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.