Chapter Four.
Miss Bethia Barnes was a plain and rather peculiar single woman, a good deal past middle age, who lived by herself in a little house about half way between the two village’s. She was generally called Aunt Bethia by the neighbours, but she had not gained the title as some old ladies do, because of the general loving-kindness of their nature. She was a good woman and very useful, but she was not always very agreeable. To do just exactly right at all times, and in all circumstances, was the first wish of her heart; the second wish of her heart was, that everybody else should do so likewise, and she had fallen into the belief, that she was not only responsible for her own well-being and well-doing, but for that of all with whom she came in contact.
Of course it is right that each individual in a community should do what may be done to help all the rest to be good and happy. But people cannot be made good and happy against their own will, and Miss Bethia’s advances in that direction were too often made in a way which first of all excited the opposition of the person she intended to benefit. This was almost always the case where the young people of the village were concerned. Those who had known her long and well, did not heed her plain and sharp speaking, because of her kindly intentions, and it was known besides that her sharpest words were generally forerunners of her kindest deeds. But the young people did not so readily take these things into consideration, and she was by no means a favourite with them.
So it is not surprising, that when she made her appearance one afternoon at the minister’s house, David, who was there alone with little Mary, was not very well pleased to see her. Little Mary was pleased. Even Aunt Bethia had only sweet words for the pet and baby; and happily the child’s pretty welcome, and then her delight over the little cake of maple sugar that Miss Bethia had brought her, occupied that lady’s attention till David had time to smooth his face again. It helped him a little to think that his father and mother being away from home, their visitor might not stay long. He was mistaken, however.
“I heard your father and mother had gone over to Mrs Spry’s; but I had made my calculations for a visit here just now, and I thought I’d come. They’ll be coming home to-night, I expect?” added she, as she untied her bonnet, and prepared herself to enjoy her visit.
“Yes,” said David, hesitating. “They are coming home to-night—I think.”
He spoke rather doubtfully. He knew they had intended to come home, but it seemed to him just as if something would certainly happen to detain them if Miss Bethia were to stay. And besides it came into his mind that if she doubted about the time of their return, she would go and visit somewhere else in the village, and come back another time. That would be a much better plan, he thought, with a rueful glance at the book he had intended to enjoy all the afternoon. But Miss Bethia had quite other thoughts.
“Well, it can’t be helped. They’ll be home to-morrow if they don’t come to-night; and I can have a visit with you and Violet. I shall admire to!” said Miss Bethia, reassuringly, as a doubtful look passed over David’s face.
“Violet is at school,” said he, “and all the rest.”
“Best place for them,” said Miss Bethia. “Where is Debby?”
“She has gone home for a day or two. Her sister is sick.”
“She is coming back, is she? I heard your mother was going to try and get along without her this winter. That won’t pay. ‘Penny wise and pound foolish’ that would be,” said Miss Bethia.
David said nothing to this.
“Better pay Debby Stone, and board her, too, than pay the doctor. Ambition ain’t strength. Home-work, and sewing-machine, and parish visiting—that’s burning the candle at both ends. That don’t ever pay.”
“Mamma knows best what to do,” said David, with some offence in his voice.
“She knows better than you, I presume,” said the visitor. “Ah! yes. She knows well enough what is best. But the trouble is, folks can’t always do what they know is best. We’ve got to do the best we can in this world—and there’s none of us too wise to make mistakes, at that. She got the washing done and the clothes sprinkled before she went, did she? Pretty well for Debby, so early in the week. Letty ought to calculate to do this ironing for her mother. Hadn’t you better put on the flats and have them ready by the time she gets home from school?”
“Mamma said nothing about it,” said David.
“No, it ain’t likely. But that makes no difference. Letty ought to know without being told. Put the flats on to heat, and I’ll make a beginning. We’ll have just as good a visit.”
David laughed. He could not help it. “A good visit,” said he to himself. Aloud he said something about its being too much trouble for Miss Bethia.
“Trouble for a friend is the best kind of pleasure,” said she. “And don’t you worry. Your mother’s clothes will bear to be looked at. Patches ain’t a sin these days, but the contrary. Step a little spryer, can’t you! We can visit all the same.”
It was Miss Bethia’s way to take the reins in her own hand wherever she was, and David could not have prevented her if he had tried, which he did not. He could only do as he was bidden. In a much shorter time than Debby would have taken, David thought, all preliminary arrangements were made, and Miss Bethia was busy at work. Little Mary stood on a stool at the end of the table, and gravely imitated her movements with a little iron of her own.
“Now this is what I call a kind of pleasant,” said Miss Bethia. “Now let’s have a good visit before the children come home.”
“Shall I read to you?” said David, a little at a loss as to what might be expected from him in the way of entertainment.
“Well—no. I can read to myself at home, and I would rather talk if you had just as lief.”
And she did talk on every imaginable subject, with very little pause, till she came round at last to old Mr Bent’s death.
“I’d have given considerable to have gone to the funeral,” said she. “I’ve known Timothy Bent for over forty years, and I’d have liked to see the last of him. I thought of coming up to ask your papa if he wouldn’t take me over when he went, but I thought perhaps your mamma would want to go. Did she?”
No, David said; he had driven his father over.
“Your papa preached, did he?” and then followed a great many questions about the funeral, and the mourners, and the bearers, and then about the text and the sermon. And then she added a hope that he “realised” the value of the privileges he enjoyed above others in having so many opportunities to hear his father preach. And when she said this, David knew that she was going to give him the “serious talking to” which she always felt it her duty to give faithfully to the young people of the families where she visited.
They always expected it. Davie and Jem used to compare notes about these “talks,” and used to boast to one another about the methods they took to prevent, or interrupt, or answer them, as the case might be. But when Miss Bethia spoke about Mr Bent and the funeral, it brought back the sermon and what his father had said to him on his way home, and all the troubled thoughts that had come to him afterwards. So instead of shrugging his shoulders, and making believe very busy with something else, as he had often done under Miss Bethia’s threatening lectures, he sat looking out of the window with so grave a face, that she in her turn, made a little pause, of surprise, and watched him as she went on with her work.
“Yes,” she went on in a little, “it is a great privilege you have, and that was a solemn occasion, a very solemn occasion—but you did not tell me the text.”
David told her the text and a good part of the sermon, too. He told it so well, and grew so interested and animated as he went on, that in a little Miss Bethia set down the flat-iron, and seated herself to listen. Jem came in before he was through.
“Well! well! I feel just as if I had been to meeting,” said Miss Bethia.
“Well done, Davie!” said Jem. “Isn’t our Davie a smart boy, Aunt Bethia? I wish Frank could have heard that.”
“Yes, so I told papa,” said David, gravely.
“It is a great responsibility to have such privileges as you have, boys—” began Miss Bethia.
“As Davie has, you mean, Miss Bethia,” said Jem. “He goes with papa almost always—”
“And as you have, too. Take care that you don’t neglect them, so that they may not rise up in judgment against you some day—”
But Miss Bethia was obliged to interrupt herself to shake hands with Violet, who came in with her little brother and sister. Jem laughed at the blank look in his sister’s face.
“Miss Bethia has commenced your ironing for you,” said he.
“Yes—I see. You shouldn’t have troubled yourself about it, Miss Bethia.”
“I guess I know pretty well by this time what I should do, and what I should let alone,” said Miss Bethia, sharply, not pleased with the look on Violet’s face, or the heartiness of her greeting. “It was your mother I was thinking of. I expect the heft of Debby’s work will fall on her.”
“Debby will be back to-morrow or next day, I hope,” said Violet. “But it was very kind of you to do it, Miss Bethia, and I will begin in a minute.”
“You had better go to work and get supper ready, and get that out of the way; and by that time the starched clothes will be done, and you can do the rest. I expect the children want their supper by this time,” said Miss Bethia.
“Yes, I dare say it would be better.”
Violet was very good-tempered, and did not feel inclined to resent Miss Bethia’s tone of command. And besides, she knew it would do no good to resent it, so she went away to put aside her books, and her out-of-door’s dress, and Miss Bethia turned her attention to the boys again.
“Yes, that was a solemn sermon, boys, and, David, I am glad to see that you must have paid good attention to remember it so well. I hope it may do you good, and all who heard it.”
“Our Davie won’t make a bad preacher himself, will he, Miss Bethia?” said Jem. “He has about made up his mind to it now.”
“His making up his mind don’t amount to much, one way or the other,” said Miss Bethia. “Boys’ minds are soon made up, but they ain’t apt to stay made up—not to anything but foolishness. That’s my belief, and I’ve seen a good many boys at one time and another.”
“But that’s not the way with our Davie,” said Jem. “You wouldn’t find many boys that would remember a sermon so well, and repeat it so well as he does. Now would you, Aunt Bethia?”
“Nonsense, Jem, that’s enough,” said Davie. “He’s chaffing, Aunt Bethia.”
“He’s entirely welcome,” said Miss Bethia, smiling grimly. “Though I don’t see anything funny in the idea of David’s being a minister, or you either, for that matter.”
“Funny! No. Anything but funny! A very serious matter that would be,” said Jem. “We couldn’t afford to have so many ministers in the family, Miss Bethia. I am not going to be a minister. I am going to make a lot of money and be a rich man, and then I’ll buy a house for papa, and send Davie’s boys to college.”
They all laughed.
“You may laugh, but you’ll see,” said Jem. “I am not going to be a minister. Hard work and poor pay. I have seen too much of that, Miss Bethia.”
He was “chaffing” her. Miss Bethia knew it quite well, and though she had said he was entirely welcome, it made her angry because she could not see the joke, and because she thought it was not respectful nor polite on Jem’s part to joke with her, as indeed it was not. And besides this was a sore subject with Miss Bethia—the poverty of ministers. She had at one time or another spent a great many of her valuable words on those who were supposed to be influential in the guidance of parish affairs, with a design to prove that their affairs were not managed as they ought to be. There was no reason in the world, but shiftlessness and sinful indifference, to prevent all being made and kept straight between the minister and people as regarded salary and support, she declared, and it was a shame that a man like their minister should find himself pressed or hampered, in providing the comforts—sometimes the necessaries of life—for his family.
That was putting it strong, the authorities thought and said, but Miss Bethia never would allow that it was too strong, and she never tired of putting it.
“The labourer is worthy of his hire.”
“They that serve the temple must live by the temple.” And with a house to keep up and his children to clothe and feed, no wonder that Mr Inglis might be troubled many a time when he thought of how they were to be educated, and of what was to become of them in case he should be taken away.
There was no theme on which Miss Bethia was so eloquent as this, and she was eloquent on most themes. She never tired of this one, and answered all excuses and expostulations with a force and sharpness that, as a general thing, silenced, if they did not convince. Whether she helped her cause by this assertion of its claims, is a question. She took great credit for her faithfulness in the matter, at any rate, and as she had not in the past, so she had made up her mind that she should not in the future be found wanting in this respect.
But it was one thing to tell her neighbours their duty with regard to their minister, and it was quite another thing to listen to a lad like Jem making disparaging remarks as to a minister’s possessions and prospects. “Hard work and poor pay,” said Jem, and she felt very much like resenting his words, as a reflection on the people of whom she was one. Jem needed putting down.
“Your pa wouldn’t say so. He ain’t one to wish to serve two masters. He ain’t a mammon worshipper,” said Miss Bethia, solemnly.
“No!” said Jem, opening his eyes very wide. “And I don’t intend to be one either. I intend to make a good living, and perhaps become a rich man.”
“Don’t, Jem,” said Violet, softly. She meant “Don’t vex Miss Bethia,” as Jem very well knew, but he only laughed and said:
“Don’t do what? Become a rich man? or a worshipper of mammon? Don’t be silly, Letty.”
“Jem’s going to be a blacksmith,” said Edward. “You needn’t laugh. He put a shoe on Mr Strong’s old Jerry the other day. I saw him do it.”
“Pooh,” said Jem. “That’s nothing. Anybody could do that. I am going to make a steam-engine some day.”
“You’re a smart boy, if we are to believe you,” said Miss Bethia. “Did Mr Strong know that the blacksmith let you meddle with his horse’s shoes? I should like to have seen his face when he heard it.”
“One must begin with somebody’s horse, you know. And Peter Munro said he couldn’t have done it better himself,” said Jem, triumphantly.
“Peter Munro knows about horseshoes, and that’s about all he does know. He ought to know that you might be about better business than hanging about his shop, learning no good.”
“Horseshoes no good!” said Jem, laughing.
“Jem, dear!” pleaded Violet.
“But it’s dreadful to hear Miss Bethia speak disrespectfully of horseshoes,” said Jem.
“I think there’s something more to be expected from your father’s son than horseshoes,” said Miss Bethia.
“But horseshoes may do for a beginning,” said David. “And by and by, perhaps, it may be engines, and railways; who knows?”
“And good horseshoes are better than bad sermons, and they pay better than good ones,” said Jem. “And I’m bound to be a rich man. You’ll see, Miss Bethia.”
Then he went on to tell of the wonderful things that were to happen when he became a rich man. Old Don was to be superannuated, and his father was to have a new horse, and a new fur coat to wear when the weather was cold. His mother and Violet were to have untold splendours in the way of dress, and the children as well. Davie was to go to college, and there should be a new bell to the church, and a new fence to the grave-yard, and Miss Bethia was to have a silk gown of any colour she liked, and a knocker to her front door. There was a great deal of fun and laughter, in which even Miss Bethia joined, and when Violet called them to tea, Jem whispered to David that they had escaped her serious lecture for that time.
After tea, they all went again to the kitchen, which, indeed, was as pleasant as many parlours, and while Violet washed the tea-dishes, Miss Bethia went on with the ironing, and the boys went on with their lessons. Just as they were all beginning to wonder what could be delaying the return home of their father and mother, there came a messenger to say that they had been obliged to go much farther than Mr Spry’s, to see a sick person, and that as they might not be home that night, the children were not to wait for them past their usual time of going to bed.
There were exclamations of disappointment from the younger ones, and little Mary, who was getting sleepy and a little cross, began to cry.
“I had a presentiment that we should not see them to-night,” said David, taking his little sister on his lap to comfort her. “Never mind, Polly. Mamma will be home in the morning, and we must be able to tell her that we have all been good, and that nobody has cried or been cross, but quite the contrary.”
“I wish your mother knew that I had happened along. It would have set her mind at rest about you all,” said Miss Bethia.
The young people were not so sure of that, but there would have been no use in saying so.
“Oh! mamma knows we can get on nicely for one night. But she will be sorry to miss your visit, Miss Bethia,” said Violet.
“She won’t miss it. I shall have a visit with her when she gets home. And now hadn’t you better put the children to bed before you set down?”
But the children, except little Mary, were in the habit of putting themselves to bed, and were not expected to do so till eight o’clock, as they declared with sufficient decision. So nothing more was said about it. If it had been any other child but little Mary. Miss Bethia would have counselled summary measures with her, and she would have been sent to bed at once. As it was the little lady had her own way for a while, and kept her eyes wide open, while David comforted her for the absence of mamma. He played with her and told her stories, and by and by undressed her gently, kissing her hands and her little bare feet, and murmuring such tender words, that baby grew good and sweet, and forgot that there was any one in the world she loved better than Davie.
As for Miss Bethia, as she watched them she was wondering whether it could be the rough, thoughtless schoolboy, to whom she had so often considered it her duty to administer both instruction and reproof. She was not, as a general thing, very tolerant of boys. She intended to do her duty by the boys of her acquaintance in the matter of rebuke and correction, and in the matter of patience and forbearance as well, and these things covered the whole ground, as far as her relations with boys were concerned. And so when she saw David kissing his little sister’s hands and feet, and heard him softly prompting her in her “good words” as the eyelids fell over the sleepy little eyes, she experienced quite a new sensation. She looked upon a boy with entire approval. He had pleased her in the afternoon, when he had told her so much about his father’s sermon. But she had hardly been conscious of her pleasure then, because of the earnestness of her desire to impress him and his brother with a sense of their responsibility as to the use they made of their privileges and opportunities. It came back to her mind, however, as she sat watching him and his little sister, and she acknowledged to herself that she was pleased, and that David was not a common boy. David would never have guessed her thoughts by the first words she spoke.
“Put her to bed,” said she. “She’ll take cold.”
“Yes, I will,” said David, but he did not move to do it. “Miss Bethia,” said he in a little, “if wee Polly were to die to-night and go to Heaven, do you suppose she would always stay a little child as she is now?”
Miss Bethia set down her flat-irons and looked at him in surprise.
“What on earth put that into your head?” said she, hastily.
“Look at her,” said David. “It doesn’t seem as though she could be any sweeter even in Heaven, does it?”
Violet came and knelt down beside her brother.
“Is she not a precious darling?” said she, kissing her softly.
“It isn’t much we know about how folks will look in heaven,” said Miss Bethia, gravely.
“No,” said David. “Only that we shall be like Him, for we shall see Him as He is.”
“If we ever get there,” said Miss Bethia.
“Yes, if we ever get there,” said David. “But if our little Polly were to die to-night, she would be sure to get there, and what I would like to know is, whether she would always be little Polly there, so that when the rest of us get there, too, we should know her at once without being told.”
“She would have a new name given her,” said Violet.
“Yes, and a crown and a harp, and a white robe, and wings, perhaps. But she might have all that and be our little Polly still. I wonder how it will be. What do you think, Miss Bethia?”
“I haven’t thought about it. I don’t seem to remember that there is anything said about it in the Bible. And there is no other way of knowing anything about it—as I see.”
“No. Still one cannot but think of these things. Don’t you remember, Violet?
“Not as child shall we again behold her,
But when with rapture wild.
In our embraces we again enfold her,
She will not be a child.”
“Yes.” Violet remembered the words, and added:
“But a fair maiden in our Father’s mansion.”
“I don’t like to think that may be the way.”
“But that ain’t in the Bible,” said Miss Bethia.
“No,” said David. “And I like best the idea of there being little children there. Of course there are children now, because they are going there every day. But if they grow up there—afterwards, when the end comes, there will be no little children.”
“How you talk!” said Aunt Bethia. “I don’t more than half believe that it’s right for you to follow out such notions. If the Bible don’t say any thing about it, it is a sign it’s something we needn’t worry about, for we don’t need to know it.”
“No, we don’t need to worry about it,” said David. “But one cannot help having such thoughts in their minds sometimes.”
There was nothing more said for some time. Violet still knelt by her brother’s side, and the eyes of both were resting on the baby’s lovely face. It was Miss Bethia who spoke first.
“I was a twin. My sister died when she was three years old. I remember how she looked as well as I remember my mother’s face, and she didn’t die till I was over forty. I should know her in a minute if I were to see her. It would seem queer to see us together—twins so—wouldn’t it?—she a child and me an old woman,” said Miss Bethia, with something like a sob in her voice. “It will be all in her favour—the difference, I mean.”
“‘Whom the gods love die young,’” said David. “But that is a Pagan sentiment. Papa said, the other day, that victory must mean more to the man who has gone through the war, than to him who has hardly had time to strike a blow. Even before the victory it must be grand, he said, to be able to say like Paul, ‘I have fought the good fight; I have kept the faith.’ And, perhaps, Miss Bethia, your crown may be brighter than your little sister’s, after all.”
“It will owe none of its brightness to me,” said Miss Bethia, with sudden humility. “And I don’t suppose I shall begrudge the brightness of other folks’ crowns when I get there, if I ever do.”
In the pause that followed, David went and laid the baby in her cot, and when he returned the children came with him, and the talk went on. They all had something to say about what they should see and do, and the people they should meet with when they got there. But it would not bear repeating, all that they said, and they fell in a little while into talk of other things, and Jem, as his way was, made the little ones laugh at his funny sayings, and even Violet smiled sometimes. But David was very grave and quiet, and Miss Bethia, for a good while, did not seem to hear a word, or to notice what was going on.
But by and by something was said about the lessons of the next day, and she roused herself up enough to drop her accustomed words about “privileges and responsibilities,” and then went on to tell how different every thing had been in her young days, and before she knew it she was giving them her own history. There was not much to tell. That is, there had been few incidents in her life, but a great deal of hard work, many trials and disappointments—and many blessings as well.
“And,” said Aunt Bethia, “if I were to undertake, I couldn’t always tell you which was which. For sometimes the things I wished most for, and worked hardest to get, didn’t amount to but very little when I got them. And the things I was most afraid of went clear out of sight, or turned right round into blessings, as soon as I came near enough to touch them. And I tell you, children, there is nothing in the world that it’s worth while being afraid of but sin. You can’t be too much afraid of that. It is a solemn thing to live in the world, especially such times as these. But there’s no good talking. Each one must learn for himself; and it seems as though folks would need to live one life, just to teach them how to live. I don’t suppose there’s any thing I could say to you that would make much difference. Talk don’t seem to amount to much, any way.”
“I am sure you must have seen a great deal in your life, Miss Bethia, and might tell us a great many things to do us good,” said Violet, but she did not speak very enthusiastically, for she was not very fond of Miss Bethia’s good advice any more than her brothers; and little Jessie got them happily out of the difficulty, by asking:
“What did you use to do when you were a little girl, Aunt Bethia?”
“Pretty much what other little girls did. We lived down in New Hampshire, then, and what ever made father come away up here for, is more than I can tell. I had a hard time after we came up here. I helped father and the boys to clear up our farm. I used to burn brush, and make sugar, and plant potatoes and corn, and spin and knit. I kept school twenty-one seasons, off and on. I didn’t know much, but a little went a great way in those days. I used to teach six days in the week, and make out a full week’s spinning or weaving, as well. I was strong and smart then, and ambitious to make a living and more. After a while, my brothers moved out West, and I had to stay at home with father and mother, and pretty soon mother died. I have been on the old place ever since. It is ten years since father died. I’ve stayed there alone most of the time since, and I suppose I shall till my time comes. And children, I’ve found out that life don’t amount to much, except as it is spent as a time of preparation—and for the chance it gives you to do good to your neighbours; and it ain’t a great while since I knew that, only as I heard folks say it. It ain’t much I’ve done of it.”
There was nothing said for a minute or two, and then Ned made them all laugh by asking, gravely:
“Miss Bethia, are you very rich?”
Miss Bethia laughed, too.
“Why, yes; I suppose I may say I am rich. I’ve got all I shall ever want to spend, and more, too. I’ve got all I want, and that’s more than most folks who are called rich can say. And I have earned all I’ve got. But it ain’t what one has got, so much as what one has done, that makes life pleasant to look back upon.”
“It is pleasant to have plenty of money, too, however,” said Jem.
“And people can do good with their money,” said Violet.
“Yes, that is true; but money don’t stand for everything, even to do good with. Money won’t stand instead of a life spent in God’s service. Money, even to do good with, is a poor thing compared with that. Money won’t go a great ways in the making of happiness, without something else.”
“Would you like to live your life over again, Miss Bethia?” asked Violet.
“No—I shouldn’t. Not unless I could live it a great deal better. And I know myself too well by this time to suppose I should do that. It wouldn’t pay, I don’t believe. But oh! children, it is a grand thing to be young, to have your whole life before you to give to the Lord. You can’t begin too young. Boys, and you, too, Violet—you have great privileges and responsibilities.”
This was Miss Bethia’s favourite way of putting their duty before them. She had said this about “privilege and responsibility” two or three times to-night already, as the boys knew she would. It had come to be a by-word among them. But even Jem did not smile this time, she was so much in earnest, and Violet and David looked very grave.
“‘Fight the good fight of faith, lay hold on eternal life.’ That’s what you’ve got to do. ‘Take the whole armour of God,’ and fight His battles.”
The boys looked at each other, remembering all that had been said about this of late.
“Your father said right. It is a grand thing to come to the end of life and be able to say, ‘I have fought the good fight; I have kept the faith.’”
“Like Mr Great Heart in the Pilgrim’s Progress,” said Ned.
“Yes. Sometimes it’s lions, and sometimes it’s giants, but it’s fighting all the way through, and God gives the victory. Yes,” continued Miss Bethia, after a pause, “it’s fighting all the way through, and it don’t so much matter how it looks to other folks. Horseshoes or sermons, it don’t matter, so that it is done to the Lord. Your father, he is a standard-bearer; and your mother, she helps the Lord’s cause by helping him, and so she fights the good fight, too. There’s enough for all to do, and the sooner you begin, the more you can do, and the better it will be—And I’m sure it’s time these children were in bed now.”
Yes, it was more than time, as all acknowledged, but they did not go very willingly for all that.
“Obedience is the first duty of a soldier, Ned, boy,” said Jem.
“If we could only know that we were soldiers,” said David, gravely; and then he added to himself, “The very first thing is to enrol one’s name.”
“I wonder all the girls don’t like Aunt Bethia more,” said Jessie, when Violet came up to take her candle in a little. “I’m sure she’s nice—sometimes.”
“Yes, she is always very good, and to-night she is pleasant,” said Violet. “And I’m not at all sorry that she came, though mamma is away. Good-night, dear, and pleasant dreams.”
Upon the whole, Miss Bethia’s visit was a success. Mr and Mrs Inglis came home next day to find her and little Mary in possession of the house. David was waiting to receive them at the gate, and all the others had gone to school. Violet had proposed to stay at home to entertain their guest, but this Miss Bethia would not hear of. The baby and she were quite equal to the entertainment of one another, to say nothing of David, upon whom Miss Bethia was evidently beginning to look with eyes of favour. They had not got tired of one another when mamma came to the rescue, and nothing mattered much either to David or his little sister when mamma was at hand.
Mr Inglis was almost ill with a cold; too ill to care to go to his study and his books that day, but not too ill to lie on the sofa and talk with—or rather listen to, Miss Bethia. This was a great pleasure to her, for she had a deep respect for the minister, and indeed, the respect was mutual. So they discussed parish matters a little; and all the wonderful things that were happening in the world, they discussed a good deal. There was a new book, too, which Miss Bethia had got—a very interesting book to read, but of whose orthodoxy she could not be quite sure till she had discussed it with the minister. There were new thoughts in it, and old thoughts clothed in unfamiliar language, and she wanted his help in Comparing it with the only standard of truth in the opinion of both.
So the first day was successful, and so were all the other days of her visit, though in a different way. There were no signs of Debby’s return, but Mrs Inglis had, in the course of her married life, been too often left to her own resources to make this a matter of much consequence for a few days. The house was as orderly, and the meals were as regular; and though some things in the usual routine were left undone because of Debby’s absence and Miss Bethia’s presence in the house, still everything went smoothly, and all the more so that Miss Bethia, who had had a varied experience in the way of long visits, knew just when to sit still and seem to see nothing, and when to put forth a helping hand. Her visits, as a general thing, were not without some drawbacks, and if Mrs Inglis had had her choice, she would have preferred that this one should have taken place when Debby’s presence in the kitchen would have left her free to attend to her guest. But this was a visit altogether pleasant. There was not even the little jarring and uncomfortableness, rather apt to arise out of her interest in the children, and her efforts in their behalf. Not that she neglected them or their affairs. David, of whom she saw most, had a feeling that her eye was upon him whenever he was in the house, but her observation was more silent than usual, and even when she took him to task, as she did more than once, he did not for some reason or other, feel inclined to resent her sharp little speeches as he had sometimes done. She did not overlook him by any means, but asked a great many questions about his books, and lessons, and amusements, and about when he was going to college, and about what he was to be afterwards, and behind his back praised him to his mother as a sensible, well-behaved boy, which, of course, pleased his mother, and made David himself laugh heartily when he heard of it.
Still, though her visit had been most agreeable, it was pleasant to be alone again, when it came to an end, and little Jessie expressed what the others only thought when she said:
“It’s nice to have Miss Bethia come once in a while, and it’s nice to have her go away, too.”
Debby did not come back, but everything went on as nearly as possible as usual in her absence. They hoped to have her again, by and by, so no effort was made to supply her place. If she could not come back, Violet would possibly have to stay at home after the Christmas holidays to help in the house, and in the meantime, David did what “a sensible, well-behaved boy” might be expected to do, to supply her place. And that was a great deal. David was a manly boy, and he was none the less manly that he did a great many things for his mother, that boys are not generally supposed to like to do. What those things were, need not be told, lest boys not so sensible, should call his manliness in question, and so lose their interest in him.
Indeed, it must be confessed that, sensible boy as he was, David himself had some doubts as to the manliness of some of the work that fell to him to do about this time, and did not care that his morning’s occupations should be alluded to often, before Jem and Ned. But he had no doubt as to the help and comfort he was to his mother during these days, when she needed both even more than he knew. It is a manly thing in a boy to be his mother’s “right hand,” and David was that, and more than that, during these happy days, when they were so much alone together.
For they were happy days to them all. In spite of work and weariness, and anxiety, and a sudden sharp dread of something else harder to bear than these, that came now and then to one at least of the household, they were very happy days to them all.