One morning as Mr Philip sat at breakfast reading the paper, as was his
custom, he heard Mr Caldwell say--
"This is the twenty-second of September."
"The days and nights are of equal length," said Mrs Caldwell. "Dear!
dear! how soon the days will be drawing in!"
"This day last year Miss Bethia Barnes died."
"Well, she was a good body. I trust she went to a better place."
"And to-day her will is to be read," went on Mr Caldwell.
"Is it indeed? Had she much property? She was a decent saving body.
And who is to get it? Not that you can know, however, till the will is
opened."
"I know, having been consulted about the making of it; but that is
neither here nor there at the present moment. What I mean to say is
this: Being one of the executors of that will, I shall have to be in Mr
Bethune's office this morning, and so, Mr Philip, you will need to
attend to the business we were speaking of last night yourself, in case
I should be detained beyond my time."
"All right!" said Philip, looking up from his paper.
"And you were consulted about the making of the poor body's will, were
you?" said Mrs Caldwell, who was by no means so silent a member of the
family as her husband. "And you were made executor, and all--and you
never mentioned it. Not that _that_ is a matter for surprise, however,"
added she, reconsidering the subject. "I dare say he will be ready to
tell us all about it by dinner time, though no mortal power could make
him open his lips this morning. Well, I hope whoever gets the money
will get the good of it, though why they should have been kept out of it
a whole year, I cannot see. I hope that was not by your advice. But
dear! dear! money often does more harm than good, for all so hard as we
strive for it."
"It will do good this time--there is no fear," said Mr Caldwell,
rising. "It has not been striven for, nor expected, and there is not
too much of it just for comfort, and--it will open the way."
The last words struck Philip as familiar, and looking up he caught the
eye of Mr Caldwell, who nodded and smiled, as though he ought to
understand the whole matter by this time.
"There need be no more waiting now," said he, but whether he meant for
himself or for Mr Philip, or for some one else, he did not say.
"All right!" said Philip, at a venture; and though he heard no more of
the matter, and was too busy all day to give it a thought, he was not
surprised, when he went, at night, to the bridge house, to hear that
there was news awaiting him; but he was a little surprised at the nature
of the news. It was Violet who told him. The children were gone out,
and David was, for the moment, in his mother's room, and only Frank was
with Violet when Philip came in. For this time she was quite free from
the "proper" and "dignified" air of which Jem used to accuse her where
Philip was concerned. She was smiling and eager when, prompted by
Frank, she told him there was something he would like to hear.
"It is about Davie, isn't it?" said Philip. "Davie is Miss Bethia's
heir?"
But it was not Davie. Davie had his father's library and the five
hundred dollars which Miss Bethia had offered for it as well, to do what
he liked with; there were some legacies to relatives, "to remember her
by," Miss Bethia had written, and there was something to Debby Stone.
But the house and garden in Gourlay, and all else that had been Miss
Bethia's, she had bequeathed unconditionally to Mrs Inglis. It was not
a large property, but it was a good deal more than Miss Bethia could
have been supposed to possess, considering her way of life. It was not
quite independence to Mrs Inglis and her children, but it would be a
great help toward it.
"And," said Violet, with a smile and a sigh, "it opens the way to
Davie."
"Yes; that is what Mr Caldwell said this morning. But you don't seem
so delighted as he was at the thought."
"I am very glad for Davie. But it will be a sad breaking-up for the
rest of us to have him go away. And it will be at once, I suppose, if,
at this late day, arrangements can be made for his going this year to
the university."
"But the sooner the better, I should think, Violet," said Frank,
cheerfully.
"Yes--the sooner the better for him; but think of mamma and the rest of
us. However, I know it is very foolish to look at that side of the
matter, and, indeed, I am very glad."
"And, besides, if you go to M-- you will see him often," said Frank.
"We shall be rather dismal without you both, I am afraid."
"Dismal enough!" echoed Mr Philip.
"And if you all go to Gourlay to live, as Miss Bethia seemed to think
you would, what will become of us?"
"What, indeed!" said Philip. "That is the plan, is it? It is cruel of
Aunt Mary, and I shall tell her so."
"We have made no plans as yet. I hope it will be all for the best. We
have been very happy here. It could not have lasted much longer for
Davie. He is very glad, and so is mamma; and, I suppose, we shall all
be glad, when we have time to think about it."
Philip was not so sure of that, nor Frank either, as far as their going
away to Gourlay was concerned. But mamma was glad and Davie. There was
no doubt of that, Philip saw, as soon as they appeared. They were
rather silent for a time, and Philip saw, what he had never seen before
in all his intercourse with her, the traces of tears on Mrs Inglis's
face. He was not sure that there was not the shine of tears in David's
eyes too. His congratulations were given very quietly, and as quietly
received.
"But I am afraid it is the beginning of bad days to us, Aunt Mary, if we
have to say good-bye to you all."
"It would be bad days for us, too, if that were to happen; but I hope
nothing so sad as that is to follow our good fortune."
"Good-bye!" exclaimed Frank. "That is the last thing we shall think of,
Aunt Mary. But, I suppose, we shall lose Davie for awhile. Eh, Davie?"
"I shall be away for awhile, if you call that losing me; but I shall be
home soon, and often."
"It happened just at the right time, didn't it?" said Ned. "Just as
Davie is ready to go to college."
"Davie has been ready for that any time these three years; and what I
wonder is, that mamma did not hear of this at once," said Jem.
"This is the right time, I think," said Mrs Inglis.
"I am very glad it did not happen this time last year," said Philip.
"Why?" said Violet.
"I will tell you another time," said Philip.
"After all, mamma, money is a very good thing to have," said Ned, after
there had been more discussion of Miss Bethia's will, and all that was
to be done in consequence of it.
"A very good thing, in certain circumstances."
"But, mamma, you have always spoken as if it did not matter whether we
had money or not--much money, I mean. And now see how pleased everybody
is because Miss Bethia gave her's to you. I don't think anything ever
happened before that pleased every one of us so well."
"I cannot say that for myself," said his mother.
"And there is not _much_ money of it," said Frank.
"And everybody is glad because of Davie," said Jessie. "I think Miss
Bethia meant it for Davie to go to college and be a minister like papa,
and that is why mamma is so glad, and all of us."
"Nonsense! Miss Bethia meant it for mamma and all of us. She would
have said it was for Davie, if she had meant it for him. Do you think
Miss Bethia meant it for you, Davie? Do you, mamma?" said Ned, as he
saw a smile exchanged between them.
"She meant it for mamma, of course," said David.
"Davie," said his mother, "read Miss Bethia's letter to Philip and the
children."
David looked at his mother, and round on the rest, then back again to
his mother, a little surprise and hesitation showing in his face.
"Do you think so, mamma?" said he, colouring.
"They will like to hear it, and I shall like them to hear it. Shall I
read it for you?" said his mother, smiling.
David rose and went into his mother's room, and came back with the
letter in his hand. Giving it to her without a word, he sat down in a
corner where the light could not fall on his face. Mrs Inglis opened
the letter and read:
"Dear David Inglis,--It is a solemn thing to sit down and write a letter
which is not to be opened till the hand that holds the pen is cold in
death; and so I feel at this time. But I want you to know all about it,
and I must put it in as few words as possible. I will begin at the
beginning.
"I never had much hope of your father after that first hard cold he took
about the time that Timothy Bent died. I worried about him all winter,
for I couldn't make it seem right that his life and usefulness should be
broken off short, just when it seemed he had got ready to do the most
good. I would have put it right, in my way, if I could have done it.
But it was not the Lord's way, and I had to give it up. It never was
easy for me to give up my own way, even to the Lord. But He is
long-suffering and slow to anger; and by and by He showed me how I might
help make up your father's loss to the church and the world.
"But I wasn't in any hurry about it, because I didn't know just how it
would be with you, and whether you would keep your armour bright, and
stand in the day of trial. So I waited, and went to Singleton, and
talked with Mr Caldwell, and came home feeling pretty well; and all the
more when I heard from your mother how she and you felt about your
taking up your father's work. Still I was not in any hurry, for I
thought you were not losing your time. You seemed to be learning, what
many a minister gets into trouble for not knowing, how business is done,
and how far a little money may be made to go. And I thought, if it were
just a notion of yours to be a minister, because you had thought so much
of your father, and to please your mother, you would find it out pretty
soon, and get into other business. But I knew, if the Lord had called
you to the work, you wouldn't be tired waiting, and you weren't losing
time.
"Well, I have thought of it, and planned for it considerable, one way
and another; and, lately, I have begun to think that I shall not have
much more time for planning or doing either. This summer, I have seemed
to see my way clear. There are not many women in the world like your
mother, I can tell you, David; and she will know how to go to work
better than I can tell her. So I have made up my mind to leave what I
have got to her. The time you have been working to keep the family
together has not been lost, so far. But, when your mother don't need
you, you will be free to help yourself. I thought first I would leave
you money enough to take you through college, and all that; but, as far
as I have had a chance to judge, those who have had to work hard to get
an education, have come out best in the end. Your mother will know what
to do, as one thing follows another in your life, better than I could
put it down on paper. She'll help you all you need, I am not afraid;
and if the Lord shouldn't have called you to His work after all, I would
rather your mother had the property I have worked for than that you
should have it to put into other business. I hope it will come all
round right in the end.
"There is a good deal more I wanted to say to you, but I don't seem to
know just how to put it down on paper as I want to, so I shall not try.
When you read this, I shall be where your father is; and I pray the Lord
to lead you in the way you should go, and make you a faithful minister
of His word, as he was. Amen."
There was nothing said for several minutes, after she had ceased
reading; then she only said:
"And so, now, children, you see what it was that our old friend wished."
"Mr Caldwell must have known it all along," said Philip. "Well, he
told me there was not much chance of Davie's accepting my offer. I
should think not!"
"Are you sorry?" asked Violet.
"I am not sure. I must think about it."
"I sha'n't seem to care so much about being a rich man now," said Jem,
"since Davie is provided for."
"There are plenty more of us, Jem," said Ned.
"And mamma, too," went on Jem dolefully. "If Miss Bethia had given it
all to Davie, I might have done for mamma."
They all laughed at Jem's trouble, and they grew eager and a little
noisy and foolish after that, laughing and making impossible plans, as
though Miss Bethia's money had been countless. David said nothing, and
Mrs Inglis said little, and the confusion did not last long, for,
beneath all their lightness, there was among the children a deeper and
graver feeling than they wished to show, and they grew quiet in a little
while.
There were no plans made that night, however; but, by degrees, it was
made plain to Mrs Inglis what it was best for them to do. David went
almost immediately to M--, and was admitted into the university, passing
the examinations for the second year; and Violet went back to her place
in Mrs Lancaster's school. Mrs Inglis decided to remain in Singleton
for the winter, partly for Jem's sake, and partly that Ned might still
have the benefit of school. Frank was also to be with them. Mr Oswald
was not to be in Singleton constantly, and Miss Oswald was to remain at
her own home all winter, and the little girls were to remain with her.
So Frank took David's place, though he did not quite fill it, and Mr
Philip came and went almost as often as when the others were at home.
His visits were for the pleasure of all, and for his own profit; and
when the time came that they were to say "good-bye" for a little while,
it was spoken by Mrs Inglis with feelings far different from those she
would have had a year ago; for she knew that the discipline of changed
circumstances, of care, and of hard work that had fallen upon him, had
strengthened him in many ways; and, better still, she could not but hope
that the influence and teaching to which he had so willingly submitted
during the last year and more, had wrought in him for good, and that now
he was being taught by Him who teacheth to profit, and guided by Him in
the right way.
Jem had an opportunity to play at being "head of the house" for once;
and it was, by no means, all play, for the care and responsibility of
acting for his mother in all that pertained to making necessary
arrangements, to the disposal of such things as they did not care to
take with them, and to the removal of such things as they wished to
keep, fell on him. He did his work well and cheerfully, though with a
little unnecessary energy, and he would gladly have staid to settle them
all in Gourlay. But he was needed for his legitimate work; and amid
much cause for gratitude, Mrs Inglis had this cause for anxiety, that
Jem must henceforth be removed from the constant happy influence of home
life, and left to prove the strength and worth of his principles among
strangers. If he had been more afraid for himself, it is likely his
mother would have been less afraid for him. But there was no help for
it. It is the mother's "common lot."
"The young birds cannot always stay in the parent nest, mother, dear,"
said Jem; "and I must go as the rest do. But I shall come home for a
week in the summer, if it be a possible thing; and, in the meantime, I
am not going to forget my mother, I hope."
"Nor your mother's God, I trust, dear Jem," said Mrs Inglis, as she let
him go.
Who could tell all the labour and pains bestowed on the arrangement and
adornment of the house they had never ceased to love? David came home
early in May, and did his part. Ten times a day Jessie wished for
Violet to help with her willing and skillful hands. They had Debby for
all that required strength. She had fallen very easily into her old
place, and was to stay in it, everybody hoped.
Sarah and Charlotte Oswald were to form part of their family for the
next year, and Violet's work was to be to teach them and her sisters,
and two little orphan girls who had been committed by their guardian to
Mrs Inglis's care. But Violet's work was not to be begun till
September, and after the house was in perfect order, ready to receive
expected visitors, there were two months for happy leisure before that
time came.
Violet and Jem were coming home together, and Sarah and Charlotte were
expected at the same time. Jem was to stay for ten days only. By dint
of some planning on their part, and much kindness on the part of Mr
Caldwell, Philip and Frank were to have their holiday together, and they
were to accompany the rest to Gourlay. At first it was intended to make
their coming a surprise, but mindful of certain possible contingencies
in Debby's department, Violet overruled this, and the people at home
were permitted to have the pleasure of expecting and preparing for them,
as well as the pleasure of receiving them, and wonderful things were
accomplished to that end.
The last night had come. The children had gone away to the woods to get
some sprigs from a beautiful vine, without which Jessie did not consider
her floral decorations perfect, and Mrs Inglis and David were awaiting
them alone. They were in the garden, which was a very pretty place, and
never prettier than on that evening, David thought. Ned's gardening was
a great improvement on his of the old days, he willingly acknowledged.
Indeed, since their coming back to Gourlay, Ned had given himself to the
arranging and keeping of the garden, in a way that proved the possession
of true artistic taste, and also of that which is as rare, and as
necessary to success in gardening and in other things--great
perseverance. His success was wonderful, and all the more so that for
the last few years the flower-garden, at least, had been allowed to take
its own way as to growing and blossoming, and bade fair when they came
to be a thicket of balsam, peonies, hollyhocks, and other hardy village
favourites. But Ned saw great possibilities of beauty in it, compared
with the three-cornered morsel that had been the source of so much
enjoyment in Singleton, and having taken Philip into his confidence,
there came from time to time seeds, roots, plants and cuttings to his
heart's content.
He had determined to have the whole in perfect order by the time of the
coming of Violet and the rest, and by dint of constant labour on his
part, and the little help he got from David or any one else who could be
coaxed into his service for the time, he had succeeded wonderfully,
considering all things. It was perfect in neatness, and it was rich in
flowers that had never opened under a Gourlay sun till now. It was to
be a surprise to Violet and Jem, and looking at it with their eyes,
David exclaimed again and again in admiration of its order and beauty.
"But they won't see it to-night, unless they come soon," said he.
"However, it will look all the better with the morning sun upon it.
Does it seem like home to you, mamma?--the old home?"
"Yes--with a difference," said his mother.
"Ah, yes! But you are glad to be here, mamma? You would rather have
your home in Gourlay than anywhere else?"
"Yes, I am glad our home is here. God has been very good to us, Davie."
"Mamma, it is wonderful! If our choice had been given us, we could not
have desired anything different."
His mother smiled.
"God's way is best, and this will seem more like home than any other
place could seem to those who must go away. I cannot expect to keep my
children always."
"Any place would be home to us where you were, mamma. But I am glad you
are here--and you don't grudge us to our work in the world?"
"No, truly. That would be worse than ungrateful. May God give you all
His work to do, and a will and strength to do it!"
"And you will have the children a long time yet; and Violet--" David
hesitated and looked at his mother with momentary embarrassment. "Only
mamma," added he, "I am afraid Philip wants Violet."
Mrs Inglis started.
"Has he told you so, Davie?" said she, anxiously.
"No--not quite--not exactly. But I think--I know you wouldn't be
grieved, mamma? Philip is just what you would like him to be now.
Philip is a true Christian gentleman. I expect great things from
Philip. And mamma, you can never surely mean that you are surprised."
"Not altogether surprised, perhaps. But--we will not speak of it,
Davie, until--"
"Until Philip does. Well, I don't think that will be very long. But,
mamma, I cannot bear that you should be unhappy because of this."
"Unhappy? No, not unhappy! But--I could never make you understand. We
will not speak about it."
They went on in silence along the walk till they came to the garden
gate, and there they lingered for a while.
"Mamma," said David, "do you remember one night, a very stormy night,
when you and I watched for papa's coming home? I don't know why I
should always think of that night more than of many others, unless it
was almost the last time he ventured forth to meet the storm. I think
you were afraid even then, mamma?"
"I remember. Yes, I was afraid." David stood silent beside her. The
voices of the children on their homeward way came through the stillness.
In a minute they could see them, moving in and out among the long
shadows, which the last gleam of sunshine made, their hands and laps
filled with flowers and trailing green--a very pretty picture. The
mother stood watching them in silence till they drew near. Then the
face she turned to David was bright with both smiles and tears.
"David," she said, "when I remember your father's life and death, and
how gently we have been dealt with since then, how wisely guided, how
strongly guarded, and how the way has opened before us, my heart fills
full and my lips would fain sing praises. I do not think there can come
into my life anything to make me afraid any more."
David's answer was in words not his own: "Thou wilt keep him in perfect
peace whose mind is stayed on Thee, because he trusteth in Thee."