The next winter passed at the bridge house very much as former winters
had done. Violet was in her old place at Mr Oswald's. It was much
quieter there than it had ever been before, for Selina was spending the
winter with her sister, and Mr Philip had gone to a situation in the
city of M--, his father hoping that the stricter and more constant
attention to his duties, that would be required from him there, would
tell better in his business education than irregular work in the office
at home could be supposed to do. Frank's eyes were better, but he was
not permitted to use them much yet. It was part of Violet's duty to
read to him, and a judicious selection of a course of historical reading
made the winter pleasant and profitable to both. Jem was at school no
longer. There is no royal road to the attainment of knowledge and skill
in the profession he had chosen, even when the means and appliances of
wealth are at one's disposal; and, having no money, there was nothing
for Jem but to work with his hands as well as his head, and so he was
adding his quota to the clamour made all day in the great engine-house
at the other side of the town. Indeed, he worked a good deal more with
his hands than his head for a time, and it needed some persuasion on his
mother's part, and the exercise of some authority to keep him, during a
reasonable time, every evening at his books.
For Jem was a little unsettled by the new circumstances in which he
found himself. His friendly ways and bright good temper made him
popular among his fellow-workmen, and his popularity and his love of
fun, together, the more exposed him to the power of temptations
inseparable from the place, and but for his mother's kindness and
firmness, judiciously mingled, it might have gone ill with Jem that
winter. But he settled down after a little, and, with Mr Anstruther's
help, devoted himself as zealously as ever to those branches of study
absolutely necessary to advancement in the profession of an engineer.
It was rather an anxious winter to Mrs Inglis on Jem's account, but it
was, on the whole, a satisfactory winter to look back on, as far as he
was concerned.
Affairs were not going on so smoothly in the bank as they used to do.
There were changes there. One clerk was removed to another branch of
the concern, and the services of another were dispensed with altogether.
David gained a step or two in consequence, and worked hard in acquiring
the knowledge necessary for a right performance of his higher duties.
Mr Oswald was away often, and did not seem to be in good health or
spirits when he was at home. In spring, he resigned his office of
acting director of the bank, and another was appointed in his place.
Mr Caldwell, who had come into the bank with him, left with him--not
because his services were no longer required there, but because Mr
Oswald needed him, and he chose to give his services to him.
For there were signs of coming trouble to the Oswalds. It began to be
whispered in the town that the affairs of Mr Oswald were not in a
prosperous condition, and that the resignation of his position in the
bank had not been voluntary on his part, but demanded of him by those
who were responsible for the successful carrying on of its affairs. Not
that anything had gone wrong as yet, but he was extensively engaged in
other business, and had other interests. He had to do with the
quarries, and with lumbering affairs, and he had had something to do
with the building of a railway, and had not prospered in all these
things; and it could not be doubted that trouble was before him.
There had been some anxiety lest David's place in the bank might not be
permanent in the midst of so many changes, but no change was made in his
case, and except that his work was somewhat different, and that more
responsibility rested on him with regard to some matters, all went on as
before. He missed Mr Oswald's face in the inner office, and he greatly
missed the comings and goings of Mr Caldwell; but all went on in the
bank with the same system and order as it had ever done.
But troubles were thickening around the Oswalds. Mrs Mavor was ill and
Selina was sent for to be with her. Mr Philip lost his situation in
M--, and came home. Rumours had reached David, before this time, that
his manner of life had not been satisfactory to his employers or to his
friends, and Jem had heard more than David about him. Except to their
mother, neither of them had spoken of this, but no one seemed surprised
at his return.
Before his return, Mr Oswald had been taken very ill, and his inability
to attend to his business involved it in difficulties, which threatened
to hasten the unhappy crisis, which even Mr Caldwell acknowledged must
have come sooner or later on him. There was trouble in the house, it
may well be supposed. Violet had many cares, for Miss Oswald was
entirely occupied with her brother in his illness, and Frank devoted
himself to his father in a way that was a help and a comfort to them
all.
As for Mr Philip, it was very difficult to believe that it could have
come to this pass with his father. It seemed impossible to him that,
after so many years of successful business-life, his father should be in
danger of being left penniless; and he insisted to Frank and David, and
even to Mr Caldwell, that there must have been mismanagement--probably
dishonesty--on the part of some of those with whom he held business
relations; and that this unhappy illness had been taken advantage of to
bring matters to the painful crisis they had reached. So fully was he
convinced of this, that it was, with difficulty, he could be prevented
from applying to his father to obtain information with regard to certain
affairs. But the doctor was imperative as to his not being disturbed by
allusions to business now, or for some time to come.
"It might cost his life or his reason, Dr Ward says," repeated Frank.
"And even if he could be spoken to, it would do no good while he is
unable to leave his room or even his bed. We must wait patiently. I
don't suppose it will make any real difference in the end."
Even Frank knew more about his father's affairs than Philip did.
"If I had only staid in the office, instead of going to M-- last year,"
said he.
"I don't suppose it would have made much difference. You would have
known something about the books, perhaps, and papa might not have had to
pay out so much money for you. I don't know, though. It is easy enough
to spend money anywhere."
Philip walked about impatiently.
"What I have spent is not a drop in the bucket," said he.
But the thought of the money he had spent and the money he owed made him
very miserable.
"You know best about that," said Frank. "Here is something that Mr
Caldwell left to-day. It is addressed to papa, so he opened it, but he
found that it is meant for you. I am very glad papa did not see it."
Philip glanced at the paper his brother put in his hand.
"Have you examined it?" asked he, sharply.
"I looked at the sum total, not at the items."
"Well! a gentleman must spend something on such things, if he is in
society."
"If he have it of his own to spend, you mean. I don't see the
necessity. I'll venture to say that some of these items did not make
you more like a gentleman, but less," said Frank.
"That is for me to decide," said Philip, angrily.
"I don't know that. However, you'll have to consult Mr Caldwell about
it--the paying of it, I mean. Though the chances are, he will neither
be able nor inclined to help you."
"It is no great affair, anyway."
"The helping you? or the sum total? It is more than half of David
Inglis's yearly salary, and Aunt Mary has only that to keep house for
them all--at least, she can't have much besides. It depends on how you
look at a sum of money, whether it seems large or small."
Philip had no answer ready. He walked about the room angry and
miserable. Frank went on:
"If you had not lost your situation, you might have paid it yourself, in
time, I suppose. As it is you will have to fail too, or your creditor
must make up his mind to wait. Are there more of them?"
Frank asked the question coolly, as though it were a trifling matter
they were discussing, and his manner throughout the whole discussion
seemed intended, Philip thought, to exasperate him.
"And it is not like Frank, the least in the world," said he to himself,
as he uttered an exclamation at his words.
"However," repeated Frank, "it is only a drop in the bucket, as you
say."
Philip stood still and looked at him, vexation and astonishment
struggling with some other feeling, showing in his face.
"Frank," said he, "it isn't like you to hit a fellow when he is down."
"You need not be so very far down. I would not be down, if I were like
you and could do anything," said Frank, with something like a sob in his
voice.
"It is precious little I can do, even if I knew what were needed."
"Talk with Mr Caldwell."
"Mr Caldwell! The thought of him gives me a chill; and I don't suppose
he would talk with me. He hasn't a very high opinion of me,--in the way
of business, or in any way."
"He'd talk with you fast enough, if you would talk reasonably. Try him.
He wants some one to go to Q-- about the timber that has been lying
there some weeks now. Papa spoke about it too. It would have paid
well, if he had been able to attend to the sale of it himself. But he
has not perfect confidence in Donnelly the agent, and the time is
passing. It must be sold soon, and Mr Caldwell can't be everywhere. I
told him to send Davie Inglis, but he must not take him from the bank he
thinks; and, besides he is so young and so boyish-looking. You would do
quite as well, I dare say. At any rate, you would be better than no
one."
Philip looked as though he thought he was being "hit" again, but he said
nothing.
"One thing is certain," continued Frank, "if you are going to do any
good in our present fix, you can only do it by knuckling down to old
Caldwell. Nobody knows so much about papa's affairs as he does."
Whether Philip "knuckled down" to Mr Caldwell or not, he never told
Frank, but he did tell him that he was going in a day or two to Q--, to
make arrangements for the sale of timber accumulated there for
ship-building purposes, or for exportation. He did not know much about
the matter and did not speak very hopefully. The sting of it was that
he might have known if he had done as his father had had a right to
expect him to do. However, Mr Caldwell sent him away none the less
willingly because of his low spirits.
"You will do better than nobody," said he, as Frank had said before.
"You can have an eye on the books and on all the papers. Don't let
Donnelly be too much for you."
It would not do to enter into all the particulars of Philip's first
business venture. It is enough to say, he was successful in
circumstances where failure would not have been surprising; and the very
first time he saw his father after he was a little better, he had the
satisfaction of hearing Mr Caldwell telling him of the successful
termination of the sale of the timber. He had the greater satisfaction
of prompting that slow-spoken gentleman where his memory or his
information failed, and of giving all details to his father, who was
both relieved and pleased with the turn this affair had taken.
But success in this his first independent attempt at doing business
could not avert the troubles that had been long hanging over his father.
If Mr Oswald had been in perfect health, it might have been different.
With time granted to continue his business relations, or even to settle
up his own affairs, he might have been able to give every man his own.
But his health came very slowly back, and affairs in the meantime
wrought to a crisis. Philip strove hard to obtain time, and pledged
himself to the full payment of all his father's liabilities within a
limited period. Even Mr Caldwell was influenced by his earnestness and
hopefulness, and by the good sense and business ability manifested by
him in several transactions with which he had had to do, and joined with
him in representing Mr Oswald's affairs to be in such a condition that
care and time, and close attention alone were needed to set them right,
and to satisfy all just claims at last. But Philip was young and
inexperienced, and those of his father's creditors who knew him best,
knew nothing in his past life to give them confidence either in his
principles or his judgment, and they could not be induced to yield to
him in this matter.
So it only remained for Mr Oswald to give up all that he possessed, to
satisfy as far as possible all just demands. It was a very bitter
experience for him to pass through, but he was in a state of health too
weak and broken fully to realise all that it involved. For the time it
was worse for his sons than for him. Frank devoted himself all the more
earnestly to his father's care and comfort, and his doing so made this
time of trouble more endurable for both. Philip saw little of his
father. His place was to act for him wherever he could do so, so as to
spare him as much as possible the details of the painful business.
It was a very miserable time to him. He made up his mind to get away as
soon as possible to California or British Columbia, or anywhere else, so
that it was far enough away. But he did not go. He did far better than
that would have been. He staid at home, not very willingly, still he
staid, and tried to do his duty as he had never tried before, and there
were times when it was not easy to do.
Mr Caldwell, as one in whom the creditors had perfect confidence, both
as to his conscientiousness and his knowledge of affairs, was appointed
by them to settle up Mr Oswald's business, and with their permission
Philip Oswald was requested to act as his assistant for the time. It
was not the thing he would have chosen for himself, but if he had gone
away now, it must have been without his father's consent, and if he
staid at home it was absolutely necessary that he should earn money for
the payment of his own debts. There was nothing better offered for his
acceptance, and Mr Caldwell's terms were such as even Philip considered
liberal.
"Though I know quite well he would much rather have had Davie Inglis,"
said he to Frank, when it was quite settled that he was to stay. "I
don't believe he thinks I shall be much good. However, I must take it
and make the best of it."
"You are quite wrong. Davie wouldn't suit him half so well as you in
this business, though of course he has perfect confidence in Davie, and
you have to be tried yet. But he knows you will make it a point of
honour to do your best in the circumstances."
"If these people in M-- had not been such fools as to force matters on,
there might have been some inducement to do one's best in straightening
out things. And it would have been better for them and for us too. I
wish I were a thousand miles away from it all."
"No, you don't, unless you could take the rest, of us out of it too.
For my part, I think you have a grand opportunity to exercise courage
and patience, and to win honour and glory as a true hero. Just you go
down and speak to Aunt Mary and Violet about it."
"I think I see myself doing it!" said Philip, as though it were a thing
utterly impossible and not to be considered for a moment.
However, before many days were over, he found himself at the bridge
house, enjoying Mrs Inglis's kindly sympathy, and the delighted welcome
of the children, more than he would have imagined possible. He had seen
very little of any of them for a long time, and was ashamed of his
defection, conscious as he was of the cause. It was not comfortable for
him to talk with Mrs Inglis, or to share in the pursuits and amusements
of her young people, with the consciousness of wrong-doing upon him.
Wrong-doing according to _their_ standard of right and wrong, he meant,
of course. According to _his_ standard, there were many things he could
do, and many things he could leave undone, quite innocently, of which
they would not approve. Several of such questionable incidents had
occurred in his manner of life about the time of their return from
Gourlay last year, and he had kept away from them. He had been too busy
since his coming back from M-- to see much of any of his friends, and
this was his first visit to the bridge house for a long time.
"Why did you not come before?" said little Mary.
"I have been very busy. Are you glad to see me now?"
"Yes, very glad, and so is mamma and all of us. I want to show you
something." And the child went on to make confidences about her own
personal affairs, into which Mr Philip entered with sufficient
interest, as his manner was. He had only time for a word or two with
the mother before Jem and David came in.
"Your father is really improving, I am glad to hear," said Mrs Inglis
when the children left them.
Philip's face clouded.
"Is he better? It hardly seems to me that he gains at all. He is very
much discouraged about himself."
"Frank thinks him better. It is a great relief to him, he says, that
you are here."
"I ought never to have gone away," said Philip, sighing.
"But your father wished it, did he not? Perhaps it would have been
better had you been here. However, you are here now. Frank says he
begun to improve the very day you consented to assist Mr Caldwell in
the settlement of his affairs."
Philip hung his head.
"Don't be hard on me, Aunt Mary."
"Am I hard on you? I am sure I don't know how. That is Frank's idea of
the matter."
"Aunt Mary! if you only knew what a good-for-nothing fellow I have been!
I am sure I cannot see why my father should have confidence in me."
"In whom should he have confidence, if not in you?" said Mrs Inglis,
smiling.
Philip had nothing to answer. A feeling of shame, painful but
wholesome, kept him silent. Even according to his own idea of right, he
had been undutiful in his conduct to his father. He had accepted all
from him, he had exacted much, and he had given little in return, except
the careless respect to his wishes in little things, which he could not
have refused to any one in whose house he was a guest. They had been on
friendly terms enough, as a general thing, but there had been some
passages between them which he did not like to remember. That his
father should have had any satisfaction in him or his doings, except
indeed in the case of the transaction of the timber at Q--, was not a
very likely thing. The very supposition went deeper than any reproaches
could have gone and filled him with pain and regret.
"Frank is a good fellow, but he does not know everything," said he,
dolefully.
"I think he must know about your father, however, he is with him so
constantly, and he says he is better. It will be some time before he is
able for business again, I am afraid. In the meantime he has perfect
confidence in Mr Caldwell and in you, which must be a comfort to him."
Philip shook his head.
"Aunt Mary, the business is no longer his, and what we are doing is for
the benefit of others. He has lost everything."
"He has not lost everything, I think," said Mrs Inglis, smiling, "while
he has you and Frank and your sisters. He would not say so."
Philip rose and came and stood before her.
"Mrs Inglis, I cannot bear that you should think of me as you do. It
makes me feel like a deceiver. I have not been a good son to my father.
I am not like your Davie."
Mrs Inglis smiled as though she would have said, "There are not many
like my Davie." But she looked grave in a minute and said--
"There is one thing in which you differ. Davie is an avowed servant of
the Lord Jesus Christ. He professes to desire to live no longer to
himself, but to Him."
"And you think that is everything, Aunt Mary?"
"I think it is the chief thing."
"Well, I am not like that. I am very far from that."
"But this ought to be the chief thing for you as well as for David,
ought it not?"
"I have not thought about it, Aunt Mary."
"You have not taken time. You have fallen on easy days hitherto. It
would have been difficult to convince you that, to be a servant of God,
a follower of the Lord Jesus is the chief thing--the only thing, while
each day brought with it enough to satisfy you. This trouble, which has
come upon you all, may have been needed--to make you think about it."
Philip answered nothing, but sat gazing at the clouds, or at the leaves
which rustled at the window, with his cheek upon his hand. There is a
time to keep silence and a time to speak, and Mrs Inglis could not be
sure on which of these she had fallen. She longed to say just the right
word to him, but hitherto her words had fallen like water on the rock,
which, in the first gleam of sunshine, disappears. He always listened,
grave or smiling, as the occasion seemed to demand. He listened with
eagerness, pleased at her interest in him, pleased to be treated like
one of the children, to be praised or chidden, and, for all that she
could see, as well pleased with the one as with the other. As she sat
watching him in silence, Mrs Inglis thought of Violet's complaint
against him. "He is not in earnest. He cares only for his own
pleasure."
"Ah! well! The Master knows how to deal with him, though I do not," she
said to herself. Aloud, she said, "You must not suppose that I mean
that religion is for a time of trouble, more than for a time of
prosperity. It is the chief thing always--the only thing. But, in a
time of trouble, our need of something beyond what is in ourselves, or
in the world, is brought home to us. Philip, dear lad, it is a
wonderful thing to be a soldier and servant of the Lord Jesus. It is a
service which satisfies--which ennobles. All else may fail us, or
fetter us, or lead us astray. But, belonging to Christ--being one with
Him--nothing can harm us truly. Are you to lose all this, Philip?
Letting it pass by you--not _thinking_ about it?"
She had no time to add more, nor had he time to answer her, even if he
could have found the words. For first David came in, and then Jem, all
black and dirty from the forge, and, proud of it, evidently. His
greeting was rather noisy, after the free-and-easy manner which Jem
affected about this time. David's greeting was quiet enough, but a
great deal more frank and friendly, than his greetings of Philip had
usually been, his mother was pleased to see. Jem made a pretence of
astonishment at the sight of him, meaning that he might very well have
come to see his mother sooner; but David fell into eager discussion of
some matter interesting to both, and then Jem went away to beautify
himself, as he called the washing off the marks of his day's work. When
tea-time came, Philip hesitated about accepting Mrs Inglis's invitation
to remain.
"You may as well," said Ned; "for I saw Violet up-town and I told her
you were here, so they will be sure not to wait."
So he staid, and made good his place among them after his long absence.
Something had been said in the early spring about Mrs Inglis and the
children going to spend the summer in Gourlay again. But there was not
the same necessity for a change that there had been last year, and the
matter was not at once decided. While Mrs Inglis hesitated, there came
tidings that decided it for her. There came, from Miss Bethia, a
letter, written evidently with labour and difficulty. She had been
poorly, "off and on by spells," she said, all winter; and now, what she
had long feared, had become evident to all her friends. A terrible and
painful disease had fastened upon her, which must sooner or later prove
fatal. "Later," she feared it might be; for, through long months, which
grew into years before they were over, she had nursed her mother in the
same disease, praying daily that the end might come.
"I am not afraid of the end," she wrote; "but remembering my poor
mother's sufferings, I _am_ afraid of what must come before the end. It
would help pass the time to have you and the children here this summer;
but it might not be the best thing for them or you, and you must judge.
I should like to see David, but there will be time enough, for I am
afraid the end is a long way off. I am a poor creetur not to feel that
the Lord knows best what I can bear. It don't seem as though I could
suffer much more than I used to, seeing my mother's suffering. And I
_know_ the Lord is kind and pitiful, though I sometimes forget."
Mrs Inglis's answer to this letter was to go to Gourlay without loss of
time. At the first sight of Miss Bethia, she did not think her so very
ill. She thought her fears had magnified her danger to herself. But
she changed her opinion when she had been there a day or two. The Angel
of Death was drawing near, and all that made his coming terrible was
that he came so slowly. At times she suffered terribly, and her
sufferings must increase before the end.
The coming of the children was not to be thought of, Mrs Inglis could
see. She would fain have staid to nurse her, but this could not be
while they needed her at home. She promised to return if she were
needed, and begged to be sent for if she could be a comfort to her. All
that care and good nursing could do to alleviate her suffering, Miss
Bethia had. Debby Stone was still with her, and Debby's sister Serepta,
whose health had much improved during the year. The neighbours were
very kind and considerate, and Mrs Inglis felt that all that could be
done for her would be done cheerfully and well.
So she went home; but through the summer they heard often how it was
with their old friend. But first one thing and then another hindered
Mrs Inglis from going to see her till September had well begun. Then
there came a hasty summons for David and his mother, for there were
signs and tokens that the coming of the King's messenger was to be
"sooner," and not "later," as she had feared. So Violet came home
because they could not tell how long the mother might have to stay, and
their departure was hastened.
But the King's messenger had come before them. They saw his presence in
the changed face of their friend. They did not need her whispered
assurance, that she need not have been afraid--that it was well with
her, and the end was come.
"David," she said, brokenly, as her slow, sobbing breath came and went,
"you'll care for your mother always, I know; and you must follow the
Lord, and keep your armour bright."
She fell into a troubled sleep, and waking, said the same words over
again, only with more difficult utterance. She spoke to his mother now
and then in her painful whisper, sending messages to Violet and Jem and
all the rest; and once she asked her if she had a message for the
minister, whom she was sure so soon to see. But the only words that
David heard her speak were these, and he answered:
"I will try, Aunt Bethia;" but he had not voice for more.
It was like a dream to him to be there in the very room where he had
watched that last night with his father. It seemed to be that night
again, so vividly did it all come back.
"Mamma," he whispered, "can you bear it?"
By and by they went up-stairs, and into the study, which was still kept
as they had left it two years ago.
"Mamma," said David, again, "it is like a dream. Nothing in the whole
world seems worth a thought--standing where we stood just now."
"Except to keep one's armour bright, my David," said his mother. "Happy
Miss Bethia! She will soon be done with all her trouble now."
They watched that night and the next day, scarcely knowing whether she
recognised them, or whether she were conscious of what seemed terrible
suffering to those who were looking on; and then the end came.
It was all like a dream to David, the coming and going of the
neighbours, the hush and pause that came at last, the whispered
arrangements, the moving to and fro, and then the silence in the house.
He seemed to be living over the last days of his father's life, so well
remembered--living them over for his mother, too, with the same sick
feeling that he could not help or comfort her, or bear her trouble for
her, or lighten it. And yet, seeing her there so calm and peaceful in
every word and deed; so gentle, and helpful, and cheerful, he knew that
she was helped and comforted, and that it was not all sorrow that the
memory of the other death-bed stirred.
When he went out into the air again, he came to himself, and the dazed,
dreamy feeling went away. It was their good and kind old friend who had
gone to her rest, and it would be wrong to regret her. There were many
who would remember her with respect and gratitude, and none more than he
and his mother and the children at home. But her death would leave no
great gap, that could never be filled as his father's had done. She had
been very kind to them of late years, and they would miss her; and
then--it suddenly came into David's mind about his father's books, and
about the sum that had three times been paid to his mother since they
had been in Miss Bethia's care. He was ashamed because of it; but he
could not help wondering whether it would be paid still, or whether they
would take the books away or leave them where they were. He did not
like to speak to his mother. It seemed selfish and ungrateful to think
about it even; but he could not keep it out of his mind.
There was another day of waiting, and then the dead was carried away to
her long home.
There were none of her blood to follow her thither. The place of
mourners was given to Mrs Inglis and David, and then followed Debby and
her sister. A great many people followed them; all the towns-folk
joined in doing honour to Miss Bethia's memory, and a few old friends
dropped over her a tear of affection and regret. But there was no
bitter weeping--no painful sense of loss in any heart because she had
gone.
David sat in the church, and walked to the grave, and came back again to
the empty house, with the same strange, bewildered sense upon him of
having been through it all before. It clung to him still, as one after
another of the neighbours came dropping in. He sat among them, and
heard their eager whispers, and saw their curious and expectant looks,
and vaguely wondered what else was going to happen that they were
waiting to see.
Debby and her sister were in the other room, seemingly making
preparations for tea; and once Debby came and looked in at the door,
with a motion as if she were counting to see how many places might be
needed, and by and by Serepta came and looked, too, and David got very
tired of it all. His mother had gone up-stairs when she first came in,
and he went in search of her.
"Mamma, I wish we could have gone home to-night," said he, when, in
answer to his knock, she had opened the door.
"It was late, dear, and Mr Bethune said he would like to see me before
we went away."
"About the books, mamma? I wish I knew about them."
"You will know soon. I have no doubt they will be yours, as Miss Bethia
intimated before we left them here. There may be some condition."
"I wonder what all the people are waiting for? Are you not very tired,
mamma? Debby is getting tea ready."
Debby came in at the moment to make the same announcement.
"Tea is ready now," said she. "I'd as lief get tea for the whole town
once in a while as not. But it ain't this tea they're waiting for, and
if I was them I'd go."
"What are they waiting for?" asked David.
"Don't you know? Oh, I suppose it's to show good-will. Folks generally
do at such times. But I'll ring the tea-bell, and that'll scare some of
them home may be. Some of them'll have to wait till the second table,
if they all stay, that's one thing. And I hope they'll think they've
heard enough to pay them before they go."
They did not hear very much, certainly. Mr Bethune from Singleton was
there, but the interest of the occasion was not in his hands. Deacon
Spry had it all his own way, and opened and read with great deliberation
a paper which had been committed to him. It was not Miss Bethia's will,
as every one hoped it might be, but it was a paper written by her hand,
signifying that her will, which was in Mr Bethune's keeping, was to be
opened just a year from the day of her death. In the meantime Deborah
Stone was to live in her house and take care of it and what property
there was about it. Her clothes and bedding were in part for Debby, and
the rest to be divided among certain persons named. Mrs Inglis was
requested to leave her late husband's library where it was for one year,
unless she should see some good reason for taking it away. And that was
all.
Everybody looked surprised, except Debby, who had known the contents of
the paper from Miss Bethia.
"I suppose it'll be Mr Bethune's business to look up Bethia's relations
within the year. Folks generally _do_ leave their property to their
relations, even if they don't know much about them. But I rather
expected she'd do something for the cause among us," said Deacon Spry,
in a slightly aggrieved tone.
"I thought she'd at least new paint the meeting house," said Sam Jones.
"Or put a new fence round the grave-yard."
"Well! may be she has! We'll see when the year's out."
"No, folks most always leave their property to their own relations.
They seem nearest, come toward the end."
"I don't suppose she's left a great deal besides the house, anyway. I
wonder just how much Debby Stone knows?"
It was not pleasant to listen to all this. Debby had nothing to tell,
not knowing anything; nor Mr Bethune, though he doubtless knew all. So
there was nothing better to do than just wait till the right time came.
"I suppose we may count upon the books, mamma, or she would not have
asked you to leave them here?" said David.
"Yes, I think so. She never called them hers, you know. She will have
explained it to Mr Bethune, I suppose. I think you may count on the
books."