Chapter Thirteen.David had rather a hard time for the next few days. A great trouble had fallen on him. He could have borne anything else better he sometimes thought. His good name was in danger, for even a false accusation must leave a stain on it, he thought. Every day that passed made it less likely that the mysterious matter of the lost money could be cleared up, and until this happened, Mr Oswald would never perfectly trust him again; and David said to himself, sometimes sadly and sometimes angrily, that he could not stay where he was not trusted. Nor was it likely that Mr Oswald would wish him to stay. They might have to leave the bridge house and Singleton, and where could they go?Of course a constant indulgence in such thoughts and fears was very foolish on David’s part, and almost always he knew it to be foolish. He knew that all this trouble had not fallen on him by chance, and that out of it some good must come. He said to himself that he had been growing proud of his good name, of being his mother’s right hand, and of having the confidence of Mr Oswald, and perhaps this had been permitted to happen to him to remind him that he must be watchful and humble, and that he could do nothing good of himself. Gradually David came to see how right Mr Caldwell had been when he said that it was a very great matter how he bore his trial, and he grew ashamed of his anger and impatience and distrust.Just as if the Lord who loved him, and whom he loved, were not caring for him all this time! Just as though this were a matter that could not be committed to His care—trusted altogether to Him! Yes, he acknowledged himself very foolish and wrong. A great many times every day he asked that his good name might be cleared from the stain that seemed to rest on it; but as often he asked, that whether it was to be so or not, he might have grace and strength given to bear his trouble well.He did bear it pretty well, Mr Caldwell thought, and he watched him closely through these days. Mr Oswald thought so, top, and wondered a little. He could not really believe David Inglis to be guilty of theft, but it seemed strange to him that he should be so cheerful and patient under a false accusation. The only way in which he showed that he resented his suspicion, was by being firm in continuing to refuse the invitation to his house, which he again renewed. Frank told his father that he did not wonder at the refusal; he tried all the same to shake David’s resolution, but he did not succeed.David did not think he bore his trial well. In his heart, he was angry and desponding often. And, oh! how he wanted his mother! It would not have been half so bad if she had been at home, he thought, and yet he could not bring himself to write to her about it. When it should be made clear where the lost money had gone—so clear that even Mr Oswald would not have a doubtful thought, then he would tell his mother, and get the sympathy which would be so ready and so sweet. It would spoil her happy summer to know that he was in trouble, he thought, and, besides, he could not bear that she should know that any one had dared to speak of him as dishonest. This was foolish, too, but he could not tell her till afterwards.His mother was not quite at ease about him. She knew he was in trouble. She had gathered that from the changed tone of his weekly letter, and an inadvertent word, now and then, led her to believe that there was something more the matter than the loneliness to which he confessed after Jem went away. So, when an opportunity occurred for Violet to go to Singleton for a day or two, she was very glad that she should go, to see how Davie was getting on, and to give him an account of their manner of life in Gourlay.And when David came home one night, to find Violet making tea instead of Mrs Lacy, was he not glad to see her! He was more glad to see her than he would have been to see his mother. He knew he never could have talked half an hour with his mother without telling her all that was in his heart, and he could keep it from Violet. At least, so he said to himself. But when tea was over, and Violet had told him all they were doing at Gourlay, and all they were enjoying there, she began to ask him questions in return, and, before he knew it, he was telling all the sad story of the last few weeks, and was looking with wonder at his sister’s astonished and indignant face. For astonishment was Violet’s first feeling—astonishment that such a thing could have happened to Davie, and for a little, it was stronger even than her indignation.“And haven’t you the least idea what may have become of the money, Davie? Don’t you have any suspicion of any one?” asked she, after she had said a good many angry words that need not be repeated. “Have they not been trying to discover something?”“They have been trying, I suppose.”“And what doyouthink, Davie? There must be some clue, surely.”But David was silent.“You do suspect some one?” said Violet, eagerly.“No,” said he, slowly; “I have no sufficient reason for suspecting any one.”“Tellme, Davie.”“No; I have no right to tell my suspicions, or to suspect any one. It came into my head one night; but I know it is foolish and wrong, and I have nothing to tell.”“When did it happen?” asked Violet, after a little.David could not tell her the exact time. He had never been told the date of the receipt which Mr Oswald had given; but he thought it could not have been very long after his mother went away, though he had not heard of the loss till after Jem had gone.Violet went here and there putting things to rights in the room, and said nothing for a good while. By and by she came and leaned over the chair in which David was sitting, and asked:“David, when did Philip Oswald go away?”David turned round and looked at her uneasily.“A good while ago. Soon after you all went away to Gourlay. No, Violet—don’t say it,” said he, eagerly, as he met her look. “He could not do it. Why should he? He has all the money he wants. And, besides, hecouldnot do such a thing.”“David,” said Violet, gravely, “was it Philip that you were thinking about?”“Don’t, Violet! It came into my mind—I couldn’t help that, but it is wrong to speak of it. It could not have been he.”“I don’t know. It does not seem possible. He is foolish and frivolous—and not to be relied on; but I do not think he would do such a thing as—take money—unless—”“Violet! Don’t speak of it. A false accusation is a terrible thing.”“I am not accusing him. There does not seem to be a sufficient motive for such an act. The sum was so small—and then—”“Dear Violet!” said David, in great distress, “don’t speak of it any more.”“Well, I will not—but Mr Oswald accused you. You are a great deal better than I am, Davie,” said his sister, softly.David laughed an uncertain laugh.“That is all you know about it,” said he.When Violet went up next day to speak to Miss Oswald about the little girls, the first word that Frank said to her was:“Has Davie told you? Oh! Violet, what will Aunt Mary think of papa?”But Violet could not trust herself to speak of Davie’s trouble to him. She was too angry with his father; and, besides, she was too startled by Frank’s pale looks to be able to think, for the moment, of any one but him.“Are you ill, Frank? Are your eyes worse? What have you been doing to them?”For Frank had dropped his head down on his hands again.“Yes, they are worse. I was out in the rain, and caught cold. I was not strong enough to go, I suppose. Phil, sent me back with some people who were coming down. He would have come himself, but, of course, I couldn’t let him.”“You would have done better to come to Gourlay with us,” said Violet.“Yes, even without Jem or Davie. I wish I had gone.”“Come with me to-morrow,” said Violet, earnestly. “Mamma will be very glad to see you.”But Frank shook his head sadly.“I cannot, Violet. I should be ashamed to look Aunt Mary in the face—after—”“You need not, Frank. Mamma will know. And you don’t suppose that anything they say can really hurt our Davie?”“No; not in the end. But—there’s no use in talking.”“I am not afraid!” said Violet. “And mamma will not fret about it; I am sure of that?”There was nothing more said for some time, and then Violet asked:“Where is your brother now?”“He must be far across the country by this time. He was enjoying the trip very much when I left him.”“And when will he be home?”“I don’t know. Not for a good while yet. Why are you asking?”Frank raised himself up, and peered with his dim eyes into Violet’s face.“Why are you asking?” he repeated.But Violet did not answer him. As she looked at his poor, pale face, the tears started in her eyes.“Frank, dear boy, you must come home with me. You want mamma again. She will do you more good than the doctor.”“Violet, tell me one thing! Does Davie blame Phil—about the missing money, I mean. Tell me!”“Davie blame your brother! Why should you say so? Davie would be shocked at such a question from you. What reason could he have to blame Philip?”But Violet was very glad that he did not pursue the subject, for she was afraid to let him know all her thoughts about Davie’s trouble. She did not give him an opportunity to return to the subject. She wished very much for Frank’s sake that he should return to Gourlay with her, and she hastened to propose the plan to his aunt. Miss Oswald was, by no means, disposed to hinder him, though she doubted if his father would let him go. She was not very much accustomed to the society of young people, and she had been at a loss what to do with the boy, who, though not very ill, was disinclined, and, indeed, unable to amuse himself, or to enter into any of the plans which were made for his pleasure, so she promised to speak to his father, and to have his things ready should he be permitted to go. Violet took care to avoid being alone with Frank while she stayed in the house, and nothing more was said about Philip.It was all arranged as Violet desired it might be. Mr Oswald made no serious objections to his son’s going to Gourlay. Frank himself objected, but the prospect of going with Violet was too pleasant to make his refusal very firm, and the thought of the loneliness of his own home decided him to go.“Violet,” said David, when the time came to say good-bye, “you must not tell mamma about all this vexation. It would only make her unhappy, and do no good.”But Violet would not promise.“I cannot, Davie. I cannot keep anything from mamma when she wishes to know it; and she will be sure to ask everything about you. But you need not be afraid. Mamma will not fret. She will know that it will all be right in the end.”And the “end” of David’s trouble, as far as the missing money was concerned, was nearer than either of them thought when they bade each other good-bye. He had a few days more of anxiety and discomfort, in the midst of which came a letter from his mother, which made it seem to him a very small trouble indeed. He read it over and over again, and laughed at himself for supposing that he was acting wisely in keeping the knowledge of all that was making him so unhappy from his mother.“Mamma always knows just what to say and how to say it,” said he to himself; “and, of course, she is not going to fret about a matter which is sure to come right in the end.”And so the days that followed were better days, though the hot weather, and the close confinement in the office through the day, and the loneliness of the deserted house at home, were beginning to tell on him, and he was by no means well. He did his best to do well all that was given him to do, but the days were long and dull and the evenings lonely, and he began to count the days that must pass before they should all come home.There was something going on in the town one afternoon, a cricket match or a match at football, and all the clerks had left the bank at the earliest possible moment, intent on seeing all that was to be seen of it. David would have gone with, the rest, but Mr Caldwell, who was at the moment engaged with Mr Oswald in his private room, had asked him to remain till he came out to him again. David waited, not caring that he lost the amusement that the others sought, not caring very much for anything just at that moment, for he was tired and getting a little unhappy again, and very much ashamed of himself because of it.For when he had read his mother’s letter only the other day, he had taken all the comfort of her cheerful, trustful words, and acknowledged how foolish and wrong it had been for him to let Mr Oswald’s doubts and suspicions dismay him. He had said then that it was all past now, and that he could wait God’s time for the clearing of his name, without being unhappy or afraid again. And now here he was wondering anxiously whether Mr Oswald and Mr Caldwell were speaking about the lost money, and whether any thing more was known that he had not heard. He was tired waiting, and wanted to go home, and yet the thought of the empty house and the long dull evening was not pleasant, and he was saying to himself that it did not matter whether he stayed or went, when a hand was laid on his shoulder, and a familiar voice said—“Well, Davie, my boy, have you been standing here ever since I went away?”David turned and saw Philip Oswald. In his surprise, and because of the many thoughts that came upon him at the sight of him, he did not utter a word. He forgot to take the hand which Philip held out to him.“Have you, Davie? I declare you look as if you had not seen the light of the sun for a month! What is the matter with you, Davie?”He might well ask it, for David had grown very pale, and his heart was beating fast. In spite of his judgment, he had, since his talk with Violet, associated Philip with the thought of the lost money, and now as he looked at his frank, handsome face, he said how impossible it was that he should have taken it, or that he should know anything about it. No, Philip Oswald could not help him out of his trouble.“When did you come, Philip?” said he. “I should scarcely have known you, if you hadn’t spoken.”Philip had changed more than seemed possible in two months’ time. He was brown with the sun and much more manly-looking. He even seemed to David to have grown taller in these two months.“I have improved, haven’t I? I can’t say as much for you. What is the trouble, Davie?”Philip laid his hand on his shoulder again, and brought his laughing brown face close to David’s. But David drew himself away. He hated himself for the feeling of anger and envy that rose in his heart as he looked at Philip. Why should life be so easy to him? Why should the summer have passed so differently to them? At the moment he was very miserable, tired of his trouble and of his laborious life, faithless and afraid. So he withdrew from the young man’s touch, and turned away saying nothing.“Is it as bad as that? Can’t I help you? Frank seemed to think I might, though I could not make out from his letter what was the trouble or how I could help you out of it. Is it about money, Davie? Have you got into a scrape at last?”“A scrape!” repeated David. “No you cannot help me, I am afraid. I should be sorry to trouble you.”“Trouble! Nonsense! I have come a fortnight sooner than I wanted to come, because of Frank’s letter. He seemed to think I could put you through. What has my father to do with it? Halloo! Here is old Caldwell. Must it be kept dark, Davie?”David made him no answer. Unconsciously he had been looking forward to the time of Philip’s coming home, with hope that in some way or other light might be thrown on the matter that had darkened all the summer to him, but Philip evidently knew nothing of it, and all must be as before. If he could have got away without being questioned, he would have gone, for he was by no means sure that he might not disgrace himself by breaking into angry words, or even into tears. He certainly must have done one or other if he had tried to speak, but he did not need to answer.“So you have come home!” said Mr Caldwell, as he came forward. “You have not been in haste.”“I beg your pardon. Ihavebeen in haste. I did not intend to come home for ten days yet, if I had been allowed to have my own way about it.”“And what hindered you? Matters of importance, doubtless.”“You may be sure of that. Has my father gone home? I will just see him a minute, and then I’ll go home with you, Davie,” said Philip, turning towards his father’s door. “David has important business with me,” added he, looking over his shoulder with his hand on the door-handle.David shook his head.“Your father will tell you all about it,” said he, hoarsely.Philip whistled and came back again.“That is the way, is it?”“Or I will tell you,” said Mr Caldwell, gravely. “Young man, what did your brother Frank say to you in the letter he wrote to you a while ago?”Philip looked at him in surprise.“What is that to you, sir? He said—I don’t very well know what he said. It was a mysterious epistle altogether, and so blurred and blotted that I could hardly read it. But I made out that Davie was in trouble, and that I was expected home to bring him through.”Searching through his many pockets, he at last found his brother’s letter and held it out to David. “Perhaps you can make it out,” said he.Blurred and blotted it was, and the lines were crooked, and in some places they ran into each other, and David did not wonder that Philip could not read it very well. He saw his own name in it and Violet’s, and he knew of course that what Frank had to say was about the lost money, but he could see also that the story was only hinted at, and the letter was altogether so vague and indefinite, that it might well seem mysterious to Philip.“Can you make it out?” Philip asked.“I know what he means, though perhaps I should not have found it out from this. Your father will tell you, or Mr Caldwell.”“All right! Fire away, and the sooner the better, for I am tired. If I can help you out of the scrape, I will.”“That is to be seen yet,” said Mr Caldwell.Then he told the story of the lost money, using as few words as possible, as was his way. He only told the facts of the case, how the money had been brought to Mr Oswald and its receipt acknowledged by him, and how a part of it had never been found or accounted for, and how Mr Oswald had first suspected, and then openly accused David Inglis of having taken it. He did not express any opinion as to whether Mr Oswald was right or wrong, nor offer any suggestion as to what might have become of the missing money, and one might not have thought from his way of telling it, that he was particularly interested in the matter. But he never removed his eyes from Mr Philip’s face, and his last words were—“And it seems your brother thought you might have some knowledge of the matter. Is that what he says in his letter?”Philip’s face was well worth looking at as the story went on. At first he whistled and looked amused, but his amusement changed to surprise, and then to consternation, as Mr Caldwell proceeded. When he ceased speaking he exclaimed without heeding his question—“What could my father mean? To blame Davie, of all people!”“There was no one else, he thought,” said David.“No one else!” repeated Philip. “Nonsense! There was Mr Caldwell and all the rest of them in the office, and there wasme. I took the money.”“If you had acknowledged it a little sooner, it would have been a wiser thing for yourself, and it would have saved your father much vexation, and a deal of unhappiness to David Inglis and the rest of them,” said Mr Caldwell, severely. “You had best tell your father about it now,” added he, as Mr Oswald came out of his room.“Acknowledge it! Of course, I acknowledge it. Papa, did you not get the note I left on your table for you the day I went away?”“The note!” repeated his father. “I got no note from you.”“David, my man,” whispered Mr Caldwell, “do you mind the word that says, ‘He shall bring forth thy righteousness as the light, and thy judgment as the noonday?’ The Lord doesna forget.”The story as they gathered it from Philip’s explanations and exclamations was this: He had come to the office to see his father directly from the train that had brought him home from C—. He had not found him in, but he had written a note to explain that through some change of plan the company of explorers were to set out immediately, and that he must return to C— without a moment’s delay, in order that all arrangements might be completed by the time that the boat sailed. He was almost sure he had acknowledged taking the small rolls of silver that were on the table; he was quite sure that he had left the full value in paper money in exchange. There could be no mistake about it, and he had never doubted but his father had received it.“And, papa! the absurdity of suspecting Davie,” said Philip, not very respectfully, when his story was done.“And now the matter lies between him and you,” said his father. “For the money is not forthcoming. You may have neglected to leave it after all.”But Philip was certain as to that point. He had enclosed it with his note and closed the envelope, leaving it on an open ledger that was lying on the table. There could be no mistake about that.“And we are just where we were before,” said Mr Caldwell. “But don’t be cast down, David. There must be a way out of this.”“But nothing astonishes me so much as that my father should have doubted Davie. That was too absurd, you know. If I had been you, Davie, I would have cut the whole concern,” said Philip.“There would have been much wisdom in that,” said Mr Caldwell dryly. “There is no fear of David Inglis.”David said nothing. He stood folding and unfolding the letter that Philip had given him, struck dumb by the thought that nothing had really been discovered of the missing money, and that the suspicion of Mr Oswald might still rest on him “I wonder you did not think of me, father,” went on Philip. “Frank did, I dare say, though I could not make out what he meant. But the money must be somewhere. Let us have a look.”He went into his father’s room, and the others followed. Philip looked about as though he expected everything might be as he left it two months ago. There were loose papers on the table, and some letters and account-books. The morning paper was there, and Mr Oswald’s hat and cane, and that was all.“The big book lay just here,” said Philip. “I laid my note on it, so that it need not be overlooked.”“There are more big books in the office than one,” said Mr Caldwell, crossing the room to a large safe, of which the doors were still standing open. One by one he lifted the large account-books that were not often disturbed, and turned over the leaves slowly, to see whether any paper might have been shut in them. As soon as Philip understood what he was doing, he gave himself to the same work with a great deal more energy and interest than Mr Caldwell displayed. But it was Mr Caldwell who came upon that for which they were looking—Philip’s note to his father—safe between the pages of a great ledger, which looked as though it might not have been opened for years.“I mind well; I was referring back to Moses Cramp’s account of past years on the very day that brought us all our trouble. And now, David Inglis, your trial is over for this time,” and he handed the note to Mr Oswald.“Provided Mr Philip has made no mistake,” added he, cautiously, as the note was opened.The interest with which David looked on may be imagined. It took Mr Oswald a good while to read the note; at least, it was a good while before he laid it down, and Mr Caldwell, claiming Mr Philip’s help, set about putting the big books in their places again. David never thought of offering to help.“It has been a very unfortunate mistake,” said Mr Oswald, at last.“All’s well that ends well,” said his son lightly.“I am very sorry that you should have been made unhappy about it, David. I might have known thatyouwere not to blame, but there seemed to be no one else. I beg your pardon sincerely,” said Mr Oswald.“I am very glad it is all right, sir,” said David, quietly.“I should like to know one thing,” said Philip. “How came Frank to write to me? He must have thought I was the thief—the young rascal. Did you think so, Davie?”“No,” said David, “I never thought you took it. I don’t know what Frank thought. I never spoke to him about it, nor to any one,” added David, after a moment’s hesitation.“Well! never mind. I’ll sift that matter by and by. Come up to the house with me, Davie. I am very sorry for all the pain you have had about this business. Come home with me to-night.”“No; I am going home by myself. I have a headache. You were not to blame.”“Yes, he was to blame,” said Mr Oswald. “It was a very unbusiness-like way of doing things, and it might have ended badly for all concerned.”“It has been bad enough all through for David Inglis. Mr Philip, if you wish to make amends to him, you should offer to take his place and let him go to the country to amuse himself with the rest for a few days.”Philip opened his eyes.“I am afraid I could not fill David’s place in the office,” said he.“I am afraid of that, too. But you would be better than nobody, and we would have patience with you. And David must go for awhile, whether you take his place or no.”“Yes,” assented Mr Oswald, rather absently. “He might as well have a holiday now as any time. And, Philip, I expect you to take your own place in the office after this regularly.”Philip shrugged his shoulders, when his father was not looking to see.“I’ll give it a trial,” said he.“And can I go to-morrow, Mr Caldwell?” said David. “I have no preparations to make, and I should like to take them by surprise.”“By all means. I should like to go with you and see it,” said Philip. “But, I suppose, that would hardly do—just at present.”David bade them good-night, and went down the street with Mr Caldwell.“I am much obliged to you, sir. I am very glad to get away from the office for awhile, to say nothing of going to Gourlay and seeing them all.”David’s eyes sparkled at the thought.“Well! You have borne your trouble not so ill,” said Mr Caldwell; “and you may tell your mother I said so.”David laughed; but he looked grave in a moment.“I don’t think you would say I bore it well, if you knew all the angry thoughts I had. But I am very glad and thankful now, and I am sure mamma will thank you for all your kindness. I know now you never thought me capable of doing so wrong a thing.”“We are all poor creatures, David, my man. There is no saying what we mightna’ do if we were left to ourselves. Be thankful and humble, and pray for grace to keep in the right way; and mind that yon young man’s eyes are upon you, and that you are, in a measure, responsible for his well-doing or his ill-doing, for awhile, at least; and may the Lord guide you,” said Mr Caldwell, solemnly, and then he went away.David stood gazing after him with astonished eyes.“I responsible for him! That can hardly be. I am nothing to him. I wonder what mamma would say? I shall have nothing to do with him for awhile, at least. I like Frank much the best. Oh! isn’t it good to be going home!”David had one thing to do with Philip Oswald before he went away. He came to the station with a parcel which he wished him to take to his little sisters, and to see him off. He was merry and good-humoured, though he pretended to be dreadfully afraid of not being able to fill David’s place in the office to the satisfaction of Mr Caldwell.“If Aunt Mary will ask me, I will come to Gourlay and spend some Sunday with you,” said he. “I have a settlement to make with Master Frank. I did not think that he and Violet would have called me a dishonest person, even to clear you. I am very angry with them both.”He did not look very angry, for he said it with laughing lips. But David was shocked.“Violet never thought that of you. She only said that—that—”“Well! What did she say?” demanded Philip.“She said it was quite impossible,” went on David. “She said there was no motive—I mean—She said you were foolish, and frivolous, and thought first of your own pleasure—but—”There was not time for another word, if David would not lose the train. He was indignant with himself. Why could he not have kept silence for two minutes longer? And yet, as he caught a glimpse of Philip’s astonished face as the train swept past him on the platform, he could not help laughing a little, and hoping that the truth might do him good. For it was true, and Philip did not hear unpleasant truths too often for his welfare.“At any rate, I am not going to vex myself about it now,” said David. And he was quite right.
David had rather a hard time for the next few days. A great trouble had fallen on him. He could have borne anything else better he sometimes thought. His good name was in danger, for even a false accusation must leave a stain on it, he thought. Every day that passed made it less likely that the mysterious matter of the lost money could be cleared up, and until this happened, Mr Oswald would never perfectly trust him again; and David said to himself, sometimes sadly and sometimes angrily, that he could not stay where he was not trusted. Nor was it likely that Mr Oswald would wish him to stay. They might have to leave the bridge house and Singleton, and where could they go?
Of course a constant indulgence in such thoughts and fears was very foolish on David’s part, and almost always he knew it to be foolish. He knew that all this trouble had not fallen on him by chance, and that out of it some good must come. He said to himself that he had been growing proud of his good name, of being his mother’s right hand, and of having the confidence of Mr Oswald, and perhaps this had been permitted to happen to him to remind him that he must be watchful and humble, and that he could do nothing good of himself. Gradually David came to see how right Mr Caldwell had been when he said that it was a very great matter how he bore his trial, and he grew ashamed of his anger and impatience and distrust.
Just as if the Lord who loved him, and whom he loved, were not caring for him all this time! Just as though this were a matter that could not be committed to His care—trusted altogether to Him! Yes, he acknowledged himself very foolish and wrong. A great many times every day he asked that his good name might be cleared from the stain that seemed to rest on it; but as often he asked, that whether it was to be so or not, he might have grace and strength given to bear his trouble well.
He did bear it pretty well, Mr Caldwell thought, and he watched him closely through these days. Mr Oswald thought so, top, and wondered a little. He could not really believe David Inglis to be guilty of theft, but it seemed strange to him that he should be so cheerful and patient under a false accusation. The only way in which he showed that he resented his suspicion, was by being firm in continuing to refuse the invitation to his house, which he again renewed. Frank told his father that he did not wonder at the refusal; he tried all the same to shake David’s resolution, but he did not succeed.
David did not think he bore his trial well. In his heart, he was angry and desponding often. And, oh! how he wanted his mother! It would not have been half so bad if she had been at home, he thought, and yet he could not bring himself to write to her about it. When it should be made clear where the lost money had gone—so clear that even Mr Oswald would not have a doubtful thought, then he would tell his mother, and get the sympathy which would be so ready and so sweet. It would spoil her happy summer to know that he was in trouble, he thought, and, besides, he could not bear that she should know that any one had dared to speak of him as dishonest. This was foolish, too, but he could not tell her till afterwards.
His mother was not quite at ease about him. She knew he was in trouble. She had gathered that from the changed tone of his weekly letter, and an inadvertent word, now and then, led her to believe that there was something more the matter than the loneliness to which he confessed after Jem went away. So, when an opportunity occurred for Violet to go to Singleton for a day or two, she was very glad that she should go, to see how Davie was getting on, and to give him an account of their manner of life in Gourlay.
And when David came home one night, to find Violet making tea instead of Mrs Lacy, was he not glad to see her! He was more glad to see her than he would have been to see his mother. He knew he never could have talked half an hour with his mother without telling her all that was in his heart, and he could keep it from Violet. At least, so he said to himself. But when tea was over, and Violet had told him all they were doing at Gourlay, and all they were enjoying there, she began to ask him questions in return, and, before he knew it, he was telling all the sad story of the last few weeks, and was looking with wonder at his sister’s astonished and indignant face. For astonishment was Violet’s first feeling—astonishment that such a thing could have happened to Davie, and for a little, it was stronger even than her indignation.
“And haven’t you the least idea what may have become of the money, Davie? Don’t you have any suspicion of any one?” asked she, after she had said a good many angry words that need not be repeated. “Have they not been trying to discover something?”
“They have been trying, I suppose.”
“And what doyouthink, Davie? There must be some clue, surely.”
But David was silent.
“You do suspect some one?” said Violet, eagerly.
“No,” said he, slowly; “I have no sufficient reason for suspecting any one.”
“Tellme, Davie.”
“No; I have no right to tell my suspicions, or to suspect any one. It came into my head one night; but I know it is foolish and wrong, and I have nothing to tell.”
“When did it happen?” asked Violet, after a little.
David could not tell her the exact time. He had never been told the date of the receipt which Mr Oswald had given; but he thought it could not have been very long after his mother went away, though he had not heard of the loss till after Jem had gone.
Violet went here and there putting things to rights in the room, and said nothing for a good while. By and by she came and leaned over the chair in which David was sitting, and asked:
“David, when did Philip Oswald go away?”
David turned round and looked at her uneasily.
“A good while ago. Soon after you all went away to Gourlay. No, Violet—don’t say it,” said he, eagerly, as he met her look. “He could not do it. Why should he? He has all the money he wants. And, besides, hecouldnot do such a thing.”
“David,” said Violet, gravely, “was it Philip that you were thinking about?”
“Don’t, Violet! It came into my mind—I couldn’t help that, but it is wrong to speak of it. It could not have been he.”
“I don’t know. It does not seem possible. He is foolish and frivolous—and not to be relied on; but I do not think he would do such a thing as—take money—unless—”
“Violet! Don’t speak of it. A false accusation is a terrible thing.”
“I am not accusing him. There does not seem to be a sufficient motive for such an act. The sum was so small—and then—”
“Dear Violet!” said David, in great distress, “don’t speak of it any more.”
“Well, I will not—but Mr Oswald accused you. You are a great deal better than I am, Davie,” said his sister, softly.
David laughed an uncertain laugh.
“That is all you know about it,” said he.
When Violet went up next day to speak to Miss Oswald about the little girls, the first word that Frank said to her was:
“Has Davie told you? Oh! Violet, what will Aunt Mary think of papa?”
But Violet could not trust herself to speak of Davie’s trouble to him. She was too angry with his father; and, besides, she was too startled by Frank’s pale looks to be able to think, for the moment, of any one but him.
“Are you ill, Frank? Are your eyes worse? What have you been doing to them?”
For Frank had dropped his head down on his hands again.
“Yes, they are worse. I was out in the rain, and caught cold. I was not strong enough to go, I suppose. Phil, sent me back with some people who were coming down. He would have come himself, but, of course, I couldn’t let him.”
“You would have done better to come to Gourlay with us,” said Violet.
“Yes, even without Jem or Davie. I wish I had gone.”
“Come with me to-morrow,” said Violet, earnestly. “Mamma will be very glad to see you.”
But Frank shook his head sadly.
“I cannot, Violet. I should be ashamed to look Aunt Mary in the face—after—”
“You need not, Frank. Mamma will know. And you don’t suppose that anything they say can really hurt our Davie?”
“No; not in the end. But—there’s no use in talking.”
“I am not afraid!” said Violet. “And mamma will not fret about it; I am sure of that?”
There was nothing more said for some time, and then Violet asked:
“Where is your brother now?”
“He must be far across the country by this time. He was enjoying the trip very much when I left him.”
“And when will he be home?”
“I don’t know. Not for a good while yet. Why are you asking?”
Frank raised himself up, and peered with his dim eyes into Violet’s face.
“Why are you asking?” he repeated.
But Violet did not answer him. As she looked at his poor, pale face, the tears started in her eyes.
“Frank, dear boy, you must come home with me. You want mamma again. She will do you more good than the doctor.”
“Violet, tell me one thing! Does Davie blame Phil—about the missing money, I mean. Tell me!”
“Davie blame your brother! Why should you say so? Davie would be shocked at such a question from you. What reason could he have to blame Philip?”
But Violet was very glad that he did not pursue the subject, for she was afraid to let him know all her thoughts about Davie’s trouble. She did not give him an opportunity to return to the subject. She wished very much for Frank’s sake that he should return to Gourlay with her, and she hastened to propose the plan to his aunt. Miss Oswald was, by no means, disposed to hinder him, though she doubted if his father would let him go. She was not very much accustomed to the society of young people, and she had been at a loss what to do with the boy, who, though not very ill, was disinclined, and, indeed, unable to amuse himself, or to enter into any of the plans which were made for his pleasure, so she promised to speak to his father, and to have his things ready should he be permitted to go. Violet took care to avoid being alone with Frank while she stayed in the house, and nothing more was said about Philip.
It was all arranged as Violet desired it might be. Mr Oswald made no serious objections to his son’s going to Gourlay. Frank himself objected, but the prospect of going with Violet was too pleasant to make his refusal very firm, and the thought of the loneliness of his own home decided him to go.
“Violet,” said David, when the time came to say good-bye, “you must not tell mamma about all this vexation. It would only make her unhappy, and do no good.”
But Violet would not promise.
“I cannot, Davie. I cannot keep anything from mamma when she wishes to know it; and she will be sure to ask everything about you. But you need not be afraid. Mamma will not fret. She will know that it will all be right in the end.”
And the “end” of David’s trouble, as far as the missing money was concerned, was nearer than either of them thought when they bade each other good-bye. He had a few days more of anxiety and discomfort, in the midst of which came a letter from his mother, which made it seem to him a very small trouble indeed. He read it over and over again, and laughed at himself for supposing that he was acting wisely in keeping the knowledge of all that was making him so unhappy from his mother.
“Mamma always knows just what to say and how to say it,” said he to himself; “and, of course, she is not going to fret about a matter which is sure to come right in the end.”
And so the days that followed were better days, though the hot weather, and the close confinement in the office through the day, and the loneliness of the deserted house at home, were beginning to tell on him, and he was by no means well. He did his best to do well all that was given him to do, but the days were long and dull and the evenings lonely, and he began to count the days that must pass before they should all come home.
There was something going on in the town one afternoon, a cricket match or a match at football, and all the clerks had left the bank at the earliest possible moment, intent on seeing all that was to be seen of it. David would have gone with, the rest, but Mr Caldwell, who was at the moment engaged with Mr Oswald in his private room, had asked him to remain till he came out to him again. David waited, not caring that he lost the amusement that the others sought, not caring very much for anything just at that moment, for he was tired and getting a little unhappy again, and very much ashamed of himself because of it.
For when he had read his mother’s letter only the other day, he had taken all the comfort of her cheerful, trustful words, and acknowledged how foolish and wrong it had been for him to let Mr Oswald’s doubts and suspicions dismay him. He had said then that it was all past now, and that he could wait God’s time for the clearing of his name, without being unhappy or afraid again. And now here he was wondering anxiously whether Mr Oswald and Mr Caldwell were speaking about the lost money, and whether any thing more was known that he had not heard. He was tired waiting, and wanted to go home, and yet the thought of the empty house and the long dull evening was not pleasant, and he was saying to himself that it did not matter whether he stayed or went, when a hand was laid on his shoulder, and a familiar voice said—
“Well, Davie, my boy, have you been standing here ever since I went away?”
David turned and saw Philip Oswald. In his surprise, and because of the many thoughts that came upon him at the sight of him, he did not utter a word. He forgot to take the hand which Philip held out to him.
“Have you, Davie? I declare you look as if you had not seen the light of the sun for a month! What is the matter with you, Davie?”
He might well ask it, for David had grown very pale, and his heart was beating fast. In spite of his judgment, he had, since his talk with Violet, associated Philip with the thought of the lost money, and now as he looked at his frank, handsome face, he said how impossible it was that he should have taken it, or that he should know anything about it. No, Philip Oswald could not help him out of his trouble.
“When did you come, Philip?” said he. “I should scarcely have known you, if you hadn’t spoken.”
Philip had changed more than seemed possible in two months’ time. He was brown with the sun and much more manly-looking. He even seemed to David to have grown taller in these two months.
“I have improved, haven’t I? I can’t say as much for you. What is the trouble, Davie?”
Philip laid his hand on his shoulder again, and brought his laughing brown face close to David’s. But David drew himself away. He hated himself for the feeling of anger and envy that rose in his heart as he looked at Philip. Why should life be so easy to him? Why should the summer have passed so differently to them? At the moment he was very miserable, tired of his trouble and of his laborious life, faithless and afraid. So he withdrew from the young man’s touch, and turned away saying nothing.
“Is it as bad as that? Can’t I help you? Frank seemed to think I might, though I could not make out from his letter what was the trouble or how I could help you out of it. Is it about money, Davie? Have you got into a scrape at last?”
“A scrape!” repeated David. “No you cannot help me, I am afraid. I should be sorry to trouble you.”
“Trouble! Nonsense! I have come a fortnight sooner than I wanted to come, because of Frank’s letter. He seemed to think I could put you through. What has my father to do with it? Halloo! Here is old Caldwell. Must it be kept dark, Davie?”
David made him no answer. Unconsciously he had been looking forward to the time of Philip’s coming home, with hope that in some way or other light might be thrown on the matter that had darkened all the summer to him, but Philip evidently knew nothing of it, and all must be as before. If he could have got away without being questioned, he would have gone, for he was by no means sure that he might not disgrace himself by breaking into angry words, or even into tears. He certainly must have done one or other if he had tried to speak, but he did not need to answer.
“So you have come home!” said Mr Caldwell, as he came forward. “You have not been in haste.”
“I beg your pardon. Ihavebeen in haste. I did not intend to come home for ten days yet, if I had been allowed to have my own way about it.”
“And what hindered you? Matters of importance, doubtless.”
“You may be sure of that. Has my father gone home? I will just see him a minute, and then I’ll go home with you, Davie,” said Philip, turning towards his father’s door. “David has important business with me,” added he, looking over his shoulder with his hand on the door-handle.
David shook his head.
“Your father will tell you all about it,” said he, hoarsely.
Philip whistled and came back again.
“That is the way, is it?”
“Or I will tell you,” said Mr Caldwell, gravely. “Young man, what did your brother Frank say to you in the letter he wrote to you a while ago?”
Philip looked at him in surprise.
“What is that to you, sir? He said—I don’t very well know what he said. It was a mysterious epistle altogether, and so blurred and blotted that I could hardly read it. But I made out that Davie was in trouble, and that I was expected home to bring him through.”
Searching through his many pockets, he at last found his brother’s letter and held it out to David. “Perhaps you can make it out,” said he.
Blurred and blotted it was, and the lines were crooked, and in some places they ran into each other, and David did not wonder that Philip could not read it very well. He saw his own name in it and Violet’s, and he knew of course that what Frank had to say was about the lost money, but he could see also that the story was only hinted at, and the letter was altogether so vague and indefinite, that it might well seem mysterious to Philip.
“Can you make it out?” Philip asked.
“I know what he means, though perhaps I should not have found it out from this. Your father will tell you, or Mr Caldwell.”
“All right! Fire away, and the sooner the better, for I am tired. If I can help you out of the scrape, I will.”
“That is to be seen yet,” said Mr Caldwell.
Then he told the story of the lost money, using as few words as possible, as was his way. He only told the facts of the case, how the money had been brought to Mr Oswald and its receipt acknowledged by him, and how a part of it had never been found or accounted for, and how Mr Oswald had first suspected, and then openly accused David Inglis of having taken it. He did not express any opinion as to whether Mr Oswald was right or wrong, nor offer any suggestion as to what might have become of the missing money, and one might not have thought from his way of telling it, that he was particularly interested in the matter. But he never removed his eyes from Mr Philip’s face, and his last words were—
“And it seems your brother thought you might have some knowledge of the matter. Is that what he says in his letter?”
Philip’s face was well worth looking at as the story went on. At first he whistled and looked amused, but his amusement changed to surprise, and then to consternation, as Mr Caldwell proceeded. When he ceased speaking he exclaimed without heeding his question—
“What could my father mean? To blame Davie, of all people!”
“There was no one else, he thought,” said David.
“No one else!” repeated Philip. “Nonsense! There was Mr Caldwell and all the rest of them in the office, and there wasme. I took the money.”
“If you had acknowledged it a little sooner, it would have been a wiser thing for yourself, and it would have saved your father much vexation, and a deal of unhappiness to David Inglis and the rest of them,” said Mr Caldwell, severely. “You had best tell your father about it now,” added he, as Mr Oswald came out of his room.
“Acknowledge it! Of course, I acknowledge it. Papa, did you not get the note I left on your table for you the day I went away?”
“The note!” repeated his father. “I got no note from you.”
“David, my man,” whispered Mr Caldwell, “do you mind the word that says, ‘He shall bring forth thy righteousness as the light, and thy judgment as the noonday?’ The Lord doesna forget.”
The story as they gathered it from Philip’s explanations and exclamations was this: He had come to the office to see his father directly from the train that had brought him home from C—. He had not found him in, but he had written a note to explain that through some change of plan the company of explorers were to set out immediately, and that he must return to C— without a moment’s delay, in order that all arrangements might be completed by the time that the boat sailed. He was almost sure he had acknowledged taking the small rolls of silver that were on the table; he was quite sure that he had left the full value in paper money in exchange. There could be no mistake about it, and he had never doubted but his father had received it.
“And, papa! the absurdity of suspecting Davie,” said Philip, not very respectfully, when his story was done.
“And now the matter lies between him and you,” said his father. “For the money is not forthcoming. You may have neglected to leave it after all.”
But Philip was certain as to that point. He had enclosed it with his note and closed the envelope, leaving it on an open ledger that was lying on the table. There could be no mistake about that.
“And we are just where we were before,” said Mr Caldwell. “But don’t be cast down, David. There must be a way out of this.”
“But nothing astonishes me so much as that my father should have doubted Davie. That was too absurd, you know. If I had been you, Davie, I would have cut the whole concern,” said Philip.
“There would have been much wisdom in that,” said Mr Caldwell dryly. “There is no fear of David Inglis.”
David said nothing. He stood folding and unfolding the letter that Philip had given him, struck dumb by the thought that nothing had really been discovered of the missing money, and that the suspicion of Mr Oswald might still rest on him “I wonder you did not think of me, father,” went on Philip. “Frank did, I dare say, though I could not make out what he meant. But the money must be somewhere. Let us have a look.”
He went into his father’s room, and the others followed. Philip looked about as though he expected everything might be as he left it two months ago. There were loose papers on the table, and some letters and account-books. The morning paper was there, and Mr Oswald’s hat and cane, and that was all.
“The big book lay just here,” said Philip. “I laid my note on it, so that it need not be overlooked.”
“There are more big books in the office than one,” said Mr Caldwell, crossing the room to a large safe, of which the doors were still standing open. One by one he lifted the large account-books that were not often disturbed, and turned over the leaves slowly, to see whether any paper might have been shut in them. As soon as Philip understood what he was doing, he gave himself to the same work with a great deal more energy and interest than Mr Caldwell displayed. But it was Mr Caldwell who came upon that for which they were looking—Philip’s note to his father—safe between the pages of a great ledger, which looked as though it might not have been opened for years.
“I mind well; I was referring back to Moses Cramp’s account of past years on the very day that brought us all our trouble. And now, David Inglis, your trial is over for this time,” and he handed the note to Mr Oswald.
“Provided Mr Philip has made no mistake,” added he, cautiously, as the note was opened.
The interest with which David looked on may be imagined. It took Mr Oswald a good while to read the note; at least, it was a good while before he laid it down, and Mr Caldwell, claiming Mr Philip’s help, set about putting the big books in their places again. David never thought of offering to help.
“It has been a very unfortunate mistake,” said Mr Oswald, at last.
“All’s well that ends well,” said his son lightly.
“I am very sorry that you should have been made unhappy about it, David. I might have known thatyouwere not to blame, but there seemed to be no one else. I beg your pardon sincerely,” said Mr Oswald.
“I am very glad it is all right, sir,” said David, quietly.
“I should like to know one thing,” said Philip. “How came Frank to write to me? He must have thought I was the thief—the young rascal. Did you think so, Davie?”
“No,” said David, “I never thought you took it. I don’t know what Frank thought. I never spoke to him about it, nor to any one,” added David, after a moment’s hesitation.
“Well! never mind. I’ll sift that matter by and by. Come up to the house with me, Davie. I am very sorry for all the pain you have had about this business. Come home with me to-night.”
“No; I am going home by myself. I have a headache. You were not to blame.”
“Yes, he was to blame,” said Mr Oswald. “It was a very unbusiness-like way of doing things, and it might have ended badly for all concerned.”
“It has been bad enough all through for David Inglis. Mr Philip, if you wish to make amends to him, you should offer to take his place and let him go to the country to amuse himself with the rest for a few days.”
Philip opened his eyes.
“I am afraid I could not fill David’s place in the office,” said he.
“I am afraid of that, too. But you would be better than nobody, and we would have patience with you. And David must go for awhile, whether you take his place or no.”
“Yes,” assented Mr Oswald, rather absently. “He might as well have a holiday now as any time. And, Philip, I expect you to take your own place in the office after this regularly.”
Philip shrugged his shoulders, when his father was not looking to see.
“I’ll give it a trial,” said he.
“And can I go to-morrow, Mr Caldwell?” said David. “I have no preparations to make, and I should like to take them by surprise.”
“By all means. I should like to go with you and see it,” said Philip. “But, I suppose, that would hardly do—just at present.”
David bade them good-night, and went down the street with Mr Caldwell.
“I am much obliged to you, sir. I am very glad to get away from the office for awhile, to say nothing of going to Gourlay and seeing them all.”
David’s eyes sparkled at the thought.
“Well! You have borne your trouble not so ill,” said Mr Caldwell; “and you may tell your mother I said so.”
David laughed; but he looked grave in a moment.
“I don’t think you would say I bore it well, if you knew all the angry thoughts I had. But I am very glad and thankful now, and I am sure mamma will thank you for all your kindness. I know now you never thought me capable of doing so wrong a thing.”
“We are all poor creatures, David, my man. There is no saying what we mightna’ do if we were left to ourselves. Be thankful and humble, and pray for grace to keep in the right way; and mind that yon young man’s eyes are upon you, and that you are, in a measure, responsible for his well-doing or his ill-doing, for awhile, at least; and may the Lord guide you,” said Mr Caldwell, solemnly, and then he went away.
David stood gazing after him with astonished eyes.
“I responsible for him! That can hardly be. I am nothing to him. I wonder what mamma would say? I shall have nothing to do with him for awhile, at least. I like Frank much the best. Oh! isn’t it good to be going home!”
David had one thing to do with Philip Oswald before he went away. He came to the station with a parcel which he wished him to take to his little sisters, and to see him off. He was merry and good-humoured, though he pretended to be dreadfully afraid of not being able to fill David’s place in the office to the satisfaction of Mr Caldwell.
“If Aunt Mary will ask me, I will come to Gourlay and spend some Sunday with you,” said he. “I have a settlement to make with Master Frank. I did not think that he and Violet would have called me a dishonest person, even to clear you. I am very angry with them both.”
He did not look very angry, for he said it with laughing lips. But David was shocked.
“Violet never thought that of you. She only said that—that—”
“Well! What did she say?” demanded Philip.
“She said it was quite impossible,” went on David. “She said there was no motive—I mean—She said you were foolish, and frivolous, and thought first of your own pleasure—but—”
There was not time for another word, if David would not lose the train. He was indignant with himself. Why could he not have kept silence for two minutes longer? And yet, as he caught a glimpse of Philip’s astonished face as the train swept past him on the platform, he could not help laughing a little, and hoping that the truth might do him good. For it was true, and Philip did not hear unpleasant truths too often for his welfare.
“At any rate, I am not going to vex myself about it now,” said David. And he was quite right.
Chapter Fourteen.And were they not glad to see David in Gourlay? Almost always something happens to mar, a little, the pleasure of a surprise that has been planned beforehand; but nothing happened to mar David’s. He travelled to Gourlay in a late train; and as he went up the familiar road, and saw the lights gleaming through the trees, as he had seen them so often in the old days, a great many thoughts crowded upon him, and, if the truth must be told, there were tears in his eyes and on his cheeks, too, when he opened the door and went in among them.They were all there. Even little Polly, by some happy chance, was up at the unusual hour. Was there ever music so sweet, as the glad cry that greeted him? There were tears on more cheeks than David’s; but his mother did not ask if his trouble was over; she knew by his face,—though it was wet,—that he was at peace with himself, and troubles from without, do not hurt much, when the heart’s peace is undisturbed. The words that rose to Violet’s lips were kept back, as she looked from her mother’s face to David’s. But Frank could see nobody’s face, and his own was very pale and anxious, as he listened to the happy tumult of voices around him.“Has Philip come home?” asked he, after a little. “Did he get my letter? Is it all right, Davie?”David laughed.“Oh, yes! it’s all right. He got your letter, but I am afraid he couldn’t read it very well. It brought him home a fortnight sooner than he meant to come, however.”“And is it all right?” asked Frank, anxiously.“All right! Only I am afraid he will be sorry he came, for he has taken my place in the office for ten days at least, and he will be very sick of it before that time is over. Oh, yes! it is all right as right can be. Mamma, you were right. I need never have fretted, about it at all. But Philip has something to say to you, Frank, and to Violet,” added David, laughing a little at the remembrance of his last glimpse of Philip’s astonished face.But there was no more said then. Of course, the story of David’s troubled summer was all told afterwards, to his mother first, and then to Frank and Violet. It was told to his mother before he slept, when she went to say “good-night” and take his lamp, as she used to do, long ago, in that very room. If David had had to tell the story of Mr Oswald’s suspicions, before Philip’s return had proved their injustice, he might have grown angry as he went on with it, and indulged in bitter words, as he had sometimes indulged in bitter thoughts. He had no temptation now to do this, and he did not seek to conceal from her how angry he had been at first, and how faithless and unhappy afterwards. He ended by giving Mr Caldwell’s message to her, “that he had borne his trouble not so ill,” and his mother agreed with Mr Caldwell, though she said less than she felt with regard to the whole matter.“You should have written to me, Davie,” said she.“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 God 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 God 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. “Idowish 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 God’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 God’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 passing 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 amusements 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 embarrassing, and sometimes they interfered with his plans for passing 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 amusement, 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 circumstance 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 passed without at least one hour passed 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 passed.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 circumstances 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 assurance, 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 assured 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 passed 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.“Miss Bethia is growing old,” whispered David.“And there is something more the matter with her than she will acknowledge, I am afraid,” said Violet.“It is time to go into the house. The dew is beginning to fall. Come, children,” said the mother, rising.David and Violet came last with Miss Bethia. She smiled, well pleased, when, with boyish gallantry, David offered her his arm.“I’ve gone alone all my life,” said she, “and now I am most at the end of it. I’ve taken a great many steps, too, at one time and another, but they don’t seem to amount to much to look back upon.”“And you have a good many more to take, I hope,” said Violet, hardly knowing how to answer her.But Miss Bethia shook her head.“It ain’t likely. But the next six months seem longer to look forward to than a great many years do to look back upon. It is all right, anyhow. And, children, if I should never see you again—I want you to remember to consider your mother always. You must never forget her.”“No,” said David, wondering a little at her earnestness.“And, David, and you too, Violet, don’t you get to thinking too much about property. It is a good thing to have, I’ll allow, but it ain’t the best thing by considerable. Some get to love it, by having too much, and some by having too little; but it ain’t a satisfying portion any way that it can be fixed, and the love of it makes one forget everything else. And be sure and be good children to your mother, if I shouldn’t ever see you again. I don’t suppose I need to tell you so; but it’s about as good a thing to say for a last word as any, except this—Follow the Lord always, and keep your armour bright.”They answered her gravely and earnestly, as she seemed to expect, but it was with no thought that they were listening to her last words. They would see her, doubtless, many a time again; and they said so to her, as she repeated them in the morning when it was time to go. But Violet never saw her again; David saw her, when she was almost past words, and then she could only, with labouring breath, repeat the very same to him.It would have been a very sorrowful leave-taking if the children could have known that it was their last “Good-bye” to Miss Bethia. But it never came into the minds of any of them that the next time they saw the pleasant house in Gourlay, she would be sleeping by their father’s side in the grave-yard over the hill.
And were they not glad to see David in Gourlay? Almost always something happens to mar, a little, the pleasure of a surprise that has been planned beforehand; but nothing happened to mar David’s. He travelled to Gourlay in a late train; and as he went up the familiar road, and saw the lights gleaming through the trees, as he had seen them so often in the old days, a great many thoughts crowded upon him, and, if the truth must be told, there were tears in his eyes and on his cheeks, too, when he opened the door and went in among them.
They were all there. Even little Polly, by some happy chance, was up at the unusual hour. Was there ever music so sweet, as the glad cry that greeted him? There were tears on more cheeks than David’s; but his mother did not ask if his trouble was over; she knew by his face,—though it was wet,—that he was at peace with himself, and troubles from without, do not hurt much, when the heart’s peace is undisturbed. The words that rose to Violet’s lips were kept back, as she looked from her mother’s face to David’s. But Frank could see nobody’s face, and his own was very pale and anxious, as he listened to the happy tumult of voices around him.
“Has Philip come home?” asked he, after a little. “Did he get my letter? Is it all right, Davie?”
David laughed.
“Oh, yes! it’s all right. He got your letter, but I am afraid he couldn’t read it very well. It brought him home a fortnight sooner than he meant to come, however.”
“And is it all right?” asked Frank, anxiously.
“All right! Only I am afraid he will be sorry he came, for he has taken my place in the office for ten days at least, and he will be very sick of it before that time is over. Oh, yes! it is all right as right can be. Mamma, you were right. I need never have fretted, about it at all. But Philip has something to say to you, Frank, and to Violet,” added David, laughing a little at the remembrance of his last glimpse of Philip’s astonished face.
But there was no more said then. Of course, the story of David’s troubled summer was all told afterwards, to his mother first, and then to Frank and Violet. It was told to his mother before he slept, when she went to say “good-night” and take his lamp, as she used to do, long ago, in that very room. If David had had to tell the story of Mr Oswald’s suspicions, before Philip’s return had proved their injustice, he might have grown angry as he went on with it, and indulged in bitter words, as he had sometimes indulged in bitter thoughts. He had no temptation now to do this, and he did not seek to conceal from her how angry he had been at first, and how faithless and unhappy afterwards. He ended by giving Mr Caldwell’s message to her, “that he had borne his trouble not so ill,” and his mother agreed with Mr Caldwell, though she said less than she felt with regard to the whole matter.
“You should have written to me, Davie,” said she.
“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 God 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 God 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. “Idowish 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 God’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 God’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 passing 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 amusements 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 embarrassing, and sometimes they interfered with his plans for passing 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 amusement, 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 circumstance 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 passed without at least one hour passed 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 passed.
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 circumstances 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 assurance, 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 assured 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 passed 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.
“Miss Bethia is growing old,” whispered David.
“And there is something more the matter with her than she will acknowledge, I am afraid,” said Violet.
“It is time to go into the house. The dew is beginning to fall. Come, children,” said the mother, rising.
David and Violet came last with Miss Bethia. She smiled, well pleased, when, with boyish gallantry, David offered her his arm.
“I’ve gone alone all my life,” said she, “and now I am most at the end of it. I’ve taken a great many steps, too, at one time and another, but they don’t seem to amount to much to look back upon.”
“And you have a good many more to take, I hope,” said Violet, hardly knowing how to answer her.
But Miss Bethia shook her head.
“It ain’t likely. But the next six months seem longer to look forward to than a great many years do to look back upon. It is all right, anyhow. And, children, if I should never see you again—I want you to remember to consider your mother always. You must never forget her.”
“No,” said David, wondering a little at her earnestness.
“And, David, and you too, Violet, don’t you get to thinking too much about property. It is a good thing to have, I’ll allow, but it ain’t the best thing by considerable. Some get to love it, by having too much, and some by having too little; but it ain’t a satisfying portion any way that it can be fixed, and the love of it makes one forget everything else. And be sure and be good children to your mother, if I shouldn’t ever see you again. I don’t suppose I need to tell you so; but it’s about as good a thing to say for a last word as any, except this—Follow the Lord always, and keep your armour bright.”
They answered her gravely and earnestly, as she seemed to expect, but it was with no thought that they were listening to her last words. They would see her, doubtless, many a time again; and they said so to her, as she repeated them in the morning when it was time to go. But Violet never saw her again; David saw her, when she was almost past words, and then she could only, with labouring breath, repeat the very same to him.
It would have been a very sorrowful leave-taking if the children could have known that it was their last “Good-bye” to Miss Bethia. But it never came into the minds of any of them that the next time they saw the pleasant house in Gourlay, she would be sleeping by their father’s side in the grave-yard over the hill.