"Miss Graeme," said Janet, softly opening the study-door, and looking
in. Graeme was at her side in a moment.
"Never mind putting by your book, I only want to tell you, that I'm
going up the brae to see Mrs Snow awhile. It's no' cold, and I'll take
the bairns with me. So just give a look at the fire now and then, and
have the kettle boiling gin tea time. I winna bide late."
Graeme put down her book, and hastened the preparations of the little
ones.
"I wish I could up with you, Janet. How mild and bright it is to-day."
"But your papa mustna be left to the keeping of fires, and the
entertainment of chance visitors. You winna think long with your book,
you ken, and we'll be home again before it's dark."
"Think long!" echoed Graeme. "Not if I'm left at peace with my book--I
only hope no one will come."
"My dear!" remonstrated Janet, "that's no' hospitable. I daresay if
anybody comes, you'll enjoy their company for a change. You maun try
and make friends with folk, like Menie here."
Graeme laughed. "It's easy for Menie, she's a child. But I have to
behave myself like a grown woman, at least, with most folk. I would far
rather have the afternoon to myself."
She watched them down the street, and then betook herself to her book,
and her accustomed seat at the study window. Life was very pleasant to
Graeme, these days. She did not manifest her light-heartedness by
outward signs; she was almost always as quiet as sorrow and many cares
had made her, since her mother's death. But it was a quiet always
cheerful, always ready to change to grave talk with Janet, or merry play
with the little ones. Janet's returning cheerfulness banished the last
shade of anxiety from her mind, and she was too young to go searching
into the future for a burden to bear.
She was fast growing into companionship with her father. She knew that
he loved and trusted her entirely, and she strove to deserve his
confidence. In all matters concerning her brothers and sisters, he
consulted her, as he might have consulted her mother, and as well as an
elder sister could, she fulfilled a mother's duty to them. In other
matters, her father depended upon her judgment and discretion also.
Often he was beguiled into forgetting what a child she still was, while
he discussed with her subjects more suited for one of maturer years.
And it was pleasant to be looked upon with respect and consideration, by
the new friends they had found here. She was a little more than a child
in years, and shy and doubtful of herself withal, but it was very
agreeable to be treated like a woman, by the kind people about her. Not
that she would have confessed this. Not that she was even conscious of
the pleasure it gave her. Indeed, she was wont to declare to Janet, in
private, that it was all nonsense, and she wished that people would not
speak to her always, as though she were a woman of wisdom and
experience. But it was agreeable to her all the same.
She had her wish that afternoon. Nobody came to disturb them, till the
failing light admonished her that it was time to think of Janet, and the
tea-kettle. Then there came a knock at the door, and Graeme opened it
to Mr Greenleaf. If she was not glad to see him, her looks belied her.
He did not seem to doubt a welcome from her, or her father either, as
he came in.
What the charm was, that beguiled Mr Greenleaf into spending so many
hours in the minister's study, the good people of Merleville found it
difficult to say. The squire's ill-concealed indifference to the
opinions of people generally, had told against him always. For once,
Mrs Page had been too charitable. He was not in a hopeful state, at
least, in her sense of the term, and it might be doubted, whether
frequent intercourse with the minister, would be likely to encourage the
young man to the attainment of Mrs Page's standard of excellence. But
to the study he often came, and he was never an unwelcome guest.
"If I am come at a wrong time, tell me so," said he, as he shook hands
with Mr Elliott, over a table covered with books and papers.
"You can hardly do that," said the minister, preparing to put the books
and papers away. "I am nearly done for the night. Excuse me, for a
minute only."
Graeme lingered talking to their visitor, till her father should be
quite at liberty.
"I have something for you," said Mr Greenleaf, in a minute. Graeme
smiled her thanks, and held out her hand for the expected book, or
magazine. It was a note this time.
"From Celestia!" she exclaimed, colouring a little.
Graeme did not aspire to the honour of Celestia's confidence in all
things, but she knew, or could guess enough, about the state of affairs
between her friend and Mr Greenleaf, to be wonderfully interested in
them, and she could not help feeling a little embarrassed, as she took
the note, from his hands.
"Read it," said he.
Graeme stooped down to catch the firelight. The note was very brief.
Celestia was going away, and wished Graeme to come and see her,
to-morrow. Mr Greenleaf would fetch her.
"Celestia, going away!" she exclaimed, raising herself up.
"Yes," said he, "have you not heard it?"
"I heard the farm was to be sold, but I hoped they would still stay in
Merleville."
"So did I," said Mr Greenleaf, gravely.
"When will they go?"
"Miss Jones is to be a teacher, in the new seminary at Rixford. They
are going to live there, and it cannot be very long before they go."
"To her uncle?"
"No, Celestia thinks her mother would not be happy there. They will
live by themselves, with the children."
"How sorry Celestia will be to go away," said Graeme, sadly.
"She will not be persuaded to stay," said Mr Greenleaf.
Graeme darted a quick, embarrassed look at him, as much as to say, "Have
you asked her?" He answered her in words.
"Yes, I have tried, and failed. She does not care to stay."
There was only sadness in his voice; at least, she detected nothing
else. There was none of the bitterness which, while it made Celestia's
heart ache that afternoon, had made her all the more determined to do
what she believed to be right.
"Oh! it's not that," said Graeme, earnestly, "I'm sure she cares. I
mean if she goes, it will be because she thinks it right, not because
she wishes it."
"Is it right to make herself and me unhappy?"
"But her mother and the rest. They are in trouble; it would seem like
forsaking them."
"It need not. They might stay with her."
"I think, perhaps--I don't think--" Graeme hesitated, and then said
hurriedly,--
"Are you rich, Mr Greenleaf?" He laughed.
"I believe you are one of those who do not compute riches by the number
of dollars one possesses. So I think, to you I may safely answer, yes.
I have contentment with little, and on such wealth one pays no taxes."
"Yes; but--I think,--oh, I can't say what I think; but I'm sure Celestia
is right. I am quite sure of that."
Mr Greenleaf did not look displeased, though Graeme feared he might, at
her bold speech.
"I don't believe I had better take you to see her to-morrow. You will
encourage her to hold out against me."
"Not against you. She would never do that. And, besides, it would make
no difference. Celestia is wise and strong, and will do what she
believes to be right."
"Wise and strong," repeated Mr Greenleaf, smiling, but his face grew
grave in a minute again. Mr Elliott made a movement to join them, and
Graeme thought of her neglected tea-kettle, and hastened away.
"Never mind," she whispered, "it will all end well. Things always do
when people do right."
Mr Greenleaf might have some doubt as to the truth of this comforting
declaration in all cases, but he could have none as to the interest and
good wishes of his little friend, so he only smiled in reply. Not that
he had really many serious doubts as to its ending well. He had more
than once that very afternoon grieved Celestia by saying that she did
not care for him; but, if he had ever had any serious trouble on the
subject, they vanished when the first touch of anger and disappointment
had worn away, giving him time to acknowledge and rejoice over the
"strength and wisdom" so unhesitatingly ascribed by Graeme to her
friend. So that it was not at all in a desponding spirit that he turned
to reply, when the minister addressed him.
They had scarcely settled down to one of their long, quiet talks, when
they were summoned to tea by Graeme, and before tea was over, Janet and
the bairns came home. The boys had found their way up the hill when
school was over, and they all came home together in Mr Snow's sleigh.
To escape from the noise and confusion which they brought with them, Mr
Greenleaf and the minister went into the study again.
During the silence that succeeded their entrance, there came into Mr
Greenleaf's mind a thought that had been often there before. It was a
source of wonder to him that a man of Mr Elliott's intellectual power
and culture should content himself in so quiet a place as Merleville,
and to-night he ventured to give expression to his thoughts. Mr
Elliott smiled.
"I don't see that my being content to settle down here for life, is any
more wonderful than that you should have done so. Indeed, I should say,
far less wonderful. You are young and have the world before you."
"But my case is quite different. I settle here to get a living, and I
mean to get a good one too, and besides," added he, laughing,
"Merleville is as good a place as any other to go to Congress from;
there is no American but may have that before him you know."
"As for the living, I can get here such as will content me. For the
rest, the souls in this quiet place are as precious as elsewhere. I am
thankful for my field of labour."
Mr Greenleaf had heard such words before, and he had taken them "for
what they were worth," as a correct thing for a minister to say. But
the quiet earnestness and simplicity of Mr Elliott's manner struck him
as being not just a matter of course.
"He is in earnest about it, and does not need to use many words to prove
it. There must be something in it." He did not answer him, however.
"There is one thing which is worth consideration," continued Mr
Elliott, "you may be disappointed, but I cannot be so, in the nature of
things."
"About getting a living?" said Mr Greenleaf, and a vague remembrance of
Deacons Fish and Slowcome made him move uneasily in his chair.
"That is not what I was thinking of, but I suppose I may be sure of
that, too. `Your bread shall be given you, and your water sure.' And
there is no such thing as disappointment in that for which I really am
labouring, the glory of God, and the good of souls."
"Well," said Mr Greenleaf, gravely, "there must be something in it that
I don't see, or you will most assuredly be disappointed. It is by no
means impossible that I may have my wish, men of humbler powers than
mine--I may say it without vanity--have risen higher than to the
Congress of our country. I don't look upon mine as by any means a
hopeless ambition. But the idea of your ever seeing all the crooked
natures in Merleville made straight! Well, to say the least, I don't
see how you can be very sanguine about it."
"Well, I don't say that even that is beyond my ambition, or beyond the
power of Him whom I serve to accomplish. But though I may never see
this, or the half of this accomplished, it does not follow that I am to
be disappointed, more than it follows that your happiness will be
secured when you sit in the Congress of this great nation, or rule in
the White House even, which is not beyond your ambition either, I
suppose. You know how a promise may be `kept to the ear and broken to
the heart,' as somebody says."
"I know it is the fashion to speak in that way. We learn, in our school
books, all about the folly of ambition, and the unsatisfying nature of
political greatness. But even if the attainment must disappoint, there
is interest and excitement in the pursuit. And, if you will allow me to
say so, it is not so in your case, and to me the disappointment seems
even more certain."
Mr Elliott smiled.
"I suppose the converse of the poet's sad declaration may be true. The
promise may be broken to the eye and ear, and yet fulfilled divinely to
the heart. I am not afraid."
"And, certainly," thought the young man, "he looks calm and hopeful
enough."
"And," added Mr Elliott, "as to the interest of the pursuit, if that is
to be judged by the importance of the end to be attained, I think mine
may well bear comparison to yours."
"Yes, in one sense, I suppose--though I don't understand it. I can
imagine an interest most intense, an engagement--a happiness altogether
absorbing in such a labour of love, but--I was not looking at the matter
from your point of view."
"But from no other point of view can the subject be fairly seen," said
Mr Elliott, quietly.
"Well, I have known few, even among clergymen, who have not had their
eyes turned pretty frequently to another side of the matter. One ought
to be altogether above the necessity of thinking of earthly things, to
be able to enjoy throwing himself wholly into such a work, and I fancy
that can be said of few."
"I don't understand you," said Mr Elliott. "Do you mean that you doubt
the sincerity of those to whom you refer."
"By no means. My thoughts were altogether in another direction. In
fact, I was thinking of the great `bread and butter' struggle in which
ninety-nine out of every hundred are for dear life engaged; and none
more earnestly, and few with less success, than men of your profession."
Mr Elliott looked as though he did not yet quite understand. Mr
Greenleaf hesitated, slightly at a loss, but soon went on.
"Constituted as we are, I don't see how a man can wholly devote himself
to a work he thinks so great, and yet have patience to struggle with the
thousand petty cares of life. The shifts and turnings to which
insufficient means must reduce one, cannot but vex and hurt such a
nature, if it does not change it at last. But I see I fail to make
myself understood by you; let me try again. I don't know how it may be
in your country, but here, at least as far as my personal observation
has extended, the remuneration received by ministers is insufficient,
not to say paltry. I don't mean that in many cases they and their
families actually suffer, but there are few of them so situated as
regards income, that economy need not be the very first consideration in
all their arrangements. Comparing them with other professional men they
may be called poor. Such a thing as the gratification of taste is not
to be thought of in their case. There is nothing left after the bare
necessaries are secured. It is a struggle to bring up their children, a
struggle to educate them, a struggle to live. And what is worse than
all, the pittance, which is rightly theirs, comes to them often in a way
which, to say the least, is suggestive of charity given and received.
No, really, I cannot look on the life of a minister as a very attractive
one."
"I should think not, certainly, if such are your views of it," said Mr
Elliott.
"I wish I could have the comfort of doubting their justness, but I
cannot, unless the majority of cases that have fallen under my
observation are extreme ones. Why, there are college friends of mine
who, in any other profession, might have distinguished themselves--might
have become wealthy at least, who are now in some out of the way parish,
with wives and little children, burdened with the cares of life. How
they are to struggle on in the future it is sad to think of. They will
either give up the profession or die, or degenerate into very
commonplace men before many years."
"Unless they have some charm against it--which may very well be," said
Mr Elliott, quietly.
"I see you do not agree with me. Take yourself for instance, or rather,
let us take your predecessor. He was a good man, all say who knew him
well, and with time and study he might have proved himself a great man.
But if ever a man's life was a struggle for the bare necessaries of
life, his was, and the culpable neglect of the people in the regular
payment of his very small salary was the cause of his leaving them at
last. He has since gone West, I hear, to a happier lot, let us hope.
The circumstances of his predecessor were no better. He died here, and
his wife broke down in a vain effort to maintain and educate his
children. She was brought back to Merleville and laid beside her
husband less than a year ago. There is something wrong in the matter
somewhere."
There was a pause, and then Mr Greenleaf continued.
"It may seem an unkindly effort in me to try to change your views of
your future in Merleville. Still, it is better that you should be in
some measure prepared, for what I fear awaits you. Otherwise, you might
be disgusted with us all."
"I shall take refuge in the thought that you are showing me the dark
side of the picture," said Mr Elliott.
"Pray do. And, indeed, I am. I may have said more than enough in my
earnestness. I am sure when you really come to know our people, you
will like them notwithstanding things that we might wish otherwise."
"I like you already," said Mr Elliott, smiling. "I assure you I had a
great respect for you as the children of the Puritans, before ever I saw
you."
"Yes, but I am afraid you will like us less; before you like us better.
We are the children of the Puritans, but very little, I daresay, like
the grave gentlemen up on your shelves yonder. Your countrymen are, at
first, generally disappointed in us as a people. Mind, I don't allow
that we are in reality less worthy of respect than you kindly suppose us
to be for our fathers' sakes. But we are different. It is not so much
that we do not reach so high a standard, as that we have a different
standard of excellence--one that your education, habits, and
prepossessions as a people, do not prepare you to appreciate us."
"Well," said Mr Elliott, as his friend paused.
"Oh! I have little more to say, except, that what is generally the
experience of your countrymen will probably be yours in Merleville. You
have some disappointing discoveries to make among us, you who are an
earnest man and a thinker."
"I think a want of earnestness can hardly be called a sin of your
countrymen," said the minister.
"Earnestness!" said Mr Greenleaf. "No, we are earnest enough here in
Merleville. But the most of even the good men among us seem earnest,
only in the pursuit of that, in comparison to which my political
aspirations seem lofty and praiseworthy. It is wealth they seek. Not
that wealth which will result in magnificent expenditure, and which, in
a certain sense, may have a charm for even high-minded men, but
money-making in its meanest form--the scraping together of copper coins
for their own sakes. At least one might think so, for any good they
ever seem to get of it."
"You are severe," said the minister, quietly.
"Not too severe. This seems to be the aim of all of us, whether we are
willing to acknowledge it or not. And such a grovelling end will
naturally make a man unscrupulous as to the means to attain it. There
are not many men among us here--I don't know more than two or three--who
would not be surprised if you told them, being out of the pulpit, that
they had not a perfect right to make the very most out of their
friends--even by shaving closely in matters of business."
"And yet you say their standard is a high one?"
"High or not, the religious people among us don't seem to doubt their
own Christianity on account of these things. And what is more, they
don't seem to lose faith in each other. But how it will all seem to you
is another matter."
"How does it seem to you?"
"Oh, I am but a spectator. Being not one of the initiated, I am not
supposed to understand the change they profess to have undergone; and
so, instead of being in doubt about particular cases, I am disposed to
think little of the whole matter. With you it is different."
"Yes, with me it is indeed different," said the minister, gravely--so
gravely, that Mr Greenleaf almost regretted having spoken so freely,
and when he spoke again it was to change the subject.
"It must have required a great wrench to break away from your people and
country and old associations," said he, in a little. Mr Elliott
started,--
"No, the wrench came before. It would have cost me more to stay and
grow old in my own land than it did to leave it, than it ever can do to
live and die among strangers."
Fearful that he had awakened painful thoughts, Mr Greenleaf said no
more. In a little Mr Elliott went on,--
"It was an old thought, this wishing to find a home for our children in
this grand new world. We had always looked forward to it sometime. And
when I was left alone, the thought of my children's future, and the
longing to get away--anywhere--brought me here."
He paused, and when he spoke again it was more calmly.
"Perhaps it was cowardly in me to flee. There was help for me there, if
my faith had not failed. I thought it would be better for my children
when I left them to leave them here. But God knows it was no desire to
enrich myself that brought me to America."
"We can live on little. I trust you will be mistaken in your fears.
But if these troubles do come, we must try, with God's grace, and Mrs
Nasmyth's help, to get through them as best we can. We might not better
ourselves by a change, as you seem to think the evil a national one."
"The love and pursuit of the `almighty dollar,' is most certainly a
national characteristic. As to the bearing it may have in church
matters in other places, of course I have not the means of judging.
Here I know it has been bad enough in the past."
"Well, I can only say I have found the people most kind and liberal
hitherto," said Mr Elliott.
"Have you had a settlement with them since you came?" asked the squire;
the remembrance of various remarks he had heard of late coming
unpleasantly to his mind.
"No, I have not yet. But as the half-year is nearly over, I suppose it
will come soon. Still I have no fears--I think I need have none. It is
not _theirs_ but _them_ I seek."
"Do you remember the Sabbath I first came among you? I saw you there
among the rest. If my heart rose up in thankfulness to God that day, it
was with no thought of gold or gear. God is my witness that I saw not
these people as possessors of houses and lands, but of precious souls--
living souls to be encouraged--slumbering souls to be aroused--dead
souls to be made alive in Christ, through His own Word, spoken by me and
blessed by Him.
"No, I do not think I can possibly be disappointed in this matter. I
may have to bear trial, and it may come to me as it oftenest comes to
God's people, in the very way that seems hardest to bear, but God _will
bless his Word_. And even if I do not live to see it, I can rest in the
assurance that afterward, `both he that soweth and he that reapeth shall
rejoice together.'"
He paused. A momentary gleam of triumph passed over his face and left
it peaceful.
"The peace that passeth understanding," thought the young man, with a
sigh. For he could not quite satisfy himself by saying, that Mr
Elliott was no man of business, an unworldly man. It came into his mind
that even if the minister were chasing a shadow, it was a shadow more
satisfying than his possible reality of political greatness. So he
could not but sigh as he sat watching that peaceful face. The minister
looked up and met his eye.
"And so, my friend, I think we must end where we begun. You may be
disappointed even in the fulfilment of your hopes. But for me, all must
end well--let the end be what it may."