David Fleming's Forgiveness Part 3

"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-fas.h.i.+oned 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 gra.s.s. 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 b.u.t.ter-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 la.s.sie, 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 pa.s.sed 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 G.o.d's justice in question--G.o.d that lets Jacob Holt go about in His suns.h.i.+ne, 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?"