"WHOSOEVER WILL LOSE HIS LIFE"
Christina was sitting in the old hammock on the veranda, ready for
church. She had already done a big morning's work. For, though the
Sabbath was rigidly kept in the Lindsay home, and made a day of rest as
much as possible, the usual multitude of barnyard duties had to be
attended to, for the chickens and the pigs and the calves clamoured
just as loudly for their breakfast on Sabbath morning as any week day.
But Christina's work was all done and she was neatly dressed; her heavy
golden brown braids were placed in a shining crown about her head, and
her freshly ironed white dress and her white canvas shoes were
immaculate. For her keen sense of a lack of beauty had taught her the
value of scrupulous neatness. She was studying her Sunday School
lesson, and her white gown and her bright head bent over the open Bible
on her lap, made her look not unlike a young saint at her meditations;
which was an entirely misleading picture, for Christina's mind was
rioting joyously across the University campus, far away from Orchard
Glen and Sabbath calm, even though her eyes were reading words such as
never man spake,
"Therefore, take no thought for your life, what ye shall eat or drink
... is not the life more than meat, and the body than raiment?"
"Are you really ready?" cried Sandy in admiring astonishment, as he
settled himself beside her in the hammock. "You never take half as
much time as the other girls to get dolled up!"
It was more than two months since Allister had gone back to the West,
and Neil had left for his summer Mission Field away out on the
prairies. July was marching over the hills, trailing the glory of her
clover-blossom gowns, her arms ladened with sweet-smelling hay. The
pink blossoms were blown from the orchard and instead the trees were
hung with a wealth of tiny green globes. Inside the house and about
the barnyard there were changes also, for Allister had been very
generous, especially to John, and his labours had been very much
lightened by machinery.
Christina sat with her fingers between the leaves of her Bible, her
thoughts far away on the shining road to success which she and Sandy
were so soon to take. For her the days could not move fast enough.
"My, but I wish I didn't have that year of High School to put in
first," she declared. "But then I suppose I wouldn't be satisfied if I
were a B. A. and you a Ph. D. But I'm going to study like a runaway
horse next winter," she added, growing incoherent in her joy, "and
maybe I'll catch up to you, Mr. Alexander Lindsay."
Sandy lay back in the hammock and gazed up at the festoons of little
green balls, hanging in the trees. He did not respond with his usual
readiness to his sister's nonsense. His gaiety seemed to have deserted
him lately.
"I don't see how you can help getting up on the barn and yelling for
joy, Sandy," she declared impatiently. "I know I would, every time I
think about going to college, if I were a boy. But I have several good
reasons for not expressing myself in that manner. Ellen's one, and
Mrs. Sinclair's another, and then I'm really a very well behaved young
woman anyway, and I'm going to be a lady some day, and it might not be
well to have such dark places in my past."
Sandy laughed rather forcedly. "It'll be time enough for me to yell,
when I've got something to yell about," he said. "'Don't holler till
you're out of the bush,' is a good old adage. And I'm a long way from
being out of it yet."
"What do you mean?" asked Christina in alarm.
"I was talking things over with John last night, and we're afraid we
can't manage for me to go this year. Allister lost some money in real
estate last month, and can't be depended on to help John as much as he
expected. I've almost decided to go down and see Mitchell about the
Anondell school. They wrote yesterday asking me to take it again."
"Oh, _Sandy_! Oh!" Christina's tone was full of unbelieving dismay.
"I can't believe it. Surely,--oh, John won't let you stay! Something
can be done surely----"
"Oh, of course John wants me to go and he'd manage somehow. But I
won't let him. It would cut Neil short too. It's no use making a row
over it," he concluded stoically. "It just can't be helped."
But Christina was inconsolable. It required a great deal of explaining
to convince her that it was not all an evil dream. She just couldn't
and wouldn't believe it. It was harder to bear Sandy's disappointment
than if it had been her own. He found he had to undertake the role of
comforter and try to convince her it was not such a disaster after all.
There was no use making a row over what couldn't be helped, he repeated
again and again. She would catch up to him in the year she would have
at school, and who knew but they might enter college together.
But Christina could only sit and stare in silence down the orchard
aisle to where the sun was glowing, richly purple, on the last uncut
clover field. The glory had departed from the morning, and the glory
had departed too, from the road to success which she and Sandy were to
have taken together. For she alone realised what a bitter
disappointment this was to Sandy. He would never complain, she well
knew, nor indulge in self-pity, but she did know that there was grave
danger of his throwing away the hope of a University education
altogether, and going into business or perhaps back to the farm. For
if he did not start this year, how was one to know what might happen
before the next year? She sat perfectly silent, and when Christina was
silent she was in deep trouble. Sandy strove in vain to cheer her.
"Never mind. Don't let it worry you," he said bravely. "I can study
nights and perhaps I won't lose so much time. And if I can't manage it
next year I can go out West with Allister. Come along, let's get to
church."
She rose slowly, and as slowly went into the house to see if Grandpa
were comfortable. They left him in a cool corner of the winter kitchen
with his Bible and hymn-book and Sport at his feet. The family
gathered on the veranda, and though Christina's mind was so disturbed,
she did not forget to see that her mother had a clean handkerchief, and
that her bonnet was on straight.
Mary was like a fairy in her white muslin dress, and Ellen looked
unusually radiant, in a new blue silk, a present from Allister. But
Ellen had an especial reason for looking radiant these days. For a
long time she and Bruce had nursed the hope that he might study
medicine one day, and Dr. McGarry had promised to hand him over all his
practice the day he graduated. Times had been too hard on the McKenzie
farm for Bruce to leave, but crops had been good for several years now,
and he had almost decided to try the University. And Ellen, who shared
the Lindsay ambition to the full, was sharing his joy and urging him on.
John walked by his mother's side, and Christina fell behind between
Sandy and Jimmie. Usually her mother had to rebuke the hilarity of
these three on Sabbath mornings, but to-day Christina was so quiet that
Jimmie enquired if she were sick.
They passed silently through the little gate between the lilac bushes,
and down the lane to where the tall poplars stood guard at the entrance
to the farm. When their mother accompanied them the Lindsays never
went by the Short Cut, for even Sandy's stile was too difficult a climb
for her.
As they passed out onto the Highway they were joined here and there by
groups of church goers. For everybody in Orchard Glen except two or
three odd characters, went to church, and Sunday was a day of pleasant
social intercourse, such as no other time of the busy week afforded.
It was a real relief, too, from the long strain of six days' toil, and
as yet neither the pleasure-seeker nor the money-getter had interfered
seriously with its grateful peace. It was a day when you took yourself
out of your toilsome environment, dressed in your best, and drove or
walked leisurely to church, with a feeling of ease and well-being that
no hurried pleasure-seeking could ever give. And you met all your
friends and neighbours there, and had a word with them, and
incidentally you were reminded that while crops and cattle and fine
horses and motor cars and a swelling bank account were good things to
possess; like the work of the past week, they would be put away one
day, while the unseen things would remain.
The McKenzies came down the path from the farm above, the whole family,
from Old Johnnie, who was an elder, to Katie, who was Christina's age.
They paired off with the Lindsays, and Bruce and Ellen dropped behind,
for they had gotten so far on their courtship, that they even walked to
church together, in broad daylight, a stage that was supposed to
immediately precede a wedding.
The young folk from the Browns came pouring out of their gate. The
Browns were Methodists and the old folk went only to their own church
which held its meetings in the evening. But youthful Orchard Glen
practised Church Union very persistently, and the Browns were only
following the usual custom when they went to each church impartially.
Mrs. Johnnie Dunn and Marthy came bouncing past in their car. The
Woman was a Methodist, but Marthy was a Presbyterian so they went to
both churches. Trooper Tom never went with his Aunt anywhere that
could be avoided and he came down the pathway with the wide stride that
marked him for a rider of the plains, and walked beside Sandy.
They were down in the village proper now, and every house sent out its
representatives. The village did not begin until the Lindsay hill had
been descended and the little bridge that spanned the brown stream
crossed, and right on the bank stood the tiny cottage where little
Mitty Minns and her old invalid grandmother lived. Mitty had lately
married Burke Wright who worked in the flour mill, and was now emerging
from the gate with her new husband, fairly bubbling over with joy and
pride at being off alone with him for a few hours, away from Granny's
complainings.
Across the street stood a much more imposing residence, Dr. McGarry's
red brick, white pillared home. Mrs. Sutherland, his widowed sister
who kept house for him, came rustling out in her best black silk, and
wonder of wonders, the Doctor with her!
Joanna Falls, the blacksmith's daughter, burst from the next gate, like
a beautiful butterfly from a green cocoon. Joanna was glorious in a
pink silk and white shoes, and a hat trimmed with pink roses. She was
a very handsome girl, but she was fast nearing the danger line of
thirty, and a long attachment to Trooper Tom Boyd, who was a gay lad,
attached to nobody, had rather soured Joanna's temper and sharpened her
tongue.
Her father, in his shirt sleeves, was sitting in the most conspicuous
part of the little veranda with his stockinged feet on the railing,
smoking his pipe and reading the newspaper. Mark Falls always managed,
when the weather permitted, to arrange himself in this position on a
Sunday before the church goers. He knew it scandalised the worshippers
and especially angered the good old Presbyterians who were strict
Sabbatarians. Mark made a great parade of his extreme irreligiousness,
and could tell stories all day long about duplicity of ministers and
the hypocrisy of church members. Joanna was his one orphan child and
he was not a very kind father, which had added not a little to his
daughter's acidity of temper. But they went their several ways quite
independently, and Joanna's way was always where Trooper Tom Boyd was
to be found.
She happened to come out of her gate just as Trooper and Sandy Lindsay
were passing together, and of course they walked with her. It was
surprising how many times little coincidents like this happened.
Trooper whispered something to her and Joanna's happy laugh could be
heard all down the line of demure church goers.
The procession passed the closed and deserted store, but Marmaduke
Simms was perched on the veranda, and Trooper meanly deserted his fair
partner, and swung himself up beside his chum, there to wait until the
sound of the first hymn would assure them they were in no danger of
being too early for church.
Tilly Holmes came tripping out of the side door and through the garden
gate, an entrance used only on the Sabbath. The Holmeses were strict
Baptists, and their service was not held until the afternoon. But they
found it impossible to keep their children from the promiscuous
church-going habits of the village and long ago had given up the
struggle. They even allowed Tilly to belong to the Union
Presbyterian-and-Methodist Choir, knowing that youth will be wayward
and you can't put old heads on young shoulders.
Tilly was trying hard not to giggle, seeing it was Sunday, but she
found it particularly difficult, for she had to walk beside Joanna, and
since Trooper had dropped away Joanna's tongue had become more than
usually sarcastic.
The unusual sight of Dr. McGarry going to church proved an irresistible
opportunity. Mrs. Sutherland was never done telling Mrs. Sinclair how
the Doctor struggled to get to church on Sundays, and all in vain. It
seemed as though the whole countryside selfishly arranged their
maladies to prevent his attending the sanctuary.
"Well my sakes," declared Joanna, "the Doctor's goin' to church!
Everybody must a' got awful healthy all at once, or else they've all up
and died on him."
She turned to Mary and Christina who were walking behind her. The
unimpaired success of the Lindsays was particularly trying to Joanna's
temper.
"Well, how's that rich brother o' yours gettin' on, Christine?" she
asked, her black eyes snapping. "I see he hasn't sent you to college
yet."
"It's very kind of you to ask after him, Joanna," said Mary smoothly.
Mary Lindsay was the one girl in Orchard Glen who could put Joanna in
her place. "If Trooper was of a jealous nature he might object, but he
doesn't seem to be that kind at all."
Joanna whirled around and addressed herself to Tilly, her cheeks
flaming. Her love for Trooper Tom, who was but a wayward cavalier, was
the cause of much bitterness and heart-burning.
They were turning in at the church gate, when an old-fashioned
double-buggy rattled past, drawn by a heavy shining team. A young man
was driving and there were three very gaily-dressed ladies with him.
Gavin Grant's three Aunts were always a sight worth seeing on a Sunday.
They were lovely ladies, who, by the calendar, might have been termed
old; but they had stopped aging somewhere in the happiest period of
girlhood. So it was not unfitting that they should dress in their
girlhood clothes, though they were all of a fashion of some thirty
years previous. And so, though Auntie Elspie's hair was white and her
face wrinkled, and Auntie Flora was stooped and rheumatic and Auntie
Janet stout and matronly, their hearts were young and light, and they
arrayed themselves accordingly. They owned the most wonderful flower
garden in the countryside and the old democrat looked as if all its
hollyhocks had come to church, as Gavin pulled up at the door. The
Grant Girls were all dressed in ancient silks and velvets made in the
fashion of an early Alexandra period, with much silk fringe and old
heavy jewellery as accessories.
Gavin carefully helped each of them alight, for the Aunties had given
much time to their boy's manners and had seen to it that he did not
fail in little acts of courtesy. And though the women declared that
they had "babied" him beyond belief, and the girls said he was as much
an old maid as any one of them, their kindness had not spoiled him for
he was as generous and unselfish as they were.
Christina felt the blood mount to her cheeks as she caught Gavin's
glance. She had never mentioned her flowers to him, and always felt
ashamed when she saw him.
The three Grant Girls were immediately surrounded by friends.
Everybody loved them, and their arrival at church always caused a
pleasant stir.
Gavin came back from putting his horses into the shed and showed them
to their seats, where he sat with them until it was time for him to go
into the choir.
Christina always went to choir practice, but like many another, she did
not sing in the choir on Sundays, so she went to the family pew with
her mother while Mary and Ellen joined the singers in the vestibule.
The congregation were almost all seated, when the choir, with
Tremendous K. at their head, came hurrying down the aisle, and took
their places in seats beside the pulpit. Joanna Falls was leading
soprano, by virtue of a voice of peculiar strength and carrying power,
Gavin Grant, who had the best baritone voice in the countryside, led
the boys, and Minnie McKenzie, whose father was an elder, and Martha
Henderson, Tremendous K.'s sister, played the organ on alternate
Sundays--an arrangement necessary to prevent a split in the church.
Mr. Sinclair had been in Orchard Glen for twenty-five years, and knew
his people better than they knew themselves. He realised that the
week's toil was absorbing, and on Sundays he tried hard to turn his
people's eyes away from the things that are passing to those that are
eternal. And on this morning it seemed to Christina that he had chosen
his sermon entirely for her benefit.
"For whosoever will save his life, shall lose it;" the divine paradox
was his text, and he told Christina plainly that by saving for herself
this life of wider experience and greater opportunity, she was missing
the one great opportunity that comes to all souls. She was losing her
life.
When church was over and Mr. Sinclair was moving about among the
people, he came down the aisle and gave one hand to Sandy and the other
to Christina at the same time.
"Well, well! and you'll both be leaving me soon!" he cried heartily.
"I'm getting used to sending off my boys to the University, but it's a
great event when I send one of my girls! Sandy, I want to hear of you
in Knox yet. That's your destination, don't forget. You'll make as
good a preacher as Neil any day. Well, well, and how are you to-day,
Miss Flora--and you Janet--?" He had passed on and was shaking hands
with the Grant Girls, giving Christina no chance to reply. She glanced
at Sandy; his eyes were on the floor, but she could read his face, and
she knew he was struggling with the bitterness of disappointment.
She was even more silent on the road home from church. Bell Brown and
Tilly Holmes chattered away on either side of her, asking questions
about where she would board in Algonquin, and what new dresses she
would get, and how long she would be at school before she would be
ready for the University, and wasn't she scared stiff at the thought of
studying hard for years and years the way folks had to do at college?
Christina answered absently and when she parted with them she surprised
herself by suddenly exclaiming:
"Oh, don't talk about my going any more, girls. Maybe I won't go after
all!" and fled from them before they could demand explanations.
That Sunday marked the opening of a period of misery for Christina.
She worked furiously in house and barnyard, striving to smother the
insistent voice that kept reiterating, "Whosoever will save his life
shall lose it."
She had caught Opportunity as he came to meet her, determined not to
fall into her old error, and now that she held him, her full hands were
unable to grasp a greater prize that was slipping away. Christina did
not realise all this; she only knew with a feeling of sick dismay that
Sandy was not going to college and that it lay within her power to let
him go.
She was still fighting her battle when Friday evening came, the night
of the greatest function of all Orchard Glen's weekly events. It was
the night when the Temperance Society met, and though it was still
early, Christina had finished her work and was ready as usual long
before the other two girls. She went down the orchard path and seated
herself beside Sandy on the old pump platform. Sport stretched himself
out at Sandy's feet, panting with the exertion of putting the cows in
their place and Christina's pet kitten curled up at her side, the green
eyes on guard against the enemy.
Sandy had striven manfully all week to raise Christina's spirits and he
burst into cheerful conversation.
"What do you suppose, Christine? Bruce says he's got everything fixed
up and he's going to Toronto this fall and Dr. McGarry's tickled to
fits. He thinks the world of Bruce."
"Bruce--Bruce McKenzie!" Christina groaned. "Well, I never! It seems
as if everybody in Orchard Glen was going to the University but you,"
she added returning to the one subject that absorbed her attention.
"Well don't go chewin' on that all the time," said Sandy cheerfully.
"It's better to have one fellow left. Bruce's been saving up his money
for the last five years."
"Ellen won't have to get married so soon then," remarked Christina with
some feeling of comfort, for Ellen's presence at home made her leaving
easier. "But oh, Sandy, if only----"
"Come along," cried Sandy jumping up. "It's time we were going.
There's Tremendous K. passing now."
Christina went back to the house to see if her mother needed anything
before she left, and if Grandpa was comfortable in bed, and returned to
the veranda where Sandy stood waiting for her. Bruce and Ellen were
there ready to start, and Mary and young Mr. MacGillivray were already
strolling down the lane.
"Well, Christina," cried Ellen, her cheeks pink with excitement, "how
would you like to have Bruce for a doctor if you were sick?"
More than a year before Bruce McKenzie had been prepared for college,
but lack of money had stood in his way and every one had thought that
he and Ellen had given up the idea and had decided to settle on the
farm.
"Why, Bruce!" cried Christina, forgetting her own trouble for the
moment. "Isn't that too grand for anything?"
"Ellen here says I've got to keep up with the family, you see," said
Bruce, standing in the midst of the admiring circle, half proud, half
embarrassed. "Everybody in Orchard Glen seems to be getting the
college fever, and Dr. McGarry's been at me all summer, so I guess I'll
try it anyway."
If Sandy had been going Christina would have been rapturously happy
over this. Ellen's approaching marriage had always hung like a cloud
on the horizon, but if Ellen were going to be left at home until Bruce
became a doctor, what a joy that would be. But nothing could be a joy
now that Sandy's hopes had been blighted.
"It's just bully," Sandy was saying generously, "I'm sorry that"----
He was interrupted by Christina's pinching his arm, and stopped
suddenly. No one noticed in the dusk of the veranda, and when they
were out in the lane, Sandy asked an explanation. "I might as well
tell everybody first as last," he said, "it's decided now. And I'd
rather tell and get it over."
"Oh, don't," pleaded Christina, "wait for a little while. You don't
know what may happen. Don't say anything about it for a few days,
anyway. I--I want to think about it. Promise me you won't, Sandy,
till I let you."
Sandy promised reluctantly, saying she was a silly kid. Thinking for a
month, day and night, wouldn't double his bank account, but he
promised; and Christina proceeded to think about it as she had said,
and to think very hard and very seriously all the way down to the
village.
The old Temperance Hall was open and already several had arrived.
Burke Wright, with his little wife, Mitty, her face shining at being
out alone with her husband, were sitting on the steps and Joanna was
there laughing and chatting with Trooper Tom and, of course, Marmaduke
Simms, with a crowd of girls. For Marmaduke was a sort of
lover-at-large and made love openly and impartially to all the girls of
the village.
The McKenzie girls had proudly announced that Bruce was going away to
learn to be a doctor, and this piece of news was the chief topic of
conversation. The girls all half envied Ellen, half pitied her. It
took a deal of study and a dreadful long time to become a doctor,
Joanna explained, and as none of the McKenzies were very smart, Ellen
would be an old maid before Bruce was through. But Ellen seemed
radiantly happy, and no subject for commiseration, and every one agreed
that it was just the way with all the Lindsays, there was no end to
their luck.
The crowd gathered inside the hall, where a number of the boys were
bunched in a corner preparing the programme with much anxiety.
After the business of the evening which was never very heavy, there was
always a programme rendered by the boys and girls on alternate
evenings. To-night was the boys' turn to perform, which always meant a
great deal of fun for the girls. John Lindsay was President of the
Society, and was down on the programme for a speech on Reciprocity, and
there was to be a male chorus, both sure to be good numbers, for John
had some fame as a political speaker, and the boys of Orchard Glen
could always put up a fine chorus with Tremendous K. to beat time and
Gavin Grant's splendid voice to hold them all to the right tune.
So the programme opened auspiciously with the chorus. The only trouble
was the organist. Sam Henderson, a brother of Tremendous K., was the
only young man in Orchard Glen who could play anything more complex
than a mouth organ, and Sam always seemed to have too many fingers.
And he pumped the air into the bellows so hard that the organ's gasps
could be heard far above its strains.
Then three of the boys played a rousing trio on mouth organs, and young
Willie Brown played a long piece on the violin. Tommy Holmes, Tilly's
brother, who worked in Algonquin and came home week-ends, then gave a
recitation, a comic selection which cheered everybody up after the
wails of Willie's fiddle.
Tremendous K. sang a solo, a splendid roaring sea song that fairly made
the roof rock, and then John delivered his speech and Christina sat and
twisted her handkerchief and fidgeted every minute of it, in silent
fear lest John make a mistake or anybody laugh at him. But John's
speech was loudly applauded, though Tremendous K. said afterwards there
was to be no politics brought into the Temperance Society, for
Tremendous K. was not of the same political party as the President and
was not going to run any risks of the liberals getting ahead.
When John had sat down there arose from the back of the hall among the
young men a great deal of shoving and pushing and exhorting to "go to
it," and Gavin Grant came forward very reluctant, very red in the face,
and looking very scared, to sing his first formal solo in public.
Gavin was a tall fellow and well built, but his clothes, the majority
of which his Aunties still fashioned, were always too small and very
ill-fitting. They seemed to have a tendency to work up to his neck and
they were all crowding to the top when he lurched forward and took his
place beside the organ.
"Gavin always looks as if some one had just carried him in by the back
of the neck and set him down with a thud," said Joanna, loud enough for
all the girls to hear. Every one laughed except Christina. She had
not been able to laugh at Gavin since she had been so unkind to his
birthday gift. Her heart always smote her for the waste of that
wonderful basket of blooms. Now that she knew she was going away she
felt she might at least have acknowledged them.
Meanwhile Gavin had brought out his Auntie Flora's oldest song book,
"The Casket of Gems," from its wrapping of newspaper, and Sam Henderson
had once more mounted the tread-mill of the organ, and was trampling
out the opening bars of the solo. Tilly and a few of her companions
were in convulsions of giggles by this time, but when Gavin's rich
voice burst into the first notes, every one was hushed and attentive.
He sang without the slightest effort, pouring out the melodious sounds
as a robin sings after rain.
"In days of old when knights were bold,
And barons held their sway,
A warrior bold with spurs of gold
Sang merrily his lay,
Sang merrily his lay
'My love is young and fair,
My love has golden hair,
And eyes so blue
And heart so true
That none with her compare;
So, what care I though death be nigh,
I live for love or die!
So, what care I though death be nigh,
I live for love or die!'"
It was a gallant lay of love and war and deathless devotion but only
one as unsophisticated as Gavin could have sung it. For while it was
held quite proper for a young man to sing of war in a public way, no
one with a sense of the fitness of things would dare to raise his voice
in a love song, alone, before an audience of his fellows. But Gavin's
voice brought the warrior's gallant presence so vividly before them
that not even Tilly felt like smiling, and there was a sober hush as
the song went on to tell how the brave knight
"Went gaily to the fray.
He fought the fight
But ere the night
His soul had passed away.
The plighted ring he wore
Was crushed and wet with gore,
But ere he died
He bravely cried,
'I've kept the vow I swore!
So what care I though death be nigh,
I live for love or die.
I've fought for love, for love I die!'"
The singer put all the valour of his brave young heart into the song,
all its pent up feeling. For Gavin Hume had been born a real diamond
in a dark mine of poverty and ill-usage; he had been dug up, and
polished and smoothed by the loving hands of the three Grant Girls and
his character was beginning to shine with the lustre that comes only
from the real jewel. But very few people knew this, he was too shy to
give expression to the high aspirations that thrilled his heart, and
only in such songs as this did his soul find a medium of expression.
There was a day coming swiftly upon him, that was to try to the utmost
all the pent up valour of his reticent nature, but as yet that day was
all undreamed of. And Christina Lindsay, remembering when that day
came, this Temperance meeting, recalled with self-abasement that she
had thought that Gavin Grant could not have chosen a song more unlike
himself; he, so shy and shrinking to sing of "A Warrior Bold." If she
had not been so downhearted she would have laughed at him.
When the song was finished there was a moment's hush over the meeting,
and then came a storm of applause, long continued. The boys took to
clapping and stamping rhythmically, and shouting, "More, more," until
the old building rocked.
But Gavin shook his head persistently, and John arose and announced the
next. This was a comic song by Marmaduke Simms, and Duke certainly was
a very funny fellow. He could imitate anything from Mrs. Johnnie
Dunn's car on a steep hill, to the Martins' youngest baby crying. He
soon had them all in roars of laughter, and the meeting broke up in
much gaiety, and some anxiety on the part of the girls as to their
ability to do as well on the next Friday.
Most of the boys and girls paired off and vanished into the darkness.
The unfortunate ones who were not yet attached, moved away in bunches.
Christina belonged to this latter class, unless a brother was with her.
But Jimmie had disappeared with the boys of his own age, John was
walking ahead, arguing hotly with Tremendous K. about the subject of
his address, and Sandy had meanly deserted her to go off with a white
dress, which she had identified as belonging to Margaret Sinclair, the
minister's youngest daughter who was home for her holidays. Under
happier circumstances Christina would have been pleased at his choice,
but nothing in connection with poor Sandy could please her just now.
He was bearing his disappointment far better than she was, for her
trouble was worse than a disappointment. The unbearable part to her
was the fact that stared her in the face, the fact that she was
deliberately taking the privilege denied him.
She walked away from the hall slowly and silently, between Joanna Falls
and Annie Brown, for Joanna's cavalier was a very uncertain quantity
and poor plain Annie had never had a beau in her life. But Joanna
suddenly remembered that she had left her handkerchief on the seat in
the hall, and must run back for it before Trooper and Duke locked the
door. The girls knew better than to wait for her, and then Burke
Wright and Mitty strolled up and began talking with Annie. Christina
stepped behind them in the narrow pathway for a moment, and it was then
that a tall figure loomed up beside her out of the darkness, and a
musical voice with a slow Highland accent that it was impossible to
mistake, repeated the proper formula.
"May I see you home, Christine?"
Christina stopped short in the pathway. Never in all her nineteen
years had she been asked that momentous question; the opening note of
all country romances. She had heard it sounded on every side for years
but its music had always passed her by. She had begun to wonder just a
little wistfully, when she would hear it. And now here it was! But,
alas, like her first birthday gift, it had came from an unwelcome
source!
But she answered quite cordially, being incapable of deliberately
wounding any one, and Gavin gave a deep breath of relief as he took his
place at her side. He was too shy to take her arm in the approved
fashion, as all young men did when seeing a young woman to her home.
Instead he left a foot or two between them as they walked up the hill
under the stars in the warm scented darkness.
Christina tried to chat, but Gavin was so overcome with the wonder of
seeing her home, that he could not talk. He longed for some deadly
peril to threaten her so that he might be her protector, some
catastrophe that he might avert.
He was fairly aching to tell her that his great ambition was to be her
Warrior Bold, and ride out to do doughty deeds for her sweet sake; that
she was his Love so young and fair, of whom he had been singing, with
eyes so blue and heart so true; but instead, he walked dumbly by her
side, keeping carefully a yard away from her, and answering her
laborious attempts at conversation with only a word. For Gavin was one
of the inarticulate poets of earth, a mute, inglorious Lovelace, with a
heart burdened with unsung lines to his Lucasta on going to the wars.
They had come to one of their prolonged seasons of silence, when
Christina discovered that they were strolling slowly behind Old Johnnie
McKenzie, Bruce's father, and Mr. Sinclair who was seeing him a piece
of the way home, for the purpose of rejoicing over the good news about
Bruce. The minister had been so many years in the pulpit that he used
his preaching voice on all occasions, and there was no chance of
missing a word that he said.
"This is great news about Bruce, Mr. McKenzie," he was saying in a full
round voice, "great news! I'd rather see him going for the Ministry.
But you have brought up your lads in the fear of the Lord and Bruce
will serve his Maker well as a doctor, I've no fear. Yes, it's fine
news."
Mr. Sinclair was greedy of gain of the highest order for his flock, and
gave parents no rest if he thought they were not giving their children
the utmost education they could afford. It was largely due to him that
all Orchard Glen looked to the University rather than to the counting
house as the goal of those who would succeed, and that old Knox always
had an Orchard Glen boy helping to keep her halls noisy.
"Yes sir, it's grand to see another of our boys entering the
University," he went on, as though delivering his Sunday sermon. "And
now that Johnnie's got into the High School we'll have to head him for
the ministry. He's a bright lad that Johnnie of yours. Neil Lindsay
is the only boy we have in Knox now, and there must be another coming
along before he gets out. I was hoping I'd get Sandy Lindsay started
to the University this Fall, but he seemed to talk to-night as if he
wasn't sure of going. I'll be disappointed if Sandy doesn't get away
soon; I was hoping Allister would see him through. Sandy would make a
fine man in the pulpit. He's got the same gift as John. Man, I hope
he won't be kept back. We can't do without our representative in Knox,
Mr. McKenzie, the boys must be coming on. And your Johnnie will have
to be the next. Come away in, Mr. McKenzie, and we'll tell Mrs.
Sinclair, this is a day of good tidings. Come away in, man."
They stepped in at the Manse gate, and Christina and Gavin moved on
alone. She had almost forgotten his presence, but she turned to him
now, because she must have some one to confide in.
"Oh, Gavin, did you hear what he was saying, that Sandy might be a
minister some day!"
"But that would be a great thing, wouldn't it?" asked Gavin, surprised
out of his shyness at the grief in Christina's voice.
"But, I'm afraid--Sandy thinks we can't afford it this Fall. I mean
for him to go to college," whispered Christina in distress. "And if he
doesn't go now he may not go at all. He has had to wait so long."
Gavin forgot his shyness entirely in his efforts to comfort her.
"But you must not be feeling so bad," he said gently. "Is there no way
to help it?"
Christina suddenly remembered that Mr. Sinclair had often told her
mother that Gavin Grant had both the ability and the longing to be a
minister, but he would never confess his desires, lest they trouble the
Aunties. Perhaps he could understand her case and advise her, and in
an impulsive moment, born of her great need, she told him all about the
cloud that had been hanging over her during the past week.
"I want just dreadfully to go to college and get a good education," she
finished up. "You know all about it, I'm sure you do, don't you,
Gavin? And now I've got my first real chance, and if I take it I'll be
keeping Sandy back. Perhaps I'll be keeping him from being a minister,
and wouldn't that be dreadful? And I don't know what to do."
It did not seem queer, somehow, for her to be asking Gavin's advice
about this momentous question, but his position was especially
difficult. He could not answer her for a few minutes. For he knew
that he was not at all an unbiased judge. Next to his own going, he
wanted more than anything else in the world that Christina should be
left at home. He could hardly bear to think of what life in Orchard
Glen would be like without the chance of looking at her in church or at
meeting, and occasionally speaking to her. Indeed he would not have
dared to take this bold plunge of asking to see her home to-night had
he not known that it would likely be his last chance, and that she
would soon be gone out of his life.
"I am afraid I would want to go if I was in your place," he confessed
at last. "But," he hesitated shyly, "Auntie Elspie always knows what
is best, and she has always told me that we never lose a thing by
giving it up for some one else. She gave up all her chances for
Grandmother Grant and stayed home and cared for her. And she let their
only brother go to college, while she managed the farm at home. And
she says now she is always glad she did it."
He stopped suddenly, embarrassed. It looked as if he had actually had
the presumption to preach Christina a sermon.
But she did not seem to think so. "And you, yourself," she said, "Mr.
Sinclair always wants you to go to college, Gavin, and you know you
would like to, wouldn't you?"
"I am in a very different position from any one like you or Sandy,"
said Gavin with a new note of sternness in his voice. "It is not for
me to choose whether I will go to college or not. But," he added
hastily, "my Aunts would let me go if they could, you may be sure of
that."
Christina's heart felt a sudden rush of sympathy. She guessed what
Gavin must suffer, seeing this boy and that pass on, leaving him behind.
There was another long silence, which he broke. "You will always do
the kind thing," he whispered. "You could not do anything else."
They had come to the big gate between the sentinel poplars, and
Christina stopped. Mary and young MacGillivray were leaning on the
little garden gate that led in from the lane, and Bruce and Ellen, who
had long passed the hanging-over-the-gate stage of courtship, had gone
indoors for something to eat.
"Oh, I'm afraid you're all wrong," she declared; "I--I don't want to a
bit, but, you think I ought to let Sandy go, don't you?"
Gavin looked down at her in the dim starlight for a moment before he
found courage to reply. "You know so much better than I do," he said
at last. "And I am not the one to advise you, because,--because,----"
"Because what?" she asked wonderingly.
"Because I can't bear to think of you going away," burst out Gavin with
desperate boldness.
Christina felt her cheeks grow hot under the sheltering darkness. She
was speechless in her turn, and then afraid of what might follow this
sudden outburst, she said confusedly, "I must go in now and think about
it," and with a hurried good-night, she was gone.
She ran noiselessly up the lane, avoiding the lovers at the garden
gate, and entered the back gate that opened from the barn-yard. She
found Bruce and Ellen with John and her mother in the kitchen eating
scones and drinking buttermilk. No one remarked her entrance except
that her mother, looking over her shoulder asked, "Where's your
brother, Christine?"
"He's gone off with some one else's sister," answered Christina trying
to speak carelessly.
"Sometimes sisters go off with some one else's brother," remarked John,
his eyes twinkling. "No, I don't believe he is a brother to any one,
is he?" Christina gave him an imploring look, that begged him to keep
her secret, and he generously changed the subject. They were all full
of Bruce's new prospects, and Christina slipped away unnoticed to bed.
But for the first time in her healthy young life worry drove sleep far
from her. She heard Sandy come in, heard Jimmie enter the next room
and his boots drop heavily on the floor, and when Ellen and Mary came
up she pretended to be asleep. She occupied a small room opening off
the one shared by her sisters, and could hear their whispers and hushed
laughter. Ellen was so proud of Bruce and all he was going to be, and
Mary was justly proud of her lover, and Christina had nobody to see her
home but Gavin Grant, and no hope of anything better was before her.
For how could she go to school and leave Sandy behind?
How could she? She was facing the question at last. And her heart
answered that no matter what wise folks might say about grasping
Opportunity, she simply could not let it stand in Sandy's way. There
was only one answer to her question.
She lay very still till she knew that her sisters were asleep. Then
she rose and softly closed the door between their rooms. She lit her
lamp, feeling quite like a thief, and took out her box of writing
paper. The pen and ink were downstairs, but she had a lead pencil, and
Allister would not mind.
She took the little stubby pencil and poured out her heart on to the
paper. She just could not go, that was all about it. And would he
send Sandy instead? Sandy might be a minister some day like Neil, Mr.
Sinclair said, and she would never, never be happy again if she thought
she had made him stay home and be a farmer, or perhaps just a
school-teacher because she had taken his chance away from him. And
would he mind if she stayed home? Perhaps she could go some other
time. Or she could teach for a while and put herself through. Sandy
was nearly two years older than she was and he would soon be thinking
he was too old to go to college. Of course Sandy did not know she was
doing this. He would not let her, she knew, so she had told no one.
She was up late at night when every one else was asleep, and she could
not rest until she told him what she wanted. And she was going to get
up early and give the letter to Mrs. Johnnie Dunn to post in Algonquin
so it would get to him sooner. And oh, would he please, please, write
right away, the very day he got it, and tell Sandy he could go in her
place. For she could never, never be happy----"
The letter went on and on reiterating incoherently all she feared and
suffered. It was very late indeed when she crept to bed. She thought
the right thing for a girl to do who had lost all her chances in life
was to lie down and cry all night. But she was surprised to find that
she felt strangely light hearted. All the dreadful weight of the past
week had been removed. She could not think about her own loss, so
joyous was she over the thought that Sandy was going after all.
So she slept soundly, and dreamed that she was going to college and
that Gavin Grant was a professor there and was teaching her wonderful
truths.