“I am requested to announce,” said Dr Drummond after the singing of the
last hymn, “the death, yesterday morning, of James Archibald Ramsay,
for fifteen years an adherent and for twenty-five years a member of this
church. The funeral will take place from the residence of the deceased,
on Court House Street, tomorrow afternoon at four o’clock. Friends and
acquaintances are respectfully--invited--to attend.”
The minister’s voice changed with the character of its affairs. Still
vibrating with the delivery of his sermon, it was now charged with the
official business of the interment. In its inflections it expressed both
elegy and eulogy; and in the brief pause before and after “invited” and
the fall of “attend” there was the last word of comment upon the mortal
term. A crispation of interest passed over the congregation; every chin
was raised. Dr Drummond’s voice had a wonderful claiming power, but he
often said he wished his congregation would pay as undivided attention
to the sermon as they did to the announcements.
“The usual weekly prayer meeting will be held in the basement of the
church on Wednesday evening.” Then almost in a tone of colloquy, and
with just a hint of satire about his long upper lip--
“I should be glad to see a better attendance of the young people at
these gatherings. Time was when the prayer meeting counted among our
young men and women as an occasion not to be lightly passed over. In
these days it would seem that there is too much business to be done, or
too much pleasure to be enjoyed, for the oncoming generation to remember
their weekly engagement with the Lord. This is not as it should be; and
I rely upon the fathers and mothers of this congregation, who brought
these children in their arms to the baptismal font, there to be admitted
to the good hopes and great privileges of the Church of God--I rely upon
them to see that there shall be no departure from the good old rule, and
that time is found for the weekly prayer meeting.”
Mrs Murchison nudged Stella, who returned the attention, looking
elaborately uninterested, with her foot. Alec and Oliver smiled
consciously; their father, with an expression of severe gravity, backed
up the minister who, after an instant’s pause, continued--
“On Tuesday afternoon next, God willing, I shall visit the following
families in the East Ward--Mr Peterson, Mr Macormack, Mrs Samuel Smith,
and Mr John Flint. On Thursday afternoon in the South Ward, Mrs Reid,
Mr P. C. Cameron, and Mr Murchison. We will close by singing the Third
Doxology: Blessed, blessed be Jehovah, Israel’s God to all eternity--”
The congregation trooped out; the Murchisons walked home in a clan, Mr
and Mrs Murchison, with Stella skirting the edge of the sidewalk beside
them, the two young men behind. Abby, when she married Harry, had “gone
over” to the Church of England. The wife must worship with the husband;
even Dr Drummond recognized the necessity, though he professed small
opinion of the sway of the spouse who, with Presbyterian traditions
behind her, could not achieve union the other way about; and Abby’s
sanctioned defection was a matter of rather shame-faced reference by her
family. Advena and Lorne had fallen into the degenerate modern habit of
preferring the evening service.
“So we’re to have the Doctor on Thursday,” said Mrs Murchison, plainly
not displeased. “Well, I hope the dining-room carpet will be down.”
“I expect he’ll be wanting his tea,” replied Mr Murchison. “He’s got you
in the right place on the list for that, Mother--as usual.”
“I’d just like to see him go anywhere else for his tea the day he was
coming to our house,” declared Stella. “But he GENERALLY has too much
sense.”
“You boys,” said Mrs Murchison, turning back to her sons, “will see that
you’re on hand that evening. And I hope the Doctor will rub it in about
the prayer meeting.” Mrs Murchison chuckled. “I saw it went home to both
of you, and well it might. Yes, I think I may as well expect him to tea.
He enjoys my scalloped oysters, if I do say it myself.”
“We’ll get Abby over,” said Mr Murchison. “That’ll please the Doctor.”
“I must say,” remarked Stella, “he seems to think a lot more of Abby now
that she’s Mrs Episcopal Johnson.”
“Yes, Abby and Harry must come,” said Mrs Murchison, “and I was thinking
of inviting Mr and Mrs Horace Williams. We’ve been there till I’m
ashamed to look them in the face. And I’ve pretty well decided,” she
added autocratically, “to have chicken salad. So if Dr Drummond has made
up his mouth for scalloped oysters he’ll be disappointed.”
“Mother,” announced Stella, “I’m perfectly certain you’ll have both.”
“I’ll consider it,” replied her mother. “Meanwhile we would be better
employed in thinking of what we have been hearing. That’s the third
sermon from the Book of Job in six weeks. I must say, with the whole of
the two Testaments to select from, I don’t see why the Doctor should be
so taken up with Job.”
Stella was vindicated; Mrs Murchison did have both. The chicken salad
gleamed at one end of the table and the scalloped oysters smoked
delicious at the other. Lorne had charge of the cold tongue and Advena
was entrusted with the pickled pears. The rest of the family were
expected to think about the tea biscuits and the cake, for Lobelia had
never yet had a successor that was any hand with company. Mrs Murchison
had enough to do to pour out the tea. It was a table to do anybody
credit, with its glossy damask and the old-fashioned silver and
best china that Mrs Murchison had brought as a bride to her
housekeeping--for, thank goodness, her mother had known what was what
in such matters--a generous attractive table that you took some
satisfaction in looking at. Mrs Murchison came of a family of noted
housekeepers; where she got her charm I don’t know. Six-o’clock tea, and
that the last meal in the day, was the rule in Elgin, and a good enough
rule for Mrs Murchison, who had no patience with the innovation of a
late dinner recently adopted by some people who could keep neither
their servants nor their digestions in consequence. It had been a crisp
October day; as Mr Murchison remarked, the fall evenings were beginning
to draw in early; everybody was glad of the fire in the grate and the
closed curtains. Dr Drummond had come about five, and the inquiries and
comments upon family matters that the occasion made incumbent had been
briskly exchanged, with just the word that marked the pastoral visit
and the practical interest that relieved it. And he had thought, on the
whole, that he might manage to stay to tea, at which Mrs Murchison’s
eyes twinkled as she said affectionately--
“Now, Doctor, you know we could never let you off.”
Then Abby had arrived and her husband, and finally Mr and Mrs Williams,
just a trifle late for etiquette, but well knowing that it mustn’t be
enough to spoil the biscuits. Dr Drummond in the place of honour,
had asked the blessing, and that brief reminder of the semiofficial
character of the occasion having been delivered, was in the best of
humours. The Murchisons were not far wrong in the happy divination
that he liked coming to their house. Its atmosphere appealed to him; he
expanded in its humour, its irregularity, its sense of temperament. They
were doubtful allurements, from the point of view of a minister of the
Gospel, but it would not occur to Dr Drummond to analyse them. So far
as he was aware, John Murchison was just a decent, prosperous, Christian
man, on whose word and will you might depend, and Mrs Murchison a
stirring, independent little woman, who could be very good company when
she felt inclined. As to their sons and daughters, in so far as they
were a credit, he was as proud of them as their parents could possibly
be, regarding himself as in a much higher degree responsible for the
formation of their characters and the promise of their talents. And
indeed, since every one of them had “sat under” Dr Drummond from the
day he or she was capable of sitting under anybody, Mr and Mrs Murchison
would have been the last to dispute this. It was not one of those houses
where a pastor could always be sure of leaving some spiritual benefit
behind; but then he came away himself with a pleasant sense of nervous
stimulus which was apt to take his mind off the matter. It is not given
to all of us to receive or to extend the communion of the saints; Mr
and Mrs Murchison were indubitably of the elect, but he was singularly
close-mouthed about it, and she had an extraordinary way of seeing the
humorous side--altogether it was paralysing, and the conversation would
wonderfully soon slip round to some robust secular subject, public or
domestic. I have mentioned Dr Drummond’s long upper lip; all sorts
of racial virtues resided there, but his mouth was also wide and much
frequented by a critical, humorous, philosophical smile which revealed
a view of life at once kindly and trenchant. His shrewd grey eyes were
encased in wrinkles, and when he laughed his hearty laugh they almost
disappeared in a merry line. He had a fund of Scotch stories, and one
or two he was very fond of, at the expense of the Methodists, that were
known up and down the Dominion, and nobody enjoyed them more than he
did himself. He had once worn his hair in a high curl on his scholarly
forehead, and a silvering tuft remained brushed upright; he took the
old-fashioned precaution of putting cotton wool in his ears, which
gave him more than ever the look of something highly concentrated and
conserved but in no way detracted from his dignity. St Andrew’s folk
accused him of vanity because of the diamond he wore on his little
finger. He was by no means handsome, but he was intensely individual;
perhaps he had vanity; his people would have forgiven him worse things.
And at Mrs Murchison’s tea party he was certainly, as John Murchison
afterward said, “in fine feather.”
An absorbing topic held them, a local topic, a topic involving loss and
crime and reprisals. The Federal Bank had sustained a robbery of five
thousand dollars, and in the course of a few days had placed their
cashier under arrest for suspected complicity. Their cashier was Walter
Ormiston, the only son of old Squire Ormiston, of Moneida Reservation,
ten miles out of Elgin, who had administered the affairs of the Indians
there for more years than the Federal Bank had existed. Mr Williams
brought the latest news, as was to be expected; news flowed in rivulets
to Mr Williams all day long; he paid for it, dealt in it, could spread
or suppress it.
“They’ve admitted the bail,” Mr Williams announced, with an air of
self-surveillance. Rawlins had brought the intelligence in too late for
the current issue, and Mr Williams was divided between his human desire
to communicate and his journalistic sense that the item would be the
main feature of the next afternoon’s Express.
“I’m glad of that. I’m glad of that,” repeated Dr Drummond. “Thank you,
Mrs Murchison, I’ll send my cup. And did you learn, Williams, for what
amount?”
Mr Williams ran his hand through his hair in the effort to remember, and
decided that he might as well let it all go. The Mercury couldn’t fail
to get it by tomorrow anyhow.
“Three thousand,” he said. “Milburn and Dr Henry Johnson.”
“I thought Father was bound to be in it,” remarked Dr Harry.
“Half and half?” asked John Murchison.
“No,” contributed Mrs Williams. “Mr Milburn two and Dr Henry one. Mr
Milburn is Walter’s uncle, you know.”
Mr Williams fastened an outraged glance on his wife, who looked another
way. Whatever he thought proper to do, it was absolutely understood that
she was to reveal nothing of what “came in,” and was even carefully to
conserve anything she heard outside with a view to bringing it in. Mrs
Williams was too prone to indiscretion in the matter of letting news
slip prematurely; and as to its capture, her husband would often
confess, with private humour, that Minnie wasn’t much of a mouser.
“Well, that’s something to be thankful for,” said Mrs Murchison. “I lay
awake for two hours last night thinking of that boy in jail, and his
poor old father, seventy-nine years of age, and such a fine old man, so
thoroughly respected.”
“I don’t know the young fellow,” said Dr Drummond, “but they say he’s
of good character, not over-solid, but bears a clean reputation. They’re
all Tories together, of course, the Ormistons.”
“It’s an old U. E. Loyalist family,” remarked Advena. “Mr Ormiston has
one or two rather interesting Revolutionary trophies at his house out
there.”
“None the worse for that. None the worse for that,” said Dr Drummond.
“Old Ormiston’s father,” contributed the editor of the Express, “had a
Crown grant of the whole of Moneida Reservation at one time. Government
actually bought it back from him to settle the Indians there. He was a
well-known Family Compact man, and fought tooth and nail for the Clergy
Reserves in ‘fifty.”
“Well, well,” said Dr Drummond, with a twinkle. “We’ll hope young
Ormiston is innocent, nevertheless.”
“Nasty business for the Federal Bank if he is,” Mr Williams went on.
“They’re a pretty unpopular bunch as it is.”
“Of course he’s innocent,” contributed Stella, with indignant eyes; “and
when they prove it, what can he do to the bank for taking him up? That’s
what I want to know.”
Her elders smiled indulgently. “A lot you know about it, kiddie,” said
Oliver. It was the only remark he made during the meal. Alec passed
the butter assiduously, but said nothing at all. Adolescence was
inarticulate in Elgin on occasions of ceremony.
“I hear they’ve piled up some big evidence,” said Mr Williams. “Young
Ormiston’s been fool enough to do some race-betting lately. Minnie,
I wish you’d get Mrs Murchison to show you how to pickle pears. Of
course,” he added, “they’re keeping it up their sleeve.”
“It’s a hard place to keep evidence,” said Lorne Murchison at last with
a smile which seemed to throw light on the matter. They had all been
waiting, more or less consciously, for what Lorne would have to say.
“Lorne, you’ve got it!” divined his mother instantly.
“Got what, Mother?”
“The case! I’ve suspected it from the minute the subject was mentioned!
That case came in today!”
“And you sitting there like a bump on a log, and never telling us!”
exclaimed Stella, with reproach.
“Stella, you have a great deal too much to say,” replied her brother.
“Suppose you try sitting like a bump on a log. We won’t complain. Yes,
the Squire seems to have made up his mind about the defence, and my
seniors haven’t done much else today.”
“Rawlins saw him hitched up in front of your place for about two hours
this morning,” said Mr Williams. “I told him I thought that was good
enough, but we didn’t say anything, Rawlins having heard it was to be
Flynn from Toronto. And I hadn’t forgotten the Grand Trunk case we put
down to you last week without exactly askin’. Your old man was as mad as
a hornet--wanted to stop his subscription; Rawlins had no end of a time
to get round him. Little things like that will creep in when you’ve got
to trust to one man to run the whole local show. But I didn’t want the
Mercury to have another horse on us.”
“Do you think you’ll get a look in, Lorne?” asked Dr Harry.
“Oh, not a chance of it. The old man’s as keen as a razor on the case,
and you’d think Warner never had one before! If I get a bit of grubbing
to do, under supervision, they’ll consider I ought to be pleased.” It
was the sunniest possible tone of grumbling; it enlisted your sympathy
by its very acknowledgement that it had not a leg to stand on.
“They’re pretty wild about it out Moneida way,” said Dr Harry. “My
father says the township would put down the bail three times over.”
“They swear by the Squire out there,” said Mr Horace Williams, liberally
applying his napkin to his moustache. “He treated some of them more than
square when the fall wheat failed three years running, about ten years
back; do you remember, Mr Murchison? Lent them money at about half the
bank rate, and wasn’t in an awful sweat about getting it in at that
either.”
“And wasn’t there something about his rebuilding the school-house at his
own expense not so long ago?” asked Dr Drummond.
“Just what he did. I wanted to send Rawlins out and make a story of
it--we’d have given it a column, with full heads; but the old man didn’t
like it. It’s hard to know what some people will like. But it was my own
foolishness for asking. A thing like that is public property.”
“There’s a good deal of feeling,” said Lorne. “So much that I understand
the bank is moving for change of venue.”
“I hope they won’t get it,” said Dr Drummond sharply. “A strong local
feeling is valuable evidence in a case like this. I don’t half approve
this notion that a community can’t manage its own justice when it
happens to take an interest in the case. I’ve no more acquaintance with
the Squire than ‘How d’ye do?’ and I don’t know his son from Adam; but
I’d serve on the jury tomorrow if the Crown asked it, and there’s many
more like me.”
Mr Williams, who had made a brief note on his shirt cuff, restored his
pencil to his waistcoat pocket. “I shall oppose a change of venue,” said
he.