lived under the misfortune of his ancestor's distinguishing
appellation, and who, next to Syl Todd, was the best elocutionist in
the neighbourhood, recited "The Charge of the Light Brigade"; and
though he said "Half a leak" owing to the inconvenience of a Highland
accent, he rendered the selection with such vim that his efforts
brought down the house, and a deluge of lozenges.
Such a warlike programme had never before been heard in the township of
Oro. The very air seemed to smell of gunpowder. The schoolmaster was
electrified. He sprang to his feet almost before the Light Brigade had
ceased charging, and announced in a voice high and tremulous with
emotion that the auspicious moment had come, for they were now to be
favoured with the great feature of the evening, a patriotic address by
Mr. Thomas Hayes, Member of Parliament!
Mr. Hayes arose with the ease and deliberation of an old election
campaigner. He was a tall, lean man, with bright penetrating eyes, and
a delightful suspicion of an Irish brogue, a man with hands horny from
the plough and a brain that belongs only to the rulers of men. He
represented a political party that had its stronghold in Glenoro and
its impregnable fortress in the Oa; so he took his place upon the
platform amid uproarious stamping and cheering.
Canada could not well have had a better champion. He spoke in the most
glowing terms of his beloved land, of her wonderful scenery, her
healthful climate, her free, hardy people, her glorious future. He
reeled off enough information about her mines, her fisheries, her
agricultural resources and her manufactures to fill an encyclopedia.
He dilated upon the beauty and grandeur of Canadian scenery. He stood
his audience upon the heights of Quebec and showed them the whole
panorama of their wonderful country in one sentence. He swept from
ocean to ocean; he swam the great lakes and sailed down innumerable
rivers; he scooped out a canal to Port Nelson and shot across Hudson's
Bay; he rolled across the prairies; he hewed down the forest belt; he
dug gold in British Columbia; and, finally, he climbed the highest
snow-capped peak of the Rocky Mountains and poured down from its dizzy
heights the torrents of his eloquence; and when his bewildered hearers
recovered from the delightful deluge, they found that the exponent of
the Canadian Patriotic Society had skipped across the Atlantic and was
thundering forth upon the wonders and beauty of Ireland!
This was a long way from Canada and the aims of the Canadian Patriotic
Society, and the chairman's face lost its rapt look. John Egerton hid
a smile behind the pulpit desk and that part of the audience that was
of Irish extraction applauded uproariously. When, after nearly half an
hour's lauding of the Emerald Isle, the orator did stop, he was so
carried away by his own feelings that he wound up with a stanza,
recited most thrillingly, from "Erin-go-Bragh" and sat down amid
deafening applause without referring in the remotest way to his
original text.
Mr. Watson was rising to announce the next piece, in a rather doubtful
mood, when a voice from the back called out, with no uncertain sound as
to either the sentiments or the origin of its owner, "Wot's the matter
with England?"
There was a roar of laughter and a loud clapping of hands. Mr. Hayes
arose again. He was too old a politician not to see that he had made a
mistake in his one-sided speech. He was about to supplement it, and
was beginning "Ladies and Gentlemen," when a loud voice from the centre
of the church interrupted him.
Mr. Sim Basketful had sat with an expression of utter boredom during
the latter portion of the member's speech, finally working himself up
into a volcanic mood as it neared an end. His face was purple and his
short, thick neck showed veins standing out dangerously. He might have
held down his righteous indignation had it not been for the challenge
from the back of the room, but the sight of that "blathering Irishman"
rising in response to it was too much. Mr. Basketful was not of Mr.
Hayes' political opinions and, besides that, was his rival upon
tea-meeting platforms. He had convinced himself that it was due to the
Presbyterian minister's interference that he, a Methodist, had been
denied the honour of being the speaker of the evening. He, a
class-leader in the very church where the performance was given, to be
set aside for that Irish Catholic! He would show them all a thing or
two before he sat down. He was standing now, looking straight ahead of
him, and grasping the back of the seat before him, with true Saxon
doggedness.
"Mr. Chairman, Ladies and Gentlemen," he shouted, and Mr. Hayes, who
had met Sim Basketful many a time in his political campaigns, sat down,
somewhat disconcerted.
"Mr. Chairman, Ladies _and_ Gentlemen, if there's anybody in this 'ere
haudience wants to know wot's the matter with Hingland, I'm 'ere
prepared to state, sir, that there ain't one bloomin' thing the matter
with 'er!" (Loud cheers from his Anglo-Saxon hearers.) "And wot's
more, _Ladies_ and Gentlemen _and_ Mr. Chairman, I think it's 'igh time
we were 'earin' just a little about that country that's made us all wot
we are!" (Applause, mingled with noises of an indefinite character.)
"We've been 'earin' a lot o' nonsense about Hireland and Hirish scenery
and Hirish soldiers, but wot I'd like to be hinformed about, Ladies and
Gentlemen _and_ Mr. Chairman, is if anybody in this 'ere haudience is
under the himpression that a Canadian Patriotic Society is a _Hirish_
society!"
The withering contempt of the last words, and the cheers they elicited,
brought the first speaker indignantly to his feet. Not one word could
he get in, however. Mr. Basketful was a true Briton, and with the aid
of a voice which drowned all competitors he clung to his theme with
magnificent tenacity. When the noise calmed sufficiently for him to be
heard, the audience found that he was discoursing fiercely and doggedly
upon the inimitable land of his birth.
Sandy Neil, his eyes dancing, slipped out of his place in the choir,
and made his way softly down the aisle at the side of the church.
"Catchach's down there," he whispered to the choir leader as he passed;
"I'm goin' to stir him up;" and Wee Andra threw back his head with a
laugh which blew out the lamp on the organ.
But none of these things moved the patriotic Englishman. He was
launched upon his favourite theme, his native land, and was
irresistible. England was the only country in the world. He stamped,
he sawed the air, he used metaphors and similes and hyperboles in a
vain endeavour to give some idea of her glory. He eulogized her
commerce, her statesmen, her Queen. He brought up her infantry, he
charged with her cavalry, he poured upon his hearers her heavy
artillery. And at last, backed by the whole great English navy, he
swept every other country off the face of the globe and retired to his
seat behind the stove, the Wellington of one last, grand, oratorical
Waterloo.
Mr. Egerton reached over and, catching the distracted chairman by the
sleeve, shouted above the din that if he wanted to avoid further
trouble he must either close the meeting or make the choir sing
something, and be quick about it. The chairman arose and strove to
make his voice heard above the noise, but the chirping of a sparrow in
a tempest would have been as effectual.
For down at the other end of the church a most alarming tumult was in
progress. Cries of "Order!" and "Sit down!" were mingled with "Go on,
Catchach; speak up! Scotland forever!" and equally ominous sounds.
Through the struggling crowd a man was fighting his way fiercely to the
platform.
"Order! Order!" shrieked the chairman. But the disorderly person had
reached the platform, his red whiskers flying, his blue eyes blazing,
and his big fists brandishing threateningly above his head. It was
Catchach! The schoolmaster sat down very discreetly and hastily. It
was Catchach, worked up to a white fury over the insult to
Scotland--Scotland, the flower of creation, to be neglected, while the
scum of the earth was being exalted!
"Mister Chairman, Ladies an' Chentlemen!" he shouted, "I will not pe a
public spoke, as you will pe knowing, put--" he went off into a storm
of Gaelic, but suddenly checked himself, at the roars of laughter from
his Sassenach enemies. The ridicule saved him--and Scotland. He had
been incoherent with rage, but that laugh steadied him, and settled him
into a cold fury. He would make a speech for the glory of Scotland
now, if they pulled the church down about his ears. And he did it
well, too. England was forgotten, Ireland was in oblivion, Canada did
not exist. But Scotland! the land of the Heather and the Thistle!
Catchach grew wildly poetic over her. The noise of English groans and
Irish jeers and Scottish applause was so great that much of the
effusion was lost, but in the intervals of the uproar could be caught
such snatches as, "Who iss it that hass won efery great pattle in the
last century? Ta Hielanders!" "Who won ta pattle of Palacklafa? Ta
Hielanders!" "Who stormed ta heights of Awlma? Ta Hielanders!"
On he swept down to the last page of history, shouting the answers to
this glorious catechism with a ferocious defiance that challenged
denial; and at every shout there was an answering roar from the
inhabitants of the Oa which threatened to dislodge the roof.
The distracted chairman had not the courage to attempt to stem the
torrent. He did not care to obtrude himself inside Catchach's range of
vision, for before he was done with Scotland the orator was rolling up
his sleeves and calling out like Goliath of Gath for all the township
of Oro to come forward and contradict him. Many of the audience became
alarmed, and some of the older folk were starting for the door, when at
last the flow of fiery eloquence ceased. How he ever managed to stop,
no one could understand; some people said they supposed he had come to
the limit of his English. If Catchach had been able to address his
audience in Gaelic, it is likely they would not have seen their homes
until morning.
But he did stop at last, and went tearing down the aisle and out of the
door, shaking the dust of the place from off his feet. The back row
arose in a body, and went roaring after him, for Catchach in a rage was
better than all the patriotic demonstrations on earth.
The meeting broke up in complete disorder. The hour was unconscionably
late, and the remainder of the long inspiriting programme had perforce
to be omitted. Those of the audience who remained sang "God Save the
Queen" in a rather distracted fashion and hurried away with the firm
conviction that a patriotic concert was an exceedingly improper
performance.
As the unhappy chairman and his confederate were leaving the scene of
their disappointment Sim Basketful brushed violently past the Irish
orator and confronted them. He informed them in a choking voice that
if the Presbyterians were contemplating getting up any more such
disgraceful performances, they would see that they were held in their
own church, as the Methodists objected to having their place of worship
turned into a den of thieves.
XIV
DONALD'S RETURN
In the rush of preparation for the concert the winter had slipped away,
and by the time it was over the days had come when the sun was too
ardent for the snow's white resistance, when the roads became soft and
almost impassable, and spring began peeping at the wintry world in
brilliant sunrises and sunsets.
When the young minister of Glenoro found that the long winter evenings,
in which he had planned to accomplish so much, had gone, he could not
help looking back over the past season of feverish activity with
regret. One evening in early spring as he walked down the great
stairway that led into Glenoro he was reviewing his winter's work with
the feeling of self-dissatisfaction that was so common to him now.
Every step he took seemed to lead him into greater depths of
despondency.
The evening was one which might have raised the most discouraged soul.
Before him lay the white valley overspread with the soft radiance of a
late winter sunset. The gold of the hilltops where the sun's rays had
full play, the soft rose, the delicate green and the faint lilac where
the shadows of the valley met and mingled with the brightness, the deep
purple-and-grey tones of the woods by the river made a picture such as
only the magic of winter can paint. The air was motionless, and the
smoke from the houses in the village rose in stately columns straight
into the still atmosphere, colourless and ethereal in the shadow of the
hills, but changing into pearl-white as they rose beyond their rim, and
blossoming, where the sun's rays caught them, into gigantic
frost-flowers of rose and amethyst and violet.
The noise of children playing on the millpond, the barking of a dog,
the musical clang of Peter McNabb's anvil arose to the hills where the
minister walked. Away across the valley a sleigh was moving slowly
down the winding road; he could hear the clear tinkle of the bells as
though they were at his side.
But the young man was too absorbed in his own sad reflections to notice
his surroundings. He was asking himself what progress he had made in
Glenoro with his tremendous activity and his multiplicity of meetings?
What had he accomplished in the past winter? He thought with disgust
of the Canadian Patriotic Society. He had given up the revival
services for the concert and Mr. Watson's romantic nonsense, with the
result that it had brought upon him both ridicule and discredit. He
could not help wondering, now that he was on such intimate terms with
all the young people of the congregation, what was to be the result.
Were the pleasant relations he had established to be the means to a
better end or was this all? Was he really going to be their pastor in
the true sense of the word, or merely an agreeable companion?
He sighed deeply over these perplexing and haunting questions. He did
not confess, even to himself, however, that their burden was augmented
greatly by another problem that had vexed him all winter. It had
assumed a graver aspect that very day, owing to a piece of news he had
heard at the dinner-table.
Peter McNabb, Junior, whose tongue was the McNabb's family skeleton,
had started the meal with, "Say, folks, Don Neil's comin' home
to-morrow. Neil told me to-day."
"Indeed," said the blacksmith as he heaped Mr. Egerton's plate with
fried pork and potatoes, "he's home early this spring."
"He's jist comin' for the Easter holidays; Sandy sent for him to come
an' help with the logs. He's goin' back again after. Sandy an' all
his gang are at the camp back o' the lake there waitin' for the ice to
break, an' I seen Jimmy Archie Red yisterday, an' he says they're
havin' a whale o' a time, drinkin' an' cuttin' up like sin."
"Aye, aye," said Peter, Senior, shaking his head sadly, "poor Sandy's
goin' like his father, Ah'm afraid; Neil More was too fond o' the
drink. Duncan Polite'll be feelin' terrible, if he hears it."
"Mebby Don'll straighten them up when he comes," suggested Flora, who
secretly admired the handsome young student.
"Indeed," broke in her mother, busy with the tea-cups, "I'm just afraid
Donald's not much better. He seemed to be a steady boy once, but I
guess he's got his head turned in the city. They say he's just filled
with infidel notions."
"I've heard that he don't go to church, since him an' Jessie Hamilton
split up last fall," declared Peter, Junior, injudiciously. He turned
to his sister a face of indignant reproach. "What on earth are you
jabbin' your feet into me for, Flo? It's true, every word. Mack
Fraser says Allan wrote home----"
"Pass Mr. Egerton the pickles, Peter," said Mrs. McNabb, with a warning
wink from behind the tea-pot. And Peter shoved the cucumbers across
the table in sulky silence, wondering why on earth it was that he could
never be allowed to speak at the table without some mysterious
interruption.
But John Egerton understood perfectly, and this evening, as he walked
down the hillside, his conscience was once more asking troublesome
questions. Was he responsible for Donald's changed conduct? This man
who had saved his life, had he really come between him and Jessie?
Then there were those wild young men at the lumber camp; he knew most
of them personally. As their pastor, should he not go to them? That
would be rather difficult with Donald there. And then, he asked
himself bitterly, what good would he do if he did go? He had always
been a good fellow among the boys, but what more? His conscience
forbade a satisfactory answer, and his spirits sank to a very low ebb.
He was aroused from his melancholy heart-searchings by the sight of
Duncan Polite's little shanty by the roadside, with the sunset glow
reflected in flame from the window panes. He must call and see if the
old man's cold were better. He was not at all remiss in his duties of
this sort and was so kind and sympathetic in time of sickness that he
was always welcome. But he had not visited Duncan Polite very often,
though the old man had been ill all winter. Ever since the night John
Egerton had heard him wrestling in prayer, and had guessed dimly at
what manner of man the silent old hermit was, he had felt uncomfortable
in his presence. But to-night he realised that he should not pass
without dropping in just a moment to see how he was progressing.
Duncan Polite answered his knock. He had an old plaid of the McDonald
tartan over his shoulders, his face was white and emaciated, and a
cough frequently interrupted his utterance. But his eyes were as
bright as ever, and his face full of kindness. He welcomed his young
pastor warmly.
"Eh, Mr. Egerton," he cried, smiling brightly at this young man who was
breaking his heart. "Indeed it would be kind to come and see an old
man, and the roads breaking up, whatever. Come away in, come away;" he
drew up his best chair to the fire, and set his guest into it, bustling
around and in every way he could ministering to his comfort.
The young man put his feet upon the damper of the stove, and tilted his
chair back in the free and easy manner which had charmed Glenoro. "And
how's that troublesome cough to-day, Mr. McDonald? better, I hope?"
"Oh jist, jist! It will be nearly gone, indeed. Betsey will be giving
me drugs; but hoots, toots, the weemen must be potterin' about a body.
I will not be sick at all, oh no indeed."
The minister knew that he ought to ask after Donald, but he could not
bring himself to do so. Instead, he said, "I hear your nephew has a
fine quantity of logs to bring down to the mill."
"Oh that would be Sandy." Duncan's face grew suddenly grave. "Yes, he
will be a great lumberman, and Donald will be coming home to-morrow to
help him"--he paused and looked at his guest. A great resolution
seized him. "Mr. Egerton," he said suddenly.
The young man looked up in some surprise. Duncan was leaning forward,
his thin hands trembling, his face aglow with eagerness.
"Yes?" inquired the visitor encouragingly.
Duncan's humility was almost overmastering him, but he struggled on.
"I will be very bold, to be asking you," he faltered. "It would be
about Sandy and the lads. They would be good lads, but jist a wee bit
careless, and I would be thinking they would be listening to the
minister----"
He had spoken the very thought which had been troubling the young man
on the road. "You mean you would like me to visit the camp?" he asked
kindly.
Duncan's eyes were burning with hope. "Yes, oh yes! An' jist to be
saying a word, you will be knowing best what."
He stopped, for his guest had started suddenly and was gazing eagerly
out at the window. Duncan did not know that his eye had caught a
bewitching glimpse of a blue velvet cap, with a wealth of golden brown
curls nestling beneath. Jessie was walking into the village alone!
The young man rose to his feet. He had scarcely had an opportunity to
see the girl or speak to her for nearly a month. Surely there would be
no harm in his taking this happy chance of a walk with her.
Donald would be home the next day, and it would be the last time.
"I am sorry I cannot stay and talk this matter over with you, Mr.
McDonald," he said kindly; "it is almost dark and I should have been
home much earlier. But if I have a moment to spare I shall run up to
the camp and see the boys. Good-night." He hurried to the door,
Duncan following him. "I hope your cough will soon be better," he
called over his shoulder as he strode down the path, "Good-night!"--and
then he was away through the gate and down the dusky road.
Duncan sat for a long time after he had left with his head bowed and
his face buried in his thin, trembling hands. A racking cough shook
his frame occasionally, but he did not rise to mend the dying fire.
The room grew chilly, and at last Collie rose and went to his master.
The old man arose slowly at the gentle touch of a cold nose against his
face. He replenished the fire, and moved listlessly about the room,
preparing his supper. His face looked whiter and thinner than before
the minister's visit, and his movements were painfully slow. There was
something more serious than a persistent cough undermining Duncan
Polite's health.
But there was no word or look of complaint from him. He went about his
work as usual, tidying the room, and stirring the pot of oatmeal
porridge which was cooking for his supper. His habits were of the
simplest; a bowl of oatmeal, or pease brose, and a pitcher of milk
sufficed for his supper as well as for his breakfast. He set the
frugal meal upon the bare pine table, then lit his one small lamp,
which had been well trimmed and polished, and pulled down the green
paper window blinds. He noticed there was still a brightness over the
eastern heavens, though the colours of the sunset had faded. Duncan
shut out the world and sat down to his lonely meal. Collie lay quietly
at his feet, waiting his turn, giving an occasional thump of his tail
upon the floor, to remind his master that he was hungry; but when
Duncan bowed his head over the repast for a few moments, the dog lay
motionless until he raised it again. The dancing light from the wide
damper of the old stove and the rays of the little lamp could not
penetrate to the corners of the room, but they lit up Duncan's white,
patient face and his silver hair, and shone on the glass doors of his
cupboard, revealing the rows of shining dishes, and threw into relief
the bare dark rafters of the ceiling.
Duncan stirred his porridge absently. His appetite had been poor all
winter, and to-night he could not eat. He sat staring ahead of him
with sad, unseeing eyes. Suddenly Collie raised his head and sniffed
suspiciously. A quick bounding footstep was crunching the snow on the
little pathway to the gate. The dog leaped up with a joyous bark and
the next instant the door flew open, and a young man burst into the
room.
Duncan arose, speechless with joy and surprise at the sight of the
stalwart figure and handsome face. "Donal'!" was all he could say.
"Hello, Uncle!" the boy cried in his old ringing tones, catching the
old man's hand and shaking it violently; then he put a hand upon his
uncle's shoulder and stepped back from him. "Why, you never told me
you were sick!" he cried sharply.
"Hoots, toots!" exclaimed Duncan, laughing from sheer joy. "It will be
jist a bit of a cold. Eh, eh, and we would not be expecting you till
to-morrow, and your mother would be telling the lads they must meet
you. And would you be walking all the way from the station?"
"Oh, no, only it would have been better than driving. I came
scratching along with Mack Fraser. How is mother?"
"Oh, your poor mother will be jist fine indeed, and the lads. Eh, and
you will be getting to be a great man, Donal'; I will be thinking you
will be a boy no more."
Donald laughed. "It's surely time. Why didn't Sandy tell me you were
sick?"
"Hoots, that would be jist foolishness, for there would be nothing
wrong, whatever."
"But there has been," said Donald, looking at him steadily. He hung
his coat and cap in their accustomed place behind the stove, and turned
to the old man again. His heart smote him as he took in the changes on
the beloved face. He wondered if his refusal to enter the ministry had
had anything to do with their cause.
But Duncan was bustling about the room in aimless delight. "Dear,
dear, you must be having your supper, lad!" he cried; "you will be
hungry."