A GENTEEL SABBATH
Elizabeth arose early the next morning, feeling at peace with all the
world. For the first time in her life she felt herself an important
member of the family. Her aunt had distinguished her by special
friendly notice, and had omitted to scold her when she went to bed the
night before. Besides, it was Sunday, and on the first day of the week
she almost always escaped disaster. First, her aunt was more genial on
Sunday, because the family was on its best behavior that day, and came
a little nearer to being genteel. Then Elizabeth was clothed in a
long, spotlessly clean, dun-colored pinafore, starched to the extremity
of discomfort, and her spirits, always colored by her surroundings,
were also subdued and confined.
The Gordons assembled for breakfast early on Sunday morning. Miss
Gordon saw that the Sabbath was strictly kept, but she believed the
idea of rest might be carried to indulgence, especially with young
people. So, on this particular morning, breakfast was at the usual
hour. Indeed, it was a little early, owing to the fact that Sarah
Emily, rejoiced at her reunion with the family, had arisen betimes and
broken the Sabbath by making a fine batch of breakfast biscuits. Sarah
Emily always sang at her work and had aroused the household, and
brought down the stern displeasure of Miss Gordon, who forbade the
unholy viands to be brought to the table.
The young Gordons assembled, sniffing hungrily and regretfully at the
pleasant odor. Sarah Emily caught their glances and made a sympathetic
grimace.
Mary giggled, but Elizabeth looked severe. She was in her best Sabbath
mood and felt that Sarah Emily was not at all genteel, nor Mary either.
It really gave one such a nice feeling to know one was genteel.
Involuntarily she glanced at her aunt for approbation. But Aunt
Margaret was looking at Annie, with a strange expression in her eyes,
an almost apologetic look Elizabeth would have thought if Aunt Margaret
could ever have been in such a mood. But that was quite impossible
with one who was always right. She was looking particularly handsome
this morning in her black silk dress, with her jet earrings, and the
knot of white lace at her throat. Elizabeth gazed at her in profound
admiration, and then at Annie with some anxiety. Annie was looking
pale this morning. Elizabeth wished she had not given away all her
maple sugar to the little boys last night; a bite might have been such
a comfort to poor Annie, and she was looking sadly in need of comfort.
When the plates of oatmeal porridge and the big pile of
bread-and-butter had disappeared, Annie handed her father his Bible and
psalm-book and they all joined in family worship. The little ceremony
opened with the singing of a paraphrase:
"_O God of Bethel, by whose Hand
Thy people still are fed._"
The windows were open and the breath of the apple-blossoms came
floating in. The bees, droning over the honey-suckle in the garden
below, and the song sparrow on the cherry-bough above, both joined in
the hymn to the great Father who had made the beautiful world.
Then Mr. Gordon read a chapter; a wonderful chapter, Elizabeth felt.
She was in perfect accord with the beauty and peace of the Sabbath Day
and every word went to her heart:
"The wilderness and the solitary place shall be glad for them; and the
desert shall rejoice and blossom as the rose. It shall blossom
abundantly, and rejoice even with joy and singing. The glory of
Lebanon shall be given unto it, the excellency of Carmel and Sharon----"
Elizabeth had no idea of its meaning, but its beauty, with some vague
hint of its eternal promise of love and joy, made her child's heart
swell. She was dismayed to feel her eyes beginning to smart with the
rising tears. She did not guess why, but she could have cried out with
both joy and pain at the majestic triumph of the close:
"And the ransomed of the Lord shall return and come to Zion with songs
and everlasting joy upon their heads. They shall obtain joy and
gladness, and sorrow and sighing shall flee away."
She struggled with her tears. If John should see them! He would
wonder why she was crying, and she could never tell him. John would
not understand. That was the tragedy of Elizabeth's life. One could
never tell things, for nobody understood.
She was relieved when they knelt in prayer and she could hide her tears
in a corner of the old sofa. Prayers were very much longer on Sundays
than on other mornings, but, though the boys might fidget a little, the
most active member of the family never moved. Elizabeth's soul was
carried away far above any bodily discomfort. But not even the
smallest Gordon made a sound. There had been a dreadful day once when
Jamie and Archie, kneeling at one chair with their heads together, had
been caught red-handed playing "Put your finger in the crow's nest";
but since then their aunt had knelt between them and the crime had not
been repeated.
Prayers ended, and the few household duties attended to, Mr. Gordon
shut himself in his study, and the children sat out on the side-porch
and studied their Sunday-school lesson, their catechism, and their
portion of the 119th Psalm, which Miss Gordon had given them to
memorize.
Elizabeth had no trouble with her Golden Text or the Psalm, but the
catechism was an insupportable burden. She was always appearing with
it before her aunt, certain she could "say it now," only to turn away
in disgrace. She sat on the green bench beside John and droned over
her allotted portion. John was far ahead wrestling with What is
required in the commandments, while poor Elizabeth plodded behind,
struggling with the question as to Wherein consisted the sinfulness of
that estate whereinto man fell. She rhymed over the profound words in
a meaningless jargon:
"The sinfulness of that estate whereunto man fell, consists in the
guilt of Adam's first sin, the want of original righteousness, and the
corruption of his whole nature, which is commonly called original sin,
together with all actual transgressions which proceed from it."
She strove to keep her mind upon it, but the exaltation of the
prayer-time had passed, and the vision of Mrs. Jarvis obtruded itself
on her Sabbath thoughts. She drove it away--as with tightly-shut eyes
and wrinkled brow and swaying body she attempted to get through the
answer unaided. But she stuck fast at "the want of original
righteousness" and again at "original sin," and was stumbling blindly
over "all actual transgressions" when there came a wicked whisper in
her ear.
"Lizzie," hissed John, "there's 'The Rowdy'!"
Elizabeth's eyes flew open, and the sinfulness of man's estate flew
away. John had turned his grave face towards her, lit up with a quick
smile. Elizabeth flashed back at him the same smile, a sudden gleam of
white even teeth in a rather generous red mouth. Brother and sister
were very much alike in their smiles, but only here, for John's face
was solemn almost to dourness, while Elizabeth's countenance was full
of light and animation.
"The Rowdy" was enough to provoke laughter even on the Sabbath and
under Aunt Margaret's nose. He was the robin whose chief
shouting-place was the hawthorn bush in the lane. John and Elizabeth
had so named him because he always made such a noise, leaping about and
calling "Hi, Hi! Whee! Whoo--Hoo!" in a most rowdy manner indeed.
They had named many other familiar birds in The Dale fields that
spring, and now Elizabeth gave a significant nod towards the orchard to
announce the song of another favorite. This robin sang from the top of
the big duchess tree that peeped over the wall into the front garden.
His was a plaintive, quiet song, quite unlike The Rowdy's. They had
noticed the pathetic little chant one evening when the schoolmaster sat
beside Annie on the front porch. Mr. Coulson had remarked that there
was a robin in the orchard who was singing the anthem of the Exile of
Erin. But John declared in private to Elizabeth that it wasn't
anything of the kind. Anyone could hear he was saying "Oh,
wirra-wurra! Wirra-wurra!" just the way old Mrs. Teeter did when she
recounted her troubles of the early pioneer days, or when Oro's Orator
had been fighting again. So to John and Elizabeth the robin of the
duchess tree was known as "Granny Teeter." They listened to him now,
complaining away to the pink apple-blossoms; and, knowing it was very
wicked and dangerous to laugh just then, they held themselves in
convulsions of silent mirth.
Elizabeth forgot all about the sinfulness of man's estate as well as
the gorgeousness of Mrs. Jarvis's in listening for sounds of other old
friends. There was a pair of meadow larks that had their nest in the
pasture field just on the other side of the lane, and now one of them
was mounted in his favorite elm, pouring forth his delicious notes in a
descending scale of sweetness: "Dear, hear, I am near." Farther down,
near the line of birches, in a feathery larch tree, sang a peculiar
song sparrow, who pounded four times on a loud silver bell to attract
attention before he started his little melody. Then there was a crowd
of jolly bob-o'-links over yonder in the clover-meadow who danced and
trilled, and a pair of blue-birds in the orchard who talked to each
other in sweet, soft notes. There was a loud and joyous oriole, proud
of his golden coat, blowing up his ringing little trumpet from the pine
tree near the gate, and ever so many flickers, all gorgeously dressed
in red and yellow and every color their gaudy taste could suggest, each
with his little box of money, Elizabeth explained, which he rattled
noisily, just to attract attention when he couldn't sing. But the
favorite was a gray cat-bird that sang from the bass-wood tree at the
back of the vegetable garden. They liked him best, because he was so
naughty and badly behaved, always sneaking round the backyard, and
never coming out where there was an audience, as The Rowdy did. And
then he could beat everybody, and at his own song, too! He was at them
all now, one after the other--robin, song sparrow, oriole, flicker,
everything--with a medley of trills and variations worked in just to
show that he had a whole lot of music of his own if he only cared to
use it.
John's silent laughter was quite safe, but Elizabeth's was of the
explosive variety. A chuckle escaped which caused Aunt Margaret to
look up from her Sunday-school paper, and the two culprits immediately
dived back to their tasks. Elizabeth felt how wicked she was to have
allowed her thoughts to wander thus, and for a time gave such good
attention to her question that she arrived at original sin with only
two slips.
But Mrs. Jarvis came back again, arrayed in all the grandeur in which
Elizabeth's imagination always clothed her. She planned how she would
act when that great lady came. She would walk very slowly and solemnly
into the parlor, just the way Aunt Margaret did, and bow very gravely.
Then she would say those French words Jean always used since she had
been attending the High School in Cheemaun, "Commay voo, porty voo."
That was French for "Good afternoon, Mrs. Jarvis"; and of course Mrs.
Jarvis would know French, and be very much impressed. She strove to
weave a pious thread of catechism into the wicked fabric of her
thoughts--"the sinfulness of that estate whereunto man fell"--perhaps
Mrs. Jarvis would ask her to go for a walk with her down the lane, or
even a drive in her carriage--"consists in the guilt of Adam's first
sin"--of course she would talk only of books, and not let her see the
playhouse she and Mary had made in the lane. That was very childish.
She would tell how she had read "The Vicar of Wakefield" and "Old
Mortality"--of course father had read them to her, but it was all the
same thing--and "Hiawatha" and "The Lamplighter"--"the want of original
corruption and the righteousness of his whole nature." And surely Mrs.
Jarvis would think she was genteel and know that the wild streak had
completely disappeared--"together with all actual transgressions which
proceed from it." Elizabeth then and there solemnly vowed that she
would neither run nor jump, nor climb a fence, not even the little low
one between their pasture-field and Tom Teeter's, until Mrs. Jarvis's
coming.
And so the morning passed slowly in a struggle between a restless body,
a restless mind, and a restless soul, all tending in different
directions, and at last they stood in a row before their aunt to recite
their morning's task. Even little Jamie had his verse of Scripture to
lisp, and was patted on the head when he stammered out:
"De people dat sat in dawkness saw a dwate night."
Everyone acquitted himself well except Elizabeth. The catechism
refused to disentangle itself from the jumble of bird-voices and
dream-voices with which it was mixed; and she went out to dinner with
hanging head and tear-dimmed eyes.
The light lunch of cold boiled beef and potatoes was soon disposed of,
and then the hour for starting to Sunday school had arrived, bringing
with it a great relief, and making Elizabeth completely forget her
troubles.
The Gordons had an old speckled gray horse and a queer basket phaeton,
left by the eccentric Englishman in The Dale stables years before. Mr.
Gordon used them to convey him to the town hall, some miles distant,
where the township council meetings were held, but Miss Gordon always
drove to church in this family carriage, accompanied by Malcolm, and
with little Jamie on her knee, while the remainder of the family walked.
The church, like the school, lay a couple of miles south of The Dale,
away at the other side of a great hill. There were two roads leading
thither. The one used by the school children on week-days was called
the Short Cut. It ran down The Dale lane, crossed the pond beside
MacAllister's mill, went up the opposite bank, over a wild half-cleared
stretch of land called The Slash, through old Sandy McLachlan's wood,
and by way of his rickety gate out on to the public highway a few yards
from the school. It was much shorter this way than going "down the
line," though strange to say it took far longer to traverse it on a
schoolday, for it was a very enjoyable road indeed, from which one was
ever making side excursions after berries or nuts or wild grapes, and
which admitted of endless ways of beguiling dull time, and rendering
oneself late for school.
For various reasons the church-going population took to the public
highway on Sabbaths. Those who drove went this way from necessity, and
those who didn't went because they were always picked up before they
had gone half a mile. Besides, parents had long since learned that
Sabbath clothes as well as Sabbath decorum were apt to suffer from the
conveniences of the Short Cut.
William Gordon alone took this solitary road on Sabbath afternoons, for
he loved the loneliness and quiet of the woods. This arrangement
suited everyone except Elizabeth. Her heart always suffered a pang as
they all turned up the lane together, and her father went away alone in
the opposite direction. Once she had begged so hard to accompany him
that he had yielded, and she had walked by his side, holding his hand,
in silent sympathy, all the way over the sunny fields and through the
cool green shadows of the woods. She had been quiet and good and he
had said she was his little comforter, but Elizabeth had never gone
again. It was not that she had found the walk dull in comparison to
the companionship of the regular highway, for Elizabeth would have
walked through a fiery furnace with her father in preference to any
other road. But that wise older self had told her that her father
preferred to be alone. She could not have told how she knew, but she
was seldom mistaken in her intuition and followed it. And so, though
it wrung her heart to see him go alone, she merely watched him with
loving eyes, until his bowed head and thin, stooped shoulders
disappeared from view in the willowy ravine.
Those who walked started only a few minutes before the phaeton, for if
they were not picked up by Martin's big double buggy on the Champlain
Road, then the MacAllisters would take them in at the corner, or they
would be gathered to the bosoms of the Wully Johnstones before they had
gone many rods down the line.
The Martins were a trifle late to-day and, to Elizabeth's joy, they
reached the corner where four great elms stretched out their sweeping
arms to each other just as MacAllister's ample three-seated buggy came
lumbering along. Charles Stuart was there on the front seat beside his
father, to be sure; but Mother MacAllister was in the back seat alone.
The girls climbed in, Sarah Emily and all, and Archie and John took
their places in Wully Johnstone's vehicle that had just emerged from
their lane on to the public highway.
Elizabeth sat in her favorite place, close up to Mother MacAllister.
At first she decided she would not speak to Charles Stuart, nor look
near him. Then, recalling her undignified conduct in the ball game
with him, she felt ashamed. It would be no use to act haughtily now,
she reflected with a sigh. "I wish I hadn't forgotten," she said to
herself. "It's so much easier to forget than forgive." She finally
decided to treat Charles Stuart politely but distantly. She must let
him see that he had behaved very badly indeed and that, though she
might be kind and forgiving, all was over between them.
Just then Charles Stuart turned in his seat and whispered, "Look,
Lizzie, look at Trip!"
Elizabeth turned in the direction he indicated. Trip had as usual been
forbidden to follow the family to church, but there he was trotting
along the roadside, stopping every now and then to lift up one paw and
look inquiringly after his master. Elizabeth returned Charles Stuart's
glance and they giggled.
Trip was really a very dear and funny little dog and she was very fond
of him. To be sure, he was often wild and bad just like Charles
Stuart, but then he was so neat and cute and frisky and altogether
lovable. He had a cunning face, queerly marked. Round one eye was a
large black patch, which gave him a disreputable air, and his habit of
putting his little head on one side and looking supernaturally wise,
just as though he could not see out of the bad black eye, further
emphasized his naughty appearance. He was the noisiest thing of his
size that could be found too. He could raise more row over a
groundhog's hole, Tom Teeter said, than an army would over the
discovery of an ambushed enemy. But to-day he was trotting meekly by
the roadside, unmindful of chipmunks or swallows, for he knew right
well he was doing wrong, and felt it was safer to be quiet.
"What'll you do with him?" asked Elizabeth anxiously.
"Wait till I catch him at the church. I'll make him scoot for home,
you bet."
Elizabeth looked worried. "Oh, Charles Stuart, you won't hurt him?"
"I'll make him mind me, anyhow," said Charles Stuart firmly, and
Elizabeth knew from past experience that it would be useless to
interfere. Nevertheless, she felt very sorry for the little dog
trotting along towards sure disappointment, and once again she quite
forgot that she had intended to be cold and distant to Trip's master.
The old buggy rattled along through alternate sunshine and shade.
Elizabeth soon forgot Trip and sat gazing off over hill and valley, not
even hearing what Annie and Jean were telling Mother MacAllister about
their new dresses. She was far above such thoughts. They had dipped
down into the hollow where the stream flowed brown and cool beneath the
bridge and had begun to climb the big hill where the view of the lovely
green earth grew wider at each step. As they went up and up, the
rolling hills seemed gradually to fall away, leaving a great space of
deep blue sky touched with white bunches of dazzling clouds, for there
always seemed more sky in Oro than in any other place. Now the long
thread of the little river lying across the valley they had left,
gleamed out blue and bright, now it disappeared, and before them
another gleam of blue above far-off treetops shone forth, where Lake
Simcoe lay sparkling in the sunlight. There was a little green island
away out on its shining floor, and Elizabeth, with her dreamy eyes
fixed upon it, thought it must look like Heaven. Then it all vanished,
sinking like a beautiful dream-lake behind the treetops as they
descended into the wooded valley. Elizabeth sighed happily. Here the
air smelt cool and sweet, a mingling of damp earth, fragrant blossoms,
running water, and wood-violets. The loveliness of the world of forest
and sky would on ordinary occasions have driven her to wild abandon,
sent her flying over fields and fences as far removed as possible from
the genteel. But to-day was Sunday, and Mother MacAllister's arm was
about her, and her spirit was filled with a great content.
She softly hummed the psalm with which they so often opened the church
service down there in the hollow:
"_O, come let us sing to the Lord,
To Him our voices raise.
With joyful noise let us the rock
Of our salvation praise._"
And from the little basket phaeton behind, Miss Gordon, watching her
charges, wondered what foolish thoughts were passing through Lizzie's
flighty little head. It could not even approach her consciousness that
the child's very soul was raised in rapturous worship.
Down the hill slowly wound the little procession. Elizabeth looked
back. Behind her aunt was Martin's buggy. She could see Susie, one of
her bosom-friends, on the front seat beside her father. But she did
not wave her hand, because it was Sunday and Aunt Margaret was looking.
The little church in the hollow opposite the schoolhouse came in sight
as they emerged from the woods at Sandy McLachlan's gate. It was a
straight, clapboard structure, painted white, and standing in a
forlorn-looking little field bare of trees. At one side stretched a
long shed; at the other a grass-grown graveyard with leaning
headstones. Inside there were also evidences that beauty had been
sacrificed to economy in the building of Forest Glen Church. It was
severely plain, with bare white walls, and a flat and smoky ceiling.
There was a big oblong stove, the same shape as the church, at the end
near the door, and a little organ and a pulpit-table on a small
platform at the other end.
The only attempt at decoration was a big bunch of cherry blossoms
someone had placed upon the organ, and four mottoes, worked in colored
wools and framed in Lake Simcoe shells, which hung upon the walls.
Sunday school was held during the hour before the church service, the
two congregations being very much alike. For an ideal state of affairs
prevailed in Forest Glen. People did not send their children to Sunday
school; they took them. Noah Clegg was the superintendent, and old
Sandy McLachlan assistant. Noah operated at the end where the platform
stood, while Sandy officiated at the door, ushering in the pupils, and
often during the session, calling out instructions to Noah from his end
of the building. Sandy's chief duty was to let people into the church
and keep out the dogs, which like the people showed a laudable desire
to attend divine service, especially in the winter. Sandy was armed
with a big stick, and if any canine approached it, woe betide him. He
and Noah Clegg were fast friends, so the double-headed organization
worked well. Besides it was a necessity, for, while the Forest Glen
church and its minister were Presbyterians, the Sunday school had gone
far ahead of the times and was a shining example of what might be
achieved by Church union. Noah Clegg was a Methodist, and Sandy
McLachlan a pillar in the Presbyterian church. Old Silas Pratt, who
was secretary-treasurer, and his daughter who was the organist, were
close-communion Baptists, and there were several Anglicans who taught
classes. All denominations had a voice in the managing of the Sunday
school, but an hour later, when the Rev. Mr. Murray drove out from
Cheemaun, the service took on a decidedly Presbyterian color.
When the buggies from The Dale valley rumbled up to the door, Sandy
McLachlan was there, stick in hand. He was a queer but intelligent old
man, who lived in a little house on the edge of the woods where the
Short Cut met the highway. He was quite alone in the world, except for
his little grand-daughter Eppie. Elizabeth knew Eppie well, as they
were about the same age, and in the same class in Sunday school. As
she alighted, she caught sight of the little girl in her coarse
homespun dress and heavy boots hiding shyly behind her grandfather. At
the sight of Elizabeth her face broke into a radiant smile. This was
her one schoolmate who was always kind to poor Eppie.
But, as Elizabeth hurried up the steps towards her, she almost stumbled
over Trip who came cowering behind. There were only two or three
things in the world that Trip was afraid of, and Martin's big yellow
dog was one of them. This terrible brute was slowly approaching with
gleaming teeth, bristling yellow hair, and terrible inward rumblings.
Scarcely knowing what she did, Elizabeth caught up the shivering little
terrier and rolled him under her pinafore. She looked about
distractedly for Charles Stuart, but both he and John had driven the
horses to the sheds. Elizabeth slowly approached the door in an agony
of uncertainty. It would be dreadfully wicked to take a dog into
church, even if one could pass old Sandy, but it was impossible to
leave Trip out there to be rent in pieces by those terrible yellow
jaws. She pressed behind Sarah Emily, striving to hide the squirming
little bundle beneath her pinafore.
"Are ye goin' to take him in?" whispered Eppie in dismay.
"I--I don't know what to do," faltered Elizabeth. "Brag 'll kill him
if I leave him here--and your grandpa won't let him in."
"Grandaddy 'll not be saying anything," whispered Eppie. "Jist be
slippin' in by."
As they approached the big knotted stick, Miss Gordon, leading Jamie by
the hand, passed in ahead of them. Sandy lowered his stick and made a
profound bow. He had been heard many times to declare that Miss Gordon
was the finest lady he had seen since he left the Old Country, and he
knew a lady when he saw one. Miss Gordon was aware of Sandy's opinion,
and as usual bowed to him most graciously, and under cover of her entry
Elizabeth, breathless with dread of the fell deed she was committing,
slipped inside and up to her class seat, still holding the trembling
little dog beneath her pinafore.
There were already three other little girls in the class, who all gazed
in amazement at the new pupil. Rosie Carrick was there, Rosie of the
pink cheeks and the long curls who was Elizabeth's dearest chum. Rosie
giggled at the sight of Trip, and Elizabeth felt ashamed. Rosie was
the dearest girl in the world, but she would giggle at anything, even a
tragedy.
"Please, teacher," said Katie Price, "Lizzie Gordon's fetched a dog
into Sunday school." Katie Price always told things, and Rosie stopped
giggling and whispered, "Aw, tattle-tale!"
The teacher looked down at the little dog crouching between Elizabeth's
feet and Eppie's. But she did not look the least bit cross. Martha
Ellen never did. She giggled harder than Rosie, and exclaimed:
"Laws! Lizzie Gordon, where did you get him?" and then straightened
her big hat and glanced across the aisle towards Mr. Coulson's class.
Elizabeth looked up at her in overwhelming gratitude. She had always
adored Martha Ellen Robertson, but never so much as at this minute.
"Please, teacher," she faltered, "Martin's Brag was going to eat him
up. He's Charles Stuart MacAllister's dog, and I can give him to
Charles Stuart when he comes."
"Oh, he ain't going' to hurt anybody; are you, little doggie?"
whispered Martha Ellen good-naturedly. "He'll be all right so long as
your grandpa don't see him; eh, Eppie?"
Eppie smiled shyly, and then Noah Clegg's squeaky boots sounded up the
aisle and Sunday school had commenced.
Elizabeth drew a great sigh of relief, and glanced about her to see if
anyone appeared conscious of the guilty secret squeezed between her and
Eppie. But apparently no one was. All her own family, seated about
the room, seemed absorbed in their own affairs.
Each of the Gordons had a place in Sunday school, either as pupil or
teacher. Mr. Gordon taught the old folk who sat on the front row of
seats. Every Sabbath they were there, their hard hands folded, their
gray heads and toil-worn shoulders bent, listening while the man with
the sad, sweet face told them stories of One whose hands had been rent,
and whose shoulders had been bowed by the burden of their sin, and Who,
could they but know Him, would, under all the labor and money-getting
of their narrow lives, reveal to them life's true and noble meaning.
Miss Gordon taught the Young Ladies' Bible Class, her most critical
pupil being Sarah Emily, whose presence there the good lady could not
but regard as an intrusion. Annie taught a class of tiny girls near
the front. She had taken her place beside them and sat with bent head
and scarlet cheeks. Long ago she had learned that from her position it
was very easy to catch the eye of the teacher of a class of big boys
across the aisle. But one swift glance at him sitting up straight,
haughty, and severe, convinced her she must never expect a kindly
glance from that source again. She had bidden him go, because her aunt
had commanded her, but, oh, how could she have suspected that he would
obey? She sat in misery, striving desperately to keep back her tears.
Ordinarily Elizabeth would have noticed her sister's distressed face,
but Trip once more claimed her attention. Just across the aisle was
Old Silas Pratt's class, to which John and Charles Stuart belonged.
They had just entered, and, with a squirm and a grunt, the little dog
jerked himself free from the nervous grip of his preserver's feet, and
darted across the aisle to his master. Charles Stuart shoved him under
the scat, pinning him there with his legs, and looked inquiringly
towards Elizabeth. Such an improper proceeding as this entirely suited
Charles Stuart's ideas, but how Elizabeth came to be a partner in it
was something he did not understand.
But Sunday school was opening, and, as no one seemed to have noticed
the dog, Elizabeth, greatly relieved, gave her attention to duty. Noah
Clegg had sent Wully Johnstone's Johnny to look up and down the line to
see if there was anyone coming, and Johnny having reported no one but
Silas Pratt's brindled cow, the service commenced.
"Now, boys and girls," said the superintendent, with a fine old London
accent, "we'll sing 'ymn number fifty-four:
"_There is a 'appy land
Far, far away._"
Noah Clegg was a good little man, with a round, cheery face, iron-gray
hair, and a short, stubby beard. He wore a shiny black suit, and his
new Sabbath boots, which turned up at the toes like Venetian gondolas
and sang like gondoliers. He held a stick in his hand, with which he
beat time, and now gave the signal to the organist to commence.
Miss Lily Pratt struck up the tune, and the school arose.
"Now, boys an' girls, an' grown-ups, too," cried the superintendent,
"sing up fine an' 'earty. This is a 'appy land we live in an' we're
goin' to a 'appier one; an' this is a 'appy day, an' I 'ope the good
Lord 'll give us all 'appy 'earts."
The school burst into song. Everyone, from old Granny Teeter in the
front row to little Jamie Gordon down in the primary class, sang with
all his might. Then there was an equally hearty reading of the Lesson.
This was a short extract from the Scriptures printed on their little
leaflets. Noah Clegg read one verse, while the school responded with
the next in rumbling unison, after which each teacher turned to his
class. This was simply done by reversing the seat ahead, the back of
which turned over in the most accommodating manner, enabling the
instructor to sit facing his pupils.
The Lesson was read again in class, verses were recited, and then the
teacher asked questions or expounded the passage. A pleasant buzz and
hum arose. Now and then a voice would rise above the general rumble,
for old Silas Pratt was deaf, and Charles Stuart MacAllister and Wully
Johnstone's Johnny, and John Gordon and all the other bad boys in his
class, shouted their memory verses into his ear louder than even
necessity demanded. Then Wully Johnstone had a powerful and
penetrating voice and taught so loud that everyone in the church heard
him even better than he heard his own teacher.
The little girls in Martha Ellen Robertson's class were always quiet
and well-behaved, partly because it was the nature of all except
Elizabeth, but mostly because they were very much in love with their
teacher and intensely proud of her. They felt they had good reason to
be, for was it not known all over the countryside that Martha Ellen was
the best-dressed young lady outside Cheemaun. Every Sunday, Elizabeth
and Rosie, squeezed up against the wall to avoid the drip from the
coal-oil lamp above, sat waiting for her arrival and whispering eager
speculations as to what new things she would wear. They were seldom
disappointed, and to-day their teacher had never looked finer. She
wore a brand new white hat, with a huge bunch of luscious red cherries
nodding over the wide brim. To be sure, the white embroidered dress
was last summer's freshly starched and ironed, but she had a new, broad
blue satin ribbon round her slim waist and tied in a big bow at her
side. Then Martha Ellen always wore gold bracelets and rings; and,
what was her most attractive ornament to her class, a beautiful gold
watch in her belt, attached to a long gold chain about her neck. The
girls often saw the watch, much to their joy, for several times during
Sunday school Martha Ellen would pull it out and say in surprise, "The
time's not up yet," and would continue with the lesson.
Martha Ellen was always kind, and one of the few people with whom
Elizabeth expanded. Elizabeth was often wild and foolish in school,
but in Sunday school that older inner self was always predominant and
she was as wise and well behaved as Noah Clegg himself. For inside the
church building the child's mind was held in a kind of holy fear. She
spent most of her time there dwelling upon her sins and longing to be
good. She did not know that the starched pinafore that scratched her
neck, the tightness of her heavy braid of hair, and the stiffness of
her Sunday boots contributed not a little to her inner discomfort. But
she gave her undivided attention to Miss Robertson and the lesson.
She was never distracted, as Rosie so often was by Katie Price's
clothes. Katie had on a new sash to-day, and Rosie sighed and poked
Elizabeth and asked her if she didn't wish to goodness she had one,
too. Elizabeth glanced at the sash quite unmoved. The Gordon girls
never had sashes, nor finery of any kind, but why should one who knew
she would some day wear a flashing suit of silvery armor and a crimson
velvet cloak be envious of mere ribbons? Elizabeth did not confide
this comforting assurance to Rosie, but she whispered truthfully, No,
that she didn't want one like Katie Price's. She was quite unconscious
of the fact that there dwelt in her mind not a little of Aunt
Margaret's pride--the feeling that it was infinitely better to be a
Gordon in a dun-colored pinafore than a Price in a silk sash and a
flower-trimmed hat.
She soon forgot all about Katie in her absorption in the lesson.
Anything savoring of religion took strong hold of Elizabeth, and even
Martha Ellen's presentation of a passage of Scripture appealed to her.
When the passage was re-read, Miss Robertson read a list of questions
off the printed page before her. "Who was Zaccheus?" was the first
question. Katie Price was looking at her sash and didn't know. Susie
Martin hung her head and blushed, Eppie Turner was always too shy to
speak, and Rosie Carrick ventured the remark that "he was a man." Miss
Robertson passed on perfectly good-natured. "Lizzie Gordon, who was
Zaccheus?" Lizzie Gordon knew all about him, and spun off information,
even to his being little and having to climb a tree. "I can tell lots
more," she said invitingly, as Miss Robertson held up her hand to stem
the flood. But the teacher smilingly shook her head. Lizzie was
getting too far ahead. "Where did he live?" was the next question read
off in the direction of Katie Price, and so on they went until all the
questions were read and answered, Elizabeth supplying whatever
information the rest of the class failed to give. Next came the
"Application," which Elizabeth enjoyed most, because it left room for
discussion. The "Application" applied to each verse and was also read
by the teacher. "Zaccheus was a small man. We may be small and
insignificant in the eyes of the world, but none the less does
responsibility devolve upon each one of us." "Zaccheus climbed a tree.
We learn from this that we should all strive to climb to the loftiest
that life can attain." Elizabeth put in an occasional remark, and
Martha Ellen responded. This was one of the former's grown-up moments
and she reveled in it. There was none of the family there to carry
home the tale that Lizzie was putting on pious airs, and so expose her
to Jean's ridicule; and Martha Ellen's marked appreciation drew her out
to make the wisest and profoundest remarks.
Occasionally Miss Robertson would take out her gold watch and look at
it in surprise, and then continue. Occasionally, also, she glanced
across the aisle to the big boys' class, and once she was rewarded by a
smile and a gracious bow from its teacher. Then Martha Ellen's cheeks
grew pink and the cherries on her hat, Elizabeth noticed, shook just as
the cherries in the orchard did when the wind swept through the boughs.
She looked very much pleased, too, and glanced back to where Annie
Gordon in her plain, blue cotton dress sat with drooping head, striving
to give her attention to the lesson.
Miss Robertson had finally read all the "Application," and again she
looked at her gold watch, while the class sat admiring it. There were
still some minutes left, and, with a sigh, the teacher twisted her gold
bracelets and then turned the page. "We have just time for the moral
piece," she said. "The moral piece" was a little sermon at the end of
the Lesson, containing an admonition to all youthful minds, and Martha
Ellen sometimes used it to fill in the last few minutes. Elizabeth
always listened to it solemnly, for it was full of long, high-sounding
words that gave her an exalted feeling. But just now her attention was
diverted by signs of dire trouble brewing across the aisle. John and
Charles Stuart, all unmindful of old Silas Pratt, who was solemnly
reading the moral piece, the paper held close to his eyes, were
doubling up in convulsions of silent laughter; while from underneath
them came ominous squeaks and rumbles and a pair of wicked eyes gleamed
from the dusky shadow of the seat. Elizabeth's heart stood still.
Those dreadful boys were teasing Trip, and he would burst forth soon
into loud barking, and what would become of the culprit who had brought
him into the church?
The moral piece was drawing to a close; old Wully Johnstone had
finished his, and a hush had fallen over the school. Noah Clegg had
left his class, and gone squeak, squeak on tiptoe to the platform, and
was coming squeak, squeak back again with the collection box. The
little girls had begun to untie their cents from the corners of their
handkerchiefs.
Now, the window just above Elizabeth's head was open, and a little
sparrow, emboldened by the quiet, hopped upon the sill, and fell to
pecking at some crumbs left there from the last tea-meeting. He even
ventured to the edge of the sill and with his knowing little head on
one side contemplated, with one bright eye, the cherries on Martha
Ellen's hat, as though he longed to get a peck at them.
But just across the church the wicked pair of gleaming eyes were
watching the little sparrow from the dark corner. From beneath them
subterranean grumblings and mutterings warned Charles Stuart that Trip
was growing dangerously excited. John Gordon indicated the cause, by a
nod at the sparrow, and the two boys ducked their heads in an agony of
mirth. This was too much for Charles Stuart. Not stopping to consider
the consequences, he leaned down and whispered, "Crows, Trip, crows!"
and clutched the little dog tighter between his legs. Now Trip had
been trained all spring to chase the crows from the corn, and this was
his signal to charge. Not all the boys in Forest Glen Sunday school
could have held him at that moment. The word "crows" changed him into
a raging, squirming, yelping, snarling, exploding little
powder-magazine. With a yell of wrath he burst free and leaped upon
the opposite seat, knocking the moral piece from Silas Pratt's hand and
the spectacles from his nose. With one explosive yelp he hurtled
across the aisles, landed upon Martha Ellen Robertson's seat, slid half
its slippery length, righted himself, and standing upon his hind legs,
with his front paws upon the back of the seat, he burst into a storm of
wild barking. Of course the sparrow was by this time away down near
Lake Simcoe, but Trip still continued his uproar. He did not bark, he
fairly squalled out all his long pent-up rage, leaping and dancing on
his wicked little hind legs, and making noise enough to scare every
bird out of Forest Glen woods.
The consternation was not confined to the birds. Everybody stood up
and exclaimed in horror. Martha Ellen was so alarmed that she screamed
right out loud, and ran across the aisle to Mr. Coulson for protection.
Noah Clegg dropped the collection all over the floor, and Silas Pratt
put on his spectacles again and ejaculated, "Well, well, well, well!"
Even the daring Charles Stuart was rather dismayed at the havoc he had
wrought, and as for poor Elizabeth, words could not describe how rent
and torn she was between shame and terror. Sandy McLachlan was the
only one who seemed equal to the emergency. He arose, exclaiming
explosively, "For peety's sake!" and in two minutes the dog was flying
through the doorway with yelps of terror, followed by several profane
anathemas upon his wicked little head for "pollutin' the hoose o' God."
Noah Clegg gathered up the pennies and took his place upon the platform
as if nothing had happened. Any rare case of insubordination in the
Sunday school was never dealt with there. It was left to home
discipline, which, being of the good old Canadian sort, was always
salutary. So, knowing by the MacAllister's lowering countenance that
dire consequences awaited his son upon his return home, Noah gave out
the closing hymn, with undisturbed cheerfulness:
"Come along now, boys and girls, an' we'll sing our closin' 'ymn.
Never mind the poor little puppy, there ain't no bad in him at all.
Come along an' we'll sing No. 148--'Oh, 'Appy Day,' and then you'll go
out an' fill your lungs full o' hair before church starts."