Part 5

"It’s Mr. Borland," he said in an awed whisper—"Mr. David Borland. He wants to jine, Mr. Moderator," the beadle informed the court in much the same tone as is employed when death-warrants must be read. "An’ it’ll be on profession," he added, unable to forego the sensational announcement, "for he never jined no church afore." Then the beadle retreated with the mien that becomes an ecclesiastical sheriff.

An instant later he reappeared with Mr. Borland, whom he left standing in the very centre of the room. The elders gazed wonderingly at the unexpected man.

"Dinna break oot again," Robert McCaig whispered to the now tranquil Willie, fearful of another explosion; "it’s no’ often a kirk session has sic a duty to perform," and Willie responded by rising slightly and sitting down hard upon the contents of his coat-tail pocket, as though the fuse for the explosion were secreted there.

David looked round upon the elders, in no wise abashed; he even nodded familiarly to two or three with whom he was more intimately acquainted. "It’s a fine evening," he informed one nearest him, to the evident amazement of his brethren.

The usual process began, one or two undertaking preliminary examination.

"Have you ever joined before, Mr. Borland?" one of the elders asked him after a little.

"Never joined a church before—haven’t been much of a joiner," David answered cheerfully; "joined the Elks once in the States when I was a young fellow—an’ they made it pretty interestin’ for me," dispensing a conciliatory smile among the startled elders as he turned to catch another question.

"What maks ye want to join, Mr. Borland?" enquired one of the new elders, hitherto silent. "What’s yir motive, like? Hae ye got the root o’ the matter in ye, div ye think?" he elaborated formally.

David started somewhat violently, turning and looking his questioner full in the face. "Have I got what in me?" he cried—"what kind of a root? That’s more than I can say, sir; I don’t catch your meanin’."

Dr. Fletcher interposed. "You’re not familiar with our terms, Mr. Borland," he said reassuringly. "Mr. Aiken only wants to know why you feel impelled to become a member of the church—perhaps you could answer the question when it’s put that way?"

David’s first sign of answer was to stoop and pick up a rather shapeless hat lying at his feet. This symptom decidedly alarmed the elders, several of them sitting up suddenly in their chairs as though fearful that so interesting a subject might escape. But David had evidently seized it only for purposes of reflection, turning it round and round in his hands, his eyes fixed upon the floor.

"It was a queer kind of a reason," he began abruptly, clearing his throat with all the resonance of a trumpet—"but mebbe it ain’t too bad a one after all. It was Madeline," he finally blurted out, staring at all the brethren in turn. "I knew she was goin’ to join—an’—an’ I wanted to keep up with her. If she’s agoin’ to heaven, I’m agoin’ too—an’ I reckon this here’s the way," he added, feeling that the phraseology was not too ill-timed. Then he waited.

"Very good, Mr. Borland—very good," the Moderator pronounced encouragingly. "But about—about your own soul. I’m sure we all hope you—you—realize your need, Mr. Borland. It’s a sense of sin we all need, you know. I’m sure you feel you’ve been a sinner, Mr. Borland?" and the good man turned the most brotherly of faces upon the applicant.

"Oh, yes," responded David agreeably; "oh, yes, I’m all right that way—I’ve been quite a sinner, all right. The only thing I’m afeart of is I’ve been ’most too good a sinner. I wisht I wasn’t quite so handy at it," he went on gravely. "I reckon I’ve been about as bad as—as any of the deacons here," glancing towards the open-mouthed about him as he made the comparison, "an’ some o’ them’s got quite a record, if all reports is true. I traded horses onct with Robert there," nodding familiarly in the direction of Mr. McCaig, "an’ the first time we traded, he sinned pretty bad—but that’s nothin’; bygones is bygones—an’ anyhow, the second time we traded, I sinned pretty bad myself. So I’m all right that way, Doctor," he again assured the Moderator, making a last desperate effort to tie his hat into a knot.

"I didna ken the mare was spavined, Moderator," Mr. McCaig broke in, gasping with emotion; "an’ a meetin’ o’ session’s no place for discussin’ sic like matters onyway," he appealed vehemently. "Thae week-day things has nae richt to be mentioned here—a meetin’ o’ elders is no’ a cattle fair," and Robert looked well pleased with this final stroke.

"That’s all right, Robert, that’s all right," David returned in his most amiable tone; "don’t get excited, Robert—we both traded with our eyes open. An’ all these things makes life, anyhow—they all go to the weavin’ of the web, as I say sometimes, an’ besides——"

But Robert’s blood was up.

"Onyhow, I didna swear," he exclaimed in a rising tone; "I didna say damn, Mr. Moderator—an’ the horse-doctor tellt me as how the candidate afore us said damn mair nor aince when he found oot aboot the spavin. He’d mak a bonnie member o’ the kirk!" and the elder’s face glowed with righteous indignation.

The Moderator cast about to avert the storm. "Maybe he was taken unawares," he interposed charitably; "any one might be overtaken in a fault. Did you, Mr. Borland—did you say what Mr. McCaig says you did?" as he turned a very kindly face on the accused.

David was more intently employed than ever with his hat. "I won’t say but what I mebbe did," he acknowledged, an unfamiliar confusion in his words. "You see, sir, I should a knowed a spavin when I seen it; the signs is awful easy told—an’ that’s what made me mad. So I said I was a fool—an’ I said Robert here was an elder. An’ I likely said both of us was—was that kind of a fool an’ an elder, the kind he says I said—it’s an awful handy describin’ word," he added, nodding respectfully towards the Moderator’s chair.

"So I have heard, Mr. Borland," the Moderator replied, smiling reproachfully nevertheless, "though I think there are others just as good. However, if that is the worst sin you’ve been guilty of, I wouldn’t say you’re beyond the pale."

"Oh, there’s lots of things I’ve done, far worse than that," David exclaimed vigorously. "I don’t allow that’s a sin at all—that’s just a kind of a spark out o’ the chimney. I reckon nearly everybody, even ministers, says that—only they don’t spell it just the same. I’d call that just a kind of splutter—an’ everybody splutters sometimes. Robert there, he says ’bless my soul’ when he gets beat on a trade—but he means just the same as me. Oh, yes," he went cheerfully on, "there’s lots o’ worse things than that against me. There’s lots o’ little weak spots about me; an’ I’ll tell them if you like—if the deacons’ll do the same," he proposed, looking earnestly around for volunteers.

There was no clamour of response, and it fell to Geordie Nickle again to break the silence.

"These is no’ the main things, David," he began solemnly. "Tell us, div ye trust the Saviour wi’ yir soul?"

David halted, the gravity of the question shading his face. "I think—I think I do," he ventured after a long pause. "I wouldn’t trust it to no one else. My mother taught me that."

"An’ div ye want to follow Him, an’ to let yir licht shine upon the world? Div ye want to be a guid soldier, an’ wull ye try it, wi’ His grace?" the old man asked tenderly.

David’s voice was very low. "I’m not very far on the road," he said falteringly, "an’ I’m afeared there ain’t much light in me—but I’d try an’ do my best," he concluded earnestly.

The venerable elder proceeded with his gentle art, leading the belated enquirer on from stage to stage, seeking to discover and disclose the hidden treasures of the soul. He was never slow to be convinced of goodness in any heart that he thought sincere, and it was not long till he turned to the Moderator, proposing, as before, that this new name should likewise be enrolled among those of the faithful.

But one or two thought the examination hardly doctrinal enough, nor carried sufficiently far afield.

"Perhaps Mr. Borland would give us a word or two regarding his views on the subject of temperance," suggested Morris Hall. He was a comparatively modern elder; in fact, he had been but recently reclaimed, one of the first-fruits of a spring revival, himself snatched from the vortex of intemperance and correspondingly severe upon all successors in his folly. For largeness of charity, as a rule, is to be found only with those who have been tempted and prevailed.

"I’m not terrible well up on temperance," David began placidly; "but I don’t mind givin’ you my views—oh, no, not at all."

Then he sank into silence, and the Moderator had finally to prompt him. "Very well, then, Mr. Borland, give us your views on the subject."

"Well," David began hesitatingly, "my views on the subject of temperance is terrible simple. I really hardly ever take anything—never touch it at all except it’s before or after meals," he assured the brethren earnestly, the younger men frowning a little, one or two of the older nodding approvingly. But none seemed to remark how generous was the margin this time-table provided for a man of moist propensities.

"Sometimes, when I run acrost an old friend, if he looks kind o’ petered out," David went on sympathetically, "sometimes then I have a view or two—most always soft stuff, though," he enlarged, looking hopefully towards his spiritual betters; "most generally they takes the same view as me," he informed them gravely; "my view is to take it an’ let it alone—I do both—only I never do them both at the same time," he added seriously. "You see, when I’m well it doesn’t hurt me, and when I’m sick—why, mebbe I need somethin’. That’s one o’ my views. An’, oh, yes"—he hurried on as if glad that he had not forgotten, "I always take a little when a new century comes in—I took a little when the clock struck 1900; it’s been a custom for quite awhile in our family, always to take a little when a new century comes in—a man has to be careful it doesn’t grow on him, you see. So I confine it pretty much to them two occasions. An’ I think them’s pretty much all my views, gentlemen, on the subject o’ liquors. The less views a man has on them, the better. It’s the worst plague there is—an’ I’m gettin’ more set agin’ it all the time," and David nodded to the elders in quite an admonitory way.

But these views, simple and candid though they were, were far from satisfactory to Mr. Morris Hall, who violently declaimed against such laxity, and quoted statistics concerning poorhouses, jails and lunatic asylums in much the same tone, and with the same facility, that a boy exhibits when quoting the multiplication table. Mr. Hall concluded with an appeal to David’s sense of shame.

This was rather much for the gentle candidate, familiar as he was with the impeacher’s record in days that were yet hardly dry.

"There’s one thing sure, anyhow," he returned hotly, in his intensity of feeling. "I didn’t never have to be toted home on a stone-boat—that’s one thing certain." This was a reference to authentic history of no ancient sort, and Mr. Hall’s relapse to silence was as final as it was precipitate.

Whereupon Geordie Nickle again reverted to his motion that Mr. Borland be received. He briefly reviewed the case, emphasizing the obvious simplicity and candour that had been remarked by all, while admitting David’s evident unfamiliarity with the formulas and doctrines of the church.

"But there’s mony a man loves flowers wha disna ken naethin’ aboot botany," he pleaded; "an’ there’s mony a soul luvin’ Christ, an’ trustin’ till Him, wha kens little or naethin’ aboot theology."

This view seemed to prevail with the majority, and the proposal of the kindly elder would doubtless have been speedily endorsed, had it not been for the protest from David himself. "I’m terrible thankful for your kindness to a lame duck like me—but I believe I’d jest as soon wait awhile," he said. "I’ll try an’ follow up the best I can. But Dick Phin’s comin’ to visit me next week—Dick’s an old crony I haven’t seen for a dog’s age. An’ besides, Robert there has kind o’ set me thinkin’; an’ I jest minded Tom Taylor’s comin’ on Monday to try an’ trade back the three-year-old he got in August. So I think mebbe I’d better wait. But I’ll follow up the best I can."

*X*

_*SHELTERING SHADOWS*_

Two chestnut steeds, securely tied, looked reproachfully at the retreating figures as Madeline and her father pressed on beneath the shadow of the great oaks that looked down upon the merry picnickers. For Glenallen’s Sunday-school scholars were _en fête_ beneath them. Very gladly did these mighty guardians of the grove seem to welcome back the happy throng as each returning summer brought the festal day. And very tenderly did they seem to look down upon the varied pleasure-seekers that gathered beneath their whispering branches; children, in all the helplessness of childhood, mingling with other toddlers whose was the helplessness of age—little tots whose toilsome journey was at hand, and patriarchs whose weary pilgrimage was almost past. Many were there whose fathers’ fathers, snatching a brief truce from their struggle with the poverty and stress of early days, had rested and rollicked as only pioneers know how; masters and men, their respective ranks forgotten, had sat side by side about the teeming board, or entered the lists together as they flung the bounding caber, or raced across the meadow-sward, or heaved the gleaming quoits, or strained the creaking cable in the final and glorious tug of war.

As David Borland and his daughter drew near to the central group of picnickers, they found them employed in a very savoury task. They were emptying the baskets one by one, the good things translated promiscuously to the ample table around which all were about to take their places. Pies of every sort there were, cakes of every imaginable brand and magnitude, sandwiches, fruits, pickles, hams that would waddle, fowls that would cackle, tongues that would join the lowing choir, nevermore—all these conspired to swell the overflowing larder.

Suddenly David’s eyes fell on a face in the distance, a face for which he had long had a peculiar liking. It was Geordie Nickle’s, the old man sitting apart on a little mound, his kindly eyes bright with gladness at the lively scene around him.

"You go off an’ have a swing, Madeline," he said; "I’m goin’ to have a chat with my friend Geordie here—I’ll see you in a little while."

Madeline scarcely heard him nor did any response escape her lips. For other words had fallen on her ears, hot and tingling now with shame and indignation.

"Isn’t this the limit," a jibing voice was saying; "isn’t this the human limit?—rhubarb tarts! Three of them! Who wants to buy a tin plate?" the voice went jeeringly on. It was Cecil Craig’s voice, and he held the humble contributions aloft as he spoke.

"There must be some awful rich folks here to-day—I guess these tarts are meant for the minister. That’s all there is in the basket—so I guess some one must keep a rhubarb farm; look at the size of them—big as a full moon! I believe I’ll give them to my horse," he cried with a contemptuous laugh. "Have you any idea who sent these, Harvey?" turning with the question to the conscious boy who stood on the outer edge of the circle.

A few joined in thoughtless laughter. But it was no laughing matter for poor Harvey, trying now to steal alone and unnoticed from among the throng. Yet not alone; for one humble little form clung close beside him, retreating as rapidly as he, her face flushed and drawn. They had taken but a few steps when Jessie’s hand stole caressingly into her brother’s, the little legs trying eagerly to keep pace with his ardent stride.

"Don’t mind, Harvey, don’t mind," she said soothingly. "He’s just as mean as he can be. It’s all because he’s rich—an’ he thinks we’re poor. He doesn’t know how good mother is at makin’ tarts, or he wouldn’t talk like that."

Harvey glanced at his sister as though he scarcely saw her. His eyes, usually so mild, were now almost terrible in their fiery anger, and his hand closed so tightly over his sister’s that she cried out in pain. Once he looked swiftly back and caught a glimpse of Cecil leering at him in the distance; he fixed his teeth tight together and strode swiftly on.

"Aren’t you goin’ back, Harvey?" Jessie enquired a little wistfully. "I’m real hungry, Harvey—an’ I saw chickens there, an’ there was some peaches too—they looked awful nice," she said earnestly.

"Going back!" Harvey almost shouted. "No, you bet I’m not going back—and neither are you; I’d starve before I’d touch a bite of their stuff. A lot of stuck-up things," he cried passionately, "and you and me cast out everywhere because we’re poor! I’ll show them yet—you just see if I don’t; if I can get half a chance—and to think the way poor mother worked at them, and she thought she was making something real nice too, and——"

"An’ she put sugar in them too, Harvey—an’ she hardly ever puts sugar in anything now. She put lots of butter an’ sugar in, for I saw her. But ain’t you goin’ back, Harvey?—there’s lemonade, you know, a whole boiler full of it. I tasted it and it was lovely," she assured him, looking wistfully up into the angry face.

"The young whelp!" Harvey muttered wrathfully; "hasn’t any more brains than a handspike—hasn’t got anything but a rich, proud father—I’ll fix him yet, you see if I don’t." Suddenly he stopped, standing still as the trees around him. "Hello!" he said musingly, then began whistling significantly.

"What’s the matter, Harvey?" asked the mystified Jessie.

"Oh, nothing—nothing at all. In fact, everything’s all right—see that sorrel horse tied to that hemlock over there? It’s Cecil Craig’s."

"Yes," replied Jessie wonderingly; "it’s kickin’ with its legs," she added informatively—"what’s it doin’ that for, Harvey?"

"Flies," replied the other absently. "I say, Jessie," he began in quite a different tone, his brow clearing like a headland when the fog is lifting, "you better go on back and get your dinner—don’t eat too much," he added cautiously, for Jessie, her hand still tight in his, had already turned right about face, her radiant gaze fixed on the distant tables; "and you know mother doesn’t want you to take any stuffin’—you’ll have to take castor oil if you eat any stuffin’, Jessie."

"Won’t you go, Harvey?" his sister asked eagerly, supremely indifferent to matters medicinal; she was already pressing onward, half leading her brother by the hand. The boy started to refuse vigorously. Suddenly, however, he seemed to change his mind. "I’ll go back with you for a minute, Jessie—just a minute, mind. I’ll get you a seat if I can; but I’ll have to come right away again. I’ve got—I’ve got to do something."

The hungry Jessie asked no further information, well content, poor child, to regain the treat she had so nearly lost. Her hurrying legs twinkled in the sun as she led the way, Harvey following, half reluctantly, back to the appetizing scene. The boy looked at no one as he mingled with the excited throng; nor did many remark his return, so all absorbed are youthful minds in one pursuit alone when that pursuit leads to the dinner-table. This pleased Harvey well; and, confident of their indifference, he took his place beside the three bulky tarts that had been the text for Cecil’s scorn.

Good Dr. Fletcher’s special care, at such a fête as this, was to see that all heads were reverently bowed while grace was being said. And so they were on this occasion, all but Harvey’s. Availing himself of the opportune devotion, he thrust the unoffending tarts roughly within the shelter of his coat, buttoning it tightly over them, quite careless of results. Then, wild chaos and savage attack succeeding the reverent calm, while his ravenous companions fell upon the viands like starving animals, he quietly withdrew, holding his coat carefully about him as he went.

David Borland and the venerable Geordie Nickle were deep in conversation as Harvey passed them by at a little distance, finding his way back to the outer fringe of woods.

"Yon’s an uncommon laddie," Geordie remarked to David, his staff pointed in the direction of the disappearing boy.

"Who? Oh, yes—that’s Harvey. You’re right, Mr. Nickle; the grass doesn’t grow very green under Harvey’s feet. He works for me, you know—does a little drivin’ between four and six."

"Did ye hear aboot the minister, David? He was sair vexed wi’ Mr. Craig; he went till him, ye ken, to get a wee bit help for the laddie’s mither—her eyesicht’s failin’, it seems. An’ Mr. Craig wudna gie him onythin’."

David was busy kicking to pieces a slab of dead wood at his feet. "That man Craig makes me mad," he said warmly—"thinks he owns the earth ’cause he’s got a little money. He got the most of it from his father, anyhow—he hasn’t got brains enough himself to make his head ache. An’ it looks like the young cub’s goin’ to be a chip o’ the old block; you can see it stickin’ right out of him now," he declared, nodding towards the blustering Cecil, who was flinging his orders here and there.

"I was thinkin’ ower the maitter, David," the old man went on quietly; "I was thinkin’ mebbe I micht gie the puir buddy a wee bit help mysel’—I hae a wee bit siller, ye ken, an’ I haena vera muckle to dae wi’t. Div ye think ye cud see aboot it, David?—aboot sendin’ his mither till the city doctor, ye ken? I cud gie the money to yirsel’, an’ naebody need ken aboot it but us twa." Poor Geordie looked half ashamed as he made the offer; such is the fashion of his kind.

"It’s mighty clever of you," David answered, smiling a little curiously, "and I’d be terrible glad to fix it for you—only I happen to know it’s fixed already. Just found that out to-day. A fellow sent the money to them—some fellow that doesn’t want any one to know. But it’s just as good of you, all the same, Mr. Nickle."

"Oh, aye, aye, I ken," Geordie responded enigmatically, "aye—juist that."

"Yes, he’s a mighty smart boy," David resumed quickly, to hide a little embarrassment. "He works like a beaver all day; steady as a clock and bright as a dollar. It’s a darned shame he hasn’t got a better chance—that boy’d be heard from yet if he got some eddication," he concluded, opening the big blade of his jack-knife and beginning operations on a leafy limb he had just broken off.

Geordie’s face was full of sympathetic interest. "Div ye ken, David, I’ve been thinkin’ the same aboot the laddie. Dr. Fletcher tellt me aboot him first—an’ I’ve been enquirin’, an’ watchin’ him a wee bit in a canny kind o’ a way, since the nicht he jined the kirk. An’ I’ve got a wee bit plan, David—I’ve got a wee bit plan."

"Yes, Mr. Nickle?" David responded encouragingly, throwing away the leafy limb and sitting squarely round.

"It’s no’ quite a fittin’ time to mak ony promises," the cautious Scotchman went on, seeing that David expected him to continue. "But ye ken, David, I hae neither wife nor bairns noo; they’re a’ wi’ God," he added, bowing reverently, "an’ yon laddie kind o’ minds me o’ wee Airchie—Airchie died wi’ the scarlet fever. An’ I’ve been thinkin’, David, I’ve been thinkin’ I never spent the siller that wud hae gone for Airchie’s schoolin’. Ye ken, David, div ye no’?"

David knew not how to answer. But his heart was more nimble than his lips. "I was awful sorry when you lost your little boy," he said, his eyes upon the ground; "I never had a son myself—so you’re better off nor me."

*XI*

_*FOOD FOR THOUGHT*_