"I like the wood fires," said Graeme. "They are far clearer than the
peat fires at home."
They were sitting, Graeme and Janet, according to their usual custom, a
little after the others had all gone to bed. The study-door was closed,
though the light still gleamed beneath it; but it was getting late, and
the minister would not be out again.
Graeme might well admire such a wood fire as that before which they were
sitting: The fore-stick had nearly burned through, and the brands had
fallen over the andirons, but the great back-log glowed with light and
heat, though only now and then a bright blaze leapt up. It was not very
warm in the room, however, except for their faces, and Graeme shivered a
little as she drew nearer to the fire, and hardly heeding that Janet did
not answer her, fell to dreaming in the firelight.
Without, the rude March winds were roaring, and within, too, for that
matter. For though carpets, and curtains, and listings nailed over
seams might keep out the bitter frost when the air was still, the east
winds of March swept in through every crack and crevice, chilling them
to the bone. It roared wildly among the boughs of the great elms in the
yard, and the tall well-sweep creaked, and the bucket swung to and fro
with a noise that came through Graeme's dream and disturbed it at last.
Looking up suddenly she became aware that the gloom that had been
gathering over Janet for many a day hung darkly round her now. She drew
near to her, and laying her arms down on her lap in the old fashion,
said softly:
"The winter's near over now, Janet."
"Ay, thank the Lord for that, any way," said Janet. She knew that
Graeme's words and movement were an invitation to tell her thoughts, so
she bent forward to collect the scattered brands and settle the
fore-stick, for she felt that her thoughts were not of the kind to bear
telling to Graeme or to any one. As she gathered them together between
the andirons, she sighed a sigh of mingled sorrow and impatience. And
the light that leapt suddenly up made the cloud on her brow more
visible. For the winter that had been so full of enjoyment to all the
rest had been a time of trial to Janet.
To the young people, the winter had brought numberless pleasures. The
lads had gone to the school, where they were busy and happy, and the
little ones had been busy and happy at home. None had enjoyed the
winter more than Graeme. The change had been altogether beneficial to
Rose; and never since their mother's death had the elder sister been so
much at ease about her. There was little to be done in the way of
making or mending, and, with leisure at her disposal, she was falling
into her old habits of reading and dreaming. She had been busy teaching
the little ones, too, and at night worked with her brothers at their
lessons, so that the winter had been profitable as well as pleasant to
her. At all times in his study, amid the silent friends that had become
so dear to him, Mr Elliott could be content; and in his efforts to
become acquainted with his people, their wants and tastes, he had been
roused to something like the cheerfulness of former years.
But to Janet the winter had been a time of conflict, a long struggle
with unseen enemies; and as she sat there in the dim firelight, she was
telling herself sorrowfully that she would be worsted by them at last.
Home-sickness, blind and unreasoning, had taken possession of her.
Night by night she had lain down with the dull pain gnawing at her
heart. Morning by morning she had risen sick with the inappeasable
yearning for her home, a longing that would not be stilled, to walk
again through familiar scenes, to look again on familiar faces.
The first letters from home, so longed for by all, so welcomed and
rejoiced over by the rest, brought little comfort to her. Arthur's
letters to his father and Graeme, so clear and full of all they wished
to hear about, "so like a printed book," made it all the harder for her
to bear her disappointment over Sandy's obscure, ill-spelt and
indifferently-written letter. She had of old justly prided herself on
Sandy's "hand o' write;" but she had yet to learn the difference between
a school-boy's writing, with a copper-plate setting at the head of the
page, and that which must be the result of a first encounter with the
combined difficulties of writing, spelling and composition.
Poor Sandy! He had laboured hard, doubtless, and had done his best, but
it was not satisfactory. In wishing to be minute, he had become
mysterious, and, to the same end, the impartial distribution through all
parts of the letter of capitals, commas and full stops, had also tended.
There was a large sheet closely written, and out of the whole but two
clear ideas could be gathered! Mr More of the parish school was dead,
and they were to have a new master, and that Mrs Smith had changed her
mind, and he was not to be at Saughless for the winter after all.
There were other troubles too, that Janet had to bear alone. The cold,
that served to brace the others, chilled her to the bone. Unaccustomed
to any greater variation of temperature than might be very well met by
the putting on or taking off of her plaid, the bitter cold of the New
England winter, as she went out and in about her work, was felt keenly
by her. She could not resist it, nor guard herself against it.
Stove-heat was unbearable to her. An hour spent in Mrs Snow's hot room
often made her unfit for anything for hours after; and sleigh-riding,
which never failed to excite the children to the highest spirits, was as
fatal to her comfort as the pitching of the "Steadfast" had been. To
say that she was disappointed with herself in view of all this, is, by
no means, saying enough. She was angry at her folly, and called herself
"silly body" and "useless body," striving with all her might to throw
the burden from her.
Then, again, with only a few exceptions, she did not like the people.
They were, in her opinion, at the same time, extravagant and penurious,
proud and mean, ignorant, yet wise "above what is written,"
self-satisfied and curious. The fact was, her ideas of things in
general were disarranged by the state of affairs in Merleville. She
never could make out "who was somebody and who was naebody;" and what
made the matter more mysterious, they did not seem to know themselves.
Mrs Judge Merle had made her first visit to the minister's in company
with the wife of the village blacksmith, and if there was a lady between
them Mrs Page evidently believed it to be herself. Mrs Merle was a
nice motherly body, that sat on her seat and behaved herself, while Mrs
Page went hither and thither, opening doors and spying fairlies,
speiring about things she had no concern with, like an ill-bred woman as
she is; and passing her remarks on the minister and the preaching, as if
she were a judge. Both of them had invited her to visit them very
kindly, no doubt; but Janet had no satisfaction in this or in anything
that concerned them. She was out of her element. Things were quite
different from anything she had been used with. She grew depressed and
doubtful of herself, and no wonder that a gloom was gathering over her.
Some thought of all this came into Graeme's mind, as she sat watching
her while she gathered together the brands with unsteady hands, and with
the thought came a little remorse. She had been thinking little of
Janet and her trials all these days she had been passing so pleasantly
with her books, in the corner of her father's study. She blamed herself
for her thoughtlessness, and resolved that it should not be so in
future. In the mean time, it seemed as though she must say something to
chase the shadow from the kind face. But she did not know what to say.
Janet set down the tongs, and raised herself with a sigh. Graeme drew
nearer.
"What is it, Janet?" asked she, laying her hand caressingly on hers.
"Winna you tell me?"
Janet gave a startled look into her face.
"What is what, my dear?"
"Something is vexing you, and you winna tell me," said Graeme,
reproachfully.
"Hoot, lassie! what should ail me. I'm weel enough."
"You are wearying for a letter, maybe. But it's hardly time yet,
Janet."
"I'm no wearyin' the night more than usual. And if I got a letter, it
mightna give me muckle comfort."
"Then something ails you, and you winna tell me," said Graeme again, in
a grieved voice.
"My dear, I hae naething to tell."
"Is it me, Janet? Hae I done anything? You ken I wouldna willingly do
wrong?" pleaded Graeme.
Janet put her fingers over the girl's lips.
"Whist, my lammie. It's naething--or naething that can be helpit," and
she struggled fiercely to keep back the flood that was swelling in her
full heart. Graeme said nothing, but stroked the toil-worn hand of her
friend, and at last laid her cheek down upon it.
"Lassie, lassie! I canna help it," and the long pent up flood gushed
forth, and the tears fell on Graeme's bent head like rain. Graeme
neither moved nor spoke, but she prayed in her heart that God would
comfort her friend in her unknown sorrow; and by the first words she
spoke she knew that she was comforted.
"I am an auld fule, I believe, or a spoiled bairn, that doesna ken it's
ain mind, and I think I'm growing waur ilka day," and she paused to wipe
the tears from her face.
"But what is it, Janet?" asked Graeme, softly.
"It's naething, dear, naething that I can tell to mortal. I dinna ken
what has come ower me. It's just as if a giant had a gripe o' me, and
move I canna. But surely I'll be set free in time."
There was nothing Graeme could say to this; but she laid her cheek down
on Janet's hand again, and there were tears upon it.
"Now dinna do that, Miss Graeme," cried Janet, struggling with another
wave of the returning flood. "What will come o' us if you give way.
There's naething ails me but that I'm an auld fule, and I canna help
that, you ken."
"Janet, it was an awful sacrifice you made, to leave your mother and
Sandy to come with us. I never thought till to-night how great it must
have been."
"Ay, lassie. I'll no deny it, but dinna think that I grudge it now. It
wasna made in a right sperit, and that the Lord is showing me. I
thought you couldna do without me."
"We couldna, Janet."
"And I aye thought if I could be of any use to your father and your
father's bairns, and could see them contented, and well in a strange
land, that would be enough for me. And I hae gotten my wish. You're a'
weel, and weel contented, and my heart is lying in my breast as heavy as
lead, and no strength of mine can lift the burden. God help me."
"God will help you," said Graeme, softly. "It is the sore
home-sickness, like the captives by Babel stream. But the Lord never
brought you here in anger, and, Janet, it will pass away."
"Weel, it may be. That's what my mother said, or something like it. He
means to let me see that you can do without me. But I'll bide still
awhile, anyway."
Graeme's face was fall of dismay.
"Janet! what could we ever do without you?"
"Oh, you could learn. But I'm not going to leave you yet. The giant
shallna master me with my will. But, oh! lassie, whiles I think the
Lord has turned against me for my self-seeking and pride."
"But, Janet," said Graeme, gravely, "the Lord never turns against his
own people. And if anybody in the world is free from self-seeking it is
you. It is for us you are living, and not for yourself."
Janet shook her head.
"And, Janet, when the bonny spring days come, the giant will let you go.
The weight will be lifted off, I'm sure it will. And, Janet, about
Sandy--. You may be sure o' him. If you had been there to guide him,
he might have been wilful, and have gone astray, like others. But now
the Lord will have him in His keeping, for, Janet, if ever a fatherless
child was left to the Lord, you left Sandy for our sakes, and He will
never forsake him--never, _never_!"
Janet's tears were falling softly now, like the bright drops after the
tempest is over, and the bow of promise is about to span the heavens.
"And, Janet, we all love you dearly." Graeme had risen, and put her
arms round her neck by this time. "Sometimes the boys are rough, and
don't seem to care, but they do care; and I'm thoughtless, too, and
careless," she added, humbly, "but I was that with my mother, whiles,
and you ken I loved her dearly." And the cry of pain that came with the
words, told how dearly her mother was remembered still. Janet held her
close.
"And, Janet, you must 'mind me of things, as my mother used to do. When
I get a book, you ken I forget things, and you winna let me do wrong for
my mother's sake. We have no mother, Janet, and what could we do
without you? And all this pain will pass away, and you will grow
light-hearted again."
And so it was. The worst was over after that night. Much more was said
before they separated, and Graeme realised, for the first time, some of
the discomforts of their present way of living, as far as Janet was
concerned. Housekeeping affairs had been left altogether in her hands,
and everything was so different from all that she had been accustomed
to, and she was slow to learn new ways. The produce system was a great
embarrassment to her. This getting "a pickle meal" from one, and "a
corn tawties" from another, she could not endure. It was "living from
hand to mouth" at best, to say nothing of the uncomfortable doubts now
and then, as to whether the articles brought were intended as presents,
or as the payment of the "minister's tax," as the least delicate among
the people called it.
"And, my dear, I just wish your father would get a settlement with them,
and we would begin again, and put aething down in a book. For I hae my
doubts as to how we are to make the two ends meet. Things mount up you
ken, and we maun try and guide things."
Graeme looked grave. "I wonder what my father thinks," said she. Janet
shook her head.
"We mauna trouble your father if we can help it. The last minister they
had had enough ado to live, they say, and he had fewer bairns. I'm no'
feared but we'll be provided for. And, Miss Graeme, my dear, you'll
need to begin and keep an account again."
Janet's voice had the old cheerful echo in it by this time, and Graeme
promised, with good heart, to do all she could to keep her father's mind
easy, and the household accounts straight.
Weeks passed on, and even before the bonny spring days had come, the
giant had let Janet go, and she was her own cheerful self again. The
letter that Harry brought in with a shout before March was over, was a
very different letter from the one that had caused Janet to shed such
tears of disappointment on that sad November, though Sandy was the
writer still. The two only intelligible items of news which the last
one had conveyed, were repeated here, and enlarged upon, with reason. A
new master had come to the school, who was taking great pains with all
the lads, and especially with Sandy, "as you will see by this letter,
mother," he wrote, "I hope it will be better worth reading than the
last."
If Mrs Smith had changed her mind, it was all for good. Janet was no
more to think of her mother as living by herself, in the lonely cot in
the glen, but farther up in another cottage, within sight of the door of
Saughless. And Sandy was to go to the school a while yet and there was
no fear but something would be found for him to do, either on the farm,
or in the garden. And so his mother was to set her heart at rest about
them.
And her heart was set at rest; and Janet sang at her work again, and
cheered or chid the bairns according as they needed, but never more,
though she had many cares, and troubles not a few, did the giant hold
her in his grasp again.