Chapter Twenty.
It was a very changed life that opened before the bairns when Arthur took them home with him to Montreal. A very dismal change it seemed to them all, on the first morning when their brothers left them alone. Home! Could it ever seem like home to them? Think of the dwellers among the breezy hills of Merleville shut up in a narrow brick house in a close city street. Graeme had said that if they could all keep together, it did not so much matter how or where; but her courage almost failed as she turned to look out of the window that first morning.
Before her lay a confined, untidy yard, which they were to share with these neighbours; and beyond that, as far as could be seen, lay only roofs and chimneys. From the room above the view was the same, only the roofs and chimneys stretched farther away, and here and there between them showed the dusty bough of a maple or elm, or the ragged top of a Lombardy poplar, and, in the distance, when the sun shone, lay a bright streak, which they came at last to know as Harry’s grand river. On the other side, toward the street, the window looked but on a brick wall, over which hung great willow-boughs shading half the street. The brick wall and the willows were better than the roofs and chimney-tops, Rosie thought; but it was a dreary sort of betterness. From Graeme’s room above were seen still the wall and the willows, but over the wall and between the willows was got a glimpse of a garden—a very pretty garden. It was only a glimpse—a small part of a circular bit of green grass before the door of a handsome house, and around this, and under the windows, flowers and shrubs of various kinds. There was a conservatory at one end, but of that they saw nothing but a blinding glare when the sun shone on it—many panes of glass when the sun was gone. The garden seemed to extend behind the house; but they could only see a smooth gravel walk with an edge of green. Clumps of evergreens and horse-chestnuts hid all the rest. But even these were very beautiful; and this glimpse of a rich man’s garden, from an upper window, was the redeeming feature in their new home.
For it was summer—the very prime of summer-time—and except for that little glimpse of garden, and the dusty maple boughs, and the ragged tops of the poplars, it might just as well have been winter. There was nothing to remind them of summer, but the air hanging over them hot and close, or sweeping in sudden dust-laden gusts down the narrow street. Yes; there was the long streak of blue, which Harry called the river, seen from the upper window; but it was only visible in sunny days, at least it only gleamed and sparkled then; it was but a dim, grey line at other times.
How changed their life was; how they drooped and pined for the sights and sounds and friends of Merleville.
“If there were but a green field in sight, or a single hill,” said Rosie; but she always added, “how nice it is to have the willow trees and the sight of the garden.”
For Rose was by no means sure that their longing for green fields and hills and woods was not wrong. It seemed like ingratitude to Arthur, this pining for the country and their old home; and these young girls from the very first made a firm stand against the home-sickness that came upon them. Not that home-sickness is a sickness that can be cured by struggling against it; but they tried hard to keep the knowledge of it from their brothers. Whatever happened during the long days, they had a pleasant breakfast-hour and a pleasant evening together. They seldom saw their brothers at other times during the first few months. Harry’s hours were long, and Arthur’s business was increasing so as to require close attention. This was a matter of much rejoicing to Graeme, who did not know that all Arthur’s business was not strictly professional—that it was business wearisome enough, and sometimes bringing in but little, but absolutely necessary for that little’s sake.
Graeme and Rosie were at home alone, and they found the days long and tedious often, though they conscientiously strove to look at all things from their best and brightest side. For a while they were too busy—too anxious for the success of their domestic plans, to have time for home-sickness. But when the first arrangements were made—when the taste and skill of Graeme, and the inexhaustible strength of their new maid, Nelly Anderson, had changed the dingy house into as bright and pleasant a place as might well be in a city street, then came the long days and the weariness. Then came upon Graeme that which Janet had predicted, when she so earnestly set her face against their going away from Merleville till the summer was over. Her fictitious strength failed her. The reaction from all the exertion and excitement of the winter and spring came upon her now, and she was utterly prostrate. She did not give up willingly. Indeed, she had no patience with herself in the miserable state into which she had fallen. She was ashamed and alarmed at her disinclination to exert herself—at her indifference to everything; but the exertion she made to overcome the evil only aggravated it, and soon was quite beyond her power. Her days were passed in utter helplessness on the sofa. She either denied herself to their few visitors, or left them to be entertained by Rose. All her strength and spirits were needed for the evening when her brothers were at home.
Some attention to household affairs was absolutely necessary, even when the time came, that for want of something else to do Nelly nodded for hours in the long afternoons over the knitting of a stocking. For though Nelly could do whatever could be accomplished by main strength, the skill necessary for the arrangement of the nicer matters of their little household was not in her, and Graeme was never left quite at rest as to the progress of events in her dominions. It was a very fortunate chance that had cast her lot with theirs soon after their arrival, Graeme knew and acknowledged; but after the handiness and immaculate neatness of Hannah Lovejoy, it was tiresome to have nothing to fall back upon but the help of the untaught Nelly. Her willingness and kind-heartedness made her, in many respects, invaluable to them; but her field of action had hitherto been a turnip-field, or a field in which cows were kept; and though she was, by her own account, “just wonderfu’ at the making of butter,” she had not much skill at anything else. If it would have brought colour to the cheek, or elasticity to the step of her young mistress, Nelly would gladly have carried her every morning in her arms to the top of the mountain; but nothing would have induced her, daring these first days, to undertake the responsibility of breakfast or dinner without Graeme’s special overlooking. She would walk miles to do her a kindness; but she could not step lightly or speak softly, or shut the door without a bang, and often caused her torture when doing her very best to help or cheer her.
But whatever happened through the day, for the evening Graeme exerted herself to seem well and cheerful. It was easy enough to do when Harry was at home, or when Arthur was not too busy to read to them. Then she could still have the arm-chair or the sofa, and hear, or not hear, as the case might be. But when any effort was necessary—when she must interest herself, or seem to interest herself in her work, or when Arthur brought any one home with him, making it necessary for Graeme to be hospitable and conversational, then it was very bad indeed. She might get through very well at the time with it all, but a miserable night was sure to follow, and she could only toss about through the slow hours exhausted yet sleepless.
Oh, how miserable some of these sultry August nights were, when she lay helpless, her sick fancy changing into dear familiar sounds the hum that rose from the city beneath. Now it was the swift spring-time rush of Carson’s brook, now the gentle ripple of the waters of the pond breaking on the white pebbles of the beach. The wind among the willow-boughs whispered to her of the pine grove and the garden at home, till her heart grew sick with longing to see them again. It was always the same. If the bitter sorrow that bereavement had brought made any part of what she suffered now; if the void which death had made deepened the loneliness of this dreary time, she did not know it. All this weariness of body and sinking of heart might have come though she had never left Merleville, but it did not seem so to her. It was always of home she thought. She rose up and lay down with longing for it fresh and sore. She started from troubled slumber to break into passionate weeping when there was no one to see her. She struggled against the misery that lay so heavily upon her, but not successfully. Health and courage failed.
Of course, this state of things could not continue long. They must get either better or worse, Graeme thought, and worse it was. Arthur and Harry coming home earlier than usual found her as she had never allowed them to find her before, lying listlessly, almost helplessly on the sofa. Her utmost effort to appear well and cheerful at the sight of them failed this once. She rose slowly and leaned back again almost immediately, closing her eyes with a sigh.
“Graeme!” exclaimed Harry, “what ails you! Such a face! Look here, I have something for you. Guess what.”
“A letter,” said Rose. “Oh! Graeme look!”
But Graeme was past looking by this time. Her brothers were startled and tried to raise her.
“Don’t, Arthur,” said Rose; “let her lie down. She will be better in a little. Harry get some water.”
Poor, wee Rosie! Her hands trembled among the fastenings of Graeme’s dress, but she knew well what to do.
“You don’t mean that she has been like this before?” said Arthur, in alarm.
“Yes, once or twice. She is tired, she says. She will soon be better, now.”
In a minute Graeme opened her eyes, and sat up. It was nothing, she said, and Arthur was not to be frightened; but thoroughly frightened Arthur was, and in a little while Graeme found herself placed in the doctor’s hands. It was a very kind, pleasant face that bent over her, but it was a grave face too, at the moment. When Graeme repeated her assurance that she was not ill, but only overcome with the heat and weariness, he said these had something to do with it, doubtless, and spoke cheerfully about her soon being well again; and Arthur’s face quite brightened, as he left the room with him. Rose followed them, and when her brother’s hand was on the door, whispered,—
“Please, Arthur, may I say something to the doctor? I think it is partly because Graeme is homesick.”
“Homesick!” repeated the doctor and Arthur in a breath.
“Perhaps not homesick exactly,” said Rose, eagerly addressing her brother. “She would not go back again you know; but everything is so different—no garden, no hills, no pond. And oh! Arthur, don’t be vexed, but we have no Janet nor anything here.”
Rosie made a brave stand against the tears and sobs that were rising in spite of her, but she was fain to hide her face on her brother’s arm as he drew her toward him, and sat down on the sofa. The doctor sat down, too.
“Why, Rosie! My poor, wee Rosie! what has happened to my merry little sister?”
“I thought the doctor ought to know, and you must not tell Graeme. She does not think that I know.”
“Know what?” asked Arthur.
“That she is so sad, and that the time seems long. But I have watched her, and I know.”
“Well, I fear it is not a case for you, doctor,” said Arthur, anxiously.
But the doctor thought differently. There was more the matter with Graeme than her sister knew, though the home-sickness may have something to do with it; and then he added,—
“Her strength must have been severely tried to bring her to this state of weakness.”
Arthur hesitated a moment.
“There was long illness in the family—and then death—my sister’s first, and then my father’s. And then I brought the rest here.”
It was not easy for Arthur to say all this. In a little he added with an effort,—
“I fear I have not done well in bringing them. But they wished to come, and I could not leave them.”
“You did right, I have no doubt,” said the doctor. “Your sister might have been ill anywhere. She might have been worse without a change. The thing is to make her well again—which, I trust, we can soon do—with the help of Miss Rosie, who will make a patient and cheerful nurse, I am sure.”
“Yes,” said Rose, gravely. “I will try.”
Arthur said something about taking them to the country, out of the dust and heat of the town.
“Yes,” said the doctor. “The heat is bad. But it will not last long now, and on the whole, I think she is better where she is, at present. There is no danger. She will soon be as well as usual, I think.”
But it was not very soon. Indeed, it was a long time before Graeme was as well as usual; not until the leaves on the willows had grown withered and grey, and the summer had quite gone. Not until kind Doctor McCulloch had come almost daily for many weeks—long enough for him to become much interested in both patient and nurse.
A wonderful nurse Rose proved herself to be. At first something was said about introducing a more experienced person into Graeme’s chamber, but both Rose and Nelly Anderson objected so decidedly to this, and aided and abetted one another so successfully in their opposition to it, that the design was given up on condition that Rosie kept well and cheerful to prove her claim to the title of nurse. She kept cheerful, but she grew tall and thin, and a great deal too quiet to be like herself, her brothers thought; so whatever was forgotten or neglected during the day, Rosie must go out with one of them for a long walk while the other stayed with Graeme, and by this means the health and spirits of the anxious little lady were kept from failing altogether. For indeed the long days and nights might well be trying to the child, who had never needed to think twice about her own comfort all her life, and who was now quite too acutely sensible, how much the comfort of all the rest depended upon her. But she bore the trial well, and indeed came to the conclusion, that it was quite as pleasant to be made useful, to be trusted and consulted, and depended upon, as to be petted and played with by her brothers. She quite liked the sense of responsibility, especially when Graeme began to get well again, and though she got tired very often, and grew pale now and then, they all agreed afterward that this time did Rose no harm, but a great deal of good.
As for Nelly Anderson, circumstances certainly developed her powers in a most extraordinary manner—not as a nurse, however. Her efforts in that line were confined to rambling excursions about the sick-room in her stockinged-feet, and to earnest entreaties to Graeme not to lose heart. But in the way of dinners and breakfasts, she excited the astonishment of the household, and her own most of all. When Arthur had peremptorily forbidden that any reference should be made to Graeme in household matters, Nelly had helplessly betaken herself to Rose, and Rose had as helplessly betaken herself to “Catherine Beecher.” Nothing short of the state of absolute despair in which she found herself, would have induced Nelly to put faith in a “printed book,” in any matter where the labour of her hands was concerned. But her accomplishments as a cook did not extend the making of “porridge” or the “choppin’ of potatoes,” and more was required. So with fear and trembling, Rose and she “laid their heads together,” over that invaluable guide to inexperienced housekeepers, and the result was success—indeed a series of successes. For emboldened by the favourable reception of their efforts, Nelly want on and prospered; and Rose, content that she should have all the honour of success, permitted her to have all the responsibility also.
Almost every morning Rose had a walk, either with Harry to his office, or with Will, to the school, while Arthur stayed with Graeme. The walk was generally quick enough to bring a bright colour to her cheeks, and it was always a merry time if Harry was with her, and then she was ready for her long day at home. She sometimes lingered on the way back. On the broad shady pavements of the streets she used to choose, when she was alone, she made many a pause to watch the little children at their play. She used to linger, too, wherever the ugly brick walls had been replaced by the pretty iron railings, with which every good rich man will surround his gardens, in order that they who have no gardens of their own may have a chance to see something beautiful too. And whenever she came to an open gate, the pause was long. She was in danger then of forgetting her womanliness and her gravity, and of exclaiming like a little girl, and sometimes she forgot herself so far as to let her feet advance farther up the gravel walk than in her sober moments she would have considered advisable.
One bright morning, as she returned home, she found herself standing before the large house on the other side of the street. For the first time she found the large gate wide open. There was no one in sight, and taking two steps forward, Rose saw more of the pretty garden within than she had ever seen before. She had often been tempted to walk round the smooth broad walks of other gardens, but second thoughts had always prevented her. This time she did not wait for second thoughts, but deliberately determined to walk round the carriage way without leave asked or given.
The garden belonged to Mr Elphinstone, a great man—at least a great merchant in the eyes of the world. One of Rose’s amusements during the time she was confined in her sister’s sick-room was to watch the comings and goings of his only child, a girl only a little older than Rose herself. Sometimes she was in a little pony-carriage, which she drove herself; sometimes she was in a large carriage driven by a grave-looking coachman with a very glossy hat, and very white gloves. Rosie used to envy her a little when she saw her walking about in the garden gathering the flowers at her own will.
“How happy she must be!” she thought now, as she stood gazing about her. “If she is a nice young lady, as I am almost sure she is, she would rather that I enjoyed her flowers than not. At any rate I am going to walk round just once—and then go.”
But it was not an easy matter to get round the circle. It was not a very large one, but there were flowers all round it, and Rosie passed slowly on lost in wonder and delights as some strange blossom presented itself. It took a long time to pass quite round, and before this was accomplished, her footsteps were arrested by a splendid cardinal flower, that grow within the shadow of the wall. It was not quite a stranger. She had gathered a species of it often in the low banks of the pond; and as she bent over it with delight, a voice startled her—
“You should have soon it a while ago. It is past its best now.”
Rose turning saw the gardener, and hastily stammering an excuse, prepared to go. But he did not seem to understand that she was an intruder.
“If you’ll come, round this way I’ll show you flowers that are worth looking at,” said he.
“He thinks I am a visitor,” said Rose to herself. “I’m sure I admire his flowers as much as any of them can do. It won’t trouble him much to show them to me, and I’ll just go with him.”
So picking up her bonnet that had fallen on the walk, she followed him, a little frightened at her own boldness, but very much elated. She did not think the garden grew prettier as they went on, and her conductor hurried her past a great many pretty squares and circles without giving her time to admire them. He stopped at last before a long, narrow bed, where the flowers were growing without regard to regularity as to arrangement; but oh! Such colouring! Such depth and richness! What verbenas and heliotropes!—what purples—crimsons—scarlets! Rose could only gaze and wonder and exclaim, while her friend listened, and was evidently well pleased with her delight.
At last it was time to go, and Rose sighed as she said it. But she thanked him with sparkling eyes for his kindness, and added deprecatingly—
“I am not a visitor here. I saw the gate open and came in. I couldn’t help it.”
It was a small matter to her new friend whether she were a visitor at the great house or not.
“You ken a flower when you see it,” said he, “and that’s more than can be said of some of the visitors here.”
He led the way round the garden till they came to a summer-house covered with a flowering vine, which was like nothing ever Rose had seen before.
“It was just like what a bower ought to be,” she told Graeme, afterwards. “It was just like a lady’s bower in a book.”
There was a little mound before it, upon which and in the borders close by grew a great many flowers. Not rare flowers, such as she had just been admiring, but flowers sweet and common, pansies and thyme, sweet peas and mignonette. It was Miss Elphinstone’s own bower, the gardener said, and these were her favourite flowers. Rose bent over a pale little blossom near the path—
“What is this?” asked she; and then she was sorry, fearing to have it spoiled by some long unpronounceable name.
“Surely you have seen that—and you from Scotland? That’s a gowan.”
“A gowan!” She was on her knees beside it in a moment. “Is it the real gowan, ‘that glints on bank and brae’? No, I never saw one; at least I don’t remember. I was only a child when I came away. Oh! how Graeme would like to see them. And I must tell Janet. A real gowan! ‘Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flower’—you mind? And here is a white one, ‘With silver crest and golden eye.’ Oh! if Graeme could only see them! Give me just one for my sister who is ill. She has gathered them on the braes at home.”
“Ahem! I don’t know,” said her friend, in a changed voice. “These are Miss Elphinstone’s own flowers. I wouldna just like to meddle with them. But you can ask her yourself.”
Rose turned. The pretty young lady of the pony-carriage, was standing beside her. Rose’s confusion was too deep for words. She felt for a minute as though she must run away, but thought better of it, and murmured something about the flowers being so beautiful, and about not wishing to intrude. The young lady’s answer was to stoop down and gather a handful of flowers, gowans, sweet peas, violets and mignonette. When she gave them into Rose’s hand she asked,—
“Is your sister very ill? I have seen the doctor going often to your house.”
“She is getting better now. She has been very ill. The doctor says she will soon be well.”
“And have you taken care of her all the time? Is there no one else?”
“I have taken care of her, Nelly Anderson and I, all the day, and our brothers are home at night.”
“I am glad she is getting better. Is she fond of flowers. Mr Stirling is thinking I haven’t arranged mine nicely, but you can do that when you put them in water, you know.”
“Oh! thank you. They are beautiful. Yes, Graeme is very fond of flowers. This will be like a bit of summer to her, real summer in the country, I mean. And besides, she has gathered gowans on the braes at home.”
“I am a Canadian,” said the young lady. “I never saw the ‘gowany braes,’ but I shall see them soon.”
They had reached the gate by this time.
“Come again, soon. Come into the garden, whenever you like. I am sure Mr Stirling will like to show you his flowers, you are so fond of them. I think a few of his would improve your bouquet.”
Mr Stirling touched his hat to his young lady.
“I shall be proud to show the flowers to Miss Rose, and I shall have the honour of making her a bouquet soon.” The young lady laughed.
“You are to be a favourite. Is your name Rose,” added she, lingering by the gate.
“Yes, Rose Elliott. I am the youngest. We all live over there, my brothers, and Graeme and I. It would be a dreary place, if it were not for the glimpse we get of your garden. Look, there is Nelly looking for me. I am afraid I have hindered Arthur. Thank you very much, and good-bye.”
Rose shyly put forth her hand. The young lady took it in both hers, and drawing her within the gate again, kissed her softly, and let her go.
“Stirling,” said she, as she turned toward the house, “how did you know the young lady’s name is Rose? is she a friend of yours? Do you know her?”
“I know her face, that is all I have seen her for hours together, looking in on the garden from that upper window. And whiles she looks through the gate. I heard her brothers calling her Rose. She’s a bonny lassie, and kens a flower when she sees it.”
That night, Nelly was startled into a momentary forgetfulness of her thick shoes, and her good manners, and came rushing into Graeme’s room, where they were all sitting after tea, bearing a bouquet, which a man, “maybe a gentleman,” Nelly seemed in doubt, had sent in with his compliments to Miss Rose Elliott. A bouquet! it would have won the prize at any floral exhibition in the land, and never after that, while the autumn frosts spared them, were they without flowers. Even when the autumn beauties hung shrivelled and black on their stems, and afterwards, when the snows of winter lay many feet above the pretty garden beds, many a rare hot-house blossom brightened the little parlour, where by that time Graeme was able to appear.
“For,” said Mr Stirling, to the admiring Nelly, “such were Miss Elphinstone’s directions before she went away, and besides, directions or no directions, the flowers are well bestowed on folk that take real pleasure in their beauty.”
The autumn and winter passed pleasantly away. As Graeme grew strong, she grew content. The children were well and happy, and Arthur’s business was prospering in a wonderful way, and all anxiety about ways and means, might be put aside for the present. They often heard from Norman, and from their friends in Merleville, and Graeme felt that with so much to make her thankful and happy, it would be ungrateful indeed to be otherwise.
In the spring, they removed to another house. It was in town, but compared with the only one they had left, it seemed to be quite in the country. For the street was not closely built up, and it stood in the middle of a little garden, which soon became beautiful under the transforming hands of Rose and her brothers. There was a green field behind the house too, and the beautiful mountain was plainly visible from it; and half an hour’s walk could take them to more than one place, where there was not a house to be seen. The house itself, seemed like a palace, after the narrow brick one they had just left. It was larger than they needed, Graeme thought, and the rent was higher than they could well afford, but the garden was enough to content them with everything else. It was a source of health, if not of wealth, to them all, and a never failing source of delight besides. Their new home was quite away from Mr Stirling’s end of town, but he found time to come and look at their garden every week or two; and his gifts of roots, and seeds, and good advice were invaluable.
This was a short and pleasant summer to them all. It is wonderful how much pleasure can be made out of the quiet every-day duties of life, by young and happy people on the watch for pleasant things. To Will and Rosie everything was delightful. The early marketing with Nelly, to which Graeme and Arthur, and sometimes even Harry was beguiled, never lost its charm for them. Harry had lived in town, long enough, to permit himself to be a little scornful of the pleasure which the rest took, in wandering up and down among the vegetables and fruits, and other wares in the great market, and made himself merry over Rosie’s penchant for making acquaintance with the old French woman and little children whom they met. He mystified Rose and her friends by his free interpretation of both French and English, and made the rest merry too; so it was generally considered a great thing when he could be induced to rise early enough to go with them.
Sometimes they went in the early boats to the other side of the river, a pleasure to be scorned by none on lovely summer mornings; and they would return home with appetites ready to do honour to the efforts of Nelly and Miss Beecher. Sometimes when a holiday came, it was spent by the whole family, Nelly and all, at Lachine or the Back River, or on the top of the mountain. All this may seem stupid enough to them who are in the habit of searching long, and going far for pleasure, but with the help of books and pencils, and lively conversation, the Elliotts were able to find a great deal of enjoyment at such holiday times.
They had pleasures of another kind, too. Arthur’s temporary connection with one of the city newspapers, placed at their disposal magazines, and a new book now and then, as well as tickets for lectures and concerts, and there was seldom a treat of the kind but was highly enjoyed by one or other of them.
They had not many acquaintances at this time. In Janet’s estimation, the averseness of Graeme to bring herself in contact with strangers, had been a serious defect in her character. It was easier to avoid this in the town than it used to be in the country, Graeme found. Besides, she had no longer the sense of parish responsibilities as a minister’s daughter, and was inclined for quietness. Once or twice she made a great effort, and went with an acquaintance to the “sewing meetings” of the ladies of the church which they attended; but it cost her a great deal of self-denial to very little purpose, it seemed to her, and so she compromised the matter with her conscience, by working for, and being very kind indeed, to a family of little motherless girls, who lived in a lane near their house, and stayed at home. She was by no means sure that she did right. For everybody knows, or ought to know, how praiseworthy is the self-denial which is willing to give up an afternoon every week, or every second week, to the making of pincushions, and the netting of tidies, which are afterwards to appear in the form of curtains or pulpit covers, or organs, or perhaps in the form of garments for those who have none. But then, though the “sewing-circle” is the generally approved and orthodox outlet for the benevolent feelings and efforts of those dear ladies who love to do good, but who are apt to be bored by motherless little girls, and other poor people, who live in garrets, and out of the way places, difficult of access, it is just possible that direct efforts in their behalf may be accepted too. One thing is certain, though Graeme did not find it easy for a while to satisfy herself, as to the “moral quality” of the motive which kept her at home, the little Finlays were all the happier and better for the time she conscientiously bestowed on them and their affairs.
They made some acquaintances that summer, and very pleasant ones, too. Arthur used sometimes to bring home to their six o’clock dinner, a friend or two of his clients from the country, or a young lawyer, or lawyer’s clerk, to whom the remembrance of his own first lonely days in the city made him wish to show kindness. There were two or three gay French lads of the latter class who, strange to say, had taken a great liking to the grave and steady Arthur, and who often came to pass an evening at his pleasant fireside. Graeme was shy of them for a while, not being clear as to the principles and practice of the French as a people, and as for Rose, the very sight of these polite moustached gentlemen suggested historical names and events, which it was not at all comfortable to think about. But those light-hearted Canadian lads soon proved themselves to be as worthy of esteem as though English had been their mother tongue. Very agreeable visitors they were, with their nice gentlemanly manners, their good humour, and their music; and far better subjects for the exercise of Rosie’s French than the old market women were, and in a little while they never came but they were kindly welcomed.
This was a busy time, too. Graeme taught Rosie English, and they studied together French and German, and music; and were in a fair way, Harry declared, of becoming a pair of very learned ladies indeed. Very busy and happy ladies they were, which was a matter of greater importance. And if sometimes it came into Graeme’s mind that the life they were living was too pleasant to last, the thought did not make her unhappy, but humble and watchful, lest that which was pleasant in their lot should make them forgetful of life’s true end.
Chapter Twenty One.
“It is just three years to-night since we came to M. Did you remember it, Arthur?” said Graeme, looking up from her work.
“Is it possible that it can be three years?” said Arthur, in surprise.
“It has been a very happy time,” said Graeme.
Rose left her book, and came and seated herself on the arm of her brother’s chair. Arthur took the cigar from his lips, and gently puffed the smoke into his sister’s face. Rose did not heed it.
“Three years!” repeated she. “I was quite a child then.”
The others laughed, but Rose went on without heeding.
“It rained that night, and then we had a great many hot, dusty days. How well I remember the time! Graeme was ill and homesick, and we wished so much for Janet.”
“That was only at first, till you proved yourself such a wonderful nurse and housekeeper,” said Graeme; “and you were not at all homesick yourself, I suppose?”
“Perhaps just a little at first, in those hot, dreary days,” said Rose, gravely; “but I was not homesick very long.”
“I am afraid there were a good many dreary days about that time—more than you let me know about,” said Arthur.
Graeme smiled and shook her head.
“I am afraid you had a good many anxious days about that time. If I had known how hard you would have to work, I think I would have stayed in Merleville after all.”
“Pooh! Nonsense! Hard work is wholesome. And at the very worst time, what with one thing and another, we had a larger income than my father had in Merleville.”
“But that was quite different—”
“Did I tell you that I have got a new client? I have done business for Mr Stone before, but to-day it was intimated to me, that henceforth I am to be the legal adviser of the prosperous firm of ‘Grove & Stone.’ It will add something to our income, little woman.”
Rose clapped her hands, and stooping down, whispered something in her brother’s ear.
“Don’t be planning any extravagance, you two, on the strength of ‘Grove & Stone.’ You know any superfluous wealth we may have, is already appropriated,” said Graeme.
“To the Merleville visit. But this is not at all an extravagance, is it, Arthur?” said Rose.
“That depends—. I am afraid Graeme is the best judge. But we won’t tell her to-night. We must break the matter to her gently,” said Arthur.
“Graeme is so dreadfully prudent,” sighed Rose.
Graeme laughed.
“It is well there is one prudent one among us.”
“I don’t believe she would at all approve of your smoking another cigar, for instance. They are nicer than usual, are they not?” said Rose, inhaling the fragrance from her brother’s case.
“Yes. I treated myself to a few of the very best, on the strength of Grove & Stone. They are very nice. Have one?”
Rose took it with great gravity.
“Suppose we take a little walk first, and smoke afterwards,” said she, coaxingly.
Arthur made a grimace.
“And where will you beguile me to, when you get me fairly out?”
“There is no telling, indeed,” said Rose. “Graeme, I am going to put on my new hat. When Mr Elliott honours us with his company, we must look our very best, you know.”
“But, Arthur, you have an engagement to-night. Don’t you remember?” asked Graeme.
“To Mrs Barnes’,” said Rose. “Miss Cressly brought home my dress to-day, and she told me all about it. Her sister is nurse there. The party is to be quite a splendid affair. It is given in honour of Miss Grove, who has just come home. I wish I were going with you.”
“You may go without me! I will give you my invitation. It is a great bore, and I don’t believe I shall go. I don’t see the good of it.”
“But you promised,” said Graeme.
“Well, I suppose I must go for a while. But it is very stupid.”
“Just as if you could make us believe that. It must be delightful. I think it’s very stupid of you and Graeme, not to like parties.”
“You forget. I was not asked,” said Graeme.
“But you might have been, if you had returned Mrs Barnes’ call soon enough. How nice it would have been! I wish I were Miss Grove, to have a party given for me. She is a beauty, they say. You must notice her dress, Arthur, and tell me all about it.”
“Oh! certainly,” said Arthur, gravely. “I’ll take particular notice. But come, get your hats. There is time enough for a walk before I go. Haste, Rosie, before the finest of the evening is past. Are you coming, Will? Man! you shouldna read by that light. You will blind yourself. Put away your book, you’ll be all the better for a walk.”
They lingered a moment at the gate.
“Here is Harry!” exclaimed Rose. “And some one with him. Charlie Millar, I think.”
“We will wait for them,” said Arthur.
The look that came to Graeme’s face, as she stood watching her brother’s coming, told that the shadow of a new care was brooding over her, and the light talk of her brother and sister told that it was one they did not see. She stood back a little, while they exchanged greetings, and looked at Harry with anxious eyes.
“Are you going out, Graeme?” asked he, coming within the gate.
“Only to walk. Will you go with us? Or shall I stay?”
“Miss Elliott,” interposed Charlie Millar, “I beg you will not. He doesn’t deserve it at your hands. He is as cross as possible. Besides, we are going to D street, by invitation, to meet the new partner. He came yesterday. Did Harry tell you?”
“Harry did not come home last night. What kept you, Harry?” asked Rose.
“We were kept till a most unreasonable hour, and Harry stayed with me last night,” said Charlie.
“And of course Graeme stayed up till all hours of the night, waiting for me,” said Harry, with an echo of impatience in his voice.
“Of course she did no such foolish thing. I saw to that,” said Arthur. “But which is it to be? A walk, or a quiet visit at home?”
“Oh! a walk, by all means,” said Charlie Millar.
“I have a great mind not to go,” said Harry.
“Nonsense, man! One would think you were about to receive the reward of your evil deeds. I refer to you, Miss Elliott. Would it be respectful to the new firm, if he were to refuse to go?”
“Bother the new firm,” said Harry, impatiently.
“The new partner, you mean. He has taken a most unreasonable dislike to my brother at first sight—calls him proud, and a snob, because he happens to be shy and awkward with strangers.”
“Shy! A six-footer, with a beard enough for three. After that I’ll vanish,” said Harry.
“I don’t think Harry is very polite,” said Rose.
“Never mind. There are better things in the world than politeness. He will be more reasonable by and by,” said Harry’s friend.
“So your brother has come,” said Graeme. “How long is it since you have seen him?”
“Oh! not for ten years. He was home once after he came out here, but I was away at school, and did not see him. I remembered him quite well, however. He is not spoiled by his wanderings, as my mother used to fear he might be;” then he added, as Harry reappeared, “the fact is, Miss Elliott, he expected to be asked to dinner. We must overlook his ill-temper.”
“By all means,” said Graeme, laughing.
“Thank you,” said Harry. “And I’ll try to be patient.”
“Well, shall we go now?” said Arthur, who had been waiting patiently through it all. The others followed him and Will.
“Is your brother going to remain here?” asked Graeme. “That will be nice for you.”
“Yes, on some accounts it would be nice. But if they send Harry off to fill his place at the West, I shall not like that, unless, indeed, they send us both. And I am not sure I should like that long.”
“Send Harry!” exclaimed Graeme.
“Nonsense, Graeme!” said Harry. “That is some of Charlie’s stuff.”
“I hope so; but we’ll see,” said Charlie. “Miss Elliott, I had a letter from my mother to-day.” The lad’s eyes softened, as he turned them on Graeme.
“Have you?” said Graeme, turning away from her own thoughts to interest herself in his pleasure. “Is she quite well?”
“Yes, she is much better than she was, and, Miss Elliott, she sends her love to you, and her best thanks.”
“For what?” said Graeme, smiling.
“Oh! you know quite well for what. What should I have done, if it had not been for you and Harry? I mean if you had not let me come to your house sometimes.”
“Stuff!” said Harry.
“Truth!” said Charlie. “I never shall forget the misery of my first months, till Harry came into our office. It has been quite different since the night he brought me to your house, and you were so kind as to ask me to come again.”
“That was no great self-denial on our part,” said Graeme, smiling.
“You minded Graeme on some one she used to know long ago,” said Rose. “And, besides, you are from Scotland.”
Both lads laughed.
“And Graeme feels a motherly interest in all Scottish laddies, however unworthy they may be,” said Harry.
And so they rambled on about many things, till they came to the gate of Mr Elphinstone’s garden, beyond which Arthur and Will were loitering.
“How pretty the garden is!” said Rose. “Look, Graeme, at that little girl in the window. I wonder whether the flowers give her as much pleasure, as they used to give me.”
“I am afraid she does not get so many of them as you used to get,” said Graeme.
“Come in and let me gather you some,” said Charlie.
“No, indeed. I should not venture. Though I went in the first time without an invitation. And you dare not pick Mr Stirling’s flowers.”
“Dare I not?” said Charlie, reaching up to gather a large spray from a climbing rose, that reached high above the wall.
“Oh! don’t. Oh! thank you,” said Rose.
As far down as they could see for the evergreens and horse-chestnuts a white dress gleamed, and close beside the little feet that peeped out beneath it, a pair of shining boots crushed the gravel.
“Look,” said Rose, drawing back.
“The new partner,” said Harry, with a whistle. “A double partnership—eh, Charlie?”
“I shouldn’t wonder,” said Charlie, looking wise.
“He knows what he’s about, that brother of yours. He’s cute. He knows a thing or two, I guess.”
“Harry,” said Rose, gravely, “don’t talk slang. And I don’t think it very polite to speak that way to Mr Millar about his brother.”
“My dear Rosie, I am not talking slang, but the pure American language; and I think you are more considerate about other people’s brothers than you are of your own. Twice this night I have heard your brother called cross and disagreeable, without rebuke.”
“You deserved it,” said Rose, laughing.
“Miss Rose,” said Charlie, “let your smile beam on him for one moment, and he can’t look cross for the rest of the evening.”
Rose turned her laughing face to her brother.
“Be a good boy, Harry. Good bye.”
As they returned, Will and Rose went on before, while Graeme lingered with Arthur.
“Did you hear what Mr Millar said about the possibility of Harry’s being sent West? It must be to take the new partner’s place, I suppose,” said Graeme, after a little.
“No; did he say so? It would be a capital good thing for Harry.”
“Do you think so? He would have to leave home.”
“Yes; that would be a pity, of course; but the opening for him would be a very good one. I doubt whether there is much in it, however. Harry has been for so short a time in the employment of the firm, and he is very young for a place so responsible. Still, it may be. I know they have great confidence in him.”
There was a pause, and they walked slowly on.
“Arthur,” said Graeme, in a low voice. “Do you think Harry is—quite steady?”
“Steady,” repeated Arthur in a surprised and shocked tone. “Why should you doubt it?”
Graeme strove to speak quietly, but her hand trembled on her brother’s arm, and he knew it cost her an effort.
“I dare say there is no cause for doubt. Still, I thought I ought to speak to you. You will know better than I; and you must not think that I am unkind in speaking thus about Harry.”
“You unkind! No; I should think two or three things before I thought that. But tell me why you have any fears?”
“You know, Arthur, Harry has been very late in coming home, a good many times lately; and sometimes he has not come at all. And once or twice—more indeed—he has been excited, more than excited—and—”
Graeme could not go on.
“Still, Graeme, I do not think there is any real cause for apprehension. He is young and full of spirit, and his society is sought after—too much for his good, I dare say. But he has too much sense to give us any real cause for uneasiness on that ground. Why, Graeme, in P street Harry is thought much of for his sense and talent.”
Graeme sighed. There came into her mind something that her father had once said, about gallant ships being wrecked at last. But she did not speak.
“Shall I speak to him, Graeme? What would you like me to do? I don’t think there is much to fear for him.”
“Well, I will think so, too. No; don’t speak to him yet. It was hearing that he might be sent away, that made me speak to-night. I dare say I am foolish.”
They walked on in silence for a little, and then Graeme said,—
“I hope it is only that I am foolish. But we have been so happy lately; and I mind papa and Janet both said to me—it was just when we were beginning to fear for Menie—that just as soon as people were beginning to settle down content, some change would come. It proved so then.”
“Yes; I suppose so,” said Arthur, with a sigh. “We must expect changes; and scarcely any change would be for the better as far as we are concerned. But, Graeme, we must not allow ourselves to become fanciful. And I am quite sure that after all your care for Harry, and for us all, you will not have to suffer on his account. That would be too sad.”
They said no more till they overtook the children,—as Rose and Will were still called in this happy household.
“I have a good mind not to go, after all. I would much rather stay quietly at home,” said Arthur, sitting down on the steps.
“But you promised,” said Graeme. “You must go. I will get a light, and you need not stay long.”
“You must go, of course,” said Rose. “And Graeme and I will have a nice quiet evening. I am going to practise the new music you brought home.”
“A quiet evening,” said Will.
“Yes; I have rather neglected my music of late, and other things, too. I’m sure, I don’t know where the time goes to. I wish I were going with you, Arthur.”
“You are far better at home.”
“Yes, indeed,” said Graeme; and Will added,—
“A child like Rosie!”
“Well, be sure and look well at all the dresses, especially Miss Grove’s, and tell me all about them.”
“Yes; especially Miss Grove, if I get a glimpse of her in the crowd, which is doubtful.”
“Well, good-night,” said Rose. “I don’t believe there will be a gentleman there to compare to you.”
Arthur bowed low.
“I suppose I ought to say there will be no one there to compare with you. And I would, if I could conscientiously. But ‘fine feathers make fine birds,’ and Miss Grove aspires to be a belle it seems,—and, many who don’t aspire to such distinction, will, with the help of the dressmaker, eclipse the little Scottish Rose of our garden. Good-night to you all—and Graeme, mind you are not to sit up for me past your usual time.”
He went away, leaving Rose to her practising, Will to his books, and Graeme to pace up and down the gallery in the moonlight, and think her own thoughts. They were not very sad thoughts, though Arthur feared they might be. Her brother’s astonishment at her fears for Harry, had done much to re-assure her with regard to him; for surely, if there were danger for Harry, Arthur would see it; and she began to be indignant with herself for having spoken at all.
“Arthur will think I am foolish. He will think that I have lost confidence in Harry, which is not true. I wish I were more hopeful. I wish I did not take fright at the very first shadow. Janet aye said that the first gloom of the cloud, troubled me more than the falling of the shower should do. Such folly to suppose that anything could happen to our Harry! I won’t think about it. And even if Harry has to go away, I will believe with Arthur, that will be for the best. He will be near Norman, at any rate, and that will be a great deal. Norman will be glad. And I will not fear changes. Why should I? They cannot come to us unsent. I will trust in God.”
But quite apart from the thought of Harry’s temptation or prospects, there was in Graeme’s heart a sense of pain. She was not quite satisfied in looking back over these pleasant years. She feared she had been beginning to settle down content with their pleasant life, forgetting higher things. Except the thought about Harry, which had come and gone, and come again a good many times within the last few months, there had scarcely been a trouble in their life daring these two years and more. She had almost forgotten how it would seem, to waken each morning to the knowledge that painful, self-denying duties lay before her. Even household care, Nelly’s skill and will had put far from her.
And now as she thought about all of this, it came into her mind how her father and Janet had always spoken of life as a warfare—a struggle, and the Bible so spoke of it, too. She thought of Janet’s long years of self-denial, her toils, her disappointments; and how she had always accepted her lot as no uncommon one, but as appointed to her by God. She thought of her father—how, even in the most tranquil times of his life—the time she could remember best, the peaceful years in Merleville, he had given himself no rest, but watched for souls as one who must give account. Yes, life was a warfare. Not always with outward foes. The struggle need not be one that a looker-on could measure or see, but the warfare must be maintained—the struggle must only cease with life. It had been so with her father, she knew; and through his experience, Graeme caught a glimpse of that wonderful paradox of the life that is hid with Christ in God,—constant warfare—and peace that is abiding; and could the true peace be without the warfare? she asked herself. And what was awaiting them after all these tranquil days?
It was not the fear that this might be the lull before the storm that pained her, so much as the doubt whether this quiet time had been turned to the best account. Had she been to her brothers all that father had believed she would be? Had her influence always been decidedly on the side where her father’s and her mother’s would have been? They had been very happy together, but were her brothers really better and stronger Christian men, because of her? And if, as she had sometimes feared, Harry were to go astray, could she be altogether free from blame?
The friends that had gathered around them during these years, were not just the kind of friends they would have made, had her father instead of her brother been at the head of the household; and the remembrance of the pleasure they had taken in the society of some who did not think as their father had done on the most important of all matters, came back to her now like a sin. And yet if this had worked for evil among them, it was indirectly; for it was the influence of no one whom they called their friend that she feared for Harry. She always came back to Harry in her thoughts.
“But I will not fear for him,” she repeated often. “I will trust God’s care for Harry and us all. Surely I need not fear, I think I have been beginning at the wrong end of my tangled thoughts to-night. Outward circumstances cannot make much difference, surely. If we are humble and trustful God will guide us.”
And busy still with thoughts from which renewed trust had taken the sting, Graeme sat still in the moonlight, till the sound of approaching footsteps recalled her to the present.