THE OUTPOST
Upon a slight swell of prairie stood the Outpost manse of Big River, the sole and only building in the country representative of the great Church which lay behind it, and which, under able statesmanship, was seeking to hold the new West for things high and good.The Big River people were proud of their manse.The minister was proud of it, and with reason.It stood for courage, faith, and self-denial.To the Convener and Superintendent, in their hours of discouragement, this little building brought cheer and hope.For, while it stood there it kept touch between that new country and what was best and most charteristic in Canadian civilisation, and it was for this that they wrought and prayed.But, though to people and minister, Convener and Superintendent, the little manse meant so much, the bareness, the unloveliness, and, more than all, the utter loneliness of it smote Shock with a sense of depression.At first he could not explain to himself this feeling.It was only after he had consciously recognised the picture which had risen in contrast before his mind as the home of the Fairbanks, that he understood.
"I could never bring her to such a house as this," was his thought.
"A woman would die here."
And, indeed, there was much to depress in the first look at the little board building that made a home for the McIntyres, set down on the treeless prairie with only a little wooden paling to defend it from the waste that gaped at it from every side.The contrast between this bare speck of human habitation and the cosy homes of his native Province, set each within its sheltering nest of orchard and garden, could hardly, have been more complete.But as his eyes ran down the slope of the prairie and up over the hills to the jagged line of peaks at the horizon, he was conscious of a swift change of feeling.The mighty hills spoke to his heart.
"Yes, even here one might live contented," he said aloud, and he found himself picturing how the light from those great peaks would illumine the face that had grown so dear within the last few months.
"And my mother would like it too," he said, speaking once more aloud.So with better heart he turned from the trail to the little manse door.The moment he passed within the door all sense of depression was gone.Out of their bare little wooden house the McIntyres had made a home, a place of comfort and of rest.True, the walls were without plaster, brown paper with factory cotton tacked over it taking its place, but they were wind-proof, and besides were most convenient for hanging things on.The furniture though chiefly interesting as an illustration of the evolution of the packing box, was none the less serviceable and comfortable.The floors were as yet uncarpeted, but now that April was come the carpets were hardly missed.Then, too, the few choice pictures upon the walls, the ingenious bookcase and the more ingenious plate and cup-rack displaying honest delf and some bits of choice china, the draping curtains of muslin and cretonne, all spoke of cultivated minds and refined tastes.Staring wants there were, and many discrepancies and incongruities, but no vulgarities nor coarseness nor tawdriness.
What they had was fitting.What was fitting but beyond their means these brave home-makers did without, and all things unfitting, however cheap, they scorned.And Shock, though he knew nothing of the genesis and evolution of this home and its furnishings, was sensible of its atmosphere of quiet comfort and refinement.The welcome of the McIntyres was radiant with good cheer and hearty hospitality.
It was partly the sea-rover in his blood, making impossible the familiar paths trodden bare of any experience that could stir the heart or thrill the imagination, but more that high ambition that dwells in noble youth, making it responsive to the call of duty where duty is difficult and dangerous, that sent David McIntyre out from his quiet country home in Nova Scotia to the far West.Abrilliant course in Pictou Academy, that nursing mother of genius for that Province by the sea, a still more brilliant course in Dalhousie, and afterwards in Pine Hill, promised young McIntyre anything he might desire in the way of scholastic distinction.The remonstrance of one of his professors, when he learned of the intention of his brilliant and most promising student to give his life to Western mission work, was characteristic of the attitude of almost the whole Canadian Church of that day.
"Oh, Mr.McIntyre!" said the Professor, "there is no need for such a man as you to go to the West."Equally characteristic of the man was McIntyre's reply.
