CHAPTER II. THE GLEN OF THE CUP OF GOLD
CHAPTER III. THE FAMILY SOLICITOR
CHAPTER IV. A QUESTION OF HONOUR
CHAPTER V. A LADY AND THE LAW
CHAPTER VI. THE WASTER'S REFUGE
CHAPTER VII. FAREWELL TO CUAGH OIR
CHAPTER VIII. WILL HE COME BACK?
BOOK TWO
CHAPTER I. HO FOR THE OPEN!
CHAPTER II. A MAN'S JOB
CHAPTER III. A DAY'S WORK
CHAPTER IV. A RAINY DAY
CHAPTER V. HOW THEY SAVED THE DAY
CHAPTER VI. A SABBATH DAY IN LATE AUGUST
CHAPTER VII. THE CHIVAREE
CHAPTER VIII. IN APPLE TIME
BOOK THREE
CHAPTER I. THE CAMP BY THE GAP
CHAPTER II. ON THE WINGS OF THE STORM
CHAPTER III. THE STONIES
CHAPTER IV. THE DULL RED STAIN
CHAPTER V. SERGEANT CRISP
CHAPTER VI. A DAY IN THE MACLEOD BARRACKS
CHAPTER VII. THE MAKING OF BRAVES
CHAPTER VIII. NURSE HALEY
CHAPTER IX. “CORPORAL” CAMERON
CORPORAL CAMERON
BOOK ONE
CHAPTER I
THE QUITTER
“Oh-h-h-h, Cam-er-on!” Agony, reproach, entreaty, vibrated in the clear
young voice that rang out over the Inverleith grounds. The Scottish
line was sagging!--that line invincible in two years of International
conflict, the line upon which Ireland and England had broken their
pride. Sagging! And because Cameron was weakening! Cameron, the
brilliant half-back, the fierce-fighting, erratic young Highlander,
disciplined, steadied by the great Dunn into an instrument of Scotland's
glory! Cameron going back! A hush fell on the thronged seats and packed
inner-circle,--a breathless, dreadful hush of foreboding. High over the
hushed silence that vibrant cry rang; and Cameron heard it. The voice he
knew. It was young Rob Dunn's, the captain's young brother, whose soul
knew but two passions, one for the captain and one for the half-back of
the Scottish International.
And Cameron responded. The enemy's next high punt found him rock-like
in steadiness. And rock-like he tossed high over his shoulders the
tow-headed Welshman rushing joyously at him, and delivered his ball far
down the line safe into touch. But after his kick he was observed to
limp back into his place. The fierce pace of the Welsh forwards was
drinking the life of the Scottish backline.
An hour; then a half; then another half, without a score. And now the
final quarter was searching, searching the weak spots in their line. The
final quarter it is that finds a man's history and habits; the clean of
blood and of life defy its pitiless probe, but the rotten fibre yields
and snaps. That momentary weakness of Cameron's like a subtle poison
runs through the Scottish line; and like fluid lightning through the
Welsh. It is the touch upon the trembling balance. With cries exultant
with triumph, the Welsh forwards fling themselves upon the steady Scots
now fighting for life rather than for victory. And under their captain's
directions these fierce, victory-sniffing Welsh are delivering their
attack upon the spot where he fancies he has found a yielding. In vain
Cameron rallies his powers; his nerve is failing him, his strength is
done. Only five minutes to play, but one minute is enough. Down upon
him through a broken field, dribbling the ball and following hard like
hounds on a hare, come the Welsh, the tow-head raging in front, bloody
and fearsome. There is but one thing for Cameron to do; grip that
tumbling ball, and, committing body and soul to fate, plunge into
that line. Alas, his doom is upon him! He grips the ball, pauses a
moment--only a fatal moment,--but it is enough. His plunge is too late.
He loses the ball. A surge of Welshmen overwhelm him in the mud and
carry the ball across. The game is won--and lost. What though the Scots,
like demons suddenly released from hell, the half-back Cameron most
demon-like of all, rage over the field, driving the Welshmen hither and
thither at will, the gods deny them victory; it is for Wales that day!
In the retreat of their rubbing-room the gay, gallant humour which the
Scots have carried with them off the field of their defeat, vanishes
into gloom. Through the steaming silence a groan breaks now and then. At
length a voice:
“Oh, wasn't it rotten! The rank quitter that he is!”
“Quitter? Who is? Who says so?” It was the captain's voice, sharp with
passion.
“I do, Dunn. It was Cameron lost us the game. You know it, too. I know
it's rotten to say this, but I can't help it. Cameron lost the game, and
I say he's a rank 'quitter,' as Martin would say.”
“Look here, Nesbitt,” the captain's voice was quiet, but every man
paused in his rubbing. “I know how sore you are and I forgive you that;
but I don't want to hear from you or from any man on the team that word
again. Cameron is no quitter; he made--he made an error,--he wasn't
fit,--but I say to you Cameron is no quitter.”
While he was speaking the door opened and into the room came a player,
tall, lanky, with a pale, gaunt face, plastered over the forehead with
damp wisps of straight, black hair. His deep-set, blue-grey eyes swept
the room.
“Thanks, Dunn,” he said hoarsely. “Let them curse me! I deserve it all.
It's tough for them, but God knows I've got the worst of it. I've played
my last game.” His voice broke huskily.
“Oh, rot it, Cameron,” cried Dunn. “Don't be an ass! Your first big
game--every fellow makes his mistake--”
“Mistake! Mistake! You can't lie easily, Dunn. I was a fool and worse
than a fool. I let myself down and I wasn't fit. Anyway, I'm through
with it.” His voice was wild and punctuated with unaccustomed oaths; his
breath came in great sobs.
“Oh, rot it, Cameron!” again cried Dunn. “Next year you'll be twice the
man. You're just getting into your game.”
Right loyally his men rallied to their captain:
“Right you are!”
“Why, certainly; no man gets into the game first year!”
“We'll give 'em beans next year, Cameron, old man!”
They were all eager to atone for the criticism which all had held in
their hearts and which one of them had spoken. But this business was
serious. To lose a game was bad enough, but to round on a comrade was
unpardonable; while to lose from the game a half-back of Cameron's
calibre was unthinkable.
Meanwhile Cameron was tearing off his football togs and hustling on his
clothes with fierce haste. Dunn kept his eye on him, hurrying his own
dressing and chatting quietly the while. But long before he was ready
for the street, Cameron had crushed his things into a bag and was
looking for his hat.
“Hold on! I'm with you; I'm with you in a jiffy,” said Dunn.
“My hat,” muttered Cameron, searching wildly among the jumble.
“Oh, hang the hat; let it go! Wait for me, Cameron. Where are you
going?” cried Dunn.
“To the devil,” cried the lad, slamming the door behind him.
“And, by Jove, he'll go, too!” said Nesbitt. “Say, I'm awfully sorry I
made that break, Dunn. It was beastly low-down to round on a chap like
that. I'll go after him.”
“Do, old chap! He's frightfully cut up. And get him for to-night. He
may fight shy of the dinner. But he's down for the pipes, you know,
and--well, he's just got to be there. Good-bye, you chaps; I'm off!
And--I say, men!” When Dunn said “men” they all knew it was their
captain that was speaking. Everybody stood listening. Dunn hesitated a
moment or two, as if searching for words. “About the dinner to-night:
I'd like you to remember--I mean--I don't want any man to--oh, hang it,
you know what I mean! There will be lots of fellows there who will want
to fill you up. I'd hate to see any of our team--” The captain paused
embarrassed.
“We tumble, Captain,” said Martin, a medical student from Canada, who
played quarter. “I'll keep an eye on 'em, you bet!”
Everybody roared; for not only on the quarter-line but also at the
dinner table the little quarter-back was a marvel of endurance.
“Hear the blooming Colonist!” said Linklater, Martin's comrade on
the quarter-line, and his greatest friend. “We know who'll want the
watching, but we'll see to him, Captain.”
“All right, old chap! Sorry I'll have to cut the van. I'm afraid my
governor's got the carriage here for me.”
But the men all made outcry. There were other plans for him.
“But, Captain; hold on!”
“Aw, now, Captain! Don't forsake us!”
“But I say, Dunn, see us through; we're shy!”
“Don't leave us, Captain, or you'll be sorry,” sang out Martin. “Come
on, fellows, let's keep next him! We'll give him 'Old Grimes!'”
Already a mighty roar was heard outside. The green, the drive, the
gateways, and the street were blocked with the wildest football fanatics
that Edinburgh, and all Scotland could produce. They were waiting for
the International players, and were bent on carrying their great captain
down the street, shoulder high; for the enthusiasm of the Scot reaches
the point of madness only in the hour of glorious defeat. But before
they were aware, Dunn had shouldered his mighty form through the
opposing crowds and had got safely into the carriage beside his father
and his young brother. But the crowd were bound to have him.
“We want him, Docthor,” said a young giant in a tam-o'-shanter. “In
fac', Docthor,” he argued with a humourous smile, “we maun hae him.”
“Ye'll no' get him, Jock Murchison,” shouted young Rob, standing in
front of his big brother. “We want him wi' us.”
The crowd laughed gleefully.
“Go for him, Jock! You can easy lick him,” said a voice encouragingly.
“Pit him oot, Docthor,” said Jock, who was a great friend of the family,
and who had a profound respect for the doctor.
“It's beyond me, Jock, I fear. See yon bantam cock! I doubt ye'll hae to
be content,” said the doctor, dropping into Jock's kindly Doric.
“Oh, get on there, Murchison,” said Dunn impatiently. “You're not going
to make an ass of me; make up your mind to that!”
Jock hesitated, meditating a sudden charge, but checked by his respect
for Doctor Dunn.
“Here, you fellows!” shouted a voice. “Fall in; the band is going to
play! Get into line there, you Tam-o'-shanter; you're stopping the
procesh! Now then, wait for the line, everybody!” It was Little Martin
on top of the van in which were the Scottish players. “Tune, 'Old
Grimes'; words as follows. Catch on, everybody!”
“Old Dunn, old Dunn, old Dunn, old Dunn,
Old Dunn, old Dunn, old Dunn,
Old Dunn, old Dunn, old Dunn, old Dunn,
Old Dunn, old Dunn, old Dunn.”
With a delighted cheer the crowd formed in line, and, led by the little
quarter-back on top of the van, they set off down the street, two men at
the heads of the doctor's carriage horses, holding them in place behind
the van. On went the swaying crowd and on went the swaying chant, with
Martin, director of ceremonies and Dunn hurling unavailing objurgations
and entreaties at Jock's head.
Through the uproar a girl's voice reached the doctor's ear:
“Aren't they lovely, Sir?”
The doctor turned to greet a young lady, tall, strong, and with the
beauty of perfect health rather than of classic feature in her face.
There was withal a careless disregard of the feminine niceties of dress.
“Oh, Miss Brodie! Will you not come up? We can easily make room.”
“I'd just love to,” cried the girl, “but I'm only a humble member of the
procession, following the band and the chariot wheels of the conqueror.”
Her strong brown face was all aglow with ardour.
“Conqueror!” growled Dunn. “Not much of a conqueror!”
“Why not? Oh fudge! The game? What matters the game? It's the play we
care about.”
“Well spoken, lassie,” said the doctor. “That's the true sport.”
“Aren't they awful?” cried Dunn. “Look at that young Canadian idiot up
there.”
“Well, if you ask me, I think he's a perfect dear,” said Miss Brodie,
deliberately. “I'm sure I know him; anyway I'm going to encourage him
with my approval.” And she waved her hand at Martin.
The master of ceremonies responded by taking off his hat and making a
sweeping bow, still keeping up the beat. The crowd, following his eyes,
turned their attention to the young lady, much to Dunn's delight.
“Oh,” she gasped, “they'll be chanting me next! Good-bye! I'm off!” And
she darted back to the company of her friends marching on the pavement.
At this point Martin held up both arms and called for silence.
“Second verse,” he shouted, “second verse! Get the words now!”
“Old Dunn ain't done, old Dunn ain't done,
Old Dunn, old Dunn ain't done,
Old Dunn ain't done, old Dunn ain't done,
Old Dunn, old Dunn ain't done.”
But the crowd rejected the Colonial version, and rendered in their own
good Doric:
“Old Dunn's no' done, old Dunn's no' done,
Old Dunn, old Dunn's no' done,
Old Dunn's no' done, old Dunn's no' done,
Old Dunn, old Dunn's no' done.”
And so they sang and swayed, following the van till they neared Queen
Street, down which lay the doctor's course.
“For heaven's sake, can't they be choked off?” groaned Dunn.
The doctor signalled Jock to him.
“Jock,” he said, “we'll just slip through at Queen Street.”
“We'd like awfully to do Princes Street, Sir,” pleaded Jock.
“Princes Street, you born ass!” cried Dunn wrathfully.
“Oh, yes, let them!” cried young Rob, whose delight in the glory of
his hero had been beyond all measure. “Let them do Princes Street, just
once!”
But the doctor would not have it. “Jock,” he said quietly, “just get us
through at Queen Street.”
“All right, Sir,” replied Jock with great regret. “It will be as you
say.”
Under Jock's orders, when Queen Street was reached, the men at the
horses' heads suddenly swung the pair from the crowd, and after some
struggling, got them safely into the clear space, leaving the procession
to follow the van, loudly cheering their great International captain,
whose prowess on the field was equalled only by his modesty and his
hatred of a demonstration.
“Listen to the idiots,” said Dunn in disgust, as the carriage bore them
away from the cheering crowd.
“Man, they're just fine! Aren't they, Father?” said young Rob in an
ecstasy of joy.
“They're generous lads, generous lads, boy,” said Doctor Dunn, his old
eyes shining, for his son's triumph touched him deeply. “That's the only
way to take defeat.”
“That's all right, Sir,” said Dunn quickly, “but it's rather
embarrassing, though it's awfully decent of them.”
The doctor's words suggested fresh thoughts to young Rob. “But it was
terrible; and you were just on the win, too, I know.”
“I'm not so sure at all,” said his brother.
“Oh, it is terrible,” said Bob again.
“Tut, tut, lad! What's so terrible?” said his father. “One side has to
lose.”
“Oh, it's not that,” said Rob, his lip trembling. “I don't care a sniff
for the game.”
“What, then?” said his big brother in a voice sharpened by his own
thoughts.
“Oh, Jack,” said Rob, nervously wreathing his hands, “he--it looked as
if he--” the lad could not bring himself to say the awful word. Nor was
there need to ask who it was the boy had in mind.
“What do you mean, Rob?” the captain's voice was impatient, almost
angry.
Then Rob lost his control. “Oh, Jack, I can't help it; I saw it. Do
you think--did he really funk it?” His voice broke. He clutched his
brother's knee and stood with face white and quivering. He had given
utterance to the terrible suspicion that was torturing his heroic young
soul. Of his two household gods one was tottering on its pedestal. That
a football man should funk--the suspicion was too dreadful.
The captain glanced at his father's face. There was gloom there, too,
and the same terrible suspicion. “No, Sir,” said Dunn, with impressive
deliberation, answering the look on his father's face, “Cameron is
no quitter. He didn't funk. I think,” he continued, while Rob's
tear-stained face lifted eagerly, “I know he was out of condition; he
had let himself run down last week, since the last match, indeed, got
out of hand a bit, you know, and that last quarter--you know, Sir, that
last quarter was pretty stiff--his nerve gave just for a moment.”
“Oh,” said the doctor in a voice of relief, “that explains it. But,” he
added quickly in a severe tone, “it was very reprehensible for a man on
the International to let himself get out of shape, very reprehensible
indeed. An International, mind you!”
“It was my fault, Sir, I'm afraid,” said Dunn, regretfully. “I ought to
have--”
“Nonsense! A man must be responsible for himself. Control, to be of any
value, must be ultroneous, as our old professor used to say.”
“That's true, Sir, but I had kept pretty close to him up to the last
week, you see, and--”
“Bad training, bad training. A trainer's business is to school his men
to do without him.”
“That is quite right, Sir. I believe I've been making a mistake,” said
Dunn thoughtfully. “Poor chap, he's awfully cut up!”
“So he should be,” said the doctor sternly. “He had no business to get
out of condition. The International, mind you!”
“Oh, Father, perhaps he couldn't help it,” cried Rob, whose loyal,
tender heart was beating hard against his little ribs, “and he looks
awful. I saw him come out and when I called to him he never looked at me
once.”
There is no finer loyalty in this world than that of a boy below his
teens. It is so without calculation, without qualification, and without
reserve. Dr. Dunn let his eyes rest kindly upon his little flushed face.
“Perhaps so, perhaps so, my boy,” he said, “and I have no doubt he
regrets it now more than any of us. Where has he gone?”
“Nesbitt's after him, Sir. He'll get him for to-night.”
But as Dunn, fresh from his bath, but still sore and stiff, was
indulging in a long-banished pipe, Nesbitt came in to say that Cameron
could not be found.
“And have you not had your tub yet?” said his captain.
“Oh, that's all right! You know I feel awfully about that beastly remark
of mine.”
“Oh, let it go,” said Dunn. “That'll be all right. You get right away
home for your tub and get freshened up for to-night. I'll look after
Cameron. You know he is down for the pipes. He's simply got to be there
and I'll get him if I have to bring him in a crate, pipes, kilt and
all.”
And Nesbitt, knowing that Dunn never promised what he could not fulfil,
went off to his tub in fair content. He knew his captain.
As Dunn was putting on his coat Rob came in, distress written on his
face.
“Are you going to get Cameron, Jack?” he asked timidly. “I asked
Nesbitt, and he said--”
“Now look here, youngster,” said his big brother, then paused. The
distress in the lad's face checked his words. “Now, Rob,” he said
kindly, “you needn't fret about this. Cameron is all right.”
The kind tone broke down the lad's control. He caught his brother's
arm. “Say, Jack, are you sure--he didn't--funk?” His voice dropped to a
whisper.
Then his big brother sat down and drew the lad to his side, “Now listen,
Rob; I'm going to tell you the exact truth. CAMERON DID NOT FUNK. The
truth is, he wasn't fit,--he ought to have been, but he wasn't,--and
because he wasn't fit he came mighty near quitting--for a moment, I'm
sure, he felt like it, because his nerve was gone,--but he didn't.
Remember, he felt like quitting and didn't, And that's the finest thing
a chap can do,--never to quit, even when he feels like it. Do you see?”
The lad's head went up. “I see,” he said, his eyes glowing. “It was
fine! I'm awfully glad he didn't quit, 'specially when he felt like it.
You tell him for me.” His idol was firm again on his pedestal.
“All right, old chap,” said his big brother. “You'll never quit, I bet!”
“Not if I'm fit, will I?”
“Right you are! Keep fit--that's the word!”
And with that the big brother passed out to find the man who was
writhing in an agony of self-contempt; for in the face of all Scotland
and in the hour of her need he had failed because he wasn't fit.
After an hour Dunn found his man, fixed in the resolve to there and then
abandon the game with all the appurtenances thereof, and among these the
dinner. Mightily his captain laboured with him, plying him with varying
motives,--the honour of the team was at stake; the honour of the country
was at stake; his own honour, for was he not down on the programme for
the pipes? It was all in vain. In dogged gloom the half-back listened
unmoved.
At length Dunn, knowing well the Highlander's tender heart, cunningly
touched another string and told of Rob's distress and subsequent relief,
and then gave his half-back the boy's message. “I promised to tell you,
and I almost forgot. The little beggar was terribly worked up, and as
I remember it, this is what he said: 'I'm awfully glad he didn't quit,
'specially when he felt like it.' Those were his very words.”
Then Cameron buried his face in his hands and groaned aloud, while Dunn,
knowing that he had reached his utmost, stood silent, waiting. Suddenly
Cameron flung up his head:
“Did he say I didn't quit? Good little soul! I'll go; I'd go through
hell for that!”
And so it came that not in a crate, but in the gallant garb of a
Highland gentleman, pipes and all, Cameron was that night in his place,
fighting out through the long hilarious night the fiercest fight of his
life, chiefly because of the words that lay like a balm to his lacerated
heart:
“He didn't quit, 'specially when he felt like it.”
CHAPTER II
THE GLEN OF THE CUP OF GOLD
Just over the line of the Grampians, near the head-waters of the Spey, a
glen, small and secluded, lies bedded deep among the hills,--a glen that
when filled with sunlight on a summer day lies like a cup of gold; the
gold all liquid and flowing over the cup's rim. And hence they call the
glen “The Cuagh Oir,” The Glen of the Cup of Gold.
At the bottom of the Cuagh, far down, a little loch gleams, an oval of
emerald or of sapphire, according to the sky above that smiles into
its depths. On dark days the loch can gloom, and in storm it can rage,
white-lipped, just like the people of the Glen.
Around the emerald or sapphire loch farmlands lie sunny and warm, set
about their steadings, and are on this spring day vivid with green,
or rich in their red-browns where the soil lies waiting for the seed.
Beyond the sunny fields the muirs of brown heather and bracken climb
abruptly up to the dark-massed firs, and they to the Cuagh's rim. But
from loch to rim, over field and muir and forest, the golden, liquid
light ever flows on a sunny day and fills the Cuagh Oir till it runs
over.
On the east side of the loch, among some ragged firs, a rambling Manor
House, ivy-covered and ancient, stood; and behind it, some distance
away, the red tiling of a farm-cottage, with its steading clustering
near, could be seen. About the old Manor House the lawn and garden
told of neglect and decay, but at the farmhouse order reigned. The trim
little garden plot, the trim lawn, the trim walks and hedges, the trim
thatch of the roof, the trim do'-cote above it, the trim stables, byres,
barns and yard of the steading, proclaimed the prudent, thrifty care of
a prudent, thrifty soul.
And there in the steading quadrangle, amidst the feathered creatures,
hens, cocks and chicks, ducks, geese, turkeys and bubbly-jocks, stood
the mistress of the Manor and prudent, thrifty manager of the farm,--a
girl of nineteen, small, well-made, and trim as the farmhouse and its
surroundings, with sunny locks and sunny face and sunny brown eyes. Her
shapely hands were tanned and coarsened by the weather; her little feet
were laced in stout country-made brogues; her dress was a plain brown
winsey, kilted and belted open at the full round neck; the kerchief that
had fallen from her sunny, tangled hair was of simple lawn, spotless
and fresh; among her fowls she stood, a country lass in habit and
occupation, but in face and form, in look and poise, a lady every inch
of her. Dainty and daunty, sweet and strong, she stood, “the bonny like
o' her bonny mither,” as said the South Country nurse, Nannie, who had
always lived at the Glen Cuagh House from the time that that mother was
a baby; “but no' sae fine like,” the nurse would add with a sigh. For
she remembered ever the gentle airs and the high-bred, stately grace of
Mary Robertson,--for though married to Captain Cameron of Erracht,
Mary Robertson she continued to be to the Glen folk,--the lady of her
ancestral manor, now for five years lain under the birch trees yonder by
the church tower that looked out from its clustering firs and birches
on the slope beyond the loch. Five years ago the gentle lady had passed
from them, but like the liquid, golden sunlight, and like the perfume of
the heather and the firs, the aroma of her saintly life still filled the
Glen.
A year after that grief had fallen, Moira, her one daughter, “the bonny
like o' her bonny mither, though no' sae fine,” had somehow slipped
into command of the House Farm, the only remaining portion of the wide
demesne of farmlands once tributary to the House. And by the thrift
which she learned from her South Country nurse in the care of her
poultry and her pigs, and by her shrewd oversight of the thriftless,
doddling Highland farmer and his more thriftless and more doddling
womenfolk, she brought the farm to order and to a basis of profitable
returns. And this, too, with so little “clash and claver” that her
father only knew that somehow things were more comfortable about the
place, and that there were fewer calls than formerly upon his purse
for the upkeep of the House and home. Indeed, the less appeared Moira's
management, both in the routine of the House and in the care of the
farm, the more peacefully flowed the current of their life. It seriously
annoyed the Captain at intervals when he came upon his daughter
directing operations in barnyard or byre. That her directing meant
anything more than a girlish meddling in matters that were his entire
concern and about which he had already given or was about to give
orders, the Captain never dreamed. That things about the House were
somehow prospering in late years he set down to his own skill and
management and his own knowledge of scientific farming; a knowledge
which, moreover, he delighted to display at the annual dinners of the
Society for the Improvement of Agriculture in the Glen, of which he was
honourary secretary; a knowledge which he aired in lengthy articles in
local agricultural and other periodicals; a knowledge which, however,
at times became the occasion of dismay to his thrifty daughter and her
Highland farmer, and not seldom the occasion of much useless expenditure
of guineas hard won from pigs and poultry. True, more serious loss was
often averted by the facility with which the Captain turned from one
scheme to another, happily forgetful of orders he had given and which
were never carried out; and by the invincible fabianism of the Highland
farmer, who, listening with gravest attention to the Captain's orders
delivered in the most definite and impressive terms, would make
reply, “Yess, yess indeed, I know; she will be attending to it
immediately--tomorrow, or fery soon whateffer.” It cannot be said that
this capacity for indefinite procrastination rendered the Highlander any
less valuable to his “tear young leddy.”
The days on which Postie appeared with a large bundle of mail were
accounted good days by the young mistress, for on these and succeeding
days her father would be “busy with his correspondence.” And these days
were not few, for the Captain held many honourary offices in county
and other associations for the promotion and encouragement of various
activities, industrial, social, and philanthropic. Of the importance of
these activities to the county and national welfare, the Captain had no
manner of doubt, as his voluminous correspondence testified. As to the
worth of his correspondence his daughter, too, held the highest
opinion, estimating her father, as do all dutiful daughters, at his own
valuation. For the Captain held himself in high esteem; not simply for
his breeding, which was of the Camerons of Erracht; nor for his manners,
which were of the most courtly, if occasionally marred by fretfulness;
nor for his dress, which was that of a Highland gentleman, perfect in
detail and immaculate, but for his many and public services rendered to
the people, the county, and the nation. Indeed his mere membership dues
to the various associations, societies and committees with which he
was connected, and his dining expenses contingent upon their annual
meetings, together with the amounts expended upon the equipment and
adornment of his person proper to such festive occasions, cut so deep
into the slender resources of the family as to give his prudent daughter
some considerable concern; though it is safe to say that such concern
her father would have regarded not only as unnecessary but almost as
impertinent.
The Captain's correspondence, however extensive, was on the whole
regarded by his daughter as a good rather than an evil, in that it
secured her domestic and farm activities from disturbing incursions.
This spring morning Moira's apprehensions awakened by an extremely light
mail, were realized, as she beheld her father bearing down upon her
with an open letter in his hand. His handsome face was set in a fretful
frown.
“Moira, my daughter!” he exclaimed, “how often have I spoke to you about
this--this--unseemly--ah--mussing and meddling in the servants' duties!”
“But, Papa,” cried his daughter, “look at these dear things! I love them
and they all know me, and they behave so much better when I feed them
myself. Do they not, Janet?” she added, turning to the stout and sonsy
farmer's daughter standing by.
“Indeed, then, they are clever at knowing you,” replied the maid, whose
particular duty was to hold a reserve supply of food for the fowls that
clamoured and scrambled about her young mistress.
“Look at that vain bubbly-jock there, Papa,” cried Moira, “he loves to
have me notice him. Conceited creature! Look out, Papa, he does not like
your kilts!” The bubbly-jock, drumming and scraping and sidling ever
nearer to the Captain's naked knees, finally with great outcry flew
straight at the affronting kilts.
“Get off with you, you beast!” cried the Captain, kicking vainly at the
wrathful bird, and at the same time beating a wise retreat before his
onset.
Moira rushed to his rescue. “Hoot, Jock! Shame on ye!” she cried. “There
now, you proud thing, be off! He's just jealous of your fine appearance,
Papa.” With her kerchief she flipped into submission the haughty
bubbly-jock and drew her father out of the steading. “Come away, Papa,
and see my pigs.”
But the Captain was in no humour for pigs. “Nonsense, child,” he cried,
“let us get out of this mess! Besides, I wish to speak to you on a
matter of importance.” They passed through the gate. “It is about
Allan,” he continued, “and I'm really vexed. Something terrible has
happened.”
“Allan!” the girl's voice was faint and her sunny cheek grew white.
“About Allan!” she said again. “And what is wrong with Allan, Papa?”
“That's what I do not know,” replied her father fretfully; “but I
must away to Edinburgh this very day, so you'll need to hasten with my
packing. And bid Donald bring round the cart at once.”
But Moira stood dazed. “But, Papa, you have not told me what is wrong
with Allan.” Her voice was quiet, but with a certain insistence in it
that at once irritated her father and compelled his attention.
“Tut, tut, Moira, I have just said I do not know.”
“Is he ill, Papa?” Again the girl's voice grew faint.
“No, no, not ill. I wish he were! I mean it is some business matter you
cannot understand. But it must be serious if Mr. Rae asks my presence
immediately. So you must hasten, child.”
In less than half an hour Donald and the cart were waiting at the door,
and Moira stood in the hall with her father's bag ready packed. “Oh, I
am glad,” she said, as she helped her father with his coat, “that Allan
is not ill. There can't be much wrong.”
“Wrong! Read that, child!” cried the father impatiently.
She took the letter and read, her face reflecting her changing emotions,
perplexity, surprise, finally indignation. “'A matter for the police,'”
she quoted, scornfully, handing her father the letter. “'A matter for
the police' indeed! My but that Mr. Rae is the clever man! The police!
Does he think my brother Allan would cheat?--or steal, perhaps!” she
panted, in her indignant scorn.
“Mr. Rae is a careful man and a very able lawyer,” replied her father.
“Able! Careful! He's an auld wife, and that's what he is! You can tell
him so for me.” She was trembling and white with a wrath her father had
never before seen in her. He stood gazing at her in silent surprise.
“Papa,” cried Moira passionately, answering his look, “do you think what
he is saying? I know my brother Allan clean through to the heart. He
is wild at times, and might rage perhaps and--and--break things, but he
will not lie nor cheat. He will die first, and that I warrant you.”
Still her father stood gazing upon her as she stood proudly erect,
her pale face alight with lofty faith in her brother and scorn of his
traducer. “My child, my child,” he said, huskily, “how like you are to
your mother! Thank God! Indeed it may be you're right! God grant it!” He
drew her closely to him.
“Papa, Papa,” she whispered, clinging to him, while her voice broke in a
sob, “you know Allan will not lie. You know it, don't you, Papa?”
“I hope not, dear child, I hope not,” he replied, still holding her to
him.
“Papa,” she cried wildly, “say you believe me.”
“Yes, yes, I do believe you. Thank God, I do believe you. The boy is
straight.”
At that word she let him go. That her father should not believe in Allan
was to her loyal heart an intolerable pain. Now Allan would have someone
to stand for him against “that lawyer” and all others who might seek to
do him harm. At the House door she stood watching her father drive down
through the ragged firs to the highroad, and long after he had passed
out of sight she still stood gazing. Upon the church tower rising out of
its birches and its firs her eyes were resting, but her heart was
with the little mound at the tower's foot, and as she gazed, the tears
gathered and fell.
“Oh, Mother!” she whispered. “Mother, Mother! You know Allan would not
lie!”
A sudden storm was gathering. In a brief moment the world and the Glen
had changed. But half an hour ago and the Cuagh Oir was lying glorious
with its flowing gold. Now, from the Cuagh as from her world, the
flowing gold was gone.
CHAPTER III
THE FAMILY SOLICITOR
The senior member of the legal firm of Rae & Macpherson was perplexed
and annoyed, indeed angry, and angry chiefly because he was perplexed.
He resented such a condition of mind as reflecting upon his legal and
other acumen. Angry, too, he was because he had been forced to accept,
the previous day, a favour from a firm--Mr. Rae would not condescend to
say a rival firm--with which he for thirty years had maintained only
the most distant and formal relations, to wit, the firm of Thomlinson &
Shields. Messrs. Rae & Macpherson were family solicitors and for three
generations had been such; hence there gathered about the firm a fine
flavour of assured respectability which only the combination of solid
integrity and undoubted antiquity can give. Messrs. Rae & Macpherson had
not yielded in the slightest degree to that commercialising spirit
which would transform a respectable and self-respecting firm of family
solicitors into a mere financial agency; a transformation which Mr. Rae
would consider a degradation of an ancient and honourable profession.
This uncompromising attitude toward the commercialising spirit of the
age had doubtless something to do with their losing the solicitorship
for the Bank of Scotland, which went to the firm of Thomlinson &
Shields, to Mr. Rae's keen, though unacknowledged, disappointment;
a disappointment that arose not so much from the loss of the very
honourable and lucrative appointment, and more from the fact that the
appointment should go to such a firm as that of Thomlinson & Shields.
For the firm of Thomlinson & Shields were of recent origin, without
ancestry, boasting an existence of only some thirty-five years, and, as
one might expect of a firm of such recent origin, characterised by the
commercialising modern spirit in its most pronounced and objectionable
form. Mr. Rae, of course, would never condescend to hostile criticism,
dismissing Messrs. Thomlinson & Shields from the conversation with the
single remark, “Pushing, Sir, very pushing, indeed.”
It was, then, no small humiliation for Mr. Rae to be forced to accept
a favour from Mr. Thomlinson. “Had it been any other than Cameron,” he
said to himself, as he sat in his somewhat dingy and dusty office,
“I would let him swither. But Cameron! I must see to it and at once.”
Behind the name there rose before Mr. Rae's imagination a long line
of brave men and fair women for whose name and fame and for whose good
estate it had been his duty and the duty of those who had preceded him
in office to assume responsibility.
“Young fool! Much he cares for the honour of his family! I wonder what's
at the bottom of this business! Looks ugly! Decidedly ugly! The first
thing is to find him.” A messenger had failed to discover young Cameron
at his lodgings, and had brought back the word that for a week he
had not been seen there. “He must be found. They have given me till
to-morrow. I cannot ask a further stay of proceedings; I cannot and I
will not.” It made Mr. Rae more deeply angry that he knew quite well
if necessity arose he would do just that very thing. “Then there's his
father coming in this evening. We simply must find him. But how and
where?”
Mr. Rae was not unskilled in such a matter. “Find a man, find his
friends,” he muttered. “Let's see. What does the young fool do? What
are his games? Ah! Football! I have it! Young Dunn is my man.” Hence to
young Dunn forthwith Mr. Rae betook himself.
It was still early in the day when Mr. Rae's mild, round, jolly,
clean-shaven face beamed in upon Mr. Dunn, who sat with dictionaries,
texts, and class notebooks piled high about him, burrowing in that
mound of hidden treasure which it behooves all prudent aspirants for
university honours to diligently mine as the fateful day approaches.
With Mr. Dunn time had now come to be measured by moments, and every
moment golden. But the wrathful impatience that had gathered in his
face at the approach of an intruder was overwhelmed in astonishment at
recognising so distinguished a visitor as Mr. Rae the Writer.
“Ah, Mr. Dunn,” said Mr. Rae briskly, “a moment only, one moment, I
assure you. Well do I know the rage which boils behind that genial smile
of yours. Don't deny it, Sir. Have I not suffered all the pangs, with
just a week before the final ordeal? This is your final, I believe?”
“I hope so,” said Mr. Dunn somewhat ruefully.
“Yes, yes, and a very fine career, a career befitting your father's
son. And I sincerely trust, Sir, that as your career has been marked by
honour, your exit shall be with distinction; and all the more that I am
not unaware of your achievements in another department of--ah--shall I
say endeavour. I have seen your name, Sir, mentioned more than once,
to the honour of our university, in athletic events.” At this point Mr.
Rae's face broke into a smile.
An amazing smile was Mr. Rae's; amazing both in the suddenness of
its appearing and in the suddenness of its vanishing. Upon a face of
supernatural gravity, without warning, without beginning, the smile,
broad, full and effulgent, was instantaneously present. Then equally
without warning and without fading the smile ceased to be. Under its
effulgence the observer unfamiliar with Mr. Rae's smile was moved, to a
responsive geniality of expression, but in the full tide of this emotion
he found himself suddenly regarding a face of such preternatural gravity
as rebuked the very possibility or suggestion of geniality. Before the
smile Mr. Rae's face was like a house, with the shutters up and the
family plunged in gloom. When the smile broke forth every shutter was
flung wide to the pouring sunlight, and every window full of flowers
and laughing children. Then instantly and without warning the house
was blank, lifeless, and shuttered once more, leaving you helplessly
apologetic that you had ever been guilty of the fatuity of associating
anything but death and gloom with its appearance.
To young Mr. Dunn it was extremely disconcerting to discover himself
smiling genially into a face of the severest gravity, and eyes that
rebuked him for his untimely levity. “Oh, I beg pardon,” exclaimed Mr.
Dunn hastily, “I thought--”
“Not at all, Sir,” replied Mr. Rae. “As I was saying, I have observed
from time to time the distinctions you have achieved in the realm of
athletics. And that reminds me of my business with you to-day,--a sad
business, a serious business, I fear.” The solemn impressiveness of
Mr. Rae's manner awakened in Mr. Dunn an awe amounting to dread. “It is
young Cameron, a friend of yours, I believe, Sir.”
“Cameron, Sir!” echoed Dunn.
“Yes, Cameron. Does he, or did he not have a place on your team?”
Dunn sat upright and alert. “Yes, Sir. What's the matter, Sir?”
“First of all, do you know where he is? I have tried his lodgings. He is
not there. It is important that I find him to-day, extremely important;
in fact, it is necessary; in short, Mr. Dunn,--I believe I can confide
in your discretion,--if I do not find him to-day, the police will
to-morrow.”
“The police, Sir!” Dunn's face expressed an awful fear. In the heart of
the respectable Briton the very mention of the police in connection
with the private life of any of his friends awakens a feeling of gravest
apprehension. No wonder Mr. Dunn's face went pale! “The police!” he said
a second time. “What for?”
Mr. Rae remained silent.
“If it is a case of debts, Sir,” suggested Mr. Dunn, “why, I would
gladly--”
Mr. Rae waved him aside. “It is sufficient to say, Mr. Dunn, that we are
the family solicitors, as we have been for his father, his grandfather
and great-grandfather before him.”
“Oh, certainly, Sir. I beg pardon,” said Mr. Dunn hastily.
“Not at all; quite proper; does you credit. But it is not a case of
debts, though it is a case of money; in fact, Sir,--I feel sure I may
venture to confide in you,--he is in trouble with his bank, the Bank
of Scotland. The young man, or someone using his name, has been guilty
of--ah--well, an irregularity, a decided irregularity, an irregularity
which the bank seems inclined to--to--follow up; indeed, I may say,
instructions have been issued through their solicitors to that effect.
Mr. Thomlinson was good enough to bring this to my attention, and to
offer a stay of proceedings for a day.”
“Can I do anything, Sir?” said Dunn. “I'm afraid I've neglected him. The
truth is, I've been in an awful funk about my exams, and I haven't kept
in touch as I should.”
“Find him, Mr. Dunn, find him. His father is coming to town this
evening, which makes it doubly imperative. Find him; that is, if you can
spare the time.”
“Of course I can. I'm awfully sorry I've lost touch with him. He's been
rather down all this winter; in fact, ever since the International he
seems to have lost his grip of himself.”
“Ah, indeed!” said Mr. Rae. “I remember that occasion; in fact, I was
present myself,” he admitted. “I occasionally seek to renew my youth.”
Mr. Rae's smile broke forth, but anxiety for his friend saved Mr.
Dunn from being caught again in any responsive smile. “Bring him to my
office, if you can, any time to-day. Good-bye, Sir. Your spirit does you
credit. But it is the spirit which I should expect in a man who plays
the forward line as you play it.”
Mr. Dunn blushed crimson. “Is there anything else I could do? Anyone I
could see? I mean, for instance, could my father serve in any way?”
“Ah, a good suggestion!” Mr. Rae seized his right ear,--a characteristic
action of his when in deep thought,--twisted it into a horn, and pulled
it quite severely as if to assure himself that that important feature
of his face was firmly fixed in its place. “A very good suggestion! Your
father knows Mr. Sheratt, the manager of the bank, I believe.”
“Very well, Sir, I think,” answered Mr. Dunn. “I am sure he would see
him. Shall I call him in, Sir?”
“Nothing of the sort, nothing of the sort; don't think of it! I mean,
let there be nothing formal in this matter. If Mr. Dunn should chance to
meet Mr. Sheratt, that is, casually, so to speak, and if young Cameron's
name should come up, and if Mr. Dunn should use his influence, his very
great influence, with Mr. Sheratt, the bank might be induced to take a
more lenient view of the case. I think I can trust you with this.” Mr.
Rae shook the young man warmly by the hand, beamed on him for one brief
moment with his amazing smile, presented to his answering smile a face
of unspeakable gravity, and left him extremely uncertain as to the
proper appearance for his face, under the circumstances.
Before Mr. Rae had gained the street Dunn was planning his campaign; for
no matter what business he had in hand, Dunn always worked by plan. By
the time he himself had reached the street his plan was formed. “No use
trying his digs. Shouldn't be surprised if that beast Potts has got
him. Rotten bounder, Potts, and worse! Better go round his way.” And
oscillating in his emotions between disgust and rage at Cameron for his
weakness and his folly, and disgust and rage at himself for his neglect
of his friend, Dunn took his way to the office of the Insurance Company
which was honoured by the services of Mr. Potts.
The Insurance Company knew nothing of the whereabouts of Mr. Potts.
Indeed, the young man who assumed responsibility for the information
appeared to treat the very existence of Mr. Potts as a matter of slight
importance to his company; so slight, indeed, that the company had not
found it necessary either to the stability of its business or to the
protection of its policy holders--a prime consideration with Insurance
Companies--to keep in touch with Mr. Potts. That gentleman had left for
the East coast a week ago, and that was the end of the matter as far as
the clerk of the Insurance Company was concerned.
At his lodgings Mr. Dunn discovered an even more callous indifference to
Mr. Potts and his interests. The landlady, under the impression that
in Mr. Dunn she beheld a prospective lodger, at first received him with
that deferential reserve which is the characteristic of respectable
lodging-house keepers in that city of respectable lodgers and
respectable lodging-house keepers. When, however, she learned the real
nature of Mr. Dunn's errand, she became immediately transformed. In a
voice shrill with indignation she repudiated Mr. Potts and his affairs,
and seemed chiefly concerned to re-establish her own reputation for
respectability, which she seemed to consider as being somewhat shattered
by that of her lodger. Mr. Dunn was embarrassed both by her volubility
and by her obvious determination to fasten upon him a certain amount of
responsibility for the character and conduct of Mr. Potts.
“Do you know where Mr. Potts is now, and have you any idea when he may
return?” inquired Mr. Dunn, seizing a fortunate pause.
“Am I no' juist tellin' ye,” cried the landlady, in her excitement
reverting to her native South Country dialect, “that I keep nae coont o'
Mr. Potts' stravagins? An' as to his return, I ken naething aboot that
an' care less. He's paid what he's been owing me these three months an'
that's all I care aboot him.”
“I am glad to hear that,” said Mr. Dunn heartily.
“An' glad I am tae, for it's feared I was for my pay a month back.”
“When did he pay up?” inquired Mr. Dunn, scenting a clue.
“A week come Saturday,--or was it Friday?--the day he came in with a
young man, a friend of his. And a night they made of it, I remember,”
replied the landlady, recovering command of herself and of her speech
under the influence of Mr. Dunn's quiet courtesy.
“Did you know the young man that was with him?”
“Yes, it was young Cameron. He had been coming about a good deal.”
“Oh, indeed! And have you seen Mr. Cameron since?”
“No; he never came except in company with Mr. Potts.”
And with this faint clue Mr. Dunn was forced to content himself, and to
begin a systematic search of Cameron's haunts in the various parts of
the town. It was Martin, his little quarter-back, that finally put him
on the right track. He had heard Cameron's pipes not more than an hour
ago at his lodgings in Morningside Road.
“But what do you want of Cameron these days?” inquired the young
Canadian. “There's nothing on just now, is there, except this infernal
grind?”
Dunn hesitated. “Oh, I just want him. In fact, he has got into some
trouble.”
“There you are!” exclaimed Martin in disgust. “Why in thunder should
you waste time on him? You've taken enough trouble with him this winter
already. It's his own funeral, ain't it?”
Dunn looked at him a half moment in surprise. “Well, you can't go back
on a fellow when he's down, can you?”
“Look here, Dunn, I've often thought I'd give you a little wise advice.
This sounds bad, I know, but there's a lot of blamed rot going around
this old town just on this point. When a fellow gets on the bum and gets
into a hole he knows well that there'll be a lot of people tumbling over
each other to get him out, hence he deliberately and cheerfully slides
in. If he knew he'd have to scramble out himself he wouldn't be so
blamed keen to get in. If he's in a hole let him frog it for awhile, by
Jingo! He's hitting the pace, let him take his bumps! He's got to take
'em sooner or later, and better sooner than later, for the sooner he
takes 'em the quicker he'll learn. Bye-bye! I know you think I'm a
semi-civilised Colonial. I ain't; I'm giving you some wisdom gained from
experience. You can't swim by hanging on to a root, you bet!”
Dunn listened in silence, then replied slowly, “I say, old chap, there's
something in that. My governor said something like that some time ago:
'A trainer's business is to train his men to do without him.'”
“There you are!” cried Martin. “That's philosophy! Mine's just horse
sense.”
“Still,” said Dunn thoughtfully, “when a chap's in you've got to lend
a hand; you simply can't stand and look on.” Dunn's words, tone, and
manner revealed the great, honest heart of human sympathy which he
carried in his big frame.
“Oh, hang it,” cried Martin, “I suppose so! Guess I'll go along with
you. I can't forget you pulled me out, too.”
“Thanks, old chap,” cried Dunn, brightening up, “but you're busy, and--”
“Busy! By Jingo, you'd think so if you'd watch me over night and hear my
brain sizzle. But come along, I'm going to stay with you!”
But Dunn's business was private, and could be shared with no one. It was
difficult to check his friend's newly-aroused ardour. “I say, old chap,”
he said, “you really don't need to come along. I can do--”
“Oh, go to blazes! I know you too well! Don't you worry about me! You've
got me going, and I'm in on this thing; so come along!”
Then Dunn grew firm. “Thanks, awfully, old man,” he said, “but it's a
thing I'd rather do alone, if you don't mind.”
“Oh!” said Martin. “All right! But say, if you need me I'm on. You're a
great old brick, though! Tra-la!”
As Martin had surmised, Dunn found Cameron in his rooms. He was lying
upon his bed enjoying the luxury of a cigarette. “Hello! Come right
in, old chap!” he cried, in gay welcome. “Have a--no, you won't have a
cigarette--have a pipe?”
Dunn gazed at him, conscious of a rising tide of mingled emotions,
relief, wrath, pity, disgust. “Well, I'll be hanged!” at last he said
slowly. “But you've given us a chase! Where in the world have you been?”
“Been? Oh, here and there, enjoying my emancipation from the thralldom
in which doubtless you are still sweating.”
“And what does that mean exactly?”
“Mean? It means that I've cut the thing,--notebooks, lectures,
professors, exams, 'the hale hypothick,' as our Nannie would say at
home.”
“Oh rot, Cameron! You don't mean it?”
“Circumspice. Do you behold any suggestion of knotted towels and the
midnight oil?”
Dunn gazed about the room. It was in a whirl of confusion. Pipes and
pouches, a large box of cigarettes, a glass and a half-empty decanter,
were upon the table; boots, caps, golf-clubs, coats, lay piled in
various corners. “Pardon the confusion, dear sir,” cried Cameron
cheerfully, “and lay it not to the charge of my landlady. That estimable
woman was determined to make entry this afternoon, but was denied.”
Cameron's manner one of gay and nervous bravado.
“Come, Cameron,” said Dunn sadly, “what does this mean? You're not
serious; you're not chucking your year?”
“Just that, dear fellow, and nothing less. Might as well as be
ploughed.”
“And what then are you going to do?” Dunn's voice was full of a great
pity. “What about your people? What about your father? And, by Jove,
that reminds me, he's coming to town this evening. You know they've been
trying to find you everywhere this last day or two.”
“And who are 'they,' pray?”
“Who? The police,” said Dunn bluntly, determined to shock his friend
into seriousness.
Cameron sat up quickly. “The police? What do you mean, Dunn?”
“What it means I do not know, Cameron, I assure you. Don't you?”
“The police!” said Cameron again. “It's a joke, Dunn.”
“I wish to Heaven it were, Cameron, old man! But I have it straight from
Mr. Rae, your family solicitor. They want you.”
“Old Rae?” exclaimed Cameron. “Now what the deuce does this all mean?”
“Don't you really know, old chap?” said Dunn kindly, anxiety and relief
struggling in his face.
“No more than you. What did the old chap say, anyway?”
“Something about a Bank; an irregularity, he called it, a serious
irregularity. He's had it staved off for a day.”
“The Bank? What in Heaven's name have I got to do with the Bank? Let's
see; I was there a week or ten days ago with--” he paused. “Hang it,
I can't remember!” He ran his hands through his long black locks, and
began to pace the room.
Dunn sat watching him, hope and fear, doubt and faith filling his heart
in succession.
Cameron sat down with his face in his hands. “What is it, old man? Can't
I help you?” said Dunn, putting his hand on his shoulder.
“I can't remember,” muttered Cameron. “I've been going it some, you
know. I had been falling behind and getting money off Potts. Two weeks
ago I got my monthly five-pound cheque, and about ten days ago the usual
fifty-pound cheque to square things up for the year, fees, etc. Seems to
me I cashed those. Or did Potts? Anyway I paid Potts. The deuce take it,
I can't remember! You know I can carry a lot of Scotch and never show
it, but it plays the devil with my memory.” Cameron was growing more and
more excited.
“Well, old chap, we must go right along to Mr. Rae's office. You don't
mind?”
“Mind? Not a bit. Old Rae has no love for me,--I get him into too much
trouble,--but he's a straight old boy. Just wait till I brush up a bit.”
He poured out from a decanter half a glass of whiskey.
“I'd cut that out if I were you,” said Dunn.
“Later, perhaps,” replied Cameron, “but not to-day.”
Within twenty minutes they were ushered into Mr. Rae's private office.
That gentleman received them with a gravity that was portentous in its
solemnity. “Well, Sir, you have succeeded in your task,” he said to Mr.
Dunn. “I wish to thank you for this service, a most valuable service to
me, to this young gentleman, and to his family; though whether much may
come of it remains to be seen.”
“Oh, thanks,” said Dunn hurriedly. “I hope everything will be all
right.” He rose to go. Cameron looked at him quickly. There was no
mistaking the entreaty in his face.
Mr. Rae spoke somewhat more hurriedly than his wont. “If it is not
asking too much, and if you can still spare time, your presence might be
helpful, Mr. Dunn.”
“Stay if you can, old chap,” said Cameron. “I don't know what this thing
is, but I'll do better if you're in the game, too.” It was an appeal to
his captain, and after that nothing on earth could have driven Dunn from
his side.
At this point the door opened and the clerk announced, “Captain Cameron,
Sir.”
Mr. Rae rose hastily. “Tell him,” he said quickly, “to wait--”
He was too late. The Captain had followed close upon the heels of the
clerk, and came in with a rush. “Now, what does all this mean?”
he cried, hardly waiting to shake hands with his solicitor. “What
mischief--?”
“I beg your pardon, Captain,” said Mr. Rae calmly, “let me present Mr.
Dunn, Captain Dunn, I might say, of International fame.” The solicitor's
smile broke forth with its accustomed unexpectedness, but had vanished
long before Mr. Dunn in his embarrassment had finished shaking hands
with Captain Cameron.
The Captain then turned to his son. “Well, Sir, and what is this affair
of yours that calls me to town at a most inconvenient time?” His tone
was cold, fretful, and suspicious.
Young Cameron's face, which had lighted up with a certain eagerness
and appeal as he had turned toward his father, as if in expectation of
sympathy and help, froze at this greeting into sullen reserve. “I don't
know any more than yourself, Sir,” he answered. “I have just come into
this office this minute.”
“Well, then, what is it, Mr. Rae?” The Captain's voice and manner were
distinctly imperious, if not overbearing.
Mr. Rae, however, was king of his own castle. “Will you not be seated,
Sir?” he said, pointing to a chair. “Sit down, young gentlemen.”
His quiet dignity, his perfect courtesy, recalled the Captain to
himself. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Rae, but I am really much disturbed.
Can we begin at once?” He glanced as he spoke at Mr. Dunn, who
immediately rose.
“Sit down, Mr. Dunn,” said Mr. Rae quietly. “I have asked this young
gentleman,” he continued, turning to the Captain, “to remain. He has
already given me valuable assistance. I fancy he may be able to serve us
still further, if he will be so good.”
Mr. Dunn bowed in silence.
“Now let us proceed with what must be an exceedingly painful matter for
us all, and out of which nothing but extreme candour on the part of Mr.
Allan here, and great wisdom on the part of us all, can possibly extract
us.” Mr. Rae's glance rested upon the Captain, who bowed, and upon his
son, who made no sign whatever, but remained with his face set in the
same sullen gloom with which he had greeted his father.
Mr. Rae opened a drawer and brought forth a slip of paper. “Mr. Allan,”
he said, with a certain sharpness in his tone, “please look at this.”
Cameron came to the desk, picked up the paper, glanced at it. “It is my
father's cheque,” he said, “which I received about a week ago.”
“Look at the endorsement, please,” said Mr. Rae.
Cameron turned it over. A slight flush came to his pale face. “It is
mine to--” he hesitated, “Mr. Potts.”
“Mr. Potts cashed it then?”
“I suppose so. I believe so. I owed him money, and he gave me back
some.”
“How much did you owe him?”
“A considerable amount. I had been borrowing of him for some time.”
“As much as fifty pounds?”
“I cannot tell. I did not keep count, particularly; Potts did that.”
The Captain snorted contemptuously. “Do you mean to say--?” he began.
“Pardon me, Captain Cameron. Allow me,” said Mr. Rae.
“Now, Mr. Allan, do you think you owed him as much as the amount of that
cheque?”
“I do not know, but I think so.”
“Had you any other money?”
“No,” said Allan shortly; “at least I may have had a little remaining
from the five pounds I had received from my father a few days before.”
“You are quite sure you had no other money?”
“Quite certain,” replied Allan.
Again Mr. Rae opened his desk and drew forth a slip and handed it to
young Cameron. “What is that?” he said.
Cameron glanced at it hurriedly, and turned it over. “That is my
father's cheque for five pounds, which I cashed.”
Mr. Rae stretched out his hand and took the cheque. “Mr. Allan,” he
said, “I want you to consider most carefully your answer.” He leaned
across the desk and for some moments--they seemed like minutes to
Dunn--his eyes searched young Cameron's face. “Mr. Allan,” he said, with
a swift change of tone, his voice trembling slightly, “will you look at
the amount of that cheque again?”
Cameron once more took the cheque, glanced at it. “Good Lord!” he cried.
“It is fifty!” His face showed blank amazement.
Quick, low, and stern came Mr. Rae's voice. “Yes,” he said, “it is for
fifty pounds. Do you know that that is a forgery, the punishment for
which is penal servitude, and that the order for your arrest is already
given?”
The Captain sprang to his feet. Young Cameron's face became ghastly
pale. His hand clutched the top of Mr. Rae's desk. Twice or thrice he
moistened his lips preparing to speak, but uttered not a word. “Good
God, my boy!” said the Captain hoarsely. “Don't stand like that. Tell
him you are innocent.”
“One moment, Sir,” said Mr. Rae to the Captain. “Permit me.” Mr. Rae's
voice, while perfectly courteous, was calmly authoritative.
“Mr. Allan,” he continued, turning to the wretched young man, “what
money have you at present in your pockets?”
With shaking hands young Cameron emptied upon the desk the contents of
his pocketbook, from which the lawyer counted out ten one-pound notes,
a half-sovereign and some silver. “Where did you get this money, Mr.
Allan?”
The young man, still silent, drew his handkerchief from his pocket,
touched his lips, and wiped the sweat from his white face.
“Mr. Allan,” continued the lawyer, dropping again into a kindly voice,
“a frank explanation will help us all.”
“Mr. Rae,” said Cameron, his words coming with painful indistinctness,
“I don't understand this. I can't think clearly. I can't remember. That
money I got from Potts; at least I must have--I have had money from no
one else.”
“My God!” cried the Captain again. “To think that a son of mine
should--!”
“Pardon me, Captain Cameron,” interrupted Mr. Rae quickly and somewhat
sharply. “We must not prejudge this case. We must first understand it.”
At this point Dunn stepped swiftly to Cameron's side. “Brace up, old
chap,” he said in a low tone. Then turning towards the Captain he said,
“I beg your pardon, Sir, but I do think it's only fair to give a man a
chance to explain.”
“Allow me, gentlemen,” said Mr. Rae in a firm, quiet voice, as
the Captain was about to break forth. “Allow me to conduct this
examination.”
Cameron turned his face toward Dunn. “Thank you, old man,” he said,
his white lips quivering. “I will do my best, but before God, I don't
understand this.”
“Now, Mr. Allan,” continued the lawyer, tapping the desk sharply,
“here are two cheques for fifty pounds, both drawn by your father, both
endorsed by you, one apparently cashed by Mr. Potts, one by yourself.
What do you know about this?”
“Mr. Rae,” replied the young man, his voice trembling and husky, “I tell
you I can't understand this. I ought to say that for the last two weeks
I haven't been quite myself, and whiskey always makes me forget. I can
walk around steadily enough, but I don't always know what I am doing--”
“That's so, Sir,” said Dunn quickly, “I've seen him.”
“--And just what happened with these cheques I do not know. This
cheque,” picking up the one endorsed to Potts, “I remember giving to
Potts. The only other cheque I remember is a five-pound one.”
“Do you remember cashing that five-pound cheque?” inquired Mr. Rae.
“I carried it about for some days. I remember that, because I once
offered it to Potts in part payment, and he said--” the white face
suddenly flushed a deep red.
“Well, Mr. Allan, what did he say?”
“It doesn't matter,” said Cameron.
“It may and it may not,” said Mr. Rae sharply. “It is your duty to tell
us.”
“Out with it,” said his father angrily. “You surely owe it to me, to us
all, to let us have every assistance.”
Cameron paid no attention to his father's words. “It has really no
bearing, Sir, but I remember saying as I offered a five-pound cheque, 'I
wish it was fifty.'”
“And what reply did Mr. Potts make?” said Mr. Rae, with quiet
indifference, as if he had lost interest in this particular feature of
the case.
Again Cameron hesitated.
“Come, out with it!” said his father impatiently.
His son closed his lips as if in a firm resolve. “It really has nothing
whatever to do with the case.”
“Play the game, old man,” said Dunn quietly.
“Oh, all right!” said Cameron. “It makes no difference anyway. He said
in a joke, 'You could easily make this fifty; it is such mighty poor
writing.'”
Still Mr. Rae showed no sign of interest. “He suggested in a joke, I
understand, that the five-pound cheque could easily be changed into
fifty pounds. That was a mere pleasantry of Mr. Potts', doubtless. How
did the suggestion strike you, Mr. Allan?”
Allan looked at him in silence.
“I mean, did the suggestion strike you unpleasantly, or how?”
“I don't think it made any impression, Sir. I knew it was a joke.”
“A joke!” groaned his father. “Good Heavens! What do you think--?”
“Once more permit me,” said Mr. Rae quietly, with a wave of his hand
toward the Captain. “This cheque of five pounds has evidently been
altered to fifty pounds. The question is, by whom, Mr. Allan? Can you
answer that?” Again Mr. Rae's eyes were searching the young man's face.
“I have told you I remember nothing about this cheque.”
“Is it possible, Mr. Allan, that you could have raised this cheque
yourself without your knowing--?”
“Oh, nonsense!” said his father hotly, “why make the boy lie?”
His son started as if his father had struck him. “I tell you once more,
Mr. Rae, and I tell you all, I know nothing about this cheque, and that
is my last word.” And from that position nothing could move him.
“Well,” said Mr. Rae, closing the interview, “we have done our best. The
law must take its course.”
“Great Heavens!” cried the Captain, springing to his feet. “Do you mean
to tell me, Allan, that you persist in this cursed folly and will give
us no further light? Have you no regard for my name, if not for your
own?” He grasped his son fiercely by the arm.
But his son angrily shook off his grasp. “You,” he said, looking his
father full in the face, “you condemned me before you heard a word from
me, and now for my name or for yours I care not a tinker's curse.” And
with this he flung himself from the room.
“Follow him,” said Mr. Rae to Dunn, quietly; “he will need you. And keep
him in sight; it is important.”
“All right, Sir!” said Dunn. “I'll stay with him.” And he did.
CHAPTER IV
A QUESTION OF HONOUR
Mr. Rae in forty years' experience had never been so seriously
disturbed. To his intense humiliation he found himself abjectly
appealing to the senior member of the firm of Thomlinson & Shields. Not
that Mr. Thomlinson was obdurate; in the presence of mere obduracy Mr.
Rae might have found relief in the conscious possession of more generous
and humane instincts than those supposed to be characteristic of the
members of his profession. Mr. Thomlinson, however, was anything but
obdurate. He was eager to oblige, but he was helpless. The instructions
he had received were simple but imperative, and he had gone to unusual
lengths in suggesting to Mr. Sheratt, the manager of the Bank, a course
of greater leniency. That gentleman's only reply was a brief order to
proceed with the case.
With Mr. Sheratt, therefore, Mr. Rae proceeded to deal. His first move
was to invite the Bank manager to lunch, in order to discuss some rather
important matters relative to one of the great estates of which Mr. Rae
was supposed to be the guardian. Some fifty years' experience of
Mr. Sheratt as boy and man had let Mr. Rae into a somewhat intimate
knowledge of the workings of that gentleman's mind. Under the mollifying
influences of the finest of old port, Mr. Rae made the discovery that as
with Mr. Thomlinson, so with Mr. Sheratt there was every disposition to
oblige, and indeed an eagerness to yield to the lawyer's desires; it was
not Mr. Sheratt, but the Bank that was immovable. Firm-fixed it stood
upon its bedrock of tradition that in matters of fraud, crime should be
punished to the full limit of the law.
“The estate of the criminal, high or low,” said Mr. Sheratt
impressively, “matters not. The Bank stands upon the principle, and from
this it cannot be moved.” Mr. Sheratt began to wax eloquent. “Fidelity
to its constituency, its shareholders, its depositors, indeed to the
general public, is the corner-stone of its policy. The Bank of Scotland
is a National Institution, with a certain National obligation.”
Mr. Rae quietly drew from his pocket a pamphlet, opened it slowly,
and glanced at the page. “Ay, it's as I thought, Mr. Sheratt,” he said
dryly. “At times I wondered where Sir Archibald got his style.”
Mr. Sheratt blushed like a boy caught copying.
“But now since I know who it is that writes the speech of the Chairman
of the Board of Directors, tell me, Sheratt, as man to man, is it you or
is it Sir Archibald that's at the back of this prosecution? For if it is
you, I've something to say to you; if not, I'll just say it where it's
most needed. In some way or other I'm bound to see this thing through.
That boy can't go to prison. Now tell me, Tom? It's for auld sake's
sake.”
“As sure as death, Rae, it's the Chairman, and it's God's truth I'm
telling ye, though I should not.” They were back again into the speech
and spirit of their boyhood days.
“Then I must see Sir Archibald. Give me time to see him, Tom.”
“It's a waste of time, I'm tellin' ye, but two days I'll give ye, Sandy,
for auld sake's sake, as you say. A friendship of half a hundred years
should mean something to us. For your sake I'd let the lad go, God
knows, and there's my han' upon it, but as I said, that lies with Sir
Archibald.”
The old friends shook hands in silence.
“Thank ye, Tom, thank ye,” said Mr. Rae; “I knew it.”
“But harken to me, ye'll no' move Sir Archibald, for on this particular
point he's quite mad. He'd prosecute the Duke of Argyll, he would. But
two days are yours, Sandy. And mind with Sir Archibald ye treat his Bank
with reverence! It's a National Institution, with National obligations,
ye ken?” Mr. Sheratt's wink conveyed a volume of meaning. “And mind you,
Rae,” here Mr. Sheratt grew grave, “I am trusting you to produce that
lad when wanted.”
“I have him in safe keeping, Tom, and shall produce him, no fear.”
And with that the two old gentlemen parted, loyal to a lifelong
friendship, but loyal first to the trust of those they stood pledged to
serve; for the friendship that gives first place to honour is the only
friendship that honourable men can hold.
Mr. Rae set off for his office through the drizzling rain. “Now then,
for the Captain,” he said to himself; “and a state he will be in! Why
did I ever summon him to town? Then for Mr. Dunn, who must keep his eye
upon the young man.”
In his office he found Captain Cameron in a state of distraction that
rendered him incapable of either coherent thought or speech. “What now,
Rae? Where have you been? What news have you? My God, this thing is
driving me mad! Penal servitude! Think of it, man, for my son! Oh, the
scandal of it! It will kill me and kill his sister. What's your report?
Come, out with it! Have you seen Mr. Sheratt?” He was pacing up and down
the office like a beast in a cage.
“Tut, tut, Captain Cameron,” said Mr. Rae lightly, “this is no way for
a soldier to face the enemy. Sit down and we will just lay out our
campaign.”
But the Captain's soldiering, which was of the lightest, had taught him
little either of the spirit or of the tactics of warfare. “Campaign!” he
exclaimed. “There's no campaign about it. It's a complete smash, horse,
foot, and artillery.”
“Nonsense, Captain Cameron!” exclaimed Mr. Rae more briskly than his
wont, for the Captain irritated him. “We have still fighting to do, and
hence we must plan our campaign. But first let us get comfortable. Here
Davie,” he called, opening the office door, “here, mend this fire. It's
a winter's day this,” he continued to the Captain, “and goes to the
marrow.”
Davie, a wizened, clean-shaven, dark-visaged little man, appeared with a
scuttle of coal. “Ay, Davie; that's it! Is that cannel?”
“Ay, Sir, it is. What else? I aye get the cannel.”
“That's right, Davie. It's a gran' coal.”
“Gran' it's no',” said Davie shortly, who was a fierce radical in
politics, and who strove to preserve his sense of independence of all
semblance of authority by cultivating a habit of disagreement. “Gran'
it's no',” he repeated, “but it's the best the Farquhars hae, though
that's no' saying much. It's no' what I call cannel.”
“Well, well, Davie, it blazes finely at any rate,” said Mr. Rae,
determined to be cheerful, and rubbing his hands before the blazing
coal.
“Ay, it bleezes,” grumbled Davie, “when it's no' smootherin'.”
“Come then, Davie, that will do. Clear out,” said Mr. Rae to the old
servant, who was cleaning up the hearth with great diligence and care.
But Davie was not to be hurried. He had his regular routine in
fire-mending, from which no power could move him. “Ay, Sir,” he
muttered, brushing away with his feather besom. “I'll clear oot when I
clear up. When a thing's no' dune richt it's no dune ava.”
“True, Davie, true enough; that's a noble sentiment. But will that no'
do now?” Mr. Rae knew himself to be helpless in Davie's hands, and he
knew also that nothing short of violence would hasten Davie from his
“usual.”
“Ay, that'll dae, because it's richt dune. But that's no' what I call
cannel,” grumbled Davie, glowering fiercely at the burning coal, as if
meditating a fresh attack.
“Well, well,” said Mr. Rae, “tell the Farquhars about it.”
“Ay, Sir, I will that,” said Davie, as he reluctantly took himself off
with his scuttle and besom.
The Captain was bursting with fretful impatience. “Impudent old rascal!”
he exclaimed. “Why don't you dismiss him?”
“Dismiss him!” echoed Mr. Rae in consternation. “Dismiss him!” he
repeated, as if pondering an entirely new idea. “I doubt if Davie would
consider that. But now let us to work.” He set two arm-chairs before the
fire, and placed a box of cigars by the Captain's elbow. “I have seen
Sheratt,” he began. “I'm quite clear it is not in his hands.”
“In whose then?” burst forth the Captain.
Mr. Rae lit his cigar carefully. “The whole matter, I believe, lies now
with the Chairman of the Board of Directors, Sir Archibald Brodie.”
“Brodie!” cried the Captain. “I know him. Pompous little fool!”
“Fool, Captain Cameron! Make no mistake. Sir Archibald may have--ah--the
self-importance of a self-made man somewhat under the average height,
but he is, without doubt, the best financier that stands at this moment
in Scotland, and during the last fifteen years he has brought up the
Bank of Scotland to its present position. Fool! He's anything but that.
But he has his weak spots--I wish I knew what they were!--and these we
must seek to find out. Do you know him well?”
“Oh, yes, quite well,” said the Captain; “that is, I've met him at
various functions, where he always makes speeches. Very common, I
call him. I know his father; a mere cottar. I mean,” added the Captain
hurriedly, for he remembered that Mr. Rae was of the same humble
origin, “you know, he is thoroughly respectable and all that, but of
no--ah--social or family standing; that is--oh, you understand.”
“Quite,” said Mr. Rae drily.
“Yes, I shall see him,” continued the Captain briskly. “I shall
certainly see him. It is a good suggestion. Sir Archibald knows my
family; indeed, his father was from the Erracht region. I shall see him
personally. I am glad you thought of that, Mr. Rae. These smaller men,
Sheratt and the rest, I do not know--in fact, I do not seem to be able
to manage them,--but with Sir Archibald there will be no difficulty, I
feel quite confident. When can you arrange the interview?”
Mr. Rae sat gazing thoughtfully into the fire, more and more convinced
every moment that he had made a false move in suggesting a meeting
between the Captain and Sir Archibald Brodie. But labour as he might he
could not turn the Captain from his purpose. He was resolved to see Sir
Archibald at the earliest moment, and of the result of the meeting he
had no manner of doubt.
“He knew my family, Sir,” insisted the Captain. “Sir Archibald will
undoubtedly accede to my suggestion--ah--request to withdraw his action.
Arrange it, Mr. Rae, arrange it at once.”
And ruefully enough Mr. Rae was compelled to yield against his better
judgment.
It was discovered upon inquiry that Sir Archibald had gone for a day or
two to his country estate. “Ah, much better,” said the Captain, “away
from his office and away from the--ah--commercial surroundings of the
city. Much better, much better! We shall proceed to his country home.”
Of the wisdom of this proposal Mr. Rae was doubtful. There seemed,
however, no other way open. Hence, the following morning found them on
their way to Sir Archibald's country seat. Mr. Rae felt that it was
an unusual course to pursue, but the time was short, the occasion was
gravely critical, and demanded extreme measures.
During their railway journey Mr. Rae strove to impress upon the
Captain's mind the need of diplomacy. “Sir Archibald is a man of strong
prejudices,” he urged; “for instance, his Bank he regards with an
affection and respect amounting to veneration. He is a bachelor, you
understand, and his Bank is to him wife and bairns. On no account must
you treat his Bank lightly.”
“Oh, certainly not,” replied the Captain, who was inclined to resent Mr.
Rae's attempts to school him in diplomacy.
“He is a great financier,” continued Mr. Rae, “and with him finance is a
high art, and financial integrity a sacred obligation.”
“Oh, certainly, certainly,” again replied the Captain, quite unimpressed
by this aspect of the matter, for while he considered himself distinctly
a man of affairs, yet his interests lay more in matters of great public
moment. Commercial enterprises he regarded with a feeling akin to
contempt. Money was an extremely desirable, and indeed necessary,
appendage to a gentleman's position, but how any man of fine feeling
could come to regard a financial institution with affection or
veneration he was incapable of conceiving. However, he was prepared
to deal considerately with Sir Archibald's peculiar prejudices in this
matter.
Mr. Rae's forebodings as to the outcome of the approaching interview
were of the most gloomy nature as they drove through the finely
appointed and beautifully kept grounds of Sir Archibald Brodie's estate.
The interview began inauspiciously. Sir Archibald received them with
stiff courtesy. He hated to be pursued to his country home with business
matters. Besides, at this particular moment he was deeply engrossed in
the inspection of his pigs, for which animals he cherished what might
almost be called an absorbing affection. Mr. Rae, who was proceeding
with diplomatic caution and skill to approach the matter in hand by way
of Sir Archibald's Wiltshires, was somewhat brusquely interrupted by the
Captain, who, in the firm conviction that he knew much better than did
the lawyer how to deal with a man of his own class, plunged at once into
the subject.
“Awfully sorry to introduce business matters, Sir Archibald, to the
attention of a gentleman in the privacy of his own home, but there is a
little matter in connection with the Bank in which I am somewhat deeply
interested.”
Sir Archibald bowed in silence.
“Rather, I should say, it concerns my son, and therefore, Sir Archibald,
myself and my family.”
Again Sir Archibald bowed.
“It is, after all, a trivial matter, which I have no doubt can be easily
arranged between us. The truth is, Sir Archibald--,” here the Captain
hesitated, as if experiencing some difficulty in stating the case.
“Perhaps Captain Cameron will allow me to place the matter before you,
Sir Archibald,” suggested Mr. Rae, “as it has a legal aspect of some
gravity, indeed of very considerable gravity. It is the case of young
Mr. Cameron.”
“Ah,” said Sir Archibald shortly. “Forgery case, I believe.”
“Well,” said Mr. Rae, “we have not been able as yet to get at the
bottom of it. I confess that the case has certainly very grave features
connected with it, but it is by no means clear that--”
“There is no need for further statement, Mr. Rae,” said Sir Archibald.
“I know all about it. It is a clear case of forgery. The facts have all
been laid before me, and I have given my instructions.”
“And what may these be, may I inquire?” said the Captain somewhat
haughtily.
“The usual instructions, Sir, where the Bank of Scotland is concerned,
instructions to prosecute.” Sir Archibald's lips shut in a firm, thin
line. As far as he was concerned the matter was closed.
“But, Sir,” exclaimed the Captain, “this young man is my son.”
“I deeply regret it,” replied Sir Archibald.
“Yes, Sir, he is my son, and the honour of my family is involved.”
Sir Archibald bowed.
“I am here prepared to offer the fullest reparation, to offer the most
generous terms of settlement; in short, I am willing to do anything in
reason to have this matter--this unfortunate matter--hushed up.”
“Hushed up!” exclaimed Sir Archibald. “Captain Cameron, it is
impossible. I am grieved for you, but I have a duty to the Bank in this
matter.”
“Do you mean to say, Sir,” cried the Captain, “that you refuse to
consider any arrangement or compromise or settlement of any kind
whatever? I am willing to pay the amount ten times over, rather than
have my name dragged through legal proceedings.”
“It is quite impossible,” said Sir Archibald.
“Come, come, Sir Archibald,” said the Captain, exercising an unusual
self-control; “let us look at this thing as two gentlemen should who
respect each other, and who know what is due to our--ah--class.”
It was an unfortunate remark of the Captain's.
“Our class, Sir? I presume you mean the class of gentlemen. All that
is due to our class or any other class is strict justice, and that you,
Sir, or any other gentleman, shall receive to the very fullest in this
matter. The honour of the Bank, which I regard as a great National
Institution charged with National responsibilities, is involved, as is
also my own personal honour. I sincerely trust your son may be cleared
of every charge of crime, but this case must be prosecuted to the very
fullest degree.”
“And do you mean to tell me, Sir Archibald,” exclaimed the Captain, now
in a furious passion, “that for the sake of a few paltry pounds you will
blast my name and my family name in this country?--a name, I venture to
say, not unknown in the history of this nation. The Camerons, Sir, have
fought and bled for King and country on many a battlefield. What matters
the question of a few pounds in comparison with the honour of an
ancient and honourable name? You cannot persist in this attitude, Sir
Archibald!”
“Pounds, Sir!” cried Sir Archibald, now thoroughly aroused by the
contemptuous reference to what to him was dearer than anything in life.
“Pounds, Sir! It is no question of pounds, but a question of the honour
of a National Institution, a question of the lives and happiness of
hundreds of widows and orphans, a question of the honour of a name which
I hold as dear as you hold yours.”
Mr. Rae was in despair. He laid a restraining hand upon the Captain, and
with difficulty obtained permission to speak. “Sir Archibald, I crave
your indulgence while I put this matter to you as to a business man. In
the first place, there is no evidence that fraud has been committed
by young Mr. Cameron, absolutely none.--Pardon me a moment, Sir
Archibald.--The fraud has been committed, I grant, by someone, but by
whom is as yet unknown. The young man for some weeks has been in a state
of incapacity; a most blameworthy and indeed shameful condition, it is
true, but in a state of incapacity to transact business. He declares
that he has no knowledge of this act of forgery. He will swear this. I
am prepared to defend him.”
“Very well, Sir,” interrupted Sir Archibald, “and I hope, I sincerely
hope, successfully.”
“But while it may be difficult to establish innocence, it will be
equally difficult to establish guilt. Meantime, the young man's life
is blighted, his name dishonoured, his family plunged into unspeakable
grief. I venture to say that it is a case in which the young man might
be given, without injury to the Bank, or without breaking through its
traditional policy, the benefit of the doubt.”
But Sir Archibald had been too deeply stirred by Captain Cameron's
unfortunate remarks to calmly weigh Mr. Rae's presentation of the case.
“It is quite useless, Mr. Rae,” he declared firmly. “The case is out of
my hands, and must be proceeded with. I sincerely trust you may be able
to establish the young man's innocence. I have nothing more to say.”
And from this position neither Mr. Rae's arguments nor the Captain's
passionate pleadings could move him.
Throughout the return journey the Captain raged and swore. “A
contemptible cad, Sir! a base-born, low-bred cad, Sir! What else could
you expect from a fellow of his breeding? The insolence of these lower
orders is becoming insupportable. The idea! the very idea! His bank
against my family name, my family honour! Preposterous!”
“Honour is honour, Captain Cameron,” replied Mr. Rae firmly, “and
it might have been better if you had remembered that the honour of a
cottar's son is as dear to him as yours is to you.”
And such was Mr. Rae's manner that the Captain appeared to consider it
wise to curb his rage, or at least suppress all reference to questions
of honour in as far as they might be related to the question of birth
and breeding.
CHAPTER V
A LADY AND THE LAW
Mr. Rae's first care was to see Mr. Dunn. This case was getting rather
more trying to Mr. Rae's nerves than he cared to acknowledge. For a
second time he had been humiliated, and humiliation was an experience to
which Mr. Rae was not accustomed. It was in a distinctly wrathful frame
of mind that he called upon Mr. Dunn, and the first quarter of an hour
of his interview he spent in dilating upon his own folly in having
allowed Captain Cameron to accompany him on his visit to Sir Archibald.
“In forty years I never remember having made such an error, Sir. This
was an occasion for diplomacy. We should have taken time. We should have
discovered his weak spots; every man has them. Now it is too late.
The only thing left for us is fight, and the best we can hope for is a
verdict of NOT PROVEN, and that leaves a stigma.”
“It is terrible,” said Mr. Dunn, “and I believe he is innocent. Have you
thought of Potts, Sir?”
“I have had Potts before me,” said Mr. Rae, “and I may safely say that
though he strikes me as being a man of unusual cleverness, we can do
nothing with Mr. Potts. Of course,” added Mr. Rae hastily, “this is not
to say we shall not make use of Mr. Potts in the trial, but Mr. Potts
can show from his books debts amounting to nearly sixty pounds. He
frankly acknowledges the pleasantry in suggesting the raising of the
five-pound cheque to fifty pounds, but of the act itself he professes
entire ignorance. I frankly own to you, Sir,” continued Mr. Rae, folding
his ear into a horn after his manner when in perplexity, “that this case
puzzles me. I must not take your time,” he said, shaking Mr. Dunn warmly
by the hand. “One thing more I must ask you, however, and that is, keep
in touch with young Cameron. I have pledged my honour to produce him
when wanted. Furthermore, keep him--ah--in good condition; cheer him up;
nerve him up; much depends upon his manner.”
Gravely Mr. Dunn accepted the trust, though whether he could fulfil it
he doubted. “Keep him cheerful,” said Mr. Dunn to himself, as the door
closed upon Mr. Rae. “Nice easy job, too, under the circumstances.
Let's see, what is there on? By Jove, if I could only bring him!” There
flashed into Mr. Dunn's mind the fact that he was due that evening at a
party for students, given by one of the professors, belated beyond the
period proper to such functions by one of those domestic felicities
which claim right of way over all other human events. At this party
Cameron was also due. It was hardly likely, however, that he would
attend. But to Dunn's amazement he found Cameron, with a desperate
jollity such as a man might feel the night before his execution, eager
to go.
“I'm going,” he cried, in answer to Dunn's somewhat timid suggestion.
“They'll all be there, old man, and I shall make my exit with much
eclat, with pipe and dance and all the rest of it.”
“Exit, be blowed!” said Dunn impatiently. “Let's cut all this nonsense
out. We're going into a fight for all there's in us. Why should a fellow
throw up the sponge after the first round?”
“Fight!” said Cameron gloomily. “Did old Rae say so?”
“Most decidedly.”
“And what defence does he suggest?”
“Defence? Innocence, of course.”
“Would to God I could back him up!” groaned Cameron.
Dunn gazed at him in dismay. “And can you not? You do not mean to tell
me you are guilty?”
“Oh, I wish to heaven I knew!” cried Cameron wildly. “But there, let it
go. Let the lawyers and the judge puzzle it out. 'Guilty or not guilty?'
'Hanged if I know, my lord. Looks like guilty, but don't see very well
how I can be.' That will bother old Rae some; it would bother Old Nick
himself. 'Did you forge this note?' 'My lord, my present ego recognizes
no intent to forge; my alter ego in vino may have done so. Of that,
however, I know nothing; it lies in that mysterious region of the
subconscious.' 'Are you, then, guilty?' 'Guilt, my lord, lies in intent.
Intent is the soul of crime.' It will be an interesting point for Mr.
Rae and his lordship.”
“Look here, old chap,” asked Dunn suddenly, “what of Potts in this
business?”
“Potts! Oh, hang it, Dunn, I can't drag Potts into this. It would
be altogether too low-down to throw suspicion upon a man without the
slightest ground. Potts is not exactly a lofty-souled creature. In fact,
he is pronouncedly a bounder, though I confess I did borrow money of
him; but I'd borrow money of the devil when I'm in certain moods. A man
may be a bounder, however, without being a criminal. No, I have thought
this thing out as far as I can, and I've made my mind up that I've got
to face it myself. I've been a fool, ah, such a fool!” A shudder shook
his frame. “Oh, Dunn, old man, I don't mind for myself, I can go out
easily enough, but it's my little sister! It will break her heart, and
she has no one else; she will have to bear it all alone.”
“What do you mean, Cameron?” asked Dunn sharply.
Cameron sprang to his feet. “Let it go,” he cried. “Let it go for
to-night, anyway.” He seized a decanter which stood all too ready to his
hand, but Dunn interposed.
“Listen to me, old man,” he said, in a voice of grave and earnest
sadness, while he pushed Cameron back into a chair. “We have a
desperately hard game before us, you and I,--this is my game, too,--and
we must be fit; so, Cameron, I want your word that you will play up for
all that's in you; that you will cut this thing out,” pointing to the
decanter, “and will keep fit to the last fighting minute. I am asking
you this, Cameron. You owe it to yourself, you owe it to me, you owe it
to your sister.”
For some moments Cameron sat gazing straight before him, his face
showing the agony in his soul. “As God's above, I do! I owe it to you,
Dunn, and to her, and to the memory of my--” But his quivering lips
could not utter the word; and there was no need, for they both knew that
his heart was far away in the little mound that lay in the shadow of the
church tower in the Cuagh Oir. The lad rose to his feet, and stretching
out his hand to Dunn cried, “There's my hand and my honour as a
Highlander, and until the last fighting moment I'll be fit.”
At the party that night none was gayer than young Cameron. The shy
reserve that usually marked him was thrust aside. His fine, lithe
figure, set off by his Highland costume, drew all eyes in admiration,
and whether in the proud march of the piper, or in the wild abandon of
the Highland Fling, he seemed to all the very beau ideal of a gallant
Highland gentleman.
Dunn stood in the circle gathered to admire, watching Cameron's
performance of that graceful and intricate Highland dance, all
unconscious of a pair of bright blue eyes fastened on his face that
reflected so manifestly the grief and pain in his heart.
“And wherefore this gloom?” said a gay voice at his side. It was Miss
Bessie Brodie.
Poor Dunn! He was not skilled in the fine art of social deception. He
could only gaze stupidly and with blinking eyes upon his questioner,
devoutly hoping meanwhile that the tears would not fall.
“Splendid Highlander, isn't he?” exclaimed Miss Bessie, hastily
withdrawing her eyes from his face, for she was much too fine a lady to
let him see her surprise.
“What?” exclaimed Dunn. “I don't know. I mean--yes, awfully--oh,
confound the thing, it's a beastly shame!”
Thereupon Miss Bessie turned her big blue eyes slowly upon him. “Meaning
what?” she said quietly.
“Oh, I beg pardon. I'm just a fool. Oh, hang it all!” Dunn could not
recover his composure. He backed out of the circle of admirers into a
darker corner.
“Fool?” said Miss Brodie, stepping back with him. “And why, pray? Can
I know? I suppose it's Cameron again,” she continued. “Oh, I know all
about you and your mothering of him.”
“Mothering!” said Dunn bitterly. “That is just what he needs, by Jove.
His mother has been dead these five years, and that's been the ruin of
him.”
The cheers from Cameron's admirers broke in upon Dunn's speech. “Oh,
it's too ghastly,” he muttered.
“Is it really so bad? Can't I help?” cried Miss Brodie. “You know I've
had some experience with boys.”
As Dunn looked into her honest, kindly eyes he hesitated. Should he tell
her? He was in sore need of counsel, and besides he was at the limit
of his self-control. “I say,” he said, staring at her, while his lips
quivered, “I'd like awfully to tell you, but I know if I ever begin I
shall just burst into tears before this gaping crowd.”
“Tears!” exclaimed Miss Bessie. “Not you! And if you did it wouldn't
hurt either them or you. An International captain possesses this
advantage over other mortals: that he may burst into tears or anything
else without losing caste, whereas if I should do any such thing--But
come, let's get somewhere and talk it over. Now, then,” said Miss Brodie
as they found a quiet corner, “first of all, ought I to know?”
“You'll know, all Edinburgh will know time day after to-morrow,” said
Dunn.
“All right, then, it can't do any harm for me to know to-night. It
possibly may do good.”
“It will do me good, anyway,” said Dunn, “for I have reached my limit.”
Then Dunn told her, and while she listened she grew grave and anxious.
“But surely it can be arranged!” she exclaimed, after he had finished.
“No, Mr. Rae has tried everything. The Bank is bound to pursue it to the
bitter end. It is apparently a part of its policy.”
“What Bank?”
“The Bank of Scotland.”
“Why, that's my uncle's Bank! I mean, he is the Chairman of the Board
of Directors, and the Bank is the apple of his eye; or one of them, I
mean--I'm the other.”
“Oh, both, I fancy,” said Dunn, rather pleased with his own courage.
“But come, this is serious,” said Miss Brodie. “The Bank, you know, or
you don't know, is my uncle's weak spot.”
Mr. Rae's words flashed across Dunn's mind: “We ought to have found his
weak spots.”
“He says,” continued Miss Brodie with a smile--“you know he's an old
dear!--I divide his heart with the Bank, that I have the left lobe.
Isn't that the bigger one? So the Bank and I are his weak spots; unless
it is his Wiltshires--he is devoted to Wiltshires.”
“Wiltshires?”
“Pigs. There are times when I feel myself distinctly second to them. Are
you sure my uncle knows all about Cameron?”
“Well, Mr. Rae and Captain Cameron--that's young Cameron's father--went
out to his place--”
“Ah, that was a mistake,” said Miss Brodie. “He hates people following
him to the country. Well, what happened?”
“Mr. Rae feels that it was rather a mistake that Captain Cameron went
along.”
“Why so? He is his father, isn't he?”
“Yes, he is, though I'm bound to say he's rather queer for a father.”
Whereupon Dunn gave her an account of his interview in Mr. Rae's office.
Miss Brodie was indignant. “What a shame! And what a fool! Why, he is
ten times more fool than his son; for mark you, his son is undoubtedly
a fool, and a selfish fool at that. I can't bear a young fool who
sacrifices not simply his own life, but the interests of all who care
for him, for some little pet selfishness of his own. But this father
of his seems to be even worse than the son. Family name indeed! And I
venture to say he expatiated upon the glory of his family name to my
uncle. If there's one thing that my uncle goes quite mad about it is
this affectation of superiority on the ground of the colour of a man's
blood! No wonder he refused to withdraw the prosecution! What could Mr.
Rae have been thinking about? What fools men are!”
“Quite true,” murmured Mr. Dunn.
“Some men, I mean,” cried Miss Brodie hastily. “I wish to heaven I had
seen my uncle first!”
“I suppose it's too late now,” said Dunn, with a kind of gloomy
wistfulness.
“Yes, I fear so,” said Miss Brodie. “You see when my uncle makes up his
mind he appears to have some religious scruples against changing it.”
“It was a ghastly mistake,” said Dunn bitterly.
“Look here, Mr. Dunn,” said Miss Brodie, turning upon him suddenly, “I
want your straight opinion. Do you think this young man guilty?”
They were both looking at Cameron, at that moment the centre of a group
of open admirers, his boyish face all aglow with animation. For the
time being it seemed as if he had forgotten the terrible catastrophe
overhanging him.
“If I hadn't known Cameron for three years,” replied Dunn slowly, “I
would say offhand that this thing would be impossible to him; but you
see you never know what a man in drink will do. Cameron can carry a
bottle of Scotch without a stagger, but of course it knocks his head
all to pieces. I mean, he is quite incapable of anything like clear
thought.”
“It is truly terrible,” said Miss Brodie. “I wish I had known yesterday,
but those men have spoilt it all. But here's 'Lily' Laughton,” she
continued hurriedly, “coming for his dance.” As she spoke a youth of
willowy figure, languishing dark eyes and ladylike manner drew near.
“Well, here you are at last! What a hunt I have had! I am quite
exhausted, I assure you,” cried the youth, fanning himself with his
handkerchief. “And though you have quite forgotten it, this is our
dance. What can you two have been talking about? But why ask? There is
only one theme upon which you could become so terrifically serious.”
“And what is that, pray? Browning?” inquired Miss Brodie sweetly.
“Dear Miss Brodie, if you only would, but--ugh!--” here “Lily”
shuddered, “I can in fancy picture the gory scene in which you have been
revelling for the last hour!” And “Lily's” handsome face and languid,
liquid eyes indicated his horror. It was “Lily's” constant declaration
that he “positively loathed” football, although his persistent
attendance at all the great matches rather belied this declaration. “It
is the one thing in you, Miss Bessie, that I deplore, 'the fly in the
pot--' no, 'the flaw--' ah, that's better--'the flaw in the matchless
pearl.'”
“How sweet of you,” murmured Miss Brodie.
“Yes, indeed,” continued “Lily,” wreathing his tapering fingers, “it is
your devotion to those so-called athletic games,--games! ye gods!--the
chief qualifications for excellence in which appear to be brute strength
and a blood-thirsty disposition; as witness Dunn there. I was positively
horrified last International. There he was, our own quiet, domestic,
gentle Dunn, raging through that howling mob of savages like a
bloody Bengal tiger.--Rather apt, that!--A truly awful and degrading
exhibition!”
“Ah, perfectly lovely!” murmured Miss Brodie ecstatically. “I can see
him yet.”
“Miss Brodie, how can you!” exclaimed “Lily,” casting up his eyes in
horror towards heaven. “But it was ever thus! In ancient days upon
the bloody sands of the arena, fair ladies were wont to gaze with
unrelenting eyes and thumbs turned down--or up, was it--?”
“Excellent! But how clever of them to gaze with their thumbs in that
way!”
“Please don't interrupt,” said “Lily” severely; “I have just 'struck my
gait,' as that barbaric young Colonial, Martin, another of your bloody,
brawny band, would say. And here you sit, unblushing, glorying in their
disgusting deeds and making love open and unabashed to their captain!”
“Go away, 'Lily' or I'll hurt you,” cried Dunn, his face a brilliant
crimson. “Come, get out!”
“But don't be uplifted,” continued “Lily,” ignoring him, “you are not
the first. By no means! It is always the last International captain, and
has been to my certain knowledge for the last ten years.”
“Ten years!” exclaimed Miss Brodie in horrified accents. “You monster!
If you have no regard for my character you might at least respect my
age.”
“Age! Dear Miss Brodie,” ejaculated “Lily,” “who could ever associate
age with your perennial youth?”
“Perennial! Wretch! If there is anything I am sensitive about, really
sensitive about, it is my age! Mr. Dunn, I beseech you, save me from
further insult! Dear 'Lily,' run away now. You are much too tired to
dance, and besides there is Mrs. Craig-Urquhart waiting to talk your
beloved Wagner-Tennyson theory; or what is the exact combination?
Mendelssohn-Browning, is it?”
“Oh, Miss Bessie!” cried “Lily” in a shocked voice, “how can
you? Mendelssohn-Browning! How awful! Do have some regard for the
affinities.”
“Mr. Dunn, I implore you, save me! I can bear no more. There! A merciful
providence has accomplished my deliverance. They are going. Good-night,
'Lily.' Run away now. I want a word with Mr. Dunn.”
“Oh, heartless cruelty!” exclaimed “Lily,” in an agonised voice. “But
what can you expect from such associations?” And he hastened away to
have a last word with Mrs. Craig-Urquhart, who was swimming languidly
by.
Miss Brodie turned eagerly to Dunn. “I'd like to help you awfully,” she
said; “indeed I must try. I have very little hope. My uncle is so strong
when he is once set, and he is so funny about that Bank. But a boy is
worth more than a Bank, if he IS a fool; besides, there is his sister.
Good-night. Thanks for letting me help. I have little hope, but
to-morrow I shall see Sir Archibald, and--and his pigs.”
It was still in the early forenoon of the following day when Miss
Brodie greeted her uncle as he was about to start upon his round of the
pastures and pens where the Wiltshires of various ages and sizes and
sexes were kept. With the utmost enthusiasm Miss Brodie entered into his
admiration of them all, from the lordly prize tusker to the great mother
lying broadside on in grunting and supreme content, every grunt eloquent
of happiness and maternal love and pride, to allow her week-old brood to
prod and punch her luxuriant dugs for their breakfast.
By the time they had made their rounds Sir Archibald had arrived at his
most comfortable and complacent mood. He loved his niece. He loved her
for the sake of his dead brother, and as she grew in years, he came to
love her for herself. Her sturdy independent fearlessness, her
sound sense, her honest heart, and chiefly, if it must be told, her
whole-souled devotion to himself, made for her a great space in his
heart. And besides all this, they were both interested to the point of
devotion in pigs. As he watched his niece handling the little sucklings
with tender care, and listened to her appraising their varying merits
with a discriminating judgment, his heart filled up with pride in her
many accomplishments and capabilities.
“Isn't she happy, Uncle?” she exclaimed, lifting her brown, sunny face
to him.
“Ay, lassie,” replied Sir Archibald, lapsing into the kindly “braid
Scots,” “I ken fine how she feels.”
“She's just perfectly happy,” said his niece, “and awfully useful and
good. She is just like you, Uncle.”
“What? Oh, thank you, I'm extremely flattered, I assure you.”
“Uncle, you know what I mean! Useful and good. Here you are in this
lovely home--how lovely it is on a warm, shiny day like this!--safe from
cares and worries, where people can't get at you, and making--”
“Ah, I don't know about that,” replied her uncle, shaking his head with
a frown. “Some people have neither sense nor manners. Only yesterday
I was pestered by a fellow who annoyed me, seriously annoyed me,
interfering in affairs which he knew nothing of,--actually the affairs
of the Bank!--prating about his family name, and all the rest of it.
Family name!” Here, it must be confessed, Sir Archibald distinctly
snorted, quite in a manner calculated to excite the envy of any of his
Wiltshires.
“I know, Uncle. He is a fool, a conceited fool, and a selfish fool.”
“You know him?” inquired her uncle in a tone of surprise.
“No, I have no personal acquaintance with him, I'm glad to say, but I
know about him, and I know that he came with Mr. Rae, the Writer.”
“Ah, yes! Thoroughly respectable man, Mr. Rae.”
“Yes, Mr. Rae is all right; but Captain Cameron--oh, I can't bear him!
He came to talk to you about his son, and I venture to say he took most
of the time in talking about himself.”
“Exactly so! But how--?”
“And, Uncle, I want to talk to you about that matter, about young
Cameron.” For just a moment Miss Brodie's courage faltered as she
observed her uncle's figure stiffen. “I want you to know the rights of
the case.”
“Now, now, my dear, don't you go--ah--”
“I know, Uncle, you were going to say 'interfering,' only you remember
in time that your niece never interferes. Isn't that true, Sir?”
“Yes, yes! I suppose so; that is, certainly.”
“Now I am interested in this young Cameron, and I want you to get the
right view of his case, which neither your lawyer nor your manager nor
that fool father of his can give you. I know that if you see this case
as I see it you will do--ah--exactly what is right; you always do.”
Miss Brodie's voice had assumed its most reasonable and business-like
tone. Sir Archibald was impressed, and annoyed because he was impressed.
“Look here, Bessie,” he said, in as impatient a tone as he ever adopted
with his niece, “you know how I hate being pestered with business
affairs out here.”
“I know quite well, Uncle, and I regret it awfully, but I know, too,
that you are a man of honour, and that you stand for fair play. But that
young man is to be arrested to-day, and you know what that will mean for
a young fellow with his way to make.”
Her appeal was not without its effect. Sir Archibald set himself to give
her serious attention. “Let us have it, then,” he said briefly. “What
do you know of the young man?”
“This first of all: that he has a selfish, conceited prig for a father.”
With which beginning Sir Archibald most heartily agreed. “But how do you
know?”
“Now, let me tell you about him.” And Miss Brodie proceeded to describe
the scene between father and son in Mr. Rae's office, with vigorous and
illuminating comments. “And just think, the man in the company who was
first to condemn the young chap was his own father. Would you do that?
You'd stand for him against the whole world, even if he were wrong.”
“Steady, steady, lass!”
“You would,” repeated Miss Bessie, with indignant emphasis. “Would you
chuck me over if I were disgraced and all the world hounding me? Would
you?”
“No, by God!” said Sir Archibald in a sudden tempest of emotion, and
Miss Bessie smiled lovingly upon him.
“Well, that's the kind of a father he has. Now about the young fellow
himself: He's just a first-class fool, like most young fellows. You know
how they are, Uncle.”
Sir Archibald held up his hand. “Don't make any such assumptions.”
“Oh, I know you, and when you were a boy you were just as gay and
foolish as the rest of them.”
Her arch, accusing smile suddenly cast a rich glow of warm colour
over the long, grey road of Sir Archibald's youth of self-denial
and struggle. The mild indulgences of his early years, under the
transforming influence of that same arch and accusing smile, took on for
Sir Archibald such an aspect of wild and hilarious gaiety as to impart a
tone of hesitation to his voice while he deprecated his niece's charge.
“What, I? Nonsense! What do you know about it? Well, well, we have all
had our day, I suppose!”
“Aha! I know you, and I should love to have known you when you were
young Cameron's age. Though I'm quite sure you were never such a fool as
he. You always knew how to take care of yourself.”
Her uncle shook his head as if to indicate that the less said about
those gay young days the better.
“Now what do you think this young fool does? Gets drinking, and gets so
muddled up in all his money matters--he's a Highlander, you know, and
Dunn, Mr. Dunn says--”
“Dunn!”
“Yes, Mr. Dunn, the great International captain, you know! Mr. Dunn says
he can take a whole bottle of Scotch--”
“What, Dunn?”
“No, no; you know perfectly well, Uncle! This young Cameron can take
a whole bottle of Scotch and walk a crack, but his head gets awfully
muddled.”
“Shouldn't be surprised!”
“And Mr. Dunn had a terrible time keeping him fit for the International.
You know he was Dunn's half-back. Yes,” cried his niece with enthusiasm,
suddenly remembering a tradition that in his youth Sir Archibald had
been a famous quarter, his one indulgence, “a glorious half-back, too!
You must remember in the match with England last fall the brilliant work
of the half-back. Everybody went mad about him. That was young Cameron!”
“You don't tell me! The left-half in the English International last
fall?”
“Yes, indeed! Oh, he's wonderful! But he has to be watched, you know,
and the young fool lost us the last--” Miss Bessie abruptly checked
herself. “But never mind! Well, after the season, you know, he got going
loose, and this is the result. Owed money everywhere, and with the true
Highland incapacity for business, and the true Highland capacity for
trusting people--”
“Huh!” grunted Sir Archibald in disapproval.
“--When his head is in a muddled condition he does something or other to
a cheque--or doesn't do it, nobody knows--and there he is in this awful
fix. Personally, I don't believe he is guilty of the crime.”
“And why, pray?”
“Why? Well, Mr. Dunn, his captain, who has known him for years, says it
is quite impossible; and then the young man himself doesn't deny it.”
“What? Does NOT deny it?”
“Exactly! Like a perfectly straightforward gentleman,--and I think it's
awfully fine of him,--though he has a perfectly good chance to put the
thing on a--a fellow Potts, quite a doubtful character, he simply says,
'I know nothing about it. That looks like my signature. I can't remember
doing this, don't know how I could have, but don't know a thing about
it.' There you are, Uncle! And Mr. Dunn says he is quite incapable of
it.”
“Mr. Dunn, eh? It seems you build somewhat broadly upon Mr. Dunn.”
The brown on Miss Bessie's check deepened slightly. “Well, Mr. Dunn is a
splendid judge of men.”
“Ah; and of young ladies, also, I imagine,” said Sir Archibald, pinching
her cheek.
It may have been the pinch, but the flush on her cheek grew distinctly
brighter. “Don't be ridiculous, Uncle! He's just a boy, a perfectly
splendid boy, and glorious in his game, but a mere boy, and--well, you
know, I've arrived at the age of discretion.”
“Quite true!” mused her uncle. “Thirty last birthday, was it? How time
does--!”
“Oh, you perfectly horrid uncle! Thirty indeed! Are you not ashamed to
add to the already intolerable burden of my years? Thirty! No, Sir, not
by five good years at least! There now, you've made me tell my age! You
ought to blush for shame.”
Her uncle patted her firm, round cheek. “Never a blush, my dear! You
bear even your advanced age with quite sufficient ease and grace. But
now about this young Cameron,” he continued, assuming a sternly judicial
tone.
“All I ask for him is a chance,” said his niece earnestly.
“A chance? Why he will get every chance the law allows to clear
himself.”
“There you are!” exclaimed Miss Bessie, in a despairing tone. “That's
the way the lawyers and your manager talk. They coolly and without a
qualm get him arrested, this young boy who has never in all his life
shown any sign of criminal tendency. These horrid lawyers display their
dreadful astuteness and ability in catching a lad who never tries to run
away, and your manager pleads the rules of the Bank. The rules! Fancy
rules against a young boy's whole life!”
Her uncle rather winced at this.
“And like a lot of sheep they follow each other in a circle; there is
absolutely no independence, no initiative. Why, they even went so far as
to suggest that you could do nothing, that you were bound by rules and
must follow like the rest of them; but I told them I knew better.”
“Ah!” said Sir Archibald in his most dignified manner. “I trust I have a
mind of my own, but--”
“Exactly! So I said to Mr. Dunn. 'Rules or no rules,' I said, 'my
uncle will do the fair thing.' And I know you will,” cried Miss Brodie
triumphantly. “And if you look at it, there's a very big chance that the
boy never did the thing, and certainly if he did it at all it was when
he was quite incapable. Oh, I know quite well what the lawyers say. They
go by the law,--they've got to,--but you--and--and--I go by the--the
real facts of the case.” Sir Archibald coughed gently. “I mean to
say--well you know, Uncle, quite well, you can tell what a man is
by--well, by his game.”
“His game!”
“And by his eye.”
“His eye! And his eye is--?”
“Now, Uncle, be sensible! I mean to say, if you could only see him. Oh,
I shall bring him to see you!” she cried, with a sudden inspiration.
Sir Archibald held up a deprecating hand. “Do not, I beg.”
“Well, Uncle, you can trust my judgment, you know you can. You would
trust me in--in--” For a moment Miss Brodie was at a loss; then her eyes
fell upon the grunting, comfortable old mother pig with her industrious
litter. “Well, don't I know good Wiltshires when I see them?”
“Quite true,” replied her uncle solemnly; “and therefore, men.”
“Uncle, you're very nearly rude.”
“I apologise,” replied her uncle hastily. “But now, Bessie, my dear
girl, seriously, as to this case, you must understand that I cannot
interfere. The Bank--hem--the Bank is a great National--”
Miss Bessie saw that the Guards were being called upon. She hastened to
bring up her reserves. “I know, Uncle, I know! I wouldn't for the world
say a word against the Bank, but you see the case against the lad is at
least doubtful.”
“I was going on to observe,” resumed her uncle, judicially, “that the
Bank--”
“Don't misunderstand me, Uncle,” cried his niece, realising that she had
reached a moment of crisis. “You know I would not for a moment
presume to interfere with the Bank, but”--here she deployed her whole
force,--“the lad's youth and folly; his previous good character,
guaranteed by Dunn, who knows men; his glorious game--no man who wasn't
straight could play such a game!--the large chance of his innocence, the
small chance of his guilt; the hide-bound rigidity of lawyers and bank
managers, dominated by mere rules and routine, in contrast with the
open-minded independence of her uncle; the boy's utter helplessness; his
own father having been ready to believe the worst,--just think of it,
Uncle, his own father thinking of himself and of his family name--much
he has ever done for his family name!--and not of his own boy,
and”--here Miss Brodie's voice took a lower key--“and his mother died
some five or six years ago, when he was thirteen or fourteen, and I
know, you know, that is hard on a boy.” In spite of herself, and to her
disgust, a tremor came into her voice and a rush of tears to her eyes.
Her uncle was smitten with dismay. Only on one terrible occasion since
she had emerged from her teens had he seen his niece in tears. The
memory of that terrible day swept over his soul. Something desperate
was doing. Hard as the little man was to the world against which he had
fought his way to his present position of distinction, to his niece
he was soft-hearted as a mother. “There, there!” he exclaimed hastily.
“We'll give the boy a chance. No mother, eh? And a confounded prig for a
father! No wonder the boy goes all wrong!” Then with a sudden vehemence
he cried, striking one hand into the other, “No, by--! that is, we
will certainly give the lad the benefit of the doubt. Cheer up, lassie!
You've no need to look ashamed,” for his niece was wiping her eyes
in manifest disgust; “indeed,” he said, with a heavy attempt at
playfulness, “you are a most excellent diplomat.”
“Diplomat, Uncle!” cried the girl, vehement indignation in her voice and
face. “Diplomat!” she cried again. “You don't mean that I've not been
quite sincere?”
“No, no, no; not in the least, my dear! But that you have put your case
with admirable force.”
“Oh,” said the girl with a breath of relief, “I just put it as I feel
it. And it is not a bit my putting it, Uncle, but it is just that
you are a dear and--well, a real sport; you love fair play.” The girl
suddenly threw her strong, young arms about her uncle's neck, drew him
close to her, and kissed him almost as if she had been his mother.
The little man was deeply touched, but with true Scotch horror of a
demonstration he cried, “Tut, tut, lassie, ye're makin' an auld fule o'
your uncle. Come now, be sensible!”
“Sensible!” echoed his niece, kissing him again. “That's my living
description among all my acquaintance. It is their gentle way of
reminding me that the ordinary feminine graces of sweetness and general
loveliness are denied me.”
“And more fools they!” grunted her uncle. “You're worth the hale
caboodle o' them.”
That same evening there were others who shared this opinion, and none
more enthusiastically than did Mr. Dunn, whom Miss Brodie chanced to
meet just as she turned out of the Waverly Station.
“Oh, Mr. Dunn,” she cried, “how very fortunate!” Her face glowed with
excitement.
“For me; yes, indeed!” said Mr. Dunn, warmly greeting her.
“For me, for young Cameron, for us all,” said Miss Brodie. “Oh, Rob, is
that you?” she continued, as her eye fell upon the youngster standing
with cap off waiting her recognition. “Look at this!” she flashed a
letter before Dunn's face. “What do you think of that?”
Dunn took the letter. “It's to Sheratt,” he said, with a puzzled air.
“Yes,” cried Miss Brodie, mimicking his tone, “it's to Sheratt, from Sir
Archibald, and it means that Cameron is safe. The police will never--”
“The police,” cried Dunn, hastily, getting between young Rob and her and
glancing at his brother, who stood looking from one to the other with a
startled face.
“How stupid! The police are a truly wonderful body of men,” she went on
with enthusiasm. “They look so splendid. I saw some of them as I came
along. But never mind them now. About this letter. What's to do?”
Dunn glanced at his watch. “We need every minute.” He stood a moment or
two thinking deeply while Miss Brodie chatted eagerly with Rob, whose
face retained its startled and anxious look. “First to Mr. Rae's office.
Come!” cried Mr. Dunn.
“But this letter ought to go.”
“Yes, but first Mr. Rae's office.” Mr. Dunn had assumed command. His
words shot out like bullets.
Miss Brodie glanced at him with a new admiration in her face. As a
rule she objected to being ordered about, but somehow it seemed good to
accept commands from this young man, whose usually genial face was now
set in such resolute lines.
“Here, Rob, you cut home and tell them not to wait dinner for me.”
“All right, Jack!” But instead of tearing off as was his wont whenever
his brother gave command, Rob lingered. “Can't I wait a bit, Jack, to
see--to see if anything--?” Rob was striving hard to keep his voice in
command and his face steady. “It's Cameron, Jack. I know!” He turned his
back on Miss Brodie, unwilling that she should see his lips quiver.
“What are you talking about?” said his brother sharply.
“Oh, it is all my stupid fault, Mr. Dunn,” said Miss Brodie. “Let him
come along a bit with us. I say, youngster, you are much too acute,” she
continued, as they went striding along together toward Mr. Rae's office.
“But will you believe me if I tell you something? Will you? Straight
now?”
The boy glanced up into her honest blue eyes, and nodded his head.
“Your friend Cameron is quite all right. He was in some difficulty, but
now he's quite all right. Do you believe me?”
The boy looked again steadily into her eyes. The anxious fear passed
out of his face, and once more he nodded; he knew he could not keep his
voice quite steady. But after a few paces he said to his brother, “I
think I'll go now, Jack.” His mind was at rest; his idol was safe.
“Oh, come along and protect me,” cried Miss Brodie. “These lawyer people
terrify me.”
The boy smiled a happy smile. “I'll go,” he said resolutely.
“Thanks, awfully,” said Miss Brodie. “I shall feel so much safer with
you in the waiting room.”
It was a difficult matter to surprise Mr. Rae, and even more difficult
to extract from him any sign of surprise, but when Dunn, leaving Miss
Brodie and his brother in the anteroom, entered Mr. Rae's private office
and laid the letter for Mr. Sheratt before him, remarking, “This letter
is from Sir Archibald, and withdraws the prosecution,” Mr. Rae stood
speechless, gazing now at the letter in his hand, and now at Mr. Dunn's
face.
“God bless my soul! This is unheard of. How came you by this, Sir?”
“Miss Brodie--” began Dunn.
“Miss Brodie?”
“She is in the waiting room, Sir.”
“Then, for heaven's sake, bring her in! Davie, Davie! Where is that man
now? Here, Davie, a message to Mr. Thomlinson.”
Davie entered with deliberate composure.
“My compliments to Mr. Thomlinson, and ask if he would step over at
once. It is a matter of extreme urgency. Be quick!”
But Davie had his own mind as to the fitness of things. “Wad a note no'
be better, Sir? Wull not--?”
“Go, will you!” almost shouted Mr. Rae.
Davie was so startled at Mr. Rae's unusual vehemence that he seized his
cap and made for the door. “He'll no' come for the like o' me,” he
said, pausing with the door-knob in his hand. “It's no' respectable like
tae--”
“Man, will ye no' be gone?” cried Mr. Rae, rising from his chair.
“I will that!” exclaimed Davie, banging the door after him. “But,” he
cried furiously, thrusting his head once more into the room, “if he'll
no' come it's no' faut o' mine.” His voice rose higher and higher, and
ended in a wrathful scream as Mr. Rae, driven to desperation, hurled a
law book of some weight at his vanishing head.
“The de'il take ye! Ye'll be my deith yet.”
The book went crashing against the door-frame just as Miss Brodie was
about to enter. “I say,” she cried, darting back. “Heaven protect me!
Rob, save me!”
Rob sprang to her side. She stood for a moment gazing aghast at Mr.
Dunn, who gazed back at her in equal surprise. “Is this his 'usual'?”
she inquired.
At that the door opened. “Ah, Mr. Dunn, this is Miss Brodie, I suppose.
Come in, come in!” Mr. Rae's manner was most bland.
Miss Brodie gave him her hand with some hesitation. “I'm very glad to
meet you, Mr. Rae, but is this quite the usual method? I mean to say,
I've heard of having advice hurled at one's head, but I can't say that I
ever was present at a demonstration of the method.”
“Oh,” said Mr. Rae, with bland and gallant courtesy, “the method, my
dear young lady, varies with the subject in hand.”
“Ah, the subject!”
“And with the object in view.”
“Oh, I see.”
“But pray be seated. And now explain this most wonderful phenomenon.” He
tapped the letter.
“Oh, that is quite simple,” said Miss Brodie. “I set the case of young
Mr. Cameron before my uncle, and of course he at once saw that the only
thing to do was withdraw the prosecution.”
Mr. Rae stood gazing steadily at her as if striving to take in the
meaning of her words, the while screwing up his ear most violently till
it stuck out like a horn upon the side of his shiny, bald head. “Permit
me to say, Miss Brodie,” he said, with a deliberate and measured
emphasis, “that you must be a most extraordinary young lady.” At this
point Mr. Rae's smile broke forth in all its glory.
“Oh, thank you, Mr. Rae,” replied Miss Brodie, smiling responsively at
him. “You are most--” But Mr. Rae's smile had vanished. “What! I beg
your pardon!” Miss Brodie's smiling response was abruptly arrested by
finding herself gazing at a face whose grave solemnity rebuked her smile
as unwarranted levity.
“Not at all, not at all!” said Mr. Rae. “But now, there are matters
demanding immediate action. First, Mr. Sheratt must receive and act
upon this letter without delay.” As he spoke he was scribbling hastily
a note. “Mr. Dunn, my young men have gone for the day. Might I trouble
you?”
“Most certainly,” cried Mr. Dunn. “Is an answer wanted?”
“Bring him with you, if possible; indeed, bring him whether it is
possible or not. But wait, it is past the hour appointed. Already the
officer has gone for young Cameron. We must save him the humiliation of
arrest.”
“Oh, could I not warn him?” cried Miss Brodie eagerly. “No,” she added,
“Rob will go. He is in the waiting room now, poor little chap. It will
be a joy to him.”
“It is just as well Rob should know nothing. He is awfully fond of
Cameron. It would break his heart,” said Mr. Dunn.
“Oh, of course! Quite unnecessary that he should know anything. We
simply wish Cameron here at the earliest possible moment.”
Dunn went with his young brother down the stairs and out to the street.
“Now, Rob, you are to go to Cameron's lodgings and tell him that Mr. Rae
wants him, and that I want him. Hold on, youngster!” he cried, grabbing
Rob by the collar, “do you understand? It is very important that Cameron
should get here as quick as he possibly can, and--I say, Rob,” the big
brother's eyes traveled over the darkening streets that led up into the
old town, “you're not afraid?”
“A wee bit,” said Rob, tugging at the grasp on his collar; “but I don't
care if I am.”
“Good boy!” cried his brother. “Good little brick! I wouldn't let you
go, but it's simply got to be done, old chap. Now fly!” He held him just
a moment longer to slap him on the back, then released his hold. Dunn
stood watching the little figure tearing up the North Bridge. “Great
little soul!” he muttered. “Now for old Sheratt!”
He put his head down and began to bore through the crowd toward Mr.
Sheratt's house. When he had gone but a little distance he was brought
up short by a bang full in the stomach. “Why, what the deuce!”
“Dod gast ye! Whaur are ye're een?” It was Davie, breathless and furious
from the impact. “Wad ye walk ower me, dang ye?” cried the little man
again. Davie was Free Kirk, and therefore limited in the range of his
vocabulary.
“Oh! That you, Davie? I'm sorry I didn't see you.”
“A'm no' as big as a hoose, but a'm veesible.” And Davie walked
wrathfully about his business.
“Oh, quite,” acknowledged Dunn cheerfully, hurrying on; “and tangible,
as well.”
“He's comin',” cried Davie over his shoulder; “but gar it had been
masel',” he added grudgingly, “catch me!”
But Dunn was too far on his way to make reply. Already his mind was on
the meeting of the lawyers in Mr. Rae's office, and wondering what would
come of it. On this subject he meditated until he reached Mr. Sheratt's
home. Twice he rang the bell, still meditating.
“By Jove, she is stunning! She's a wonder!” he exclaimed to himself as
he stood in Mr. Sheratt's drawing-room. “She's got 'em all skinned a
mile, as Martin would say.” It is safe to affirm that Mr. Dunn was not
referring to the middle-aged and highly respectable maid who had
opened the door to him. It is equally safe to affirm that this was the
unanimous verdict of the three men who, half an hour later, brought
their deliberations to a conclusion, frankly acknowledging to each
other that what they had one and all failed to achieve, the lady had
accomplished.
CHAPTER VI
THE WASTER'S REFUGE
“I say, you blessed Colonial, what's come over you?” Linklater was
obviously disturbed. He had just returned from a summer's yachting
through the Norway fjords, brown and bursting with life. The last
half-hour he had been pouring forth his experiences to his friend
Martin. These experiences were some of them exciting, some of them
of doubtful ethical quality, but all of them to Linklater at least
interesting. During the recital it was gradually borne in upon him that
his friend Martin was changed. Linklater, as the consciousness of the
change in his friend grew upon him, was prepared to resent it. “What the
deuce is the matter with you?” he enquired. “Are you ill?”
“Never better. I could at this present moment sit upon your fat and
florid carcass.”
“Well, what then is wrong? I say, you haven't--it isn't a girl, is it?”
“Nothing so lucky for a bloomin' Colonial in this land of wealth and
culture. If I only dared!”
“There's something,” insisted Linklater; “but I've no doubt it
will develop. Meantime let us go out, and, in your own picturesque
vocabulary, let us 'hit the flowing bowl.'”
“No, Sir!” cried Martin emphatically. “No more! I am on the water wagon,
and have been all summer.”
“I knew it was something,” replied Linklater gloomily, “but I didn't
think it was quite so bad as that. No wonder you've had a hard summer!”
“Best summer ever!” cried Martin. “I only wish I had started two years
ago when I came to this bibulous burgh.”
“How came it? Religion?”
“No; just horse sense, and the old chief.”
“Dunn!” exclaimed Linklater. “I always knew he was against that sort of
thing in training, but I didn't think he would carry it to this length.”
“Yes, Dunn! I say, old boy, I've no doubt you think you know him, I
thought so, too, but I've learned some this summer. Here's a yarn, and
it is impressive. Dunn had planned an extensive walking tour in the
Highlands; you know he came out of his exams awfully fagged. Well, at
this particular moment it happened that Balfour Murray--you know the
chap that has been running that settlement joint in the Canongate for
the last two years--proposes to Dunn that he should spend a few weeks
in leading the young hopefuls in that interesting and uncleanly
neighbourhood into paths of virtue and higher citizenship by way of
soccer and kindred athletic stunts. Dunn in his innocence agrees,
whereupon Balfour Murray promptly develops a sharp attack of pneumonia,
necessitating rest and change of air, leaving the poor old chief in the
deadly breach. Of course, everybody knows what the chief would do in any
deadly breach affair. He gave up his Highland tour, shouldered the whole
Canongate business, organised the thing as never before, inveigled all
his friends into the same deadly breach, among the number your humble
servant, who at the time was fiercely endeavouring in the last lap of
the course to atone for a two years' loaf, organised a champion team
which has licked the spots off everything in sight, and in short, has
made the whole business a howling success; at the cost, however, of all
worldly delights, including his Highland tour and the International.”
“Oh, I say!” moaned Linklater. “It makes me quite ill to think of the
old chief going off this way.”
Martin nodded sympathetically. “Kind of 'Days that are no more,' 'Lost
leader' feeling, eh?”
“Exactly, exactly! Oh, it's rotten! And you, too! He's got you on this
same pious line.”
“Look here,” shouted Martin, with menace in his voice, “are you
classifying me with the old chief? Don't be a derned fool.”
Linklater brightened perceptibly. “Now you're getting a little natural,”
he said in a hopeful tone.
“Oh, I suppose you'd like to hear me string out a lot of damns.”
“Well, it might help. I wouldn't feel quite so lonely. But don't
violate--”
“I'd do it if I thought it would really increase your comfort, though
I know I'd feel like an infernal ass. I've got new light upon this
'damning' business. I've come to regard it as the refuge of the mentally
inert, not to say imbecile, who have lost the capacity for originality
and force in speech. For me, I am cured.”
“Ah!” said Linklater. “Dunn again, I suppose.”
“Not a bit! Clear case of psychological reaction. After listening to
the Canongate experts I was immediately conscious of an overwhelming
and mortifying sense of inadequacy, of amateurishness; hence I quit.
Besides, of course, the chief is making rather a point of uplifting the
Canongate forms of speech.”
Linklater gazed steadily at this friend, then said with mournful
deliberation, “You don't drink, you don't swear, you don't smoke--”
“Oh, that's your grouch, is it?” cried Martin. “Forgive me; here's
my pouch, old chap; or wait, here's something altogether finer than
anything you've been accustomed to. I was at old Kingston's last night,
and the old boy would have me load up with his finest. You know I've
been working with him this summer. Awfully fine for me! Dunn got me on;
or rather, his governor. There you are now! Smoke that with reverence.”
“Ah,” sighed Linklater, as he drew in his first whiff, “there is still
something left to live for. Now tell me, what about Cameron?”
“Oh, Cameron! Cameron's all up a tree. The last time I saw him, by Jove,
I was glad it was in the open daylight and on a frequented street. His
face and manner suggested Roderick Dhu, The Black Douglas, and all the
rest of that interesting gang of cutthroats. I can't bring myself to
talk of Cameron. He's been the old chief's relaxation during dog-days.
It makes me hot to see Dunn with that chap.”
“Why, what's the trouble?”
“He tried him out in half a dozen positions, in every one of which he
proved a dead failure. The last was in Mr. Rae's office, a lawyer, you
know, Writer, to use your lucid and luminous speech. That experiment
proved the climax.” At the memory of that experience Martin laughed loud
and long. “It was funny! Mr. Rae, the cool, dignified, methodical, exact
man of the law, struggling to lick into shape this haughty Highland
chieftain, who in his heart scorned the whole silly business. The
result, the complete disorganisation of Mr. Rae's business, and
total demoralisation of Mr. Rae's office staff, who one and all swore
allegiance to the young chief. Finally, when Mr. Rae had reached the
depths of desperation, Cameron graciously deigned to inform his boss
that he found the office and its claims quite insupportable.”
“Oh, it must have been funny. What happened?”
“What happened? You bet old Rae fell on his neck with tears of joy, and
sent him off with a handsome honorarium, as your gentle speech has it.
That was a fortnight ago. Then Dunn, in despair, took Cameron off to his
native haunts, and there he is to this day. By the same token, this is
the very afternoon that Dunn returns. Let us go to meet him with cornets
and cymbals! The unexpected pleasure of your return made me quite
forget. But won't he revel in you, old boy!”
“I don't know about that,” said Linklater gloomily. “I've a kind of
feeling that I've dropped out of this combination.”
“What?” Then Martin fell upon him.
But if Martin's attempts to relieve his friend of melancholy forebodings
were not wholly successful, Dunn's shout of joy and his double-handed
shake as he grappled Linklater to him, drove from that young man's heart
the last lingering shade of doubt as to his standing with his friends.
On his way home Dunn dropped into Martin's diggings for a “crack,” and
for an hour the three friends reviewed the summer's happenings, each
finding in the experience of the others as keen a joy as in his own.
Linklater's holiday had been the most fruitful in exciting incident.
For two months he and his crew had dodged about among quaint Norwegian
harbours and in and out of fjords of wonderful beauty. Storms they
had weathered and calms they had endured; lazy days they had spent,
swimming, fishing, loafing; and wild days in fighting gales and
high-running seas that threatened to bury them and their crew beneath
their white-topped mountainous peaks.
“I say, that must have been great,” cried Dunn with enthusiastic delight
in his friend's experiences.
“It sounds good, even in the telling,” cried Martin, who had been
listening with envious ears. “Now my experiences are quite other. One
word describes them, grind, grind, grind, day in and day out, in a
gallant but futile attempt to justify the wisdom of my late examiners in
granting me my Triple.”
“Don't listen to him, Linklater,” said Dunn. “I happen to know that he
came through with banners flying and drums beating; and he has turned
into no end of a surgeon. I've heard old Kingston on him.”
“But what about you, Dunn?” asked Linklater, with a kind of curious
uncertainty in his voice, as if dreading a tale of calamity.
“Oh, I've loafed about town a little, golfing a bit and slumming a
bit for a chap that got ill, and in spare moments looking after Martin
here.”
“And the International?”
Dunn hesitated.
“Come on, old chap,” said Martin, “take your medicine.”
“Well,” admitted Dunn, “I had to chuck it. But,” he hastened to add,
“Nesbitt has got the thing in fine shape, though of course lacking the
two brilliant quarters of last year and the half--for Cameron's out of
it--it's rather rough on Nesbitt.”
“Oh, I say! It's rotten, it's really ghastly! How could you do it,
Dunn?” said Linklater. “I could weep tears of blood.”
To this Dunn made no reply. His disappointment was even yet too keen
for him to treat it lightly. “Anything else seemed quite impossible,” at
length he said; “I had to chuck it.”
“By the way,” said Martin, “how's Cameron?”
Again Dunn paused. “I wish I could tell you. He's had hard luck this
summer. He somehow can't get hold of himself. In fact, I'm quite worried
about Cameron. I can't tell you chaps the whole story, but last spring
he had a really bad jolt.”
“Well, what's he going to do?” Martin asked, somewhat impatiently.
“I wish I knew,” replied Dunn gloomily. “There seems nothing he can
get here that's suitable. I'm afraid he will have to try the Colonies;
Canada for preference.”
“Oh, I say, Dunn,” exclaimed Martin, “it can't really be as bad as all
that?”
Dunn laughed. “I apologise, old chap. That was rather a bad break,
wasn't it? But all the same, to a Scotchman, and especially to a
Highlander, to leave home and friends and all that sort of thing, you
know--”
“No, he doesn't know,” cried Linklater. “The barbarian! How could he?”
“No, thank God,” replied Martin fervently, “I don't know! To my mind any
man that has a chance to go to Canada on a good job ought to call in his
friends and neighbours to rejoice with him.”
“But I say, that reminds me,” said Dunn. “Mr. Rae is coming to have a
talk with my governor and me about this very thing to-morrow night. I'd
like awfully if you could drop in, Martin; and you, too, Linklater.”
Linklater declined. “My folks have something on, I fear.”
Martin hesitated, protesting that there was “altogether too much of this
coddling business” in the matter of Cameron's future. “Besides, my work
is rather crowding me.”
“Oh, my pious ancestors! Work!” exclaimed Linklater in disgust. “At this
season of the year! Come, Martin, this pose is unworthy of you.”
“If you could, old man,” said Dunn earnestly, “we won't keep you long.
It would be a great help to us all.”
“All right, I'll come,” said Martin.
“There'll be no one there but Mr. Rae. We'll just have a smoke and a
chat.”
But in this expectation Dunn was reckoning without his young brother,
Rob, who, ever since a certain momentous evening, had entered into
a covenant of comradeship with the young lady who had figured so
prominently in the deliverance of his beloved Cameron from pending evil,
and who during the summer had allowed no week to pass without spending
at least a part of a day with her. On this particular evening, having
obtained leave from his mother, the young gentle man had succeeded in
persuading his friend to accept an invitation to dinner, assuring her
that no one would be there except Jack, who was to arrive home the day
before.
The conclave of Cameron's friends found themselves, therefore,
unexpectedly reinforced by the presence of Miss Brodie, to the unmingled
joy of all of them, although in Martin's case his joy was tinged with a
certain fear, for he stood in awe of the young lady, both because of her
reputation for cleverness, and because of the grand air which, when it
pleased her, she could assume. Martin, too, stood in wholesome awe
of Doctor Dunn, whose quiet dignity and old-time courtesy exercised a
chastening influence upon the young man's somewhat picturesque style of
language and exuberance of metaphor. But with Mrs. Dunn he felt quite
at ease, for with that gentle, kindly soul, her boys' friends were her
friends and without question she took them to her motherly heart.
Immediately upon Mr. Rae's arrival Cameron's future became the subject
of conversation, and it required only the briefest discussion to arrive
at the melancholy, inevitable conclusion that, as Mr. Rae put it, “for
a young man of his peculiar temperament, training, and habits, Scotland
was clearly impossible.”
“But I have no doubt,” continued that excellent adviser, “that in
Canada, where the demand for a high standard of efficiency is less
exacting, and where openings are more plentiful, the young man will do
very well indeed.”
Martin took the lawyer up somewhat sharply. “In other words, I
understand you to mean that the man who is a failure in Scotland may
become a success in Canada.”
“Exactly so. Would you not say so, Mr. Martin?”
“It depends entirely upon the cause of failure. If failure arises from
unfitness, his chances in Canada are infinitely less than in Scotland.”
“And why?” inquired Miss Brodie somewhat impatiently.
Martin hesitated. It was extremely difficult in the atmosphere of that
home to criticise one whom he knew to be considered as a friend of the
family.
“Why, pray?” repeated Miss Brodie.
“Well, of course,” began Martin hesitatingly, “comparisons are always
odious.”
“Oh, we can bear them.” Miss Brodie's smile was slightly sarcastic.
“Well, then, speaking generally,” said Martin, somewhat nettled by her
smile, “in this country there are heaps of chaps that simply can't fall
down because of the supports that surround them, supports of custom,
tradition, not to speak of their countless friends, sisters, cousins,
and aunts; if they're anyways half decent they're kept a going; whereas
if they are in a new country and with few friends, they must stand alone
or fall. Here the crowd support them; there the crowd, eager to get on,
shove them aside or trample them down.”
“Rather a ghastly picture that,” said Miss Brodie.
“But true; that is, of the unfit. People haven't time to bother with
them; the game is too keen.”
“Surely the picture is overdrawn,” said Doctor Dunn.
“It may be, Sir,” replied Martin, “but I have seen so many young fellows
who had been shipped out to Canada because they were failures at home. I
have seen them in very hard luck.”
“And what about the fit?” inquired Miss Brodie.
“They get credit for every ounce that's in them.”
“But that is so in Scotland as well.”
“Pardon me, Miss Brodie, hardly. Here even strong men and fit men have
to wait half a lifetime for the chance that calls for all that's in
them. They must march in the procession and the pace is leisurely. In
Canada the chances come every day, and the man that's ready jumps in and
wins.”
“Ah, I see!” exclaimed Miss Brodie. “There are more ladders by which to
climb.”
“Yes,” cried Martin, “and fewer men on them.”
“But,” argued Dunn, “there are other causes of failure in this country.
Many a young fellow, for instance, cannot get a congenial position.”
“Yes,” replied Martin quickly, “because you won't let him; your caste
law forbids. With us a man can do anything decent and no one thinks the
less of him.”
“Ah, I see!” again cried Miss Brodie, more eagerly than before. “Not
only more ladders, but more kinds of ladders.”
“Exactly,” said Martin with an approving glance. “And he must not be too
long in the choosing.”
“Then, Mr. Martin,” said Mr. Rae, “what would you suggest for our young
friend?”
But this Martin refused to answer.
“Surely there are openings for a young fellow in Canada,” said Dunn.
“Take a fellow like myself. What could I do?”
“You?” cried Martin, his eyes shining with loving enthusiasm. “There are
doors open on every business street in every town and city in Canada for
you, or for any fellow who has brain or brawn to sell and who will take
any kind of a job and stay with it.”
“Well, what job, for instance?”
“What job?” cried Martin. “Heaps of them.”
At this point a diversion was created by the entrance of “Lily”
Laughton. Both Martin and Dunn envied the easy grace of his manner, his
perfect self-possession, as he greeted each member of the company.
For each he had exactly the right word. Miss Brodie he greeted with an
exaggerated devotion, but when he shook hands with Dunn there was no
mistaking the genuine warmth of his affection.
“Heard you were home, old chap, so I couldn't help dropping in. Of
course I knew that Mrs. Dunn would be sure to be here, and I more than
suspected that my dear Miss Brodie,” here he swept her an elaborate bow,
“whom I discovered to be away from her own home, might be found in this
pleasant company.”
“Yes, I fear that my devotion to her youngest boy is leading me to
overstep the bounds of even Mrs. Dunn's vast and generous hospitality.”
“Not a bit, my dear,” replied Mrs. Dunn kindly. “You bring sunshine with
you, and you do us all good.”
“Exactly my sentiments!” exclaimed “Lily” with enthusiasm. “But what are
you all doing? Just having a 'collyshog'?”
For a moment no one replied; then Dunn said, “We were just talking about
Cameron, who is thinking of going to Canada.”
“To Canada of all places!” exclaimed “Lily” in tones of horrified
surprise. “How truly dreadful! But why should Cameron of all beings
exile himself in those remote and barbarous regions?”
“And why should he not?” cried Miss Brodie. “What is there for a young
man of spirit in Mr. Cameron's position in this country?”
“Why, my dear Miss Brodie, how can you ask? Just think of the heaps of
things, of perfectly delicious things, Cameron can do,--the Highlands in
summer, Edinburgh, London, in the season, a run to the Continent! Just
think of the wild possibility of a life of unalloyed bliss!”
“Don't be silly!” said Miss Brodie. “We are talking seriously.”
“Seriously! Why, my dear Miss Brodie, do you imagine--?”
“But what could he do for a life-work?” said Dunn. “A fellow must have
something to do.”
“Oh, dear, I suppose so,” said “Lily” with a sigh. “But surely he could
have some position in an office or something!”
“Exactly!” replied Miss Brodie. “How beautifully you put it! Now Mr.
Martin was just about to tell us of the things a man could do in Canada
when you interrupted.”
“Awfully sorry, Martin. I apologise. Please go on. What do the natives
do in Canada?”
“Please don't pay any attention to him, Mr. Martin. I am extremely
interested. Now tell me, what are the openings for a young fellow in
Canada? You said the professions are all wide open.”
It took a little persuasion to get Martin started again, so disgusted
was he with Laughton's references to his native country. “Yes, Miss
Brodie, the professions are all wide open, but of course men must enter
as they do here, but with a difference. Take law, for instance: Knew a
chap--went into an office at ten dollars a month--didn't know a thing
about it. In three months he was raised to twenty dollars, and within a
year to forty dollars. In three or four years he had passed his exams,
got a junior partnership worth easily two thousand dollars a year. They
wanted that chap, and wanted him badly. But take business: That chap
goes into a store and--”
“A store?” inquired “Lily.”
“Yes, a shop you call it here; say a drygoods--”
“Drygoods? What extraordinary terms these Colonials use!”
“Oh, draper's shop,” said Dunn impatiently. “Go on, Martin; don't mind
him.”
“A draper's clerk!” echoed “Lily.” “To sell tapes and things?”
“Yes,” replied Martin stoutly; “or groceries.”
“Do you by any chance mean that a University man, a gentleman, takes a
position in a grocer's shop to sell butter and cheese?”
“I mean just that,” said Martin firmly.
“Oh, please!” said “Lily” with a violent shudder. “It is too awful!”
“There you are! You wouldn't demean yourself.”
“Not I!” said “Lily” fervently.
“Or disgrace your friends. You want a gentleman's job. There are not
enough to go round in Canada.”
“Oh, go on,” said Miss Brodie impatiently. “'Lily,' we must ask you to
not interrupt. What happens? Does he stay there?”
“Not he!” said Martin. “From the small business he goes to bigger
business. First thing you know a man wants him for a big job and off he
goes. Meantime he saves his money, invests wisely. Soon he is his own
boss.”
“That's fine!” cried Miss Brodie. “Go on, Mr. Martin. Start him lower
down.”
“All right,” said Martin, directing his attention solely to the young
lady. “Here's an actual case. A young fellow from Scotland found himself
strapped--”
“Strapped? What DOES he mean?” said “Lily” in an appealing voice.
“On the rocks.”
“Rocks?”
“Dear me!” cried Miss Brodie impatiently. “You are terribly lacking in
imagination. Broke, he means.”
“Oh, thanks!”
“Well, finds himself broke,” said Martin; “gets a shovel, jumps into a
cellar--”
“And why a cellar, pray?” inquires “Lily” mildly. “To hide himself from
the public?”
“Not at all; they were digging a cellar preparatory to building a
house.”
“Oh!”
“He jumps in, blisters his hands, breaks his back--but he stays with the
job. In a week the boss makes him timekeeper; in three months he himself
is boss of a small gang; the next year he is made foreman at a hundred a
month or so.”
“A hundred a month?” cries “Lily” in astonishment. “Oh, Martin, please!
We are green, but a hundred pounds a month--!”
“Dollars,” said Martin shortly. “Don't be an ass! I beg pardon,” he
added, turning to Mrs. Dunn, who was meantime greatly amused.
“A hundred dollars a month; that is--I am so weak in arithmetic--twenty
pounds, I understand. Go on, Martin; I'm waiting for the carriage and
pair.”
“That's where you get left,” said Martin. “No carriage and pair for this
chap yet awhile; overalls and slouch hat for the next five years for
him. Then he begins contracting on his own.”
“I beg your pardon,” says “Lily.”
“I mean he begins taking jobs on his own.”
“Great!” cried Miss Brodie.
“Or,” continued Martin, now fairly started on a favourite theme, “there
are the railroads all shouting for men of experience, whether in the
construction department or in the operating department.”
“Does anyone here happen to understand him?” inquires “Lily” faintly.
“Certainly,” cried Miss Brodie; “all the intelligent people do. At
least, I've a kind of notion there are big things doing. I only wish I
were a man!”
“Oh, Miss Brodie, how can you?” cried “Lily.” “Think of us in such a
contingency!”
“But,” said Mr. Rae, “all of this is most interesting, extremely
interesting, Mr. Martin. Still, they cannot all arrive at these exalted
positions.”
“No, Mr. Rae. I may have given that impression. I confess to a little
madness when I begin talking Canada.”
“Ah!” exclaimed “Lily.”
“But I said men of brawn and brains, you remember.”
“And bounce, to perfect the alliteration,” murmured “Lily.”
“Yes, bounce, too,” said Martin; “at least, he must never take
back-water; he must be ready to attempt anything, even the impossible.”
“That's the splendid thing about it!” cried Miss Brodie. “You're
entirely on your own and you never say die!”
“Oh, my dear Miss Brodie,” moaned “Lily” in piteous accents, “you are so
fearfully energetic! And then, it's all very splendid, but just think
of a--of a gentleman having to potter around among butter and cheese,
or mess about in muddy cellars! Ugh! Positively GHAWSTLY! I would simply
die.”
“Oh, no, you wouldn't, 'Lily,'” said Martin kindly. “We have afternoon
teas and Browning Clubs, too, you must remember, and some 'cultchaw' and
that sort of thing.”
There was a joyous shout from Dunn.
“But, Mr. Martin,” persisted Mr. Rae, whose mind was set in arriving at
a solution of the problem in hand, “I have understood that agriculture
was the chief pursuit in Canada.”
“Farming! Yes, it is, but of course that means capital. Good land in
Ontario means seventy-five to a hundred dollars per acre, and a man
can't do with less than a hundred acres; besides, farming is getting to
be a science now-a-days, Sir.”
“Ah, quite true! But to a young man bred on a farm in this country--”
“Excuse me, Mr. Rae,” replied Martin quickly, “there is no such thing in
Canada as a gentleman farmer. The farmer works with his men.”
“Do you mean that he actually works?” inquired “Lily.” “With the plough
and hoe, and that sort of thing?”
“Works all day long, as long as any of his men, and indeed longer.”
“And does he actually live--? of course he doesn't eat with his
servants?” said “Lily” in a tone that deprecated the preposterous
proposition.
“They all eat together in the big kitchen,” replied Martin.
“How awful!” gasped “Lily.”
“My father does,” replied Martin, a little colour rising in his cheek,
“and my mother, and my brothers. They all eat with the men; my sister,
too, except when she waits on table.”
“Fine!” exclaimed Miss Brodie. “And why not? 'Lily,' I'm afraid you're
horribly snobbish.”
“Thank the Lord,” said “Lily” devoutly, “I live in this beloved
Scotland!”
“But, Mr. Martin, forgive my persistence, I understand there is cheaper
land in certain parts of Canada; in, say, ManitoBAW.”
“Ah, yes, Sir, of course, lots of it; square miles of it!” cried Martin
with enthusiasm. “The very best out of doors, and cheap, but I fancy
there are some hardships in Manitoba.”
“But I see by the public newspapers,” continued Mr. Rae, “that there is
a very large movement in the way of emigration toward that country.”
“Yes, there's a great boom on in Manitoba just now.”
“Boom?” said “Lily.” “And what exactly may that be in the vernacular?”
“I take it,” said Mr. Rae, evidently determined not to allow the
conversation to get out of his hands, “you mean a great excitement
consequent upon the emigration and the natural rise in land values?”
“Yes, Sir,” cried Martin, “you've hit it exactly.”
“Then would there not be opportunity to secure a considerable amount of
land at a low figure in that country?”
“Most certainly! But it's fair to say that success there means work and
hardship and privation. Of course it is always so in a new country; it
was so in Ontario. Why, the new settlers in Manitoba don't know what
hardships mean in comparison with those that faced the early settlers in
Ontario. My father, when a little boy of ten years, went with his father
into the solid forest; you don't know what that means in this country,
and no one can who has not seen a solid mass of green reaching from the
ground a hundred feet high without a break in it except where the trail
enters. Into that solid forest in single file went my grandfather,
his two little boys, and one ox carrying a bag of flour, some pork and
stuff. By a mark on a tree they found the corner of their farm.” Martin
paused.
“Do go on,” said Miss Brodie. “Tell me the very first thing he did.”
But Martin seemed to hesitate. “Well,” he began slowly, “I've often
heard my father tell it. When they came to that tree with the mark on
it, grandfather said, 'Boys, we have reached our home. Let us thank
God.' He went up to a big spruce tree, drove his ax in to the butt, then
kneeled down with the two little boys beside him, and I have heard my
father say that when he looked away up between the big trees and saw the
bit of blue sky there, he thought God was listening at that blue hole
between the tree-tops.” Martin paused abruptly, and for a few moments
silence held the group. Then Doctor Dunn, clearing his throat, said with
quiet emphasis:
“And he was right, my boy; make no doubt of that.”
“Then?” inquired Miss Brodie softly. “If you don't mind.”
Martin laughed. “Then they had grub, and that afternoon grandfather cut
the trees and the boys limbed them off, clearing the ground where the
first house stood. That night they slept in a little brush hut that did
them for a house until grandmother came two weeks later.”
“What?” said Doctor Dunn. “Your grandmother went into the forest?”
“Yes, Sir,” said Martin; “and two miles of solid black bush stretched
between her and the next woman.”
“Why, of course, my dear,” said Mrs. Dunn, taking part for the first
time in the conversation. “What else?”
They all laughed.
“Of course, Mother,” said her eldest son, “that's what you would do.”
“So would I, Mamma, wouldn't I?” whispered Rob, leaning towards her.
“Certainly, my dear,” replied his mother; “I haven't the slightest
doubt.”
“And so would any woman worth her salt if she loved her husband,” cried
Miss Brodie with great emphasis.
“Why, why,” cried Doctor Dunn, “it's the same old breed, Mother.”
“But in Manitoba--?” began Mr. Rae, still clinging to the subject.
“Oh, in Manitoba there is no forest to cut. However, there are other
difficulties. Still, hundreds are crowding in, and any man who has the
courage and the nerve to stay with it can get on.”
“And what did they do for schools?” said Mrs. Dunn, returning to the
theme that had so greatly interested her.
“There were no schools until father was too big to be spared to go
except for a few weeks in the winter.”
“How big do you mean?”
“Say fifteen.”
“Fifteen!” exclaimed Miss Brodie. “A mere infant!”
“Infant!” said Martin. “Not much! At fifteen my father was doing a man's
full work in the bush and on the farm, and when he grew to be a man he
cleared most of his own land, too. Why, when I was eleven I drove my
team all day on the farm.”
“And how did you get your education, Mr. Martin?”
“Oh, they kept me at school pretty steadily, except in harvest and hay
time, until I was fourteen, and after that in the winter months. When I
was sixteen I got a teacher's certificate, and then it was easy enough.”
“And did you put yourself through college?” inquired Mr. Rae, both
interest and admiration in his voice, for now they were on ground
familiar in his own experience.
“Why, yes, mostly. Father helped, I suspect more than he ought to, but
he was anxious for me to get through.”
“Rob,” cried Miss Brodie suddenly, “let's go! What do you say? We'll get
a big bit of that land in the West, and won't it be splendid to build up
our own estate and all that?”
Rob glanced from her into his mother's face. “I'd like it fine, Mamma,”
he said in a low voice, slipping his hand into hers.
“But what about me, Rob?” said his mother, smiling tenderly down into
the eager face.
“Oh, I'd come back for you, Mamma.”
“Hold on there, youngster,” said his elder brother, “there are others
that might have something to say about that. But I say, Martin,”
continued Dunn, “we hear a lot about the big ranches further West.”
“Yes, in Alberta, but I confess I don't know much about them. The
railways are just building and people are beginning to go in. But
ranching needs capital, too. It must be a great life! They practically
live in the saddle. It's a glorious country!”
“On the whole, then,” said Mr. Rae, as if summing up the discussion, “a
young man has better opportunities of making his fortune, so to speak,
in the far West rather than in, say, Ontario.”
“I didn't speak of fortune, Mr. Rae,--fortune is a chance thing, more or
less,--but what I say is this, that any young man not afraid of work,
of any kind of work, and willing to stay with his job, can make a living
and get a home in any part of Canada, with a bigger chance of fortune in
the West.”
“All I say, Mr. Rae, is this,” said Miss Brodie emphatically, “that I
only wish I were a man with just such a chance as young Cameron!”
“Ah, my dear young lady, if all the young men were possessed of your
spirit, it would matter little where they went, for they would achieve
distinct success.” As he spoke Mr. Rae's smile burst forth in all its
effulgent glory.
“Dear Mr. Rae, how very clever of you to discover that!” replied Miss
Brodie, smiling sweetly into Mr. Rae's radiant face. “And how very sweet
of you--ah, I beg your pardon; that is--” The disconcerting rapidity
with which Mr. Rae's smile gave place to an appearance of grave, of even
severe solemnity, threw Miss Brodie quite “out of her stride,” as
Martin said afterward, and left her floundering in a hopeless attempt to
complete her compliment.
Her confusion was the occasion of unlimited joy to “Lily,” who was not
unfamiliar with this facial phenomenon on the part of Mr. Rae. “Oh, I
say!” he cried to Dunn in a gale of smothered laughter, “how does the
dear man do it? It is really too lovely! I must learn the trick of that.
I have never seen anything quite so appallingly flabbergasting.”
Meantime Mr. Rae was blandly assisting Miss Brodie out of her dilemma.
“Not at all, Miss Brodie, not at all! But,” he continued, throwing
his smile about the room, “I think, Doctor Dunn, we have reason to
congratulate ourselves upon not only a pleasant but an extremely
profitable evening--ah--as far as the matter in hand is concerned. I
hope to have further speech with our young friend,” bowing to Mr. Martin
and bringing his smile to bear upon that young gentleman.
“Oh, certainly,” began Martin with ready geniality, “whenever you--eh?
What did you say, Sir? I didn't quite--”
But Mr. Rae was already bidding Mrs. Dunn goodnight, with a face of
preternatural gravity.
“What the deuce!” said Martin, turning to his friend Dunn. “Does the old
boy often go off at half-cock that way? He'll hurt himself some time,
sure.”
“Isn't it awful?” said Dunn. “He's got me a few times that way, too. But
I say, old boy, we're awfully grateful to you for coming.”
“I feel like a fool,” said Martin; “as if I'd been delivering a
lecture.”
“Don't think it,” cried Miss Brodie, who had drawn near. “You've been
perfectly lovely, and I am so glad to have got to know you better. For
me, I am quite resolved to go to Canada.”
“But do you think they can really spare us all, Miss Brodie?” exclaimed
“Lily” in an anxious voice. “For, of course, if you go we must.”
“No, 'Lily,' I'm quite sure they can't spare you. Just think, what could
the Browning-Wagner circle do? Besides, what could we do with you when
we were all working, for I can quite see that there is no use going to
Canada unless you mean to work?”
“You've got it, Miss Brodie,” said Martin. “My lecture is not in vain.
There is no use going to Canada unless you mean to work and to stay with
the job till the cows come home.”
“Till the cows come--?” gasped “Lily.”
“Oh, never mind him, Mr. Martin! Come, 'Lily' dear, I'll explain it to
you on the way home. Good-night, Mr. Dunn; we've had a jolly evening.
And as for our friend Cameron, I've ceased to pity him; on the contrary,
I envy him his luck.”
CHAPTER VII
FAREWELL TO CUAGH OIR
Once more the golden light of a sunny spring day was shining on the
sapphire loch at the bottom, and overflowing at the rim of the Cuagh
Oir. But for all its flowing gold, there was grief in the Glen--grief
deep and silent, like the quiet waters of the little loch. It was seen
in the grave faces of the men who gathered at the “smiddy.” It was heard
in the cadence of the voices of the women as they gathered to “kalie”
(Ceilidh) in the little cottages that fringed the loch's side, or dotted
the heather-clad slopes. It even checked the boisterous play of the
bairns as they came in from school. It lay like a cloud on the Cuagh,
and heavy on the hearts that made up the little hill-girt community of
one hundred souls, or more.
And the grief was this, that on the “morrow's morn” Mary Robertson's son
was departing from the Glen “neffer to return for effermore,” as Donald
of the House farm put it, with a face gloomy as the loch on a dark
winter's day.
“A leaving” was ever an occasion of wailing to the Glen, and many a
leaving had the Glen known during the last fifty years. For wherever
the tartan waved, and the bonnie feathers danced for the glory of the
Empire, sons of the Glen were ever to be found; but not for fifty years
had the heart of the Glen known the luxury of a single rallying centre
for their pride and their love till the “young chentleman,” young Mr.
Allan, began to go in and out among them. And as he grew into manhood so
grew their pride in him. And as, from time to time, at the Great Games
he began to win glory for the Glen with his feats of skill and strength,
and upon the pipes, and in the dances, their pride in him grew until
it passed all limits. Had he not, the very year before he went to the
college, cut the comb of the “Cock of the North” from Glen Urquhart,
in running and jumping; and the very same year had he not wrested
from Callum Bheg, the pride of Athole, the coveted badge of Special
Distinction in Highland Dancing? Then later, when the schoolmaster would
read from the Inverness Courier to one group after another at the post
office and at the “smiddy” (it was only fear of the elder MacPherson,
that kept the master from reading it aloud at the kirk door before the
service) accounts of the “remarkable playing” of Cameron, the brilliant
young “half-back” of the Academy in Edinburgh, the Glen settled down
into an assured conviction that it had reached the pinnacle of vicarious
glory, and that in all Scotland there was none to compare with their
young “chieftain” as, quite ignoring the Captain, they loved to call
him.
And there was more than pride in him, for on his holidays he came back
to the Glen unspoiled by all his honours and achievements, and went
about among them “jist like ain o' their ain sels,” accepting their
homage as his right, but giving them in return, according to their
various stations, due respect and honour, and their love grew greater
than their pride.
But the “morrow's morn” he was leaving the Glen, and, worse than all, no
one knew for why. A mystery hung over the cause of his going, a mystery
deepened by his own bearing during the past twelve months, for all these
months a heavy gloom had shrouded him, and from all that had once been
his delight and their glory he had withdrawn. The challenge, indeed,
from the men of Glen Urquhart which he had accepted long ago, he refused
not, but even the overwhelming defeat which he had administered to his
haughty challengers, had apparently brought him no more than a passing
gleam of joy. The gloom remained unlifted and the cause the Glen knew
not, and no man of them would seek to know. Hence the grief of the
Glen was no common grief when the son of Mary Robertson, the son of the
House, the pride of the Glen, and the comrade and friend of them all,
was about to depart and never to return.
His last day in the Glen Allan spent making his painful way through
the cottages, leaving his farewell, and with each some slight gift of
remembrance. It was for him, indeed, a pilgrimage of woe. It was not
only that his heart roots were in the Glen and knit round every stick
and stone of it; it was not that he felt he was leaving behind him a
love and loyalty as deep and lasting as life itself. It was that in
tearing himself from them he could make no response to the dumb appeal
in the eyes that followed him with adoration and fidelity: “Wherefore
do you leave us at all?” and “Why do you make no promise of return?” To
that dumb appeal there was no answer possible from one who carried on
his heart for himself, and on his life for some few others, and among
these his own father, the terrible brand of the criminal. It was this
grim fact that stained black the whole landscape of his consciousness,
and that hung like a pall of death over every living and delightsome
thing in the garden of his soul. While none could, without challenge,
condemn him, yet his own tongue refused to proclaim his innocence.
Every face he loved drove deeper into his heart his pain. The deathless
loyalty and unbounded pride of the Glen folk rebuked him, without their
knowing, for the dishonour he had done them. The Glen itself, the hills,
the purpling heather, the gleaming loch, how dear to him he had never
known till now, threw in his face a sad and silent reproach. Small
wonder that the Glen, that Scotland had become intolerable to him. With
this bitter burden on his heart it was that young Mr. Allan went his way
through the Glen making his farewells, not daring to indulge the luxury
of his grief, and with never a word of return.
His sister, who knew all, and who would have carried--oh! how
gladly!--on her own heart, and for all her life long, that bitter
burden, pleaded to be allowed to go with him on what she knew full well
was a journey of sorrow and sore pain, but this he would not permit.
This sorrow and pain which were his own, he would share with no one,
and least of all with her upon whose life he had already cast so dark
a shadow. Hence she was at the house alone, her father not having yet
returned from an important meeting at a neighbouring village, when a
young man came to the door asking for young Mr. Cameron.
“Who is it, Kirsty?” she inquired anxiously, a new fear at her heart for
her brother.
“I know not, but he has neffer been in this Glen before whateffer,”
replied Kirsty, with an ominous shake of the head, her primitive
instincts leading her to view the stranger with suspicion. “But!” she
added, with a glance at her young mistress' face, “he iss no man to be
afraid of, at any rate. He is just a laddie.”
“Oh, he is a YOUNG man, Kirsty?” replied her mistress, glancing at her
blue serge gown, her second best, and with her hands striving to tuck in
some of her wayward curls.
“Och, yess, and not much at that!” replied Kirsty, with the idea of
relieving her young mistress of unnecessary fears.
Then Moira, putting on her grand air, stepped into the parlour, and saw
standing there and awaiting her, a young man with a thin and somewhat
hard face, a firm mouth, and extraordinarily keen, grey eyes. Upon her
appearing the young man stood looking upon her without a word. As a
matter of fact, he was struggling with a problem; a problem that was
quite bewildering; the problem, namely, “How could hair ever manage
to get itself into such an arrangement of waves and curls, and golden
gleams and twinkles?” Struggling with this problem, he became conscious
of her voice gravely questioning him. “You were wishing to see my
brother?” The young man came back part way, and replied, “Oh! how does
it--? That is--. I beg your pardon.” The surprise in her face brought
him quite to the ground, and he came at once to his business. “I am Mr.
Martin,” he said in a quick, sharp voice. “I know your brother and Mr.
Dunn.” He noted a light dawn in her eyes. “In fact, I played with them
on the same team--at football, you know.”
“Oh!” cried the girl, relief and welcome in her voice, “I know you,
Mr. Martin, quite well. I know all about you, and what a splendid
quarter-back you are.” Here she gave him both her hands, which Mr.
Martin took in a kind of dream, once more plunged into the mazes of
another and more perplexing problem, viz., Was it her lips with that
delicious curve to them? or her eyes so sunny and brown (or were they
brown?) with that alluring, bewitching twinkle? or was it both lips and
eyes that gave to the smile with which she welcomed him its subtle power
to make his heart rise and choke him as it never had been known to do in
the most strenuous of his matches? “I'm awfully glad,” he heard himself
say, and her voice replying, “Oh, yes! Allan has often and often spoken
of you, Mr. Martin.” Mr. Martin immediately became conscious of a
profound and grateful affection to Allan, still struggling, however,
with the problem which had been complicated still further by the charm
of her soft, Highland voice. He was on the point of deciding in favour
of her voice, when on her face he noted a swift change from glad welcome
to suspicion and fear, and then into her sunny eyes a sudden leaping of
fierce wrath, as in those of a lioness defending her young.
“Why do you look so?” she cried in a voice sharp and imperious. “Is it
my brother--? Is anything wrong?”
The shock of the change in eyes and voice brought Martin quite to
himself.
“Wrong? Not a bit,” he hastened to say, “but just the finest thing in
the world. It is all here in this letter. Dunn could not come himself,
and there was no one else, and he thought Cameron ought to have it
to-day, so here I am, and here is the letter. Where is he?”
“Oh!” cried the girl, clasping her hands upon her heart, her voice
growing soft, and her eyes dim with a sudden mist. “I am so thankful!
I am so glad!” The change in her voice and in her eyes so affected Mr.
Martin that he put his hands resolutely behind his back lest they should
play him tricks, and should, without his will, get themselves round her
and draw her close to his heart.
“So am I,” he said, “awfully glad! Never was so glad in all my life!” He
was more conscious than ever of bewilderment and perplexity in the midst
of increasing problems that complicated themselves with mist brown eyes,
trembling lips, and a voice of such pathetic cadences as aroused in
him an almost uncontrollable desire to exercise his utmost powers of
comfort. And all the while there was growing in his heart a desperate
anxiety as to what would be the final issue of these bewildering desires
and perplexities; when at the extremity of his self-control he was saved
by the girl's suggestion.
“Let us go and find my brother.”
“Oh, yes!” cried Martin, “for heaven's sake let us.”
“Wait until I get my hat.”
“Oh! I wouldn't put on a hat,” cried he in dismay.
“Why?” enquired the girl, looking at him with surprised curiosity.
“Oh! because--because you don't need one; it's so beautiful and sunny,
you know.” In spite of what he could do Mr. Martin's eyes kept wandering
to her hair.
“Oh, well!” cried Moira, in increasing surprise at this strange young
man, “the sun won't hurt me, so come, let us go.”
Together they went down the avenue of rugged firs. At the highway
she paused. Before them lay the Glen in all the splendid sweep of its
beauty.
“Isn't it lovely!” she breathed.
“Lovely!” echoed Martin, his eyes not on the Glen. “It is so sunny, you
know.”
“Yes,” she answered quickly, “you notice that?”
“How could I help it?” said Martin, his eyes still resting upon her.
“How could I?”
“Of course,” she replied, “and so we call it the Glen Cuagh Oir, that
is the 'Glen of the Cup of Gold.' And to think he has to leave it all
to-morrow!” she added.
The pathetic cadences in her voice again drove Martin to despair. He
recovered himself, however, to say, “But he is going to Canada!”
“Yes, to Canada. And we all feel it so dreadfully for him, and,” she
added in a lower voice, “for ourselves.”
Had it been yesterday Martin would have been ready with scorn for any
such feeling, and with congratulations to Cameron upon his exceptionally
good luck in the expectation of going to Canada; but to-day, somehow it
was different. He found the splendid lure of his native land availed not
to break the spell of the Glen, and as he followed the girl in and out
of the little cottages, seeking her brother, and as he noted the perfect
courtesy and respect which marked her manner with the people, and their
unstudied and respectful devotion to their “tear young leddy,” this
spell deepened upon him. Unconsciously and dimly he became aware of a
mysterious and mighty power somehow and somewhere in the Glen straining
at the heart-strings of its children. Of the nature and origin of this
mysterious and mighty power, the young Canadian knew little. His
country was of too recent an origin for mystery, and its people too
heterogeneous in their ethnic characteristics to furnish a soil for
tribal instincts and passions. The passionate loves and hatreds of the
clans, their pride of race, their deathless lealty; and more than all,
and better than all, their religious instincts, faiths and prejudices;
these, with the mystic, wild loveliness of heather-clad hill and
rock-rimmed loch, of roaring torrent and jagged crags, of lonely muir
and sunny pasture nuiks; all these, and ten thousand nameless and
unnamable things united in the weaving of the spell of the Glen upon the
hearts of its people. Of how it all came to be, Martin knew nothing,
but like an atmosphere it stole in upon him, and he came to vaguely
understand something of what it meant to be a Highlander, and to bid
farewell to the land into whose grim soil his life roots had struck
deep, and to tear himself from hearts whose life stream and his had
flowed as one for a score of generations. So from cot to cot Martin
followed and observed, until they came to the crossing where the broad
path led up from the highroad to the kirkyard and the kirk. Here they
were halted by a young man somewhat older than Martin. Tall and gaunt
he stood. His face, pale and pock-marked and lit by light blue eyes, and
crowned by brilliant red hair, was, with all its unloveliness, a face of
a certain rugged beauty; while his manner and bearing showed the native
courtesy of a Highland gentleman.
“You are seeking Mr. Allan?” he said, taking off his bonnet to the girl.
“He is in yonder,” waving his hand towards the kirkyard.
“In yonder? You are sure, Mr. Maclise?” She might well ask, for never
but on Sabbath days, since the day they had laid his mother away under
the birch trees, had Allan put foot inside the kirkyard.
“Half an hour ago he went in,” replied the young Highlander, “and he has
not returned.”
“I will go in, then,” said the girl, and hesitated, unwilling that a
stranger's eyes should witness what she knew was waiting her there.
“You, Sir, will perhaps abide with me,” suggested Mr. Maclise to Martin,
with a quick understanding of her hesitation.
“Oh, thank you,” cried Moira. “This is Mr. Martin from Canada, Mr.
Maclise--my brother's great friend. Mr. Maclise is our schoolmaster
here,” she added, turning to Martin, “and we are very proud of him.”
The Highlander's pale face became the colour of his brilliant hair as he
remarked, “You are very good indeed, Miss Cameron, and I am glad to make
the acquaintance of Mr. Martin. It will give me great pleasure to show
Mr. Martin the little falls at the loch's end, if he cares to step that
far.” If Mr. Martin was conscious of any great desire to view the little
falls at the loch's end, his face most successfully dissembled any such
feeling, but to the little falls he must go as the schoolmaster quietly
possessed himself of him and led him away, while Miss Cameron, with
never a thought of either of them, passed up the broad path into the
kirkyard. There, at the tower's foot, she came upon her brother, prone
upon the little grassy mound, with arms outspread, as if to hold it in
embrace. At the sound of his sister's tread upon the gravel, he raised
himself to his knees swiftly, and with a fierce gesture, as if resenting
intrusion.
“Oh, it is you, Moira,” he said quietly, sinking down upon the grass. At
the sight of his tear-stained, haggard face, the girl ran to him with
a cry, and throwing herself down beside him put her arms about him with
inarticulate sounds of pity. At length her brother raised himself from
the ground.
“Oh, it is terrible to leave it all,” he groaned; “yet I am glad to
leave, for it is more terrible to stay; the very Glen I cannot look at;
and the people, I cannot bear their eyes. Oh,” he groaned, wringing his
hands, “if she were here she would understand, but there is nobody.”
“Oh, Allan,” cried his sister in reproach.
“Oh, yes, I know! I know! You believe in me, Moira, but you are just a
lassie, and you cannot understand.”
“Yes, you know well I believe in you, Allan, and others, too, believe in
you. There is Mr. Dunn, and--”
“Oh, I don't know,” said her brother bitterly, “he wants to believe it.”
“Yes, and there is Mr. Martin,” she continued, “and--Oh, I forgot! here
is a letter Mr. Martin brought you.”
“Martin?”
“Yes, your Martin, a strange little man; your quarter-back, you know. He
brought this, and he says it is good news.” But already Allan was into
his letter. As he read his face grew white, his hand began to shake, his
eyes to stare as if they would devour the very paper. The second time he
read the letter his whole body trembled, and his breath came in gasps,
as if he were in a physical struggle. Then lifting arms and voice
towards the sky, he cried in a long, low wail, “Oh God, it is good, it
is good!”
With that he laid himself down prone upon the mound again, his face in
the grass, sobbing brokenly, “Oh, mother, mother dear, I have got you
once more; I have got you once more!”
His sister stood, her hands clasped upon her heart--a manner she
had--her tears, unnoted, flowing down her cheeks, waiting till her
brother should let her into his joy, as she had waited for entrance into
his grief. His griefs and his joys were hers, and though he still
held her a mere child, it was with a woman's self-forgetting love she
ministered to him, gladly accepting whatever confidence he would give,
but content to wait until he should give more. So she stood waiting,
with her tears flowing quietly, and her face alight with wonder and joy
for him. But as her brother's sobbing continued, this terrible display
of emotion amazed her, startled her, for since their mother's death none
of them had seen Allan weep. At length he raised himself from the ground
and stood beside her.
“Oh, Moira, lassie, I never knew how terrible it was till now. I had
lost everything, my friends, you, and,” he added in a low voice, “my
mother. This cursed thing shut me out from all; it got between me and
all I ever loved. I have not for these months been able to see her face
clear, but do you know, Moira,” here his voice fell and the mystic light
grew in his eyes, “I saw her again just now as clear as clear, and
I know I have got her again; and you, too, Moira, darling,” here he
gathered his sister to him, “and the people! and the Glen! Oh! is it not
terrible what a crime can do? How it separates you from your folk, and
from all the world, for, mind you, I have felt myself a criminal; but I
am not! I am not!” His voice rose into an exultant shout, “I am clear of
it, I am a man again! Oh, it is good! it is good! Here, read the letter,
it will prove to you.”
“Oh, what does it matter at all, Allan,” she cried, still clinging to
him, “as if it made any difference to me. I always knew it.”
Her brother lifted her face from his breast and looked into her eyes.
“Do you tell me you don't want to know the proof of it?” he asked in
wonder. “No,” she said simply. “Why should I need any proof? I always
knew it.”
For a moment longer he gazed upon her, then said, “Moira, you are a
wonder, lassie. No, you are a lassie no longer, you are a woman, and, do
you know, you are like mother to me now, and I never saw it.”
She smiled up at him through her tears. “I should like to be,” she said
softly. Then, because she was truly Scotch, she added, “for your sake,
for I love you terribly much; and I am going to lose you.”
A quiver passed through her frame, and her arms gripped him tight. In
the self-absorption in his grief and pain he had not thought of hers,
nor considered how with his going her whole life would be changed.
“I have been a selfish brute,” he muttered. “I have only thought of my
own suffering; but, listen Moira, it is all past; thank God, it is
all past. This letter from Mr. Rae holds a confession from Potts (poor
Potts! I am glad that Rae let him off): it was Potts who committed the
forgery. Now I feel myself clean again; you can't know what that is; to
be yourself again, and to be able to look all men in the face without
fear or shame. Come, we must go; I must see them all again. Let us to
the burn first, and put my face right.”
A moment he stood looking down upon his mother's grave. The hideous
thing that had put her far from him, and that had blurred the clear
vision of her face, was gone. A smile soft and tender as a child's stole
over his face, and with that smile he turned away. As they were
coming back from the burn, Martin and the schoolmaster saw them in the
distance.
“Bless me, man, will you look at him?” said the master in an awestruck
tone, clutching Martin's arm. “What ever is come to him?”
“What's up,” cried Martin. “By Jove! you're right! the Roderick Dhu and
Black Douglas business is gone, sure!”
“God bless my soul!” said Maclise in an undertone. “He is himself once
more.”
He might well exclaim, for it was a new Allan that came striding up
the high road, with head lifted, and with the proud swing of a Highland
chieftain.
“Hello, old man!” he shouted, catching sight of Martin and running
towards him with hands outstretched, “You are welcome”--he grasped
his hands and held them fast--“you are welcome to this Glen, and to me
welcome as Heaven to a Hell-bound soul.”
“Maclise,” he cried, turning to the master, “this letter,” waving it in
his hand, “is like a reprieve to a man on the scaffold.” Maclise stood
gazing in amazement at him.
“They accused me of crime!”
“Of crime, Mr. Allan?” Maclise stiffened in haughty surprise.
“Yes, of base crime!”
“But this letter completely clears him,” cried Martin eagerly.
Maclise turned upon him with swift scorn, “There was no need, for anyone
in this Glen whatever.” The Highlander's face was pale, and in his light
blue eyes gleamed a fierce light.
Martin flashed a look upon the girl standing so proudly erect beside
her brother, and reflecting in her face and eyes the sentiments of the
schoolmaster.
“By Jove! I believe you,” cried Martin with conviction, “it is not
needed here, but--but there are others, you know.”
“Others?” said the Highlander with fine scorn, “and what difference?”
The Glen folk needed no clearing of their chief, and the rest of the
world mattered not.
“But there was myself,” said Allan. “Now it is gone, Maclise, and I can
give my hand once more without fear or shame.”
Maclise took the offered hand almost with reverence, and, removing his
bonnet from his head, said in a voice, deep and vibrating with emotion,
“Neffer will a man of the Glen count it anything but honour to take
thiss hand.”
“Thank you, Maclise,” cried Allan, keeping his grip of the master's
hand. “Now you can tell the Glen.”
“You will not be going to leave us now?” said Maclise eagerly.
“Yes, I shall go, Maclise, but,” with a proud lift of his head, “tell
them I am coming back again.”
And with that message Maclise went to the Glen. From cot to cot and from
lip to lip the message sped, that Mr. Allan was himself again, and that,
though on the morrow's morn he was leaving the Glen, he himself had
promised that he would return.
That evening, as the gloaming deepened, the people of the Glen gathered,
as was their wont, at their cottage doors to listen to old piper
Macpherson as he marched up and down the highroad. This night, it was
observed, he no longer played that most heart-breaking of all
Scottish laments, “Lochaber No More.” He had passed up to the no less
heart-thrilling, but less heartbreaking, “Macrimmon's Lament.” In a
pause in Macpherson's wailing notes there floated down over the Glen the
sound of the pipes up at the big House.
“Bless my soul! whisht, man!” cried Betsy Macpherson to her spouse.
“Listen yonder!” For the first time in months they heard the sound of
Allan's pipes.
“It is himself,” whispered the women to each other, and waited. Down the
long avenue of ragged firs, and down the highroad, came young Mr. Allan,
in all the gallant splendour of his piper's garb, and the tune he played
was no lament, but the blood-stirring “Gathering of the Gordons.” As
he came opposite to Macpherson's cottage he gave the signal for the old
piper, and down the highroad stepped the two of them together, till they
passed beyond the farthest cottage. Then back again they swung, and this
time it was to the “Cock of the North,” that their tartans swayed and
their bonnets nodded. Thus, not with woe and lamentation, but with good
hope and gallant cheer, young Mr. Allan took his leave of the Glen Cuagh
Oir.
CHAPTER VIII
WILL HE COME BACK?
It was the custom in Doctor Dunn's household that, immediately after
dinner, his youngest son would spend half an hour in the study with his
father. It was a time for confidences. During this half hour father and
son met as nearly as possible on equal terms, discussing, as friends
might, the events of the day or the plans for the morrow, school work
or athletics, the latest book or the newest joke; and sometimes the talk
turned upon the reading at evening prayers. This night the story had
been one of rare beauty and of absorbing interest, the story, viz., of
that idyllic scene on the shore of Tiberias where the erring disciple
was fully restored to his place in the ranks of the faithful, as he had
been restored, some weeks before, to his place in the confidence of his
Master.
“That was a fine story, Rob?” began Doctor Dunn.
“That it was,” said Rob gravely. “It was fine for Peter to get back
again.”
“Just so,” replied his father. “You see, when a man once turns his back
on his best Friend, he is never right till he gets back again.”
“Yes, I know,” said Rob gravely. For a time he sat with a shadow of
sadness and anxiety on his young face. “It is terrible!” he exclaimed.
“Terrible?” inquired the Doctor. “Oh, yes, you mean Peter's fall? Yes,
that was a terrible thing--to be untrue to our Master and faithless to
our best Friend.”
“But he did not mean to, Dad,” said Rob quickly, as if springing to
the fallen disciple's defence. “He forgot, just for a moment, and was
awfully sorry afterwards.”
“Yes, truly,” said his father, “and that was the first step back.”
For a few moments Rob remained silent, his face sad and troubled.
“Man! It must be terrible!” at length he said, more to himself than
to his father. The Doctor looked closely at the little lad. The eager,
sensitive face, usually so radiant, was now clouded and sad.
“What is it, Rob? Is it something you can tell me?” asked his father in
a tone of friendly kindness.
Rob moved closer to him. The father waited in silence. He knew better
than to force an unwilling confidence. At length the lad, with an
obvious effort at self-command, said:
“It is to-morrow, Daddy, that Cameron--that Mr. Cameron is going away.”
“To-morrow? So it is. And you will be very sorry, Rob. But, of course,
he will come back.”
“Oh, Dad,” cried Rob, coming quite close to his father, “it isn't that!
It isn't that!”
His father waited. He did not understand his boy's trouble, and so he
wisely refrained from uttering word that might hinder rather than help.
At length, with a sudden effort, Rob asked in a low, hurried voice:
“Do you think, Dad, he has--got--back?”
“Got back?” said his father. “Oh, I see. Why, my boy? What do you know
of it? Did you know there was a letter from a man named Potts, that
completely clears your friend of all crime?”
“Is there?” asked the boy quickly. “Man! That is fine! But I always knew
he could not do anything really bad--I mean, anything that the police
could touch him for. But it is not that, Dad. I have heard Jack say he
used to be different when he came down first, and now sometimes he--”
The lad's voice fell silent. He could not bring himself to accuse his
hero of any evil. His father drew him close to his side.
“You mean that he has fallen into bad ways--drink, and things like
that?”
The boy hung his head; he was keenly ashamed for his friend. After a few
moments' silence he said:
“And he is going away to Canada to-morrow, and I wonder, Dad, if he
has--got--back? It would be terrible--Oh, Dad, all alone and away
from--!”
The boy's voice sank to a whisper, and a rush of tears filled his eyes.
“I see what you mean, my boy. You mean it would be terrible for him to
be in that far land, and away from that Friend we know and love best.”
The lad looked at his father through his tears, and nodded his head, and
for some moments there was silence between them. If the truth must be
told, Doctor Dunn felt himself keenly rebuked by his little son's words.
Amid the multitude of his responsibilities, the responsibility for his
sons' best friend he had hardly realised.
“I am glad that you spoke of it, Rob; I am glad that you spoke of it.
Something will be done. It is not, after all, in our hands. Still, we
must stand ready to help. Good-night, my boy. And remember, it is always
good to hurry back to our best Friend, if ever we get away from Him.”
The boy put his arms around his father's neck and kissed him good-night;
then, kissing him again, he whispered: “Thank you, Daddy.”
And from the relief in his tone the father recognised that upon him the
lad had laid all the burden of his solicitude for his friend.
Later in the evening, when his elder son came home, the father called
him in, and frankly gave him the substance of the conversation of the
earlier part of the evening.
Jack laughed somewhat uneasily. “Oh, Rob is an awfully religious little
beggar; painfully so, I think, sometimes--you know what I mean, Sir,” he
added, noticing the look on his father's face.
“I am not sure that I do, Jack,” said his father, “but I want to tell
you, that as far as I am concerned, I felt distinctly rebuked at the
little chap's anxiety for his friend in a matter of such vital import.
His is a truly religious little soul, as you say, but I wonder if his
type is not more nearly like the normal than is ours. Certainly, if
reality, simplicity, sincerity are the qualities of true religious
feeling--and these, I believe, are the qualities emphasised by the
Master Himself--then it may indeed be that the boy's type is nearer the
ideal than ours.”
At this point Mrs. Dunn entered the room.
“Anything private?” she enquired with a bright smile at her husband.
“Not at all! Come in!” said Doctor Dunn, and he proceeded to repeat the
conversation with his younger son, and his own recent comment thereupon.
“I am convinced,” he added, “that there is a profundity of meaning in
those words, 'Whosoever shall not receive the kingdom of God as a little
child, he shall not enter therein,' that we have not yet fathomed. I
suspect Wordsworth is not far astray when he suggests that with the
passing years we grow away from the simplicity of our faith and the
clearness of our vision. There is no doubt that to Rob, Jesus is as real
as I am.”
“There is no doubt of that,” said his wife quickly.
“Not only as real, but quite as dear; indeed, dearer. I shall never
forget the shock I received when I heard him one day, as a wee, wee boy,
classifying the objects of his affection. I remember the ascending scale
was: 'I love Jack and Daddy just the same, then mother, then Jesus.' It
was always in the highest place, Jesus; and I believe that the scale is
the same to-day, unless Jack,” she added, with a smile at her son, “has
moved to his mother's place.”
“Not much fear of that, mother,” said Jack, “but I should not be
surprised if you are quite right about the little chap. He is a queer
little beggar!”
“There you are again, Jack,” said his father, “and it is upon that point
I was inclined to take issue with you when your mother entered.”
“I think I shall leave you,” said the mother. “I am rather tired, and so
I shall bid you good-night.”
“Yes,” said the father, when they had seated themselves again, “the
very fact that to you, and to me for that matter, Rob's attitude of
mind should seem peculiar raises the issue. What is the normal type of
Christian faith? Is it not marked by the simplicity and completeness of
the child's?”
“And yet, Sir,” replied Jack, “that simplicity and completeness is the
result of inexperience. Surely the ideal faith is not that which ignores
the facts and experiences of life?”
“Not exactly,” replied his father, “yet I am not sure but after all,
'the perfect love which casteth out fear' is one which ignores the
experiences of life, or, rather, classifies them in a larger category.
That is, it refuses to be disturbed by life's experiences, because among
those experiences there is a place for the enlarged horizon, the clearer
vision. But I am not arguing about this matter; I rather wish to make
a confession and enlist your aid. Frankly, the boy's words gave me an
uneasy sense of failure in my duty to this young man; or, perhaps I
should say, my privilege. And really, it is no wonder! Here is this
little chap actually carrying every day a load of intense concern for
our friend, as to whether, as he puts it himself, 'he has come back.'
And, after all, Jack, I wonder if this should not have been more upon
our minds? The young man, I take it, since his mother's death has little
in his home life to inspire him with religious faith and feeling. If she
had been alive, one would not feel the same responsibility; she was a
singularly saintly woman.”
“You are quite right, Sir,” said Jack quickly, “and I suspect you rather
mean that I am the one that should feel condemned.”
“Not at all! Not at all, Jack! I am thinking, as every man must, of my
own responsibility, though, doubtless, you have yours as well. Of course
I know quite well you have stuck by him splendidly in his fight for a
clean and self-controlled life, but one wonders whether there is not
something more.”
“There is, Sir!” replied his son quickly. “There undoubtedly is! But
though I have no hesitation in speaking to men down in the Settlement
about these things, you know, still, somehow, to a man of your own
class, and to a personal friend, one hesitates. One shrinks from what
seems like assuming an attitude of superiority.”
“I appreciate that,” said his father, “but yet one wonders to what
extent this shrinking is due to a real sense of one's own imperfections,
and to what extent it is due to an unwillingness to risk criticism, even
from ourselves, in a loyal attempt to serve the Master and His cause.
And, besides that, one wonders whether from any cause one should
hesitate to do the truly kind and Christian thing to one's friend. I
mean, you value your religion; or, to put it personally, as Rob would,
you would esteem as your chief possession your knowledge of the Christ,
as Friend and Saviour. Do not loyalty to Him and friendship require that
you share that possession with your dearest friend?”
“I know what you mean, Sir,” said Jack earnestly. “I shall think it
over. But don't you think a word from you, Sir--”
His father looked at his son with a curious smile.
“Oh, I know what you are thinking,” said his son, “but I assure you it
is not quite a case of funk.”
“Do you know, Jack,” said his father earnestly, “we make our religion
far too unreal; a thing either of forms remote from life, or a thing of
individualistic emotion divorced from responsibility. One thing
history reveals, that the early propagandum for the faith was entirely
unprofessional. It was from friend to friend, from man to man. It was
horizontal rather than perpendicular.”
“Well, I shall think it over,” said Jack.
“Do you know,” said his father, “that I have the feeling of having
accepted from Rob responsibility for our utmost endeavour to bring it
about that, as Rob puts it, 'somehow he shall get back'?”
It was full twenty minutes before train time when Rob, torn with anxiety
lest they should be late, marched his brother on to the railway platform
to wait for the Camerons, who were to arrive from the North. Up and
down they paraded, Dunn turning over in his mind the conversation of the
night before, Rob breaking away every three minutes to consult the clock
and the booking clerk at the wicket.
“Will he come to us this afternoon, Jack, do you think?” enquired the
boy.
“Don't know! He turned down a football lunch! He has his sister and his
father with him.”
“His sister could come with him!” argued the boy.
“What about his father?”
Rob had been close enough to events to know that the Captain constituted
something of a difficulty in the situation.
“Well, won't he have business to attend to?”
His brother laughed. “Good idea, Rob, let us hope so! At any rate we
will do our best to get Cameron and his sister to come to us. We want
them, don't we?”
“We do that!” said the boy fervently; “only I'm sure something will
happen! There,” he exclaimed a moment later, in a tone of disappointment
and disgust, “I just knew it! There is Miss Brodie and some one else;
they will get after him, I know!”
“So it is,” said Dunn, with a not altogether successful attempt at
surprise.
“Aw! you knew!” said Rob reproachfully.
“Well! I kind of thought she might turn up!” said his brother, with
an air of a convicted criminal. “You know she is quite a friend of
Cameron's. But what is Sir Archibald here for?”
“They will just get him, I know,” said Rob gloomily, as he followed his
brother to meet Miss Brodie and her uncle.
“We're here!” cried that young lady, “to join in the demonstration to
the hero! And, my uncle being somewhat conscience-stricken over his
tardy and unwilling acceptance of our superior judgment in the recent
famous case, has come to make such reparation as he can.”
“What a piece of impertinence! Don't listen to her, Sir!” cried
Sir Archibald, greeting Dunn warmly and with the respect due an
International captain. “The truth is I have a letter here for him to a
business friend in Montreal, which may be of service. Of course, I may
say to you that I am more than delighted that this letter of Potts has
quite cleared the young man, and that he goes to the new country with
reputation unstained. I am greatly delighted! greatly delighted! and I
wish the opportunity to say so.”
“Indeed, we are all delighted,” replied Dunn cordially, “though, of
course, I never could bring myself to believe him guilty of crime.”
“Well, on the strength of the judgment of yourself and, I must confess,
of this young person here, I made my decision.”
“Well,” cried Miss Brodie, “I gave you my opinion because it was my
opinion, but I confess at times I had my own doubts--”
Here she paused abruptly, arrested by the look on young Rob's face; it
was a look of surprise, grief, and horror.
“That is to say,” continued Miss Brodie hastily, answering the look, and
recognising that her high place in Rob's regard was in peril, “the whole
thing was a mystery--was impossible to solve--I mean,” she continued,
stumbling along, “his own attitude was so very uncertain and so
unsatisfactory--if he had only been able to say clearly 'I am not
guilty' it would have been different--I mean--of course, I don't believe
him guilty. Don't look at me like that, Rob! I won't have it! But was it
not clever of that dear Mr. Rae to extract that letter from the wretched
Potts?”
“There's the train!” cried Dunn. “Here, Rob, you stay here with me!
Where has the young rascal gone!”
“Look! Oh, look!” cried Miss Brodie, clutching at Dunn's arm, her eyes
wide with terror. There before their horrified eyes was young Rob,
hanging on to the window, out of which his friend Cameron was leaning,
and racing madly with the swiftly moving train, in momentary danger of
being dragged under its wheels. With a cry, Dunn rushed forward.
“Merciful heavens!” cried Miss Brodie. “Oh! he is gone!”
A porter, standing with his back towards the racing boy, had knocked
his feet from under him. But as he fell, a strong hand grabbed him, and
dragged him to safety through the window.
Pale and shaking, the three friends waited for the car door to be
opened, and as Rob issued in triumphant possession of his friend, Miss
Brodie rushed at him and, seizing him in her strong grasp, cried:
“You heartless young rascal! You nearly killed me--not to speak of
yourself! Here,” she continued, throwing her arms about him, and giving
him a loud smack, “take that for your punishment! Do you hear, you
nearly killed me! I had a vision of your mangled form ground up between
the wheels and the platform. Hold on, you can't get away from me! I have
a mind to give you another!”
“Oh, Miss Brodie, please,” pleaded Cameron, coming forward to Rob's
rescue, “I assure you I was partly to blame; it is only fair I should
share his punishment.”
“Indeed,” cried Miss Brodie, the blood coming back into her cheeks that
had been white enough a moment before, “if it were not for your size,
and your--looks, I should treat you exactly the same, though not
with the same intent, as our friend Mr. Rae would say. You did that
splendidly!”
“Alas! for my size,” groaned Cameron--he was in great spirits--“and
alas! for my ugly phiz!”
“Who said 'ugly'?” replied Miss Brodie. “But I won't rise to your bait.
May I introduce you to my uncle, Sir Archibald Brodie, who has a little
business with you?”
“Ah! Mr. Cameron,” said that gentleman, “that was extremely well
done. Indeed, I can hardly get back my nerve--might have been an ugly
accident. By the way, Sir,” taking Cameron aside, “just a moment. You
are on your way to Canada? I have a letter which I thought might be
of service to you. It is to a business friend of mine, a banker, in
Montreal, Mr. James Ritchie. You will find him a good man to know, and I
fancy glad to serve any--ah--friend of mine.”
On hearing Sir Archibald's name, Cameron's manner became distinctly
haughty, and he was on the point of declining the letter, when Sir
Archibald, who was quick to observe his manner, took him by the arm and
led him somewhat further away.
“Now, Sir, there is a little matter I wish to speak of, if you will
permit. Indeed, I came specially to say how delighted I am that
the--ah--recent little unpleasantness has been removed. Of course you
understand my responsibility to the Bank rendered a certain course
of action imperative, however repugnant. But, believe me, I am truly
delighted to find that my decision to withdraw the--ah--action has been
entirely justified by events. Delighted, Sir! Delighted! And much more
since I have seen you.”
Before the overflowing kindliness of Sir Archibald's voice and manner,
Cameron's hauteur vanished like morning mist before the rising sun.
“I thank you, Sir Archibald,” he said, with dignity, “not only for this
letter, but especially for your good opinion.”
“Very good! Very good! The letter will, I hope, be useful,” replied Sir
Archibald, “and as for my opinion, I am glad to find not only that it is
well founded, but that it appears to be shared by most of this company
here. Now we must get back to your party. But let me say again, I am
truly glad to have come to know you.”
BOOK TWO
CHAPTER I
HO FOR THE OPEN!
Mr. James Ritchie, manager of the Bank of Montreal, glanced from the
letter in his hand to the young man who had just given it to him. “Ah!
you have just arrived from the old land,” he said, a smile of genial
welcome illuminating his handsome face. “I am pleased to hear from my
old friend, Sir Archibald Brodie, and pleased to welcome any friend of
his to Canada.”
So saying, with fine old-time courtesy, the banker rose to his splendid
height of six feet two, and shook his visitor warmly by the hand.
“Your name is--?”
“Cameron, Sir,” said the young man.
“Yes, I see! Mr. Allan Cameron--um, um,” with his eyes on the letter.
“Old and distinguished family--exactly so! Now, then, Mr. Cameron, I
hope we shall be able to do something for you, both for the sake of my
old friend, Sir Archibald, and, indeed, for your own sake,” said the
banker, with a glance of approval at Cameron's upright form.
“Sit down, Sir! Sit down! Now, business first is my motto. What can I do
for you?”
“Well, first of all,” said Cameron with a laugh, “I wish to make a
deposit. I have a draft of one hundred pounds here which I should like
to place in your care.”
“Very well, Sir,” said the banker, touching a button, “my young man will
attend to that.”
“Now, then,” when the business had been transacted, “what are your
plans, Mr. Cameron? Thirty-five years ago I came to Montreal a young
man, from Scotland, like yourself, and it was a lonely day for me when
I reached this city, the loneliest in my life, and so my heart warms
to the stranger from the old land. Yes,” continued Mr. Ritchie, in a
reminiscent tone, “I remember well! I hired as errand boy and general
factotum to a small grocer down near the market. Montreal was a small
city then, with wretched streets--they're bad enough yet--and poor
buildings; everything was slow and backward; there have been mighty
changes since. But here we are! Now, what are your plans?”
“I am afraid they are of the vaguest kind,” said Cameron. “I want
something to do.”
“What sort of thing? I mean, what has been the line of your training?”
“I am afraid my training has been defective. I have passed through
Edinburgh Academy, also the University, with the exception of my last
year. But I am willing to take anything.”
“Ah!” said the banker thoughtfully. “No office training, eh?”
“No, Sir. That is, if you except a brief period of three or four months
in the law office of our family solicitor.”
“Law, eh?--I have it! Denman's your man! I shall give you a letter to
Mr. Denman--a lawyer friend of mine. I shall see him personally to-day,
and if you call to-morrow at ten I hope to have news for you. Meantime,
I shall be pleased to have you lunch with me to-day at the club. One
o'clock is the hour. If you would kindly call at the bank, we shall go
down together.”
Cameron expressed his gratitude.
“By the way!” said Mr. Ritchie, “where have you put up?”
“At the Royal,” said Cameron.
“Ah! That will do for the present,” said Mr. Ritchie. “I am sorry our
circumstances do not permit of my inviting you to our home. The truth
is, Mrs. Ritchie is at present out of the city. But we shall find some
suitable lodging for you. The Royal is far too expensive a place for a
young man with his fortune to make.”
Cameron spent the day making the acquaintance of the beautiful, quaint,
if somewhat squalid, old city of Montreal; and next morning, with
a letter of introduction from Mr. Ritchie, presented himself at Mr.
Denman's office. Mr. Denman was a man in young middle life, athletic
of frame, keen of eye, and energetic of manner; his voice was loud
and sharp. He welcomed Cameron with brisk heartiness, and immediately
proceeded to business.
“Let me see,” he began, “what is your idea? What kind of a job are you
after?”
“Indeed,” replied Cameron, “that is just what I hardly know.”
“Well, what has been your experience? You are a University man, I
believe? But have you had any practical training? Do you know office
work?”
“No, I've had little training for an office. I was in a law office for
part of a year.”
“Ah! Familiar with bookkeeping, or accounting? I suppose you can't run
one of these typewriting machines?”
In regard to each of these lines of effort Cameron was forced to confess
ignorance.
“I say!” cried Mr. Denman, “those old country people seriously annoy me
with their inadequate system of education!”
“I am afraid,” replied Cameron, “the fault is more mine than the
system's.”
“Don't know about that! Don't know about that!” replied Mr. Denman
quickly; “I have had scores of young men, fine young men, too, come to
me; public school men, university men, but quite unfit for any practical
line of work.”
Mr. Denman considered for some moments. “Let us see. You have done some
work in a law office. Now,” Mr. Denman spoke with some hesitation; “I
have a place in my own office here--not much in it for the present,
but--”
“To tell the truth,” interrupted Cameron, “I did not make much of the
law; in fact, I do not think I am suited for office work. I would prefer
something in the open. I had thought of the land.”
“Farming,” exclaimed Mr. Denman. “Ah!--you would, I suppose, be able to
invest something?”
“No,” said Cameron, “nothing.”
Denman shook his head. “Nothing in it! You would not earn enough to buy
a farm about here in fifteen years.”
“But I understood,” replied Cameron, “that further west was cheaper
land.”
“Oh! In the far west, yes! But it is a God-forsaken country! I don't
know much about it, I confess. I know they are booming town lots all
over the land. I believe they have gone quite mad in the business, but
from what I hear, the main work in the west just now is jaw work; the
only thing they raise is corner lots.”
On Cameron's face there fell the gloom of discouragement. One of his
fondest dreams was being dispelled--his vision of himself as a wealthy
rancher, ranging over square miles of his estate upon a “bucking
broncho,” garbed in the picturesque cowboy dress, began to fade.
“But there is ranching, I believe?” he ventured.
“Ranching? Oh yes! There is, up near the Rockies, but that is out of
civilization; out of reach of everything and everybody.”
“That is what I want, Sir!” exclaimed Cameron, his face once more aglow
with eager hope. “I want to get away into the open.”
Mr. Denman did not, or could not, recognise this as the instinctive cry
of the primitive man for a closer fellowship with Mother Nature. He was
keenly practical, and impatient with everything that appeared to him to
be purely visionary and unbusiness-like.
“But, my dear fellow,” he said, “a ranch means cattle and horses; and
cattle and horses means money, unless of course, you mean to be simply a
cowboy--cowpuncher, I believe, is the correct term--but there is nothing
in that; no future, I mean. It is all very well for a little fun, if
you have a bank account to stand it, although some fellows stand it on
someone's else bank account--not much to their credit, however. There is
a young friend of mine out there at present, but from what I can gather
his home correspondence is mainly confined to appeals for remittances
from his governor, and his chief occupation spending these remittances
as speedily as possible. All very well, as I have said, for fun, if
you can pay the shot. But to play the role of gentleman cowboy, while
somebody else pays for it, is the sort of thing I despise.”
“And so do I, Sir!” said Cameron. “There will be no remittance in my
case.”
Denman glanced at the firm, closed lips and the stiffening figure.
“That is the talk!” he exclaimed. “No, there is no chance in ranching
unless you have capital.”
“As far as I can see,” replied Cameron gloomily, “everything seems
closed up except to the capitalist, and yet from what I heard at home
situations were open on every hand in this country.”
“Come here!” cried Denman, drawing Cameron to the office window. “See
those doors!” pointing to a long line of shops. “Every last one is
opened to a man who knows his business. See those smokestacks! Every
last wheel in those factories is howling for a man who is on to his job.
But don't look blue, there is a place for you, too; the thing is to find
it.”
“What are those long buildings?” inquired Cameron, pointing towards the
water front.
“Those are railroad sheds; or, rather, Transportation Company's sheds;
they are practically the same thing. I say! What is the matter with
trying the Transportation Company? I know the manager well. The very
thing! Try the Transportation Company!”
“How should I go about it?” said Cameron. “I mean to say just what
position should I apply for?”
“Position!” shouted Denman. “Why, general manager would be good!”
Then, noting the flush in Cameron's face, he added quickly, “Pardon me!
The thing is to get your foot in somehow, and then wire in till you are
general manager, by Jove! It can be done! Fleming has done it! Went in
as messenger boy, but--” Denman paused. There flashed through his mind
the story of Fleming's career; a vision of the half-starved ragged waif
who started as messenger boy in the company's offices, and who, by dint
of invincible determination and resolute self-denial, fought his way
step by step to his present position of control. In contrast, he looked
at the young man, born and bred in circles where work is regarded as
a calamity, and service wears the badge of social disfranchisement.
Fleming had done it under compulsion of the inexorable mistress
“Necessity.” But what of this young man?
“Will we try?” he said at length. “I shall give you a letter to Mr.
Fleming.”
He sat down to his desk and wrote vigourously.
“Take this, and see what happens.”
Cameron took the letter, and, glancing at the address, read, Wm.
Fleming, Esquire, General Manager, Metropolitan Transportation & Cartage
Company.
“Is this a railroad?” asked Cameron.
“No, but next thing to it. The companies are practically one. The
transition from one to the other is easy enough. Let me know how you get
on. Good-by! And--I say!” cried Mr. Denman, calling Cameron back again
from the door, “see Mr. Fleming himself. Remember that! And remember,”
he added, with a smile, “the position of manager is not vacant just yet,
but it will be. I give you my word for it when you are ready to take it.
Good-by! Buck up! Take what he offers you! Get your teeth in, and never
let go!”
“By George!” said Denman to himself as the door closed on Cameron,
“these chaps are the limit. He's got lots of stuff in him, but he has
been rendered helpless by their fool system--God save us from it! That
chap has had things done for him ever since he was first bathed;
they have washed 'em, dressed 'em, fed 'em, schooled 'em, found 'em
positions, stuck 'em in, and watched that they didn't fall out. And
yet, by George!” he added, after a pause, “they are running the
world to-day--that is, some of them.” Facing which somewhat puzzling
phenomenon, Denman plunged into his work again.
Meantime Cameron was making his way towards the offices of the
Metropolitan Transportation & Cartage Company, oppressed with an
unacknowledged but none the less real sense of unfitness, and haunted
by a depressing sense of the deficiency of his own training, and of
the training afforded the young men of his class at home. As he started
along he battled with his depression. True enough, he had no skill
in the various accomplishments that Mr. Denman seemed to consider
essential; he had no experience in business, he was not fit for office
work--office work he loathed; but surely there was some position where
his talents would bring him recognition and fortune at last. After all,
Mr. Denman was only a Colonial, and with a Colonial's somewhat narrow
view of life. Who was he to criticise the system of training that for
generations had been in vogue at home? Had not Wellington said “that
England's battles were first won on the football fields of Eton and
Rugby,” or something like that? Of course, the training that might fit
for a distinguished career in the British army might not necessarily
insure success on the battle fields of industry and commerce. Yet
surely, an International player should be able to get somewhere!
At this point in his cogitations Cameron was arrested by a memory
that stabbed him like a knife-thrust; the awful moment when upon the
Inverleith grounds, in the face of the Welsh forward-line, he had
faltered and lost the International. Should he ever be able to forget
the agony of that moment and of the day that followed? And yet, he need
not have failed. He knew he could play his position with any man in
Scotland; he had failed because he was not fit. He set his teeth hard.
He would show these bally Colonials! He would make good! And with his
head high, he walked into the somewhat dingy offices of the Metropolitan
Transportation & Cartage Company, of which William Fleming, Esquire, was
manager.
Opening the door, Cameron found himself confronted by a short counter
that blocked the way for the general public into the long room, filled
with desks and chairs and clicking typewriting machines. Cameron had
never seen so many of these machines during the whole period of his
life. The typewriter began to assume an altogether new importance in
his mind. Hitherto it had appeared to him more or less of a Yankee fad,
unworthy of the attention of an able-bodied man of average intelligence.
In Edinburgh a “writing machine” was still something of a new-fangled
luxury, to be apologised for. Mr. Rae would allow no such finicky
instrument in his office. Here, however, there were a dozen, more or
less, manipulated for the most part by young ladies, and some of them
actually by men; on every side they clicked and banged. It may have
been the clicking and banging of these machines that gave to Cameron the
sense of rush and hurry so different from the calm quiet and dignified
repose of the only office he had ever known. For some moments he stood
at the counter, waiting attention from one of the many clerks sitting
before him, but though one and another occasionally glanced in his
direction, his presence seemed to awaken not even a passing curiosity in
their minds, much less to suggest the propriety of their inquiring his
business.
As the moments passed Cameron became conscious of a feeling of affront.
How differently a gentleman was treated by the clerks in the office
of Messrs. Rae & Macpherson, where prompt attention and deferential
courtesy in a clerk were as essential as a suit of clothes. Gradually
Cameron's head went up, and with it his choler. At length, in his
haughtiest tone, he hailed a passing youth:
“I say, boy, is this Mr. Fleming's office?”
The clicking and banging of the typewriters, and the hum of voices
ceased. Everywhere heads were raised and eyes turned curiously upon the
haughty stranger.
“Eh?” No letters can represent the nasal intonation of this syllabic
inquiry, and no words the supreme indifference of the boy's tone.
“Is Mr. Fleming in? I wish to see him!” Cameron's voice was loud and
imperious.
“Say, boys,” said a lanky youth, with a long, cadaverous countenance
and sallow, unhealthy complexion, illumined, however, and redeemed to
a certain extent by black eyes of extraordinary brilliance, “it is the
Prince of Wales!” The drawling, awe-struck tones, in the silence that
had fallen, were audible to all in the immediate neighbourhood.
The titter that swept over the listeners brought the hot blood to
Cameron's face. A deliberate insult a Highlander takes with calm. He is
prepared to deal with it in a manner affording him entire satisfaction.
Ridicule rouses him to fury, for, while it touches his pride, it leaves
him no opportunity of vengeance.
“Can you tell me if Mr. Fleming is in?” he enquired again of the boy
that stood scanning him with calm indifference. The rage that possessed
him so vibrated in his tone that the lanky lad drawled again in a
warning voice:
“Slide, Jimmy, slide!”
Jimmy “slid,” but towards the counter.
“Want to see him?” he enquired in a tone of brisk impertinence, as if
suddenly roused from a reverie.
“I have a letter for him.”
“All right! Hand it over,” said Jimmy, fully conscious that he was the
hero of more than usual interest.
Cameron hesitated, then passed his letter over to Jimmy, who, reading
the address with deliberate care, winked at the lanky boy, and with a
jaunty step made towards a door at the farther end of the room. As he
passed a desk that stood nearest the door, a man who during the last few
minutes had remained with his head down, apparently so immersed in
the papers before him as to be quite unconscious of his surroundings,
suddenly called out, “Here, boy!”
Jimmy instantly assumed an air of respectful attention.
“A letter for Mr. Fleming,” he said.
“Here!” replied the man, stretching out his hand.
He hurriedly glanced through the letter.
“Tell him there is no vacancy at present,” he said shortly.
The boy came back to Cameron with cheerful politeness. The “old man's”
eye was upon him.
“There is no vacancy at present,” he said briefly, and turned away as if
his attention were immediately demanded elsewhere by pressing business
of the Metropolitan Transportation & Cartage Company.
For answer, Cameron threw back the leaf of the counter that barred his
way, and started up the long room, past the staring clerks, to the desk
next the door.
“I wish to see Mr. Fleming, Sir,” he said, his voice trembling slightly,
his face pale, his blue-gray eyes ablaze.
The man at the desk looked up from his work.
“I have just informed you there is no vacancy at present,” he said
testily, and turned to his papers again, as if dismissing the incident.
“Will you kindly tell me if Mr. Fleming is in?” said Cameron in a voice
that had grown quite steady; “I wish to see him personally.”
“Mr. Fleming cannot see you, I tell you!” almost shouted the man, rising
from his desk and revealing himself a short, pudgy figure, with flabby
face and shining bald head. “Can't you understand English?--I can't be
bothered--!”
“What is it, Bates? Someone to see me?”
Cameron turned quickly towards the speaker, who had come from the inner
room.
“I have brought you a letter, Sir, from Mr. Denman,” he said quietly;
“it is there,” pointing to Bates' desk.
“A letter? Let me have it! Why was not this brought to me at once, Mr.
Bates?”
“It was an open letter, Sir,” replied Bates, “and I thought there was
no need of troubling you, Sir. I told the young man we had no vacancy at
present.”
“This is a personal letter, Mr. Bates, and should have been brought to
me at once. Why was Mr.--ah--Mr. Cameron not brought in to me?”
Mr. Bates murmured something about not wishing to disturb the manager on
trivial business.
“I am the judge of that, Mr. Bates. In future, when any man asks to see
me, I desire him to be shown in at once.”
Mr. Bates began to apologise.
“That is all that is necessary, Mr. Bates,” said the manager, in a voice
at once quiet and decisive.
“Come in, Mr. Cameron. I am very sorry this has happened!”
Cameron followed him into his office, noting, as he passed, the red
patches of rage on Mr. Bates' pudgy face, and catching a look of fierce
hate from his small piggy eyes. It flashed through his mind that in Mr.
Bates, at any rate, he had found no friend.
The result of the interview with Mr. Fleming was an intimation to Mr.
Bates that Mr. Cameron was to have a position in the office of the
Metropolitan Transportation & Cartage Company, and to begin work the
following morning.
“Very well, Sir,” replied Mr. Bates--he had apparently quite recovered
his equanimity--“we shall find Mr. Cameron a desk.”
“We begin work at eight o'clock exactly,” he added, turning to Cameron
with a pleasant smile.
Mr. Fleming accompanied Cameron to the door.
“Now, a word with you, Mr. Cameron. You may find Mr. Bates a little
difficult--he is something of a driver--but, remember, he is in charge
of this office; I never interfere with his orders.”
“I understand, Sir,” said Cameron, resolving that, at all costs, he
should obey Mr. Bates' orders, if only to show the general manager he
could recognise and appreciate a gentleman when he saw one.
Mr. Fleming was putting it mildly when he described Mr. Bates as
“something of a driver.” The whole office staff, from Jimmy, the office
boy, to Jacobs, the gentle, white-haired clerk, whose desk was in the
farthest corner of the room, felt the drive. He was not only office
manager, but office master as well. His rule was absolute, and from his
decisions there was no appeal. The general manager went on the theory
that it was waste of energy to keep a dog and bark himself. In the
policy that governed the office there were two rules which Mr. Bates
enforced with the utmost rigidity--the first, namely, that every member
of the staff must be in his or her place and ready for work when the
clock struck eight; the other, that each member of the staff must work
independently of every other member. A man must know his business, and
go through with it; if he required instructions, he must apply to the
office manager. But, as a rule, one experience of such application
sufficed for the whole period of a clerk's service in the office of the
Metropolitan Transportation & Cartage Company, for Mr. Bates was gifted
with such an exquisiteness of ironical speech that the whole staff were
wont to pause in the rush of their work to listen and to admire when
a new member was unhappy enough to require instructions, their silent
admiration acting as a spur to Mr. Bates' ingenuity in the invention of
ironical discourse.
Of the peculiarities and idiosyncrasies of Mr. Bates' system, however,
Cameron was quite ignorant; nor had his experience in the office of
Messrs. Rae & Macpherson been such as to impress upon him the necessity
of a close observation of the flight of time. It did not disturb him,
therefore, to notice as he strolled into the offices of the Metropolitan
Transportation & Cartage Company the next morning that the hands of the
clock showed six minutes past the hour fixed for the beginning of
the day's work. The office staff shivered in an ecstasy of expectant
delight. Cameron walked nonchalantly to Mr. Bates' desk, his overcoat on
his arm, his cap in his hand.
“Good morning, Sir,” he said.
Mr. Bates finished writing a sentence, looked up, and nodded a brief
good morning.
“We deposit our street attire on the hooks behind the door, yonder!” he
said with emphatic politeness, pointing across the room.
Cameron flushed, as in passing his desk he observed the pleased smile on
the lanky boy's sallow face.
“You evidently were not aware of the hours of this office,” continued
Mr. Bates when Cameron had returned. “We open at eight o'clock.”
“Oh!” said Cameron, carelessly. “Eight? Yes, I thought it was eight! Ah!
I see! I believe I am five minutes late! But I suppose I shall catch up
before the day is over!”
“Mr. Cameron,” replied Mr. Bates earnestly, “if you should work for
twenty years for the Metropolitan Transportation & Cartage Company,
never will you catch up those five minutes; every minute of your office
hours is pledged to the company, and every minute has its own proper
work. Your desk is the one next Mr. Jacobs, yonder. Your work is waiting
you there. It is quite simple, the entry of freight receipts upon
the ledger. If you wish further instructions, apply to me here--you
understand?”
“I think so!” replied Cameron. “I shall do my best to--”
“Very well! That is all!” replied Mr. Bates, plunging his head again
into his papers.
The office staff sank back to work with every expression of
disappointment. A moment later, however, their hopes revived.
“Oh! Mr. Cameron!” called out Mr. Bates. Mr. Cameron returned to his
desk. “If you should chance to be late again, never mind going to your
desk; just come here for your cheque.”
Mr. Bates' tone was kindly, even considerate, as if he were anxious to
save his clerk unnecessary inconvenience.
“I beg your pardon!” stammered Cameron, astonished.
“That is all!” replied Mr. Bates, his nose once more in his papers.
Cameron stood hesitating. His eye fell upon the boy, Jimmy, whose face
expressed keenest joy.
“Do you mean, Sir, that if I am late you dismiss me forthwith?”
“What?” Mr. Bates' tone was so fiercely explosive that it appeared to
throw up his head with a violent motion.
Cameron repeated his question.
“Mr. Cameron, my time is valuable; so is yours. I thought that I spoke
quite distinctly. Apparently I did not. Let me repeat: In case you
should inadvertently be late again, you need not take the trouble to go
to your desk; just come here. Your cheque will be immediately made out.
Saves time, you know--your time and mine--and time, you perceive, in
this office represents money.”
Mr. Bates' voice lost none of its kindly interest, but it had grown
somewhat in intensity; the last sentence was uttered with his face close
to his desk.
Cameron stood a moment in uncertainty, gazing at the bald head before
him; then, finding nothing to reply, he turned about to behold Jimmy
and his lanky friend executing an animated war pantomime which they
apparently deemed appropriate to the occasion.
With face ablaze and teeth set Cameron went to his desk, to the extreme
disappointment of Jimmy and the lanky youth, who fell into each other's
arms, apparently overcome with grief.
For half an hour the office hummed with the noise of subdued voices and
clicked with the rapid fire of the typewriters. Suddenly through the hum
Mr. Bates' voice was heard, clear, calm, and coldly penetrating:
“Mr. Jacobs!”
The old, white-haired clerk started up from Cameron's desk, and began
in a confused and gentle voice to explain that he was merely giving some
hints to the new clerk.
“Mr. Jacobs,” said Mr. Bates, “I cannot hear you, and you are wasting my
time!”
“He was merely showing me how to make these entries!” said Cameron.
“Ah! Indeed! Thank you, Mr. Cameron! Though I believe Mr. Jacobs has not
yet lost the power of lucid speech. Mr. Jacobs, I believe you know the
rules of this office; your fine will be one-quarter of a day.”
“Thank you!” said Mr. Jacobs, hurriedly resuming his desk.
“And, Mr. Cameron, if you will kindly bring your work to me, I shall do
my best to enlighten you in regard to the complex duty of entering your
freight receipts.”
An audible snicker ran through the delighted staff. Cameron seized his
ledger and the pile of freight bills, and started for Mr. Bates' desk,
catching out of the corner of his eye the pantomime of Jimmy and the
lanky one, which was being rendered with vigor and due caution.
For a few moments Cameron stood at the manager's desk till that
gentleman should be disengaged, but Mr. Bates was skilled in the
fine art of reducing to abject humility an employee who might give
indications of insubordination. Cameron's rage grew with every passing
moment.
“Here is the ledger, Sir!” he said at length.
But Mr. Bates was so completely absorbed in the business of saving time
that he made not the slightest pause in his writing, while the redoubled
vigor and caution of the pantomime seemed to indicate the approach of a
crisis. At length Mr. Bates raised his head. Jimmy and the lanky clerk
became at once engrossed in their duties.
“You have had no experience of this kind of work, Mr. Cameron?” inquired
Mr. Bates kindly.
“No, Sir. But if you will just explain one or two matters, I think I
can--”
“Exactly! This is not, however, a business college! But we shall do our
best!”
A rapturous smile pervaded the office. Mr. Bates was in excellent form.
“By the way, Mr. Cameron--pardon my neglect--but may I inquire just what
department of this work you are familiar with?”
“Oh, general--”
“Ah! The position of general manager, however, is filled at present!”
replied Mr. Bates kindly.
Cameron's flush grew deeper, while Jimmy and his friend resigned
themselves to an ecstasy of delight.
“I was going to say,” said Cameron in a tone loud and deliberate, “that
I had been employed with the general copying work in a writer's office.”
“Writing? Fancy! Writing, eh? No use here!” said Mr. Bates shortly, for
time was passing.
“A writer with us means a lawyer!” replied Cameron.
“Why the deuce don't they say so?” answered Mr. Bates impatiently.
“Well! Well!” getting hold of himself again. “Here we allow our
solicitors to look after our legal work. Typewrite?” he inquired
suddenly.
“I beg your pardon!” replied Cameron. “Typewrite? Do you mean, can I use
a typewriting machine?”
“Yes! Yes! For heaven's sake, yes!”
“No, I cannot!”
“Bookkeep?”
“No.”
“Good Lord! What have I got?” inquired Mr. Bates of himself, in a tone,
however, perfectly audible to those in the immediate neighbourhood.
“Try him licking stamps!” suggested the lanky youth in a voice that,
while it reached the ears of Jimmy and others near by, including
Cameron, was inaudible to the manager. Mr. Bates caught the sound,
however, and glared about him through his spectacles. Time was being
wasted--the supreme offense in that office--and Mr. Bates was fast
losing his self-command.
“Here!” he cried suddenly, seizing a sheaf of letters. “File these
letters. You will be able to do that, I guess! File's in the vault over
there!”
Cameron took the letters and stood looking helplessly from them to Mr.
Bates' bald head, that gentleman's face being already in close proximity
to the papers on his desk.
“Just how do I go about this?--I mean, what system do you--”
“Jim!” roared Mr. Bates, throwing down his pen, “show this con--show
Mr. Cameron how to file these letters! Just like these blank old-country
chumps!” added Mr. Bates, in a lower voice, but loud enough to be
distinctly heard.
Jim came up with a smile of patronising pity on his face. It was the
smile that touched to life the mass of combustible material that had
been accumulating for the last hour in Cameron's soul. Instead of
following the boy, he turned with a swift movement back to the manager's
desk, laid his sheaf of letters down on Mr. Bates' papers, and, leaning
over the desk, towards that gentleman, said:
“Did you mean that remark to apply to me?” His voice was very quiet.
But Mr. Bates started back with a quick movement from the white face and
burning eyes.
“Here, you get out of this!” he cried.
“Because,” continued Cameron, “if you did, I must ask you to apologise
at once.”
All smiles vanished from the office staff, even Jimmy's face assumed a
serious aspect. Mr. Bates pushed back his chair.
“A-po-pologise!” he sputtered. “Get out of this office, d'ye hear?”
“Be quick!” said Cameron, his hands gripping Mr. Bates' desk till it
shook.
“Jimmy! Call a policeman!” cried Mr. Bates, rising from his chair.
He was too slow. Cameron reached swiftly for his collar, and with one
fierce wrench swept Mr. Bates clear over the top of his desk, shook him
till his head wobbled dangerously, and flung him crashing across the
desk and upon the prostrate form of the lanky youth sitting behind it.
“Call a policeman! Call a policeman!” shouted Mr. Bates, who was
struggling meantime with the lanky youth to regain an upright position.
Cameron, meanwhile, walked quietly to where his coat and cap hung.
“Hold him, somebody! Hold him!” shouted Mr. Bates, hurrying towards him.
Cameron turned fiercely upon him.
“Did you want me, Sir?” he inquired.
Mr. Bates arrested himself with such violence that his feet slid from
under him, and once more he came sitting upon the floor.
“Get up!” said Cameron, “and listen to me!”
Mr. Bates rose, and stood, white and trembling.
“I may not know much about your Canadian ways of business, but I believe
I can teach you some old-country manners. You have treated me this
morning like the despicable bully that you are. Perhaps you will treat
the next old-country man with the decency that is coming to him, even if
he has the misfortune to be your clerk.”
With these words Cameron turned upon his heel and walked deliberately
towards the door. Immediately Jimmy sprang before him, and, throwing the
door wide open, bowed him out as if he were indeed the Prince of
Wales. Thus abruptly ended Cameron's connection with the Metropolitan
Transportation & Cartage Company. Before the day was done the whole city
had heard the tale, which lost nothing in the telling.
Next morning Mr. Denman was surprised to have Cameron walk in upon him.
“Hullo, young man!” shouted the lawyer, “this is a pretty business!
Upon my soul! Your manner of entry into our commercial life is somewhat
forceful! What the deuce do you mean by all this?”
Cameron stood, much abashed. His passion was all gone; in the calm light
of after-thought his action of yesterday seemed boyish.
“I'm awfully sorry, Mr. Denman,” he replied, “and I came to apologise to
you.”
“To me?” cried Denman. “Why to me? I expect, if you wish to get a
job anywhere in this town, you will need to apologise to the chap you
knocked down--what's his name?”
“Mr. Bates, I think his name is, Sir; but, of course, I cannot apologise
to him.”
“By Jove!” roared Mr. Denman, “he ought to have thrown you out of his
office! That is what I would have done!”
Cameron glanced up and down Mr. Denman's well-knit figure.
“I don't think so, Sir,” he said, with a smile.
“Why not?” said Mr. Denman, grasping the arms of his office chair.
“Because you would not have insulted a stranger in your office who was
trying his best to understand his work. And then, I should not have
tried it on you.”
“And why?”
“Well, I think I know a gentleman when I see one.”
Mr. Denman was not to be appeased.
“Well, let me tell you, young man, it would have been a mighty unhealthy
thing for you to have cut up any such shine in this office. I have done
some Rugby in my day, my boy, if you know what that means.”
“I have done a little, too,” said Cameron, with slightly heightened
colour.
“You have, eh! Where?”
“The Scottish International, Sir.”
“By Jove! You don't tell me!” replied Mr. Denman, his tone expressing a
new admiration and respect. “When? This year?”
“No, last year, Sir--against Wales!”
“By Jove!” cried Mr. Denman again; “give me your hand, boy! Any man who
has made the Scottish Internationals is not called to stand any cheek
from a cad like Bates.”
Mr. Denman shook Cameron warmly by the hand.
“Tell us about it!” he cried. “It must have been rare sport. If Bates
only knew it, he ought to count it an honour to have been knocked down
by a Scottish International.”
“I didn't knock him down, Sir!” said Cameron, apologetically; “he is
only a little chap; I just gave him a bit of a shake,” and Cameron
proceeded to recount the proceedings of the previous morning.
Mr. Denman was hugely delighted.
“Serves the little beast bloody well right!” he cried enthusiastically.
“But what's to do now? They will be afraid to let you into their offices
in this city.”
“I think, Sir, I am done with offices; I mean to try the land.”
“Farm, eh?” mused Mr. Denman. “Well, so be it! It will probably be safer
for you there--possibly for some others as well.”
CHAPTER II
A MAN'S JOB
Cameron slept heavily and long into the day, but as he awoke he was
conscious of a delightful exhilaration possessing him. For the first
time in his life he was a free man, ungoverned and unguided. For four
dreary weeks he had waited in Montreal for answers to his enquiries
concerning positions with farmers, but apparently the Canadian farmers
were not attracted by the qualifications and experience Cameron had
to offer. At length he had accepted the advice of Martin's uncle
in Montreal, who assured him with local pride that, if he desired a
position on a farm, the district of which the little city of London was
the centre was the very garden of Canada. He was glad now to remember
that he had declined a letter of introduction. He was now entirely on
his own. Neither in this city nor in the country round about was there
a soul with whom he had the remotest acquaintance. The ways of life led
out from his feet, all untried, all unknown. Which he should choose
he knew not, but with a thrill of exultation he thanked his stars the
choosing was his own concern. A feeling of adventure was upon him, a new
courage was rising in his heart. The failure that had hitherto dogged
his past essays in life did not dampen his confidence, for they had
been made under other auspices than his own. He had not fitted into his
former positions, but they had not been of his own choosing. He would
now find a place for himself and if he failed again he was prepared to
accept the responsibility. One bit of philosophy he carried with him
from Mr. Denman's farewell interview--“Now, young man, rememer,” that
gentleman had said after he had bidden him farewell, “this world is
pretty much made already; success consists in adjustment. Don't try to
make your world, adjust yourself to it. Don't fight the world, serve it
till you master it.” Cameron determined he would study adjustments; his
fighting tendency, which had brought him little success in the past, he
would control.
At this point the throb of a band broke in upon his meditations and
summoned him from his bed. He sprang to the window. It was circus day
and the morning parade, in all its mingled and cosmopolitan glory, was
slowly evolving its animated length to the strains of bands of music.
There were bands on horses and bands on chariots, and at the tail of the
procession a fearful and wonderful instrument bearing the euphonious and
classic name of the “calliope,” whose chief function seemed to be that
of terrifying the farmers' horses into frantic and determined attempts
to escape from these horrid alarms of the city to the peaceful haunts of
their rural solitudes.
Cameron was still boy enough to hurry through his morning duties in
order that he might mix with the crowd and share the perennial delights
which a circus affords. The stable yard attached to his hotel was lined
three deep with buggies, carriages, and lumber waggons, which had borne
in the crowds of farmers from the country. The hotel was thronged with
sturdy red-faced farm lads, looking hot and uncomfortable in their
unaccustomed Sunday suits, gorgeous in their rainbow ties, and rakish
with their hats set at all angles upon their elaborately brushed heads.
Older men, too, bearded and staid, moved with silent and self-respecting
dignity through the crowds, gazing with quiet and observant eyes upon
the shifting phantasmagoria that filled the circus grounds and the
streets nearby. With these, too, there mingled a few of both old and
young who, with bacchanalian enthusiasm, were swaggering their way
through the crowds, each followed by a company of friends good-naturedly
tolerant or solicitously careful.
Cameron's eyes, roving over the multitude, fell upon a little group that
held his attention, the principal figure of which was a tall middle aged
man with a good-natured face, adorned with a rugged grey chin whisker,
who was loudly declaiming to a younger companion with a hard face and
very wide awake, “My name's Tom Haley; ye can't come over me.”
“Ye bet yer life they can't. Ye ain't no chicken!” exclaimed his
hard-faced friend. “Say, let's liquor up once more before we go to see
the elephant.”
With these two followed a boy of some thirteen years, freckled faced and
solemn, slim and wiry of body, who was anxiously striving to drag his
father away from one of the drinking booths that dotted the circus
grounds, and towards the big tent; but the father had been already a
too frequent visitor at the booth to be quite amenable to his son's
pleading. He, in a glorious mood of self-appreciation, kept announcing
to the public generally and to his hard-faced friend in particular--
“My name's Tom Haley; ye can't come over me!”
“Come on, father,” pleaded Tim.
“No hurry, Timmy, me boy,” said his father. “The elephants won't run
away with the monkeys and the clowns can't git out of the ring.”
“Oh, come on, dad, I'm sure the show's begun.”
“Cheese it, young feller,” said the young man, “yer dad's able to take
care of himself.”
“Aw, you shut yer mouth!” replied Tim fiercely. “I know what you're
suckin' round for.”
“Good boy, Tim,” laughed his father; “ye giv' 'im one that time. Guess
we'll go. So long, Sam, if that's yer name. Ye see I've jist got ter
take in this 'ere show this morning with Tim 'ere, and then we have got
some groceries to git for the old woman. See there,” he drew a paper
from his pocket, “wouldn't dare show up without 'em, ye bet, eh, Tim!
Why, it's her egg and butter money and she wants value fer it, she does.
Well, so long, Sam, see ye later,” and with the triumphant Tim he made
for the big tent, leaving a wrathful and disappointed man behind him.
Cameron spent the rest of the day partly in “taking in” the circus
and partly in conversing with the farmers who seemed to have taken
possession of the town; but in answer to his most diligent and careful
enquiries he could hear of no position on a farm for which he could
honestly offer himself. The farmers wanted mowers, or cradlers, or good
smart turnip hands, and Cameron sorrowfully had to confess he was none
of these. There apparently was no single bit of work in the farmer's
life that Cameron felt himself qualified to perform.
It was wearing towards evening when Cameron once more came across Tim.
He was standing outside the bar room door, big tears silently coursing
down his pale and freckled cheeks.
“Hello!” cried Cameron, “what's up old chap? Where's your dad, and has
he got his groceries yet?”
“No,” said Tim, hastily wiping away his tears and looking up somewhat
shyly and sullenly into Cameron's face. What he saw there apparently won
his confidence.
“He's in yonder,” he continued, “and I can't git him out. They won't let
him come. They're jist making 'im full so he can't do anything, and we
ought to be startin' fer home right away, too!”
“Well, let's go in anyway and see what they are doing,” said Cameron
cheerfully, to whom the pale tear-stained face made strong appeal.
“They won't let us,” said Tim. “There's a feller there that chucks me
out.”
“Won't, eh? We'll see about that! Come along!”
Cameron entered the bar room, with Tim following, and looked about him.
The room was crowded to the door with noisy excited men, many of whom
were partially intoxicated. At the bar, two deep, stood a line of men
with glasses in their hands, or waiting to be served. In the farthest
corner of the room stood Tim's father, considerably the worse of his
day's experiences, and lovingly embracing the hard-faced young man, to
whom he was at intervals announcing, “My name's Tom Haley! Ye can't git
over me!”
As Cameron began to push through the crowd, a man with a very red face,
obviously on the watch for Tim, cried out--
“Say, sonny, git out of here! This is no place fer you!”
Tim drew back, but Cameron, turning to him, said,
“Come along, Tim. He's with me,” he added, addressing the man. “He wants
his father.”
“His father's not here. He left half an hour ago. I told him so.”
“You were evidently mistaken, for I see him just across the room there,”
said Cameron quietly.
“Oh! is he a friend of yours?” enquired the red-faced man.
“No, I don't know him at all, but Tim does, and Tim wants him,” said
Cameron, beginning to push his way through the crowd towards the
vociferating Haley, who appeared to be on the point of backing up some
of his statements with money, for he was flourishing a handful of bills
in the face of the young man Sam, who apparently was quite willing to
accommodate him with the wager.
Before Cameron could make his way through the swaying, roaring crowd,
the red-faced man slipped from his side, and in a very few moments
appeared at a side door near Tom Haley's corner. Almost immediately
there was a shuffle and Haley and his friends disappeared through the
side door.
“Hello!” cried Cameron, “there's something doing! We'll just slip around
there, my boy.” So saying, he drew Tim back from the crowd and out
of the front door, and, hurrying around the house, came upon Sam, the
red-faced man, and Haley in a lane leading past the stable yard. The
red-faced man was affectionately urging a bottle upon Haley.
“There they are!” said Tim in an undertone, clutching Cameron's arm.
“You get him away and I'll hitch up.”
“All right, Tim,” said Cameron, “I'll get him. They are evidently up to
no good.”
“What's yer name?” said Tim hurriedly.
“Cameron!”
“Come on, then!” he cried, dragging Cameron at a run towards his father.
“Here, Dad!” he cried, “this is my friend, Mr. Cameron! Come on home.
I'm going to hitch up. We'll be awful late for the chores and we got
them groceries to git. Come on, Dad!”
“Aw, gwan! yer a cheeky kid anyway,” said Sam, giving Tim a shove that
nearly sent him on his head.
“Hold on there, my man, you leave the boy alone,” said Cameron.
“What's your business in this, young feller?”
“Never mind!” said Cameron. “Tim is a friend of mine and no one is going
to hurt him. Run along, Tim, and get your horses.”
“Friend o' Tim's, eh!” said Haley, in half drunken good nature. “Friend
o' Tim's, friend o' mine,” he added, gravely shaking Cameron by the
hand. “Have a drink, young man. You look a' right!”
Cameron took the bottle, put it to his lips. The liquor burned like
fire.
“Great Caesar!” he gasped, contriving to let the bottle drop upon a
stone. “What do you call that?”
“Pretty hot stuff!” cried Haley, with a shout of laughter.
But Sam, unable to see the humour of the situation, exclaimed in a rage,
“Here, you cursed fool! That is my bottle!”
“Sorry to be so clumsy,” said Cameron apologetically, “but it surely
wasn't anything to drink, was it?”
“Yes, it jest was something to drink, was it?” mocked Sam, approaching
Cameron with menace in his eye and attitude. “I have a blanked good
notion to punch your head, too!”
“Oh! I wouldn't do that if I were you,” said Cameron, smiling
pleasantly.
“Say, Sam, don't get mad, Sam,” interposed Haley. “This young feller's
a friend o' Tim's. I'll git another bottle a' right. I've got the stuff
right here.” He pulled out his roll of bills. “And lots more where this
comes from.”
“Let me have that, Mr. Haley, I'll get the bottle for you,” said
Cameron, reaching out for the bills.
“A' right,” said Haley. “Friend o' Tim's, friend o' mine.”
“Here, young feller, you're too fresh!” cried the red-faced man,
“buttin' in here! You make tracks, git out! Come, git out, I tell yeh!”
“Give it to him quick,” said Sam in a low voice.
The red-faced man, without the slightest warning, swiftly stepped
towards Cameron and, before the latter could defend himself, struck him
a heavy blow. Cameron staggered, fell, and struggled again to his knees.
The red-faced man sprang forward to kick him in the face, when Haley
interposed--
“Hold up there, now! Friend o' Tim's, friend o' mine, ye know!”
“Hurry up,” said Sam, closing in on Haley. “Quit fooling. Give 'im the
billy and let's get away!”
But Haley, though unskilled with his hands, was a man of more than
ordinary strength, and he swung his long arms about with such vigour
that neither Sam, who was savagely striking at his head, nor the
red-faced man, who was dancing about waiting for a chance to get in with
the “billy,” which he held in his hand, was able to bring the affair to
a finish. It could be a matter of only a few moments, however, for both
Sam and his friend were evidently skilled in the arts of the thug, while
Haley, though powerful enough, was chiefly occupying himself in beating
the air. A blow from the billy dropped one of Haley's arms helpless. The
red-faced man, following up his advantage, ran in to finish, but Haley
gripped him by the wrist and, exerting all his strength, gave a mighty
heave and threw him heavily against Sam, who was running in upon the
other side. At the same time Cameron, who was rapidly recovering,
clutched Sam by a leg and brought him heavily to earth. Reaching down,
Haley gripped Cameron by the collar and hauled him to his feet just as
Sam, who had sprung up, ran to the attack. Steadied by Haley, Cameron
braced himself, and, at exactly the right moment, stiffened his left
arm with the whole weight of his body behind it. The result was a most
unhappy one for Sam, who, expecting no such reception, was lifted
clear off his feet and hurled to the ground some distance away. The
exhilaration of his achievement brought Cameron's blood back again to
his brain. Swiftly he turned upon the red-faced man just as that worthy
had brought Haley to his knees with a cruel blow and was preparing
to finish off his victim. With a shout Cameron sprang at him, the man
turned quickly, warded off Cameron's blow, and then, seeing Sam lying
helpless upon the ground, turned and fled down the lane.
“Say, young feller!” panted Haley, staggering to his feet, “yeh came in
mighty slick that time. Yeh ain't got a bottle on ye, hev yeh?”
“No!” said Cameron, “but there's a pump near by.”
“Jest as good and a little better,” said Haley, staggering towards the
pump. “Say,” he continued, with a humourous twinkle in his eye, and
glancing at the man lying on the ground, “Sam's kinder quiet, ain't he?
Run agin something hard like, I guess.”
Cameron filled a bucket with water and into its icy depths Haley plunged
his head.
“Ow! that's good,” he sputtered, plunging his head in again and again.
“Fill 'er up once more!” he said, wiping off his face with a big red
handkerchief. “Now, I shouldn't wonder if it would help Sam a bit.”
He picked up the bucket of water and approached Sam, who meantime had
got to a sitting position and was blinking stupidly around.
“Here, ye blamed hog, hev a wash, ye need it bad!” So saying, Haley
flung the whole bucket of water over Sam's head and shoulders. “Fill
'er up again,” he said, but Sam had had enough, and, swearing wildly,
gasping and sputtering, he made off down the lane.
“I've heard o' them circus toughs,” said Haley in a meditative tone,
“but never jest seen 'em before. Say, young feller, yeh came in mighty
handy fer me a' right, and seeing as yer Tim's friend put it there.” He
gripped Cameron's hand and shook it heartily. “Here's Tim with the team,
and, say, there's no need to mention anything about them fellers. Tim's
real tender hearted. Well, I'm glad to hev met yeh. Good-bye! Living
here?”
“No!”
“Travellin', eh?”
“Not exactly,” replied Cameron. “The truth is I'm looking for a
position.”
“A position? School teachin', mebbe?”
“No, a position on a farm.”
“On a farm? Ha! ha! good! Position on a farm,” repeated Haley.
“Yes,” replied Cameron. “Do you know of any?”
“Position on a farm!” said Haley again, as if trying to grasp the
meaning of this extraordinary quest. “There ain't any.”
“No positions?” enquired Cameron.
“Nary one! Say, young man, where do you come from?”
“Scotland,” replied Cameron.
“Scotland! yeh don't say, now. Jest out, eh?”
“Yes, about a month or so.”
“Well, well! Yeh don't say so!”
“Yes,” replied Cameron, “and I am surprised to hear that there is no
work.”
“Oh! hold on there now!” interposed Haley gravely. “If it's work you
want there are stacks of it lying round, but there ain't no positions.
Positions!” ejaculated Haley, who seemed to be fascinated by the word,
“there ain't none on my farm except one and I hold that myself; but
there's lots o' work, and--why! I want a man right now. What say? Come
along, stay's long's yeh like. I like yeh fine.”
“All right,” said Cameron. “Wait till I get my bag, but I ought to tell
you I have had no experience.”
“No experience, eh!” Haley pondered. “Well, we'll give it to you, and
anyway you saved me some experience to-day and you come home with me.”
When he returned he found Haley sitting on the bottom of the wagon
rapidly sinking into slumber. The effects of the bucket were passing
off.
“What about the groceries, Tim?” enquired Cameron.
“We've got to git 'em,” said Tim, “or we'll catch it sure.”
Leaving Cameron to wonder what it might be that they were sure to catch,
Tim extracted from his father's pocket the paper on which were listed
the groceries to be purchased, and the roll of bills, and handed both to
Cameron.
“You best git 'em,” he said, and, mounting to the high spring seat,
turned the team out of the yard. The groceries secured with Cameron's
help, they set off for home as the long June evening was darkening into
night.
“My! it's awful late,” said Tim in a voice full of foreboding. “And
Perkins ain't no good at chores.”
“How far is it to your home?” enquired Cameron.
“Nine miles out this road and three off to the east.”
“And who's Perkins?”
“Perkins! Joe Perkins! He's our hired man. He's a terror to work at
plowin', cradlin', and bindin', but he ain't no good at chores. I bet
yeh he'll leave Mandy to do the milkin', ten cows, and some's awful
bad.”
“And who's Mandy?” enquired Cameron.
“Mandy! She's my sister. She's an awful quick milker. She can beat Dad,
or Perkins, or any of 'em, but ten cows is a lot, and then there's the
pigs and the calves to feed, and the wood, too. I bet Perkins won't cut
a stick. He's good enough in the field,” continued Tim, with an obvious
desire to do Perkins full justice, “but he ain't no good around the
house. He says he ain't hired to do women's chores, and Ma she won't ask
'im. She says if he don't do what he sees to be done she'd see 'im far
enough before she'd ask 'im.” And so Timothy went on with a monologue
replete with information, his high thin voice rising clear above the
roar and rattle of the lumber wagon as it rumbled and jolted over the
rutty gravel road. Those who knew the boy would have been amazed at his
loquacity, but something in Cameron had won his confidence and opened
his heart. Hence his monologue, in which the qualities, good and bad, of
the members of the family, of their own hired man and of other hired
men were fully discussed. The standard of excellence for work in the
neighbourhood, however, appeared to be Perkins, whose abilities Tim
appeared greatly to admire, but for whose person he appeared to have
little regard.
“He's mighty good at turnip hoeing, too,” he said. “I could pretty near
keep up to him last year and I believe I could do it this year. Some
day soon I'm going to git after 'im. My! I'd like to trim 'im to a fine
point.”
The live stock on the farm in general, and the young colts in
particular, among which a certain two-year-old was showing signs of
marvellous speed, these and cognate subjects relating to the farm, its
dwellers and its activities, Tim passed in review, with his own shrewd
comments thereon.
“And what do you play, Tim?” asked Cameron, seeking a point of contact
with the boy.
“Nothin',” said Tim shortly. “No time.”
“Don't you go to school?”
“Yes, in fall and winter. Then we play ball and shinny some, but there
ain't much time.”
“But you can't work all the time, Tim? What work can you do?”
“Oh!” replied Tim carelessly, “I run a team.”
“Run a team? What do you mean?”
Tim glanced up at him and, perceiving that he was quite serious,
proceeded to explain that during the spring's work he had taken his
place in the plowing and harrowing with the “other” men, that he
expected to drive the mower and reaper in haying and harvest, that, in
short, in almost all kinds of farm work he was ready to take the place
of a grown man; and all this without any sign of boasting.
Cameron thought over his own life, in which sport had filled up so large
a place and work so little, and in which he had developed so little
power of initiative and such meagre self-dependence, and he envied the
solemn-faced boy at his side, handling his team and wagon with the skill
of a grown man.
“I say, Tim!” he exclaimed in admiration, “you're great. I wish I could
do half as much.”
“Oh, pshaw!” exclaimed Tim in modest self-disdain, “that ain't nothin',
but I wish I could git off a bit.”
“Get off? What do you mean?”
The boy was silent for some moments, then asked shyly:
“Say! Is there big cities in Scotland, an' crowds of people, an' trains,
an' engines, an' factories, an' things? My! I wish I could git away!”
Then Cameron understood dimly something of the wander-lust in the boy's
soul, of the hunger for adventure, for the colour and movement of life
in the great world “away” from the farm, that thrilled in the boy's
voice. So for the next half hour he told Tim tales of his own life, the
chief glory of which had been his achievements in the realm of sport,
and, before he was aware, he was describing to the boy the great
International with Wales, till, remembering the disastrous finish, he
brought his narrative to an abrupt close.
“And did yeh lick 'em?” demanded Tim in a voice of intense excitement.
“No,” said Cameron shortly.
“Oh, hedges! I wisht ye had!” exclaimed Tim in deep disappointment.
“It was my fault,” replied Cameron bitterly, for the eager wish in the
boy's heart had stirred a similar yearning in his own and had opened an
old sore.
“I was a fool,” he said, more to himself than to Tim. “I let myself get
out of condition and so I lost them the match.”
“Aw, git out!” said Tim, with unbelieving scorn. “I bet yeh didn't! My!
I wisht I could see them games.”
“Oh, pshaw! Tim, they are not half so worth while as plowing, harrowing,
and running your team. Why, here you are, a boy of--how old?”
“Thirteen,” said Tim.
“A boy of thirteen able to do a man's work, and here am I, a man of
twenty-one, only able to do a boy's work, and not even that. But I'm
going to learn, Tim,” added Cameron. “You hear me, I am going to learn
to do a man's work. If I can,” he added doubtfully.
“Oh, shucks!” replied Tim, “you bet yeh can, and I'll show yeh,” with
which mutual determination they turned in at the gate of the Haley farm,
which was to be the scene of Cameron's first attempt to do a man's work
and to fill a man's place in the world.
CHAPTER III
A DAY'S WORK
The Haley farm was a survival of an ambitious past. Once the property of
a rich English gentleman, it had been laid out with an eye to appearance
rather than to profit and, though the soil was good enough, it had
never been worked to profit. Consequently, when its owner had tired
of Colonial life, he had at first rented the farm, but, finding this
unsatisfactory, he, in a moment of disgust, advertised it for sale.
Pretentious in its plan and in its appointments, its neglected and run
down condition gave it an air of decayed gentility, depressing alike
to the eye of the beholder and to the selling price of the owner. Haley
bought it and bought it cheap. From the high road a magnificent avenue
of maples led to a house of fine proportions, though sadly needing
repair. The wide verandahs, the ample steps were unpainted and falling
into ruin; the lawn reaching from the front door to the orchard was
spacious, but overgrown with burdocks, nettles and other noxious weeds;
the orchard, which stretched from the lawn to the road on both sides
of the lane, had been allowed to run sadly to wood. At the side of the
house the door-yard was littered with abandoned farm implements, piles
of old fence rails and lumber and other impedimenta, which, though
kindly Nature, abhorring the unsightly rubbish, was doing her utmost to
hide it all beneath a luxuriant growth of docks, milkweed, and nettles,
lent an air of disorder and neglect to the whole surroundings. The
porch, or “stoop,” about the summer kitchen was set out with an
assortment of tubs and pails, pots and pans, partially filled with
various evil looking and more evil smelling messes, which afforded an
excellent breeding and feeding place for flies, mosquitoes, and other
unpleasant insects. Adjoining the door yard, and separated from it by a
fence, was the barn yard, a spacious quadrangle flanked on three sides
by barns, stables, and sheds, which were large and finely planned, but
which now shared the general appearance of decrepitude. The fence, which
separated one yard from the other, was broken down, so that the barn
yard dwellers, calves, pigs, and poultry, wandered at will in search of
amusement or fodder to the very door of the kitchen, and so materially
contributed to the general disorder, discomfort, and dirt.
Away from the house, however, where Nature had her own way, the farm
stretched field after field on each side of the snake fenced lane to the
line of woods in the distance, a picture of rich and varied beauty. From
the rising ground on which the house was situated a lovely vista swept
right from the kitchen door away to the remnant of the forest primeval
at the horizon. On every field the signs of coming harvest were
luxuriantly visible, the hay fields, grey-green with blooming “Timothy”
and purple with the deep nestling clover, the fall wheat green and
yellowing into gold, the spring wheat a lighter green and bursting into
head, the oats with their graceful tasselated stalks, the turnip field
ribboned with its lines of delicate green on the dark soil drills, back
of all, the “slashing” where stumps, blackened with fire, and trunks
of trees piled here and there in confusion, all overgrown with weeds,
represented the transition stage between forest and harvest field, and
beyond the slashing the dark cool masses of maple, birch, and elm; all
these made a scene of such varied loveliness as to delight the soul
attuned to nature.
Upon this scene of vivid contrasts, on one side house and barn and yard,
and on the other the rolling fields and massive forest, Cameron stood
looking in the early light of his first morning on the farm, with
mingled feelings of disgust and pleasure. In a few moments, however, the
loveliness of the far view caught and held his eye and he stood as in a
dream. The gentle rolling landscape, with its rich variety of greens and
yellows and greys, that swept away from his feet to the dark masses of
woods, with their suggestions of cool and shady depth, filled his soul
with a deep joy and brought him memory of how the “Glen of the Cup of
Gold” would look that morning in the dear home-land so far away. True,
there were neither mountains nor moors, neither lochs nor birch-clad
cliffs here. Nature, in her quieter mood, looked up at him from these
sloping fields and bosky woods and smiled with kindly face, and that
smile of hers it was that brought to Cameron's mind the sunny Glen of
the Cup of Gold. It was the sweetest, kindliest thing his eye had looked
on since he had left the Glen.
A harsh and fretful voice broke in upon his dreaming.
“Pa-a-w, there ain't a stick of wood for breakfast! There was none last
night! If you want any breakfast you'd best git some wood!”
“All right, Mother!” called Haley from the barn yard, where he was
assisting in the milking. “I'm a comin'.”
Cameron walked to meet him.
“Can I help?” he enquired.
“Why, of course!” shouted Haley. “Here, Ma, here's our new hand, the
very man for you.”
Mrs. Haley, who had retired to the kitchen, appeared at the door. She
was a woman past middle age, unduly stout, her face deep lined with
the fret of a multitude of cares, and hung with flabby folds of skin,
browned with the sun and wind, though it must be confessed its color was
determined more by the grease and grime than by the tan upon it. Yet,
in spite of the flabby folds of flesh, in spite of the grime and grease,
there was still a reminiscence of a one-time comeliness, all the more
pathetic by reason of its all too obvious desecration. Her voice was
harsh, her tone fretful, which indeed was hardly to be wondered at,
for the burden of her life was by no means light, and the cares of the
household, within and without, were neither few nor trivial.
For a moment or two Mrs. Haley stood in silence studying and appraising
the new man. The result did not apparently inspire her with hope.
“Come on now, Pa,” she said, “stop yer foolin' and git me that wood. I
want it right now. You're keepin' me back and there's an awful lot to
do.”
“But I ain't foolin', Ma. Mr. Cameron is our new hand. He'll knock yeh
off a few sticks in no time.” So saying, Haley walked off with his pails
to the milking, leaving his wife and the new hand facing each other,
each uncertain as to the next move.
“What can I do, Mrs. Haley?” enquired Cameron politely.
“Oh, I don't know,” said Mrs. Haley wearily. “I want a few sticks for
the breakfast, but perhaps I can get along with chips, but chips don't
give no steady fire.”
“If you would show me just what to do,” said Cameron with some
hesitation, “I mean, where is the wood to be got?”
“There,” she said, in a surprised tone, pointing to a pile of long logs
of ash and maple. “I don't want much.” She gathered her apron full of
chips and turned away, all too obviously refusing to place her hope of
wood for the breakfast fire upon the efforts of the new man. Cameron
stood looking alternately at the long, hard, dry logs and at the axe
which he had picked up from the bed of chips. The problem of how to
produce the sticks necessary to breakfast by the application of the one
to the other was one for which he could see no solution. He lifted his
axe and brought it down hard upon a maple log. The result was a slight
indentation upon the log and a sharp jar from the axe handle that ran up
his arm unpleasantly. A series of heavy blows produced nothing more than
a corresponding series of indentations in the tough maple log and of
jars more or less sharp and painful shooting up his arms. The result was
not encouraging, but it flashed upon him that this was his first attempt
to make good at his job on the farm. He threw off his coat and went at
his work with energy; but the probability of breakfast, so far as it
depended upon the result of his efforts, seemed to be growing more and
more remote.
“Guess ye ain't got the knack of it,” said a voice, deep, full, and
mellow, behind him. “That axe ain't no good for choppin', it's a
splittin' axe.”
Turning, he saw a girl of about seventeen, with little grace and less
beauty, but strongly and stoutly built, and with a good-natured, if
somewhat stupid and heavy face. Her hair was dun in colour, coarse
in texture, and done up loosely and carelessly in two heavy braids,
arranged about her head in such a manner as to permit stray wisps of
hair to escape about her face and neck. She was dressed in a loose pink
wrapper, all too plainly of home manufacture, gathered in at the
waist, and successfully obliterating any lines that might indicate
the existence of any grace of form, and sadly spotted and stained with
grease and dirt. Her red stout arms ended in thick and redder hands,
decked with an array of black-rimmed nails. At his first glance,
sweeping her “tout ensemble,” Cameron was conscious of a feeling of
repulsion, but in a moment this feeling passed and he was surprised to
find himself looking into two eyes of surprising loveliness, dark blue,
well shaped, and of such liquid depths as to suggest pools of water
under forest trees.
“They use the saw mostly,” said the girl.
“The saw?” echoed Cameron.
“Yes,” she said. “They saw 'em through and then split 'em with the axe.”
Cameron picked up the buck-saw which lay against a rickety saw horse.
Never in his life had he used such an instrument. He gazed helplessly at
his companion.
“How do you use this thing?” he enquired.
“Say! are you funny,” replied the girl, flashing a keen glance upon him,
“or don't ye know?”
“Never saw it done in my life,” said Cameron solemnly.
“Here!” she cried, “let me show you.”
She seized the end of a maple log, dragged it forward to the rickety saw
horse, set it in position, took the saw from his hands, and went at her
work with such vigour that in less than a minute as it seemed to Cameron
she had made the cut.
“Give me that axe!” she said impatiently to Cameron, who was preparing
to split the block.
With a few strong and skillful blows she split the straight-grained
block of wood into firewood, gathered up the sticks in her arms, and,
with a giggle, turned toward the house.
“I won't charge you anything for that lesson,” she said, “but you'll
have to hustle if you git that wood split 'fore breakfast.”
“Thank you,” said Cameron, grateful that none of the men had witnessed
the instruction, “I shall do my best,” and for the next half hour, with
little skill, but by main strength, he cut off a number of blocks from
the maple log and proceeded to split them. But in this he made slow
progress. From the kitchen came cheerful sounds and scents of cooking,
and ever and anon from the door waddled, with quite surprising celerity,
the unwieldy bulk of the mistress of the house.
“Now, that's jest like yer Pa,” Cameron heard her grumbling to her
daughter, “bringin' a man here jest at the busy season who don't know
nothin'. He's peckin' away at 'em blocks like a rooster peckin' grain.”
“He's willin' enough, Ma,” replied the girl, “and I guess he'll learn.”
“Learn!” puffed Mrs. Haley contemptuously. “Did ye ever see an
old-country man learn to handle an axe or a scythe after he was growed
up? Jest look at 'im. Thank goodness! there's Tim.”
“Here, Tim!” she called from the door, “best split some o' that wood
'fore breakfast.”
Tim approached Cameron with a look of pity on his face.
“Let me have a try,” he said. Cameron yielded him the axe. The boy set
on end the block at which Cameron had been laboring and, with a swift
glancing blow of the axe, knocked off a slab.
“By Jove!” exclaimed Cameron admiringly, “how did you do that?”
For answer the boy struck again the same glancing blow, a slab started
and, at a second light blow, fell to the ground.
“I say!” exclaimed Cameron again, “I must learn that trick.”
“Oh, that's easy!” said Tim, knocking the slabs off from the outside of
the block. “This heart's goin' to be tough, though; got a knot in it,”
and tough it proved, resisting all his blows.
“You're a tough sucker, now, ain't yeh?” said Tim, through his shut
teeth, addressing the block. “We'll try yeh this way.” He laid the end
of the block upon a log and plied the axe with the full strength of
his slight body, but the block danced upon the log and resisted all his
blows.
“Say! you're a tough one now!” he said, pausing for breath.
“Let me try that,” said Cameron, and, putting forth his strength, he
brought the axe down fairly upon the stick with such force that the
instrument shore clean through the knot and sank into the log below.
“Huh! that's a cracker,” said Tim with ungrudging admiration. “All you
want is knack. I'll slab it off and you can do the knots,” he added with
a grin.
As the result of this somewhat unequal division of labor, there lay in
half an hour a goodly pile of fire wood ready for the cooking. It caught
Haley's eye as he came in to breakfast.
“I say, Missus, that's a bigger pile than you've had for some time.
Guess my new man ain't so slow after all.”
“Huh!” puffed his wife, waddling about with great agility, “it was Tim
that done it.”
“Now, Ma, ye know well enough he helped Tim, and right smart too,” said
the daughter, but her mother was too busy getting breakfast ready for
the hungry men who were now performing their morning ablutions with the
help of a very small basin set upon a block of wood outside the kitchen
door to answer.
There were two men employed by Haley, one the son of a Scotch-Canadian
farmer, Webster by name, a stout young fellow, but slow in his
movements, both physical and mental, and with no further ambition than
to do a fair day's work for a fair day's pay. He was employed by the
month during the busier seasons of the year. The other, Perkins, was
Haley's “steady” man, which means that he was employed by the year and
was regarded almost as a member of the family. Perkins was an Englishman
with fair hair and blue eyes, of fresh complexion, burned to a clear
red, clean-cut features, and a well knit, athletic frame. He was, as
Tim declared, a terror to work; indeed, his fame as a worker was well
established throughout the country side. To these men Cameron was
introduced as being from Scotland and as being anxious to be initiated
into the mysteries of Canadian farm life.
“Glad to see you!” said Perkins, shaking him heartily by the hand.
“We'll make a farmer of you, won't we, Tim? From Scotland, eh? Pretty
fine country, I hear--to leave,” he added, with a grin at his own
humour. Though his manner was pleasant enough, Cameron became conscious
of a feeling of aversion, which he recognised at once as being as
unreasonable as it was inexplicable. He set it down as a reflection
of Tim's mental attitude toward the hired man. Perkins seized the
tin basin, dipped some water from the rain barrel standing near, and,
setting it down before Cameron, said:
“Here, pile in, Scotty. Do they wash in your country?”
“Yes,” replied Cameron, “they are rather strong on that,” wondering at
the same time how the operation could be performed successfully with
such a moderate supply of water. After using a second and third supply,
however, he turned, with hands and face dripping, and looked about for a
towel. Perkins handed him a long roller towel, black with dirt and
stiff with grease. Had his life depended upon it Cameron could not have
avoided a shuddering hesitation as he took the filthy cloth preparatory
to applying it to his face.
“'Twon't hurt you,” laughed Perkins. “Wash day ain't till next week, you
know, and this is only Wednesday.” Suddenly the towel was snatched from
Cameron's hands.
“Gimme that towel!” It was the girl, with face aflame and eyes emitting
blue fire. “Here; Mr. Cameron, take this,” she said.
“Great Jerusalem, Mandy! You ain't goin' to bring on a clean towel the
middle of the week?” said Perkins in mock dismay. “Guess it's for Mr.
Cameron,” he continued with another laugh.
“We give clean towels to them that knows how to use 'em,” said Mandy,
whisking wrathfully into the house.
“Say, Scotty!” said Perkins, in a loud bantering tone, “guess you're
makin' a mash on Mandy all right.”
“I don't know exactly what you mean,” said Cameron with a quick rising
of wrath, “but I do know that you are making a beastly cad of yourself.”
“Oh, don't get wrathy, Scotty!” laughed Perkins, “we're just having a
little fun. Here's the comb!” But Cameron declined the article,
which, from its appearance, seemed to be intended for family use, and,
proceeding to his room, completed his toilet there.
The breakfast was laid in the kitchen proper, a spacious and comfortable
room, which served as living room for the household. The table was
laden with a variety and abundance of food that worthily sustained the
reputation of the Haleys of being “good feeders.” At one end of the
table a large plate was heaped high with slices of fat pork, and here
and there disposed along its length were dishes of fried potatoes, huge
piles of bread, hot biscuits, plates of butter, pies of different kinds,
maple syrup, and apple sauce. It was a breakfast fit for a lord, and
Cameron sat down with a pleasurable anticipation induced by his early
rising and his half hour's experience in the fresh morning air with the
wood pile. A closer inspection, however, of the dishes somewhat damped
the pleasure of his anticipation. The food was good, abundant, and well
cooked, but everywhere there was an utter absence of cleanliness.
The plates were greasy, the forks and knives bore the all too evident
remains of former meals, and everywhere were flies. In hundreds they
swarmed upon the food, while, drowned in the gravy, cooked in the
potatoes, overwhelmed in the maple syrup, buried in the butter, their
ghastly carcasses were to be seen. With apparent unconcern the men
brushed aside the living and picked out and set aside the remains of the
dead, the unhappy victims of their own greed or temerity, and went on
calmly and swiftly with their business. Not a word was spoken except
by Cameron himself, who, constrained by what he considered to be the
ordinary decencies of society, made an effort to keep up a conversation
with Mr. Haley at the head of the table and occasionally ventured a
remark to his wife, who, with Mandy, was acting as a waiter upon the
hungry men. But conversation is a social exercise, and Cameron found
himself compelled to abandon his well meant but solitary efforts at
maintaining the conventions of the breakfast table. There was neither
time nor occasion for conversation. The business of the hour was
something quite other, namely, that of devouring as large a portion
of the food set before them as was possible within the limits of time
assigned for the meal. Indeed, the element of time seemed to be one of
very considerable importance, as Cameron discovered, for he was still
picking his way gingerly and carefully through his pork and potatoes by
the time that Perkins, having completed a second course consisting of
pie and maple syrup, had arrived at the final course of bread and butter
and apple sauce.
“Circulate the butter!” he demanded of the table in general. He took the
plate from Cameron's hand, looked at it narrowly for a moment, then with
thumb and forefinger drew from the butter with great deliberation a long
dun-coloured hair.
“Say!” he said in a low voice, but perfectly audible, “they forgot to
comb it this morning.”
Cameron was filled with unspeakable disgust, but, glancing at Mrs.
Haley's face, he saw to his relief that both the action and the remark
had been unnoticed by her. But on Mandy's face he saw the red ensign of
shame and wrath, and in spite of himself he felt his aversion towards
the ever-smiling hired man deepen into rage.
Finding himself distanced in his progress through the various courses at
breakfast, Cameron determined to miss the intermediate course of pie
and maple syrup and, that he might finish on more even terms with the
others, proceeded with bread and butter and apple sauce.
“Don't yeh hurry,” said Mrs. Haley with hearty hospitality. “Eat plenty,
there's lots to spare. Here, have some apple sauce.” She caught up the
bowl which held this most delicious article of food.
“Where's the spoon?” she said, glancing round the table. There was none
immediately available. “Here!” she cried, “this'll do.” She snatched
a large spoon from the pitcher of thick cream, held it dripping for
a moment in obvious uncertainty, then with sudden decision she cried
“Never mind,” and with swift but effective application of lip and tongue
she cleansed the spoon of the dripping cream, and, stirring the apple
sauce vigourously, passed the bowl to Cameron. For a single moment
Cameron held the bowl, uncertain whether to refuse or not, but before he
could make up his mind Mandy caught it from his hands.
“Oh, Ma!” she exclaimed in a horrified tone.
“What's the matter?” exclaimed her mother. “A little cream won't hurt.”
But Mandy set the bowl at the far end of the table and passed another to
Cameron, who accepted it with resolute determination and continued his
breakfast.
But Perkins, followed by Webster and Tim, rose from the table and passed
out into the yard, whence his voice could be heard in explosions of
laughter. Cameron in the meantime was making heroic attempts to cover
up the sound by loud-voiced conversation with Haley, and, rendered
desperate by the exigencies of the situation, went so far as to venture
a word of praise to Mrs. Haley upon the excellence and abundance of her
cooking.
“She ain't got no chance,” said her husband. “She's got too much to do
and it's awful hard to get help. Of course, there's Mandy.”
“Of course, there's Mandy,” echoed his wife. “I guess you'd just better
say, 'There's Mandy.' She's the whole thing is Mandy. What I'd do
without her goodness only knows.”
But Mandy was no longer present to enjoy her mother's enconiums. Her
voice could be heard in the yard making fierce response to Perkins'
jesting remarks. As Cameron was passing out from the kitchen he heard
her bitter declaration: “I don't care, it was real mean of you, and I'll
pay you for it yet, Mr. Perkins--before a stranger, too.” Mandy's voice
suggested tears.
“Oh, pshaw, Mandy!” remonstrated Perkins, “it was all a joke, and who
cares for him anyway, unless it's yourself?”
But Mandy, catching sight of Cameron, fled with fiery face behind the
kitchen, leaving Perkins gazing after her with an apologetic grin upon
his countenance.
“She's rather hot under the collar,” he confided to Cameron, “but she
needn't get so, I didn't mean nothin'.”
Cameron ignored him. He was conscious mainly of a resolute determination
that at all costs he must not yield to his almost uncontrollable desire
to wipe off the apologetic smile with a well directed blow. Mr. Denman's
parting advice was in his mind and he was devoting all his powers to
the business of adjusting himself to his present environment. But to
his fastidious nature the experiences of the morning made it somewhat
doubtful if he should be able to carry out the policy of adjustment
to the extreme of schooling himself to bear with equal mind the daily
contact with the dirt and disorder which held so large a place in
the domestic economy of the Haley household. One thing he was firmly
resolved upon, he would henceforth perform his toilet in his own room,
and thereby save himself the horror of the family roller towel and the
family comb.
Breakfast over, the men stood waiting orders for the day.
“We'll have to crowd them turnips through, Tim,” said his father, who
seemed to avoid as far as possible giving direct orders to his men.
“Next week we'll have to git at the hay.” So to the turnip field they
went.
It is one of the many limitations of a city-bred boy that he knows
nothing of the life history and the culture of the things that grow upon
a farm. Apples and potatoes he recognises when they appear as articles
of diet upon the table; oats and wheat he vaguely associates in some
mysterious and remote way with porridge and bread, but whether potatoes
grow on trees or oats in pods he has no certain knowledge. Blessed is
the country boy for many reasons, but for none more than this, that the
world of living and growing things, animate and inanimate, is one which
he has explored and which he intimately knows; and blessed is the city
boy for whom his wise parents provide means of acquaintance with this
wonder workshop of old mother Nature, God's own open country.
Turnip-hoeing is an art, a fine art, demanding all the talents of high
genius, a true eye, a sure hand, a sensitive conscience, industry,
courage, endurance, and pride in achievement. These and other gifts
are necessary to high success. Not to every man is it given to become a
turnip-hoer in the truest sense of that word. The art is achieved only
after long and patient devotion, and, indeed, many never attain high
excellence. Of course, therefore, there are grades of artists in this as
in other departments. There are turnip-hoers and turnip-hoers, just as
there are painters and painters. It was Tim's ambition to be the first
turnip-hoer of his district, and toward this end he had striven both
last season and this with a devotion that deserved, if it did not
achieve, success. Quietly he had been patterning himself upon that
master artist, Perkins, who for some years had easily held the
championship for the district. Keenly Tim had been observing Perkins'
excellencies and also his defects; secretly he had been developing a
style of his own, and, all unnoted, he had tested his speed by that of
Perkins by adopting the method of lazily loafing along and then catching
up by a few minutes of whirlwind work. Tim felt in his soul the day of
battle could not be delayed past this season; indeed, it might come any
day. The very thought of it made his slight body quiver and his heart
beat so quickly as almost to choke him.
To the turnip field hied Haley's men, Perkins and Webster leading the
way, Tim and Cameron bringing up the rear.
“You promised to show me how to do it, Tim,” said Cameron. “Remember I
shall be very slow.”
“Oh, shucks!” replied Tim, “turnip-hoeing is as easy as rollin' off a
log if yeh know how to do it.”
“Exactly!” cried Cameron, “but that is what I don't. You might give me
some pointers.”
“Well, you must be able to hit what yeh aim at.”
“Ah! that means a good eye and steady hand,” said Cameron. “Well, I can
do billiards some and golf. What else?”
“Well, you mustn't be too careful, slash right in and don't give a rip.”
“Ah! nerve, eh!” said Cameron. “Well, I have done some Rugby in my
day--I know something of that. What else? This sounds good.”
“Then you've got to leave only one turnip in one place and not a weed;
and you mustn't leave any blanks. Dad gets hot over that.”
“Indeed, one turnip in each place and not a weed,” echoed Cameron. “Say!
this business grows interesting. No blanks! Anything else?” he demanded.
“No, I guess not, only if yeh ever git into a race ye've got to keep
goin' after you're clear tuckered out and never let on. You see the
other chap may be feelin' worse than you.”
“By Jove, Tim! you're a born general!” exclaimed Cameron. “You will
go some distance if you keep on in that line. Now as to racing let me
venture a word, for I have done a little in my time. Don't spurt too
soon.”
“Eh!” said Tim, all eagerness.
“Don't get into your racing stride too early in the day, especially if
you are up against a stronger man. Wait till you know you can stay till
the end and then put your best licks in at the finish.”
Tim pondered.
“By Jimminy! you're right,” he cried, a glad light in his eye, and a
touch of colour in his pale cheek, and Cameron knew he was studying war.
The turnip field, let it be said for the enlightening of the benighted
and unfortunate city-bred folk, is laid out in a series of drills, a
drill being a long ridge of earth some six inches in height, some eight
inches broad on the top and twelve at the base. Upon each drill the seed
has been sown in one continuous line from end to end of the field. When
this seed has grown each drill will discover a line of delicate green,
this line being nothing less than a compact growth of young turnip
plants with weeds more or less thickly interspersed. The operation of
hoeing consists in the eliminating of the weeds and the superfluous
turnip plants in order that single plants, free from weeds, may be left
some eight inches apart in unbroken line, extending the whole length
of the drill. The artistic hoer, however, is not content with this.
His artistic soul demands not only that single plants should stand in
unbroken row from end to end along the drill top, but that the drill
itself should be pared down on each side to the likeness of a house roof
with a perfectly even ridge.
“Ever hoe turnips?” enquired Perkins.
“Never,” said Cameron, “and I am afraid I won't make much of a fist at
it.”
“Well, you've come to a good place to learn, eh, Tim! We'll show him,
won't we?”
Tim made no reply, but simply handed Cameron a hoe and picked up his
own.
“Now, show me, Tim,” said Cameron in a low voice, as Perkins and Webster
set off on their drills.
“This is how you do it,” replied Tim. “Click-click,” forward and back
went Tim's sharp shining instrument, leaving a single plant standing
shyly alone where had boldly bunched a score or more a moment before.
“Click-click-click,” and the flat-topped drill stood free of weeds
and superfluous turnip plants and trimmed to its proper roof-like
appearance.
“I say!” exclaimed Cameron, “this is high art. I shall never reach your
class, though, Tim.”
“Oh, shucks!” said Tim, “slash in, don't be afraid.” Cameron slashed in.
“Click-click,” “Click-click-click,” when lo! a long blank space of drill
looked up reproachfully at him.
“Oh, Tim! look at this mess,” he said in disgust.
“Never mind!” said Tim, “let her rip. Better stick one in though.
Blanks look bad at the END of the drill.” So saying, he made a hole in
Cameron's drill and with his hoe dug up a bunch of plants from
another drill and patted them firmly into place, and, weeding out the
unnecessary plants, left a single turnip in its proper place.
“Oh, come, that isn't so bad,” said Cameron. “We can always fill up the
blanks.”
“Yes, but it takes time,” replied Tim, evidently with the racing fever
in his blood. Patiently Tim schooled his pupil throughout the forenoon,
and before the dinner hour had come Cameron was making what to Tim
appeared satisfactory progress. It was greatly in Cameron's favor that
he possessed a trained and true eye and a steady hand and that he was
quick in all his movements.
“You're doin' splendid,” cried Tim, full of admiration.
“I say, Scotty!” said Perkins, coming up and casting a critical eye
along Cameron's last drill, “you're going to make a turnip-hoer all
right.”
“I've got a good teacher, you see,” cried Cameron.
“You bet you have,” said Perkins. “I taught Tim myself, and in two or
three years he'll be almost as good as I am, eh, Tim!”
“Huh!” grunted Tim, contemptuously, but let it go at that.
“Perhaps you think you're that now, eh, Tim?” said Perkins, seizing
the boy by the back of the neck and rubbing his hand over his hair in a
manner perfectly maddening. “Don't you get too perky, young feller, or
I'll hang your shirt on the fence before the day's done.”
Tim wriggled out of his grasp and kept silent. He was not yet ready with
his challenge. All through the afternoon he stayed behind with Cameron,
allowing the other two to help them out at the end of each drill, but as
the day wore on there was less and less need of assistance for Cameron,
for he was making rapid progress with his work and Tim was able to do,
not only his own drill, but almost half of Cameron's as well. By supper
time Cameron was thoroughly done out. Never had a day seemed so long,
never had he known that he possessed so many muscles in his back. The
continuous stooping and the steady click-click of the hoe, together with
the unceasing strain of hand and eye, and all this under the hot burning
rays of a June sun, so exhausted his vitality that when the cow bell
rang for supper it seemed to him a sound more delightful than the
strains of a Richter orchestra in a Beethoven symphony.
On the way back to the field after supper Cameron observed that Tim was
in a state of suppressed excitement and it dawned upon him that the hour
of his challenge of Perkins' supremacy as a turnip-hoer was at hand.
“I say, Tim, boy!” he said earnestly, “listen to me. You are going to
get after Perkins this evening, eh?”
“How did you know?” said Tim, in surprise.
“Never mind! Now listen to me; I have raced myself some and I have
trained men to race. Are you not too tired with your day's work?”
“Tired! Not a bit,” said the gallant little soul scornfully.
“Well, all right. It's nice and cool and you can't hurt yourself much.
Now, how many drills do you do after supper as a rule?”
“Down and up twice,” said Tim.
“How many drills can you do at your top speed, your very top speed,
remember?”
“About two drills, I guess,” replied Tim, after a moment's thought.
“Now, listen to me!” said Cameron impressively. “Go quietly for two and
a half drills, then let yourself out and go your best. And, listen! I
have been watching you this afternoon. You have easily done once and
a half what Perkins has done and you are going to lick him out of his
boots.”
Tim gulped a moment or two, looked at his friend with glistening eyes,
but said not a word. For the first two and a half drills Cameron exerted
to the highest degree his conversational powers with the two-fold
purpose of holding back Perkins and Webster and also of so occupying
Tim's mind that he might forget for a time the approaching conflict, the
strain of waiting for which he knew would be exhausting for the lad.
But when the middle of the second last drill had been reached, Tim began
unconsciously to quicken his speed.
“I say, Tim,” called Cameron, “come here! Am I getting these spaces too
wide?” Tim came over to his side. “Now, Tim,” said Cameron, in a low
voice, “wait a little longer; you can never wear him out. Your only
chance is in speed. Wait till the last drill.”
But Tim was not to be held back. Back he went to his place and with a
rush brought his drill up even with Webster, passed him, and in a few
moments like a whirlwind passed Perkins and took the lead.
“Hello, Timmy! where are you going?” asked Perkins, in surprise.
“Home,” said Tim proudly, “and I'll tell 'em you're comin'.”
“All right, Timmy, my son!” replied Perkins with a laugh, “tell them you
won't need no hot bath; I'm after you.”
“Click-click,” “Click-click-click” was Tim's only answer. It was a
distinct challenge, and, while not openly breaking into racing speed,
Perkins accepted it.
For some minutes Webster quickened his pace in an attempt to follow the
leaders, but soon gave it up and fell back to help Cameron up with his
drill, remarking, “I ain't no blamed fool. I ain't going to bust myself
for any man. THEY'RE racing, not me.”
“Will Tim win?” enquired Cameron.
“Naw! Not this year! Why, Perkins is the best man in the whole country
at turnips. He took the Agricultural Society's prize two years ago.”
“I believe Tim will beat him,” said Cameron confidently, with his eyes
upon the two in front.
“Beat nothing!” said Webster. “You just wait a bit, Perkins isn't
letting himself out yet.”
In a short time Tim finished his drill some distance ahead, and then,
though it was quitting time, without a pause he swung into the next.
“Hello, Timmy!” cried Perkins good-naturedly, “going to work all night,
eh? Well, I'll just take a whirl out of you,” and for the first time he
frankly threw himself into his racing gait.
“Good boy, Tim!” called out Cameron, as Tim bore down upon them, still
in the lead and going like a small steam engine. “You're all right and
going easy. Don't worry!”
But Perkins, putting on a great spurt, drew up within a hoe-handle
length of Tim and there held his place.
“All right, Tim, my boy, you can hold him,” cried Cameron, as the racers
came down upon him.
“He can, eh?” replied Perkins. “I'll show him and you,” and with an
accession of speed he drew up on a level with Tim.
“Ah, ha! Timmy, my boy! we've got you where we want you, I guess,” he
exulted, and, with a whoop and still increasing his speed, he drew past
the boy.
But Cameron, who was narrowly observing the combatants and their work,
called out again:
“Don't worry, Tim, you're doing nice clean work and doing it easily.”
The inference was obvious, and Perkins, who had been slashing wildly and
leaving many blanks and weeds behind him where neither blanks nor weeds
should be, steadied down somewhat, and, taking more pains with his work,
began to lose ground, while Tim, whose work was without flaw, moved
again to the front place. There remained half a drill to be done and the
issue was still uncertain. With half the length of a hoe handle between
them the two clicked along at a furious pace. Tim's hat had fallen off.
His face showed white and his breath was coming fast, but there was no
slackening of speed, and the cleanness and ease with which he was doing
his work showed that there was still some reserve in him. They were
approaching the last quarter when, with a yell, Perkins threw himself
again with a wild recklessness into his work, and again he gained upon
Tim and passed him.
“Steady, Tim!” cried Cameron, who, with Webster, had given up their own
work, it being, as the latter remarked, “quitting time anyway,” and
were following up the racers. “Don't spoil your work, Tim!” continued
Cameron, “don't worry.”
His words caught the boy at a critical moment, for Perkins' yell and
his fresh exhibition of speed had shaken the lad's nerve. But Cameron's
voice steadied him, and, quickly responding, Tim settled down again into
his old style, while Perkins was still in the lead, but slashing wildly.
“Fine work, Tim,” said Cameron quietly, “and you can do better yet.” For
a few paces he walked behind the boy, steadying him now and then with
a quiet word, then, recognising that the crisis of the struggle was at
hand, and believing that the boy had still some reserve of speed and
strength, he began to call on him.
“Come on, Tim! Quicker, quicker; come on, boy, you can do better!” His
words, and his tone more than his words, were like a spur to the boy.
From some secret source of supply he called up an unsuspected reserve
of strength and speed and, still keeping up his clean cutting finished
style, foot by foot he drew away from Perkins, who followed in the rear,
slashing more wildly than ever. The race was practically won. Tim was
well in the lead, and apparently gaining speed with every click of his
hoe.
“Here, you fellers, what are yeh hashin' them turnips for?” It was
Haley's voice, who, unperceived, had come into the field. Tim's reply
was a letting out of his last ounce of strength in a perfect fury of
endeavour.
“There--ain't--no--hashin'--on this--drill--Dad!” he panted.
The sudden demand for careful work, however, at once lowered Perkins'
rate of speed. He fell rapidly behind and, after a few moments of
further struggle, threw down his hoe with a whoop and called out,
“Quitting time, I guess,” and, striding after Tim, he caught him by the
arms and swung him round clear off the ground.
“Here, let me go!” gasped the boy, kicking, squirming, and trying to
strike his antagonist with his hoe.
“Let the boy go!” said Cameron. The tone in his voice arrested Perkins'
attention.
“What's your business?” he cried, with an oath, dropping the boy and
turning fiercely upon Cameron.
“Oh, nothing very much, except that Tim's my candidate in this race and
he mustn't be interfered with,” replied Cameron in a voice still quiet
and with a pleasant smile.
Perkins was white and panting; in a moment more he would have hurled
himself at the man who stood smiling quietly in his face. At this
critical moment Haley interposed.
“What's the row, boys?” he enquired, recognising that something serious
was on.
“We have been having a little excitement, Sir, in the form of a race,”
replied Cameron, “and I've been backing Tim.”
“Looks as if you've got him wound up so's he can't stop,” replied Haley,
pointing to the boy, who was still going at racing pace and was just
finishing his drill. “Oh, well, a boy's a boy and you've got to humour
him now and then,” continued Haley, making conversation with diplomatic
skill. Then turning to Perkins, as if dismissing a trivial subject, he
added, “Looks to me as if that hay in the lower meadow is pretty nigh
fit to cut. Guess we'd better not wait till next week. You best start
Tim on that with the mower in the mornin'.” Then, taking a survey of the
heavens, he added, “Looks as if it might be a spell of good weather.”
His diplomacy was successful and the moment of danger was past. Meantime
Cameron had sauntered to the end of the drill where Tim stood leaning
quietly on his hoe.
“Tim, you are a turnip-hoer!” he said, with warm admiration in his
tone, “and what's more, Tim, you're a sport. I'd like to handle you in
something big. You will make a man yet.”
Tim's whole face flushed a warm red under the coat of freckles. For a
time he stood silently contemplating the turnips, then with difficulty
he found his voice.
“It was you done it,” he said, choking over his words. “I was beat there
and was just quittin' when you came along and spoke. My!” he continued,
with a sharp intake of his breath, “I was awful near quittin',” and
then, looking straight into Cameron's eyes, “It was you done it,
and--I--won't forget.” His voice choked again, but, reading his eyes,
Cameron knew that he had gained one of life's greatest treasures, a
boy's adoring gratitude.
“This has been a great day, Tim,” said Cameron. “I have learned to hoe
turnips, and,” putting his hand on the boy's shoulder, “I believe I have
made a friend.” Again the hot blood surged into Tim's face. He stood
voiceless, but he needed no words. Cameron knew well the passionate
emotion that thrilled his soul and shook the slight body, trembling
under his hand. For Tim, too, it had been a notable day. He had achieved
the greatest ambition of his life in beating the best turnip-hoer on the
line, and he, too, had found what to a boy is a priceless treasure, a
man upon whom he could lavish the hero worship of his soul.
CHAPTER IV
A RAINY DAY
It was haying time. Over the fields of yellowing fall wheat and barley,
of grey timothy and purple clover, the heat shimmered in dancing waves.
Everywhere the growing crops were drinking in the light and heat with
eager thirst, for the call of the harvest was ringing through the land.
The air was sweet with scents of the hay fields, and the whole country
side was humming with the sound of the mowers. It was the crowning time
of the year; toward this season all the life of the farm moved steadily
the whole year long; the next two months or three would bring to the
farmer the fruit of long days of toil and waiting. Every minute of these
harvest days, from the early grey dawn, when Mandy called the cows in
for the milking, till the long shadows from the orchard lay quite across
the wide barley field, when Tim, handling his team with careless pride,
drove in the last load for the day, every minute was packed full of life
and action. But though busy were the days and full of hard and at times
back-breaking and nerve-straining work, what of it? The colour, the
rush, the eager race with the flying hours, the sense of triumph, the
promise of wealth, the certainty of comfort, all these helped to carry
off the heaviest toil with a swing and vim that banished aches from the
body and weariness from the soul.
To Cameron, all unskilled as he was, the days brought many an hour of
strenuous toil, but every day his muscles were knitting more firmly, his
hands were hardening, and his mastery of himself growing more complete.
In haying there is no large place for skill. This operation, unlike that
of turnip-hoeing, demands chiefly strength, quickness, and endurance,
and especially endurance. To stand all day in the hay field under the
burning sun with its rays leaping back from the super-heated ground, and
roll up the windrows into huge bundles and toss them on to the wagon,
or to run up a long line of cocks and heave them fork-handle high to the
top of a load, calls for something of skill, but mainly for strength
of arm and back. But skill had its place, and once more it was Tim who
stood close to Cameron and showed him all the tricks of pitching hay. It
was Tim who showed him how to stand with his back to the wagon so as to
get the load properly poised with the least expenditure of strength; it
was Tim who taught him the cunning trick of using his thigh as a fulcrum
in getting his load up, rather than doing it by “main strength and
awkwardness”; it was Tim who demonstrated the method of lifting half a
cock by running the end of the fork handle into the ground so that the
whole earth might aid in the hoisting of the load. Of course in all
this Cameron's intelligence and quickness stood him in the place of long
experience, and before the first day's hauling was done he was able to
keep his wagon going.
But with all the stimulus of the harvest movement and colour, Cameron
found himself growing weary of the life on the Haley farm. It was not
the long days, and to none on the farm were the days longer than to
Cameron, who had taken upon himself the duty of supplying the kitchen
with wood and water, no small business, either at the beginning or at
the end of a long day's work; it was not the heavy toil; it was chiefly
the continuous contact with the dirt and disorder of his environment
that wore his body down and his spirit raw. No matter with how keen a
hunger did he approach the dinner table, the disgusting filth everywhere
apparent would cause his gorge to rise and, followed by the cheerful
gibes of Perkins, he would retire often with his strength unrecruited
and his hunger unappeased, and, though he gradually achieved a certain
skill in picking his way through a meal, selecting such articles of food
as could be less affected than others by the unsavoury surroundings,
the want of appetising and nourishing food told disastrously upon his
strength. His sleep, too, was broken and disturbed by the necessity of
sharing a bed with Webster. He had never been accustomed to “doubling
up,” and under the most favourable circumstances the experience would
not have been conducive to sound sleep, but Webster's manner of life was
not such as to render him an altogether desirable bed-fellow. For, while
the majority of farm lads in the neighbourhood made at least semi-weekly
pilgrimages to the “dam” for a swim, Webster felt no necessity laid upon
him for such an expenditure of energy after a hard and sweaty day in the
field. His ideas of hygiene were of the most elementary nature; hence
it was his nightly custom, when released from the toils of the day,
to proceed upstairs to his room and, slipping his braces from his
shoulders, allow his nether garments to drop to the floor and, without
further preparation, roll into bed. Of the effeminacy of a night robe
Webster knew nothing except by somewhat hazy rumour. Once under the
patchwork quilt he was safe for the night, for, heaving himself into the
middle of the bed, he sank into solid and stertorous slumber, from which
all Cameron's prods and kicks failed to arouse him till the grey dawn
once more summoned him to life, whereupon, resuming the aforesaid
nether garments, he was once more simply, but in his opinion quite
sufficiently, equipped for his place among men. Many nights did it
happen that the stertorous melody of Webster's all too odourous slumbers
drove Cameron to find a bed upon the floor. Once again Tim was his
friend, for it was to Tim that Cameron owed the blissful experience of a
night in the hay loft upon the newly harvested hay. There, buried in
its fragrant depths and drawing deep breaths of the clean unbreathed air
that swept in through the great open barn doors, Cameron experienced
a joy hitherto undreamed of in association with the very commonplace
exercise of sleep. After his first night in the hay mow, which he shared
with Tim, he awoke refreshed in body and with a new courage in his
heart.
“By Jove, Tim! That's the finest thing I ever had in the way of sleep.
Now if we only had a tub.”
“Tub! What for?”
“A dip, my boy, a splash.”
“To wash in?” enquired Tim, wondering at the exuberance of his friend's
desires. “I'll get a tub,” he added, and, running to the house, returned
with wash tub and towel.
“Tim, my boy, you're a jewel!” exclaimed Cameron.
From the stable cistern they filled the vessel full and first Cameron
and, after persuasion and with rather dubious delight, Tim tasted the
joy of a morning tub. Henceforth life became distinctly more endurable
to Cameron.
But, more than all the other irritating elements in his environment
put together, Cameron chafed under the unceasing rasp of Perkins' wit,
clever, if somewhat crude and cumbrous. Perkins had never forgotten nor
forgiven his defeat at the turnip-hoeing, which he attributed chiefly to
Cameron. His gibes at Cameron's awkwardness in the various operations
on the farm, his readiness to seize every opportunity for ridicule, his
skill at creating awkward situations, all these sensibly increased the
wear on Cameron's spirit. All these, however, Cameron felt he could put
up with without endangering his self-control, but when Perkins, with
vulgar innuendo, chaffed the farmer's daughter upon her infatuation
for the “young Scotty,” as he invariably designated Cameron, or when
he rallied Cameron upon his supposed triumph in the matter of Mandy's
youthful affections, then Cameron raged and with difficulty kept his
hands from his cheerful and ever smiling tormentor. It did not
help matters much that apparently Mandy took no offense at Perkins'
insinuations; indeed, it gradually dawned upon Cameron that what to him
would seem a vulgar impertinence might to this uncultured girl appear no
more than a harmless pleasantry. At all costs he was resolved that under
no circumstances would he allow his self-control to be broken through.
He would finish out his term with the farmer without any violent
outbreak. It was quite possible that Perkins and others would take him
for a chicken-hearted fool, but all the same he would maintain this
attitude of resolute self-control to the very end. After all, what
mattered the silly gibes of an ignorant boor? And when his term was done
he would abandon the farm life forever. It took but little calculation
to make quite clear that there was not much to hope for in the way
of advancement from farming in this part of Canada. Even Perkins, who
received the very highest wage in that neighbourhood, made no more than
$300 a year; and, with land at sixty to seventy-five dollars per acre,
it seemed to him that he would be an old man before he could become the
owner of a farm. He was heart sick of the pettiness and sordidness of
the farm life, whose horizon seemed to be that of the hundred acres or
so that comprised it. Therefore he resolved that to the great West he
would go, that great wonderful West with its vast spaces and its vast
possibilities of achievement. The rumour of it filled the country side.
Meantime for two months longer he would endure.
A rainy day brought relief. Oh, the blessed Sabbath of a rainy day, when
the wheels stop and silence falls in the fields; and time tired harvest
hands recline at ease upon the new cut and sweet smelling hay on the
barn floor, and through the wide open doors look out upon the falling
rain that roars upon the shingles, pours down in cataracts from the
eaves and washes clean the air that wanders in, laden with those subtle
scents that old mother earth releases only when the rain falls. Oh,
happy rainy days in harvest time when, undisturbed by conscience, the
weary toilers stretch and slumber and wake to lark and chaff in careless
ease the long hours through!
In the Haleys' barn they were all gathered, gazing lazily and with
undisturbed content at the steady downpour that indicated an all-day
rest. Even Haley, upon whose crops the rain was teeming down, was
enjoying the rest from the toil, for most of the hay that had been cut
was already in cock or in the barn. Besides, Haley worked as hard as the
best of them and welcomed a day's rest. So let it rain!
While they lay upon the hay on the barn floor, with tired muscles
all relaxed, drinking in the fragrant airs that stole in from the
rain-washed skies outside, in the slackening of the rain two neighbours
dropped in, big “Mack” Murray and his brother Danny, for a “crack” about
things in general and especially to discuss the Dominion Day picnic
which was coming off at the end of the following week. This picnic
was to be something out of the ordinary, for, in addition to the usual
feasting and frolicking, there was advertised an athletic contest of
a superior order, the prizes in which were sufficiently attractive
to draw, not only local athletes, but even some of the best from the
neighbouring city. A crack runner was expected and perhaps even McGee,
the big policeman of the London City force, a hammer thrower of fame,
might be present.
“Let him come, eh, Mack?” said Perkins. “I guess we ain't afraid of no
city bug beating you with the hammer.”
“Oh! I'm no thrower,” said Mack modestly. “I just take the thing up and
give it a fling. I haven't got the trick of it at all.”
“Have you practised much?” said Cameron, whose heart warmed at the
accent that might have been transplanted that very day from his own
North country.
“Never at all, except now and then at the blacksmith's shop on a rainy
day,” replied Mack. “Have you done anything at it?”
“Oh, I have seen a good deal of it at the games in the north of
Scotland,” replied Cameron.
“Man! I wish we had a hammer and you could show me the trick of it,”
said Mack fervently, “for they will be looking to me to throw and I do
not wish to be beaten just too easily.”
“There's a big mason's hammer,” said Tim, “in the tool house, I think.”
“Get it, Tim, then,” said Mack eagerly, “and we will have a little
practise at it, for throw I must, and I have no wish to bring discredit
on my country, for it will be a big day. They will be coming from all
over. The Band of the Seventh is coming out and Piper Sutherland from
Zorra will be there.”
“A piper!” echoed Cameron. “Is there much pipe playing in this country?”
“Indeed, you may say that!” said Mack, “and good pipers they are too,
they tell me. Piper Sutherland, I think, was of the old Forty-twa. Are
you a piper, perhaps?” continued Mack.
“Oh, I play a little,” said Cameron. “I have a set in the house.”
“God bless my soul!” cried Mack, “and we never knew it. Tell Danny where
they are and he will fetch them out. Go, Danny!”
“Never mind, I will get them myself,” said Cameron, trying to conceal
his eagerness, for he had long been itching for a chance to play and his
fingers were now tingling for the chanter.
It was an occasion of great delight, not only to big Mack and his
brother Danny and the others, but to Cameron himself. Up and down the
floor he marched, making the rafters of the big barn ring with the
ancient martial airs of Scotland and then, dropping into a lighter
strain, he set their feet a-rapping with reels and strathspeys.
“Man, yon's great playing!” cried Mack with fervent enthusiasm to the
company who had gathered to the summons of the pipes from the house and
from the high road, “and think of him keeping them in his chest all this
time! And what else can you do?” went on Mack, with the enthusiasm of a
discoverer. “You have been in the big games, too, I warrant you.”
Cameron confessed to some experience of these thrilling events.
“Bless my soul! We will put you against the big folk from the city. Come
and show us the hammer,” said Mack, leading the way out of the barn, for
the rain had ceased, with a big mason's hammer in his hand. It needed
but a single throw to make it quite clear to Cameron that Mack was
greatly in need of coaching. As he said himself he “just took up the
thing and gave it a fling.” A mighty fling, too, it proved to be.
“Twenty-eight paces!” cried Cameron, and then, to make sure, stepped
it back again. “Yes,” he said, “twenty-eight paces, nearly twenty-nine.
Great Caesar! Mack, if you only had the Braemar swing you would be a
famous thrower.”
“Och, now, you are just joking me!” said Mack modestly.
“You can add twenty feet easily to your throw if you get the swing,”
asserted Cameron. “Look here, now, get this swing,” and Cameron
demonstrated in his best style the famous Braemar swing.
“Thirty-two paces!” said Mack in amazement after he had measured the
throw. “Man alive! you can beat McGee, let alone myself.”
“Now, Mack, get the throw,” said Cameron, with enthusiasm. “You will be
a great thrower.” But try though he might Mack failed to get the swing.
“Man, come over to-night and bring your pipes. Danny will fetch out his
fiddle and we will have a bit of a frolic, and,” he added, as if in an
afterthought, “I have a big hammer yonder, the regulation size. We might
have a throw or so.”
“Thanks, I will be sure to come,” said Cameron eagerly.
“Come, all of you,” said Mack, “and you too, Mandy. We will clear out
the barn floor and have a regular hoe-down.”
“Oh, pshaw!” giggled Mandy, tossing her head. “I can't dance.”
“Oh, come along and watch me, then,” said Mack, in good humour, who,
with all his two hundred pounds, was lightfooted as a girl.
The Murrays' new big bank barn was considered the finest in the country
and the new floor was still quite smooth and eminently suited to a
“hoe-down.” Before the darkness had fallen, however, Mack drew Cameron,
with Danny, Perkins, and a few of the neighbours who had dropped in, out
to the lane and, giving him a big hammer, “Try that,” he said, with some
doubt in his tone.
Cameron took the hammer.
“This is the right thing. The weight of it will make more difference to
me, however, than to you, Mack.”
“Oh, I'm not so sure,” said Mack. “Show us how you do it.”
The first throw Cameron took easily.
“Twenty-nine paces!” cried Mack, after stepping it off. “Man! that's a
great throw, and you do it easy.”
“Not much of a throw,” laughed Cameron. “Try it yourself.”
Ignoring the swing, Mack tried the throw in his own style and hurled the
hammer two paces beyond Cameron's throw.
“You did that with your arms only,” said Cameron. “Now you must put legs
and shoulders into it.”
“Let's see you beat that throw yourself,” laughed Perkins, who was by no
means pleased with the sudden distinction that had come to the “Scotty.”
Cameron took the hammer and, with the easy slow grace of the Braemar
swing, made his throw.
“Hooray!” yelled Danny, who was doing the measuring. “You got it yon
time for sure. Three paces to the good. You'll have to put your back
into it, Mack, I guess.”
Once more Mack seized the hammer. Then Cameron took Mack in hand and,
over and over again, coached him in the poise and swing.
“Now try it, and think of your legs and back. Let the hammer take care
of itself. Now, nice and easy and slow, not far this time.”
Again and again Mack practised the swing.
“You're getting it!” cried Cameron enthusiastically, “but you are trying
too hard. Forget the distance this time and think only of the easy slow
swing. Let your muscles go slack.” So he coached his pupil.
At length, after many attempts, Mack succeeded in delivering his hammer
according to instructions.
“Man! you are right!” he exclaimed. “That's the trick of it and it is as
smooth as oil.”
“Keep it up, Mack,” said Cameron, “and always easy.”
Over and over again he put the big man through the swing till he began
to catch the notion of the rhythmic, harmonious cooperation of the
various muscles in legs and shoulders and arms so necessary to the
highest result.
“You've got the swing, Mack,” at length said Cameron. “Now then, this
time let yourself go. Don't try your best, but let yourself out. Easy,
now, easy. Get it first in your mind.”
For a moment Mack stood pondering. He was “getting it in his mind.”
Then, with a long swing, easy and slow, he gave the great hammer a
mighty heave. With a shout the company crowded about.
“Thirty-three, thirty-four, thirty-five, thirty-six, thirty-seven!
Hooray! bully for you, Mack. You are the lad!”
“Get the line on it,” said Mack quietly. The measuring line showed
one hundred and eleven and a half feet. The boys crowded round him,
exclaiming, cheering, patting him on the back. Mack received the
congratulations in silence, then, turning to Cameron, said very
earnestly:
“Man! yon's as easy as eating butter. You have done me a good turn
to-day.”
“Oh, that's nothing, Mack,” said Cameron, who was more pleased than any
of them. “You got the swing perfectly that time. You can put twenty
feet to that throw. One hundred and eleven feet! Why, I can beat that
myself.”
“Man alive! Do you tell me now!” said Mack in amazement, running his
eyes over Cameron's lean muscular body.
“I have done it often when I was in shape.”
“Oh, rats!” said Perkins with a laugh. “Where was that?”
Cameron flushed a deep red, then turned pale, but kept silent.
“I believe you, my boy,” said Mack with emphasis and facing sharply upon
Perkins, “and if ever I do a big throw I will owe it to you.”
“Oh, come off!” said Perkins, again laughing scornfully. “There are
others that know the swing besides Scotty here. What you have got you
owe to no one but yourself, Mack.”
“If I beat the man McGee next week,” said Mack quietly, “it will be from
what I learned to-night, and I know what I am saying. Man! it's a lucky
thing we found you. But that will do for just now. Come along to the
barn. Hooray for the pipes and the lassies! They are worth all the
hammers in the world!” And, putting his arm through Cameron's, he led
the way to the barn, followed by the others.
“If Scotty could only hoe turnips and tie wheat as well as he can play
the pipes and throw the hammer,” said Perkins to the others as they
followed in the rear, “I guess he'd soon have us all leaning against the
fence to dry.”
“He will, too, some day,” said Tim, whose indignation at Perkins
overcame the shyness which usually kept him silent in the presence of
older men.
“Hello, Timmy! What are you chipping in for?” said Perkins, reaching for
the boy's coat collar. “He thinks this Scotty is the whole works, and he
is great too--at showing people how to do things.”
“I hear he showed Tim how to hoe turnips,” said one of the boys slyly.
The laugh that followed showed that the story of Tim's triumph over the
champion had gone abroad.
“Oh, rot!” said Perkins angrily. “Tim's got a little too perky because I
let him get ahead of me one night in a drill of turnips.”
“Yeh done yer best, didn't he, Webster?” cried Tim with indignation.
“Well, he certainly was making some pretty big gashes in them drills,”
said Webster slowly.
“Oh, get out!” replied Perkins. “Though all the same Tim's quite a
turnip-hoer,” he conceded. “Hello! There's quite a crowd in the barn,
Danny. I wish I had my store clothes on.”
At this a girl came running to meet them.
“Come on, Danny! Tune up. I can hardly keep my heels on my boots.”
“Oh, you'll not be wanting my little fiddle after you have heard Cameron
on the pipes, Isa.”
“Never you fear that, Danny,” replied Isa, catching him by the arm and
hurrying him onward.
“Wait a minute. I want you to meet Mr. Cameron,” said Danny.
“Come away, then,” replied Isa. “I am dying to get done with it and get
the fiddle going.”
But Cameron was in the meantime engaged, for Mack was busy introducing
him to a bevy of girls who stood at one corner of the barn floor.
“My! but he's a braw lad!” said Isa gayly, as she watched Cameron making
his bows.
“Yes, he is that,” replied Danny with enthusiastic admiration, “and a
hammer-thrower, too, he is.”
“What! yon stripling?”
“You may say it. He can beat Mack there.”
“Mack!” cried Isa, with scorn. “It's just big lies you are telling me.”
“Indeed, he has beaten Mack's best throw many a time.”
“And how do you know?” exclaimed Isa.
“He said so himself.”
“Ah ha!” said Isa scornfully. “He is good at blowing his own horn
whatever, and I don't believe he can beat Mack--and I don't like him a
bit,” she continued, her dark eyes flashing and the red colour glowing
in her full round cheek.
“Come, Isa!” cried Mack, catching sight of her in the dim light. “Come
here, I want Mr. Cameron to meet you.”
“How do you do?” said the girl, giving Cameron her hand and glancing
saucily into his face. “I hear you are a piper and a hammer-thrower and
altogether a wonderful man.”
“A wonderfully lucky man, to have the pleasure of meeting you,” said
Cameron, glancing boldly back at her.
“And I am sure you can dance the fling,” continued Isa. “All the
Highlanders do.”
“Not all,” said Cameron. “But with certain partners all Highlanders
would love to try.”
“Oh aye,” with a soft Highland accent that warmed Cameron's blood. “I
see you have the tongue. Come away, Danny, now, strike up, or I will go
on without you.” And the girl kilted her skirts and began a reel, and
as Mack's eyes followed her every step there was no mistaking their
expression. To Mack there was only one girl in the barn, or in all the
world for that matter, and that was the leal-hearted, light-footed,
black-eyed Isa MacKenzie. Bonnie she was, and that she well knew, the
belle of the whole township, driving the men to distraction and for all
that holding the love of her own sex as well. But her heart was still
her own, or at least she thought it was, for all big Mack Murray's open
and simple-hearted adoration, and she was ready for a frolic with any
man who could give her word for word or dance with her the Highland
reel.
With the courtesy of a true gentleman, Danny led off with his fiddle
till they had all got thoroughly into the spirit and swing of the
frolic, and then, putting his instrument back into its bag, he declared
that they were all tired of it and were waiting for the pipes.
“Not a bit of it!” cried Isa. “But we will give you a rest, Danny, and
besides I want to dance a reel with you myself--though Mr. Cameron is
not bad,” she added, with a little bow to Cameron, with whom she had
just finished a reel.
Readily enough Cameron tuned his pipes, for he was aching to get at them
and only too glad to furnish music for the gay company of kindly hearted
folk who were giving him his first evening's pleasure since he had left
the Cuagh Oir.
From reel to schottische and from schottische to reel, foursome and
eightsome, they kept him playing, ever asking for more, till the
gloaming passed into moonlight and still they were not done. The respite
came through Mandy, who, solid in weight and heavy of foot, had laboured
through the reels as often as she could get a partner, and at other
times had sat gazing in rapt devotion upon the piper.
“Whoop her up again, Scotty!” cried Perkins, when Cameron paused at the
end of a reel.
“Don't you do it!” said Mandy sharply, her deep voice booming through
the barn. “He's just tired of it, and I'm tired looking at him.”
There was a shout of laughter which covered poor Mandy with wrathful
confusion.
“Good for you, Mandy,” cried Perkins with a great guffaw. “You want some
music now, don't you? So do I. Come on, Danny.”
“No, I don't,” snapped Mandy, who could understand neither the previous
laugh nor that which greeted Perkins' sally.
“Allan,” she said, sticking a little over the name, “is tired out, and
besides it's time we were going home.”
“That's right, take him home, Mandy, and put the little dear to bed,”
said Perkins.
“You needn't be so smart, Joe Perkins,” said Mandy angrily. “Anyway I'm
going home. I've got to be up early.”
“Me too, Mandy,” said Cameron, packing up his pipes, for his sympathy
had been roused for the girl who was championing him so bravely. “I
have had a great night and I have played you all to death; but you will
forgive me. I was lonely for the chanter. I have not touched it since I
left home.”
There was a universal cry of protest as they gathered about him.
“Indeed, Mr. Cameron, you have given us all a rare treat,” cried Isa,
coming close to him, “and I only wish you could pipe and dance at the
same time.”
“That's so!” cried Mack, “but what's the matter with the fiddle, Isa?
Come, Danny, strike up. Let them have a reel together.”
Cameron glanced at Mandy, who was standing impatiently waiting. Perkins
caught the glance.
“Oh, please let him stay, Mandy,” he pleaded.
“He can stay if he likes,” sniffed Mandy scornfully. “I got no string on
him; but I'm goin' home. Good-night, everybody.”
“Good-night, Mandy,” called Perkins. “Tell them we're comin'.”
“Just a moment, Mandy!” said Cameron, “and I'm with you. Another time
I hope to do a reel with you, Miss MacKenzie,” he said, bidding her
good-night, “and I hope it will be soon.”
“Remember, then,” cried Isa, warmly shaking hands with him. “I will keep
you to your promise at the picnic.”
“Fine!” said Cameron, and with easy grace he made his farewells and set
off after Mandy, who by this time was some distance down the lane.
“You needn't come for me,” she said, throwing her voice at him over her
shoulder.
“What a splendid night we have had!” said Cameron, ignoring her wrath.
“And what awfully nice people.”
Mandy grunted and in silence continued her way down the lane, picking
her steps between the muddy spots and pools left by the rain.
After some minutes Cameron, who was truly sorry for the girl, ventured
to resume the conversation.
“Didn't you enjoy the evening, Mandy?”
“No, I didn't!” she replied shortly. “I can't dance and they all know
it.”
“Why don't you learn, Mandy? You could dance if you practised.”
“I can't. I ain't like the other girls. I'm too clumsy.”
“Not a bit of it,” said Cameron. “I've watched you stepping about the
house and you are not a bit clumsy. If you only practised a bit you
would soon pick up the schottische.”
“Oh, you're just saying that because you know I'm mad,” said Mandy,
slightly mollified.
“Not at all. I firmly believe it. I saw you try a schottische to-night
with Perkins and--”
“Oh, shucks!” said Mandy. “He don't give me no show. He gets mad when I
tramp on him.”
“All you want is practise, Mandy,” replied Cameron.
“Oh, I ain't got no one to show me,” said Mandy. “Perkins he won't be
bothered, and--and--there's no one else,” she added shyly.
“Why, I--I would show you,” replied Cameron, every instinct of
chivalry demanding that he should play up to her lead, “if I had any
opportunity.”
“When?” said Mandy simply.
“When?” echoed Cameron, taken aback. “Why, the first chance we get.”
As he spoke the word they reached the new bridge that crossed the deep
ditch that separated the lane from the high road.
“Here's a good place right here on this bridge,” said Mandy with a
giggle.
“But we have no music,” stammered Cameron, aghast at the prospect of a
dancing lesson by moonlight upon the public highway.
“Oh, pshaw!” said Mandy. “We don't need music. You can just count. I
seen Isa showin' Mack once and they didn't have no music. But,” she
added, regarding Cameron with suspicion, “if you don't want to--”
“Oh, I shall be glad to, but wouldn't the porch be better?” he replied
in desperation.
“The porch! That's so,” assented Mandy eagerly. “Let's hurry before the
rest come home.” So saying, she set off at a great pace, followed
by Cameron ruefully wondering to what extent the lesson in the
Terpsichorean art might be expected to go.
As soon as the porch was reached Mandy cried--
“Now let's at the thing. I'm going to learn that schottische if it costs
a leg.”
Without stopping to enquire whose leg might be in peril, Cameron
proceeded with his lesson, and he had not gone through many paces till
he began to recognise the magnitude of the task laid upon him. The
girl's sense of time was accurate enough, but she was undeniably awkward
and clumsy in her movements and there was an almost total absence of
coordination of muscle and brain. She had, however, suffered too long
and too keenly from her inability to join with the others in the dance
to fail to make the best of her opportunity to relieve herself of this
serious disability.
So, with fierce industry she poised, counted and hopped, according to
Cameron's instructions and example, with never a sign of weariness, but
alas with little indication of progress.
“Oh, shucks! I can't do it!” she cried at length, pausing in despair. “I
think we could do it better together. That's the way Mack and Isa do it.
I've seen them at it for an hour.”
Cameron's heart sank within him. He had caught an exchange of glances
between the two young people mentioned and he could quite understand how
a lesson in the intricacies of the Highland schottische might very well
be extended over an hour to their mutual satisfaction, but he shrank
with a feeling of dismay, if not disgust, from a like experience with
the girl before him.
He was on the point of abruptly postponing the lesson when his eye fell
upon her face as she stood in the moonlight which streamed in through
the open door. Was it the mystic alchemy of the moon on her face, or
was it the glowing passion in her wonderful eyes that transfigured the
coarse features? A sudden pity for the girl rose in Cameron's heart and
he said gently, “We will try it together, Mandy.”
He took her hand, put his arm about her waist, but, as he drew her
towards him, with a startled look in her eyes she shrank back saying
hurriedly:
“I guess I won't bother you any more to-night. You've been awfully good
to me. You're tired.”
“Not a bit, Mandy, come along,” replied Cameron briskly.
At that moment a shadow fell upon the square of moonlight on the floor.
Mandy started back with a cry.
“My! you scairt me. We were--Allan--Mr. Cameron was learnin' me the
Highland schottische.” Her face and her voice were full of fear.
It was Perkins. White, silent, and rigid, he stood regarding them, for
minutes, it seemed, then turned away.
“Let's finish,” said Cameron quietly.
“Oh! no, no!” said Mandy in a low voice. “He's awful mad! I'm scairt to
death! He'll do something! Oh! dear, dear! He's awful when he gets mad.”
“Nonsense!” said Cameron. “He can't hurt you.”
“No, but you!”
“Oh, don't worry about me. He won't hurt me.”
Cameron's tone arrested the girl's attention.
“But promise me--promise me!” she cried, “that you won't touch him.” She
clutched his arm in a fierce grip.
“Certainly I won't touch him,” said Cameron easily, “if he behaves
himself.” But in his heart he was conscious of a fierce desire that
Perkins would give him the opportunity to wipe out a part at least of
the accumulated burden of insult he had been forced to bear during the
last three weeks.
“Oh!” wailed Mandy, wringing her hands. “I know you're going to fight
him. I don't want you to! Do you hear me?” she cried, suddenly gripping
Cameron again by the arm and shaking him. “I don't want you to! Promise
me you won't!” She was in a transport of fear.
“Oh, this is nonsense, Mandy,” said Cameron, laughing at her. “There
won't be any fight. I'll run away.”
“All right,” replied the girl quietly, releasing his arm. “Remember you
promised.” She turned from him.
“Good night, Mandy. We will finish our lesson another time, eh?” he said
cheerfully.
“Good night,” replied Mandy, dully, and passed through the kitchen and
into the house.
Cameron watched her go, then poured for himself a glass of milk from a
pitcher that always stood upon the table for any who might be returning
home late at night, and drank it slowly, pondering the situation the
while.
“What a confounded mess it is!” he said to himself. “I feel like cutting
the whole thing. By Jove! That girl is getting on my nerves! And that
infernal bounder! She seems to--Poor girl! I wonder if he has got any
hold on her. It would be the greatest satisfaction in the world to teach
HIM a few things too. But I have made up my mind that I am not going to
end up my time here with any row, and I'll stick to that; unless--” and,
with a tingling in his fingers, he passed out into the moonlight.
As he stepped out from the door a dark mass hurled itself at him, a hand
clutched at his throat, missed as he swiftly dodged back, and carried
away his collar. It was Perkins, his face distorted, his white teeth
showing in a snarl as of a furious beast. Again with a beast-like growl
he sprang, and again Cameron avoided him; while Perkins, missing his
clutch, stumbled over a block of wood and went crashing head first among
a pile of pots and pans and, still unable to recover himself and wildly
grasping whatever chanced to be within reach, fell upon the board that
stood against the corner of the porch to direct the rain into the tub;
but the unstable board slid slowly down and allowed the unfortunate
Perkins to come sitting in the tub full of water.
“Very neatly done, Perkins!” cried Cameron, whose anger at the furious
attack was suddenly transformed into an ecstasy of delight at seeing the
plight of his enemy.
Like a cat Perkins was on his feet and, without a single moment's pause,
came on again in silent fury. By an evil chance there lay in his path
the splitting axe, gleaming in the moonlight. Uttering a low choking
cry, as of joy, he seized the axe and sprang towards his foe. Quicker
than thought Cameron picked up a heavy arm chair that stood near the
porch to use it as a shield against the impending attack.
“Are you mad, Perkins?” he cried, catching the terrific blow that came
crashing down, upon the chair.
Then, filled with indignant rage at the murderous attack upon him, and
suddenly comprehending the desperate nature of the situation, he sprang
at his antagonist, thrusting the remnants of the chair in his face and,
following hard and fast upon him, pushed him backward and still backward
till, tripping once more, he fell supine among the pots and pans.
Seizing the axe that had dropped from his enemy's hand, Cameron hurled
it far beyond the wood pile and then stood waiting, a cold and deadly
rage possessing him.
“Come on, you dog!” he said through his shut teeth. “You have been
needing this for some time and now you'll get it.”
“What is it, Joe?”
Cameron quickly turned and saw behind him Mandy, her face blanched, her
eyes wide, and her voice faint with terror.
“Oh, nothing much,” said Cameron, struggling to recover himself.
“Perkins stumbled over the tub among the pots and pans there. He made
a great row, too,” he continued with a laugh, striving to get his voice
under control.
“What is it, Joe?” repeated Mandy, approaching Perkins. But Perkins
stood leaning against the corner of the porch in a kind of dazed
silence.
“You've been fighting,” she said, turning upon Cameron.
“Not at all,” said Cameron lightly, “but, if you must know, Perkins went
stumbling among these pots and pans and finally sat down in the tub; and
naturally he is mad.”
“Is that true, Joe?” said Mandy, moving slowly nearer him.
“Oh, shut up, Mandy! I'm all wet, that's all, and I'm going to bed.”
His voice was faint as though he were speaking with an effort.
“You go into the house,” he said to the girl. “I've got something to say
to Cameron here.”
“You are quarreling.”
“Oh, give us a rest, Mandy, and get out! No, there's no quarreling, but
I want to have a talk with Cameron about something. Go on, now!”
For a few moments she hesitated, looking from one to the other.
“It's all right, Mandy,” said Cameron quietly. “You needn't be afraid,
there won't be any trouble.”
For a moment more she stood, then quietly turned away.
“Wait!” said Perkins to Cameron, and followed Mandy into the house. For
some minutes Cameron stood waiting.
“Now, you murderous brute!” he said, when Perkins reappeared. “Come down
to the barn where no girl can interfere.” He turned towards the barn.
“Hold on!” said Perkins, breathing heavily. “Not to-night. I want to say
something. She's waiting to see me go upstairs.”
Cameron came back.
“What have you got to say, you cur?” he asked in a voice filled with a
cold and deliberate contempt.
“Don't you call no names,” replied Perkins. “It ain't no use.” His voice
was low, trembling, but gravely earnest. “Say, I might have killed you
to-night.” His breath was still coming in quick short gasps.
“You tried your best, you dog!” said Cameron.
“Don't you call no names,” panted Perkins again. “I might--a--killed
yeh. I'm mighty--glad--I didn't.” He spoke like a man who had had a
great deliverance. “But don't yeh,” here his teeth snapped like a dog's,
“don't yeh ever go foolin' with that girl again. Don't yeh--ever--do
it. I seen yeh huggin' her in there and I tell yeh--I tell yeh--,” his
breath began to come in sobs, “I won't stand it--I'll kill yeh, sure as
God's in heaven.”
“Are you mad?” said Cameron, scanning narrowly the white distorted face.
“Mad? Yes, I guess so--I dunno--but don't yeh do it, that's all. She's
mine! Mine! D'yeh hear?”
He stepped forward and thrust his snarling face into Cameron's.
“No, I ain't goin' to touch yeh,” as Cameron stepped back into a posture
of defense, “not to-night. Some day, perhaps.” Here again his teeth came
together with a snap. “But I'm not going to have you or any other
man cutting in on me with that girl. D'yeh hear me?” and he lifted a
trembling forefinger and thrust it almost into Cameron's face.
Cameron stood regarding him in silent and contemptuous amazement.
Neither of them saw a dark form standing back out of the moonlight,
inside the door. At last Cameron spoke.
“Now what the deuce does all this mean?” he said slowly. “Is this girl
by any unhappy chance engaged to you?”
“Yes, she is--or was as good as, till you came; but you listen to me. As
God hears me up there”--he raised his shaking hand and pointed up to
the moonlit sky, and then went on, chewing on his words like a dog on
a bone--“I'll cut the heart out of your body if I catch you monkeying
round that girl again. You've got to get out of here! Everything was all
right till you came sneaking in. You've got to get out! You've got to
get out! D'yeh hear me? You've got to get out!”
His voice was rising, mad rage was seizing him again, his fingers were
opening and shutting like a man in a death agony.
Cameron glanced towards the door.
“I'm done,” said Perkins, noting the glance. “That's my last word. You'd
better quit this job.” His voice again took on an imploring tone. “You'd
better go or something will sure happen to you. Nobody will miss you
much, except perhaps Mandy.” His ghastly face twisted into a snarling
smile, his eyes appeared glazed in the moonlight, his voice was
husky--the man seemed truly insane.
Cameron stood observing him quietly when he had ceased speaking.
“Are you finished? Then hear me. First, in regard to this girl, she
doesn't want me and I don't want her, but make up your mind, I promise
you to do all I can to prevent her falling into the hands of a brute
like you. Then as to leaving this place, I shall go just when it suits
me, no sooner.”
“All right,” said Perkins, his voice low and trembling. “All right, mind
I warned you! Mind I warned you! But if you go foolin' with that girl,
I'll kill yeh, so help me God.”
These words he uttered with the solemnity of an oath and turned towards
the porch. A dark figure flitted across the kitchen and disappeared into
the house. Cameron walked slowly towards the barn.
“He's mad. He's clean daffy, but none the less dangerous,” he said to
himself. “What a rotten mess all this is!” he added in disgust. “By
Jove! The whole thing isn't worth while.”
But as he thought of Mandy's frightened face and imploring eyes and the
brutal murderous face of the man who claimed her as his own, he said
between his teeth:
“No, I won't quit now. I'll see this thing through, whatever it costs,”
and with this resolve he set himself to the business of getting to
sleep; in which, after many attempts, he was at length successful.
CHAPTER V
HOW THEY SAVED THE DAY
There never was such a Dominion Day for weather since the first Dominion
Day was born. Of this “Fatty” Freeman was fully assured. Fatty Freeman
was a young man for whose opinion older men were accustomed to wait. His
person more than justified his praenomen, for Mr. Harper Freeman, Jr.,
was undeniably fat. “Fat, but fine and frisky,” was ever his own comment
upon the descriptive adjective by which his friends distinguished him.
And fine and frisky he was; fine in his appreciation of good eating,
fine in his judgment of good cattle and fine in his estimate of men;
frisky, too, and utterly irrepressible. “Harp's just like a young pup,”
his own father, the Reverend Harper Freeman, the old Methodist minister
of the Maplehill circuit, used to say. “If Harp had a tail he would
never do anything but play with it.” On this, however, it is difficult
to hold any well based opinion. Ebullient in his spirits, he radiated
cheeriness wherever he went and was at the bottom of most of the
practical jokes that kept the village of Maplehill in a state of
ferment; yet if any man thought to turn a sharp corner in business with
Mr. Harper Freeman, Jr., he invariably found that frisky individual
waiting for him round the corner with a cheery smile of welcome, shrewd
and disconcerting. It was this cheery shrewdness of his that made him
the most successful cattle buyer in the county and at the same time
secretary of the Middlesex Caledonian Society. As secretary of this
society he was made chiefly responsible for the success of the Dominion
Day picnic and, as with everything that he took hold of, Fatty toiled
at the business of preparation for this picnic with conscientious zeal,
giving to it all his spare hours and many of his working hours for the
three months preceding.
It was due solely to his efforts that so many distinguished county
magnates appeared eager to lend their patronage. It needed but a little
persuasion to secure the enthusiastic support of the Honourable J. J.
Patterson, M.P.P., and, incidentally, the handsome challenge cup
for hammer-throwing, for the honourable member of Parliament was a
full-blooded Highlander himself and an ardent supporter of “the games.”
But only Fatty Freeman's finesse could have extracted from Dr. Kane, the
Opposition candidate for Provincial Parliamentary honours, the cup for
the hundred yards race, and other cups from other individuals more or
less deeply interested in Dominion, Provincial, and Municipal politics.
The prize list secured, it needed only a skillful manipulation of the
local press and a judicious but persistent personal correspondence
to swell the ranks of the competitors in the various events, and
thus ensure a monster attendance of the people from the neighbouring
townships and from the city near by.
The weather being assured, Fatty's anxieties were mostly allayed, for he
had on the file in his office acceptance letters from the distinguished
men who were to cast the spell of their oratory over the assembled
multitude, as also from the big men in the athletic world who had
entered for the various events in the programme of sports. It was
a master stroke of diplomacy that resulted in the securing for the
hammer-throwing contest the redoubtable and famous Duncan Ross of
Zorra, who had at first disdained the bait of the Maplehill Dominion Day
picnic, but in some mysterious way had at length been hooked and landed.
For Duncan was a notable man and held the championship of the Zorras;
and indeed in all Ontario he was second only to the world-famous Rory
Maclennan of Glengarry, who had been to Braemar itself and was beaten
there only by a fluke. How he came to agree to be present at the
Maplehill picnic “Black Duncan” could not quite understand, but had he
compared notes with McGee, the champion of the London police force and
of various towns and cities of the western peninsula, he would doubtless
have received some enlightenment. To the skill of the same master hand
was due the appearance upon the racing list of the Dominion Day picnic
of such distinguished names as Cahill of London, Fullerton of Woodstock,
and especially of Eugene La Belle of nowhere in particular, who held the
provincial championship for skating and was a runner of provincial fame.
In the racing Fatty was particularly interested because his young
brother Wilbur, of whom he was uncommonly proud, a handsome lad, swift
and graceful as a deer, was to make his first essay for more than local
honours.
The lists for the other events were equally well filled and every
detail of the arrangements for the day had passed under the secretary's
personal review. The feeding of the multitude was in charge of the
Methodist Ladies' Aid, an energetic and exceptionally businesslike
organization, which fully expected to make sufficient profit from the
enterprise to clear off the debt from their church at Maplehill, an
achievement greatly desired not only by the ladies themselves but by
their minister, the Reverend Harper Freeman, now in the third year of
his incumbency. The music was to be furnished by the Band of the
Seventh from London and by no less a distinguished personage than Piper
Sutherland himself from Zorra, former Pipe Major of “The old Forty-twa.”
The discovery of another piper in Cameron brought joy to the secretary's
heart, who only regretted that an earlier discovery had not rendered
possible a pipe competition.
Early in the afternoon the crowds began to gather to MacBurney's woods,
a beautiful maple grove lying midway between the Haleys' farm and
Maplehill village, about two miles distant from each. The grove of
noble maple trees overlooking a grassy meadow provided an ideal spot for
picnicking, furnishing as it did both shade from the sun and a fine open
space with firm footing for the contestants in the games. High over a
noble maple in the centre of the grassy meadow floated the Red Ensign of
the Empire, which, with the Canadian coat of arms on the fly, by common
usage had become the national flag of Canada. From the great trees the
swings were hung, and under their noble spreading boughs were placed the
tables, and the platform for the speech making and the dancing, while at
the base of the encircling hills surrounding the grassy meadow, hard by
the grove another platform was placed, from which distinguished
visitors might view with ease and comfort the contests upon the campus
immediately adjacent.
Through the fence, let down for the purpose, the people drove in
from the high road. They came in top buggies and in lumber wagons,
in democrats and in “three seated rigs,” while from the city came a
“four-in-hand” with McGee, Cahill, and their backers, as well as other
carriages filled with good citizens of London drawn thither by the
promise of a day's sport of more than usual excellence or by the lure
of a day in the woods and fields of God's open country. A specially
fine carriage and pair, owned and driven by the honourable member of
Parliament himself, conveyed Piper Sutherland, with colours streaming
and pipes playing, to the picnic grounds. Warmly was the old piper
welcomed, not only by the frisky cheery secretary, but by many old
friends, and by none more warmly than by the Reverend Alexander Munro,
the douce old bachelor Presbyterian minister of Maplehill, a great lover
of the pipes and a special friend of Piper Sutherland. But the welcome
was hardly over when once more the sound of the pipes was heard far up
the side line.
“Surely that will be Gunn,” said Mr. Munro.
Sutherland listened for a minute or two.
“No, it iss not Gunn. Iss Ross coming? No, yon iss not Ross. That
will be a stranger,” he continued, turning to the secretary, but
the secretary remained silent, enjoying the old man's surprise and
perplexity.
“Man, that iss not so bad piping! Not so bad at all! Who iss it?” he
added with some impatience, turning upon the secretary again.
“Oh, that's Haley's team and I guess that's his hired man, a young
fellow just out from Scotland,” replied the secretary indifferently. “I
am no great judge of the pipes myself, but he strikes me as a crackajack
and I shouldn't be surprised if he would make you all sit up.”
But the old piper's ear was closed to his words and open only to the
strains of music ever drawing nearer.
“Aye, yon's a piper!” he said at length with emphasis. “Yon's a piper!”
“I only wish I had discovered him in time for a competition,” said Fatty
regretfully.
“Aye,” said Sutherland. “Yon's a piper worth playing against.”
And very brave and gallant young Cameron looked as Tim swung his team
through the fence and up to the platform under the trees where the
great ones of the people were standing in groups. They were all there,
Patterson the M.P.P., and Dr. Kane the Opposition candidate, Reeve
Robertson, for ten years the Municipal head of his county, Inspector
Grant, a little man with a massive head and a luminous eye, Patterson's
understudy and generally regarded as his successor in Provincial
politics, the Reverend Harper Freeman, Methodist minister, tall
and lank, with shrewd kindly face and a twinkling eye, the Reverend
Alexander Munro, the Presbyterian minister, solid and sedate, slow to
take fire but when kindled a very furnace for heat. These, with their
various wives and daughters, such as had them, and many others less
notable but no less important, constituted a sort of informal reception
committee under Fatty Freeman's general direction and management.
And here and there and everywhere crowds of young men and maidens,
conspicuous among the latter Isa MacKenzie and her special friends,
made merry with each other, as brave and gallant a company of sturdy
sun-browned youths and bonnie wholesome lassies as any land or age could
ever show.
“Look at them!” cried the Reverend Harper Freeman, waving his hand
toward the kaleidoscopic gathering. “There's your Dominion Day oration
for you, Mr, Patterson.”
“Most of it done in brown, too,” chuckled his son, Harper Freeman, Jr.
“Yes, and set in jewels and gold,” replied his father.
“You hold over me, Dad!” cried his son. “Here!” he called to Cameron,
who was standing aloof from the others. “Come and meet a brother Scot
and a brother piper, Mr. Sutherland from Zorra, though to your ignorant
Scottish ear that means nothing, but to every intelligent Canadian,
Zorra stands for all that's finest in brain and brawn in Canada.”
“And it takes both to play the pipes, eh, Sutherland?” said the M.P.P.
“Oh aye, but mostly wind,” said the piper.
“Just like politics, eh, Mr. Patterson?” said the Reverend Harper
Freeman.
“Yes, or like preaching,” replied the M.P.P.
“One on you, Dad!” said the irrepressible Fatty.
Meantime Sutherland was warmly complimenting Cameron on his playing.
“You haf been well taught,” he said.
“No one taught me,” said Cameron. “But we had a famous old piper at home
in our Glen, Macpherson was his name.”
“Macpherson! Did he effer play at the Braemar gathering?”
“Yes, but Maclennan beat him.”
“Maclennan! I haf heard him.” The tone was quite sufficient to classify
the unhappy Maclennan. “And I haf heard Macpherson too. You iss a
player. None of the fal-de-rals of your modern players, but grand and
mighty.”
“I agree with you entirely,” replied Cameron, his heart warming at
the praise of his old friend of the Glen Cuagh Oir. “But,” he added,
“Maclennan is a great player too.”
“A great player? Yes and no. He has the fingers and the notes, but he
iss not the beeg man. It iss the soul that breathes through the chanter.
The soul!” Here he gripped Cameron by the arm. “Man! it iss like
praying. A beeg man will neffer show himself in small things, but when
he will be in communion with his Maker or when he will be pouring out
his soul in a pibroch then the beegness of the man will be manifest.
Aye,” continued the piper, warming to his theme and encouraged by the
eager sympathy of his listener, “and not only the beegness but the
quality of the soul. A mean man can play the pipes, but he can neffer
be a piper. It iss only a beeg man and a fine man and, I will venture to
say, a good man, and there are not many men can be pipers.”
“Aye, Mr. Sutherland,” broke in the Reverend Alexander Munro, “what you
say is true, but it is true not only of piping. It is true surely of
anything great enough to express the deepest emotions of the soul. A
man is never at his best in anything till he is expressing his noblest
self.”
“For instance in preaching, eh!” said Dr. Kane.
“Aye, in preaching or in political oratory,” replied the minister.
At this, however, the old piper shook his head doubtfully.
“You do not agree with Mr. Munro in that?” said the M.P.P.
“No,” replied Sutherland, “speaking iss one thing, piping iss another.”
“And that is no lie, and a mighty good thing too it is,” said Dr. Kane
flippantly.
“It iss no lie,” replied the old piper with dignity. “And if you knew
much about either of them you would say it deeferently.”
“Why, what is the difference, Mr. Sutherland?” said Dr. Kane, anxious to
appease the old man. “They both are means of expressing the emotions of
the soul, you say.”
“The deeference! The deeferenee iss it? The deeference iss here, that
the pipes will neffer lie.”
There was a shout of laughter.
“One for you, Kane!” cried the Reverend Harper Freeman. “And,” he
continued when the laughing had ceased, “we will have to take our share
too, Mr. Munro.”
But the hour for beginning the programme had arrived and the secretary
climbed to the platform to announce the events for the day.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” he cried, in a high, clear, penetrating voice,
“the speech of welcome will be delivered toward the close of the day by
the president of the Middlesex Caledonian Society, the Honourable J. J.
Patterson, M.P.P. My duty is the very simple one of announcing the order
of events on the programme and of expressing on behalf of the Middlesex
Caledonian Society the earnest hope that you all may enjoy the day, and
that each event on the programme will prove more interesting than the
last. The programme is long and varied and I must ask your assistance
to put it through on schedule time. First there are the athletic
competitions. I shall endeavour to assist Dr. Kane and the judges in
running these through without unnecessary and annoying delays. Then will
follow piping, dancing, and feasting in their proper order, after which
will come the presentation of prizes and speeches from our distinguished
visitors. On the platform over yonder there are places for the speakers,
the officials, and the guests of the society, but such is the very
excellent character of the ground that all can be accommodated with
grand stand seats. One disappointment, and one only, I must announce,
the Band of the Seventh, London, cannot be with us to-day.”
“But we will never miss them,” interpolated the Reverend Alexander Munro
with solemn emphasis.
“Exactly so!” continued Fatty when the laugh had subsided. “And now
let's all go in for a good old time picnic, 'where even the farmers
cease from grumbling and the preachers take a rest.' Now take your
places, ladies and gentlemen, for the grand parade is about to begin.”
The programme opened with the one hundred yard flat race. For this race
there were four entries, Cahill from London, Fullerton from Woodstock,
La Belle from nowhere in particular, and Wilbur Freeman from Maplehill.
But Wilbur was nowhere to be seen. The secretary came breathless to the
platform.
“Where's Wilbur?” he asked his father.
“Wilbur? Surely he is in the crowd, or in the tent perhaps.”
At the tent the secretary found his brother nursing a twisted ankle,
heart-sick with disappointment. Early in the day he had injured his foot
in an attempt to fasten a swing upon a tree. Every minute since that
time he had spent in rubbing and manipulating the injured member, but
all to no purpose. While the pain was not great, a race was out of the
question. The secretary was greatly disturbed and as nearly wrathful as
ever he allowed himself to become. He was set on his brother making a
good showing in this race; moreover, without Wilbur there would be no
competitor to uphold the honour of Maplehill in this contest and this
would deprive it of much of its interest.
“What the dickens were you climbing trees for?” he began impatiently,
but a glance at his young brother's pale and woe-stricken face changed
his wrath to pity. “Never mind, old chap,” he said, “better luck next
time, and you will be fitter too.”
Back he ran to the platform, for he must report the dismal news to his
mother, whose chief interest in the programme for the day lay in this
race in which her latest born was to win his spurs. The cheery secretary
was nearly desperate. It was an ominous beginning for the day's sports.
What should he do? He confided his woe to Mack and Cameron, who were
standing close by the platform.
“It will play the very mischief with the programme. It will spoil the
whole day, for Wilbur was the sole Maplehill representative in the three
races; besides, I believe the youngster would have shown up well.”
“He would that!” cried Mack heartily. “He was a bird. But is there no
one else from the Hill that could enter?”
“No, no one with a chance of winning, and no fellow likes to go in
simply to be beaten.”
“What difference?” said Cameron. “It's all in a day's sport.”
“That's so,” said Mack. “If I could run myself I would enter. I wonder
if Danny would--”
“Danny!” said the secretary shortly. “You know better than that.
Danny's too shy to appear before this crowd even if he were dead sure of
winning.”
“Say, it is too bad!” continued Mack, as the magnitude of the calamity
grew upon him. “Surely we can find some one to make an appearance. What
about yourself, Cameron? Did you ever race?”
“Some,” said Cameron. “I raced last year at the Athole Games.”
Fatty threw himself upon him.
“Cameron, you are my man! Do you want to save your country, and perhaps
my life, certainly my reputation? Get out of those frills,” touching his
kilt, “and I'll get a suit from one of the jumpers for you. Go! Bless
your soul, anything you want that's mine you can have! Only hustle for
dear life's sake! Go! Go! Go! Take him away, Mack. We'll get something
else on!”
Fatty actually pushed Cameron clear away from the platform and after him
big Mack.
“There seems to be no help for it,” said Cameron, as they went to the
tent together.
“It's awful good of you,” replied Mack, “but you can see how hard Fatty
takes it, though it is not a bit fair to you.”
“Oh, nobody knows me here,” said Cameron, “and I don't mind being a
victim.”
But as Mack saw him get into his jersey and shorts he began to wonder a
bit.
“Man, it would be great if you should beat yon Frenchman!” he exclaimed.
“Frenchman?”
“Yes! La Belle. He is that stuck on himself; he thinks he is a winner
before he starts.”
“It's a good way to think, Mack. Now let us get down into the woods and
have a bit of a practise in the 'get away.' How do they start here? With
a pistol?”
“No,” replied Mack. “We are not so swell. The starter gives the word
this way, 'All set? Go!'”
“All right, Mack, you give me the word sharp. I am out of practise and I
must get the idea into my head.”
“You are great on the idea, I see,” replied Mack.
“Right you are, and it is just the same with the hammer, Mack.”
“Aye, I have found that out.”
For twenty minutes or so Cameron practised his start and at every
attempt Mack's confidence grew, so that when he brought his man back to
the platform he announced to a group of the girls standing near, “Don't
say anything, but I have the winner right here for you.”
“Why, Mr. Cameron,” cried Isa, “what a wonder you are! What else can you
do? You are a piper, a dancer, a hammer-thrower, and now a runner.”
“Jack-of-all-trades,” laughed Perkins, who, with Mandy, was standing
near.
“Yes, but you can't say 'Master of none,'” replied Isa sharply.
“Better wait,” said Cameron. “I have entered this race only to save Mr.
Freeman from collapse.”
“Collapse? Fatty? He couldn't,” said Isa with emphasis.
“Lass, I do not know,” said Mack gravely. “He looked more hollow than
ever I have seen him before.”
“Well, we'll all cheer for you, Mr. Cameron, anyway,” cried Isa. “Won't
we, girls? Oh, if wishes were wings!”
“Wings?” said Mandy, with a puzzled air. “What for? This is a RACE.”
“Didn't you never see a hen run, Mandy?” laughed Perkins.
“Yes, I have, but I tell you Mr. Cameron ain't no hen,” replied Mandy
angrily. “And more! He's going to win.”
“Say, Mandy, that is the talk,” said Mack, when the laugh had passed.
“Did you hear yon?” he added to Cameron.
Cameron nodded.
“It is a good omen,” he said. “I am going to do my best.”
“And, by Jingo! if you only had a chance,” said Mack, “I believe you
would lick them all.”
At this Fatty bustled up.
“All ready, eh? Cameron, I shall owe you something for this. La Belle
kicked like a steer against your entering at the last minute. It is
against the rules, you know. But he's given in.”
Fatty did not explain that he had intimated to La Belle that there
was no need for anxiety as far as the “chap from the old country” was
concerned; he was there merely to fill up.
But if La Belle's fears were allayed by the secretary's disparaging
description of the latest competitor, they sprang full grown into life
again when he saw Cameron “all set” for the start, and more especially
so when he heard his protest against the Frenchman's method in the “get
away.”
“I want you to notice,” he said firmly to Dr. Kane, who was acting as
starter, “that this man gets away WITH the word 'Go' and not AFTER it.
It is an old trick, but long ago played out.”
Then the Frenchman fell into a rage.
“Eet ees no treeck!” sputtered La Belle. “Eet ees too queeck for him.”
“All right!” said Dr. Kane. “You are to start after the word 'Go.'
Remember! Sorry we have no pistol.”
Once more the competitors crouched over the scratch.
“All set? Go!”
Like the releasing of a whirlwind the four runners spring from the
scratch, La Belle, whose specialty is his “get away,” in front,
Fullerton and Cameron in second place, Cahill a close third. A blanket
would cover them all. A tumult of cheers from the friends of the various
runners follows them along their brief course.
“Who is it? Who is it?” cries Mandy breathlessly, clutching Mack by the
arm.
“Cameron, I swear!” roars Mack, pushing his way through the crowd to the
judges.
“No! No! La Belle! La Belle!” cried the Frenchman's backers from the
city. The judges are apparently in dispute.
“I swear it is Cameron!” roars Mack again in their ears, his eyes aflame
and his face alight with a fierce and triumphant joy. “It is Cameron I
am telling you!”
“Oh, get out, you big bluffer!” cries a thin-faced man, pressing close
upon the judges. “It is La Belle by a mile!”
“By a mile, is it?” shouts Mack. “Then go and hunt your man!” and with
a swift motion his big hand falls upon the thin face and sweeps it clear
out of view, the man bearing it coming to his feet in a white fury some
paces away. A second look at Mack, however, calms his rage, and from a
distance he continues leaping and yelling “La Belle! La Belle!”
After a few moments' consultation the result is announced.
“A tie for the first place between La Belle and Cameron! Time eleven
seconds! The tie will be run off in a few minutes.”
In a tumult of triumph big Mack shoulders Cameron through the crowd
and carries him off to the dressing tent, where he spends the next ten
minutes rubbing his man's legs and chanting his glory.
“Who is this Cameron?” enquired the M.P.P., leaning over the platform
railing.
Quick came the answer from the bevy of girls thronging past the
platform.
“Cameron? He's our man!” It was Mandy's voice, bold and strong.
“Your man?” said the M.P.P., laughing down into the coarse flushed face.
“Yes, OUR man!” cried Isa MacKenzie back at him. “And a winner, you may
be sure.”
“Ah, happy man!” exclaimed the M.P.P. “Who would not win with such
backers? Why, I would win myself, Miss Isa, were you to back me so. But
who is Cameron?” he continued to the Methodist minister at his side.
“He is Haley's hired man, I believe, and that first girl is Haley's
daughter.”
“Poor thing!” echoed Mrs. Freeman, a kindly smile on her motherly face.
“But she has a good heart has poor Mandy.”
“But why 'poor'?” enquired the M.P.P.
“Oh, well,” answered Mrs. Freeman with hesitation, “you see she is so
very plain--and--well, not like other girls. But she is a good worker
and has a kind heart.”
Once more the runners face the starter, La Belle gay, alert, confident;
Cameron silent, pale, and grim.
“All set? Go!” La Belle is away ere the word is spoken. The bell,
however, brings him back, wrathful and less confident.
Once more they stand crouching over the scratch. Once more the word
releases them like shafts from the bow. A beautiful start, La Belle
again in the lead, but Cameron hard at his heels and evidently with
something to spare. Thus for fifty yards, sixty, yes, sixty-five.
“La Belle! La Belle! He wins! He wins!” yell his backers frantically,
the thin-faced man dancing madly near the finishing tape. Twenty yards
to go and still La Belle is in the lead. High above the shouting rises
Mack's roar.
“Now, Cameron! For the life of you!”
It was as if his voice had touched a spring somewhere in Cameron's
anatomy. A great leap brings him even with La Belle. Another, another,
and still another, and he breasts the tape a winner by a yard, time ten
and three fifths seconds. The Maplehill folk go mad, and madder than all
Isa and her company of girl friends.
“I got--one--bad--start--me! He--pull--me back!” panted La Belle to his
backers who were holding him up.
“Who pulled you back?” indignantly cried the thin-faced man, looking for
blood.
“That sacre startair!”
“You ran a fine race, La Belle!” said Cameron, coming up.
“Non! Peste! I mak heem in ten and one feeft,” replied the disgusted La
Belle.
“I have made it in ten,” said Cameron quietly.
“Aha!” exclaimed La Belle. “You are one black horse, eh? So! I race no
more to-day!”
“Then no more do I!” said Cameron firmly. “Why, La Belle, you will beat
me in the next race sure. I have no wind.”
Under pressure La Belle changed his mind, and well for him he did; for
in the two hundred and twenty yards and in the quarter mile Cameron's
lack of condition told against him, so that in the one he ran second to
La Belle and in the other third to La Belle and Fullerton.
The Maplehill folk were gloriously satisfied, and Fatty in an ecstasy of
delight radiated good cheer everywhere. Throughout the various contests
the interest continued to deepen, the secretary, with able generalship,
reserving the hammer-throwing as the most thrilling event to the last
place. For, more than anything in the world, men, and especially women,
love strong men and love to see them in conflict. For that fatal love
cruel wars have been waged, lands have been desolated, kingdoms have
fallen. There was the promise of a very pretty fight indeed between the
three entered for the hammer-throwing contest, two of them experienced
in this warfare and bearing high honours, the third new to the game and
unskilled, but loved for his modest courage and for the simple, gentle
heart he carried in his great body. He could not win, of course, for
McGee, the champion of the city police force, had many scalps at his
girdle, and Duncan Ross, “Black Duncan,” the pride of the Zorras, the
unconquered hero of something less than a hundred fights--who could hope
to win from him? But all the more for this the people loved big Mack and
wished him well. So down the sloping sides of the encircling hills the
crowds pressed thick, and on the platform the great men leaned over
the rail, while they lifted their ladies to places of vantage upon the
chairs beside them.
“Oh, I cannot see a bit!” cried Isa MacKenzie, vainly pressing upon the
crowding men who, stolidly unaware of all but what was doing in front of
them, effectually shut off her view.
“And you want to see?” said the M.P.P., looking down at her.
“Oh, so much!” she cried.
“Come up here, then!” and, giving her a hand, he lifted her, smiling and
blushing, to a place on the platform whence she with absorbing interest
followed the movements of big Mack, and incidentally of the others in as
far as they might bear any relation to those of her hero.
And now they were drawing for place.
“Aha! Mack is going to throw first!” said the Reverend Alexander Munro.
“That is a pity.”
“It's a shame!” cried Isa, with flashing eyes. “Why don't they put one
of those older--ah--?”
“Stagers?” suggested the M.P.P.
“Duffers,” concluded Isa.
“The lot determines the place, Miss Isa,” said Mr. Freeman, with a smile
at her. “But the best man will win.”
“Oh, I am not so sure of that!” cried the girl in a distressed voice.
“Mack might get nervous.”
“Nervous?” laughed the M.P.P. “That giant?”
“Yes, indeed, I have seen him that nervous--” said Isa, and stopped
abruptly.
“Ah! That is quite possible,” replied the M.P.P. with a quizzical smile.
“And there is young Cameron yonder. He is not going to throw, is he?”
enquired Mr. Munro.
“He is coaching Mack,” explained Isa, “and fine he is at it. Oh, there!
He is going to throw! Oh, if he only gets the swing! Oh! Oh! Oh! He has
got it fine!”
A storm of cheers followed Mack's throw, then a deep silence while the
judges took the measurement.
“One hundred and twenty-one feet!”
“One hundred and twenty-one!” echoed a hundred voices in amazement.
“One hundred and twenty-one! It is a lie!” cried McGee with an oath,
striding out to personally supervise the measuring.
“One hundred and twenty-one!” said Duncan Ross, shaking his head
doubtfully, but he was too much of a gentleman to do other than wait for
the judges' decision.
“One hundred and twenty-one feet and two inches,” was the final verdict,
and from the crowd there rose a roar that rolled like thunder around the
hills.
“It's a fluke, and so it is!” said McGee with another oath.
“Give me your hand, lad,” said Duncan Ross, evidently much roused. “It
iss a noble throw whateffer, and worthy of beeg Rory himself. I haf done
better, howeffer, but indeed I may not to-day.”
It was indeed a great throw, and one immediate result was that there
was no holding back in the contest, no playing 'possum. Mack's throw was
there to be beaten, and neither McGee nor even Black Duncan could afford
to throw away a single chance. For hammer-throwing is an art requiring
not only strength but skill as well, and not only strength and skill but
something else most difficult to secure. With the strength and the skill
there must go a rhythmic and perfect coordination of all the muscles in
the body, with exactly the proper contracting and relaxing of each at
exactly the proper moment of time, and this perfect coordination is a
result rarely achieved even by the greatest throwers, but when achieved,
and with the man's full strength behind it, his record throw is the
result.
Meantime Cameron was hovering about his man in an ecstasy of delight.
“Oh, Mack, old man!” he said. “You got the swing perfectly. It was a
dream. And if you had put your full strength into it you would have made
a world record. Why, man, you could add ten feet to it!”
“It is a fluke!” said McGee again, as he took his place.
“Make one like it, then, my lad,” said Black Duncan with a grim smile.
But this McGee failed to do, for his throw measured ninety-seven feet.
“A very fair throw, McGee,” said Black Duncan. “But not your best, and
nothing but the best will do the day appearingly.”
With that Black Duncan took place for his throw. One--twice--thrice he
swung the great hammer about his head, then sent it whirling into the
air. Again a mighty shout announced a great throw and again a dead
silence waited for the measurement.
“One hundred and fourteen feet!”
“Aha!” said Black Duncan, and stepped back apparently well satisfied.
It was again Mack's turn.
“You have the privilege of allowing your first throw to stand,” said Dr.
Kane.
“Best let it stand, lad, till it iss beat,” advised Black Duncan kindly.
“It iss a noble throw.”
“He can do better, though,” said Cameron.
“Very well, very well!” said Duncan. “Let him try.”
But Mack's success had keyed him up to the highest pitch. Every nerve
was tingling, every muscle taut. His first throw he had taken without
strain, being mainly anxious, under Cameron's coaching, to get the
swing, but under the excitement incident to the contest he had put more
strength into the throw than appeared either to himself or to his coach.
Now, however, with nerves and muscles taut, he was eager to increase
his distance, too eager it seemed, for his second throw measured only
eighty-nine feet.
A silence fell upon his friends and Cameron began to chide him.
“You went right back to your old style, Mack. There wasn't the sign of a
swing.”
“I will get it yet, or bust!” said big Mack between his teeth.
McGee's second throw went one hundred and seventeen feet. A cheer arose
from his backers, for it was a great throw and within five feet of
his record. Undoubtedly McGee was in great form and he might well be
expected to measure up to his best to-day.
Black Duncan's second throw measured one hundred and nineteen feet
seven, which was fifteen feet short of his record and showed him to be
climbing steadily upward.
Once more the turn came to Mack, and once more, with almost savage
eagerness, he seized the hammer preparatory to his throw.
“Now, Mack, for heaven's sake go easy!” said Cameron. “Take your swing
easy and slow.”
But Mack heeded him not. “I can beat it!” he muttered between his shut
teeth, “and I will.” So, with every nerve taut and every muscle strained
to its limit, he made his third attempt. It was in vain. The measure
showed ninety-seven feet six. A suppressed groan rose from the Maplehill
folk.
“A grand throw, lad, for a beginner,” said Black Duncan.
The excitement now became intense. By his first throw of one hundred and
twenty-one feet two, Mack remained still the winner. But McGee had
only four feet to gain and Black Duncan less than two to equal him.
The little secretary went skipping about aglow with satisfaction
and delight. The day was already famous in the history of Canadian
athletics.
Again McGee took place for his throw, his third and last. The crowd
gathered in as near as they dared. But McGee had done his best for that
day, and his final throw measured only one hundred and five feet.
There remained yet but a single chance to wrest from Mack Murray the
prize for that day, but that chance lay in the hands of Duncan Ross, the
cool and experienced champion of many a hard-fought fight. Again Black
Duncan took the hammer. It was his last throw. He had still fifteen feet
to go to reach his own record, and he had often beaten the throw that
challenged him to-day, but, on the other hand, he had passed through
many a contest where his throw had fallen short of the one he must now
beat to win. A hush fell upon the people as Black Duncan took his place.
Once--twice--and, with ever increasing speed, thrice he swung the great
hammer, then high and far it hurtled through the air.
“Jerusalem!” cried Mack. “What a fling!”
“Too high,” muttered Black Duncan. “You have got it, lad, you have got
it, and you well deserve it.”
“Tut-tut, nonsense!” said Mack impatiently. “Wait you a minute.”
Silent and expectant the crowd awaited the result. Twice over the judges
measured the throw, then announced “One hundred and twenty-one feet.”
Mack had won by two inches.
A great roar rose from the crowd, round Mack they surged like a flood,
eager to grip his hands and eager to carry him off shoulder high. But
he threw them off as a rock throws back the incoming tide and made
for Duncan Ross, who stood, calm and pale, and with hand outstretched,
waiting him. It was a new experience for Black Duncan, and a bitter, to
be second in a contest. Only once in many years had he been forced to
lower his colours, and to be beaten by a raw and unknown youth added
to the humiliation of his defeat. But Duncan Ross had in his veins the
blood of a long line of Highland gentlemen who knew how to take defeat
with a smile.
“I congratulate you, Mack Murray,” he said in a firm, clear voice. “Your
fame will be through Canada tomorrow, and well you deserve it.”
But Mack caught the outstretched hand in both of his and, leaning toward
Black Duncan, he roared at him above the din.
“Mr. Ross, Mr. Ross, it is no win! Listen to me!” he panted. “What are
two inches in a hundred and twenty feet? A stretching of the tape will
do it. No, no! Listen to me! You must listen to me as you are a man! I
will not have it! You can beat me easily in the throw! At best it is a
tie and nothing else will I have to-day. At least let us throw again!”
he pleaded. But to this Ross would not listen for a moment.
“The lad has made his win,” he said to the judges, “and his win he must
have.”
But Mack declared that nothing under heaven would make him change his
mind. Finally the judges, too, agreed that in view of the possibility of
a mistake in measuring with the tape, it would be only right and fair
to count the result a tie. Black Duncan listened respectfully to the
judges' decision.
“You are asking me a good deal, Mack,” he said at length, “but you are a
gallant lad and I am an older man and--”
“Aye! And a better!” shouted Mack.
“And so I will agree.”
Once more the field was cleared. And now there fell upon the crowding
people a hush as if they stood in the presence of death itself.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” said the M.P.P. “Do you realise that you are
looking upon a truly great contest, a contest great enough to be of
national, yes, of international, importance?”
“You bet your sweet life!” cried the irrepressible Fatty. “We're going
some. 'What's the matter with our Mack?'” he shouted.
“'HE'S--ALL--RIGHT!'” came back the chant from the surrounding hills in
hundreds of voices.
“And what's the matter with Duncan Ross?” cried Mack, waving a hand
above his head.
Again the assurance of perfect rightness came back in a mighty roar
from the hills. But it was hushed into immediate silence, a silence
breathless and overwhelming, for Black Duncan had taken once more his
place with the hammer in his hand.
“Oh, I do wish they would hurry!” gasped Isa, her hands pressed hard
upon her heart.
“My heart is rather weak, too,” said the M.P.P. “I fear I cannot last
much longer. Ah! There he goes, thank God!”
“Amen!” fervently responds little Mrs. Freeman, who, in the intensity
of her excitement, is standing on a chair holding tight by her husband's
coat collar.
Not a sound breaks the silence as Black Duncan takes his swing. It is a
crucial moment in his career. Only by one man in Canada has he ever been
beaten, and with the powers of his antagonist all untried and unknown,
for anyone could see that Mack has not yet thrown his best, he may be
called upon to surrender within the next few minutes the proud position
he has held so long in the athletic world. But there is not a sign
of excitement in his face. With great care, and with almost painful
deliberation, he balances the hammer for a moment or two, then
once--twice--and, with a tremendous quickening of speed,--thrice--he
swings, and his throw is made. A great throw it is, anyone can see, and
one that beats the winner. In hushed and strained silence the people
await the result.
“One hundred and twenty-one feet nine.”
Then rises the roar that has been held pent up during the last few
nerve-racking minutes.
“It iss a good enough throw,” said Black Duncan with a quiet smile, “but
there iss more in me yet. Now, lad, do your best and there will be no
hard feeling with thiss man whateffer happens.”
Black Duncan's accent and idioms reveal the intense excitement that lies
behind his quiet face.
Mack takes the hammer.
“I will not beat it, you may be sure,” he says. “But I will just take a
fling at it anyway.”
“Now, Mack,” says Cameron, “for the sake of all you love forget the
distance and show them the Braemar swing. Easy and slow.”
But Mack waves him aside and stands pondering. He is “getting the idea.”
“Man, do you see him?” whispers his brother Danny, who stands near to
Cameron. “I believe he has got it.”
Cameron nods his head. Mack wears an impressive air of confidence and
strength.
“It will be a great throw,” says Cameron to Danny.
“Easy and slow” Mack poises the great hammer in his hand, swinging it
gently backward and forward as if it had been a boy's toy, the great
muscles in arms and back rippling up and down in firm full waves under
his white skin, for he is now stripped to the waist for this throw.
Suddenly, as if at command, the muscles seem to spring to their places,
tense, alert. “Easy.” Yes, truly, but by no means “slow.” “Easy,” the
great hammer swings about his head in whirling circles, swift and ever
swifter. Once--and twice--the great muscles in back and arms and back
and legs knotted in bunches--thrice!
“Ah-h-h!” A long, wailing, horrible sound, half moan, half cry, breaks
from the people. Mack has missed his direction, and the great hammer,
weighted with the potentialities of death, is describing a parabola high
over the heads of the crowding, shrieking, scattering people.
“Oh, my God! My God! Oh, my God! My God!” With his hands covering his
eyes the big man is swaying from side to side like a mighty tree before
a tempest. Cameron and Ross both spring to him. On the hillsides men
stand rigid, pale, shaking; women shriek and faint. One ghastly moment
of suspense, and then a horrid sickening thud; one more agonising second
of silence, and then from a score of throats rises a cry:
“It's all right! All right! No one hurt!”
From five hundred throats breaks a weird unearthly mingling of strange
sounds; cheers and cries, shouts and sobs, prayers and oaths. In the
midst of it all Mack sinks to his knees, with hands outstretched to
heaven.
“Great God, I thank Thee! I thank Thee!” he cries brokenly, the tears
streaming down his ghastly face. Then, falling forward upon his hands,
he steadies himself while great sobs come heaving from his mighty chest.
Cameron and Ross, still upholding him, through the crowd a man comes
pushing his way, hurling men and women right and left.
“Back, people! And be still.” It is the minister, Alexander Munro. “Be
still! It is a great deliverance that God has wrought! Peace, woman! God
is near! Let us pray.”
Instantly all noises are hushed, hats come off, and all up the sloping
hills men and women fall to their knees, or remain standing with heads
bowed, while the minister, upright beside the kneeling man, spreads his
hands towards heaven and prays in a voice steady, strong, thrilling:
“Almighty God, great and wonderful in Thy ways, merciful and gracious
in Thy providence, Thou hast wrought a great deliverance before our eyes
this day. All power is in Thy hands. All forces move at Thy command.
Thine hand it is that guided this dread hammer harmless to its own
place, saving the people from death. It is ever thus, Father, for Thou
art Love. We lift to Thee our hearts' praise. May we walk softly before
Thee this day and alway. Amen!”
“Amen! Amen!” On every hand and up the hillsides rises the fervent
solemn attestation.
“Rise, Mr. Murray!” says the minister in a loud and solemn voice, giving
Mack his hand. “God has been gracious to you this day. See that you do
not forget.”
“He has that! He has that!” sobs Mack. “And God forgive me if I ever
forget.” And, suddenly pushing from him the many hands stretched out
towards him, he stumbles his way through the crowd, led off by his two
friends towards the tent.
“Hold on there a minute! Let us get this measurement first.” It was the
matter-of-fact, cheery voice of Fatty Freeman. “If I am not mistaken we
have a great throw to measure.”
“Quite right, Mr. Freeman,” said the minister. “Let us get the
measurement and let not the day be spoiled.”
“Here, you people, don't stand there gawking like a lot of dotty
chumps!” cried the secretary, striving to whip them out of the mood of
horror into which they had fallen. “Get a move on! Give the judges a
chance! What is it, doctor?”
The judges were consulting. At length the decision was announced.
“One hundred and twenty-nine seven.”
“Hooray!” yelled Fatty, flinging his straw hat high. “One hundred and
twenty-nine seven! It is a world throw! Why don't you yell, you people?
Don't you know that you have a world-beater among you? Yell! Yell!”
“Three cheers for Mack Murray!” called out the Reverend Harper Freeman
from the platform, swinging his great black beaver hat over his head.
It was what the people wanted. Again, and again, and yet again the crowd
exhausted its pent-up emotions in frantic cheers. The clouds of gloom
were rolled back, the sun was shining bright again, and with fresh zest
the people turned to the enjoyment of the rest of the programme.
“Thank you, Sir!” said Fatty amid the uproar, gripping the hand of Mr.
Munro. “You have saved the day for us. We were all going to smash, but
you pulled us out.”
Meantime in the tent Duncan Ross was discoursing to his friends.
“Man, Mack! Yon's a mighty throw! Do you know it iss within five feet
of my own record and within ten of Big Rory's? Then,” he said solemnly,
“you are in the world's first class to-day, my boy, and you are just
beginning.”
“I have just quit!” said Mack.
“Whist, lad! Thiss iss not the day for saying anything about it. We
will wait a wee and to-day we will just be thankful.” And with that they
turned to other things.
They were still in the dressing tent when the secretary thrust his
cheery face under the flap.
“I say, boys! Are you ready? Cameron, we want you on the pipes.”
“Harp!” said Mack. “I am going home. I am quite useless.”
“And me, too,” said Cameron. “I shall go with you, Mack.”
“What?” cried Fatty in consternation. “Look here, boys! Is this a square
deal? God knows I am nearly all in myself. I've had enough to keep this
thing from going to pieces. Don't you go back on me now!”
“That is so!” said Mack slowly. “Cameron, you must stay. You are needed.
I will spoil things more by staying than by going. I would be forever
seeing that hammer crushing down--” He covered his face with his hands
and shuddered.
“All right, Mack! I will stay,” said Cameron. “But what about you?”
“Oh,” said Black Duncan, “Mack and I will walk about and have a smoke
for a little.”
“Thanks, boys, you are the stuff!” said Fatty fervently. “Once more you
have saved the day. Come then, Cameron! Get your pipes. Old Sutherland
is waiting for you.”
But before he set off Mack called Cameron to him.
“You will see Isa,” he said, “and tell her why I could not stay. And you
will take her home.” His face was still pallid, his voice unsteady.
“I will take care of her, Mack, never fear. But could you not remain? It
might help you.”
But Mack only shook his head. His fervent Highland soul had too recently
passed through the valley of death and its shadows were still upon him.
Four hours later Fatty looked in upon Mack at his own home. He found him
sitting in the moonlight in the open door of the big new barn, with his
new-made friend, Duncan Ross, at one door post and old Piper Sutherland
at the other, while up and down the floor in the shadow within Cameron
marched, droning the wild melody of the “Maccrimmon Lament.” Mournful
and weird it sounded through the gloom, but upon the hearts of these
Highlanders it fell like a soothing balm. With a wave of his hand Mack
indicated a seat, which Fatty took without a word. Irrepressible though
he was, he had all the instincts of a true gentleman. He knew it was the
time for silence, and silent he stood till the Lament had run through
its “doubling” and its “trebling,” ending with the simple stately
movement of its original theme. To Fatty it was a mere mad and
unmelodious noise, but, reading the faces of the three men before him in
the moonlight, he had sense enough to recognise his own limitations.
At length the Lament was finished and Cameron came forward into the
light.
“Ah! That iss good for the soul,” said old piper Sutherland. “Do you
know what your pipes have been saying to me in yon Lament?
'Yea, though I walk through Death's dark vale,
Yet will I fear none ill;
For Thou art with me, and Thy rod
And staff me comfort still.'
And we have been in the valley thiss day.”
Mack rose to his feet.
“I could not have said it myself, but, as true as death, that is the
word for me.”
“Well,” said Fatty, rising briskly, “I guess you are all right, Mack. I
confess I was a bit anxious about you, but--”
“There is no need,” said Mack gravely. “I can sleep now.”
“Good-night, then,” replied Fatty, turning to go. “Cameron, I owe you a
whole lot. I won't forget it.” He set his hat upon the back of his head,
sticking his hands into his pockets and surveying the group before him.
“Say! You Highlanders are a great bunch. I do not pretend to understand
you, but I want to say that between you you have saved the day.” And
with that the cheery, frisky, irrepressible, but kindly little man faded
into the moonlight and was gone.
For the fourth time the day had been saved.
CHAPTER VI
A SABBATH DAY IN LATE AUGUST
It was a Sabbath day in late August, and in no month of the year does
a Sabbath day so chime with the time. For the Sabbath day is a day for
rest and holy thought, and the late August is the rest time of the year,
when the woods and fields are all asleep in a slumberous blue haze; the
sacred time, too, for in late August old Mother Earth is breathing her
holiest aspirations heavenward, having made offering of her best in the
full fruitage of the year. Hence a Sabbath day in late August chimes
marvellously well with the time.
And this particular Sabbath day was perfect of its kind, a dreamy,
drowsy day, a day when genial suns and hazy cool airs mingle in
excellent harmony, and the tired worker, freed from his week's toil,
basks and stretches, yawns and revels in rest under the orchard trees;
unless, indeed, he goes to morning church. And to morning church Cameron
went as a rule, but to-day, owing to a dull ache in his head and a
general sense of languor pervading his limbs, he had chosen instead, as
likely to be more healing to his aching head and his languid limbs, the
genial sun, tempered with cool and lazy airs under the orchard trees.
And hence he lay watching the democrat down the lane driven off to
church by Perkins, with Mandy beside him in the front seat, the seat
of authority and of activity, and Mr. Haley alone in the back seat, the
seat of honour and of retirement. Mrs. Haley was too overborne by the
heat and rush of the busy week to adventure the heat and dust of the
road, and to sustain the somewhat strenuous discourse of the Reverend
Harper Freeman, to whose flock the Haleys belonged. This, however, was
not Mrs. Haley's invariable custom. In the cooler weather it was her
habit to drive on a Sunday morning to church, sitting in the back seat
beside her husband, with Tim and Mandy occupying the front seat beside
the hired man, but during the heat and hurry of the harvest time she
would take advantage of the quietness of the house and of the two or
three hours' respite from the burden of household duties to make up
arrears of sleep accumulated during the preceding week, salving her
conscience, for she had a conscience in the matter, with a promise that
she might go in the evening when it was cooler and when she was more
rested. This promise, however, having served its turn, was never
fulfilled, for by the evening the wheels of household toil began once
more to turn, and Mrs. Haley found it easier to worship vicariously,
sending Mandy and Tim to the evening service. And to this service the
young people were by no means loath to go, for it was held on fair
evenings in MacBurney's woods, two miles away by the road, one mile by
the path through the woods. On occasion Perkins would hitch up in the
single buggy Dexter, the fiery young colt, too fiery for any other to
drive, and, as a special attention to his employer's daughter, would
drive her to the service. But since the coming of Cameron, Mandy had
allowed this custom to fall into disuse, at first somewhat to Perkins'
relief, for the colt was restless and fretted against the tie rein;
and, besides, Perkins was not as yet quite prepared to acknowledge any
special relationship between himself and the young lady in question
before the assembled congregation, preferring to regard himself and
to be regarded by others as a free lance. Later, however, as Mandy's
preference for a walk through the woods became more marked, Perkins,
much to his disgust, found himself reduced to the attitude of a
suppliant, urging the superior attraction of a swift drive behind
Dexter as against a weary walk to the service. Mandy, however, with
the directness of her simple nature, had no compunction in frankly
maintaining her preference for a walk with Tim and Cameron through the
woods; indeed, more than once she allowed Perkins to drive off with his
fiery colt, alone in his glory.
But this Sabbath morning, as Cameron lay under the orchard trees, he was
firmly resolved that he would give the whole day to the nursing of the
ache in his head and the painful languor in his body. And so lying he
allowed his mind to wander uncontrolled over the happenings of the past
months, troubled by a lazy consciousness of a sore spot somewhere in his
life. Gradually there grew into clearness the realisation of the cause
of this sore spot.
“What is the matter with Perkins?” he asked of Tim, who had declined
to go to church, and who had strolled into the orchard to be near his
friend.
“What is the matter with Perkins?” Cameron asked a second time, for Tim
was apparently too much engaged with a late harvest apple to answer.
“How?” said the boy at length.
“He is so infernally grumpy with me.”
“Grumpy? He's sore, I guess.”
“Sore?”
“You bet! Ever since I beat him in the turnips that day.”
“Ever since YOU beat him?” asked Cameron in amazement. “Why should he be
sore against me?”
“He knows it was you done it,” said Tim.
“Nonsense, Tim! Besides, Perkins isn't a baby. He surely doesn't hold
that against me.”
“Huh, huh,” said Tim, “everybody's pokin' fun at him, and he hates that,
and ever since the picnic, too, he hates you.”
“But why in the world?”
“Oh, shucks!” said Tim, impatient at Cameron's density. “I guess you
know all right.”
“Know? Not I!”
“Git out?”
“Honor bright, Tim,” replied Cameron, sitting up. “Now, honestly, tell
me, Tim, why in the world Perkins should hate me.”
“You put his nose out of joint, I guess,” said Tim with a grin.
“Oh, rot, Tim! How?”
“Every how,” said Tim, proceeding to elaborate. “First when you came
here you were no good--I mean--” Tim checked himself hastily.
“I know what you mean, Tim. Go on. You are quite right. I couldn't do
anything on the farm.”
“Now,” continued Tim, “you can do anything jist as good as him--except
bindin', of course. He's a terror at bindin', but at pitchin' and
shockin' and loadin' you're jist as good.”
“But, Tim, that's all nonsense. Perkins isn't such a fool as to hate me
because I can keep up my end.”
“He don't like you,” said Tim stubbornly.
“But why? Why in the name of common sense?”
“Well,” said Tim, summing up the situation, “before you come he used to
be the hull thing. Now he's got to play second fiddle.”
But Cameron remained unenlightened.
“Oh, pshaw!” continued Tim, making further concessions to his
friend's stupidity. “At the dances, at the raisin's, runnin',
jumpin'--everythin'--Perkins used to be the King Bee. Now--” Tim's
silence furnished an impressive close to the contrast. “Why! They all
think you are just fine!” said Tim, with a sudden burst of confidence.
“They?”
“All the boys. Yes, and the girls, too,” said Tim, allowing his solemn
face the unusual luxury of a smile.
“The girls?”
“Aw, yeh know well enough--the Murray girls, and the MacKenzies, and the
hull lot of them. And then--and then--there's Mandy, too.” Here Tim shot
a keen glance at his friend, who now sat leaning against the trunk of an
apple tree with his eyes closed.
“Now, Tim, you are a shrewd little chap”--here Cameron sat upright--“but
how do you know about the girls, and what is this you say about Mandy?
Mandy is good to me--very kind and all that, but--”
“She used to like Perkins pretty well,” said Tim, with a kind of
hesitating shyness.
“And Perkins?”
“Oh, he thought he jist owned her. Guess he ain't so sure now,” added
Tim. “I guess you've changed Mandy all right.”
It was the one thing Cameron hated to hear, but he made light of it.
“Oh, nonsense!” he exclaimed. “But if I did I would be mighty glad of
it. Mandy is too good for a man like Perkins. Why, he isn't safe.”
“He's a terror,” replied Tim seriously. “They are all scairt of him.
He's a terror to fight. Why, at MacKenzie's raisin' last year he jist
went round foamin' like an old boar and nobody dast say a word to him.
Even Mack Murray was scairt to touch him. When he gets like that he
ain't afraid of nothin' and he's awful quick and strong.”
Tim proceeded to enlarge upon this theme, which apparently fascinated
him, with tales of Perkins' prowess in rough-and-tumble fighting. But
Cameron had lost interest and was lying down again with his eyes closed.
“Well,” he said, when Tim had finished his recital, “if he is that kind
of a man Mandy should have nothing to do with him.”
But Tim was troubled.
“Dad likes him,” he said gloomily. “He is a good hand. And ma likes him,
too. He taffies her up.”
“And Mandy?” enquired Cameron.
“I don't know,” said Tim, still more gloomy. “I guess he kind of makes
her. I'd--I'd jist like to take a lump out of him.” Tim's eyes blazed
into a sudden fire. “He runs things on this farm altogether too much.”
“Buck up then, Tim, and beat him,” said Cameron, dismissing the subject.
“And now I must have some sleep. I have got an awful head on.”
Tim was quick enough to understand the hint, but still he hovered about.
“Say, I'm awful sorry,” he said. “Can't I git somethin'? You didn't eat
no breakfast.”
“Oh, all I want is sleep, Tim. I will be all right tomorrow,” replied
Cameron, touched by the tone of sympathy in Tim's voice. “You are a fine
little chap. Trot along and let me sleep.”
But no sleep came to Cameron, partly because of the hammer knocking in
his head, but chiefly because of the thoughts set going by Tim. Cameron
was not abnormally egotistical, but he was delightedly aware of the new
place he held in the community ever since the now famous Dominion Day
picnic, and, now that the harvest rush had somewhat slackened, social
engagements had begun to crowd upon him. Dances and frolics, coon hunts
and raisings were becoming the vogue throughout the community, and no
social function was complete without the presence of Cameron. But
this sudden popularity had its embarrassments, and among them, and
threatening to become annoying, was the hostility of Perkins, veiled as
yet, but none the less real. Moreover, behind Perkins stood a band of
young fellows of whom he was the recognised leader and over whom his
ability in the various arts and crafts of the farm, his physical prowess
in sports, his gay, cheery manner, and, it must be said, the reputation
he bore for a certain fierce brute courage in rough-and-tumble fighting,
gave him a sort of ascendency.
But Perkins' attitude towards him did not after all cause Cameron much
concern. There was another and more annoying cause of embarrassment, and
that was Mandy. Tim's words kept reiterating themselves in his brain,
“You've changed Mandy all right.” Over this declaration of Tim's,
Cameron proceeded to argue with himself. He sat bolt upright that he
might face himself on the matter.
“Now, then,” he said to himself, “let's have this thing out.”
“Most willingly. This girl was on the way to engagement to this young
man Perkins. You come on the scene. Everything is changed.”
“Well! What of it? It's a mighty good thing for her.”
“But you are the cause of it.”
“The occasion, rather.”
“No, the cause. You have attracted her to you.”
“I can't help that. Besides, it is a mere passing whim. She'll get over
all that?” And Cameron laughed scornfully in his own face.
“Do you know that? And how do you know it? Tim thinks differently.”
“Oh, confound it all! I see that I shall have to get out of here.”
“A wise decision truly, and the sooner the better. Do you propose to go
at once?”
“At once? Well, I should like to spend the winter here. I have made a
number of friends and life is beginning to be pleasant.”
“Exactly! It suits your convenience, but how about Mandy?”
“Oh, rubbish! Must I be governed by the fancies of that silly girl?
Besides, the whole thing is absurdly ridiculous.”
“But facts are stubborn, and anyone can see that the girl is--”
“Hang it all! I'll go at the end of the month.”
“Very well. And in the leave-taking--?”
“What?”
“It is pleasant to be appreciated and to carry away with one memories, I
will not say tender, but appreciative.”
“I can't act like a boor. I must be decent to the girl. Besides, she
isn't altogether a fool.”
“No, but very crude, very primitive, very passionate, and therefore very
defenseless.”
“All right, I shall simply shake hands and go.”
So, with the consequent sense of relief that high resolve always brings,
Cameron lay down again and fell into slumber and dreams of home.
From these dreams of home Mandy recalled him with a summons to dinner.
As his eye, still filled with the vision of his dreams, fell upon her
in all the gorgeous splendour of her Sunday dress, he was conscious of
a strong sense of repulsion. How coarse, how crude, how vulgar she
appeared, how horribly out of keeping with those scenes through which he
had just been wandering in his dreams.
“I want no dinner, Mandy,” he said shortly. “I have a bad head and I am
not hungry.”
“No dinner?” That a man should not want dinner was to Mandy quite
inexplicable, unless, indeed, he were ill.
“Are you sick?” she cried in quick alarm.
“No, I have a headache. It will pass away,” said Cameron, turning over
on his side. Still Mandy lingered.
“Let me bring you a nice piece of pie and a cup of tea.”
Cameron shuddered.
“No,” he said, “bring me nothing. I merely wish to sleep.”
But Mandy refused to be driven away.
“Say, I'm awful sorry. I know you're sick.”
“Nonsense!” said Cameron, impatiently, waiting for her to be gone. Still
Mandy hesitated.
“I'm awful sorry,” she said again, and her voice, deep, tender,
full-toned, revealed her emotion.
Cameron turned impatiently towards her.
“Look here, Mandy! There's nothing wrong with me. I only want a little
sleep. I shall be all right to-morrow.”
But Mandy's fears were not to be allayed.
“Say,” she cried, “you look awful bad.”
“Oh, get out, Mandy! Go and get your dinner. Don't mind me.” Cameron's
tone was decidedly cross.
Without further remonstrance Mandy turned silently away, but before she
turned Cameron caught the gleam of tears in the great blue eyes. A swift
compunction seized him.
“I say, Mandy, I don't want to be rude, but--”
“Rude?” cried the girl. “You? You couldn't be. You are always good--to
me--and--I--don't--know--” Here her voice broke.
“Oh, come, Mandy, get away to dinner. You are a good girl. Now leave me
alone.”
The kindness in his voice quite broke down Mandy's all too slight
control. She turned away, audibly sniffling, with her apron to her eyes,
leaving Cameron in a state of wrathful perplexity.
“Oh, confound it all!” he groaned to himself. “This is a rotten go. By
Jove! This means the West for me. The West! After all, that's the place.
Here there is no chance anyway. Why did I not go sooner?”
He rose from the grass, shivering with a sudden chill, went to his bed
in the hay mow, and, covering himself with Tim's blankets and his own,
fell again into sleep. Here, late in the afternoon, Tim found him and
called him to supper.
With Mandy's watchful eye upon him he went through the form of eating,
but Mandy was not to be deceived.
“You ain't eatin' nothin',” she said reproachfully as he rose from the
table.
“Enough for a man who is doing nothing,” replied Cameron. “What I want
is exercise. I think I shall take a walk.”
“Going to church?” she enquired, an eager light springing into her eye.
“To church? I hadn't thought of it,” replied Cameron, but, catching
the gleam of a smile on Perkins' face and noting the utterly woebegone
expression on Mandy's, he added, “Well, I might as well walk to church
as any place else. You are going, Tim?”
“Huh huh!” replied Tim.
“I am going to hitch up Deck, Mandy,” said Perkins.
“Oh, I'm goin' to walk!” said Mandy, emphatically.
“All right!” said Perkins. “Guess I'll walk too with the crowd.”
“Don't mind me,” said Mandy.
“I don't,” laughed Perkins, “you bet! Nor anybody else.”
“And that's no lie!” sniffed Mandy, with a toss of her head.
“Better drive to church, Mandy,” suggested her mother. “You know you're
jist tired out and it will be late when you get started.”
“Tired? Late?” cried Mandy, with alacrity. “I'll be through them dishes
in a jiffy and be ready in no time. I like the walk through the woods.”
“Depends on the company,” laughed Perkins again. “So do I. Guess we'll
all go together.”
True to her promise, Mandy was ready within half an hour. Cameron
shuddered as he beheld the bewildering variety of colour in her attire
and the still more bewildering arrangement of hat and hair.
“You're good and gay, Mandy,” said Perkins. “What's the killing?”
Mandy made no reply save by a disdainful flirt of her skirts as she set
off down the lane, followed by Perkins, Cameron and Tim bringing up the
rear.
The lane was a grassy sward, cut with two wagon-wheel tracks, and with
a picturesque snake fence on either side. Beyond the fences lay the
fields, some of them with stubble raked clean, the next year's clover
showing green above the yellow, some with the grain standing still in
the shock, and some with the crop, the late oats for instance, still
uncut, but ready for the reaper. The turnip field was splendidly and
luxuriantly green with never a sign of the brown earth. The hay meadow,
too, was green and purple with the second growth of clover.
So down the lane and between the shorn fields, yellow and green, between
the clover fields and the turnips, they walked in silence, for the
spell of the Sabbath evening lay upon the sunny fields, barred with the
shadows from the trees that grew along the fence lines everywhere.
At the “slashing” the wagon ruts faded out and the road narrowed to a
single cow path, winding its way between stumps and round log piles,
half hidden by a luxuriant growth of foxglove and fireweed and asters,
and everywhere the glorious goldenrod. Then through the bars the path
led into the woods, a noble remnant of the beech and elm and maple
forest from which the farm had been cut some sixty years before. Cool
and shadowy they stood, and shot through with bright shafts of gold from
the westering sun, full of mysterious silence except for the twittering
of the sleepy birds or for the remonstrant call of the sentinel crow
from his watch tower on the dead top of a great elm. Deeper into the
shade the path ran until in the gloom it faded almost out of sight.
Soothed by the cool shade, Cameron loitered along the path, pausing to
learn of Tim the names of plants and trees as he went.
“Ain't yeh never comin'?” called Mandy from the gloom far in front.
“What's all the rush?” replied Tim, impatiently, who loved nothing
better than a quiet walk with Cameron through the woods.
“Rush? We'll be late, and I hate walkin' up before the hull crowd. Come
on!” cried his sister in impatient tone.
“All right, Mandy, we're nearly through the woods. I begin to see
the clearing yonder,” said Cameron, pointing to where the light was
beginning to show through the tree tops before them.
But they were late enough, and Mandy was glad of the cover of the
opening hymn to allow her to find her way to a group of her girl
friends, the males of the party taking shelter with a neighbouring group
of their own sex near by.
Upon the sloping sides of the grassy hills and under the beech and
maple trees, the vanguard of the retreating woods, sat the congregation,
facing the preacher, who stood on the grassy level below. Behind them
was the solid wall of thick woods, over them time spreading boughs, and
far above the trees the blue summer sky, all the bluer for the little
white clouds that sailed serene like ships upon a sea. At their feet lay
the open country, checkered by the snake fences into fields of yellow,
green, and brown, and rolling away to meet the woods at the horizon.
The Sabbath rest filled the sweet air, breathed from the shady woods,
rested upon the checkered fields, and lifted with the hymn to the blue
heaven above. A stately cathedral it was, this place of worship, filled
with the incense of flowers and fields, arched by the high dome of
heaven, and lighted by the glory of the setting sun.
Relieved by the walk for a time from the ache in his head, Cameron
surrendered himself to the mysterious influences of the place and
the hour. He let his eyes wander over the fields below him to the far
horizon, and beyond--beyond the woods, beyond the intervening leagues
of land and sea--and was again gazing upon the sunlit loveliness of the
Cuagh Oir. The Glen was abrim with golden light this summer evening,
the purple was on the hills and the little loch gleamed sapphire at the
bottom.
The preacher was reading his text.
“Unto one he gave five talents, to another two, to another one, to every
man according to his several ability, and straightway took his journey,”
and so on to the end of that marvellously wise tale, wise with the
wisdom of God, confirmed by the wisdom of human experience.
The Reverend Harper Freeman's voice could hardly, even by courtesy, be
called musical; in fact, it was harsh and strident; but this evening
the hills, and the trees, and the wide open spaces, Nature's mighty
modulator, subdued the harshness, so that the voice rolled up to the
people clear, full, and sonorous. Nor was the preacher possessed of
great learning nor endued with the gift of eloquence. He had, however, a
shrewd knowledge of his people and of their ways and of their needs, and
he had a kindly heart, and, more than all, he had the preacher's gift,
the divine capacity for taking fire.
For a time his words fell unheeded upon Cameron's outer ear.
“To every man his own endowments, some great, some small, but, mark you,
no man left quite poverty-stricken. God gives every man his chance. No
man can look God in the face, not one of you here can say that you have
had no chance.”
Cameron's vagrant mind, suddenly recalled, responded with a quick
assent. Opportunity? Endowment? Yes, surely. His mind flashed back over
the years of his education at the Academy and the University, long lazy
years. How little he had made of them! Others had turned them into the
gold of success. He wondered how old Dunn was getting on, and Linklater,
and little Martin. How far away seemed those days, and yet only some
four or five months separated him from them.
“One was a failure, a dead, flat failure,” continued the preacher.
“Not so much a wicked man, no murderer, no drunkard, no gambler, but a
miserable failure. Poor fellow! At the end of life a wretched bankrupt,
losing even his original endowment. How would you like to come home
after ten, twenty, thirty years of experiment with life and confess to
your father that you were dead broke and no good?”
Again Cameron's mind came back from its wandering with a start. Go back
to his father a failure! He drew his lip down hard over his teeth. Not
while he lived! And yet, what was there in prospect for him? His whole
soul revolted against the dreary monotony and the narrowness of his
present life, and yet, what other path lay open? Cameron went straying
in fancy over the past, or in excursions into the future, while,
parallel with his rambling, the sermon continued to make its way through
its various heads and particulars.
“Why?” The voice of the preacher rose clear, dominant, arresting. “Why
did he fail so abjectly, so meanly, so despicably? For there is no
excuse for a failure. Listen! No man NEED fail. A man who is a failure
is a mean, selfish, lazy chump.” Mr. Freeman was colloquial, if
anything. “Some men pity him. I don't. I have no use for him, and he is
the one thing in all the world that God himself has no use for.”
Again Cameron's mind was jerked back as a runaway horse by a rein. So
far his life had been a failure. Was there then no excuse for failure?
What of his upbringing, his education, his environment? He had been
indulging the habit during these last weeks of shifting responsibility
from himself for what he had become.
“What was the cause of this young man's failure?” reiterated the
preacher. The preacher had a wholesome belief in the value of
reiteration. He had a habit of rubbing in his points. “He blamed the
boss. Listen to his impudence! 'I knew thee to be a hard man.' He blamed
his own temperament and disposition. 'I was afraid.' But the boss brings
him up sharp and short. 'Quit lying!' he said. 'I'll tell you what's
wrong with you. You've got a mean heart, you ain't honest, and you're
too lazy to live. Here, take that money from him and give it to the man
that can do most with it, and take this useless loafer out of my sight.'
And served him right, too, say I, impudent, lazy liar.”
Cameron found his mind rising in wrathful defense of the unhappy
wretched failure in the story. But the preacher was utterly relentless
and proceeded to enlarge upon the character of the unhappy wretch.
“Impudent! The way to tell an impudent man is to let him talk. Now
listen to this man cheek the boss! 'I knew you,' he said. 'You skin
everybody in sight.' I have always noticed,” remarked the preacher, with
a twinkle in his eye, “that the hired man who can't keep up his end is
the kind that cheeks the boss. And so it is with life. Why, some men
would cheek Almighty God. They turn right round and face the other way
when God is explaining things to them, when He is persuading them, when
He is trying to help them. Then they glance back over their shoulders
and say, 'Aw, gwan! I know better than you.' Think of the impudence of
them! That's what many a man does with God. With GOD, mind you! GOD!
Your Father in heaven, your Brother, your Saviour, God as you know him
in the Man of Galilee, the Man you always see with the sick and the
outcast and the broken-hearted. It is this God that owns you and all
you've got--be honest and say so. You must begin by getting right with
God.”
“God!” Once more Cameron went wandering back into the far away days
of childhood. God was very near then, and very friendly. How well he
remembered when his mother had tucked him in at night and had kissed him
and had put out the light. He never felt alone and afraid, for she left
him, so she said, with God. It was God who took his mother's place, near
to his bedside. In those days God seemed very near and very kind. He
remembered his mother's look one day when he declared to her that he
could hear God breathing just beside him in the dark. How remote
God seemed to-day and how shadowy, and, yes, he had to confess it,
unfriendly. He heard no more of the sermon. With a curious ache in his
heart he allowed his mind to dwell amid those happy, happy memories when
his mother and God were the nearest and dearest to him of all he knew.
It may have been the ache in his head or the oppressive languor that
seemed to possess his body, but throughout the prayer that followed
the sermon he was conscious chiefly of a great longing for his mother's
touch upon his head, and with that a longing for his boyhood's sense of
the friendly God in his heart.
And so as the preacher led them up to God in prayer, Cameron bowed his
head with the others, thankful that he could still believe that, though
clouds and darkness might be about Him, God was not beyond the reach of
the soul's cry nor quite unmoved by human need. And for the first time
for years he sent forth as a little child his cry of need, “God help me!
God help me!”
CHAPTER VII
THE CHIVAREE
There was still light enough to see. The last hymn was announced.
Cameron was conscious of a deep, poignant emotion. He glanced swiftly
about him. The eyes of all were upon the preacher's face while he read
in slow sonorous tones the words of the old Methodist hymn:
“Come, Thou Fount of every blessing!
Tune my heart to sing Thy grace;”
all except the group of young men of whom Perkins was the centre, who,
by means of the saccharine medium known as conversation lozenges, were
seeking to divert the attention of the band of young girls sitting
before them. Among these sat Mandy. As his eye rested upon the billowy
outlines of her figure, struggling with the limitations of her white
blouse, tricked out with pink ribbons, he was conscious of a wave of
mingled pity and disgust. Dull, stupid, and vulgar she looked. It was at
her that Perkins was flipping his conversation lozenges. One fell
upon her hymn book. With a start she glanced about. Not an eye except
Cameron's was turned her way. With a smile and a blush that burned deep
under the dull tan of her neck and cheek she took the lozenge, read its
inscription, burning a deeper red. The words which she had read she
took as Cameron's. She turned her eyes full upon his face. The light
of tremulous joy in their lovely depths startled and thrilled him.
A snicker from the group of young men behind roused in him a deep
indignation. They were taking their coarse fun out of this simple-minded
girl. Cameron's furious glance at them appeared only to increase their
amusement. It did not lessen Cameron's embarrassment and rage that now
and then during the reading of the hymn Mandy's eyes were turned upon
him as if with new understanding. Enraged with himself, and more with
the group of hoodlums behind him, Cameron stood for the closing hymn
with his arms folded across his breast. At the second verse a hand
touched his arm. It was Mandy offering him her book. Once more a snicker
from the group of delighted observers behind him stirred his indignation
on behalf of this awkward and untutored girl. He forced himself to
listen to the words of the third verse, which rose clear and sonorous in
the preacher's voice:
“Here I raise my Ebenezer,
Hither by Thy help I'm come;
And I hope, by Thy good pleasure,
Safely to arrive at home.”
The serene assurance of the old Methodist hymn rose triumphant in the
singing, an assurance born of an experience of past conflict ending
in triumph. That note of high and serene confidence conjured up with
a flash of memory his mother's face. That was her characteristic, a
serene, undismayed courage. In the darkest hours that steady flame of
courage never died down.
But once more he was recalled to the service of the hour by a voice,
rich, full, low, yet of wonderful power, singing the old words. It took
him a moment or two to discover that it was Mandy singing beside him.
Her face was turned from him and upwards towards the trees above her,
through the network of whose leaves the stars were beginning to shine.
Amazed, enthralled, he listened to the flowing melody of her voice.
It was like the song of a brook running deep in the forest shade,
full-toned yet soft, quiet yet thrilling. She seemed to have forgotten
her surroundings. Her soul was holding converse with the Eternal. He
lost sight of the coarse and fleshly habiliments in the glimpse he
caught of the soul that lived within, pure, it seemed to him, tender,
and good. His heart went out to the girl in a new pity. Before the hymn
was done she turned her face towards him, and, whether it was the magic
of her voice, or the glorious splendour of her eyes, or the mystic touch
of the fast darkening night, her face seemed to have lost much of its
coarseness and all of its stupidity.
As the congregation dispersed, Cameron, in silence, and with the spell
of her voice still upon him, walked quietly beside Mandy towards the gap
in the fence leading to the high road. Behind him came Perkins with his
group of friends, chaffing with each other and with the girls walking
in front of them. As Cameron was stepping over the rails where the
fence had been let down, one of the young men following stumbled heavily
against him, nearly throwing him down, and before he could recover
himself Perkins had taken his place by Mandy's side and seized her arm.
There was a general laugh at what was considered a perfectly fair and
not unusual piece of jockeying in the squiring of young damsels. The
proper procedure in such a case was that the discomfited cavalier should
bide his time and serve a like turn upon his rival, the young lady
meanwhile maintaining an attitude purely passive. But Mandy was not so
minded. Releasing herself from Perkins' grasp, she turned upon the group
of young men following, exclaiming angrily, “You ought to be ashamed
of yourself, Sam Sailor!” Then, moving to Cameron's side, she said in a
clear, distinct voice:
“Mr. Cameron, would you please take my book for me?”
“Come on, boys!” said Perkins, with his never failing laugh. “I guess
we're not in this.”
“Take your medicine, Perkins,” laughed one of his friends.
“Yes, I'll take it all right,” replied Perkins. But the laugh could not
conceal the shake of passion in his voice. “It will work, too, you bet!”
So saying, he strode off into the gathering gloom followed by his
friends.
“Come along, Mr. Cameron,” said Mandy with a silly giggle. “I guess we
don't need them fellows. They can't fool us, can they?”
Her manner, her speech, her laugh rudely dissipated all Cameron's new
feeling towards her. The whole episode filled him only with disgust and
annoyance.
“Come, then,” he said, almost roughly. “We shall need to hurry, for
there is a storm coming up.”
Mandy glanced at the gathering clouds.
“My goodness!” she cried; “it's comin' up fast. My! I hate to git my
clothes wet.” And off she set at a rapid pace, keeping abreast of
her companion and making gay but elephantine attempts at sprightly
conversation. Before Cameron's unsympathetic silence, however, all her
sprightly attempts came to abject failure.
“What's the matter with you?” at length she asked. “Don't you want to
see me home?”
“What?” said Cameron, abruptly, for his thoughts were far away. “Oh,
nonsense! Of course! Why not? But we shall certainly be caught in the
storm. Let us hurry. Here, let me take your arm.”
His manner was brusque, almost rude.
“Oh, I guess I can get along,” replied Mandy, catching off her hat and
gathering up her skirt over her shoulders, “but we'll have to hustle,
for I'd hate to have you get, wet.” Her imperturbable good humour and
her solicitude for him rebuked Cameron for his abruptness.
“I hope you will not get wet,” he said.
“Oh, don't you worry about me. I ain't salt nor sugar, but I forgot
all about your bein' sick.” And with laboured breath poor Mandy hurried
through the growing darkness with Cameron keeping close by her side.
“We won't be long now,” she panted, as they turned from the side line
towards their own gate.
As if in reply to her words there sounded from behind the fence and
close to their side a long loud howl. Cameron gave a start.
“Great Caesar! What dog is that?” he exclaimed.
“Oh,” said Mandy coolly, “guess it's MacKenzie's Carlo.”
Immediately there rose from the fence on the other side an answering
howl, followed by a full chorus of howls and yelps mingled with a
bawling of calves and the ringing of cow bells, as if a dozen curs or
more were in full cry after a herd of cattle. Cameron stood still in
bewildered amazement.
“What the deuce are they at?” he cried, peering through the darkness.
“Huh!” grunted Mandy. “Them's curs all right, but they ain't much dog.
You wait till I see them fellows. They'll pay for this, you bet!”
“Do you mean to say these are not dogs?” cried Cameron, speaking in her
ear, so great was the din.
“Dogs?” answered Mandy with indignant scorn. “Naw! Just or'nary curs!
Come along,” she cried, catching his arm, “let's hurry.”
“Here!” he cried, suddenly wrenching himself free, “I am going to see
into this.”
“No, no!” cried Mandy, gripping his arm once more with her strong hands.
“They will hurt you. Come on! We're just home. You can see them again.
No, I won't let you go.”
In vain he struggled. Her strong hands held him fast. Suddenly there was
a succession of short, sharp barks. Immediately dead silence fell. Not a
sound could be heard, not a shape seen.
“Come out into the open, you cowardly curs!” shouted Cameron. “Come on!
One, two, three at a time, if you dare!”
But silence answered him.
“Come,” said Mandy in a low voice, “let's hurry. It's goin' to rain.
Come on! Come along!”
Cameron stood irresolute. Then arose out of the black darkness a long
quavering cat call. With a sudden dash Cameron sprang towards the fence.
Instantly there was a sound of running feet through the plowed field on
the other side, then silence.
“Come back, you cowards!” raged Cameron. “Isn't there a man among you?”
For answer a clod came hurtling through the dark and struck with a thud
upon the fence. Immediately, as if at a signal, there fell about Cameron
a perfect hail of clods and even stones.
“Oh! Oh!” shrieked Mandy, rushing towards him and throwing herself
between him and the falling missiles. “Come away! Come away! They'll
just kill you.”
For answer Cameron put his arms about her and drew her behind him,
shielding her as best he could with his body.
“Do you want to kill a woman?” he called aloud.
At once the hail of clods ceased and, raging as he was, Mandy dragged
him homeward. At the door of the house he made to turn back.
“Not much, you don't,” said Mandy, stoutly, “or I go with you.”
“Oh, all right,” said Cameron, “let them go. They are only a lot of
curs, anyway.”
For a few minutes they stood and talked in the kitchen, Cameron making
light of the incident and making strenuous efforts to dissemble the rage
that filled his soul. After a few minutes conversation Cameron announced
his intention of going to bed, while Mandy passed upstairs. He left the
house and stole down the lane toward the road. The throbbing pain in his
head was forgotten in the blind rage that possessed him. He had only one
longing, to stand within striking distance of the cowardly curs, only
one fear, that they should escape him. Swiftly, silently, he stole down
the lane, every nerve, every muscle tense as a steel spring. His throat
was hot, his eyes so dazzled that he could scarcely see; his breath came
in quick gasps; his hands were trembling as with a nervous chill. The
storm had partially blown away. It had become so light that he could
dimly discern a number of figures at the entrance to the lane. Having
his quarry in sight, Cameron crouched in the fence corner, holding hard
by the rail till he should become master of himself. He could hear their
explosions of suppressed laughter. It was some minutes before he had
himself in hand, then with a swift silent run he stood among them.
So busy were they in recounting the various incidents in the recent
“chivaree,” that before they were aware Cameron was upon them. At his
approach the circle broke and scattered, some flying to the fence. But
Perkins with some others stood their ground.
“Hello, Cameron!” drawled Perkins. “Did you see our cows? I thought I
heard some of them down the line.”
For answer Cameron launched himself at him like a bolt from a bow. There
was a single sharp crack and Perkins was literally lifted clear off his
feet and hurled back upon the road, where he lay still. Fiercely Cameron
faced round to the next man, but he gave back quickly. A third sprang
to throw himself upon Cameron, but once more Cameron's hand shot forward
and his assailant was hurled back heavily into the arms of his friends.
Before Cameron could strike again a young giant, known as Sam Sailor,
flung his arms about him, crying--
“Tut-tut, young fellow, this won't do, you know. Can't you take a bit of
fun?”
For answer Cameron clinched him savagely, gripping him by the throat and
planting two heavy blows upon his ribs.
“Here--boys,” gasped the young fellow,
“he's--chokin'--the--life--out--of me.”
From all sides they threw themselves upon him and, striking, kicking,
fighting furiously, Cameron went down under the struggling mass, his
hand still gripping the throat it had seized.
“Say! He's a regular bull-dog,” cried one. “Git hold of his legs and
yank him off,” which, with shouts and laughter, they proceeded to do and
piled themselves upon him, chanting the refrain--“More beef! More beef!”
A few minutes more of frantic struggling and a wild agonised scream rose
from beneath the mass of men.
“Git off, boys! Git off!” roared the young giant. “I'm afraid he's
hurt.”
Flinging them off on either side, he stood up and waited for their
victim to rise. But Cameron lay on his face, moaning and writhing, on
the ground.
“Say, boys,” said Sam, kneeling down beside him, “I'm afraid he's hurted
bad.”
In his writhing Cameron lifted one leg. It toppled over to one side.
“Jumpin' Jeremiah!” said Sam in an awed voice. “His leg's broke! What in
Sam Hill can we do?”
As he spoke there was a sound of running feet, coming down the lane.
The moon, shining through the breaking clouds, revealed a figure with
floating garments rapidly approaching.
“My cats!” cried Sam in a terrified voice. “It's Mandy.”
Like leaves before a sudden gust of wind the group scattered and only
Sam was left.
“What--what are you doin'?” panted Mandy. “Where is he? Oh, is that
him?” She flung herself down in the dust beside Cameron and turned him
over. His face was white, his eyes glazed. He looked like death. “Oh!
Oh!” she moaned. “Have they killed you? Have they killed you?” She
gathered his head upon her knees, moaning like a wounded animal.
“Good Lord, Mandy, don't go on like that!” cried Sam in a horrified
voice. “It's only his leg broke.”
Mandy laid his head gently down, then sprang to her feet.
“Only his leg broke? Who done it? Who done it, tell me? Who done it?”
she panted, her voice rising with her gasping breath. “What coward done
it? Was it you, Sam Sailor?”
“Guess we're all in it,” said Sam stupidly. “It was jist a bit of fun,
Mandy.”
For answer she swung her heavy hand hard upon Sam's face.
“Say, Mandy! Hold hard!” cried Sam, surprise and the weight of the blow
almost knocking him off his feet.
“You cowardly brute!” she gasped. “Get out of my sight. Oh, what shall
we do?” She dropped on her knees and took Cameron's head once more in
her arms. “What shall we do?”
“Guess we'll have to git him in somewheres,” said Sam. “How can we carry
him though? If we had some kind of a stretcher?”
“Wait! I know,” cried Mandy, flying off up the lane.
Before many minutes had passed she had returned, breathing hard.
“It's--the---milkhouse--door,” she said. “I--guess that'll--do.”
“That'll do all right, Mandy. Now I wish some of them fellers would
come.”
Sam pulled off his coat and made of it a pillow, then stood up looking
for help. His eye fell upon the prostrate and senseless form of Perkins.
“Say, what'll we do with him?” he said, pointing to the silent figure.
“Who is it?” enquired Mandy. “What's the matter?”
“It's Perkins,” replied Sam. “He hit him a terrible crack.”
“Perkins!” said Mandy with scorn. “Let him lie, the dog. Come on, take
his head.”
“You can't do it, Mandy, no use trying. You can't do it.”
“Come on, I tell you,” she said fiercely. “Quit your jawin'. He may be
dyin' for all I know. I'd carry him alone if it wasn't for his broken
leg.” Slowly, painfully they carried him to the house and to the front
door.
“Wait a minute!” said Mandy. “I'll have to git things fixed a bit. We
mustn't wake mother. It would scare her to death.”
She passed quickly into the house and soon Sam saw a light pass from
room to room. In a few moments Mandy reappeared at the front door.
“Quick!” whispered Sam. “He's comin' to.”
“Oh, thank goodness!” cried Mandy. “Let's git him in before he wakes.”
Once more they lifted their burden and with infinite difficulty and much
painful manoeuvering they got the injured man through the doors and upon
the spare room bed.
“And now, Sam Sailor,” cried Mandy, coming close to him, “you jist hitch
up Deck and hustle for the doctor if ever you did in your life. Don't
wait for nothin', but go! Go!” She fairly pushed him out of the door,
running with him towards the stable. “Oh, Sam, hurry!” she pleaded, “for
if this man should die I will never be the like again.” Her face
was white, her eyes glowing like great stars; her voice was soft and
tremulous with tears.
Sam stood for a moment gazing as if upon a vision.
“What are you lookin' at?” she cried, stamping her foot and pushing him
away.
“Jumpin' Jeremiah!” muttered Sam, as he ran towards the stable. “Is that
Mandy Haley? Guess we don't know much about her.”
His nimble fingers soon had Dexter hitched to the buggy and speeding
down the lane at a pace sufficiently rapid to suit the high spirit of
even that fiery young colt.
At the high road he came upon his friends, some of whom were working
with Perkins, others conversing in awed and hurried undertones.
“Hello, Sam!” they called. “Hold up!”
“I'm in a hurry, boys, don't stop me. I'm scared to death. And you
better git home. She'll be down on you again.”
“How is he?” cried a voice.
“Don't know. I'm goin' for the doctor, and the sooner we git that doctor
the better for everybody around.” And Sam disappeared in a whirl of
dust.
“Say! Who would a thought it?” he mused. “That Mandy Haley? She's a
terror. And them eyes! Oh, git on, Deck, what you monkeyin' about?
Wonder if she's gone on that young feller? I guess she is all right!
Say, wasn't that a clout he handed Perkins. And didn't she give me one.
But them eyes! Mandy Haley! By the jumpin' Jeremiah! And the way she
looks at a feller! Here, Deck, what you foolin' about? Gwan now, or
you'll git into trouble.”
Deck, who had been indulging himself in a series of leaps and plunges,
shying at even the most familiar objects by the road side, settled down
at length to a businesslike trot which brought him to the doctor's door
in about fifteen minutes from the Haleys' gate. But to Sam's dismay the
doctor had gone to Cramm's Mill, six or seven miles away, and would
not be back till the morning. Sam was in a quandary. There was another
doctor at Brookfield, five miles further on, but there was a possibility
that he also might be out.
“Say, there ain't no use goin' back without a doctor.
She'd--she'd--Jumpin' Jeremiah! What would she do? Say, Deck, you've
got to git down to business. We're goin' to the city. There are doctors
there thick as hair on a dog. We'll try Dr. Turnbull. Say, it'll be
great if we could git him! Deck, we'll do it! But you got to git up and
dust.”
And this Deck proceeded to do to such good purpose that in about an
hour's time he stood before Dr. Turnbull's door in the city, somewhat
wet, it is true, but with his fiery spirit still untamed.
Here again adverse fate met the unfortunate Sam.
“Doctor Turnbull's no at home,” said the maid, smart with cap and apron,
who opened the door.
“How long will he be gone?” enquired Sam, wondering what she had on her
head, and why.
“There's no tellin'. An hour, or two hours, or three.”
“Three hours?” echoed Sam. “Say, a feller might kick the bucket in that
time.”
The maid smiled an undisturbed smile.
“Bucket? What bucket, eh? What bucket are ye talkin' aboot?” she
enquired.
“Say, you're smart, ain't yeh! But I got a young feller that's broke his
leg and--”
“His leg?” said the maid indifferently. “Well, he's got another?”
“Yes, you bet he has, but one leg ain't much good without the other. How
would you like to hop around on one leg? And he's hurt inside, too,
his lights, I guess, and other things.” Sam's anatomical knowledge was
somewhat vague. “And besides, his girl's takin' on awful.”
“Oh, is she indeed?” replied the maid, this item apparently being to her
of the very slightest importance.
“Say, if you only saw her,” said Sam.
“Pretty, I suppose,” said the maid with a touch of scorn.
“Pretty? No, ugly as a hedge fence. But say, I wish she was here right
now. She'd bring you to your--to time, you bet.”
“Would she, now? I'd sort her.” And the little maid's black eyes
snapped.
“Say, what'll I do? Jist got to have a doctor.”
“Ye'll no git him till to-morrow.”
“To-morrow?”
“How far oot are ye?”
“Twelve miles.”
“Twelve miles? Ye'll no get him a minute afore to-morrow noon.”
“Say, that young feller'll croak, sure. Away from home too. No friends.
All his folks in Scotland.”
“Scotland, did ye say?” Something appeared to wake up in the little
maid. “Look here, why don't ye get a doctor instead o' daunderin' your
time here?”
“Git a doctor?” echoed Sam in vast surprise. “And ain't I tryin' to git
a doctor? Where'll I git a doctor?”
“Go to the hospital, ye gawk, and ask for Dr. Turnbull, and tell him
the young lad is a stranger and that his folk are in Scotland. Hoots, ye
gomeril, be off noo, an' the puir lad wantin' ye. Come, I'll pit ye on
yer way.” The maid by her speech was obviously excited.
Sam glanced at the clock as he passed out. He had been away an hour and
a half.
“Jumpin' Jeremiah! I've got to hurry. She'll take my head off.”
“Of course ye have,” said the maid sharply. “Go down two streets there,
then take the first turn to your left and go straight on for half a
dozen blocks or so. Mind ye tell the doctor the lad's frae Scotland!”
she cried to Sam as he drove off.
At the hospital Sam was fortunate enough to catch Dr. Turnbull in the
hall with one or two others, just as they were about to pass into the
consulting room. Such was Sam's desperate state of mind that he went
straight up to the group.
“I want Dr. Turnbull,” he said.
“There he is before you,” replied a sharp-faced young doctor, pointing
to a benevolent looking old gentleman.
“Dr. Turnbull, there's a young feller hurt dreadful out our way. His
leg's broke. Guess he's hurt inside too. And he's a stranger. His folks
are all in Scotland. Guess he's dyin', and I've got--I've got a horse
and buggy at the door. I can git you out and back in a jiffy. Say,
doctor, I'm all ready to start.”
A smile passed over the faces of the group. But Dr. Turnbull had too
long experience with desperate cases and with desperate men.
“My dear Sir,” he replied, “I cannot go for some hours.”
“Doctor, I want you now. I got to have somebody right now.”
“A broken leg?” mused the doctor.
“Yes, and hurt inside.”
“How did it happen?” said the doctor.
“Eh? I don't know exactly,” replied Sam, taken somewhat aback.
“Somethin' fell on him. But he needs you bad.”
“I can't go, my man, but we'll find some one. What's his name did you
say?”
“His name is Cameron, and he's from Scotland.”
“Cameron?” said the sharp-faced young doctor. “What does he look like?”
“Look like?” said Sam in a perplexed voice. “Well, the girls all think
he looks pretty good. He's dark complected and he's a mighty smart young
feller. Great on jumpin' and runnin'. Say, he's a crackajack. Why, at
the Dominion Day picnic! But you must a' heard about him. He's the chap,
you know, that won the hundred yards. Plays the pipes and--”
“Plays the pipes?” cried Dr. Turnbull and the young doctor together.
“And his name's Cameron?” continued the young doctor. “I wonder now
if--”
“I say, Martin,” said Dr. Turnbull, “I think you had better go. The case
may be urgent.”
“Cameron!” cried Martin again. “I bet my bat it's--Here, wait till I get
my coat. I'll be with you in a jerk. Have you got a good horse?”
“He's all right,” said Sam. “He'll git you there in an hour.”
“An hour? How far is it?”
“Twelve miles.”
“Great heavens! Come, then, get a move on!” And so it came that within
an hour Cameron, opening his eyes, looked up into the face of his
friend.
“Martin! By Jove!” he said, and closed his eyes again. “Martin!” he said
again, looking upon the familiar face. “Say, old boy, is this a dream? I
seem to be having lots of them.”
“It's no dream, old chap, but what in the mischief is the matter? What
does all this fever mean? Let's look at you.”
A brief examination was enough to show the doctor that a broken leg was
the least of Cameron's trouble. A hasty investigation of the resources
of the farm house determined the doctor's course.
“This man has typhoid fever, a bad case too,” he said to Mandy. “We will
take him in to the hospital.”
“The hospital?” cried Mandy fiercely. “Will you, then?”
“He will be a lot of trouble to you,” said the doctor.
“Trouble? Trouble? What are you talkin' about?”
“We're awful busy, Mandy,” interposed the mother, who had been roused
from her bed.
“Oh, shucks, mother! Oh, don't send him away,” she pleaded. “I can nurse
him, just as easy.” She paused, with quivering lips.
“It will be much better for the patient to be in the hospital. He will
get constant and systematic care. He will be under my own observation
every hour. I assure you it will be better for him,” said the doctor.
“Better for him?” echoed Mandy in a faint voice. “Well, let him go.”
In less than an hour's time, such was Dr. Martin's energetic promptness,
he had his patient comfortably placed in the democrat on an improvised
stretcher and on his way to the city hospital.
And thus it came about that the problem of his leave-taking, which had
vexed Cameron for so many days, was solved.
CHAPTER VIII
IN APPLE TIME
“Another basket of eggs, Mr. Cameron, and such delicious cream! I am
deeply grieved to see you so nearly well.”
“Grieved?”
“For you will be leaving us of course.”
“Thanks, that is kind of you.”
“And there will be an end to eggs and cream. Ah! You are a lucky man.”
And the trim, neat, bright-faced nurse shook her finger at him.
“So I have often remarked to myself these six weeks.”
“A friend is a great discovery and by these same tokens you have found
one.”
“Truly, they have been more than kind.”
“This makes the twelfth visit in six weeks,” said the nurse. “In busy
harvest and threshing time, too. Do you know what that means?”
“To a certain extent. It is awfully good of them.”
“But she is shy, shy--and I think she is afraid of YOU. Her chief
interest appears to be in the kitchen, which she has never failed to
visit.”
The blood slowly rose in Cameron's face, from which the summer tan had
all been bleached by his six weeks' fight with fever, but he made no
reply to the brisk, sharp-eyed, sharp-minded little nurse.
“And I know she is dying to see you, and, indeed,” she chuckled, “it
might do you good. She is truly wonderful.” And again the nurse laughed.
“Don't you think you could bear a visit?” The smile broadened upon her
face.
But unaware she had touched a sensitive spot in her patient, his
Highland pride.
“I shall be more than pleased to have an opportunity to thank Miss Haley
for her great kindness,” he replied with dignity.
“All right,” replied the nurse. “I shall bring her in. Now don't excite
yourself. That fever is not so far away. And only a few minutes. When we
farmers go calling--I am a farmer, remember, and know them well--when we
go calling we take our knitting and spend the afternoon.”
In a few moments she returned with Mandy. The difference between the
stout, red-faced, coarse-featured, obtrusively healthy country girl,
heavy of foot and hand, slow of speech and awkward of manner, and
the neat, quick, deft-fingered, bright-faced nurse was so marked that
Cameron could hardly control the wave of pity that swept through his
heart, for he could see that even Mandy herself was vividly aware of the
contrast. In vain Cameron tried to put her at her ease. She simply sat
and stared, now at the walls, now at the floor, refusing for a time to
utter more than monosyllables, punctuated with giggles.
“I want to thank you for the eggs and cream. They are fine,” said
Cameron heartily.
“Oh, pshaw, that's nothin'! Lots more where they come from,” replied
Mandy with a giggle.
“But it's a long way for you to drive; and in the busy time too.”
“Oh, we had to come in anyway for things,” replied Mandy, making light
of her service.
“You are all well?”
“Oh, pretty middlin'. Ma ain't right smart. She's too much to do, and
that's the truth.”
“And the boys?” Cameron hesitated to be more specific.
“Oh, there's nothin' eatin' them. I don't bother with them much.” Mandy
was desperately twisting her white cotton gloves.
At this point the nurse, with a final warning to the patient not to talk
too much and not to excite himself, left the room. In a moment Mandy's
whole manner changed.
“Say!” she cried in a hurried voice; “Perkins is left.”
“Left?”
“I couldn't jist stand him after--after--that night. Dad wanted him to
stay, but I couldn't jist stand him, and so he quit.”
“Quit?”
“I jist hate him since--since--that night. When I think of what he done
I could kill him. My, I was glad to see him lyin' there in the dust!”
Mandy's words came hot and fast. “They might 'a killed you.” For the
first time in the interview she looked fairly into Cameron's eyes. “My,
you do look awful!” she said, with difficulty commanding her voice.
“Nonsense, Mandy! You see, it wasn't my leg that hurt me. It was the
fever that pulled me down.”
“Oh, I'll never forget that night!” cried Mandy, struggling to keep her
lips from quivering.
“Nor will I ever forget what you did for me that night, Mandy. Sam told
me all about it. I shall always be your friend.”
For a moment longer she held him with her eyes. Then her face grew
suddenly pale and, with voice and hands trembling, she said:
“I must go. Good-by.”
He took her great red hand in his long thin fingers.
“Good-by, Mandy, and thank you.”
“My!” she said, looking down at the fingers she held in her hand. “Your
hands is awful thin. Are you sure goin' to git better?”
“Of course I am, and I am coming out to see you before I go.”
She sat down quickly, still holding his hand, as if he had struck her a
heavy blow.
“Before you go? Where?” Her voice was hardly above a whisper; her face
was white, her lips beyond her control.
“Out West to seek my fortune.” His voice was jaunty and he feigned not
to see her distress. “I shall be walking in a couple of weeks or so, eh,
nurse?”
“A couple of weeks?” replied the nurse, who had just entered. “Yes, if
you are good.”
Mandy hastily rose.
“But if you are not,” continued the nurse severely, “it may be months.
Stay, Miss Haley, I am going to bring Mr. Cameron his afternoon tea and
you can have some with him. Indeed, you look quite done up. I am sure
all that work you have been telling me about is too much for you.”
Her kindly tones broke the last shred of Mandy's self-control. She sank
into her chair, covered her face with her great red hands and burst into
tempestuous weeping. Cameron sat up quickly.
“What in the name of goodness is wrong, Mandy?”
“Lie down at once, Mr. Cameron!” said the nurse sternly. “Hush, hush,
Miss Haley! You ought to be ashamed of yourself! Don't you know that you
are hurting him?”
She could have chosen no better word. In an instant Mandy was on her
feet, mopping off her face and choking down her sobs.
“Ain't I a fool?” she cried angrily. “A blamed fool. Well, I won't
bother you any longer. Guess I'll go now. Good-by all.” Without another
look at Cameron she was gone.
Cameron lay back upon his pillows, white and nerveless.
“Now can you tell me,” he panted, “what's up?”
“Search me!” said the nurse gaily, “but I forbid you to speak a single
word for half an hour. Here, drink this right off! Now, not a word! What
will Dr. Martin say? Not a word! Yes, I shall see her safely off the
place. Quiet now!” She kept up a continuous stream of sprightly chatter
to cover her own anxiety and to turn the current of her patient's
thoughts. By the time she had reached the entrance hall, however, Mandy
had vanished.
“Great silly goose!” said the indignant nurse. “I'd see myself far
enough before I'd give myself away like that. Little fool! He'll have
a temperature sure and I will catch it. Bah! These girls! Next time she
sees him it will not be here. I hope the doctor will just give me an
hour to get him quiet again.”
But in this hope she was disappointed, for upon her return to her
patient she found Dr. Martin in the room. His face was grave.
“What's up, nurse? What is the meaning of this rotten pulse? What has he
been having to eat?”
“Well, Dr. Martin, I may as well confess my sins,” replied the nurse,
“for there is no use trying to deceive you anyway. Mr. Cameron has had a
visitor and she has excited him.”
“Ah!” said the doctor in a relieved tone. “A visitor! A lady visitor! A
charming, sympathetic, interested, and interesting visitor.”
“Exactly!” said the nurse with a giggle.
“It was Miss Haley, Martin,” said Cameron gravely.
The doctor looked puzzled.
“The daughter of the farmer with whom I was working,” explained Cameron.
“Ah, I remember her,” said the doctor. “And a deuce of a time I had with
her, too, getting you away from her, if I remember aright. I trust there
is nothing seriously wrong in that quarter?” said Martin with unusual
gravity.
“Oh, quit it, Martin!” said Cameron impatiently. “Don't rag. She's an
awful decent sort. Her looks are not the best of her.”
“Ah! I am relieved to hear that,” said the doctor earnestly.
“She is very kind, indeed,” said the nurse. “For these six weeks she has
fed us up with eggs and cream so that both my patient and myself have
fared sumptuously every day. Indeed, if it should continue much longer
I shall have to ask an additional allowance for a new uniform. I have
promised that Mr. Cameron shall visit the farm within two weeks if he
behaves well.”
“Exactly!” replied the doctor. “In two weeks if he is good. The only
question that troubles me is--is it quite safe? You see in his present
weak condition his susceptibility is decidedly emphasised, his resisting
power is low, and who knows what might happen, especially if she should
insist? I shall not soon forget the look in her eye when she dared me to
lay a finger upon his person.”
“Oh, cut it out, Martin!” said Cameron. “You make me weary.” He lay back
on his pillow and closed his eyes.
The nurse threw a signal to the doctor.
“All right, old man, we must stop this chaff. Buck up and in two weeks
we will let you go where you like. I have something in mind for you, but
we won't speak of it to-day.”
The harvest was safely stored. The yellow stubble showed the fields
at rest, but the vivid green of the new fall wheat proclaimed the
astounding and familiar fact that once more Nature had begun her ancient
perennial miracle. For in those fields of vivid green the harvest of
the coming year was already on the way. On these green fields the snowy
mantle would lie soft and protecting all the long winter through and
when the spring suns would shine again the fall wheat would be a month
or more on the way towards maturity.
Somehow the country looked more rested, fresher, cleaner to Cameron than
when he had last looked upon it in late August. The rain had washed the
dust from the earth's face and from the green sward that bordered the
grey ribbon of the high road that led out from the city. The pastures
and the hay meadows and the turnip fields were all in their freshest
green, and beyond the fields the forest stood glorious in all its autumn
splendour, the ash trees bright yellow, the oaks rich brown, and the
maples all the colours of the rainbow. In the orchard--ah, the wonder
and the joy of it! even the bare and bony limbs of the apple trees only
helped to reveal the sumptuous wealth of their luscious fruit. For it
was apple time in the land! The evanescent harvest apples were long
since gone, the snows were past their best, the pippins were mellowing
under the sharp persuasion of the nippy, frosty nights and the brave
gallantry of the sunny days. In this ancient warfare between the frosty
nights and the gallant sunny days the apples ripened rapidly; and well
that they should, for the warfare could not be for long. Already in the
early morning hours the vanguard of winter's fierce hosts was to be seen
flaunting its hoary banners even in the very face of the gallant sun
so bravely making stand against it. But it was the time of the year in
which men felt it good to be alive, for there was in the air that
tang that gives speed to the blood, spring to the muscle, edge to the
appetite, courage to the soul, and zest to life--the apple time of the
year.
It was in apple time that Cameron came back to the farm. Under
compulsion of Mandy, Haley had found it necessary to drive into the
city for some things for the “women folk” and, being in the city, he had
called for Cameron and had brought him out. Under compulsion, not at all
because Haley was indifferent to the prospect of a visit from his former
hired man, not alone because the fall plowing was pressing and the
threshing gang was in the neighbourhood, but chiefly because, through
the channel of Dr. Martin, the little nurse, and Mandy, it had come to
be known in the Haley household and in the country side that the
hired man was a “great swell in the old country,” and Haley's sturdy
independence shrank from anything that savoured of “suckin' round a
swell,” as he graphically put it. But Mandy scouted this idea and waited
for the coming of the expected guest with no embarrassment from the
knowledge that he had been in the old country “a great swell.”
Hence when, through a crack beside the window blind, she saw him, a
poor, pale shadow, descending wearily and painfully from the buggy,
the great mother heart in the girl welled with pity. She could hardly
forbear rushing out to carry him bodily in her strong arms to the spare
room and lay him where she had once helped to lay him the night of the
tragedy some eight weeks before. But in this matter she had learned her
lesson. She remembered the little nurse and her indignant scorn of the
lack of self-control she had shown on the occasion of her last visit to
the hospital. So, instead of rushing forth, she clutched the curtains
and forced herself to stand still, whispering to herself the while, “Oh,
he will die sure! He will die sure!” But when she looked upon him seated
comfortably in the kitchen with a steaming glass of ginger and whiskey,
her mother's unfailing remedy for “anything wrong with the insides,” she
knew he would not die and her joy overflowed in boisterous welcome.
For five days they all, from Haley to Tim, gave him of their very best,
seeking to hold him among them for the winter, for they had learned that
his mind was set upon the West, till Cameron was ashamed, knowing that
he must go.
The last afternoon they all spent in the orchard. The Gravensteins, in
which species of apple Haley was a specialist, were being picked, and
picked with the greatest care, Cameron plucking them from the limbs and
dropping them into a basket held by Mandy below. It was one of those
sunny days when, after weeks of chilly absence, summer comes again and
makes the world glow with warmth and kindly life and quickens in the
heart the blood's flow. Cameron was full of talk and fuller of laughter
than his wont; indeed he was vexed to find himself struggling to
maintain unbroken the flow of laughter and of talk. But in Mandy there
was neither speech nor laughter, only a quiet dignity that disturbed and
rebuked him.
The last tree of Gravensteins was picked and then there came the time
of parting. Cameron, with a man's selfish desire for some token of a
woman's adoration, even although he well knew that he could make no
return, lingered in the farewell, hoping for some sign in the plain
quiet face and the wonderful eyes with their new mystery that when
he had gone he would not be forgotten; but though the lips quivered
pitifully and the heavy face grew drawn and old and the eyes glowed
with a deeper fire, the words, when they came, came quietly and the eyes
looked steadily upon him, except that for one brief moment a fire leaped
in them and quickly died down. But when the buggy, with Tim driving,
had passed down the lane, behind the curtain of the spare room the
girl stood looking through the crack beside the blind, with both
hands pressed upon her bosom, her breath coming in sobs, her blue lips
murmuring brokenly, “Good-by, good-by! Oh, why did you come at all? But,
oh, I'm glad you came! God help me, I'm glad you came!” Then, when the
buggy had turned down the side lane and out of sight, she knelt beside
the bed and kissed, again and again, with tender, reverent kisses, the
pillow where his head had lain.
BOOK THREE
CHAPTER I
THE CAMP BY THE GAP
On the foot-hills' side of The Gap, on a grassy plain bounded on three
sides by the Bow River and on the other by ragged hills and broken
timber, stood Surveyor McIvor's camp, three white tents, seeming
wondrously insignificant in the shadow of the mighty Rockies, but cosy
enough. For on this April day the sun was riding high in the heavens in
all his new spring glory, where a few days ago and for many months past
the storm king with relentless rigour had raged, searching with pitiless
fury these rock-ribbed hills and threatening these white tents and their
dwellers with dire destruction. But threaten though he might and pin
them though he did beneath their frail canvas covers, he could not make
that gang beat retreat. McIvor was of the kind that takes no back trail.
In the late fall he had set out to run the line through The Gap, and
after many wanderings through the coulees of the foothills and after
many vain attempts, he had finally made choice of his route and had
brought his men, burnt black with chinook and frost and sun, hither to
The Gap's mouth. Every chain length in those weary marches was a battle
ground, every pillar, every picket stood a monument of victory. McIvor's
advance through the foot-hill country to The Gap had been one unbroken
succession of fierce fights with Nature's most terrifying forces, a
triumphal march of heroes who bore on their faces and on their bodies
the scars and laurels of the campaign. But to McIvor and his gang it was
all in the day's work.
To Cameron the winter had brought an experience of a life hitherto
undreamed of, but never even in its wildest blizzards did he cherish
anything but gratitude to his friend Martin, who had got him attached to
McIvor's survey party. For McIvor was a man to “tie to,” as Martin said,
and to Cameron he was a continual cause of wonder and admiration. He was
a big man, with a big man's quiet strength, patient, fearless of men
and things, reverent toward Nature's forces, which it was his life's
business to know, to measure, to control, and, if need be, to fight,
careful of his men, whether amid the perils of the march, or amid
the more deadly perils of trading post and railway construction camp.
Cameron never could forget the thrill of admiration that swept his soul
one night in Taylor's billiard and gambling “joint” down at the post
where the Elbow joins the Bow, when McIvor, without bluff or bluster,
took his chainman and his French-Canadian cook, the latter frothing mad
with “Jamaica Ginger” and “Pain-killer,” out of the hands of the gang
of bad men from across the line who had marked them as lambs for the
fleecing. It was not the courage of his big chief so much that
had filled Cameron with amazed respect and admiration as the calm
indifference to every consideration but that of getting his men out of
harm's way, and the cool-headed directness of the method he employed.
“Come along, boys,” McIvor had said, gripping them by their coat
collars. “I don't pay you good money for this sort of thing.” And so
saying he had lifted them clear from their seats, upsetting the table,
ignoring utterly the roaring oaths of the discomfited gamblers. What
would have been the result none could say, for one of the gamblers had
whipped out his gun and with sulphurous oaths was conducting a vigourous
demonstration behind the unconscious back of McIvor, when there strolled
into the room and through the crowd of men scattering to cover, a tall
slim youngster in the red jacket and pill-box cap of that world-famous
body of military guardians of law and order, the North West Mounted
Police. Not while he lived would Cameron forget the scene that followed.
With an air of lazy nonchalance the youngster strode quietly up to
the desperado flourishing his gun and asked in a tone that indicated
curiosity more than anything else, “What are you doing with that thing?”
“I'll show yeh!” roared the man in his face, continuing to pour forth a
torrent of oaths.
“Put it down there!” said the youngster in a smooth and silky voice,
pointing to a table near by. “You don't need that in this country.”
The man paused in his demonstration and for a moment or two stood in
amazed silence. The audacity of the youngster appeared to paralyse his
powers of speech and action.
“Put it down there, my man. Do you hear?” The voice was still smooth,
but through the silky tones there ran a fibre of steel. Still the
desperado stood gazing at him. “Quick, do you hear?” There was a
sudden sharp ring of imperious, of overwhelming authority, and, to the
amazement of the crowd of men who stood breathless and silent about,
there followed one of those phenomena which experts in psychology
delight to explain, but which no man can understand. Without a word the
gambler slowly laid upon the table his gun, upon whose handle were many
notches, the tally of human lives it had accounted for in the hands of
this same desperado.
“What is this for?” continued the young man, gently touching the belt of
cartridges. “Take it off!”
The belt found its place beside the gun.
“Now, listen!” gravely continued the youngster. “I give you twenty-four
hours to leave this post, and if after twenty-four hours you are found
here it will be bad for you. Get out!”
The man, still silent, slunk out from the room. Irresistible authority
seemed to go with the word that sent him forth, and rightly so, for
behind that word lay the full weight of Great Britain's mighty empire.
It was Cameron's first experience of the North West Mounted Police, that
famous corps of frontier riders who for more than a quarter of a century
have ridden the marches of Great Britain's territories in the far
northwest land, keeping intact the Pax Britannica amid the wild turmoil
of pioneer days. To the North West Mounted Police and to the pioneer
missionary it is due that Canada has never had within her borders what
is known as a “wild and wicked West.” It was doubtless owing to the
presence of that slim youngster in his scarlet jacket and pill-box cap
that McIvor got his men safely away without a hole in his back and that
his gang were quietly finishing their morning meal this shining April
day, in their camp by the Bow River in the shadow of the big white peaks
that guard The Gap.
Breakfast over, McIvor heaved his great form to the perpendicular.
“How is the foot, Cameron?” he asked, filling his pipe preparatory to
the march.
“Just about fit,” replied Cameron.
“Better take another day,” replied the chief. “You can get up wood and
get supper ready. Benoit will be glad enough to go out and take your
place for another day on the line.”
“Sure ting,” cried Benoit, the jolly French-Canadian cook. “Good for
my healt. He's tak off my front porsch here.” And the cook patted
affectionately the little round paunch that marred the symmetry of his
figure.
“You ought to get Cameron to swap jobs with you, Benny,” said one of the
axemen. “You would be a dandy in about another month.”
Benoit let his eye run critically over the line of his person.
“Bon! Dat's true, for sure. In tree, four mont I mak de beeg spark on de
girl, me.”
“You bet, Benny!” cried the axeman. “You'll break 'em all up.”
“Sure ting!” cried Benny, catching up a coal for his pipe. “By by,
Cameron. Au revoir. I go for tak some more slice from my porsch.”
“Good-bye, Benny,” cried Cameron. “It is your last chance, for to-morrow
I give you back your job. I don't want any 'front porsch' on me.”
“Ho! ho!” laughed Benny scornfully, as he turned to hurry after
his chief. “Dat's not moch front porsch on you. Dat's one rail
fence--clabbord.”
And indeed Benoit was right, for there was no “porsch” or sign of one on
Cameron's lean and muscular frame. The daily battle with winter's fierce
frosts and blizzards, the strenuous toil, the hard food had done their
work on him. Strong, firm-knit, clean and sound, hard and fit, he had
come through his first Canadian winter. No man in the camp, not even
the chief himself, could “bush” him in a day's work. He had gained
enormously in strength lately, and though the lines of his frame still
ran to angles, he had gained in weight as well. Never in the days of his
finest training was he as fit to get the best out of himself as now.
An injured foot had held him in camp for a week, but the injury was now
almost completely repaired and the week's change of work only served to
replenish his store of snap and vim.
An hour or two sufficed to put the camp in the perfect order that he
knew Benoit would consider ideal and to get all in readiness for the
evening meal when the gang should return. He had the day before him
and what a day it was! Cameron lay upon a buffalo skin in front of the
cook-tent, content with all the world and for the moment with himself.
Six months ago he had engaged as an axeman in the surveyors' gang at
$30 per month and “found,” being regarded more in the light of a
supernumerary and more or less of a burden than anything else. Now
he was drawing double the wage as rodman, and, of all the gang, stood
second to none in McIvor's regard. In this new venture he had come
nearer to making good than ever before in his life. So in full content
with himself he allowed his eyes to roam over the brown grassy plain
that sloped to the Bow in front, and over the Bow to the successive
lines of hills, rounded except where the black rocks broke jagged
through the turf, and upward over the rounded hills to the grey sides of
the mighty masses of the mountains, and still upward to where the white
peaks lost themselves in the shining blue of the sky. Behind him a
coulee ran back between hills to a line of timber, and beyond the timber
more hills and more valleys, and ever growing higher and deeper till
they ran into the bases of the great Rockies.
As Cameron lay thus luxuriating upon his buffalo skin and lazily
watching the hills across the river through the curling wreaths that
gracefully and fragrantly rose from his briar root, there broke from the
line of timber two jumping deer, buck and doe, the latter slow-footed
because heavy with young. Behind them in hot pursuit came a pack of
yelping coyotes. The doe was evidently hard pressed. The buck was
running easily, but gallantly refusing to abandon his mate to her
cowardly foes. Straight for the icy river they made, plunged in, and,
making the crossing, were safe from their pursuing enemy. Cameron,
intent upon fresh meat, ran for McIvor's Winchester, but ere he could
buckle round him a cartridge belt and throw on his hunting jacket the
deer had disappeared over the rounded top of the nearest hill. Up the
coulee he ran to the timber and there waited, but there was no sign of
his game. Cautiously he made his way through the timber and dropped
into the next valley circling westward towards the mountains. The deer,
however, had completely vanished. Turning back upon his tracks, he once
more pierced the thin line of timber, when just across the coulee, some
three hundred yards away, on the sky line, head up and sniffing the
wind, stood the buck in clear view. Taking hurried aim Cameron fired.
The buck dropped as if dead. Marking the spot, Cameron hurried forward,
but to his surprise found only a trail of blood.
“He's badly hit though,” he said to himself. “I must get the poor chap
now at all costs.” Swiftly he took up the trail, but though the blood
stains continued clear and fresh he could get no sight of the wounded
animal. Hour after hour he kept up the chase, forgetful of everything
but his determination to bring back his game to camp. From the freshness
of the stains he knew that the buck could not be far ahead and from the
footprints it was clear that the animal was going on three legs.
“The beggar is hearing me and so keeps out of sight,” said Cameron as
he paused to listen. He resolved to proceed more slowly and with greater
caution, but though he followed this plan for another half hour it
brought him no better success. The day was fast passing and he could
not much longer continue his pursuit. He became conscious of pain in his
injured foot. He sat down to rest and to review his situation. For the
first time he observed that the bright sky of the morning had become
overcast with a film of hazy cloud and that the temperature was rapidly
falling. Prudence suggested that he should at once make his way back to
camp, but with the instinct of the true hunter he was loath to abandon
the poor wounded beast to its unhappy fate. He resolved to make one
further attempt. Refreshed by his brief rest, but with an increasing
sense of pain in his foot, he climbed the slight rising ground before
him, cautiously pushed his way through some scrub, and there, within
easy shot, stood the buck, with drooping head and evidently with
strength nearly done. Cameron took careful aim--there must be no mistake
this time--and fired. The buck leaped high in the air, dropped and lay
still. The first shot had broken his leg, the second had pierced his
heart.
Cameron hurried forward and proceeded to skin the animal. But soon
he abandoned this operation. “We'll come and get him to-morrow,” he
muttered, “and he is better with his skin on. Meantime we'll have a
steak, however.” He hung a bit of skin from a pole to keep off the
wolves and selected a choice cut for the supper. He worked hurriedly,
for the sudden drop in the temperature was ominous of a serious
disturbance in the weather, but before he had finished he was startled
to observe a large snowflake lazily flutter to the ground beside him.
He glanced towards the sky and found that the filmy clouds were rapidly
assuming definite shape and that the sun had almost disappeared.
Hurriedly he took his bearings and, calculating as best he could the
direction of the camp, set off, well satisfied with the outcome of his
expedition and filled with the pleasing anticipation of a venison supper
for himself and the rest of the gang.
The country was for the most part open except for patches of timber here
and there, and with a clear sky the difficulty of maintaining direction
would have been but slight. With the sky overcast, however, this
difficulty was sensibly increased. He had not kept an accurate reckoning
of his course, but from the character of the ground he knew that he
must be a considerable distance westward of the line of the camp. His
training during the winter in holding a line of march helped him now to
maintain his course steadily in one direction. The temperature was still
dropping rapidly. Over the woods hung a dead stillness, except for the
lonely call of an occasional crow or for the scream of the impudent
whiskey-jack. But soon even these became silent. As he surmounted each
hill top Cameron took his bearings afresh and anxiously scanned the sky
for weather signs. In spite of himself there crept over him a sense of
foreboding, which he impatiently tried to shake off.
“I can't be so very far from camp now,” he said to himself, looking at
his watch. “It is just four. There are three good hours till dark.”
A little to the west of his line of march stood a high hill which
appeared to dominate the surrounding country and on its top a lofty
pine. “I'll just shin up that tree,” said he. “I ought to get a sight
of the Bow from the top.” In a few minutes he had reached the top of
the hill, but even in those minutes the atmosphere had thickened. “Jove,
it's getting dark!” he exclaimed. “It can't be near sundown yet. Did I
make a mistake in the time?” He looked at his watch again. It showed a
quarter after four. “I must get a look at this country.” Hurriedly
he threw off his jacket and proceeded to climb the big pine, which,
fortunately, was limbed to the ground. From the lofty top his eye could
sweep the country for many miles around. Over the great peaks of the
Rockies to the west dark masses of black cloud shot with purple and
liver-coloured bars hung like a pall. To the north a line of clear light
was still visible, but over the foot-hills towards east and south there
lay almost invisible a shimmering haze, soft and translucent, and above
the haze a heavy curtain, while over the immediate landscape there shone
a strange weird light, through which there floated down to earth large
white snowflakes. Not a breath of air moved across the face of the
hills, but still as the dead they lay in solemn oppressive silence. Far
to the north Cameron caught the gleam of water.
“That must be the Bow,” he said to himself. “I am miles too far toward
the mountains. I don't like the look of that haze and that cloud bank.
There is a blizzard on the move if this winter's experience teaches me
anything.”
He had once been caught in a blizzard, but on that occasion he was
with McIvor. He was conscious now of a little clutch at his heart as
he remembered that desperate struggle for breath, for life it seemed to
him, behind McIvor's broad back. The country was full of stories of men
being overwhelmed by the choking, drifting whirl of snow. He knew how
swift at times the on-fall of the blizzard could be, how long the storm
could last, how appalling the cold could become. What should he do? He
must think and act swiftly. That gleaming water near which his camp
lay was, at the very best going, two hours distant. The blizzard might
strike at any moment and once it struck all hope of advance would be
cut off. He resolved to seek the best cover available and wait till the
storm should pass. He had his deer meat with him and matches. Could he
but make shelter he doubted not but he could weather the storm. Swiftly
he swept the landscape for a spot to camp. Half a mile away he spied a
little coulee where several valleys appeared to lose themselves in thick
underbrush. He resolved to make for that spot. Hurriedly he slipped down
the tree, donned belt and jacket and, picking up gun and venison, set
off at a run for the spot he had selected. A puff of wind touched his
cheek. He glanced up and about him. The flakes of snow were no longer
floating gently down, but were slanting in long straight lines across
the landscape. His heart took a quicker beat.
“It is coming, sure enough,” he said to himself between his teeth, “and
a bad one too at that.” He quickened his pace to racing speed. Down the
hill, across the valley and up the next slope he ran without pause,
but as he reached the top of the slope a sound arrested him, a deep,
muffled, hissing roar, and mingled with it the beating of a thousand
wings. Beyond the top of the next hill there hung from sky to earth
the curtain, thick, black, portentous, and swiftly making approach,
devouring the landscape as it came and filling his ears with its
muffled, hissing roar.
In the coulee beyond that hill was the spot he had marked for his
shelter. It was still some three hundred yards away. Could he beat that
roaring, hissing, portentous cloud mass? It was extremely doubtful. Down
the hill he ran, slipping, skating, pitching, till he struck the bottom,
then up the opposite slope he struggled, straining every nerve and
muscle. He glanced upward towards the top of the hill. Merciful heaven!
There it was, that portentous cloud mass, roaring down upon him. Could
he ever make that top? He ran a few steps further, then, dropping his
gun, he clutched a small poplar and hung fast. A driving, blinding,
choking, whirling mass of whiteness hurled itself at him, buffeting him
heavily, filling eyes, ears, nose, and mouth, clutching at his arms and
legs and body with a thousand impalpable insistent claws. For a moment
or two he lost all sense of direction, all thought of advance. One
instinct only he obeyed--to hold on for dear life to the swaying
quivering poplar. The icy cold struck him to the heart, his bare fingers
were fast freezing. A few moments he hung, hoping for a lull in the fury
of the blizzard, but lull there was none, only that choking, blinding,
terrifying Thing that clutched and tore at him. His heart sank within
him. This, then, was to be the end of him. A vision of his own body,
stark and stiff, lying under a mound of drifting snow, swiftly passed
before his mind. He threw it off wrathfully. “Not yet! Not just yet!” he
shouted in defiance into the face of the howling storm.
Through the tumult and confusion of his thoughts one idea dominated--he
must make the hill-top. Sliding his hands down the trunk of the little
poplar he once more found his rifle and, laying it in the hollow of his
arm, he hugged it close to his side, shoved his freezing hands into his
pockets and, leaning hard against the driving blizzard, set off towards
the hill-top. A few paces he made, then turning around leaned back upon
the solid massive force of the wind till he could get breath. Again a
few steps upward and again a rest against the wind. His courage began to
come back.
“Aha!” he shouted at the storm. “Not yet! Not yet!” Gradually, and with
growing courage, he fought his way to the top. At length he stood upon
the storm-swept summit. “I say,” he cried, heartening himself with his
speech, “this is so much to the good anyway. Now for the coulee.” But
exactly where did it lie? Absolutely nothing could he see before him
but this blinding, choking mass of whirling snow. He tried to recall the
direction in relation to the hill as he had taken it from the top of the
tree. How long ago that seemed! Was it minutes or hours? Downward and
towards the left lay the coulee. He could hardly fail to strike it.
Plunging headlong into the blizzard, he fought his way once more, step
by step.
“It was jolly well like a scrimmage,” he said grimly to the storm
which began in his imagination to assume a kind of monstrous and savage
personality. It heartened him much to remember his sensations in many
a desperate struggle against the straining steaming mass of muscle and
bone in the old fierce football fights. He recalled, too, a word of his
old captain, “Never say die! The next minute may be better.”
“Never say die!” he cried aloud in the face of his enemy. “But I wish to
heaven I could get up some of that heat just now. This cold is going to
be the death of me.”
As he spoke he bumped into a small bushy spruce tree. “Hello! Here you
are, eh!” he cried, determined to be cheerful. “Glad to meet you. Hope
there are lots more of you.” His hope was realised! A few more steps and
he found himself in the heart of a spruce thicket.
“Thank God!” he exclaimed. Then again--“Yes, thank God it is!” It
steadied his heart not a little to remember the picture in his mother's
Bible that had so often stirred his youthful imagination of One standing
in the fishing boat and bidding the storm be still. In the spruce
thicket he stood some moments to regain his breath and strength.
“Now what next?” he asked himself. Although the thicket broke the force
of the wind, something must be done, and quickly. Night was coming on
and that meant an even intenser cold. His hands were numb. His hunting
jacket was but slight protection against the driving wind and the
bitter cold. If he could only light a fire! A difficult business in this
tumultuous whirlwind and snow. He had learned something of this art,
however, from his winter's experience. He began breaking from the spruce
trees the dead dry twigs. Oh for some birch bark! Like a forgotten
dream it came to him that from the tree top he had seen above the spruce
thicket the tops of some white birch trees purpling under the touch of
spring.
“Let's see! Those birches must be further to my left,” he said,
recalling their position. Painfully he forced his way through the
scrubby underbrush. His foot struck hard against an obstruction that
nearly threw him to the ground. It was a jutting rock. Peering through
the white mass before his eyes, he could make out a great black,
looming mass. Eagerly he pushed forward. It was a towering slab of rock.
Following it round on the lee side, he suddenly halted with a shout of
grateful triumph. A great section had fallen out of the rock, forming a
little cave, storm-proof and dry.
“Thank God once more!” he said, and this time with even deeper
reverence. “Now for a fire. If I could only get some birch bark.”
He placed his rifle in a corner of the cave and went out on his hunt.
“By Jove, I must hurry, or my hands will be gone sure.” Looking upwards
in the shelter of the rock through the driving snow he saw the bare tops
of trees. “Birch, too, as I am alive!” he cried, and plunging through
the bushes came upon a clump of white birches.
With fingers that could hardly hold the curling bark he gathered a few
bunches and hurried back to the cave. Again he went forth and gathered
from the standing trees an armful of dead dry limbs. “Good!” he cried
aloud in triumph. “We're not beaten yet. Now for the fire and supper.”
He drew forth his steel matchbox with numb and shaking fingers, opened
it and stood stricken dumb. There were only three matches in the box.
Unreasoning terror seized him. Three chances for life! He chose a match,
struck it, but in his numb and nerveless fingers the match snapped
near the head. With a new terror seizing him he took a second match and
struck it. The match flared, sputtering. Eagerly he thrust the birch
bark at it; too eagerly, alas, for the bark rubbed out the tiny flame.
He had one match left! One hope of life! He closed his matchbox. His
hands were trembling with the cold and more with nervous fear that shook
him in every limb. He could not bring himself to make the last attempt.
Up and down the cave and out and in he stamped, beating his hands to
bring back the blood and fighting hard to get back his nerve.
“This is all rotten funk!” he cried aloud, raging at himself. “I shall
not be beaten.”
Summoning all his powers, he once more pulled out his matchbox, rubbed
his birch bark fine and, kneeling down, placed it between his knees
under the shelter of his hunting jacket. Kneeling there with the
matchbox in his hand, there fell upon his spirit a great calm. “Oh,
God!” he said quietly and with the conviction in his soul that there
was One listening, “help me now.” He opened the matchbox, took out the
match, struck it carefully and laid it among the birch bark. For one
heart-racking moment it flickered unsteadily, then, catching a resinous
fibre of the bark, it flared up, shot out a tiny tongue to one of the
heavier bunches, caught hold, sputtered, smoked, burst into flame. With
the prayer still going in his heart, “God help me now,” Cameron fed the
flame with bits of bark and tiny twigs, adding more and more till the
fire began to leap, dance, and snap, and at length gaining strength it
roared its triumph over the grim terror so recently threatened.
For the present at least the blizzard was beaten.
“Now God be thanked for that,” said Cameron. “For it was past my doing.”