David Fleming's Forgiveness Part 2

"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 pus.h.i.+ng 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 towns.h.i.+p, 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 n.o.body 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."

David Fleming's Forgiveness--by Margaret Murray Robertson

CHAPTER FOUR.

THE FLEMING CHILDREN.

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 ma.s.s 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.