David Fleming's Forgiveness. Margaret M. Robertson
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