THE WOODRANGER SURPRISES MR. MacDONALD.
Though the Woodranger started away from the scene of the burned wigwam
with Norman, he lingered somewhat in sight of the place, as if loath
to depart. Even after he passed down the road from sight of the spot,
he cast anxious glances back, as if he were looking for the homeless
Pennacook.
“I must try and see him, and counsel with him,” he said, aloud. “I
am sure the whites will gladly make his loss good to him. But, alack
a man! it is not that. It is the arrow o’ wrong which will enter his
heart. He cannot understand that one Gunwad does not represent the
white population, as a red may represent a whole tribe o’ his race.”
As the Woodranger came in sight of Mr. MacDonald’s home, he saw the old
Highlander standing in the middle of the road, looking anxiously in
the direction whence he was coming. At sight of him, the other started
to retreat toward the house; then, as if thinking better of it, he
remained by the side of the highway, saying, as the forester approached:
“What means yon fire, Maister Woodranger? I felt it was a hame burnin’.”
“So it was, my good man, and no home less than that of Christo, the
praying Indian.”
“I’m sad for Christo, though I ne’er felt weel acquaint wi’ the strange
coloured man. Say, Maister Woodranger, I houp there was nae unfair work
in it.”
“So do I, Mr. MacDonald. I trust that Gunwad has passed by in peace?”
“He did, maister. I dinna like that man.”
“Not the best o’ company, sir. I trust you are feeling well to-day.”
“As weel as an auld man should expect. This weather is tryin’ on sic’ a
broken-doon frame as mine.”
“Nay, my good friend, you are not one who should talk o’ a broken-down
frame. You are ne’er an ol’ man.”
“Auld in sorrow, sir, if nae in years.”
“That is because you live too much in the past, my good friend. Live so
the light o’ the futur’ shall build beacon-fires along your trail. He
who lives in the past lives a life o’ double sorrow. It makes him ol’
in his prime. It has made you ol’ in your sixties, when sich a stalwart
frame as thine should be erect as the pine.”
There was truth in the bold declaration, and even in the bitterness of
his heart the old Highlander knew it. But to be told the fact in that
sudden manner amazed him. It was some time before he could manage to
exclaim:
“Who taught thee that, man?”
“I did not have to look to man to l’arn it. The leetle, nimble-footed
squirrel, his merry heart the target for every thoughtless youth,
taught me the blessed secret. The bird has retold it in his song. I
read it in the heart o’ natur’. Man don’t want to go to the school o’
civilisation to be told the things which make life worth living. Your
days have been all yesterdays. You have fought the battle o’ Glencoe
till you have wrung your heart dry!”
“Ye lie, man! I hae a mind to beat the truth into yer thick held wi’ my
staff. What dae ye ken o’ sorrow?”
The Woodranger, appearing perfectly indifferent to his excitement,
replied in his slow, simple manner:
“All that any man knows who has seen all that is dear to him slip
away,――his heart plucked out by piecemeal, and put back all bleeding
and torn, to heal as it might. Man is a poor, misguided fool who
continually prods his wounds, that he may let others see ’em bleed. Do
not think me ungrateful, sir. I love thee as a son might a father.”
“I canna understand you!” muttered the old Highlander. “I――I think ye
be a MacDonald!”
“As if that was the highest compliment you could pay me. I have no
knack o’ dissembling; if you mean I’m lacking in common sense, then out
with it, man. What availed all the boasts o’ your MacDonalds? They were
the weakest in their strength, the most foolish in their wisdom! You
remind me o’ an oak, which one stroke o’ the lightning blasted while it
stood proudly defying its wrath. Pardon me again, sir, for my tongue
does babble like a brook, which to be made useful, must be dammed.”
Mr. MacDonald, used all his life to speak his mind without being
contradicted, was dumfounded. At first, he was angered, then perplexed,
and then he finally managed to say, though his words were scarcely in
keeping with the trend of the conversation:
“Ye’re a Scotchman?”
“If I am, it was my birthright; if I am not, I do not bewail the fact.”
“A Scotchman,” resumed the Highlander, “and yet gaun amang the boastful
Britons, an’ carryin’ a French gun;” as if this last fact was the
greatest sin.
“The oak growing beside the poplar, sir, is none the less an oak. I’ve
seen a birch growing from the rotten side o’ a maple, where a seed had
somehow lodged, but it was still a birch, as pure as the mother stock.
I habitate with all men equally, and not less with my red brother whose
ways are peaceful. As to carrying a French rifle, I cannot dissemble.
Did they make one more to my liking I should not be above carrying
one. As to the weapon I have here, which I am free to confess is a
loved companion, it is a bit o’ a consait o’ mine. The stock, it may
be, was made by a Frencher, as I took it from the hand o’ Father Ralle,
as the red-hearted priest fell on the day his horde was routed at
Norridgewock. The barrel was sadly twisted, and not liking the thing,
I had one wrought by the cunning o’ Old Seth. It may be he did follow
something the Frencher’s style, but he was not ashamed to put his mark
on it. That tells whether it be French or not,” holding up, as he
spoke, the firearm so Mr. MacDonald could read, engraved on a tablet
sunk into the stock, the initials “S. P.”
Those letters stood for the name of the best known man in New England
at that time, Seth Pomroy, “the Gunmaker of Northampton,” afterwards
noted as a soldier in the Indian wars and the Revolution. Many of the
brave men of the Woodranger’s days carried rifles of his make, which
were not excelled by any that could be found.
At that moment, Rilma, who had been watching the two from the door,
rushed forward with childish impetuosity to greet the Woodranger, but
her grandfather would fain have kept her back.
“Bide in the hoose, lassie. I will soon cum in mysel’.”
“But I want to speak to Woodranger, grandfather.”
“Back, I say! A man who openly boasts o’ seekin’ the companionship
o’ wild beasts in preference to men is nae fit company for sic a wee
lassie as thee.”
Rilma retreated, as ordered, though she could not help showing her
disappointment. The Woodranger turned silently away, and without
another word started down the road. But Mr. MacDonald called to him:
“Had on, man! I havena said my last wird wi’ ye yet. I wud question ye
much more.”
The forester stopped, saying in his simple, straightforward way:
“Your incivility surprises me, sir. It is true I have habitated with
the wild creatur’s o’ the forest, but in all my perambulating I ne’er
met wolf with less o’ humanity, nor bear with more o’ brute than you
exhibit in chiding the child o’ thy only son. It may be I’m unsuited to
mingle in the genteel ways o’ civilisation, but I’ve l’arned what you
have not, that the finest natur’ has the most sensitive heart. I may
have forgotten the leetle book l’arning I got, but I have picked up a
leetle o’ the wisdom that wells from the springs o’ natur’. An’ while
man’s l’arning is e’er open to error, natur’ is ne’er at fault.”
The Highlander showed that he felt the merited rebuke, and his next
words were milder:
“If I ought to cane ye for yer insolence I’ll overlook ye. If ye care
to speak to the strange man, lassie, who is a saint or a deil, ye may.”
“I do want to speak to him, grandfather. I love him as if he was my own
father.”
At the utterance of this simple speech, which was but the honest
conviction of an unsophisticated heart, she ran swiftly to his side,
and to the amazement of the old Highlander he clasped her in his arms.
While he stood there trembling between suppressed excitement and wonder
he seemed to have suddenly become possessed of a new idea, for he asked
with great earnestness:
“Ye’re a Scotchman! Did ye ken my son Alick?”
“I may have met him, sir!” was the surprising reply.
“May have met him, man?” fairly shrieked the other. “Can ye say
that and be so quiet? My Alick was a bonnie boy, the noblest o’ the
MacDonalds.”
“Which may be a poor meed o’ praise, sir. But I do not wish to pain
a father’s heart. Nothing that I can say will mend the broken dish.
There, child, I must be gone.”
The latter sentence was addressed to Rilma, and, kissing her, he
tenderly disengaged her hands, and before she or her grandfather could
speak had disappeared around a turn in the road below the house.
“Run after him, lassie!” cried the Highlander. “Tell him to cum back. I
fain wud ask him mair o’ Alick.”
Nothing loath she obeyed, but when she reached the place where he had
last been seen, the Woodranger was not in sight. Disappointed she
returned to the house.
“I dinna read him!” muttered the old man. “An’ ye say there was tears
in his e’en as he let ye go, lassie? A strange man surely.” Then, after
a pause, he added: “He maun be a MacDonald!”