Duncan Polite Part 13

"An' he was scratchin' away for dear life on some sort of a fryin'-pan thing, an' I leans over to James an' I sez, 'James,' sez I, 'ain't it for all the world like gratin' nutmegs?' sez I. Well, we were bang-up in the very front seat, for James Turner always believes in gettin' all he pays for, an' the fellows was makin' the awfullest clatter, an' you know, James Turner's as deaf as a post, anyhow, an'--well, now, if any o' you scalawags lets this out I'll ma.s.sacree the whole lot o' you!"

A chorus of renewed promises and entreaties to continue followed this terrible threat.

"Well, jist as I was sayin' it, good and loud, what should that blessed racket do but stop short, jist as if they'd all been shot dead; an'

jist at that very min'it I was yellin' 'gratin' nutmegs!' at the top o'

my lungs!"

She joined heartily in the shrieks of laughter, for Miss Cotton loved a joke on herself, as well as on another.

"O' course, they all went at it again, with a bang," she continued, "but them fellas heard, o' course, an' they started to shake. An' this tall chap in the middle, I'm tellin' you about, was the worst of all.

I thought he'd a' took a conniption fit an' when he did manage to sober up a bit, he stared down at me that hard, that if I'd been a skit o' a thing like one o' you girls, I'd a' blushed, sure. But I jist stared back at him, good and hard, I tell you, till he had to look away.

"There was lots more programme besides that, singin' an' speakin'

pieces an'--oh, land! there was one girl come switchin' in with a long tail to her dress, that would reach clean from here to the mill, an'

the neck of it cut that low it would make a body want to get under the seat; it was jist shameful! An' the way she sang was jist near as bad.

She squalled an' took on as if everybody she'd ever knowed had been ma.s.sacreed, an' you couldn't make out one single word she said no more than if it had been Eyetalian. An' all them folks set with their mouths open, an' seemed to think it was jist grand, low neck an' all, an' when she finished up with a yell jist like the sawmill whistle, they clapped fit to kill. I'm sure I'd heaps rather listen to Julia Duffy singin' 'Father, dear father, come home with me now,' an' you know what that's like."

"But that ain't near the worst yet. After all them fellas got through some more scrabblin', out comes the tall chap again, I was tellin' you about. Maria said it was him, or I never would a guessed it, because, as sure as you're standin' there, Mrs. Hamilton, he was all blackened up and togged out with a long-tailed coat, an' a high hat, an' danced, an' cut up jist fit to kill. The people all went clean into fits; an'

I thought James Turner would a' died laughin'. It was real kind o'

comical, too, the way he went on. But now I'm comin' to the real part o' my story. When we were goin' home on the street car, Maria says to me, sez she, 'Do you mind the fellow that sang the c.o.o.n song?' sez she.

'Well, I should think I do,' sez I, 'an' of all the bold young scamps!'--'Well,' sez she, 'that fellow's goin' to be a Presbyterian minister!' 'A minister!' sez I; 'what on earth's a minister doin'

flappin' 'round in a black night-gown an' playin' on a fryin' pan an'

singin' n.i.g.g.e.r songs? He ought to be home readin' his Bible!' sez I.

'Well,' sez Maria, 'he's goin' to be one anyhow. He's jist in Var-city yet,' sez she, 'an' I guess it don't matter.' 'Well,' sez I, 'Maria Cotton, the sooner he gets out o' _Var_-city, or whatever you call it, the better, for it must be a wicked hole!' Well, we didn't say any more about him, 'cause we was racin' an tearin' 'round to somethin' new all the time, an' I clean forgot all about it, until Monday night, I was goin' home a piece o' the road with Mrs. Fraser, an' Mrs. Basketful called to me that there was a letter from Maria for me. I was scairt for a minit, for I thought her an' the children must be all dead, she writes so seldom. But here if she didn't write to tell me the most surprisin' news you ever heard, no less than that my gigglin' dancin'

chap with the bangjo was no less than our own minister!"

There was a chorus of startled exclamations. Everyone had guessed the end of the story, but it was astounding nevertheless when put into words.

"How I could ha' been so stupid as to forget," continued Miss Cotton, "I can't imagine. It's a good long time ago, though, an' Maria never told me his name; but now what do you think o' that, Mrs. Hamilton?"

"Dear, dear, ain't it awful!" exclaimed that lady, in genuine distress.

She was of the old school, who considered a minister removed far beyond the frivolities of ordinary mortals, and was completely bewildered.

"Mebby that was when he was sowin' his wild oats," she said at last, with some hope.

"Pshaw, mother, ministers ain't supposed to grow wild oats!" cried Bella piously. She was not as much enamoured of Mr. Egerton as formerly; for Wee Andra was openly antagonistic to him since his mysterious disagreement with Donald Neil.

"Don't any o' you girls breathe a word o' this," warned Mrs. Hamilton.

"Andra Johnstone an' some o' the other elders aren't too well pleased with the poor fellow now."

"My!" sighed Maggie. "Wouldn't I love to tell Splinterin' Andra that the minister could sing n.i.g.g.e.r songs and play a banjo. He'd say--'Show me the sinfu' instrument of Belial an' Ah'll smash it into a thoosand splinters!'" She accompanied the speech with such an exaggerated imitation of the old man's vigorous gestures, using the poker in lieu of a cane, that the spectators shrieked with laughter.

"I'm afraid he'd smash the minister, too," declared Sarah.

"Oh, well," said Jessie, "I don't see that there was any harm in Mr.

Egerton's singing and playing when he was young----"

"Oh, yes, o' course you'll take his part!" cried Miss Cotton. "But I'll tell you this much, I've got something more to tell, bigger than all that, something that'll make _you_ think he ain't quite so perfect."

"Why, 'Liza!" cried Mrs. Hamilton in alarm, "there surely ain't more!"

"There jist is, Mrs. Hamilton, an' something pretty queer." She was whispering again, and her audience drew near with bated breath. "Maria wrote two whole pages about him, an' she left the worst to the last.

She said, 'I s'pose he's a great fella' for the girls, he always was in Toronto, an'--Jessie's lookin' scairt, I do declare! Well, she said he'd better take care 'cause he was engaged to a high-toned lady in Toronto, engaged to be _married_, mind you! It's true, too, because Maria knows. She's rich, an' awful stylish, an' her name's Helen Weir-Huntley, mind ye, one o' them high-toned names with a stroke in the middle. An' Mrs. McNabb told Mrs. Fraser on the sly that Mrs.

Basketful told her he wrote to a girl by that name every week o' his life, only not to tell. An' he gets a letter back every week, too, with a big chunk of red wax on it, an' some kind of a business stamped on; jist stylish folks uses that kind. So I guess you girls had better quit playin' organs an' doin' things for him!"

Jessie's face flushed crimson. "I don't see what difference that would make, 'Liza," she said with a steady look from her deep grey eyes.

"Well, well, ain't it awful!" commented Mrs. Hamilton for the fifth time, quite overcome by this second disclosure.

"Well, I think it's a pretty queer thing, anyhow," said the narrator, setting the sewing machine whirring again; "I don't set up for no saint myself----"

"That's a good thing, 'Liza," interrupted Maggie, who had recovered somewhat; "just think how it would bother you!"

"But I _do_ say," continued the other, imperturbably, "that ministers ought to act different from common folks. And when I heard about his goin's on, I jist thought it wasn't any wonder he acted so queer about the organ. Bella, let's see if this band fits. Goodness gracious, girls, speak of angels! Who's that comin' in at the front gate?"

"It's him! It's the minister!" cried Maggie, dancing wildly around, "Let's go an' ask him how Miss Thingy-me-bob-with-the-stroke-in-the-middle-of-her-name is!"

"For pity's sake!" cried Mrs. Hamilton, an e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n of no particular meaning, but one she always used under unusual excitement.

"Bella, run an' show him into the settin' room, while I wash my hands out o' this bread. Who'd a' thought of him comin' here this mornin'

an' us jist talkin' about him!"

"Mercy me, mother! I can't go to the door in this wrapper. Send somebody else; Jess, you look all right."

"Yes, Jess, you trot out an' show him in. Tell him the President of the Ladies' Aid's here, in a most pious frame of mind, and she'd like to hear him play the bangjo and sing the other Joe--'Old Black Joe,' or whatever you call him, and maybe he'll dance the 'Highland Fling,' too!"

"Maggie!" implored her mother. "He'll hear you! There's the knocker!"

The minister's sudden appearance put an abrupt termination to Miss Cotton's gossip, but the story did not end there. Jessie concluded for the time, that, though a minister, Mr. Egerton must be something of a flirt, and as Donald was now repentant she soon found no time to bestow upon his rival. The young minister missed the girl's pleasant companions.h.i.+p, but he soon discovered that there was much greater trouble ahead of him. The story of his musical attainments in his college days rolled through Glenoro, gaining in bulk as it progressed.

For, contrary to Miss Cotton's warning but quite in accord with her expectations, the tale leaked out. Bella told it to Wee Andra, who told "the boys" at the corner. Syl Todd rehea.r.s.ed it before c.o.o.nie the next morning, and that was all that was necessary. c.o.o.nie embellished it to suit himself, and produced such a work of art that he shocked Mrs. Fraser beyond speech when he delivered it to her at the top of the hill.

By the time it reached the Oa it was to the effect that in his college days Mr. Egerton had been a very wild and dissolute youth. Glenoro might not have objected to a thoroughly reformed villain, but this young man's gay conduct left them in doubt whether at heart he was any better now than in the past. Old Andrew Johnstone, who had been somewhat mollified by the young man's action in regard to the organ, was once more aroused. At first he paid no heed to the story, for his son had told it to him. Wee Andra did not think it necessary to repeat it verbatim; he was rather vague concerning details, but extremely serious. Some tale 'Liza Cotton had heard, he explained. It was quite true, he feared, something or other about his playing a fiddle and dancing, far worse than Sandy Neil had ever been guilty of, for this was in a theatre. Wee Andra knew the word theatre was to his father a synonym for the bottomless pit. "Mebbe the minister had been an actor once." Wee Andra hoped, for the sake of the Church, that it wasn't true.

"Ah, ye tale-bearer!" cried his father with a withering contempt, which could not quite hide his perturbation. "It's a fine pack ye meet every night in the Glen! Their only thought is to hear or tell some new thing, let it be false or true! Ye canna' even keep yer ill tongues aff a meenister o' the Gospel!"

"But this is true, father," declared the young man seriously. "'Liza Cotton saw him herself; you can ask her, if you don't believe me.

Man!" he continued, growing frivolous again, "it'll be fine here next winter if he plays the fiddle! Sandy Neil's goin' to ask him to learn him some new dance tunes!"

"Ah, ye irreverent fool!" shouted his father, rising up from the dinner table where this conversation had been held. "Man, ye an' yon Neil pack neither fear G.o.d nor regard man! Get oot o' ma' sight!"

Wee Andra, having wisely deferred his last shot until his dinner was finished, obeyed his father's injunction with alacrity, and went off to the fields, consumed with unfilial mirth.

Meantime the subject of all this discussion was not oblivious to the fact that some strange undercurrent of feeling was working against him.

c.o.o.nie was the instrument used to make a reality out of the intangible thing.

The mail-carrier was coming slowly down the hill one September morning with hanging head and sullen mien. Eliza Cotton had been sewing down on the Flats for over a week and he had not had any fun for a long time. He was just sweeping the valley with his green eyes like a huge spider in search of prey, when he caught sight of a tempting fly. The young minister was coming up the leaf-strewn path by the roadside. He was just turning in at the McNabbs' gateway, when c.o.o.nie pulled up. He had brought a bundle from Lakeview for the blacksmith's wife with his accustomed grumblings, and had intended to fling it over the gate, as he pa.s.sed, in the hope that it contained something breakable. But now he recognised in it an instrument in the hand of Providence to give him the long-wished-for speech with the minister.

"Good-mornin'!" he called, rather crustily, for c.o.o.nie affected good manners before no one, no matter what was his aim. "Will you hand this bundle to the Missus in there, if you're goin'. It's some o' the fool truck I've got to lug across the country for weemen."

Mr. Egerton stepped towards the buckboard, and c.o.o.nie grinned as he saw the brilliant polish of his boots disappear in the grey dust of the road.