Chapter VIII: The New House

IT was only two or three days after that Sunday afternoon, that we heard of the money being sure to us. The matter had been gone into, and James Morison had done his very best to prove that his old father was crazed at the time of the making of the will. I dare say he believed it himself, after a fashion. Most people can manage to believe a thing, if they want it very much to be true. But there was no real proof, and his case broke down. A good many people were ready to say what a shame it was of the old man to disinherit his son; but none had power to undo the deed done.

"So now it's quite certain—certain and sure," father said. "No more need to croak and look dismal, mother. Now the money's ours, and we'll do our best to get a little pleasure out of it."

Grannie had been looking grave, but not dismal, for it wasn't her way. Some people call everything dismal that isn't full of noisy merriment. I never could see, for my part, why one should be the happier for making a noise. Grannie did not seem put out, though, at his words. She only looked up at him, and said—"No, Miles, the money is not yours."

"Well, well, it soon will be," said he, "if you must be so particular."

"No," said she in the same manner. "It never will be yours, my dear."

"Why, grannie, what silly notion have you got in your head now?" said he quite angrily. "Never will be mine! I tell you, the thing is as sure and certain as can be, and the money's as good as mine already. The matter's settled, and Jem Morison is beat out-and-out. It'll come, sure enough."

"Yes, maybe," she answered. "The five thousand pounds is coming to you, Miles, my dear; but it's only lent. It isn't yours. 'The silver and gold are the Lord's.' He only lends it, Miles."

"Oh, of course—to be sure," father said, his face clearing. "I didn't see what you were at. That's all right and well, mother—and quite proper for one at your age to be religious. But it don't alter the fact that I'm to have five thousand pounds."

"Yes, to have it in your hands," grannie said. "But there'll be a day of reckoning, Miles, and every penny of that you'll have to account for to Him who owns it. I've thought it sometimes a fearful thing for rich folks, with their thousands and thousands, lent them by God to be spent for Him, and all to be accounted for. And now we'll have some of that same burden to bear."

"One would think we were going in for some awful trouble, only to hear you speak," father said. "But you're not going to put me into the dismals, mother, for all you can say. If it's a burden, it's an uncommon pleasant sort. Wish it was a little heavier, that's all."

"Yes, that's the way with men," says grannie quietly. "You'll soon begin to look on five thousand pounds as nothing, and to wish it was ten."

"Well, I shouldn't mind now, if it was ten," father said.

The next thing that came up was about a change of house. Mother wouldn't let the matter rest. Father did not seem to like the thought at first, for he knew how grannie was set against it. Grannie did not say to them what she had said to me, but just waited; and I did not tell it either. But mother let father have no peace. She was bent on getting a house in the same row with the Raikes', and on having a parlour that would beat Mrs. Raikes' parlour in smartness.

She and father talked it over one day, when grannie was not at hand. Father said he knew grannie would never leave the cottage; and mother said, it did not matter, for we should be quite near. Father said, it did matter, for there would be nothing straight without her, and nobody to do the work and the cooking, "and Phœbe couldn't manage all that alone." Mother said, "No, of course not, but we would keep a girl like the Raikes', and manage so." Father said he didn't see who would cook. And mother said, "Phœbe would, of course." Father said he didn't see why I was to drudge while others took their ease; but it was no good talking, for if grannie wouldn't come too, he should not leave the cottage. Mother pouted, and said that father cared more for grannie than for her. Father said it wasn't true; and mother said, yes, it was, or he wouldn't want her to live in a horrid little pokey hole, when he could afford her a nice house as well as not. And then she cried, and talked about her own home, when she was a girl, and wished she had never left it. Mother's father had been a tallow-chandler, and well-to-do, and mother had been a spoilt child.

Just when they got so far, grannie walked in. She heard mother's last words, and asked what it all meant. Father told her, and she said—"What's your wish, Miles?"

"I don't want to go without you, mother," says he. "I've never lived apart from you yet, and I don't mean to, if I can help it. I should think of you as lonesome here; and we should want you too."

"But that's your only reason?" says she. "You've no feeling at leaving the old place."

"Well, no—can't say as I have," said father. "I shouldn't mind a scrap more room to turn round in."

"And the money?" said she.

"Oh, that's all right," says he. "I'm going to invest, so as it'll bring us in nigh upon five hundred a year."

"Mr. Scott didn't count so much to be safe."

"Mr. Scott don't know everything," father said. "I suppose I'm as good a judge as most. I'm not going to throw the money away, mother, you may be sure. But supposing we say four hundred a year,—it don't make so much difference. We can afford a bigger house than this, anyway."

"Well, you must do what you think best," grannie said. "You're not a boy now, to take an old woman's advice. A man must look out for himself. I'll leave you to settle about the other house, Miles. It don't so much matter to me. I'm an old woman, and I can't look to live in any house many more years. I did say at first that I never would of my own free will go out of this, where I've been all my married life. But maybe that was selfishness. Maybe I could be of more use going than staying. If it's God's will for me, I'm willing—that's all. So you needn't think about me, Miles. If you both feel it's the best and right thing to do, I'll come with you."

Father seemed very pleased. I had not seen him so kind for a good while past. He said more than once—"That's right, mother—things'll go straight now."

The very next day father came in, saying there was a house to let in Pleasant Row, only three doors off from the Raikes'. I wondered if mother had seen it before. She and father went to look it over, and when they came back they could talk of nothing else. The rent was forty pounds, and that seemed a deal; but mother said—"What was forty pounds out of five hundred?" It was only a small house, but the rents in the town had been getting very high of late.

The house had to be taken at once, if at all, for somebody else was asking after it. Grannie begged father to wait and do nothing till the money should come. But he said it would be a thousand pities to miss the chance, for they might not find another so nice, and he could easily get the money lent him for the first quarter's rent.

"We needn't move in yet, you know," he said.

So it was all settled, and the next thing spoken about was that the cottage must be sold. I think that did go to grannie's heart. But she never made a word of complaint—only sometimes I saw her looking at one thing and another, as if she were saying such a sorrowful good-bye. Poor grannie! I wondered often at her patience.