“Hark to Angus! Man, his heart will be sore the night! In five years I
have not heard him playing ’Great Godfrey’s Lament,’” said old Alexander
McTavish, as with him I was sitting of a June evening, at sundown, under
a wide apple-tree of his orchard-lawn.

When the sweet song-sparrows of the Ottawa valley had ceased their
plaintive strains, Angus McNeil began on his violin. This night,
instead of “Tullochgorum” or “Roy’s Wife” or “The March of the McNeils,”
or any merry strathspey, he crept into an unusual movement, and from a
distance came the notes of an exceeding strange strain blent with the
meditative murmur of the Rataplan Rapids.

I am not well enough acquainted with musical terms to tell the method of
that composition in which the wail of a Highland coronach seemed mingled
with such mournful crooning as I had heard often from Indian voyageurs
north of Lake Superior. Perhaps that fancy sprang from my knowledge
that Angus McNeil’s father had been a younger son of the chief of the
McNeil clan, and his mother a daughter of the greatest man of the Cree

“Ay, but Angus is wae,” sighed old McTavish. “What will he be seeing the
now? It was the night before his wife died that he played yon last.
Come, we will go up the road. he does be liking to see the people gather
to listen.”

We walked, maybe three hundred yards, and stood leaning against the
ruined picket-fence that surrounds the great stone house built by Hector
McNeil, the father of Angus, when he retired from his position as one of
the “Big Bourgeois” of the famous Northwest Fur Trading Company.

The huge square structure of four stories and a basement is divided,
above the ground floor, into eight suites, some of four, and some of
five rooms. In these suites the fur-trader, whose ideas were all
patriarchal, had designed that he and his Indian wife, with his seven
sons and their future families, should live to the end of his days and
theirs. That was a dream at the time when his boys were all under nine
years old, and Godfrey little more than a baby in arms.

The ground-floor is divided by a hall twenty-five feet wide into two
long chambers, one intended to serve as a dining-hall for the multitude
of descendants that Hector expected to see round his old age, the other
as a withdrawing-room for himself and his wife, or for festive
occasions. In this mansion Angus McNeil now dwelt alone.

He sat out that evening on a balcony at the rear of the hall, whence he
could overlook the McTavish place and the hamlet that extends a quarter
of a mile further down the Ottawa’s north shore. His right side was
toward the large group of French-Canadian people who had gathered to
hear him play. Though he was sitting, I could make out that his was a
gigantic figure.

“Ay—it will be just exactly ’Great Godfrey’s Lament,’” McTavish
whispered. “Weel do I mind him playing yon many’s the night after
Godfrey was laid in the mools. Then he played it no more till before
his ain wife died. What is he seeing now? Man, it’s weel kenned he has
the second sight at times. Maybe he sees the pit digging for himself.
He’s the last of them.”

“Who was Great Godfrey?” I asked, rather loudly.

Angus McNeil instantly cut short the “Lament,” rose from his chair, and
faced us.

“Aleck McTavish, who have you with you?” he called imperiously.

“My young cousin from the city, Mr. McNeil,” said McTavish, with

“Bring him in. I wish to spoke with you, Aleck McTavish. The young man
that is not acquaint with the name of Great Godfrey McNeil can come with
you. I will be at the great door.”

“It’s strange-like,” said McTavish, as we went to the upper gate. “He
has not asked me inside for near five years. I’m feared his wits is
disordered, by his way of speaking. Mind what you say. Great Godfrey
was most like a god to Angus.”

When Angus McNeil met us at the front door I saw he was verily a giant.
Indeed, he was a wee bit more than six and a half feet tall when he
stood up straight. Now he was stooped a little, not with age, but with
consumption,—the disease most fatal to men of mixed white and Indian
blood. His face was dark brown, his features of the Indian cast, but
his black hair had not the Indian lankness. It curled tightly round his
grand head.

Without a word he beckoned us on into the vast withdrawing room.
Without a word he seated himself beside a large oaken centre-table, and
motioned us to sit opposite.

Before he broke silence, I saw that the windows of that great chamber
were hung with faded red damask; that the heads of many a bull moose,
buck, bear, and wolf grinned among guns and swords and claymores from
its walls; that charred logs, fully fifteen feet long, remained in the
fireplace from the last winter’s burning; that there were three dim
portraits in oil over the mantel; that the room contained much frayed
furniture, once sumptuous of red velvet; and that many skins of wild
beasts lay strewn over a hard-wood floor whose edges still retained
their polish and faintly gleamed in rays from the red west.

That light was enough to show that two of the oil paintings must be
those of Hector McNeil and his Indian wife. Between these hung one of a
singularly handsome youth with yellow hair.

“Here my father lay dead,” cried Angus McNeil, suddenly striking the
table. He stared at us silently for many seconds, then again struck the
table with the side of his clenched fist. “He lay here dead on this
table—yes! It was Godfrey that straked him out all alone on this table.
You mind Great Godfrey, Aleck McTavish.”

“Well I do, Mr. McNeil; and your mother yonder,—a grand lady she was.”
McTavish spoke with curious humility, seeming wishful, I thought, to
comfort McNeil’s sorrow by exciting his pride.

“Ay—they’ll tell hereafter that she was just exactly a squaw,” cried the
big man, angrily. “But grand she was, and a great lady, and a proud.
Oh, man, man! but they were proud, my father and my Indian mother. And
Godfrey was the pride of the hearts of them both. No wonder; but it was
sore on the rest of us after they took him apart from our ways.”

Aleck McTavish spoke not a word, and big Angus, after a long pause, went
on as if almost unconscious of our presence:—

“White was Godfrey, and rosy of the cheek like my father; and the blue
eyes of him would match the sky when you’ll be seeing it up through a
blazing maple on a clear day of October. Tall, and straight, and grand
was Godfrey, my brother. What was the thing Godfrey could not do? The
songs of him hushed the singing-birds on the tree, and the fiddle he
would play to take the soul out of your body. There was not white one
among us till he was born.

“The rest of us all were just Indians—ay, Indians, Aleck McTavish.
Brown we were, and the desire of us was all for the woods and the river.
Godfrey had white sense like my father, and often we saw the same look
in his eyes. My God, but we feared our father!”

Angus paused to cough. After the fit he sat silent for some minutes.
The voice of the great rapid seemed to fill the room. When he spoke
again, he stared past our seat with fixed, dilated eyes, as if tranced
by a vision.

“Godfrey, Godfrey—you hear! Godfrey, the six of us would go over the
falls and not think twice of it, if it would please you, when you were
little. Oich, the joy we had in the white skin of you, and the fine
ways, till my father and mother saw we were just making an Indian of
you, like ourselves! So they took you away; ay, and many’s the day the
six of us went to the woods and the river, missing you sore. It’s then
you began to look on us with that look that we could not see was
different from the look we feared in the blue eyes of our father. Oh,
but we feared him, Godfrey! And the time went by, and we feared and we
hated you that seemed lifted up above your Indian brothers!”

“Oich, the masters they got to teach him!” said Angus, addressing
himself again to my cousin. “In the Latin and the Greek they trained
him. History books he read, and stories in song. Ay, and the manners
of Godfrey! Well might the whole pride of my father and mother be on
their one white son. A grand young gentleman was Godfrey,—Great Godfrey
we called him, when he was eighteen.

“The fine, rich people that would come up in bateaux from Montreal to
visit my father had the smile and the kind word for Godfrey; but they
looked upon us with the eyes of the white man for the Indian. And that
look we were more and more sure was growing harder in Godfrey’s eyes.
So we looked back at him with the eyes of the wolf that stares at the
bull moose, and is fierce to pull him down, but dares not try, for the
moose is too great and lordly.

“Mind you, Aleck McTavish, for all we hated Godfrey when we thought he
would be looking at us like strange Indians—for all that, yet we were
proud of him that he was our own brother. Well, we minded how he was
all like one with us when he was little; and in the calm looks of him,
and the white skin, and the yellow hair, and the grandeur of him, we had
pride, do you understand? Ay, and in the strength of him we were glad.
Would we not sit still and pleased when it was the talk how he could run
quicker than the best, and jump higher than his head—ay, would we! Man,
there was none could compare in strength with Great Godfrey, the
youngest of us all!

“He and my father and mother more and more lived by themselves in this
room. Yonder room across the hall was left to us six Indians. No
manners, no learning had we; we were no fit company for Godfrey. My
mother was like she was wilder with love of Godfrey the more he grew and
the grander, and never a word for days and weeks together did she give
to us. It was Godfrey this, and Godfrey that, and all her thought was

“Most of all we hated him when she was lying dead here on this table.
We six in the other room could hear Godfrey and my father groan and
sigh. We would step softly to the door and listen to them kissing her
that was dead,—them white, and she Indian like ourselves,—and us not
daring to go in for the fear of the eyes of our father. So the soreness
was in our hearts so cruel hard that we would not go in till the last,
for all their asking. My God, my God, Aleck McTavish, if you saw her!
she seemed smiling like at Godfrey, and she looked like him then, for
all she was brown as November oak-leaves, and he white that day as the
froth on the rapid.

“That put us farther from Godfrey than before. And farther yet we were
from him after, when he and my father would be walking up and down, up
and down, arm in arm, up and down the lawn in the evenings. They would
be talking about books, and the great McNeils in Scotland. The six of
us knew we were McNeils, for all we were Indians, and we would listen to
the talk of the great pride and the great deeds of the McNeils that was
our own kin. We would be drinking the whiskey if we had it, and saying:
’Godfrey to be the only McNeil! Godfrey to take all the pride of the
name of us!’ Oh, man, man! but we hated Godfrey sore.”

Big Angus paused long, and I seemed to see clearly the two fair-haired,
tall men walking arm in arm on the lawn in the twilight, as if
unconscious or careless of being watched and overheard by six
sore-hearted kinsmen.

“You’ll mind when my father was thrown from his horse and carried into
this room, Aleck McTavish? Ay, well you do. But you nor no other
living man but me knows what came about the night that he died.

“Godfrey was alone with him. The six of us were in yon room. Drink we
had, but cautious we were with it, for there was a deed to be done that
would need all our senses. We sat in a row on the floor—we were
Indians—it was our wigwam—we sat on the floor to be against the ways of
them two. Godfrey was in here across the hall from us; alone he was
with our white father. He would be chief over us by the will, no
doubt,—and if Godfrey lived through that night it would be strange.

“We were cautious with the whiskey, I told you before. Not a sound
could we hear of Godfrey or of my father. Only the rapid, calling and
calling,—I mind it well that night. Ay, and well I mind the striking of
the great clock,—tick, tick, tick, tick, tick,—I listened and I dreamed
on it till I doubted but it was the beating of my father’s heart.

“Ten o’clock was gone by, and eleven was near. How many of us sat
sleeping I know not; but I woke up with a start, and there was Great
Godfrey, with a candle in his hand, looking down strange at us, and us
looking up strange at him.

“’He is dead,’ Godfrey said.

“We said nothing.

“’Father died two hours ago,’ Godfrey said.

“We said nothing.

“’Our father is white,—he is very white,’ Godfrey said, and he trembled.
’Our mother was brown when she was dead.’

“Godfrey’s voice was wild.

“’Come, brothers, and see how white is our father,’ Godfrey said.

“No one of us moved.

“’Won’t you come? In God’s name, come,’ said Godfrey. ’Oich—but it is
very strange! I have looked in his face so long that now I do not know
him for my father. He is like no kin to me, lying there. I am alone,

“Godfrey wailed in a manner. It made me ashamed to hear his voice like
that—him that looked like my father that was always silent as a
sword—him that was the true McNeil.

“’You look at me, and your eyes are the eyes of my mother,’ says
Godfrey, staring wilder. ’What are you doing here, all so still?
Drinking the whiskey? I am the same as you. I am your brother. I will
sit with you, and if you drink the whiskey, I will drink the whiskey,

“Aleck McTavish! with that he sat down on the floor in the dirt and
litter beside Donald, that was oldest of us all.

“’Give me the bottle,’ he said. ’I am as much Indian as you, brothers.
What you do I will do, as I did when I was little, long ago.’

“To see him sit down in his best,—all his learning and his grand manners
as if forgotten,—man, it was like as if our father himself was turned
Indian, and was low in the dirt!

“What was in the heart of Donald I don’t know, but he lifted the bottle
and smashed it down on the floor.

“’God in heaven! what’s to become of the McNeils! You that was the
credit of the family, Godfrey!’ says Donald with a groan.

“At that Great Godfrey jumped to his feet like he was come awake.

“’You’re fitter to be the head of the McNeils than I am, Donald,’ says
he; and with that the tears broke out of his eyes, and he cast himself
into Donald’s arms. Well, with that we all began to cry as if our
hearts would break. I threw myself down on the floor at Godfrey’s feet,
and put my arms round his knees the same as I’d lift him up when he was
little. There I cried, and we all cried around him, and after a bit I

“’Brothers, this was what was in the mind of Godfrey. He was all alone
in yonder. We are his brothers, and his heart warmed to us, and he said
to himself, it was better to be like us than to be alone, and he thought
if he came and sat down and drank the whiskey with us, he would be our
brother again, and not be any more alone.’

“’Ay, Angus, Angus, but how did you know that?’ says Godfrey, crying;
and he put his arms round my neck, and lifted me up till we were breast
to breast. With that we all put our arms some way round one another and
Godfrey, and there we stood sighing and swaying and sobbing a long time,
and no man saying a word.

“’Oh, man, Godfrey dear, but our father is gone, and who can talk with
you now about the Latin, and the history books, and the great
McNeils—and our mother that’s gone?’ says Donald; and the thought of it
was such pity that our hearts seemed like to break.

“But Godfrey said: ’We will talk together like brothers. If it shames
you for me to be like you, then I will teach you all they taught me, and
we will all be like our white father.’

“So we all agreed to have it so, if he would tell us what to do. After
that we came in here with Godfrey, and we stood looking at my father’s
white face. Godfrey all alone had straked him out on this table, with
the silver-pieces on the eyes that we had feared. But the silver we did
not fear. Maybe you will not understand it, Aleck McTavish, but our
father never seemed such close kin to us as when we would look at him
dead, and at Godfrey, that was the picture of him, living and kind.


“After that you know what happened yourself.”

“Well I do, Mr. McNeil. It was Great Godfrey that was the father to you
all,” said my cousin.

“Just that, Aleck McTavish. All that he had was ours to use as we
would,—his land, money, horses, this room, his learning. Some of us
could learn one thing and some of us could learn another, and some could
learn nothing, not even how to behave. What I could learn was the
playing of the fiddle. Many’s the hour Godfrey would play with me while
the rest were all happy around.

“In great content we lived like brothers, and proud to see Godfrey as
white and fine and grand as the best gentleman that ever came up to
visit him out of Montreal. Ay, in great content we lived all together
till the consumption came on Donald, and he was gone. Then it came and
came back, and came back again, till Hector was gone, and Ranald was
gone, and in ten years’ time only Godfrey and I were left. Then both of
us married, as you know. But our children died as fast as they were
born, almost,—for the curse seemed on us. Then his wife died, and
Godfrey sighed and sighed ever after that.

“One night I was sleeping with the door of my room open, so I could hear
if Godfrey needed my help. The cough was on him then. Out of a dream of
him looking at my father’s white face I woke and went to his bed. He
was not there at all.

“My heart went cold with fear, for I heard the rapid very clear, like
the nights they all died. Then I heard the music begin down stairs,
here in this chamber where they were all laid out dead,—right here on
this table where I will soon lie like the rest. I leave it to you to
see it done, Aleck McTavish, for you are a Highlandman by blood. It was
that I wanted to say to you when I called you in. I have seen himself
in my coffin three nights. Nay, say nothing; you will see.

“Hearing the music that night, down I came softly. Here sat Godfrey,
and the kindest look was on his face that ever I saw. He had his fiddle
in his hand, and he played about all our lives.

“He played about how we all came down from the North in the big canoe
with my father and mother, when we were little children and him a baby.
He played of the rapids we passed over, and of the rustling of the
poplar-trees and the purr of the pines. He played till the river you
hear now was in the fiddle, with the sound of our paddles, and the fish
jumping for flies. He played about the long winters when we were young,
so that the snow of those winters seemed falling again. The ringing of
our skates on the ice I could hear in the fiddle. He played through all
our lives when we were young and going in the woods yonder together and
then it was the sore lament began!

“It was like as if he played how they kept him away from his brothers,
and him at his books thinking of them in the woods, and him hearing the
partridges’ drumming, and the squirrels’ chatter, and all the little
birds singing and singing. Oich, man, but there’s no words for the
sadness of it!”

Old Angus ceased to speak as he took his violin from the table and
struck into the middle of “Great Godfrey’s Lament.” As he played, his
wide eyes looked past us, and the tears streamed down his brown cheeks.
When the woful strain ended, he said, staring past us: “Ay, Godfrey, you
were always our brother.”

Then he put his face down in his big brown hands, and we left him
without another word.