Читать книгу David Fleming's Forgiveness - Margaret M. Robertson - Страница 13

It was a great deal later in the afternoon than it ought to have been for the first visit of the minister, and the chances were he would have been told so in any other house in the parish. But Mrs. Fleming welcomed him warmly, and all the more warmly, she intimated, that he came in such good company. The lateness of the hour made this difference in the order of events: they had their tea first, and their visit afterward; a very good arrangement, for their tramp through the fields and woods had made them hungry, and Mrs. Fleming’s oat-cakes and honey were delicious. There were plenty of other good things on the table, but the honey and oat-cakes were the characteristic part of the meal, never omitted in Mrs. Fleming’s preparations for visitors. She had not forgotten the old Scottish fashion of pressing the good things upon her guests, but there was not much of this needed now, and she looked on with much enjoyment.

“Will you go ben the house, or bide still where you are?” asked she, when tea was over and they still lingered. “Ben the house”—in the parlour there were tall candles burning, and other arrangements made, but no one seemed inclined to move. The large kitchen in which they were sitting was, at this time of the year, the pleasantest place in the house. Later the cooking-stove, which in summer stood in the outer kitchen would be brought in, and the great fire-place would be shut up, but to-night there was a fire of logs on the wide hearth. It flickered and sparkled, and lighted up the dark face of old Mr. Fleming, and the fair face of Miss Elizabeth, as they sat on opposite sides of the hearth, and made shadows in the corners where the shy little Flemings had gathered. It lighted, too, the beautiful old face of the grandmother as she sat in her white cap and kerchief, with folded hands, making, to the minister’s pleased eye, a fair picture of the homely scene.

And so they sat still. Katie and her mother moved about quietly for a while, removing the tea-things and doing what was to be done about the house. When all this was over, and they sat down with the rest, Clifton, and even Elizabeth, awaited with a certain curiosity and interest the discussion of some important matter of opinion or doctrine between the old people and the minister, as was the way during the minister’s visits to most of the old Scotch houses of the place. But Mrs. Fleming had changed, and the times had changed, since the days when old Mr. Hollister and his friend went about to discuss the question of a union with the good folks of North Gore, and the household had changed also. The children sitting there so quiet, yet so observant, came in for a share of the minister’s notice, and when their grandmother proposed that they should arrange themselves before him in the order of their ages to be catechised by him, he entered into the spirit of the occasion as nobody in Gershom had seen him enter into anything yet. He knew all about it. He had been catechised in his youth in the orthodox manner of his country, and he acquitted himself well. From “What is the chief end of man?” until one after another of the children stopped, and even Katie hesitated, he went with shut book. It was very creditable to him in Mrs. Fleming’s opinion, quite as satisfactory as a formal discussion would have been in assuring her of the nature and extent of his doctrinal knowledge, and the soundness of his views generally.

“He’ll win through,” said she to herself; “he has been dazed with books till he has fallen out of acquaintance with his fellow-creatures, and he’ll need to ken mair about them before he can do much good in his work. But he’ll learn, there is no fear.”

The minister had other questions to ask at “the bairns” that had never been written in any catechism, and he had new things to tell them, and old things to tell them in a new way, and, as she looked and listened, Mrs. Fleming nodded to her husband and said to herself again, “He’ll win through.”

“Bairns,” said she impressively, “you see the good of learning your Bible and your catechism when you are young; take an example from the minister.”

And with this the bairns were dismissed from their position; for the rest of the evening till bedtime it was expected that they were “to be seen and not heard,” as was the way with bairns when their grandmother was young. The two eldest, Katie and Davie, were put forward a little, in a quiet way, and encouraged to display their book-learning to their visitors. But Katie was shy and uncomfortable, and did not do herself as much credit as usual. Her grandfather put her forward as a little girl, and the visitors treated her as a grown woman, and she did not like it, and at last took refuge with her knitting at her grandfather’s side, and left the field to Davie.

As for Davie, he was shy too, but in some things he was bold to a degree that filled Katie with astonishment. He held his own opinion about various things against the minister, who, to be sure, “was only just trying him.” And he and young Mr. Holt wrangled together over their opinions and questions good-humouredly enough, but still very much in earnest. Young Mr. Holt was the better of the two as to the subjects under discussion, but he was not so well up as he thought he was, or as he ought to have been, considering his advantages, and Davie knew enough to detect his errors, though not enough to correct them. The minister, appealed to by both, would not interfere, but listened smiling. Mr. Fleming sat silent, as his manner was, sometimes smiling, but oftener looking grave.

“Softly, Davie. Take heed to your words, my laddie,” said his grandmother now and then, and Elizabeth listened well pleased to see her brother, about whom she was sometimes anxious and afraid, taking evident pleasure in it all.

By and by the Book was brought, and Mr. Fleming, as head and priest of the household, solemnly asked God’s blessing on the Word they were to read, before he gave it to the minister to conduct the evening worship. It chanced that the chapter read was the one from which Mr. Maxwell’s Sunday text had been taken; and in the pause that followed the unwilling, but unresisting departure of the little ones to bed, Clifton said so. Then he added that he wished Mrs. Fleming had been there to hear the sermon, as he would have liked to hear her opinion as to some of the sentiments given in it by the minister. It was said with the hope of drawing the old lady into one of the discussions of which they had heard, Elizabeth knew, but it did not succeed.

“I heard the sermon, and had no fault to find with it; had you?” said Mrs. Fleming.

“Fault! No. One would hardly like to find fault with it before the minister,” said Clifton, laughing. “I am not very well up in theology myself, but it struck me that the sermon was not just in the style of old Mr. Hollister’s.”

“I doubt you werena in the way of taking much heed of Mr. Hollister’s sermons, and you can ask Mr. Maxwell the meaning of his words if you are not satisfied. What was lacking in the sermon the years will supply to those that are to follow it. It was written at the bidding of the doctors o’ divinity at the college, was it not?”

“Yes,” said Mr. Maxwell with some hesitation, “it was written for them.”

“Oh! they would surely be pleased with it. It was sound and sensible and conclusive; that is, you said in it what you set out to say, and that doesna ay happen in sermons. You’ll put more heart in your ministrations when you have been a while among us, I hope.”

There was a few minutes’ silence.

“There is a grave charge implied in your words, Mrs. Fleming, and I fear a true one,” said the minister.

“I meant none,” said Mrs. Fleming earnestly. “As for your sermon, what could you expect? It was all the work of your head, your heart had little part in it. It was the doctors of divinity, and the lads, your fellow-students—ilka ane o’ them waiting to get a hit at you—that you had in your mind when you were writing it, and no’ the like of us poor folk, who are needing to be guided and warned and fed. But it is a grand thing to have a clear head, and to be able to put things in the right way, and, according to the established rules: yon was a fine discourse; though you seemed to take little pleasure in it yourself, sir, I thought, as you went on.”

Mr. Maxwell smiled rather ruefully. “I took little pleasure in it indeed.”

“I saw that. But you have no call to be discouraged. We have the treasure in earthen vessels, as Paul says himself. But a clear head and a ready tongue are wonderful gifts for the Master’s use, when they go with a heart that He has made His dwelling. Have patience with yourself. If you are the willing servant of your Master, His word is given for your success in His work. It is Him you are to look to, and not to yourself.”

“Ay! there is comfort in that.”

“It must be a great change for you coming to a place like this from the companionship of wise men, living and dead, and you are but young and likely to feel it. But you’ll come to yourself when the strangeness wears off. Your work lies at your hand, and plenty of it. You’ll have thraward folk to counter you, and folk kind and foolish to praise you and your words and works, whatever they may be. A few will give you wholesome counsel, and a smaller few wholesome silence, and you must take them as they come, and carry them one and all to His feet, and there’s no fear of you.”

The minister said nothing. Clifton looked curiously at his grave face over his sister’s shoulder.

“Wholesome silence! It’s not much of that he is likely to get in Gershom,” said he.

“But,” said Mrs. Fleming earnestly, “you are not to put on a grave face like that, or I shall think your visit hasna done you good, and that would grieve me. You have no call to look doubtfully before you. You have the very grandest of work laid ready to your hand, and you have the will to do it, and I daresay you are no just that ill prepared for it. At least you are prepared to learn in God’s school that He has put you in. And you have His promise that you cannot fail. It is wonderful to think of.”

“Who is sufficient for these things?” said the minister gravely.

“Him that God sends He makes sufficient,” said Mrs. Fleming, cheerfully. “Put your trust in Him, and take good care of yourself, and above all, I would have you to beware of Mrs. Jacob Holt’s Yankee pies and cakes and hot bread, for they would be just the ruination of you, health and temper, and all. But you needna say I told you.”

Elizabeth and Clifton laughed heartily at the anticlimax. Mr. Maxwell laughed too, and hung his head, remembering Mrs. Jacob’s dainties, which he had not yet been able to do justice to. Mrs. Fleming might have enlarged on the subject if time allowed, but they had a long walk before them.

“I hope you’ll no be such a stranger now that you have found your way back again,” said Mrs. Fleming, as Elizabeth was putting on her shawl. “I mind the old days, and you have ay been kind to my Katie, who is growing a woman now, and more in need of kindness and counsel than ever,” added she, looking wistfully from the one to the other. For answer, Elizabeth turned and kissed Katie, and then touched with her lips the brown wrinkled hand of the grandmother.

“God bless you and keep you, and give you the desire of your heart,” said Mrs. Fleming, “if it be the best thing for you,” she added, moved by a prudent after-thought, which came to her to-night more quickly than such thoughts were apt to come to her. “I’m no feared for you or Katie. Why should I be? You are both in good keeping. And if you are no dealt with to your pleasure, you will be to your profit, and that is the chief thing.”

They had a pleasant walk through the dewy fields in the moonlight, and much to say to one another, but they had fallen into silence before they paused at the gate to say “good-night.”

“I suppose on the whole our visit may be considered a success,” said Clifton as they lingered.

“Altogether a success,” said Elizabeth.

“I am glad I went in your company,” said the minister.

“Thank you,” said Elizabeth.

“Your are welcome,” said her brother, and then he added, laughing, “I hope all the rest of the world will be as well pleased.”

This was to be doubted. Mrs. Jacob was by no means pleased for one. She had said nothing to Elizabeth on the occasion when Mr. Maxwell had stayed away from the sewing-circle, but Elizabeth knew that her silence did not imply either forgetfulness or forgiveness. She could wait long for an opportunity to speak, and could then put much into a few words for the hearing of the offender. It was a renewal of the offence that the minister should have been taken to the hill-farm by Clifton, and then to Ythan Brae by him and his sister, though why she could not have easily explained. Whatever Clifton did was apt to take the form of an indiscretion in her eyes, but neither her sharp words nor her soft words were heeded by him, and she rarely wasted them upon him. But it was different where his sister was concerned. She had turns now and then of taking upon herself the responsibility of Elizabeth, as of a young girl to whom she stood as the nearest female relation, and she knew how to hurt her when she tried. Elizabeth rarely resented openly her little thrusts, but all the same, she unconsciously armed herself for defence in Mrs. Jacob’s presence, and an attitude of defence is always uncomfortable where relations who meet often are concerned.

They had met a good many times, however, before any allusion was made to the visits which had displeased her. She came one day into Elizabeth’s sitting-room to find Mr. Maxwell there in animated discussion with Clifton. She hardly recognised him in the new brightness of his face, and the animation of his voice and manner. He was as unlike as possible to the silent, constrained young man who daily sat at her table, and who responded so inadequately to her efforts for his entertainment. She liked the minister, and wished to make him happy in her house, and there was real pain mingled with the unreasonable anger she felt as she watched him. Her first few minutes were occupied in answering the old squire’s questions about Jacob and the children. She had startled him from his afternoon’s sleep, and he was a little querulous and exacting, as was usual at such times. But in a little she said:

“Mr. Maxwell had good visits at the Hill, and at Mr. Fleming’s, he told us. It is a good thing you thought of going with him, Elizabeth. You and Cousin Betsey have become reconciled.”

“Reconciled!” repeated Elizabeth; “we have never quarrelled.”

“Oh, of course not. That would not do at all. But you have never been very fond of one another, you know.”

“I respect Cousin Betsey entirely, though we do not often see one another,” said Elizabeth. “I did not go to the Hill the other day, however. Clifton went with Mr. Maxwell, and they enjoyed it, as you say.”

The squire was a little deaf, and not catching what was said, needed to have the whole matter explained to him.

“Betsey is a good woman,” said he; “I respect Betsey. Her mother isn’t much of a business woman, and it is well Betsey is spared to her. It’ll be all right about the place; I’ll make it all right, and Jacob won’t be hard on them.”

And so the old man rambled on, till the talk turned to other matters, and Mrs. Jacob kept the rest of her remarks for Elizabeth’s private ear.

“I am so glad you like Mr. Maxwell, Elizabeth. I was afraid you would not; you are so fastidious, you know, and he seems to have so little to say for himself.”

“I like him very much, and so does Clifton,” said Elizabeth, waiting for more.

“I am very glad. He seems to be having a good influence on Clifton. He hasn’t been in any trouble this time, at all, has he? How thankful you must be. Jacob is pleased. I only hope it may last.”

The discussion of her younger brother’s delinquencies, real or supposed, was almost the only thing that irritated Elizabeth beyond her power of concealment; and if she had been in her sister-in-law’s house, this would have been the moment when she would have drawn her visit to a close. Now she could only keep silence.

“I hope Clifton may do well next year,” went on Mrs. Jacob; “you will miss him, and so shall we.”

“We must do as well as we can without him. In summer he will be home for good, I hope.”

“Yes, if he should conclude to settle down steadily to business. Time will show, and this winter we have Mr. Maxwell. It depends some on Miss Martha Langden, I suppose, how long we shall have him in our house. You have heard all about that, I suppose?” said she, smiling significantly.

Elizabeth smiled too, but shook her head.

“I have heard the name,” said she.

“Well, you must not ask me about her. I only know that she gets a good many letters from Gershom about this time. It is not to be spoken of yet.”

She rose to go, and Elizabeth went with her to the door, and she laughed to herself as she followed her with her eye down the street. She had heard Miss Martha Langden’s name once. It was on the night when Mr. Maxwell called on his way from the Hill-farm. He had said that he liked Miss Betsey, and that she reminded him of one of his best friends, Miss Martha Langden, one who had been his mother’s friend when he was a child.

Miss Elizabeth laughed again as she turned to go into the house, and she might have laughed all the same, if she had known that the frequent letters to Miss Martha Langden never went without a little note to some one very different from Miss Martha. But she did not know this till long after.

Clifton Holt went back to college again, and Elizabeth prepared for a quiet winter. She knew that, as in other winters, she would be held responsible for a certain amount of entertainment to the young people of the village in the way of gigantic sewing-circles, and no less gigantic evening parties. But these could not fall often to her turn, and they were not exciting affairs, even when the whole responsibility of them fell on herself, as was the case when her brother was away. So it was a very quiet winter to which she looked forward.

And because she did not dread the utter quiet, as she had done in former winters, and because she was able to dismiss from her thoughts, with very little consideration of the matter, a tempting invitation to pass a month or two in the city of Montreal, she fancied she was drawing near to that period in a woman’s life, when she is supposed to be becoming content with the existing order of things, when the dreams and hopes, and expectations vague and sweet, which make so large a part in girlish happiness, give place to graver and more earnest thoughts of life and duty, to a juster estimate of what life has to give, and an acquiescent acceptance of the lot which she has not chosen, but which has come to her in it. It is not very often that so desirable a state of mind and heart comes to girls of four-and-twenty. It certainly had not come to Elizabeth. However, it gave her pleasure—and a little pain as well—to think so, and it was a good while before she found out that she had made a mistake.

As for Mr. Maxwell, he was “coming to himself,” as Mrs. Fleming had predicted. His health improved, and as he grew familiar with his new circumstances, the despondency that had weighed him down was dispelled. Before the snow came, he was making visits among the people, without any one to keep him in countenance. Not regular pastoral visits, but quite informal ones, to the farmer in his pasture or wood-lot, or as he followed his oxen over the autumn fields. He dropped now and then into the workshop of Samuel Green, the carpenter, and exchanged a word with John McNider as he passed his forge, where he afterward often stopped to have a talk. The first theological discussion he had in Gershom was held in Peter Longley’s shoe-shop, one morning when he found that amiable sceptic alone and disposed—as he generally was—for a declaration of his rather peculiar views of doctrine and practice; and his first temperance lecture was given to an audience of one, as he drove in Mark Varney’s ox-cart over that poor man’s dreary and neglected fields.