If Mrs. Murray was not surprised to see Macdonald Dubh and Yankee walk in on Sabbath evening and sit down in the back seat, her class were. Indeed the appearance of these two men at the class was considered an event so extraordinary as to give a decided shock to those who regularly attended, and their presence lent to the meeting an unusual interest, and an undertone of excitement. To see Macdonald Dubh, whose attendance at the regular Sabbath services was something unusual, present at a religious meeting which no one would consider it a duty to attend, was enough in itself to excite surprise, but when Yankee came in and sat beside him, the surprise was considerably intensified. For Yankee was considered to be quite outside the pale, and indeed, in a way, incapable of religious impression. No one expected Yankee to be religious. He was not a Presbyterian, knew nothing of the Shorter Catechism, not to speak of the Confession of Faith, and consequently was woefully ignorant of the elements of Christian knowledge that were deemed necessary to any true religious experience.
It was rumored that upon Yankee's first appearance in the country, some few years before, he had, in an unguarded moment, acknowledged that his people had belonged to the Methodists, and that he himself “leaned toward” that peculiar sect. Such a confession was in itself enough to stamp him, in the eyes of the community, as one whose religious history must always be attended with more or less uncertainty. Few of them had ever seen a Methodist in the flesh. There were said to be some at Moose Creek (Mooscrick, as it was called), but they were known only by report. The younger and more untraveled portion of the community thought of them with a certain amount of awe and fear.
It was no wonder, then, that Yankee's appearance in Bible class produced a sensation. It was an evening of sensations, for not only were Macdonald Dubh and Yankee present, but Aleck McRae had driven up a load of people from below the Sixteenth. Ranald regarded his presence with considerable contempt.
“It is not much he cares for the Bible class, whatever,” he confided to Don, who was sitting beside him.
But more remarkable and disturbing to Ranald than the presence of Aleck McRae, was that of a young man sitting between Hughie and Maimie in the minister's pew. He was evidently from the city. One could see that from his fine clothes and his white shirt and collar. Ranald looked at him with deepening contempt. “Pride” was written all over him. Not only did he wear fine clothes, and a white shirt and collar, but he wore them without any sign of awkwardness or apology in his manner, and indeed as if he enjoyed them. But the crowning proof of his “pride,” Don noted with unutterable scorn.
“Look at him,” he said, “splits his head in the middle.”
Ranald found himself wondering how the young fop would look sitting in a pool of muddy water. How insufferable the young fellow's manners were! He sat quite close to Maimie, now and then whispering to her, evidently quite ignorant of how to behave in church. And Maimie, who ought to know better, was acting most disgracefully as well, whispering back and smiling right into his face. Ranald was thoroughly ashamed of her. He could not deny that the young fellow was handsome, hatefully so, but he was evidently stuck full of conceit, and as he let his eyes wander over the congregation assembled, with a bold and critical stare, making remarks to Maimie in an undertone which could be heard over the church, Ranald felt his fingers twitching. The young man was older than Ranald, but Ranald would have given a good deal for an opportunity to “take him with one hand.”
At this point Ranald's reflections were interrupted by Mrs. Murray rising to open the class.
“Will some one suggest a Psalm?” she asked, her cheek, usually pale, showing a slight color. It was always an ordeal for her to face her class, ever since the men had been allowed to come, and the first moments were full of trial to her. Only her conscience and her fine courage kept her from turning back from this, her path of duty.
At once, from two or three came responses to her invitation, and a Psalm was chosen.
The singing was a distinct feature of the Bible class. There was nothing like it, not only in the other services of the congregation, but in any congregation in the whole county. The young people that formed that Bible class have long since grown into old men and women, but the echoes of that singing still reverberate through the chambers of their hearts when they stand up to sing certain tunes or certain Psalms. Once a week, through the long winter, they used to meet and sing to John “Aleck's” sounding beat for two or three hours. They learned to sing, not only the old psalm tunes but psalm tunes never heard in the congregation before, as also hymns and anthems. The anthems and hymns were, of course, never used in public worship. They were reserved for the sacred concert which John “Aleck” gave once a year. It was in the Bible class that he and his fellow enthusiasts found opportunity to sing their new Psalm tunes, with now and then a hymn. When John “Aleck,” a handsome, broad-shouldered, six-footer, stood up and bit his tuning-fork to catch the pitch, the people straightened up in their seats and prepared to follow his lead. And after his great resonant voice had rolled out the first few notes of the tune, they caught him up with a vigor and enthusiasm that carried him along, and inspired him to his mightiest efforts. Wonderful singing it was, full toned, rhythmical and well balanced.
With characteristic courage, the minister's wife had chosen Paul's Epistle to the Romans for the subject of study, and to-night the lesson was the redoubtable ninth chapter, that arsenal for Calvinistic champions. First the verses were repeated by the class in concert, and the members vied with each other in making this a perfect exercise, then the teaching of the chapter was set forth in simple, lucid speech. The last half hour was devoted to the discussion of questions, raised either by the teacher or by any member of the class. To-night the class was slow in asking questions. They were face to face with the tremendous Pauline Doctrine of Sovereignty. It was significant that by Macdonald Dubh, his brother, and the other older and more experienced members of the class, the doctrine was regarded as absolutely inevitable and was accepted without question, while by Yankee and Ranald and all the younger members of the class, it was rejected with fierce resentment. The older men had been taught by the experience of long and bitter years, that above all their strength, however mighty, a power, resistless and often inscrutable, determined their lives. The younger men, their hearts beating with conscious power and freedom, resented this control, or accepting it, refused to assume the responsibility for the outcome of their lives. It was the old, old strife, the insoluble mystery; and the minister's wife, far from making light of it, allowed its full weight to press in upon the members of her class, and wisely left the question as the apostle leaves it, with a statement of the two great truths of Sovereignty and Free Will without attempting the impossible task of harmonizing these into a perfect system. After a half-hour of discussion, she brought the lesson to a close with a very short and very simple presentation of the practical bearing of the great doctrine. And while the mystery remained unsolved, the limpid clearness of her thought, the humble attitude of mind, the sympathy with doubt, and above all, the sweet and tender pathos that filled her voice, sent the class away humbled, subdued, comforted, and willing to wait the day of clearer light. Not that they were done with Pharaoh and his untoward fate; that occupied them for many a day.
The class was closed with prayer and singing. As a kind of treat, the last singing was a hymn and they stood up to sing it. It was Perronet's great hymn sung to old Coronation, and when they came to the refrain, “Crown him Lord of all,” the very rafters of the little church rang with the mighty volume of sound. The Bible class always closed with a great outburst of singing, and as a rule, Ranald went out tingling and thrilling through and through. But tonight, so deeply was he exercised with the unhappy doom of the unfortunate king of Egypt, from which, apparently, there was no escape, fixed as it was by the Divine decree, and oppressed with the feeling that the same decree would determine the course of his life, he missed his usual thrill. He was walking off by himself in a perplexed and downcast mood, avoiding every one, even Don, and was nearly past the minister's gate when Hughie, excited and breathless, caught up to him and exclaimed: “Oh, Ranald, was not that splendid? Man, I like to hear John 'Aleck' sing 'Crown him' that way. And I say,” he continued, “mother wants you to come in.”
Then all at once Ranald remembered the young man who had behaved so disgracefully in church.
“No,” he said, firmly, “I must be hurrying home. The cows will be to milk yet.”
“Oh, pshaw! you must come,” pleaded Hughie. “We will have some singing. I want you to sing bass. Perhaps John 'Aleck' will come in.” This was sheer guessing, but it was good bait. But the young man with “his head split in the middle” would be there, and perhaps Maimie would be “going on,” with him as she did in the Bible class.
“You will tell your mother I could not come,” he said. “Yankee and father are both out, and there will be no one at home.”
“Well, I think you are pretty mean,” said Hughie, grievously disappointed. “I wanted you to come in, and mother wanted Cousin Harry to see you.”
“Cousin Harry?”
“Yes; Maimie's brother came last night, you know, and Maimie is going back with him in two weeks.”
“Maimie's brother. Well, well, is that the nice-looking fellow that sat by you?”
“Huh-huh, he is awful nice, and mother wanted—”
“Indeed he looks it, I am sure,” Ranald said, with sudden enthusiasm; “I would just like to know him. If I thought Yankee would—”
“Oh, pshaw! Of course Yankee will milk the cows,” exclaimed Hughie. “Come on, come on in. And Ranald went to meet one of the great nights of his life.
“Here is Ranald!” called Hughie at the top of his voice, as he entered the room where the family were gathered.
“You don't say so, Hughie?” answered his cousin, coming forward. “You ought to make that fact known. We all want to hear it.”
Ranald liked him from the first. He was not a bit “proud” in spite of his fine clothes and his head being “split in the middle.”
“You're the chap,” he said, stretching out his hand to Ranald, “that snatched Maimie from the fire. Mighty clever thing to do. We have heard a lot about you at our house. Why, every week—”
“Let some one else talk, Harry,” interrupted Maimie, with cheeks flaming. “We are going to have some singing now. Here is auntie. Mayn't we use the piano?”
“Why, yes, I suppose so,” said Mrs. Murray. “I was glad to see your father there to-night,” she said to Ranald.
“And Yankee, mother.”
“Hush, Hughie; you must call people by their right names. Now let us have some singing. I hear Ranald is singing bass these days.”
“And bully good bass, too,” cried Hughie. “John 'Aleck' says that it's the finest bass in the whole singing school.”
“Well, Hughie,” said his mother, quietly, “I don't think it is necessary to shout even such pleasant information as that. Now go to your singing, and I shall listen.”
She lay back in the big chair, looking so pale and weary that Harry hardly believed it was the same woman that had just been keeping a hundred and fifty people keenly alert for an hour and a half, and leading them with such intellectual and emotional power.
“That class is too hard for you, auntie,” he said. “If I were your husband I would not let you keep it on.”
“But you see my husband is not here. He is twelve miles away.”
“Then I would lock you up, or take you with me.”
“Oh!” cried Hughie, “I would much rather teach the Bible class than listen to another sermon.”
“Something in that,” said his cousin, “especially if I were the preacher, eh?” at which they all laughed.
It was a happy hour for Ranald. He had been too shy to join the singing school, and had never heard any part singing till he began to attend the Bible class. There he made the delightful discovery that, without any instruction, he could join in the bass, and had made, also, the further discovery that his voice, which he had thought rough and coarse, and for a year past, worse than ever, could reach to extraordinary depths. One Sabbath evening, it chanced that John “Aleck,” who always had an ear open for a good voice, heard him rolling out his deep bass, and seizing him on the spot, had made him promise to join the singing school. There he discovered a talent and developed a taste for singing that delighted his leader's heart, and opened out to himself a new world. The piano, too, was a new and rare treat to Ranald. In all the country there was no other, and even in the manse it was seldom heard, for Mrs. Murray found little time, amid the multitude of household and congregational duties, to keep up her piano practice. That part of her life, with others of like kind, she had been forced to lose.
But since Maimie's coming, the piano had been in daily use, and even on the Sabbath days, though not without danger to the sensibilities of the neighbors, she had used it to accompany the hymns with which the day always closed.
“Let us have the parts,” cried Hughie. “Maimie and I will take the air, and Ranald will take the bass. Cousin Harry, can you sing?”
“Oh, I'll hum.”
“Nonsense,” said Maimie, “he sings tenor splendidly.”
“Oh, that's fine!” cried Hughie, with delight. He himself was full of music. “Come on, Ranald, you stand up behind Maimie, you will need to see the notes; and I will sit here,” planting himself beside his mother.
So Hughie arranged it all, and for an hour the singing went on, the favorite hymns of each being sung in turn. For the most part, Mrs. Murray sat silent, but now and then she would join with the others, singing alto when she did so, by Hughie's special direction. Her voice was not strong, but it was true, mellow, and full of music. Hughie loved to hear her sing alto, and more especially because he liked to join in with her, which he was too shy to do alone, even in his home, and which he would never think of doing in the Bible class, or in the presence of any of the boys who might, for this reason, think him “proud.” When they came to Hughie's turn, he chose the hymn by Bliss, recently published, “Whosoever will,” the words seem to strike him tonight.
“Mother,” he said, after singing it through, “does that mean everybody that likes?”
“Yes, my dear, any one that wishes.”
“Pharaoh, mother?”
“Yes, Pharaoh, too.”
“But, mother, you said he could not possibly.”
“Only because he did not want to.”
“But he could not, even if he did want to.”
“I hope I did not say that,” said his mother, smiling at the eager and earnest young face.
“No, auntie,” said Harry, taking up Hughie's cause, “not exactly, but something very like it. You said that Pharaoh could not possibly have acted in any other way than he did.”
“Yes, I said that.”
“Not even if he wanted to?” asked Hughie.
“Oh, I did not say that.”
“The Lord hardened Pharaoh's heart,” quoted Ranald, who knew his Bible better than Harry.
“Yes, that is it,” said Harry, “and so that made it impossible for Pharaoh to do anything else. He could not help following after those people.”
“Why not?” said Mrs. Murray. “What made him follow? Now just think, what made him follow after those people?”
“Why, he wanted to get them back,” said Hughie.
“Quite true,” said his mother. “So you see, he did exactly as he wanted to.”
“Then you mean the Lord had nothing to do with it?” asked Ranald.
“No, I could not say that.”
“Then,” said Harry, “Pharaoh could not help himself. Now, could he?”
“He did what he wished to do,” said his aunt.
“Yes,” said Ranald, quickly, “but could he help wishing to do what he did?”
“If he had been a different man, more humble minded, and more willing to be taught, he would not have wished to do what he did.”
“Mother,” said Hughie, changing his ground a little, and lowering his voice, “do you think Pharaoh is lost, and all his soldiers, and—and all the people who were bad?”
Mrs. Murray looked at him in silence for a few moments, then said, very sadly, “I can't answer that question, Hughie. I do not know.”
“But, mother,” persisted Hughie, “are not wicked people lost?”
“Yes, Hughie,” replied his mother, “all those who do not repent of their sins and cry to God for mercy.”
“Oh, mother,” cried Hughie, “forever?”
His mother did not reply.
“Will He never let them out, mother?” continued Hughie, in piteous appeal.
“Listen to me, Hughie,” said his mother, very gently. “We know very little about this. Would you be very sorry, even for very bad men?”
“Oh, mother,” cried Hughie, his tender little heart moved with a great compassion, “think of a whole year, all summer long, and all winter long. I think I would let anybody out.”
“Then, Hughie, dear,” said his mother, “remember that God is much kinder than you are, and has a heart far more tender, and while He will be just and must punish sin, He will do nothing unjust or unkind, you may be quite sure of that. Do not forget how He gave up His own dear son for us.”
Poor Hughie could bear it no longer. He put his head in his mother's lap and sobbed out, “Oh, mother, I hope he will let them out.”
As he uttered this pitiful little cry, his cousin Harry got up from his chair, and moved across to the window, while Maimie openly wiped her eyes, but Ranald sat with his face set hard, and his eyes gleaming, waiting eagerly for Mrs. Murray's answer.
The mother stroked Hughie's head softly, and while her tears fell on the brown curls, said to him, “You would not be afraid to trust your mother, Hughie, and our Father in heaven loves us all much more than I love you.”
And with that Hughie was content.
“Now let us sing one more hymn,” said his mother. “It's my choice.” And she chose one of the new hymns which they had just learned in the singing school, and of which Hughie was very fond, the children's hymn, “Come to the Saviour.” While they were singing they heard Mr. Murray drive into the yard.
“There's papa,” said Mrs. Murray. “He will be tired and hungry,” and she hurried out to meet her husband, followed by Harry and Hughie, leaving Ranald and Maimie in the room together. Ranald had never been alone with her before, nor indeed had he ever spent five minutes of his life alone with any girl before now. But he did not feel awkward or shy; he was thinking now, as he had been thinking now and then through the whole evening, of only one thing, that Maimie was going away. That would make a great difference to him, so great that he was conscious of a heart-sinking at the mere thought of it. During the last weeks, his life had come to move about a center, and that center was Maimie; and now that she was going away, there would be nothing left. Nothing, that is, that really mattered. But the question he was revolving in his mind was, would she forget all about him. He knew he would never forget her, that was, of course, impossible, for so many things would remind him of her. He would never see the moonlight falling through the trees as it fell that night of the sugaring-off, without thinking of her. He would never see the shadows in the evening, or hear the wind in the leaves, without thinking of her. The church and the minister's pew, the manse and all belonging to it would remind him of Maimie. He would recall how she looked at different times and places, the turn of her head, the way her hair fell on her neck, her laugh, the little toss of her chin, and the curve in her lips. He would remember everything about her. Would she remember him, or would she forget him? That was the question burning in his heart; and that question he must have settled, and this was the time.
But though these thoughts and emotions were rushing through his brain and blood, he felt strangely quiet and self-controlled as he walked over to her where she stood beside the piano, and looking into her eyes with an intensity of gaze she could not meet, said, in a low, quick voice: “You are going away?”
“Yes,” she replied, so startled that the easy smile with which she had greeted him faded out of her face. “In two weeks I shall be gone.”
“Gone!” echoed Ranald. “Yes, you will be gone. Will you forget me?” His tone was almost stern.
“Why, no,” she said, in a surprised voice. “Of course not. Did not you save my life? You will be far more likely to forget me.”
“No,” he said, simply, as if that possibility need not be considered. “I will never forget you. I will always be thinking of you. Will you think of me?” he persisted.
“Why, certainly. Wouldn't I be a very ungrateful girl if I did not?”
“Ungrateful!” exclaimed Ranald, impatiently. “What I did was nothing. Forget that. Do you not understand me? I will be thinking of you every day, in the morning and at night, and I never thought of any one else before for a day. Will you be thinking of me?”
There was a movement in the kitchen, and they could hear the minister talking to Harry; and some one was moving toward the door.
“Tell me, Maimie, quick,” said Ranald, and though his voice was intense and stern, there was appeal in it as well.
She took a step nearer him, and looking up into his face, said, in a whisper, “Yes, Ranald, I will always remember you, and think of you.”
Swiftly, almost fiercely, he threw his arms about her, and kissed her lips, then he stood back looking at her.
“I could not help it,” he said, boldly. “You made me.”
“Made you?” exclaimed Maimie, her face hot with blushes.
“Yes, you made me. I could not help it,” he repeated. “And I do not care if you are angry. I am glad I did it.”
“Glad?” echoed Maimie again, not knowing what to say.
“Yes, glad,” he said, exultantly. “Are you?”
She made no reply. The door opened behind them. She sank down upon the piano-stool and let her hands fall upon the keys.
“Are you?” he demanded, ignoring the interruption.
With her head low down, while she struck the chords of the hymn they had just sung, she said, hesitatingly, “I am not sorry.”
“Sorry for what?” said Harry.
“Oh, nothing,” said Maimie, lightly.
“Nobody is, if he has got any sense.”
Then Mrs. Murray came in. “Won't you stay for supper, Ranald? You must be hungry.”
“No, thank you,” said Ranald. “I must go now.”
He shook hands with an ease and freedom that the minister had never seen in him, and went out.
“That young man is coming on,” said the minister. “I never saw any one change and develop as he has in the last few months. Let me see. He is only eighteen, isn't he, and he might be twenty-one.” The minister spoke as if he were not too well pleased with this precocity in Ranald.
But little did Ranald care. That young man was striding homeward through the night, his head striking the stars. His path lay through the woods, and when he came to the “sugar camp” road, he stood still, and let the memories of the night when he had snatched Maimie from the fire troop through his mind. Suddenly he thought of Aleck McRae, and laughed aloud.
“Poor Aleck,” he said. Aleck seemed so harmless to him now. And then he stood silent, motionless, looking straight toward the stars, but seeing them not. He was remembering Maimie's face when she said, “Yes, Ranald, I will always remember you and think of you”; and then the thought of what followed, sent the blood jumping through his veins.
“She will not forget,” he said aloud, and went on his way. It was his happy night, the happiest of his life thus far, and he would always be happy. What difference could anything make?
Those last days of Maimie's visit sped by on winged feet. To Ranald they were brimming with happiness, every one of them. It was the slack time of the year, between seeding and harvest, and there was nothing much to keep him at home. And so, with Harry, his devoted companion, Ranald roamed the woods, hitching up Lisette in Yankee's buckboard, put her through her paces, and would now and then get up such bursts of speed as took Harry's breath away; and more than all, there was the chance of a word with Maimie. He had lost much of his awkwardness. He went about with an air of mastery, and why not? He had entered upon his kingdom. The minister noticed and wondered; his wife noticed and smiled sometimes, but oftener sighed, wisely keeping silence, for she knew that in times like this the best words were those unspoken.
The happiest day of all for Ranald was the last, when, after a long tramp with Harry through the woods, he drove him back to the manse, coming up from the gate to the door like a whirlwind.
As Lisette stood pawing and tossing her beautiful head, Mrs. Murray, who stood with Maimie watching them drive up, cried out, admiringly: “What a beauty she is!”
“Isn't she!” cried Harry, enthusiastically. “And such a flyer! Get in, auntie, and see.”
“Do,” said Ranald; “I would be very glad. Just to the church hill and back.”
“Go, auntie,” pleaded Harry. “She is wonderful.”
“You go, Maimie,” said her aunt, to whom every offered pleasure simply furnished an opportunity of thought for others.
“Nonsense!” cried Harry, impatiently. “You might gratify yourself a little for once in your life. Besides,” he added, with true brotherly blindness, “it's you Ranald wants. At least he talks enough about you.”
“Yes, auntie, do go! It will be lovely,” chimed in Maimie, with suspicious heartiness.
So, with many protestations, Mrs. Murray took her place beside Ranald and was whirled off like the wind. She returned in a very few minutes, her hair blown loose till the little curls hung about her glowing face and her eyes shining with excitement.
“Oh, she is perfectly splendid!” she exclaimed. “And so gentle. You must go, Maimie, if only to the gate.” And Maimie went, but not to turn at even the church hill.
For a mile down the concession road Ranald let Lisette jog at an easy pace while he told Maimie some of his aims and hopes. He did not mean to be a farmer nor a lumberman. He was going to the city, and there make his fortune. He did not say it in words, but his tone, his manner, everything about him, proclaimed his confidence that some day he would be a great man. And Maimie believed him, not because it seemed reasonable, or because there seemed to be any ground for his confidence, but just because Ranald said it. His superb self-confidence wrought in her assurance.
“And then,” he said, proudly, “I am going to see you.”
“Oh, I hope you will not wait till then,” she answered.
“I do not know,” he said. “I cannot tell, but it does not matter much. I will be always seeing you.”
“But I will want to see you,” said Maimie.
“Yes,” said Ranald, “I know you will,” as if that were a thing to be expected. “But you will be coming back to your aunt here.” But of this Maimie could not be sure.
“Oh, yes, you will come,” he said, confidently; “I am sure you will come. Harry is coming, and you will come, too.” And having settled this point, he turned Lisette and from that out gave his attention to his driving. The colt seemed to realize the necessity of making a display of her best speed, and without any urging, she went along the concession road, increasing her speed at every stride till she wheeled in at the gate. Then Ranald shook the lines over her back and called to her. Magnificently Lisette responded, and swept up to the door with such splendid dash that the whole household greeted her with waving applause. As the colt came to a stand, Maimie stepped out from the buckboard, and turning toward Ranald, said in a low, hurried voice: “O, Ranald, that was splendid, and I am so happy; and you will be sure to come?”
“I will come,” said Ranald, looking down into the blue eyes with a look so long and steady and so full of passionate feeling that Maimie knew he would keep his word.
Then farewells were said, and Ranald turned away, Harry and Mrs. Murray watching him from the door till he disappeared over the church hill.
“Well, that's the finest chap I ever saw,” said Harry, with emphasis. “And what a body he has! He would make a great half-back.”
“Poor Ranald! I hope he will make a great and good man,” said his aunt, with a ring of sadness in her voice.
“Why poor, auntie?”
“I'm sure I do not know,” she said, with a very uncertain smile playing about her mouth. Then she went upstairs and found Maimie sitting at the window overlooking the church hill, and once more she knew how golden is silence. So she set to work to pack Maimie's trunk for her.
“It will be a very early start, Maimie,” she said, “and so we will get everything ready to-night.”
“Yes, auntie,” said Maimie, going to her and putting her arms about her. “How happy I have been, and how good you have been to me!”
“And how glad I have been to have you!” said her aunt.
“Oh, I will never forget you! You have taught me so much that I never knew before. I see everything so differently. It seems easy to be good here, and, oh! I wish you were not so far away from me, auntie. I am afraid—afraid—”
The tears could no longer be denied. She put her head in her aunt's lap and sobbed out her heart's overflow. For an hour they sat by the open trunk, forgetting all about the packing, while her aunt talked to Maimie as no one had ever talked to her before; and often, through the long years of suffering that followed, the words of that evening came to Maimie to lighten and to comfort an hour of fear and sorrow. Mrs. Murray was of those to whom it is given to speak words that will not die with time, but will live, for that they fall from lips touched with the fire of God.
Before they had finished their talk Harry came in, and then Mrs. Murray told them about their mother, of her beauty and her brightness and her goodness, but mostly of her goodness.
“She was a dear, dear girl,” said their aunt, “and her goodness was of the kind that makes one think of a fresh spring morning, so bright, so sweet, and pure. And she was beautiful, too. You will be like her, Maimie,” and, after a pause, she added, softly, “And, most of all, she loved her Saviour, and that was the secret of both her beauty and her goodness.”
“Auntie,” said Harry, suddenly, “don't you think you could come to us for a visit? It would do father—I mean it would be such a great thing for father, and for me, too, for us all.”
Mrs. Murray thought of her home and all its ties, and then said, smiling: “I am afraid, Harry, that could hardly be. Besides, my dear boy, there is One who can always be with you, and no one can take His place.”
“All the same, I wish you could come,” said Harry. “When I am here I feel like doing something with my life, but at home I only think of having fun.”
“But, Harry,” said his aunt, “life is a very sacred and very precious thing, and at all costs, you must make it worthy of Him who gave it to you.”
Next morning, when Harry was saying “Farewell” to his aunt, she put her arms round him, and said: “Your mother would have wished you to be a noble man, and you must not disappoint her.”
“I will try, auntie,” he said, and could say no more.
For the next few weeks the minister and his wife were both busy and anxious. For more than eight years they had labored with their people without much sign of result. Week after week the minister poured into his sermons the strength of his heart and mind, and then gave them to his people with all the fervor of his nature. Week after week his wife, in her women's meetings and in her Bible class, lavished freely upon them the splendid riches of her intellectual and spiritual powers, and together in the homes of the people they wrought and taught. At times it seemed to the minister that they were spending their strength for naught, and at such times he bitterly grudged, not his own toils, but those of his wife. None knew better than he how well fitted she was, both by the native endowments of her mind and by the graces of her character, to fill the highest sphere, and he sometimes grew impatient that she should spend herself without stint and reap no adequate reward.
These were his thoughts as he lay on his couch, on the evening of the last Sabbath in the old church, after a day's work more than usually exhausting. The new church was to be opened the following week. For months it had been the burden of their prayers that at the dedication of their church, which had been built and paid for at the cost of much thought and toil, there should be some “signal mark of the divine acceptance.” No wonder the minister was more than usually depressed to-night.
“There is not much sign of movement among the dry bones,” he said to his wife. “They are as dry and as dead as ever.”
His wife was silent for some time, for she, too, had her moments of doubt and fear, but she said: “I think there is some sign. The people were certainly much impressed this morning, and the Bible class was very large, and they were very attentive.”
“So they are every day,” said the minister, rather bitterly. “But what does it amount to? There is not a sign of one of these young people 'coming forward.' Just think, only one young man a member of the church, and he hasn't got much spunk in him. And many of the older men remain as hard as the nether millstone.”
“I really think,” said his wife, “that a number of the young people would 'come forward' if some one would make a beginning. They are all very shy.”
“So you always say,” said her husband, with a touch of impatience; “but there is no shyness in other things, in their frolics and their fightings. I am sure this last outrageous business is enough to break one's heart.”
“What do you mean?” said his wife.
“Oh, I suppose you will hear soon enough, so I need not try to keep it from you. It was Long John Cameron told me. It is strange that Hughie has not heard. Indeed, perhaps he has, but since his beloved Ranald is involved, he is keeping it quiet.”
“What is it?” said his wife, anxiously.
“Oh, nothing less than a regular pitched battle between the McGregors and the McRaes of the Sixteenth, and all on Ranald's account, too, I believe.”
Mrs. Murray sat in silent and bitter disappointment. She had expected much from Ranald. Her husband went on with his tale.
“It seems there was an old quarrel between young Aleck McRae and Ranald, over what I cannot find out; and young Angus McGregor, who will do anything for a Macdonald, must needs take Ranald's part, with the result that that hot-headed young fire-eater Aleck McRae must challenge the whole clan McGregor. So it was arranged, on Sunday morning, too, mind you, two weeks ago, after the service, that six of the best of each side should meet and settle the business. Of course Ranald was bound to be into it, and begged and pleaded with the McGregors that he should be one of the six; and I hear it was by Yankee's advice that his request was granted. That godless fellow, it seems, has been giving Ranald daily lessons with the boxing-gloves, and to some purpose, too, as the fight proved. It seems that young Aleck McRae, who is a terrible fighter, and must be forty pounds heavier than Ranald, was, by Ranald's especial desire and by Yankee's arrangement, pitted against the boy, and by the time the fight was over, Ranald, although beaten and bruised to a 'bloody pulp,' as Long John said, had Aleck thoroughly whipped. And nobody knows what would have happened, so fierce was the young villain, had not Peter McGregor and Macdonald Bhain appeared upon the scene. It appears Aleck had been saying something about Maimie, Long John did not know what it was; but Ranald was determined to finish Aleck up there and then. It must have been a disgusting and terrible sight; but Macdonald Bhain apparently settled them in a hurry; and what is more, made them all shake hands and promise to drop the quarrel thenceforth. I fancy Ranald's handling of young Aleck McRae did more to bring about the settlement than anything else. What a lot of savages they are!” continued the minister. “It really does not seem much use to preach to them.”
“We must not say that, my dear,” said his wife, but her tone was none too hopeful. “I must confess I am disappointed in Ranald. Well,” she continued, “we can only wait and trust.”
From Hughie, who had had the story from Don, and who had been pledged to say nothing of it, she learned more about the fight.
“It was Aleck's fault, mother,” he said, anxious to screen his hero. “He said something about Maimie, that Don wouldn't tell me, at the blacksmith shop in the Sixteenth, and Ranald struck him and knocked him flat, and he could not get up for a long time. Yankee has been showing him how. I am going to learn, mother,” interjected Hughie. “And then Angus McGregor took Ranald's part, and it was all arranged after church, and Ranald was bound to be in it, and said he would stop the whole thing if not allowed. Don said he was just terrible. It was an awful fight. Angus McGregor fought Peter McRae, Aleck's brother, you know and—”
“Never mind, Hughie,” said his mother. “I don't want to hear of it. It is too disgusting. Was Ranald much hurt?”
“Oh, he was hurt awful bad, and he was going to be licked, too. He wouldn't keep cool enough, and he wouldn't use his legs.”
“Use his legs?” said his mother; “what do you mean?”
“That's what Don says, and Yankee made him. Yankee kept calling to him, 'Now get away, get away from him! Use your legs! Get away from him!' and whenever Ranald began to do as he was told, then he got the better of Aleck, and he gave Aleck a terrible hammering, and Don said if Macdonald Bhain had not stopped them Aleck McRae would not have been able to walk home. He said Ranald was awful. He said he never saw him like he was that day. Wasn't it fine, mother?”
“Fine, Hughie!” said his mother. “It is anything but fine. It is simply disgusting to see men act like beasts. It is very, very sad. I am very much disappointed in Ranald.”
“But, mother, Ranald couldn't help it. And anyway, I am glad he gave that Aleck McRae a good thrashing. Yankee said he would never be right until he got it.”
“You must not repeat what Yankee says,” said his mother. “I am afraid his influence is not of the best for any of those boys.”
“Oh, mother, he didn't set them on,” said Hughie, who wanted to be fair to Yankee. “It was when he could not help it that he told Ranald how to do. I am glad he did, too.”
“I am very, very sorry about it,” said his mother, sadly. It was a greater disappointment to her than she cared to acknowledge either to her husband or to herself.
But the commotion caused in the community by the fight was soon swallowed up in the interest aroused by the opening of the new church, an event for which they had made long and elaborate preparation. The big bazaar, for which the women had been sewing for a year or more, was held on Wednesday, and turned out to be a great success, sufficient money being realized to pay for the church furnishing, which they had undertaken to provide.
The day following was the first of the “Communion Season.” In a Highland congregation the Communion Seasons are the great occasions of the year. For weeks before, the congregation is kept in mind of the approaching event, and on the Thursday of the communion week the season opens with a solemn fast day.
The annual Fast Day, still a national institution in Scotland, although it has lost much of its solemnity and sacredness in some places, was originally associated with the Lord's Supper, and was observed with great strictness in the matter of eating and drinking; and in Indian Lands, as in all congregations of that part of the country, the custom of celebrating the Fast Day was kept up. It was a day of great solemnity in the homes of the people of a godly sort. There was no cooking of meals till after “the services,” and indeed, some of them tasted neither meat nor drink the whole day long. To the younger people of the congregation it was a day of gloom and terror, a kind of day of doom. Even to those advanced in godliness it brought searchings of heart, minute and diligent, with agonies of penitence and remorse. It was a day, in short, in which conscience was invited to take command of the memory and the imagination to the scourging of the soul for the soul's good. The sermon for the day was supposed to stimulate and to aid conscience in this work.
For the communion service Mr. Murray always made it a point to have the assistance of the best preachers he could procure, and on this occasion, when the church opening was combined with the sacrament, by a special effort two preachers had been procured—a famous divine from Huron County, that stronghold of Calvinism, and a college professor who had been recently appointed, but who had already gained a reputation as a doctrinal preacher, and who was, as Peter McRae reported, “grand on the Attributes and terrible fine on the Law.” To him was assigned the honor of preaching the Fast Day sermon, and of declaring the church “open.”
The new church was very different from the old. Instead of the high crow's nest, with the wonderful sounding-board over it, the pulpit was simply a raised platform partly inclosed, with the desk in front. There was no precentor's box, over the loss of which Straight Rory did not grieve unduly, inasmuch as the singing was to be led, in the English at least, by John “Aleck.” Henceforth the elders would sit with their families. The elders' seat was gone; Peter McRae's wrath at this being somewhat appeased by his securing for himself one of the short side seats at the right of the pulpit, from which he could command a view of both the minister and the congregation—a position with obvious advantages. The minister's pew was at the very back of the church.
It was a great assemblage that gathered in the new church to hear the professor discourse, as doubtless he would, it being the Fast Day, upon some theme of judgment. With a great swing of triumph in his voice, Mr. Murray rose and announced the Hundredth Psalm. An electric thrill went through the congregation as, with a wave of his hand, he said: “Let us rise and sing. Now, John, Old Hundred.”
Never did John “Aleck” and the congregation of Indian Lands sing as they did that morning. It was the first time that the congregation, as a whole, had followed the lead of that great ringing voice, and they followed with a joyous, triumphant shout, as of men come to victory.