Читать книгу David Fleming's Forgiveness - Margaret M. Robertson - Страница 9

Instead of following the path, Clifton went round the knoll to the brook, and paused again at the sight of a pair or two of little bare feet in the water, and thus began his acquaintance with the Fleming children. There were several of them, but Clifton saw first a beautiful brown boyish face, and a pair of laughing eyes half hidden by a mass of tangled curls, and recognised Davie. Close beside the face was another so like it, and yet so different, that Clifton looked in wonder. The features were alike, and the eyes were the same bonny blue, and the wind was making free with the same dark curls about it. But it was a more delicate face, not so rosy and brown, though the sun had touched it too. There was an expression of sweet gravity about the mouth, and the eyes that were looking up through the leaves into the sky had no laughter in them. It was a fair and gentle face, but there was something in it that made Clifton think of stern old Mr. Fleming sitting on the Sabbath-day among his neighbours in the church.

“That must be sister Lizzie’s wee Katie,” said Clifton to himself.

The slender girlish figure leaned against the rock on which the boy was lying so that the two faces were nearly on a level, and a pretty picture they made together. Clifton had been making facetious remarks to his sister about the old-fashioned finery of the dressed-up village girls on their way to church, but he saw nothing to criticise in the straight, scant dress, of one dim colour, unrelieved by frill or collar, which Katie Fleming wore. He did not think of her dress at all, but of the slim, graceful figure and the bonny girlish face turned so gravely up to the sky. He was not sure whether it was best to go forward and speak or not. Ben stood still, looking also.

“I say, Katie,” said the boy, lifting his head, “what is the seven-and-twentieth?”

“Oh fie, Davie! to be thinking of propositions and such-like worldly things, and this the Sabbath-day,” said Katie, reprovingly.

“Just as if you werena thinking of them yourself, Katie.”

“No, I’m no’ thinking of them. They come into my head whiles. But I’m no’ fighting with them, or taking pleasure in them, as I do other days. I’m just resting myself in this bonny quiet place, looking at the sky and the bonny green grass. Eh, Davie, it’s a grand thing to have the rest and the quietness of the Sabbath-day.”

The girl shook her head at the answer which Clifton did not hear, and went on.

“It gives us time to come to ourselves, and to mind that there is something else in the world besides just cheese and butter-making, and these weary propositions. Of course it’s right to go to the kirk, and I promised grannie I would go this afternoon to the Scott school-house with the bairns. But I like to bide quiet here a while, too.”

“I would far rather bide here,” said Davie.

“Yes, but, Davie, we mustna think light of the Sabbath-day. Think what it is to grandfather. He would like it better if we were better bairns. I’m just glad of the rest.”

“You’re tired of your books,” said Davie, with a little brotherly contempt in his voice. “You’re but a lassie, however, and it canna be helped.”

“I canna do two things at once. I’m tired of making cheese and keeping up with girls at the school too. And I’m glad it’s the Sabbath-day for the rest. And, Davie,” she added, after a pause, “I’m not going to the school after you stop. Grannie needs me at home, and I’m no’ going.”

“Catch me staying at home if I could go,” said Davie.

“But, Davie, it is my duty to help grannie to make all the money we can to pay the debt, and get grandfather out of the hands of those avaricious Holts. What noise was yon, Davie?”

Listeners seldom hear good of themselves, and the mention of the “avaricious Holts” startled Clifton into the consciousness that he was listening to that which was not intended for his ears, and he drew to Ben’s side.

“It’s the little Flemings,” said Ben; “aint they Scotchy? That is the way they always speak to one another at home.”

They went round the knoll through the trees among the broken pieces of rock scattered over the little eminence. Before they reached the brook the other way a voice hailed them.

“Hallo, Ben! Does your Aunt Betsey know that you’re going about in such company on Sunday?”

“If meeting’s out she knows, or she mistrusts,” said Ben, taking the matter seriously. “We’re going over to the Scott school-house to meeting. Aunt Betsey’ll like that, anyhow.”

They all laughed, for Ben and the Fleming children had long been friends.

“Here’s Clif got home sooner than he expected to, and Jacob, he’s reading a sermon by himself because the minister didn’t come, and so—we came away. This is Clif.”

The smile which had greeted Ben went out of Katie’s eyes, and surprise and a little offence took its place, as she met Clifton’s look. But she laughed merrily when the lad, stepping back, took off his hat and bowed low, as he might have done to any of the fine ladies of B—, where he had been living of late.

But in a little while she grew shy and uncomfortable, and conscious of her bare feet, and moved away. Clifton noticed the change, and said to himself that she was thinking of the mortgage, and of “those avaricious Holts.”

“Your grandfather did not go to meeting, either,” said Ben, anxious to set himself right in Katie’s eyes. “We saw him turning the corner as we went down to the river.”

“Grandfather!” repeated Katie. “I wonder why?”

“I suppose it was because Jacob was going to read the sermon,” said Ben, reddening, and looking at his cousin.

Katie reddened too and turned to go.

“Grandfather must be home, then, Davie; it’s time to go in,” and Kate looked grave and troubled.

“Davie,” repeated she, “it’s time to come home.”

Davie followed her a step or two, and they heard him saying:

“There’s no hurry, Katie; if my grandfather didna go to the kirk, he’ll be holding a meeting all by himself in Pine-tree Hollow, and he’ll not be at the house this while, and I want to speak to Ben.”

“Davie,” said his sister, “mind it’s the Sabbath-day.”

The chances were against his minding it very long. It was a good while before he followed his sister to the house, and he brought the Holts with him to share their dinners of bread and milk.

“We’re all going to the meeting together, grannie,” said he, “and Kate,” he added in a whisper, “Clif Holt has promised to lend me the book that the master gave you a sight of the other day, and I am to keep it as long as I like; and he’s not so proud as you would think from his fine clothes and his fine manners; but he couldna tell me the seven-and-twentieth, more shame to him, and him at the college.”

“He thinks much of himself,” said Katie, “for all that.”

The little Flemings and their mother and the two Holts went to the Scott school-house, as had been proposed, and the house was left to Mrs. Fleming as a general thing. This “remarkable old lady,” as the Gershom people had got into the way of calling her to strangers, greatly enjoyed the rare hours of rest and quiet that came at long intervals in her busy life, but she did not enjoy them to-day. Her Bible lay open upon the table, and “Fourfold State” and her “Solitude Sweetened” were within reach of her hand, but she could not settle to read either of them. She wandered from the door to the gate and back again in a restless, anxious way, that made her indignant with herself at last.

“As gin he wasna to be trusted out of my sight an hour past the set time,” said she, going into the house and sitting resolutely down with her book in her hand. “And it is not only to him, but to his master, that my anxious thoughts are doing dishonour, as though I had really anything to fear. But he was unco’ downhearted when he went away.”

She looked a very remarkable old lady as she sat there, still and firm. She was straight as an arrow, small and slender, wrinkled indeed, but with nothing of the weazened, sunken look which is apt to fall on small women when they grow old. She was a beautiful old woman, with clear bright eyes, and a broad forehead, over which the bands of hair lay white as snow.

She had known a deal of trouble in her life, and, for the sake of those she loved, had striven hard to keep her strength and courage through it all, and the straight lines of her firmly-closed lips told of courage and patience still. But a quiver of weakness passed over her face, and over all her frame, as at last a slow, heavy footstep came up to the door. She listened a moment, and then rising up, she said cheerfully:

“Is this you, gudeman? You’re late, arena you? Well, you’re dinner is waiting you.”

She did not wait for an answer, nor did she look at him closely till she had put food before him. Then she sat down beside him. He, too, was remarkable-looking. He had no remains of the pleasant comeliness of youth as she had, but there were the same lines of patience and courage in his face. He was closely shaven, with large, marked features and dark, piercing eyes. It was a strong face, good and true, but still it was a hard face, and it was a true index of his character. He was firm and just always, and almost always he was kind, slow to take offence, and slow to give it; but being offended, he could not forgive. He looked tired and troubled to-night—a bowed old man.

“Where are the bairns?” were the first words he uttered, and his face changed and softened as he spoke. She told him where they had gone, and that their mother had gone with them. Then she made some talk about the bonny day and the people he had seen at church, speaking quietly and cheerfully till he had finished his meal, and then, having set aside the dishes, she came close to him, and, laying her hand on his arm, said gently: “David, we are o’er lane in the house. Tell me what it is that’s troubling you.”

He did not answer her immediately.

“Is it anything new?” she asked.

“No, no. Nothing new,” said he, turning toward her. At the sight of her fond wet eyes he broke down.

“Oh, Katie! my woman,” he groaned, “it’s ill with me this day. I hae come to a strait bit o’ the way and I canna win through. ‘Forgive, and ye shall be forgiven,’ the Book says, and this day I feel that I havena forgiven.”

Instead of answering, she bent over him till his grey head lay on her shoulder and rested there. He was silent for a little.

“When I saw him younder to-day, smooth and smiling, standing so well with his fellow-men, my heart rose up against him; I daredna bide, lest I should cry out in the kirk before them all and call God’s justice in question—God that lets Jacob Holt go about in His sunshine, with all men’s good word on him, when our lad’s light went out in darkness so long ago. Is it just, Katie? Call ye it right and just?”

She did not answer a word, but soothed him with hand and voice as she might have soothed a child. She had done it many times before during the forty years that she had been his wife, but she had never, even in the time of their sorest troubles, seen him so moved. She sat down quietly beside him and patiently waited.

“Has anything happened, or is anything threatening that I dinna ken of?” asked she after a little.

“No, nothing new has happened. But I am growing an old failed man, Katie, and no’ able to stand up against my ain fears.”

“Ay, we are growing old and failed; our day is near over, and so are our fears. Why should we fear? Jacob Holt canna move the foundations of the earth. And even though he could, we needna fear, for ‘God is our refuge and strength.’ ”

He was leaning back with closed eyes, tired and fainthearted, and he did not answer.

“There’s no fear for the bairns,” she went on, cheerfully. “They are good bairns. There are few that hae the sense and discretion of our Katie, and her mother’s no’ without judgment, though she is but a feckless body as to health, and has been a heavy handful to us. They’ll be taken care of. The Lord is ay kind.”

And so she went on, gentle soothing alternating with more gentle chiding, all the time keeping away from the sore place in his heart, not daring for his sake and for her own to touch it till this rare moment of weakness should be past.

“You are wearied, and no wonder, with the heat and your long fast; lie down on your bed and rest till it be time to catechise the bairns—though I’m no’ for Sabbath sleeping as an ordinary thing. Will you no’ lie down? Well, you might step over as far as the pasture-bars and see if all is right with old Kelso and her foal, for here come the bairns and their mother, and there will be no peace with them till they get their supper, and your head will be none the better for their noise.”

And so she got him away, going with him a few steps up the field. She turned in time to meet the troop of children who, in a state of subdued mirthfulness suitable to the day and their proximity to their grandfather, were drawing near. She had a gentle word of caution or chiding to each, and then she said softly to Katie:

“You’ll go up the brae with your grandfather and help him if there is anything wrong with old Kelso. And cheer him up, my lassie. Tell him about the meeting, and the Sunday-school; say anything you think of to hearten him. You ken well how to do it.”

“But, grannie,” said Katie, startled, “there is nothing wrong, is there?”

“Wrong,” repeated her grandmother. “Ken you anything wrong, lassie, that you go white like that?”

The brave old woman grew white herself as she asked, but she stood between Katie and the rest, that none might see.

“I ken nothing, grannie, only grandfather didna bide to the meeting to-day, Ben told me.”

“Didna bide to the meeting? Where went he, then? He has only just come home.”

“It was because of Jacob Holt,” Ben said.

“But Katie, my woman, you had no call surely to speak about the like of that to Ben Holt?”

“I didna, grannie. I just heard him and came away. And, grannie, I think maybe grandfather was at Pine-tree Hollow. It would be for a while’s peace, you ken, as the bairns were at home.”

“Pine-tree Hollow! Well, and why not?” said grannie, too loyal to the old man to let Katie see that she was startled by her words. “It has been for a while’s peace, as you say. And now you’ll run up the brae after him, and take no heed, but wile him from his vexing thoughts, like a good bairn as you are.”

“And there’s nothing wrong, grannie?” said Katie, wistfully.

“Nothing more than usual; nothing the Lord doesna ken o’, my bairn. Run away and speak to him, and be blithe and douce, and he’ll forget his trouble with your hand in his.”

Katie’s voice was like a bird’s as she called: “Grandfather, grandfather, bide for me.”

The old man turned and waited for her.

“Doesna your grandmother need you, nor your mother, and can you come up the brae with that braw gown on?”

Katie smiled and took his hand.

“My gown will wash, and I’ll take care, and grannie gave me leave to come.”

And so the two went slowly up the hill, saying little, but content with the silence. When they came back again Mrs. Fleming, who was waiting for them at the door, felt her burden lightened, for her first glance at her husband’s face told her he was comforted.

“My bonny Katie, gentle and wise, a bairn with the sense of a woman,” said she to herself, but she did not let her tenderness overflow. “We have gotten the milking over without you, Katie, my woman. And now haste you and take your supper, for it is time for the bairns’ catechism and we mustna keep your grandfather waiting.”

That night when Ben Holt went home he found the house dark and apparently forsaken. Miss Betsey sat rocking in her chair in solitude and darkness, and she rocked on, taking no notice when Ben came in.

“Have you got a sick headache, Aunt Betsey?” said Ben after a little; he did not ask for information, but for the sake of saying something to break the ominous silence. He knew well Aunt Betsey always had a sick headache and was troubled when he had been doing wrong.

“I shall get over it, I expect, as I have before; talking won’t help it.”

Ben considered the matter a little. “I don’t know that,” said he, “it depends some on what there is to say, and you don’t need to have sick headache this time, for I haven’t been doing anything that you would think bad.”

Miss Betsey laughed unpleasantly.

“What has that to do with it?”

“Well, I haven’t been doing anything bad, anyhow.”

“Only just breaking Sunday in the face and eyes of all Gershom. You are not a child to be punished now. Go to bed.”

“I don’t know about breaking Sunday; I didn’t any more than old Mr. Fleming. He didn’t care about going to Jacob’s meeting, and no more did Clif and me. We went along a piece, and then we went to the Scott school-house to meeting. It was a first-rate meeting.”

“What about Mr. Fleming; has he and Jacob been having trouble?” asked Miss Betsey, forgetting in her curiosity her controversy with Ben.

“Nothing new, I don’t suppose. And Clif, he says that he don’t believe but what Jacob’ll do the right thing, and he says he’ll see to it himself.”

“There, that’ll do,” interrupted Miss Betsey. “If Clifton Holt was to tell you that white was black you’d believe him.”

“I’d consider it,” said Ben, gravely.

“If you want any supper it’s in the cupboard,” said Miss Betsey, rising, “I’ve had supper and dinner too, up to Mr. Fleming’s, and we went to meeting at the Scott school-house. It wasn’t Clif’s fault this time, Aunt Betsey, and we haven’t done anything very bad either. And Clif, he’s going to be awful steady, I expect, and stick to his books more than a little, and he sent his respects to you, Aunt Betsey, and he says—”

“There, that’ll do. Go to bed if you don’t want to drive me crazy.”

“I’ll go to bed right off if you’ll come and take away my candle, Aunt Betsey. No, I don’t want a candle; but if you’ll come in and tuck me up as you used to, for I haven’t been doing anything this time, nor Clif either. Will you, Aunt Betsey?”

“Well, hurry up, then,” said Aunt Betsey, with a break in her voice, “for this day has been long enough for two, and I’m thankful it’s done,” and then she added to herself:

“I sha’n’t worry about him if I can help it. But it is so much more natural for boys to go wrong than to go right, that I can’t help it by spells. After all I’ve seen, it isn’t strange either.”

“Ben,” said she, when she took his candle in a little while, “you mustn’t think you haven’t done wrong because the day turned out better than it might have done. It only happened so. It was Sabbath-breaking all the same to leave meeting and go up the river. There, I aint going to begin again. But wrong is wrong, and sin is sin whichever way it ends.”

“That’s so,” said Ben, penitently.

“And there is only one way for sin to end, however it may look at the beginning, and it won’t help you to have Clif fall into the same condemnation. There, good-night.”

“I don’t know about that last,” said Ben to himself. “It would seem kind o’ good to have Clif round ’most anywhere. But he’s going to work straight this time, I expect, and I guess he’ll have all the better chance to walk straight too.”