Produced by Al Haines
The Silver Maple
by
Marian Keith
Author of "Duncan Polite"
TORONTO
THE WESTMINSTER COMPANY LIMITED
1905
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. IN THE VALLEY OF SHADOWS
II. A NEW NAME
III. WINNING HIS SPURS
IV. "CAPE CANADA"
V. THE REFORMATION
VI. AN IGNOMINIOUS TASK
VII. THE AVENGING OF GLENCOE
VIII. THE END OF THE FEUD
IX. RALPH STANWELL AGAIN
X. IN THE REALMS OF GOLD
XI. THE WEAVER'S REWARD
XII. A WELL-MEANT PLOT
XIII. THE VOICE IN THE WILDERNESS
XIV. THE VOYAGEURS
XV. THE SECRET OF THE NILE
XVI. RE-VOYAGE
XVII. THE PROMISED LAND
THE SILVER MAPLE
I
IN THE VALLEY OF SHADOWS
Like the great rest that cometh after pain,
The calm that follows storm, the great surcease,
This folding slumber comforts wood and plain
In one white mantling peace.
--WILLIAM WILFRED CAMPBELL.
The storm was over, the snow had ceased falling, and under its muffling
mantle, white and spent with the day's struggle, lay the great swamp of
the Oro. It seemed to hold in its motionless bosom the very spirit of
silence and death. The delicately traced pattern of a rabbit or weasel
track, and a narrow human pathway that wound tortuously into the
sepulchral depths, were the only signs of life in all the white
stillness. Away down the dim, cathedral-like aisles, that fainted into
softest grey in the distance, the crackling of an overburdened twig
rang startlingly clear in the awesome hush. The tall firs and pines
swept the white earth with their snow-laden branches, the drooping
limbs looking like throngs of cowled heads, bent to worship in the
sacred stillness of a vast temple. For the forest was, indeed, a place
in which to wonder and to pray, a place all white and holy, filled with
the mystery and awe of death.
But suddenly into this softly curtained sanctuary came a profaning
sound; a clear, joyous shout rang through the sacred aisles; and, down
the narrow pathway, leaping over fallen logs, whipping aside the laden
branches and scattering their snow-crowns in a whirling mist about him,
destroying, in his ruthless progress, both the sanctity and the beauty
of the place, came a human figure, a little figure, straight and
sturdy, and as lithe and active as any other wild, forest-creature.
His small, red-mittened hands, the scarlet woollen scarf about his
neck, and his rosy cheeks made a bold dash of colour in the sombre
gloom, as his abounding life disturbed the winter death-sleep.
On he came, leaping from log to log like a hare, and setting the
stately forest arches ringing to a rollicking Scottish song, tuneful
and incongruous,--
"Wi' a hundred pipers an' a', an' a',
Wi' a hundred pipers an' a', an' a',
We'll up an gie them a blaw, a blaw!
Wi' a hundred pipers an' a', an' a'!"
But as he plunged down the hill into the grey depths he suddenly ceased
singing. The awe of the place touched his child's spirit. Reared in
the forest though he had been, he suddenly felt strangely unfamiliar
with his surroundings. He had never before experienced anything like
fear in the woods. The rigours of seven Canadian winters had bred a
hardy spirit in this little backwoodsman, and besides what was there to
dread in the forest? It had been his playground ever since he was
first able to steal away from Granny and toddle off to "the bush" to
gather blue flags and poke up the goggle-eyed frogs from their fragrant
musk-pools. But here was something unfamiliar; a strange uncanny place
the swamp seemed to-day; and, being Nature's intimate, he fell into
sudden sympathy with her awe-stricken mood.
He sped silently forward, glancing fearfully down the dim, shadowy
aisles, so ghostly, so mysterious, dreading he knew not what.
"Eh, eh, it will be a fearsome place," he whispered. "It's jist,--eh,
it must be the 'valley of the shadow'!" And then he suddenly
remembered the psalm that Granny had taught him as soon as he could
speak,--
"Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
I will fear no evil, for Thou art with me."
He whispered it over from beginning to end, not because he comprehended
its meaning as applied to his case, but because it was associated with
Granny and all things good, and, therefore, gave him a sense of
comfort. For he felt as though he were home by the fireside, and she
was smoothing his curls and singing those words, as she so often did
when he was falling asleep.
"And I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever."
As he whispered the last line he reached the top of the hill and
suddenly emerged from the valley of shadows and fears into the light of
day. Just ahead lay a clearing, with the rose-coloured sunset flooding
its white expanse and glowing between the dark tree-stems. He ran
forward with joyful relief and leaped out into an open world of beauty,
all ablaze in the dazzling rays of the setting sun. Here was light and
safety--yes, and friends!
He had emerged upon the public highway, known in that part of the
country as the "Scotch Line," and there, coming swiftly down the
glittering hill, was a low, rough sleigh, drawn by a pair of bell-less
horses. The driver was an elderly man, tall, straight, and
fierce-looking, with a fine, noble head and a long, sweeping, grey
beard, which gave him a patriarchal appearance. By his side sat a
young man, almost his exact counterpart in face and figure, but lacking
the stately dignity of years. Behind, on the edge of the sleigh,
swinging their feet in the snow, sat two more youths, both showing in
face and figure unmistakable signs of close relationship to the elderly
man on the front seat.
As the little figure came bounding out from the forest the whole
quartette broke into a welcoming shout. With an answering whoop the
boy darted forward and pitched himself upon the sleigh.
"Horo, Scotty!" "Woohoo!" "How's our big college-student?"
He was caught up and flung from one to another like a bundle of hay,
until he landed, laughing and breathless, in the arms of the driver.
Big Malcolm MacDonald stood the boy up between his knees, his deep eyes
shining with pride.
"Hey, hey!" he cried. "And how's our big man that will be going to
school?"
The boy's dark eyes were blazing with excitement.
"Oh, Grandad, it would jist be fine! It's jist grand! An' me an' Big
Sandy's Archie and Peter Jimmie is all readin' in one place, an' the
master says I can read jist fine, whatever!"
"Didn't you get a lickin'?" demanded a voice from the rear of the
sleigh.
The bright face suddenly fell, one could never aspire to be a hero
until one had braved the master's tawse.
"No," was the reluctant admission. "The master would be jist fearsome
to the big lads, but he would not be saying anything to me. But," he
added, brightening, "I would be having a fight!"
"Horo!" the three young men laughed delightedly. "That will be a fine
start, jist keep it up!" cried the youth on the front seat.
"Hoots, whist ye, Callum!" cried the elder man, reprovingly, while his
dancing eyes contradicted his tongue. "What will his Granny be sayin'
to such goin's on, an' the first day at school, too!"
"And who would you be fightin', Scotty?" asked Uncle Rory, leaning
eagerly forward.
"Danny Murphy!" he announced truculently, "an' I would be lickin' him
good, too!"
There was a chorus of joyous approval.
"Good for you!" shouted Callum; "jist you pitch into any o' yon Irish
crew every time you get a chance!"
"Be quate, will ye, Callum!" cried his father more sternly. "The lad
will be jist like yerself, too ready with his fists, whatever. A brave
man will never be a boaster, Scotty, man."
The would-be hero's head drooped; he looked slightly abashed.
"What would Danny be doin' to you?" inquired Callum.
At the question, the proud little head came up swiftly.
"He said--he said!" cried its owner, stammering in his wrath, "he said
I would be an Englishman!"
Small comfort he received, for the report of this deadly insult
produced yells of laughter.
"Yon was a black-hearted Irish trick, an' jist like one o' Pat Murphy's
tribe, whatever," said Callum, with a sudden affectation of solemnity
that somewhat appeased the child's rising indignation.
"An' you would be pitchin' into him good for his lies, wouldn't you?"
inquired Rory, encouragingly.
The boy looked up shyly at his grandfather. "A wee bit," he admitted
modestly.
The father glanced significantly at his eldest son. "School will be
the place to learn many things," he said in a low tone. The young man
laughed easily. "He's bound to be finding it out some time, anyway,"
he answered, but not so low that the boy's quick ears could not catch
the words. He looked up intently into the faces of the two men, a
startled expression in his big eyes. Then he suddenly scrambled out
from between them, and went behind to where Hamish, his youngest uncle,
sat. He felt vaguely that he was approaching some strange, unforeseen
trouble, and Hamish was always sympathetic.
The sleigh had been moving swiftly through long, narrow forest aisles,
and now it suddenly turned into view of a small farm, a "clearing,"
plentifully besprinkled with snow-crowned stumps and surrounded by the
still unconquered forest, dark and menacing, but sullenly and slowly
retreating.
Here was a home, nevertheless; a home wrested by heroic struggles from
the wilderness. In the centre, on the face of a little sloping hill,
stood the citadel of this newly-conquered territory,--a farmhouse and
out-buildings.
They were all rough log structures, but the dwelling house had about it
the unmistakable atmosphere of a home. Around it, even under the
snowdrifts, were vague signs of a garden; from the low, wide chimney
poured forth a blue column of smoke; and at one of the windows a candle
twinkled cheerfully; both speaking of warmth and welcome within, very
grateful in the chill, winter dusk. And at the side of the house, on a
small knoll, spreading its bare branches over the roof as though to
shield the home from the biting blasts, grew a gigantic silver maple, a
welcome shelter alike in summer and winter.
As the sleigh swept past the house on its way to the barn. Big Malcolm
pushed the boy gently forward. "Run away in, Scotty, man," he said;
"see, Granny will be watchin' for you at the window."
Scotty hesitated; he wanted to go on to the stable, and there give Rory
and Hamish a more detailed account of his glorious battle of the
morning. But Granny was expecting him, and he must not disappoint her;
even Callum dared not do that, and Callum dared almost anything else.
So the boy leaped down and ran swiftly up the rough little pathway. At
his approach the old, weather-beaten door flew open; and he sprang into
a pair of outstretched arms.
II
A NEW NAME
Outside, the ghostly rampikes,
Those armies of the moon,
Stood while the ranks of stars drew on
To that more spacious noon,--
While over them in silence
Waved on the dusk afar
The gold flags of the Northern light
Streaming with ancient war.
--BLISS CARMAN.
Scotty lay stretched before the wide fireplace, his tousled, curly head
upon his small, brown hand, his eyes fastened dreamily upon the glowing
mass of coals. He was waiting anxiously for the rest of the family to
join him. Supper was over; and just as soon as his grandfather and
"the boys" returned from the barn he was going to recount, for the
fourth time, the great events of this, his first day at school. He
felt like a hero just returned from an overwhelming victory. The whole
family seemed conscious of his added importance. Even Bruce, his
collie dog, sat close beside him, poking him occasionally with his
nose, that he might have a share in his master's glory. And as for
Granny, she stopped every few moments in her work of straining and
putting away the milk to exclaim:
"Eh, eh, but it's Granny would be the lonesome old body this day
without her boy!"
The little candle on the bare, pine table shed only a small ring of
light, and the goblin shadows danced away from the wide hearth into the
corners of the room. In the darkest one stood an old four-post bed
with a billowy feather mattress, covered by a tartan quilt. Beside it
hung a quantity of rough coats and caps, and beneath them stood the
"boot-jack," an instrument for drawing off the long, high-topped boots,
and one Scotty yearned to be big enough to use. In another corner
stood Granny's spinning-wheel, which whizzed cheerily the whole long
day, and beside it was a low bench with a tin wash-basin, a cake of
home-made soap and a coarse towel. There was very little furniture
besides, except a few chairs, the big table, the clock with the long
chains and the noisy pendulum, the picture of Queen Victoria, and the
big, high cupboard into which Granny was putting the supper dishes.
This last article of furniture was always of great interest to Scotty.
For away up on the top shelf, made doubly valuable by being
unattainable, stood some wonderful pieces of crockery; among them a
sugar-bowl that Granny had brought from the old country, and which had
blue boys and girls dancing in a gay ring about it. Then there was the
glass jar with the tin lid in which Grandaddy kept some mysterious
papers; one piece was called money. Scotty had actually seen it once,
in Grandaddy's hands, and wondered secretly why such ugly, crumpled,
green paper should be considered so precious.
"An' would Peter Lauchie not be coming across the swamp with you, _m'
eudail bheg_?" his grandmother was asking for the fifth time.
"Noh!" The boy's answer was quick and disdainful. Somehow he would
rather Granny would not pat his head and lavish endearing Gaelic
epithets upon him to-night; such things had been very soothing in the
past when he was sleepy and wanted to go to bed; but now he was a big
boy, going to school, and had fought and defeated in single combat one
of the MacDonalds' enemies, and he could not be expected to endure
petting.
"Why, Granny!" he cried, "I would be knowing the road all right. Peter
Lauchie jist came to his clearin', and I would be coming to the line
all alone, and then I met Grandaddy an' the boys there."
"Eh, indeed, it is the great man you will be, whatever," she said,
regarding him wistfully. This child, her last baby, and the
best-beloved, was growing up swiftly to manhood, and like all the
others would soon have interests beyond her. "An' would Granny's boy
not be fearing to cross the swamp alone?" Her voice was almost
pleading. She bent down, and her thin, hard hand rested caressingly on
his dark, tumbled curls. She yearned to hear him confess himself her
baby still. He threw back his head and looked up into her tender,
wrinkled face; and one little hand went up suddenly to caress its rough
surface. For Scotty had a heart quite out of proportion to the size of
his body, and a look of grief on Granny's face could move him quicker
than the sternest command of his grandfather.
"Yes," he confessed in a whisper, "I would be fearing jist once, and
then I spoke the piece about 'the Lord is my Shepherd' and then I
wouldn't be minding much. Sing it, Granny."
So Granny sang the Shepherd's psalm in Gaelic, as she went slowly about
her household tasks; sang it in a thin, quavering voice to a weird old
Scottish melody that had in it the wail of winds over lone heather
moors, and the sob of waves on a wild, rock-bound coast. She came and
went, in and out of the dancing ring of fire-light, a tall, thin
figure, stooped and aged-looking, apparently more from hard work than
from advanced years. But her toil-bent frame, her rough hands and
coarse grey homespun dress could not quite hide the air of gentle
dignity that clothed her. There was a certain lofty refinement in her
movements; and on her wrinkled face and in her beautiful grey eyes the
imprint of a soul that toil and pain had only strengthened and
sweetened. Hers was the face of a woman who had suffered much, but had
conquered, and always would conquer through faith and love.
To the little boy on the hearthstone, at least, the thin, stooped
figure and worn face made up the most beautiful personality the world
could produce. But he turned to the fire, and his dreams floated far
away beyond the ring of fire-light, and beyond Granny's gentle voice.
For he had entered a new world that day, the great new world of school,
and his imagination had a wider field in which to run riot.
He was still dreaming, and Granny was half-way through the psalm for
the second time, when the stamping of snowy feet at the door announced
the return of Big Malcolm and his sons. Callum came swinging in first,
Callum who was such a gay, handsome, rollicking fellow that he was
Scotty's hero and copy. The boy sprang up, pitching himself upon him,
and was promptly swung over the young man's shoulders, until his feet
kicked the raftered ceiling. Scotty yelled with glee, Bruce leaped up
barking, and the room was in an uproar.
"Hooch! be quate!" shouted Big Malcolm. "It is a child you are
yourself, Callum!"'
At the sounds of the noise and laughter a small figure stirred in the
shadowy chimney-corner, the figure of a little, bent, old man, with a
queer, elfish, hairy visage. He sat up and his small, red eyes blinked
wonderingly. "Hech, hech, and it will be the cold night, Malcolm!" he
said in Gaelic.
"A cold night it is, Farquhar," cried Big Malcolm, piling the wood upon
the fire. "But we will soon be fixing that, whatever."
"It will be a good thing to be by a warm fire this night," continued
Old Farquhar solemnly, "och, hone, a good thing, indeed!"
Outside the wind had once more gathered its forces, and was howling
about the house, and the swaying branches of the silver maple were
tapping upon the roof as though to remind the inhabitants that it was
still there to protect them. But the little old man shivered at the
sound, for he had once known what it was to be homeless on those hills
over which the blast was sweeping.
How Old Farquhar came to be a member of Big Malcolm MacDonald's family
no one could quite tell. He was one of those unattached fragments of
humanity often found in a new country. A sort of wandering minstrel
was Farquhar, content so long as he could pay for a meal or a night's
lodging at a wayside tavern by a song, or a tune on his fiddle. Thus
he had drifted musically for years through the Canadian backwoods,
until homeless old age had overtaken him. Four years before he had
spent a summer at Big Malcolm's, helping perfunctorily in the harvest
fields, working little and singing much, and when the first hard frost
had set the forest aflame he had gathered his poor, scant bundle of
clothes into his carpet-bag preparatory to taking the road again.
"And where will you be going for the winter?" Big Malcolm had asked.
"She'll not know," said Old Farquhar, glancing tremulously over the
great stretches of dying forest, "she'll not know."
"Hooch!" cried his host angrily, "sit down with ye!" He snatched up
Old Farquhar's carpet-bag and flung it into a corner, and there it had
lain ever since.
And in another corner, the warm one by the chimney, Old Farquhar had
sat every winter since, too, smoking his pipe in utter content. Always
in summer his Bohemian nature asserted itself again, and he would take
his stick and wander away, remaining, perhaps, for months; but as soon
as the silver maple beside the house began to turn to gold he would
come hobbling back, sure of a warm welcome in the home where there was
no stint.
The family gathered about the cheerful hearth: every one of them, to
Scotty's great delight, for there was not half the fun at home when
"the boys" went off in the evenings. At one side of the fire sat his
grandmother, her peaceful face bent over her knitting, and opposite her
Big Malcolm smoking and happy. Hamish, as usual, retired to the old
bench behind the table, and with the one candle close to him, was soon
absorbed in a book. In some miraculous way Hamish always managed to
have reading material at hand, though the luxury sometimes cost him a
tramp half-way across the township of Oro. Near the fire, balanced
uneasily on the woodbox and whittling a stick, sat Callum; for Callum
could never sit down quietly, even at home. Callum Fiach, or Wild
Malcolm, they called him in this land of many MacDonalds, where the
dearth of names necessitated a descriptive title. Unfortunately,
Callum's especial cognomen was quite appropriate and the cause of much
anxiety to his gentle mother. But Scotty thought it was fine; he
intended to be just like Callum when he grew up. He would stand up
straight and grand and cut down great trees and fight the Murphys, and
go off in the evenings and be chaffed about having a sweetheart. Rory
was always teasing Callum about Long Lauchie's Mary, and Scotty was
resolved that, when he was big, he would go to see Mary's sister,
Betty; for then he and Callum could go together. He cordially despised
the chosen Betty as a girl and a cry-baby, who gave her brother, Peter,
endless trouble; but he was determined to shirk no task, however
unpleasant, that would make him more like his hero.
When they were all ready to listen to him, the boy seated himself upon
a bench beside Rory, and proceeded to relate once more to his admiring
family the wonderful experiences of the day; the greatness of the
schoolmaster; the magnificence of the school itself; the prowess of
Peter Lauchie and Roarin' Sandy's Archie, how they declared they
weren't afraid of even the master; the number of boys old McAllister
could thrash in a day, and the amount he knew; such fearsome long words
as he could spell, and the places he could point out on the map! He
chattered on to his delighted audience; but for some strange reason he
made no further allusion to his fight.
When there was no more to tell, Rory crossed the room and with
elaborate care took down a box from a shelf above the bed. From it he
tenderly took out a violin, and after much strumming and tuning up he
seated himself upon a chair in the middle of the room and struck up the
lively air of "The MacDonalds' Reel." Scotty leaped to the floor;
Rory's fiddle could do anything with him, make him dance with mad joy
until he was exhausted, stir him up to a wild longing to go away and do
deeds of impossible prowess, or even make him creep into the shadows
behind Granny's chair and weep heart-broken tears into her ample skirts.
To-night the tune was gay, and Callum came out into the ring of light,
and sitting astride a chair with his arms crossed over its back, put
his nephew through the intricacies of the Highland Fling until he was
gasping for breath. Granny saw, and stopped the dance by a nod and
smile to Rory; the music instantly changed to a slow, wailing melody,
and the boy dropped into a chair and sat gazing into the fire, dreaming
dreams of mystery and wonder.
Then they all sang old-fashioned Scottish songs; songs that were old
before Burns came to give Scotland a new voice. And Old Farquhar
struck in, during a short pause, with one of Ossian's songs of war-like
doings and glorious deaths. He sang in a cracked, weird voice to a
wild Gaelic air that had neither melody nor rhythm, but somehow
contained the poetic fire of the impromptu songs of the old bards.
Rory followed, putting in a note here and there; but as the song
wavered on and showed no signs of coming to an end, he struck up, "The
Hundred Pipers an' a' an' a'," and drowned out the old man's wail.
Then Burns was not forgotten, and they were all in the midst of "Ye
Banks and Braes o' Bonnie Doon," a song that always made Scotty's heart
ache as though it would burst, he knew not why, when the door opened
suddenly, letting in a rush of frosty air, and a visitor.
No one ever knocked at a neighbour's door in the Canadian backwoods,
and James MacDonald, or Weaver Jimmie, as he was called, was such a
familiar figure at Big Malcolm's that even Bruce merely raised his eyes
as he entered. Mrs. MacDonald smiled her welcome, Big Malcolm shoved
forward a chair, and the music flowed on uninterrupted.
Weaver Jimmie was a young man, short, and thick-set. He was something
of an anomaly; for, while he was the coolest fighter in the township of
Oro, and gloried in strife, he was nervous and embarrassed to the verge
of distraction when in company, particularly if it consisted of the
fair sex. This diffidence partly arose from the fact that poor Jimmie
was hopelessly ugly, and painfully aware of his shortcomings. His
chief characteristics were a brilliant and bristling red beard and a
pair of long, flat feet. He realised to the full that these obtrusive
features were anything but things of beauty, and found them a sorrow
forever in his vain attempts to conceal them.
At Big Malcolm's invitation he moved up to the fire in nervous haste,
and with a deprecating smile; dropped suddenly into a chair, and tilted
it back in imitation of Callum's easy nonchalance; but finding the
character difficult to maintain in view of his feet, he suddenly came
down to the horizontal once more, and in so doing descended upon poor
Bruce's tail. That unoffending canine uttered a yelp of pain, echoed
by Scotty, who sprang to comfort him; and Rory, whose musical ear had
been irritated by the disturbance, suddenly drew his bow with a
discordant rasp across the strings, and ended the melodious song with a
long, wolf-like howl.
"Hoots, toots, Rory lad!" cried his mother reproachfully. "Come away,
Jimmie man, come away to the fire, it will be a cold night indeed."
But Weaver Jimmie was so overcome by his embarrassing mistake that,
instead of obeying, he backed away into the shadows like a restive
horse.
"And how will all the folk in the glen be, Jimmie?" asked Big Malcolm.
Under cover of the conversation that ensued, Rory gently drew his bow
across the strings, and softly sang an old ditty that had an especial
meaning for their guest--
"Oh, Jinny banged, Jinny banged, Jinny banged the Weaver!
Ah cackled like a clockin' hen,
When Jinny banged the Weaver!"
Callum Fiach's eyes danced, and Weaver Jimmie laughed sheepishly. He
took off his cap, replaced it again, smoothed his whiskers furiously,
and then gazed around as if seeking a means of escape.
"Don't you be heedin' the lad, Jimmie," cried Mrs. MacDonald. "It is
jist his foolishness."
"Hooch," cried Weaver Jimmie, with a fine assumption of disdain, "it's
little I'll be carin' for the likes o' him, whatever."
"D'ye think she'll ever have you, Jimmie?" inquired the musician with
great seriousness.
"I'll not be knowing for sure," replied the Weaver, throwing one knee
over the other in a vain attempt to appear at ease. "She would be
lookin' a deal better these days, though!" he added, hopefully, as
though the young lady of his choice had been suffering from some
wasting disease.
"Hang me, but I believe I'll go sparkin' Kirsty John myself!" said
Callum resolutely. "I'll be wantin' a wife bad when the north clearin'
is ready, and I believe Kirsty's got a fancy for me."
"You'd better be mindin' your own business indeed, Callum Fiach!" cried
Weaver Jimmie, with a sudden fierceness that contrasted strangely with
his habitual diffidence. "She will be a smarter woman than you'll be
ever gettin' with your feckless ways, indeed!"
"Well, I'm afraid there isn't much chance that you'll be gettin' her
either," said Callum very seriously. "Man, she would be givin' you a
fine black eye the last time you asked her."
Scotty turned away impatiently. The boys always seemed to get a great
deal of fun out of Weaver Jimmie's tempestuous love-affair, but he
found it very uninteresting. He slipped under the table, clambered
upon the bench beside Hamish, and stuck his curly head between the book
and the young man's face; for he had long ago discovered this to be the
only effectual means of bringing Hamish back to actualities. Such a
proceeding would not have been safe with Callum or Rory, but Hamish was
always patient. "What ye readin', Hamish?" he inquired coaxingly.
"Jist a book," said Hamish dreamily. "Be careful of it now. It
belongs to the Captain!"
"Captain Herbert? The Englishman Grandaddy hates?"
"Yes; whisht, will ye? I didn't get it from him, though. Kirsty
John's mother had it, and lent it to me."
"Was you ever at the Captain's place?"
"Yes, once."
"Is it fearful grand?"
"Yes, I suppose so. But I would jist be at the back door. Take care,
now, and let me read!"
"The back door!" Scotty's eyes ranged wonderingly round the walls.
With the exception of the trap-door leading to the loft the house had
but one opening. "Eh, the Captain's folks must be awful grand, Hamish,
to be having two doors to their house."
Hamish laughed. "There's grander things than that there; there's
carpets on the floor, an' a piano to play on, an' a whole roomful o'
books! Losh!" he exclaimed, "I'd like to get my hands on them jist for
a day!"
"How did Kirsty John's mother get this one?"
"The lady that lives there lent it to her. Kirsty's mother used to
work for them. Go on away now, and let me read!" for the boy was
running his fingers through the pages. "There's no pictures; go and
play with Bruce."
But Scotty had turned to the fly-leaf and had discovered some writing.
"What's that, Hamish?"
Hamish read the inscription, which was written in a round boyish
scrawl, "Isabel Douglas Herbert, from her loving cousin, Harold."
"Who're they?"
"The boy's the Captain's son, and the little girl is his niece. I saw
her once at Kirsty's. She's a pretty, wee thing."
"Huh!" Scotty was disdainful. "I don't like girls. They will jist be
cry-babies. Is the boy as big as me?"
"He's a little bigger, I guess. He goes to school away in Toronto."
"Bet I could fight him. Is Toronto away over in the old country?"
"No, it's in Canada. Be quiet. I want to read."
"Oh! Is Canady very far away?"
"No, it's right here; this is Canada."
"Oh! An' will the school-house be in Canady too?"
"Yes."
"An' the Captain's house?"
"Imph-n-n."
"Oh! An' all, Oro, an' Lake Simcoe? What will you be laughing at?"
"Wait till old McAllister learns you some geography. You'll hear
something about Canada that'll surprise you, whatever."
"It won't be as big as the old country, though, will it?" But Hamish
did not answer. He was far away with David Copperfield once more. The
boy raised the fly-leaf and took another peep at the name. He sat very
quiet for a few moment's and then he crept closer to his uncle, a red
flush creeping up under the tan of his cheeks, his black eyes shining.
"Hamish!" he whispered, "Hamish, will that be an--_English_ name?"
"Eh? What name?" Hamish awoke reluctantly to the troublesome
realities. "I'll not know."
"Aw, tell me, Hamish!"
"My, but you will be a bother! Yes, Herbert will be an English name,
but Isabel Douglas is Scotch, an' a fine Hielan' name, too. But what
in the world would you be wanting to know for?"
Scotty hesitated. He hung his black, curly head, and swung his feet in
embarrassment; but finally he looked up desperately.
"Do you know what made Danny Murphy say I was an Englishman?" he
whispered.
Hamish stifled a laugh. "It would likely jist be his natural Irish
villainy," he suggested solemnly.
But Scotty shook his head at even such a natural explanation. "No, it
would not be that, it would be--because--_the master said it_, Hamish!"
"The master?" Hamish's look of amusement changed to one of deep
interest. "Why? What would he be saying?"
The boy glanced around the room apprehensively, but the rest of the
family were still absorbed in Weaver Jimmie. "When we would be coming
into the school," he whispered hurriedly, "the master would be calling
all the new ones to the front. An' he says to me, 'What's your name,
child?' An I says, 'It's Scotty,--Scotty MacDonald.' An' he says,
'Hut tut, another MacDonald! Yon's no name. Whose bairn are ye?' An'
I told him I belonged to Grandaddy an' the boys; an' he says,--an' he
says, 'Oh tuts, I know you now. You're Big Malcolm's _English
grandson_!' He would be saying that, Hamish! An' he wrote a name for
me; see!" He had been growing more and more excited as the recital
proceeded, and at this point he jerked from his bosom a torn and
battered primer that had done duty in the few days that Hamish had
attended school. Under the scrawling marks that stood for Hamish's
name was written in a fine scholarly flourish, "Ralph Everett Stanwell."
"Humph!" Hamish gazed at the book, and a look of sadness crept into
his kind, brown eyes. He glanced across the room at his father.
Weaver Jimmie had just departed, and Callum was leaning over the back
of his chair laughing immoderately, while Rory was out in the middle of
the floor executing a lively step-dance accompanied by voice and fiddle
to the words, "Ha! Ha! the wooin' o't!"
"Look here, father," called Hamish, "do you see what the schoolmaster
would be writing in Scotty's book?"
Big Malcolm took the primer, adjusted his spectacles, and moved the
little book up and down before the candle to get the proper focus.
"Ralph Everett Stanwell," he read slowly. "What kind o' a name would
that be, whatever!" he cried, with a twinkle in his eye.
"It's got a fearsome kind of a sough to it," said Callum apprehensively.
"It will be an English name!" cried Scotty fiercely, "an' Peter Lauchie
would be saying it is jist no name at all!"
The young men burst into laughter, which served only to increase their
nephew's wrath. He sprang out upon the floor, his black eyes blazing,
and stamped his small foot.
"I'll not be English!" he shouted. "It's jist them louts from the
Tenth is English! An' I'll be Hielan'. An' it's not my name!"
"Eh, eh, mannie!" cried his grandmother gently. She laid her hand on
the boy's arm and drew him toward her. "That will be no way for a big
boy that will be going to school to behave," she whispered. The child
turned to her and saw to his amazement that her eyes were full of
tears. His sturdy little figure stiffened suddenly, and he made a
desperate effort for self-control.
"But it would be a great lie, Granny!" he faltered appealingly.
"Hoots, never you mind!" cried his grandfather, with strange leniency;
and even in the midst of his passion Scotty dimly wondered that he did
not receive a summary chastisement for his fit of temper. There was a
strange, sad look in the man's eyes that alarmed the child more than
anger would have done.
"Granny will be telling you all about it," he said, rising. "Come,
lads, it will be getting late."
The three young men followed their father out to the stable.
Ordinarily they attended to the evening duties there themselves, but
to-night Big Malcolm wished to leave the boy alone with his
grandmother, realising that the situation needed a woman's delicate
handling.
This new proceeding filled Scotty with an added alarm. He clambered up
on his grandmother's knee as soon as they were alone and demanded an
explanation; surely that English name wasn't his. He whispered the
momentous question, for though Old Farquhar was snoring loudly in his
corner, Bruce was there, wide awake and looking up inquiringly, as
though he could understand.
And so, with her arms about him, Granny told him for the first time the
story of his birth. How Granny had had only one little girl, older
than Callum, eh, and such a sweet lassie she was; how just when they
had landed in Canada she had married a young Englishman who had come
over with them on the great ship; how they had left them in Toronto
when they came north to the forests of Oro; how their baby had come,
the most beautiful baby, Granny's little girl wrote, and how she had
written also that they, too, were coming north to live near the old
folks when,--Granny's voice faltered,--when the fever came, and both
Granny's beautiful little girl and her Englishman died, and Grandaddy
and Callum had journeyed miles through the bush to bring Granny her
baby, and how Kirsty John's mother had carried him all the way, and how
he was all Granny had left of her bright lass!
At the sound of grief in his grandmother's voice, the child put up his
hand to stroke her face, and found it wet with tears. Instantly he
forgot his own trouble in sympathy for hers, and clasping his hands
about her neck he soothed her in the best way he knew. He scarcely
understood her grief; was Granny crying because he was only an
Englishman after all? For to him, bereavement and death were but
names, and in the midst of abounding love he had never realised the
lack of parents.
He had often heard of them before, of his beautiful mother, whose eyes
were so dark and whose hair was so curly like his own; and how his
father had been such a fine, big, young man, and a gentleman too,
though Scotty had often vaguely wondered just what that meant. But
that his parents had left him an inheritance of a name and lineage
other than MacDonald he had never dreamed. And now there was no
denying the humiliating truth; his father had been an Englishman, he
himself was English, and that disgraceful name, at which Peter Lauchie
had sneered, was his very own. Henceforth he must be an outcast among
the MacDonalds, and be classed with the English crew that lived over on
the Tenth, and whom, everyone knew, the MacDonalds despised. Yes, and
he belonged to the same class as that stuck-up Captain Herbert, who
lived in that grand house on the north shore of Lake Oro, and whom his
grandfather hated!
He managed to check his tears by the time the boys returned, but during
prayers he crouched miserably in a dark corner behind Hamish, a victim
of despair. He derived very little comfort from the fact that
Grandaddy was reading, "And thou shalt be called by a new name"; it
seemed only an advertisement of his disgrace. He wondered drearily who
else was so unfortunate as to be presented with one, and if it would be
an English name. And afterwards, when they had gone up to the loft to
bed, he crept in behind Hamish, and cried himself to sleep because of
that, which, in after years, he always remembered with pride.
III
WINNING HIS SPURS
The Saxon force, the Celtic fire,
These are thy manhood's heritage!
--C. G. D. ROBERTS.
Old Ian McAllister, schoolmaster of Section Number Nine, Oro, was
calling his flock into the educational fold. It was no clarion ring
that summoned the youths from the forest, for the times were early and
a settlement might be proud to possess a school, without going to the
extremity of such foolishness as a bell, and Number Nine was not
extravagant. But the schoolmaster's ingenuity had improvised a very
good substitute. He stood in the doorway, hammering upon the doorpost
with a long, flexible ruler, and making a peremptory clatter that
echoed far away into the arches of the forest and hastened the steps of
any tardy youths approaching from its depths. Good cause they had to
be expeditious, too, for well they knew, did they linger, the master
would be apt to resume the bastinado upon their belated persons when
they did arrive. This original method had other advantages, from the
schoolmaster's point of view, for, as his pupils crowded past him
through the narrow doorway, he had many a fine opportunity to transfer
occasional whacks to the heads of such boys, and girls, too, as he felt
would need the admonition before the day was over, and who could not
manage to dodge him. So those approaching the school, even before they
came within sight of the place, could reckon exactly the state of the
master's temper, and the number of victims sacrificed thereto, by the
intermittent sounds of the summoning stick. Indeed, Number Nine
possessed an almost superhuman knowledge of their master's mental
workings. When he was fiercest then they were most hopeful; for they
knew that, like other active volcanoes, having once indulged in a
terrible eruption he was not likely to break forth again for some time.
He was quite dependable, for his conduct followed certain fixed rules.
First came about a fortnight of stern discipline and faithful and
terrifying attention to duty. During this period a subdued and busy
hum pervaded Number Nine and much knowledge was gained. For Ian
McAllister was a man of no mean parts, and, as the trustees of the
section were wont to boast, there was not such another man in the
county of Simcoe for "bringing the scholars on--when he was at it."
But the trouble was he could never stay "at it" very long. A much more
joyous, though less profitable, season followed, during which the
schoolmaster's energies were taken up in a bitter and losing fight with
an appetite for strong drink. Poor McAllister had been intended for a
fine, scholarly, upright character, and he struggled desperately to
maintain his integrity. But about once in two months he yielded to
temptation. During these "spells," as Number Nine called his lapses
from duty, he still taught, but in a perfunctory manner, being prone to
play practical jokes upon his pupils, which, of course, they returned
with interest. When he finally succumbed in sleep, with his feet on
the desk and his red spotted handkerchief over his face, Number Nine
took to the bush and proceeded to enjoy life. That they did not
altogether give themselves over to unbounded riot was due to the fact
that the master's awakening might occur at any moment. And well they
knew he was apt to come out of his lethargy with awful suddenness, with
a conscience lashing him for his weakness and with a stern
determination to work out tremendous reparation for the lost hours.
But Number Nine suffered little from this changeable conduct. They had
studied their master so faithfully that they could generally calculate
what would be the state of his temper at a given time, and guided
themselves accordingly. Indeed, Roarin' Sandy's Archie, a giant
MacDonald who had attended every winter since the schoolhouse was
built, could tell almost to a day when the master was likely to relax,
and he acted as a sort of barometer to the whole school.
But to-day McAllister showed no signs of relaxation as they dodged past
him and scrambled into their places. The room was soon filled, for the
winter term had commenced and all the big boys and girls of the section
were in attendance. The schoolroom was small, with rough log walls and
a raftered ceiling. Down the middle ran a row of long forms for the
younger children, and along the sides were ranged a few well carved
desks, at which the elder pupils sat when they wrote in their
copy-books. At the end nearest the door stood a huge rusty stove,
always red-hot in winter, and near it were a big wooden water-pail and
tin dipper. At the other end of the room stood the master's desk, a
long-legged rickety structure, with a stool to match, from which lofty
throne the ruler of Number Nine could command a view of his realm and
spy out its most remote region of insubordination. Behind him was the
blackboard, a piece of sheep-skin used as an eraser, and an ancient and
tattered map of Europe.
Scotty was already in his place; he had hurried to his seat as soon as
he arrived for fear someone might ask him his name, and in dread lest
he might be claimed by those English boys from the Tenth, whom his soul
loathed.
He had started to school at a time when the several nationalities that
were being welded together to make the Canadian race were by no means
one, and he had inherited all the prejudices of his own people. Number
Nine was a school eminently calculated to keep alive all the small race
animosities that characterised the times; for English, Irish and
Scotch, both Highland and Lowland, had settled in small communities
with the schoolhouse as a central point.
The building was situated in a hollow made by a bend in the Oro River;
to the north among the green hills surrounding Lake Oro, was the Oa, a
district named after a part of Islay, and there dwelt the Highlanders;
all MacDonalds, all related, all tenaciously clannish, and all such
famous warriors that they had earned the name throughout the whole
County of Simcoe of the "Fighting MacDonalds," a name which their
progeny who attended Number Nine School strove valiantly to perpetuate.
From the low-lying lands at the south, a region called the Flats, which
sloped gently southward until it sank beneath the blue waters of Lake
Simcoe, came the Irish contingent, always merry, always quarrelling,
and always headed by young Pat Murphy and Nancy Caldwell, who were the
chief warriors of the section.
And over on the western plains that stretched away from the banks of
the Oro, on a concession locally styled "the Tenth," lived a class of
pupils whose chief representative had been overheard by a Highland
enemy to say, as he named the forest trees along his path to school,
"That there's a _hoak_, an' that there's a _hash_, an' that there's a
_helm_." Though the youth bore the highly respectable and historic
name of Tommy Tucker, he was forever after branded as "Hoak" Tucker,
and his two innocent brothers were dubbed, respectively, "Helm" and
"Hash."
One more nationality was represented in Number Nine, those who
approached the school-house with the rising sun behind them. They were
Scotch to a man; what was more, they proclaimed the fact upon the
fence-tops and made themselves obnoxious to even the MacDonalds, for
after all they were only Lowlanders, and how could the Celt be expected
to treat them as equals?
When this heterogeneous assembly had all passed under the rod and
seated themselves, the master tramped up to his desk and a solemn hush
fell over the room. This was remarkable, for unless McAllister was in
an unusually bad humour Number Nine buzzed like a saw-mill. But this
morning the silence was intense and ominous, and for a very good
reason. For only the evening before Number Nine had for once
miscalculated their ruler's condition, and a flagrant act of
disobedience had been perpetrated. McAllister had commanded that all
fighting cease, and in the face of his interdict the MacDonalds and the
Murphys, according to the established custom of the country, had
manfully striven to exterminate each other. For between the Oa and the
Flats there was an undying feud; partly hereditary, and partly owing to
the fact that Pat Murphy considered it an impertinence on the part of
anyone to come from the north when he chose to approach from the
opposite direction.
During school-hours a truce was preserved, all factions being united
against a common foe; but as soon as school was dismissed the lines of
demarcation became too obvious to be overlooked. The outlandish Gaelic
the MacDonalds spoke when among their brethren, their irritating way of
gathering clan-like for the journey home, always aroused resentment in
the breasts of the assembling Murphys. So, five o'clock fights had
long ago become one of the institutions of the school, and in the
winter when the big boys were present the encounters were frequent and
sanguinary.
The schoolmaster objected to all strife in which he had no part, and
since the opening of the winter term he had set his face like adamant
against this international warfare. But his opposition served only to
increase the ardour of the combatants. In vain he scolded and
thrashed. In vain he imprisoned the Scots until the Hibernians had had
a reasonable time to make an honourable retreat. The liberated party
only waited behind stumps and fallen logs, with the faithfulness of a
lover to his tryst.
So at last McAllister arose in his might and announced that the next
time such an affair occurred he would thrash the leaders of each party
within an inch of their lives. On such occasions the schoolmaster was
not to be trifled with, and for a few days even the Murphys were cowed.
But as time passed there grew up between the belligerents a tacit
understanding that just as soon as the master entered upon a less rigid
frame of mind they would settle the fast accumulating scores.
So the night succeeding Scotty's first day at school they felt the time
was ripe. Roarin' Sandy's Archie assured all that a fight would be
perfectly safe. The master's tropical season was already overdue some
days, and on the morrow he was sure to be jolly. So the forbidden
campaign had opened just a day too soon. It proved to be an
Armageddon, too; Lowlander and Highlander, Sassenach and Hibernian,
they battered each other right royally, and now here they were ranged
before their judge to find to their dismay that he was clear-eyed,
clear-headed, and ready to inflict upon the culprits the severest
penalties of the law.