The Inglises Part 32

"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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d'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 G.o.d'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 pa.s.sing 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 amus.e.m.e.nts 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 embarra.s.sing, and sometimes they interfered with his plans for pa.s.sing 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 amus.e.m.e.nt, 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 circ.u.mstance 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 pa.s.sed without at least one hour pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sed.

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 circ.u.mstances 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 a.s.surance, 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 a.s.sured 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 pa.s.sed 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.