Chapter Nine.
May has come again, and the Inglises had been living a whole year in Singleton; or, rather, they had been living in a queer little house just out of Singleton. The house itself was well enough, and the place had been a pretty place once; but Miss Bethia’s enemies—the great Railway Company—had been at work on it, and about it, and they had changed a pretty field of meadow-land, a garden and an orchard, into a desolate-looking place, indeed. There was no depot or engine-house in the immediate neighbourhood, but the railway itself came so close to it, and rose so high above it, that the engine-driver might almost have looked down the cottage chimney as he passed.
Just beyond the town of Singleton, the highway was crossed by the railway, and, in one of the acute angles which the intersection made, the little house stood. On the side of the house, most distant from the crossing, were two bridges (one on the railway and the other on the high road), both so high and so strong as to seem quite out of place over the tiny stream that, for the greater part of the year, ran beneath them. It was a large stream at some seasons, however, and so was the Single River into which it fell; and the water from the Single sometimes set back under the bridges and over the low land till the house seemed to stand on an island. The Single River could not be seen from the house, although it was so near, because the railway hid it, and all else in that direction, except the summit of a distant mountain, behind which, at midsummer-time, the sun went down. From the other side, the road was seen, and a broken field, over which a new street or two had been laid out, and a few dull-looking houses built; and to the right of these streets lay the town.
It was not a pretty place, but it had its advantages. It was a far better home to which to bring country-bred children than any which could have been found within their means in the town. They could not hesitate between it and the others which they went to see; and, as Mr Oswald had something to do with the Railway Company, into whose hands it had fallen, it was easily secured. There were no neighbours very near, and there was a bit of garden-ground—the three-cornered piece between the house and the crossing, and a strip of grass, and a hedge of willows and alders on the other side, on the edge of the little stream between the two bridges, and there was no comparison between the house and any of the high and narrow brick tenements with doors opening right upon the dusty street.
And so the mother and the children came to make a new home there, and they succeeded. It was a happy home. Not in quite the same way that their home in Gourlay had been happy. No place could ever be quite like that again; but when the first year came to an end, and the mother looked back over all the way by which they had been led, she felt that she had much cause for gratitude and some cause for joy. The children had, in the main, been good and happy; they had had all the necessaries and some of the comforts of life; they had had no severe illness among them, and they had been able to keep out of debt.
To some young people, all this may not seem very much in the way of happiness, but, to Mrs Inglis, it seemed much, and to the children too. Mrs Inglis had not opened a school. The house was too small for that, and it was not situated in a part of the town where there were likely to be many pupils. She had taught three or four little girls along with her own children, but the number had not increased.
During the first six months of their stay in Singleton, Violet had been house-keeper. The change had not been altogether pleasant for her, but she had submitted to it cheerfully, and it had done her good. She had become helpful and womanly in a way that would have delighted old Mrs Kerr’s heart to see. To her mother and her brothers she was “one of the children” still, but strangers were beginning to look upon her as a grown-up young lady, a good many years older than David or Jem.
To Jem, for whom his mother had feared most, the change had been altogether advantageous. He had come to Singleton with the avowed intention of going regularly to school, as his mother wished, for six months, and then he was going to seek his fortune. But six months passed, and the year came to an end, and Jem was still a pupil in the school of Mr Anstruther—a man among a thousand, Jem thought. He was a great mathematician, at any rate, and had a kind heart, and took interest and pleasure in the progress of one who, like himself, went to his work with a will, as Jem certainly did in these days.
Jem’s wish to please his mother brought him this reward, that he came to take great pleasure in his work, and all the more that he knew he was laying a good foundation for success in the profession which he had chosen, and in which he meant to excel. For Jem was going to be an engineer, and work with his hands and his head too; and though he had no more chances of shoeing horses now, he had, through a friend of his, many a good chance of handling iron, both hot and cold, in the great engine-house at the other side of the town. So Jem had made great advance toward manliness since they had come to Singleton.
Greater than David had made, some of the Gourlay people thought, who saw both the lads about this time. Even his mother thought so for a while. At least she thought that Jem had changed more than Davie, and more for the better. To be sure, there had been more need, for Davie had always been a sensible, well-behaved lad, and even the most charitable and kindly-disposed among the neighbours could not always say that of Jem. Davie was sensible and well-behaved still, but there was none of the children about whom the mother had at first so many anxious thoughts as about David.
To none of them had the father’s death changed everything so much as to him. Not that he had loved his father more than the others, but for the last year or two he had been more with him. Both his work and his recreation had been enjoyed with him, and all the good seemed gone from everything to him since his father died. His new work in Singleton was well done, and cheerfully, and the knowledge that he was for the time the chief bread-winner of the family, would have made him do any work cheerfully. But it was not congenial or satisfying work. For a time he had no well defined duty, but did what was to be done at the bidding of any one in the office, and often he was left irritable and exhausted after a day, over which he could look back with no pleasure because of anything that he had accomplished.
He could not fall back for recreation on his books, as his mother suggested. He tried it oftener than she knew, but the very sight of the familiar pages, over which he used to ponder with such interest, brought back the “study,” and the old happy days, and his father’s face and voice, and made him sick with longing for them all. There was no comfort to be got from his books at this time. Nor from anything else. The interest in which the little ones took in their new home and their new companions, Jem’s enthusiasm over his new master and his school work, Violet’s triumphs in her little house-keeping successes, filled him with wonder which was not always free from anger and contempt. Even his mother’s gentle cheerfulness was all read wrong by Davie. He said to himself that his father had been more to him than to the other children, and that he missed him more than they, but he could not say this of his mother; and daily seeing her patient sweetness, her constant care to turn the bright side of their changed life to her children, it seemed to him almost like indifference—like a willingness to forget. He hated himself for the thought, and shrunk from his mother’s eye, lest she should see it and hate him too.
But all this did not last very long. It must have come to an end soon, in one way or other, for youth grows impatient of sorrow, and lays it down at last, and thanks to his mother’s watchful care, it ended well for David.
He had no hay-loft to which he could betake himself in these days when he wished to be alone; but when he felt irritable and impatient, and could not help showing it among his brothers and sisters, he used to go out through the strip of grass and the willows into the dry bed of the shrunken stream that flowed beneath the two bridges, and sitting down on the large stones of which the abutment of the railroad bridge was made, have it out with himself by the bank of the river alone. And here his mother found him sitting one night, dull and moody, throwing sticks and stones into the water at his feet. She came upon him before he was aware.
“Mamma! you here? How did you come? On the track?”
“No; I followed you round by the willows and below the bridge. How quiet it is here!”
The high embankment of the railway on one side, and the river on the other, shut in the spot where David sat, and made it solitary enough to suit him in his moodiest moments, and his mother saw that he did not look half glad at her coming. But she took no notice. The great stones that made the edge of the abutment were arranged like steps of stairs, and she sat down a step or two above him.
“Did the sun set clear? Or were there clouds enough about to make a picture to-night?” asked she, after a little.
“Yes, it was clear, I think. At least not very cloudy. I hardly noticed,” said Davie, confusedly.
“I wish we could see the sun set from the house.”
“Yes, it is very pretty sometimes. When the days were at the longest, the sun set behind the highest part of the mountain just in a line with that tall elm on the other side of the river. It sets far to the left now.”
“Yes, the summer is wearing on,” said his mother. And so they went on talking of different things for a little while, and then there was silence.
“Mamma,” said David, by and by, “are you not afraid of taking cold? It is almost dark.”
“No. I have my thick shawl.” And moving down a step, she so arranged it that it fell over David too.
“Ah! never mind me. I am not so delicate as all that, mamma,” said David, laughing, but he did not throw the shawl off, but rather drew a little nearer, and leaned on her lap.
“See the evening star, mamma. I always think—”
David stopped suddenly.
“Of papa,” said his mother, softly.
“Yes, and of the many, many times we have seen it together. We always used to look for it coming home. Sometimes he saw it first, and sometimes I did; and oh! mamma, there don’t seem to be any good in anything now,” said he, with a breaking voice.
Instead of speaking, his mother passed her hand gently over his hair.
“Will it ever seem the same, mamma?”
“Never the same, Davie! never the same! We shall never see his face, nor hear his voice, nor clasp his hand again. We shall never wait for his coming home in all the years that are before us. It will never, never be the same.”
“Mamma! how can you bear it?”
“It was God’s will, and it is well with him, and I shall see him again,” said his mother, brokenly. But when she spoke in a minute her voice was clear and firm as ever.
“It will never be the same to any of us again. But you are wrong in one thing. All the good has not gone out of life because of our loss.”
“It seems so to me, mamma.”
“But it is not so. We have our work in the world just as before, and you have your preparation for it.”
“But I cannot make myself care for anything as I used to do.”
“There must be something wrong then, Davie, my boy.”
“Everything is wrong, I think, mamma.”
“If one thing is wrong, nothing can be right, David,” said his mother, stooping down and kissing him softly. “What did your father wish first for his son?”
“That I should be a good soldier of Jesus Christ. I know that, mamma.”
“And you have been forgetting this? That hast not changed, Davie.”
“No, mamma—but—I am so good for nothing. You don’t know—”
“Yes, I know. But then it is not one’s worth that is to be considered, dear. The more worthless and helpless we are, the more we need to be made His who is worthy. And Davie, what do we owe to ‘Him who loved us, and gave Himself for us?’”
“Ourselves, mamma, our life, our love—”
“And have you given Him these?”
“I don’t know, mamma.”
“And are you content not to know?”
“I am not content—but how am I to know, mamma,” said David, rising and kneeling down on the broad stone beside her. “May I tell you something? It was that night—at the very last—papa asked me if I was ready to put on the armour he was laying down; and I said yes; and, mamma, I meant it. I wished to do so, oh, so much!—but everything has been so miserable since then—”
“And don’t you wish it still, my son?”
“Mamma, I know there is nothing else that, is any good, but I cannot make myself care for it as I did then.”
“David,” said his mother, “do you love Jesus?”
“Yes, mamma, indeed I love Him. I know Him to be worthy of my love.”
“And you desire to be His servant to honour Him, and do His will?”
“Yes, mamma, if I only knew the way.”
“David, it was His will that papa should be taken from us; but you are angry at our loss.”
“Angry! oh, mamma!”
“You are not submissive under His will. You fail to have confidence in His love, or His wisdom, or in His care for you. You think that in taking him He has made a mistake or been unkind.”
“I know I am all wrong, mamma.”
“David, my boy, perhaps it is this which is standing between you and a full consecration to His service.”
And then she spoke to him of his father, and of his work, and how blessed he had been in it, and of the rest and reward to which he had gone.
“A little sooner than we would have chosen for our own sakes, Davie, but not too soon for him, or for his Master.”
A great deal more she said to him of the life that lay before him, and how he might help her and his brothers and sisters. Then she spoke of his work for Christ, and of his preparation for it, and how hopeful—nay, how sure she was, that happy and useful days were before him—all the more happy and useful because of the sorrow he had been passing through. “As one whom his mother comforteth,” came into David’s mind as he listened.
“And it is I who ought to be comforting you, mamma. I know I am all wrong—” said he, with tears.
“We will comfort one another. And indeed, it is my best comfort to comfort you. And, Davie, my love, we will begin anew.”
There was more said after that—of the work that lay ready at his hand, of how he was to take out his books again, lest he should fall back on his studies, and do discredit to his father’s teaching, and of how he was to help his brothers and sisters, especially Violet and Jem.
“Only, mamma, I think they have been getting on very well without me all this time,” said Davie, ruefully.
“Not so well as they will with you, however,” said his mother. “Everything will go better now.”
Everything did go better after that with David. His troubles were not over. His books gave him pain rather than pleasure, for a while, and it needed a struggle for him to interest himself in the plans and pursuits of Jem, and even of Violet. But he did not grow moody over his failures, and by and by there came to be some good in life to him again, and his mother’s heart was set at rest about him, for she began to hope that it was well with David in the best sense now.
During the first summer they saw very little of the Oswalds. They lived quite at the other end of the town, in a house very different from the “bridge house,” as their cottage was called, and for the greater part of the summer, the young people of the family had been away from home. But in the autumn it was so arranged that Violet at least, was to see a great deal of some of them. Mr Oswald had six children, four daughters and two sons. His eldest daughter Ame had been mistress of the house since her return from school, at the time of her mother’s death. This had happened several years ago. She was twenty-four years of age, very clever and fond of society. She was engaged to be married, but she did not intend to leave home immediately, from which indeed she could not easily have been spared. They had much company always, and she had a great deal to do in entertaining them, and led a very busy and, as she thought, a very useful life in her father’s house.
The next in age was Philip, but he was not at home. He was in his last year at M— University, and was to be home in the Spring. Selina came next. She was one year younger than Violet, and would fain have considered herself a grown-up young lady, and her education finished, if her father and sister had agreed. Then came Frank, who was not very strong, and whose eyes were still weak, and then Charlotte and Sarah, girls of ten and twelve. It was to teach these two that Violet was to go to Mr Oswald’s house.
Mrs Inglis felt that the proposal had been made by Mr Oswald quite as much with the thought of helping them as of benefiting his children, who had before this time gone to a day-school in the neighbourhood. But she did not refuse to let Violet go on that account. She believed her to be fitted for the work. She knew her to be gentle and affectionate, yet firm and conscientious, that she would be faithful in the performance of her duties towards the little girls, and that they would be the gainers in the end by the arrangement. And so it proved.
The first intention was that Violet should return home every night, but as the season advanced and the weather broke, the distance was found to be too great, and besides, Violet’s slumbering ambition was awakened by the proposal that she should share in the German and French lessons which Selina received from Professor Olendorf, and so she stayed in the house with her pupils, only going home on Friday night to spend the Sunday there.
She had very little share in the gay doings for which Miss Oswald was ambitious that her father’s house should be distinguished. For Miss Oswald had strong opinions as to the propriety of young girls like Violet and Selina keeping themselves to their lessons and their practising, and leading a quiet life, and so had her father. Even if he had not, it is likely that Miss Oswald’s opinion would have decided the matter. As it was, Selina became content to stay at home in Violet’s company when her sister went out, and Violet was more than content. She enjoyed her work both of teaching and learning, and the winter passed happily and profitably away.
Of course she was missed at home, but not painfully so. There were no pupils for her mother to teach in the winter. Ned went to school, and there was only Jessie to teach, and a good many of the lessons she received was in the way of household work, and she soon began to take pride and pleasure in it as Violet had done before.
And so the winter passed quietly and happily to them all. There was need for constant carefulness, for rigid economy even, but want never came near them. How to make the most of their small means, was a subject at this time much in Mrs Inglis’s thoughts. How to obtain the necessary amount of the simplest and most wholesome food, at the smallest cost, was a problem solved over and over again, with greater or less satisfaction, according to the circumstances at the moment. There was a certain amount of care and anxiety involved, but there was pleasure too, and all the more that they knew the exact amount of their means, and what they had “to come and go” upon.
They had some pleasant surprises in the shape of kind gifts of remembrance from Gourlay friends, gladly given and gladly received, less because of present necessities than because of old friendship. Want! no, it never came near them—never even threatened to come near them. When the winter was over, they could look back to what Jem called “a tight spot” or two in the matter of boots and firewood, but on nothing very serious after all.
The boots and the firewood were the worst things. No one can tell till she has really tried, how much beyond the natural turn of existence almost any garment may be made to last and wear to preserve an appearance of respectability by a judicious and persevering use of needle and thread. But boots, especially boys’ boots, are unmanageable in a woman’s hands, and, indeed, in any hands beyond a certain stage of dilapidation; and every one knows, that whatever else may be old, and patched, and shabby, good boots are absolutely indispensable to the keeping up of an appearance of respectability, and, indeed, one may say, with some difference, to the keeping of a lad’s self-respect. The boots were matters of serious consideration.
As to the firewood, there is a great difference as to the comfort to be got out of the same quantity of firewood, depending on the manner in which it is used, but even with the utmost care and economy, it will consume away, and in a country where during seven months of the year fires are needed, a great deal must consume away. Even more than the consideration given to the boots, the wood had to be considered, and it was all the more a matter of difficulty, as economy in that direction was a new necessity. Boots had always been a serious matter to the Inglises, but wood had been plentiful at Gourlay. However, there were boots enough, and wood enough, and to spare, and things that were vexing to endure, were only amusing to look back upon, and when Spring came, none of the Inglises looked back on the winter with regret, or forward to the summer with dread, and so their first year in Singleton came happily to an end.