Janet's Love and Service Part 83

"But, Rose, you have not told me yet what it is you would do, if you could have your own way. And what do you mean by having a life of your own, and being independent? Have you any plan?"

Rose sat down, with a little sigh of impatience.

"There is surely something that we could do, you and I together. I can have no plan, you know quite well; but you might help me, instead of--"

Instead of laughing at me, she was going to say, but she stopped, for though Graeme's lips were smiling, her eyes had a shadow in them that looked like coming tears; and the gaze, that seemed resting on the picture on the wall, went farther, Rose knew; but whether into the past or the future, or whether it was searching into the reason of this new eagerness of hers to be away and at work, she could not tell. However it might be, it vexed and fretted her, and she showed it by sudden impatient movements, which recalled her sister's thoughts.

"What is it, Rose? I am afraid I was thinking about something else. I don't think I quite understand what you were saying last," said Graeme, taking up her work as a safe thing on which to fix her eyes.

"For I must not let her see that I know there must be a cause for this sudden wish for a new life," said she to herself. If she had done what she longed to do, she would have taken the impatient, troubled child in her arms, and whispered, as Janet had whispered to her that night, so long ago, that the restless fever of her heart would pa.s.s away; she would have soothed and comforted her, with tender words, as Janet had not dared to do. She would have bidden her wait, and have patience with herself and her life, till this cloud pa.s.sed by--this light cloud of her summer morning, that was only mist to make the rising day more beautiful, and not the sign of storm and loss, as it looked to her young, affrighted eyes.

But this she could not do. Even with certain knowledge of the troubles which she only guessed, she knew it would be vain to come to her with tender, pitying words, and worse than vain to try to prove that nothing had happened to her, or was like to happen, that could make the breaking up of her old life, and the beginning of a new one, a thing to be thought of by herself or those who loved her. So, after a few st.i.tches carefully taken, for all her sister could see, she said,--

"And, then, there are so few things that a woman can do."

The words brought back so vividly that night in the dark, when she had said them out of a sore heart to her friend, that her work fell on her lap again, and she met her sister's eye with a look that Rose could not understand.

"You are not thinking of what I have been saying. Why do you look at me in that strange way?" said she, pettishly.

"I am thinking of it, indeed. And I did not know that I was looking any other than my usual way. I was saying to myself, 'Has the poor child got to go through all that for herself, as I have done?' Oh! Rosie, dear! if I could only give you the benefit of all my vexed thoughts on that very subject!"

"Well, why not? That is just what I want. Only, don't begin in that discouraging way, about there being so few things a woman can do. I know all that, already."

"We might go to Norman for a while together, at any rate," said Graeme, feeling how impossible it would be to satisfy one another by what might be said, since all could not be spoken between them.

"Yes. That is just what I said, at first. And we could see about it there. We could much more easily make our plans, and carry them out there, than here. And, in the meantime, we could find plenty to do in Hilda's house with the children and all the rest. I wish we could go soon."

And then she went over what she had often gone over before, the way of life in their brother Norman's house--Hilda's housekeeping, and her way with her children, and in society, and so on, Graeme asking questions, and making remarks, in the hope that the conversation might not, for this time, come back to the vexed question, of what women may do in the world. It grew dark in the meantime, but they were waiting for Harry and letters, and made no movement; and, by and by, Rose said, suddenly:

"I am sure you used to think about all this, Graeme--about woman's work, and how stupid it is to live on in this way, 'waiting at the pool,' as Hannah Lovejoy used to say. I declare it is undignified, and puts thoughts into people's heads, as though--. It would be different, if we were living in our father's house, or, even, if we had money of our own.

You used to think so, yourself, Graeme. Why should Arthur and Harry do everything for us?"

"Yes, I remember. When f.a.n.n.y first came, I think I had as many thoughts about all this as you have now. I was very restless, and discontented, and determined to go away. I talked to Janet about it one night."

"And she convinced you that you were all wrong, I suppose," said Rose.

"And you were content ever after."

"No. I don't think she helped me much, at the time. But her great doctrine of patience and quiet waiting, and circ.u.mstances together, convinced me, afterward, that I did not need to go in search of my work, as seemed to me then the thing to do. I found it ready at my hand, though I could not see it then. Her wisdom was higher than mine. She said that out of it all would come content, and so it has."

"That was not saying much!" said Rose.

"No. It did not seem to me, much, when she said it. But she was right, all the same, and I was wrong. And it has all happened much better than if I had got my own way."

"But, Graeme, all that would not apply in the case of women, generally.

That is begging the question, as Harry would say."

"But I am not speaking of women in general; I am speaking about myself, and my own work; and I say Janet was wise, though I was far from thinking it that night, as I mind well."

There was a pause, and then Rose said, in a low voice.

"It may have been right for you to stay at home then, and care for the rest of us, but it would be quite different now, with me, and I think with you, too. And how many women have to go and make a way of life for themselves. And it is right that it should be so; and Graeme, we might try."

Instead of answering her directly, Graeme said, after a little while,--

"Did I ever tell you Rose, dear, about that night, and all that Janet said to me? I told her how I wished to get out of my useless, unsatisfactory life, just as you have been telling me. Did I ever tell you all she said to me? I don't think I ever did. I felt then, just as you do now. I think I can understand your feeling, better than you suppose; and I opened my heart to Janet--I mean, I told her how sick I was of it all, and how good-for-nothing I felt myself to be, and how it all might be changed, if only I could find real work to do--"

And Graeme went on to tell much that had been said between them that night, about woman's work, and about old maids, and a little about the propriety of not setting one's face against the manifest lot of woman; and when she came to this part of it, she spoke with an attempt at playfulness, meant to cover, a little, the earnestness of all that went before. But neither in this nor in the rest, did she speak as though she meant Rose to take the lesson to herself, or as though it meant very much to either of them now; but rather implied by her words and manner, and by many a pathetic touch here and there, that she was dwelling on it as a pleasant reminiscence of the dear old friend, whose quaint sayings were household words among them, because of their wisdom, and because of the honour and the love they gave her. Her earnestness increased, as, by and by, she saw the impatience pa.s.s out of her sister's face and manner; and it never came into her mind that she was turning back a page in her own experience, over which Rose had long ago pondered with wonder and sadness.

"I could not make Janet see the necessity that seemed so clear to me,"

she went on. "I could not make her understand, or, at least, I thought she could not understand, for she spoke as though she thought that f.a.n.n.y's coming, and those old vexations, made me wish to get away, and it was not easy to answer her when she said that my impatience and restlessness would all pa.s.s away, and that I must fulfil papa's last wish, and stay with the rest. I thought the time had come when the necessity for that was over, and that another way would be better for _me_, certainly; and I thought for Arthur and f.a.n.n.y, too, and for you, Rosie. But, Oh! how much wiser Janet was than I, that night. But I did not think so at the time. I was wild to be set free from the present, and to have my own will and go away. It was well that circ.u.mstances were too strong for me. It has come true, as Janet said. I think it is better for us all that I have been at home all those years. f.a.n.n.y and I have done each other good. It has been better for us all."

She paused a moment, and then added,--

"Of course, if it had been necessary that I should go out into the world, and make my own way, I might have done as others have done, and won, at least, a measure of success. And so we might still, you and I together, Rose, if it were necessary, but that makes all the difference.

There is no question of necessity for us, dear, at present, and as for G.o.d's work, and work for our fellow creatures, we can find that at home.

Without separating from the others, I mean."

But Rose's face clouded again.

"There need be no question of separating from the others, Graeme.

Norman is out there, and there are hundreds of women who have their own place and work in the world, who have not been driven by necessity to look for them--the necessity of making a living, I mean. There are other necessities that a woman must feel--some more than others, I suppose. It is an idle, foolish, vain life that I am living. I know that I have not enough to fill my life, Graeme. I know it, though I don't suppose I can make you understand it. I am past the age now to care for being petted, and amused, and made much of by the rest of you.

I mean, I am too old now to feel that enough for my satisfaction. It is different with you, who really are good for something, and who have done so much, for Arthur and f.a.n.n.y, and us all. And, besides, as you say, you are content; but as for me--oh! I know there is no use talking. I could never make you understand--There, I don't want to be naughty, and vex you--and we will say no more to-night. Shall I get a light?"

She stooped over her sister, and kissed her, and Graeme, putting her arms round her, said softly,--

"Only one word more, Rosie. I think I can understand you better than you believe, as Janet understood me that night, though I did not see it then, and you must just let me say one thing. My darling, I believe all that is troubling you, now, will pa.s.s away; but, if I am wrong, and if it be best that you have your own way about this work of yours--I mean, if it is right--circ.u.mstances will arrange themselves to that end, and it will all come easy for you, and me, too. We shall keep together, at any rate, and I am not afraid. And, love, a year or two does make a difference in people's feelings about things, though there is no good in my saying it to you, now, I know. But we will wait till Will comes home. We must be here to welcome him, even if his coming should be delayed longer than we hope now. I don't like to think of any plan for you and me, out of which Will must be left. And so many things may happen before a year is over. I remember how restless and troubled I was at that time. I don't like to think of it even now--and it is all past--quite past. And we will stay together, whatever happens, if we can, and, darling, you must have patience."

All this was said with many a caressing pause between, and then Rose said,--

"Well--yes--I suppose we must wait for Will."

But she did not say it cheerfully, and Graeme went on, after a little:

"And, dear, I have noticed more than once in my life that when a quiet time like this has come, it has come as a time of preparation for work of some sort; for the doing, or the bearing of G.o.d's will in some peculiar way; and we must not lose the good of these quiet days by being anxious about the future, or regretful over the past. It will all come right, love, you may be sure of that."

The last words were spoken hastily, for Harry's voice was heard, and Rose went softly out at one door, as he came in at the other; and when, in a little, he called from the foot of the stairs, as he always did, when he did not find her in her parlour, she came down, affecting surprise.

"So you are here at last, Harry? Are there any letters to-night?"

Yes, there were letters. Harry had read his, and gave them the news with a little grumbling, while the gas was being lighted. His friend and partner seemed intent on making the most of his long delayed holiday, and was going to lengthen it a little, by taking a run to Paris, perhaps even to Rome.

"With whom do you think, Graeme?" added he, his face clearing up suddenly. "With his brother Allan, and our Will. Won't they help one another to have a good time? Charlie takes it quite coolly, however, I must say. It was an even chance, at one time, whether he would go at all, and now, there is no telling when he will be back again. That is always the way. I wonder when I shall have my holiday? 'The willing horse,' you know, Rosie."

"It is very hard on you, Harry, dear. But I fancied you had a little trip yourself, lately, and enjoyed it, too. Was that in the interest of your friend?"

"Hem! Yes--indirectly. I did enjoy it. f.a.n.n.y says she has had a very pleasant summer; and, if you are going down at all, Rosie, it is time you were going. They seem to have a very nice set of people there. I think if you were to go at once, I would take a run down with you--next week, perhaps. I think you would enjoy it."

"I thank you, Harry, dear. But, you know, f.a.n.n.y's taste and mine are different. I don't always fancy _her_ pleasant people. And I should not think of taking you away on my account."