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.