"MOVING TO MELODY"
The first Sunday that Angus McRae drove along the lake shore and up to
the church with Lawyer Ed's partner sitting at his side, he was
praying, all the way, to be delivered from the sin of pride. They left
Aunt Kirsty at home as usual, with her Bible and her hymn-book, for the
poor lady had grown so stout that she could not be lifted into buggy or
boat or conveyance of any kind. They started early, but stopped so
often on the road that they were none the earlier in arriving. For
Angus must needs pause at the McDuff home, to see that young Peter was
ready for church, and that old Peter was thoroughly sobered. And there
was a huge bouquet of Aunt Kirsty's asters to be left at Billy
Perkins's for the little girl who was sick. There were sounds of
strife in Mike Cassidy's home too, and Angus dismounted and went in to
reason with Mike and the wife on the incongruity of throwing the dishes
at each other, when they had spent the morning at mass.
So when the Good Samaritan had attended to all on the Jericho Road
there was not much time left, and the church bells were ringing when
they drove under the green tunnel of Elm Street; the Anglican, high,
resonant and silvery, the Presbyterian, with a slow, deep boom, and
between the two, and harmonising with both, the mellow, even roll of
the Methodist bell. The call of the bells was being given a generous
obedience, for already the streets were crowded with people. From the
hills to the north and the west, from the level plain to the south they
came, on foot, and in buggies. Even the people who lived across the
lake or away down the shore were there, some having crossed the water
in boats or launches. This means of conveyance, however, was regarded
with some disfavour, as it too perilously resembled Sunday boating.
The matter had even been brought up in the session by Mr. McPherson,
who declared he objected to it, for there was no good reason why
Christian people could not walk on the earth the Almighty had provided
for them, on the Sabbath day.
Roderick put away the horse into the shed, smiling tenderly when he
found his father waiting at the gate for him. He wanted to walk around
to the church door with his boy, so that they might meet his friends
together. They were received in a manner worthy of the occasion, for
the four elders who were ushering all left their posts and came forward
to greet Angus McRae, knowing something of what a great day in his life
this Sabbath was. J. P. Thornton and Jock McPherson ushered on one
side of the church, Lawyer Ed and Captain McTavish on the other, a very
fitting arrangement, which mingled the old and the new schools. Only
Lawyer Ed could never be kept in his own place, but ran all over the
church and ushered wheresoever he pleased.
The elders of Algonquin Presbyterian church were at their best when
showing the people to their seats on a Sabbath morning. Each man did
it in a truly characteristic manner. Captain Jimmie received the
worshippers in a breezy fashion, as though the church were the
_Inverness_ and he were calling every one to come aboard and have a bit
run on the lake and a cup-a-tea, whatever. Mr. McPherson shook hands
warmly with the old folk, but kept the young people in their places,
and well did every youngster know that did he not conduct himself in
the sanctuary with becoming propriety, the cane the elder carried would
likely come rapping down smartly on his unrighteous knuckles. J. P.
Thornton's welcome was kindly but stately. He had grown stout and
slightly pompous-looking during the passing years, and his fine,
well-dressed figure lent quite an air of dignity to the whole church.
But Lawyer Ed, ushering a stranger into the church, was a heart-warming
sight. He seemed made for the part. He met one half-way down the
steps with outstretched hands, marched him to the best seat in the
place, even if he had to dislodge one of the leading families to do it,
thrust a Bible and a hymn-book into his hand, and enquired if he were
sure he would be comfortable, all in a manner that made the newcomer
feel as if the Algonquin church had been erected, a minister and ciders
appointed, and a congregation assembled all for the express purpose of
edifying him on this particular Sabbath morning.
He captured Angus McRae and showed him to his seat this morning with a
happy bustle, for his pride and joy in the Lad's return was only second
to his own father's. Roderick sat beside his father in their old pew
near the rear of the church, gazing about him happily at the familiar
scene. The people were filling up the aisles, with a soft hushed
rustle. There was Fred Hamilton and his father, and Dr. Archie Blair
and his family. Dr. Blair was rarely too busy to get to church on a
Sunday morning, though he made a loud pretence of being very
irreligious. It was rumoured that he carried a volume of Burns to
church in his pocket instead of a Bible, a tale which the Doctor
enjoyed immensely and took care not to contradict. There was a silken
rustle at Roderick's right hand, a breath of perfume, and Leslie
Graham, in a wonderful rose silk dress and big plumed hat, came up the
aisle, followed by her father and mother. The Grahams were the most
fashionable people in the church, and Mr. Graham was the only man who
wore a high silk hat. He had been the first to wear the frock coat,
but while many had followed his example in this regard, he was the only
man who had, as yet, gone the length of the silk hat. Of course,
Doctor Leslie had one, but every one felt that it was quite correct for
a minister to wear such a thing. It was part of the clerical garb, and
anyway he wore it only at weddings and funerals, showing it belonged to
the office, rather than to the man. So Alexander Graham's millinery
was looked upon with some disfavour. He was a quiet man though,
sensitive and retiring, and not given to vain display, and people felt
that the sin of the silk hat very likely lay at the door of his
fashionable wife and daughter.
The Grahams were no sooner seated than Leslie turned her handsome head,
and glancing across the church towards Roderick, gave him a brilliant
smile. But the young man did not catch the gracious favour; he was
looking just then at a group passing up the aisle to a seat almost in
front of him; Grandma Armstrong moving very slowly on her eldest
daughter's arm, Miss Annabel in a youthful blue silk dress, and behind
them a girlish figure in a white gown with a wealth of shining hair
gleaming from beneath her wide hat.
Helen Murray had come to church this first Sunday with some fear. Her
father's voice spoke to her yet in every minister's tones, and the
place and the hour were all calculated to bring up memories hard to
bear in public. She was just seated between Grandma and Miss Annabel
when the former pulled her sleeve and enquired if she did not think the
new gladiators very pretty. The girl followed the old lady's eyes and
saw they were indicating the shiny brass electroliers suspended from
the ceiling. In happier days Helen had found laughter very easy. Her
sense of humour had not been deadened by sorrow, it was only in
abeyance, and now she felt it stirring into life. The little incident
made her look around with interest. Certainly the Algonquin church was
not a place calculated to make one indulge in melancholy. The
Presbyterian congregation was a virile one, bright and friendly and
full of energy, and with very few exceptions, every one was at least
fairly well off. With the aid of a generous expenditure of money they
had expressed their congregational life in the decoration of the
church; so the place was comfortable and well lighted, and exceedingly
bright in colouring. Around three sides ran a gallery with an
ornamental railing, tinted pink. The walls were the same colour,
except for a bright green dado beneath the gallery, and the vaulted
ceiling was decorated with big bouquets of flowers in a shade of pink
and green slightly deeper than the walls and the dado. The carpet and
the cushions--every inch of the floor was carpeted and every pew
cushioned--were a warm bright crimson to match the organ pipes. The
high Gothic windows were of brilliant stained glass, which, when the
morning sun shone, threw a riot of colour over the worshippers. And
indeed everything was warm and bright and shining, from the glittering
new electroliers suspended from the pink ceiling, to the crimson baize
doors which swung inward so hospitably at one's approach.
The church had been slowly filling, the choir filed into their places,
the organ stopped playing Cavalleria Rusticana, a hush fell over the
place and Doctor Leslie, his white hair and black gown passing through
the changing lights of the windows, came slowly out of the vestry and
up to the pulpit. He was an old man now, but a vigorous one, and his
sermons were still strong and full of the fire of his earlier years.
He had never walked quite so smartly, nor spoken with quite his old vim
since the day he had been left alone in the Manse. But through his
bereavement his eye had grown a little kindlier, his handshake a little
more sympathetic, his voice a little more tender.
As he stood up and opened the Book of Praise to announce the first
hymn, his glance involuntarily travelled, as it always did at the
beginning of the service, to where old Angus's white head shone in the
amber light of the window, as though a halo of glory were about it.
Old Angus had long ago learned to look for that glance, and returned it
by a glow from his deep eyes. Whenever they sang the 112th psalm in
Algonquin Presbyterian church,
"_How blest the man who fears the Lord,
And makes His law his chief delight,_"
the minister looked down and thought how well the words described the
sunny-faced old saint, and Angus looked up and felt how aptly they
fitted his pastor.
Dr. Leslie had had Angus in his mind this morning when he chose the
111th psalm for their opening praise, knowing how the old man's heart
would be lifted to his God this morning.
"_Praise ye the Lord; with my whole heart
The Lord's praise I'll declare._"
They sang it to "Gainsborough," the favourite tune of the old folk, for
it gave an opportunity for restful lingering on every word, and had in
it all those much-loved trills and quavers that made up the true
accompaniment of a Scottish psalm. They sang it spiritedly, as
Algonquin Presbyterians always sang; the choir and the organ on one
side, the congregation on the other, each striving to gain the greater
volume and power. For many years the choir had won out, for Lawyer Ed
was leader, and the whole congregation would have been no match for him
alone. But lately he had handed the leadership over to a young man
whom he had trained up from the Sunday-school, and gone down to the
opposition, where he sometimes gave the organist and the choir all they
could do to be heard. And this morning, in his happiness over
Roderick's home-coming, he was at his best.
There was only one little rift in the harmony of the whole
congregation. In spite of Mr. McPherson's objections, Lawyer Ed and J.
P. Thornton had succeeded in putting the "Amen" at the end of the
psalms, as well as the hymns, and when the objectionable word came this
morning, Jock sat down as he always did, heavily and noisily, exactly
on the last word of the psalm proper, and pulled Mrs. Jock's silk wrap
to make her give a like condemnation to the bit of popery. Lawyer Ed
sat in the pew opposite Jock and heard the protesting creak of Jock's
seat when he descended and, in a spirit of mischief, he turned round
till he faced the McPherson and rolled out the "Amen" directly at its
objector. It was shocking conduct for an elder, as J. P. said
afterwards, but then every one knew that though he should become
Moderator of the General Assembly, Lawyer Ed would never grow up.
The sermon was to young people. It was a call to them to give their
lives in their morning to the true Master and Lord of life. Dr. Leslie
took for his text the scene enacted on that great morning when two
young fishermen had heard across the shining water that call which,
once truly heard by the heart's ear, cannot be resisted, "Come ye after
Me." There were young people in the church that morning who heard it
as truly as the fisher lads that far gone morning on Galilee, and as
truly obeyed it. Helen Murray listened, struggling with tears. She
had grown up in a Christian home where the influence of father and
mother were such that it was inevitable that she should early become a
disciple of the Master they served. But she had faltered in her
service since her griefs had come upon her in such a flood. She would
never have allowed herself to grow selfish over her joys but sorrow had
absorbed her. She did not realise, until this morning, that she was
growing selfish over her trouble. The tender call came again--"Come ye
after Me," sounding just as sweetly and impelling in the night of
sorrow and stress as it ever did in the joyous morning.
Roderick McRae was listening to the sermon too, but he did not hear the
Voice. For in his young, eager ears was ringing the siren song of
success. He had gone to church regularly in his absence from home,
because he knew that the weekly letter to his father would lose half
its charm did the son not give an account of the sermon he had heard
the Sabbath before. But much listening to sermons had bred in the
young man the inattentive heart, even though the ear was doing its
duty. Roderick accepted sermons and church-going good-naturedly, as a
necessary, respectable formality of life. That it must have a bearing
on all life or be utterly meaningless he did not realise. His plans
for life had nothing to do with church, and the divine call fell upon
his ears unheeded.
When the sermon was drawing to a close, Lawyer Ed scribbled something
on a scrap of paper and when he rose to take the offering he passed it
up to the minister. Lawyer Ed never in his life got through a sermon
without writing at least one note. This one was a request for St.
George's, Edinburgh, as the closing psalm. He knew it was not the one
selected, but something in the stirring words of the sermon, coupled
with his joy over his boy's return, had roused him so that nothing but
the hallelujahs of that great anthem could express his feelings.
When Dr. Leslie arose at the close and announced, instead of the
regular doxology, the 24th psalm, Harry Lauder, the leader of the
choir, looked down at Lawyer Ed and smiled, and Lawyer Ed smiled back
at him. The young man's name was really Harry Lawson, but as he had a
beautiful tenor voice, and could sing a funny Scottish song far better,
every one in Algonquin said, than the great Scotch singer himself, he
had been honored by the slight but significant change in his name. And
when Harry Lauder smiled down at Lawyer Ed at the announcement of St.
George's, Edinburgh, every one knew what it meant. When Lawyer Ed had
given up the choir, under the pressure of other duties, and put Mr.
Lawson in his place, he delivered this ultimatum to his successor: "Now
look here, youngster. I am not used to being led by any one, either in
singing or in anything else, but I promise that as far as I can, I'll
follow you in the church service. But there's one tune in which I'll
follow no living man, no, nor congregation of massed bands, and that's
St. George's, Edinburgh. I just can't help it, Harry; when the first
note of that tune comes rolling out, I am neither to hold nor to bind.
Now I don't want to have it spoiled by see-sawing, that would be
blasphemous. So you just tell the organist that I have a weakness
comes over me when that tune is sung, and tell him to listen, and
follow me. And you do the same."
So every one knew that when St. George's, Edinburgh, was sung, Lawyer
Ed became the leader of the choir and congregation pro tem. No one
needed to be told, however, for none could help following him. And he
had never thrown himself into it with more abandon than on this sunny
morning with the Eternal Call sounding again in the ears of all who had
truly heard the sermon.
"_Ye gates lift up your heads on high!_"
He was glorious on the first stanza, he was magnificent on the second.
He climbed grandly up the heights of its crescendo:--
"_Ye doors that last for aye,
Be lifted up that so the King of glory enter may,_"
in ever growing power and volume; up to the wonder of the question--
"_But who is He that is the King of glory?_"
up to the rapture of the response:--
"_The Lord of Hosts and none but He
The King of Glory is._"
And then out he came upon the heights of the refrain, with all the
universe conquered and at his feet. When the first Hallelujah burst
from the congregation, mounting splendidly at his side, the leader
closed his book. He flung it upon the seat, tore off his glasses,
clasped his hands behind him, and let himself go. And with a mighty
roar he swept congregation, choir, organ, everybody, up into a thunder
of praise.
"_Hallelujah, Hallelujah. Amen, Amen._"
It might not have been considered finished by a musical critic, it may
have lacked restraint and nicety of shading; but no one who heard the
Algonquin congregation that morning singing "Ye Gates lift up your
heads," led by Lawyer Edward Brians, could doubt that it was surely
some such fine fresh rapture that rang through the aisles of Heaven on
that creation day when the morning stars sang together and all the Sons
of God shouted for joy.
Helen Murray bowed her head for the benediction, the stinging tears
rushing to her eyes, but they were not tears of sorrow. For the moment
she had forgotten there was such a thing as pain. She had lost it as
she had been swept up to the glad peaks of song. For one trembling
moment she had caught a glimpse of a new wonder, the whole world
moving, through sorrow and pain and dull misunderstanding, surely and
swiftly up to God. And for that instant her soul had leaped forward,
too, to meet Him. She came down from the heights; no mortal could live
there, seeing things that were not lawful to utter. But from that
first Sunday in Algonquin church her outlook on her new life was
changed. She had seen the end of her rainbow. It was back of mists
and clouds and storms, but it was there! And she could never again be
quite so sad.
The congregation slowly filed put of the pews and down the aisles,
chatting in soft hushed voices, until the organist pulled out all the
stops and played a lively air, and then the conversation rose to suit
the accompaniment. Mr. McPherson had objected to the pipe-organ, to
the hired organist from the city, and finally and most vigorously to
the musical dispersion of the congregation. If the body must play for
the church service, Jock conceded, well, he must; but why he must paw
and trample and harry the noisy thing, when church was over and done
with, was a mystery that no right thinking person could solve. The
organist, when approached with the elder's objections, had answered
with dignity that all the city churches did it, and Jock's case was
hopelessly lost. For when Algonquin was told that in the city they did
thus and so, then Algonquin would do that thing too if it had meant
burning down the church. So the congregation went down the aisles,
sailing merrily on a flood of gay music, and as they went, Miss Annabel
introduced the new teacher to several of the young folk of the church,
who asked her to join the Christian Endeavor and the Young Women's
Society, and the Young People's Bible class and to come to the picnic
to-morrow afternoon in the park and the moonlight sail on Friday
evening, and assured her that she would like Algonquin, and wasn't it a
very pretty place?
As they passed down the steps, a slim young man, dressed immaculately
in the height of fashion, came tripping up to them and addressed Miss
Annabel in the most abjectly polite manner.
"Good morning, Mr. Wilbur," said the lady coldly, "I am sure you must
welcome Sunday. I suppose you are working so hard these days." It was
very cruel of Miss Annabel, for poor Afternoon Tea Willie had not yet
been able to get an introduction to the lady of his dreams, and he
really did work very hard indeed, and his was the employment from which
there was no respite even on Sundays. But she hurried Helen on without
further notice of him. Roderick was watching the little play with some
amusement as he stood waiting for his father, who had stopped to have a
word with the minister. As he did so he was puzzled to see Fred
Hamilton pass him without so much as a word. He was concluding that
his old acquaintance had not seen him, when he heard a merry laugh at
his elbow and there stood Miss Leslie Graham.
"Did you see poor Freddy?" she cried. "Oh, dear, dear, I told on him
after all, and he's mad at everybody in the town, you included,
evidently. Now here's Daddy. He's dying to meet you. Here, Dad, this
is the man that did the deed."
Mr. Graham took Roderick's hand and held it while he thanked him, in a
voice that trembled, for saving his daughter's life. Roderick was
attempting to disclaim any heroism in the matter, when Mrs. Graham fell
upon him with a rustle of silks, and fairly overwhelmed him with
gratitude. Then two or three others came up and demanded to know what
it was all about and Roderick was overcome with embarrassment and was
thankful when his father appeared and he could make his escape.
Lawyer Ed came to the buggy to say good-bye to Angus and to enquire
what was the collie-shankie at the kirk door, and when he heard, he
slapped Roderick on the back. "Well, well, look here, my lad," he
cried, "why, your fortune is as good as made. Sandy Graham has been
mad at me for the space of twenty-five years or more about something or
other--what was it now? Bless me if I haven't forgotten what. But he
nearly left the church over it, and entirely left the law firm of
Brians & Co." The bereaved head of the firm put back his head at the
recollection, shut his eyes, and laughed long and heartily. "But
you've got him back again all right, and I tell you this, my lad, if
you get his business your fortune is just about made. Only don't go
and lose your heart to the handsome young lady while you need a steady
head!"
They drove away, and while the father talked on the drive home of the
sermon, the son answered absently; his thoughts were all with the piece
of good luck which had come his way by such a mere chance.