the summer was gone. the harvest days, the days of crimson and golden woods, of smooth-shaven fields, of orchards weighed down with their sweet burden, and of barns bursting with grain had come. a tingle of frost in the bracing air told that they must soon give place to winter.
one mild evening duncan polite sat at his shanty door, watching the sun go down behind the flaming trees. he knew the nights would soon be too chill for this pleasant pastime and he cherished each moment spent at his open door. in his sadness and anxiety, the glorious robes assumed by nature at the sunset hour lifted, for a little, the shadow from his spirit.
but to-night the sun went down in a colourless silver glow, which prophesied winter and storms, and to duncan the grey dreariness seemed in keeping with his feelings. for donald had gone back to the city that day, and when he had bidden the boy farewell the old man had also parted with his great aspiration. donald had come to him the week before, and with his usual frankness made known the fact that he could never entertain any further thought of entering the ministry, and had therefore abandoned all idea of returning to college. the sacrifice of his education was a great trial to donald, but he could not return under a false pretence.
duncan polite made no appeal, uttered no reproof. he realised that he had been expecting this all summer, and he had become so accustomed to disappointments of the bitterest kind that this one did not move him as he had expected.
"it will be between your own soul and your maker, donal'," he said gently. "and i will not be urging you; for only the lord must guide you to this great work." he sighed deeply and at the sight of the pain he was inflicting donald's heart suddenly contracted.
"but you will be going back and finishing your colleging, my lad,—yes," as donald protested vehemently, "you will be doing this for me, for my heart will be in it, and if the lord will not be calling you to the church, you will be a good man, like your grandfather, and that will be a great thing, whatever."
donald could not answer. even when he came to say good-bye, he could find but few words of gratitude. but the reticent duncan understood, and the young man went away with the fixed determination, that though he could not attain to his uncle's ambition, he would at least, with god's help, be such a man as would never bring dishonour upon duncan polite.
when his boy left him the brightness seemed to die out of the days for the lonely old watchman on the hilltop. he realised now how much he had hoped for and expected in the springtime, when donald returned from college and mr. mcalpine's grandson stood in glenoro pulpit. when he thought of all his great hopes, he could not forbear, in the bitterness of his soul, saying to himself, as he saw around him the signs of a dying season, "the harvest is past, and the summer is ended, and we are not saved."
a figure grew out of the dusk of the road, and the gate latch clicked, and a familiar form, erect and sturdy, came up the path. duncan arose with a sensation of comfort at the sight of his friend. andrew johnstone never went down to the village without dropping in for a few minutes at the little shanty.
duncan brought out a chair, and together the two old men sat at the door and watched the stars come out in the clear, pale sky, and as if they were their earthly reflections, the lights appear in the valley. andrew puffed a while at his pipe in silence.
"so donal's awa'" he said at length, guessing partly the reason of the weary look in his friend's face.
"yes, oh, yes,"—duncan's voice was like a sigh—"he would be going back to-day."
"aye, it's jist as weel. he'll come to nae mair harm in the city than he would in yon gabblin' crew o' young folk in the glen. man, duncan, the scripter described them weel. they're jist naething but the cracklin' o' thorns under a pot, aye, an' yon foolish bit crater that an ill fate has gie'n us for a meenister is the lightest o' them a'. may the lord forgie the man that disgraced maister cameron's pulpit an' maister mcalpine's name!"
duncan did not seem to have the strength to combat his friend's statements; and splinterin' andra sailed on, encouraged by his silence.
"ah dinna ken what's come till the man; he acted maist strange aboot the bit music-boax, an' whiles ah hoped he'd got some sense intill him. but there's nae change in him. it's a tea-meetin' or a huskin' bee, or ane o' his society meetin's ivery night. och, for a meenister wi' the grace of god in his heart an' a hunger for souls! we hae fallen upon ill times, duncan!"
duncan polite roused himself with an effort. "they will not be so bad but the father can mend them, andra, an' indeed it will not be like the times when your father an' mine would be praying here for the glen."
"ah dinna ken that," replied old andrew morosely. "if they didna' have a meenister in thae times, to show them the way o' salvation, they didna hae a bit worldling to lead them astray."
"oh, it may be better than we will be thinking; the young folk now are always at the church, andra, and at the prayer meeting."
"hooch! an' they might jist as well be awa' for a' the good they get. there's a pack o' godless young folk in the glen that naething but the terrors o' damnation'll iver reach an' they listen to a meenister who says 'peace, peace' when there's nae peace!"
"oh, well, indeed, indeed,"—duncan polite's gentle voice again stemmed the torrent—"we must jist be praying for an awakening, andra, like our fathers would be doing. and it will be coming," he added with a sudden fire. "but i will be fearing the sacrifice."
andrew johnstone paused in his fierce puffing at his pipe, and turned to look at his friend. the light of the dying sun touched his white hair and his thin face and showed the sudden, mysterious, supernatural fire in his deep eyes. the matter-of-fact scot felt a strange sensation as of the presence of some greater power.
"the sacrifice, duncan?" he asked in a tone of surprise. "ye ken they will na' heed the one great sacrifice that's already been made."
"yes, oh yes, that's jist it, andra." duncan's voice sank to a whisper. "they have rejected the sacrifice and the lord will require one from among us. it would be a message to me."
his voice died away; his eyes seemed to pierce the violet mists of the valley with prophetic power.
andrew johnstone was silent, oppressed by a feeling he did not understand. duncan continued, as though speaking to himself:
"yes, oh yes, indeed. there will be a sacrifice, and i will be fearing it! what will the lord require? it would be the first fruits in the olden times, andra, and i will be thinking of donal' an' sandy an' the lads——"
"ah, they're jist a scandalous pack!" cried the other, relieved at again being able to pour out his feelings upon something tangible. "yon lad o' mine's the worst o' them a' wi' his singin' an' his dancin'. it's the blue beech gad they want, ivery one 'o' them. ah wouldna' be botherin' wi' them lads o' betsey's, duncan; they're a sair burden to ye!"
"i have a burden, andra," said duncan, after a long silence, and speaking with an effort. "but betsey's lads will not be making it any greater. i——" he hesitated again. to the reticent duncan polite the confession of his heart's secret was extremely difficult. "i have a burden," he continued, "but it is the whole glen i carry, day an' night, andra, day an' night!"
there was a wail in the old man's voice which sent a thrill of sympathy through his old comrade.
"yes, they will not be like they were, and the sin will be growing; the tavern is at the lake yet; and the lads will not be heeding the word of god, and i will be saying, what will be the end, what will be the end?" he paused again; his friend was gazing at him wonderingly.
"my father would be praying and watching the valley all his life, for he would be making a covenant with the lord at the big stone over yonder; you will be minding that, andra. but when he died, he would be leaving it to me, and when he was going he would be saying, 'duncan, lad, remember bethel. god hath set you as a watchman on the hilltop here, to warn every soul from the way of death; see that he doth not require the blood of a soul at your hands.' and i would be thinking, in my presumption, that i would be like my father, and that i would be worthy for this work. and the lord would be answering my father's prayer by sending mr. mcalpine, and i would be praying, too, for a deliverer, but i would not be worthy; and he has punished my pride. and i will be bringing all this sin and worldliness on the place."
"it's havers ye're talkin', duncan!" cried old andrew sharply. "it's no yer fault! if the careless an' godless willna' listen to the gospel ye're no to blame, man!"
"look you!" cried the old man, pointing down the dim valley with its twinkling lights. "i will be seeing this day and night, all my life, and the lord hath put it into my heart to be a watchman of souls. i have heard him say it, 'son of man, i have set thee a watchman ..... and if the people be not warned, and if the sword come, and take any person from among them, he is taken away in his iniquity, but his blood will i require at the watchman's hands!' ..... 'at the watchman's hands,' mark you, andra; and the sword of unrighteousness will be hanging over my father's glen, and i will not be keeping my covenant!"
"duncan!" cried his friend in alarm, "this is not right for you. the lord doesna' lay the sins o' ithers on one man's heid. by their own deeds shall they stand or fall."
duncan polite shook his head slowly; he seemed scarcely to hear. "he would be showing me i was not worthy," he said, in deepest humility. "for i would not be warning the people as my father would, and i will be punished for my sin. the blessing will not be coming as in my father's time; for i will be hearing him say, 'bind the sacrifice with cords even unto the horns of the altar,' and what will it be, andra, what will it be? the watchman will be an unfaithful servant. oh, wae's me for a worthless vessel!"
old andrew's sympathy moved him to rough, quick speech. "ye're tryin' to carry the sins o' people who must suffer for their ain, duncan mcdonald," he said, with a harshness duncan did not misunderstand. "it's nane o' your fault, man!"
"it will be my inheritance, andra," said the other, with quiet but firm conviction. "i would be hearing it, 'son of man, i have set thee a watchman.' it would be a message to me."
there was a long silence, broken only by the distant sounds of the village. to the matter-of-fact andrew johnstone the mystic highlander was a puzzle; but his faith and sympathy remained unabated. duncan had never fully opened his heart before, and his friend stood awed at the depths revealed. he had little to say in reply; the elder was a man whose emotions, except that of righteous indignation, were kept suppressed. but every word of his old friend sank deep into his heart. he parted with a word of comfort.
"we mustna' forget that the lord has us a' in his hands, duncan," he said awkwardly, as he rose to go, feeling strange in his entirely new role of comforter to the hopeful one. "he is all-wise, an' he kens, ye mind."
"oh, indeed yes, indeed yes." duncan's tone was full of contrition for his late despair. "he will be a very present help in time of trouble."
but he sat at his dark little window, looking over at the place of his covenant until the shadowy, ethereal greyness of the dawn concentrated itself in a glorious bar on the eastern horizon and gradually grew into the great awakening of another day.
he had been disturbed in his meditations and prayers only once. at about midnight, a laughing crowd of young folk passed the house on their way to the village. they were returning from a husking bee. duncan could hear their noisy, gay chatter, and among the merriest voices he could distinguish the one that he had once hoped would call all the youth of his valley to a higher and better life.
