David Fleming's Forgiveness

by Margaret M. Robertson

“If he is not a Christian, I am afraid some of the rest of us had better be looking to our little deeds. I guess he has as fair a chance as the most of us.”

He did not get rid of his thoughts when he sat down in his office and began the work of the afternoon. The remembrance of some things that he would gladly never have remembered came back to him even while he was busy with his writing, and he said to himself that if the controversy between him and Mr Fleming were to be decided according to his character, it would go hard with him, and for a moment it seemed as if the sins of his youth were to be remembered against him, and that his punishment was coming upon him after all those years. But he pulled himself up when he got thus far, saying he was growing foolish and as nervous as a woman, and then he rose and took his hat and went down to the mill.

He met his father on the way, and the old man turned back with him down the street again. There was always something the squire wanted to say to his son about business, and Jacob owed more than he acknowledged—and he acknowledged that he owed much—to the keen insight of his father. He seemed to be able to see all sides of a matter at once, and though Jacob liked to manage his affairs himself, and believed that he did so, yet there had been occasions when a few words from his father had modified his plans, and changed the character of important transactions to his profit. At the first glimpse he got of him to-day, a great longing came over him to tell him all his trouble and get the help of his judgment and advice.

It was possibly only a passing feeling which he might have acted on in any circumstances. But his father’s first querulous words made it evident that he could not act upon it to-day. It is doubtful whether any of Jacob’s friends or acquaintances, whether even his wife or his sister, would have believed in the sudden, sharp pain that smote through Jacob’s heart at the moment. He himself half believed that it was disappointment because he could not get the benefit of his father’s experience and counsel at this juncture of affairs, but it was more than that. He really loved his father and honoured him. He had been proud of his abilities and his success, and of the respect in which he was held by the community, both as a man of business and as a man. He had tried since his manhood to atone to him for the sins of his youth, and had striven as far as he knew how to be a dutiful son, and on the whole he had satisfied his father, though doubtless a son with a larger heart and higher capabilities would have satisfied him better. But they loved one another, and the squire respected his son in a way, and they had been much more to each other than people generally, knowing the two men, would have supposed possible.

When Jacob saw his father so feeble and broken that afternoon, and heard his querulous lament over this thing and that which had gone wrong in the mill, the thought came home to him that he was failing fast, and that the end could not be very far away, and the pain that smote him was real and sharp. A sense of loss such as had never touched him, though he had long known that his days were numbered, made him sick for the moment, and left a weight of despondency on him that he could not shake off. He spoke soothingly to him, and walked with him over the mill, telling him of changes that might be made, and asking him questions till he grew cheerful again, and more like his usual self; then taking possession of Silas Bean’s sleigh that was “hitched” at the mill-door, he proposed to drive him home, because the March sun had melted the new-fallen snow, leaving the street both slippery and wet, as he took care to explain, so that he need not suspect that he was more careful than usual about him.

When Elizabeth, a little startled, came to meet them at the door, he repeated all this to her in cheerful tones, but when his father went in, the look of care came back to his face as he said that he had been afraid to let him try the long walk up the hill.

“I was just thinking of going down to meet him,” said Elizabeth. “It was very kind of you to bring him home.”

“Kind!” repeated Jacob, and then he pulled his hat over his eyes and went away.

Elizabeth looked after him a moment in surprise. Even Elizabeth, who thought more kindly of him than any one, except perhaps his father, did not imagine how much the sight of the old man’s increasing weakness had moved him.

Jacob went to a prayer-meeting that night, and, as his custom was, sat on a back seat near the door. The rich man of the village was not a power in the church when one looked beyond material things—the regular subscription-list, the giving of money, the exercise of hospitality—and except in regularity of attendance, he was certainly not a power in the prayer-meeting. But regularity of attendance is something, and on nights when winter storms, or bitter cold, or domestic contingencies of any sort, kept the “regular stand-bys” at home, he could and did fill the place of one or other of them by “taking a part.” But he had no “gift” in that way, and knew it, and kept himself in the background. His neighbours knew it too, and some of them said sharp things, and some of them said slighting things of him because of this. But “the diversity of gifts” was pretty generally acknowledged, and people generally were not hard on him because of silence.