Janet's Love and Service Part 42

"No. I am afraid I was thinking of the other kind of surprises; and I daresay I had quite as much reason to smile as to sigh. We can't tell our trials at first sight, Will, nor our blessings either. Time changes their faces wonderfully to us as the years go on. At any rate, Janet's advice is always appropriate; we must make the best of them when they come."

"Yes;" said Will, doubtfully; he did not quite understand yet.

"For instance, Will, you were disconsolate enough when the doctor told you you must give up your books for an indefinite time, and now you are professing yourself quite content with headache and water-gruel--glad even at the illness that at first was so hard to bear."

Will made a face at the gruel she presented.

"I dare say it is good for me, though I can't say I like it, or the headache. But, Graeme, I did not get this check before I needed it. It is pleasant to be first, and I was beginning to like it. Now this precious month taken from me, at the time I needed it most, will put me back. To be sure," added he, with a deprecating glance, "it is not much to be first among so few. But as Janet used to say, Pride is an ill weed and grows easily--flourishes even on a barren soil; and in the pleasure and excitement of study, it is not difficult to forget that it is only a means to an end."

"Yes," said Graeme, "it is easy to forget what we ought to remember."

But it came into Will's mind that her sympathy did not come so readily as usual, that her thoughts were elsewhere, and he had a feeling that they were such as he was not to be permitted to share. In a little he said,--

"Graeme; I should like very much to go home to Scotland."

Graeme roused herself and answered cheerfully,--

"Yes, I have never quite given up the hope of going home again; but we should find sad changes, I doubt."

"But I mean I should like to go home soon. Not for the sake of Clayton and our friends there. I would like to go to fit myself better for the work I have to do in the world."

"You mean, you would like to go home to study."

"Yes. One must have a far better opportunity there, and it is a grand thing to be 'thoroughly furnished'." There was a pause, and then he added, "If I go, I ought to go soon--within a year or two, I mean."

"Oh, Will, how could I ever let you go away?"

"Why, Graeme! that is not at all like you; you could let me go if it were right. But I have not quite decided that it is not selfish in me to wish to go."

"But why?" asked Graeme.

"Partly because it would be so pleasant. Don't you remember how Janet used to say, we are not so likely to see all sides of what we desire very much. Perhaps I desire it more for the pleasure it would give me, than for the benefit it might be to me. And then the expense. It would be too much to expect from Arthur."

"But there is the Merleville money. It was meant for Arthur's education, and as he did not need it, it is yours."

"No, that belongs to you and Rose. It would not be right to take that."

"Nonsense, Will. What is ours is yours; if the expense were all! But I cannot bear to think of you going away, and Harry, too, perhaps."

"Rose tells me that Harry is more bent on going West than ever."

"Yes, within a few days he has become quite eager about it. I cannot understand why he should be so. Oh, I cannot feel hopeful about it."

"Arthur thinks it may be a good thing for Harry," said Will.

"Yes, for some things I suppose so. But, oh! Will, I could not let Harry go as I could let you, sure that he would be kept safe till--"

Graeme laid her head down on her brother's pillow, and the tears she had been struggling with for so long a time burst forth. She had never spoken to Will of her fears for Harry, but he knew that they all had had cause for anxiety on his account, so instead of speaking he laid his arm over his sister's neck. She struggled with herself a moment, unable to speak.

"Graeme," said Will, softly, "we cannot keep Harry safe from evil, and He who can is able to keep him safe there as well as here."

"I know it; I say it to myself twenty times a day. That is, I say it in words; but I do not seem to get the comfort I might from them."

"But, Graeme, Harry has been very little away this winter, and I had thought--"

"I know, dear, and I have been quite hopeful about him till lately.

But, oh, Will! it won't bear talking about. We can only wait patiently."

"Yes, Graeme, we can pray and trust, and you are exaggerating to yourself Harry's danger, I think. What has happened to make you so faint-hearted, dear?"

"What should have happened, Will? I am tired--for one thing--and something is wrong I know."

She paused to struggle with her tears.

"Somehow, I don't feel so anxious about Harry as you do, Graeme. He will come back again. I am sure this great sorrow is not waiting you."

He paused a moment, and then added, hesitatingly,--

"I have had many thoughts since I sat down here, Graeme. I think one needs--it does one good, to make a pause to have time to look back and to look forward. Things change to us; we get clearer and truer views of life, alone in the dark, with nothing to withdraw our thoughts from the right and the wrong of things, and we seem to see more clearly how true it is, that though we change G.o.d never changes. We get courage to look our troubles fairly in the face, when we are alone with G.o.d and them."

Still Graeme said nothing, and Will added,--

"Graeme, you must take hope for Harry. And there is nothing else, is there?--nothing that you are afraid to look at--nothing that you cannot bring to the one place for light and help?"

She did not answer for a minute.

"No, Will, I hope not. I think not. I daresay--I am quite sure that all will be for the best, and I shall see at some time."

Not another word was said till Graeme rose and drawing aside the curtains, let in on them the dim dawn of a bleak March morning.

In a few more days Will was down-stairs again. Not in his accustomed corner among his books, but in the arm-chair in the warmest place by the fire, made much of by Rose and them all. It seemed a long time since he had been among them. A good many things had happened during the month that Graeme and he had pa.s.sed together up-stairs. March, that had come in "like a lion" was hastening out "like a lamb;" the sky was clear and the air was mild; spring was not far-away. The snow lay still in sullied ridges in the narrow streets where the sun had little power, and the mud lay deep in the streets where the snow had nearly disappeared.

But the pavements were dry and clean, and in spite of dirty crossings and mud bespattering carriages, they were thronged with gay promenaders, eager to welcome the spring. Those who were weatherwise shook their heads, declaring that having April in March would ensure March weather when April came, or it might be even in May. So it might prove, but there was all the more need, because of this, that the most should be made of the suns.h.i.+ne and the mild air, and even their quiet sweet was quite gay with the merry goers to and fro, and it seemed to Will and Graeme that more than a month had pa.s.sed since his illness began.

Harry had quite decided to go West now, and was as eager and impatient to be gone as if he had all his life been dreaming of no other future than that which awaited him there. That he should be so glad to go, pained his sister as much as the thought of his going. That was at first, for it did not take Graeme long to discover that Harry was not so gay as he strove to appear. But her misgivings as to his departure were none the less sad on that account, and it was with a heavy heart that she listened to his plans.

Perhaps it was in contrast to Harry's rather ostentations mirth that his friend Charlie Millar seemed so very grave on the first night that Will ventured to prolong his stay among them after the gas had been lighted.

Rose was grave, too, and not at ease, though she strove to hide it by joining in Harry's mirth. Charlie did not strive to hide his gravity, but sat silent and thoughtful after his first greetings were over. Even Harry's mirth failed at last, and he leaned back on the sofa, shading his face with his hands.

"I am afraid your brother would think us very ungrateful if he could see how badly we are thanking him for his great kindness to Harry."

Graeme forced herself to say it. Allan's name had not been mentioned among them for days, and the silence, at first grateful, had come to seem strange and unnatural, and it made Graeme's cheeks tingle to think what might be the cause. So, looking into Charlie's face with a smile, she spoke to him about his brother. But Charlie did not answer, or Graeme did not hear, and in a little while she said again,--

"Is Mr Ruthven still in town?"

"Oh! yes. It is not likely he will leave again soon."

"And your uncle is really recovering from his last attack? What on anxious time Miss Elphinstone must have had!"