original as possible. It was not Donald but 'Liza Cotton that had told
it, he explained. At first the victim of the tale could have laughed
at the absurdity of it all, it seemed so trivial. But that did not
explain why Jessie Hamilton had so suddenly preferred Donald to him.
"Are you sure that's all, Watson?" he demanded, "absolutely all?"
"Well--," the schoolmaster hesitated, but he was the minister's slave
and could deny him nothing. "There was something more, about your
being engaged. They've even got the lady's name; the post-mistress
indorsed it, too. Aren't they a pack of jackals, anyhow!"
The young shepherd went home without denying this imputation against
his flock. He was overcome by a feeling of impotent rage against
everyone in Glenoro. Did ever mortal man have such a position to fill?
He must be all things to all men. He must have the inspiration of his
grandfather in the pulpit, and the piety of Mr. Cameron in the home; he
must be a hail-fellow-well-met with every country bumpkin who came
under his notice, and he must have the manner of a judge pronouncing
death, to meet with the approval of his elders. He must not pay
attention to any particular young lady, and yet he must dance
attendance upon all; he must have the gift of tongues in the Oa and an
Irish brogue in the Flats. And just when he was pleasing the party he
felt to be the most influential, and to him the most congenial, they
must turn upon him and rend him for the very qualities they most
admired in him! He was exasperated beyond endurance. He would resign:
yes immediately, and leave the silly, gossiping place to its fate. And
then he thought how it would look before his compeers: he, John
McAlpine Egerton, the pride of his year, the hope of the professors,
and the most promising young man in the college, could not manage this
little back-woods church for one year. And then there was Jessie. Of
course he was not in love with her, he told himself, but he did want
her to think well of him. She had heard about Helen, of course. It
was the old story. He could not lift his hat to a girl but the whole
congregation must stand waiting for him to marry her. He fairly
writhed in his indignation during the night, the only night his Glenoro
congregation had disturbed his slumbers, and the next morning he was no
nearer a solution of his difficulties.
The poor young man was treading a hard road, one which was made all the
harder because it was of his own choosing. For he had, like the
foolish priests of olden times, tried to do, with carnal means, a holy
task which demanded heavenly, and was suffering the naturally resulting
confusion and distress. For he had forgotten that the Jehovah who
demanded holy fire from Nadab and Abihu, does so even to-day; and the
priest who raises unconsecrated hands to His altar must even yet hear
the dread tones of the Omnipotent--"I will be sanctified in them that
come nigh Me: and before all the people I will be glorified."
X
THE WATCHMAN'S DESPAIR
The summer was gone. The harvest days, the days of crimson and golden
woods, of smooth-shaven fields, of orchards weighed down with their
sweet burden, and of barns bursting with grain had come. A tingle of
frost in the bracing air told that they must soon give place to winter.
One mild evening Duncan Polite sat at his shanty door, watching the sun
go down behind the flaming trees. He knew the nights would soon be too
chill for this pleasant pastime and he cherished each moment spent at
his open door. In his sadness and anxiety, the glorious robes assumed
by Nature at the sunset hour lifted, for a little, the shadow from his
spirit.
But to-night the sun went down in a colourless silver glow, which
prophesied winter and storms, and to Duncan the grey dreariness seemed
in keeping with his feelings. For Donald had gone back to the city
that day, and when he had bidden the boy farewell the old man had also
parted with his great aspiration. Donald had come to him the week
before, and with his usual frankness made known the fact that he could
never entertain any further thought of entering the ministry, and had
therefore abandoned all idea of returning to college. The sacrifice of
his education was a great trial to Donald, but he could not return
under a false pretence.
Duncan Polite made no appeal, uttered no reproof. He realised that he
had been expecting this all summer, and he had become so accustomed to
disappointments of the bitterest kind that this one did not move him as
he had expected.
"It will be between your own soul and your Maker, Donal'," he said
gently. "And I will not be urging you; for only the Lord must guide
you to this great work." He sighed deeply and at the sight of the pain
he was inflicting Donald's heart suddenly contracted.
"But you will be going back and finishing your colleging, my
lad,--yes," as Donald protested vehemently, "you will be doing this for
me, for my heart will be in it, and if the Lord will not be calling you
to the church, you will be a good man, like your grandfather, and that
will be a great thing, whatever."
Donald could not answer. Even when he came to say good-bye, he could
find but few words of gratitude. But the reticent Duncan understood,
and the young man went away with the fixed determination, that though
he could not attain to his uncle's ambition, he would at least, with
God's help, be such a man as would never bring dishonour upon Duncan
Polite.
When his boy left him the brightness seemed to die out of the days for
the lonely old watchman on the hilltop. He realised now how much he
had hoped for and expected in the springtime, when Donald returned from
college and Mr. McAlpine's grandson stood in Glenoro pulpit. When he
thought of all his great hopes, he could not forbear, in the bitterness
of his soul, saying to himself, as he saw around him the signs of a
dying season, "The harvest is past, and the summer is ended, and we are
not saved."
A figure grew out of the dusk of the road, and the gate latch clicked,
and a familiar form, erect and sturdy, came up the path. Duncan arose
with a sensation of comfort at the sight of his friend. Andrew
Johnstone never went down to the village without dropping in for a few
minutes at the little shanty.
Duncan brought out a chair, and together the two old men sat at the
door and watched the stars come out in the clear, pale sky, and as if
they were their earthly reflections, the lights appear in the valley.
Andrew puffed a while at his pipe in silence.
"So Donal's awa'" he said at length, guessing partly the reason of the
weary look in his friend's face.
"Yes, oh, yes,"--Duncan's voice was like a sigh--"he would be going
back to-day."
"Aye, it's jist as weel. He'll come to nae mair harm in the city than
he would in yon gabblin' crew o' young folk in the Glen. Man, Duncan,
the Scripter described them weel. They're jist naething but the
cracklin' o' thorns under a pot, aye, an' yon foolish bit crater that
an ill fate has gie'n us for a meenister is the lightest o' them a'.
May the Lord forgie the man that disgraced Maister Cameron's pulpit an'
Maister McAlpine's name!"
Duncan did not seem to have the strength to combat his friend's
statements; and Splinterin' Andra sailed on, encouraged by his silence.
"Ah dinna ken what's come till the man; he acted maist strange aboot
the bit music-boax, an' whiles Ah hoped he'd got some sense intill him.
But there's nae change in him. It's a tea-meetin' or a huskin' bee, or
ane o' his society meetin's ivery night. Och, for a meenister wi' the
grace of God in his heart an' a hunger for souls! We hae fallen upon
ill times, Duncan!"
Duncan Polite roused himself with an effort. "They will not be so bad
but the Father can mend them, Andra, an' indeed it will not be like the
times when your father an' mine would be praying here for the Glen."
"Ah dinna ken that," replied old Andrew morosely. "If they didna' have
a meenister in thae times, to show them the way o' salvation, they
didna hae a bit worldling to lead them astray."
"Oh, it may be better than we will be thinking; the young folk now are
always at the church, Andra, and at the prayer meeting."
"Hooch! an' they might jist as well be awa' for a' the good they get.
There's a pack o' godless young folk in the Glen that naething but the
terrors o' damnation'll iver reach an' they listen to a meenister who
says 'peace, peace' when there's nae peace!"
"Oh, well, indeed, indeed,"--Duncan Polite's gentle voice again stemmed
the torrent--"we must jist be praying for an awakening, Andra, like our
fathers would be doing. And it will be coming," he added with a sudden
fire. "But I will be fearing the sacrifice."
Andrew Johnstone paused in his fierce puffing at his pipe, and turned
to look at his friend. The light of the dying sun touched his white
hair and his thin face and showed the sudden, mysterious, supernatural
fire in his deep eyes. The matter-of-fact Scot felt a strange
sensation as of the presence of some greater power.
"The sacrifice, Duncan?" he asked in a tone of surprise. "Ye ken they
will na' heed the one great Sacrifice that's already been made."
"Yes, oh yes, that's jist it, Andra." Duncan's voice sank to a
whisper. "They have rejected the Sacrifice and the Lord will require
one from among us. It would be a message to me."
His voice died away; his eyes seemed to pierce the violet mists of the
valley with prophetic power.
Andrew Johnstone was silent, oppressed by a feeling he did not
understand. Duncan continued, as though speaking to himself:
"Yes, oh yes, indeed. There will be a sacrifice, and I will be fearing
it! What will the Lord require? It would be the first fruits in the
olden times, Andra, and I will be thinking of Donal' an' Sandy an' the
lads----"
"Ah, they're jist a scandalous pack!" cried the other, relieved at
again being able to pour out his feelings upon something tangible.
"Yon lad o' mine's the worst o' them a' wi' his singin' an' his
dancin'. It's the blue beech gad they want, ivery one 'o' them. Ah
wouldna' be botherin' wi' them lads o' Betsey's, Duncan; they're a sair
burden to ye!"
"I have a burden, Andra," said Duncan, after a long silence, and
speaking with an effort. "But Betsey's lads will not be making it any
greater. I----" he hesitated again. To the reticent Duncan Polite the
confession of his heart's secret was extremely difficult. "I have a
burden," he continued, "but it is the whole Glen I carry, day an'
night, Andra, day an' night!"
There was a wail in the old man's voice which sent a thrill of sympathy
through his old comrade.
"Yes, they will not be like they were, and the sin will be growing; the
tavern is at the lake yet; and the lads will not be heeding the word of
God, and I will be saying, what will be the end, what will be the end?"
He paused again; his friend was gazing at him wonderingly.
"My father would be praying and watching the valley all his life, for
he would be making a covenant with the Lord at the big stone over
yonder; you will be minding that, Andra. But when he died, he would be
leaving it to me, and when he was going he would be saying, 'Duncan,
lad, remember Bethel. God hath set you as a watchman on the hilltop
here, to warn every soul from the way of death; see that He doth not
require the blood of a soul at your hands.' And I would be thinking,
in my presumption, that I would be like my father, and that I would be
worthy for this work. And the Lord would be answering my father's
prayer by sending Mr. McAlpine, and I would be praying, too, for a
deliverer, but I would not be worthy; and He has punished my pride.
And I will be bringing all this sin and worldliness on the place."
"It's havers ye're talkin', Duncan!" cried old Andrew sharply. "It's
no yer fault! If the careless an' godless willna' listen to the Gospel
ye're no to blame, man!"
"Look you!" cried the old man, pointing down the dim valley with its
twinkling lights. "I will be seeing this day and night, all my life,
and the Lord hath put it into my heart to be a watchman of souls. I
have heard Him say it, 'Son of man, I have set thee a watchman .....
and if the people be not warned, and if the sword come, and take any
person from among them, he is taken away in his iniquity, but his blood
will I require at the watchman's hands!' ..... '_At the watchman's
hands_,' mark you, Andra; and the sword of unrighteousness will be
hanging over my father's Glen, and I will not be keeping my covenant!"
"Duncan!" cried his friend in alarm, "this is not right for you. The
Lord doesna' lay the sins o' ithers on one man's heid. By their own
deeds shall they stand or fall."
Duncan Polite shook his head slowly; he seemed scarcely to hear. "He
would be showing me I was not worthy," he said, in deepest humility.
"For I would not be warning the people as my father would, and I will
be punished for my sin. The blessing will not be coming as in my
father's time; for I will be hearing Him say, 'Bind the sacrifice with
cords even unto the horns of the altar,' and what will it be, Andra,
what will it be? The watchman will be an unfaithful servant. Oh,
wae's me for a worthless vessel!"
Old Andrew's sympathy moved him to rough, quick speech. "Ye're tryin'
to carry the sins o' people who must suffer for their ain, Duncan
McDonald," he said, with a harshness Duncan did not misunderstand.
"It's nane o' your fault, man!"
"It will be my inheritance, Andra," said the other, with quiet but firm
conviction. "I would be hearing it, 'Son of man, I have set thee a
watchman.' It would be a message to me."
There was a long silence, broken only by the distant sounds of the
village. To the matter-of-fact Andrew Johnstone the mystic Highlander
was a puzzle; but his faith and sympathy remained unabated. Duncan had
never fully opened his heart before, and his friend stood awed at the
depths revealed. He had little to say in reply; the elder was a man
whose emotions, except that of righteous indignation, were kept
suppressed. But every word of his old friend sank deep into his heart.
He parted with a word of comfort.
"We mustna' forget that the Lord has us a' in His hands, Duncan," he
said awkwardly, as he rose to go, feeling strange in his entirely new
role of comforter to the hopeful one. "He is all-wise, an' He kens, ye
mind."
"Oh, indeed yes, indeed yes." Duncan's tone was full of contrition for
his late despair. "He will be a very present help in time of trouble."
But he sat at his dark little window, looking over at the place of his
covenant until the shadowy, ethereal greyness of the dawn concentrated
itself in a glorious bar on the eastern horizon and gradually grew into
the great awakening of another day.
He had been disturbed in his meditations and prayers only once. At
about midnight, a laughing crowd of young folk passed the house on
their way to the village. They were returning from a husking bee.
Duncan could hear their noisy, gay chatter, and among the merriest
voices he could distinguish the one that he had once hoped would call
all the youth of his valley to a higher and better life.
XI
COALS OF FIRE
When Donald Neil left Glenoro his pastor drew a breath of relief.
Donald's conduct towards him, since the day of the picnic had been
above reproach, but try as he would, he could not help associating all
his troubles with that young man. With his removal the minister was
not surprised to find that his affairs settled down to their old happy
level. The story of his youthful frivolity was dying out; when Coonie
furnished a new variation of it every day, sensible people ceased to
believe even the original. The young people, always ready to follow
him, convinced themselves, though somewhat reluctantly, that he had
acted rightly regarding the organ; and the older folk considered his
conduct in that affair wise beyond his years.
Without any volition on his part he gradually drifted into his old
intimacy with Jessie Hamilton. Since her reconciliation with Donald he
had enjoyed very little of her company, and had missed it more than he
cared to admit. Jessie admired him profoundly; the very fact of his
being a minister set him immeasurably above all the other young men of
her acquaintance. He must be a wonder of goodness and unselfishness,
the girl felt, to give up his whole life to the service of God, and she
was filled with a sublime joy to find that he deigned to single her out
to assist him in his great work. Though she never dreamed of setting
him above her hero, she felt compelled to admit that he must be a great
deal better than Don, for Don had lately scouted the idea of being a
minister. She felt herself highly privileged to be the friend of such
a man. And since he was engaged to be married, there could be no harm
in her being friendly with him.
Whatever mistakes John Egerton made, they were committed with the best
intentions. He determined, while enjoying Jessie's friendship, to
maintain a strictly impartial position among the young ladies of his
congregation. But somehow fate seemed against him. The very night
after Donald left there was a husking bee at Big Archie Red McDonald's
in the Oa, and as he sat down in the long, noisy row of boys and girls
and helped to fill the barn with laughter and dust, he found himself
next to Jessie. He had never seen her look prettier, and she had never
found him more entertaining. He threw himself into the work with all
his might, and was so gay and so witty, that the common verdict was
spoken by Big Archie Red's bigger and redder son, that "they didn't
know what fun was until the minister came." He could not resist the
pleasure of a walk down the great terraces in the moonlight in such
pleasant company as Jessie afforded. That walk was the beginning of
it; what was to be the end, all Glenoro was in a fever to know. There
was no doubt of one thing; the minister was "keeping company" with John
Hamilton's second girl whether his congregation liked it or not.
For a short season John Egerton experienced an uncomfortable sensation
that he was not acting just rightly. This was at Thanksgiving time,
when he paid his first visit to Toronto. As the train whirled him
northward again, through the sunlit spaces of brown earth and blue sky,
he told himself positively that he had gone too far with the little
village belle, and that he must hereafter walk more circumspectly. For
when he had found himself once more in the stately home of the woman he
loved, and Helen, tall and beautiful, had swept into the spacious
drawing-room to greet him, he realised, for the first time, what a
difference lay between the queenly young woman of society and the
simple little country girl who had been absorbing such a dangerously
large amount of his time and thoughts. Helen, so composed, so
elegantly poised, so thoroughly at home in the best social circles of
the city, would be a perfect companion for him, one in every way suited
to take her place at his side in the brilliant career he had mapped out
for himself. Jessie would have looked out of place, he feared, in
Helen's elegant home.
But when he returned, and met the Glenoro girl coming down the northern
hill, her nut-brown curls dancing in the wind, her cheeks crimson from
its caress, her eyes as clear and radiant as the river which flashed
before her, he was forced to admit that Jessie was as perfectly in
accord with her surroundings as Helen had been in the flower-scented
drawing-room. He was bewildered. Was it possible, he asked himself,
for a man to have two natures, quite distinct in tastes? He worried
himself almost to distraction over the question; but as there was no
one to answer it, he drove it from his mind by spending the evening at
the Hamiltons' teaching Jessie to play chess.
And so the autumn passed very merrily for the minister of Glenoro,
disturbed only by occasional doubts as to his course, until, with the
opening of winter, came the Christmas holidays and Donald Neil. Duncan
Polite's heart grew happy again under his boy's sunny presence.
Donald's deep regret at the disappointment he was causing his best
friend made him assiduous in his attentions to Duncan. He spent so
much of his time at the old shanty on the hill that the old man's cares
were for the time forgotten.
Unfortunately, Donald's advent brought anything but peace in other
quarters. John Egerton asked himself with keen self-reproach if it
were possible that he was jealous of the young man. He could not help
resenting Donald's cool manner of appropriating Jessie's time and
attention. The young minister was not accustomed to being set aside in
that lordly fashion. He felt it was high time that this haughty youth,
who had behaved so ill to him ever since his arrival in Glenoro, was
taught a lesson. He would show him that John Egerton was to be shoved
aside by no man. So he steadily continued his visits to the
Hamiltons', and abated not one whit his attentions to their pretty
daughter.
Those were exciting days for Glenoro. Coonie was kept so busy
manufacturing and spreading tales of the rivals, that he quite
neglected Miss Cotton, and sometimes even forgot to linger on the road.
Jessie, herself, seemed to enjoy the excitement as much as anyone.
Perfectly secure in the knowledge that Donald loved her, and equally
sure of her love for him, she felt there could be no harm in having "a
little fun." She was carried away by the flattery, and took a foolish
pleasure in encouraging both young men. She lived only in the
intoxication of the moment, quite careless of the fact that she was
laying up sorrow for herself as well as for others.
The winter had opened with a severe frost preceding the snow, and the
Oro was a glittering sheet of ice. In the daytime the school children
covered the shining expense, and when a game of shinny was in progress
Mr. Watson might ring his bell till it cracked. But in the evenings
the grown-up youth of the village appropriated the pond. Every night
it was black with skaters, while occasionally a group would spin away
up the river under the dark, over-shadowing banks.
The pond, however, was the centre of attraction. For several evenings
Wee Andra had been furnishing hilarious entertainment for the village
by his agonized efforts to skate. Donald had undertaken the herculean
task of instructing him in the art, and no one envied him his position.
For while the Glenoro giant was not utterly devoid of agility on his
native element, on the ice, and crippled by skates, he was as helpless
as an ocean steamship without an engine and almost as difficult to
navigate. The crowd generally gave him a wide space for their
gyrations, for, when Wee Andra succumbed to the forces of gravity he
never managed to descend unaccompanied.
One evening the tutor called in reinforcements. It was the last night
of his holidays and he did not want to spend it all on even such a
faithful friend as Andrew. So Donald summoned Allan Fraser to assist
him in piloting his unsteady burden to the other shore. With their
pupil hanging helpless between them, the two young men staggered
uncertainly along, followed by a noisy crowd, very merry, and very
prodigal of advice of a highly mirth-provoking order. Between his
frantic lunges the victim was vowing death and destruction to all and
sundry, from his faithful teachers down, as soon as he was free from
the accursed shackles. The young man's wrath was not appeased by the
fact that his supporters were weak with laughter and that Bella
Hamilton was skimming gaily up the river with Mack Fraser, the most
expert skater on the pond.
Jessie was circling around with Maggie, waiting for Donald. She had
promised him this last evening. He was to join her as soon as he had
dragged his friend once more over the slippery circuit. Just as Donald
turned away, the minister came skating smoothly towards her. He had
just arrived. Would Miss Jessie not come up the river a little way
with him? She glanced across the pond. The boys were still struggling
manfully with their wobbling burden. They could not be back for some
time, she reflected. Don would never know if she took just one little
skate up to the school house and back. She gave the minister her hand
and they glided up the winding silvery track to where the moonlight was
hidden by the towering river banks.
Meanwhile, Wee Andra, goaded to desperation by his absolute lack of
success and the facetious remarks which were rendering his guides weak
and incompetent, resolved to give up the hopeless struggle. He shoved
aside his supporting comrades fiercely, and came down upon the ice with
a crash that seemed as if he had decided to end his tortures
Samson-like and die with his tormentors. But fortunately the ice held.