Читать книгу Janet's Love and Service - Margaret M. Robertson - Страница 8

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“But where’s the town?”

The bairns were standing on the highest step of the meeting-house, gazing with eyes full of wonder and delight on the scene before them. The meeting-house stood on a high hill, and beyond a wide sloping field at the foot of the hill, lay Merleville pond, like a mirror in a frame of silver and gold. Beyond, and on either side, were hills rising behind hills, the most distant covered with great forest trees, “the trees under which the red Indians used to wander,” Graeme whispered. There were trees on the nearer hills too, sugaries, and thick pine groves, and a circle of them round the margin of the pond. Over all the great Magician of the season had waved his wand, and decked them in colours dazzling to the eyes accustomed to the grey rocks and purple heather, and to the russet garb of autumn in their native land.

There were farm-houses too, and the scattered houses along the village street looking white and fair beneath crimson maples and yellow beech-trees. Above hung a sky undimmed by a single cloud, and the air was keen, yet mild with the October sunshine. They could not have had a lovelier time for the first glimpse of their new home, yet there was an echo of disappointment in Harry’s voice as he asked—

“Where’s the town?”

They had been greatly impressed by the description given them of Merleville by Mr. Sampson Snow, in whose great wagon they had been conveyed over the twenty miles of country roads that lay between the railway and their new home.

“I was the first white child born in the town,” said Sampson. “I know every foot of it as well as I do my own barn, and I don’t want no better place to live in than Merleville. It don’t lack but a fraction of being ten miles square. Right in the centre, perhaps a leetle south, there’s about the prettiest pond you ever saw. There are some first-rate farms there, mine is one of them, but in general the town is better calculated for pasturage than tillage. I shouldn’t wonder but it would be quite a manufacturing place too after a spell, when they’ve used up all the other water privileges in the State. There’s quite a fall in the Merle river, just before it runs into the pond. We’ve got a fullin’-mill and a grist-mill on it now. They’d think everything of it in your country.”

“There’s just one meetin’-house in it. That’s where your pa’ll preach if our folks conclude to hire him a spell. The land’s about all taken up, though it hain’t reached the highest point of cultivation yet. The town is set off into nine school-districts, and I consider that our privileges are first-rate. And if it’s nutting and squirrel-hunting you’re after, boys, all you have to do is to apply to Uncle Sampson, and he’ll arrange your business for you.”

“Ten miles square and nine school-districts!” Boston could be nothing to it, surely, the boys thought. The inconsistency of talking about pasturage and tillage, nutting and squirrel-hunting in the populous place which they imagined Merleville to be, did not strike them. This was literally their first glimpse of Merleville, for the rain had kept them within doors, and the mist had hidden all things the day before and now they looked a little anxiously for the city they had pictured to themselves.

“But Norman! Harry! I think this is far better than a town,” said Marian, eagerly. “Eh, Graeme, isna yon a bonny water?”

“Ay, it’s grand,” said Graeme. “Norman, this is far better than a town.”

The people were beginning to gather to service by this time; but the children were too eager and too busy to heed them for a while. With an interest that was half wonder, half delight, Graeme gazed to the hills and the water and the lovely sky. It might be the “bonny day”—the mild air and the sunshine, and the new fair scene before her, or it might be the knowledge that after much care, and many perils, they were all safe together in this quiet place where they were to find a home; she scarce knew what it was, but her heart felt strangely light, and lips and eyes smiled as she stood there holding one of Marian’s hands in hers, while the other wandered through the curls of Will’s golden hair. She did not speak for a long time; but the others were not so quiet, but whispered to each other, and pointed out the objects that pleased them most.

“Yon’s Merle river, I suppose, where we see the water glancing through the trees.”

“And yonder is the kirkyard,” said Marian, gravely. “It’s no’ a bonny place.”

“It’s bare and lonely looking,” said Harry.

“They should have yew trees and ivy and a high wall, like where mamma is,” said Marian.

“But this is a new country; things are different here,” said Norman.

“But surely they might have trees.”

“And look, there are cows in it. The gate is broken. It’s a pity.”

“Look at yon road that goes round the water, and then up between the hills through the wood. That’s bonny, I’m sure.”

“And there’s a white house, just where the road goes out of sight. I would like to live there.”

“Yes, there are many trees about it, and another house on this side.”

And so they talked on, till a familiar voice accosted them. Their friend Mr. Snow was standing beside them, holding a pretty, but delicate little girl, by the hand. He had been watching them for some time.

“Well how do you like the looks of things?”

“It’s bonny here,” said Marian.

“Where’s the town?” asked Harry, promptly.

Mr. Snow made a motion with his head, intended to indicate the scene before them.

“Lacks a fraction of being ten miles square.”

“It’s all trees,” said little Will.

“Wooden country, eh, my little man?”

“Country! yes, it’s more like the country than like a town,” said Harry.

“Well, yes. On this side of the water, we can afford to have our towns, as big as some folks’ countries,” said Mr. Snow, gravely.

“But it’s like no town I ever saw,” said Norman. “There are no streets, no shops, no market, no anything that makes a town.”

“There’s freedom on them hills,” said Mr. Snow, waving his hand with an air.

During the journey the other day, Mr. Snow and the lads had discussed many things together; among the rest, the institutions of their respective countries, and Mr. Snow had, as he expressed it, “Set their British blood to bilin’,” by hints about “aristocracy,” “despotism,” and so on. “He never had had such a good time,” he said, afterwards. They were a little fiery, but first-rate smart boys, and as good natured as kittens, and he meant to see to them. He meant to amuse himself with them too, it seemed. The boys fired up at once, and a hot answer was only arrested on their lips, by the timely interference of Graeme.

“Whist, Norman. Harry, mind it is the Sabbath-day, and look yonder is papa coming up with Judge Merle,” and turning smilingly to Mr. Snow, she added, “We like the place very much. It’s beautiful everywhere. It’s far bonnier than a town. I’m glad there’s no town, and so are the boys, though they were disappointed at first.”

“No town?” repeated Mr. Snow.

But there was no time for explanations. Their father had reached the steps, and the children were replying to the greeting of the Judge. Judge Merle, was in the opinion of the majority, the greatest man in Merleville, if not in the country. The children had made his acquaintance on Saturday. He had brought them with his own hands, through the rain, a pail of sweet milk, and another of hominy, a circumstance which gave them a high idea of his kindness of heart, but which sadly overturned all their preconceived notions with regard to the dignity of his office. Janet, who looked on the whole thing as a proper tribute of respect to the minister, augured well from it, what he might expect in his new parish, and congratulated herself accordingly. The children were glad to see him, among the many strangers around them, and when Mr. Snow gave him a familiar nod, and a “Morning Judge,” Graeme felt a little inclined, to resent the familiarity. The Judge did not resent it, however. On the contrary, when Mr. Snow, nodding sideways toward the minister, said, “He guessed the folks would get about fitted this time,” he nodded as familiarly back, and said, “He shouldn’t wonder if they did.”

There are no such churches built in New England now, as that into which the minister and his children were led by the Judge. It was very large and high, and full of windows. It was the brilliant light that struck the children first, accustomed as they had been to associate with the Sabbath worship, the dimness of their father’s little chapel in Clayton. Norman the mathematician was immediately seized with a perverse desire to count the panes, and scandalised Graeme by communicating to her the result of his calculation, just as her father rose up to begin.

How many people there were in the high square pews, and in the galleries, and even in the narrow aisles. So many, that Graeme not dreaming of the quiet nooks hidden among the hills she had thought so beautiful, wondered where they all could come from. Keen, intelligent faces, many of them were, that turned toward the minister as he rose; a little hard and fixed, perhaps, those of the men, and far too delicate, and care-worn, those of the women, but earnest, thoughtful faces, many of them were, and kindly withal.

Afterwards—years and years afterwards, when the bairns had to shut their eyes to recall their father’s face, as it gleamed down upon them from that strange high pulpit, the old people used to talk to them of this first sermon in Merleville. There was a charm in the Scottish accent, and in the earnest manner of the minister, which won upon these people wonderfully. It was heart speaking to heart, an earnest, loving, human heart, that had sinned and had been forgiven, that had suffered and had been comforted; one who, through all, had by God’s grace struggled upwards, speaking to men of like passions and necessities. He spoke as one whom God had given a right to warn, to counsel, to console. He spoke as one who must give account, and his hearers listened earnestly. So earnestly that Deacon Fish forgot to hear for Deacon Slowcome, and Deacon Slowcome forgot to hear for people generally. Deacon Sterne who seldom forgot anything which he believed to be his duty, failed for once to prove the orthodoxy of the doctrine by comparing it with his own, and received it as it fell from the minister’s lips, as the very word of God.

“He means just as he says,” said Mr. Snow to young Mr. Greenleaf, as he overtook him in going home that afternoon. “He wasn’t talking just because it was his business to. When he was a telling us what mighty things the grace of God can do, he believed it himself, I guess.”

“They all do, don’t they?” said Mr. Greenleaf.

“Well, I don’t know. They all say they do. But there’s Deacon Fish now,” said Mr. Snow, nodding to that worthy, as his wagon whirled past, “he don’t begin to think that grace or anything else, could make me such a good man as he is.”

Mr. Greenleaf laughed.

“If the vote of the town was taken, I guess it would be decided that grace wouldn’t have a great deal to do.”

“Well, the town would make a mistake. Deacon Fish ain’t to brag of for goodness, I don’t think; but he’s a sight better than I be. But see here, Squire, don’t you think the new minister’ll about fit?”

“He’ll fit me,” said the Squire. “It is easy to see that he is not a common man. But he won’t fit the folks here, or they won’t fit him. It would be too good luck if he were to stay here.”

“Well, I don’t know about that. There are folks enough in the town that know what’s good when they hear it, and I guess they’ll keep him if they can. And I guess he’ll stay. He seems to like the look of things. He is a dreadful mild-spoken man, and I guess he won’t want much in the way of pay. I guess you had better shell out some yourself, Squire. I mean to.”

“You are a rich man, Mr. Snow. You can afford it.”

“Come now, Squire, that’s good. I’ve worked harder for every dollar I’ve got, than you’ve done for any ten you ever earned.”

The Squire shook his head.

“You don’t understand my kind of work, or you wouldn’t say so. But about the minister? If I were to pledge myself to any amount for his support, I should feel just as though I were in a measure responsible for the right arrangement of all things with regard to his salary, and the paying of it. Anything I have to do with, I want to have go right along without any trouble, and unless Merleville folks do differently than they have so far, it won’t be so in this matter.”

“Yes, I shouldn’t wonder if there would be a hitch before long. But I guess you’d better think before you say no. I guess it’ll pay in the long run.”

“Thank you, Mr. Snow. I’ll take your advice and think of it,” said Mr. Greenleaf, as Sampson stopped at his own gate. He watched him going up the hill.

“He’s goin’ along up to the widow Jones’ now, I’ll bet. I shouldn’t wonder if he was a goin’ to lose me my chance of getting her place. It kind o’ seems as though I ought to have it; it fits on so nice to mine. And they say old Skinflint is going to foreclose right off. I’ll have to make things fit pretty tight this winter, if I have to raise the cash. But it does seem as if I ought to have it. Maybe it’s Celestia the Squire wants, and not the farm.”

He came back to close the gate which, in his earnestness, he had forgotten, and leaned for a moment over it.

“Well, now, it does beat all. Here have I been forgetting all about what I have heard over yonder to the meeting-house. Deacon Sterne needn’t waste no more words, to prove total depravity to me. I’ve got to know it pretty well by this time;” and, with a sigh, he turned toward the house.