The Inglises Part 13

"You are very kind. You may be quite sure we shall apply to you if it be necessary. Just now it is not; and when we have had time to consider our plans, we shall write to you--if you cannot come."

Mrs Inglis paused; and, perhaps, becoming conscious that she had spoken with unnecessary decision, she added, gently:

"You are very kind. I believe you are a true friend, and that you will do what you can to enable us to help ourselves. That will be the best-- the only way to aid us effectually. With my two brave boys and G.o.d's blessing, I don't think I need fear."

She spoke, looking, with a smile, at her sons, who were leaning over her chair. Somehow her smile moved Mr Oswald more than her tears could have done, and he said nothing for a minute or two. There was nothing clearer than that she did not intend to lay the burden of her cares on him or anyone. But what could a delicate woman, unused to battle with the world, do to keep the wolf from the door, let her courage be ever so high?

"Will you promise me one thing?" said he, rising to prepare to go.

"Will you promise me to let me know how I can help you--when your plans are made--either by advice or by money? I have a right. Your husband was my relative as well as my friend."

"I promise faithfully you shall be the first person to whom I shall apply in any strait," said Mrs Inglis, rising also, and offering her hand.

"And what did your husband think of my proposal to take his son into my office?"

"He thought well of it, as he wrote to you. But nothing has been said about it yet. Can you give us a little time still? and I will write.

Believe me, I am very grateful for your kindness."

"If you will only give me an opportunity to be kind. Certainly, I can wait. A month hence will be time enough to decide."

And then, when he had bidden them all good-bye, he went away.

"What did he mean by a situation, mamma?" asked Jem. "Is it for Davie?

Did papa know?"

But Mrs Inglis could enter into no particulars that night. She had kept up to the end of her strength.

"I am very tired. I will tell you all about it another day. We must have patience, and do nothing rashly. The way will open before us. I am not afraid."

All the sadness of the next few weeks need not be told. They who have suffered the same loss, and lived through the first sorrowful days of bereavement, will know how it was with the mother and her children, and they who have not could never be made to understand. Anxieties as to the future could not but press on the heart of the mother, but they could scarcely be said to deepen her sadness. She was not really afraid. She knew they would not be forsaken--that their father's G.o.d would have them in His keeping. But the thought of parting from them-- of sending any of them away--was very hard to bear.

If she could have seen it possible to stay in Gourlay, she would have had fewer misgivings; but there was nothing in Gourlay she could do to help to keep her children together. There was no room in so small a place for any but the public schools, long established, and, at present, prosperous; and teaching seemed the only thing in which she could engage with even moderate hopes of success.

If "a mult.i.tude of counsellors" could have helped her, she would have been helped. Every one had something to say, which proved that the earnest desire of all was that she should stay in Gourlay; but no one was so happy as to suggest a way in which she could do so without involving some measure of dependence on the kindness of friends; and though this might do for a little while, it could not do long, and they would have to go at last. Still she was in no haste to go, or very eager to make plans for the future.

"The way will open before us! I am not afraid!" was the end of many an anxious discussion during these days; and thought of sending David away from her, gave her more real pain through them all than did the consideration of what might befall them in the future; for David was going away to be junior clerk in the bank of Singleton, at a salary which seemed very large to him. It was more than a third of what his father's salary had been when it was at the best. There would not be much left for his mother and the rest by the time he had clothed and kept himself; but it was a beginning, and David was glad to begin, Jem would fain have done something, too, but his mother justly felt that the next six months at school would be of greater value to him than all he would be likely to earn, and he was to stay at home for the present.

But the mother did not have to send David away alone. The way, for which she had so patiently and confidently waited, opened to them sooner than she had dared to hope. It did not open very brightly. An opportunity to let their house to one of the new railway people made her think first of the possibility of getting away at once; and various circ.u.mstances, which need not be told, induced her to look to the town of Singleton as their future place of residence. David was to be there for a year, at least, and they could all be together, and his salary would do something toward keeping the house, and, in a place like Singleton, there might be more chance for getting for herself and Violet such employment as might suit them than they could have in Gourlay.

It was not without some doubts and fears that this arrangement was decided upon; but there seemed nothing better to do, and delay would make departure none the easier. But the doubts and fears came only now and then--the faith in G.o.d was abiding; and if she was sorrowful in those days, it was with a sorrow which rose from no distrust of Him who had been her confidence all her life-long. She knew that help would come when it was needed, and that He would be her confidence to the end.

Towards the end of April, they had a visit from a gentleman, who announced himself as Mr Caldwell, senior clerk in the bank where David was to be junior. He had come to transact business at the quarries, several miles beyond Gourlay, and had called at the request of Mr Oswald, and also because he wished to make the acquaintance of the Inglis family, especially of David, whom he expected soon to have under his immediate care. He had known Mr Inglis when he was a boy, having been then in the employment of his uncle. The children had heard of him often, and their mother had seen him more than once in the earlier years of her married life, and they were not long in becoming friendly. He was a small, dark man, slow of speech, and with some amusing peculiarities of manner, but, evidently, kindly-disposed toward them all.

His first intention had been to go on to the quarries that night, but he changed his mind before he had been long in the house, and accepted Mrs Inglis's invitation to stay to tea; and soon, to her own surprise, the mother found herself telling their plans to a very attentive listener.

He looked grave, when he heard of their determination to leave Gourlay, and go and live in Singleton.

It was a warm, bright afternoon, and they were sitting on the gallery in front of the house. The snow was nearly all gone; a soft green was just beginning to make itself visible over the fields and along the roadsides, and buds, purple and green and brown, were showing themselves on the door-yard trees. The boys were amusing themselves by putting in order the walks and flower-borders in the garden, where there were already many budding things, and the whole scene was a very pleasant one to look on.

"Singleton is very different from this place," said he. "You will never like to live there."

But there are many things that people must endure when they cannot like them; and there seemed to be no better way, as he acknowledged, when he had heard all. He entered with kindly interest into all their plans, and it was arranged that, when David went to Singleton, he should go directly to his house, and, between them, no doubt, a suitable house for the family would be found. And Mrs Inglis thanked G.o.d for the new friend He had raised up for them, and took courage.

The next day, Mr Caldwell went to the quarries, and David and Jem went with him, or rather, it should be said, Mr Caldwell went with the boys, for they had old Don and the wagon, and made a very pleasant day of it, going one way and coming home the other, for the sake of showing the stranger as much of the beautiful country as possible in so short a time. They all enjoyed the drive and the view of the country, and Mr Caldwell enjoyed something besides. He was a quiet man, saying very little, and what he did say came out so deliberately that any one else would have said it in half the time. But he was a good listener, and had the faculty of making other people talk, and the boys had a great deal to say to him and to one another. Unconsciously they yielded to the influence of the sweet spring air and the suns.h.i.+ne, and the new sights that were around them, and the sadness that had lain so heavily on them since their father's death lightened, they grew eager and communicative, and, in boyish fas.h.i.+on, did the honours of the country to their new friend with interest and delight. Not that they grew thoughtless or seemed to forget. Their father's name was often on their lips,--on Jem's, at least,--David did not seem to find it so easy to utter. They had both been at the quarries before with their father, and Jem had a great deal to say about what he had heard then, and at other times, about the stones and rocks, the formations and strata; and he always ended with "That was what papa said, eh, Davie?" as though that was final, and there could be no dissent; and David said, "Yes, Jem,"

or, perhaps, only nodded his head gravely. He never enlarged or went into particulars as Jem did; and when once they were fairly on their way home, Jem had it all to do, for they came home by the North Gore road, over which David had gone so many, many times; and even Jem grew grave as he pointed out this farm and that, as belonging to "one of our people;" and the grave-yard on the hill, and the red school-house "where papa used to preach." And when they came to the top of the hill that looks down on the river, and the meadows, and the two villages, they were both silent, for old Don stood still of his own accord, and David, muttering something about "a buckle and a strap," sprang out to put them right, and was a long time about it, Mr Caldwell thought.

"We will let the poor old fellow rest a minute," said Jem, softly; and David stood with his face turned away, and his arm thrown over old Don's neck.

There was not much said after that, but they all agreed that they had had a very pleasant day; and Mr Caldwell said to Mrs Inglis, in his slow way, that he had enjoyed the drive, and the sight of the fine country, and the quarries, but he had enjoyed the company of her two boys a great deal more than all. And you may be sure it was a pleasure to her to hear him say it.

CHAPTER EIGHT.

The breaking-up of what has been a happy home, is not an easy or pleasant thing under any circ.u.mstances. It involves confusion and fatigue, and a certain amount of pain, even when there is an immediate prospect of a better one. And when there is no such prospect, it is very sad, indeed. The happy remembrances that come with the gathering together, and looking over of the numberless things, useless and precious, that will, in the course of years, acc.u.mulate in a house, change to regrets and forebodings, and the future seems all the more gloomy because of the brightness of the past.

There were few things in Mrs Inglis's house of great value; but everything was precious to her, because of some a.s.sociation it had with her husband and their past life; and how sad all this was to her, could never be told.

The children were excited at the prospect of change. Singleton was a large place to them, which none of them, except David and Violet, had ever seen. So they amused one another, fancying what they would see and do, and what sort of a life they should live there, and made a holiday of the overturning that was taking place. But there was to the mother no pleasing uncertainty with regard to the kind of life they were to live in the new home to which they were going. There might be care, and labour, and loneliness, and, it was possible, things harder to bear; and, knowing all this, no wonder the thought of the safe and happy days they were leaving behind them was sometimes more than she could bear.

But, happily, there was not much time for the indulgence of regretful thoughts. There were too many things to be decided and done for that.

There were not many valuable things in the house, but there were a great many things of one kind and another. What was to be taken? What to be left? Where were they all to be bestowed? These questions, and the perplexities arising out of them, were never for a long time together suffered to be out of the mother's thoughts; and busy tongues suggesting plans, and busy hands helping or hindering to carry them out, filled every pause.

The very worst day of all, was the day when, having trusted Jem to drive the little ones a few miles down the river to pay a farewell visit, Mrs Inglis, with David and Violet, went into the study to take down her husband's books. And yet that day had such an ending, as to teach the widow still another lesson of grateful trust.

It was a long time before they came to the books. Papers, magazines, pamphlets--all such things as will, in the course of years, find a place on the shelves or in the drawers of one who interests himself in all that is going on in the world--had acc.u.mulated in the study; and all these had to be moved and a.s.sorted, for keeping, or destroying, or giving away. Sermons and ma.n.u.scripts, hitherto never touched but by the hand that had written them, had to be disturbed; old letters--some from the living and some from the dead--were taken from the secret places where they had lain for years, and over every one of these Mrs Inglis lingered with love and pain unspeakable.

"Never mind, Davie! Take no notice, Violet, love!" she said, once or twice, when a sudden cry or a gush of tears startled them; and so very few words were spoken all day. The two children sat near her, folding, arranging and putting aside the papers as she bade them, when they had pa.s.sed through her hands.

"Wouldn't it have been better to put them together and pack them up without trying to arrange them, mamma?" said David, at last, as his mother paused to press her hands on her aching temples.

"Perhaps it would have been better. But it must have been done some time; and it is nearly over now."

"And the books? Must we wait for another day? We have not many days now, mamma!"

"Not many! Still, I think, we must wait. I have done all I am able to do to-day. Yes, I know you and Violet could do it; but I would like to help, and we will wait till to-morrow."

"And, besides, mamma," said Letty, from the window, "here is Miss Bethia coming up the street. And, mamma, dear, shouldn't you go and lie down now, and I could tell her that you have a headache, and that you ought not to be disturbed?"

But Mrs Inglis could hardly have accomplished that, even if she had tried at once, for almost before Violet had done speaking, Miss Bethia was upon them. Her greetings were brief and abrupt, as usual; and then she said:

"Well! There! I _was_ in hopes to see this place once more before everything was pulled to pieces!" and she surveyed the disordered room with discontented eyes. "Been looking them over to see what you can leave behind or burn up, haven't you? And you can't make up your mind to part with one of them. I know pretty well how _that_ is. The books ain't disturbed yet, thank goodness! Are you going to take Parson Grantly's offer, and let him have some of them?"

Mrs Inglis shook her head.

"Perhaps I ought," said she. "And yet I cannot make up my mind to do it."

"No! of course, not! Not to him, anyhow! Do you suppose he'd ever read them? No! He only wants them to set up on his shelf to look at. If they've got to go, let them go to some one that'll get the good of them, for goodness sake! Well! There! I believe I'm getting profane about it!" said Miss Bethia catching the look of astonishment on David's face.

"But what I want to say is, What in all the world should you want to go and break it up for? There ain't many libraries like that in this part of the world."