Graeme awoke in the morning to wonder at all the doubts and anxieties
that had filled her mind in the darkness; for she was aroused by baby
kisses on her lips, and opened her eyes to see her sister Rose, with her
nephew in her arms, and her face as bright as the May morning, smiling
down upon her. Rose disappointed and sad! Rose hiding in her heart
hopes that were never to be realised! She listened to her voice,
ringing through the house, like the voice of the morning lark, and
wondered at her own folly. She laughed, as Rose babbled to the child in
the wonderful baby language in which she so excelled; but tears of
thankfulness rose to her eyes as she remembered the fears of the night,
and set them face to face with the joy of the morning.
"I could not have borne it," she said to herself. "I am afraid I never
could have borne to see my darling drooping, as she must have done. I
am content with my own lot. I think I would not care to change anything
the years have brought to me. But Rosie--. Ah! well, I might have
known! I know I ought to trust for Rosie, too, even if trouble were to
come. But oh! I am very glad and thankful for her sake."
She was late in the breakfast-room, and she found Harry there.
"`The early bird,' you know, Graeme," said he. "I have been telling
Rosie what a scolding you were giving me last night on our way home."
"But he won't tell me what it was all about," said Rose.
"I cannot. I don't know myself. I have an idea that you had something
to do with it, Rosie. But I can give no detailed account of the
circumstances, as the newspapers say."
"It is not absolutely necessary that you should," said Graeme, smiling.
"I hope you are in a much better humour this morning, Graeme."
"I think I am in a pretty good humour. Not that I confess to being very
cross last night, however."
"It was he who was cross, I daresay," said Rose. "You brought him away
before supper! No wonder he was cross. Are you going to stay very
long, Harry?"
"Why? Have you any commands for me to execute?"
"No; but I am going to introduce a subject that will try your temper,
judging from our conduct yesterday. I am afraid you will be threatening
to beat some one."
Harry shrugged his shoulders.
"Now, Graeme, don't you call that flippant? Is it anything about the
big doctor, Rosie?"
"You won't beat him, will you Harry? No. It is only about his sister.
Graeme, Fanny has given me leave to invite her here for a few days, if
you have no objection. She cannot be enjoying herself very much where
she is staying, and it will be a real holiday to the little thing to
come here for a while. She is very easily amused. She makes pleasure
out of everything. Mayn't she come?"
"Certainly, if you would like her to come; I should like to know her
very much."
"And is the big brother to come, too?" asked Arthur.
"No. He leaves town to-day. Will you go with me, Harry, to fetch her
here?"
"But what about `papa and mamma,' to whom you were to be shown? The
cunning, little thing has some design upon you, Rosie, or, perhaps, on
some of the rest of us."
Rose laughed.
"Don't be frightened, Harry. You are safe, as you are not domesticated
with us. And I intend to show myself to `papa and mamma' later, if you
don't object."
"There! look at Graeme. She thinks you and I are quarrelling, Rosie.
She is as grave as a judge."
"Tell us about the party, Harry," said Fanny.
"It was very pleasant. I don't think Graeme enjoyed it much, however.
I wonder, too, that she did not, for there were more nice people there
than we usually see at parties. It was more than usually agreeable, I
thought."
"You are degenerating, Harry," said his brother. "I thought you were
beyond all that sort of thing. I should have thought you would have
found it slow, to say the least."
"And then to make him lose the supper! It was too bad of you, Graeme,"
said Rose.
"Oh! she didn't. I went back again."
They all exclaimed. Only Harry laughed.
"Can I do anything for you and your friend, Rosie?" asked he.
"Yes, indeed you can. I intend to make a real holiday for the little
thing. We are open to any proposal in the way of pleasure, riding,
driving, boating, picnicking, one and all."
"It is very kind of you, Harry, to offer," said Graeme.
"Hem! not at all. I shall be most happy," said Harry.
"Oh! we shall not be exacting. We are easily amused, little Etta and
I."
Miss Goldsmith's visit was a success. She was a very nice little girl,
whose life had been passed in the country--not in a village even, but
quite away from neighbours, on a farm, in which her father had rather
unfortunately invested the greater part of his means. It might not
prove to be unfortunate in the end, Etta explained to them, because the
land was valuable, only in the meantime it seemed to take all the income
just to keep things going. But by and by she hoped farming would pay,
and the place was beautiful, and they lived very happily there, if they
only had a little more money, Etta added gravely.
Dick was the hero who was to retrieve the fallen fortunes of the family,
Etta thought. He was her only own brother. All the rest of the
children were only her half-brothers and sisters. But notwithstanding
the hard times to which Etta confessed, they were a very happy family,
it seemed.
Everything was made pleasure by this little girl. It was pleasure just
to drive through the streets, to see the well-dressed people, to look in
at the shop-windows. Shopping was pleasure, though she had little to
spend. An hour in a bookseller's, or in a fancy shop, was pleasure.
The churches, old and new, were wonderful to her, some for one reason,
some for another. Rose and she became independent and strong-minded,
and went everywhere without an escort. They spent a day in wandering
about the shady walks of the new cemetery, and an afternoon gazing down
on the city from the cathedral towers. They paid visits and received
them; and, on rainy days, worked and read together with great delight,
if not with much profit. Rose, with both heart and hands, helped her
friend to make the most of her small allowance for dress; and contrived,
out of odds and ends, to make pretty, inexpensive ornaments for her, and
presents for her little brothers and sisters at home. She taught her
new patterns in crochet, and new stitches in Berlin wool. She even gave
her a music lesson, now and then, and insisted on her practising, daily,
that she might get back what she had lost since she left school, and so
be able the better to teach her little sisters when she went home. In
short, she contrived to fill up the time with amusement, or with work of
some sort. Not a moment but was occupied in some way.
Of course, Graeme was sometimes included in their plans for the day, and
so were Fanny and baby, but for the most part the young girls were
occupied with each other; and the visit, which was to have been for a
few days, lengthened out beyond the month, and might have been longer
than that, even, only Rose had a slight, feverish attack which confined
her to her room for a day or two, and then Etta could no longer hide
from herself that she ought to go home.
"I hope I shall not find that this pleasant time has spoiled me. I
think papa and mamma are somewhat afraid. I mean to be good, and
contented, and helpful; but I know I am only a silly little thing. Oh!
Rosie! if you were only going home with me for a little while!"
"I should like it very much, indeed," said Rose.
"Of course, everything is very different at our house, but you wouldn't
mind that. Miss Elliott, don't you think you could spare Rose to me for
a few days?"
Graeme shook her head.
"I think I have spared her to you a good many days. I have seen very
little of her for a long time, I think."
Miss Goldsmith looked grieved and penitent. "Nonsense, Etta," said
Rose; "she is only laughing at you. She has had you and me, too. And I
should like very much to go with you. This is the nicest time of the
year to be in the country, I think. What do you say, Graeme?"
Little Etta clasped her hands, and looked at Graeme so entreatingly,
that Rose laughed heartily. But Graeme said nothing encouraging.
However, the very hottest days of the summer came that season among the
first June days, and, because of the heat, Graeme thought Rose did not
recover from her illness so quickly as she ought to have done. She is
languid and pale, though pretty busy still, and cheerful, and Graeme
proposed that she should go with her friend for a few days, at least.
Etta was enchanted.
"I am afraid my resolutions about being good, and helping mamma, and
teaching the little ones, would have fallen through, for I know I am a
foolish girl. But with Rose to help me, just at first, I shall succeed
I know."
"Don't be silly, Etta," said Rose. "You are a great deal wiser and
better, and of a great deal more use in the world, than ever I was, or
am like to be. All my wisdom is lip-wisdom, and my goodness
lip-goodness. If they will help you, you shall have the benefit of
them; but pray don't make me blush before Graeme and Fanny, who know me
so well."
No time had to be lost in preparations. The decision was made one day,
and they were to leave the next. Harry, with his friend and partner,
came up one night to bid Miss Goldsmith good-bye, and heard for the
first time of Rose's intention to go with her. Harry did not hear it
with pleasure, indeed; he made no secret of his vexation. There was a
little bantering talk between them, in the style that Graeme disliked so
much, and then Rose went away for a few minutes.
"Graeme," said Harry, "what is all this about? It seems to me Rose
ought to have had enough of her little friend by this time. What freak
is this she has taken about the country, and a change of air, and
nonsense?"
"If it is a freak, it is mine," said Graeme, quietly. "Rose needs a
change. She is not ill, but still she is not quite well, and I am very
glad she is to go with Miss Goldsmith."
"A change," repeated Harry. "Why could she not go with Fanny to the
seaside, if she needs a change?"
"But Fanny is not going for several weeks yet. Rose will be home before
that time. She will not be away more than a fortnight, I hope."
"A fortnight, indeed! What has the time to do with it? It is the going
at all that is so foolish: You astonish me, Graeme."
"You astonish me, Harry! Really I cannot understand why you should care
so much about it."
"Well, well! If you are pleased, and she is pleased, I need not trouble
myself about it," said Harry, sulkily.
"What has happened to you, Harry?" said Fanny. "You are not like
yourself, to-night."
"He is a great deal more like the Harry of old times," said Graeme.
"Like the Harry you used to know long ago, Mr Millar, than like the
reasonable, dignified person we have had among us lately."
"I was just thinking so," said Mr Millar.
"Why should not Rosie go?" persisted Fanny. "I think it must be a very
stupid place, from all that Etta says; still, if Rose wishes it, why
should she not go?"
"I believe it is the big brother Harry is afraid of," said Arthur,
laughing. Graeme and Fanny laughed, too.
"I don't think it is a laughing matter," growled Harry. "How would you
like it if she were to throw herself away on that red-headed giant?"
Arthur and Fanny laughed, still, but Graeme looked grave. "It would be
just like a silly girl like Rose," continued Harry, gloomily.
"Harry," said Graeme, "I think you are forgetting what is due to your
sister. You should be the last person to couple Rose's name with that
of any gentleman."
"Of course, it is only among ourselves; and, I tell you, Graeme, you are
spoiling Rosie--"
"Harry! be quiet. I don't choose to listen to you on that subject."
"I declare, Harry, you are getting morbid on the subject of Rosie's
conquests. It is the greatest folly imaginable," said Arthur.
"Well, it may be so. At any rate, I shall say no more. Are you coming,
Charlie? I must go."
He went to the foot of the stairs, and called: "Rose, are you coming
down again? I must go."
Rose came flying down.
"Must you go, Harry? I am just done with what I needed to do. Don't be
cross with me, Harry." And greatly to his surprise, as she put her arms
around his neck, he felt her tears upon his cheek.
"Why, Rosie, what ails you? I didn't mean to be cross, Rosie, my
darling."
But, in a minute, Rose was smiling through her tears.
"Rosie, dear," whispered her brother, "you are a very silly little girl.
I think you are the very silliest girl I know. I wish--" Rose wiped
her eyes.
"Don't go yet, Harry. I will come in immediately; and please don't tell
Graeme that I am so silly. She wouldn't like it at all."
"Graeme is as silly as you are," growled Harry.
Rose laughed, and ran up-stairs, but came down in a minute with Miss
Goldsmith. Harry had brought a great paper of sweets for the little
sisters at home, for which Etta thanked him very prettily, and then she
said:
"I hope you are not afraid to trust Rose with us? We will take great
care of her, I assure you."
"Since I am too silly to take care of myself," said Rose.
They had a pleasant evening enough, all things considered, and it was
some time before Harry and his friend went away.
"I must say good-bye for a long time, Miss Rose," said Mr Millar. "I
shall have sailed before you are home again, I suppose."
"You go in the first steamer, then?"
"I don't know, I am not quite sure yet. I have not quite decided."
"Of course, he goes by the first steamer," said Harry. "He should have
gone long ago. There is no use dwelling longer over so simple a
matter."
Rose opened her eyes very wide.
"Is that the way you speak to your friend and partner?" said Fanny.
"Really, Harry, I am afraid your fine temper is being spoiled," said
Rose. "I think Mr Millar is very good not to mind you."
"I understand Harry," said his friend.
"You don't understand yourself, nor what is good for you. Good-bye,
dear, silly, little Rose."
"Good-bye, Harry. Don't be cross."
"Rose," said Graeme, when they were up-stairs alone for the night, "I
think it is the big brother that put Harry out of temper to-night."
Rose laughed.
"He seems quite afraid of him," continued Graeme.
"And you are a little bit afraid of him, too, Graeme, or you never would
have told me about Harry."
"No. But I am just a little afraid for him."
"You need not be. Harry thinks my desire for admiration insatiable, I
know, but it is too bad of you, Graeme, to intimate as much. I have a
great mind to tell you a secret, Graeme. But you must promise not to
tell it again; at least, not yet."
"Well," said Graeme.
"If I should stay away longer than I mean to do at present, and Harry
should get very unhappy about me, perhaps you might tell him. Harry
thinks I cannot manage my own affairs," added Rose, a vivid colour
rising on her cheeks. "And he has a mind to help me. He has not helped
me much, yet. Ah! well, there is no use going over all that."
"What is the secret you are going to tell me?" asked Graeme.
"I don't know whether I ought to tell. But it will be safe with you.
Graeme, the big doctor is engaged."
"Well," said Graeme.
"It is not all smooth sailing, yet. I am afraid it may interfere
somewhat with his success in retrieving the fortunes of the family, as
Etta has always been hoping he might do. But she is quite pleased for
all that, poor dear little thing. See that you don't tell Harry."
"Well, is that all you have to say on the subject?" asked her sister.
"Graeme! I do believe you are as bad as Harry. Do you fancy that it is
I to whom Dr Goldsmith is engaged? By no means. I am afraid it is a
foolish affair; but it may fall through yet. She is a young widow, and
has two children, and a little money. No. It is very foolish of Harry
to fancy things. He is very stupid, I think. But you are not to tell
him, because, really, the secret is not mine, and besides, I have
another reason. Good-night, dear."
And so they went away in the morning. Rose's visit to the country was
quite as agreeable as had been Miss Goldsmith's to the town, judging
from the time she stayed there, and from the letters she sent home. The
country was lovely, and she wondered any one would live in the city who
could leave it. She kept a journal for Graeme, and it was filled with
accounts of rides, and drives, and sails; with, now and then, hints of
work done, books read, of children's lessons, and torn frocks, of
hay-making, and butter-making; and if Graeme had any misgiving as to the
perfect enjoyment of her sister, it could not have been her letters that
had anything to do with it.
At last there came word of an expedition to be undertaken to a lake
far-away in the woods, where there were pond-lilies and lake trout in
abundance. They were to carry a tent, and be out one night, perhaps
two, and Mr and Mrs Goldsmith were going with them, and all the
children as well. This was the last letter. Rose herself came soon
after, to find a very quiet house, indeed. Fanny and her son had gone
to the seaside, whither Graeme and Rose, perhaps, might go, later. Mr
Millar had gone, too, not by the first steamer, nor by the second,
however. If Rose had been home two days sooner, she might have seen him
before he went, Harry told her; and Rose said, "What a pity! If I had
only known, I could so easily have come!" That was all.
How quiet the house was during those long summer days! It was like the
coming again of the old time, when they and Nelly used to have the house
in the garden to themselves, with only Will coming and going, till night
brought the brothers home.
"What happy, happy days they were!" said Rose, with a sigh.
"They _were_ happy days," said Graeme. "Very happy days."
She did not seem to hear the regretful echo in her sister's voice, nor
did she take her to task for the idle hands that lay folded on her lap,
nor disturb by word or look the times of silent musing, that grew longer
and more frequent as those uneventful days passed on. What was to be
said? The doubts and fears that had made her unhappy in the spring, and
even before the spring, were coming back again. Rose was not at peace
with herself, nothing was easier to be seen than that; but whether the
struggle was with pride, or anger, or disappointment, or whether all
these and something more had to do with it, she could only wait till
time, or chance, or Rose of her own free will, should tell.
For Graeme could not bring herself to speak of the trouble which her
sister, sad and preoccupied, in so many nameless ways betrayed. She
would not even seem to see it, and so strove to make it appear that it
was her own industry, her occupation with book, or pen, or needle, that
made the silence between them, on those days when Rose sat listless or
brooding, heedless of books, or work, or of whatever the day might
bring. And when the fit of gloom wore over, or when, startled by some
sudden fear of being observed, she roused herself, and came back with an
effort to the things about her, Graeme was always ready, yet not too
eager, to make the most of excuses. Either the heat made her languid,
or the rain made her dull, or the yesterday's walk had been exhausting;
and Graeme would assent, and warn or reprove, as the case seemed to
require, never intimating, by word or look, how clearly she saw through
it all, and how she grieved and suffered with her.
And, when seized upon by restlessness or impatience, she grew irritable
and exacting, and "ill to do with," as Janet would have said, Graeme
stood between her and the wonder and indignation, of her brothers, and,
which was harder to do, shielded her from her own anger and
self-contempt, when she came to herself again. She went out with her
for long walks, and did what was kinder still, she let her go by
herself, to rest her mind by tiring out her body, at times when the
fever fit was on her, making her fret and chafe at trifles that would
have made her laugh if all had been well with her.
It was an anxious time to Graeme. When their brothers were with them,
Rose was little different from the Rose of old, as far as they could
see; and, at such times, even Graeme would be beguiled into a momentary
belief that she had been letting her fears speak, when there was little
cause. But another day would come, bringing the old listlessness or
restlessness, and Graeme could only watch and wait for the moment when a
cheerful word, or a chiding one, might be spoken for her sister's good,
or a movement of some kind made to beguile her into occupation or
pleasure for a little while. But, through all her watching, and
waiting, and anxiety, Graeme spoke no word that might betray to her
sister her knowledge that something was amiss with her.
For, indeed, what could she say? Even in her secret thoughts she had
shrunk from looking too closely on the cloud of trouble that had fallen
on the life of her young sister. Was it misunderstanding, or wounded
pride, or disappointment? Or was it something which time and change
might not so easily or so surely dispel? There were no words to be
spoken, however it might be. That was plain enough, Graeme said to
herself, remembering some years of her own experience, and the silent
life she had lived unsuspected among them all.
Not that any such trouble as had befallen her, had come upon Rose. That
was never for a moment to be believed. Nothing that had happened to
Rose, or was like to happen, could so change life to her as hers had
been changed. Rose was wiser and stronger than she had been, and she
was younger, too, and, perhaps, as Janet had said, "of a lighter
nature." Graeme comforted herself thus, saying to herself that the
cloud would pass away; and she waited and watched, and cared for her,
and soothed or chided, or shielded her still. She did all this
sorrowfully enough at times, yet hopefully, too, for she knew that
whatever the trouble might be that, for the present, made the summer
days a weariness to the desponding girl, it would pass away; and so she
waited, and had patience, and prayed that, out of it all, she might come
wiser and stronger, and more fitted for the work that was awaiting her
somewhere in the world.
"Graeme," said her sister, one day when they had been sitting for a long
time silent together, "suppose we were to go and see Norman and Hilda
this fall, instead of in the spring, as they propose."
"Would you like it?" asked Graeme, a little surprised.
"Yes. For some things I would like it;" and Graeme fancied there was
suppressed eagerness in her manner. "It is a better season to go, for
one thing--a better season for health, I mean. One bears the change of
climate better, they say."
"But you have been here so short a time. What would Arthur say, and
Fanny? It would look as if you only thought yourself a visitor here--as
if your home was with Norman."
Rose shrugged her shoulders.
"Well! neither Arthur nor Fanny would be inconsolable. The chances are
it may be my home. It is worth taking into consideration. Indeed, I
have been considering the matter for some time past."
"Nonsense! Don't talk foolishly, Rose. It is not long since you wished
me to promise that we should always remain together, and I have no
thought of going West to stay very long."
"And why not? I am sure Norman has a right to grumble at our being here
so long."
"Not at you, Rosie."
"No. Not at me. And, besides, I was not thinking of Norman,
altogether. I was thinking of making a home for myself out there. Why
not?"
Graeme looked up, a little startled.
"I don't understand you, Rose."
Rose laughed.
"No, you don't. But you think you do. Of course, there is only one way
in which a woman can have a home according, to the generally received
opinion. It must be made for her. But one might fancy you should be
beyond that by this time, Graeme," added Rose, a little scornfully.
Graeme said nothing, and Rose went on.
"It would not be easy here, I know; but out there you and I could make a
home to ourselves, and be independent, and have a life of our own. It
is so different there. You ought to go there just to understand how
very different it is."
"If we needed a home," said Graeme. "But, Rose, I am content with the
home we have."
"Content!" repeated Rose, impatiently. "There is surely something
better than content to be looked for in the world;" and she rose and
walked about the room.
"Content is a very good thing to have," said Graeme, quietly.
"Yes, if one could have it. But now, Graeme, do tell me what is the
good of such a life as we are living now?--as I am living, I ought to
say. Your life and work are worth a great deal to the rest of us;
though you must let me say I often wonder it contents you. Think of it,
Graeme! What does it all amount to, as far as I am concerned, I mean?
A little working, and reading, and music; a little visiting and
housekeeping, if Fanny be propitious--coming, and going, and smiling,
and making believe enjoy it, when one feels ready to fly. I am sick of
the thought of it all."
Graeme did not answer her. She was thinking of the time when she had
been as impatient of her daily life as this, and of how powerless words,
better than she could hope to speak, had been to help her; and though
she smiled and shook her head at the young girl's impetuous protest
against the uselessness of her life, her eyes, quite unconsciously, met
her sister's with a look of wistful pity, that Rose, in her youthful
impatience and jealousy, was quick to resent.
"Of course, the rest would make an outcry and raise obstacles--that is,
if they were to be consulted at all," she went on. "But _you_ ought to
know better, Graeme," added she, in a voice that she made sharp, so that
her sister need not know that it was very near being tearful.
"But, Rose, you have not told me yet what it is you would do, if you
could have your own way. And what do you mean by having a life of your
own, and being independent? Have you any plan?"
Rose sat down, with a little sigh of impatience.
"There is surely something that we could do, you and I together. I can
have no plan, you know quite well; but you might help me, instead of--"
Instead of laughing at me, she was going to say, but she stopped, for
though Graeme's lips were smiling, her eyes had a shadow in them that
looked like coming tears; and the gaze, that seemed resting on the
picture on the wall, went farther, Rose knew; but whether into the past
or the future, or whether it was searching into the reason of this new
eagerness of hers to be away and at work, she could not tell. However
it might be, it vexed and fretted her, and she showed it by sudden
impatient movements, which recalled her sister's thoughts.
"What is it, Rose? I am afraid I was thinking about something else. I
don't think I quite understand what you were saying last," said Graeme,
taking up her work as a safe thing on which to fix her eyes.
"For I must not let her see that I know there must be a cause for this
sudden wish for a new life," said she to herself. If she had done what
she longed to do, she would have taken the impatient, troubled child in
her arms, and whispered, as Janet had whispered to her that night, so
long ago, that the restless fever of her heart would pass away; she
would have soothed and comforted her, with tender words, as Janet had
not dared to do. She would have bidden her wait, and have patience with
herself and her life, till this cloud passed by--this light cloud of her
summer morning, that was only mist to make the rising day more
beautiful, and not the sign of storm and loss, as it looked to her
young, affrighted eyes.
But this she could not do. Even with certain knowledge of the troubles
which she only guessed, she knew it would be vain to come to her with
tender, pitying words, and worse than vain to try to prove that nothing
had happened to her, or was like to happen, that could make the breaking
up of her old life, and the beginning of a new one, a thing to be
thought of by herself or those who loved her. So, after a few stitches
carefully taken, for all her sister could see, she said,--
"And, then, there are so few things that a woman can do."
The words brought back so vividly that night in the dark, when she had
said them out of a sore heart to her friend, that her work fell on her
lap again, and she met her sister's eye with a look that Rose could not
understand.
"You are not thinking of what I have been saying. Why do you look at me
in that strange way?" said she, pettishly.
"I am thinking of it, indeed. And I did not know that I was looking any
other than my usual way. I was saying to myself, `Has the poor child
got to go through all that for herself, as I have done?' Oh! Rosie,
dear! if I could only give you the benefit of all my vexed thoughts on
that very subject!"
"Well, why not? That is just what I want. Only, don't begin in that
discouraging way, about there being so few things a woman can do. I
know all that, already."
"We might go to Norman for a while together, at any rate," said Graeme,
feeling how impossible it would be to satisfy one another by what might
be said, since all could not be spoken between them.
"Yes. That is just what I said, at first. And we could see about it
there. We could much more easily make our plans, and carry them out
there, than here. And, in the meantime, we could find plenty to do in
Hilda's house with the children and all the rest. I wish we could go
soon."
And then she went over what she had often gone over before, the way of
life in their brother Norman's house--Hilda's housekeeping, and her way
with her children, and in society, and so on, Graeme asking questions,
and making remarks, in the hope that the conversation might not, for
this time, come back to the vexed question, of what women may do in the
world. It grew dark in the meantime, but they were waiting for Harry
and letters, and made no movement; and, by and by, Rose said, suddenly:
"I am sure you used to think about all this, Graeme--about woman's work,
and how stupid it is to live on in this way, `waiting at the pool,' as
Hannah Lovejoy used to say. I declare it is undignified, and puts
thoughts into people's heads, as though--. It would be different, if we
were living in our father's house, or, even, if we had money of our own.
You used to think so, yourself, Graeme. Why should Arthur and Harry do
everything for us?"
"Yes, I remember. When Fanny first came, I think I had as many thoughts
about all this as you have now. I was very restless, and discontented,
and determined to go away. I talked to Janet about it one night."
"And she convinced you that you were all wrong, I suppose," said Rose.
"And you were content ever after."
"No. I don't think she helped me much, at the time. But her great
doctrine of patience and quiet waiting, and circumstances together,
convinced me, afterward, that I did not need to go in search of my work,
as seemed to me then the thing to do. I found it ready at my hand,
though I could not see it then. Her wisdom was higher than mine. She
said that out of it all would come content, and so it has."
"That was not saying much!" said Rose.
"No. It did not seem to me, much, when she said it. But she was right,
all the same, and I was wrong. And it has all happened much better than
if I had got my own way."
"But, Graeme, all that would not apply in the case of women, generally.
That is begging the question, as Harry would say."
"But I am not speaking of women in general; I am speaking about myself,
and my own work; and I say Janet was wise, though I was far from
thinking it that night, as I mind well."
There was a pause, and then Rose said, in a low voice.
"It may have been right for you to stay at home then, and care for the
rest of us, but it would be quite different now, with me, and I think
with you, too. And how many women have to go and make a way of life for
themselves. And it is right that it should be so; and Graeme, we might
try."