Chapter Forty.
Graeme awoke in the morning to wonder at all the doubts and anxieties that had filled her mind in the darkness; for she was aroused by baby kisses on her lips, and opened her eyes to see her sister Rose, with her nephew in her arms, and her face as bright as the May morning, smiling down upon her. Rose disappointed and sad! Rose hiding in her heart hopes that were never to be realised! She listened to her voice, ringing through the house, like the voice of the morning lark, and wondered at her own folly. She laughed, as Rose babbled to the child in the wonderful baby language in which she so excelled; but tears of thankfulness rose to her eyes as she remembered the fears of the night, and set them face to face with the joy of the morning.
“I could not have borne it,” she said to herself. “I am afraid I never could have borne to see my darling drooping, as she must have done. I am content with my own lot. I think I would not care to change anything the years have brought to me. But Rosie—. Ah! well, I might have known! I know I ought to trust for Rosie, too, even if trouble were to come. But oh! I am very glad and thankful for her sake.”
She was late in the breakfast-room, and she found Harry there.
“‘The early bird,’ you know, Graeme,” said he. “I have been telling Rosie what a scolding you were giving me last night on our way home.”
“But he won’t tell me what it was all about,” said Rose.
“I cannot. I don’t know myself. I have an idea that you had something to do with it, Rosie. But I can give no detailed account of the circumstances, as the newspapers say.”
“It is not absolutely necessary that you should,” said Graeme, smiling.
“I hope you are in a much better humour this morning, Graeme.”
“I think I am in a pretty good humour. Not that I confess to being very cross last night, however.”
“It was he who was cross, I daresay,” said Rose. “You brought him away before supper! No wonder he was cross. Are you going to stay very long, Harry?”
“Why? Have you any commands for me to execute?”
“No; but I am going to introduce a subject that will try your temper, judging from our conduct yesterday. I am afraid you will be threatening to beat some one.”
Harry shrugged his shoulders.
“Now, Graeme, don’t you call that flippant? Is it anything about the big doctor, Rosie?”
“You won’t beat him, will you Harry? No. It is only about his sister. Graeme, Fanny has given me leave to invite her here for a few days, if you have no objection. She cannot be enjoying herself very much where she is staying, and it will be a real holiday to the little thing to come here for a while. She is very easily amused. She makes pleasure out of everything. Mayn’t she come?”
“Certainly, if you would like her to come; I should like to know her very much.”
“And is the big brother to come, too?” asked Arthur.
“No. He leaves town to-day. Will you go with me, Harry, to fetch her here?”
“But what about ‘papa and mamma,’ to whom you were to be shown? The cunning, little thing has some design upon you, Rosie, or, perhaps, on some of the rest of us.”
Rose laughed.
“Don’t be frightened, Harry. You are safe, as you are not domesticated with us. And I intend to show myself to ‘papa and mamma’ later, if you don’t object.”
“There! look at Graeme. She thinks you and I are quarrelling, Rosie. She is as grave as a judge.”
“Tell us about the party, Harry,” said Fanny.
“It was very pleasant. I don’t think Graeme enjoyed it much, however. I wonder, too, that she did not, for there were more nice people there than we usually see at parties. It was more than usually agreeable, I thought.”
“You are degenerating, Harry,” said his brother. “I thought you were beyond all that sort of thing. I should have thought you would have found it slow, to say the least.”
“And then to make him lose the supper! It was too bad of you, Graeme,” said Rose.
“Oh! she didn’t. I went back again.”
They all exclaimed. Only Harry laughed.
“Can I do anything for you and your friend, Rosie?” asked he.
“Yes, indeed you can. I intend to make a real holiday for the little thing. We are open to any proposal in the way of pleasure, riding, driving, boating, picnicking, one and all.”
“It is very kind of you, Harry, to offer,” said Graeme.
“Hem! not at all. I shall be most happy,” said Harry.
“Oh! we shall not be exacting. We are easily amused, little Etta and I.”
Miss Goldsmith’s visit was a success. She was a very nice little girl, whose life had been passed in the country—not in a village even, but quite away from neighbours, on a farm, in which her father had rather unfortunately invested the greater part of his means. It might not prove to be unfortunate in the end, Etta explained to them, because the land was valuable, only in the meantime it seemed to take all the income just to keep things going. But by and by she hoped farming would pay, and the place was beautiful, and they lived very happily there, if they only had a little more money, Etta added gravely.
Dick was the hero who was to retrieve the fallen fortunes of the family, Etta thought. He was her only own brother. All the rest of the children were only her half-brothers and sisters. But notwithstanding the hard times to which Etta confessed, they were a very happy family, it seemed.
Everything was made pleasure by this little girl. It was pleasure just to drive through the streets, to see the well-dressed people, to look in at the shop-windows. Shopping was pleasure, though she had little to spend. An hour in a bookseller’s, or in a fancy shop, was pleasure. The churches, old and new, were wonderful to her, some for one reason, some for another. Rose and she became independent and strong-minded, and went everywhere without an escort. They spent a day in wandering about the shady walks of the new cemetery, and an afternoon gazing down on the city from the cathedral towers. They paid visits and received them; and, on rainy days, worked and read together with great delight, if not with much profit. Rose, with both heart and hands, helped her friend to make the most of her small allowance for dress; and contrived, out of odds and ends, to make pretty, inexpensive ornaments for her, and presents for her little brothers and sisters at home. She taught her new patterns in crochet, and new stitches in Berlin wool. She even gave her a music lesson, now and then, and insisted on her practising, daily, that she might get back what she had lost since she left school, and so be able the better to teach her little sisters when she went home. In short, she contrived to fill up the time with amusement, or with work of some sort. Not a moment but was occupied in some way.
Of course, Graeme was sometimes included in their plans for the day, and so were Fanny and baby, but for the most part the young girls were occupied with each other; and the visit, which was to have been for a few days, lengthened out beyond the month, and might have been longer than that, even, only Rose had a slight, feverish attack which confined her to her room for a day or two, and then Etta could no longer hide from herself that she ought to go home.
“I hope I shall not find that this pleasant time has spoiled me. I think papa and mamma are somewhat afraid. I mean to be good, and contented, and helpful; but I know I am only a silly little thing. Oh! Rosie! if you were only going home with me for a little while!”
“I should like it very much, indeed,” said Rose.
“Of course, everything is very different at our house, but you wouldn’t mind that. Miss Elliott, don’t you think you could spare Rose to me for a few days?”
Graeme shook her head.
“I think I have spared her to you a good many days. I have seen very little of her for a long time, I think.”
Miss Goldsmith looked grieved and penitent. “Nonsense, Etta,” said Rose; “she is only laughing at you. She has had you and me, too. And I should like very much to go with you. This is the nicest time of the year to be in the country, I think. What do you say, Graeme?”
Little Etta clasped her hands, and looked at Graeme so entreatingly, that Rose laughed heartily. But Graeme said nothing encouraging. However, the very hottest days of the summer came that season among the first June days, and, because of the heat, Graeme thought Rose did not recover from her illness so quickly as she ought to have done. She is languid and pale, though pretty busy still, and cheerful, and Graeme proposed that she should go with her friend for a few days, at least. Etta was enchanted.
“I am afraid my resolutions about being good, and helping mamma, and teaching the little ones, would have fallen through, for I know I am a foolish girl. But with Rose to help me, just at first, I shall succeed I know.”
“Don’t be silly, Etta,” said Rose. “You are a great deal wiser and better, and of a great deal more use in the world, than ever I was, or am like to be. All my wisdom is lip-wisdom, and my goodness lip-goodness. If they will help you, you shall have the benefit of them; but pray don’t make me blush before Graeme and Fanny, who know me so well.”
No time had to be lost in preparations. The decision was made one day, and they were to leave the next. Harry, with his friend and partner, came up one night to bid Miss Goldsmith good-bye, and heard for the first time of Rose’s intention to go with her. Harry did not hear it with pleasure, indeed; he made no secret of his vexation. There was a little bantering talk between them, in the style that Graeme disliked so much, and then Rose went away for a few minutes.
“Graeme,” said Harry, “what is all this about? It seems to me Rose ought to have had enough of her little friend by this time. What freak is this she has taken about the country, and a change of air, and nonsense?”
“If it is a freak, it is mine,” said Graeme, quietly. “Rose needs a change. She is not ill, but still she is not quite well, and I am very glad she is to go with Miss Goldsmith.”
“A change,” repeated Harry. “Why could she not go with Fanny to the seaside, if she needs a change?”
“But Fanny is not going for several weeks yet. Rose will be home before that time. She will not be away more than a fortnight, I hope.”
“A fortnight, indeed! What has the time to do with it? It is the going at all that is so foolish: You astonish me, Graeme.”
“You astonish me, Harry! Really I cannot understand why you should care so much about it.”
“Well, well! If you are pleased, and she is pleased, I need not trouble myself about it,” said Harry, sulkily.
“What has happened to you, Harry?” said Fanny. “You are not like yourself, to-night.”
“He is a great deal more like the Harry of old times,” said Graeme. “Like the Harry you used to know long ago, Mr Millar, than like the reasonable, dignified person we have had among us lately.”
“I was just thinking so,” said Mr Millar.
“Why should not Rosie go?” persisted Fanny. “I think it must be a very stupid place, from all that Etta says; still, if Rose wishes it, why should she not go?”
“I believe it is the big brother Harry is afraid of,” said Arthur, laughing. Graeme and Fanny laughed, too.
“I don’t think it is a laughing matter,” growled Harry. “How would you like it if she were to throw herself away on that red-headed giant?”
Arthur and Fanny laughed, still, but Graeme looked grave. “It would be just like a silly girl like Rose,” continued Harry, gloomily.
“Harry,” said Graeme, “I think you are forgetting what is due to your sister. You should be the last person to couple Rose’s name with that of any gentleman.”
“Of course, it is only among ourselves; and, I tell you, Graeme, you are spoiling Rosie—”
“Harry! be quiet. I don’t choose to listen to you on that subject.”
“I declare, Harry, you are getting morbid on the subject of Rosie’s conquests. It is the greatest folly imaginable,” said Arthur.
“Well, it may be so. At any rate, I shall say no more. Are you coming, Charlie? I must go.”
He went to the foot of the stairs, and called: “Rose, are you coming down again? I must go.”
Rose came flying down.
“Must you go, Harry? I am just done with what I needed to do. Don’t be cross with me, Harry.” And greatly to his surprise, as she put her arms around his neck, he felt her tears upon his cheek.
“Why, Rosie, what ails you? I didn’t mean to be cross, Rosie, my darling.”
But, in a minute, Rose was smiling through her tears.
“Rosie, dear,” whispered her brother, “you are a very silly little girl. I think you are the very silliest girl I know. I wish—” Rose wiped her eyes.
“Don’t go yet, Harry. I will come in immediately; and please don’t tell Graeme that I am so silly. She wouldn’t like it at all.”
“Graeme is as silly as you are,” growled Harry.
Rose laughed, and ran up-stairs, but came down in a minute with Miss Goldsmith. Harry had brought a great paper of sweets for the little sisters at home, for which Etta thanked him very prettily, and then she said:
“I hope you are not afraid to trust Rose with us? We will take great care of her, I assure you.”
“Since I am too silly to take care of myself,” said Rose.
They had a pleasant evening enough, all things considered, and it was some time before Harry and his friend went away.
“I must say good-bye for a long time, Miss Rose,” said Mr Millar. “I shall have sailed before you are home again, I suppose.”
“You go in the first steamer, then?”
“I don’t know, I am not quite sure yet. I have not quite decided.”
“Of course, he goes by the first steamer,” said Harry. “He should have gone long ago. There is no use dwelling longer over so simple a matter.”
Rose opened her eyes very wide.
“Is that the way you speak to your friend and partner?” said Fanny.
“Really, Harry, I am afraid your fine temper is being spoiled,” said Rose. “I think Mr Millar is very good not to mind you.”
“I understand Harry,” said his friend.
“You don’t understand yourself, nor what is good for you. Good-bye, dear, silly, little Rose.”
“Good-bye, Harry. Don’t be cross.”
“Rose,” said Graeme, when they were up-stairs alone for the night, “I think it is the big brother that put Harry out of temper to-night.” Rose laughed.
“He seems quite afraid of him,” continued Graeme.
“And you are a little bit afraid of him, too, Graeme, or you never would have told me about Harry.”
“No. But I am just a little afraid for him.”
“You need not be. Harry thinks my desire for admiration insatiable, I know, but it is too bad of you, Graeme, to intimate as much. I have a great mind to tell you a secret, Graeme. But you must promise not to tell it again; at least, not yet.”
“Well,” said Graeme.
“If I should stay away longer than I mean to do at present, and Harry should get very unhappy about me, perhaps you might tell him. Harry thinks I cannot manage my own affairs,” added Rose, a vivid colour rising on her cheeks. “And he has a mind to help me. He has not helped me much, yet. Ah! well, there is no use going over all that.”
“What is the secret you are going to tell me?” asked Graeme.
“I don’t know whether I ought to tell. But it will be safe with you. Graeme, the big doctor is engaged.”
“Well,” said Graeme.
“It is not all smooth sailing, yet. I am afraid it may interfere somewhat with his success in retrieving the fortunes of the family, as Etta has always been hoping he might do. But she is quite pleased for all that, poor dear little thing. See that you don’t tell Harry.”
“Well, is that all you have to say on the subject?” asked her sister.
“Graeme! I do believe you are as bad as Harry. Do you fancy that it is I to whom Dr Goldsmith is engaged? By no means. I am afraid it is a foolish affair; but it may fall through yet. She is a young widow, and has two children, and a little money. No. It is very foolish of Harry to fancy things. He is very stupid, I think. But you are not to tell him, because, really, the secret is not mine, and besides, I have another reason. Good-night, dear.”
And so they went away in the morning. Rose’s visit to the country was quite as agreeable as had been Miss Goldsmith’s to the town, judging from the time she stayed there, and from the letters she sent home. The country was lovely, and she wondered any one would live in the city who could leave it. She kept a journal for Graeme, and it was filled with accounts of rides, and drives, and sails; with, now and then, hints of work done, books read, of children’s lessons, and torn frocks, of hay-making, and butter-making; and if Graeme had any misgiving as to the perfect enjoyment of her sister, it could not have been her letters that had anything to do with it.
At last there came word of an expedition to be undertaken to a lake far-away in the woods, where there were pond-lilies and lake trout in abundance. They were to carry a tent, and be out one night, perhaps two, and Mr and Mrs Goldsmith were going with them, and all the children as well. This was the last letter. Rose herself came soon after, to find a very quiet house, indeed. Fanny and her son had gone to the seaside, whither Graeme and Rose, perhaps, might go, later. Mr Millar had gone, too, not by the first steamer, nor by the second, however. If Rose had been home two days sooner, she might have seen him before he went, Harry told her; and Rose said, “What a pity! If I had only known, I could so easily have come!” That was all.
How quiet the house was during those long summer days! It was like the coming again of the old time, when they and Nelly used to have the house in the garden to themselves, with only Will coming and going, till night brought the brothers home.
“What happy, happy days they were!” said Rose, with a sigh.
“They were happy days,” said Graeme. “Very happy days.”
She did not seem to hear the regretful echo in her sister’s voice, nor did she take her to task for the idle hands that lay folded on her lap, nor disturb by word or look the times of silent musing, that grew longer and more frequent as those uneventful days passed on. What was to be said? The doubts and fears that had made her unhappy in the spring, and even before the spring, were coming back again. Rose was not at peace with herself, nothing was easier to be seen than that; but whether the struggle was with pride, or anger, or disappointment, or whether all these and something more had to do with it, she could only wait till time, or chance, or Rose of her own free will, should tell.
For Graeme could not bring herself to speak of the trouble which her sister, sad and preoccupied, in so many nameless ways betrayed. She would not even seem to see it, and so strove to make it appear that it was her own industry, her occupation with book, or pen, or needle, that made the silence between them, on those days when Rose sat listless or brooding, heedless of books, or work, or of whatever the day might bring. And when the fit of gloom wore over, or when, startled by some sudden fear of being observed, she roused herself, and came back with an effort to the things about her, Graeme was always ready, yet not too eager, to make the most of excuses. Either the heat made her languid, or the rain made her dull, or the yesterday’s walk had been exhausting; and Graeme would assent, and warn or reprove, as the case seemed to require, never intimating, by word or look, how clearly she saw through it all, and how she grieved and suffered with her.
And, when seized upon by restlessness or impatience, she grew irritable and exacting, and “ill to do with,” as Janet would have said, Graeme stood between her and the wonder and indignation, of her brothers, and, which was harder to do, shielded her from her own anger and self-contempt, when she came to herself again. She went out with her for long walks, and did what was kinder still, she let her go by herself, to rest her mind by tiring out her body, at times when the fever fit was on her, making her fret and chafe at trifles that would have made her laugh if all had been well with her.
It was an anxious time to Graeme. When their brothers were with them, Rose was little different from the Rose of old, as far as they could see; and, at such times, even Graeme would be beguiled into a momentary belief that she had been letting her fears speak, when there was little cause. But another day would come, bringing the old listlessness or restlessness, and Graeme could only watch and wait for the moment when a cheerful word, or a chiding one, might be spoken for her sister’s good, or a movement of some kind made to beguile her into occupation or pleasure for a little while. But, through all her watching, and waiting, and anxiety, Graeme spoke no word that might betray to her sister her knowledge that something was amiss with her.
For, indeed, what could she say? Even in her secret thoughts she had shrunk from looking too closely on the cloud of trouble that had fallen on the life of her young sister. Was it misunderstanding, or wounded pride, or disappointment? Or was it something which time and change might not so easily or so surely dispel? There were no words to be spoken, however it might be. That was plain enough, Graeme said to herself, remembering some years of her own experience, and the silent life she had lived unsuspected among them all.
Not that any such trouble as had befallen her, had come upon Rose. That was never for a moment to be believed. Nothing that had happened to Rose, or was like to happen, could so change life to her as hers had been changed. Rose was wiser and stronger than she had been, and she was younger, too, and, perhaps, as Janet had said, “of a lighter nature.” Graeme comforted herself thus, saying to herself that the cloud would pass away; and she waited and watched, and cared for her, and soothed or chided, or shielded her still. She did all this sorrowfully enough at times, yet hopefully, too, for she knew that whatever the trouble might be that, for the present, made the summer days a weariness to the desponding girl, it would pass away; and so she waited, and had patience, and prayed that, out of it all, she might come wiser and stronger, and more fitted for the work that was awaiting her somewhere in the world.
“Graeme,” said her sister, one day when they had been sitting for a long time silent together, “suppose we were to go and see Norman and Hilda this fall, instead of in the spring, as they propose.”
“Would you like it?” asked Graeme, a little surprised.
“Yes. For some things I would like it;” and Graeme fancied there was suppressed eagerness in her manner. “It is a better season to go, for one thing—a better season for health, I mean. One bears the change of climate better, they say.”
“But you have been here so short a time. What would Arthur say, and Fanny? It would look as if you only thought yourself a visitor here—as if your home was with Norman.”
Rose shrugged her shoulders.
“Well! neither Arthur nor Fanny would be inconsolable. The chances are it may be my home. It is worth taking into consideration. Indeed, I have been considering the matter for some time past.”
“Nonsense! Don’t talk foolishly, Rose. It is not long since you wished me to promise that we should always remain together, and I have no thought of going West to stay very long.”
“And why not? I am sure Norman has a right to grumble at our being here so long.”
“Not at you, Rosie.”
“No. Not at me. And, besides, I was not thinking of Norman, altogether. I was thinking of making a home for myself out there. Why not?”
Graeme looked up, a little startled.
“I don’t understand you, Rose.”
Rose laughed.
“No, you don’t. But you think you do. Of course, there is only one way in which a woman can have a home according, to the generally received opinion. It must be made for her. But one might fancy you should be beyond that by this time, Graeme,” added Rose, a little scornfully.
Graeme said nothing, and Rose went on.
“It would not be easy here, I know; but out there you and I could make a home to ourselves, and be independent, and have a life of our own. It is so different there. You ought to go there just to understand how very different it is.”
“If we needed a home,” said Graeme. “But, Rose, I am content with the home we have.”
“Content!” repeated Rose, impatiently. “There is surely something better than content to be looked for in the world;” and she rose and walked about the room.
“Content is a very good thing to have,” said Graeme, quietly.
“Yes, if one could have it. But now, Graeme, do tell me what is the good of such a life as we are living now?—as I am living, I ought to say. Your life and work are worth a great deal to the rest of us; though you must let me say I often wonder it contents you. Think of it, Graeme! What does it all amount to, as far as I am concerned, I mean? A little working, and reading, and music; a little visiting and housekeeping, if Fanny be propitious—coming, and going, and smiling, and making believe enjoy it, when one feels ready to fly. I am sick of the thought of it all.”
Graeme did not answer her. She was thinking of the time when she had been as impatient of her daily life as this, and of how powerless words, better than she could hope to speak, had been to help her; and though she smiled and shook her head at the young girl’s impetuous protest against the uselessness of her life, her eyes, quite unconsciously, met her sister’s with a look of wistful pity, that Rose, in her youthful impatience and jealousy, was quick to resent.
“Of course, the rest would make an outcry and raise obstacles—that is, if they were to be consulted at all,” she went on. “But you ought to know better, Graeme,” added she, in a voice that she made sharp, so that her sister need not know that it was very near being tearful.
“But, Rose, you have not told me yet what it is you would do, if you could have your own way. And what do you mean by having a life of your own, and being independent? Have you any plan?”
Rose sat down, with a little sigh of impatience.
“There is surely something that we could do, you and I together. I can have no plan, you know quite well; but you might help me, instead of—” Instead of laughing at me, she was going to say, but she stopped, for though Graeme’s lips were smiling, her eyes had a shadow in them that looked like coming tears; and the gaze, that seemed resting on the picture on the wall, went farther, Rose knew; but whether into the past or the future, or whether it was searching into the reason of this new eagerness of hers to be away and at work, she could not tell. However it might be, it vexed and fretted her, and she showed it by sudden impatient movements, which recalled her sister’s thoughts.
“What is it, Rose? I am afraid I was thinking about something else. I don’t think I quite understand what you were saying last,” said Graeme, taking up her work as a safe thing on which to fix her eyes.
“For I must not let her see that I know there must be a cause for this sudden wish for a new life,” said she to herself. If she had done what she longed to do, she would have taken the impatient, troubled child in her arms, and whispered, as Janet had whispered to her that night, so long ago, that the restless fever of her heart would pass away; she would have soothed and comforted her, with tender words, as Janet had not dared to do. She would have bidden her wait, and have patience with herself and her life, till this cloud passed by—this light cloud of her summer morning, that was only mist to make the rising day more beautiful, and not the sign of storm and loss, as it looked to her young, affrighted eyes.
But this she could not do. Even with certain knowledge of the troubles which she only guessed, she knew it would be vain to come to her with tender, pitying words, and worse than vain to try to prove that nothing had happened to her, or was like to happen, that could make the breaking up of her old life, and the beginning of a new one, a thing to be thought of by herself or those who loved her. So, after a few stitches carefully taken, for all her sister could see, she said,—
“And, then, there are so few things that a woman can do.”
The words brought back so vividly that night in the dark, when she had said them out of a sore heart to her friend, that her work fell on her lap again, and she met her sister’s eye with a look that Rose could not understand.
“You are not thinking of what I have been saying. Why do you look at me in that strange way?” said she, pettishly.
“I am thinking of it, indeed. And I did not know that I was looking any other than my usual way. I was saying to myself, ‘Has the poor child got to go through all that for herself, as I have done?’ Oh! Rosie, dear! if I could only give you the benefit of all my vexed thoughts on that very subject!”
“Well, why not? That is just what I want. Only, don’t begin in that discouraging way, about there being so few things a woman can do. I know all that, already.”
“We might go to Norman for a while together, at any rate,” said Graeme, feeling how impossible it would be to satisfy one another by what might be said, since all could not be spoken between them.
“Yes. That is just what I said, at first. And we could see about it there. We could much more easily make our plans, and carry them out there, than here. And, in the meantime, we could find plenty to do in Hilda’s house with the children and all the rest. I wish we could go soon.”
And then she went over what she had often gone over before, the way of life in their brother Norman’s house—Hilda’s housekeeping, and her way with her children, and in society, and so on, Graeme asking questions, and making remarks, in the hope that the conversation might not, for this time, come back to the vexed question, of what women may do in the world. It grew dark in the meantime, but they were waiting for Harry and letters, and made no movement; and, by and by, Rose said, suddenly:
“I am sure you used to think about all this, Graeme—about woman’s work, and how stupid it is to live on in this way, ‘waiting at the pool,’ as Hannah Lovejoy used to say. I declare it is undignified, and puts thoughts into people’s heads, as though—. It would be different, if we were living in our father’s house, or, even, if we had money of our own. You used to think so, yourself, Graeme. Why should Arthur and Harry do everything for us?”
“Yes, I remember. When Fanny first came, I think I had as many thoughts about all this as you have now. I was very restless, and discontented, and determined to go away. I talked to Janet about it one night.”
“And she convinced you that you were all wrong, I suppose,” said Rose. “And you were content ever after.”
“No. I don’t think she helped me much, at the time. But her great doctrine of patience and quiet waiting, and circumstances together, convinced me, afterward, that I did not need to go in search of my work, as seemed to me then the thing to do. I found it ready at my hand, though I could not see it then. Her wisdom was higher than mine. She said that out of it all would come content, and so it has.”
“That was not saying much!” said Rose.
“No. It did not seem to me, much, when she said it. But she was right, all the same, and I was wrong. And it has all happened much better than if I had got my own way.”
“But, Graeme, all that would not apply in the case of women, generally. That is begging the question, as Harry would say.”
“But I am not speaking of women in general; I am speaking about myself, and my own work; and I say Janet was wise, though I was far from thinking it that night, as I mind well.”
There was a pause, and then Rose said, in a low voice.
“It may have been right for you to stay at home then, and care for the rest of us, but it would be quite different now, with me, and I think with you, too. And how many women have to go and make a way of life for themselves. And it is right that it should be so; and Graeme, we might try.”
Instead of answering her directly, Graeme said, after a little while,—
“Did I ever tell you Rose, dear, about that night, and all that Janet said to me? I told her how I wished to get out of my useless, unsatisfactory life, just as you have been telling me. Did I ever tell you all she said to me? I don’t think I ever did. I felt then, just as you do now. I think I can understand your feeling, better than you suppose; and I opened my heart to Janet—I mean, I told her how sick I was of it all, and how good-for-nothing I felt myself to be, and how it all might be changed, if only I could find real work to do—”
And Graeme went on to tell much that had been said between them that night, about woman’s work, and about old maids, and a little about the propriety of not setting one’s face against the manifest lot of woman; and when she came to this part of it, she spoke with an attempt at playfulness, meant to cover, a little, the earnestness of all that went before. But neither in this nor in the rest, did she speak as though she meant Rose to take the lesson to herself, or as though it meant very much to either of them now; but rather implied by her words and manner, and by many a pathetic touch here and there, that she was dwelling on it as a pleasant reminiscence of the dear old friend, whose quaint sayings were household words among them, because of their wisdom, and because of the honour and the love they gave her. Her earnestness increased, as, by and by, she saw the impatience pass out of her sister’s face and manner; and it never came into her mind that she was turning back a page in her own experience, over which Rose had long ago pondered with wonder and sadness.
“I could not make Janet see the necessity that seemed so clear to me,” she went on. “I could not make her understand, or, at least, I thought she could not understand, for she spoke as though she thought that Fanny’s coming, and those old vexations, made me wish to get away, and it was not easy to answer her when she said that my impatience and restlessness would all pass away, and that I must fulfil papa’s last wish, and stay with the rest. I thought the time had come when the necessity for that was over, and that another way would be better for me, certainly; and I thought for Arthur and Fanny, too, and for you, Rosie. But, Oh! how much wiser Janet was than I, that night. But I did not think so at the time. I was wild to be set free from the present, and to have my own will and go away. It was well that circumstances were too strong for me. It has come true, as Janet said. I think it is better for us all that I have been at home all those years. Fanny and I have done each other good. It has been better for us all.”
She paused a moment, and then added,—
“Of course, if it had been necessary that I should go out into the world, and make my own way, I might have done as others have done, and won, at least, a measure of success. And so we might still, you and I together, Rose, if it were necessary, but that makes all the difference. There is no question of necessity for us, dear, at present, and as for God’s work, and work for our fellow creatures, we can find that at home. Without separating from the others, I mean.”
But Rose’s face clouded again.
“There need be no question of separating from the others, Graeme. Norman is out there, and there are hundreds of women who have their own place and work in the world, who have not been driven by necessity to look for them—the necessity of making a living, I mean. There are other necessities that a woman must feel—some more than others, I suppose. It is an idle, foolish, vain life that I am living. I know that I have not enough to fill my life, Graeme. I know it, though I don’t suppose I can make you understand it. I am past the age now to care for being petted, and amused, and made much of by the rest of you. I mean, I am too old now to feel that enough for my satisfaction. It is different with you, who really are good for something, and who have done so much, for Arthur and Fanny, and us all. And, besides, as you say, you are content; but as for me—oh! I know there is no use talking. I could never make you understand— There, I don’t want to be naughty, and vex you— and we will say no more to-night. Shall I get a light?”
She stooped over her sister, and kissed her, and Graeme, putting her arms round her, said softly,—
“Only one word more, Rosie. I think I can understand you better than you believe, as Janet understood me that night, though I did not see it then, and you must just let me say one thing. My darling, I believe all that is troubling you, now, will pass away; but, if I am wrong, and if it be best that you have your own way about this work of yours—I mean, if it is right—circumstances will arrange themselves to that end, and it will all come easy for you, and me, too. We shall keep together, at any rate, and I am not afraid. And, love, a year or two does make a difference in people’s feelings about things, though there is no good in my saying it to you, now, I know. But we will wait till Will comes home. We must be here to welcome him, even if his coming should be delayed longer than we hope now. I don’t like to think of any plan for you and me, out of which Will must be left. And so many things may happen before a year is over. I remember how restless and troubled I was at that time. I don’t like to think of it even now—and it is all past—quite past. And we will stay together, whatever happens, if we can, and, darling, you must have patience.”
All this was said with many a caressing pause between, and then Rose said,—
“Well—yes—I suppose we must wait for Will.”
But she did not say it cheerfully, and Graeme went on, after a little:
“And, dear, I have noticed more than once in my life that when a quiet time like this has come, it has come as a time of preparation for work of some sort; for the doing, or the bearing of God’s will in some peculiar way; and we must not lose the good of these quiet days by being anxious about the future, or regretful over the past. It will all come right, love, you may be sure of that.”
The last words were spoken hastily, for Harry’s voice was heard, and Rose went softly out at one door, as he came in at the other; and when, in a little, he called from the foot of the stairs, as he always did, when he did not find her in her parlour, she came down, affecting surprise.
“So you are here at last, Harry? Are there any letters to-night?”
Yes, there were letters. Harry had read his, and gave them the news with a little grumbling, while the gas was being lighted. His friend and partner seemed intent on making the most of his long delayed holiday, and was going to lengthen it a little, by taking a run to Paris, perhaps even to Rome.
“With whom do you think, Graeme?” added he, his face clearing up suddenly. “With his brother Allan, and our Will. Won’t they help one another to have a good time? Charlie takes it quite coolly, however, I must say. It was an even chance, at one time, whether he would go at all, and now, there is no telling when he will be back again. That is always the way. I wonder when I shall have my holiday? ‘The willing horse,’ you know, Rosie.”
“It is very hard on you, Harry, dear. But I fancied you had a little trip yourself, lately, and enjoyed it, too. Was that in the interest of your friend?”
“Hem! Yes—indirectly. I did enjoy it. Fanny says she has had a very pleasant summer; and, if you are going down at all, Rosie, it is time you were going. They seem to have a very nice set of people there. I think if you were to go at once, I would take a run down with you—next week, perhaps. I think you would enjoy it.”
“I thank you, Harry, dear. But, you know, Fanny’s taste and mine are different. I don’t always fancy her pleasant people. And I should not think of taking you away on my account.”
“Not at all. I shall go, at any rate. But I want you to go, Rosie, for a reason I have. And I promise you won’t regret it. I wish Graeme would go, too.”
“It would be charming if we could all go together,” said Rose. “But it would be hardly worth while, we could make so short a stay, now.”
“I enjoyed it very much,” said Harry. “One gets to know people so much better in such a place, and I am sure you would like the Roxburys, Rosie, if you would only take pains to know them.”
“My dear Harry! think what you are saying! Would they take pains to know me? They are Fanny’s nice people, are they? Yes, I suppose so. However, I don’t believe Graeme will care to go.”
Graeme uttered an exclamation over her letter.
“It is from. Mr Snow,” said she, with a pale face.
“Bad news?” asked Harry.
It was bad news, indeed. It told, in Mr Snow’s brief way, that, within a few days, the illness, from which his wife had been suffering for some time, had taken a dangerous turn, rendering an operation necessary; and the letter was sent to prepare them for a possible fatal result.
“It gives her a chance, and that is all the doctors will say. She says it will be all right whichever way it turns. God bless you all. Emily will tell you more.”
“Harry,” said Graeme, as he laid down the letter. “I must go to Janet.”
“It would be a comfort to her if you could,” said Harry, gravely.
“And to me,” said Graeme. “I shall go early to-morrow.”
There was not much more said about it. There was a little discussion about the trains, and the best way to take, and then Harry went away. Rose had not spoken a word while he was there, but the moment the door closed after him, she said, softly,—
“Harry does not think that I am going; but, dear, you promised that, whatever happened, we should keep together. And, Graeme, the quiet time has been to prepare you for this; and we are sure it will all be right, as Janet says. You will let me go with you, Graeme?” she pleaded; “you will never go and leave me here?”
So whatever Harry thought, Graeme could do nothing but yield; and the next morning the sisters were speeding southward, with fear in their hearts, but with peace and hope in them, also; for they knew, and they said to one another many times that day, that the words of their dear old friend would come true, and that in whatever way the trouble that had fallen on her might end, it would be for her all well.
Chapter Forty One.
September was nearly over; there were tokens of the coming Autumn on the hills and valleys of Merleville, but the day was like a day in the prime of summer, and the air that came in through the open windows of the south room fell on Mrs Snow’s pale cheeks as mild and balmy as a breeze of June. The wood-covered hills were unfaded still, and beautiful, though here and there a crimson banner waved, or a pillar of gold rose up amid the greenness. Over among the valleys, were sudden, shifting sparkles from half-hidden brooks, and the pond gleamed in the sunshine without a cloud to dim its brightness. In the broken fields that sloped towards it, and in the narrow meadows that skirted that part of the Merle river which could be seen, there were tokens of life and busy labour—dark stretches of newly-turned mould alternating with the green of the pastures, or the bleached stubble of the recent harvest. There were glimpses of the white houses of the village through the trees, and, now and then, a traveller passed slowly along the winding road, but there was nothing far or near to disturb the sweet quiet of the scene now so familiar and so dear, and Mrs Snow gazed out upon it with a sense of peace and rest at her heart which showed in her quiet face and in her folded hands.
It showed in Mr Snow’s face, too, as he glanced now and then over the edge of the newspaper he was holding in his hand. He was reading, and she was supposed to be listening, to one of the excellent articles which weekly enriched the columns of The Puritan, but the look that was coming and going on his wife’s face was not just the look with which she was wont to listen to the doings of the County Association of ministers, Mr Snow thought, and, in a little, he let the paper drop from his hand.
“Well, and how did they come on with their discussions?” said Mrs Snow, her attention recalled by the silence.
Mr Snow smiled.
“Oh! pretty much so. Their discussions will keep a spell, I guess,” said he, taking off his spectacles, and changing his seat so as to look out of the window.
“It is a bonny day,” said Mrs Snow, softly.
“Yes, it is kind of pleasant.”
There was nothing more said for a long time. Many words were not needed between these two by this time. They had been passing through weeks of sore trial; the shadow of death had seemed to be darkening over them, and, worse to bear even than the prospect of death, had been the suffering which had brought it near. Worse for her, for she had drawn very near to the unseen world—so near that the glory had been visible, and it had cost her a struggle to be willing to come back again; and worse for him, too, whose heart had grown sick at the sight of the slow, wearing pain, growing sharper every day.
But that was past now. Very slowly, but still surely, health was coming back to the invalid, and the rest from long pain, and the consciousness of returning strength, were making the bright day and the fair scene more beautiful to her. As for him, he could only look at her with thankful joy.
“I never saw this bonny place bonnier than it is to-day, and so sweet, and quiet, and homelike. We live in a fair world, and, on a day like this, one is ready to forget that there is sin or trouble in it.”
“It is good to see you sitting there,” said Mr Snow, for answer.
“Well, I am content to be sitting here. I doubt I shall do little else for the rest of my life. I must be a useless body, I’m afraid,” added she, with a sigh.
Mr Snow smiled.
“You know better than that,” said he. “I don’t suppose it seems much to you to get back again; but it is a great deal for the rest of us to have you, if it is only to look at.”
“I am content to bide my time, useless or useful, as God wills,” said his wife, gravely:
“I was willing you should go—yes, I do think I was willing you should go. It was the seeing you suffer that seemed to take the strength out of me,” said he, with a shudder. “It makes me kind of sick to think about it,” added he, rising and moving about. “I believe I was willing, but I am dreadful glad to see you sitting there.”
“I am glad to be here, since it is God’s will. It is a wonderful thing to stand on the very brink of the river of death, and then to turn back again. I think the world can never look quite the same to eyes that have looked beyond it to the other side. But I am content to be here, and to serve Him, whether it be by working or by waiting.”
“On the very brink,” repeated Mr Snow, musingly. “Well, it did look like that, one while. I wonder if I was really willing to have you go. It don’t seem now as if I could have been—being so glad as I am that you did not go, and so thankful.”
“I don’t think the gladness contradicts the willingness; and knowing you as I do, and myself as well, I wonder less at the willingness than at the gladness.”
This needed further consideration, it seemed, for Mr Snow did not answer, but sat musing, with his eyes fixed on the distant hills, till Mrs Snow spoke again.
“I thought at first, when the worst was over, it was only a respite from pain before the end; but, to-day, I feel as if my life was really coming back to me, and I am more glad to live than I have been any day yet.”
Mr Snow cleared his throat, and nodded his head a great many times. It was not easy for him to speak at the moment.
“If it were only May, now, instead of September! You always did find our winters hard; and it is pretty tough being hived up so many months of the year. I do dread the winter for you.”
“Maybe it winna be so hard on me. We must make the best of it anyway. I am thankful for ease from pain. That is much.”
“Yes,” said Mr Snow, with the shudder that always came with the remembrance of his wife’s sufferings, “thank God for that. I ain’t a going to fret nor worry about the winter, if I can help it. I am going to live, if I can, from hour to hour, and from day to day, by the grace that is given me; but if I could fix it so that Graeme would see it best to stop here a spell longer, I should find it considerable easier, I expect.”
“But she has said nothing about going away yet,” said Mrs Snow, smiling at his way of putting it. “You must take the grace of her presence, day by day, as you do the rest, at least till she shows signs of departure.”
“We never can tell how things are going to turn,” said Mr Snow, musingly. “There is that good come out of your sickness. They are both here, and, as far as I see, they are content to be here. If we could prevail on Will to see it his duty to look toward this field of labour, now, I don’t doubt but we could fix it so that they should make their home, here always—right here in this house, I mean—only it would be ’most too good a thing to have in this world, I’m afraid.”
“We must wait for the leadings of Providence,” said his wife. “This field, as you call it, is no’ at Will’s taking yet. What would your friend, Mr Perry, think if he heard you? And as for the others, we must not be over-anxious to keep them beyond what their brothers would like. But, as you say, they seem content; and it is a pleasure to have them here, greater than I can put in words; and I know you are as pleased as I am, and that doubles the pleasure to me,” added Mrs Snow, looking gratefully toward her husband. “It might have been so different.”
“Oh! come, now. It ain’t worth while, to put it in that way at this time of day. I don’t know as you’d allow it exactly; but I do think they are about as nigh to me as they are to you. I really do.”
“That’s saying much, but I’ll no’ gainsay it,” said Mrs Snow, smiling. “They are good bairns, and a blessing wherever they may go. But I doubt we canna hope to keep them very long with us.”
“It is amazing to me. I can’t seem to understand it, or reconcile it to—.”
Mr Snow paused and looked at his wife in the deprecating manner he was wont to assume when he was not quite sure whether or not she would like what he was going to say, and then added:
“However, she don’t worry about it. She is just as contented as can be, and no mistake; and I rather seem to remember that you used to worry a little about her when they were here last.”
“About Miss Graeme, was it?” said Mrs Snow, with a smile; “maybe I did. I was as good at that as at most things. Yes, she is content with life, now. God’s peace is in her heart, and in her life, too. I need not have been afraid.”
“Rosie’s sobered down some, don’t you think?” said Mr Snow, with some hesitation. “She used to be as lively as a cricket. Maybe it is only my notion, but she seems different.”
“She’s older and wiser, and she’ll be none the worse to take a soberer view of life than she used to do,” said Mrs Snow. “I have seen nothing beyond what was to be looked for in the circumstances. But I have been so full of myself, and my own troubles of late, I may not have taken notice. Her sister is not anxious about her; I would have seen that. The bairn is gathering sense—that is all, I think.”
“Well! yes. It will be all right. I don’t suppose it will be more than a passing cloud, and I might have known better than to vex you with it.”
“Indeed, you have not vexed me, and I am not going to vex myself with any such thought. It will all come right, as you say. I have seen her sister in deeper water than any that can be about her, and she is on dry land now. ‘And hath set my feet upon a rock, and established my goings,’” added Mrs Snow, softly. “That is the way with my bairn, I believe. Thank God. And they’ll both be the better for this quiet time, and we’ll take the good of it without wishing for more than is wise, or setting our hearts on what may fail. See, they are coming down the brae together. It is good to see them.”
The first weeks of their stay in Merleville had been weeks of great anxiety. Long after a very difficult and painful operation had been successfully performed, Mrs Snow remained in great danger, and the two girls gave themselves up to the duty of nursing and caring for her, to the exclusion of all other thoughts and interests. To Mr Snow it seemed that his wife had been won back to life by their devotion, and Janet herself, when her long swoon of exhaustion and weakness was over, remembered that, even at the worst time of all, a dim consciousness of the presence of her darlings had been with her, and a wish to stay, for their sakes, had held her here, when her soul seemed floating away to unseen worlds.
By a change, so gradual as scarcely to be perceptible, from day to day, she came back to a knowledge of their loving care, and took up the burden of her life again. Not joyfully, perhaps, having been so near to the attaining of heavenly joy, but still with patience and content, willing to abide God’s time.
After that the days followed one another quietly and happily, with little to break the pleasant monotony beyond the occasional visits of the neighbours from the village, or the coming of letters from home. To Graeme it was a very peaceful time. Watching her from day to day, her old friend could not but see that she was content with her life and its work, now; that whatever the shadow had been which had fallen on her earlier days, it had passed away, leaving around her, not the brightness of her youth, but a milder and more enduring radiance. Graeme was, in Janet’s eyes, just what the daughter of her father and mother ought to be. If she could have wished anything changed, it would have been in her circumstances, not in herself. She was not satisfied that to her should be denied the higher happiness of being in a home of her own—the first and dearest to some one worthy of her love.
“And yet who knows?” said she to herself. “One can never tell in which road true happiness lies; and it is not for me, who can see only a little way, to wish for anything that God has not given her. ‘A contented mind is a continual feast,’ says the Book. She has that. And ‘Blessed are the meek, and the merciful, and the pure in heart.’ What would I have? I’ll make no plans, and I’ll make no wishes. It is all in good hands, and there is nothing to fear for her, I am sure of that. As for her sister—. Well, I suppose there will ay be something in the lot of those we love to make us mindful that they need better help than ours. And it is too far on in the day for me to doubt that good guidance will come to her as to the rest.”
Still, after her husband’s words, Mrs Snow regarded Rose’s movements with an earnestness that she was not quite willing to acknowledge even to herself. It was rather unreasonable of him, she thought at first, to be otherwise than content with the young girl in her new sedateness. She was not quite so merry and idle as during her last visit; but that was not surprising, seeing she was older and wiser, and more sensible of the responsibilities that life brings to all. It was natural that it should be so, and well that it should be so. It was matter for thankfulness that the years were bringing her wisdom, and that, looking on life with serious eyes, she would not expect too much from it, nor be so bitterly disappointed at its inevitable failures. She was quieter and graver, but surely no fault was to be found with that, seeing there had been sickness and anxiety in the house.
She was cheerful and busy too, Mrs Snow saw, accomplishing wonderful things in the way of learning to do housework, and dairy work, under the direction of Hannah, and comporting herself generally in a way that was winning the good opinion of that experienced and rather exacting housekeeper. She took great interest in out-of-door affairs, going daily with the deacon to the high sheep pasture, or to the clearing beyond the swamp, or wherever else his oversight of farming matters led him, which ought to have contented Mr Snow, his wife thought, and which might have done so if he had been quite sure that her heart was in it all.
By and by Mrs Snow wearied a little for the mirthfulness and laughter that had sometimes needed to be gently checked during her former visit. More than once, too, she fancied she saw a wistful look in Graeme’s eyes as they followed her sister’s movements, and she had much ado to keep from troubling herself about them both.
They were sitting one day together in the south room which looked out over the garden and the orchard and the pond beyond. Rose was in the garden, walking listlessly up and down the long paths between the flower-beds, and Mrs Snow, as she watched her, wondered within herself whether this would be a good time to speak to Graeme about her sister. Before she had time to decide, however, they were startled by Hannah’s voice coming round the corner—
“Rose,” it said, “hadn’t you just as leives do your walking right straight ahead? ’Cause, if you had, you might take a pitcher and go over to Emily’s and borrow some yeast. I don’t calculate, as a general thing, to get out of yeast, or any thing else, but the cat’s been and keeled the jug right down, and spilled the last drop, and I want a little to set some more to rising.”
“Hannah,” said Rose, with a penitent face, “I am afraid it was my fault. I left the jug on the corner of the shelf, instead of putting it away as I ought. I am very sorry.”
“Well, I thought pretty likely it might be you, seeing it wasn’t me,” said Hannah, grimly. “That jug has held the yeast in this house since Grandma Snow’s time, and now it’s broke to forty pieces.”
“Oh, I am so sorry!” said Rose.
“Well, I guess it don’t matter a great sight. Nobody will worry about it, if I don’t, and it’s no use crying over spilt milk. But I guess you’d better tell Emily how it happened. I’d a little rather what borrowing there is between the two houses should be on t’other side. I wouldn’t have asked you, only I thought you’d rather go than not. That walking up and down is about as shiftless a business as ever you undertook. But don’t you go if you don’t want to.”
Rose shrugged her shoulders.
“Oh! I’ll go, and I’ll tell Mrs Nasmyth how it happened, and that it was my fault and the cat’s. Mrs Snow,” said she, presenting herself at the window, “did you hear what Hannah has been saying? I have broken Grandma Snow’s yeast jug into forty pieces, and I am to go and confess to Emily, and get some yeast.”
“I thought it was the cat that did it; though, doubtless, it was your fault not putting it in its place. However, there is no great harm done, so that you get more yeast to Hannah.”
“And let Emily know that it is my fault and not Hannah’s that more yeast is needed. Graeme, will you come and have a walk this bonny day?”
“You can go and do Hannah’s errand, now, and I will stay with Mrs Snow, and we will walk together later,” said Graeme.
“And you might bring wee Rosie home with you, if her mother will spare her, and if she wants to come. But there is no doubt of her wishing to come with you.”
“Is anything the matter with your sister, that you follow her with such troubled e’en?” asked Mrs Snow, after a moment’s silence.
“Troubled e’en!” repeated Graeme. “No, I don’t think there is anything the matter with her. Do you? Why should you think there is anything the matter with her, Janet?”
“My dear, I was only asking you; and it was because of the look that you sent after her—a look that contradicts your words—a thing that doesna often happen with you, be it said.”
“Did I look troubled? I don’t think there is any reason for it on Rosie’s account—any that can be told. I mean I can only guess at any cause of trouble she may have. Just for a minute, now and then, I have felt a little anxious, perhaps; but it is not at all because I think there is anything seriously wrong with Rosie, or indeed anything that will not do her good rather than harm. But oh, Janet! it is sad that we cannot keep all trouble away from those we love.”
“I canna agree with you, my dear. It would be ill done to keep anything from her that will do her good and not evil, as you say yourself. But well or ill, you canna do it, and it is foolish and wrong of you to vex yourself more than is needful.”
“But I do not, indeed. Just now it was her restless, aimless walking up and down that vexed me. I am foolish, I suppose, but it always does.”
“I daresay it may tell of an uneasy mind, whiles,” said Mrs Snow, gravely. “I mind you used to be given to it yourself in the old times, when you werena at ease with yourself. But if you don’t like it in your sister, you should encourage her to employ herself in a purpose-like manner.”
“Hannah has done it for me this time—I am not sure, however.” For Rosie was standing still at the gate looking away down the hill towards the village, “thinking her own thoughts, doubtless,” Graeme said to herself.
“She’s waiting for some one, maybe. I daresay Sandy has sent some one down to the village for the papers, as this is the day they mostly come.”
“Miss Graeme, my dear,” continued Mrs Snow, in a little, “it is time you were thinking of overtaking all the visiting you’ll be expected to do, now that I am better. It will be a while, before you’ll get over all the places where they will expect to see you, for nobody will like to be overlooked.”
“Oh, I don’t know!” said Graeme. “It is not just like last time, when we were strangers and new to the people. And we have seen almost everybody already. And I like this quiet time much best.”
“But, my dear, it is too late to begin to think first of your own likes and dislikes now. And it will be good for Rosie, and you mustna tell me that you are losing interest in your Merleville friends, dear! That would be ungrateful, when they all have so warm an interest in you.”
“No, indeed! I have not lost interest in my Merleville friends. There will never be any place just like Merleville to me. Our old life here always comes back to me like a happy, happy dream. I can hardly remember any troubles that came to us all those seven years, Janet—till the very end.”
“My dear, you had your troubles, plenty of them, or you thought you had; but the golden gleam of youth lies on your thoughts of that time, now. There was the going away of the lads, for one thing. I mind well you thought those partings hard to bear.”
“Yes, I remember,” said Graeme, gravely, “but even then we hoped to meet again, and life lay before us all; and nothing had happened to make us afraid.”
“My dear, nothing has happened yet that need make you afraid. If you mean for Rosie, she must have her share of the small tribulations that fall to the lot of most women, at one time or other of their lives; but she is of a cheerful nature, and not easily daunted; and dear, you have come safely over rougher bits of road than any that are like to lie before her, and she ay will have you to guide her. And looking at you, love, and knowing that the ‘great peace,’ the Book speaks about, is in your heart and in your life, I have no fear for your sister, after all that has come and gone to you.”
Graeme leaned back in her chair, silent for a moment, then she said, gently,—
“I am not afraid. I cannot think what I have said, Janet, to make you think I am afraid for Rosie.”
“My dear, you have said nothing. It was the wistful look in your e’en that made me speak to you about her. And besides, I have noticed Rosie myself. She is not so light of heart as she used to be. It may be the anxious time you have had with me, or it may be the added years, or it may be something that it may be wiser for you and me not to seem to see. But whatever it is, I am not afraid for Rose. I am only afraid that you may vex yourself about her, when there is no need. There can be no good in that, you know well.”
“But I am not vexing myself, Janet, indeed. I will tell you what I know about it. Do you mind that restless fit that was on me long ago, when you came to see us, and how it seemed to me that I must go away? Well, Rose has come to the same place in her life, and she would like to have work, real work, to do in the world, and she has got impatient of her useless life, as she calls it. It has come on her sooner than it came on me, but that is because the circumstances are different, I suppose, and I hope it may pass away. For, oh! Janet, I shrink from the struggle, and the going away from them all; and I have got to that time when one grows content with just the little things that come to one’s hand to do, seeing they are sent by God, as well as nobler work. But it is not so with Rose, and even if this wears over, as it did with me, there are weary days before her; and no wonder, Janet, that I follow her with anxious eyes.”
There was no more said for a moment. They were both watching Rose, who still stood at the gate, shading her eyes, and looking down the hill.
“She doesna look like one that has much the matter with her,” said Mrs Snow. “Miss Graeme, my dear, do you ken what ails your sister? Why has this feverish wish to be away and at work come upon her so suddenly, if it is a question that I ought to ask?”
“Janet, I cannot tell you. I do not know. I can but guess at it myself, and I may be all wrong. And I think, perhaps, the best help we can give her, is not to seem to see, as you said a little ago. Sometimes I have thought it might all be set right, if Rose would only speak; but one can never be sure, and I think, Janet, we can only wait and see. I don’t believe there is much cause for fear, if only Rose will have patience.”
“Then, wherefore should you look so troubled? Nothing but wrong-doing on your sister’s part should make you look like that.” For there were tears in Graeme’s eyes as she watched her sister, and she looked both anxious and afraid.
“Wrong-doing,” repeated she, with a start. Then she rose impatiently, but sat down again in a moment. Was it “wrong-doing” in a woman to let her heart slip unawares and unasked from her own keeping? If this was indeed the thing that had happened to Rose? Or was it “wrong-doing” to come to the knowledge of one’s heart too late, as Harry had once hinted might be the end of Rosie’s foolish love of admiration?
“Wrong-doing,” she repeated again, with a sudden stir of indignation at her heart. “No, that must never be said of Rose. It must be one of the small tribulations that sooner or later fall to the lot of most women, as you said yourself Janet, a little ago. And it won’t do to discuss it, anyway. See, Rose has opened the gate for some one. Who is coming in?”
“My dear,” said Mrs Snow, gravely, “it was far from my thought to wish to know about anything that I should not. It is Sandy she is opening the gate for, and wee Rosie. He has been down for the papers, it seems, and he may have gotten letters as well.”
“But, Janet,” said Graeme, eagerly, “you know I could not mean that I could not tell you if I were ever so willing. I do not know. I can only guess; but as for ‘wrong-doing’—”
“My dear, you needna tell me that. Sandy, man, it must seem a strange-like thing to the folk in the village to see you carrying the child that way on your horse before you—you that have wagons of one kind or another, and plenty of them, at your disposal. Is it safe for the bairn, think you? Do you like that way of riding, my wee Rosie?”
“Yes, gamma, I ’ike it,” lisped the two years old Rosie, smiling brightly.
“It is safe enough, mother, you may be sure of that. And as for what the village folk may think, that’s a new thing for you to ask. It is the best and pleasantest way in the world for both Rosie and me.” And looking at the proud, young father and the happy child sitting before him, it was not to be for a moment doubted.
“It must be delightful,” said Rose, laughing. “I should like a ride myself, wee Rosie.”
“And why not?” said Mrs Snow. “Sandy, man, it is a wonder to me that you havena thought about it before. Have you your habit here, my dear? Why should you no’ bring young Major or Dandy over, saddled for Miss Rose? It would do her all the good in the world to get a gallop in a day like this.”
“There is no reason in the world why I should not, if Miss Rose, would like it.”
“I would like it very much. Not that I need the good of it especially, but I shall enjoy the pleasure of it. And will you let wee Rosie come with me.”
“If grandma has no objections,” said Sandy, laughing. “But it must be old Major, if you take her.”
“Did ever anybody hear such nonsense?” said Mrs Snow, impatiently. “But you’ll need to haste, Sandy, man, or we shall be having visitors, and then she winna get away.”
“Yes, I should not wonder. I saw Mr Perry coming up the way with a book in his hand. But I could bring young Major and Dandy too, and Miss Rose needn’t be kept at home then.”
Rose laughed merrily.
“Who? The minister? Oh! fie, Sandy man, you shouldna speak such nonsense. Wee Rosie, are you no’ going to stay the day with Miss Graeme and me?” said Mrs Snow.
Graeme held up her arms for the little girl, but she did not offer to move.
“Will you bide with grannie, wee Rosie?” asked her father, pulling back her sun-bonnet, and letting a mass of tangled, yellow curls fall over her rosy face.
“Tum adain Grannie,” said the little girl, gravely. She was too well pleased with her place to wish to leave it. Her father laughed.
“She shall come when I bring over Dandy for Miss Rose. In the meantime, I have something for some one here.”
“Letters,” said Graeme and Rose, in a breath.
“One a piece. Good news, I hope. I shall soon be back again, Miss Rose, with Dandy.”
Graeme’s letter was from Will, written after having heard of his sisters being in Merleville, before he had heard of Mrs Snow’s recovery. He had thought once of coming home with Mr Millar, he said, but had changed his plans, partly because he wished to accept an invitation he had received from his uncle in the north, and partly for other reasons. He was staying at present with Mrs Millar, who was “one of a thousand,” wrote Will, with enthusiasm, “and, indeed, so is, her son, Mr Ruthven, but you know Allan, of old.” And then he went on to other things.
Graeme read the letter first herself, and then to Mrs Snow and Rose. In the midst of it Mr Snow came in. Rose had read hers, but held it in her hand still, even after they had ceased to discuss Will’s.
“It is from Fanny,” said she, at last. “You can read it to Mrs Snow, if you like, Graeme. It is all about baby and his perfections; or nearly all. I will go and put on my habit for my ride. Uncle Sampson come with me, won’t you? Have you anything particular to do to-day?”
“To ride?” said Mr Snow. “I’d as lieve go as not, and a little rather—if you’ll promise to take it moderate. I should like the chaise full better than the saddle, I guess, though.”
Rose laughed.
“I will promise to let you take it moderate. I am not afraid to go alone, if you don’t want to ride. But I shouldn’t fancy the chaise to-day. A good gallop is just what I want, I think.”
She went to prepare for her ride, and Graeme read Fanny’s letter. It was, as Rose had said, a record of her darling’s pretty sayings and doings, and gentle regrets that his aunts could not have the happiness of being at home to watch his daily growth in wisdom and beauty. Then there were a few words at the end.
“Harry is properly indignant, as we all are, at your hint that you may see Norman and Hilda, before you see home again. Harry says it is quite absurd to speak of such a thing, but we have seen very little of him of late. I hope we may see more of him now that his friend and partner has returned. He has been quite too much taken up with his little Amy, to think of us. However, I promised Mr Millar I would say nothing of that bit of news. He must tell you about it himself. He has a great deal of Scottish news, but I should only spoil it by trying to tell it; and I think it is quite possible that Harry may fulfil his threat, and come for you himself. But I suppose he will give you fair warning,” and so on.
Graeme closed the letter, saying nothing.
“It is not just very clear, I think,” said Mrs Snow.
“Is it not?” said Graeme. “I did not notice. Of course, it is all nonsense about Harry coming to take us home.”
“And who is little Miss Amy, that she speaks of? Is she a friend of your brother Harry? Or is she Mr Millar’s friend? Mrs Arthur doesna seem to make it clear?”
“Miss Amy Roxbury,” said Graeme, opening her letter again. “Does she not make it plain? Oh, well! we shall hear more about it, she says. I suppose Harry has got back to his old fancy, that we are to go and live with him if Mr Millar goes elsewhere. Indeed, I don’t understand it myself; but we shall hear more soon I daresay. Ah! here is Rosie.”
“And here is Dandy,” said Rose, coming in with her habit on. “And here is wee Rosie come to keep you company while I am away. And here is Mr Snow, on old Major. Don’t expect us home till night. We shall have a day of it, shall we not?”
They had a very quiet day at home. Wee Rosie came and went, and told her little tales to the content of her grandmother and Graeme, who made much of the little girl, as may well be supposed. She was a bonny little creature, with her father’s blue eyes and fair curls, and showing already some of the quaint, grave ways that Graeme remembered in her mother as a child.
In the afternoon, Emily came with her baby, and they were all happy and busy, and had no time for anxious or troubled thoughts. At least, they never spoke a word that had reference to anything sad. But, when Graeme read the letters again to Emily, Mrs Snow noticed that she did not read the part about their going West, or about little Amy, or about Harry’s coming to take them home. But her eye lingered on the words, and her thoughts went back to some old trouble, she saw by her grave look, and by the silence that fell upon her, even in the midst of her pretty child’s play with the little ones. But never a word was spoken about anything sad. And, by and by, visitors came, and Mrs Snow, being tired, went to lie down to rest for a while. But when Rose and Mr Snow came home, they found her standing at the gate, ready to receive them.