_ CHAPTER FORTY.
Graeme awoke in the morning to wonder at all the doubts and anxieties that had filled her mind in the darkness; for she was aroused by baby kisses on her lips, and opened her eyes to see her sister Rose, with her nephew in her arms, and her face as bright as the May morning, smiling down upon her. Rose disappointed and sad! Rose hiding in her heart hopes that were never to be realised! She listened to her voice, ringing through the house, like the voice of the morning lark, and wondered at her own folly. She laughed, as Rose babbled to the child in the wonderful baby language in which she so excelled; but tears of thankfulness rose to her eyes as she remembered the fears of the night, and set them face to face with the joy of the morning.
"I could not have borne it," she said to herself. "I am afraid I never could have borne to see my darling drooping, as she must have done. I am content with my own lot. I think I would not care to change anything the years have brought to me. But Rosie--. Ah! well, I might have known! I know I ought to trust for Rosie, too, even if trouble were to come. But oh! I am very glad and thankful for her sake."
She was late in the breakfast-room, and she found Harry there.
"'The early bird,' you know, Graeme," said he. "I have been telling Rosie what a scolding you were giving me last night on our way home."
"But he won't tell me what it was all about," said Rose.
"I cannot. I don't know myself. I have an idea that you had something to do with it, Rosie. But I can give no detailed account of the circumstances, as the newspapers say."
"It is not absolutely necessary that you should," said Graeme, smiling.
"I hope you are in a much better humour this morning, Graeme."
"I think I am in a pretty good humour. Not that I confess to being very cross last night, however."
"It was he who was cross, I daresay," said Rose. "You brought him away before supper! No wonder he was cross. Are you going to stay very long, Harry?"
"Why? Have you any commands for me to execute?"
"No; but I am going to introduce a subject that will try your temper, judging from our conduct yesterday. I am afraid you will be threatening to beat some one."
Harry shrugged his shoulders.
"Now, Graeme, don't you call that flippant? Is it anything about the big doctor, Rosie?"
"You won't beat him, will you Harry? No. It is only about his sister. Graeme, Fanny has given me leave to invite her here for a few days, if you have no objection. She cannot be enjoying herself very much where she is staying, and it will be a real holiday to the little thing to come here for a while. She is very easily amused. She makes pleasure out of everything. Mayn't she come?"
"Certainly, if you would like her to come; I should like to know her very much."
"And is the big brother to come, too?" asked Arthur.
"No. He leaves town to-day. Will you go with me, Harry, to fetch her here?"
"But what about 'papa and mamma,' to whom you were to be shown? The cunning, little thing has some design upon you, Rosie, or, perhaps, on some of the rest of us."
Rose laughed.
"Don't be frightened, Harry. You are safe, as you are not domesticated with us. And I intend to show myself to 'papa and mamma' later, if you don't object."
"There! look at Graeme. She thinks you and I are quarrelling, Rosie. She is as grave as a judge."
"Tell us about the party, Harry," said Fanny.
"It was very pleasant. I don't think Graeme enjoyed it much, however. I wonder, too, that she did not, for there were more nice people there than we usually see at parties. It was more than usually agreeable, I thought."
"You are degenerating, Harry," said his brother. "I thought you were beyond all that sort of thing. I should have thought you would have found it slow, to say the least."
"And then to make him lose the supper! It was too bad of you, Graeme," said Rose.
"Oh! she didn't. I went back again."
They all exclaimed. Only Harry laughed.
"Can I do anything for you and your friend, Rosie?" asked he.
"Yes, indeed you can. I intend to make a real holiday for the little thing. We are open to any proposal in the way of pleasure, riding, driving, boating, picnicking, one and all."
"It is very kind of you, Harry, to offer," said Graeme.
"Hem! not at all. I shall be most happy," said Harry.
"Oh! we shall not be exacting. We are easily amused, little Etta and I."
Miss Goldsmith's visit was a success. She was a very nice little girl, whose life had been passed in the country--not in a village even, but quite away from neighbours, on a farm, in which her father had rather unfortunately invested the greater part of his means. It might not prove to be unfortunate in the end, Etta explained to them, because the land was valuable, only in the meantime it seemed to take all the income just to keep things going. But by and by she hoped farming would pay, and the place was beautiful, and they lived very happily there, if they only had a little more money, Etta added gravely.
Dick was the hero who was to retrieve the fallen fortunes of the family, Etta thought. He was her only own brother. All the rest of the children were only her half-brothers and sisters. But notwithstanding the hard times to which Etta confessed, they were a very happy family, it seemed.
Everything was made pleasure by this little girl. It was pleasure just to drive through the streets, to see the well-dressed people, to look in at the shop-windows. Shopping was pleasure, though she had little to spend. An hour in a bookseller's, or in a fancy shop, was pleasure. The churches, old and new, were wonderful to her, some for one reason, some for another. Rose and she became independent and strong-minded, and went everywhere without an escort. They spent a day in wandering about the shady walks of the new cemetery, and an afternoon gazing down on the city from the cathedral towers. They paid visits and received them; and, on rainy days, worked and read together with great delight, if not with much profit. Rose, with both heart and hands, helped her friend to make the most of her small allowance for dress; and contrived, out of odds and ends, to make pretty, inexpensive ornaments for her, and presents for her little brothers and sisters at home. She taught her new patterns in crochet, and new stitches in Berlin wool. She even gave her a music lesson, now and then, and insisted on her practising, daily, that she might get back what she had lost since she left school, and so be able the better to teach her little sisters when she went home. In short, she contrived to fill up the time with amusement, or with work of some sort. Not a moment but was occupied in some way.
Of course, Graeme was sometimes included in their plans for the day, and so were Fanny and baby, but for the most part the young girls were occupied with each other; and the visit, which was to have been for a few days, lengthened out beyond the month, and might have been longer than that, even, only Rose had a slight, feverish attack which confined her to her room for a day or two, and then Etta could no longer hide from herself that she ought to go home.
"I hope I shall not find that this pleasant time has spoiled me. I think papa and mamma are somewhat afraid. I mean to be good, and contented, and helpful; but I know I am only a silly little thing. Oh! Rosie! if you were only going home with me for a little while!"
"I should like it very much, indeed," said Rose.
"Of course, everything is very different at our house, but you wouldn't mind that. Miss Elliott, don't you think you could spare Rose to me for a few days?"
Graeme shook her head.
"I think I have spared her to you a good many days. I have seen very little of her for a long time, I think."
Miss Goldsmith looked grieved and penitent. "Nonsense, Etta," said Rose; "she is only laughing at you. She has had you and me, too. And I should like very much to go with you. This is the nicest time of the year to be in the country, I think. What do you say, Graeme?"
Little Etta clasped her hands, and looked at Graeme so entreatingly, that Rose laughed heartily. But Graeme said nothing encouraging. However, the very hottest days of the summer came that season among the first June days, and, because of the heat, Graeme thought Rose did not recover from her illness so quickly as she ought to have done. She is languid and pale, though pretty busy still, and cheerful, and Graeme proposed that she should go with her friend for a few days, at least. Etta was enchanted.
"I am afraid my resolutions about being good, and helping mamma, and teaching the little ones, would have fallen through, for I know I am a foolish girl. But with Rose to help me, just at first, I shall succeed I know."
"Don't be silly, Etta," said Rose. "You are a great deal wiser and better, and of a great deal more use in the world, than ever I was, or am like to be. All my wisdom is lip-wisdom, and my goodness lip-goodness. If they will help you, you shall have the benefit of them; but pray don't make me blush before Graeme and Fanny, who know me so well."
No time had to be lost in preparations. The decision was made one day, and they were to leave the next. Harry, with his friend and partner, came up one night to bid Miss Goldsmith good-bye, and heard for the first time of Rose's intention to go with her. Harry did not hear it with pleasure, indeed; he made no secret of his vexation. There was a little bantering talk between them, in the style that Graeme disliked so much, and then Rose went away for a few minutes.
"Graeme," said Harry, "what is all this about? It seems to me Rose ought to have had enough of her little friend by this time. What freak is this she has taken about the country, and a change of air, and nonsense?"
"If it is a freak, it is mine," said Graeme, quietly. "Rose needs a change. She is not ill, but still she is not quite well, and I am very glad she is to go with Miss Goldsmith."
"A change," repeated Harry. "Why could she not go with Fanny to the seaside, if she needs a change?"
"But Fanny is not going for several weeks yet. Rose will be home before that time. She will not be away more than a fortnight, I hope."
"A fortnight, indeed! What has the time to do with it? It is the going at all that is so foolish: You astonish me, Graeme."
"You astonish me, Harry! Really I cannot understand why you should care so much about it."
"Well, well! If you are pleased, and she is pleased, I need not trouble myself about it," said Harry, sulkily.
"What has happened to you, Harry?" said Fanny. "You are not like yourself, to-night."
"He is a great deal more like the Harry of old times," said Graeme. "Like the Harry you used to know long ago, Mr Millar, than like the reasonable, dignified person we have had among us lately."
"I was just thinking so," said Mr Millar.
"Why should not Rosie go?" persisted Fanny. "I think it must be a very stupid place, from all that Etta says; still, if Rose wishes it, why should she not go?"
"I believe it is the big brother Harry is afraid of," said Arthur, laughing. Graeme and Fanny laughed, too.
"I don't think it is a laughing matter," growled Harry. "How would you like it if she were to throw herself away on that red-headed giant?"
Arthur and Fanny laughed, still, but Graeme looked grave. "It would be just like a silly girl like Rose," continued Harry, gloomily.
"Harry," said Graeme, "I think you are forgetting what is due to your sister. You should be the last person to couple Rose's name with that of any gentleman."
"Of course, it is only among ourselves; and, I tell you, Graeme, you are spoiling Rosie--"
"Harry! be quiet. I don't choose to listen to you on that subject."
"I declare, Harry, you are getting morbid on the subject of Rosie's conquests. It is the greatest folly imaginable," said Arthur.
"Well, it may be so. At any rate, I shall say no more. Are you coming, Charlie? I must go."
He went to the foot of the stairs, and called: "Rose, are you coming down again? I must go."
Rose came flying down.
"Must you go, Harry? I am just done with what I needed to do. Don't be cross with me, Harry." And greatly to his surprise, as she put her arms around his neck, he felt her tears upon his cheek.
"Why, Rosie, what ails you? I didn't mean to be cross, Rosie, my darling."
But, in a minute, Rose was smiling through her tears.
"Rosie, dear," whispered her brother, "you are a very silly little girl. I think you are the very silliest girl I know. I wish--" Rose wiped her eyes.
"Don't go yet, Harry. I will come in immediately; and please don't tell Graeme that I am so silly. She wouldn't like it at all."
"Graeme is as silly as you are," growled Harry.
Rose laughed, and ran up-stairs, but came down in a minute with Miss Goldsmith. Harry had brought a great paper of sweets for the little sisters at home, for which Etta thanked him very prettily, and then she said:
"I hope you are not afraid to trust Rose with us? We will take great care of her, I assure you."
"Since I am too silly to take care of myself," said Rose.
They had a pleasant evening enough, all things considered, and it was some time before Harry and his friend went away.
"I must say good-bye for a long time, Miss Rose," said Mr Millar. "I shall have sailed before you are home again, I suppose."
"You go in the first steamer, then?"
"I don't know, I am not quite sure yet. I have not quite decided."
"Of course, he goes by the first steamer," said Harry. "He should have gone long ago. There is no use dwelling longer over so simple a matter."
Rose opened her eyes very wide.
"Is that the way you speak to your friend and partner?" said Fanny.
"Really, Harry, I am afraid your fine temper is being spoiled," said Rose. "I think Mr Millar is very good not to mind you."
"I understand Harry," said his friend.
"You don't understand yourself, nor what is good for you. Good-bye, dear, silly, little Rose."
"Good-bye, Harry. Don't be cross."
"Rose," said Graeme, when they were up-stairs alone for the night, "I think it is the big brother that put Harry out of temper to-night." Rose laughed.
"He seems quite afraid of him," continued Graeme.
"And you are a little bit afraid of him, too, Graeme, or you never would have told me about Harry."
"No. But I am just a little afraid for him."
"You need not be. Harry thinks my desire for admiration insatiable, I know, but it is too bad of you, Graeme, to intimate as much. I have a great mind to tell you a secret, Graeme. But you must promise not to tell it again; at least, not yet."
"Well," said Graeme.
"If I should stay away longer than I mean to do at present, and Harry should get very unhappy about me, perhaps you might tell him. Harry thinks I cannot manage my own affairs," added Rose, a vivid colour rising on her cheeks. "And he has a mind to help me. He has not helped me much, yet. Ah! well, there is no use going over all that."
"What is the secret you are going to tell me?" asked Graeme.
"I don't know whether I ought to tell. But it will be safe with you. Graeme, the big doctor is engaged."
"Well," said Graeme.
"It is not all smooth sailing, yet. I am afraid it may interfere somewhat with his success in retrieving the fortunes of the family, as Etta has always been hoping he might do. But she is quite pleased for all that, poor dear little thing. See that you don't tell Harry."
"Well, is that all you have to say on the subject?" asked her sister.
"Graeme! I do believe you are as bad as Harry. Do you fancy that it is I to whom Dr Goldsmith is engaged? By no means. I am afraid it is a foolish affair; but it may fall through yet. She is a young widow, and has two children, and a little money. No. It is very foolish of Harry to fancy things. He is very stupid, I think. But you are not to tell him, because, really, the secret is not mine, and besides, I have another reason. Good-night, dear."
And so they went away in the morning. Rose's visit to the country was quite as agreeable as had been Miss Goldsmith's to the town, judging from the time she stayed there, and from the letters she sent home. The country was lovely, and she wondered any one would live in the city who could leave it. She kept a journal for Graeme, and it was filled with accounts of rides, and drives, and sails; with, now and then, hints of work done, books read, of children's lessons, and torn frocks, of hay-making, and butter-making; and if Graeme had any misgiving as to the perfect enjoyment of her sister, it could not have been her letters that had anything to do with it.
At last there came word of an expedition to be undertaken to a lake far-away in the woods, where there were pond-lilies and lake trout in abundance. They were to carry a tent, and be out one night, perhaps two, and Mr and Mrs Goldsmith were going with them, and all the children as well. This was the last letter. Rose herself came soon after, to find a very quiet house, indeed. Fanny and her son had gone to the seaside, whither Graeme and Rose, perhaps, might go, later. Mr Millar had gone, too, not by the first steamer, nor by the second, however. If Rose had been home two days sooner, she might have seen him before he went, Harry told her; and Rose said, "What a pity! If I had only known, I could so easily have come!" That was all.
How quiet the house was during those long summer days! It was like the coming again of the old time, when they and Nelly used to have the house in the garden to themselves, with only Will coming and going, till night brought the brothers home.
"What happy, happy days they were!" said Rose, with a sigh.
"They
were happy days," said Graeme. "Very happy days."
She did not seem to hear the regretful echo in her sister's voice, nor did she take her to task for the idle hands that lay folded on her lap, nor disturb by word or look the times of silent musing, that grew longer and more frequent as those uneventful days passed on. What was to be said? The doubts and fears that had made her unhappy in the spring, and even before the spring, were coming back again. Rose was not at peace with herself, nothing was easier to be seen than that; but whether the struggle was with pride, or anger, or disappointment, or whether all these and something more had to do with it, she could only wait till time, or chance, or Rose of her own free will, should tell.
For Graeme could not bring herself to speak of the trouble which her sister, sad and preoccupied, in so many nameless ways betrayed. She would not even seem to see it, and so strove to make it appear that it was her own industry, her occupation with book, or pen, or needle, that made the silence between them, on those days when Rose sat listless or brooding, heedless of books, or work, or of whatever the day might bring. And when the fit of gloom wore over, or when, startled by some sudden fear of being observed, she roused herself, and came back with an effort to the things about her, Graeme was always ready, yet not too eager, to make the most of excuses. Either the heat made her languid, or the rain made her dull, or the yesterday's walk had been exhausting; and Graeme would assent, and warn or reprove, as the case seemed to require, never intimating, by word or look, how clearly she saw through it all, and how she grieved and suffered with her.
And, when seized upon by restlessness or impatience, she grew irritable and exacting, and "ill to do with," as Janet would have said, Graeme stood between her and the wonder and indignation, of her brothers, and, which was harder to do, shielded her from her own anger and self-contempt, when she came to herself again. She went out with her for long walks, and did what was kinder still, she let her go by herself, to rest her mind by tiring out her body, at times when the fever fit was on her, making her fret and chafe at trifles that would have made her laugh if all had been well with her.
It was an anxious time to Graeme. When their brothers were with them, Rose was little different from the Rose of old, as far as they could see; and, at such times, even Graeme would be beguiled into a momentary belief that she had been letting her fears speak, when there was little cause. But another day would come, bringing the old listlessness or restlessness, and Graeme could only watch and wait for the moment when a cheerful word, or a chiding one, might be spoken for her sister's good, or a movement of some kind made to beguile her into occupation or pleasure for a little while. But, through all her watching, and waiting, and anxiety, Graeme spoke no word that might betray to her sister her knowledge that something was amiss with her.
For, indeed, what could she say? Even in her secret thoughts she had shrunk from looking too closely on the cloud of trouble that had fallen on the life of her young sister. Was it misunderstanding, or wounded pride, or disappointment? Or was it something which time and change might not so easily or so surely dispel? There were no words to be spoken, however it might be. That was plain enough, Graeme said to herself, remembering some years of her own experience, and the silent life she had lived unsuspected among them all.
Not that any such trouble as had befallen her, had come upon Rose. That was never for a moment to be believed. Nothing that had happened to Rose, or was like to happen, could so change life to her as hers had been changed. Rose was wiser and stronger than she had been, and she was younger, too, and, perhaps, as Janet had said, "of a lighter nature." Graeme comforted herself thus, saying to herself that the cloud would pass away; and she waited and watched, and cared for her, and soothed or chided, or shielded her still. She did all this sorrowfully enough at times, yet hopefully, too, for she knew that whatever the trouble might be that, for the present, made the summer days a weariness to the desponding girl, it would pass away; and so she waited, and had patience, and prayed that, out of it all, she might come wiser and stronger, and more fitted for the work that was awaiting her somewhere in the world.
"Graeme," said her sister, one day when they had been sitting for a long time silent together, "suppose we were to go and see Norman and Hilda this fall, instead of in the spring, as they propose."
"Would you like it?" asked Graeme, a little surprised.
"Yes. For some things I would like it;" and Graeme fancied there was suppressed eagerness in her manner. "It is a better season to go, for one thing--a better season for health, I mean. One bears the change of climate better, they say."
"But you have been here so short a time. What would Arthur say, and Fanny? It would look as if you only thought yourself a visitor here--as if your home was with Norman."
Rose shrugged her shoulders.
"Well! neither Arthur nor Fanny would be inconsolable. The chances are it may be my home. It is worth taking into consideration. Indeed, I have been considering the matter for some time past."
"Nonsense! Don't talk foolishly, Rose. It is not long since you wished me to promise that we should always remain together, and I have no thought of going West to stay very long."
"And why not? I am sure Norman has a right to grumble at our being here so long."
"Not at you, Rosie."
"No. Not at me. And, besides, I was not thinking of Norman, altogether. I was thinking of making a home for myself out there. Why not?"
Graeme looked up, a little startled.
"I don't understand you, Rose."
Rose laughed.
"No, you don't. But you think you do. Of course, there is only one way in which a woman can have a home according, to the generally received opinion. It must be made for her. But one might fancy you should be beyond that by this time, Graeme," added Rose, a little scornfully.
Graeme said nothing, and Rose went on.
"It would not be easy here, I know; but out there you and I could make a home to ourselves, and be independent, and have a life of our own. It is so different there. You ought to go there just to understand how very different it is."
"If we needed a home," said Graeme. "But, Rose, I am content with the home we have."
"Content!" repeated Rose, impatiently. "There is surely something better than content to be looked for in the world;" and she rose and walked about the room.
"Content is a very good thing to have," said Graeme, quietly.
"Yes, if one could have it. But now, Graeme, do tell me what is the good of such a life as we are living now?--as I am living, I ought to say. Your life and work are worth a great deal to the rest of us; though you must let me say I often wonder it contents you. Think of it, Graeme! What does it all amount to, as far as I am concerned, I mean? A little working, and reading, and music; a little visiting and housekeeping, if Fanny be propitious--coming, and going, and smiling, and making believe enjoy it, when one feels ready to fly. I am sick of the thought of it all."
Graeme did not answer her. She was thinking of the time when she had been as impatient of her daily life as this, and of how powerless words, better than she could hope to speak, had been to help her; and though she smiled and shook her head at the young girl's impetuous protest against the uselessness of her life, her eyes, quite unconsciously, met her sister's with a look of wistful pity, that Rose, in her youthful impatience and jealousy, was quick to resent.
"Of course, the rest would make an outcry and raise obstacles--that is, if they were to be consulted at all," she went on. "But
you ought to know better, Graeme," added she, in a voice that she made sharp, so that her sister need not know that it was very near being tearful.
"But, Rose, you have not told me yet what it is you would do, if you could have your own way. And what do you mean by having a life of your own, and being independent? Have you any plan?"
Rose sat down, with a little sigh of impatience.
"There is surely something that we could do, you and I together. I can have no plan, you know quite well; but you might help me, instead of--" Instead of laughing at me, she was going to say, but she stopped, for though Graeme's lips were smiling, her eyes had a shadow in them that looked like coming tears; and the gaze, that seemed resting on the picture on the wall, went farther, Rose knew; but whether into the past or the future, or whether it was searching into the reason of this new eagerness of hers to be away and at work, she could not tell. However it might be, it vexed and fretted her, and she showed it by sudden impatient movements, which recalled her sister's thoughts.
"What is it, Rose? I am afraid I was thinking about something else. I don't think I quite understand what you were saying last," said Graeme, taking up her work as a safe thing on which to fix her eyes.
"For I must not let her see that I know there must be a cause for this sudden wish for a new life," said she to herself. If she had done what she longed to do, she would have taken the impatient, troubled child in her arms, and whispered, as Janet had whispered to her that night, so long ago, that the restless fever of her heart would pass away; she would have soothed and comforted her, with tender words, as Janet had not dared to do. She would have bidden her wait, and have patience with herself and her life, till this cloud passed by--this light cloud of her summer morning, that was only mist to make the rising day more beautiful, and not the sign of storm and loss, as it looked to her young, affrighted eyes.
But this she could not do. Even with certain knowledge of the troubles which she only guessed, she knew it would be vain to come to her with tender, pitying words, and worse than vain to try to prove that nothing had happened to her, or was like to happen, that could make the breaking up of her old life, and the beginning of a new one, a thing to be thought of by herself or those who loved her. So, after a few stitches carefully taken, for all her sister could see, she said,--
"And, then, there are so few things that a woman can do."
The words brought back so vividly that night in the dark, when she had said them out of a sore heart to her friend, that her work fell on her lap again, and she met her sister's eye with a look that Rose could not understand.
"You are not thinking of what I have been saying. Why do you look at me in that strange way?" said she, pettishly.
"I am thinking of it, indeed. And I did not know that I was looking any other than my usual way. I was saying to myself, 'Has the poor child got to go through all that for herself, as I have done?' Oh! Rosie, dear! if I could only give you the benefit of all my vexed thoughts on that very subject!"
"Well, why not? That is just what I want. Only, don't begin in that discouraging way, about there being so few things a woman can do. I know all that, already."
"We might go to Norman for a while together, at any rate," said Graeme, feeling how impossible it would be to satisfy one another by what might be said, since all could not be spoken between them.
"Yes. That is just what I said, at first. And we could see about it there. We could much more easily make our plans, and carry them out there, than here. And, in the meantime, we could find plenty to do in Hilda's house with the children and all the rest. I wish we could go soon."
And then she went over what she had often gone over before, the way of life in their brother Norman's house--Hilda's housekeeping, and her way with her children, and in society, and so on, Graeme asking questions, and making remarks, in the hope that the conversation might not, for this time, come back to the vexed question, of what women may do in the world. It grew dark in the meantime, but they were waiting for Harry and letters, and made no movement; and, by and by, Rose said, suddenly:
"I am sure you used to think about all this, Graeme--about woman's work, and how stupid it is to live on in this way, 'waiting at the pool,' as Hannah Lovejoy used to say. I declare it is undignified, and puts thoughts into people's heads, as though--. It would be different, if we were living in our father's house, or, even, if we had money of our own. You used to think so, yourself, Graeme. Why should Arthur and Harry do everything for us?"
"Yes, I remember. When Fanny first came, I think I had as many thoughts about all this as you have now. I was very restless, and discontented, and determined to go away. I talked to Janet about it one night."
"And she convinced you that you were all wrong, I suppose," said Rose. "And you were content ever after."
"No. I don't think she helped me much, at the time. But her great doctrine of patience and quiet waiting, and circumstances together, convinced me, afterward, that I did not need to go in search of my work, as seemed to me then the thing to do. I found it ready at my hand, though I could not see it then. Her wisdom was higher than mine. She said that out of it all would come content, and so it has."
"That was not saying much!" said Rose.
"No. It did not seem to me, much, when she said it. But she was right, all the same, and I was wrong. And it has all happened much better than if I had got my own way."
"But, Graeme, all that would not apply in the case of women, generally. That is begging the question, as Harry would say."
"But I am not speaking of women in general; I am speaking about myself, and my own work; and I say Janet was wise, though I was far from thinking it that night, as I mind well."
There was a pause, and then Rose said, in a low voice.
"It may have been right for you to stay at home then, and care for the rest of us, but it would be quite different now, with me, and I think with you, too. And how many women have to go and make a way of life for themselves. And it is right that it should be so; and Graeme, we might try."
Instead of answering her directly, Graeme said, after a little while,--
"Did I ever tell you Rose, dear, about that night, and all that Janet said to me? I told her how I wished to get out of my useless, unsatisfactory life, just as you have been telling me. Did I ever tell you all she said to me? I don't think I ever did. I felt then, just as you do now. I think I can understand your feeling, better than you suppose; and I opened my heart to Janet--I mean, I told her how sick I was of it all, and how good-for-nothing I felt myself to be, and how it all might be changed, if only I could find real work to do--"
And Graeme went on to tell much that had been said between them that night, about woman's work, and about old maids, and a little about the propriety of not setting one's face against the manifest lot of woman; and when she came to this part of it, she spoke with an attempt at playfulness, meant to cover, a little, the earnestness of all that went before. But neither in this nor in the rest, did she speak as though she meant Rose to take the lesson to herself, or as though it meant very much to either of them now; but rather implied by her words and manner, and by many a pathetic touch here and there, that she was dwelling on it as a pleasant reminiscence of the dear old friend, whose quaint sayings were household words among them, because of their wisdom, and because of the honour and the love they gave her. Her earnestness increased, as, by and by, she saw the impatience pass out of her sister's face and manner; and it never came into her mind that she was turning back a page in her own experience, over which Rose had long ago pondered with wonder and sadness.
"I could not make Janet see the necessity that seemed so clear to me," she went on. "I could not make her understand, or, at least, I thought she could not understand, for she spoke as though she thought that Fanny's coming, and those old vexations, made me wish to get away, and it was not easy to answer her when she said that my impatience and restlessness would all pass away, and that I must fulfil papa's last wish, and stay with the rest. I thought the time had come when the necessity for that was over, and that another way would be better for
me, certainly; and I thought for Arthur and Fanny, too, and for you, Rosie. But, Oh! how much wiser Janet was than I, that night. But I did not think so at the time. I was wild to be set free from the present, and to have my own will and go away. It was well that circumstances were too strong for me. It has come true, as Janet said. I think it is better for us all that I have been at home all those years. Fanny and I have done each other good. It has been better for us all."
She paused a moment, and then added,--
"Of course, if it had been necessary that I should go out into the world, and make my own way, I might have done as others have done, and won, at least, a measure of success. And so we might still, you and I together, Rose, if it were necessary, but that makes all the difference. There is no question of necessity for us, dear, at present, and as for God's work, and work for our fellow creatures, we can find that at home. Without separating from the others, I mean."
But Rose's face clouded again.
"There need be no question of separating from the others, Graeme. Norman is out there, and there are hundreds of women who have their own place and work in the world, who have not been driven by necessity to look for them--the necessity of making a living, I mean. There are other necessities that a woman must feel--some more than others, I suppose. It is an idle, foolish, vain life that I am living. I know that I have not enough to fill my life, Graeme. I know it, though I don't suppose I can make you understand it. I am past the age now to care for being petted, and amused, and made much of by the rest of you. I mean, I am too old now to feel that enough for my satisfaction. It is different with you, who really are good for something, and who have done so much, for Arthur and Fanny, and us all. And, besides, as you say, you are content; but as for me--oh! I know there is no use talking. I could never make you understand--There, I don't want to be naughty, and vex you--and we will say no more to-night. Shall I get a light?"
She stooped over her sister, and kissed her, and Graeme, putting her arms round her, said softly,--
"Only one word more, Rosie. I think I can understand you better than you believe, as Janet understood me that night, though I did not see it then, and you must just let me say one thing. My darling, I believe all that is troubling you, now, will pass away; but, if I am wrong, and if it be best that you have your own way about this work of yours--I mean, if it is right--circumstances will arrange themselves to that end, and it will all come easy for you, and me, too. We shall keep together, at any rate, and I am not afraid. And, love, a year or two does make a difference in people's feelings about things, though there is no good in my saying it to you, now, I know. But we will wait till Will comes home. We must be here to welcome him, even if his coming should be delayed longer than we hope now. I don't like to think of any plan for you and me, out of which Will must be left. And so many things may happen before a year is over. I remember how restless and troubled I was at that time. I don't like to think of it even now--and it is all past--quite past. And we will stay together, whatever happens, if we can, and, darling, you must have patience."
All this was said with many a caressing pause between, and then Rose said,--
"Well--yes--I suppose we must wait for Will."
But she did not say it cheerfully, and Graeme went on, after a little:
"And, dear, I have noticed more than once in my life that when a quiet time like this has come, it has come as a time of preparation for work of some sort; for the doing, or the bearing of God's will in some peculiar way; and we must not lose the good of these quiet days by being anxious about the future, or regretful over the past. It will all come right, love, you may be sure of that."
The last words were spoken hastily, for Harry's voice was heard, and Rose went softly out at one door, as he came in at the other; and when, in a little, he called from the foot of the stairs, as he always did, when he did not find her in her parlour, she came down, affecting surprise.
"So you are here at last, Harry? Are there any letters to-night?"
Yes, there were letters. Harry had read his, and gave them the news with a little grumbling, while the gas was being lighted. His friend and partner seemed intent on making the most of his long delayed holiday, and was going to lengthen it a little, by taking a run to Paris, perhaps even to Rome.
"With whom do you think, Graeme?" added he, his face clearing up suddenly. "With his brother Allan, and our Will. Won't they help one another to have a good time? Charlie takes it quite coolly, however, I must say. It was an even chance, at one time, whether he would go at all, and now, there is no telling when he will be back again. That is always the way. I wonder when I shall have my holiday? 'The willing horse,' you know, Rosie."
"It is very hard on you, Harry, dear. But I fancied you had a little trip yourself, lately, and enjoyed it, too. Was that in the interest of your friend?"
"Hem! Yes--indirectly. I did enjoy it. Fanny says she has had a very pleasant summer; and, if you are going down at all, Rosie, it is time you were going. They seem to have a very nice set of people there. I think if you were to go at once, I would take a run down with you--next week, perhaps. I think you would enjoy it."
"I thank you, Harry, dear. But, you know, Fanny's taste and mine are different. I don't always fancy
her pleasant people. And I should not think of taking you away on my account."
"Not at all. I shall go, at any rate. But I want you to go, Rosie, for a reason I have. And I promise you won't regret it. I wish Graeme would go, too."
"It would be charming if we could all go together," said Rose. "But it would be hardly worth while, we could make so short a stay, now."
"I enjoyed it very much," said Harry. "One gets to know people so much better in such a place, and I am sure you would like the Roxburys, Rosie, if you would only take pains to know them."
"My dear Harry! think what you are saying! Would they take pains to know me? They are Fanny's nice people, are they? Yes, I suppose so. However, I don't believe Graeme will care to go."
Graeme uttered an exclamation over her letter.
"It is from. Mr Snow," said she, with a pale face.
"Bad news?" asked Harry.
It was bad news, indeed. It told, in Mr Snow's brief way, that, within a few days, the illness, from which his wife had been suffering for some time, had taken a dangerous turn, rendering an operation necessary; and the letter was sent to prepare them for a possible fatal result.
"It gives her a chance, and that is all the doctors will say.
She says it will be all right whichever way it turns. God bless you all. Emily will tell you more."
"Harry," said Graeme, as he laid down the letter. "I must go to Janet."
"It would be a comfort to her if you could," said Harry, gravely.
"And to me," said Graeme. "I shall go early to-morrow."
There was not much more said about it. There was a little discussion about the trains, and the best way to take, and then Harry went away. Rose had not spoken a word while he was there, but the moment the door closed after him, she said, softly,--
"Harry does not think that I am going; but, dear, you promised that, whatever happened, we should keep together. And, Graeme, the quiet time has been to prepare you for this; and we are sure it will all be right, as Janet says. You will let me go with you, Graeme?" she pleaded; "you will never go and leave me here?"
So whatever Harry thought, Graeme could do nothing but yield; and the next morning the sisters were speeding southward, with fear in their hearts, but with peace and hope in them, also; for they knew, and they said to one another many times that day, that the words of their dear old friend would come true, and that in whatever way the trouble that had fallen on her might end, it would be for her all well. _