Part 13 (2/2)

But there are many things that people must endure when they cannot like them; and there seemed to be no better way, as he acknowledged, when he had heard all. He entered with kindly interest into all their plans, and it was arranged that, when David went to Singleton, he should go directly to his house, and, between them, no doubt, a suitable house for the family would be found. And Mrs Inglis thanked G.o.d for the new friend He had raised up for them, and took courage.

The next day, Mr Caldwell went to the quarries, and David and Jem went with him, or rather, it should be said, Mr Caldwell went with the boys, for they had old Don and the wagon, and made a very pleasant day of it, going one way and coming home the other, for the sake of showing the stranger as much of the beautiful country as possible in so short a time. They all enjoyed the drive and the view of the country, and Mr Caldwell enjoyed something besides. He was a quiet man, saying very little, and what he did say came out so deliberately that any one else would have said it in half the time. But he was a good listener, and had the faculty of making other people talk, and the boys had a great deal to say to him and to one another. Unconsciously they yielded to the influence of the sweet spring air and the suns.h.i.+ne, and the new sights that were around them, and the sadness that had lain so heavily on them since their father's death lightened, they grew eager and communicative, and, in boyish fas.h.i.+on, did the honours of the country to their new friend with interest and delight. Not that they grew thoughtless or seemed to forget. Their father's name was often on their lips,--on Jem's, at least,--David did not seem to find it so easy to utter. They had both been at the quarries before with their father, and Jem had a great deal to say about what he had heard then, and at other times, about the stones and rocks, the formations and strata; and he always ended with ”That was what papa said, eh, Davie?” as though that was final, and there could be no dissent; and David said, ”Yes, Jem,”

or, perhaps, only nodded his head gravely. He never enlarged or went into particulars as Jem did; and when once they were fairly on their way home, Jem had it all to do, for they came home by the North Gore road, over which David had gone so many, many times; and even Jem grew grave as he pointed out this farm and that, as belonging to ”one of our people;” and the grave-yard on the hill, and the red school-house ”where papa used to preach.” And when they came to the top of the hill that looks down on the river, and the meadows, and the two villages, they were both silent, for old Don stood still of his own accord, and David, muttering something about ”a buckle and a strap,” sprang out to put them right, and was a long time about it, Mr Caldwell thought.

”We will let the poor old fellow rest a minute,” said Jem, softly; and David stood with his face turned away, and his arm thrown over old Don's neck.

There was not much said after that, but they all agreed that they had had a very pleasant day; and Mr Caldwell said to Mrs Inglis, in his slow way, that he had enjoyed the drive, and the sight of the fine country, and the quarries, but he had enjoyed the company of her two boys a great deal more than all. And you may be sure it was a pleasure to her to hear him say it.

CHAPTER EIGHT.

The breaking-up of what has been a happy home, is not an easy or pleasant thing under any circ.u.mstances. It involves confusion and fatigue, and a certain amount of pain, even when there is an immediate prospect of a better one. And when there is no such prospect, it is very sad, indeed. The happy remembrances that come with the gathering together, and looking over of the numberless things, useless and precious, that will, in the course of years, acc.u.mulate in a house, change to regrets and forebodings, and the future seems all the more gloomy because of the brightness of the past.

There were few things in Mrs Inglis's house of great value; but everything was precious to her, because of some a.s.sociation it had with her husband and their past life; and how sad all this was to her, could never be told.

The children were excited at the prospect of change. Singleton was a large place to them, which none of them, except David and Violet, had ever seen. So they amused one another, fancying what they would see and do, and what sort of a life they should live there, and made a holiday of the overturning that was taking place. But there was to the mother no pleasing uncertainty with regard to the kind of life they were to live in the new home to which they were going. There might be care, and labour, and loneliness, and, it was possible, things harder to bear; and, knowing all this, no wonder the thought of the safe and happy days they were leaving behind them was sometimes more than she could bear.

But, happily, there was not much time for the indulgence of regretful thoughts. There were too many things to be decided and done for that.

There were not many valuable things in the house, but there were a great many things of one kind and another. What was to be taken? What to be left? Where were they all to be bestowed? These questions, and the perplexities arising out of them, were never for a long time together suffered to be out of the mother's thoughts; and busy tongues suggesting plans, and busy hands helping or hindering to carry them out, filled every pause.

The very worst day of all, was the day when, having trusted Jem to drive the little ones a few miles down the river to pay a farewell visit, Mrs Inglis, with David and Violet, went into the study to take down her husband's books. And yet that day had such an ending, as to teach the widow still another lesson of grateful trust.

It was a long time before they came to the books. Papers, magazines, pamphlets--all such things as will, in the course of years, find a place on the shelves or in the drawers of one who interests himself in all that is going on in the world--had acc.u.mulated in the study; and all these had to be moved and a.s.sorted, for keeping, or destroying, or giving away. Sermons and ma.n.u.scripts, hitherto never touched but by the hand that had written them, had to be disturbed; old letters--some from the living and some from the dead--were taken from the secret places where they had lain for years, and over every one of these Mrs Inglis lingered with love and pain unspeakable.

”Never mind, Davie! Take no notice, Violet, love!” she said, once or twice, when a sudden cry or a gush of tears startled them; and so very few words were spoken all day. The two children sat near her, folding, arranging and putting aside the papers as she bade them, when they had pa.s.sed through her hands.

”Wouldn't it have been better to put them together and pack them up without trying to arrange them, mamma?” said David, at last, as his mother paused to press her hands on her aching temples.

”Perhaps it would have been better. But it must have been done some time; and it is nearly over now.”

”And the books? Must we wait for another day? We have not many days now, mamma!”

”Not many! Still, I think, we must wait. I have done all I am able to do to-day. Yes, I know you and Violet could do it; but I would like to help, and we will wait till to-morrow.”

”And, besides, mamma,” said Letty, from the window, ”here is Miss Bethia coming up the street. And, mamma, dear, shouldn't you go and lie down now, and I could tell her that you have a headache, and that you ought not to be disturbed?”

But Mrs Inglis could hardly have accomplished that, even if she had tried at once, for almost before Violet had done speaking, Miss Bethia was upon them. Her greetings were brief and abrupt, as usual; and then she said:

”Well! There! I _was_ in hopes to see this place once more before everything was pulled to pieces!” and she surveyed the disordered room with discontented eyes. ”Been looking them over to see what you can leave behind or burn up, haven't you? And you can't make up your mind to part with one of them. I know pretty well how _that_ is. The books ain't disturbed yet, thank goodness! Are you going to take Parson Grantly's offer, and let him have some of them?”

Mrs Inglis shook her head.

”Perhaps I ought,” said she. ”And yet I cannot make up my mind to do it.”

”No! of course, not! Not to him, anyhow! Do you suppose he'd ever read them? No! He only wants them to set up on his shelf to look at. If they've got to go, let them go to some one that'll get the good of them, for goodness sake! Well! There! I believe I'm getting profane about it!” said Miss Bethia catching the look of astonishment on David's face.

”But what I want to say is, What in all the world should you want to go and break it up for? There ain't many libraries like that in this part of the world.”

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