some light material of soft dim grey, with just enough of colour in
flowers and ribbons to make the effect perfect. It was worth while
coming a long way just to see it, more than one young person
acknowledged. The dress and the wearer made a very pretty picture to
many eyes. She was very modest and gentle in manner, and listened, or
seemed to listen, like the rest, but Clifton Holt claimed much of her
attention, smiling and whispering now and then in a way that made his
sister uncomfortable, she scarcely knew why, for the young lady herself
did not seem to resent it.
Betsey had not lost much, it was several times intimated to her during
her progress up the hill. "The speakers from a distance" had all failed
to appear except two. The forte of one of these seemed to be
statistics. He astonished his audience if he did not edify them,
putting into round numbers every fact connected with the temperance
cause that could possibly be expressed by figures--the quantity of
spirits consumed in Canada, the money paid for it, the quantity of grain
employed in its manufacture, the loss in flour and meal to the country,
the money received for licences, the number of crimes caused by its use,
and the cost of these to the country. The other "went in" for "wit and
humour," and there was much clapping of hands and laughter from such of
the audience as had not heard his funny stories before, and his was
generally pronounced a first-rate speech.
Squire Holt was in "the chair," but the duty of introducing the speakers
was performed by Mr Maxwell, for the squire was feeble, and not equal
to all that devolved upon him. Indeed, he dropped asleep, poor old
gentleman, while the statistics were being given, and lost the point of
the stories and got very tired, as Elizabeth could see. But Mr Maxwell
did his part well, and just as Betsey settled herself to hear, he
introduced Mr Langden, a friend of the cause from the States.
Mr Langden gave them some statistics also, and expressed himself
delighted with the gathering, and the evidence of interest in the good
cause. He was delighted, too, with their little town and the
water-power, and with their country generally, which was a finer country
than he had imagined it to be, and not so far behind his own section.
He said a great many agreeable things, and though it did not, in the
opinion of the critical part of the audience, amount to much as a
temperance address, it was such a speech as it was pleasant to hear.
Then Mr Burnet came forward and charmed the audience with his grand
flowing periods. But though his words were splendid, they were few; for
Mr Burnet did not care to waste his words on a weary and hungry people.
And then came the speech of the day.
Just as Mr Maxwell was considering whether he should give the people a
ten minutes' address, as was of course expected, or dismiss them at once
to the tables, toward which some of them were already directing their
steps, Clifton Holt came on to the stand and whispered a few words to
him, and then came forward, asking leave, not to make a speech, but to
introduce a new speaker. He did make a speech, however, short, but
telling, and was cheered heartily; but the cheering rose to its loudest
and longest when Mark Varney came forward on the stand.
Was it Mark Varney? It was a very different man from the down-looking,
heartless poor fellow who had disappeared from Gershom two years ago.
Erect and broad and brown he stood, with a look of strength and firmness
on his face, though his lips trembled, that no one remembered to have
seen there since his early youth, before his foe had mastered him.
In the silence that fell after the first shout of welcome, the people
pressed forward, eager to see and hear. A movement toward the point of
interest took place through all the field. Those who had grown tired of
listening, and those who had not cared to listen, drew near, and several
of those on the platform pressed forward the better to see and hear.
Mr Maxwell did not; he drew back rather, after a glance toward the spot
where Miss Holt and Miss Langden were sitting, and, resting his elbow on
the back of Squire Holt's chair, leaned his head on his hand. Miss
Langden did not see the glance, for she was listening to Clifton, who
had returned and was saying something to her. But Elizabeth saw that
there was a strange look, grave and glad, on his face, and that he was
very pale.
Gradually the rustle and movements which had given Mark time to quiet
the trembling of his lips came to an end, and then he and all the throng
were startled by a sudden cry--loud and strong, though it was but one
man's voice:
"Mark Varney, before all!"
It might have terribly spoiled the effect, but it did not. It gave poor
Mark, who was no orator, and who, with his heart full, did not find the
right words ready, a beginning.
"Yes, Tim Cuzner, it is Mark Varney, who hasn't been seen in these parts
for two years, nor for a good while before that, in his right mind--and
you are the very man I want to talk to, Tim, you and a few others. I've
got something to tell you. A few others? Yes, I've got something to
say to every man in this Grove. I am not going in for a temperance
lecture, though it wouldn't be the first time. I was a living
temperance lecture in the streets of Gershom for a long while, as Squire
Holt and Jacob and all the folks here know.
"But I want to say a word to every young man here because there isn't a
young man in this Grove, I don't care who he is, whose feelings as to
liquor I don't know all about. I know, and I remember this minute, just
how it feels never to have tasted a drop. I remember how the first
temptation to drink came to me, and I know how it feels after the first
glass, and the second, and the third. I know just how strong and
scornful a young man feels when folks begin to warn him, and how
impossible it looks to him that danger should be near. I know every
step of the dark way that leads down to the gates of death--to the very
gates--for I have been there.
"I don't know just how far down that road any of you young men may have
got by this time, but I know that some of you are on it somewhere. I
know where you used to be, Tim Cuzner, and you haven't been standing
still since then. No. Come now, don't get mad and go away. If my life
would help you to set your feet on solid ground in any other road, you
should have it and welcome. But it wouldn't; no, nor ten such lives.
"But I'll tell you what will help you, and what every young man here who
feels the curse of strong drink needs as much as you do, and what we all
need to keep us safe from the temptations that are everywhere. There is
only one thing in the earth beneath or the heaven above that will touch
the spot, and that's the grace of God!
"That doesn't seem much, does it? The grace of God! You've heard old
Mr Hollister tell about it time and again, and you've heard Mr
Maxwell, and the folks in conference meeting talk of it, and it has got
to seem to you just like a word, a name, and that's all. But I tell
you, Tim and boys, it is a power. I know it, for it has dealt with me
and broken me to pieces, and made me over new."
Mark was no orator, though he had the clear, firm, penetrating voice of
one; but his words, because of the surprise of his presence, and the
change which had been wrought in him, and because of his earnestness and
simplicity, had on his audience all the effect of the loftiest
eloquence. He had a great deal more to tell them of the darkness and
misery and sin through which he was passing, when the minister found him
and laid hands on him, and followed him day in and day out, and never
got tired of him, nor discouraged about him, but laboured with him, and
encouraged him, and gave him the hope that though he could not save
himself, God could save him.
He tried to say a word about the night which they two passed together
beside his wife's coffin, but he broke down there, and went on to tell
how he went away to give himself a chance, because it had seemed to him
then, that if he should stay among his old companions and the daily
temptations of his life nothing could save him.
He did not tell his mother, and he did not write to her, because at
first he never knew what day his enemy might overcome him, and then she
would have had to put away hope and take up her old burden again.
But he had fallen into good hands over yonder in the States, and he had
much to tell of the kindness shown him there, and the Lord had stood by
him and helped him, as He would help all who came to Him in their need.
The people who heard all this were moved by it in a wonderful way. It
was like a miracle, they said to one another, that Mark Varney's lips
should be opened to speak as he was speaking. It was like life from the
dead to see him standing there, they said, as indeed it was.
"And you must excuse me for saying so much about myself, because that is
just what I came here to do. I was coming home soon, at any rate; but
when I saw in a newspaper a notice of this gathering in Finlay's Grove,
I thought it would be as good a time as any to come and show which side
I am on now. And if I can, I mean to get back my farm again. And if I
can't, why, I shall have to get another, and if God will let me help Him
to save two or three such as I was when our minister found me, I'll be
content with my work. I can't talk. I don't suppose I shall ever speak
from a platform again as long as I live, but I mean to help some poor
souls I know of up out of the pit.
"And I tell you, I'm glad to get home. I have only just seen mother a
minute and my little Mary. And I haven't seen Squire Holt yet to speak
to, nor the minister."
Then he turned his back on his audience, and a good many people thought
that was a lame ending to a good speech, but all did not think so. At
least it was good to see the old squire holding his hand, and to hear
him telling him that he had got to his right place at last. And it was
good to see how he and Mr Maxwell were shaking hands, and all the rest
of the people on the stand crowding round to have their turn. Indeed,
it seemed to be a general business, for Mr Burnet was shaking hands
with Mr Maxwell, and so was the old squire, and John McNider clambered
up on the stand on purpose to do the same thing, and so did several
other people.
By and by the minister came forward, and they all thought he was going
to make a speech. But he did not. He told them tea was ready, and that
all the elderly people were to go to the tables first, and that the
young people were to serve them. But nobody seemed in a hurry to move,
and then Squire Holt came forward, and instead of making a speech, he
asked them to sing the Doxology.
And didn't they sing it? Mark Varney, who had led the choir once on a
time--and a good many in the crowd vowed that he should lead it again--
began in his wonderful, clear tenor, and then the sound rose up like a
mighty wind, till all the hills echoed again. And then they all went to
tea.
Elizabeth meant that her father should go home at this time, but when
Mr Maxwell brought him down to her, he declined to acknowledge himself
tired, and went to the table with the rest, and Elizabeth took her place
to serve. Miss Langden had a seat at the "speakers' table," and was
well served, as was right. Clifton had the grace to deny himself the
pleasure of sitting down beside her, as there were more than guests
enough for all the seats, but he devoted himself to her service, as
every lady said, and enjoyed it as well as he would have enjoyed his
tea.
Davie was on the "tea and coffee committee," and his business at this
time was to be one of several to carry great pitchers of one or other of
those beverages from mighty cauldrons, where they were being made in a
corner of the field, to a point where cups could be conveniently filled
and distributed at the tables.
But from the midst of the pleasant confusion that reigned supreme in
this department, Davie suddenly disappeared, leaving the zealous, but
less expert Ben to take his place.
"He's got something else to do, I expect, Aunt Betsey, and you'll have
to get along with me somehow, for I saw him tearing down toward the
river like sixty, and there would be no catching him even if I was going
to try."
"There was nothing the matter, was there, Ben?" asked Katie; but so
little did she think it possible, that she did not even wait for the
answer which Ben was very ready to give.
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.
POOR DAVIE.
It was not that Davie thought anything serious was the matter that, as
Ben said, "he went tearing" down the hill toward the river, but that he
feared there might be before all was done, unless there was some way of
preventing it.
"Where are them boys?" he heard one mother say to another, as he passed
with his empty pitcher in his hand, and the answer was--
"They've gone down to the river, I expect. But I don't suppose there's
any danger--not to Gershom boys, who swim there every summer day of
their lives."
But there were many boys and girls also on the grounds who did not
belong to Gershom, and to some of them a river big enough for a boat to
sail on, would have a charm which must certainly draw them to its banks,
and it would have been a good plan to appoint a committee to see to
such, Davie thought.
"I'll just have a look down there," he said to himself, and as soon as
he was over the fence and out of sight, he ran rapidly toward the river.
There were all sorts of children there, some of whom had wandered down
to the mill-pond. There were two boats on the river, but there were
grown people as well as children in them, and there were grown people
walking on the bank who might justly be considered responsible for the
safety of those who could not take care of themselves, and Davie was
about to turn up the hill again, when a little fellow hailed him.
"I say, Davie, what do you suppose Dannie Green and Frankie Holt and two
more boys are doing? They have taken your raft and are going to have a
sail on the Black Pool--so they said."
"They could never do it," said Davie, with a sudden fear rising.
There was no turning up the hill after that. He ran across the two
fields to the point where the raft had been left. It was gone sure
enough, and he hastened on, stumbling over the stones and timber which
Jacob Holt had last winter accumulated on the Varney place. Then he
went through the strip of woods, and round the rocky point beyond,
thinking all the time that such little fellows never could have pushed
the raft so far up the stream, and that it was foolish for him to run.
But he was not a minute too soon. He could never tell afterward,
whether he saw the raft, or heard the frightened cry first, but he knew
that a boy had overbalanced and fallen into the water while trying to
reach bottom with his pole in the deeper waters of the pool; and the
next moment he had thrown off boots and coat, and was striking out
toward the spot where he had disappeared. The boy would rise in a
minute, he thought, and he could get hold of him.
But he did not rise for what seemed to Davie a very long time, and might
never rise of himself. There was not a particle of risk, Davie knew, in
diving to search for him, and if there had been, he would hardly have
considered it in the excitement of the moment. It would have been the
last of little Frank Holt if he had considered it long. The little
fellow had fallen head foremost, and possibly had struck his head on one
of the roots or sticks that had accumulated in the bottom of the pool,
for when Davie brought him to the surface, he seemed quite insensible,
and he struck out for the Ythan side of the pool. He did what he could
for the boy, letting the water flow from his mouth and ears, and rubbing
him rapidly for a time.
He caught sight of the other lads as they reached the opposite shore
with the raft, and saw them running at full speed in the direction of
the Grove. But he felt that he must not wait for the help they would be
sure to send, and gently lifting the boy in his arms, he went with him
with all speed through the wood and up the hill to the house.
A single sentence told the story, and in a minute little Frank was in a
warm bath and then in a warm bed. He soon showed such signs of life as
encouraged them to hope that there was not much the matter with him; and
then Davie thought of the consternation which the other lads would cause
when they carried the tale to the Grove.
"I doubt you'll need to go as quick as you can, Davie. Think of the
poor father and mother if they should hear."
"Ay, lad, make what haste you can," said his grandfather, and neither of
them were the less urgent that the child was the son of their "enemy."
So Davie went down the field again in his wet clothes, but that mattered
the less as he had the river to swim, the raft being on the other side.
He put on his dry coat over his wet garments, and no one seemed to
notice as he entered the Grove. No rumour of the accident had as yet
spread through the crowd, and Davie spoke only to Miss Elizabeth, as he
met her on the way home with her father. Happily the father and mother
knew nothing of the matter, till by and by the boy, wrapped in one of
Mrs Fleming's best blankets, was carried and set with his bundle of wet
clothes in the hall. It was his uncle Clifton who took him home, and
all that he could tell about the matter was that he had fallen into the
Black Pool, and somebody had taken him out.
Dan Green kept his own counsel, running straight home and putting
himself to bed. After his first sleep, however, he woke in such a
fright that he could keep the tale no longer, but told it to his mother
with many sobs and tears. His mother soothed and comforted him,
believing that he had been startled out of a troubled dream. But the
next day the story was told in Gershom at least a thousand times; and
when Davie went into the post-office for his grandfather's weekly paper,
he heard, with mingled amazement and disgust, extravagant praises of his
courage in saving the boy's life.
"Courage? Nonsense! Risk? Stuff!" He never bathed in Black Pool that
he did not dive in at one side and come out at the other. Why, his
little brother could do that. There was no more danger for them than
for a musk-rat, and Davie hurried away to escape more words about it,
and to avoid meeting Mr Maxwell and his friends, who were coming down
the street. In his haste he nearly stumbled over Jacob Holt, who held
him fast, and that was worse than all the rest. For Jacob could not
utter a word, but choked and mumbled and shook his hand a great many
times, and when David fairly got away, he vowed that he should not be
seen at the post-office again for a while, and he was not, but it was
for a better reason than he gave to himself then.
For Davie went about all next day with a heavy weight upon him, and a
dull aching at his bones, as new as it was painful. He refused his
dinner, and grew sick at the sight of his supper; and tossed, and
turned, and muttered all night upon his bed, longing for the day. But
the slow-coming light made him wish for the darkness again, for it
dazzled his heavy eyes, and put strange shapes on the most familiar
objects, and set them all in motion in the oddest way. A queer sort of
light it seemed to be, for though he closed his eyes he did not shut it
out, and the changes on things and the odd movements seemed to be going
on still within the lids.
So in a little he rose and dressed, and roused his brothers to bring the
cows into the yard, meaning to help as usual with the milking. But the
milking was done and the breakfast over, and worship, and no one had
seen Davie. He was lying tossing and muttering on the hay in the big
barn, and there at last, in the course of his morning's work, his
grandfather found him. He turned a dull, dazed look upon him as he
raised himself up, but he did not speak.
"Are you no' well, Davie? Why did you no' come to your breakfast?"
"I'm coming," said Davie, but he did not move.
His grandfather touched his burning hand and his heart sank.
"Come awa' to your grandmother."
"Yes, we'll go to grannie," said Davie.
Blinded by the sunlight, he staggered on, and his grandfather put his
arm about him. Mrs Fleming met them at the door as they drew near.
"What can ail the laddie?" asked his grandfather, with terror in his
eyes.
They made him sit down, and Katie brought some cold water. He drank
some and put some on his head, and declared himself better.
"It is some trash that he has eaten at that weary picnic," said grannie.
"No, grannie, I hadna a chance to eat."
"And you have eaten little since. Well, never mind. You'll go to your
bed, and I'll get your mother to make you some of her herb tea."
"And I'll be better the morn, grannie," said Davie, with an uncertain
smile.
He drank his mother's bitter infusion, and tossed and turned and moaned
and muttered, all day and all night, and for many days and nights, till
weeks had passed away, and a time of sore trial it was to them all.
He was never very ill, they said. He was never many hours together that
he did not know those who were about his bed, and young Dr Wainwright,
who came every day to see him, never allowed that he was in great
danger. But as day after day went on, and he was no better, their
hearts grew sick with hope deferred. Grannie alone never gave way to
fear. She grew weak and weary, and could only sit beside him, little
able to help him; but he never opened his eyes but her cheerful smile
greeted him, and her cheerful words encouraged him. His mother waited
on him for a while, but she was not strong, and had no spring of hope
within her. Katie worked all day and watched all night, and scorned the
idea of weariness, but the Ythan water that trickled around her
milk-pans in the dairy, carried daily some tears of hers down to the
Black Pool.
"It is grandfather I'm thinking about," said she one day when she burst
out crying in Miss Betsey's sight. "I am afraid I shall never be able
to keep from thinking that God has been hard on grandfather, if anything
should happen to Davie."
"But God is not hard on your grandfather and there is nothing going to
happen to Davie," said Betsey, too honest to reprove the girl for the
expression of thoughts which she had not been able to keep out of her
own mind. It was the plunge into the Black Pool and the going about
afterward in his wet clothes that had brought on this illness, and that
it should be God's will that David Fleming's grandson, his hope and
stay, should lose his health, perhaps his life, in saving the son of
Jacob Holt, looked to Miss Betsey a terrible mystery. She did not say
that God was hard on him, as poor Katie was afraid of doing; but when,
now and then, there came a half hour when it seemed doubtful whether
Davie would get through, the thought that God would not afflict His
servant to the uttermost helped her to still hope for the lad. As far
as words and deeds went, she showed herself always hopeful for him, and
did more than even the doctor himself in helping him to pull through.
In country places like Gershom, where professional nurses were not often
to be found, when severe sickness comes into a family necessitating
constant attention by night as well as by day, the neighbours, far and
near, might be relied upon for help, as far as it could be given by
persons coming and going for a night or a day. The Flemings had had
severe sickness among them more than once, but they had never called on
their neighbours for help, and they could not bring themselves to do so
now, even for night-watching. That she should trust Davie to any of the
kind young fellows who night after night offered, their services, was to
grannie impossible. She did not doubt their good-will, but she doubted
their wisdom and their power to keep awake after their long day's work.
"And it is no' our way," said Mrs Fleming, and that ended the
discussions, as it had ended them on former occasions.
"But they never can get through it alone this time," said Miss Betsey,
"and I don't know but it is my duty to see about it, as much as
anybody."
It was just in the hot days in the beginning of August when Betsey was
wont to give up butter-making and set to the making of cheese, the very
worst time of the year for her to get away from home. But she saw no
help for it.
"You must do the best you can, mother, you and Cynthy, and Ben will give
what help you need with the lifting. If I should never make another
cheese as long as I live, I can't let Mrs Fleming wear herself out, and
maybe lose her boy after all."