The longest day in all the year was slowly closing over the little
village of Clayton. There were no loiterers now at the corners of the
streets or on the village square--it was too late for that, though
daylight still lingered. Now and then the silence was broken by the
footsteps of some late home-comer, and over more than one narrow close,
the sound of boyish voices went and came, from garret to garret, telling
that the spirit of slumber had not yet taken possession of the place.
But these soon ceased. The wind moved the tall laburnums in the lane
without a sound, and the murmur of running water alone broke the
stillness, as the gurgle of the burn, and the rush of the distant
mill-dam met and mingled in the air of the summer night.
In the primitive village of Clayton, at this midsummer time, gentle and
simple were wont to seek their rest by the light of the long gloaming.
But to-night there was light in the manse--in the minister's study, and
in other parts of the house as well. Lights were carried hurriedly past
uncurtained windows, and flared at last through the open door, as a
woman's anxious face looked out.
"What can be keeping him?" she murmured, as she shaded the flickering
candle and peered out into the gathering darkness. "It's no' like him
to linger at a time like this. God send he was at home."
Another moment of eager listening, and then the anxious face was
withdrawn and the door closed. Soon a sound broke the stillness of the
village street; a horseman drew up before the minister's house, and the
door was again opened.
"Well, Janet?" said the rider, throwing the reins on the horse's neck
and pausing as he went in. The woman curtseyed with a very relieved
face.
"They'll be glad to see you up the stairs, sir. The minister's no' long
home."
She lighted the doctor up the stairs, and then turned briskly in another
direction. In a minute she was kneeling before the kitchen hearth, and
was stirring up the buried embers.
"Has my father come, Janet?" said a voice out of the darkness.
"Yes, he's come. He's gone up the stairs. I'll put on the kettle. I
dare say he'll be none the worse of a cup of tea after his ride."
Sitting on the high kitchen dresser, her cheek close against the
darkening window, sat a young girl, of perhaps twelve or fourteen years
of age. She had been reading by the light that lingered long at that
western window, but the entrance of Janet's candle darkened that, and
the book, which at the first moment of surprise had dropped out of her
hand, she now hastily put behind her out of Janet's sight. But she need
not have feared a rebuke for "blindin' herself" this time, for Janet was
intent on other matters, and pursued her work in silence. Soon the
blaze sprung up, and the dishes and covers on the wall shone in the
firelight. Then she went softly out and closed the door behind her.
The girl sat still on the high dresser, with her head leaning back on
the window ledge, watching the shadows made by the firelight, and
thinking her own pleasant thoughts the while. As the door closed, a
murmur of wonder escaped her, that "Janet had'na sent her to her bed."
"It's quite time I dare say," she added, in a little, "and I'm tired,
too, with my long walk to the glen. I'll go whenever papa comes down."
She listened for a minute. Then her thoughts went away to other
things--to her father, who had been away all day; to her mother, who was
not quite well to-night, and had gone up-stairs, contrary to her usual
custom, before her father came home. Then she thought of other things--
of the book she had been reading, a story of one who had dared and done
much in a righteous cause--and then she gradually lost sight of the tale
and fell into fanciful musings about her own future, and to the building
of pleasant castles, in which she and they whom she loved were to dwell.
Sitting in the firelight, with eyes and lips that smiled, the pleasant
fancies came and went. Not a shadow crossed her brow. Not a fear came
to dim the light by which she gazed into the future that she planned.
So she sat till her dream was dreamed out, and then, with a sigh, in
which there was no echo of care or pain, she woke to the present, and
turned to her book again.
"I might see by the fire," she said, and in a minute she was seated on
the floor, her head leaning on her hands, and her eye fastened on the
open page.
"Miss Graeme," said Janet, softly coming in with a child in her arms,
"your mamma's no' weel, and here's wee Rosie wakened, and wantin' her.
You'll need to take her, for I maun awa'."
The book fell from the girl's hand, as she started up with a frightened
face.
"What ails mamma, Janet? Is she very ill?"
"What should ail her but the one thing?" said Janet, impatiently.
"She'll be better the morn I hae nae doubt."
Graeme made no attempt to take the child, who held out her hands toward
her.
"I must go to her, Janet."
"Indeed, Miss Graeme, you'll do nothing o' the kind. Mrs Burns is with
her, and the doctor, and it's little good you could do her just now.
Bide still where you are, and take care o' wee Rosie, and hearken if you
hear ony o' the ither bairns, for none o' you can see your mamma the
night."
Graeme took her little sister in her arms and seated herself on the
floor again. Janet went out, and Graeme heard her father's voice in the
passage. She held her breath to listen, but he did not come in as she
hoped he would. She heard them both go up-stairs again, and heedless of
the prattle of her baby sister, she still listened eagerly. Now and
then the sound of footsteps overhead reached her, and in a little Janet
came into the kitchen again, but she did not stay to be questioned.
Then the street door opened, and some one went out, and it seemed to
Graeme a long time before she heard another sound. Then Janet came in
again, and this time she seemed to have forgotten that there was any one
to see her, for she was wringing her hands, and the tears were streaming
down her cheeks. Graeme's heart stood still, and her white lips could
scarcely utter a sound.
"Janet!--tell me!--my mother."
"Save us lassie! I had no mind of you. Bide still, Miss Graeme. You
munna go there," for Graeme with her little sister in her arms was
hastening away. "Your mamma's no waur than she's been afore. It's only
me that doesna ken about the like o' you. The minister keeps up a gude
heart. Gude forgie him and a' mankind."
Graeme took a step toward the door, and the baby, frightened at Janet's
unwonted vehemence, sent up a shrill cry. But Janet put them both
aside, and stood with her back against the door.
"No' ae step, Miss Graeme. The auld fule that I am; 'gin the lassie had
been but in her bed. No, I'll no' take the bairn, sit down there,
you'll be sent for if you're needed. I'll be back again soon; and
you'll promise me that you'll no leave this till I bid you. Miss
Graeme, I wouldna deceive you if I was afraid for your mamma. Promise
me that you'll bide still."
Graeme promised, awed by the earnestness of Janet, and by her own vague
terror as to her mother's mysterious sorrow, that could claim from one
usually so calm, sympathy so intense and painful. Then she sat down
again to listen and to wait. How long the time seemed! The lids fell
down over the baby's wakeful eyes at last, and Graeme, gathering her own
frock over the little limbs, and murmuring loving words to her darling,
listened still.
The flames ceased to leap and glow on the hearth, the shadows no longer
danced upon the wall, and gazing at the strange faces and forms that
smiled and beckoned to her from the dying embers, still she listened.
The red embers faded into white, the dark forest with its sunny glades
and long retreating vistas, the hills, and rocks, and clouds, and
waterfalls, that had risen among them at the watcher's will, changed to
dull grey ashes, and the dim dawn of the summer morning, gleamed in at
last upon the weary sleeper. The baby still nestled in her arms, the
golden hair of the child gleaming among the dark curls of the elder
sister as their cheeks lay close together. Graeme moaned and murmured
in her sleep, and clasped the baby closer, but she did not wake till
Janet's voice aroused her. There were no tears on her face now, but it
was very white, and her voice was low and changed.
"Miss Graeme, you are to go to your mamma; she's wantin' you. But mind
you are to be quiet, and think o' your father."
Taking the child in her arms, she turned her back upon the startled
girl. Chilled and stiff from her uneasy posture, Graeme strove to rise,
and stumbling, caught at Janet's arm.
"Mamma is better Janet," she asked eagerly. Janet kept her working face
out of sight, and, in a little, answered hoarsely,--
"Ay, she'll soon be better, whatever becomes of the rest of us. But,
mind, you are to be quiet, Miss Graeme."
Chilled and trembling, Graeme crept up-stairs and through the dim
passages to her mother's room. The curtains had been drawn back, and
the daylight streamed into the room. But the forgotten candles still
glimmered on the table. There were several people in the room, standing
sad and silent around the bed. They moved away as she drew near. Then
Graeme saw her mother's white face on the pillow, and her father bending
over her. Even in the awe and dread that smote on her heart like death,
she remembered that she must be quiet, and, coming close to the pillow,
she said softly,--
"Mother."
The dying eyes came back from their wandering, and fastened on her
darling's face, and the white lips opened with a smile.
"Graeme--my own love--I am going away--and they will have no one but
you. And I have so much to say to you."
So much to say! With only strength to ask, "God guide my darling ever!"
and the dying eyes closed, and the smile lingered upon the pale lips,
and in the silence that came next, one thought fixed itself on the heart
of the awe-stricken girl, never to be effaced. Her father and his
motherless children had none but her to care for them now.