The Imperialist by Sara Jeannette Duncan Read Free Book Online Page A

allurements, from the point of view of a minister of the Gospel, but it would not occur to Dr. Drummond to analyse them. So far as he was aware, John Murchison was just a decent, prosperous Christian man, on whose word and will you might depend, and Mrs. Murchison a stirring, independent little woman, who could be very good company when she felt inclined. As to their sons and daughters, in so far as they were a credit, he was as proud of them as their parents could possibly be, regarding himself as in a much higher degree responsible for the formation of their charactersand the promise of their talents. And indeed, since every one of them had “sat under” Dr. Drummond from the day he or she was capable of sitting under anybody, Mr. and Mrs. Murchison would have been the last to dispute this. It was not one of those houses where a pastor could always be sure of leaving some spiritual benefit behind; but then he came away himself with a pleasant sense of nervous stimulus which was apt to take his mind off the matter. It is not given to all of us to receive or to extend the communion of the saints; Mr. and Mrs. Murchison were indubitably of the elect, but he was singularly close-mouthed about it, and she had an extraordinary way of seeing the humorous side – altogether it was paralysing, and the conversation would wonderfully soon slip round to some robust secular subject, public or domestic. I have mentioned Dr. Drummond’s long upper lip; all sorts of racial virtues resided there, but his mouth was also wide and much frequented by a critical, humorous, philosophical smile which revealed a view of life at once kindly and trenchant. His shrewd grey eyes were encased in wrinkles, and when he laughed his hearty laugh they almost disappeared in a merry line. He had a fund of Scotch stories, and one or two he was very fond of, at the expense of the Methodists, that were known up and down the Dominion, and nobody enjoyed them more than he did himself. He had once worn his hair in a high curl on his scholarly forehead, and a silvering tuft remained brushed upright; he took the old-fashioned precaution of putting cotton wool in his ears, which gave him more than ever the look of something highly-concentrated and conserved but in no way detracted from his dignity. St. Andrew’s folk accused him of vanity because of the diamond he wore on his little finger. He was by no means handsome, but he was intensely individual; perhaps he had vanity; his people would have forgiven himworse things. And at Mrs. Murchison’s tea party he was certainly, as John Murchison afterwards said, “in fine feather.”
    An absorbing topic held them, a local topic, a topic in volving loss and crime and reprisals. The Federal Bank had sustained a robbery of five thousand dollars, and in the course of a few days had placed their cashier under arrest for suspected complicity. Their cashier was Walter Ormiston, the only son of old Squire Ormiston, of Moneida Reservation, ten miles out of Elgin, who had administered the affairs of the Indians there for more years than the Federal Bank had existed. Mr. Williams brought the latest news, as was to be expected; news flowed in rivulets to Mr. Williams all day long; he paid for it, dealt in it, could spread or suppress it.
    “They’ve admitted the bail,” Mr. Williams announced, with an air of self-surveillance. Rawlins had brought the intelligence in too late for the current issue, and Mr. Williams was divided between his human desire to communicate and his journalistic sense that the item would be the main feature of the next afternoon’s
Express
.
    “I’m glad of that. I’m glad of that,” repeated Dr. Drummond. “Thank you, Mrs. Murchison, I’ll send my cup. And did you learn, Williams, for what amount?”
    Mr. Williams ran his hand through his hair in the effort to remember, and decided that he might as well let it all go. The
Mercury
couldn’t fail to get it by to-morrow anyhow.
    “Three