_ CHAPTER THIRTY THREE.
"Who is is Mr Green, anyhow?"
The question was addressed by Mr Snow to the company generally, as he paused in his leisurely walk up and down the gallery, and stood leaning his elbow on the window, looking in upon them. His manner might have suggested the idea of some mystery in connection with the name he had mentioned, so slowly and gravely did his eyes travel from one face to another turned toward him. As his question had been addressed to no one in particular, no one answered for a minute.
"Who is Mr Green, that I hear tell so much about?" he repeated impressively, fixing Will with his eye.
"Mr Green? Oh! he is an American merchant from the West," said the literal Will, not without a vague idea that the answer, though true and comprehensive, would fail to convey to the inquiring mind of the deacon all the information desired.
"He is a Green Mountain boy. He is the most perfect specimen of a real live Yankee ever encountered in these parts,--cool, sharp, far-seeing,--"
Charlie Millar was the speaker, and he was brought up rather suddenly in the midst of his descriptive eloquence by a sudden merry twinkle in the eye of his principal listener; and his confusion was increased by a touch from Rose's little hand, intended to remind him that real live Yankees were not to be indiscreetly meddled with in the present company.
"Is that all you can say for your real live Yankee, Charlie, man?" said Arthur, whose seat on the gallery permitted him to hear, but not to see, all that was going on in the room. "Why don't you add, he speculates, he whittles, he chews tobacco, he is six feet two in his stockings, he knows the market value of every article and object, animate and inanimate, on the face of the earth, and is a living illustration of the truth of the proverb, that the cents being cared for, no apprehension need be entertained as to the safety of the dollars."
"And a living contradiction of all the stale old sayings about the vanity of riches, and their inability to give even a transitory content," said Charlie, with laughing defiance at Rose.
"Quite true, Charlie," said Arthur; "if Mr Green has ever had any doubts about the almighty dollar being the 'ultimate end,' he has nursed or combated his doubts in secret. Nothing has transpired to indicate any such wavering of faith."
"Yes; it is his only standard of worth in all things material and moral," said Charlie. "When he enters a room, you can see by his look that he is putting a price on all things in it--the carpet and curtains--the books and pretty things--even the ladies--"
"Yes," continued Arthur; "if he were to come in here just now, it would be--Mrs Snow worth so much--naming the sum; Miss Elliott so much more, because she has on a silk gown; Mrs Elliott more still, because she is somehow or other very spicy, indeed, to-night; he would appreciate details that go beyond me! As for Rosie, she would be the most valuable of all, according to his estimate, because of the extraordinary shining things on her head."
"The possibility of their being only imitations, might suggest itself," interposed Charlie.
"Yes, to be sure. And imitation or not, they would indicate all the same the young lady's love of finery, and suggest to his acute mind the idea of danger to the purse of her future possessor. No, Rosie wouldn't have a chance with him. You needn't frown, Rosie, you haven't. Whether it is the shining things on your head, or the new watch and chain, or the general weakness in the matter of bonnets that has been developing in your character lately, I can't say, but nothing can be plainer, than the fact that hitherto you have failed to make the smallest impression on him."
"A circumstance which cannot fail to give strength to the general impression that he is made of cast iron," said Charlie.
"Arthur, I am shocked and astonished at you," said Rose, as soon as she was permitted to speak. "You have forgotten, Charlie, how kindly he cared for your brother when he was sick, long ago. And Harry says that his hardness and selfishness is more in appearance, than real. He has a very kind heart."
"Oh! if you come to his heart, Miss Rose, I can't speak for that. I have never had an opportunity of satisfying myself as to that particular. I didn't know he had one, indeed, and should doubt it now, if we had not Harry's authority and yours."
"You see, Rosie, when it comes to the discussion of hearts, Charlie gets beyond his depth. He has nothing to say."
"Especially tender hearts," said Charlie; "I have had a little experience of a flinty article or two of that sort."
"Charlie, I won't have you two quarrelling," said Graeme, laughing. "Rose is right. There is just a grain or two of truth in what they have been saying," she added, turning to Mr Snow. "Mr Green is a real live Yankee, with many valuable and excellent qualities. A little hard perhaps, a little worldly. But you should hear him speak of his mother. You would sympathise with him then, Charlie. He told me all about his mother, one evening that I met him at Grove House, I think. He told me about the old homestead, and his father's saw-mill, and the log school-house; and his manner of speaking quite raised him, in my opinion. Arthur is wrong in saying he cares for nothing but money."
"But, who is he?" asked Mr Snow, with the air of one much interested; His question was this time addressed to Fanny, who had seated herself on the window seat close by her husband, and she replied eagerly,--
"Oh, he is a rich merchant--ever so rich. He is going to give up business, and travel in Europe."
"For the improvement of his mind," said Arthur.
"I don't know what he goes for, but he is very rich, and may do what he likes. He has built the handsomest house in the State, Miss Smith tells me. Oh! he is ever so rich, and he is a bachelor."
"I want to know?" said Mr Snow, accepting Fanny's triumphant climax, as she gave it, with great gravity.
"He is a great friend of mine, and a great admirer of Miss Elliott," said Mrs Grove, with her lips intending that her face should say much more.
"Do tell?" said Mr Snow.
"A singular and eccentric person you see he must be," said Will.
"A paradoxical specimen of a live Yankee. Don't frown, Miss Rose. Mrs Grove's statement proves my assertion," said Charlie.
"If you would like to meet him, Mr Snow, dine with us on Friday," said Mrs Grove. "I am quite sure you will like and admire each other. I see many points of resemblance between you. Well, then, I shall expect you
all. Miss Elliott, you will not disappoint me, I hope."
"But so large a party! Mrs Grove, consider how many there are of us," said Graeme, who knew as well as though she were speaking aloud, that the lady was saying that same thing to herself, and that she was speculating as to the necessity of enlarging the table.
"Pray, don't mention it. We are to have no one else. Quite a family party. I shall be quite disappointed if I don't see you all. The garden is looking beautifully now."
"And one more wouldn't make a bit of difference. Miss Rose, can't you speak a good word for me," whispered Charlie.
"Thank you," said Graeme, in answer to Mrs Grove. "I have been longing to show Mrs Snow your garden. I hope the roses are not quite over."
"Oh, no!" said Arthur. "There are any number left; and Charlie, man, be sure and bring your flute to waken the echoes of the grove. It will be delightful by moonlight, won't it, Rosie?"
Mrs Grove gave a little start of surprise at the liberty taken by Arthur. "So unlike him," she thought. Mr Millar's coming would make the enlargement of the table absolutely necessary. However, she might ask one or two other people whom she ought to have asked before, "and have it over," as she said. So she smiled sweetly, and said,--
"Pray do, Mr Millar. We shall expect you with the rest."
Charlie would be delighted, and said so.
"But the flute," added he to Rose. "Well, for that agreeable fiction your brother is responsible. And a family party will be indeed charming."
Dining at Grove House was not to any of them the pleasantest of affairs, on those occasions when it was Mrs Grove's intention to distinguish herself, and astonish other people, by what she called a state dinner. Graeme, who was not apt to shirk unpleasant duties, made no secret of her dislike to them, and caught at any excuse to absent herself with an eagerness which Fanny declared to be anything but polite. But, sitting at table in full dress, among dull people, for an indefinite length of time, for no good purpose that she had been able to discover, was a sacrifice which neither Graeme nor any of the others felt inclined to make often.
A dinner
en famille, however, with the dining-room windows open, and the prospect of a pleasant evening in the garden, was a very different matter. It was not merely endurable, it was delightful. So Rose arrayed herself in her pretty pink muslin, and then went to superintend the toilette of Mrs Snow--that is, she went to arrange the folds of her best black silk, and to insist on her wearing her prettiest cap--in a state of pleasurable excitement that was infectious, and the whole party set off in fine spirits. Graeme and Rose exchanged doubtful glances as they passed the dining-room windows. There was an ominous display of silver on the sideboard, and the enlargement of the table had been on an extensive scale.
"If she has spoiled Janet's evening in the garden, by inviting a lot of stupids, it will be too bad," whispered Rose.
It was not so bad as that, however. Of the guests whose visits were to be "put over," on this occasion, only Mr Proudfute, a very pleasant, harmless gentleman, and Fanny's old admirer, Captain Starr, came. As to making it a state affair, and sitting two or three hours at table, such a thing was not to be thought of. Mr Snow could eat his dinner even in the most unfavourable circumstances, in a tenth part of that time, and so could Mr Green, for that matter; so within a reasonable period, the ladies found themselves, not in the drawing-room, but on the lawn, and the gentlemen soon followed.
It was the perfection of a summer evening, with neither dust nor insects to be a drawback, with just wind enough to make tremulous the shadows on the lawn, and to waft, from the garden above the house, the odours of a thousand flowers. The garden itself did not surpass, or even equal, in beauty of arrangement, many of the gardens of the neighbourhood; but it was very beautiful in the unaccustomed eyes of Mr and Mrs Snow, and it was with their eyes that Graeme looked at it to-night. They left the others on the lawn, the gentlemen--some of them at least--smoking in the shade of the great cedar, and Rose and Fanny making wreaths of the roses the children were gathering for them. The garden proper was behind the house, and thither they bent their steps, Graeme inwardly congratulating herself that she and Will were to have the pointing out of its beauties to the friends all to themselves. They did not need to be pointed out to the keen, admiring eyes of Mr Snow. Nothing escaped him, as he walked slowly before them, looking over his shoulder now and then, to remark on something that particularly interested him. Mrs Snow's gentle exclamations alone broke the silence for some time. She lingered with an interest, which to Graeme was quite pathetic, over flowers familiar in her childhood, but strangers to her for many a year.
"It minds me of the Ebba Gardens," said she, after a little. "Not that it is like them, except for the flowers. The Ebba Gardens were on a level, not in terraces like this. You winna mind the Ebba Gardens, Miss Graeme."
They had reached by this time a summer-house, which commanded a view of the whole garden, and of a beautiful stretch of country beyond, and here they sat down to wait the coming of the others, whose voices they heard below.
"No," said Graeme, "I was not at the Ebba often. But I remember the avenue, and the glimpse of the lake that comes so unexpectedly after the first turning from the gate. I am not sure whether I remember it, or whether it is only fancy; but it must have been very beautiful."
"It is only fancy to you, I doubt, for we turned many a time after going in at the gate, before the lake came in sight."
"Perhaps so. But I don't think it can all be fancy. I am sure I mind the lake, with the swans sailing, on it, and the wee green islets, and the branches of the birch trees drooping down into the water. Don't you mind?"
"Yes, I mind well. It was a bonny place," said Janet, with a sigh.
"But, what a tiny lake it must have been! I remember we could quite well see the flowers on the other side. It could not have been half so large as Merleville Pond."
"It wasn't hardly worth while calling it a lake, was it?" said Mr Snow.
"It did for want of a bigger, you know," said Graeme, laughing. "It made up in beauty what it wanted in size."
"It was a bonny spot," said Mrs Snow.
"And the birds! Whenever I want to imagine bird music in perfection, I shut my eyes, and think of the birches drooping over the water. I wonder what birds they were that sang there? I have never heard such singing of birds since then."
"No, there are no such singing birds here," said Mrs Snow. "I used to miss the lark's song in the morning, and the evening voices of the cushat and the blackbird. There are no birds like them here."
"Ain't it just possible that the music may be fancy, too, Miss Graeme," said Mr Snow, who did not like to hear the regretful echo in his wife's voice when she spoke of "home." Graeme laughed, and Mrs Snow smiled, for they both understood his feeling very well, and Mrs Snow said,--
"No, the music of the birds is no fancy, as you might know from Sandy. There are no birds like them here; but I have learnt to distinguish many a pleasant note among the American birds--not like our own linties at home, but very sweet and cheerful notwithstanding."
"The birds were real birds, and the music was real music. Oh! I wonder if I ever shall hear it again!" said Graeme, with a sigh. "You will hear it, Will, and see the dear old place. Oh! how I wish you could take me too." Will smiled.
"I shall be glad to hear the birds and see the places again. But I don't remember the Ebba, or, indeed, any of the old places, except our own house and garden, and your mother's cottage, Mrs Snow. I mind the last time we were there well."
"I mind it, too," said Mrs Snow, gravely.
"And yet, I should be almost sorry to go back again, lest I should have my ideas disturbed by finding places and people different from what I have been fancying them all this time. All those old scenes are so many lovely pictures to me, and it would be sad to go and find them less lovely than they seem to me now. I have read of such things," said Graeme.
"I wouldna fear anything of that kind," said Mrs Snow; "I mind them all so well."
"Do you ever think you would like to go back again?" said Will. "Would not you like to see the old faces and the old places once more?"
"No, lad," said Mrs Snow, emphatically. "I have no wish ever to go back."
"You are afraid of the sea? But the steamers are very different from the old 'Steadfast'."
"I was not thinking of the sea, though I would dread that too. But why should I wish to go back? There are two or three places I would like to see the glen where my mother's cottage stood, and two or three graves. And when I shut my eyes I can see them here. No, I have no wish to go back."
There was a moment's silence, and then Mrs Snow, turning her clear, kind eyes on her husband, over whose face a wistful, expostulating look was stealing, said,--
"I like to think about the dear faces, and the old places, sometimes, and to speak about them with the bairns; it is both sad and pleasant now and then. But I am quite content with all things as they are. I wouldna go back, and I wouldna change my lot if I might. I am quite content."
Mr Snow smiled and nodded in his own peculiar fashion for reply. There could be no doubt of
his content, or Mrs Snow's either, Graeme acknowledged, and then her thoughts went back to the time when Janet's lot had been so different. She thought of the husband of her youth, and how long the grave had closed over him; she remembered her long years of patient labour in the manse; the bitter home-sickness of the first months in Merleville, and all the changes that had come since then. And yet, Janet was not changed. She was the very same. The qualities that had made her invaluable to them all those years, made the happiness of her husband and her home still, and after all the changes that life had brought she was content. No one could doubt that. And Graeme asked herself, would it ever be so with her? Would she ever cease to regret the irrevocable past and learn to grow happy in a new way? She prayed that it might be so. She longed for the tranquil content of those old days before her heart was startled from its girlhood's quiet. How long it seemed since she had been quite at peace with herself! Would she ever be so again? It did not seem possible. She tried in vain to fancy herself among other scenes, with other hopes, and friends, and interests. And yet, here was Janet, not of a light or changeful nature; how she had loved, and lost, and suffered! And yet she had grown content?
"What are you thinking about, Graeme?" said Will, who, as well as Mr Snow, had been watching her troubled face, Graeme started.
"Oh! of a great many things. I don't know why it should have come to my mind just now, but I was thinking of a day in Merleville, long ago--an Indian-summer day. I remember walking about among the fallen leaves, and looking over the pond to the hills beyond, wondering foolishly, I suppose, about what the future might bring to us all. How lovely it was that day!"
"And then you came and stood within the gate, and hardly gave me a look as I passed out. I mind it, very well," said Mr Snow.
"I was not friends with you that day. But how should you remember it? How should you know it was that day, of which I was thinking?"
"I saw, by your face, you were thinking of old times, and of all the changes that had come to you and yours; and it was on that day you first heard of one of them. That is how I came to think of it."
"And then you came into the house, and called me from the foot of the stairs. You werena well pleased with me, either, that day," said Mrs Snow.
"Oh! I was afraid; and you spoke to me of aunt Marian, and of our own Menie, and how there might be sadder changes than even your going away. Ah, me! I don't think I have been quite at peace with myself since that night."
"Miss Graeme! my dear," expostulated Mrs Snow.
"No, I have ay been afraid to find myself at peace. But I am glad of one thing, though I did not think that day it would ever make me glad. Uncle Sampson, did I ever tell you--I am afraid I never did--how glad I am now, that you were stronger than I was, and prevailed--in taking Janet from us, I mean?"
She was standing behind him, so that he did not see her face. He did not turn round, or try to see it. He looked towards his wife, with a grave smile.
"I don't think you ever told me in words."
"No, because it is only a little while that I have been really glad; it is only since your coming has made me sure she is happier--far happier with you and Emily and Sandy, than ever we could make her now; almost as happy as she deserves to be."
"I reckon, the happiness ain't all on one side of the house, by a great deal," said Mr Snow, gravely.
"No, I know that--I am sure of that. And I am glad--so glad, that it reconciles me to the knowledge that we can never be quite the same to her as we used to be, and that is saying much."
"Ain't you most afraid that it might hurt her to hear you say so?" said Mr Snow, his eyes never leaving his wife's face. They were quite alone by this time. Will had obeyed the call of the children, and was gone away.
"No, I am not afraid. She knows I would not hurt her willingly, by word or deed, so you must let me say how very glad I am we lost her, for her sake. And when I remember all that she has lived through--all the sorrow she has seen; knowing her steadfast, loving, heart, and how little she is given to change, yet seeing her happy, and with power to make others happy, it gives me courage to look into the future; it makes me less afraid."
His eyes left his wife's face now, and turned, with a look of wonder, to Graeme.
"What is it, dear?" he asked. "Is there anything I may not know?"
"No. Only I am glad for Janet's sake, and for yours, and for mine, too, because--"
It would not have been easy to say more, and, besides, the others were coming up the walk, and, partly because there were tears in her eyes, and partly because she shrunk nervously from the excessive friendliness with which it seemed to be Mrs Grove's intention on the occasion to distinguish her, she turned, hoping to escape. She did not succeed, however, and stood still at the door, knowing very well what would be Mrs Grove's first remark.
"Ah! I see you have an eye for the beautiful."
She had heard her say it just as many times as she had stood with her on that very beautiful spot; and she never expected to stand there without hearing it, certainly not if, as on the present occasion, there were strangers there too. It was varied a little, this time.
"You see, Mr Green, Miss Elliott has an eye for the beautiful. I knew we should find her here, with her friends."
The rest was as usual.
"Observe how entirely different this is, from all the other views about the place. There is not a glimpse of the river, or of the mountains, except that blue line of hills, very distant indeed. The scene is quite a pastoral one, you see. Can you imagine anything more tranquil? It seems the very domain of silence and repose."
The last remark was not so effective as usual, because of the noise made by Charlie Millar and Will, and the young Groves, as they ran along the broad walk full in sight.
"It is a bonny, quiet place," said Mrs Snow.
"The garden is not seen at its best now," continued Mrs Grove. "The beauty of the spring flowers is over, and except the roses, we have not many summer flowers; we make a better show later in the season."
"It looks first-rate," said Mr Snow.
"It costs a great deal of trouble and expense to keep it up as it ought to be kept," continued Mrs Grove. "I sometimes think it is not right to spend so much time and money for what is a mere gratification to the eye."
Mrs Grove was bent on being agreeable, to all present, and she thought "the economical dodge" was as good as any, considering her audience.
"There is something in that," said Mr Snow, meditatively; "but a place like this ought to be a great deal more than that, I think."
"Oh! I expect it pays," said Mr Green. "To people who are fond of such things, I expect there is more pleasure to be got for the same money from a garden than from 'most any other thing."
"To say nothing of the pleasure given to other folk--to one's friends," suggested Mrs Snow.
"I was calculating that, too," said Mr Green. "The pleasure one's friends get tells on one's own comfort; you feel better yourself, if the folks about you feel well, especially if you have the doing of it.
That pays."
"If we are travelling in the right road, the more we see of the beautiful things God has made, the better and the happier we will be," said Mr Snow. "It will pay in that way, I guess."
He turned an inquiring look on Mr Green, as he spoke, but that gentleman, probably not being prepared to speak advisedly on the subject, neither agreed nor dissented, and his eyes travelled on till they rested on the face of his wife.
"Yes," said, she, softly, "the more we see of God's love and wisdom in the beautiful things He has made, the more we shall love Him, and in loving Him we shall grow like Him."
Mr Snow nodded. Mr Green looked curiously from one to the other as they spoke.
"I suppose we may expect something wonderful in the way of gardens and pleasure-grounds, when you have completed your place, Mr Green," said Mrs Grove, who did not care that the conversation should take a serious turn on this occasion. She flattered herself that she had already won the confidence and admiration of Mr and Mrs Snow, by her warmly-expressed sympathy with their "rather peculiar" views and opinions. Whether Mr Green would be so fortunate was questionable, so she went on quickly,--
"Miss Elliott, Mr Green has been telling me about his place as we come up the garden. It must be very lovely, standing, as it does, on the borders of one of those vast prairies that we all admire."
Thus appealed to, it was unpardonable in Graeme that she should respond to the lady's admiring enthusiasm with only the doubtful assent implied in a hesitating "Indeed;" but her enthusiasm was not to be damped.
"There must be something grand and elevating in the constant view of a prairie. It must tend to enlarge one's ideas, and satisfy one; don't you think so, Miss Elliott?"
"I don't know," said Graeme, hesitatingly. "For a place of residence, I should suppose it might be a little dull, and unvaried."
"Of course, if there was nothing besides the prairie; but, with such a residence as Mr Green's--I forget what style of architecture it is."
But Mr Green was not learned on the subject of architecture, and said nothing about it. He only knew that people called his house a very handsome one, and that it had cost him a deal of money, and he said so, emphatically, adding his serious doubts whether the investment would "pay."
"Oh! you cannot tell yet," said Mrs Grove. "That will depend altogether on circumstances. It is quite time that you were settling down into a quiet family man. You have been roaming about the world quite long enough. I don't at all approve of the European trip, unless, indeed--"
She paused, and looked so exceedingly arch and wise, that Mr Green looked a little puzzled and foolish by contrast, perhaps.
"Miss Elliott," continued Mrs Grove, bent on carrying out her laudable intention of drawing Graeme into the conversation, "have you quite decided on not accompanying your brother?"
"Accompanying Will? Oh! I have never for a moment thought of such a thing. The expense would put it quite out of the question, even if there were no other reasons against it."
"Indeed, then I must have misunderstood you when I fancied I heard you say how much you would like to go. I thought you longed for a chance to see Scotland again."
"I daresay you heard me say something of the kind. I should like to visit Scotland very much, and other countries, too. And I intend to do so when I have made my fortune," added she, laughing.
"Or, when some one has made it for you; that would do as well, would it not?" asked Mrs Grove.
"Oh, yes! a great deal better. When some one makes my fortune for me, I shall visit Europe. I think I may promise that."
"Have you ever been West, yet, Miss Elliott? You spoke of going at one time, I remember," said Mr Green.
"Never yet. All my travelling has been done at the fireside. I have very much wished to visit my brother Norman. I daresay Rose and I will find ourselves there some day," added she, turning to Mr Snow.
"Unless we keep you in Merleville," said he, smiling.
"Oh! well, I am very willing to be kept there on certain conditions you know."
"How do you suppose Fanny could ever do without you?" asked Mrs Grove, reproachfully.
"Oh! she would miss us, I daresay. But I don't think we are absolutely necessary to her happiness."
"Of course, she will have to lose you one of these days. We cannot expect that you will devote yourself to your brothers always, I know."
"Especially as they don't stand in particular need of my devotion," said Graeme stiffly, as she offered her arm to Mrs Snow. "Let us walk, again. What can Will and the children be doing? Something extraordinary, if one may judge by the noise."
Mrs Grove rose to go with them, but lingered a moment behind to remark to Mr Snow on the exceeding loveliness of Miss Elliott's disposition and character, her great superiority to young ladies in general, and especially on the devotion so apparent in all her intercourse with her old friend.
"And with you, too," she added; "I scarcely can say which she honours most, or on which she most relies for counsel."
"There," said she to herself, as she followed the others down the walk, "I have given him an opening, if he only has the sense to use it. One can see what
he wants easily enough, and if he knows what is for his advantage he will get the good word of his countryman, and he ought to thank me for the chance." _