Chapter Thirty Six.
The only event of importance that occurred before Mrs Snow went away, was the return of Nelly. She came in upon them one morning, as they sat together in the breakfast-room, with more shamefacedness than could be easily accounted for at the first moment. And then she told them she was married. Her sudden departure had been the means of bringing Mr Stirling to a knowledge of his own mind on the matter of wedlock, and he had followed her to her sister’s, and “married her out of hand.” Of course, she was properly congratulated by them all, but Rose was inclined to be indignant.
“You promised that I was to be bridesmaid, and I think it is quite too bad that you should disappoint me,” said she.
“Yes, I know I promised, but it was with a long prospect of waiting. I thought your own turn might come first, Miss Rose, He didna seem in a hurry about it. But his leisure was over when I was fairly away out of reach. So he came after me to my sister’s, and nothing would do, but back I must go with him. He couldna see what difference a month or two could make in a thing that was to be for a lifetime; and my sister and the rest up there—they sided with him. And there was reason in it, I couldna deny; so we just went down to the manse one morning, and had it over, and me with this very gown on, not my best by two or three. He made small count of any preparations; so you see, Miss Rose, I couldna well help myself; and I hope it will all be for the best.”
They all hoped that, and, indeed, it was not to be doubted. But, though congratulating Mrs Stirling heartily, Graeme was greatly disappointed for themselves. She had been looking forward to the time when, Mrs Tilman’s temporary service over, they should have Nelly back in her old place again; but the best must be made of it now, and Nelly’s pleasure must not be marred by a suspicion of her discontent. So she entered, with almost as much eagerness as Rose, into a discussion of the plans of the newly married pair.
“And is the market garden secured?” asked she. “Or is that to come later?”
“It will not be for a while yet. He is to stay where he is for the present. You will have heard that Mr Ruthven and his family are going home for a while, and we are to stay in the house. I am to have the charge. It will be something coming in through my own hands, which will be agreeable to me,” added the prudent and independent Nelly.
The meeting of Mrs Snow and Mrs Stirling was a great pleasure to them both. They had much to say to one another before the time of Mrs Snow’s departure came, and she heard many things about the young people, their way of life, their love to each other, and their forbearance with Fanny and her friends, which she would never have heard from them. She came to have a great respect for Mrs Stirling’s sense and judgment, as well as for her devotion to the interests of the young people. One of the few expeditions undertaken by her was to choose a wedding present for the bride, and Rose had the satisfaction of helping her to decide upon a set of spoons, useful and beautiful at the same time; and “good property to have,” as Mr Snow justly remarked, whether they used them or not.
The day of departure came at last. Will, Graeme, and Rose went with them over the river, and Fanny would have liked to go, too, but she had an engagement with Mrs Grove, and was obliged to stay at home. Arthur was to be at the boat to see them on, if it could be managed, but that was doubtful, so he bade them good-bye in the morning before he went away. There was a crowd, as usual, on the boat, and Graeme made haste to get a seat with Mrs Snow, in a quiet corner out of the way.
“Look, Graeme,” said Rose. “There is Mr Proudfute, and there are the Roxburys, and ever so many more people. And there is Mr Ruthven. I wonder if they are going away to-day.”
“I don’t know. Don’t let us get into the crowd,” said Graeme, rather hurriedly. “We shall lose the good of the last minutes. Stay here a moment, Will, and see whether Arthur comes. I will find a seat for Mrs Snow. Let us get out of the crowd.”
It was not easy to do, however, and they were obliged to pass quite close by the party towards which Rose had been looking, and which Graeme had intended to avoid.
“Who is that pretty creature with the child on her lap?” asked Mrs Snow, with much interest. “You bowed to her, I think.”
“Yes. That is Mrs Ruthven. I suppose they are going away to-day. I should like to say good-bye to her, but there are so many people with her, and I am not sure that she knew me, though she bowed. Ah! she has seen Rosie. They are coming over here.”
She rose and went to meet them as they came near.
“You have never seen my baby,” said Mrs Ruthven, eagerly. “And I want to see Mrs Snow.”
Graeme took the little creature in her arms.
“No, we were unfortunate in finding you out when we called, more than once—and now you are going away.”
“Yes, we are going away for a little while. I am so glad we have met to-day. I only heard the other day that Mrs Snow had come, and I have not been quite strong, and they would not let me move about, I am so very glad to see you,” added she, as she took Janet’s hand. “I have heard your name so often, that I seem to know you well.”
Mrs Snow looked with great interest on the lovely, delicate face, that smiled so sweetly up into hers.
“I have heard about you, too,” said she, gravely. “And I am very glad that we chanced to meet to-day. And you are going home to Scotland?”
“Yes, for a little while. I have not been quite well, and the doctor advises the voyage, but we shall be home again before winter, I hope, or at the latest, in the spring.”
There was not time for many words. Arthur came at the last minute, and with him Charlie Millar. He held out his arms for the baby, but she would not look at him, and clung to Graeme, who clasped her softly.
“She has discrimination, you see,” said Charlie. “She knows who is best and wisest.”
“She is very like what Rosie was at her age,” said Mrs Snow. “Don’t you mind, Miss Graeme?”
“Do you hear that, baby!” said Charlie. “Take heart. The wee white Lily may be a blooming rose, yet—who knows?”
“You have changed,” said Mrs Snow, as Mr Ruthven came up to her with Will.
“Yes, I have changed; and not for the better, I fear,” said he, gravely.
“I do not say that—though the world and it’s ways do not often change a man for the better. Keep it out of your heart.”
There was only time for a word or two, and Graeme would not lose the last minutes with their friend. So she drew her away, and turned her face from them all.
“Oh, Janet! Must you go? Oh! if we only could go with you! But that is not what I meant to say. I am so glad you have been here. If you only knew how much good you have done me!”
“Have I? Well, I am glad if I have. And my dear, you are soon to follow us, you ken; and it will do you good to get back for a little while to the old place, and the old ways. God has been very good to you all.”
“Yes, and Janet, you are not to think me altogether unthankful. Forget all the discontented foolish things I have said. God has been very good to us all.”
“Yes, love, and you must take heart, and trust Him. And you must watch over your sister, your sisters, I should say. And Rose, dear, you are never to go against your sister’s judgment in anything. And my bairns, dinna let the pleasant life you are living make you forget another life. God be with you.”
Mr Snow and Will made a screen between them and the crowd, and Janet kissed and blessed them with a full heart. There were only a few confused moments after that, and then the girls stood on the platform, smiling and waving their hands to their friends, as the train moved off. And then Graeme caught a glimpse of the lovely pale face of Lilias Ruthven, as she smiled, and bowed, and held up her baby in her arms; and she felt as if that farewell was more for her, than any of the many friends who were watching them as they went away. And then they turned to go home. There was a crowd in the boat still, in the midst of which the rest sat and amused themselves, during the few minutes sail to the other side. But Graeme stood looking away from them all, and from the city and crowded wharf to which they were drawing near. Her eyes were turned to the far horizon toward which the great river flowed, and she was saying to herself,—
“I will take heart and trust Him, as Janet said. He has been good to us all I will not be afraid even of the days that look so dull and profitless to me. God will accept the little I can do, and I will be content.”
Will and Charlie Millar left them, after they had passed through a street or two.
“We might just as well have gone to Merleville with them, for all the difference in the time,” said Rose.
“But then our preparations would have interfered with our enjoyment of Janet’s visit, and with her enjoyment, too. It was a much better way for us to wait.”
“Yes. And for some things it will be better to be there after the wedding, rather than before. But I don’t at all like going back to an empty house. I don’t like people going away.”
“But people must go away, dear, if they come; and a quiet time will be good for us both, before we go away,” said Graeme.
But the quiet was not for that day. On that day, two unexpected events occurred. That is, one of them was unexpected to Graeme, and the other was unexpected to all the rest. Mr Green proposed that Miss Elliott should accompany him on his contemplated European tour; and Mrs Tilman’s time of service came to a sudden end.
As Graeme and Rose turned the corner of the street on their way home, they saw the Grove carriage standing at their door.
“That does not look much like quiet,” said Rose. “However, it is not quite such a bugbear as it used to be; don’t you remember, Graeme?”
Rose’s fears were justified. They found Fanny in a state of utter consternation, and even Mrs Grove not quite able to conceal how much she was put about. Mrs Tilman had been taken suddenly ill again, and even the undiscerning Fanny could not fail to understand the nature of her illness, when she found her unable to speak, with a black bottle lying on the bed beside her. Mrs Grove was inclined to make light of the matter, saying that the best of people might be overtaken in a fault, on occasion; but Graeme put her very charitable suggestions to silence, by telling the secret of the housekeeper’s former illnesses. This was not the first fault of the kind, by many.
There were a good many words spoken on this occasion, more than it would be wise to record. Mrs Grove professed indignation that the “mistress of the house” should have been kept in ignorance of the state of affairs, and resented the idea of Fanny’s being treated as a child. But Fanny said nothing; and then her mother assured her, that in future she would leave her to the management of her own household affairs; and Graeme surprised them all, by saying, very decidedly, that in doing this, she would be quite safe and right.
Of course, after all this, Fanny could not think of going out to pass the afternoon, and Graeme had little quiet that day. There were strangers at dinner, and Arthur was busy with them for some time after; and when, being at liberty at last, he called to Graeme that he wanted to see her for a minute, it must be confessed that she answered with impatience.
“Oh! Arthur, I am very tired. Won’t it keep till morning? Do let Mrs Tilman and domestic affairs wait.”
“Mrs Tilman! What can you mean, Graeme? I suppose Mrs Grove has been favouring the household with some advice, has she?”
“Has not Fanny told you about it?” asked Graeme.
“No. I saw Fanny was in tribulation of some kind. I shall hear it all in good time. It is something that concerns only you that I wish to speak about. How would you like to visit Europe, Graeme?”
“In certain circumstances I might like it.”
“Mr Green wished me to ask the question—or another—”
“Arthur, don’t say it,” said Graeme, sitting down and turning pale. “Tell me that you did not expect this.”
“I cannot say that I was altogether taken by surprise. He meant to speak to you himself, but his courage failed him. He is very much in earnest, Graeme, and very much afraid.”
“Arthur,” said his sister, earnestly, “you do not think this is my fault? If I had known it should never have come to this.”
“He must have an answer now.”
“Yes, you will know what to say to him. I am sorry.”
“But, Graeme, you should take time to think. In the eyes of the world this would be a good match for you.”
Graeme rose impatiently.
“What has the world to do with it? Tell me, Arthur, that you do not think me to blame for this.”
“I do not think you intended to give Mr Green encouragement. But I cannot understand why you should be so surprised. I am not.”
“You have not been seeing with your own eyes, and the encouragement has not been from me. It cannot be helped now. You will know what to say. And, Arthur, pray let this be quite between you and me.”
“Then, there is nothing more to be said?”
“Nothing. Good-night.”
Arthur was not surprised. He knew quite well that Mr Green was not good enough for Graeme. But, then, who was? Mr Green was very rich, and it would have been a splendid settlement for her, and she was not very young now. If she was ever to marry, it was surely time. And why should she not?
He had intended to say something like this to her, but somehow he had not found it easy to do. Well, she was old enough and wise enough to know her own mind, and to decide for herself; and, taken without the help of his position and his great wealth, Mr Green was certainly not a very interesting person; and probably Graeme had done well to refuse him. He pondered a long time on this question, and on others; but when he went up-stairs, Fanny was waiting for him, wide awake and eager.
“Well, what did Graeme say? Has she gone to bed?”
Arthur was rather taken aback. He was by no means sure that it would be a wise thing to discuss his sister’s affairs with his wife. Fanny would never be able to keep his news to herself.
“You ought to be in bed,” said he.
“Yes, I know I ought. But is she not a wretch?”
“Graeme, a wretch!”
“Nonsense, Arthur! I mean Mrs Tilman. You know very well.”
“Mrs Tilman! What has she to do with it?”
“What! did not Graeme tell you?”
And then the whole story burst forth—all, and a good deal more than has been told, for Fanny and Rose had been discussing the matter in private with Sarah, and she had relieved her mind of all that had been kept quiet so long.
“The wretch!” said Arthur. “She might have burned us in our beds.”
“Just what I said,” exclaimed Fanny, triumphantly. “But then, Sarah was there to watch her, and Graeme knew about it and watched too. It was very good of her, I think.”
“But why, in the name of common sense, did they think it necessary to wait and watch, as you call it? Why was she not sent about her business? Why was not I told?”
“Sarah told us, it was because Miss Elliott would not have Mrs Snow’s visit spoiled; and Rose says she wanted everything to go smoothly, so that she should think I was wise and discreet, and a good housekeeper. I am very much afraid I am not.”
Arthur laughed, and kissed her.
“Live and learn,” said he.
“Yes, and I shall too, I am determined. But, Arthur, was it not very nice of Graeme to say nothing, but make the best of it? Especially when mamma had got Nelly away and all.”
“It was very nice of her,” said Arthur.
“And mamma was very angry to-day, and Graeme said— no, it was mamma who said she would let me manage my own affairs after this, and Graeme said that would be much the best way.”
“I quite agree,” said her husband, laughing.
“But, Arthur, I am afraid if it had not been for Graeme, things would have gone terribly wrong all this time. I am afraid, dear, I am rather foolish.”
“I am sure Graeme does not say so,” said Arthur.
“No. She does not say so. But I am afraid it is true all the same. But, Arthur, I do mean to try and learn. I think Rose is right when she says there is no one like Graeme.”
Her husband agreed with her here, too, and he thought about these things much more than he said to his wife. It would be a different home to them all. Without his sister, he acknowledged, and he said to himself, that he ought to be the last to regret Graeme’s decision with regard to Mr Green and his European tour.
In the meantime, Graeme, not caring to share her thoughts with her sister just then, had stolen down-stairs again, and sat looking, with troubled eyes, out into the night. That was at first, while her conversation with her brother remained in her mind. She was annoyed that Mr Green had been permitted to speak, but she could not blame herself for it. Now, as she was looking back, she said she might have seen it coming; and so she might, if she had been thinking at all of Mr Green and his hopes. She saw now, that from various causes, with which she had had nothing at all to do, they had met more frequently, and fallen into more familiar acquaintanceship than she had been aware of while the time was passing, and she could see where he might have taken encouragement where none was meant, and she was grieved that it had been so. But she could not blame herself, and she could not bring herself to pity him very much.
“He will not break his heart, if he has one; and there are others far better fitted to please him, and to enjoy what he has to bestow, than I could ever have done; and, so that Arthur says nothing about it, there is no harm done.”
So she put the subject from her as something quite past and done with. And there was something else quite past and done with.
“I am afraid I have been very foolish and wrong,” she said, letting her thoughts go farther back into the day. She said it over and over again, and it was true. She had been foolish, and perhaps a little wrong. Never once, since that miserable night, now more than two years ago, when he had brought Harry home, had Graeme touched the hand or met the eye of Allan Ruthven. She had frequently seen Lilias, and she had not consciously avoided him, but it had so happened that they had never met. In those old times she had come to the knowledge that, unasked, she had given him more than friendship, and she had shrunk, with such pain and shame, from the thought that she might still do so, that she had grown morbid over the fear. To-day she had seen him. She had clasped his hand, and met his look, and listened to his friendly words, and she knew it was well with her. They were friends whom time, and absence, and perhaps suffering, had tried, and they would be friends always.
She did not acknowledge, in words, either her fear or her relief; but she was glad with a sense of the old pleasure in the friendship of Allan and Lilias; and she was saying to herself that she had been foolish and wrong to let it slip out of her life so utterly as she had done. She told herself that true friendship, like theirs, was too sweet and rare a blessing to be suffered to die out, and that when they came home again the old glad time would come back.
“I am glad that I have seen them again, very glad. And I am glad in their happiness. I know that I am glad now.”
It was very late, and she was tired after the long day, but she lingered still, thinking of many things, and of all that the past had brought, of all that the future might bring. Her thoughts were hopeful ones, and as she went slowly up the stairs to her room, she was repeating Janet’s words, and making them her own.
“I will take heart and trust. If the work I have here is God-given, He will accept it, and make me content in it, be it great or little, and I will take heart and trust.”
Chapter Thirty Seven.
If, on the night of the day when Janet went away, Graeme could have had a glimpse of her outward life for the next two years, she might have shrunk, dismayed, from the way that lay before her. And yet when two years and more had passed, over the cares, and fears, and disappointments, over the change and separation which the time had brought, she could look with calm content, nay, with grateful gladness. They had not been eventful years—that is, they had been unmarked by any of the especial tokens of change, of which the eye of the world is wont to take note, the sadden and evident coming into their lives of good or evil fortune. But Graeme had only to recall the troubled days that had been before the time when she had sought help and comfort from her old friend, to realise that these years had brought to her, and to some of those she loved, a change real, deep, and blessed, and she daily thanked God, for contentment and a quiet heart.
That which outwardly characterised the time to Graeme, that to which she could not have looked forward hopefully or patiently, but upon which she could look back without regret, was her separation from her sister. At first all things had happened as had been planned. They made their preparations for their long talked of visit to Merleville; they enjoyed the journey, the welcome, the wedding. Will went away, and then they had a few quiet, restful days with Janet; and then there came from home sad tidings of Fanny’s illness—an illness that brought her in a single night very near to the gates of death, and Graeme did not need her brother’s agonised entreaties to make her hasten to her side. The summons came during a brief absence of Rose from Merleville, and was too imperative to admit of Graeme’s waiting for her return, so she was left behind. Afterwards, when Fanny’s danger was over, she was permitted to remain longer, and when sudden business brought their brother Norman east, his determination to take her home with him, and her inclination to go, prevailed over Graeme’s unwillingness to consent, and the sisters, for the first time in their lives, had separate homes. The hope of being able to follow her in the spring, had at first reconciled Graeme to the thought, but when spring came, Fanny was not well enough to be left, nor would Norman consent to the return of Rose; and so for one reason or other, more than two years passed before the sisters met again. They were not unhappy years to Graeme. Many anxious hours came in the course of them, to her and to them all; but out of the cares and troubles of the time came peace, and more than peace at last.
The winter that followed her return from Merleville, was rather a dreary one. The restraints and self-denials, which the delicate state of her health necessarily imposed upon her, were very irksome to Fanny; and Graeme’s courage and cheerfulness, sometimes during these first months, were hardly sufficient to answer the demands made upon her. But all this changed as the hour of Fanny’s trial approached—the hour that was to make her a proud and happy mother; or to quench her hope, perhaps, her life, in darkness. All this was changed. Out of the entire trust which Fanny had come to place in her sister Graeme, grew the knowledge of a higher and better trust. The love and care which, during those days of sickness and suffering, and before those days, were made precious and assured, were made the means of revealing to her a love which can never fail to do otherwise than the very best for its object—a care more than sufficient for all the emergencies of life, and beyond life. And so, as the days went on, the possibilities of the future ceased to terrify her. Loving life, and bound to it by ties that grew stronger and closer every day, she was yet not afraid to know, that death might be before her; and she grew gentle and quiet with a peace so sweet and deep, that it sometimes startled Graeme with a sadden dread, that the end might, indeed, be drawing near.
Graeme was set at rest about one thing. If there had lingered in her heart any fear lest her brother’s happiness was not secure in Fanny’s keeping, or that his love for her would not stand the wear and tear of common life, when the first charms of her youth and beauty, and her graceful, winning ways were gone, that fear did not outlast this time. Through the weariness and fretfulness of the first months of her illness, he tended her, and hung about her, and listened to her complaints with a patience that never tired; and when her fretful time was over, and the days came when she lay hushed and peaceful, yet a little awed and anxious, looking forward to she knew not what, he soothed and encouraged her with a gentle cheerfulness, which was, to Graeme, pathetic, in contrast with the restless misery that seemed to take possession of him when he was not by her side. One does not need to be very good, or very wise, or even beautiful to win true love; and Fanny was safe in the love of her husband, and to her sister’s mind, growing worthier of it every day.
Graeme would have hardly acknowledged, even to herself, how much Arthur needed the discipline of this time, but afterwards she saw it plainly. Life had been going very smoothly with him, and he had been becoming content with its routine of business and pleasure. The small successes of his profession, and the consideration they won for him, were in danger of being prized at more than their value, and of making him forget things better worth remembering, and this pause in his life was needed. These hours in his wife’s sick-room, apparently so full of rest and peace, but really so anxious and troubled, helped him to a truer estimate of the value of that which the world can bestow, and forced him to compare them with those things over which the world has no power! Fanny’s eager, sometimes anxious questionings, helped to the same end. The confidence with which she brought her doubts and difficulties to him for solution, her evident belief in his superior wisdom and goodness, her perfect trust in his power and skill to put her right about matters of which until now she had never thought, were a reproach to him often. Listening to her, and pondering on the questions which her words suggested, he saw how far he had wandered from the paths which his father had trod, how far he had fallen short of the standard at which he had aimed, and the true object of life grew clearer to him during those days.
They helped each other to the finding of the better way; she helped him most, and Graeme helped them both. These were anxious days to her, but happy days, as well. In caring for these two, so dear to her in seeking for them the highest happiness, in striving, earnestly, that this time might not be suffered to pass, without leaving a blessing behind, she forgot herself and her own fears and cares and in seeking their happiness found her own.
This quiet time came to an end. The little life so longed for, so precious, lingered with them but a day, and passed away. Fanny hovered for a time on the brink of the grave, but was restored again, to a new life, better loved and more worthy of love than ever she had been before.
That summer they went south, to the seaside, and afterwards before they returned home, to Merleville, where Arthur joined them. It was a time of much pleasure and profit to them all. It did Arthur good to stand with his sister beside the two graves. They spoke there more fully and freely than they had ever spoken to each other before, of the old times, of their father and mother, and of the work they had been honoured to do in the world; and out of the memories thus awakened, came earnest thoughts and high resolves to both. Viewed in the light which shone from his father’s life and work, his own could not but seem to Arthur mean and worthless. Truths seen dimly, and accepted with reserve, amid the bustle of business, and the influence of the world, presented themselves clearly and fully here, and bowed both his heart and his reason, and though he said little to his sister, she knew that life, with its responsibilities and duties, would henceforth have a deeper and holier meaning to him.
Janet never spoke to Graeme of her old troubled thoughts. “It is all coming right with my bairn,” she said, softly, to herself, the very first glimpse she got of her face, and seeing her and watching her during these few happy days, she knew that she had grown content with her life, and its work, and that the fever of her heart was healed. And as the days went on, and she saw Arthur more and more like his father, in the new earnestness of his thoughts and hopes, and watched Fanny gentle, and loving, mindful of others, clinging to Graeme, and trusting and honouring her entirely,—a Fanny as different as could well be imagined from the vain, exacting little housekeeper, who had so often excited her indignation, a year ago, she repeated again and again. “It is coming right with them all.”
Another year passed, bringing new cares, and new pleasures, and, to Arthur and Fanny, the fulfilment of new hopes in the birth of a son. To Graeme, it brought many longings for the sight of her sister’s face, many half formed plans for going to her, or for bringing her home, but Arthur’s boy was three months old before she saw her sister. Will was still in Scotland, to stay for another year, at least Harry had been at home several times since his first sorrowful departure, and now there was a prospect that he would be at home always. A great change had taken place in his affairs. The firm of Elphinstone and Company no longer existed. It was succeeded by one, which bade fair to be as prosperous, and in time, as highly honoured as it had been, the firm of Elliott, Millar and Company. Mr Ruthven was still in the business, that is, he had left in it the capital necessary to its establishment on a firm basis, but he took no part in the management of its affairs. He lived in Scotland now, and had done so ever since the death of his wife, which, had taken place soon after they had reached that country. He had since succeeded, on the death of his uncle, his father’s brother, to the inheritance of a small estate near his native place, and there, with his mother and his little daughter, he resided. Either, it was said, his uncle had made his residence on the place a condition of possession, or he had grown tired of a life of business, but he, evidently, did not intend to return to Canada at present; even his half-brother, who deeply regretted his early withdrawal from active life, and earnestly remonstrated with him concerning it, knew little about his motives, except that his health was not so firm as it used to be, and that he had determined not to engage in business again.
Harry had changed much, during the years of his absence. Up to the time of his leaving home, he had retained his boyish frankness and love of fun, more than is usual in one really devoted to business, and successful in it. When he came back, he seemed older than those years ought to have made him. He was no longer the merry, impulsive lad, ready on the shortest notice, to take part in anything that promised amusement for the moment, whatever the next might bring. He was quiet and observant now; hardly doing his part in general conversation, holding his own views and opinions with sufficient tenacity when they were assailed, but rather indifferent as to what might be the views and opinions of others; as unlike as possible to the Harry who had been so ready on all occasions, either in earnest or in sport, to throw himself into the discussion of all manner of questions, with all kind of people. Even in their own circle, he liked better to listen than to speak, but he fell quite naturally and happily into his place at home, though it was not just the old place.
Graeme thought him wonderfully improved, and made no secret of her pride and delight in him. Arthur thought him improved too, but he shocked his sister dreadfully, by professing to see in him indications of character, that suggested a future resemblance to their respected friend, Mr Elias Green, in more than in success.
“He is rather too devoted to business, too indifferent to the claims of society, and to the pursuits of the young swells of the day, to be natural, I am afraid. But it will pay. In the course of fifteen or twenty years, we shall have him building a ‘palatial residence’, and boring himself and other people, like our respected friend. You seem to be a little discontented with the prospect, Graeme.”
“Discontented!” echoed Graeme. “It is with you, that I am discontented. How can you speak of anything so horrible? You don’t know Harry.”
“I know what the result of such entire devotion to business must be, joined to such talents as Harry’s. Success, of course, and a measure of satisfaction with it, more or less, as the case maybe. No, you need not look at Harry’s friend and partner. He is ‘tarred with the same stick,’ as Mrs Snow would say.”
Harry’s friend and partner, laughed.
“Mrs Snow would never say that about Mr Millar,” said Graeme indignantly, “nor about Harry either; and neither of them will come to a fate like that.”
“They may fail, or they may marry. I was only speaking of the natural consequences of the present state of affairs, should nothing intervene to prevent such a conclusion.”
“Harry will never grow to be like Mr Green,” said Fanny, gravely. “Graeme will not let him.”
“There is something in that,” said Arthur.
“There is a great deal in that,” said Mr Millar.
“There are a great many to keep Harry from a fate like that, besides me,” said Graeme, “even if there was any danger to one of his loving and generous nature.”
She was more in earnest than the occasion seemed to call for.
“Graeme,” said Fanny, eagerly, “you don’t suppose Arthur is in earnest. He thinks there is no one like Harry.”
Arthur laughed.
“I don’t think there are many like him, certainly, but he is not beyond spoiling, and Graeme, and you, too, make a great deal too much of him, I am afraid.”
“If that would spoil one, you would have been spoiled long ago,” said Graeme, laughing.
“Oh! that is quite another matter; but as to Harry, it is a good thing that Rose is coming home, to divert the attention of you two from him a while,” added he, as his brother came into the room. “And you will do your best to spoil her, too, if some of the rest of us don’t counteract your influence.”
“What is it all about?” said Harry. “Are you spoiling your son, Fanny? Is that the matter under discussion?”
“No. It is you that we are spoiling, Graeme and I. We admire you quite too much, Arthur says, and he is afraid we shall do the same for Rose.”
“As for Rose, I am afraid the spoiling process must have commenced already, if admiration will do it,” said Harry. “If one is to believe what Norman says, she has been turning a good many heads out there.”
“So that her own head is safe, the rest cannot be helped,” said Graeme, with a little vexation. It was not Harry’s words, so much as his tone, that she disliked. He shrugged his shoulders.
“Oh! as to that, I am not sure. I don’t think she tried to help it. Why should she? It is her natural and proper sphere of labour—her vocation. I think she enjoyed it, rather.”
“Harry, don’t! I can’t bear to hear you speak of Rose in that way.”
“Oh! my speaking of it can’t make any difference, you know; and if you don’t believe me, you can ask Charlie. He is my authority for the last bit of news of Rosie.”
Charlie looked up astonished and indignant, and reddened as he met Graeme’s eye.
“I don’t understand you, Harry—the least in the world,” said he.
“Do you mean to say you have forgotten the postscript I saw in Rowland’s letter about Mr Green and his hopes and intentions? Come, now, Charlie, that is a little too much.”
“Mr Green!” repeated Arthur and Fanny, in a breath.
“Are we never to have done with that unhappy man?” said Graeme, indignantly.
“The idea of Rose ever looking at him!” said Fanny.
“Oh! she might look at him without doing herself any harm,” said Harry. “She might even indulge in a little innocent flirtation—”
“Harry,” said Fanny, solemnly, “if there is a word in the English language that Graeme hates it is that. Don’t say it again, I beg.”
Harry shrugged his shoulders. Graeme looked vexed and anxious.
“Miss Elliott,” said Charlie, rising, in some embarrassment, “I hope you don’t think me capable of discussing—or permitting—. I mean, in the letter to which Harry refers, your sister’s name was not mentioned. You have received a wrong impression. I am the last person in the world that would be likely to offend in that way.”
“Charlie, man! you are making much ado about nothing; and, Graeme, you are as bad. Of course, Rosie’s name was not mentioned; but I know quite well, and so do you, who ‘La belle Canadienne’ was. But no harm was meant, and none was done.”
“It would be rather a good joke if Rosie were to rule in the ‘Palatial Residence’ after all, wouldn’t it?” said Arthur, laughing.
“Arthur, don’t! It is not nice to have the child’s name coupled with—with any one,” said Graeme.
“It may not be nice, but it cannot be helped,” said Harry. “It is the penalty that very pretty girls, like Rose, have to pay for their beauty—especially when they are aware of it—as Rose has good right to be by this time. Small blame to her.”
“And I don’t see that there is really anything to be annoyed about, Graeme,” said Arthur. “A great deal more than the coupling of names might happen without Rosie being to blame, as no one should know better than you.”
“Of course. We are not speaking of blame, and we will say no more about it,” said Graeme, rising; and nothing more was said. By and by Harry and his friend and partner rose to go. They lived together, now, in the house behind the willow trees, which Rose had taken such pleasure in watching. It was a very agreeable place of residence still, though a less fashionable locality than it used to be; and they were fortunate enough to have the efficient and kindly Nelly as housekeeper, and general caretaker still, and she magnified her office.
Harry had some last words to exchange with Arthur, and then Mr Millar approached Graeme and said, with a smile that was rather forced and uncertain,—
“I ought to apologise for coming back to the subject again. I don’t think you believe me likely to speak of your sister in a way that would displease you. Won’t you just say so to me?”
“Charlie! I know you could not. You are one of ourselves.”
Charlie’s face brightened. Of late it had been “Mr Millar,” mostly—not that Graeme liked him less than she used to do; but she saw him less frequently, and he was no longer a boy, even to her. But this time it was, “Charlie,” and he was very much pleased.
“You have been quite a stronger, lately,” she went on; “but now that Mrs Elliott is better and Rose coming home, we shall be livelier and better worth visiting. We cannot bring the old times quite back, even with Harry and Rose, but we shall always be glad to see you.”
She spoke cordially, as she felt, and he tried to answer in the same way; but he was grave, and did not use many words.
“I hope there is nothing wrong,” said Graeme, observing his changing look.
“Nothing for which there is any help,” said he. “No there is nothing wrong.”
“I am ready, Charlie,” said Harry, coming forward. “And Graeme, you are not to trouble yourself about Rose’s conquests. When she goes to her own house—‘palatial’ or otherwise—and the sooner the better for all concerned—you are coming to take care of Charlie and me.”
“There may be two or three words to be said on that subject,” said Arthur, laughing.
“I am sure neither you nor Fanny will venture to object; you have had Graeme all your life—at least for the last seven years. I should like to hear you, just. I am not joking, Graeme.”
Graeme laughed.
“There is no hurry about it, is there? I have heard of people changing their minds; and I won’t set my heart on it, in case I should be disappointed.”
Chapter Thirty Eight.
So Rose came home at last. Not just the Rose who had left them, now more than two years ago, even in the eyes of her sister. Her brothers thought her greatly changed and improved. She was more womanly, and dignified, and self-reliant, they said, and Graeme assented, wondering and pleased; though it had been the desire of her heart that her sister should come back to her just what she was when she went away.
She would probably have changed quite as much during those two years, had they been passed at home, though they might not have seen it so plainly. But Arthur declared that she had become Americanised to an astonishing degree, not making it quite clear whether he thought that an improvement, indeed not being very clear about it himself. Harry agreed with him, without the reservation; for Harry admired the American ladies, and took in good part Rose’s hints and congratulations with regard to a certain Miss Cora Snider, an heiress and a beauty of C—. “A trifle older than Harry,” explained she, laughing, aside to Graeme; “but that, of course, is a small matter, comparatively, other things ‘being agreeable.’”
“Of course,” said Harry, with a shrug that set Graeme’s fancy at rest about Miss Cora Snider.
In less time than Graeme at first supposed possible, they fell back into their old ways again. Rose’s dignity and self-reliance were for her brothers and her friends generally. With Graeme she was, in a day or two, just what she had been before she went away—a dear child and sister, to be checked and chided, now and then; to be caressed and cared for always; growing, day by day, dearer and fairer to her sister’s loving eyes. She was glad to be at home again. She was very fond of Norman and Hilda and their boys, and she had been very happy with them; but there was no one like Graeme, and there was no place like home. So she fell into her old place and ways, and was so exactly the Rosie of old times, that Graeme smiled in secret over the idea of her child having been in danger of being spoiled by admiration or by a love of it. It was quite impossible to believe that a love of pleasure would let her be so content with their quiet life, their household occupations, their unvaried round of social duties and pleasures. Admired she might have been, but it had not harmed her; she had come back to them quite unspoiled, heart-free and fancy-free, Graeme said to herself, with a sense of relief and thankfulness, that grew more assured as the time went on.
“It amuses me very much to hear Arthur say I am changed,” said Rose, one day, when the sisters were sitting together. “Why, if I had come home a strong-minded woman and the president of a convention, it would have been nothing to the change that has taken place in Fanny, which I daresay he does not see at all, as a change; he always was rather blind where she was concerned. But what have you being doing to Fanny, Graeme?”
“Rose, my dear,” said Graeme, gravely, “Fanny has had a great deal of sickness and suffering, and her change is for the better, I am sure; and, besides, are you not speaking a little foolishly?”
“Well, perhaps so, but not unkindly, as far as Fanny is concerned. For the better! I should think so. But then I fancied that Fanny was just the one to grow peevish in sickness, and ill to do with, as Janet would say; and I confess, when I heard of the arrival of young Arthur, I was afraid, remembering old times, and her little airs, that she might not be easier to live with.”
“Now, Rosie, that is not quite kind.”
“But it is quite true. That is just what I thought first, and what I said to Norman. I know you said how nice she was, and how sweet, and all that, but I thought that was just your way of seeing things; you never would see Fanny’s faults, you know, even at the very first.”
Graeme shook her head.
“I think you must have forgotten about the very first. We were both foolish and faithless, then. It has all come right; Arthur is very happy in his wife, though I never thought it could be in those days.”
There was a long pause after that, and then Rose said,—
“You must have had a very anxious time, and a great deal to do, when she was so long ill that first winter. I ought to have been here to help you, and I should have been, if I had known.”
“I wished for you often, but I did not have too much to do, or to endure. I am none the worse for it all.”
“No,” said Rose, and she came over and kissed her sister, and then sat down again. Graeme looked very much pleased, and a little surprised. Rose took up her work, and said, with a laugh that veiled something,—
“I think you have changed—improved—almost as much as Fanny, though there was not so much need.”
Graeme laughed, too.
“There was more need for improvement than you know or can imagine. I am glad you see any.”
“I am anxious about one thing, however, and so is Fanny, I am sure,” said Rose, as Fanny came into the room, with her baby in her arms. “I think I see an intention on your part to become stout. I don’t object to a certain roundness, but it may be too decided.”
“Graeme too stout! How can you say such things, Rosie?” said Fanny, indignantly.
“She is not so slender as when I went away.”
“No, but she was too slender then. Arthur thinks she is growing handsomer, and so do I.”
“Well, perhaps,” said Rose, moving believe to examine Graeme critically; “still I must warn her against future possibilities as to stoutness—and other things.”
“It is not the stoutness that displeases her, Fanny,” said Graeme, laughing; “it is the middle-aged look that is settling down upon me, that she is discontented with.”
“Fanny,” said Rose, “don’t contradict her. She says that on purpose to be contradicted. A middle-aged look, is it? I dare say it is!”
“A look of contentment with things as they are,” said Graeme. “There is a look of expectation on most young faces, you know, a hopeful look, which too often changes to an anxious look, or look of disappointment, as youth passes away. I mean, of course, with single women. I suppose it is that with me; or, do I look as if I were settling down content with things as they are?”
“Graeme,” said her sister, “if some people were to speak like that in my hearing, I should say it sounded a little like affectation.”
“I hope it is not politeness, alone, which prevents you from saying it to me?”
“But it is all nonsense, Graeme dear,” said Fanny.
“How old are you, Graeme?” said Rose. “Middle-aged, indeed!”
“Rosie, does not ten years seem a long time, to look forward to? Shall you not begin to think yourself middle-aged ten years hence?”
“Certainly not; by no means; I have no such intention, unless, indeed—. But we won’t speak about such unpleasant things. Fanny, shan’t I take the baby while you do that?”
“If you would like to take him,” said Fanny, with some hesitation.
Baby was a subject on which Rose and Fanny had not quite come to a mutual understanding. Rose was not so impressed with the wonderful attractions of her son as Fanny thought she ought to be. Even Graeme had been surprised at her indifference to the charms of her nephew, and expostulated with her on the subject. But Rose had had a surfeit of baby sweetness, and, after Hilda’s strong, beautiful boys, Fanny’s little, delicate three months’ baby was a disappointment to her, and she made no secret of her amusement at the devotion of Graeme, and the raptures of his mother over him. But now, as she took him in her arms, she astonished them with such eloquence of baby-talk as baby had never heard before. Fanny was delighted. Happily Graeme prevented the question that trembled on her lips as to the comparative merits of her nephews, by saying,—
“Well done, Rosie! If only Harry could hear you!”
“I have often wished that Hilda could see and hear you both over this little mortal. You should see Hilda. Does not she preserve her equanimity? Fancy her walking the room for hours with any of her boys, as you did the other night with this one. Not she, indeed, nor any one else, with her permission.”
“I thought—I am sure you have always spoken about Hilda as a model mother,” said Fanny, doubtfully.
“And a fond mother,” said Graeme.
“She is a model mother; she is fond, but she is wise,” said Rose, nodding her head. “I say no more.”
“Fanny dear, we shall have to learn of Rose. We are very inexperienced people, I fear,” said Graeme, smiling.
“Well, I daresay even I might teach you something. But you should see Hilda and her babies. Her eldest son is three years old, and her second will soon be two, and her daughter is four months. Suppose she had begun by walking all night with each of them, and by humouring every whim?”
And then Rose began her talk with the baby again, saying all sorts of things about the fond foolishness of his little mamma and his Aunt Graeme, that it would not have been at all pretty, she acknowledged, to say to themselves. Graeme listened, smiling, but Fanny looked anxious.
“Rose,” said she, “tell me about Hilda’s way. I want to have the very best way with baby. I know I am not very wise, but I do wish to learn and to do right!”
Her words and her manner reminded Rose so forcibly, by contrast, of the Fanny whose vanity and self-assertion had been such a vexation so often, that, in thinking of those old times, she forgot to answer her, and sat playing with the child’s clasping fingers.
“She thinks I will never be like Hilda,” said Fanny, dolefully, to Graeme.
Rose shook her head.
“There are not many like Hilda; but I don’t see any reason why you should not be as good a mother as she is, and have as obedient children. You have as good a teacher. No, don’t look at Graeme. I know what you mean. She has taught you all the good that is in you. There are more of us who could say the same—except for making her vain. It is this young gentleman, I mean, who is to teach you.”
And she began her extraordinary confidences to the child, till Graeme and Fanny were both laughing heartily at her nonsense.
“I’ll tell you what, Fanny,” said she, looking up in a little. “It is the mother-love that makes one wise, and Solomon has something to do with it. You must take him into your confidence. But, dear me! Think of my venturing to give you good advice, I might be Janet herself.”
“But, Rosie, dear,” said Graeme, still laughing, “Solomon has nothing to say about such infants as this one.”
“Has he not? Well, that is Hilda’s mistake, then. She is responsible for my opinions. I know nothing. The wisdom I am dispensing so freely is entirely hers. You must go and see Hilda and her babies, and you will understand all about it.”
“I mean to go and see her, not entirely for the sake of her wisdom, however, though it must be wonderful to have impressed you so deeply.”
“Yes, it is wonderful. But you will be in no hurry about going, will you? Two or three years hence will be time enough, I should think. I mean to content myself here for that time, and you are not going there, or anywhere, without me. That is quite decided, whatever arrangements Norman may have made.”
“I don’t think he will object to your going with me, if Arthur doesn’t, and Fanny,” said Graeme, smiling.
“Possibly not. But I am not going yet. And no plan that is meant to separate you and me shall prosper,” said Rose, with more heat than the occasion seemed to call for, as though the subject had been previously discussed in a manner not to her liking. Graeme looked grave and was silent a moment, then she said,—
“I remember saying almost these very words before we went to Merleville, to Emily’s wedding. But you know how differently it turned out for you and me. We will keep together while we can, dear, but we must not set our hearts upon it, or upon any other earthly good, as though we knew best what is for our own happiness.”
“Well, I suppose that is the right way to look at it. But I am to be your first consideration this winter, you must remember, and you are to be mine.”
“Graeme,” said Fanny, earnestly, “I don’t think Rose is spoiled in the least.”
Fanny made malapropos speeches sometimes still, but they were never unkindly meant now, and she looked with very loving eyes from one sister to the other.
“I hope you did not think Hilda was going to spoil me. Did you?” said Rose, laughing.
“No, not Hilda; and it was not I who thought so, nor Graeme. But Harry said you were admired more than was good for you, perhaps, and—”
Rose shrugged her shoulders.
“Oh! Harry is too wise for anything. I had a word or two with him on that subject myself, the last time he was out at Norman’s. You must not mind what Harry says about me, Fanny, dear.”
“But, Rose, you are not to think that Harry said anything that was not nice. It was one night when Mr Millar was here, and there was something said about Mr Green. And he thought—one of them thought that you—that he—I have forgotten what was said. What was it, Graeme? You were here as well as I.”
“I am very sure there was nothing said that was not nice,” said Graeme. “I don’t quite remember about it. There was nothing worth remembering or repeating.”
“I daresay Harry told you I was a flirt. He told me so, myself, once,” said Rose, tossing her head in a way Graeme did not like to see.
“Hush, dear. He said nothing unkind, you may be sure.”
“And, now I remember, it was not Harry but Mr Millar who spoke about Mr Green,” said Fanny, “and about the ‘palatial residence,’ and how Rose, if she liked, might—”
Rose moved about impatiently.
“I must say I cannot admire the taste that would permit the discussion of anything of that sort with a stranger,” said she, angrily.
“My dear, you are speaking foolishly. There was no such discussion. And if you say anything more on the subject, I shall think that Harry was right when he said you were fond of admiration, and that your conscience is troubling you about something. Here comes nurse for baby. I suppose it is time for his bath, is it mamma?”
Fanny left the room with the child, and, after a few minutes’ silence, Rose said, with an effort,—
“Now, Graeme, please tell me what all this is about.”
“Dear, there is nothing to tell. I fancy Harry used to think that I was too anxious and eager about your coming home, and wanted to remind me that you were no longer a child, but a woman, who was admired, and who might, by and by, learn to care for some one else, more than for your sister and brothers. But he did not seriously say anything that you need care about. It would have been as well, perhaps, not to have said anything in Mr Millar’s presence, since we seem to have fallen a little out of acquaintance with him lately. But Harry has not, and he did not consider, and, indeed, there was nothing said that he might not very well hear.”
“It seems it was he who had most to say.”
“No. You are mistaken. Fanny did not remember correctly. It was either Arthur or Harry who had something to say about Mr Green. I don’t think Charlie had anything to say about it. I am sure he would be the last one willingly to displease me or you. And, really, I don’t see why you should be angry about it, dear Rosie.”
“I am not angry. Why should I be angry?” But she reddened as she met Graeme’s eye. Graeme looked at her in some surprise.
“Harry is—is unbearable sometimes,” said Rose. “Fancy his taking me to task about—about his friend— Oh! there is no use talking about it. Graeme, are you going out?”
“Yes, if you like. But, Rose, I think you are hard upon Harry. There must be some misunderstanding. Why! he is as fond and as proud of you as possible. You must not be vain when I say so.”
“That does not prevent his being very unreasonable, all the same. However, he seems to have got over it, or forgotten it. Don’t let us speak any more about it, Graeme, or think about it either.”
But Graeme did think about it, and at first had thoughts of questioning Harry with regard to Rose’s cause of quarrel with him, but she thought better of it and did not. Nor did she ever speak about it again to Rose; but it came into her mind often when she saw the two together, and once, when she heard Harry say something to Rose about her distance and dignity, and how uncalled for all that sort of thing was, she would have liked to know to what he was referring to, but she did not ask, for, notwithstanding little disagreements of this kind, they were evidently excellent friends.
How exactly like the old time before Arthur’s marriage, and before Will or Harry went away, some of the days were, that followed the coming home of Rose. They seemed like the days even longer ago, Graeme felt, with a sense of rest and peace at her heart unspeakable. For the old content, nay, something better and more abiding had come back to her. The peace that comes after a time of trouble, the content that grows out of sorrow sanctified, are best. Remembering what has gone before, we know how to estimate the depth, and strength, and sweetness—the sharpness of past pain being a measure for the present joy. And, besides, the content that comes to us from God, out of disappointment and sorrow, is ours beyond loss, because it is God-given, and we need fear no evil.
So these were truly peaceful days to Graeme, untroubled by regret for the past, or by anxious fears for the future. They were busy days, too, filled with the occupations that naturally sprung out of happy home life, and agreeable social relations. Rose had been honoured, beyond her deserts, she said, by visits since she came home. These had to be returned, and Graeme, who had fallen off from the performance of such duties, during Rose’s absence, and Fanny’s illness, took pleasure in going with her. She took real pleasure in many of these visits, sometimes because of the renewal of friendly interest, sometimes for other reasons. The new way in which the character and manner of Rose came out never failed to amuse her. At home, and especially in her intercourse with her, Rose was just what she had been as a child, except the difference that a few added years must make. But it was by no means so in her intercourse with the rest of the world. She had ideas and opinions of her own, and she had her own way of making them known, or of defending them when attacked. There was not much opportunity for seeing this during brief formal visits, but now and then Graeme got a glimpse that greatly amused her. The quiet self-possession with which she met condescending advances, and accepted or declined compliments, the serene air with which she ignored or rebuked the little polite impertinences, not yet out of fashion in fine drawing-rooms, it was something to see. And her perfect unconsciousness of her sister’s amusement or its cause was best of all to Graeme. Arthur amused himself with this change in her, also, and had a better opportunity to do so. For Graeme seldom went to large parties, and it was under the chaperonage of Mrs Arthur that Rose, as a general thing, made her appearance in their large and agreeable circle, on occasions of more than usual ceremony. Not that there were very many of these. Fanny was perfectly well now, and enjoyed these gay gatherings in moderation, but they were not so necessary to her happiness as they used to be, and Rose, though she made no secret of the pleasure she took in them, was not unreasonable in her devotion to society. So the winter was rather quiet than otherwise, and Graeme and Rose found themselves with a good deal of leisure time at their disposal.
For true to her first idea of what was for the happiness of her brother’s household, Graeme, as Fanny grew stronger, gradually withdrew from the bearing of responsibility where household matters were concerned, and suffered it to fall, as she felt it to be right, on Arthur’s wife. Not that she refused to be helpful; either in word or in deed, but it was as much as possible at the bidding of the mistress of the house. It was not always very easy to do, often not by any means so easy as it would have been to go on in the old way, but she was very much in earnest about this thing. It was right that it should be so, for many reasons. The responsibilities, as well as the honour, due to the mistress of the house, were Fanny’s. These could not, she being in health and able to bear them, be assumed by her sister without mutual injury. The honour and responsibility could not be separated without danger and loss. All this Graeme tried to make Fanny see without using many words, and she had a more docile pupil than she would have had during the first year of her married-life. For Fanny had now entire confidence in the wisdom and love of her sister, and did her best to profit by her teaching:
It was the same where the child was concerned. While she watched over both with loving care, she hesitated to interfere or to give advice, even in small matters, lest she should lessen in the least degree the young mother’s sense of responsibility, knowing this to be the best and surest guide to the wise and faithful performance of a mother’s duties. And every day she was growing happier in the assurance that all was coming right with her sister, that she was learning the best of all wisdom, the wisdom of gentleness and self-forgetfulness, and of devotion to the welfare of others, and that all this was bearing fruit in the greater happiness of the household. And besides this, or rather as a result of this, she bade fair to be a notable little house-mother also; a little over-anxious, perhaps, and not very patient with her own failures, or with the failures of others, but still in earnest to attain success, and to be in all things what in the old times, she had only cared to seem.
Though Harry did not now form one of the household, he was with them very often. Mr Millar did not quite fall into the place which Harry’s friend Charlie had occupied, but though he said less about his enjoyment of the friendship of their circle, it was evident that it was not because he enjoyed it less than in the old times. He had only changed since then by growing quieter and graver, as they all had done. His brother’s determination not to return to Canada had been a great disappointment to him at the time, and he still regretted it very much, but he said little about it, less than was quite natural, perhaps, considering that they had once been such friends. Circumstances had made the brothers strangers during the boyhood of the younger, and it was hard that circumstances should separate them again, just as they had been beginning to know and to value each other. Charlie had hoped for a long time that Allan might come back after a year or two; for his estate was by no means a large one, and he believed that he would soon weary of a life of inactivity, and return to business again. He was still young, and might, with his knowledge and experience, do anything he liked in the way of making money, Charlie thought, and he could not be satisfied with his decision. But Will, who had visited Allan lately, assured Charlie that his brother was settling down to the enjoyment of a quiet country life, and that though he might visit Canada, there was little chance of his ever making that country his home again.
“I should think not, indeed,” said Arthur, one night, as they were discussing the matter in connection with Will’s last letter. “You don’t display your usual good judgment, Charlie, man, where your brother is concerned. Why should he return? He is enjoying now, a comparatively young man, all that you and Harry expect to enjoy after some twenty or thirty years of hard labour—a competency in society congenial to him. Why should he wait for this longer than he need?”
“Twenty or thirty years!” said Harry. “Not if I know it. You are thinking of old times. But I must say I agree with Charlie. It is strange that Mr Ruthven should be content to sit down in comparative idleness, for, of course, the idea of farming his own land is absurd. And to tell you the truth, I never thought him one to be satisfied with a mere competency. I thought him at one time ambitious to become a rich, man—a great merchant.”
“It would not be safe or wise to disparage the life and aims of a great merchant in your presence, Harry,” said Rose, “but one would think the life of a country gentleman preferable in some respects.”
“I don’t think Allan aspires to the position of a country gentleman—in the dignified sense in which the term is used where he is. His place is very beautiful, but it is not large enough to entitle him to the position of one of the great landed proprietors.”
“Oh! as to that, the extent makes little difference. It is the land that his fathers have held for generations, and that is a thing to be proud of, and to give position, Rose thinks,” said Arthur.
“His father never owned it, and his grandfather did not hold it long. It was lost to the name many years ago, and bought back again by Allan’s uncle within ten years.”
“Yes, with the good money of a good merchant,” said Harry.
“And did he make it a condition that he should live on it?” said Arthur.
“No, I think not. Allan never has said any such thing as that to me, or to my mother.”
“Still he may think it his duty to live there.”
“I don’t know. It is not as though it were a large estate, with many tenants, to whom he owed duty and care and all that. I think the life suits him. My mother always thought it was a great disappointment to him to be obliged to leave home when he did to enter upon a life of business. He did not object decidedly. There seemed at the time nothing else for him to do. So he came to Canada.”
“I daresay his present life is just the very life he could enjoy most. I wonder that you are so vexed about his staying at home, Charlie.”
“I daresay it is selfishness in me. And yet I don’t think it is so altogether. I know, at least I am almost sure, that it would be better for him to come here, at least for a time. He might always have the going home to look forward to.”
“I cannot imagine how he can content himself there, after the active life he lived on this side of the water; he will degenerate into an old fogey, vegetating there,” said Harry.
“But I think you are hard on yourself, Mr Millar, calling it selfishness in you to wish your brother to be near you,” said Graeme, smiling. “I could find a much nicer name for it than that.”
“I would like him to come for his own sake,” said Charlie. “As for me, I was just beginning to know him—to know how superior he is to most men, and then I lost him.” He paused a moment—
“I mean, of course, we can see little of each other now, and we shall find it much easier to forget one another than if we had lived together and loved and quarrelled with each other as boys. I shall see him if I go home next summer, and I don’t despair of seeing him here for a visit, at least.”
“Will says he means to come some time. Perhaps he will come back with you, or with Will himself, when he comes,” said Rose.
“Oh! the voyage is nothing; a matter of ten days or less,” said Arthur. “It is like living next door neighbours, in comparison to what it was when we came over. Of course he may come any month. I don’t understand your desolation, Charlie.”
Charlie laughed. “When is Will coming?”
“It does not seem to be decided yet,” said Graeme. “He may come in the spring, but if he decides to travel first, as he seems to have an opportunity to do, he will not be here till next autumn, at the soonest. It seems a long time to put it off; but we ought not to grudge the delay, especially as he may never get another chance to go so easily and pleasantly.”
“What if Will should think like Mr Ruthven, that a life at home is to be desired? How would you like that, girls?” said Harry.
“Oh! but he never could have the same reason for thinking so. There is no family estate in his case,” said Rose, laughing.
“Who knows?” said Arthur. “There may be a little dim kirk and a low-roofed manse waiting him somewhere. That would seem to be the most appropriate inheritance for his father’s youngest son. What would you say to that Graeme?”
“I would rather say nothing—think nothing about it,” said Graeme, hastily. “It is not likely that could ever happen. It will all be arranged for us, doubtless.”
“It was very stupid of you, Harry, to say anything of that sort to Graeme,” said Rose. “Now, she will vex herself about her boy, as though it were possible that he could stay there. He never will, I know.”
“I shall not vex myself, indeed, Rosie—at least I shall not until I have some better reason for doing so, than Harry’s foolish speeches. Mr Millar, you said you might go home next summer. Is that something new? Or is it only new to us?”
“It is possible that I may go. Indeed, it is very likely. I shall know soon.”
“It depends on circumstances over which he has no control,” said Harry, impressively. “He has my best wishes, and he would have yours, Graeme, I think, if you knew about it.”
“He has them, though I don’t know about it,” said Graeme. “I have confidence in him that he deserves success.”
“Yes, it is safe to wish him success—if not in one thing, in another. I am not sure that he quite knows what he wants yet, but I think I know what is good for him.”
“Rosie,” said Fanny, suddenly, “Mr Millar can set us right now. I am glad I thought of it. Mr Millar, is Mrs Roxbury your aunt, or only your brother’s?”
“I am afraid it is only Allan who can claim so close a relationship as that. I don’t think I can claim any relationship at all. I should have to consider, before I could make it clear even to myself, how we are connected.”
“It is much better not to consider the subject, then,” said Arthur, “as they are rather desirable people to have for relations; call them cousins, and let it go.”
“But at any rate she is not your aunt, and Amy Roxbury is not your cousin, as some one was insisting over Rose and me the other day. I told you so, Rosie.”
“Did you?” said Rose, languidly. “I don’t remember.”
“It was Mrs Gridley, I think, and she said—no, it must have been some one else—she said you were not cousins, but that it was a very convenient relationship, and very pleasant in certain circumstances.”
“Very true, too, eh, Charlie,” said Arthur, laughing.
“I should scarcely venture to call Miss Roxbury cousin,” said Charlie.
“She is very nice, indeed,” pursued Fanny. “Rose fell in love with her at first sight, and the admiration was mutual, I think.”
Rose shrugged her shoulders.
“That is, perhaps, a little strong, Fanny, dear. She is very charming, I have no doubt, but I am not so apt to fall into sudden admirations as I used to be.”
“But you admired her very much. And you said she was very like Lily Elphinstone, when you first saw her. I am sure you thought her very lovely, and so did Graeme.”
“Did I?” said Rose.
“She is very like her,” said Mr Millar. “I did not notice it till her mother mentioned it. She is like her in other respects, too; but livelier and more energetic. She is stronger than Lily used to be, and perhaps a little more like the modern young lady.”
“Fast, a little, perhaps,” said Arthur.
“Oh! no; not like one in the unpleasant sense that the word has. She is self-reliant. She has her own ideas of men and things, and they are not always the same as her mamma’s. But she is a dutiful daughter, and she is charming with her little brothers and sisters. Such a number there are of them, too.”
Charlie spoke eagerly, looking at Graeme. “You seem deeply interested in her,” said Arthur, laughing.
Harry rose impatiently.
“We should have Mrs Gridley here. I never think a free discussion of our neighbours and their affairs can be conducted on proper principles without her valuable assistance. Your cousin would be charmed to know that you made her the subject of conversation among your acquaintance, I have no doubt, Charlie.”
“But she is not his cousin,” said Fanny. “And Harry, dear, you are unkind to speak of us as mere acquaintances of Mr Millar. Of course, he would not speak of her everywhere; and you must permit me to say you are a little unreasonable, not to say cross.” And Rose smiled very sweetly on him as she spoke.
Harry did look cross, and Charlie looked astonished. Graeme did not understand it.
“Was that young Roxbury I saw you driving with the other day?” asked Arthur. “He is going into business, I hear.”
“It was he,” said Charlie. “As to his going into business, I cannot say. He is quite young yet. He is not of age. Are you going, Harry? It is not very late yet.”
They did not go immediately, but they did not have much pleasure after that. He was very lively and amusing, and tried to propitiate Harry, Graeme thought, but she was not quite sure; there were a good many allusions to events and places and persons that she did not understand, and nothing could be plainer than that she did not succeed. Then they had some music. Rose sat at the piano till they went away, playing pieces long, loud, and intricate; and, after they went away, she sat down again, and played on still.
“What put Harry out of sorts to-night?” asked Arthur.
“Was he out of sorts?” asked Graeme, a little anxiously.
Rose laughed.
“I shall have to give Harry some good advice,” said she; and that was the last word she said, till she said “good-night.”
“There is something wrong,” said Graeme to herself, “though I am sure I cannot tell what it is. In old times, Rosie would have burst forth with it all, as soon as we came up-stairs. But it is nothing that can trouble her, I am sure. I hope it is nothing that will trouble her. I will not fret about it beforehand. We do not know our troubles from our blessings at first sight. It ought not to be less easy to trust for my darling than for myself. But, oh! Rosie, I am afraid I have been at my old folly, dreaming idle dreams again.”