Janet's Love and Service Part 51

"However, we must wait a while; we must have patience. Things may adjust themselves in a way that I cannot see just now."

In the lesson, which with tears and prayers and a good-will Graeme had set herself to learn, she had got no farther than this, "We must wait-- we must have patience." And she had more cause to be content with the progress she had made than she thought; for, amid all the cures for the ills of life, which wisdom remembers, and which folly forgets, what better, what more effectual than "patient waiting?"

CHAPTER TWENTY NINE.

"Are you quite sure that you are glad, Graeme."

"I am very glad, Will. Why should you doubt it? You know I have not so heartsome a way of showing my delight as Rosie has."

"No. I don't know any such thing. I can't be quite glad myself, till I am sure that you are glad, too."

"Well, you may be quite sure, Will. It is only my old perverse way of looking first at the dark side of things, and this matter has a dark side. It will seem less like home than ever when you are gone, Will."

"Less like home than ever!" repeated Will. "Why, Graeme, that sounds as if you were not quite contented with the state of affairs."

"Does it?" said Graeme, laughing, but not pleasantly.

"But, Graeme, everything has turned out better than we expected. f.a.n.n.y is very nice, and--"

"Yes, indeed," said Graeme, heartily. "Everything has turned out much better than we used to fear. I remember the time when I was quite afraid of f.a.n.n.y and her fine house--my old perversity, you see."

"I remember," said Will, gravely.

"I was quite morbid on the subject, at one time. Mamma Grove was a perfect night-mare to me. And really, she is well! she is not a very formidable person, after all."

"Well, on the whole, I think we could dispense with mamma Grove," said Will, with a shrug.

"Oh! that is because she is down upon you in the matter of Master Tom.

You will have to take him, Will."

"Of course. But then, I would do a great deal more than that for f.a.n.n.y's brother, without all this talk."

"But then, without 'all this talk,' as you call it, you might not have discovered that the favour is done you, nor that the letter to her English friend will more than compensate you, for going fifty miles out of your way for the boy."

"Oh! well, it is her way, and a very stupid way. Let her rest."

"Yes, let her rest. And, Will, you are not to think I am not glad that you are going home. I would choose no other lot for you, than the one that is before you, an opportunity to prepare yourself for usefulness, and a wide field to labour in. Only I am afraid I would stipulate that the field should be a Canadian one."

"Of course. Canada is my home."

"Or Merleville. Deacon Snow seems to think you are to be called to that field, when you are ready to be called."

"But that is a long day hence. Perhaps, the deacon may change his mind, when he hears that I am going home to learn from the 'British.'"

"There is no fear. Sandy has completed the work which my father and Janet began. Mr Snow is tolerant of the North British, at any rate.

What a pleasant life our Merleville life was. It seems strange that none of us, but Norman, has been back there. It won't belong now, however."

"I am afraid I cannot wait for Emily's wedding. But I shall certainly go and see them all, before I go to Scotland."

"If you do, I shall go with you, and spend the summer there."

"And leave Rose here?" said Will, in some surprise.

"No. I wish to go for Rose's sake, as much as for my own. It seems as though going to Merleville and Janet, would put us all right again."

"I hope you may both be put right, without going so far," said Will.

"Do you know, Will, I sometimes wonder whether I can be the same person who came here with Rose and you? Circ.u.mstances do change people, whether they will or not. I think I should come back to my old self again, with Janet to take me to task, in her old sharp, loving way."

"I don't think I understand you, Graeme."

"Don't you? Well, that is evidence that I have changed; and that I have not improved. But I am not sure that I understand myself."

"What is wrong with you, Graeme."

"I cannot tell you, Will. I don't know whether the wrong is with me, or with matters and things in general. But there is no good in vexing you, unless you could tell me how to help it."

"If I knew what is wrong I might try," said Will, gravely.

"Then, tell me, what possible good I shall be able to do in the world, when I shall no longer have you to care for?"

"If you do no good, you will fall far short of your duty."

"I know it, Will. But useless as my way of life is, I cannot change it.

Next year must be like this one, and except nursing you in your illness, and f.a.n.n.y in hers, I have done nothing worth naming as work."

"That same nursing was not a little. And do you call the housekeeping nothing? It is all very well, f.a.n.n.y's jingling her keys, and playing lady of the house, but we all know who has the care and trouble. If last year has nothing to show for work, I think you may make the same complaint of all the years that went before. It is not that you are getting weary of the 'woman's work, that is never done,' is it, dear?"

"No, Will. I hope not. I think not. But this last year has been very different from all former years. I used to have something definite to do, something that no one else could do as well. I cannot explain it.

You would laugh at the trifles that make the difference."

"I see one difference," said Will. "You have the trouble, and f.a.n.n.y has the credit."

"No, Will. Don't say that I don't think that troubles me. It ought not; but it is not good for f.a.n.n.y, to allow her to suppose she has the responsibility and care, when she has not really. And it is not fair to her. When the time comes that she must have them, she will feel the trouble all the more for her present delusion. And she is learning nothing. She is utterly careless about details, and complicates matters when she thinks she is doing most, though, I must say, Nelly is very tolerant of the 'whims' of her young mistress, and makes the best of everything. But Will, all this must sound to you like finding fault with f.a.n.n.y, and indeed, I don't wish to do anything so disagreeable."

"I am sure you do not, Graeme. I think I can understand your troubles, but I am afraid I cannot tell you how to help them."

"No, Will. The kind of life we are living is not good for any of us.

What I want for myself is some kind of real work to do. And I want it for Rose."

"But, Graeme, you would never surely think of going away,--I mean, to stay always?"

"Why not? We are not needed here, Rose and I. No, Will, I don't think it is that I am growing tired of 'woman's work.' It was very simple, humble work I used to do, trifles, odds and ends of the work of life; st.i.tching and mending, sweeping and dusting, singing and playing, reading and talking, each a trifling matter, taken by itself. But of such trifles is made up the life's work of thousands of women, far wiser and better than I am; and I was content with it. It helped to make a happy home, and that was much."

"You have forgotten something in your list of trifles, Graeme,--your love and care for us all."