Janet's Love and Service Part 30

If Graeme grew pale and trembled as she listened, it was with no dread that she could name. If it was forced upon her that the time must come when her father must leave them, it lay in her thoughts, far-away. She saw his grave dimly as a place of rest, when the labours of a long life should be ended; she had no thought of change, or separation, or of the blank that such a blessed departure must leave. The peace, which had taken possession of his mind had its influence on hers, and she "feared no evil."

Afterwards, when the thought of this time and of these words came back she chid herself with impatience, and a strange wonder, that she should not have seen and understood all that was in his thought--forgetting in her first agony how much better was the blessed repose of these moments, than the knowledge of her coming sorrow could have made them.

They all pa.s.sed the rides and visits and the happy talks together. The preparations for the journey were all made. The good-byes were said to all except to Mrs Snow and Emily. The last night was come, and Graeme went round just as she always did, to close the doors and windows before she went to bed. She was tired, but not too tired to linger a little while at the window, looking out upon the scene, now so familiar and so dear. The shadows of the elms lay dark on the town, but the moonlight gleamed bright on the pond, and on the white houses of the village, and on the white stones in the grave-yard, grown precious to them all as Menie's resting-place. How peaceful it looked! Graeme thought of her sister's last days, and joyful hope, and wondered which of them all should first be called to lie down by Menie's side. She thought of the grave far-away on the other side of the sea, where they had laid her mother with her baby on her breast; but her thoughts were not all sorrowful. She thought of the many happy days that had come to them since the time that earth had been left dark and desolate by their mother's death, and realised for the moment how true it was, as her father had said to her, that G.o.d suffers no sorrow to fall on those who wait on Him, for which He does not also provide a balm.

"I will trust and not be afraid," she murmured.

She thought of her brothers and of the happy meeting that lay before them, but beyond their pleasant holiday she did not try to look; but mused on till her musings lost themselves in slumber, and changed to dreams.

At least, she always thought she must have fallen asleep, and that it was the sudden calling of her name, that awakened her with a start. She did not hear it when she listened for it again. She did not think of Rosie or Will, but went straight to her father's room. Through the half-open door, she saw that the bed was undisturbed, and that her father sat in the arm-chair by the window. The lamp burned dimly on the table beside him, and on the floor lay an open book, as it had fallen from his hand. The moonlight shone on his silver hair, and on his tranquil face. There was a smile on his lips, and his eyes were closed, as if in sleep; but even before she touched his cold hand, Graeme knew that from that sleep her father would never waken more.

CHAPTER TWENTY.

It was a very changed life that opened before the bairns when Arthur took them home with him to Montreal. A very dismal change it seemed to them all, on the first morning when their brothers left them alone.

Home! Could it ever seem like home to them? Think of the dwellers among the breezy hills of Merleville shut up in a narrow brick house in a close city street. Graeme had said that if they could all keep together, it did not so much matter how or where; but her courage almost failed as she turned to look out of the window that first morning.

Before her lay a confined, untidy yard, which they were to share with these neighbours; and beyond that, as far as could be seen, lay only roofs and chimneys. From the room above the view was the same, only the roofs and chimneys stretched farther away, and here and there between them showed the dusty bough of a maple or elm, or the ragged top of a Lombardy poplar, and, in the distance, when the sun shone, lay a bright streak, which they came at last to know as Harry's grand river. On the other side, toward the street, the window looked but on a brick wall, over which hung great willow-boughs shading half the street. The brick wall and the willows were better than the roofs and chimney-tops, Rosie thought; but it was a dreary sort of betterness. From Graeme's room above were seen still the wall and the willows, but over the wall and between the willows was got a glimpse of a garden--a very pretty garden.

It was only a glimpse--a small part of a circular bit of green gra.s.s before the door of a handsome house, and around this, and under the windows, flowers and shrubs of various kinds. There was a conservatory at one end, but of that they saw nothing but a blinding glare when the sun shone on it--many panes of gla.s.s when the sun was gone. The garden seemed to extend behind the house; but they could only see a smooth gravel walk with an edge of green. Clumps of evergreens and horse-chestnuts hid all the rest. But even these were very beautiful; and this glimpse of a rich man's garden, from an upper window, was the redeeming feature in their new home.

For it was summer--the very prime of summer-time--and except for that little glimpse of garden, and the dusty maple boughs, and the ragged tops of the poplars, it might just as well have been winter. There was nothing to remind them of summer, but the air hanging over them hot and close, or sweeping in sudden dust-laden gusts down the narrow street.

Yes; there was the long streak of blue, which Harry called the river, seen from the upper window; but it was only visible in sunny days, at least it only gleamed and sparkled then; it was but a dim, grey line at other times.

How changed their life was; how they drooped and pined for the sights and sounds and friends of Merleville.

"If there were but a green field in sight, or a single hill," said Rosie; but she always added, "how nice it is to have the willow trees and the sight of the garden."

For Rose was by no means sure that their longing for green fields and hills and woods was not wrong. It seemed like ingrat.i.tude to Arthur, this pining for the country and their old home; and these young girls from the very first made a firm stand against the home-sickness that came upon them. Not that home-sickness is a sickness that can be cured by struggling against it; but they tried hard to keep the knowledge of it from their brothers. Whatever happened during the long days, they had a pleasant breakfast-hour and a pleasant evening together. They seldom saw their brothers at other times during the first few months.

Harry's hours were long, and Arthur's business was increasing so as to require close attention. This was a matter of much rejoicing to Graeme, who did not know that all Arthur's business was not strictly professional--that it was business wearisome enough, and sometimes bringing in but little, but absolutely necessary for that little's sake.

Graeme and Rosie were at home alone, and they found the days long and tedious often, though they conscientiously strove to look at all things from their best and brightest side. For a while they were too busy--too anxious for the success of their domestic plans, to have time for home-sickness. But when the first arrangements were made--when the taste and skill of Graeme, and the inexhaustible strength of their new maid, Nelly Anderson, had changed the dingy house into as bright and pleasant a place as might well be in a city street, then came the long days and the weariness. Then came upon Graeme that which Janet had predicted, when she so earnestly set her face against their going away from Merleville till the summer was over. Her fict.i.tious strength failed her. The reaction from all the exertion and excitement of the winter and spring came upon her now, and she was utterly prostrate. She did not give up willingly. Indeed, she had no patience with herself in the miserable state into which she had fallen. She was ashamed and alarmed at her disinclination to exert herself--at her indifference to everything; but the exertion she made to overcome the evil only aggravated it, and soon was quite beyond her power. Her days were pa.s.sed in utter helplessness on the sofa. She either denied herself to their few visitors, or left them to be entertained by Rose. All her strength and spirits were needed for the evening when her brothers were at home.

Some attention to household affairs was absolutely necessary, even when the time came, that for want of something else to do Nelly nodded for hours in the long afternoons over the knitting of a stocking. For though Nelly could do whatever could be accomplished by main strength, the skill necessary for the arrangement of the nicer matters of their little household was not in her, and Graeme was never left quite at rest as to the progress of events in her dominions. It was a very fortunate chance that had cast her lot with theirs soon after their arrival, Graeme knew and acknowledged; but after the handiness and immaculate neatness of Hannah Lovejoy, it was tiresome to have nothing to fall back upon but the help of the untaught Nelly. Her willingness and kind-heartedness made her, in many respects, invaluable to them; but her field of action had hitherto been a turnip-field, or a field in which cows were kept; and though she was, by her own account, "just wonderfu'

at the making of b.u.t.ter," she had not much skill at anything else. If it would have brought colour to the cheek, or elasticity to the step of her young mistress, Nelly would gladly have carried her every morning in her arms to the top of the mountain; but nothing would have induced her, daring these first days, to undertake the responsibility of breakfast or dinner without Graeme's special overlooking. She would walk miles to do her a kindness; but she could not step lightly or speak softly, or shut the door without a bang, and often caused her torture when doing her very best to help or cheer her.

But whatever happened through the day, for the evening Graeme exerted herself to seem well and cheerful. It was easy enough to do when Harry was at home, or when Arthur was not too busy to read to them. Then she could still have the arm-chair or the sofa, and hear, or not hear, as the case might be. But when any effort was necessary--when she must interest herself, or seem to interest herself in her work, or when Arthur brought any one home with him, making it necessary for Graeme to be hospitable and conversational, then it was very bad indeed. She might get through very well at the time with it all, but a miserable night was sure to follow, and she could only toss about through the slow hours exhausted yet sleepless.

Oh, how miserable some of these sultry August nights were, when she lay helpless, her sick fancy changing into dear familiar sounds the hum that rose from the city beneath. Now it was the swift spring-time rush of Carson's brook, now the gentle ripple of the waters of the pond breaking on the white pebbles of the beach. The wind among the willow-boughs whispered to her of the pine grove and the garden at home, till her heart grew sick with longing to see them again. It was always the same.

If the bitter sorrow that bereavement had brought made any part of what she suffered now; if the void which death had made deepened the loneliness of this dreary time, she did not know it. All this weariness of body and sinking of heart might have come though she had never left Merleville, but it did not seem so to her. It was always of _home_ she thought. She rose up and lay down with longing for it fresh and sore.

She started from troubled slumber to break into pa.s.sionate weeping when there was no one to see her. She struggled against the misery that lay so heavily upon her, but not successfully. Health and courage failed.

Of course, this state of things could not continue long. They must get either better or worse, Graeme thought, and worse it was. Arthur and Harry coming home earlier than usual found her as she had never allowed them to find her before, lying listlessly, almost helplessly on the sofa. Her utmost effort to appear well and cheerful at the sight of them failed this once. She rose slowly and leaned back again almost immediately, closing her eyes with a sigh.

"Graeme!" exclaimed Harry, "what ails you! Such a face! Look here, I have something for you. Guess what."

"A letter," said Rose. "Oh! Graeme look!"

But Graeme was past looking by this time. Her brothers were startled and tried to raise her.

"Don't, Arthur," said Rose; "let her lie down. She will be better in a little. Harry get some water."

Poor, wee Rosie! Her hands trembled among the fastenings of Graeme's dress, but she knew well what to do.

"You don't mean that she has been like this before?" said Arthur, in alarm.

"Yes, once or twice. She is tired, she says. She will soon be better, now."

In a minute Graeme opened her eyes, and sat up. It was nothing, she said, and Arthur was not to be frightened; but thoroughly frightened Arthur was, and in a little while Graeme found herself placed in the doctor's hands. It was a very kind, pleasant face that bent over her, but it was a grave face too, at the moment. When Graeme repeated her a.s.surance that she was not ill, but only overcome with the heat and weariness, he said these had something to do with it, doubtless, and spoke cheerfully about her soon being well again; and Arthur's face quite brightened, as he left the room with him. Rose followed them, and when her brother's hand was on the door, whispered,--

"Please, Arthur, may I say something to the doctor? I think it is partly because Graeme is homesick."

"Homesick!" repeated the doctor and Arthur in a breath.

"Perhaps not homesick exactly," said Rose, eagerly addressing her brother. "She would not go back again you know; but everything is so different--no garden, no hills, no pond. And oh! Arthur, don't be vexed, but we have no Janet nor anything here."

Rosie made a brave stand against the tears and sobs that were rising in spite of her, but she was fain to hide her face on her brother's arm as he drew her toward him, and sat down on the sofa. The doctor sat down, too.

"Why, Rosie! My poor, wee Rosie! what has happened to my merry little sister?"

"I thought the doctor ought to know, and you must not tell Graeme. She does not think that I know."

"Know what?" asked Arthur.

"That she is so sad, and that the time seems long. But I have watched her, and I know."

"Well, I fear it is not a case for you, doctor," said Arthur, anxiously.

But the doctor thought differently. There was more the matter with Graeme than her sister knew, though the home-sickness may have something to do with it; and then he added,--

"Her strength must have been severely tried to bring her to this state of weakness."

Arthur hesitated a moment.

"There was long illness in the family--and then death--my sister's first, and then my father's. And then I brought the rest here."

It was not easy for Arthur to say all this. In a little he added with an effort,--

"I fear I have not done well in bringing them. But they wished to come, and I could not leave them."

"You did right, I have no doubt," said the doctor. "Your sister might have been ill anywhere. She might have been worse without a change.

The thing is to make her well again--which, I trust, we can soon do-- with the help of Miss Rosie, who will make a patient and cheerful nurse, I am sure."

"Yes," said Rose, gravely. "I will try."

Arthur said something about taking them to the country, out of the dust and heat of the town.

"Yes," said the doctor. "The heat is bad. But it will not last long now, and on the whole, I think she is better where she is, at present.