The Indian-summer-time was come again. The gorgeous glory of the autumn
was gone, but so, for one day, at least, was its dreariness. There was
no "wailing wind" complaining among the bare boughs of the elms. The
very pines were silent. The yellow leaves, still lingering on the
beech-trees in the hollow, rustled, now and then, as the brown nuts
fell, one by one, on the brown leaves beneath. The frosts, sharp and
frequent, had changed the torrent of a month ago into a gentle rivulet,
whose murmur could scarce be heard as far as the gate over which Graeme
Elliott leaned, gazing dreamily upon the scene before her.
She was thinking how very lovely it was, and how very dear it had become
to her. Seen through "the smoky light," the purple hills beyond the
water seemed not so far-away as usual. The glistening spire of the
church on the hill, and the gleaming grave-stones, seemed strangely
near. It looked but a step over to the village, whose white houses were
quite visible among the leafless trees, and many farm-houses, which one
could never see in summer for the green leaves, were peeping out
everywhere from between the hills.
"There is no place like Merleville," Graeme thinks in her heart. It is
home to them all now. There were few but pleasant associations
connected with the hills, and groves, and homesteads over which she was
gazing. It came very vividly to her mind, as she stood there looking
down, how she had stood with the bairns that first Sabbath morning on
the steps of the old meeting-house; and she strove to recall her feeling
of shyness and wonder at all that she saw, and smiled to think how the
faces turned to them so curiously that day were become familiar now, and
some of them very dear. Yes; Merleville was home to Graeme. Not that
she had forgotten the old home beyond the sea. But the thought of it
came with no painful longing. Even the memory of her mother brought now
regret, indeed, and sorrow, but none of the loneliness and misery of the
first days of loss, for the last few years had been very happy years to
them all.
And yet, as Graeme stood gazing over to the hills and the village, a
troubled, vexed look came over her face, and, with a gesture of
impatience, she turned away from it all and walked up and down among the
withered leaves outside the gate with an impatient tread. Something
troubled her with an angry trouble that she could not forget; and though
she laughed a little, too, as she muttered to herself, it was not a
pleasant laugh, and the vexed look soon came back again, indeed, it
never went away.
"It is quite absurd," she murmured, as she came within the gate, and
then turned and leaned over it. "I won't believe it; and yet--oh, dear!
what shall we ever do if it happens?"
"It's kind o' pleasant here, ain't it?" said a voice behind her. Graeme
started more violently than there was any occasion for. It was only Mr
Snow who had been in the study with her father for the last hour, and
who was now on his way home. Graeme scarcely answered him, but stood
watching him, with the troubled look deepening on her face, as he went
slowly down the road.
Mr Snow had changed a good deal within these few years. He had grown a
great deal greyer and graver, and Graeme thought, with a little pang of
remorse, as she saw him disappear round the turn of the road, that she
had, by her coldness, made him all the graver. And yet she only half
regretted it; and the vexed look came back to her face again, as she
gathered up her work that had fallen to the ground and turned toward the
house.
There was no one in the usual sitting-room, no one in the bright kitchen
beyond, and, going to the foot of the stairs, Graeme raises her voice,
which has an echo of impatience in it still, and calls:
"Mrs Nasmyth."
For Janet is oftener called Mrs Nasmyth than the old name, even by the
bairns now, except at such times as some wonderful piece of coaxing is
to be done, and then she is Janet, the bairn's own Janet still. There
was no coaxing echo in Graeme's voice, however, but she tried to chase
the vexed shadow from her face as her friend came slowly down the
stairs.
"Are you not going to sit down?" asked Graeme, as she seated herself on
a low stool by the window. "I wonder where the bairns are?"
"The bairns are gone down the brae," said Mrs Nasmyth; "and I'm just
going to sit down to my seam a wee while."
But she seemed in no hurry to sit down, and Graeme sat silent for a
little, as she moved quietly about the room.
"Janet," said she, at last, "what brings Deacon Snow so often up here of
late?"
Janet's back was toward Graeme, and, without turning round, she
answered:
"I dinna ken that he's oftener here than he used to be. He never stayed
long away. He was ben the house with the minister. I didna see him."
There was another pause.
"Janet," said Graeme again, "what do you think Mrs Greenleaf told me
all Merleville is saying?"
Janet expressed no curiosity.
"They say Deacon Snow wants to take you down the brae."
Still Mrs Nasmyth made no answer.
"He hasna ventured to hint such a thing?" exclaimed Graeme
interrogatively.
"No' to me," said Janet, quietly, "but the minister."
"The minister! He's no' blate! To think of him holding up his face to
my father and proposing the like of that! And what did my father say?"
"I dinna ken what he said to him; but to me he said he was well pleased
that it should be so, and--"
"Janet!" Graeme's voice expressed consternation as well as indignation,
Mrs Nasmyth took no notice, but seated herself to her stocking-darning.
"Janet! If you think of such a thing for a moment, I declare I'll take
second thoughts and go away myself."
"Weel, I aye thought you might have done as weel to consider a wee afore
you gave Mr Foster his answer," said Janet, not heeding Graeme's
impatient answer.
"Janet! A sticket minister!"
"My dear, he's no' a sticket minister. He passed his examinations with
great credit to himself. You hae your father's word for that, who was
there to hear him. And he's a grand scholar--that's weel kent; and
though he mayna hae the gift o' tongues like some folk, he may do a
great deal of good in the world notwithstanding. And they say he has
gotten the charge of a fine school now, and is weel off. I aye thought
you might do worse than go with him. He's a good lad, and you would
have had a comfortable home with him."
"Thank you. But when I marry it won't be to get a comfortable home.
I'm content with the home I have."
"Ay, if you could be sure of keeping it," said Janet, with a sigh; "but
a good man and a good home does not come as an offer ilka day."
"The deacon needna be feared to leave his case in your hands, it seems,"
said Graeme, laughing, but not pleasantly.
"Miss Graeme, my dear," said Mrs Nasmyth, gravely, "there's many a
thing to be said of that matter; but it must be said in a different
spirit from what you are manifesting just now. If I'm worth the keeping
here, I'm worth the seeking elsewhere, and Deacon Snow has as good a
right as another."
"Right, indeed! Nobody has any right to you but ourselves. You are
ours, and we'll never, never let you go."
"It's no' far down the brae," said Janet, gently.
"Janet! You'll never think of going! Surely, surely, you'll never
leave us now. And for a stranger, too! When you gave up your own
mother and Sandy, and the land you loved so well, to come here with
us--!" Graeme could not go on for the tears that would not be kept
back.
"Miss Graeme, my dear bairn, you were needing me then. Nae, hae
patience, and let me speak. You are not needing me now in the same way.
I sometimes think it would be far better for you if I wasna here."
Graeme dissented earnestly by look and gesture, but she had no words.
"It's true though, my dear. You can hardly say that you are at the head
of your father's house, while I manage all things, as I do."
But Graeme had no desire to have it otherwise.
"You can manage far best," said she.
"That's no to be denied," said Mrs Nasmyth, gravely; "but it ought not
to be so. Miss Graeme, you are no' to think that I am taking upon
myself to reprove you. But do you think that your present life is the
best to fit you for the duties and responsibilities that, sooner or
later, come to the most of folk in the world? It's a pleasant life, I
ken, with your books and your music, and your fine seam, and the
teaching o' the bairns; but it canna last; and, my dear, is it making
you ready for what may follow? It wouldna be so easy for you if I were
away, but it might be far better for you in the end!"
There was nothing Graeme could answer to this, so she leaned her head
upon her hand, and looked out on the brown leaves lying beneath the
elms.
"And if I should go," continued Janet, "and there's many an if between
me and going--but if I should go, I'll be near at hand in time of
need--"
"I know I am very useless," broke in Graeme. "I don't care for these
things as I ought--I have left you with too many cares, and I don't
wonder that you want to go away."
"Whist, lassie. I never yet had too much to do for your mother's
bairns; and if you have done little it's because you havena needed. And
if I could aye stand between you and the burdens of life, you needna
fear trouble. But I canna. Miss Graeme, my dear, you were a living
child in your mother's arms before she was far past your age, and your
brother was before you. Think of the cares she had, and how she met
them."
Graeme's head fell lower, as she repeated her tearful confession of
uselessness, and for a time there was silence.
"And, dear," said Janet, in a little, "your father tells me that Mr
Snow has offered to send for my mother and Sandy. And oh! my bairn, my
heart leaps in my bosom at the thought of seeing their faces again."
She had no power to add more.
"But, Janet, your mother thought herself too old to cross the sea when
we came, and that is seven years ago."
"My dear, she kenned she couldna come, and it was as well to put that
face on it. But she would gladly come now, if I had a home to give
her."