The Inglises; Or, How the Way Opened

by Margaret M. Robertson

The parish of Gourlay was very much like other parishes, in regard to these matters. They were not a rich people. The salary of their minister was moderately liberal, considering their means, but it was scant enough considering the requirements of the minister’s family. It was not very regularly, nor very promptly paid; still, in one form or other, the stipulated amount generally found its way to the minister’s house in the course of the year. So that the donation visit was not made for the purpose of making up a deficiency in the salary agreed on, but rather as an acknowledgment on the part of some of the people that the salary agreed upon was not sufficient, and as a token of good-will on the part of all.

If it had occurred to the people to put their expression of good-will in the form of increased salary, it would doubtless have been more agreeable to Mr Inglis. Still, he knew that more could be done on an occasion of this kind, with less inconvenience to that part of the people who were most liberal, than could be done in the legitimate way of annual subscriptions, and he had, on the whole, sufficient confidence in their kindly feeling to prevent any very painful sense of obligation in receiving their gifts, and no expression of any such feeling was ever permitted to mar the enjoyment of the occasion, as far as the people were concerned. In short, the minister and his wife had come to consider the annual donation visit, as one of those circumstances in life out of which pain or pleasure may be gotten, according as they are made the worst or the best of by those most concerned; and as they had been making the best of them for a good many years now, they were justified in looking forward to a reasonable amount of enjoyment from this one.

As for the children, they did not think of anything but enjoyment in connection with it. To them the overturning of all things in the house, up-stairs and down, which was considered a necessary part of the preparations, was great fun. Some overturning was absolutely necessary for the entertainment of about a third more people than the house could conveniently hold. So there was the putting aside all brittle articles, the shoving of tables and bureaus into corners, the taking down of beds, and the arranging of seats over all the house. For all the house must be thrown open, and the result was confusion, certainly not so delightful to the mother as to the children. The prospect of the crowd was delightful to them, too, and so were the possibilities in the way of presents. Besides the staples, butter, cheese, flannel, oats, and Indian meal, there was a possibility of something particular and personal to every one of them—chickens, or mittens, or even a book. Once Jem had got a jack-knife, and David a year of “The Youth’s Companion.” Last year Violet had got a new dress from Mrs Smith, and Jem a pair of boots. Very good boots they had been—they were not bad yet, but the thought of them was not altogether agreeable to Jem. However nice the boots, the being reminded of the gift by Master Smith, and that before all the boys at school, and more than once, was not at all nice; and Jem had to look back with mingled shame and triumph on a slight passage of arms that had been intended to put an end to that sort of thing on Master Smith’s part. There was no danger, he thought, of getting any more boots from Mrs Smith, and all the people were not like her and her son.

Out of this trouble about the boots had arisen in Jem’s mind some serious misgivings as to the entire desirableness of donation visits. David and Violet had had them before, but they were not so ready to speak of these things as Jem was; or rather as Jem would have been if his conscience had been quite clear as regarded the matter of Master Smith.

“There would be no good in troubling mamma with it,” said Jem, and so there had been no exciting of one another by foolish talking; and, indeed, their misgivings had neither been of a depth nor of a nature to spoil the prospect of the visit to them. Great fun was anticipated as usual. Debby, though her sister was by no means well yet, came back to assist in the general confusion.

“There shall be no talk of ‘allowances’ this time,” said Debby; and cellar and garret, pantry, cupboard, and closet, were all put through such a process of purifying and arranging, that not the neatest house-keeper in Gourlay could have the least chance or excuse for hinting that any “allowances” were needed. Debby’s honour as a house-keeper was at stake, to say nothing of the honour of Mrs Inglis.

“It seems as natural as possible to get back to the old spot,” said Debby; “and I wish to goodness sister Serepta would get well, or do something else. I mean, I wish she would go and stay to Uncle Jason’s, or have Aunt Myra come and stay with her. I’m thankful your ma’s got along so far, without any of those shiftless Simmses or Martins in to help her. But she’s looking a kind of used up, ain’t she? And it beats all how your pa’s cold hangs on, don’t it?”

“Oh! papa is much better,” said David, eagerly, “and mamma is quite well. She is tired, but now you are here, she just lets things go, and rests. She knows it will be all right.”

“That’s so,” said Debby, “and she can’t do better.”

And, indeed, she could not. Her affairs were in good hands. Debby was “as smart as a trap,” and capable of anything in the way of house-keeping duties. And though not blessed with the mildest temper—people “as smart as traps” seldom are—she had the faculty of adapting herself to circumstances, and of identifying herself with the family in which she lived, in a way that stood in stead of a good deal. She was quite too smart for the patient endurance of the whims of a nervous invalid, and found positive refreshment in the present bustle and hurry, and was inclined not only to be agreeable, but confidential on the occasion.