David Fleming's Forgiveness Part 12

"No, but with his chances, he cannot but be carrying on a prosperous business. Oh, I'll risk Jacob."

"But, Clifton, all that we have is in the business, and we ought to know."

"Why, Lizzie! who ever thought before that you were mercenary and suspicious, and I don't know what else besides? What has Jacob been doing to 'aggravate' you lately, that you should be down on him?"

"Clifton, you must not dismiss the matter so lightly. I am thinking far more of you than of myself. You can never do better for yourself anywhere, and why should you change your plans now, after all these years?"

"Have I ever said that I was to stay in Gershom? I don't say that I won't come back for good, some time. Gershom does seem to be the place for a halt but as to going into the business right away, no, I thank you."

"I think you are wrong."

"Nonsense! What do you suppose, now, Jacob would do if I were to bring him to book, and claim a right to know all about his business transactions, and his plans and prospects? It would be a mere farce my making believe to go into the business."

"Possibly you might make it so, but it need not be so. But I cannot think it wise or right for you to go to Montreal. It is like setting aside the plans of your whole life to leave Gershom."

"No; you are mistaken. Though I have said nothing about it, I have not this many a day meant to settle down here. I may ultimately 'hang out my s.h.i.+ngle' here, or I may be appointed judge of the district by and by, and then I'll come back and be a bigger man than Jacob, even."

But Elizabeth could not laugh at his nonsense. She was afraid for her brother. She had longed for his return home, saying to herself that home influence and a busy life would be better for him than the careless life he had been living as a student; that with responsibility laid upon him, he would forget his follies, and be all that she longed to see him.

"Think of our father's disappointment. How can you ever tell him that you are going away?"

"While he has you he will be all right, and he will always be looking forward to the time when I shall come home for good, for I fully intend to settle here by and by. I confess it is hard for you to be kept stationary here, Lizzie. It looks mean in me to go away and leave you, doesn't it?"

"If it were going to be for your good--But, Clifton I don't believe it."

"I ought to give myself the best chance, ought I not? I must go to Montreal. But, Lizzie, why don't you say at once that I am not to be trusted in the city with its temptations? That is what you are thinking of."

Elizabeth did not deny it. She was thinking of it sadly enough.

"That is one reason against it," said she.

"Well, get rid of that fear. I am all right. I should be worse off loafing round here with little to do, and I shall be home often. Now, Lizzie, don't spoil the last days by fretting about what is not to be helped. I'm bound to go."

And go he did. Elizabeth could only submit in silence. His father missed him less than she had feared he might. He was home several times during the autumn and winter, and always spoke of the time when he was coming for good, and his father was content with that.

Whether her brother Jacob was really disappointed or not at Clifton's decision, Elizabeth could not tell. "Jacob had never counted much on any help he would be likely to get from his brother," Mrs Jacob said.

She was quite inclined to make a grievance of his going away, as she would probably have made a grievance of his staying, if he had stayed.

But Jacob said little about it, and everything went on as before.

Elizabeth had the prospect of a quieter winter than even the last had been. Her father was less able to enjoy the company of his old friends than he had been. He grew weary very soon now, and liked better the quiet of the house when only Elizabeth was with him. His active habits and his interest in the business had long survived any real responsibility as to the affairs of the farm, but even these were failing him now. When the weather was bright and fine he usually once a day moved slowly down the village street, where every eye and voice greeted him respectfully, and every hand was ready to guide his feeble steps. He paid a daily visit to the store, or the tannery, or the paper-mill, as he had done for so many years, but it was from habit merely. He often came wearily home to slumber through the rest of the day.

He was querulous sometimes and exacting as to his daughter's care, and she rarely left him for a long time. She looked forward to no social duties in the way of merry-making for the young folks of the place this year. Even Clifton's coming home now and then did not enliven the house in this respect as it had done in former winters. Many a quiet day and long, silent evening did she pa.s.s before the new year came in, and she would have had more of them had it not been for her Cousin Betsey.

Once or twice, when her father had suffered from some slight turn of illness, Elizabeth had sent for her cousin, whose reputation as a nurse had been long established, and Betsey had come at first, at some inconvenience to herself, from a sense of duty. Afterward she came because she knew she was welcome, and because she liked to come, and all the work at home, most of which fell to her willing hands, was so planned and arranged that she might at a moment's notice leave her mother and her sister Cynthia to their own resources and the willing and effective help of Ben. After a time, few weeks pa.s.sed that she did not look in upon them.

"He may drop away most any time, mother," said she, "and she hasn't seen trouble enough yet to be good for much to help him or herself either, at a time like that."

"And you are so good in sickness. And your uncle Gershom's been a good friend to us always," said her mother. "I'm glad you should be with him when you can, and with her too. And trouble may do Lizzie good."

"Well, it may be. Some folks don't seem to need so much trouble as others, at least they don't get so much, but Cousin Lizzie isn't going to be let alone in that respect, I don't think. Well, I guess I'll go along over, and I'll get back before night if nothing happens, and if I am not, as it's considerable drifted between here and the corner, Ben might come down after supper and see what is going on."

"Trouble!" repeated Miss Betsey, as she gathered up the reins and laid the whip lightly on the back of "old Samson."

"Trouble is just as folks take it. I have had my own share in my day, or I thought so," she added, with a sharp little laugh. "I just wonder what I should have done now if the Lord had let me have my own way about some things."

Old Samson moved steadily along, past Joel Bean's, and the bridge, and up the hill that brought Gershom in sight, and then she said aloud: "But then things might have been different," and then old Samson felt the whip laid on with a little more decision this time, and this, probably with the antic.i.p.ation of the measure of oats awaiting him in the squire's stable, quickened his movements; and in a few minutes Miss Betsey was shaking the snow from her cloak in Sally Griffith's back kitchen. It had been snowing heavily for a while, and the movement of the sleigh had been unheard by Elizabeth, or she would have taken the shaking of the snowy garments into her own hands.

"Folks as usual?" said Miss Betsey, as she came into the front kitchen, where Sally reigned supreme, conscious of her value as "help," and careful of her dignity as a citizen of Gershom, "as good as anybody."

"Well, pretty much so, I guess. Kind of down these days, in general."

They had been youthful companions, these two, and had plenty to say to each other. So Betsey warmed her feet at the oven door, and they discussed several questions before she went into the sitting-room. She went in softly, so as not to disturb the old man, should he have fallen asleep in his chair, as he sometimes did after dinner; so she had a chance to see Elizabeth's face before she knew that she was not alone.

It was grave and paler than Betsey had ever seen it, and there was a weary, far-away look in her eyes that were following the grey clouds just beginning to drift over the clearing sky. They brightened, however, as they turned at the sound of the opening door.

"Cousin Betsey! I'm so glad to see you. You have come to stay?"

Friendly as they had become of late, Elizabeth did not often venture to kiss her cousin. She did this time, however, repeating:

"You have come to stay?"

"Well, yes. I came fixed so as to stay a spell if I was wanted. Joel Bean's folks heard somewhere that Uncle Gershom hadn't been seen out in the street these two days, and I thought I'd just come over and see how he was keeping along."

"That was good of you. He was not out yesterday, and to-day has been so snowy. But he is no worse; a little better and brighter, if anything.

But all the same, I want you to stay."

"Well, I don't care if I do a spell. You must be hard up for company to be so glad to see me."

Miss Betsey sat down by the fire, and took her knitting from her pocket.

There were tears in Elizabeth's eyes which Betsey pretended not to see, and which Elizabeth did her best to keep back. She went into her father's room for a minute, and looked cheerful enough as she took her seat on the other side of the hearth opposite her cousin, with her work in her hand. But when she began to answer Betsey's questions about her father--his appet.i.te, his strength, his nights, his days--the tears came again, and this time they fell over her cheeks. For she found herself sorrowfully telling that though he had comfortable days, and days when he seemed just as he used to do, it was evident that his strength was failing more rapidly than it had ever done during any winter before.

She let her work fall on her lap, and leaning her elbow on the table, covered her face with her hands.

"He is an old man," said Betsey, gravely.

"Yes. But he is all I have got," said Elizabeth, speaking with difficulty.

"He is your father, but he is not all you've got. Don't say that."

"There is no one else that cares very much about me. If I were sick or in trouble, I think I would have a better right to come to you, Cousin Betsey, than to any one else in the world."

"Well, and why not? You ought to have had a sister," said Betsey.

Elizabeth laughed a little hysterically.

"I have--Jacob's wife," said she.

"Humph," said Betsey. "I'll tell you what's the matter with you; you're nervous, and no wonder."

"Oh, Cousin Betsey! don't be hard on me. I'll be all right in a minute.