"It's selfish in me, I know, but, oh! Janet, we have been so happy
lately, and I canna bear to think of changes coming."
Mrs Nasmyth made no answer, for the sound of the bairns' voices came in
at the open door, and in a minute Marian entered.
"Where have you been, dear? I fear you have wearied yourself," said
Janet, tenderly.
"We have only been down at Mr Snow's barn watching the threshing. But,
indeed, I have wearied myself." And sitting down on the floor at
Janet's feet, she laid her head upon her lap. A kind, hard hand was
laid on the bright hair of the bonniest of a' the bairns.
"You mustna sit down here, my dear. Lie down on the sofa and rest
yourself till the tea be ready. Have you taken your bottle to-day?"
Marian made her face the very picture of disgust.
"Oh! Janet, I'm better now. I dinna need it. Give it to Graeme. She
looks as if she needed something to do her good. What ails you,
Graeme?"
"My dear," remonstrated Janet, "rise up when I bid you; and go to the
sofa, and I'll go up the stair for the bottle."
Marian laid herself wearily down. In a moment Mrs Nasmyth reappeared
with a bottle and spoon in one hand, and a pillow in the other, and when
the bitter draught was fairly swallowed, Marian was laid down and
covered and caressed with a tenderness that struck Graeme as strange;
for though Janet loved them all well, she was not in the habit of
showing her tenderness by caresses. In a little, Marian slept. Janet
did not resume her work immediately, but sat gazing at her with eyes as
full of wistful tenderness as ever a mother's could have been. At
length, with a sigh, she turned to her basket again.
"Miss Graeme," said she, in a little, "I dinna like to hear you speak
that way about changes, as though they did not come from God, and as
though He hadna a right to send them to His people when He pleases."
"I canna help it, Janet. No change that can come to us can be for the
better."
"That's true, but we must even expect changes that are for the worse;
for just as sure as we settle down in this world content, changes will
come. You mind what the Word says, `As an eagle stirreth up her nest.'
And you may be sure, if we are among the Lord's children, He'll no leave
us to make a portion of the rest and peace that the world gives. He is
kinder to us than we would be to ourselves."
A restless movement of the sleeper by her side, arrested Janet's words,
and the old look of wistful tenderness came back into her eyes as she
turned toward her. Graeme rose, and leaning over the arm of the sofa,
kissed her softly.
"How lovely she is!" whispered she.
A crimson flush was rising on Marian's cheeks as she slept.
"Ay, she was aye bonny," said Janet, in the same low voice, "and she
looks like an angel now."
Graeme stood gazing at her sister, and in a little Janet spoke again.
"Miss Graeme, you canna mind your aunt Marian?"
No, Graeme could not.
"Menie is growing very like her, I think. She was bonnier than your
mother even, and she kept her beauty to the very last. You ken the
family werena well pleased when your mother married, and the sisters
didna meet often till Miss Marian grew ill. They would fain have had
her away to Italy, or some far awa' place, but nothing would content her
but just her sister, her sister, and so she came home to the manse.
That was just after I came back again, after Sandy was weaned; and kind
she was to me, the bonny, gentle creature that she was.
"For a time she seemed better, and looked so blooming--except whiles,
and aye so bonny, that not one of them all could believe that she was
going to die. But one day she came in from the garden, with a bonny
moss-rose in her hand--the first of the season--and she said to your
mother she was wearied, and lay down; and in a wee while, when your
mother spoke to her again, she had just strength to say that she was
going, and that she wasna feared, and that was all. She never spoke
again."
Janet paused to wipe the tears from her face.
"She was good and bonny, and our Menie, the dear lammie, has been
growing very like her this while. She 'minds me on her now, with the
long lashes lying over her cheeks. Miss Marian's cheeks aye reddened
that way when she slept. Her hair wasna so dark as our Menie's, but it
curled of itself, like hers."
Mrs Nasmyth turned grave pitying eyes toward Graeme, as she ceased
speaking. Graeme's heart gave a sudden painful throb, and she went very
pale.
"Janet," said she, with difficulty, "there is not much the matter with
my sister, is there? It wasna that you meant about changes! Menie's
not going to die like our bonny Aunt Marian!" Her tones grew shrill and
incredulous as she went on.
"I cannot tell. I dinna ken--sometimes I'm feared to think how it may
end. But oh! Miss Graeme--my darling--"
"But it is quite impossible--it can't be, Janet," broke in Graeme.
"God knows, dear." Janet said no more. The look on Graeme's face
showed that words would not help her to comprehend the trouble that
seemed to be drawing near. She must be left to herself a while, and
Janet watched her as she went out over the fallen leaves, and over the
bridge to the pine grove beyond, with a longing pity that fain would
have borne her trouble for her. But she could not bear it for her--she
could not even help her to bear it. She could only pray that whatever
the end of their doubt for Marian might be, the elder sister might be
made the better and the wiser for the fear that had come to her to-day.
There are some sorrows which the heart refuses to realise or
acknowledge, even in knowing them to be drawing near. Possible danger
or death to one beloved is one of these; and as Graeme sat in the shadow
of the pines shuddering with the pain and terror which Janet's words had
stirred, she was saying it was impossible--it could not be true--it
could never, _never_ be true, that her sister was going to die. She
tried to realise the possibility, but she could not. When she tried to
pray that the terrible dread might be averted, and that they might all
be taught to be submissive in God's hands, whatever His will might be,
the words would not come to her. It was, "No, no! no, no! it cannot
be," that went up through the stillness of the pines; the cry of a heart
not so much rebellious as incredulous of the possibility of pain so
terrible. The darkness fell before she rose to go home again, and when
she came into the firelight to the sound of happy voices, Menie's the
most mirthful of them all, her terrors seemed utterly unreasonable, she
felt like one waking from a painful dream.
"What could have made Janet frighten herself and me so?" she said, as
she spread out her cold hands to the blaze, all the time watching her
sister's bright face.
"Graeme, tea's over. Where have you been all this time?" asked Rose.
"My father was asking where you were. He wants to see you," said Will.
"I'll go ben now," said Graeme, rising.
The study lamp was on the table unlighted. The minister was sitting in
the firelight alone. He did not move when the door opened, until Graeme
spoke.
"I'm here, papa. Did you want me?"
"Graeme, come in and sit down. I have something to say to you."
She sat down, but the minister did not seem in haste to speak. He was
looking troubled and anxious, Graeme thought; and it suddenly came into
her mind as she sat watching him, that her father was growing an old
man. Indeed, the last seven years had not passed so lightly over him as
over the others. The hair which had been grey on his temples before he
reached his prime, was silvery white now, and he looked bowed and weary
as he sat there gazing into the fire. It came into Graeme's mind as she
sat there in the quiet room, that there might be other and sadder
changes before them, than even the change that Janet's words had
implied.
"My dear," said the minister, at last, "has Mrs Nasmyth been speaking
to you?"
"About--" Menie, she would have asked, but her tongue refused to utter
the word.
"About Mr Snow," said her father, with a smile, and some hesitation.
Graeme started. She had quite forgotten.
"Mrs Greenleaf told me something--and--"
"I believe it is a case of true love with him, if such a thing can come
to a man after he is fifty--as indeed why should it not?" said the
minister. "He seems bent on taking Janet from us, Graeme."
"Papa! it is too absurd," said Graeme, all her old vexation coming back.
Mr Elliott smiled.
"I must confess it was in that light I saw it first, and I had well nigh
been so unreasonable as to be vexed with our good friend. But we must
take care, lest we allow our own wishes to interfere with what may be
for Mrs Nasmyth's advantage."
"But, papa, she has been content with us all these years. Why should
there be a change now?"
"If the change is to be for her good, we must try to persuade her to it,
however. But, judging from what she said to me this afternoon, I fear
it will be a difficult matter."
"But, papa, why should we seek to persuade her against her own
judgment."
"My dear, we don't need to persuade her against her judgment, but
against her affection for us. She only fears that we will miss her
sadly, and she is not quite sure whether she ought to go and leave us."
"But she has been quite happy with us."
"Yes, love--happy in doing what she believed to be her duty--as happy as
she could be so far separated from those whom she must love better than
she loves us even. I have been thinking of her to-night, Graeme. What
a self-denying life Janet's has been! She must be considered first in
this matter."
"Yes, if it would make her happier--but it seems strange that--"
"Graeme, Mr Snow is to send for her mother and her son. I could see
how her heart leapt up at the thought of seeing them, and having them
with her again. It will be a great happiness for her to provide a home
for her mother in her old age. And she ought to have that happiness
after such a life as hers."
Graeme sighed, and was silent.
"If we had golden guineas to bestow on her, where we have copper coins
only, we could never repay her love and care for us all; and it will be
a matter of thankfulness to me to know that she is secure in a home of
her own for the rest of her life."
"But, papa, while we have a home, she will never be without one."
"I know, dear, while we have a home. You need not tell me that; but
Graeme, there is only my frail life between you and homelessness. Not
that I fear for you. You are all young and strong, and the God whom I
have sought to serve, will never leave my children. But Janet is
growing old, Graeme, and I do think this way has been providentially
opened to her."
"If it were quite right to marry for a home, papa--" Graeme hesitated
and coloured. Her father smiled.
"Mrs Nasmyth is not so young as you, my dear. She will see things
differently. And besides, she always liked and respected Mr Snow. I
have no doubt she will be very happy with him."
"We all liked him," said Graeme, sighing. "But oh! I dread changes. I
can't bear to break up our old ways."
"Graeme," said her father, gravely, "changes must come, and few changes
can be for the better, as far as we are concerned. We have been very
happy of late--so happy that I fear we were in danger of sitting down
contented with the things of this life, and we need reminding. We may
think ourselves happy if no sadder change than this comes to us."
The thought of Menie came back to Graeme, with a pang, but she did not
speak.
"I know, dear," said her father, kindly, "this will come hardest upon
you. It will add greatly to your cares to have Mrs Nasmyth leave us,
but you are not a child now, and--"
"Oh, papa! it is not that--I mean it is not that altogether, but--"
Graeme paused. She was not sure of her voice, and she could not bear to
grieve her father. In a little, she asked.
"When is it to be?"
"I don't know, indeed, but soon, I suppose; and my dear child, I trust
to you to make smooth much that might otherwise be not agreeable in this
matter to us all. The change you dread so much, will not be very great.
Our kind friend is not going very far-away, and there will be pleasant
things connected with the change. I have no doubt, it will be for the
best."
"Shall I light your lamp, papa?" said Graeme, in a little while.
"No, love, not yet. I have no mind for my book to-night."
Graeme stirred the fire, and moved about the room a little. When she
opened the door, the sound of the children's voices came in merrily, and
she shrunk from going out into the light. So she sat down in her
accustomed place by the window, and thought, and listened to the sighs,
that told her that her father was busy with anxious thoughts, too.
"Only my frail life between my children and homelessness," he had said.
It seemed to Graeme, as she sat there in the darkness, that since the
morning, everything in the world had changed. They had been so at rest,
and so happy, and now it seemed to her, that they could never settle
down to the old quiet life again.
"As an eagle stirreth up her nest," she murmured to herself. "Well, I
ought no' to fear the changes He brings--But, oh! I am afraid."