Читать книгу Janet's Love and Service - Margaret M. Robertson - Страница 12

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“I like the wood fires,” said Graeme. “They are far clearer than the peat fires at home.”

They were sitting, Graeme and Janet, according to their usual custom, a little after the others had all gone to bed. The study-door was closed, though the light still gleamed beneath it; but it was getting late, and the minister would not be out again.

Graeme might well admire such a wood fire as that before which they were sitting: The fore-stick had nearly burned through, and the brands had fallen over the andirons, but the great back-log glowed with light and heat, though only now and then a bright blaze leapt up. It was not very warm in the room, however, except for their faces, and Graeme shivered a little as she drew nearer to the fire, and hardly heeding that Janet did not answer her, fell to dreaming in the firelight.

Without, the rude March winds were roaring, and within, too, for that matter. For though carpets, and curtains, and listings nailed over seams might keep out the bitter frost when the air was still, the east winds of March swept in through every crack and crevice, chilling them to the bone. It roared wildly among the boughs of the great elms in the yard, and the tall well-sweep creaked, and the bucket swung to and fro with a noise that came through Graeme’s dream and disturbed it at last. Looking up suddenly she became aware that the gloom that had been gathering over Janet for many a day hung darkly round her now. She drew near to her, and laying her arms down on her lap in the old fashion, said softly:

“The winter’s near over now, Janet.”

“Ay, thank the Lord for that, any way,” said Janet. She knew that Graeme’s words and movement were an invitation to tell her thoughts, so she bent forward to collect the scattered brands and settle the fore-stick, for she felt that her thoughts were not of the kind to bear telling to Graeme or to any one. As she gathered them together between the andirons, she sighed a sigh of mingled sorrow and impatience. And the light that leapt suddenly up made the cloud on her brow more visible. For the winter that had been so full of enjoyment to all the rest had been a time of trial to Janet.

To the young people, the winter had brought numberless pleasures. The lads had gone to the school, where they were busy and happy, and the little ones had been busy and happy at home. None had enjoyed the winter more than Graeme. The change had been altogether beneficial to Rose; and never since their mother’s death had the elder sister been so much at ease about her. There was little to be done in the way of making or mending, and, with leisure at her disposal, she was falling into her old habits of reading and dreaming. She had been busy teaching the little ones, too, and at night worked with her brothers at their lessons, so that the winter had been profitable as well as pleasant to her. At all times in his study, amid the silent friends that had become so dear to him, Mr. Elliott could be content; and in his efforts to become acquainted with his people, their wants and tastes, he had been roused to something like the cheerfulness of former years.

But to Janet the winter had been a time of conflict, a long struggle with unseen enemies; and as she sat there in the dim firelight, she was telling herself sorrowfully that she would be worsted by them at last. Home-sickness, blind and unreasoning, had taken possession of her. Night by night she had lain down with the dull pain gnawing at her heart. Morning by morning she had risen sick with the inappeasable yearning for her home, a longing that would not be stilled, to walk again through familiar scenes, to look again on familiar faces.

The first letters from home, so longed for by all, so welcomed and rejoiced over by the rest, brought little comfort to her. Arthur’s letters to his father and Graeme, so clear and full of all they wished to hear about, “so like a printed book,” made it all the harder for her to bear her disappointment over Sandy’s obscure, ill-spelt and indifferently-written letter. She had of old justly prided herself on Sandy’s “hand o’ write;” but she had yet to learn the difference between a school-boy’s writing, with a copper-plate setting at the head of the page, and that which must be the result of a first encounter with the combined difficulties of writing, spelling and composition.

Poor Sandy! He had laboured hard, doubtless, and had done his best, but it was not satisfactory. In wishing to be minute, he had become mysterious, and, to the same end, the impartial distribution through all parts of the letter of capitals, commas and full stops, had also tended. There was a large sheet closely written, and out of the whole but two clear ideas could be gathered! Mr. More of the parish school was dead, and they were to have a new master, and that Mrs. Smith had changed her mind, and he was not to be at Saughless for the winter after all.

There were other troubles too, that Janet had to bear alone. The cold, that served to brace the others, chilled her to the bone. Unaccustomed to any greater variation of temperature than might be very well met by the putting on or taking off of her plaid, the bitter cold of the New England winter, as she went out and in about her work, was felt keenly by her. She could not resist it, nor guard herself against it. Stove-heat was unbearable to her. An hour spent in Mrs. Snow’s hot room often made her unfit for anything for hours after; and sleigh-riding, which never failed to excite the children to the highest spirits, was as fatal to her comfort as the pitching of the “Steadfast” had been. To say that she was disappointed with herself in view of all this, is, by no means, saying enough. She was angry at her folly, and called herself “silly body” and “useless body,” striving with all her might to throw the burden from her.

Then, again, with only a few exceptions, she did not like the people. They were, in her opinion, at the same time, extravagant and penurious, proud and mean, ignorant, yet wise “above what is written,” self-satisfied and curious. The fact was, her ideas of things in general were disarranged by the state of affairs in Merleville. She never could make out “who was somebody and who was naebody;” and what made the matter more mysterious, they did not seem to know themselves.

Mrs. Judge Merle had made her first visit to the minister’s in company with the wife of the village blacksmith, and if there was a lady between them Mrs. Page evidently believed it to be herself. Mrs. Merle was a nice motherly body, that sat on her seat and behaved herself, while Mrs. Page went hither and thither, opening doors and spying fairlies, speiring about things she had no concern with, like an ill-bred woman as she is; and passing her remarks on the minister and the preaching, as if she were a judge. Both of them had invited her to visit them very kindly, no doubt; but Janet had no satisfaction in this or in anything that concerned them. She was out of her element. Things were quite different from anything she had been used with. She grew depressed and doubtful of herself, and no wonder that a gloom was gathering over her.

Some thought of all this came into Graeme’s mind, as she sat watching her while she gathered together the brands with unsteady hands, and with the thought came a little remorse. She had been thinking little of Janet and her trials all these days she had been passing so pleasantly with her books, in the corner of her father’s study. She blamed herself for her thoughtlessness, and resolved that it should not be so in future. In the mean time, it seemed as though she must say something to chase the shadow from the kind face. But she did not know what to say. Janet set down the tongs, and raised herself with a sigh. Graeme drew nearer.

“What is it, Janet?” asked she, laying her hand caressingly on hers. “Winna you tell me?”

Janet gave a startled look into her face.

“What is what, my dear?”

“Something is vexing you, and you winna tell me,” said Graeme, reproachfully.

“Hoot, lassie! what should ail me. I’m weel enough.”

“You are wearying for a letter, maybe. But it’s hardly time yet, Janet.”

“I’m no wearyin’ the night more than usual. And if I got a letter, it mightna give me muckle comfort.”

“Then something ails you, and you winna tell me,” said Graeme again, in a grieved voice.

“My dear, I hae naething to tell.”

“Is it me, Janet? Hae I done anything? You ken I wouldna willingly do wrong?” pleaded Graeme.

Janet put her fingers over the girl’s lips.

“Whist, my lammie. It’s naething—or naething that can be helpit,” and she struggled fiercely to keep back the flood that was swelling in her full heart. Graeme said nothing, but stroked the toil-worn hand of her friend, and at last laid her cheek down upon it.

“Lassie, lassie! I canna help it,” and the long pent up flood gushed forth, and the tears fell on Graeme’s bent head like rain. Graeme neither moved nor spoke, but she prayed in her heart that God would comfort her friend in her unknown sorrow; and by the first words she spoke she knew that she was comforted.

“I am an auld fule, I believe, or a spoiled bairn, that doesna ken it’s ain mind, and I think I’m growing waur ilka day,” and she paused to wipe the tears from her face.

“But what is it, Janet?” asked Graeme, softly.

“It’s naething, dear, naething that I can tell to mortal. I dinna ken what has come ower me. It’s just as if a giant had a gripe o’ me, and move I canna. But surely I’ll be set free in time.”

There was nothing Graeme could say to this; but she laid her cheek down on Janet’s hand again, and there were tears upon it.

“Now dinna do that, Miss Graeme,” cried Janet, struggling with another wave of the returning flood. “What will come o’ us if you give way. There’s naething ails me but that I’m an auld fule, and I canna help that, you ken.”

“Janet, it was an awful sacrifice you made, to leave your mother and Sandy to come with us. I never thought till to-night how great it must have been.”

“Ay, lassie. I’ll no deny it, but dinna think that I grudge it now. It wasna made in a right sperit, and that the Lord is showing me. I thought you couldna do without me.”

“We couldna, Janet.”

“And I aye thought if I could be of any use to your father and your father’s bairns, and could see them contented, and well in a strange land, that would be enough for me. And I hae gotten my wish. You’re a’ weel, and weel contented, and my heart is lying in my breast as heavy as lead, and no strength of mine can lift the burden. God help me.”

“God will help you,” said Graeme, softly. “It is the sore home-sickness, like the captives by Babel stream. But the Lord never brought you here in anger, and, Janet, it will pass away.”

“Weel, it may be. That’s what my mother said, or something like it. He means to let me see that you can do without me. But I’ll bide still awhile, anyway.”

Graeme’s face was fall of dismay.

“Janet! what could we ever do without you?”

“Oh, you could learn. But I’m not going to leave you yet. The giant shallna master me with my will. But, oh! lassie, whiles I think the Lord has turned against me for my self-seeking and pride.”

“But, Janet,” said Graeme, gravely, “the Lord never turns against his own people. And if anybody in the world is free from self-seeking it is you. It is for us you are living, and not for yourself.”

Janet shook her head.

“And, Janet, when the bonny spring days come, the giant will let you go. The weight will be lifted off, I’m sure it will. And, Janet, about Sandy—. You may be sure o’ him. If you had been there to guide him, he might have been wilful, and have gone astray, like others. But now the Lord will have him in His keeping, for, Janet, if ever a fatherless child was left to the Lord, you left Sandy for our sakes, and He will never forsake him—never, never!”

Janet’s tears were falling softly now, like the bright drops after the tempest is over, and the bow of promise is about to span the heavens.

“And, Janet, we all love you dearly.” Graeme had risen, and put her arms round her neck by this time. “Sometimes the boys are rough, and don’t seem to care, but they do care; and I’m thoughtless, too, and careless,” she added, humbly, “but I was that with my mother, whiles, and you ken I loved her dearly.” And the cry of pain that came with the words, told how dearly her mother was remembered still. Janet held her close.

“And, Janet, you must ’mind me of things, as my mother used to do. When I get a book, you ken I forget things, and you winna let me do wrong for my mother’s sake. We have no mother, Janet, and what could we do without you? And all this pain will pass away, and you will grow light-hearted again.”

And so it was. The worst was over after that night. Much more was said before they separated, and Graeme realised, for the first time, some of the discomforts of their present way of living, as far as Janet was concerned. Housekeeping affairs had been left altogether in her hands, and everything was so different from all that she had been accustomed to, and she was slow to learn new ways. The produce system was a great embarrassment to her. This getting “a pickle meal” from one, and “a corn tawties” from another, she could not endure. It was “living from hand to mouth” at best, to say nothing of the uncomfortable doubts now and then, as to whether the articles brought were intended as presents, or as the payment of the “minister’s tax,” as the least delicate among the people called it.

“And, my dear, I just wish your father would get a settlement with them, and we would begin again, and put aething down in a book. For I hae my doubts as to how we are to make the two ends meet. Things mount up you ken, and we maun try and guide things.”

Graeme looked grave. “I wonder what my father thinks,” said she. Janet shook her head.

“We mauna trouble your father if we can help it. The last minister they had had enough ado to live, they say, and he had fewer bairns. I’m no’ feared but we’ll be provided for. And, Miss Graeme, my dear, you’ll need to begin and keep an account again.”

Janet’s voice had the old cheerful echo in it by this time, and Graeme promised, with good heart, to do all she could to keep her father’s mind easy, and the household accounts straight.

Weeks passed on, and even before the bonny spring days had come, the giant had let Janet go, and she was her own cheerful self again. The letter that Harry brought in with a shout before March was over, was a very different letter from the one that had caused Janet to shed such tears of disappointment on that sad November, though Sandy was the writer still. The two only intelligible items of news which the last one had conveyed, were repeated here, and enlarged upon, with reason. A new master had come to the school, who was taking great pains with all the lads, and especially with Sandy, “as you will see by this letter, mother,” he wrote, “I hope it will be better worth reading than the last.”

If Mrs. Smith had changed her mind, it was all for good. Janet was no more to think of her mother as living by herself, in the lonely cot in the glen, but farther up in another cottage, within sight of the door of Saughless. And Sandy was to go to the school a while yet and there was no fear but something would be found for him to do, either on the farm, or in the garden. And so his mother was to set her heart at rest about them.

And her heart was set at rest; and Janet sang at her work again, and cheered or chid the bairns according as they needed, but never more, though she had many cares, and troubles not a few, did the giant hold her in his grasp again.