_ CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR. POOR OLD SQUIRE
Betsey Holt had not found the old squire so low as she expected to find him when she went to his house after leaving Mr Fleming's, and seeing him comfortable, and apparently no weaker than she had seen him before, she hesitated as to what she ought to do.
"There will be nights when you will need me more cousin," said she, "and I think--"
But Elizabeth's face made her pause.
"Dear cousin, stay with me to-night. No, I do not think he is going to die to-night, though Dr Wainwright thought it could not be long. But do stay with me, cousin. I seem to be alone and good for nothing."
"You are tired, and no wonder. You look sick. Yes, I'll stay. I think, on the whole, I'd better."
Betsey did not say that it was Mrs Fleming she had been thinking of when she hesitated. She took off her bonnet and prepared to stay.
"I made up my mind to be here to-night as soon as I heard that your father wasn't well. I thought once I'd go home and come back after sundown, but it doesn't matter about going. They'll know why I stay, and I guess likely Ben will come along over after milking is done."
"Is there no one we could get to help your mother and Cynthia for a few days? I would send anywhere for help to them if you could only stay with me till--"
"Oh, I guess they'll get along, and Hepsey Bean is near by. If they get into a fix they can send for her. I'll stay anyway. Isn't your brother Clifton round?"
"No, he went to the city yesterday; he left before we thought my father worse. I hope he will be home to-morrow."
"Well, I hope he will, and I guess he'd better stay a spell next time he comes."
Elizabeth had been up for the night, and after a visit to her father, who was still sleeping quietly, Betsey persuaded her to go and lie down, promising to call her at the turn of the night, or sooner if there should be any change. Elizabeth was glad to go, for she was very tired.
"I feel so safe in leaving him with you, cousin," said Elizabeth, the tears starting in her eyes. "You must not think that I am always so-- downhearted, but I feel as if I might give way--as if I might lay a little of my burden on you, and--"
"And so you may, with no
if about it, only there is a better place to lay it, as you don't need me to tell you by this time. She thinks she knows what trouble is, and perhaps she does," continued Betsey as she followed Elizabeth with her thoughts. "For trouble is just as folks take it, and she has been pretty tenderly dealt with hitherto. But I guess she is not one that trouble can do any real harm to. The Lord sees it all, and she is in His hand, and I needn't worry about her. She'll be kept safe through it all."
But she gave a good many thoughts to Elizabeth's possible troubles as she sat there alone. Before the "turn of the night" Elizabeth came down rested and refreshed, she said. Jacob came in and sat a while, but scarcely a word was spoken. He offered to stay, but it was not necessary, his sister said.
"No! When is Clifton coming back?" asked he.
"To-morrow, I hope," said Elizabeth.
"He must not go away again."
"No. Not for a time."
Elizabeth's rest and refreshment "did not seem to amount to much," Betsey thought as she watched her sitting in the firelight after Jacob went away. Not many people had ever seen on Elizabeth's face the look it wore now. She seemed to have forgotten that there was any one to see. Except that she raised her head now and then to listen for sounds in her father's room, she sat perfectly motionless, "limp and hopeless," Betsey said to herself, and after a little she said aloud:
"Cousin Lizzie, you are not going to be 'swallowed up of overmuch sorrow,' are you? That would be rebellion, and there is no deeper deep of misery to a Christian than that."
Elizabeth looked up startled.
"I don't think I rebel, but--"
"You have been expecting this for a good while. Your father is a very old man now, Lizzie."
"He is all I have got."
"You said that to me before, but that is not so. He isn't all you've got by many."
"He is the only one who has needed me ever. When he is gone, there will not be one left in the world who might not do without me as well as not, though perhaps there are one or two who might not think so for a little while."
"Well, that may be said of most folks, I guess, but of you with less truth than of most."
Elizabeth made a movement of dissent.
"You are young enough to make friends, and it is easy for you to make them. I don't believe anybody ever saw your face who didn't want to see it again. You want to do good in the world, and you have the means and the natural gifts for doing it, and that is happiness."
Elizabeth raised herself up and looked at her in amazement.
"How you talk, Cousin Betsey!" said she.
"Well, that's the way I feel about it. No matter what trouble you may be going through now, there is the other side, and when you get there you'll find good work to do, because you have the heart to do it. And you'll get your wages--rest, and a quiet mind."
Elizabeth's eyes were on the red embers again, but the expression of her face had changed a little. Betsey moved so that her own face would be in the shadow, and then she went on:
"You may think it an unnatural thing for me to say, cousin, but I feel as if there would be more gone from my life than from yours, when Uncle Gershom goes. More in comparison with what will be left."
Elizabeth said nothing to this.
"Do you remember the two or three elms there are left on the side of the hill, just beyond the Scott school-house? There were a great many more there once, and we used to call it Elm Grove in old times. There are only three or four left that are not dying. I hear the children calling it the grove still. The young trees are growing up fast round them, not elms, many of them but wild cherry-trees, and poplars, and a few spruces but the poor old elms seem to be all the more alone because of the second growth. When your father and my mother are gone, there won't be a great many left to me. I suppose I shall find something to do, however, till my time comes."
There was a long silence after that. Betsey went once or twice into the sick-room, but the old man slept peacefully.
"It will not be to-night," said she softly. Then she sat down again.
"Cousin," said she gravely in a little, "you are not worrying about your father, as though it may--not be well with him now?"
Elizabeth looked at her startled.
Betsey went on:
"I have been exercised about him considerably myself, one time and another. I have felt as if I must have him to come out and acknowledge himself on the Lord's side, confess Him before men, by openly uniting himself with the Church. But he has been hindered. I do not know where has been the stumbling-block altogether. But the Lord knows, and actions speak louder than words. He has lived a Christian life since ever I can remember. And it is by their fruits ye shall know them."
Elizabeth's face had fallen on her hands again, and her tears were falling fast, but she had no words with which to answer her.
"A good many years ago, at communion seasons, I used to grieve over him more than a little. I couldn't bear to have him miss the privilege-- deprive himself of the privilege of remembering the Lord in the way He appointed. He didn't consider himself worthy, he told me once, when I said a word to him about it--at the time my father died that was.
"I tell you, Lizzie, it made me feel poor and mean enough--a hypocrite, almost, when I heard him say it. Not that any one can be worthy, in one sense. But out Lord said, 'Except ye be converted and become as little children,' and he had the heart of a little child about some things, more than any one I ever knew.
"Cousin, if I were to tell you--but I couldn't begin to tell you, all he has done for us--for father and the boys when they were in trouble, and for me. And the way he did it, as though it was his business, that he needn't be thanked for. The patience he showed, and the gentleness-- yes, and the strength and firmness, when these were needed. I should have fallen down under my burden in those days, if it hadn't been for Uncle Gershom. I have often wondered, Lizzie, if you knew just what a man your father was."
Elizabeth turned her tearful face, smiling now, toward her cousin, but she said nothing.
"I never could tell you--never! My father, for a good while, wasn't easy to get along with. Well, he wasn't himself all the time, and if it hadn't been for Uncle Gershom--
"But there--I mustn't talk about it, not to-night," she said, rising and walking about the room. "It kind of puts me off the balance to go back to those days, and I'd better let it alone to-night."
"Some time you will tell me," said Elizabeth.
"Well, I don't promise. But if I could tell you just how like the face of an angel your father's face has been to me many and many a time."
"I think I know," said Elizabeth.
"And I wish we were all as fit for heavenly places as he is. I don't deny that I should have been glad for the sake of the cause, if he could have seen his way clear to unite with the Church before he went--to sit down at the Lord's table here on earth, before he goes to sit down at it above, and I wish he might even yet."
"I'll tell you what I would like. If he should revive a little, as he may, and if the minister had no objections, a few might come in, mother and Cynthia, and old Davie Fleming, and two or three others, and take the cup and the bread with him, not that it would make any real difference--"
"Betsey," said the squire's voice from the other room.
They were both with pale faces at his bedside in a moment.
"Did I hear Betsey's voice? Or did you only say she was coming, Lizzie? Oh, she is here, is she? Well, I've got something to say to Betsey. It isn't best to put off these things too long."
Poor old squire! He had said almost the same words every time he had seen Betsey for the last year or two, and it never occurred to either of them that he would not forget the words as soon as they were uttered. After taking some nourishment he was much revived and strengthened.
"Yes, I want to speak to Betsey about some business. Jacob isn't here, is he? Because this is between Betsey and me. It was all over and done with before Jacob knew anything about my business, and he needn't know now. Go up-stairs, Lizzie, to the store-room where the old bureau is, and your mother's little wheel, and you'll find what I want--the old saddle-bag--in the left-hand, deep drawer. There are papers in it; but you'd better bring the bag down."
Elizabeth waited a moment, thinking he might drop asleep again, but he did not.
"I feel rested. It won't hurt me, Lizzie. Better go now, and have it over with--"
Elizabeth looked at her cousin.
"You'd better go, I guess. It will satisfy him, even if he cannot do anything about it."
Elizabeth returned almost immediately, and spent a little time brushing the dirt from the old bag, which she remembered as always taken by her father on his journeys on horseback long ago, though she had not seen it for years.
"I brought it from Massachusetts with me well-nigh on fifty year ago," said the old man, laying his hand on it. "Where are my glasses? But I guess you'll find what I want, Lizzie."
There was no lock to be opened. There were a number of folded papers, laid loosely in the compartments. They were arranged with some order, however, and Elizabeth read the few words written on the outside of each as she lifted them out. They were a strange medley, notes of hand, receipted accounts, the certificate of the squire's first marriage, his wife's letter of dismissal from the Massachusetts church, dated, as the squire said, "well-nigh on fifty year ago." Then there was a bundle of papers marked "Brother Reuben."
"That is it. I ought to look them all over myself. But you'll have to do it, Lizzie."
There were several acknowledgments of money received, and notes of hand to a large amount that had passed between the brothers. On one was written, "Paid for my Joe," and a date; on another, "Lent to my son. Parley, at the time he went west," and several more of the same kind. The dates ran over many years, and the father had made himself responsible for all to the squire.
"He was very independent, was my brother Reuben, always," said the squire. "He wanted to mortgage his place to me, but I wouldn't have it. I thought his notes good enough; more easily dealt with anyway than a mortgage. He would have paid every cent if he could, and if he had it would have all gone into the bank for the benefit of his womenfolk, who have had a hard time mostly."
He seemed to have forgotten Betsey's presence, for he went on:
"I want you to give them to Betsey. Jacob needn't hear of them. He might think he had some claim on them, but he hasn't a mite. Betsey shall have the satisfaction of knowing that at no time to come they can be claimed--the value of them, I mean. Betsey knew about them, I guess, though her father didn't mean she should. She is a good woman, Betsey, if ever there was one, and she has had her share of trouble."
"Father, I will burn them now; that will be best," said Elizabeth, eagerly.
"And not say anything to Betsey? But she knows there is something due, and it might worry her, thinking that some time or other it might be claimed. If you burn them I think you should let her see you do it."
"Yes, father; Betsey is here, and we shall burn them together."
"Well, that is pretty much all, I guess; and I'm tired now. Look out the rest of them when you have time, and you'll know what to burn. There is nothing there that Jacob or Clifton has anything to do with. I often have been sorry that I didn't just take old Mr Fleming's note, instead of the mortgage. It might have saved some hard feelings. There, that's all. I feel better, I'll try and sleep again."
They sat beside him till he fell asleep, and then they moved into the other room, Elizabeth carrying the bag with her.
"Cousin Lizzie," said Betsey, "wait a minute. I don't more than half believe it's lawful to burn these notes and things."
"It is quite lawful. My father told me to burn them."
"But wait. Do you know that folks are beginning to say that your brother Jacob is hard up, that he is pressed for money?"
"Yes, he told me so himself. He said the difficulty was only temporary, and that--that I should hear more about it soon."
"They say it's pretty bad, and you know everything has been mixed up in the business, and your share might have to go with the rest. There is a good deal represented by the papers you have in your hands, cousin."
"I see what you mean. All the more this must be made safe."
She rose, and going toward the hearth, dropped the papers one by one into the fire.
"Now, Cousin Betsey, that is done with. Forget all about it. We will never speak of this again."
Elizabeth took the old bag to carry it away. Several papers fell from the other side as she moved it. She looked at each one as she put it in the bag again, reading aloud what was written on each. One was a sealed letter, thick and folded as letters used to be before envelopes were in use. It was addressed to her father in very beautiful handwriting which she had seen somewhere before. She held it before her cousin that she might see it.
"It is Hughie Fleming's writing! I know it well," said Betsey.
"It looks as if it had never been opened," Elizabeth said, turning it over and over in her hand. "How strange! My father must surely have read it?"
"Who knows? It is possible he never did."
"I wonder if I should keep it and speak to him about it?"
Betsey shook her head.
"It isn't likely he'd remember it, and it might trouble him. It is about that old trouble likely."
"Perhaps I should drop it into the embers?"
"It is hard to say. I should hate to know from it anything that would make me think less of poor Hugh."
"But it may be quite different. Ought I to open it? My father gave all the papers to me to examine. I wonder if I should open it, cousin?"
Miss Betsey took the letter in her hand and looked at it for a minute or two.
"It looks like a message from the dead," said she.
"Open it, cousin. You remember him and his trouble better than I can. Open it, and if there is nothing in it that his friends would be glad to know, you shall burn it without a word."
Betsey still hesitated.
"It comes from the dead," said she, but she opened it at last, cutting round the large seal with a pair of scissors. But their hesitation as to what they ought to do was not over. There was an inclosure addressed to David Fleming, at which Betsey looked as doubtfully as ever, and then she gave it to Elizabeth. There were only a few words in the first letter:
"Honoured Sir:--I write to confess the sin I sinned against you, though you must know it already. I ask your forgiveness, and I send this money as the first payment of what I owe you, and if I live, full restitution shall be made. If my father will read a letter of mine, will you take the trouble to give him the lines I send with this?"
And then was signed the name of Hugh Fleming. It was only a hint of the sad story they knew something of before. There was an American bank bill for a small sum, and the inclosure to his father, and that was all.
"Poor Hughie! poor dear, bonnie laddie!" said Betsey softly. "Can it be possible that your father never opened or read this? It was written within a week of the poor boy's death," added she, looking at the date on the letter.
"My father never could have opened it or Mr Fleming would have had this," said Elizabeth, holding up the inclosed note, "I wonder how it could have happened that it was overlooked."
She never knew, nor did any one. She tried next day to say something to her father about it, but she could not make him understand. He said nothing in reply that had any reference to the letter, or to poor Hugh, or to his father. It must have been, by some unhappy chance, overlooked and placed with other papers in the old saddle-bag, where it had lain all these years.
"And now what shall we do about this?" asked Elizabeth, still holding the other letter in her hand.
It was a single small leaf folded like a letter and one edge slipped in as though it was to have been sealed or fastened with a wafer. But it was open.
"I don't know, the least in the world," said Betsey, much moved. "It might hold a medicine for the old man over there, but it might also be poison."
"But since he wrote to my father of confession and restitution, we may hope that there is a confession in this also."
"Yes, there is something in that. But it was a great while ago now, and all the old misery would come back again. Not that he has ever forgotten it. And now I fear there is more trouble before him."
They were greatly at a loss what to do.
"If we could consult some one."
"It would not help much. As it is not sealed you might just look at it. If there is comfort in it the poor old father ought to have it. There is no better time to give it."
Elizabeth opened it with trembling fingers.
"I hope it is not wrong."
"It would be too great a risk either to give it or to withhold it without having known its nature. It was written so long ago, and it would be terrible to have sorrow added to sorrow now."
A single glance was enough.
"Father, I have sinned against heaven and in thy sight."
Elizabeth read no more. That was enough. She burst into sudden weeping.
"And he never saw his father again."
"No. And the father never saw the words his son had written," said Betsey, scarcely less moved.
Daylight was coming in by this time and there was the sound of footsteps at the door. Then Jacob's voice was heard, and remembering that the squire had said that the papers were for Elizabeth's eyes alone, Betsey lifted the bag from the table and carried it into the sick-room. Mr Maxwell was with Jacob, and other people were waiting to hear how the night had been passed.
"He has had a good night, and is still sleeping quietly," said Elizabeth.
"And he seemed quite revived when he was awake last," Betsey added, as she came out of his room.
"Mr Maxwell, Jacob," said Elizabeth, "the strangest thing has happened. Jacob, look at this," and she put into his hand the letter with the red seal on it, on which his eyes had been fixed since ever he came in.
He grew pale when he saw his father's name in the once familiar handwriting, and when he saw the money, and read the words to his father, written on the other side, he sat down suddenly without a word. If Elizabeth had thought a moment, she might have hesitated about giving it to him while others were looking on. Betsey was glad that she had done it. Elizabeth took the letter which Jacob had laid down and gave it to Mr Maxwell:
"You have heard of Hugh Fleming, the lad who went wrong. Betsey can tell you more than I can. I found the letter among some old papers of my father's. I think he cannot have read it, for the seal was not broken. There must have been some mistake."
Mr Maxwell read it in silence.
"But it is this that has troubled us. A letter from Hugh to his father. Think of it, Jacob. After all these years!"
Yes. After all these years! "Be sure your sin will find you out." That is what Jacob was saying to himself. Even Betsey could have found it in her heart to pity the misery seen in his face.
"He can't be so cold-blooded as people suppose," thought she.
"Should it be given to his father at once? I think the worst part of the trouble to him has been the thought that his son was cut off so suddenly--that he died unrepenting."
Mr Maxwell looked at the folded paper and then at Jacob.
"It may trouble the old man, but I do not think we have a right to withhold it."
Elizabeth was about to say that she had looked at the note, but Betsey interrupted her:
"He was sorry for his sin--whatever it was. His written words to Uncle Gershom prove that. And if there is in it any kind of sorrow, or any proof that others were more guilty than he, it might comfort the old man."
"Will you take it to him by and by, Mr Maxwell?" said Elizabeth.
"If I am the best person to take it. But he has never spoken to me of his son."
"He has never spoken a word to any one but the mother. And I feel that there is comfort to him in this little letter, and you will be glad to carry him comfort, I know."
"Thank you. Well, I will take it at once. Some one will be up at this early hour with the grandmother. I will go now."
Elizabeth put the folded paper in her father's letter with the money and gave it to him.
"I will go too," said Jacob, rising.
"Had you better?"
Both Elizabeth and Betsey spoke these words with a little excitement. He turned a strange look from one to the other. Whether it was of pain or anger, neither knew, and he went out with the minister. Elizabeth watching, saw them turn into the path that led a near way to the North Gore road.
"Oh, Betsey! I hope we have done right. God comfort the poor father by these words," cried Elizabeth, with a sudden rush of tears.
"Amen!" said Betsey, solemnly. _