And were they not glad to see David in Gourlay? Almost always something
happens to mar, a little, the pleasure of a surprise that has been
planned beforehand; but nothing happened to mar David's. He travelled
to Gourlay in a late train; and as he went up the familiar road, and saw
the lights gleaming through the trees, as he had seen them so often in
the old days, a great many thoughts crowded upon him, and, if the truth
must be told, there were tears in his eyes and on his cheeks, too, when
he opened the door and went in among them.
They were all there. Even little Polly, by some happy chance, was up at
the unusual hour. Was there ever music so sweet, as the glad cry that
greeted him? There were tears on more cheeks than David's; but his
mother did not ask if his trouble was over; she knew by his face,--
though it was wet,--that he was at peace with himself, and troubles from
without, do not hurt much, when the heart's peace is undisturbed. The
words that rose to Violet's lips were kept back, as she looked from her
mother's face to David's. But Frank could see nobody's face, and his
own was very pale and anxious, as he listened to the happy tumult of
voices around him.
"Has Philip come home?" asked he, after a little. "Did he get my
letter? Is it all right, Davie?"
David laughed.
"Oh, yes! it's all right. He got your letter, but I am afraid he
couldn't read it very well. It brought him home a fortnight sooner than
he meant to come, however."
"And is it all right?" asked Frank, anxiously.
"All right! Only I am afraid he will be sorry he came, for he has taken
my place in the office for ten days at least, and he will be very sick
of it before that time is over. Oh, yes! it is all right as right can
be. Mamma, you were right. I need never have fretted, about it at all.
But Philip has something to say to you, Frank, and to Violet," added
David, laughing a little at the remembrance of his last glimpse of
Philip's astonished face.
But there was no more said then. Of course, the story of David's
troubled summer was all told afterwards, to his mother first, and then
to Frank and Violet. It was told to his mother before he slept, when
she went to say "good-night" and take his lamp, as she used to do, long
ago, in that very room. If David had had to tell the story of Mr
Oswald's suspicions, before Philip's return had proved their injustice,
he might have grown angry as he went on with it, and indulged in bitter
words, as he had sometimes indulged in bitter thoughts. He had no
temptation now to do this, and he did not seek to conceal from her how
angry he had been at first, and how faithless and unhappy afterwards.
He ended by giving Mr Caldwell's message to her, "that he had borne his
trouble not so ill," and his mother agreed with Mr Caldwell, though she
said less than she felt with regard to the whole matter.
"You should have written to me, Davie," said she.
"I wished you were there a thousand times, mamma, but I thought it would
only make you unhappy to know about my trouble, since you couldn't help
it. And for a long time there was nothing to tell. When I got your
letter, after Violet came, I was sorry I hadn't told you before."
There was a good deal more said before Mrs Inglis went down-stairs, but
not much more about this matter. Sitting in the dark, with now and then
a quiver in her voice, and tears on her cheeks, the mother told her son
how it had been with her since they parted. The coming back to the old
home and to her husband's grave had not been altogether sorrowful.
Indeed, after the very first, it had been more joyful than sorrowful.
"The memory of the just is blessed."
"They rest from their labours, and their works do follow them." How
clear this had been made to her during these days! The results of her
husband's teaching and influence and example were visible now, as they
had not been in former days. That which then had been as the hidden
seed, or the shooting germ, had in some lives sprung up to blossom, or
bear fruit an hundred fold. She told David of one and another who had
spoken to her of his father, blessing his memory, because of what he had
done for them and theirs, in the service of his Master, and then she
said--
"It is the only true and worthy life, Davie--a life of work for the
Master. Is it to be yours, my boy?"
"Yes, mamma. In one way or another, it is to be mine. Whether it is to
be as papa's was, I cannot tell."
"That may come, dear. It is so blessed to feel that our times are in
His hands. It would be great happiness to know that my son might give
himself to the work of preaching the Gospel as his father did. But that
must be as God wills. You may be his soldier and servant, whatever may
be your calling; but we gave you to His work as soon as He gave you to
us, and I pray God you may yet stand in your father's place."
"A soldier of Christ--to gird on the armour that my father has laid
down," said David, softly. "I _do_ wish it, mamma, if only it might be.
But it must be a long time first."
"Who knows? And it does not matter whether the time may be long or
sort, if it is God's time. And all your life till it comes may be made
a preparation."
It was not often that Mrs Inglis spoke on this subject to her son. She
had not done so more than once or twice since his father died. But it
was, as she told him, the cherished wish of her heart, and the burden of
her prayers for him that he should live and die in the work that had
been his father's. The fulfillment of her hope did not seem very near,
or possible, but David was young and she could wait, and, in the
meantime, it was her pleasure and her duty to encourage him.
Afterwards, when David looked back on this time, it was of his mother
and these quiet talks with her that he always thought. Not that these
two had much of these pleasant weeks to themselves or many opportunities
to indulge in conversation which all could not share. Once they went to
the North Gore together, and oh, how vividly came back to David the many
times which during the last year of his father's life he had gone there
with him! The memories awakened were sad, but they were sweet, for all
the bitterness had gone out of his grief for his father, and he told his
mother many things about those drives, and of all his father had said,
and of the thoughts and feelings his words had stirred in his heart.
And she had some things to tell as well.
Once they lingered behind the others on their way home from church, and
turned aside into the grave-yard for a little while. The moonlight was
brightening in the east, and the evening star shone clear in the west,
and in the soft uncertain light, the white grave-stones, and the waving
trees, and the whole place looked strangely beautiful and peaceful to
the boy's eyes. There were not many words spoken. There was no need of
many words between these two. In the heart of the widow, as she sat
there in the spot dearest to her on earth, because of the precious dust
it held, was no forgetfulness of past sorrow, but there was that perfect
submission to God's will, which is the highest and most enduring
happiness. There was trust for the future, such as left no room for
doubt or for discouragement; and so there was peace for the present,
which is better than happiness. She did not speak of all this to David,
but he knew by many tokens what was passing in her heart, and he shared
both the sadness and the gladness of the peaceful hour.
There was a great deal of enjoyment of another kind crowded into the
time of David's stay in Gourlay. There was only one thing to regret,
and that was the absence of Jem. There were few familiar faces or
places that he did not see. Sometimes Frank went with him, and
sometimes Violet, and sometimes they all went together, but neither
Frank nor Violet quite filled Jem's place to his brother. Though David
had generally been regarded as much wiser and steadier than his brother,
when they lived in Gourlay, they had had enough interests and amusements
and tastes in common to make David miss him and regret him at every
turn. And he missed him and wished for him all the more that he himself
was regarded and treated by the people now as a man of business and a
person of consideration. Of course, he could not object to the respect
and deference shown to him in this character, but they were sometimes
embarrassing, and sometimes they interfered with his plans for passing
his much prized holiday. Jem would have made all things right, David
thought, and it would have been far more agreeable to follow his
leadership in the way of seeking amusement, as he used to do, than to
have to sustain his reputation for gravity and steadiness among his
elders. Still they all enjoyed these weeks thoroughly, though not in
the way they would have done in Jem's company.
Miss Bethia was paying a visit to a friend in a neighbouring town when
David first came to Gourlay, which was upon the whole a circumstance not
to be regretted, he thought, as they had a few days to themselves just
at first. He was very glad to see her, when she came, however, and she
was as glad to see him. Of course, she manifested her interest in him
in the old way, by giving him good advice, and reminding him of his
privileges, but to his mother she very decidedly signified her approval
of him, and her satisfaction in regard to his walk and conversation
generally, and spoke of his future profession--of his entering upon his
father's work, as if it were a settled matter accepted by them all. But
David was shy of responding to her expressions of interest on this
subject. It was one thing to speak to his mother of his hopes, and
quite another to listen to Miss Bethia's plans and suggestions,
especially as she did not confine the discussion to themselves, but
claimed the sympathy and congratulations of friends and neighbours, in
view of his future work and usefulness.
They did not fall out about it, however, and there was one matter of
interest and discussion which they enjoyed entirely. This was the
minister's much valued library. It was to be David's at some future
time. That was quite settled, and in the meantime it had to be looked
over and dusted and re-arranged, or rather arranged exactly as it had
been left, and David handled the books "just as his father used to do,"
Miss Bethia said, "just as if he liked the feel of them in his hands,"
which he doubtless did. He liked them altogether, and no day of that
happy month passed without at least one hour passed in the quiet of his
father's study.
David's coming home was especially good for Frank. He had been more
anxious and unhappy about David's affairs than he had confessed, and
about Philip's possible share in them--more anxious than he was able to
believe possible, after he had talked it all over with David and Violet.
That he had been really afraid that Philip had done any wrong, he would
not allow to himself. To the others he never spoke of what his fears
had been. But it was a great relief and satisfaction that it was all
past, and no one worse for it, and as far as Frank was concerned, there
was nothing to interfere with the enjoyment of the days as they passed.
There had been one thing very terrible to him before he came to Gourlay
to tell it to Aunt Mary--the fear of blindness. It had been all the
worse for him at home, because he never spoke of his fears there--no one
could bear to think of anything so sad, and fears brooded over in
silence increase in power. But he could speak of it to Mrs Inglis, and
the mere telling his fears had done something to allay them. Mrs
Inglis's judicious words did more. It was foolish and wrong, she said,
to go half way to meet so great a trouble. And since the physicians all
declared that only time and an improved state of health were needed to
restore perfectly his sight, to wait patiently and hopefully was his
duty.
It was easier for him to do so than it had been at home, and something
better than patient waiting, better even than the hope of fully restored
sight, came to Frank as the summer days went on. He and David enjoyed
much, after the manner of lads of their age, in the agreeable
circumstances in which they were placed; but their chief enjoyment was
of a kind which lads of their age do not usually prize very much.
David was boyish in many ways still, but the discipline of the last two
years had wrought well with him, and Frank saw a great difference in him
in one respect, at least. He had always been thoughtful, and he had
always been earnest in the grave discussions into which they had
sometimes fallen during his first visit, but there was this difference
in him now, Frank saw. He spoke now, not doubtfully and wistfully as
they all used to do, about "the whole armour" and the Christian's
"weapons" and "warfare," but with firmness and assurance, as of
something with which he had to do; and, though he said little about
himself at such times, it gradually became clear to Frank that David was
no longer his own--that his name had been enrolled among the names of
those whose honour and glory it is that they are the soldiers of the
Lord Jesus.
It sometimes happens that young persons who have been carelessly brought
up, or whose religious teaching has been merely formal, have less
hesitation in speaking about personal religion than others who have had
their consciences, if not their hearts, touched by the earnest and
loving appeals of those who watch for their souls as they who must give
account. And so, when David, sometimes unconsciously, and sometimes
with intention, made it clear to him how the aim and purpose of his life
were changed, and how he longed and meant to live in future as the
servant and soldier of Christ, Frank listened and questioned with
interest. And when David went further, and ventured on a gentle word or
two of entreaty or counsel to him personally, he not only listened
patiently, but responded frankly to all. And it was not always David
who was first to turn the conversation to serious subjects. Frank had
never forgotten the lessons learned during his first visit. He had
often, in his own mind, compared the life his father was living with the
life Mr Inglis had lived, and he did not think his father's life was
the wisest or the happiest. "Labour for that which satisfieth not,"
told best the story of his father's life to him. He had thought that
often during the last year, for he knew a little of his sister's
exacting demands, of his brother's careless expenditure, and of the
anxieties which troubled his father's days and nights because of them,
and because of other things. And now, when in Gourlay he heard of the
fruit already gathered and still to gather from the good seed sown in
past years by the minister, he thought it still the more. Even for this
life, the minister had had the best portion. True, he had lived and
died a poor man; but, to Frank, it seemed that more was to be enjoyed in
such poverty than ever his father had enjoyed from his wealth.
Frank had many unhappy thoughts about his father and the rest, and some
about himself. For himself and for them he desired nothing so much as
that they might all learn the secret of perfect contentment which Mr
Inglis had known, which made Mrs Inglis cheerful and not afraid, though
there was little between her and utter poverty--the secret which David
knew and Violet. And so, when David, in his not very assured way, spoke
to him of the true riches, and of how they were to be obtained, he was
more than willing to listen, and pleased and surprised his friend by his
eagerness to learn.
It was with no design or expectation of teaching on David's part, but it
happened because they both cared about those things, that whenever they
were alone together--on their way to or from any of their many
visiting-places, or in the fields or woods, or while sailing on the
river, the conversation almost always turned on graver matters than
young lads usually care to discuss. It was often the same when Violet
was with them or the mother, and Frank had reason to remember this time;
for out of all these earnest talks and happy influences, there sprang up
in his heart a strong desire to be, as they were, a follower of Christ--
a wish to give himself to Him and to His service--to be His in life and
His in death. And by and by the desire was granted. He who never
refuses to receive those who come to Him in sincerity, received him, and
henceforth he and David were more than friends--they were brothers, by a
bond stronger than that of blood, being joined in heart to Him, of whom
it is said, "He is not ashamed to call" His people "brethren."
Philip did not come to Gourlay, though an invitation was sent him by
Mrs Inglis, and accepted by him. He was very busy in the office in
David's absence, he wrote, but he would avail himself of the first
leisure to come to them. He did not come, however, and they could only
suppose that he was too useful in the office to be spared. They were
very sorry, of course, for his sake and theirs, but the days passed
happily with them. The time to leave came only too soon. Mrs Inglis
decided that it would be better for them all to return to Singleton
together, as the autumn days were becoming short, and it was time to be
thinking of winter arrangements in many things.
The last night came. It was not a night like the last one of Frank's
former visit; but Frank was reminded of that night all the same.
Instead of the rain, and wind, and sleet, that had made that night so
dismal without, and the lights and the fire so pleasant within, there
was a cloudless sky, flooded with the light of the harvest moon, and the
air was so still that it did not stir the leaves of the trees beneath
which they lingered. And yet Frank was in some way reminded of the
night when they read about Hobab, and waited so long for Mr Inglis to
come home. David must have been reminded of it, too, for, by and by,
they heard him speaking to Miss Bethia of old Tim, and about his going
with his father when he preached his funeral sermon at the North Gore.
"And an excellent sermon it was," said Miss Bethia. "Don't you remember
telling me about it that night when I was helping Letty to do the week's
ironing when Debby was away?"
"Yes," said David, laughing a little, "I remember it quite well." But,
he added, gravely in a minute, "I think that must have been the very
last time my father preached when he was quite well."
"I am afraid he was not quite well then," said Miss Bethia, "though the
sermon was good enough to have been his last. The night you repeated it
to me was the first time I thought you had better be a minister. You
might tell it over now, if you haven't forgotten it."
David said to himself that he would be past remembering most things when
he should forget what his father had said that day, and all that grew
out of it. But he did not tell Miss Bethia so. He would not speak of
the sermon, however--he would not go over it as a mere trial of memory;
and, besides, it was not to be supposed that the children would listen
patiently on this last night, when there was so much to be said. So,
after that, the talk was mostly left to the little ones, and wandered
away in various directions. Sometimes it was guided past week-day
subjects by the mother, and sometimes it was gently checked, but, for
the most part, this was not needed. The feeling that it was the last
night was on them, and they were very quiet and a little sad.
Miss Bethia was sad, too, and said little. She did not so far forget
her duty as to omit her usual words of caution and counsel to each and
all; but she did not mete it with her usual decision, and very nearly
broke down in the middle of it.
"Aunt Bethia, why don't you come home with us?" said Polly. "Mamma, why
don't you ask Aunt Bethia to come home and stay with us till next
summer?"
"Where should we put her? There is no room in our house," said the
practical Jessie, before her mother could answer.
"That's so," said Miss Bethia. "Old as I have got to be, there ain't
room for me in anybody's house but my own. I guess Debby and I will
have to get along the best way we can till next summer, and then you
must all come back again."
"We don't know what may happen before next year," said Jessie.
"And it is no good making plans so far ahead," said Ned.
"And we shall hope to see Miss Bethia before summer, and then we can
make our plans. Our house is not very large, Aunt Bethia, but there
will always be room enough in it for such a friend as you have been to
us all."
"And you have promised to come, Aunt Bethia," said Violet.
"If all is well," said Miss Bethia, gravely.
"But we are poor creatures, at the best, as I don't need to tell you;
and I don't feel as if I could count on much time or strength for my
part. But it ain't best to worry."
"We have had a good time here this summer, whether we come again or
not," said Sarah Oswald. "I would like to stay here all winter, if
Violet would stay too. It would be a great deal pleasanter than going
back to Aunt Livy."
"Only it is not quite the right thing to say so, Sally," said Frank.
"It would be pleasant to stay for some things," said Violet. "But I am
glad we are going home now. We shall come again in the summer, if Aunt
Bethia will have us."
"You are glad you came, mamma?" said David.
"Very glad. It has been a happy summer to us all. The leaving you
alone was the only thing to be regretted; but I don't think you are
really the worse for being left."
"No," said David, with a long breath. "But I am very glad we are all
going home together. I only wish Aunt Bethia was not going to be left
behind."
In her heart Miss Bethia knew that it was quite as well for all
concerned that she was to be left behind, still it pleased her to hear
David's wish. She had had a pleasant summer as well as the rest; but
she was not so strong as she used to be, and needed quiet.
"Debby and I will tough it out together through the winter," said she;
"and, like as not, those of us who are spared will have to make all
their plans all over again. It will be all right, whichever way it is."
Violet and David looked at Miss Bethia and at each other in surprise,
not so much at her words, as at her manner of saying them. She looked
as though it needed an effort to speak calmly, and she was very pale;
and when she put up her hands to gather her shawl closer about her, they
both noticed that they were trembling and uncertain.
"Miss Bethia is growing old," whispered David.
"And there is something more the matter with her than she will
acknowledge, I am afraid," said Violet.
"It is time to go into the house. The dew is beginning to fall. Come,
children," said the mother, rising.
David and Violet came last with Miss Bethia. She smiled, well pleased,
when, with boyish gallantry, David offered her his arm.
"I've gone alone all my life," said she, "and now I am most at the end
of it. I've taken a great many steps, too, at one time and another, but
they don't seem to amount to much to look back upon."
"And you have a good many more to take, I hope," said Violet, hardly
knowing how to answer her.
But Miss Bethia shook her head.
"It ain't likely. But the next six months seem longer to look forward
to than a great many years do to look back upon. It is all right,
anyhow. And, children, if I should never see you again--I want you to
remember to consider your mother always. You must never forget her."
"No," said David, wondering a little at her earnestness.
"And, David, and you too, Violet, don't you get to thinking too much
about property. It is a good thing to have, I'll allow, but it ain't
the best thing by considerable. Some get to love it, by having too
much, and some by having too little; but it ain't a satisfying portion
any way that it can be fixed, and the love of it makes one forget
everything else. And be sure and be good children to your mother, if I
shouldn't ever see you again. I don't suppose I need to tell you so;
but it's about as good a thing to say for a last word as any, except
this--Follow the Lord always, and keep your armour bright."
They answered her gravely and earnestly, as she seemed to expect, but it
was with no thought that they were listening to her last words. They
would see her, doubtless, many a time again; and they said so to her, as
she repeated them in the morning when it was time to go. But Violet
never saw her again; David saw her, when she was almost past words, and
then she could only, with labouring breath, repeat the very same to him.
It would have been a very sorrowful leave-taking if the children could
have known that it was their last "Good-bye" to Miss Bethia. But it
never came into the minds of any of them that the next time they saw the
pleasant house in Gourlay, she would be sleeping by their father's side
in the grave-yard over the hill.