And we have been in the valley thiss day.”
Mack rose to his feet.
“I could not have said it myself, but, as true as death, that is the word for me.”
“Well,” said Fatty, rising briskly, “I guess you are all right, Mack. I confess I was a bit anxious about you, but—”
“There is no need,” said Mack gravely. “I can sleep now.”
“Good-night, then,” replied Fatty, turning to go. “Cameron, I owe you a whole lot. I won't forget it.” He set his hat upon the back of his head, sticking his hands into his pockets and surveying the group before him. “Say! You Highlanders are a great bunch. I do not pretend to understand you, but I want to say that between you you have saved the day.” And with that the cheery, frisky, irrepressible, but kindly little man faded into the moonlight and was gone.
For the fourth time the day had been saved.
It was a Sabbath day in late August, and in no month of the year does a Sabbath day so chime with the time. For the Sabbath day is a day for rest and holy thought, and the late August is the rest time of the year, when the woods and fields are all asleep in a slumberous blue haze; the sacred time, too, for in late August old Mother Earth is breathing her holiest aspirations heavenward, having made offering of her best in the full fruitage of the year. Hence a Sabbath day in late August chimes marvellously well with the time.
And this particular Sabbath day was perfect of its kind, a dreamy, drowsy day, a day when genial suns and hazy cool airs mingle in excellent harmony, and the tired worker, freed from his week's toil, basks and stretches, yawns and revels in rest under the orchard trees; unless, indeed, he goes to morning church. And to morning church Cameron went as a rule, but to-day, owing to a dull ache in his head and a general sense of languor pervading his limbs, he had chosen instead, as likely to be more healing to his aching head and his languid limbs, the genial sun, tempered with cool and lazy airs under the orchard trees. And hence he lay watching the democrat down the lane driven off to church by Perkins, with Mandy beside him in the front seat, the seat of authority and of activity, and Mr. Haley alone in the back seat, the seat of honour and of retirement. Mrs. Haley was too overborne by the heat and rush of the busy week to adventure the heat and dust of the road, and to sustain the somewhat strenuous discourse of the Reverend Harper Freeman, to whose flock the Haleys belonged. This, however, was not Mrs. Haley's invariable custom. In the cooler weather it was her habit to drive on a Sunday morning to church, sitting in the back seat beside her husband, with Tim and Mandy occupying the front seat beside the hired man, but during the heat and hurry of the harvest time she would take advantage of the quietness of the house and of the two or three hours' respite from the burden of household duties to make up arrears of sleep accumulated during the preceding week, salving her conscience, for she had a conscience in the matter, with a promise that she might go in the evening when it was cooler and when she was more rested. This promise, however, having served its turn, was never fulfilled, for by the evening the wheels of household toil began once more to turn, and Mrs. Haley found it easier to worship vicariously, sending Mandy and Tim to the evening service. And to this service the young people were by no means loath to go, for it was held on fair evenings in MacBurney's woods, two miles away by the road, one mile by the path through the woods. On occasion Perkins would hitch up in the single buggy Dexter, the fiery young colt, too fiery for any other to drive, and, as a special attention to his employer's daughter, would drive her to the service. But since the coming of Cameron, Mandy had allowed this custom to fall into disuse, at first somewhat to Perkins' relief, for the colt was restless and fretted against the tie rein; and, besides, Perkins was not as yet quite prepared to acknowledge any special relationship between himself and the young lady in question before the assembled congregation, preferring to regard himself and to be regarded by others as a free lance. Later, however, as Mandy's preference for a walk through the woods became more marked, Perkins, much to his disgust, found himself reduced to the attitude of a suppliant, urging the superior attraction of a swift drive behind Dexter as against a weary walk to the service. Mandy, however, with the directness of her simple nature, had no compunction in frankly maintaining her preference for a walk with Tim and Cameron through the woods; indeed, more than once she allowed Perkins to drive off with his fiery colt, alone in his glory.
But this Sabbath morning, as Cameron lay under the orchard trees, he was firmly resolved that he would give the whole day to the nursing of the ache in his head and the painful languor in his body. And so lying he allowed his mind to wander uncontrolled over the happenings of the past months, troubled by a lazy consciousness of a sore spot somewhere in his life. Gradually there grew into clearness the realisation of the cause of this sore spot.
“What is the matter with Perkins?” he asked of Tim, who had declined to go to church, and who had strolled into the orchard to be near his friend.
“What is the matter with Perkins?” Cameron asked a second time, for Tim was apparently too much engaged with a late harvest apple to answer.
“How?” said the boy at length.
“He is so infernally grumpy with me.”
“Grumpy? He's sore, I guess.”
“Sore?”
“You bet! Ever since I beat him in the turnips that day.”
“Ever since YOU beat him?” asked Cameron in amazement. “Why should he be sore against me?”
“He knows it was you done it,” said Tim.
“Nonsense, Tim! Besides, Perkins isn't a baby. He surely doesn't hold that against me.”
“Huh, huh,” said Tim, “everybody's pokin' fun at him, and he hates that, and ever since the picnic, too, he hates you.”
“But why in the world?”
“Oh, shucks!” said Tim, impatient at Cameron's density. “I guess you know all right.”
“Know? Not I!”
“Git out?”
“Honor bright, Tim,” replied Cameron, sitting up. “Now, honestly, tell me, Tim, why in the world Perkins should hate me.”
“You put his nose out of joint, I guess,” said Tim with a grin.
“Oh, rot, Tim! How?”
“Every how,” said Tim, proceeding to elaborate. “First when you came here you were no good—I mean—” Tim checked himself hastily.
“I know what you mean, Tim. Go on. You are quite right. I couldn't do anything on the farm.”
“Now,” continued Tim, “you can do anything jist as good as him—except bindin', of course. He's a terror at bindin', but at pitchin' and shockin' and loadin' you're jist as good.”
“But, Tim, that's all nonsense. Perkins isn't such a fool as to hate me because I can keep up my end.”
“He don't like you,” said Tim stubbornly.
“But why? Why in the name of common sense?”
“Well,” said Tim, summing up the situation, “before you come he used to be the hull thing. Now he's got to play second fiddle.”
But Cameron remained unenlightened.
“Oh, pshaw!” continued Tim, making further concessions to his friend's stupidity. “At the dances, at the raisin's, runnin', jumpin'—everythin'—Perkins used to be the King Bee. Now—” Tim's silence furnished an impressive close to the contrast. “Why! They all think you are just fine!” said Tim, with a sudden burst of confidence.
“They?”
“All the boys. Yes, and the girls, too,” said Tim, allowing his solemn face the unusual luxury of a smile.
“The girls?”
“Aw, yeh know well enough—the Murray girls, and the MacKenzies, and the hull lot of them. And then—and then—there's Mandy, too.” Here Tim shot a keen glance at his friend, who now sat leaning against the trunk of an apple tree with his eyes closed.
“Now, Tim, you are a shrewd little chap”—here Cameron sat upright—“but how do you know about the girls, and what is this you say about Mandy? Mandy is good to me—very kind and all that, but—”
“She used to like Perkins pretty well,” said Tim, with a kind of hesitating shyness.
“And Perkins?”
“Oh, he thought he jist owned her. Guess he ain't so sure now,” added Tim. “I guess you've changed Mandy all right.”
It was the one thing Cameron hated to hear, but he made light of it.
“Oh, nonsense!” he exclaimed. “But if I did I would be mighty glad of it. Mandy is too good for a man like Perkins. Why, he isn't safe.”
“He's a terror,” replied Tim seriously. “They are all scairt of him. He's a terror to fight. Why, at MacKenzie's raisin' last year he jist went round foamin' like an old boar and nobody dast say a word to him. Even Mack Murray was scairt to touch him. When he gets like that he ain't afraid of nothin' and he's awful quick and strong.”
Tim proceeded to enlarge upon this theme, which apparently fascinated him, with tales of Perkins' prowess in rough-and-tumble fighting. But Cameron had lost interest and was lying down again with his eyes closed.
“Well,” he said, when Tim had finished his recital, “if he is that kind of a man Mandy should have nothing to do with him.”
But Tim was troubled.
“Dad likes him,” he said gloomily. “He is a good hand. And ma likes him, too. He taffies her up.”
“And Mandy?” enquired Cameron.
“I don't know,” said Tim, still more gloomy. “I guess he kind of makes her. I'd—I'd jist like to take a lump out of him.” Tim's eyes blazed into a sudden fire. “He runs things on this farm altogether too much.”
“Buck up then, Tim, and beat him,” said Cameron, dismissing the subject. “And now I must have some sleep. I have got an awful head on.”
Tim was quick enough to understand the hint, but still he hovered about.
“Say, I'm awful sorry,” he said. “Can't I git somethin'? You didn't eat no breakfast.”
“Oh, all I want is sleep, Tim. I will be all right tomorrow,” replied Cameron, touched by the tone of sympathy in Tim's voice. “You are a fine little chap. Trot along and let me sleep.”
But no sleep came to Cameron, partly because of the hammer knocking in his head, but chiefly because of the thoughts set going by Tim. Cameron was not abnormally egotistical, but he was delightedly aware of the new place he held in the community ever since the now famous Dominion Day picnic, and, now that the harvest rush had somewhat slackened, social engagements had begun to crowd upon him. Dances and frolics, coon hunts and raisings were becoming the vogue throughout the community, and no social function was complete without the presence of Cameron. But this sudden popularity had its embarrassments, and among them, and threatening to become annoying, was the hostility of Perkins, veiled as yet, but none the less real. Moreover, behind Perkins stood a band of young fellows of whom he was the recognised leader and over whom his ability in the various arts and crafts of the farm, his physical prowess in sports, his gay, cheery manner, and, it must be said, the reputation he bore for a certain fierce brute courage in rough-and-tumble fighting, gave him a sort of ascendency.
But Perkins' attitude towards him did not after all cause Cameron much concern. There was another and more annoying cause of embarrassment, and that was Mandy. Tim's words kept reiterating themselves in his brain, “You've changed Mandy all right.” Over this declaration of Tim's, Cameron proceeded to argue with himself. He sat bolt upright that he might face himself on the matter.
“Now, then,” he said to himself, “let's have this thing out.”
“Most willingly. This girl was on the way to engagement to this young man Perkins. You come on the scene. Everything is changed.”
“Well! What of it? It's a mighty good thing for her.”
“But you are the cause of it.”
“The occasion, rather.”
“No, the cause. You have attracted her to you.”
“I can't help that. Besides, it is a mere passing whim. She'll get over all that?” And Cameron laughed scornfully in his own face.
“Do you know that? And how do you know it? Tim thinks differently.”
“Oh, confound it all! I see that I shall have to get out of here.”
“A wise decision truly, and the sooner the better. Do you propose to go at once?”
“At once? Well, I should like to spend the winter here. I have made a number of friends and life is beginning to be pleasant.”
“Exactly! It suits your convenience, but how about Mandy?”
“Oh, rubbish! Must I be governed by the fancies of that silly girl? Besides, the whole thing is absurdly ridiculous.”
“But facts are stubborn, and anyone can see that the girl is—”
“Hang it all! I'll go at the end of the month.”
“Very well. And in the leave-taking—?”
“What?”
“It is pleasant to be appreciated and to carry away with one memories, I will not say tender, but appreciative.”
“I can't act like a boor. I must be decent to the girl. Besides, she isn't altogether a fool.”
“No, but very crude, very primitive, very passionate, and therefore very defenseless.”
“All right, I shall simply shake hands and go.”
So, with the consequent sense of relief that high resolve always brings, Cameron lay down again and fell into slumber and dreams of home.
From these dreams of home Mandy recalled him with a summons to dinner. As his eye, still filled with the vision of his dreams, fell upon her in all the gorgeous splendour of her Sunday dress, he was conscious of a strong sense of repulsion. How coarse, how crude, how vulgar she appeared, how horribly out of keeping with those scenes through which he had just been wandering in his dreams.
“I want no dinner, Mandy,” he said shortly. “I have a bad head and I am not hungry.”
“No dinner?” That a man should not want dinner was to Mandy quite inexplicable, unless, indeed, he were ill.
“Are you sick?” she cried in quick alarm.
“No, I have a headache. It will pass away,” said Cameron, turning over on his side. Still Mandy lingered.
“Let me bring you a nice piece of pie and a cup of tea.”
Cameron shuddered.
“No,” he said, “bring me nothing. I merely wish to sleep.”
But Mandy refused to be driven away.
“Say, I'm awful sorry. I know you're sick.”
“Nonsense!” said Cameron, impatiently, waiting for her to be gone. Still Mandy hesitated.
“I'm awful sorry,” she said again, and her voice, deep, tender, full-toned, revealed her emotion.
Cameron turned impatiently towards her.
“Look here, Mandy! There's nothing wrong with me. I only want a little sleep. I shall be all right to-morrow.”
But Mandy's fears were not to be allayed.
“Say,” she cried, “you look awful bad.”
“Oh, get out, Mandy! Go and get your dinner. Don't mind me.” Cameron's tone was decidedly cross.
Without further remonstrance Mandy turned silently away, but before she turned Cameron caught the gleam of tears in the great blue eyes. A swift compunction seized him.
“I say, Mandy, I don't want to be rude, but—”
“Rude?” cried the girl. “You? You couldn't be. You are always good—to me—and—I—don't—know—” Here her voice broke.
“Oh, come, Mandy, get away to dinner. You are a good girl. Now leave me alone.”
The kindness in his voice quite broke down Mandy's all too slight control. She turned away, audibly sniffling, with her apron to her eyes, leaving Cameron in a state of wrathful perplexity.
“Oh, confound it all!” he groaned to himself. “This is a rotten go. By Jove! This means the West for me. The West! After all, that's the place. Here there is no chance anyway. Why did I not go sooner?”
He rose from the grass, shivering with a sudden chill, went to his bed in the hay mow, and, covering himself with Tim's blankets and his own, fell again into sleep. Here, late in the afternoon, Tim found him and called him to supper.
With Mandy's watchful eye upon him he went through the form of eating, but Mandy was not to be deceived.
“You ain't eatin' nothin',” she said reproachfully as he rose from the table.
“Enough for a man who is doing nothing,” replied Cameron. “What I want is exercise. I think I shall take a walk.”
“Going to church?” she enquired, an eager light springing into her eye.
“To church? I hadn't thought of it,” replied Cameron, but, catching the gleam of a smile on Perkins' face and noting the utterly woebegone expression on Mandy's, he added, “Well, I might as well walk to church as any place else. You are going, Tim?”
“Huh huh!” replied Tim.
“I am going to hitch up Deck, Mandy,” said Perkins.
“Oh, I'm goin' to walk!” said Mandy, emphatically.
“All right!” said Perkins. “Guess I'll walk too with the crowd.”
“Don't mind me,” said Mandy.
“I don't,” laughed Perkins, “you bet! Nor anybody else.”
“And that's no lie!” sniffed Mandy, with a toss of her head.
“Better drive to church, Mandy,” suggested her mother. “You know you're jist tired out and it will be late when you get started.”
“Tired? Late?” cried Mandy, with alacrity. “I'll be through them dishes in a jiffy and be ready in no time. I like the walk through the woods.”
“Depends on the company,” laughed Perkins again. “So do I. Guess we'll all go together.”
True to her promise, Mandy was ready within half an hour. Cameron shuddered as he beheld the bewildering variety of colour in her attire and the still more bewildering arrangement of hat and hair.
“You're good and gay, Mandy,” said Perkins. “What's the killing?”
Mandy made no reply save by a disdainful flirt of her skirts as she set off down the lane, followed by Perkins, Cameron and Tim bringing up the rear.
The lane was a grassy sward, cut with two wagon-wheel tracks, and with a picturesque snake fence on either side. Beyond the fences lay the fields, some of them with stubble raked clean, the next year's clover showing green above the yellow, some with the grain standing still in the shock, and some with the crop, the late oats for instance, still uncut, but ready for the reaper. The turnip field was splendidly and luxuriantly green with never a sign of the brown earth. The hay meadow, too, was green and purple with the second growth of clover.
So down the lane and between the shorn fields, yellow and green, between the clover fields and the turnips, they walked in silence, for the spell of the Sabbath evening lay upon the sunny fields, barred with the shadows from the trees that grew along the fence lines everywhere. At the “slashing” the wagon ruts faded out and the road narrowed to a single cow path, winding its way between stumps and round log piles, half hidden by a luxuriant growth of foxglove and fireweed and asters, and everywhere the glorious goldenrod. Then through the bars the path led into the woods, a noble remnant of the beech and elm and maple forest from which the farm had been cut some sixty years before. Cool and shadowy they stood, and shot through with bright shafts of gold from the westering sun, full of mysterious silence except for the twittering of the sleepy birds or for the remonstrant call of the sentinel crow from his watch tower on the dead top of a great elm. Deeper into the shade the path ran until in the gloom it faded almost out of sight.
Soothed by the cool shade, Cameron loitered along the path, pausing to learn of Tim the names of plants and trees as he went.
“Ain't yeh never comin'?” called Mandy from the gloom far in front.
“What's all the rush?” replied Tim, impatiently, who loved nothing better than a quiet walk with Cameron through the woods.
“Rush? We'll be late, and I hate walkin' up before the hull crowd. Come on!” cried his sister in impatient tone.
“All right, Mandy, we're nearly through the woods. I begin to see the clearing yonder,” said Cameron, pointing to where the light was beginning to show through the tree tops before them.
But they were late enough, and Mandy was glad of the cover of the opening hymn to allow her to find her way to a group of her girl friends, the males of the party taking shelter with a neighbouring group of their own sex near by.
Upon the sloping sides of the grassy hills and under the beech and maple trees, the vanguard of the retreating woods, sat the congregation, facing the preacher, who stood on the grassy level below. Behind them was the solid wall of thick woods, over them time spreading boughs, and far above the trees the blue summer sky, all the bluer for the little white clouds that sailed serene like ships upon a sea. At their feet lay the open country, checkered by the snake fences into fields of yellow, green, and brown, and rolling away to meet the woods at the horizon.
The Sabbath rest filled the sweet air, breathed from the shady woods, rested upon the checkered fields, and lifted with the hymn to the blue heaven above. A stately cathedral it was, this place of worship, filled with the incense of flowers and fields, arched by the high dome of heaven, and lighted by the glory of the setting sun.
Relieved by the walk for a time from the ache in his head, Cameron surrendered himself to the mysterious influences of the place and the hour. He let his eyes wander over the fields below him to the far horizon, and beyond—beyond the woods, beyond the intervening leagues of land and sea—and was again gazing upon the sunlit loveliness of the Cuagh Oir. The Glen was abrim with golden light this summer evening, the purple was on the hills and the little loch gleamed sapphire at the bottom.
The preacher was reading his text.
“Unto one he gave five talents, to another two, to another one, to every man according to his several ability, and straightway took his journey,” and so on to the end of that marvellously wise tale, wise with the wisdom of God, confirmed by the wisdom of human experience.
The Reverend Harper Freeman's voice could hardly, even by courtesy, be called musical; in fact, it was harsh and strident; but this evening the hills, and the trees, and the wide open spaces, Nature's mighty modulator, subdued the harshness, so that the voice rolled up to the people clear, full, and sonorous. Nor was the preacher possessed of great learning nor endued with the gift of eloquence. He had, however, a shrewd knowledge of his people and of their ways and of their needs, and he had a kindly heart, and, more than all, he had the preacher's gift, the divine capacity for taking fire.
For a time his words fell unheeded upon Cameron's outer ear.
“To every man his own endowments, some great, some small, but, mark you, no man left quite poverty-stricken. God gives every man his chance. No man can look God in the face, not one of you here can say that you have had no chance.”
Cameron's vagrant mind, suddenly recalled, responded with a quick assent. Opportunity? Endowment? Yes, surely. His mind flashed back over the years of his education at the Academy and the University, long lazy years. How little he had made of them! Others had turned them into the gold of success. He wondered how old Dunn was getting on, and Linklater, and little Martin. How far away seemed those days, and yet only some four or five months separated him from them.
“One was a failure, a dead, flat failure,” continued the preacher. “Not so much a wicked man, no murderer, no drunkard, no gambler, but a miserable failure. Poor fellow! At the end of life a wretched bankrupt, losing even his original endowment. How would you like to come home after ten, twenty, thirty years of experiment with life and confess to your father that you were dead broke and no good?”
Again Cameron's mind came back from its wandering with a start. Go back to his father a failure! He drew his lip down hard over his teeth. Not while he lived! And yet, what was there in prospect for him? His whole soul revolted against the dreary monotony and the narrowness of his present life, and yet, what other path lay open? Cameron went straying in fancy over the past, or in excursions into the future, while, parallel with his rambling, the sermon continued to make its way through its various heads and particulars.
“Why?” The voice of the preacher rose clear, dominant, arresting. “Why did he fail so abjectly, so meanly, so despicably? For there is no excuse for a failure. Listen! No man NEED fail. A man who is a failure is a mean, selfish, lazy chump.” Mr. Freeman was colloquial, if anything. “Some men pity him. I don't. I have no use for him, and he is the one thing in all the world that God himself has no use for.”
Again Cameron's mind was jerked back as a runaway horse by a rein. So far his life had been a failure. Was there then no excuse for failure? What of his upbringing, his education, his environment? He had been indulging the habit during these last weeks of shifting responsibility from himself for what he had become.
“What was the cause of this young man's failure?” reiterated the preacher. The preacher had a wholesome belief in the value of reiteration. He had a habit of rubbing in his points. “He blamed the boss. Listen to his impudence! 'I knew thee to be a hard man.' He blamed his own temperament and disposition. 'I was afraid.' But the boss brings him up sharp and short. 'Quit lying!' he said. 'I'll tell you what's wrong with you. You've got a mean heart, you ain't honest, and you're too lazy to live. Here, take that money from him and give it to the man that can do most with it, and take this useless loafer out of my sight.' And served him right, too, say I, impudent, lazy liar.”
Cameron found his mind rising in wrathful defense of the unhappy wretched failure in the story. But the preacher was utterly relentless and proceeded to enlarge upon the character of the unhappy wretch.
“Impudent! The way to tell an impudent man is to let him talk. Now listen to this man cheek the boss! 'I knew you,' he said. 'You skin everybody in sight.' I have always noticed,” remarked the preacher, with a twinkle in his eye, “that the hired man who can't keep up his end is the kind that cheeks the boss. And so it is with life. Why, some men would cheek Almighty God. They turn right round and face the other way when God is explaining things to them, when He is persuading them, when He is trying to help them. Then they glance back over their shoulders and say, 'Aw, gwan! I know better than you.' Think of the impudence of them! That's what many a man does with God. With GOD, mind you! GOD! Your Father in heaven, your Brother, your Saviour, God as you know him in the Man of Galilee, the Man you always see with the sick and the outcast and the broken-hearted. It is this God that owns you and all you've got—be honest and say so. You must begin by getting right with God.”
“God!” Once more Cameron went wandering back into the far away days of childhood. God was very near then, and very friendly. How well he remembered when his mother had tucked him in at night and had kissed him and had put out the light. He never felt alone and afraid, for she left him, so she said, with God. It was God who took his mother's place, near to his bedside. In those days God seemed very near and very kind. He remembered his mother's look one day when he declared to her that he could hear God breathing just beside him in the dark. How remote God seemed to-day and how shadowy, and, yes, he had to confess it, unfriendly. He heard no more of the sermon. With a curious ache in his heart he allowed his mind to dwell amid those happy, happy memories when his mother and God were the nearest and dearest to him of all he knew. It may have been the ache in his head or the oppressive languor that seemed to possess his body, but throughout the prayer that followed the sermon he was conscious chiefly of a great longing for his mother's touch upon his head, and with that a longing for his boyhood's sense of the friendly God in his heart.
And so as the preacher led them up to God in prayer, Cameron bowed his head with the others, thankful that he could still believe that, though clouds and darkness might be about Him, God was not beyond the reach of the soul's cry nor quite unmoved by human need. And for the first time for years he sent forth as a little child his cry of need, “God help me! God help me!”
There was still light enough to see. The last hymn was announced. Cameron was conscious of a deep, poignant emotion. He glanced swiftly about him. The eyes of all were upon the preacher's face while he read in slow sonorous tones the words of the old Methodist hymn:
all except the group of young men of whom Perkins was the centre, who, by means of the saccharine medium known as conversation lozenges, were seeking to divert the attention of the band of young girls sitting before them. Among these sat Mandy. As his eye rested upon the billowy outlines of her figure, struggling with the limitations of her white blouse, tricked out with pink ribbons, he was conscious of a wave of mingled pity and disgust. Dull, stupid, and vulgar she looked. It was at her that Perkins was flipping his conversation lozenges. One fell upon her hymn book. With a start she glanced about. Not an eye except Cameron's was turned her way. With a smile and a blush that burned deep under the dull tan of her neck and cheek she took the lozenge, read its inscription, burning a deeper red. The words which she had read she took as Cameron's. She turned her eyes full upon his face. The light of tremulous joy in their lovely depths startled and thrilled him. A snicker from the group of young men behind roused in him a deep indignation. They were taking their coarse fun out of this simple-minded girl. Cameron's furious glance at them appeared only to increase their amusement. It did not lessen Cameron's embarrassment and rage that now and then during the reading of the hymn Mandy's eyes were turned upon him as if with new understanding. Enraged with himself, and more with the group of hoodlums behind him, Cameron stood for the closing hymn with his arms folded across his breast. At the second verse a hand touched his arm. It was Mandy offering him her book. Once more a snicker from the group of delighted observers behind him stirred his indignation on behalf of this awkward and untutored girl. He forced himself to listen to the words of the third verse, which rose clear and sonorous in the preacher's voice:
The serene assurance of the old Methodist hymn rose triumphant in the singing, an assurance born of an experience of past conflict ending in triumph. That note of high and serene confidence conjured up with a flash of memory his mother's face. That was her characteristic, a serene, undismayed courage. In the darkest hours that steady flame of courage never died down.
But once more he was recalled to the service of the hour by a voice, rich, full, low, yet of wonderful power, singing the old words. It took him a moment or two to discover that it was Mandy singing beside him. Her face was turned from him and upwards towards the trees above her, through the network of whose leaves the stars were beginning to shine. Amazed, enthralled, he listened to the flowing melody of her voice. It was like the song of a brook running deep in the forest shade, full-toned yet soft, quiet yet thrilling. She seemed to have forgotten her surroundings. Her soul was holding converse with the Eternal. He lost sight of the coarse and fleshly habiliments in the glimpse he caught of the soul that lived within, pure, it seemed to him, tender, and good. His heart went out to the girl in a new pity. Before the hymn was done she turned her face towards him, and, whether it was the magic of her voice, or the glorious splendour of her eyes, or the mystic touch of the fast darkening night, her face seemed to have lost much of its coarseness and all of its stupidity.
As the congregation dispersed, Cameron, in silence, and with the spell of her voice still upon him, walked quietly beside Mandy towards the gap in the fence leading to the high road. Behind him came Perkins with his group of friends, chaffing with each other and with the girls walking in front of them. As Cameron was stepping over the rails where the fence had been let down, one of the young men following stumbled heavily against him, nearly throwing him down, and before he could recover himself Perkins had taken his place by Mandy's side and seized her arm. There was a general laugh at what was considered a perfectly fair and not unusual piece of jockeying in the squiring of young damsels. The proper procedure in such a case was that the discomfited cavalier should bide his time and serve a like turn upon his rival, the young lady meanwhile maintaining an attitude purely passive. But Mandy was not so minded. Releasing herself from Perkins' grasp, she turned upon the group of young men following, exclaiming angrily, “You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Sam Sailor!” Then, moving to Cameron's side, she said in a clear, distinct voice:
“Mr. Cameron, would you please take my book for me?”
“Come on, boys!” said Perkins, with his never failing laugh. “I guess we're not in this.”
“Take your medicine, Perkins,” laughed one of his friends.
“Yes, I'll take it all right,” replied Perkins. But the laugh could not conceal the shake of passion in his voice. “It will work, too, you bet!”
So saying, he strode off into the gathering gloom followed by his friends.
“Come along, Mr. Cameron,” said Mandy with a silly giggle. “I guess we don't need them fellows. They can't fool us, can they?”
Her manner, her speech, her laugh rudely dissipated all Cameron's new feeling towards her. The whole episode filled him only with disgust and annoyance.
“Come, then,” he said, almost roughly. “We shall need to hurry, for there is a storm coming up.”
Mandy glanced at the gathering clouds.
“My goodness!” she cried; “it's comin' up fast. My! I hate to git my clothes wet.” And off she set at a rapid pace, keeping abreast of her companion and making gay but elephantine attempts at sprightly conversation. Before Cameron's unsympathetic silence, however, all her sprightly attempts came to abject failure.
“What's the matter with you?” at length she asked. “Don't you want to see me home?”
“What?” said Cameron, abruptly, for his thoughts were far away. “Oh, nonsense! Of course! Why not? But we shall certainly be caught in the storm. Let us hurry. Here, let me take your arm.”
His manner was brusque, almost rude.
“Oh, I guess I can get along,” replied Mandy, catching off her hat and gathering up her skirt over her shoulders, “but we'll have to hustle, for I'd hate to have you get, wet.” Her imperturbable good humour and her solicitude for him rebuked Cameron for his abruptness.
“I hope you will not get wet,” he said.
“Oh, don't you worry about me. I ain't salt nor sugar, but I forgot all about your bein' sick.” And with laboured breath poor Mandy hurried through the growing darkness with Cameron keeping close by her side. “We won't be long now,” she panted, as they turned from the side line towards their own gate.
As if in reply to her words there sounded from behind the fence and close to their side a long loud howl. Cameron gave a start.
“Great Caesar! What dog is that?” he exclaimed.
“Oh,” said Mandy coolly, “guess it's MacKenzie's Carlo.”
Immediately there rose from the fence on the other side an answering howl, followed by a full chorus of howls and yelps mingled with a bawling of calves and the ringing of cow bells, as if a dozen curs or more were in full cry after a herd of cattle. Cameron stood still in bewildered amazement.
“What the deuce are they at?” he cried, peering through the darkness.
“Huh!” grunted Mandy. “Them's curs all right, but they ain't much dog. You wait till I see them fellows. They'll pay for this, you bet!”
“Do you mean to say these are not dogs?” cried Cameron, speaking in her ear, so great was the din.
“Dogs?” answered Mandy with indignant scorn. “Naw! Just or'nary curs! Come along,” she cried, catching his arm, “let's hurry.”
“Here!” he cried, suddenly wrenching himself free, “I am going to see into this.”
“No, no!” cried Mandy, gripping his arm once more with her strong hands. “They will hurt you. Come on! We're just home. You can see them again. No, I won't let you go.”
In vain he struggled. Her strong hands held him fast. Suddenly there was a succession of short, sharp barks. Immediately dead silence fell. Not a sound could be heard, not a shape seen.
“Come out into the open, you cowardly curs!” shouted Cameron. “Come on! One, two, three at a time, if you dare!”
But silence answered him.
“Come,” said Mandy in a low voice, “let's hurry. It's goin' to rain. Come on! Come along!”
Cameron stood irresolute. Then arose out of the black darkness a long quavering cat call. With a sudden dash Cameron sprang towards the fence. Instantly there was a sound of running feet through the plowed field on the other side, then silence.
“Come back, you cowards!” raged Cameron. “Isn't there a man among you?”
For answer a clod came hurtling through the dark and struck with a thud upon the fence. Immediately, as if at a signal, there fell about Cameron a perfect hail of clods and even stones.
“Oh! Oh!” shrieked Mandy, rushing towards him and throwing herself between him and the falling missiles. “Come away! Come away! They'll just kill you.”
For answer Cameron put his arms about her and drew her behind him, shielding her as best he could with his body.
“Do you want to kill a woman?” he called aloud.
At once the hail of clods ceased and, raging as he was, Mandy dragged him homeward. At the door of the house he made to turn back.
“Not much, you don't,” said Mandy, stoutly, “or I go with you.”
“Oh, all right,” said Cameron, “let them go. They are only a lot of curs, anyway.”
For a few minutes they stood and talked in the kitchen, Cameron making light of the incident and making strenuous efforts to dissemble the rage that filled his soul. After a few minutes conversation Cameron announced his intention of going to bed, while Mandy passed upstairs. He left the house and stole down the lane toward the road. The throbbing pain in his head was forgotten in the blind rage that possessed him. He had only one longing, to stand within striking distance of the cowardly curs, only one fear, that they should escape him. Swiftly, silently, he stole down the lane, every nerve, every muscle tense as a steel spring. His throat was hot, his eyes so dazzled that he could scarcely see; his breath came in quick gasps; his hands were trembling as with a nervous chill. The storm had partially blown away. It had become so light that he could dimly discern a number of figures at the entrance to the lane. Having his quarry in sight, Cameron crouched in the fence corner, holding hard by the rail till he should become master of himself. He could hear their explosions of suppressed laughter. It was some minutes before he had himself in hand, then with a swift silent run he stood among them. So busy were they in recounting the various incidents in the recent “chivaree,” that before they were aware Cameron was upon them. At his approach the circle broke and scattered, some flying to the fence. But Perkins with some others stood their ground.
“Hello, Cameron!” drawled Perkins. “Did you see our cows? I thought I heard some of them down the line.”
For answer Cameron launched himself at him like a bolt from a bow. There was a single sharp crack and Perkins was literally lifted clear off his feet and hurled back upon the road, where he lay still. Fiercely Cameron faced round to the next man, but he gave back quickly. A third sprang to throw himself upon Cameron, but once more Cameron's hand shot forward and his assailant was hurled back heavily into the arms of his friends. Before Cameron could strike again a young giant, known as Sam Sailor, flung his arms about him, crying—
“Tut-tut, young fellow, this won't do, you know. Can't you take a bit of fun?”
For answer Cameron clinched him savagely, gripping him by the throat and planting two heavy blows upon his ribs.
“Here—boys,” gasped the young fellow, “he's—chokin'—the—life—out—of me.”
From all sides they threw themselves upon him and, striking, kicking, fighting furiously, Cameron went down under the struggling mass, his hand still gripping the throat it had seized.
“Say! He's a regular bull-dog,” cried one. “Git hold of his legs and yank him off,” which, with shouts and laughter, they proceeded to do and piled themselves upon him, chanting the refrain—“More beef! More beef!”
A few minutes more of frantic struggling and a wild agonised scream rose from beneath the mass of men.
“Git off, boys! Git off!” roared the young giant. “I'm afraid he's hurt.”
Flinging them off on either side, he stood up and waited for their victim to rise. But Cameron lay on his face, moaning and writhing, on the ground.
“Say, boys,” said Sam, kneeling down beside him, “I'm afraid he's hurted bad.”
In his writhing Cameron lifted one leg. It toppled over to one side.
“Jumpin' Jeremiah!” said Sam in an awed voice. “His leg's broke! What in Sam Hill can we do?”
As he spoke there was a sound of running feet, coming down the lane. The moon, shining through the breaking clouds, revealed a figure with floating garments rapidly approaching.
“My cats!” cried Sam in a terrified voice. “It's Mandy.”
Like leaves before a sudden gust of wind the group scattered and only Sam was left.
“What—what are you doin'?” panted Mandy. “Where is he? Oh, is that him?” She flung herself down in the dust beside Cameron and turned him over. His face was white, his eyes glazed. He looked like death. “Oh! Oh!” she moaned. “Have they killed you? Have they killed you?” She gathered his head upon her knees, moaning like a wounded animal.
“Good Lord, Mandy, don't go on like that!” cried Sam in a horrified voice. “It's only his leg broke.”
Mandy laid his head gently down, then sprang to her feet.
“Only his leg broke? Who done it? Who done it, tell me? Who done it?” she panted, her voice rising with her gasping breath. “What coward done it? Was it you, Sam Sailor?”
“Guess we're all in it,” said Sam stupidly. “It was jist a bit of fun, Mandy.”
For answer she swung her heavy hand hard upon Sam's face.
“Say, Mandy! Hold hard!” cried Sam, surprise and the weight of the blow almost knocking him off his feet.
“You cowardly brute!” she gasped. “Get out of my sight. Oh, what shall we do?” She dropped on her knees and took Cameron's head once more in her arms. “What shall we do?”
“Guess we'll have to git him in somewheres,” said Sam. “How can we carry him though? If we had some kind of a stretcher?”
“Wait! I know,” cried Mandy, flying off up the lane.
Before many minutes had passed she had returned, breathing hard.
“It's—the—-milkhouse—door,” she said. “I—guess that'll—do.”
“That'll do all right, Mandy. Now I wish some of them fellers would come.”
Sam pulled off his coat and made of it a pillow, then stood up looking for help. His eye fell upon the prostrate and senseless form of Perkins.
“Say, what'll we do with him?” he said, pointing to the silent figure.
“Who is it?” enquired Mandy. “What's the matter?”
“It's Perkins,” replied Sam. “He hit him a terrible crack.”
“Perkins!” said Mandy with scorn. “Let him lie, the dog. Come on, take his head.”
“You can't do it, Mandy, no use trying. You can't do it.”
“Come on, I tell you,” she said fiercely. “Quit your jawin'. He may be dyin' for all I know. I'd carry him alone if it wasn't for his broken leg.” Slowly, painfully they carried him to the house and to the front door.
“Wait a minute!” said Mandy. “I'll have to git things fixed a bit. We mustn't wake mother. It would scare her to death.”
She passed quickly into the house and soon Sam saw a light pass from room to room. In a few moments Mandy reappeared at the front door.
“Quick!” whispered Sam. “He's comin' to.”
“Oh, thank goodness!” cried Mandy. “Let's git him in before he wakes.”
Once more they lifted their burden and with infinite difficulty and much painful manoeuvering they got the injured man through the doors and upon the spare room bed.
“And now, Sam Sailor,” cried Mandy, coming close to him, “you jist hitch up Deck and hustle for the doctor if ever you did in your life. Don't wait for nothin', but go! Go!” She fairly pushed him out of the door, running with him towards the stable. “Oh, Sam, hurry!” she pleaded, “for if this man should die I will never be the like again.” Her face was white, her eyes glowing like great stars; her voice was soft and tremulous with tears.
Sam stood for a moment gazing as if upon a vision.
“What are you lookin' at?” she cried, stamping her foot and pushing him away.
“Jumpin' Jeremiah!” muttered Sam, as he ran towards the stable. “Is that Mandy Haley? Guess we don't know much about her.”
His nimble fingers soon had Dexter hitched to the buggy and speeding down the lane at a pace sufficiently rapid to suit the high spirit of even that fiery young colt.
At the high road he came upon his friends, some of whom were working with Perkins, others conversing in awed and hurried undertones.
“Hello, Sam!” they called. “Hold up!”
“I'm in a hurry, boys, don't stop me. I'm scared to death. And you better git home. She'll be down on you again.”
“How is he?” cried a voice.
“Don't know. I'm goin' for the doctor, and the sooner we git that doctor the better for everybody around.” And Sam disappeared in a whirl of dust.
“Say! Who would a thought it?” he mused. “That Mandy Haley? She's a terror. And them eyes! Oh, git on, Deck, what you monkeyin' about? Wonder if she's gone on that young feller? I guess she is all right! Say, wasn't that a clout he handed Perkins. And didn't she give me one. But them eyes! Mandy Haley! By the jumpin' Jeremiah! And the way she looks at a feller! Here, Deck, what you foolin' about? Gwan now, or you'll git into trouble.”
Deck, who had been indulging himself in a series of leaps and plunges, shying at even the most familiar objects by the road side, settled down at length to a businesslike trot which brought him to the doctor's door in about fifteen minutes from the Haleys' gate. But to Sam's dismay the doctor had gone to Cramm's Mill, six or seven miles away, and would not be back till the morning. Sam was in a quandary. There was another doctor at Brookfield, five miles further on, but there was a possibility that he also might be out.
“Say, there ain't no use goin' back without a doctor. She'd—she'd—Jumpin' Jeremiah! What would she do? Say, Deck, you've got to git down to business. We're goin' to the city. There are doctors there thick as hair on a dog. We'll try Dr. Turnbull. Say, it'll be great if we could git him! Deck, we'll do it! But you got to git up and dust.”
And this Deck proceeded to do to such good purpose that in about an hour's time he stood before Dr. Turnbull's door in the city, somewhat wet, it is true, but with his fiery spirit still untamed.
Here again adverse fate met the unfortunate Sam.
“Doctor Turnbull's no at home,” said the maid, smart with cap and apron, who opened the door.
“How long will he be gone?” enquired Sam, wondering what she had on her head, and why.
“There's no tellin'. An hour, or two hours, or three.”
“Three hours?” echoed Sam. “Say, a feller might kick the bucket in that time.”
The maid smiled an undisturbed smile.
“Bucket? What bucket, eh? What bucket are ye talkin' aboot?” she enquired.
“Say, you're smart, ain't yeh! But I got a young feller that's broke his leg and—”
“His leg?” said the maid indifferently. “Well, he's got another?”
“Yes, you bet he has, but one leg ain't much good without the other. How would you like to hop around on one leg? And he's hurt inside, too, his lights, I guess, and other things.” Sam's anatomical knowledge was somewhat vague. “And besides, his girl's takin' on awful.”
“Oh, is she indeed?” replied the maid, this item apparently being to her of the very slightest importance.
“Say, if you only saw her,” said Sam.
“Pretty, I suppose,” said the maid with a touch of scorn.
“Pretty? No, ugly as a hedge fence. But say, I wish she was here right now. She'd bring you to your—to time, you bet.”
“Would she, now? I'd sort her.” And the little maid's black eyes snapped.
“Say, what'll I do? Jist got to have a doctor.”
“Ye'll no git him till to-morrow.”
“To-morrow?”
“How far oot are ye?”
“Twelve miles.”
“Twelve miles? Ye'll no get him a minute afore to-morrow noon.”
“Say, that young feller'll croak, sure. Away from home too. No friends. All his folks in Scotland.”
“Scotland, did ye say?” Something appeared to wake up in the little maid. “Look here, why don't ye get a doctor instead o' daunderin' your time here?”
“Git a doctor?” echoed Sam in vast surprise. “And ain't I tryin' to git a doctor? Where'll I git a doctor?”
“Go to the hospital, ye gawk, and ask for Dr. Turnbull, and tell him the young lad is a stranger and that his folk are in Scotland. Hoots, ye gomeril, be off noo, an' the puir lad wantin' ye. Come, I'll pit ye on yer way.” The maid by her speech was obviously excited.
Sam glanced at the clock as he passed out. He had been away an hour and a half.
“Jumpin' Jeremiah! I've got to hurry. She'll take my head off.”
“Of course ye have,” said the maid sharply. “Go down two streets there, then take the first turn to your left and go straight on for half a dozen blocks or so. Mind ye tell the doctor the lad's frae Scotland!” she cried to Sam as he drove off.
At the hospital Sam was fortunate enough to catch Dr. Turnbull in the hall with one or two others, just as they were about to pass into the consulting room. Such was Sam's desperate state of mind that he went straight up to the group.
“I want Dr. Turnbull,” he said.
“There he is before you,” replied a sharp-faced young doctor, pointing to a benevolent looking old gentleman.
“Dr. Turnbull, there's a young feller hurt dreadful out our way. His leg's broke. Guess he's hurt inside too. And he's a stranger. His folks are all in Scotland. Guess he's dyin', and I've got—I've got a horse and buggy at the door. I can git you out and back in a jiffy. Say, doctor, I'm all ready to start.”
A smile passed over the faces of the group. But Dr. Turnbull had too long experience with desperate cases and with desperate men.
“My dear Sir,” he replied, “I cannot go for some hours.”
“Doctor, I want you now. I got to have somebody right now.”
“A broken leg?” mused the doctor.
“Yes, and hurt inside.”
“How did it happen?” said the doctor.
“Eh? I don't know exactly,” replied Sam, taken somewhat aback. “Somethin' fell on him. But he needs you bad.”
“I can't go, my man, but we'll find some one. What's his name did you say?”
“His name is Cameron, and he's from Scotland.”
“Cameron?” said the sharp-faced young doctor. “What does he look like?”
“Look like?” said Sam in a perplexed voice. “Well, the girls all think he looks pretty good. He's dark complected and he's a mighty smart young feller. Great on jumpin' and runnin'. Say, he's a crackajack. Why, at the Dominion Day picnic! But you must a' heard about him. He's the chap, you know, that won the hundred yards. Plays the pipes and—”
“Plays the pipes?” cried Dr. Turnbull and the young doctor together.
“And his name's Cameron?” continued the young doctor. “I wonder now if—”
“I say, Martin,” said Dr. Turnbull, “I think you had better go. The case may be urgent.”
“Cameron!” cried Martin again. “I bet my bat it's—Here, wait till I get my coat. I'll be with you in a jerk. Have you got a good horse?”
“He's all right,” said Sam. “He'll git you there in an hour.”
“An hour? How far is it?”
“Twelve miles.”
“Great heavens! Come, then, get a move on!” And so it came that within an hour Cameron, opening his eyes, looked up into the face of his friend.
“Martin! By Jove!” he said, and closed his eyes again. “Martin!” he said again, looking upon the familiar face. “Say, old boy, is this a dream? I seem to be having lots of them.”
“It's no dream, old chap, but what in the mischief is the matter? What does all this fever mean? Let's look at you.”
A brief examination was enough to show the doctor that a broken leg was the least of Cameron's trouble. A hasty investigation of the resources of the farm house determined the doctor's course.
“This man has typhoid fever, a bad case too,” he said to Mandy. “We will take him in to the hospital.”
“The hospital?” cried Mandy fiercely. “Will you, then?”
“He will be a lot of trouble to you,” said the doctor.
“Trouble? Trouble? What are you talkin' about?”
“We're awful busy, Mandy,” interposed the mother, who had been roused from her bed.
“Oh, shucks, mother! Oh, don't send him away,” she pleaded. “I can nurse him, just as easy.” She paused, with quivering lips.
“It will be much better for the patient to be in the hospital. He will get constant and systematic care. He will be under my own observation every hour. I assure you it will be better for him,” said the doctor.
“Better for him?” echoed Mandy in a faint voice. “Well, let him go.”
In less than an hour's time, such was Dr. Martin's energetic promptness, he had his patient comfortably placed in the democrat on an improvised stretcher and on his way to the city hospital.
And thus it came about that the problem of his leave-taking, which had vexed Cameron for so many days, was solved.