The Man From Glengarry

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"No, auntie, I think not," said Maimie. "I will take care of Hughie and
the baby."

"Good by, then, my dear," said Mrs. Murray, kissing her.

"Good by, Ranald," said Maimie, as he turned away to get his colt.

"Good by," he said, awkwardly. He felt like lifting his cap, but
hesitated to do anything so extremely unnatural. With the boys in that
country such an act of courtesy was regarded as a sign of "pride," if
not of weakness.

Their way lay along the concession line for a mile, and then through the
woods by the bridle-path to Peter McGregor's clearing. The green grass
ran everywhere--along the roadside, round the great stump roots, over
the rough pasture-fields, softening and smoothing wherever it went. The
woods were flushing purple, with just a tinge of green from the bursting
buds. The balsams and spruces still stood dark in the swamps, but the
tamaracks were shyly decking themselves in their exquisite robes of
spring, and through all the bush the air was filled with soft sounds
and scents. In earth and air, in field and forest, life, the new spring
life, ran riot. How strangely impertinent death appeared, and how
unlovely in such a world of life!

As they left the concession road and were about to strike into the
woods, Mrs. Murray checked her pony, and looking upon the loveliness
about her, said, softly, "How beautiful it all is!"

There was no response from Ranald, and Mrs. Murray, glancing at his
gloomy face, knew that his heart was sore at the thought of the pain
they were bearing with them. She hesitated a few moments, and then said,
gently: "And I saw a new heaven and a new earth. And there shall be no
more death."

But still Ranald made no reply, and they rode on through the bush in
silence till they came to the clearing beyond. As they entered the
brule, Ranald checked his colt, and holding up his hand, said, "Listen!"

Through the quiet evening air, sweet and clear as a silver bell, came
the long, musical note of the call that brings the cows home for the
milking. It was Bella's voice: "Ko--boss, ko--boss, ko--boss!"

Far across the brule they could see her standing on a big pine stump
near the bars, calling to her cows that were slowly making toward her
through the fallen timber, pausing here and there to crop an especially
rich mouthful, and now and then responding to her call with soft
lowings. Gently Bella chid them. "Come, Blossom, come away now; you are
very lazy. Come, Lily; what are you waiting for? You slow old poke!"
Then again the long, musical note: "Ko--boss, ko--boss, ko--boss!"

Ranald groaned aloud, "Och-hone! It will be her last glad hour," he
said; "it is a hard, hard thing."

"Poor child, poor child!" said Mrs. Murray; "the Lord help her. It will
be a cruel blow."

"That it is, a cruel blow," said Ranald, bitterly; so bitterly that Mrs.
Murray glanced at him in surprise and saw his face set in angry pain.

"The Lord knows best, Ranald," she said, gravely, "and loves best, too."

"It will break her heart, whatever," answered Ranald, shortly.

"He healeth the broken in heart," said Mrs. Murray, softly. Ranald made
no reply, but let the colt take her way through the brule toward the
lane into which Bella had now got her cows. How happy the girl was! Joy
filled every tone of her voice. And why not? It was the springtime, the
time of life and love. Long winter was gone, and soon her brothers would
be back from the shanties. "And Mack, too," she whispered to her happy
heart.


"And are ye sure the news is true?
And are ye sure he's weel?
Is this a time to think o' wark?
Ye jades, fling by your wheel.

"For there's nae luck aboot the hoose,
There's nae luck ava,
There's little pleesure in the hoose
When oor gude man's awa."


So she sang, not too loud; for the boys were at the barn and she would
never hear the end of it.

"Well, Bella, you are getting your cows home. How are you, my dear?"

Bella turned with a scarlet face to meet the minister's wife, and her
blushes only became deeper when she saw Ranald, for she felt quite
certain that Ranald would understand the meaning of her song.

"I will go on with the cows," said Ranald, in a hoarse voice, and Mrs.
Murray, alighting, gave him her pony to lead.

Peter McGregor was a stern man to his own family, and to all the world,
with the single exception of his only daughter, Bella. His six boys he
kept in order with a firm hand, and not one of them would venture to
take a liberty with him. But Bella had no fear of his grim face and
stern ways, and "just twiddled her father round her finger," as her
mother said, with a great show of impatience. But, in spite of all
her petting from her big brothers and her father, Bella remained quite
unspoiled, the light of her home and the joy of her father's heart. It
had not escaped the father's jealous eye that Big Mack Cameron found
occasion for many a visit to the boys on an evening when the day's work
was done, and that from the meetings he found his shortest way home
round by the McGregor's. At first the old man was very gruff with him,
and was for sending him about his business, but his daughter's happy
face, and the light in her eyes, that could mean only one thing, made
him pause, and after a long and sleepless night, he surprised his
daughter the next morning with a word of gentle greeting and an unusual
caress, and thenceforth took Big Mack to his heart. Not that any word or
explanation passed between them; it had not come to that as yet; but
Big Mack felt the change, and gave him thenceforth the obedience and
affection of a son.

The old man was standing in the yard, waiting to help with the milking.

Ranald drove the cows in, and then, tying up the horses, went straight
to him.

"I bring bad news, Mr. McGregor," he said, anxious to get done with his
sad task. "There has been an accident on the river, and Mack Cameron is
drowned."

"What do you say, boy?" said Peter, in a harsh voice.

"He was trying to save a Frenchman, and when they got him out he was
dead," said Ranald, hurrying through his tale, for he saw the two
figures coming up the lane and drawing nearer.

"Dead!" echoed the old man. "Big Mack! God help me."

"And they will be wanting a team," continued Ranald, "to go to Cornwall
to-morrow."

The old man stood for a few moments, looking stupidly at Ranald. Then,
lifting his hat from his gray head, he said, brokenly: "My poor girl!
Would God I had died for him."

Ranald turned away and stood looking down the lane, shrinking from the
sight of the old man's agony. Then, turning back to him, he said: "The
minister's wife is coming yonder with Bella."

The old man started, and with a mighty effort commanding himself, said,
"Now may God help me!" and went to meet his daughter.

Through the gloom of the falling night Ranald could see the frightened
white face and the staring, tearless eyes. They came quite near before
Bella caught sight of her father. For a moment she hesitated, till the
old man, without a word, beckoned her to him. With a quick little run
she was in his arms, where she lay moaning, as if in sore bodily pain.
Her father held her close to him, murmuring over her fond Gaelic words,
while Ranald and Mrs. Murray went over to the horses and stood waiting
there.

"I will go now to Donald Ross," Ranald said, in a low voice, to the
minister's wife. He mounted the colt and was riding off, when Peter
called him back.

"The boys will take the wagon to-morrow," he said.

"They will meet at the Sixteenth at daylight," replied Ranald; and then
to Mrs. Murray he said, "I will come back this way for you. It will soon
be dark."

But Bella, hearing him, cried to her: "Oh, you will not go?"

"Not if you need me, Bella," said Mrs. Murray, putting her arms around
her. "Ranald will run in and tell them at home." This Ranald promised to
do, and rode away on his woeful journey; and before he reached home that
night, the news had spread far and wide, from house to house, like a
black cloud over a sunny sky.

The home-coming of the men from the shanties had ever been a time of
rejoicing in the community. The Macdonald gang were especially welcome,
for they always came back with honor and with the rewards of their
winter's work. There was always a series of welcoming gatherings in the
different homes represented in the gang, and there, in the midst of the
admiring company, tales would be told of the deeds done and the trials
endured, of the adventures on the river and the wonders of the cities
where they had been. All were welcome everywhere, and none more than Big
Mack Cameron. Brimming with good nature, and with a remarkable turn for
stories, he was the center of every group of young people wherever he
went; and at the "bees" for logging or for building or for cradling, Big
Mack was held in honor, for he was second in feats of strength only to
Macdonald Bhain himself. It was with no common grief that people heard
the word that they were bringing him home dead.

At the Sixteenth next morning, before the break of day, Ranald stood in
the gloom waiting for the coming of the teams. He had been up most of
the night and he was weary in body and sore at heart, but Macdonald
Bhain had trusted him, and there must be no mistake. One by one the
teams arrived. First to appear was Donald Ross, the elder. For years he
had given over the driving of his team to his boys, but to-day he felt
that respect to the family demanded his presence on such an errand as
this; and besides, he knew well that his son Dannie, Mack's special
chum, would expect him to so honor the home-coming of his dead friend.
Peter McGregor, fearing to leave his daughter for that long and lonely
day, sent his son John in his place. It was with difficulty that Mack's
father, Long John Cameron, had been persuaded to remain with the mother
and to allow Murdie to go in his stead.

The last to arrive was Farquhar McNaughton, Kirsty's Farquhar, with his
fine black team and new light wagon. To him was to be given the honor
of bearing the body home. Gravely they talked and planned, and then left
all to Ranald to execute.

"You will see to these things, Ranald, my man," said Donald Ross, with
the air of one giving solemn charge. "Let all things be done decently
and in order."

"I will try," said Ranald, simply. But Farquhar McNaughton looked at him
doubtfully.

"It is a peety," he said, "there is not one with more experience. He is
but a lad."

But Donald Ross had been much impressed with Ranald's capable manner the
night before.

"Never you fear, Farquhar," he replied; "Ranald is not one to fail us."

As Ranald stood watching the wagons rumbling down the road and out of
sight, he felt as if years must have passed since he had received the
letter that had laid on him the heavy burden of this sad news. That his
uncle, Macdonald Bhain, should have sent the word to him brought Ranald
a sense of responsibility that awakened the man in him, and he knew he
would feel himself a boy no more. And with that new feeling of manhood
stirring within him, he went about his work that day, omitting no detail
in arrangement for the seemly conduct of the funeral.

Night was falling as the wagons rumbled back again from Cornwall,
bringing back the shantymen and their dead companion. Up through the
Sixteenth, where a great company of people stood silent and with bared
heads, the sad procession moved, past the old church, up through the
swamp, and so onward to the home of the dead. None of the Macdonald gang
turned aside to their homes till they had given their comrade over
into the keeping of his own people. By the time the Cameron's gate was
reached the night had grown thick and black, and the drivers were glad
enough of the cedar bark torches that Ranald and Don waved in front of
the teams to light the way up the lane. In silence Donald Ross, who was
leading, drove up his team to the little garden gate and allowed the
great Macdonald and Dannie to alight.

At the gate stood Long John Cameron, silent and self-controlled, but
with face showing white and haggard in the light of the flaring torches.
Behind him, in the shadow, stood the minister. For a few moments they
all remained motionless and silent. The time was too great for words,
and these men knew when it was good to hold their peace. At length
Macdonald Bhain broke the silence, saying in his great deep voice, as he
bared his head: "Mr. Cameron, I have brought you back your son, and God
is my witness, I would his place were mine this night."

"Bring him in, Mr. Macdonald," replied the father, gravely and steadily.
"Bring him in. It is the Lord; let Him do what seemeth Him good."

Then six of the Macdonald men came forward from the darkness, Curly and
Yankee leading the way, and lifted the coffin from Farquhar's wagon, and
reverently, with heads uncovered, they followed the torches to the door.
There they stopped suddenly, for as they reached the threshold, there
arose a low, long, heart-smiting cry from within. At the sound of that
cry Ranald staggered as if struck by a blow, and let his torch fall to
the ground. The bearers waited, looking at each other in fear.

"Whisht, Janet, woman!" said Long John, gravely. "Your son is at the
door."

"Ah, indeed, that he is, that he is! My son! My son!"

She stood in the doorway with hands uplifted and with tears streaming
down her face. "Come in, Malcolm; come in, my boy. Your mother is
waiting for you."

Then they carried him in and laid him in the "room," and retiring to the
kitchen, sat down to watch the night.

In half an hour the father came out and found them there.

"You have done what you could, Mr. Macdonald," he said, addressing him
for all, "and I will not be unmindful of your kindness. But now you can
do no more. Your wife and your people will be waiting you."

"And, please God, in good time they will be seeing us. As for me, I will
neither go to my home nor up into my bed, but I will watch by the man
who was my faithful friend and companion till he is laid away."

And in this mind he and his men remained firm, taking turns at the
watching all that night and the next day.

As Macdonald finished speaking, the minister came into the kitchen,
bringing with him the mother and the children. The men all rose to their
feet, doing respect to the woman and to her grief. When they were seated
again, the minister rose and said: "My friends, this is a night for
silence and not for words. The voice of the Lord is speaking in our
ears. It becomes us to hear, and to submit ourselves to His holy will.
Let us pray."

As Ranald listened to the prayer, he could not help thinking how
different it was from those he was accustomed to hear from the pulpit.
Solemn, simple, and direct, it lifted the hearts of all present up to
the throne of God, to the place of strength and of peace. There was
no attempt to explain the "mystery of the Providence," but there was
a sublime trust that refused to despair even in the presence of
impenetrable darkness.

After the minister had gone, Macdonald Bhain took Ranald aside and asked
him as to the arrangements for the funeral. When Ranald had explained to
him every detail, Macdonald laid his hand on his nephew's shoulder and
said, kindly, "It is well done, Ranald. Now you will be going home, and
in the morning you will see your aunt, and if she will be wishing to
come to the wake to-morrow night, then you will bring her."

Then Ranald went home, feeling well repaid for his long hours of anxiety
and toil.



CHAPTER XI

THE WAKE


The wake was an important feature in the social life of the people of
Indian Lands. In ancient days, in the land of their forefathers, the
wake had been deemed a dire necessity for the safeguarding of the dead,
who were supposed to be peculiarly exposed to the malicious attacks
of evil spirits. Hence, with many lighted candles, and with much
incantation, friends would surround the body through the perilous hours
of darkness. It was a weird and weary vigil, and small wonder if it
appeared necessary that the courage and endurance of the watchers should
be fortified with copious draughts of "mountain dew," with bread and
cheese accompaniments. And the completeness of their trust in the
efficacy of such supports was too often evidenced by the condition of
the watchers toward the dawn of the morning. And, indeed, if the spirits
were not too fastidious, and if they had so desired, they could have
easily flown away, not only with the "waked," but with the "wakers" as
well.

But those days and those notions had long passed away. The wake still
remained, but its meaning and purpose had changed. No longer for the
guarding of the dead, but for the comfort of the living, the friends
gathered to the house of mourning and watched the weary hours. But
Highland courtesy forbade that the custom of refreshing the watchers
should be allowed to die out, and hence, through the night, once and
again, the whisky, bread, and cheese were handed around by some close
friend of the family, and were then placed upon the table for general
use. It was not surprising that, where all were free to come and
welcome to stay, and where anything like scantiness in providing or
niggardliness in serving would be a matter of family disgrace, the wake
often degenerated into a frolic, if not a debauch. In order to check
any such tendency, it had been the custom of late years to introduce
religious services, begun by the minister himself and continued by the
elders.

As the evening fell, a group of elders stood by the back door of Long
John Cameron's sorrow-stricken home, talking quietly over the sad event
and arranging for the "exercises" of the night. At a little distance
from them sat Yankee, with Ranald beside him, both silent and listening
somewhat indifferently to the talk of the others. Yankee was not in his
element. He was always welcome in the homes of his comrades, for he was
ready with his tongue and clever with his fingers, but with the graver
and religious side of their lives he had little in common. It was,
perhaps, this feeling that drew him toward Macdonald Dubh and Ranald, so
that for weeks at a time he would make their house his home. He had "no
use for wakes," as he said himself, and had it not been that it was one
of the gang that lay dead within, Yankee would have avoided the house
until all was over and the elders safely away.

Of the elders, only four were present as yet: Donald Ross, who was ever
ready to bring the light of his kindly face to cheer the hearts of the
mourners; Straight Rory, who never, by any chance, allowed himself
to miss the solemn joy of leading the funeral psalm; Peter McRae, who
carried behind his stern old face a heart of genuine sympathy; and Kenny
Crubach, to whom attendance at funerals was at once a duty and a horror.

Donald Ross, to whom all the elders accorded, instinctively, the place
of leader, was arranging the order of "the exercises."

"Mr. McCuaig," he said to Straight Rory, "you will take charge of the
singing. The rest of us will, in turn, give out a psalm and read a
portion of Scripture with a few suitable remarks, and lead in prayer. We
will not be forgetting, brethren," said old Donald, "that there will be
sore hearts here this night.'

Straight Rory's answer was a sigh so woeful and so deep that Yankee
looked over at him and remarked in an undertone to Ranald, "He ain't so
cheerful as he might be. He must feel awful inside."

"It is a sad and terrible day for the Camerons," said Peter McRae.

"Aye, it is sad, indeed," replied Donald Ross. "He was a good son and
they will be missing him bad. It is a great loss."

"Yes, the loss is great," said Peter, grimly. "But, after all, that is a
small thing."

Straight Rory sighed again even more deeply than before. Donald Ross
said nothing.

"What does the old duck mean, anyhow?" said Yankee to Ranald.

The boy made no reply. His heart was sick with horror at Peter's
meaning, which he understood only too well.

"Aye," went on Peter, "it is a terrible, mysterious Providence, and a
heavy warning to the ungodly and careless."

"He means me, I guess," remarked Yankee to Ranald.

"It will perhaps be not amiss to any of us," said Kenny Crubach,
sharply.

"Indeed, that is true," said Donald Ross, in a very humble voice.

"Yes, Mr. Ross," said Peter, ignoring Kenny Crubach, "but at times the
voice of Providence cannot be misunderstood, and it will not do for
the elders of the church to be speaking soft things when the Lord is
speaking in judgment and wrath."

Donald was silent, while Straight Rory assented with a heartrending
"Aye, aye," which stirred Yankee's bile again.

"What's he talkin' about? He don't seem to be usin' my language," he
said, in a tone of wrathful perplexity. Ranald was too miserable to
answer, but Kenny was ready with his word.

"Judgment and wrath," he echoed, quickly. "The man would require to be
very skillful whatever in interpreting the ways of Providence, and very
bold to put such a meaning into the death of a young man such as Malcolm
yonder." The little man's voice was vibrating with feeling.

Then Yankee began to understand. "I'll be gol-blamed to a cinder!" he
exclaimed, in a low voice, falling back upon a combination that seemed
more suitable to the circumstances. "They ain't sendin' him to hell,
are they?" He shut up the knife with which he had been whittling with a
sharp snap, and rising to his feet, walked slowly over to the group of
elders.

"Far be it from me to judge what is not to be seen," said Peter. "But
we are allowed and commanded to discern the state of the heart by the
fruits."

"Fruits?" replied Kenny, quickly. "He was a good son and brother and
friend; he was honest and clean, and he gave his life for another at the
last."

"Exactly so," said Peter. "I am not denying much natural goodness, for
indeed he was a fine lad; but I will be looking for the evidence that he
was in a state of grace. I have not heard of any, and glad would I be to
hear it."

The old man's emotion took the sharpness out of Kenny's speech, but he
persisted, stoutly, "Goodness is goodness, Mr. McRae, for all that."

"You will not be holding the Armenian doctrine of works, Mr. Campbell?"
said Peter, severely. "You would not be pointing to good works as a
ground of salvation?"

Yankee, who had been following the conversation intently, thought he saw
meaning in it at last.

"If I might take a hand," he said, diffidently, "I might contribute
somethin' to help you out."

Peter regarded him a little impatiently. He had forgotten the concrete,
for the moment, in the abstract, and was donning his armor for a battle
with Kenny upon the "fundamentals." Hence he was not too well pleased
with Yankee's interruption. But Donald Ross gladly welcomed the
diversion. The subject was to him extremely painful.

"We will be glad," he said to Yankee, "to hear you, Mr. Latham."

"Well," said Yankee, slowly, "from your remarks I gathered that you
wanted information about the doings of--" he jerked his head toward the
house behind him. "Now, I want to say," he continued, confidentially,
"you've come to the right shop, for I've ate and slept, I've worked and
fought, I've lived with him by day and by night, and right through he
was the straightest, whitest man I ever seen, and I won't except the
boss himself." Yankee paused to consider the effect of this statement,
and to allow its full weight to be appreciated; and then he continued:
"Yes, sir, you may just bet your--you may be right well sure,"
correcting himself, "that you're safe in givin'"--here he dropped
his voice, and jerked his head toward the house again--"in givin' the
highest marks, full value, and no discount. Why," he went on, with an
enthusiasm rare in him, "ask any man in the gang, any man on the river,
if they ever seen or heard of his doin' a mean or crooked thing, and if
you find any feller who says he did, bring him here, and, by"--Yankee
remembered himself in time--"and I give you my solemn word that I'll eat
him, hat and boots." Yankee brought his bony fist down with a whack into
his hand. Then he relapsed into his lazy drawl again: "No, siree, hoss!
If it's doin's you're after, don't you be slow in bankin' your little
heap on HIS doin's."

Donald Ross grasped Yankee's hand and shook it hard. "I will be thanking
you for that word," he said, earnestly.

But Peter felt that the cause of truth demanded that he should speak
out. "Mr. Latham," he said, solemnly, "what you have been saying is
very true, no doubt, but if a man is not 'born again he cannot see the
kingdom of God.' These are the words of the Lord himself."

"Born again!" said Yankee. "How? I don't seem to get you. But I guess
the feller that does the right thing all round has got a purty good
chance."

"It is not a man's deeds, we are told," said Peter, patiently, "but his
heart."

"There you are," said Yankee, warmly, "right again, and that's what I
always hold to. It's the heart a man carries round in his inside. Never
mind your talk, never mind your actin' up for people to see. Give me the
heart that is warm and red, and beats proper time, you bet. Say! you're
all right." Yankee gazed admiringly at the perplexed and hopeless Peter.