Glengarry School Days: A Story of Early Days in Glengarry

by Ralph Connor

  CHAPTER VI

  "ONE THAT RULETH WELL HIS OWN HOUSE"

  The news of the school trouble ran through the section like fire througha brule. The younger generations when they heard how Thomas Finch haddared the master, raised him at once to the rank of hero, but the headsof families received the news doubtfully, and wondered what the risinggeneration was coming to.

  The next day Billy Jack heard the story in the Twentieth store, and withsome anxiety waited for the news to reach his father's ears, for to tellthe truth, Billy Jack, man though he was, held his father in dread.

  "How did you come to do it?" he asked Thomas. "Why didn't you let Donbegin? It was surely Don's business."

  "I don't know. It slipped out," replied Thomas. "I couldn't standJimmie's yelling any longer. I didn't know I said anything till I foundmyself standing up, and after that I didn't seem to care for anything."

  "Man! it was fine, though," said Billy Jack. "I didn't think it was inyou." And Thomas felt more than repaid for all his cruel beating. It wassomething to win the approval of Billy Jack in an affair of this kind.

  It was at church on the Sabbath day that Donald Finch heard about hisson's doings in the school the week before. The minister, in his sermon,thought fit to dwell upon the tendency of the rising generation torevolt against authority in all things, and solemnly laid upon parentsthe duty and responsibility of seeing to it that they ruled theirhouseholds well.

  It was not just the advice that Donald Finch stood specially in need of,but he was highly pleased with the sermon, and was enlarging upon itin the churchyard where the people gathered between the services, whenPeter McRae, thinking that old Donald was hardly taking the minister'sadvice to himself as he ought, and not knowing that the old man wasignorant of all that had happened in the school, answered him somewhatseverely.

  "It is good to be approving the sermon, but I would rather be seeing youmake a practical application of it."

  "Indeed, that is true," replied Donald, "and it would not be amiss formore than me to make application of it."

  "Indeed, then, if all reports be true," replied Peter, "it would be wellfor you to begin at home."

  "Mr. McRae," said Donald, earnestly, "it is myself that knows wellenough my shortcomings, but if there is any special reason for yourremark, I am not aware of it."

  This light treatment of what to Peter had seemed a grievous offenseagainst all authority incensed the old dominie beyond all endurance.

  "And do you not think that the conduct of your son last week calls forany reproof? And is it you that will stand up and defend it in the faceof the minister and his sermon upon it this day?"

  Donald gazed at him a few moments as if he had gone mad. At length hereplied, slowly, "I do not wish to forget that you are an elder of thechurch, Mr. McRae, and I will not be charging you with telling lies onme and my family--"

  "Tut, tut, man," broke in Long John Cameron, seeing how the matterstood; "he's just referring to yon little difference Thomas had with themaster last week. But it's just nothing. Come away in."

  "Thomas?" gasped Donald. "My Thomas?"

  "You have not heard, then," said Peter, in surprise, and old Donald onlyshook his head.

  "Then it's time you did," replied Peter, severely, "for such things area disgrace to the community."

  "Nonsense!" said Long John. "Not a bit of it! I think none the less ofThomas for it." But in matters of this kind Long John could hardly becounted an authority, for it was not so very long ago since he had beenbeguiled into an affair at the Scotch River which, while it broughthim laurels at the hands of the younger generation, did not add to hisreputation with the elders of the church.

  It did not help matters much that Murdie Cameron and others of his setproceeded to congratulate old Donald, in their own way, upon his son'sachievement, and with all the more fervor that they perceived that itmoved the solemn Peter to righteous wrath. From one and another the talecame forth with embellishments, till Donald Finch was reduced to such astate of voiceless rage and humiliation that when, at the sound of theopening psalm the congregation moved into the church for the Gaelicservice, the old man departed for his home, trembling, silent, amazed.

  How Thomas could have brought this disgrace upon him, he could notimagine. If it had been William John, who, with all his good nature, hada temper brittle enough, he would not have been surprised. And then theminister's sermon, of which he had spoken in such open and enthusiasticapproval, how it condemned him for his neglect of duty toward hisfamily, and held up his authority over his household to scorn. It was aterrible blow to his pride.

  "It is the Lord's judgment upon me," he said to himself, as he trampedhis way through the woods. "It is the curse of Eli that is hanging overme and mine." And with many vows he resolved that, at all costs, hewould do his duty in this crisis and bring Thomas to a sense of hissins.

  It was in this spirit that he met his family at the supper-table, aftertheir return from the Gaelic service.

  "What is this I hear about you, Thomas?" he began, as Thomas came in andtook his place at the table. "What is this I hear about you, sir?" herepeated, making a great effort to maintain a calm and judicial tone.

  Thomas remained silent, partly because he usually found speechdifficult, but chiefly because he dreaded his father's wrath.

  "What is this that has become the talk of the countryside and thedisgrace of my name?" continued the father, in deepening tones.

  "No very great disgrace, surely," said Billy Jack, lightly, hoping toturn his father's anger.

  "Be you silent, sir!" commanded the old man, sternly. "I will ask foryour opinion when I require it. You and others beside you in this houseneed to learn your places."

  Billy Jack made no reply, fearing to make matters worse, though he foundit hard not to resent this taunt, which he knew well was flung at hismother.

  "I wonder at you, Thomas, after such a sermon as yon. I wonder you areable to sit there unconcerned at this table. I wonder you are not hidingyour head in shame and confusion." The old man was lashing himself intoa white rage, while Thomas sat looking stolidly before him, his slowtongue finding no words of defense. And indeed, he had little thought ofdefending himself. He was conscious of an acute self-condemnation, andyet, struggling through his slow-moving mind there was a feeling that insome sense he could not define, there was justification for what he haddone.

  "It is not often that Thomas has grieved you," ventured the mother,timidly, for, with all her courage, she feared her husband when he wasin this mood.

  "Woman, be silent!" blazed forth the old man, as if he had been waitingfor her words. "It is not for you to excuse his wickedness. You are toofond of that work, and your children are reaping the fruits of it."

  Billy Jack looked up quickly as if to answer, but his mother turned herface full upon him and commanded him with steady eyes, giving, herself,no sign of emotion except for a slight tightening of the lips and atouch of color in her face.

  "Your children have well learned their lesson of rebellion and deceit,"continued her husband, allowing his passion a free rein. "But I vow untothe Lord I will put an end to it now, whatever. And I will give youto remember, sir," turning to Thomas, "to the end of your days, thisoccasion. And now, hence from this table. Let me not see your face tillthe Sabbath is past, and then, if the Lord spares me, I shall deal withyou."

  Thomas hesitated a moment as if he had not quite taken in his father'swords, then, leaving his supper untouched, he rose slowly, and withouta word climbed the ladder to the loft. The mother followed him a momentwith her eyes, and then once more turning to Billy Jack, held him withcalm, steady gaze. Her immediate fear was for her eldest son. Thomas,she knew, would in the mean time simply suffer what might be his lot,but for many a day she had lived in terror of an outbreak betweenher eldest son and her husband. Again Billy Jack caught her look, andcommanded himself to silence.

  "The fire is low, William John," she said, in a quiet voice. Billy Jackrose, and from the wood-box
behind the stove, replenished the fire,reading perfectly his mother's mind, and resolving at all costs to doher will.

  At the taking of the books that night the prayer, which was spoken in atone of awful and almost inaudible solemnity, was for the most part anexaltation of the majesty and righteousness of the government of God,and a lamentation over the wickedness and rebellion of mankind. AndBilly Jack thought it was no good augury that it closed with a petitionfor grace to maintain the honor of that government, and to uphold thatrighteous majesty in all the relations of life. It was a woeful eveningto them all, and as soon as possible the household went miserably tobed.

  Before going to her room the mother slipped up quietly to the loft andfound Thomas lying in his bunk, dressed and awake. He was still puzzlingout his ethical problem. His conscience clearly condemned him for hisfight with the master, and yet, somehow he could not regret having stoodup for Jimmie and taken his punishment. He expected no mercy at hisfather's hands next morning. The punishment he knew would be cruelenough, but it was not the pain that Thomas was dreading; he was dimlystruggling with the sense of outrage, for ever since the moment he hadstood up and uttered his challenge to the master, he had felt himself tobe different. That moment now seemed to belong to the distant yearswhen he was a boy, and now he could not imagine himself submitting toa flogging from any man, and it seemed to him strange and almostimpossible that even his father should lift his hand to him.

  "You are not sleeping, Thomas," said his mother, going up to his bunk.

  "No, mother."

  "And you have had no supper at all."

  "I don't want any, mother."

  The mother sat silent beside him for a time, and then said, quietly,"You did not tell me, Thomas."

  "No, mother, I didn't like."

  "It would have been better that your father should have heard thisfrom--I mean, should have heard it at home. And--you might have told me,Thomas."

  "Yes, mother, I wish now I had. But, indeed, I can't understand how ithappened. I don't feel as if it was me at all." And then Thomas told hismother all the tale, finishing his story with the words, "And I couldn'thelp it, mother, at all."

  The mother remained silent for a little, and then, with a little tremorin her voice, she replied: "No, Thomas, I know you couldn't help it, andI--" here her voice quite broke--"I am not ashamed of you."

  "Are you not, mother?" said Thomas, sitting up suddenly in greatsurprise. "Then I don't care. I couldn't make it out well."

  "Never you mind, Thomas, it will be well," and she leaned over him andkissed him. Thomas felt her face wet with tears, and his stolid reservebroke down.

  "Oh, mother, mother, I don't care now," he cried, his breath coming ingreat sobs. "I don't care at all." And he put his arms round his mother,clinging to her as if he had been a child.

  "I know, laddie, I know," whispered his mother. "Never you fear, neverfear." And then, as if to herself, she added, "Thank the Lord you arenot a coward, whatever."

  Thomas found himself again without words, but he held his mother fast,his big body shaking with his sobs.

  "And, Thomas," she continued, after a pause, "your father--we must justbe patient." All her life long this had been her struggle. "And--and--heis a good man." Her tears were now flowing fast, and her voice had quitelost its calm.

  Thomas was alarmed and distressed. He had never in all his life seen hismother weep, and rarely had heard her voice break.

  "Don't, mother," he said, growing suddenly quiet himself. "Don't youmind, mother. It'll be all right, and I'm not afraid."

  "Yes," she said, rising and regaining her self-control, "it will be allright, Thomas. You go to sleep." And there were such evident reserves ofstrength behind her voice that Thomas lay down, certain that all wouldbe well. His mother had never failed him.

  The mother went downstairs with the purpose in her heart of having atalk with her husband, but Donald Finch knew her ways well, and hadresolved that he would have no speech with her upon the matter, for heknew that it would be impossible for him to persevere in his intentionto "deal with" Thomas, if he allowed his wife to have any talk with him.

  The morning brought the mother no opportunity of speech with herhusband. He, contrary to his custom, remained until breakfast in hisroom. Outside in the kitchen, he could hear Billy Jack's cheerful tonesand hearty laugh, and it angered him to think that his displeasureshould have so little effect upon his household. If the house hadremained shrouded in gloom, and the family had gone about on tiptoesand with bated breath, it would have shown no more than a properappreciation of the father's displeasure; but as Billy Jack's cheerfulwords and laughter fell upon his ear, he renewed his vows to do his dutythat day in upholding his authority, and bringing to his son a due senseof his sin.

  In grim silence he ate his breakfast, except for a sharp rebuke toBilly Jack, who had been laboring throughout the meal to make cheerfulconversation with Jessac and his mother. At his father's rebuke BillyJack dropped his cheerful tone, and avoiding his mother's eyes, heassumed at once an attitude of open defiance, his tones and wordsplainly offering to his father war, if war he would have.

  "You will come to me in the room after breakfast," said his father, asThomas rose to go to the stable.

  "There's a meeting of the trustees at nine o'clock at the school-houseat which Thomas must be present," interposed Billy Jack, in firm, steadytones.

  "He may go when I have done with him," said his father, angrily, "andmeantime you will attend to your own business."

  "Yes, sir, I will that!" Billy Jack's response came back with fiercepromptness.

  The old man glanced at him, caught the light in his eyes, hesitated amoment, and then, throwing all restraint to the winds, thundered out,"What do you mean, sir?"

  "What I say. I am going to attend to my own business, and that soon."Billy Jack's tone was quick, eager, defiant.

  Again the old man hesitated, and then replied, "Go to it, then."

  "I am going, and I am going to take Thomas to that meeting at nineo'clock."

  "I did not know that you had business there," said the old man,sarcastically.

  "Then you may know it now," blazed forth Billy Jack, "for I am going.And as sure as I stand here, I will see that Thomas gets fair play thereif he doesn't at home, if I have to lick every trustee in the section."

  "Hold your peace, sir!" said his father, coming nearer him. "Do not giveme any impertinence, and do not accuse me of unfairness."

  "Have you heard Thomas's side of the story?" returned Billy Jack.

  "I have heard enough, and more than enough."

  "You haven't heard both sides."

  "I know the truth of it, whatever, the shameful and disgraceful truth ofit. I know that the country-side is ringing with it. I know that in thehouse of God the minister held up my family to the scorn of the people.And I vowed to do my duty to my house."

  The old man's passion had risen to such a height that for a momentBilly Jack quailed before it. In the pause that followed the old man'soutburst the mother came to her son.

  "Hush, William John! You are not to forget yourself, nor your duty toyour father and to me. Thomas will receive full justice in this matter."There was a quiet strength and dignity in her manner that commandedimmediate attention from both men.

  The mother went on in a low, even voice, "Your father has his duty toperform, and you must not take upon yourself to interfere."

  Billy Jack could hardly believe his ears. That his mother should deserthim, and should support what he knew she felt to be injustice andtyranny, was more than he could understand. No less perplexed was herhusband.

  As they stood there looking at each other, uncertain as to the nextstep, there came a knock at the back door. The mother went to open it,pausing on her way to push back some chairs and put the room to rights,thus allowing the family to regain its composure.

  "Good morning, Mrs. Finch. You will be thinking I have slept in yourbarn all night." It was Long John Cameron.

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p; "Come away in, Mr. Cameron. It is never too early for friends to come tothis house," said Mrs. Finch, her voice showing her great relief.

  Long John came in, glanced shrewdly about, and greeted Mr. Finch withgreat heartiness.

  "It's a fine winter day, Mr. Finch, but it looks as if we might have astorm. You are busy with the logs, I hear."

  Old Donald was slowly recovering himself.

  "And a fine lot you are having," continued Long John. "I was just sayingthe other day that it was wonderful the work you could get through."

  "Indeed, it is hard enough to do anything here," said Donald Finch, withsome bitterness.

  "You may say so," responded Long John, cheerfully. "The snow is thatdeep in the bush, and--"

  "You were wanting to see me, Mr. Cameron," interrupted Donald. "I have abusiness on hand which requires attention."

  "Indeed, and so have I. For it is--"

  "And indeed, it is just as well you and all should know it, for mydisgrace is well known."

  "Disgrace!" exclaimed Long John.

  "Ay, disgrace. For is it not a disgrace to have the conduct of yourfamily become the occasion of a sermon on the Lord's Day?"

  "Indeed, I did not think much of yon sermon, whatever," replied LongJohn.

  "I cannot agree with you, Mr. Cameron. It was a powerful sermon, and itwas only too sorely needed. But I hope it will not be without profit tomyself."

  "Indeed, it is not the sermon you have much need of," said Long John,"for every one knows what a--"

  "Ay, it is myself that needs it, but with the help of the Lord I will bedoing my duty this morning."

  "And I am very glad to hear that," replied Long John, "for that is why Iam come."

  "And what may you have to do with it?" asked the old man.

  "As to that, indeed," replied Long John, coolly, "I am not yet quitesure. But if I might ask without being too bold, what is the particularduty to which you are referring?"

  "You may ask, and you and all have a right to know, for I am about tovisit upon my son his sins and shame."

  "And is it meaning to wheep him you are?"

  "Ay," said the old man, and his lips came fiercely together.

  "Indeed, then, you will just do no such thing this morning."

  "And by what right do you interfere in my domestic affairs?" demandedold Donald, with dignity. "Answer me that, Mr. Cameron."

  "Right or no right," replied Long John, "before any man lays a finger onThomas there, he will need to begin with myself. And," he added, grimly,"there are not many in the county who would care for that job."

  Old Donald Finch looked at his visitor in speechless amazement. Atlength Long John grew excited.

  "Man alive!" he exclaimed, "it's a quare father you are. You may bethinking it disgrace, but the section will be proud that there is a boyin it brave enough to stand up for the weak against a brute bully." Andthen he proceeded to tell the tale as he had heard it from Don, withsuch strong passion and such rude vigor, that in spite of himself oldDonald found his rage vanish, and his heart began to move within himtoward his son.

  "And it is for that," cried Long John, dashing his fist into his openpalm, "it is for that that you would punish your son. May God forgiveme! but the man that lays a finger on Thomas yonder, will come into soregrief this day. Ay, lad," continued Long John, striding toward Thomasand gripping him by the shoulders with both hands, "you are a man, andyou stood up for the weak yon day, and if you efer will be wanting afriend, remember John Cameron."

  "Well, well, Mr. Cameron," said old Donald, who was more deeply movedthan he cared to show, "it maybe as you say. It maybe the lad was not somuch in the wrong."

  "In the wrong?" roared Long John, blowing his nose hard. "In the wrong?May my boys ever be in the wrong in such a way!"

  "Well," said old Donald, "we shall see about this. And if Thomas hassuffered injustice it is not his father will refuse to see him righted."And soon they were all off to the meeting at the school-house.

  Thomas was the last to leave the room. As usual, he had not been ableto find a word, but stood white and trembling, but as he found himselfalone with his mother, once more his stolid reserve broke down, and heburst into a strange and broken cry, "Oh, mother, mother," but he couldget no further.

  "Never mind, laddie," said his mother, "you have borne yourself well,and your mother is proud of you."

  At the investigation held in the school-house, it became clear that,though the insubordination of both Jimmie and Thomas was undeniable, theprovocation by the master had been very great. And though the minister,who was superintendent of instruction for the district, insisted thatthe master's authority must, at all costs, be upheld, such was the rageof old Donald Finch and Long John Cameron that the upshot was that themaster took his departure from the section, glad enough to escape withbones unbroken.