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Title: Black Rock

Author: Ralph Connor

Release Date: May, 2002  [Etext #3245]
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BLACK ROCK

A TALE OF THE SELKIRKS

by Ralph Connor




INTRODUCTION


I think I have met "Ralph Conner."  Indeed, I am sure I have--once
in a canoe on the Red River, once on the Assinaboine, and twice or
thrice on the prairies to the West.  That was not the name he gave
me, but, if I am right, it covers one of the most honest and genial
of the strong characters that are fighting the devil and doing good
work for men all over the world.  He has seen with his own eyes the
life which he describes in this book, and has himself, for some
years of hard and lonely toil, assisted in the good influences which
he traces among its wild and often hopeless conditions.  He writes
with the freshness and accuracy of an eye-witness, with the style
(as I think his readers will allow) of a real artist, and with the
tenderness and hopefulness of a man not only of faith but of
experience, who has seen in fulfillment the ideals for which he
lives.

The life to which he takes us, though far off and very strange to
our tame minds, is the life of our brothers.  Into the Northwest of
Canada the young men of Great Britain and Ireland have been pouring
(I was told), sometimes at the rate of 48,000 a year.  Our brothers
who left home yesterday--our hearts cannot but follow them.  With
these pages Ralph Conner enables our eyes and our minds to follow,
too; nor do I think there is any one who shall read this book and
not find also that his conscience is quickened.  There is a warfare
appointed unto man upon earth, and its struggles are nowhere more
intense, nor the victories of the strong, nor the succors brought
to the fallen, more heroic, than on the fields described in this
volume.

GEORGE ADAM SMITH.



BLACK ROCK


The story of the book is true, and chief of the failures in the
making of the book is this, that it is not all the truth.  The
light is not bright enough, the shadow is not black enough to give
a true picture of that bit of Western life of which the writer was
some small part.  The men of the book are still there in the mines
and lumber camps of the mountains, fighting out that eternal fight
for manhood, strong, clean, God-conquered.  And, when the west
winds blow, to the open ear the sounds of battle come, telling the
fortunes of the fight.

Because a man's life is all he has, and because the only hope of
the brave young West lies in its men, this story is told.  It may
be that the tragic pity of a broken life may move some to pray, and
that that divine power there is in a single brave heart to summon
forth hope and courage may move some to fight.  If so, the tale is
not told in vain.

C.W.G.



CONTENTS


CHAPTER I

CHRISTMAS EVE IN A LUMBER CAMP


CHAPTER II

THE BLACK ROCK CHRISTMAS


CHAPTER III

WATERLOO.  OUR FIGHT--HIS VICTORY


CHAPTER IV

MRS. MAVOR'S STORY


CHAPTER V

THE MAKING OF THE LEAGUE


CHAPTER VI

BLACK ROCK RELIGION


CHAPTER VII

THE FIRST BLACK ROCK COMMUNION


CHAPTER VIII

THE BREAKING OF THE LEAGUE


CHAPTER IX

THE LEAGUE'S REVENGE


CHAPTER X

WHAT CAME TO SLAVIN


CHAPTER XI

THE TWO CALLS


CHAPTER XII

LOVE IS NOT ALL


CHAPTER XIII

HOW NELSON CAME HOME


CHAPTER XIV

GRAEME'S NEW BIRTH


CHAPTER XV

COMING TO THEIR OWN




CHAPTER I


CHRISTMAS EVE IN A LUMBER CAMP


It was due to a mysterious dispensation of Providence, and a good
deal to Leslie Graeme, that I found myself in the heart of the
Selkirks for my Christmas Eve as the year 1882 was dying.  It had
been my plan to spend my Christmas far away in Toronto, with such
Bohemian and boon companions as could be found in that cosmopolitan
and kindly city.  But Leslie Graeme changed all that, for,
discovering me in the village of Black Rock, with my traps all
packed, waiting for the stage to start for the Landing, thirty
miles away, he bore down upon me with resistless force, and I found
myself recovering from my surprise only after we had gone in his
lumber sleigh some six miles on our way to his camp up in the
mountains.  I was surprised and much delighted, though I would not
allow him to think so, to find that his old-time power over me was
still there.  He could always in the old 'Varsity days--dear, wild
days--make me do what he liked.  He was so handsome and so
reckless, brilliant in his class-work, and the prince of half-backs
on the Rugby field, and with such power of fascination, as would
'extract the heart out of a wheelbarrow,' as Barney Lundy used to
say.  And thus it was that I found myself just three weeks later--I
was to have spent two or three days,--on the afternoon of the 24th
of December, standing in Graeme's Lumber Camp No. 2, wondering at
myself.  But I did not regret my changed plans, for in those three
weeks I had raided a cinnamon bear's den and had wakened up a
grizzly--  But I shall let the grizzly finish the tale; he probably
sees more humour in it than I.

The camp stood in a little clearing, and consisted of a group of
three long, low shanties with smaller shacks near them, all built
of heavy, unhewn logs, with door and window in each.  The grub
camp, with cook-shed attached, stood in the middle of the clearing;
at a little distance was the sleeping-camp with the office built
against it, and about a hundred yards away on the other side of the
clearing stood the stables, and near them the smiddy.  The
mountains rose grandly on every side, throwing up their great peaks
into the sky.  The clearing in which the camp stood was hewn out of
a dense pine forest that filled the valley and climbed half way up
the mountain-sides, and then frayed out in scattered and stunted
trees.

It was one of those wonderful Canadian winter days, bright, and
with a touch of sharpness in the air that did not chill, but warmed
the blood like draughts of wine.  The men were up in the woods, and
the shrill scream of the blue jay flashing across the open, the
impudent chatter of the red squirrel from the top of the grub camp,
and the pert chirp of the whisky-jack, hopping about on the
rubbish-heap, with the long, lone cry of the wolf far down the
valley, only made the silence felt the more.

As I stood drinking in with all my soul the glorious beauty and the
silence of mountain and forest, with the Christmas feeling stealing
into me, Graeme came out from his office, and, catching sight of
me, called out, 'Glorious Christmas weather, old chap!'  And then,
coming nearer, 'Must you go to-morrow?'

'I fear so,' I replied, knowing well that the Christmas feeling was
on him too.

'I wish I were going with you,' he said quietly.

I turned eagerly to persuade him, but at the look of suffering in
his face the words died at my lips, for we both were thinking of
the awful night of horror when all his bright, brilliant life
crashed down about him in black ruin and shame.  I could only throw
my arm over his shoulder and stand silent beside him.  A sudden
jingle of bells roused him, and, giving himself a little shake, he
exclaimed, 'There are the boys coming home.'

Soon the camp was filled with men talking, laughing, chaffing, like
light-hearted boys.

'They are a little wild to-night,' said Graeme; 'and to morrow
they'll paint Black Rock red.'

Before many minutes had gone, the last teamster was 'washed up,'
and all were standing about waiting impatiently for the cook's
signal--the supper to-night was to be 'something of a feed'--when
the sound of bells drew their attention to a light sleigh drawn by
a buckskin broncho coming down the hillside at a great pace.

'The preacher, I'll bet, by his driving,' said one of the men.

'Bedad, and it's him has the foine nose for turkey!' said Blaney, a
good-natured, jovial Irishman.

'Yes, or for pay-day, more like,' said Keefe, a black-browed,
villainous fellow-countryman of Blaney's, and, strange to say, his
great friend.

Big Sandy M'Naughton, a Canadian Highlander from Glengarry, rose up
in wrath.  'Bill Keefe,' said he, with deliberate emphasis, 'you'll
just keep your dirty tongue off the minister; and as for your pay,
it's little he sees of it, or any one else, except Mike Slavin,
when you're too dry to wait for some one to treat you, or perhaps
Father Ryan, when the fear of hell-fire is on to you.'

The men stood amazed at Sandy's sudden anger and length of speech.

'Bon; dat's good for you, my bully boy,' said Baptiste, a wiry
little French-Canadian, Sandy's sworn ally and devoted admirer ever
since the day when the big Scotsman, under great provocation, had
knocked him clean off the dump into the river and then jumped in
for him.

It was not till afterwards I learned the cause of Sandy's sudden
wrath which urged him to such unwonted length of speech.  It was
not simply that the Presbyterian blood carried with it reverence
for the minister and contempt for Papists and Fenians, but that he
had a vivid remembrance of how, only a month ago, the minister had
got him out of Mike Slavin's saloon and out the clutches of Keefe
and Slavin and their gang of bloodsuckers.

Keefe started up with a curse.  Baptiste sprang to Sandy's side,
slapped him on the back, and called out, 'You keel him, I'll hit
(eat) him up, me.'

It looked as if there might be a fight, when a harsh voice said in
a low, savage tone, 'Stop your row, you blank fools; settle it, if
you want to, somewhere else.'  I turned, and was amazed to see old
man Nelson, who was very seldom moved to speech.

There was a look of scorn on his hard, iron-grey face, and of such
settled fierceness as made me quite believe the tales I had heard
of his deadly fights in the mines at the coast.  Before any reply
could be made, the minister drove up and called out in a cheery
voice, 'Merry Christmas, boys!  Hello, Sandy!  Comment ca va,
Baptiste?  How do you do, Mr. Graeme?'

'First rate.  Let me introduce my friend, Mr. Connor, sometime
medical student, now artist, hunter, and tramp at large, but not a
bad sort.'

'A man to be envied,' said the minister, smiling.  'I am glad to
know any friend of Mr. Graeme's.'

I liked Mr. Craig from the first.  He had good eyes that looked
straight out at you, a clean-cut, strong face well set on his
shoulders, and altogether an upstanding, manly bearing.  He
insisted on going with Sandy to the stables to see Dandy, his
broncho, put up.

'Decent fellow,' said Graeme; 'but though he is good enough to his
broncho, it is Sandy that's in his mind now.'

'Does he come out often?  I mean, are you part of his parish, so to
speak?'

'I have no doubt he thinks so; and I'm blowed if he doesn't make
the Presbyterians of us think so too.'  And he added after a pause,
'A dandy lot of parishioners we are for any man.  There's Sandy,
now, he would knock Keefe's head off as a kind of religious
exercise; but to-morrow Keefe will be sober, and Sandy will be
drunk as a lord, and the drunker he is the better Presbyterian
he'll be; to the preacher's disgust.'  Then after another pause he
added bitterly, 'But it is not for me to throw rocks at Sandy; I am
not the same kind of fool, but I am a fool of several other sorts.'

Then the cook came out and beat a tattoo on the bottom of a dish-
pan.  Baptiste answered with a yell: but though keenly hungry, no
man would demean himself to do other than walk with apparent
reluctance to his place at the table.  At the further end of the
camp was a big fireplace, and from the door to the fireplace
extended the long board tables, covered with platters of turkey not
too scientifically carved, dishes of potatoes, bowls of apple
sauce, plates of butter, pies, and smaller dishes distributed at
regular intervals.  Two lanterns hanging from the roof, and a row
of candles stuck into the wall on either side by means of slit
sticks, cast a dim, weird light over the scene.

There was a moment's silence, and at a nod from Graeme Mr. Craig
rose and said, 'I don't know how you feel about it, men, but to me
this looks good enough to be thankful for.'

'Fire ahead, sir,' called out a voice quite respectfully, and the
minister bent his head and said--

'For Christ the Lord who came to save us, for all the love and
goodness we have known, and for these Thy gifts to us this
Christmas night, our Father, make us thankful.  Amen.'

'Bon, dat's fuss rate,' said Baptiste.  'Seems lak dat's make me
hit (eat) more better for sure,' and then no word was spoken for
quarter of an hour.  The occasion was far too solemn and moments
too precious for anything so empty as words.  But when the white
piles of bread and the brown piles of turkey had for a second time
vanished, and after the last pie had disappeared, there came a
pause and hush of expectancy, whereupon the cook and cookee, each
bearing aloft a huge, blazing pudding, came forth.

'Hooray!' yelled Blaney, 'up wid yez!' and grabbing the cook by the
shoulders from behind, he faced him about.

Mr. Craig was the first to respond, and seizing the cookee in the
same way, called out, 'Squad, fall in! quick march!'  In a moment
every man was in the procession.

'Strike up, Batchees, ye little angel!' shouted Blaney, the
appellation a concession to the minister's presence; and away went
Baptiste in a rollicking French song with the English chorus--


    'Then blow, ye winds, in the morning,
       Blow, ye winds, ay oh!
     Blow, ye winds, in the morning,
       Blow, blow, blow.'


And at each 'blow' every boot came down with a thump on the plank
floor that shook the solid roof.  After the second round, Mr.
Craig jumped upon the bench, and called out--

'Three cheers for Billy the cook!'

In the silence following the cheers Baptiste was heard to say,
'Bon! dat's mak me feel lak hit dat puddin' all hup mesef, me.'

'Hear till the little baste!' said Blaney in disgust.

'Batchees,' remonstrated Sandy gravely, 'ye've more stomach than
manners.'

'Fu sure! but de more stomach dat's more better for dis puddin','
replied the little Frenchman cheerfully.

After a time the tables were cleared and pushed back to the wall,
and pipes were produced.  In all attitudes suggestive of comfort
the men disposed themselves in a wide circle about the fire, which
now roared and crackled up the great wooden chimney hanging from
the roof.  The lumberman's hour of bliss had arrived.  Even old man
Nelson looked a shade less melancholy than usual as he sat alone,
well away from the fire, smoking steadily and silently.  When the
second pipes were well a-going, one of the men took down a violin
from the wall and handed it to Lachlan Campbell.  There were two
brothers Campbell just out from Argyll, typical Highlanders:
Lachlan, dark, silent, melancholy, with the face of a mystic, and
Angus, red-haired, quick, impulsive, and devoted to his brother, a
devotion he thought proper to cover under biting, sarcastic speech.

Lachlan, after much protestation, interspersed with gibes from his
brother, took the violin, and, in response to the call from all
sides, struck up 'Lord Macdonald's Reel.'  In a moment the floor
was filled with dancers, whooping and cracking their fingers in the
wildest manner.  Then Baptiste did the 'Red River Jig,' a most
intricate and difficult series of steps, the men keeping time to
the music with hands and feet.

When the jig was finished, Sandy called for 'Lochaber No More'; but
Campbell said, 'No, no! I cannot play that to-night.  Mr. Craig
will play.'

Craig took the violin, and at the first note I knew he was no
ordinary player.  I did not recognise the music, but it was soft
and thrilling, and got in by the heart, till every one was thinking
his tenderest and saddest thoughts.

After he had played two or three exquisite bits, he gave Campbell
his violin, saying, 'Now, "Lochaber," Lachlan.'

Without a word Lachlan began, not 'Lochaber'--he was not ready for
that yet--but 'The Flowers o' the Forest,' and from that wandered
through 'Auld Robin Gray' and 'The Land o' the Leal,' and so got at
last to that most soul-subduing of Scottish laments, 'Lochaber No
More.'  At the first strain, his brother, who had thrown himself on
some blankets behind the fire, turned over on his face, feigning
sleep.  Sandy M'Naughton took his pipe out of his mouth, and sat up
straight and stiff, staring into vacancy, and Graeme, beyond the
fire, drew a short, sharp breath.  We had often sat, Graeme and I,
in our student-days, in the drawing-room at home, listening to his
father wailing out 'Lochaber' upon the pipes, and I well knew that
the awful minor strains were now eating their way into his soul.

Over and over again the Highlander played his lament.  He had long
since forgotten us, and was seeing visions of the hills and lochs
and glens of his far-away native land, and making us, too, see
strange things out of the dim past.  I glanced at old man Nelson,
and was startled at the eager, almost piteous, look in his eyes,
and I wished Campbell would stop.  Mr. Craig caught my eye, and,
stepping over to Campbell, held out his hand for the violin.
Lingeringly and lovingly the Highlander drew out the last strain,
and silently gave the minister his instrument.

Without a moment's pause, and while the spell of 'Lochaber' was
still upon us, the minister, with exquisite skill, fell into the
refrain of that simple and beautiful camp-meeting hymn, 'The Sweet
By and By.'  After playing the verse through once, he sang softly
the refrain.  After the first verse, the men joined in the chorus;
at first timidly, but by the time the third verse was reached they
were shouting with throats full open, 'We shall meet on that
beautiful shore.'  When I looked at Nelson the eager light had gone
out of his eyes, and in its place was kind of determined
hopelessness, as if in this new music he had no part.

After the voices had ceased, Mr. Craig played again the refrain,
more and more softly and slowly; then laying the violin on
Campbell's knees, he drew from his pocket his little Bible, and
said--

'Men, with Mr. Graeme's permission, I want to read you something
this Christmas Eve.  You will all have heard it before, but you
will like it none the less for that.'

His voice was soft, but clear and penetrating, as he read the
eternal story of the angels and the shepherds and the Babe.  And as
he read, a slight motion of the hand or a glance of an eye made us
see, as he was seeing, that whole radiant drama.  The wonder, the
timid joy, the tenderness, the mystery of it all, were borne in
upon us with overpowering effect.  He closed the book, and in the
same low, clear voice went on to tell us how, in his home years
ago, he used to stand on Christmas Eve listening in thrilling
delight to his mother telling him the story, and how she used to
make him see the shepherds and hear the sheep bleating near by, and
how the sudden burst of glory used to make his heart jump.

'I used to be a little afraid of the angels, because a boy told me
they were ghosts; but my mother told me better, and I didn't fear
them any more.  And the Baby, the dear little Baby--we all love a
baby.'  There was a quick, dry sob; it was from Nelson.  'I used to
peek through under to see the little one in the straw, and wonder
what things swaddling clothes were.  Oh, it was all so real and so
beautiful!'  He paused, and I could hear the men breathing.

'But one Christmas Eve,' he went on, in a lower, sweeter tone,
'there was no one to tell me the story, and I grew to forget it,
and went away to college, and learned to think that it was only a
child's tale and was not for men.  Then bad days came to me and
worse, and I began to lose my grip of myself, of life, of hope, of
goodness, till one black Christmas, in the slums of a faraway city,
when I had given up all, and the devil's arms were about me, I
heard the story again.  And as I listened, with a bitter ache in my
heart, for I had put it all behind me, I suddenly found myself
peeking under the shepherds' arms with a child's wonder at the Baby
in the straw.  Then it came over me like great waves, that His name
was Jesus, because it was He that should save men from their sins.
Save!  Save!  The waves kept beating upon my ears, and before I
knew, I had called out, "Oh! can He save me?"  It was in a little
mission meeting on one of the side streets, and they seemed to be
used to that sort of thing there, for no one was surprised; and a
young fellow leaned across the aisle to me and said, "Why! you just
bet He can!"  His surprise that I should doubt, his bright face and
confident tone, gave me hope that perhaps it might be so.  I held
to that hope with all my soul, and'--stretching up his arms, and
with a quick glow in his face and a little break in his voice, 'He
hasn't failed me yet; not once, not once!'

He stopped quite short, and I felt a good deal like making a fool
of myself, for in those days I had not made up my mind about these
things.  Graeme, poor old chap, was gazing at him with a sad
yearning in his dark eyes; big Sandy was sitting very stiff, and
staring harder than ever into the fire; Baptiste was trembling with
excitement; Blaney was openly wiping the tears away.  But the face
that held my eyes was that of old man Nelson.  It was white,
fierce, hungry-looking, his sunken eyes burning, his lips parted as
if to cry.

The minister went on.  'I didn't mean to tell you this, men, it all
came over me with a rush; but it is true, every word, and not a
word will I take back.  And, what's more, I can tell you this, what
He did for me He can do for any man, and it doesn't make any
difference what's behind him, and'--leaning slightly forward, and
with a little thrill of pathos vibrating in his voice--'O boys, why
don't you give Him a chance at you?  Without Him you'll never be
the men you want to be, and you'll never get the better of that
that's keeping some of you now from going back home.  You know
you'll never go back till you're the men you want to be.'  Then,
lifting up his face and throwing back his head, he said, as if to
himself, 'Jesus!  He shall save His people from their sins,' and
then, 'Let us pray.'

Graeme leaned forward with his face in his hands; Baptiste and
Blaney dropped on their knees; Sandy, the Campbells, and some
others, stood up.  Old man Nelson held his eyes steadily on the
minister.

Only once before had I seen that look on a human face.  A young
fellow had broken through the ice on the river at home, and as the
black water was dragging his fingers one by one from the slippery
edges, there came over his face that same look.  I used to wake up
for many a night after in a sweat of horror, seeing the white face
with its parting lips, and its piteous, dumb appeal, and the black
water slowly sucking it down.

Nelson's face brought it all back; but during the prayer the face
changed, and seemed to settle into resolve of some sort, stern,
almost gloomy, as of a man with his last chance before him.

After the prayer Mr. Craig invited the men to a Christmas dinner
next day in Black Rock.  'And because you are an independent lot,
we'll charge you half a dollar for dinner and the evening show.'
Then leaving a bundle of magazines and illustrated papers on the
table--a godsend to the men--he said good-bye and went out.

I was to go with the minister, so I jumped into the sleigh first,
and waited while he said good-bye to Graeme, who had been hard hit
by the whole service, and seemed to want to say something.  I heard
Mr. Craig say cheerfully and confidently, 'It's a true bill: try
Him.'

Sandy, who had been steadying Dandy while that interesting broncho
was attempting with great success to balance himself on his hind
legs, came to say good-bye.  'Come and see me first thing, Sandy.'

'Ay! I know; I'll see ye, Mr. Craig,' said Sandy earnestly, as
Dandy dashed off at a full gallop across the clearing and over the
bridge, steadying down when he reached the hill.

'Steady, you idiot!'

This was to Dandy, who had taken a sudden side spring into the deep
snow, almost upsetting us.  A man stepped out from the shadow.  It
was old man Nelson.  He came straight to the sleigh, and, ignoring
my presence completely, said--

'Mr. Craig, are you dead sure of this?  Will it work?'

'Do you mean,' said Craig, taking him up promptly, 'can Jesus
Christ save you from your sins and make a man of you?'

The old man nodded, keeping his hungry eyes on the other's face.

'Well, here's His message to you: "The Son of Man is come to seek
and to save that which was lost."'

'To me?  To me?' said the old man eagerly.

'Listen; this, too, is His Word: "Him that cometh unto Me I will in
no wise cast out."  That's for you, for here you are, coming.'

'You don't know me, Mr. Craig.  I left my baby fifteen years ago
because--'

'Stop!' said the minister.  'Don't tell me, at least not to-night;
perhaps never.  Tell Him who knows it all now, and who never
betrays a secret.  Have it out with Him.  Don't be afraid to trust
Him.'

Nelson looked at him, with his face quivering, and said in a husky
voice, 'If this is no good, it's hell for me.'

'If it is no good,' replied Craig, almost sternly, 'it's hell for
all of us.'

The old man straightened himself up, looked up at the stars, then
back at Mr. Craig, then at me, and, drawing a deep breath, said,
'I'll try Him.'  As he was turning away the minister touched him on
the arm, and said quietly, 'Keep an eye on Sandy to-morrow.'

Nelson nodded, and we went on; but before we took the next turn I
looked back and saw what brought a lump into my throat.  It was old
man Nelson on his knees in the snow, with his hands spread upward
to the stars, and I wondered if there was any One above the stars,
and nearer than the stars, who could see.  And then the trees hid
him from my sight


CHAPTER II

THE BLACK ROCK CHRISTMAS


Many strange Christmas Days have I seen, but that wild Black Rock
Christmas stands out strangest of all.  While I was revelling in my
delicious second morning sleep, just awake enough to enjoy it, Mr.
Craig came abruptly, announcing breakfast and adding, 'Hope you are
in good shape, for we have our work before us this day.'

'Hello!' I replied, still half asleep, and anxious to hide from the
minister that I was trying to gain a few more moments of snoozing
delight, 'what's abroad?'.

'The devil,' he answered shortly, and with such emphasis that I sat
bolt upright, looking anxiously about.

'Oh! no need for alarm.  He's not after you particularly--at least
not to-day,' said Craig, with a shadow of a smile.  'But he is
going about in good style, I can tell you.'

By this time I was quite awake.  'Well, what particular style does
His Majesty affect this morning?'

He pulled out a showbill.  'Peculiarly gaudy and effective, is it
not?'

The items announced were sufficiently attractive.  The 'Frisco
Opera Company were to produce the 'screaming farce,' 'The Gay and
Giddy Dude'; after which there was to be a 'Grand Ball,' during
which the 'Kalifornia Female Kickers' were to do some fancy
figures; the whole to be followed by a 'big supper' with 'two free
drinks to every man and one to the lady,' and all for the
insignificant sum of two dollars.

'Can't you go one better?' I said.

He looked inquiringly and a little disgustedly at me.

'What can you do against free drinks and a dance, not to speak of
the "High Kickers"?' he groaned.

'No!' he continued; 'it's a clean beat for us today.  The miners
and lumbermen will have in their pockets ten thousand dollars, and
every dollar burning a hole; and Slavin and his gang will get most
of it.  But,' he added, 'you must have breakfast.  You'll find a
tub in the kitchen; don't be afraid to splash.  It is the best I
have to offer you.'

The tub sounded inviting, and before many minutes had passed I was
in a delightful glow, the effect of cold water and a rough towel,
and that consciousness of virtue that comes to a man who has had
courage to face his cold bath on a winter morning.

The breakfast was laid with fine taste.  A diminutive pine-tree, in
a pot hung round with wintergreen, stood in the centre of the
table.

'Well, now, this looks good; porridge, beefsteak, potatoes, toast,
and marmalade.'

'I hope you will enjoy it all.'

There was not much talk over our meal.  Mr. Craig was evidently
preoccupied, and as blue as his politeness would allow him.
Slavin's victory weighed upon his spirits.  Finally he burst out,
'Look here!  I can't, I won't stand it; something must be done.
Last Christmas this town was for two weeks, as one of the miners
said, "a little suburb of hell."  It was something too awful.  And
at the end of it all one young fellow was found dead in his shack,
and twenty or more crawled back to the camps, leaving their three
months' pay with Slavin and his suckers.

'I won't stand it, I say.'  He turned fiercely on me.  'What's to
be done?'

This rather took me aback, for I had troubled myself with nothing
of this sort in my life before, being fully occupied in keeping
myself out of difficulty, and allowing others the same privilege.
So I ventured the consolation that he had done his part, and that a
spree more or less would not make much difference to these men.
But the next moment I wished I had been slower in speech, for he
swiftly faced me, and his words came like a torrent.

'God forgive you that heartless word!  Do you know--?  But no; you
don't know what you are saying.  You don't know that these men have
been clambering for dear life out of a fearful pit for three months
past, and doing good climbing too, poor chaps.  You don't think
that some of them have wives, most of them mothers and sisters, in
the east or across the sea, for whose sake they are slaving here;
the miners hoping to save enough to bring their families to this
homeless place, the rest to make enough to go back with credit.
Why, there's Nixon, miner, splendid chap; has been here for two
years, and drawing the highest pay.  Twice he has been in sight of
his heaven, for he can't speak of his wife and babies without
breaking up, and twice that slick son of the devil--that's
Scripture, mind you--Slavin, got him, and "rolled" him, as the boys
say.  He went back to the mines broken in body and in heart.  He
says this is his third and last chance.  If Slavin gets him, his
wife and babies will never see him on earth or in heaven.  There is
Sandy, too, and the rest.  And,' he added, in a lower tone, and
with the curious little thrill of pathos in his voice, 'this is the
day the Saviour came to the world.'  He paused, and then with a
little sad smile, 'But I don't want to abuse you.'

'Do, I enjoy it, I'm a beast, a selfish beast'; for somehow his
intense, blazing earnestness made me feel uncomfortably small.

'What have we to offer?' I demanded.

'Wait till I have got these things cleared away, and my
housekeeping done.'

I pressed my services upon him, somewhat feebly, I own, for I can't
bear dishwater; but he rejected my offer.

'I don't like trusting my china to the hands of a tender-foot.'

'Quite right, though your china would prove an excellent means of
defence at long range.'  It was delf, a quarter of an inch thick.
So I smoked while he washed up, swept, dusted, and arranged the
room.

After the room was ordered to his taste, we proceeded to hold
council.  He could offer dinner, magic lantern, music.  'We can
fill in time for two hours, but,' he added gloomily, 'we can't beat
the dance and the "High Kickers."'

'Have you nothing new or startling?'

He shook his head.

'No kind of show?  Dog show?  Snake charmer?'

'Slavin has a monopoly of the snakes.'

Then he added hesitatingly, 'There was an old Punch-and-Judy chap
here last year, but he died.  Whisky again.'

'What happened to his show?'

'The Black Rock Hotel man took it for board and whisky bill.  He
has it still, I suppose.'

I did not much relish the business; but I hated to see him beaten,
so I ventured, 'I have run a Punch and Judy in an amateur way at
the 'Varsity.'

He sprang to his feet with a yell.

'You have! you mean to say it?  We've got them!  We've beaten
them!'  He had an extraordinary way of taking your help for
granted.  'The miner chaps, mostly English and Welsh, went mad over
the poor old showman, and made him so wealthy that in sheer
gratitude he drank himself to death.'

He walked up and down in high excitement and in such evident
delight that I felt pledged to my best effort.

'Well,' I said, 'first the poster.  We must beat them in that.'

He brought me large sheets of brown paper, and after two hours'
hard work I had half a dozen pictorial showbills done in gorgeous
colours and striking designs.  They were good, if I do say it
myself.

The turkey, the magic lantern, the Punch and Judy show were all
there, the last with a crowd before it in gaping delight.  A few
explanatory words were thrown in, emphasising the highly artistic
nature of the Punch and Judy entertainment.

Craig was delighted, and proceeded to perfect his plans.  He had
some half a dozen young men, four young ladies, and eight or ten
matrons, upon whom he could depend for help.  These he organised
into a vigilance committee charged with the duty of preventing
miners and lumbermen from getting away to Slavin's.  'The critical
moments will be immediately before and after dinner, and then again
after the show is over,' he explained.  'The first two crises must
be left to the care of Punch and Judy, and as for the last, I am
not yet sure what shall be done'; but I saw he had something in his
head, for he added, 'I shall see Mrs. Mavor.'

'Who is Mrs. Mavor?' I asked.  But he made no reply.  He was a born
fighter, and he put the fighting spirit into us all.  We were bound
to win.

The sports were to begin at two o'clock.  By lunch-time everything
was in readiness.  After lunch I was having a quiet smoke in
Craig's shack when in he rushed, saying--

'The battle will be lost before it is fought.  If we lose Quatre
Bras, we shall never get to Waterloo.'

'What's up?'

'Slavin, just now.  The miners are coming in, and he will have them
in tow in half an hour.'

He looked at me appealingly.  I knew what he wanted.

'All right; I suppose I must, but it is an awful bore that a man
can't have a quiet smoke.'

'You're not half a bad fellow,' he replied, smiling.  'I shall get
the ladies to furnish coffee inside the booth.  You furnish them
intellectual nourishment in front with dear old Punch and Judy.'

He sent a boy with a bell round the village announcing, 'Punch, and
Judy in front of the Christmas booth beside the church'; and for
three-quarters of an hour I shrieked and sweated in that awful
little pen.  But it was almost worth it to hear the shouts of
approval and laughter that greeted my performance.  It was cold
work standing about, so that the crowd was quite ready to respond
when Punch, after being duly hanged, came forward and invited all
into the booth for the hot coffee which Judy had ordered.

In they trooped, and Quatre Bras was won.

No sooner were the miners safely engaged with their coffee than I
heard a great noise of bells and of men shouting; and on reaching
the street I saw that the men from the lumber camp were coming in.
Two immense sleighs, decorated with ribbons and spruce boughs, each
drawn by a four-horse team gaily adorned, filled with some fifty
men, singing and shouting with all their might, were coming down
the hill road at full gallop.  Round the corner they swung, dashed
at full speed across the bridge and down the street, and pulled up
after they had made the circuit of a block, to the great admiration
of the onlookers.  Among others Slavin sauntered up good-naturedly,
making himself agreeable to Sandy and those who were helping to
unhitch his team.

'Oh, you need not take trouble with me or my team, Mike Slavin.
Batchees and me and the boys can look after them fine,' said Sandy
coolly.

This rejecting of hospitality was perfectly understood by Slavin
and by all.

'Dat's too bad, heh?' said Baptiste wickedly; 'and, Sandy, he's got
good money on his pocket for sure, too.'  The boys laughed, and
Slavin, joining in, turned away with Keele and Blaney; but by the
look in his eye I knew he was playing 'Br'er Rabbit,' and lying
low.

Mr. Craig just then came up, 'Hello, boys! too late for Punch and
Judy, but just in time for hot coffee and doughnuts.'

'Bon; dat's fuss rate,' said Baptiste heartily; 'where you keep
him?'

'Up in the tent next the church there.  The miners are all in.'

'Ah, dat so?  Dat's bad news for the shantymen, heh, Sandy?' said
the little Frenchman dolefully.

'There was a clothes-basket full of doughnuts and a boiler of
coffee left as I passed just now,' said Craig encouragingly.

'Allons, mes garcons; vite! never say keel!' cried Baptiste
excitedly, stripping off the harness.

But Sandy would not leave the horses till they were carefully
rubbed down, blanketed, and fed, for he was entered for the four-
horse race and it behoved him to do his best to win.  Besides, he
scorned to hurry himself for anything so unimportant as eating;
that he considered hardly worthy even of Baptiste.  Mr. Craig
managed to get a word with him before he went off, and I saw Sandy
solemnly and emphatically shake his head, saying, 'Ah! we'll beat
him this day,' and I gathered that he was added to the vigilance
committee.

Old man Nelson was busy with his own team.  He turned slowly at Mr.
Craig's greeting, 'How is it, Nelson?' and it was with a very grave
voice he answered, 'I hardly know, sir; but I am not gone yet,
though it seems little to hold to.'

'All you want for a grip is what your hand can cover.  What would
you have?  And besides, do you know why you are not gone yet?'

The old man waited, looking at the minister gravely.

'Because He hasn't let go His grip of you.'

'How do you know He's gripped me?'

'Now, look here, Nelson, do you want to quit this thing and give it
all up?'

'No, no!  For heaven's sake, no!  Why, do you think I have lost
it?' said Nelson, almost piteously.

'Well, He's keener about it than you; and I'll bet you haven't
thought it worth while to thank Him.'

'To thank Him,' he repeated, almost stupidly, 'for--'

'For keeping you where you are overnight,' said Mr. Craig, almost
sternly.

The old man gazed at the minister, a light growing in his eyes.

'You're right.  Thank God, you're right.'  And then he turned
quickly away, and went into the stable behind his team.  It was a
minute before he came out.  Over his face there was a trembling
joy.

'Can I do anything for you to-day?' he asked humbly.

'Indeed you just can,' said the minister, taking his hand and
shaking it very warmly; and then he told him Slavin's programme and
ours.

'Sandy is all right till after his race.  After that is his time of
danger,' said the minister.

'I'll stay with him, sir,' said old Nelson, in the tone of a man
taking a covenant, and immediately set off for the coffee-tent.

'Here comes another recruit for your corps,' I said, pointing to
Leslie Graeme, who was coming down the street at that moment in his
light sleigh.

'I am not so sure.  Do you think you could get him?'

I laughed.  'You are a good one.'

'Well,' he replied, half defiantly, 'is not this your fight too?'

'You make me think so, though I am bound to say I hardly recognise
myself to day.  But here goes,' and before I knew it I was
describing our plans to Graeme, growing more and more enthusiastic
as he sat in his sleigh, listening with a quizzical smile I didn't
quite like.

'He's got you too,' he said; 'I feared so.'

'Well,' I laughed, 'perhaps so.  But I want to lick that man
Slavin.  I've just seen him, and he's just what Craig calls him, "a
slick son of the devil."  Don't be shocked; he says it is
Scripture.'

'Revised version,' said Graeme gravely, while Craig looked a little
abashed.

'What is assigned me, Mr. Craig? for I know that this man is simply
your agent.'

I repudiated the idea, while Mr. Craig said nothing.

'What's my part?' demanded Graeme.

'Well,' said Mr. Craig hesitatingly, 'of course I would do nothing
till I had consulted you; but I want a man to take my place at the
sports.  I am referee.'

'That's all right,' said Graeme, with an air of relief; 'I expected
something hard.'

'And then I thought you would not mind presiding at dinner--I want
it to go off well.'

'Did you notice that?' said Graeme to me.  'Not a bad touch, eh?'

'That's nothing to the way he touched me.  Wait and learn,' I
answered, while Craig looked quite distressed.  'He'll do it, Mr.
Craig, never fear,' I said, 'and any other little duty that may
occur to you.'

'Now that's too bad of you.  That is all I want, honour bright,' he
replied; adding, as he turned away, 'you are just in time for a cup
of coffee, Mr. Graeme.  Now I must see Mrs. Mavor.'

'Who is Mrs. Mavor?' I demanded of Graeme.

'Mrs. Mavor?  The miners' guardian angel.'

We put up the horses and set off for coffee.  As we approached the
booth Graeme caught sight of the Punch and Judy show, stood still
in amazement, and exclaimed, 'Can the dead live?'

'Punch and Judy never die,' I replied solemnly.

'But the old manipulator is dead enough, poor old beggar!'

'But he left his mantle, as you see.'

He looked at me a moment

'What! do you mean, you--?'

'Yes, that is exactly what I do mean.'

'He is great man, that Craig fellow--a truly great man.'

And then he leaned up against a tree and laughed till the tears
came.  'I say, old boy, don't mind me,' he gasped, 'but do you
remember the old 'Varsity show?'

'Yes, you villain; and I remember your part in it.  I wonder how
you can, even at this remote date, laugh at it.'  For I had a vivid
recollection of how, after a 'chaste and highly artistic
performance of this mediaeval play' had been given before a
distinguished Toronto audience, the trap door by which I had
entered my box was fastened, and I was left to swelter in my cage,
and forced to listen to the suffocated laughter from the wings and
the stage whispers of 'Hello, Mr. Punch, where's the baby?'  And
for many a day after I was subjected to anxious inquiries as to the
locality and health of 'the baby,' and whether it was able to be
out.

'Oh, the dear old days!' he kept saying, over and over, in a tone
so full of sadness that my heart grew sore for him and I forgave
him, as many a time before.

The sports passed off in typical Western style.  In addition to the
usual running and leaping contests, there was rifle and pistol
shooting, in both of which old man Nelson stood first, with Shaw,
foreman of the mines, second.

The great event of the day, however, was to be the four-horse race,
for which three teams were entered--one from the mines driven by
Nixon, Craig's friend, a citizens' team, and Sandy's.  The race was
really between the miners' team, and that from the woods, for the
citizens' team, though made up of speedy horses, had not been
driven much together, and knew neither their driver nor each other.
In the miners' team were four bays, very powerful, a trifle heavy
perhaps, but well matched, perfectly trained, and perfectly handled
by their driver.  Sandy had his long rangy roans, and for leaders a
pair of half-broken pinto bronchos.  The pintos, caught the summer
before upon the Alberta prairies, were fleet as deer, but wicked
and uncertain.  They were Baptiste's special care and pride.  If
they would only run straight there was little doubt that they would
carry the roans and themselves to glory; but one could not tell the
moment they might bolt or kick things to pieces.

Being the only non-partisan in the crowd I was asked to referee.
The race was about half a mile and return, the first and last
quarters being upon the ice.  The course, after leaving the ice,
led up from the river by a long easy slope to the level above; and
at the further end curved somewhat sharply round the Old Fort.  The
only condition attaching to the race was that the teams should
start from the scratch, make the turn of the Fort, and finish at
the scratch.  There were no vexing regulations as to fouls.  The
man making the foul would find it necessary to reckon with the
crowd, which was considered sufficient guarantee for a fair and
square race.  Owing to the hazards of the course, the result would
depend upon the skill of the drivers quite as much as upon the
speed of the teams.  The points of hazard were at the turn round
the Old Fort, and at a little ravine which led down to the river,
over which the road passed by means of a long log bridge or
causeway.

From a point upon the high bank of the river the whole course lay
in open view.  It was a scene full of life and vividly picturesque.
There were miners in dark clothes and peak caps; citizens in
ordinary garb; ranchmen in wide cowboy hats and buckskin shirts and
leggings, some with cartridge-belts and pistols; a few half-breeds
and Indians in half-native, half-civilised dress; and scattering
through the crowd the lumbermen with gay scarlet and blue blanket
coats, and some with knitted tuques of the same colours.  A very
good-natured but extremely uncertain crowd it was.  At the head of
each horse stood a man, but at the pintos' heads Baptiste stood
alone, trying to hold down the off leader, thrown into a frenzy of
fear by the yelling of the crowd.

Gradually all became quiet, till, in the midst of absolute
stillness, came the words, 'Are you ready?', then the pistol-shot
and the great race had begun.  Above the roar of the crowd came the
shrill cry of Baptiste, as he struck his broncho with the palm of
his hand, and swung himself into the sleigh beside Sandy, as it
shot past.

Like a flash the bronchos sprang to the front, two lengths before
the other teams; but, terrified by the yelling of the crowd,
instead of bending to the left bank up which the road wound, they
wheeled to the right and were almost across the river before Sandy
could swing them back into the course.

Baptiste's cries, a curious mixture of French and English,
continued to strike through all other sounds till they gained the
top of the slope to find the others almost a hundred yards in
front, the citizens' team leading, with the miners' following
close.  The moment the pintos caught sight of the teams before them
they set off at a terrific pace and steadily devoured the
intervening space.  Nearer and nearer the turn came, the eight
horses in front, running straight and well within their speed.
After them flew the pintos, running savagely with ears set back,
leading well the big roans, thundering along and gaining at every
bound.  And now the citizens' team had almost reached the Fort,
running hard, and drawing away from the bays.  But Nixon knew what
he was about, and was simply steadying his team for the turn.  The
event proved his wisdom, for in the turn the leading team left the
track, lost a moment or two in the deep snow, and before they could
regain the road the bays had swept superbly past, leaving their
rivals to follow in the rear.  On came the pintos, swiftly nearing
the Fort.  Surely at that pace they cannot make the turn.  But
Sandy knows his leaders.  They have their eyes upon the teams in
front, and need no touch of rein.  Without the slightest change in
speed the nimble-footed bronchos round the turn, hauling the big
roans after them, and fall in behind the citizens' team, which is
regaining steadily the ground lost in the turn.

And now the struggle is for the bridge over the ravine.  The bays
in front, running with mouths wide open, are evidently doing their
best; behind them, and every moment nearing them, but at the limit
of their speed too, come the lighter and fleeter citizens' team;
while opposite their driver are the pintos, pulling hard, eager and
fresh.  Their temper is too uncertain to send them to the front;
they run well following, but when leading cannot be trusted, and
besides, a broncho hates a bridge; so Sandy holds them where they
are, waiting and hoping for his chance after the bridge is crossed.
Foot by foot the citizens' team creep up upon the flank of the
bays, with the pintos in turn hugging them closely, till it seems
as if the three, if none slackens, must strike the bridge together;
and this will mean destruction to one at least.  This danger Sandy
perceives, but he dare not check his leaders.  Suddenly, within a
few yards of the bridge, Baptiste throws himself upon the lines,
wrenches them out of Sandy's hands, and, with a quick swing, faces
the pintos down the steep side of the ravine, which is almost sheer
ice with a thin coat of snow.  It is a daring course to take, for
the ravine, though not deep, is full of undergrowth, and is
partially closed up by a brush heap at the further end.  But, with
a yell, Baptiste hurls his four horses down the slope, and into the
undergrowth.  'Allons, mes enfants!  Courage! vite, vite!' cries
their driver, and nobly do the pintos respond.  Regardless of
bushes and brush heaps, they tear their way through; but, as they
emerge, the hind bob-sleigh catches a root, and, with a crash, the
sleigh is hurled high in the air.  Baptiste's cries ring out high
and shrill as ever, encouraging his team, and never cease till,
with a plunge and a scramble, they clear the brush heap lying at
the mouth of the ravine, and are out on the ice on the river, with
Baptiste standing on the front bob, the box trailing behind, and
Sandy nowhere to be seen.

Three hundred yards of the course remain.  The bays, perfectly
handled, have gained at the bridge and in the descent to the ice,
and are leading the citizens' team by half a dozen sleigh lengths.
Behind both comes Baptiste.  It is now or never for the pintos.
The rattle of the trailing box, together with the wild yelling of
the crowd rushing down the bank, excites the bronchos to madness,
and, taking the bits in their teeth, they do their first free
running that day.  Past the citizens' team like a whirlwind they
dash, clear the intervening space, and gain the flanks of the bays.
Can the bays hold them?  Over them leans their driver, plying for
the first time the hissing lash.  Only fifty yards more.  The
miners begin to yell.  But Baptiste, waving his lines high in one
hand seizes his tuque with the other, whirls it about his head and
flings it with a fiercer yell than ever at the bronchos.  Like the
bursting of a hurricane the pintos leap forward, and with a
splendid rush cross the scratch, winners by their own length.

There was a wild quarter of an hour.  The shantymen had torn off
their coats and were waving them wildly and tossing them high,
while the ranchers added to the uproar by emptying their revolvers
into the air in a way that made one nervous.

When the crowd was somewhat quieted Sandy's stiff figure appeared,
slowly making towards them.  A dozen lumbermen ran to him, eagerly
inquiring if he were hurt.  But Sandy could only curse the little
Frenchman for losing the race.

'Lost!  Why, man, we've won it!' shouted a voice, at which Sandy's
rage vanished, and he allowed himself to be carried in upon the
shoulders of his admirers.

'Where's the lad?' was his first question.

The bronchos are off with him.  He's down at the rapids like
enough.'

'Let me go,' shouted Sandy, setting off at a run in the track of
the sleigh.  He had not gone far before he met Baptiste coming back
with his team foaming, the roans going quietly, but the bronchos
dancing, and eager to be at it again.

'Voila! bully boy! tank the bon Dieu, Sandy; you not keel, heh?
Ah! you are one grand chevalier,' exclaimed Baptiste, hauling Sandy
in and thrusting the lines into his hands.  And so they came back,
the sleigh box still dragging behind, the pintos executing
fantastic figures on their hind legs, and Sandy holding them down.
The little Frenchman struck a dramatic attitude and called out--

'Voila!  What's the matter wiz Sandy, heh?'

The roar that answered set the bronchos off again plunging and
kicking, and only when Baptiste got them by the heads could they be
induced to stand long enough to allow Sandy to be proclaimed winner
of the race.  Several of the lumbermen sprang into the sleigh box
with Sandy and Baptiste, among them Keefe, followed by Nelson, and
the first part of the great day was over.  Slavin could not
understand the new order of things.  That a great event like the
four-horse race should not be followed by 'drinks all round' was to
him at once disgusting and incomprehensible; and, realising his
defeat for the moment, he fell into the crowd and disappeared.  But
he left behind him his 'runners.'  He had not yet thrown up the
game.

Mr. Craig meantime came to me, and, looking anxiously after Sandy
in his sleigh, with his frantic crowd of yelling admirers, said in
a gloomy voice, 'Poor Sandy!  He is easily caught, and Keefe has
the devil's cunning.'

'He won't touch Slavin's whisky to-day,' I answered confidently.

'There'll be twenty bottles waiting him in the stable,' he replied
bitterly, 'and I can't go following him up.'

'He won't stand that, no man would.  God help us all.'  I could
hardly recognise myself, for I found in my heart an earnest echo to
that prayer as I watched him go toward the crowd again, his face
set in strong determination.  He looked like the captain of a
forlorn hope, and I was proud to be following him.


CHAPTER III

WATERLOO.  OUR FIGHT--HIS VICTORY


The sports were over, and there remained still an hour to be filled
in before dinner.  It was an hour full of danger to Craig's hopes
of victory, for the men were wild with excitement, and ready for
the most reckless means of 'slinging their dust.'  I could not but
admire the skill with which Mr. Craig caught their attention.

'Gentlemen,' he called out, 'we've forgotten the judge of the great
race.  Three cheers for Mr. Connor!'

Two of the shantymen picked me up and hoisted me on their shoulders
while the cheers were given.

'Announce the Punch and Judy,' he entreated me, in a low voice.  I
did so in a little speech, and was forthwith borne aloft, through
the street to the booth, followed by the whole crowd, cheering like
mad.

The excitement of the crowd caught me, and for an hour I squeaked
and worked the wires of the immortal and unhappy family in a manner
hitherto unapproached by me at least.  I was glad enough when
Graeme came to tell me to send the men in to dinner.  This Mr.
Punch did in the most gracious manner, and again with cheers for
Punch's master they trooped tumultuously into the tent.

We had only well begun when Baptiste came in quietly but hurriedly
and whispered to me--

'M'sieu Craig, he's gone to Slavin's, and would lak you and M'sieu
Graeme would follow queek.  Sandy he's take one leel drink up at de
stable, and he's go mad lak one diable.'

I sent him for Graeme, who was presiding at dinner, and set off for
Slavin's at a run.  There I found Mr. Craig and Nelson holding
Sandy, more than half drunk, back from Slavin, who, stripped to the
shirt, was coolly waiting with a taunting smile.

'Let me go, Mr. Craig,' Sandy was saying, 'I am a good Presbyterian.
He is a Papist thief; and he has my money; and I will have it out
of the soul of him.'

'Let him go, preacher,' sneered Slavin, 'I'll cool him off for yez.
But ye'd better hold him if yez wants his mug left on to him.'

'Let him go!' Keefe was shouting.

'Hands off!' Blaney was echoing.

I pushed my way in.  'What's up?' I cried.

'Mr. Connor,' said Sandy solemnly, 'it is a gentleman you are,
though your name is against you, and I am a good Presbyterian,
and I can give you the Commandments and Reasons annexed to them;
but yon's a thief, a Papist thief, and I am justified in getting my
money out of his soul.'

'But,' I remonstrated, 'you won't get it in this way.'

'He has my money,' reiterated Sandy.

'He is a blank liar, and he's afraid to take it up,' said Slavin,
in a low, cool tone.

With a roar Sandy broke away and rushed at him; but, without moving
from his tracks, Slavin met him with a straight left-hander and
laid him flat.

'Hooray,' yelled Blaney, 'Ireland for ever!' and, seizing the iron
poker, swung it around his head, crying, 'Back, or, by the holy
Moses, I'll kill the first man that interferes wid the game.'

'Give it to him!' Keefe said savagely.

Sandy rose slowly, gazing round stupidly.

'He don't know what hit him,' laughed Keefe.

This roused the Highlander, and saying, 'I'll settle you afterwards,
Mister Keefe,' he rushed in again at Slavin.  Again Slavin met him
again with his left, staggered him, and, before he fell, took a step
forward and delivered a terrific right-hand blow on his jaw.  Poor
Sandy went down in a heap amid the yells of Blaney, Keefe, and some
others of the gang.  I was in despair when in came Baptiste and
Graeme.

One look at Sandy, and Baptiste tore off his coat and cap,
slammed them on the floor, danced on them, and with a long-drawn
'sap-r-r-r-rie,' rushed at Slavin.  But Graeme caught him by the
back of the neck, saying, 'Hold on, little man,' and turning to
Slavin, pointed to Sandy, who was reviving under Nelson's care,
and said, 'What's this for?'

'Ask him,' said Slavin insolently.  'He knows.'

'What is it, Nelson?'

Nelson explained that Sandy, after drinking some at the stable and
a glass at the Black Rock Hotel, had come down here with Keefe and
the others, had lost his money, and was accusing Slavin of robbing
him.

'Did you furnish him with liquor?' said Graeme sternly.

'It is none of your business,' replied Slavin, with an oath.

'I shall make it my business.  It is not the first time my men have
lost money in this saloon.'

'You lie,' said Slavin, with deliberate emphasis.

'Slavin,' said Graeme quietly, 'it's a pity you said that, because,
unless you apologise in one minute, I shall make you sorry.'

'Apologise?' roared Slavin, 'apologise to you?' calling him a vile
name.

Graeme grew white, and said even more slowly, 'Now you'll have to
take it; no apology will do.'

He slowly stripped off coat and vest.  Mr. Craig interposed,
begging Graeme to let the matter pass.  'Surely he is not worth
it.'

'Mr. Craig,' said Graeme, with an easy smile, 'you don't
understand.  No man can call me that name and walk around
afterwards feeling well.'

Then, turning to Slavin, he said, 'Now, if you want a minute's
rest, I can wait.'

Slavin, with a curse, bade him come.

'Blaney,' said Graeme sharply, 'you get back.'  Blaney promptly
stepped back to Keefe's side.  'Nelson, you and Baptiste can see
that they stay there.'  The old man nodded and looked at Craig, who
simply said, 'Do the best you can.'

It was a good fight.  Slavin had plenty of pluck, and for a time
forced the fighting, Graeme guarding easily and tapping him
aggravatingly about the nose and eyes, drawing blood, but not
disabling him.  Gradually there came a look of fear into Slavin's
eyes, and the beads stood upon his face.  He had met his master.

'Now, Slavin, you're beginning to be sorry; and now I am going to
show you what you are made of.'  Graeme made one or two lightning
passes, struck Slavin one, two, three terrific blows, and laid him
quite flat and senseless.  Keefe and Blaney both sprang forward,
but there was a savage kind of growl.

'Hold, there!'  It was old man Nelson looking along a pistol
barrel.  'You know me, Keefe,' he said.  'You won't do any murder
this time.'

Keefe turned green and yellow, and staggered back, while Slavin
slowly rose to his feet.

'Will you take some more?' said Graeme.  'You haven't got much; but
mind I have stopped playing with you.  Put up your gun, Nelson.  No
one will interfere now.'

Slavin hesitated, then rushed, but Graeme stepped to meet him, and
we saw Slavin's heels in the air as he fell back upon his neck and
shoulders and lay still, with his toes quivering.

'Bon!' yelled Baptiste.  'Bully boy!  Dat's de bon stuff.  Dat's
larn him one good lesson.'  But immediately he shrieked,
Gar-r-r-r-e a vous!'

He was too late, for there was a crash of breaking glass, and
Graeme fell to the floor with a long deep cut on the side of his
head.  Keefe had hurled a bottle with all too sure an aim, and had
fled.  I thought he was dead; but we carried him out, and in a few
minutes he groaned, opened his eyes, and sank again into
insensibility.

'Where can we take him?' I cried.

'To my shack,' said Mr. Craig.

'Is there no place nearer?'

'Yes; Mrs. Mavor's.  I shall run on to tell her.'

She met us at the door.  I had in mind to say some words of
apology, but when I looked upon her face I forgot my words, forgot
my business at her door, and stood simply looking.

'Come in!  Bring him in!  Please do not wait,' she said, and her
voice was sweet and soft and firm.

We laid him in a large room at the back of the shop over which Mrs.
Mavor lived.  Together we dressed the wound, her firm white
fingers, skilful as if with long training.  Before the dressing was
finished I sent Craig off, for the time had come for the Magic
Lantern in the church, and I knew how critical the moment was in
our fight.  'Go,' I said; 'he is coming to, and we do not need
you.'

In a few moments more Graeme revived, and, gazing about, asked,
'What's, all this about?' and then, recollecting, 'Ah! that brute
Keefe'; then seeing my anxious face he said carelessly, 'Awful
bore, ain't it?  Sorry to trouble you, old fellow.'

'You be hanged!' I said shortly; for his old sweet smile was
playing about his lips, and was almost too much for me.  'Mrs.
Mavor and I are in command, and you must keep perfectly still.'

'Mrs. Mavor?' he said, in surprise.  She came forward, with a
slight flush on her face.

'I think you know me, Mr. Graeme.'

'I have often seen you, and wished to know you.  I am sorry to
bring you this trouble.'

'You must not say so,' she replied, 'but let me do all for you that
I can.  And now the doctor says you are to lie still.'

'The doctor?  Oh! you mean Connor.  He is hardly there yet.  You
don't know each other.  Permit me to present Mr. Connor, Mrs.
Mavor.'

As she bowed slightly, her eyes looked into mine with serious gaze,
not inquiring, yet searching my soul.  As I looked into her eyes I
forgot everything about me, and when I recalled myself it seemed as
if I had been away in some far place.  It was not their colour or
their brightness; I do not yet know their colour, and I have often
looked into them; and they were not bright; but they were clear,
and one could look far down into them, and in their depths see a
glowing, steady light.  As I went to get some drugs from the Black
Rock doctor, I found myself wondering about that far-down light;
and about her voice, how it could get that sound from far away.

I found the doctor quite drunk, as indeed Mr. Craig had warned; but
his drugs were good, and I got what I wanted and quickly returned.

While Graeme slept Mrs. Mavor made me tea.  As the evening wore on
I told her the events of the day, dwelling admiringly upon Craig's
generalship.  She smiled at this.

'He got me too,' she said.  'Nixon was sent to me just before the
sports; and I don't think he will break down to-day, and I am so
thankful.'  And her eyes glowed.

'I am quite sure he won't,' I thought to myself, but I said no
word.

After a long pause, she went on, 'I have promised Mr. Craig to sing
to-night, if I am needed!' and then, after a moment's hesitation,
'It is two years since I have been able to sing--two years,' she
repeated, 'since'--and then her brave voice trembled--'my husband
was killed.'

'I quite understand,' I said, having no other word on my tongue

'And,' she went on quietly, 'I fear I have been selfish.  It is
hard to sing the same songs.  We were very happy.  But the miners
like to hear me sing, and I think perhaps it helps them to feel
less lonely, and keeps them from evil.  I shall try to-night, if I
am needed.  Mr. Craig will not ask me unless he must.'

I would have seen every miner and lumberman in the place hideously
drunk before I would have asked her to sing one song while her
heart ached.  I wondered at Craig, and said, rather angrily--

'He thinks only of those wretched miners and shantymen of his.'

She looked at me with wonder in her eyes, and said gently, 'And are
they not Christ's too?'

And I found no word to reply.

It was nearing ten o'clock, and I was wondering how the fight was
going, and hoping that Mrs. Mavor would not be needed, when the
door opened, and old man Nelson and Sandy, the latter much battered
and ashamed, came in with the word for Mrs. Mavor.

'I will come,' she said simply.  She saw me preparing to accompany
her, and asked, 'Do you think you can leave him?'

'He will do quite well in Nelson's care.'

'Then I am glad; for I must take my little one with me.  I did not
put her to bed in case I should need to go, and I may not leave
her.'

We entered the church by the back door, and saw at once that even
yet the battle might easily be lost.

Some miners had just come from Slavin's, evidently bent on breaking
up the meeting, in revenge for the collapse of the dance, which
Slavin was unable to enjoy, much less direct.  Craig was gallantly
holding his ground, finding it hard work to keep his men in good
humour, and so prevent a fight, for there were cries of 'Put him
out!  Put the beast out!' at a miner half drunk and wholly
outrageous.

The look of relief that came over his face when Craig caught sight
of us told how anxious he had been, and reconciled me to Mrs.
Mavor's singing.  'Thank the good God,' he said, with what came
near being a sob, 'I was about to despair.'

He immediately walked to the front and called out--

'Gentlemen, if you wish it, Mrs. Mavor will sing.'

There was a dead silence.  Some one began to applaud, but a miner
said savagely, 'Stop that, you fool!'

There was a few moments' delay, when from the crowd a voice called
out, 'Does Mrs. Mavor wish to sing?' followed by cries of 'Ay,
that's it.'  Then Shaw, the foreman at the mines, stood up in the
audience and said--

'Mr. Craig and gentlemen, you know that three years ago I was known
as "Old Ricketts," and that I owe all I am to-night, under God, to
Mrs. Mavor, and'--with a little quiver in his voice--'her baby.
And we all know that for two years she has not sung; and we all
know why.  And what I say is, that if she does not feel like
singing to-night, she is not going to sing to keep any drunken
brute of Slavin's crowd quiet.'

There were deep growls of approval all over the church.  I could
have hugged Shaw then and there.  Mr. Craig went to Mrs. Mavor, and
after a word with her came back and said--

'Mrs. Mavor, wishes me to thank her dear friend Mr. Shaw, but says
she would like to sing.'

The response was perfect stillness.  Mr. Craig sat down to the
organ and played the opening bars of the touching melody, 'Oft in
the Stilly Night.'  Mrs. Mavor came to the front, and, with a smile
of exquisite sweetness upon her sad face, and looking straight at
us with her glorious eyes, began to sing.

Her voice, a rich soprano, even and true, rose and fell, now soft,
now strong, but always filling the building, pouring around us
floods of music.  I had heard Patti's 'Home, sweet Home,' and of
all singing that alone affected me as did this.

At the end of the first verse the few women in the church and some
men were weeping quietly; but when she began the words--


    'When I remember all
     The friends once linked together,'


sobs came on every side from these tender-hearted fellows, and Shaw
quite lost his grip.  But she sang steadily on, the tone clearer
and sweeter and fuller at every note, and when the sound of her
voice died away, she stood looking at the men as if in wonder that
they should weep.  No one moved.  Mr. Craig played softly on, and,
wandering through many variations, arrived at last at


    'Jesus, lover of my soul.'


As she sang the appealing words, her face was lifted up, and she
saw none of us; but she must have seen some one, for the cry in her
voice could only come from one who could see and feel help close at
hand.  On and on went the glorious voice, searching my soul's
depths; but when she came to the words--


    'Thou, O Christ, art all I want,'


she stretched up her arms--she had quite forgotten us, her voice
had borne her to other worlds--and sang with such a passion of
'abandon' that my soul was ready to surrender anything, everything.

Again Mr. Craig wandered on through his changing chords till again
he came to familiar ground, and the voice began, in low, thrilling
tones, Bernard's great song of home--


    'Jerusalem the golden.'


Every word, with all its weight of meaning, came winging to our
souls, till we found ourselves gazing afar into those stately halls
of Zion, with their daylight serene and their jubilant throngs.
When the singer came to the last verse there was a pause.  Again
Mr. Craig softly played the interlude, but still there was no
voice.  I looked up.  She was very white, and her eyes were glowing
with their deep light.  Mr. Craig looked quickly about, saw her,
stopped, and half rose, as if to go to her, when, in a voice that
seemed to come from a far-off land, she went on--


    'O sweet and blessed country!'


The longing, the yearning, in the second 'O' were indescribable.
Again and again, as she held that word, and then dropped down with
the cadence in the music, my heart ached for I knew not what.

The audience were sitting as in a trance.  The grimy faces of the
miners, for they never get quite white, were furrowed with the
tear-courses.  Shaw, by this time, had his face too lifted high,
his eyes gazing far above the singer's head, and I knew by the
rapture in his face that he was seeing, as she saw, the thronging
stately halls and the white-robed conquerors.  He had felt, and was
still feeling, all the stress of the fight, and to him the vision
of the conquerors in their glory was soul-drawing and soul-
stirring.  And Nixon, too--he had his vision; but what he saw was
the face of the singer, with the shining eyes, and, by the look of
him, that was vision enough.

Immediately after her last note Mrs. Mavor stretched out her hands
to her little girl, who was sitting on my knee, caught her up, and,
holding her close to her breast, walked quickly behind the curtain.
Not a sound followed the singing: no one moved till she had
disappeared; and then Mr. Craig came to the front, and, motioning
to me to follow Mrs. Mavor, began in a low, distinct voice--

'Gentlemen, it was not easy for Mrs. Mavor to sing for us, and you
know she sang because she is a miner's wife, and her heart is with
the miners.  But she sang, too, because her heart is His who came
to earth this day so many years ago to save us all; and she would
make you love Him too.  For in loving Him you are saved from all
base loves, and you know what I mean.

'And before we say good-night, men, I want to know if the time is
not come when all of you who mean to be better than you are should
join in putting from us this thing that has brought sorrow and
shame to us and to those we love?  You know what I mean.  Some of
you are strong; will you stand by and see weaker men robbed of the
money they save for those far away, and robbed of the manhood that
no money can buy or restore?

'Will the strong men help?  Shall we all join hands in this?  What
do you say?  In this town we have often seen hell, and just a
moment ago we were all looking into heaven, "the sweet and blessed
country."  O men!' and his voice rang in an agony through the
building--'O men! which shall be ours?  For Heaven's dear sake, let
us help one another!  Who will?'

I was looking out through a slit in the curtain.  The men, already
wrought to intense feeling by the music, were listening with set
faces and gleaming eyes, and as at the appeal 'Who will?' Craig
raised high his hand, Shaw, Nixon, and a hundred men sprang to
their feet and held high their hands.

I have witnessed some thrilling scenes in my life, but never
anything to equal that: the one man on the platform standing at
full height, with his hand thrown up to heaven, and the hundred men
below standing straight, with arms up at full length, silent, and
almost motionless.

For a moment Craig held them so; and again his voice rang out,
louder, sterner than before--

'All who mean it, say, "By God's help I will."'  And back from a
hundred throats came deep and strong the words, 'By God's help, I
will.'

At this point Mrs. Mavor, whom I had quite forgotten, put her hand
on my arm.  'Go and tell him,' she panted, 'I want them to come on
Thursday night, as they used to in the other days--go--quick,' and
she almost pushed me out.  I gave Craig her message.  He held up
his hand for silence.

'Mrs. Mavor wishes me to say that she will be glad to see you all,
as in the old days, on Thursday evening; and I can think of no
better place to give formal expression to our pledge of this night'

There was a shout of acceptance; and then, at some one's call, the
long pent-up feelings of the crowd found vent in three mighty
cheers for Mrs. Mavor.

'Now for our old hymn,' called out Mr. Craig, 'and Mrs. Mavor will
lead us.'

He sat down at the organ, played a few bars of 'The Sweet By and
By,' and then Mrs. Mavor began.  But not a soul joined till the
refrain was reached, and then they sang as only men with their
hearts on fire can sing.  But after the last refrain Mr. Craig made
a sign to Mrs. Mavor, and she sang alone, slowly and softly, and
with eyes looking far away--


    'In the sweet by and by,
     We shall meet on that beautiful shore.'


There was no benediction--there seemed no need; and the men went
quietly out.  But over and over again the voice kept singing in my
ears and in my heart, 'We shall meet on that beautiful shore.'  And
after the sleigh-loads of men had gone and left the street empty,
as I stood with Craig in the radiant moonlight that made the great
mountains about come near us, from Sandy's sleigh we heard in the
distance Baptiste's French-English song; but the song that floated
down with the sound of the bells from the miners' sleigh was--


    'We shall meet on that beautiful shore.'


'Poor old Shaw!' said Craig softly.

When the last sound had died away I turned to him and said--

'You have won your fight.'

'We have won our fight; I was beaten,' he replied quickly, offering
me his hand.  Then, taking off his cap, and looking up beyond the
mountain-tops and the silent stars, he added softly, 'Our fight,
but His victory.'

And, thinking it all over, I could not say but perhaps he was
right.


CHAPTER IV

MRS. MAVOR'S STORY


The days that followed the Black Rock Christmas were anxious days
and weary, but not for the brightest of my life would I change them
now; for, as after the burning heat or rocking storm the dying day
lies beautiful in the tender glow of the evening, so these days
have lost their weariness and lie bathed in a misty glory. The
years that bring us many ills, and that pass so stormfully over us,
bear away with them the ugliness, the weariness, the pain that are
theirs, but the beauty, the sweetness, the rest they leave untouched,
for these are eternal.  As the mountains, that near at hand stand
jagged and scarred, in the far distance repose in their soft robes
of purple haze, so the rough present fades into the past, soft and
sweet and beautiful.

I have set myself to recall the pain and anxiety of those days and
nights when we waited in fear for the turn of the fever, but I can
only think of the patience and gentleness and courage of her who
stood beside me, bearing more than half my burden.  And while I can
see the face of Leslie Graeme, ghastly or flushed, and hear his low
moaning or the broken words of his delirium, I think chiefly of the
bright face bending over him, and of the cool, firm, swift-moving
hands that soothed and smoothed and rested, and the voice, like the
soft song of a bird in the twilight, that never failed to bring
peace.

Mrs. Mavor and I were much together during those days.  I made my
home in Mr. Craig's shack, but most of my time was spent beside my
friend.  We did not see much of Craig, for he was heart-deep with
the miners, laying plans for the making of the League the following
Thursday; and though he shared our anxiety and was ever ready to
relieve us, his thought and his talk had mostly to do with the
League.

Mrs. Mavor's evenings were given to the miners, but her afternoons
mostly to Graeme and to me, and then it was I saw another side of
her character.  We would sit in her little dining-room, where the
pictures on the walls, the quaint old silver, and bits of curiously
cut glass, all spoke of other and different days, and thence we
would roam the world of literature and art.  Keenly sensitive to
all the good and beautiful in these, she had her favourites among
the masters, for whom she was ready to do battle; and when her
argument, instinct with fancy and vivid imagination, failed, she
swept away all opposing opinion with the swift rush of her
enthusiasm; so that, though I felt she was beaten, I was left
without words to reply.  Shakespeare and Tennyson and Burns she
loved, but not Shelley, nor Byron, nor even Wordsworth.  Browning
she knew not, and therefore could not rank him with her noblest
three; but when I read to her 'A Death in the Desert,' and, came to
the noble words at the end of the tale--


    'For all was as I say, and now the man
     Lies as he once lay, breast to breast with God,'


the light shone in her eyes, and she said, 'Oh, that is good and
great; I shall get much out of him; I had always feared he was
impossible.'  And 'Paracelsus,' too, stirred her; but when I
recited the thrilling fragment, 'Prospice,' on to that closing
rapturous cry--


    'Then a light, then thy breast,
     O thou soul of my soul! I shall clasp thee again,
     And with God be the rest!'--


the red colour faded from her cheek, her breath came in a sob, and
she rose quickly and passed out without a word.  Ever after,
Browning was among her gods.  But when we talked of music, she,
adoring Wagner, soared upon the wings of the mighty Tannhauser, far
above, into regions unknown, leaving me to walk soberly with
Beethoven and Mendelssohn.  Yet with all our free, frank talk,
there was all the while that in her gentle courtesy which kept me
from venturing into any chamber of her life whose door she did not
set freely open to me.  So I vexed myself about her, and when Mr.
Craig returned the next week from the Landing where he had been for
some days, my first question was--

'Who is Mrs. Mavor?  And how in the name of all that is wonderful
and unlikely does she come to be here?  And why does she stay?'

He would not answer then; whether it was that his mind was full of
the coming struggle, or whether he shrank from the tale, I know
not; but that night, when we sat together beside his fire, he told
me the story, while I smoked.  He was worn with his long, hard
drive, and with the burden of his work, but as he went on with his
tale, looking into the fire as he told it, he forgot all his
present weariness and lived again the scenes he painted for me.
This was his story:--

'I remember well my first sight of her, as she sprang from the
front seat of the stage to the ground, hardly touching her
husband's hand.  She looked a mere girl.  Let's see--five years
ago--she couldn't have been a day over twenty three.  She looked
barely twenty.  Her swift glance swept over the group of miners at
the hotel door, and then rested on the mountains standing in all
their autumn glory.

'I was proud of our mountains that evening.  Turning to her
husband, she exclaimed: "O Lewis, are they not grand? and lovely,
too?"  Every miner lost his heart then and there, but all waited
for Abe the driver to give his verdict before venturing an opinion.
Abe said nothing until he had taken a preliminary drink, and then,
calling all hands to fill up, he lifted his glass high, and said
solemnly--

'"Boys, here's to her."

'Like a flash every glass was emptied, and Abe called out, "Fill
her up again, boys!  My treat!"

'He was evidently quite worked up.  Then he began, with solemn
emphasis--

'"Boys, you hear me!  She's a No. 1, triple X, the pure quill with
a bead on it: she's a--," and for the first time in his Black Rock
history Abe was stuck for a word.  Some one suggested "angel."

'"Angel!" repeated Abe, with infinite contempt.  "Angel be blowed,"
(I paraphrase here); "angels ain't in the same month with her; I'd
like to see any blanked angel swing my team around them curves
without a shiver."

'"Held the lines herself, Abe?" asked a miner.

'"That's what," said Abe; and then he went off into a fusilade of
scientific profanity, expressive of his esteem for the girl who had
swung his team round the curves; and the miners nodded to each
other, and winked their entire approval of Abe's performance, for
this was his specialty.

'Very decent fellow, Abe, but his talk wouldn't print.'

Here Craig paused, as if balancing Abe's virtues and vices.

'Well,' I urged, 'who is she?'

'Oh yes,' he said, recalling himself; 'she is an Edinburgh young
lady--met Lewis Mayor, a young Scotch-English man, in London--
wealthy, good family, and all that, but fast, and going to pieces
at home.  His people, who own large shares in these mines here, as
a last resort sent him out here to reform.  Curiously innocent
ideas those old country people have of the reforming properties of
this atmosphere!  They send their young bloods here to reform.
Here! in this devil's camp-ground, where a man's lust is his only
law, and when, from sheer monotony, a man must betake himself to
the only excitement of the place--that offered by the saloon.  Good
people in the east hold up holy hands of horror at these godless
miners; but I tell you it's asking these boys a good deal to keep
straight and clean in a place like this.  I take my excitement in
fighting the devil and doing my work generally, and that gives me
enough; but these poor chaps--hard worked, homeless, with no break
or change--God help them and me!' and his voice sank low.

'Well,' I persisted, 'did Mavor reform?'

Again he roused himself.  'Reform?  Not exactly.  In six-months he
had broken through all restraint; and, mind you, not the miners'
fault--not a miner helped him down.  It was a sight to make angels
weep when Mrs. Mavor would come to the saloon door for her husband.
Every miner would vanish; they could not look upon her shame, and
they would send Mavor forth in the charge of Billy Breen, a queer
little chap, who had belonged to the Mavors in some way in the old
country, and between them they would get him home.  How she stood
it puzzles me to this day; but she never made any sign, and her
courage never failed.  It was always a bright, brave, proud face
she held up to the world--except in church; there it was different.
I used to preach my sermons, I believe, mostly for her--but never
so that she could suspect--as bravely and as cheerily as I could.
And as she listened, and especially as she sang--how she used to
sing in those days!--there was no touch of pride in her face,
though the courage never died out, but appeal, appeal!  I could
have cursed aloud the cause of her misery, or wept for the pity of
it.  Before her baby was born he seemed to pull himself together,
for he was quite mad about her, and from the day the baby came--
talk about miracles!--from that day he never drank a drop.  She
gave the baby over to him, and the baby simply absorbed him.

'He was a new man.  He could not drink whisky and kiss his baby.
And the miners--it was really absurd if it were not so pathetic.
It was the first baby in Black Rock, and they used to crowd Mavor's
shop and peep into the room at the back of it--I forgot to tell you
that when he lost his position as manager he opened a hardware
shop, for his people chucked him, and he was too proud to write
home for money--just for a chance to be asked in to see the baby.
I came upon Nixon standing at the back of the shop after he had
seen the baby for the first time, sobbing hard, and to my question
he replied: "It's just like my own."  You can't understand this.
But to men who have lived so long in the mountains that they have
forgotten what a baby looks like, who have had experience of
humanity only in its roughest, foulest form, this little mite,
sweet and clean, was like an angel fresh from heaven, the one link
in all that black camp that bound them to what was purest and best
in their past.

'And to see the mother and her baby handle the miners!

'Oh, it was all beautiful beyond words!  I shall never forget the
shock I got one night when I found "Old Ricketts" nursing the baby.
A drunken old beast he was; but there he was sitting, sober enough,
making extraordinary faces at the baby, who was grabbing at his
nose and whiskers and cooing in blissful delight.  Poor "Old
Ricketts" looked as if he had been caught stealing, and muttering
something about having to go, gazed wildly round for some place in
which to lay the baby, when in came the mother, saying in her own
sweet, frank way: "O Mr. Ricketts" (she didn't find out till
afterwards his name was Shaw), "would you mind keeping her just a
little longer?--I shall be back in a few minutes."  And "Old
Ricketts" guessed he could wait.

'But in six months mother and baby, between them, transformed "Old
Ricketts" into Mr. Shaw, fire-boss of the mines.  And then in the
evenings, when she would be singing her baby to sleep, the little
shop would be full of miners, listening in dead silence to the
baby-songs, and the English songs, and the Scotch songs she poured
forth without stint, for she sang more for them than for her baby.
No wonder they adored her.  She was so bright, so gay, she brought
light with her when she went into the camp, into the pits--for she
went down to see the men work--or into a sick miner's shack; and
many a man, lonely and sick for home or wife, or baby or mother,
found in that back room cheer and comfort and courage, and to many
a poor broken wretch that room became, as one miner put it, "the
anteroom to heaven."'

Mr. Craig paused, and I waited.  Then he went on slowly--

'For a year and a half that was the happiest home in all the world,
till one day--'

He put his face in his hands, and shuddered.

'I don't think I can ever forget the awful horror of that bright
fall afternoon, when "Old Ricketts" came breathless to me and
gasped, "Come! for the dear Lord's sake," and I rushed after him.
At the mouth of the shaft lay three men dead.  One was Lewis Mavor.
He had gone down to superintend the running of a new drift; the two
men, half drunk with Slavin's whisky, set off a shot prematurely,
to their own and Mavor's destruction.  They were badly burned, but
his face was untouched.  A miner was sponging off the bloody froth
oozing from his lips.  The others were standing about waiting for
me to speak.  But I could find no word, for my heart was sick,
thinking, as they were, of the young mother and her baby waiting at
home.  So I stood, looking stupidly from one to the other, trying
to find some reason--coward that I was--why another should bear the
news rather than I.  And while we stood there, looking at one
another in fear, there broke upon us the sound of a voice mounting
high above the birch tops, singing--


    "Will ye no' come back again?
     Will ye no' come back again?
     Better lo'ed ye canna be,
     Will ye no' come back again?"


'A strange terror seized us.  Instinctively the men closed up in
front of the body, and stood in silence.  Nearer and nearer came
the clear, sweet voice, ringing like a silver bell up the steep--


    "Sweet the lav'rock's note and lang,
       Liltin' wildly up the glen,
     But aye tae me he sings ae sang,
       Will ye no' come back again?"


'Before the verse was finished "Old Ricketts" had dropped on his
knees, sobbing out brokenly, "O God! O God! have pity, have pity,
have pity!"--and every man took off his hat.  And still the voice
came nearer, singing so brightly the refrain,


    '"Will ye no' come back again?'


'It became unbearable.  "Old Ricketts" sprang suddenly to his feet,
and, gripping me by the arm, said piteously, "Oh, go to her! for
Heaven's sake, go to her!"  I next remember standing in her path
and seeing her holding out her hands full of red lilies, crying
out, "Are they not lovely?  Lewis is so fond of them!"  With the
promise of much finer ones I turned her down a path toward the
river, talking I know not what folly, till her great eyes grew
grave, then anxious, and my tongue stammered and became silent.
Then, laying her hand upon my arm, she said with gentle sweetness,
"Tell me your trouble, Mr. Craig," and I knew my agony had come,
and I burst out, "Oh, if it were only mine!"  She turned quite
white, and with her deep eyes--you've noticed her eyes--drawing the
truth out of mine, she said, "Is it mine, Mr. Craig, and my
baby's?"  I waited, thinking with what words to begin.  She put one
hand to her heart, and with the other caught a little poplar-tree
that shivered under her grasp, and said with white lips, but even
more gently, "Tell me."  I wondered at my voice being so steady as
I said, "Mrs. Mavor, God will help you and your baby.  There has
been an accident--and it is all over."

'She was a miner's wife, and there was no need for more.  I could
see the pattern of the sunlight falling through the trees upon the
grass.  I could hear the murmur of the river, and the cry of the
cat-bird in the bushes, but we seemed to be in a strange and unreal
world.  Suddenly she stretched out her hands to me, and with a
little moan said, "Take me to him."

'"Sit down for a moment or two," I entreated.

'"No, no! I am quite ready.  See," she added quietly, "I am quite
strong."

'I set off by a short cut leading to her home, hoping the men would
be there before us; but, passing me, she walked swiftly through the
trees, and I followed in fear.  As we came near the main path I
heard the sound of feet, and I tried to stop her, but she, too, had
heard and knew.  "Oh, let me go!" she said piteously; "you need not
fear."  And I had not the heart to stop her.  In a little opening
among the pines we met the bearers.  When the men saw her, they
laid their burden gently down upon the carpet of yellow pine-
needles, and then, for they had the hearts of true men in them,
they went away into the bushes and left her alone with her dead.
She went swiftly to his side, making no cry, but kneeling beside
him she stroked his face and hands, and touched his curls with her
fingers, murmuring all the time soft words of love.  "O my darling,
my bonnie, bonnie darling, speak to me!  Will ye not speak to me
just one little word?  O my love, my love, my heart's love!
Listen, my darling!"  And she put her lips to his ear, whispering,
and then the awful stillness.  Suddenly she lifted her head and
scanned his face, and then, glancing round with a wild surprise in
her eyes, she cried, "He will not speak to me!  Oh, he will not
speak to me!"  I signed to the men, and as they came forward I went
to her and took her hands.

'"Oh," she said with a wail in her voice; "he will not speak to
me."  The men were sobbing aloud.  She looked at them with wide-
open eyes of wonder.  "Why are they weeping?  Will he never speak
to me again?  Tell me," she insisted gently.  The words were
running through my head--


    '"There's a land that is fairer than day,"


and I said them over to her, holding her hands firmly in mine.  She
gazed at me as if in a dream, and the light slowly faded from her
eyes as she said, tearing her hands from mine and waving them
towards the mountains and the woods--

'"But never more here?  Never more here?"

'I believe in heaven and the other life, but I confess that for a
moment it all seemed shadowy beside the reality of this warm,
bright world, full of life and love.  She was very ill for two
nights, and when the coffin was closed a new baby lay in the
father's arms.

'She slowly came back to life, but there were no more songs.  The
miners still come about her shop, and talk to her baby, and bring
her their sorrows and troubles; but though she is always gentle,
almost tender, with them, no man ever says "Sing."  And that is why
I am glad she sang last week; it will be good for her and good for
them.'

'Why does she stay?' I asked.

'Mavor's people wanted her to go to them,' he replied.

'They have money--she told me about it, but her heart is in the
grave up there under the pines; and besides, she hopes to do
something for the miners, and she will not leave them.'

I am afraid I snorted a little impatiently as I said, 'Nonsense!
why, with her face, and manner, and voice she could be anything she
liked in Edinburgh or in London.'

'And why Edinburgh or London?' he asked coolly.

'Why?' I repeated a little hotly.  'You think this is better?'

'Nazareth was good enough for the Lord of glory,' he answered, with
a smile none too bright; but it drew my heart to him, and my heat
was gone.

'How long will she stay?' I asked.

'Till her work is done,' he replied.

'And when will that be?' I asked impatiently.

'When God chooses,' he answered gravely; 'and don't you ever think
but that it is worth while.  One value of work is not that crowds
stare at it.  Read history, man!'

He rose abruptly and began to walk about.  'And don't miss the
whole meaning of the Life that lies at the foundation of your
religion.  Yes,' he added to himself, 'the work is worth doing--
worth even her doing.'

I could not think so then, but the light of the after years proved
him wiser than I.  A man, to see far, must climb to some height,
and I was too much upon the plain in those days to catch even a
glimpse of distant sunlit uplands of triumphant achievement that
lie beyond the valley of self-sacrifice.


CHAPTER V

THE MAKING OF THE LEAGUE


Thursday morning found Craig anxious, even gloomy, but with fight
in every line of his face.  I tried to cheer him in my clumsy way
by chaffing him about his League.  But he did not blaze up as he
often did.  It was a thing too near his heart for that.  He only
shrank a little from my stupid chaff and said--

'Don't, old chap; this is a good deal to me.  I've tried for two
years to get this, and if it falls through now, I shall find it
hard to bear.'

Then I repented my light words and said, 'Why! the thing will go
sure enough: after that scene in the church they won't go back.'

'Poor fellows!' he said as if to himself; 'whisky is about the only
excitement they have, and they find it pretty tough to give it up;
and a lot of the men are against the total abstinence idea.  It
seems rot to them.'

'It is pretty steep,' I said.  'Can't you do without it?'

'No; I fear not.  There is nothing else for it.  Some of them talk
of compromise.  They want to quit the saloon and drink quietly in
their shacks.  The moderate drinker may have his place in other
countries, though I can't see it.  I haven't thought that out, but
here the only safe man is the man who quits it dead and fights it
straight; anything else is sheerest humbug and nonsense.'

I had not gone in much for total abstinence up to this time,
chiefly because its advocates seemed for the most part to be
somewhat ill-balanced; but as I listened to Craig, I began to feel
that perhaps there was a total abstinence side to the temperance
question; and as to Black Rock, I could see how it must be one
thing or the other.

We found Mrs. Mavor brave and bright.  She shared Mr. Craig's
anxiety but not his gloom.  Her courage was of that serene kind
that refuses to believe defeat possible, and lifts the spirit into
the triumph of final victory.  Through the past week she had been
carefully disposing her forces and winning recruits.  And yet she
never seemed to urge or persuade the men; but as evening after
evening the miners dropped into the cosy room downstairs, with her
talk and her songs she charmed them till they were wholly hers.
She took for granted their loyalty, trusted them utterly, and so
made it difficult for them to be other than true men.

That night Mrs. Mavor's large storeroom, which had been fitted up
with seats, was crowded with miners when Mr. Craig and I entered.

After a glance over the crowd, Craig said, 'There's the manager;
that means war.'  And I saw a tall man, very fair, whose chin fell
away to the vanishing point, and whose hair was parted in the
middle, talking to Mrs. Mavor.  She was dressed in some rich soft
stuff that became her well.  She was looking beautiful as ever, but
there was something quite new in her manner.  Her air of good-
fellowship was gone, and she was the high-bred lady, whose gentle
dignity and sweet grace, while very winning, made familiarity
impossible.

The manager was doing his best, and appeared to be well pleased
with himself.  'She'll get him if any one can.  I failed,' said
Craig.

I stood looking at the men, and a fine lot of fellows they were.
Free, easy, bold in their bearing, they gave no sign of rudeness;
and, from their frequent glances toward Mrs. Mavor, I could see
they were always conscious of her presence.  No men are so truly
gentle as are the Westerners in the presence of a good woman.  They
were evidently of all classes and ranks originally, but now, and in
this country of real measurements, they ranked simply according to
the 'man' in them.  'See that handsome, young chap of dissipated
appearance?' said Craig; 'that's Vernon Winton, an Oxford graduate,
blue blood, awfully plucky, but quite gone.  When he gets
repentant, instead of shooting himself, he comes to Mrs. Mavor.
Fact.'

'From Oxford University to Black Rock mining camp is something of a
step,' I replied.

'That queer-looking little chap in the corner is Billy Breen.  How
in the world has he got here?' went on Mr. Craig.  Queer-looking he
was.  A little man, with a small head set on heavy square
shoulders, long arms, and huge hands that sprawled all over his
body; altogether a most ungainly specimen of humanity.

By this time Mrs. Mavor had finished with the manager, and was in
the centre of a group of miners.  Her grand air was all gone, and
she was their comrade, their friend, one of themselves.  Nor did
she assume the role of entertainer, but rather did she, with half-
shy air, cast herself upon their chivalry, and they were too truly
gentlemen to fail her.  It is hard to make Western men, and
especially old-timers, talk.  But this gift was hers, and it
stirred my admiration to see her draw on a grizzled veteran to tell
how, twenty years ago, he had crossed the Great Divide, and had
seen and done what no longer fell to men to see or do in these new
days.  And so she won the old-timer.  But it was beautiful to see
the innocent guile with which she caught Billy Breen, and drew him
to her corner near the organ.  What she was saying I knew not, but
poor Billy was protesting, waving his big hands.

The meeting came to order, with Shaw in the chair, and the handsome
young Oxford man secretary.  Shaw stated the object of the meeting
in a few halting words; but when he came to speak of the pleasure
he and all felt in being together in that room, his words flowed in
a stream, warm and full.  Then there was a pause, and Mr. Craig was
called.  But he knew better than to speak at that point.  Finally
Nixon rose hesitatingly; but, as he caught a bright smile from Mrs.
Mavor, he straightened himself as if for a fight.

'I ain't no good at makin' speeches,' he began; 'but it ain't
speeches we want.  We've got somethin' to do, and what we want to
know is how to do it.  And to be right plain, we want to know how
to drive this cursed whisky out of Black Rock.  You all know what
it's doing for us--at least for some of us.  And it's time to stop
it now, or for some of us it'll mighty soon be too late.  And the
only way to stop its work is to quit drinkin' it and help others to
quit.  I hear some talk of a League, and what I say is, if it's a
League out and out against whisky, a Total Abstinence right to the
ground, then I'm with it--that's my talk--I move we make that kind
of League.'

Nixon sat down amid cheers and a chorus of remarks, 'Good man!'
'That's the talk!' 'Stay with it!' but he waited for the smile and
the glance that came to him from the beautiful face in the corner,
and with that he seemed content.

Again there was silence.  Then the secretary rose with a slight
flush upon his handsome, delicate face, and seconded the motion.
If they would pardon a personal reference he would give them his
reasons.  He had come to this country to make his fortune; now he
was anxious to make enough to enable him to go home with some
degree of honour.  His home held everything that was dear to him.
Between him and that home, between him and all that was good and
beautiful and honourable, stood whisky.  'I am ashamed to confess,'
and the flush deepened on his cheek, and his lips grew thinner,
'that I feel the need of some such league.'  His handsome face, his
perfect style of address, learned possibly in the 'Union,' but,
more than all, his show of nerve--for these men knew how to value
that--made a strong impression on his audience; but there were no
following cheers.

Mr. Craig appeared hopeful; but on Mrs. Mavor's face there was a
look of wistful, tender pity, for she knew how much the words had
cost the lad.

Then up rose a sturdy, hard-featured man, with a burr in his voice
that proclaimed his birth.  His name was George Crawford, I
afterwards learned, but every one called him Geordie.  He was a
character in his way, fond of his glass; but though he was never
known to refuse a drink, he was never known to be drunk.  He took
his drink, for the most part, with bread and cheese in his own
shack, or with a friend or two in a sober, respectable way, but
never could be induced to join the wild carousals in Slavin's
saloon.  He made the highest wages, but was far too true a Scot to
spend his money recklessly.  Every one waited eagerly to hear
Geordie's mind.  He spoke solemnly, as befitted a Scotsman
expressing a deliberate opinion, and carefully, as if choosing his
best English, for when Geordie became excited no one in Black Rock
could understand him.

'Maister Chairman,' said Geordie, 'I'm aye for temperance in a'
things.'  There was a shout of laughter, at which Geordie gazed
round in pained surprise.  'I'll no' deny,' he went on in an
explanatory tone, 'that I tak ma mornin', an' maybe a nip at noon;
an' a wee drap aifter wark in the evenin', an' whiles a sip o'
toddy wi' a freen thae cauld nichts.  But I'm no' a guzzler, an' I
dinna gang in wi' thae loons flingin' aboot guid money.'

'And that's thrue for you, me bye,' interrupted a rich Irish
brogue, to the delight of the crowd and the amazement of Geordie,
who went calmly on--

'An' I canna bide yon saloon whaur they sell sic awfu'-like stuff--
it's mair like lye nor guid whisky,--and whaur ye're never sure o'
yer richt change.  It's an awfu'-like place; man!'--and Geordie
began to warm up--'ye can juist smell the sulphur when ye gang in.
But I dinna care aboot thae Temperance Soceeities, wi' their
pledges an' havers; an' I canna see what hairm can come till a man
by takin' a bottle o' guid Glenlivet hame wi' him.  I canna bide
thae teetotal buddies.'

Geordie's speech was followed by loud applause, partly appreciative
of Geordie himself, but largely sympathetic with his position.

Two or three men followed in the same strain advocating a league
for mutual improvement and social purposes, but without the
teetotal pledge; they were against the saloon, but didn't see why
they should not take a drink now and then.

Finally the manager rose to support his 'friend, Mistah--ah--
Cwafoad,' ridiculing the idea of a total abstinence pledge as
fanatical and indeed 'absuad.'  He was opposed to the saloon, and
would like to see a club formed, with a comfortable club-room,
books, magazines, pictures, games, anything, 'dontcheknow, to make
the time pass pleasantly'; but it was 'absuad to ask men to abstain
fwom a pwopah use of--aw--nouwishing dwinks,' because some men made
beasts of themselves.  He concluded by offering $50.00 towards the
support of such a club.

The current of feeling was setting strongly against the total
abstinence idea, and Craig's face was hard and his eyes gleamed
like coals.  Then he did a bit of generalship.  He proposed that
since they had the two plans clearly before them they should take a
few minutes' intermission in which to make up their minds, and he
was sure they would be glad to have Mrs. Mavor sing.  In the
interval the men talked in groups, eagerly, even fiercely, hampered
seriously in the forceful expression of their opinion by the
presence of Mrs. Mavor, who glided from group to group, dropping a
word here and a smile there.  She reminded me of a general riding
along the ranks, bracing his men for the coming battle.  She paused
beside Geordie, spoke earnestly for a few moments, while Geordie
gazed solemnly at her, and then she came back to Billy in the
corner near me.  What she was saying I could not hear, but poor
Billy was protesting, spreading his hands out aimlessly before him,
but gazing at her the while in dumb admiration.  Then she came to
me.  'Poor Billy, he was good to my husband,' she said softly, 'and
he has a good heart.'

'He's not much to look at,' I could not help saying.

'The oyster hides its pearl,' she answered, a little reproachfully.

'The shell is apparent enough,' I replied, for the mischief was in
me.

'Ah yes,' she replied softly, 'but it is the pearl we love.'

I moved over beside Billy, whose eyes were following Mrs. Mavor as
she went to speak to Mr. Craig.  'Well,' I said; 'you all seem to
have a high opinion of her.'

'An 'igh hopinion,' he replied, in deep scorn.  'An 'igh hopinion,
you calls it.'

'What would you call it?' I asked, wishing to draw him out.

'Oi don't call it nothink,' he replied, spreading out his rough
hands.

'She seems very nice,' I said indifferently.

He drew his eyes away from Mrs. Mavor, and gave attention to me for
the first time.

'Nice!' he repeated with fine contempt; and then he added
impressively, 'Them as don't know shouldn't say nothink.'

'You are right,' I answered earnestly, 'and I am quite of your
opinion.'

He gave me a quick glance out of his little, deep-set, dark-blue
eyes, and opened his heart to me.  He told me, in his quaint
speech, how again and again she had taken him in and nursed him,
and encouraged him, and sent him out with a new heart for his
battle, until, for very shame's sake at his own miserable weakness,
he had kept out of her way for many months, going steadily down.

'Now, oi hain't got no grip; but when she says to me to-night, says
she, "Oh, Billy"--she calls me Billy to myself' (this with a touch
of pride)--'"oh, Billy," says she, "we must 'ave a total
habstinence league to-night, and oi want you to 'elp!" and she
keeps a-lookin' at me with those heyes o' hern till, if you believe
me, sir,' lowering his voice to an emphatic whisper, 'though oi
knowed oi couldn't 'elp none, afore oi knowed oi promised 'er oi
would.  It's 'er heyes.  When them heyes says "do," hup you steps
and "does."'

I remembered my first look into her eyes, and I could quite
understand Billy's submission.  Just as she began to sing I went
over to Geordie and took my seat beside him.  She began with an
English slumber song, 'Sleep, Baby, Sleep'--one of Barry
Cornwall's, I think,--and then sang a love-song with the refrain,
'Love once again'; but no thrills came to me, and I began to wonder
if her spell over me was broken.  Geordie, who had been listening
somewhat indifferently, encouraged me, however, by saying, 'She's
just pittin' aff time with thae feckless sangs; man, there's nae
grup till them.'  But when, after a few minutes' pause, she began
'My Ain Fireside,' Geordie gave a sigh of satisfaction.  'Ay,
that's somethin' like,' and when she finished the first verse he
gave me a dig in the ribs with his elbow that took my breath away,
saying in a whisper, 'Man, hear till yon, wull ye?'  And again I
found the spell upon me.  It was not the voice after all, but the
great soul behind that thrilled and compelled.  She was seeing,
feeling, living what she sang, and her voice showed us her heart.
The cosy fireside, with its bonnie, blithe blink, where no care
could abide, but only peace and love, was vividly present to her,
and as she sang we saw it too.  When she came to the last verse--


    'When I draw in my stool
       On my cosy hearth-stane,
     My heart loups sae licht
       I scarce ken't for my ain,'


there was a feeling of tears in the flowing song, and we knew the
words had brought her a picture of the fireside that would always
seem empty.  I felt the tears in my eyes, and, wondering at myself,
I cast a stealthy glance at the men about me; and I saw that they,
too, were looking through their hearts' windows upon firesides and
ingle-neuks that gleamed from far.

And then she sang 'The Auld Hoose,' and Geordie, giving me another
poke, said, 'That's ma ain sang,' and when I asked him what he
meant, he whispered fiercely, 'Wheesht, man!' and I did, for his
face looked dangerous.

In a pause between the verses I heard Geordie saying to himself,
'Ay, I maun gie it up, I doot.'

'What?' I ventured.

'Naething ava.'  And then he added impatiently, 'Man, but ye're an
inqueesitive buddie,' after which I subsided into silence.

Immediately upon the meeting being called to order, Mr. Craig made
his speech, and it was a fine bit of work.  Beginning with a clear
statement of the object in view, he set in contrast the two kinds
of leagues proposed.  One, a league of men who would take whisky in
moderation; the other, a league of men who were pledged to drink
none themselves, and to prevent in every honourable way others from
drinking.  There was no long argument, but he spoke at white heat;
and as he appealed to the men to think, each not of himself alone,
but of the others as well, the yearning, born of his long months of
desire and of toil, vibrated in his voice and reached to the heart.
Many men looked uncomfortable and uncertain, and even the manager
looked none too cheerful.

At this critical moment the crowd got a shock.  Billy Breen
shuffled out to the front, and, in a voice shaking with nervousness
and emotion, began to speak, his large, coarse hands wandering
tremulously about.

'Oi hain't no bloomin' temperance horator, and mayhap oi hain't no
right to speak 'ere, but oi got somethin' to saigh (say) and oi'm
agoin' to saigh it.

'Parson, 'ee says is it wisky or no wisky in this 'ere club?  If ye
hask me, wich (which) ye don't, then no wisky, says oi; and if ye
hask why?--look at me!  Once oi could mine more coal than hany man
in the camp; now oi hain't fit to be a sorter.  Once oi 'ad some
pride and hambition; now oi 'angs round awaitin' for some one to
saigh, "Ere, Billy, 'ave summat."  Once oi made good paigh (pay),
and sent it 'ome regular to my poor old mother (she's in the wukus
now, she is); oi hain't sent 'er hany for a year and a 'alf.  Once
Billy was a good fellow and 'ad plenty o' friends; now Slavin
'isself kicks un hout, 'ee does.  Why? why?'  His voice rose to a
shriek.  'Because when Billy 'ad money in 'is pocket, hevery man in
this bloomin' camp as meets un at hevery corner says, "'Ello,
Billy, wat'll ye 'ave?"  And there's wisky at Slavin's, and there's
wisky in the shacks, and hevery 'oliday and hevery Sunday there's
wisky, and w'en ye feel bad it's wisky, and w'en ye feel good it's
wisky, and heverywhere and halways it's wisky, wisky, wisky!  And
now ye're goin' to stop it, and 'ow?  T' manager, 'ee says picters
and magazines.  'Ee takes 'is wine and 'is beer like a gentleman,
'ee does, and 'ee don't 'ave no use for Billy Breen.  Billy, 'ee's
a beast, and t' manager, 'ee kicks un hout.  But supposin' Billy
wants to stop bein' a beast, and starts a-tryin' to be a man again,
and w'en 'ee gets good an' dry, along comes some un and says,
"'Ello, Billy, 'ave a smile," it hain't picters nor magazines 'ud
stop un then.  Picters and magazines!  Gawd 'elp the man as hain't
nothin' but picters and magazines to 'elp un w'en 'ee's got a devil
hinside and a devil houtside a-shovin' and a-drawin' of un down to
'ell.  And that's w'ere oi'm a-goin' straight, and yer bloomin'
League, wisky or no wisky, can't help me.  But,' and he lifted his
trembling hands above his head, 'if ye stop the wisky a-flowin'
round this camp, ye'll stop some of these lads that's a-followin'
me 'ard.  Yes, you! and you! and you!' and his voice rose to a wild
scream as he shook a trembling finger at one and another.

'Man, it's fair gruesome tae hear him,' said Geordie; 'he's no'
canny'; and reaching out for Billy as he went stumbling past, he
pulled him down to a seat beside him, saying, 'Sit doon, lad, sit
doon.  We'll mak a man o' ye yet.'  Then he rose and, using many
r's, said, 'Maister Chairman, a' doot we'll juist hae to gie it
up.'

'Give it up?' called out Nixon.  'Give up the League?'

'Na! na! lad, but juist the wee drap whusky.  It's nae that guid
onyway, and it's a terrible price.  Man, gin ye gang tae
Henderson's in Buchanan Street, in Gleska, ye ken, ye'll get mair
for three-an'-saxpence than ye wull at Slavin's for five dollars.
An' it'll no' pit ye mad like yon stuff, but it gangs doon smooth
an' saft-like.  But' (regretfully) 'ye'll no' can get it here; an'
a'm thinkin' a'll juist sign yon teetotal thing.'  And up he strode
to the table and put his name down in the book Craig had ready.
Then to Billy he said, 'Come' awa, lad! pit yer name doon, an'
we'll stan' by ye.'

Poor Billy looked around helplessly, his nerve all gone, and sat
still.  There was a swift rustle of garments, and Mrs. Mavor was
beside him, and, in a voice that only Billy and I could hear, said,
'You'll sign with, me, Billy?'

Billy gazed at her with a hopeless look in his eyes, and shook his
little, head.  She leaned slightly toward him, smiling brightly,
and, touching his arm gently, said--

'Come, Billy, there's no fear,' and in a lower voice, 'God will
help you.'

As Billy went up, following Mrs. Mavor close, a hush fell on the
men until he had put his name to the pledge; then they came up, man
by man, and signed.  But Craig sat with his head down till I
touched his shoulder.  He took my hand and held it fast, saying
over and over, under his breath, 'Thank God, thank God!'

And so the League was made.


CHAPTER VI

BLACK ROCK RELIGION


When I grow weary with the conventions of religion, and sick in my
soul from feeding upon husks, that the churches too often offer me,
in the shape of elaborate service and eloquent discourses, so that
in my sickness I doubt and doubt, then I go back to the communion
in Black Rock and the days preceding it, and the fever and the
weariness leave me, and I grow humble and strong.  The simplicity
and rugged grandeur of the faith, the humble gratitude of the rough
men I see about the table, and the calm radiance of one saintly
face, rest and recall me.

Not its most enthusiastic apologist would call Black Rock a
religious community, but it possessed in a marked degree that
eminent Christian virtue of tolerance.  All creeds, all shades of
religious opinion, were allowed, and it was generally conceded that
one was as good as another.  It is fair to say, however, that Black
Rock's catholicity was negative rather than positive.  The only
religion objectionable was that insisted upon as a necessity.  It
never occurred to any one to consider religion other than as a
respectable, if not ornamental, addition to life in older lands.

During the weeks following the making of the League, however, this
negative attitude towards things religious gave place to one of
keen investigation and criticism.  The indifference passed away,
and with it, in a large measure, the tolerance.  Mr. Craig was
responsible for the former of these changes, but hardly, in
fairness, could he be held responsible for the latter.  If any one,
more than another, was to be blamed for the rise of intolerance in
the village, that man was Geordie Crawford.  He had his 'lines'
from the Established Kirk of Scotland, and when Mr. Craig announced
his intention of having the Sacrament of the Lord's Supper
observed, Geordie produced his 'lines' and promptly handed them in.
As no other man in the village was equipped with like spiritual
credentials, Geordie constituted himself a kind of kirk-session,
charged with the double duty of guarding the entrance to the Lord's
Table, and of keeping an eye upon the theological opinions of the
community, and more particularly upon such members of it as gave
evidence of possessing any opinions definite enough for statement.

It came to be Mr. Craig's habit to drop into the League-room, and
toward the close of the evening to have a short Scripture lesson
from the Gospels.  Geordie's opportunity came after the meeting was
over and Mr. Craig had gone away.  The men would hang about and
talk the lesson over, expressing opinions favourable or unfavourable
as appeared to them good.  Then it was that all sorts of views,
religious and otherwise, were aired and examined.  The originality
of the ideas, the absolute disregard of the authority of church or
creed, the frankness with which opinions were stated, and the
forcefulness of the language in which they were expressed, combined
to make the discussions altogether marvellous.  The passage between
Abe Baker, the stage-driver, and Geordie was particularly rich.  It
followed upon a very telling lesson on the parable of the Pharisee
and the Publican.

The chief actors in that wonderful story were transferred to the
Black Rock stage, and were presented in miner's costume.  Abe was
particularly well pleased with the scoring of the 'blanked old
rooster who crowed so blanked high,' and somewhat incensed at the
quiet remark interjected by Geordie, 'that it was nae credit till a
man tae be a sinner'; and when Geordie went on to urge the
importance of right conduct and respectability, Abe was led to pour
forth vials of contemptuous wrath upon the Pharisees and hypocrites
who thought themselves better than other people.  But Geordie was
quite unruffled, and lamented the ignorance of men who, brought up
in 'Epeescopawlyun or Methody' churches, could hardly be expected
to detect the Antinomian or Arminian heresies.

'Aunty Nomyun or Uncle Nomyun,' replied Abe, boiling hot, 'my
mother was a Methodist, and I'll back any blanked Methodist
against any blankety blank long-faced, lantern-jawed, skinflint
Presbyterian,' and this he was eager to maintain to any man's
satisfaction if he would step outside.

Geordie was quite unmoved, but hastened to assure Abe that he meant
no disrespect to his mother, who he had 'nae doot was a clever
enough buddie, tae judge by her son.'  Abe was speedily appeased,
and offered to set up the drinks all round.  But Geordie, with
evident reluctance, had to decline, saying, 'Na, na, lad, I'm a
League man ye ken,' and I was sure that Geordie at that moment felt
that membership in the League had its drawbacks.

Nor was Geordie too sure of Craig's orthodoxy; while as to Mrs.
Mavor, whose slave he was, he was in the habit of lamenting her
doctrinal condition--

'She's a fine wumman, nae doot; but, puir cratur, she's fair
carried awa wi' the errors o' thae Epeescopawlyuns.'

It fell to Geordie, therefore, as a sacred duty, in view of the
laxity of those who seemed to be the pillars of the Church, to be
all the more watchful and unyielding.  But he was delightfully
inconsistent when confronted with particulars.  In conversation
with him one night after one of the meetings, when he had been
specially hard upon the ignorant and godless, I innocently changed
the subject to Billy Breen, whom Geordie had taken to his shack
since the night of the League.  He was very proud of Billy's
success in the fight against whisky, the credit of which he divided
unevenly between Mrs. Mavor and himself.

'He's fair daft aboot her,' he explained to me, 'an' I'll no' deny
but she's a great help, ay, a verra conseederable asseestance; but,
man, she doesna ken the whusky, an' the inside o' a man that's
wantin' it.  Ay, puir buddie, she diz her pairt, an' when ye're a
bit restless an thrawn aifter yer day's wark, it's like a walk in a
bonnie glen on a simmer eve, with the birds liltin' aboot, tae sit
in yon roomie and hear her sing; but when the night is on, an' ye
canna sleep, but wauken wi' an' awfu' thurst and wi' dreams o' cosy
firesides, and the bonnie sparklin' glosses, as it is wi' puir
Billy, ay, it's then ye need a man wi' a guid grup beside ye.'

'What do you do then, Geordie?' I asked.

'Oo ay, I juist gang for a bit walk wi' the lad, and then pits the
kettle on an' maks a cup o' tea or coffee, an' aff he gangs tae
sleep like a bairn.'

'Poor Billy,' I said pityingly, 'there's no hope for him in the
future, I fear.'

'Hoot awa, man,' said Geordie quickly.  'Ye wadna keep oot a puir
cratur frae creepin' in, that's daein' his best?'

'But, Geordie,' I remonstrated, 'he doesn't know anything of the
doctrines.  I don't believe he could give us "The Chief End of
Man."'

'An' wha's tae blame for that?' said Geordie, with fine
indignation.  'An' maybe you remember the prood Pharisee and the
puir wumman that cam' creepin' in ahint the Maister.'

The mingled tenderness and indignation in Geordie's face were
beautiful to see, so I meekly answered, 'Well, I hope Mr. Craig
won't be too strict with the boys.'

Geordie shot a suspicious glance at me, but I kept my face like a
summer morn, and he replied cautiously--

'Ay, he's no' that streect: but he maun exerceese discreemination.'

Geordie was none the less determined, however, that Billy should
'come forrit'; but as to the manager, who was a member of the
English Church, and some others who had been confirmed years ago,
and had forgotten much and denied more, he was extremely doubtful,
and expressed himself in very decided words to the minister--

'Ye'll no' be askin' forrit thae Epeescopawlyun buddies.  They
juist ken naething ava.'

But Mr. Craig looked at him for a moment and said, "Him that cometh
unto Me I will in no wise cast out,"' and Geordie was silent,
though he continued doubtful.

With all these somewhat fantastic features, however, there was no
mistaking the earnest spirit of the men.  The meetings grew larger
every night, and the interest became more intense.  The singing
became different.  The men no longer simply shouted, but as Mr.
Craig would call attention to the sentiment of the hymn, the voices
would attune themselves to the words.  Instead of encouraging
anything like emotional excitement, Mr. Craig seemed to fear it.

'These chaps are easily stirred up,' he would say, 'and I am
anxious that they should know exactly what they are doing.  It is
far too serious a business to trifle with.'

Although Graeme did not go downstairs to the meetings, he could not
but feel the throb of the emotion beating in the heart of the
community.  I used to detail for his benefit, and sometimes for his
amusement, the incidents of each night.  But I never felt quite
easy in dwelling upon the humorous features in Mrs. Mavor's
presence, although Craig did not appear to mind.  His manner with
Graeme was perfect.  Openly anxious to win him to his side, he did
not improve the occasion and vex him with exhortation.  He would
not take him at a disadvantage, though, as I afterwards found, this
was not his sole reason for his method.  Mrs. Mavor, too, showed
herself in wise and tender light.  She might have been his sister,
so frank was she and so openly affectionate, laughing at his
fretfulness and soothing his weariness.

Never were better comrades than we four, and the bright days
speeding so swiftly on drew us nearer to one another.

But the bright days came to an end; for Graeme, when once he was
able to go about, became anxious to get back to the camp.  And so
the last day came, a day I remember well.  It was a bright, crisp
winter day.

The air was shimmering in the frosty light.  The mountains, with
their shining heads piercing through light clouds into that
wonderful blue of the western sky, and their feet pushed into the
pine masses, gazed down upon Black Rock with calm, kindly looks on
their old grey faces.  How one grows to love them, steadfast old
friends!  Far up among the pines we could see the smoke of the
engine at the works, and so still and so clear was the mountain air
that we could hear the puff of the steam, and from far down the
river the murmur of the rapids.  The majestic silence, the tender
beauty, the peace, the loneliness, too, came stealing in upon us,
as we three, leaving Mrs. Mavor behind us, marched arm-in-arm down
the street.  We had not gone far on our way, when Graeme, turning
round, stood a moment looking back, then waved his hand in
farewell.  Mrs. Mavor was at her window, smiling and waving in
return.  They had grown to be great friends these two; and seemed
to have arrived at some understanding.  Certainly, Graeme's manner
to her was not that he bore to other women.  His half-quizzical,
somewhat superior air of mocking devotion gave place to a simple,
earnest, almost tender, respect, very new to him, but very winning.

As he stood there waving his farewell, I glanced at his face and
saw for a moment what I had not seen for years, a faint flush on
Graeme's cheek and a light of simple, earnest faith in his eyes.
It reminded me of my first look of him when he had come up for his
matriculation to the 'Varsity.  He stood on the campus looking up at
the noble old pile, and there was the same bright, trustful,
earnest look on his boyish face.

I know not what spirit possessed me; it may have been the pain of
the memory working in me, but I said, coarsely enough, 'It's no
use, Graeme, my boy; I would fall in love with her myself, but
there would be no chance even for me.'

The flush slowly darkened as he turned and said deliberately--

'It's not like you, Connor, to be an ass of that peculiar kind.
Love!--not exactly!  She won't fall in love unless--' and he
stopped abruptly with his eyes upon Craig.

But Craig met him with unshrinking gaze, quietly remarking, 'Her
heart is under the pines'; and we moved on, each thinking his own
thoughts, and guessing at the thoughts of the others.

We were on our way to Craig's shack, and as we passed the saloon
Slavin stepped from the door with a salutation.  Graeme paused.
'Hello, Slavin!  I got rather the worst of it, didn't I?'

Slavin came near, and said earnestly, 'It was a dirty thrick
altogether; you'll not think it was moine, Mr. Graeme.'

'No, no, Slavin! you stood up like a man,' said Graeme cheerfully.

'And you bate me fair; an' bedad it was a nate one that laid me
out; an' there's no grudge in me heart till ye.'

'All right, Slavin; we'll perhaps understand each other better
after this.'

'An' that's thrue for yez, sor; an' I'll see that your byes don't
get any more than they ask for,' replied Slavin, backing away.

'And I hope that won't be much,' put in Mr. Craig; but Slavin only
grinned.

When we came to Craig's shack Graeme was glad to rest in the big
chair.

Craig made him a cup of tea, while I smoked, admiring much the deft
neatness of the minister's housekeeping, and the gentle, almost
motherly, way he had with Graeme.

In our talk we drifted into the future, and Craig let us see what
were his ambitions.  The railway was soon to come; the resources
were, as yet, unexplored, but enough was known to assure a great
future for British Columbia.  As he talked his enthusiasm grew, and
carried us away.  With the eye of a general he surveyed the
country, fixed the strategic points which the Church must seize
upon.  Eight good men would hold the country from Fort Steele to
the coast, and from Kootenay to Cariboo.

'The Church must be in with the railway; she must have a hand in
the shaping of the country.  If society crystallises without her
influence, the country is lost, and British Columbia will be
another trap-door to the bottomless pit.'

'What do you propose?' I asked.

'Organising a little congregation here in Black Rock.'

'How many will you get?'

'Don't know.'

'Pretty hopeless business,' I said.

'Hopeless! hopeless!' he cried; 'there were only twelve of us at
first to follow Him, and rather a poor lot they were.  But He
braced them up, and they conquered the world.'

'But surely things are different,' said Graeme.

'Things?  Yes! yes!  But He is the same.'  His face had an exalted
look, and his eyes were gazing into far-away places.

'A dozen men in Black Rock with some real grip of Him would make
things go.  We'll get them, too,' he went on in growing excitement.
'I believe in my soul we'll get them.'

'Look here, Craig; if you organise I'd like to join,' said Graeme
impulsively.  'I don't believe much in your creed or your Church,
but I'll be blowed if I don't believe in you.'

Craig looked at him with wistful eyes, and shook his head.  'It
won't do, old chap, you know.  I can't hold you.  You've got to
have a grip of some one better than I am; and then, besides, I
hardly like asking you now'; he hesitated--'well, to be out-and-
out, this step must be taken not for my sake, nor for any man's
sake, and I fancy that perhaps you feel like pleasing me just now
a little.'

'That I do, old fellow,' said Graeme, putting out his hand.  'I'll
be hanged if I won't do anything you say.'

'That's why I won't say,' replied Craig.  Then reverently he added,
'the organisation is not mine.  It is my Master's.'

'When are you going to begin?' asked Graeme.

'We shall have our communion service in two weeks, and that will be
our roll-call.'

'How many will answer?' I asked doubtfully.

'I know of three,' he said quietly.

'Three!  There are two hundred miners and one hundred and fifty
lumbermen!  Three!' and Graeme looked at him in amazement.  'You
think it worth while to organise three?'

'Well,' replied Craig, smiling for the first time, 'the
organisation won't be elaborate, but it will be effective, and,
besides, loyalty demands obedience.'

We sat long that afternoon talking, shrinking from the breaking up;
for we knew that we were about to turn down a chapter in our lives
which we should delight to linger over in after days.  And in my
life there is but one brighter.  At last we said good-bye and drove
away; and though many farewells have come in between that day and
this, none is so vividly present to me as that between us three
men.  Craig's manner with me was solemn enough.  '"He that loveth
his life"; good-bye, don't fool with this,' was what he said to me.
But when he turned to Graeme his whole face lit up.  He took him by
the shoulders and gave him a little shake, looking into his eyes,
and saying over and over in a low, sweet tone--

'You'll come, old chap, you'll come, you'll come.  Tell me you'll
come.'

And Graeme could say nothing in reply, but only looked at him.
Then they silently shook hands, and we drove off.  But long after
we had got over the mountain and into the winding forest road on
the way to the lumber-camp the voice kept vibrating in my heart,
'You'll come, you'll come,' and there was a hot pain in my throat.

We said little during the drive to the camp.  Graeme was thinking
hard, and made no answer when I spoke to him two or three times,
till we came to the deep shadows of the pine forest, when with a
little shiver he said--

'It is all a tangle--a hopeless tangle.'

'Meaning what?' I asked.

'This business of religion--what quaint varieties--Nelson's,
Geordie's, Billy Breen's--if he has any--then Mrs. Mavor's--she is
a saint, of course--and that fellow Craig's.  What a trump he is!--
and without his religion he'd be pretty much like the rest of us.
It is too much for me.'

His mystery was not mine.  The Black Rock varieties of religion
were certainly startling; but there was undoubtedly the streak of
reality though them all, and that discovery I felt to be a distinct
gain.


CHAPTER VII

THE FIRST BLACK ROCK COMMUNION


The gleam of the great fire through the windows of the great camp
gave a kindly welcome as we drove into the clearing in which the
shanties stood.  Graeme was greatly touched at his enthusiastic
welcome by the men.  At the supper-table he made a little speech of
thanks for their faithfulness during his absence, specially
commending the care and efficiency of Mr. Nelson, who had had
charge of the camp.  The men cheered wildly, Baptiste's shrill
voice leading all.  Nelson being called upon, expressed in a few
words his pleasure at seeing the Boss back, and thanked the men for
their support while he had been in charge.

The men were for making a night of it; but fearing the effect upon
Graeme, I spoke to Nelson, who passed the word, and in a short time
the camp was quiet.  As we sauntered from the grub-camp to the
office where was our bed, we paused to take in the beauty of the
night.  The moon rode high over the peaks of the mountains,
flooding the narrow valley with mellow light.  Under her magic the
rugged peaks softened their harsh lines and seemed to lean lovingly
toward us.  The dark pine masses stood silent as in breathless
adoration; the dazzling snow lay like a garment over all the open
spaces in soft, waving folds, and crowned every stump with a
quaintly shaped nightcap.  Above the camps the smoke curled up from
the camp-fires, standing like pillars of cloud that kept watch
while men slept.  And high over all the deep blue night sky, with
its star jewels, sprang like the roof of a great cathedral from
range to range, covering us in its kindly shelter.  How homelike
and safe seemed the valley with its mountain-sides, its sentinel
trees and arching roof of jewelled sky!  Even the night seemed
kindly, and friendly the stars; and the lone cry of the wolf from
the deep forest seemed like the voice of a comrade.

'How beautiful! too beautiful!' said Graeme, stretching out his
arms.  'A night like this takes the heart out of me.'

I stood silent, drinking in at every sense the night with its
wealth of loveliness.

'What is it I want?' he went on.  'Why does the night make my heart
ache?  There are things to see and things to hear just beyond me; I
cannot get to them.'  The gay, careless look was gone from his
face, his dark eyes were wistful with yearning.

'I often wonder if life has nothing better for me,' he continued
with his heartache voice.

I said no word, but put my arm within his.  A light appeared in the
stable.  Glad of a diversion, I said, 'What is the light?  Let us
go and see.'

'Sandy, taking a last look at his team, like enough.'

We walked slowly toward the stable, speaking no word.  As we neared
the door we heard the sound of a voice in the monotone of one
reading.  I stepped forward and looked through a chink between the
logs.  Graeme was about to open the door, but I held up my hand and
beckoned him to me.  In a vacant stall, where was a pile of straw,
a number of men were grouped.  Sandy, leaning against the tying-
post upon which the stable-lantern hung, was reading; Nelson was
kneeling in front of him and gazing into the gloom beyond; Baptiste
lay upon his stomach, his chin in his hands and his upturned eyes
fastened upon Sandy's face; Lachlan Campbell sat with his hands
clasped about his knees, and two other men sat near him.  Sandy was
reading the undying story of the Prodigal, Nelson now and then
stopping him to make a remark.  It was a scene I have never been
able to forget.  To-day I pause in my tale, and see it as clearly
as when I looked through the chink upon it years ago.  The long,
low stable, with log walls and upright hitching-poles; the dim
outlines of the horses in the gloom of the background, and the
little group of rough, almost savage-looking men, with faces
wondering and reverent, lit by the misty light of the stable-
lantern.

After the reading, Sandy handed the book to Nelson, who put it in
his pocket, saying, 'That's for us, boys, ain't it?'

'Ay,' said Lachlan; 'it is often that has been read in my hearing,
but I am afraid it will not be for me whatever,' and he swayed
himself slightly as he spoke, and his voice was full of pain.

'The minister said I might come,' said old Nelson, earnestly and
hopefully.

'Ay, but you are not Lachlan Campbell, and you hef not had his
privileges.  My father was a godly elder in the Free Church of
Scotland, and never a night or morning but we took the Books.'

'Yes, but He said "any man,"' persisted Nelson, putting his hand on
Lachlan's knee.  But Lachlan shook his head.

'Dat young feller,' said Baptiste; 'wha's hees nem, heh?'

'He has no name.  It is just a parable,' explained Sandy.

'He's got no nem?  He's just a parom'ble?  Das no young feller?'
asked Baptiste anxiously; 'das mean noting?'

Then Nelson took him in hand and explained to him the meaning,
while Baptiste listened even more eagerly, ejaculating softly, 'ah,
voila! bon! by gar!'  When Nelson had finished he broke out, 'Dat
young feller, his name Baptiste, heh? and de old Fadder he's le bon
Dieu?  Bon! das good story for me.  How you go back?  You go to de
pries'?'

'The book doesn't say priest or any one else,' said Nelson.  'You
go back in yourself, you see?'

'Non; das so, sure nuff.  Ah!'--as if a light broke in upon him--
'you go in your own self.  You make one leetle prayer.  You say,
"Le bon Fadder, oh! I want come back, I so tire, so hongree, so
sorree"?  He, say, "Come right 'long."  Ah! das fuss-rate.  Nelson,
you make one leetle prayer for Sandy and me.'

And Nelson lifted up his face and said: 'Father, we're all gone far
away; we have spent all, we are poor, we are tired of it all; we
want to feel different, to be different; we want to come back.
Jesus came to save us from our sins; and he said if we came He
wouldn't cast us out, no matter how bad we were, if we only came to
Him.  Oh, Jesus Christ'--and his old, iron face began to work, and
two big tears slowly came from under his eyelids--'we are a poor
lot, and I'm the worst of the lot, and we are trying to find the
way.  Show us how to get back.  Amen.'

'Bon!' said Baptiste.  'Das fetch Him sure!'

Graeme pulled me away, and without a word we went into the office
and drew up to the little stove.  Graeme was greatly moved.

'Did you ever see anything like that?' he asked.  'Old Nelson! the
hardest, savagest, toughest old sinner in the camp, on his knees
before a lot of men!'

'Before God,' I could not help saying, for the thing seemed very
real to me.  The old man evidently felt himself talking to some
one.

'Yes, I suppose you're right,' said Graeme doubtfully; 'but there's
a lot of stuff I can't swallow.'

'When you take medicine you don't swallow the bottle,' I replied,
for his trouble was not mine.

'If I were sure of the medicine, I wouldn't mind the bottle, and
yet it acts well enough,' he went on.  'I don't mind Lachlan; he's
a Highland mystic, and has visions, and Sandy's almost as bad, and
Baptiste is an impulsive little chap.  Those don't count much.  But
old man Nelson is a cool-blooded, level-headed old fellow; has seen
a lot of life, too.  And then there's Craig.  He has a better head
than I have, and is as hot-blooded, and yet he is living and
slaving away in that hole, and really enjoys it.  There must be
something in it.'

'Oh, look here, Graeme,' I burst out impatiently; 'what's the use
of your talking like that?  Of course there's something in it.  I
here's everything in it.  The trouble with me is I can't face the
music.  It calls for a life where a fellow must go in for straight,
steady work, self-denial, and that sort of thing; and I'm too
Bohemian for that, and too lazy.  But that fellow Craig makes one
feel horribly uncomfortable.'

Graeme put his head on one side, and examined me curiously.

'I believe you're right about yourself.  You always were a
luxurious beggar.  But that's not where it catches me.'

We sat and smoked and talked of other things for an hour, and then
turned in.  As I was dropping off I was roused by Graeme's voice--

'Are you going to the preparatory service on Friday night?'

'Don't know,' I replied rather sleepily.

'I say, do you remember the preparatory service at home?'  There
was something in his voice that set me wide awake.

'Yes.  Rather terrific, wasn't it?  But I always felt better after
it,' I replied.

'To me'--he was sitting up in bed now--'to me it was like a call to
arms, or rather like a call for a forlorn hope.  None but
volunteers wanted.  Do you remember the thrill in the old
governor's voice as he dared any but the right stuff to come on?'

'We'll go in on Friday night,' I said.

And so we did.  Sandy took a load of men with his team, and Graeme
and I drove in the light sleigh.

The meeting was in the church, and over a hundred men were present.
There was some singing of familiar hymns at first, and then Mr.
Craig read the same story as we had heard in the stable, that most
perfect of all parables, the Prodigal Son.  Baptiste nudged Sandy
in delight, and whispered something, but Sandy held his face so
absolutely expressionless that Graeme was moved to say--

'Look at Sandy!  Did you ever see such a graven image?  Something
has hit him hard.'

The men were held fast by the story.  The voice of the reader, low,
earnest, and thrilling with the tender pathos of the tale, carried
the words to our hearts, while a glance, a gesture, a movement of
the body gave us the vision of it all as he was seeing it.

Then, in simplest of words, he told us what the story meant,
holding us the while with eyes, and voice, and gesture.  He
compelled us scorn the gay, heartless selfishness of the young fool
setting forth so jauntily from the broken home; he moved our pity
and our sympathy for the young profligate, who, broken and
deserted, had still pluck enough to determine to work his way back,
and who, in utter desperation, at last gave it up; and then he
showed us the homecoming--the ragged, heart-sick tramp, with
hesitating steps, stumbling along the dusty road, and then the rush
of the old father, his garments fluttering, and his voice heard in
broken cries.  I see and hear it all now, whenever the words are
read.

He announced the hymn, 'Just as I am,' read the first verse, and
then went on: 'There you are, men, every man of you, somewhere on
the road.  Some of you are too lazy'--here Graeme nudged me--'and
some of you haven't got enough yet of the far country to come back.
May there be a chance for you when you want to come!  Men, you all
want to go back home, and when you go you'll want to put on your
soft clothes, and you won't go till you can go in good style; but
where did the prodigal get his good clothes?'  Quick came the
answer in Baptiste's shrill voice--

'From de old fadder!'

No one was surprised, and the minister went on--

'Yes! and that's where we must get the good, clean heart, the good,
clean, brave heart, from our Father.  Don't wait, but, just as you
are, come.  Sing.'

They sang, not loud, as they would 'Stand Up,' or even 'The Sweet
By and By,' but in voices subdued, holding down the power in them.

After the singing, Craig stood a moment gazing down at the men, and
then said quietly--

'Any man want to come?  You all might come.  We all must come.'
Then, sweeping his arm over the audience, and turning half round as
if to move off, he cried, in a voice that thrilled to the heart's
core--

'Oh! come on!  Let's go back!'

The effect was overpowering.  It seemed to me that the whole
company half rose to their feet.  Of the prayer that immediately
followed, I only caught the opening sentence, 'Father, we are
coming back,' for my attention was suddenly absorbed by Abe, the
stage-driver, who was sitting next me.  I could hear him swearing
approval and admiration, saying to himself--

'Ain't he a clinker!  I'll be gee-whizzly-gol-dusted if he ain't a
malleable-iron-double-back-action self-adjusting corn-cracker.'
And the prayer continued to be punctuated with like admiring and
even more sulphurous expletives.  It was an incongruous medley.
The earnest, reverent prayer, and the earnest, admiring profanity,
rendered chaotic one's ideas of religious propriety.  The feelings
in both were akin; the method of expression somewhat widely
diverse.

After prayer, Craig's tone changed utterly.  In a quiet, matter-of-
fact, businesslike way he stated his plan of organisation, and
called for all who wished to join to remain after the benediction.
Some fifty men were left, among them Nelson, Sandy, Lachlan
Campbell, Baptiste, Shaw, Nixon, Geordie, and Billy Breen, who
tried to get out, but was held fast by Geordie.

Graeme was passing out, but I signed him to remain, saying that I
wished 'to see the thing out.'  Abe sat still beside me, swearing
disgustedly at the fellows 'who were going back on the preacher.'
Craig appeared amazed at the number of men remaining, and seemed to
fear that something was wrong.  He put before them the terms of
discipleship, as the Master put them to the eager scribe, and he
did not make them easy.  He pictured the kind of work to be done,
and the kind of men needed for the doing of it.  Abe grew uneasy as
the minister went on to describe the completeness of the surrender,
the intensity of the loyalty demanded.

'That knocks me out, I reckon,' he muttered, in a disappointed
tone; 'I ain't up to that grade.'  And as Craig described the
heroism called for, the magnificence of the fight, the worth of it,
and the outcome of it all, Abe ground out: I'll be blanked if I
wouldn't like to take a hand, but I guess I'm not in it.'  Craig
finished by saying--

'I want to put this quite fairly.  It is not any league of mine;
you're not joining my company; it is no easy business, and it is
for your whole life.  What do you say?  Do I put it fairly?  What
do you say, Nelson?'

Nelson rose slowly, and with difficulty began--

'I may be all wrong, but you made it easier for me, Mr. Craig.  You
said He would see me through, or I should never have risked it.
Perhaps I am wrong,' and the old man looked troubled.  Craig sprang
up.

'No! no!  Thank God, no!  He will see every man through who will
trust his life to Him.  Every man, no matter how tough he is, no
matter how broken.'

Then Nelson straightened himself up and said--

'Well, sir! I believe a lot of the men would go in for this if they
were dead sure they would get through.'

'Get through!' said Craig; 'never a fear of it.  It is a hard
fight, a long fight, a glorious fight,' throwing up his head, but
every man who squarely trusts Him, and takes Him as Lord and
Master, comes out victor!'

'Bon!' said Baptiste 'Das me.  You tink He's take me in dat fight,
M'sieu Craig, heh?'  His eyes were blazing.

'You mean it?' asked Craig almost sternly.

'Yes! by gar!' said the little Frenchman eagerly.

'Hear what He says, then'; and Craig, turning over the leaves of
his Testament, read solemnly the words, 'Swear not at all.'

'Non!  For sure!  Den I stop him,' replied Baptiste earnestly; and
Craig wrote his name down.

Poor Abe looked amazed and distressed, rose slowly, and saying,
'That jars my whisky jug,' passed out.  There was a slight movement
near the organ, and glancing up I saw Mrs. Mavor put her face
hastily in her hands.  The men's faces were anxious and troubled,
and Nelson said in a voice that broke--

'Tell them what you told me, sir.'  But Craig was troubled too, and
replied, 'You tell them, Nelson!' and Nelson told the men the story
of how he began just five weeks ago.  The old man's voice steadied
as he went on, and he grew eager as he told how he had been helped,
and how the world was all different, and his heart seemed new.  He
spoke of his Friend as if He were some one that could be seen out
at camp, that he knew well, and met every day.

But as he tried to say how deeply he regretted that he had not
known all this years before, the old, hard face began to quiver,
and the steady voice wavered.  Then he pulled himself together, and
said--

'I begin to feel sure He'll pull me through--me! the hardest man in
the mountains!  So don't you fear, boys.  He's all right.'

Then the men gave in their names, one by one.  When it came to
Geordie's turn, he gave his name--

'George Crawford, frae the pairish o' Kilsyth, Scotland, an' ye'll
juist pit doon the lad's name, Maister Craig; he's a wee bit fashed
wi' the discoorse, but he has the root o' the maitter in him, I
doot.'  And so Billy Breen's name went down.

When the meeting was over, thirty-eight names stood upon the
communion roll of the Black Rock Presbyterian Church; and it will
ever be one of the regrets of my life that neither Graeme's name
nor my own appeared on that roll.  And two days after, when the cup
went round on that first Communion Sabbath, from Nelson to Sandy,
and from Sandy to Baptiste, and so on down the line to Billy Breen
and Mrs. Mavor, and then to Abe, the driver, whom she had by her
own mystic power lifted into hope and faith, I felt all the shame
and pain of a traitor; and I believe, in my heart that the fire of
that pain and shame burned something of the selfish cowardice out
of me, and that it is burning still.

The last words of the minister, in the short address after the
table had been served, were low, and sweet, and tender, but they
were words of high courage; and before he had spoken them all, the
men were listening with shining eyes, and when they rose to sing
the closing hymn they stood straight and stiff like soldiers on
parade.

And I wished more than ever I were one of them.


CHAPTER VIII

THE BREAKING OF THE LEAGUE


There is no doubt in my mind that nature designed me for a great
painter.  A railway director interfered with that design of nature,
as he has with many another of hers, and by the transmission of an
order for mountain pieces by the dozen, together with a cheque so
large that I feared there was some mistake, he determined me to be
an illustrator and designer for railway and like publications.  I
do not like these people ordering 'by the dozen.'  Why should they
not consider an artist's finer feelings?  Perhaps they cannot
understand them; but they understand my pictures, and I understand
their cheques, and there we are quits.  But so it came that I
remained in Black Rock long enough to witness the breaking of the
League.

Looking back upon the events of that night from the midst of gentle
and decent surroundings, they now seem strangely unreal, but to me
then they appeared only natural.

It was the Good Friday ball that wrecked the League.  For the fact
that the promoters of the ball determined that it should be a ball
rather than a dance was taken by the League men as a concession to
the new public opinion in favour of respectability created by the
League.  And when the manager's patronage had been secured (they
failed to get Mrs. Mavor's), and it was further announced that,
though held in the Black Rock Hotel ballroom--indeed, there was no
other place--refreshments suited to the peculiar tastes of League
men would be provided, it was felt to be almost a necessity that
the League should approve, should indeed welcome, this concession
to the public opinion in favour of respectability created by the
League.

There were extreme men on both sides, of course.  'Idaho' Jack,
professional gambler, for instance, frankly considered that the
whole town was going to unmentionable depths of propriety.  The
organisation of the League was regarded by him, and by many others,
as a sad retrograde towards the bondage of the ancient and dying
East; and that he could not get drunk when and where he pleased,
'Idaho,' as he was called, regarded as a personal grievance.

But Idaho was never enamoured of the social ways of Black Rock.  He
was shocked and disgusted when he discovered that a 'gun' was
decreed by British law to be an unnecessary adornment of a card-
table.  The manner of his discovery must have been interesting to
behold.

It is said that Idaho was industriously pursuing his avocation in
Slavin's, with his 'gun' lying upon the card-table convenient to
his hand, when in walked policeman Jackson, her Majesty's sole
representative in the Black Rock district.  Jackson, 'Stonewall'
Jackson, or 'Stonewall,' as he was called for obvious reasons,
after watching the game for a few moments, gently tapped the pistol
and asked what he used this for.

'I'll show you in two holy minutes if you don't light out,' said
Idaho, hardly looking up, but very angrily, for the luck was
against him.  But Jackson tapped upon the table and said sweetly--

'You're a stranger here.  You ought to get a guide-book and post
yourself.  Now, the boys know I don't interfere with an innocent
little game, but there is a regulation against playing it with
guns; so,' he added even more sweetly, but fastening Idaho with a
look from his steel-grey eyes, 'I'll just take charge of this,'
picking up the revolver; 'it might go off.'

Idaho's rage, great as it was, was quite swallowed up in his amazed
disgust at the state of society that would permit such an outrage
upon personal liberty.  He was quite unable to play any more that
evening, and it took several drinks all round to restore him to
articulate speech.  The rest of the night was spent in retailing
for his instruction stories of the ways of Stonewall Jackson.

Idaho bought a new 'gun,' but he wore it 'in his clothes,' and used
it chiefly in the pastime of shooting out the lights or in picking
off the heels from the boys' boots while a stag dance was in
progress in Slavin's.  But in Stonewall's presence Idaho was a most
correct citizen.  Stonewall he could understand and appreciate.  He
was six feet three, and had an eye of unpleasant penetration.  But
this new feeling in the community for respectability he could
neither understand nor endure.  The League became the object of his
indignant aversion, and the League men of his contempt.  He had
many sympathisers, and frequent were the assaults upon the newly-
born sobriety of Billy Breen and others of the League.  But
Geordie's watchful care and Mrs. Mavor's steady influence, together
with the loyal co-operation of the League men, kept Billy safe so
far.  Nixon, too, was a marked man.  It may be that he carried
himself with unnecessary jauntiness toward Slavin and Idaho,
saluting the former with, 'Awful dry weather! eh, Slavin?' and the
latter with, 'Hello, old sport! how's times?' causing them to swear
deeply; and, as it turned out, to do more than swear.

But on the whole the anti-League men were in favour of a respectable
ball, and most of the League men determined to show their
appreciation of the concession of the committee to the principles of
the League in the important matter of refreshments by attending in
force.

Nixon would not go.  However jauntily he might talk, he could not
trust himself, as he said, where whisky was flowing, for it got
into his nose 'like a fish-hook into a salmon.'  He was from
Nova Scotia.  For like reason, Vernon Winton, the young Oxford
fellow, would not go.  When they chaffed, his lips grew a little
thinner, and the colour deepened in his handsome face, but he went
on his way.  Geordie despised the 'hale hypothick' as a 'daft
ploy,' and the spending of five dollars upon a ticket he considered
a 'sinfu' waste o' guid siller'; and he warned Billy against
'coontenancin' ony sic redeeklus nonsense.'

But no one expected Billy to go; although the last two months he
had done wonders for his personal appearance, and for his position
in the social scale as well.  They all knew what a fight he was
making, and esteemed him accordingly.  How well I remember the
pleased pride in his face when he told me in the afternoon of the
committee's urgent request that he should join the orchestra with
his 'cello!  It was not simply that his 'cello was his joy and
pride, but he felt it to be a recognition of his return to
respectability.

I have often wondered how things combine at times to a man's
destruction.

Had Mr. Craig not been away at the Landing that week, had Geordie
not been on the night-shift, had Mrs. Mavor not been so occupied
with the care of her sick child, it may be Billy might have been
saved his fall.

The anticipation of the ball stirred Black Rock and the camps with
a thrill of expectant delight.  Nowadays, when I find myself forced
to leave my quiet smoke in my studio after dinner at the call of
some social engagement which I have failed to elude, I groan at my
hard lot, and I wonder as I look back and remember the pleasurable
anticipation with which I viewed the approaching ball.  But I do
not wonder now any more than I did then at the eager delight of the
men who for seven days in the week swung their picks up in the dark
breasts of the mines, or who chopped and sawed among the solitary
silences of the great forests.  Any break in the long and weary
monotony was welcome; what mattered the cost or consequence!  To
the rudest and least cultured of them the sameness of the life must
have been hard to bear; but what it was to men who had seen life in
its most cultured and attractive forms I fail to imagine.  From the
mine, black and foul, to the shack, bare, cheerless, and sometimes
hideously repulsive, life swung in heart-grinding monotony till the
longing for a 'big drink' or some other 'big break' became too
great to bear.

It was well on towards evening when Sandy's four horse team, with a
load of men from the woods, came swinging round the curves of the
mountain-road and down the street.  A gay crowd they were with
their bright, brown faces and hearty voices; and in ten minutes the
whole street seemed alive with lumbermen--they had a faculty of
spreading themselves so.  After night fell the miners came down
'done up slick,' for this was a great occasion, and they must be up
to it.  The manager appeared in evening dress; but this was voted
'too giddy' by the majority.

As Graeme and I passed up to the Black Rock Hotel, in the large
store-room of which the ball was to be held, we met old man Nelson
looking very grave.

'Going, Nelson, aren't you?' I said.

'Yes,' he answered slowly; 'I'll drop in, though I don't like the
look of things much.'

'What's the matter, Nelson?' asked Graeme cheerily.  'There's no
funeral on.'

'Perhaps not,' replied Nelson, 'but I wish Mr. Craig were home.'
And then he added, 'There's Idaho and Slavin together, and you may
bet the devil isn't far off.'

But Graeme laughed at his suspicion, and we passed on.  The
orchestra was tuning up.  There were two violins, a concertina, and
the 'cello.  Billy Breen was lovingly fingering his instrument, now
and then indulging himself in a little snatch of some air that came
to him out of his happier past.  He looked perfectly delighted, and
as I paused to listen he gave me a proud glance out of his deep,
little, blue eyes, and went on playing softly to himself.
Presently Shaw came along.

'That's good, Billy,' he called out.  'You've got the trick yet, I
see."

But Billy only nodded and went on playing.

'Where's Nixon?' I asked.

'Gone to bed,' said Shaw, 'and I am glad of it.  He finds that the
safest place on pay-day afternoon.  The boys don't bother him
there.'

The dancing-room was lined on two sides with beer-barrels and
whisky-kegs; at one end the orchestra sat, at the other was a table
with refreshments, where the 'soft drinks' might be had.  Those who
wanted anything else might pass through a short passage into the
bar just behind.

This was evidently a superior kind of ball, for the men kept on
their coats, and went through the various figures with faces of
unnatural solemnity.  But the strain upon their feelings was quite
apparent, and it became a question how long it could be maintained.
As the trips through the passage-way became more frequent the
dancing grew in vigour and hilarity, until by the time supper was
announced the stiffness had sufficiently vanished to give no
further anxiety to the committee.

But the committee had other cause for concern, inasmuch as after
supper certain of the miners appeared with their coats off, and
proceeded to 'knock the knots out of the floor' in break-down
dances of extraordinary energy.  These, however, were beguiled into
the bar-room and 'filled up' for safety, for the committee were
determined that the respectability of the ball should be preserved
to the end.  Their reputation was at stake, not in Black Rock only,
but at the Landing as well, from which most of the ladies had come;
and to be shamed in the presence of the Landing people could not be
borne.  Their difficulties seemed to be increasing, for at this
point something seemed to go wrong with the orchestra.  The 'cello
appeared to be wandering aimlessly up and down the scale,
occasionally picking up the tune with animation, and then dropping
it.  As Billy saw me approaching, he drew himself up with great
solemnity, gravely winked at me, and said--

'Shlipped a cog, Mishter Connor!  Mosh hunfortunate!  Beauchiful
hinstrument, but shlips a cog.  Mosh hunfortunate!'

And he wagged his little head sagely, playing all the while for
dear life, now second and now lead.

Poor Billy!  I pitied him, but I thought chiefly of the beautiful,
eager face that leaned towards him the night the League was made,
and of the bright voice that said, 'You'll sign with me, Billy?'
and it seemed to me a cruel deed to make him lose his grip of life
and hope; for this is what the pledge meant to him.

While I was trying to get Billy away to some safe place, I heard a
great shouting in the direction of the bar, followed by trampling
and scuffling of feet in the passage-way.  Suddenly a man burst
through, crying--

'Let me go!  Stand back!  I know what I'm about!'

It was Nixon, dressed in his best; black clothes, blue shirt, red
tie, looking handsome enough, but half-drunk and wildly excited.
The highland Fling competition was on at the moment, and Angus
Campbell, Lachlan's brother, was representing the lumber camps in
the contest.  Nixon looked on approvingly for a few moments, then
with a quick movement he seized the little Highlander, swung him in
his powerful arms clean off the floor, and deposited him gently
upon a beer-barrel.  Then he stepped into the centre of the room,
bowed to the judges, and began a sailor's hornpipe.

The committee were perplexed, but after deliberation they decided
to humour the new competitor, especially as they knew that Nixon
with whisky in him was unpleasant to cross.

Lightly and gracefully he went through his steps, the men crowding
in from the bar to admire, for Nixon was famed for his hornpipe.
But when, after the hornpipe, he proceeded to execute a clog-dance,
garnished with acrobatic feats, the committee interfered.  There
were cries of 'Put him out!' and 'Let him alone!  Go on, Nixon!'
And Nixon hurled back into the crowd two of the committee who had
laid remonstrating hands upon him, and, standing in the open
centre, cried out scornfully--

'Put me out!  Put me out!  Certainly!  Help yourselves!  Don't mind
me!'  Then grinding his teeth, so that I heard them across the
room, he added with savage deliberation, 'If any man lays a finger
on me, I'll--I'll eat his liver cold.'

He stood for a few moments glaring round upon the company, and then
strode toward the bar, followed by the crowd wildly yelling.  The
ball was forthwith broken up.  I looked around for Billy, but he
was nowhere to be seen.  Graeme touched my arm--

'There's going to be something of a time, so just keep your eyes
skinned.'

'What are you going to do?' I asked.

'Do?  Keep myself beautifully out of trouble,' he replied.

In a few moments the crowd came surging back headed by Nixon, who
was waving a whisky-bottle over his head and yelling as one
possessed.

'Hello!' exclaimed Graeme softly, 'I begin to see.  Look there!'

'What's up?' I asked.

'You see Idaho and Slavin and their pets,' he replied.

'They've got poor Nixon in tow.  Idaho is rather nasty,' he added,
'but I think I'll take a hand in this game; I've seen some of
Idaho's work before.'

The scene was one quite strange to me, and was wild beyond
description.  A hundred men filled the room.  Bottles were passed
from hand to hand, and men drank their fill.  Behind the
refreshment-tables stood the hotelman and his barkeeper with their
coats off and sleeves rolled up to the shoulder, passing out
bottles, and drawing beer and whisky from two kegs hoisted up for
that purpose.  Nixon was in his glory.  It was his night.  Every
man was to get drunk at his expense, he proclaimed, flinging down
bills upon the table.  Near him were some League men he was
treating liberally, and never far away were Idaho and Slavin
passing bottles, but evidently drinking little.

I followed Graeme, not feeling too comfortable, for this sort of
thing was new to me, but admiring the cool assurance with which he
made his way through the crowd that swayed and yelled and swore and
laughed in a most disconcerting manner.

'Hello!' shouted Nixon as he caught sight of Graeme.  'Here you
are!' passing him a bottle.  'You're a knocker, a double-handed
front door knocker.  You polished off old whisky-soak here, old
demijohn,' pointing to Slavin, 'and I'll lay five to one we can
lick any blankety blank thieves in the crowd,' and he held up a
roll of bills.

But Graeme proposed that he should give the hornpipe again, and the
floor was cleared at once, for Nixon's hornpipe was very popular,
and tonight, of course, was in high favour.  In the midst of his
dance Nixon stopped short, his arms dropped to his side, his face
had a look of fear, of horror.

There, before him, in his riding-cloak and boots, with his whip in
his hand as he had come from his ride, stood Mr. Craig.  His face
was pallid, and his dark eyes were blazing with fierce light.  As
Nixon stopped, Craig stepped forward to him, and sweeping his eyes
round upon the circle he said in tones intense with scorn--

'You cowards!  You get a man where he's weak!  Cowards! you'd damn
his soul for his money!'

There was dead silence, and Craig, lifting his hat, said solemnly--

'May God forgive you this night's work!'

Then, turning to Nixon, and throwing his arm over his shoulder, he
said in a voice broken and husky--

'Come on, Nixon! we'll go!'

Idaho made a motion as if to stop him, but Graeme stepped quickly
foreword and said sharply, 'Make way there, can't you?' and the
crowd fell back and we four passed through, Nixon walking as in a
dream, with Craig's arm about him.  Down the street we went in
silence, and on to Craig's shack, where we found old man Nelson,
with the fire blazing, and strong coffee steaming on the stove.  It
was he that had told Craig, on his arrival from the Landing, of
Nixon's fall.

There was nothing of reproach, but only gentlest pity, in tone and
touch as Craig placed the half-drunk, dazed man in his easy-chair,
took off his boots, brought him his own slippers, and gave him
coffee.  Then, as his stupor began to overcome him, Craig put him
in his own bed, and came forth with a face written over with grief.

'Don't mind, old chap,' said Graeme kindly.

But Craig looked at him without a word, and, throwing himself into
a chair, put his face in his hands.  As we sat there in silence the
door was suddenly pushed open and in walked Abe Baker with the
words, 'Where is Nixon?' and we told him where he was.  We were
still talking when again a tap came to the door, and Shaw came in
looking much disturbed.

'Did you hear about Nixon?' he asked.  We told him what we knew.

'But did you hear how they got him?' he asked, excitedly.

As he told us the tale, the men stood listening, with faces growing
hard.

It appeared that after the making of the League the Black Rock
Hotel man had bet Idaho one hundred to fifty that Nixon could not
be got to drink before Easter.  All Idaho's schemes had failed, and
now he had only three days in which to win his money, and the ball
was his last chance.  Here again he was balked, for Nixon,
resisting all entreaties, barred his shack door and went to bed
before nightfall, according to his invariable custom on pay-days.
At midnight some of Idaho's men came battering at the door for
admission, which Nixon reluctantly granted.  For half an hour they
used every art of persuasion to induce him to go down to the ball,
the glorious success of which was glowingly depicted; but Nixon
remained immovable, and they took their departure, baffled and
cursing.  In two hours they returned drunk enough to be dangerous,
kicked at the door in vain, finally gained entrance through the
window, hauled Nixon out of bed, and, holding a glass of whisky to
his lips, bade him drink.  But he knocked the glass sway, spilling
the liquor over himself and the bed.

It was drink or fight, and Nixon was ready to fight; but after
parley they had a drink all round, and fell to persuasion again.
The night was cold, and poor Nixon sat shivering on the edge of his
bed.  If he would take one drink they would leave him alone.  He
need not show himself so stiff.  The whisky fumes filled his
nostrils.  If one drink would get them off, surely that was better
than fighting and killing some one or getting killed.  He
hesitated, yielded, drank his glass.  They sat about him amiably
drinking, and lauding him as a fine fellow after all.  One more
glass before they left.  Then Nixon rose, dressed himself, drank
all that was left of the bottle, put his money in his pocket, and
came down to the dance, wild with his old-time madness, reckless of
faith and pledge, forgetful of home, wife, babies, his whole being
absorbed in one great passion--to drink and drink and drink till he
could drink no more.

Before Shaw had finished his tale, Craig's eyes were streaming with
tears, and groans of rage and pity broke alternately from him.  Abe
remained speechless for a time, not trusting himself; but as he
heard Craig groan, 'Oh, the beasts! the fiends!' he seemed
encouraged to let himself loose, and he began swearing with the
coolest and most blood-curdling deliberation.  Craig listened with
evident approval, apparently finding complete satisfaction in Abe's
performance, when suddenly he seemed to waken up, caught Abe by the
arm, and said in a horror-stricken voice--

'Stop! stop!  God forgive us! we must not swear like this.'

Abe stopped at once, and in a surprised and slightly grieved voice
said--

'Why! what's the matter with that?  Ain't that what you wanted?'

'Yes! yes!  God forgive me!  I am afraid it was,' he answered
hurriedly; 'but I must not.'

'Oh, don't you worry,' went on Abe cheerfully; 'I'll look after
that part; and anyway, ain't they the blankest blankety blank'--
going off again into a roll of curses, till Craig, in an agony of
entreaty, succeeded in arresting the flow of profanity possible to
no one but a mountain stage-driver.  Abe paused looking hurt, and
asked if they did not deserve everything he was calling down upon
them.

'Yes, yes,' urged Craig; 'but that is not our business.'

'Well! so I reckoned,' replied Abe, recognising the limitations of
the cloth; 'you ain't used to it, and you can't be expected to do
it; but it just makes me feel good--let out o' school like--to
properly do 'em up, the blank, blank,' and off he went again.  It
was only under the pressure of Mr. Craig's prayers and commands
that he finally agreed 'to hold in, though it was tough.'

'What's to be done?' asked Shaw.

'Nothing,' answered Craig bitterly.  He was exhausted with his long
ride from the Landing, and broken with bitter disappointment over
the ruin of all that he had laboured so long to accomplish.

'Nonsense,' said Graeme; 'there's a good deal to do.'

It was agreed that Craig should remain with Nixon while the others
of us should gather up what fragments we could find of the broken
League.  We had just opened the door, when we met a man striding up
at a great pace.  It was Geordie Crawford.

'Hae ye seen the lad?' was his salutation.  No one replied.  So I
told Geordie of my last sight of Billy in the orchestra.

'An' did ye no' gang aifter him?' he asked in indignant surprise,
adding with some contempt, 'Man! but ye're a feckless buddie.'

'Billy gone too!' said Shaw.  'They might have let Billy alone.'

Poor Craig stood in a dumb agony.  Billy's fall seemed more than he
could bear.  We went out, leaving him heart-broken amid the ruins
of his League.


CHAPTER IX

THE LEAGUE'S REVENGE


As we stood outside of Craig's shack in the dim starlight, we could
not hide from ourselves that we were beaten.  It was not so much
grief as a blind fury that filled my heart, and looking at the
faces of the men about me I read the same feeling there.  But what
could we do?  The yells of carousing miners down at Slavin's told
us that nothing could be done with them that night.  To be so
utterly beaten, and unfairly, and with no chance of revenge, was
maddening.

'I'd like to get back at 'em,' said Abe, carefully repressing
himself.

'I've got it, men,' said Graeme suddenly.  'This town does not
require all the whisky there is in it'; and he unfolded his plan.
It was to gain possession of Slavin's saloon and the bar of the
Black Rock Hotel, and clear out all the liquor to be found in both
these places.  I did not much like the idea; and Geordie said, 'I'm
ga'en aifter the lad; I'll hae naethin' tae dae wi' yon.  It's' no'
that easy, an' it's a sinfu' waste.'

But Abe was wild to try it, and Shaw was quite willing, while old
Nelson sternly approved.

'Nelson, you and Shaw get a couple of our men and attend to the
saloon.  Slavin and the whole gang are up at the Black Rock, so you
won't have much trouble; but come to us as soon as you can.'

And so we went our ways.

Then followed a scene the like of which I can never hope to see
again, and it was worth a man's seeing.  But there were times that
night when I wished I had not agreed to follow Graeme in his plot.
As we went up to the hotel, I asked Graeme, 'What about the law of
this?'

'Law!' he replied indignantly.  'They haven't troubled much about
law in the whisky business here.  They get a keg of high wines and
some drugs and begin operations.  No!' he went on; 'if we can get
the crowd out, and ourselves in, we'll make them break the law in
getting us out.  The law won't trouble us over smuggled whisky.
It will be a great lark, and they won't crow too loud over the
League.'

I did not like the undertaking at first; but as I thought of the
whole wretched illegal business flourishing upon the weakness of
the men in the mines and camps, whom I had learned to regard as
brothers, and especially as I thought of the cowards that did for
Nixon, I let my scruples go, and determined, with Abe, 'to get back
at 'em.'

We had no difficulty getting them out.  Abe began to yell.  Some
men rushed out to learn the cause.  He seized the foremost man,
making a hideous uproar all the while, and in three minutes had
every man out of the hotel and a lively row going on.

In two minutes more Graeme and I had the door to the ball-room
locked and barricaded with empty casks.  We then closed the door of
the bar-room leading to the outside.  The bar-room was a strongly
built log-shack, with a heavy door secured, after the manner of the
early cabins, with two strong oak bars, so that we felt safe from
attack from that quarter.

The ball-room we could not hold long, for the door was slight and
entrance was possible through the windows.  But as only a few casks
of liquor were left there, our main work would be in the bar, so
that the fight would be to hold the passage-way.  This we
barricaded with casks and tables.  But by this time the crowd had
begun to realise what had happened, and were wildly yelling at door
and windows.  With an axe which Graeme had brought with him the
casks were soon stove in, and left to empty themselves.

As I was about to empty the last cask, Graeme stopped me, saying,
'Let that stand here.  It will help us.'  And so it did.  'Now skip
for the barricade,' yelled Graeme, as a man came crashing through
the window.  Before he could regain his feet, however, Graeme had
seized him and flung him out upon the heads of the crowd outside.
But through the other windows men were coming in, and Graeme rushed
for the barricade, followed by two of the enemy, the foremost of
whom I received at the top and hurled back upon the others.

'Now, be quick!' said Graeme; 'I'll hold this.  Don't break any
bottles on the floor--throw them out there,' pointing to a little
window high up in the wall.

I made all haste.  The casks did not take much time, and soon the
whisky and beer were flowing over the floor.  It made me think of
Geordie's regret over the 'sinfu' waste.'  The bottles took longer,
and glancing up now and then I saw that Graeme was being hard
pressed.  Men would leap, two and three at a time, upon the
barricade, and Graeme's arms would shoot out, and over they would
topple upon the heads of those nearest.  It was a great sight to
see him standing alone with a smile on his face and the light of
battle in his eye, coolly meeting his assailants with those
terrific, lightning-like blows.  In fifteen minutes my work was
done.

'What next?' I asked.  'How do we get out?'

'How is the door?' he replied.

I looked through the port-hole and said, 'A crowd of men waiting.'

'We'll have to make a dash for it, I fancy,' he replied cheerfully,
though his face was covered with blood and his breath was coming in
short gasps.

'Get down the bars and be ready.'  But even as he spoke a chair
hurled from below caught him on the arm, and before he could
recover, a man had cleared the barricade and was upon him like a
tiger.  It was Idaho Jack.

'Hold the barricade,' Graeme called out, as they both went down.

I sprang to his place, but I had not much hope of holding it long.
I had the heavy oak bar of the door in my hands, and swinging it
round my head I made the crowd give back for a few moments.

Meantime Graeme had shaken off his enemy, who was circling about
him upon his tip-toes, with a long knife in his hand, waiting for a
chance to spring.

'I have been waiting for this for some time, Mr. Graeme,' he said
smiling.

'Yes,' replied Graeme, 'ever since I spoiled your cut-throat game
in 'Frisco.  How is the little one?' he added sarcastically.

Idaho's face lost its smile and became distorted with fury as he
replied, spitting out his words, 'She--is--where you will be before
I am done with you.'

'Ah! you murdered her too!  You'll hang some beautiful day, Idaho,'
said Graeme, as Idaho sprang upon him.

Graeme dodged his blow and caught his forearm with his left hand
and held up high the murderous knife.  Back and forward they swayed
over the floor, slippery with whisky, the knife held high in the
air.  I wondered why Graeme did not strike, and then I saw his
right hand hung limp from the wrist.  The men were crowding upon
the barricade.  I was in despair.  Graeme's strength was going
fast.  With a yell of exultant fury Idaho threw himself with all
his weight upon Graeme, who could only cling to him.  They swayed
together towards me, but as they fell I brought down my bar upon
the upraised hand and sent the knife flying across the room.
Idaho's howl of rage and pain was mingled with a shout from below,
and there, dashing the crowd right and left, came old Nelson,
followed by Abe, Sandy, Baptiste, Shaw, and others.  As they
reached the barricade it crashed down and, carrying me with it,
pinned me fast.

Looking out between the barrels, I saw what froze my heart with
horror.  In the fall Graeme had wound his arms about his enemy and
held him in a grip so deadly that he could not strike; but Graeme's
strength was failing, and when I looked I saw that Idaho was slowly
dragging both across the slippery floor to where the knife lay.
Nearer and nearer his outstretched fingers came to the knife.  In
vain I yelled and struggled.  My voice was lost in the awful din,
and the barricade held me fast.  Above me, standing on a barrel-
head, was Baptiste, yelling like a demon.  In vain I called to him.
My fingers could just reach his foot, and he heeded not at all my
touch.  Slowly Idaho was dragging his almost unconscious victim
toward the knife.  His fingers were touching the blade point, when,
under a sudden inspiration, I pulled out my penknife, opened it
with my teeth, and drove the blade into Baptiste's foot.  With a
blood-curdling yell he sprang down and began dancing round in his
rage, peering among the barrels.

'Look! look!' I was calling in agony, and pointing; 'for heaven's
sake, look! Baptiste!'

The fingers had closed upon the knife, the knife was already high
in the air, when, with a shriek, Baptiste cleared the room at a
bound, and, before the knife could fall, the little Frenchman's
boot had caught the uplifted wrist, and sent the knife flying to
the wall.

Then there was a great rushing sound as of wind through the forest,
and the lights went out.  When I awoke, I found myself lying with
my head on Graeme's knees, and Baptiste sprinkling snow on my face.
As I looked up Graeme leaned over me, and, smiling down into my
eyes, he said--

'Good boy!  It was a great fight, and we put it up well'; and then
he whispered, 'I owe you my life, my boy.'

His words thrilled my heart through and through, for I loved him as
only men can love men; but I only answered--

'I could not keep them back.'

'It was well done,' he said; and I felt proud.  I confess I was
thankful to be so well out of it, for Graeme got off with a bone in
his wrist broken, and I with a couple of ribs cracked; but had it
not been for the open barrel of whisky which kept them occupied for
a time, offering too good a chance to be lost, and for the timely
arrival of Nelson, neither of us had ever seen the light again.

We found Craig sound asleep upon his couch.  His consternation on
waking to see us torn, bruised, and bloody was laughable; but he
hastened to find us warm water and bandages, and we soon felt
comfortable.

Baptiste was radiant with pride and light over the fight, and
hovered about Graeme and me giving vent to his feelings in admiring
French and English expletives.  But Abe was disgusted because of
the failure at Slavin's; for when Nelson looked in, he saw Slavin's
French-Canadian wife in charge, with her baby on her lap, and he
came back to Shaw and said, 'Come away, we can't touch this'; and
Shaw, after looking in, agreed that nothing could be done.  A baby
held the fort.

As Craig listened to the account of the fight, he tried hard not to
approve, but he could not keep the gleam out of his eyes; and as I
pictured Graeme dashing back the crowd thronging the barricade till
he was brought down by the chair, Craig laughed gently, and put his
hand on Graeme's knee.  And as I went on to describe my agony while
Idaho's fingers were gradually nearing the knife, his face grew
pale and his eyes grew wide with horror.

'Baptiste here did the business,' I said, and the little Frenchman
nodded complacently and said--

'Dat's me for sure.'

'By the way, how is your foot?' asked Graeme.

'He's fuss-rate.  Dat's what you call--one bite of--of--dat leel
bees, he's dere, you put your finger dere, he's not dere!--what you
call him?'

'Flea!' I suggested.

'Oui!' cried Baptiste.  'Dat's one bite of flea.'

'I was thankful I was under the barrels,' I replied, smiling.

'Oui!  Dat's mak' me ver mad.  I jump an' swear mos' awful bad.
Dat's pardon me, M'sieu Craig, heh?'

But Craig only smiled at him rather sadly.  'It was awfully risky,'
he said to Graeme, 'and it was hardly worth it.  They'll get more
whisky, and anyway the League is gone.'

'Well,' said Graeme with a sigh of satisfaction, 'it is not quite
such a one-sided affair as it was.'

And we could say nothing in reply, for we could hear Nixon snoring
in the next room, and no one had heard of Billy, and there were
others of the League that we knew were even now down at Slavin's.
It was thought best that all should remain in Mr. Craig's shack, not
knowing what might happen; and so we lay where we could and we
needed none to sing us to sleep.

When I awoke, stiff and sore, it was to find breakfast ready and
old man Nelson in charge.  As we were seated, Craig came in, and I
saw that he was not the man of the night before.  His courage had
come back, his face was quiet and his eye clear; he was his own man
again.

'Geordie has been out all night, but has failed to find Billy,' he
announced quietly.

We did not talk much; Graeme and I worried with our broken bones,
and the others suffered from a general morning depression.  But,
after breakfast, as the men were beginning to move, Craig took down
his Bible, and saying--

'Wait a few minutes, men!' he read slowly, in his beautiful clear
voice, that psalm for all fighters--


    'God is our refuge and strength,'


and soon to the noble words--


    'The Lord of Hosts is with us;
     The God of Jacob is our refuge.'


How the mighty words pulled us together, lifted us till we grew
ashamed of our ignoble rage and of our ignoble depression!

And then Craig prayed in simple, straight-going words.  There was
acknowledgement of failure, but I knew he was thinking chiefly of
himself; and there was gratitude, and that was for the men about
him, and I felt my face burn with shame; and there was petition for
help, and we all thought of Nixon, and Billy, and the men wakening
from their debauch at Slavin's this pure, bright morning.  And then
he asked that we might be made faithful and worthy of God, whose
battle it was.  Then we all stood up and shook hands with him in
silence, and every man knew a covenant was being made.  But none
saw his meeting with Nixon.  He sent us all away before that.

Nothing was heard of the destruction of the hotel stock-in-trade.
Unpleasant questions would certainly be asked, and the proprietor
decided to let bad alone.  On the point of respectability the
success of the ball was not conspicuous, but the anti-League men
were content, if not jubilant.

Billy Breen was found by Geordie late in the afternoon in his own
old and deserted shack, breathing heavily, covered up in his
filthy, mouldering bed-clothes, with a half-empty bottle of whisky
at his side.  Geordie's grief and rage were beyond even his Scotch
control.  He spoke few words, but these were of such concentrated
vehemence that no one felt the need of Abe's assistance in
vocabulary.

Poor Billy!  We carried him to Mrs. Mavor's home; put him in a warm
bath, rolled him in blankets, and gave him little sips of hot
water, then of hot milk and coffee; as I had seen a clever doctor
in the hospital treat a similar case of nerve and heart depression.
But the already weakened system could not recover from the awful
shock of the exposure following the debauch; and on Sunday
afternoon we saw that his heart was failing fast.  All day the
miners had been dropping in to inquire after him, for Billy had
been a great favourite in other days, and the attention of the town
had been admiringly centred upon his fight of these last weeks.  It
was with no ordinary sorrow that the news of his condition was
received.  As Mrs. Mavor sang to him, his large coarse hands moved
in time to the music, but he did not open his eyes till he heard
Mr. Craig's voice in the next room; then he spoke his name, and Mr.
Craig was kneeling beside him in a moment.  The words came slowly--

'Oi tried--to fight it hout--but---oi got beaten.  Hit 'urts to
think 'E's hashamed o' me.  Oi'd like t'a done better--oi would.'

'Ashamed of you, Billy!' said Craig, in a voice that broke.  'Not
He.'

'An'--ye hall--'elped me so!' he went on.  'Oi wish oi'd 'a done
better--oi do,' and his eyes sought Geordie, and then rested on
Mrs. Mavor, who smiled back at him with a world of love in her
eyes.

'You hain't hashamed o' me--yore heyes saigh so,' he said looking
at her.

'No, Billy,' she said, and I wondered at her steady voice, 'not a
bit.  Why, Billy, I am proud of you.'

He gazed up at her with wonder and ineffable love in his little
eyes, then lifted his hand slightly toward her.  She knelt quickly
and took it in both of hers, stroking it and kissing it.

'Oi haught t'a done better.  Oi'm hawful sorry oi went back on 'Im.
Hit was the lemonaide.  The boys didn't mean no 'arm--but hit
started the 'ell hinside.'

Geordie hurled out some bitter words.

'Don't be 'ard on 'em, Geordie; they didn't mean no 'arm,' he said,
and his eyes kept waiting till Geordie said hurriedly--

'Na! na! lad--a'll juist leave them till the Almichty.'

Then Mrs. Mavor sang softly, smoothing his hand, 'Just as I am,'
and Billy dozed quietly for half an hour.

When he awoke again his eyes turned to Mr. Craig, and they were
troubled and anxious.

'Oi tried 'ard.  Oi wanted to win,' he struggled to say.  By this
time Craig was master of himself, and he answered in a clear,
distinct voice--

'Listen, Billy!  You made a great fight, and you are going to win
yet.  And besides, do you remember the sheep that got lost over the
mountains?'--this parable was Billy's special delight--'He didn't
beat it when He got it, did he?  He took it in His arms and carried
it home.  And so He will you.'

And Billy, keeping his eyes fastened on Mr. Craig, simply said--

'Will 'E?'

'Sure!' said Craig.

'Will 'E?' he repeated, turning his eyes upon Mrs. Mavor.

'Why, yes, Billy,' she answered cheerily, though the tears were
streaming from her eyes.  'I would, and He loves you far more.'

He looked at her, smiled, and closed his eyes.  I put my hand on
his heart; it was fluttering feebly.  Again a troubled look passed
over his face.

'My--poor--hold--mother,' he whispered, 'she's--hin--the--wukus.'

'I shall take care of her, Billy,' said Mrs. Mavor, in a clear
voice, and again Billy smiled.  Then he turned his eyes to Mr.
Craig, and from him to Geordie, and at last to Mrs. Mavor, where
they rested.  She bent over and kissed him twice on the forehead.

'Tell 'er,' he said, with difficulty, "E's took me 'ome.'

'Yes, Billy!' she cried, gazing into his glazing eyes.  He tried to
lift her hand.  She kissed him again.  He drew one deep breath and
lay quite still.

'Thank the blessed Saviour!' said Mr. Craig, reverently.  'He has
taken him home.'

But Mrs. Mavor held the dead hand tight and sobbed out passionately,
'Oh, Billy, Billy! you helped me once when I needed help!  I cannot
forget!'

And Geordie, groaning, 'Ay, laddie, laddie,' passed out into the
fading light of the early evening.

Next day no one went to work, for to all it seemed a sacred day.
They carried him into the little church, and there Mr. Craig spoke
of his long, hard fight, and of his final victory; for he died
without a fear, and with love to the men who, not knowing, had been
his death.  And there was no bitterness in any heart, for Mr. Craig
read the story of the sheep, and told how gently He had taken Billy
home; but, though no word was spoken, it was there the League was
made again.

They laid him under the pines, beside Lewis Mavor; and the miners
threw sprigs of evergreen into the open grave.  When Slavin,
sobbing bitterly, brought his sprig, no one stopped him, though all
thought it strange.

As we turned to leave the grave, the light from the evening sun
came softly through the gap in the mountains, and, filling the
valley, touched the trees and the little mound beneath with glory.
And I thought of that other glory, which is brighter than the sun,
and was not sorry that poor Billy's weary fight was over; and I
could not help agreeing with Craig that it was there the League had
its revenge.


CHAPTER X

WHAT CAME TO SLAVIN


Billy Breen's legacy to the Black Rock mining camp was a new
League, which was more than the old League re-made.  The League was
new in its spirit and in its methods.  The impression made upon the
camp by Billy Breen's death was very remarkable, and I have never
been quite able to account for it.  The mood of the community at
the time was peculiarly susceptible.  Billy was one of the oldest
of the old-timers.  His decline and fall had been a long process,
and his struggle for life and manhood was striking enough to arrest
the attention and awaken the sympathy of the whole camp.  We
instinctively side with a man in his struggle for freedom; for we
feel that freedom is native to him and to us.  The sudden collapse
of the struggle stirred the men with a deep pity for the beaten
man, and a deep contempt for those who had tricked him to his doom.
But though the pity and the contempt remained, the gloom was
relieved and the sense of defeat removed from the men's minds by
the transforming glory of Billy's last hour.  Mr. Craig, reading of
the tragedy of Billy's death, transfigured defeat into victory, and
this was generally accepted by the men as the true reading, though
to them it was full of mystery.  But they could all understand and
appreciate at full value the spirit that breathed through the words
of the dying man: 'Don't be 'ard on 'em, they didn't mean no 'arm.'
And this was the new spirit of the League.

It was this spirit that surprised Slavin into sudden tears at the
grave's side.  He had come braced for curses and vengeance, for all
knew it was he who had doctored Billy's lemonade, and instead of
vengeance the message from the dead that echoed through the voice
of the living was one of pity and forgiveness.

But the days of the League's negative, defensive warfare were over.
The fight was to the death, and now the war was to be carried into
the enemy's country.  The League men proposed a thoroughly equipped
and well-conducted coffee-room, reading-room, and hall, to parallel
the enemy's lines of operation, and defeat them with their own
weapons upon their own ground.  The main outlines of the scheme
were clearly defined and were easily seen, but the perfecting of
the details called for all Craig's tact and good sense.  When, for
instance, Vernon Winton, who had charge of the entertainment
department, came for Craig's opinion as to a minstrel troupe and
private theatricals, Craig was prompt with his answer--

'Anything clean goes.'

'A nigger show?' asked Winton.

'Depends upon the niggers,' replied Craig with a gravely comic
look, shrewdly adding, 'ask Mrs. Mavor'; and so the League Minstrel
and Dramatic Company became an established fact, and proved, as
Craig afterwards told me, 'a great means of grace to the camp.'

Shaw had charge of the social department, whose special care it was
to see that the men were made welcome to the cosy, cheerful reading
room, where they might chat, smoke, read, write, or play games,
according to fancy.

But Craig felt that the success or failure of the scheme would
largely depend upon the character of the Resident Manager, who,
while caring for reading-room and hall, would control and operate
the important department represented by the coffee-room.

'At this point the whole business may come to grief,' he said to
Mrs. Mavor, without whose counsel nothing was done.

'Why come to grief?' she asked brightly.

'Because if we don't get the right man, that's what will happen,'
he replied in a tone that spoke of anxious worry.

'But we shall get the right man, never fear.'  Her serene courage
never faltered.  'He will come to us.'

Craig turned and gazed at her in frank admiration and said--

'If I only had your courage!'

'Courage!' she answered quickly.  'It is not for you to say that';
and at his answering look the red came into her cheek and the
depths in her eyes glowed, and I marvelled and wondered, looking at
Craig's cool face, whether his blood were running evenly through
his veins.  But his voice was quiet, a shade too quiet I thought,
as he gravely replied--

'I would often be a coward but for the shame of it.'

And so the League waited for the man to come, who was to be
Resident Manager and make the new enterprise a success.  And come
he did; but the manner of his coming was so extraordinary, that I
have believed in the doctrine of a special providence ever since;
for as Craig said, 'If he had come straight from Heaven I could not
have been more surprised.'

While the League was thus waiting, its interest centred upon
Slavin, chiefly because he represented more than any other the
forces of the enemy; and though Billy Breen stood between him and
the vengeance of the angry men who would have made short work of
him and his saloon, nothing could save him from himself, and after
the funeral Slavin went to his bar and drank whisky as he had never
drunk before.  But the more he drank the fiercer and gloomier he
became, and when the men drinking with him chaffed him, he swore
deeply and with such threats that they left him alone.

It did not help Slavin either to have Nixon stride in through the
crowd drinking at his bar and give him words of warning.

'It is not your fault, Slavin,' he said in slow, cool voice, 'that
you and your precious crew didn't sent me to my death, too.  You've
won your bet, but I want to say, that next time, though you are
seven to one, or ten times that, when any of you boys offer me a
drink I'll take you to mean fight, and I'll not disappoint you, and
some one will be killed,' and so saying he strode out again,
leaving a mean-looking crowd of men behind him.  All who had not
been concerned in the business at Nixon's shack expressed approval
of his position, and hoped he would 'see it through.'

But the impression of Nixon's words upon Slavin was as nothing
compared with that made by Geordie Crawford.  It was not what he
said so much as the manner of awful solemnity he carried.  Geordie
was struggling conscientiously to keep his promise to 'not be 'ard
on the boys,' and found considerable relief in remembering that he
had agreed 'to leave them tae the Almichty.'  But the manner of
leaving them was so solemnly awful, that I could not wonder that
Slavin's superstitious Irish nature supplied him with supernatural
terrors.  It was the second day after the funeral that Geordie and
I were walking towards Slavin's.  There was a great shout of
laughter as we drew near.

Geordie stopped short, and saying, 'We'll juist gang in a meenute,'
passed through the crowd and up to the bar.

'Michael Slavin,' began Geordie, and the men stared in dead,
silence, with their glasses in their hands.  'Michael Slavin, a'
promised the lad a'd bear ye nae ill wull, but juist leave ye tae
the Almichty; an' I want tae tell ye that a'm keepin' ma wur-r-d.
But'--and here he raised his hand, and his voice became
preternaturally solemn--'his bluid is upon yer han's.  Do ye no'
see it?'

His voice rose sharply, and as he pointed, Slavin instinctively
glanced at his hands, and Geordie added--

'Ay, and the Lord will require it o' you and yer hoose.'

They told me that Slavin shivered as if taken with ague after
Geordie went out, and though he laughed and swore, he did not stop
drinking till he sank into a drunken stupor and had to be carried
to bed.  His little French-Canadian wife could not understand the
change that had come over her husband.

'He's like one bear,' she confided to Mrs. Mavor, to whom she was
showing her baby of a year old.  'He's not kees me one tam dis day.
He's mos hawful bad, he's not even look at de baby.'  And this
seemed sufficient proof that something was seriously wrong; for she
went on to say--

'He's tink more for dat leel baby dan for de whole worl'; he's tink
more for dat baby dan for me,' but she shrugged her pretty little
shoulders in deprecation of her speech.

'You must pray for him,' said Mrs. Mavor, 'and all will come
right.'

'Ah! madame!' she replied earnestly, 'every day, every day, I pray
la sainte Vierge et tous les saints for him.'

'You must pray to your Father in heaven for him.'

'Ah! oui! I weel pray,' and Mrs. Mavor sent her away bright with
smiles, and with new hope and courage in her heart.

She had very soon need of all her courage, for at the week's end
her baby fell dangerously ill.  Slavin's anxiety and fear were not
relieved much by the reports the men brought him from time to time
of Geordie's ominous forebodings; for Geordie had no doubt but that
the Avenger of Blood was hot upon Slavin's trail; and as the
sickness grew, he became confirmed in this conviction.  While he
could not be said to find satisfaction in Slavin's impending
affliction, he could hardly hide his complacency in the promptness
of Providence in vindicating his theory of retribution.

But Geordie's complacency was somewhat rudely shocked by Mr.
Craig's answer to his theory one day.

'You read your Bible to little profit, it seems to me, Geordie: or,
perhaps, you have never read the Master's teaching about the Tower
of Siloam.  Better read that and take that warning to yourself.'

Geordie gazed after Mr. Craig as he turned away, and muttered--

'The toor o' Siloam, is it?  Ay, a' ken fine aboot the toor o'
Siloam, and aboot the toor o' Babel as weel; an' a've read, too,
about the blaspheemious Herod, an' sic like.  Man, but he's a hot-
heided laddie, and lacks discreemeenation.'

'What about Herod, Geordie?' I asked.

'Aboot Herod?'--with a strong tinge of contempt in his tone.
'Aboot Herod?  Man, hae ye no' read in the Screepturs aboot Herod
an' the wur-r-ms in the wame o' him?'

'Oh yes, I see,' I hastened to answer.

'Ay, a fule can see what's flapped in his face,' with which bit of
proverbial philosophy he suddenly left me.  But Geordie thenceforth
contented himself, in Mr. Craig's presence at least, with ominous
head-shakings, equally aggravating, and impossible to answer.

That same night, however, Geordie showed that with all his theories
he had a man's true heart, for he came in haste to Mrs. Mavor to
say:

'Ye'll be needed ower yonder, a'm thinkin'.'

'Why?  Is the baby worse?  Have you been in?'

'Na, na,' replied Geordie cautiously, 'a'll no gang where a'm no
wanted.  But yon puir thing, ye can hear ootside weepin' and
moanin'.'

'She'll maybe need ye tae,' he went on dubiously to me.  'Ye're a
kind o' doctor, a' hear,' not committing himself to any opinion as
to my professional value.  But Slavin would have none of me, having
got the doctor sober enough to prescribe.

The interest of the camp in Slavin was greatly increased by the
illness of his baby, which was to him as the apple of his eye.
There were a few who, impressed by Geordie's profound convictions
upon the matter, were inclined to favour the retribution theory,
and connect the baby's illness with the vengeance of the Almighty.
Among these few was Slavin himself, and goaded by his remorseful
terrors he sought relief in drink.  But this brought him only
deeper and fiercer gloom; so that between her suffering child and
her savagely despairing husband, the poor mother was desperate with
terror and grief.

'Ah! madame,' she sobbed to Mrs. Mavor, 'my heart is broke for him.
He's heet noting for tree days, but jis dreenk, dreenk, dreenk.'

The next day a man came for me in haste.  The baby was dying and
the doctor was drunk.  I found the little one in a convulsion lying
across Mrs. Mavor's knees, the mother kneeling beside it, wringing
her hands in a dumb agony, and Slavin standing near, silent and
suffering.  I glanced at the bottle of medicine upon the table and
asked Mrs. Mavor the dose, and found the baby had been poisoned.
My look of horror told Slavin something was wrong, and striding to
me he caught my arm and asked--

'What is it?  Is the medicine wrong?'

I tried to put him off, but his grip tightened till his fingers
seemed to reach the bone.

'The dose is certainly too large; but let me go, I must do
something.'

He let me go at once, saying in a voice that made my heart sore for
him, 'He has killed my baby; he has killed my baby.'  And then he
cursed the doctor with awful curses, and with a look of such
murderous fury on his face that I was glad the doctor was too drunk
to appear.

His wife hearing his curses, and understanding the cause, broke out
into wailing hard to bear.

'Ah! mon petit ange!  It is dat wheeskey dat's keel mon baby.  Ah!
mon cheri, mon amour.  Ah! mon Dieu!  Ah, Michael, how often I say
that wheeskey he's not good ting.'

It was more than Slavin could bear, and with awful curses he passed
out.  Mrs. Mavor laid the baby in its crib, for the convulsion had
passed away; and putting her arms about the wailing little
Frenchwoman, comforted and soothed her as a mother might her
child.

'And you must help your husband,' I heard her say.  'He will need
you more than ever.  Think of him.'

'Ah oui! I weel,' was the quick reply, and from that moment there
was no more wailing.

It seemed no more than a minute till Slavin came in again, sober,
quiet, and steady; the passion was all gone from his face, and only
the grief remained.

As we stood leaning over the sleeping child the little thing opened
its eyes, saw its father, and smiled.  It was too much for him.
The big man dropped on his knees with a dry sob.

'Is there no chance at all, at all?' he whispered, but I could give
him no hope.  He immediately rose, and pulling himself together,
stood perfectly quiet.

A new terror seized upon the mother.

'My baby is not--what you call it?' going through the form of
baptism.  'An' he will not come to la sainte Vierge,' she said,
crossing herself.

'Do not fear for your little one,' said Mrs. Mavor, still with her
arms about her.  'The good Saviour will take your darling into His
own arms.'

But the mother would not be comforted by this.  And Slavin too, was
uneasy.

'Where is Father Goulet?' he asked.

'Ah! you were not good to the holy pere de las tam, Michael,' she
replied sadly.  'The saints are not please for you.'

'Where is the priest?' he demanded.

'I know not for sure.  At de Landin', dat's lak.'

'I'll go for him,' he said.  But his wife clung to him, beseeching
him not to leave her, and indeed he was loth to leave his little
one.

I found Craig and told him the difficulty.  With his usual
promptness, he was ready with a solution.

'Nixon has a team.  He will go.'  Then he added, 'I wonder if they
would not like me to baptize their little one.  Father Goulet and I
have exchanged offices before now.  I remember how he came to one
of my people in my absence, when she was dying, read with her,
prayed with her, comforted her, and helped her across the river.
He is a good soul, and has no nonsense about him.  Send for me if
you think there is need.  It will make no difference to the baby,
but it will comfort the mother.'

Nixon was willing enough to go; but when he came to the door Mrs.
Mavor saw the hard look in his face.  He had not forgotten his
wrong, for day by day he was still fighting the devil within that
Slavin had called to life.  But Mrs. Mavor, under cover of getting
him instructions, drew him into the room.  While listening to her,
his eyes wandered from one to the other of the group till they
rested upon the little white face in the crib.  She noticed the
change in his face.

'They fear the little one will never see the Saviour if it is not
baptized,' she said, in a low tone.

He was eager to go.

'I'll do my best to get the priest,' he said, and was gone on his
sixty miles' race with death.

The long afternoon wore on, but before it was half gone I saw Nixon
could not win, and that the priest would be too late, so I sent for
Mr. Craig.  From the moment he entered the room he took command of
us all.  He was so simple, so manly, so tender, the hearts of the
parents instinctively turned to him.

As he was about to proceed with the baptism, the mother whispered
to Mrs. Mavor, who hesitatingly asked Mr. Craig if he would object
to using holy water.

'To me it is the same as any other,' he replied gravely.

'An' will he make the good sign?' asked the mother timidly.

And so the child was baptized by the Presbyterian minister with
holy water and with the sign of the cross.  I don't suppose it was
orthodox, and it rendered chaotic some of my religious notions, but
I thought more of Craig that moment than ever before.  He was more
man than minister, or perhaps he was so good a minister that day
because so much a man.  As he read about the Saviour and the
children and the disciples who tried to get in between them, and as
he told us the story in his own simple and beautiful way, and then
went on to picture the home of the little children, and the same
Saviour in the midst of them, I felt my heart grow warm, and I
could easily understand the cry of the mother--

'Oh, mon Jesu, prenez moi aussi, take me wiz mon mignon.'

The cry wakened Slavin's heart, and he said huskily--

'Oh! Annette! Annette!'

'Ah, oui! an' Michael too!'  Then to Mr. Craig--

'You tink He's tak me some day?  Eh?'

'All who love Him,' he replied.

'An' Michael too?' she asked, her eyes searching his face, 'An'
Michael too?'

But Craig only replied: 'All who love Him.'

'Ah, Michael, you must pray le bon Jesu.  He's garde notre mignon.'
And then she bent over the babe, whispering--

'Ah, mon cheri, mon amour, adieu! adieu! mon ange!' till Slavin put
his arms about her and took her away, for as she was whispering her
farewells, her baby, with a little answering sigh, passed into the
House with many rooms.

'Whisht, Annette darlin'; don't cry for the baby,' said her
husband.  'Shure it's better off than the rest av us, it is.  An'
didn't ye hear what the minister said about the beautiful place it
is?  An' shure he wouldn't lie to us at all.'  But a mother cannot
be comforted for her first-born son.

An hour later Nixon brought Father Goulet.  He was a little
Frenchman with gentle manners and the face of a saint.  Craig
welcomed him warmly, and told him what he had done.

'That is good, my brother,' he said, with gentle courtesy, and,
turning to the mother, 'Your little one is safe.'

Behind Father Goulet came Nixon softly, and gazed down upon the
little quiet face, beautiful with the magic of death.  Slavin came
quietly and stood beside him.  Nixon turned and offered his hand.
But Slavin said, moving slowly back--

'I did ye a wrong, Nixon, an' it's a sorry man I am this day for
it.'

'Don't say a word, Slavin,' answered Nixon, hurriedly.  'I know how
you feel.  I've got a baby too.  I want to see it again.  That's
why the break hurt me so.'

'As God's above,' replied Slavin earnestly, 'I'll hinder ye no
more.'  They shook hands, and we passed out.

We laid the baby under the pines, not far from Billy Breen, and the
sweet spring wind blew through the Gap, and came softly down the
valley, whispering to the pines and the grass and the hiding
flowers of the New Life coming to the world.  And the mother must
have heard the whisper in her heart, for, as the Priest was saying
the words of the Service, she stood with Mrs. Mavor's arms about
her, and her eyes were looking far away beyond the purple mountain-
tops, seeing what made her smile.  And Slavin, too, looked
different.  His very features seemed finer.  The coarseness was
gone out of his face.  What had come to him I could not tell.

But when the doctor came into Slavin's house that night it was the
old Slavin I saw, but with a look of such deadly fury on his face
that I tried to get the doctor out at once.  But he was half drunk
and after his manner was hideously humorous.

'How do, ladies!  How do, gentlemen!' was his loud-voiced salutation.
'Quite a professional gathering, clergy predominating.  Lion and Lamb
too, ha! ha! which is the lamb, eh? ha! ha! very good! awfully sorry
to hear of your loss, Mrs. Slavin; did our best you know, can't help
this sort of thing.'

Before any one could move, Craig was at his side, and saying in a
clear, firm voice, 'One moment, doctor,' caught him by the arm and
had him out of the room before he knew it.  Slavin, who had been
crouching in his chair with hands twitching and eyes glaring, rose
and followed, still crouching as he walked.  I hurried after him,
calling him back.  Turning at my voice, the doctor saw Slavin
approaching.  There was something so terrifying in his swift
noiseless crouching motion, that the doctor, crying out in fear
'Keep him off,' fairly turned and fled.  He was too late.  Like a
tiger Slavin leaped upon him and without waiting to strike had him
by the throat with both hands, and bearing him to the ground,
worried him there as a dog might a cat.

Immediately Craig and I were upon him, but though we lifted him
clear off the ground we could not loosen that two-handed strangling
grip.  At we were struggling there a light hand touched my
shoulder.  It was Father Goulet.

'Please let him go, and stand away from us,' he said, waving us
back.  We obeyed.  He leaned over Slavin and spoke a few words to
him.  Slavin started as if struck a heavy blow, looked up at the
priest with fear in his face, but still keeping his grip.

'Let him go,' said the priest.  Slavin hesitated.  'Let him go!
quick!' said the priest again, and Slavin with a snarl let go his
hold and stood sullenly facing the priest.

Father Goulet regarded him steadily for some seconds and then
asked--

'What would you do?'  His voice was gentle enough, even sweet, but
there was something in it that chilled my marrow.  'What would you
do?' he repeated.

'He murdered my child,' growled Slavin.

'Ah! how?'

'He was drunk and poisoned him.'

'Ah! who gave him drink?  Who made him a drunkard two years ago?
Who has wrecked his life?'

There was no answer, and the even-toned voice went relentlessly on--

'Who is the murderer of your child now?'

Slavin groaned and shuddered.

'Go!' and the voice grew stern.  'Repent of your sin and add not
another.'

Slavin turned his eyes upon the motionless figure on the ground and
then upon the priest.  Father Goulet took one step towards him,
and, stretching out his hand and pointing with his finger, said--

'Go!'

And Slavin slowly backed away and went into his house.  It was an
extraordinary scene, and it is often with me now: the dark figure
on the ground, the slight erect form of the priest with
outstretched arm and finger, and Slavin backing away, fear and fury
struggling in his face.

It was a near thing for the doctor, however, and two minutes more
of that grip would have done for him.  As it was, we had the
greatest difficulty in reviving him.

What the priest did with Slavin after getting him inside I know
not; that has always been a mystery to me.  But when we were
passing the saloon that night after taking Mrs. Mavor home, we saw
a light and heard strange sounds within.  Entering, we found
another whisky raid in progress, Slavin himself being the raider.
We stood some moments watching him knocking in the heads of casks
and emptying bottles.  I thought he had gone mad, and approached
him cautiously.

'Hello, Slavin!' I called out; 'what does this mean?'

He paused in his strange work, and I saw that his face, though
resolute, was quiet enough.

'It means I'm done wid the business, I am,' he said, in a
determined voice.  'I'll help no more to kill any man, or,' in a
lower tone, 'any man's baby.'  The priest's words had struck home.

'Thank God, Slavin!' said Craig, offering his hand; 'you are much
too good a man for the business.'

'Good or bad, I'm done wid it,' he replied, going on with his work.

'You are throwing away good money, Slavin,' I said, as the head of
a cask crashed in.

'It's meself that knows it, for the price of whisky has riz in town
this week,' he answered, giving me a look out of the corner of his
eye.  'Bedad! it was a rare clever job,' referring to our Black
Rock Hotel affair.

'But won't you be sorry for this?' asked Craig.

'Beloike I will; an' that's why I'm doin' it before I'm sorry for
it,' he replied, with a delightful bull.

'Look here, Slavin,' said Craig earnestly; 'if I can be of use to
you in any way, count on me.'

'It's good to me the both of yez have been, an' I'll not forget it
to yez,' he replied, with like earnestness.

As we told Mrs. Mavor that night, for Craig thought it too good to
keep, her eyes seemed to grow deeper and the light in them to glow
more intense as she listened to Craig pouring out his tale.  Then
she gave him her hand and said--

'You have your man at last.'

'What man?'

'The man you have been waiting for.'

'Slavin!'

'Why not?'

'I never thought of it.'

'No more did he, nor any of us.'  Then, after a pause, she added
gently, 'He has been sent to us?'

'Do you know, I believe you are right,' Craig said slowly, and then
added, 'But you always are.'

'I fear not,' she answered; but I thought she liked to hear his
words.

The whole town was astounded next morning when Slavin went to work
in the mines, and its astonishment only deepened as the days went
on, and he stuck to his work.  Before three weeks had gone the
League had bought and remodelled the saloon and had secured Slavin
as Resident Manager.

The evening of the reopening of Slavin's saloon, as it was still
called, was long remembered in Black Rock.  It was the occasion of
the first appearance of 'The League Minstrel and Dramatic Troupe,'
in what was described as a 'hair-lifting tragedy with appropriate
musical selections.'  Then there was a grand supper and speeches
and great enthusiasm, which reached its climax when Nixon rose to
propose the toast of the evening--'Our Saloon.'  His speech was
simply a quiet, manly account of his long struggle with the deadly
enemy.  When he came to speak of his recent defeat he said--

'And while I am blaming no one but myself, I am glad to-night that
this saloon is on our side, for my own sake and for the sake of
those who have been waiting long to see me.  But before I sit down
I want to say that while I live I shall not forget that I owe my
life to the man that took me that night to his own shack and put me
in his own bed, and met me next morning with an open hand; for I
tell you I had sworn to God that that morning would be my last.'

Geordie's speech was characteristic.  After a brief reference to
the 'mysteerious ways o' Providence,' which he acknowledged he
might sometimes fail to understand, he went on to express his
unqualified approval of the new saloon.

'It's a cosy place, an' there's nae sulphur aboot.  Besides a'
that,' he went on enthusiastically, 'it'll be a terrible savin'.
I've juist been coontin'.'

'You bet!' ejaculated a voice with great emphasis.

'I've juist been coontin',' went on Geordie, ignoring the remark
and the laugh which followed, 'an' it's an awfu'-like money ye pit
ower wi' the whusky.  Ye see ye canna dae wi' ane bit glass; ye
maun hae twa or three at the verra least, for it's no verra forrit
ye get wi' ane glass.  But wi' yon coffee ye juist get a saxpence-
worth an' ye want nae mair.'

There was another shout of laughter, which puzzled Geordie much.

'I dinna see the jowk, but I've slippit ower in whusky mair nor a
hunner dollars.'

Then he paused, looking hard before him, and twisting his face into
extraordinary shapes till the men looked at him in wonder.

'I'm rale glad o' this saloon, but it's ower late for the lad that
canna be helpit the noo.  He'll not be needin' help o' oors, I
doot, but there are ithers'--and he stopped abruptly and sat down,
with no applause following.

But when Slavin, our saloon-keeper, rose to reply, the men jumped
up on the seats and yelled till they could yell no more.  Slavin
stood, evidently in trouble with himself, and finally broke out--

'It's spacheless I am entirely.  What's come to me I know not, nor
how it's come.  But I'll do my best for yez.'  And then the yelling
broke out again.

I did not yell myself.  I was too busy watching the varying lights
in Mrs. Mavor's eyes as she looked from Craig to the yelling men on
the benches and tables, and then to Slavin, and I found myself
wondering if she knew what it was that came to Slavin.


CHAPTER XI

THE TWO CALLS


With the call to Mr. Craig I fancy I had something to do myself.
The call came from a young congregation in an eastern city, and was
based partly upon his college record and more upon the advice of
those among the authorities who knew his work in the mountains.
But I flatter myself that my letters to friends who were of
importance in that congregation were not without influence, for I
was of the mind that the man who could handle Black Rock miners as
he could was ready for something larger than a mountain mission.
That he would refuse I had not imagined, though I ought to have
known him better.  He was but little troubled over it.  He went
with the call and the letters urging his acceptance to Mrs. Mavor.
I was putting the last touches to some of my work in the room at
the back of Mrs. Mavor's house when he came in.  She read the
letters and the call quietly, and waited for him to speak.

"Well?' he said; 'should I go?'

She started, and grew a little pale.  His question suggested a
possibility that had not occurred to her.  That he could leave his
work in Black Rock she had hitherto never imagined; but there was
other work, and he was fit for good work anywhere.  Why should he
not go?  I saw the fear in her face, but I saw more than fear in
her eyes, as for a moment or two she let them rest upon Craig's
face.  I read her story, and I was not sorry for either of them.
But she was too much a woman to show her heart easily to the man
she loved, and her voice was even and calm as she answered his
question.

'Is this a very large congregation?'

'One of the finest in all the East,' I put in for him.  'It will be
a great thing for Craig.'

Craig was studying her curiously.  I think she noticed his eyes
upon her, for she went on even more quietly--

'It will be a great chance for work, and you are able for a larger
sphere, you know, than poor Black Rock affords.'

'Who will take Black Rock?' he asked.

'Let some other fellow have a try at it,' I said.  'Why should you
waste your talents here?'

'Waste?' cried Mrs. Mavor indignantly.

'Well, "bury," if you like it better,' I replied.

'It would not take much of a grave for that funeral,' said Craig,
smiling.

'Oh,' said Mrs. Mavor, 'you will be a great man I know, and perhaps
you ought to go now.'

But he answered coolly: 'There are fifty men wanting that Eastern
charge, and there is only one wanting Black Rock, and I don't think
Black Rock is anxious for a change, so I have determined to stay
where I am yet a while.'

Even my deep disgust and disappointment did not prevent me from
seeing the sudden leap of joy in Mrs. Mavor's eyes, but she, with a
great effort, answered quietly--

'Black Rock will be very glad, and some of us very, very glad.'

Nothing could change his mind.  There was no one he knew who could
take his place just now, and why should he quit his work?  It
annoyed me considerably to feel he was right.  Why is it that the
right things are so frequently unpleasant?

And if I had had any doubt about the matter next Sabbath evening
would have removed it.  For the men came about him after the
service and let him feel in their own way how much they approved
his decision, though the self-sacrifice involved did not appeal to
them.  They were too truly Western to imagine that any inducements
the East could offer could compensate for his loss of the West.  It
was only fitting that the West should have the best, and so the
miners took almost as a matter of course, and certainly as their
right, that the best man they knew should stay with them.  But
there were those who knew how much of what most men consider worth
while he had given up, and they loved him no less for it.

Mrs. Mavor's call was not so easily disposed of.  It came close
upon the other, and stirred Black Rock as nothing else had ever
stirred it before.

I found her one afternoon gazing vacantly at some legal documents
spread out before her on the table, and evidently overcome by their
contents.  There was first a lawyer's letter informing her that by
the death of her husband's father she had come into the whole of
the Mavor estates, and all the wealth pertaining thereto.  The
letter asked for instructions, and urged an immediate return with a
view to a personal superintendence of the estates.  A letter, too,
from a distant cousin of her husband urged her immediate return for
many reasons, but chiefly on account of the old mother who had been
left alone with none nearer of kin than himself to care for her and
cheer her old age.

With these two came another letter from her mother-in-law herself.
The crabbed, trembling characters were even more eloquent than the
words with which the letter closed.

'I have lost my boy, and now my husband is gone, and I am a lonely
woman.  I have many servants, and some friends, but none near to
me, none so near and dear as my dead son's wife.  My days are not
to be many.  Come to me, my daughter; I want you and Lewis's
child.'

'Must I go?' she asked with white lips.

'Do you know her well?' I asked.

'I only saw her once or twice,' she answered; 'but she has been
very good to me.'

'She can hardly need you.  She has friends.  And surely you are
needed here.'

She looked at me eagerly.

'Do you think so?' she said.

'Ask any man in the camp--Shaw, Nixon, young Winton, Geordie.  Ask
Craig,' I replied.

'Yes, he will tell me,' she said.

Even as she spoke Craig came up the steps.  I passed into my studio
and went on with my work, for my days at Black Rock were getting
few, and many sketches remained to be filled in.

Through my open door I saw Mrs. Mavor lay her letters before Mr.
Craig, saying, 'I have a call too.'  They thought not of me.

He went through the papers, carefully laid them down without a word
while she waited anxiously, almost impatiently, for him to speak.

'Well?' she asked, using his own words to her; 'should I go?'

'I do not know,' he replied; 'that is for you to decide--you know
all the circumstances.'

'The letters tell all.'  Her tone carried a feeling of
disappointment.  He did not appear to care.

'The estates are large?' he asked.

'Yes, large enough--twelve thousand a year.'

'And has your mother-in-law any one with her?'

'She has friends, but, as she says, none near of kin.  Her nephew
looks after the works--iron works, you know--he has shares in
them.'

'She is evidently very lonely,' he answered gravely.

'What shall I do?' she asked, and I knew she was waiting to hear
him urge her to stay; but he did not see, or at least gave no heed.

'I cannot say,' he repeated quietly.  'There are many things to
consider; the estates--'

'The estates seem to trouble you,' she replied, almost fretfully.
He looked up in surprise.  I wondered at his slowness.

'Yes, the estates,' he went on, 'and tenants, I suppose--your
mother-in-law, your little Marjorie's future, your own future.'

'The estates are in capable hands, I should suppose,' she urged,
'and my future depends upon what I choose my work to be.'

'But one cannot shift one's responsibilities,' he replied gravely.
'These estates, these tenants, have come to you, and with them come
duties.'

'I do not want them,' she cried.

'That life has great possibilities of good,' he said kindly.

'I had thought that perhaps there was work for me here,' she
suggested timidly.

'Great work,' he hastened to say.  'You have done great work.  But
you will do that wherever you go.  The only question is where your
work lies.'

'You think I should go,' she said suddenly and a little bitterly.

'I cannot bid you stay,' he answered steadily.

'How can I go?' she cried, appealing to him.  'Must I go?'

How he could resist that appeal I could not understand.  His face
was cold and hard, and his voice was almost harsh as he replied--

'If it is right, you will go--you must go.'

Then she burst forth--

'I cannot go.  I shall stay here.  My work is here; my heart is
here.  How can I go?  You thought it worth your while to stay here
and work, why should not I?'

The momentary gleam in his eyes died out, and again he said coldly--

'This work was clearly mine.  I am needed here.'

'Yes, yes!' she cried, her voice full of pain; 'you are needed, but
there is no need of me.'

'Stop, stop!' he said sharply; 'you must not say so.'

'I will say it, I must say it,' she cried, her voice vibrating with
the intensity of her feeling.  'I know you do not need me; you have
your work, your miners, your plans; you need no one; you are
strong.  But,' and her voice rose to a cry, 'I am not strong by
myself; you have made me strong.  I came here a foolish girl,
foolish and selfish and narrow.  God sent me grief.  Three years
ago my heart died.  Now I am living again.  I am a woman now, no
longer a girl.  You have done this for me.  Your life, your words,
yourself--you have showed me a better, a higher life, than I had
ever known before, and now you send me away.'

She paused abruptly.

'Blind, stupid fool!' I said to myself.

He held himself resolutely in hand, answering carefully, but his
voice had lost its coldness and was sweet and kind.

'Have I done this for you?  Then surely God has been good to me.
And you have helped me more than any words could tell you.'

'Helped!' she repeated scornfully.

'Yes, helped,' he answered, wondering at her scorn.

'You can do without my help,' she went on.  'You make people help
you.  You will get many to help you; but I need help, too.'  She
was standing before him with her hands tightly clasped; her face
was pale, and her eyes deeper than ever.  He sat looking up at her
in a kind of maze as she poured out her words hot and fast.

'I am not thinking of you.'  His coldness had hurt her deeply.  'I
am selfish; I am thinking of myself.  How shall I do?  I have grown
to depend on you, to look to you.  It is nothing to you that I go,
but to me--'  She did not dare to finish.

By this time Craig was standing before her, his face deadly pale.
When she came to the end of her words, he said, in a voice low,
sweet, and thrilling with emotion--

'Ah, if you only knew!  Do not make me forget myself.  You do not
guess what you are doing.'

'What am I doing?  What is there to know, but that you tell me
easily to go?  She was struggling with the tears she was too proud
to let him see.

He put his hands resolutely behind him, looking at her as if
studying her face for the first time.  Under his searching look she
dropped her eyes, and the warm colour came slowly up into her neck
and face; then, as if with a sudden resolve, she lifted her eyes to
his, and looked back at him unflinchingly.

He started, surprised, drew slowly near, put his hands upon her
shoulders, surprise giving place to wild joy.  She never moved her
eyes; they drew him towards her.  He took her face between his
hands, smiled into her eyes, kissed her lips.  She did not move; he
stood back from her, threw up his head, and laughed aloud.  She
came to him, put her head upon his breast, and lifting up her face
said, 'Kiss me.'  He put his arms about her, bent down and kissed
her lips again, and then reverently her brow.  Then putting her
back from him, but still holding both her hands, he cried--

'Not you shall not go.  I shall never let you go.'

She gave a little sigh of content, and, smiling up at him, said--

'I can go now'; but even as she spoke the flush died from her face,
and she shuddered.

'Never!' he almost shouted; 'nothing shall take you away.  We shall
work here together.'

'Ah, if we could, if we only could,' she said piteously.

'Why not?' he demanded fiercely.

'You will send me away.  You will say it is right for me to go,'
she replied sadly.

'Do we not love each other?' was his impatient answer.

'Ah! yes, love,' she said; 'but love is not all.'

'No!' cried Craig; 'but love is the best'

'Yes!' she said sadly; 'love is the best, and it is for love's sake
we will do the best.'

'There is no better work than here.  Surely this is best,' and he
pictured his plans before her.  She listened eagerly.

'Oh! if it should be right,' she cried, 'I will do what you say.
You are good, you are wise, you shall tell me.'

She could not have recalled him better.  He stood silent some
moments, then burst out passionately--

'Why then has love come to us?  We did not seek it.  Surely love is
of God.  Does God mock us?'

He threw himself into his chair, pouring out his words of
passionate protestation.  She listened, smiling, then came to him
and, touching his hair as a mother might her child's, said--

'Oh, I am very happy!  I was afraid you would not care, and I could
not bear to go that way.'

'You shall not go,' he cried aloud, as if in pain.  'Nothing can
make that right.'

But she only said, 'You shall tell me to-morrow.  You cannot see
to-night, but you will see, and you will tell me.'

He stood up and, holding both her hands, looked long into her eyes,
then turned abruptly away and went out.

She stood where he left her for some moments, her face radiant, and
her hands pressed upon her heart.  Then she came toward my room.
She found me busy with my painting, but as I looked up and met her
eyes she flushed slightly, and said--

'I quite forgot you.'

'So it appeared to me.'

'You heard?'

'And saw,' I replied boldly.  'It would have been rude to
interrupt, you see.'

'Oh, I am so glad and thankful.'

'Yes; it was rather considerate of me.'

'Oh, I don't mean that,' the flush deepening; 'I am glad you know.'

'I have known some time.'

'How could you?  I only knew to-day myself.'

'I have eyes.'  She flushed again.

'Do you mean that people--' she began anxiously.

'No; I am not "people."  I have eyes, and my eyes have been
opened.'

'Opened?'

'Yes, by love.'

Then I told her openly how, weeks ago, I struggled with my heart
and mastered it, for I saw it was vain to love her, because she
loved a better man who loved her in return.  She looked at me shyly
and said--

'I am sorry.'

'Don't worry,' I said cheerfully.  'I didn't break my heart, you
know; I stopped it in time.'

'Oh!' she said, slightly disappointed; then her lips began to
twitch, and she went off into a fit of hysterical laughter.

'Forgive me,' she said humbly; 'but you speak as if it had been a
fever.'

'Fever is nothing to it,' I said solemnly.  'It was a near thing.'
At which she went off again.  I was glad to see her laugh.  It gave
me time to recover my equilibrium, and it relieved her intense
emotional strain.  So I rattled on some nonsense about Craig and
myself till I saw she was giving no heed, but thinking her own
thoughts: and what these were it was not hard to guess.

Suddenly she broke in upon my talk--

'He will tell me that I must go from him.'

'I hope he is no such fool,' I said emphatically and somewhat
rudely, I fear; for I confess I was impatient with the very
possibility of separation for these two, to whom love meant so
much.  Some people take this sort of thing easily and some not so
easily; but love for a woman like this comes once only to a man,
and then he carries it with him through the length of his life, and
warms his heart with it in death.  And when a man smiles or sneers
at such love as this, I pity him, and say no word, for my speech
would be in an unknown tongue.  So my heart was sore as I sat
looking up at this woman who stood before me, overflowing with the
joy of her new love, and dully conscious of the coming pain.  But I
soon found it was vain to urge my opinion that she should remain
and share the work and life of the man she loved.  She only
answered--

'You will help him all you can, for it will hurt him to have me
go.'

The quiver in her voice took out all the anger from my heart, and
before I knew I had pledged myself to do all I could to help him.

But when I came upon him that night, sitting in the light of his
fire, I saw he must be let alone.  Some battles we fight side by
side, with comrades cheering us and being cheered to victory; but
there are fights we may not share, and these are deadly fights
where lives are lost and won.  So I could only lay my hand upon his
shoulder without a word.  He looked up quickly, read my face, and
said, with a groan--

'You know?'

'I could not help it.  But why groan?'

'She will think it right to go,' he said despairingly.

'Then you must think for her; you must bring some common-sense to
bear upon the question.'

'I cannot see clearly yet,' he said; 'the light will come.'

'May I show you how I see it?' I asked.

'Go on,' he said.

For an hour I talked; eloquently, even vehemently urging the reason
and right of my opinion.  She would be doing no more than every
woman does, no more than she did before; her mother-in-law had a
comfortable home, all that wealth could procure, good servants, and
friends; the estates could be managed without her personal
supervision; after a few years' work here they would go east for
little Majorie's education; why should two lives be broken?--and so
I went on.

He listened carefully, even eagerly.

'You make a good case,' he said, with a slight smile.  'I will take
time.  Perhaps you are right.  The light will come.  Surely it will
come.  But,' and here he sprang up and stretched his arms to full
length above his head, 'I am not sorry; whatever comes I am not
sorry.  It is great to have her love, but greater to love her as I
do.  Thank God! nothing can take that away.  I am willing, glad to
suffer for the joy of loving her.'

Next morning, before I was awake, he was gone, leaving a note for
me:--


'MY DEAR CONNOR,--I am due at the Landing.  When I see you again I
think my way will be clear.  Now all is dark.  At times I am a
coward, and often, as you sometimes kindly inform me, an ass; but I
hope I may never become a mule.

I am willing to be led, or want to be, at any rate.  I must do the
best--not second best--for her, for me.  The best only is God's
will.  What else would you have?  Be good to her these days, dear
old fellow.--Yours, CRAIG.'


How often those words have braced me he will never know, but I am a
better man for them: 'The best only is God's will.  What else would
you have?'  I resolved I would rage and fret no more, and that I
would worry Mrs. Mavor with no more argument or expostulation, but,
as my friend had asked, 'Be good to her.'


CHAPTER XII

LOVE IS NOT ALL


Those days when we were waiting Craig's return we spent in the
woods or on the mountain sides, or down in the canyon beside the
stream that danced down to meet the Black Rock river, I talking and
sketching and reading, and she listening and dreaming, with often a
happy smile upon her face.  But there were moments when a cloud of
shuddering fear would sweep the smile away, and then I would talk
of Craig till the smile came back again.

But the woods and the mountains and the river were her best, her
wisest, friends during those days.  How sweet the ministry of the
woods to her!  The trees were in their new summer leaves, fresh and
full of life.  They swayed and rustled above us, flinging their
interlacing shadows upon us, and their swaying and their rustling
soothed and comforted like the voice and touch of a mother.  And
the mountains, too, in all the glory of their varying robes of
blues and purples, stood calmly, solemnly about us, uplifting our
souls into regions of rest.  The changing lights and shadows
flitted swiftly over their rugged fronts, but left them ever as
before in their steadfast majesty.  'God's in His heaven.'  What
would you have?  And ever the little river sang its cheerful
courage, fearing not the great mountains that threatened to bar its
passage to the sea.  Mrs. Mavor heard the song and her courage
rose.

'We too shall find our way,' she said, and I believed her.

But through these days I could not make her out, and I found myself
studying her as I might a new acquaintance.  Years had fallen from
her; she was a girl again, full of young warm life.  She was as
sweet as before, but there was a soft shyness over her, a half-
shamed, half-frank consciousness in her face, a glad light in her
eyes that made her all new to me.  Her perfect trust in Craig was
touching to see.

'He will tell me what to do,' she would say, till I began to
realise how impossible it would be for him to betray such trust,
and be anything but true to the best.

So much did I dread Craig's home-coming, that I sent for Graeme and
old man Nelson, who was more and more Graeme's trusted counsellor
and friend.  They were both highly excited by the story I had to
tell, for I thought it best to tell them all; but I was not a
little surprised and disgusted that they did not see the matter in
my light.  In vain I protested against the madness of allowing
anything to send these two from each other.  Graeme summed up the
discussion in his own emphatic way, but with an earnestness in his
words not usual with him.

'Craig will know better than any of us what is right to do, and he
will do that, and no man can turn him from it; and,' he added, 'I
should be sorry to try.'

Then my wrath rose, and I cried--

'It's a tremendous shame!  They love each other.  You are talking
sentimental humbug and nonsense!'

'He must do the right,' said Nelson in his deep, quiet voice.

'Right!  Nonsense!  By what right does he send from him the woman
he loves?'

'"He pleased not Himself,"' quoted Nelson reverently.

'Nelson is right,' said Graeme.  'I should not like to see him
weaken.'

'Look here,' I stormed; 'I didn't bring you men to back him up in
his nonsense.  I thought you could keep your heads level.'

'Now, Connor,' said Graeme, 'don't rage--leave that for the
heathen; it's bad form, and useless besides.  Craig will walk his
way where his light falls; and by all that's holy, I should hate to
see him fail; for if he weakens like the rest of us my North Star
will have dropped from my sky.'

'Nice selfish spirit,' I muttered.

'Entirely so.  I'm not a saint, but I feel like steering by one
when I see him.'

When after a week had gone, Craig rode up one early morning to his
shack door, his face told me that he had fought his fight and had
not been beaten.  He had ridden all night and was ready to drop
with weariness.

'Connor, old boy,' he said, putting out his hand; 'I'm rather
played.  There was a bad row at the Landing.  I have just closed
poor Colley's eyes.  It was awful.  I must get sleep.  Look after
Dandy, will you, like a good chap?'

'Oh, Dandy be hanged,!' I said, for I knew it was not the fight,
nor the watching, nor the long ride that had shaken his iron nerve
and given him that face.  'Go in and lie down I'll bring you
something.'

'Wake me in the afternoon,' he said; 'she is waiting.  Perhaps you
will go to her'--his lips quivered--'my nerve is rather gone.'
Then with a very wan smile he added, 'I am giving you a lot of
trouble.'

'You go to thunder!' I burst out, for my throat was hot and sore
with grief for him.

'I think I'd rather go to sleep,' he replied, still smiling.  I
could not speak, and was glad of the chance of being alone with
Dandy.

When I came in I found him sitting with his head in his arms upon
the table fast asleep.  I made him tea, forced him to take a warm
bath, and sent him to bed, while I went to Mrs. Mavor.  I went with
a fearful heart, but that was because I had forgotten the kind of
woman she was.

She was standing in the light of the window waiting for me.  Her
face was pale but steady, there was a proud light in her fathomless
eyes, a slight smile parted her lips, and she carried her head like
a queen.

'Come in,' she said.  'You need not fear to tell me.  I saw him
ride home.  He has not failed, thank God!  I am proud of him; I
knew he would be true.  He loves me'--she drew in her breath
sharply, and a faint colour tinged her cheek--'but he knows love is
not all--ah, love is not all!  Oh!  I am glad and proud!'

'Glad!' I gasped, amazed.

'You would not have him prove faithless!' she said with proud
defiance.

'Oh, it is high sentimental nonsense,' I could not help saying.

'You should not say so,' she replied, and her voice rang clear.
'Honour, faith, and duty are sentiments, but they are not
nonsense.'

In spite of my rage I was lost in amazed admiration of the high
spirit of the woman who stood up so straight before me.  But, as I
told how worn and broken he was, she listened with changing colour
and swelling bosom, her proud courage all gone, and only love,
anxious and pitying, in her eyes.

'Shall I go to him?' she asked with timid eagerness and deepening
colour.

'He is sleeping.  He said he would come to you,' I replied.

'I shall wait for him,' she said softly, and the tenderness in her
tone went straight to my heart, and it seemed to me a man might
suffer much to be loved with love such as this.

In the early afternoon Graeme came to her.  She met him with both
hands outstretched, saying in a low voice--

'I am very happy.'

'Are you sure?' he asked anxiously.

'Oh, yes,' she said, but her voice was like a sob; 'quite, quite
sure.'

They talked long together till I saw that Craig must soon be
coming, and I called Graeme away.  He held her hands, looking
steadily into her eyes and said--

'You are better even than I thought; I'm going to be a better man.'

Her eyes filled with tears, but her smile did not fade as she
answered--

'Yes! you will be a good man, and God will give you work to do.'

He bent his head over her hands and stepped back from her as from a
queen, but he spoke no word till we came to Craig's door.  Then he
said with humility that seemed strange in him, 'Connor, that is
great, to conquer oneself.  It is worth while.  I am going to try.'

I would not have missed his meeting with Craig.  Nelson was busy
with tea.  Craig was writing near the window.  He looked up as
Graeme came in, and nodded an easy good-evening; but Graeme strode
to him and, putting one hand on his shoulder, held out his other
for Craig to take.

After a moment's surprise, Craig rose to his feet, and, facing him
squarely, took the offered hand in both of his and held it fast
without a word.  Graeme was the first to speak, and his voice was
deep with emotion--

'You are a great man, a good man.  I'd give something to have your
grit.'

Poor Craig stood looking at him, not daring to speak for some
moments, then he said quietly--

'Not good nor great, but, thank God, not quite a traitor.'

'Good man!' went on Graeme, patting him on the shoulder.  'Good
man!  But it's tough.'

Craig sat down quickly, saying, 'Don't do that, old chap!'

I went up with Craig to Mrs. Mavor's door.  She did not hear us
coming, but stood near the window gazing up at the mountains.  She
was dressed in some rich soft stuff, and wore at her breast a bunch
of wild-flowers.  I had never seen her so beautiful.  I did not
wonder that Craig paused with his foot upon the threshold to look
at her.  She turned and saw us.  With a glad cry, 'Oh! my darling;
you have come to me,' she came with outstretched arms.  I turned
and fled, but the cry and the vision were long with me.

It was decided that night that Mrs. Mavor should go the next week.
A miner and his wife were going east, and I too would join the
party.

The camp went into mourning at the news; but it was understood that
any display of grief before Mrs. Mavor was bad form.  She was not
to be annoyed.

But when I suggested that she should leave quietly, and avoid the
pain of saying good-bye, she flatly refused--

'I must say good-bye to every man.  They love me and I love them.'

It was decided, too, at first, that there should be nothing in the
way of a testimonial, but when Craig found out that the men were
coming to her with all sorts of extraordinary gifts, he agreed that
it would be better that they should unite in one gift.  So it was
agreed that I should buy a ring for her.  And were it not that the
contributions were strictly limited to one dollar, the purse that
Slavin handed her when Shaw read the address at the farewell supper
would have been many times filled with the gold that was pressed
upon the committee.  There were no speeches at the supper, except
one by myself in reply on Mrs. Mavor's behalf.  She had given me
the words to say, and I was thoroughly prepared, else I should not
have got through.  I began in the usual way: 'Mr. Chairman, ladies
and gentlemen, Mrs. Mavor is--' but I got no further, for at the
mention of her name the men stood on the chairs and yelled until
they could yell no more.  There were over two hundred and fifty of
them, and the effect was overpowering.  But I got through my
speech.  I remember it well.  It began--

'Mrs. Mavor is greatly touched by this mark of your love, and she
will wear your ring always with pride.'  And it ended with--

'She has one request to make, that you will be true to the League,
and that you stand close about the man who did most to make it.
She wishes me to say that however far away she may have to go, she
is leaving her heart in Black Rock, and she can think of no greater
joy than to come back to you again.'

Then they had 'The Sweet By and By,' but the men would not join in
the refrain, unwilling to lose a note of the glorious voice they
loved to hear.  Before the last verse she beckoned to me.  I went
to her standing by Craig's side as he played for her.  'Ask them to
sing,' she entreated; 'I cannot bear it.'

'Mrs. Mavor wishes you to sing in the refrain,' I said, and at once
the men sat up and cleared their throats.  The singing was not
good, but at the first sound of the hoarse notes of the men Craig's
head went down over the organ, for he was thinking I suppose of the
days before them when they would long in vain for that thrilling
voice that soared high over their own hoarse tones.  And after the
voices died away he kept on playing till, half turning toward him,
she sang alone once more the refrain in a voice low and sweet and
tender, as if for him alone.  And so he took it, for he smiled up
at her his old smile full of courage and full of love.

Then for one whole hour she stood saying good-bye to those rough,
gentle-hearted men whose inspiration to goodness she had been for
five years.  It was very wonderful and very quiet.  It was
understood that there was to be no nonsense, and Abe had been heard
to declare that he would 'throw out any cotton-backed fool who
couldn't hold himself down,' and further, he had enjoined them to
remember that 'her arm wasn't a pump-handle.'

At last they were all gone, all but her guard of honour--Shaw,
Vernon Winton, Geordie, Nixon, Abe, Nelson, Craig, and myself.

This was the real farewell; for, though in the early light of the
next morning two hundred men stood silent about the stage, and then
as it moved out waved their hats and yelled madly, this was the
last touch they had of her hand.  Her place was up on the driver's
seat between Abe and Mr. Craig, who held little Marjorie on his
knee.  The rest of the guard of honour were to follow with Graeme's
team.  It was Winton's fine sense that kept Graeme from following
them close.  'Let her go out alone,' he said, and so we held back
and watched her go.

She stood with her back towards Abe's plunging four-horse team, and
steadying herself with one hand on Abe's shoulder, gazed down upon
us.  Her head was bare, her lips parted in a smile, her eyes
glowing with their own deep light; and so, facing us, erect and
smiling, she drove away, waving us farewell till Abe swung his team
into the canyon road and we saw her no more.  A sigh shuddered
through the crowd, and, with a sob in his voice, Winton said: 'God
help us all.'

I close my eyes and see it all again.  The waving crowd of dark-
faced men, the plunging horses, and, high up beside the driver, the
swaying, smiling, waving figure, and about all the mountains,
framing the picture with their dark sides and white peaks tipped
with the gold of the rising sun.  It is a picture I love to look
upon, albeit it calls up another that I can never see but through
tears.

I look across a strip of ever-widening water, at a group of men
upon the wharf, standing with heads uncovered, every man a hero,
though not a man of them suspects it, least of all the man who
stands in front, strong, resolute, self-conquered.  And, gazing
long, I think I see him turn again to his place among the men of
the mountains, not forgetting, but every day remembering the great
love that came to him, and remembering, too, that love is not all.
It is then the tears come.

But for that picture two of us at least are better men to-day.


CHAPTER XIII

HOW NELSON CAME HOME


Through the long summer the mountains and the pines were with me.
And through the winter, too, busy as I was filling in my Black Rock
sketches for the railway people who would still persist in ordering
them by the dozen, the memory of that stirring life would come over
me, and once more I would be among the silent pines and the mighty
snow-peaked mountains.  And before me would appear the red-shirted
shantymen or dark-faced miners, great, free, bold fellows, driving
me almost mad with the desire to seize and fix those swiftly
changing groups of picturesque figures.  At such times I would drop
my sketch, and with eager brush seize a group, a face, a figure,
and that is how my studio comes to be filled with the men of Black
Rock.  There they are all about me.  Graeme and the men from the
woods, Sandy, Baptiste, the Campbells, and in many attitudes and
groups old man Nelson; Craig, too, and his miners, Shaw, Geordie,
Nixon, and poor old Billy and the keeper of the League saloon.

It seemed as if I lived among them, and the illusion was greatly
helped by the vivid letters Graeme sent me from time to time.
Brief notes came now and then from Craig too, to whom I had sent a
faithful account of how I had brought Mrs. Mavor to her ship, and
of how I had watched her sail away with none too brave a face, as
she held up her hand that bore the miners' ring, and smiled with
that deep light in her eyes.  Ah! those eyes have driven me to
despair and made me fear that I am no great painter after all, in
spite of what my friends tell me who come in to smoke my good
cigars and praise my brush.  I can get the brow and hair, and mouth
and pose, but the eyes! the eyes elude me--and the faces of Mrs.
Mavor on my wall, that the men praise and rave over, are not such
as I could show to any of the men from the mountains.

Graeme's letters tell me chiefly about Craig and his doings, and
about old man Nelson; while from Craig I hear about Graeme, and how
he and Nelson are standing at his back, and doing what they can to
fill the gap that never can be filled.  The three are much
together, I can see, and I am glad for them all, but chiefly for
Craig, whose face, grief-stricken but resolute, and often gentle as
a woman's, will not leave me nor let me rest in peace.

The note of thanks he sent me was entirely characteristic.  There
were no heroics, much less pining or self-pity.  It was simple and
manly, not ignoring the pain but making much of the joy.  And then
they had their work to do.  That note, so clear, so manly, so nobly
sensible, stiffens my back yet at times.

In the spring came the startling news that Black Rock would soon be
no more.  The mines were to close down on April 1.  The company,
having allured the confiding public with enticing descriptions of
marvellous drifts, veins, assays, and prospects, and having
expended vast sums of the public's money in developing the mines
till the assurance of their reliability was absolutely final,
calmly shut down and vanished.  With their vanishing vanishes Black
Rock, not without loss and much deep cursing on the part of the men
brought some hundreds of miles to aid the company in its
extraordinary and wholly inexplicable game.

Personally it grieved me to think that my plan of returning to
Black Rock could never be carried out.  It was a great compensation,
however, that the three men most representative to me of that life
were soon to visit me actually in my own home and den.  Graeme's
letter said that in one month they might be expected to appear.  At
least he and Nelson were soon to come, and Craig would soon follow.

On receiving the great news, I at once looked up young Nelson and
his sister, and we proceeded to celebrate the joyful prospect with
a specially good dinner.  I found the greatest delight in picturing
the joy and pride of the old man in his children, whom he had not
seen for fifteen or sixteen years.  The mother had died some five
years before, then the farm was sold, and the brother and sister
came into the city; and any father might be proud of them.  The son
was a well-made young fellow, handsome enough, thoughtful, and
solid-looking.  The girl reminded me of her father.  The same
resolution was seen in mouth and jaw, and the same passion
slumbered in the dark grey eyes.  She was not beautiful, but she
carried herself well, and one would always look at her twice.  It
would be worth something to see the meeting between father and
daughter.

But fate, the greatest artist of us all, takes little count of the
careful drawing and the bright colouring of our fancy's pictures,
but with rude hand deranges all, and with one swift sweep paints
out the bright and paints in the dark.  And this trick he served me
when, one June night, after long and anxious waiting for some word
from the west, my door suddenly opened and Graeme walked in upon me
like a spectre, grey and voiceless.  My shout of welcome was choked
back by the look in his face, and I could only gaze at him and wait
for his word.  He gripped my hand, tried to speak, but failed to
make words come.

'Sit down, old man,' I said, pushing, him into my chair, 'and take
your time.'

He obeyed, looking up at me with burning, sleepless eyes.  My heart
was sore for his misery, and I said: 'Don't mind, old chap; it
can't be so awfully bad.  You're here safe and sound at any rate,'
and so I went on to give him time.  But he shuddered and looked
round and groaned.

'Now look here, Graeme, let's have it.  When did you land here?
Where is Nelson?  Why didn't you bring him up?'

'He is at the station in his coffin,' he answered slowly.

'In his coffin?' I echoed, my beautiful pictures all vanishing.
'How was it?'

'Through my cursed folly,' he groaned bitterly.

'What happened?' I asked.  But ignoring my question, he said: 'I
must see his children.  I have not slept for four nights.  I hardly
know what I am doing; but I can't rest till I see his children.  I
promised him.  Get them for me.'

'To-morrow will do.  Go to sleep now, and we shall arrange
everything to-morrow,' I urged.

'No!' he said fiercely; 'to-night--now!'

In half an hour they were listening, pale and grief-stricken, to
the story of their father's death.

Poor Graeme was relentless in his self-condemnation as he told how,
through his 'cursed folly,' old Nelson was killed.  The three,
Craig, Graeme, and Nelson, had come as far as Victoria together.
There they left Craig, and came on to San Francisco.  In an evil
hour Graeme met a companion of other and evil days, and it was not
long till the old fever came upon him.

In vain Nelson warned and pleaded.  The reaction from the monotony
and poverty of camp life to the excitement and luxury of the San
Francisco gaming palaces swung Graeme quite off his feet, and all
that Nelson could do was to follow from place to place and keep
watch.

'And there he would sit,' said Graeme in a hard, bitter voice,
'waiting and watching often till the grey morning light, while my
madness held me fast to the table.  One night,' here he paused a
moment, put his face in his hands and shuddered; but quickly he was
master of himself again, and went on in the same hard voice--'One
night my partner and I were playing two men who had done us up
before.  I knew they were cheating, but could not detect them.
Game after game they won, till I was furious at my stupidity in not
being able to catch them.  Happening to glance at Nelson in the
corner, I caught a meaning look, and looking again, he threw me a
signal.  I knew at once what the fraud was, and next game charged
the fellow with it.  He gave me the lie; I struck his mouth, but
before I could draw my gun, his partner had me by the arms.  What
followed I hardly know.  While I was struggling to get free, I saw
him reach for his weapon; but, as he drew it, Nelson sprang across
the table, and bore him down.  When the row was ever, three men lay
on the floor.  One was Nelson; he took the shot meant for me.'

Again the story paused.

'And the man that shot him?'

I started at the intense fierceness in the voice, and, looking upon
the girl, saw her eyes blazing with a terrible light.

'He is dead,' answered Graeme indifferently.

'You killed him?' she asked eagerly.

Graeme looked at her curiously, and answered slowly--

'I did not mean to.  He came at me.  I struck him harder than I
knew.  He never moved.'

She drew a sigh of satisfaction, and waited.

'I got him to a private ward, had the best doctor in the city, and
sent for Craig to Victoria.  For three days we thought he would
live--he was keen to get home; but by the time Craig came we had
given up hope.  Oh, but I was thankful to see Craig come in, and
the joy in the old man's eyes was beautiful to see.  There was no
pain at last, and no fear.  He would not allow me to reproach
myself, saying over and over, "You would have done the same for
me"--as I would, fast enough--"and it is better me than you.  I am
old and done; you will do much good yet for the boys."  And he kept
looking at me till I could only promise to do my best.

'But I am glad I told him how much good he had done me during the
last year, for he seemed to think that too good to be true.  And
when Craig told him how he had helped the boys in the camp, and how
Sandy and Baptiste and the Campbells would always be better men for
his life among them, the old man's face actually shone, as if light
were coming through.  And with surprise and joy he kept on saying,
"Do you think so?  Do you think so?  Perhaps so, perhaps so."  At
the last he talked of Christmas night at the camp.  You were there,
you remember.  Craig had been holding a service, and something
happened, I don't know what, but they both knew.'

'I know,' I said, and I saw again the picture of the old man under
the pine, upon his knees in the snow, with his face turned up to
the stars.

'Whatever it was, it was in his mind at the very last, and I can
never forget his face as he turned it to Craig.  One hears of such
things: I had often, but had never put much faith in them; but joy,
rapture, triumph, these are what were in his face, as he said, his
breath coming short, "You said--He wouldn't--fail me--you were
right--not once--not once--He stuck to me--I'm glad he told me--
thank God--for you--you showed--me--I'll see Him--and--tell Him--'
And Craig, kneeling beside him so steady--I was behaving like a
fool--smiled down through his streaming tears into the dim eyes so
brightly, till they could see no more.  Thank him for that!  He
helped the old man through, and he helped me too, that night, thank
God!'  And Graeme's voice, hard till now, broke in a sob.

He had forgotten us, and was back beside his passing friend, and
all his self-control could not keep back the flowing tears.

'It was his life for mine,' he said huskily.

The brother and sister were quietly weeping, but spoke no word,
though I knew Graeme was waiting for them.

I took up the word, and told of what I had known of Nelson, and his
influence upon the men of Black Rock.  They listened eagerly
enough, but still without speaking.  There seemed nothing to say,
till I suggested to Graeme that he must get some rest.  Then the
girl turned to him, and, impulsively putting out her hand, said--

'Oh, it is all so sad; but how can we ever thank you?'

'Thank me!' gasped Graeme.  'Can you forgive me?  I brought him to
his death.'

'No, no!  You must not say so,' she answered hurriedly.  'You would
have done the same for him.'

'God knows I would,' said Graeme earnestly; 'and God bless you for
your words!'  And I was thankful to see the tears start in his dry,
burning eyes.

We carried him to the old home in the country, that he might lie by
the side of the wife he had loved and wronged.  A few friends met
us at the wayside station, and followed in sad procession along the
country road, that wound past farms and through woods, and at last
up to the ascent where the quaint, old wooden church, black with
the rains and snows of many years, stood among its silent graves.
The little graveyard sloped gently towards the setting sun, and
from it one could see, far on every side, the fields of grain and
meadowland that wandered off over softly undulating hills to meet
the maple woods at the horizon, dark, green, and cool.  Here and
there white farmhouses, with great barns standing near, looked out
from clustering orchards.

Up the grass-grown walk, and through the crowding mounds, over
which waves, uncut, the long, tangling grass, we bear our friend,
and let him gently down into the kindly bosom of mother earth,
dark, moist, and warm.  The sound of a distant cowbell mingles with
the voice of the last prayer; the clods drop heavily with heart-
startling echo; the mound is heaped and shaped by kindly friends,
sharing with one another the task; the long rough sods are laid
over and patted into place; the old minister takes farewell in a
few words of gentle sympathy; the brother and sister, with
lingering looks at the two graves side by side, the old and the
new, step into the farmer's carriage, and drive away; the sexton
locks the gate and goes home, and we are left outside alone.

Then we went back and stood by Nelson's grave.

After a long silence Graeme spoke.

'Connor, he did not grudge his life to me--and I think'--and here
the words came slowly--'I understand now what that means, "Who
loved me and gave Himself for me."'

Then taking off his hat, he said reverently, 'By God's help
Nelson's life shall not end, but shall go on.  Yes, old man!'
looking down upon the grave, 'I'm with you'; and lifting up his
face to the calm sky, 'God help me to be true.'

Then he turned and walked briskly away, as one might who had
pressing business, or as soldiers march from a comrade's grave to a
merry tune, not that they have forgotten, but they have still to
fight.

And this was the way old man Nelson came home.


CHAPTERS XIV.

GRAEME'S NEW BIRTH


There was more left in that grave than old man Nelson's dead body.
It seemed to me that Graeme left part, at least, of his old self
there, with his dead friend and comrade, in the quiet country
churchyard.  I waited long for the old careless, reckless spirit
to appear, but he was never the same again.  The change was
unmistakable, but hard to define.  He seemed to have resolved his
life into a definite purpose.  He was hardly so comfortable a
fellow to be with; he made me feel even more lazy and useless than
was my wont; but I respected him more, and liked him none the less.
As a lion he was not a success.  He would not roar.  This was
disappointing to me, and to his friends and mine, who had been
waiting his return with eager expectation of tales of thrilling and
bloodthirsty adventure.

His first days were spent in making right, or as nearly right as he
could, the break that drove him to the west.  His old firm (and I
have had more respect for the humanity of lawyers ever since)
behaved really well.  They proved the restoration of their
confidence in his integrity and ability by offering him a place in
the firm, which, however, he would not accept.  Then, when he felt
clean, as he said, he posted off home, taking me with him.  During
the railway journey of four hours he hardly spoke; but when we had
left the town behind, and had fairly got upon the country road that
led toward the home ten miles away, his speech came to him in a
great flow.  His spirits ran over.  He was like a boy returning
from his first college term.  His very face wore the boy's open,
innocent, earnest look that used to attract men to him in his first
college year.  His delight in the fields and woods, in the sweet
country air and the sunlight, was without bound.  How often had we
driven this road together in the old days!

Every turn was familiar.  The swamp where the tamaracks stood
straight and slim out of their beds of moss; the brule, as we used
to call it, where the pine-stumps, huge and blackened, were half-
hidden by the new growth of poplars and soft maples; the big hill,
where we used to get out and walk when the roads were bad; the
orchards, where the harvest apples were best and most accessible--
all had their memories.

It was one of those perfect afternoons that so often come in the
early Canadian summer, before Nature grows weary with the heat.
The white gravel road was trimmed on either side with turf of
living green, close cropped by the sheep that wandered in flocks
along its whole length.  Beyond the picturesque snake-fences
stretched the fields of springing grain, of varying shades of
green, with here and there a dark brown patch, marking a turnip
field or summer fallow, and far back were the woods of maple and
beech and elm, with here and there the tufted top of a mighty pine,
the lonely representative of a vanished race, standing clear above
the humbler trees.

As we drove through the big swamp, where the yawning, haunted gully
plunges down to its gloomy depths, Graeme reminded me of that night
when our horse saw something in that same gully, and refused to go
past; and I felt again, though it was broad daylight, something of
the grue that shivered down my back, as I saw in the moonlight the
gleam of a white thing far through the pine trunks.

As we came nearer home the houses became familiar.  Every house had
its tale: we had eaten or slept in most of them; we had sampled
apples, and cherries, and plums from their orchards, openly as
guests, or secretly as marauders, under cover of night--the more
delightful way, I fear.  Ah! happy days, with these innocent crimes
and fleeting remorses, how bravely we faced them, and how gaily we
lived them, and how yearningly we look back at them now!  The sun
was just dipping into the tree-tops of the distant woods behind as
we came to the top of the last hill that overlooked the valley, in
which lay the village of Riverdale.  Wooded hills stood about it on
three sides, and, where the hills faded out, there lay the mill-
pond sleeping and smiling in the sun.  Through the village ran the
white road, up past the old frame church, and on to the white manse
standing among the trees.  That was Graeme's home, and mine too,
for I had never known another worthy of the name.  We held up our
team to look down over the valley, with its rampart of wooded
hills, its shining pond, and its nestling village, and on past to
the church and the white manse, hiding among the trees.  The
beauty, the peace, the warm, loving homeliness of the scene came
about our hearts, but, being men, we could find no words.

'Let's go,' cried Graeme, and down the hill we tore and rocked and
swayed to the amazement of the steady team, whose education from
the earliest years had impressed upon their minds the criminality
of attempting to do anything but walk carefully down a hill, at
least for two-thirds of the way.  Through the village, in a cloud
of dust, we swept, catching a glimpse of a well-known face here and
there, and flinging a salutation as we passed, leaving the owner of
the face rooted to his place in astonishment at the sight of Graeme
whirling on in his old-time, well-known reckless manner.  Only old
Dunc. M'Leod was equal to the moment, for as Graeme called out,
'Hello, Dunc.!' the old man lifted up his hands, and called back in
an awed voice: 'Bless my soul! is it yourself?'

'Stands his whisky well, poor old chap!' was Graeme's comment.

As we neared the church he pulled up his team, and we went quietly
past the sleepers there, then again on the full run down the gentle
slope, over the little brook, and up to the gate.  He had hardly
got his team pulled up before, flinging me the lines, he was out
over the wheel, for coming down the walk, with her hands lifted
high, was a dainty little lady, with the face of an angel.  In a
moment Graeme had her in his arms.  I heard the faint cry, 'My boy,
my boy,' and got down on the other side to attend to my off horse,
surprised to find my hands trembling and my eyes full of tears.
Back upon the steps stood an old gentleman, with white hair and
flowing beard, handsome, straight, and stately--Graeme's father,
waiting his turn.

'Welcome home, my lad,' was his greeting, as he kissed his son, and
the tremor of his voice, and the sight of the two men kissing each
other, like women, sent me again to my horses' heads.

'There's Connor, mother!' shouted out Graeme, and the dainty little
lady, in her black silk and white lace, came out to me quickly,
with outstretched hands.

'You, too, are welcome home,' she said, and kissed me.

I stood with my hat off, saying something about being glad to come,
but wishing that I could get away before I should make quite a fool
of myself.  For as I looked down upon that beautiful face, pale,
except for a faint flush upon each faded cheek, and read the story
of pain endured and conquered, and as I thought of all the long
years of waiting and of vain hoping, I found my throat dry and
sore, and the words would not come.  But her quick sense needed no
words, and she came to my help.

'You will find Jack at the stable,' she said, smiling; 'he ought to
have been here.'

The stable!  Why had I not thought of that before?  Thankfully now
my words came--

'Yes, certainly, I'll find him, Mrs. Graeme.  I suppose he's as
much of a scapegrace as ever, and off I went to look up Graeme's
young brother, who had given every promise in the old days of
developing into as stirring a rascal as one could desire; but who,
as I found out later, had not lived these years in his mother's
home for nothing.

'Oh, Jack's a good boy,' she answered, smiling again, as she turned
toward the other two, now waiting for her upon the walk.

The week that followed was a happy one for us all; but for the
mother it was full to the brim with joy.  Her sweet face was full
of content, and in her eyes rested a great peace.  Our days were
spent driving about among the hills, or strolling through the maple
woods, or down into the tamarack swamp, where the pitcher plants
and the swamp lilies and the marigold waved above the deep moss.
In the evenings we sat under the trees on the lawn till the stars
came out and the night dews drove us in.  Like two lovers, Graeme
and his mother would wander off together, leaving Jack and me to
each other.  Jack was reading for divinity, and was really a fine,
manly fellow, with all his brother's turn for rugby, and I took to
him amazingly; but after the day was over we would gather about the
supper table, and the talk would be of all things under heaven--
art, football, theology.  The mother would lead in all.  How quick
she was, how bright her fancy, how subtle her intellect, and
through all a gentle grace, very winning and beautiful to see!

Do what I would, Graeme would talk little of the mountains and his
life there.

'My lion will not roar, Mrs. Graeme,' I complained; 'he simply will
not.'

'You should twist his tail,' said Jack.

'That seems to be the difficulty, Jack,' said his mother, 'to get
hold of his tale.'

'Oh, mother,' groaned Jack; 'you never did such a thing before!
How could you?  Is it this baleful Western influence?'

'I shall reform, Jack,' she replied brightly.

'But, seriously, Graeme,' I remonstrated, 'you ought to tell your
people of your life--that free, glorious life in the mountains.'

'Free!  Glorious!  To some men, perhaps!' said Graeme, and then fell
into silence.

But I saw Graeme as a new man the night he talked theology with his
father.  The old minister was a splendid Calvinist, of heroic type,
and as he discoursed of God's sovereignty and election, his face
glowed and his voice rang out.

Graeme listened intently, now and then putting in a question, as
one would a keen knife-thrust into a foe.  But the old man knew his
ground, and moved easily among his ideas, demolishing the enemy as
he appeared, with jaunty grace.  In the full flow of his triumphant
argument, Graeme turned to him with sudden seriousness.

'Look here, father!  I was born a Calvinist, and I can't see how
any one with a level head can hold anything else, than that the
Almighty has some idea as to how He wants to run His universe, and
He means to carry out His idea, and is carrying it out; but what
would you do in a case like this?'  Then he told him the story of
poor Billy Breen, his fight and his defeat.

'Would you preach election to that chap?'

The mother's eyes were shining with tears.

The old gentleman blew his nose like a trumpet, and then said
gravely--

'No, my boy, you don't feed babes with meat.  But what came to
him?'

Then Graeme asked me to finish the tale.  After I had finished the
story of Billy's final triumph and of Craig's part in it, they sat
long silent, till the minister, clearing his throat hard and
blowing his nose more like a trumpet than ever, said with great
emphasis--

'Thank God for such a man in such a place!  I wish there were more
of us like him.'

'I should like to see you out there, sir,' said Graeme admiringly;
'you'd get them, but you wouldn't have time for election.'

'Yes, yes!' said his father warmly; 'I should love to have a chance
just to preach election to these poor lads.  Would I were twenty
years younger!'

'It is worth a man's life,' said Graeme earnestly.  His younger
brother turned his face eagerly toward the mother.  For answer she
slipped her hand into his and said softly, while her eyes shone
like stars--

'Some day, Jack, perhaps!  God knows.'  But Jack only looked
steadily at her, smiling a little and patting her hand.

'You'd shine there, mother,' said Graeme, smiling upon her; 'you'd
better come with me.'  She started, and said faintly--

'With you?'  It was the first hint he had given of his purpose.
'You are going back?'

'What! as a missionary?' said Jack.

'Not to preach, Jack; I'm not orthodox enough,' looking at his
father and shaking his head; 'but to build railroads and lend a
hand to some poor chap, if I can.'

'Could you not find work nearer home, my boy?' asked the father;
'there is plenty of both kinds near us here, surely.'

'Lots of work, but not mine, I fear,' answered Graeme, keeping his
eyes away from his mother's face.  'A man must do his own work.'

His voice was quiet and resolute, and glancing at the beautiful
face at the end of the table, I saw in the pale lips and yearning
eyes that the mother was offering up her firstborn, that ancient
sacrifice.  But not all the agony of sacrifice could wring from her
entreaty or complaint in the hearing of her sons.  That was for
other ears and for the silent hours of the night.  And next morning
when she came down to meet us her face was wan and weary, but it
wore the peace of victory and a glory not of earth.  Her greeting
was full of dignity, sweet and gentle; but when she came to Graeme
she lingered over him and kissed him twice.  And that was all that
any of us ever saw of that sore fight.

At the end of the week I took leave of them, and last of all of the
mother.

She hesitated just a moment, then suddenly put her hands upon my
shoulders and kissed me, saying softly, 'You are his friend; you
will sometimes come to me?'

'Gladly, if I may,' I hastened to answer, for the sweet, brave face
was too much to bear; and, till she left us for that world of which
she was a part, I kept my word, to my own great and lasting good.
When Graeme met me in the city at the end of the summer, he brought
me her love, and then burst forth--

'Connor, do you know, I have just discovered my mother!  I have
never known her till this summer.'

'More fool you,' I answered, for often had I, who had never known a
mother, envied him his.

'Yes, that is true,' he answered slowly; 'but you cannot see until
you have eyes.'

Before he set out again for the west I gave him a supper, asking
the men who had been with us in the old 'Varsity days.  I was
doubtful as to the wisdom of this, and was persuaded only by
Graeme's eager assent to my proposal.

'Certainly, let's have them,' he said; 'I shall be awfully glad to
see them; great stuff they were.'

'But, I don't know, Graeme; you see--well--hang it!--you know--
you're different, you know.'

He looked at me curiously.

'I hope I can still stand a good supper, and if the boys can't
stand me, why, I can't help it.  I'll do anything but roar, and
don't you begin to work off your menagerie act--now, you hear me!'

'Well, it is rather hard lines that when I have been talking up my
lion for a year, and then finally secure him, that he will not
roar.'

'Serve you right,' he replied, quite heartlessly; 'but I'll tell
you what I'll do, I'll feed!  Don't you worry,' he adds soothingly;
'the supper will go.'

And go it did.  The supper was of the best; the wines first-class.
I had asked Graeme about the wines.

'Do as you like, old man,' was his answer; 'it's your supper, but,'
he added, 'are the men all straight?'

I ran them over in my mind.

'Yes; I think so.'

If not, don't you help them down; and anyway, you can't be too
careful.  But don't mind me; I am quit of the whole business from
this out.'  So I ventured wines, for the last time, as it happened.

We were a quaint combination.  Old 'Beetles,' whose nickname was
prophetic of his future fame as a bugman, as the fellows
irreverently said; 'Stumpy' Smith, a demon bowler; Polly Lindsay,
slow as ever and as sure as when he held the half-back line with
Graeme, and used to make my heart stand still with terror at his
cool deliberation.  But he was never known to fumble nor to funk,
and somehow he always got us out safe enough.  Then there was
Rattray--'Rat' for short--who, from a swell, had developed into a
cynic with a sneer, awfully clever and a good enough fellow at
heart.  Little 'Wig' Martin, the sharpest quarter ever seen, and
big Barney Lundy, centre scrimmage, whose terrific roar and rush
had often struck terror to the enemy's heart, and who was Graeme's
slave.  Such was the party.

As the supper went on my fears began to vanish, for if Graeme did
not 'roar,' he did the next best thing--ate and talked quite up to
his old form.  Now we played our matches over again, bitterly
lamenting the 'if's' that had lost us the championships, and wildly
approving the tackles that had saved, and the runs that had made
the 'Varsity crowd go mad with delight and had won for us.  And as
their names came up in talk, we learned how life had gone with
those who had been our comrades of ten years ago.  Some, success
had lifted to high places; some, failure had left upon the rocks,
and a few lay in their graves.

But as the evening wore on, I began to wish that I had left out the
wines, for the men began to drop an occasional oath, though I had
let them know during the summer that Graeme was not the man he had
been.  But Graeme smoked and talked and heeded not, till Rattray
swore by that name most sacred of all ever borne by man.  Then
Graeme opened upon him in a cool, slow way--

'What an awful fool a man is, to damn things as you do, Rat.
Things are not damned.  It is men who are; and that is too bad to
be talked much about but when a man flings out of his foul mouth
the name of Jesus Christ'--here he lowered his voice--'it's a
shame--it's more, it's a crime.'

There was dead silence, then Rattray replied--

'I suppose you're right enough, it is bad form; but crime is rather
strong, I think.'

'Not if you consider who it is,' said Graeme with emphasis.

'Oh, come now,' broke in Beetles.  'Religion is all right, is a
good thing, and I believe a necessary thing for the race, but no
one takes seriously any longer the Christ myth.'

'What about your mother, Beetles?' put in Wig Martin.

Beetles consigned him to the pit and was silent, for his father was
an Episcopal clergyman, and his mother a saintly woman.

'I fooled with that for some time, Beetles, but it won't do.  You
can't build a religion that will take the devil out of a man on a
myth.  That won't do the trick.  I don't want to argue about it,
but I am quite convinced the myth theory is not reasonable, and
besides, it wont work.'

'Will the other work?' asked Rattray, with a sneer.

'Sure!' said Grame; 'I've seen it.'

'Where?' challenged Rattray.  'I haven't seen much of it.'

'Yes, you have, Rattray, you know you have,' said Wig again.  But
Rattray ignored him.

'I'll tell you, boys,' said Graeme.  'I want you to know, anyway,
why I believe what I do.'

Then he told them the story of old man Nelson, from the old coast
days, before I knew him, to the end.  He told the story well.  The
stern fight and the victory of the life, and the self-sacrifice and
the pathos of the death appealed to these men, who loved fight and
could understand sacrifice.

'That's why I believe in Jesus Christ, and that's why I think it a
crime to fling His name about!'

'I wish to Heaven I could say that,' said Beetles.

'Keep wishing hard enough and it will come to you,' said Graeme.

'Look here, old chap,' said Rattray; 'you're quite right about
this; I'm willing to own up.  Wig is correct.  I know a few, at
least, of that stamp, but most of those who go in for that sort of
thing are not much account'

'For ten years, Rattray,' said Graeme in a downright, matter-of-
fact way, 'you and I have tried this sort of thing'--tapping a
bottle--'and we got out of it all there is to be got, paid well for
it, too, and--faugh! you know it's not good enough, and the more
you go in for it, the more you curse yourself.  So I have quit this
and I am going in for the other.'

'What! going in for preaching?'

'Not much--railroading--money in it--and lending a hand to fellows
on the rocks.'

'I say, don't you want a centre forward?' said big Barney in his
deep voice.

'Every man must play his game in his place, old chap.  I'd like to
see you tackle it, though, right well,' said Graeme earnestly.  And
so he did, in the after years, and good tackling it was.  But that
is another story.

'But, I say, Graeme,' persisted Beetles, 'about this business, do
you mean to say you go the whole thing--Jonah, you know, and the
rest of it?'

Graeme hesitated, then said--

'I haven't much of a creed, Beetles; don't really know how much I
believe.  But,' by this time he was standing, 'I do know that good
is good, and bad is bad, and good and bad are not the same.  And I
know a man's a fool to follow the one, and a wise man to follow the
other, and,' lowering his voice, 'I believe God is at the back of a
man who wants to get done with bad.  I've tried all that folly,'
sweeping his hand over the glasses and bottles, 'and all that goes
with it, and I've done with it'

'I'll go you that far,' roared big Barney, following his old
captain as of yore.

'Good man,' said Graeme, striking hands with him.

'Put me down,' said little Wig cheerfully.

Then I took up the word, for there rose before me the scene in the
League saloon, and I saw the beautiful face with the deep shining
eyes, and I was speaking for her again.  I told them of Craig and
his fight for these men's lives.  I told them, too, of how I had
been too indolent to begin.  'But,' I said, 'I am going this far
from to-night,' and I swept the bottles into the champagne tub.

'I say,' said Polly Lindsay, coming up in his old style, slow but
sure, 'let's all go in, say for five years.'  And so we did.  We
didn't sign anything, but every man shook hands with Graeme.

And as I told Craig about this a year later, when he was on his way
back from his Old Land trip to join Graeme in the mountains, he
threw up his head in the old way and said, 'It was well done.  It
must have been worth seeing.  Old man Nelson's work is not done
yet.  Tell me again,' and he made me go over the whole scene with
all the details put in.

But when I told Mrs. Mavor, after two years had gone, she only
said, 'Old things are passed away, all things are become new'; but
the light glowed in her eyes till I could not see their colour.
But all that, too, is another story.


CHAPTER XV

COMING TO THEIR OWN


A man with a conscience is often provoking, sometimes impossible.
Persuasion is lost upon him.  He will not get angry, and he looks
at one with such a far-away expression in his face that in striving
to persuade him one feels earthly and even fiendish.  At least this
was my experience with Craig.  He spent a week with me just before
he sailed for the Old Land, for the purpose, as he said, of getting
some of the coal dust and other grime out of him.

He made me angry the last night of his stay, and all the more that
he remained quite sweetly unmoved.  It was a strategic mistake of
mine to tell him how Nelson came home to us, and how Graeme stood
up before the 'Varsity chaps at my supper and made his confession
and confused Rattray's easy-stepping profanity, and started his own
five-year league.  For all this stirred in Craig the hero, and he
was ready for all sorts of heroic nonsense, as I called it.  We
talked of everything but the one thing, and about that we said not
a word till, bending low to poke my fire and to hide my face, I
plunged--

'You will see her, of course?'

He made no pretence of not understanding but answered--

'Of course.'

'There's really no sense in her staying over there,' I suggested.

'And yet she is a wise woman,' he said, as if carefully considering
the question.

'Heaps of landlords never see their tenants, and they are none the
worse.'

'The landlords?'

'No, the tenants.'

'Probably, having such landlords.'

'And as for the old lady, there must be some one in the connection
to whom it would be a Godsend to care for her.'

'Now, Connor,' he said quietly, 'don't.  We have gone over all
there is to be said.  Nothing new has come.  Don't turn it all up
again.'

Then I played the heathen and raged, as Graeme would have said,
till Craig smiled a little wearily and said--

'You exhaust yourself, old chap.  Have a pipe, do'; and after a
pause he added in his own way, 'What would you have?  The path
lies straight from my feet.  Should I quit it?  I could not so
disappoint you--and all of them.'

And I knew he was thinking of Graeme and the lads in the mountains
he had taught to be true men.  It did not help my rage, but it
checked my speech; so I smoked in silence till he was moved to say--

'And after all, you know, old chap, there are great compensations
for all losses; but for the loss of a good conscience towards God,
what can make up?'

But, all the same, I hoped for some better result from his visit to
Britain.  It seemed to me that something must turn up to change
such an unbearable situation.

The year passed, however, and when I looked into Craig's face again
I knew that nothing had been changed, and that he had come back to
take up again his life alone, more resolutely hopeful than ever.

But the year had left its mark upon him too.  He was a broader and
deeper man.  He had been living and thinking with men of larger
ideas and richer culture, and he was far too quick in sympathy with
life to remain untouched by his surroundings.  He was more tolerant
of opinions other than his own, but more unrelenting in his
fidelity to conscience and more impatient of half-heartedness and
self-indulgence.  He was full of reverence for the great scholars
and the great leaders of men he had come to know.

'Great, noble fellows they are, and extraordinarily modest,' he
said--'that is, the really great are modest.  There are plenty of
the other sort, neither great nor modest.  And the books to be
read!  I am quite hopeless about my reading.  It gave me a queer
sensation to shake hands with a man who had written a great book.
To hear him make commonplace remarks, to witness a faltering in
knowledge--one expects these men to know everything--and to
experience respectful kindness at his hands!'

'What of the younger men?' I asked.

'Bright, keen, generous fellows.  In things theoretical, omniscient;
but in things practical, quite helpless.  They toss about great
ideas as the miners lumps of coal.  They can call them by their book
names easily enough, but I often wondered whether they could put
them into English.  Some of them I coveted for the mountains.  Men
with clear heads and big hearts, and built after Sandy M'Naughton's
model.  It does seem a sinful waste of God's good human stuff to see
these fellows potter away their lives among theories living and
dead, and end up by producing a book!  They are all either making or
going to make a book.  A good thing we haven't to read them.  But
here and there among them is some quiet chap who will make a book
that men will tumble over each other to read.'

Then we paused and looked at each other.

'Well?' I said.  He understood me.

'Yes!' he answered slowly, 'doing great work.  Every one worships
her just as we do, and she is making them all do something worth
while, as she used to make us.'

He spoke cheerfully and readily as if he were repeating a lesson
well learned, but he could not humbug me.  I felt the heartache in
the cheerful tone.

'Tell me about her,' I said, for I knew that if he would talk it
would do him good.  And talk he did, often forgetting me, till, as
I listened, I found myself looking again into the fathomless eyes,
and hearing again the heart-searching voice.  I saw her go in and
out of the little red-tiled cottages and down the narrow back lanes
of the village; I heard her voice in a sweet, low song by the bed
of a dying child, or pouring forth floods of music in the great new
hall of the factory town near by.  But I could not see, though he
tried to show me, the stately gracious lady receiving the country
folk in her home.  He did not linger over that scene, but went back
again to the gate-cottage where she had taken him one day to see
Billy Breen's mother.

'I found the old woman knew all about me,' he said, simply enough;
'but there were many things about Billy she had never heard, and I
was glad to put her right on some points, though Mrs. Mavor would
not hear it.'

He sat silent for a little, looking into the coals; then went on in
a soft, quiet voice--

'It brought back the mountains and the old days to hear again
Billy's tones in his mother's voice, and to see her sitting there
in the very dress she wore the night of the League, you remember--
some soft stuff with black lace about it--and to hear her sing as
she did for Billy--ah! ah!'  His voice unexpectedly broke, but in a
moment he was master of himself and begged me to forgive his
weakness.  I am afraid I said words that should not be said--a
thing I never do, except when suddenly and utterly upset.

'I am getting selfish and weak,' he said; 'I must get to work.  I
am glad to get to work.  There is much to do, and it is worth
while, if only to keep one from getting useless and lazy.'

'Useless and lazy!' I said to myself, thinking of my life beside
his, and trying to get command of my voice, so as not to make quite
a fool of myself.  And for many a day those words goaded me to work
and to the exercise of some mild self-denial.  But more than all
else, after Craig had gone back to the mountains, Graeme's letters
from the railway construction camp stirred one to do unpleasant
duty long postponed, and rendered uncomfortable my hours of most
luxurious ease.  Many of the old gang were with him, both of
lumbermen and miners, and Craig was their minister.  And the
letters told of how he laboured by day and by night along the line
of construction, carrying his tent and kit with him, preaching
straight sermons, watching by sick men, writing their letters, and
winning their hearts; making strong their lives, and helping them
to die well when their hour came.  One day, these letters proved
too much for me, and I packed away my paints and brushes, and made
my vow unto the Lord that I would be 'useless and lazy' no longer,
but would do something with myself.  In consequence, I found myself
within three weeks walking the London hospitals, finishing my
course, that I might join that band of men who were doing something
with life, or, if throwing it away, were not losing it for nothing.
I had finished being a fool, I hoped, at least a fool of the
useless and luxurious kind.  The letter that came from Graeme, in
reply to my request for a position on his staff, was characteristic
of the man, both new and old, full of gayest humour and of most
earnest welcome to the work.

Mrs. Mavor's reply was like herself--

'I knew you would not long be content with the making of pictures,
which the world does not really need, and would join your friends
in the dear West, making lives that the world needs so sorely.'

But her last words touched me strangely--

'But be sure to be thankful every day for your privilege. . . .  It
will be good to think of you all, with the glorious mountains about
you, and Christ's own work in your hands. . . .  Ah! how we would
like to choose our work, and the place in which to do it!'

The longing did not appear in the words, but I needed no words to
tell me how deep and how constant it was.  And I take some credit
to myself, that in my reply I gave her no bidding to join our band,
but rather praised the work she was doing in her place, telling her
how I had heard of it from Craig.

The summer found me religiously doing Paris and Vienna, gaining a
more perfect acquaintance with the extent and variety of my own
ignorance, and so fully occupied in this interesting and wholesome
occupation that I fell out with all my correspondents, with the
result of weeks of silence between us.

Two letters among the heap waiting on my table in London made my
heart beat quick, but with how different feelings: one from Graeme
telling me that Craig had been very ill, and that he was to take
him home as soon as he could be moved.  Mrs. Mavor's letter told me
of the death of the old lady, who had been her care for the past
two years, and of her intention to spend some months in her old
home in Edinburgh.  And this letter it is that accounts for my
presence in a miserable, dingy, dirty little hall running off a
close in the historic Cowgate, redolent of the glories of the
splendid past, and of the various odours of the evil-smelling
present.  I was there to hear Mrs. Mavor sing to the crowd of
gamins that thronged the closes in the neighbourhood, and that had
been gathered into a club by 'a fine leddie frae the West End,' for
the love of Christ and His lost.  This was an 'At Home' night, and
the mothers and fathers, sisters and brothers, of all ages and
sizes were present.  Of all the sad faces I had ever seen, those
mothers carried the saddest and most woe-stricken.  'Heaven pity
us!' I found myself saying; 'is this the beautiful, the cultured,
the heaven-exalted city of Edinburgh?  Will it not, for this, be
cast down into hell some day, if it repent not of its closes and
their dens of defilement?  Oh! the utter weariness, the dazed
hopelessness of the ghastly faces!  Do not the kindly, gentle
church-going folk of the crescents and the gardens see them in
their dreams, or are their dreams too heavenly for these ghastly
faces to appear?'

I cannot recall the programme of the evening, but in my memory-
gallery is a vivid picture of that face, sweet, sad, beautiful,
alight with the deep glow of her eyes, as she stood and sang to
that dingy crowd.  As I sat upon the window-ledge listening to the
voice with its flowing song, my thoughts were far away, and I was
looking down once more upon the eager, coal-grimed faces in the
rude little church in Black Rock.  I was brought back to find
myself swallowing hard by an audible whisper from a wee lassie to
her mother--

'Mither!  See till yon man.  He's greetin'.'

When I came to myself she was singing 'The Land o' the Leal,' the
Scotch 'Jerusalem the Golden,' immortal, perfect.  It needed
experience of the hunger-haunted Cowgate closes, chill with the
black mist of an eastern haar, to feel the full bliss of the vision
in the words--


    'There's nae sorrow there, Jean,
     There's neither cauld nor care, Jean,
     The day is aye fair in
     The Land o' the Leal.'


A land of fair, warm days, untouched by sorrow and care, would be
heaven indeed to the dwellers of the Cowgate.

The rest of that evening is hazy enough to me now, till I find
myself opposite Mrs. Mavor at her fire, reading Graeme's letter;
then all is vivid again.

I could not keep the truth from her.  I knew it would be folly to
try.  So I read straight on till I came to the words--

'He has had mountain fever, whatever that may be, and he will not
pull up again.  If I can, I shall take him home to my mother'--when
she suddenly stretched out her hand, saying, 'Oh, let me read!' and
I gave her the letter.  In a minute she had read it, and began
almost breathlessly--

'Listen! my life is much changed.  My mother-in-law is gone; she
needs me no longer.  My solicitor tells me, too, that owing to
unfortunate investments there is need of money, so great need, that
it is possible that either the estates or the works must go.  My
cousin has his all in the works--iron works, you know.  It would be
wrong to have him suffer.  I shall give up the estates--that is
best.'  She paused.

'And come with me,' I cried.

'When do you sail?'

'Next week,' I answered eagerly.

She looked at me a few moments, and into her eyes there came a
light soft and tender, as she said--

'I shall go with you.'

And so she did; and no old Roman in all the glory of a Triumph
carried a prouder heart than I, as I bore her and her little one
from the train to Graeme's carriage, crying--

'I've got her.'

But his was the better sense, for he stood waving his hat and
shouting--

'He's all right,' at which Mrs. Mavor grew white; but when she
shook hands with him, the red was in her cheek again.

'It was the cable did it,' went on Graeme.  'Connor's a great
doctor!  His first case will make him famous.  Good prescription--
after mountain fever try a cablegram!'  And the red grew deeper in
the beautiful face beside us.

Never did the country look so lovely.  The woods were in their
gayest autumn dress; the brown fields were bathed in a purple haze;
the air was sweet and fresh with a suspicion of the coming frosts
of winter.  But in spite of all the road seemed long, and it was as
if hours had gone before our eyes fell upon the white manse
standing among the golden leaves.

'Let them go,' I cried, as Graeme paused to take in the view, and
down the sloping dusty road we flew on the dead run.

'Reminds one a little of Abe's curves,' said Graeme, as we drew up
at the gate.  But I answered him not, for I was introducing to each
other the two best women in the world.  As I was about to rush into
the house, Graeme seized me by the collar, saying--

'Hold on, Connor! you forget your place, you're next.'

'Why, certainly,' I cried, thankfully enough; 'what an ass I am!'

'Quite true,' said Graeme solemnly.

'Where is he?' I asked.

'At this present moment?' he asked, in a shocked voice.  'Why,
Connor, you surprise me.'

'Oh, I see!'

'Yes,' he went on gravely; 'you may trust my mother to be
discreetly attending to her domestic duties; she is a great woman,
my mother.'

I had no doubt of it, for at that moment she came out to us with
little Marjorie in her arms.

'You have shown Mrs. Mavor to her room, mother, I hope,' said
Graeme; but she only smiled and said--

'Run away with your horses, you silly boy,' at which he solemnly
shook his head.  'Ah, mother, you are deep--who would have thought
it of you?'

That evening the manse overflowed with joy, and the days that
followed were like dreams set to sweet music.

But for sheer wild delight, nothing in my memory can quite come up
to the demonstration organised by Graeme, with assistance from
Nixon, Shaw, Sandy, Abe, Geordie, and Baptiste, in honour of the
arrival in camp of Mr. and Mrs. Craig.  And, in my opinion, it
added something to the occasion, that after all the cheers for Mr.
and Mrs. Craig had died away, and after all the hats had come down,
Baptiste, who had never taken his eyes from that radiant face,
should suddenly have swept the crowd into a perfect storm of cheers
by excitedly seizing his tuque, and calling out in his shrill
voice--

'By gar!  Tree cheer for Mrs. Mavor.'

And for many a day the men of Black Rock would easily fall into the
old and well-loved name; but up and down the line of construction,
in all the camps beyond the Great Divide, the new name became as
dear as the old had ever been in Black Rock.

Those old wild days are long since gone into the dim distance of
the past.  They will not come again, for we have fallen into quiet
times; but often in my quietest hours I feel my heart pause in its
beat to hear again that strong, clear voice, like the sound of a
trumpet, bidding us to be men; and I think of them all--Graeme,
their chief, Sandy, Baptiste, Geordie, Abe, the Campbells, Nixon,
Shaw, all stronger, better for their knowing of him, and then I
think of Billy asleep under the pines, and of old man Nelson with
the long grass waving over him in the quiet churchyard, and all my
nonsense leaves me, and I bless the Lord for all His benefits, but
chiefly for the day I met the missionary of Black Rock in the
lumber-camp among the Selkirks.





End of this Project Gutenberg Etext of Black Rock by Ralph Connor

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