THE NEW HOUSE.
IT was only two or three days after that Sunday afternoon, that we
heard of the money being sure to us. The matter had been gone into, and
James Morison had done his very best to prove that his old father was
crazed at the time of the making of the will. I dare say he believed it
himself, after a fashion. Most people can manage to believe a thing,
if they want it very much to be true. But there was no real proof, and
his case broke down. A good many people were ready to say what a shame
it was of the old man to disinherit his son; but none had power to undo
the deed done.
"So now it's quite certain—certain and sure," father said. "No more
need to croak and look dismal, mother. Now the money's ours, and we'll
do our best to get a little pleasure out of it."
Grannie had been looking grave, but not dismal, for it wasn't her way.
Some people call everything dismal that isn't full of noisy merriment.
I never could see, for my part, why one should be the happier for
making a noise. Grannie did not seem put out, though, at his words. She
only looked up at him, and said—"No, Miles, the money is not yours."
"Well, well, it soon will be," said he, "if you must be so particular."
"No," said she in the same manner. "It never will be yours, my dear."
"Why, grannie, what silly notion have you got in your head now?" said
he quite angrily. "Never will be mine! I tell you, the thing is as sure
and certain as can be, and the money's as good as mine already. The
matter's settled, and Jem Morison is beat out-and-out. It'll come, sure
enough."
"Yes, maybe," she answered. "The five thousand pounds is coming to you,
Miles, my dear; but it's only lent. It isn't yours. 'The silver and
gold are the Lord's.' He only lends it, Miles."
"Oh, of course—to be sure," father said, his face clearing. "I didn't
see what you were at. That's all right and well, mother—and quite
proper for one at your age to be religious. But it don't alter the fact
that I'm to have five thousand pounds."
"Yes, to have it in your hands," grannie said. "But there'll be a day
of reckoning, Miles, and every penny of that you'll have to account for
to Him who owns it. I've thought it sometimes a fearful thing for rich
folks, with their thousands and thousands, lent them by God to be spent
for Him, and all to be accounted for. And now we'll have some of that
same burden to bear."
"One would think we were going in for some awful trouble, only to
hear you speak," father said. "But you're not going to put me into
the dismals, mother, for all you can say. If it's a burden, it's an
uncommon pleasant sort. Wish it was a little heavier, that's all."
"Yes, that's the way with men," says grannie quietly. "You'll soon
begin to look on five thousand pounds as nothing, and to wish it was
ten."
"Well, I shouldn't mind now, if it was ten," father said.
The next thing that came up was about a change of house. Mother
wouldn't let the matter rest. Father did not seem to like the thought
at first, for he knew how grannie was set against it. Grannie did not
say to them what she had said to me, but just waited; and I did not
tell it either. But mother let father have no peace. She was bent on
getting a house in the same row with the Raikes', and on having a
parlour that would beat Mrs. Raikes' parlour in smartness.
She and father talked it over one day, when grannie was not at hand.
Father said he knew grannie would never leave the cottage; and mother
said, it did not matter, for we should be quite near. Father said, it
did matter, for there would be nothing straight without her, and nobody
to do the work and the cooking, "and Phœbe couldn't manage all that
alone." Mother said, "No, of course not, but we would keep a girl like
the Raikes', and manage so." Father said he didn't see who would cook.
And mother said, "Phœbe would, of course." Father said he didn't see
why I was to drudge while others took their ease; but it was no good
talking, for if grannie wouldn't come too, he should not leave the
cottage. Mother pouted, and said that father cared more for grannie
than for her. Father said it wasn't true; and mother said, yes, it
was, or he wouldn't want her to live in a horrid little pokey hole,
when he could afford her a nice house as well as not. And then she
cried, and talked about her own home, when she was a girl, and wished
she had never left it. Mother's father had been a tallow-chandler, and
well-to-do, and mother had been a spoilt child.
Just when they got so far, grannie walked in. She heard mother's
last words, and asked what it all meant. Father told her, and she
said—"What's your wish, Miles?"
"I don't want to go without you, mother," says he. "I've never lived
apart from you yet, and I don't mean to, if I can help it. I should
think of you as lonesome here; and we should want you too."
"But that's your only reason?" says she. "You've no feeling at leaving
the old place."
"Well, no—can't say as I have," said father. "I shouldn't mind a scrap
more room to turn round in."
"And the money?" said she.
"Oh, that's all right," says he. "I'm going to invest, so as it'll
bring us in nigh upon five hundred a year."
"Mr. Scott didn't count so much to be safe."
"Mr. Scott don't know everything," father said. "I suppose I'm as good
a judge as most. I'm not going to throw the money away, mother, you may
be sure. But supposing we say four hundred a year,—it don't make so
much difference. We can afford a bigger house than this, anyway."
"Well, you must do what you think best," grannie said. "You're not
a boy now, to take an old woman's advice. A man must look out for
himself. I'll leave you to settle about the other house, Miles. It
don't so much matter to me. I'm an old woman, and I can't look to live
in any house many more years. I did say at first that I never would of
my own free will go out of this, where I've been all my married life.
But maybe that was selfishness. Maybe I could be of more use going than
staying. If it's God's will for me, I'm willing—that's all. So you
needn't think about me, Miles. If you both feel it's the best and right
thing to do, I'll come with you."
Father seemed very pleased. I had not seen him so kind for a good
while past. He said more than once—"That's right, mother—things'll go
straight now."
The very next day father came in, saying there was a house to let in
Pleasant Row, only three doors off from the Raikes'. I wondered if
mother had seen it before. She and father went to look it over, and
when they came back they could talk of nothing else. The rent was forty
pounds, and that seemed a deal; but mother said—"What was forty pounds
out of five hundred?" It was only a small house, but the rents in the
town had been getting very high of late.
The house had to be taken at once, if at all, for somebody else was
asking after it. Grannie begged father to wait and do nothing till
the money should come. But he said it would be a thousand pities to
miss the chance, for they might not find another so nice, and he could
easily get the money lent him for the first quarter's rent.
"We needn't move in yet, you know," he said.
So it was all settled, and the next thing spoken about was that the
cottage must be sold. I think that did go to grannie's heart. But she
never made a word of complaint—only sometimes I saw her looking at one
thing and another, as if she were saying such a sorrowful good-bye.
Poor grannie! I wondered often at her patience.