A SABBATH DAY'S WORK
The Sabbath that followed the sugaring-off was to Maimie the most
remarkable Sabbath of her life up to that day. It was totally unlike the
Sabbath of her home, which, after the formal “church parade,” as
Harry called it, in the morning, her father spent in lounging with his
magazine and pipe, her aunt in sleeping or in social gossip with such
friends as might drop in, and Harry and Maimie as best they could.
The Sabbath in the minister's house, as in the homes of his people, was
a day so set apart from other days that it had to be approached. The
Saturday afternoon and evening caught something of its atmosphere. No
frivolity, indeed no light amusement, was proper on the evening that put
a period to the worldly occupations and engagements of the week. That
evening was one of preparation. The house, and especially the kitchen,
was thoroughly “redd up.” Wood, water, and kindlings were brought in,
clothes were brushed, boots greased or polished, dinner prepared, and
in every way possible the whole house, its dwellers, and its belongings,
made ready for the morrow. So, when the Sabbath morning dawned, people
awoke with a feeling that old things had passed away and that the whole
world was new. The sun shone with a radiance not known on other days. He
was shining upon holy things, and lighting men and women to holy duties.
Through all the farms the fields lay bathed in his genial glow, at rest,
and the very trees stood in silent worship of the bending heavens. Up
from stable and from kitchen came no sounds of work. The horses knew
that no wheel would turn that day in labor, and the dogs lay sleeping in
sunny nooks, knowing as well as any that there was to be no hunting or
roaming for them that day, unless they chose to go on a free hunt; which
none but light-headed puppies or dissipated and reprobate dogs would
care to do.
Over all things rest brooded, and out of the rest grew holy thoughts
and hopes. It was a day of beginnings. For the past, broken and stained,
there was a new offer of oblivion and healing, and the heart was
summoned to look forward to new life and to hope for better things, and
to drink in all those soothing, healing influences that memory and faith
combine to give; so that when the day was done, weary and discouraged
men and women began to feel that, perhaps after all they might be able
to endure and even to hope for victory.
The minister rose earlier on Sabbath than on other days, the
responsibility of his office pressing hard upon him. Breakfast was more
silent than usual, ordinary subjects of conversation being discouraged.
The minister was preoccupied and impatient of any interruption of his
thoughts. But his wife came to the table with a sweeter serenity than
usual, and a calm upon her face that told of hidden strength. Even
Maimie could notice the difference, but she could only wonder. The
secret of it was hidden from her. Her aunt was like no other woman that
she knew, and there were many things about her too deep for Maimie's
understanding.
After worship, which was brief but solemn and intense, Lambert hurried
to bring round to the front the big black horse, hitched up in the
carryall, and they all made speed to pack themselves in, Maimie and her
aunt in front, and Hughie on the floor behind with his legs under the
seat; for when once the minister was himself quite ready, and had got
his great meerschaum pipe going, it was unsafe for any one to delay him
a single instant.
The drive to the church was an experience hardly in keeping with the
spirit of the day. It was more exciting than restful. Black was a horse
with a single aim, which was to devour the space that stretched out
before him, with a fine disregard of consequence. The first part of the
road up to the church hill and down again to the swamp was to Black, as
to the others, an unmixed joy, for he was fresh from his oats and eager
to go, and his driver was as eager to let him have his will.
But when the swamp was reached, and the buggy began to leap from log
to log of the corduroy, Black began to chafe in impatience of the rein
which commanded caution. Indeed, the passage of the swamp was always
more or less of an adventure, the result of which no one could foretell,
and it took all Mrs. Murray's steadiness of nerve to repress an
exclamation of terror at critical moments. The corduroy was Black's
abomination. He longed to dash through and be done with it; but, however
much the minister sympathized with Black's desire, prudence forbade that
his method should be adopted. So from log to log, and from hole to hole,
Black plunged and stepped with all the care he could be persuaded to
exercise, every lurch of the carryall bringing a scream from Maimie in
front and a delighted chuckle from Hughie behind. His delight in the
adventure was materially increased by his cousin's terror.
But once the swamp was crossed, and Black found himself on the firm
road that wound over the sand-hills and through the open pine woods, he
tossed his great mane back from his eyes, and getting his head set off
at a pace that foreboded disaster to anything trying to keep before him,
and in a short time drew up at the church gates, his flanks steaming and
his great chest white with foam.
“My!” said Maimie, when she had recovered her breath sufficiently to
speak, “is that the church?” She pointed to a huge wooden building about
whose door a group of men were standing.
“Huh-huh, that's it,” said Hughie; “but we will soon be done with the
ugly old thing.”
The most enthusiastic member of the congregation could scarcely call the
old church beautiful, and to Maimie's eyes it was positively hideous.
No steeple or tower gave any hint of its sacred character. Its
weather-beaten clapboard exterior, spotted with black knots, as if
stricken with some disfiguring disease, had nothing but its row of
uncurtained windows to distinguish it from an ordinary barn.
They entered by the door at the end of the church, and proceeded down
the long aisle that ran the full length of the building, till they came
to a cross aisle that led them to the minister's pew at the left side
of the pulpit, and commanding a view of the whole congregation. The main
body of the church was seated with long box pews with hinged doors. But
the gallery that ran round three sides was fitted with simple benches.
Immediately in front of the pulpit was a square pew which was set apart
for the use of the elders, and close up to the pulpit, and indeed as
part of this structure, was a precentor's desk. The pulpit was, to
Maimie's eyes, a wonder. It was an octagonal box placed high on one
side of the church on a level with the gallery, and reached by a spiral
staircase. Above it hung the highly ornate and altogether extraordinary
sounding-board and canopy. There was no sign of paint anywhere, but
the yellow pine, of which seats, gallery, and pulpit were all made, had
deepened with age into a rich brown, not unpleasant to the eye.
The church was full, for the Indian Lands people believed in going
to church, and there was not a house for many miles around but was
represented in the church that day. There they sat, row upon row of men,
brawny and brown with wind and sun, a notable company, worthy of their
ancestry and worthy of their heritage. Beside them sat their wives,
brown, too, and weather-beaten, but strong, deep-bosomed, and with faces
of calm content, worthy to be mothers of their husbands' sons. The girls
and younger children sat with their parents, modest, shy, and reverent,
but the young men, for the most part, filled the back seats under
the gallery. And a hardy lot they were, as brown and brawny as their
fathers, but tingling with life to their finger-tips, ready for
anything, and impossible of control except by one whom they feared as
well as reverenced. And such a man was Alexander Murray, for they knew
well that, lithe and brawny as they were, there was not a man of them
but he could fling out of the door and over the fence if he so wished;
and they knew, too, that he would be prompt to do it if occasion arose.
Hence they waited for the word of God with all due reverence and fear.
In the square pew in front of the pulpit sat the elders, hoary, massive,
and venerable. The Indian Lands Session were worth seeing. Great men
they were, every one of them, excepting, perhaps, Kenneth Campbell,
“Kenny Crubach,” as he was called, from his halting step. Kenny was
neither hoary nor massive nor venerable. He was a short, grizzled man
with snapping black eyes and a tongue for clever, biting speech;
and while he bore a stainless character, no one thought of him as
an eminently godly man. In public prayer he never attained any great
length, nor did he employ that tone of unction deemed suitable in this
sacred exercise. He seldom “spoke to the question,” but when he did
people leaned forward to listen, and more especially the rows of the
careless and ungodly under the gallery. Kenny had not the look of an
elder, and indeed, many wondered how he had ever come to be chosen for
the office. But the others all had the look of elders, and carried with
them the full respect and affection of the congregation. Even the young
men under the gallery regarded them with reverence for their godly
character, but for other things as well; for these old men had been
famous in their day, and tales were still told about the firesides of
the people of their prowess in the woods and on the river.
There was, for instance, Finlay McEwen, or McKeowen, as they all
pronounced it in that country, who, for a wager, had carried a
four-hundred-pound barrel upon each hip across the long bridge over the
Scotch River. And next him sat Donald Ross, whose very face, with its
halo of white hair, bore benediction with it wherever he went. What a
man he must have been in his day! Six feet four inches he stood in his
stocking soles, and with “a back like a barn door,” as his son Danny,
or “Curly,” now in the shanty with Macdonald Bhain, used to say, in
affectionate pride. Then there was Farquhar McNaughton, big, kindly, and
good-natured, a mighty man with the ax in his time. “Kirsty's Farquhar”
they called him, for obvious reasons. And a good thing for Farquhar it
was that he had had Kirsty at his side during these years to make his
bargains for him and to keep him and all others to them, else he would
never have become the substantial man he was.
Next to Farquhar was Peter McRae, the chief of a large clan of
respectable, and none too respectable, families, whom all alike held
in fear, for Peter ruled with a rod of iron, and his word ran as law
throughout the clan. Then there was Ian More Macgregor, or “Big John
Macgregor,” as the younger generation called him, almost as big as
Donald Ross and quite as kindly, but with a darker, sadder face.
Something from his wilder youth had cast its shadow over his life. No
one but his minister and two others knew that story, but the old man
knew it himself, and that was enough. One of those who shared his secret
was his neighbor and crony, Donald Ross, and it was worth a journey of
some length to see these two great old men, one with the sad and the
other with the sunny face, stride off together, staff in hand, at the
close of the Gaelic service, to Donald's home, where the afternoon would
be spent in discourse fitting the Lord's day and in prayer.
The only other elder was Roderick McCuiag, who sat, not in the elders'
pew, but in the precentor's box, for he was the Leader of Psalmody.
“Straight Rory,” as he was called by the irreverent, was tall, spare,
and straight as a ramrod. He was devoted to his office, jealous of
its dignity, and strenuous in his opposition to all innovations in
connection with the Service of Praise. He was especially opposed to
the introduction of those “new-fangled ranting” tunes which were
being taught the young people by John “Alec” Fraser in the weekly
singing-school in the Nineteenth, and which were sung at Mrs. Murray's
Sabbath evening Bible class in the Little Church. Straight Rory had been
educated for a teacher in Scotland, and was something of a scholar.
He loved school examinations, where he was the terror of pupils and
teachers alike. His acute mind reveled in the metaphysics of theology,
which made him the dread of all candidates who appeared before the
session desiring “to come forward.” It was to many an impressive sight
to see Straight Rory rise in the precentor's box, feel round, with much
facial contortion, for the pitch--he despised a tuning-fork--and then,
straightening himself up till he bent over backwards, raise the chant
that introduced the tune to the congregation. But to the young men under
the gallery he was more humorous than impressive, and it is to be feared
that they waited for the precentor's weekly performance with a delighted
expectation that never flagged and that was never disappointed. It was
only the flash of the minister's blue eye that held their faces rigid
in preternatural solemnity, and forced them to content themselves with
winks and nudges for the expression of their delight.
As Maimie's eye went wandering shyly over the rows of brown faces that
turned in solemn and steadfast regard to the minister's pew, Hughie
nudged her and whispered: “There's Don. See, in the back seat by the
window, next to Peter Ruagh yonder; the red-headed fellow.”
He pointed to Peter McRae, grandson of “Peter the Elder.” There was no
mistaking that landmark.
“Look,” cried Hughie, eagerly, pointing with terrible directness
straight at Don, to Maimie's confusion.
“Whisht, Hughie,” said his mother softly.
“There's Ranald, mother,” said the diplomatic Hughie, knowing well that
his mother would rejoice to hear that bit of news. “See, mother, just in
front of Don, there.”
Again Hughie's terrible finger pointed straight into the face of the
gazing congregation.
“Hush, Hughie,” said his mother, severely.
Maimie knew a hundred eyes were looking straight at the minister's pew,
but for the life of her she could not prevent her eye following the
pointing finger, till it found the steady gaze of Ranald fastened upon
her. It was only for a moment, but in that moment she felt her heart
jump and her face grow hot, and it did not help her that she knew that
the people were all wondering at her furious blushes. Of course the
story of the sugaring-off had gone the length of the land and had formed
the subject of conversation at the church door that morning, where
Ranald had to bear a good deal of chaff about the young lady, and her
dislike of forfeits, till he was ready to fight if a chance should but
offer. With unspeakable rage and confusion, he noticed Hughie's pointing
finger. He caught, too, Maimie's quick look, with the vivid blush that
followed. Unfortunately, others besides himself had noticed this, and
Don and Peter Ruagh, in the seat behind him, made it the subject of
congratulatory remarks to Ranald.
At this point the minister rose in the pulpit, and all waited with
earnest and reverent mien for the announcing of the psalm.
The Rev. Alexander Murray was a man to be regarded in any company and
under any circumstances, but when he stood up in his pulpit and faced
his congregation he was truly superb. He was above the average height,
of faultless form and bearing, athletic, active, and with a “spring in
every muscle.” He had coal-black hair and beard, and a flashing blue eye
that held his people in utter subjection and put the fear of death upon
evil-doers under the gallery. In every movement, tone, and glance there
breathed imperial command.
“Let us worship God by singing to His praise in the one hundred and
twenty-first psalm:
'I to the hills will lift mine eyes,
From whence doth come mine aid.'”
His voice rang out over the congregation like a silver bell, and Maimie
thought she had never seen a man of such noble presence.
After the reading of the psalm the minister sat down, and Straight Rory
rose in his box, and after his manner, began feeling about for the first
note of the chant that would introduce the noble old tune “St. Paul's.”
A few moments he spent twisting his face and shoulders in a manner that
threatened to ruin the solemnity of the worshipers under the gallery,
till finally he seemed to hit upon the pitch desired, and throwing back
his head and closing one eye, he proceeded on his way. Each line he
chanted alone, after the ancient Scottish custom, after which the
congregation joined with him in the tune. The custom survived from the
time when psalm-books were in the hands of but few and the “lining” of
the psalm was therefore necessary.
There was no haste to be done with the psalm. Why should there be? They
had only one Sabbath in the week, and the whole day was before them.
The people surrendered themselves to the lead of Straight Rory with
unmistakable delight in that part of “the exercises” of the day in which
they were permitted to audibly join. But of all the congregation, none
enjoyed the singing more than the dear old women who sat in the front
seats near the pulpit, their quiet old faces looking so sweet and pure
under their snow-white “mutches.” There they sat and sang and quavered,
swaying their bodies with the tune in an ecstasy of restful joy.
Maimie had often heard St. Paul's before, but never as it was chanted
by Straight Rory and sung by the Indian Lands congregation that day.
The extraordinary slides and slurs almost obliterated the notes of the
original tune, and the “little kick,” as Maimie called it, at the end of
the second line, gave her a little start.
“Auntie,” she whispered, “isn't it awfully queer?”
“Isn't it beautiful?” her aunt answered, with an uncertain smile. She
was remembering how these winding, sliding, slurring old tunes had
affected her when first she heard them in her husband's church years
ago. The stately movement, the weird quavers, and the pathetic cadences
had in some mysterious way reached the deep places in her heart, and
before she knew, she had found the tears coursing down her cheeks and
her breath catching in sobs. Indeed, as she listened to-day, remembering
these old impressions, the tears began to flow, till Hughie, not
understanding, crept over to his mother, and to comfort her, slipped
his hand into hers, looking fiercely at Maimie as if she were to
blame. Maimie, too, noticed the tears and sat wondering, and as the
congregation swung on through the verses of the grand old psalm there
crept into her heart a new and deeper emotion than she had ever known.
“Listen to the words, Maimie dear,” whispered her aunt. And as Maimie
listened, the noble words, borne on the mighty swing of St. Paul's,
lifted up by six hundred voices--for men, women, and children were
singing with all their hearts--awakened echoes from great deeps within
her as yet unsounded. The days for such singing are, alas! long gone.
The noble rhythm, the stately movement, the continuous curving stream of
melody, that once marked the praise service of the old Scottish church,
have given place to the light, staccato tinkle of the revival chorus, or
the shorn and mutilated skeleton of the ancient psalm tune.
But while the psalm had been moving on in its solemn and stately way,
Ranald had been enduring agony at the hands of Peter Ruagh sitting just
behind him. Peter, whose huge, clumsy body was a fitting tabernacle for
the soul within, labored under the impression that he was a humorist,
and indulged a habit of ponderous joking, trying enough to most people,
but to one of Ranald's temperament exasperating to a high degree. His
theme was Ranald's rescue of Maimie, and the pauses of the singing he
filled in with humorous comments that, outside, would have produced only
weariness, but in the church, owing to the strange perversity of human
nature, sent a snicker along the seat. Unfortunately for him, Ranald's
face was so turned that he could not see it, and so he had no hint of
the wrath that was steadily boiling up to the point of overflow.
They were nearing the close of the last verse of the psalm, when Hughie,
whose eyes never wandered long from Ranald's direction, uttered a sharp
“Oh, my!” There was a shuffling confusion under the gallery, and when
Maimie and her aunt looked, Peter Ruagh's place was vacant.
By this time the minister was standing up for prayer. His eye, too,
caught the movement in the back seat.
“Young men,” he said, sternly, “remember you are in God's house. Let me
not have to mention your names before the congregation. Let us pray.”
As the congregation rose for prayer, Mrs. Murray noticed Peter Ruagh
appear from beneath the book-board and quietly slip out by the back door
with his hand to his face and the blood streaming between his fingers;
and though Ranald was standing up straight and stiff in his place, Mrs.
Murray could read from his rigid look the explanation of Peter's bloody
face. She gave her mind to the prayer with a sore heart, for she had
learned enough of those wild, hot-headed youths to know that before
Peter Ruagh's face would be healed more blood would have to flow.
The prayer proceeded in its leisurely way, indulging here and there
in quiet reverie, or in exultant jubilation over the “attributes,”
embracing in its worldwide sweep “the interests of the kingdom” far and
near, and of that part of humanity included therein present and to come,
and buttressing its petitions with theological argument, systematic and
unassailable. Before the close, however, the minister came to deal with
the needs of his own people. Old and young, absent and present, the
sick, the weary, the sin-burdened--all were remembered with a warmth
of sympathy, with a directness of petition, and with an earnestness of
appeal that thrilled and subdued the hearts of all, and made even the
boys, who had borne with difficulty the last half-hour of the long
prayer, forget their weariness.
The reading of Scripture followed the prayer. In this the minister
excelled. His fine voice and his dramatic instinct combined to make this
an impressive and beautiful portion of the service. But to-day much of
the beauty and impressiveness of the reading was lost by the frequent
interruptions caused by the entrance of late comers, of whom, owing to
the bad roads, there were a larger number than usual. The minister was
evidently annoyed, not so much by the opening and shutting of the door
as by the inattention of his hearers, who kept turning round their heads
to see who the new arrivals were. At length the minister could bear it
no longer.
“My dear people,” he said, pausing in the reading, “never mind those
coming in. Give you heed to the reading of God's Word, and if you must
know who are entering, I will tell you. Yes,” he added, deliberately,
“give you heed to me, and I will let you know who these late comers
are.”
With that startling declaration, he proceeded with the reading, but had
not gone more than a few verses when “click” went the door-latch. Not
a head turned. It was Malcolm Monroe, slow-going and good-natured, with
his quiet little wife following him.
The minister paused, looking toward the door, and announced: “My dear
people, here comes our friend Malcolm Monroe, and his good wife with
him, and a long walk they have had. Come away, Malcolm; come away; we
will just wait for you.”
Malcolm's face was a picture. Surprise, astonishment, and confusion
followed each other across his stolid countenance; and with quicker pace
than he was ever known to use in his life before, he made his way to
his seat. No sooner had the reading began again when once more the
door clicked. True to his promise, the minister paused and cheerfully
announced to his people: “This, my friends, is John Campbell, whom
you all know as 'Johnnie Sarah,' and we are very glad to see him, for,
indeed, he has not been here for some time. Come away, John; come away,
man,” he added, impatiently, “for we are all waiting for you.”
Johnnie Sarah stood paralyzed with amazement and seemed uncertain
whether to advance or to turn and flee. The minister's impatient
command, however, decided him, and he dropped into the nearest seat with
all speed, and gazed about him as if to discover where he was. He had
no sooner taken his seat than the door opened again, and some half-dozen
people entered. The minister stood looking at them for some moments and
then said, in a voice of resignation: “Friends, these are some of our
people from the Island, and there are some strangers with them. But
if you want to know who they are, you will just have to look at them
yourselves, for I must get on with the reading.”
Needless to say, not a soul of the congregation, however consumed with
curiosity, dared to look around, and the reading of the chapter went
gravely on to the close. To say that Maimie sat in utter astonishment
during this extraordinary proceeding would give but a faint idea of her
state of mind. Even Mrs. Murray herself, who had become accustomed to
her husband's eccentricities, sat in a state of utter bewilderment, not
knowing what might happen next; nor did she feel quite safe until the
text was announced and the sermon fairly begun.
Important as were the exercises of reading, praise, and prayer, they
were only the “opening services,” and merely led up to the event of the
day, which was the sermon. And it was the event, not only of the day,
but of the week. It would form the theme of conversation and afford food
for discussion in every gathering of the people until another came to
take its place. To-day it lasted a full hour and a half, and was an
extraordinary production. Calm, deliberate reasoning, flights of vivid
imagination, passionate denunciation, and fervid appeal, marked its
course. Its subject was the great doctrine of Justification by Faith,
and it contained a complete system of theology arranged with reference
to that doctrine. Ancient heresies were attacked and exposed with
completeness amounting to annihilation. Modern errors, into which our
“friends” of the different denominations had fallen, were deplored and
corrected, and all possible misapplications of the doctrine to practical
life guarded against. On the positive side the need, the ground, the
means, the method, the agent, the results, of Justification, were fully
set forth and illustrated. There were no anecdotes and no poetry.
The subject was much too massive and tremendous to permit of any such
trifling.
As the sermon rolled on its majestic course, the congregation listened
with an attentive and discriminating appreciation that testified to
their earnestness and intelligence. True, one here and there dropped
into a momentary doze, but his slumber was never easy, for he was
harassed by the terrible fear of a sudden summons by name from the
pulpit to “awake and give heed to the message,” which for the next few
minutes would have an application so personal and pungent that it would
effectually prevent sleep for that and some successive Sabbaths. The
only apparent lapse of attention occurred when Donald Ross opened his
horn snuff-box, and after tapping solemnly upon its lid, drew forth a
huge pinch of snuff and passed it to his neighbor, who, after helping
himself in like manner, passed the box on. That the lapse was only
apparent was made evident by the air of abstraction with which this
operation was carried on, the snuff being held between the thumb and
forefinger for some moments, until a suitable resting-place in the
sermon was reached.
When the minister had arrived at the middle of the second head, he made
the discovery, as was not frequently the case, that the remotest limits
of the alloted time had been passed, and announcing that the subject
would be concluded on the following Sabbath, he summarily brought the
English service to a close, and dismissed the congregation with a brief
prayer, two verses of a psalm, and the benediction.
When Maimie realized that the service was really over, she felt as
if she had been in church for a week. After the benediction the
congregation passed out into the churchyard and disposed themselves in
groups about the gate and along the fences discussing the sermon and
making brief inquiries as to the “weal and ill” of the members of their
families. Mrs. Murray, leaving Hughie and Maimie to wander at will,
passed from group to group, welcomed by all with equal respect and
affection. Young men and old men, women and girls alike, were glad to
get her word. To-day, however, the young men were not at first to be
seen, but Mrs. Murray knew them well enough to suspect that they would
be found at the back of the church, so she passed slowly around the
church, greeting the people as she went, and upon turning the corner she
saw a crowd under the big maple, the rendezvous for the younger portion
of the congregation before “church went in.” In the center of the
group stood Ranald and Don, with Murdie, Don's eldest brother, a huge,
good-natured man, beside them, and Peter Ruagh, with his cousin Aleck,
and others of the clan. Ranald was standing, pale and silent, with his
head thrown back, as his manner was when in passion. The talk was mainly
between Aleck and Murdie, the others crowding eagerly about and putting
in a word as they could. Murdie was reasoning good-humoredly, Aleck
replying fiercely.
“It was good enough for him,” Mrs. Murray heard Don interject, in a
triumphant tone, to Murdie. But Murdie shut him off sternly.
“Whisht, Don, you are not talking just now.”
Don was about to reply when he caught sight of Mrs. Murray. “Here's the
minister's wife,” he said, in a low tone, and at once the group parted
in shamefaced confusion. But Murdie kept his face unmoved, and as Mrs.
Murray drew slowly near, said, in a quiet voice of easy good-humor, to
Aleck, who was standing with a face like that of a detected criminal:
“Well, we will see about it to-morrow night, Aleck, at the post-office,”
and he faced about to meet Mrs. Murray with an easy smile, while Aleck
turned away. But Mrs. Murray was not deceived, and she went straight to
the point.
“Murdie,” she said, quietly, when she had answered his greeting, “will
you just come with me a little; I want to ask you about something.”
And Murdie walked away with her, followed by the winks and nods of the
others.
What she said Murdie never told, but he came back to them more
determined upon peace than ever. The difficulty lay, not with the
good-natured Peter, who was ready enough to settle with Ranald, but with
the fiery Aleck, who represented the non-respectable section of the
clan McRae, who lived south of the Sixteenth, and had a reputation for
wildness. Fighting was their glory, and no one cared to enter upon a
feud with any one of them. Murdie had interfered on Ranald's behalf,
chiefly because he was Don's friend, but also because he was unwilling
that Ranald should be involved in a quarrel with the McRaes, which he
knew would be a serious affair for him. But now his strongest reason for
desiring peace was that he had pledged himself to the minister's wife
to bring it about in some way or other. So he took Peter off by himself,
and without much difficulty, persuaded him to act the magnanimous part
and drop the quarrel.
With Ranald he had a harder task. That young man was prepared to see his
quarrel through at whatever consequences to himself. He knew the McRaes,
and knew well their reputation, but that only made it more impossible
for him to retreat. But Murdie knew better than to argue with him, so
he turned away from him with an indifferent air, saying: “Oh, very well.
Peter is willing to let it drop. You can do as you please, only I know
the minister's wife expects you to make it up.”
“What did she say to you, then?” asked Ranald, fiercely.
“She said a number of things that you don't need to know, but she said
this, whatever, 'He will make it up for my sake, I know.'”
Ranald stood a moment silent, then said, suddenly: “I will, too,” and
walking straight over to Peter, he offered his hand, saying, “I was too
quick, Peter, and I am willing to take as much as I gave. You can go
on.”
But Peter was far too soft-hearted to accept that invitation, and
seizing Ranald's hand, said, heartily: “Never mind, Ranald, it was my
own fault. We will just say nothing more about it.”
“There is the singing, boys,” said Murdie. “Come away. Let us go in.”
He was all the more anxious to get the boys into the church when he saw
Aleck making toward them. He hurried Peter in before him, well pleased
with himself and his success as peacemaker, but especially delighted
that he could now turn his face toward the minister's pew, without
shame. And as he took his place in the back seat, with Peter Ruagh
beside him, the glance of pride and gratitude that flashed across the
congregation to him from the gray-brown eyes made Murdie feel more
than ever pleased at what he had been able to do. But he was somewhat
disturbed to notice that neither Ranald nor Don nor Aleck had followed
him into the church, and he waited uneasily for their coming.
In the meantime Straight Rory was winding his sinuous way through
Coleshill, the Gaelic rhythm of the psalm allowing of quavers and turns
impossible in the English.
In the pause following the second verse, Murdie was startled at the
sound of angry voices from without. More than Murdie heard that sound.
As Murdie glanced toward the pulpit he saw that the minister had risen
and was listening intently.
“Behold--the--sparrow--findeth--out--” chanted the precentor.
“You are a liar!” The words, in Aleck's fiery voice outside, fell
distinctly upon Murdie's ear, though few in the congregation seemed to
have heard. But while Murdie was making up his mind to slip out, the
minister was before him. Quickly he stepped down the pulpit stairs,
psalm-book in hand, and singing as he went, walked quietly to the back
door, and leaving his book on the window-sill, passed out. The singing
went calmly on, for the congregation were never surprised at anything
their minister did.
The next verse was nearly through, when the door opened, and in came
Don, followed by Aleck, looking somewhat disheveled and shaken up,
and two or three more. In a few moments the minister came in, took his
psalm-book from the window-sill, and striking up with the congregation,
“Blest is the man whose strength thou art,” marched up to the pulpit
again, with only an added flash in his blue eyes and a little more
triumphant swing to his coat-tails to indicate that anything had taken
place. But Murdie looked in vain for Ranald to appear, and waited,
uncertain what to do. He had a wholesome fear of the minister, more
especially in his present mood. Instinctively he turned toward the
minister's pew, and reading the look of anxious entreaty from the pale
face there, he waited till the congregation rose for prayer and then
slipped out, and was seen no more in church that day.
On the way home not a word was said about the disturbance. But after the
evening worship, when the minister had gone to his study for a smoke,
Hughie, who had heard the whole story from Don, told it to his mother
and Maimie in his most graphic manner.
“It was not Ranald's fault, mother,” he declared. “You know Peter would
not let him alone, and Ranald hit him in the nose, and served him right,
too. But they made it all up, and they were just going into the church
again, when that Aleck McRae pulled Ranald back, and Ranald did not want
to fight at all, but he called Ranald a liar, and he could not help it,
but just hit him.”
“Who hit who?” said Maimie. “You're not making it very clear, Hughie.”
“Why, Ranald, of course, hit Aleck, and knocked him over, too,” said
Hughie, with much satisfaction; “and then Aleck--he is an awful fighter,
you know--jumped on Ranald and was pounding him just awful, the great
big brute, when out came papa. He stepped up and caught Aleck by the
neck and shook him just like a baby, saying, all the time, 'Would ye? I
will teach you to fight on the Sabbath day! Here! in with you, every
one of you!' and he threw him nearly into the door, and then they all
skedaddled into the church, I tell you, Don said. They were pretty badly
scart, too, but Don did not know what papa did to Ranald, and he did not
know where Ranald went, but he is pretty badly hurted, I am sure. That
great big Aleck McRae is old enough to be his father. Wasn't it mean of
him, mother?”
Poor Hughie was almost in tears, and his mother, who sat listening too
eagerly to correct her little boy's ethics or grammar, was as nearly
overcome as he. She wished she knew where Ranald was. He had not
appeared at the evening Bible class, and Murdie had reported that he
could not find him anywhere.
She put Hughie to bed, and then saw Maimie to her room. But Maimie was
very unwilling to go to bed.
“Oh, auntie,” she whispered, as her aunt kissed her good night, “I
cannot go to sleep!” And then, after a pause, she said, shyly, “Do you
think he is badly hurt?”
Then the minister's wife, looking keenly into the girl's face, made
light of Ranald's misfortune.
“Oh, he will be all right,” she said, “as far as his hurt is concerned.
That is the least part of his trouble. You need not worry about that.
Good night, my dear.” And Maimie, relieved by her aunt's tone, said
“good night” with her heart at rest.
Then Mrs. Murray went into the study, determined to find out what had
passed between her husband and Ranald. She found him lying on his couch,
luxuriating in the satisfaction of a good day's work behind him, and
his first pipe nearly done. She at once ventured upon the thing that lay
heavy upon her heart. She began by telling all she knew of the trouble
from its beginning in the church, and then waited for her husband's
story.
For some moments he lay silently smoking.
“Ah, well,” he said, at length, knocking out his pipe, “perhaps I was a
little severe with the lad. He may not have been so much to blame.”
“Oh, papa! What did you do?” said his wife, in an anxious voice.
“Well,” said the minister, hesitating, “I found that the young
rascal had struck Aleck McRae first, and a very bad blow it was. So I
administered a pretty severe rebuke and sent him home.”
“Oh, what a shame!” cried his wife, in indignant tears. “It was far more
the fault of Peter and Aleck and the rest. Poor Ranald!”
“Now, my dear,” said the minister, “you need not fear for Ranald. I do
not suppose he cares much. Besides, his face was not fit to be seen, so
I sent him home. Well, it--”
“Yes,” burst in his wife, “great, brutal fellow, to strike a boy like
that!”
“Boy?” said her husband. “Well, he may be, but not many men would
dare to face him.” Then he added, “I wish I had known--I fear I
spoke--perhaps the boy may feel unjustly treated. He is as proud as
Lucifer.”
“Oh, papa!” said his wife, “what did you say?”
“Nothing but what was true. I just told him that a boy who would break
the Lord's Day by fighting, and in the very shadow of the Lord's house,
when Christian people were worshiping God, was acting like a savage, and
was not fit for the company of decent folk.”
To this his wife made no reply, but went out of the study, leaving the
minister feeling very uncomfortable indeed. But by the end of the second
pipe he began to feel that, after all, Ranald had got no more than
was good for him, and that he would be none the worse of it; in which
comforting conviction he went to rest, and soon fell into the sleep
which is supposed to be the right of the just.
Not so his wife. Wearied though she was with the long day, its
excitements and its toils, sleep would not come. Anxious thoughts about
the lad she had come to love as if he were her own son or brother kept
crowding in upon her. The vision of his fierce, dark, stormy face held
her eyes awake and at length drew her from her bed. She went into the
study and fell upon her knees. The burden had grown too heavy for her to
bear alone. She would share it with Him who knew what it meant to bear
the sorrows and the sins of others.
As she rose, she heard Fido bark and whine in the yard below, and going
to the window, she saw a man standing at the back door, and Fido fawning
upon him. Startled, she was about to waken her husband, when the man
turned his face so that the moonlight fell upon it, and she saw Ranald.
Hastily she threw on her dressing-gown, put on her warm bedroom slippers
and cloak, ran down to the door, and in another moment was standing
before him, holding him by the shoulders.
“Ranald!” she cried, breathlessly, “what is it?”
“I am going away,” he said, simply. “And I was just passing by--and--”
he could not go on.
“Oh, Ranald!” she cried, “I am glad you came this way. Now tell me
where you are going.”
The boy looked at her as if she had started a new idea in his mind, and
then said, “I do not know.”
“And what are you going to do, Ranald?”
“Work. There is plenty to do. No fear of that.”
“But your father, Ranald?”
The boy was silent for a little, and then said, “He will soon be well,
and he will not be needing me, and he said I could go.” His voice broke
with the remembrance of the parting with his father.
“And why are you going, Ranald?” she said, looking into his eyes.
Again the boy stood silent.
“Why do you go away from your home and your father, and--and--all of us
who love you?”
“Indeed, there is no one,” he replied, bitterly; “and I am not for
decent people. I am not for decent people. I know that well enough.
There is no one that will care much.”
“No one, Ranald?” she asked, sadly. “I thought--” she paused, looking
steadily into his face.
Suddenly the boy turned to her, and putting out both his hands, burst
forth, his voice coming in dry sobs: “Oh, yes, yes! I do believe you.
I do believe you. And that is why I came this way. I wanted to see your
door again before I went. Oh, I will never forget you! Never, never, and
I am glad I am seeing you, for now you will know--how much--” The boy
was unable to proceed. His sobs were shaking his whole frame, and to his
shy Highland Scotch nature, words of love and admiration were not easy.
“You will not be sending me back home again?” he pleaded, anticipating
her. “Indeed, I cannot stay in this place after to-day.”
But the minister's wife kept her eyes steadily upon his face without a
word, trying in vain to find her voice, and the right words to say. She
had no need of words, for in her face, pale, wet with her flowing tears,
and illumined with her gray-brown eyes, Ranald read her heart.
“Oh!” he cried again, “you are wanting me to stay, and I will be ashamed
before them all, and the minister, too. I cannot stay. I cannot stay.”
“And I cannot let you go, Ranald, my boy,” she said, commanding her
voice to speech. “I want you to be a brave man. I don't want you to be
afraid of them.”
“Afraid of them!” said the boy, in scornful surprise. “Not if they were
twice as more and twice as beeg.”
Mrs. Murray saw her advantage, and followed it up.
“And the minister did not know the whole truth, Ranald, and he was sorry
he spoke to you as he did.”
“Did he say that?” said Ranald, in surprise. It was to him, as to any
one in that community, a terrible thing to fall under the displeasure of
the minister and to be disgraced in his eyes.
“Yes, indeed, Ranald, and he would be sorry if you should go away. I am
sure he would blame himself.”
This was quite a new idea to the boy. That the minister should think
himself to be in the wrong was hardly credible.
“And how glad we would be,” she continued, earnestly, “to see you prove
yourself a man before them all.”
Ranald shook his head. “I would rather go away.”
“Perhaps, but it's braver to stay, and to do your work like a man.” And
then, allowing him no time for words, she pictured to him the selfish,
cowardly part the man plays who marches bravely enough in the front
ranks until the battle begins, but who shrinks back and seeks an easy
place when the fight comes on, till his face fell before her in shame.
And then she showed him what she would like him to do, and what she
would like him to be in patience and in courage, till he stood once more
erect and steady.
“Now, Ranald,” she said, noting the effect of her words upon him, “what
is it to be?”
“I will go back,” he said, simply; and turning with a single word of
farewell, he sprang over the fence and disappeared in the woods. The
minister's wife stood looking the way he went long after he had passed
out of sight, and then, lifting her eyes to the radiant sky with its
shining lights, “He made the stars also,” she whispered, and went up to
her bed and laid her down and slept in peace. Her Sabbath day's work was
done.