David Fleming's Forgiveness

by Margaret M. Robertson

“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. He put on his dry coat over his wet garments, and no one seemed to notice as he entered the Grove. No rumour of the accident had as yet spread through the crowd, and Davie spoke only to Miss Elizabeth, as he met her on the way home with her father. Happily the father and mother knew nothing of the matter, till by and by the boy, wrapped in one of Mrs Fleming’s best blankets, was carried and set with his bundle of wet clothes in the hall. It was his uncle Clifton who took him home, and all that he could tell about the matter was that he had fallen into the Black Pool, and somebody had taken him out.

Dan Green kept his own counsel, running straight home and putting himself to bed. After his first sleep, however, he woke in such a fright that he could keep the tale no longer, but told it to his mother with many sobs and tears. His mother soothed and comforted him, believing that he had been startled out of a troubled dream. But the next day the story was told in Gershom at least a thousand times; and when Davie went into the post-office for his grandfather’s weekly paper, he heard, with mingled amazement and disgust, extravagant praises of his courage in saving the boy’s life.

“Courage? Nonsense! Risk? Stuff!” He never bathed in Black Pool that he did not dive in at one side and come out at the other. Why, his little brother could do that. There was no more danger for them than for a musk-rat, and Davie hurried away to escape more words about it, and to avoid meeting Mr Maxwell and his friends, who were coming down the street. In his haste he nearly stumbled over Jacob Holt, who held him fast, and that was worse than all the rest. For Jacob could not utter a word, but choked and mumbled and shook his hand a great many times, and when David fairly got away, he vowed that he should not be seen at the post-office again for a while, and he was not, but it was for a better reason than he gave to himself then.

For Davie went about all next day with a heavy weight upon him, and a dull aching at his bones, as new as it was painful. He refused his dinner, and grew sick at the sight of his supper; and tossed, and turned, and muttered all night upon his bed, longing for the day. But the slow-coming light made him wish for the darkness again, for it dazzled his heavy eyes, and put strange shapes on the most familiar objects, and set them all in motion in the oddest way. A queer sort of light it seemed to be, for though he closed his eyes he did not shut it out, and the changes on things and the odd movements seemed to be going on still within the lids.

So in a little he rose and dressed, and roused his brothers to bring the cows into the yard, meaning to help as usual with the milking. But the milking was done and the breakfast over, and worship, and no one had seen Davie. He was lying tossing and muttering on the hay in the big barn, and there at last, in the course of his morning’s work, his grandfather found him. He turned a dull, dazed look upon him as he raised himself up, but he did not speak.

“Are you no’ well, Davie? Why did you no’ come to your breakfast?”

“I’m coming,” said Davie, but he did not move.

His grandfather touched his burning hand and his heart sank.

“Come awa’ to your grandmother.”