"THE MELODY DEADEN'D"
"And you don't mean to tell me you were such a fool as to say he might
go?" J. P. Thornton, walking up the hill for the fourth time on the
way home from a session meeting with Lawyer Ed, asked the question
again in an extremity of indignation.
And Lawyer Ed answered as he had done each time before:
"I couldn't stand in the boy's way, Jack; I just couldn't."
They had argued the question for an hour, up and down the hills between
their two homes, and had come to no agreement. That Roderick had had
an offer to tempt any young man there was no doubt. A partnership in
the firm of Elliot and Kent, solicitors for the British North American
Transcontinental Railroad, was such a chance as came the way of few at
his age.
And yet Mr. Thornton declared that he should have refused it
unconditionally. Not so Lawyer Ed; his generous heart condoned the boy.
"It's the chance of a life-time, Jack," he declared. "It would be
shameful to keep him out of it, and, mind you, he wouldn't say he would
go until I urged it."
"Oh, blow him!" J. P. was a very dignified gentleman and did not
revert to his boyhood's slang except under extreme provocation. "He
shouldn't have allowed you to urge him. And what about the brilliant
prospect you gave up once just because his father was in need?"
"Well, never mind that," said Lawyer Ed, hurriedly. "He doesn't know
anything about that and he's not going to either."
"And it was Bill Graham who wanted you, and you wouldn't go. And now
Bill's taking him away from you. He ought to be ashamed!"
"Bill thought he was doing me a kindness. He knew Rod's success is
mine."
J. P. was silent from sheer exhaustion of all sane argument. He was
grieved and bitterly disappointed for his friend's sake. Ed was in
imperative need of a rest and just when life was looking a little
easier to him, and the long-deferred holiday was within reach, Roderick
was deserting.
If they could only have visited the Holy Land before he left, it would
not have seemed so bad. But though Roderick had consented to remain
until his chief returned, Lawyer Ed had felt he could not go, for he
must busy himself gathering up the threads of his work which he had
been dropping with such relief.
Roderick had not come to his final decision without much argument with
himself. His head said Go, but he could not quite convince his heart
that he was right in leaving Lawyer Ed so soon. He had argued the
question with himself during many sleepless nights, but the lure of
success had proved the stronger. And he was going late in the autumn
to take up his new work.
To Old Angus the news was like the shutting out of the light of day.
Roderick was going away. At first that was all he could comprehend.
But he did not for one moment lose his sublime faith either in his boy
or in his God. The Lord's hand was in it all, he told himself. He was
leading the Lad out into larger service and his father must not stand
in the way. He said not one word of his own loss, but was deeply
concerned over Lawyer Ed's. He was worried lest the Lad's going might
mean business difficulties for his friend.
"If the Father will be wanting the Lad, Edward," he said one golden
autumn afternoon, when Lawyer Ed stopped at the farm gate in passing,
"then we must not be putting our little wills in His way. I would not
be minding for myself, oh, no, not at all--" the old man's smile was
more pathetic than tears. "The dear Lord will be giving me so many
children on the Jericho Road, that He feels I can spare Roderick."
Eddie Perkins was stumbling about the lane trying to rake up the dead
leaves into neat piles as Angus had instructed him. He came whimpering
up with a bruised finger which he held up to the old man. Angus
comforted him tenderly, telling him Eddie must be a man and not mind a
little scratch. He looked down at this most helpless of his children
and gently stroked the boy's misshapen head.
"Yes, He would be very kind, giving me so many of His little ones to
care for, and He feels I can spare Roderick. The Lad is strong--" his
voice faltered a moment, but he went on bravely.
"But it was you I was thinking of, Edward. I could not but be fearing
that you were making a great sacrifice. There is your visit to the
Holy Land--and the business. It will be hard for you, Edward?"
Lawyer Ed, seated in his mud-splashed buggy at the gate, turned quickly
away, the anxiety in Old Angus's voice was almost too much for his
tender heart. There was a wistful plea in it that he should vindicate
Roderick from a shadow of suspicion. He jerked his horse's head
violently and demanded angrily what in thunder it meant by trying to
eat all the grass off the roadside like a fool of an old cow, and then
he rose valiantly to the Lad's defence.
"Hut, tut, Angus!" he cried blusteringly. "Such nonsense! You know as
well as I do that the Lad didn't want to leave. I fairly drove him
away. Pshaw! never mind the Holy Land. We're all journeying to it
together, anyway. And as for my business--somebody else'll turn up. I
always felt Algonquin would be too small for Rod. You'll see he'll
make a name for himself that'll make us all proud."
He did it splendidly, and Angus was comforted. He blamed himself for
what he termed his lack of faith in the boy and in his Father. And
many a night, as he sat late by his fire, trying to reason himself into
cheerful resignation, he recalled Edward's words hopefully. Yes, he
surely ought to be proud and glad that the Lad was going out into a
wider service. He was leaving him alone, on his Jericho Road, here,
but that was only because the Father needed him for a busier highway,
where thieves were crueller and more numerous.
As the autumn passed and the time for leaving approached, the Lad ran
out very often to the farm. His visits were a constantly increasing
source of discomfort--both to heart and conscience. His father's
gallant attempts at cheerfulness, and his sublime assurance that his
son was going away to do a greater work for the Master stung Roderick
to the quick. That Master, whom he had long ago left out of his life's
plan, had said, "Ye cannot serve God and Mammon." And from even the
little Roderick had seen of the affairs of Elliot and Kent, he knew
only too well that to serve that firm and humanity at the same time
would be impossible.
There were others who did not possess his father's faith in his
purpose, and they spoke to him plainly on the matter. J. P. Thornton,
remembering indignantly all that Lawyer Ed had once given up for Old
Angus's sake, and further maddened by being forbidden to disclose it,
expressed his disapproval of Roderick's leaving so soon, in strong
incisive terms.
His remarks succeeded only in angering the young man, and making him
more determined in his course. Doctor Leslie was the next to speak
plainly on the matter, and his kindly, deep-searching words were harder
to set aside. Roderick was passing the Manse one day when Mammy Viney
hailed him.
"Honey, de minesta' want you," she called, in her soft rich tones.
"An' you'se gwine away, an' leavin' you ole Auntie Kirsty," she said
reproachfully, as he came up the steps and shook hands with her.
"But you wouldn't want me to stay and bother Aunt Kirsty in the kitchen
all my life, now, would you, Mammy Viney? I thought men were a
nuisance there."
"Men's jus' a trouble eberywhar," she said sternly. "Dat Mahogany Bill
he was jus' like all de res', an' here you doin' de same, goin' off an'
leabin' folks in de lurch, with all de hard work to do. I'se shame of
you--dat I is!"
Roderick laughed good-naturedly, as he followed her into the house, but
Mammy Viney tossed her head. "Eberybody say dat it pretty mean o' you,
anyhow," she said with the air of one who could tell a great deal if
she wished. "'Deed dey's sayin' dat you no business make Lawya Ed stay
home!"
Roderick did not wait to hear any more of what Algonquin was saying
about him. Mammy Viney rather enjoyed recounting such remarks, and
never took one jot or one tittle from that which she passed along.
Doctor Leslie met him at the study door, with outstretched hands. "Now
tell me all about this going away scheme," he said; and Roderick told
him eagerly, about the brilliant prospects ahead of him, and when he
finished there was the implied question in the boy's eyes. Would he
not be blind to his and every one's best interests to remain in
Algonquin in the face of such inducements?
Doctor Leslie sat and looked out at the orchard trees, with their
wealth of red and gold apples falling with soft thuds upon the grass.
How often had that question come to him in his youth, and when he had
examined his own heart and his reasons for obeying the call to go away,
he had been compelled to remain.
He saw Roderick's position, and sympathised with the youthful longing
to be away and to do great deeds; but he was afraid the way had not yet
truly opened up into which Angus McRae's son could step. He had
learned, in the year Roderick had spent in Algonquin, that the young
man was not vitally interested in the things that are eternal. His
outlook on life was not his father's. The minister felt impelled to
speak plainly.
"I feel sure," he said slowly, turning his eyes from the garden, and
letting them rest kindly upon the boy's frank face, "I feel sure,
Roderick, that no young man who lacks ambition will be of much use to
the world. But ambition is a dangerous guide alone. If you are
anxious to make the best of your life, my boy, the Lord will open the
way to great opportunities. But the time and the way will be plainly
shown. If this is a door of greater opportunity, then enter it, and
God give you great and large blessing. But if you are leaving with any
doubts as to its being the right course, if you fear that there are
other obligations you must yet fulfil, then I charge you to examine
your heart carefully, lest you fight against God. It is no use trying
to do that. One day or other His love will hedge us about. If it
cannot draw us into the way it meets us on the Damascus Road and blinds
us with its light. But some of us miss the best of life before that
happens. Don't lose the way, Lad; your father instructed you well in
it."
For days the warning followed Roderick, tormenting him. He dared not
examine his motives carefully, lest he find them false. He was out on
life's waters, paddling hard for the gleam of gold, and he had no time
to stop and consider whither it was leading him. It might vanish while
he lingered.
There was another person whose opinion he was anxious to get on this
vexed question. He wondered every waking hour what she would think of
his going. Perhaps she didn't think about it at all, he speculated
miserably. He still continued to waylay her in Willow Lane, as he went
to and from home, and one evening he ran upon his poor rival, Afternoon
Tea Willie, doing the same sentinel duty.
Roderick had been home for supper and was returning to the office early
to do some left over work, when he overtook him slowly walking towards
Algonquin.
"Good evening, Mr. Roderick," he said in a melancholy tone. "May I
walk into town with you?"
Roderick slackened his stride to suit the young man. He was rather
impatient at having to endure his company, but he soon changed his
mind, for Alfred was in a confidential mood.
"I might as well go home," he said gloomily. "She's gone."
"Who's gone?" asked Roderick perversely.
"Why, Miss Murray. She slipped away somehow, and I don't know how she
did it. But I've waited down here for her for the last time." He
choked for a moment, then continued firmly. "She's showed me plainly
she doesn't want me, and I'm too proud to force my company upon her."
Roderick did not know what to say; he wanted to laugh, but it was
impossible to keep just a little of the fellow-feeling that makes us
wondrous kind from creeping into his heart.
"Well, it's too bad," he said at last. "But if she doesn't want you,
of course there is only one thing for you to do."
"I have been faithful to her for a year," said the rejected lover. "I
never before was attentive to any lady, no matter how charming, for
that length of time, and she needn't have treated me that way."
The subject was the most interesting one in the world to Roderick, and
he could not resist encouraging the young man to go on.
And poor Afternoon Tea Willie, unaccustomed to a sympathetic hearing,
poured out all his long heartache.
"I am telling you this in strict confidence you know, Roderick," he
said. "It is such a relief to tell some one and it seems right I
should tell you the end of this sad romance, for you helped me and were
kind to me at its very beginning." He paused for a moment, to reflect
sadly on his disappointed hopes.
"You may be sure your confidence will never be betrayed," said
Roderick, and murmuring his gratitude the young man went on.
"It was Miss Annabel Armstrong who put her against me from the first, I
feel sure, though I must never bear a grudge against a lady. But you
know, Roderick (I know you will never betray a confidence), Miss
Annabel hates me. I proposed to her once, shortly after I came to
Algonquin. It was just a mad infatuation on my part, not love at all.
I did not know then what real love was. But Miss Annabel--well, she is
a lady--but I, I really couldn't tell you what she said to me when I
offered her all a man could, my heart and my hand and all my property.
It was awful! I really sometimes wake up in the night yet and think
about it. And she never forgave me. And I don't know why." He paused
and drew a deep breath at the remembrance.
"And I know she poisoned Miss Murray's mind against me--but I shan't
hold a grudge against a lady. Now, Miss Murray herself was so gentle
and kind when she refused me--what? I--I didn't mean any harm." For
his sympathetic listener had turned upon him.
"How dared you do such a thing?" Roderick cried indignantly.
"I just couldn't help it," wailed Alfred. "You couldn't yourself now,
Roderick;" and Roderick was forced to confess inwardly that likely he
couldn't.
"Well, never mind, go on," he said, all unabashed that he was taking
advantage of the poor young man merely to be able to hear something
about her.
"I just couldn't help it. But I only asked her twice and the first
time she refused so nicely, I thought perhaps she'd change her mind. I
never heard any one refuse a--person--so--so sweetly and kindly. But
this last time was unmistakable, and I feel as if it were all over. I
am not going to be trampled upon any more."
"That's right," said Roderick. "Just brace up and never mind; you'll
soon get over it."
The young man shook his head. "I shall never be the same," he said.
"But I have pride. I am not going to let her see that she has made a
wreck of my life. But I thought she might have had more sympathy when
she had had a sorrow like that herself."
Roderick felt his resentment rising. He did not mind listening to poor
Alfred's love stories, but he did not want to hear hers discussed. But
before he could interrupt, Alfred was saying something that held his
attention and made him long for more.
"But she is all over that now. She told me herself."
"All over what?" Roderick could not hold the question back.
"Caring about the young man she was engaged to. There was a young man
named Richard Wells in Toronto, you know, and they were engaged. When
she was away for her holidays last summer, I was so lonesome I just
couldn't stand it, so I wrote to my cousin Flossy Wilbur and asked her
to find out how she was or her address or something. And Flossy wrote
such a comforting letter and said she was staying with her married
brother, Norman Murray--he lives on Harrington Street, and Floss lives
just a couple of blocks away on a beautiful avenue--"
"What were you saying about Wells?" Roderick interrupted.
"Flossy knows him and told me all about it. I had a letter just last
week. He met another girl he liked better--no, that couldn't be true,
nobody who once saw her could care for any one else, I am sure. But
this other girl was rich, and so he broke the engagement. If I ever
meet that man!" Afternoon Tea Willie stood on the side-walk, the
electric light shining through the autumn leaves making a golden
radiance about his white face. "If I ever meet that man I--I shall
certainly treat him with the coldest contempt, Roderick. I wouldn't
speak to him!"
"But you said she didn't care," suggested Roderick impatiently.
"Not now. But Flossy said her poor little heart must have been broken
at first, though she did not show it. She came up to Algonquin right
away. I saw her on board the _Inverness_ the day she came and I knew
then--"
"How do you know she doesn't care about Wells?"
"Oh, when Flossy wrote me that last week, I went to see her at the
school--I don't dare go to Rosemount--and I asked her to forgive me for
proposing to her. I told her, or at least I hinted at the tragedy in
her life, and I said I wanted to beg her pardon on my knees for
troubling her as I had done,--and that I couldn't forgive myself. Oh,
she just acted like an angel--there is no other word to describe her.
She asked me at first how I found out and then she said so sweetly and
gently, that she thanked me for my consideration. And then, just
because she was so good--I did it again! I really didn't mean it, but
before I knew what I was doing, I was asking her again if there was any
hope for me. And, oh dear! oh dear! she said 'no' again. Gave me not
the least hope. I was so overcome--you don't know how a man feels
about such things, Roderick. I was so overcome I burst out and said I
felt just as if I would have given all I possessed to meet that Wells
man. I said I could just treat him with the coldest contempt if I ever
met him on the street. And she answered so sweetly that I must not
worry on her account. She said she had cared once, but that was all
over, and that she was glad now that it had been so. And she
added--and I don't see hew any one with such eyes could be so
cruel--she said I must never, never speak of such a subject to her
again, and that if I ever did she would not let me even come near her.
So it's all over with me. I am not going to follow her about any more.
I have still been coming down to Willow Lane, but I am coming no more
after to-night. This is the end!"
They had reached the office door and paused. Roderick's sympathy
seemed to have suddenly vanished. In the very face of the other young
man's despair, he turned upon him ruthlessly.
"That's a wise resolution, Alf," he said distinctly. "And I'm going to
advise you strongly to stick to it. You keep the width of the town
between you and Miss Murray from now on, do you understand?"
"What--whatever do you mean?" stammered the boy, aghast at the cruelty
of one who had seemed a friend.
"Just what I say. On your own showing, you've been tormenting her;
and--I--well, I won't have it--that's all. I feel sure you have the
good sense to stick to your resolution," his tone was a trifle
kindlier, "and for your own sake I hope you do. If not, look out!" He
made a significant gesture, that made the other jump out of his way in
terror. "And look here, Alf," he added. "If you tell any soul in
Algonquin that Miss Murray was engaged to any one I'll--I'll murder
you. Do you hear?"
He ran up the steps and into the office. And the cruellest part of it
all to poor Afternoon Tea Willie, as the door slammed in his face
leaving him alone in the darkness, was that he could hear his false
friend whistling merrily.
Roderick felt like whistling in the days that followed. He had found
out something he had been longing to know for over a year. He did not
have to stay away from her now. And the very next evening he marched
straight up to Rosemount and asked to see Miss Murray. She was out,
much to his disappointment, but the next Sunday he met her as they were
leaving the church. And she expressed her regret so kindly that he was
once more filled with hope. He had stood watching for her while his
father paused for a word with Dr. Leslie, but as usual he had been
joined by Alexander Graham and his daughter. There was a subtle air of
triumph about the man, ever since Roderick had decided to go to
Montreal, an air almost of proprietorship especially noticeable when
Lawyer Ed was about.
"Good morning, Rod," he said genially. "All packed yet?"
"Not quite," said Roderick shortly. He winced, for the thought of the
actual parting with his father was a subject upon which he did not care
to speak.
"I don't believe you are a bit sorry you are going," said Leslie,
shaking the heavy plumes of her velvet hat at him, and pouting, for
never a regret had he expressed to her.
"I actually believe you're glad. And I don't blame you. I'd be just
jumping for joy if I were going. It's a dreadfully dull little place
here, in the winter especially."
He looked at her in surprise. It was so unlike her to express
discontent. She had always seemed so happy. "Why, I thought you
couldn't be ever induced to live any other place," he cried in surprise.
"The idea! I wish somebody'd try me!" she flashed out the answer, with
just the faintest emphasis on a significant word.
Roderick looked down at her again in wonder, to see her eyes droop, her
colour deepen. They passed down the church steps, side by side; her
father dropped behind with Dr. Blair, and they were left alone
together. Roderick, always shy in a young woman's presence, was
overcome with a vague feeling of dismay, which he did not at all
understand and which rendered him speechless.
He was relieved when Miss Annabel Armstrong, with a girlish skip, came
suddenly to her niece's side. "Good morning, Mr. Roderick McRae. Good
morning, niecy dear! Come here a moment and walk with me, Leslie
darling. I want to ask you something." She slipped her arm into the
girl's and drew her back. "Here, Mr. McRae, you walk by Miss Murray,
just for a moment, please."
She shoved Helen forward into Leslie's place, and pulling her niece
close, whispered fiercely.
"You are a young idiot, Leslie Graham! I heard Mrs. Captain Willoughby
and the Baldwin girls laughing and talking about you just this minute
as they came out of church. I am just deadly ashamed. How can we ever
keep our position in society if you act so? Anna Baldwin said you were
simply throwing yourself at that young McRae's head--and his father a
common farmer! And his _Aunt_!"
The girl jerked her arm from Miss Annabel's grasp, her eyes and cheeks
blazing. "Anna Baldwin is crazy about him herself!" she cried
violently. "And she's made a fool of herself more times than I can
tell! And his father is far better than your father ever was, or mine
either!" She stopped as some one looked at her in passing. "I shall
just do exactly as I please, Aunt Annabel Armstrong," she added
determinedly. "It's just like an old maid to be always interfering in
other people's affairs!"
Miss Annabel turned white with anger. She was proud of her niece, and
yet she almost disliked her. Leslie, young and gay and successful, the
inheritor of everything for which her aunt had scrimped and striven and
hungered all her life and never attained, was a constant source of
irritation and discontent to Miss Annabel. Her heart and hopes were as
young as Leslie's, and she was forced to find herself pushed aside into
the place of age, while this radiant girl walked all unheeding into
everything that her girlhood should have been. And this intimation
concerning her age and estate was unbearable. She grew intensely quiet.
"Leslie," she said, "you may heed me or not as you wish. But if you
had eyes in your head, you would see for yourself that that young man
doesn't care the snap of his finger for you and all your money. He's
madly in love with Helen Murray. He's always hanging about Rosemount!"
she added, growing reckless. "He was there only last night. Just look
at him now!"
The startled eyes of the girl obeyed. Roderick was walking beside
Helen Murray, and looking down at her with the joy of her presence
shining in his face. He was not schooled in hiding his feelings, and
his eyes told his secret so plainly that Leslie Graham could not but
read.
She said not another word. They had reached a corner and she suddenly
left her aunt and walked swiftly homeward alone. She had had a
revelation. For a long time she had suspected and feared. Now she
knew. In all her gay thoughtless life she had never wanted anything
very badly that she had not been able to get. Now, the one thing she
wanted most, the thing which had all unconsciously become the supreme
desire of her life, she had learned in one flash was already another's.
She was as certain of it as though Roderick had proclaimed his feelings
from the church pulpit. Her thoughts ran swiftly back over the months
of their acquaintance and picked up here and there little items of
remembrance that should have shown her earlier the true state of
things. She was forced to confess that not once had he shown her any
slightest preference, except as her father's daughter. And yet she had
refused to look and listen. And then, upon knowledge, came shame and
humiliation and rage at finding she had boldly proffered herself and
was found undesirable. It was the birth of her woman's heart. The
happy, careless girl's heart was dying, and the new life did not come
without much anguish of soul.
As soon as she could escape from the dinner table she fled to her room
to face this dread thing which had come upon her. All undisciplined
and unused to pain, through her mother's careless indulgence, entirely
pagan, too, for her religious experience had been but one of form, the
girl met this crisis in her life alone.
At first the smarting sense of her humiliation predominated and her
heart cried for recompense. She would show him what would happen If he
dared set her aside. Well she knew she could injure Roderick's chances
for success if she set her mind to the task; for was it not her
influence that had helped to give him those chances?
The force of her anger drove her to action. She threw on her plumed
hat and her velvet coat, and slipping out unseen, walked swiftly out of
the town and up the lake shore. Every little breeze from the waters
sent a shower of golden leaves dropping about her. But the air was
still in the woods. It was a perfect autumn day, a true Sabbath day in
Nature's world, with everything in a beautiful state of rest after
labour. The bronze oaks, the yellow elms and the crimson maples along
the shore, now and then dropped a jewel too heavy to be held into the
coloured waters beneath. The tower of the little Indian church across
the lake pointed a silver finger up out of a soft blue haze. The whole
world seemed at peace, in contrast to the tumult within the girl's
untrained heart.
She seated herself on a fallen log beside the water, the warm, hazy
sunshine falling through the golden branches upon her. And sitting
there, she felt the spirit of the serene day steal over hers. Wiser
and nobler thoughts came to her sorely tried young heart. Some strong
unknown Spirit rose up within her and demanded that she do what was
right. It was her only guide, she could not reason with it, but she
blindly obeyed. There would be long days of pain and hard struggle
ahead of her, she well knew, but the Spirit heeded them not at all.
She must do what was right. She must act the strong, the womanly part,
let the future bring what it would.
And she went back from the soft rustling peace of the woods, not a
careless, selfishly happy girl any more, but a strong, steady-purposed
woman.
Roderick was so busy and happy during the ensuing week that he had
almost forgotten the existence of Miss Leslie Graham, when she was
brought to his dismayed senses by the sound of her voice over the
telephone.
"Tra-la-la-la, Mr. Roderick McRae," she sang out in her merriest voice.
"Why don't you come round and say good-bye to your friends? Are you
going to fold your tent like the Arabs and silently steal away?"
Roderick began to stammer out an explanation, but she cut him off gaily.
"Don't apologise, you are going to be punished for your sins," she
called laughingly. "For you can't come now. I am off to-day to
Toronto with Aunt Annabel. We took a sudden notion we wanted to go to
the city. We're going to spend a whole month in a riotous purchasing
of autumn hats. So, as I am a good meek and forgiving person and as
you'll be gone before we get back I just thought I'd say 'Bon Voyage'
to you before I leave."
She talked so fast that Roderick had scarcely any chance to reply. He
tried to stammer out his thanks to her for her kindness, but she
laughingly interrupted him. It was quite too bad they couldn't say
good-bye, Daddy would do that for her. But Mamma was coming to Toronto
with them. They were both dreadfully sorry and Mamma sent her best
regards. They all hoped he'd have a lovely time, and come home very
rich; and before he could answer, she had called a gay "Good-bye and
good-luck," and had rung off.
Roderick was conscious of a slight feeling of surprise, and a decided
feeling of relief.
"She's a great girl," he said to himself admiringly. "She's just a
splendid good friend and a brick, and I'll write and tell her so!"
And he had no idea of how very much she merited his praise.
As the time for leaving approached, Roderick grew busier every day. It
was hard to get Lawyer Ed in the office long enough to settle things.
He was striving to take up the burden of his old work again cheerfully,
but the new civic and social and church duties he had assumed in the
year were hard to drop. Then the Local Option campaign was at its
height and demanded his attention.
To Roderick, and to most of the town people, he seemed to be
shouldering all his old burdens with his usual energy and
light-heartedness, but J. P. missed a familiar note of joyousness in
his tone, and Archie Blair noticed that Ed did not go up the steps of
his office in one leap now as he had always done, but walked up like
other people. But to the casual observer, Lawyer Ed was the same. He
was here, there and everywhere, making sure that this one and that was
going to vote the right way. And Roderick, watching him, remembered
how anxious he had been over the effect the campaign would have upon
his business. And now that he was not required to enter it, he often
longed to plunge in and help his friend to victory.
On the whole, the campaign helped Lawyer Ed materially, in the hard
days preceding the parting with his boy. After all, there was nothing
so dear to his Irish heart as a fight, and the rounding up of his
troops before the battle kept him busy and happy. And everything was
pointing to victory. Father Tracy had promised to see to it that his
flock voted the right way, and Jock McPherson had declared himself on
the side of the temperance cause. Whatever Lawyer Ed may have had to
do with influencing his fellow Irishmen, he could take no credit for
Jock's conversion. He had set out to interview the McPherson one night
after a session meeting, but fortunately J. P. Thornton prevented his
impetuous friend making the mistake of approaching the elder on that
difficult subject. Jock was still feeling a little dour over the
temperance question and the wise Englishman knew that whichever side of
the cause was presented first that was the side to which the McPherson
was most likely to object.
"Leave him to the other fellows, Ed," advised his friend. "They are
almost certain to work their own destruction."
He was right; for not a week later Lawyer Ed came up the steps of the
Thornton home, staggering with laughter, to report that Jock was as
staunch on the temperance question as Dr. Leslie himself, and to
explain how it came about.
As J. P. had prophesied, Jock had come over to their side because a
particularly offensive person interested in the liquor business, had
claimed him as a friend. It had happened on the Saturday afternoon
before. Jock was down town, standing on the sidewalk in front of
Crofter's hotel discussing the bad state of the roads with a farmer
friend, when Mr. Crofter came forth, and after introducing the subject
of Local Option in a friendly fashion, said:
"Well, sir, I'm glad to see one good Presbyterian who hasn't gone off
his head over this tom-foolery." Here he made the fatal mistake of
slapping Mr. McPherson on the shoulder. "It does me good to see a man
who isn't a fanatic, but can take a glass and leave it alone, and give
every other fellow the same privilege."
"Yus." Jock drew in his breath with a peculiar snuffing sound that
would have warned any one who knew him well that there was danger in
the air. "Yus," he repeated the word very slowly, "and take another
glass, and leave it alone."
"What did you say?" enquired Mr. Crofter, a little puzzled. "I don't
think I quite caught you, Mr. McPherson."
"I would be thinking," said Jock with dreadful deliberation, "that it
must be a grand sight, but I nuffer saw one."
"Never saw what?"
"A man that could take a glass and leave it alone. He always took it."
Mr. Crofter went back into the hotel with something of the feeling of a
baseball player who has made a mighty swing with his bat and missed.
And Jock informed Dr. Leslie the next day that he had intended all
along to vote for Local Option, but had omitted to say so earlier. The
case of Father Tracy had brought even greater joy. One day Mike
Cassidy came raging into Lawyer Ed's office with the tale of another
fight with his enemies the Duffys, and the information that he was
going to court with it this time if he died for it. Roderick was out,
and on the pretence that he must consult his young partner, Lawyer Ed
managed to get Mike to consider the matter for an hour, and in the
interval he went to see Father Tracy.
The Catholic priest and the Presbyterian elder were good friends, for
his reverence was a jolly Irishman, very proud of his title of the
"Protestant Priest." It was whispered that he was not in favour in
ecclesiastical circles, but little cared he, for he was in the highest
favour with everybody in Algonquin, especially those in need, and the
hero of every boy who could wave a lacrosse stick.
"Good mornin', Father O'Flynn," cried Lawyer Ed, as, swinging his cane,
he was ushered into the priest's sanctum. "Sure and I suppose it's yer
owld job ye're at--
"_Checkin' the crazy ones, urgin' the aisy ones,
Helpin' the lazy ones on wid a stick._"
"It is that, then," said Father Tracy, his blue eyes dancing. "And
here's wan o' the crazy ones. Sit ye down, man, till I finish this
note, and I'll be checkin' ye all right. I'll not be a minute."
Lawyer Ed of course could not sit down, but wandered about the room
examining the pictures on the wall, a few photographs of popes and
cardinals.
"Sure this is a terrible place for a heretic like me to be in, Father,"
he exclaimed. "Oi'm getting clane narvous. If it wasn't called a
Presbytry, I'd niver dare venture. It's got a good name. By the way,
I don't see John Knox here," he added, anxiously examining the
cardinals again.
Father Tracy's pen signed his name with a flourish. "You'll see John
Knox soon enough if ye don't mend your ways, Edward Brians," he said.
"Now, what do ye want of me this morning?" But the two Irishmen could
not let such a good joke pass unnoticed; when they had laughed over it
duly, the business was stated.
"He'll go to no law," said the shepherd of this wayward sheep. "I'll
see him to-night, and it's grateful I am to you, Edward, for your
interest. I hear the boys are getting together to see about a junior
league. Algonquin ought to get the championship this year--"
But Lawyer Ed knew better than to let Father Tracy get off onto the
subject of lacrosse. "I wish Algonquin would take the championship
vote for Local Option next January, Father," he said tentatively. He
waited, but Father Tracy said nothing. He was not so much noted for
his leanings towards teetotalism as towards lacrosse.
"It would keep Mike Cassidy straight," ventured the visitor again.
"I can keep Mike Cassidy straight without the aid of any such heretic
props," said Father Tracy, looking decidedly grim.
Lawyer Ed burst out laughing. "'Pon me word you're right," he
exclaimed. "Man, I wish sometimes that our Protestant priests had the
power that you have. But I'm not here to urge you, mind that. I'm not
such a fool as to go down to the Rainy Rapids and try to turn them back
with a pebble. But I just thought I might as well ask you what your
opinion was, when I was here. A great many people of your flock tell
me they will vote just as the Father tells them." He glanced back at
his host as he moved to the door.
"Yes, and they'd better," said the Father. "So you'd like to know what
to say to them, eh?"
"I certainly would." He waited anxiously.
Father Tracy stood watching him go down the steps, his portly figure
filling up the doorway, his good-natured face beaming. "And if it's
news ye're after I suppose ye'll rest neither day nor night till ye get
it."
"Not likely."
"Well--" Father Tracy was enjoying the other's anxiety and was as
deliberate as Jock McPherson--"well, if you meet any of my stray sheep
that look as if they were goin' to vote for the whiskey, ye can tell
them for me that I'd say mass for a dead dog before I'd meddle wid
their lost souls."
Lawyer Ed went down the street, half a block at a stride, in the
direction of J. P.'s office.
Archie Blair's horse and buggy were standing in front of a house next
to the Catholic church. The temptation, combined with his desperate
hurry, was too much. He leaped in and, without so much as "By your
leave," he tore down the street and never drew rein until he fairly
fell out of the vehicle in front of J. P.'s office. He burst in with
the glorious news: "I've got four hundred new votes promised me for
local option. Hurrah! That's better than going to the Holy Land any
day in the year!"
But when the day came at last that was to take Roderick from him, even
Lawyer Ed's love of battle failed him. It was a dreary day, with
Nature in accord with his gloom. A chill wind had blown all night from
the north, lashing Lake Algonquin into foam and making the pines along
the Jericho Road moan sadly. Early in the day the snow began to drive
down from the north and by afternoon the roads were drifted.
Roderick was to leave on the afternoon train for Toronto, and there
take the night express for Montreal and he came into Algonquin in the
morning, to bid his friends good-bye. The sudden change in the weather
had, as usual, been accompanied by the return of the old pain in his
arm. It had been more frequent this autumn, but he had paid little
heed to it. But to-day it added just the last burden required to make
him thoroughly miserable. Lawyer Ed was stamping about, complaining
loudly of the cold, blowing his nose, and talking about everything and
anything but Roderick's pending departure. The Lad's drooping spirits
went lower at the sight of him.
As he went about saying farewell he realised that he had not known how
many friends he had made. Alexander Graham was full of expressions of
congratulation and good-will.
"You must make good, Rod, my boy," he said. "We'll be watching you,
you know, and of course the blame will fall on me if you don't. But I
have no fears." He laughed in a patronising way that made Roderick
feel very small indeed.
"I'm so sorry you couldn't come up again. The wife and Leslie took a
sudden notion that they must go to Toronto for a month--or Leslie took
it rather, and made her mother and aunt go with her. I'm sorry they
are not here--but they are in Toronto and you might--" he paused
knowingly,--"I guess I don't need to tell you where they are staying.
Miss Leslie probably left her address." He laughed in such an
insinuating way that Roderick's face grew crimson.
"No, Miss Graham did not give me her address," he said, so stiffly that
the man looked at him in wonder, then laughed again. This was some of
Leslie's nonsense, as usual, just to tease him. She had forced a
little lover's quarrel probably and gone without saying good-bye. But
he knew Leslie could make it all right just when she chose.
He parted from Roderick in quite a fatherly manner, but the young man
went away feeling more uncomfortable and downhearted than ever.
There was one person who seemed frankly glad to see him go. Mr. Fred
Hamilton did not actually express his joy, but he looked it, and
Roderick felt something of the same feeling when they said good-bye.
Dr. Leslie and several other old friends came next. Archie Blair had
gone to the city to a medical congress, and he missed him. But he had
bidden almost every one else in Algonquin farewell when at last he sent
his trunk to the station, and taking Lawyer Ed's horse and cutter,
drove out to the farm for the severest ordeal of that hard day.
As he passed the school, the children came storming out to their
afternoon recess, pelting each other with snowballs. Roderick
hesitated a moment before the gate, but the wild onslaught of some
fifty shrieking youngsters frightened the horse, and it dashed away
down the road, so he decided to leave his farewell with her to the last.
The bleak wind was sweeping down from the lake and the old board fence
and the frail houses on Willow Lane creaked before it. The water
roared up on the beach as he passed along the Pine Road, and the snow
drove into his eyes and half blinded him. The McDuff home was
deserted. There was no track to the door through the snow, no smoke
from the old broken chimney. Peter Fiddle was either out at the farm
or down in the warm tavern on Willow Lane singing and playing.
The dull pain in Roderick's arm had increased to a steady ache that did
not help to make the soreness of his heart any easier. The bare trees
along the way; creaked and moaned, cold grey clouds gathered and spread
across the sky.
Hitherto Roderick had felt nothing but impatience at the thought of
staying in Algonquin all his life to watch Old Peter and Eddie Perkins
and Mike Cassidy and their like, but now that the day had come for him
to leave, it seemed as though everything was calling upon him to stay,
every finger post pointing towards home. Doctor Leslie's farewell, a
warning to again consider. Lawyer Ed's patient, cheery acceptance of
the situation, J. P. Thornton's open disapproval, Helen Murray's smile
the other evening at the door of Rosemount, his father's love and
confidence in him, all pulled him back with strong hands. The rainbow
gold shone but dimly that day, and he would fain have turned his back
upon it for the sure chance of a life like his father's in Algonquin.
He found Old Angus watching for him at the window. His brave attempts
at cheerfulness made Roderick's trial doubly hard. He bustled about,
even trying to hum a tune, his old battle song, "My Love, be on thy
guard."
"I'll be back before you know I'm gone, Auntie," said the Lad, when
Aunt Kirsty appeared and burst into tears at the sight of him. He
tried to laugh as he said it, but he made but a feeble attempt. They
sat by the fire, the Lad trying to talk naturally of his trip, his
father making pathetic attempts to help him, and Aunt Kirsty crying
silently over her knitting. At last, as Roderick glanced at the clock.
Old Angus took out the tattered Bible from the cup-board drawer. It
had always been the farewell ceremony in all the Lad's coming and
going, the reading of a few words of comfort and courage and a final
prayer. Old Angus read, as he so often did when his son was leaving,
the one hundred and thirty-ninth psalm, the great assurance that no
matter how far one might go from home and loved ones, one might never
go away from the presence of God.
"If I ascend up into Heaven thou art there. If I make my bed in hell
behold thou art there. If I take the wings of the morning and dwell in
the uttermost parts of the sea, even there shall thy hand lead me and
thy right hand shall uphold me."
The prayer was simple and direct, as were all Old Angus's communions
with his Father. He had come to-day to a place where the way was very
puzzling, and Roderick, knowing him so well, understood why he prayed
for himself, that he might not be troubled with the why of it all, but
that he might know that God was guiding them all aright. But there was
an anguished note in his voice new to the Lad, and one that made the
pain in his heart grow almost unbearable. He had heard that sound in
his father's voice once before; and was puzzled to remember when. And
then there came vividly to his heart's ear, the cry that had rung out
over the dark waters to him the night the little boy was lost.
"Roderick, my son, where are you?" The father's heart was uttering
that cry now, and the son's heart heard it. There were tears in the
eyes of both men when they arose from their knees.
Aunt Kirsty came to him for her farewell with a big bundle in her arms.
It was done up carefully in a newspaper and tied with yarn, and
contained a huge lunch, composed of all the good things she had been
able to cook in a day's baking. Roderick felt as if he could not eat
anything between home and Montreal, but he took the bulky parcel
gratefully and tenderly. She put her arms about him, the tears
streaming down her face, then fled from the room as fast as her ample
size would permit, and gave vent to her grief in loud sobs and wails.
Old Angus followed his son out to the cutter in the shed. He stumbled
a little. He seemed to have suddenly become aged and decrepit. It was
not the physical parting that was weighing him down so heavily. Had
Roderick been called to go as a missionary to some far-off land, as his
father had so often dreamed in his younger days that he might, Old
Angus would have sent him away with none of the foreboding which filled
his heart to-day when he saw his boy leave to take a high position in
the work of the world.
Roderick caught the blanket off the horse, and as he did so his arm
gave a sudden, sharp twinge. His face twisted.
"Is it the old pain in your arm, Roderick, my son?" his father asked
anxiously.
"It's nothing," said the Lad lightly. "It'll be all right to-morrow."
"You should see a doctor," admonished his father. "There will be great
doctors in Montreal."
"Perhaps I shall," said the boy. "Now, Father, don't stand there in
the cold!" He caught the old man's hand in both his. "Father!" he
cried sharply. "I--oh--I feel I shouldn't leave you!"
"Hoots, toots, Lad!" The man clapped him upon the back comfortingly.
"You must not be saying that whatever. Indeed it's a poor father I
would be to want you always by me. No, no, you must go, but Roderick--"
"Yes, Father."
The old man's face was pale and intense. "You will not be leaving the
Heavenly Father. Oh mind, mind and hold to Him!"
Roderick pressed his hand, and felt for the first time something of the
utter bitterness of that road to success. "I'll try, Father," he
faltered. "Oh, I will!"
He sprang into the cutter and took the lines, the old man put his hands
for a moment on the Lad's bowed head praying for a blessing upon him,
and then the horse dashed out of the gate and away down the lane. At
the turn Roderick looked back. His father was standing on the snowy
threshold where he had left him, waving his cap. A yellow gleam of
wintry sunlight through ragged clouds lit up his face, the wind
fluttered his old coat and his silver hair, and, standing there in his
loneliness, he was making a desperate attempt at a smile that had more
anguish in it than a rain of tears.
Roderick drove swiftly down the snowy road, his eyes blinded. For one
moment he hated success and money and fame and would have thrown them
all away to be able to go back to his father. Well he knew the parting
was more, far more than a temporal leave-taking. It was a departure
from the old paths where his father had taught him to walk.
As he sped along, his head down, he did not see a figure on the road
ahead of him. He was almost upon it when he suddenly jerked his horse
out of the way. It was Old Peter. Evidently he had drunk just enough
to make him tremendously polite. He stepped to the side of the road
and bowed profoundly.
Roderick made an attempt to pull up his horse and say good-bye. A
sudden impulse to take Peter home to his father seized him. Old Angus
would be so comforted to think that his boy's last act was giving a
helping hand on the Jericho Road. But his horse was impatient, and
Peter had already turned in at his own gate and was plunging through
the snow to his house. A bottle was sticking out of his pocket.
Evidently he intended to make a night of it. The sight of it made the
young man change his mind. There was no use, as he had so often said,
bothering with Peter Fiddle. He was determined to drink himself to
death and he would.
Roderick let his horse go and went spinning down the road. Then he
realised that he had given his arm a wrench, when he had pulled his
horse out of Peter's way. The pain in it grew intense for a few
moments. He resolved that as soon as he was settled at his new work he
would have it attended to. It was the relic of his old rainbow
expedition and though it had annoyed him only at intervals it had never
ceased to remind him that there was trouble there for him some future
day.
He had another hard parting to face, but one with hope in it for the
future. When he tied his horse at the school gate and went in he was
wondering how he would tell Helen how much the farewell meant to him.
For he was determined that she must know. The school was quiet, for
the hour for dismissing had not come. As he entered the hall, Madame
came swaying out of Miss Murray's room with a group of cherubs peeping
from behind her. "Now you, Johnnie Pickett," she was saying, "you just
come and tell me if anybody's bad and I'll fix them." Then she saw
Roderick, and greeted him with a rapturous smile.
"There's a dear boy," she cried, "to come and say good-bye to your old
teacher. Now, you Johnnie Pickett, what are you following me out here
for? Aren't you to watch the room for Miss Murray? Go on back. Well,
and you are really going this afternoon?" she said, turning to her
visitor again. "And how is your father standing it? What's the matter
now?"
A small youngster with blazing eyes shot from the room and launched
himself upon her.
"Please, teacher," he cried, his voice shrill with wrath, "them kids,
they won't mind me at all. Dutchy Scott's makin' faces, and the girls
is talkin', an' Pie-face Hurd he's calling names. He said I was a
nigger!" His blue eyes and white hair belied the accusation, but his
voice rose to a scream at the indignity. Mrs. Doasyouwouldbedoneby
marched the deposed monitor hack to the room to restore order,
explaining volubly that it was quite as wicked a crime to call a boy
Pie-face as for that boy to call one a nigger.
"I've got Miss Murray's room in charge," she said, returning to
Roderick smiling and breathless. "Go on back there, now! I see you
looking out there, you, Jimmie Hurd. Just wait till I catch you!"
"She isn't sick, is she?" asked Roderick dismayed.
"No. Oh, no! She went with a crowd of young folks to a tea-meeting at
Arrow Head. They started early, and I made her run home an hour before
the time to bundle up. Now, Johnnie Pickett, leave that chalk alone!
You don't need to think I don't see you--"
Roderick went on his journey miserably disappointed. She had gone on a
sleigh ride and she must have known, indeed she did know, he intended
to call and say good-bye to her. Each farewell had been harder than
the last and now this absence of farewell was the hardest of all.
There was one more--Lawyer Ed's. Like Old Angus, he was making an
attempt at cheerfulness that was heartbreaking. He tramped about,
singing loudly, scolding every one who came near him, and proclaiming
his joy over the Lad's going in a manner that drove poor Roderick's
sore heart to desperation. He drove with him to the station, carried
his bag on board, loaded him with books and magazines and bade him a
joyful farewell, with not a word of regret. But he gave way as the
train moved out and Roderick saw him hastily wipe his eyes and as he
looked back for one last glimpse of his beloved figure, the Lad saw
Lawyer Ed move slowly away, showing for the first time in his life the
signs of approaching age.
That night Old Angus sat late over his kitchen fire. He was mentally
following the Lad. He was in Toronto now; later, on the way to
Montreal, lying asleep in his berth probably. Old Angus's faith
forbade his doubting that God's hand was in his boy's departure. But
the remembrance of all his joyous plans on the day the Lad started in
Algonquin persisted in coming up to haunt him. He sat far into the
night trying to reason himself back into his former cheerfulness. The
storm had risen anew, and gusts of wind came tearing up from the lake,
lashing the trees and shaking the old house. The snow beat with a
soft, quick pad-pad upon the window-pane. Occasionally the jingle of
bells came to him muffled in the snow. Finally, he heard a new sound,
some one singing. It was probably a sleigh-load of young folk
returning from a country tea-meeting, he reflected. Then he suddenly
sat up straight. Something familiar in the fitful sounds made him slip
out to the door and listen. The wind was lulled for a moment, and he
could dimly discern a figure going along the road. And he could hear a
voice raised loud and discordant in the 103rd psalm! Old Angus came
back into the house swiftly. He caught up his coat and cap. Peter had
fallen among thieves once more! And he would probably be left by the
road-side to freeze were he not rescued. He hastily lit a lantern and
carefully closed up the stove. Then, softly opening the door, he
hurried out into the storm.
He found the lane and the road beyond badly drifted, but he plunged
along, his swaying lantern making a faint yellow star in the swirling
white mists of the storm. He reached the road. Peter's voice came to
him fitfully on the wind. He had probably started out to come to him
and had lost his bearings. There was nothing to do but follow and
bring him back. He plunged into the road and staggered forward in the
direction of the voice.
The snow had stopped falling but the wind that was driving it into
drifts was growing bitterly cold. Old Angus needed all his strength to
battle with it, as he forced his way forward, sinking sometimes almost
to his waist. He struggled on. Peter was somewhere there ahead,
perhaps fallen to freeze by the roadside, and the Good Samaritan must
not give in till he found him. But his own strength was going fast.
In his thought for Peter he had forgotten that he was not able to
battle with such a wind. He fell again and again, and each time he
rose it was with an added sense of weakness. He kept calling to Peter,
but the roar of the lake on the one hand and the answering roar of the
pines on the other drowned his voice. He was almost exhausted when he
stumbled over a dark object half buried in snow in the middle of the
road. He staggered to his feet and turned his lantern upon it. It was
Peter, lain down in a drunken stupor to die of cold.
"Peter! Peter!" Angus McRae tried to speak his name, but his benumbed
lips refused to make an articulate sound. He dropped the lantern
beside him and tried to raise the prostrate figure. As he did so he
felt the light of the lantern grow dim. It faded away, and the Good
Samaritan and the man who had fallen among thieves lay side by side in
the snow.