and sadly enough, he was ringing the changes on his old complaint: "Thou
art a God that hidest Thyself." He had not the Lord Himself in those
days. Even when he pleaded, as he did day and night, for Davie's life,
it was the cry of despair that came out of his sore trouble, rather than
the "prayer of faith" to which the promise of healing to the sick is
given.
And as he bowed himself down beneath the pines, it was the same. He was
in a maze of perplexity and fear. Had he been sinning against God all
this time? Had he been hating not the sin, but the sinner? Had it been
beneath God's hand that he had been refusing to bow? And now was God
leaving him to hardness of heart?
For he was utterly broken and spent, and in the weakness of mind which
exhaustion of body caused, he had almost lost the power to discriminate
or reason. He could not command his thoughts. The wind moaned in the
pines above him, and the sunshine came and went, flickering and fading,
and brightening again, and with the monotonous sound and the
ever-changing light, there came voices and visions, and he seemed to
listen as in a dream:
"It was God's will, grandfather. God kens, and it was His will. I
would fain hear you say once that you have forgiven your enemy."
His enemy! Was Jacob Holt his enemy? And if he were, could even an
enemy bring evil on him or his without permission? What had it all come
to--the long pain, the persistent shrinking from this man, whom God
alone might judge? Had he been hating him all this time--bringing
leanness to his own soul, and darkness, and all the evil that hatred
must ever bring? And where was it all to end? And what must he do, now
that his sin had found him out?
For his time was short, and the end near. And then his thoughts
wandered away to the old squire lying on his death-bed--the man who had
declared himself willing to stand on the same platform with old David
Fleming, when his time should come to be judged. And that time was
close at hand now, and his own time could not be far away, and then he
must stand face to face with Him whose last words were, "Father, forgive
them!"--face to face with Him who had said, "Love your enemies,"
"Forgive, and it shall be forgiven unto you."
Over and over the same round his thoughts went, till, worn out with
anxiety and watching, and lulled unconsciously by the soft "sough" of
the wind in the pines, he fell asleep. Pine-tree Hollow was all in
shadow when he awoke, but when he had gone a few steps, he saw the
sunlight lying on the high hills to the east. His first thoughts were
of what might have been happening at home while he slept, and he
quickened his steps.
And as he walked he was conscious that his sleep had done him good. He
was stronger and calmer, and could command his thoughts again, and he
hurried eagerly on. The sight of Katie passing quietly out and in to
the dairy quieted him still more. It must be well with grannie or Katie
would not be there.
"Well, my lassie?"
"Yes. Grannie has been sleeping, but she is awake now, and has been
asking for you. Mother is with her now."
He went into the house slowly and quietly. Katie's mother was sitting
by the bed, with her sad eyes fastened on the face of the grandmother,
who seemed to have fallen into slumber again.
"She has been wandering a little, I think," said Mrs James.
"Wandering?" repeated Mr Fleming drearily.
Grannie opened her eyes, and looked first at one and then at the other.
"No, my dear, it wasna that I was wandering. I was dreaming, I think--a
strange grand dream--of a far country. And--Dawvid--I saw our Katie
there, and her little bairn--and I saw our Hughie, and James, and many
another. But I saw them first and best; and we have no cause to fear."
Even as she spoke her eyes closed again. The old man sat down with a
sinking heart. Did not these sound like "last words?" Had she not got
a first glimpse of the "far country" to which she was hastening? How
vain to struggle against God, he thought. He never uttered a word. His
daughter-in-law looked at him with compassionate eyes that he could
hardly bear. Katie came in with a glass of milk in her hand.
"She is not asleep again, is she? Well, I must waken her, because she
must take something. The sleeping is good for her, but she must take
something to keep up her strength. Grannie dear, take this," and she
raised her gently.
She opened her eyes and smiled.
"Oh, ay! I'll take it. And I could take a bit of bread, I think."
"Well, mother will bring a bit." But Katie was greatly surprised.
"I think I'm better, if I were only stronger a bit," said grannie.
Over Katie's bright face Mr Fleming saw the grave face of her mother,
and though he knew that it was her way rather to fear than to hope, his
heart sank.
"I'll soon be better, I think. Are you there, Dawvid? You ken I
couldna go and stand before the Lord and tell Him that you hadna
forgiven your enemy."
"She is wandering," whispered Katie's mother.
"No; I'm no wandering, but whiles I feel--as if I were slipping awa'--
and you'll give me your hand, Dawvid, and that will keep me back. Ay.
That will do," and her eyes closed again.
Katie followed her mother from the room.
"It is not far away now."
"Mother, don't say it. She is not going to die. Oh, mother! mother!
Surely God is not going to take her from us yet. No. I'm not going to
cry; I havena time," said Katie. "And, mother, she says it herself, and
I don't think she is going to die. Oh, if Miss Betsey could have been
here to-night!"
Katie resolutely put away her tears and her fears, and prepared for a
night of watching. First, she made her mother lie down with a warm
wrapper on her, so that she might be ready to come at any moment. Then
she sent the bairns to their beds, and wished that Davie would come
home. Then she remembered, with a pang of remorse, that her grandfather
had not had his supper, and she got his accustomed bowl of bread and
milk, and carried it into the room. Neither of them had moved, and
stooping and listening, it seemed to Katie that her grandmother was
sleeping naturally and sweetly. Her grandfather shook his head at the
sight of the food.
"You must take it, grandfather," said Katie in a whisper.
She put the bowl on a chair, and knelt down beside him.
"You need not move," she said softly, and she fed him as he had often
fed her when she was a little child.
"My good Katie!" said he, but it would not have been well for him to try
to say more.
Davie came in before the supper was over. Katie nodded cheerfully, but
did not speak till they were both in the kitchen.
"Well?" said Davie.
"She is no worse. I think she seems better. She has eaten a wee bit of
bread, but mother says you cannot always tell by that. We must just
wait."
It was a long and anxious night to these two. It was well that grannie
should sleep, but in her utter weakness it was also necessary that she
should have nourishment often. She had grown sick of the sight of
everything in the way of food, and she had had her choice of whatever
the best housewives of Gershom could supply. For days she had only
taken a little milk, and to-night she seemed to take it with relish. In
a little she woke and spoke:
"Are you no' coming to your bed, Dawvid? It is time surely."
Her clasp of his hand loosened as Katie offered the milk to her lips.
The old man rose, but he had been sitting in an uneasy posture, and
tottered as he moved to the door.
"Grandfather," said Davie, "lie down on the other side. It will be
better for you and grannie too. Come grandfather. Katie, lay the
pillow straight."
"But I might disturb her--and I might fall asleep."
But he yielded.
"She would like it, grandfather, and we can waken you if you fall
asleep."
So the two old people slumbered together, and Katie had to steal away to
weep a few tears in the dark while her brother watched beside them, and
they did not dare to ask themselves whether they hoped or feared in the
stillness that fell on them.
"They say this is the old squire's last night," whispered Davie at last.
"I saw Ben coming out as I passed."
"Maybe no," said Katie, who was determined to be hopeful to-night.
"They have said that before. Maybe he'll win through this time too."
"Ay. But he is an old man, and it must come soon."
Now and then they exchanged a word or two, and Katie put the cup to her
grandmother's lips, and the night wore on. Whether their grandfather
slept or not they could not tell, but he made no movement that could
disturb her, and he still held her hand, to keep her from "slipping
away," as she had said.
Once the mother came in and looked, but she only said she was sleeping
quietly, and they made her lie down again. Toward morning Katie brought
a quilt and a pillow, and Davie lay down on the floor beside the bed,
and Katie prayed and waited for the dawn.
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.
POOR OLD SQUIRE.
Betsey Holt had not found the old squire so low as she expected to find
him when she went to his house after leaving Mr Fleming's, and seeing
him comfortable, and apparently no weaker than she had seen him before,
she hesitated as to what she ought to do.
"There will be nights when you will need me more cousin," said she, "and
I think--"
But Elizabeth's face made her pause.
"Dear cousin, stay with me to-night. No, I do not think he is going to
die to-night, though Dr Wainwright thought it could not be long. But
do stay with me, cousin. I seem to be alone and good for nothing."
"You are tired, and no wonder. You look sick. Yes, I'll stay. I
think, on the whole, I'd better."
Betsey did not say that it was Mrs Fleming she had been thinking of
when she hesitated. She took off her bonnet and prepared to stay.
"I made up my mind to be here to-night as soon as I heard that your
father wasn't well. I thought once I'd go home and come back after
sundown, but it doesn't matter about going. They'll know why I stay,
and I guess likely Ben will come along over after milking is done."
"Is there no one we could get to help your mother and Cynthia for a few
days? I would send anywhere for help to them if you could only stay
with me till--"
"Oh, I guess they'll get along, and Hepsey Bean is near by. If they get
into a fix they can send for her. I'll stay anyway. Isn't your brother
Clifton round?"
"No, he went to the city yesterday; he left before we thought my father
worse. I hope he will be home to-morrow."
"Well, I hope he will, and I guess he'd better stay a spell next time he
comes."
Elizabeth had been up for the night, and after a visit to her father,
who was still sleeping quietly, Betsey persuaded her to go and lie down,
promising to call her at the turn of the night, or sooner if there
should be any change. Elizabeth was glad to go, for she was very tired.
"I feel so safe in leaving him with you, cousin," said Elizabeth, the
tears starting in her eyes. "You must not think that I am always so--
downhearted, but I feel as if I might give way--as if I might lay a
little of my burden on you, and--"
"And so you may, with no _if_ about it, only there is a better place to
lay it, as you don't need me to tell you by this time. She thinks she
knows what trouble is, and perhaps she does," continued Betsey as she
followed Elizabeth with her thoughts. "For trouble is just as folks
take it, and she has been pretty tenderly dealt with hitherto. But I
guess she is not one that trouble can do any real harm to. The Lord
sees it all, and she is in His hand, and I needn't worry about her.
She'll be kept safe through it all."
But she gave a good many thoughts to Elizabeth's possible troubles as
she sat there alone. Before the "turn of the night" Elizabeth came down
rested and refreshed, she said. Jacob came in and sat a while, but
scarcely a word was spoken. He offered to stay, but it was not
necessary, his sister said.
"No! When is Clifton coming back?" asked he.
"To-morrow, I hope," said Elizabeth.
"He must not go away again."
"No. Not for a time."
Elizabeth's rest and refreshment "did not seem to amount to much,"
Betsey thought as she watched her sitting in the firelight after Jacob
went away. Not many people had ever seen on Elizabeth's face the look
it wore now. She seemed to have forgotten that there was any one to
see. Except that she raised her head now and then to listen for sounds
in her father's room, she sat perfectly motionless, "limp and hopeless,"
Betsey said to herself, and after a little she said aloud:
"Cousin Lizzie, you are not going to be `swallowed up of overmuch
sorrow,' are you? That would be rebellion, and there is no deeper deep
of misery to a Christian than that."
Elizabeth looked up startled.
"I don't think I rebel, but--"
"You have been expecting this for a good while. Your father is a very
old man now, Lizzie."
"He is all I have got."
"You said that to me before, but that is not so. He isn't all you've
got by many."
"He is the only one who has needed me ever. When he is gone, there will
not be one left in the world who might not do without me as well as not,
though perhaps there are one or two who might not think so for a little
while."
"Well, that may be said of most folks, I guess, but of you with less
truth than of most."
Elizabeth made a movement of dissent.
"You are young enough to make friends, and it is easy for you to make
them. I don't believe anybody ever saw your face who didn't want to see
it again. You want to do good in the world, and you have the means and
the natural gifts for doing it, and that is happiness."
Elizabeth raised herself up and looked at her in amazement.
"How you talk, Cousin Betsey!" said she.
"Well, that's the way I feel about it. No matter what trouble you may
be going through now, there is the other side, and when you get there
you'll find good work to do, because you have the heart to do it. And
you'll get your wages--rest, and a quiet mind."
Elizabeth's eyes were on the red embers again, but the expression of her
face had changed a little. Betsey moved so that her own face would be
in the shadow, and then she went on:
"You may think it an unnatural thing for me to say, cousin, but I feel
as if there would be more gone from my life than from yours, when Uncle
Gershom goes. More in comparison with what will be left."
Elizabeth said nothing to this.
"Do you remember the two or three elms there are left on the side of the
hill, just beyond the Scott school-house? There were a great many more
there once, and we used to call it Elm Grove in old times. There are
only three or four left that are not dying. I hear the children calling
it the grove still. The young trees are growing up fast round them, not
elms, many of them but wild cherry-trees, and poplars, and a few spruces
but the poor old elms seem to be all the more alone because of the
second growth. When your father and my mother are gone, there won't be
a great many left to me. I suppose I shall find something to do,
however, till my time comes."
There was a long silence after that. Betsey went once or twice into the
sick-room, but the old man slept peacefully.
"It will not be to-night," said she softly. Then she sat down again.
"Cousin," said she gravely in a little, "you are not worrying about your
father, as though it may--not be well with him now?"
Elizabeth looked at her startled.
Betsey went on:
"I have been exercised about him considerably myself, one time and
another. I have felt as if I must have him to come out and acknowledge
himself on the Lord's side, confess Him before men, by openly uniting
himself with the Church. But he has been hindered. I do not know where
has been the stumbling-block altogether. But the Lord knows, and
actions speak louder than words. He has lived a Christian life since
ever I can remember. And it is by their fruits ye shall know them."
Elizabeth's face had fallen on her hands again, and her tears were
falling fast, but she had no words with which to answer her.
"A good many years ago, at communion seasons, I used to grieve over him
more than a little. I couldn't bear to have him miss the privilege--
deprive himself of the privilege of remembering the Lord in the way He
appointed. He didn't consider himself worthy, he told me once, when I
said a word to him about it--at the time my father died that was.
"I tell you, Lizzie, it made me feel poor and mean enough--a hypocrite,
almost, when I heard him say it. Not that any one can be worthy, in one
sense. But out Lord said, `Except ye be converted and become as little
children,' and he had the heart of a little child about some things,
more than any one I ever knew.
"Cousin, if I were to tell you--but I couldn't begin to tell you, all he
has done for us--for father and the boys when they were in trouble, and
for me. And the way he did it, as though it was his business, that he
needn't be thanked for. The patience he showed, and the gentleness--
yes, and the strength and firmness, when these were needed. I should
have fallen down under my burden in those days, if it hadn't been for
Uncle Gershom. I have often wondered, Lizzie, if you knew just what a
man your father was."
Elizabeth turned her tearful face, smiling now, toward her cousin, but
she said nothing.
"I never could tell you--never! My father, for a good while, wasn't
easy to get along with. Well, he wasn't himself all the time, and if it
hadn't been for Uncle Gershom--
"But there--I mustn't talk about it, not to-night," she said, rising and
walking about the room. "It kind of puts me off the balance to go back
to those days, and I'd better let it alone to-night."
"Some time you will tell me," said Elizabeth.
"Well, I don't promise. But if I could tell you just how like the face
of an angel your father's face has been to me many and many a time."
"I think I know," said Elizabeth.
"And I wish we were all as fit for heavenly places as he is. I don't
deny that I should have been glad for the sake of the cause, if he could
have seen his way clear to unite with the Church before he went--to sit
down at the Lord's table here on earth, before he goes to sit down at it
above, and I wish he might even yet."
"I'll tell you what I would like. If he should revive a little, as he
may, and if the minister had no objections, a few might come in, mother
and Cynthia, and old Davie Fleming, and two or three others, and take
the cup and the bread with him, not that it would make any real
difference--"
"Betsey," said the squire's voice from the other room.
They were both with pale faces at his bedside in a moment.
"Did I hear Betsey's voice? Or did you only say she was coming, Lizzie?
Oh, she is here, is she? Well, I've got something to say to Betsey.
It isn't best to put off these things too long."
Poor old squire! He had said almost the same words every time he had
seen Betsey for the last year or two, and it never occurred to either of
them that he would not forget the words as soon as they were uttered.
After taking some nourishment he was much revived and strengthened.
"Yes, I want to speak to Betsey about some business. Jacob isn't here,
is he? Because this is between Betsey and me. It was all over and done
with before Jacob knew anything about my business, and he needn't know
now. Go up-stairs, Lizzie, to the store-room where the old bureau is,
and your mother's little wheel, and you'll find what I want--the old
saddle-bag--in the left-hand, deep drawer. There are papers in it; but
you'd better bring the bag down."
Elizabeth waited a moment, thinking he might drop asleep again, but he
did not.
"I feel rested. It won't hurt me, Lizzie. Better go now, and have it
over with--"
Elizabeth looked at her cousin.
"You'd better go, I guess. It will satisfy him, even if he cannot do
anything about it."
Elizabeth returned almost immediately, and spent a little time brushing
the dirt from the old bag, which she remembered as always taken by her
father on his journeys on horseback long ago, though she had not seen it
for years.
"I brought it from Massachusetts with me well-nigh on fifty year ago,"
said the old man, laying his hand on it. "Where are my glasses? But I
guess you'll find what I want, Lizzie."
There was no lock to be opened. There were a number of folded papers,
laid loosely in the compartments. They were arranged with some order,
however, and Elizabeth read the few words written on the outside of each
as she lifted them out. They were a strange medley, notes of hand,
receipted accounts, the certificate of the squire's first marriage, his
wife's letter of dismissal from the Massachusetts church, dated, as the
squire said, "well-nigh on fifty year ago." Then there was a bundle of
papers marked "Brother Reuben."
"That is it. I ought to look them all over myself. But you'll have to
do it, Lizzie."
There were several acknowledgments of money received, and notes of hand
to a large amount that had passed between the brothers. On one was
written, "Paid for my Joe," and a date; on another, "Lent to my son.
Parley, at the time he went west," and several more of the same kind.
The dates ran over many years, and the father had made himself
responsible for all to the squire.
"He was very independent, was my brother Reuben, always," said the
squire. "He wanted to mortgage his place to me, but I wouldn't have it.
I thought his notes good enough; more easily dealt with anyway than a
mortgage. He would have paid every cent if he could, and if he had it
would have all gone into the bank for the benefit of his womenfolk, who
have had a hard time mostly."
He seemed to have forgotten Betsey's presence, for he went on:
"I want you to give them to Betsey. Jacob needn't hear of them. He
might think he had some claim on them, but he hasn't a mite. Betsey
shall have the satisfaction of knowing that at no time to come they can
be claimed--the value of them, I mean. Betsey knew about them, I guess,
though her father didn't mean she should. She is a good woman, Betsey,
if ever there was one, and she has had her share of trouble."
"Father, I will burn them now; that will be best," said Elizabeth,
eagerly.
"And not say anything to Betsey? But she knows there is something due,
and it might worry her, thinking that some time or other it might be
claimed. If you burn them I think you should let her see you do it."
"Yes, father; Betsey is here, and we shall burn them together."
"Well, that is pretty much all, I guess; and I'm tired now. Look out
the rest of them when you have time, and you'll know what to burn.
There is nothing there that Jacob or Clifton has anything to do with. I
often have been sorry that I didn't just take old Mr Fleming's note,
instead of the mortgage. It might have saved some hard feelings.
There, that's all. I feel better, I'll try and sleep again."
They sat beside him till he fell asleep, and then they moved into the
other room, Elizabeth carrying the bag with her.
"Cousin Lizzie," said Betsey, "wait a minute. I don't more than half
believe it's lawful to burn these notes and things."
"It is quite lawful. My father told me to burn them."
"But wait. Do you know that folks are beginning to say that your
brother Jacob is hard up, that he is pressed for money?"
"Yes, he told me so himself. He said the difficulty was only temporary,
and that--that I should hear more about it soon."
"They say it's pretty bad, and you know everything has been mixed up in
the business, and your share might have to go with the rest. There is a
good deal represented by the papers you have in your hands, cousin."
"I see what you mean. All the more this must be made safe."
She rose, and going toward the hearth, dropped the papers one by one
into the fire.
"Now, Cousin Betsey, that is done with. Forget all about it. We will
never speak of this again."
Elizabeth took the old bag to carry it away. Several papers fell from
the other side as she moved it. She looked at each one as she put it in
the bag again, reading aloud what was written on each. One was a sealed
letter, thick and folded as letters used to be before envelopes were in
use. It was addressed to her father in very beautiful handwriting which
she had seen somewhere before. She held it before her cousin that she
might see it.
"It is Hughie Fleming's writing! I know it well," said Betsey.
"It looks as if it had never been opened," Elizabeth said, turning it
over and over in her hand. "How strange! My father must surely have
read it?"
"Who knows? It is possible he never did."
"I wonder if I should keep it and speak to him about it?"
Betsey shook her head.
"It isn't likely he'd remember it, and it might trouble him. It is
about that old trouble likely."
"Perhaps I should drop it into the embers?"
"It is hard to say. I should hate to know from it anything that would
make me think less of poor Hugh."
"But it may be quite different. Ought I to open it? My father gave all
the papers to me to examine. I wonder if I should open it, cousin?"
Miss Betsey took the letter in her hand and looked at it for a minute or
two.
"It looks like a message from the dead," said she.