In the mean time very quiet and pleasant days were passing over those
who were at home. Fanny jingled her keys, and triumphed a little at the
continued success of affairs in Mrs Tilman's department. Graeme took
no notice of her triumph, but worked away at odds and ends, remembering
things forgotten, smoothing difficulties, removing obstacles, and
making, more than she or any one knew, the happiness of them all. Rose
sung and danced about the house as usual, and devoted some of her
superfluous energy to the embellishment of a cobweb fabric, which was,
under her skillful fingers, destined to assume, by and by, the form of a
wedding pocket handkerchief for Emily. And through all, Mrs Snow was
calmly and silently pursuing the object of her visit to Canada. Through
the pleasant hours of work and leisure, in all their talk of old times,
and of the present time, in all moods, grave and gay, she had but one
thought, one desire, to assure herself by some unfailing token that her
bairns were as good and happy as they ought to be.
The years that had passed since the bairns had been parted from her had
made Janet older than they ought to have done, Graeme thought. It was
because she was not so strong as she used to be, she said herself; but
it was more than sickness, and more than the passing years that had
changed her. The dreadful shock and disappointment of her mother's
death, followed so soon by the loss of Marian and the minister, had been
too much for Janet. It might not have been, her strong patient nature
might have withstood it, if the breaking up of the beloved family
circle, the utter vanishing of her bairns from her sight, had not
followed so close upon it. For weeks she had been utterly prostrate.
The letters, which told the bairns, in their Canadian home, that their
dear friend was ill, and "wearying" for them, told them little of the
terrible suffering of that time. The misery that had darkened her first
winter in Merleville came upon her again with two-fold power. Worse
than the home-sickness of that sad time, was the never-ceasing pain,
made up of sorrow for the dead, and inappeasable longing for the
presence of the living. That she should have forsaken her darlings, to
cast in her lot with others--that between her and them should lie miles
and miles of mountain and forest, and barriers, harder to be passed than
these, it sickened her heart to know. She knew it never could be
otherwise now; from the sentence she had passed upon herself she knew
there could be no appeal. She knew that unless some great sorrow should
fall upon them, they could never have one home again; and that peace and
happiness could ever come to her, being separated from them, she neither
believed nor desired. Oh! the misery of that time! The fields and
hills, and pleasant places she had learnt to love, shrouded themselves
in gloom. The very light grew hateful to her. Her prayer, as she lay
still, while the bitter waters rolled over her, was less the prayer of
faith, than of despair.
And, through all the misery of that time, her husband waited and watched
her with a tender patience, beautiful to see; never, by word or deed,
giving token of aught but sympathy, and loving pity for the poor, sick,
struggling heart. Often and often, during that dreary time, did she
wake to hear, in the stillness of the night, or of the early morning,
his whispered prayer of strong entreaty rising to Heaven, that the void
might be filled, that in God's good time and way, peace, and healing,
and content, might come back to the sick and sorrowful heart.
And this came after long waiting. Slowly the bitter waters rolled away,
never to return. Faith, that had seemed dead, looked up once more. The
sick heart thrilled beneath the touch of the Healer. Again the light
grew pleasant to her eyes, and Janet came back to her old household
ways, seeing in the life before her God-given work, that might not be
left undone. But she was never quite the same. There was never quite
the old sharp ring in her kindly voice. She was not less cheerful,
perhaps, in time, but her cheerfulness was of a far quieter kind, and
her chidings were rare, and of the mildest, now. Indeed, she had none
to chide but the motherless Emily, who needed little chiding, and much
love. And much love did Janet give her, who had been dear to all the
bairns, and the especial friend of Marian, now in Heaven. And so God's
peace fell on the deacon's quiet household, and the gloom passed away
from the fields and hills of Merleville, and its pleasant nooks and
corners smiled once more with a look of home to Janet, as she grew
content in the knowledge that her darlings were well and happy, though
she might never make them her daily care again. But she never forgot
them. Her remembrance of them never grew less loving, and tender, and
true. And so, as the years passed, the old longing came back, and, day
by day, grew stronger in her heart the wish to know assuredly that the
children of her love were as good and happy as they ought to be.
Had her love been less deep and yearning she might have been more easily
content with the tokens of an innocent and happy life visible in their
home. If happiness had been, in her estimation, but the enjoyment of
genial days and restful nights, with no cares to harass, and only
pleasant duties to perform; if the interchange of kindly offices, the
little acts of self-denial, the giving up of trifles, the taking
cheerfully of the little disappointments, which even their pleasant life
was subject to--if these had been to her sufficient tests of goodness,
she might have been satisfied with all she saw.
But she was not satisfied, for she knew that there are few hearts so
shallow as to be filled full with all that such a life of ease could
give. She knew that the goodness, that might seem to suffice through
these tranquil and pleasant days, could be no defence against the strong
temptations that might beset them amid the cares of life. "For," said
she to herself, "the burn runs smoothly on over the pebbles in its bed
without a break or eddy, till the pebbles change to rocks and stones,
and then it brawls, and murmurs, and dashes itself to foam among them--
and no help." She was content with no such evidence of happiness or
goodness as lay on the surface of their pleasant life, so she waited,
and watched, seeing without seeming to see, many things that less loving
eyes might have overlooked. She saw the unquiet light that gleamed at
times in Graeme's eyes, and the shadow of the cloud that now and then
rested on her brow, even in their most mirthful moments. She smiled, as
they all did, at the lively sallies, and pretty wilfulness of Rose, but
she knew full well, that that which made mirth in the loving home
circle, might make sorrow for the household darling, when the charm of
love was no longer round her. And so she watched them all, seeing in
trifles, in chance words and unconscious deeds, signs and tokens for
good or for evil, that would never have revealed themselves to one who
loved them less.
For Will she had no fear. He was his father's own son, with his
father's work awaiting him. All would be well with Will. And for
Arthur, too, the kind and thoughtful elder brother--the father and
brother of the little household, both in one, her hopes were stronger
than her doubts or fears. It would have given her a sore heart, indeed,
to believe him far from the way in which his father walked.
"He has a leaven of worldliness in him, I'll no deny," said she to her
husband one night, when they were alone in the privacy of their own
apartment. "And there is more desire for wealth in his heart, and for
the honour that comes from man, than he himself kens. He'll maybe get
them, and maybe no'. But if he gets them, they'll no' satisfy him, and
if he gets them not, he'll get something better. I have small fear for
the lad. He minds his father's ways and walk too well to be long
content with his own halting pace. It's a fine life just now, with folk
looking up to him, and patting trust in him, but he'll weary of it.
There is nothing in it to fill, for long, the heart of his father's
son."
And in her quiet waiting and watching, Janet grew assured for them all
at last. Not that they were very wise or good, but her faith that they
were kept of God grew stronger every day; and to be ever in God's
keeping, meant to this humble, trustful, Christian woman, to have all
that even her yearning love could crave for her darlings. It left her
nothing to fear for them, nothing to wish in their behalf; so she came
to be at peace about them all; and gently checked the wilful words and
ways of Rose, and waited patiently till Graeme, of her own accord,
should show her the cloud in the shadow of which she sometimes sat.
As to Fanny, the new claimant for her love and interest, she was for
from being overlooked all this time, and the pretty little creature
proved a far greater mystery to the shrewd, right-judging friend of the
family than seemed at all reasonable. There were times when, had she
seen her elsewhere, she would not have hesitated to pronounce her
frivolous, vain, overbearing. Even now, seeing her loved and cared for,
in the midst of the bairns, there were moments when she found herself
saying it in her heart. A duller sense, and weaker penetration could
not have failed to say the same. But Fanny was Arthur's wife, and
Arthur was neither frivolous, nor vain, nor overbearing, but on the
contrary, wise, and strong, and gentle, possessing all the virtues that
ever had made his father a model in Janet's admiring eyes, and it seemed
a bold thing, indeed, to think lightly of his wife. So she mused, and
pondered, and watched, and put Fanny's beautiful face and winning
manners, and pretty, affectionate ways, against her very evident
defects, and said to herself, though Arthur's wife was not like Arthur's
mother, nor even like his sisters, yet there were varieties of
excellence, and surely the young man was better able to be trusted in
the choice of a life-long friend than on old woman like her could be;
and still she waited and pondered, and, as usual, the results of her
musings were given to her attentive husband, and this time with a little
impatient sigh.
"I needna wonder at it. Love is blind, they say, and goes where it is
sent, and it is sent far more rarely to wisdom and worth, and humble
goodness, than to qualities that are far less deserving of the happiness
it brings; and Mr Arthur is no' above making a mistake. Though how he
should--minding his mother as he does--amazes me. But he's well
pleased, there can be no doubt of that, as yet, and Miss Graeme is no'
ill-pleased, and love wouldna blind her. Still I canna but wonder after
all is said."
And she still wondered. There were in her vocabulary no gentler names
for the pretty Fanny's defects, than just frivolity and vanity, and even
after a glimpse or two of her stepmother, Janet's candid,
straightforward nature could hardly make for those defects all the
allowance that was to be made. She could not realise how impossible it
was, that a fashionable education, under such a teacher as Mrs Grove
should have made her daughter other than she was, and so not realising
that her worst faults were those of education, which time, and
experience, and the circumstances of her life must correct, she had, at
times, little hope of Fanny's future worth or wisdom.
That is, she would have had little hope but for one thing--Graeme had
faith in Fanny, that was clear. Love might blind Arthur's eyes to her
faults, or enlighten them to see virtues invisible to other eyes, but it
would not do that for Graeme; and Graeme was tolerant of Fanny, even at
times when her little airs and exactions made her not quite agreeable to
her husband. She was patient and forbearing towards her faults, and
smiled at the little housekeeping airs and assumptions, which Rose
openly, and even in Arthur's presence, never failed to resent. Indeed,
Graeme refused to see Fanny's faults, or she refused to acknowledge that
she saw them, and treated her always with the respect due to her
brother's wife, and the mistress of the house, as, well as with the love
and forbearance due to a younger sister.
And that Fanny, with all her faults and follies, loved and trusted
Graeme was very evident. There was confidence between them, to a
certain extent at any rate, and seeing these things, Janet took courage
to hope that there was more in the "bonny vain creature" than it was
given her to see, and to hope also that Arthur might not one day find
himself disappointed in his wife. Her doubts and hopes on the matter
were all silent, or shared only with the worthy deacon, in the solitude
of their chamber. She was slow to commit herself to Graeme, and Graeme
was in no haste to ask her friend's opinion of her brother's wife.
They had plenty of other subjects to discuss. All their Merleville life
was gone over and over during these quiet summer days.
The talk was not always gay; sometimes it was grave enough, even sad,
but it was happy, too, in a way; at any rate they never grew weary of
it. And Mrs Snow had much to tell them about the present state of
their old home; how the old people were passing away, and the young
people were growing up; how well the minister was remembered there
still, and how glad all would be to see the minister's bairns among them
again; and then Sandy and Emily, and the approaching wedding made an
endless subject of talk. Rose and Fanny never wearied of that, and Mrs
Snow was as pleased to tell, as they were to hear.
And when Rose and Fanny were away, as they often were, and Graeme was
left alone with her friend, there were graver things discussed between
them. Graeme told her more of their family life, and of their first
experiences than she had ever heard before. She told her of her
illness, and home-sickness, and of the many misgivings she had had as to
whether it had been wise for them all to come to burden Arthur. She
told her of Harry, and her old terrors on his account, and how all these
had given place to hope, that was almost certainty now, that she need
never fear for him for the same cause more. They rejoiced together over
Hilda, and Norman, and recalled to one another their old pride in the
lad when he had saved the little German girl from the terrible fate that
had overtaken her family, and smiled at the misgivings they had had when
he refused to let her go with the friends who would have taken her.
This was all to be rejoiced over now. No doubt the care and pains which
Norman had needed to bestow on his little adopted sister, had done much
to correct the native thoughtlessness of his character, and no doubt her
love and care would henceforth make the happiness of his life. So they
said to one another with smiles, and not without grateful tears, in view
of the overruling love and care visible in all they had to remember of
one and all.
And Will, who seemed to be Graeme's own more than either of the other
brothers, because she had cared for him, and taught him, and watched
over him from the very first, she permitted herself to triumph a little
over him, in private with her friend, and Janet was nothing loth to hear
and triumph too, for in the lad his father lived again to her, and she
was not slow to believe in his sister's loving prophecy as to his
future. Graeme could not conceal, indeed she did not try to conceal,
from her friend, how much she feared the parting from him, and though
Janet chid her for the tears that fell so fast, it was with a gentle
tenderness that only quickened their flow.
And now and then, in these long talks and frequent silence, Janet
fancied that she caught a glimpse of the cloud that had cast a shadow
over Graeme's life, but she was never sure. It was not to be spoken
about, however, nothing could be clearer than that.
"For a cloud that can be blown away by a friend's word, will lift of
itself without help in a while. And if it is no' a cloud of that kind,
the fewer words the better. And time heals many a wound that the touch
of the kindest hand would hurt sorely. And God is good." But all this
was said in Janet's secret prayer. Not even her husband shared her
thoughts about Graeme.
"What a dismal day it is!" said Fanny, as she stood at the window,
listening to the wind and watching the fall of the never-ceasing rain.
It was dismal. It must have been a dismal day even in the country,
where the rain was falling on beautiful green things to their
refreshment; and in the city street, out upon which Fanny looked, it was
worse. Now and then a milk cart, or a carriage with the curtains
closely drawn, went past; and now and then a foot passenger, doing
battle with the wind for the possession of his umbrella; but these did
not brighten the scene any.
It was dismal within doors, too, Fanny thought. It was during the time
of Mr Snow and Will's first trip, and Arthur had gone away on business,
and was not expected home for a day or two, at least. A household of
women is not necessarily a dismal affair, even on a rainy day, but a
household suddenly deprived of the male element, is apt to become so in
those circumstances, unless some domestic business supposed to be most
successfully accomplished at such a time is being carried on; and no
wonder that Fanny wandered from room to room, in an uncomfortable state
of mind.
Graeme and Rose were not uncomfortable. Rose had a way of putting aside
difficult music to be practised on rainy days, and she was apt to become
so engrossed in her pleasant occupation, as to take little heed of what
was going on about her, and all Fanny's exclamations of discontent were
lost on her. Graeme was writing letters in the back parlour, and Mrs
Snow was supposed to be taking her after-dinner's rest, up-stairs, but
she came into the room in time to hear Fanny exclaim petulantly,--
"And we were very foolish to have an early dinner. That would have been
something to look forward to. And no one can possibly call. Even Mr
Green would be better than nobody--or even Charlie Millar."
"These gentlemen would be highly flattered if they heard you," said
Rose, laughing, as she rose to draw forward the arm-chair, to Mrs Snow.
"Are you not tired playing Rose," said Fanny, fretfully.
"By no means. I hope my playing does not disturb you. I think this
march is charming. Come and try it."
"No, I thank you. If the music does not disturb Mrs Snow, _I_ don't
mind it."
"I like it," said Mrs Snow. "The music is cheerful this dull day.
Though I would like a song better."
"By and by you shall have a song. I would just like to go over this two
or three times more."
"Two or three times! Two or three hundred times, you mean," said Fanny.
"There's no end to Rose's playing when she begins."
Then she wandered into the back parlour again.
"Are you going to write all day, Graeme?"
"Not all day. Has Mrs Snow come down?" asked she, coming forward. "I
have been neglecting Harry lately, and I have so much to tell him, but
I'll soon be done now."
"My dear," said Mrs Snow, "dinna heed me; I have my knitting, and I
enjoy the music."
"Oh! dear! I wish it didn't rain," said Fanny.
"My dear, the earth was needing it," said Mrs Snow, by way of saying
something, "and it will be beautiful when the rain is over."
"I believe Graeme likes a rainy day," said Fanny. "It is very stupid, I
think."
"Yes, I sometimes like a rainy day. It brings a little leisure, which
is agreeable."
Fanny shrugged her shoulders.
"It is rather dismal to-day, however," said Graeme. "You look cold with
that light dress on, Fanny, why don't you go and change it?"
"What is the use? I wish Arthur were coming home. He might have come,
I'm sure."
"You may be sure he will not stay longer than he can help," said Graeme;
turning to her letter again.
"And my dear, might you no' take a seam? It would pass the time, if it
did nothing else," said Mrs Snow.
But the suggestion was not noticed, and partly because she did not wish
to interfere, and partly because she had some curiosity to see how the
little lady would get out of her discomfort, Mrs Snow knitted on in
silence.
"Make something nice for tea," suggested Rose, glancing over her
shoulder.
"That is not necessary _now_," said Fanny, shortly.
"Oh! I only suggested it for your sake--to pass the time," said Rose.
It lasted a good while longer. It lasted till Graeme, catching Mrs
Snow's look, became suddenly aware that their old friend was thinking
her own thoughts about "Mrs Arthur." She rose at once, and shutting
her desk, and going to the window where Fanny was standing, said with a
shiver:--
"It _is_ dismal, indeed. Fanny, look at that melancholy cat. She wants
to come in, but she is afraid to leave her present shelter. Poor wee
pussy."
"Graeme, don't you wish Arthur were coming home," said Fanny, hanging
about her as she had a fashion of doing now and then.
"Yes, indeed. But we must not tell him so. It would make him vain if
he knew how much we missed him. Go and change your dress, dear, and
we'll have a fire, and an early tea, and a nice little gossip in the
firelight, and then we won't miss him so much."
"Fire!" repeated Rose, looking disconsolately at the pretty ornaments of
the grate with which she had taken so much pains. "Who ever heard of a
fire in a grate at this time of the year?"
But Rose was overruled. They had a fire and an early tea, and then,
sitting in the firelight, they had a gossip, too; about many different
things. Janet told them more than she had ever told them before, of how
she had "wearied for them" when they first left Merleville, and by and
by Rose said,--
"But that was all over when Sandy came."
"It was over before that, for his coming was long delayed, as you'll
mind yourselves. I was quite content before that time, but of course it
was a great thing to me, the coming of my Sandy."
"Oh! how glad you must have been!" said Rose. "I wish I had been there
to see. Tell us what you said to him, and what he said to you."
"I dinna mind what I said to him, or if I said anything at all. And he
just said, `Well, mother!' with his heartsome smile, and the shine of
tears in his bonny blue e'en," said Janet, with a laugh that might very
easily have changed to a sob; "and oh! bairns, if ever I carried a
thankful heart to a throne of grace, I did that night."
"And would you have known him?" asked Rose, gently.
"Oh! ay, would I. No' but what he was much changed. I wouldna have
_minded_ him, but I would have kenned him anywhere."
Janet sat silent with a moved face for a little, and then she went on.
"I had had many a thought about his coming, and I grew afraid as the
time drew near. Either, I thought, he winna like my husband, or they
winna agree, or he will have forgotten me altogether, and winna find it
easy to call me his mother, or he'll disappoint me in some way, I
thought. You see I had so set my heart on seeing him, that I was afraid
of myself, and it seemed to be more than I could hope that he should be
to me all that I desired. But when he came, my fears were set at rest.
He is an honest, God fearing lad, my Sandy, and I need say nae mair
about him."
"And so clever, and handsome! And what did Mr Snow say?"
"Oh! his heart was carried captive, from the very first, with Sandy's
heartsome, kindly ways. It made me laugh to myself, many a time, to see
them together, and it made me greet whiles, as well. All my fears were
rebuked, and it is the burden of my prayers from day to day, that I may
have a thankful heart."
"And how did Sandy like Merleville, and all the people?"
"Oh, he liked them well, you may be sure. It would have been very
ungrateful if he had not, they made so much of him--Mr and Mrs
Greenleaf, especially, and the Merles, and plenty besides. He made
himself very useful to Mr Greenleaf, in many ways, for he is a clever
lad, my Sandy. It's on his business that he's West now. But he'll soon
be home again."
"And Emily! Tell us just what they said to each other at first, and
what they thought of each other."
"I canna do that, for I wasna there to hear. Emily saw my Sandy before
I saw him myself, as you'll mind I told you before."
"And was it love at first sight?" asked Fanny.
"And did the course of true love for once run smooth," said Rose. Mrs
Snow smiled at their eagerness.
"As for the love at first sight--it came very soon to my Sandy. I am
no' sure about Emily. As for its running smooth, there was a wee while
it was hindered. They had their doubts and fears, as was natural, and
their misunderstandings. But, oh! bairns, it was just wonderful to sit
by and look at them. I saw their happy troubles coming on before they
saw it themselves, I think. It was like a story out of a book, to watch
them; or like one of the songs folk used to sing when I was young--the
sweet old Scottish songs, that are passing out of mind now, I fear. I
never saw the two together in our garden, but I thought of the song that
begins,--"
"Ae simmer nicht when blobs o' dew,
Garred ilka thing look bonny--"
"Ah! Well, God has been good to them, and to us all."
"And Mr Snow was well pleased, of course," said Fanny.
"Pleased is hardly the word for it. He had just set his heart on it
from the very first, and I had, whiles, much ado to keep him from
seeming to see things and to keep him from putting his hand to help them
a wee, which never does, you ken. Folk must find out such things for
themselves, and the canniest hand may hinder, rather than help, with the
very best will. Oh ay, he was well pleased."
"And it is so nice that they are to be so close beside you. I daresay
we shall hardly know our old home, it will be so much improved."
"It is improved, but no' beyond your knowledge of it. It was ay a bonny
place, you'll mind. And it _is_ improved, doubtless, for her father
thinks there is nothing too good for Emily."
"And Oh! bairns, we have a reason to be thankful. If we trust our
affairs in God's hand, He'll `bring it to pass,' as he has said. And if
we are his, there is no' fear but the very best thing for us will happen
in the end."