Chapter Eight.
The breaking-up of what has been a happy home, is not an easy or pleasant thing under any circumstances. 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, accumulate 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 association 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 accumulated in the study; and all these had to be moved and assorted, for keeping, or destroying, or giving away. Sermons and manuscripts, 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 passed 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.”
And, indeed, there was not. The only point at which Mr Inglis had painfully felt his poverty, was his library. He was a lover of books, and had the desire, which is like a fire in the bones of the earnest student, to get possession of the best books of the time as they came from the press. All his economy in other things had reference to this. Any overplus at the year’s end, any unexpected addition to their means, sooner or later found its way into the booksellers’ hands. But neither overplus nor unexpected addition were of frequent occurrence in the family history of the Inglises; and from among the best of the booksellers’ treasures only the very best found their way to the minister’s study except as transitory visitors. Still, in the course of years, a good many of these had been gathered, and he had, besides, inherited a valuable library, as far as it went, both in theology and in general literature; and once or twice, in the course of his life, it had been his happy fortune to have to thank some good rich man for a gift of books better than gold. So Miss Bethia was right in saying that there were in the country few libraries like the one on which she stood gazing with regretful admiration.
“I can’t make it seem right to do it,” continued she gravely. “Just think of the book he thought so much of lying round on common folks’ shelves and tables? Why! he used to touch the very outsides of them as if they felt good to his hands.”
“I remember. I have seen him,” said David.
“And so have I,” said Violet.
“If you were going to sell them all together, so as not to break it up, it would be different,” said Miss Bethia.
“But I could not do that, even if I wished. Mr Grantly only wants a small number of them, a list of which he left when he was here.”
“The best-looking ones on the outside, I suppose. He could tell something about them, it’s likely, by looking at the names on the title-page,” said Miss Bethia, scornfully.
“But, Miss Bethia, why should you think he would not care for the books for themselves, and read them, too?” asked Violet, smiling. “Mr Grantly is a great scholar, they say.”
“Oh, well, child, I dare say! There are books enough. He needn’t want your pa’s. But, Mrs Inglis,” said Miss Bethia, impressively, “I wonder you haven’t thought of keeping them for David. It won’t be a great while before he’ll want just such a library. They won’t eat anything.”
“It will be a long time, I am afraid,” said David’s mother. “And I am not sure that it would not be best to dispose of them,—some of them, at least,—for we are very poor, and I scarcely know whether we shall have a place to put them. They may have to be packed up in boxes, and of that I cannot bear to think.”
“No. It ain’t pleasant,” said Miss Bethia, meditatively. “It ain’t pleasant to think about.” Then rising, she added, speaking rapidly and eagerly, “Sell them to me, Mrs Inglis. I’ll take good care of them, and keep them together.”
Mrs Inglis looked at her in astonishment. The children laughed, and David said:
“Do you want them to read, Miss Bethia? Or is it only for the outside, or the names on the first page, like Mr Grantly?”
“Never you mind. I want to keep them together; and I expect I shall read some in them. Mrs Inglis, I’ll give you five hundred dollars down for that book-case, just as it stands. I know it’s worth more than that, a great deal; but the chances are not in favour of your getting more here. Come, what do you say?”
If Miss Bethia had proposed to buy the church, or the grave-yard, or the village common, or all of them together, it would not have surprised her listeners more.
“Miss Bethia,” said Mrs Inglis, gently, “I thank you. You are thinking of the good the money would do to my children.”
“No, Mrs Inglis, I ain’t—not that alone. And that wasn’t my first thought either. I want the books for a reason I have.”
“But what could you do with them, Miss Bethia?” asked Violet.
“Do with them? I could have the book-case put up in my square room, or I could send them to the new theological school I’ve heard tell they’re starting, if I wanted to. There’s a good many things I could do with them, I guess, if it comes to that.”
“But, Aunt Bethia, five hundred dollars is a large sum,” said David.
“It ain’t all they’re worth. If your ma thinks so, she can take less,” said Miss Bethia, prudently. “O, I’ve got it—if that’s what you mean—and enough more where that came from! Some, at any rate.”
David looked at her, smiling and puzzled.
“I’ve got it—and I want the books,” said Miss Bethia. “What do you say, Mrs Inglis?”
“Miss Bethia, I cannot thank you enough for your kind thoughts toward me and my children. But it would not be right to take your money, even if I could bear to part with my husband’s books. It would be a gift from you to us.”
“No, it wouldn’t. It would cost me something to part with my money, I don’t deny; but not more—not so much as it would cost you to part with your books. And we would be about even there. And I would take first-rate care of them—and be glad to.”
Mrs Inglis sat thinking in silence for a minute or two.
“Miss Bethia, you are very kind. Will you let me leave the books awhile in your care? It is quite possible we may have no place in which to keep them safely. Children, if Miss Bethia is willing, shall we leave papa’s precious books a little while with her?”
“I shouldn’t feel willing to get the good of your books for nothing.”
Mrs Inglis smiled.
“You would take care of them.”
Miss Bethia hesitated, meditating deeply.
“There would be a risk. What if my house were to take fire and burn down? What should I have to show for your books, then?”
“But the risk would not be greater with you than with me, nor so great. Still, of course, I would not wish to urge you.”
“I should like to have them, first-rate, if I could have them just in the way I want to—risk or no risk.”
Violet and David laughed; even Mrs Inglis smiled. That was so exactly what was generally asserted with regard to Miss Bethia. She must have things in just the way she wanted them, or she would not have them at all.
“We could fix it as easy as not, all round, if you would only take my way,” said she, with a little vexation.
They all sat thinking in silence for a little.
“See here! I’ve just thought of a plan,” said she, suddenly. “Let me take the books to take care of, and you needn’t take the five hundred dollars unless you want to. Let it be in Mr Slight’s hands, and while I have the books you will have the interest. I don’t suppose you know it, but he had that much of me when he built his new tannery, eight years ago, and he has paid me regular ten per cent, ever since. It looks like usury, don’t it? But he says it’s worth that to him; and I’m sure, if it is, he’s welcome to it. Now, if you’ll take that while I have the books, I’ll call it even—risk or no risk; and you can give it up and have the books when you want them. I call that fair. Don’t you?”
Did ever so extraordinary a proposal come from so unexpected a quarter? The mother and children looked at one another in astonishment.
“Miss Bethia,” said Mrs Inglis, gravely, “that is a large sum of money.”
“Well—that’s according as folks look at it. But don’t let us worry any more about it. There is no better way to fix it that I know of than that.”
Mrs Inglis did not know how to answer her.
“Mrs Inglis,” said Miss Bethia, solemnly, “I never thought you was a difficult woman to get along with before.”
“But, Miss Bethia,” said Violet, “mamma knows that you wish to do this for our sakes and not at all for your own.”
“No she doesn’t, neither! And what about it, any way? It’s my own, every cent.”
“Miss Bethia,” said David, “are you very rich?”
Miss Bethia gave a laugh, which sounded like a sob.
“Yes; I’m rich, if it comes to that! I’ve got more than ever I’ll spend, and nobody has got any claim on me—no blood relation except cousin Ira Barnes’s folks—and they’re all better off than I be, or they think so. Bless you! I can let your ma have it as well as not, even if I wasn’t going to have the books, which I am, I hope.”
“Miss Bethia, I don’t know what to say to you,” said Mrs Inglis.
“Well, don’t say anything, then. It seems to me you owe it to your husband’s memory to keep the books together. For my part, I don’t see how you can think of refusing my offer, as you can’t take them with you.”
“To care for the books—yes—”
“See here, David!” said Miss Bethia, “what do you say about it? You are a boy of sense. Tell your ma there’s no good being so contrary—I mean—I don’t know what I mean, exactly,” added she. “I shall have to think it over a spell.”
David turned his eyes toward his mother in wonder—in utter perplexity, but said nothing.
“There! I’ll have to tell it after all; and I hope it won’t just spoil my pleasure in it; but I shouldn’t wonder. The money ain’t mine—hasn’t been for quite a spell. I set it apart to pay David’s expenses at college; so it’s his, or yours till he’s of age, if you’re a mind to claim it. Your husband knew all about it.”
“My husband!” repeated Mrs Inglis.
“Yes; and now I shouldn’t wonder if I had spoiled it to you, too. I told him I was going to give it for that. As like as not he didn’t believe me,” said Miss Bethia, with a sob. “I’ve had my feelings considerably hurt, one way and another, this afternoon. There wouldn’t any of you have been so surprised if any one else had wanted to do you a kindness—if you will have that it’s a kindness. I know some folks have got to think I’m stingy and mean, because—”
“Aunt Bethia,” said David, taking her hand in both his, “that is not what we think here.”
“No, indeed! We have never thought that,” said Violet, kissing her.
Then David kissed her, too, reddening a little, as boys will who only kiss their mothers when they go to bed, or their very little sisters.
“Miss Bethia,” said Mrs Inglis, “my husband always looked upon you as a true friend. I do not doubt but that your kindness in this matter comforted him at the last.”
“Well, then, it’s settled—no more need be said. If I were to die to-night, it would be found in my will all straight. And you wouldn’t refuse to take it if I were dead, would you? Why should you now? unless you grudge me the pleasure of seeing it. Oh! I’ve got enough more to keep me—if that’s what you mean—if I should live for forty years, which ain’t likely.”
So what could Mrs Inglis do but press her hand, murmuring thanks in the name of her children and her husband.
Miss Bethia’s spirits rose.
“And you’ll have to be a good boy, David, and adorn the doctrine of your Saviour, so as to fill your father’s place.”
“Miss Bethia, I can never do that. I am not good at all.”
“Well, I don’t suppose you are. But grace abounds, and you can have it for the asking.”
“But, Miss Bethia, if you mean this because—you expect me to be a minister, like papa, I am not sure, and you may be disappointed—and then—”
“There ain’t much one can be sure of in this world,” said Miss Bethia, with a sigh. “But I can wait. You are young—there’s time enough. If the Lord wants you for His service, He’ll have you, and no mistake. There’s the money, at any rate. Your mother will want you for the next five years, and you’ll see your way clearer by that time, I expect.”
“And do you mean that the money is to be mine—for the university—whether I am to be a minister or not? I want to understand, Miss Bethia.”
“Well, it was with the view of your being a minister, like your father, that I first thought of it, I don’t deny,” said Miss Bethia, gravely. “But it’s yours any way, as soon as your mother thinks best to let you have it. If the Lord don’t want you for his minister, I’m very sure I don’t. If He wants you, He’ll have you; and that’s as good a way to leave it as any.”
There was nothing more to be said, and Miss Bethia had her way after all. And a very good way it was.
“And we’ll just tell the neighbours that I am to take care of the books till you know where you are to put them—folks take notice of everything so. That’ll be enough to say. And, David, you must make out a list of them,—two, indeed,—one to leave with me and one to take, and I’ll see to all the rest.”
And so it was settled. The book-case and the books were never moved. They stand in the study still, and are likely to do so for a good while to come.
This is as good a place as any to tell of Miss Bethia’s good fortune. She was disposed, at first, to think her fortune anything but good; for it took out of her hands the house that had been her home for the last thirty years of her life—where she had watched by the death-bed of father, mother, sister. It destroyed the little twenty-acre farm, which, in old times, she had sowed and planted and reaped with her own hands, bringing to nothing the improvements which had been the chief interest of her life in later years; for, in spite of her determined resistance, the great Railway Company had its way, as great companies usually do, and laid their plans, and carried them out, for making the Gourlay Station there.
So the hills were levelled, and the hollows filled up; the fences and farming implements, and the house itself, carried out of the way, and all the ancient landmarks utterly removed.
“Just as if there wasn’t enough waste land in the country, but they must take the home of a solitary old woman to put their depots, and their engines, and their great wood-piles on,” said Miss Bethia, making a martyr of herself.
But, of course, she was well paid for it all, and, to her neighbours, was an object of envy rather than of pity; for it could not easily be understood by people generally, how the breaking-up of her house seemed to Miss Bethia like the breaking-up of all things, and that she felt like a person lost, and friendless, and helpless for a little while. But there, was a bright side to the matter, she was, by and by, willing to acknowledge. She knew too well the value of money—had worked too hard for all she had, not to feel some come complacency in the handsome sum lodged in the bank in her name by the obnoxious company.
It is a great thing to have money, most people think, and Miss Bethia might have had a home in any house in Gourlay that summer if she chose. But she knew that would not suit anybody concerned long; so, when it was suggested to her that she should purchase the house which the departure of Mrs Inglis and her children left vacant, she considered the matter first, and then accomplished it. It was too large for her, of course, but she let part of it to Debby Stone, who brought her invalid sister there, and earned the living of both by working as a tailoress. Miss Bethia did something at that, too, and lived as sparingly as she had always done, and showed such shrewdness in investing her money, and such firmness in exacting all that was her due, that some people, who would have liked to have a voice in the management of her affairs, called her hard, and a screw, and wondered that an old woman like her should care so much for what she took so little good of.
But Miss Bethia took a great deal of good out of her money, or out of the use she made of it, and meant to make of it; and a great many people in Gourlay, and out of it, knew that she was neither hard nor a screw.
And the book-case still stood up-stairs, and Miss Bethia took excellent care of the books, keeping the curtains drawn and the room dark, except when she had visitors. Then the light was let in, and she grew eloquent over the books and the minister, and the good he had done her in past days; but no one ever heard from her lips how the books came to be left in her care, or what was to become of them at last.