Janet's Love and Service Part 24

They all went away--the lads and Emily, and quietness fell on those that remained. The reaction from the excitement in which they had been living for the last few weeks was very evident in all. Even Will and Rosie needed coaxing to go back to the learning of lessons, and the enjoyment of their old pleasures; and so Graeme did not wonder that Marian was dull, and did not care to exert herself. The weather had changed, too, and they quite agreed in thinking it was much nicer to stay within doors than to take their usual walks and drives. So Marian occupied the arm-chair or the sofa, with work in her hand, or without it, as the case might be, and her sister's fears with regard to her were, for a time, at rest. For she did not look ill; she was as cheerful as ever, entering into all the new arrangements which Janet's departure rendered necessary with interest, and sharing with Graeme the light household tasks that fell to her lot when the "help" was busy with heavier matters.

There was not much that was unpleasant, for the kind and watchful eyes of Mrs Snow were quite capable of keeping in view the interests of two households, and though no longer one of the family, she was still the ruling spirit in their domestic affairs. With her usual care for the welfare of the bairns, she had sent the experienced Hannah Lovejoy up the brae, while she contented herself with "breaking in" Sephronia, Hannah's less helpful younger sister. There was a great difference between the service of love that had all their life long s.h.i.+elded them from trouble and annoyance, and Miss Lovejoy's abrupt and rather familiar ministrations. But Hannah was faithful and capable, indeed, "a treasure," in these days of dest.i.tution in the way of help; and if her service was such as money could well pay, she did not grudge it, while her wages were secure; and housekeeping and its responsibilities were not so disagreeable to Graeme as she had feared. Indeed, by the time the first letter from Norman came, full of mock sympathy for her under her new trials, she was quite as ready to laugh at herself as any of the rest. Her faith in Hannah was becoming fixed, and it needed some expostulations from Mrs Snow to prevent her from letting the supreme power, as to household matters, pa.s.s into the hands of her energetic auxiliary.

"My dear," said she, "there's many a thing that Hannah could do well enough, maybe better than you could, for that matter; but you should do them yourself, notwithstanding. It's better for her, and it's better for you, too. Every woman should take pleasure in these household cares. If they are irksome at first they winna be when you are used to them; and, my dear, it may help you through many an hour of trouble and weariness to be able to turn your hand to these things. There is great comfort in it sometimes."

Graeme laughed, and suggested other resources that might do as well to fall back upon in a time of trouble, but Mrs Snow was not to be moved.

"My dear, that may be all true. I ken books are fine things to keep folk from thinking, for a time; but the trouble that is put away that way comes back on one again; and it's only when folk are doing their duty that the Lord gives them abiding comfort. I ken by myself. There have been days in my life when my heart must have been broken, or my brain grown crazed, if I hadna needed to do this and to do that, to go here and to go there. My dear, woman's work, that's never done, is a great help to many a one, as well as me. And trouble or no trouble, it is what you ought to know and do in your father's house."

So Graeme submitted to her friend's judgment, and conscientiously tried to become wise in all household matters, keeping track of pieces of beef and bags of flour, of breakfasts, dinners and suppers, in a way that excited admiration, and sometimes other feelings, in the mind of the capable Hannah.

So a very pleasant winter wore on, and the days were beginning to grow long again, before the old dread was awakened in Graeme. For only in one way was Marian different from her old self. She did not come to exert herself. She was, perhaps, a little quieter, too, but she was quite cheerful, taking as much interest as ever in home affairs and in the affairs of the village. Almost every day, after the sleighing became good, she enjoyed a drive with Graeme or her father, or with Mr Snow in his big sleigh after the "bonny greys." They paid visits, too, stopping a few minutes at Judge Merle's or Mr Greenleaf's, or at some other friendly home in the village; and if their friends' eyes grew grave and very tender at the sight of them, it did not for a long time come into Graeme's mind that it was because they saw something that was invisible as yet to hers. So the time wore on, and not one in the minister's happy household knew that each day that pa.s.sed so peacefully over them was leaving one less between them and a great sorrow.

The first fear was awakened in Graeme by a very little thing. After several stormy Sabbaths had kept her sister at home from church, a mild, bright day came, but it did not tempt her out.

"I am very sorry not to go, Graeme," said she; "but I was so weary last time. Let me stay at home to-day."

So she stayed; and all the way down the hill and over the valley the thought of her darkened the sunlight to her sister's eyes. Nor was the shadow chased away by the many kindly greetings that awaited her at the church door; for no one asked why her sister was not with her, but only how she seemed to-day. It was well that the suns.h.i.+ne, coming in on the corner where she sat, gave her an excuse for letting fall her veil over her face, for many a bitter tear fell behind it. When the services were over, and it was time to go home, she shrunk from answering more inquiries about Marian, and hastened away, though she knew that Mrs Merle was waiting for her at the other end of the broad aisle, and that Mrs Greenleaf had much ado to keep fast hold of her impatient boy till she should speak a word with her. But she could not trust herself to meet them and to answer them quietly, and hurried away. So she went home again, over the valley and up the hill with the darkness still round her, till Menie's bright smile and cheerful welcome chased both pain and darkness away.

But when the rest were gone, and the sisters were left to the Sabbath quiet of the deserted home, the fear came back again, for in a little Marian laid herself down with a sigh of weariness, and slept with her cheek laid on the Bible that she held in her hand. As Graeme listened to her quick breathing, and watched the hectic rising on her cheek, she felt, for the moment, as though all hope were vain. But she put the thought from her. It was too dreadful to be true; and she chid herself for always seeing the possible dark side of future events, and told herself that she must change in this respect. With all her might she strove to reason away the sickening fear at her heart, saying how utterly beyond belief it was that Menie could be going to die--Menie, who had always been so well and so merry. She was growing too fast, that was all; and when the spring came again, they would all go to some quiet place by the sea-sh.o.r.e, and run about among the rocks, and over the sands, till she should be well and strong as ever again.

"If spring were only come!" she sighed to herself. But first there were weeks of frost and snow, and then weeks of bleak weather, before the mild sea-breezes could blow on her drooping flower, and Graeme could not reason her fears away; nor when the painful hour of thought was over, and Menie opened her eyes with a smile, did her cheerful sweetness chase it away.

After this, for a few days, Graeme grow impatient of her sister's quietness, and strove to win her to her old employments again. She would have her struggle against her wish to be still, and took her to ride and to visit, and even to walk, when the day was fine. But this was not for long. Menie yielded always, and tried with all her might to seem well and not weary; but it was not always with success; and Graeme saw that it was in vain to urge her beyond her strength; so, in a little, she was allowed to fall back into her old ways again.

"I will speak to Doctor Chittenden, and know the worst," said Graeme, to herself, but her heart grew sick at the thought of what the worst might be.

By and by there came a mild bright day, more like April than January.

Mr Elliott had gone to a distant part of the parish for the day, and had taken Will and Rosie with him, and the sisters were left alone.

Graeme would have gladly availed herself of Deacon Snow's offer to lend them grey Major, or to drive them himself for a few miles. The day was so fine, she said to Menie; but she was loth to go. It would be so pleasant to be a whole day quite alone together. Or, if Graeme liked, they might send down for Janet in the afternoon. Graeme sighed, and urged no more.

"We can finish our book, you know," went on Menie. "And there are the last letters to read to Mrs Snow. I hope n.o.body will come in. We shall have such a quiet day."

But this was not to be. There was the sound of sleigh-bells beneath the window, and Graeme looked out.

"It is Doctor Chittenden," said she.

Marian rose from the sofa, trying, as she always did, when the Doctor came, to look strong and well. She did not take his visits to herself.

Doctor Chittenden had always come now and then to see her father, and if his visits had been more frequent of late they had not been more formal or professional than before. Graeme watched him as he fastened his horse, and then went to the door to meet him.

"My child," said he, as he took her hand, and turned her face to the light, "are you quite well to-day?"

"Quite well," said Graeme; but she was very pale, and her cold hand trembled in his.

"You are quite well, I see," said he, as Marian came forward to greet him.

"I ought to be," said Marian, laughing and pointing to an empty bottle on the mantelpiece.

"I see. We must have it replenished."

"Don't you think something less bitter would do as well?" said Marian, making a pitiful face. "Graeme don't think it does me much good."

"Miss Graeme had best take care how she speaks disrespectfully of my precious bitters. But, I'll see. I have some doubts about them myself.

You ought to be getting rosy and strong upon them, and I'm afraid you are not," said he, looking gravely into the fair pale face that he took between his hands. He looked up, and met Graeme's look fixed anxiously upon him. He did not avert his quickly as he had sometimes done on such occasions. The gravity of his look deepened as he met hers.

"Where has your father gone?" asked he.

"To the Bell neighbourhood, for the day. The children have gone with him, and Graeme and I are going to have a nice quiet day," said Marian.

"_You_ are going with me," said the doctor.

"With you!"

"Yes. Have you any objections?"

"No. Only I don't care to ride just for the sake of riding, without having anywhere to go."

"But, I am going to take you somewhere. I came for that purpose. Mrs Greenleaf sent me. She wants you to-day."

"But, I can go there any time. I was there, not long ago; I would rather stay at home to-day with Graeme, thank you."

"And what am I to say to Mrs Greenleaf? No, I'm not going without you.

So, get ready and come with me."

Menie pouted. "And Graeme had just consented to my staying at home quietly for the day."

"Which does not prove Miss Graeme's wisdom," said the doctor. "Why, child, how many April days do you think we are going to have in January?

Be thankful for the chance to go out; for, if I am not much mistaken, we are to have a storm that will keep us all at home. Miss Graeme, get your sister's things. It is health for her to be out in such a day."

Graeme went without a word, and when she came back the doctor said,--

"There is no haste. I am going farther, and will call as I come back.

Lie down, dear child, and rest just now."

Graeme left the room, and as the doctor turned to go out, she beckoned him into the study.

"You don't mean to tell me that Menie is in danger?" said she, with a gasp.

"I am by no means sure what I shall say to you. It will depend on how you are likely to listen," said the doctor, gravely.

Graeme strove to command herself and speak calmly.

"Anything is better than suspense." Then, laying her hand on his arm, she added, "She is not worse! Surely you would have told us!--"

"My dear young lady, calm yourself. She is not worse than she has been.

The chances of recovery are altogether in her favour. The indications of disease are comparatively slight--that is, she has youth on her side, and a good const.i.tution. If the month of March were over, we would have little to fear with another summer before us. Your mother did not die of consumption?"

"No, but--" The remembrance of what Janet had told her about their "bonny Aunt Marian" took away Graeme's power to speak.