the street again. There was always something the squire wanted to say
to his son about business, and Jacob owed more than he acknowledged--and
he acknowledged that he owed much--to the keen insight of his father.
He seemed to be able to see all sides of a matter at once, and though
Jacob liked to manage his affairs himself, and believed that he did so,
yet there had been occasions when a few words from his father had
modified his plans, and changed the character of important transactions
to his profit. At the first glimpse he got of him to-day, a great
longing came over him to tell him all his trouble and get the help of
his judgment and advice.
It was possibly only a passing feeling which he might have acted on in
any circumstances. But his father's first querulous words made it
evident that he could not act upon it to-day. It is doubtful whether
any of Jacob's friends or acquaintances, whether even his wife or his
sister, would have believed in the sudden, sharp pain that smote through
Jacob's heart at the moment. He himself half believed that it was
disappointment because he could not get the benefit of his father's
experience and counsel at this juncture of affairs, but it was more than
that. He really loved his father and honoured him. He had been proud
of his abilities and his success, and of the respect in which he was
held by the community, both as a man of business and as a man. He had
tried since his manhood to atone to him for the sins of his youth, and
had striven as far as he knew how to be a dutiful son, and on the whole
he had satisfied his father, though doubtless a son with a larger heart
and higher capabilities would have satisfied him better. But they loved
one another, and the squire respected his son in a way, and they had
been much more to each other than people generally, knowing the two men,
would have supposed possible.
When Jacob saw his father so feeble and broken that afternoon, and heard
his querulous lament over this thing and that which had gone wrong in
the mill, the thought came home to him that he was failing fast, and
that the end could not be very far away, and the pain that smote him was
real and sharp. A sense of loss such as had never touched him, though
he had long known that his days were numbered, made him sick for the
moment, and left a weight of despondency on him that he could not shake
off. He spoke soothingly to him, and walked with him over the mill,
telling him of changes that might be made, and asking him questions till
he grew cheerful again, and more like his usual self; then taking
possession of Silas Bean's sleigh that was "hitched" at the mill-door,
he proposed to drive him home, because the March sun had melted the
new-fallen snow, leaving the street both slippery and wet, as he took
care to explain, so that he need not suspect that he was more careful
than usual about him.
When Elizabeth, a little startled, came to meet them at the door, he
repeated all this to her in cheerful tones, but when his father went in,
the look of care came back to his face as he said that he had been
afraid to let him try the long walk up the hill.
"I was just thinking of going down to meet him," said Elizabeth. "It
was very kind of you to bring him home."
"Kind!" repeated Jacob, and then he pulled his hat over his eyes and
went away.
Elizabeth looked after him a moment in surprise. Even Elizabeth, who
thought more kindly of him than any one, except perhaps his father, did
not imagine how much the sight of the old man's increasing weakness had
moved him.
Jacob went to a prayer-meeting that night, and, as his custom was, sat
on a back seat near the door. The rich man of the village was not a
power in the church when one looked beyond material things--the regular
subscription-list, the giving of money, the exercise of hospitality--and
except in regularity of attendance, he was certainly not a power in the
prayer-meeting. But regularity of attendance is something, and on
nights when winter storms, or bitter cold, or domestic contingencies of
any sort, kept the "regular stand-bys" at home, he could and did fill
the place of one or other of them by "taking a part." But he had no
"gift" in that way, and knew it, and kept himself in the background.
His neighbours knew it too, and some of them said sharp things, and some
of them said slighting things of him because of this. But "the
diversity of gifts" was pretty generally acknowledged, and people
generally were not hard on him because of silence.
To-night there was no call on him. The school-room was well filled, as
there was a prospect of the winter roads breaking up early, so that
people from a distance could not come for a while. Besides, it was not
the usual prayer-meeting, but the preparatory lecture before the
communion, and Mr Maxwell had the meeting altogether in his own hands;
and perhaps there were others there as well as Jacob, who took the good
of the thought that there was no special responsibility resting upon
them for the night.
If it had been the regular meeting, it is possible that Jacob might have
sat in his corner as usual, supposing himself to be attending to the
words of Deacon Scott and old Mr Wainwright, and all the rest of them,
and through habit and the associations of time and place, he might have
fallen into old trains of thought which did not always exclude a glance
over the business of the day, or a glance toward the business of
to-morrow; and so the unwonted stir of fears and feeling which had moved
him in the afternoon might have been set at rest, and the cloud of care
and pain dissolved for the time. But Mr Maxwell had the word, and
still moved and troubled, Jacob could not but listen with the rest.
It was not the minister's usual way to give one of his elaborate written
discourses on such an occasion as the present. There might be a
difference of opinion among the people now and then, as to whether he
gave them something better, or something not so good. But to-night the
greater part of them did not remember to make any comparisons of that
kind, but found themselves wondering whether anything had happened to
the minister, so earnest and solemn was he both in word and manner
to-night.
The words he spoke from were these, "If ye then be risen with Christ,
seek those things which are above, where Christ sitteth on the right
hand of God." I could not give the discourse, even if it would be wise
to do so. It was such an one as his hearers could not but listen to.
As he went on to tell them some of the wondrous things implied in being
"risen with Christ," the Head, crowned and glorious of the Church, "His
body," of which they were "the members," and to insist on the seeking
the "things above" as the result and sole evidence of this life from the
dead, none listened more intently than did Jacob. And perhaps because
of the unusual experience of the afternoon, he did not listen, as he was
rather apt to do on common occasions, for the rest of the congregation,
this for Deacon Scott, that for Mr Wainwright, the other for some one
else, for whom it seemed a suitable portion; he listened for himself,
with his father all the while in his mind. And when it came to the
"result and evidence," he had not, for the moment, a word to say for
himself.
As for his father--well, his father had never made a public profession
of faith in Christ. He had "kept aloof," as the village people said,
whatever had been his reasons. But it came into Jacob's mind--moved and
stirred out of its usual dull acceptance of things as they seemed--that
to eyes looking deeper than the surface, his father's life might count
for more as "evidence" than his own profession could do. And as the
minister put it, would even his father's life count for much as
"evidence" of his being "risen with Christ?" Whose life would?
"Mine would amount to just nothing!" was Jacob's decision as he left the
house, when the meeting was over, and having got thus far it might
naturally be supposed that he would not rest until he got farther. He
had got thus far many a time before, but the cares of this world and the
deceitfulness of riches had done their part in the past to put the
thought away, and they did the same again.
But not so readily this time. For Jacob was unsettled and anxious,
longing for the help and counsel which his father could never give
more--longing also, but not always, for the help which he knew his
younger brother was capable of giving him if he would; and he asked
himself often, whether it paid even for this world, to wear one's self
out for the making of money which one might lose, as he had done, and
which all must leave, as his father was about to do.
But the day's work had to be done, and the day's cares met, and Jacob
found himself after a little moving on in the old paths, not altogether
satisfied with himself or his life, but pretty well convinced that
though it might be well to take higher ground as to some things, both in
his business and his religion, now was not the time for the change. And
besides, he also believed in "the diversity of gifts," as they were
pleased to term it in Gershom. If he could not lead a meeting, or speak
a word in season in private, as some of the brethren could do, he tried
to use his influence on the right side in all moral and religious
questions; and though he knew that there were several among the brethren
who, if they could have seen their way clear, would perhaps have called
in question the character of certain business transactions with which
his name had got mixed up, he set over against the unpleasant fact the
other fact, that no three of these men gave so much to sustain the cause
of religion in the place as he did.
It might be considered doubtful whether the church itself would have
been built, if he had not taken hold of it as he did. That had helped
the coming in of the North Gore people, and that with other things had
brought Mr Maxwell to them as their minister. Gershom would have been
a different place, as to the state of morality and religion, if it had
not been for the Holts--and when Jacob said the Holts in this
connection, he meant himself, as far as the last ten years were
concerned.
Of course he did not say, even to himself, that any amount of giving or
doing could make a man safe, either for this world or the next; but he
did say that doing and giving to the good cause must count for something
as evidence of one's state. And though he was not satisfied that he was
all that he ought to be, he thought that, taking all things into
account, he was as good as most of his neighbours, and with this for the
present he contented himself.
A visit from his brother Clifton gave him about this time something to
think about, and something to do as well. Clifton had heard, though
their father had not, of Jacob's mining speculations, and he had heard
of several transactions of so serious a nature that he could not but be
curious, not to say anxious, as to results. It cannot be said that he
got either information or satisfaction from his inquiries. Jacob, never
communicative, was altogether silent to his brother as to the extent of
his loans, and as to the property he had been obliged to sacrifice to
satisfy pressing claims.
To tell the truth, Clifton was disposed to take matters easily. The
Holts must expect their turn of reverses, as well as other people, and
they were better able to meet them, he imagined, than most people. If
Elizabeth at this time had pressed upon him the propriety of his making
himself aware of the exact state of their affairs, he might have
inquired to better purpose. As it was, he returned to his more
congenial pursuits in Montreal, not quite satisfied, but with no very
grave misgivings as to the state of their affairs.
His visit was not without result, however. Though Jacob had only given
him the vaguest kind of talk as to mining matters, and had blamed his
unfortunate railroad ventures for such pressure as to money as could not
be concealed, he had much to say about the new mills, which at some
future time must be a source of wealth to the Holts, and to the town.
He did not succeed in making his brother believe all that he promised
from them should they be built and in running order within the year, but
he did succeed in getting more of his sympathy than ever he had got
before, as to his loss through the obstinacy of old Mr Fleming. As
Jacob put it, it did seem a pity that so much should be lost to the
Holts, and the town through him, when so much might be gained to Mr
Fleming and his family, by yielding the point at once. Of course it
must come to Jacob's having the land in the end, he acknowledged, and he
had never acknowledged so much before.
"As it seems to be personal spite that keeps him to his resolution--for
of course a shrewd man like him must see the advantage that the building
of the mills so near his land must be--you should get some one else to
treat with him."
But that had been tried. The Gershom Manufacturing Company had as
little prospect of success as a company as Jacob had had as an
individual, and Clifton could only suggest that everybody concerned
should wait patiently for another year for the chance of getting rich by
the mills, which was easy for him to say, but hard for Jacob to hear.
The hint which renewed his hope, and gave him another chance, was thrown
to him over his brother's shoulder when he rose to go away.
"What about this Mr Langden, whose name I hear mentioned by Mr Maxwell
and others as a rich man? Why don't you suggest to him that he might do
a good thing for himself by putting some of his money into the new
mills? It would be a better investment than this mining business which
our neighbours on the other side of the line seem so eager about. If he
were to offer the money down to Mr Fleming, ten to one he would not
refuse to sell. You need not appear in the business."
Jacob shook his head.
"You might try it, anyway. It would not be a bad speculation for him.
It is up to-day and down to-morrow with some of these men over there,
and he might so manage it, that anything he put into mills in Canada
might be made secure to him in case of a smash on the other side. It
might be done, I suspect. If I were you I would make a move in that
direction."
And then with a smile and a nod for good-bye, he went away, never
suspecting that he left his brother in a very different state of mind
from that in which he had found him. Jacob was not, as a general thing,
quick at taking up new ideas or in acting upon them, but this ought not
to have been a new idea to him, he said almost angrily to himself after
his brother was gone. Why had he not thought of Mr Langden and his
money before?
Some correspondence had passed between them with regard to certain
mining operations in which Mr Langden had, or hoped to have, an
interest. At the time Jacob had been much occupied with similar
transactions, and had hoped, through Mr Langden's means, to advance
their mutual interests. But things had gone wrong with him beyond hope
of help, and later he had with a clear conscience advised him to have
nothing to do with any venture in mining stock within the area of which
he had any personal knowledge, and then the correspondence had ceased.
Now he greatly regretted that he had not thought of proposing the other
investment to him.
After much consideration of the subject, and some rather indirect
discussion with Mr Maxwell as to Mr Langden's means, opinions, and
prejudices, he came to the conclusion that he could make the whole
matter clearer to him and more satisfactory to both if they were to meet
face to face, and so his plans were made for a visit to him. But spring
had come before this was brought about. He went south in May, and was
away from Gershom several weeks. When he returned nothing transpired as
to his success. Even to Clifton, who had come to Gershom to accompany
his father and sister to C. Springs, where the squire was to spend a
month or two, he only spoke of his intercourse with the rich man as one
of the pleasant circumstances attending his trip, and Clifton took it
for granted that there was not much to tell.
Nor was there; but the rich man had spoken of a possible visit to Canada
during the summer, and he had promised that if this took place he should
come to Gershom and discuss the matter of the mills on the spot, and
though Jacob said little about it, he permitted himself to hope much
from the visit.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.
SUGARING-TIME.
The season opened cheerfully at Ythan Brae. It had been a peaceful
winter with them; there had been less frequent communication with the
village than usual. Davie had been both master and man for the most
part, and had had little time for anything else. Katie had been now and
then for a visit to Miss Elizabeth, and to other people too, for Katie
confessed to being fond of visiting, and above most things disliked the
idea of being called odd or proud, or whatever else one was liable to be
called in Gershom who "set out to be different from her neighbours."
The younger children were not yet considered to be beyond such teaching
as they had at the Scott school-house, so that there had been little
coming and going to the village, and all the talk that had been indulged
in there as to their affairs had hurt no one at Ythan.
They had their own talks, that is, Davie and Katie had. Their
grandfather was as silent at home as elsewhere as to the ill that his
enemy meditated toward him, so silent that even hopeful grannie grew
first doubtful and then anxious, fearing more than she would have feared
any outburst of bitterness, this silent brooding over evils that might
be drawing near. She dropped a cheerful word now and then as to the
certainty that they would never be left in their old age to anxiety and
trouble; but though he usually assented to her words, it was almost
always silently.
"It is all in God's hands," he said once, and he never got beyond that.
But as for the young ones, there was no end to the talk they had as to
Jacob Holt and his plans, not that they knew much about them, or were in
the least afraid of them. Katie was troubled sometimes, but Davie made
light of her fears, and the rest followed Davie's lead. Davie was of
Mr Green's opinion:
"It will never amount to anything, all that he'll do to my grandfather.
He'll stop before he gets to the end. Mind, I don't say that he won't
be as great a rogue as he knows how to be, but he is a small man, is
Jacob, and he'll make a muddle of it. He couldn't do his worst with the
eyes of all Gershom on him. He hasn't pluck to take even what is his
own against the general opinion."
But Katie thought him hard on Jacob.
"He is not a fool, Davie; and surely he's not a rogue altogether. But
I'm not caring for him; I'm only thinking of grandfather."
And though Katie did not say it, she was thinking that her grandfather's
silence and gloom might do him more harm than even the loss of half of
Ythan. But Davie did not know her thoughts, and he answered the words a
little scornfully:
"Of course it is grandfather that we all think of. Who thinks of Jacob,
or what may happen to him? And where is your faith, Katie lass? What
do you suppose the Lord would be thinking of to take sides with Jacob
Holt against such a man as our grandfather? `He will not suffer his
feet to be moved.' That's what the Psalm says, and after that we'll
just wait and see."
"But, Davie," said Katie, her eyes wide with surprise and something that
felt like dismay, "I doubt that it is not what it means. The Lord
doesna take sides that way. And do you think that grandfather would let
go his hold--of the Lord even if--even if--and what would become of him
then?" added Katie, appalled.
"But that is just what I am saying can never happen. We'll wait and
see."
Katie was not satisfied.
"But, Davie, even if trouble should come--the worst that could come, it
would not be the Lord taking sides against us. The Lord has let
trouble, great trouble, fall on grandfather already. And you mind the
other Psalm:--
"`Therefore, although the earth remove,
We will not be afraid.'"
"We'll just wait and see," repeated Davie.
"But, Davie, do you think it would be a sign that the Lord was against
grandfather if He should let Jacob Holt do his worst? I cannot bear to
hear you say such things, as though we were just trying him."
"Well, and is not that just what we are bidden do? It's no' me that is
saying grandfather is to be forsaken in his old age."
"And I'm sure its no' me. Grandfather forsaken! Never. And, Davie,
the loss of Ythan even wouldna mean that to grandfather. Do you no'
mind: `Though He slay me, yet will I trust in Him.' What is Ythan, and
what are any of us to grandfather, in comparison to having the Lord
Himself?" said Katie, with rising colour and shining eyes.
"Well, it is no' me that say it. There are plenty of folk in Gershom
just waiting to see how it will turn--to see which is going to beat--the
Lord or--or the other side. I wouldna say that grandfather himself is
not among the number."
"Davie," said Katie solemnly, "my grandfather kens how it must end. Do
you think he puts his trust in God on a venture like that? You little
ken."
Davie made no reply at this time. But they were never weary of the
theme, and sometimes went so far as to plan what it would be best to do
should they have to leave Ythan. Grannie sometimes watched with sad
eyes the shadow on the old man's face, but no one was more ready than
grannie to laugh to scorn the idea that any real harm could happen to
them.
So the season opened cheerfully to them all. Davie was indeed the chief
dependence now, and went about his work in a way that must have
gladdened his grandfather's heart, though he said little about it.
There was no other man about the place. They got a day's work now and
then from a neighbour, and later they must have a man to help, or
perhaps two, when the heaviest of the work should come on. But in the
meantime, Davie and his brothers did all that was to be done in the
sugar-place, and sometimes Katie helped them.
Indeed, as far as sugaring-time was concerned, they might have had help
every day and all day. There was not so much sugar made in the vicinity
of Gershom as there used to be, and the idle lads of the place enjoyed
being in the Ythan woods, in the sweet spring air and sunshine, even on
days when working hard at carrying in the sap was all that could be
done. But there was always this drawback to Davie's pleasure in their
help or their company, that his grandfather did not like either the one
or the other. It was partly his own reserved nature that made the
presence of strangers distasteful to him, and it was partly, too,
because of painful remembrances of the time when one like Davie had been
led astray by the influence of such lads. So Davie did not encourage
his friends of the village to come, as he might have done in other
circumstances.
On "sugaring-off" days there were usually plenty of visitors.
Sugaring-off is the final process of sugar-making, when the syrup into
which the sap has been made by long boiling down, is clarified and
skimmed and boiled still until it is clear as amber, ready, when cooled,
to become a solid mass of glittering sweetness. It is astonishing what
a quantity of the warm brown liquid can be consumed with pleasure, and
without satiety, and on sugaring-off days not even the half-acknowledged
dread of Mr Fleming and his stern looks and ways prevented a gathering
of young people larger than would have been welcome to less open-handed
folk. But the consumption of a few pounds of warm sugar, more or less,
was a small matter in the opinion of the old people, provided all
behaved themselves as they ought; and whatever might have been likely to
happen in Mr Fleming's absence, his presence was a sufficient check on
the most foolish among them. And even the wild young lads of the
village found the old man less grim and stern in the spring woods, with
the sunshine about them, than they had learned to think him as they
watched him sitting in the meeting-house on Sundays.
Sugaring-time is a time of hard and unpleasant work, and this was a more
favourable year than usual. Davie had been too busy with other things
all the winter to be able to do much in the way of improving the tools
and utensils necessary in the making of sugar. By another year there
would be a change, he told Katie in confidence. But in the meantime,
the three great iron kettles that had been in use during his father's
lifetime made the only boiling apparatus; they hung over a fire of great
logs, on a strong pole the ends of which rested on the "crotch" of two
great logs or ports set up fifteen or twenty feet apart, and there was
no roof above them.