Open it, and if there is nothing in it that his friends would be glad to
know, you shall burn it without a word."
Betsey still hesitated.
"It comes from the dead," said she, but she opened it at last, cutting
round the large seal with a pair of scissors. But their hesitation as
to what they ought to do was not over. There was an inclosure addressed
to David Fleming, at which Betsey looked as doubtfully as ever, and then
she gave it to Elizabeth. There were only a few words in the first
letter:
"Honoured Sir:--I write to confess the sin I sinned against you, though
you must know it already. I ask your forgiveness, and I send this money
as the first payment of what I owe you, and if I live, full restitution
shall be made. If my father will read a letter of mine, will you take
the trouble to give him the lines I send with this?"
And then was signed the name of Hugh Fleming. It was only a hint of the
sad story they knew something of before. There was an American bank
bill for a small sum, and the inclosure to his father, and that was all.
"Poor Hughie! poor dear, bonnie laddie!" said Betsey softly. "Can it be
possible that your father never opened or read this? It was written
within a week of the poor boy's death," added she, looking at the date
on the letter.
"My father never could have opened it or Mr Fleming would have had
this," said Elizabeth, holding up the inclosed note, "I wonder how it
could have happened that it was overlooked."
She never knew, nor did any one. She tried next day to say something to
her father about it, but she could not make him understand. He said
nothing in reply that had any reference to the letter, or to poor Hugh,
or to his father. It must have been, by some unhappy chance, overlooked
and placed with other papers in the old saddle-bag, where it had lain
all these years.
"And now what shall we do about this?" asked Elizabeth, still holding
the other letter in her hand.
It was a single small leaf folded like a letter and one edge slipped in
as though it was to have been sealed or fastened with a wafer. But it
was open.
"I don't know, the least in the world," said Betsey, much moved. "It
might hold a medicine for the old man over there, but it might also be
poison."
"But since he wrote to my father of confession and restitution, we may
hope that there is a confession in this also."
"Yes, there is something in that. But it was a great while ago now, and
all the old misery would come back again. Not that he has ever
forgotten it. And now I fear there is more trouble before him."
They were greatly at a loss what to do.
"If we could consult some one."
"It would not help much. As it is not sealed you might just look at it.
If there is comfort in it the poor old father ought to have it. There
is no better time to give it."
Elizabeth opened it with trembling fingers.
"I hope it is not wrong."
"It would be too great a risk either to give it or to withhold it
without having known its nature. It was written so long ago, and it
would be terrible to have sorrow added to sorrow now."
A single glance was enough.
"Father, I have sinned against heaven and in thy sight."
Elizabeth read no more. That was enough. She burst into sudden
weeping.
"And he never saw his father again."
"No. And the father never saw the words his son had written," said
Betsey, scarcely less moved.
Daylight was coming in by this time and there was the sound of footsteps
at the door. Then Jacob's voice was heard, and remembering that the
squire had said that the papers were for Elizabeth's eyes alone, Betsey
lifted the bag from the table and carried it into the sick-room. Mr
Maxwell was with Jacob, and other people were waiting to hear how the
night had been passed.
"He has had a good night, and is still sleeping quietly," said
Elizabeth.
"And he seemed quite revived when he was awake last," Betsey added, as
she came out of his room.
"Mr Maxwell, Jacob," said Elizabeth, "the strangest thing has happened.
Jacob, look at this," and she put into his hand the letter with the red
seal on it, on which his eyes had been fixed since ever he came in.
He grew pale when he saw his father's name in the once familiar
handwriting, and when he saw the money, and read the words to his
father, written on the other side, he sat down suddenly without a word.
If Elizabeth had thought a moment, she might have hesitated about giving
it to him while others were looking on. Betsey was glad that she had
done it. Elizabeth took the letter which Jacob had laid down and gave
it to Mr Maxwell:
"You have heard of Hugh Fleming, the lad who went wrong. Betsey can
tell you more than I can. I found the letter among some old papers of
my father's. I think he cannot have read it, for the seal was not
broken. There must have been some mistake."
Mr Maxwell read it in silence.
"But it is this that has troubled us. A letter from Hugh to his father.
Think of it, Jacob. After all these years!"
Yes. After all these years! "Be sure your sin will find you out."
That is what Jacob was saying to himself. Even Betsey could have found
it in her heart to pity the misery seen in his face.
"He can't be so cold-blooded as people suppose," thought she.
"Should it be given to his father at once? I think the worst part of
the trouble to him has been the thought that his son was cut off so
suddenly--that he died unrepenting."
Mr Maxwell looked at the folded paper and then at Jacob.
"It may trouble the old man, but I do not think we have a right to
withhold it."
Elizabeth was about to say that she had looked at the note, but Betsey
interrupted her:
"He was sorry for his sin--whatever it was. His written words to Uncle
Gershom prove that. And if there is in it any kind of sorrow, or any
proof that others were more guilty than he, it might comfort the old
man."
"Will you take it to him by and by, Mr Maxwell?" said Elizabeth.
"If I am the best person to take it. But he has never spoken to me of
his son."
"He has never spoken a word to any one but the mother. And I feel that
there is comfort to him in this little letter, and you will be glad to
carry him comfort, I know."
"Thank you. Well, I will take it at once. Some one will be up at this
early hour with the grandmother. I will go now."
Elizabeth put the folded paper in her father's letter with the money and
gave it to him.
"I will go too," said Jacob, rising.
"Had you better?"
Both Elizabeth and Betsey spoke these words with a little excitement.
He turned a strange look from one to the other. Whether it was of pain
or anger, neither knew, and he went out with the minister. Elizabeth
watching, saw them turn into the path that led a near way to the North
Gore road.
"Oh, Betsey! I hope we have done right. God comfort the poor father by
these words," cried Elizabeth, with a sudden rush of tears.
"Amen!" said Betsey, solemnly.
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.
FORGIVENESS.
The longed-for dawn came to Katie with a sudden chill and sinking of the
heart that felt for a minute like the utter failure of bodily strength.
When she put the lamp out, and put aside the curtain so that the
daylight fell on the two grey old faces lying on the same pillow, her
heart beat hard with sudden fear.
How wan and sunken and spent they looked! What if they were both to
die? The little gleam of red that had now and then, through all her
illness, showed itself on grannie's cheeks was quite gone now, and she
would never be whiter, Katie thought, as she bent down to catch the
sound of her breath coming and going so faintly. The two wrinkled,
toil-worn hands still clasped each other in sleep.
"They should go together," said Katie, with a sob, "but oh! not yet."
She was not experienced enough to know whether this motionless sleep, so
different from the fitful, broken slumbers of the last few weeks, was a
hopeful sign or not; if her strength could be kept up, the doctor had
said, and so had Miss Betsey--and perhaps she ought to wake her and give
her something. As she stood looking at her, her grandfather opened his
eyes.
"Grannie's better, I think," said she, with a quick impulse to give him
comfort. "She has been sleeping quietly, and her hand is cool and
moist. If you'll bide still beside her, I'll go and get a drop of warm
milk from Brownie, to be ready when she wakes."
If she had stayed a minute longer she must have cried at the sight of
the old man's face as he raised himself up and bent over that other face
so white and still. She did cry a little when she went out, and
shivered in the chill of the September morning, but she did not linger
over her task. When she came in she found her grandfather risen, and
standing by the bed. Her grandmother was awake now.
"Are you there, Katie? Is your tea masket? Give a cup of tea to your
grandfather now; it will refresh him; and I think I could take a cup
myself."
"All right, grannie dear," said Katie, cheerfully; "and in the meantime
take a little milk," and she held the cup to her lips. "And now, if you
should fall asleep, it will be all the better till the tea be ready."
Katie smoothed the pillows and put the bedclothes straight, and touched
her lips to the white cheek; then it was turned to rest on the thin hand
and grannie fell asleep. Davie rose up at Katie's bidding, and went to
get wood to kindle the fire. Katie let the curtain fall again over the
open window, and softly closed the door, as she followed her grandfather
out of the room.
"We'll let her sleep," said the old man, and he went out with slow,
languid steps into the sunshine.
It was hardly sunshine yet, for though the light lay clear on the
hill-tops, all the valley was in shadow, and the mist lay low along the
course of Beaver River in great irregular masses, white, but with great
"splatches" of colour here and there where the sun touched it. The dew
lay heavy on the grass, and the garden bushes and the orchard trees, and
on Katie's flowers, and the sweet breath of green things came pleasantly
to his sense as he sat down on his accustomed seat by the door.
Birds were chirping in the orchard trees, and there was the scarcely
less pleasant sound of barn-door fowls near at hand. The sheep behind
the pasture-bars sent their greeting over the dewy fields, and the cows
in the yard "mowed" placidly as they stirred one another with soft, slow
movements. How fair and peaceful the place looked! How full of calm
and quiet, yet strong life!
The old man closed his eyes on it all. He was not thinking, he was
hardly feeling. The night had brought broken slumbers, but not rest,
and he was very weary. A wondering question, whether she could be going
to die on such a day as this, passed through his mind. It did not seem
possible.
"And besides, she and he said she could not die till I had forgiven my
enemy."
But he was too weary to go over it all again--the long heart-breaking
story. He could only sit still with closed eyes, waiting.
And it was thus that the minister and Jacob Holt found him. They had
said little to one another as they passed through the dewy fields, and
under the long shadows of the wayside trees together. Mr Maxwell at
first had said a word as to the mission they had undertaken, and asked a
question or two as to how they had better make it known, but Jacob had
answered in monosyllables, or not at all.
The last part of their walk had been over the fields again, and they
came suddenly upon Mr Fleming sitting at the door. Katie had seen them
coming, and was standing at her grandfather's side, her hand laid on his
shoulder, and she looked at them as they drew near with questioning,
almost angry eyes. Mr Maxwell held out his hand to her.
"Is he sleeping, Katie?"
But as he spoke Mr Fleming looked up. He did not see Jacob for the
moment. He held out his hand and tried to rise.
"No; sit still," and Mr Maxwell sat down beside him.
"It is kind of you to come so early. Katie thinks her--no worse this
morning. But you must think her dying to come so soon again, and at
this hour."
"No. I am glad she is no worse. It was not that I thought her dying.
I came for another reason."
"Well, you are kindly welcome anyway."
"I went to see Squire Holt this morning. No--he is not dying, though it
cannot be long now."
"Ay! ay! Well, he is an old man, and he is ending a useful life."
He spoke dreamily in his utter weariness, looking away over the fields
to the sunshiny hills beyond.
"I have something to give you, Mr Fleming," said the minister gently,
"something which Miss Holt found among her father's papers."
"Well, well," said the old man, waiting quietly, almost indifferently,
for what might be said.
"It is a letter, written long ago by one dead and gone, who was very
dear to you."
A change came over her grandfather's face, but whether it was because of
what Mr Maxwell had said, or because he saw Jacob Holt standing before
him, and quite near him, Katie could not tell. Jacob moistened his dry
lips, and tried twice to speak before a sound came.
"It is a letter--and before you read it--I beg you to forgive me for any
harm I may ever have done--to you or yours."
The little Flemings had gathered about the door, but their mother drew
them away into the house. Katie kept her place by her grandfather, and
so did Davie, but he was out of sight in the porch. Mr Fleming rose,
and stood face to face with his enemy; but when he spoke it was to Mr
Maxwell that he turned.
"She said, she could never go--up yonder--till I have forgiven him--and
I am an old man, now."
He tottered a little as he turned to Jacob, but he held out his hand:
"God forgive you. And God help me to forgive you. And God forgive me
too, for I doubt it has been rebellion with me all this time."
"Amen," said Jacob, and then he moved away, and Mr Fleming sank down on
the seat again. He seemed to have forgotten that there was anything
more to be said, and after a moment's hesitation, Mr Maxwell put the
letter into Katie's hand.
"The letter, grandfather," said she softly.
"Ay, the letter."
He took it, holding it out at arm's length that he might see, but when
his eye rested on the familiar characters he uttered a sharp,
inarticulate cry and let it fall. The blood rushed to his face till it
was crimson, and then receding, left him pale as death.
"Grandfather, come into grannie," said Katie, putting her arms about
him. "Davie, come and help our grandfather."
"Grannie's better, grandfather," said Davie; "come."
"But the letter," said the old man, faintly. "Oh, ay! Grandmother will
like to see the letter!"
But he did not rise.
"The letter. Where's the letter?"
Jacob Holt stooped and lifted it from the grass where it had fallen, and
Davie looked at him with amazed and angry eyes, as he opened it and
taking out the folded slip of paper, offered it to him, while he kept
the squire's letter and the money in his hand.
"Read that first," said Jacob hoarsely, and then he went away round the
corner of the house out of sight, and Mr Maxwell followed him.
"Read it, Katie, lassie."
With trembling fingers Davie opened the letter and gave it to his
sister. Kneeling beside him, Katie read:
"Father, I have sinned against heaven, and in thy sight, and am no more
worthy to be called thy son."
There was more written, but she got no further, for a cry burst from his
lips--whether of joy or pain they could not tell--and his head fell on
Katie's shoulder.
"Whisht, Davie. Lay him down gently, and get a little water. Be quiet,
man. Grannie will hear you."
For Davie had cried out in his terror at the sight of his grandfather's
deathlike face. The cry brought out his mother, and Mr Maxwell and
Jacob hurried back again. He was better in a minute, and they led him
into the house, and made him lie down. In a little while Katie brought
him some tea.
"Grannie bade me, grandfather, and you must take it you ken."
She knelt beside him, holding the cup for him, and by coaxing and
entreating made him take a little food.
"And now you must just rest a while."
They had brought him into the front room "for quiet," Katie said, as he
looked round in surprise; "rest and think about it," she whispered,
hardly venturing to say more. Gradually it came back to him that
something had happened. By this time breakfast was over, and worship,
and Katie brought Mr Maxwell in and left him there.
Jacob Holt would not stay to breakfast, though Davie and his mother had
asked him to stay. Before he went he gave the squire's letter to Davie.
"Give it to your grandfather, but do not read it," said he.
He had something to say to Mr Maxwell also.
"I don't know just how much Mr Fleming knows of what happened long ago.
Hugh Fleming, after much entreaty from several of us, signed my
father's name where he ought not. He alone had the skill to do it. It
was to save--some of us from much trouble. He was not in the scrape.
He was not to be benefited personally by it, except that he was
persuaded that some foolish deed of his could be more easily kept from
his father's knowledge if he helped to screen the rest by yielding. If
he had stayed at home and met it, it would have been well; my father
made no trouble about it. But he went away--and died. And you must
tell his father--"
Jacob turned his back upon the minister for a full minute, and then
without another word went away.
It was Mr Maxwell who read the letter to Mr Fleming after all. There
were only a few lines more than Katie read: "I trust God has forgiven
me, and that He will keep me safe from sin. Forgive me, dear father and
mother and James."
And then his name and another line: "I will make up to you, dear father,
for all you suffer now for me."
"And He has kept him safe," said the minister, "all these years."
Katie came now and then, and looked in, but she did not speak, except
once to say that grannie was sleeping still. Even Katie never knew how
the minister and her grandfather passed the long morning. It was noon
when she went in and told them that dinner was nearly ready, and that
grannie was awake and asking for them. Afterward Mr Maxwell told Miss
Elizabeth something about it.
How as it gradually became clear to the father that his dear son's light
had not gone out in darkness, but that he had repented of his sin, and
confessed it, and had been as he trusted forgiven, his grief and shame
and penitence were even deeper than his joy.
"To think that I should have been misdoubting the Lord all this time, as
though He had broken His promise to me! And how patient He has been--
long-suffering and full of compassion. I have been hard on Jacob Holt.
If God had dealt with me as I have in my heart dealt with him!"
The minister did not always know whether he was speaking to him, or to
himself. By and by, when he got calmer, and "better acquainted" with
the thought of the new joy, he told the minister, in broken words, the
story of his love for his son, and the bitterness of his loss, and his
wonder and sympathy grew as he listened.
What depths of woe the old man had sounded! With what agonies of
bitterness and anger which had grown to be hatred almost, as the years
went on, had he struggled. And he had sometimes yielded to the misery
of doubt of God's care. He had thought the struggle vain.
He had never been quite at peace with himself through it all. God had
never left him to an easy conscience, where Jacob Holt was concerned,
even at his quietest time, and when things were at their best with him.
He had never left him to himself, and now the evil spirit was cast out.
"The patience He has had with me. It is wonderful!" he said again and
again. "And now I ask nothing but that He may do His will with me and
mine," he added, as Katie came in.
"I think grannie is no worse, though she is very weak and cannot bear
much," was Katie's gentle caution, lest she should be excited overmuch.
He did not answer her, but turned to Mr Maxwell and repeated his words:
"I ask nothing but that God may do His will with me and mine."
"That is always best," said the minister.
Katie looked from one to the other.
"Come, grandfather," said she.
He went slowly out, touching the door and the walls to steady himself
by, and when he went in to grannie, Katie softly shut the door. There
was no one to tell what was said there between the two. If Mr Fleming
had needed anything utterly to break his heart with loving shame, and
thankfulness, and sorrow, the glad serenity and trust of his dear old
wife would have done it. He put restraint upon himself lest he should
excite her beyond her strength, but she smiled at him.
"Joy seldom does harm, and I am better, though I am but weak and
feckless. I'll soon mend now."
"And are you really better? I could almost find it in my heart to let
you go to Him, nay, I canna say gladly, but God's will be done, whether
you be to stay or go."
"Surely. And in His good time He'll take me, but no' just yet. You
canna spare me yet."
The old man laughed a glad, tremulous laugh, but the tears were not very
far from his eyes, and he patted gently the wrinkled hand, grown thin
and limp.
"And you'll just go to your dinner with the minister and the bairns, and
I'll rest myself a wee while, for, oh! I have little strength. But
I'll soon have more."
After dinner Mr Maxwell came in to say a few words to Mrs Fleming, and
"to give thanks," as she said, and then the old people were left alone
together again. Whether they slept or not, grannie could not tell.
"But we didna think long, my dear," said she to Katie, with her faint,
glad smile.
Mr Maxwell would have liked to lie all the afternoon on the orchard
grass, with Davie and his mother sitting near, and Katie and the rest
coming and going, as the work permitted, for it was sweet and restful
there. But the old squire might wish to see him. He had visited him
almost daily for a while, and so after a little he rose and said he must
go.
"And grannie is better, but Miss Elizabeth will have no glad morning.
Oh, if we could comfort her," said Katie, gravely.
"And don't you think that all that has comforted you all to-day, will
comfort her also?" said Mr Maxwell.
"Miss Elizabeth has always rejoiced with the joyful, and sympathised
with those who were in sorrow," said Katie's mother.
"And that is why she is loved so dearly," said Katie.
"And she was ay fond of grannie," said Davie.
"She will be comforted," said the minister.
And Miss Betsey had her wish. One day her mother and Cynthia came down,
and Ben went over for Mr Fleming, and old Mrs Wainwright, and Deacon
Stone, and two or three others, and the minister, and they all
remembered their Lord together. The "cup of blessing" was passed from
the trembling hands of Mr Fleming to the hands of Jacob Holt, which
trembled also, and so the very last drop of bitterness passed out of the
old man's heart forever.
The end was drawing near now, and the old squire, looking glad and
solemn too, held his daughter's hand, and welcomed them all by name as
they came, and bade them farewell as they went away, "hoping to see them
again," he said, but knowing, as did they all, that it must be on "the
other side." Mr Fleming stayed when the others went away, and
Elizabeth gave him her seat by her father for a little while. They had
not much to say to one another. In all their intercourse the squire had
been the talker, but he was past all that now. But he was not past
noticing the peaceful look that had already come to the face of his
friend.
"You feel better, don't you? It has done you good?" meaning doubtless
the communion they had enjoyed together with their Lord and Master.
Mr Fleming hardly knew what he meant, but he said gently, "Ay, it has
done me good."
For a moment it came into his thoughts to speak to the squire about the
letter, and the joy it had brought to him at last. But he was tired and
his thoughts were beginning to wander, and he doubted whether he could
make him understand.
"He'll ken where he is going," said he to himself, but to the dying man
he said nothing but "Fare ye well; and the Lord be with you in the
valley." And then he went away.
But not without a word from Elizabeth.
"Dear Mr Fleming," said she, holding his hand when they were at the
door, "you must let me say how glad I am for you and for his mother."
"Ay, that you are, I am very sure."
"If only it had come--long ago," said Elizabeth.
A momentary shadow passed over his face.
"Ay. It seems strange to us. There is only one thing sure--His time is
best."
Then Elizabeth sent her love to Mrs Fleming and to Katie, and her
mother, and then she touched with her lips the old man's furrowed cheek,
and some who saw him leave his old friend's house could not but wonder
at the peaceful brightness of his face that day.