nails to mend the broken paling, and Elizabeth, leaning over the little
white gate while she waited for him to return, had an unexpected
pleasure--a little chat with Mrs Jacob. It was not the chat which gave
her the pleasure, it was her own thought that amused her, and the
knowledge of her sister-in-law's thoughts as well.
She knew that though Mrs Jacob declined to come in now at her
invitation, she had come up the street with the full design of doing so,
and she knew that she was saying to herself that Mr Maxwell could not
be in the house, though Jacob had seen him going that way, or Lizzie
would never be standing so long at the gate, looking down the street.
"I am waiting for father," said Elizabeth; "he has gone in for the
hammer to drive some nails in the fence. I suppose Nathan must have
driven against it last night in the dark." She was hoping that Mr
Maxwell was enjoying "The Puritan" so well that he would not be tempted
to look out of the window so as to be seen.
"Here is father; he will be glad to see you; it is a long time since you
were here. Won't you change your mind and come in?"
"Well, no, not to-day. I am going in to see Miss Ball a minute about my
bonnet, and I ought to hurry home."
Mrs Jacob knew that she would have to answer many questions about Jacob
and the children. Probably the squire had seen them all to-day already,
and would see them all again before the day was over.
"I think I'll go, and not hinder him about the fence, since he doesn't
know I am here. Why don't you come up sometimes? Well, good-bye; I
guess I'll go."
"Good-bye," said Elizabeth. "And now when she finds out that Mr
Maxwell was here all the time, though I was standing at the gate, she
will make herself and Jacob, too, believe that I am a deceitful girl;
though why I should tell her, since she did not ask, I do not quite
see."
She took the nail-box from her father's hand and followed him out of the
gate, giving him each nail as he wanted it, making suggestions and
praising his work as one might do with a child. It was soon finished to
the old man's satisfaction, and by that time his excitement and his
troubled thoughts were gone, and he was ready for his afternoon's rest.
"You have something to say to me, Miss Holt," said the minister, when
she came again into the sitting-room.
"No--I am not sure that I have, though a little ago I thought I had."
"But, Miss Holt, I am almost sure you must have something to say," said
Mr Maxwell, after a pause. "I have sometimes found that I have got a
clearer view of vexed questions in village politics, and even in church
matters, where there are no vexations as yet, after a little talk with
you, than after many and long talks with other people."
Elizabeth laughed.
"Thank you. The reason is, that all the rest are on one side or the
other of all vexed questions, and not being specially concerned in them,
at least not personally concerned in them, I can see all sides: and
usually there is little to see that might not as well be ignored."
"Well, does not that hold good in this case also?"
"But in this case I may be supposed to take a side."
The minister smiled.
"But not so as to prevent you from seeing clearly all sides. You are
not going to tire of the task of keeping me right in village matters?"
Even when the sunshine is bright above the March air is keen and cold,
and so Elizabeth, chilled with lingering so long at the gate, leaned
toward the open fire, shading her face with her hand. She was silent
for some time, thinking of several things.
"At least tell me that in this case, also, there is little to see, or I
shall begin to fear that your father may be right when he says there may
be danger of trouble arising out of this matter to us all."
"No. There need be no trouble, if people would only not talk," said
Elizabeth, raising her head and turning so as to look at the minister.
"I will tell you what I was thinking about before I went out; I was
sorry that my father had spoken to you about Mr Fleming's affairs, or
that he should have suggested the idea of your speaking to the old man
about them; I wanted you not to promise to speak--I mean I do not think
it would do any good were you to do so."
"Well, I did not promise."
"No; and I think my father may forget that he has spoken to you about
it; he forgets many things now. And if you would forget all about it
too, it would be all the better."
"I will be silent, and that will answer every purpose of forgetfulness,
or ignorance, will it not?"
Elizabeth shook her head. "Not quite; and since I have said so much, I
ought to say a little more. I can see all sides of this matter with
sufficient clearness to be aware that trouble to a good many people, or
at least discomfort and annoyance, might easily spring out of it. As to
the church, I am not sure. But if everybody would keep silence, there
need be no trouble. And to tell the truth, Mr Maxwell, I was not
thinking of Mr Fleming or of Jacob, or of what my father was telling
yon, except in its relation to you. It is a pity that you should have
been told any of those old grievances."
Elizabeth rose and took the brush from its hook, and swept up the ashes
and embers that had fallen upon the hearth. Then she seated herself in
her own low chair by the window, and took up her work, but laid it down
again, and folded her hands on her lap.
Mr Maxwell smiled. "I see I am not expected to stay much longer. But
really, Miss Holt, I don't quite see `the pity' of it. Why am I not to
know all that is going on as well as the rest? Besides, if your father
had not told me, some one else would have done so."
"True."
"And I might in such a case have committed myself to the doing or saying
of something foolish at a first hearing, as I should have done to-day
but that your face made me pause."
"Did it?" said Elizabeth, demurely.
"And if silence is the thing to be desired, I shall be all the more
likely to keep silence to others, if you give me the right and true
version of troubles past, and of troubles possible in the future, with
regard to this matter. Will you take up your work again, and tell me
all? Or shall I come another time, Miss Elizabeth?"
But Miss Elizabeth had little to add to the story which her father had
told. Jacob was hard, she supposed, just as business men were obliged
to be hard sometimes. But then Mr Fleming was not to be regarded just
as another man in the same position might be regarded--especially he was
not to be so regarded by her brother Jacob. In the sore troubles that
had come into the old man's life. Jacob had had a part. What part
Elizabeth did not know she did not even know the nature of the trouble,
but she knew, though she had only learned it lately, that the very sight
of her brother was like wormwood to Mr Fleming; that even Mrs Fleming,
friendly and sweet to all the world, was cold and distant to Jacob. And
all this seemed to Elizabeth a sufficient reason why he should be more
gentle and forbearing with them than with others, that he should be
willing to forego his just claims rather than to lay himself open to the
charge of wishing or even seeming to be "hard on them."
"For what is a little land, more or less, to Jacob, who has so much?
And why should he wish to take even a small part of what old Mr Fleming
has worked so hard to improve--has put his life into, as one may say?"
"But does he want to take it? Have you ever spoken to your brother
about this?"
"He is supposed to want it for the site of the new buildings to be put
up for the manufacturing company--if it ever comes into existence. But
he does not want it without a sufficient allowance to the old man for
it. Only, I suppose, the debt would cover it all. But I have never
spoken about it to Jacob. It is not easy to speak to him about business
unless he wishes," said Elizabeth, hesitating. "But Clifton, who is
quite inclined to be hard on Jacob, laughs at the idea of his doing
unjustly or even severely by Mr Fleming."
"At least he has done nothing yet, it seems."
"No, Clifton says that Mr Fleming's dislike of Jacob has become a sort
of mania with him, and that he would not yield to him even if it were
for his own advantage--he has brooded over his trouble so long and so
sadly, poor old man!"
"That is quite possible," said Mr Maxwell, gravely. "And you think I
should not speak to him about his trouble?"
"Not about his trouble with Jacob. Indeed, it is said that he will not
speak of it, nor hear of it. It would do no good. And then he likes
you so much, Mr Maxwell, and comes to church as he did not always do,
and seems to take such pleasure in hearing you. It would be a pity to
risk disturbing these pleasant relations between you with so small a
chance of any good being done by it. And besides," Elizabeth made a
long pause before she added: "besides, if trouble is before us because
of this, and if it should come to taking sides, as almost always happens
in the vexing questions of Gershom life, it would be far better that you
should know nothing about the matter--that at least you should not have
seemed to commit yourself to any decided opinion with regard to it. I
cannot bear to think that your comfort and usefulness may be endangered
through the affairs of those who should be your chief supports. Not
that I think this likely to happen," added Elizabeth, colouring with the
fear of having spoken too earnestly; "I daresay, after all, I am `making
mountains of mole-hills.'"
Mr Maxwell rose and took his hat.
"Well, to sum up," said he.
"Oh, to sum up! I believe the whole of what I wanted to say was this,
that I don't want you to be vexed or troubled about it," said Elizabeth,
rising also.
"It is kind in you to say so."
"Yes, kind to ourselves. And I daresay I may have given you a wrong
impression about the matter after all, and that it looks more serious to
you than it needs do. I had much better have kept silent, as I would
have other people do."
"Don't say that, Miss Elizabeth. What should I do without you to set me
right, and to keep me right about so many matters? Be anything but
silent, my friend."
There was a good deal more said about Mr Fleming's affairs, and about
other affairs, though Mr Maxwell stood all the time with his hat in his
hand. But enough has been told to give an idea of the way in which
these young people talked to each other. Mr Maxwell never went from
the house without congratulating himself on the friendship of Miss Holt.
How much good she always did him! What a blessing it was for him that
there was one person in his congregation to whom he might speak
unreservedly, and who had sense and judgment to see and say just what
was best for him to do or to refrain from doing.
This was putting it rather strongly. Elizabeth was far from assuming
such a position in relation to the minister. But she had sense and
judgment, and frankness and simplicity of manner, and no doubt she found
it pleasant to be listened to, and deferred to, as Mr Maxwell was in
the habit of doing. And she knew she could help him, and that she had
helped him, many a time. He was inexperienced, to say nothing more, and
she gave him many a hint with regard to some of the doubtful measures
and crooked natures in Gershom society, which prevented some stumbles,
and guided him safely past some difficult places on his first entrance
into it. But she had done more and better than that for him though she
herself hardly knew it.
Squire Holt's house was a pleasant house to visit, and during the first
homesick and miserable days of his stay in Gershom, when he would gladly
have turned his back on his vocation and his duties, the bright and
cheerful welcome there that Elizabeth gave him on that first night when
Clifton took him home with him, and ever after that night, was like a
strengthening cordial to one who needed it surely. Miss Elizabeth was
several years younger than he, but she felt a great deal older and wiser
in some respects than the student whose experience of life had been so
limited and so different, and so it came to pass that, at the very
first, she had fallen into the way of advising him, and even of
expostulating with him on small occasions, and he had not resented it,
but had been grateful for it, and at last rather liked it. He had
brightened under her influence, and now the thought of her was
associated with all the agreeable and hopeful circumstances of his new
life and work.
He said to himself often, and he wrote to his friend Miss Martha
Langden, that the friendship of Miss Elizabeth Holt was one of his best
helps in the faithful performance of his pastoral duties, and that
excellent and venerable lady at once assigned to Mr Maxwell's friend
the same place in his regard, and in his parish generally, that she
herself had occupied in the regard of several successive pastors, and in
her native parish for forty years at least. It never occurred to Miss
Langden, and it certainly never occurred to Mr Maxwell, that this
friendship could be in any danger of interfering with the wishes and
plans of former years. That it might affect in any way his future
relations with the pretty and amiable young person whom Miss Langden was
educating to be his wife, and the model for all the ministers' wives of
the generation, never came into the mind of either. Miss Elizabeth was
a true and useful friend, and the satisfaction that this afforded him
was not to his consciousness incompatible with a happy and just
appreciation of his good fortune in having a claim on the affection of
Miss Langden's niece.
Elizabeth did not know at this time of the existence of Miss Langden's
niece. If she had known it, it is not at all likely that she would have
allowed such knowledge to interfere with the friendly relations into
which she had fallen with the minister. She would have liked him none
the less had she known of his tacit engagement to that young lady, and
would have manifested her friendliness none the less, but rather the
more because of it. And, on the whole, it was a pity that she did not
know it.
CHAPTER NINE.
MASTER AND PUPILS.
At Ythan Brae the winter opened sadly. The grandfather had an illness
which kept both Davie and Katie at home from the school for a while; and
what was worse, when he grew better he would fain have kept them at home
still. This would have been a serious matter to Davie, and he vexed
Katie and his grandmother by suggesting possible and painful
consequences all round should his grandfather persist. For the lad had
been seized with a great hunger for knowledge. He desired it partly for
its own sake, but partly also because he had heard many a time and
implicitly believed that "knowledge is power," which is true in a
certain sense, but not in the sense or to the extent that it seemed true
to Davie. His grandfather was afraid of the boy's eager craving, and of
what might come of it, and would far rather have seen him content, as
his father had been, to plod through the winter, busy with the
occupations which the season brought, than so eager to get away to Mr
Burnet and his books. The grandfather had his sorrowful reasons for
wishing to keep the lad in the quiet and safe paths which his father had
trod. The grandmother knew how it was with him, and Katie and Davie
guessed something of what his reasons might be. "And, bairns," said
their grandmother, "ye are no to doubt that your grandfather is right,
though he doesna see as ye do in this matter. For knowledge is whiles a
snare and a curse; and a true heart, and an honest life, and a will to
do your duty in the place in which your Maker has putten you are better
than a' the uncanny wisdom that men gather from books, whether you
believe it or not, Davie, my man. I canna say that I have any special
fear for you myself, but one can never ken. And your grandfather, he
canna forget; it's no' his nature. There was once one like you, Davie
lad, that lost himself through ill-doing folk, and--I canna speak about
it--and what must it be to him?"
"But, grannie," said Davie after a little, "it's different. Nobody will
follow after me because I am so handsome and clever and kindly. And
folk say it needna have been so bad with him, if my grandfather hadna
been hard on him."
"Whisht, laddie," said his grandmother, with a gasp. Katie looked at
him with beseeching eyes, and Davie hung his head.
"Davie, my laddie, have patience," said his grandmother in a little;
"what is a year or two out of a young life like yours compared with
giving a sore heart to an old man like your grandfather? He has had
sore trouble to thole in his lifetime, some that you can guess, and some
that you will never ken, and his heart is just set on Katie and you."
"But, grannie, there's no fear of me. I'll have no time for ill
company. I'm no to be an idle gowk like Clifton Holt, to throw away my
chances. And here's Katie ay to take care of me and keep me out of
mischief."
"My lad, speak no ill of your neighbours. You'll need all the sense you
have before you get far through the world. And you'll need grace and
wisdom from above, as well, whether your work lie in high places with
the great men of the earth, or just sowing and reaping in Ythan Brae.
And as for Katie and her care of you, there's many a true word spoken in
jest, and you maun be a good laddie, Davie."
It was all settled with fewer words than the grandmother feared would be
needed, and a happy winter began to the brother and sister. They were
young and strong and hopeful. No serious trouble was pressing on them
or theirs. Just to be alive in such circumstances is happiness, only it
is a kind of happiness that is seldom realised while the time is going
on. When it is looked back upon over years of pain or care, it is seen
clearly and valued truely, and sometimes--oh, how bitterly regretted.
They had their troubles. There was the mortgage about which they
fancied they were anxious and afraid. They were just enough anxious
about it to find in it an endless theme for planning and
castle-building--a motive for the wonderful things they were to
accomplish in the way of making money for their grandfather, and as a
means of triumphing over Jacob Holt, whom they were inclined to regard
as the villain of their life-story.
From all the drawbacks common to the old-time schools in this part of
Canada, Gershom High-School had, to some extent, suffered. The
restraints of limited means, the value of the labour even of children on
a new farm, the frequent change of teachers, the endless variety of
text-books, the vexing elements of national prejudice and religious
differences, had told on its efficiency and success. Yet it had been a
power for good in Gershom and in all the country round. From the
earliest settlement of the place the leading men had taken pains to
encourage and support it. Its teachers had generally been college
students from the neighbouring States, who taught one year to get money
to carry them through the next, or graduates who were willing to pass a
year or two in teaching between their college course and their choice or
pursuit of a profession. Among them had come, now and then, a youth of
rare gifts, one, not only strong to govern and skilled to teach, but who
kindled in the minds of the pupils an eager desire for self-improvement,
an enthusiasm of mental activity which outlasted his term of office, and
which influenced for good a far greater number than those whom he
taught, or with whom he came personally in contact.
Mr Burnet, Davie's teacher, was not one of these. His college days had
long been over, before he crossed the sea. He had been unfortunate in
many ways, but most of all in this, that he had been brought up to
consider wise and right that which became sin and misery to him, because
of the strength of his appetite and the weakness of his will. And so
woeful days came to him and his, and he was sent over the sea, as so
many another has been sent, to be out of sight. But on this side of the
sea, too, woeful days awaited him, and after many a to and fro, he was
stranded, an utter wreck as it seemed, on the village of Gershom. His
wife was dead by this time, and his two forlorn little daughters had
been sent home in rags to their mother's sister, and there was no
visible reason why the wretched man should not die also, except, as he
said to them who tried to help him, that, after all, his soul might have
a chance to be saved.
He did not die; he lived a free man, and when the time came for Davie
and Katie to go back to die school, he had been its teacher for more
than a year. Not so good a teacher in some respects as two or three of
the orderly, methodical college lads, who were still remembered with
affection in Gershom; but in other respects he surpassed any of them--
all of them together. It was said of him that he had forgotten more
than all the rest of Gershom ever knew; and that he had a tongue that
would wile the very birds from the trees. He was an eloquent man, and
he had not only "words," but he had something to say. From the
treasures of a highly-cultivated mind he brought, for the instruction of
his pupils, and sometimes for the instruction and delight of larger
audiences, things new and old. As an orator he was greatly admired, as
a man he was much esteemed, as a teacher he was regarded with the
respect due to his great powers, and with the tolerance which the
defects accompanying them needed.
He had decided defects as a school-master. His government of his school
was imperfect; he took it up by fits and starts, having his stern days,
when the falling of a pin might be heard in his domain, and days when
the boys and girls were mostly left to their own devices; but there were
no idle days among them. No teacher who had ever ruled in the
High-School could compare with him in the power he had to make the young
people care for their books and their school-work, or to present to the
clever idle ones among them the most enticing motives to exertion. "He
got them on," the fathers and mothers said, and though he made no
pretension to being a very good man, and sometimes used sharper words
than were pleasant to hear, he loved the truth and hated a lie, and
lived an honourable life among them, and all men regarded him with
respect, and most men with affection.
So, putting all things together, Davie and Katie and the other young
people of Gershom had a fair chance of a happy winter, and so it proved
to the brother and sister. There were plenty of amusements going on in
the village, but with these they had little to do. Their grandfather
fretted if they were not at home in the evening, and it was no
self-denial for them to stay away from all gay village doings--at least
it was none to Davie. Except the master's lectures, and those debates
and spelling-schools in which the reputation and honour of the
High-School were concerned, he scorned them all. Katie did not scorn
them. She would have enjoyed more of them than fell to her share, but
yet was willing to agree with her grandmother that more might not be
good for her, and was on the whole content without them.
Very rarely does there come in a lifetime a triumph so unmixed as the
boy enjoys who is not only declared first, but shows himself before his
whole world to be first in the village school. It does not matter
whether he distinguishes himself by the spelling of many-syllabled
words, and the repeating of rules and the multiplication table, or by
his proficiency in higher branches, which are mysteries to the greater
part of the admiring audience. It is all the same a triumph, pure,
unmixed, satisfying. At least it possesses all these qualities in a
higher degree than any future triumph can possibly possess them.
Such a triumph was Davie's. It was Katie's too in a way, but it was
Davie's chiefly on this occasion, because it was his for the first time.
But that did not spoil Katie's pleasure at all. Quite the contrary.
Davie's triumph was hers, and she almost forgot to answer when her own
name was called to receive her merited share of the honours, so full was
she of the thought of what her grandfather would say when she should
tell him about Davie.