“For, as the heaven in its heightThe earth surmounteth far,So great to those that do him fear,His tender mercies are.”
When they reached that verse, the mother took up the song and went bravely on through the words of the following verse:
“As far as east is distant fromThe west, so far hath heFrom us removed, in his love,All our iniquity.”
As she sang the last words her hand stole over to Bella, who sat beside her quiet but tearless, looking far away. But when the next words rose on the dear old minor strains,
“Such pity as a father hathUnto his children dear,”
Bella's lip began to tremble, and two big tears ran down her pale cheeks, and one could see that the sore pain in her heart had been a little eased.
After Donald Ross had finished his part of the “exercises,” he called upon Kenny Crubach, who read briefly, and without comment, the exquisite Scottish paraphrase of Luther's “little gospel”:
“Behold the amazing gift of loveThe Father hath bestowedOn us, the sinful sons of men,To call us sons of God—”
and so on to the end.
All this time Peter McRae, the man of iron, had been sitting with hardening face, his eyes burning in his head like glowing coals; and when Donald Ross called upon him for “some words of exhortation and comfort suitable to the occasion,” without haste and without hesitation the old man rose, and trembling with excitement and emotion, he began abruptly: “An evil spirit has been whispering to me, as to the prophet of old, 'Speak that which is good,' but the Lord hath delivered me from mine enemy, and my answer is, 'As the Lord liveth, what the Lord said unto me, that will I speak'; and it is not easy.”
As the old man paused, a visible terror fell upon all the company assembled. The poor mother sat looking at him with the look of one shrinking from a blow, while Bella Peter's face expressed only startled fear.
“And this is the word of the Lord this night to me,” the elder went on, his voice losing its tremor and ringing out strong and clear: “'There is none righteous, no, not one, for all have sinned and come short of the glory of God. He that believeth shall be saved, and he that believeth not shall be damned.' That is my message, and it is laid upon me as a sore burden to hear the voice of the Lord in this solemn Providence, and to warn one and all to flee from the wrath to come.”
He paused long, while men could hear their hearts beat. Then, raising his voice, he cried aloud: “Woe is me! Alas! it is a grievous burden. The Lord pity us all, and give grace to this stricken family to kiss the rod that smites.”
At this word the old man's voice suddenly broke, and he sat down amid an awful silence. No one could misunderstand his meaning. As the awful horror of it gradually made its way into her mind, Mrs. Cameron threw up her apron over her head and rocked in an agony of sobs, while Long John sat with face white and rigid. Bella Peter, who had been gazing with a fascinated stare upon the old elder's face while he was speaking his terrible words, startled by Mrs. Cameron's sobs, suddenly looked wildly about as if for help, and then, with a wild cry, fled toward the door. But before she had reached it a strong hand caught her and a great voice, deep and tender, commanded her: “Wait, lassie, sit down here a meenute.” It was Macdonald Bhain. He stood a short space silent before the people, then, in a voice low, deep, and thrilling, he began: “You have been hearing the word of the Lord through the lips of his servant, and I am not saying but it is the true word; but I believe that the Lord will be speaking by different voices, and although I hev not the gift, yet it is laid upon me to declare what is in my heart, and a sore heart it is, and sore hearts hev we all. But I will be thinking of a fery joyful thing, and that is that 'He came to call, not the righteous, but sinners,' and that in His day many sinners came about Him and not one would He turn away. And I will be remembering a fery great sinner who cried out in his dying hour, 'Lord, remember me,' and not in vain. And I'm thinking that the Lord will be making it easy for men to be saved, and not hard, for He was that anxious about it that He gave up His own life. But it is not given me to argue, only to tell you what I know about the lad who is lying yonder silent. It will be three years since he will be coming on the shanties with me, and from the day that he left his mother's door, till he came back again, never once did he fail me in his duty in the camp, or on the river, or in the town, where it was fery easy to be forgetting. And the boys would be telling me of the times that he would be keeping them out of those places. And it is not soon that Dannie Ross will be forgetting who it was that took him back from the camp when the disease was upon him and all were afraid to go near him, and for seex weeks, by day and by night, watched by him and was not thinking of himself at all. And sure am I that the lessons he would be hearing from his mother and in the Bible class and in the church were not lost on him whatever. For on the river, when the water was quiet and I would be lying in the tent reading, it is often that Mack Cameron would come in and listen to the Word. Aye, he was a good lad”—the great voice shook a little—“he would not be thinking of himself, and at the last, it was for another man he gave his life.”
Macdonald stood for a few moments silent, his face working while he struggled with himself. And then all at once he grew calm, and throwing back his head, he looked through the door, and pointing into the darkness, said: “And yonder is the lad, and with him a great company, and his face is smiling, and, oh! it is a good land, a good land!” His voice dropped to a whisper, and he sank into his seat.
“God preserve us!” Kenny Crubach ejaculated; but old Donald Ross rose and said, “Let us call upon the name of the Lord.” From his prayer it was quite evident that for him at least all doubts and fears as to poor Mack's state were removed. And even Peter McRae, subdued not so much by any argument of Macdonald Bhain's as by his rapt vision, followed old Donald's prayer with broken words of hope and thanksgiving; and it was Peter who was early at the manse next morning to repeat to the minister the things he had seen and heard the night before. And all next day, where there had been the horror of unnamable fear, hope and peace prevailed.
The service was held under the trees, and while the mother and Bella Peter sat softly weeping, there was no bitterness in their tears, for the sermon breathed of the immortal hope, and the hearts of all were comforted. There was no parade of grief, but after the sermon was over the people filed quietly through the room to take the last look, and then the family, with Bella and her father, were left alone a few moments with their dead, while the Macdonald men kept guard at the door till the time for “the lifting” would come.
After Long John passed out, followed by the family, Macdonald Bhain entered the room, closed the lid down upon the dead face, and gave the command to bear him forth.
So, with solemn dignity, as befitted them, they carried Big Mack from his home to Farquhar McNaughton's light wagon. Along the concession road, past the new church, through the swamp, and on to the old churchyard the long procession slowly moved. There was no unseemly haste, and by the time the last words were spoken, and the mound decently rounded, the long shadows from the woods lay far across the fields. Quietly the people went their ways homeward, back to their life and work, but for many days they carried with them the memory of those funeral scenes. And Ranald, though he came back from Big Mack's grave troubled with questions that refused to be answered, still carried with him a heart healed of the pain that had torn it these last days. He believed it was well with his friend, but about many things he was sorely perplexed, and it was this that brought him again to the minister's wife.
The day after Big Mack's funeral, Ranald was busy polishing Lizette's glossy skin, before the stable door. This was his favorite remedy for gloomy thoughts, and Ranald was full of gloomy thoughts to-day. His father, though going about the house, was still weak, and worse than all, was fretting in his weakness. He was oppressed with the terrible fear that he would never again be able to do a man's work, and Ranald knew from the dark look in his father's face that day and night the desire for vengeance was gnawing at his heart, and Ranald also knew something of the bitterness of this desire from the fierce longing that lay deep in his own. Some day, when his fingers would be feeling for LeNoir's throat, he would drink long and fully that sweet draught of vengeance. He knew, too, that it added to the bitterness in his father's heart to know that, in the spring's work that every warm day was bringing nearer, he could take no part; and that was partly the cause of Ranald's gloom. With the slow-moving oxen, he could hardly hope to get the seed in in time, and they needed the crop this year if ever they did, for last year's interest on the mortgage was still unpaid and the next installment was nearly due.
As he was putting the finishing touches upon Lisette's satin skin, Yankee drove up to the yard with his Fox horse and buckboard. His box was strapped on behind, and his blankets, rolled up in a bundle, filled the seat beside him.
“Mornin',” he called to Ranald. “Purty fine shine, that, and purty fine mare, all round,” he continued, walking about Lisette and noting admiringly her beautiful proportions.
“Purty fine beast,” he said, in a low tone, running his hands down her legs. “Guess you wouldn't care to part with that mare?”
“No,” said Ranald, shortly; but as he spoke his heart sank within him.
“Ought to fetch a fairly good figure,” continued Yankee, meditatively. “Le's see. She's from La Roque's Lisette, ain't she? Ought to have some speed.” He untied Lisette's halter. “Take her down in the yard yonder,” he said to Ranald.
Ranald threw the halter over Lisette's neck, sprang on her back, and sent her down the lane at a good smart pace. At the bottom of the lane he wheeled her, and riding low upon her neck, came back to the barn like a whirlwind.
“By jings!” exclaimed Yankee, surprised out of his lazy drawl; “she's got it, you bet your last brick. See here, boy, there's money into that animal. Thought I would like to have her for my buckboard, but I have got an onfortunit conscience that won't let me do up any partner, so I guess I can't make any offer.”
Ranald stood beside Lisette, his arm thrown over her beautiful neck, and his hand fondling her gently about the ears. “I will not sell her.” His voice was low and fierce, and all the more so because he knew that was just what he would do, and his heart was sick with the pain of the thought.
“I say,” said Yankee, suddenly, “cudn't bunk me in your loft, cud you! Can't stand the town. Too close.”
The confining limitations of the Twentieth, that metropolitan center of some dozen buildings, including the sawmill and blacksmith shop, were too trying for Yankee's nervous system.
“Yes, indeed,” said Ranald, heartily. “We will be very glad to have you, and it will be the very best thing for father.”
“S'pose old Fox cud nibble round the brule,” continued Yankee, nodding his head toward his sorrel horse. “Don't think I will do much drivin' machine business. Rather slow.” Yankee spent the summer months selling sewing-machines and new patent churns.
“There's plenty of pasture,” said Ranald, “and Fox will soon make friends with Lisette. She is very kind, whatever.”
“Ain't ever hitched her, have you?” said Yankee.
“No.”
“Well, might hitch her up some day. Guess you wudn't hurt the buckboard.”
“Not likely,” said Ranald, looking at the old, ramshackle affair.
“Used to drive some myself,” said Yankee. But to this idea Ranald did not take kindly.
Yankee stood for a few moments looking down the lane and over the fields, and then, turning to Ranald, said, “Guess it's about ready to begin plowin'. Got quite a lot of it to do, too, ain't you?”
“Yes,” said Ranald, “I was thinking I would be beginning to-morrow.”
“Purty slow business with the oxen. How would it do to hitch up Lisette and old Fox yonder?”
Then Ranald understood the purpose of Yankee's visit.
“I would be very glad,” said Ranald, a great load lifting from his heart. “I was afraid of the work with only the oxen.” And then, after a pause, he added, “What did you mean about buying Lisette?” He was anxious to have that point settled.
“I said what I meant,” answered Yankee. “I thought perhaps you would rather have the money than the colt; but I tell you what, I hain't got money enough to put into that bird, and don't you talk selling to any one till we see her gait hitched up. But I guess a little of the plow won't hurt for a few weeks or so.”
Next day Lisette left behind her forever the free, happy days of colthood. At first Ranald was unwilling to trust her to any other hands than his own, but when he saw how skillfully and gently Yankee handled her, soothing her while he harnessed and hitched her up, he recognized that she was safer with Yankee than with himself, and allowed him to have the reins.
They spent the morning driving up and down the lane with Lisette and Fox hitched to the stone-boat. The colt had been kindly treated from her earliest days, and consequently knew nothing of fear. She stepped daintily beside old Fox, fretting and chafing in the harness, but without thought of any violent objection. In the afternoon the colt was put through her morning experience, with the variation that the stone-boat was piled up with a fairly heavy load of earth and stone. And about noon the day following, Lisette was turning her furrow with all the steadiness of a horse twice her age.
Before two weeks were over, Yankee, with the horses, and Ranald, with the oxen, had finished the plowing, and in another ten days the fields lay smooth and black, with the seed harrowed safely in, waiting for the rain.
Yankee's visit had been a godsend, not only to Ranald with his work, but also to Macdonald Dubh. He would talk to the grim, silent man by the hour, after the day's work was done, far into the night, till at length he managed to draw from him the secret of his misery.
“I will never be a man again,” he said, bitterly, to Yankee. “And there is the farm all to pay for. I have put it off too long and now it is too late, and it is all because of that—that—brute beast of a Frenchman.”
“Mean cuss!” ejaculated Yankee.
“And I am saying,” continued Macdonald Dubh, opening his heart still further, “I am saying, it was no fair fight, whatever. I could whip him with one hand. It was when I was pulling out Big Mack, poor fellow, from under the heap, that he took me unawares.”
“That's so,” assented Yankee. “Blamed lowdown trick.”
“And, oh, I will be praying God to give me strength just to meet him! I will ask no more. But,” he added, in bitter despair, “there is no use for me to pray. Strength will come to me no more.”
“Well,” said Yankee, brightly, “needn't worry about that varmint. He ain't worth it, anyhow.”
“Aye, he is not worth it, indeed, and that is the man who has brought me to this.” That was the bitter part to Macdonald Dubh. A man he despised had beaten him.
“Now look here,” said Yankee, “course I ain't much good at this, but if you will just quit worryin', I'll undertake to settle this little account with Mr. LeNware.”
“And what good would that be to me?” said Macdonald Dubh. “It is myself that wants to meet him.” It was not so much the destruction of LeNoir that he desired as that he should have the destroying of him. While he cherished this feeling in his heart, it was not strange that the minister in his visits found Black Hugh unapproachable, and concluded that he was in a state of settled “hardness of heart.” His wife knew better, but even she dared not approach Macdonald Dubh on that subject, which had not been mentioned between them since the morning he had opened his heart to her. The dark, haggard, gloomy face haunted her. She longed to help him to peace. It was this that sent her to his brother, Macdonald Bhain, to whom she told as much of the story as she thought wise.
“I am afraid he will never come to peace with God until he comes to peace with this man,” she said, sadly, “and it is a bitter load that he is carrying with him.”
“I will talk with him,” answered Macdonald Bhain, and at the end of the week he took his way across to his brother's home.
He found him down in the brule, where he spent most of his days toiling hard with his ax, in spite of the earnest entreaties of Ranald. He was butting a big tree that the fire had laid prone, but the ax was falling with the stroke of a weak man.
As he finished his cut, his brother called to him, “That is no work for you, Hugh; that is no work for a man who has been for six weeks in his bed.”
“It is work that must be done, however,” Black Hugh answered, bitterly.
“Give me the ax,” said Macdonald Bhain. He mounted the tree as his brother stepped down, and swung his ax deep into the wood with a mighty blow. Then he remembered, and stopped. He would not add to his brother's bitterness by an exhibition of his mighty, unshaken strength. He stuck the ax into the log, and standing up, looked over the brule. “It is a fine bit of ground, Hugh, and will raise a good crop of potatoes.”
“Aye,” said Macdonald Dubh, sadly. “It has lain like this for three years, and ought to have been cleared long ago, if I had been doing my duty.”
“Indeed, it will burn all the better for that,” said his brother, cheerfully. “And as for the potatoes, there is a bit of my clearing that Ranald might as well use.”
But Black Hugh shook his head. “Ranald will use no man's clearing but his own,” he said. “I am afraid he has got too much of his father in him for his own good.”
Macdonald Bhain glanced at his brother's face with a look of mingled pity and admiration. “Ah,” he said, “Hugh, it's a proud man you are. Macdonalds have plenty of that, whatever, and we come by it good enough. Do you remember at home, when our father”—and he went off into a reminiscence of their boyhood days, talking in gentle, kindly, loving tones, till the shadow began to lift from his brother's face, and he, too, began to talk. They spoke of their father, who had always been to them a kind of hero; and of their mother, who had lived, and toiled, and suffered for her family with uncomplaining patience.
“She was a good woman,” said Macdonald Bhain, with a note of tenderness in his voice. “And it was the hard load she had to bear, and I would to God she were living now, that I might make up to her something of what she suffered for me.”
“And I am thankful to God,” said his brother, bitterly, “that she is not here to see me now, for it would but add to the heavy burden I often laid upon her.”
“You will not be saying that,” said Macdonald Bhain. “But I am saying that the Lord will be honored in you yet.”
“Indeed, there is not much for me,” said his brother, gloomily, “but the sick-bed and six feet or more of the damp earth.”
“Hugh, man,” said his brother, hastily, “you must not be talking like that. It is not the speech of a brave man. It is the speech of a man that is beaten in his fight.”
“Beaten!” echoed his brother, with a kind of cry. “You have said the word. Beaten it is, and by a man that is no equal of mine. You know that,” he said, appealing, almost anxiously, to his brother. “You know that well. You know that I am brought to this”—he held up his gaunt, bony hands—“by a man that is no equal of mine, and I will never be able to look him in the face and say as much to him. But if the Almighty would send him to hell, I would be following him there.”
“Whisht, Hugh,” said Macdonald Bhain, in a voice of awe. “It is a terrible word you have said, and may the Lord forgive you.”
“Forgive me!” echoed his brother, in a kind of frenzy. “Indeed, he will not be doing that. Did not the minister's wife tell me as much?”
“No, no,” said his brother. “She would not be saying that.”
“Indeed, that is her very word,” said Black Hugh.
“She could not say that,” said his brother, “for it is not the Word of God.”
“Indeed,” replied Black Hugh, like a man who had thought it all out, “she would be reading it out of the Book to me that unless I would be forgiving, that—that—” he paused, not being able to find a word, but went on—“then I need not hope to be forgiven my own self.”
“Yes, yes. That is true,” assented Macdonald Bhain. “But, by the grace of God, you will forgive, and you will be forgiven.”
“Forgive!” cried Black Hugh, his face convulsed with passion. “Hear me!”—he raised his hand to heaven.—“If I ever forgive—”
But his brother caught his arm and drew it down swiftly, saying: “Whisht, man. Don't tempt the Almighty.” Then he added, “You would not be shutting yourself out from the presence of the Lord and from the presence of those he has taken to himself?”
His brother stood silent a few moments, his hard, dark face swept with a storm of emotions. Then he said, brokenly: “It is not for me, I doubt.”
But his brother caught him by the arm and said to him, “Hear me, Hugh. It is for you.”
They walked on in silence till they were near the house. Ranald and Yankee were driving their teams into the yard.
“That is a fine lad,” said Macdonald Bhain, pointing to Ranald.
“Aye,” said his brother; “it is a pity he has not a better chance. He is great for his books, but he has no chance whatever, and he will be a bowed man before he has cleared this farm and paid the debt on it.”
“Never you fear,” said his brother. “Ranald will do well. But, man, what a size he is!”
“He is that,” said his father, proudly. “He is as big as his father, and I doubt some day he may be as good a man as his uncle.”
“God grant he may be a better!” said Macdonald Bhain, reverently.
“If he be as good,” said his brother, kindly, “I will be content; but I will not be here to see it.”
“Whisht, man,” said his brother, hastily. “You are not to speak such things, nor have them in your mind.”
“Ah,” said Macdonald Dubh, sadly, “my day is not far off, and that I know right well.”
Macdonald Bhain flung his arm hastily round his brother's shoulder. “Do not speak like that, Hugh,” he said, his voice breaking suddenly. And then he drew away his arm as if ashamed of his emotion, and said, with kindly dignity, “Please God, you will see many days yet, and see your boy come to honor among men.”
But Black Hugh only shook his head in silence.
Before they came to the door, Macdonald Bhain said, with seeming indifference, “You have not been to church since you got up, Hugh. You will be going to-morrow, if it is a fine day?”
“It is too long a walk, I doubt,” answered his brother.
“That it is, but Yankee will drive you in his buckboard,” said Macdonald Bhain.
“In the buckboard?” said Macdonald Dubh. “And, indeed, I was never in a buckboard in my life.”
“It is not too late to begin to-morrow,” said his brother, “and it will do you good.”
“I doubt that,” said Black Hugh, gloomily. “The church will not be doing me much good any more.”
“Do not say such a thing; and Yankee will drive you in his buckboard to-morrow.”
His brother did not promise, but next day the congregation received a shock of surprise to see Macdonald Dubh walk down the aisle to his place in the church. And through all the days of the spring and summer his place was never empty; and though the shadow never lifted from his face, the minister's wife felt comforted about him, and waited for the day of his deliverance.
Macdonald Bhain's visit to his brother was fruitful in another way. After taking counsel with Yankee and Kirsty, he resolved that he would speak to his neighbors and make a “bee,” to attack the brule. He knew better than to consult either his brother or his nephew, feeling sure that their Highland pride would forbid accepting any such favor, and all the more because it seemed to be needed. But without their leave the bee was arranged, and in the beginning of the following week the house of Macdonald Dubh was thrown into a state of unparalleled confusion, and Kirsty went about in a state of dishevelment that gave token that the daily struggle with dirt had reached the acute stage. From top to bottom, inside and outside, everything that could be scrubbed was scrubbed, and then she settled about her baking, but with all caution, lest she should excite her brother's or her nephew's suspicion. It was a good thing that little baking was required, for the teams that brought the men with their axes and logging-chains for the day's work at the brule brought also their sisters and mothers with baskets of provisions. A logging bee without the sisters and mothers with their baskets would hardly be an unmixed blessing.
The first man to arrive with his team was Peter McGregor's Angus, and with him came his sister Bella. He was shortly afterward followed by other teams in rapid succession—the Rosses, the McKerachers, the Camerons, both Don and Murdie, the Rory McCuaigs, the McRaes, two or three families of them, the Frasers, and others—till some fifteen teams and forty men, and boys, who thought themselves quite men, lined up in front of the brule.
The bee was a great affair, for Macdonald Bhain was held in high regard by the people; and besides this, the misfortune that had befallen his brother, and the circumstances under which it had overtaken him, had aroused in the community a very deep sympathy for him, and people were glad of the opportunity to manifest this sympathy. And more than all, a logging bee was an event that always promised more or less excitement and social festivity.
Yankee was “boss” for the day. This position would naturally have fallen to Macdonald Bhain, but at his brother's bee, Macdonald Bhain shrank from taking the leading place.
The men with the axes went first, chopping up the half-burned logs into lengths suitable for the burning-piles, clearing away the brushwood, and cutting through the big roots of the fire-eaten stumps so that they might more easily be pulled. Then followed the teams with their logging-chains, hauling the logs to the piles, jerking out and drawing off the stumps whose huge roots stuck up high into the air, and drawing great heaps of brush-wood to aid in reducing the heavy logs to ashes. At each log-pile stood a man with a hand-spike to help the driver to get the log into position, a work requiring strength and skill, and above all, a knowledge of the ways of logs which comes only by experience. It was at this work that Macdonald Bhain shone. With his mighty strength he could hold steady one end of a log until the team could haul the other into its place.
The stump-pulling was always attended with more or less interest and excitement. Stumps, as well as logs, have their ways, and it takes a long experience to understand the ways of stumps.
In stump-hauling, young Aleck McGregor was an expert. He rarely failed to detect the weak side of a stump. He knew his team, and what was of far greater importance, his team knew him. They were partly of French-Canadian stock, not as large as Farquhar McNaughton's big, fat blacks, but “as full of spirit as a bottle of whisky,” as Aleck himself would say. Their first tentative pulls at the stump were taken with caution, until their driver and themselves had taken the full measure of the strength of the enemy. But when once Aleck had made up his mind that victory was possible, and had given them the call for the final effort, then his team put their bodies and souls into the pull, and never drew back till something came. Their driver was accustomed to boast that never yet had they failed to honor his call.
Farquhar's handsome blacks, on the other hand, were never handled after this fashion. They were slow and sure and steady, like their driver. Their great weight gave them a mighty advantage in a pull, but never, in all the solemn course of their existence, had they thrown themselves into any doubtful trial of strength. In a slow, steady haul they were to be relied upon; but they never could be got to jerk, and a jerk is an important feature in stump-hauling tactics. To-day, however, a new experience was awaiting them. Farquhar was an old man and slow, and Yankee, while he was unwilling to hurry him, was equally unwilling that his team should not do a full day's work. He persuaded Farquhar that his presence was necessary at one of the piles, not with the hand-spike, but simply to superintend the arranging of the mass for burning. “For it ain't every man,” Yankee declared, “could build a pile to burn.” As for his team, Yankee persuaded the old man that Ranald was unequaled in handling horses; that last winter no driver in the camp was up to him. Reluctantly Farquhar handed his team over to Ranald, and stood for some time watching the result of the new combination.
Ranald was a born horseman. He loved horses and understood them. Slowly he moved the blacks at their work, knowing that horses are sensitive to a new hand and voice, and that he must adapt himself to their ways, if he would bring them at last to his. Before long Farquhar was contented to go off to his pile, satisfied that his team was in good hands, and not sorry to be relieved of the necessity of hurrying his pace through the long, hot day, as would have been necessary in order to keep up with the other drivers.
For each team a strip of the brule was marked out to clear after the axes. The logs, brush, and stumps had to be removed and dragged to the burning-piles. Aleck, with his active, invincible French-Canadians, Ranald with Farquhar's big, sleek blacks, and Don with his father's team, worked side by side. A contest was inevitable, and before an hour had passed Don and Aleck, while making a great show of deliberation, were striving for the first place, with Aleck easily leading. Like a piece of machinery, Aleck and his team worked together. Quickly and neatly both driver and horses moved about their work with perfect understanding of each other. With hardly a touch of the lines, but almost entirely by word of command, Aleck guided his team. And when he took up the whiffletrees to swing them around to a log or stump, his horses wheeled at once into place. It was beautiful to see them, wheeling, backing, hauling, pulling, without loss of time or temper.
With Don and his team it was all hard work. His horses were willing and quick enough, but they were ill-trained and needed constant tugging at the lines. In vain Don shouted and cracked his whip, hurrying his team to his pile and back again; the horses only grew more and more awkward, while they foamed and fretted and tired themselves out.
Behind came Ranald, still humoring his slow-going team with easy hand and quiet voice. But while he refrained from hurrying his horses, he himself worked hard, and by his good judgment and skill with the chain, and in skidding the logs into his pile, in which his training in the shanty had made him more than a match for any one in the field, many minutes were saved.
When the cowbell sounded for dinner, Aleck's team stepped off for the barn, wet, but fresh and frisky as ever, and in perfect heart. Don's horses appeared fretted and jaded, while Ranald brought in his blacks with their glossy skins white with foam where the harness had chafed, but unfretted, and apparently as ready for work as when they began.
“You have spoiled the shine of your team,” said Aleck, looking over Ranald's horses as he brought them up to the trough. “Better turn them out for the afternoon. They can't stand much more of that pace.”
Aleck was evidently trying to be good-natured, but he could not hide the sneer in his tone. They had neither of them forgotten the incident at the church door, and both felt that it would not be closed until more had been said about it. But to-day, Ranald was in the place of host, and it behooved him to be courteous, and Aleck was in good humor with himself, for his team had easily led the field; and besides, he was engaged in a kind and neighborly undertaking, and he was too much of a man to spoil it by any private grudge. He would have to wait for his settlement with Ranald.
During the hour and a half allowed for dinner, Ranald took his horses to the well, washed off their legs, removed their harness, and led them to a cool spot behind the barn, and there, while they munched their oats, he gave them a good hard rub-down, so that when he brought them into the field again, his team looked as glossy and felt as fresh as before they began the day's work.
As Ranald appeared on the field with his glossy blacks, Aleck glanced at the horses, and began to feel that, in the contest for first place, it was Ranald he had to fear, with his cool, steady team, rather than Don. Not that any suspicion crossed his mind that Farquhar McNaughton's sleek, slow-going horses could ever hold their own with his, but he made up his mind that Ranald, at least, was worth watching.
“Bring up your gentry,” he called to Ranald, “if you are not too fine for common folks. Man, that team of yours,” he continued, “should never be put to work like this. Their feet should never be off pavement.”
“Never you mind,” said Ranald, quietly. “I am coming after you, and perhaps before night the blacks may show you their heels yet.”
“There's lots of room,” said Aleck, scornfully, and they both set to work with all the skill and strength that lay in themselves and in their teams.
For the first hour or two Ranald was contented to follow, letting his team take their way, but saving every moment he could by his own efforts. So that, without fretting his horses in the least, or without moving them perceptibly out of their ordinary gait, he found himself a little nearer to Aleck than he had been at noon; but the heavy lifting and quick work began to tell upon him. His horses, he knew, would not stand very much hurrying. They were too fat for any extra exertion in such heat, and so Ranald was about to resign himself to defeat, when he observed that in the western sky clouds were coming up. At the same time a cool breeze began to blow, and he took fresh heart. If he could hurry his team a little more, he might catch Aleck yet; so he held his own a little longer, preserving the same steady pace, until the clouds from the west had covered all the sky. Then gradually he began to quicken his horses' movements and to put them on heavier loads. Wherever opportunity offered, instead of a single log, or at most two, he would take three or four for his load; and in ways known only to horsemen, he began to stir up the spirit of his team, and to make them feel something of his own excitement.
To such good purpose did he plan, and so nobly did his team respond to his quiet but persistent pressure, that, ere Aleck was aware, Ranald was up on his flank; and then they each knew that until the supper-bell rang he would have to use to the best advantage every moment of time and every ounce of strength in himself and his team if he was to win first place.
Somehow the report of the contest went over the field, till at length it reached the ears of Farquhar. At once the old man, seized with anxiety for his team, and moved by the fear of what Kirsty might say if the news ever reached her ears, set off across the brule to remonstrate with Ranald, and if necessary, rescue his team from peril.
But Don saw him coming, and knowing that every moment was precious, and dreading lest the old man would snatch from Ranald the victory which seemed to be at least possible for him, he arrested Farquhar with a call for assistance with a big log, and then engaged him in conversation upon the merits of his splendid team.
“And look,” cried he, admiringly, “how Ranald is handling them! Did you ever see the likes of that?”
The old man stood watching for a few moments, doubtfully enough, while Don continued pouring forth the praises of his horses, and the latter, as he noticed Farquhar's eyes glisten with pride, ventured to hint that before the day was done “he would make Aleck McRae and his team look sick. And without a hurt to the blacks, too,” he put in, diplomatically, “for Ranald is not the man to hurt a team.” And as Farquhar stood and watched Ranald at his work, and noted with surprise how briskly and cleverly the blacks swung into their places, and detected also with his experienced eye that Aleck was beginning to show signs of hurry, he entered into the spirit of the contest, and determined to allow his team to win victory for themselves and their driver if they could.
The ax men had finished their “stent.” It wanted still an hour of supper-time, and surely if slowly, Ranald was making toward first place. The other teams were left far behind with their work, and the whole field began to center attention upon the two that were now confessedly engaged in desperate conflict at the front. One by one the ax men drew toward the end of the field, where Ranald and Aleck were fighting out their fight, all pretense of deliberation on the part of the drivers having by this time been dropped. They no longer walked as they hitched their chains about the logs or stumps, but sprang with eager haste to their work. One by one the other teamsters abandoned their teams and moved across the field to join the crowd already gathered about the contestants. Among them came Macdonald Bhain, who had been working at the farthest corner of the brule. As soon as he arrived upon the scene, and understood what was going on, he cried to Ranald: “That will do now, Ranald; it will be time to quit.”
Ranald was about to stop, and indeed had checked his horses, when Aleck, whose blood was up, called out tauntingly, “Aye, it would be better for him and his horses to stop. They need it bad enough.”
This was too much for even Farquhar's sluggish blood. “Let them go, Ranald!” he cried. “Let them go, man! Never you fear for the horses, if you take down the spunk o' yon crowing cock.”
It was just what Ranald needed to spur him on—a taunt from his foe and leave from Farquhar to push his team.
Before each lay a fallen tree cut into lengths and two or three half-burned stumps. Ranald's tree was much the bigger. A single length would have been an ordinary load for the blacks, but their driver felt that their strength and spirit were both equal to much more than this. He determined to clear away the whole tree at a single load. As soon as he heard Farquhar's voice, he seized hold of the whiffletrees, struck his team a sharp blow with the lines—their first blow that day—swung them round to the top of the tree, ran the chain through its swivel, hooked an end round each of the top lengths, swung them in toward the butt, unhooked his chain, gathered all three lengths into a single load, faced his horses toward the pile, and shouted at them. The blacks, unused to this sort of treatment, were prancing with excitement, and when the word came they threw themselves into their collars with a fierceness that nothing could check, and amid the admiring shouts of the crowd, tore the logs through the black soil and landed them safely at the pile. It was the work of only a few minutes to unhitch the chain, haul the logs, one by one, into place, and dash back with his team at the gallop for the stumps, while Aleck had still another load of logs to draw.
Ranald's first stump came out with little trouble, and was borne at full speed to the pile. The second stump gave him more difficulty, and before it would yield he had to sever two or three of its thickest roots.
Together the teams swung round to their last stump. The excitement in the crowd was intense. Aleck's team was moving swiftly and with the steadiness of clockwork. The blacks were frantic with excitement and hard to control. Ranald's last stump was a pine of medium size, whose roots were partly burned away. It looked like an easy victim. Aleck's was an ugly-looking little elm.
Ranald thought he would try his first pull without the use of the ax. Quickly he backed up his team to the stump, passed the chain round a root on the far side, drew the big hook far up the chain, hitched it so as to give the shortest possible draught, threw the chain over the top of the stump to give it purchase, picked up his lines, and called to his team. With a rush the blacks went at it. The chain slipped up on the root, tightened, bit into the wood, and then the blacks flung back. Ranald swung them round the point and tried them again, but still the stump refused to budge.
All this time he could hear Aleck chopping furiously at his elm-roots, and he knew that unless he had his stump out before his rival had his chain hitched for the pull the victory was lost.
For a moment or two he hesitated, looking round for the ax.
“Try them again, Ranald,” cried Farquhar. “Haw them a bit.”
Once more Ranald picked up the lines, swung his horses round to the left, held them steady a moment or two, and then with a yell sent them at their pull. Magnificently the blacks responded, furiously tearing up the ground with their feet. A moment or two they hung straining on their chain, refusing to come back, when slowly the stump began to move.
“You have got it,” cried Farquhar. “Gee them a point or two.”
But already Ranald had seen that this was necessary, and once more backed his team to readjust the chain which had slipped off the top. As he fastened the hook he heard a sharp “Back!” behind him, and he knew that the next moment Aleck's team would be away with their load. With a yell he sprang at his lines, lashed the blacks over the back, and called to them once more. Again his team responded, and with a mighty heave, the stump came slowly out, carrying with it what looked like half a ton of earth. But even as it heaved, he heard Aleck's call and the answering crash, and before he could get his team a-going, the French-Canadians were off for their pile at a gallop, with the lines flying in the air behind them. A moment later he followed, the blacks hauling their stump at a run.
Together he and Aleck reached the pile. It only remained now to unhook the chain. In vain he tugged and hauled. The chain was buried deep beneath the stump and refused to move, and before he could swing his team about and turn the stump over, he heard Aleck's shout of victory.
But as he dropped his chain and was leisurely backing his horses, he heard old Farquhar cry, “Hurry, man! Hurry, for the life of you!”
Without waiting to inquire the reason, Ranald wheeled his team, gave the stump a half turn, released his chain, and drove off from the pile, to find Aleck still busy hooking his chain to his whiffletree.
Aleck had had the same difficulty in freeing his chain as Ranald, but instead of trying to detach it from the stump, he had unhooked the other end, and then, with a mighty backward jerk, had snatched it from the stump. But before he could attach it to his place on the whiffletree again, Ranald stood ready for work.
“A win, lad! A win!” cried old Farquhar, more excited than he had been for years.
“It is no win,” said Aleck, hotly.
“No, no, lads,” said Macdonald Bhain, before Farquhar could reply. “It is as even a match as could well be. It is fine teams you both have got, and you have handled them well.”
But all the same, Ranald's friends were wildly enthusiastic over what they called his victory, and Don could hardly keep his hands off him, for very joy.
Aleck, on the other hand, while claiming the victory because his team was at the pile first, was not so sure of it but that he was ready to fight with any one venturing to dispute his claim. But the men all laughed at him and his rage, until he found it wiser to be good-humored about it.
“Yon lad will be making as good a man as yourself,” said Farquhar, enthusiastically, to Macdonald Bhain, as Ranald drove his team to the stable.
“Aye, and a better, pray God,” said Macdonald Bhain, fervently, looking after Ranald with loving eyes. There was no child in his home, and his brother's son was as his own.
Meanwhile Don had hurried on, leaving his team with Murdie that he might sing Ranald's praises to “the girls,” with whom Ranald was highly popular, although he avoided them, or perhaps because he did so, the ways of women being past understanding.
To Mrs. Murray and Maimie, who with the minister and Hughie, had come over to the supper, he went first with his tale. Graphically he depicted the struggle from its beginning to the last dramatic rush to the pile, dilating upon Ranald's skill and pluck, and upon the wonderful and hitherto unknown virtues of Farquhar's shiny blacks.
“You ought to see them!” cried Don. “You bet they never moved in their lives the way they did today. Tied him!” he continued. “Tied him! Beat him, I say, but Macdonald Bhain says 'Tied him'—Aleck McRae, who thinks himself so mighty smart with his team.”
Don forgot in his excitement that the McRaes and their friends were there in numbers.
“So he is,” cried Annie Ross, one of Aleck's admirers. “There is not a man in the Indian Lands that can beat Aleck and his team.”
“Well,” exulted Don, “a boy came pretty near it to-day.”
But Annie only stuck out her lip at him in the inimitable female manner, and ran off to add to the mischief that Don had already made between Ranald and his rival.
But now the day's work was over, and the hour for the day's event had come, for supper was the great event to which all things moved at bees. The long tables stood under the maple trees, spread with the richest, rarest, deadliest dainties known to the housewives and maidens of the countryside. About the tables stood in groups the white-aproned girls, tucked and frilled, curled and ribboned into all degrees of bewitching loveliness. The men hurried away with their teams, and then gave themselves to the serious duty of getting ready for supper, using many pails of water in their efforts to remove the black from the burnt wood of the brule.
At length the women lost all patience with them, and sent Annie Ross, with two or three companions, to call them to supper. With arms intertwined, and with much chattering and giggling, the girls made their way to the group of men, some of whom were engaged in putting the finishing touches to their toilet.
“Supper is ready,” cried Annie, “and long past ready. You need not be trying to fix yourselves up so fine. You are just as bad as any girls. Oh!” Her speech ended in a shriek, which was echoed by the others, for Aleck McRae rushed at them, stretching out his black hands toward them. But they were too quick for him, and fled for protection to the safe precincts of the tables.
At length, when the last of the men had made themselves, as they thought, presentable, they began to make their approach to the tables, slowly and shyly for the most part, each waiting for the other. Aleck McRae, however, knew little of shyness, but walked past the different groups of girls, throwing on either hand a smile, a wink, or a word, as he might find suitable.
Suddenly he came upon the group where the minister's wife and her niece were standing. Here, for the moment, his ease forsook him, but Mrs. Murray came to meet him with outstretched hand.
“So you still retain your laurels?” she said, with a frank smile. “I hear it was a great battle.”
Aleck shook hands with her rather awkwardly. He was not on the easiest terms with the minister and his wife. He belonged distinctly to the careless set, and rather enjoyed the distinction.
“Oh, it was not much,” he said; “the teams were well matched.”
“Oh, I should like to have been there. You should have told us beforehand.”
“Oh, it was more than I expected myself,” he said. “I didn't think it was in Farquhar's team.”
He could not bring himself to give any credit to Ranald, and though Mrs. Murray saw this, she refused to notice it. She was none the less anxious to win Aleck's confidence, because she was Ranald's friend.
“Do you know my niece?” she said, turning to Maimie.
Aleck looked into Maimie's face with such open admiration that she felt the blush come up in her cheeks.
“Indeed, she is worth knowing, but I don't think she will care to take such a hand as that,” he said, stretching out a hand still grimy in spite of much washing. But Maimie had learned something since coming to her aunt, and she no longer judged men by the fit of their clothes, or the color of their skin, or the length of their hair; and indeed, as she looked at Aleck, with his close-buttoned smock, and overalls with the legs tucked neatly into the tops of his boots, she thought he was the trimmest figure she had seen since coming to the country. She took Aleck's hand and shook it warmly, the full admiration in his handsome black eyes setting her blood tingling with that love of conquest that lies in every woman's heart. So she flung out her flag of war, and smiled back at him her sweetest.
“You have a fine team, I hear,” she said, as her aunt moved away to greet some of the other men, who were evidently waiting to get a word with her.
“That I have, you better believe,” replied Aleck, proudly.
“It was very clever of Ranald to come so near beating you, wasn't it?” she said, innocently. “He must be a splendid driver.”
“He drives pretty well,” admitted Aleck. “He did nothing else all last winter in the shanties.”
“He is so young, too,” went on Maimie. “Just a boy, isn't he?”
Aleck was not sure how to take this. “He does not think so,” he answered, shortly. “He thinks he is no end of a man, but he will have to learn something before he is much older.”
“But he can drive, you say,” continued Maimie, wickedly keeping her finger on the sore spot.
“Oh, pshaw!” replied Aleck, boldly. “You think a lot of him, don't you? And I guess you are a pair.”
Maimie tossed her head at this. “We are very good friends, of course,” she said, lightly. “He is a very nice boy, and we are all fond of him; but he is just a boy; he is Hughie's great friend.”
“A boy, is he?” laughed Aleck. “That may be, but he is very fond of you, whatever, and indeed, I don't wonder at that. Anybody would be,” he added, boldly.
“You don't know a bit about it,” said Maimie, with cheeks glowing.
“About what?”
“About Ranald and—and—what you said.”
“What I said? About being fond of you? Indeed, I know all about that. The boys are all broke up, not to speak of myself.”
This was going a little too fast for Maimie. She knew nothing, as yet, of the freedom of country banter. She was new to the warfare, but she was not going to lower her flag or retreat. She changed the subject. “Your team must have been very tired.”
“Tired!” exclaimed Aleck, “not a bit. They will go home like birds. Come along with me, and you will see.”
Maimie gasped. “I—” she hesitated, glanced past Aleck, blushed, and stammered.
Aleck turned about quickly and saw Ranald staring at Maimie. “Oh,” he said, banteringly, “I see. You would not be allowed.”
“Allowed!” echoed Maimie. “And why not, pray? Who will hinder me?”
But Aleck only shrugged his shoulders and looked at Ranald, who passed on to his place at the table, black as a thunder-cloud. Maimie was indignant at him. What right had he to stare and look so savage? She would just show him. So she turned once more to Aleck, and with a gay laugh, cried, “Some day I will accept your invitation, so just make ready.”
“Any day, or every day, and the more days the better,” cried Aleck, as he sat down at the table, where all had now taken their places.
The supper was a great success. With much laughter and chaffing, the girls flitted from place to place, pouring cups of tea and passing the various dishes, urging the men to eat, till, as Don said, they were “full to the neck.”
When all had finished, Mr. Murray, who sat at the head of the table, rose in his place and said: “Gentlemen, before we rise from this table, which has been spread so bountifully for us, I wish to return thanks on behalf of Mr. Macdonald to the neighbors and friends who have gathered to-day to assist in this work. Mr. Macdonald asked me to say that he is all the more surprised at this kindness, in that he feels himself to be so unworthy of it. I promised to speak this word for him, but I do not agree with the sentiment. Mr. Macdonald is a man whom we all love, and in whose misfortune we deeply sympathize, and I only hope that this Providence may be greatly blessed to him, and that we will all come to know him better, and to see God's hand in his misfortune.”
The minister then, after some further remarks expressive of the good will of the neighbors for Mr. Macdonald, and in appreciation of the kind spirit that prompted the bee, returned thanks, and the supper was over.
As the men were leaving the table, Aleck watched his opportunity and called to Maimie, when he was sure Ranald could hear, “Well, when will you be ready for that drive?”
And Maimie, who was more indignant at Ranald than ever because he had ignored all her advances at supper, and had received her congratulations upon his victory with nothing more than a grunt, answered Aleck brightly. “Oh, any day that you happen to remember.”
“Remember!” cried Aleck; “then that will be every day until our ride comes off.”
A few minutes later, as Ranald was hitching up Farquhar's team, Aleck passed by, and in great good humor with himself, chaffingly called out to Ranald in the presence of a number of the men, “That's a fine girl you've got, Ranald. But you better keep your eye on her.”
Ranald made no reply. He was fast losing command of himself.
“Pretty skittish to handle, isn't she?” continued Aleck.
“What y're talkin' 'bout? That Lisette mare?” said Yankee, walking round to Ranald's side. “Purty slick beast, that. Guess there ain't anythin' in this country will make her take dust.”
Then in a low voice he said to Ranald, hurriedly, “Don't you mind him; don't you mind him. You can't touch him to-day, on your own place. Let me handle him.”
“No,” said Aleck. “We were talking about another colt of Ranald's.”
“What's that?” said Yankee, pretending not to hear. “Yes, you bet,” he continued. “Ranald can handle her all right. He knows something about horses, as I guess you have found out, perhaps, by this time. Never saw anything so purty. Didn't know your team had got that move in them, Mr. McNaughton,” Yankee went on to Farquhar, who had just come up.
“Indeed, they are none the worse of it,” said Farquhar, rubbing his hands over the sleek sides of his horses.
“Worse!” cried Yankee. “They're worth a hundred dollars more from this day on.”
“I don't know that. The hundred dollars ought to go upon the driver,” said Farquhar, putting his hand kindly upon Ranald's shoulder.
But this Ranald warmly repudiated. “They are a great team,” he said to Farquhar. “And they could do better than they did to-day if they were better handled.'
“Indeed, it would be difficult to get that,” said Farquhar, “for, in my opinion, there is not a man in the country that could handle them as well.”
This was too much for Aleck, who, having by this time got his horses hitched, mounted his wagon seat and came round to the door at a gallop.
“Saved you that time, my boy,” said Yankee to Ranald. “You would have made a fool of yourself in about two minutes more, I guess.”
But Ranald was still too wrathful to be grateful for Yankee's help. “I will be even with him someday,” he said, between his teeth.
“I guess you will have to learn two or three things first,” said Yankee, slowly.
“What things?”
“Well, how to use your head, first place, and then how to use your hands. He is too heavy for you. He would crumple you up in a couple of minutes.”
“Let him, then,” said Ranald, recklessly.
“Rather onpleasant. Better wait awhile till you learn what I told you.”
“Yankee,” said Ranald, after a pause, “will you show me?”
“Why, sartin sure,” said Yankee, cheerfully. “You have got to lick him some day, or he won't be happy; and by jings! it will be worth seein', too.”
By this time Farquhar had come back from saying good by to Macdonald Dubh and Mr. and Mrs. Murray, who were remaining till the last.
“You will be a man yet,” said Farquhar, shaking Ranald's hand. “You have got the patience and the endurance.” These were great virtues in Farquhar's opinion.
“Not much patience, I am afraid,” said Ranald. “But I am glad you trusted me with your team.”
“And any day you want them you can have them,” said Farquhar, his reckless mood leading him to forget Kirsty for the moment.
“Thank you, sir,” said Ranald, wondering what Kirsty would look like should he ever venture to claim Farquhar's offer.
One by one the teams drove away with their loads, till only the minister and his party were left. Away under the trees Mr. Murray was standing, earnestly talking to Macdonald Dubh. He had found the opportunity he had long waited for and was making the most of it. Mrs. Murray was busy with Kirsty, and Maimie and Hughie came toward the stable where Yankee and Ranald were still standing. As soon as Ranald saw them approaching he said to Yankee, abruptly, “I am going to get the minister's horse,” and disappeared into the stable. Nor did he come forth again till he heard his father calling to him: “What is keeping you, Ranald? The minister is waiting for his horse.”
“So you won a great victory, Ranald, I hear,” said the minister, as Ranald brought Black to the door.
“It was a tie,” said Ranald.
“Oh, Ranald!” cried Hughie, “you beat him. Everybody says so. You had your chain hitched up and everything before Aleck.”
“I hear it was a great exhibition, not only of skill, but of endurance and patience, Ranald,” said the minister. “And these are noble virtues. It is a great thing to be able to endure.”
But Ranald made no reply, busying himself with Black's bridle. Mrs. Murray noticed his gloom and guessed its cause.
“We will see you at the Bible class, Ranald,” she said, kindly, but still Ranald remained silent.
“Can you not speak, man?” said his father. “Do you not hear the minister's wife talking to you?”
“Yes,” said Ranald, “I will be there.”
“We will be glad to see you,” said Mrs. Murray, offering him her hand. “And you might come in with Hughie for a few minutes afterward,” she continued, kindly, for she noted the misery in his face.
“And we will be glad to see you, too, Mr. Macdonald, if it would not be too much for you, and if you do not scorn a woman's teaching.”
“Indeed, I would be proud,” said Macdonald Dubh, courteously, “as far as that is concerned, for I hear there are better men than me attending.”
“I am sure Mrs. Murray will be glad to see you, Mr. Macdonald,” said the minister.
“I will be thinking of it,” said Macdonald Dubh, cautiously. “And you are both very kind, whatever,” he said, losing for a time his habitual gloom.
“Well, then, I will look for you both,” said Mrs. Murray, as they were about to drive off, “so do not disappoint me.”
“Good by, Ranald,” said Maimie, offering Ranald her hand.
“Good by,” said Ranald, holding her hand for a moment and looking hard into her eyes, “and I hope you will enjoy your ride, whatever.”
Then Maimie understood Ranald's savage manner, and as she thought it over she smiled to herself. She was taking her first sips of that cup, to woman's lips the sweetest, and she found it not unpleasant. She had succeeded in making one man happy and another miserable. But it was when she said to herself, “Poor Ranald!” that she smiled most sweetly.