David Fleming's Forgiveness Part 24

Squire Holt was in "the chair," but the duty of introducing the speakers was performed by Mr Maxwell, for the squire was feeble, and not equal to all that devolved upon him. Indeed, he dropped asleep, poor old gentleman, while the statistics were being given, and lost the point of the stories and got very tired, as Elizabeth could see. But Mr Maxwell did his part well, and just as Betsey settled herself to hear, he introduced Mr Langden, a friend of the cause from the States.

Mr Langden gave them some statistics also, and expressed himself delighted with the gathering, and the evidence of interest in the good cause. He was delighted, too, with their little town and the water-power, and with their country generally, which was a finer country than he had imagined it to be, and not so far behind his own section.

He said a great many agreeable things, and though it did not, in the opinion of the critical part of the audience, amount to much as a temperance address, it was such a speech as it was pleasant to hear.

Then Mr Burnet came forward and charmed the audience with his grand flowing periods. But though his words were splendid, they were few; for Mr Burnet did not care to waste his words on a weary and hungry people.

And then came the speech of the day.

Just as Mr Maxwell was considering whether he should give the people a ten minutes' address, as was of course expected, or dismiss them at once to the tables, toward which some of them were already directing their steps, Clifton Holt came on to the stand and whispered a few words to him, and then came forward, asking leave, not to make a speech, but to introduce a new speaker. He did make a speech, however, short, but telling, and was cheered heartily; but the cheering rose to its loudest and longest when Mark Varney came forward on the stand.

Was it Mark Varney? It was a very different man from the down-looking, heartless poor fellow who had disappeared from Gershom two years ago.

Erect and broad and brown he stood, with a look of strength and firmness on his face, though his lips trembled, that no one remembered to have seen there since his early youth, before his foe had mastered him.

In the silence that fell after the first shout of welcome, the people pressed forward, eager to see and hear. A movement toward the point of interest took place through all the field. Those who had grown tired of listening, and those who had not cared to listen, drew near, and several of those on the platform pressed forward the better to see and hear.

Mr Maxwell did not; he drew back rather, after a glance toward the spot where Miss Holt and Miss Langden were sitting, and, resting his elbow on the back of Squire Holt's chair, leaned his head on his hand. Miss Langden did not see the glance, for she was listening to Clifton, who had returned and was saying something to her. But Elizabeth saw that there was a strange look, grave and glad, on his face, and that he was very pale.

Gradually the rustle and movements which had given Mark time to quiet the trembling of his lips came to an end, and then he and all the throng were startled by a sudden cry--loud and strong, though it was but one man's voice:

"Mark Varney, before all!"

It might have terribly spoiled the effect, but it did not. It gave poor Mark, who was no orator, and who, with his heart full, did not find the right words ready, a beginning.

"Yes, Tim Cuzner, it is Mark Varney, who hasn't been seen in these parts for two years, nor for a good while before that, in his right mind--and you are the very man I want to talk to, Tim, you and a few others. I've got something to tell you. A few others? Yes, I've got something to say to every man in this Grove. I am not going in for a temperance lecture, though it wouldn't be the first time. I was a living temperance lecture in the streets of Gershom for a long while, as Squire Holt and Jacob and all the folks here know.

"But I want to say a word to every young man here because there isn't a young man in this Grove, I don't care who he is, whose feelings as to liquor I don't know all about. I know, and I remember this minute, just how it feels never to have tasted a drop. I remember how the first temptation to drink came to me, and I know how it feels after the first gla.s.s, and the second, and the third. I know just how strong and scornful a young man feels when folks begin to warn him, and how impossible it looks to him that danger should be near. I know every step of the dark way that leads down to the gates of death--to the very gates--for I have been there.

"I don't know just how far down that road any of you young men may have got by this time, but I know that some of you are on it somewhere. I know where you used to be, Tim Cuzner, and you haven't been standing still since then. No. Come now, don't get mad and go away. If my life would help you to set your feet on solid ground in any other road, you should have it and welcome. But it wouldn't; no, nor ten such lives.

"But I'll tell you what will help you, and what every young man here who feels the curse of strong drink needs as much as you do, and what we all need to keep us safe from the temptations that are everywhere. There is only one thing in the earth beneath or the heaven above that will touch the spot, and that's the grace of G.o.d!

"That doesn't seem much, does it? The grace of G.o.d! You've heard old Mr Hollister tell about it time and again, and you've heard Mr Maxwell, and the folks in conference meeting talk of it, and it has got to seem to you just like a word, a name, and that's all. But I tell you, Tim and boys, it is a power. I know it, for it has dealt with me and broken me to pieces, and made me over new."

Mark was no orator, though he had the clear, firm, penetrating voice of one; but his words, because of the surprise of his presence, and the change which had been wrought in him, and because of his earnestness and simplicity, had on his audience all the effect of the loftiest eloquence. He had a great deal more to tell them of the darkness and misery and sin through which he was pa.s.sing, when the minister found him and laid hands on him, and followed him day in and day out, and never got tired of him, nor discouraged about him, but laboured with him, and encouraged him, and gave him the hope that though he could not save himself, G.o.d could save him.

He tried to say a word about the night which they two pa.s.sed together beside his wife's coffin, but he broke down there, and went on to tell how he went away to give himself a chance, because it had seemed to him then, that if he should stay among his old companions and the daily temptations of his life nothing could save him.

He did not tell his mother, and he did not write to her, because at first he never knew what day his enemy might overcome him, and then she would have had to put away hope and take up her old burden again.

But he had fallen into good hands over yonder in the States, and he had much to tell of the kindness shown him there, and the Lord had stood by him and helped him, as He would help all who came to Him in their need.

The people who heard all this were moved by it in a wonderful way. It was like a miracle, they said to one another, that Mark Varney's lips should be opened to speak as he was speaking. It was like life from the dead to see him standing there, they said, as indeed it was.

"And you must excuse me for saying so much about myself, because that is just what I came here to do. I was coming home soon, at any rate; but when I saw in a newspaper a notice of this gathering in Finlay's Grove, I thought it would be as good a time as any to come and show which side I am on now. And if I can, I mean to get back my farm again. And if I can't, why, I shall have to get another, and if G.o.d will let me help Him to save two or three such as I was when our minister found me, I'll be content with my work. I can't talk. I don't suppose I shall ever speak from a platform again as long as I live, but I mean to help some poor souls I know of up out of the pit.

"And I tell you, I'm glad to get home. I have only just seen mother a minute and my little Mary. And I haven't seen Squire Holt yet to speak to, nor the minister."

Then he turned his back on his audience, and a good many people thought that was a lame ending to a good speech, but all did not think so. At least it was good to see the old squire holding his hand, and to hear him telling him that he had got to his right place at last. And it was good to see how he and Mr Maxwell were shaking hands, and all the rest of the people on the stand crowding round to have their turn. Indeed, it seemed to be a general business, for Mr Burnet was shaking hands with Mr Maxwell, and so was the old squire, and John McNider clambered up on the stand on purpose to do the same thing, and so did several other people.

By and by the minister came forward, and they all thought he was going to make a speech. But he did not. He told them tea was ready, and that all the elderly people were to go to the tables first, and that the young people were to serve them. But n.o.body seemed in a hurry to move, and then Squire Holt came forward, and instead of making a speech, he asked them to sing the Doxology.

And didn't they sing it? Mark Varney, who had led the choir once on a time--and a good many in the crowd vowed that he should lead it again-- began in his wonderful, clear tenor, and then the sound rose up like a mighty wind, till all the hills echoed again. And then they all went to tea.

Elizabeth meant that her father should go home at this time, but when Mr Maxwell brought him down to her, he declined to acknowledge himself tired, and went to the table with the rest, and Elizabeth took her place to serve. Miss Langden had a seat at the "speakers' table," and was well served, as was right. Clifton had the grace to deny himself the pleasure of sitting down beside her, as there were more than guests enough for all the seats, but he devoted himself to her service, as every lady said, and enjoyed it as well as he would have enjoyed his tea.

Davie was on the "tea and coffee committee," and his business at this time was to be one of several to carry great pitchers of one or other of those beverages from mighty cauldrons, where they were being made in a corner of the field, to a point where cups could be conveniently filled and distributed at the tables.

But from the midst of the pleasant confusion that reigned supreme in this department, Davie suddenly disappeared, leaving the zealous, but less expert Ben to take his place.

"He's got something else to do, I expect, Aunt Betsey, and you'll have to get along with me somehow, for I saw him tearing down toward the river like sixty, and there would be no catching him even if I was going to try."

"There was nothing the matter, was there, Ben?" asked Katie; but so little did she think it possible, that she did not even wait for the answer which Ben was very ready to give.

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.

POOR DAVIE.

It was not that Davie thought anything serious was the matter that, as Ben said, "he went tearing" down the hill toward the river, but that he feared there might be before all was done, unless there was some way of preventing it.

"Where are them boys?" he heard one mother say to another, as he pa.s.sed with his empty pitcher in his hand, and the answer was--

"They've gone down to the river, I expect. But I don't suppose there's any danger--not to Gershom boys, who swim there every summer day of their lives."

But there were many boys and girls also on the grounds who did not belong to Gershom, and to some of them a river big enough for a boat to sail on, would have a charm which must certainly draw them to its banks, and it would have been a good plan to appoint a committee to see to such, Davie thought.

"I'll just have a look down there," he said to himself, and as soon as he was over the fence and out of sight, he ran rapidly toward the river.

There were all sorts of children there, some of whom had wandered down to the mill-pond. There were two boats on the river, but there were grown people as well as children in them, and there were grown people walking on the bank who might justly be considered responsible for the safety of those who could not take care of themselves, and Davie was about to turn up the hill again, when a little fellow hailed him.

"I say, Davie, what do you suppose Dannie Green and Frankie Holt and two more boys are doing? They have taken your raft and are going to have a sail on the Black Pool--so they said."

"They could never do it," said Davie, with a sudden fear rising.

There was no turning up the hill after that. He ran across the two fields to the point where the raft had been left. It was gone sure enough, and he hastened on, stumbling over the stones and timber which Jacob Holt had last winter acc.u.mulated on the Varney place. Then he went through the strip of woods, and round the rocky point beyond, thinking all the time that such little fellows never could have pushed the raft so far up the stream, and that it was foolish for him to run.

But he was not a minute too soon. He could never tell afterward, whether he saw the raft, or heard the frightened cry first, but he knew that a boy had overbalanced and fallen into the water while trying to reach bottom with his pole in the deeper waters of the pool; and the next moment he had thrown off boots and coat, and was striking out toward the spot where he had disappeared. The boy would rise in a minute, he thought, and he could get hold of him.

But he did not rise for what seemed to Davie a very long time, and might never rise of himself. There was not a particle of risk, Davie knew, in diving to search for him, and if there had been, he would hardly have considered it in the excitement of the moment. It would have been the last of little Frank Holt if he had considered it long. The little fellow had fallen head foremost, and possibly had struck his head on one of the roots or sticks that had acc.u.mulated in the bottom of the pool, for when Davie brought him to the surface, he seemed quite insensible, and he struck out for the Ythan side of the pool. He did what he could for the boy, letting the water flow from his mouth and ears, and rubbing him rapidly for a time.

He caught sight of the other lads as they reached the opposite sh.o.r.e with the raft, and saw them running at full speed in the direction of the Grove. But he felt that he must not wait for the help they would be sure to send, and gently lifting the boy in his arms, he went with him with all speed through the wood and up the hill to the house.

A single sentence told the story, and in a minute little Frank was in a warm bath and then in a warm bed. He soon showed such signs of life as encouraged them to hope that there was not much the matter with him; and then Davie thought of the consternation which the other lads would cause when they carried the tale to the Grove.

"I doubt you'll need to go as quick as you can, Davie. Think of the poor father and mother if they should hear."

"Ay, lad, make what haste you can," said his grandfather, and neither of them were the less urgent that the child was the son of their "enemy."

So Davie went down the field again in his wet clothes, but that mattered the less as he had the river to swim, the raft being on the other side.