Part 13 (1/2)
”You are very kind. You may be quite sure we shall apply to you if it be necessary. Just now it is not; and when we have had time to consider our plans, we shall write to you--if you cannot come.”
Mrs Inglis paused; and, perhaps, becoming conscious that she had spoken with unnecessary decision, she added, gently:
”You are very kind. I believe you are a true friend, and that you will do what you can to enable us to help ourselves. That will be the best-- the only way to aid us effectually. With my two brave boys and G.o.d's blessing, I don't think I need fear.”
She spoke, looking, with a smile, at her sons, who were leaning over her chair. Somehow her smile moved Mr Oswald more than her tears could have done, and he said nothing for a minute or two. There was nothing clearer than that she did not intend to lay the burden of her cares on him or anyone. But what could a delicate woman, unused to battle with the world, do to keep the wolf from the door, let her courage be ever so high?
”Will you promise me one thing?” said he, rising to prepare to go.
”Will you promise me to let me know how I can help you--when your plans are made--either by advice or by money? I have a right. Your husband was my relative as well as my friend.”
”I promise faithfully you shall be the first person to whom I shall apply in any strait,” said Mrs Inglis, rising also, and offering her hand.
”And what did your husband think of my proposal to take his son into my office?”
”He thought well of it, as he wrote to you. But nothing has been said about it yet. Can you give us a little time still? and I will write.
Believe me, I am very grateful for your kindness.”
”If you will only give me an opportunity to be kind. Certainly, I can wait. A month hence will be time enough to decide.”
And then, when he had bidden them all good-bye, he went away.
”What did he mean by a situation, mamma?” asked Jem. ”Is it for Davie?
Did papa know?”
But Mrs Inglis could enter into no particulars that night. She had kept up to the end of her strength.
”I am very tired. I will tell you all about it another day. We must have patience, and do nothing rashly. The way will open before us. I am not afraid.”
All the sadness of the next few weeks need not be told. They who have suffered the same loss, and lived through the first sorrowful days of bereavement, will know how it was with the mother and her children, and they who have not could never be made to understand. Anxieties as to the future could not but press on the heart of the mother, but they could scarcely be said to deepen her sadness. She was not really afraid. She knew they would not be forsaken--that their father's G.o.d would have them in His keeping. But the thought of parting from them-- of sending any of them away--was very hard to bear.
If she could have seen it possible to stay in Gourlay, she would have had fewer misgivings; but there was nothing in Gourlay she could do to help to keep her children together. There was no room in so small a place for any but the public schools, long established, and, at present, prosperous; and teaching seemed the only thing in which she could engage with even moderate hopes of success.
If ”a mult.i.tude of counsellors” could have helped her, she would have been helped. Every one had something to say, which proved that the earnest desire of all was that she should stay in Gourlay; but no one was so happy as to suggest a way in which she could do so without involving some measure of dependence on the kindness of friends; and though this might do for a little while, it could not do long, and they would have to go at last. Still she was in no haste to go, or very eager to make plans for the future.
”The way will open before us! I am not afraid!” was the end of many an anxious discussion during these days; and thought of sending David away from her, gave her more real pain through them all than did the consideration of what might befall them in the future; for David was going away to be junior clerk in the bank of Singleton, at a salary which seemed very large to him. It was more than a third of what his father's salary had been when it was at the best. There would not be much left for his mother and the rest by the time he had clothed and kept himself; but it was a beginning, and David was glad to begin, Jem would fain have done something, too, but his mother justly felt that the next six months at school would be of greater value to him than all he would be likely to earn, and he was to stay at home for the present.
But the mother did not have to send David away alone. The way, for which she had so patiently and confidently waited, opened to them sooner than she had dared to hope. It did not open very brightly. An opportunity to let their house to one of the new railway people made her think first of the possibility of getting away at once; and various circ.u.mstances, which need not be told, induced her to look to the town of Singleton as their future place of residence. David was to be there for a year, at least, and they could all be together, and his salary would do something toward keeping the house, and, in a place like Singleton, there might be more chance for getting for herself and Violet such employment as might suit them than they could have in Gourlay.
It was not without some doubts and fears that this arrangement was decided upon; but there seemed nothing better to do, and delay would make departure none the easier. But the doubts and fears came only now and then--the faith in G.o.d was abiding; and if she was sorrowful in those days, it was with a sorrow which rose from no distrust of Him who had been her confidence all her life-long. She knew that help would come when it was needed, and that He would be her confidence to the end.
Towards the end of April, they had a visit from a gentleman, who announced himself as Mr Caldwell, senior clerk in the bank where David was to be junior. He had come to transact business at the quarries, several miles beyond Gourlay, and had called at the request of Mr Oswald, and also because he wished to make the acquaintance of the Inglis family, especially of David, whom he expected soon to have under his immediate care. He had known Mr Inglis when he was a boy, having been then in the employment of his uncle. The children had heard of him often, and their mother had seen him more than once in the earlier years of her married life, and they were not long in becoming friendly. He was a small, dark man, slow of speech, and with some amusing peculiarities of manner, but, evidently, kindly-disposed toward them all.
His first intention had been to go on to the quarries that night, but he changed his mind before he had been long in the house, and accepted Mrs Inglis's invitation to stay to tea; and soon, to her own surprise, the mother found herself telling their plans to a very attentive listener.
He looked grave, when he heard of their determination to leave Gourlay, and go and live in Singleton.
It was a warm, bright afternoon, and they were sitting on the gallery in front of the house. The snow was nearly all gone; a soft green was just beginning to make itself visible over the fields and along the roadsides, and buds, purple and green and brown, were showing themselves on the door-yard trees. The boys were amusing themselves by putting in order the walks and flower-borders in the garden, where there were already many budding things, and the whole scene was a very pleasant one to look on.
”Singleton is very different from this place,” said he. ”You will never like to live there.”