Chapter Seven.
Mr Oswald, Frank’s father, came home with them. He had been written to when Mr Inglis died, and had reached Gourlay the day before the funeral, but he had not stayed at their house, and they had hardly seen him till now. They were not likely to see much of him yet, for he was a man with much business and many cares, and almost the first words he said when he came into the house, were, that he must leave for home that night, or at the latest the next morning.
“And that means whatever you want to say to me, must be said at once, and the sooner the better,” said Miss Bethia, as she took Mrs Inglis’s heavy crape bonnet and laid it carefully in one of the deep drawers of the bureau in her room. “I haven’t the least doubt but I know what he ought to say, and what she ought to say, better than they know themselves. But that’s nothing. It ain’t the right one that’s put in the right spot, not more than once in ten times—at least it don’t look like it,” added she, with an uncomfortable feeling that if any one were to know her thoughts he might accuse her of casting some reflections on the Providential arrangement of affairs. “They don’t realise that I could help them any, and it will suit better if I leave them. So I’ll see if I can’t help Debby about getting tea.”
There was not much said for a time, however. Mrs Inglis evidently made a great effort to say something, and asked about Frank and the family generally, and then said something about his journey, and then about the sudden breaking-up of the winter roads. Mr Oswald felt it to be cruel to make her speak at all, and turned to the children.
“Which is Davie?” asked he, in a little.
David rose and came forward.
“I thought you had been older. Frank seemed to speak as if you were almost a man,” said he, holding out his hand.
“I am past fourteen,” said David.
“And are you ready for the university, as Frank thought, or is that a mistake of his, too?”
“Yes,” said David. “I am almost ready.”
“Oh! he was ready long ago,” said Jem, coming to the rescue. “Frank said he was reading the same books that his brother read in the second year.”
“Indeed!” said Mr Oswald, smiling at his eagerness. “And you are Jem? You are neither of you such giants as I gathered from Frank, but perhaps the mistake was mine. But when one hears of horse-shoeing and Homer—you know one thinks of young men.”
“And this is Violet, only we call her Letty; and this is Ned, and I am Jessie, and this is wee Polly,” said Jessie, a sturdy little maiden of eight, looking with her honest grey eyes straight into Mr Oswald’s face. He acknowledged her introduction by shaking hands with each as she named them.
“I find I have made another mistake,” said he. “I thought Letty was a little girl who always stood at the head of her class, and who could run races with her brothers, and gather nuts, and be as nice as a boy. That was Frank’s idea.”
“And so she can,” said Ned.
“And so she is,” said Jem.
“That was so long ago,” said Violet, in confusion.
It seemed ages ago to all the children.
“And Violet has grown a great deal since then,” said Jem. “And are Frank’s eyes better?”
“They are no worse. We hope they are better, but he cannot use them with pleasure, poor fellow.”
And so they went on talking together, till they were called to tea. Miss Bethia was quite right. He did not in the least know how to begin to say what he knew must be said before he went away.
After tea, the younger children went to bed, and Miss Bethia betook herself to the kitchen and Debby, thinking, to herself, it would be well for all concerned if it should fall to her to straighten out things after all; for Mr Oswald had been walking up and down the room in silence for the last half-hour, “looking as black as thunder,” Miss Bethia said, in confidence, to Debby, and no one else had spoken a word. It was a very painful half-hour to Mr Oswald. He had only begun his walk when it seemed to him impossible that he could sit and look at the pale, patient face and drooping figure of the widow a single moment more. For he was in a great strait. He was in almost the saddest position that a man not guilty of positive wrong can occupy. He was a poor man, supposed to be rich. For years, his income had scarcely sufficed for the expenses of his family; for the last year it had not sufficed. It was necessary for the success of his business, or, he supposed, it was necessary that he should be considered a rich man; and he had harassed himself and strained every nerve to keep up appearances, and now he was saying to himself that this new claim upon him could not possibly be met. He was not a hard man, though he had sometimes been called so. At this moment, his heart was very tender over the widow and her children; and it was the thought that, in strict justice, he had no right to do for them as he wished to do, that gave him so much pain. Waiting would not make it better, however, and in a little while he came and sat down by Mrs Inglis, and said:
“It seems cruel that I should expect you to speak about—anything to-night. But, indeed, it is quite necessary that I should return home to-morrow, and I might be able to advise you, if you would tell me your plans.”
But, as yet, Mrs Inglis had no plans.
“It came so suddenly,” said she, speaking with difficulty; “and—you are very kind.”
“Will you tell me just how your affairs stand? Unless there is some one else who can do it better, I will gladly help you in your arrangements for the future.”
There was no one else, and it was not at all difficult to tell him the state of their affairs. They were not at all involved. There were no debts. The rent of the house was paid till the next autumn; there were some arrears of salary, and Mrs Inglis had a claim on a minister’s widow’s fund in connection with the branch of the church to which her husband had belonged, but the sum mentioned as the possible annual amount she would receive was so small, that, in Mr Oswald’s mind, it counted for nothing. And that was all! Mr Oswald was amazed.
“Was there not something done at one time—about insuring your husband’s life?” asked he, gently.
“Yes; a good many years ago. He could not manage it then—nor since. Our income has never been large.” And she named the sum.
Mr Oswald rose suddenly, and began his walk about the room again. It was incredible! A scholar and a gentleman like his cousin to rest contented all these years with such a pittance! He knew that he had been earnest and full of zeal in the cause to which he had devoted his life—more than content. Valuing money for the sake of what it could do, he had yet envied no man who had more than fell to his lot. He must have known that his children must be left penniless! How could he have borne it?
“And how should I leave mine, if I were to die to-night?” said Mr Oswald to himself, with a groan. “I who have lived a life so different.”
He came and sat down again. But what could he say? Mrs Inglis spoke first.
“I have made no plans as yet. There has been no time. But I am not afraid. The way will open before us.”
“Yes, you must have good courage. And you will tell me in what way I can be of use to you.”
“You are very kind,” said Mrs Inglis, speaking quickly. “You may be sure I shall gladly avail myself of your advice. I am not afraid. My boys are strong and willing to work. We love one another, and there are worse things than poverty.”
“And, for the present, you will remain here at any rate. In a few weeks I shall see you again; and, in the meantime, you must permit me to supply anything you may require.”
“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 God’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 God 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 multitude 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 circumstances, 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 God 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 God 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 sunshine, 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 fashion, 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.