VICTORIA AND "THE QUEEN."
"Vancouver," began Mr. Percival that afternoon, "is the baby city of
the Northwest." They were in a barouche, five of them, driving through
Stanley Park.
"What do you mean by that, sir?" asked his nephew.
"Why, it's less than six years old, Randolph. Yet it has a population
of over fifteen thousand. Six years ago to-day there was a dense forest
where these great brick and stone buildings now stand."
"Wasn't it burned once, father?" asked Tom, anxious to show the result
of his reading.
"When it was two months old," replied Mr. Percival, "every house but
one was destroyed by fire. Now it is one of the most prosperous and
well-managed cities in the Dominion."
"I noticed in the Canadian Pacific time-tables," put in Fred, "that
there is a regular line of steamers running from Vancouver to Japan and
China."
"What kind of trees are these, driver?" asked Randolph.
"Douglas fir and cedar, mostly," said the driver, who proved to be a
Vermont man. "The big ones are cedar."
Big ones they were, truly; with trunks, or, in some cases, mere stumps,
twenty to forty feet in diameter. The driver explained that in the
early days of the city these magnificent trees were often ruthlessly
destroyed, merely to get them out of the way. At last the city
authorities took the matter in hand, and preserved a large tract of
forest land, now called Stanley Park, for the permanent enjoyment of
the people.
The road was a beautiful one, and in some places the travelers could
catch glimpses of the broad Pacific, true to its name, breaking in
slow, gentle waves on the beach just below.
At sunset the whole party boarded the steamer _Islander_, and the
six hours' moonlight sail that followed was more like fairy-land than
anything they had yet seen.
The calm waters of the Gulf of Georgia, silvered and peaceful in the
midsummer moonlight, stretched away on every side, broken only by
wooded islands and the jutting promontories of Vancouver's; while far
away to the southwest Mount Baker's snowy peak rose, pale and serene,
among the clouds.
The young people sang all their "Kamloops" songs over and over, the
music adding the one needful touch to the scene.
On arriving at the wharf in Victoria, they were glad to make their way
through the noisy crowd of hackmen to the carriages reserved for their
party, and take refuge in the Driard, where they were to rest for the
next two days.
* * * * *
"Have you a piece of string, pa?"
It was a simple, kindly-faced little woman who asked the question,
looking up to her husband, the gardener.
Randolph and Pet had taken a long walk through the streets of the
city of Victoria, and out among the scattered houses and fields that
border the way. Presently they reached a pretty cottage almost hidden
from sight by a mass of climbing honeysuckle. In the garden beside it
grew a profusion of old-fashioned flowers--stocks, sweet mignonette,
geraniums, and many others.
A bed of lovely pansies attracted Pet's attention.
"Oh! do you suppose they would sell some?"
"We'll soon see," and sure enough, there was "Ma" upon the little
piazza, beaming with hospitality and pleasure at the approach of
visitors.
She set to work at once gathering pansies, and while she arranged her
nosegay, the two Bostonians talked with her husband, who, it seemed,
was an Englishman, and earned his living from his garden, which he
was just watering. He took especial pride in his fuchsias, which grew
in lovely abundance and variety all around his door. Sweet peas were
there, too, the vines nearly as high as your head, all covered with
dainty "painted ladies."
"Pa" having furnished the string, Randolph received (for twenty cents)
a great bunch of pansies. The little saleswoman then added a stalk of
gillyflower and a scarlet geranium for buttonholes, and with a smiling
face said good-by.
The pansies were soon transferred, Pet keeping the gillyflower in her
dress until she was out of sight, "so as not to hurt Ma's feelings,"
and then replacing it by the pretty "thoughts."
Later in the day they visited the Chinese quarter of the city, in
company with Tom and his inseparable kodak.
There was a delightful baby in one of the shops, and Tom begged hard
to be allowed to "snap" it, but the parents said "No," and could not
be moved to relent, though they did offer the photographer a live
gold-fish as some compensation for the refused privilege.
Mr. Percival also took his charges to the splendid naval station of
Esquimault, where the Pacific Squadron of English ships were lying at
anchor.
The Percivals hired a man (from Connecticut) to row them out in a boat
to the great _War Spite_ over which they were shown by a smart British
sailor boy in blue. They were deeply interested in her great cannon,
throwing a three hundred pound ball, her massive machinery, and her
vicious-looking steel torpedoes, which run under water, and are guided
by an electric wire connected with the ship. "You can guess the size
of the vessel," wrote Randolph to a friend that night, "when you learn
that six hundred men are now quartered in her."
Just at dusk, on the second day in Victoria, they went on board the
good ship _Queen_, which was waiting to bear them northward to the
rugged coast, the island-studded gulfs and bays, and the eternal
ice-rivers of Alaska.
For a long time that evening they walked the deck, Kittie pacing
side by side with Fred Seacomb, Randolph telling Pet of his Freshman
struggles and triumphs and pleasures at Harvard, Tom talking eagerly
with his father, whose arm he took as they went to and fro, or paused
to look out over the quiet waters, or the twinkling lights of Victoria.
Adelaide, Bess, Rossiter and Mrs. Percival formed a cosey group
reclining in their steamer-chairs in the shelter of the staterooms
which they were to occupy that night.
At six the next morning the passengers felt the first thrill which
told that the _Queen_ had begun her voyage. Hastily they dressed, and
emerged one by one from their staterooms, to gain every moment of this
enchanted day.
The voyage northward led through narrow channels, where one could
almost toss a biscuit ashore on either side; across open stretches
of the blue Pacific, whose great waves rocked them gently; along the
base of lofty mountains, with wild, untraveled forests growing on the
water's very edge.
Soon they began to see Indian encampments, or solitary natives,
paddling their queer-shaped, dug-out canoes. Whales rose solemnly
and spouted with deep sighs. Porpoises showed their glistening backs
above water, raced beside the ship, and threw themselves out into
the sunlight. Eagles winged their way from shore to shore, and ducks
paddled merrily in every small bay. On masses of floating timber
hovered snow-gulls, their beautiful wings lifting and closing as their
rafts were rocked in the steamer's wake.
The second day on board was Sunday. There was an Episcopal service in
the saloon in the forenoon, nearly all the excursionists assembling
and joining in the hymns. The afternoon passed quietly, many of the
passengers writing letters to home friends, some reading, some walking
or reclining in steamer-chairs on deck.
In the evening the Percivals gathered for a sing in a sheltered place
near the wheel-house. Never before did the old church tunes sound so
sweetly. At nine o'clock the sky was all golden with sunset colors,
reflected in the smooth waters of the Sound.
Just before that hour there had been a little silence. When two bells
were struck, Mr. Percival was seen to smile with a curious expression.
"What is it, father?" asked Bess, who was nestling close to his side.
"Why, it reminded me first of church bells, and then of an odd little
affair in a Maine town, not far from your uncle's farm."
"Oh! tell us about it," cried two or three voices at once. "A story, a
story!"
"Well, I should hardly like to turn this pleasant little Sunday
evening meeting into a story-telling circle," said Mr. Percival after
a moment's pause; "but as it's all about a church, and is a sort of
Christmas story, perhaps it will do no harm. Are you warm enough,
Bessie?"
"Plenty, father," replied the little Captain. "Do give us the story.
I've heard you tell it before, but I always did like to see you tell."
You must fancy, as you read the next few pages, that you are on the
steamer, with collar turned up, or shawl muffled about your shoulders.
Just in front of you is the story-teller, a man of about sixty, with
iron-gray hair and full beard, kindly eyes and broad shoulders. His
right arm is thrown over Bessie's shoulder as she leans against him,
the little injured foot on a camp-stool before her. Mr. Selborne, quiet
and grave, with rather a thin face, but fine dark eyes and firm mouth
under a brown mustache, comes next. Kittie and Tom are seated on the
bench that runs around the whole deck, their backs to the rail. Pet
is in a steamer-chair, and Randolph, Adelaide and Mrs. Percival are
grouped together, completing the circle. Half a dozen other friends
have drawn near, and are comfortably reclining, sitting or standing
just behind Pet.
A radiant path leads over the waters toward the west, where the wooded
islands throw their dark, rugged summits against the sky.
The muffled splashing of the steamer's great wheels, mingled with the
low whispers of wind and sea, fill the pauses of the speaker's voice.
Overhead a brood of ocean fowl, a flock of slender-winged gulls, or a
single eagle sweep silently across the bright field of gold.
It would be impossible, as there was no shorthand writer present, to
give the narrative that followed in Mr. Percival's exact words; or
to reproduce the kindly twinkle of his eye as he dwelt upon the more
humorous phases of it. These you must yourself supply as you read.
THE STORY OF THE CRACKED BELL.
There was no doubt whatever of its melancholy condition. Cracked it
was, and cracked it had been for the last two years. Just how the crack
came there, nobody knew. It was, indeed, a tiny flaw, long ago covered
by green rust, and apparently as harmless as the veriest thread or a
wisp of straw, lodging for a moment on the old bell's brazen sides.
But when the clapper began to swing, and gave one timid touch to the
smooth inner surface of its small cell, the flaw made itself known, and
as the strokes grew louder and angrier, the dissonance so clattered
and battered against the ears of the parish, that after two years'
patient endurance of this infliction (which they considered a direct
discipline, to humble their pride over a new coat of white paint on
the little church), one small, nervous sister rose in prayer meeting
and begged that the bell be left quiet, or at least muffled for one
day, as it disturbed her daughter, whom all the village knew to be
suffering from consumption.
Emboldened by this declaration of war, a deacon declared that it was
an insult to religion and its founder, to ring such a bell. It was the
laughing-stock of the village, he added, and its flat discords were but
a signal for derision on the part of every scoffer and backslider in
the parish.
Other evidence of convincing character was given by various members of
the congregation; the bell was tried, condemned and sentenced; and more
than one face showed its relief as good old Dr. Manson, the pastor,
instructed the sexton publicly to omit the customary call to services
on the following Sabbath.
"I hope," he further said, looking around gravely on his people, "that
you will all make more than usual effort to be in your pews promptly at
half-past ten."
For a time the members of the First Congregational Society of North
Penfield were noticeably and commendably prompt in their attendance
upon all services. They were so afraid that they should be late that
they arrived at the meeting-house a good while before the opening hymn.
Dr. Manson was gratified, the village wits were put down, and the old
bell hung peacefully in the belfry over the attentive worshipers, as
silent as they. Snow and rain painted its surface with vivid tints, and
the swallows learned that they could perch upon it without danger of
its being jerked away from their slender feet.
There was no other meeting-house in the town, and as the nearest
railroad was miles away, the sound of a clear-toned bell floating down
from the summer sky, or sending its sweet echoes vibrating through a
wintry twilight in an oft-repeated mellow call to prayers, was almost
forgotten.
Gradually the congregation fell into the habit of dropping in of a
Sunday morning while the choir were singing the voluntary, or remaining
in the vestibule where, behind the closed doors, they had a bit of
gossip while they waited for the rustle within which announced the
completion of the pastor's long opening prayer. It became a rare
occurrence for all to be actually settled in their pews when the text
was given out. The same tardiness was noticeable in the Friday evening
meetings; and, odd to say, a certain spirit of indolence seemed to
creep over the services themselves.
Whereas in former days the farmers and their wives were wont to come
bustling briskly into the vestry while the bell was ringing, and the
cheerful hum of voices arose in the informal handshaking "before
meeting," soon quieting and then blending joyously in the stirring
strains of "How Firm a Foundation," or "Onward, Christian Soldier,"
followed by one brief, earnest prayer or exhortation after another, in
quick succession, in these later days it was quite different. It was
quite difficult to carry the first hymn through, as there were rarely
enough good singers present to sustain the air. Now it was the pianist
who was late, now the broad-shouldered mill-owner, whose rich bass was
indeed a "firm foundation" for all timid sopranos and altos; now the
young man who could sing any part with perfect confidence, and often
did wander over all four in the course of a single verse, lending a
helping hand, so to speak, wherever it was needed.
The halting and dispirited hymn made the members self-distrustful
and melancholy at the outset. There were long pauses during which all
the sluggish or tired-out brothers and sisters nodded in the heated
room, and the sensitive and nervous clutched shawl fringes and coat
buttons in agonized fidgets. The meetings became so dull and heavy that
slight excuses were sufficient to detain easy-going members at home,
especially the young people. It was a rare sight now to see bright eyes
and rosy cheeks in the room. The members discussed the dismal state of
affairs, which was only too plain, and laid the blame on the poor old
minister.
"His sermons haven't the power they had once, Brother Stimpson,"
remarked Deacon Fairweather, shaking his head sadly, as they trudged
home from afternoon service one hot Sunday in August. "There's
somethin' wantin'. I don't jestly know what."
"He ain't pussonal enough. You want to be pussonal to do any good in
a parish. There's Squire Radbourne, now. Everybody knows he sets up
Sunday evenin's and works on his law papers. I say there ought to be a
reg'lar downright discourse on Sabbath breakin'."
"Thet's so, thet's so," assented the deacon. "And Brother Langworth
hasn't been nigh evenin' meetin' for mor'n six weeks."
From one faulty member to another they wandered; forgetting, as they
jogged along the familiar path side by side, talking eagerly, the banks
of golden-rod beside them, the blue sky and fleecy clouds above, the
blue hills in the distance, and all the glory and brightness of the
blessed summer day.
The next morning, North Penfield experienced a shock. The white-haired
pastor, overcome by extra labor, increasing cares, the feebleness of
age, or a combination of all these causes, had sunk down upon his bed
helplessly, on his return from the little white meeting-house the
afternoon before, never to rise again until he should leave behind him
the weary earth-garments that now but hindered his slow and painful
steps.
The townspeople were greatly concerned, for the old man was dearly
loved by young and old. Those who of late had criticised now remembered
Dr. Manson's palmy days, when teams came driving in from Penfield
Center, "The Hollow," and two or three other adjoining settlements, to
listen to the impassioned discourses of the young clergyman.
A meeting of the committee was called at once, to consider the affairs
of the bereft church--for bereft they felt it to be--and take steps for
an immediate supply during the vacancy of the pulpit. Two months later
Dr. Manson passed peacefully away, and there was one more mound in the
little churchyard.
The snows of early December already lay deep on road and field before
the North Penfield Parish, in a regularly called and organized meeting,
was given to understand that a new minister was settled. Half a dozen
candidates had preached to the people, but only one had met with favor.
Harold Olsen was a Norwegian by parentage, though born in America. Tall
and straight as the pines of the Norseland, with clear, flashing blue
eyes and honest, winning smile, the congregation began to love him
before he was half through his first sermon. His sweet-faced little
wife made friends with a dozen people between services; by nightfall
the question was practically settled, and so was the Rev. Harold Olsen,
"the new minister," as he was called for years afterward.
At the beginning of the second week in December, Harold ascended the
pulpit stairs of the North Penfield meeting-house, feeling very humble
and very thankful in the face of his new duties. He loved his work, his
people, his wife and his God; and here he was, with them all at once.
Sleigh bells jingled merrily outside the door; one family after another
came trooping in, muffled to the ears, and moved demurely up the
central or side aisles to their high-backed pews.
The sunlight found its way in under the old-fashioned fan-shaped blinds
at the tops of the high windows, and rested upon gray hair and brown,
on figures bowed with grief and age, on restless, eager children, on
the pulpit itself, and finally upon the golden-edged leaves of the old
Bible.
Still the people came in. A hymn was given out and sung. While Harold
was lifting his soul to Heaven on the wings of his prayer, he could
not help hearing the noise of heavy boots in the meeting-house entry,
stamping the snow. His fervent "Amen" was the signal for a draft of
cold air from the doors, followed by a dozen late comers.
After the sermon, which was so simple and straightforward that it went
directly to the hearts of the people, he was eager to confer with his
deacons for a few minutes.
"The bell didn't ring this morning, Brother Fairweather. What was the
matter?" he asked, after a warm hand-grasp all round.
"Why, the fact is, sir, there ain't no bell."
"That is, none to speak of," put in Deacon Stimpson apologetically.
"There's a bell up there, but it got so cracked an' out o' tune that
nobody could stan' it, sick or well."
The Rev. Harold Olsen's eyes twinkled.
"How long have you gone without this unfortunate bell?"
"Oh! a matter o' two or three years, I guess."
"Weddings, funerals, and all?"
"Well, yes," reluctantly, "I b'lieve so. I did feel bad when we
follored the minister to his grave without any tollin'--he was master
fond o' hearing that bell, fust along--but there, it couldn't be
helped. Public opinion was against that 'ere particular bell, and we
jes' got laughed at, ringin' it. So we stopped, and here we be, without
it."
Mr. Olsen's blue eyes sparkled again as he caught his little wife's
glance, half-amused, half-pained. He changed the subject, and went
among his parishioners, inquiring kindly for the absent ones, and
making new friends.
At a quarter before three (the hour for afternoon service) he entered
the meeting-house again. The sexton was asleep in one of the pews. He
was roused by a summons so startling that a repetition was necessary
before he could comprehend its import.
"R-ring the bell!" he gasped incredulously. "W-why, sir, it hasn't been
rung for"--
"Never mind, Mr. Bedlow," interrupted Harold, with his pleasant smile.
"Let's try it to-day, just for a change."
Harold had attended one or two prayer meetings, as well as Sunday
services, and--had an idea.
On reaching the entry, the sexton shivered in the cold air, and pointed
helplessly to a hole in the ceiling, through which the bell rope was
intended to play.
"I put it up inside out of the way, so's the boys couldn't get it," he
chattered. "D-don't you think, sir, we'd better wait till"--
But it was no use to talk to empty air. The new minister had gone,
and presently returned with a long, heavy bench, which he handled as
easily as if it were a lady's work-basket.
"Just steady it a bit," he asked; and Mr. Bedlow, with conscientious
misgivings as to the propriety of his assisting at a gymnastic
performance on Sunday, did as he was bid.
Up went the minister like a cat; and presently down came the knotted
end of the rope. "Now, let's have a good, hearty pull, Mr. Bedlow."
The sexton grasped the rope and pulled. There was one frightened,
discordant outcry from the astonished bell; and there stood poor Mr.
Bedlow with about three yards of detached rope in his hands. It had
broken just above the point where it passed through the flooring over
his head.
"Now, sir," expostulated the sexton.
"Here, Dick!" called Mr. Olsen, to a bright-faced little fellow who
had put his head in at the door and was regarding these unwonted
proceedings with round-eyed astonishment; "won't you run over to my
house and ask my wife for that long piece of clothes-line that hangs up
in the kitchen closet?"
Dick was gone like a flash, his curiosity excited to the highest pitch.
"What does he want it for?" asked pretty Olga Olsen, hurrying to
produce the required article.
"Don't know," panted Dick. "He's got Mr. Bedlow--in the entry--an' he
sent for a rope, double quick!"
With which bewildering statement he tore out of the house and back to
the church.
Five minutes later the population of North Penfield were astounded by
hearing a long-silent, but only too familiar voice.
"It's that old cracked bell!" exclaimed half a hundred voices at once,
in as many families. "Do let's go to meetin' an' see what's the matter."
The afternoon's congregation was, in fact, even larger than the
morning's. Harold noted it with quiet satisfaction, and gave out as his
text the first verse of the sixty-sixth Psalm.
At the close of his brief sermon he paused a moment, then referred to
the subject in all their thoughts, speaking in no flippant or jesting
tone, but in a manner that showed how sacredly important he considered
the matter.
"I have been pained to notice," he said gravely, "the tardiness with
which we begin our meetings. It is perfectly natural that we should be
late, when there is no general call, such as we have been accustomed to
hear from childhood. I do not blame anybody in the least. I do believe
that we have all grown into a certain sluggishness, both physical and
spiritual, in our assembling together, as a direct consequence of the
omission of those chimes which to us and our fathers have always spoken
but one blessed word--'_Come!_' I believe," he continued, looking
about over the kindly faces before him, "I believe you agree with me
that something should be done. Don't think me too hasty or presuming
in my new pastorate, if I add that it seems to me vitally important
to take action at once. Our bell is not musical, it is true, but its
tones, cracked and unmelodious as they are, will serve to remind us of
our church home, its duties and its pleasures. On Tuesday evening we
will hold a special meeting in this house to consider the question of
purchasing a new bell, to take the place of the old. The Prudential
Committee, and all who are interested in the subject are urged to be
present. Let us pray."
It was a wonderful "season," that Tuesday evening conference. The
cracked bell did its quavering best for a full twenty minutes before
the hour appointed, to call the people together; and no appeal could
have been more irresistible.
Two thirds of the sum required was raised that night. For ten days
more the old bell rang on every possible occasion, until it became
an accusing voice of conscience to the parish. Prayer meetings once
more began sharp on the hour, and proceeded with old-time vigor. The
interest spread until a real revival was in progress before the North
Penfield Society were fairly aware of the change. Still the "bell fund"
lacked fifty dollars of completion.
On the evening of the twentieth of December, in the midst of a furious
storm, a knock was heard at the parsonage, and lo, at the hastily
opened door stood Squire Radbourne, powdered with snowflakes, and
beaming like a veritable Santa Claus.
"I couldn't feel easy," he announced, after he had been relieved of
coat and furs, and seated before the blazing fire, "to have next Sunday
go by without a new bell on the meeting-house. We must have some good
hearty chimes on that morning, sure; it's the twenty-fifth, you know.
So here's a little Christmas present to the parish--or the Lord,
either way you want to put it."
The crisp fifty dollar note he laid down before the delighted couple
was all that was needed.
Harold made a quick calculation--he had already selected a bell at
a foundry a hundred miles away--and sitting down at his desk, wrote
rapidly.
"I'll mail your letter," said the squire. "It's right on my way--or
near enough. Let's get it off to-night, to save time."
And away he trudged again, through the deepening drifts and the blur of
the white storm.
On Saturday evening, after all the village people were supposed to be
abed and asleep, two dark figures might have been seen moving to and
fro in the old meeting-house, with a lantern. After some irregular
movements in the entry, the light appeared in the belfry, and a little
later, one queer, flat, brassy note, uncommonly like the voice of
the cracked bell, rang out on the night air. Then there was absolute
silence; and before long the meeting-house was locked up and left to
itself again on Christmas Eve--alone, with the wonder-secret of a new
song in its faithful heart, waiting to break forth in praise of God at
dawn of day.
How the people started that fair Christmas morning, as the sweet,
silvery notes fell on their ears! They hastened to the church; they
pointed to the belfry where the bell swung to and fro in a joyous call
of "_Come! come! come! come!_"
They listened in rapt silence, and some could not restrain their sobs,
while others with grateful tears in their eyes looked upon the old,
rusty, cracked bell that rested, silent, on the church floor; and as
they looked, and even passed their hands lovingly over its worn sides,
they thanked God for its faithful service and the good work it had
wrought--and for the glad hopes that filled that blessed Christmas Day.