The Inglises Part 35

"I think it is the chief thing."

"Well, I am not like that. I am very far from that."

"But this ought to be the chief thing for you as well as for David, ought it not?"

"I have not thought about it, Aunt Mary."

"You have not taken time. You have fallen on easy days. .h.i.therto. It would have been difficult to convince you that, to be a servant of G.o.d, a follower of the Lord Jesus is the chief thing--the only thing, while each day brought with it enough to satisfy you. This trouble, which has come upon you all, may have been needed--to make you think about it."

Philip answered nothing, but sat gazing at the clouds, or at the leaves which rustled at the window, with his cheek upon his hand. There is a time to keep silence and a time to speak, and Mrs Inglis could not be sure on which of these she had fallen. She longed to say just the right word to him, but hitherto her words had fallen like water on the rock, which, in the first gleam of suns.h.i.+ne, disappears. He always listened, grave or smiling, as the occasion seemed to demand. He listened with eagerness, pleased at her interest in him, pleased to be treated like one of the children, to be praised or chidden, and, for all that she could see, as well pleased with the one as with the other. As she sat watching him in silence, Mrs Inglis thought of Violet's complaint against him. "He is not in earnest. He cares only for his own pleasure."

"Ah! well! The Master knows how to deal with him, though I do not," she said to herself. Aloud, she said, "You must not suppose that I mean that religion is for a time of trouble, more than for a time of prosperity. It is the chief thing always--the only thing. But, in a time of trouble, our need of something beyond what is in ourselves, or in the world, is brought home to us. Philip, dear lad, it is a wonderful thing to be a soldier and servant of the Lord Jesus. It is a service which satisfies--which enn.o.bles. All else may fail us, or fetter us, or lead us astray. But, belonging to Christ--being one with Him--nothing can harm us truly. Are you to lose all this, Philip?

Letting it pa.s.s by you--not _thinking_ about it?"

She had no time to add more, nor had he time to answer her, even if he could have found the words. For first David came in, and then Jem, all black and dirty from the forge, and, proud of it, evidently. His greeting was rather noisy, after the free-and-easy manner which Jem affected about this time. David's greeting was quiet enough, but a great deal more frank and friendly, than his greetings of Philip had usually been, his mother was pleased to see. Jem made a pretence of astonishment at the sight of him, meaning that he might very well have come to see his mother sooner; but David fell into eager discussion of some matter interesting to both, and then Jem went away to beautify himself, as he called the was.h.i.+ng off the marks of his day's work. When tea-time came, Philip hesitated about accepting Mrs Inglis's invitation to remain.

"You may as well," said Ned; "for I saw Violet up-town and I told her you were here, so they will be sure not to wait."

So he staid, and made good his place among them after his long absence.

Something had been said in the early spring about Mrs Inglis and the children going to spend the summer in Gourlay again. But there was not the same necessity for a change that there had been last year, and the matter was not at once decided. While Mrs Inglis hesitated, there came tidings that decided it for her. There came, from Miss Bethia, a letter, written evidently with labour and difficulty. She had been poorly, "off and on by spells," she said, all winter; and now, what she had long feared, had become evident to all her friends. A terrible and painful disease had fastened upon her, which must sooner or later prove fatal. "Later," she feared it might be; for, through long months, which grew into years before they were over, she had nursed her mother in the same disease, praying daily that the end might come.

"I am not afraid of the end," she wrote; "but remembering my poor mother's sufferings, I _am_ afraid of what must come before the end. It would help pa.s.s the time to have you and the children here this summer; but it might not be the best thing for them or you, and you must judge.

I should like to see David, but there will be time enough, for I am afraid the end is a long way off. I am a poor creetur not to feel that the Lord knows best what I can bear. It don't seem as though I could suffer much more than I used to, seeing my mother's suffering. And I _know_ the Lord is kind and pitiful, though I sometimes forget."

Mrs Inglis's answer to this letter was to go to Gourlay without loss of time. At the first sight of Miss Bethia, she did not think her so very ill. She thought her fears had magnified her danger to herself. But she changed her opinion when she had been there a day or two. The Angel of Death was drawing near, and all that made his coming terrible was that he came so slowly. At times she suffered terribly, and her sufferings must increase before the end.

The coming of the children was not to be thought of, Mrs Inglis could see. She would fain have staid to nurse her, but this could not be while they needed her at home. She promised to return if she were needed, and begged to be sent for if she could be a comfort to her. All that care and good nursing could do to alleviate her suffering, Miss Bethia had. Debby Stone was still with her, and Debby's sister Serepta, whose health had much improved during the year. The neighbours were very kind and considerate, and Mrs Inglis felt that all that could be done for her would be done cheerfully and well.

So she went home; but through the summer they heard often how it was with their old friend. But first one thing and then another hindered Mrs Inglis from going to see her till September had well begun. Then there came a hasty summons for David and his mother, for there were signs and tokens that the coming of the King's messenger was to be "sooner," and not "later," as she had feared. So Violet came home because they could not tell how long the mother might have to stay, and their departure was hastened.

But the King's messenger had come before them. They saw his presence in the changed face of their friend. They did not need her whispered a.s.surance, that she need not have been afraid--that it was well with her, and the end was come.

"David," she said, brokenly, as her slow, sobbing breath came and went, "you'll care for your mother always, I know; and you must follow the Lord, and keep your armour bright."

She fell into a troubled sleep, and waking, said the same words over again, only with more difficult utterance. She spoke to his mother now and then in her painful whisper, sending messages to Violet and Jem and all the rest; and once she asked her if she had a message for the minister, whom she was sure so soon to see. But the only words that David heard her speak were these, and he answered:

"I will try, Aunt Bethia;" but he had not voice for more.

It was like a dream to him to be there in the very room where he had watched that last night with his father. It seemed to be that night again, so vividly did it all come back.

"Mamma," he whispered, "can you bear it?"

By and by they went up-stairs, and into the study, which was still kept as they had left it two years ago.

"Mamma," said David, again, "it is like a dream. Nothing in the whole world seems worth a thought--standing where we stood just now."

"Except to keep one's armour bright, my David," said his mother. "Happy Miss Bethia! She will soon be done with all her trouble now."

They watched that night and the next day, scarcely knowing whether she recognised them, or whether she were conscious of what seemed terrible suffering to those who were looking on; and then the end came.

It was all like a dream to David, the coming and going of the neighbours, the hush and pause that came at last, the whispered arrangements, the moving to and fro, and then the silence in the house.

He seemed to be living over the last days of his father's life, so well remembered--living them over for his mother, too, with the same sick feeling that he could not help or comfort her, or bear her trouble for her, or lighten it. And yet, seeing her there so calm and peaceful in every word and deed; so gentle, and helpful, and cheerful, he knew that she was helped and comforted, and that it was not all sorrow that the memory of the other death-bed stirred.

When he went out into the air again, he came to himself, and the dazed, dreamy feeling went away. It was their good and kind old friend who had gone to her rest, and it would be wrong to regret her. There were many who would remember her with respect and grat.i.tude, and none more than he and his mother and the children at home. But her death would leave no great gap, that could never be filled as his father's had done. She had been very kind to them of late years, and they would miss her; and then--it suddenly came into David's mind about his father's books, and about the sum that had three times been paid to his mother since they had been in Miss Bethia's care. He was ashamed because of it; but he could not help wondering whether it would be paid still, or whether they would take the books away or leave them where they were. He did not like to speak to his mother. It seemed selfish and ungrateful to think about it even; but he could not keep it out of his mind.

There was another day of waiting, and then the dead was carried away to her long home.

There were none of her blood to follow her thither. The place of mourners was given to Mrs Inglis and David, and then followed Debby and her sister. A great many people followed them; all the towns-folk joined in doing honour to Miss Bethia's memory, and a few old friends dropped over her a tear of affection and regret. But there was no bitter weeping--no painful sense of loss in any heart because she had gone.

David sat in the church, and walked to the grave, and came back again to the empty house, with the same strange, bewildered sense upon him of having been through it all before. It clung to him still, as one after another of the neighbours came dropping in. He sat among them, and heard their eager whispers, and saw their curious and expectant looks, and vaguely wondered what else was going to happen that they were waiting to see.

Debby and her sister were in the other room, seemingly making preparations for tea; and once Debby came and looked in at the door, with a motion as if she were counting to see how many places might be needed, and by and by Serepta came and looked, too, and David got very tired of it all. His mother had gone up-stairs when she first came in, and he went in search of her.

"Mamma, I wish we could have gone home to-night," said he, when, in answer to his knock, she had opened the door.

"It was late, dear, and Mr Bethune said he would like to see me before we went away."

"About the books, mamma? I wish I knew about them."

"You will know soon. I have no doubt they will be yours, as Miss Bethia intimated before we left them here. There may be some condition."

"I wonder what all the people are waiting for? Are you not very tired, mamma? Debby is getting tea ready."

Debby came in at the moment to make the same announcement.

"Tea is ready now," said she. "I'd as lief get tea for the whole town once in a while as not. But it ain't this tea they're waiting for, and if I was them I'd go."

"What are they waiting for?" asked David.

"Don't you know? Oh, I suppose it's to show good-will. Folks generally do at such times. But I'll ring the tea-bell, and that'll scare some of them home may be. Some of them'll have to wait till the second table, if they all stay, that's one thing. And I hope they'll think they've heard enough to pay them before they go."

They did not hear very much, certainly. Mr Bethune from Singleton was there, but the interest of the occasion was not in his hands. Deacon Spry had it all his own way, and opened and read with great deliberation a paper which had been committed to him. It was not Miss Bethia's will, as every one hoped it might be, but it was a paper written by her hand, signifying that her will, which was in Mr Bethune's keeping, was to be opened just a year from the day of her death. In the meantime Deborah Stone was to live in her house and take care of it and what property there was about it. Her clothes and bedding were in part for Debby, and the rest to be divided among certain persons named. Mrs Inglis was requested to leave her late husband's library where it was for one year, unless she should see some good reason for taking it away. And that was all.

Everybody looked surprised, except Debby, who had known the contents of the paper from Miss Bethia.

"I suppose it'll be Mr Bethune's business to look up Bethia's relations within the year. Folks generally _do_ leave their property to their relations, even if they don't know much about them. But I rather expected she'd do something for the cause among us," said Deacon Spry, in a slightly aggrieved tone.

"I thought she'd at least new paint the meeting house," said Sam Jones.

"Or put a new fence round the grave-yard."

"Well! may be she has! We'll see when the year's out."

"No, folks most always leave their property to their own relations.

They seem nearest, come toward the end."

"I don't suppose she's left a great deal besides the house, anyway. I wonder just how much Debby Stone knows?"