David Fleming's Forgiveness

by Margaret M. Robertson

“That is one reason against it,” said she.

“Well, get rid of that fear. I am all right. I should be worse off loafing round here with little to do, and I shall be home often. Now, Lizzie, don’t spoil the last days by fretting about what is not to be helped. I’m bound to go.”

And go he did. Elizabeth could only submit in silence. His father missed him less than she had feared he might. He was home several times during the autumn and winter, and always spoke of the time when he was coming for good, and his father was content with that.

Whether her brother Jacob was really disappointed or not at Clifton’s decision, Elizabeth could not tell. “Jacob had never counted much on any help he would be likely to get from his brother,” Mrs Jacob said. She was quite inclined to make a grievance of his going away, as she would probably have made a grievance of his staying, if he had stayed. But Jacob said little about it, and everything went on as before.

Elizabeth had the prospect of a quieter winter than even the last had been. Her father was less able to enjoy the company of his old friends than he had been. He grew weary very soon now, and liked better the quiet of the house when only Elizabeth was with him. His active habits and his interest in the business had long survived any real responsibility as to the affairs of the farm, but even these were failing him now. When the weather was bright and fine he usually once a day moved slowly down the village street, where every eye and voice greeted him respectfully, and every hand was ready to guide his feeble steps. He paid a daily visit to the store, or the tannery, or the paper-mill, as he had done for so many years, but it was from habit merely. He often came wearily home to slumber through the rest of the day.

He was querulous sometimes and exacting as to his daughter’s care, and she rarely left him for a long time. She looked forward to no social duties in the way of merry-making for the young folks of the place this year. Even Clifton’s coming home now and then did not enliven the house in this respect as it had done in former winters. Many a quiet day and long, silent evening did she pass before the new year came in, and she would have had more of them had it not been for her Cousin Betsey.

Once or twice, when her father had suffered from some slight turn of illness, Elizabeth had sent for her cousin, whose reputation as a nurse had been long established, and Betsey had come at first, at some inconvenience to herself, from a sense of duty. Afterward she came because she knew she was welcome, and because she liked to come, and all the work at home, most of which fell to her willing hands, was so planned and arranged that she might at a moment’s notice leave her mother and her sister Cynthia to their own resources and the willing and effective help of Ben. After a time, few weeks passed that she did not look in upon them.

“He may drop away most any time, mother,” said she, “and she hasn’t seen trouble enough yet to be good for much to help him or herself either, at a time like that.”

“And you are so good in sickness. And your uncle Gershom’s been a good friend to us always,” said her mother. “I’m glad you should be with him when you can, and with her too. And trouble may do Lizzie good.”

“Well, it may be. Some folks don’t seem to need so much trouble as others, at least they don’t get so much, but Cousin Lizzie isn’t going to be let alone in that respect, I don’t think. Well, I guess I’ll go along over, and I’ll get back before night if nothing happens, and if I am not, as it’s considerable drifted between here and the corner, Ben might come down after supper and see what is going on.”