_ CHAPTER TWENTY THREE. POOR GRANNIE
The Langdens had stayed ten days in Gershom. Half the time Miss Langden had passed with Miss Holt, and they had both enjoyed the visit, though not quite in the same way. Her father needed much of Elizabeth's care and attention at this time, and it would not have been possible for her to devote herself constantly to her visitor. But Miss Essie was not a difficult person to entertain--quite the contrary.
She took interest in many things. She had her journal to keep up, and many letters to write. And then Mr Clifton Holt was at home, and at her service. Mr Maxwell was a frequent visitor also; and when he came, Miss Holt felt at liberty to attend to her own affairs, knowing that they did not need her presence. Clifton was not so mindful of their old friendship, or not so well aware of their present relation, for he did not seem to think it was the thing to do to leave their visitors to entertain each other; and certainly he was never made to feel himself to be an intruder, though his sister often feared that he might be so.
Then Miss Langden had a great desire to see as much as possible of "this interesting country" as she politely called Canada; and as much of it as could be seen while driving about with Clifton in his sister's low carriage, or in the larger carriage with Clifton and Mr Maxwell, or her father, she saw, and professed herself delighted with it. She admired the farm-houses and the farmers, and the farmers' wives and daughters, and laid herself out to captivate them in a way that Clifton declared to be wonderful. To Elizabeth it seemed natural enough.
They saw a good deal of company in a quiet way. The Holts took pains to invite, at one time or another, the greater part of Mr Maxwell's friends, in order that Mr Langden and his daughter might make their acquaintance, and both in different ways won golden opinions among them.
The good people of Gershom were naturally well-disposed toward the friends of their minister, and Mr Langden was a quiet, shrewd business man, without a particle of pretence, whose company they would have enjoyed under even less favourable circumstances. He took much interest in listening to the very things they liked best to tell about--the early settlement of that part of the country, its features and resources, agricultural, mineral, commercial; the history of railroads, manufactures, and business ventures generally. If there were anything worth knowing about any of these matters that Mr Langden did not know before his visit came to an end, it was not for want of questions asked, Clifton Holt said, laughing, to his daughter. Which was quite true--and he had asked some questions and received some answers which neither Clifton nor Jacob had heard, and knew more about some things in Gershom than Clifton himself knew at that time. Some hints that there had been thoughts of business as well as pleasure in his mind in visiting Gershom had transpired, and it would have been agreeable to hear more about it, but Mr Langden was better at asking questions than at answering them, and no one knew any more about his plans when he went than when he came. But people liked him, and liked to talk about him and his visit afterward.
And his daughter was very much admired also. That is to say, she was admired in her character of visitor to Miss Elizabeth--as a pretty and amiable and beautifully-dressed young lady from "the States." But when the discussion went farther, and her possible future as a resident of Gershom was hinted at, all were not so sure about her. A minister's wife! That was another affair. Would she fit into that spot? She did not look much like the ministers' wives that the Gershom people knew most about.
"I suppose it comes as natural to her to have gloves, and boots, and bonnets to match every gown she puts on, as it does for the most of folk to wear one pair as long as they'll last," said Miss Smith from Fosbrooke--a much more primitive place than Gershom--"and she looks as if she set a value on such things, as even good folks will do till they've learned better."
"And the minister's salary isn't equal to all that, and wouldn't be, not if it was raised to eight hundred dollars, which isn't likely yet a spell," said Mrs Coleman, the new deacon's wife.
"Not unless she has money of her own. And if she has--well, ministers' folks are pretty much so, wherever they be, or whatever they've got; and such articles of luxury are not the thing for ministers' wives--not in
this wooden country."
"I know one thing," said Miss Hall, the dressmaker. "Her trunk was never packed to come here short of five hundred dollars, to say nothing of jewellery. I've handled considerable dry-goods in my time, and I know that much."
"Ah, well. I guess any one that's lived in 'the States,' and that talks as cool as a cucumber about going to travel in Europe, isn't very likely to settle down in Gershom--not and be contented," said Myrilla Green, who had lived in "the States" herself, and was supposed to know the difference.
"Ah! I guess there's as good folks as her in Gershom;" and so the talk went on.
But it was the opinion of several of the ladies interested in the discussion, that clothes, and even money, did not amount to much in some cases. The young lady had the missionary spirit, as any one who had heard her talk must see, and she was not likely to be influenced by secondary motives.
Of course the discussion of the possibility implied by all this was inevitable in the circumstances, though no one in Gershom
knew anything about the matter; and the parties most concerned could have given them little satisfactory information with regard to it. The first of the two years of probation, which Mr Langden had insisted upon, had not yet passed, and Mr Maxwell could not have renewed the question of an engagement, if he had wished to do so, or if Miss Essie had given him an opportunity, which she did not. Not a word was spoken between them that all Gershom might not have heard, though nothing could be more friendly and pleasant than their intercourse during these ten days.
But then Miss Essie was on friendly terms with every one. Nothing could be more charming than her manners, it was said. She was "not a bit stuck up," the Gershom girls acknowledged. If she had any "citified airs" they were not of the kind that are especially displeasing to country people. She was friendly with every one, and before her visit came to an end, it came into Elizabeth's mind that she was particularly pleasant in words and ways with her brother Clifton.
It had come into Clifton's mind also, and Elizabeth longed to tell him just how matters stood between Miss Langden and Mr Maxwell. But she did not feel at liberty to do so, and she could only hope that Clifton's devotion would be in this case, as it had been in others, only transitory, and that he would not suffer more than was reasonable for his folly. Of what passed between Mr Langden and Jacob Holt very little was known. They went together over the ground which Jacob had so long coveted, and Mr Langden saw the advantages which the locality offered for the purpose proposed. He would have considered the purchase of the land to be a good investment, but Jacob could not bring himself to urge the unpleasant subject of sale on Mr Fleming, now that Davie was so ill, and he knew that urging would avail nothing, but it was a great disappointment to him.
He said little about it to Mr Langden; but that gentleman knew more of the relations existing between him and Mr Fleming, and of other things besides, than Jacob fancied. They saw a good many people who were interested in the proposed enterprise, and got information which would help him to decide about future investments, he said, but he took no definite step with regard to the matter before he went away.
It had been understood that Mr Maxwell was to take his "vacation" at this time, and that he was to go with his friends through a part of their travels. But Davie Fleming was at the worst, and his mother and his grandparents were in great trouble, and the minister could not bring himself to leave them. Of course his friends were disappointed, but not unreasonably so, for they could understand his feeling, and it was agreed that if it were possible he should join them at some point in their route, and so they said good-bye lightly.
Clifton Holt went with them to the city of Montreal, where they stayed a few days, as all American tourists do. Then they sailed down the Saint Lawrence to Quebec and farther, and up the Saguenay, and he sailed with them, and doubtless added to their pleasure by the information he was able to give as to events and places in which all travellers are supposed to interest themselves.
Clifton enjoyed it, and would have enjoyed going farther with them. But on their return to Montreal, they met with a party of friends whom they found it expedient to join, and so Clifton returned to Gershom, with the intention of remaining at home for a time. His father was still feeble, and Clifton seemed inclined to take the advice which his sister had long ago given him, to seek to obtain some knowledge of the business which Jacob had hitherto been carrying on in his own name and his father's.
Elizabeth received a little note or two from Miss Langden before she left Canada, in which much admiration was expressed for her friend's "interesting country," and much pleasure in her remembrance of the days spent in Gershom; and she had another after her return to her aunt's house, where she was to pass some time. And then she did not hear from her again for a long time.
Davie got better, but not very rapidly. He remained gaunt and stooping, and had little strength, and Miss Betsey, who still considered herself responsible for his health, carried him away to the Hill; and then giving Ben a holiday after his busy summer, sent them both away to visit her cousin Abiah, who had a clearing and a saw-mill ten miles away. There were partridges there, and rumours of a bear having been seen, and there was fishing at any rate, and Davie was assured that ten days of such sport as could be got there in the woods ought to make a new man of him.
But Betsey had another reason for sending him away. On the day of her visit, Mrs Fleming, who had acknowledged herself to be weak and weary from anxiety and watching, knew herself to be ill; not very ill, however. She had often, in her younger days, kept about the house, and done all her work when she felt far worse than she did now, she said. But she could not "keep about" now, and that was the difference. Davie would be well away, for he would fret about his grandmother, and that would do neither of them any good.
Davie's visit to the woods did not make a new man of him; but it did him good, and he needed all his strength and courage when he came home again, for grannie, who had been "not just very well" when he went away, was no better when he returned.
"And they never told me, grannie," said he, indignantly.
"There was nothing to tell, my laddie, and you are better for going. And now you must help Katie to cheer your grandfather, and keep your brothers at their work."
And Davie saw that his grandfather needed to be cheered. He seemed to have grown a very old man during the last few months, he thought. He had gone about the farm, and kept the boys at their work, and had helped sometimes, Katie said, while Davie was away. But now he gave all that up to him. Mark Varney came now and then when there was anything extra to be done; and though Davie was not so strong as before his illness, they were as well on with their fall work as the neighbours generally.
But except with a word of advice, or an answer to questions, which Davie was pertinacious in asking, as to what was to be done, and what left undone, the old man took little part in what had filled his life before. He went about the house and barns, with his head bowed, and his hands clasped behind him, making Katie wild with the wistful, helpless longing of his face.
"It is no good for grannie to see you so downcast, grandfather. Courage is what is needed more than anything in a time of sickness, Betsey says. And, grandfather, grannie is no' so very ill."
"Is she no', think you, Katie? She says it, but oh, my heart fails me."
"She says it, and I think she is right. And, grandfather, she often says, you ken that the Lord is ay kind."
"Ay, lass! but His kindest touch cuts sore whiles. And if He were to deal with me after my sins--"
"But, grandfather; He never does, and He hurts to heal--as I have heard you say yourself."
"Ay. I have said it with my lips, but I doubt I was carrying a sore and angry heart whiles, when I was putting the folk in mind. And, oh, Katie, lassie, He is far awa'. He has hidden His face from me."
"But only for a moment, grandfather; don't you mind, 'For a small moment have I forsaken thee, but with great mercies will I visit thee'? And grannie is no' so very ill."
She drew him gently from the room where grannie was slumbering, so that she need not be disturbed. It seemed to her the strangest thing that her grandfather should speak to her in this way, and that she should have courage to answer him. He sat down on a seat by the door, and leaned his chin on the hand that rested on his staff, and looked away over Ythan fields to the hills beyond. But whether he saw them or not was doubtful, for his eyes were dazed and heavy with trouble, and Katie could not bear to see him so.
"She is not so very ill," she repeated. "She is sometimes better and sometimes worse, but she has no thought that she is going to die. She will be better soon."
"She is a good ten years younger than I am. I should go first by rights. But she has had much to weary her, and she would doubtless be glad to rest."
"No, grandfather, she would not. She is glad at the thought that she will be spared a little while for--all our sakes."
"Who is that coming down the road? It is the minister, I think, and Betsey Holt."
The old man rose hastily.
"I'll awa' up the brae," said he. "No, it is no disrespect to the minister, but I canna hear his words to-day."
And up the hill he went to the pasture-bars, and through the pasture "to Pine-tree Hollow," Katie thought, as her eyes followed him anxiously.
"But He may show him His face, up yonder," said Katie, with tears; "and I am sure, and so is Miss Betsey, that she is no' so very ill."
Grannie had never thought herself very ill. Even when all her days were spent in bed, she only called herself weary at first. There had been a very warm week about that time, and she had suffered from the heat, and had kept herself quiet. But she did not think herself ill, and certainly Katie did not think it. For though she was not strong, she did not suffer much, except that she was feverish and restless now and then, and she was always sweet and bright and easily pleased, and not at all like the sick people that Katie had seen. It was a pleasure to be with her, to wait on her, and to listen to her. For there were times when she had much to say, soothing her own restlessness with happy talk of many things which Katie liked to hear.
She told her about her father--so grave and kind and trustworthy--and about Hughie, who was so good and clever, but who had "gone wrong," and been lost to them, leaving their life so dreary. And once or twice she spoke of one over whom she had kept the silence of many a year. It was Katie's own name she heard--but it was of another "bonnie Katie" that her grandmother murmured so fondly, one who had been beguiled--who had sinned and suffered, and died long ago. But she always spoke brokenly of her when she was restless and feverish, and Katie, though she would have liked to hear more, strove always to turn her thoughts away.
But almost always her talk was happy and bright. In those days Katie heard more of her grandmother's youthful days than she had ever heard before. She spoke about her home, and her brothers and sisters, and about "the gowany braes" and "the silver Ythan," and the songs they used to sing, before it had ever come into her mind that there was trouble and care before her. She even tried to sing again, in her faint sweet voice, some of the dear old songs, laughing softly at her own foolishness.
But she never once spoke as though she thought she might not recover; even when she gave Katie words of counsel or caution, it was just in the way she used to do when they were going about their work together, and the girl was sure that she would soon be well again, and that that was Miss Betsey's thought too.
But seeing her as she stood looking down on her grandmother's sleeping face that morning, Katie was not so sure of what Miss Betsey's thoughts might be. Still, her grandmother's eyes opened and she smiled her old cheerful smile, as she said she was glad to see them.
"You must tell grandfather that the minister is come, Katie," said she.
Mr Maxwell had seen Mr Fleming stepping up the brae, and he knew well that no words of his could comfort him. He could only hope as Katie did, that his Lord and Master might show him His face in the solitude he sought.
He had few words to say to Mrs Fleming, for she seemed inclined to slumber through the afternoon.
"I wish you could stay with us to-night, Miss Betsey," said Katie's mother. "I am afraid grandmother is not so well."
"There is not much difference either way, I think. I would be glad to stay, but Uncle Gershom has had another bad turn, and I promised cousin Lizzie I would stay with her to-night. But I will come over to-morrow morning before I go home if I can get away."
"Do you think her very ill?" asked Mr Maxwell as they walked down the hill together.
"I have not thought her very ill. I don't know that she is worse to-day, but she is certainly no better. I suppose it depends on whether her strength holds out. She is an old woman now."
These were anxious days to Katie; but her grandfather had more of her thoughts than her grandmother.
"And it is a wonder to me that he should be so broken down, a good man like him, even by such sore trouble. Even the loss of grannie would be but for a few days, and he has the Lord Himself in the midst of it all."
But this was a mistake on Katie's part. For all this time, strangely and sadly enough, he was ringing the changes on his old complaint: "Thou art a God that hidest Thyself." He had not the Lord Himself in those days. Even when he pleaded, as he did day and night, for Davie's life, it was the cry of despair that came out of his sore trouble, rather than the "prayer of faith" to which the promise of healing to the sick is given.
And as he bowed himself down beneath the pines, it was the same. He was in a maze of perplexity and fear. Had he been sinning against God all this time? Had he been hating not the sin, but the sinner? Had it been beneath God's hand that he had been refusing to bow? And now was God leaving him to hardness of heart?
For he was utterly broken and spent, and in the weakness of mind which exhaustion of body caused, he had almost lost the power to discriminate or reason. He could not command his thoughts. The wind moaned in the pines above him, and the sunshine came and went, flickering and fading, and brightening again, and with the monotonous sound and the ever-changing light, there came voices and visions, and he seemed to listen as in a dream:
"It was God's will, grandfather. God kens, and it was His will. I would fain hear you say once that you have forgiven your enemy."
His enemy! Was Jacob Holt his enemy? And if he were, could even an enemy bring evil on him or his without permission? What had it all come to--the long pain, the persistent shrinking from this man, whom God alone might judge? Had he been hating him all this time--bringing leanness to his own soul, and darkness, and all the evil that hatred must ever bring? And where was it all to end? And what must he do, now that his sin had found him out?
For his time was short, and the end near. And then his thoughts wandered away to the old squire lying on his death-bed--the man who had declared himself willing to stand on the same platform with old David Fleming, when his time should come to be judged. And that time was close at hand now, and his own time could not be far away, and then he must stand face to face with Him whose last words were, "Father, forgive them!"--face to face with Him who had said, "Love your enemies," "Forgive, and it shall be forgiven unto you."
Over and over the same round his thoughts went, till, worn out with anxiety and watching, and lulled unconsciously by the soft "sough" of the wind in the pines, he fell asleep. Pine-tree Hollow was all in shadow when he awoke, but when he had gone a few steps, he saw the sunlight lying on the high hills to the east. His first thoughts were of what might have been happening at home while he slept, and he quickened his steps.
And as he walked he was conscious that his sleep had done him good. He was stronger and calmer, and could command his thoughts again, and he hurried eagerly on. The sight of Katie passing quietly out and in to the dairy quieted him still more. It must be well with grannie or Katie would not be there.
"Well, my lassie?"
"Yes. Grannie has been sleeping, but she is awake now, and has been asking for you. Mother is with her now."
He went into the house slowly and quietly. Katie's mother was sitting by the bed, with her sad eyes fastened on the face of the grandmother, who seemed to have fallen into slumber again.
"She has been wandering a little, I think," said Mrs James.
"Wandering?" repeated Mr Fleming drearily.
Grannie opened her eyes, and looked first at one and then at the other.
"No, my dear, it wasna that I was wandering. I was dreaming, I think--a strange grand dream--of a far country. And--Dawvid--I saw our Katie there, and her little bairn--and I saw our Hughie, and James, and many another. But I saw them first and best; and we have no cause to fear."
Even as she spoke her eyes closed again. The old man sat down with a sinking heart. Did not these sound like "last words?" Had she not got a first glimpse of the "far country" to which she was hastening? How vain to struggle against God, he thought. He never uttered a word. His daughter-in-law looked at him with compassionate eyes that he could hardly bear. Katie came in with a glass of milk in her hand.
"She is not asleep again, is she? Well, I must waken her, because she must take something. The sleeping is good for her, but she must take something to keep up her strength. Grannie dear, take this," and she raised her gently.
She opened her eyes and smiled.
"Oh, ay! I'll take it. And I could take a bit of bread, I think."
"Well, mother will bring a bit." But Katie was greatly surprised.
"I think I'm better, if I were only stronger a bit," said grannie.
Over Katie's bright face Mr Fleming saw the grave face of her mother, and though he knew that it was her way rather to fear than to hope, his heart sank.
"I'll soon be better, I think. Are you there, Dawvid? You ken I couldna go and stand before the Lord and tell Him that you hadna forgiven your enemy."
"She is wandering," whispered Katie's mother.
"No; I'm no wandering, but whiles I feel--as if I were slipping awa'-- and you'll give me your hand, Dawvid, and that will keep me back. Ay. That will do," and her eyes closed again.
Katie followed her mother from the room.
"It is not far away now."
"Mother, don't say it. She is not going to die. Oh, mother! mother! Surely God is not going to take her from us yet. No. I'm not going to cry; I havena time," said Katie. "And, mother, she says it herself, and I don't think she is going to die. Oh, if Miss Betsey could have been here to-night!"
Katie resolutely put away her tears and her fears, and prepared for a night of watching. First, she made her mother lie down with a warm wrapper on her, so that she might be ready to come at any moment. Then she sent the bairns to their beds, and wished that Davie would come home. Then she remembered, with a pang of remorse, that her grandfather had not had his supper, and she got his accustomed bowl of bread and milk, and carried it into the room. Neither of them had moved, and stooping and listening, it seemed to Katie that her grandmother was sleeping naturally and sweetly. Her grandfather shook his head at the sight of the food.
"You must take it, grandfather," said Katie in a whisper.
She put the bowl on a chair, and knelt down beside him.
"You need not move," she said softly, and she fed him as he had often fed her when she was a little child.
"My good Katie!" said he, but it would not have been well for him to try to say more.
Davie came in before the supper was over. Katie nodded cheerfully, but did not speak till they were both in the kitchen.
"Well?" said Davie.
"She is no worse. I think she seems better. She has eaten a wee bit of bread, but mother says you cannot always tell by that. We must just wait."
It was a long and anxious night to these two. It was well that grannie should sleep, but in her utter weakness it was also necessary that she should have nourishment often. She had grown sick of the sight of everything in the way of food, and she had had her choice of whatever the best housewives of Gershom could supply. For days she had only taken a little milk, and to-night she seemed to take it with relish. In a little she woke and spoke:
"Are you no' coming to your bed, Dawvid? It is time surely."
Her clasp of his hand loosened as Katie offered the milk to her lips. The old man rose, but he had been sitting in an uneasy posture, and tottered as he moved to the door.
"Grandfather," said Davie, "lie down on the other side. It will be better for you and grannie too. Come grandfather. Katie, lay the pillow straight."
"But I might disturb her--and I might fall asleep."
But he yielded.
"She would like it, grandfather, and we can waken you if you fall asleep."
So the two old people slumbered together, and Katie had to steal away to weep a few tears in the dark while her brother watched beside them, and they did not dare to ask themselves whether they hoped or feared in the stillness that fell on them.
"They say this is the old squire's last night," whispered Davie at last. "I saw Ben coming out as I passed."
"Maybe no," said Katie, who was determined to be hopeful to-night. "They have said that before. Maybe he'll win through this time too."
"Ay. But he is an old man, and it must come soon."
Now and then they exchanged a word or two, and Katie put the cup to her grandmother's lips, and the night wore on. Whether their grandfather slept or not they could not tell, but he made no movement that could disturb her, and he still held her hand, to keep her from "slipping away," as she had said.
Once the mother came in and looked, but she only said she was sleeping quietly, and they made her lie down again. Toward morning Katie brought a quilt and a pillow, and Davie lay down on the floor beside the bed, and Katie prayed and waited for the dawn. _