The rest of the bairns received the tidings of the change that was going
to take place among them, in a very different way from Graeme. Their
astonishment at the idea of Janet's marriage was great, but it did not
equal their delight. Graeme was in the minority decidedly, and had to
keep quiet. But then Janet was in the minority, too, and Mr Snow's
suit was anything but prosperous for some time. Indeed, he scarcely
ventured to show his face at the minister's house, Mrs Nasmyth was so
evidently out of sorts, anxious and unhappy. Her unhappiness was
manifested by silence chiefly, but the silent way she had of ignoring
Sampson and his claims, discouraging all approach to the subject, that
lay so near the good deacon's heart, was worse to bear than open rebuff
would have been; and while Mrs Nasmyth's silence grieved Mr Snow, the
elaborate patience of his manner, his evident taking for granted that
"she would get over it," that "it would all come right in the end," were
more than she could sometimes patiently endure.
"He's like the lave o' them," said she to Graeme one day, after having
closed the door, on his departure, with more haste than was at all
necessary. "Give a man an inch, and he'll take an ell. Because I didna
just set my face against the whole matter, when the minister first spoke
about it, he's neither to hold nor bind, but `when will it be?' and
`when will it be?' till I have no peace of my life with him."
Graeme could not help laughing at her excitement.
"But, when will it be?" asked she.
"My dear, I'm no sure that it will ever be."
"Janet!" exclaimed Graeme. "What has happened?"
"Nothing has happened; but I'm no' sure but I ought to have put a stop
to the matter at the very first. I dinna weel ken what to do."
"Janet," said Graeme, speaking with some embarrassment, "my father
thinks it right, and it does not seem so--so strange as it did at
first--and you should speak to Mr Snow about it, at any rate."
"To put him out o' pain," said Janet, smiling grimly. "There's no fear
o' him. But I'll speak to him this very night."
And so she did, and that so kindly, that the deacon, taking heart,
pleaded his own cause, with strong hopes of success. But Janet would
not suffer herself to be entreated. With tearful eyes, she told him of
her fears for Marian, and said, "It would seem like forsaking the bairns
in their trouble, to leave them now." Mr Snow's kind heart was much
shocked at the thought of Marian's danger. She had been his favourite
among the bairns, and Emily's chief friend from the very first, and he
could not urge her going away, now that there was so sorrowful a reason
for her stay.
"So you'll just tell the minister there is to be no more said about it.
He winna ask any questions, I dare say."
But in this Janet was mistaken. He did ask a great many questions, and
failing to obtain satisfactory answers, took the matter into his own
hands, and named an early day for the marriage. In vain Janet protested
and held back. He said she had been thinking of others all her life,
till she had forgotten how to think of herself, and needed some one to
think and decide for her. As to Marian's illness being an excuse, it
was quite the reverse. If she was afraid Marian would not be well cared
for at home, she might take her down the brae; indeed, he feared there
was some danger that he would be forsaken of all his children when she
went away. And then he tried to thank her for her care of his
motherless bairns, and broke down into a silence more eloquent than
words.
"And, my dear friend," said he, after a little, "I shall feel, when I am
to be taken away, I shall not leave my children desolate, while they
have you to care for them."
So for Mrs Nasmyth there was no help. But on one thing she was
determined. The day might be fixed, but it must be sufficiently distant
to permit the coming home of the lads, if they could come. They might
come or not, as it pleased them, but invited they must be. She would
fain see them all at home again, and that for a better reason than she
gave the minister. To Mr Snow, who doubted whether "them boys" would
care to come so far at such expense, she gave it with a sadder face than
he had ever seen her wear.
"If they are not all together soon, they may never be together on earth
again; and it is far better that they should come home, and have a few
blithe days to mind on afterward, than that their first home-coming
should be to a home with the shadow of death upon it. They must be
asked, any way."
And so they were written to, and in due time there came a letter, saying
that both Harry and Arthur would be home for a week at the time
appointed. From Norman there came no letter, but one night, while they
were wondering why, Norman came himself. His first greeting to Janet
was in words of grave expostulation, that she should think of forsaking
her "bairns" after all these years; but when he saw how grave her face
became, he took it all back, and declared that he had been expecting it
all along, and only wondered that matters had not been brought to a
crisis much sooner. He rejoiced Mr Snow's heart, first by his hearty
congratulations, and then by his awful threats of vengeance if Mrs Snow
was not henceforth the happiest woman in Merleville.
Norman was greatly changed by his two years' absence, more than either
of his brothers, the sisters thought. Arthur was just the same as ever,
though he was an advocate and a man of business; and Harry was a boy
with a smooth chin and red cheeks, still. But, with Norman's brown,
bearded face the girls had to make new acquaintance.
But, though changed in appearance, it was in appearance only. Norman
was the same mirth-loving lad as ever. He was frank and truthful, too,
if he was still thoughtless; and Graeme told herself many a time, with
pride and thankfulness, that as yet, the world had not changed for the
worse, the brother for whom she had dreaded its temptations most of all.
Norman's letters had always been longest and most frequent; and yet, it
was he who had the most to tell. If his active and exposed life as an
engineer at the West had anything unpleasant in it, this was kept out of
sight at home, and his adventures never wearied the children. His "once
upon a time" was the signal for silence and attention among the little
ones; and even the older ones listened with interest to Norman's
rambling stories. Nor did their interest cease when the sparkle in
Norman's eye told that his part in the tale was ended; and the
adventures of an imaginary hero begun.
There was one story which they were never tired of hearing. It needed
none of Norman's imaginary horrors to chase the blood from the cheeks of
his sisters, when it was told. It was the story of the burning
steamboat, and how little Hilda Bremer had been saved from it; the only
one out of a family of eight. Father, mother, brothers, all perished
together; and she was left alone in a strange land, with nothing to keep
here from despair but the kind words of strangers, uttered in a tongue
that she could not understand. It would, perhaps, have been wiser in
Norman to have given her up to the kind people who had known her parents
in their own land; but he had saved the child's life, and when she clung
to him in her sorrow, calling him dear names in her own tongue, he could
not bear to send her away.
"These people were poor, and had many children of their own," said
Norman. "I would have thought it a hard lot for Menie or Rosie to go
with them; and when she begged to stay with me, I could not send her
with them. If it had not been so far, I would have sent her to you,
Graeme. But as I could not do that, I kept her with me while I stayed
in C, and there I sent her to school. They say she bids fair to be a
learned lady some day."
This was an item of news that Norman's letters had not conveyed. They
only knew that he had saved Hilda from the burning boat, and that he had
been kind to her afterwards.
"But Norman, man, the expense!" said the prudent Mrs Nasmyth, "you
havena surely run yourself in debt?" Norman laughed.
"No; but it has been close shaving sometimes. However, it would have
been that anyway. I am afraid I have not the faculty for keeping money,
and I might have spent it to worse purpose."
"And is the little thing grateful?" asked Graeme.
"Oh! yes; I suppose so. She is a good little thing, and is always glad
to see me in her quiet way."
"It's a pity she's no' bonny," said Marian.
"Oh! she is bonny in German fashion; fair and fat."
"How old is she?" asked Mrs Nasmyth.
Norman considered.
"Well, I really can't say. Judging by her inches, I should say about
Rosie's age. But she is wise enough and old-fashioned enough to be
Rosie's grandmother. She's a queer little thing."
"Tell us more," said Rose; "do you go to see her often?"
"As often as I can. She is very quiet; she was the only girl among the
eight, and a womanly little thing even then. You should hear her talk
about her little business matters. My dear Mrs Nasmyth, you need not
be afraid of my being extravagant, with such a careful little woman to
call me to account.
"I have a great mind to send her home to you in the spring, Graeme. It
seems very sad for a child like her to be growing up with no other home
but a school. She seems happy enough, however."
"And would she like to come?"
"She says she wouldn't; but, of course, she would like it, if she were
once here. I must see about it in the spring."
The wedding-day came, and in spite of many efforts to prevent it, it was
rather a sad day to them all. It found Janet still "in a swither." She
could not divest herself of the idea that she was forsaking "the
bairns."
"And, Oh! Miss Graeme, my dear, if it werena for the thought of seeing
my mother and Sandy, my heart would fail me quite. And are you quite
sure that you are pleased now, dear?"
"Janet, it was because I was selfish that I wasna pleased from the very
first; and you are not really going away from us, only just down the
brae."
Graeme did not look very glad, however. But if the wedding-day was
rather sad, Thanksgiving-day, that soon followed, was far otherwise. It
was spent at the Deacon's. Miss Lovejoy distinguished herself forever
by her chicken-pies and fixings. Mr and Mrs Snow surpassed themselves
as host and hostess; and even the minister was merry with the rest.
Emily was at home for the occasion; and though at first she had been at
a loss how to take the change, Menie's delight decided her, and she was
delighted, too.
They grew quiet in the evening but not sad. Seated around the fire in
the parlour, the young people spoke much of the time of their coming to
Merleville. And then, they went further back, and spoke about their old
home, and their mother, and their long voyage on the "Steadfast."
"I wonder what has become of Allan Ruthven," said Marian. "It's strange
that you have never seen him, Arthur."
"I may have seen him twenty times without knowing him. You mind, I was
not on the `Steadfast' with you."
"But Harry saw him; and, surely, he could not have changed so much but
that he would know him now if he saw him."
"And do you know no one of the name?" asked Graeme.
"I have heard of several Ruthvens in Canada West. And the house of
Elphinstone and Gilchrist have a Western agent of that name. Do you
know anything about him, Harry? Who knows but he may be Allan Ruthven
of the `Steadfast.'"
"No, I thought he might be, and made inquiries," said Harry. "But that
Ruthven seems quite an old fogey. He has been in the employment of that
firm ever since the flood,--at least, a long time. Do you mind Allan
Ruthven, Menie?"
"Mind him!" That she did. Menie was very quiet to-night, saying
little, but listening happily as she lay on the sofa, with her head on
Graeme's knee.
"Allan was the first one I heard say our Menie was a beauty," said
Norman. "Menie, do you mind?"