Chapter Forty Two.
“I want to know! Now do tell; if there ain’t mother standing at the gate, and opening it for us, too,” exclaimed Mr Snow, in astonishment and delight. “That is the farthest she’s been yet, and it begins to look a little like getting well, now, don’t it?”
“I hope nothing has happened,” said Rose, a little anxiously.
“I guess not—nothing to fret over. Her face don’t look like it. Well, mother, you feel pretty smart to-night, don’t you? You look first-rate.”
“I am just as usual,” said Mrs Snow, quietly. “But what has kept you so long? We were beginning to wonder about you.”
“Has anything happened?” said Rose, looking over Mrs Snow’s head, at a little crowd of people coming out at the door.
“We have visitors, that is all. The minister is here, and a friend of yours—your brother Harry’s partner. He has brought news—not bad news, at least he doesna seem to think so, nor Miss Graeme. I have hardly heard it myself, yet, or seen the young man, for I was tired and had to lie down. But you’ll hear it yourself in due time.”
Rose reined her horse aside.
“Take care, dear,” said Mrs Snow, as she sprung to the ground without assistance. “There is no need for such haste. You might have waited for Sandy or some one to help you, I think.”
“What is it, Graeme?” said Rose, for her sister looked flashed and excited, and there were traces of tears on her cheeks she was sure. But she did not look anxious—certainly not unhappy.
“Rosie, dear, Charlie has come.”
“Oh! Charlie has come, has he? That is it, is it?” said Rose, with a long breath.
Yes, there was Mr Millar, offering his hand and smiling—“exactly like himself,” Rose thought, but she could not tell very well, for her eyes were dazzled with the red light of the setting sun. But she was very glad to see him, she told him; and she told the minister she was very glad to see him, too, in the very same tone, the next minute. There was not much time to say anything, however, for Hannah—whose patience had been tried by the delay—announced that tea was on the table, in a tone quite too peremptory to be trifled with.
“Rose, you are tired, I am sure. Never mind taking off your habit till after tea.”
Rose confessed herself tired after her long and rapid ride.
“For I left Mr Snow at Major Spring’s, and went on a long way by myself, and it is just possible, that, after all, you are right, and I have gone too far for the first ride; for see, I am a little shaky,” added she, as the teacup she passed to Mr Snow trembled in her hand.
Then she asked Mr Millar about the news he had brought them, and whether all were well, and a question or two besides; and then she gave herself up to the pleasure of listening to the conversation of the minister, and it came into Graeme’s mind that if Harry had been there he would have said she was amusing herself with a little serious flirtation. Graeme did not think so, or, if she did, it did not make her angry as it would have made Harry; for though she said little, except to the grave wee Rosie Nasmyth, whom she had taken under her care, she looked very bright and glad. Rose looked at her once or twice, a little startled, and after a while, in watching her, evidently lost the thread of the minister’s entertaining discourse, and answered him at random.
“I have a note from Harry,” said Graeme, as they left the tea-table. “Here it is. Go and take off your habit. You look hot and tired.”
In a little while the visitors were gone and Mr Millar was being put through a course of questions by Mr Snow. Graeme sat and listened to them, and thought of Rose, who, all the time, was sitting up-stairs with Harry’s letter in her hand.
It was not a long letter. Rose had time to read it a dozen times over, Graeme knew, but still she lingered, for a reason she could not have told to any one, which she did not even care to make very plain to herself. Mr Snow was asking, and Mr Millar was answering, questions about Scotland, and Will, and Mr Ruthven, and every word that was said was intensely interesting to her; and yet, while she listened eagerly, and put in a word now and then that showed how much she cared, she was conscious all the time, that she was listening for the sound of a movement overhead, or for her sister’s footstep on the stair. By and by, as Charlie went on, in answer to Mr Snow’s questions, to tell about the state of agriculture in his native shire, her attention wandered altogether, and she listened only for the footsteps.
“She may perhaps think it strange that I do not go up at once. I daresay it is foolish in me. Very likely this news will be no more to her than to me.”
“Where is your sister?” said Mrs Snow, who, as well as Graeme, had been attending to two things at once. “I doubt the foolish lassie has tired herself with riding too far.”
“I will go and see,” said Graeme.
Before she entered her sister’s room Rose called to her.
“Is it you, Graeme? What do you think of Harry’s news? He has not lost much time, has he?”
“I was surprised,” said Graeme.
Rose was busy brushing her hair.
“Surprised! I should think so. Did you ever think such a thing might happen, Graeme?”
This was Harry’s letter.
“My Dear Sisters,—I have won my Amy! You cannot be more astonished than I am. I know I am not good enough for her, but I love her dearly, and it will go hard with me if I don’t make her happy. I only want to be assured that you are both delighted, to make my happiness complete.”
Throwing her hair back a little, Rose read it again. This was not quite all. There was a postscript over the page, which Rose had at first overlooked, and she was not sure that Graeme had seen it. Besides, it had nothing to do with the subject matter of the note.
“Did the thought of such a thing ever come into your mind?” asked she again, as she laid the letter down.
“Yes,” said Graeme, slowly. “It did come into my mind more than once. And, on looking back, I rather wonder that I did not see it all. I can remember now a good many things that looked like it, but I never was good at seeing such affairs approaching, you know.”
“Are you glad, Graeme?”
“Yes, I am glad. I believe I shall be very glad when I have had time to think about it.”
“Because Harry’s happiness won’t be complete unless you are, you know,” said Rose, laughing.
“I am sure Harry is quite sincere in what he says about it,” said Graeme.
“It is not to be doubted. I daresay she is a nice little thing; and, after all, it won’t make the same difference to us that Fanny’s coming did.”
“No, if we are to consider it with reference to ourselves. But I think I am very glad for Harry’s sake.”
“And that is more than we could have said for Arthur. However, there is no good going back to that now. It has all turned out very well.”
“Things mostly do, if people will have patience,” said Graeme, “and I am sure this will, for Harry, I mean. I was always inclined to like little Amy, only—only, we saw very little of her you know—and—yes, I am sure I shall love her dearly.”
“Well, you must make haste to tell Harry so, to complete his happiness. And he is very much astonished at his good fortune,” said Rose, taking up the letter again. “‘Not good enough for her,’ he says. That is the humility of true love, I suppose; and, really, if he is pleased, we may be. I daresay she is a nice little thing.”
“She is more than just a nice little thing. You should hear what Mr Millar says of her.”
“He ought to know! ‘Poor Charlie,’ as Harry calls him in the pride of his success. Go down-stairs, Graeme, and I will follow in a minute; I am nearly ready!”
The postscript which Rose was not sure whether Graeme had seen, said, “poor Charlie,” and intimated that Harry’s sisters owed him much kindness for the trouble he was taking in going so far to carry them the news in person. Not Harry’s own particular news, Rose supposed, but tidings of Will, and of all that was likely to interest them from both sides of the sea.
“I would like to know why he calls him ‘poor Charlie,’” said Rose, with a shrug. “I suppose, however, we must all seem like objects of compassion to Harry, at the moment of his triumph, as none of us have what has fallen to him.”
Graeme went down without a word, smiling to herself as she went. She had seen the postscript, and she thought she knew why Harry had written “poor Charlie,” but she said nothing to Rose. The subject of conversation had changed during her absence, it seemed.
“I want to know! Do tell!” Mr Snow was saying. “I call that first-rate news, if it is as you say, Mr Millar. Do the girls know it? Graeme, do you know that Harry is going to be married.”
“Yes, so Harry tells me.”
“And who is the lady? Is it anyone we know about? Roxbury,” repeated Mr Snow, with a puzzled look. “But it seems to me I thought I heard different. I don’t seem to understand.”
He looked anxiously into the face of his wife as though she could help him.
“That’s not to be wondered at,” said she, smiling. “It seems Miss Graeme herself has been taken by surprise. But she is well pleased for all that. Harry has been in no great hurry, I think.”
“But that ain’t just as I understood it,” persisted Mr Snow. “What does Rose say? She told me this afternoon, when we were riding, something or other, but it sartain wa’n’t that.”
“It could hardly be that, since the letter came when you were away, and even Miss Graeme knew nothing of it till she got the letter,” said Mrs Snow, with some impatience.
“Rosie told me,” went on Mr Snow. “Here she is. What was it you were telling me this afternoon about—about our friend here?”
“Oh! I told you a great many things that it would not do to repeat,” and though Rose laughed, she reddened, too, and looked appealingly at Graeme.
“Wasn’t Roxbury the name of the lady, that you told me was—”
“Oh! Uncle Sampson! Never mind.”
“Dear me,” said Mrs Snow, “what need you make a mystery out of such plain reading. Miss Graeme has gotten a letter telling her that her brother Harry is going to be married; and what is there so wonderful about that?”
“Just so,” said Mr Snow. He did not understand it the least in the world, but he understood that, for some reason or other, Mrs Snow wanted nothing more said about it, so he meant to say no more; and, after a minute, he made Rose start and laugh nervously by the energy with which he repeated, “Just so;” and still he looked from Graeme to Mr Millar, as though he expected them to tell him something.
“Harry’s letter gives the news, and that is all,” said Graeme.
“But I cannot understand your surprise,” said Mr Millar, not to Mr Snow, but to Graeme. “I thought you must have seen it all along.”
“Did you see it all along?” asked Mr Snow, looking queer.
“I was in Harry’s confidence; but even if I had not been, I am sure I must have seen it. I almost think I knew what was coming before he knew it himself, at the very first.”
“The very first?” repeated Graeme. “When was that? In the spring? Before the time we went to Mrs Roxbury’s, on the evening of the Convocation?”
“Oh! yes! long before that—before Miss Rose came home from the West. Indeed, I think it was love at first sight, as far as Harry was concerned,” added Mr Millar, with an embarrassed laugh, coming suddenly to the knowledge of the fact that Mr Snow was regarding him with curious eyes. But Mr Snow turned his attention to Rose.
“What do you say to that?” asked he.
“I have nothing to say,” said Rose, pettishly. “I was not in Harry’s confidence.”
“So it seems,” said Mr Snow, meditatively.
“I am sure you will like her when you know her better,” said Mr Millar.
“Oh! if Harry likes her that is the chief thing,” said Rose, with a shrug. “It won’t matter much to the rest of us—I mean to Graeme and me.”
“It will matter very much to us,” said Graeme, “and I know I shall love her dearly, and so will you, Rosie, when she is our sister, and I mean to write to Harry to-morrow—and to her, too, perhaps.”
“She wants very much to know you, and I am sure you will like each other,” said Mr Millar looking deprecatingly at Rose, who was not easy or comfortable in her mind any one could see.
“Just tell me one thing, Rose,” said Mr Snow. “How came you to suppose that—”
But the question was not destined to be answered by Rose, at least not then. A matter of greater importance was to be laid before her, for the door opened suddenly, and Hannah put in her head.
“Where on earth did you put the yeast-jug, Rose? I have taken as many steps as I want to after it; if you had put it back in its place it would have paid, I guess. It would have suited me better, and I guess it would have suited better all round.”
Her voice betrayed a struggle between offended dignity and decided crossness. Rose was a little hysterical, Graeme thought, or she never would have laughed about such an important matter in Hannah’s face. For Hannah knew her own value, which was not small in the household, and she was not easily propitiated when a slight was given or imagined, as no one knew better than Rose. And before company, too!—company with whom Hannah had not been “made acquainted,” as Hannah, and the sisterhood generally in Merleville, as a rule, claimed to be. It was dreadful temerity on Rose’s part.
“Oh! Hannah, I forgot all about it.”
But the door was suddenly closed. Rose hastened after her in haste and confusion.
Mr Snow had been deeply meditating, and he was evidently not aware that anything particular had been happening, for he turned suddenly to Mr Millar, and said,—
“I understood that it was you who was—eh—who was—keeping company with Miss Roxbury?”
“Did you think so, Miss Elliott,” said Charlie, in some astonishment.
“Mr Snow,” said his wife, in a voice that brought him to her side in an instant. “You may have read in the Book, how there is a time to keep silence, as well as a time to speak, and the bairn had no thought of having her words repeated again, though she might have said that to you.”
She spoke very softly, so that the others did not hear, and Mr Snow would have looked penitent, if he had not looked so bewildered. Raising her voice a little, she added,—
“You might just go out, and tell Hannah to send Jabez over to Emily’s about the yeast, if she has taken too many steps to go herself; for Miss Rose is tired, and it is growing dark;—and besides, there is no call for her to go Hannah’s messages—though you may as well no’ say that to her, either.”
But the door opened, and Rose came in again.
“I can’t even find the jug,” she said, pretending great consternation. “And this is the second one I have been the death of. Oh! here it is. I must have left it here in the morning, and wee Rosie’s flowers are in it! Oh! yes, dear, I must go. Hannah is going, and I must go with her. She is just a little bit cross, you know. And, besides, I want to tell her the news,” and she went away.
Mr Snow, feeling that he had, in some way, been compromising himself, went and sat down beside his wife, to be out of the temptation to do it again, and Mr Millar said again, to Graeme, very softly this time,—
“Did you think so, Miss Elliott?”
Graeme hesitated.
“Yes, Charlie. I must confess, there did, more than once, come into my mind the possibility that Harry and his friend and partner might find themselves rivals for the favour of the sweet little Amy. But you must remember, that—”
But Charlie interrupted her, eagerly.
“And did—did your sister think so, too? No, don’t answer me—” added he, suddenly rising, and going first to the window to look out, and then, out at the door. In a little Graeme rose, and went out too, and followed him down the path, to the gate, over which he was leaning. There was no time to speak, however, before they heard the voices of Rose and Hannah, coming toward them. Hannah was propitiated, Graeme knew by the sound of her voice. Mr Millar opened the gate for them to pass, and Graeme said, “You have not been long, Rosie.”
“Are you here, Graeme,” said Rose, for it was quite dark, by this time. “Hannah, this is Mr Millar, my brother Harry’s friend and partner.” And then she added, with great gravity, according to the most approved Merleville formula of introduction, “Mr Millar, I make you acquainted with Miss Lovejoy.”
“I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr Millar. I hope I see you wed,” said Miss Lovejoy, with benignity. If Mr Millar was not quite equal to the occasion, Miss Lovejoy was, and she said exactly what was proper to be said in the circumstances, and neither Graeme nor Rose needed to say anything till they got into the house again.
“There! that is over,” said Rose, with a sigh of relief.
“The getting of the yeast?” said Graeme, laughing.
“Yes, and the pacification of Miss Lovejoy.”
It was not quite over, however, Graeme thought in the morning. For Rose seemed to think it necessary to give a good deal of her time to household matters, whether it was still with a view to the good humour of Hannah or not, was not easy to say. But she could only give a divided attention to their visitor, and to the account of all that he and Will had done and enjoyed together. Graeme and he walked up and down the garden for a while, and when Mrs Snow had risen, and was in the sitting-room, they came and sat down beside her, and, after a time, Rose came too. But it was Graeme who asked questions, and who drew Mr Millar out, to tell about their adventures, and misadventures, and how Will had improved in all respects, and how like his father all the old people thought him. Even Mrs Snow had more to say than Rose, especially when he went on to tell about Clayton, and the changes that had taken place there.
“Will fancied, before he went, that he remembered all the places distinctly; and was very loth to confess that he had been mistaken. I suppose, that his imagination had had as much to do with his idea of his native place, as his memory, and when, at last, we went down the glen where your mother used to live, and where he distinctly remembered going to see her with you, not long before you all came away, he acknowledged as much. He stepped across the burn at the widest part, and then he told me, laughing, that he had always thought of the burn at that place, as being about as wide as the Merle river, just below the mill bridge, however wide that may be. It was quite a shock to him, I assure you. And then the kirk, and the manse, and all the village, looked old, and small, and queer, when he came to compare them with the pictures of them he had kept in his mind, all these years. The garden he remembered, and the lane beyond it, but I think the only things he found quite as he expected to find them, were the laburnum trees, in that lane,” and on Charlie went, from one thing to another, drawn on by a question, put now and then by Graeme, or Mrs Snow, whenever he made a pause.
But all that was said need not be told here. By and by, he rose and went out, and when he came back, he held an open book on his hand, and on one of its open pages lay a spray of withered ivy, gathered, he said, from the kirkyard wall, from a great branch that hung down over the spot where their mother lay. And when he had laid it down on Graeme’s lap, he turned and went out again.
“I mind the spot well,” said Mrs Snow, softly.
“I mind it, too,” said Graeme.
Rose did not “mind” it, nor any other spot of her native land, nor the young mother who had lain so many years beneath the drooping ivy. But she stooped to touch with her lips, the faded leaves that spoke of her, and then she laid her cheek down on Graeme’s knee, and did not speak a word, except to say that she had quite forgotten all.
By and by, Mr Snow came in, and something was said about showing Merleville to their visitor, and so arranging matters that time should be made to pass pleasantly to him.
“Oh! as to that, he seems no’ ill to please,” said Mrs Snow. “Miss Graeme might take him down to the village to Mr Greenleaf’s and young Mr Merle’s, if she likes; but, as to letting him see Merleville, I think the thing that is of most importance is, that all Merleville should see him.”
“There is something in that. I don’t suppose Merleville is any more to him than any other place, except that Harry and the rest had their home here, for a spell. But all the Merleville folks will want to see him, I expect.”
Rose laughingly suggested that a town meeting should be called for the purpose.
“Well, I calculate that won’t be necessary. If he stays over Sunday, it will do as well. The folks will have a chance to see him at meeting, though, I suppose it won’t be best to tell him so, before he goes. Do you suppose he means to stay over Sunday, Rosie?”
“I haven’t asked him,” said Rose.
“It will likely depend on how he is entertained, how long he stays,” said Mrs Snow. “I daresay he will be in no hurry to get home, for a day or two. And Rosie, my dear, you must help your sister to make it pleasant for your brother’s friend.”
“Oh! he’s no’ ill to please, as you said yourself,” answered Rose.
It was well that he was not, or her failure to do her part in the way of amusing him, might have sooner fallen under general notice. They walked down to the village in the afternoon, first to Mr Merle’s, and then to Mr Greenleaf’s. Here, Master Elliott at once took possession of Rose, and they went away together, and nothing more was seen of them, till tea had been waiting for some time. Then they came in, and Mr Perry came with them. He stayed to tea, of course, and made himself agreeable, as he always did, and when they went home, he said he would walk with them part of the way. He had most of the talk to himself, till they came to the foot of the hill, when he bade them, reluctantly, good-night. They were very quiet the rest of the way, and when they reached home, the sisters went up-stairs at once together, and though it was quite dark, neither of them seemed in a great hurry to go down again.
“Rose,” said Graeme, in a little, “where ever did you meet Mr Perry this afternoon? And why did you bring him to Mr Greenleaf’s with you?”
“I did not bring him to Mr Greenleaf’s. He came of his own free will. And I did not meet him anywhere. He followed us down past the mill. We were going for oak leaves. Elliott had seen some very pretty ones there, and I suppose Mr Perry had seen them, too. Are you coming down, Graeme?”
“In a little. Don’t wait for me, if you wish to go.”
“Oh! I am in no haste,” said Rose, sitting down by the window. “What are you going to say to me, Graeme?”
But if Graeme had anything to say, she decided not to say it then.
“I suppose we ought to go down.”
Rose followed her in silence. They found Mr and Mrs Snow alone.
“Mr Millar has just stepped out,” said Mr Snow. “So you had the minister to-night, again, eh, Rosie? It seems to me, he is getting pretty fond of visiting, ain’t he?”
Rose laughed.
“I am sure that is a good thing. The people will like that, won’t they?”
“The people he goes to see will, I don’t doubt.”
“Well, we have no reason to complain. He has given us our share of his visits, always,” said Mrs Snow, in a tone that her husband knew was meant to put an end to the discussion of the subject. Graeme was not so observant, however.
“It was hardly a visit he made at Mr Greenleaf’s to-night. He came in just, before tea, and left when we left, immediately after. He walked with us to the foot of the hill.”
“He was explaining to Elliott and me the chemical change that takes place in the leaves, that makes the beautiful autumn colours we were admiring so much,” said Rose. “He is great in botany and chemistry, Elliott says.”
And then it came out how he had crossed the bridge, and found them under the oak trees behind the mill, and what talk there had been about the sunset and the leaves, and a good deal more. Mr Snow turned an amused yet doubtful look from her to his wife; but Mrs Snow’s closely shut lips said so plainly, “least said soonest mended,” that he shut his lips, too.
It would have been as well if Graeme had done so, also she thought afterwards; but she had made up her mind to say something to her sister that night, whether she liked it or not, and so standing behind her, as she was brushing out her hair, she said,—
“I think it was rather foolish in Mr Perry to come to Mr Greenleaf’s to-night, and to come away with us afterwards.”
“Do you think so?” said Rose.
“Yes. And I fancied Mr and Mrs Greenleaf thought so, too. I saw them exchanging glances more than once.”
“Did you? It is to be hoped the minister did not see them.”
“Merleville people are all on the watch—and they are so fond of talking. It is not at all nice, I think.”
“Oh, well, I don’t know. It depends a little on what they say,” said Rose, knotting up her hair. “And I don’t suppose Mr Perry will hear it.”
“I have commenced wrong,” said Graeme to herself. “But I must just say a word to her, now I have began. It was of ourselves I was thinking, Rose—of you, rather. And it is not nice to be talked, about. Rosie, tell me just how much you care about Mr Perry.”
“Tell me just how much you care about him, dear,” said Rose.
“I care quite enough for him, to hope that he will not be annoyed or made unhappy. Do you really care for him, Rosie?”
“Do you, Graeme?”
“Rose, I am quite in earnest. I see—I am afraid the good foolish man wants you to care for him, and if you don’t—”
“Well, dear—if I don’t?”
“If you don’t, you must not act so that he may fancy you do, Rose. I think there is some danger in his caring for you.”
“He cares quite as much for you as he cares for me, Graeme, and with better reason.”
“Dear, I have not thought about his caring for either of us till lately. Indeed, I never let the thought trouble me till last night, after Mr Millar came, and again, to-night. Rosie, you must not be angry with what I say.”
“Of course not. But I think you must dispose of Mr Perry, before you bring another name into your accusation; Graeme, dear, I don’t care a pin for Mr Perry, nor he for me, if that will please you. But you are not half so clever at this sort of thing as Harry. You should have began at once by accusing me of claiming admiration, and flirting, and all that. It is best to come to the point at once.”
“You said you would not be angry, Rose.”
“Did I? Well, I am not so sore about it as I was a minute ago. And what is the use of vexing one another. Don’t say any more to-night.”
Indeed, what could be said to Rose in that mood. So Graeme shut her lips, too.
In the mean time Mr Snow had opened his, in the privacy of their chamber.
“It begins to look a little like it, don’t it?” said he.
He got no answer.
“I’d a little rather it had been Graeme, but Rosie would be a sight better than neither of them.”
“I’m by no means sure of that,” said Mrs Snow, sharply. “Rosie’s no’ a good bairn just now, and I’m no’ weel pleased with her.”
“Don’t be hard on Rosie,” said Mr Snow, gently.
“Hard on her! You ought to have more sense by this time. Rosie’s no’ thinking about the minister, and he hasna been thinking o’ her till lately—only men are such fools. Forgive me for saying it about the minister.”
“Well, I thought, myself, it was Graeme for a spell, and I’d a little rather it would be. She’s older, and she’s just right in every way. It would be a blessing to more than the minister. It seems as though it was just the right thing. Now, don’t it?”
“I canna say. It is none the more likely to come to pass because of that, as you might ken yourself by this time,” said his wife, gravely.
“Oh, well, I don’t know about that. There’s Aleck and Emily.”
“Hoot, fie, man! They cared for one another, and neither Miss Graeme, nor her sister, care a penny piece for yon man—for the minister, I mean.”
“You don’t think him good enough,” said Mr Snow, discontentedly.
“Nonsense! I think him good enough for anybody that will take him. He is a very good man—what there is o’ him,” added she, under her breath. “But it will be time enough to speak about it, when there is a chance of its happening. I’m no weel pleased with Rosie. If it werena that, as a rule, I dinna like to meddle with such matters, I would have a word with her myself. The bairn doesna ken her ain mind, I’m thinking.”
The next day was rainy, but not so rainy as to prevent Mr Snow from fulfilling his promise to take Mr Millar to see some wonderful cattle, which bade fair to make Mr Nasmyth’s a celebrated name in the county, and before they came home again, Mrs Snow took the opportunity to say a word, not to Rose, but to Graeme, with regard to her.
“What ails Rosie at your brother’s partner, young Mr Millar?” asked she. “I thought they would have been friends, having known one another so long.”
“Friends!” repeated Graeme. “Are they not friends? What makes you speak in that way, Janet?”
“Friends they are not,” repeated Mrs Snow, emphatically. “But whether they are less than friends, or more, I canna weel make out. Maybe you can help me, dear.”
“I cannot, indeed,” said Graeme, laughing a little uneasily. “I am afraid Charlie’s visit is not to give any of us unmingled pleasure.”
“It is easy seen what she is to him, poor lad, and I canna but think—my dear, you should speak to your sister.”
“But, Janet, Rosie is not an easy person to speak to about some things. And, besides, it is not easy to know whether one may not do harm, rather than good, by speaking. I did speak to her last night about—about Mr Perry.”
“About the minister! And what did she answer? She cares little about him, I’m thinking. It’s no’ pretty in her to amuse herself so openly at his expense, poor man, though there’s some excuse, too—when he shows so little discretion.”
“But, amusing herself, Janet! That is rather hard on Rosie. It is not that, I think.”
“Is it not? What is it, then? The bairn is not in earnest. I hope it may all come to a good ending.”
“Oh! Janet! I hope it may. But I don’t like to think of endings. Rosie must belong to some one else some day, I suppose. The best thing I can wish for her is that I may lose her—for her sake, but it is not a happy thing to think of for mine.”
“Miss Graeme, my dear, that is not like you.”
“Indeed, Janet, it is just like me. I can’t bear to think about it. As for the minister—” Graeme shrugged her shoulders.
“You needna trouble yourself about the minister, my dear. It will no’ be him. If your friend yonder would but take heart of grace—I have my own thoughts.”
“Oh! I don’t know. We need not be in a hurry.”
“But, dear, think what you were telling me the other day, about your sister going out by herself to seek her fortune. Surely, that would be far worse.”
“But she would not have to go by herself. I should go with her, and Janet, I have sometimes the old dread of change upon me, as I used to have long ago.”
“But, my dear, why should you? All the changes in our lot are in good hands. I dinna need to tell you that after all these years. And as for the minister, you needna be afraid for him.”
Graeme laughed; and though the entrance of Rose prevented any more being said, she laughed again to herself, in a way to excite her sister’s astonishment.
“I do believe Janet is pitying me a little, because of the minister’s inconstancy,” she said to herself. “Why am I laughing at it, Rosie? You must ask Mrs Snow.”
“My dear, how can I tell your sister’s thoughts? It is at them, she is laughing, and I think the minister has something to do with it, though it is not like her, either, to laugh at folk in an unkindly way.”
“It is more like me, you think,” said Rose, pouting. “And as for the minister, she is very welcome to him, I am sure.”
“Nonsense, Rose! Let him rest. I am sure Deacon Snow would think us very irreverent to speak about the minister in that way. Tell me what you are going to do to-day?”
Rosie had plenty to do, and by and by she became absorbed in the elaborate pattern which she was working on a frock for wee Rosie, and was rather more remiss than before, as to doing her part for the entertainment of their guest. She had not done that from the beginning, but her quietness and preoccupation were more apparent, because the rain kept them within doors. Graeme saw it, and tried to break through it or cover it as best she might. Mrs Snow saw it, and sometimes looked grave, and sometimes amused, but she made no remarks about it. As for Mr Millar, if he noticed her silence and preoccupation, he certainly did not resent them, but gave to the few words she now and then put in, an eager attention that went far beyond their worth; and had she been a princess, and he but a humble vassal, he could not have addressed her with more respectful deference.
And so the days passed on, till one morning something was said by Mr Millar, about its being time to draw his visit to a close. It was only a word, and might have fallen to the ground without remark, as he very possibly intended it should do; but Mr Snow set himself to combat the idea of his going away so soon, with an energy and determination that brought them all into the discussion in a little while.
“Unless there is something particular taking you home, you may as well stay for a while longer. At any rate, it ain’t worth while to go before Sunday. You ought to stay and hear our minister preach, now you’ve got acquainted with him. Oughtn’t he, Graeme?”
Graeme smiled.
“Oh! yes, he ought to stay for so good a reason as that is.”
“There are worse preachers than Mr Perry,” said Mrs Snow, gravely.
“Oh! come now, mother. That ain’t saying much. There ain’t a great many better preachers in our part of the world, whatever they may be where you live. To be sure, if you leave to-night after tea, you can catch the night cars for Boston, and stay there over Sunday, and have your pick of some pretty smart men. But you’d better stay.—Not but what I could have you over to Rixford in time, as well as not, if it is an object to you. But you better stay, hadn’t he, girls? What do you say, Rose?”
“And hear Mr Perry preach? Oh! certainly,” said Rose, gravely.
“Oh! he will stay,” said Graeme, laughing, with a little vexation. “It is my belief he never meant to go, only he likes to be entreated. Now confess, Charlie.”
Chapter Forty Three.
“Eh, bairns! is it no’ a bonny day!” said Mrs Snow, breaking into Scotch, as she was rather apt to do when she was speaking to the sisters, or when a little moved. “I ay mind the first look I got o’ the hills ower yonder, and the kirk, and the gleam of the grave-stones, through the trees. We all came round the water on a Saturday afternoon like this; and Norman and Harry took turns in carrying wee Rosie, and we sat down here and rested ourselves, and looked ower yon bonny water. Eh, bairns! if I could have but had a glimpse of all the years that have been since then, of all the ‘goodness and mercy’ that has passed before us, now my thankless murmurs, and my unbelieving fears would have been rebuked!”
They were on their way up the hill to spend the afternoon at Mr Nasmyth’s, and Mr Millar was with them. Nothing more had been said about his going away, and if he was not quite content to stay, “his looks belied him,” as Miss Lovejoy remarked to herself, as she watched them, all going up the hill together. They were going very slowly, because of Mrs Snow’s lingering weakness. One of the few of the “Scotch prejudices!” that remained with her after all these years, was the prejudice in favour of her own two feet, as a means of locomotion, when the distance was not too great; and rather to the discontent of Mr Snow, she had insisted on walking up to the other house, this afternoon.
“It is but a step, and it will do me no harm, but good, to go with the bairns,” said she, and she got her own way.
It was a “bonny day,” mild, bright, and still. The autumnal beauty of the forests had passed, but the trees were not bare, yet, though October was nearly over; and, now and then, a brown leaf fell noiselessly through the air, and the faint rustle it made as it touched the many which had gone before it, seemed to deepen the quiet of the time. They had stopped to rest a little at the turn of the road, and were gazing over the pond to the hills beyond, as Mrs Snow spoke.
“Yes, I mind,” said Graeme.
“And I mind, too,” said Rose, softly.
“It’s a bonny place,” said Mrs Snow, in a little, “and it has changed but little in all those years. The woods have gone back a little on some of the hills; and the trees about the village and the kirkyard have grown larger and closer, and that is mostly all the changes.”
“The old meeting-house has a dreary look, now that it is never used,” said Rose, regretfully.
“Ay, it has that. I mind thinking it a grand and stately object, when I first saw it from the side of the water. That was before I had been in it, or very near it. But I learnt to love it for better things than stateliness, before very long. I was ill-pleased when they first spoke of pulling it down, but, as you say, it is a dreary object, now that it is no longer used, and the sooner it goes the better.”
“Yes, a ruin to be an object of interest, should be of grey stone, with wallflowers and ivy growing over it,” said Graeme.
“Yes, but this is not a country for ruins, and such like sorrowful things. The old kirk was good enough to worship in, to my thinking, for many a year to come; and the new one will ay lack something that the old one had, to you and me, and many a one besides; but the sooner the forsaken old place is taken quite away, the better, now.”
“Yes, there is nothing venerable in broken sashes, and fluttering shingles. But I wish they had repaired it for a while, or at any rate, built the new one on the same site. We shall never have any pleasant associations with the new red brick affair that the Merleville people are so proud of.”
And so they lingered and talked about many a thing besides the unsightly old meeting-house—things that had happened in the old time, when the bairns were young, and the world was to them a world in which each had a kingdom to conquer, a crown to win. Those happy, happy days!
“Oh! well,” said Mrs Snow, as they rose to go up the hill again, “it’s a bonny place, and I have learnt to love it well. But if any one had told me in those days, that the time would come, when this and no other place in the world would seem like home to me, it would have been a foolishness in my ears.”
“Ah! what a sad dreary winter that first one was to you, Janet, though it was so merry to the boys and me,” said Graeme. “It would have comforted you then, if you could have known how it would be with you now, and with Sandy.”
“I am not so sure of that, my dear. We are untoward creatures, at the best, and the brightness of to-day, would not have looked like brightness then. No love, the changes that seem so good and right to look back upon, would have dismayed me, could I have seen them before me. It is well that we must just live on from one day to another, content with what each one brings.”
“Ah! if we could always do that!” said Graeme, sighing.
“My bairn, we can. Though I mind, even in those old happy days, you had a sorrowful fashion of adding the morrow’s burden to the burden of to-day. But that is past with you now, surely, after all that you have seen of the Lord’s goodness, to you and yours. What would you wish changed of all that has come and gone, since that first time when we looked on the bonny hills and valleys of Merleville?”
“Janet,” said Graeme, speaking low, “death has come to us since that day.”
“Ay, my bairns! the death of the righteous, and, surely, that is to be grieved for least of all. Think of them all these years, among the hills of Heaven, with your mother and the baby she got home with her. And think of the wonderful things your father has seen, and of his having speech with David, and Paul, and with our Lord himself—”
Janet’s voice faltered, and Graeme clasped softly the withered hand that lay upon her arm, and neither of them spoke again, till they answered Sandy and Emily’s joyful greeting at the door.
Rose lingered behind, and walked up and down over the fallen leaves beneath the elms. Graeme came down again, there, and Mr Nasmyth came to speak to them, and so did Emily, but they did not stay long; and by and by Rose was left alone with Mr Millar, for the very first time during his visit. Not that she was really alone with him, for all the rest were still in the porch enjoying the mild air, and the bright October sunshine. She could join them in a moment, she thought, not that there was the least reason in the world for her wishing to do so, however. All this passed through her mind, as she came over the fallen leaves toward the gate on which Mr Millar was leaning; and then she saw that she could not so easily join the rest, at least, without asking him to let her pass. But, of course, there could be no occasion for that.
“How clearly we can see the shadows in the water,” said she, for the sake of saying something. “Look over yonder, at the point where the cedar trees grow low. Do you see?”
“Yes, I see,” said he, but he was not looking the way of the cedars. “Rose, do you know why I came here?”
Rose gave a startled glance towards the porch where they were all sitting so quietly.
“It was to bring us news of Will, wasn’t it? And to see Merleville?” said she.
Did she say it? Or had she only thought of it? She was not sure, a minute after, for Mr Millar went on as if he had heard nothing.
“I came to ask you to be my wife.”
Did this take her by surprise? or had she been expecting it all the time? She did not know. She was not sure; but she stood before him with downcast eyes, without a word.
“You know I have loved you always—since the night that Harry took me home with him. My fancy has never wandered from you, all these years. Rose, you must know I love you, dearly. I have only that to plead. I know I am not worthy of you, except for the love I bear you.”
He had begun quietly, as one begins a work which needs preparation, and strength, and courage, but his last words came between pauses, broken and hurriedly, and he repeated,—
“I know I am not worthy.”
“Oh! Charlie, don’t say such foolish words to me.” And Rose gave him a single glimpse of her face. It was only a glimpse, but his heart gave a great leap in his breast, and the hand that lay on the gate which separated them trembled, though Rose did not look up to see it.
“Rosie,” he whispered, “come down to the brook and show me Harry’s waterfall.”
Rose laughed, a little, uncertain laugh, that had the sound of tears in it; and when Charlie took her hand and put it within his arm, she did not withdraw it, and they went over the field together.
Graeme had been watching them from the porch, and as they passed out of sight, she turned her eyes toward Mrs Snow, with a long breath.
“It has come at last, Janet,” said she.
“I shouldna wonder, dear. But it is no’ a thing to grieve over, if it has come.”
“No. And I am not going to grieve. I am glad, even though I have to seek my fortune, all alone. But I have Will, yet,” added she, in a little. “There is no word of a stranger guest in his heart as yet. I am sure of Will, at least.”
Mrs Snow smiled and shook her head.
“Will’s time will come, doubtless. You are not to build a castle for yourself and Will, unless you make room for more than just you two in it, dear.”
Emily listened, smiling.
“It would be as well to leave the building of Will’s castle to himself,” said she.
“Ah! yes, I suppose so,” said Graeme, with a sigh. “One must build for one’s self. But, Emily, dear, I built Rosie’s castle. I have wished for just what is happening over yonder among the pine trees, for a long long time. I have been afraid, now and then, of late, that my castle was to tumble down about my ears, but Charlie has put his hand to the work, now, in right good earnest, and I think my castle will stand.”
“See here, Emily,” said Mr Snow, coming in an hour or two later, “if Mr Millar thinks of catching the cars for Boston, this evening, you’ll have to hurry up your tea.”
“But he has no thought of doing any such foolish thing,” said Mrs Snow. “Dear me, a body would think you were in haste to get quit of the young man, with your hurry for the tea, and the cars for Boston.”
“Why no, mother, I ain’t. He spoke about it this morning, himself, or I’m pretty sure I shouldn’t. I’ll be glad to have him stay, and more than glad.”
“He is going to stay and hear the minister preach,” said Graeme. “You know you asked him, and I’m sure he will enjoy it.”
“He is a good preacher,” said Mr Snow, gravely.
“And he’s a good practiser, which is far better,” said his wife. “But I doubt, deacon, you’ll need to put him out of your head now. Look down yonder, and tell me if you think Rosie is likely to bide in Merleville.”
And the deacon, looking, saw Mr Millar and Rose coming slowly up the path together, and a duller man than Mr Snow could hardly have failed to see how matters stood between them. Mr Millar was looking down on the blushing face of his companion with an air alike happy and triumphant, and, as for Rose, Mr Snow had never seen her look at all as she was looking at that moment.
“Well,” said his wife, softly.
“Well it is as pretty a sight as one need wish to see,” said Mr Snow. He nodded his head a great many times, and then, without a word, turned his eyes on Graeme.
His wife smiled.
“No, I am afraid not. Every one must build his own castle, as I heard her saying—or was it Emily? this very afternoon. But we needna trouble ourselves about what may come to pass, or about what mayna. It is all in good hands.”
“And, Rosie dear, all this might have happened at Norman’s last year, if only Charlie had been bolder, and Harry not so wise.”
The sisters were in their own room together. A good deal had been said before this time that need not be repeated. Graeme had made her sister understand how glad she was for her sake, and had spoken kind, sisterly words about Charlie, and how she would have chosen him for a brother out of all the world, and more of the same kind; and, of course, Rose was as happy, as happy could be. But when Graeme said this, she turned round with a very grave face.
“I don’t know, Graeme. Perhaps it might; but I am not sure. I did not know my own mind then, and, on the whole, it is better as it is.”
“Harry will be glad,” said Graeme. Indeed, she had said that before.
Rose laughed.
“Dear, wise Harry! He always said Charlie was pure gold.”
“And so he is,” said Graeme.
“I know it, Graeme; and he says he is not good enough for me.” And Rose laid down her cheek upon her sister’s lap, with a little sob. “Ah! if he only knew, I am afraid—”
“Dear, it is the humility of true love, as you said about Harry. You love one another, and you need not be afraid.”
They were silent for a long time after that, and then Rose said, flushing a little,—
“And, Graeme, dear, Charlie says—but I promised not to tell—”
“Well, you must not, then,” said Graeme, smiling, with just a little throb of pain at her heart, as it came home to her that now, Rose, and her hopes and fears, and little secrets belonged more to another than to her.
“Not that it is a secret, Graeme,” said her sister, eagerly.
“It is something that Charlie has very much at heart, but I am not so sure myself. But it is nothing that can be spoken about yet. Graeme, Charlie thinks there is nobody in the world quite so good as you.”
Graeme laughed.
“Except you, Rosie.”
“I am not good, Graeme, but very foolish and naughty, often, as you know. But I will try and be good, now, indeed I will.”
“My darling,” murmured Graeme, “I am so glad for you—so glad and thankful. We ought to be good. God has been very good to us all.”
Of course all this was not permitted to shorten the visit of the sisters to their old friend. Mr Millar went away rather reluctantly, alone, but the Winter had quite set in before they went home. Mrs Snow was well by that time, as well as she ever expected to be in this world, and she bade them farewell with a good hope that she might see them again.
“But, whether or not,” said she, cheerfully, “I shall ay be glad and thankful for the quiet time we have had together. There are few who can say of those they love, that they wish nothing changed in their life or their lot; but I do say that of all your father’s bairns. No’ but that there may be some crook in the lot of one or other of you, that I canna see, and maybe some that I can see; but when the face is set in the right airt (direction) all winds waft onward, and that, I trust, is true of you all. And, Rosie, my dear, it takes a steady hand to carry a full cup, as I have told you, many a time; and mind, my bairn, ‘Except the Lord build the house, they labour in vain that build it,’ and, ‘the foundation of God standeth sure.’ Miss Graeme, my dear, ‘They that wait on the Lord shall renew their strength,’ as you have learnt yourself long syne. God bless you both, and farewell.”
They had a very quiet and happy winter. They had to make the acquaintance of their new sister, and a very pleasant duty it proved, Harry had at one time indulged some insane hopes of having his little Amy safe in his own keeping before the snow came, but it was soon made plain to him by Mrs Roxbury, that this was not for a single moment to be thought of. Her daughter was very young, and she must be permitted at least one season to see something of society before her marriage. She was satisfied with the prospect of having the young merchant for a son-in-law; he had established a reputation of the most desirable kind among the reliable men of the city, and he was, besides, a gentleman, and she had other daughters growing up. Still it was right that Amy should have time and opportunity to be quite sure of herself, before the irrevocable step was taken. If Mrs Roxbury could have had her way about it, she should have had this opportunity before her engagement had been made, or, at least, before it had been openly acknowledged, but, as that could not be, there must be no haste about the wedding.
And so the pretty Amy was hurried from one gay scene to another, and was an acknowledged beauty and belle, in both civic and military circles, and seemed to enjoy it all very well. As for Harry, he sometimes went with her, and sometimes stayed at home, and fretted and chafed at the state of affairs in a way that even his sisters considered unreasonable, though they by no means approved of the trial to which Amy’s constancy was exposed. But they were not afraid for her. Every visit she made them—and many quiet mornings she passed with them—they became more assured of her sweetness and goodness, and of her affection for their brother, and so they thought Harry unreasonable in his impatience, and told him so, sometimes.
“A little vexation and suspense will do Harry no harm,” said Arthur. “Events were following one another quite too smoothly in his experience. In he walks among us one day, and announces his engagement to Miss Roxbury, as triumphantly as you please, without a word of warning, and now he frets and fumes because he cannot have his own way in every particular. A little suspense will do him good.”
Which was very hard-hearted on Arthur’s part, as his wife told him.
“And, besides, it is not suspense that is troubling Harry,” said Rose. “He knows quite well how it is to end. It is only a momentary vexation. And I don’t say, myself, it will do Harry any harm to have his masculine self-complacency disturbed a little, by just the bare possibility of disappointment. One values what it costs one some trouble to have and to hold.”
“Rose, you are as bad as Arthur,” said Fanny.
“Am I? Oh! I do not mean that Harry doesn’t value little Amy enough; but he is unreasonable and foolish, and it looks as if he were afraid to trust her among all those fine people who admire her so much.”
“It is you who are foolish, now, Rose,” said her sister. “Harry may be unreasonable, but it is not on that account; and Amy is a jewel too precious not to be guarded. No wonder that he grudges so much of her time, and so many of her thoughts to indifferent people. But it will soon be over now.”
“Who knows? ‘There’s many a slip ’twixt the cup and the lip,’ you know,” said Arthur. “Who knows but Harry may be the victim among us? Our matrimonial adventures have been monotonously prosperous, hitherto. Witness Rosie’s success. It would make a little variety to have an interruption.”
But Harry was not destined to be a victim. As the winter wore over, Mrs Roxbury relented, and “listened to reason on the subject,” Harry said; and by and by there began to be signs of more than usual occupation in the Roxbury mansion, and preparations that were likely to throw Rosie’s modest efforts in the direction of housekeeping altogether in the shade. But Rosie was not of an envious disposition, and enjoyed her pretty things none the less, because of the magnificence of Harry’s bride. As for little Amy, she took the matter of the trousseau very coolly. Mamma was quite equal to all that, and took trouble enough, and enjoyment enough out of it all for both, and she was sure that all would be done in a right and proper manner, without anxiety or over-exertion on her part, and there was never a happier or more light-hearted little bride than she.
At first it was proposed that the two weddings should take place on the same day, but, afterwards, it was decided otherwise. It would be inconvenient for business reasons, should both the partners be away at the same time, and in those circumstances the wedding trip would be shortened. And besides, the magnificence of the Roxbury plans, would involve more trouble as to preparations, than would be agreeable or convenient; and Rose proposed to go quietly from her own home to the home Charlie was making ready for her; and it was decided that Harry’s marriage should take place in the latter part of April, and the other early in the summer.
But before April, bad news came from Will. They heard from himself first, that he had not been sometimes as well as usual, and then a letter came from Mr Ruthven to Graeme, telling her that her brother was ill with fever, quite unable to write himself; and though he did not say in so many words, that there was danger for him, this was only too easily inferred from his manner of writing.
The next letter and the next, brought no better news. It was a time of great anxiety. To Graeme it was worst of all. As the days went on, and nothing more hopeful came from him, she blamed herself that she had not at once gone to him when the tidings of his illness first reached them. It was terrible to think of him, dying alone so far from them all; and she said to herself “she might, at least, have been with him at the last.”
He would have been at home by this time, if he had been well, and this made their grief and anxiety all the harder to bear. If she could have done anything for him, or if she could have known from day to day how it was with him, even though she could not see him, or care for him, it would not have been so dreadful Graeme thought. Her heart failed her, and though she tried to interest herself still in the preparations and arrangements that had before given her so much pleasure, it was all that she could do, to go quietly and calmly about her duties, during some of these very anxious days.
She did not know how utterly despondent she was becoming, or how greatly in danger she was of forgetting for the time the lessons of hope and trust which her experience in life had taught her, till there came from Mrs Snow one of her rare, brief letters, written by her own hand, which only times of great trial had ever called forth from her.
“My bairn,” she said, “are you not among those whom nothing can harm? Absolutely nothing! Whether it be life or death that is before your brother, you hae surely nothing to fear for him, and nothing for yourself. I think he will be spared to do God’s work for a while yet. But dear, after all that has come and gone, neither you nor I would like to take it upon ourselves to say what would be wise and kind on our Father’s part; and what is wise and kind will surely come to pass.”
Their suspense did not last very long after this. Mr Ruthven’s weekly letters became more hopeful after the third one, and soon Will wrote himself, a few feeble, irregular lines, telling how his friend had watched over him, and cared for him like a brother, during all those weeks in his dreary, city lodging; and how, at the first possible moment, he had taken him home to his own house, where Mrs Millar, his mother, was caring for him now; and where he was slowly, but surely, coming back to life and health again. There was no hope of his being able to be home to Harry’s marriage, but unless something should happen to pull him sadly back again, he hoped to see the last of Rosie Elliott, and the first of his new brother Charlie.
There were a few words meant for Graeme alone, over which she shed happy, thankful tears, and wrote them down for the reading of their old friend, “Brought face to face with death, one learns the true meaning and value of life. I am glad to come back again, for your sake Graeme, and for the sake of the work that I trust I may be permitted to do.”
After this they looked forward to the wedding with lightened hearts. It was a very grand and successful affair, altogether. Amy and her bridesmaids were worthy of all the admiration which they excited, and that is saying a great deal. There were many invited guests, and somehow, it had got about that this was to be a more than usually pretty wedding, and Saint Andrew’s was crowded with lookers-on, who had only the right of kind and admiring sympathy to plead for being there. The breakfast was all that it ought to be, of course, and the bride’s travelling-dress was pronounced by all to be as great a marvel of taste and skill, as the bridal robe itself.
Harry behaved very well through it all, as Arthur amused them not a little by gravely asserting. But Harry was, as an object of interest, a very secondary person on the occasion, as it is the usual fate of bridegrooms to be. As for the bride, she was as sweet and gentle, and unaffected, amid the guests, and grandeur, and glittering wedding gifts, as she had always been in the eyes of her new sisters, and when Graeme kissed her for good bye, she said to herself, that this dear little sister had come to them without a single drawback, and she thanked God in her heart, for the happiness of her brother Harry. Yes, and for the happiness of her brother Arthur, too, she added in her heart, and she greatly surprised Fanny by putting her arms round her and kissing her softly many times. They were in one of the bay windows of the great drawing-room, a little withdrawn from the company generally, so that they were unobserved by all but Arthur.
“Graeme’s heart is overflowing with peace and good will to all on this auspicious occasion,” said he, laughing, but he was greatly pleased.
After this they had a few happy weeks. Rosie’s preparations were by this time, too far advanced to give any cause for anxiety or care, and they all enjoyed the quiet. Letters came weekly from Will, or his friend, sometimes from both, which set them quite at rest about the invalid. They were no longer mere reports of his health, but long, merry, rambling letters, filled with accounts of their daily life, bits of gossip, conversation, even jokes at one another’s expense, generally given by Will, but sometimes, also, by the grave and dignified Mr Ruthven, whom, till lately, all but Charlie had come to consider almost a stranger. Still the end of May was come, and nothing was said as to the day when they expected to set sail. But before that time, great news had come from another quarter. Norman and his family were coming East. A succession of childish illnesses had visited his little ones, and had left both mother and children in need of more bracing air than their home could boast of in the summer-time, and they were all coming to take up their abode for a month or two, on the Gulf, up which health-bearing breezes from the ocean never cease to blow. Graeme was to go with them. As many more as could be persuaded were to go, too, but Graeme certainly; and then she was to go home with them, to the West, when their summer holiday should be over.
This was Norman’s view of the matter. Graeme’s plans were not sufficiently arranged as yet for her to say either yes or no, with regard to it. In the meantime, there were many preparations to be made for their coming, and Graeme wrote to hasten these arrangements, so that they might be in time for the wedding.
“And if only Will comes, we shall all be together again once more,” said she, with a long breath.
“To say nothing of Norman’s boys, and his wonderful daughter, and Fanny’s young gentleman, who will compare with any of them now, I think,” said Rose.
“We will have a house full and a merry wedding,” said Arthur. “Though it won’t be as grand as the other one, Rosie, I’m afraid. If we only could have Mrs Snow here, Graeme?”
Graeme shook her head.
“I am afraid that can hardly be in the present state of her health. Not that she is ill, but Mr Snow thinks the journey would be too much for her. I am afraid it is not to be thought of?”
“Never mind—Charlie and Rosie can go round that way and get her blessing. That will be the next best thing to having her here. And by the time you are ready for the altar, Graeme, Janet will come, you may be sure of that.”
June had come, warm and beautiful. Harry and his bride had returned, and the important but exhausting ceremony of receiving bridal visits was nearly over. Graeme, at least, had found them rather exhausting, when she had taken her turn of sitting with the bride; and so, on one occasion, leaving Rose and some other gay young people to pass the evening at Harry’s house, she set out on her way home, with the feeling of relief that all was over in which she was expected to assist, uppermost in her mind. It would all have to be gone over again in Rosie’s case, she knew, but she put that out of her mind for the present, and turned her thoughts to the pleasant things that were sure to happen before that time—Norman’s coming, and Will’s. They might come any day now. She had indulged in a little impatient murmuring that Will’s last letter had not named the day and the steamer by which he was to sail, but it could not be long now at the longest, and her heart gave a sudden throb as she thought that possibly he might not write as to the day, but might mean to take them by surprise. She quickened her footsteps unconsciously as the thought came into her mind; he might have arrived already. But in a minute she laughed at her foolishness and impatience, and then she sighed.
“There will be no more letters after Will comes home, at least there will be none for me,” she said to herself, but added, impatiently, “What would I have? Surely that will be a small matter when I have him safe and well at home again.”
But she was a little startled at the pain which the thought had given her; and then she denied to herself that the pain had been there. She laughed at the idea, and was a little scornful over it, and then she took herself to task for the scorn as she had done for the pain. And then, frightened at herself and her discomfort; she turned her thoughts, with an efforts to a pleasanter theme—the coming of Norman and Hilda and their boys.
“I hope they will be in time. It would be quite too bad if they were to lose the wedding by only a day or two. And yet we could hardly blame Charlie were he to refuse to wait after Will comes. Oh, if he were only safe here! I should like a few quiet days with Will before the house is full. My boy!—who is really more mine than any of the others—all that I have, for my very own, now that Rosie is going from me. How happy we shall be when all the bustle and confusion are over! And as to my going home with Norman and Hilda—that must be decided later, as Will shall make his plans. My boy!—how can I ever wait for his coming?”
It was growing dark as she drew near the house. Although the lights were not yet in the drawing-room, she knew by the sound of voices coming through the open window that Arthur and Fanny were not alone.
“I hope I am not cross to-night, but I really don’t feel as though I could make myself agreeable to visitors for another hour or two. I wish Sarah may let me quietly in; and I will go up-stairs at once. I wonder who they are!”
Sarah’s face was illuminated.
“You have come at last, Miss Elliott,” said she.
“Yes; was I expected sooner? Who is here? Is it you, Charlie? You are expected elsewhere.”
It was not Charlie, however. A voice not unlike his spoke in answer, and said,—
“Graeme, I have brought your brother home to you;” and her hand was clasped in that of Allan Ruthven.