Chapter Twenty Seven.
The brilliant sunlight of a September morning was shining full into the little breakfast-room, where Graeme sat at the head of the table, awaiting the coming of the rest. The morning paper was near her, but she was not reading; her hands were clasped and rested on the table, and she was looking straight before her, seeing, probably, further than the pale green wall, on which the sunshine fell so pleasantly. She was grave and quiet, but not in the least sad. Indeed, more than once, as the voices of Rose and Arthur came sounding down-stairs, a smile of unmistakable cheerfulness overspread her face. Presently, Arthur entered, and Graeme made a movement among her cups and saucers.
“Your trip has done you good, Graeme,” said Arthur, as he sat down opposite to her.
“Yes, indeed. There is nothing like the sea-breezes, to freshen one. I hardly know myself for the tired, exhausted creature you sent away in June.”
Graeme, Rose, and Will, had passed the summer at Cacouna. Nelly had gone with them as housekeeper, and Arthur had shut the house, and taken lodgings a little out of town for the summer.
“I am only afraid,” added Graeme, “that all our pleasure has been at the expense of some discomfort to you.”
“By no means, a change is agreeable. I have enjoyed the summer very much. I am glad to get home again, however.”
“Yes, a change does one good. If I was only quite at ease about one thing, we might have gone to Merleville, instead of Cacouna, and that would have given Janet and a good many others pleasure.”
“Oh! I don’t know,” said Arthur. “The good people there must have forgotten us by this time, I fancy. There are no sea-breezes there, and they were what you needed.”
“Arthur! Janet forgotten us! Never, I am quite sure of that. But at the time it seemed impossible to go, to make the effort, I mean. I quite shrunk from the thought of Merleville. Indeed, if you had not been firm, I fear I should not have had the sea-breezes.”
“Yes. You owe me thanks. You needed the change. What with Will’s illness, and Harry’s going away, and one thing and another; you were quite in need of a change.”
“I was not well, certainly,” said Graeme. “Will has gone to the post, I suppose?”
“Yes,” said Rose, who entered at the moment. “I see him coming up the street.”
“As for Rosie,” said Arthur, looking at her gravely, as she sat down. “She has utterly ruined her complexion. Such freckles! such sunburning! and how stout she has grown!”
Rose laughed.
“Yes, I know I’m a fright. You must bring me something, Arthur. Toilette vinegar, or something.”
“Oh! it would not signify. You are quite beyond all that.”
“Here comes Will, with a letter for each of us, I declare.”
Arthur’s letter was soon despatched, a mere business missive. Graeme’s was laid down beside her, while she poured Will’s coffee. Rose read hers at once, and before she was well down the first page, she uttered a cry of delight.
“Listen all. No, I won’t read it just yet. Arthur, don’t you remember a conversation that you and I had together, soon after Sandy was here?”
“Conversation,” repeated Arthur. “We have talked, that is, you have talked, and I have listened, but as to conversation:—”
“But Arthur, don’t you remember saying something about Emily, and I did not agree with you?”
“I have said a great many times, that I thought Emily a very pretty little creature. If you don’t agree, it shows bad taste.”
“I quite agree. I think her beautiful. She is not very little, however. She is nearly as tall as I am.”
“What is it, Rose?” asked Graeme, stretching out her hand for the letter.
“You’ll spoil your news, with your long preface,” said Will.
“No, but I want Arthur to confess that I am wisest.”
“Oh! I can do that, of course, as regards matters in general; but I should like to hear of this particular case.”
“Well, don’t you remember saying that you did not think Sandy and Emily would ever fall in love?”
“I remember no such assertion, on my part. On the contrary, I remember feeling pretty certain that the mischief was done already, as far as Sandy was concerned, poor fellow; and I remember saying, much to your indignation, more’s the pity.”
“Yes; and I remember you said it would be just like a sentimental little blue, like Emily, to slight the handsome, hearty young farmer, and marry some pale-faced Yankee professor.”
“You put the case a little strongly, perhaps,” said Arthur, laughing. “But, on the whole, that is the way the matter stood. That was my opinion, I confess.”
“And they are going to be married!” exclaimed Graeme and Will in a breath. “How glad Janet will be!”
“Emily does not say so, in so many words. It won’t be for a long time yet, they are so young. But I am to be bridesmaid when the time comes.”
“Well, if that is not saying it!” said Will laughing. “What would you have, Rosie?”
Graeme opened and read her letter, and laid it down beside her, looking a little pale and anxious.
“What is it, Graeme? Nothing wrong, I hope.”
“No; I hope not. I don’t know, I am sure. Norman says he is going to be married.”
“Married!” cried Rose and Will.
“To Hilda?” said Arthur.
“Yes; but how could you have guessed?” said Graeme, bewildered.
“I did not guess. I saw it. Why it was quite easy to be seen that events have been tending toward it all these years. It is all very fine, this brother and sister intercourse; but I have been quite sure about them since Harry wrote about them.”
“Well, Norman seems surprised, if you are not. He says, ‘You will be very much astonished at all this; but you cannot be more astonished than I was myself. I did not think of such a thing; at least, I did not know that I was thinking of such a thing till young Conway, my friend, asked permission to address my sister. I was very indignant, though, at first, I did not, in the least, know why. However, Hilda helped me to find out all about it. At first I meant she should spend the winter with you all I want very much that you should know each other. But, on the whole, I think I can’t spare her quite so long. Expect to see us therefore in November—one flesh!’” There was much more.
“Well done, Norman!” cried Arthur. “But, Graeme, I don’t see what there is to look grave about. She seems to be a nice little thing, and Norman ought to know his own mind by this time.”
“She’s a great deal more than a nice little thing,” said Graeme earnestly. “If one can judge by her letters and by Harry’s description of her—to say nothing of Norman’s opinion—she must be a very superior person, and good and amiable besides. But it seems so strange, so sudden. Why, it seems only the other day since Norman was such a mere boy. I wish she could have passed the winter with us. I think, perhaps, I should write and say so.”
“Yes, if you like. But Norman must judge. I think it is the wisest thing for him. He will have a settled home.”
“I do believe it is,” said Graeme, earnestly. “I am very glad—or I shall be in a little. But, just at first, it seems a little as though Norman would not be quite so much one of us—you know—and besides there really is something odd in the idea of Norman’s being married; now, is there not?”
“I confess I fail to see it,” said Arthur, a little sharply. Graeme had hardly time to notice his tone. An exclamation from Will startled her.
“What is it, Will?” said Rose: “Another wedding?”
“You’ll never guess, Rosie. Never. You need not try.”
“Is it Harry this time?” said Arthur, looking in from the hall with his hat on.
“No. Listen, Arthur! Harry says, ‘What is this that Mr Green has been telling me about Arthur and little Miss Grove? I was greatly amused at the idea their mutual admiration. Mr Green assures me that he has the best authority for saying that Arthur is to carry off the heiress. Charlie, too, has hinted something of the same kind. Tell Graeme, when that happens, I shall expect her to come and keep my house.’”
“They said Mr Green was going to carry off the heiress himself!” exclaimed Rose.
“Listen!” continued Will. “‘Unless, indeed, Graeme should make up her mind to smile on Mr Green and take possession of the “palatial residence,” of which he has just laid the foundation near C—.’”
“Here is a bit for you, Graeme. Nobody is to be left out, it seems. It will be your turn next, Rosie,” said Arthur, as he went away laughing.
“But that is all nonsense about Arthur and little Miss Grove?” said Rose, half questioningly.
“I should think so, indeed! Fancy Arthur coming to that fate,” said Graeme. “That would be too absurd.”
And yet the thought came uncalled several times that day, and her repetitions of “too absurd,” became very energetic in her attempts to drive it quite away. The thought was unpleasantly recalled to her when, a day or two after, she saw her brother, standing beside the Grove carriage, apparently so interested in his conversation with the pretty Fanny that she and Rose passed quite close to them unobserved. It was recalled more unpleasantly still, by the obliging care of Mrs Gridley, who was one of their first visitors after their return. The Grove carriage passed as she sat with them, and, nodding significantly toward it, she said:
“I don’t know whether I ought to congratulate you or sympathise with you.”
Graeme laughed, but she was very much afraid she changed colour, too, as she answered:
“There is no haste. When you make up your mind as to which will be most appropriate, you will be in time.”
“Ah! you are not to commit yourself, I see. Well, you are quite right. She is a harmless little person, I believe, and may turn out very well if withdrawn from the influence of her stepmother.”
Something in Graeme’s manner stopped the voluble lady more effectually than words could have done, and a rather abrupt turn was given to the conversation. But Graeme could not forget it. Not that she believed in the truth of what Mrs Gridley had hinted at, yet she could not help being annoyed at it. It was rather foolish, she thought, for Arthur to give occasion for such gossip. It was so unlike him, too. And yet so little was enough to raise a rumour like that, especially with so kind a friend as Mrs Gridley to keep the ball rolling. Very likely Arthur knew nothing at all about this rumour, and, as the thought passed through her mind, Graeme determined to tell him about it.
But she did not; she could not do so—though why she could not was a mystery to herself. Sometimes she fancied there was that in Arthur’s manner which prevented her from pursuing the subject, when an opportunity seemed to offer. When he was not there, she was quite sure it was only her own fancy, but no sooner was the name of Grove mentioned; than the fancy returned, till the very sight of the Grove carriage made her uncomfortable at last, especially if the lady of the mansion was in it. She never failed to lean forward and bow to them with the greatest interest and politeness; and more than once Graeme was left standing looking in at a shop-window, while Arthur obeyed the beckoning hand of the lady, and went to speak to her. Sometimes the pretty Fanny was there; sometimes she was not. But her absence did not set Graeme’s uncomfortable feelings at rest with regard to her brother.
And yet, why should she be uncomfortable? she asked herself, a thousand times. What right had she to interfere, even in thought, with her brother’s friendship? If he admired Miss Grove, if even he were attached to her, or engaged to her, it was nothing with which she could interfere—nothing to which she could even allude—until he should speak first. But then, of course, that was quite absurd! Miss Grove, though very pretty, and the daughter of a man who was reported to be rich, was no more worthy to be Arthur’s wife—than—
Oh! of course it was all nonsense. No one had ever heard three words of common sense from those pretty lips. She had heard Arthur say as much as that himself. Miss Grove could dance and flirt and sing a little; that was all that could be said for her, and to suppose that Arthur would ever—
And yet Graeme grew a little indignant standing there looking at, but scarcely seeing the beautiful things in Savage’s window, and she inwardly resolved that never again should she wait for the convenience of the free-and-easy occupant of the carriage standing a few doors down the street. She had time to go over the same thoughts a good many times, and the conclusion always was that it was exceedingly impertinent of Mrs Grove, and exceedingly foolish of Arthur, and exceedingly disagreeable to herself, before she was recalled by her brother’s voice from her enforced contemplation of the beautiful things before her.
“Mrs Grove wanted to speak to you, Graeme,” said he, with a little embarrassment.
“I could hardly be expected to know that by intuition,” said Graeme, coldly.
“She beckoned. Did you not see?”
“She beckoned to you; she would hardly venture on such a liberty with me. There is not the slightest approach to intimacy between us, and never will be, unless I have greatly mistaken her character.”
“Oh, well, you may very easily have done that, you know very little about her. She thinks very highly of you, I can assure you.”
“Stuff!” pronounced Graeme, with such emphasis that she startled herself, and provoked a hearty laugh from her brother.
“I declare, Graeme, I thought for the moment it was Harry that spoke for Mrs Gridley in one of her least tolerant moods. It did not sound the least like you.”
Graeme laughed, too.
“Well, I was thinking of Harry at the minute, and as for Mrs Gridley—I didn’t mean to be cross, Arthur, but something disagreeable that she once said to me did come into my mind at the moment, I must confess.”
“Well, I wish you a more pleasant subject for meditation on your way home,” said Arthur. “Wait till I see if there are any letters. None, I believe. Good-bye.”
Mrs Gridley did not occupy Graeme’s thoughts on her way home, yet they were not very pleasant. All the way along the sunny streets she was repeating to herself, “so absurd,” “so foolish,” “so impertinent of Mrs Grove,” “so disagreeable to be made the subject of gossip,” and so on, over and over again, till the sight of the obnoxious carriage gave her a fresh start again. The lady did not beckon this time, she only bowed and smiled most sweetly. But her smiles did not soothe Graeme’s ruffled temper, and she reached home at last quite ashamed of her folly. For, after all, it was far less disagreeable to call herself silly than to call Arthur foolish, and Mrs Grove impertinent, and she would not think about it any more. So she said, and so she repeated, still thinking about it more than was either pleasant or needful.
One night, Charlie Millar paid them a visit. He made no secret of his delight at their return home, declaring that he had not known what to do with himself in their absence, and that he had not been quite content or at his ease since he sat in Graeme’s arm-chair three months ago.
“One would not think so from the visits you have made us since we came home,” said Graeme, smiling. “You have only looked in upon us. We were thinking you had forsaken us, or that you had found a more comfortable arm-chair, at a pleasanter fireside.”
“Business, business,” repeated Charlie, gravely. “I assure you that Harry out there, and I here, have had all that we have been able to attend to during the last three months. It is only to the unexpected delay of the steamer that I owe the leisure of this evening.”
“You expect us to believe all that, I suppose,” said Graeme, laughing.
“Indeed, you may believe me, Miss Elliott. It is quite true. I can’t understand how it is that my wise brother can stay away so long just now. If he does not know how much he is needed it is not for want of telling, I assure you.”
“You hear often from him, I suppose?”
“Yes. I had a note from Lilias the other day, in a letter I got from my mother. She sent ‘kind regards’ to the Misses Elliott, which I take the present opportunity of delivering.”
“Business having hitherto prevented,” said Rose.
“You don’t seem to have faith in my business engagements, Miss Rose; but I assure you that Harry and I deserve great credit for having carried on the business so successfully for the last three months.”
“Where is Mr Gilchrist?” asked Arthur.
“Oh, he’s here, there, and everywhere. But Mr Gilchrist is an ‘old fogey,’ and he has not helped but hindered matters, now and then. It is not easy getting on with those slow-going, obstinate old gentlemen; I can’t understand how Allan used to manage him so well. However, he had unbounded confidence in Allan’s powers, and let him do as he pleased.”
“And the obstinate old gentleman has not unbounded confidence in the powers of you and Harry?” said Arthur, laughing. “Upon the whole I think, in the absence of your brother, it is as well, that you two lads should have some check upon you, now and then.”
“Not at all, I assure you,” said Charlie. “As for Harry—Miss Elliott, I wish I could tell you half the kind things I hear about Harry from our correspondents out there.”
Graeme smiled brightly. She was permitting herself to rely entirely upon Harry now.
“But, Charlie,” said Will from his corner, “what is this nonsense you have been telling Harry about Arthur and the beautiful Miss Grove?”
Charlie started and coloured, and so did Graeme, and both glanced hastily at Arthur, who neither started nor coloured, as Graeme was very glad to perceive.
“Nonsense!” said Charlie, with a great show of astonishment and indignation. “I don’t understand you, Will.”
“Will,” said Rose, laughing, “you are mistaken. It was Mr Green who had been hinting to Harry something you remember; you read it to us the other morning.”
“Yes, but Harry said that Charlie had been saying something of the same kind,” persisted simple Will, who never dreamed of making any one feel uncomfortable.
“Hinting!” repeated Charlie. “I never hint. I leave that to Mrs Gridley and her set. I think I must have told Harry that I had seen Arthur in the Grove carriage one morning, and another day standing beside it talking to Miss Fanny, while her mamma was in ordering nice things at Alexander’s.”
Graeme laughed, she could not help it.
“Oh, that terrible carriage!” said Rose.
“A very comfortable and convenient carriage I found it, many a time, when I was staying at Mrs Smith’s,” said Arthur, coolly. “Mrs Grove was so polite as to invite me to take a seat in it more than once, and much obliged I was to her, some of those warm August mornings.”
“So you see, Will,” said Charlie, triumphantly, “I was telling Harry the simple truth, and he was mean to accuse me of hinting ‘nonsense,’ as you call it.”
“I suppose that is what Mrs Gridley meant the other day when she nodded so significantly toward the Grove carriage, and asked whether she was to congratulate us.”
Rose spoke with a little hesitation. She was not sure that her brother would be quite pleased by Mrs Gridley’s congratulations, and he was not.
“Oh! if we are to have Mrs Gridley’s kind concern and interest in our affairs, we shall advance rapidly,” said he, a little crossly. “It would of course be very desirable to discuss our affairs with that prudent and charitable lady.”
“But as I did not suppose there was on that occasion any matters to discuss there was no discussion,” said Graeme, by no means unwilling that her brother should see that she was not pleased by his manner and tone to Rose.
“Oh! never mind, Graeme,” said Rose, laughing, “we shall have another chance of being congratulated, and I only hope Arthur may be here himself. Mrs Gridley was passing when the Grove carriage stood at our door this morning. I saw her while I was coming up the street. She will be here in a day or two to offer again her congratulations or her sympathy.”
“Was Mrs Grove here this morning?” enquired Arthur. “She must have given you her own message then, I suppose.”
“She was at the door, but she did not get in. I was out, and Graeme was busy, and sent her word that she was engaged.”
“Yes,” said Graeme, “I was helping Nelly, and I was in my old blue wrapper.”
“Now, Graeme,” said Will, “that is not the least like you. What about a wrapper?”
“Nothing, of course. But a call at that hour is not at all times convenient, unless from once intimate friends, and we are not intimate.”
“But perhaps she designs to honour you with her intimate friendship,” said Charlie.
Graeme laughed.
“I am very much obliged to her. But I think we could each make a happier choice of friends.”
“She is a very clever woman, though, let me tell you,” said Arthur; “and she can make herself very agreeable, too, when she chooses.”
“Well, I cannot imagine ever being charmed by her,” said Graeme, hastily. “There is something—a feeling that she is not sincere—that would spoil all her attempts at being agreeable, as far as I am concerned.”
“Smooth and false,” said Charlie.
“No, Charlie. You are much too severe,” said Arthur. “Graeme’s idea of insincerity is better, though very severe for her. And, after all, I don’t think that she is consciously insincere. I can scarcely tell what it is that makes the dear lady other than admirable. I think it must be her taste for management, as Miss Fanny calls it. She does not seem to be able to go straight to any point, but plans and arranges, and thinks herself very clever when she succeeds in making people do as she wishes, when in nine cases out of ten, she would have succeeded quite as well by simply expressing her desires. After all, her manoeuvring is very transparent, and therefore very harmless.”
“Transparent! Harmless!” repeated Charlie. “You must excuse me if I say I think you do the lady’s talents great injustice. Not that I have any personal knowledge of the matter, however: and if I were to repeat the current reports, Miss Elliott would call them gossip and repudiate them, and me too, perhaps. She has the reputation of having the ‘wisdom of the serpent;’ the slyness of the cat, I think.”
They all laughed, for Charlie had warmed as he went on.
“I am sure it must be very uncomfortable to have anything to do with such a person,” said Rose. “I should feel as though I must be always on the watch for something unexpected.”
“To be always on the watch for something unexpected, would be rather uncomfortable—‘for a continuance,’ as Janet would say. But I don’t see the necessity of that with Mrs Grove. I think it must be rather agreeable to have everything arranged for one, with no trouble. You should hear Miss Fanny, when in some difficult conjunction of circumstances—she resigns herself to superior guidance. ‘Mamma will manage it.’ Certainly she does manage some difficult matters.”
There was the faintest echo of mimicry in Arthur’s tone, as he repeated Miss Fanny’s words, which Graeme was quite ashamed of being glad to hear.
“It was very stupid of me, to be sure! Such folly to suppose that Arthur would fall into that shallow woman’s snares. No; Arthur’s wife must be a very different woman from pretty little Fanny Grove. I wish I knew anyone good enough and lovely enough for him. But there is no haste about it. Ah, me! Changes will come soon enough, we need not seek to hasten them. And yet, we need not fear them whatever they may be. I am very sure of that. But I am very glad that there is no harm done.”
And yet, the harm that Graeme so much dreaded, was done before three months were over. Before that time she had it from Arthur’s own lips, that he had engaged himself to Fanny Grove; one who, to his sisters, seemed altogether unworthy of him. She never quite knew how to receive his announcement, but she was conscious at the time of feeling thankful; and she was ever afterwards thankful, that she had not heard it a day sooner, to mar the pleasure of the last few hours of Norman’s stay.
For Norman came with his bride even sooner than they had expected. Graeme was not disappointed in her new sister, and that is saying much, for her expectations had been highly raised. She had expected to find her an intellectual and self-reliant woman, but she had not expected to see so charming and lovable a little lady. They all loved her dearly from the very first; and Graeme satisfied Norman by her unfeigned delight in her new sister, who was frank, and natural and childlike, and yet so amiable and wise as well.
And Graeme rejoiced over Norman even more than over Hilda. He was just what she had always hoped he might become. Contact with the world had not spoiled him. He was the same Norman; perhaps a little graver than he used to be in the old times, but in all things true, and frank, and earnest, as the Merleville school-boy had been.
How they lived over those old times! There was sadness in the pleasure, for Norman had never seen the two graves in that quiet church-yard; and the names of the dead were spoken softly. But the bitterness of their grief had long been past, and they could speak cheerfully and hopefully now.
There was a great deal of enjoyment crowded into the few weeks of their stay. “If Harry were only here!” was said many times. But Harry was well, and well content to be where he was, and his coming home was a pleasure which lay not very far before them. Their visit came to an end too soon for them all; but Norman was a busy man, and they were to go home by Merleville, for Norman declared he should not feel quite assured of the excellence of his wife till Janet had pronounced upon her. Graeme was strongly tempted to yield to their persuasions, and go to Merleville with them; but her long absence during the summer, and the hope that they might go to Emily’s wedding soon, decided her to remain at home.
Yes; they had enjoyed a few weeks of great happiness; and the very day of their departure brought upon Graeme the pain which she had almost ceased to fear. Arthur told her of his engagement to Miss Grove. His story was very short, and it was told with more shamefacedness than was at all natural for a triumphant lover. It did not matter much, however, as there was no one to take note of the circumstances. From the first shock of astonishment and pain which his announcement gave her, Graeme roused herself to hear her brother say eagerly, even a little impatiently—
“Of course, this will make no difference with us at home? You will never think of going away because of this, Rose and you?”
By a great effort Graeme forced herself to speak—
“Of course not, Arthur. What difference could it make? Where could we go?”
When Arthur spoke again, which he did not do for a moment, his tone showed how much he was relieved by his sister’s words. It was very gentle and tender too, Graeme noticed.
“Of course not. I was quite sure this would make no change. Rather than my sisters should be made unhappy by my—by this affair—I would go no further in it. My engagement should be at an end.”
“Hush, Arthur! It is too late to say that now.”
“But I was quite sure you would see it in the right way. You always do, Graeme. It was not my thought that you would do otherwise. And it will only be a new sister, another Rosie to care for, and to love, Graeme. I know you will be such a sister to my wife, as you have ever been to Rose and to us all.”
Graeme pressed the hand that Arthur laid on hers, but she could not speak. “If it had been any one else but that pretty, vain child,” thought she. She almost fancied she had spoken her thought aloud, when Arthur said,—
“You must not be hard on her, Graeme. You do not know her yet. She is not so wise as you are, perhaps, but she is a gentle, yielding little thing; and removed from her stepmother’s influence and placed under yours, she will become in time all that you could desire.”
She would have given much to be able to respond heartily and cheerfully to his appeal, but she could not. Her heart refused to dictate hopeful words, and her tongue could not have uttered them. She sat silent and grave while her brother was speaking, and when he ceased she hardly knew whether she were glad or not, to perceive that, absorbed in his own thoughts, he did not seem to notice her silence or miss her sympathy.
That night Graeme’s head pressed a sleepless pillow, and among her many, many thoughts there were few that were not sad. Her brother was her ideal of manly excellence and wisdom, and no exercise of charity on her part could make the bride that he had chosen seem other than weak, frivolous, vain. She shrank heartsick from the contemplation of the future, repeating rather in sorrow and wonder, than in anger, “How could he be so blind, so mad?” To her it was incomprehensible, that with his eyes open he could have placed his happiness in the keeping of one who had been brought up with no fear of God before her eyes—one whose highest wisdom did not go beyond a knowledge of the paltry fashions and fancies of the world. He might dream, of happiness now, but how sad would be the wakening.
If there rose in her heart a feeling of anger or jealousy against her brother’s choice, if ever there came a fear, that the love of years might come to seem of little worth beside the love of a day, it was not till afterwards. None of these mingled with the bitter sadness and compassion of that night. Her brother’s doubtful future, the mistake he had made, and the disappointment that must follow, the change that might be wrought in his character as they went on; all these came and went, chasing each other through her mind, till the power of thought was well nigh lost. It was a miserable night to her, but out of the chaos of doubts and fears and anxieties, she brought one clear intent, one firm determination. She repeated it to herself as she rose from her sister’s side in the dawn of the dreary autumn morning, she repeated it as part of her tearful prayer, entreating for wisdom and strength to keep the vow she vowed, that whatever changes or disappointments or sorrows might darken her brother’s future, he should find her love and trust unchanged for ever.
Chapter Twenty Eight.
Arthur Elliott was a young man of good intellect and superior acquirements, and he had ever been supposed to possess an average amount of penetration, and of that invaluable quality not always found in connection with superior intellect—common sense. He remembered his mother, and worshipped her memory. She had been a wise and earnest-minded woman, and one of God’s saints besides. Living for years in daily intercourse with his sister Graeme, he had learnt to admire in her the qualities that made her a daughter worthy of such a mother. Yet in the choice of one who was to be “till death did them part” more than sister and mother in one, the qualities which in them were his pride and delight, were made of no account. Flesh of his flesh, the keeper of his honour and his peace henceforth, the maker or marrer of his life’s happiness, be it long or short, was this pretty unformed, wayward child.
One who has made good use of long opportunity for observation, tells me that Arthur Elliott’s is by no means a singular case. Quite as often as otherwise, men of high intellectual and moral qualities link their lot with women who are far inferior to them in these respects; and not always unhappily. If, as sometimes happens, a woman lets her heart slip from her into the keeping of a man who is intellectually or morally her inferior, happiness is far more rarely the result. A woman, may, with such help as comes to her by chance, keep her solitary way through life content. But if love and marriage, or the ties of blood, have given her an arm on which she has a right to lean, a soul on whose guidance she has a right to trust, it is sad indeed if these fail her. For then she has no right to walk alone, no power to do so happily. Her intellectual and social life must grow together, or one must grow awry. What God has joined cannot be put asunder without suffering or loss.
But it is possible for a man to separate his intellectual life from the quiet routine of social duties and pleasures. It is not always necessary that he should have the sympathy of his housekeeper, or even of the mother of his children, in those higher pursuits and enjoyments, which is the true life. The rising doubt, whether the beloved one have eyes to see what is beautiful to him in nature and art, may come with a chill and a pang; the certain knowledge of her blindness must come with a shock of pain. But when the shudder of the chill and the shock of the pain are over, he finds himself in the place he used to occupy before a fair face smiled down on him from all high places, or a soft voice mingled with all harmonies to his entranced ear. He grows content in time with his old solitary place in the study, or with striving upward amid manly minds. When he returns to the quiet and comfort of his well-arranged home, the face that smiles opposite to him is none the less beautiful because it beams only for home pleasures and humble household successes. The voice that coos and murmurs to his baby in the cradle, that recounts as great events the little varieties of kitchen and parlour life, that tells of visits made and received, with items of harmless gossip gathered up and kept for his hearing, is none the less dear to him now that it can discourse of nothing beyond. The tender care that surrounds him with quiet and comfort in his hours of leisure, in a little while contents him quite, and he ceases to remember that he has cares and pains, aspirations and enjoyments, into which she can have no part.
But this is a digression, and I daresay there are many who will not agree with all this. Indeed, I am not sure that I quite agree with all my friend said on this subject, myself. There are many ways of looking at the same thing, and if all were said that might be said about it, it would appear that an incapacity on the part of the wife to share, or at least to sympathise with all the hopes, pursuits, and pleasures of her husband, causes bitter pain to both; certainly, he who cannot assure himself of the sympathy of the woman he loves, when he would pass beyond the daily routine of domestic duties and pleasures, fails of obtaining the highest kind of domestic happiness.
Charlie Millar’s private announcement to his friend Harry of his brother Arthur’s engagement, was in these words:
“The efforts of the maternal Grove have been crowned with success. Your brother is a captive soon to be chained—”
Charlie was right. His clear eye saw, that of which Arthur himself remained in happy unconsciousness. And what Charlie saw other people saw also, though why the wise lady should let slip through her expert fingers the wealthy Mr Green, the great Western merchant, and close them so firmly on the comparatively poor and obscure young lawyer, was a circumstance that could not so easily be understood. Had the interesting fact transpired, that the great Elias had not so much slipped through her fingers, as, to use his own forcible and elegant language, “wriggled himself clear,” it might have been satisfactory to the world in general. But Mr Green was far-away intent on more important matters, on the valuation and disposal of fabulous quantities of pork and wheat, and it is not to be supposed that so prudent a general as Mrs Grove would be in haste to proclaim her own defeat. She acted a wiser part; she took the best measures for covering it.
When the pretty Fanny showed an inclination to console herself for the defection of her wealthy admirer by making the most of the small attentions of the handsome young lawyer, her mamma graciously smiled approval. Fanny might do better she thought, but then she might do worse. Mr Elliott was by no means Mr Green’s equal in the great essentials of wealth won, and wealth in prospect, still he was a rising man as all might see; quite presentable, with no considerable connections,—except perhaps his sisters, who could easily be disposed of. And then Fanny, though very pretty, was “a silly little thing,” she said to herself with great candour. Her beauty was not of a kind to increase with years, or even to continue long. The chances were, if she did not go off at once, she would stay too long. Then there were her sisters growing up so fast, mamma’s own darlings; Charlotte twelve and Victoria seven, were really quite tall and mature for their years, and at any rate, it would be a relief to have Fanny well away.
And so the unsuspecting youth enjoyed many a drive in the Grove carriage, and ate many a dinner in the Grove mansion, and roamed with the fair Fanny by daylight and by moonlight among the flowers and fruits of the Grove gardens, during the three months that his brother and sisters passed at the seaside. He made one of many a pleasant driving or riding party. There were picnics at which his presence was claimed in various places. Not the cumbrous affairs which called into requisition all the baskets, and boxes, and available conveyances of the invited guests—parties of which the aim seems to be, to collect in one favoured spot in the country, all the luxuries, and airs, and graces of the town—but little impromptu efforts in the same direction in which Mrs Grove had all the trouble, and her guests all the pleasure. Very charming little fêtes her guests generally pronounced them to be. Arthur enjoyed them vastly, and all the more that it never entered into his head, that he was in a measure the occasion of them all. He enjoyed the companionship of pleasant people, brought together in those pleasant circumstances. He enjoyed the sight of the green earth, and the blue water, the sound of the summer winds among the hills, the songs of birds amid rustling leaves and waving boughs, until he came to enjoy, at last the guardianship of the fair Fanny, generally his on those occasions; and to associate her pretty face and light laughter with his enjoyment of all those pleasant things.
Everything went on naturally and quietly. There was no open throwing them together to excite speculation in the minds of beholders, or uncomfortable misgivings in the minds of those chiefly concerned. Quite the contrary. If any watchful fairy had suggested to Arthur the possibility of such a web, as the skillful mamma was weaving around him, he would have laughed at the idea as the suggestion of a very ill-natured, evil-minded sprite indeed. Did not mamma keep watchful eyes on Fanny always? Had she not many and many a time, interrupted little confidences on the part of the young lady, at the recollection of which he was sometimes inclined to smile? Had she not at all times, and in all places, acted the part of a prudent mamma to her pretty step-daughter, and of a considerate hostess to him, her unworthy guest?
And if the fairy, in self-justification, had ventured further to insinuate, that there is more than one kind of prudence, and that the prudence of Mrs Grove was of another and higher kind, than a simple youth could be supposed to comprehend, his enlightenment might not yet have been accomplished. If it had been averred that mamma’s faith, in her daughter’s tact and conversational powers was not sufficient to permit her to allow them to be too severely tried, he might have paused to recall her little airs and gestures, and to weigh the airy nothings from those pretty lips, and he could not but have acknowledged that mamma’s faithlessness was not surprising. As to the ultimate success of the sprite in opening his eyes, or in breaking the invisible meshes which were meant to hold the victim fast, that is quite another matter.
But there was no fairy, good or bad, to mingle in their affairs, and they flowed smoothly on, to the content of all concerned, till Graeme came home from Cacouna, to play, in Mrs Grove’s opinion, the part of a very bad fairy indeed. She was mistaken, however. Graeme took no part in the matter, either to make or to mar. Even had she been made aware of all the possibilities that might arise out of her brother’s short intimacy with the Groves, she never could have regarded the matter as one in which she had a right to interfere. So, if there came a pause in the lady’s operations, if Arthur was more seldom one of their party, even when special pains had been taken to secure him, it was owing to no efforts of Graeme. If he began to settle down into the old quiet home life, it was because the life suited him; and Graeme’s influence was exerted and felt, only as it had ever been in a silent, sweet, sisterly fashion, with no reference to Mrs Grove, or her schemes.
But that there came a pause in the effective operations of that clever lady, soon became evident to herself. She could not conceal from herself or Miss Fanny, that the beckonings from the carriage window were not so quickly seen, or so promptly responded to as of old. Not that this defection on Arthur’s part was ever discussed between them. Mrs Grove had not sufficient confidence in her daughter to admit of this. Fanny was not reliable, mamma felt. Indeed, she was very soon taking consolation in the admiration excited by a pair of shining epaulets, which began about this time to gleam with considerable frequency in their neighbourhood. But mamma did not believe in officers, at least matrimonially speaking, and as to the consolation to be derived from a new flirtation, it was but doubtful and transitory at the best. Besides she fancied that Mr Elliott’s attentions had been observed, and she was quite sure that his defection would be so, too. Two failures succeeding each other so rapidly, would lay her skill open to question, and “mar dear Fanny’s prospects.”
And so Mrs Grove concentrated all her forces to meet the emergency. Another invitation was given, and it was accepted. In the single minute that preceded the entrance into the dining-room, the first of a series of decisive measures was carried into effect. With a voice that trembled, and eyes that glistened with grateful tears, the lady thanked her “dear friend” for the kind consideration, the manly delicacy that had induced him to withdraw himself from their society, as soon as he had become aware of the danger to her sweet, but too susceptible Fanny.
“Fanny does not dream that her secret is suspected. But oh! Mr Elliott, when was a mother at fault when the happiness of her too sensitive child was concerned?”
In vain Arthur looked the astonishment he felt. In vain he attempted to assure her in the strongest terms, that he had had no intention of withdrawing from their society—that he did not understand—that she must be mistaken. The tender mother’s volubility was too much for him. He could only listen in a very embarrassed silence as she went on.
Mr Elliott was not to suppose that she blamed him for the unhappiness he had caused. She quite freed him from all intention of wrong. And after all, it might not be so bad. A mother’s anxiety might exaggerate the danger; she would try and hope for the best. Change of scene must be tried; in the meantime, her fear was, that pique, or wounded pride, or disappointed affection might induce the unhappy child to—in short Mr Elliott must understand—. And Mrs Grove glanced expressively toward the wearer of the shining epaulets, with whom Arthur being unenlightened, might have fancied that the unhappy child was carrying on a pretty energetic and prosperous flirtation.
But “pique and wounded pride!” He had never in all his life experienced a moment of such intense uncomfortableness as that in which he had the honour to hand the lady of the house to her own well-appointed table. Indignation, vexation, disbelief of the whole matter spoiled his dinner effectually. Mrs Grove’s exquisite soup might have been ditch-water for all he knew to the contrary. The motherly concern so freely expressed, looked to him dreadfully like something not so praiseworthy. How she could look her dear Fanny in the face, and talk, so softly on indifferent subjects, after having so—so unnecessarily, to say the least, betrayed her secret, was more than he could understand. If, indeed, Miss Fanny had a secret. He wished very much not to believe it. Secret or not, this was a very uncomfortable ending to a pleasant three months’ acquaintance, and he felt very much annoyed, indeed.
Not till course after course had been removed, and the dessert had been placed on the table, did he summon resolution to withdraw his attention from the not very interesting conversation of his host, and turn his eyes to Miss Grove and the epaulets. The result of his momentary observation was the discovery that the young lady was looking very lovely, and not at all miserable. Greatly relieved, he ventured an appropriate remark or two, on the subject under discussion. He was listened to with politeness, but not with Miss Fanny’s usual amiability and interest, that was evident.
By and by the gentlemen followed the ladies into the drawing-room, and here Miss Fanny was distant and dignified still. She gave brief answers to his remarks, and glanced now and then toward the epaulets, of whom Mrs Grove had taken possession, and to whom she was holding forth with great energy about something she had found in a book. Arthur approached the centre-table, but Mrs Grove was too much occupied with Captain Starr to include him in the conversation. Mr Grove was asleep in the dining-room still, and Arthur felt there was no help for him. Miss Fanny was left on his hands; and after another vain attempt at conversation, he murmured something about music, and begged to be permitted to hand her to the piano. Miss Grove consented, still with more than her usual dignity and distance, and proposed to sing a new song that Captain Starr had sent her. She did sing it, very prettily, too. She had practised it a great deal more than was necessary, her mamma thought, within the last few days. Then she played a brilliant piece or two; then Mrs Grove, from the centre-table, proposed a sweet Scottish air, a great favourite of hers, and, as it appeared, a great favourite of Mr Elliott’s, also. Then there were more Scottish airs, and French airs, and then there was a duet with Captain Starr, and mamma withdrew Mr Elliott to the centre-table, and the book, and did not in the least resent the wandering of his eyes and his attention to the piano, where the Captain’s handsome head was at times in close proximity with that of the fair musician. Then, when there had been enough of music, Miss Grove returned to her embroidery, and Captain Starr held her cotton and her scissors, and talked such nonsense to her, that Arthur hearing him now and then in the pauses of the conversation, thought him a great simpleton; and firmly believed that Miss Fanny listened from “pique or wounded pride,” or something else, not certainly because she liked it. Not but that she seemed to like it. She smiled and responded as if she did, and was very kind and gracious to the handsome soldier, and scarcely vouchsafed to Mr Elliott a single glance.
By and by Mr Grove came in and withdrew Mr Elliott to the discussion of the harbour question, and as Arthur knew everything that could possibly be said on that subject, he had a better opportunity still of watching the pair on the other side of the table. It was very absurd of him, he said to himself, and he repeated it with emphasis, as the young lady suddenly looking up, coloured vividly as she met his eye. It was very absurd, but, somehow, it was very interesting, too. Never, during the whole course of their acquaintance, had his mind been so much occupied with the pretty, silly little creature.
It is very likely, the plan of piers and embankments, of canals and bridges, which Miss Fanny’s working implements were made to represent, extending from an imaginary Point Saint Charles, past an imaginary Griffintown, might have been worthy of being laid before the town council, or the commissioner for public works. It is quite possible that Mr Grove’s explanations and illustrations of his idea of the new harbour, by means of the same, might have set at rest the doubts and fears of the over-cautious, and proved beyond all controversy, that there was but one way of deciding the matter, and of securing the prosperity of Mount Royal City, and of Canada. And if Mr Grove had that night settled the vexed question of the harbour to the satisfaction of all concerned, he would have deserved all the credit, at least his learned and talented legal adviser would have deserved none of it.
It was very absurd of him, he said again, and yet the interest grew more absorbing every moment, till at last he received a soft relenting glance as he bowed over Miss Fanny’s white hand when he said good-night. He had one uncomfortable moment. It was when Mrs Grove hoped aloud that they should see him often, and then added, for his hearing alone,—
“It would look so odd, you know, to forsake us quite.”
He was uncomfortable and indignant, too, when the captain, as they walked down the street together, commented in a free and easy manner on Miss Grove’s “good points,” and wondered “whether the old chap had tin enough to make it worth a fellow’s pains to follow up the impression he seemed certain he had made.” He was uncomfortable when he thought about it afterward. What if “pique, or wounded pride, or disappointed affection” should tempt the poor little girl to throw herself away on such an ass! It would be sad, indeed.
And then he wondered if Miss Grove really cared for him in that way. Surely her stepmother would not have spoken as she had done to him on a mere suspicion. As he kept on thinking about it, it began to seem more possible to him, and then more pleasant, and what with one thing, and what with another, Miss Fanny began to have a great many of his thoughts indeed. He visited Grove House a good many times—not to seem odd—and saw a good deal of Miss Fanny. Mamma was prudent still, and wise, and far-seeing, and how it came about I cannot tell, but the result of his visits, and the young lady’s smiles, and the old lady’s management was the engagement of these two; and the first intimation that Graeme had of it was given by Arthur on the night that Norman went away.
Time passed on. The wedding day was set, but there were many things to be brought to pass before it should arrive. Graeme had to finish the task she had set for herself on the night, when Arthur had bespoken her love and care for a new sister. She had to reconcile herself fully to the thought of the marriage, and truly the task did not seem to her easier as time went on. There were moments when she thought herself content with the state of affairs, when, at least, the coming in among them of this stranger did not seem altogether like the end of their happy life, when Miss Grove seemed a sweet and lovable little thing, and Graeme took hope for Arthur. This was generally on those occasions when they were permitted to have Fanny all to themselves, when she would come in of her own accord, in the early part of the day, dressed in her pretty morning attire, without her company manners or finery. At such times she was really very charming, and flitted about their little parlour, or sat on a footstool chattering with Rose in a way that quite won her heart, and almost reconciled the elder sister to her brother’s choice.
But there were a great many chances against the pleasure lasting beyond the visit, or even to the end of it. On more than one occasion Graeme had dispatched Nelly as a messenger to Arthur, to tell him that Fanny was to lunch with them, though her magnanimity involved the necessity of her preparing the greater part of that pleasant meal with her own hands; but she was almost always sorry for it afterward. For Fanny never appeared agreeable to her in Arthur’s presence; and what was worse to bear still, Arthur never appeared to advantage, in his sister’s eyes, in the presence of Miss Grove. The coquettish airs, and pretty tyrannical ways assumed by the young lady toward her lover, might have excited only a little uncomfortable amusement in the minds of the sisters, to see Arthur yielding to all her whims and caprices, not as one yields in appearance, and for a time, to a pretty spoiled child, over whom one’s authority is only delegated and subject to appeal, but really as though her whims were wisdom, and her caprices the result of mature deliberation, was more than Graeme could patiently endure. It was irritating to a degree that she could not always control or conceal. The lovers were usually too much occupied with each other to notice the discomfort of the sisters, but this indifference did not make the folly of it all less distasteful to them: and at such times Graeme used to fear that it was vain to think of ever growing content with the future before them.
And almost as disagreeable were the visits which Fanny made with her stepmother. These became a great deal more frequent, during the last few months, than Graeme thought at all necessary. They used to call on their way to pay visits, or on their return from shopping expeditions, and the very sight of their carriage of state, and their fine array, made Graeme and Rose uncomfortable. The little airs of superiority, with which Miss Fanny sometimes favoured them, were only assumed in the presence of mamma, and were generally called forth by some allusion made by her to the future, and they were none the less disagreeable on that account. How would it be when Fanny’s marriage should give her stepmother a sort of right to advise and direct in their household? At present, her delicate attempts at patronage, her hints, suggestive or corrective, were received in silence, though resented in private with sufficient energy by Rose, and sometimes even by Graeme. But it could not be so always, and she should never be able to tolerate the interference of that vain, meddlesome, superficial woman, she said to herself many a time.
It must be confessed that Graeme was a little unreasonable in her dread and dislike of Fanny’s clever stepmother. Sometimes she was obliged to confess as much to herself. More than once, about this time, it was brought home to her conscience that she was unjust in her judgment of her, and her motives, and she was startled to discover the strength of her feelings of dislike. Many times she found herself on the point of dissenting from opinions, or opposing plans proposed by Mrs Grove, with which she might have agreed had they come from any one else. It is true her opinions and plans were not generally of a nature to commend themselves to Graeme’s judgment, and there was rather apt to be more intended by them than at first met the eye and ear. As Miss Fanny said on one occasion, “One could never tell what mamma meant by what she said,” and the consequence often was an uncomfortable state of expectation or doubt on the part of those who were included in any arrangement dependent on mamma. Yet, her schemes were generally quite harmless. They were not so deep as to be dangerous. The little insincerities incident to their almost daily intercourse, the small deceits made use of in shopping, marketing, making visits, or sending invitations, were no such mighty matters as to jeopardise the happiness, or even the comfort of any one with eyes keen enough to detect, and with skill and will to circumvent them. So Graeme said to herself many a time, and yet, saying it she could not help suffering herself to be made uncomfortable still.
The respect and admiration which Mrs Grove professed for Miss Elliott might have failed to propitiate her, even had she given her credit for sincerity. They were too freely expressed to be agreeable under any circumstances. Her joy that the Elliotts were still to form one household, that her dear thoughtless Fanny was to have the benefit of the elder sister’s longer experience and superior wisdom, was great, and her surprise was great also, and so was her admiration. It was so dear in Miss Elliott to consent to it. Another person might have resented the necessity of having to take the second place, where she had so long occupied the first in her brother’s house. And then to be superceded by one so much younger than herself, one so much less wise, as all must acknowledge her dear Fanny to be, was not, could not, be pleasant. Miss Elliott must be a person possessing extraordinary qualities, indeed. How could she ever be grateful enough that her wayward child was to have the advantage of a guardianship so gentle and so judicious as hers was sure to be! She only hoped that Fanny might appreciate the privilege, and manifest a proper and amiable submission in the new circumstances in which she was to be placed.
Graeme might well be uncomfortable under all this, knowing as she did, that mamma’s private admonitions to her “wayward daughter” tended rather to the encouragement of a “judicious resistance” than of “a proper and amiable submission” to the anticipated rule. But as a necessary abdication of all household power made no part of Graeme’s trouble, except as she might sometimes doubt the chances of a prosperous administration for her successor, she was able to restrain all outward evidence of discomfort and indignation. She was the better able to do this, as she saw that the clever lady’s declaration of her sentiments on this subject, made Arthur a little uncomfortable too. He had a vague idea that the plan as to their all continuing to live together, had not at first been so delightful to Mrs Grove. He had a remembrance that the doubts as to how his sisters might like the idea of his intended marriage, had been suggested by her, and that these doubts had been coupled with hints as to the proper means to be taken in order that the happiness of her dear daughter might be secured, he remembered very well; and that she had expected and desired no assistance from his sisters to this end, he was very well assured.
“However, it is all right now,” said Arthur, congratulating himself. “Graeme has too much sense to be put about by mamma’s twaddle, and there is no fear as far as Fanny and she are concerned.”
The extent to which “mamma’s twaddle” and other matters “put Graeme about” at this time she concealed quite, as far as Arthur was concerned. The best was to be made of things now; and though she could not help wishing that his eyes might be more useful to him on some occasions, she knew that it would not have mended matters could he have been induced to make use of her clearer vision, and so her doubts and fears were kept to herself, and they did not grow fewer or less painful as time went on.
But her feelings changed somewhat. She did not cease to grieve in secret over what she could not but call Arthur’s mistake in the choice he had made. But now, sometimes anger, and sometimes a little bitter amusement mingled with her sorrow. There seemed at times something ludicrous in bestowing her pity on one so content with the lot he had chosen. She was quite sure that Arthur would have smiled at the little follies and inconsistencies of Miss Grove, had he seen them in any one else. She remembered that at their first acquaintance he had smiled at them in her. Now how blind he was! All her little defects of character, so painfully apparent to his sisters were quite invisible to him. She was very amiable and charming in his eyes. There were times when one might have supposed that he looked upon her as the wisest and most sensible of women; and he began to listen to her small views and assent to her small opinions, in a way, and to an extent that would have been amusing if it had not been painful and irritating to those looking on.
Graeme tried to believe that she was glad of all this—that it was better so. If it was so that these two were to pass their lives together, it was well that they should be blind to each other’s faults. Somehow married people seemed to get on together, even when their tastes, and talents, and tempers differed. If they loved one another that was enough, she supposed; there must be something about it that she did not understand. At any rate, there was no use vexing herself about Arthur now. If he was content, why should not she be so? Her brother’s happiness might be safer than she feared, but whether or not, nothing could be changed now.
But as her fears for her brother were put from her, the thought of what the future might bring to Rose and her, came oftener, and with a sadder doubt. She called herself foolish and faithless—selfish even, and scolded herself vigorously many a time; but she could not drive away her fears, or make herself cheerful or hopeful in looking forward. When Arthur should come quite to see with Fanny’s eyes, and hear with her ears, and rely upon her judgment, would they all live as happily together as they had hitherto done? Fanny, kept to themselves, she thought she would not fear, but influenced by her stepmother, whose principles and practice were so different from all they had been taught to consider right, how might their lives be changed!
And so the wedding-day was drawing nigh. As a part of her marriage-portion, Mr Grove was to present to his daughter one of the handsome new houses in the neighbourhood of Columbus Square, and there the young lady’s married-life was to commence. The house was quite a little fortune in itself, Mrs Grove said, and she could neither understand nor approve of the manner in which her triumphant announcement of its destination was received by the Elliotts. It is just possible that Arthur’s intimate knowledge of the state of his future father-in-law’s affairs, might have had something to do with his gravity on the occasion. The troubles in the mercantile world, that had not left untouched the long-established house of Elphinstone & Company, had been felt more seriously still by Mr Grove, and a doubt as to whether he could, with justice to all concerned, withdraw so large an amount from his business, in order to invest it for his daughter’s benefit, could not but suggest itself to Arthur. He was not mercenary; it would not be true to say he had not felt a certain degree of satisfaction in knowing that his bride would not be altogether undowered. But the state of Mr Grove’s affairs, was, to say the least, not such as to warrant a present withdrawal of capital from his business, and Arthur might well look grave.
Not that he troubled himself about it, however. He had never felt so greatly elated at the prospect of marrying an heiress, as to feel much disappointed when the prospect became doubtful. He knew that Miss Grove had a right to something which she had inherited from her mother, but he said to himself that her right should be set aside, rather than that there should be any defilement of hands in the transfer. So, if to Mrs Grove’s surprise and disgust, he remained silent when she made known the munificent intentions of Fanny’s father, it was not for a reason that he chose to discuss with her. His remarks were reserved for Mr Grove’s private ear, and to him they were made with sufficient plainness.
As for Graeme, she could not but see that their anticipated change of residence might help to make certainties of all her doubts and fears for their future. If she had dreaded changes in their manner of life before, how much more were they to be dreaded now? They might have fallen back, after a time, into their old, quiet routine, when Fanny had quite become one of them, had they been to remain still in the home where they had all been so happy together. But there seemed little hope of anything so pleasant as that now, for Fanny’s handsome house was in quite a fashionable neighbourhood, away from their old friends, and that would make a sad difference in many ways, she thought; and all this added much to her misgivings for the future.
“Fanny’s house!” could it ever seem like home to them? Her thoughts flew back to Janet and Merleville, and for a little, notwithstanding all the pain she knew the thought would give her brother, it seemed possible—nay best and wisest, for her and Rose to go away.
“However, we must wait a while; we must have patience. Things may adjust themselves in a way that I cannot see just now.”
In the lesson, which with tears and prayers and a good-will Graeme had set herself to learn, she had got no farther than this, “We must wait—we must have patience.” And she had more cause to be content with the progress she had made than she thought; for, amid all the cures for the ills of life, which wisdom remembers, and which folly forgets, what better, what more effectual than “patient waiting?”