A STRANGE COMRADESHIP
O wind of death, that darkly blows
Each separate ship of human woes
Far out on a mysterious sea,
I turn, I turn my face to thee.
--ETHELWYN WETHERALD.
In spite of the excitement attendant upon the orphans' waywardness and
the doctor's growing practice, Elmbrook did not lose sight of the new
watchman in the mill.
Since the minister's rebuff, the village generally had ceased all
advances; but they watched John McIntyre from a distance, with deep
interest, not unmixed with fear. There was something in his whole
conduct to arouse apprehension. Every evening at dusk he came stealing
up the valley from the Drowned Lands, and every morning, in the gray
dawn, he stole away again. Silent and morose, avoiding all contact
with his fellow-men, he came and went with the darkness, until he
seemed a creature of night and shadows. One or two of the more kindly
souls of the village still made vain attempts to be friendly. Old
Hughie Cameron visited the mill several evenings, and Silas Long
carried his telescope down to the engine-room door, and strove to
introduce the strange man to the joys of star-gazing. Even the
minister, grieved at his former harshness, paid him a second visit.
But all alike were repulsed. John McIntyre would accept kindness from
no man, and one by one they were forced to leave him to himself. Some
of the women, too, tried to pierce his reserve, with as little effect.
The Longs lived near the mill-pond, and Mrs. Long had been in the habit
of sending Jerry Coombs, the former watchman, a nightly lunch. So one
evening she borrowed Davy Munn, and sent him down to the mill with a
strawberry pie and a plate of cookies that would have tempted any
living man. They were returned with dignified thanks, and Silas and
his wife sat and exclaimed over the strange man's obstinacy, while Davy
Munn and the eldest orphan despatched the despised viands. Mrs. Long
told her story the next afternoon at Miss McQuarry's, where the village
mothers had met to make a quilt for the Sawyer twins' bed. Every one
agreed that John McIntyre certainly was a caution, and the hostess
declared, with a sigh, that she was jist terrible feared he would bring
retribution upon Sandy for his treatment of the minister.
Ella Anne Long remarked, between stitches, that his house was a sight
to behold, and no mistake.
"Did you see into it with the spyglass?" inquired Mrs. Winters, from
the other end of the quilt, glad to get a slap at the mischievous
instrument.
"No, I didn't!" said Miss Long indignantly. "It was when Arabella and
me were down there, pickin' strawberries in the old clearin'. You can
ask Arabella, there, if you don't believe me."
Miss Arabella, with an apologetic glance at her sister-in-law,
corroborated the statement. They had seen inside the door that day
quite by accident, and the place was a dreary sight: a broken-down old
table, and only a piece of a log for a seat, and a heap of rags and
straw in an old bunk for a bed.
"Eh, poor man! poor buddy!" cried old lady Cameron pityingly. "An' him
with such a fine Hielan' name, too!"
Mrs. Winters suggested that they make a raid upon the place some
evening after he had left for the mill, and scrub and clean up. It was
a disgrace to the village to have such conditions not a mile from your
very door!
But old lady Cameron did not quite sanction such extreme measures. A
man's home was his castle, her brother Hughie always said, and no one
had any right to enter without his permission. So the quilting-bee
ended in a great deal of talk, and John McIntyre's condition remained
unbettered.
The Elmbrook Temperance League next took him up. Spectacle John Cross
was president of the society, and was assured that it was drink that
ailed John McIntyre. No one had ever seen him overcome with liquor,
neither had he ever been known to go to Lakeview, where was the nearest
point at which it could be obtained. But Spectacle John said you could
never tell. He might run a private still in that old place away back
in the swamp, and he just looked like the kind that could carry a
gallon and yet walk steady. Spectacle John had met that sort often on
his temperance campaigns.
So they sent invitations to John McIntyre to join their ranks, all of
which he emphatically refused. Spectacle John received little
encouragement from the milkstand. Old Hughie Cameron was of the
opinion, having rastled it out one evening to the tune of "The Cameron
Men," that to ask that poor buddy to join his bit of a society was like
asking the folks at a funeral to come and play hop-scotch. Likely, the
man never touched liquor; and, anyway, his trouble was a sad one,
whatever it was, and needed a remedy that would go deeper.
While the village thus pondered over John McIntyre's case, there was
one person who was slowly, but surely, piercing his armor of reserve.
Ever since his first visit, the eldest orphan had felt the fascination
of the wicked watchman growing, and gradually he fell into the habit of
paying him a short visit every evening. He had various reasons for
going. First, he really felt a strange affinity for this outcast.
John McIntyre was very bad, he hated good people and law and order, and
Tim was convinced that he also was the enemy of all such. Then, too,
when the boys at school learned that he was McIntyre's intimate it
threw an evil glamor over him. He added to it by dark hints of the
plots he and the watchman were hatching; the breaking of the dam and
the burning of the mill being among the smallest. Then there was that
wonderful engine he was free to examine. And last of all, Tim noticed
a strange and delightful circumstance that often attended his visits to
McIntyre. When he had been spending an evening at the mill, old Hughie
Cameron was often on the bridge as he came down the willow path; and he
never failed to pat him on the head and slip a cent into his hand.
At first, Jake and Hannah were greatly exercised over the growing
intimacy between their boy and the wicked man who had defied the
minister. They even had horrible visions of resorting to Mrs. Winters'
extreme measures once more to keep their eldest away from the mill; but
old Hughie Cameron allayed their fears. John McIntyre would never harm
a child, he declared firmly. So, much relieved, the Sawyers let the
boy have his way.
At first the man merely tolerated the child's presence in silence; but
as he grew accustomed to it he sometimes caught himself glancing down
the willow-bordered path to see if the little, hobbling figure, in the
scant trousers and the big straw hat, were yet in sight. All
conversation remained, for a time, one-sided. It consisted chiefly of
a string of questions on the boy's part, interspersed with reluctant
answers from the man. Sometimes, weary of seeking information
unsuccessfully, Tim would deliver it himself, and would talk all
evening about his past hard life. After some of its sad disclosures he
noticed that his companion was less taciturn, and he seized such
opportunities for wringing from him something of his views on religion.
"Who made this pond?" he asked one night, when the water was a radiance
of golden ripples.
"I don't know," answered his companion shortly.
"But who d'ye s'pose made it?"
"I suppose it was Sandy McQuarry, when he put the mill here."
"How did he do it?"
"He dammed the creek."
"Oh, and who made the crick?"
"It was always there."
"Yes, but who made it in the first place?"
No answer.
"Was it God?"
"I--I suppose so."
"Oh, ain't you dead sure? Who could it 'a' been, then?"
Still silence.
"Was it God?"
"Yes."
Tim looked surprised. "Miss Scott, she says God made everything, but
she never knew ole Mother Cummins, or she'd never 'a' said that. She
don't know much, though," he added, with a sigh for the narrow
experience of his Sunday-school teacher. "You don't s'pose God would
'a' let anybody like ole Mother Cummins live if He bothered much about
things, do you?"
The man flashed a look of sympathy into the child's old, pinched face.
This boy's problem was his. How could the Almighty care, and yet
permit such things to be? John McIntyre had answered that question for
himself by saying that the Almighty--if there were an Almighty--did not
care; but when he looked into the child's hungry, questioning eyes his
unbelief seemed inadequate.
"D'ye think He would?" persisted the boy.
John McIntyre hesitated. For the first time he recoiled from
expressing his contempt for God and humanity. "Most people are bad,
but----" He paused. Then, to his own surprise, he added: "There's
your new father and mother, you know."
"Yes, God must 'a' made them, all right," agreed Tim emphatically.
"Mebby he couldn't help folks like ole Mis' Cummins an' Spectacle John.
Ole Hughie Cameron said Spectacle John was a son of Belial, an' I bet
that's right, 'cause he won't let us go near daddy's mill. Say"--he
looked up, and put the question in an awed whisper--"are you a son o'
Belial, too? Silas Long said you was."
There was no reply to this, and the boy sat regarding John McIntyre
thoughtfully. He was beginning to fear he was not so gloriously wicked
as the village believed.
"Say, you ain't a--a infiddle, after all, are you?" he added, in a
disappointed tone. And John McIntyre did not deny the charge.
Little by little, the man was inveigled into conversation. At first,
his few remarks were merely about the engine or the lumber, as the boy
followed him on his rounds through the mill. But the field gradually
widened, until one night he was led to speak of his past--those days of
love and peace, now separated from him by years of bitter sorrow. It
was a little bird that opened the door into those golden days. The two
incongruous figures were sitting, as usual, in the wide, dark doorway.
In front lay the shining water, in its feathery willow frame, and still
rosy with the last faint radiance of the sunset. As the pond slowly
paled to a mirror-like crystal, the moon, round and golden, rose up
from the darkness of the Drowned Lands. It sent a silver shaft down
into the shadowy ravine, and a gleam from the brook answered. Just as
its light came stealing on through the willowy fringe to touch the
waters of the pond there arose, from the dark grove opposite the mill,
a rapturous song.
"What's that?" cried Tim, in startled joy.
"A catbird," answered John McIntyre.
"Oh, say! That's the little beggar that was meyowing jist now, ain't
it?"
"Yes."
"Billy Winters always said it was a wildcat, and was scarder'n a
rabbit. Hello! There he goes again! Say! ain't he a little corker,
though? Did you ever hear him before?"
"Yes."
"Any other place than here?"
"Yes."
"Where?"
"Far away."
"Where you uster live 'fore you came here?"
"Yes."
"Were there Canada birds an' blue jays there, too?"
"Yes."
"Any other kinds?"
"Yes."
"What were they?"
The man's face betokened a deep pain and reluctance. He sat for a
moment, staring ahead, and then answered in a hushed tone, "There was
one they called the hermit thrush."
"The hermit thrush," repeated Tim. "I've never sawn him. What does he
say?"
"He says," began the man dreamily, "he says--'Oh'----" He stopped, as
though afraid of what he had done. "I--I forget what he said," he
added confusedly.
"Do you?" The boy's tone was disappointed. "Mebby if you think hard
you'll remember it," he added encouragingly. "What color was it?"
"Brown."
"Did it sing like a robin?"
"No."
"Can't you remember one little, teenty speck of it?" incredulously.
"No."
"Aw, think hard. That's what the Dook tells me in school, and then it
comes to me. Ole Mother Cummins uster lambaste me with a stick when I
forgot things, but she jist walloped it all out of me. The Dook gives
me a whackin' sometimes, too, but she can't lick for sour apples
'longside o' ole Mother Cummins. What did ye say was the bird's name?"
"The hermit thrush."
"Doesn't it ever sing here?"
"I don't think so, I've never heard it."
"If you could mind what it sings like I could listen for it."
The remark was broadly insinuating, but elicited no response.
"Where did you hear it?"
"Far away from here."
"In another country?"
"I guess so--yes."
"In Nova Scotia?"
The man turned sharply. "What made you say that?" he cried.
"I--we came from there," whispered the boy; "but you won't tell, will
you?"
"No."
"Only Daddy an' Mammy Sawyer knows. Our father he was a bad man, so we
don't tell. The kids don't mind him, but I do. He wasn't bad to us,
but he done somethin' awful, an' then he ran away, an' our mother died,
an' he sent us miles an' miles away to a city, an' we lived with old
Mother Cummins. But I mind the ocean--it smelt like--ok, it smelt
awful good! Did you ever smell the ocean?"
The man was supporting his head on his hand; his face was turned away.
"Oh, say! it's bully! It's somethin' like the smell o' the crick, jist
below the falls, on a hot day--only--only different. That's why I play
hookey so often down in the holler, 'cause it smells like the ocean."
Tim made his statement proudly. It was a wonderful privilege to boast
of how bad you were, and be sure you would be unreproved.
"We had good times when we lived there, but when ole Mother Cummins got
us it was different. She wasn't so awful bad at first, 'cause our
father uster send money; but he stopped. I guess he must 'a' died, or
run away farther. An' after that, say! didn't our ole woman uster
hammer us? She'd get drunk an' sleep on the floor, an' I uster pinch
her black an' blue an' stick pins into her for poundin' Joey!" His
small, withered face was fierce, his old eyes were cruel. "An' one day
she cut Lorry's head open with her stick; so we all lit out. I carried
Joey for miles an' miles, an' then some folks took us to the Home, an'
then Daddy an' Mammy Sawyer came. Do you s'pose God sent them for us?
Miss Scott said He did. Did He? Eh?"
"I--I suppose so."
"You ain't dead sure about anything God does, are you?" asked Tim
sympathetically. "Ain't you remembered about the harmless thrush yet?"
John McIntyre did not answer. He sat still so long, with his face in
his hands, that the boy grew weary, and rising, hobbled homeward.
The man's gray head sank lower. His thin hands, hard, and worn with
heavy toil, were trembling violently. His stooped shoulders, in their
poor, thread-bare covering, heaved convulsively. For the first time in
years he had dared to look back into the blossom-strewn past, and the
sight had been too much for his strength.
His misfortunes had come upon him in a way that, at first, had left him
no time to reflect. His home had gone, and then his friend, just at
the time when he needed his help. Then had come greater trials.
Sickness stalked hand in hand with poverty. One by one his children
were laid away in the earth; and then toil and want and grief had at
last taken her, his best beloved, and in her grave John McIntyre had
buried happiness and hope and faith.
What had he left in life? His home, his loved ones, were gone--even
Martin must be dead, or he would have come to him long ago. Nothing
remained but misery, and distrust of his fellow-men--and hatred--hatred
of the man who had defrauded him, and who was now, no doubt, living in
wealth and prosperity.
And what had he done to deserve it all? That had always been John
McIntyre's cry. Why must he and his be singled out for such suffering?
Why should his innocent loved ones be the victims of a villain's
rapacity?
And how he had worked to save them from want! Oh, God! how he had
toiled, until his back was bent and his health broken! And it had all
been of no use--no use!
He clenched his shaking hands, striving to gain control of himself. In
the early days of his misfortunes the necessity for straining every
effort had kept him from brooding upon his losses, and finally a
numbness of despair had seized him. But to-night the child's artless
talk had brought back vividly the old home scene. He could see it now,
as he had seen it so often in the light of a summer evening. The
sparkling sea, with the tang of salt water wafted up over his fields;
the rippling stream, winding like a thread of gold down to the Bay of
Fundy; his cozy home peeping from its orchard nest, and Mary at the
doorway, singing their baby's lullaby; Martin's gay voice passing down
the road; and in the purpling woods the tender song of the hermit
thrush:
"_O hear all! O hear all! O holy, holy!_"
A wave of desperate longing for the old days swept over him; a very
passion of loneliness and homesickness shook his desolate soul.
Why should he struggle against it? he asked himself. Why live on in
misery, only to die in misery at the end? Why not end it now? There
was no God, at least none that cared; and as for the future--he had
laughed when the minister mentioned hell. What profounder wretchedness
could it hold than all he had already endured?
He rose to his feet stealthily. His eyes were burning in his white
face. He stepped cautiously along the bank of the pond to a place
where the water was deep. He glanced about fearfully. His only
feeling was one of dread lest he be intercepted. He slipped into the
shadow of a pile of logs, then crept to the edge of the dark water.
Suddenly he paused, startled. Something had rustled in the willows.
It was only a muskrat; but as he stood, listening, another sound fell
upon his ear, the sound of a voice singing a familiar hymn. There was
something in the singer's tone, a compelling sweetness, that made John
McIntyre pause on the brink of death to listen.