Janet's Love and Service

Margaret M Robertson (continued 13)

Reading edition

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.

Chapter Forty Four.

The pleasant autumn days had come round again, and Mr and Mrs Snow were sitting, as they often sat now, alone in the south room together. Mr Snow was hale and strong still, but he was growing old, and needed to rest, and partly because the affairs of the farm were safe in the hands of his “son,” as he never failed to designate Sandy, and partly because those affairs were less to him than they used to be, he was able to enjoy the rest he took.

For that was happening to him which does not always happen, even to good people, as they grow old; his hold was loosening from the things which for more than half a lifetime he had sought so eagerly and held so firmly. With his eyes fixed on “the things which are before,” other things were falling behind and out of sight, and from the leisure thus falling to him in these days, came the quiet hours in the south room so pleasant to them both.

But the deacon’s face did not wear its usual placid look on this particular morning; and the doubt and anxiety showed all the more plainly, contrasting as they did with the brightness on the face of his wife. She was moved, too, but with no painful feeling, her husband could see, as he watched her, though there were tears in the eyes that rested on the scene without. But she was seeing other things, he knew, and not sorrowful things either, he said to himself, with a little surprise, as he fingered uneasily an open letter that lay on the table beside him.

“It ain’t hard to see how all that will end,” said he, in a little.

“But,” said his wife, turning toward him with a smile, “you say it as if it were an ending not to be desired.”

“Ah, well!—in a general way, I suppose it is, or most folks, would say so. What do you think?”

“If they are pleased, we needna be otherwise.”

“Well!—no—but ain’t it a little sudden? It don’t seem but the other day since Mr Ruthven crossed the ocean.”

“But that wasna the first time he crossed the ocean. The first time they crossed it together. Allan Ruthven is an old friend, and Miss Graeme is no’ the one to give her faith lightly to any man.”

“Well! no, she ain’t. But, somehow, I had come to think that she never would change her state; and—”

“It’s no’ very long, then,” said his wife, laughing. “You’ll mind that it’s no’ long since you thought the minister likely to persuade her to it.”

“And does it please you that Mr Ruthven has had better luck?”

“The minister never could have persuaded her. He never tried very much, I think. And if Allan Ruthven has persuaded her, it is because she cares for him as she never cared for any other man. And from all that Will says, we may believe that he is a good man, and true, and I am glad for her sake, glad and thankful. God bless her.”

“Why, yes, if she must marry,” said Mr Snow, discontentedly; “but somehow it don’t seem as though she could fit in anywhere better than just the spot she is in now. I know it don’t sound well to talk about old maids, because of the foolish notions folks have got to have; but Graeme did seem one that would ‘adorn the doctrine’ as an old maid, and redeem the name.”

“That has been done by many a one already, in your sight and mine; and Miss Graeme will ‘adorn the doctrine’ anywhere. She has ay had a useful life, and this while she has had a happy one. But oh, man!” added Mrs Snow, growing earnest and Scotch, as old memories came over her with a sudden rush, “when I mind the life her father and her mother lived together—a life of very nearly perfect blessedness—I canna but be glad that Miss Graeme is to have a chance of the higher happiness that comes with a home of one’s own, where true love bides and rules. I ay mind her father and her mother. They had their troubles. They were whiles poor enough, and whiles had thraward folk to deal with; but trouble never seemed to trouble them when they bore it together. And God’s blessing was upon them through all. But I have told you all this many a time before, only it seems to come fresh and new to me to-day, thinking, as I am, of Miss Graeme.”

Yes, Mr Snow had heard it all many a time, and doubtless would hear it many a time again, but he only smiled, and said,—

“And Graeme is like her mother?”

“Yes, she’s like her, and she’s not like her. She is quieter and no’ so cheery, and she is no’ near so bonny as her mother was. Rose is more like her mother in looks, but she doesna ’mind me of her mother in her ways as her sister does, because, I suppose, of the difference that the age and the country make on all that are brought up in them. There is something wanting in all the young people of the present day, that well brought up bairns used to have in mine. Miss Graeme has it, and her sister hasna. You’ll ken what I mean by the difference between them.”

Mr Snow could not. The difference that he saw between the sisters was sufficiently accounted for to him by the ten year’s difference in their ages. He never could be persuaded, that, in any undesirable sense, Rose was more like the modern young lady than her sister. Graeme was perfect, in his wife’s eyes, and Rose was not quite perfect. That was all. However, he did not wish to discuss the question just now.

“Well! Graeme is about as good as we can hope to see in this world, and if he’s good enough for her that is a great deal to say, even if he is not what her father was.”

“There are few like him. But Allan is a good man, Will says, and he is not one to be content with a false standard of goodness, or a low one. He was a manly, pleasant lad, in the days when I kenned him. I daresay his long warstle with the world didna leave him altogether scatheless; but he’s out of the world’s grip now, I believe. God bless my bairn, and the man of her choice.”

There was a moment’s silence. Mrs Snow turned to the window, and her husband sat watching her, his brow a little clearer, but not quite clear yet.

“She is pleased. She ain’t making believe a mite. She’s like most women folks in that,” said Mr Snow, emphasising to himself the word, as though, in a good many things, she differed from “women folk” in general. “They really do think in their hearts, though they don’t always say so, that it is the right thing for girls to get married, and she’s glad Graeme’s going to do so well. But, when she comes to think of it, and how few chances there are of her ever seeing much of her again, I am afraid she’ll worry about it—though she sartain don’t look like it now.”

Certainly she did not. The grave face looked more than peaceful, it looked bright. The news which both Rose and Will had intimated, rather than announced, had stirred only pleasant thoughts as yet, that was clear. Mr Snow put on his spectacles and looked at the letters again, then putting them down, said, gravely,—

“She’ll have her home a great way off from here. And maybe it’s foolish, but it does seem to me as though it was a kind of a come down to go back to the old country to live after all these years.”

Mrs Snow laughed heartily.

“But then, it is no’ to be supposed that she will think so, or he either, you ken.”

“No, it ain’t. If they did, they’d stay here, I suppose.”

“Well, it’s no’ beyond the bounds of possibility, but they may bide here or come back again. But, whether they bide here or bide there, God bless them both,” said Mrs Snow, with moistening eyes.

“God bless them both!” echoed her husband. “And, which ever way it is, you ain’t going to worry the least mite about it. Be you?”

The question was asked after a pause of several seconds, and Mr Snow looked so wistfully and entreatingly into his wife’s face, that she could not help laughing, though there were tears in her eyes.

“No, I am no thinking of worrying, as you call it. It is borne in upon me that this change is to be for the real happiness of my bairn, and it would be pitiful in me to grudge her a day of it. And, to tell you the truth, I have seen it coming, and have been preparing myself for it this while back, and so I have taken it more reasonably than you have done yourself, which is a thing that wasna to be expected, I must confess.”

“Seen it coming! Preparing for it!” repeated Mr Snow; but he inquired no farther, only looked meditatively out of the window, and nodded his head a great many times. By and by he said, heartily,—

“Well, if you are pleased, I am. God bless them.”

“God bless all the bairns,” said his wife, softly. “Oh, man! when I think of all that has come and gone, I am ready to say that ‘the Lord has given me the desire of my heart.’ I sought His guidance about coming with them. I had a sore swither ere I could think of leaving my mother and Sandy for their sakes, but He guided me and strengthened me, though whiles I used to doubt afterwards, with my sore heart wearying for my own land, and my own kin.”

Mr Snow nodded gravely, but did not speak, and in a little she went on again:

“I sought guidance, too, when I left them, and now, looking back, I think I see that I got it; but, for a while, when death came, and they went from me, it seemed as though the Lord had removed the desire of my eyes with a stroke, because of my self-seeking and unfaithfulness. Oh, man! yon was a rough bit of road for my stumbling, weary feet. But He didna let me fall altogether—praise be to His name!”

Her voice shook, and there was a moment’s silence, and then she added,—

“But, as for grieving, because Miss Graeme is going farther away, than is perhaps pleasant to think about, when she is going of her own free will, and with a good hope of a measure of happiness, that would be unreasonable indeed.”

“Now, if she were to hold up her hands, and say, ‘Now, lettest thou thy servant depart in peace,’ it would seem about the right thing to do,” said Mr Snow, to himself, with a sigh. “When it comes to giving the bairns up, willing never to see them again, it looks a little as if she was done with most things, and ready to go—and I ain’t no ways ready to have her, I’m afraid.”

The next words gave him a little start of surprise and relief.

“And we’ll need to bethink ourselves, what bonny thing we can give her, to keep her in mind of us when she will be far-away.”

“Sartain!” said Mr Snow, eagerly.

“Not that I think she’ll be likely to forget us,” added his wife, with a catch in her breath. “She’s no of that nature. I shouldna wonder if she might have some homesick thoughts, then, even in the midst of her happiness, for she has a tender heart! But, if they love one another, there is little doubt but it will be well with them, seeing they have the fear of God before their eyes. And, she may come back and end her days on this side of the sea, yet, who knows?”

“I shouldn’t wonder a mite,” said Mr Snow.

“But, whether or not, if she be well, and happy, and good, that is the main thing. And whiles I think it suits my weakness and my old age better to sit here and hear about the bairns, and think about them, and speak to you about them and all that concerns them, than it would to be among them with their youth and strength, and their new interests in life. And then, they dinna need me, and you do,” added Mrs Snow, with a smile.

“That’s so,” said he, with an emphasis that made her laugh.

“Well then, let us hear no more about my worrying about Miss Graeme and the bairns. That is the last thing I am thinking of. Sitting here, and looking over all the road we have travelled, sometimes together, sometimes apart, I can see plainly that we were never left to choose, or to lose our way, but that, at every crook and turn, stood the Angel of the Covenant, unseen then, and, God forgive us, maybe unthought of, but ever there, watching over us, and having patience with us, and holding us up when we stumbled with weary feet. And knowing that their faces are turned in the right way, as I hope yours is, and mine, it is no’ for me to doubt but that He is guiding them still, and us as well, and that we shall all come safe to the same place at last.” She paused a moment, because of a little break and quiver in her voice, and then she added,—

“Yes. ‘The Lord hath given me the desire of my heart’ for the bairns. Praise be to His name.”