"It's a' ye ken! Gotten ower it, indeed!" and Janet turned her back on
her visitor, and went muttering about her gloomy kitchen: "The minister
no' being one to speak his sorrow to the newsmongering folk that
frequent your house, they say he has gotten ower it, do they? It's a'
they ken!"
"Janet, woman," said her visitor, "I canna but think you are
unreasonable in your anger. I said nothing derogatory to the minister;
far be it from me! But we can a' see that the house needs a head, and
the bairns need a mother. The minister's growing gey cheerful like, and
the year is mair than out; and--"
"Whisht, woman. Dinna say it. Speak sense if ye maun speak," said
Janet, with a gesture of disgust and anger.
"Wherefore should I no' say it?" demanded her visitor. "And as to
speaking sense--. But I'll no' trouble you. It seems you have friends
in such plenty that you can afford to scorn and scoff at them at your
pleasure. Good-day to you," and she rose to go.
But Janet had already repented her hot words.
"Bide still, woman! Friends dinna fall out for a single ill word. And
what with ae thing and anither I dinna weel ken what I'm saying or doing
whiles. Sit down: it's you that's unreasonable now."
This was Mistress Elspat Smith, the wife of a farmer--"no' that ill
aff," as he cautiously expressed it--a far more important person in the
parish than Janet, the minister's maid-of-all-work. It was a
condescension on her part to come into Janet's kitchen, under any
circumstances, she thought; and to be taken up sharply for a friendly
word was not to be borne. But they had been friends all their lives;
and Janet "kenned hersel' as gude a woman as Elspat Smith, weel aff or
no' weel aff;" so with gentle violence she pushed her back into her
chair, saying:
"Hoot, woman! What would folk say to see you and me striving at this
late day? And I want to consult you."
"But you should speak sense yourself, Janet," said her friend.
"Folk maun speak as it's given them to speak," said Janet; "and we'll
say nae mair about it. No' but that the bairns might be the better to
have some one to be over them. She wouldna hae her sorrow to seek, I
can tell you. No that they're ill bairns--"
"We'll say no more about it, since that is your will," said Mrs Smith,
with dignity; and then, relenting, she added,--
"You have a full handfu' with the eight of them, I'm sure."
"Seven only," said Janet, under her breath. "She got one of them safe
home with her, thank God. No' that there's one ower many," added she
quickly; "and they're no' ill bairns."
"You have your ain troubles among them, I dare say, and are muckle to be
pitied--"
"Me to be pitied!" said Janet scornfully, "there's no fear o' me. But
what can the like o' me do? For ye ken, woman, though the minister is a
powerful preacher, and grand on points o' doctrine, he's a verra bairn
about some things. _She_ aye keepit the siller, and far did she make it
gang--having something to lay by at the year's end as well. Now, if we
make the twa ends meet, it's mair than I expect."
"But Miss Graeme ought to have some sense about these things. Surely
she takes heed to the bairns?"
"Miss Graeme's but a bairn herself, with little thought and less
experience; and its no' to be supposed that the rest will take heed to
her. The little anes are no' so ill to do with; but these twa laddies
are just spirits o' mischief, for as quiet as Norman looks; and they
come home from the school with torn clothes, till Miss Graeme is just
dazed with mending at them. And Miss Marian is near as ill as the
laddies; and poor, wee Rosie, growing langer and thinner every day, till
you would think the wind would blow her awa. Master Arthur is awa at
his eddication: the best thing for a' concerned. I wish they were a'
safe unto man's estate," and Janet sighed.
"And is Miss Graeme good at her seam?" asked Mistress Elspat.
"Oh ay; she's no' that ill. She's better at her sampler and at the
flowering than at mending torn jackets, however. But there's no fear
but she would get skill at that, and at other things, if she would but
hae patience with herself. Miss Graeme is none of the common kind."
"And has there been no word from _her_ friends since? They say her
brother has no bairns of his own. He might well do something for hers."
Janet shook her head.
"The minister doesna think that I ken; but when Mr Ross was here at the
burial, he offered to take two of the bairns, Norman or Harry, and wee
Marian. She's likest her mamma. But such a thing wasna to be thought
of; and he went awa' no' weel pleased. Whether he'll do onything for
them in ony ither way is more than I ken. He might keep Master Arthur
at the college and no' miss it. How the minister is ever to school the
rest o' them is no' easy to be seen, unless he should go to America
after all."
Mistress Smith lifted her hands.
"He'll never surely think o' taking these motherless bairns to yon
savage place! What could ail him at Mr Ross's offer? My patience! but
folk whiles stand in their ain light."
"Mr Ross is not a God-fearing man," replied Janet, solemnly. "It's no'
what their mother would have wished to have her bairns brought up by
him. The minister kenned her wishes well on that point, you may be
sure. And besides, he could never cross the sea and leave any of them
behind."
"But what need to cross the sea?" cried Mrs Smith; "It's a pity but
folk should ken when they're weel aff. What could the like o' him do in
a country he kens nothing about, and with so many bairns?"
"It's for the bairns' sake he's thinking of it. They say there's fine
land there for the working, and no such a thing as payin' rent, but
every man farming his own land, with none to say him nay. And there's
room for all, and meat and clothes, and to spare. I'm no' sure but it's
just the best thing the minister can do. They had near made up their
minds afore, ye ken."
"Hoot, woman, speak sense," entreated her friend. "Is the minister to
sell rusty knives and glass beads to the Indians? That's what they do
in yon country, as I've read in a book myself. Whatna like way is that
to bring up a family?"
"Losh, woman, there's other folk there beside red Indians; folk that
dinna scruple to even themselves with the best in Britain, no' less.
You should read the newspapers, woman. There's one John Caldwell there,
a friend o' the minister's, that's something in a college, and he's aye
writing him to come. He says it's a wonderful country for progress; and
they hae things there they ca' institutions, that he seems to think
muckle o', though what _they_ may be I couldna weel make out. The
minister read a bit out o' a letter the ither night to Miss Graeme and
me."
"Janet," said her friend, "say the truth at once. The minister is bent
on this fule's errand, and you're encouraging in it."
"Na, na! He needs na encouragement from the like o' me. I would gie
muckle, that hasna muckle to spare, gin he were content to bide where he
is, though it's easy seen he'll hae ill enough bringing up a family
here, and these laddies needing more ilka year that goes o'er their
heads. And they say yon's a grand country, and fine eddication to be
got in it for next to nothing. I'm no sure but the best thing he can do
is to take them there. I ken the mistress was weel pleased with the
thought," and Janet tried with all her might, to look hopeful; but her
truth-telling countenance betrayed her. Her friend shook her head
gravely.
"It might have done, with her to guide them; but it's very different
now, as you ken yourself, far better than I can tell you. It would be
little else than a temptin' o' Providence to expose these helpless
bairns, first to the perils o' the sea, and then to those o' a strange
country. He'll never do it. He's restless now; and unsettled; but when
time, that cures most troubles, goes by, he'll think better of it, and
bide where he is."
Janet made no reply, but in her heart she took no such comfort. She
knew it was no feeling of restlessness, no longing to be away from the
scene of his sorrow that had decided the minister to emigrate, and that
he had decided she very well knew. These might have hastened his plans,
she thought, but he went for the sake of his children. They might make
their own way in the world, and he thought he could better do this in
the New World than in the Old. The decision of one whom she had always
reverenced for his goodness and wisdom must be right, she thought; yet
she had misgivings, many and sad, as to the future of the children she
had come to love so well. It was to have her faint hope confirmed, and
her strong fears chased away, that she had spoken that afternoon to her
friend; and it was with a feeling of utter disconsolateness that, she
turned to her work again, when, at last, she was left alone.
For Janet had a deeper cause for care than she had told, a vague feeling
that the worldly wisdom of her friend could not help her here, keeping
her silent about it to her. That very morning, her heart had leaped to
her lips, when her master in his grave, brief way, had asked,--
"Janet, will you go with us, and help me to take care of her bairns?"
And she had vowed to God, and to him, that she would never leave them
while they needed the help that a faithful servant could give. But the
after thought had come. She had other ties, and cares, and duties,
apart from these that clustered so closely round the minister and his
motherless children.
A mile or two down the glen stood the little cottage that had for a long
time been the home of her widowed mother, and her son. More than half
required for their maintenance Janet provided. Could she forsake them?
Could any duty she owed to her master and his children make it right for
her to forsake those whose blood flowed in her veins? True, her mother
was by no means an aged woman yet, and her son was a well-doing helpful
lad, who would soon be able to take care of himself. Her mother had
another daughter too, but Janet knew that her sister could never supply
her place to her mother. Though kind and well-intentioned, she was easy
minded, not to say thriftless, and the mother of many bairns besides,
and there could neither be room nor comfort for her mother at her
fireside, should its shelter come to be needed.
Day after day Janet wearied herself going over the matter in her mind.
"If it were not so far," she thought, or "if her mother could go with
her." But this she knew, for many reasons, could never be, even if her
mother could be brought to consent to such a plan. And Janet asked
herself, "What would my mother do if Sandy were to die? And what would
Sandy do if my mother were to die? And what would both do if sickness
were to overtake them, and me far-away?" till she quite hated herself
for ever thinking of putting the wide sea, between them and her.
There had been few pleasures scattered over Janet's rough path to
womanhood. Not more than two or three mornings since she could remember
had she risen to other than a life of labour. Even during the bright
brief years of her married-life, she had known little respite from toil,
for her husband had been a poor man, and he had died suddenly, before
her son was born. With few words spoken, and few tears shed, save what
fell in secret, she had given her infant to her mother's care, and gone
back again to a servant's place in the minister's household. There she
had been for ten years the stay and right hand of her beloved friend and
mistress, "working the work of two," as they told her, who would have
made her discontented in her lot, with no thought from year's end to
year's end, but how she might best do her duty in the situation in which
God had placed her.
But far-away into the future--it might be years and years hence--she
looked to the time when in a house of her own, she might devote herself
entirely to the comfort of her mother and her son. In this hope she was
content to strive and toil through the best years of her life, living
poorly and saving every penny, to all appearance equally indifferent to
the good word of those who honoured her for her faithfulness and patient
labour, and to the bad word of those who did not scruple to call her
most striking characteristics by less honourable names. She had never,
during all these years, spoken, even to her mother, of her plans, but
their fulfilment was none the less settled in her own mind, and none the
less dear to her because of that. Could she give this up? Could she go
away from her home, her friends, the land of her birth, and be content
to see no respite from her labour till the end? Yes, she could. The
love that had all these years been growing for the children she had
tended with almost a mother's care, would make the sacrifice possible--
even easy to her. But her mother? How could she find courage to tell
her that she must leave her alone in her old age? The thought of
parting from her son, her "bonny Sandy," loved with all the deeper
fervour that the love was seldom spoken--even this gave her no such pang
as did the thought of turning her back upon her mother. He was young,
and had his life before him, and in the many changes time might bring,
she could at least hope to see him again. But her mother, already
verging on the three-score, she could never hope to see more, when once
the broad Atlantic rolled between them.
And so, no wonder if in the misery of her indecision, Janet's words grew
fewer and sharper as the days wore on. With strange inconsistency she
blamed the minister for his determination to go away, but suffered no
one else to blame him, or indeed to hint that he could do otherwise than
what was wisest and best for all. It was a sore subject, this
anticipated departure of the minister, to many a one in Clayton besides
her, and much was it discussed by all. But it was a subject on which
Janet would not be approached. She gave short answers to those who
offered their services in the way of advice. She preserved a scornful
silence in the presence of those who seemed to think she could forsake
her master and his children in their time of need, nor was she better
pleased with those who thought her mother might be left for their sakes.
And so she thought, and wished, and planned, and doubted, till she
dazed herself with her vain efforts to get light, and could think and
plan no more.
"I'll leave it to my mother herself to decide," she said, at last;
"though, poor body, what can she say, but that I maun do what I think is
my duty, and please myself. The Lord above kens I hae little thought o'
pleasin' myself in this matter." And in her perplexity Janet was ready
to think her case an exception to the general rule, and that contrary to
all experience and observation, duty pointed two ways at once.