Glengarry Schooldays

R >> Ralph Connor >> Glengarry Schooldays


It was a happy hour for them all. The slanting rays of the afternoon
sun filled the air with a genial warmth. A little breeze bore from the
orchard near by a fragrance of apple-blossoms. A matronly hen, tethered
by the leg to her coop, raised indignant protest against the outrage on
her personal liberty, or clucked and crooned her invitations, counsels,
warnings, and encouragements, in as many different tones, to her
independent, fluffy brood of chicks, while a huge gobbler strutted
up and down, thrilling with pride in the glossy magnificence of his
outspread tail and pompous, mighty chest.

Hughie was conscious of a deep and grateful content, but across his
content lay a shadow. If only that would lift! As he watched Thomas with
his mother, he realized how far he had drifted from his own mother, and
he thought with regret of the happy days, which now seemed so far in
the past, when his mother had shared his every secret. But for him those
days could never come again.

At supper, Hughie was aware of some subtle difference in the spirit of
the home. As to Thomas so to his father a change had come. The old man
was as silent as ever, indeed more so, but there was no asperity in his
silence. His critical, captious manner was gone. His silence was that
of a great sorrow, and of a great fear. While there was more cheerful
conversation than ever at the table, there was through all a new respect
and a certain tender consideration shown toward the silent old man at
the head, and all joined in an effort to draw him from his gloom. The
past months of his wife's suffering had bowed him as with the weight of
years. Even Hughie could note this.

After supper the old man "took the Books" as usual, but when, as High
Priest, he "ascended the Mount of Ordinances to offer the evening
sacrifice," he was as a man walking in thick darkness bewildered and
afraid. The prayer was largely a meditation on the heinousness of sin
and the righteous judgments of God, and closed with an exaltation of the
Cross, with an appeal that the innocent might be spared the punishment
of the guilty. The conviction had settled in the old man's mind that
"the Lord was visiting upon him and his family his sins, his pride, his
censoriousness, his hardness of heart." The words of his prayer fell
meaningless upon Hughie's English ears, but the boy's heart quivered
in response to the agony of entreaty in the pleading tones, and he rose
from his knees awed and subdued.

There was no word spoken for some moments after the prayer. With people
like the Finches it was considered to be an insult to the Almighty to
depart from "the Presence" with any unseemly haste. Then Thomas came to
help his mother to her room, but she, with her eyes upon her husband,
quietly put Thomas aside and said, "Donald, will you tak me ben?"

Rarely had she called him by his name before the family, and all felt
that this was a most unusual demonstration of tenderness on her part.

The old man glanced quickly at her from under his overhanging eyebrows,
and met her bright upward look with an involuntary shake of the head and
a slight sigh. Comfort was not for him, and he must not delude
himself. But with a little laugh she put her hand on his arm, and as if
administering reproof to a little child, she said some words in Gaelic.

"Oh, woman, woman!" said Donald in reply, "if it was yourself we had to
deal with--"

"Whisht, man! Will you be putting me before your Father in heaven?" she
said, as they disappeared into the other room.

There was no fiddle that evening. There was no heart for it with
Thomas, neither was there time, for there was the milking to do, and the
"sorting" of the pails and pans, and the preparing for churning in the
morning, so that when all was done, the long evening had faded into the
twilight and it was time for bed.

Before going upstairs, Thomas took Hughie into "the room" where his
mother's bed had been placed. Thomas gave her her medicine and made her
comfortable for the night.

"Is there nothing else now, mother?" he said, still lingering about her.

"No, Thomas, my man. How are the cows doing?"

"Grand; Blossom filled a pail to-night, and Spotty almost twice. She's a
great milker, yon."

"Yes, and so was her mother. I remember she used to fill two pails when
the grass was good."

"I remember her, too. Her horns curled right back, didn't they? And she
always looked so fierce."

"Yes, but she was a kindly cow. And will the churn be ready for the
morning?"

"Yes, mother, we'll have buttermilk for our porridge, sure enough."

"Well, you'll need to be up early for that, too early, Thomas, lad, for
a boy like you."

"A boy like me!" said Thomas, feigning indignation, and stretching
himself to his full height. "Where would you be getting your men,
mother?"

"You are man enough, laddie," said his mother, "and a good one you will
come to be, I doubt. And you, too, Hughie, lad," she added, turning to
him. "You will be like your father."

"I dunno," said Hughie, his face flushing scarlet. He was weary and sick
of his secret, and the sight of the loving comradeship between Thomas
and his mother made his burden all the heavier.

"What's wrong with yon laddie?" asked Mrs. Finch, when Hughie had gone
away to bed.

"Now, mother, you're too sharp altogether. And how do you know anything
is wrong with him?"

"I warrant you his mother sees it. Something is on his mind. Hughie is
not the lad he used to be. He will not look at you straight, and that is
not like Hughie."

"Oh, mother, you're a sharp one," said Thomas. "I thought no one had
seen that but myself. Yes, there is something wrong with him. It's
something in the school. It's a poor place nowadays, anyway, and I wish
Hughie were done with it."

"He must keep at the school, Thomas, and I only wish you could do the
same." His mother sighed. She had her own secret ambition for Thomas,
and though she never opened her heart to her son, or indeed to any one,
Thomas somehow knew that it was her heart's desire to see him "in the
pulpit."

"Never you mind, mother," he said, brightly. "It'll all come right.
Aren't you always the one preaching faith to me?"

"Yes, laddie, and it is needed, and sorely at times."

"Now, mither," said Thomas, dropping into her native speech, "ye mauna
be fashin' yersel. Ye'll jist say 'Now I lay me,' and gang to sleep like
a bairnie."

"Ay, that's a guid word, laddie, an' a'll tak it. Ye may kiss me guid
nicht. A'll tak it."

Thomas bent over her and whispered in her ear, "Ay, mither, mither,
ye're an angel, and that ye are."

"Hoots, laddie, gang awa wi' ye," said his mother, but she held her arms
about his neck and kissed him once and again. There was no one to see,
and why should they not give and take their heart's fill of love.

But when Thomas stood outside the room door, he folded his arms tight
across his breast and whispered with lips that quivered, "Ay, mither,
mither, mither, there's nane like ye. There's nane like ye." And he was
glad that when he went upstairs, he found Hughie unwilling to talk.

The next three days they were all busy with the planting of the
potatoes, and nothing could have been better for Hughie. The sweet,
sunny air, and the kindly, wholesome earth and honest hard work were
life and health to mind and heart and body. It is wonderful how the
touch of the kindly mother earth cleanses the soul from its unwholesome
humors. The hours that Hughie spent in working with the clean, red earth
seemed somehow to breathe virtue into him. He remembered the past months
like a bad dream. They seemed to him a hideous unreality, and he could
not think of Foxy and his schemes, nor of his own weakness in yielding
to temptation, without a horrible self-loathing. He became aware of a
strange feeling of sympathy and kinship with old Donald Finch. He seemed
to understand his gloom. During those days their work brought those two
together, for Billy Jack had the running of the drills, and to Thomas
was intrusted the responsibility of "dropping" the potatoes, so Hughie
and the old man undertook to "cover" after Thomas.

Side by side they hoed together, speaking not a word for an hour at a
time, but before long the old man appeared to feel the lad's sympathy.
Hughie was quick to save him steps, and eager in many ways to anticipate
his wishes. He was quick, too, with the hoe, and ambitious to do his
full share of the work, and this won the old man's respect, so that
by the end of the first day there was established between them a solid
basis of friendship.

Old Donald Finch was no cheerful companion for Hughie, but it was to
Hughie a relief, more than anything else, that he was not much with
either Thomas or Billy Jack.

"You're tired," he ventured, in answer to a deep sigh from the old man,
toward the close of the day.

"No, laddie," replied the old man, "I know not that I am working. The
burden of toil is the least of all our burdens." And then, after a
pause, he added, "It is a terrible thing, is sin."

To an equal in age the old man would never have ventured this
confidence, but to Hughie, to his own surprise, he found it easy to
talk.

"A terrible thing," he repeated, "and it will always be finding you
out."

Hughie listened to him with a fearful sinking of heart, thinking of
himself and his sin.

"Yes," repeated the old man, with awful solemnity, "it will come up with
you at last."

"But," ventured Hughie, timidly, "won't God forgive? Won't he ever
forget?"

The old man looked at him, leaning upon his hoe.

"Yes, he will forgive. But for those who have had great privileges, and
who have sinned against light--I will not say."

The fear deepened in Hughie's heart.

"Do you mean that God will not forgive a man who has had a good chance,
an elder, or a minister, or--or--a minister's son, say, like me?"

There was something in Hughie's tone that startled the old man. He
glanced at Hughie's face.

"What am I saying?" he cried. "It is of myself I am thinking, boy, and
of no minister or minister's son."

But Hughie stood looking at him, his face showing his terrible anxiety.
God and sin were vivid realities to him.

"Yes, yes," said the old man to himself, "it is a great gospel. 'As far
as the east is distant from the west.' 'And plenteous redemption is ever
found with him.'"

"But, do you think," said Hughie, in a low voice, "God will tell all our
sins? Will he make them known?"

"God forbid!" cried the old man. "'And their sins and their iniquities
will I remember no more.' 'The depths of the sea.' No, no, boy, he will
surely forget, and he will not be proclaiming them."

It was a strange picture. The old man leaning upon the top of his
hoe looking over at the lad, the gloom of his face irradiated with a
momentary gleam of hope, and the boy looking back at him with almost
breathless eagerness.

"It would be great," said Hughie, at last, "if he would forget."

"Yes," said the old man, the gleam in his face growing brighter, "'If we
confess our sins he is faithful and just to forgive us,' and forgiving
with him is forgetting. Ah, yes, it is a great gospel," he continued,
and standing there he lifted up his hand and broke into a kind of chant
in Gaelic, of which Hughie could catch no meaning, but the exalted look
on the old man's face was translation enough.

"Must we always tell?" said Hughie, after the old man had ceased.

"What are you saying, laddie?"

"I say must we always tell our sins--I mean to people?"

The old man thought a moment. "It is not always good to be talking about
our sins to people. That is for God to hear. But we must be ready to
make right what is wrong."

"Yes, yes," said Hughie, eagerly, "of course one would be glad to do
that."

The old man gave him one keen glance, and began hoeing again.

"Ye'd better be asking ye're mother about that. She will know."

"No, no," said Hughie, "I can't."

The old man paused in his work, looked at the boy for a moment or two,
and then went on working again.

"Speak to my woman," he said, after a few strokes of his hoe. "She's a
wonderful wise woman." And Hughie wished that he dared.

During the days of the planting they became great friends, and to their
mutual good. The mother's keen eyes noted the change both in Hughie and
in her husband, and was glad for it. It was she that suggested to Billy
Jack that he needed help in the back pasture with the stones. Billy
Jack, quick to take her meaning, eagerly insisted that help he must
have, indeed he could not get on with the plowing unless the stones
were taken off. And so it came that Hughie and the old man, with old Fly
hitched up in the stone-boat, spent two happy and not unprofitable days
in the back pasture. Gravely they discussed the high themes of God's
sovereignty and man's freedom, with all their practical issues upon
conduct and destiny. Only once, and that very shyly, did the old man
bring round the talk to the subject of their first conversation that
meant so much to them both.

"The Lord will not be wanting to shame us beyond what is necessary," he
said. "There are certain sins which he will bring to light, but there
are those that, in his mercy, he permits us to hide; provided always,"
he added, with emphasis, "we are done with them."

"Yes, indeed," assented Hughie, eagerly, "and who wouldn't be done with
them?"

But the old man shook his head sadly.

"If that were always true a man would soon be rid of his evil heart.
But," he continued, as if eager to turn the conversation, "you will be
talking with my woman about it. She's a wonderful wise woman, yon."

Somehow the opportunity came to Hughie to take the old man's advice. On
Saturday evening, just before leaving for home, he found himself alone
with Mrs. Finch sitting beside the open window, watching the sun go down
behind the trees.

"What a splendid sunset!" he cried. He was ever sensitive to the
majestic drama of nature.

"Ay," said Mrs. Finch, "the clouds and the sun make wonderful beauty
together, but without the sun the clouds are ugly things."

Hughie quickly took her meaning.

"They are not pleasant," he said.

"No, not pleasant," she replied, "but with the sunlight upon them they
are wonderful."

Hughie was silent for some moments, and then suddenly burst out, "Mrs.
Finch, does God forget sins, and will he keep them hid, from people, I
mean?"

"Ay," she said, with quiet conviction, "he will forget, and he will hide
them. Why should he lay the burden of our sins upon others? And if he
does not why should we?"

"Do you mean we need not always tell? I'd like to tell my--some one."

"Ay," she replied, "it's a weary wark and a lanely to carry it oor lane,
but it's an awfu' grief to hear o' anither's sin. An awfu' grief," she
repeated to herself.

"But," burst out Hughie, "I'll never be right till I tell my mother."

"Ay, and then it is she would be carrying the weight o' it."

"But it's against her," said Hughie, his hands going up to his face.
"Oh, Mrs. Finch, it's just awful mean. I don't know how I did it."

"Ye can tell me, laddie, if ye will," said she, kindly, and Hughie
poured forth the whole burden that had lain so long upon him, but he
told it laying upon Foxy small blame, for during those days, his
own part had come to bulk so large with him that Foxy's was almost
forgotten.

For some moments after he had done Mrs. Finch sat in silence, leaning
forward and patting the boy's bowed head.

"Ay, but he is rightly named," she said, at length.

"Who?" asked Hughie, surprised.

"Yon store-keepin' chiel." Then she added, "But ye're done wi' him and
his tricks, and ye'll stand up against him and be a man for the wee
laddies."

"Oh, I don't know," said Hughie, too sick at heart and too penetrated
with the miserable sense of his own meanness and cowardice, to make any
promise.

"And as tae ye're mither, laddie," went on Mrs. Finch, "it will be
a sair burden for her." When Mrs. Finch was greatly moved she always
dropped into her broadest Scotch.

"Oh, yes, I know," said Hughie, his voice now broken with sobs, "and
that's the worst of it. If I didn't have to tell her! She'll just
break her heart, I know. She thinks I'm so--oh, oh--" The long pent up
feelings came flooding forth in groans and sobs.

For some moments Mrs. Finch sat quietly, and then she said, "Listen,
laddie. There is Another to be thought of first."

"Another?" asked Hughie. "Oh, yes, I know. But He knows already, and
indeed I have often told Him. But besides, you say He will forget, and
take it away. But mother doesn't know, and doesn't suspect."

"Well, then, laddie," said Mrs. Finch, with quiet firmness, "let her
tell ye what to do. Mak ye're offer to tell her, and warn her that it'll
grieve ye baith, and then let her say."

"Yes, I'll do it. I'll do it to-night, and if she says so, then I'll
tell her."

And so he did, and when he came back to the Finch's on Monday morning,
for his mother saw that leaving school for a time would be no serious
loss, and a week or two with the Finches might be a great gain, he came
radiant to Mrs. Finch, and finding her in her chair by the open window
alone, he burst forth, "I told her, and she wouldn't let me. She didn't
want to know so long as I said it was all made right. And she promised
she would trust me just the same. Oh, she's splendid, my mother! And
she's coming this week to see you. And I tell you I just feel like--like
anything! I can't keep still. I'm like Fido when he's let off his chain.
He just goes wild."

Then, after a pause, he added, in a graver tone, "And mother read
Zaccheus to me. And isn't it fine how He never said a word to
him?"--Hughie was too excited to be coherent--"but stood up for him,
and"--here Hughie's voice became more grave--"I'm going to restore
fourfold. I'm going to work at the hay, and I fired that old pistol into
the pond, and I'm not afraid of Foxy any more, not a bit."

Hughie rushed breathlessly through his story, while the dark face before
him glowed with intelligent sympathy, but she only said, when he had
done, "It is a graund thing to be free, is it no'?"



CHAPTER X

THE BEAR HUNT


"Is Don round, Mrs. Cameron?"

"Mercy me, Hughie! Did ye sleep in the woods? Come away in. Ye're a
sight for sore eyes. Come away in. And how's ye're mother and all?"

"All right, thank you. Is Don in?"

"Don? He's somewhere about the barn. But come away, man, there's a bit
bannock here, and some honey."

"I'm in a hurry, Mrs. Cameron, and I can't very well wait," said Hughie,
trying to preserve an evenness of tone and not allow his excitement to
appear.

"Well, well! What's the matter, whatever?" When Hughie refused a "bit
bannock" and honey, something must be seriously wrong.

"Nothing at all, but I'm just wanting Don for a--for something."

"Well, well, just go to the old barn and cry at him."

Hughie found Don in the old barn, busy "rigging up" his plow, for the
harvest was in and the fall plowing was soon to begin.

"Man, Don!" cried Hughie, in a subdued voice, "it's the greatest thing
you ever heard!"

"What is it now, Hughie? You look fairly lifted. Have you seen a ghost?"

"A ghost? No, something better than that, I can tell you."

Hughie drew near and lowered his voice, while Don worked on
indifferently.

"It's a bear, Don."

Don dropped his plow. His indifference vanished. The Camerons were great
hunters, and many a bear had they, with their famous black dogs, brought
home in their day, but not for the past year or two; and never had Don
bagged anything bigger than a fox or a coon.

"Where did you see him?"

"I didn't see him." Don looked disgusted. "But he was in our house last
night."

"Look here now, stop that!" said Don, gripping Hughie by the jacket and
shaking him.

But Hughie's summer in the harvest-field had built up his muscles, and
so he shook himself free from Don's grasp, and said, "Look out there!
I'm telling you the truth. Last night father was out late and the supper
things were left on the table--some honey and stuff--and after father
had been asleep for a while he was wakened by some one tramping about
the house. He got up, came out of his room, and called out, 'Jessie,
where are the matches?' And just then there was an awful crash, and
something hairy brushed past his leg in the dark and got out of the
door. We all came down, and there was the table upset, the dishes all on
the floor, and four great, big, deep scratches in the table."

"Pshaw! It must have been Fido."

"Fido was in the barn, and just mad to get out; and besides, the tracks
are there yet behind the house. It was a bear, sure enough, and I'm
going after him."

"You?"

"Yes, and I want you to come with the dogs."

"Oh, pshaw! Dear knows where he'll be now," said Don, considering.

"Like enough in the Big Swamp or in McLeod's beech bush. They're awful
fond of beechnuts. But the dogs can track him, can't they?"

"By jingo! I'd like to get him," said Don, kindling under Hughie's
excitement. "Wait a bit now. Don't say a word. If Murdie hears he'll
want to come, sure, and we don't want him. You wait here till I get the
gun and the dogs."

"Have you got any bullets or slugs?"

"Yes, lots. Why? Have you a gun?"

"Yes, you just bet! I've got our gun. What did you think I was going to
do? Put salt on his tail? I've got it down the lane."

"All right, you wait there for me."

"Don't be long," said Hughie, slipping away.

It was half an hour before Don appeared with the gun and the dogs.

"What in the world kept you? I thought you were never coming," said
Hughie, impatiently.

"I tell you it's no easy thing to get away with mother on hand, but it's
all right. Here's your bullets and slugs. I've brought some bannocks and
cheese. We don't know when we'll get home. We'll pick up the track in
your brule. Does any one know you're going?"

"No, only Fusie. He wanted to come, but I wouldn't have it. Fusie gets
so excited." Hughie's calmness was not phenomenal. He could hardly stand
still for two consecutive seconds.

"Well, let's go," and Don set off on a trot, with one of the black dogs
in leash and the other following, and after him came Hughie running
lightly.

In twenty minutes they were at the manse clearing.

"Now," said Don, pulling up, "where did you say you saw his track?"

"Just back of the house there, and round the barn, and then straight for
the brule."

The boys stood looking across the fallen timber toward the barn.

"There's Fido barking," said Hughie. "I bet he's on the scent now."

"Yes," answered Don, "and there's your father, too."

"Gimmini crickets! so it is," said Hughie, slowly. "I don't think it's
worth while going up there to get that track. Can't we get it just as
well in the woods here?" There were always things to do about the house,
and besides, the minister knew nothing of Hughie's familiarity with the
gun, and hence would soon have put a stop to any such rash venture as
bear-hunting.

The boys waited, listening to Fido, who was running back and forward
between the brule and the house barking furiously. The minister seemed
interested in Fido's manoeuvres, and followed him a little way.

"Man!" said Hughie, in a whisper, "perhaps he'll go and look for the gun
himself. And Fido will find us, sure. I say, let's go."

"Let's wait a minute," said Don, "to see what direction Fido takes, and
then we'll put our dogs on."

In a few minutes Hughie breathed more freely, for his father seemed to
lose his interest in Fido, and returned slowly to the house.

"Now," said Hughie, "let's get down into the brule as near Fido as we
can get."

Cautiously the boys made their way through the fallen timber, keeping as
much as possible under cover of the underbrush. But though they hunted
about for some time, the dogs evidently got no scent, for they remained
quite uninterested in the proceedings.

"We'll have to get up closer to where Fido is," said Don, "and the
sooner we get there the better."

"I suppose so," said Hughie. "I suppose I had better go. Fido will
stop barking for me." So, while Don lay hid with the dogs in the brule,
Hughie stole nearer and nearer to Fido, who was still chasing down
toward the brule and back to the house, as if urging some one to come
forth and investigate the strange scent he had discovered. Gradually
Hughie worked his way closer to Fido until within calling distance.

Just as he was about to whistle for the dog, the back door opened and
forth came the minister again. By this time Fido had passed into the
brule a little way, and could not be seen from the house. It was an
anxious moment for Hughie. He made a sudden desperate resolve. He must
secure Fido now, or else give up the chance of getting on the trail of
the bear. So he left his place of hiding, and bending low, ran swiftly
forward until Fido caught sight of him, and hearing his voice, came to
him, barking loudly and making every demonstration of excitement and
joy. He seized the dog by the collar and dragged him down, and after
holding him quiet for a moment, hauled him back to Don.

"We'll have to take him with us," he said. "I'll put this string on his
collar, and he'll go all right." And to this Don agreed, though very
unwillingly, for he had no confidence in Fido's hunting ability.