Angus McRae had been an intimate friend of Edward Brians, ever since
the days when the latter was a little boy and the former a young man
living on adjoining farms. Angus had, early in life, taken upon
himself the rôle of Good Samaritan, watching with especial care over
this young neighbour, and many a time the headlong lad might have
fallen among thieves had a friend's example and assistance not been
always at hand.
And now Lawyer Ed's mind was busy with schemes for returning a little
of that life-long assistance, as he set out for his office the morning
after young Roderick's rainbow expedition. "I've got to get some
money, and I will get it," he announced to the blooming syringa bush at
his door, "if I have to take it by assault and battery."
He had come home very late the night before, but he was astir none the
less early for that. For though he was usually the last man in the
town to go to bed, and often worked nearly all night, he always
appeared in good time the next morning, looking as fresh and
well-groomed as though he had just come home from a month's vacation.
Like all the other professional folk of Algonquin, Lawyer Ed lived up
on the hill to the north of the town. His widowed sister kept his
house and wondered, with all the rest of the town, why on earth Ed
didn't get married. Her brother answered all enquiries on the subject
according to the age and sex of the enquirer; and had nearly every
young lady in the place convinced that he was secretly pining for her.
He came swinging down his steps this bright June morning humming a tune
in his deep melodious voice. He picked a rosebud and fastened it in
his button-hole and strode down the street, stopping at the gate of
every one of his friends--and who wasn't his friend?--to hail the owner
and summon him to his work. He ran into "Rosemount," the big brick
house where the handsome Miss Armstrongs lived, to make arrangements
for a Choral Society practice, he drummed up a half-dozen recreant
Sunday-school teachers within the space of two blocks, and he roared
across the street to Doctor Archie Blair to be sure not to forget that
thae bit bills for the Scotchmen's picnic maun be gotten oot that week.
For Lawyer Ed belonged to every organisation of the town in church or
state, except the Ladies' Aid--and he often attended even its meetings
when he wanted something, and always got what he wanted, too. So,
although he had started early, it was rather late when at last he
reached the home of his special friend, J. P. Thornton, and hammered
loudly on the gate. So late, in fact, that J. P. had gone. He went on
alone very much disappointed. When any one in Algonquin was in trouble
he went to Lawyer Ed, but when Lawyer Ed was in trouble himself, he
went to his old chum, J. P. Thornton. And he was in trouble this
morning, none the less deep that it was another's. He looked down the
street towards his office, knowing a big day's work awaited him there.
"You can just wait," he remarked to the trim red brick building. "I've
got to get Angus off my mind;" and he whirled in at the Manse gate and
went up the steps in two springs.
The Manse was a broad-bosomed, wide-armed house, opposite the church,
looking as if it wanted to embrace every one who approached its big
doorway. Its appearance was not deceiving. No matter at what hour one
went inside its gate, one found at least half the congregation there,
the sad ones sitting in the doctor's study, the happy ones spread out
over the lawn. As Lawyer Ed remarked, the Lord had purposely given the
Leslies no children, so that they might adopt the congregation and
bring it up in the way it should go.
Mrs. Leslie was at the other end of the garden, cutting roses; she
waved a spray at him, heavy with dew, and he took off his hat and made
her a profound bow. He would have shouted a greeting to any other
woman in Algonquin, but he never roared at Mrs. Leslie. There was
something In the stately old-world atmosphere surrounding the lady of
the Manse, that made even Lawyer Ed treat her with deference.
The door was open and he went straight in and along the hall towards
the minister's study. As he did so a door at the opposite end of the
hall opened suddenly and admitted a round black face and an ample
red-aproned figure.
"Good mawnin', Missy Viney!" drawled the visitor. "I done wanta see de
ministah, bress de Lawd!"
Viney's white eyeballs and shining teeth flashed him a welcome.
"Laws-a-me, Lawya Ed! Is you-all gwine get marrit?"
Viney was a fat, jolly young woman, whom Mrs. Leslie had lured from the
little negro settlement in the township of Oro, a few miles from
Algonquin. She felt the responsibility of her position fully, and
showed a marked interest in the affairs of every one of the
congregation. But of all living things she loved Lawyer Ed most. His
presence never failed to put her in the highest spirits, and his
bachelorhood was her perennial joke.
"Yassum," he answered, hanging his head shyly, "if you done hab me,
Viney. I bin wantin' you for years, but I bin too bashful."
Viney screamed and flapped her red apron at him. "You go 'long, you
triflin' lawya-man!" she cried, going off into a gale of giggles; but
just then the study door opened, the minister's head came out, and the
cook's vanished.
"Ah, I thought it was you, Edward, by the joyful noise," said Dr.
Leslie, smiling. He took his visitor by the hand and drew him in.
"Come away, come. I was hoping you would drop in this morning."
They sat down, the minister in his arm-chair before his desk. Lawyer
Ed balanced on the arm of another, protesting that he must not stay.
It was his way when he dropped in at the Manse and remained a couple of
hours or so, to bustle about, hat and stick in hand, changing from one
chair to another, to assure himself that he was just going. Dr. Leslie
understood, and did not urge him to sit down.
Though not an old man, the minister had seen Lawyer Ed grow up from the
position of a scholar in his Sabbath School, and quite the most riotous
and mischievous one there, to the superintendency of it, and to a seat
in the session; and he had a special fatherly feeling towards his
youngest elder. Dr. Leslie was the only man in Algonquin, too, folk
said, whom Lawyer Ed feared, and to whose opinion he deferred without
argument.
"And have you heard from Angus this morning,--or the wee lad?"
"Archie came home about an hour ago. The little rascal's all right,
except for a sore arm. I guess he nearly put it out of joint,
paddling. Angus was better, too; but I'm bothered about Angus, Dr.
Leslie. That's what I came in for."
He moved about the room, fingering ornaments, picking up books and
laying them down again.
"Archie Blair says the anxiety was so bad for his heart, that he's got
to stop work right away, for all summer anyway, and perhaps longer.
And his place is all planted, and yesterday, at my advice, he put a
mortgage on it."
He stopped before his minister and looked at him with appealing,
troubled eyes. "I feel as if I shouldn't have let him, but I didn't
anticipate this."
Dr. Leslie sat drumming his fingers on the table, his face very grave.
"We can't see Angus McRae want, Edward. We're all indebted to him for
something--every one of the session, and the minister most of all."
"The session!" Lawyer Ed jumped off the arm of the sofa where he had
just perched. "There's an idea. If you laid it before them, they'd do
something; and J. P. and I'll push it and Archie Blair will help."
The minister shook his head. "The session is a big body, Edward,
and--" he smiled,--"it has wives and daughters. This must not be
talked about. If we help Angus, we mustn't kill him at the same time
by hurting his Highland pride."
Lawyer Ed whacked a sofa cushion impatiently with his cane.
"There it is, of course! Hang Scotchmen, anyway! You can't treat them
like human beings. That abominable thing they call their pride--always
clogs your wheels whichever way you go."
"Don't revile the tree from which you sprung, Edward," said the
Scotchman, smiling.
"Thank the Lord, the limb I grew on had a few good green Irish
shamrocks mixed with the thistles. If Angus had been as fortunate we'd
have him out of distress to-morrow."
"Angus McRae will be the least distressed of us all. I thought of Paul
last night when I saw him, 'troubled on every side, yet not distressed,
perplexed but not in despair.' We must think of some way in which we
can help him quietly--so quietly he may not know it himself. Who has
the mortgage?"
"Jock McPherson, of course, who else?"
The minister's face brightened. "Jock McPherson! Well, well, that is
fortunate, Edward. Jock's heart is big enough to put the whole church
inside provided you find the right key."
"Yes, but it's a ticklish job fitting it when you do find it. Some
small item in the business will strike him the wrong way and he will
get slow and stiff and arise to the occasion with, 'I feel, Mister
Moterator, that it is my juty to object.'"
His imitation of Mr. McPherson's deliberate manner, when in his sadly
frequent rôle of objector in the session, could not but bring a smile
to the minister's face.
"I have no fear of your not being able to overcome his objections,
should any arise. Now, sit down just a few minutes, and let us see
what is to be done."
The two talked far into the morning, and laid their plans well. Mr.
McPherson was to be persuaded to remove the mortgage, and instead, as
Angus was in need of the money, to rent the farm. Lawyer Ed was to see
that it was let for a goodly sum that would keep its owner beyond
anxiety, and whatever Jock stood to lose by the bargain was to be
returned to him in whole or part by a little circle of friends. It was
a great scheme, worthy of a legal mind, Dr. Leslie said, and Lawyer Ed
went away well pleased with it.
He went two blocks out of his way, so that he could reach J. P.
Thornton's office without passing his own, and spent another hour
laying the scheme before him.
So, when he finally got to his place of business, irate clients were
buzzing about it like angry bees. But little cared Lawyer Ed. He
laughed and joked them all into good humour and dropping into the chair
at his desk, he drove through a mass of business in an incredibly short
time, telephoning, writing notes, hailing passers-by on the street, and
attending to his correspondence, all while he was holding personal
interviews,--doing half-a-dozen things at once and doing them as though
they were holiday sport.
The rush of the day's business kept him from speaking to Jock McPherson
until late in the evening, when, at the end of the session meeting, he
found himself walking away from the church with Mr. McPherson on one
side and his friend, J. P. Thornton, on the other. He felt just a
little anxious over the outcome of the interview. He had no fear that
Jock would be unwilling to help Angus McRae, but he had every fear, and
with good reason, that he would want to do it in his own way. If Jock
were in a good humour, he would fall in with the plan, if not, he would
do exactly as he pleased and spoil everything.
And, as ill-luck would have it, when they were coming down the steps
under the checkered light from the arc-lamp shining through the leaves,
Lawyer Ed made the most unfortunate remark he could have chosen.
He was carrying home a Book of Praise under his arm and was humming a
psalm in a rich undertone. And the unwise thing he said was: "I'd like
to sing the _Amen_ at the end of the psalms, as well as the hymns.
What do you say, J. P.?"
"An excellent idea, Ed," said Mr. Thornton heartily. "The psalms would
sound much more finished--" He stopped suddenly, realising that they
had made a fatal mistake. Mr. McPherson had overheard, and uttered a
disgusted snort. For he hated the new appendage to the hymns, and
looked upon its importation into the church service much as if the use
of incense had been introduced. He was a little man, with a shrewd eye
and a slow tongue--but a tongue that could give a deadly thrust when he
got ready to use it.
"The Aye-men," he said with great deliberation, and when he was most
deliberate, he was most to be feared. "Inteet, and you'll be putting
that tail to the end o' the psawlms too." He tapped Lawyer Ed on the
arm with his spectacle case. "Jist be waiting a bit till you get
permission, young man. You and John Thornton are not jist awl the
session."
Mr. McPherson was the senior elder, the champion of all things
orthodox, and he was inclined to regard Lawyer Ed and J. P. as
irresponsible boys.
"Hoot toot, mon," shouted Lawyer Ed jovially. "What's wrong wi' a bit
Aye-men foreby? It's in the Scriptur', 'Let all the people say
Amen'--and here you would forbid them!"
Jock was a Highlander, and Lawyer Ed's habit of addressing him in a
Lowland dialect was particularly irritating as the mischievous young
elder well knew.
"Yus. You know the Scriptures ferry well indeed, but if you would be
reading a little farther you will find that it will be saying, 'How
shall he that occupieth the room of the unlearned say Amen?'"
This tickled Lawyer Ed and he laughed loudly. "Tut, tut, Jock! It's a
small thing to make a fuss about. You and Jimmie McTavish and a lot
more of you fellows are dead set against all sorts of things that you
accept in the end. Why, man, I can remember the day when you two
objected to the little organ in the old church, and you got used to it
and liked it."
"I liked it? Indeed, and when would that be?"
"Well, you stopped kicking, anyway, until we got the big one, which was
clean unreasonable, whatefer."
"No, sir." Mr. McPherson's spectacle case tapped the younger man's arm
peremptorily. "I was perfectly logical then, as I am now. I objected
when the wee squeaking thing was brought in, and I objected more when
you and the weemin filled up the end o' the church with a machine to
turn us all deef. As I say, I was perfectly logical, the greater the
organ, the greater the objection."
J. P. hid a smile in the darkness and hastened to interpose, for when
Jock once got riding his objection hobby he would agree with nothing
under the sun.
"There's an article in the _British Weekly_ on the evolution of the
church service--" he began; but his impetuous friend was bent on
setting Jock right in his own way, and hastened to his destruction.
"And on the same principle, the more Amen, the more objection, eh?" he
cried laughingly. "But now, look here, if you'll only consider this
thing with a fair mind you can't help seeing that, as J. P. says, a
hymn or a psalm sounds unfinished without an Amen at the end. Take any
hymn for example--"
They had reached the McPherson gate by this time, where an arc light,
high up in its leafy perch, was sputtering away shedding a white glow
over the side-walk and embroidering it with an exquisite pattern worked
out in leaf-shadows. Lawyer Ed paused under the lamp and opened the
Book of Praise.
"I defy you to find one that isn't improved and finished and rounded
off by an Amen at the end." He selected a hymn at random, and sang a
stanza in his rich voice that poured itself out gloriously on the
evening air.
"_Faith and hope and love we see
Joining hands in unity,
But the greatest of the three
And the best is love. Amen._"
The beautiful words, sung in Lawyer Ed's melodious voice, were enough
to move even Jock's orthodox heart. He was silent for a moment, then
the noise of a window being raised above their heads interrupted.
Mrs. McPherson was accustomed to after-session meetings, and noisy ones
too, at her gate. But when they were accompanied by singing and
shouting, at the disgraceful hour of eleven P. M. she felt it time to
interfere. So she opened the window noisily and enquired if there was
a fire anywhere.
There was. It blazed up in Lawyer Ed's heart, so enraged was he at
this very inopportune interruption, coming just when he thought he saw
Jock wavering. He shouted at her to go in and mind her own business.
No one in Algonquin heeded what Lawyer Ed said when he was angry, but
Mr. McPherson was in no mood to put up with even him. He became deadly
slow and deliberate. He turned his back on the turbulent young man,
and addressed the open window:
"No, it will not be a fire, Mary," he called. "It's just an Eerishman
got loose, and we'll haf to let him talk off his noise. He reminds
me," he continued, still addressing the window, though it had closed
with a bang, "he reminds me of that Chersey cow, my Cousin McNabb had
in Islay. She wasn't much for giffin' milk, and it was vurry thin at
that, but she was a great musician. You could hear her bawlin' across
two concessions."
J. P. Thornton was a jolly young Englishman, very prone to mirth, and
this was too much for him. He turned traitor and laughed aloud.
Lawyer Ed glared angrily at him; but Jock's face underwent a peculiar
twist. He had had no notion of saying anything witty, he had been too
angry for that; but he had learned by experience that he never knew
when he was going to make a joke. He was often surprised in the midst
of a speech by a burst of laughter from his friends, Lawyer Ed
generally first. Then he would pause and survey the path he had
travelled, to find that all unconsciously he had stumbled upon a
humorous vein. So when J. P. laughed he stopped to consider. The
enemy flew to defend his "bawlin'" and there was no time to see if he
really had made a joke. But he was suspicious, and the suspicion put
him into a good humour. A sudden inspiration seized him; he caught the
book Lawyer Ed was brandishing and, opening it, laid it carefully on
the top of the gate-post.
"It's more feenished and rounded off, with the '_Aye_-men, is it?" he
enquired with deep sarcasm. "But you would not be feenishing it after
all. If ye're bound and deturmined to put a tail on the end o' the
hime, why don't ye sing awl that's in the book. You would be leaving
out a bit."
He took his glasses from their case, fitted them on, and held the book
carefully towards the electric light.
"If ye want it feenished, this is the way it should be sung."
Now, not even Mrs. Jock, who believed her husband the cleverest man in
Algonquin, could say he was a singer, and it was with a terribly
discordant wail that he lifted his voice in the melancholy words of the
hymn before him:
"_There are no pardons in the toomb,
And brief is mercy's day.
A-m-e-n-T-h-o-m-a-s-H-a-s-t-i-n-g-s--_"
The awful "Amen," drawled out to an indefinite length, with the
author's name, on the end, was irresistible. J. P. broke into a shout
of laughter. For a moment, Lawyer Ed's eyes gleamed in the darkness,
but only for a moment, then he too gave way, and when Lawyer Ed
laughed, a really good hearty laugh, it was a musical performance that
did not stop until every one within hearing was joining in the chorus.
And then Jock began to realise that he had been witty again. He paused
and bethought himself of what he had done, and he too saw how funny it
was. He did not laugh right out at first. Jock's mirth, like his wit,
was too deliberate for that. He began by uttering a low subterranean
sort of chuckle, which finally worked to the surface in a rhythmic
shaking of his whole sturdy little body. By this time J. P. was
leaning against a tree wiping his eyes, and everybody up and down the
street was smiling and saying, "That's Lawyer Ed's laugh. What's he up
to now, I wonder?" Jock checked his mirth quickly; it was not seemly
to rejoice too heartily over one's own humour, but before the joy of it
had left, by an adroit turn, J. P. had sent the conversation into its
proper channel.
"A good joke on you, Ed!" he cried. "I must tell that to Angus McRae.
Angus doesn't love the 'Amen' too much either, Jock."
"Angus is in great trouble," exclaimed Lawyer Ed, wiping his eyes and
trying to look serious. "Did you hear about it, Jock?"
Jock had not heard, so the story of little Roderick's rainbow
expedition and his father's consequent heart affection was quickly
told. And when the splendid plan to help was adroitly unfolded, Jock
was quick to respond. It was the psychological moment; Thomas Hastings
had driven away all dourness and Angus McRae's case was safe.
The two friends walked homeward under the shadows of the maples, the
night-air sweet with the perfume of many gardens. They were both very
happy, so happy indeed, that, as usual, they walked miles before they
finally settled for the night.
First, J. P. recollected again that fine article in the _British
Weekly_, and strolled up the hill with his friend while he gave a
synopsis of it. When they reached the gate, Lawyer Ed remembered that
he should have told J. P. about old man Cassidy's will and the trouble
Mike was in over it, and so returned to J. P.'s gate. The Cassidy will
was finished and J. P. in the midst of another fascinating article on
Imperial Federation, when they reached there, and Lawyer Ed made him
come up the hill again so that he might hear it. It was their usual
manner of going home after a session meeting.
"And may I ask," said J. P., when their personal part in the financing
of Angus's affairs had been finally settled, and they stood at his gate
for the third and last time, "may I ask, if it is not too curious on my
part, if you intend to appropriate church funds for your contribution,
or just rob the bank?" For J. P. knew well that Lawyer Ed's
extravagant generosity always kept him on the edge of poverty.
"Well, neither. Jock mightn't think the first was orthodox. I don't
believe he'd object so strongly to the second, but it mightn't be
successful. I think,--yes, I'm afraid, I must draw on the Jerusalem
Fund again."
"Of course, I knew you would. Let me see; that's seven times we've
stayed home from the Holy Land, isn't it?--the perfect number. A
person naturally thinks of sevens in connection with Bible places."
Lawyer Ed laughed light-heartedly. Ever since the days when these two
had tried to sit together in Sunday-school, and been separated by
Doctor Leslie, they had planned that some time, they would make a visit
together to Bible lands. Many a time since the trip had almost
materialised, but Lawyer Ed's money would fade away, or J. P.'s
business interfere or some other contingency arise to make them stay at
home. The final plans had been laid for the coming autumn, and now it
was again to be postponed.
But J. P. was not deceived into supposing Lawyer Ed was merely drawing
upon a holiday fund.
"I believe you have somewhere about five dollars laid away for that
trip, haven't you?"
"Four-and-a-half, to be correct," said his friend brazenly.
"I thought so. And where's the rest going to spring from?" He was
accustomed to keeping a stern eye on Ed's affairs or the extravagant
young man would have given away his house and office and all their
contents long ago.
Lawyer Ed did not answer for a moment. He looked like a naughty
schoolboy caught In a foolish prank. The confession came out at last.
"I'd almost decided not to go in with Will Graham's scheme. I don't
see how I can leave here just now, that's a fact."
"Ed!" cried his friend, half-admiring, half-impatient. "Why, man, it's
the chance of your life. Bill's making money so fast he can't keep
count of it. You'll be a rich man and a famous one too in a few years
if you go in with him, do you realise that?"
"Oh, there are lots more chances."
"Yes, and they'll slip away like this one. I,--can't I help a little
more?"
"No. And don't talk any more about it. It's just this way, Jock, I've
no choice in the matter. If it was my last cent, and I knew I'd go to
jail for it to-morrow, I'd help Angus. I just couldn't see him want.
It's all right. I'll stay on in Algonquin a few more years, and we'll
see what'll happen. Good-night."
"Yes, and good-night to all your ambitions and the Holy Land too."
"Not a bit of it! Ambition be hanged. I don't care about that. But
we're going to the Holy Land yet, if we put it off until seventy times
seven. We'll wait till young Roderick's grown up and pays us back, and
then we'll go. Indeed, I'm going to refuse positively to go to the New
Jerusalem until I've seen the old!"
He swung away up the street as bright and gay as though he had just
accepted a fine new position instead of refusing one. He was so happy
that he softly sang the hymn that had opened the good work of the
evening. It was very appropriate:
"_Faith and hope and love we see
Joining hands in unity,
But the greatest of the three
And the best is love._"
He was passing near Jock's house so he roared out the "Amen" in the
hope that the elder had not yet gone to sleep. And Mrs. Leslie's Viney
declared the next morning that she done heah dat Lawyah Ed and J. P.
Thornton gwine home straight ahead all de bressed night, and she did
'clar dey was still goin' when she put on de oatmeal mush for de
breakfus!