TO GO OR TO STAY.
THOUGH father had said he did not mean to stop getting things from
Trowgood's, because he was so sure the money would come to us, still
he thought better of this. I am not at all sure that Trowgood, hearing
what was going on, did not give father a hint that it was best to wait.
Anyway we did wait.
I think this waiting-time was a good thing for us. At least, I know it
was good for me; and I suppose it might have been good for the others
too, if they had been willing. For of course one must be willing,
before anything can do one good in life; and father and mother were
not willing. Father never seemed to think of any part of the matter as
coming straight from God. All he talked about was Jem Morison and the
lawyers—and very hotly he did talk at times.
But, as I say, the waiting was good, or it ought to have been goad. It
gave us leisure for thought, and for getting over the first excitement
of the news. It's well to be able to sift and weigh a matter, before
having to take action. To be sure, father had acted already, as
regarded the things bought; but still in some measure his hands had
been tied, and now they were tied yet more.
One Sunday afternoon grannie and I were sitting together, having our
tea. The other three had been to dinner with the Raikes', and were not
back yet: so we were afraid there must be some sort of Sunday excursion
as well as dinner. Grannie and I had been having a nice quiet afternoon
together, and grannie seemed tired, so I got the tea for her earlier
than usual, and we had the kettle boiling in good time.
"If they don't come soon, they won't be in time for Church," I said.
"Not for the first time," grannie answered, and she spoke in a sad sort
of way. "I'm sore afraid of its being a habit that will grow. It's
wonderful how anything of a bad habit does grow. Just let it alone like
a weed, and it's sure to sprout. I suppose good habits go against the
grain, for they do take a deal of tending."
"But father was brought up to Church-going," I said.
"Yes, yes, he was brought up to it. There wasn't anything a-wanting in
the bringing-up, so far as I know. But though a mother's bringing-up
can do a lot, it can't put God's grace into a man's heart. It can't do
that."
"Father always used to like so much to go to Church," I said.
"He liked to please his old mother, Phœbe," said she. "That's what it
was—not so much of liking the worship of God for its own sake. I'd
sooner it had been that—more hope of its lasting, if it had. But the
pleasing of his old mother isn't so much to him now. He's got little
thought or care save for his five thousand pounds—which mayn't ever be
his really neither."
"Do you think it won't come to us, grannie?" I asked, and I couldn't
help longing that it might.
"I don't think either way," said she. "It may or it mayn't. I've no
manner of means of knowing whether Andrew Morison was in his right
senses or no. If it does come it'll be a solemn trust from God; and I'm
sorely afraid lest it should be squandered away with no thought at all
of Him in the spending."
"Mother was talking again yesterday about going into a bigger house,"
I said. "She does want it so, grannie; and father is quite set on five
hundred a year, and not only two hundred."
"Well, you nor I can't check him," she said. "But this cottage is mine,
and it shan't be sold while I live. If they go, I'll stay on here and
work for myself. It's little I should want. I'm too old for settling
into a new home at my time of life. I've been thirty years and more
here, and please God I'll stay till I die."
"O grannie! I hope if they go they'll let me live with you," I said.
"No," she answered, "that isn't likely. They'll want you to work
for them—without they're going to set up grand, and have servants
like gentlefolks. I'd believe in pretty near any sort of folly. But,
there—I'm forgetting—that's no sort of manner to speak in to you about
them. You're but a child, and you've got to do as you are told."
"But if we live in another house away from you—and if they tell me to
do things that are wrong! O grannie! do come with us," I cried; and I
turned and caught hold of her dress, and held it fast. "It's only you
that can keep us straight."
"Only me!" said she.
And she sat looking before her, not at me but at something which I
could not see, as it were, and a sort of glow came into her face, as it
was wont to do, once in a way. And I cried again, holding her tightly
still, "O grannie! don't let us be apart. Everything will go wrong in
the new house, if you won't come there with us."
"You're right and you're wrong, Phœbe," she said at last, arousing
herself and fixing her eyes upon me. "You're wrong and you're right.
Yes—wrong. For it isn't I that can keep you straight—you nor any of
them. I,—why I can't keep myself, much less other folks! It's God that
can keep you straight, and none other."
Then, after a little pause, she went on—
"But you're right too, and I see it now. I can't keep you right, but
maybe God would use me. It's little enough I could do; but what if
He wants me to do that little? Yes—I see now. I've been clinging in
thought to the old home—and I do cling, and I love the very walls and
boards; and a new home at my time of life would be nigh a heart-break
to me, after all the years and years I've lived here, first with your
grandfather, and then with your father. But I've been forgetting to ask
what was the right thing for me to do. It isn't sense for me to cling
more to boards and rafters than to living flesh and blood. And after
all, you'll need me more than the old home will. It's a dear old home
to me, Phœbe. But love may be selfish, and I think mine has been so.
I'll have to keep stricter watch for the future. And if you all go,
I'll come too. Maybe it'll not be for long—that's as God wills. But
I'll not leave you to fight on alone, till God calls me—and then I'll
have no choice, and I'll be content to leave the rest to Him. So we'll
go all together, Phœbe. Will that set your mind at rest, child?"
"O grannie! it's all I wanted," I said. "Everything's sure to go
straight now."
But she shook her head and said, "It's the old old story,—leaning on a
broken reed. I suppose it isn't till the reed gives way under us, that
we turn to lean on God."