Winter came early this year. Even before November was out, the
sleigh-bells were merrily ringing through all the country, and during
December more snow fell than had fallen during that month at any time
within the memory of "the oldest inhabitant." And after the snow came
the wind, tossing it hither and thither, and piling up mountainous
drifts in the hollows through which the North Gore road passed, before
it crossed Hardscrabble hill. It piled it up on Hardscrabble, too, and
on all the hills, so that even if Mr Inglis had been quite well, he
could hardly have made it the busiest season of the year in the way of
visiting his parishioners, as it was his custom to do.
For usually, at this time, the farmers may enjoy something besides work,
the busy season being over; and usually, too, the new farms and back
settlements are easy of access, when the ground is frozen and just
enough of snow has fallen to cover the roughness of the way. But this
year, too much snow had fallen, so that for weeks, there were in some
places, no roads at all; and over others, what with the drifts, and what
with the difficulty in the sleighs passing one another where the roads
were narrow, it would not have been pleasant, or even safe, to go. Mr
Inglis would have tried it, doubtless, if he had been quite well, but
the cold he had taken on the stormy night when old Mr Bent died, had
never quite left him. He did not call himself ill, though his nights
were restless, and his days languid, and if the weather had been fine,
he would have gone out as usual; but the snow that had fallen, and was
still falling, and the wind that roared and whistled, as it piled it up
in the hollows and on the hill-sides, helped to make him content to stay
at home and rest.
It was rest he needed. He was not ill--only tired, so tired that he did
not care during this time of leisure, to pursue the studies that he
loved so well, and, for the most part, David read to him. These were
happy days to David. Generally in the quiet afternoons, when the
children were at school, they were down-stairs in mamma's room, and
mamma listened to the reading, too, with little Mary playing out and in
of the room beside them. But on the long evenings they usually sat
up-stairs in the study, with mamma coming up to see them only now and
then. Sometimes there was no reading, and David went on with his
lessons as usual, while his father lay on the sofa with closed eyes,
thinking over the wonderful truths he wished to speak to the people when
the Sabbath came round again.
Sometimes when the children, and even the mother, weary with the day's
cares and labours, had gone to rest, David sat with his father far into
the night. A prey to the restless wakefulness which, for the time,
seems worse to bear than positive illness, Mr Inglis dreaded his bed,
and David was only too glad to be allowed to sit with him. Sometimes he
read to him, but oftener they talked, and David heard a great many
things about his father's life, that he never would have heard but for
this time. His father told him about his early home, and his brothers
and sisters, and their youthful joys and sorrows--how dearly they had
loved one another, and how he had mourned their loss. He told him about
his mamma in her girlhood, as she was when he first knew her, how they
had loved one another, and how she had blessed all his life till now,
and nothing that his father told him filled David's heart with such
wonder and pleasure, as did this. And when he added, one night, that to
him--her first-born son--his mother must always trust, as her strength
and "right hand," he could only find voice to say "Of course, papa," for
the joyful throbbing of his heart. David used to tell Violet and Jem
some things that his father spoke about, at such times, but this he
never told. He mused over it often in the dark, with smiles and happy
tears upon his face, and told himself that his mother's strength and
"right hand," he would ever be, but it never came into his mind that the
time might be drawing near which was to give significance to his
father's words.
And so the last weeks of the year passed slowly away. Mr Inglis
preached on Sunday as usual, every Sunday at the village, and every
alternate Sunday at the Mills and at North Gore. He was quite able to
do it, he thought, and though he had restless nights and languid days
still, he called himself much better at the beginning of the year, and
everything went on as usual in the house. In the village there began to
be whispers that it was time for the annual "Donation Visit" to the
minister's family, and certain worthy and wise people, upon whom much of
the prosperity of the town was supposed to depend, laid their heads
together to consult as to how this visit might be made successful in
every respect--a visit to be remembered beyond all other visits, for the
pleasure and profit it was to bring. But before this--before the old
year had come to an end, something else had happened--something that was
considered a great event in the Inglis family. They had had several
letters from Frank Oswald since his going home, but one day there came a
parcel as well, and this, when opened, was found to contain a good many
things which were to be accepted by the young Inglises as Christmas
gifts. These were very nice, and very satisfactory, as a general thing,
but they need not be specified. That which gave more satisfaction to
each than all the other things put together, was marked, "With Frank's
love to Aunt Mary." And if he had searched through all the city for a
gift, he could have found nothing that would have pleased her half so
well. For added to her pleasure in receiving was the better pleasure of
giving. The present was what she had been wishing for two or three
winters past--a fur coat for her husband. It was not a very handsome
coat. That is, it was not one of those costly garments, which sometimes
rich men purchase and wear, quite as much for appearance as for comfort.
It was the best of its kind, however; well made and impervious to the
cold, if a coat could be made so; and when papa put it on and buttoned
it round him, there were many exclamations of admiration and delight.
"We need not be afraid of Hardscrabble winds any more, papa," said
David.
"I should think not. `Blow winds and crack your cheeks,'" said Jem,
laughing.
Little Mary was more than half inclined to be afraid of her papa in his
unaccustomed garb, but Ned laughed at her, and made her look at Violet,
who was passing her hand over the soft fur, caressing it as if she loved
it; and Jessie made them all laugh by telling them that when she became
a rich woman, she meant to send a fur coat to all the ministers.
It is possible that some young people, and even some people not young,
may smile, and be a little contemptuous over the idea of so much
interest and delight in so small a matter. It can only be said of them,
that there are some things happening every day in the world, that such
people don't know of, and cannot be supposed to understand. That a good
woman should have to plan and wait one season, and then another, for the
garment much desired--absolutely necessary for the health and comfort of
her husband, need not surprise any one. It has happened to other than
ministers' wives many a time, I suppose. I know it has happened to some
of _them_. It happened once, certainly, in the experience of Mrs
Inglis, and her delight in Frank's present was as real, though not so
freely expressed, as was that of her children. It came with less of
drawback than usually comes with the receiving of such a present. It
came from one whom they believed quite able to give it, and from one
whom they knew to be speaking the thought of his heart, when he said
that the pleasure of his son Frank--whose present he wished it to be
considered--was greater in giving it than theirs could possibly be in
receiving it. Then there were thanks for their kindness to his boy, and
hopes expressed that the two families would come to know more of each
other in the future than had seemed possible in the past, and,
altogether, it was a nice letter to send and to receive in the
circumstances.
But few pleasures are quite unmixed in this world. Even while Mrs
Inglis was rejoicing over her husband's future comfort, and the removal
of her own anxiety with regard to it, she could not but say to herself,
as she watched his flushed face and languid movements, "If it had only
come a little sooner!" But she did not spoil the enjoyment of the rest
by uttering her thoughts. Indeed, she was displeased with herself,
calling herself unthankful and unduly anxious, and sought with
earnestness to put them out of her mind.
There was something else in the letter sent by Mr Oswald, which, for
the present, the father and mother did not think it necessary to discuss
with the children. This was the offer made to them for David, of the
situation as junior clerk in the bank of which Mr Oswald was managing
director. There was no immediate necessity of deciding about the
matter, as the place would not be vacant till spring, and the father and
mother determined to take time to look at the matter in all its lights,
before they said anything about it to David. He was already nearly
fitted to enter the university, and they hoped that some time or other,
means would be found to send him there; but he was too young to enter at
once, and, also, he was too young and boyish-looking, to hope for a long
time yet to be able to earn means to help himself, as so many students
are able to do, by teaching in the public schools. So it seemed likely
that this situation might be the very thing they could wish for him for
the next few years. However, there were many things to be considered
with regard to it. It might unsettle him from his eager pursuit of his
studies, and from the cheerful doing of his other duties, were anything
to be said about his leaving home just now. So they were silent, and
the old year went out, and the new year came in, and everything went on
as usual, till the time for the donation visit drew near.
Donation visits ought to be pleasant occasions to all concerned, for we
have the very highest authority as to the blessedness of giving, and
only mean and churlish natures will refuse to accept graciously what is
graciously bestowed. That they often fail to be so, arises less
frequently from the lack of "graciousness" on the part of either pastor
or people, than from the fact that the principle on which they are often
undertaken is a mistaken one--the design to thus supplement some
acknowledged deficiency in the matter of the minister's salary. It
often happens that the people regard as a gift, what their pastor and
his family accept as their right, and thus both parties are defrauded of
the mutual benefits which are the result of obligations cheerfully
conferred and gratefully received.
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.
"It's to be hoped it will amount to something this time," said she.
"All this fuss and worry ought not to go for nothing, that's a fact. It
would suit better all round, if they'd pay your pa at first, and have
done with it. I don't believe in presents myself--not till folks' debts
are paid at any rate," said Debby, looking at the subject from the
minister's family's point of view. "But I ain't going to begin on that.
Miss Bethia--she's been letting in the light on some folks' mind, but
as this visit has got to be, I only hope we'll get enough to pay us for
our trouble; and I wish it were well over."
The eventful evening came at last. It would be quite impossible to give
here a full and clear account of all that was said and done, and given
and received that night. It was a very successful visit, whether
considered socially, or with reference to the results in the way of
donations. Afterwards--a good while afterwards--they all used to think
and speak of it as a delightful visit indeed. It was not without its
little drawbacks, but on the whole, it was a delightful visit even at
the time, and afterwards all drawbacks were forgotten. Jem had a little
encounter with Mrs Smith, which he did not enjoy much at the moment,
but which did not spoil the remembrance of it to him. She did not seem
to resent his conduct about the boots. On the contrary, she placed him
under still further obligations to her by presenting him with the
"makings" of a jacket, which Jem accepted shamefacedly, but still
gratefully enough, quite forgetting the dignified resolution he had
confided to David, to decline all further favours from her with thanks.
David enjoyed the evening for the same reasons that all the rest enjoyed
it, and so did Violet, and for another reason besides. For the very
first time, she was spoken to, and treated as if she were a grown-up
young lady, and a little girl no longer. This was delightful to Violet,
who, though she was nearly sixteen, was small of her age, and had always
been one of the children like all the rest. It was old Mrs Kerr, from
the Gore Corner, who spoke to her about it first.
"A great help you must be to your mother with the house-keeping, and
with the children and all," said that nice old lady. "It's a fine thing
to have a grown-up daughter in the house. Only the chances are you'll
just go and leave her, as mine have done."
Violet smiled, and blushed, and was conscience-stricken, not at the
thought of going away to leave her mother one day, as Mrs Kerr's
daughters had done, but because she knew she had never really been much
help to her mother either at the sewing or the house-keeping--not half
so much as Davie had been since Debby went away. For Letty was very
fond of her books, and, indeed, her duty as well as her inclination had
encouraged her devotion to them, at least until lately; but she was
inclined to confess her faults to the old lady, lest she should think of
her what was not true.
"Never mind. It will come in good time. And there's small blame to you
for liking the books best, since you're your father's child, as well as
your mother's," said Mrs Kerr, kindly. "And, indeed, they say folk can
make hard work at the books, as well as at other things, and there's no
fear of you, with your mother to teach you the other things, and you
growing so womanly and big withal."
It was a very successful visit in every way. There never had been so
many people present on such an occasion before; there never had been so
many nice things brought and eaten. The coffee was good, and so was the
tea, and the singing. The young people had a good time together, and so
had the old people. The donations were of greater value than usual, and
when he presented the money part of it to Mr Inglis, Mr Spry made a
speech, which would have been very good "if he had known when he had
done, and stopped," Debby said, and the rest thought it was not bad as
it was. And the minister certainly made a good speech when he received
it.
He did not use many words in thanking the people for their gifts, but
they were just the right words, and "touched the spot," Debby said to
Miss Bethia, who agreed. And then he went on to say what proved to
these two, and to them all, that there was something for which he cared
more than he cared for what they had to give. And they all remembered
afterwards, though no one missed them at the time, that the few playful
words that he was wont to address to the young men and maidens of the
congregation on such occasions, were not spoken, but the words he did
speak to them were such as some of them will never forget while they
live.
It was all over at last, and the tired household was left to rest, and
they awoke to a comfortless house next day. The boys helped to take out
the boards and benches that had been used as seats, and to move back to
their places the furniture that had been removed, and then the children
went to school. Violet offered to stay at home and help to arrange the
house, but Debby declared herself equal to the clearing up, and was not
complimentary in her remarks as to her skill and ability in such
matters, so Letty, nothing loth, went away with the rest. It was an
uncomfortable day. Mr Inglis had taken more cold, at least his cough
was worse, and he stayed up-stairs in his study, and David was glad when
the time came that he could stay there too. However, there came order
out of the confusion at last. It was a good job well over, Debby
declared, and all agreed with her.
"I hate to go as bad as you hate to have me," said she, in answer to
Letty's lamentations over her departure. "I don't know but your mother
had better have one of those shiftless Simmses than nobody at all.
There's considerable many steps to be taken in this house, as nobody
knows better than me; and I hadn't the responsibility of mother's
meetings, and worrying over your pa, as she has. If I were you, I'd
take right hold and help, and never mind about going to school, and
examination, and such, for your ma's got more than she ought to do. I
must try and doctor Serepta up, so as to get back again, or there'll be
something to pay. Well, good-bye! I'll be down next week, if I can fix
it so, to see how you're getting along."
Letty stood looking after her disconsolately. To stay at home from
school, and give up all thoughts of prizes at the coming examination,
were among the last things she would like to do, to say nothing of the
distasteful housework. Still, if her mother needed her, she ought to do
it, and she made up her mind to do it cheerfully if it must be. But she
did not need to do it. It was of more importance that she should get on
with her studies, so as to be ready to do her duty as a teacher by and
by, than that she should help at home just now, her mother thought, and
so for a few weeks longer, everything went on as before.
David helped his mother still, doing with skill and success a great many
things which at first he had not liked to do at all. He did not get on
with his studies as he would have wished, partly because he had less
time than usual, and partly because his father was less able to interest
himself in what he was doing. David sometimes grumbled a little to Jem
about it, because he feared he should not find himself so far before Ned
Hunter at the end of the year, as he wished to be; and once he said
something of the kind to his mother. But that was a very small matter,
in her opinion.
"For after all, Davie, my boy, the Greek, and Latin, and mathematics you
are so eager for, are chiefly valuable to you as a means of discipline--
as a means of preparing you for the work that is before you in the
world. And I am not sure but that the discipline of little cares and
uncongenial work that has come upon you this winter, may answer the
purpose quite as well. At any rate, the wish to get on with your
studies for the sake of excelling Ned Hunter, is not very creditable."
"No, mamma. But still I think it is worth something to be able to keep
up with one who has had so much money spent on him, at the best schools,
and I here at home all the time. Don't you think so, mamma?"
"Well!--perhaps so. But the advantages are not all on Ned's side. Your
father's help and interest in all you have been doing, has been worth
more to you than any school could have been."
"That's true, mamma," said Davie, heartily. "And it is not like having
lessons--tasks, I mean--to study with papa. It is pure pleasure. And
that is more than Ned can say, I am afraid," added he, laughing.
"And, besides, I don't think these things would have troubled you much
under any circumstances; and, as I said before, the self-denial you have
had to exercise, may be better for you than even success in your studies
would be."
"Self-denial, mamma! Why, I think we have had a very happy winter, so
far!"
"Indeed, we have! even with some things that we might have wished
different. And, Davie, you must not think you have been losing time. A
boy cannot be losing time, who is being a comfort to his father and
mother. And self-denial is a better thing to learn even than Greek. If
you live long, you will have more use for the one than for the other, I
have no doubt."
David laughed, and blushed with pleasure at his mother's words.
"I am glad that you think so--I mean that I have been a comfort. But as
for the self-denial, I don't believe any of the boys have had a better
time than I have had this winter. If papa were only well! But he is
better now, mamma?"
"Yes; I hope so. If it were May instead of January, I should not be
afraid."
"Have you been afraid, mamma? Are you afraid?" asked David, startled.
"No--not really afraid, only anxious, and, indeed, I am becoming less so
every day."
And there seemed less cause. Wrapped in his wonderful coat of fur and
driven by David, the minister went here and there among his people, just
as usual, and had a great deal of satisfaction in it, and was not more
tired at such times than he had often been before. He preached on
Sunday always at the village, and generally at his other stations as
well, and David might well say these were happy days.
Yes, they were happy days, and long to be remembered, because of the
sorrowful days that came after them. Not but that the sorrowful days
were happy days, too, in one sense; at least, they were days which
neither David nor his mother would be willing ever to forget.
Young people do not like to hear of sorrowful days, and sometimes think
and say, that at least all such should be left out of books. I should
say so, too, if they could also be kept out of one's life, but sorrowful
days will not be kept away by trying to forget them. And besides, life
itself would not be better by their being left out, for out of such have
come, to many a one, the best and most enduring of blessings. It does
not need any words of mine to prove that God does not send them in anger
to his people, but in love. We have His own word for that, repeated
again and again. And if we did but know it, there are many days to
which we look forward--which we hail with joyful welcome, of which we
have more cause to be afraid, than of the days of trouble that are sent
us by God.