Straight north from the St. Lawrence runs the road through the Indian Lands. At first its way lies through open country, from which the forest has been driven far back to the horizon on either side, for along the great river these many years villages have clustered, with open fields about them stretching far away. But when once the road leaves the Front, with its towns and villages and open fields, and passes beyond Martintown and over the North Branch, it reaches a country where the forest is more a feature of the landscape. And when some dozen or more of the crossroads marking the concessions which lead off to east and west have been passed, the road seems to strike into a different world. The forest loses its conquered appearance, and dominates everything. There is forest everywhere. It lines up close and thick along the road, and here and there quite overshadows it. It crowds in upon the little farms and shuts them off from one another and from the world outside, and peers in through the little windows of the log houses looking so small and lonely, but so beautiful in their forest frames. At the nineteenth cross-road the forest gives ground a little, for here the road runs right past the new brick church, which is almost finished, and which will be opened in a few weeks. Beyond the cross, the road leads along the glebe, and about a quarter of a mile beyond the corner there opens upon it the big, heavy gate that the members of the Rev. Alexander Murray's congregation must swing when they wish to visit the manse. The opening of this gate, made of upright poles held by auger-holes in a frame of bigger poles, was almost too great a task for the minister's seven-year-old son Hughie, who always rode down, standing on the hind axle of the buggy, to open it for his father. It was a great relief to him when Long John Cameron, who had the knack of doing things for people's comfort, brought his ax and big auger one day and made a kind of cradle on the projecting end of the top bar, which he then weighted with heavy stones, so that the gate, when once the pin was pulled out of the post, would swing back itself with Hughie straddled on the top of it.
It was his favorite post of observation when waiting for his mother to come home from one of her many meetings. And on this particular March evening he had been waiting long and impatiently.
Suddenly he shouted: “Horo, mamma! Horo!” He had caught sight of the little black pony away up at the church hill, and had become so wildly excited that he was now standing on the top bar frantically waving his Scotch bonnet by the tails. Down the slope came the pony on the gallop, for she knew well that soon Lambert would have her saddle off, and that her nose would be deep into bran mash within five minutes more. But her rider sat her firmly and brought her down to a gentle trot by the time the gate was reached.
“Horo, mamma!” shouted Hughie, clambering down to open the gate.
“Well, my darling! have you been a good boy all afternoon?”
“Huh-huh! Guess who's come back from the shanties!”
“I'm sure I can't guess. Who is it?” It was a very bright and very sweet face, with large, serious, gray-brown eyes that looked down on the little boy.
“Guess, mamma!”
“Why, who can it be? Big Mack?”
“No!” Hughie danced delightedly. “Try again. He's not big.”
“I am sure I can never guess. Whoa, Pony!” Pony was most unwilling to get in close enough to the gate-post to let Hughie spring on behind his mother.
“You'll have to be quick, Hughie, when I get near again. There now! Whoa, Pony! Take care, child!”
Hughie had sprung clean off the post, and lighting on Pony's back just behind the saddle, had clutched his mother round the waist, while the pony started off full gallop for the stable.
“Now, mother, who is it?” insisted Hughie, as Lambert, the French-Canadian man-of-all-work, lifted him from his place.
“You'll have to tell me, Hughie!”
“Ranald!”
“Ranald?”
“Yes, Ranald and his father, Macdonald Dubh, and he's hurted awful bad, and—”
“Hurt, Hughie,” interposed the mother, gently.
“Huh-huh! Ranald said he was hurted.”
“Hurt, you mean, Hughie. Who was hurt? Ranald?”
“No; his father was hurted—hurt—awful bad. He was lying down in the sleigh, and Yankee Jim—”
“Mr. Latham, you mean, Hughie.”
“Huh-huh,” went on Hughie, breathlessly, “and Yankee—Mr. Latham asked if the minister was home, and I said 'No,' and then they went away.”
“What was the matter? Did you see them, Lambert?”
“Oui” (“Way,” Lambert pronounced it), “but dey not tell me what he's hurt.”
The minister's wife went toward the house, with a shadow on her face. She shared with her husband his people's sorrows. She knew even better than he the life-history of every family in the congregation. Macdonald Dubh had long been classed among the wild and careless in the community, and it weighed upon her heart that his life might be in danger.
“I shall see him to-morrow,” she said to herself.
For a few moments she stood on the doorstep looking at the glow in the sky over the dark forest, which on the west side came quite up to the house and barn.
“Look, Hughie, at the beautiful tints in the clouds, and see the dark shadows pointing out toward us from the bush.” Hughie glanced a moment.
“Mamma,” he said, “I am just dead for supper.”
“Oh, not quite, I hope, Hughie. But look, I want you to notice those clouds and the sky behind them. How lovely! Oh, how wonderful!”
Her enthusiasm caught the boy, and for a few moment she forgot even his hunger, and holding his mother's hand, gazed up at the western sky. It was a picture of rare beauty that lay stretched out from the manse back door. Close to the barn came the pasture-field dotted with huge stumps, then the brule where the trees lay fallen across one another, over which the fire had run, and then the solid wall of forest here and there overtopped by the lofty crest of a white pine. Into the forest in the west the sun was descending in gorgeous robes of glory. The treetops caught the yellow light, and gleamed like the golden spires of some great and fabled city.
“Oh, mamma, see that big pine top! Doesn't it look like windows?” cried Hughie, pointing to one of the lofty pine crests through which the sky quivered like molten gold.
“And the streets of the city are pure gold,” said the mother, softly.
“Yes, I know,” said Hughie, confidently, for to him all the scenes and stories of the Bible had long been familiar. “Is it like that, mamma?”
“Much better, ever so much better than you can think.”
“Oh, mamma, I'm just awful hungry!”
“Come away, then; so am I. What have you got, Jessie, for two very hungry people?”
“Porridge and pancakes,” said Jessie, the minister's “girl,” who not only ruled in the kitchen, but using the kitchen as a base, controlled the interior economy of the manse.
“Oh, goody!” yelled Hughie; “just what I like.” And from the plates of porridge and the piles of pancakes that vanished from his plate no one could doubt his word.
Their reading that night was about the city whose streets were of pure gold, and after a little talk, Hughie and his baby brother were tucked away safely for the night, and the mother sat down to her never-ending task of making and mending.
The minister was away at Presbytery meeting in Montreal, and for ten days his wife would stand in the breach. Of course the elders would take the meeting on the Sabbath day and on the Wednesday evening, but for all other ministerial duties when the minister was absent the congregation looked to the minister's wife. And soon it came that the sick and the sorrowing and the sin-burdened found in the minister's wife such help and comfort and guidance as made the absence of the minister seem no great trial after all. Eight years ago the minister had brought his wife from a home of gentle culture, from a life of intellectual and artistic pursuits, and from a circle of loving friends of which she was the pride and joy, to this home in the forest. There, isolated from all congenial companionship with her own kind, deprived of all the luxuries and of many of the comforts of her young days, and of the mental stimulus of that contact of minds without which few can maintain intellectual life, she gave herself without stint to her husband's people, with never a thought of self-pity or self-praise. By day and by night she labored for her husband and family and for her people, for she thought them hers. She taught the women how to adorn their rude homes, gathered them into Bible classes and sewing circles, where she read and talked and wrought and prayed with them till they grew to adore her as a saint, and to trust her as a leader and friend, and to be a little like her. And not the women only, but the men, too, loved and trusted her, and the big boys found it easier to talk to the minister's wife than to the minister or to any of his session. She made her own and her children's clothes, collars, hats, and caps, her husband's shirts and neckties, toiling late into the morning hours, and all without frown or shadow of complaint, and indeed without suspicion that any but the happiest lot was hers, or that she was, as her sisters said, “just buried alive in the backwoods.” Not she! She lived to serve, and the where and how were not hers to determine. So, with bright face and brave heart, she met her days and faced the battle. And scores of women and men are living better and braver lives because they had her for their minister's wife.
But the day had been long, and the struggle with the March wind pulls hard upon the strength, and outside the pines were crooning softly, and gradually the brave head drooped till between the stitches she fell asleep. But not for many minutes, for a knock at the kitchen door startled her, and before long she heard Jessie's voice rise wrathful.
“Indeed, I'll do no such thing. This is no time to come to the minister's house.”
For answer there was a mumble of words.
“Well, then, you can just wait until morning. She can go in the morning.”
“What is it, Jessie?” The minister's wife came into the kitchen.
“Oh, Ranald, I'm glad to see you back. Hughie told me you had come. But your father is ill, he said. How is he?”
Ranald shook hands shyly, feeling much ashamed under Jessie's sharp reproof.
“Indeed, it was Aunt Kirsty that sent me,” said Ranald, apologetically.
“Then she ought to have known better,” said Jessie, sharply.
“Never mind, Jessie. Ranald, tell me about your father.”
“He is very bad indeed, and my aunt is afraid that—” The boy's lip trembled. Then he went on: “And she thought perhaps you might have some medicine, and—”
“But what is the matter, Ranald?”
“He was hurted bad—and he is not right wise in his head.”
“But how was he hurt?”
Ranald hesitated.
“I was not there—I am thinking it was something that struck him.”
“Ah, a tree! But where did the tree strike him?”
“Here,” pointing to his breast; “and it is sore in his breathing.”
“Well, Ranald, if you put the saddle on Pony, I shall be ready in a minute.”
Jessie was indignant.
“You will not stir a foot this night. You will send some medicine, and then you can go in the morning.”
But the minister's wife heeded her not.
“You are not walking, Ranald?”
“No, I have the colt.”
“Oh, that's splendid. We'll have a fine gallop—that is, if the moon is up.”
“Yes, it is just coming up,” said Ranald, hurrying away to the stable that he might escape Jessie's wrath and get the pony ready.
It was no unusual thing for the minister and his wife to be called upon to do duty for doctor and nurse. The doctor was twenty miles away. So Mrs. Murray got into her riding-habit, threw her knitted hood over her head, put some simple medicines into her hand-bag, and in ten minutes was waiting for Ranald at the door.
The night was clear, with a touch of frost in the air, yet with the feeling in it of approaching spring. A dim light fell over the forest from the half-moon and the stars, and seemed to fill up the little clearing in which the manse stood, with a weird and mysterious radiance. Far away in the forest the long-drawn howl of a wolf rose and fell, and in a moment sharp and clear came an answer from the bush just at hand. Mrs. Murray dreaded the wolves, but she was no coward and scorned to show fear.
“The wolves are out, Ranald,” she said, carelessly, as Ranald came up with the pony.
“They are not many, I think,” answered the boy as carelessly; “but—are you—do you think—perhaps I could just take the medicine—and you will come—”
“Nonsense, Ranald! bring up the pony. Do you think I have lived all this time in Indian Lands to be afraid of a wolf?”
“Indeed, you are not afraid, I know that well!” Ranald shrank from laying the crime of being afraid at the door of the minister's wife, whose fearlessness was proverbial in the community; “but maybe—” The truth was, Ranald would rather be alone if the wolves came out.
But Mrs. Murray was in the saddle, and the pony was impatient to be off.
“We will go by the Camerons' clearing, and then take their wood track. It is a better road,” said Ranald, after they had got through the big gate.
“Now, Ranald, you think I am afraid of the swamp, and by the Camerons' is much longer.”
“Indeed, I hear them say that you are not afraid of the—of anything,” said Ranald, quickly, “but this road is better for the horses.”
“Come on, then, with your colt”; and the pony darted away on her quick-springing gallop, followed by the colt going with a long, easy, loping stride. For a mile they kept side by side till they reached the Camerons' lane, when Ranald held in the colt and allowed the pony to lead. As they passed through the Camerons' yard the big black dogs, famous bear-hunters, came baying at them. The pony regarded them with indifference, but the colt shied and plunged.
“Whoa, Liz!” Liz was Ranald's contraction for Lizette, the name of the French horse-trainer and breeder, Jules La Rocque, gave to her mother, who in her day was queen of the ice at L'Original Christmas races.
“Be quate, Nigger, will you!” The dogs, who knew Ranald well, ceased their clamor, but not before the kitchen door opened and Don Cameron came out.
Don was about a year older than Ranald and was his friend and comrade.
“It's me, Don—and Mrs. Murray there.”
Don gazed speechless.
“And what—” he began.
“Father is not well. He is hurted, and Mrs. Murray is going to see him, and we must go.”
Ranald hurried through his story, impatient to get on.
“But are you going up through the bush?” asked Don.
“Yes, what else, Don?” asked Mrs. Murray. “It is a good road, isn't it?”
“Oh, yes, I suppose it is good enough,” said Don, doubtfully, “but I heard—”
“We will come out at our own clearing at the back, you know,” Ranald hurried to say, giving Don a kick. “Whist, man! She is set upon going.” At that moment away off toward the swamp, which they were avoiding, the long, heart-chilling cry of a mother wolf quavered on the still night air. In spite of herself, Mrs. Murray shivered, and the boys looked at each other.
“There is only one,” said Ranald in a low voice to Don, but they both knew that where the she wolf is there is a pack not far off. “And we will be through the bush in five minutes.”
“Come, Ranald! Come away, you can talk to Don any time. Good night, Don.” And so saying she headed her pony toward the clearing and was off at a gallop, and Ranald, shaking his head at his friend, ejaculated:
“Man alive! what do you think of that?” and was off after the pony.
Together they entered the bush. The road was well beaten and the horses were keen to go, so that before many minutes were over they were half through the bush. Ranald's spirits rose and he began to take some interest in his companion's observations upon the beauty of the lights and shadows falling across their path.
“Look at that very dark shadow from the spruce there, Ranald,” she cried, pointing to a deep, black turn in the road. For answer there came from behind them the long, mournful hunting-cry of the wolf. He was on their track. Immediately it was answered by a chorus of howls from the bush on the swamp side, but still far away. There was no need of command; the pony sprang forward with a snort and the colt followed, and after a few minutes' running, passed her.
“Whow-oo-oo-oo-ow” rose the long cry of the pursuer, summoning help, and drawing nearer.
“Wow-ee-wow,” came the shorter, sharper answer from the swamp, but much nearer than before and more in front. They were trying to head off their prey.
Ranald tugged at his colt till he got him back with the pony.
“It is a good road,” he said, quietly; “you can let the pony go. I will follow you.” He swung in behind the pony, who was now running for dear life and snorting with terror at every jump.
“God preserve us!” said Ranald to himself. He had caught sight of a dark form as it darted through the gleam of light in front.
“What did you say, Ranald?” The voice was quiet and clear.
“It is a great pony to run whatever,” said Ranald, ashamed of himself.
“Is she not?”
Ranald glanced over his shoulder. Down the road, running with silent, awful swiftness, he saw the long, low body of the leading wolf flashing through the bars of moonlight across the road, and the pack following hard.
“Let her go, Mrs. Murray,” cried Ranald. “Whip her and never stop.” But there was no need; the pony was wild with fear, and was doing her best running.
Ranald meantime was gradually holding in the colt, and the pony drew away rapidly. But as rapidly the wolves were closing in behind him. They were not more than a hundred yards away, and gaining every second. Ranald, remembering the suspicious nature of the brutes, loosened his coat and dropped it on the road; with a chorus of yelps they paused, then threw themselves upon it, and in another minute took up the chase.
But now the clearing was in sight. The pony was far ahead, and Ranald shook out his colt with a yell. He was none too soon, for the pursuing pack, now uttering short, shrill yelps, were close at the colt's heels. Lizette, fleet as the wind, could not shake them off. Closer and ever closer they came, snapping and snarling. Ranald could see them over his shoulder. A hundred yards more and he would reach his own back lane. The leader of the pack seemed to feel that his chances were slipping swiftly away. With a spurt he gained upon Lizette, reached the saddle-girths, gathered himself in two short jumps, and sprang for the colt's throat. Instinctively Ranald stood up in his stirrups, and kicking his foot free, caught the wolf under the jaw. The brute fell with a howl under the colt's feet, and next moment they were in the lane and safe.
The savage brutes, discouraged by their leader's fall, slowed down their fierce pursuit, and hearing the deep bay of the Macdonalds' great deerhound, Bugle, up at the house, they paused, sniffed the air a few minutes, then turned and swiftly and silently slid into the dark shadows. Ranald, knowing that they would hardly dare enter the lane, checked the colt, and wheeling, watched them disappear.
“I'll have some of your hides some day,” he cried, shaking his fist after them. He hated to be made to run.
He had hardly set the colt's face homeward when he heard something tearing down the lane to meet him. The colt snorted, swerved, and then dropping his ears, stood still. It was Bugle, and after him came Mrs. Murray on the pony.
“Oh, Ranald!” she panted, “thank God you are safe. I was afraid you—you—” Her voice broke in sobs. Her hood had fallen back from her white face, and her eyes were shining like two stars. She laid her hand on Ranald's arm, and her voice grew steady as she said: “Thank God, my boy, and thank you with all my heart. You risked your life for mine. You are a brave fellow! I can never forget this!”
“Oh, pshaw!” said Ranald, awkwardly. “You are better stuff than I am. You came back with Bugle. And I knew Liz could beat the pony whatever.” Then they walked their horses quietly to the stable, and nothing more was said by either of them; but from that hour Ranald had a friend ready to offer life for him, though he did not know it then nor till years afterward.
Macdonald Dubh's farm lay about three miles north and west from the manse, and the house stood far back from the cross-road in a small clearing encircled by thick bush. It was a hard farm to clear, the timber was heavy, the land lay low, and Macdonald Dubh did not make as much progress as his neighbors in his conflict with the forest. Not but that he was a hard worker and a good man with the ax, but somehow he did not succeed as a farmer. It may have been that his heart was more in the forest than in the farm. He was a famous hunter, and in the deer season was never to be found at home, but was ever ranging the woods with his rifle and his great deerhound, Bugle.
He made money at the shanties, but money would not stick to his fingers, and by the time the summer was over most of his money would be gone, with the government mortgage on his farm still unlifted. His habits of life wrought a kind of wildness in him which set him apart from the thrifty, steady-going people among whom he lived. True, the shanty-men were his stanch friends and admirers, but then the shanty-men, though well-doing, could hardly be called steady, except the boss of the Macdonald gang, Macdonald Bhain, who was a regular attendant and stanch supporter of the church, and indeed had been spoken of for an elder. But from the church Macdonald Dubh held aloof. He belonged distinctly to the “careless,” though he could not be called irreligious. He had all the reverence for “the Word of God, and the Sabbath day, and the church” that characterized his people. All these held a high place in his esteem; and though he would not presume to “take the books,” not being a member of the church, yet on the Sabbath day when he was at home it was the custom of the household to gather for the reading of the Word before breakfast. He would never take his rifle with him through the woods on the Sabbath, and even when absent from home on a hunting expedition, when the Sabbath day came round, he religiously kept camp. It is true, he did not often go to church, and when the minister spoke to him about this, he always agreed that it was a good thing to go to church. When he had no better excuse, he would apologize for his absence upon the ground “that he had not the clothes.” The greater part of the trouble was that he was shy and proud, and felt himself to be different from the church-going people of the community, and shrank from the surprised looks of members, and even from the words of approving welcome that often greeted his presence in church.
It was not according to his desire that Ranald was sent to the manse. That was the doing of his sister, Kirsty, who for the last ten years had kept house for him. Not that there was much housekeeping skill about Kirsty, as indeed any one might see even without entering Macdonald Dubh's house. Kirsty was big and strong and willing, but she had not the most elemental ideas of tidiness. Her red, bushy hair hung in wisps about her face, after the greater part of it had been gathered into a tight knob at the back of her head. She was a martyr to the “neuralagy,” and suffered from a perennial cold in the head, which made it necessary for her to wear a cloud, which was only removed when it could be replaced by her nightcap. Her face always bore the marks of her labors, and from it one could gather whether she was among the pots or busy with the baking. But she was kindhearted, and, up to her light, sought to fill the place left empty by the death of the wife and mother in that home, ten years before.
When the minister's wife opened the door, a hot, close, foul smell rushed forth to meet her. Upon the kitchen stove a large pot of pig's food was boiling, and the steam and smell from the pot made the atmosphere of the room overpoweringly fetid. Off the kitchen or living-room were two small bedrooms, in one of which lay Macdonald Dubh.
Kirsty met the minister's wife with a warm welcome. She helped her off with her hood and coat, patting her on the shoulder the while, and murmuring words of endearment.
“Ah, M'eudail! M'eudail bheg! and did you come through the night all the way, and it is ashamed that I am to have sent for you, but he was very bad and I was afraid. Come away! come away! I will make you a cup of tea.” But the minister's wife assured Kirsty that she was glad to come, and declining the cup of tea, went to the room where Macdonald Dubh lay tossing and moaning with the delirium of fever upon him. It was not long before she knew what was required.
With hot fomentations she proceeded to allay the pain, and in half an hour Macdonald Dubh grew quiet. His tossings and mutterings ceased and he fell into a sleep.
Kirsty stood by admiring.
“Mercy me! Look at that now; and it is yourself that is the great doctor!”
“Now, Kirsty,” said Mrs. Murray, in a very matter-of-fact tone, “we will just make him a little more comfortable.”
“Yes,” said Kirsty, not quite sure how the feat was to be achieved. “A little hot something for his inside will be good, but indeed, many's the drink I have given him,” she suggested.
“What have you been giving him, Kirsty?”
“Senny and dandylion, and a little whisky. They will be telling me it is ferry good whatever for the stomach and bow'ls.”
“I don't think I would give him any more of that; but we will try and make him feel a little more comfortable.”
Mrs. Murray knew she was treading on delicate ground. The Highland pride is quick to take offense.
“Sick people, you see,” she proceeded carefully, “need very frequent changes—sheets and clothing, you understand.”
“Aye,” said Kirsty, suspiciously.
“I am sure you have plenty of beautiful sheets, and we will change these when he wakes from his sleep.”
“Indeed, they are very clean, for there is no one but myself has slept in them since he went away last fall to the shanties.”
Mrs. Murray felt the delicacy of the position to be sensibly increased.
“Indeed, that is right, Kirsty; one can never tell just what sort of people are traveling about nowadays.”
“Indeed, and it's true,” said Kirsty, heartily, “but I never let them in here. I just keep them to the bunk.”
“But,” pursued Mrs. Murray, returning to the subject in hand, “it is very important that for sick people the sheets should be thoroughly aired and warmed. Why, in the hospital in Montreal they take the very greatest care to air and change the sheets every day. You see so much poison comes through the pores of the skin.”
“Do you hear that now?” said Kirsty, amazed. “Indeed, I would be often hearing that those French people are just full of poison and such, and indeed, it is no wonder, for the food they put inside of them.”
“O, no, “ said Mrs. Murray, “it is the same with all people, but especially so with sick people.”
Kirsty looked as doubtful as was consistent with her respect for the minister's wife, and Mrs. Murray went on.
“So you will just get the sheets ready to change, and, Kirsty, a clean night-shirt.”
“Night-shirt! and indeed, he has not such a thing to his name.” Kirsty's tone betrayed her thankfulness that her brother was free from the effeminacy of a night-shirt; but noting the dismay and confusion on Mrs. Murray's face, she suggested, hesitatingly, “He might have one of my own, but I am thinking it will be small for him across the back.”
“I am afraid so, Kirsty,” said the minister's wife, struggling hard with a smile. “We will just use one of his own white shirts.” But this scandalized Kirsty as an unnecessary and wasteful luxury.
“Indeed, there is plenty of them in the chist, but he will be keeping them for the communion season, and the funerals, and such. He will not be wearing them in his bed, for no one will be seeing him there at all.”
“But he will feel so much better,” said Mrs. Murray, and her smile was so sweet and winning that Kirsty's opposition collapsed, and without more words both sheets and shirt were produced.
As Kirsty laid them out she observed with a sigh: “Aye, aye, she was the clever woman—the wife, I mean. She was good with the needle, and indeed, at anything she tried to do.”
“I did not know her,” said Mrs. Murray, softly, “but every one tells me she was a good housekeeper and a good woman.”
“She was that,” said Kirsty, emphatically, “and she was the light of his eyes, and it was a bad day for Hugh when she went away.”
“Now, Kirsty,” said Mrs. Murray, after a pause, “before we put on these clean things, we will just give him a sponge bath.”
Kirsty gasped.
“Mercy sakes! He will not be needing that in the winter, and he will be getting a cold from it. In the summer-time he will be going to the river himself. And how will you be giving him a bath whatever?”
Mrs. Murray carefully explained the process, again fortifying her position by referring to the practices of the Montreal hospital, till, as a result of her persuasions and instructions, in an hour after Macdonald had awakened from his sleep he was lying in his Sabbath white shirt and between fresh sheets, and feeling cleaner and more comfortable than he had for many a day. The fever was much reduced, and he fell again into a deep sleep.
The two women watched beside him, for neither would leave the other to watch alone. And Ranald, who could not be persuaded to go up to his loft, lay on the bunk in the kitchen and dozed. After an hour had passed, Mrs. Murray inquired as to the nourishment Kirsty had given her brother.
“Indeed, he will not be taking anything whatever,” said Kirsty, in a vexed tone. “And it is no matter what I will be giving him.”
“And what does he like, Kirsty?”
“Indeed, he will be taking anything when he is not seek, and he is that fond of buckwheat pancakes and pork gravy with maple syrup over them, but would he look at it! And I made him new porridge to-night, but he would not touch them.”
“Did you try him with gruel, Kirsty?”
“Mercy me, and is it Macdonald Dubh and gruel? He would be flinging the 'feushionless' stuff out of the window.”
“But I am sure it would be good for him if he could be persuaded to try it. I should like to try him.”
“Indeed, and you may try. It will be easy enough, for the porridge are still in the pot.”
Kirsty took the pot from the bench, with the remains of the porridge that had been made for supper still in it, set it on the fire, and pouring some water in it, began to stir it vigorously. It was thick and slimy, and altogether a most repulsive-looking mixture, and Mrs. Murray no longer wondered at Macdonald Dubh's distaste for gruel.
“I think I will make some fresh, if you will let me, Kirsty—in the way I make it for the minister, you know.”
Kirsty, by this time, had completely surrendered to Mrs. Murray's guidance, and producing the oatmeal, allowed her to have her way; so that when Macdonald awoke he found Mrs. Murray standing beside him with a bowl of the nicest gruel and a slice of thin dry toast.
He greeted the minister's wife with grave courtesy, drank the gruel, and then lay down again to sleep.
“Will you look at that now?” said Kirsty, amazed at Macdonald Dubh's forbearance. “He would not like to be offending you.”
Then Mrs. Murray besought Kirsty to go and lie down for an hour, which Kirsty very unwillingly agreed to do.
It was not long before Macdonald began to toss and mutter in his sleep, breaking forth now and then into wild cries and curses. He was fighting once more his great fight in the Glengarry line, and beating back LeNoir.
“Back, ye devil! Would ye? Take that, then. Come back, Mack!” Then followed a cry so wild that Ranald awoke and came into the room.
“Bring in some snow, Ranald,” said the minister's wife; “we will lay some on his head.”
She bathed the hot face and hands with ice-cold water, and then laid a snow compress on the sick man's head, speaking to him in quiet, gentle tones, till he was soothed again to sleep.
When the gray light of the morning came in through the little window, Macdonald woke sane and quiet.
“You are better,” said Mrs. Murray to him.
“Yes,” he said, “I am very well, thank you, except for the pain here.” He pointed to his chest.
“You have been badly hurt, Ranald tells me. How did it happen?”
“Well,” said Macdonald, slowly, “it is very hard to say.”
“Did the tree fall on you?” asked Mrs. Murray.
Macdonald glanced at her quickly, and then answered: “It is very dangerous work with the trees. It is wonderful how quick they will fall.”
“Your face and breast seem very badly bruised and cut.”
“Aye, yes,” said Macdonald. “The breast is bad whatever.”
“I think you had better send for Doctor Grant,” Mrs. Murray said. “There may be some internal injury.”
“No, no,” said Macdonald, decidedly. “I will have no doctor at me, and I will soon be round again, if the Lord will. When will the minister be home?”
But Mrs. Murray, ignoring his attempt to escape the subject, went on: “Yes, but, Mr. Macdonald, I am anxious to have Doctor Grant see you, and I wish you would send for him to-morrow.”
“Ah, well,” said Macdonald, not committing himself, “we will be seeing about that. But the doctor has not been in this house for many a day.” Then, after a pause, he added, in a low voice, “Not since the day she was taken from me.”
“Was she ill long?”
“Indeed, no. It was just one night. There was no doctor, and the women could not help her, and she was very bad—and when it came it was a girl—and it was dead—and then the doctor arrived, but he was too late.” Macdonald Dubh finished with a great sigh, and the minister's wife said gently to him:
“That was a very sad day, and a great loss to you and Ranald.”
“Aye, you may say it; she was a bonnie woman whatever, and grand at the spinning and the butter. And, oich-hone, it was a sad day for us.”
The minister's wife sat silent, knowing that such grief cannot be comforted, and pitying from her heart the lonely man. After a time she said gently, “She is better off.”
A look of doubt and pain and fear came into Macdonald's eyes.
“She never came forward,” he said, hesitatingly. “She was afraid to come.”
“I have heard of her often, Mr. Macdonald, and I have heard that she was a good and gentle woman.”
“Aye, she was that.”
“And kind to the sick.”
“You may believe it.”
“And she loved the house of God.”
“Aye, and neither rain nor snow nor mud would be keeping her from it, but she would be going every Sabbath day, bringing her stockings with her.”
“Her stockings?”
“Aye, to change her feet in the church. What else? Her stockings would be wet with the snow and water.”
Mrs. Murray nodded. “And she loved her Saviour, Mr. Macdonald.”
“Indeed, I believe it well, but she was afraid she would not be having 'the marks.'”
“Never you fear, Mr. Macdonald,” said Mrs. Murray. “If she loved her Saviour she is with him now.”
He turned around to her and lifted himself eagerly on his elbow. “And do you really think that?” he said, in a voice subdued and anxious.
“Indeed I do,” said Mrs. Murray, in a tone of certain conviction.
Macdonald sank back on his pillow, and after a moment's silence, said, in a voice of pain: “Oh, but it is a peety she did not know! It is a peety she did not know. For many's the time before—before—her hour came on her, she would be afraid.”
“But she was not afraid at the last, Mr. Macdonald?”
“Indeed, no. I wondered at her. She was like a babe in its mother's arms. There was a light on her face, and I mind well what she said.” Macdonald paused. There was a stir in the kitchen, and Mrs. Murray, glancing behind her, saw Ranald standing near the door intently listening. Then Macdonald went on. “I mind well the words, as if it was yesterday. 'Hugh, my man,' she said, 'am no feared' (she was from the Lowlands, but she was a fine woman); 'I haena the marks, but 'm no feared but He'll ken me. Ye'll tak' care o' Ranald, for, oh, Hugh! I ha' gi'en him to the Lord. The Lord help you to mak' a guid man o' him.'” Macdonald's voice faltered into silence, then, after a few moments, he cried, “And oh! Mistress Murra', I cannot tell you the often these words do keep coming to me; and it is myself that has not kept the promise I made to her, and may the Lord forgive me.”
The look of misery in the dark eyes touched Mrs. Murray to the heart. She laid her hand on Macdonald's arm, but she could not find words to speak. Suddenly Macdonald recalled himself.
“You will forgive me,” he said; “and you will not be telling any one.”
By this time the tears were streaming down her face, and Mrs. Murray could only say, brokenly, “You know I will not.”
“Aye, I do,” said Macdonald, with a sigh of content, and he turned his face away from her to the wall.
“And now you let me read to you,” she said, softly, and taking from her bag the Gaelic Bible, which with much toil she had learned to read since coming to this Highland congregation, she read to him from the old Psalm those words, brave, tender, and beautiful, that have so often comforted the weary and wandering children of men, “The Lord is my Shepherd,” and so on to the end. Then from psalm to psalm she passed, selecting such parts as suited her purpose, until Macdonald turned to her again and said, admiringly:
“It is yourself that has the bonnie Gaelic.”
“I am afraid,” she said, with a smile, “it is not really good, but it is the best a south country woman can do.”
“Indeed, it is very pretty,” he said, earnestly.
Then the minister's wife said, timidly, “I cannot pray in the Gaelic.”
“Oh, the English will be very good,” said Macdonald, and she knelt down and in simple words poured out her heart in prayer. Before she rose from her knees she opened the Gaelic Bible, and turned to the words of the Lord's Prayer.
“We will say this prayer together,” she said, gently.
Macdonald, bowing his head gravely, answered: “It is what she would often be doing with me.”
There was still only one woman to this lonely hearted man, and with a sudden rush of pity that showed itself in her breaking voice, the minister's wife began in Gaelic, “Our Father which art in heaven.”
Macdonald followed her in a whisper through the petitions until they came to the words, “And forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors,” when he paused and would say no more. Mrs. Murray repeated the words of the petition, but still there was no response. Then the minister's wife knew that she had her finger upon a sore spot, and she finished the prayer alone.
For a time she sat silent, unwilling to probe the wound, and yet too brave to flinch from what she felt to be duty.
“We have much to be forgiven,” she said, gently. “More than we can ever forgive.” Still there was silence.
“And the heart that cannot forgive an injury is closed to the forgiveness of God.”
The morning sun was gleaming through the treetops, and Mrs. Murray was worn with her night's vigil, and anxious to get home. She rose, and offering Macdonald her hand, smiled down into his face, and said: “Good by! We must try to forgive.”
As he took her hand, Macdonald's dark face began to work, and he broke forth into a bitter cry.
“He took me unawares! And it was a coward's blow! and I will not forgive him until I have given him what he deserves, if the Lord spares me!” And then he poured forth, in hot and bitter words, the story of the great fight. By the time he had finished his tale Ranald had come in from the kitchen, and was standing with clenched fists and face pale with passion at the foot of the bed.
As Mrs. Murray listened to this story her eyes began to burn, and when it was over, she burst forth: “Oh, it was a cruel and cowardly and brutal thing for men to do! And did you beat them off?” she asked.
“Aye, and that we did,” burst in Ranald. And in breathless haste and with flashing eye he told them of Macdonald Bhain's part in the fight.
“Splendid!” cried the minister's wife, forgetting herself for the moment.
“But he let him go,” said Ranald, sadly. “He would not strike him, but just let him go.”
Then the minister's wife cried again: “Ah, he is a great man, your uncle! And a great Christian. Greater than I could have been, for I would have slain him then and there.” Her eyes flashed, and the color flamed in her face as she uttered these words.
“Aye,” said Macdonald Dubh, regarding her with deep satisfaction. His tone and look recalled the minister's wife, and turning to Ranald, she added, sadly:
“But your uncle was right, Ranald, and we must forgive even as he did.”
“That,” cried Ranald, with fierce emphasis, “I will never do, until once I will be having my hands on his throat.”
“Hush, Ranald!” said the minister's wife. “I know it is hard, but we must forgive. You see we MUST forgive. And we must ask Him to help us, who has more to forgive than any other.”
But she said no more to Macdonald Dubh on that subject that morning. The fire of the battle was in her heart, and she felt she could more easily sympathize with his desire for vengeance than with the Christian grace of forgiveness. But as they rode home together through the bush, where death had trailed them so closely the night before, the sweet sunlight and the crisp, fresh air, and all the still beauty of the morning, working with the memory of their saving, rebuked and soothed and comforted her, and when Ranald turned back from the manse door, she said softly: “Our Father in heaven was very good to us, Ranald, and we should be like him. He forgives and loves, and we should, too.”
And Ranald, looking into the sweet face, pale with the long night's trials, but tinged now with the faintest touch of color from the morning, felt somehow that it might be possible to forgive.
But many days had to come and go, and many waters flow over the souls of Macdonald Dubh and his son Ranald, before they were able to say, “Forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors.”