"DEAF TO THE MELODY"
Autumn painted Algonquin in new and splendid tints. She coloured the
maples that lined the streets a dazzling gold, with here and there at
the corners, a scarlet tree for variety or one of rose pink or even
deep purple. And when the leaves began to fall the whole world was a
bewildering flutter of rainbows. The November rains came and washed
the gorgeous picture away, and the artist went all over it again in
soberer tints, soft greys and tender blues with a hint of coming frost
in the deep tones of the sky.
October was almost over before the busy, bustling Lawyer Ed had a
chance to think of the promise he had made in the summer to Old Angus,
and he called J. P. Thornton and Archie Blair and Roderick together
into his office one bright morning to enquire what could be done about
getting a local option by-law for Algonquin submitted on the next
municipal election day.
The general consensus of opinion was that they were too late for the
coming election on New Year's; but that they must start an educational
campaign immediately to stir up public opinion on the subject of
temperance. And they would get their petition ready for the spring and
march to victory a year from the coming January.
J. P. Thornton, who was the most energetic man on the town council, was
busy getting a drain dug through Willow Lane to carry off the disease
breeding stagnant waters that lay about the little houses. And he
declared in a fine oratorical outburst, that if they started this
temperance campaign early, and dug deep enough, by a year from the next
election day, they would have such a trench projected through Algonquin
as would carry away in a flood all the foul, death-breeding liquid that
inundated their beautiful town, and pour it into the swamps of oblivion.
Lawyer Ed gave a cheer when he was through, and Archie Blair quoted
Burns:
"_Now, Robinson, harrangue na mair,
But steek your gab forever,
Or try the wicked town of Ayr,
For there they'll think you clever._"
For though, as a citizen, the doctor was convinced that a prohibitory
liquor law would be a good thing for Algonquin, personally he was not
inclined to look upon the beverage as foul death-breeding liquid.
Roderick McRae sat silently listening to the older man. He was
wondering what Alexander Graham would say, when he found his lawyer
arrayed on the side of the temperance forces. For he knew that his
wealthy client had heavy investments in breweries, and also owned
secretly, the bigger share of Algonquin's leading hotel and bar-room.
He was not long left in doubt. The ladies of the Presbyterian church
gave a turkey and pumpkin pie supper on Thanksgiving eve, with a
concert in the Sunday-school room after, all for the sum of twenty-five
cents, the proceeds to go to a new red carpet and cushions for the
choir gallery. Lawyer Ed was chairman at the concert, of course, and
J. P. Thornton was the chief speaker. And though his address was on
Imperialism, a subject through which he had grown quite famous, he
branched off into temperance and publicly announced that the local
option by-law would be submitted before long in Algonquin, and they had
better get ready.
Lawyer Ed, who always made a short speech between each item on the
programme, burst forth, almost before J. P. had sat down, with the
further announcement, accompanied by a great deal of oratory, that the
temperance forces would carry their banner to victory and mount over
every difficulty even as his Highland ancestors had stormed the heights
of Alma. For when Lawyer Ed got upon the platform, a strange
transformation always came over him. His Hibernianism fell from him
like a garment, and he was over the heather and away like any true born
Scot.
The next day, Miss Leslie Graham, in a new autumn suit of ruby velvet
and a big plumed hat, dropped in at the office of Brians and McRae and,
after chattering merrily for half-an-hour with Roderick, said that her
father wanted him to come up the following evening for dinner.
Roderick went, with, as usual, the faint hope that he might see Helen
Murray there. He had not succeeded in meeting her, except casually on
the street, since that magic night when he had paddled her home in the
moonlight. But he was, as usual, disappointed. There was only the
Graham family present. Miss Leslie was as gay and charming as ever,
and her mother was slightly less stiff with him. But Mr. Graham was
exceptionally kind and hospitable. Before returning to the
drawing-room after dinner, he carried Roderick off to the library for a
little private chat. There were a few matters of business to be
discussed, and when they were finished, Mr. Graham said casually:
"I suppose you run the affairs of Brians and McRae yourself these days.
I hear Ed's off after another will-o'-the-wisp as usual. Let me see, I
believe it's a temperance bee he's got in his bonnet this time."
Roderick was silent. The contemptuous tone nettled him. He would not
discuss Lawyer Ed with Alexander Graham, no matter what the consequence.
"Well, well," said the host, giving the fire a poke, and laughing
good-naturedly. "Those fellows must do something to take up their
time. But it's a pity to see them wasting it. For that thing won't go
here in Algonquin, Rod. Take my word for it. And if it did, it would
be a great pity, for such a law wouldn't be kept. Of course, if Ed
Brians and Archie Blair and J. P. Thornton, and a few other fanatics
like that, are bound to meddle with other people's consciences, I
suppose we'll just have to let them do it. 'If it plazes her, it don't
be hurtin' me,' as Mike Cassidy said when Judy hammered him with the
broomstick. I hope they'll enjoy themselves."
Roderick looked up quickly. "It is not a mere pastime with my father.
It is a thing of great moment to him," he said.
"Oh, well, of course," said Mr. Graham suavely. "I can understand
that. Your father is a man who has devoted his life to drunks and
outcasts, and he looks on temperance legislation as a refuge for them.
I have no doubt he is quite sincere in the matter."
"I should just say he is," said Roderick rather explosively.
"That's quite true, Rod," said his patron, a little annoyed. "But your
father, with many another good man, is making a great mistake when he
believes people will be benefited by temperance legislation. Some
folks seem to think that if you get local option in a town the
millennium has come." He lit a cigar, and leaned back with an air of
finality. "I tell you they're awfully mistaken. People want liquor
and they'll get it as long as they want it, law or no law. And they're
going to want it till the end of time. And if those folks insist upon
forcing this by-law upon Algonquin, they will only succeed in giving
the town a bad name. It's simply ruinous to a place from a business
standpoint."
Roderick had no answer to make. He was inclined to believe that Graham
was right. He wanted to believe it, for the burden of this thing was
annoying him. He knew that Lawyer Ed would have met the statements
with fiery contradictions, and J. P. Thornton would have answered with
clear, convincing facts. But he had given very little thought to the
subject, and could not remember any of the arguments. And he had
certainly heard, many, many times that the temperance measure had been
a failure in other towns.
He sat silent, his elbows on his knees, his hands locked together,
looking into the glowing grate and wishing he didn't have to be
bothered with it all. What had local option to do with his work,
anyway?
And then he realised that his host was talking again. In the midst of
his quiet insinuating remarks, there was a sharp tap on the door, and
Leslie swept into the room, very handsome in her soft, trailing white
dress.
"I'm just not going to let you two poke here any longer," she declared,
giving her father's ear a pull. "You're spoiling all Rod's evening,
Daddy, by talking business. His office is for that. Come right along
into the drawing-room this minute, the Baldwin girls have come, and
we're going to have some music."
The subject of local option was not referred to again that evening, but
Roderick realised that, in some subtle way, how, he scarcely knew, his
client had conveyed to him the unmistakable intelligence that should he
identify himself with the temperance forces in any prominent way, the
business of Graham and Company would have to be placed in other hands.
Roderick scarcely understood what had been said until he was walking
home in the clear frosty air with time to think it over.
He was miserably uncomfortable the next day when he found his chief
buried head and ears in temperance affairs.
"We'll have to wade into this with high-water boots, ma braw John
Hielanman!" he cried radiantly. "Be jabers! but I do love a fight, and
a fine old Donnybrook fair we're goin' to have!" And he relapsed into
a rich Irish brogue.
"Mr. Graham told me last night he'd like me to go north in a few
weeks," said Roderick in a strained voice. "I may have to be gone for
a month."
"On that Beaver Landing deal? Well now, that's a big thing, Rod!"
Lawyer Ed was scribbling madly at his desk while he talked, and calling
up some one on the telephone every three minutes. "You've got Sandy
Graham all right. Hello, Central, are you asleep? I said I wanted J.
P. Thornton and I still say it!"--"No you didn't, I tell you! Sandy'll
kick over the traces when we get going on this campaign, though. Not
in? Where in thunder is he? Tell him to call me the minute he gets
back. Yes, that's a fact, Rod!" And he slammed the receiver down and
took to scribbling furiously again. "Sandy'll put on his plug hat and
his swallow-tail coat and hike like the limited express for
Willoughby's office the minute he sees our names heading that
petition!" He shut his eyes, and, leaning back, laughed in delighted
anticipation of losing their most valuable client.
Roderick felt impatient. To him the affair was no laughing matter. To
lose Graham's business was unthinkable, to keep out of this troublesome
temperance campaign seemed impossible. One moment he felt he must come
out right boldly for the cause, the next he called himself a fool, for
letting such a doubtful thing stand in the way of his best interests.
But before the necessity for declaring himself came upon him, the
temperance campaign suffered a severe check. The trouble arose in an
unexpected quarter, not from the enemy, but in the ranks of the
advancing army itself. The temperance ship ran against the rock that
threatened to split it altogether, on the last Sunday in November.
This day was celebrated as St. Andrew's Sunday, the day when the
society of the Sons of Scotland, with bonnets on their heads, plaidies
on their shoulders and heather in their button-holes, paraded to church
in a body and had a sermon preached to them by a minister brought up
from the city for the purpose of glorifying Scotland and edifying her
sons. As nearly all the Presbyterian congregation of Algonquin was
Scotch, every one else was as much edified as the Sons themselves; but
there was one prominent exception and that was J. P. Thornton.
Mr. Thornton was an Englishman, born within the sound of Bow Bells,
and, like a true Briton, intensely proud of the fact, and though he was
as liberal in his general views as he was in politics, and had
delivered many a fine speech on Imperialism, yet some stubborn latent
prejudice arose in his heart and threatened to overflow every St.
Andrew's Sunday.
It was not that he objected so much to the tartan-and-heather bedecked
rows occupying the front pews of the church, on St. Andrew's Sunday.
He was inclined to look upon them with some lofty amusement, saying
that if they liked that sort of child's play it was no affair of his
and they might have it. But it was the sermon that always put him into
a fighting humour. For never a preacher stood up there on St. Andrew's
Sunday but made some unfortunate reference to Bannockburn and Scots Wha
Hae, and a great many other things calculated to rouse any Englishman's
ire.
Mr. Thornton had never openly rebelled, however, and the St. Andrew's
sermon came each year with only a few mild explosions following. But
this year the celebration caused a serious disturbance, and as so often
happened, it started with Lawyer Ed.
That lively Irish gentleman had already joined almost every
organisation in the town, and there suddenly came to him a great desire
to join the Sons of Scotland also. His mother was a Scottish lady of
Highland birth, and he himself had a deep-rooted affection for anything
or anybody connected with the land o' cakes. So on the eve of this St.
Andrew's celebration he joined the order and became a true Son of
Scotland himself.
Mr. Thornton had gone away for a couple of weeks on a business trip and
knew nothing of this new departure of his friend. He came home late on
Saturday night before St. Andrew's Sunday, and went to church the next
morning, all unsuspecting that at that moment Ed was falling into line
down at the lodge room, his plaidie the brightest, his bonnet the
trimmest and his heather sprig the biggest of all the procession.
The Scotchmen had turned out nearly a hundred strong this morning, for
the minister from the city was a great man with a continental
reputation. It was a beautifully clear, brilliant day, too, one of
those days that only the much maligned November can bring, with
dazzling cloudless skies and an exhilarating tang of frost-nipped
leaves in the air. So the Scotchmen were all there, even old Angus
McRae and his son, the young Highlander looking very handsome in his
regalia.
Jock McPherson and the Captain of the _Inverness_ were there too.
Captain Jimmie was in his glory, but Mr. McPherson looked as if he were
preparing to object to everything about him. Each recurring St.
Andrew's Sunday found the Elder more and more inclined to think that
this Sabbath parade was scarcely in keeping with the day. But he was a
true Scot at heart, and no amount of orthodoxy could keep him out of
it. He felt this morning, however, that matters had gone a bit too
far, for the warm day had tempted Archie Blair, and he had come out in
the kilt, his shameless bare-kneed example followed by Harry Lauder and
three other foolish youths of the Highland club.
A few minutes before the hour for the service, when the bells had begun
to roll out their invitations from the three church towers, the
procession started. And the Methodists and Baptists and Anglicans kept
themselves late for church by lingering on the side-walk to see it
pass. It was worth watching; as very stately and solemn and slow it
moved along the street and up to the church door.
Mr. McPherson moved rather stiffly, for Archie Blair was walking beside
Lawyer Ed directly in front of him, and the very tilt of his bonnet and
the swing of his kilt was a profanation of the day. Somehow, the
doctor did not at all fit in with the Sabbath. He was a big straight
man, long of limb, broad of shoulder and inclined to a generous
rotundity, and he swaggered so splendidly when he walked, and held up
his bonneted head with such a dashing air, that he gave the distinct
impression that the bagpipes were skirling out a gay march as he swung
past.
The sight of him on this Sabbath morning struck dismay to Jock's
orthodox soul, clinging tenaciously to its ancient traditions. Lawyer
Ed, too, seemed to have donned the spirit of irreverence with the
bonnet, and was conducting himself as no elder of the kirk should have
behaved even at a St. Andrew's banquet.
"Eh, losh Ed, mon," cried the doctor, loud enough for Jock to hear.
"Ah wush we could hae a bit strathspey frae the pipes to march wi' to
the kirk, foreby."
Lawyer Ed's face became forbidding.
"Eh, eh, and that to an elder? Div ye hear yon, Jock? It's the
Heilan's comin' oot o' him!"
Jock could not resist a sudden temptation. That strange twist came
over his face, which heralded a far-off joke. He spoke very slowly.
"It's what you micht be expecting from the likes o' him. It's written
down in his history:
"_The Blairs they are a wicked race,
They set theirsels in sad disgrace,
They made the pipes and drums to play,
Through Algonquin on the Sawbbath day._"
He had paraphrased a bit to suit the occasion, and the doctor laughed
so appreciatively that the elder began to feel brighter.
But Jock should have known better than to have set an example of
rhyming before Archie Blair. He turned and looked down at the elder,
and the sight of him marching peaceably beside Captain Jimmie reminded
him of an old doggerel ballad: "But man, there's worse than that
written in your own history," he cried:
"_O-o-och, Fairshon swore a feud,
Against ta clan McTavish,
And marched into their land,
To murder and to ravish,
For he did resolve,
To extirpate ta vipers,
With four-and-twenty men
And five-and-twenty pipers!_"
"Tut, tut, Doctor," cried Captain Jimmie, trying to hide a smile
beneath his bonnet. "Be quate man, it's the Sabbath day."
"Well, here's a verse that's got a quotation from Scripture or at least
an allusion to one. That's to be expected in the history of the
McPhersons."
"_Fairshon had a son
That married Noah's daughter,
And nearly spoiled ta flood
By drinking all ta water,
Which he would have done
I really do believe it
Had ta mixture peen
Only half Glenlevit!_"
Lawyer Ed was shaking with unseemly laughter.
"Ye'll hae to sing it a' when we eat the haggis the morn's night," he
suggested.
"I don't understand how a reference to anything so unholy as the
Glenlevit got into the annals of ta Fairshons, Jock," said Doctor Blair.
Now Jock McPherson was not averse to a drop of Glenlevit himself,--for
his stomach's sake, of course, for the elder could not be unscriptural
even in his eating and drinking. Archie Blair was not averse to it
either, though he frankly admitted that it was very bad for his
stomach, indeed, and for everybody else's stomach.
But in the opening temperance campaign the latter had come out avowedly
on the side of local option, and was looked upon as one of the party's
strongest speakers, while Jock had not yet declared himself. It was a
delicate subject with Mr. McPherson, and he could not endure to be
twitted about it.
He paused at the church steps and laid his hand on the doctor's velvet
sleeve. He cleared his throat, always a dangerous sign.
"Yes," he said very slowly, "it will be a ferry fine song indeed, and
if Edward would jist be putting big _Aye_-men on the tail of it
to-morrow night, it will sound more feenished." The whole procession
was waiting to enter the church, but Jock did not hurry. "As for the
Glenlevit, the McPhersons were no more noted for liking their drop than
many another clan I might mention. But they were honest about it." He
paused again and then said even more deliberately: "And if you would
like to be referring to the Scriptures again, you might be taking a
look at your Bible when you get home, you will be finding some ferry
good advice in Romans the 2nd chapter and 21st verse."
He turned away and marched solemnly into the church. The procession
followed and it was then that J. P. Thornton, standing at his post, and
wondering why Ed had not long ago appeared to receive the Scotchmen,
beheld the amazing spectacle of his Irish friend and very brother,
marching in their front rank, bonnet and plaid and all!
J. P. was too dignified to make a demonstration of his outraged
feelings in church, but Miss Annabel Armstrong reported afterwards that
when she passed him she heard him say something about Edward, that
sounded like "You're too brutish"--or "too bruty" or something like
that, and Miss Armstrong said it was exceedingly improper language for
an elder to use in church.
J. P. was always in a state of mild irritation when he settled himself
to hear the annual St. Andrew's sermon, but this morning he was
decidedly indignant. By the time the Scotchmen had gone through two
long psalms, with Lawyer Ed leading, he was hot and disgusted, and when
the sermon came it was like acid poured upon an open wound.
The famous minister from the city made all the mistakes of his St.
Andrew's predecessors and a great many more of his own. He lingered
long at Bannockburn, he recited "Scots Wha Hae" in full, he quoted
portions of the death of Wallace and altogether behaved in a way to
leave the usually genial English listener with his temper red and raw
and anxious for a fight.
Monday evening Lawyer Ed was to have driven out to McClintock's Corners
with his friend, to speak at a tea meeting, and convince the farmers
that Algonquin would be a much more desirable place as a market town
with a prohibitory liquor law than it was at present.
But Lawyer Ed went to the St. Andrew's supper instead and ate haggis
and listened to the pipes play "The Cock O' the North," and Archie
Blair recite Burns and Jock McPherson make a speech on Scottish history.
That was more than J. P. could stand. He telephoned to Roderick early
the next morning telling him to inform his chief that he, J. P., would
go to no more temperance meetings with him. If Lawyer Ed wanted help
in his campaign let him look for it among his brother Scotchmen. And
the receiver slammed before Roderick could enquire what he meant.
There were storms bursting in other quarters too. Doctor Blair had
spent a good part of the time in church on Sunday morning in a laudable
search for the Epistle to the Romans, and had surprised all his
brethren by studying the 2nd chapter carefully. The result, however,
was not what a searching of the Scriptures is supposed to produce. For
he telephoned to Roderick the next morning that he could tell Ed, when
he came in, that he, Archie Blair, would be hanged if he would waste
any more time on local option if that was what people were saying about
him. And Captain Jimmie dropped in immediately after to say that if
something wasn't done to conciliate Jock McPherson he was afraid he
would vote against local option altogether.
So the cause of temperance suffered a check. It proved to be not a
very serious one, but it served Roderick. For it postponed the
necessity of his declaring himself on either side, and he hoped that
before the day arrived when he must join the issue, his affairs would
be less complicated.
Diplomacy was one of Lawyer Ed's strong features, and he had almost
completed a reconciliation between all the aggrieved parties when
Roderick left for a business trip to the north. It was an important
commission involving much money, and certain vague statements regarding
its outcome made by Mr. Graham had fired the Lad's imagination.
"Now, I needn't warn you to do your best, Roderick," said the man when
he bade him good-bye. "You'll do that, anyway. But there's more than
money in this. There's an eye on you--"
He would say no more, but Leslie gave him another hint. He had found
her strolling past the office as he ran out to post some letters, the
day before his departure. He was absolutely without conceit, but he
could not help noticing that somehow Miss Leslie Graham nearly always
happened, by the strangest coincidence, to be on the street just as he
was leaving the office.
He walked with her to the post-office and back, and then she declared
her fingers were frozen and she would come into the office for ten
minutes to warm them.
"So you're going to fix up things with the British North American
Railroad for Daddy, are you?" she said, holding out her gloved fingers
over the glowing coal-stove. "That means that you'll be getting your
fingers into Uncle Will's business, too. His lawyer is up at Beaver
Landing now."
"Whose lawyer?" asked Roderick, giving her a chair by the fire and
standing before her feeling extremely uncomfortable.
"Uncle Will's. You know Uncle Will Graham? He's an American now, but
he has all sorts of interests in Canada and he's--well, he's not
exactly President of the B. N. A., but he's the whole thing in it.
Uncle Will's coming home next summer, and I'm going to make him take me
back to New York with him."
Roderick's ambitious heart gave a leap. Of course he knew about
William Graham, the Algonquin man who had gone to the States and made a
million or more.
His head was filled with rosy dreams as he walked out to the farm that
evening to say good-bye. He was leaving for only a short time, but the
old people were loath to see him go. Aunt Kirsty drew him up to the
hot stove, bewailing the misfortune that was taking him away.
"Dear, dear, dear, and you will be going away up north into the bush,"
she said, clapping him on the back, "and you will jist be frozen with
the cold indeed, and your poor arm will be bad again."
"Yes, and the wolves will probably eat me, and a tree will fall on me
and I'll break through the ice and be drowned," wailed Roderick. And
she shoved him away from her for a foolish gomeril, trying not to smile
at him, and declaring it was little he cared that he was leaving her,
indeed.
"I have not heard you say anything about the arm for a long time, Lad,"
said his father, who was watching him, with shining eyes, from his old
rocking-chair.
"Oh, it's all right, Dad," he said lightly. "I haven't time to notice
it."
He always put off the question thus when Aunt Kirsty was within
hearing, but his father's loving eye noticed that the boy's hand
sometimes sought the arm and held it, as though in pain.
"And you will not be here to help start the great fight," his father
said wistfully, when he had heard all the latest news concerning the
temperance campaign, even to the pending disaster. "But you will be
finding a Jericho Road up in the bush, I'll have no doubt."
Roderick looked at the saintly old face and his heart smote him. He
felt for a moment that to please his father would surely be worth more
than all the success a man could attain in a lifetime.
"And did you get a job for poor Billy, Lad?" his father enquired.
"Billy? Oh, the Perkins fellow?" Roderick whistled in dismay. Poor
Billy Perkins had not "kept nicely saved," as his brave little wife had
hoped, but had fallen among thieves in the hotel at the corner once
more. Old Angus had rescued him, put him upon his feet again, and had
commissioned his son to look for work for Billy, and his son had
forgotten about it entirely in the pressure of his work.
"Oh, Dad, that's a shame," he cried contritely, "I had so much on my
mind getting ready to go, I forgot. I'll tell Lawyer Ed about him, and
perhaps he can look up something. I have to start early in the morning
or I would yet."
"Well, well," said his father cheerfully. "There now, there is no need
to worry, for they have got him a job, but it is away from home and I
thought he'd do better here. The bit wife is lonely since the wee girl
died. But Billy will jist have to go, and it will only be for the
winter, anyway."
"What's he going to do?"
"It will be in the shanties. He is not strong enough for the bush, but
he will be helping the cook, and the wages will be good. I'm hoping he
will not be able to get near the drink. Indeed it was the little
lassie herself that got him the job," he added, his eyes shining.
"She's the great little lady, indeed."
"Who is, Father?" Roderick spoke absently, his eyes on the fire, his
mind on Mr. William Graham and the B. N. A. Railroad.
"The young teacher lady. She will be down to see poor Mrs. Perkins
every day or so since the wee one died. And the poor bit Gladys! Eh,
she's jist making a woman out of her indeed."
Roderick's eyes came away from the fire. He was all interest. "Oh, is
she? Does she visit the folks in Willow Lane? What is she doing for
them?"
"Eh, indeed, what is she not doing?" cried his father. "It's jist an
angel we've got in Willow Lane now, Lad. I don't know how she did it,
and indeed Father Tracy says he doesn't know either, but she's got Judy
to cook a hot dinner for Mike every day, and she's teaching Gladys at
nights, and she's jist saved the poor Perkins bodies from starving.
She showed the wee woman how to make bread, and oh, indeed, I couldn't
be telling you all the good she does!"
Roderick listened absorbedly. So that was where she kept herself in
the evenings. And that was why he could never meet her any place, no
matter how many nights he frittered away at parties in the hope of
seeing her.
"And how did she get this job for Billy?" he asked, just for the sake
of hearing his father talk about her.
Old Angus smiled knowingly.
"Och, she has a way with her, and she can get anything she wants. It
would be through Alfred Wilbur--the poor lad the boys will be calling
such a foolish name."
"Yes, Afternoon Tea Willie. What's he after now?"
"Indeed I think he will be after Miss Murray," said the old man, his
eyes twinkling. "He seems to be always following her about. And he
managed to get young Fred Hamilton to take Billy up to the camp. Fred
is going up to his father's shanties with a gang of men in about a
week."
Roderick's heart sank. Here was a lost opportunity indeed. He had
failed to help his father, and had missed such a splendid chance to
help her.
"If you've got anybody else who needs a job, Dad, I'll try to do better
next time," he said humbly.
"Oh, indeed, there will always be some one needing help," his father
said radiantly. "Eh, eh, it will be a fine thing for me to know you
are helping to care for the poor folk on the Jericho Road. Jist being
neighbour to them. It's a great business, the law, for helping a man
to be neighbour." The old man sat and gazed happily into the fire.
Roderick fidgeted. He was thinking that some of the work of a lawyer
did not consist so much in rescuing the man who had fallen among
thieves as falling upon him and stripping him of his raiment.
"Law is a complicated business, Dad," he said, with a sigh.
There were prayers after that, and a tender farewell and benediction
from the old people, and Roderick went away, his heart strangely heavy.
He was to be absent only a short time, perhaps not over two weeks, but
he had a feeling that he was bidding his father a lifelong
farewell--that he was taking a road that led away from that path in
which the man had so carefully guided his young feet.
It was not entirely by accident that Roderick should be walking into
Algonquin just as Helen Murray was coming out of the Hurd home. He had
been very wily, for such an innocent young man. A shadow on the blind,
showing the outline of a trim little hat and fluffy hair, had sent him
back into the shadows of the Pine Road to stand and shiver until the
shadow left the window and the substance came out through the lighted
doorway. Gladys came to the gate, her arm about her teacher's waist.
They were talking softly. Gladys's voice was not so loud nor her look
so bold as it once was. She ran back calling good-night, and the
little figure of the teacher went on swiftly up the shaky frosty
sidewalk. A few strides and Roderick was at her side. She was right
under the electric light at the corner when he reached her and she
turned swiftly with such a look of annoyance that he stopped aghast.
"Oh, I beg your pardon--" he stammered, but was immensely relieved when
she interrupted smiling.
"Oh, is it you, Mr. McRae? I--didn't know--I thought it was--some one
else," she stammered.
Roderick looked puzzled, but the next moment he understood. Just
within the rays of the electric light, across the street, was Afternoon
Tea Willie, waiting faithfully with chattering teeth and benumbed toes.
He stood and stared at Roderick as they passed, and then slowly
followed at a distance, the picture of abject desolation. Roderick
found it almost impossible to keep from laughing, until he began to
consider his own case. He had plunged headlong into her presence, and
now he felt he ought to apologise. He tried to, but she stopped him
charmingly.
"Oh, indeed, I wanted to see you, before you go away," she said, and
Roderick felt immensely flattered that she knew so much about his
affairs as to be aware that he was going away.
"Yes? What can I do for you?" he asked shyly.
"I wanted to ask about poor Billy Perkins. Mr. Wilbur got work for
him, you know."
"Indeed, my father tells me it was you did the good deed," declared
Roderick warmly.
"No, no, I only helped. But I am anxious about Billy." She spoke as
though Roderick were as interested in the Perkins family as his father.
"Is there any one up at Mr. Hamilton's camp, I wonder, who would keep
an eye on him. He is all right if he's only watched, so that he can't
get whiskey. There's young Mr. Hamilton, he's going, isn't he?"
"Yes." Roderick felt that if the young man mentioned watched Fred
Hamilton and kept him from drink it was all that could be expected of
him. However, he might try. "I'll speak to him," he said cordially,
"and see if he can do anything for Billy. I see you've taken some of
my father's family under your care," he added admiringly.
"Oh no. I'm just helping a little. I'm afraid I'm not prompted by
such unselfish motives as your father is. I visit down here just for
something to do and to keep from being lonely."
It was the first time she had made any reference to herself. Roderick
seized the opportunity.
"You don't go out among the young people enough," he suggested. She
did not answer for a moment. She could not tell him that she was very
seldom invited in the circles where he moved. She had been doomed to
disappointment in Miss Graham's friendship, for after her first
generous outburst the young lady seemed to have forgotten all about her.
"I like to come here," she said at last. "I think it's more worth
while. But don't talk any more about my affairs. Tell me something
about yours. Are you going to be long in the woods?"
It was a delightful walk all the way up to Rosemount, for Roderick
managed to get up courage to ask if he might go all the way, and even
kept her at the gate a few minutes before he said good-bye, and he
promised, quite of his own accord, to visit Camp Hamilton if it was not
far from Beaver Landing, his headquarters, and when he returned he
would report to her Billy's progress.