"You must have had a very anxious time, and a great deal to do, when she
was so long ill that first winter. I ought to have been here to help
you, and I should have been, if I had known."
"I wished for you often, but I did not have too much to do, or to
endure. I am none the worse for it all."
"No," said Rose, and she came over and kissed her sister, and then sat
down again. Graeme looked very much pleased, and a little surprised.
Rose took up her work, and said, with a laugh that veiled something,--
"I think you have changed--improved--almost as much as Fanny, though
there was not so much need."
Graeme laughed, too.
"There was more need for improvement than you know or can imagine. I am
glad you see any."
"I am anxious about one thing, however, and so is Fanny, I am sure,"
said Rose, as Fanny came into the room, with her baby in her arms. "I
think I see an intention on your part to become stout. I don't object
to a certain roundness, but it may be too decided."
"Graeme too stout! How can you say such things, Rosie?" said Fanny,
indignantly.
"She is not so slender as when I went away."
"No, but she was too slender then. Arthur thinks she is growing
handsomer, and so do I."
"Well, perhaps," said Rose, moving believe to examine Graeme critically;
"still I must warn her against future possibilities as to stoutness--and
other things."
"It is not the stoutness that displeases her, Fanny," said Graeme,
laughing; "it is the middle-aged look that is settling down upon me,
that she is discontented with."
"Fanny," said Rose, "don't contradict her. She says that on purpose to
be contradicted. A middle-aged look, is it? I dare say it is!"
"A look of contentment with things as they are," said Graeme. "There is
a look of expectation on most _young_ faces, you know, a hopeful look,
which too often changes to an anxious look, or look of disappointment,
as youth passes away. I mean, of course, with single women. I suppose
it is that with me; or, do I look as if I were settling down content
with things as they are?"
"Graeme," said her sister, "if some people were to speak like that in my
hearing, I should say it sounded a little like affectation."
"I hope it is not politeness, alone, which prevents you from saying it
to me?"
"But it is all nonsense, Graeme dear," said Fanny.
"How old are you, Graeme?" said Rose. "Middle-aged, indeed!"
"Rosie, does not ten years seem a long time, to look forward to? Shall
you not begin to think yourself middle-aged ten years hence?"
"Certainly not; by no means; I have no such intention, unless, indeed--.
But we won't speak about such unpleasant things. Fanny, shan't I take
the baby while you do that?"
"If you would like to take him," said Fanny, with some hesitation.
Baby was a subject on which Rose and Fanny had not quite come to a
mutual understanding. Rose was not so impressed with the wonderful
attractions of her son as Fanny thought she ought to be. Even Graeme
had been surprised at her indifference to the charms of her nephew, and
expostulated with her on the subject. But Rose had had a surfeit of
baby sweetness, and, after Hilda's strong, beautiful boys, Fanny's
little, delicate three months' baby was a disappointment to her, and she
made no secret of her amusement at the devotion of Graeme, and the
raptures of his mother over him. But now, as she took him in her arms,
she astonished them with such eloquence of baby-talk as baby had never
heard before. Fanny was delighted. Happily Graeme prevented the
question that trembled on her lips as to the comparative merits of her
nephews, by saying,--
"Well done, Rosie! If only Harry could hear you!"
"I have often wished that Hilda could see and hear you both over this
little mortal. You should see Hilda. Does not she preserve her
equanimity? Fancy her walking the room for hours with any of her boys,
as you did the other night with this one. Not she, indeed, nor any one
else, with her permission."
"I thought--I am sure you have always spoken about Hilda as a model
mother," said Fanny, doubtfully.
"And a fond mother," said Graeme.
"She _is_ a model mother; she is fond, but she is wise," said Rose,
nodding her head. "I say no more."
"Fanny dear, we shall have to learn of Rose. We are very inexperienced
people, I fear," said Graeme, smiling.
"Well, I daresay even I might teach you something. But you should see
Hilda and her babies. Her eldest son is three years old, and her second
will soon be two, and her daughter is four months. Suppose she had
begun by walking all night with each of them, and by humouring every
whim?"
And then Rose began her talk with the baby again, saying all sorts of
things about the fond foolishness of his little mamma and his Aunt
Graeme, that it would not have been at all pretty, she acknowledged, to
say to themselves. Graeme listened, smiling, but Fanny looked anxious.
"Rose," said she, "tell me about Hilda's way. I want to have the very
best way with baby. I know I am not very wise, but I do wish to learn
and to do right!"
Her words and her manner reminded Rose so forcibly, by contrast, of the
Fanny whose vanity and self-assertion had been such a vexation so often,
that, in thinking of those old times, she forgot to answer her, and sat
playing with the child's clasping fingers.
"She thinks I will never be like Hilda," said Fanny, dolefully, to
Graeme.
Rose shook her head.
"There are not many like Hilda; but I don't see any reason why you
should not be as good a mother as she is, and have as obedient children.
You have as good a teacher. No, don't look at Graeme. I know what you
mean. She has taught you all the good that is in you. There are more
of us who could say the same--except for making her vain. It is this
young gentleman, I mean, who is to teach you."
And she began her extraordinary confidences to the child, till Graeme
and Fanny were both laughing heartily at her nonsense.
"I'll tell you what, Fanny," said she, looking up in a little. "It is
the mother-love that makes one wise, and Solomon has something to do
with it. You must take him into your confidence. But, dear me! Think
of my venturing to give you good advice, I might be Janet herself."
"But, Rosie, dear," said Graeme, still laughing, "Solomon has nothing to
say about such infants as this one."
"Has he not? Well, that is Hilda's mistake, then. She is responsible
for my opinions. I know nothing. The wisdom I am dispensing so freely
is entirely hers. You must go and see Hilda and her babies, and you
will understand all about it."
"I mean to go and see her, not entirely for the sake of her wisdom,
however, though it must be wonderful to have impressed you so deeply."
"Yes, it _is_ wonderful. But you will be in no hurry about going, will
you? Two or three years hence will be time enough, I should think. I
mean to content myself here for that time, and you are not going there,
or anywhere, without me. That is quite decided, whatever arrangements
Norman may have made."
"I don't think he will object to your going with me, if Arthur doesn't,
and Fanny," said Graeme, smiling.
"Possibly not. But I am not going yet. And no plan that is meant to
separate you and me shall prosper," said Rose, with more heat than the
occasion seemed to call for, as though the subject had been previously
discussed in a manner not to her liking. Graeme looked grave and was
silent a moment, then she said,--
"I remember saying almost these very words before we went to Merleville,
to Emily's wedding. But you know how differently it turned out for you
and me. We will keep together while we can, dear, but we must not set
our hearts upon it, or upon any other earthly good, as though we knew
best what is for our own happiness."
"Well, I suppose that is the right way to look at it. But I am to be
your first consideration this winter, you must remember, and you are to
be mine."
"Graeme," said Fanny, earnestly, "I don't think Rose is spoiled in the
least."
Fanny made malapropos speeches sometimes still, but they were never
unkindly meant now, and she looked with very loving eyes from one sister
to the other.
"I hope you did not think Hilda was going to spoil me. Did you?" said
Rose, laughing.
"No, not Hilda; and it was not I who thought so, nor Graeme. But Harry
said you were admired more than was good for you, perhaps, and--"
Rose shrugged her shoulders.
"Oh! Harry is too wise for anything. I had a word or two with him on
that subject myself, the last time he was out at Norman's. You must not
mind what Harry says about me, Fanny, dear."
"But, Rose, you are not to think that Harry said anything that was not
nice. It was one night when Mr Millar was here, and there was
something said about Mr Green. And he thought--one of them thought
that you--that he--I have forgotten what was said. What was it, Graeme?
You were here as well as I."
"I am very sure there was nothing said that was not nice," said Graeme.
"I don't quite remember about it. There was nothing worth remembering
or repeating."
"I daresay Harry told you I was a flirt. He told me so, myself, once,"
said Rose, tossing her head in a way Graeme did not like to see.
"Hush, dear. He said nothing unkind, you may be sure."
"And, now I remember, it was not Harry but Mr Millar who spoke about
Mr Green," said Fanny, "and about the `palatial residence,' and how
Rose, if she liked, might--"
Rose moved about impatiently.
"I must say I cannot admire the taste that would permit the discussion
of anything of that sort with a stranger," said she, angrily.
"My dear, you are speaking foolishly. There was no such discussion.
And if you say anything more on the subject, I shall think that Harry
was right when he said you were fond of admiration, and that your
conscience is troubling you about something. Here comes nurse for baby.
I suppose it is time for his bath, is it mamma?"
Fanny left the room with the child, and, after a few minutes' silence,
Rose said, with an effort,--
"Now, Graeme, please tell me what all this is about."
"Dear, there is nothing to tell. I fancy Harry used to think that I was
too anxious and eager about your coming home, and wanted to remind me
that you were no longer a child, but a woman, who was admired, and who
might, by and by, learn to care for some one else, more than for your
sister and brothers. But he did not seriously say anything that you
need care about. It would have been as well, perhaps, not to have said
anything in Mr Millar's presence, since we seem to have fallen a little
out of acquaintance with him lately. But Harry has not, and he did not
consider, and, indeed, there was nothing said that he might not very
well hear."
"It seems it was he who had most to say."
"No. You are mistaken. Fanny did not remember correctly. It was
either Arthur or Harry who had something to say about Mr Green. I
don't think Charlie had anything to say about it. I am sure he would be
the last one willingly to displease me or you. And, really, I don't see
why you should be angry about it, dear Rosie."
"I am not angry. Why should I be angry?" But she reddened as she met
Graeme's eye. Graeme looked at her in some surprise.
"Harry is--is unbearable sometimes," said Rose. "Fancy his taking me to
task about--about his friend--Oh! there is no use talking about it.
Graeme, are you going out?"
"Yes, if you like. But, Rose, I think you are hard upon Harry. There
must be some misunderstanding. Why! he is as fond and as proud of you
as possible. You must not be vain when I say so."
"That does not prevent his being very unreasonable, all the same.
However, he seems to have got over it, or forgotten it. Don't let us
speak any more about it, Graeme, or think about it either."
But Graeme did think about it, and at first had thoughts of questioning
Harry with regard to Rose's cause of quarrel with him, but she thought
better of it and did not. Nor did she ever speak about it again to
Rose; but it came into her mind often when she saw the two together, and
once, when she heard Harry say something to Rose about her distance and
dignity, and how uncalled for all that sort of thing was, she would have
liked to know to what he was referring to, but she did not ask, for,
notwithstanding little disagreements of this kind, they were evidently
excellent friends.
How exactly like the old time before Arthur's marriage, and before Will
or Harry went away, some of the days were, that followed the coming home
of Rose. They seemed like the days even longer ago, Graeme felt, with a
sense of rest and peace at her heart unspeakable. For the old content,
nay, something better and more abiding had come back to her. The peace
that comes after a time of trouble, the content that grows out of sorrow
sanctified, are best. Remembering what has gone before, we know how to
estimate the depth, and strength, and sweetness--the sharpness of past
pain being a measure for the present joy. And, besides, the content
that comes to us from God, out of disappointment and sorrow, is ours
beyond loss, because it is God-given, and we need fear no evil.
So these were truly peaceful days to Graeme, untroubled by regret for
the past, or by anxious fears for the future. They were busy days, too,
filled with the occupations that naturally sprung out of happy home
life, and agreeable social relations. Rose had been honoured, beyond
her deserts, she said, by visits since she came home. These had to be
returned, and Graeme, who had fallen off from the performance of such
duties, during Rose's absence, and Fanny's illness, took pleasure in
going with her. She took real pleasure in many of these visits,
sometimes because of the renewal of friendly interest, sometimes for
other reasons. The new way in which the character and manner of Rose
came out never failed to amuse her. At home, and especially in her
intercourse with her, Rose was just what she had been as a child, except
the difference that a few added years must make. But it was by no means
so in her intercourse with the rest of the world. She had ideas and
opinions of her own, and she had her own way of making them known, or of
defending them when attacked. There was not much opportunity for seeing
this during brief formal visits, but now and then Graeme got a glimpse
that greatly amused her. The quiet self-possession with which she met
condescending advances, and accepted or declined compliments, the serene
air with which she ignored or rebuked the little polite impertinences,
not yet out of fashion in fine drawing-rooms, it was something to see.
And her perfect unconsciousness of her sister's amusement or its cause
was best of all to Graeme. Arthur amused himself with this change in
her, also, and had a better opportunity to do so. For Graeme seldom
went to large parties, and it was under the chaperonage of Mrs Arthur
that Rose, as a general thing, made her appearance in their large and
agreeable circle, on occasions of more than usual ceremony. Not that
there were very many of these. Fanny was perfectly well now, and
enjoyed these gay gatherings in moderation, but they were not so
necessary to her happiness as they used to be, and Rose, though she made
no secret of the pleasure she took in them, was not unreasonable in her
devotion to society. So the winter was rather quiet than otherwise, and
Graeme and Rose found themselves with a good deal of leisure time at
their disposal.
For true to her first idea of what was for the happiness of her
brother's household, Graeme, as Fanny grew stronger, gradually withdrew
from the bearing of responsibility where household matters were
concerned, and suffered it to fall, as she felt it to be right, on
Arthur's wife. Not that she refused to be helpful; either in word or in
deed, but it was as much as possible at the bidding of the mistress of
the house. It was not always very easy to do, often not by any means so
easy as it would have been to go on in the old way, but she was very
much in earnest about this thing. It was right that it should be so,
for many reasons. The responsibilities, as well as the honour, due to
the mistress of the house, were Fanny's. These could not, she being in
health and able to bear them, be assumed by her sister without mutual
injury. The honour and responsibility could not be separated without
danger and loss. All this Graeme tried to make Fanny see without using
many words, and she had a more docile pupil than she would have had
during the first year of her married-life. For Fanny had now entire
confidence in the wisdom and love of her sister, and did her best to
profit by her teaching:
It was the same where the child was concerned. While she watched over
both with loving care, she hesitated to interfere or to give advice,
even in small matters, lest she should lessen in the least degree the
young mother's sense of responsibility, knowing this to be the best and
surest guide to the wise and faithful performance of a mother's duties.
And every day she was growing happier in the assurance that all was
coming right with her sister, that she was learning the best of all
wisdom, the wisdom of gentleness and self-forgetfulness, and of devotion
to the welfare of others, and that all this was bearing fruit in the
greater happiness of the household. And besides this, or rather as a
result of this, she bade fair to be a notable little house-mother also;
a little over-anxious, perhaps, and not very patient with her own
failures, or with the failures of others, but still in earnest to attain
success, and to be in all things what in the old times, she had only
cared to seem.
Though Harry did not now form one of the household, he was with them
very often. Mr Millar did not quite fall into the place which Harry's
friend Charlie had occupied, but though he said less about his enjoyment
of the friendship of their circle, it was evident that it was not
because he enjoyed it less than in the old times. He had only changed
since then by growing quieter and graver, as they all had done. His
brother's determination not to return to Canada had been a great
disappointment to him at the time, and he still regretted it very much,
but he said little about it, less than was quite natural, perhaps,
considering that they had once been such friends. Circumstances had
made the brothers strangers during the boyhood of the younger, and it
was hard that circumstances should separate them again, just as they had
been beginning to know and to value each other. Charlie had hoped for a
long time that Allan might come back after a year or two; for his estate
was by no means a large one, and he believed that he would soon weary of
a life of inactivity, and return to business again. He was still young,
and might, with his knowledge and experience, do anything he liked in
the way of making money, Charlie thought, and he could not be satisfied
with his decision. But Will, who had visited Allan lately, assured
Charlie that his brother was settling down to the enjoyment of a quiet
country life, and that though he might visit Canada, there was little
chance of his ever making that country his home again.
"I should think not, indeed," said Arthur, one night, as they were
discussing the matter in connection with Will's last letter. "You don't
display your usual good judgment, Charlie, man, where your brother is
concerned. Why should he return? He is enjoying now, a comparatively
young man, all that you and Harry expect to enjoy after some twenty or
thirty years of hard labour--a competency in society congenial to him.
Why should he wait for this longer than he need?"
"Twenty or thirty years!" said Harry. "Not if I know it. You are
thinking of old times. But I must say I agree with Charlie. It is
strange that Mr Ruthven should be content to sit down in comparative
idleness, for, of course, the idea of farming his own land is absurd.
And to tell you the truth, I never thought him one to be satisfied with
a mere competency. I thought him at one time ambitious to become a
rich, man--a great merchant."
"It would not be safe or wise to disparage the life and aims of a great
merchant in your presence, Harry," said Rose, "but one would think the
life of a country gentleman preferable in some respects."
"I don't think Allan aspires to the position of a country gentleman--in
the dignified sense in which the term is used where he is. His place is
very beautiful, but it is not large enough to entitle him to the
position of one of the great landed proprietors."
"Oh! as to that, the extent makes little difference. It is the land
that his fathers have held for generations, and that is a thing to be
proud of, and to give position, Rose thinks," said Arthur.
"His father never owned it, and his grandfather did not hold it long.
It was lost to the name many years ago, and bought back again by Allan's
uncle within ten years."
"Yes, with the good money of a good merchant," said Harry.
"And did he make it a condition that he should live on it?" said Arthur.
"No, I think not. Allan never has said any such thing as that to me, or
to my mother."
"Still he may think it his duty to live there."
"I don't know. It is not as though it were a large estate, with many
tenants, to whom he owed duty and care and all that. I think the life
suits him. My mother always thought it was a great disappointment to
him to be obliged to leave home when he did to enter upon a life of
business. He did not object decidedly. There seemed at the time
nothing else for him to do. So he came to Canada."
"I daresay his present life is just the very life he could enjoy most.
I wonder that you are so vexed about his staying at home, Charlie."
"I daresay it is selfishness in me. And yet I don't think it is so
altogether. I know, at least I am almost sure, that it would be better
for him to come here, at least for a time. He might always have the
going home to look forward to."
"I cannot imagine how he can content himself there, after the active
life he lived on this side of the water; he will degenerate into an old
fogey, vegetating there," said Harry.
"But I think you are hard on yourself, Mr Millar, calling it
selfishness in you to wish your brother to be near you," said Graeme,
smiling. "I could find a much nicer name for it than that."
"I would like him to come for his own sake," said Charlie. "As for me,
I was just beginning to know him--to know how superior he is to most
men, and then I lost him." He paused a moment--
"I mean, of course, we can see little of each other now, and we shall
find it much easier to forget one another than if we had lived together
and loved and quarrelled with each other as boys. I shall see him if I
go home next summer, and I don't despair of seeing him here for a visit,
at least."
"Will says he means to come some time. Perhaps he will come back with
you, or with Will himself, when he comes," said Rose.
"Oh! the voyage is nothing; a matter of ten days or less," said Arthur.
"It is like living next door neighbours, in comparison to what it was
when we came over. Of course he may come any month. I don't understand
your desolation, Charlie."