strike me at the same instant. Here, sit down and let me get it."
"Indeed, perhaps your poor mother will be saying I should not be
keeping you."
"I'll get home all the sooner if I'm fortified inside. Oatmeal
porridge!" he continued joyfully, as he lifted the lid from the pot and
seized the wooden ladle. "I say, Uncle Dunc, this is royal!"
"Indeed it will be jist common fare for such a great city man as you
will be getting to be." Duncan regarded him with tender pride.
Donald laughed derisively as he tumbled the contents of the porridge
pot into a bowl. "And buttermilk, too, by all that's fortunate! And a
festival like this on top of six months' boarding house hash!"
He seated himself at the table and attacked the homely fare with a
country boy's hearty appetite. Duncan forgot his own supper in the joy
of watching him.
"Well, how's things? as Coonie says. You said mother is well, and the
boys?"
"Yes, she will be fine indeed, and Weil and wee Archie, too. They will
be growing up to be fine lads. And Sandy will be at the camp waiting
for you." He looked at Donald yearningly, as though he would fain tell
him more about Sandy, but could not.
"I'm just in time, then. And Wee Andra and--all the rest?"
The old man gave him as full an account as he was able of the doings of
the neighbourhood, but Duncan Polite lived in a world apart, and Donald
missed the information he was seeking.
Then it was Donald's turn to be catechised. He had to satisfy his
uncle in regard to his work at college, his coming examinations, his
professors, his friends, his sports and all other college lore.
Duncan sat listening to the recital in silent delight, thinking much
more of the speaker than of the words he uttered. But as he rattled on
the old man became conscious of a vague fear entering his heart. He
could not define its cause, but somehow Donald seemed changed. There
was a recklessness in his manner and an occasional irreverence in his
speech which struck his foster-father painfully. He tried several
times to lead the conversation to questions regarding Donald's
spiritual welfare.
"Mr. Egerton was here jist a few minutes before you came," he said by
way of commencement. If he had known that Donald had met him and
Jessie Hamilton walking into the Glen together he might have refrained
from mentioning the young minister, and would perhaps have understood
his nephew's reckless demeanour.
"That's so?" Donald's answer was rather sharp, and he added
sarcastically, "It's a great pity I missed the beneficial influence of
his pastoral visitation."
"Why is it you would never be liking him, Donal'?" inquired the old man
remorsefully. "He would be speaking very highly of you last Christmas,
and I feel he will be trying to do the Lord's work."
Donald laughed scornfully. "Perhaps he is. But if that's so, I'm
sorry for the Lord's work; it seems to be a mighty mean business
sometimes."
Duncan winced as if with acute pain. "Donal'," he said gravely, "it
will not be right to be speaking this way of God's minister. I am
thinking you would not be doing it before you went away, lad."
Donald was smitten with remorse. He looked across the table at the old
man's gentle, white face, and a lump rose in his throat. "I don't mean
to say anything disparaging of the ministry, Uncle," he said
contritely, "but I know Mr. Egerton better than anyone thinks,
and,--well, he's not a gentleman, that's all."
"It is only the Lord who can judge a man, Donal'," said Duncan Polite,
after a moment's pained silence. "Mr. Egerton will be the Lord's
servant and his Master will know all his work better than we will."
But Donald had almost finished his second year at college and was very
confident of himself. "Well, here's something I don't understand,
Uncle. There's a fellow in my year, who makes no profession of
Christianity, who doesn't believe one-half the Bible, in fact, and yet
I know he does twice the good in the world that Mr. Egerton does."
"Ah, but the Father will be all-kind, Donal'," said Duncan Polite
gently but firmly, "and He will be accepting the service of His
followers no matter how poor and mean it would be. But what would the
Judge be saying of the man who would not own His only begotten Son?"
Donald arose from the table and walked up and down the bare little
room. Duncan watched him with a look of yearning. "Would this young
man be a friend of yours, Donal'?" he inquired tremulously.
Donald paused and looked down into the dancing flames, his hands dug
into his pockets, his brow drawn together in perplexity. "He's my
roommate," he answered. "You used to wish I could be intimate with Mr.
Egerton, Uncle, but I tell you honestly he can't be compared to Mark
Seymour. He's the soul of honour, as fine a man as you could wish to
know, and I'd rather accept his creed than that of a man who spends his
time praying for sinners better than himself."
Duncan's face was white. "I will not be quite understanding you,
Donal'," he said steadily. "Is it that you would be leaving the
Saviour out of your life, my lad?"
Donald turned; the look in the old man's face brought him to his side.
He laid his hands on Duncan Polite's shoulders. "I would rather do
anything than hurt you, Uncle," he cried. "But you always taught me,
above all things, never to deceive you, and I must tell you, honestly,
I cannot see that religion has much to do with a man's life. But there
is another thing I can say truthfully," he looked the old man straight
in the eyes, "I have never done anything I should be ashamed to tell
you!"
For an instant a wave of joy and pride swept away the despair that was
clutching Duncan's heart. He arose and patted the boy on the back as
he used to do in his childhood, murmuring Gaelic expressions of
endearment. "Oh, indeed, indeed, I will be knowing that, laddie!" he
cried, his eyes moist. "Yes, indeed, and that would be a blessing to
my very soul. But, eh, my child, my child, if you would be losing your
hold on Christ, I would be fearing for you, Donal'! There is no other
name under Heaven whereby we may be saved; it will be the Word of
Omnipotence, Donal', and any man who would be trying another way would
be failing. And if I would be losing you, Donal'----" he stopped
overcome.
Donald turned away; he felt guilty of the worst brutality. He put on
his overcoat silently, and then came back to the old armchair. "I've
been nothing but a burden and a trouble to you all my life," he said
bitterly.
"Wheesh, wheesht, laddie!" cried Duncan Polite. "What would my life be
without you? You must not be saying such things, child, for you would
be a credit to us all, indeed. And I will jist be praying that the
Shepherd will be leading you to the fold."
Donald went away, humble and heart-sore. His home-coming had been a
double grief to him. His faint hopes of a reconciliation with Jessie
had been crushed, and now he was wounding most cruelly his best friend.
He took no thought of another Friend, still kinder, whom he was
wounding. And indeed had Donald been able, by an effort of his will,
to be at that moment all his uncle desired, he would have done so. But
he had cast away his anchor, in a moment of self-sufficiency and it
would be hard to find it again. He could not know that a season was
coming swiftly upon him, a season of storm and stress, when that
discarded anchor would be his only stay, and the nearness with which he
came to missing his hold upon it forever changed his whole future life.
XV
THE SACRIFICE
If Donald could have guessed that someone in Glenoro was watching and
waiting for him in alternate hope and fear, he might not have been in
such haste to get away. But he remained only one day at home, and
then, without even visiting the village, set off to join Sandy at the
camp.
He found the men ensconced in a rough shanty in the woods north of Lake
Oro. A large belt of timber in that region belonged to the Neil boys
and Sandy had taken the contract of supplying the Glenoro mill with
logs for the coming season. But he found that commanding such an
enterprise was no easy task, and he handed over the responsibility with
much relief to Donald. The cutting and hauling had been almost
completed, and now all that was needed was an open lake to float the
logs across to the river and thence down to the village. The Oro was
already free of ice, rushing along, high and swollen with the melting
snow. A few days more of sun and wind would clear the lake also, and
send its winter fetters crashing up on the shore.
So when Donald arrived the camp was not very busy, though it was
exceedingly lively. The men had plenty of leisure, and they spent it
and their winter's wages at a little old tavern, a remnant of earlier
and rougher days, which stood where the river left Lake Oro. Under any
other circumstances Donald would have exercised a restraining influence
upon Sandy and the boys of his acquaintance, but just now his heart was
angry and reckless. So the wild revelry suffered no abatement because
of his presence.
Duncan Polite waited anxiously for the boys' return, the dread of
impending disaster hanging over his spirit. The weather changed to
sudden warmth, however, and brought to the old man a renewal of
strength and the hope that Donald would soon be with him. He was well
enough to go to church the next Sabbath, the first time in many months.
Andrew Johnstone was so pleased to have his old friend with him again
that his stick never moved from its peaceful position in the rear, and
he even forbore to make any caustic remarks about the minister.
His spirits were only in keeping with the day. Spring had descended
upon the world with a sudden dazzling rush. The air was clear and
intoxicatingly fresh; blinding white clouds raced joyously across the
radiant blue. As Duncan passed through the gate an early robin,
swinging in the tall elm, poured out his ecstatic little heart in
hysterical song. Everywhere was water, water, rushing down the hills
in a thousand mad rivulets, flashing in the sunlight like chains of
diamonds and filling the air with their song of wild freedom. And
through the valley came the river, a monster now, roaring down its
narrow channel and swirling out past the church as if it would carry
away the village.
As the two old men walked slowly up the hill on the way home they heard
the news for which Duncan had been anxiously waiting: the ice on the
lake had broken, and the boys intended to bring down their lumber on
the morrow.
The next day passed, warm and sunshiny, but Donald Neil's logs did not
appear in the Glenoro millpond. Duncan sat at his window in the dusk
of the evening, expecting every moment to see Donald coming up the path
to tell him their work was finished. But the night was descending, and
Donald had not come. A great dread had taken hold of the old man's
heart, a dread he could not explain. He knew that both Donald and
Sandy were expert river drivers, but he could not reason himself out of
the fear that the crisis had come. This sacrifice towards which he had
been looking for so many months, was it near? And what would it be?
He had set his door open, owing to the warmth of the night, and through
it came the sound of ceaseless pouring of water. Sitting with his face
pressed against the pane, thinking of his high hopes of just one year
ago, he mournfully shook his head.
"The sacrifice," he murmured, "it must come, but, oh, my Father, must
it be Donal'? 'Bind ye the sacrifice with cords even unto the horns of
the altar.' Ah, it would be a message, a message--and will it be
Donal'? must I give him up, oh, my Father?" His hands clasped and
unclasped, his face stood out from the darkness of the room, white with
pain.
He had not noticed a little figure making its way rapidly down the
road; but his eye caught it as it entered the gate. His heart stood
still as he saw Archie, his sister's youngest boy, come running up the
path. "What will you be wanting, laddie?" he asked, almost in a
whisper, as the little fellow paused in the doorway.
"Oh, are you there, Uncle Duncan!" cried the child, groping his way
across the room. "It's so awful dark here. Jimmie Archie's folks is
sugarin' off to-night in the bush down alongside the river, and I want
to go over, an' mother she wouldn't let me go alone. Now, ain't that
mean, Uncle Duncan?"
Duncan breathed a great sigh of relief. "Will the boys not be down
with the logs yet?"
"Nop; Jimmie Archie said all the fellows Sandy and Don had was drunk at
the tavern to-day, an' the logs was all ready to bring out into the
river, mind ye, an' Crummie Bailey--it was at school, you know--an'
Crummie said he'd bet Don an' Sandy was drunker than 'em all; an' I
thumped him good, you bet, uncle, an' he's eleven an' I'm only ten an'
a half!"
Duncan put his hand upon the child's head with a feeling of helpless
woe. "Yes, yes, laddie," he said absently.
"Mother said I couldn't go to the sugar bush without somebody with me,"
Archie broke out again. "Aw, shucks, I ain't a kid!" The dignity of
ten years and a half was being sadly ruffled. He leaned upon the arm
of Duncan's chair and looked up coaxingly.
"I guess I'll have to stay away, 'cause there's nobody to go with me,
an' mother said I wasn't to ask you, 'cause it would make your cold
worse."
He sighed prodigiously over this self-denial, and with his
characteristic self-forgetfulness Duncan put aside his own trouble.
"Oh, indeed it is a great man you will be some day," he said. "But
what if I would be going with you?"
"Oh, man! but I wish you could! Only I ain't such a baby as to have
somebody luggin' me 'round."
Duncan patted his head lovingly. "Hoots, toots, but you surely won't
leave a poor old man like your uncle to find his way alone," he said,
with great tact. "I will not be at Jimmie Archie's sugar bush for many
a year, and you will jist be showing me the road."
Archie's pride was somewhat mollified by this aspect of the case, and
being further soothed by a huge slab of bread and jam, he set off with
his uncle in high glee. Duncan put on his bonnet and plaid and with
Collie bounding in front, half mad with joy at this unexpected
excursion, they stepped out upon the road. The moon was shining, but
its rays were obscured by the mild night mists. A soft, suffused light
shrouded the landscape, giving an unreal and weird appearance to all
objects. A rising wind shifted the ghostly clouds here and there; it
was a strangely uncanny night.
Jimmie Archie McDonald's farm lay up the river, next to Andrew
Johnstone's. But the belt of maples with the sugar camp was quite
near. So when Duncan Polite and the child had gone a short distance up
the road they climbed a fence and crossed the soft, yielding fields
until they reached the line of timber that bordered the stream.
"There's a path jist along by the river that goes straight to Jimmie
Archie's bush," explained Archie importantly, strutting ahead. "Ain't
you glad I called for you, Uncle Duncan?" He dashed into the woods
whooping and yelling, with Collie circling about him in noisy delight,
and darted back again at short intervals to ask a dozen unanswerable
questions. "What made the moon look so queer? And what was the moon
made of, anyhow? Sandy said it was made of green cheese; but Don said
if that was true they must have got a chunk of the moon to make Sandy's
head. And Don ought to know, since he'd been to college. And what
made the moon shine? The master told the Fourth Class that the moon
didn't have any light of its own. And Crummie Bailey said that was a
howlin' lie, 'cause any fool could see it. And the master heard him
saying it at recess, and he licked Crummie good for it, too. And was
the shadow on the moon really a man?"
Duncan replied at random. Ordinarily he was Archie's most interesting
chum, but to-night he was silent and absent. The boy concluded it was
because his uncle had been sick all winter. He was too excited over
the prospect of a visit to the sugar bush and unlimited taffy to care
very much, however, and went dancing along over the ghostly patches of
snow and through the weird, shifting mists, his tongue keeping pace
with his feet.
"Don't you wish there was tagers and lions in the bush here, Uncle? I
bet I'd shoot them if there was. Sandy says there's lions down in the
river bed, but I bet he jist said that to see if I'd get scared. He
can't scare me, though. What kind of a noise does a lion make. Uncle
Dune? Listen, do you hear that funny noise ahead?" He drew closer to
his uncle. "Is that the kind of a noise a lion makes?"
"It will jist be the river you hear, child," said Duncan reassuringly.
"No, I don't mean that squashy noise; it's that bangin' sound," he
insisted anxiously. "Listen!"
They stood still, the child holding the man's fingers, and above the
sighing of the bare treetops and the rushing of the river there came
the sound of dull, booming thuds.
"We will jist see," said Duncan, striving to hide his apprehension.
They hurried through the underbrush towards the river, where a few
cedar clumps overhung its edge. Duncan seized one and, leaning over,
looked down into the dark ravine. The pale moonlight touched the water
and revealed the cause of the unusual sounds. Strange dark forms were
hurrying along its glinting surface. Down the foaming tide they came,
shooting past, swift and stealthy. As far up the river as Duncan's eye
could pierce still they appeared, whirling silently forward. But
farther down was a sight that made the old man's heart stand still. A
few yards below him, and just at the turn in the river above the
village were the "Narrows," where the most careful navigation of logs
was necessary to prevent a jam. And there, wedged in the narrow
channel, hurled together into fantastic shapes and augmented each
moment by the oncoming logs which struck the heap with a resounding
boom, was piled a wild jumbled mass of timber!
Like most of the early settlers of Glenoro, Duncan was an experienced
river-driver, and instantly realised the gravity of the situation. If
the jam of logs were permitted long to impede the progress of the river
in its high, swollen condition, there would be a disastrous flood in
the village. In a flash there passed before his mind a picture of the
havoc it would cause,--death and destruction swift and certain upon the
unwarned inhabitants, men and women hurried into Eternity unprepared!
And Donald,--Donald would be held responsible! This jam must have
resulted through his carelessness. Before the world he would be
disgraced; before his Maker--the thought struck the old man with a
paralysing fear. He stood for a moment motionless, watching the
shifting, heaving, rumbling mass,--and then life seemed suddenly to
return.
"Run to the Glen, Archie!" he cried to the frightened boy. "Run,
laddie, and tell the folk at Peter McNabb's shop there will be a jam at
the Narrows!"
Archie was off down a cross track like a hare, Collie after him.
Duncan stooped down, feeling among the underbrush, and caught up a
stout pole. Grasping it he made his way hurriedly down the bank and
along the water's edge to the quaking, seething mass. Cautiously he
climbed out upon it, the water hissing about him in angry, spurting
jets. He could feel the pile rising beneath him with fearful rapidity.
A swift examination convinced Duncan of two startling truths--first,
the jam must be broken immediately, or it would be too late, and
second, he might break it, even with the small pole he held, but he was
neither young enough nor nimble enough to do it and save his own life.
And then, of a sudden, a thought struck him, as if a great light had
broken over his soul, an illumination which chased away all the dark,
weary shadows and fears of the past months. _The Sacrifice_! The
trial he had been dreading! Was this it? Merely the giving of a poor,
worn-out life, and the promised blessing would descend? He had failed
to save Donald and his father's home from sin and worldliness; but now
if he gave his life to save his boy from life-long regret and despair,
and his friends from sudden death, would not the Father accept this and
send the reward? A sense of overwhelming joy and hope seized the old
man. He grasped his pole tightly and went resolutely forward.
With the skilled eye of an old river-driver he soon discovered the
"key." Right beneath him lay the log that could unlock the huge,
groaning gateway, and let the impeded tide sweep safely down the
valley. Duncan leaned forward and pried at it with his pole, putting
into the work a strange strength he had not felt for many a year. The
mass creaked ominously. A gust of wind caught his old Scotch bonnet,
sending it whirling away into the darkness and tossing his white hair.
He struggled on, throwing his whole weight upon the pole with a
desperate energy, and praying with all the passion of his soul that the
High Priest would accept his humble sacrifice. The great hope that
perhaps he would be considered worthy to imitate, even in the feeblest
manner, the atonement that his Master had made was filling him and
lending his arm an unnatural strength. Behind him the waters surged
and the piling logs boomed threateningly. But to Duncan there was no
menace in the sound. It brought to his mind the words of his favourite
psalm, as Peter McNabb sang it in the little church by the river,
"The Lord's voice on the waters is;
The God of Majesty
Doth thunder--"
"Oh, my Father, my Father!" he was praying with passionate fervour, as
he struggled with the stubborn beam, "accept this poor sacrifice, and
may Donal' and my father's Glen be saved!"
The answer came in a thunderous roar. Like a wild animal let loose,
the wall of lumber leaped up and hurled itself forward. It caught the
old man as if he had been a feather and flung him away into the
whirling blackness. For an instant his white hair shone out like a
snowflake on the dark river, for an instant only, and then the great
billow of liberated water came roaring forward and swept over him on
its way down the valley.
XVI
THE COVENANT RENEWED
The party from the village which arrived at the Narrows, armed with
lanterns, cant-hooks and poles, only to find the jam broken, searched
all night for the man who had saved their lives at the sacrifice of his
own. The news of the heroic act and the averted disaster spread
swiftly, and all night long lights wandered up and down and shout
answered shout across the dark water.
There were many very sorrowful hearts among the searchers, but none so
heavy as was borne by an old man who kept apart from the crowd. He
stumbled along in a bewildered fashion over rocks and underbrush, his
cap gone, his grey hair dishevelled by the wind. He paused often to
peer over the swollen waters, and Peter McNabb's heart was smitten with
pity as he passed him once and heard him whisper, "Duncan, lad, whaur
are ye?"
And it was Andrew Johnstone who found him. Just as the first grey
light of the morning stole in at the eastern doorway of the valley he
came upon him, lying peacefully beneath the overhanging willows, beside
the churchyard. It seemed fitting that Duncan Polite should have found
a harbour in the shelter of his Zion, the place that had been the
centre of all his hopes.
They covered the quiet, peaceful face and carried him very
tenderly,--Peter McNabb and Andrew Johnstone and some of his other
lifelong friends,--into John Hamilton's house.
They laid him in the darkened sitting-room, and Mrs. Fraser, in her
never failing kindness of heart, went to tell his bereaved sister,
while Wee Andra drove off to Lake Oro to find Donald and Sandy.
All day the neighbours came in, silently and sorrowfully, to see the
man who had saved the village and to speak of the brave deed he had
done at such cost.