Janet's Love and Service Part 3

"Nae, my lad, it wouldna be right to leave grannie by herself, and you'll need to bide here. Think aye first of what is right, and there will be no fear of you."

"And are you goin' mother?" asked Sandy, gravely.

"I doubt I'll need to go, Sandy lad, with the bairns. But I think less of it, that I can leave you to be a comfort to grannie. I'm sure I needna bid you be a good and obedient laddie to her, when--"

It needed a strong effort on her part to restrain the bitter cry of her heart.

"And will you never come back again, mother?"

"I dinna ken, Sandy. Maybe no. But that's no' for us to consider. It is present duty we maun think o'. The rest is in the Lord's hands."

What else could be said? That was the sum. It was duty and the Lord would take care of the rest. And so they parted with outward calm; and her mother never knew that that night, Janet, sending the children home before her, sat down in the lane, and "grat as if she would never greet mair." And Janet never knew, till long years afterwards, how that night, and many a night, Sandy woke from the sound sleep of childhood to find his grandmother praying and weeping, to think of the parting that was drawing near. Each could be strong to help the other, but alone, in silence and darkness, the poor shrinking heart had no power to cheat itself into the belief that bitter suffering did not lie before it.

CHAPTER FOUR.

It was wors.h.i.+p time, and the bairns had gathered round the table with their books, to wait for their father's coming. It was a fair sight to see, but it was a sad one too, for they were motherless. It was all the more sad, that the bright faces and gay voices told how little they realised the greatness of the loss they had sustained. They were more gay than usual, for the elder brother had come home for the summer, perhaps for always; for the question was being eagerly discussed whether he would go back to the college again, or whether he was to go with the rest to America.

Arthur, a quiet, handsome lad of sixteen, said little. He was sitting with the sleepy Will upon his knee, and only put in a word now and then, when the others grew too loud and eager. He could have set them at rest about it; for he knew that his father had decided to leave him in Scotland till his studies were finished at the college.

"But there's no use to vex the lads and Graeme to-night," he said to himself; and he was right, as he had not quite made up his mind whether he was vexed himself or not. The thought of the great countries on the other side of the globe, and of the possible adventures that might await them there, had charms for him, as for every one of his age and spirit.

But he was a sensible lad, and realised in some measure the advantage of such an education as could only be secured by remaining behind, and he knew in his heart that there was reason in what his father had said to him of the danger there was that the voyage and the new scenes in a strange land might unsettle his mind from his books. It cost him something to seem content, even while his father was speaking to him, and he knew well it would grieve the rest to know he was to be left behind, so he would say nothing about it, on this first night of his home-coming.

There was one sad face among them; for even Arthur's home-coming could not quite chase the shadow that had fallen on Graeme since the night a year ago while she sat dreaming her dreams in the firelight. It was only a year or little more, but it might have been three, judging from the change in her. She was taller and paler, and older-looking since then. And yet it was not so much that as something else that so changed her, Arthur thought, as he sat watching her. The change had come to her through their great loss, he knew; but he could not have understood, even if it had been told him, how much this had changed life to Graeme.

He had suffered too more than words could ever tell. Many a time his heart had been ready to burst with unspeakable longing for his dead mother's loving presence, her voice, her smile, her gentle chiding, till he could only cast himself down and weep vain tears upon the ground.

Graeme had borne all this, and what was worse to her, the hourly missing of her mother's counsel and care. Not one day of all the year but she had been made to feel the bitterness of their loss; not one day but she had striven to fill her mother's place to her father and them all, and her nightly heartbreak had been to know that she had striven in vain.

"As how could it be otherwise than vain," she said often to herself, "so weak, so foolish, so impatient." And yet through all her weakness and impatience, she knew that she must never cease to try to fill her mother's place still.

Some thought of all this came into Arthur's mind, as she sat there leaning her head on one hand, while the other touched from time to time the cradle at her side. Never before had he realised how sad it was for them all that they had lost their mother, and how dreary life at home must have been all the year.

"Poor Graeme! and poor wee Rosie!" he says to himself, stooping over the cradle.

"How old is Rosie?" asked he, suddenly.

"Near three years old," said Janet.

"She winna be three till August," said Graeme in the same breath, and she turned beseeching eyes on Janet. For this was becoming a vexed question between them--the guiding of poor wee Rosie. Janet was a disciplinarian, and ever declared that Rosie "should go to her bed like ither folk;" but Graeme could never find it in her heart to vex her darling, and so the cradle still stood in the down-stairs parlour for Rosie's benefit, and it was the elder sister's nightly task to soothe the fretful little lady to her unwilling slumbers.

But Graeme had no need to fear discussion to-night. Janet's mind was full of other thoughts. One cannot shed oceans of tears and leave no sign; and Janet, by no means sure of herself, sat with her face turned from the light, intently gazing on the very small print of the Bible in her hand. On common occasions the bairns would not have let Janet's silence pa.s.s unheeded, but to-night they were busy discussing matters of importance, and except to say now and then, "Whist, bairns! your father will be here!" she sat without a word.

There was a hush at last, as a step was heard descending the stairs, and in a minute their father entered. It was not fear that quieted them.

There was no fear in the frank, eager eyes turned toward him, as he sat down among them. His was a face to win confidence and respect, even at the first glance, so grave and earnest was it, yet withal so gentle and mild. In his children's hearts the sight of it stirred deep love, which grew to reverence as they grew in years. The calm that sat on that high, broad brow, told of conflicts pa.s.sed, and victory secure, of weary wandering through desert places, over now and scarce remembered in the quiet of the resting-place he had found. His words and deeds, and his chastened views of earthly things told of a deep experience in "that life which is the heritage of the few--that true life of G.o.d in the soul with its strange, rich secrets, both of joy and sadness," whose peace the world knoweth not of, which naught beneath the sun can ever more disturb.

"The minister is changed--greatly changed." Janet had said many times to herself and others during the last few months, and she said it now, as her eye with the others turned on him as he entered. But with the thought there came to-night the consciousness that the change was not such a one as was to be deplored. He had grown older and graver, and more silent than he used to be, but he had grown to something higher, purer, holier than of old, and like a sudden gleam of light breaking through the darkness, there flashed into Janet's mind the promise, "All things shall work together for good to them that love G.o.d." Her lips had often spoken the words before, but now her eyes saw the fulfilment, and her failing faith was strengthened. If that bitter trial, beyond which she had vainly striven to see aught but evil, had indeed wrought good, for her beloved friend and master; need she fear any change or any trial which the future might have in store for her?

"It will work for good, this pain and separation," murmured she. "I'm no' like the minister, but frail and foolish, and wilful too whiles, but I humbly hope that I am one of those who love the Lord."

"Well, bairns!" said the father. There was a gentle stir and movement among them, though there was no need, for Graeme had already set her father's chair and opened the Bible at the place. She pushed aside the cradle a little that he might pa.s.s, and he sat down among them.

"We'll take a Psalm, to-night," said he, after a minute's turning of the leaves from a "namey chapter" in Chronicles, the usual place. He chose the forty-sixth.

"G.o.d is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble.

"Therefore will not we fear, though the earth be removed, though the mountains be cast into the midst of the sea."

And thus on through the next.

"He shall choose our inheritance for us, the excellency of Jacob, whom he loved."

And still on through the next till the last verse,--

"This G.o.d is our G.o.d for ever and ever. He will be our guide, even unto death," seemed like the triumphant ending of a song of praise.

Then there was a momentary hush and pause. Never since the mother's voice had grown silent in death had the voice of song risen at wors.h.i.+p time. They had tried it more than once, and failed in bitter weeping.

But Janet, fearful that their silence was a sin, had to-night brought the hymn-books which they always used, and laid them at Arthur's side.

In the silence that followed the reading Graeme looked from him to them, but Arthur shook his head. He was not sure that his voice would make its way through the lump that had been gathering in his throat while his father read, and he felt that to fail would be dreadful, so there was silence still--

There was a little lingering round the fire after wors.h.i.+p was over, but when Arthur went quietly away the boys soon followed. Graeme would fain have stayed to speak a few words to her father, on this first night of his return. He was sitting gazing into the fire, with a face so grave that his daughter's heart ached for his loneliness. But a peevish voice from the cradle admonished her that she must to her task again, and so with a quiet "good-night, papa," she took her little sister in her arms.

Up-stairs she went, murmuring tender words to her "wee birdie," her "bonny lammie," her "little gentle dove," more than repaid for all her weariness and care, by the fond nestling of the little head upon her bosom; for her love, which was more a mother's than a sister's, made the burden light.

The house was quiet at last. The boys had talked themselves to sleep, and the minister had gone to his study again. This had been one of Rosie's "weary nights." The voices of her brothers had wakened her in the parlour, and Graeme had a long walk with the fretful child, before she was soothed to sleep again. But she did sleep at last, and just as Janet had finished her nightly round, shutting the windows and barring the doors, Graeme crept down-stairs, and entered the kitchen. The red embers still glowed on the hearth, but Janet was in the very act of "resting the fire" for the night.

"Oh! Janet," said Graeme, "put on another peat. I'm cold, and I want to speak to you."

"Miss Graeme! You up at this time o' the night! What ails yon cankered fairy now?"

"Oh, Janet! She's asleep long ago, and I want to speak to you." And before Janet could remonstrate, one of the dry peats set ready for the morning fire was thrown on the embers, and soon blazed brightly up.

Graeme crouched down before it, with her arm over Janet's knee.

"Janet, what did your mother say? And oh! Janet, Arthur says my father--" Turning with a sudden movement, Graeme let her head fall on Janet's lap, and burst into tears. Janet tried to lift her face.

"Whist! Miss Graeme! What ails the la.s.sie? It's no' the thought of going awa', surely? You hae kenned this was to be a while syne. You hae little to greet about, if you but kenned it--you, who are going altogether."

"Janet, Arthur is to bide in Scotland."

"Well, it winna be for long. Just till he's done at the college. I dare say it is the best thing that can happen him to bide. But who told you?"

"Arthur told me after we went up-stairs to-night. And, oh! Janet! what will I ever do without him?"

"Miss Graeme, my dear! You hae done without him these two years already mostly, and even if we all were to bide in Scotland, you would hae to do without him still. He could na' be here and at the college too. And when he's done with that he would hae to go elsewhere. Families canna aye bide together. Bairns maun part."

"But, Janet, to go so far and leave him! It will seem almost like death."

"But, la.s.sie it's no' death. There's a great difference. And as for seeing him again, that is as the Lord wills. Anyway, it doesna become you to cast a slight on your father's judgment, as though he had decided unwisely in this matter. Do you no' think it will cost him something to part from his first-born son?"

"But, Janet, why need he part from him? Think how much better it would be for him, and for us all, if Arthur should go with us. Arthur is almost a man."