Janet's Love and Service. Margaret M. Robertson
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