David Fleming's Forgiveness

by Margaret M. Robertson

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 God 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 nobody 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.”