_ CHAPTER FIFTEEN.
The Indian-summer-time was come again. The gorgeous glory of the autumn was gone, but so, for one day, at least, was its dreariness. There was no "wailing wind" complaining among the bare boughs of the elms. The very pines were silent. The yellow leaves, still lingering on the beech-trees in the hollow, rustled, now and then, as the brown nuts fell, one by one, on the brown leaves beneath. The frosts, sharp and frequent, had changed the torrent of a month ago into a gentle rivulet, whose murmur could scarce be heard as far as the gate over which Graeme Elliott leaned, gazing dreamily upon the scene before her.
She was thinking how very lovely it was, and how very dear it had become to her. Seen through "the smoky light," the purple hills beyond the water seemed not so far-away as usual. The glistening spire of the church on the hill, and the gleaming grave-stones, seemed strangely near. It looked but a step over to the village, whose white houses were quite visible among the leafless trees, and many farm-houses, which one could never see in summer for the green leaves, were peeping out everywhere from between the hills.
"There is no place like Merleville," Graeme thinks in her heart. It is home to them all now. There were few but pleasant associations connected with the hills, and groves, and homesteads over which she was gazing. It came very vividly to her mind, as she stood there looking down, how she had stood with the bairns that first Sabbath morning on the steps of the old meeting-house; and she strove to recall her feeling of shyness and wonder at all that she saw, and smiled to think how the faces turned to them so curiously that day were become familiar now, and some of them very dear. Yes; Merleville was home to Graeme. Not that she had forgotten the old home beyond the sea. But the thought of it came with no painful longing. Even the memory of her mother brought now regret, indeed, and sorrow, but none of the loneliness and misery of the first days of loss, for the last few years had been very happy years to them all.
And yet, as Graeme stood gazing over to the hills and the village, a troubled, vexed look came over her face, and, with a gesture of impatience, she turned away from it all and walked up and down among the withered leaves outside the gate with an impatient tread. Something troubled her with an angry trouble that she could not forget; and though she laughed a little, too, as she muttered to herself, it was not a pleasant laugh, and the vexed look soon came back again, indeed, it never went away.
"It is quite absurd," she murmured, as she came within the gate, and then turned and leaned over it. "I won't believe it; and yet--oh, dear! what shall we ever do if it happens?"
"It's kind o' pleasant here, ain't it?" said a voice behind her. Graeme started more violently than there was any occasion for. It was only Mr Snow who had been in the study with her father for the last hour, and who was now on his way home. Graeme scarcely answered him, but stood watching him, with the troubled look deepening on her face, as he went slowly down the road.
Mr Snow had changed a good deal within these few years. He had grown a great deal greyer and graver, and Graeme thought, with a little pang of remorse, as she saw him disappear round the turn of the road, that she had, by her coldness, made him all the graver. And yet she only half regretted it; and the vexed look came back to her face again, as she gathered up her work that had fallen to the ground and turned toward the house.
There was no one in the usual sitting-room, no one in the bright kitchen beyond, and, going to the foot of the stairs, Graeme raises her voice, which has an echo of impatience in it still, and calls:
"Mrs Nasmyth."
For Janet is oftener called Mrs Nasmyth than the old name, even by the bairns now, except at such times as some wonderful piece of coaxing is to be done, and then she is Janet, the bairn's own Janet still. There was no coaxing echo in Graeme's voice, however, but she tried to chase the vexed shadow from her face as her friend came slowly down the stairs.
"Are you not going to sit down?" asked Graeme, as she seated herself on a low stool by the window. "I wonder where the bairns are?"
"The bairns are gone down the brae," said Mrs Nasmyth; "and I'm just going to sit down to my seam a wee while."
But she seemed in no hurry to sit down, and Graeme sat silent for a little, as she moved quietly about the room.
"Janet," said she, at last, "what brings Deacon Snow so often up here of late?"
Janet's back was toward Graeme, and, without turning round, she answered:
"I dinna ken that he's oftener here than he used to be. He never stayed long away. He was ben the house with the minister. I didna see him." There was another pause.
"Janet," said Graeme again, "what do you think Mrs Greenleaf told me all Merleville is saying?"
Janet expressed no curiosity.
"They say Deacon Snow wants to take you down the brae."
Still Mrs Nasmyth made no answer.
"He hasna ventured to hint such a thing?" exclaimed Graeme interrogatively.
"No' to me," said Janet, quietly, "but the minister."
"The minister! He's no' blate! To think of him holding up his face to my father and proposing the like of that! And what did my father say?"
"I dinna ken what he said to him; but to me he said he was well pleased that it should be so, and--"
"Janet!" Graeme's voice expressed consternation as well as indignation, Mrs Nasmyth took no notice, but seated herself to her stocking-darning.
"Janet! If you think of such a thing for a moment, I declare I'll take second thoughts and go away myself."
"Weel, I aye thought you might have done as weel to consider a wee afore you gave Mr Foster his answer," said Janet, not heeding Graeme's impatient answer.
"Janet! A sticket minister!"
"My dear, he's no' a sticket minister. He passed his examinations with great credit to himself. You hae your father's word for that, who was there to hear him. And he's a grand scholar--that's weel kent; and though he mayna hae the gift o' tongues like some folk, he may do a great deal of good in the world notwithstanding. And they say he has gotten the charge of a fine school now, and is weel off. I aye thought you might do worse than go with him. He's a good lad, and you would have had a comfortable home with him."
"Thank you. But when I marry it won't be to get a comfortable home. I'm content with the home I have."
"Ay, if you could be sure of keeping it," said Janet, with a sigh; "but a good man and a good home does not come as an offer ilka day."
"The deacon needna be feared to leave his case in your hands, it seems," said Graeme, laughing, but not pleasantly.
"Miss Graeme, my dear," said Mrs Nasmyth, gravely, "there's many a thing to be said of that matter; but it must be said in a different spirit from what you are manifesting just now. If I'm worth the keeping here, I'm worth the seeking elsewhere, and Deacon Snow has as good a right as another."
"Right, indeed! Nobody has any right to you but ourselves. You are ours, and we'll never, never let you go."
"It's no' far down the brae," said Janet, gently.
"Janet! You'll never think of going! Surely, surely, you'll never leave us now. And for a stranger, too! When you gave up your own mother and Sandy, and the land you loved so well, to come here with us--!" Graeme could not go on for the tears that would not be kept back.
"Miss Graeme, my dear bairn, you were needing me then. Nae, hae patience, and let me speak. You are not needing me now in the same way. I sometimes think it would be far better for you if I wasna here."
Graeme dissented earnestly by look and gesture, but she had no words.
"It's true though, my dear. You can hardly say that you are at the head of your father's house, while I manage all things, as I do."
But Graeme had no desire to have it otherwise.
"You can manage far best," said she.
"That's no to be denied," said Mrs Nasmyth, gravely; "but it ought not to be so. Miss Graeme, you are no' to think that I am taking upon myself to reprove you. But do you think that your present life is the best to fit you for the duties and responsibilities that, sooner or later, come to the most of folk in the world? It's a pleasant life, I ken, with your books and your music, and your fine seam, and the teaching o' the bairns; but it canna last; and, my dear, is it making you ready for what may follow? It wouldna be so easy for you if I were away, but it might be far better for you in the end!"
There was nothing Graeme could answer to this, so she leaned her head upon her hand, and looked out on the brown leaves lying beneath the elms.
"And if I should go," continued Janet, "and there's many an if between me and going--but if I should go, I'll be near at hand in time of need--"
"I know I am very useless," broke in Graeme. "I don't care for these things as I ought--I have left you with too many cares, and I don't wonder that you want to go away."
"Whist, lassie. I never yet had too much to do for your mother's bairns; and if you have done little it's because you havena needed. And if I could aye stand between you and the burdens of life, you needna fear trouble. But I canna. Miss Graeme, my dear, you were a living child in your mother's arms before she was far past your age, and your brother was before you. Think of the cares she had, and how she met them."
Graeme's head fell lower, as she repeated her tearful confession of uselessness, and for a time there was silence.
"And, dear," said Janet, in a little, "your father tells me that Mr Snow has offered to send for my mother and Sandy. And oh! my bairn, my heart leaps in my bosom at the thought of seeing their faces again." She had no power to add more.
"But, Janet, your mother thought herself too old to cross the sea when we came, and that is seven years ago."
"My dear, she kenned she couldna come, and it was as well to put that face on it. But she would gladly come now, if I had a home to give her."
There was silence for a while, and then Graeme said,--
"It's selfish in me, I know, but, oh! Janet, we have been so happy lately, and I canna bear to think of changes coming."
Mrs Nasmyth made no answer, for the sound of the bairns' voices came in at the open door, and in a minute Marian entered.
"Where have you been, dear? I fear you have wearied yourself," said Janet, tenderly.
"We have only been down at Mr Snow's barn watching the threshing. But, indeed, I have wearied myself." And sitting down on the floor at Janet's feet, she laid her head upon her lap. A kind, hard hand was laid on the bright hair of the bonniest of a' the bairns.
"You mustna sit down here, my dear. Lie down on the sofa and rest yourself till the tea be ready. Have you taken your bottle to-day?"
Marian made her face the very picture of disgust.
"Oh! Janet, I'm better now. I dinna need it. Give it to Graeme. She looks as if she needed something to do her good. What ails you, Graeme?"
"My dear," remonstrated Janet, "rise up when I bid you; and go to the sofa, and I'll go up the stair for the bottle."
Marian laid herself wearily down. In a moment Mrs Nasmyth reappeared with a bottle and spoon in one hand, and a pillow in the other, and when the bitter draught was fairly swallowed, Marian was laid down and covered and caressed with a tenderness that struck Graeme as strange; for though Janet loved them all well, she was not in the habit of showing her tenderness by caresses. In a little, Marian slept. Janet did not resume her work immediately, but sat gazing at her with eyes as full of wistful tenderness as ever a mother's could have been. At length, with a sigh, she turned to her basket again.
"Miss Graeme," said she, in a little, "I dinna like to hear you speak that way about changes, as though they did not come from God, and as though He hadna a right to send them to His people when He pleases."
"I canna help it, Janet. No change that can come to us can be for the better."
"That's true, but we must even expect changes that are for the worse; for just as sure as we settle down in this world content, changes will come. You mind what the Word says, 'As an eagle stirreth up her nest.' And you may be sure, if we are among the Lord's children, He'll no leave us to make a portion of the rest and peace that the world gives. He is kinder to us than we would be to ourselves."
A restless movement of the sleeper by her side, arrested Janet's words, and the old look of wistful tenderness came back into her eyes as she turned toward her. Graeme rose, and leaning over the arm of the sofa, kissed her softly.
"How lovely she is!" whispered she.
A crimson flush was rising on Marian's cheeks as she slept.
"Ay, she was aye bonny," said Janet, in the same low voice, "and she looks like an angel now."
Graeme stood gazing at her sister, and in a little Janet spoke again.
"Miss Graeme, you canna mind your aunt Marian?"
No, Graeme could not.
"Menie is growing very like her, I think. She was bonnier than your mother even, and she kept her beauty to the very last. You ken the family werena well pleased when your mother married, and the sisters didna meet often till Miss Marian grew ill. They would fain have had her away to Italy, or some far awa' place, but nothing would content her but just her sister, her sister, and so she came home to the manse. That was just after I came back again, after Sandy was weaned; and kind she was to me, the bonny, gentle creature that she was.
"For a time she seemed better, and looked so blooming--except whiles, and aye so bonny, that not one of them all could believe that she was going to die. But one day she came in from the garden, with a bonny moss-rose in her hand--the first of the season--and she said to your mother she was wearied, and lay down; and in a wee while, when your mother spoke to her again, she had just strength to say that she was going, and that she wasna feared, and that was all. She never spoke again."
Janet paused to wipe the tears from her face.
"She was good and bonny, and our Menie, the dear lammie, has been growing very like her this while. She 'minds me on her now, with the long lashes lying over her cheeks. Miss Marian's cheeks aye reddened that way when she slept. Her hair wasna so dark as our Menie's, but it curled of itself, like hers."
Mrs Nasmyth turned grave pitying eyes toward Graeme, as she ceased speaking. Graeme's heart gave a sudden painful throb, and she went very pale.
"Janet," said she, with difficulty, "there is not much the matter with my sister, is there? It wasna that you meant about changes! Menie's not going to die like our bonny Aunt Marian!" Her tones grew shrill and incredulous as she went on.
"I cannot tell. I dinna ken--sometimes I'm feared to think how it may end. But oh! Miss Graeme--my darling--"
"But it is quite impossible--it can't be, Janet," broke in Graeme.
"God knows, dear." Janet said no more. The look on Graeme's face showed that words would not help her to comprehend the trouble that seemed to be drawing near. She must be left to herself a while, and Janet watched her as she went out over the fallen leaves, and over the bridge to the pine grove beyond, with a longing pity that fain would have borne her trouble for her. But she could not bear it for her--she could not even help her to bear it. She could only pray that whatever the end of their doubt for Marian might be, the elder sister might be made the better and the wiser for the fear that had come to her to-day.
There are some sorrows which the heart refuses to realise or acknowledge, even in knowing them to be drawing near. Possible danger or death to one beloved is one of these; and as Graeme sat in the shadow of the pines shuddering with the pain and terror which Janet's words had stirred, she was saying it was impossible--it could not be true--it could never,
never be true, that her sister was going to die. She tried to realise the possibility, but she could not. When she tried to pray that the terrible dread might be averted, and that they might all be taught to be submissive in God's hands, whatever His will might be, the words would not come to her. It was, "No, no! no, no! it cannot be," that went up through the stillness of the pines; the cry of a heart not so much rebellious as incredulous of the possibility of pain so terrible. The darkness fell before she rose to go home again, and when she came into the firelight to the sound of happy voices, Menie's the most mirthful of them all, her terrors seemed utterly unreasonable, she felt like one waking from a painful dream.
"What could have made Janet frighten herself and me so?" she said, as she spread out her cold hands to the blaze, all the time watching her sister's bright face.
"Graeme, tea's over. Where have you been all this time?" asked Rose.
"My father was asking where you were. He wants to see you," said Will.
"I'll go ben now," said Graeme, rising.
The study lamp was on the table unlighted. The minister was sitting in the firelight alone. He did not move when the door opened, until Graeme spoke.
"I'm here, papa. Did you want me?"
"Graeme, come in and sit down. I have something to say to you."
She sat down, but the minister did not seem in haste to speak. He was looking troubled and anxious, Graeme thought; and it suddenly came into her mind as she sat watching him, that her father was growing an old man. Indeed, the last seven years had not passed so lightly over him as over the others. The hair which had been grey on his temples before he reached his prime, was silvery white now, and he looked bowed and weary as he sat there gazing into the fire. It came into Graeme's mind as she sat there in the quiet room, that there might be other and sadder changes before them, than even the change that Janet's words had implied.
"My dear," said the minister, at last, "has Mrs Nasmyth been speaking to you?"
"About--" Menie, she would have asked, but her tongue refused to utter the word.
"About Mr Snow," said her father, with a smile, and some hesitation. Graeme started. She had quite forgotten.
"Mrs Greenleaf told me something--and--"
"I believe it is a case of true love with him, if such a thing can come to a man after he is fifty--as indeed why should it not?" said the minister. "He seems bent on taking Janet from us, Graeme."
"Papa! it is too absurd," said Graeme, all her old vexation coming back. Mr Elliott smiled.
"I must confess it was in that light I saw it first, and I had well nigh been so unreasonable as to be vexed with our good friend. But we must take care, lest we allow our own wishes to interfere with what may be for Mrs Nasmyth's advantage."
"But, papa, she has been content with us all these years. Why should there be a change now?"
"If the change is to be for her good, we must try to persuade her to it, however. But, judging from what she said to me this afternoon, I fear it will be a difficult matter."
"But, papa, why should we seek to persuade her against her own judgment."
"My dear, we don't need to persuade her against her judgment, but against her affection for us. She only fears that we will miss her sadly, and she is not quite sure whether she ought to go and leave us."
"But she has been quite happy with us."
"Yes, love--happy in doing what she believed to be her duty--as happy as she could be so far separated from those whom she must love better than she loves us even. I have been thinking of her to-night, Graeme. What a self-denying life Janet's has been! She must be considered first in this matter."
"Yes, if it would make her happier--but it seems strange that--"
"Graeme, Mr Snow is to send for her mother and her son. I could see how her heart leapt up at the thought of seeing them, and having them with her again. It will be a great happiness for her to provide a home for her mother in her old age. And she ought to have that happiness after such a life as hers."
Graeme sighed, and was silent.
"If we had golden guineas to bestow on her, where we have copper coins only, we could never repay her love and care for us all; and it will be a matter of thankfulness to me to know that she is secure in a home of her own for the rest of her life."
"But, papa, while we have a home, she will never be without one."
"I know, dear, while we have a home. You need not tell me that; but Graeme, there is only my frail life between you and homelessness. Not that I fear for you. You are all young and strong, and the God whom I have sought to serve, will never leave my children. But Janet is growing old, Graeme, and I do think this way has been providentially opened to her."
"If it were quite right to marry for a home, papa--" Graeme hesitated and coloured. Her father smiled.
"Mrs Nasmyth is not so young as you, my dear. She will see things differently. And besides, she always liked and respected Mr Snow. I have no doubt she will be very happy with him."
"We all liked him," said Graeme, sighing. "But oh! I dread changes. I can't bear to break up our old ways."
"Graeme," said her father, gravely, "changes must come, and few changes can be for the better, as far as we are concerned. We have been very happy of late--so happy that I fear we were in danger of sitting down contented with the things of this life, and we need reminding. We may think ourselves happy if no sadder change than this comes to us."
The thought of Menie came back to Graeme, with a pang, but she did not speak.
"I know, dear," said her father, kindly, "this will come hardest upon you. It will add greatly to your cares to have Mrs Nasmyth leave us, but you are not a child now, and--"
"Oh, papa! it is not that--I mean it is not that altogether, but--" Graeme paused. She was not sure of her voice, and she could not bear to grieve her father. In a little, she asked.
"When is it to be?"
"I don't know, indeed, but soon, I suppose; and my dear child, I trust to you to make smooth much that might otherwise be not agreeable in this matter to us all. The change you dread so much, will not be very great. Our kind friend is not going very far-away, and there will be pleasant things connected with the change. I have no doubt, it will be for the best."
"Shall I light your lamp, papa?" said Graeme, in a little while.
"No, love, not yet. I have no mind for my book to-night."
Graeme stirred the fire, and moved about the room a little. When she opened the door, the sound of the children's voices came in merrily, and she shrunk from going out into the light. So she sat down in her accustomed place by the window, and thought, and listened to the sighs, that told her that her father was busy with anxious thoughts, too.
"Only my frail life between my children and homelessness," he had said. It seemed to Graeme, as she sat there in the darkness, that since the morning, everything in the world had changed. They had been so at rest, and so happy, and now it seemed to her, that they could never settle down to the old quiet life again.
"As an eagle stirreth up her nest," she murmured to herself. "Well, I ought no' to fear the changes He brings--But, oh! I am afraid." _