CHAPTER VI.
CATECHISINGS.
A June Sunday in the country, radiant, cloudless, odorous with thebreath of countless blossoms, thrilled with the melody of unnumberedvoices, was just beginning. The first blush of morning lay warm uponsky and lake--the splendour above perfectly matched by the splendourbelow,--as Rose Macleod opened her casement window fronting the east,and looked out upon the myriad tender tints, the new yet ever familiarharmonies of light and colour with which the world was clothed. Thegray walls of the Commodore's home on this side were hung withclimbing plants, and as his pretty daughter leaned out of her chamberwindow a dewy branch of roses, loosened from its fastening, struck hersoftly on the cheek. The touch gave her a thrill, delicately keen--apleasure, sharp as pain. No life was abroad yet except the birds, butthe morning-glories were all awake. She could see their wealth oftender bloom outspread upon the rugged heap of rocks, warm withsunshine, that separated between a corner of the flower-smothered turfand the dark shadow of the almost impenetrable woods.
With her golden head drooped in drowsy meditation upon her folded armsshe would have made a picture for a painter, a picture rose-tinted androse-framed. But no painter was there to look upon her except the sun,and his ardent attentions becoming altogether too warm to be agreeablehe was incontinently shut outside. She turned away with that slightsense of intoxication that comes from gazing too long upon theinexpressible beauty of a world that is dimmed only by the complaintsand forebodings of querulous humanity. In the cool dimness of thepretty many-windowed room she stood a moment irresolutely, and thenwent in search of inspiration to a row of well-used books, over whichshe ran a pink reflective finger-tip. But nothing there responded toher need. It is a rare book that is worthy to hold the attention ofmaidenhood on a June morning.
So, as further slumber was impossible, she presently slipped downstairs, and stepped out upon the broad veranda. Afterwards came theyounger children, Herbert and Eva, whose usually bright faces wereshadowed now with the consciousness that it was Sunday, a fact thatwas aggravated rather than palliated by the radiant perfection of theweather. The Commodore, who was the most sympathetic soul alive,would, if he could have followed his own unperverted instincts, havehad his children as happy on Sunday as on any other day, but it wasnecessary to make concessions to the Puritan spirit of the time, whichruled that a certain degree of discomfort and restraint should markthe first day of the week. But every dull look vanished as thefather's step was heard, for his was one of those genial, warm-hearted,caressing natures, which are calculated to dispel the chill of even anold-fashioned Sunday. There was also a hearty brusqueness in the toneof his voice, something of the sea in the swing of his gait, and evenin the movement of his full kindly gray eye, which could not fail toinspire confidence. His children flew to him at once, laying violenthands upon him, and clinging to his arms with decorously subduedshrieks of merriment, as he walked briskly to and fro.
"Where's Edward?" he demanded of his eldest daughter, as theyapproached that young lady, who was pensively reclining in a rusticchair.
"Not up yet, papa," she dreamily responded, uplifting her face for hismorning salutation.
"Not _awake_ yet," corrected Herbert, with a boy's unmistakablecontempt for the luxurious habits of his elders.
"Lazy dog!" commented the Commodore, in a voice whose irateness waswholly assumed. "If I had come down late to breakfast when I was youngI would have been sent back to bed again."
"That is what Ed. would like," declared Herbert. "He said it was nouse calling Sunday a day of rest unless one could get all the rest onewanted, and it was hardly worth while for him to get up at all on aday when he couldn't fish or shoot or go out in his boat."
"The young barbarian! After all the care and pains expended on hisbringing up. What shall we do about it, Rosy?"
"Call him again!" said Herbert, who, with the ever-fertile mind oftender youth, was never destitute of practical suggestions.
"Bright boy! run at once and ring the bell just outside his door." Asthe child departed to make the clangour, so much more delightful tohis own ears than to those for whom it was intended, Eva observed:
"But he came in so late last night, papa, and looked very tired."
The Commodore patted the head of his little girl, but he continued todirect towards her elder sister a glance of half-humorous inquiry.Poor Rose knitted her pretty brows in troubled perplexity. She hadbeen informed in the "Advice to Young Women," "Duties of Womanhood,"and other ethical works of the day, that a sister's influence isillimitable, and she felt besides an added weight of responsibilitytowards her motherless sister and brothers. "I don't know, papa," shesaid at last, "unless we all take to the backwoods, live in a wigwam,and feast on the fruits of the chase. Edward chafes a good deal underthe restraints of civilized life."
"Ah, here comes the prodigal son!" joyously exclaimed Eva, who ran tomeet her favourite brother, oblivious of the smiles produced by herunflatteringly inapt remark.
"Don't kill any calf for me," entreated Edward, thrusting his youngersister's straight yellow locks over her face, until it was hard to saywhere her features ended and the back of her head began. "I deserveit, but I don't like it. Veal is my detestation."
"Upon my word," said the old gentleman, looking very hard at adiscoloured spot just above the left eye of his eldest born, "it looksas though I had been trying to kill the prodigal instead of the calf.That's a bad bruise, my boy."
"'Tis, sir," responded Edward, in a tone which implied that meekassent was all that could be expected from him to a proposition sovery self-evident. He felt uncomfortably conscious that the eyes ofthe assembled family were upon him, and glanced half enviously at Eva,as though the ability to shake a sunny mane over one's face at willwas something to be thankful for. The breakfast bell roused them froma momentary silence, but the shadow of this mysterious bruise seemedto follow them even to the table. Herbert and Eva, aged respectivelyten and twelve, had that superabundant love of information socharacteristic of their tender years. They sat in round-eyed silence,bringing the battery of their glances to bear upon their unfortunatebrother, who at last could endure it no longer.
"Upon my life!" he exclaimed, "one would think I was thegovernor-general, or some wild animal in a menagerie, to become theobject of so much concentrated and distinguished attention."
"Which would you say he was, Eva?" asked Herbert.
"Which what?" inquired that young lady.
"Sir Peregrine Maitland, or a wild animal?"
"Oh, Sir Peregrine, of course. See what a lofty, scornful way he hasof looking at us. And yet he is not really proud; he is willing to sitdown with us at our humble board, just as though he was a commonperson."
"Children!" said Rose with soft reproach, but her voice trembled, andthe imps were subjugated only outwardly.
"Anything particular going on in Barrie?" queried the Commodore,turning to his eldest son.
"Really, I can't say. I haven't been over in several days."
"Oh, I imagined you were there last night."
"I never go there at night," protested the young man, with unnecessaryvehemence. It was clear to him now that his father and sister held avery low opinion of him indeed. Probably they thought he had been hurtin some vulgar tavern brawl, or drunken street fight. The idea wasloathsome to him. He had not a single low taste or trait of character.
"I'm afraid," said Herbert, shaking his head with mock regret, "thatyou are a very wild fellow."
"He means that you are very fond of the wilds," interpreted Rose,hurriedly endeavouring to avert the threatened domestic storm. "Eva,"she continued, taking up that irrepressible damsel before she couldgive utterance to the uncalled-for remark, which was but too evidentlyburning upon her lips, "do you know your catechism?"
"Yes," replied her sister, in rather an aggrieved tone, for she didnot relish this change in the conversation, "I know it--to a certainextent."
"Eva looks as though she would prefer to catechise Edward,"
slylyinterpolated her father; and under this shameless encouragement theyoung lady boldly observed:
"Indeed, I should. I should like to begin right at the beginning with,'Can you tell me, dear child, who made you'--have that big blackbruise on your brow?"
"I can," responded Edward, imperturbably. "It was a beautiful littlebeast, not much bigger than you are, but a great deal prettier."
"Was it, really?" Any offence that might have been taken at theuncomplimentary nature of the reply was swallowed up in eagercuriosity. "What was it?"
"Well, that I can't tell you. I never saw anything like it before."
"That's queer," said Herbert. "What colour was it?"
"Oh, black and brown and all the loveliest shades of scarlet--withcruel, little, white teeth, sharp and strong as a squirrel's teeth."
"But it didn't bite you," said Rose, with a puzzled glance at thewhite brow, whose delicate fairness made the discolouration moreconspicuous.
"No, but it looked fully capable of biting--enchanting little brute!"
"Why on earth didn't you shoot it?" questioned the Commodore, rousinghimself to the exploration of this new mystery.
The young man laughed a little guiltily. "To tell the truth the ideanever once entered my head. You have no idea what beautiful eyes ithad."
"Oh--sentimentalist!"
"Yes, I was sentimental enough yesterday, but it will be long before Iam troubled that way again."
"At any rate," said Herbert, as they drifted back to the shadowingveranda, whose flowery screen the sun had not yet penetrated, "youcan't go to church."
"I wish I could take you all over in my sail-boat," said his elderbrother, wistfully surveying the blue waters of Kempenfeldt Bay.
"Ed., you are a heathen," declared Miss Eva, whose usual adoringadvocacy of her brother's opinions was paralized by this assault uponthe proprieties; "it's wicked to ride in a boat on Sunday."
"But it's perfectly right to ride in a carriage," added Herbert, witha view to giving information, and not with any satirical intention.
There was no reply. If it is a crime to possess a too greatsusceptibility to the ever-deepening charm of woods and waters thenEdward Macleod was the chief of sinners. In his father he had a secretsympathizer, for the old gentleman himself was not without strongleanings toward a free and careless, if not semi-savage, life. But nohint of this escaped him in the presence of the younger children,whose air of severe morality, born of renewed attacks and finaltriumph over the difficulties of the Sunday School lesson, heconsidered it unwise to disturb.
Church service was not a painfully long or tedious affair. The littlewooden structure, erected for that purpose in Barrie, had the air oftrying to be in sweet accord with the outlying wilderness, from thedark green drapery of ivy which charitably strove to hide its rawnewness. The town itself (for in a new country everything in excess ofa post-office is called a town) was wrapped in Sabbath stillness. Thelittle church was well filled, for a bright Sunday in a countryvillage draws the inhabitants from their homes as infallibly as beesfrom their hives. Workers and drones they were all there, bowedtogether under the sense of a common need, and of faith in a commonHelper, which alone makes men free and equal.
Like a light in a dark place gleamed the bright head of Rose Macleodin the farthest corner of the family pew. A vagrant sunbeam, like agolden arrow, pierced the gloom about her, but to the disappointmentof _one_ interested observer, it failed to reach the rich coils, sonearly resembling it in colour. This observer presently remindedhimself that he had come there to worship the divine, as revealed inholy writ, not in human beauty; nevertheless he could not forbearsending another stealthy glance, which, more accurately aimed than thesunbeam, rested fully and lingeringly upon the shadowy recess, where aglowing amber-golden head bloomed richly forth against the frigidback-ground of a bare wooden wall. The dainty little lady, envelopedin the antique richness of a stiff brocade, should have been madeaware by some mysteriously occult means of a strange thrill at theheart, caused by the protracted gaze of a handsome fellow-worshipper,but to tell the truth her thoughts were piously intent upon theenormity of her own sins, and the necessity of reclaiming her brotherfrom the very literal wildness of his ways.
Service was over; the still air seemed vibrant with the notes of thelast hymn, and tender with the just-uttered words of the benediction,as this stately little damsel, with the peculiar air of distinctionwhich set so charmingly upon her doll-like personality, passed downthe aisle and out into the sunshine. She had looked on him--she hadbeen conscious of his existence; but it was seemingly in the same waythat she had noticed the wooden pews against which her rich littlerobe was trailing, and the floor which felt the pressure of her daintyfeet. Allan Dunlop standing among the outcoming worshippers, whosegreetings he mechanically responded to, silently anathematized thesoulless edict of society, which forbids a man to stand and gaze aftera vanishing vision in feminine form. The receding figure was notwholly unconscious, however, of the mute homage of which she had beenthe recipient.
A few hours later this lovely possessor of all the graces and virtues,according to the newly-awakened imagination of her unknown admirer,reclined in her shell-pink apartment, in which the breezes blowingthrough the lattice sounded like the _andante_ of the sea, and sighedfor the forbidden fruit of a half-finished novel. But the sighperished with the breath that gave it birth. The next moment shesternly doubled a very diminutive fist, and demanded of herselfwhether that was the best use that could be made of her time andopportunities. Then she looked about for some missionary work. It wasnot far to seek, for the children, weary of purposeless drifting onthe still monotonous tide of Sunday afternoon, came battering at herdoor with united hands and voices, demanding a story. In the midst ofher recital she suddenly bethought herself of Edward and inquiredafter his whereabouts.
"Roaming up and down the strawberry patch," said Eva.
"Seeking what he may devour," added her brother, unconsciously givinga scriptural turn to his information.
"For shame, Herbert!"
"Shame enough! He never offered me one."
The subject of this discussion passed the open door shortly after andlooked rather forlornly in upon the interested trio. On his wayupstairs a casement window that stood ajar swung softly open as hepassed it, touched by the invisible fingers of the breeze; and theyoung man was not comforted by the picture suddenly revealed tohim--the picture of a slim shape in a light canoe darting bird-likeover the water. Rose felt a vague pang of pity, but had no opportunityto go to him. Her ministrations were in active demand by the youngerpair from whom she was unable to free herself until twilight fell,when they voluntarily resigned her to a need greater than their own.On many a summer night in years past they had seen their father andmother pace the winding length of the avenue together. Now, when thetender gloom of evening was beginning, and the solitary figure of theCommodore was seen going with drooped head toward his favourite walk,it was Rose who ran with eager step to take the vacant place at hisside. If his heart was saddened by that shadowy presence, which walksat eventide by the side of him who is bereaved, it could not be whollycast down so long as warm clinging hands were about his arm, a brightface looking up into his, and a clear voice, from which every note ofsadness was excluded, murmuring a thousand entertaining nothings inhis ear.
If Rose was a never-failing fountain of alluring fiction to Herbertand Eva, and the comfort of life to her father, she was thesympathizing _confidante_ of her elder brother, who unburdened hisheart to her in a private interview just before retiring.
"But what under the sun made you kiss her?" inquired this practicalyoung lady.
"Oh, murder, Rose, what a question! What under the sun makes one tastea peach or pluck a flower?"
"But if the peach or the flower does not belong to you? Well, I'll notlecture you, Edward; you have sufficiently expiated your offence."
"I never dreamed," returned the delinquent, "that a kiss for a blow,which is the Christian's rule of m
orals, could be translated by thepoor savage into a blow for a kiss."
"Probably you terrified her. That old chief has brought her up in thebelief that the white man is a compound of all the vices."
"Well, she behaved as though I might be that. She never paused toconsider the ruin she had wrought, but darted off like a flash oflightning."
Rose laughed; but after she departed the smile upon her brother's facequickly vanished. Not that the bruise on his brow was so severe, buthe found it impossible to forgive the blow to his vanity.
"Beautiful little brute!" he muttered under his breath, "I haven'tdone with her yet. She'll live to give me something prettier than thisin return for my caresses."
An Algonquin Maiden: A Romance of the Early Days of Upper Canada Page 6