Janet's Love and Service Part 20

"Right, indeed! n.o.body has any right to you but ourselves. You are ours, and we'll never, never let you go."

"It's no' far down the brae," said Janet, gently.

"Janet! You'll never think of going! Surely, surely, you'll never leave us now. And for a stranger, too! When you gave up your own mother and Sandy, and the land you loved so well, to come here with us--!" Graeme could not go on for the tears that would not be kept back.

"Miss Graeme, my dear bairn, you were needing me then. Nae, hae patience, and let me speak. You are not needing me now in the same way.

I sometimes think it would be far better for you if I wasna here."

Graeme dissented earnestly by look and gesture, but she had no words.

"It's true though, my dear. You can hardly say that you are at the head of your father's house, while I manage all things, as I do."

But Graeme had no desire to have it otherwise.

"You can manage far best," said she.

"That's no to be denied," said Mrs Nasmyth, gravely; "but it ought not to be so. Miss Graeme, you are no' to think that I am taking upon myself to reprove you. But do you think that your present life is the best to fit you for the duties and responsibilities that, sooner or later, come to the most of folk in the world? It's a pleasant life, I ken, with your books and your music, and your fine seam, and the teaching o' the bairns; but it canna last; and, my dear, is it making you ready for what may follow? It wouldna be so easy for you if I were away, but it might be far better for you in the end!"

There was nothing Graeme could answer to this, so she leaned her head upon her hand, and looked out on the brown leaves lying beneath the elms.

"And if I should go," continued Janet, "and there's many an if between me and going--but if I should go, I'll be near at hand in time of need--"

"I know I am very useless," broke in Graeme. "I don't care for these things as I ought--I have left you with too many cares, and I don't wonder that you want to go away."

"Whist, la.s.sie. I never yet had too much to do for your mother's bairns; and if you have done little it's because you havena needed. And if I could aye stand between you and the burdens of life, you needna fear trouble. But I canna. Miss Graeme, my dear, you were a living child in your mother's arms before she was far past your age, and your brother was before you. Think of the cares she had, and how she met them."

Graeme's head fell lower, as she repeated her tearful confession of uselessness, and for a time there was silence.

"And, dear," said Janet, in a little, "your father tells me that Mr Snow has offered to send for my mother and Sandy. And oh! my bairn, my heart leaps in my bosom at the thought of seeing their faces again."

She had no power to add more.

"But, Janet, your mother thought herself too old to cross the sea when we came, and that is seven years ago."

"My dear, she kenned she couldna come, and it was as well to put that face on it. But she would gladly come now, if I had a home to give her."

There was silence for a while, and then Graeme said,--

"It's selfish in me, I know, but, oh! Janet, we have been so happy lately, and I canna bear to think of changes coming."

Mrs Nasmyth made no answer, for the sound of the bairns' voices came in at the open door, and in a minute Marian entered.

"Where have you been, dear? I fear you have wearied yourself," said Janet, tenderly.

"We have only been down at Mr Snow's barn watching the thres.h.i.+ng. But, indeed, I have wearied myself." And sitting down on the floor at Janet's feet, she laid her head upon her lap. A kind, hard hand was laid on the bright hair of the bonniest of a' the bairns.

"You mustna sit down here, my dear. Lie down on the sofa and rest yourself till the tea be ready. Have you taken your bottle to-day?"

Marian made her face the very picture of disgust.

"Oh! Janet, I'm better now. I dinna need it. Give it to Graeme. She looks as if she needed something to do her good. What ails you, Graeme?"

"My dear," remonstrated Janet, "rise up when I bid you; and go to the sofa, and I'll go up the stair for the bottle."

Marian laid herself wearily down. In a moment Mrs Nasmyth reappeared with a bottle and spoon in one hand, and a pillow in the other, and when the bitter draught was fairly swallowed, Marian was laid down and covered and caressed with a tenderness that struck Graeme as strange; for though Janet loved them all well, she was not in the habit of showing her tenderness by caresses. In a little, Marian slept. Janet did not resume her work immediately, but sat gazing at her with eyes as full of wistful tenderness as ever a mother's could have been. At length, with a sigh, she turned to her basket again.

"Miss Graeme," said she, in a little, "I dinna like to hear you speak that way about changes, as though they did not come from G.o.d, and as though He hadna a right to send them to His people when He pleases."

"I canna help it, Janet. No change that can come to us can be for the better."

"That's true, but we must even expect changes that are for the worse; for just as sure as we settle down in this world content, changes will come. You mind what the Word says, 'As an eagle stirreth up her nest.'

And you may be sure, if we are among the Lord's children, He'll no leave us to make a portion of the rest and peace that the world gives. He is kinder to us than we would be to ourselves."

A restless movement of the sleeper by her side, arrested Janet's words, and the old look of wistful tenderness came back into her eyes as she turned toward her. Graeme rose, and leaning over the arm of the sofa, kissed her softly.

"How lovely she is!" whispered she.

A crimson flush was rising on Marian's cheeks as she slept.

"Ay, she was aye bonny," said Janet, in the same low voice, "and she looks like an angel now."

Graeme stood gazing at her sister, and in a little Janet spoke again.

"Miss Graeme, you canna mind your aunt Marian?"

No, Graeme could not.

"Menie is growing very like her, I think. She was bonnier than your mother even, and she kept her beauty to the very last. You ken the family werena well pleased when your mother married, and the sisters didna meet often till Miss Marian grew ill. They would fain have had her away to Italy, or some far awa' place, but nothing would content her but just her sister, her sister, and so she came home to the manse.

That was just after I came back again, after Sandy was weaned; and kind she was to me, the bonny, gentle creature that she was.

"For a time she seemed better, and looked so blooming--except whiles, and aye so bonny, that not one of them all could believe that she was going to die. But one day she came in from the garden, with a bonny moss-rose in her hand--the first of the season--and she said to your mother she was wearied, and lay down; and in a wee while, when your mother spoke to her again, she had just strength to say that she was going, and that she wasna feared, and that was all. She never spoke again."

Janet paused to wipe the tears from her face.

"She was good and bonny, and our Menie, the dear lammie, has been growing very like her this while. She 'minds me on her now, with the long lashes lying over her cheeks. Miss Marian's cheeks aye reddened that way when she slept. Her hair wasna so dark as our Menie's, but it curled of itself, like hers."

Mrs Nasmyth turned grave pitying eyes toward Graeme, as she ceased speaking. Graeme's heart gave a sudden painful throb, and she went very pale.

"Janet," said she, with difficulty, "there is not much the matter with my sister, is there? It wasna that you meant about changes! Menie's not going to die like our bonny Aunt Marian!" Her tones grew shrill and incredulous as she went on.

"I cannot tell. I dinna ken--sometimes I'm feared to think how it may end. But oh! Miss Graeme--my darling--"

"But it is quite impossible--it can't be, Janet," broke in Graeme.

"G.o.d knows, dear." Janet said no more. The look on Graeme's face showed that words would not help her to comprehend the trouble that seemed to be drawing near. She must be left to herself a while, and Janet watched her as she went out over the fallen leaves, and over the bridge to the pine grove beyond, with a longing pity that fain would have borne her trouble for her. But she could not bear it for her--she could not even help her to bear it. She could only pray that whatever the end of their doubt for Marian might be, the elder sister might be made the better and the wiser for the fear that had come to her to-day.

There are some sorrows which the heart refuses to realise or acknowledge, even in knowing them to be drawing near. Possible danger or death to one beloved is one of these; and as Graeme sat in the shadow of the pines shuddering with the pain and terror which Janet's words had stirred, she was saying it was impossible--it could not be true--it could never, _never_ be true, that her sister was going to die. She tried to realise the possibility, but she could not. When she tried to pray that the terrible dread might be averted, and that they might all be taught to be submissive in G.o.d's hands, whatever His will might be, the words would not come to her. It was, "No, no! no, no! it cannot be," that went up through the stillness of the pines; the cry of a heart not so much rebellious as incredulous of the possibility of pain so terrible. The darkness fell before she rose to go home again, and when she came into the firelight to the sound of happy voices, Menie's the most mirthful of them all, her terrors seemed utterly unreasonable, she felt like one waking from a painful dream.

"What could have made Janet frighten herself and me so?" she said, as she spread out her cold hands to the blaze, all the time watching her sister's bright face.