It was Sunday morning, the first Sunday morning after the arrival of the American ladies at the house over the way,—for I took them to be such, and, later, my conjecture proved not a very long way out.
It had been a week of hard work, petty annoyances and unsatisfying little pleasures.
When I got up that morning, I felt jaded. As I ate my breakfast, I became more so; but, as I went out on to the veranda to look upon the beauties of Golden Crescent,—as I did every morning,—I came to myself.
This will never do, George Bremner! What you need is a swim!
I had hit it. Why had not I thought of it sooner? I undressed, and in less time than it takes to retell it, I was in the water and striking straight for Rita's Isle.
When I got there, I sunned myself on the rocks, as was my wont. I looked across towards Clarks' farm, in the hope that I might espy Rita somewhere between,—yet half hoping that I would not, for I was browsing in the changing delights and sensations of the thoughts which my solitariness engendered.
For one thing;—I had made the discovery the night before that Miss Grant's Christian name was Mary.
I had found a torn label on the beach; one, evidently, from a travelling bag. It read:
Miss Mary Grant,Passengerto Golden Crescent Bay, B. C. Canada.
ex San Francisco, per P. C. S. S. Co. to Vancouver.
That was all.
I lay on my back on the rocks, turning the name over in my mind.
Mary.... It did not sound very musical. It was a plain-Jane-and-no-nonsense kind of name.
I started in to make excuses to myself for it. Why I did so, I have no idea, but I discovered myself at it.
Mary was a Bible name. Yes!—it had that in its favour.
Famous queens had been called Mary. Yes!
The lady who owned the world-famous "little lamb" was called Mary.
And there was "Mary, Mary, quite contrary."
Why, of course! there were plenty of wonderful Marys. Notwithstanding, I could not altogether shake off the feeling of regret that came to me with the discovery that the young lady over the way was called Mary.
Had her name been Marguerite, or Dorothea, Millicent or even Rosemary, I would have been contented and would have considered the name a fitting one,—but to be common-or-garden Mary!
Oh, well!—what mattered it anyway? The name did not detract from the attractiveness of her long, wavy, golden hair, nor did it change the colour or lessen the transparency of her eyes. It did not interfere with her deft fingers as they travelled so artistically over the keyboard of her piano; although I kept wishing, in a half-wishful way, that it could have changed her tantalising and exasperating demeanour toward me.
From the beginning, we had played antagonists, and from the beginning this playing antagonists had been distasteful to me.
What was it in me? I wondered,—what was it in her that caused the mental ferment? I had not the slightest notion, unless it were a resentfulness in me at being taken only for what I, myself, had chosen to become,—store-clerk in an out-of-the-way settlement; or an annoyance in her because one of my station should place himself on terms of social equality with every person he happened to meet.
I was George Bremner to her. True! Then,—she was merely Mary Grant to me. Mary Grant she was and Mary Grant she would doubtless remain, until,—until somebody changed it to probably—Mary-something-worse.
As I day-dreamed, I felt the air about me more chilly than usual.
All the previous night, the sea had been running into the Bay choppy and white-tipped, but now it was as level as the face of a mirror, although everywhere on the surface of the water loose driftwood floated.
I let myself go, down the smooth shelving rock upon which I had been lying. I dropped noiselessly far down into the deep water. I came up and struck out for home,—all my previous lassitude gone from me.
I was swimming along leisurely, interested only in my thoughts and the water immediately around me, when something a bit ahead attracted my attention.
I was half-way between Rita's Isle and the shore at the time. The object in front kept bobbing,—bobbing. At first, I took it to be part of a semi-submerged log, but as I drew nearer I was quite surprised to find that it was an early morning swimmer like myself. Nearer still, and I discovered that the swimmer was a woman whose hair was bound securely by a multi-coloured, heavy, silk muffler, such as certain types of London Johnnies affected for a time.
Whoever the swimmer was, she had already gone at least half a mile, for that was the distance to the nearest point of land and there was no boat of any kind in her tracks.
Half a mile!—and another half-mile to go! Quite a swim for a lady!
Afraid lest it should prove more than enough for a member of what I had always been taught to recognise as the more delicately constituted of the sexes, I drew closer to the swimmer.
When only a few yards behind, she turned round with a startled exclamation.
It was Mary Grant.
A chill ran along my spine. I became unreasonable immediately. What right had she to run risks of this nature? Was there not plenty of water for her to swim in near the shore where she would be within easy hail of the land should she become exhausted?
Almost angrily, I narrowed the space between us.
She had recognised me at her first glimpse.
"Are you not rather far from the shore, Miss Grant?" I inquired bruskly.
"Thank you! Not a bit too far," she exclaimed, keeping up a steady progress through the water.
She moved easily and did not betray any signs of weariness, except it were in a catching of her voice, which almost every one has who talks in the water after a long swim.
I could not but admire the power of her swimming, despite the evident fact that she was not at all speedy.
"But you have no right to risk your life out here, when you do not know the coast," I retorted.
"What right have you to question my rights, sir?" she answered haughtily. "Please go away."
"I spoke for your own good," I continued. "There may be currents in the Bay that you know nothing of. Besides, the driftwood itself is dangerous this morning."
She did not reply for a bit, but kept steadily on.
When I took up my position a few yards to the left and on a level with her, she turned on me indignantly.
"Excuse me, Sir Impertinence,—but do you take me for a child or a fool? Are you one of those inflated individuals who imagines that masculine man is the only animal that can do anything?"
"Far from it," I answered, "but as it so happens I am slightly better acquainted with the Bay than you are and I merely wished you to benefit from my knowledge."
"I am obliged to you for your interest, Mr. Bremner. However, I know my own capabilities in the water, just as you know yours. Now,—if you do not desire to spoil what to me has been a pleasure so far, you will leave me."
I fell back a few yards, feeling that it would have given me extreme pleasure to have had the pulling of her ears. And, more out of cussedness,—as Jake would put it,—than anything else, I kept plodding along slowly, neither increasing nor diminishing the distance between us.
She was well aware of my proximity, and, at last, when we were little more than a hundred yards from the point of the rock at the farthest out end of the wharf, she wheeled on me like the exasperated sea-nymph she was.
"I told you the other day, Mr. Bremner, that you could not hide the fact that you were a gentleman. If you do not wish me to regret having said that,—you will go away. I am perfectly capable of looking after myself."
That was the last straw for me. I could see that she was a splendid swimmer and that she was likely to make the shore without mishap, although I could also tell that she was tiring.
"All right!—I'll go," I shouted. "But please be sensible,—there was a heavy drift of wood and seaweed last night. The seaweed always gathers in at your side of the wharf, and it is treacherous. Come this way and land ashore from my side."
"Thank you! Mr. Bremner," she called back quite pleasantly, "but I came this way and saw very little seaweed, so I fancy I shall be able to get back."
Maddened at her for being so headstrong, I veered to the left of the rocks, while she held on to the right.
I did not look in her direction again, but, with a fast, powerful side-stroke, I shot ahead and soon the rocks divided us.
I was barely a hundred yards from the beach, when I heard, or fancied I heard, just the faintest of inarticulate cries.
I listened, but it was not repeated. In the ordinary course, I would have paid no heed, but something above and beyond me prompted me to satisfy myself that all was right.
I swung round and started quickly for the point of the rocks again. In a few seconds, I reached it and swam round to the other side. I scanned the water between me and the shore,—it was as smooth as glass, with only bobbing brown bulbs everywhere denoting the presence of the seaweed.
I looked at the beach, and across to Miss Grant's house,—there was no one in sight.
A feeling of horror crept over me. It was improbable,—impossible,—that she could have reached the shore and got inside the house so quickly.
I glanced over the surface of the water again.
Good God!—what was that?
Not fifty yards from the beach, and just at the point where the bobbing brown bulbs were thickest, a small hand and an arm broke the surface of the water. The fingers of the hand closed convulsively and a ring glittered in the sunlight. Then the hand vanished.
With a vigorous crawl stroke,—keeping well on the surface for safety,—I tore through that intervening space.
Oh!—how I thanked God for my exceptional ability in diving and swimming under water.
As I got over the spot where I reckoned the hand had appeared, I became cautious, for I knew the danger and I had no desire to get entangled and thus end the chances of both of us. I sank down, slowly and perpendicularly, keeping my knees bent and my feet together, feeling carefully with my hands the while. The water was clear, but I could see only a little way because of the seaweed.
How thickly it had gathered! Long, curling, tangling stuff!
Several times, I had to change my position quickly in order to avoid being caught among the great, waving tendrils which, lower down, interweaved like the meshes of a gigantic net.
I stayed under water as long as I dared, then with lungs afire I had to come to the surface for air.
Desperately, I started again.
I swam several yards nearer to the rocks and sank once more. This time, my groping hands found what they were seeking. Far down, almost at the bottom of the sea, the body of Miss Grant lay.
I passed my hands over her. Her head and arms were clear of the awful tangle, but both her legs were enmeshed.
Fighting warily and working like one possessed, I tore at the slithering ropes and bands that bound her. I got one foot and leg clear, then, with bursting lungs I attacked the other.
It seemed as if I should never get her free. How I fought and struggled with that damnable sea-growth! fearing and fearing afresh that I would have to make to the surface for air, or drown where I was.
As I worked frantically, I grew defiant, and decided to drown rather than leave the girl who had already been far too long under water.
My head throbbed and hammered. My senses reeled and rallied, and reeled again as I tore and struggled. Then, when hope was leaving me, I felt something snap. I caught at the body beside me and I drifted upward, and upward;—I did not know how or where.
The thought flashed through me;—this is the last. It is all over.
I opened my throat to allow the useless carbonised air to escape. I was conscious of the act and knew its consequences:—a flood of salt water in my lungs, then suffocation and death. But I did not care now.
My lungs deflated, then—oh! delicious ecstasy!—instead of water, I drew to my dying body,—air; reviving, life-giving, life-sustaining oxygen.
I panted and gasped, as life ran through my veins. Blood danced in my thumping heart. I caught at my reeling senses. I clutched, like a miser, at the body I held.
I struggled, and opened my eyes.
I was on the surface of the water,—afloat. In my arms, I held the lady I had wrested from the deadly seaweed.
How well I knew, even in those awful moments, that I was not the cause of that wonderful rescue. I was present,—true,—but it was the decreeing of the great, living, but Unseen Power, who had further use for both of us in the bright old world, who had more work for us to perform ere he called us to our last accounting.
Well I knew then that every moment of time was more precious than ordinary hours of reckoning, yet I dared not hurry with my burden across that short strip of water, lest we should again become entangled.
Foot by foot, I worked my way, until I was clear of the seaweed, then I kicked forcefully for the shore, and with my unconscious, perhaps dead, burden in my arms, I scrambled up the face of the rocks and into the house.
"Quick! For God's sake! Hot water,—blankets!" I cried to Miss Grant's semi-petrified companion.
She stood and looked at me in horror and bewilderment. Then I remembered that my shouting was in vain, for she was stone-deaf.
But this good old lady's helplessness was short-lived.
"Lay her down," she cried; "I know how to handle this. If there's a spark of life in her I can bring her round."
I laid the limp form on the bed, on top of the spotless linen.
As I did so, I looked upon the pale face, with its eyes closed and the brine rolling in drops over those long, golden eyelashes; then upon the glorious sun-kissed hair now water-soaked and tangled.
I cried in my soul, "Oh, God!—is this the end and she so beautiful."
Already the elderly lady had commenced first aid, in a businesslike way. It was something I knew only a little about, so I went into the kitchen in a perspiring terror of suspense,—and I stood there by the stove, ready to be of assistance at any moment, should I be called.
After what seemed hours of waiting, I heard a moan, and through the moaning came a voice, sweet but pitiful, and breathing of agony.
"Oh! why did you bring me back? Why did you not let me die?"
Again followed a long waiting, with the soothing voice of Miss Grant's able companion talking to her patient as she wrought with her.
There was a spell of dreadful nausea, but when it came I knew the worst was over.
The elderly lady came to the door, with a request for a hot-water bottle, which I got for her with alacrity.
At last she came out to me, and her kindly face was beaming.
"My dear, good boy," she said, as tears trickled down her cheeks, "she is lying peacefully and much better. In an hour or two, she will be up and around. Would you care to see her, just to put your mind at ease?"
"Indeed I would," I responded.
She led the way into the room, and there on the bed lay Miss Grant,—breathing easily,—alive,—life athrob in her veins.
A joyful reaction overwhelmed me, for, no matter how humble had been my part, I had been chosen to help to save her.
As I stood by her, her eyes opened;—great, light-brown eyes, bright and agleam as of molten gold. They roved the room, then they rested on me.
"What!" she groaned, "you still here? Oh!—go away,—go away."
My heart sank within me and my face flushed with confusion.
I might have understood that what she said was merely the outpouring of an overpowering weakness which was mingling the mental pictures focussed on the young lady's mind;—but I failed to think anything but that she had a natural distaste for my presence and was not, even now, grateful for the assistance I had rendered.
With my head bowed, I walked to the door.
Mrs. Malmsbury,—for that was the elderly lady's name,—came to me. She had not heard, but she had surmised.
"Oh! Mr. Bremner,—if my dear Mary has said anything amiss to you, do not be offended, for she is hardly herself yet. Why!—she is only newly back from the dead."
She held out her hand to me and I took it gratefully. But as I walked over to my quarters and dressed myself, the feeling of resentment in my heart did not abate; and I vowed then to myself that I would think of Mary Grant no more; that I would avoid her when I could and keep strictly to my own, beloved, masculine, bachelor pursuits and to the pathway I had mapped out for myself.
The Rev. William Auld was due to visit Golden Crescent that afternoon. I almost wearied for his coming, for he was entertaining and uplifting. He, somehow, had the happy knack of instilling fresh energy, fresh ambition, fresh hope, into every one with whom he came in contact.
His noisy launch at last came chug-chugging up the Bay. He started with the far point of the Crescent and called at every creek, cove and landing at which there was a home. Then he crept along the shore-line to Jake's place.
My turn next,—I soliloquised. But, no!—he held out, waving his hand in salutation.
It was evidently his intention to make a call on Miss Grant before finishing his Sabbath labours at my bungalow.
He stayed there a long time: so long, that I was beginning to give up hope of his ever getting my length; but, finally, his cheery voice hailed me from my doorway and roused my drooping spirits.
His pale, gentle face was wreathed in smiles.
"Good boy! Good boy!" he commented. "God bless you! He is blessing you,—eh, George!"
"How is the lady?" I inquired.
"Almost as well as ever," he replied. "She has had a severe shake-up though. It must have been touch and go.
"She was up, George, and talked to me. She told me everything she could remember; how she refused to take your well-intentioned advice, and suffered the consequences of her folly. She gave me this note for you."
He held out an envelope and I took it and put it in my pocket.
He raised his eyebrows, "Read it, man;—read it."
"It will do later, Mr. Auld;—there is no hurry."
He shook his old, grey head in surprise.
"Well,—well,—well," he exclaimed.
"Have you visited the Clarks yet, George?" he asked after a pause.
"Yes!"
"And what did you find there?"
"Discord," I answered.
"So you know all about it, eh!"
"You are a minister of God, Mr. Auld; you have influence with such a man as Andrew Clark. Surely you can move him from the damnable position he has taken up?"
"I would to God I could," he said fervently. "For ten years, I have preached to him, scolded him, cajoled him, threatened him with hell-fire and ever-lasting torment; yes! I have even refused to dispense the sacrament to him unless he relented, but I might as well have expended my energies on The Ghoul Rock out there at the opening to the Bay."
"But he professes to be a good Christian, Mr. Auld," I put in.
"Yes! and no man on the coast tries to live a good life more than he does. I am sure, every moment of his life he deeply regrets the rash vow he made, but he believes, in the sight of God, he is doing right in keeping to it. He is obsessed.
"Now, George,—what is there left for me to try?"
"Physical force," I exclaimed angrily.
"George,—" he said, almost horrified, "it is not for a minister of the gospel to think of violence."
"Why not?" I went on. "Andrew Clark is slowly torturing his wife to death. Surely, if there ever was an occasion,—this is it! A few days' violence may save years of torture to both and, maybe, save his eternal soul besides."
He sat in silence for a while, then he startled me.
"Come, boy! You have a scheme in your head. Tell me what it is, and,—may God forgive me if I do wrong,—but, if it appeals to me as likely to move that old, living block of Aberdeen granite, or even to cause a few hours' joy to his dear, patient wife, Margaret, I'll carry it through if I can."
I unfolded what had been in my mind.
"What do you think of it?" I asked.
He shook his head dubiously.
"It is dangerous; it is violent; it is not what a minister is expected to do to any of his flock;—and it is only a chance that it will effect its purpose."
"Where would you put him?" I asked, as if he had agreed.
He smiled.
"Oh!—there is the log cabin at the back of the farm, where he keeps nothing but an incubator. It has a heavy door and only a small window.
"Man,—if we could inveigle him in there!"
The Rev. William Auld positively chuckled as he thought of it.
I knew then that he was not so very far away from his schoolboy days, despite his age and experiences.
"When can we start in?"
He thought a little.
"The sooner the better," he said. "Joe is busy towing booms this week and there is no possible chance of his coming home. I am not too busy and can spare the part of three or four consecutive days for the job.
"If we can only get Margaret and Rita to agree."
"I can guarantee Rita," I said.
"And I can coerce Margaret," he put in.
"We'll arrange with the women folks to-morrow sometime, and we'll tackle poor old Andrew the following afternoon."
The minister waited and had tea with me. It was late when he took his departure.
Just as I was tumbling into bed, I remembered Mary Grant's letter. I took it out of my coat pocket and opened it. It was not a letter, after all; merely a note.
"Please,—please forgive me," it read. "You are a brave and very gallant gentleman.
"MARY GRANT."
"George, my boy!" I soliloquised, "that ought to satisfy you."
But it did not. In the frame of mind I then was in, nothing could possibly have propitiated me.
As I dropped to sleep, the phrase recurred again and again: "You are a brave and very gallant gentleman." That,—maybe,—but after all a poor and humble gentleman working for wages in a country store;—so, why worry?
Next morning, although it was not the day any steamer was due, I ran the white flag to the top of the pole at the point of the rocks, in the hope that Rita would see it and take it as a signal that I wished to speak with her; and so save me a trip across, for I expected some of the men from the Camps and I never liked to be absent or to keep them waiting.
Just before noon, Rita presented herself.
"Say, George!—what's the rag up for? Did you forget what day of the week it was, or is it your birthday?
"I brought you a pie, in case it might be your anniversary. Made it this morning."
I laughed to the bright little lass who stood before me with eyes dancing mischievously, white teeth showing and the pink of her cheeks glowing through the olive tint of her skin.
The more I saw of Rita, the prettier she seemed in my eyes, for she was lively and agile, trim, neat and beautifully rounded, breathing always of fragrant and exuberant health.
"Sit down beside me on the steps here, Rita," I said. "I want to talk to you. That is why I put the flag up.
"Rita,—what would you give to have your grand-dad renounce his vow some day and begin speaking to your grandmother as if nothing had ever been amiss?"
She looked at me and her lips trembled.
"Say, George! Don't fool me. I ain't myself on that subject."
"What would you give, Rita?"
"I'd give anything. I'd pretty near give my life, George; for grandmother would be happier'n an angel."
"Would you help, if some one knew a way?"
"George,—sure you ain't foolin'? True,—you ain't foolin'?"
For answer, I plunged into the scheme.
"Now,—all we require of you and your grandmother is to sit tight and neither to say nor do anything that would interfere. Leave it to—leave it to the minister. He is doing this, and he believes that it is the only way to bring your grand-dad to his senses. Mr. Auld has already tried everything else he can think of."
"It won't kill grand-dad, though?" she inquired.
"Kill him,—no! Why! it won't even hurt him, unless, maybe, his pride.
"Do you agree, Rita?"
"Sure!" she said. "But—if you or Mr. Auld hurt my grand-dad, I guess I'll kill you both,—see."
Her eyes flashed for a second and I could tell she was in deadly earnest over it. But she soon laughed and became happy once more.
"Rita,—would you like to be able to talk English,—proper English,—just as it should be talked? Would you care to learn English Grammar?" I asked, changing the subject partly.
She came close to me on the veranda steps with a jump.
"Say that over again, George. I want to get it right," she said plaintively.
"Would you like me to teach you English Grammar, Rita?" I repeated.
"Would I? Oh! wouldn't I just!"
She looked away quickly. "You wouldn't waste your time teachin' the likes of me."
"I have been through college. I know something of English Grammar and English Literature. It would be the pleasure of my life to be permitted to impart some of what I know to you."
"Oh!—but it would take years, and years, and—then some," she put in.
"Not a bit of it! It would take an hour or two of an evening, maybe twice a week. That is all,—provided you went over and learned in between times all that was given you to master."
"Gee! I could do that. You just try me."
"Well, Rita. Here is your first lesson.
"Never say 'gee.' It is not good English."
And I never heard Rita use the expression again.
I had expected to see her smile with happiness, but she was too tremendously in earnest about it. Determination was written all over her sweet little face.
"George,—I'll learn anything you tell me. I'll work hard and I'll learn terrible fast, for I know I ain't no good now at talking slick."
"Here is another for you, Rita. Never say 'ain't no good.' Say, 'I am not any good.' 'Ain't' is not a word; it does not appear in any standard dictionary of English.
"Well, little girl,—if your grand-dad is agreeable and will permit you to come over now and again of an evening, we can make a start as soon as I get the book I require from Vancouver.
"I would come over to your place, but it is quite a distance from the store and I do not like to be too long away, especially in the evenings; for I have seen Chinese in their fishing boats around, and strange launches keep coming into the Bay to anchor overnights. It does not do, you know, to neglect another man's property and goods when the other man pays me for looking after them."
"Oh! grand-dad won't mind me coming. He lets me do pretty near anything. Besides, somebody's got to come over to the store now we're getting our groceries from you instead of ordering them from Vancouver."
I was not so sanguine as Rita was, especially after what Joe had probably said to Andrew Clark regarding me.
"Well!" I concluded, "that will be my excuse when I come over with the medicine for your grand-dad's chronic complaint,—dumbness. So, don't say a word about it until I get over."
The Rev. William Auld ran in early that afternoon. He was all excitement.
"George,—I saw Margaret and I have fixed her. Poor woman,—she is as nervous as a kitten and as worried as a mother cat, fearing we may hurt Andrew. The old rascal;—he's not so easily hurt, eh, George?
"You saw Rita?"
"Yes! And she is like Mrs. Clark, but the prize looks too alluring for her to refrain from entering the gamble."
"George! Why should we leave this till to-morrow?"
"I don't know why."
"We could start in to-night, just as easily as to-morrow, and it will be over a day sooner. What do you say?"
"I am ready when you are, Mr. Auld."
"Right! Now, I am going to leave the conversation to you. You must work it round to fit in. I shall do the rest,—the dirty work, as the villain says in the dime novel."
"What do you know about dime novels?" I laughed.
"I am a minister of the gospel now, but ... I was a boy once."
The Rev. William Auld had dinner with me, then he started out in his launch for Clark's ranch. It was arranged that I follow immediately in a rowing boat, which would take me longer to get there and would thus disarm any suspicion of complicity.
When I arrived at Clark's, I could hear the minister talking and Andrew Clark laughing heartily. Mr. Auld was telling some interesting story and he had the old man in the best of humours.
I was welcomed with cheerfulness, and the minister shook hands with me as if he had not seen me for a month of Sundays.
Rita was a-missing. Mrs. Clark seemed nervous and ill-at-ease. Andrew, however, was in his happiest of moods.
"What special brought ye over, George?" he asked.
I told him of Rita's anxiety to be able to talk English properly and of my willingness to teach her if it could be arranged conveniently. The minister backed up the project with all his ministerial fluency, but Andrew Clark was not the man to agree to a thing immediately, no matter how well it appealed to him.
"Rita's a good lassie," he said, "and she hasna had schoolin' except what Marget and me taught her, and that's little more than being able to read and add up a few lines o' figures.
"George Bremner,—you're an honest man and I like ye fine. You'll ha'e my answer by the end o' the week."
"Right you are!" I exclaimed.
Andrew then started in to tell Mr. Auld of the method he had adopted in regard to the disposition of his output of eggs, and that gave me just the opportunity I wanted.
"How do you raise your chicks, Mr. Clark?" I asked. "Do you use an incubator?"
"Sure thing! And a grand little incubator I ha'e too," he answered. "She takes two hundred and fifty eggs at a time and gives an average of eighty per cent chicks."
I had lit on Andrew Clark's one and only hobby.
He got up. "Come and ha'e a look at it. It's called 'The Every-Egg-A-Chick' Incubator, and it nearly lives up to its name.
"But it's a pity I ha'e nothin' in her at the minute.
"Come on, too, Mr. Auld. It'll do ye good to learn something aboot chickens, even if you are busy enough lookin' after the sheep."
Andrew took a huge key from a nail in the wall and we followed him out to the log cabin, both of us full of forced interest and bubbling over with pent-up excitement.
Old man Clark talked all the way on his favourite topic; he talked while he inserted the key in the door and he kept on talking as he walked in, all intent on his wonderful egg-hatcher.
He left the key in the door.
Just as I was due to enter, I stepped back. With a quick movement, the minister pulled the door to and turned the key, taking it out of the lock and putting it in his trouser pocket.
"Hey!—what's the matter?" came a voice from the inside.
We did not answer.
Andrew Clark battered on the door with his fists.
"Hey there! The door has snappit to. Open it and come awa' in."
The minister put his lips to the keyhole.
"Andrew Clark,—that door is not going to be opened for some time to come."
"Toots! What are ye bletherin' aboot? What kind o' a schoolboy trick is this you're up to? Open the door and none o' your nonsense."
I chuckled with delight, as I ran off for some boards and nails which I hammered up against the small window for extra security.
When I finished the job, the Rev. William Auld was getting through his lecture to Andrew.
"—And you won't step a foot out of this place, neither shall you eat, till you renounce your devilish vow and speak to the wife of your bosom, as a God-fearing man should."
Sonorously from behind the door came Clark's voice.
"Willum Auld!—are ye a meenister o' the gospel?"
"Yes!"
"And ye would try to force a man to break a vow made before the Lord?"
"Yes! Andrew."
"Ye would starve a man to death,—murder him?"
"No!—but I would make him very uncomfortable. I would make him so hungry that he would almost hear the gnawing in his internals for meat, if I thought good would come of it."
The man behind the door became furious.
"Willum Auld!"
"Yes! Andrew."
"If ye don't open that door at once, I'll write a complaint to the Presbytery. I'll ha'e ye shorn o' your releegious orders and hunted frae the kirk o' God."
"Be silent! you blasphemer," commanded the frail but plucky old minister. "How dare you talk in that way? Do you wish to bring down a judgment on yourself? Good-night! Andrew,—I'll be back to-morrow; and I would strongly recommend you, in the interval, to get down on your knees and pray to your Maker."
This proved almost too much for Andrew.
"Willum!—Willum!—Come back," he cried through the door.
"What is it?" asked the minister, returning.
"There's neither light nor bed here, and I'm an ageing man."
"Darkness is better light and earthen floors are softer bedding than you will have in the place you are hastening to if you do not repent and talk to Margaret."
There was a spell of silence again.
"Willum!—Willum! Are ye there?"
"Yes! Andrew."
"Could I ha'e my pipe and tobacco and a puckle matches? They're on the kitchen mantel-piece."
"Unless it is a drink of water, not a thing shall pass through this doorway to you till you pledge me that you will speak to Margaret, as you did before you took your devil's vow."
The dour old man, in his erstwhile prison, had the last word:
"Gang awa' wi' ye,—for it'll be a long time, Willum Auld. The snaw will be fallin' blue frae the Heavens."
We went back to the cottage and gave implicit instructions to Margaret and Rita how they were to handle the prisoner. Neither of them was in an easy frame of mind, and I feared considerably for their ability to stand the test and keep away from the log hut. But the minister retained the key, so that nothing short of tearing the place down would let Andrew Clark out.
Next day, late in the afternoon, the minister called in for me and we sailed over to the ranch.
Margaret, though sorely tempted, had kept religiously away from her husband; but, already, she had a variety of foodstuffs cooked and waiting his anticipated release.
We went over to the barn and the minister rapped on the door.
"Are you there, Andrew?"
No answer.
"Andrew Clark,—are you there?"
Still no response.
I looked though the boarded window. The old Scot was standing with his back to us in a studied attitude.
Once more the minister spoke, but still he received no answer.
The women folks were waiting anxiously, and keen was their disappointment when they heard that another day would have to pass ere the head of their house could be released.
"God forgive me if I am doing wrong," exclaimed William Auld to me, "but I am determined, now that I have put my hand to the plough, I shall not turn back."
Wednesday came, and we called again.
"Andrew," called the minister through the door, "will you relent and talk to Margaret?"
"Give me a drink of water," came a husky voice from behind the door.
A saucer of cold water was passed under the door to him and he seized it and drank of it eagerly.
"Will you talk to Margaret, Andrew?"
"No!" snapped the old fellow. And back again he dropped into silence.
Still another day and the performance was repeated. Still Andrew Clark remained adamant; still Margaret Clark begged and prayed on her knees for his release.
"We will give him one more day," said the minister, "and then, if it is God's will, we will release him and take the consequences of our acts."
On the Friday afternoon, we made what we considered would be our last trip.
Dour, stubborn, old man! It looked as if he were about to beat us after all, for we could not afford to injure his health, no matter what the reason for it. As it was, we had broken the law of the land and we were liable to punishment at the hands of the law.
The Rev. William Auld, suffering far more than the prisoner could have suffered during that trying time, knocked at the solid door once more.
"Andrew! Andrew!" he cried, "for God's sake, be a man."
He had the key to the door in his hand, ready to open it.
Suddenly, a broken voice came in answer:
"Bring me Marget! Bring me Marget!"
"Do you wish to speak to her, Andrew?"
"Bring me Marget, won't you," came again the wavering voice.
I brought the dear old woman from her kitchen. She was trembling with anxiety and suspense.
William Auld threw the door open.
Andrew Clark was standing in the middle of the floor, with a look on his face that I had never seen there before,—a look of holy tenderness. He held out his arms to the white-haired old lady, who tottered forward to meet him.
"Marget! Marget! My own lass, Marget!" he cried huskily, as tears blinded his sight. He caught her and crushed her to him.
Margaret tried to speak, but her voice caught brokenly.
"Andrew! Andrew!—don't, lad,—oh! don't."
She laid her head on his breast and sobbed in utter content, as he stroked her hair.
"It's been ten year o' hell for me, Marget: ten year o' hell for us both," he went on, "but God has spoken to me in the darkness, in the quietness; through hunger and thirst. My lass, my lass;—my own, dear, patient lass."
He was holding her tightly to him and did not seem to know of our presence. Our hearts were too full to remain. We turned and left them in the joy of their reborn love.
The minister, with face aglow, got into his launch, while I jumped into my rowing boat.
When I was quite a long way from the shore, I looked back across the water to the cottage; and there, kneeling together on their veranda steps, their arms around each other, their heads bent in prayer, I saw Andrew Clark and Margaret.
The next afternoon, Andrew called on me. He was waiting for me at the store, as Jake and I returned with two boat-loads of fresh stock which we were out receiving from theCloochman.
The old fellow took me by the hand and surprised me by his smile of open friendship.
"I would ha'e come over sooner, George, but I couldna get away frae the ranch these last few days." His eyes turned humorously as he said it.
"I might ha'e run over this mornin', but Marget and me ha'e a lot o' leaway to make up.
"Say! man,—I'll be glad if you will do what ye can to help Rita. Make your ain arrangements;—for, what suits you, suits me and Marget."