again. His face darkened, and he stoutly refused the joint invitations
of husband and wife. Then the lady espied Scotty in his corner, and
bore down upon him; she secured a handful of pink "bull's-eyes" from a
jar behind the counter, and slipped them into his chubby fist, patted
his curly head and declared he was "jist Callum over again." And
Scotty smiled up at her, well pleased at being likened to his hero; but
when she caught his face between her hands and tried to kiss him, he
dodged successfully; for, now that he was a big boy and going to
school, not even Granny might kiss him in public.
When she had trotted back to her guests in the house, Scotty caught a
few words of the conversation that aroused his interest.
"Ye hae the boys in wi' ye the day, Malcolm?" Store Thompson asked,
with a note of anxiety in his voice.
"Yes?" Big Malcolm looked up inquiringly.
"Oh, Ah suppose it's jist naething, jist a--a triviality, like; but Ah
see there's a great crood frae the Oa, the day, an' jist as many
Murphys an' Connors; an' Ah heerd a lot o' wild talk aboot Fenians, an'
the like. They would be sayin' Pat Murphy was a Fenian; an' that Tam
Caldwell would be for sendin' him oot o' the Glen. Ah'm hopin'
there'll be nae trouble."
Big Malcolm's face was full of anxiety. "Indeed, I will be hopin' so
too," he said in an embarrassed tone. "You will be knowin' my
weakness. I would not be hearin' about it. I hope the lads----"
"Oh, Ah suppose it's jist naething," said Store Thompson reassuringly.
"Indeed it's yersel' that's past all sich things as yon, Malcolm, never
fear."
But Big Malcolm shook his head; for years he had purposely avoided the
Glen, to be out of the way of temptation; for the sound of strife was
to him like the bugle call to a war charger. He fidgeted in his seat
and looked anxiously towards the door.
Scotty went over to the window and stood watching the crowds of men
come and go across the street.
He could not quite make out what was going on, but there seemed to be a
great commotion, for a big crowd of men had suddenly appeared from
nowhere. And there was Danny's father, and Nancy's father, apparently
having high words; and yes, there was Callum right in the centre of the
seething mass.
There were mingled cries of "Popery" and "Fenians" and "Orangemen."
Then suddenly above the noise there came a roar, "The Oa! The Oa!
MacDonald! MacDonald!"
"Grandaddy! oh, Grandaddy!" cried Scotty shrilly, "they're killin'
Callum, they're killin' Rory!"
At the first sound of the MacDonalds' battle-cry Big Malcolm raised his
head like a stag who has heard a challenge, and, at the boy's cry, he
cleared the intervening space with one bound, flung open the door and
shot out into the street.
"Malcolm, Malcolm!" cried Store Thompson in dismay, but Big Malcolm had
heard the call to arms and nothing in the township of Oro could hold
him back.
Scotty sprang to follow him, but Store Thompson closed the door, and
his wife, who had re-entered, put her arms about the boy and drew him
back.
"Ye mustna gang oot there, ma lad," said the storekeeper. "Yon's no
place for a child; aye," he added, "an' no place for yer grandfather
either!"
"Lemme go!" shouted Scotty, struggling equally with his captor and his
sobs. "They--'re--killin'--Rory! Lemme go!"
"Yer Grandaddy said ye were to bide here, laddie, mind ye!" cried Store
Thompson's wife soothingly.
At the reminder of his grandfather's commands Scotty collapsed. He
retired to the window once more, bathed in tears of helpless rage. But
another shout from the MacDonalds sent him flying again to the door,
where he once more encountered the ample skirts of his keeper.
"Ah'd niver look Marget Malcolm in the face again, Jeames, if onything
happened the bairn," she cried, struggling with Scotty's sturdy
muscles. "He maun jist bide!"
"What in heaven's name is the matter with that child?" demanded a
laughing voice from the rear of the shop. "Has he an attack of spasms?"
Scotty stopped struggling and looked up. In his absorption over the
battle outside he had not noticed that three strangers had entered the
shop with Store Thompson's wife, and he drew back abashed. The speaker
was a short, well-built man under middle age, with an air and
appearance quite different from the rough exterior of Scotty's own
people. There was a look of command in his merry blue eyes and an air
of superiority in his straight, trim figure, that impressed the child.
The other two strangers stood back by the stove; one, a tall lady, the
rustle of whose black silk dress gave Scotty a feeling of awe, the
other a tiny girl, so wrapped up in furs and shawls that he could see
nothing of her, except a bunch of golden curls.
"What's the matter with the confounded little fire-eater?" asked the
man, coming forward.
"It's all his kin that's in yon fecht oot by, sir," said Store
Thompson's wife apologetically. "The puir wee mannie!"
"Oh, I see; he's starting early. I never come to the Glen but you
entertain me with a battle, James. A bad crowd, those fellows from the
Flats. What's your name, youngster? Murphy, eh?"
"NO!" Scotty shouted the refutation in indignant horror. This was
worse than being English! "It will be MacDonald!"
"Oh, by Jove, one of the Fighting MacDonalds!" The man burst into a
hearty laugh. "I might have known."
"But yon's not yer real name, laddie," said Store Thompson's wife.
"Tell Captain Herbert yer name; it's jist a fine one. He's Big Malcolm
MacDonald's grandson, Captain, but his faether was an English
gentleman, like yersel, an' his mither was a bonny, bonny bit lassie;
aye, an' puir Marget lost her."
The man was gazing down at the boy absorbedly. "What's his name?" he
demanded sharply. But Scotty stood silent and scowling. Confess his
disgrace to this man whom he knew Granddaddy despised? Never!
"His patronymic," said Store Thompson ceremoniously, "is Stanwell,
Captain; and his baptismal name is jist the same as his father's was,
Ralph Everett; Ralph Everett Stanwell!"
When Store Thompson delivered himself of any such high-sounding speech
he was always rewarded by signs of a deep impression made upon his
hearers. He had come to look for such results; but he was totally
unprepared for the expression of aghast wonder that his words produced
in the face of Captain Herbert.
"Stanwell!" he cried, "Ralph Stanwell!" He glanced hurriedly at the
two standing at the other end of the shop and an expression of relief
passed over his face when he saw the tall lady was not attending. "It
can't be!" he said, lowering his tone, "Captain Stanwell's child died
with the parents!"
"No, sir," said Store Thompson wonderingly. "Big Malcolm an' his son
brought him from Toronto when he was jist an infant."
The man still stood gazing down at the boy. Scotty's face was dark
with anger. Store Thompson, who pretended to be his grandfather's
friend, to publish his disgrace before these strangers! It was
unbearable! "I'll not be English," he muttered. "I'll jist be Scotch,
an' my name's MacDonald!" He clenched his fists and wagged his curly
head threateningly. "He must be right," said the man eagerly. "He
should certainly know."
Store Thompson shook his head smilingly. "He lives in the Oa, sir," he
confided in a low tone, "an' he wants to be a MacDonald. But yon's his
name, nevertheless!"
Captain Herbert turned away abruptly, as though he had not heard.
"Eleanor, I shall be ready almost immediately," he said to the lady in
the silk gown, and, with a hasty good-bye, he stepped outside, Store
Thompson following. Scotty slipped out behind them; the fight was
over, the Murphys and their friends were evidently retreating. He
could see his grandfather's tall, commanding form in the midst of a
victorious crowd. He drew a great breath of relief. As he stood
gazing proudly at them, he felt his hand touched gently by little,
soft, gloved fingers. He wheeled round to find a pair of big, blue
eyes looking at him from out of the coquettish rim of a fur-trimmed
hood. The eyes were very sympathetic. "I'm Scotch, too," came in a
whisper from inside the wrappings, "an' it's nice to be Scotch, isn't
it?"
Scotty's heart opened immediately; here was someone who evidently
believed in him.
"But--but, won't you be Captain Herbert's little girl?" he asked,
wonderingly.
"Yes," she answered with a baby-lisp, that made him feel very big and
superior. "He's my uncle Walter; but my mamma was Scotch, an' my
name's Isabel Douglas Herbert, an' Uncle Walter says I'm his Scotch
lassie!"
"Oh!" Scotty looked at her with new interest. "An' you're Kirsty
John's little girl, too, ain't you?"
"Yes," she cried delightedly. "Do you know Kirsty?"
"Yes."
"Oh, an' Gran'mamma MacDonald? An' Weaver Jimmie?"
"Oh, yes!"
"I love Jimmie; he tells lovely stories when I go to see Kirsty, 'bout
fairies, an'--an' everything. Do you know any stories?"
A silken rustle in the doorway made Scotty draw back. "Come, Isabel,"
said the tall lady. She was a very pale lady, with a haughty, weary
look in her eyes; and Scotty wondered how the little girl could catch
hold of that silk dress so fearlessly.
"Goo-bye," she said, pausing a moment. "Goo-bye, little boy." She
poked the fur-lined hood very close to his face, and Scotty drew back
in alarm for fear she might be going to kiss him. The little girl
looked disappointed, nevertheless she smiled radiantly.
"I like you," she whispered, "an' I'm comin' to visit you next time I
go to Kirsty's; goo-bye!"
She danced off towards the sleigh, and was bundled in among the warm
robes. She waved her hand to Scotty as they dashed away, and turned
back to gaze at him standing on the step.
"Man," said Store Thompson, stamping the snow from his feet as he
entered, "Ah niver saw the Captain act like yon before. He was
jist,--aye, he was jist what Ah would call inimical; aye, jist
inimical, like!"
Store Thompson was more perturbed over the hearty Captain's strange
behaviour than he was over the commotion that had just taken place at
his door. Such affairs were of too frequent occurrence to call for
comment. But when Big Malcolm returned for Scotty, the fierce heat of
the conflict still blazed in his eyes and his friend suddenly
remembered what had happened.
"Eh, Malcolm, Malcolm, Ah'm sorry for this!" he cried. "These fichts
are no work for a Chreestian man!"
"And would I be sitting here, James Thompson, an' see that piece o'
Popish iniquity kill my son?" demanded Big Malcolm fiercely.
Store Thompson held up his hands. "What, what?" he cried, "would it be
the Murphys and the MacDonalds again?"
"It was a Fenian raid, James!" shouted Tom Caldwell, coming up to the
sleigh, with a proud swagger, "an' Malcolm here was helpin' us
Orangemen put it down, sure!"
Weaver Jimmie, his diffidence all vanished, threw his cap into the air
and shouted his old shibboleth, "They may take Canady, but they'll not
be taking Oro!"
"The Orangemen 'll kape Canada!" cried Tom Caldwell reassuringly.
"Hoh, him an' his 'kape Canada,'" cried Callum Fiach in disgust, as he
pitched himself into the sleigh. "Let's get out o' this!"
"Eh, eh!" cried Store Thompson, standing in the doorway to see them
depart, "ye MacDonalds are aye too ready wi' the neeves!"
Big Malcolm took the reins and drove away without another word. The
joy of battle was always succeeded by a season of depression. His old
friend's reproof had already begun to work repentance in his breast.
The homeward drive was silent and gloomy. Even Callum forbore to talk;
for he was uncomfortably conscious that he had had more to do with
setting the Orangemen and the Catholics against each other than he
would like Big Malcolm to know. He had not foreseen that all the
MacDonalds would plunge into it, and his father with them, and was
rather uneasy at the havoc he had caused. For this would bring sorrow
upon the mother at home.
But Scotty could not be silent, he was alive with curiosity; and,
taking advantage of his grandfather's gloomy absorption, he crept out
from between the two on the front seat, and got close to the source of
all knowledge, Hamish.
He overflowed with questions. Why should the MacDonalds be helping
Orangemen? And hadn't Hash Tucker's father and a lot more from the
Tenth been on their side, too? And how in the name of all
nationalities did it happen that the Caldwells and the Tuckers came to
be fighting together against the Murphys? And weren't Orangemen far
worse than Fenians, anyway?
The confusion in Scotty's mind was like that which befell the builders
of the Tower of Babel; and for once Hamish failed to satisfy him. He
seemed rather ashamed of the fact that they had helped a Caldwell in
battle, and was rather inclined to drop the subject.
That evening at home was something new to Scotty. A gloomy silence
pervaded the place, and there was a look in Granny's eyes that made the
boy want to put his head into her lap and cry. There were no prayers
before they retired, either; there always came a stage in Big Malcolm's
repentence which consisted almost entirely of religious exercises, but
that was not yet.
Scotty felt vaguely that there was something terribly wrong, for the
boys, even Hamish, went off after supper, and Old Farquhar did not sing
his accustomed song before retiring. And when Scotty went up to bed in
the loft he left Granny praying by the bed in the corner, and he could
hear the steady tramp, tramp of his grandfather's feet up and down in
the snow outside. He half woke late in the night and found that Hamish
was beside him; the problems of the day were still troubling his dreams.
"Hamish," he whispered, "where's Cape Canady?"
"What?" growled Hamish sleepily.
"Where's Cape Canady? Tom Caldwell said somethin' about it, an' the
Master learned the Fourth Class all about capes yesterday, an' he
wouldn't be saying anything about that one!"
But Hamish was snoring; and outside the steady tramp, tramp of feet
went up and down in the snow.
V
THE REFORMATION
O strong hearts, guarding the birthright of our glory,
Worth your best blood this heritage that ye guard!
These mighty streams resplendent with our story,
These iron coasts by rage of seas unjarred--
What fields of peace these bulwarks will secure!
What vales of plenty these calm floods supply!
Shall not our love this rough, sweet land make sure,
Her bounds preserve inviolate, though we die?
--C. G. D. ROBERTS.
The fathers of the Scottish settlement were gathered about the stove in
Store Thompson's shop. This emporium was a respectable rival of Pete
Nash's tavern across the way. Anyone, weary of the noise and wrangling
which characterised that lively establishment, might step across to
Store Thompson's haven and find rest and quiet, a never-failing
hospitality and a much better social atmosphere. To-night the company
represented the best the settlement could produce, several of the
MacDonalds and a few of the inhabitants of the Glen.
Big Malcolm was among them. It was his first visit to the Glen since
the day of his disgrace, and he had not yet quite recovered his old
genial spirits.
One small lamp burned dimly on the counter and the forms of boxes and
barrels loomed up fantastically in shadowy corners. In the circle
about the stove the men's faces shone out spectrally from the cloud of
smoke produced by some half-dozen pipes.
As usual, Store Thompson was taking the lead in the conversation. He
stood leaning over the counter in the little ring of light, his
spectacles pushed up on his benign-looking forehead, his finger-tips
brought carefully together. In company with the schoolmaster, Store
Thompson had begun his winter's course of reading and was more than
usually oratorical.
"Aye," he was saying, "a dictionary 's a graund institution; aye, jist
a graund institution, like. When me an' the master now meets a word we
dinna ken, we jist run him doon in the dictionary, an' there he is, ye
see!"
"Oh, books will be fine things," said Big Malcolm, "but that Hamish of
ours will jist be no use when he will be getting his nose into one,
whatever. And he will be making the wee man jist as bad. Eh, it's him
that'll make the reader!" His eyes shone as they always did at any
mention of his grandson.
"Aye, Hamish is the man for the books!" cried Store Thompson
enthusiastically. "How is he gettin' on wi' Ivanhoe?"
"Och, he would be finishing it the night after he brought it home,
indeed; and now the little upstart will be trying his hand at it
whatever."
"Feenishin' it in twa nichts!" cried Store Thompson, aghast at such
extravagance. "Hut, tut! yon's no way to use a book. When me an' the
wife read Ivanhoe last winter, we jist read a wee bit at a time for
fear it wouldna last; it wes that interestin'. Aye, books is too
scarce to be used yon way."
"And what will you and the master be reading, this winter, James?"
inquired Long Lauchie, who had just returned from one of his mental
excursions.
Store Thompson's face beamed. "Eh, it's a graund book this time,
Lauchie, jist an Astronomy, like."
"Eh, losh, an' what would it be about?"
"All aboot the stars, aye an' the moon an' the constellations, like."
"Eh, eh!" Long Lauchie was very much impressed. "And would it be
telling about the comets, whatever?"
Store Thompson stood erect and put his finger tips together.
"A comet," he declared solemnly, "a comet, Lauchlan, so far as Ah can
mak' oot frae the book, is jist naething more nor less than an
indestructible, incomprehensible combustion o' matter; aye, jist that,
like."
There was an impressive silence. When Store Thompson took his flights
through the vast spaces of knowledge he was always hard to follow, but
when he soared to the heights of astronomy the district fathers felt
him to be unapproachable.
"'Seek Him that maketh the seven stars and Orion.'" The silence was
broken by a deep, rolling voice; a voice so powerful that even when
softened, as it now was, it gave the impression of vast possibilities.
The speaker was like his voice, huge and strong; the thick, waving hair
covering his massive head, and his bushy beard were a dark iron-grey,
which, with his strong features and bristling eyebrows, gave him the
appearance of a man carved from iron. It was Praying Donald, the
earliest pioneer of the Oa, and the most pious man in many settlements.
"'Seek Him that maketh the seven stars and Orion,' that will be the
word of the Holy Book, and it will be a poor thing to be seeking the
stars first."
Every eye was turned upon the speaker. Praying Donald was a man who
spoke seldom, but when he did everyone listened.
"Yes, indeed, it is the Word of Jehovah we should be reading," he
continued, "for I would be reading last night, and the Lord would be
speaking to me through the Word, and it was, 'Blow ye the trumpet in
Zion.... Let all the inhabitants of the land tremble, for the day of
the Lord cometh, for it is nigh at hand; a day of darkness and
gloominess and of thick darkness.' And it will be this land that it
will be coming upon. For there will be the drink and the fighting, and
there will be no minister, and no house of the Lord, for we will be in
the gall of bitterness and in the bonds of iniquity.
"Yes, we must be praying, praying night and day, and maybe that the
Lord in His mercy will be sending us a minister; for if He will not be
visiting us in His mercy, He will be coming in His wrath, and who shall
stand in the day of His judgment?"
Weaver Jimmie flung one leg over the other nervously. Long Lauchie
sighed, and Store Thompson murmured, "Undeniable, undeniable." But Big
Malcolm sat staring at the speaker as if fascinated. Praying Donald's
life of stern piety, and his knowledge of the laws governing human
action, had often enabled him to foresee events, and had given him the
reputation of a prophet. The memory of the scene in which he had so
lately taken part came over Big Malcolm with overwhelming force.
"It is the true word," he whispered, as though smitten with a sudden
fear. "Och, and it will be Malcolm MacDonald that will be visited in
wrath for his sins, whatever!"
"Ye're richt, Donald," said Store Thompson, at length, "what wi' the
whuskey an' the wild goin's on this place is jist in a bad state. But
it's thae Eerish. Man," he continued emphatically, "thae Eerish,
whether Catholic or Protestant, are jist a menace to the country, aye,
jist yon, jist a menace, like!"
"It is the Oa that will be as bad as the Flats," said Praying Donald
relentlessly. "They will be forsaking their God and be following after
their own evil desires!"
Long Lauchie suddenly opened his eyes. He was in the habit of seizing
upon a remark and retiring with it slowly, repeating it over and over
in a lessening whisper until he was lost in the echoing caverns of
imagination, and was wont to emerge from these absent fits suddenly
with the air of a diver who comes to the surface with a great treasure.
He came to life at this moment, his eyes wide open, his manner alert;
"Eh, it will be a fulfilment o' the prophecy o' Jeremiah, 'Out of the
north an evil shall break forth upon all the inhabitants of the land.'
Eh, eh, out o' the north--the north--it would perhaps be meaning the
Oa," he whispered fearfully to Weaver Jimmie. "Out of the north--the
north----" His voice gradually died away and he was lost in meditation.
"This place is not like the auld land," said old Sandy Hamilton,
moodily. "Man, we werna bothered wi' ony Fenians, nor Orangemen, nor
sik like there!"
"Times'll be better now the Murphys know their place," said Weaver
Jimmie confidently, pitching one leg over the other. "Callum led a
fine charge. The Fenians may take Canady, but they'll not----"
"Hooch!" Big Malcolm broke in fiercely. Weaver Jimmie did not properly
belong either by age or sentiments to this gathering, and his remark
regarding Callum was very much out of place. "Yon son o' mine will
jist be a breeder o' mischief in this place, James MacDonald!" he
cried, "an' it's little check you will be on him, whatever. It is high
time, indeed, that ye were both settlin' down an' stoppin' such doings!
But och, och," he added with a sudden change of tone, "it is myself
will be the worst of them all."
Weaver Jimmie heaved a sentimental sigh. "It will not be any fault of
mine that I will not be settled down," he muttered gloomily.
Praying Donald's rumbling voice had arisen again. "Yes, oh yes, the
evil will be growing; and the Judge will be coming in His wrath and we
will jist be like Sodom and Gomorrah!"
"Oh, indeed," broke in Store Thompson, "the good Lord is slow to anger
and of great mercy, Donald, ye mind!"
"Mercy!" roared Praying Donald. "Eh, James, do not be deceiving
yourselves! He will be just. We must be reaping what we sow. This
place is sowing the wind and it will be reaping the whirlwind. 'For I
the Lord thy God am a jealous God, visiting the iniquity of the fathers
upon the children unto the third and fourth generation of them that
hate me.'"
Long Lauchie came suddenly to the surface, this time with a precious
pearl: "And showing mercy unto thousands," he continued softly. "Oh,
yes, indeed and indeed, unto thousands, mercy unto thousands!" He sank
again into the ocean of his imagination, and the tide of conversation
flowed over him unheeded.
"'Visiting the sins of the father upon the children,'" repeated Big
Malcolm bitterly. He dropped his head into his hands and groaned.