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Black
Rock
§ By RALPH CONNOR
W
CHAPTER XIV.
GRAEME’S HEW BIRTH.
HERE 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 coun
try 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; ho made me feel oven more
lazy and useless than was my wont,
but I respected him more nnd liked
him none tho loss. 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 expecta
tion of tales of thrilling and blood
thirsty adventure.
His first days were spent In making
right, or ns nearly right as he could,
the break that drove him to tho west.
His old flrm—and I have had more re
spect for the humanity of lawyers ever
since—bohavod really well. They prov
ed the restoration of their confidence
in his integrity and ability by offering
him a place in tho firm, which, how
ever, he would not accept, Then, when
he felt clean, as he said, he posted off
home, .taking mo 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 tho country road that led toward
the home ten miles away his speech
came to him in a great flow. His spir
its ran over. Ho was like a boy re
turning from his first college term. His
very face wore the boy’s open, Inno
cent, earnest look that used to attract
men to him in his first college your.
His delight in tho fields and woods, in
the sweet country air nnd the sunlight,
was without bound. How often had
Wo driven thiB road together in the
old daysl
Every turn was familiar. The swamp
Where the tamaracks stood straight and
slim out of their beds of moss; the
brulo, as we used to call it, where the
pine stumps, huge and blackened, were
half hidden by the new growth of pop
lars and soft maples; the big MU,
Where we used to get out and walk
When the Toads wore bad; the orchards,
Where the harvest apples were best
and most accessible—all had their
memories.
It was one of those perfect after
noons that so often como 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 pictur
esque snake fences stretched the fields
of springing grain, of varying shades of
green, with hero and there a dark
brown patch, marking a turnip field or
summer fallow, nnd far back w r ere the
woods of maple nnd beech and elm,
With hero 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 day
light, something of the grewsomeness
that shivered down my back as I saw
in the moonlight the gleam of a white
thing not 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 or
chards, openly as guests or secretly as
marauders, under cover of night—the
more delightful way, I fear. Ah, hap
py days, with these innocent crimes
and fleeting remorses, how bravely we
faced them, and how gayly.we lived
'them, and how yearningly we look
back at them now! The sun was just
dipping into the treetops of the distant
woods behind as we came to the top
of the last hill that overlooked the val
ley in which lay the village of River-
dale. Wooded hills stood about it on
three sides, and where the hills faded
out there lay the millpond sleeping and
smiling in the sun. Through the vil
lage ran the white road, up past the
old frame church and on to the white
manse hiding 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
ramnart of wooded hills, its shining
pond and its nestling village. The
beauty, the peace, the warm, loving I
homeliness of the scene, came about
our hearts; but being men, we could .
find no words. i
“Let’s go!’’ cried Graeme, and down * 1
the hill we tore and rocked and sway- j
ed, to the amazement of the steady
team, whose education from the earli- j
est 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 Dune Mc
Leod was equal to the moment, for as
Graeme called out, “Hello, Dune!’’ the
old man lifted up his hands and called
back in an awed voice;
“Bless my soull 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 tho
full run down the gentle slope, over
the little brook and up to the gate. He
had hardly got his team pulled up be
fore, flinging me the lines, he was out
over the wheel, for coining 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 boyl” and got down on
the other side to attend to my off
horse, surprised to find my hands trem
bling 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 ns ho kissed his son, and the [
tremor of his voice and the sight of the
two men kissing each other, like worn- j
en, sent me ngain to my horses’ heads, i
“There’s Connor, mother!” shouted j
out Graeme, and the dainty little lady,
in her black silk and white lace, came
out to mo quickly, with outstretched
hands.
“You, too, are welcome home,” she
said and kissed me.
I stood with my hat off, saying some
thing 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 beauti
ful 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 como. 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 hero,”
Tho 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 ns 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 ns 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 an
swered, smiling again, as she turned
toward the other .two, now waiting for
her upon the walk.
The w T eek 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 ma
ple 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 lov
ers, 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, man
ly fellow, with all his brother’s turn
for Rugby, and I took to him amazing
ly, but after the day was over we
would gather about the supper table,
nnd 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 remon
strated, “you ought to tell your people
ofytmr life, that free, clorious life in
the mountains.'*'”
“Free! Glorious! To some men per
haps!” 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 splen
did 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, demol
ishing 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 uni
verse, and he means to carry out his
idea and 1b carrying it out. But what
would you do in a case like this?”
Then he told 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 Anal 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 those poor lads.
Would I wore twenty years younger!”
“It Is worth a man’s life,” said
Graeme earnestly.
His younger brother turned his face
eagerly toward the mother. For an
swer 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 bet
ter 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 ortho
dox enough,” looking at his father and
shaking his head—“but to build rail
roads and lend a hand to some poor
chap if I con.”
“Gould you not find work nearer
home, ray 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 an
cient sacrifice. But not all the agony
pf sacrifice could wring from her en
treaty 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 shoul
ders and kissed me, saying softly:
“You are his friend. You will some
times come to me?”
"Gladly, if I may,” I hastened to an
swer, 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 of
ten had I, who had never known a
mother, envied him his.
“Yes; that is true,” he answered
shortly, “but you cannot see until you
have eyas.”
Before he set out again for the west
I gave him a supper, asking the men
who had been with us in the old var
sity 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,
stuff they were.” __ - -
But I don’t know, Graeme. You see
—well, hang it—you know—you’re dif
ferent, you know.”
He looked at me curiously.
“I hope I can still stand a good sup
per, 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
mel”
“Well, it is rather hard lines that
when I have been talking up my lion
for a year and then finally secure him
he will not roar.”
“Serves you right,” he replied quite
heartlessly. “But I’ll tell you what
I’ll do—I’ll feed! Don’t you worry,”
he added 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 pro
phetic of his future fame as a bugman,
as the fellows irreverently said; “Stum
py” Smith, a demon bowler; “Polly”
Lindsay, slow as ever and as sure as
when he held the halfback line with
Graeme and used to make my heart
stand still at his cool deliberation. But
he was never known to fumble or funk,
and somehow he always got us out safe
enough. Then there were 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 Barney Lundy, center 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 be
gan 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, bit
terly lamenting the “ifs” that had lost
us tho championships and wildly ap
proving 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 suc
cess 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 occasion
al 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 sa
cred 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 Rat
tray 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. It Is a good
thing and, I believe, a necessary tiling
for the race. But no one takes serious
ly any longer the Christ myth.”
“What about your mother, Beetles?”
put in Wig Mgrtin.
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