"Are you quite sure that you are glad, Graeme."
"I am very glad, Will. Why should you doubt it? You know I have not so
heartsome a way of showing my delight as Rosie has."
"No. I don't know any such thing. I can't be quite glad myself, till I
am sure that you are glad, too."
"Well, you may be quite sure, Will. It is only my old perverse way of
looking first at the dark side of things, and this matter has a dark
side. It will seem less like home than ever when you are gone, Will."
"Less like home than ever!" repeated Will. "Why, Graeme, that sounds as
if you were not quite contented with the state of affairs."
"Does it?" said Graeme, laughing, but not pleasantly.
"But, Graeme, everything has turned out better than we expected. Fanny
is very nice, and--"
"Yes, indeed," said Graeme, heartily. "Everything has turned out much
better than we used to fear. I remember the time when I was quite
afraid of Fanny and her fine house--my old perversity, you see."
"I remember," said Will, gravely.
"I was quite morbid on the subject, at one time. Mamma Grove was a
perfect night-mare to me. And really, she is well! she is not a very
formidable person, after all."
"Well, on the whole, I think we could dispense with mamma Grove," said
Will, with a shrug.
"Oh! that is because she is down upon you in the matter of Master Tom.
You will have to take him, Will."
"Of course. But then, I would do a great deal more than that for
Fanny's brother, without all this talk."
"But then, without `all this talk,' as you call it, you might not have
discovered that the favour is done you, nor that the letter to her
English friend will more than compensate you, for going fifty miles out
of your way for the boy."
"Oh! well, it is her way, and a very stupid way. Let her rest."
"Yes, let her rest. And, Will, you are not to think I am not glad that
you are going home. I would choose no other lot for you, than the one
that is before you, an opportunity to prepare yourself for usefulness,
and a wide field to labour in. Only I am afraid I would stipulate that
the field should be a Canadian one."
"Of course. Canada is my home."
"Or Merleville. Deacon Snow seems to think you are to be called to that
field, when you are ready to be called."
"But that is a long day hence. Perhaps, the deacon may change his mind,
when he hears that I am going home to learn from the `British.'"
"There is no fear. Sandy has completed the work which my father and
Janet began. Mr Snow is tolerant of the North British, at any rate.
What a pleasant life our Merleville life was. It seems strange that
none of us, but Norman, has been back there. It won't belong now,
however."
"I am afraid I cannot wait for Emily's wedding. But I shall certainly
go and see them all, before I go to Scotland."
"If you do, I shall go with you, and spend the summer there."
"And leave Rose here?" said Will, in some surprise.
"No. I wish to go for Rose's sake, as much as for my own. It seems as
though going to Merleville and Janet, would put us all right again."
"I hope you may both be put right, without going so far," said Will.
"Do you know, Will, I sometimes wonder whether I can be the same person
who came here with Rose and you? Circumstances do change people,
whether they will or not. I think I should come back to my old self
again, with Janet to take me to task, in her old sharp, loving way."
"I don't think I understand you, Graeme."
"Don't you? Well, that is evidence that I have changed; and that I have
not improved. But I am not sure that I understand myself."
"What is wrong with you, Graeme."
"I cannot tell you, Will. I don't know whether the wrong is with me, or
with matters and things in general. But there is no good in vexing you,
unless you could tell me how to help it."
"If I knew what is wrong I might try," said Will, gravely.
"Then, tell me, what possible good I shall be able to do in the world,
when I shall no longer have you to care for?"
"If you do no good, you will fall far short of your duty."
"I know it, Will. But useless as my way of life is, I cannot change it.
Next year must be like this one, and except nursing you in your
illness, and Fanny in hers, I have done nothing worth naming as work."
"That same nursing was not a little. And do you call the housekeeping
nothing? It is all very well, Fanny's jingling her keys, and playing
lady of the house, but we all know who has the care and trouble. If
last year has nothing to show for work, I think you may make the same
complaint of all the years that went before. It is not that you are
getting weary of the `woman's work, that is never done,' is it, dear?"
"No, Will. I hope not. I think not. But this last year has been very
different from all former years. I used to have something definite to
do, something that no one else could do as well. I cannot explain it.
You would laugh at the trifles that make the difference."
"I see one difference," said Will. "You have the trouble, and Fanny has
the credit."
"No, Will. Don't say that I don't think that troubles me. It ought
not; but it is not good for Fanny, to allow her to suppose she has the
responsibility and care, when she has not really. And it is not fair to
her. When the time comes that she must have them, she will feel the
trouble all the more for her present delusion. And she is learning
nothing. She is utterly careless about details, and complicates matters
when she thinks she is doing most, though, I must say, Nelly is very
tolerant of the `whims' of her young mistress, and makes the best of
everything. But Will, all this must sound to you like finding fault
with Fanny, and indeed, I don't wish to do anything so disagreeable."
"I am sure you do not, Graeme. I think I can understand your troubles,
but I am afraid I cannot tell you how to help them."
"No, Will. The kind of life we are living is not good for any of us.
What I want for myself is some kind of real work to do. And I want it
for Rose."
"But, Graeme, you would never surely think of going away,--I mean, to
stay always?"
"Why not? We are not needed here, Rose and I. No, Will, I don't think
it is that I am growing tired of `woman's work.' It was very simple,
humble work I used to do, trifles, odds and ends of the work of life;
stitching and mending, sweeping and dusting, singing and playing,
reading and talking, each a trifling matter, taken by itself. But of
such trifles is made up the life's work of thousands of women, far wiser
and better than I am; and I was content with it. It helped to make a
happy home, and that was much."
"You have forgotten something in your list of trifles, Graeme,--your
love and care for us all."
"No, Will. These are implied. It is the love and care that made all
these trifles really `woman's work.' A poor dreary work it would be
without these."
"And, Graeme, is there nothing still, to sanctify your daily labour, and
make it work indeed?" said Will.
"There is, indeed, Will. If I were only sure that it is my work. But,
I am not sure. And it seems as though--somewhere in the world, there
must be something better worth the name of work, for me to do." And
letting her hands fall in her lap, she looked away over the numberless
roofs of the city, to the grey line of the river beyond.
"Oh! Will," she went on in a little, "you do not know. You who have
your life's work laid out before you, can never understand how it is
with me. You know the work before you is your work--given you by God
himself. You need have no misgivings, you can make no mistake. And
look at the difference. Think of all the years I may have to spend,
doing the forgotten ends of another's duty, filling up the time with
trifles, visits, frivolous talk, or fancy work, or other things which do
good to no one. And all the time not knowing whether I ought to stay in
the old round, or break away from it all--never sure but that elsewhere,
I might find wholesome work for God and man."
Very seldom did Graeme allow herself to put her troubled thoughts into
words, and she rose now and went about the room, as if she wished to put
an end to their talk. But Will said,--
"Even if it were true and real, all you say, it may not be for long.
Some day, you don't know how soon, you may have legitimate `woman's
work' to do,--love, and sympathy, and care, and all the rest, without
encroaching on Fanny's domain."
He began gravely, but blushed and stammered; and glanced with laughing
deprecation at his sister, as he ended. She did not laugh.
"I have thought of that, too. It seems so natural and proper, and in
the common course of things, that a woman should marry. And there have
been times, during this last year, when, just to get away from it all, I
have thought that any change would be for the better. But it would not
be right, unless--" she hesitated.
"No, unless it was the right person, and all that, but may we not
reasonably hope that the right person may come?"
"We won't talk about it, Will. There must be some other way than that.
Many women find an appropriate work to do without marrying. I wish I
could do as the Merleville girls used to do, spin and weave, or keep a
school."
"But they don't spin and weave now, since the factories have been built.
And as for school-keeping--"
"It would be work, good wholesome work, in which, with God's help, I
might try to do as our father and mother did, and leave the world better
for my labour."
"But you could not part from Rose, and Arthur could never be made to see
it right that you should go away," said Will.
"Rose should go with me. And Arthur would not like it at first, nor
Fanny, but they would reconcile themselves to it in time. And as to the
school, that is only one kind of work, though there are few kinds left
for a woman to do, the more's the pity."
"There is work enough of the best kind. It is the remuneration that is
scant. And the remuneration could not be made a secondary
consideration; if you left home."
"In one sense, it ought to be secondary. But I think it must be
delightful to feel that one is `making one's living,' as Mr Snow would
say. I _should_ like to know how it feels to be quite independent,
Will, I must confess."
"But Graeme, there is no need; and it would make Arthur quite unhappy,
if he were to hear you speak in that way. Even to me, it sounds a
little like pride, or discontent."
"Does it, Will. That is dreadful. It is quite possible that these evil
elements enter into my vexed thoughts. We won't speak any more about
it, Will."
"But, why should we not speak about it? You may be quite right. At any
rate, you are not likely to set yourself right, by keeping your vexed
thoughts to yourself."
But, if Graeme had been ever so willing, there was no more time just
now. There was a knock at the door, and Sarah, the housemaid, presented
herself.
"If you please, Miss Graeme, do you think I might go out as usual. It
is Wednesday, you know."
Wednesday was the night of the weekly lecture, in Sarah's kirk. She was
a good little girl, and a worshipper in a small way of a popular young
preacher of the day.
"If Nelly thinks she can manage without you," said Graeme.
"It was Nelly proposed it. She can do very well, unless Mrs Elliott
brings home some one with her, which is unlikely so late."
"Well, go then, and don't be late. And be sure you come home with the
Shaws' Sarah," said Miss Elliott.
"They are late," said Will. "I am afraid I cannot wait for dinner. I
promised to be with Doctor D at seven."
They went down-stairs together. Nelly remonstrated, with great
earnestness against Will's "putting himself off with bread and cheese,
instead of dinner."
"Though you need care the less about it, that the dinner's spoiled
already. The fowls werena much to begin with. It needs sense and
discretion to market, as well as to do most things, and folk that winna
come home at the right hour, must content themselves with things
overdone, or else in the dead thraw."
"I am very sorry Will should lose his dinner," said Graeme; "but they
cannot be long in coming now."
"There's no saying. They may meet in with folk that may keep them to
suit their ain convenience. It has happened before."
More than once, when Fanny had been out with her mother, they had gone
for Arthur and dined at Grove house, without giving due notice at home,
and the rest, after long waiting, had eaten their dinner out of season.
To have a success in her department rendered vain by careless or
culpable delay, was a trial to Nelly at any time. And if Mrs Grove had
anything to do with causing it, the trial was all the greater.
For Nelly--to use her own words--had no patience with that "meddlesome
person." Any interference on her part in household matters, was
considered by her a reflection on the housekeeping of her young ladies
before Mrs Arthur came among them, and was resented accordingly. All
hints, suggestions, recipes, or even direct instructions from her, were
utterly ignored by Nelly, when it could be done without positive
disobedience to Miss Graeme or Mrs Elliott. If direct orders made it
necessary for her to do violence to her feelings to the extent of
availing herself of Mrs Grove's experience, it was done under protest,
or with an open incredulousness as to results, at the same time
irritating and amusing.
She had no reason to suppose that Mrs Grove had anything to do with her
vexation to-night, but she chose to assume it to be so, and following
Graeme into the dining-room, where Will sat contentedly eating his bread
and cheese, she said,--
"As there is no counting on the time of their home-coming, with other
folks' convenience to consult, you had best let me bring up the dinner,
Miss Graeme."
"We will wait a few minutes longer. There is no haste," said Graeme,
quietly.
Graeme sat a long time looking out of the window before they came--so
long that Nelly came up-stairs again intending to expostulate still, but
she did not; she went down again, quietly, muttering to herself as she
went,--
"I'll no vex her. She has her ain troubles, I daresay, with her young
brother going away, and many another thing that I ken nothing about. It
would ill set me to add to her vexations. She is not at peace with
herself, that's easy to be seen."