THE SONG IN THE NIGHT
Though strife, ill fortune and harsh human need
Beat down the soul, at moments blind and dumb
With agony; yet, patience--there shall come
Many great voices from life's outer sea,
Hours of strange triumph, and, when few men heed,
Murmurs and glimpses of eternity.
--ABCHIBALD LAMPMAN.
Miss Ella Anne Long was busy "reddin' up" the parlor, for to-night the
young people of the village who were musically inclined--and, for that
matter, who wasn't?--were to hold a final practice for the Temperance
Society's concert.
The Longs' home was the musical center of the village, the organ being
kept as busy as the telescope, and Miss Long was the leading musician.
Even Elsie Cameron could not compete with her, for Ella Anne was
organist in the church, and had a voice that, when she wished, could
drown out all the rest of the choir. Every one in Elmbrook was
musically inclined, irrespective of talent. To "play a piece" or sing
a solo at a public gathering was the great ambition of every young lady
in the place. Masculine performance on any instrument, except a
mouth-organ or a fiddle, which last was distinctly worldly, was
regarded as rather inclining to effeminacy. But the men all sang, for,
of course, it went without saying that every one could sing bass.
Tenors were scarce, there being only one at present--a young Englishman
who had come out to learn farming at Sandy McQuarry's, and who suffered
from chronic huskiness.
Each of the sopranos had an attendant swain in the basses. That was a
necessity to any smallest hope of enjoyment when the choir went abroad.
To have a sweetheart who could sing alone in public was to be
distinguished far above one's fellow-songstresses. Bella Winters once
sang "The Larboard Watch" with Wes Long at the Glenoro Dominion Day
picnic, and until this was transcended she was the envy of one and all.
Ella Anne Long, of course, was the one who achieved even greater
heights. She and Mack McQuarry sang "The Larboard Watch" at the next
Elmbrook harvest home, while at one and the same time she played the
accompaniment. No one had ever before conceived of such a triple
triumph, and it was felt by all that Ella Anne would surely experience
some disciplining misfortune to balance things. So, every one nodded
her head and said, "I told you so," when Mack went off to Athabasca, or
some such out-of-the-way corner of Canada, and married a half-breed,
when Ella Anne had her wedding clothes all ready. And now she was no
longer quite one of the young people of the village, and, besides, was
receiving attentions from Sawed-Off Wilmott, a little widower, who ran
the cheese factory, and who could not have sung even bass if he had had
all his teeth.
Nevertheless, as Miss Long went about her duties she was watching
eagerly for Mr. Wilmott's buggy. It was not for the reasons why a
maiden usually looks for her lover, but because Davy Munn and the
oldest orphan were sitting on the sidewalk at the doctor's gate, with
mischievous designs upon her middle-aged admirer. As she stood on the
porch, shading her eyes from the slanting rays of the sun, Sawed-Off's
buggy came whizzing down the street, and Miss Long modestly withdrew.
Two or three of the earliest arrivals had already entered by the store
door, and Mr. Wilmott soon joined them. He had safely passed Scylla
and Charybdis at the doctor's gate, but a worse fate awaited him, for
the Sawyer twins were there, and his youthful spirits proved so
attractive that they appropriated him as their own, and kept him from
even speaking to Ella Anne all evening.
On practice nights the whole village gathered at the Longs', the
company dividing itself into three parts. Ella Anne's friends
assembled in the parlor, Mrs. Long received the mothers in the kitchen,
and Silas entertained on the store veranda.
The Elmbrook kitchen was a fine place to receive one's friends; it was
not the tiny workshop now in fashion, but a big, roomy place, where the
homemaker sacrificed to the household gods, with the stove a sort of
shining high altar in the center, and the incense from the merry kettle
curling up to the ceiling.
The frequenters of the milkstand got on the nail-kegs and packing-boxes
of the veranda, and discussed astronomy and enjoyed the music. It was
a fine situation for studying the stars, for the house stood at the end
of the village, opposite the school, and commanded a view of the pond
and the valley and a great stretch of sky.
The planet Mars, and its possible inhabitants, was under discussion
when Spectacle John Cross came up the steps with a bundle of hymn-books
under his arm.
"Ye see," Silas was explaining, "it ain't one o' yer ordinary stars.
Lord love ye! it's a 'igh sight better'n that. It's a planet, that's
wot it is, like our own world, an' it keeps a-spinnin' 'round the sun
like our earth, too." He ended up with a descriptive sweep of his arm,
and gazed triumphantly at his enemy.
"Did ye ever hear the likes o' such balderdash?" sneered Spectacle
John, appealing to Jake Sawyer.
Jake passed his hands, in some perplexity, over the youngest orphan's
curls. "Most folks'll tell ye the same, John," he said, regarding his
partner doubtfully. "The doctor, there, now--look at the eddication
he's had!--an' he says the same."
"It's my opinion," said the miller, "that the more book learnin' a man
crams into his head the more common sense gets squeezed out. It stands
to reason that there couldn't be room for everything unless his head
was to swell like a punkin."
"Huh!" cried Sandy McQuarry impatiently. "Ony fool can see the world's
round; but when folks go far enough to tell a body that pin-points like
yon are as big as this world, that's jist clean ridic'l'us."
"Well," exclaimed Spectacle John, "if ye once get it fixed in yer head
that this world's bumpin' 'round through the air like a football, there
isn't anny fool yarn you're not ready to believe." He stopped
suddenly. The Duke of Wellington was coming up the steps, and his
remarks trailed off into coughs and incoherent murmurs about the
weather. Spectacle John knew better than to air his scientific
theories before the Duke. She gave a contemptuous sniff and passed
into the parlor.
Silas Long chuckled. "John knows w'en to shut his mouth, don't ee,
now, John?" he asked facetiously.
Sandy McQuarry grunted scornfully. "Losh! afore Ah'd be scared by a
wumman!" he exclaimed witheringly.
Spectacle John looked sheepish. "There's weemin an' weemin," he
announced meaningly. "I'm no more afraid of the ordinary run o' them
than you, Sandy. I got a wife that can hold her own with annybody, and
my word's law at home. But I'm not ashamed to say that woman's one too
many for me. I've been a trustee," he ended up feelingly.
"Sandy thinks he's a mighty hand at managin' folks," put in William
Winters, happy to second any one who lived in fear of the gentler sex.
"But I'm willin' to make a bet right here that if he was to run again'
the Dook she'd come out ahead."
"Ah'm willin' to take ye ony day, Weeliam. Ah'd like to see the wumman
that'd get the upper hand o' me. Jist name yer bet, man."
"Hoots! toots!" cried Uncle Hughie in his stateliest manner. "Indeed,
it is surely not making a bet on a lady you will be, whatever!"
"I'll tell ye!" cried Spectacle John, his eyes twinkling. "If you an'
the Dook gets to argifyin', or gets into any difference, an' she gets
the best o' the bargain, you'll promise William and all of us here that
you'll go back to church and tell the minister you was a darn fool for
the way you acted."
Sandy McQuarry's bristling brows came together, "Ah'll take ye!" he
cried, slapping his knee fiercely. "Ah'd be a fool onyway, if Ah let a
wumman scare me the way you did, John. Ah, ha! Here's his reverence
now, comin' to tell ye about Muskoky, very like. Ah'll jist be biddin'
ye a good-evenin'." He tramped down the steps as the tall form of the
minister came into the ring of light.
"Fine night," remarked each of the company in turn.
"We would jist be talkin' about the play-net Mars a minute ago,
indeed," said Uncle Hughie Cameron, striving to cover Sandy's retreat.
"Yes, yes," said the minister with a sigh. "Astronomy's a wonderful
subject--wonderful. The more we learn of the Creator's works, the more
we wonder at His greatness and goodness."
"Eh! eh! it will jist be fearsome, indeed!" cried Uncle Hughie. "How
far, now, would you be saying the sun is from us, Silas--ninety--now
what would it be?"
"Ninety-five million mile!" declared the astronomer impressively.
"There's a fine day's walk for ye!"
"Ninety-five million!" cried the blacksmith, astounded. "Are ye sure
it's not feet ye mean, Si?" he asked hopefully.
"No--miles," was the inexorable answer. "Lord love ye, man! it's a
good thing. If she was any nearer she'd burn us all to a frazzle!"
"Eh, now, ain't that a caution!" cried Jake Sawyer, with the air of one
who has just had a narrow escape from destruction.
"Astronomy's a orful subject," continued Silas. "I sometimes wish I
'adn't meddled with the thing. It makes me feel like nothing--like a
worm o' the dust."
"'When I consider Thy heavens, the work of Thy fingers,'" quoted the
minister, "'the moon and the stars which Thou hast ordained, what is
man, that Thou art mindful of him or the son of man that Thou visitest
him?'"
"That's it! that's jist it!" cried Silas. "The Psalmist knew! 'E must
'a' 'ad a telescope. D'ye think 'e 'ad?"
"Hoots!" cried Uncle Hughie. "How could the buddie? an' he would be
livin' away back in the times when nobody even knew"--he added in a
loud tone--"that the world was round." But Spectacle John had
disappeared indoors, and the minister added:
"Yes, we have a great many advantages that the Psalmist never had, and
the greatest is the knowledge that we need not be afraid. For He
became flesh and dwelt among us, you know, Silas." A reverent silence
fell over the little group.
At the farther end of the veranda a door led into the lamp-lit parlor.
It was open, and from it now burst the opening notes of a rousing
chorus. In Elmbrook there were fashions in songs, just as there were
in the sopranos' hats. The former varied, not with the season, but
with the sentiments of the people. One winter the Methodists held
revival meetings for two months in the schoolhouse, and for nearly a
year after it was considered very worldly to sing anything but hymns.
The other extreme was reached one fall when Hank Winters came home for
a visit from the States, and set all the village singing "coon songs."
This spring, and during the past winter, the rousing, Salvation Army
variety of hymn was greatly in vogue. The opening chorus for the
concert was of this kind, a stirring sort of semi-religious song,
called "The King's Highway." It was with this the chorus now burst
forth into tumultuous harmony:
"_Wherever you may be,
Whatever you may see,
That would lead you into evil,
Say you nay, say you nay,
Be sure you take no heed,
They're trying to mislead;
Just keep along the middle
Of the King's highway!_"
The verse was no extraordinary feat, but in the chorus the bass singers
had a part calling for marvelous dexterity and tremendous speed. For,
while the ladies sang leisurely, "Just keep along the middle of the
King's Highway," the gentlemen were expected to get over about four
times the space in the same time. They had to repeat the self-same
warning a half dozen times, with sundry advices and variations
concerning the turning to the right of the King's Highway and the left
of the King's Highway, so many, and so complicated, that they arrived
at the end gasping for breath. Spectacle John warned the sopranos
again and again to go slowly, so as to admit of their overworked
followers getting in all their parts about the middle, left and right.
But Ella Anne Long was the real leader, and would wait for no man. She
hastened along the King's Highway at such a pace that it was beyond the
powers of human breath to keep up with her. Pete McQuarry declared
that it kept a fellow puffing just to stay anywheres on the King's
Highway, without bothering about the middle; and Davy Munn did not even
attempt the feat, but sang the air an octave lower.
They were scampering through the song for the third time when there was
a stir at the door, and a group of four entered: Elsie Cameron and her
brother Malcolm, with the minister's daughter and--actually--the busy
doctor himself. It was the first time Elsie had attended one of the
musical gatherings since her return, but she took her old place as
simply and naturally as though she had never left it. Malcolm went
over to the corner where the husky young Englishman stood, alone and
unheard, and gave him some assistance with the tenor, while the doctor
joined the other young men, and sang bass like a native.
They weathered through "The King's Highway" again, and sang a
temperance anthem, and several other choruses, and then they all sat
around the room, on the red and green plush chairs, and took a rest
while Ella Anne and her mother passed around raspberry vinegar and
layer-cake.
Spectacle John was just calling them all to order again for another
chorus when the minister put his head in at the door. Marjorie was to
get her hat, as they must be going in a moment, he announced, happily
unconscious of the scorching glance from the region of the tenors, and
would Elsie sing "Abide With Me" before he left?
The girl arose and went to the organ. Since her home-coming she had
been regarded with some disapproval in Elmbrook social circles because
of the promptness with which she answered an invitation to sing. It
was considered much more genteel and modest to at first disclaim
positively all musical ability, and to yield only after much
importuning. Every one felt that, though Elsie had been away in the
city, she ought to show a little backwardness.
"_Abide with me! fast falls the eventide,
The darkness deepens. Lord, with me abide._"
She sang, as she always did, with her heart as well as her voice. The
song hushed the gay chatter in the room; it passed out to the group on
the veranda, and their conversation ceased; it floated through the open
windows and rang across the darkly luminous water of the pond. And
there it reached the ear of a man with whom only despair and loss had
been abiding, and who was fighting a losing battle with these dark
companions. The sound of the old hymn, that had been his children's
lullaby, arrested John McIntyre on the brink of self-destruction:
"Swift to its close ebbs out life's little day,
Earth's joys grow dim, its glories pass away,
Change and decay in all around I see,
O Thou, who changest not, abide with me!"
A trembling weakness seized him. He shrank back against the heap of
logs. He seemed to have no power against the imperative sweetness of
that voice. It called him away, it called him up. He clutched the
rough bark of a log, and stood listening till the song swept on to its
triumphant ending:
"_Heaven's morning breaks and earth's vain shadows flee,
In life, in death, O Lord, abide with me!_"
The last echo died away in the shadow of the willows. John McIntyre
stood a moment, dazed by the glimpse into the depths to which his
despair had brought him. He glanced down at the dark water and
shuddered, then staggered weakly to his old place at the mill door, and
sank in the sawdust. Something, not a prayer, but nearer it than
anything he had uttered for years, burst from him--the name of his
Maker, spoken unwittingly, in an abandon of weakness. "My God!" he
whispered shakingly. The strength of desperation which had driven him
on was gone, but his despair remained. And so he lay, spent and weak,
in utter blackness of soul, not knowing that the prayer of the song had
been answered, and that, though he knew Him not in the darkness, his
Father was abiding with him still.