Chapter Thirty Two.
In the mean time very quiet and pleasant days were passing over those who were at home. Fanny jingled her keys, and triumphed a little at the continued success of affairs in Mrs Tilman’s department. Graeme took no notice of her triumph, but worked away at odds and ends, remembering things forgotten, smoothing difficulties, removing obstacles, and making, more than she or any one knew, the happiness of them all. Rose sung and danced about the house as usual, and devoted some of her superfluous energy to the embellishment of a cobweb fabric, which was, under her skillful fingers, destined to assume, by and by, the form of a wedding pocket handkerchief for Emily. And through all, Mrs Snow was calmly and silently pursuing the object of her visit to Canada. Through the pleasant hours of work and leisure, in all their talk of old times, and of the present time, in all moods, grave and gay, she had but one thought, one desire, to assure herself by some unfailing token that her bairns were as good and happy as they ought to be.
The years that had passed since the bairns had been parted from her had made Janet older than they ought to have done, Graeme thought. It was because she was not so strong as she used to be, she said herself; but it was more than sickness, and more than the passing years that had changed her. The dreadful shock and disappointment of her mother’s death, followed so soon by the loss of Marian and the minister, had been too much for Janet. It might not have been, her strong patient nature might have withstood it, if the breaking up of the beloved family circle, the utter vanishing of her bairns from her sight, had not followed so close upon it. For weeks she had been utterly prostrate. The letters, which told the bairns, in their Canadian home, that their dear friend was ill, and “wearying” for them, told them little of the terrible suffering of that time. The misery that had darkened her first winter in Merleville came upon her again with two-fold power. Worse than the home-sickness of that sad time, was the never-ceasing pain, made up of sorrow for the dead, and inappeasable longing for the presence of the living. That she should have forsaken her darlings, to cast in her lot with others—that between her and them should lie miles and miles of mountain and forest, and barriers, harder to be passed than these, it sickened her heart to know. She knew it never could be otherwise now; from the sentence she had passed upon herself she knew there could be no appeal. She knew that unless some great sorrow should fall upon them, they could never have one home again; and that peace and happiness could ever come to her, being separated from them, she neither believed nor desired. Oh! the misery of that time! The fields and hills, and pleasant places she had learnt to love, shrouded themselves in gloom. The very light grew hateful to her. Her prayer, as she lay still, while the bitter waters rolled over her, was less the prayer of faith, than of despair.
And, through all the misery of that time, her husband waited and watched her with a tender patience, beautiful to see; never, by word or deed, giving token of aught but sympathy, and loving pity for the poor, sick, struggling heart. Often and often, during that dreary time, did she wake to hear, in the stillness of the night, or of the early morning, his whispered prayer of strong entreaty rising to Heaven, that the void might be filled, that in God’s good time and way, peace, and healing, and content, might come back to the sick and sorrowful heart.
And this came after long waiting. Slowly the bitter waters rolled away, never to return. Faith, that had seemed dead, looked up once more. The sick heart thrilled beneath the touch of the Healer. Again the light grew pleasant to her eyes, and Janet came back to her old household ways, seeing in the life before her God-given work, that might not be left undone. But she was never quite the same. There was never quite the old sharp ring in her kindly voice. She was not less cheerful, perhaps, in time, but her cheerfulness was of a far quieter kind, and her chidings were rare, and of the mildest, now. Indeed, she had none to chide but the motherless Emily, who needed little chiding, and much love. And much love did Janet give her, who had been dear to all the bairns, and the especial friend of Marian, now in Heaven. And so God’s peace fell on the deacon’s quiet household, and the gloom passed away from the fields and hills of Merleville, and its pleasant nooks and corners smiled once more with a look of home to Janet, as she grew content in the knowledge that her darlings were well and happy, though she might never make them her daily care again. But she never forgot them. Her remembrance of them never grew less loving, and tender, and true. And so, as the years passed, the old longing came back, and, day by day, grew stronger in her heart the wish to know assuredly that the children of her love were as good and happy as they ought to be.
Had her love been less deep and yearning she might have been more easily content with the tokens of an innocent and happy life visible in their home. If happiness had been, in her estimation, but the enjoyment of genial days and restful nights, with no cares to harass, and only pleasant duties to perform; if the interchange of kindly offices, the little acts of self-denial, the giving up of trifles, the taking cheerfully of the little disappointments, which even their pleasant life was subject to—if these had been to her sufficient tests of goodness, she might have been satisfied with all she saw.
But she was not satisfied, for she knew that there are few hearts so shallow as to be filled full with all that such a life of ease could give. She knew that the goodness, that might seem to suffice through these tranquil and pleasant days, could be no defence against the strong temptations that might beset them amid the cares of life. “For,” said she to herself, “the burn runs smoothly on over the pebbles in its bed without a break or eddy, till the pebbles change to rocks and stones, and then it brawls, and murmurs, and dashes itself to foam among them—and no help.” She was content with no such evidence of happiness or goodness as lay on the surface of their pleasant life, so she waited, and watched, seeing without seeming to see, many things that less loving eyes might have overlooked. She saw the unquiet light that gleamed at times in Graeme’s eyes, and the shadow of the cloud that now and then rested on her brow, even in their most mirthful moments. She smiled, as they all did, at the lively sallies, and pretty wilfulness of Rose, but she knew full well, that that which made mirth in the loving home circle, might make sorrow for the household darling, when the charm of love was no longer round her. And so she watched them all, seeing in trifles, in chance words and unconscious deeds, signs and tokens for good or for evil, that would never have revealed themselves to one who loved them less.
For Will she had no fear. He was his father’s own son, with his father’s work awaiting him. All would be well with Will. And for Arthur, too, the kind and thoughtful elder brother—the father and brother of the little household, both in one, her hopes were stronger than her doubts or fears. It would have given her a sore heart, indeed, to believe him far from the way in which his father walked.
“He has a leaven of worldliness in him, I’ll no deny,” said she to her husband one night, when they were alone in the privacy of their own apartment. “And there is more desire for wealth in his heart, and for the honour that comes from man, than he himself kens. He’ll maybe get them, and maybe no’. But if he gets them, they’ll no’ satisfy him, and if he gets them not, he’ll get something better. I have small fear for the lad. He minds his father’s ways and walk too well to be long content with his own halting pace. It’s a fine life just now, with folk looking up to him, and patting trust in him, but he’ll weary of it. There is nothing in it to fill, for long, the heart of his father’s son.”
And in her quiet waiting and watching, Janet grew assured for them all at last. Not that they were very wise or good, but her faith that they were kept of God grew stronger every day; and to be ever in God’s keeping, meant to this humble, trustful, Christian woman, to have all that even her yearning love could crave for her darlings. It left her nothing to fear for them, nothing to wish in their behalf; so she came to be at peace about them all; and gently checked the wilful words and ways of Rose, and waited patiently till Graeme, of her own accord, should show her the cloud in the shadow of which she sometimes sat.
As to Fanny, the new claimant for her love and interest, she was for from being overlooked all this time, and the pretty little creature proved a far greater mystery to the shrewd, right-judging friend of the family than seemed at all reasonable. There were times when, had she seen her elsewhere, she would not have hesitated to pronounce her frivolous, vain, overbearing. Even now, seeing her loved and cared for, in the midst of the bairns, there were moments when she found herself saying it in her heart. A duller sense, and weaker penetration could not have failed to say the same. But Fanny was Arthur’s wife, and Arthur was neither frivolous, nor vain, nor overbearing, but on the contrary, wise, and strong, and gentle, possessing all the virtues that ever had made his father a model in Janet’s admiring eyes, and it seemed a bold thing, indeed, to think lightly of his wife. So she mused, and pondered, and watched, and put Fanny’s beautiful face and winning manners, and pretty, affectionate ways, against her very evident defects, and said to herself, though Arthur’s wife was not like Arthur’s mother, nor even like his sisters, yet there were varieties of excellence, and surely the young man was better able to be trusted in the choice of a life-long friend than on old woman like her could be; and still she waited and pondered, and, as usual, the results of her musings were given to her attentive husband, and this time with a little impatient sigh.
“I needna wonder at it. Love is blind, they say, and goes where it is sent, and it is sent far more rarely to wisdom and worth, and humble goodness, than to qualities that are far less deserving of the happiness it brings; and Mr Arthur is no’ above making a mistake. Though how he should—minding his mother as he does—amazes me. But he’s well pleased, there can be no doubt of that, as yet, and Miss Graeme is no’ ill-pleased, and love wouldna blind her. Still I canna but wonder after all is said.”
And she still wondered. There were in her vocabulary no gentler names for the pretty Fanny’s defects, than just frivolity and vanity, and even after a glimpse or two of her stepmother, Janet’s candid, straightforward nature could hardly make for those defects all the allowance that was to be made. She could not realise how impossible it was, that a fashionable education, under such a teacher as Mrs Grove should have made her daughter other than she was, and so not realising that her worst faults were those of education, which time, and experience, and the circumstances of her life must correct, she had, at times, little hope of Fanny’s future worth or wisdom.
That is, she would have had little hope but for one thing—Graeme had faith in Fanny, that was clear. Love might blind Arthur’s eyes to her faults, or enlighten them to see virtues invisible to other eyes, but it would not do that for Graeme; and Graeme was tolerant of Fanny, even at times when her little airs and exactions made her not quite agreeable to her husband. She was patient and forbearing towards her faults, and smiled at the little housekeeping airs and assumptions, which Rose openly, and even in Arthur’s presence, never failed to resent. Indeed, Graeme refused to see Fanny’s faults, or she refused to acknowledge that she saw them, and treated her always with the respect due to her brother’s wife, and the mistress of the house, as, well as with the love and forbearance due to a younger sister.
And that Fanny, with all her faults and follies, loved and trusted Graeme was very evident. There was confidence between them, to a certain extent at any rate, and seeing these things, Janet took courage to hope that there was more in the “bonny vain creature” than it was given her to see, and to hope also that Arthur might not one day find himself disappointed in his wife. Her doubts and hopes on the matter were all silent, or shared only with the worthy deacon, in the solitude of their chamber. She was slow to commit herself to Graeme, and Graeme was in no haste to ask her friend’s opinion of her brother’s wife.
They had plenty of other subjects to discuss. All their Merleville life was gone over and over during these quiet summer days.
The talk was not always gay; sometimes it was grave enough, even sad, but it was happy, too, in a way; at any rate they never grew weary of it. And Mrs Snow had much to tell them about the present state of their old home; how the old people were passing away, and the young people were growing up; how well the minister was remembered there still, and how glad all would be to see the minister’s bairns among them again; and then Sandy and Emily, and the approaching wedding made an endless subject of talk. Rose and Fanny never wearied of that, and Mrs Snow was as pleased to tell, as they were to hear.
And when Rose and Fanny were away, as they often were, and Graeme was left alone with her friend, there were graver things discussed between them. Graeme told her more of their family life, and of their first experiences than she had ever heard before. She told her of her illness, and home-sickness, and of the many misgivings she had had as to whether it had been wise for them all to come to burden Arthur. She told her of Harry, and her old terrors on his account, and how all these had given place to hope, that was almost certainty now, that she need never fear for him for the same cause more. They rejoiced together over Hilda, and Norman, and recalled to one another their old pride in the lad when he had saved the little German girl from the terrible fate that had overtaken her family, and smiled at the misgivings they had had when he refused to let her go with the friends who would have taken her. This was all to be rejoiced over now. No doubt the care and pains which Norman had needed to bestow on his little adopted sister, had done much to correct the native thoughtlessness of his character, and no doubt her love and care would henceforth make the happiness of his life. So they said to one another with smiles, and not without grateful tears, in view of the overruling love and care visible in all they had to remember of one and all.
And Will, who seemed to be Graeme’s own more than either of the other brothers, because she had cared for him, and taught him, and watched over him from the very first, she permitted herself to triumph a little over him, in private with her friend, and Janet was nothing loth to hear and triumph too, for in the lad his father lived again to her, and she was not slow to believe in his sister’s loving prophecy as to his future. Graeme could not conceal, indeed she did not try to conceal, from her friend, how much she feared the parting from him, and though Janet chid her for the tears that fell so fast, it was with a gentle tenderness that only quickened their flow.
And now and then, in these long talks and frequent silence, Janet fancied that she caught a glimpse of the cloud that had cast a shadow over Graeme’s life, but she was never sure. It was not to be spoken about, however, nothing could be clearer than that.
“For a cloud that can be blown away by a friend’s word, will lift of itself without help in a while. And if it is no’ a cloud of that kind, the fewer words the better. And time heals many a wound that the touch of the kindest hand would hurt sorely. And God is good.” But all this was said in Janet’s secret prayer. Not even her husband shared her thoughts about Graeme.
“What a dismal day it is!” said Fanny, as she stood at the window, listening to the wind and watching the fall of the never-ceasing rain.
It was dismal. It must have been a dismal day even in the country, where the rain was falling on beautiful green things to their refreshment; and in the city street, out upon which Fanny looked, it was worse. Now and then a milk cart, or a carriage with the curtains closely drawn, went past; and now and then a foot passenger, doing battle with the wind for the possession of his umbrella; but these did not brighten the scene any.
It was dismal within doors, too, Fanny thought. It was during the time of Mr Snow and Will’s first trip, and Arthur had gone away on business, and was not expected home for a day or two, at least. A household of women is not necessarily a dismal affair, even on a rainy day, but a household suddenly deprived of the male element, is apt to become so in those circumstances, unless some domestic business supposed to be most successfully accomplished at such a time is being carried on; and no wonder that Fanny wandered from room to room, in an uncomfortable state of mind.
Graeme and Rose were not uncomfortable. Rose had a way of putting aside difficult music to be practised on rainy days, and she was apt to become so engrossed in her pleasant occupation, as to take little heed of what was going on about her, and all Fanny’s exclamations of discontent were lost on her. Graeme was writing letters in the back parlour, and Mrs Snow was supposed to be taking her after-dinner’s rest, up-stairs, but she came into the room in time to hear Fanny exclaim petulantly,—
“And we were very foolish to have an early dinner. That would have been something to look forward to. And no one can possibly call. Even Mr Green would be better than nobody—or even Charlie Millar.”
“These gentlemen would be highly flattered if they heard you,” said Rose, laughing, as she rose to draw forward the arm-chair, to Mrs Snow.
“Are you not tired playing Rose,” said Fanny, fretfully.
“By no means. I hope my playing does not disturb you. I think this march is charming. Come and try it.”
“No, I thank you. If the music does not disturb Mrs Snow, I don’t mind it.”
“I like it,” said Mrs Snow. “The music is cheerful this dull day. Though I would like a song better.”
“By and by you shall have a song. I would just like to go over this two or three times more.”
“Two or three times! Two or three hundred times, you mean,” said Fanny. “There’s no end to Rose’s playing when she begins.”
Then she wandered into the back parlour again.
“Are you going to write all day, Graeme?”
“Not all day. Has Mrs Snow come down?” asked she, coming forward. “I have been neglecting Harry lately, and I have so much to tell him, but I’ll soon be done now.”
“My dear,” said Mrs Snow, “dinna heed me; I have my knitting, and I enjoy the music.”
“Oh! dear! I wish it didn’t rain,” said Fanny.
“My dear, the earth was needing it,” said Mrs Snow, by way of saying something, “and it will be beautiful when the rain is over.”
“I believe Graeme likes a rainy day,” said Fanny. “It is very stupid, I think.”
“Yes, I sometimes like a rainy day. It brings a little leisure, which is agreeable.”
Fanny shrugged her shoulders.
“It is rather dismal to-day, however,” said Graeme. “You look cold with that light dress on, Fanny, why don’t you go and change it?”
“What is the use? I wish Arthur were coming home. He might have come, I’m sure.”
“You may be sure he will not stay longer than he can help,” said Graeme; turning to her letter again.
“And my dear, might you no’ take a seam? It would pass the time, if it did nothing else,” said Mrs Snow.
But the suggestion was not noticed, and partly because she did not wish to interfere, and partly because she had some curiosity to see how the little lady would get out of her discomfort, Mrs Snow knitted on in silence.
“Make something nice for tea,” suggested Rose, glancing over her shoulder.
“That is not necessary now,” said Fanny, shortly.
“Oh! I only suggested it for your sake—to pass the time,” said Rose.
It lasted a good while longer. It lasted till Graeme, catching Mrs Snow’s look, became suddenly aware that their old friend was thinking her own thoughts about “Mrs Arthur.” She rose at once, and shutting her desk, and going to the window where Fanny was standing, said with a shiver:—
“It is dismal, indeed. Fanny, look at that melancholy cat. She wants to come in, but she is afraid to leave her present shelter. Poor wee pussy.”
“Graeme, don’t you wish Arthur were coming home,” said Fanny, hanging about her as she had a fashion of doing now and then.
“Yes, indeed. But we must not tell him so. It would make him vain if he knew how much we missed him. Go and change your dress, dear, and we’ll have a fire, and an early tea, and a nice little gossip in the firelight, and then we won’t miss him so much.”
“Fire!” repeated Rose, looking disconsolately at the pretty ornaments of the grate with which she had taken so much pains. “Who ever heard of a fire in a grate at this time of the year?”
But Rose was overruled. They had a fire and an early tea, and then, sitting in the firelight, they had a gossip, too; about many different things. Janet told them more than she had ever told them before, of how she had “wearied for them” when they first left Merleville, and by and by Rose said,—
“But that was all over when Sandy came.”
“It was over before that, for his coming was long delayed, as you’ll mind yourselves. I was quite content before that time, but of course it was a great thing to me, the coming of my Sandy.”
“Oh! how glad you must have been!” said Rose. “I wish I had been there to see. Tell us what you said to him, and what he said to you.”
“I dinna mind what I said to him, or if I said anything at all. And he just said, ‘Well, mother!’ with his heartsome smile, and the shine of tears in his bonny blue e’en,” said Janet, with a laugh that might very easily have changed to a sob; “and oh! bairns, if ever I carried a thankful heart to a throne of grace, I did that night.”
“And would you have known him?” asked Rose, gently.
“Oh! ay, would I. No’ but what he was much changed. I wouldna have minded him, but I would have kenned him anywhere.”
Janet sat silent with a moved face for a little, and then she went on.
“I had had many a thought about his coming, and I grew afraid as the time drew near. Either, I thought, he winna like my husband, or they winna agree, or he will have forgotten me altogether, and winna find it easy to call me his mother, or he’ll disappoint me in some way, I thought. You see I had so set my heart on seeing him, that I was afraid of myself, and it seemed to be more than I could hope that he should be to me all that I desired. But when he came, my fears were set at rest. He is an honest, God fearing lad, my Sandy, and I need say nae mair about him.”
“And so clever, and handsome! And what did Mr Snow say?”
“Oh! his heart was carried captive, from the very first, with Sandy’s heartsome, kindly ways. It made me laugh to myself, many a time, to see them together, and it made me greet whiles, as well. All my fears were rebuked, and it is the burden of my prayers from day to day, that I may have a thankful heart.”
“And how did Sandy like Merleville, and all the people?”
“Oh, he liked them well, you may be sure. It would have been very ungrateful if he had not, they made so much of him—Mr and Mrs Greenleaf, especially, and the Merles, and plenty besides. He made himself very useful to Mr Greenleaf, in many ways, for he is a clever lad, my Sandy. It’s on his business that he’s West now. But he’ll soon be home again.”
“And Emily! Tell us just what they said to each other at first, and what they thought of each other.”
“I canna do that, for I wasna there to hear. Emily saw my Sandy before I saw him myself, as you’ll mind I told you before.”
“And was it love at first sight?” asked Fanny.
“And did the course of true love for once run smooth,” said Rose. Mrs Snow smiled at their eagerness.
“As for the love at first sight—it came very soon to my Sandy. I am no’ sure about Emily. As for its running smooth, there was a wee while it was hindered. They had their doubts and fears, as was natural, and their misunderstandings. But, oh! bairns, it was just wonderful to sit by and look at them. I saw their happy troubles coming on before they saw it themselves, I think. It was like a story out of a book, to watch them; or like one of the songs folk used to sing when I was young—the sweet old Scottish songs, that are passing out of mind now, I fear. I never saw the two together in our garden, but I thought of the song that begins,—”
“Ae simmer nicht when blobs o’ dew,
Garred ilka thing look bonny—”
“Ah! Well, God has been good to them, and to us all.”
“And Mr Snow was well pleased, of course,” said Fanny.
“Pleased is hardly the word for it. He had just set his heart on it from the very first, and I had, whiles, much ado to keep him from seeming to see things and to keep him from putting his hand to help them a wee, which never does, you ken. Folk must find out such things for themselves, and the canniest hand may hinder, rather than help, with the very best will. Oh ay, he was well pleased.”
“And it is so nice that they are to be so close beside you. I daresay we shall hardly know our old home, it will be so much improved.”
“It is improved, but no’ beyond your knowledge of it. It was ay a bonny place, you’ll mind. And it is improved, doubtless, for her father thinks there is nothing too good for Emily.”
“And Oh! bairns, we have a reason to be thankful. If we trust our affairs in God’s hand, He’ll ‘bring it to pass,’ as he has said. And if we are his, there is no’ fear but the very best thing for us will happen in the end.”
Chapter Thirty Three.
“Who is is Mr Green, anyhow?”
The question was addressed by Mr Snow to the company generally, as he paused in his leisurely walk up and down the gallery, and stood leaning his elbow on the window, looking in upon them. His manner might have suggested the idea of some mystery in connection with the name he had mentioned, so slowly and gravely did his eyes travel from one face to another turned toward him. As his question had been addressed to no one in particular, no one answered for a minute.
“Who is Mr Green, that I hear tell so much about?” he repeated impressively, fixing Will with his eye.
“Mr Green? Oh! he is an American merchant from the West,” said the literal Will, not without a vague idea that the answer, though true and comprehensive, would fail to convey to the inquiring mind of the deacon all the information desired.
“He is a Green Mountain boy. He is the most perfect specimen of a real live Yankee ever encountered in these parts,—cool, sharp, far-seeing,—”
Charlie Millar was the speaker, and he was brought up rather suddenly in the midst of his descriptive eloquence by a sudden merry twinkle in the eye of his principal listener; and his confusion was increased by a touch from Rose’s little hand, intended to remind him that real live Yankees were not to be indiscreetly meddled with in the present company.
“Is that all you can say for your real live Yankee, Charlie, man?” said Arthur, whose seat on the gallery permitted him to hear, but not to see, all that was going on in the room. “Why don’t you add, he speculates, he whittles, he chews tobacco, he is six feet two in his stockings, he knows the market value of every article and object, animate and inanimate, on the face of the earth, and is a living illustration of the truth of the proverb, that the cents being cared for, no apprehension need be entertained as to the safety of the dollars.”
“And a living contradiction of all the stale old sayings about the vanity of riches, and their inability to give even a transitory content,” said Charlie, with laughing defiance at Rose.
“Quite true, Charlie,” said Arthur; “if Mr Green has ever had any doubts about the almighty dollar being the ‘ultimate end,’ he has nursed or combated his doubts in secret. Nothing has transpired to indicate any such wavering of faith.”
“Yes; it is his only standard of worth in all things material and moral,” said Charlie. “When he enters a room, you can see by his look that he is putting a price on all things in it—the carpet and curtains—the books and pretty things—even the ladies—”
“Yes,” continued Arthur; “if he were to come in here just now, it would be—Mrs Snow worth so much—naming the sum; Miss Elliott so much more, because she has on a silk gown; Mrs Elliott more still, because she is somehow or other very spicy, indeed, to-night; he would appreciate details that go beyond me! As for Rosie, she would be the most valuable of all, according to his estimate, because of the extraordinary shining things on her head.”
“The possibility of their being only imitations, might suggest itself,” interposed Charlie.
“Yes, to be sure. And imitation or not, they would indicate all the same the young lady’s love of finery, and suggest to his acute mind the idea of danger to the purse of her future possessor. No, Rosie wouldn’t have a chance with him. You needn’t frown, Rosie, you haven’t. Whether it is the shining things on your head, or the new watch and chain, or the general weakness in the matter of bonnets that has been developing in your character lately, I can’t say, but nothing can be plainer, than the fact that hitherto you have failed to make the smallest impression on him.”
“A circumstance which cannot fail to give strength to the general impression that he is made of cast iron,” said Charlie.
“Arthur, I am shocked and astonished at you,” said Rose, as soon as she was permitted to speak. “You have forgotten, Charlie, how kindly he cared for your brother when he was sick, long ago. And Harry says that his hardness and selfishness is more in appearance, than real. He has a very kind heart.”
“Oh! if you come to his heart, Miss Rose, I can’t speak for that. I have never had an opportunity of satisfying myself as to that particular. I didn’t know he had one, indeed, and should doubt it now, if we had not Harry’s authority and yours.”
“You see, Rosie, when it comes to the discussion of hearts, Charlie gets beyond his depth. He has nothing to say.”
“Especially tender hearts,” said Charlie; “I have had a little experience of a flinty article or two of that sort.”
“Charlie, I won’t have you two quarrelling,” said Graeme, laughing. “Rose is right. There is just a grain or two of truth in what they have been saying,” she added, turning to Mr Snow. “Mr Green is a real live Yankee, with many valuable and excellent qualities. A little hard perhaps, a little worldly. But you should hear him speak of his mother. You would sympathise with him then, Charlie. He told me all about his mother, one evening that I met him at Grove House, I think. He told me about the old homestead, and his father’s saw-mill, and the log school-house; and his manner of speaking quite raised him, in my opinion. Arthur is wrong in saying he cares for nothing but money.”
“But, who is he?” asked Mr Snow, with the air of one much interested; His question was this time addressed to Fanny, who had seated herself on the window seat close by her husband, and she replied eagerly,—
“Oh, he is a rich merchant—ever so rich. He is going to give up business, and travel in Europe.”
“For the improvement of his mind,” said Arthur.
“I don’t know what he goes for, but he is very rich, and may do what he likes. He has built the handsomest house in the State, Miss Smith tells me. Oh! he is ever so rich, and he is a bachelor.”
“I want to know?” said Mr Snow, accepting Fanny’s triumphant climax, as she gave it, with great gravity.
“He is a great friend of mine, and a great admirer of Miss Elliott,” said Mrs Grove, with her lips intending that her face should say much more.
“Do tell?” said Mr Snow.
“A singular and eccentric person you see he must be,” said Will.
“A paradoxical specimen of a live Yankee. Don’t frown, Miss Rose. Mrs Grove’s statement proves my assertion,” said Charlie.
“If you would like to meet him, Mr Snow, dine with us on Friday,” said Mrs Grove. “I am quite sure you will like and admire each other. I see many points of resemblance between you. Well, then, I shall expect you all. Miss Elliott, you will not disappoint me, I hope.”
“But so large a party! Mrs Grove, consider how many there are of us,” said Graeme, who knew as well as though she were speaking aloud, that the lady was saying that same thing to herself, and that she was speculating as to the necessity of enlarging the table.
“Pray, don’t mention it. We are to have no one else. Quite a family party. I shall be quite disappointed if I don’t see you all. The garden is looking beautifully now.”
“And one more wouldn’t make a bit of difference. Miss Rose, can’t you speak a good word for me,” whispered Charlie.
“Thank you,” said Graeme, in answer to Mrs Grove. “I have been longing to show Mrs Snow your garden. I hope the roses are not quite over.”
“Oh, no!” said Arthur. “There are any number left; and Charlie, man, be sure and bring your flute to waken the echoes of the grove. It will be delightful by moonlight, won’t it, Rosie?”
Mrs Grove gave a little start of surprise at the liberty taken by Arthur. “So unlike him,” she thought. Mr Millar’s coming would make the enlargement of the table absolutely necessary. However, she might ask one or two other people whom she ought to have asked before, “and have it over,” as she said. So she smiled sweetly, and said,—
“Pray do, Mr Millar. We shall expect you with the rest.”
Charlie would be delighted, and said so.
“But the flute,” added he to Rose. “Well, for that agreeable fiction your brother is responsible. And a family party will be indeed charming.”
Dining at Grove House was not to any of them the pleasantest of affairs, on those occasions when it was Mrs Grove’s intention to distinguish herself, and astonish other people, by what she called a state dinner. Graeme, who was not apt to shirk unpleasant duties, made no secret of her dislike to them, and caught at any excuse to absent herself with an eagerness which Fanny declared to be anything but polite. But, sitting at table in full dress, among dull people, for an indefinite length of time, for no good purpose that she had been able to discover, was a sacrifice which neither Graeme nor any of the others felt inclined to make often.
A dinner en famille, however, with the dining-room windows open, and the prospect of a pleasant evening in the garden, was a very different matter. It was not merely endurable, it was delightful. So Rose arrayed herself in her pretty pink muslin, and then went to superintend the toilette of Mrs Snow—that is, she went to arrange the folds of her best black silk, and to insist on her wearing her prettiest cap—in a state of pleasurable excitement that was infectious, and the whole party set off in fine spirits. Graeme and Rose exchanged doubtful glances as they passed the dining-room windows. There was an ominous display of silver on the sideboard, and the enlargement of the table had been on an extensive scale.
“If she has spoiled Janet’s evening in the garden, by inviting a lot of stupids, it will be too bad,” whispered Rose.
It was not so bad as that, however. Of the guests whose visits were to be “put over,” on this occasion, only Mr Proudfute, a very pleasant, harmless gentleman, and Fanny’s old admirer, Captain Starr, came. As to making it a state affair, and sitting two or three hours at table, such a thing was not to be thought of. Mr Snow could eat his dinner even in the most unfavourable circumstances, in a tenth part of that time, and so could Mr Green, for that matter; so within a reasonable period, the ladies found themselves, not in the drawing-room, but on the lawn, and the gentlemen soon followed.
It was the perfection of a summer evening, with neither dust nor insects to be a drawback, with just wind enough to make tremulous the shadows on the lawn, and to waft, from the garden above the house, the odours of a thousand flowers. The garden itself did not surpass, or even equal, in beauty of arrangement, many of the gardens of the neighbourhood; but it was very beautiful in the unaccustomed eyes of Mr and Mrs Snow, and it was with their eyes that Graeme looked at it to-night. They left the others on the lawn, the gentlemen—some of them at least—smoking in the shade of the great cedar, and Rose and Fanny making wreaths of the roses the children were gathering for them. The garden proper was behind the house, and thither they bent their steps, Graeme inwardly congratulating herself that she and Will were to have the pointing out of its beauties to the friends all to themselves. They did not need to be pointed out to the keen, admiring eyes of Mr Snow. Nothing escaped him, as he walked slowly before them, looking over his shoulder now and then, to remark on something that particularly interested him. Mrs Snow’s gentle exclamations alone broke the silence for some time. She lingered with an interest, which to Graeme was quite pathetic, over flowers familiar in her childhood, but strangers to her for many a year.
“It minds me of the Ebba Gardens,” said she, after a little. “Not that it is like them, except for the flowers. The Ebba Gardens were on a level, not in terraces like this. You winna mind the Ebba Gardens, Miss Graeme.”
They had reached by this time a summer-house, which commanded a view of the whole garden, and of a beautiful stretch of country beyond, and here they sat down to wait the coming of the others, whose voices they heard below.
“No,” said Graeme, “I was not at the Ebba often. But I remember the avenue, and the glimpse of the lake that comes so unexpectedly after the first turning from the gate. I am not sure whether I remember it, or whether it is only fancy; but it must have been very beautiful.”
“It is only fancy to you, I doubt, for we turned many a time after going in at the gate, before the lake came in sight.”
“Perhaps so. But I don’t think it can all be fancy. I am sure I mind the lake, with the swans sailing, on it, and the wee green islets, and the branches of the birch trees drooping down into the water. Don’t you mind?”
“Yes, I mind well. It was a bonny place,” said Janet, with a sigh.
“But, what a tiny lake it must have been! I remember we could quite well see the flowers on the other side. It could not have been half so large as Merleville Pond.”
“It wasn’t hardly worth while calling it a lake, was it?” said Mr Snow.
“It did for want of a bigger, you know,” said Graeme, laughing. “It made up in beauty what it wanted in size.”
“It was a bonny spot,” said Mrs Snow.
“And the birds! Whenever I want to imagine bird music in perfection, I shut my eyes, and think of the birches drooping over the water. I wonder what birds they were that sang there? I have never heard such singing of birds since then.”
“No, there are no such singing birds here,” said Mrs Snow. “I used to miss the lark’s song in the morning, and the evening voices of the cushat and the blackbird. There are no birds like them here.”
“Ain’t it just possible that the music may be fancy, too, Miss Graeme,” said Mr Snow, who did not like to hear the regretful echo in his wife’s voice when she spoke of “home.” Graeme laughed, and Mrs Snow smiled, for they both understood his feeling very well, and Mrs Snow said,—
“No, the music of the birds is no fancy, as you might know from Sandy. There are no birds like them here; but I have learnt to distinguish many a pleasant note among the American birds—not like our own linties at home, but very sweet and cheerful notwithstanding.”
“The birds were real birds, and the music was real music. Oh! I wonder if I ever shall hear it again!” said Graeme, with a sigh. “You will hear it, Will, and see the dear old place. Oh! how I wish you could take me too.” Will smiled.
“I shall be glad to hear the birds and see the places again. But I don’t remember the Ebba, or, indeed, any of the old places, except our own house and garden, and your mother’s cottage, Mrs Snow. I mind the last time we were there well.”
“I mind it, too,” said Mrs Snow, gravely.
“And yet, I should be almost sorry to go back again, lest I should have my ideas disturbed by finding places and people different from what I have been fancying them all this time. All those old scenes are so many lovely pictures to me, and it would be sad to go and find them less lovely than they seem to me now. I have read of such things,” said Graeme.
“I wouldna fear anything of that kind,” said Mrs Snow; “I mind them all so well.”
“Do you ever think you would like to go back again?” said Will. “Would not you like to see the old faces and the old places once more?”
“No, lad,” said Mrs Snow, emphatically. “I have no wish ever to go back.”
“You are afraid of the sea? But the steamers are very different from the old ‘Steadfast’.”
“I was not thinking of the sea, though I would dread that too. But why should I wish to go back? There are two or three places I would like to see the glen where my mother’s cottage stood, and two or three graves. And when I shut my eyes I can see them here. No, I have no wish to go back.”
There was a moment’s silence, and then Mrs Snow, turning her clear, kind eyes on her husband, over whose face a wistful, expostulating look was stealing, said,—
“I like to think about the dear faces, and the old places, sometimes, and to speak about them with the bairns; it is both sad and pleasant now and then. But I am quite content with all things as they are. I wouldna go back, and I wouldna change my lot if I might. I am quite content.”
Mr Snow smiled and nodded in his own peculiar fashion for reply. There could be no doubt of his content, or Mrs Snow’s either, Graeme acknowledged, and then her thoughts went back to the time when Janet’s lot had been so different. She thought of the husband of her youth, and how long the grave had closed over him; she remembered her long years of patient labour in the manse; the bitter home-sickness of the first months in Merleville, and all the changes that had come since then. And yet, Janet was not changed. She was the very same. The qualities that had made her invaluable to them all those years, made the happiness of her husband and her home still, and after all the changes that life had brought she was content. No one could doubt that. And Graeme asked herself, would it ever be so with her? Would she ever cease to regret the irrevocable past and learn to grow happy in a new way? She prayed that it might be so. She longed for the tranquil content of those old days before her heart was startled from its girlhood’s quiet. How long it seemed since she had been quite at peace with herself! Would she ever be so again? It did not seem possible. She tried in vain to fancy herself among other scenes, with other hopes, and friends, and interests. And yet, here was Janet, not of a light or changeful nature; how she had loved, and lost, and suffered! And yet she had grown content?
“What are you thinking about, Graeme?” said Will, who, as well as Mr Snow, had been watching her troubled face, Graeme started.
“Oh! of a great many things. I don’t know why it should have come to my mind just now, but I was thinking of a day in Merleville, long ago—an Indian-summer day. I remember walking about among the fallen leaves, and looking over the pond to the hills beyond, wondering foolishly, I suppose, about what the future might bring to us all. How lovely it was that day!”
“And then you came and stood within the gate, and hardly gave me a look as I passed out. I mind it, very well,” said Mr Snow.
“I was not friends with you that day. But how should you remember it? How should you know it was that day, of which I was thinking?”
“I saw, by your face, you were thinking of old times, and of all the changes that had come to you and yours; and it was on that day you first heard of one of them. That is how I came to think of it.”
“And then you came into the house, and called me from the foot of the stairs. You werena well pleased with me, either, that day,” said Mrs Snow.
“Oh! I was afraid; and you spoke to me of aunt Marian, and of our own Menie, and how there might be sadder changes than even your going away. Ah, me! I don’t think I have been quite at peace with myself since that night.”
“Miss Graeme! my dear,” expostulated Mrs Snow.
“No, I have ay been afraid to find myself at peace. But I am glad of one thing, though I did not think that day it would ever make me glad. Uncle Sampson, did I ever tell you—I am afraid I never did—how glad I am now, that you were stronger than I was, and prevailed—in taking Janet from us, I mean?”
She was standing behind him, so that he did not see her face. He did not turn round, or try to see it. He looked towards his wife, with a grave smile.
“I don’t think you ever told me in words.”
“No, because it is only a little while that I have been really glad; it is only since your coming has made me sure she is happier—far happier with you and Emily and Sandy, than ever we could make her now; almost as happy as she deserves to be.”
“I reckon, the happiness ain’t all on one side of the house, by a great deal,” said Mr Snow, gravely.
“No, I know that—I am sure of that. And I am glad—so glad, that it reconciles me to the knowledge that we can never be quite the same to her as we used to be, and that is saying much.”
“Ain’t you most afraid that it might hurt her to hear you say so?” said Mr Snow, his eyes never leaving his wife’s face. They were quite alone by this time. Will had obeyed the call of the children, and was gone away.
“No, I am not afraid. She knows I would not hurt her willingly, by word or deed, so you must let me say how very glad I am we lost her, for her sake. And when I remember all that she has lived through—all the sorrow she has seen; knowing her steadfast, loving, heart, and how little she is given to change, yet seeing her happy, and with power to make others happy, it gives me courage to look into the future; it makes me less afraid.”
His eyes left his wife’s face now, and turned, with a look of wonder, to Graeme.
“What is it, dear?” he asked. “Is there anything I may not know?”
“No. Only I am glad for Janet’s sake, and for yours, and for mine, too, because—”
It would not have been easy to say more, and, besides, the others were coming up the walk, and, partly because there were tears in her eyes, and partly because she shrunk nervously from the excessive friendliness with which it seemed to be Mrs Grove’s intention on the occasion to distinguish her, she turned, hoping to escape. She did not succeed, however, and stood still at the door, knowing very well what would be Mrs Grove’s first remark.
“Ah! I see you have an eye for the beautiful.”
She had heard her say it just as many times as she had stood with her on that very beautiful spot; and she never expected to stand there without hearing it, certainly not if, as on the present occasion, there were strangers there too. It was varied a little, this time.
“You see, Mr Green, Miss Elliott has an eye for the beautiful. I knew we should find her here, with her friends.”
The rest was as usual.
“Observe how entirely different this is, from all the other views about the place. There is not a glimpse of the river, or of the mountains, except that blue line of hills, very distant indeed. The scene is quite a pastoral one, you see. Can you imagine anything more tranquil? It seems the very domain of silence and repose.”
The last remark was not so effective as usual, because of the noise made by Charlie Millar and Will, and the young Groves, as they ran along the broad walk full in sight.
“It is a bonny, quiet place,” said Mrs Snow.
“The garden is not seen at its best now,” continued Mrs Grove. “The beauty of the spring flowers is over, and except the roses, we have not many summer flowers; we make a better show later in the season.”
“It looks first-rate,” said Mr Snow.
“It costs a great deal of trouble and expense to keep it up as it ought to be kept,” continued Mrs Grove. “I sometimes think it is not right to spend so much time and money for what is a mere gratification to the eye.”
Mrs Grove was bent on being agreeable, to all present, and she thought “the economical dodge” was as good as any, considering her audience.
“There is something in that,” said Mr Snow, meditatively; “but a place like this ought to be a great deal more than that, I think.”
“Oh! I expect it pays,” said Mr Green. “To people who are fond of such things, I expect there is more pleasure to be got for the same money from a garden than from ’most any other thing.”
“To say nothing of the pleasure given to other folk—to one’s friends,” suggested Mrs Snow.
“I was calculating that, too,” said Mr Green. “The pleasure one’s friends get tells on one’s own comfort; you feel better yourself, if the folks about you feel well, especially if you have the doing of it. That pays.”
“If we are travelling in the right road, the more we see of the beautiful things God has made, the better and the happier we will be,” said Mr Snow. “It will pay in that way, I guess.”
He turned an inquiring look on Mr Green, as he spoke, but that gentleman, probably not being prepared to speak advisedly on the subject, neither agreed nor dissented, and his eyes travelled on till they rested on the face of his wife.
“Yes,” said, she, softly, “the more we see of God’s love and wisdom in the beautiful things He has made, the more we shall love Him, and in loving Him we shall grow like Him.”
Mr Snow nodded. Mr Green looked curiously from one to the other as they spoke.
“I suppose we may expect something wonderful in the way of gardens and pleasure-grounds, when you have completed your place, Mr Green,” said Mrs Grove, who did not care that the conversation should take a serious turn on this occasion. She flattered herself that she had already won the confidence and admiration of Mr and Mrs Snow, by her warmly-expressed sympathy with their “rather peculiar” views and opinions. Whether Mr Green would be so fortunate was questionable, so she went on quickly,—
“Miss Elliott, Mr Green has been telling me about his place as we come up the garden. It must be very lovely, standing, as it does, on the borders of one of those vast prairies that we all admire.”
Thus appealed to, it was unpardonable in Graeme that she should respond to the lady’s admiring enthusiasm with only the doubtful assent implied in a hesitating “Indeed;” but her enthusiasm was not to be damped.
“There must be something grand and elevating in the constant view of a prairie. It must tend to enlarge one’s ideas, and satisfy one; don’t you think so, Miss Elliott?”
“I don’t know,” said Graeme, hesitatingly. “For a place of residence, I should suppose it might be a little dull, and unvaried.”
“Of course, if there was nothing besides the prairie; but, with such a residence as Mr Green’s—I forget what style of architecture it is.”
But Mr Green was not learned on the subject of architecture, and said nothing about it. He only knew that people called his house a very handsome one, and that it had cost him a deal of money, and he said so, emphatically, adding his serious doubts whether the investment would “pay.”
“Oh! you cannot tell yet,” said Mrs Grove. “That will depend altogether on circumstances. It is quite time that you were settling down into a quiet family man. You have been roaming about the world quite long enough. I don’t at all approve of the European trip, unless, indeed—”
She paused, and looked so exceedingly arch and wise, that Mr Green looked a little puzzled and foolish by contrast, perhaps.
“Miss Elliott,” continued Mrs Grove, bent on carrying out her laudable intention of drawing Graeme into the conversation, “have you quite decided on not accompanying your brother?”
“Accompanying Will? Oh! I have never for a moment thought of such a thing. The expense would put it quite out of the question, even if there were no other reasons against it.”
“Indeed, then I must have misunderstood you when I fancied I heard you say how much you would like to go. I thought you longed for a chance to see Scotland again.”
“I daresay you heard me say something of the kind. I should like to visit Scotland very much, and other countries, too. And I intend to do so when I have made my fortune,” added she, laughing.
“Or, when some one has made it for you; that would do as well, would it not?” asked Mrs Grove.
“Oh, yes! a great deal better. When some one makes my fortune for me, I shall visit Europe. I think I may promise that.”
“Have you ever been West, yet, Miss Elliott? You spoke of going at one time, I remember,” said Mr Green.
“Never yet. All my travelling has been done at the fireside. I have very much wished to visit my brother Norman. I daresay Rose and I will find ourselves there some day,” added she, turning to Mr Snow.
“Unless we keep you in Merleville,” said he, smiling.
“Oh! well, I am very willing to be kept there on certain conditions you know.”
“How do you suppose Fanny could ever do without you?” asked Mrs Grove, reproachfully.
“Oh! she would miss us, I daresay. But I don’t think we are absolutely necessary to her happiness.”
“Of course, she will have to lose you one of these days. We cannot expect that you will devote yourself to your brothers always, I know.”
“Especially as they don’t stand in particular need of my devotion,” said Graeme stiffly, as she offered her arm to Mrs Snow. “Let us walk, again. What can Will and the children be doing? Something extraordinary, if one may judge by the noise.”
Mrs Grove rose to go with them, but lingered a moment behind to remark to Mr Snow on the exceeding loveliness of Miss Elliott’s disposition and character, her great superiority to young ladies in general, and especially on the devotion so apparent in all her intercourse with her old friend.
“And with you, too,” she added; “I scarcely can say which she honours most, or on which she most relies for counsel.”
“There,” said she to herself, as she followed the others down the walk, “I have given him an opening, if he only has the sense to use it. One can see what he wants easily enough, and if he knows what is for his advantage he will get the good word of his countryman, and he ought to thank me for the chance.”