"EH, Robert is that you? Who thought you'd be waiting here? I doubt
your patience has been sorely tried, for the train is an hour behind
time."
Jean Graham was the speaker, and her words were addressed to a man of
similar age to herself, by whom her hand was warmly grasped as she
descended from the railway carriage.
"Did ye not think I should be here, Jean?" was his response, and there
was just a shade of reproach in the tone. "Have I not been waiting for
ye for years, and should I trouble about an hour more or less?"
The last sentence was uttered in a lower voice, and was plainly
intended for Jean Graham's ear alone, as also was the meaning look
which accompanied it for her sole reading.
Jean laughed, and a heightened colour spread over her comely face as
she answered,—
"Well, Robert, I'm glad to see you again after all these years. It has
been hard work to get away, and I doubt they'll be wanting me back
before I'll be ready to go."
"Nobody can be wanting you back so much as you are wanted here, Jean,"
was Robert's reply; but he did not wait for an immediate response.
Assisted by the porter, he placed Jean's luggage on the spring cart
which was waiting outside, and, having helped her to the front seat,
took the reins and drove homeward.
No one at Steynes-Cote—not even Dr. Crawford—suspected that Jean
Graham had her love-story. But such was the case, and the sunburnt,
tawny-haired, rather rugged-featured young farmer beside her was its
hero.
Jean could not remember the time during her early life in Scotland when
Robert Hamilton had not been mixed up with it. He and his sisters had
gone to the same school with her and her brothers and sisters. When
Jean left home to take service in England, the honest blue eyes of this
sandy-haired "neebor lad" had followed her departing figure with sad
and wistful looks, until it could be discerned no longer. Whenever Jean
took holiday, Robert Hamilton's voice was the first to greet her, and
the last to say "Farewell, and God be with ye!" when the time came for
her to return.
The two had "understood each other" for many a year past, yet Jean had
kept on serving the Feredays and Crawfords in succession, and Robert
ploughing, sowing, and reaping on his Scotch farm as if there were no
engagement between them. Jean well knew, however, that this was not the
result of want of true, heart-felt affection on either side. But before
Robert could take home a wife, he must act the part of son and husband
to his widowed mother, and be both father and brother to the troop of
young children who looked to him as the head of the family.
The young farmer was not out of his teens when this burden was laid
upon him, but he had shouldered it willingly, worked cheerfully, and
earned the grateful love of the younger Hamiltons, who had gone out
into the world one by one to do credit to their home training. Now
there was only the old mother left, and her great desire was that
Robert should bring home the wife for whom he had so long waited.
"Jean must come now, Robert; and your mother will be the happier for
knowing that you have a true helpmeet by the old fireside. I shall be
near, but the farmhouse needs a younger mistress. Bring Jean home, and
may the blessing of God be upon you both!" said Mrs. Hamilton, when she
knew Jean Graham was expected at her father's.
Robert lost no time in quoting his mother's words, and urging upon Jean
that they had now nothing to wait for but just herself. After his long
patience, he was ill-prepared for her answer.
"You must bide a wee bit longer, Rab; I cannot be spared just yet; I
did not know ye were ready. You should have told me, and I would have
spoken to the mistress."
"And who has the right to say you nay, Jean, if you make up your own
mind? You're no bond-slave, to be held against your will."
"It is just a question part of pity, part of duty, that holds me to
Steynes-Cote," replied Jean.
And then she gave Robert Hamilton a graphic description of the state of
things at Dr. Crawford's.
"It seems, Rab," she continued, "as if it were laid upon me to try and
rouse the young mistress to a sense of what she owes to her God, her
husband, and her children. Of Him I doubt she has but little serious
thought. Not that she speaks lightly of holy things, but they have no
reality to her. D'ye mind what I mean?"
Robert assented, and Jean resumed her story.
"Of the doctor she thinks much, but not in the right way altogether.
She's proud of him, and thinks him a grand man, clever and wise, and
she dresses herself in her best, that she may look fair in his eyes.
She meets him with a smile, and she bids him look at her new gown, and
gives him welcome with all her heart. But, Rab, she is so much taken up
with her bits of finery, and with the thought of looking fair in his
eyes, that she does not see that he wants something else besides smiles
and winsome ways. They are like the sauces that come in with the good
meat—very tasty to go along with it, but not enough to feed and live
upon.
"I often see the doctor come in with a weary, far-away look on his
face, and I feel that he needs, above all things, to be quiet and to
be waited on silently, but with thoughtful care and loving hands. Mrs.
Fereday knew in a moment when the old master wanted word-sympathy and
when he would fain be let alone."
"Eh, but I shall have a wise woman when I get ye, Jean. Ye've had one
mistress for a pattern, and the other to warn ye," said Robert.
Jean, laughed, and replied, "Better not reckon too much; I might follow
the wrong one. But, Rab, I hope I shall feel always with ye and for ye,
and it is just in that the young mistress comes short towards Master
Andrew. I cannot understand it. If I were in her place, I should want
to hear about his work, and especially about those whose pains had
been relieved by his skill. The young mistress will hear nothing of
the kind. When he began once to speak of the way in which a mother's
precious life had been saved and given back, in a way, to the longing
hearts of her husband and children, the mistress put her hands to her
ears and cried,—
"'Don't, Andrew; I cannot bear to hear of those horrid things!'
"The doctor's face was all aglow when he came in, and I doubt not he
was thanking God for that He had made him wise-hearted and given him
understanding, and blessed the use of his talents to the sick and
sorrowful. But when his wife's words fell on his ear, the light died
away from his face, and he went straight out of the house without
speaking again. She gave him a sore wound, but she never meant it, or
even knew what she had done. Then she does not think or reckon how much
it costs to keep up Steynes-Cote, and pay all the troop of servants.
She gets her will, and she never asks herself where all the money comes
from, though she will say to the doctor,—
"'Andrew, what a slave you make of yourself! You ought not to work so
hard, for my sake; I see so little of you.'"
"He should tell her," interposed Robert. "He should let her know
that it is by this hard work alone that she keeps her house and her
servants, and buys all she sets her mind on. Would she not heed his
words?"
"No doubt she would, for the doctor is before all the world to her,
according to her light. But he has taken the bonnie young lady, and
because her father was a lord, and no common man, he has made up his
mind that she must flutter in the sunshine like a butterfly, whilst he
labours like a bee to store her home with sweets."
Robert Hamilton echoed the sigh with which Jean closed her
word-picture. Then, after a brief silence, he asked, "How about the
children?"
"The mistress thinks they are just the bonniest bits o' playthings
in the world. She looks almost a bairn herself amongst her babies,
and when I hear her laugh ringing out above theirs, the music is so
sweet that whiles I laugh myself without being able to tell why. Next
moment, I wipe away a tear that has come as unbidden as the laugh did,
for I know the young mistress leaves the care of those precious living
treasures to a woman that is not fit to be trusted with the guiding of
a kitten. I warned her as well as I dare before I left, and I bade her
take good care of two keys in particular. But I can hardly sleep o'
nights for thinking whether the mistress has given heed to my words, or
says to herself,—
"'Jean is cross and jealous. Who cares for her old-maidish words and
ways?'"
Robert Hamilton listened patiently whilst Jean told her tale. Then he
said, "You have done right, Jean, my woman. And if, after all your
years of service, your word is not worth heeding, you'd better leave
your young mistress to look out for herself. I want ye, Jean, to rule
at the farm instead of serving in the great house."
"And I want ye to give me a few more months, Rab, to finish the task
that is laid upon me. You have been very patient through all these past
years; it is no long time I ask for now."
"You have been patient, Jean, and I have waited because I could not
help myself," replied Robert. "Fretting would have hindered work, and
if the work had not been done, how could I say to-day, 'Jean, the house
is ready for its mistress, and I want my wife as the reward for past
years of patience and of labour?' A few months may seem short when
compared with them, but to me every day will be as a week now, because
there is not the needs be for waiting."
Such pleading was very hard for Jean to withstand. Indeed, her
own heart joined in it. Was she not pledged by the most solemn of
engagements to this good, true man? Had not the thought of her spurred
him on to greater efforts, and made him toil when others had gone to
rest, and work on in spite of weariness? Had he not the first claim
upon her? Ought she, for the sake of her girl-mistress, to entail
further waiting and self-sacrifice on Robert Hamilton?
There were yet others to be considered—the parents from whom she had
been parted, except at rare intervals, during nearly twenty years. Had
not they openly expressed their joy at the thought that Jean would for
the future be very near them, and that as years increased she would
always be within call and ready to minister to their wants?
At last Jean said, "I must go back to Steynes-Cote and give reasonable
warning."
To this Robert answered gravely, "If you give more than due notice,
Jean, I shall begin to fancy that I am losing grip of you altogether."
The speaker's look and tone expressed dissatisfaction,—almost
doubt,—and troubled Jean, though she answered cheerily,—
"No fear of that, Rab. I'm owre old to change; but you would think
badly of me if I were not to consider those I have served so long."
"I shall think you are putting them before me if you give them more
than the lawful month's notice," persisted Robert.
After this speech, he was strangely silent, and then he went away
sooner than usual, after a less kindly and affectionate leave-taking.
Poor Jean! She was not a very demonstrative woman, but she was true
to the core, and there was in her a wealth of tenderness, despite her
business-like, self-contained manner.
Through so many years of absence, she had kept her love-story to
herself, even while longing for sympathy. But never for one moment had
she varied in her whole-hearted affection for Robert Hamilton. She
never believed it possible that he could have any doubt of this, or
that he could be less true than herself. Yet Robert's abrupt departure
wounded her sorely, and his dogged words seemed still to sound like a
threat in her sensitive ears. His manner to-night had been to Jean a
new and sorrowful experience.
Anxiety for the safety of the little ones at Steynes-Cote had of late
interrupted her rest and kept her on the alert at times. But it was not
often Jean's personal concerns robbed her of the nightly sleep she so
well earned by her conscientious daily work. On this night, however,
Jean's heart was too full and her mind too busy to allow of much rest.
First she grieved over Robert's hardness of manner, then began to make
excuses for it.
"Poor Rab! He can only see what a long wait he has had already. When he
has made all smooth by his patient work, it must try him sorely for me
to put hindrances in the way. How can he enter into what I feel for the
master and mistress that are strangers to him? How can he understand
that I shall be happier all my after-life, if I can only think that
the mother is awake to her children's needs, and is watching over them
herself, instead of trusting them to such unsafe hands?"
No doubt Robert had planned to give her a glad surprise, by hiding
the fact that his preparatory work was now done, and his home ready
for Jean. But he had plainly forgotten all other claims upon her, in
thinking of his own.
How could he expect her to blurt out all at once the story that had
been so long kept secret, and say, "I must leave on the shortest
possible notice"? Would not Dr. and Mrs. Crawford feel that she had
treated them very ill?
Jean could not blame Robert for demanding the wife so long promised, so
patiently waited for. He had right on his side, and yet, in thinking
matters over, Jean could not help saying, "And so have I."
Agitated by contending thoughts and interests, she passed a sleepless
night, and came down early, a weary-eyed, sad-faced woman, very unlike
the Jean Graham whom Robert Hamilton met at the station a few days
before.
Probably his night had also been one of unrest, for he presented
himself at the door before Jean's parents were down-stairs.
[Illustration]
"Jean," said he, "I want a word with ye. I doubt I troubled ye last
night, and I troubled myself no less. I have come to tell you so. I did
not mean to grieve ye, Jean," he pleaded. And he looked wistfully at
her, as he read on her honest face unmistakable traces of suffering.
"I was troubled, Rab," she replied, "for you hardly seemed like
yourself. Best forget what passed altogether, as one forgets an ill
dream." And with a smile, Jean extended her hand to meet that which
Robert was holding towards her.
"If your dreams were as few as mine were, you'll have none to forget
for the last night," said Robert, as their hands met with a hearty
clasp. "I could not sleep for thinking of my Jean's face that spoke,
though her tongue was still when I left her."
Jean's looks were eloquent enough now.
Robert's words made amends for all, and he saw that he was forgiven.
"And now, Jean, my woman," said he, "I want ye to take away from me,
once and for all, the temptation to part as we did last night. Why need
ye go back to Steynes-Cote to serve, when you can be mistress here?
Write and tell Mrs. Crawford that you want no more wages, and ask for
your clothes and all belonging to ye to be sent. Let her know that
you have been promised to me since we were boy and girl together. She
cannot say you ought to go back just to serve the month after all these
years."
"If I had told them, Rab, it would have been easy, but I never said a
word; and if I were to leave them in this sudden way, they would have
a right to think I had behaved ill to them. I must come to you with a
clear conscience, Rab, and to do this I must first serve out my time at
Steynes-Cote. Bid me go, and you will make me very happy, and I will
make up to you through all my life for this little extra patience."
But Robert did not say, "Go, Jean!"
He turned away and left her without a word.
And the glad look died away again, and the unwonted tears streamed like
rain down Jean Graham's cheeks as she gazed on the retreating figure of
her lover, who deigned no backward glance, and who, having come to heal
the wounded heart, now left it sorer still.
[Illustration]