If, on the night of the day when Janet went away, Graeme could have had
a glimpse of her outward life for the next two years, she might have
shrunk, dismayed, from the way that lay before her. And yet when two
years and more had passed, over the cares, and fears, and
disappointments, over the change and separation which the time had
brought, she could look with calm content, nay, with grateful gladness.
They had not been eventful years--that is, they had been unmarked by any
of the especial tokens of change, of which the eye of the world is wont
to take note, the sadden and evident coming into their lives of good or
evil fortune. But Graeme had only to recall the troubled days that had
been before the time when she had sought help and comfort from her old
friend, to realise that these years had brought to her, and to some of
those she loved, a change real, deep, and blessed, and she daily thanked
God, for contentment and a quiet heart.
That which outwardly characterised the time to Graeme, that to which she
could not have looked forward hopefully or patiently, but upon which she
could look back without regret, was her separation from her sister. At
first all things had happened as had been planned. They made their
preparations for their long talked of visit to Merleville; they enjoyed
the journey, the welcome, the wedding. Will went away, and then they
had a few quiet, restful days with Janet; and then there came from home
sad tidings of Fanny's illness--an illness that brought her in a single
night very near to the gates of death, and Graeme did not need her
brother's agonised entreaties to make her hasten to her side. The
summons came during a brief absence of Rose from Merleville, and was too
imperative to admit of Graeme's waiting for her return, so she was left
behind. Afterwards, when Fanny's danger was over, she was permitted to
remain longer, and when sudden business brought their brother Norman
east, his determination to take her home with him, and her inclination
to go, prevailed over Graeme's unwillingness to consent, and the
sisters, for the first time in their lives, had separate homes. The
hope of being able to follow her in the spring, had at first reconciled
Graeme to the thought, but when spring came, Fanny was not well enough
to be left, nor would Norman consent to the return of Rose; and so for
one reason or other, more than two years passed before the sisters met
again. They were not unhappy years to Graeme. Many anxious hours came
in the course of them, to her and to them all; but out of the cares and
troubles of the time came peace, and more than peace at last.
The winter that followed her return from Merleville, was rather a dreary
one. The restraints and self-denials, which the delicate state of her
health necessarily imposed upon her, were very irksome to Fanny; and
Graeme's courage and cheerfulness, sometimes during these first months,
were hardly sufficient to answer the demands made upon her. But all
this changed as the hour of Fanny's trial approached--the hour that was
to make her a proud and happy mother; or to quench her hope, perhaps,
her life, in darkness. All this was changed. Out of the entire trust
which Fanny had come to place in her sister Graeme, grew the knowledge
of a higher and better trust. The love and care which, during those
days of sickness and suffering, and before those days, were made
precious and assured, were made the means of revealing to her a love
which can never fail to do otherwise than the very best for its object--
a care more than sufficient for all the emergencies of life, and beyond
life. And so, as the days went on, the possibilities of the future
ceased to terrify her. Loving life, and bound to it by ties that grew
stronger and closer every day, she was yet not afraid to know, that
death might be before her; and she grew gentle and quiet with a peace so
sweet and deep, that it sometimes startled Graeme with a sadden dread,
that the end might, indeed, be drawing near.
Graeme was set at rest about one thing. If there had lingered in her
heart any fear lest her brother's happiness was not secure in Fanny's
keeping, or that his love for her would not stand the wear and tear of
common life, when the first charms of her youth and beauty, and her
graceful, winning ways were gone, that fear did not outlast this time.
Through the weariness and fretfulness of the first months of her
illness, he tended her, and hung about her, and listened to her
complaints with a patience that never tired; and when her fretful time
was over, and the days came when she lay hushed and peaceful, yet a
little awed and anxious, looking forward to she knew not what, he
soothed and encouraged her with a gentle cheerfulness, which was, to
Graeme, pathetic, in contrast with the restless misery that seemed to
take possession of him when he was not by her side. One does not need
to be very good, or very wise, or even beautiful to win true love; and
Fanny was safe in the love of her husband, and to her sister's mind,
growing worthier of it every day.
Graeme would have hardly acknowledged, even to herself, how much Arthur
needed the discipline of this time, but afterwards she saw it plainly.
Life had been going very smoothly with him, and he had been becoming
content with its routine of business and pleasure. The small successes
of his profession, and the consideration they won for him, were in
danger of being prized at more than their value, and of making him
forget things better worth remembering, and this pause in his life was
needed. These hours in his wife's sick-room, apparently so full of rest
and peace, but really so anxious and troubled, helped him to a truer
estimate of the value of that which the world can bestow, and forced him
to compare them with those things over which the world has no power!
Fanny's eager, sometimes anxious questionings, helped to the same end.
The confidence with which she brought her doubts and difficulties to him
for solution, her evident belief in his superior wisdom and goodness,
her perfect trust in his power and skill to put her right about matters
of which until now she had never thought, were a reproach to him often.
Listening to her, and pondering on the questions which her words
suggested, he saw how far he had wandered from the paths which his
father had trod, how far he had fallen short of the standard at which he
had aimed, and the true object of life grew clearer to him during those
days.
They helped each other to the finding of the better way; she helped him
most, and Graeme helped them both. These were anxious days to her, but
happy days, as well. In caring for these two, so dear to her in seeking
for them the highest happiness, in striving, earnestly, that this time
might not be suffered to pass, without leaving a blessing behind, she
forgot herself and her own fears and cares and in seeking their
happiness found her own.
This quiet time came to an end. The little life so longed for, so
precious, lingered with them but a day, and passed away. Fanny hovered
for a time on the brink of the grave, but was restored again, to a new
life, better loved and more worthy of love than ever she had been
before.
That summer they went south, to the seaside, and afterwards before they
returned home, to Merleville, where Arthur joined them. It was a time
of much pleasure and profit to them all. It did Arthur good to stand
with his sister beside the two graves. They spoke there more fully and
freely than they had ever spoken to each other before, of the old times,
of their father and mother, and of the work they had been honoured to do
in the world; and out of the memories thus awakened, came earnest
thoughts and high resolves to both. Viewed in the light which shone
from his father's life and work, his own could not but seem to Arthur
mean and worthless. Truths seen dimly, and accepted with reserve, amid
the bustle of business, and the influence of the world, presented
themselves clearly and fully here, and bowed both his heart and his
reason, and though he said little to his sister, she knew that life,
with its responsibilities and duties, would henceforth have a deeper and
holier meaning to him.
Janet never spoke to Graeme of her old troubled thoughts. "It is all
coming right with my bairn," she said, softly, to herself, the very
first glimpse she got of her face, and seeing her and watching her
during these few happy days, she knew that she had grown content with
her life, and its work, and that the fever of her heart was healed. And
as the days went on, and she saw Arthur more and more like his father,
in the new earnestness of his thoughts and hopes, and watched Fanny
gentle, and loving, mindful of others, clinging to Graeme, and trusting
and honouring her entirely,--a Fanny as different as could well be
imagined from the vain, exacting little housekeeper, who had so often
excited her indignation, a year ago, she repeated again and again. "It
is coming right with them all."
Another year passed, bringing new cares, and new pleasures, and, to
Arthur and Fanny, the fulfilment of new hopes in the birth of a son. To
Graeme, it brought many longings for the sight of her sister's face,
many half formed plans for going to her, or for bringing her home, but
Arthur's boy was three months old before she saw her sister. Will was
still in Scotland, to stay for another year, at least Harry had been at
home several times since his first sorrowful departure, and now there
was a prospect that he would be at home always. A great change had
taken place in his affairs. The firm of Elphinstone and Company no
longer existed. It was succeeded by one, which bade fair to be as
prosperous, and in time, as highly honoured as it had been, the firm of
Elliott, Millar and Company. Mr Ruthven was still in the business,
that is, he had left in it the capital necessary to its establishment on
a firm basis, but he took no part in the management of its affairs. He
lived in Scotland now, and had done so ever since the death of his wife,
which, had taken place soon after they had reached that country. He had
since succeeded, on the death of his uncle, his father's brother, to the
inheritance of a small estate near his native place, and there, with his
mother and his little daughter, he resided. Either, it was said, his
uncle had made his residence on the place a condition of possession, or
he had grown tired of a life of business, but he, evidently, did not
intend to return to Canada at present; even his half-brother, who deeply
regretted his early withdrawal from active life, and earnestly
remonstrated with him concerning it, knew little about his motives,
except that his health was not so firm as it used to be, and that he had
determined not to engage in business again.
Harry had changed much, during the years of his absence. Up to the time
of his leaving home, he had retained his boyish frankness and love of
fun, more than is usual in one really devoted to business, and
successful in it. When he came back, he seemed older than those years
ought to have made him. He was no longer the merry, impulsive lad,
ready on the shortest notice, to take part in anything that promised
amusement for the moment, whatever the next might bring. He was quiet
and observant now; hardly doing his part in general conversation,
holding his own views and opinions with sufficient tenacity when they
were assailed, but rather indifferent as to what might be the views and
opinions of others; as unlike as possible to the Harry who had been so
ready on all occasions, either in earnest or in sport, to throw himself
into the discussion of all manner of questions, with all kind of people.
Even in their own circle, he liked better to listen than to speak, but
he fell quite naturally and happily into his place at home, though it
was not just the old place.
Graeme thought him wonderfully improved, and made no secret of her pride
and delight in him. Arthur thought him improved too, but he shocked his
sister dreadfully, by professing to see in him indications of character,
that suggested a future resemblance to their respected friend, Mr Elias
Green, in more than in success.
"He is rather too devoted to business, too indifferent to the claims of
society, and to the pursuits of the young swells of the day, to be
natural, I am afraid. But it will pay. In the course of fifteen or
twenty years, we shall have him building a `palatial residence', and
boring himself and other people, like our respected friend. You seem to
be a little discontented with the prospect, Graeme."
"Discontented!" echoed Graeme. "It is with you, that I am discontented.
How can you speak of anything so horrible? You don't know Harry."
"I know what the result of such entire devotion to business must be,
joined to such talents as Harry's. Success, of course, and a measure of
satisfaction with it, more or less, as the case maybe. No, you need not
look at Harry's friend and partner. He is `tarred with the same stick,'
as Mrs Snow would say."
Harry's friend and partner, laughed.
"Mrs Snow would never say that about Mr Millar," said Graeme
indignantly, "nor about Harry either; and neither of them will come to a
fate like that."
"They may fail, or they may marry. I was only speaking of the natural
consequences of the present state of affairs, should nothing intervene
to prevent such a conclusion."
"Harry will never grow to be like Mr Green," said Fanny, gravely.
"Graeme will not let him."
"There is something in that," said Arthur.
"There is a great deal in that," said Mr Millar.
"There are a great many to keep Harry from a fate like that, besides
me," said Graeme, "even if there was any danger to one of his loving and
generous nature."
She was more in earnest than the occasion seemed to call for.
"Graeme," said Fanny, eagerly, "you don't suppose Arthur is in earnest.
He thinks there is no one like Harry."
Arthur laughed.
"I don't think there are many like him, certainly, but he is not beyond
spoiling, and Graeme, and you, too, make a great deal too much of him, I
am afraid."
"If that would spoil one, you would have been spoiled long ago," said
Graeme, laughing.
"Oh! that is quite another matter; but as to Harry, it is a good thing
that Rose is coming home, to divert the attention of you two from him a
while," added he, as his brother came into the room. "And you will do
your best to spoil her, too, if some of the rest of us don't counteract
your influence."
"What is it all about?" said Harry. "Are you spoiling your son, Fanny?
Is that the matter under discussion?"
"No. It is you that we are spoiling, Graeme and I. We admire you quite
too much, Arthur says, and he is afraid we shall do the same for Rose."
"As for Rose, I am afraid the spoiling process must have commenced
already, if admiration will do it," said Harry. "If one is to believe
what Norman says, she has been turning a good many heads out there."
"So that her own head is safe, the rest cannot be helped," said Graeme,
with a little vexation. It was not Harry's words, so much as his tone,
that she disliked. He shrugged his shoulders.
"Oh! as to that, I am not sure. I don't think she tried to help it.
Why should she? It is her natural and proper sphere of labour--her
vocation. I think she enjoyed it, rather."
"Harry, don't! I can't bear to hear you speak of Rose in that way."
"Oh! my speaking of it can't make any difference, you know; and if you
don't believe me, you can ask Charlie. He is my authority for the last
bit of news of Rosie."
Charlie looked up astonished and indignant, and reddened as he met
Graeme's eye.
"I don't understand you, Harry--the least in the world," said he.
"Do you mean to say you have forgotten the postscript I saw in Rowland's
letter about Mr Green and his hopes and intentions? Come, now,
Charlie, that is a little too much."
"Mr Green!" repeated Arthur and Fanny, in a breath.
"Are we never to have done with that unhappy man?" said Graeme,
indignantly.
"The idea of Rose ever looking at him!" said Fanny.
"Oh! she might look at him without doing herself any harm," said Harry.
"She might even indulge in a little innocent flirtation--"
"Harry," said Fanny, solemnly, "if there is a word in the English
language that Graeme hates it is that. Don't say it again, I beg."
Harry shrugged his shoulders. Graeme looked vexed and anxious.
"Miss Elliott," said Charlie, rising, in some embarrassment, "I hope you
don't think me capable of discussing--or permitting--. I mean, in the
letter to which Harry refers, your sister's name was not mentioned. You
have received a wrong impression. I am the last person in the world
that would be likely to offend in that way."
"Charlie, man! you are making much ado about nothing; and, Graeme, you
are as bad. Of course, Rosie's name was not mentioned; but I know quite
well, and so do you, who `La belle Canadienne' was. But no harm was
meant, and none was done."
"It would be rather a good joke if Rosie were to rule in the `Palatial
Residence' after all, wouldn't it?" said Arthur, laughing.
"Arthur, don't! It is not nice to have the child's name coupled with--
with any one," said Graeme.
"It may not be nice, but it cannot be helped," said Harry. "It is the
penalty that very pretty girls, like Rose, have to pay for their
beauty--especially when they are aware of it--as Rose has good right to
be by this time. Small blame to her."
"And I don't see that there is really anything to be annoyed about,
Graeme," said Arthur. "A great deal more than the coupling of names
might happen without Rosie being to blame, as no one should know better
than you."
"Of course. We are not speaking of blame, and we will say no more about
it," said Graeme, rising; and nothing more was said. By and by Harry
and his friend and partner rose to go. They lived together, now, in the
house behind the willow trees, which Rose had taken such pleasure in
watching. It was a very agreeable place of residence still, though a
less fashionable locality than it used to be; and they were fortunate
enough to have the efficient and kindly Nelly as housekeeper, and
general caretaker still, and she magnified her office.
Harry had some last words to exchange with Arthur, and then Mr Millar
approached Graeme and said, with a smile that was rather forced and
uncertain,--
"I ought to apologise for coming back to the subject again. I don't
think you believe me likely to speak of your sister in a way that would
displease you. Won't you just say so to me?"
"Charlie! I know you could not. You are one of ourselves."
Charlie's face brightened. Of late it had been "Mr Millar," mostly--
not that Graeme liked him less than she used to do; but she saw him less
frequently, and he was no longer a boy, even to her. But this time it
was, "Charlie," and he was very much pleased.
"You have been quite a stronger, lately," she went on; "but now that
Mrs Elliott is better and Rose coming home, we shall be livelier and
better worth visiting. We cannot bring the old times quite back, even
with Harry and Rose, but we shall always be glad to see you."
She spoke cordially, as she felt, and he tried to answer in the same
way; but he was grave, and did not use many words.
"I hope there is nothing wrong," said Graeme, observing his changing
look.
"Nothing for which there is any help," said he. "No there is nothing
wrong."
"I am ready, Charlie," said Harry, coming forward. "And Graeme, you are
not to trouble yourself about Rose's conquests. When she goes to her
own house--`palatial' or otherwise--and the sooner the better for all
concerned--you are coming to take care of Charlie and me."
"There may be two or three words to be said on that subject," said
Arthur, laughing.
"I am sure neither you nor Fanny will venture to object; you have had
Graeme all your life--at least for the last seven years. I should like
to hear you, just. I am not joking, Graeme."
Graeme laughed.
"There is no hurry about it, is there? I have heard of people changing
their minds; and I won't set my heart on it, in case I should be
disappointed."