Chapter Twenty Nine.
“Are you quite sure that you are glad, Graeme.”
“I am very glad, Will. Why should you doubt it? You know I have not so heartsome a way of showing my delight as Rosie has.”
“No. I don’t know any such thing. I can’t be quite glad myself, till I am sure that you are glad, too.”
“Well, you may be quite sure, Will. It is only my old perverse way of looking first at the dark side of things, and this matter has a dark side. It will seem less like home than ever when you are gone, Will.”
“Less like home than ever!” repeated Will. “Why, Graeme, that sounds as if you were not quite contented with the state of affairs.”
“Does it?” said Graeme, laughing, but not pleasantly.
“But, Graeme, everything has turned out better than we expected. Fanny is very nice, and—”
“Yes, indeed,” said Graeme, heartily. “Everything has turned out much better than we used to fear. I remember the time when I was quite afraid of Fanny and her fine house—my old perversity, you see.”
“I remember,” said Will, gravely.
“I was quite morbid on the subject, at one time. Mamma Grove was a perfect night-mare to me. And really, she is well! she is not a very formidable person, after all.”
“Well, on the whole, I think we could dispense with mamma Grove,” said Will, with a shrug.
“Oh! that is because she is down upon you in the matter of Master Tom. You will have to take him, Will.”
“Of course. But then, I would do a great deal more than that for Fanny’s brother, without all this talk.”
“But then, without ‘all this talk,’ as you call it, you might not have discovered that the favour is done you, nor that the letter to her English friend will more than compensate you, for going fifty miles out of your way for the boy.”
“Oh! well, it is her way, and a very stupid way. Let her rest.”
“Yes, let her rest. And, Will, you are not to think I am not glad that you are going home. I would choose no other lot for you, than the one that is before you, an opportunity to prepare yourself for usefulness, and a wide field to labour in. Only I am afraid I would stipulate that the field should be a Canadian one.”
“Of course. Canada is my home.”
“Or Merleville. Deacon Snow seems to think you are to be called to that field, when you are ready to be called.”
“But that is a long day hence. Perhaps, the deacon may change his mind, when he hears that I am going home to learn from the ‘British.’”
“There is no fear. Sandy has completed the work which my father and Janet began. Mr Snow is tolerant of the North British, at any rate. What a pleasant life our Merleville life was. It seems strange that none of us, but Norman, has been back there. It won’t belong now, however.”
“I am afraid I cannot wait for Emily’s wedding. But I shall certainly go and see them all, before I go to Scotland.”
“If you do, I shall go with you, and spend the summer there.”
“And leave Rose here?” said Will, in some surprise.
“No. I wish to go for Rose’s sake, as much as for my own. It seems as though going to Merleville and Janet, would put us all right again.”
“I hope you may both be put right, without going so far,” said Will.
“Do you know, Will, I sometimes wonder whether I can be the same person who came here with Rose and you? Circumstances do change people, whether they will or not. I think I should come back to my old self again, with Janet to take me to task, in her old sharp, loving way.”
“I don’t think I understand you, Graeme.”
“Don’t you? Well, that is evidence that I have changed; and that I have not improved. But I am not sure that I understand myself.”
“What is wrong with you, Graeme.”
“I cannot tell you, Will. I don’t know whether the wrong is with me, or with matters and things in general. But there is no good in vexing you, unless you could tell me how to help it.”
“If I knew what is wrong I might try,” said Will, gravely.
“Then, tell me, what possible good I shall be able to do in the world, when I shall no longer have you to care for?”
“If you do no good, you will fall far short of your duty.”
“I know it, Will. But useless as my way of life is, I cannot change it. Next year must be like this one, and except nursing you in your illness, and Fanny in hers, I have done nothing worth naming as work.”
“That same nursing was not a little. And do you call the housekeeping nothing? It is all very well, Fanny’s jingling her keys, and playing lady of the house, but we all know who has the care and trouble. If last year has nothing to show for work, I think you may make the same complaint of all the years that went before. It is not that you are getting weary of the ‘woman’s work, that is never done,’ is it, dear?”
“No, Will. I hope not. I think not. But this last year has been very different from all former years. I used to have something definite to do, something that no one else could do as well. I cannot explain it. You would laugh at the trifles that make the difference.”
“I see one difference,” said Will. “You have the trouble, and Fanny has the credit.”
“No, Will. Don’t say that I don’t think that troubles me. It ought not; but it is not good for Fanny, to allow her to suppose she has the responsibility and care, when she has not really. And it is not fair to her. When the time comes that she must have them, she will feel the trouble all the more for her present delusion. And she is learning nothing. She is utterly careless about details, and complicates matters when she thinks she is doing most, though, I must say, Nelly is very tolerant of the ‘whims’ of her young mistress, and makes the best of everything. But Will, all this must sound to you like finding fault with Fanny, and indeed, I don’t wish to do anything so disagreeable.”
“I am sure you do not, Graeme. I think I can understand your troubles, but I am afraid I cannot tell you how to help them.”
“No, Will. The kind of life we are living is not good for any of us. What I want for myself is some kind of real work to do. And I want it for Rose.”
“But, Graeme, you would never surely think of going away,—I mean, to stay always?”
“Why not? We are not needed here, Rose and I. No, Will, I don’t think it is that I am growing tired of ‘woman’s work.’ It was very simple, humble work I used to do, trifles, odds and ends of the work of life; stitching and mending, sweeping and dusting, singing and playing, reading and talking, each a trifling matter, taken by itself. But of such trifles is made up the life’s work of thousands of women, far wiser and better than I am; and I was content with it. It helped to make a happy home, and that was much.”
“You have forgotten something in your list of trifles, Graeme,—your love and care for us all.”
“No, Will. These are implied. It is the love and care that made all these trifles really ‘woman’s work.’ A poor dreary work it would be without these.”
“And, Graeme, is there nothing still, to sanctify your daily labour, and make it work indeed?” said Will.
“There is, indeed, Will. If I were only sure that it is my work. But, I am not sure. And it seems as though—somewhere in the world, there must be something better worth the name of work, for me to do.” And letting her hands fall in her lap, she looked away over the numberless roofs of the city, to the grey line of the river beyond.
“Oh! Will,” she went on in a little, “you do not know. You who have your life’s work laid out before you, can never understand how it is with me. You know the work before you is your work—given you by God himself. You need have no misgivings, you can make no mistake. And look at the difference. Think of all the years I may have to spend, doing the forgotten ends of another’s duty, filling up the time with trifles, visits, frivolous talk, or fancy work, or other things which do good to no one. And all the time not knowing whether I ought to stay in the old round, or break away from it all—never sure but that elsewhere, I might find wholesome work for God and man.”
Very seldom did Graeme allow herself to put her troubled thoughts into words, and she rose now and went about the room, as if she wished to put an end to their talk. But Will said,—
“Even if it were true and real, all you say, it may not be for long. Some day, you don’t know how soon, you may have legitimate ‘woman’s work’ to do,—love, and sympathy, and care, and all the rest, without encroaching on Fanny’s domain.”
He began gravely, but blushed and stammered; and glanced with laughing deprecation at his sister, as he ended. She did not laugh.
“I have thought of that, too. It seems so natural and proper, and in the common course of things, that a woman should marry. And there have been times, during this last year, when, just to get away from it all, I have thought that any change would be for the better. But it would not be right, unless—” she hesitated.
“No, unless it was the right person, and all that, but may we not reasonably hope that the right person may come?”
“We won’t talk about it, Will. There must be some other way than that. Many women find an appropriate work to do without marrying. I wish I could do as the Merleville girls used to do, spin and weave, or keep a school.”
“But they don’t spin and weave now, since the factories have been built. And as for school-keeping—”
“It would be work, good wholesome work, in which, with God’s help, I might try to do as our father and mother did, and leave the world better for my labour.”
“But you could not part from Rose, and Arthur could never be made to see it right that you should go away,” said Will.
“Rose should go with me. And Arthur would not like it at first, nor Fanny, but they would reconcile themselves to it in time. And as to the school, that is only one kind of work, though there are few kinds left for a woman to do, the more’s the pity.”
“There is work enough of the best kind. It is the remuneration that is scant. And the remuneration could not be made a secondary consideration; if you left home.”
“In one sense, it ought to be secondary. But I think it must be delightful to feel that one is ‘making one’s living,’ as Mr Snow would say. I should like to know how it feels to be quite independent, Will, I must confess.”
“But Graeme, there is no need; and it would make Arthur quite unhappy, if he were to hear you speak in that way. Even to me, it sounds a little like pride, or discontent.”
“Does it, Will. That is dreadful. It is quite possible that these evil elements enter into my vexed thoughts. We won’t speak any more about it, Will.”
“But, why should we not speak about it? You may be quite right. At any rate, you are not likely to set yourself right, by keeping your vexed thoughts to yourself.”
But, if Graeme had been ever so willing, there was no more time just now. There was a knock at the door, and Sarah, the housemaid, presented herself.
“If you please, Miss Graeme, do you think I might go out as usual. It is Wednesday, you know.”
Wednesday was the night of the weekly lecture, in Sarah’s kirk. She was a good little girl, and a worshipper in a small way of a popular young preacher of the day.
“If Nelly thinks she can manage without you,” said Graeme.
“It was Nelly proposed it. She can do very well, unless Mrs Elliott brings home some one with her, which is unlikely so late.”
“Well, go then, and don’t be late. And be sure you come home with the Shaws’ Sarah,” said Miss Elliott.
“They are late,” said Will. “I am afraid I cannot wait for dinner. I promised to be with Doctor D at seven.”
They went down-stairs together. Nelly remonstrated, with great earnestness against Will’s “putting himself off with bread and cheese, instead of dinner.”
“Though you need care the less about it, that the dinner’s spoiled already. The fowls werena much to begin with. It needs sense and discretion to market, as well as to do most things, and folk that winna come home at the right hour, must content themselves with things overdone, or else in the dead thraw.”
“I am very sorry Will should lose his dinner,” said Graeme; “but they cannot be long in coming now.”
“There’s no saying. They may meet in with folk that may keep them to suit their ain convenience. It has happened before.”
More than once, when Fanny had been out with her mother, they had gone for Arthur and dined at Grove house, without giving due notice at home, and the rest, after long waiting, had eaten their dinner out of season. To have a success in her department rendered vain by careless or culpable delay, was a trial to Nelly at any time. And if Mrs Grove had anything to do with causing it, the trial was all the greater.
For Nelly—to use her own words—had no patience with that “meddlesome person.” Any interference on her part in household matters, was considered by her a reflection on the housekeeping of her young ladies before Mrs Arthur came among them, and was resented accordingly. All hints, suggestions, recipes, or even direct instructions from her, were utterly ignored by Nelly, when it could be done without positive disobedience to Miss Graeme or Mrs Elliott. If direct orders made it necessary for her to do violence to her feelings to the extent of availing herself of Mrs Grove’s experience, it was done under protest, or with an open incredulousness as to results, at the same time irritating and amusing.
She had no reason to suppose that Mrs Grove had anything to do with her vexation to-night, but she chose to assume it to be so, and following Graeme into the dining-room, where Will sat contentedly eating his bread and cheese, she said,—
“As there is no counting on the time of their home-coming, with other folks’ convenience to consult, you had best let me bring up the dinner, Miss Graeme.”
“We will wait a few minutes longer. There is no haste,” said Graeme, quietly.
Graeme sat a long time looking out of the window before they came—so long that Nelly came up-stairs again intending to expostulate still, but she did not; she went down again, quietly, muttering to herself as she went,—
“I’ll no vex her. She has her ain troubles, I daresay, with her young brother going away, and many another thing that I ken nothing about. It would ill set me to add to her vexations. She is not at peace with herself, that’s easy to be seen.”
Chapter Thirty.
Graeme was not at peace with herself and had not been so for a long time, and to-night she was angry with herself for having spoiled Will’s pleasure, by letting him see that she was ill at ease.
“For there is no good vexing him. He cannot even advise me; and, indeed, I am afraid I have not the courage really to go away.”
But she continued to vex herself more than was wise, as she sat there waiting for the rest in the gathering darkness.
They came at last, but not at all as they ought to have come, with the air of culprits, but chatting and laughing merrily, and quite at their leisure, accompanied—to Nelly’s indignant satisfaction—by Mrs Grove. Graeme could hardly restrain an exclamation of amusement as she hastened toward the door. Rose came first, and her sister’s question as to their delay was stopped by a look at her radiant face.
“Graeme, I have something to tell you. What is the most delightful, and almost the most unlikely thing that could happen to us?”
Graeme shook her head.
“I should have to consider a while first—I am not good at guessing. But won’t it keep? Nelly is out of all patience.”
But Rose was too excited to heed her.
“No; it won’t keep. Guess who is coming—Janet!”
Graeme uttered an exclamation of surprise.
“Arthur got a letter from Mr Snow to-day. Read it.”
Graeme read, Rose looking over her shoulder.
“I am very glad. But, Rosie, you must make haste. Fanny will be down in a minute, and Nelly is impatient.”
“No wonder! But I must tell her about Mrs Snow.”
And with her bonnet in her hand, she went dancing down the kitchen stairs. Nelly would have been in an implacable humour, indeed, if the sight of her bright face had not softened her. Regardless of the risk to muslins and ribbons, she sprang at once into the midst of the delayed preparations.
“Nelly! Who do you think is coming? You will never guess. I may as well tell you. Mrs Snow!”
“Eh, me! That’s news, indeed. Take care of the gravy, Miss Rose, dear. And when is she coming?”
There was not the faintest echo of rebuke in Nelly’s tone. There was no possibility of refusing to be thus included in the family joy, even in the presence of overdone fowls and ruined vegetables. Besides, she had the greatest respect for the oldest friend of the family, and a great desire to see her. She looked upon her as a wonderful person, and aspired in a humble way to imitate her virtues, so she set the gravy-dish on the table to hear more.
“And when will she be coming?” she asked.
“Some time in June. And, Nelly, such preparations as we shall have! But it is a shame, we kept dinner waiting. We could not help it, indeed.”
“You dinna need to tell me that. I heard who came with you. Carry you up the plates, and the dinner will be up directly.”
“And so your old nurse is coming?” said Mrs Grove, after they had been some time at the table. “How delightful! You look quite excited, Rose. She is a very nice person, I believe, Miss Elliott.” Graeme smiled. Mrs Grove’s generally descriptive term hardly indicated the manifold virtues of their friend; but, before she could say so, Mrs Grove continued.
“We must think of some way of doing her honour. We must get up a little fête—a pic-nic or something. Will she stay here or at Mr Birnie’s. She is a friend of his, I suppose, as Rose stopped him in the street to tell him she is coming. It is rather awkward having such people staying in the house. They are apt to fancy, you know; and really, one cannot devote all one’s time—”
Rose sent her a glance of indignation; Graeme only smiled. Arthur had not heard her last remark, so he answered the first.
“I doubt such things would hardly be in Mrs Snow’s way. Mrs Grove could hardly make a lion of our Janet, I fancy, Graeme.”
“I fancy not,” said Graeme, quietly.
“Oh! I assure you, I shall be willing to take any trouble. I truly appreciate humble worth. We so seldom find among the lower classes anything like the faithfulness, and the gratitude manifested by this person to your family. You must tell me all about her some day, Rose.”
Rose was regarding her with eyes out of which all indignation had passed, to make room for astonishment. Mrs Grove went on.
“Didn’t she leave her husband, or something, to come with you? Certainly a lifetime of such devotion should be rewarded—”
“By a pic-nic,” said Rose, as Mrs Grove hesitated.
“Rose, don’t be satirical,” said Arthur, trying not to laugh.
“I am sure you must be delighted, Fanny—Arthur’s old nurse you know. It need not prevent you going to the seaside, however. It is not you she comes to see.”
“I am not so sure of that,” said Arthur, smiling across the table to his pretty wife. “I fancy Fanny has as much to do with the visit as any of us. She will have to be on her good behaviour, and to look her prettiest, I can assure her.”
“And Janet was not Arthur’s nurse,” said Rose. “Graeme was baby when she came first.”
“And I fancy nursing was but a small part of Janet’s work in those days,” said Arthur. “She was nurse, and cook, and housemaid, all in one. Eh, Graeme?”
“Ay, and more than that—more than could be told in words,” said Graeme, with glistening eyes.
“And I am sure you will like her,” said Rose, looking straight into Mrs Grove’s face. “Her husband is very rich. I think he must be almost the richest man in Merleville.”
Arthur did not reprove Rose this time, though she well deserved it. She read her reproof in Graeme’s look, and blushed and hung her head. She did not look very much abashed, however. She knew Arthur was enjoying the home thrust; but the subject was pursued no farther.
“Do you know, Fanny,” said Mrs Grove, in a little, “I saw Mrs Tilman this morning, and a very superior person she turns out to be. She has seen better days. It is sad to see a lady—for she seems to have been quite a lady—so reduced.”
“And who is Mrs Tilman?” asked Arthur.
Fanny looked annoyed, but her mamma went on.
“She is a person Mrs Gridley was speaking to Fanny about—a very worthy person indeed.”
“She was speaking to you, you mean, mamma,” said Fanny.
“Was it to me? Well, it is all the same. She is a widow. She lived in Q— a while and then came here, and was a housekeeper in Haughton Place. I don’t know why she left. Some one married, I think. Since then she has been a sick nurse, but it didn’t agree with her, and lately she has been a cook in a small hotel.”
“She seems to have experienced vicissitudes,” said Arthur, for the sake of saying something.
“Has she not? And a very worthy person she is, I understand, and an admirable cook. She markets, too—or she did at Haughton House—and that is such a relief. She must be an invaluable servant.”
“I should think so, indeed,” said Arthur, as nobody else seemed inclined to say anything.
Graeme and Rose were speaking about Janet and her expected visit, and Fanny sat silent and embarrassed. But Nelly, busy in taking away the things, lost nothing of what was said; and Mrs Grove, strange to say, was not altogether inattentive to the changing face of the energetic table maid. An uncomplimentary remark had escaped the lady, as to the state of the overdone fowls, and Nelly “could put this and that together as well as another.” The operation of removing the things could not be indefinitely prolonged, however, and as Nelly shut the door Mrs Grove said,—
“She is out of place now, Fanny, and would just suit you. But you must be prompt if you wish to engage her.”
“Oh! there is no hurry about it, I suppose,” said Fanny, glancing uneasily at Graeme. But Graeme took no notice. Mrs Grove was rather in the habit of discussing domestic affairs at the table, and of leaving Graeme out of the conversation. She was very willing to be left out. Besides, she never thought of influencing Fanny in the presence of her stepmother.
“Oh! but I assure you there is,” said Mrs Grove. “There are several ladies wishing to have her. Mrs Ruthven, among the rest.”
“Oh! it is such a trouble changing,” said Fanny, wearily, as if she had had a trying experience and spoke advisedly.
“Not at all. It is only changing for the worse that is so troublesome,” said Mrs Grove, and she had a right to know. “I advise you not to let this opportunity pass.”
“But, after all, Nelly does very well. She is stupid sometimes and cross, but they are all that, more or less, I suppose,” said Fanny.
“You are quite right, Fanny,” said Arthur, who saw that his wife was annoyed without very well knowing why. “I daresay Nelly is a better servant—notwithstanding the unfortunate chickens of to-day, which was our own fault, you know—than the decayed gentlewoman. She will be a second Janet, yet—an institution, an established fact in the history of the family. We couldn’t do without Nelly. Eh, Graeme?”
Graeme smiled, and said nothing. Rose answered for her.
“No, indeed I am so glad Nelly will see Mrs Snow.”
“Very well,” said Mrs Grove. “Since Miss Elliott seems to be satisfied with Nelly, I suppose she must stay. It is a pity you had not known sooner, Fanny, so as to save me the trouble of making an appointment for her. But she may as well come, and you can see her at any rate.”
Her carriage being at the door, she went away, and a rather awkward silence followed her departure.
“What is it all about! Who is Mrs Tilman?” asked Arthur.
“Some one Mrs Grove has seen,” said Graeme, evasively.
“But what about Nelly? Surely you are not thinking of changing servants, Graeme?”
“Oh! I hope not; but Nelly has been out of sorts lately—grumbled a little—”
“Out of sorts, grumbled!” exclaimed Fanny, vexed that Mrs Grove had introduced the subject, and more vexed still that Arthur should have addressed his question to Graeme. “She has been very disagreeable, indeed, not to say impertinent, and I shall not bear it any longer.”
Poor little Fanny could hardly keep back her tears.
“Impertinent to you, Fanny,” cried Graeme and Arthur in a breath.
“Well, to mamma—and she is not very respectful to me, sometimes, and mamma says Nelly has been long enough here. Servants always take liberties after a time; and, besides, she looks upon Graeme as mistress rather than me. She quite treats me like a child,” continued Fanny, her indignation increasing as she proceeded.
“And, besides,” she added, after there had been a moment’s uncomfortable silence, “Nelly wishes to go.”
“Is Barkis willing at last?” said Arthur, trying to laugh off the discomfort of the moment.
Rose laughed too. It had afforded them all much amusement to watch the slow courtship of the dignified Mr Stirling. Nelly always denied that there was anything more in the gardener’s attentions, than just the good-will and friendliness of a countryman, and he certainly was a long time in coming to the point they all acknowledged.
“Nonsense, Arthur! That has nothing to do with it,” said Fanny.
“Then, she must be going to her sister—the lady with a fabulous number of cows and children. She has spoken about that every summer, more or less. Her conscience pricks her, every new baby she hears of. But she will get over it. It is all nonsense about her leaving.”
“But it is not nonsense,” said Fanny, sharply. “Of course Graeme will not like her to go, but Nelly is very obstinate and disagreeable, and mamma says I shall never be mistress in my own house while she stays. And I think we ought to take a good servant when we have the chance.”
“But how good a servant is she?” asked Arthur.
“Didn’t you hear what mamma said about her? And, of course, she has references and written characters, and all that sort of thing.”
“Well, I think we may as well ‘sleep upon it,’ as Janet used to say. There will be time enough to decide after to-night,” said Arthur, taking up his newspaper, more annoyed than he was willing to confess.
The rest sat silent. Rose was indignant, and it needed a warning glance, from Graeme to keep her indignation from overflowing. Graeme was indignant, but not surprised. Indeed, Nelly had given warning that she was to leave; but she hoped and believed that she would think better of it, and said nothing.
She was not indignant with Fanny, but with her mother. She felt that there was some truth in Fanny’s declaration, that Nelly looked upon her as a child. She had Nelly’s own word for that. She considered her young mistress a child to be humoured and “no’ heeded” when any serious business was going on. But Fanny would not have found this out if left to herself, at least she would not have resented it.
The easiest and most natural thing for Graeme, in the turn affairs had taken, would be to withdraw from all interference, and let things take their course; but just because this would be easiest and most agreeable, she hesitated. She felt that it would not be right to stand aside and let Fanny punish herself and all the rest because of the meddlesome folly of Mrs Grove. Besides, it would be so ungrateful to Nelly, who had served them so faithfully all those years. And yet, as she looked at Fanny’s pouting lips and frowning brow, her doubts as to the propriety of interference grew stronger, and she could only say to herself, with a sigh,—
“We must have patience and wait.”
And the matter was settled without her interference, though not to her satisfaction. Before a week, Nelly was on her way to the country to make acquaintance of her sister’s cows and children, and the estimable Mrs Tilman was installed in her place. It was an uncomfortable time for all. Rose was indignant, and took no pains to hide it. Graeme was annoyed and sorry, and, all the more, as Nelly did not see fit to confine the stiffness and coldness of her leave-takings to Mrs Elliott as she ought to have done. If half as earnestly and frankly as she expressed her sorrow for her departure, Graeme had expressed her vexation at its cause, Nelly would have been content. But Graeme would not compromise Fanny, and she would not condescend to recognise the meddlesomeness of Mrs Grove in their affairs. And yet she could not bear that Nelly should go away, after five years of loving service, with such angry gloom in her kind eyes.
“Will you stay with your sister, Nelly, do you think? or will you come back to town and take another place? There are many of our friends who would be very glad to get you.”
“I’m no’ sure, Miss Elliott. I have grown so fractious and contrary lately that maybe my sister winna care to have me. And as to another place—”
Nelly stopped suddenly. If she had said her say, it would have been that she could bear the thought of no other place. But she said nothing, and went away—ran away, indeed. For when she saw the sorrowful tears in Graeme’s eyes, and felt the warm pressure of her hand, she felt she must run or break out into tears; and so she ran, never stopping to answer when Graeme said:
“You’ll let us hear from you, Nelly. You’ll surely let us hear from you soon?”
There was very little said about the new order of affairs. The remonstrance which Fanny expected from Graeme never came. Mrs Grove continued to discuss domestic affairs, and to leave Graeme out, and she was quite willing to be left out, and, after a little, things moved on smoothly. Mrs Tilman was a very respectable-looking person. A little stout, a little red in the face, perhaps. Indeed, very stout and very red in the face; so stout that Arthur suggested the propriety of having the kitchen staircase widened for her benefit; and so red in the face as to induce Graeme to keep her eyes on the keys of the sideboard when Fanny, as she was rather apt to do, left them lying about. She was a very good servant, if one might judge after a week’s trial; and Fanny might have triumphed openly if it had not been that she felt a little uncomfortable in finding herself, without a struggle, sole ruler in their domestic world. Mrs Tilman marketed, and purchased the groceries, and that in so dignified a manner that Fanny almost wondered whether the looking over the grocer’s book and the butcher’s book might not be considered an impertinent interference on her part. Her remarks and allusions were of so dignified a character as to impress her young mistress wonderfully. She was almost ashamed of their limited establishment, in view of Mrs Tilman’s magnificent experiences. But the dignified cook, or housekeeper, as she preferred being called, had profited by the afflictive dispensations that seemed to have fallen upon her, and resigned herself to the occupancy of her present humble sphere in a most exemplary manner.
To be sure, her marketing and her shopping, interfered a little with her less conspicuous duties, and a good deal more than her legitimate share of work was left to Sarah. But fortunately for her and the household generally, Graeme was as ready as ever to do the odds-and-ends of other people’s duties, and to remember things forgotten, so that the domestic machinery moved on with wonderful smoothness. Not that Nelly’s departure was no longer regretted; but in her heart Graeme believed that they would soon have her in her place again, and she was determined that, in the meantime, all should be pleasant and peaceful in their family life.
For Graeme had set her heart on two things. First, that there should be no drawback to the pleasure of Mrs Snow’s visit; and second, that Mrs Snow should admire and love Arthur’s wife. She had had serious doubts enough herself as to the wisdom of her brother’s choice, but she tried to think herself quite contented with it now. At any rate, she could not bear to think that Janet should not be quite content. Not that she was very much afraid. For Graeme’s feelings toward Fanny had changed very much since she had been one of them. She was not very wise or sensible, but she was very sweet-tempered and affectionate, and Graeme had come to love her dearly, especially since the very severe illness from which Fanny was not long recovered. Her faults, at least many of them, were those of education, which she would outlive, Graeme hoped, and any little disagreeable display which it had been their misfortune to witness during the year could, directly or indirectly, be traced to the influence or meddlesomeness of her stepmother, and so it could easily be overlooked. This influence would grow weaker in time, and Fanny would improve in consequence. The vanity, and the carelessness of the feelings of others, which were, to Graeme, her worst faults, were faults that would pass away with time and experience, she hoped. Indeed, they were not half so apparent as they used to be, and whether the change was in Fanny or herself she did not stop to inquire.
But she was determined that her new sister should appear to the best advantage in the eyes of their dear old friend, and to this end the domestic sky must be kept clear of clouds. So Mrs Tilman’s administration commenced under the most favourable circumstances, and the surprise which all felt at the quietness with which this great domestic revolution had been brought about was beginning to give place, on Fanny’s part, to a little triumphant self-congratulation which Rose was inclined to resent. Graeme did not resent it, and Rose was ready to forgive Fanny’s triumph, since Fanny was so ready to share her delight at the thought of Mrs Snow’s visit. As for Will, he saw nothing in the whole circle of events to disturb anybody’s equanimity or to regret, except, perhaps, that the attraction of the McIntyre children and cows had proved irresistible to Nelly at last. And Arthur congratulated himself on the good sense and good management of his little wife, firmly believing in the wisdom of the deluded little creature, never doubting that her skill and will were equal to the triumphant encounter with any possible domestic emergency.
Chapter Thirty One.
They came at last. Arthur and Will met them on the other side of the river, and Graeme and Rose would fain have done the same, but because of falling rain, and because of other reasons, it was thought not best for them to go.
It was a very quiet meeting—a little restrained and tearful just at first; but that wore away, and Janet’s eyes rested on the bairns from whom she had been so long separated with love and wonder and earnest scrutiny. They had all changed, she said. Arthur was like his father; Will was like both father and mother. As for Rosie—
“Miss Graeme, my dear,” said Mrs Snow, “I think Rosie is nearly as bonny as her sister Marian,” and her eye rested on the girl’s blushing face with a tender admiration that was quite as much for the dead as for the living. Graeme had changed least of all, she said; and yet in a little she found herself wondering whether, after all, Graeme had not changed more than any of them.
As for Fanny she found herself in danger of being overlooked in the general joy and excitement, and went about jingling her keys, and rather ostentatiously hastening the preparations for the refreshment of the travellers. She need not have been afraid. Her time was coming. Even now she encountered an odd glance or two from Mr Snow, who was walking off his excitement in the hall. That there was admiration mingled with the curiosity they expressed was evident, and Fanny relented. What might soon have become a pout on her pretty lip changed to a smile. They were soon on very friendly terms with each other, and before Janet had got through with her first tremulous recognition of her bairns, Mr Snow fancied he had made a just estimate of the qualities—good—and not so good—of the pretty little housekeeper.
After dinner all were more at their ease. Mr Snow walked up and down the gallery, past the open window, and Arthur sat there beside him. They were not so far withdrawn from the rest but that they could join in the conversation that went on within. Fanny, tired of the dignity of housekeeping, brought a footstool and sat down beside Graeme; and Janet, seeing how naturally and lovingly the hand of the elder sister rested on the pretty bowed head, gave the little lady more of her attention than she had hitherto done, and grew rather silent in the scrutiny. Graeme grew silent too. Indeed she had been rather silent all the afternoon; partly because it pleased her best to listen, and partly because she was not always sure of her voice when she tried to speak.
She was not allowed to be silent long, however, or to fall into recollections too tender to be shared by them all. Rose’s extraordinary restlessness prevented that. She seemed to have lost the power of sitting still, and flitted about from one to another; now exchanging a word with Fanny or Will, now joining in the conversation that was going on between Mr Snow and Arthur outside. At one moment she was hanging over Graeme’s chair, at the next, kneeling at Mrs Snow’s side; and all the time with a face so radiant that even Will noticed it, and begged to be told the secret of her delight.
The truth was, Rose was having a little private jubilation of her own. She would not have confessed it to Graeme, she was shy of confessing it to herself, but as the time of Mrs Snow’s visit approached, she had not been quite free from misgivings. She had a very distinct recollection of their friend, and loved her dearly. But she found it quite impossible to recall the short active figure, the rather scant dress, the never-tiring hands, without a fear that the visit might be a little disappointing—not to themselves. Janet would always be Janet to them—the dear friend of their childhood, with more real worth in her little finger than there was in ten such fine ladies as Mrs Grove. But Rose, grew indignant beforehand, as she imagined the supercilious smiles and forced politeness of that lady, and perhaps of Fanny too, when all this worth should appear in the form of a little, plain old woman, with no claim to consideration on account of externals.
But that was all past now. And seeing her sitting there in her full brown travelling-dress, her snowy neckerchief and pretty quaint cap, looking as if her life might have been passed with folded hands in a velvet arm-chair, Rose’s misgivings gave place to triumphant self-congratulation, which was rather uncomfortable, because it could not well be shared. She had assisted at the arrangement of the contents of the travelling trunk in wardrobe and bureau, and this might have helped her a little.
“A soft black silk, and a grey poplin, and such lovely neckerchiefs and handkerchiefs of lawn—is not little Emily a darling to make her mother look so nice? And such a beauty of a shawl!—that’s the one Sandy brought.”
And so Rose came down-stairs triumphant, without a single drawback to mar the pleasure with which she regarded Janet as she sat in the arm-chair, letting her grave admiring glances fall alternately on Graeme and the pretty creature at her feet. All Rosie’s admiration was for Mrs Snow.
“Is she not just like a picture sitting there?” she whispered to Will, as she passed him.
And indeed Rosie’s admiration was not surprising; she was the very Janet of old times; but she sat there in Fanny’s handsome drawing-room, with as much appropriateness as she had ever sat in the manse kitchen long ago, and looked over the vases and elegant trifles on the centre-table to Graeme with as much ease and self-possession as if she had been “used with” fine things all her life, and had never held anxious counsels with her over jackets and trowsers, and little half-worn stockings and shoes.
And yet there was no real cause for surprise. For Janet was one of those whose modest, yet firm self-respect, joined with a just appreciation of all worldly things, leaves to changing circumstances no power over their unchanging worth.
That Mr Snow should spend the time devoted to their visit within four walls, was not to be thought of. The deacon, who, in the opinion of those who knew him best, “had the faculty of doing ’most anything,” had certainly not the faculty of sitting still in a chair like other people. The hall or the gallery was his usual place of promenade, but when the interest of the conversation kept him with the rest, Fanny suffered constant anxiety as to the fate of ottomans, vases and little tables. A judicious, re-arrangement of these soon gave him a clearer space for his perambulations; but a man accustomed to walk miles daily on his own land, could not be expected to content himself long within such narrow limits. So one bright morning he renewed the proposal, made long before, that Will should show him Canada.
Up to a comparatively recent period, all Mr Snow’s ideas of the country had been got from the careful reading of an old “History of the French and Indian War.” Of course, by this time he had got a little beyond the belief that the government was a military despotism, that the city of Montreal was a cluster of wigwams, huddled together within a circular enclosure of palisades, or that the commerce of the country consisted in an exchange of beads, muskets, and bad whiskey for the furs of the Aborigines. Still his ideas were vague and indistinct, not to say disparaging, and he had already quite unconsciously excited the amusement of Will and the indignation of Rose, by indulging in remarks indicative of a low opinion of things in general in the Queen’s dominions. So when he proposed that Will should show him Canada, Rose looked gravely up and asked,—
“Where will you go first, Will? To the Red river or Hudson’s Bay or to Nova Scotia? You must be back to lunch.”
They all laughed, and Arthur said,—
“Oh, fie, Rosie! not to know these places are all beyond the limits of Canada!—such ignorance!”
“They are in the Queen’s dominions, though, and Mr Snow wants to see all that is worth seeing on British soil.”
“Well, I guess we can make out a full day’s work in Canada, can’t we? It is best to take it moderate,” said Mr Snow, smiling benignly on Rose. He was tolerant of the young lady’s petulance, and not so ready to excite it as he used to be in the old times, and generally listened to her little sallies with a deprecating smile, amusing to see.
He was changed in other respects as well. Indeed, it must be confessed that just at first Arthur was a little disappointed in him. He had only a slight personal acquaintance with him, but he had heard so much of him from the others that he had looked forward with interest to making the acquaintance of the “sharp Yankee deacon.” For Harry had a good story about “Uncle Sampson” ready for all occasions, and there was no end to the shrewd remarks and scraps of worldly wisdom that he used to quote from his lips. But Harry’s acquaintance had been confined to the first years of their Merleville life, and Mr Snow had changed much since then. He saw all things in a new light. Wisdom and folly had changed their aspect to him. The charity which “believeth and hopeth all things,” and which “thinketh no evil,” lived within him now, and made him slow to see, and slower still to comment upon the faults and foibles of others with the sharpness that used to excite the mirth of the lads long ago. Not that he had forgotten how to criticise, and that severely too, whatever he thought deserved it, or would be the better for it, as Will had good reason to know before he had done much in the way of “showing him Canada,” but he far more frequently surprised them all by his gentle tolerance towards what might be displeasing to him, and by his quick appreciation of whatever was admirable in all he saw.
The first few days of sightseeing were passed in the city and its environs. With the town itself he was greatly pleased. The great grey stone structures suited him well, suggesting, as they often do to the people accustomed to houses of brick or wood, ideas of strength and permanence. But as he was usually content with an outside view of the buildings, with such a view as could be obtained by a slow drive through the streets, the town itself did not occupy him long. Then came the wharves and ships; then they visited the manufactories and workshops, lately become so numerous in the neighbourhood of the canal. All these pleased and interested him greatly, but he never failed, when opportunity offered, to point out various particulars, in which he considered the Montrealers “a leetle behind the times.” On the whole, however, his appreciation of British energy and enterprise was admiring and sincere, and as warmly expressed as could be expected under the circumstances.
“You’ve got a river, at any rate, that about comes up to one’s ideas of what a river ought to be—broad and deep and full,” he said to Arthur one day. “It kind of satisfies one to stand and look at it, so grand and powerful, and still always rolling on to the sea.”
“Yes, it is like your Father of Waters,” said Arthur, a little surprised at his tone and manner.
“One wouldn’t be apt to think of mills and engines and such things at the first glimpse of that. I didn’t see it the day when I crossed it, for the mist and rain. To-day, as we stood looking down upon it, I couldn’t but think how it had been rolling on and on there, ever since creation, I suppose, or ever since the time of Adam and Eve—if the date ain’t the same, as some folks seem to think.”
“I always think how wonderful it must have seemed to Jacques Cartier and his men, as they sailed on and on, with the never-ending forest on either shore,” said Rose. “No wonder they thought it would never end, till it bore them to the China seas.”
“A wonderful highway of nations it is, though it disappointed them in that,” said Arthur. “The sad pity is, that it is not available for commerce for more than two-thirds of the year.”
“If ever the bridge they talk about should be built, it will do something towards making this a place of importance in this part of the world, though the long winter is against, too.”
“Oh! the bridge will be built, I suppose, and the benefit will not be confined to us. The Western trade will be benefited as well. What do you think of your Massachusetts men, getting their cotton round this way? This communication with the more northern cotton growing States is more direct by this than any other way.”
“Well, I ain’t prepared to say much about it. Some folks wouldn’t think much of that. But I suppose you are bound to go ahead, anyhow.”
But to the experienced eye of the farmer, nothing gave so much pleasure as the cultivated country lying around the city, and beyond the mountain, as far as the eye could reach. Of the mountain itself, he was a little contemptuous in its character of mountain.
“A mountain with smooth fields, and even orchards, reaching almost to the top of it! Why, our sheep pasture at Merleville is a deal more like a mountain than that. It is only a hill, and moderate at that. You must have been dreadful hard up for mountains, to call that one. You’ve forgotten all about Merleville, Rosie, to be content with that for a mountain.”
While, he admired the farms, he did not hesitate to comment severely on the want of enterprise shown by the farmers, who seemed to be content “to putter along” as their fathers had done, with little desire to avail themselves of the many inventions and discoveries which modern science and art had placed at the disposal of the farmer. In Merleville, every man who owned ten, or even five acres of level land, had an interest in sowing and mowing machines, to say nothing of other improvements, that could be made available on hill or meadow. If the strength and patience so freely expended among the stony New England hills, could but be applied to the fertile valley of the Saint Lawrence, what a garden it might become! And the Yankee farmer grew a little contemptuous of the contented acquiescence of Canadians to the order of affairs established by their fathers.
One afternoon he and Will went together to the top of the mountain toward the western end. They had a fair day for a fair sight, and when Mr Snow looked down on the scene, bounded by the blue hills beyond both rivers, all other thoughts gave place to feelings of wondering admiration. Above was a sky, whose tender blue was made more lovely by the snowy clouds that sailed now and then majestically across it, to break into flakes of silver near the far horizon.
Beneath lay the valley, clothed in the numberless shades of verdure with which June loves to deck the earth in this northern climate. There were no waste places, no wilderness, no arid stretches of sand or stone. Far as the eye could reach, extended fields, and groves, and gardens, scattered through with clusters of cottages, or solitary farm-houses.
Up through the stillness of the summer air, came stealing the faint sound of a distant bell, seeming to deepen the silence round them.
“I suppose the land that Moses saw from Pisgah, must have been like this,” said Mr Snow, as he gazed.
“Yes, the Promised Land was a land of hills, and valleys, and brooks of water,” said Will softly, never moving his eyes from the wonderful picture. Could they ever gaze enough? Could they ever weary themselves of the sight? The shadows grew long; the clouds, that had made the beauty of the summer sky, followed each other toward the west, and rose in pinnacles of gold, and amber, and amethyst; and then they rose to go.
“I wouldn’t have missed that now, for considerable,” said Mr Snow, coming back with an effort to the realisation of the fact that this was part of the sightseeing that he had set himself. “No, I wouldn’t have missed it for considerable more than that miserable team’ll cost,” added he, as he came in sight of the carriage, on whose uncomfortable seat the drowsy driver had been slumbering all the afternoon. Will smiled, and made no answer. He was not a vain lad, but it is just possible that there passed through his mind a doubt whether the enjoyment of his friend had been as real, as high, or as intense, as his had been all the afternoon. To Will’s imagination, the valley lay in the gloom of its primeval forests, peopled by heroes of a race now passed away. He was one of them. He fought in their battles, triumphed in their victories, panted in the eagerness of the chase. In imagination, he saw the forest fall under the peaceful weapons of the pale face; then wondered westward to die the dreary death of the last of a stricken race. Then his thoughts come down to the present, and on into the future, in a vague dream, which was half a prayer, for the hastening of the time when the lovely valley should smile in moral and spiritual beauty too. And coming back to actual life, with an effort—a sense of pain, he said to himself, that the enjoyment of his friend had been not so high and pure as his.
But Will was mistaken. In the thoughts of his friend, that summer afternoon, patent machines, remunerative labour, plans of supply and demand, of profit and loss, found no place. He passed the pleasant hour on that green hill-side, seeing in that lovely valley, stretched out before them, a very land of Beulah. Looking over the blue line of the Ottawa, as over the river of Death, into a land visible and clear to the eye of faith, he saw sights, and heard sounds, and enjoyed communion, which, as yet, lay far in the future, as to the experience of the lad by his side; and coming back to actual life, gave no sign of the Divine Companionship, save that which afterward, was to be seen in a life, growing liker every day to the Divine Exemplar.
Will thought, as they went home together, that a new light beamed, now and then, over the keen but kindly face, and that the grave eyes of his friend had the look of one who saw something beyond the beauty of the pleasant fields, growing dim now in the gathering darkness; and the lad’s heart grew full and tender as it dawned upon him, how this was a token of the shining of God’s face upon his servant, and he longed for a glimpse of that which his friend’s eyes saw. A word might have won for him a glimpse of the happiness; but Will was shy, and the word was not spoken; and, all unconscious of his longing, his friend sat with the smile on his lips, and the light in his eye, no thought further from him than that any experience of his should be of value to another. And so they fell quite into silence, till they neared the streets where the lighted lamps were burning dim in the fading daylight.
That night, in the course of his wanderings up and down, Mr Snow, paused, as he often did, before a portrait of the minister. It was a portrait taken when the minister had been a much younger man than Mr Snow had ever known him. It had belonged to a friend in Scotland, and had been sent to Arthur, at his death, about a year ago. The likeness had been striking, and to Janet, the sight of it had been a great pleasure and surprise. She was never weary of looking at it, and even Mr Snow, who had never known the minister but as a grey-haired man, was strangely fascinated by the beauty of the grave smile that he remembered so well on his face. That night he stood leaning on the back of a chair, and gazing at it, while the conversation flowed on as usual around him. In a little, Rose came and stood beside him.
“Do you think it is very like him?” asked she.
“Well,” said Mr Snow, meditatively, “it’s like him and it ain’t like him. I love to look at it, anyhow.”
“At first it puzzled me,” said Rose. “It seemed like the picture of some one I had seen in a dream; and when I shut my eyes, and tried to bring back my father’s face as it used to be in Merleville, it would not come—the face of the dream came between.”
“Well, there is something in that,” said Mr Snow, and he paused a moment, and shut his eyes, as if to call back the face of his friend. “No, it won’t do that for me. It would take something I hain’t thought of yet, to make me forget his face.”
“It does not trouble me now,” said Rose. “I can shut my eyes, and see him, Oh! so plainly, in the church, and at home in the study, and out under the trees, and as he lay in his coffin—” She was smiling still, but the tears were ready to gush over her eyes. Mr Snow turned, and laying his hand on her bright head, said softly,—
“Yes, dear, and so can I, If we didn’t know that it must be right, we might wonder why he was taken from us. But I shall never forget him—never. He did too much for me, for that. He was the best friend I ever had, by all odds—the very best.”
Rose smiled through her tears.
“He brought you Mrs Snow,” said she, softly.
“Yes, dear. That was much, but he did more than that. It was through him that I made the acquaintance of a better and dearer friend than even she is—and that is saying considerable,” added he, turning his eyes toward the tranquil figure knitting in the arm-chair.
“Were you speaking?” said Mrs Snow, looking up at the sound of his voice.
“Yes, I was speaking to Rosie, here. How do you suppose we can ever persuade her to go back to Merleville with us?”
“She is going with us, or she will soon follow us. What would Emily say, if she didna come?”
“Yes, I know. But I meant to stay for good and all. Graeme, won’t you give us this little girl?”
Graeme smiled.
“Yes. On one condition—if you will take me too.”
Mr Snow shook his head.
“I am afraid that would bring us no nearer the end. We should have other conditions to add to that one.”
“Yes,” said Arthur, laughing. “You would have to take Fanny and me, as well, in that case. I don’t object to your having one of them at a time, now and then, but both of them—that would never do.”
“But it must be both or neither,” said Graeme, eagerly, “I couldna’ trust Rosie away from me. I havena these sixteen years—her whole life, have I, Janet? If you want Rosie, you must have me, too.”
She spoke lightly, but earnestly; she meant what she said. Indeed, so earnest was she, that she quite flushed up, and the tears were not far away. The others saw it, and were silent, but Fanny who was not quick at seeing things, said,—
“But what could we do without you both? That would not be fair—”
“Oh! you would have Arthur, and Arthur would have you. At any rate, Rosie is mine, and I am not going to give her to any one who won’t have me, too. She is all I shall have left when Will goes away.”
“Graeme would not trust Rosie with Arthur and me,” said Fanny, a little pettishly. “There are so many things that Graeme don’t approve of. She thinks we would spoil Rose.”
Janet’s hand touched hers, whether by accident or design Graeme did not know, but it had the effect of checking the response that rose to her lips, and she only said, laughingly,—
“Mrs Snow thinks that you and Arthur are spoiling us both, Fanny.”
Janet smiled fondly and gravely at the sisters, as she said, stroking Graeme’s bowed head,—
“I dare say you are no’ past spoiling, either of you, but I have seen worse bairns.”
After this, Mr Snow and Will began the survey of Canada in earnest. First they went to Quebec, where they lingered several days. Then they went farther down the river, and up the Saguenay, into the very heart of the wilderness. This part of the trip Will enjoyed more than his friend, but Mr Snow showed no sign of impatience, and prolonged their stay for his sake. Then they went up the country, visiting the chief towns and places of interest. They did not confine themselves, however, to the usual route of travellers, but went here and there in wagons and stages, through a farming country, in which, though Mr Snow saw much to criticise, he saw more to admire. They shared the hospitality of many a quiet farm-house, as freely as it was offered, and enjoyed many a pleasant conversation with the farmers and their families, seated on door-steps, or by the kitchen-fire.
Though the hospitality of the country people was, as a general thing, fully and freely offered, it was sometimes, it must be confessed, not without a certain reserve. That a “live Yankee,” cute, and able-bodied, should be going about in these out-of-the-way parts, for the sole purpose of satisfying himself as to the features, resources, and inhabitants of the country, was a circumstance so rare, so unheard of, indeed, in these parts, that the shrewd country people did not like to commit themselves at the first glance. Will’s frank, handsome face, and simple, kindly manners, won him speedily enough the confidence of all, and Mr Snow’s kindly advances were seldom long withstood. But there sometimes lingered an uneasy feeling, not to say suspicion, that when he had succeeded in winning their confidence, he would turn round and make some startling demand on their faith or their purses in behalf of some patent medicine or new invention—perhaps one of those wonderful labour-saving machines, of which he had so much to say. As for himself, if he ever observed their reserve or its cause, he never resented it, or commented upon it, but entered at once into the discussion of all possible subjects with the zest of a man determined to make the most of the pleasant circumstances in which he found himself. If he did not always agree with the opinions expressed, or approve of the modes of farming pursued, he at least found that the sturdy farmers of Glengarry and the country beyond had more to say for their opinions and practice than “so had their fathers said and done before them,” and their discussions ended, quite as frequently as otherwise, in the American frankly confessing himself convinced that all the agricultural wisdom on the continent did not lie on the south side of the line forty-five.
Will was greatly amused and interested by all this. He was, to a certain extent, able to look at the ideas, opinions, and prejudices of each from the other’s point of view, and so to enjoy with double zest the discussion of subjects which could not fail to present such dissimilar aspects to minds so differently constituted, and developed under circumstances and influences so different. This power helped him to make the opinions of each more clear to the other, presenting to both juster notions of each other’s theory and practice than their own explanations could have done. By this means, too, he won for himself a reputation for wisdom, about matters and things in general, which surprised no one so much as himself. They would have liked to linger far longer, over this part of their trip, than they had time to do, for the days were hastening.
Before returning home, they visited Niagara, that wonderful work of God, too great and grand, as Mr Snow told Rosie, to be the pride of one nation exclusively, and so it had been placed on the borders of the two greatest nations in the world. This part of the trip was for Will’s sake. Mr Snow had visited them on his way West many years ago. Indeed, there were other parts of the trip made for Will’s benefit, but those were not the parts which Mr Snow enjoyed least, as he said to his wife afterwards.
“It paid well. I had my own share of the pleasure, and Will’s, too. If ever a lad enjoyed a holiday he enjoyed his. It was worth going, just to see his pleasure.”
When the time allotted to their visit was drawing to a close, it was proposed that a few days should be passed in that most beautiful part of Canada, known as the Eastern Townships. Arthur went with them there. It was but a glimpse they could give it. Passing in through Missisquoi County to the head of the lovely lake Memphremagog, they spent a few days on it, and along its shores. Their return was by a circuitous course across the country through the County of Stanstead, in the midst of beautiful scenery, and what Mr Snow declared to be “as fine a farming country as anybody need wish to see.”
This “seeing Canada” was a more serious matter than he had at first supposed, Mr Snow acknowledged to the delighted Rose. It could not be done justice to in a few days, he said; but he would try and reconcile himself to the hastiness of his trip, by taking it for granted that the parts he had not seen were pretty much like those he had gone through, and a very fine country it was.
“Canada will be heard from yet, I expect,” said he, one night when they had returned home. “By the time that you get some things done that you mean to now, you’ll be ready to go ahead. I don’t see but you have as good a chance as ever we had—better, even. You have got the same elements of prosperity and success. You have got the Bible and a free press, and a fair proportion of good soil, and any amount of water-power. Then for inhabitants, you’ve got the Scotchman, cautious and far-seeing; the Irishman, a little hot and heady, perhaps, but earnest; you’ve got the Englishman, who’ll never fail of his aim for want of self-confidence, anyhow; you’ve got Frenchmen, Germans, and a sprinkling of the dark element out west; and you’ve got what we didn’t have to begin with, you’ve got the Yankee element, and that is considerable more than you seem to think it is, Rosie.”
Rose laughed and shook her head. She was not going to allow herself to be drawn into a discussion of nationalities that night.
“Yes,” continued he, “the real live Yankee is about as complete a man as you’ll generally meet anywhere. He has the caution of the Scot, to temper the fire of the Irishman, and he has about as good an opinion of himself as the Englishman has. He’ll keep things going among you. He’ll bring you up to the times, and then he won’t be likely to let you fall back again. Yes; if ever Canada is heard from, the Yankee will have something to do with it, and no mistake.”