except one man. He did not weep nor lament nor speak one word of
sorrow. But his shoulders were bent from their accustomed
straightness, and his eyes lacked their steady gleam. He sat by the
side of his friend all that day and through the next night, refusing to
eat or take rest, and motionless, except when he stooped to pat the dog
that lay at his feet and that raised his head occasionally with a
mournful whine. Andrew Johnstone made no complaint nor did he say
anything when his friends came to sympathise with him. But Mrs.
Fraser, who had visited the room in company with Duncan's stricken
sister, heard Splinterin' Andra whisper softly as they left the place,
"Ma hert is very sair for thee, Jonathan, ma brother!"
The roads were in such an impassable condition that by nine o'clock at
night Wee Andra had not returned, and Duncan Polite had been laid in
his coffin, ready for his long rest. One dim lamp burned near the head
of the bier, and at its foot sat old Andrew, his head bowed, his face
in his hands. Across the hall the sorrowing neighbours had gathered in
the dining-room, where some of Duncan Polite's friends were leading in
prayer for the bereaved relatives. Peter McNabb had asked the minister
to open the service, but had accepted his refusal in silent sympathy,
wondering somewhat at the young man's grief-stricken face. Mr.
Ansdell's gentle voice was raised in a petition that the brave deed
might be a lesson to all, and the house was very still, when the front
door opened softly and a man glided into the parlour. He crossed the
room silently and stood gazing down at the figure in the coffin. At
the sight of him, the dog lying by old Andrew's side arose and,
crossing to where he stood, crouched at his feet, whining pitifully as
though begging for help.
Aroused by the movement the old man raised his head.
"Donald!" he cried aloud, startled by the sight of the young man's
ghastly face and wild eyes.
But Donald did not seem to be aware of his presence. He looked around
the room as if dazed.
"It's true, then!" he cried in a harsh whisper, "it's true."
His eyes were fixed unmeaningly on the elder.
"He was more than a father to me; and I murdered him," he added
distinctly.
Andrew Johnstone rose stiffly and came over to where the boy stood.
"Wheesht, Donald!" he whispered in alarm. "Wheesht, lad, it is the
Lord's will!"
Donald stared at him stupefied. Even half-crazed as he was, there came
to his tossed soul a kind of vague wonder that Splinterin' Andra did
not scourge him with a pitiless condemnation. "I did it," he repeated,
clinging to the one thought he was capable of comprehending. "We were
at the tavern when the boom broke--I murdered him!"
"Come awa', lad, an' sit ye doon here, till Ah tell ye"--Andrew
Johnstone took hold of the boy's shoulder gently. A wonderful change
seemed to have come over the stern old man during the vigil by his
dead; the mantle of Duncan Polite seemed to have fallen upon him.
"Come awa," he whispered.
But Donald flung off the hand fiercely. He turned again to look at his
uncle, and the fire slowly died from his eyes as he gazed at the
beloved face. His strength seemed to suddenly leave him. Andrew
Johnstone stepped towards him fearing he would fall, but with one more
glance at the dead Donald turned and groped his way to the door like
one blind.
The prayers were still going on in the dining-room. Peter McNabb's
deep, resonant voice could now be heard, and Jessie, who had come in
from the kitchen, was standing in a dark corner of the hall waiting to
enter. She was weeping silently, not only for the loss of the old man,
who was very dear to her, but for the grief and the blame it must bring
upon the one she loved the most. She raised her eyes at the sound of
the front door opening and caught a glimpse of his ghastly face and
desperate eyes as Donald slipped out. There was the depth of despair
in his look. All the girl's heart went out to him in love and pity
winged by a terrible fear. He looked like one who might do himself
harm. She forgot their estrangement, forgot that he might love
another, everything but that Donald was in dire distress. She darted
noiselessly to the door. "Don!" she whispered eagerly into the
darkness. A figure was passing out of the gate and turning down
towards the river. A wild terror seized the girl. She flew down the
path and caught his arm. "Don, Don," she cried, "where are you going?"
He turned and looked down at her dully. Just then he was capable of
realising only that she was striving to turn him from his purpose.
"Let go!" he said savagely. "I killed him, I tell you!"
But Jessie clung to his arm desperately.
"Oh, Don," she sobbed, "come back to the house with me, please do come!"
The sight of her tears seemed to affect him. He stared at her as if a
gleam of comprehension had come to him. "Why do you want to stop me?"
he asked sullenly. "You don't care!"
The girl realised that this desperate situation was no time for false
pride. "Oh, Don," she whispered softly, "how can you say that, how can
you think it? You know I care, more than anyone!"
He ceased his resistance and stood a moment as if trying to understand.
Jessie was praying with all her heart for strength and wisdom to meet
and grapple with the despair that was driving him to destruction. She
turned and gently led him back to the gate, and as they went she spoke
to him as Jessie Hamilton could never have spoken had she not learned
through Duncan Polite's help the true meaning of all sorrow and
happiness, spoke to him of his mother, of his duty, of his God. It was
the hour of Donald's weakness and trial, when Satan desired to sift him
as wheat, an hour in which he might have fared ill had the woman who
loved him not stood by with her new strength. But it passed in
victory, and when at last he laid his head down upon the top of the
gate where they stood and convulsive sobs shook his frame, she knew
that he was saved.
The day was one of promising spring when they laid Duncan Polite beside
Mr. Cameron under the elms. The hepaticas were peeping out around his
covenant stone on the hilltop, the river was gay and smiling and all
the world seemed glad. And it was well, for an eternal springtime had
dawned for the old watchman of Glenoro.
When they carried him into the church for his last service the place
was packed to the doors. Everyone had come to do honour to the man who
had done so much for them. Even Coonie was there. He had hurried into
Glenoro, early, for the first time in his life. His shoulders drooped
more than ever, his wrinkled brown face was even unusually sullen, and
his small green eyes were filled with a fierce sorrow. Mr. Ansdell
preached the funeral sermon. To the wonder of all, Andrew Johnstone
desired it, and everyone felt he must yield a deference to his wishes.
As for John Egerton, he was relieved. Remembering his last interview
with Duncan Polite and how he might have averted this catastrophe had
he been faithful to his duty, he felt he could not bear the ordeal.
The minister's text was a strange one for a funeral sermon, but that,
too, was Andrew Johnstone's choice. "Son of man, I have set thee a
watchman." The old clergyman was the very one for his task. He spent
no time in eulogising the dead; but he told simply and tenderly the
story of Duncan Polite's covenant, how he had striven to keep it,
giving at length his all, even his life, to serve the people of his
Glen.
There was not a person in the congregation who did not take the lesson
to heart. The story of the old man's unselfish interest in the
spiritual life of the place took a firm hold upon the listeners and
roused them to better and nobler aims. But there was one to whom the
sermon was a fiery ordeal. For even Donald, well-nigh crushed with the
weight of his grief and the knowledge of all he had missed, was no more
torn by the old clergyman's words than the young minister who sat
reviewing his past self-satisfied year in Glenoro in the light of
Duncan Polite's hopes.
The May days had come, and Glenoro was all pink and white in a burst of
apple blossoms when Donald next returned from college. On the evening
after his arrival he walked down the village street with mingled
feelings of joy and pain. Jessie was waiting for him at the gate; he
almost fancied he could detect her white dress through the trees even
at this distance, but he had just passed an old house on the hilltop, a
house at which he had always stopped in the past, and now it was silent
and empty. As he turned from behind the elms and came in full view of
the village, he suddenly paused. The minister was just emerging from
Peter McNabb's gate; he turned up the hill and he and Donald came face
to face.
The two young men stood for an instant, and then, with a common
impulse, stretched out their hands. John Egerton grasped the hand of
Duncan Polite's nephew with a pang of regret. If he had done this long
before, what a different turn affairs might have taken.
Donald was the first to speak. "This is very kind of you, Mr.
Egerton," he said with his accustomed frankness. "I have misjudged you
so often----"
"Don't say anything about what is past, Mr. McDonald," said the other
hastily; "I can never forget what I owe you, and it would be the
deepest of my many regrets in leaving Glenoro if you and I could not
part friends."
"There need be no doubt of that," said Donald simply; "I am sorry you
are leaving."
John Egerton's face was overcast. "I must. I came here not knowing
what was required of me. In fact, I never realised what was required
of my calling until I had a glimpse into a life of real Christian
consecration. I am going to another field, to do better work, I hope."
Donald was touched by the honest confession. This did not seem the
gay, self-sufficient young man he had met on former occasions. "I
cannot pretend to criticise another man's life, knowing my own," he
answered humbly. "I am sure I wish you all success in your new place."
"Thank you. Success does not mean quite the same to me now as it did a
few months ago. There is one thing I would like to say to you before I
go, Mr. McDonald"--he hesitated--"I believe your uncle wished you to
enter the ministry?"
Donald made a motion of assent. That was a subject upon which, as yet,
he could not trust himself to speak.
"I thought so. And part of his hope was that I should help you to it,"
he added bitterly. "But I have hoped and prayed every day since that
God would lead you to it. Have you decided yet?"
Donald's voice was not quite steady. "I have. A man surely does not
need a second lesson such as I have had to show him the way."
John Egerton held out his hand again. "I am very, very glad," he said
earnestly. "Do not make my mistake. There is no sting like the sting
of regret; you and I both know that."
Donald was silent. He was not given to much speaking at any time, and
now the depth of his feeling closed his lips. But he took his pastor's
hand with a heart-warming grip, and without another word the two parted
in mutual understanding and sympathy.
But at the sight of Jessie leaning over the gate between the oaks all
other thoughts fled from Donald's mind. She wore a soft white dress,
with a blue ribbon, his favourite colour, at her throat. Her uncovered
head, with its wealth of golden brown curls, was poised like a flower
on a slender stem. Her deep eyes were aglow with welcome. "I saw you
talking to Mr. Egerton," she said, when Donald had opened the gate for
her and they were passing down the village street.
"Yes, he's an honest man, Jessie; I never understood him before."
"He's changed, too," said the girl gravely. "I am sure he will do much
good in his new charge."
When they had walked down the leafy street and reached the little
churchyard gate a silence fell between them. They had planned this
walk before Donald's return, and their thoughts were serious. Together
they passed around the old white building. The grass beneath their
feet was an intense emerald, and the young, fresh leaves of the
woodbine covering the church walls glistened in the light of the fading
sunset.
They paused before a new white stone under a tall elm. Donald caught
his breath as he stooped to read the lettering in the gathering dusk:
"Mark the perfect man, and behold the upright, for the end of that man
is peace."
He gazed at it so long that Jessie put out her hand and touched his
sleeve in silent sympathy.
"Here is the other one, Don," she whispered. He started and turned.
"Wee Andra and Sandy brought it down this morning. Mr. Johnstone
wanted it."
Donald put his hand upon the rough stone that had been Duncan Polite's
Bethel. "It was kind of him," he said softly.
They were shut out from the village by the church; the soft grass of
the graveyard was under their feet, the elms with their small, green,
fairy-like leaves hung over them, and the river murmured softly at
their side. He took her hands in his. "Can't we renew that covenant
here, you and I, Jessie, for his sake?" Donald whispered.
"And for the sake of One who suffered more than he did, Don," added the
girl gently. And standing together by Duncan Polite's covenant stone
they gave their young lives anew to the work that had been his life's
aim.
The vow which Donald and Jessie took that day has been fulfilled in the
little glen and the memory of Duncan Polite is cherished and his
influence abides in many a home of humble piety and simple happiness.
So the Watchman accomplished by his death that which had been denied
him in life, and as all knowledge and peace are his, he must surely see
of the travail of his soul and be satisfied.
THE END