Good Medicine
The Rev. William Auld was due to visit Golden Crescent that afternoon.
I almost wearied for his coming, for he was entertaining and uplifting.
He, somehow, had the happy knack of instilling fresh energy, fresh
ambition, fresh hope, into every one with whom he came in contact.
His noisy launch at last came chug-chugging up the Bay. He started
with the far point of the Crescent and called at every creek, cove and
landing at which there was a home. Then he crept along the shore-line
to Jake's place.
My turn next,--I soliloquised. But, no!--he held out, waving his hand
in salutation.
It was evidently his intention to make a call on Miss Grant before
finishing his Sabbath labours at my bungalow.
He stayed there a long time: so long, that I was beginning to give up
hope of his ever getting my length; but, finally, his cheery voice
hailed me from my doorway and roused my drooping spirits.
His pale, gentle face was wreathed in smiles.
"Good boy! Good boy!" he commented. "God bless you! He is blessing
you,--eh, George!"
"How is the lady?" I inquired.
"Almost as well as ever," he replied. "She has had a severe shake-up
though. It must have been touch and go.
"She was up, George, and talked to me. She told me everything she
could remember; how she refused to take your well-intentioned advice,
and suffered the consequences of her folly. She gave me this note for
you."
He held out an envelope and I took it and put it in my pocket.
He raised his eyebrows, "Read it, man;--read it."
"It will do later, Mr. Auld;--there is no hurry."
He shook his old, grey head in surprise.
"Well,--well,--well," he exclaimed.
"Have you visited the Clarks yet, George?" he asked after a pause.
"Yes!"
"And what did you find there?"
"Discord," I answered.
"So you know all about it, eh!"
"You are a minister of God, Mr. Auld; you have influence with such a
man as Andrew Clark. Surely you can move him from the damnable
position he has taken up?"
"I would to God I could," he said fervently. "For ten years, I have
preached to him, scolded him, cajoled him, threatened him with
hell-fire and ever-lasting torment; yes! I have even refused to
dispense the sacrament to him unless he relented, but I might as well
have expended my energies on The Ghoul Rock out there at the opening to
the Bay."
"But he professes to be a good Christian, Mr. Auld," I put in.
"Yes! and no man on the coast tries to live a good life more than he
does. I am sure, every moment of his life he deeply regrets the rash
vow he made, but he believes, in the sight of God, he is doing right in
keeping to it. He is obsessed.
"Now, George,--what is there left for me to try?"
"Physical force," I exclaimed angrily.
"George,--" he said, almost horrified, "it is not for a minister of the
gospel to think of violence."
"Why not?" I went on. "Andrew Clark is slowly torturing his wife to
death. Surely, if there ever was an occasion,--this is it! A few
days' violence may save years of torture to both and, maybe, save his
eternal soul besides."
He sat in silence for a while, then he startled me.
"Come, boy! You have a scheme in your head. Tell me what it is,
and,--may God forgive me if I do wrong,--but, if it appeals to me as
likely to move that old, living block of Aberdeen granite, or even to
cause a few hours' joy to his dear, patient wife, Margaret, I'll carry
it through if I can."
I unfolded what had been in my mind.
"What do you think of it?" I asked.
He shook his head dubiously.
"It is dangerous; it is violent; it is not what a minister is expected
to do to any of his flock;--and it is only a chance that it will effect
its purpose."
"Where would you put him?" I asked, as if he had agreed.
He smiled.
"Oh!--there is the log cabin at the back of the farm, where he keeps
nothing but an incubator. It has a heavy door and only a small window.
"Man,--if we could inveigle him in there!"
The Rev. William Auld positively chuckled as he thought of it.
I knew then that he was not so very far away from his schoolboy days,
despite his age and experiences.
"When can we start in?"
He thought a little.
"The sooner the better," he said. "Joe is busy towing booms this week
and there is no possible chance of his coming home. I am not too busy
and can spare the part of three or four consecutive days for the job.
"If we can only get Margaret and Rita to agree."
"I can guarantee Rita," I said.
"And I can coerce Margaret," he put in.
"We'll arrange with the women folks to-morrow sometime, and we'll
tackle poor old Andrew the following afternoon."
The minister waited and had tea with me. It was late when he took his
departure.
Just as I was tumbling into bed, I remembered Mary Grant's letter. I
took it out of my coat pocket and opened it. It was not a letter,
after all; merely a note.
"Please,--please forgive me," it read. "You are a brave and very
gallant gentleman.
"MARY GRANT."
"George, my boy!" I soliloquised, "that ought to satisfy you."
But it did not. In the frame of mind I then was in, nothing could
possibly have propitiated me.
As I dropped to sleep, the phrase recurred again and again: "You are a
brave and very gallant gentleman." That,--maybe,--but after all a poor
and humble gentleman working for wages in a country store;--so, why
worry?
Next morning, although it was not the day any steamer was due, I ran
the white flag to the top of the pole at the point of the rocks, in the
hope that Rita would see it and take it as a signal that I wished to
speak with her; and so save me a trip across, for I expected some of
the men from the Camps and I never liked to be absent or to keep them
waiting.
Just before noon, Rita presented herself.
"Say, George!--what's the rag up for? Did you forget what day of the
week it was, or is it your birthday?
"I brought you a pie, in case it might be your anniversary. Made it
this morning."
I laughed to the bright little lass who stood before me with eyes
dancing mischievously, white teeth showing and the pink of her cheeks
glowing through the olive tint of her skin.
The more I saw of Rita, the prettier she seemed in my eyes, for she was
lively and agile, trim, neat and beautifully rounded, breathing always
of fragrant and exuberant health.
"Sit down beside me on the steps here, Rita," I said. "I want to talk
to you. That is why I put the flag up.
"Rita,--what would you give to have your grand-dad renounce his vow
some day and begin speaking to your grandmother as if nothing had ever
been amiss?"
She looked at me and her lips trembled.
"Say, George! Don't fool me. I ain't myself on that subject."
"What would you give, Rita?"
"I'd give anything. I'd pretty near give my life, George; for
grandmother would be happier'n an angel."
"Would you help, if some one knew a way?"
"George,--sure you ain't foolin'? True,--you ain't foolin'?"
For answer, I plunged into the scheme.
"Now,--all we require of you and your grandmother is to sit tight and
neither to say nor do anything that would interfere. Leave it
to--leave it to the minister. He is doing this, and he believes that
it is the only way to bring your grand-dad to his senses. Mr. Auld has
already tried everything else he can think of."
"It won't kill grand-dad, though?" she inquired.
"Kill him,--no! Why! it won't even hurt him, unless, maybe, his pride.
"Do you agree, Rita?"
"Sure!" she said. "But--if you or Mr. Auld hurt my grand-dad, I guess
I'll kill you both,--see."
Her eyes flashed for a second and I could tell she was in deadly
earnest over it. But she soon laughed and became happy once more.
"Rita,--would you like to be able to talk English,--proper
English,--just as it should be talked? Would you care to learn English
Grammar?" I asked, changing the subject partly.
She came close to me on the veranda steps with a jump.
"Say that over again, George. I want to get it right," she said
plaintively.
"Would you like me to teach you English Grammar, Rita?" I repeated.
"Would I? Oh! wouldn't I just!"
She looked away quickly. "You wouldn't waste your time teachin' the
likes of me."
"I have been through college. I know something of English Grammar and
English Literature. It would be the pleasure of my life to be
permitted to impart some of what I know to you."
"Oh!--but it would take years, and years, and--then some," she put in.
"Not a bit of it! It would take an hour or two of an evening, maybe
twice a week. That is all,--provided you went over and learned in
between times all that was given you to master."
"Gee! I could do that. You just try me."
"Well, Rita. Here is your first lesson.
"Never say 'gee.' It is not good English."
And I never heard Rita use the expression again.
I had expected to see her smile with happiness, but she was too
tremendously in earnest about it. Determination was written all over
her sweet little face.
"George,--I'll learn anything you tell me. I'll work hard and I'll
learn terrible fast, for I know I ain't no good now at talking slick."
"Here is another for you, Rita. Never say 'ain't no good.' Say, 'I am
not any good.' 'Ain't' is not a word; it does not appear in any
standard dictionary of English.
"Well, little girl,--if your grand-dad is agreeable and will permit you
to come over now and again of an evening, we can make a start as soon
as I get the book I require from Vancouver.
"I would come over to your place, but it is quite a distance from the
store and I do not like to be too long away, especially in the
evenings; for I have seen Chinese in their fishing boats around, and
strange launches keep coming into the Bay to anchor overnights. It
does not do, you know, to neglect another man's property and goods when
the other man pays me for looking after them."
"Oh! grand-dad won't mind me coming. He lets me do pretty near
anything. Besides, somebody's got to come over to the store now we're
getting our groceries from you instead of ordering them from Vancouver."
I was not so sanguine as Rita was, especially after what Joe had
probably said to Andrew Clark regarding me.
"Well!" I concluded, "that will be my excuse when I come over with the
medicine for your grand-dad's chronic complaint,--dumbness. So, don't
say a word about it until I get over."
The Rev. William Auld ran in early that afternoon. He was all
excitement.
"George,--I saw Margaret and I have fixed her. Poor woman,--she is as
nervous as a kitten and as worried as a mother cat, fearing we may hurt
Andrew. The old rascal;--he's not so easily hurt, eh, George?
"You saw Rita?"
"Yes! And she is like Mrs. Clark, but the prize looks too alluring for
her to refrain from entering the gamble."
"George! Why should we leave this till to-morrow?"
"I don't know why."
"We could start in to-night, just as easily as to-morrow, and it will
be over a day sooner. What do you say?"
"I am ready when you are, Mr. Auld."
"Right! Now, I am going to leave the conversation to you. You must
work it round to fit in. I shall do the rest,--the dirty work, as the
villain says in the dime novel."
"What do you know about dime novels?" I laughed.
"I am a minister of the gospel now, but ... I was a boy once."
The Rev. William Auld had dinner with me, then he started out in his
launch for Clark's ranch. It was arranged that I follow immediately in
a rowing boat, which would take me longer to get there and would thus
disarm any suspicion of complicity.
When I arrived at Clark's, I could hear the minister talking and Andrew
Clark laughing heartily. Mr. Auld was telling some interesting story
and he had the old man in the best of humours.
I was welcomed with cheerfulness, and the minister shook hands with me
as if he had not seen me for a month of Sundays.
Rita was a-missing. Mrs. Clark seemed nervous and ill-at-ease.
Andrew, however, was in his happiest of moods.
"What special brought ye over, George?" he asked.
I told him of Rita's anxiety to be able to talk English properly and of
my willingness to teach her if it could be arranged conveniently. The
minister backed up the project with all his ministerial fluency, but
Andrew Clark was not the man to agree to a thing immediately, no matter
how well it appealed to him.
"Rita's a good lassie," he said, "and she hasna had schoolin' except
what Marget and me taught her, and that's little more than being able
to read and add up a few lines o' figures.
"George Bremner,--you're an honest man and I like ye fine. You'll ha'e
my answer by the end o' the week."
"Right you are!" I exclaimed.
Andrew then started in to tell Mr. Auld of the method he had adopted in
regard to the disposition of his output of eggs, and that gave me just
the opportunity I wanted.
"How do you raise your chicks, Mr. Clark?" I asked. "Do you use an
incubator?"
"Sure thing! And a grand little incubator I ha'e too," he answered.
"She takes two hundred and fifty eggs at a time and gives an average of
eighty per cent chicks."
I had lit on Andrew Clark's one and only hobby.
He got up. "Come and ha'e a look at it. It's called 'The
Every-Egg-A-Chick' Incubator, and it nearly lives up to its name.
"But it's a pity I ha'e nothin' in her at the minute.
"Come on, too, Mr. Auld. It'll do ye good to learn something aboot
chickens, even if you are busy enough lookin' after the sheep."
Andrew took a huge key from a nail in the wall and we followed him out
to the log cabin, both of us full of forced interest and bubbling over
with pent-up excitement.
Old man Clark talked all the way on his favourite topic; he talked
while he inserted the key in the door and he kept on talking as he
walked in, all intent on his wonderful egg-hatcher.
He left the key in the door.
Just as I was due to enter, I stepped back. With a quick movement, the
minister pulled the door to and turned the key, taking it out of the
lock and putting it in his trouser pocket.
"Hey!--what's the matter?" came a voice from the inside.
We did not answer.
Andrew Clark battered on the door with his fists.
"Hey there! The door has snappit to. Open it and come awa' in."
The minister put his lips to the keyhole.
"Andrew Clark,--that door is not going to be opened for some time to
come."
"Toots! What are ye bletherin' aboot? What kind o' a schoolboy trick
is this you're up to? Open the door and none o' your nonsense."
I chuckled with delight, as I ran off for some boards and nails which I
hammered up against the small window for extra security.
When I finished the job, the Rev. William Auld was getting through his
lecture to Andrew.
"--And you won't step a foot out of this place, neither shall you eat,
till you renounce your devilish vow and speak to the wife of your
bosom, as a God-fearing man should."
Sonorously from behind the door came Clark's voice.
"Willum Auld!--are ye a meenister o' the gospel?"
"Yes!"
"And ye would try to force a man to break a vow made before the Lord?"
"Yes! Andrew."
"Ye would starve a man to death,--murder him?"
"No!--but I would make him very uncomfortable. I would make him so
hungry that he would almost hear the gnawing in his internals for meat,
if I thought good would come of it."
The man behind the door became furious.
"Willum Auld!"
"Yes! Andrew."
"If ye don't open that door at once, I'll write a complaint to the
Presbytery. I'll ha'e ye shorn o' your releegious orders and hunted
frae the kirk o' God."
"Be silent! you blasphemer," commanded the frail but plucky old
minister. "How dare you talk in that way? Do you wish to bring down a
judgment on yourself? Good-night! Andrew,--I'll be back to-morrow;
and I would strongly recommend you, in the interval, to get down on
your knees and pray to your Maker."
This proved almost too much for Andrew.
"Willum!--Willum!--Come back," he cried through the door.
"What is it?" asked the minister, returning.
"There's neither light nor bed here, and I'm an ageing man."
"Darkness is better light and earthen floors are softer bedding than
you will have in the place you are hastening to if you do not repent
and talk to Margaret."
There was a spell of silence again.
"Willum!--Willum! Are ye there?"
"Yes! Andrew."
"Could I ha'e my pipe and tobacco and a puckle matches? They're on the
kitchen mantel-piece."
"Unless it is a drink of water, not a thing shall pass through this
doorway to you till you pledge me that you will speak to Margaret, as
you did before you took your devil's vow."
The dour old man, in his erstwhile prison, had the last word:
"Gang awa' wi' ye,--for it'll be a long time, Willum Auld. The snaw
will be fallin' blue frae the Heavens."
We went back to the cottage and gave implicit instructions to Margaret
and Rita how they were to handle the prisoner. Neither of them was in
an easy frame of mind, and I feared considerably for their ability to
stand the test and keep away from the log hut. But the minister
retained the key, so that nothing short of tearing the place down would
let Andrew Clark out.
Next day, late in the afternoon, the minister called in for me and we
sailed over to the ranch.
Margaret, though sorely tempted, had kept religiously away from her
husband; but, already, she had a variety of foodstuffs cooked and
waiting his anticipated release.
We went over to the barn and the minister rapped on the door.
"Are you there, Andrew?"
No answer.
"Andrew Clark,--are you there?"
Still no response.
I looked though the boarded window. The old Scot was standing with his
back to us in a studied attitude.
Once more the minister spoke, but still he received no answer.
The women folks were waiting anxiously, and keen was their
disappointment when they heard that another day would have to pass ere
the head of their house could be released.
"God forgive me if I am doing wrong," exclaimed William Auld to me,
"but I am determined, now that I have put my hand to the plough, I
shall not turn back."
Wednesday came, and we called again.
"Andrew," called the minister through the door, "will you relent and
talk to Margaret?"
"Give me a drink of water," came a husky voice from behind the door.
A saucer of cold water was passed under the door to him and he seized
it and drank of it eagerly.
"Will you talk to Margaret, Andrew?"
"No!" snapped the old fellow. And back again he dropped into silence.
Still another day and the performance was repeated. Still Andrew Clark
remained adamant; still Margaret Clark begged and prayed on her knees
for his release.
"We will give him one more day," said the minister, "and then, if it is
God's will, we will release him and take the consequences of our acts."
On the Friday afternoon, we made what we considered would be our last
trip.
Dour, stubborn, old man! It looked as if he were about to beat us
after all, for we could not afford to injure his health, no matter what
the reason for it. As it was, we had broken the law of the land and we
were liable to punishment at the hands of the law.
The Rev. William Auld, suffering far more than the prisoner could have
suffered during that trying time, knocked at the solid door once more.
"Andrew! Andrew!" he cried, "for God's sake, be a man."
He had the key to the door in his hand, ready to open it.
Suddenly, a broken voice came in answer:
"Bring me Marget! Bring me Marget!"
"Do you wish to speak to her, Andrew?"
"Bring me Marget, won't you," came again the wavering voice.
I brought the dear old woman from her kitchen. She was trembling with
anxiety and suspense.
William Auld threw the door open.
Andrew Clark was standing in the middle of the floor, with a look on
his face that I had never seen there before,--a look of holy
tenderness. He held out his arms to the white-haired old lady, who
tottered forward to meet him.
"Marget! Marget! My own lass, Marget!" he cried huskily, as tears
blinded his sight. He caught her and crushed her to him.
Margaret tried to speak, but her voice caught brokenly.
"Andrew! Andrew!--don't, lad,--oh! don't."
She laid her head on his breast and sobbed in utter content, as he
stroked her hair.
"It's been ten year o' hell for me, Marget: ten year o' hell for us
both," he went on, "but God has spoken to me in the darkness, in the
quietness; through hunger and thirst. My lass, my lass;--my own, dear,
patient lass."
He was holding her tightly to him and did not seem to know of our
presence. Our hearts were too full to remain. We turned and left them
in the joy of their reborn love.
The minister, with face aglow, got into his launch, while I jumped into
my rowing boat.
When I was quite a long way from the shore, I looked back across the
water to the cottage; and there, kneeling together on their veranda
steps, their arms around each other, their heads bent in prayer, I saw
Andrew Clark and Margaret.
The next afternoon, Andrew called on me. He was waiting for me at the
store, as Jake and I returned with two boat-loads of fresh stock which
we were out receiving from the _Cloochman_.
The old fellow took me by the hand and surprised me by his smile of
open friendship.
"I would ha'e come over sooner, George, but I couldna get away frae the
ranch these last few days." His eyes turned humorously as he said it.
"I might ha'e run over this mornin', but Marget and me ha'e a lot o'
leaway to make up.
"Say! man,--I'll be glad if you will do what ye can to help Rita. Make
your ain arrangements;--for, what suits you, suits me and Marget."