_ CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE.
"It is a wonder to me, Miss Graeme," said Mrs Snow, after one of their long talks about old times--"it is a wonder to me, that minding Merleville and all your friends there as well as you do, you should never have thought it worth your while to come back and see us."
"Worth our while!" repeated Graeme. "It was not indifference that hindered us, you may be sure of that. I wonder, myself, how it is we have never gone back again. When we first came here, how Will, and Rosie, and I, used to plan and dream about it! I may confess, now, how very homesick we all were--how we longed for you. But, at first, the expense would have been something to consider, you know; and afterwards, other things happened to prevent us. We were very near going once or twice."
"And when was that?" asked Mrs Snow, seemingly intent on her knitting, but all the time aware that the old shadow was hovering over Graeme. She did not answer immediately.
"Once was with Norman and Hilda. Oh! I did so long to go with them! I had almost made up my mind to go, and leave Rosie at home. I was glad I didn't, afterward."
"And why did you not?" demanded her friend.
"For one thing, we had been away a long time in the summer, and I did not like to leave home again; Arthur did not encourage me to go. It was on the very night that Norman went away that Arthur told me of his engagement."
"I daresay you did right to bide at home, then."
"Yes, I knew it was best, but that did not prevent me wishing very much to go. I had the greatest desire to go to you. I had no one to speak to. I daresay it would not have seemed half so bad, if I could have told you all about it."
"My dear, you had your sister."
"Yes, but Rosie was as bad as I was. It seemed like the breaking up of all things. I know now, how wrong and foolish I was, but I could not help being wretched then."
"It was a great change, certainly, and I dinna wonder that the prospect startled you."
Mrs Snow spoke very quietly; she was anxious to hear more; and forgetting her prudence in the pleasure it gave her to unburden her heart to her friend, Graeme went on rapidly,--
"If it only had been any one else, I thought. We didn't know Fanny very well, then--hardly at all, indeed, and she seemed such a vain, frivolous little thing, so different from what I thought Arthur's wife should be; and I disliked her stepmother so much more than I ever disliked any one, I think, except perhaps Mrs Page, when we first came to Merleville. Do you mind her first visit with Mrs Merle, Janet?"
"I mind it well," said Mrs Snow, smiling. "She was no favourite of mine. I daresay I was too hard on her sometimes."
Graeme laughed at the remembrance of the "downsettings" which "the smith's wife" had experienced at Janet's hands in those early days. The pause gave her time to think, and she hastened to turn the conversation from Arthur and his marriage to Merleville and the old times. Janet did not try to hinder it, and answered her questions, and volunteered some new items on the theme, but when there came a pause, she asked quietly,--
"And when was the other time you thought of coming to see us all?"
"Oh! that was before, in the spring. Arthur proposed that we should go to Merleville, but we went to the seaside, you know. It was on my account; I was ill, and the doctor said the sea-breeze was what I needed."
"The breezes among our hills would have been as good for you, I daresay. I wonder you didn't come then."
"Oh! I could not bear the thought of going then. I was ill, and good for nothing. It would have been no pleasure for any one to see me then. I think I should hardly have cared to go away anywhere, if Arthur had not insisted, and the doctor too."
Unconsciously Graeme yielded to the impulse to say to her friend just what was in her heart.
"But what ailed you?" asked Mrs Snow, looking up with astonished eyes, that reminded Graeme there were some things that could not be told even to her friend.
"What ailed you?" repeated Mrs Snow.
"I can't tell you. An attack of the nerves, Nelly called it, and she was partly right. I was tired. It was just after Will's long illness, and Harry's going away, and other things."
"I daresay you were weary and sorrowful, too, and no wonder," said Mrs Snow, tenderly.
"Yes, about Harry. I was very anxious. There were some doubts about his going, for a while. Mr Ruthven hesitated, and Harry chafed and vexed himself and me, too, poor laddie; but we got through that time at last," added Graeme, with a great sigh.
"Did Mr Ruthven ken of Harry's temptation? Was it for that he hesitated?" asked Mrs Snow.
"I cannot say. Oh! yes, he knew, or he suspected. But I don't think he hesitated altogether because of that. As soon as he knew that we were quite willing--Arthur and I--he decided at once. Mr Ruthven was very kind and considerate through it all."
"Miss Graeme, my dear," said Mrs Snow, with some hesitation, "did you ever think there was anything between your brother Harry and his master's daughter--the young lady that Allan Ruthven married--or was it only Sandy's fancy?"
Graeme's face grew white as she turned her startled eyes on her friend.
"Sandy! Did he see it? I did not think about it at the time; but afterward I knew it, and, oh! Janet, you cannot think how it added to my wretchedness about Harry."
"My bairn! There have been some rough bits on the road you have been travelling. No wonder your feet get weary, whiles."
Graeme rose, and, without speaking, came and laid her head upon her friend's lap. In a little she said,--
"How I longed for this place! I had no one to speak to. I used to think you might have helped and comforted me a little."
She did not try to hide her tears; but they did not flow long. Janet's kind hand had not lost its old soothing power, and by and by Graeme raised herself up, and, wiping away her tears, said, with a faint smile,--
"And so Sandy saw poor Harry's secret? I did not, at first. I suppose little Emily had sharpened his eyes to see such things, even then."
"Yes, Sandy saw it, and it was a great surprise to us all when there came word of her marriage. Sandy never thought of Allan Ruthven and his cousin coming together."
Graeme rose and took her work again. It was growing dark, and she carried it to the window and bent over it.
"Was it for her money--or why was it?"
"Oh! no. I never could think so. She was a very sweet and lovely creature; we loved her dearly, Rose and I. They had been engaged a long time, I believe, though the marriage was sudden at last. That was because of her father's illness. He died soon after, you remember."
"Yes, I remember. Well, I didna think that Allan Ruthven was one to let the world get a firm grip of him. But folk change. I didna ken."
"Oh! no, it was not that," said Graeme, eagerly. "Indeed, at that time Mr Elphinstone's affairs were rather involved. He had met with great losses, Harry says, and Arthur thought that nothing but Mr Ruthven's high character and great business talents could have saved the firm from ruin. Oh! no; it was not for money."
"Well, my dear, I am glad to hear you say it. I am glad that Allan Ruthven hasna changed. I think you said he hasna changed?"
"At first I thought him changed, but afterwards I thought him just the same."
"Maybe it was her that wanted the money? If her father was in trouble--"
"No, oh! no! You could never have such a thought if you had ever seen her face. I don't know how it happened. As all marriages happen, I suppose. It was very natural; but we won't speak about it."
"They seem to have forgotten their friends. I think you said you seldom see them now."
"We don't see them often. They have been out of town a good deal, and we have fallen a little out of acquaintance. But we have done that with many others; we have made so many new acquaintances since Arthur's marriage--friends of Fanny's, you know; and, somehow, nothing seems quite the same as it used to do. If Mr Ruthven knew you were in town, I am sure he would have been to see you before now."
"I am no' wearying to see him," said Mrs Snow, coldly. "But, my dear, is your work of more value than your eyes, that you are keeping at it in the dark?"
Graeme laughed and laid it down, but did not leave the window, and soon it grew so dark that she had no excuse for looking out. So she began to move about the room, busying herself with putting away her work, and the books and papers that were scattered about. Janet watched her silently. The shadow was dark on her face, and her movements, as she displaced and arranged and re-arranged the trifles on the table were quick and restless. When there seemed nothing more for her to do, she stood still with an uneasy look on her face, as though she thought her friend were watching her, and then moved to the other end of the room.
"My dear," said Mrs Snow, in a little, "how old are you now?"
Graeme laughed, and came and took her old seat.
"Oh! Janet, you must not ask. I have come to the point when ladies don't like to answer that question, as you might very well know, if you would stop to consider a minute."
"And what point may that be, if I may ask?"
"Oh! it is not to be told. Do you know Fanny begins to shake her head over me, and to call me an old maid."
"Ay! that is ay the way with these young wives," said Janet, scornfully. "There must be near ten years between you and Rose."
"Yes, quite ten years, and she is almost a woman--past sixteen. I
am growing old."
"What a wee white Rose she was, when she first fell to your care, dear. Who would have thought then that she would ever have grown to be the bonny creature she is to-day?"
"Is she not lovely? And not vain or spoiled, though it would be no wonder if she were, she is so much admired. Do you mind what a cankered wee fairy she used to be?"
"I mind well the patience that never wearied of her, even at the worst of times," said Mrs Snow, laying her hand tenderly on Graeme's bowed head.
"I was weary and impatient often. What a long time it is since those days, and yet it seems like yesterday." And Graeme sighed.
"Were you sighing because so many of your years lie behind you, my bairn?" said Mrs Snow, softly.
"No, rather because so many of them lie before me," said Graeme, slowly. "Unless, indeed, they may have more to show than the years that are past."
"We may all say that, dear," said Mrs Snow, gravely. "None of us have done all that we might have done. But, my bairn, such dreary words are not natural from young lips, and the years before you may be few. You may not have time to grow weary of them."
"That is true," said Graeme. "And I ought not to grow weary, be they many or few."
There was a long pause, broken at last by Graeme.
"Janet," said she, "do you think I could keep a school?"
"A school," repeated Mrs Snow. "Oh, ay, I daresay you could, if you put your mind to it. What would binder you? It would depend some on what kind of a school it was, too, I daresay."
"You know, teaching is almost the only thing a woman can do to earn a livelihood. It is the only thing I could do. I don't mean that I could take charge of a school; I am afraid I am hardly fit for that. But I could teach classes. I know French well, and music, and German a little."
"My dear," said Mrs Snow, gravely, "what has put such a thought in your head? Have you spoken to your brother about it? What does he say?"
"To Arthur? No, I haven't spoken to him. He wouldn't like the idea at first, I suppose; but if it were best, he would reconcile himself to it in time."
"You speak about getting your livelihood. Is there any need for it? I mean, is there more need than there has been? Is not your brother able, and willing--"
"Oh! yes, it is not that I don't know. Our expenses are greater than they used to be--double, indeed. But there is enough, I suppose. It is not that--at least it is not that only, or chiefly."
"What is it then, dear child?" asked her friend.
But Graeme could not answer at the moment. There were many reasons why she should not continue to live her present unsatisfying life, and yet she did not know how to tell her friend. They were all plain enough to her, but some of them she could not put in words for the hearing of Janet, even. She had been saying to herself, all along, that it was natural, and not wrong for her to grow tired of her useless, aimless life, and to long for earnest, bracing work, such as many a woman she could name was toiling bravely at. But with Janet's kind hand on her head, and her calm, clear eyes looking down upon her face, she was constrained to acknowledge that, but for one thing, this restless discontent might never have found her. To herself she was willing to confess it. Long ago she had looked her sorrow in the face, and said, "With God's help I can bear it." She declared to herself that it was well to be roused from sloth, even by a great sorrow, so that she could find work to do. But, that Janet should look upon her with pitying or reproving eyes, she could not bear to think; so she sat at her feet, having no power to open her lips, never thinking that by her silence, and by the unquiet light in her downcast eyes, more was revealed to her faithful old friend than spoken words could have told.
"What is it my dear?" said Mrs Snow. "Is it pride or discontent, or is it something worse?" Graeme laughed a little bitterly. "Can anything be worse than these?"
"Is it that your brother is wearying of you?"
"No, no! I could not do him the wrong to think that. It would grieve him to lose us, I know. Even when he thought it was for my happiness to go away, the thought of parting gave him pain."
"And you have more sense than to let the airs and nonsense of his bairn-wife vex you?"
Graeme was silent a moment. She did not care to enter upon the subject of Arthur's wife just at this time.
"I don't think you quite understand Fanny, Janet," said she, hesitating.
"Weel, dear, maybe no. The bairns that I have had to deal with have not been of her kind. I have had no experience of the like of her."
"But what I mean is that her faults are such as every one can see at a glance, and she has many sweet and lovable qualities. I love her dearly. And, Janet, I don't think it is quite kind in you to think that I grudge Fanny her proper place in her own house. I only wish that--"
"You only wish that she were as able to fill it with credit, as you are willing to let her. I wish that, too. And I am very far from thinking that you grudge her anything that she ought to have."
"Oh! Janet," said Graeme, with a sigh, "I shall never be able to make you understand."
"You might try, however. You havena tried yet," said Janet, gently. "It is not that you are growing too proud to eat bread of your brother's winning, is it?"
"I don't think it is pride. I know that Arthur considers that what belongs to him belongs to us all. But, even when that is true, it may be better, for many reasons, that I should eat bread of my own winning than of his. Everybody has something to do in the world. Even rich ladies have their houses to keep, and their families to care for, and the claims of society to satisfy, and all that. An idle life like mine is not natural nor right. No wonder that I weary of it. I ought not to be idle."
"Idle! I should lay that imputation at the door of anybody in the house rather than at yours. You used to be over fond of idle dreaming, but I see none of it now. You are ay busy at something."
"Yes, busy about something," repeated Graeme, a little scornfully. "But about things that might as well be left undone, or that another might do as well."
"And I daresay some one could be found to do the work of the best and the busiest of us, if we werena able to do it. But that is no' to say but we may be working to some purpose in the world for all that. But it is no' agreeable to do other folks' work, and let them get the wages, I'll allow."
"Will said something like that to me once, and it is possible that I may have some despicable feeling of that sort, since you and he seem to think it," said Graeme, and her voice took a grieved and desponding tone.
"My dear, I am bringing no such accusation against you. I am only saying that the like of that is not agreeable, and it is not profitable to anybody concerned. I daresay Mrs Arthur fancies that it is her, and no' you that keeps the house in a state of perfection that it is a pleasure to see. She persuades her husband of it, at any rate."
"Fanny does not mean--she does not know much about it. But that is one more reason why I ought to go. She ought to have the responsibility, as well as to fancy that she has it; and they would get used to being without us in time."
"Miss Graeme, my dear, I think I must have told you what your father said to me after his first attack of illness, when he thought, maybe, the end wasna far-away."
"About our all staying together while we could. Yes, you told me."
"Yes, love, and how he trusted in you, that you would always be, to your brothers and Rose, all that your mother would have been if she had been spared; and how sure he was that you would ever think less of yourself than of them. My dear, it should not be a light thing that would make you give up the trust your father left to you."
"But, Janet, it is so different now. When we first came here, the thought that my father wished us to keep together made me willing and glad to stay, even when Arthur had to struggle hard to make the ends meet. I knew it was better for him and for Harry, as well as for us. But it is different now. Arthur has no need of us, and would soon content himself without us, though he may think he would not; and it may be years before this can be Will's home again. It may never be his home, nor Harry's either."
"My dear, it will be Harry's home, and Will's, too, while it is yours. Their hearts will ay turn to it as home, and they wouldna do so if you were only coming and going. And as for Mr Arthur, Miss Graeme, I put it to yourself, if he were left alone with that bonny, wee wife of his, would his home be to him what it is now? Would the companionship of yon bairn suffice for his happiness?"
"It ought to do so. A man's wife ought to be to him more than all the rest of the world, when it is written, 'A man shall leave all, and cleave to his wife.' Married people ought to suffice for one another."
"Well, it may be. And if you were leaving your brother's house for a house of your own, or if you were coming with us, as my husband seems to have set his heart on, I would think it different. Not that I am sure of it myself, much as it would delight me to have you. For your brother needs you, and your bonny new sister needs you. Have patience with her, and with yourself, and you will make something of her in time. She loves you dearly, though she is not at all times very considerate of you."
Graeme was silent. What could she say after this, to prove that she could not stay, that she must go away. Where could she turn now? She rose with a sigh.
"It is growing dark. I will get a light. But, Janet, you must let me say one thing. You are not to think it is because of Fanny that I want to go away. At first, I was unhappy--I may say so, now that it is all over. It was less for myself and Rose than for Arthur. I didn't think Fanny good enough for him. And then, everything was so different, for a while it seemed impossible for me to stay. Fanny was not so considerate as she might have been, about our old friends, and about household affairs, and about Nelly, and all that. Arthur saw nothing, and Rosie got vexed sometimes. Will preached patience to us both; you know, gentlemen cannot understand many things that may be vexatious to us; and we were very uncomfortable for a while. I don't think Fanny was so much to blame; but her mother seemed to fancy that the new mistress of the house was not to be allowed to have her place without a struggle. Arthur saw nothing wrong. It was laughable, and irritating, too, sometimes, to see how blind he was. But it was far better he did not. I can see that now."
"Well, we went on in this way a while. I daresay a good deal of it was my fault. I think I was patient and forbearing, and I am quite sure I gave Fanny her own place from the very first. But I was not cheerful, partly because of the changes, and all these little things, and partly for other reasons. And I am not demonstrative in my friendliness, like Rosie, you know. Fanny soon came to be quite frank and nice with Rosie, and, by and by, with me too. And now, everything goes on just as it ought with us. There is no coldness between us, and you must not think there is, or that it is because of Fanny I must go away."
She paused, and began to arrange the lamp.
"Never mind the light, dear, unless your work canna be left," said Mrs Snow; and in a little Graeme came and sat down again.
"And about Fanny's not being good enough for Arthur," she went on. "If people really love one another, other things don't seem to make so much difference. Arthur is contented. And Janet, I don't think I am altogether selfish in my wish to go away. It is not entirely for my own sake. I think it would be better, for them both to be left to each other for a little while. If Fanny has faults, it is better that Arthur should know them for the sake of both--that he may learn to have patience with them, and that she may learn to correct them. It is partly for them, as well as for Rose and me. For myself, I must have a change."
"You didna use to weary for changes. What is the reason now? You may tell me, dear, surely. There can be no reason that I may not know?"
Janet spoke softly, and laid her hand lovingly on that of Graeme.
"Oh! I don't know: I cannot tell you," she cried, with a sudden movement away from her friend. "The very spirit of unrest seems to have gotten possession of me. I am tired doing nothing, I suppose. I want real earnest work to do, and have it I will." She rose hastily, but sat down again.
"And so you think you would like to keep a school?" said Mrs Snow, quietly.
"Oh! I don't know. I only said that, because I did not know what else I could do. It would be work."
"Ay. School-keeping is said to be hard work, and thankless, often. And I daresay it is no better than it is called. But, my dear, if it is the work you want, and not the wages, surely among the thousands of this great town, you might find something to do, some work for the Lord, and for his people. Have you never thought about working in that way, dear?"
Graeme had thought of it many a time. Often had she grieved over the neglected little ones, looking out upon her from narrow lanes and alleys, with pale faces, and great hungry eyes. Often had the fainting hearts of toilers in the wretched places of the city been sustained and comforted by her kind words and her alms-deeds. There were many humble dwellings within sight of her home, where her face came like sunlight, and her voice like music. But these were the pleasures of her life, enjoyed in secret. This was not the work that was to make her life worthy, the work for God and man that was to fill the void in her life, and still the pain in her heart. So she only said, quietly,--
"It is not much that one can do. And, indeed, I have little time that is not occupied with something that cannot be neglected, though it can hardly be called work. I cannot tell you, but what with the little things to be cared for at home, the visits to be made, and engagements of one kind or other, little time is left. I don't know how I could make it otherwise. My time is not at my own disposal."
Mrs Snow assented, and Graeme went on.
"I suppose I might do more of that sort of work--caring for poor people, I mean, by joining societies, and getting myself put on committees, and all that sort of thing, but I don't think I am suited for it, and there are plenty who like it. However, I daresay, that is a mere excuse. Don't you mind, Janet, how Mrs Page used to labour with me about the sewing meetings."
"Yes, I mind," said Mrs Snow, with the air of one who was thinking of something else. In a little she said, hesitatingly:
"Miss Graeme, my dear, you speak as though there were nothing between living in your brother's house, and keeping a school. Have you never glanced at the possibility that sometime you may have a house of your own to keep."
Graeme laughed.
"Will said that to me once. Yes, I have thought about it. But the possibility is such a slight one, that it is hardly worth while to take it into account in making plans for the future."
"And wherefore not?" demanded Mrs Snow.
"Wherefore not?" echoed Graeme. "I can only say, that here I am at six and twenty; and the probabilities as to marriage don't usually increase with the years, after that. Fanny's fears on my account have some foundation. Janet, do you mind the song foolish Jean used to sing?
"'The lads that cast a glance at me
I dinna care to see,
And the lads that I would look at
Winna look at me.'
"Well, dear, you mustna be angry though I say it, but you may be ower ill to please. I told you that before, you'll mind."
"Oh! yes, I mind. But I convinced you of your error. Indeed, I look upon myself as an object for commiseration rather than blame; so you mustna look cross, and you mustna look too pitiful either, for I am going to prove to you and Fanny and all the rest that an old maid is, by no means, an object of pity. Quite the contrary."
"But, my dear, it seems strange-like, and not quite right for you to be setting your face against what is plainly ordained as woman's lot. It is no' ay an easy or a pleasant one, as many a poor woman kens to her sorrow; but--"
"But, Janet, you are mistaken. I am not setting my face against anything; but why should you blame me for what I canna help? And, besides, it is not ordained that every woman should marry. They say married-life is happier, and all that; but a woman may be happy and useful, too, in a single life, even if the higher happiness be denied her."
"But, my dear, what ailed you at him you sent away the other week--him that Rosie was telling me of?"
"Rosie had little to do telling you anything of the kind. Nothing particular ailed me at him. I liked him very well till--. But we won't speak of it."
"Was he not good enough? He was a Christian man, and well off, and well-looking. What said your brother to your refusal?" persisted Janet.
"Oh! he said nothing. What could he say? He would have known nothing about it if I had had my will. A woman must decide these things for herself. I did what I thought right. I could not have done otherwise."
"But, my love, you should consider--"
"Janet, I did consider. I considered so long that I came very near doing a wrong thing. Because he was Arthur's friend, and because it seems to be woman's lot, and in the common course of things, and because I was restless and discontented, and not at peace with myself, and nothing seemed to matter to me, I was very near saying 'Yes,' and going with him, though I cared no more for him than for half a dozen others whom you have seen here. What do you think of that for consideration?"
"That would have been a great wrong both to him and to yourself. I canna think you would ever be so sinful as to give the hand where the heart is withheld. But, my dear, you might mistake. There are more kinds of love than one; at least there are many manifestations of true love; and, at your age, you are no' to expect to have your heart and fancy taken utterly captive by any man. You have too much sense for the like of that."
"Have I?" said Graeme. "I ought to have at my age."
It was growing quite dark--too dark for Mrs Snow to see Graeme's troubled face; but she knew that it was troubled by the sound of her voice, by the weary posture into which she drooped, and by many another token.
"My dear," said her friend, earnestly, "the wild carrying away of the fancy, that it is growing the fashion to call love, is not to be desired at any age. I am not denying that it comes in youth with great power and sweetness, as it came to your father and mother, as I mind well, and as you have heard yourself. But it doesna always bring happiness. The Lord is kind, and cares for those who rush blindly to their fate; but to many a one such wild captivity of heart is but the forerunner of bitter pain, for which there is no help but just to 'thole it,' as they say."
She paused a moment, but Graeme did not, by the movement of a finger, indicate that she had anything to say in reply.
"Mutual respect, and the quiet esteem that one friend gives to another who is worthy, is a far surer foundation for a lifetime of happiness to those who have the fear of God before their eyes, and it is just possible, my dear, that you may have been mistaken."
"It is just possible, and it is too late now, you see, Janet. But I'll keep all you have been saying in mind, and it may stand me in stead for another time, you ken."
She spoke lightly, but there was in her voice an echo of bitterness and pain that her friend could not bear to hear; and when she raised herself up to go away, as though there were nothing more to be said, Janet laid her hand lightly but firmly on her shoulder, and said,--
"My dear, you are not to be vexed with what I have said. Do you think I can have any wish but to see you useful and happy? You surely dinna doubt me, dear?"
"I am not vexed, Janet," said she. "And who could I trust if I doubted you?"
"And you are not to think that I am meaning any disrespect to your new sister, if I say it is no wonder that I dinna find you quite content here. And when I think of the home that your mother made so happy, I canna but wish to see you in a home of your own."
"But happiness is not the only thing to be desired in this world," Graeme forced herself to say.
"No, love, nor the chief thing--that is true," said Mrs Snow.
"And even if it were," continued Graeme, "there is more than one way to look for happiness. It seems to me the chances of happiness are not so unequal in single and married-life as is generally supposed."
"You mayna be the best judge of that," said Mrs Snow, gravely.
"No, I suppose not," said Graeme, with a laugh. "But I have no patience with the nonsense that is talked about old maids. Why! it seems to be thought if a woman reaches thirty, still single, she has failed in life, she has missed the end of her creation, as it were; and by and by people begin to look upon her as an object of pity, not to say of contempt. In this very room I have heard shallow men and women speak in that way of some who are doing a worthy work for God and man in the world."
"My dear, it is the way with shallow men and women to put things in the wrong places. Why should you be surprised at that?"
"But, Janet, more do it than these people. Don't you mind, the other day, when Mrs Grove was repeating that absurd story about Miss Lester, and I said to her that I did not believe Miss Lester would marry the best man on the face of the earth, you said in a way that turned the laugh against me, that you doubted the best man on the face of the earth wasna in her offer."
"But, Miss Graeme, I meant no reflection on your friend, though I said that. I saw by the shining of your eyes, and the colour on your cheek, that you were in earnest, and I thought it a pity to waste good earnest words on yon shallow woman."
"Well," said Graeme, with a long breath, "you left the impression on her mind that you thought her right and me wrong."
"That is but a small matter. And, my dear, I am no' sure, and you canna be sure either, that Mrs Grove was altogether wrong. If, in her youth, some good man--not to say the best man on the face of the earth--had offered love to your friend, are you sure she would have refused him?"
"There!--that is just what I dislike so much. That is just what Mrs Grove was hinting with regard to Miss Lester. If a woman lives single, it is from necessity--according to the judgment of a discriminating and charitable world. I
know that is not the case with regard to Miss Lester. But even if it were, if no man had ever graciously signified his approbation of her--if she were an old maid from dire necessity-- does it follow that she has lost her chance in life?--that life has been to her a failure?
"If she has failed in life; so do God's angels. Janet, if I could only tell you half that she has done! I am not intimate with her, but I have many ways of knowing about her. If you could know all that she has done for her family! She was the eldest daughter, and her mother was a very delicate, nervous woman, and the charge of the younger children fell to her when she was quite a girl. Then when her father failed, she opened a school and the whole family depended on her. She helped her sisters till they married, and liberally educated her younger brothers, and now she is bringing up the four children of one of them who died young. Her father was bedridden for several years before he died, and he lived in her home, and she watched over him, and cared for him, though she had her school. And she has prepared many a young girl for a life of usefulness, who but for her might have been neglected or lost. Half of the good she has done in this way will never be known on earth. And to hear women who are not worthy to tie her shoe, passing their patronising or their disparaging remarks upon her! It incenses me!"
"My dear, I thought you were past being incensed at anything yon shallow woman can say."
"But she is not the only one. Even Arthur sometimes provokes me. Because she has by her laborious profession made herself independent, he jestingly talks about her bank stock, and about her being a good speculation for some needy old gentleman. And because that beautiful, soft grey hair of hers will curl about her pale face, it is hinted that she makes the most of her remaining attractions, and would be nothing loth. It is despicable."
"But, my dear, it would be no discredit to her if it were proved that she would marry. She has a young face yet, though her hair is grey, and she may have many years before her. Why should she not marry?"
"Don't speak of it," said Graeme, with great impatience; "and yet, as you say, why should she not? But that is not the question. What I declare is, that her single life has been an honourable and an honoured one--and a happy one too. Who can doubt it? There is no married woman of my acquaintance whose life will compare with here. And the high place she will get in heaven, will be for no work she will do as Mrs Dale, though she were to marry the Reverend Doctor to-night, but for the blessed success that God has given her in her work as a single woman."
"I believe you, dear," said Mrs Snow, warmly.
"And she is not the only one I could name," continued Graeme. "She is my favourite example, because her position and talents, her earnest nature and her piety, make her work a wonderful one. But I know many, and have heard of more, who in a quiet, unobtrusive way are doing a work, not so great as to results, but as true and holy. Some of them are doing it as aunts or maiden sisters; some as teachers; some are only humble needlewomen; some are servants in other people's kitchens or nurseries--women who would be spoken of by the pitying or slighting name of 'old maid,' who are yet more worthy of respect for the work they are doing, and for the influence they are exerting, than many a married woman in her sphere. Why should such a woman be pitied or despised, I wonder?"
"Miss Graeme, you look as though you thought I was among the pitiers and despisers of such women, and you are wrong. Every word you say in their praise and honour is truth, and canna be gainsaid. But that doesna prove what you began with, that the chances of happiness in married and single life are equal."
"It goes far to prove it--the chances of usefulness, at any rate."
"No, my dear, because I dare say, on the other hand, many could be told of who fail to do their work in single life, and who fail to get happiness in it as well. Put the one class over against the other, and then consider the many, many women who marry for no other reason than from the fear of living single, it will go far to account for the many unhappy marriages that we see, and far to prove that marriage is the natural and proper expectation of woman, and that in a sense she
does fail in life, who falls short of that. In a certain sense, I say."
"But it does not follow from that that she is thenceforth to be an object of pity or derision, a spectacle to men and angels!"
"Whist, my dear; no, that doesna follow of necessity. That depends on herself somewhat, though not altogether, and there are too many single women who make spectacles of themselves in one way or other. But, my dear, what I say is this: As the world is, it is no easy thing for a woman to warstle through it alone, and the help she needs she can get better from her husband than from any other friend. And though it is a single woman's duty to take her lot and make the best of it, with God's help, it is no' to be denied, that it is not the lot a woman would choose. My saying it doesna make it true, but ask you the women to whom you justly give so high a place, how it was with them. Was it their own free choice that put them where they are? If they speak the truth, they will say 'No.' Either no man asked them--though that is rare--or else in youth they have had their work laid ready to their hands. They had a father and mother, or brothers and sisters, that they could not forsake for a stranger. Or they gave their love unsought, and had none to give when it was asked. Or they fell out with their lovers, or another wiled them away, or death divided them. Sometimes a woman's life passes quietly and busily away, with no thoughts of the future, till one day she wakes up with a great start of surprise and pain, to the knowledge that her youth is past--that she is an 'old maid.' And if a chance offer comes then, ten to one but she shuts her eyes, and lays hold on the hand that is held out to her--so feared is she of the solitary life before her."
"And," said Graeme, in a low voice, "God is good to her if she has not a sadder wakening soon."
"It is possible, my dear, but it proves the truth of what I was saying, all the same; that it is seldom by a woman's free choice that she finds herself alone in life. Sometimes, but not often, a woman sits down and counts the cost, and chooses a solitary path. It is not every wise man that can discern a strong and beautiful spirit, if it has its home in an unlovely form, and many such are passed by with a slighting look, or are never seen at all. It is possible that such a woman may have the sense to see, that a solitary life is happiness compared with the pain and shame a true woman must feel in having to look down upon her husband; and so when the wise and the worthy pass by, she turns her eyes from all others, and says to herself and to the world, with what heart she may, that she has no need of help. But does that end the pain? Does it make her strong to say it? May not the slight implied in being overlooked rankle in her heart till it is changed and hardened? I am afraid the many single women we see and hear of, who live to themselves, giving no sympathy and seeking none, proves it past all denying. My dear, folk may say what they like about woman's sphere and woman's mission--and great nonsense they have spoken of late--but every true woman kens well that her right sphere is a home of her own, and that her mission is to find her happiness in the happiness of her husband and children. There are exceptional cases, no doubt, but that is the law of nature. Though why I should be saying all this to you, Miss Graeme, my dear, is mair than I ken."
There was a long silence after this. Mrs Snow knew well that Graeme sat without reply because she would not have the conversation come back to her, or to home affairs, again. But her friend had something more to say, and though her heart ached for the pain she might give, she could not leave it unsaid.
"We were speaking about your friend and the work she has been honoured to do. It is a great work, and she is a noble woman. God bless her! And, dear, though I dinna like the thought of your leaving your brother's house, it is not because I dinna think that you might put your hand to the same work with the same success. I am sure you could do, in that way, a good work for God and man. It is partly that I am shy of new schemes, and partly because I am sure the restlessness that is urging you to it will pass away; but it is chiefly because I think you have good and holy work laid to your hand already. Whatever you may think now, dear, they are far better and happier here at home, and will be all their lives, because of you.
"I'm no' saying but you might go away for a wee while. The change would do you good. You will come with us, or you will follow after, if you like it better; and then you might take your sister, and go and see your brother Norman, and your wee nephew, as we spoke of the other day. But this is your home, love, and here lies your work, believe me. And, my bairn, the restless fever of your heart will pass away; not so soon, maybe, as if it had come upon you earlier in life, or as if you were of a lighter nature. But it will pass. Whist! my darling," for Graeme had risen with a gesture of entreaty or denial. "Whist, love; I am not asking about its coming or its causes. I am only bidding you have patience till it pass away."
Graeme sat down again without a word. They sat a long time quite silent, and when Graeme spoke, it was to wonder that Arthur and the others were not come home.
"They must have gone to the lecture, after all, but that must be over by this time. They will be as hungry as hawks. I must go and speak to Sarah."
And she went away, saying sadly and a little bitterly to herself, that the friend on whose kindness and counsel she had relied, had failed her in her time of need.
"But I must go all the same. I cannot stay to die by slow degrees, of sloth, or weariness, or discontent, whichever it may be. Oh me! And I thought the worst was past, and Janet says it will never be quite past, till I am grown old."
And Janet sat with reverent, half-averted eyes, seeing the sorrow, that in trying to hide, the child of her love had so plainly revealed. She knew that words are powerless to help the soreness of such wounds, and yet she chid herself that she had so failed to comfort her. She knew that Graeme had come to her in the vague hope for help and counsel, and that she was saying now to herself that her friend had failed her.
"For, what could I say? I couldna bid her go. What good would that do, when she carries her care with her? And it is not for the like of her to vex her heart out with bairns, keeping at a school. I ken her better than she kens herself. Oh! but it is sad to think that the best comfort I can give her, is to look the other way, and not seem to see. Well, there is One she winna seek to hide her trouble from, and He can comfort her." _