Читать книгу David Fleming's Forgiveness - Margaret M. Robertson - Страница 6

Gershom Holt was to all appearance a hale old man, but for a long time before this he had had little to do with the management of the business of Holt and Son. He still lived in the great square house which had succeeded the log-house built by him in the early days of the settlement. Two of his children lived with him—Elizabeth, the youngest child of his first wife, and Clifton, the only child of his second wife, who had died in giving him birth.

Elizabeth was good, pretty, and clever, and still single at twenty-four. The persons she loved best in the world were her father and her younger brother. Her father loved and trusted her entirely, and every passing day made him more dependent on her for comfort and for counsel; for he was a very old man, and in many ways needed the care which it was his daughter’s first duty and pleasure to give. Her brother loved and trusted her too in his way, but he was only a lad, and too well contented with himself and his life to know the value of her love as yet, and she was not without anxious thoughts about him. He was supposed to be distinguishing himself in a New England College as he had before distinguished himself in the High-School of the village, and only spent his vacations at home.

There was a difference of nearly twenty years in the ages of Gershom Holt’s two sons, and they had little in common except their father’s name. Elizabeth loved them both, and respected the youngest most. Jacob was a little afraid of his sister, and took pains to be on the best of terms with her, and he could not forget sometimes in her presence that he had done some things in his life which he was glad she did not know.

He had married, early in life, a pretty, commonplace woman, who had grown thin and querulous in the years that had passed since then, and who was not at all fitted to be the great lady of Gershom, as the rich man’s wife might have been. That place was filled by Elizabeth, who filled it well and enjoyed it.

With its large garden and orchard, and its sloping lawn, shaded by trees beginning to look old and venerable beside those of more recent growth in the village street, the old square house looked far more like the great house of the village than the finer mansion lately built by Jacob further up the hill. Under Elizabeth’s direction it had been modernised and beautified by the throwing out of a bow-window and the addition of a wide veranda on two sides. Everything about it, without and within, indicated wealth moderately used, for comfort and not for display. It was the pleasantest house in the village to visit at, everybody said; for the squire—so old Mr. Holt was generally called—was very hospitable, and all sorts of people were made welcome there.

There were by this time people in Gershom who had outlived the remembrance of the days when all the settlers, rich and poor alike, were socially on a level, and who spoke smoothly and loftily about “station” and “position” and “the working classes,” but the young Holts were not among them. Elizabeth and Clifton deserved less credit than was given them on account of their unassuming and agreeable manners with the village people, for they did not need to assert themselves as some others did. Miss Elizabeth, for all her unpretending ways, was the great lady of the village, and liked it, and very likely would have resented it had a rival appeared to call her right in question.

The Holts of the Hill were, in most respects, very different from the Holts of the village. They lived and worked and dressed and conducted themselves generally very much as they had been used to do in the early days of the settlement. The old man had been long dead, and his widow and her two daughters lived on the farm. One of the daughters was a childless widow, Betsey, the other had never married. “A good woman with an uncertain temper,” was the character which many of her friends would have given her, and some of them might have added that she had had a hard life and many cares, and no wonder that she was a little hard and sour after all she had passed through. But this was by no means all that could be said of Miss Betsey.

There was little intercourse between the Holts of the Hill and the village Holts, and it was not the fault of Elizabeth. It was Betsey who decidedly withdrew from any intimacy with her cousins. She was too old-fashioned, too “set” in her way to fall in with all their new notions, she said, and from the time that Elizabeth came home from school to be the mistress of her father’s house, and the most popular person in Gershom, she had had but little to do with her. It hurt Elizabeth that it should be so, for she respected her cousin and would have loved her, and would doubtless have profited—by their intercourse if it had been permitted. But she never got beyond a certain point in the intimacy with her, at least she did not for a time.

The Hill Holts were much respected in the neighbourhood, and Miss Betsey exerted an influence in its way almost as great as did Miss Elizabeth. One or two persons who knew them both well, said they were very much alike, though to people generally they seemed in temper, in tastes, and in manner of life as different as well could be. They were alike and they were different, and the chief difference lay in this, that Miss Betsey was growing old and had passed through troubles in her time, and Miss Elizabeth was young and had most of her troubles before her.

The village of Gershom Centre, as it was called, at this time lay chiefly on the north bank of the Beaver River. Its principal street ran north and south at right angles to the river, and the village houses clustered closest at the end of the bridge that crossed it. At the south end of the bridge another street turned west down the river, and at a little distance became a pleasant country road which led to the hill-farm of the Holts, and past it to the neighbouring township of Fosbrooke. Another street went east, on the north side of the river a few hundred yards, and then turned north to the Scotch settlement at the Gore.

On this street, before it turned north, the new church stood. There was a wide green common before it, shaded by young trees, and only the inclosing fence and the road lay between this and the river, which was broad and shallow, and flowed softly in this part of its course. The church was a very pretty one of its kind—white as snow, with large-paned windows, and green Venetian blinds. It had a tall slender spire, in which hung the first bell that had ever wakened the echoes in that part of the country for miles around, and of the church and the bell, and the pretty tree-shaded common before it, the Gershom people were not a little proud.

Behind the church lay the graveyard, already a populous place, as the few tall monuments and the many less pretentious slabs of grey or white stone showed. It was inclosed by a white fence tipped with black, and shaded by many young trees, and it was a quiet and pleasant place. Between the church and the graveyard was a long row of wooden sheds. They were not ornamental, quite the contrary; but they were very useful as a shelter for the horses of the church-goers who came from a distance, and they had been added by way of conciliating the North Gore people when one and another of them began to come to the village church.

Toward the church one fair Sabbath morning in June, many Gershom people were hastening. Already there were vehicles of great variety in the sheds, and horses were tied here and there along the fences under the trees. There were groups of people lingering in Gershom fashion on the church steps and on the grass, and the numbers, and the air of expectation over all, indicated that the occasion was one of more than usual interest. All Gershom had turned out hoping to see and hear the new minister, whose coming was to bean assurance of peace to the church and to the congregation. They were to be disappointed for that day, however, for the minister had not come. Squire Holt and his son and daughter came with the rest. The old man lingered at the gate exchanging greetings with his neighbours, and the young people went on toward the door.

“Gershom is the place after all, Lizzie,” said her brother. “It is pleasant to see all the folks again. But I don’t believe I’m going to stay to see Jacob through this business. Well! never mind, Lizzie,” he added, as his sister looked grave. “I’ll see you through, if you say so. And here come Ben and Cousin Betsey; let us wait and speak to them.”

“Clifton,” said his sister, earnestly, “Ben is Cousin Betsey’s best hand this summer. It won’t do to beguile him from his work, dear. You must not try it.”

“Nonsense, Elizabeth. It is rather soon to come down on a fellow like that, before I have even spoken to him. I never made Ben idle, quite the contrary.”

Coming slowly up the green slope between the gate and the church were the two persons recognised by Clifton as Ben and Cousin Betsey. They moved along in a leisurely way, nodding to one and speaking to another, so that there was time to discuss them as they approached.

“Lizzie,” said her brother, “do you suppose you’ll ever come to look like Cousin Betsey?”

“I am quite sure I shall never wear such a bonnet,” said Elizabeth, pettishly. “Why will she make a fright of herself?”

“It is as an offset to you—so fine as you are,” said Clifton, laughing. “She had that gown before Ben was born; I remember it perfectly.”

Miss Betsey Holt was a striking-looking person, notwithstanding the oddness and shabbiness of her dress. Scantiness is a better word for it than shabbiness, for her dress was of good material, neat and well preserved, but it was without a superfluous fold or gather, and in those days, when, even in country places, crinoline was beginning to assert itself, she did look ludicrously straight and stiff. Miss Elizabeth’s dress was neither in material nor make of the fashion that had its origin in the current year, and city people, wise in such matters, might have set them both down as old-fashioned. But in appearance, as they drew near one another, there was a great contrast between them, though in feature there was a strong resemblance.

There was more than fifteen years’ difference in their ages, and Betsey looked older than her forty years. She was above the middle height, thin and dark and wrinkled, and there were white streaks in the brown hair brought down low and flat upon the cheek, but in every feature the bright youthful beauty of the girl had once been hers. Some of the neighbours, who were regarding them as they met, would have said that once Miss Betsey had been much handsomer than ever Miss Elizabeth would be. For Miss Betsey had been young at a time when there was little danger that indolence or self-indulgence could injure the full development of healthful beauty, and as yet Miss Elizabeth had fallen on easy days, and was languid at times, and delicate, and if the truth must be told, a little discontented with what life had as yet brought her, and a little afraid of what might lie before her, and there was a shadow of this on her fair face to-day.

They had not much to say to each other, and they stood in silence watching the two lads. Clifton was considered in Gershom to have learned very fine manners, since he went to college, but he had forgotten them for the moment, and was as boyish and natural as his less sophisticated cousin. They were only second cousins, Ben being the only child of Reuben Holt’s eldest son, who had died early. His Aunt Betsey had brought the boy up, and “had not had the best of luck in doing it,” she sometimes told him; but he was the dearest person in the world to her, for all her pretended discontent with her success. She watched the two lads as they went into the eager discussion of something that pleased them, and so did Elizabeth, for it was a pleasant sight to see.

“Cousin,” said Elizabeth, gently, “I do not think you need fear that my boy will harm yours.”

“I am not afraid—not much. Ben is the stronger of the two, morally, if he isn’t so bright. My boy is to be trusted,” and she looked as though she would have added, “that is more than you can say for yours.”

Elizabeth looked grave.

“Cousin Betsey, you were always hard on my brother Clifton.”

Betsey shrugged her shoulders.

“You are harder on him this minute than I am. I don’t suppose he has done anything very bad this time—worse than usual, I mean.”

“Have you heard anything? Did you know he was sent home?” asked Elizabeth in dismay.

“He sent a letter to Ben a spell ago, and I saw it lying round. You needn’t tell him so. If it is as he says, there aint much wrong this time. Here is Hepsey Bean.”

Miss Bean had come to inquire if anything had been heard of the minister, but the cousins were too much occupied in watching the two lads to answer her, and Hepsey’s eyes followed theirs.

“Are not they alike as two peas?” said she. “Not their fixings exactly, I don’t mean—”

Miss Elizabeth laughed, even Miss Betsey smiled, touched with a grim sense of humour as she regarded the lads. Their “fixings” were certainly different. Everything, from the tips of Clifton’s shining boots to the crown of his shining hat, declared him to be a dandy. His collar, necktie, coat, and all the rest, were in the latest fashion—a fashion a sight of which, but for his coming home, the Gershom people might not have been favoured with for a year to come. His compulsory departure from the seat of learning had been delayed while the tailor completed his summer outfit, so that there could be no mistake about his “fixings.”

As for Ben, he was fine also, in a new suit of homespun, which, since it came from the loom, and, indeed, before it went to the loom, had passed through no hands but those of his Aunt Betsey. It was not handsome. The home-made thick grey cloth of the country, which the farmers’ wives of those days took pride in preparing for the winter-wear of their “men folks,” was an article of superior wearing qualities, and handsome in its way. But it was the half-cotton fabric, dingy and napless, considered good enough for summer wear, in which Ben was arrayed. Made as a loose frock and overall to be worn in the hay-field, or following the plough, it was well enough; but made into a tight-fitting Sunday-suit, it was not handsome, certainly. As far as “fixings” were concerned, the cousins were a contrast. Betsey looked and laughed again, but Elizabeth did not laugh. She knew that Cousin Betsey was sensitive where Ben was concerned.

“Clothes don’t amount to much anyway,” said Betsey. “Hepsey’s right. They are alike as two peas, but Ben is the strongest morally, because he hasn’t been spoiled by property, as Clifton has. Not that he is altogether spoiled yet.”

“But about the minister?” interrupted Miss Bean.

“He has not come, it seems,” said Elizabeth. “There is to be a sermon read to-day,” but she did not say that her brother Jacob was to read it.

The bell which had been delayed beyond the usual time pealed out, and all faces were turned to the church door. Clifton and Ben lingered till the last.

“There is old Mr. Fleming going off home,” said Ben as he caught sight of a figure on horseback turning the corner toward North Gore. “I expect he don’t care about your brother Jacob’s preaching,” he added, gravely.

“Isn’t it his practice he don’t care about?” said Clifton, laughing.

“I shouldn’t wonder,” said Ben.

“Well, I can’t say I care much about his preaching either. Come, Ben, let us go down to the big elm and talk things over.”

Ben shook his head, but followed.

“It is not just the same as if the minister was there,” said he, doubtfully.

“But then what will Aunt Betsey say?”

“Oh, she won’t care since it’s only Jacob. And she needn’t know it.”

“Oh, she’s got to know it. But it is not any worse for us than for old Mr. Fleming. It’s pleasant down here.”

It was pleasant. The largest elm tree in Gershom grew on the river bank, and its great branches stretched far over to the other side, making cool shadows on the rippling water. The place was green and still, “a great deal more like Sunday than the inside of the meeting-house,” Clifton declared. But Ben shook his head.

“That’s one of the loose notions you’ve learned at college. Your sister believes in going to meetings, and so does Aunt Betsey.”

So did Clifton it seemed, for there was a good deal more said after that, and they quite agreed that whether it was altogether agreeable or not, it was quite right that people generally should go to church, rather than to the river, as they had done. How it happened, Ben hardly knew, but in a little while they found themselves in Seth Fairweather’s boat, and were paddling up the river, out and in among the shadows, past the open fields and the cedar swamp to the point where the Ythan Burn fell into the Beaver. They paddled about a while upon the Pool, as a sudden widening of the channel of the river was called, till the heat of the sun sent them in among the shadows again. Then Clifton leaned back at his ease, while Ben waved about a branch of odorous cedar to keep the little black flies away.

“Now tell me all about it, Cliff,” said he.

Clifton winced, but put a bold face on the matter, and told in as few words as possible the story of his having been sent home. It was not a pleasant story to tell, though he had been less to blame than some others who had escaped punishment altogether. But sitting there in the shadow of the cedars, with Ben’s great eyes upon him, he felt more sorry and ashamed, and more angry at himself, and those who had been concerned with him in his folly, than ever he had felt before.

“The fun didn’t pay that time, did it, Cliff?” said Ben. “I don’t believe it ever does—that kind of fun.”

“That’s what Aunt Betsey says, eh?” said Clifton. “Well, she’s about right.”

“And you’ll never do so, any more; will you, Cliff?”

Clifton laughed.

“But, Cliff, you are almost a man now, you are a man, and it don’t pay in the long run to drink and have a good time. It didn’t pay in my father’s case, and Aunt Betsey says—”

“There, that will do. I would rather hear Aunt Betsey’s sermons from her own lips, and I am going up to the Hill some time soon.”

There was silence between them for a little while, then Ben said:

“There’s a meeting up in the Scott school-house ’most every Sunday afternoon, Cliff; suppose we go up there, and then I can tell Aunt Betsey all about it.”

Clifton had no objections to this plan; so pushing the boat in among the bushes that hung low over the water, they left it there and took their way by the side of Ythan Burn. But he would not be hurried. As a boy he had liked more than anything else in the world, loitering through the fields and woods with Ben, and it gave him great satisfaction to discover that he had not outgrown this liking. He forgot his fine manners and fine clothes, his college friends and pleasures and troubles; and Ben forgot Aunt Betsey, and that he was doing wrong, and they wandered on as they had done hundreds of times before.

For though no one, not even his Aunt Betsey, thought Ben very bright, Clifton would have taken his word about beast and bird and creeping thing, and about all the growing life in the woods, rather than the word of any other ten in Gershom. They made no haste, there fore, in the direction of the Scott school-house, but wound in and out among the wood paths, using eyes and ears in the midst of the rejoicing life of which the forest was so full at that June season.

They kept along the side of the brook, and by and by came out of the woods on the edge of the fine strip of land which old Mr. Fleming had made foot by foot from the swamp. There was no finer land in the township, none that had been more faithfully dealt with than this. Ben uttered an exclamation of admiration as he looked over it to the hill beyond. Even Clifton, who knew less and cared less about land than he did, sympathised with his admiration.

“He might mow it now, and have a second crop before fall,” said Ben, with enthusiasm. “It would be a shame to spoil so fine a meadow by building a factory on it, wouldn’t it?”

“It would spoil it for hay, but factories are not bad in a place, I tell you. It might be a good thing to put one here.”

“Not for Mr. Fleming. He don’t care for factories. He made the meadow out of the swamp, and nobody else has any business with it, whatever they may say about mortgages and things.”

“But who is talking about mortgages and things?” asked Clifton, laughing.

“Oh, most everybody in Gershom is talking. I don’t know much about it myself. And Jacob’s one of your folks, and you’d be mad if I told you all that folks say.”

Clifton laughed.

“Jacob isn’t any more one of my folks than you are—nor so much. Do you suppose I would stay away from meeting to come out here with Jacob? Not if I know it.”

“He wouldn’t want you to, I don’t suppose.”

“Not he. He doesn’t care half so much about me as you do.”

“No, he don’t. I think everything of you. And that’s why Aunt Betsey says you ought to be careful to set me a good example.”

“That’s so,” said Clifton, laughing. “Now tell me about old Fleming.”

Ben never had the power of refusing to do what his cousin asked him, but he had little to tell that Clifton had not heard before. There was talk of forming a great manufacturing company in Gershom; but there had been talk of that since ever Clifton could remember. The only difference now was that a new dam was to be built further up the river at a place better suited for it, and with more room for the raising of large buildings than was the point where Mr. Holt had built his first saw-mill in earlier times. It was supposed to be for this purpose that Jacob Holt was desirous to obtain possession of that part of the Fleming farm that lay on the Beaver River; for, though a company was to be formed, everybody knew that he would have the most to say and do about it. But Mr. Fleming had refused to sell, “and folks had talked round considerable,” Ben said, and he went on to repeat a good deal that was anything but complimentary to Jacob.

“But I told our folks that you and Uncle Gershom would see Mr. Fleming through, and Aunt Betsey, she said if you were worth your salt you’d stay at home and see to things for your father, and not let Jacob disgrace the name. But I said you’d put it all straight, and Aunt Betsey she said—”

“Well, what did Aunt Betsey say?” for Ben stopped suddenly.

“She told me to shut up,” said Ben, hanging his head.

Clifton laughed heartily.

“And she doesn’t think me worth my salt. Well, never mind. It is an even chance that she is right. But I think she is hard on Jacob.”

There was time for no more talk. They had skirted the little brook till they came to a grove of birch and wild cherry-trees that had been left to grow on a rocky knoll where the water fell over a low ledge on its way from the pasture above. The sound of voices made them pause before they set foot on the path that led upwards.

“It’s the Fleming children, I suppose,” said Ben. “They’ll be telling us, mayhap, that we’re breaking the Sabbath, and I expect so we be.”