Janet's Love and Service Part 66

"Ay! that is ay the way with these young wives," said Janet, scornfully.

"There must be near ten years between you and Rose."

"Yes, quite ten years, and she is almost a woman--past sixteen. I _am_ growing old."

"What a wee white Rose she was, when she first fell to your care, dear.

Who would have thought then that she would ever have grown to be the bonny creature she is to-day?"

"Is she not lovely? And not vain or spoiled, though it would be no wonder if she were, she is so much admired. Do you mind what a cankered wee fairy she used to be?"

"I mind well the patience that never wearied of her, even at the worst of times," said Mrs Snow, laying her hand tenderly on Graeme's bowed head.

"I was weary and impatient often. What a long time it is since those days, and yet it seems like yesterday." And Graeme sighed.

"Were you sighing because so many of your years lie behind you, my bairn?" said Mrs Snow, softly.

"No, rather because so many of them lie before me," said Graeme, slowly.

"Unless, indeed, they may have more to show than the years that are past."

"We may all say that, dear," said Mrs Snow, gravely. "None of us have done all that we might have done. But, my bairn, such dreary words are not natural from young lips, and the years before you may be few. You may not have time to grow weary of them."

"That is true," said Graeme. "And I ought not to grow weary, be they many or few."

There was a long pause, broken at last by Graeme.

"Janet," said she, "do you think I could keep a school?"

"A school," repeated Mrs Snow. "Oh, ay, I daresay you could, if you put your mind to it. What would binder you? It would depend some on what kind of a school it was, too, I daresay."

"You know, teaching is almost the only thing a woman can do to earn a livelihood. It is the only thing I could do. I don't mean that I could take charge of a school; I am afraid I am hardly fit for that. But I could teach cla.s.ses. I know French well, and music, and German a little."

"My dear," said Mrs Snow, gravely, "what has put such a thought in your head? Have you spoken to your brother about it? What does he say?"

"To Arthur? No, I haven't spoken to him. He wouldn't like the idea at first, I suppose; but if it were best, he would reconcile himself to it in time."

"You speak about getting your livelihood. Is there any need for it? I mean, is there more need than there has been? Is not your brother able, and willing--"

"Oh! yes, it is not that I don't know. Our expenses are greater than they used to be--double, indeed. But there is enough, I suppose. It is not that--at least it is not that only, or chiefly."

"What is it then, dear child?" asked her friend.

But Graeme could not answer at the moment. There were many reasons why she should not continue to live her present unsatisfying life, and yet she did not know how to tell her friend. They were all plain enough to her, but some of them she could not put in words for the hearing of Janet, even. She had been saying to herself, all along, that it was natural, and not wrong for her to grow tired of her useless, aimless life, and to long for earnest, bracing work, such as many a woman she could name was toiling bravely at. But with Janet's kind hand on her head, and her calm, clear eyes looking down upon her face, she was constrained to acknowledge that, but for one thing, this restless discontent might never have found her. To herself she was willing to confess it. Long ago she had looked her sorrow in the face, and said, "With G.o.d's help I can bear it." She declared to herself that it was well to be roused from sloth, even by a great sorrow, so that she could find work to do. But, that Janet should look upon her with pitying or reproving eyes, she could not bear to think; so she sat at her feet, having no power to open her lips, never thinking that by her silence, and by the unquiet light in her downcast eyes, more was revealed to her faithful old friend than spoken words could have told.

"What is it my dear?" said Mrs Snow. "Is it pride or discontent, or is it something worse?" Graeme laughed a little bitterly. "Can anything be worse than these?"

"Is it that your brother is wearying of you?"

"No, no! I could not do him the wrong to think that. It would grieve him to lose us, I know. Even when he thought it was for my happiness to go away, the thought of parting gave him pain."

"And you have more sense than to let the airs and nonsense of his bairn-wife vex you?"

Graeme was silent a moment. She did not care to enter upon the subject of Arthur's wife just at this time.

"I don't think you quite understand f.a.n.n.y, Janet," said she, hesitating.

"Weel, dear, maybe no. The bairns that I have had to deal with have not been of her kind. I have had no experience of the like of her."

"But what I mean is that her faults are such as every one can see at a glance, and she has many sweet and lovable qualities. I love her dearly. And, Janet, I don't think it is quite kind in you to think that I grudge f.a.n.n.y her proper place in her own house. I only wish that--"

"You only wish that she were as able to fill it with credit, as you are willing to let her. I wish that, too. And I am very far from thinking that you grudge her anything that she ought to have."

"Oh! Janet," said Graeme, with a sigh, "I shall never be able to make you understand."

"You might try, however. You havena tried yet," said Janet, gently.

"It is not that you are growing too proud to eat bread of your brother's winning, is it?"

"I don't think it is pride. I know that Arthur considers that what belongs to him belongs to us all. But, even when that is true, it may be better, for many reasons, that I should eat bread of my own winning than of his. Everybody has something to do in the world. Even rich ladies have their houses to keep, and their families to care for, and the claims of society to satisfy, and all that. An idle life like mine is not natural nor right. No wonder that I weary of it. I ought not to be idle."

"Idle! I should lay that imputation at the door of anybody in the house rather than at yours. You used to be over fond of idle dreaming, but I see none of it now. You are ay busy at something."

"Yes, busy about something," repeated Graeme, a little scornfully. "But about things that might as well be left undone, or that another might do as well."

"And I daresay some one could be found to do the work of the best and the busiest of us, if we werena able to do it. But that is no' to say but we may be working to some purpose in the world for all that. But it is no' agreeable to do other folks' work, and let them get the wages, I'll allow."

"Will said something like that to me once, and it is possible that I may have some despicable feeling of that sort, since you and he seem to think it," said Graeme, and her voice took a grieved and desponding tone.

"My dear, I am bringing no such accusation against you. I am only saying that the like of that is not agreeable, and it is not profitable to anybody concerned. I daresay Mrs Arthur fancies that it is her, and no' you that keeps the house in a state of perfection that it is a pleasure to see. She persuades her husband of it, at any rate."

"f.a.n.n.y does not mean--she does not know much about it. But that is one more reason why I ought to go. She ought to have the responsibility, as well as to fancy that she has it; and they would get used to being without us in time."

"Miss Graeme, my dear, I think I must have told you what your father said to me after his first attack of illness, when he thought, maybe, the end wasna far-away."

"About our all staying together while we could. Yes, you told me."

"Yes, love, and how he trusted in you, that you would always be, to your brothers and Rose, all that your mother would have been if she had been spared; and how sure he was that you would ever think less of yourself than of them. My dear, it should not be a light thing that would make you give up the trust your father left to you."

"But, Janet, it is so different now. When we first came here, the thought that my father wished us to keep together made me willing and glad to stay, even when Arthur had to struggle hard to make the ends meet. I knew it was better for him and for Harry, as well as for us.

But it is different now. Arthur has no need of us, and would soon content himself without us, though he may think he would not; and it may be years before this can be Will's home again. It may never be his home, nor Harry's either."

"My dear, it will be Harry's home, and Will's, too, while it is yours.

Their hearts will ay turn to it as home, and they wouldna do so if you were only coming and going. And as for Mr Arthur, Miss Graeme, I put it to yourself, if he were left alone with that bonny, wee wife of his, would his home be to him what it is now? Would the companions.h.i.+p of yon bairn suffice for his happiness?"

"It ought to do so. A man's wife ought to be to him more than all the rest of the world, when it is written, 'A man shall leave all, and cleave to his wife.' Married people ought to suffice for one another."

"Well, it may be. And if you were leaving your brother's house for a house of your own, or if you were coming with us, as my husband seems to have set his heart on, I would think it different. Not that I am sure of it myself, much as it would delight me to have you. For your brother needs you, and your bonny new sister needs you. Have patience with her, and with yourself, and you will make something of her in time. She loves you dearly, though she is not at all times very considerate of you."

Graeme was silent. What could she say after this, to prove that she could not stay, that she must go away. Where could she turn now? She rose with a sigh.

"It is growing dark. I will get a light. But, Janet, you must let me say one thing. You are not to think it is because of f.a.n.n.y that I want to go away. At first, I was unhappy--I may say so, now that it is all over. It was less for myself and Rose than for Arthur. I didn't think f.a.n.n.y good enough for him. And then, everything was so different, for a while it seemed impossible for me to stay. f.a.n.n.y was not so considerate as she might have been, about our old friends, and about household affairs, and about Nelly, and all that. Arthur saw nothing, and Rosie got vexed sometimes. Will preached patience to us both; you know, gentlemen cannot understand many things that may be vexatious to us; and we were very uncomfortable for a while. I don't think f.a.n.n.y was so much to blame; but her mother seemed to fancy that the new mistress of the house was not to be allowed to have her place without a struggle.