_ CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.
Graeme did go to Mrs Roxbury's party, and it happened in this way. The invitations had been sent out before Mr Elphinstone's short, sharp illness, and Lilias had been made very useful by her aunt on the occasion. She had not been consulted about the sending of Graeme's invitation, or probably Rose would have had one too, but by good fortune, as she declared, Graeme's refusal came first to her hand, and the little lady did a most unprecedented thing. She put it quietly into her pocket, and going home that night by the Elliott's, ventured to expostulate.
"First, you must promise not to be vexed," and then she showed the note. Graeme looked grave.
"Now you must not be angry with me. Rosie, tell her not to be vexed, because, you know you can write another refusal, if you are determined. But I am sure you will not be so cruel. I can't tell you any reason, except that I have set my heart on your being there, and you'll come to please me, will you not?"
"To please you, ought to be sufficient reasons, I know," said Graeme, smiling. And Lilias knew she had prevailed with her friend. She saw the acceptance written, and carried it off to place it with dozens of others, in the hands of Mrs Roxbury. She did not say much to Graeme about it, but to Rosie, she triumphed.
"I want Aunt Roxbury to see Graeme looking her very best. Graeme will look like a queen among us. Aunt will see that Allan and I have good reasons for our admiration. Fancy any of these trumpery people patronising Graeme! But you are not to tell her what I say. You don't think she was really vexed with me, do you? And she must wear her new peach-blossom silk. I am so glad."
But poor little Lilias went through deep waters, before the peach-blossom silk was worn by Graeme. Mr Elphinstone was brought very near the gates of death, and anxious days and nights were passed by his daughter at his bedside. Mrs Roxbury would have recalled her invitations, and Lilias' soul sickened at the thought of the entertainment; but when the immediate danger was over, events fell into their usual channel, and though she gave no more assistance, either by word or deed, her aunt counted on her presence on the occasion, and even her father insisted that it was right for her to go.
"And so, my love," said Mrs Roxbury, "as your father and I see no impropriety in your coming, there can be none, and you will enjoy it, indeed you will. You are tired now."
"Impropriety! it is not that I don't wish to go. I cannot bear the thought of going."
"Nonsense! you are overtired, that is all. And Mr Ruthven will be here by that time, and I depend on you to bring him."
But if Allan's presence had depended on Lilias, Mrs Roxbury would not have seen him in her splendid rooms that night. It was Mr Elphinstone that reminded her of the note that awaited the return of her cousin, and it was he who insisted that they should appear, for at least an hour or two, at the party. And they went together, a little constrained and uncomfortable, while they were alone, but to all appearance at their ease, and content with one another when they entered the room. Graeme saw them the moment they came in, and she saw, too, many a significant glance exchanged, as they made their way together to Mrs Roxbury.
Lilias saw Graeme almost as soon. She was standing near the folding-doors, seemingly much interested in what Mr Proudfute, her brother's friend, was saying to her.
"There, aunt," said Lilias, eagerly, when the greetings were over, "did I not tell you that my friend Miss Elliott would eclipse all here to-night? Look at her now."
"My dear," said her aunt, "she does better than that. She is very lovely and lady-like, and tries to eclipse no one, and so wins all hearts."
Lilias' eyes sparkled as she looked at her cousin, but he did not catch her look.
"My dear," continued Mrs Roxbury, "I have news for you, but perhaps it is no news to you. Ah! he has found her."
Mr Elias Green was at the moment, making his bow to Graeme.
"There was no truth in the rumour, about him and little Miss Grove. Mr Green has more sense. Your friend is fortunate, Lilias."
Lilias looked at her aunt in astonishment, but nothing more could be said, for there were more arrivals, and her attention was claimed.
"Aunt Roxbury does not know what she is talking about," said she, to her cousin, as he led her away. "The idea of Mr Green's daring to lift his eyes to Graeme Elliott. She would not look at him."
"Mr Green is a great man in his own circle, I can assure you," said Mr Ruthven. "Miss Elliott will be thought fortunate by people generally."
"Do you think so? You know very little about her, if you think that," said Lilias, impatiently.
"I know Mr Green better than most people do, and I respect him--and he is very rich--"
"Oh! don't talk folly," cried Lilias. "I have no patience with people who think, because a man is rich--. But you don't know Graeme, cousin Allan--I thought--"
They were very near Graeme by this time. She turned at the moment, and greeted them frankly enough, as far as any one could see. She noticed the cloud on Lilias' face, and asked her if she was quite well; she expressed pleasure at the return of Mr Ruthven too, but she did not meet his eye, though he told her he had seen her brother Norman at a station by the way, and detained her to give her a message that he had sent. He had schooled himself well, if he was really as unmoved by the words of Mrs Roxbury and Lilias, as to his cousin he appeared to be. But he was not a man who let his thoughts write themselves on his face, and she might easily be deceived. It was not a pleasant moment, it was a very bitter moment indeed, to him, when with a smile to them, Graeme placed her hand on the willing arm of Mr Green, and walked away "like a queen," he said to himself, but to his cousin he said--
"My friend will be a very happy man, and
your friend may be happy too, let us hope."
But Lilias never answered a word. She followed them, with her eyes, till they disappeared through the door that led to the room beyond; and then she said only,--
"I have made a great mistake."
Had she made a mistake or had he? A mistake never to be undone, never outlived--a mistake for Graeme, for himself, perhaps for Lilias too. It was not a thought to be borne, and he put it from him sternly, saying it could not have been otherwise--nothing could be changed now; and he was very gentle and tender with his little cousin that night and afterwards, saying to himself that she, at least, should have no cause to grieve in the future, if his loving care for her could avail.
About this time Will was threatened with a serious illness. It did not prove so serious as they at first feared, but it was long and tedious, and gave his eldest sister an excuse for denying herself to many who called, and accounted for her pale looks to those whom she was obliged to see. In the silence of her brother's sick-room, Graeme looked a great sorrow in the face. In other circumstances, with the necessity laid upon her to deceive others, she might for a time have deceived herself; for the knowledge that one's love has been given unsought, is too bitter to be accepted willingly. But the misery of those long silent nights made plain to her what the first sharp pang had failed to teach her.
In the first agony of her self-scorn, she saw herself without excuse. She was hard and bitter to herself. She might have known, she thought, how it was with Allan and his cousin. During all those years in which she had been a stranger to them both, they had loved each other; and now, with no thought of her, they loved each other still. It was natural that it should be so, and right. What was she, to think to come between them with her love?
She was very bitter to herself and unjust in her first misery, but her feeling changed. Her heart rebelled against her own verdict. She had not acted an unmaidenly part in the matter. She had never thought of harm coming to her, or to anyone, out of the pleasant intercourse of these months--the renewal of their old friendship. If she had sinned against Lilias, it had been unconsciously. She had never thought of these things in those days.
If she had only known him sooner, she thought, or not so soon, or not at all! How should she ever be able to see them again in the old unrestrained way? How should she be able to live a life changed and empty of all pleasure?
Then she grew bitter again, and called herself hard names for her folly, in thinking that a change in one thing must change all her life. Would not the passing away of this vain dream leave her as rich in the love of brothers and sister, as ever? Hitherto their love had sufficed for her happiness, and it should still suffice. The world need not be changed to her, because she had wished for one thing that she could not have. She could be freed from no duty, absolved from no obligation because of this pain; it was a part of her life, which she must accept and make the best of, as she did of all other things that came upon her.
As she sat one night thinking over the past and the future, wearily enough, but without the power to withdraw her mind from what was sad in them, there suddenly came back to her one of Janet's short, sharp speeches, spoken in answer to a declaration half vexed, half mirthful, made by her in the days when the mild Mr Foster had aspired to be more to her than a friend.
"My dear," she had said, "bide till your time comes. You are but a woman like the lave, and you maun thole the brunt of what life may bring. Love! Ay will you, and that without leave asked or given. And if you get love for love, you'll thank God humbly for one of his best gifts; and if you do not well, He can bring you through without it, as He has done many a one before. But never think you can escape your fate, and make the best of it when it comes."
"And so my fate has found me," murmured Graeme to herself. "This is part of my life, and I must make the best of it. Well, he can bring me through, as Janet said."
"Graeme," said Will suddenly, "what are you thinking about?"
Graeme started painfully. She had quite forgotten Will. Those bright, wakeful eyes of his had been on her many a time when she thought he was asleep.
"What were you thinking about? You smiled first, then you sighed."
"Did I? Well, I was not aware that I was either smiling or sighing. I was thinking about Janet, and about something that she said to me once."
She rose and arranged the pillows, stooping down to kiss her brother as she did so, and then she said sadly,--
"I am afraid you are not much better to-night, Will."
"Yes; I think I am better. My head is clearer. I have been watching your face, Graeme, and thinking how weary and ill you look."
"I am tired, Will, but not ill." Graeme did not like the idea of her face having been watched, but she spoke cheerfully.
"I have been a great trouble to you," said Will.
"Yes, indeed! a dreadful trouble. I hope you are not going to try my patience much longer."
"I don't know. I hope not, for your sake." And then in a little Will added, "Do you know, Graeme, I am beginning to be glad of this illness after all."
Graeme laughed.
"Well, if you are glad of it, I will try and bear it patiently a little longer. I daresay we are taking the very best means to prolong it chattering at this unreasonable hour."
"I am not sleepy," said Will, "and I am not restless either. I think I am really better, and it will do me good to have a little talk; but you are tired."
"I am tired, but I am not sleepy. Besides, if you are really better, I can sleep for a week, if I like. So, if it be a pleasure to you, speak on."
"What was it that Janet said that made you sigh so drearily just now?" asked Will.
Graeme would have liked the conversation to take any other turn rather than that, but she said, gently,--
"I think my smile must have been for what Janet said. I am sure I laughed heartily enough when she said it to me so long ago. I suppose I sighed to think that what she said has come true."
"What was it, Graeme?"
"Oh! I can hardly tell you--something about the changes that come to us as we grow older, and how vain it is to think we can avoid our fate."
"Our fate?" repeated Will.
"Oh, yes! I mean there are troubles--and pleasures, too, that we can't foresee--that take us at unawares, and we have just to make the best of them when they come."
"I don't think I quite understand you, Graeme."
"No, I daresay not; and it is not absolutely necessary that you should,--in the connection. But I am sure a great many pleasant things that we did not expect, have happened to us since we came here."
"And was it thinking of these pleasant things that made you sigh?" asked Will.
"No. I am afraid I was thinking of the other kind of surprises; and I daresay I had quite as much reason to smile as to sigh. We can't tell our trials at first sight, Will, nor our blessings either. Time changes their faces wonderfully to us as the years go on. At any rate, Janet's advice is always appropriate; we must make the best of them when they come."
"Yes;" said Will, doubtfully; he did not quite understand yet.
"For instance, Will, you were disconsolate enough when the doctor told you you must give up your books for an indefinite time, and now you are professing yourself quite content with headache and water-gruel--glad even at the illness that at first was so hard to bear."
Will made a face at the gruel she presented.
"I dare say it is good for me, though I can't say I like it, or the headache. But, Graeme, I did not get this check before I needed it. It is pleasant to be first, and I was beginning to like it. Now this precious month taken from me, at the time I needed it most, will put me back. To be sure," added he, with a deprecating glance, "it is not much to be first among so few. But as Janet used to say, Pride is an ill weed and grows easily--flourishes even on a barren soil; and in the pleasure and excitement of study, it is not difficult to forget that it is only a means to an end."
"Yes," said Graeme, "it is easy to forget what we ought to remember."
But it came into Will's mind that her sympathy did not come so readily as usual, that her thoughts were elsewhere, and he had a feeling that they were such as he was not to be permitted to share. In a little he said,--
"Graeme; I should like very much to go home to Scotland."
Graeme roused herself and answered cheerfully,--
"Yes, I have never quite given up the hope of going home again; but we should find sad changes, I doubt."
"But I mean I should like to go home soon. Not for the sake of Clayton and our friends there. I would like to go to fit myself better for the work I have to do in the world."
"You mean, you would like to go home to study."
"Yes. One must have a far better opportunity there, and it is a grand thing to be 'thoroughly furnished'." There was a pause, and then he added, "If I go, I ought to go soon--within a year or two, I mean."
"Oh, Will, how could I ever let you go away?"
"Why, Graeme! that is not at all like you; you could let me go if it were right. But I have not quite decided that it is not selfish in me to wish to go."
"But why?" asked Graeme.
"Partly because it would be so pleasant. Don't you remember how Janet used to say, we are not so likely to see all sides of what we desire very much. Perhaps I desire it more for the pleasure it would give me, than for the benefit it might be to me. And then the expense. It would be too much to expect from Arthur."
"But there is the Merleville money. It was meant for Arthur's education, and as he did not need it, it is yours."
"No, that belongs to you and Rose. It would not be right to take that."
"Nonsense, Will. What is ours is yours; if the expense were all! But I cannot bear to think of you going away, and Harry, too, perhaps."
"Rose tells me that Harry is more bent on going West than ever."
"Yes, within a few days he has become quite eager about it. I cannot understand why he should be so. Oh, I cannot feel hopeful about it."
"Arthur thinks it may be a good thing for Harry," said Will.
"Yes, for some things I suppose so. But, oh! Will, I could not let Harry go as I could let you, sure that he would be kept safe till--"
Graeme laid her head down on her brother's pillow, and the tears she had been struggling with for so long a time burst forth. She had never spoken to Will of her fears for Harry, but he knew that they all had had cause for anxiety on his account, so instead of speaking he laid his arm over his sister's neck. She struggled with herself a moment, unable to speak.
"Graeme," said Will, softly, "we cannot keep Harry safe from evil, and He who can is able to keep him safe there as well as here."
"I know it; I say it to myself twenty times a day. That is, I say it in words; but I do not seem to get the comfort I might from them."
"But, Graeme, Harry has been very little away this winter, and I had thought--"
"I know, dear, and I have been quite hopeful about him till lately. But, oh, Will! it won't bear talking about. We can only wait patiently."
"Yes, Graeme, we can pray and trust, and you are exaggerating to yourself Harry's danger, I think. What has happened to make you so faint-hearted, dear?"
"What should have happened, Will? I am tired--for one thing--and something is wrong I know."
She paused to struggle with her tears.
"Somehow, I don't feel so anxious about Harry as you do, Graeme. He will come back again. I am sure this great sorrow is not waiting you."
He paused a moment, and then added, hesitatingly,--
"I have had many thoughts since I sat down here, Graeme. I think one needs--it does one good, to make a pause to have time to look back and to look forward. Things change to us; we get clearer and truer views of life, alone in the dark, with nothing to withdraw our thoughts from the right and the wrong of things, and we seem to see more clearly how true it is, that though we change God never changes. We get courage to look our troubles fairly in the face, when we are alone with God and them."
Still Graeme said nothing, and Will added,--
"Graeme, you must take hope for Harry. And there is nothing else, is there?--nothing that you are afraid to look at--nothing that you cannot bring to the one place for light and help?"
She did not answer for a minute.
"No, Will, I hope not. I think not. I daresay--I am quite sure that all will be for the best, and I shall see at some time."
Not another word was said till Graeme rose and drawing aside the curtains, let in on them the dim dawn of a bleak March morning.
In a few more days Will was down-stairs again. Not in his accustomed corner among his books, but in the arm-chair in the warmest place by the fire, made much of by Rose and them all. It seemed a long time since he had been among them. A good many things had happened during the month that Graeme and he had passed together up-stairs. March, that had come in "like a lion" was hastening out "like a lamb;" the sky was clear and the air was mild; spring was not far-away. The snow lay still in sullied ridges in the narrow streets where the sun had little power, and the mud lay deep in the streets where the snow had nearly disappeared. But the pavements were dry and clean, and in spite of dirty crossings and mud bespattering carriages, they were thronged with gay promenaders, eager to welcome the spring. Those who were weatherwise shook their heads, declaring that having April in March would ensure March weather when April came, or it might be even in May. So it might prove, but there was all the more need, because of this, that the most should be made of the sunshine and the mild air, and even their quiet sweet was quite gay with the merry goers to and fro, and it seemed to Will and Graeme that more than a month had passed since his illness began.
Harry had quite decided to go West now, and was as eager and impatient to be gone as if he had all his life been dreaming of no other future than that which awaited him there. That he should be so glad to go, pained his sister as much as the thought of his going. That was at first, for it did not take Graeme long to discover that Harry was not so gay as he strove to appear. But her misgivings as to his departure were none the less sad on that account, and it was with a heavy heart that she listened to his plans.
Perhaps it was in contrast to Harry's rather ostentations mirth that his friend Charlie Millar seemed so very grave on the first night that Will ventured to prolong his stay among them after the gas had been lighted. Rose was grave, too, and not at ease, though she strove to hide it by joining in Harry's mirth. Charlie did not strive to hide his gravity, but sat silent and thoughtful after his first greetings were over. Even Harry's mirth failed at last, and he leaned back on the sofa, shading his face with his hands.
"I am afraid your brother would think us very ungrateful if he could see how badly we are thanking him for his great kindness to Harry."
Graeme forced herself to say it. Allan's name had not been mentioned among them for days, and the silence, at first grateful, had come to seem strange and unnatural, and it made Graeme's cheeks tingle to think what might be the cause. So, looking into Charlie's face with a smile, she spoke to him about his brother. But Charlie did not answer, or Graeme did not hear, and in a little while she said again,--
"Is Mr Ruthven still in town?"
"Oh! yes. It is not likely he will leave again soon."
"And your uncle is really recovering from his last attack? What on anxious time Miss Elphinstone must have had!"
"Yes, he seems better, and, contrary to all expectation, seems likely to live for some time yet. But his mind is much affected. At least it seems so to me."
"Poor Lilias!" said Graeme, "Is she still alone?"
"Oh, no. There is a houseful of them. Her aunt Mrs Roxbury is there, and I don't know how many besides. I declare, I think those women enjoy it."
Graeme looked shocked.
"Charlie means the preparations for the wedding," said Rose. "It is to take place soon, is it not?"
"Within the month, I believe," said Charlie, gravely.
"So soon!" said Graeme; and in a little she added, "Is it not sudden?"
"No--yes, I suppose so. They have been engaged, or something like it for some time; but the haste is because of Mr Elphinstone. He thinks he cannot die happy till he sees his daughter safe under the care of her husband. Just as if Allan would not be her friend all the same. It seems to me like madness."
"And Lilias," said Rose, almost in a whisper, "is she content?"
"On the whole, I suppose so. But this haste and her father being so ill, and all these horrid preparations are too much for her. She looks ill, and anything but cheerful."
"We have not seen your brother for a long time," said Will.
"I have scarcely seen him, either. He did not find matters much to his mind in C, I fear. Harry will have to keep his eyes open among those people."
"How soon will Harry have to go?" asked Rose.
"The sooner the better, I suppose," said Charlie, rising and walking about. "Oh! dear me. This is a miserable overturning that has come upon us--and everything seemed to be going on so smoothly."
"Harry will not have to go before Arthur comes back, I hope," said Rose.
"I don't know, indeed. When does he come?"
"Charlie, man," said Harry, rising suddenly, "did I not hear you promising Crofts to meet him to-night? It is eight o'clock."
"No. I don't care if I never see Crofts, or any of his set again. You had much better stay where you are Harry."
"Charlie, don't be misanthropical. I promised if you didn't. Come along. No? Well, good-night to you all. Will, it is time you were in bed, your eyes are like saucers. Don't sit up for me, Graeme."
Graeme had no heart to remonstrate. She felt it would do no good, and he went away leaving a very silent party behind him. Charlie lingered. When Graeme came down-stairs after seeing Will in his room she found him still sitting opposite Rose, silent and grave. He roused himself as she entered. Graeme would gladly have excused him, but she took a seat and her work, and prepared to be entertained. It was not an easy matter, though Charlie had the best will in the world to be entertaining, and Graeme tried to respond. She did not think of it at the time, but afterwards, when Charlie was gone, she remembered the sad wistful look with which the lad had regarded her. Rose too, hung about her, saying nothing, but with eyes full of something to which Graeme would not respond. One angry throb, stirred her heart, but her next thoughts were not in anger.
"These foolish young people have been dreaming dreams about Allan and me,--and I must undeceive them--or deceive them--"
"Graeme," said Rose, softly, "if either of us wait for Harry it must be me, for you are very tired."
"Yes, I am very tired."
"Charlie said, perhaps he would take Harry home with him. Should we wait?" said Rose.
"No. He may not come. We will not wait. I shall sleep near Will. He cannot spare me yet. Now go, love."
She kissed the troubled face upturned to her, but would suffer no lingering over the good-night. She was in no haste to go herself, however. She did not mean to wait for Harry, but when two hours had passed, she was still sitting where Rose had left her, and then Harry came.
But oh! the misery of that home-coming. Graeme must have fallen asleep, she thought, for she heard nothing till the door opened, and then she heard Harry's voice, thick and interrupted, thanking someone, and then stupidly insisting on refusing all further help.
"Never mind, gentlemen--I can manage--thank you."
There were two persons with him, Charlie Millar was one of them.
"Hush, Harry. Be quiet, man. Are you mad? You will waken your sister."
The light which someone held behind them, flushed for a moment on Graeme's pale face.
"Oh! Miss Elliott," said Charles, "I tried to keep him with me. He is mad, I think. Be quiet, Harry."
Harry quite incapable of walking straight, struggled to free himself and staggered toward his sister.
"I knew you would sit up, Graeme--though I told you not--and so I came home."
"Of course, you did right to come home. But hush, Harry! you will waken Will."
"Oh! yes! Poor Will!" he mumbled. "But Graeme, what ails you, that you look at me with a face like that?"
"Miss Elliott," entreated Charlie, "leave him to us, you can do nothing with him to-night."
She went up-stairs before them carrying the light, and held firmly the handle of Will's door till they passed. She stood there in the darkness till they came out again and went down-stairs. Poor Harry lay muttering and mumbling, entreating Graeme to come and see him before she went to bed. When she heard the door close she went down again, not into the parlour where a light still burned, but into the darkness of the room beyond.
"Oh Harry! Harry! Harry!" she cried, as she sank on her knees and covered her face.
It was a dark hour. Her hope, her faith, her trust in God--all that had been her strength and song, from day to day was forgotten. The bitter waters of fear and grief passed over her, and she was well nigh overwhelmed.
"Oh papa! mamma! Oh Harry! Oh! my little brothers."
"Miss Elliott," said a voice that made her heart stand still, "Graeme, you must let me help you now."
She rose and turned toward him.
"Mr Ruthven! I was not aware--" said she, moving toward the door through which light came from the parlour.
"Miss Elliott, forgive me. I did not mean to intrude. I met your brother and mine by chance, and I came with them. You must not think that I--"
"Thank you, you are very kind."
Graeme was trembling greatly and sat down, but rose again immediately.
"You are very kind," repeated she, scarcely knowing what she said.
"Graeme," said Mr Ruthven, "you must let me help you in this matter. Tell me what you wish. Must Harry stay or go?"
Graeme sank down with a cry, wringing her hands.
"Oh! Harry! Harry!"
Mr Ruthven made one step toward her.
"Miss Elliott, I dare not say to you that you think too severely of Harry's fault. But he is young, and I do not really fear for him. And you have more cause to be hopeful than I. Think of your father, and your father's God. Graeme, be sure Harry will come back to you again."
Graeme sat still with her head bowed down.
"Graeme--Miss Elliott. Tell me what you would have me do?"
Graeme rose.
"You are very kind," she repeated. "I cannot think to-night. We must wait--till Arthur comes home."
He went up and down the room several times, and then came and stood by her side again.
"Graeme," said he, in a low voice, "let me hear you once say, that you believe me to be your true and faithful friend."
"Why should I not say it, Allan. You are my true and faithful friend, as I am yours."
Her voice did not tremble, and for a moment she calmly met his eye. He turned and walked away, and when he came back again he held out his hand and said,--
"Good-night."
"Good-night," said Graeme.
"And you will see about Harry--what you wish for him?"
"Yes. Good-bye."
He raised the hand he held to his lips, and then said, "Good-bye." _