Chapter IX: Nothing to Do

TROWGOOD was willing to trust to any amount for the furniture; so the making ready of the new house began at once. Mother said she did not see any good in waiting, for the bills could be paid as soon as ever the money came, and father was of the same mind.

There was a great deal to be done to the house. Father took it in such a hurry, that he did not have a proper agreement made; and when he found afterwards what a number of repairs were wanted, he had to do it all himself, for the landlord was a churlish sort of body, and said "No" to pretty nearly everything asked.

Mother was vexed because father had not thought of these matters sooner; but father said, what did it signify? He seemed to think five thousand pounds could do everything.

He and mother were agreed on one head, and that was that the house must make a smart appearance. The top rooms were damp, and the kitchen had water oozing out all over the walls, and there was a queer sort of smell in the parlour, which grannie said ought to be attended to. She said our cottage had always been so sweet and dry, and that was partly how we had all kept such good health. She told father he had a deal better have the dampness and the smell cured, and spend less on carpets and gimcracks. But mother said—"Who cared for a little wet?" and father said,—"All in good time, grannie." And he seemed to think the "good time" should come late, not early.

The new carpet, which was chosen in such a hurry for our cottage, would not fit the new parlour, and Trowgood said he could not get any more of the same pattern. Mother seemed rather glad. She had that put into the biggest bedroom,—at least she settled that it should go there when we moved,—and she chose another, quite as smart, which cost a great deal more, and so she liked it better.

It is wonderful what a number of things are wanted in a new house. Mother did not seem to care to keep anything out of the dear old cottage. Grannie and I were to sleep together still, and we settled to furnish our room with things that we had by us, and to have nothing new at all. But whatever we did not want for our room was to be sold. Mother seemed bent on having all quite fresh. I think the thought of parting with the old furniture that she loved so much cut very deeply with grannie.

Father was still working for the Johnstones, but he did not work regular as he was used to do before. He seemed to have a sort of distaste for it. Sundays were getting to be just days of pleasure and amusement, with no thought of God in them; and on Monday he commonly had a lazy fit, and lounged about doing nothing. Sometimes the lazy fit lasted over Tuesday as well. He used before to have a bright brisk way of doing things, but he was losing that now. I think Mr. Johnstone or the foreman must have found fault with him once or twice, for I heard him talking about them angrily, and saying "he wouldn't be driven—not he,—thank goodness he had enough and to spare now, and he should please himself."

I don't at all know whether father meant to go on with the same work, after he got his money. I think it is likely he was in a sort of uncertain state, waiting to see what to do. He would have money enough to start him in something better, or even to live an idle life. But he had been trained to no other kind of work; and it is quite certain that no hale and hearty man in middle life can be happy with nothing to do. There are men who can make their own work and find their own interests,—men who can be quite happy in doing good to others, or in studying God's works, or in reading books. But reading was always a labour to father, and he knew and cared nothing about study; and I don't suppose he ever thought of such a thing as steady doing of good to others, though of course he would have been ready any day to give a crust to a starving man, if he came across him by chance.

But, as I say, I do not know what father really meant to do. I think it startled him, and I am sure it was a great shock to us all, when Mr. Johnstone dismissed him from his employ.

There was no warning given; except that I believe there had been several complaints of father's irregular way of working. Mr. Johnstone did not speak to father himself. The foreman told him he would not be wanted any more, after a certain day. Father was angry and wanted to know why. The answer was, that Mr. Johnstone had not been satisfied with him for a good while, and as he had rather more hands than he wanted just then, of course those who had been least steady at work must be the first to go.

Years later I heard more, in other quarters. I know now that poor father had more than once forgotten himself, and had spoken in an uppish sort of way, and had talked too much of his "good luck," and had seemed to think himself pretty much on a level with his master. And neither master nor men liked it. I know that Mr. Johnstone told a friend he found father's influence "demoralising," whatever that might mean. He said the other men were getting unsettled and discontented, and he could not allow it to go on.

But we had known nothing of all this; and when father came home, and told us he was not to work there any more, we did not know what to think of it.

Father was very angry, and yet he tried to seem as if he did not care. He talked big, and said he was right glad, and he didn't mean to be any more at the beck and call of that fellow Sykes. Sykes was the foreman. Mother seemed half frightened and half pleased. And grannie was very quiet, and her dear face looked so pale. I had seen that pale look often lately, and I knew she was fretted and worried. She said at last,—"What are you going to do, Miles?"

"Do! Why, stay away," says he roughly.

"But the money isn't come yet, and we can't live on nothing till it does," grannie said.

"Oh, there's no need," father said. "I could get other work easy enough. But I don't see why I'm to work like a poor man, when I have five thousand pounds of my own. I don't see it at all."

"God's law is work," said grannie in a low voice. "He gave us the Sunday for rest. But He gave us a clear command too,—'SIX DAYS SHALT THOU LABOUR.'"

"It's a command lots of people break, then," said father.

I think that father, like a good many people, fancied "work" and "labour" can only mean bodily toil. I know better now. I have seen more of life, and I know there are many different kinds of work,—hand-work, and head-work, and heart-work. The man that is piling up bricks and mortar may not be toiling one quarter so hard, as the man who sits quiet in a chair, working out some deep thought for other men, or the woman who wears herself out in ceaseless watching of her children and caring for their good.

"What are we to do, Miles?" grannie asked again.

"Oh, I'll see about it," said father. "There's no hurry. I'll get a job or two somewhere. And they'll let us have things on credit anywhere. My good fortune is well enough known. We shan't starve."

"Maybe not," grannie said. "But if you don't look out, my dear, you'll make a big hole in your five thousand pounds, before ever it comes to you."

Father laughed loud at the idea. The money seemed to him too much ever to come to an end. Grannie went out of the room, and I went after her, I didn't know why. She crossed into the parlour, and sat down, and I was frightened at the look in her face.

"It's nothing," she said,—"only a sort of fainty feeling that comes over me once in a while. Just to show me I'm an old woman, maybe. Don't you mind."

"O grannie, is it because you're fretting at having to leave the old home?" I asked: for I knew how it grieved her.

"I dare say it is," she said: "I've a silly sort of fondness for places, and somehow I've never felt right and like myself since that was settled. But I'll have no words spoken to them, Phœbe. For it's not that which cuts most deep. It is seeing how things are tending, and knowing I can do nought to stop what is wrong."

And I knew what she meant.