he had little to tell that Clifton had not heard before. There was talk
of forming a great manufacturing company in Gershom; but there had been
talk of that since ever Clifton could remember. The only difference now
was that a new dam was to be built further up the river at a place
better suited for it, and with more room for the raising of large
buildings than was the point where Mr Holt had built his first saw-mill
in earlier times. It was supposed to be for this purpose that Jacob
Holt was desirous to obtain possession of that part of the Fleming farm
that lay on the Beaver River; for, though a company was to be formed,
everybody knew that he would have the most to say and do about it. But
Mr Fleming had refused to sell, "and folks had talked round
considerable," Ben said, and he went on to repeat a good deal that was
anything but complimentary to Jacob.
"But I told our folks that you and Uncle Gershom would see Mr Fleming
through, and Aunt Betsey, she said if you were worth your salt you'd
stay at home and see to things for your father, and not let Jacob
disgrace the name. But I said you'd put it all straight, and Aunt
Betsey she said--"
"Well, what did Aunt Betsey say?" for Ben stopped suddenly.
"She told me to shut up," said Ben, hanging his head.
Clifton laughed heartily.
"And she doesn't think me worth my salt. Well, never mind. It is an
even chance that she is right. But I think she is hard on Jacob."
There was time for no more talk. They had skirted the little brook till
they came to a grove of birch and wild cherry-trees that had been left
to grow on a rocky knoll where the water fell over a low ledge on its
way from the pasture above. The sound of voices made them pause before
they set foot on the path that led upwards.
"It's the Fleming children, I suppose," said Ben. "They'll be telling
us, mayhap, that we're breaking the Sabbath, and I expect so we be."
David Fleming's Forgiveness--by Margaret Murray Robertson
CHAPTER FOUR.
THE FLEMING CHILDREN.
Instead of following the path, Clifton went round the knoll to the
brook, and paused again at the sight of a pair or two of little bare
feet in the water, and thus began his acquaintance with the Fleming
children. There were several of them, but Clifton saw first a beautiful
brown boyish face, and a pair of laughing eyes half hidden by a mass of
tangled curls, and recognised Davie. Close beside the face was another
so like it, and yet so different, that Clifton looked in wonder. The
features were alike, and the eyes were the same bonny blue, and the wind
was making free with the same dark curls about it. But it was a more
delicate face, not so rosy and brown, though the sun had touched it too.
There was an expression of sweet gravity about the mouth, and the eyes
that were looking up through the leaves into the sky had no laughter in
them. It was a fair and gentle face, but there was something in it that
made Clifton think of stern old Mr Fleming sitting on the Sabbath-day
among his neighbours in the church.
"That must be sister Lizzie's wee Katie," said Clifton to himself.
The slender girlish figure leaned against the rock on which the boy was
lying so that the two faces were nearly on a level, and a pretty picture
they made together. Clifton had been making facetious remarks to his
sister about the old-fashioned finery of the dressed-up village girls on
their way to church, but he saw nothing to criticise in the straight,
scant dress, of one dim colour, unrelieved by frill or collar, which
Katie Fleming wore. He did not think of her dress at all, but of the
slim, graceful figure and the bonny girlish face turned so gravely up to
the sky. He was not sure whether it was best to go forward and speak or
not. Ben stood still, looking also.
"I say, Katie," said the boy, lifting his head, "what is the
seven-and-twentieth?"
"Oh fie, Davie! to be thinking of propositions and such-like worldly
things, and this the Sabbath-day," said Katie, reprovingly.
"Just as if you werena thinking of them yourself, Katie."
"No, I'm no' thinking of them. They come into my head whiles. But I'm
no' fighting with them, or taking pleasure in them, as I do other days.
I'm just resting myself in this bonny quiet place, looking at the sky
and the bonny green grass. Eh, Davie, it's a grand thing to have the
rest and the quietness of the Sabbath-day."
The girl shook her head at the answer which Clifton did not hear, and
went on.
"It gives us time to come to ourselves, and to mind that there is
something else in the world besides just cheese and butter-making, and
these weary propositions. Of course it's right to go to the kirk, and I
promised grannie I would go this afternoon to the Scott school-house
with the bairns. But I like to bide quiet here a while, too."
"I would far rather bide here," said Davie.
"Yes, but, Davie, we mustna think light of the Sabbath-day. Think what
it is to grandfather. He would like it better if we were better bairns.
I'm just glad of the rest."
"You're tired of your books," said Davie, with a little brotherly
contempt in his voice. "You're but a lassie, however, and it canna be
helped."
"I canna do two things at once. I'm tired of making cheese and keeping
up with girls at the school too. And I'm glad it's the Sabbath-day for
the rest. And, Davie," she added, after a pause, "I'm not going to the
school after you stop. Grannie needs me at home, and I'm no' going."
"Catch me staying at home if I could go," said Davie.
"But, Davie, it is my duty to help grannie to make all the money we can
to pay the debt, and get grandfather out of the hands of those
avaricious Holts. What noise was yon, Davie?"
Listeners seldom hear good of themselves, and the mention of the
"avaricious Holts" startled Clifton into the consciousness that he was
listening to that which was not intended for his ears, and he drew to
Ben's side.
"It's the little Flemings," said Ben; "aint they Scotchy? That is the
way they always speak to one another at home."
They went round the knoll through the trees among the broken pieces of
rock scattered over the little eminence. Before they reached the brook
the other way a voice hailed them.
"Hallo, Ben! Does your Aunt Betsey know that you're going about in such
company on Sunday?"
"If meeting's out she knows, or she mistrusts," said Ben, taking the
matter seriously. "We're going over to the Scott school-house to
meeting. Aunt Betsey'll like that, anyhow."
They all laughed, for Ben and the Fleming children had long been
friends.
"Here's Clif got home sooner than he expected to, and Jacob, he's
reading a sermon by himself because the minister didn't come, and so--we
came away. This is Clif."
The smile which had greeted Ben went out of Katie's eyes, and surprise
and a little offence took its place, as she met Clifton's look. But she
laughed merrily when the lad, stepping back, took off his hat and bowed
low, as he might have done to any of the fine ladies of B--, where he
had been living of late.
But in a little while she grew shy and uncomfortable, and conscious of
her bare feet, and moved away. Clifton noticed the change, and said to
himself that she was thinking of the mortgage, and of "those avaricious
Holts."
"Your grandfather did not go to meeting, either," said Ben, anxious to
set himself right in Katie's eyes. "We saw him turning the corner as we
went down to the river."
"Grandfather!" repeated Katie. "I wonder why?"
"I suppose it was because Jacob was going to read the sermon," said Ben,
reddening, and looking at his cousin.
Katie reddened too and turned to go.
"Grandfather must be home, then, Davie; it's time to go in," and Kate
looked grave and troubled.
"Davie," repeated she, "it's time to come home."
Davie followed her a step or two, and they heard him saying:
"There's no hurry, Katie; if my grandfather didna go to the kirk, he'll
be holding a meeting all by himself in Pine-tree Hollow, and he'll not
be at the house this while, and I want to speak to Ben."
"Davie," said his sister, "mind it's the Sabbath-day."
The chances were against his minding it very long. It was a good while
before he followed his sister to the house, and he brought the Holts
with him to share their dinners of bread and milk.
"We're all going to the meeting together, grannie," said he, "and Kate,"
he added in a whisper, "Clif Holt has promised to lend me the book that
the master gave you a sight of the other day, and I am to keep it as
long as I like; and he's not so proud as you would think from his fine
clothes and his fine manners; but he couldna tell me the
seven-and-twentieth, more shame to him, and him at the college."
"He thinks much of himself," said Katie, "for all that."
The little Flemings and their mother and the two Holts went to the Scott
school-house, as had been proposed, and the house was left to Mrs
Fleming as a general thing. This "remarkable old lady," as the Gershom
people had got into the way of calling her to strangers, greatly enjoyed
the rare hours of rest and quiet that came at long intervals in her busy
life, but she did not enjoy them to-day. Her Bible lay open upon the
table, and "Fourfold State" and her "Solitude Sweetened" were within
reach of her hand, but she could not settle to read either of them. She
wandered from the door to the gate and back again in a restless, anxious
way, that made her indignant with herself at last.
"As gin he wasna to be trusted out of my sight an hour past the set
time," said she, going into the house and sitting resolutely down with
her book in her hand. "And it is not only to him, but to his master,
that my anxious thoughts are doing dishonour, as though I had really
anything to fear. But he was unco' downhearted when he went away."
She looked a very remarkable old lady as she sat there, still and firm.
She was straight as an arrow, small and slender, wrinkled indeed, but
with nothing of the weazened, sunken look which is apt to fall on small
women when they grow old. She was a beautiful old woman, with clear
bright eyes, and a broad forehead, over which the bands of hair lay
white as snow.
She had known a deal of trouble in her life, and, for the sake of those
she loved, had striven hard to keep her strength and courage through it
all, and the straight lines of her firmly-closed lips told of courage
and patience still. But a quiver of weakness passed over her face, and
over all her frame, as at last a slow, heavy footstep came up to the
door. She listened a moment, and then rising up, she said cheerfully:
"Is this you, gudeman? You're late, arena you? Well, you're dinner is
waiting you."
She did not wait for an answer, nor did she look at him closely till she
had put food before him. Then she sat down beside him. He, too, was
remarkable-looking. He had no remains of the pleasant comeliness of
youth as she had, but there were the same lines of patience and courage
in his face. He was closely shaven, with large, marked features and
dark, piercing eyes. It was a strong face, good and true, but still it
was a hard face, and it was a true index of his character. He was firm
and just always, and almost always he was kind, slow to take offence,
and slow to give it; but being offended, he could not forgive. He
looked tired and troubled to-night--a bowed old man.
"Where are the bairns?" were the first words he uttered, and his face
changed and softened as he spoke. She told him where they had gone, and
that their mother had gone with them. Then she made some talk about the
bonny day and the people he had seen at church, speaking quietly and
cheerfully till he had finished his meal, and then, having set aside the
dishes, she came close to him, and, laying her hand on his arm, said
gently: "David, we are o'er lane in the house. Tell me what it is
that's troubling you."
He did not answer her immediately.
"Is it anything new?" she asked.
"No, no. Nothing new," said he, turning toward her. At the sight of
her fond wet eyes he broke down.
"Oh, Katie! my woman," he groaned, "it's ill with me this day. I hae
come to a strait bit o' the way and I canna win through. `Forgive, and
ye shall be forgiven,' the Book says, and this day I feel that I havena
forgiven."
Instead of answering, she bent over him till his grey head lay on her
shoulder and rested there. He was silent for a little.
"When I saw him younder to-day, smooth and smiling, standing so well
with his fellow-men, my heart rose up against him; I daredna bide, lest
I should cry out in the kirk before them all and call God's justice in
question--God that lets Jacob Holt go about in His sunshine, with all
men's good word on him, when our lad's light went out in darkness so
long ago. Is it just, Katie? Call ye it right and just?"
She did not answer a word, but soothed him with hand and voice as she
might have soothed a child. She had done it many times before during
the forty years that she had been his wife, but she had never, even in
the time of their sorest troubles, seen him so moved. She sat down
quietly beside him and patiently waited.
"Has anything happened, or is anything threatening that I dinna ken of?"
asked she after a little.
"No, nothing new has happened. But I am growing an old failed man,
Katie, and no' able to stand up against my ain fears."
"Ay, we are growing old and failed; our day is near over, and so are our
fears. Why should we fear? Jacob Holt canna move the foundations of
the earth. And even though he could, we needna fear, for `God is our
refuge and strength.'"
He was leaning back with closed eyes, tired and fainthearted, and he did
not answer.
"There's no fear for the bairns," she went on, cheerfully. "They are
good bairns. There are few that hae the sense and discretion of our
Katie, and her mother's no' without judgment, though she is but a
feckless body as to health, and has been a heavy handful to us. They'll
be taken care of. The Lord is ay kind."
And so she went on, gentle soothing alternating with more gentle
chiding, all the time keeping away from the sore place in his heart, not
daring for his sake and for her own to touch it till this rare moment of
weakness should be past.
"You are wearied, and no wonder, with the heat and your long fast; lie
down on your bed and rest till it be time to catechise the bairns--
though I'm no' for Sabbath sleeping as an ordinary thing. Will you no'
lie down? Well, you might step over as far as the pasture-bars and see
if all is right with old Kelso and her foal, for here come the bairns
and their mother, and there will be no peace with them till they get
their supper, and your head will be none the better for their noise."
And so she got him away, going with him a few steps up the field. She
turned in time to meet the troop of children who, in a state of subdued
mirthfulness suitable to the day and their proximity to their
grandfather, were drawing near. She had a gentle word of caution or
chiding to each, and then she said softly to Katie:
"You'll go up the brae with your grandfather and help him if there is
anything wrong with old Kelso. And cheer him up, my lassie. Tell him
about the meeting, and the Sunday-school; say anything you think of to
hearten him. You ken well how to do it."
"But, grannie," said Katie, startled, "there is nothing wrong, is
there?"
"Wrong," repeated her grandmother. "Ken you anything wrong, lassie,
that you go white like that?"
The brave old woman grew white herself as she asked, but she stood
between Katie and the rest, that none might see.
"I ken nothing, grannie, only grandfather didna bide to the meeting
to-day, Ben told me."
"Didna bide to the meeting? Where went he, then? He has only just come
home."
"It was because of Jacob Holt," Ben said.
"But Katie, my woman, you had no call surely to speak about the like of
that to Ben Holt?"
"I didna, grannie. I just heard him and came away. And, grannie, I
think maybe grandfather was at Pine-tree Hollow. It would be for a
while's peace, you ken, as the bairns were at home."
"Pine-tree Hollow! Well, and why not?" said grannie, too loyal to the
old man to let Katie see that she was startled by her words. "It has
been for a while's peace, as you say. And now you'll run up the brae
after him, and take no heed, but wile him from his vexing thoughts, like
a good bairn as you are."
"And there's nothing wrong, grannie?" said Katie, wistfully.
"Nothing more than usual; nothing the Lord doesna ken o', my bairn. Run
away and speak to him, and be blithe and douce, and he'll forget his
trouble with your hand in his."
Katie's voice was like a bird's as she called: "Grandfather,
grandfather, bide for me."
The old man turned and waited for her.
"Doesna your grandmother need you, nor your mother, and can you come up
the brae with that braw gown on?"
Katie smiled and took his hand.
"My gown will wash, and I'll take care, and grannie gave me leave to
come."
And so the two went slowly up the hill, saying little, but content with
the silence. When they came back again Mrs Fleming, who was waiting
for them at the door, felt her burden lightened, for her first glance at
her husband's face told her he was comforted.
"My bonny Katie, gentle and wise, a bairn with the sense of a woman,"
said she to herself, but she did not let her tenderness overflow. "We
have gotten the milking over without you, Katie, my woman. And now
haste you and take your supper, for it is time for the bairns' catechism
and we mustna keep your grandfather waiting."
That night when Ben Holt went home he found the house dark and
apparently forsaken. Miss Betsey sat rocking in her chair in solitude
and darkness, and she rocked on, taking no notice when Ben came in.
"Have you got a sick headache, Aunt Betsey?" said Ben after a little; he
did not ask for information, but for the sake of saying something to
break the ominous silence. He knew well Aunt Betsey always had a sick
headache and was troubled when he had been doing wrong.
"I shall get over it, I expect, as I have before; talking won't help
it."
Ben considered the matter a little. "I don't know that," said he, "it
depends some on what there is to say, and you don't need to have sick
headache this time, for I haven't been doing anything that you would
think bad."
Miss Betsey laughed unpleasantly.
"What has that to do with it?"
"Well, I haven't been doing anything bad, anyhow."
"Only just breaking Sunday in the face and eyes of all Gershom. You are
not a child to be punished now. Go to bed."
"I don't know about breaking Sunday; I didn't any more than old Mr
Fleming. He didn't care about going to Jacob's meeting, and no more did
Clif and me. We went along a piece, and then we went to the Scott
school-house to meeting. It was a first-rate meeting."
"What about Mr Fleming; has he and Jacob been having trouble?" asked
Miss Betsey, forgetting in her curiosity her controversy with Ben.
"Nothing new, I don't suppose. And Clif, he says that he don't believe
but what Jacob'll do the right thing, and he says he'll see to it
himself."
"There, that'll do," interrupted Miss Betsey. "If Clifton Holt was to
tell you that white was black you'd believe him."
"I'd consider it," said Ben, gravely.
"If you want any supper it's in the cupboard," said Miss Betsey, rising,
"I've had supper and dinner too, up to Mr Fleming's, and we went to
meeting at the Scott school-house. It wasn't Clif's fault this time,
Aunt Betsey, and we haven't done anything very bad either. And Clif,
he's going to be awful steady, I expect, and stick to his books more
than a little, and he sent his respects to you, Aunt Betsey, and he
says--"
"There, that'll do. Go to bed if you don't want to drive me crazy."
"I'll go to bed right off if you'll come and take away my candle, Aunt
Betsey. No, I don't want a candle; but if you'll come in and tuck me up
as you used to, for I haven't been doing anything this time, nor Clif
either. Will you, Aunt Betsey?"
"Well, hurry up, then," said Aunt Betsey, with a break in her voice,
"for this day has been long enough for two, and I'm thankful it's done,"
and then she added to herself:
"I sha'n't worry about him if I can help it. But it is so much more
natural for boys to go wrong than to go right, that I can't help it by
spells. After all I've seen, it isn't strange either."
"Ben," said she, when she took his candle in a little while, "you
mustn't think you haven't done wrong because the day turned out better
than it might have done. It only happened so. It was Sabbath-breaking
all the same to leave meeting and go up the river. There, I aint going
to begin again. But wrong is wrong, and sin is sin whichever way it
ends."
"That's so," said Ben, penitently.
"And there is only one way for sin to end, however it may look at the
beginning, and it won't help you to have Clif fall into the same
condemnation. There, good-night."
"I don't know about that last," said Ben to himself. "It would seem
kind o' good to have Clif round 'most anywhere. But he's going to work
straight this time, I expect, and I guess he'll have all the better
chance to walk straight too."
CHAPTER FIVE.
THE MINISTER.
The event of the summer to the people of Gershom was the coming of the
new minister. It is not to be supposed that with a population of a good
many hundreds there was uniformity of opinion in religious matters in
the town. To say nothing of the North Gore people, the people of
Gershom generally believed in the right of private judgment, and
exercised it to such purpose that, within the limits of the township, at
least a half dozen denominations were represented. The greater number
of these, however, had not had much success in establishing their own
peculiar form of worship, except for a little while at a time, and the
greater part of the people were at this time more or less closely
identified with the village corporation. So that it is scarcely an
exaggeration to say, that all Gershom was moved to welcome the Reverend
William Maxwell among them.
Never, except perhaps in their most confidential whispers among
themselves, did the wise men of Gershom confess that they were
disappointed in their minister. They had not expected perfection, or
they said they had not, but each and every one of them had expected some
one very different from the silent, sallow, heavy-eyed young man whom
Jacob Holt, at whose home he was for the present to live, introduced to
them.
Something had been said of the getting up of a monster tea-meeting to
welcome him, but uncertainty in the time of his coming, because of
illness, had prevented this, and as soon as he was seen there was a
silent, but general decision among those in authority that this would
not have been a successful measure. So he was conducted from house to
house by Jacob Holt, or some other of the responsible people, and he was
praised to his flock, and his flock were praised to him, but there was
not much progress made toward acquaintance for a while, and even the
least observing of them could see that there were times when contact
with strangers, to say nothing of the necessity of making himself
agreeable to them, was almost more than the poor young man could bear.
Still, nobody confessed to disappointment. On the contrary, Jacob Holt
and the rest of the leaders of public opinion declared constantly that
he was "the right man in the right place." Of Scottish parentage,
brought up from his boyhood in Canada, and having received his
theological education in the United States, if he were not the man to
unite the various contending national elements in Gershom society, where
was such a man to be found?
No man could have every gift, it was said, and whatever Mr Maxwell
might seem to lack as to social qualities, he was a preacher. All
agreed that his sermons were wonderful. It was the elaborately prepared
discourses of his seminary days, that the young man moved by a vague,
but awful dread of breaking down, gave to his people first. It was well
that the learned professor's opinion of them and of their author had
come to Gershom before him. There could be no doubt as to the sermons
after that testimony, so it was no uncertain sound that went forth about
his first pulpit efforts.
They were clear, they were logical, they were profound. Above all, they
were pronounced by the orthodox North Gore people to be "sound." It is
true he read them, but even that did not spoil them; and it was a
decided proof that these people were sincere in their admiration, and in
earnest in their desire for union and "the healing of breaches" that
this was the case. In old times, that is, in the time of old Mr Grant,
and old Mr Sangster, to be a "proper minister" was in their opinion to
be a "dumb dog that could not bark," and such a one had ever been an
object of compassion, not to say of contempt among them. But Mr
Maxwell's sermons were worth reading, they said, and they waited. And
so the first months were got safely over.