the night, Hughie.
Maister Scott'll likely give him a job in"--he paused to let the heavy
weight of his sarcasm fall resoundingly--"in Muskoky!"
He tramped away, and, climbing the fence, strode across the fields in
the direction of his mill.
"Ain't 'e a caution, now?" asked Silas Long in a tone of fear. "You
mark my words, now--jist mark my words--that man's goin' to meet a
judgment some day. It ain't safe to act like that to the minister,
that's wot it ain't."
"Fine night," the assembly remarked unanimously. Mr. Scott was a
good-looking man of middle age, tall and straight, with a massive head,
covered with thick iron-gray hair. He had deep blue eyes, with little
lines at their corners showing they were prone to kindly laughter.
"What's the question to-night?" he asked, the lines around his eyes
deepening. "Have you found a new star, Silas?"
"Eh, eh, mebby, mebby," answered Uncle Hughie. "If it is, it seems to
be a fallen one, whatever. We would jist be talkin' about yon poor
body we're goin' to see. Come away, now."
The milkstand arose leisurely. Silas Long shouldered his telescope,
Jake Sawyer slung his orphan over his back, and the group turned up
Cameron's lane, crossed the orchard, and went down the winding pathway
into the ravine.
The little stream danced along at their side, touched here and there
with the gold of the sunset, the vesper sparrows had gathered for their
twilight chorus, and the valley was vibrating with music.
No matter at what hour of the day, or season of the year, it might be
viewed, the ravine where the mill-stream ran was a treasure-house to
any one who had the seeing eye. Long before, when Elmbrook was merely
a "Corners," with one or two houses, there came to the place a queer
Englishman, who wandered all day about the fields, and painted pictures
and read strange, dry books by a man named Ruskin. He first entered
the valley on an October morning, when it was all gold and crimson, and
lay shrouded in a soft violet mist. The man had sat for hours gazing
down the winding stream, and afterward he had said it was the Golden
River, and that the place should be called Treasure Valley. But Sandy
McQuarry's father, who was living then, said that onybody with a head
on him could see that it was clean ridic'l'us to give a place such a
daft name. McQuarry's Corners it had been called for years, and
McQuarry's Corners it would stay. The queer Englishman left, and was
never heard of again, and old Sandy died, and when the post-office came
old lady Cameron named the place Elmbrook; but Treasure Valley still
remained with the little Golden River flowing through it, showing new
beauties with every recurring season.
About a mile below the village the walls of the ravine disappeared, and
the brook was lost in a deep swamp, a maze of tangled foliage and deep
pools and idly wandering streams. As the water advanced the forest
became submerged, and formed a desolate stretch known as the Drowned
Lands. Its slimy, green surface was dotted with rotten stumps and
fantastic tree-trunks, pitched together in wild confusion, and above it
rose a drear, dead forest of tall pine stems, bleached and scarred, and
stripped of every limb. Around this silent, ghostly place the swamp
formed a ring through which it was dangerous to pass, for near the edge
of the Drowned Lands it was honeycombed with mud holes, into which it
was sure death to slip. Terrible tales were related of lives lost in
this swamp. Folks said that a banshee or a will-o'-the-wisp, or some
such fearsome creature, wandered to and fro at nights over the surface
of the desolate waters, waving her pale lantern and calling for help,
or in other ways enticing unwary travelers to their death. Some had
been lured into the depths by her voice and had never returned.
It was in this drear, lonely place that the tramp had taken up his
abode. Just where a corduroy road, now abandoned and grass-grown,
passed out of the ravine and along the edge of the swamp, stood Sandy
McQuarry's old lumber shanty, and here Uncle Hughie Cameron and the
doctor had taken John McIntyre. Before it lay the swamp, and through
occasional gaps gleamed the still waters of the Drowned Lands.
As the visitors emerged from the valley there was a loud hallo from the
hill-top, and a small, limping figure came hurrying down the slope.
The little fellow perched upon Jake Sawyer's shoulder gave a squeal of
welcome, and Jake's face lit up.
"Hello, you, Tim!" called the big man cordially, as the youngster came
limping toward him, "what you been up to now?"
The boy glanced around the group and placed himself as far as possible
from Spectacle John. "Jist been fishin'," he remarked vaguely; "and
I'm goin' with you," he added, with that mixture of defiance and appeal
which the orphans had already learned was sure to move their
foster-parents.
"Ye'd better watch out! The banshee'll git ye," threatened Spectacle
John.
"Speakin' o' a banshee," put in the blacksmith, "when I was at Neeag'ra
Falls----" By the time the story was finished the company had come in
view of the old shanty.
The sick man was seated in the doorway. His figure had a despairing
droop, his eyes were fixed on the forest of dead tree-trunks. There
was something of a corresponding dreariness in his whole attitude, as
though the waters of tribulation had gone over his life and left it a
veritable Drowned Land, its hopes engulfed, its greenness dead.
The company fell silent as they passed through the bars that served as
a gateway and went up the slope to the shanty door. So absorbed was
the man in his reflections that he did not notice any one approaching
until the minister's foot struck a stone. He turned sharply and arose.
Mr. Scott had visited him twice as he lay in bed, and the man
recognized him with a brief word. But there was no cordiality in the
way he put out his hand to meet the minister's proffered one, and he
took no notice whatever of the others.
"Good-evening," said Mr. Scott pleasantly. "Some of the neighbors
thought they would like to drop in and give you a word of welcome to
the village. I'm glad to see you are looking much better."
"I am quite better." The man's answer was curt and dry.
He did not offer his visitors a seat, nor ask them to enter, but stood
there, bent, shabby and forlorn, and looked at the minister with
haggard eyes that besought him to go. But the look only made him more
anxious to stay.
"Do you mind if we sit a moment?" he asked, glancing at an old log near
the doorway.
The man hesitated. "It is a poor thing to refuse a welcome to any
man," he said at last, with a quiet dignity, "and in the years that I
had a fit roof to my head none was turned away; but"--he paused, as
though he disliked to say the words--"but I have spent my life alone
these last few years, and I find it better. So I am afraid I cannot
offer you a seat, sir."
The minister was as much surprised by the stately manner in which the
words were delivered as by the astonishing declaration itself. Yet he
could not feel angry at his dismissal; the man's eyes awakened only
compassion.
"But it is not good for us to shut ourselves away from our fellow-men,"
he said gently. "We miss much happiness and kindness."
"And cruelty," added John McIntyre, with sharp bitterness. "And as to
its being good for me, or otherwise, that matters nothing to any one."
"Ah, but that is where you are mistaken," said the minister eagerly.
"It matters very much to our Father. We are very precious in His
sight. The Almighty----"
He was interrupted by a harsh laugh.
"Hoh!" cried John McIntyre derisively, "what is the use telling that to
a man who knows the world? That's a tale for children and old women!
What do you know about the Almighty's care?" His eyes ran fiercely
over his visitor. "You! Because you are well fed and well clothed,
and prosperous, you think that all the world is the same, and that your
God is a miracle of kindness. He may be to you. But there is another
side. Your God causes the wicked to prosper, and sees the innocent
trampled upon, and never puts forth a hand to help. And you call Him
the Almighty! If there is an Almighty, then He takes pleasure in the
pain of His creatures. He gives them the good things of this life only
that He may take them away and enjoy their suffering. And because your
turn hasn't come yet you would make me believe that every one is as
well off as yourself. Hoh! Lies! Old women's lies!"
The minister stepped back in shocked amazement. He had lived his life
among a prosperous, God-fearing people, where such blasphemous words,
if ever uttered, were never allowed to reach his ears. Nothing aroused
his righteous indignation like a slighting reference to the Master whom
he served, and in his quick resentment he forgot the suffering written
on John McIntyre's face.
"How dare you speak so of your Master?" he demanded hotly.
The man laughed again, and the minister broke forth in stern rebuke.
People said that when Mr. Scott denounced sin there was something of
the fearless candor of the ancient prophets about him. But in this
instance he forgot that the greatest Prophet was always gentle and
tender in the presence of pain. He denounced John McIntyre roundly for
his irreverence, showed him plainly the appalling evil of his ways, and
quoted Scripture to prove that he was hastening to everlasting
perdition.
At the mention of his inevitable destiny John McIntyre interrupted.
"Hell!" he shouted. "I've been there for months already!" As he spoke
he turned swiftly and caught up an old spade lying by the doorstep.
"Get out of my sight!" he hissed fiercely, holding the weapon aloft.
"Leave me, or I'll send you where I'm going! Go!" His voice was
almost beseeching. "Go, before I do you harm!"
The Rev. James Scott was afraid of no living man, but there was a
terrible gleam in John McIntyre's eyes that hinted of insanity. He
looked at him a moment and then, with a motion as though washing his
hands of him, he turned away. The rest of the company had fallen back
from the doorway, and now followed the minister in speechless concern.
They tramped along the old grassy road, followed by the call of the
whip-poor-will from the darkening hillside above, and the lonely cry of
the loon floating across the Drowned Lands. Uncle Hughie was the first
to break the dismayed silence.
"Well! well! well! well! Ech! hech! Hoots! toots!" he ejaculated
incoherently, quite unable to express his feelings.
"Man, ain't he a caution?" whispered Jake Sawyer fearfully.
"Gosh! now there's some truth in what he says," remarked the melancholy
blacksmith in an undertone.
"D'ye think he would be right in his mind, poor body?" asked Uncle
Hughie, searching for some palliation of John McIntyre's outrageous
conduct.
"Mebby he's had notions about the earth spinnin' 'round like a top, an'
they've drove him loony," suggested Spectacle John. "That often
happens, they say."
But Silas Long was too deeply concerned over the tramp's wickedness to
pay any heed to this frivolous remark.
The minister was walking ahead, in gloomy silence. His heart was still
full of hot indignation, but it was mingled with regret and deep
disappointment. He had wanted to do this lonely, sad man good, and in
his haste, he feared, he had done him only harm.
But there was one pair of eyes that had regarded John McIntyre's action
with perfect approval. Those eyes were now looking up at Jake Sawyer,
alight with unholy joy. "Say," whispered the eldest orphan, jerking
his foster-father's coat, "I like that man. He's awful bad, an' I
think he's just bully."
The next day the tale of the tramp's outrageous treatment of the
minister flew through Elmbrook like the news of a fire in the mill.
Sandy McQuarry had been away in Lakeview all day, and did not hear it
until he was seated with his family and the mill-hands at the supper
table.
Miss Euphemia, his sister, who had been his housekeeper since Sandy's
wife, as folks said, worked herself to death, was the first who dared
to broach the subject, any reference to Mr. Scott being rather
hazardous.
"Yon's a fearfu' buddy ye've got in yer shanty doon yonder, Sandy," she
began solemnly. "Ah'd no let him sleep there anither nicht."
Her brother was busy distributing the fried pork around the table, a
performance at which he was an adept. In spite of a keen desire for
money-making, Sandy was a generous man at his own table, and he had a
way of serving his family that was the admiration of the whole mill
staff. If a man but held up his plate as a slight indication that he
was ready for more, the host could flip him a slice of beef or pork
with the dexterity of a sleight-of-hand magician. At his signals,
"Here, Bob, mon!" "Hi, Peter, lad!" "Look oot, Sam!" away flew each
man's portion, hitting his plate with unerring precision. He had never
been known to miss anybody in his life, not even Miss Euphemia, away at
the other end of the table.
He paused now, his fork suspended, and looked at his sister from under
his bristling brows. "What's he been doin'?" he demanded.
Now that the ice was broken, every one was ready with a different
version of the tale. John McIntyre was an infidel and an outcast, and
had spoken blasphemy and driven the minister and old Hughie Cameron and
a half dozen others away from his door, threatening them with violence.
The company waited, expecting to hear an order summarily evicting the
tramp from his refuge by the Drowned Lands. But the mill-owner made no
comment. "Huh!" he remarked, an enigmatic ejaculation that left all in
doubt as to his feelings. But the next night the village knew how deep
was the elder's resentment against the minister, for early in the
evening Sandy repaired to the Cameron milkstand, and, to the
philosopher's joyful amazement, announced that he had decided, after
all, to hire John McIntyre as night watchman.