by Ralph Connor
CHAPTER IX
HUGHIE'S EMANCIPATION
Hughie rose late next morning, and the hurry and rush of getting off toschool in time left him no opportunity to get rid of the little packagesin his pocket, that seemed to burn and sting him through his clothes. Hedetermined to keep them safe in his pocket all day and put them back inthe drawer at night. His mother's face, white with her long watching,and sad and anxious in spite of its brave smile, filled him with suchan agony of remorse that, hurrying through his breakfast, he snatched afarewell kiss, and then tore away down the lane lest he should be forcedto confess all his terrible secret.
The first person who met him in the school-yard was Foxy.
"Have you got that?" was his salutation.
A sudden fury possessed Hughie.
"Yes, you red-headed, sneaking fox," he answered, "and I hope it willbring you the curse of luck, anyway."
Foxy hurried him cautiously behind the school, with difficultyconcealing his delight while Hughie unrolled his little bundles andcounted out the quarters and dimes and half dimes into his hand.
"There's a dollar, and there's a quarter, and--and--there's another," headded, desperately, "and God may kill me on the spot if I give you anymore!"
"All right, Hughie," said Foxy, soothingly, putting the money into hispocket. "You needn't be so mad about it. You bought the pistol and therest right enough, didn't you?"
"I know I did, but--but you made me, you big, sneaking thief--and thenyou--" Hughie's voice broke in his rage. His face was pale, and hisblack eyes were glittering with fierce fury, and in his heart he wasconscious of a wild longing to fall upon Foxy and tear him to pieces.And Foxy, big and tall as he was, glanced at Hughie's face, and sayingnot a word, turned and fled to the front of the school where the otherboys were.
Hughie followed slowly, his heart still swelling with furious rage, andfull of an eager desire to be at Foxy's smiling, fat face.
At the school door stood Miss Morrison, the teacher, smiling downupon Foxy, who was looking up at her with an expression of such sweetinnocence that Hughie groaned out between his clenched teeth, "Oh, youred-headed devil, you! Some day I'll make you smile out of the otherside of your big, fat mouth."
"Who are you swearing at?" It was Fusie.
"Oh, Fusie," cried Hughie, "let's get Davie and get into the woods. I'mnot going in to-day. I hate the beastly place, and the whole gang ofthem."
Fusie, the little, harum-scarum French waif was ready for anything inthe way of adventure. To him anything was better than the even monotonyof the school routine. True, it might mean a whipping both from theteacher and from Mrs. McLeod; but as to the teacher's whipping, Fusiewas prepared to stand that for a free day in the woods, and as to theother, Fusie declared that Mrs. McLeod's whipping "wouldn't hurt askeeter."
To Davie Scotch, however, playing truant was a serious matter. He hadbeen reared in an atmosphere of reverence for established law and order,but when Hughie gave command, to Davie there seemed nothing for it butto obey.
The three boys watched till the school was called, and then crawlingalong on their stomachs behind the heavy cedar-log fence, they slippedinto the balsam thicket at the edge of the woods and were safe. Herethey flung down their schoolbags, and lying prone upon the fragrant bedof pine-needles strewn thickly upon the moss, they peered out throughthe balsam boughs at the house of their bondage with an exultant senseof freedom and a feeling of pity, if not of contempt, for the unhappyand spiritless creatures who were content to be penned inside any houseon such a day as this, and with such a world outside.
For some minutes they rolled about upon the soft moss and balsam-needlesand the brown leaves of last year, till their hearts were running overwith a deep and satisfying delight. It is hard to resist the ministry ofthe woods. The sympathetic silence of the trees, the aromatic airsthat breathe through the shady spaces, the soft mingling of brokenlights--these all combine to lay upon the spirit a soothing balm, andbring to the heart peace. And Hughie, sensitive at every pore to thatsoothing ministry, before long forgot for a time even Foxy, with hisfat, white face and smiling mouth, and lying on the broad of his back,and looking up at the far-away blue sky through the interlacing branchesand leaves, he began to feel again that it was good to be alive, andthat with all his misery there were compensations.
But any lengthened period of peaceful calm is not for boys of the ageand spirit of Hughie and his companions.
"What are you going to do?" asked Fusie, the man of adventure.
"Do nothing," said Hughie from his supine position. "This is good enoughfor me."
"Not me," said Fusie, starting to climb a tall, lithe birch, whileHughie lazily watched him. Soon Fusie was at the top of the birch, whichbegan to sway dangerously.
"Try to fly into that balsam," cried Hughie.
"No, sir!"
"Yes, go on."
"Can't do it."
"Oh, pshaw! you can."
"No, nor you either. That's a mighty big jump."
"Come on down, then, and let me try," said Hughie, in scorn. Hislaziness was gone in the presence of a possible achievement.
In a few minutes he had taken Fusie's place a the top of the swayingbirch. It did not look so easy from the top of the birch as from theground to swing into the balsam-tree. However, he could not go back now.
"Dinna try it, Hughie!" cried Davie to him. "Ye'll no mak it, and ye'llcome an awfu' cropper, as sure as deith." But Hughie, swaying gentlyback and forth, was measuring the distance of his drop. It was nota feat so very difficult, but it called for good judgment and steadynerve. A moment too soon or a moment too late in letting go, would meana nasty fall of twenty feet or more upon the solid ground, and one neverknew just how one would light.
"I wudna dae it, Hughie," urged Davie, anxiously.
But Hughie, swaying high in the birch, heeded not the warning, andsuddenly swinging out from the slender trunk and holding by his hands,he described a parabola, and releasing the birch dropped on to thebalsam top. But balsam-trees are of uncertain fiber, and not to berelied upon, and this particular balsam, breaking off short in Hughie'shands, allowed him to go crashing through the branches to the earth.
"Man! man!" cried Davie Scotch, bending over Hughie as he lay whiteand still upon the ground. "Are ye deid? Maircy me! he's deid," sobbedDavie, wringing his hands. "Fusie, Fusie, ye gowk! where are ye gone?"
In a moment or two Fusie reappeared through the branches with a capfulof water, and dashed it into Hughie's face, with the result that the ladopened his eyes, and after a gasp or two, sat up and looked about him.
"Och, laddie, laddie, are ye no deid?" said Davie Scotch.
"What's the matter with you, Scottie?" asked Hughie, with a bewilderedlook about him. "And who's been throwing water all over me?" he added,wrathfully, as full consciousness returned.
"Man! I'm glad to see ye mad. Gang on wi' ye," shouted Davie, joyously."Ye were deid the noo. Ay, clean deid. Was he no, Fusie?" Fusie nodded.
"I guess not," said Hughie. "It was that rotten balsam top," lookingvengefully at the broken tree.
"Lie doon, man," said Davie, still anxiously hovering about him. "Dinnarise yet awhile."
"Oh, pshaw!" said Hughie, and he struggled to his feet; "I'm all right."But as he spoke he sank down upon the moss, saying, "I feel kind ofqueer, though."
"Lie still, then, will ye," said Davie, angrily. "Ye're fair obstinate."
"Get me some water, Fusie," said Hughie, rather weakly.
"Run, Fusie, ye gomeril, ye!"
In a minute Fusie was back with a capful of water.
"That's better. I'm all right now," said Hughie, sitting up.
"Hear him!" said Davie. "Lie ye doon there, or I'll gie ye a crackthat'll mak ye glad tae keep still."
For half an hour the boys lay on the moss discussing the accident fullyin all its varying aspects and possibilities, till the sound of wheelscame up the road.
"Who's that, Fusie?" asked Hughie, lazily.
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bsp; "Dunno me," said Fusie, peering through the trees.
"Do you, Scotty?"
"No, not I."
Hughie crawled over to the edge of the brush.
"Why, you idiots! it's Thomas Finch. Thomas!" he called, but Thomasdrove straight on. In a moment Hughie sprang up, forgetting all abouthis weakness, and ran out to the roadside.
"Hello, Thomas!" he cried, waving his hand. Thomas saw him, stopped, andlooked at him, doubtfully. He, with all the Section, knew how the schoolwas going, and he easily guessed what took Hughie there.
"I'm not going to school to-day," said Hughie, answering Thomas's look.
Thomas nodded, and sat silent, waiting. He was not a man to waste hiswords.
"I hate the whole thing!" exclaimed Hughie.
"Foxy, eh?" said Thomas, to whom on other occasions Hughie had confidedhis grievances, and especially those he suffered at the hands of Foxy.
"Yes, Foxy," cried Hughie, in a sudden rage. "He's a fat-faced sneak!And the teacher just makes me sick!"
Thomas still waited.
"She just smiles and smiles at him, and he smiles at her. Ugh! I can'tstand him."
"Not much harm in smiling," said Thomas, solemnly.
"Oh, Thomas, I hate the school. I'm not going to go any more."
Thomas looked gravely down upon Hughie's passionate face for a fewmoments, and then said, "You will do what your mother wants you, Iguess."
Hughie said nothing in reply, while Thomas sat pondering.
Finally he said, with a sudden inspiration, "Hughie, come along with me,and help me with the potatoes."
"They won't let me," grumbled Hughie. "At least father won't. I don'tlike to ask mother."
Thomas's eyes opened in surprise. This was a new thing in Hughie.
"I'll ask your mother," he said, at length. "Get in with me here."
Still Hughie hesitated. To get away from school was joy enough, to gowith Thomas to the potato planting was more than could be hoped for. Butstill he stood making pictures in the dust with his bare toes.
"There's Fusie," he said, "and Davie Scotch."
"Well," said Thomas, catching sight of those worthies through the trees,"let them come, too."
Fusie was promptly willing, but Davie was doubtful. He certainly wouldnot go to the manse, where he might meet the minister, and meeting theminister's wife under the present circumstances was a little worse.
"Well, you can wait at the gate with Fusie," suggested Hughie, and sothe matter was settled.
Fortunately for Hughie, his father was not at home. But not Thomas'searnest entreaties nor Hughie's eager pleading would have availed withthe mother, for attendance at school was a sacred duty in her eyes, hadit not been that her boy's face, paler than usual, and with the dawningof a new defiance in it, startled her, and confirmed in her the fearthat all was not well with him.
"Well, Thomas, he may go with you to the Cameron's for the potatoes, butas to going with you to the planting, that is another thing. Your motheris not fit to be troubled with another boy, and especially a boy likeHughie. And how is she to-day, Thomas?" continued Mrs. Murray, as Thomasstood in dull silence before her.
"She's better," said Thomas, answering more quickly than usual, and witha certain eagerness in his voice. "She's a great deal better, and Hughiewill do her no harm, but good."
Mrs. Murray looked at Thomas as he spoke, wondering at the change in hisvoice and manner. The heavy, stolid face had changed since she had lastseen it. It was finer, keener, than before. The eyes, so often dull,were lighted up with a new, strange fire.
"She's much better," said Thomas again, as if insisting against Mrs.Murray's unbelief.
"I am glad to hear it, Thomas," she said, gently. "She will soonbe quite well again, I hope, for she has had a long, long time ofsuffering."
"Yes, a long, long time," replied Thomas. His face was pale, and in hiseyes was a look of pain, almost of fear.
"And you will come to see her soon?" he added. There was almost apiteous entreaty in his tone.
"Yes, Thomas, surely next week. And meantime, I shall let Hughie go withyou."
A look of such utter devotion poured itself into Thomas's eyes thatMrs. Murray was greatly moved, and putting her hand on his shoulder,she said, gently, "'He will give His angels charge.' Don't be afraid,Thomas."
"Afraid!" said Thomas, with a kind of gasp, his face going white."Afraid! No. Why?" But Mrs. Murray turned from him to hide the tearsthat she could not keep out of her eyes, for she knew what was beforeThomas and them all.
Meantime Hughie was busy putting into his little carpet-bag what heconsidered the necessary equipment for his visit.
"You must wear your shoes, Hughie."
"Oh, mother, shoes are such an awful bother planting potatoes. They getfull of ground and everything."
"Well, put them in your bag, at any rate, and your stockings, too. Youmay need them."
By degrees Hughie's very moderate necessities were satisfied, and with ahurried farewell to his mother he went off with Thomas. At the gate theypicked up Fusie and Davie Scotch, and went off to the Cameron's for theseed potatoes, Hughie's heart lighter than it had been for many a day.And all through the afternoon, and as he drove home with Thomas onthe loaded bags, his heart kept singing back to the birds in the treesoverhead.
It was late in the afternoon when they drove into the yard, for theroads were still bad in the swamp, where the corduroy had been broken upby the spring floods.
Thomas hurried through unhitching, and without waiting to unharnesshe stood the horses in their stalls, saying, "We may need them thisafternoon again," and took Hughie off to the house straight-way.
The usual beautiful order pervaded the house and its surroundings.The back yard, through which the boys came from the barn, was freeof litter; the chips were raked into neat little piles close to thewood-pile, for summer use. On a bench beside the "stoop" door was a rowof milk-pans, lapping each other like scales on a fish, glitteringin the sun. The large summer kitchen, with its spotless floor andwhite-washed walls, stood with both its doors open to the sweet air thatcame in from the fields above, and was as pleasant a room to lookin upon as one could desire. On the sill of the open window stooda sweet-scented geranium and a tall fuschia with white and crimsonblossoms hanging in clusters. Bunches of wild flowers stood on thetable, on the dresser, and up beside the clock, and the whole roombreathed of sweet scents of fields and flowers, and "the name of thechamber was peace."
Beside the open window sat the little mother in an arm-chair, theembodiment of all the peaceful beauty and sweet fragrance of the room.
"Well, mother," said Thomas, crossing the floor to her and laying hishand upon her shoulder, "have I been long away? I have brought Hughieback with me, you see."
"Not so very long, Thomas," said the mother, her dark face lighting witha look of love as she glanced up at her big son. "And I am glad to seeHughie. He will excuse me from rising," she added, with fine courtesy.
Hughie hurried toward her.
"Yes, indeed, Mrs. Finch. Don't think of rising." But he could get nofurther. Boy as he was, and at the age when boys are most heartless andregardless, he found it hard to keep his lip and his voice steady and toswallow the lump in his throat, and in spite of all he could do his eyeswere filling up with tears as he looked into the little woman's face, soworn and weary, so pathetically bright.
It was months since he had seen her, and during these months a greatchange had come to her and to the Finch household. After suffering longin secret, the mother had been forced to confess to a severe pain inher breast and under her arm. Upon examination the doctor pronounced thecase to be malignant cancer, and there was nothing for it but removal.It was what Dr. Grant called "a very beautiful operation, indeed," andnow she was recovering her strength, but only slowly, so slowly thatThomas at times found his heart sink with a vague fear. But it was notthe pain of the wound that had wrought that sweet, pathetic look intothe little woman's face, but the deeper pain she ca
rried in her heartfor those she loved better than herself.
The mother's sickness brought many changes into the household, but themost striking of all the changes was that wrought in the slow andstolid Thomas. The father and Billy Jack were busy with the farm mattersoutside, upon little Jessac, now a girl of twelve years, fell the careof the house, but it was Thomas that, with the assistance of a neighborat first, but afterwards alone, waited on his mother, dressing the woundand nursing her. These weeks of watching and nursing had wrought in himthe subtle change that stirred Mrs. Murray's heart as she looked at himthat day, and that made even Hughie wonder. For one thing his tonguewas loosed, and Thomas talked to his mother of all that he had seen andheard on the way to the Cameron's and back, making much of his littlevisit to the manse, and of Mrs. Murray's kindness, and enlarging uponher promised visit, and all with such brightness and picturesquenessof speech that Hughie listened amazed. For all the years he had knownThomas he had never heard from his lips so many words as in the last fewminutes of talk with his mother. Then, too, Thomas seemed to have foundhis fingers, for no woman could have arranged more deftly and withgentler touch the cushions at his mother's back, and no nurse could havemeasured out the medicine and prepared her egg-nog with greater skill.Hughie could hardly believe his eyes and ears. Was this Thomas thestolid, the clumsy, the heavy-handed, this big fellow with the quicktongue and the clever, gentle hand?
Meantime Jessac had set upon the table a large pitcher of rich milk,with oat cakes and butter, and honey in the comb.
"Now, Hughie, lad, draw in and help yourself. You and Thomas will betoo hungry to wait for supper," said the mother. And Hughie, protestingpolitely that he was not very hungry, proceeded to establish thecontrary, to the great satisfaction of himself and the others.
"Now, Thomas," said the mother, "we had better cut the seed."
"Indeed, and not a seed will you cut, mother," said Thomas,emphatically. "You may boss the job, though. I'll bring the potatoes tothe back door." And this he did, thinking it no trouble to hitch up theteam to draw the wagon into the back yard so that his mother might havea part in the cutting of the seed potatoes, as she had had every year ofher life on the farm.
Very carefully, and in spite of her protests that she could walk quitewell, Thomas carried his mother out to her chair in the shade of thehouse, arranging with tender solicitude the pillows at her back and therug at her feet. Then they set to work at the potatoes.
"Mind you have two eyes in every seed, Hughie," said Jessac, severely.
"Huh! I know. I've cut them often enough," replied Hughie, scornfully.
"Well, look at that one, now," said Jessac, picking up a seed thatHughie had let fall; "that's only got one eye."
"There's two," said Hughie, triumphantly.
"That's not an eye," said Jessac, pointing to a mark on the potato;"that's where the top grew out of, isn't it, mother?"
"It is, isn't it?" appealed Hughie.
Mrs. Finch took the seed and looked at it.
"Well, there's one very good eye, and that will do."
"But isn't that the mark of the top, mother?" insisted Jessac. But themother only shook her head at her.
"That's right, Jessac," said Thomas, driving off with his team; "youlook after Hughie, and mother will look after you both till I get back,and there'll be a grand crop this year."
It was a happy hour for them all. The slanting rays of the afternoonsun filled the air with a genial warmth. A little breeze bore from theorchard near by a fragrance of apple-blossoms. A matronly hen, tetheredby the leg to her coop, raised indignant protest against the outrage onher personal liberty, or clucked and crooned her invitations, counsels,warnings, and encouragements, in as many different tones, to herindependent, fluffy brood of chicks, while a huge gobbler struttedup and down, thrilling with pride in the glossy magnificence of hisoutspread tail and pompous, mighty chest.
Hughie was conscious of a deep and grateful content, but across hiscontent lay a shadow. If only that would lift! As he watched Thomas withhis mother, he realized how far he had drifted from his own mother, andhe thought with regret of the happy days, which now seemed so far inthe past, when his mother had shared his every secret. But for him thosedays could never come again.
At supper, Hughie was aware of some subtle difference in the spirit ofthe home. As to Thomas so to his father a change had come. The old manwas as silent as ever, indeed more so, but there was no asperity in hissilence. His critical, captious manner was gone. His silence was thatof a great sorrow, and of a great fear. While there was more cheerfulconversation than ever at the table, there was through all a new respectand a certain tender consideration shown toward the silent old man atthe head, and all joined in an effort to draw him from his gloom. Thepast months of his wife's suffering had bowed him as with the weight ofyears. Even Hughie could note this.
After supper the old man "took the Books" as usual, but when, as HighPriest, he "ascended the Mount of Ordinances to offer the eveningsacrifice," he was as a man walking in thick darkness bewildered andafraid. The prayer was largely a meditation on the heinousness of sinand the righteous judgments of God, and closed with an exaltation of theCross, with an appeal that the innocent might be spared the punishmentof the guilty. The conviction had settled in the old man's mind that"the Lord was visiting upon him and his family his sins, his pride, hiscensoriousness, his hardness of heart." The words of his prayer fellmeaningless upon Hughie's English ears, but the boy's heart quiveredin response to the agony of entreaty in the pleading tones, and he rosefrom his knees awed and subdued.
There was no word spoken for some moments after the prayer. With peoplelike the Finches it was considered to be an insult to the Almighty todepart from "the Presence" with any unseemly haste. Then Thomas came tohelp his mother to her room, but she, with her eyes upon her husband,quietly put Thomas aside and said, "Donald, will you tak me ben?"
Rarely had she called him by his name before the family, and all feltthat this was a most unusual demonstration of tenderness on her part.
The old man glanced quickly at her from under his overhanging eyebrows,and met her bright upward look with an involuntary shake of the head anda slight sigh. Comfort was not for him, and he must not deludehimself. But with a little laugh she put her hand on his arm, and as ifadministering reproof to a little child, she said some words in Gaelic.
"Oh, woman, woman!" said Donald in reply, "if it was yourself we had todeal with--"
"Whisht, man! Will you be putting me before your Father in heaven?" shesaid, as they disappeared into the other room.
There was no fiddle that evening. There was no heart for it withThomas, neither was there time, for there was the milking to do, and the"sorting" of the pails and pans, and the preparing for churning in themorning, so that when all was done, the long evening had faded into thetwilight and it was time for bed.
Before going upstairs, Thomas took Hughie into "the room" where hismother's bed had been placed. Thomas gave her her medicine and made hercomfortable for the night.
"Is there nothing else now, mother?" he said, still lingering about her.
"No, Thomas, my man. How are the cows doing?"
"Grand; Blossom filled a pail to-night, and Spotty almost twice. She's agreat milker, yon."
"Yes, and so was her mother. I remember she used to fill two pails whenthe grass was good."
"I remember her, too. Her horns curled right back, didn't they? And shealways looked so fierce."
"Yes, but she was a kindly cow. And will the churn be ready for themorning?"
"Yes, mother, we'll have buttermilk for our porridge, sure enough."
"Well, you'll need to be up early for that, too early, Thomas, lad, fora boy like you."
"A boy like me!" said Thomas, feigning indignation, and stretchinghimself to his full height. "Where would you be getting your men,mother?"
"You are man enough, laddie," said his mother, "and a good one you willcome to be, I doubt. And you, too, Hughie, lad
," she added, turning tohim. "You will be like your father."
"I dunno," said Hughie, his face flushing scarlet. He was weary and sickof his secret, and the sight of the loving comradeship between Thomasand his mother made his burden all the heavier.
"What's wrong with yon laddie?" asked Mrs. Finch, when Hughie had goneaway to bed.
"Now, mother, you're too sharp altogether. And how do you know anythingis wrong with him?"
"I warrant you his mother sees it. Something is on his mind. Hughie isnot the lad he used to be. He will not look at you straight, and that isnot like Hughie."
"Oh, mother, you're a sharp one," said Thomas. "I thought no one hadseen that but myself. Yes, there is something wrong with him. It'ssomething in the school. It's a poor place nowadays, anyway, and I wishHughie were done with it."
"He must keep at the school, Thomas, and I only wish you could do thesame." His mother sighed. She had her own secret ambition for Thomas,and though she never opened her heart to her son, or indeed to any one,Thomas somehow knew that it was her heart's desire to see him "in thepulpit."
"Never you mind, mother," he said, brightly. "It'll all come right.Aren't you always the one preaching faith to me?"
"Yes, laddie, and it is needed, and sorely at times."
"Now, mither," said Thomas, dropping into her native speech, "ye maunabe fashin' yersel. Ye'll jist say 'Now I lay me,' and gang to sleep likea bairnie."
"Ay, that's a guid word, laddie, an' a'll tak it. Ye may kiss me guidnicht. A'll tak it."
Thomas bent over her and whispered in her ear, "Ay, mither, mither,ye're an angel, and that ye are."
"Hoots, laddie, gang awa wi' ye," said his mother, but she held her armsabout his neck and kissed him once and again. There was no one to see,and why should they not give and take their heart's fill of love.
But when Thomas stood outside the room door, he folded his arms tightacross his breast and whispered with lips that quivered, "Ay, mither,mither, mither, there's nane like ye. There's nane like ye." And he wasglad that when he went upstairs, he found Hughie unwilling to talk.
The next three days they were all busy with the planting of thepotatoes, and nothing could have been better for Hughie. The sweet,sunny air, and the kindly, wholesome earth and honest hard work werelife and health to mind and heart and body. It is wonderful how thetouch of the kindly mother earth cleanses the soul from its unwholesomehumors. The hours that Hughie spent in working with the clean, red earthseemed somehow to breathe virtue into him. He remembered the past monthslike a bad dream. They seemed to him a hideous unreality, and he couldnot think of Foxy and his schemes, nor of his own weakness in yieldingto temptation, without a horrible self-loathing. He became aware of astrange feeling of sympathy and kinship with old Donald Finch. He seemedto understand his gloom. During those days their work brought those twotogether, for Billy Jack had the running of the drills, and to Thomaswas intrusted the responsibility of "dropping" the potatoes, so Hughieand the old man undertook to "cover" after Thomas.
Side by side they hoed together, speaking not a word for an hour at atime, but before long the old man appeared to feel the lad's sympathy.Hughie was quick to save him steps, and eager in many ways to anticipatehis wishes. He was quick, too, with the hoe, and ambitious to do hisfull share of the work, and this won the old man's respect, so thatby the end of the first day there was established between them a solidbasis of friendship.
Old Donald Finch was no cheerful companion for Hughie, but it was toHughie a relief, more than anything else, that he was not much witheither Thomas or Billy Jack.
"You're tired," he ventured, in answer to a deep sigh from the old man,toward the close of the day.
"No, laddie," replied the old man, "I know not that I am working. Theburden of toil is the least of all our burdens." And then, after apause, he added, "It is a terrible thing, is sin."
To an equal in age the old man would never have ventured thisconfidence, but to Hughie, to his own surprise, he found it easy totalk.
"A terrible thing," he repeated, "and it will always be finding youout."
Hughie listened to him with a fearful sinking of heart, thinking ofhimself and his sin.
"Yes," repeated the old man, with awful solemnity, "it will come up withyou at last."
"But," ventured Hughie, timidly, "won't God forgive? Won't he everforget?"
The old man looked at him, leaning upon his hoe.
"Yes, he will forgive. But for those who have had great privileges, andwho have sinned against light--I will not say."
The fear deepened in Hughie's heart.
"Do you mean that God will not forgive a man who has had a good chance,an elder, or a minister, or--or--a minister's son, say, like me?"
There was something in Hughie's tone that startled the old man. Heglanced at Hughie's face.
"What am I saying?" he cried. "It is of myself I am thinking, boy, andof no minister or minister's son."
But Hughie stood looking at him, his face showing his terrible anxiety.God and sin were vivid realities to him.
"Yes, yes," said the old man to himself, "it is a great gospel. 'As faras the east is distant from the west.' 'And plenteous redemption is everfound with him.'"
"But, do you think," said Hughie, in a low voice, "God will tell all oursins? Will he make them known?"
"God forbid!" cried the old man. "'And their sins and their iniquitieswill I remember no more.' 'The depths of the sea.' No, no, boy, he willsurely forget, and he will not be proclaiming them."
It was a strange picture. The old man leaning upon the top of hishoe looking over at the lad, the gloom of his face irradiated with amomentary gleam of hope, and the boy looking back at him with almostbreathless eagerness.
"It would be great," said Hughie, at last, "if he would forget."
"Yes," said the old man, the gleam in his face growing brighter, "'If weconfess our sins he is faithful and just to forgive us,' and forgivingwith him is forgetting. Ah, yes, it is a great gospel," he continued,and standing there he lifted up his hand and broke into a kind of chantin Gaelic, of which Hughie could catch no meaning, but the exalted lookon the old man's face was translation enough.
"Must we always tell?" said Hughie, after the old man had ceased.
"What are you saying, laddie?"
"I say must we always tell our sins--I mean to people?"
The old man thought a moment. "It is not always good to be talking aboutour sins to people. That is for God to hear. But we must be ready tomake right what is wrong."
"Yes, yes," said Hughie, eagerly, "of course one would be glad to dothat."
The old man gave him one keen glance, and began hoeing again.
"Ye'd better be asking ye're mother about that. She will know."
"No, no," said Hughie, "I can't."
The old man paused in his work, looked at the boy for a moment or two,and then went on working again.
"Speak to my woman," he said, after a few strokes of his hoe. "She's awonderful wise woman." And Hughie wished that he dared.
During the days of the planting they became great friends, and to theirmutual good. The mother's keen eyes noted the change both in Hughie andin her husband, and was glad for it. It was she that suggested to BillyJack that he needed help in the back pasture with the stones. BillyJack, quick to take her meaning, eagerly insisted that help he musthave, indeed he could not get on with the plowing unless the stoneswere taken off. And so it came that Hughie and the old man, with old Flyhitched up in the stone-boat, spent two happy and not unprofitable daysin the back pasture. Gravely they discussed the high themes of God'ssovereignty and man's freedom, with all their practical issues uponconduct and destiny. Only once, and that very shyly, did the old manbring round the talk to the subject of their first conversation thatmeant so much to them both.
"The Lord will not be wanting to shame us beyond what is necessary," hesaid. "There are certain sins which he will bring to light, but thereare those that, in his mercy, he permits us
to hide; provided always,"he added, with emphasis, "we are done with them."
"Yes, indeed," assented Hughie, eagerly, "and who wouldn't be done withthem?"
But the old man shook his head sadly.
"If that were always true a man would soon be rid of his evil heart.But," he continued, as if eager to turn the conversation, "you will betalking with my woman about it. She's a wonderful wise woman, yon."
Somehow the opportunity came to Hughie to take the old man's advice. OnSaturday evening, just before leaving for home, he found himself alonewith Mrs. Finch sitting beside the open window, watching the sun go downbehind the trees.
"What a splendid sunset!" he cried. He was ever sensitive to themajestic drama of nature.
"Ay," said Mrs. Finch, "the clouds and the sun make wonderful beautytogether, but without the sun the clouds are ugly things."
Hughie quickly took her meaning.
"They are not pleasant," he said.
"No, not pleasant," she replied, "but with the sunlight upon them theyare wonderful."
Hughie was silent for some moments, and then suddenly burst out, "Mrs.Finch, does God forget sins, and will he keep them hid, from people, Imean?"
"Ay," she said, with quiet conviction, "he will forget, and he will hidethem. Why should he lay the burden of our sins upon others? And if hedoes not why should we?"
"Do you mean we need not always tell? I'd like to tell my--some one."
"Ay," she replied, "it's a weary wark and a lanely to carry it oor lane,but it's an awfu' grief to hear o' anither's sin. An awfu' grief," sherepeated to herself.
"But," burst out Hughie, "I'll never be right till I tell my mother."
"Ay, and then it is she would be carrying the weight o' it."
"But it's against her," said Hughie, his hands going up to his face."Oh, Mrs. Finch, it's just awful mean. I don't know how I did it."
"Ye can tell me, laddie, if ye will," said she, kindly, and Hughiepoured forth the whole burden that had lain so long upon him, but hetold it laying upon Foxy small blame, for during those days, hisown part had come to bulk so large with him that Foxy's was almostforgotten.
For some moments after he had done Mrs. Finch sat in silence, leaningforward and patting the boy's bowed head.
"Ay, but he is rightly named," she said, at length.
"Who?" asked Hughie, surprised.
"Yon store-keepin' chiel." Then she added, "But ye're done wi' him andhis tricks, and ye'll stand up against him and be a man for the weeladdies."
"Oh, I don't know," said Hughie, too sick at heart and too penetratedwith the miserable sense of his own meanness and cowardice, to make anypromise.
"And as tae ye're mither, laddie," went on Mrs. Finch, "it will bea sair burden for her." When Mrs. Finch was greatly moved she alwaysdropped into her broadest Scotch.
"Oh, yes, I know," said Hughie, his voice now broken with sobs, "andthat's the worst of it. If I didn't have to tell her! She'll justbreak her heart, I know. She thinks I'm so--oh, oh--" The long pent upfeelings came flooding forth in groans and sobs.
For some moments Mrs. Finch sat quietly, and then she said, "Listen,laddie. There is Another to be thought of first."
"Another?" asked Hughie. "Oh, yes, I know. But He knows already, andindeed I have often told Him. But besides, you say He will forget, andtake it away. But mother doesn't know, and doesn't suspect."
"Well, then, laddie," said Mrs. Finch, with quiet firmness, "let hertell ye what to do. Mak ye're offer to tell her, and warn her that it'llgrieve ye baith, and then let her say."
"Yes, I'll do it. I'll do it to-night, and if she says so, then I'lltell her."
And so he did, and when he came back to the Finch's on Monday morning,for his mother saw that leaving school for a time would be no seriousloss, and a week or two with the Finches might be a great gain, he cameradiant to Mrs. Finch, and finding her in her chair by the open windowalone, he burst forth, "I told her, and she wouldn't let me. She didn'twant to know so long as I said it was all made right. And she promisedshe would trust me just the same. Oh, she's splendid, my mother! Andshe's coming this week to see you. And I tell you I just feel like--likeanything! I can't keep still. I'm like Fido when he's let off his chain.He just goes wild."
Then, after a pause, he added, in a graver tone, "And mother readZaccheus to me. And isn't it fine how He never said a word tohim?"--Hughie was too excited to be coherent--"but stood up for him,and"--here Hughie's voice became more grave--"I'm going to restorefourfold. I'm going to work at the hay, and I fired that old pistol intothe pond, and I'm not afraid of Foxy any more, not a bit."
Hughie rushed breathlessly through his story, while the dark face beforehim glowed with intelligent sympathy, but she only said, when he haddone, "It is a graund thing to be free, is it no'?"
