Michael McGrath, Postmaster Part 2

McFarquhar had come prepared to adopt strong measures, but the sight of Ould Michael, besotted and broken, was more than he could stand.

"Michael, man!" he cried, amazement and grief in his voice. "Aw, Michael, man! What's this? What's this?"

He went to him and laid his big bony hand on Ould Michael's shoulder. At his words and touch the old man broke into sobbing, terrible to see.

"Whisht, man," said McFarquhar, as he might to a child, "whist, whist, lad! It will be well with you yet."

But Ould Michael could not be comforted, but sobbed on and on. A man's weeping has something terrible in it, but an old man's tears are hardest of all to bear. McFarquhar stood helpless for some moments; then, taking Ould Michael by the arm, he said:

"Come out of this, anyway! Come out!"

But it was long before Ould Michael would talk. He sat in silence while his friend discoursed to him about the folly of allowing Paddy to deceive him with bad whisky. Surely any man could tell the bad from the good.

"It is deplorable stuff altogether, and it will not be good for Paddy when I see him."

"Och!" burst out Ould Michael at last, "it is not the whisky at all, at all."

"Ay, that is a great part of it, whatever."

"Och! me hea-art is broke, me hea-art is broke," groaned Ould Michael.

"Hoots, man! is it for the p'stoffice? That was not much worth to any man."

But Ould Michael only shook his head. It was hopeless to try to make such a man appreciate his feelings. McFarquhar rambled on, making light of the whole affair. The loss could only be very trifling. A man could make much more out of anything else. Poor Ould Michael bore it as long as he could and then, rising to his feet, cried out:

"Howly mither av Moses! an' have ye no hea-art inside av ye at all, at all? 'Tis not the money; the money is dirt!"

Here McFarquhar strongly dissented. Ould Michael heeded him not, but poured out his bitterness and grief. "For twinty years and more did I folly the flag in all lands and in all climates, wid wounds all over me body, an' medals an' good conduct sthripes an'--an' all that; an' now, wid niver a word av complaint or explanashun, to be turned aff like a dog an' worse."

Then the matter-of-fact McFarquhar, unable to understand these sentimental considerations, but secretly delighted that he had got Ould Michael to unbosom himself, began to draw him.

"Not twenty years, Michael."

"Twenty-foive years it is, an' more, I'm tellin' ye," replied Ould Michael, "an' niver wance did the inimy see the back av me coat or the dust av me heels; an' to think----"

"How long was it, then, you were with Sir Colin?" continued McFarquhar, cunningly.

"Wid Sir Colin? Shure an' didn't I stay wid him all the way from Calcutta to Lucknow an' back? An' didn't I give thim faithful sarvice here for twelve years--the first man that iver handled the mail in the valley? An' here I am, like--like--any common man."

These were the sore spots in his heart. He was shamed before the people of the valleys in whose presence he had stood forth as the representative of a grateful sovereign. His Queen and his country--his glory and pride for all these years--had forgotten him and his years of service and had cast him aside as worthless; and now he was degraded to the ranks of a mere private citizen! No wonder he had hauled down his flag and then, having no interest in life, nothing was left him but Paddy Dougan and the relief of his bad whisky.--Against Jacob Wragge, too, who had supplanted him, his rage burned. He would have his heart's blood yet.

McFarquhar, as he listened, began to realize how deep was the wound his old friend had suffered; but all he could say was, "You will come out with me Michael, and a few weeks out with the dogs will put you right,"

but Ould Michael was immovable and McFarquhar, bidding me care for him and promising to return next week, rode off much depressed. Before the week was over, however, he was back again with great news and in a state of exaltation.

"The minister is coming," he announced.

"Minister?"

"Ay, he has been with me. The Rev. John Macleod" (or as he made it, "Magleod") "from Inverness--and he is the grand man! He has the gift."

I remembered that he was a highlander and knew well what he meant.

"Yes, yes," he continued with his strongest accent, "he has been with me, and very faithfully has he dealt with me. Oh! he is the man of G.o.d, and I hev not heard the likes of him for forty years and more."

I listened with wonder, as McFarquhar described the visit of the Rev.

John Macleod to his home. I could easily imagine the close dealing between the minister and McFarquhar, who would give him all reverence and submission, but when I imagined the highland minister dealing faithfully with the Indian wife and mother and her boys I failed utterly.

"He could not make much of her," meaning his wife, "and the lads," said McFarquhar sadly, "but there it was that he came very close to myself; and indeed--indeed--my sins have found me out."

"What did is say to you? What sins of yours did he discover?" I asked, for McFarquhar was the most respectable man in all the valley.

"Oh did he not ask me about my family altar and my duties to my wife and children?"

There was no manner of doubt but Mr. Macleod had done some searching in McFarquhar's heart and had brought him under "deep conviction," as he said himself. And McFarquhar had great faith that the minister would do the same for Ould Michael and was indignant when I expressed my doubts.

"Man aliou" (alive), he cried, "he will make his fery bones to quake."

"I don't know that that will help him much," I replied. But McFarquhar only looked at me and shook his head pityingly.

On Sat.u.r.day, sure enough, McFarquhar arrived with the minister, and a service for the day following was duly announced. We took care that Ould Michael should be in fit condition to be profited by the Rev. John Macleod's discourse. The service was held in the blacksmith's shop, the largest building available. The minister was a big, dark man with a ma.s.sive head and a great, rolling voice which he used with tremendous effect in all the parts of his service. The psalm he sang mostly alone, which appeared to trouble him not at all. The scripture lesson he read with a rhythmic, solemn cadence that may have broken every rule of elocution, but was nevertheless most impressive. His prayer, during which McFarquhar stood, while all the rest sat, was a most extraordinary production. In a most leisurely fashion it pursued its course through a whole system of theology, with careful explanation at critical places, lest there should be any mistaking of his position. Then it proceeded to deal with all cla.s.ses and condition of men, from the Queen downward. As to McFarquhar, it was easy to see from his face that the prayer was only another proof that the minister had "the gift," but to the others, who had never had McFarquhar's privilege, it was only a marvelous, though impressive performance. Before he closed, however, he remembered the people before him and, in simple, strong, heart-reaching words, he prayed for their salvation.

"Why, in Heaven's name," I said afterwards to McFarquhar, "didn't he begin his prayer where he ended? Does he think the Almighty isn't posted in theology?" But McFarquhar would only reply: "Ay, it was grand? He has the gift!"

The sermon was, as McFarquhar said, "terrible powerful." The text I forget, but it gave the opportunity for an elaborate proof of the universal depravity of the race and of their consequent condemnation. He had no great difficulty in establishing the first position to the satisfaction of his audience, and the effect produced was correspondingly slight; but when he came to describe the meaning and the consequences of condemnation, he grew terrible, indeed. His pictures were lurid in the extreme. No man before him but was greatly stirred up.

Some began to move uneasily in their seats; some tried to a.s.sume indifference; some were openly enraged; but none shared McFarquhar's visible and solemn delight. Ould Michael's face showed nothing; but, after all was over, in answer to McFarquhar's enthusiastic exclamation he finally grunted out:

"A great sermon, is it? P'raps it was and p'raps it wasn't. It took him a long time to tell a man what he knew before."

"And what might that be?" asked McFarquhar.

"That he was goin' fast to the Divil."

This McFarquhar could not deny and so he fell into disappointed silence.

He began to fear that the minister might possibly fail with Ould Michael, after all. I frankly acknowledged the same fear and tried to make him see that for men like Ould Michael, and the rest, preaching of that kind could do little good. With this position McFarquhar warmly disagreed, but as the week went by he had to confess that on Ould Michael the minister had no effect at all, for he kept out of his way and demoted himself to Paddy Dougan as far as we would allow him.

Then McFarquhar began to despair and to realize how desperate is the business of saving a man fairly on the way to destruction. But help came to us--"a mysterious dispensation of Providence," McFarquhar called it.

It happened on the Queen's birthday, when Grand Bend, in excess of loyal fervor, was doing its best to get speedily and utterly drunk. In other days Ould Michael had gloried beyond all in the display of loyal spirit; but to-day he sat, dark and scowling, in Paddy Dougan's barroom.

McFarquhar and I were standing outside the door keeping an eye, but not too apparently, upon Ould Michael's drinking.

A big German from the tie-camps, who had lived some years across the border, and not to his advantage, was holding forth in favor of liberty and against all tyrannous governments. As Paddy's whisky began to tell the German became specially abusive against Great Britain and the Queen. Protests came from all sides, till, losing his temper, the German gave utterance to a foul slander against Her Majesty's private life. In an instant Ould Michael was on his feet and at the bar.

"Dhrink all around!" he cried. The glares were filled and all stood waiting. "Gentlemen," said Ould Michael, in his best manner; "I give you Her Gracious Majesty the Queen, G.o.d bless her!" With wild yells the gla.s.ses were lifted high and the toast drunk with three times three. The German, meantime, stood with his gla.s.s untouched. When the cheers were over he said, with a sneer:

"Shentlemen, fill ub!" The order was obeyed with alacrity.

"I gif you, 'our n.o.ble selfs,' and for de Queen" (using a vile epithet), "she can look after her ownself." Quick as thought Ould Michael raised his gla.s.s and flung its contents into the German's face, saying, as he did so: "G.o.d save the Queen!" With a roar the German was at him, and before a hand could be raised to prevent it, Ould Michael was struck to the floor and most brutally kicked. By this time McFarquhar had tossed back the crowd right and left and, stooping down, lifted Ould Michael and carried him out into the air, saying in a husky voice:

"He is dead! He is dead!"