The Inglises.

by Margaret Murray Robertson.

Margaret Robertson generally wrote about rather religion-minded people, and this is no exception. The women in her stories tend to moan on a good bit, and this book is also no exception to that. Having said that, don't say I didn't warn you. However, like all novels of the second half of the nineteenth century, they are about a bygone age, and things were different then. For that reason it is worth reading books of that period if you want to know more about how people lived in those days.

One very big difference was illness. Nowadays, you go to the doctor, and very probably he or she will be able to cure you. In those days you either died or were confined to your bed for a long time. If you died but had been responsible for income coming into the house, in many cases that stopped, too. The women-folk and the children would be left without support. No wonder they moaned a lot, and turned to religion, to comfort themselves. It is hard for us to realise what huge progress has been made in social reforms. Reading this book, and others of that period (this book was published in 1872) will teach a lot about how lucky we are to live in the present age, despite all its other faults.

THE INGLISES, BY MARGARET MURRAY ROBERTSON.

CHAPTER ONE.

In the large and irregular township of Gourlay, there are two villages, Gourlay Centre and Gourlay Corner. The Reverend Mr Inglis lived in the largest and prettiest of the two, but he preached in both. He preached also in another part of the town, called the North Gore. A good many of the Gore people used to attend church in one or other of the two villages; but some of them would never have heard the Gospel preached from one year's end to the other, if the minister had not gone to them.

So, though the way was long and the roads rough at the best of seasons, Mr Inglis went often to hold service in the little red school-house there. It was not far on in November, but the night was as hard a night to be out in as though it were the depth of winter, Mrs Inglis thought, as the wind dashed the rain and sleet against the window out of which she and her son David were trying to look. They could see nothing, however, for the night was very dark. Even the village lights were but dimly visible through the storm, which grew thicker every moment; with less of rain and more of snow, and the moaning of the wind among the trees made it impossible for them to hear any other sound.

"I ought to have gone with him, mamma," said the boy, at last.

"Perhaps so, dear. But papa thought it not best, as this is Frank's last night here."

"It is quite time he were at home, mamma, even though the roads are bad."

"Yes; he must have been detained. We will not wait any longer. We will have prayers, and let the children go to bed; he will be very tired when he gets home."

"How the wind blows! We could not hear the wagon even if he were quite near. Shall I go to the gate and wait?"

"No, dear, better not. Only be ready with the lantern when he comes."

They stood waiting a little longer, and then David opened the door and looked out.

"It will be awful on Hardscrabble to-night, mamma," said he, as he came back to her side.

"Yes," said his mother, with a sigh, and then they were for a long time silent. She was thinking how the wind would find its way through the long-worn great coat of her husband, and how unfit he was to bear the bitter cold. David was thinking how the rain, that had been falling so heavily all the afternoon, must have gullied out the road down the north side of Hardscrabble hill, and hoping that old Don would prove himself sure-footed in the darkness.

"I wish I had gone with him," said he, again.

"Let us go to the children," said his mother.

The room in which the children were gathered was bright with fire-light--a picture of comfort in contrast with the dark and stormy night out upon which these two had been looking. The mother shivered a little as she drew near the fire.

"Sit here, mamma."

"No, sit here; this is the best place." The eagerness was like to grow to clamour.

"Hush! children," said the mother; "it is time for prayers. We will not wait for papa, because he will be very tired and cold. No, Letty, you need not get the books, there has been enough reading for the little ones to-night. We will sing 'Jesus, lover of my soul,' and then David will read the chapter."

"Oh! yes, mamma, 'Jesus, lover;' I like that best," said little Mary, laying her head down on her mother's shoulder, and her little shrill voice joined with the others all through, though she could hardly speak the words plainly.

"That's for papa," said she, when they reached the end of the last line, "While the tempest still is high."

The children laughed, but the mother kissed her fondly, saying softly:

"Yes, love; but let us sing on to the end."

It was very sweet singing, and very earnest. Even their cousin, Francis Oswald, whose singing in general was of a very different kind, joined in it, to its great improvement, and to the delight of the rest. Then David read the chapter, and then they all knelt down and the mother prayed.

"Not just with her lips, but with all her heart, as if she really believed in the good of it," thought Francis Oswald to himself. "Of course we all believe in it in a general way," he went on thinking, as he rose from his knees and sat down, not on a chair, but on the rug before the fire; "of course, we all believe in it, but not just as Aunt Mary does. She seems to be seeing the hand that holds the thing she is asking for, and she asks as if she was sure she was going to get it, too. She hasn't a great deal of what people generally are most anxious to have," he went on, letting his eyes wander round the fire-lighted room, "but then she is content with what she has, and that makes all the difference. 'A man's life consisteth not in the abundance of the things which he possesses,' she told me the other day, and I suppose she believes _that_, too, and not just in the general way in which we all believe the things that are in the Bible. Fancy Aunt Ellen and my sister Louisa being contented in a room like this!"

It was a very pleasant room, too, the lad thought, though they might not like it, and though there was not an article in it which was in itself beautiful. It was a large, square room, with an alcove in which stood a bed. Before the bed was a piece of carpet, which did not extend very far over the grey painted floor, and in the corner was a child's cot.

The furniture was all of the plainest, not matching either in style or in material, but looking very much as if it had been purchased piece by piece, at different times and places, as the means of the owners had permitted. The whole was as unlike as possible to the beautifully furnished room in which the greater part of the boy's evenings had been pa.s.sed, but it was a great deal pleasanter in his eyes at the moment.

"I have had jolly times here, better than I shall have at home, unless they let me read again--which I don't believe they will, though I am so much better. I am very glad I came. I like Uncle and Aunt Inglis.

There is no 'make believe' about them; and the youngsters are not a bad lot, take them all together."

He sat upon the rug with his hands clasped behind his head, letting his thoughts run upon many things. David had gone to the window, and was gazing out into the stormy night again, and his brother Jem sat with his face bent close over his book, reading by the fire-light. Not a word was spoken for a long time. Violet laid the sleeping little Mary in her cot, and when her mother came in, she said:

"Don't you think, mamma, that perhaps papa may stay all night at the Gore? It is so stormy."

"No, dear; he said he would be home. Something must have detained him longer than usual. What are you thinking about so earnestly Francis?"

"Since you went up-stairs? Oh! about lots of things. About the chapter David was reading, for one thing."

The chapter David had read was the tenth of Numbers--one not very likely to interest young readers, except the last few verses. It was the way with the Inglises, at morning and evening worship, to read straight on through the Bible, not pa.s.sing over any chapter because it might not seem very interesting or instructive. At other times they might pick and choose the chapters they read and talked about, but at worship time they read straight on, and in so doing fell on many a word of wonderful beauty, which the pickers and choosers might easily overlook. The last few verses of the chapter read that night were one of these, and quite new to one of the listeners, at least. It was Moses' invitation to Hobab to go with the Lord's people to the promised land.

"I wonder whether the old chap went," said Frank, after a pause. "What are you laughing at, Jem?"

"He thinks that is not a respectful way to speak of a Bible person, I suppose," said Violet.

"About the chapter David was reading," said Jem, mimicking his cousin's tone and manner. "That is for mamma. You don't expect me to swallow that. Give mamma the result of your meditations, like a good boy."

"I said I was thinking of the chapter, for one thing," said Frank, not at all angry, though he reddened a little. "I was thinking, besides, whether that was a proper book for you to be reading to-night, 'The Swiss Family,' is it not?"

"Sold," cried Jem, triumphantly; "it is the 'Pilgrim's Progress.'"

"You have read that before," said Violet.

"Lots of times. It will bear it. But what about Hobab, Frank? Much you care about the old chap, don't you? Davie, come here and listen to Frank."

"If you would only give Frank a chance to speak," said his mother, smiling.

"Did Hobab go, do you think, aunt?" asked Frank.

"He refused to go," said Jem. "Don't you remember he said, 'I will not go, but I will depart into my own land, and to my kindred?'"

"Yes; but that was before Moses said, 'Thou mayest be to us instead of eyes, forasmuch as thou knowest how we are to encamp in this wilderness.' You see, he had a chance of some adventures; that might tempt him. Do you think he went, aunt?"

"I cannot tell; afterwards we hear of Heber the Kenite, who was of the children of Hobab; and his wife took the part of the Israelites, when she slew Sisera. But whether he went with the people at that time, we do not hear. Very likely he did. I can understand how the people's need of him as a guide, or a guard, might have seemed to him a better reason for casting in his lot with the people, than even the promise that Moses gave him, 'Come with us and we will do thee good.'"