Читать книгу Janet's Love and Service - Margaret M. Robertson - Страница 13

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“Miss Graeme,” said Janet, softly opening the study-door, and looking in. Graeme was at her side in a moment.

“Never mind putting by your book, I only want to tell you, that I’m going up the brae to see Mrs. Snow awhile. It’s no’ cold, and I’ll take the bairns with me. So just give a look at the fire now and then, and have the kettle boiling gin tea time. I winna bide late.”

Graeme put down her book, and hastened the preparations of the little ones.

“I wish I could up with you, Janet. How mild and bright it is to-day.”

“But your papa mustna be left to the keeping of fires, and the entertainment of chance visitors. You winna think long with your book, you ken, and we’ll be home again before it’s dark.”

“Think long!” echoed Graeme. “Not if I’m left at peace with my book—I only hope no one will come.”

“My dear!” remonstrated Janet, “that’s no’ hospitable. I daresay if anybody comes, you’ll enjoy their company for a change. You maun try and make friends with folk, like Menie here.”

Graeme laughed. “It’s easy for Menie, she’s a child. But I have to behave myself like a grown woman, at least, with most folk. I would far rather have the afternoon to myself.”

She watched them down the street, and then betook herself to her book, and her accustomed seat at the study window. Life was very pleasant to Graeme, these days. She did not manifest her light-heartedness by outward signs; she was almost always as quiet as sorrow and many cares had made her, since her mother’s death. But it was a quiet always cheerful, always ready to change to grave talk with Janet, or merry play with the little ones. Janet’s returning cheerfulness banished the last shade of anxiety from her mind, and she was too young to go searching into the future for a burden to bear.

She was fast growing into companionship with her father. She knew that he loved and trusted her entirely, and she strove to deserve his confidence. In all matters concerning her brothers and sisters, he consulted her, as he might have consulted her mother, and as well as an elder sister could, she fulfilled a mother’s duty to them. In other matters, her father depended upon her judgment and discretion also. Often he was beguiled into forgetting what a child she still was, while he discussed with her subjects more suited for one of maturer years.

And it was pleasant to be looked upon with respect and consideration, by the new friends they had found here. She was a little more than a child in years, and shy and doubtful of herself withal, but it was very agreeable to be treated like a woman, by the kind people about her. Not that she would have confessed this. Not that she was even conscious of the pleasure it gave her. Indeed, she was wont to declare to Janet, in private, that it was all nonsense, and she wished that people would not speak to her always, as though she were a woman of wisdom and experience. But it was agreeable to her all the same.

She had her wish that afternoon. Nobody came to disturb them, till the failing light admonished her that it was time to think of Janet, and the tea-kettle. Then there came a knock at the door, and Graeme opened it to Mr. Greenleaf. If she was not glad to see him, her looks belied her. He did not seem to doubt a welcome from her, or her father either, as he came in.

What the charm was, that beguiled Mr. Greenleaf into spending so many hours in the minister’s study, the good people of Merleville found it difficult to say. The squire’s ill-concealed indifference to the opinions of people generally, had told against him always. For once, Mrs. Page had been too charitable. He was not in a hopeful state, at least, in her sense of the term, and it might be doubted, whether frequent intercourse with the minister, would be likely to encourage the young man to the attainment of Mrs. Page’s standard of excellence. But to the study he often came, and he was never an unwelcome guest.

“If I am come at a wrong time, tell me so,” said he, as he shook hands with Mr. Elliott, over a table covered with books and papers.

“You can hardly do that,” said the minister, preparing to put the books and papers away. “I am nearly done for the night. Excuse me, for a minute only.”

Graeme lingered talking to their visitor, till her father should be quite at liberty.

“I have something for you,” said Mr. Greenleaf, in a minute. Graeme smiled her thanks, and held out her hand for the expected book, or magazine. It was a note this time.

“From Celestia!” she exclaimed, colouring a little.

Graeme did not aspire to the honour of Celestia’s confidence in all things, but she knew, or could guess enough, about the state of affairs between her friend and Mr. Greenleaf, to be wonderfully interested in them, and she could not help feeling a little embarrassed, as she took the note, from his hands.

“Read it,” said he.

Graeme stooped down to catch the firelight. The note was very brief. Celestia was going away, and wished Graeme to come and see her, to-morrow. Mr. Greenleaf would fetch her.

“Celestia, going away!” she exclaimed, raising herself up.

“Yes,” said he, “have you not heard it?”

“I heard the farm was to be sold, but I hoped they would still stay in Merleville.”

“So did I,” said Mr. Greenleaf, gravely.

“When will they go?”

“Miss Jones is to be a teacher, in the new seminary at Rixford. They are going to live there, and it cannot be very long before they go.”

“To her uncle?”

“No, Celestia thinks her mother would not be happy there. They will live by themselves, with the children.”

“How sorry Celestia will be to go away,” said Graeme, sadly.

“She will not be persuaded to stay,” said Mr. Greenleaf.

Graeme darted a quick, embarrassed look at him, as much as to say, “Have you asked her?” He answered her in words.

“Yes, I have tried, and failed. She does not care to stay.”

There was only sadness in his voice; at least, she detected nothing else. There was none of the bitterness which, while it made Celestia’s heart ache that afternoon, had made her all the more determined to do what she believed to be right.

“Oh! it’s not that,” said Graeme, earnestly, “I’m sure she cares. I mean if she goes, it will be because she thinks it right, not because she wishes it.”

“Is it right to make herself and me unhappy?”

“But her mother and the rest. They are in trouble; it would seem like forsaking them.”

“It need not. They might stay with her.”

“I think, perhaps—I don’t think—” Graeme hesitated, and then said hurriedly—

“Are you rich, Mr. Greenleaf?” He laughed.

“I believe you are one of those who do not compute riches by the number of dollars one possesses. So I think, to you I may safely answer, yes. I have contentment with little, and on such wealth one pays no taxes.”

“Yes; but—I think—oh, I can’t say what I think; but I’m sure Celestia is right. I am quite sure of that.”

Mr. Greenleaf did not look displeased, though Graeme feared he might, at her bold speech.

“I don’t believe I had better take you to see her to-morrow. You will encourage her to hold out against me.”

“Not against you. She would never do that. And, besides, it would make no difference. Celestia is wise and strong, and will do what she believes to be right.”

“Wise and strong,” repeated Mr. Greenleaf, smiling, but his face grew grave in a minute again. Mr. Elliott made a movement to join them, and Graeme thought of her neglected tea-kettle, and hastened away.

“Never mind,” she whispered, “it will all end well. Things always do when people do right.”

Mr. Greenleaf might have some doubt as to the truth of this comforting declaration in all cases, but he could have none as to the interest and good wishes of his little friend, so he only smiled in reply. Not that he had really many serious doubts as to its ending well. He had more than once that very afternoon grieved Celestia by saying that she did not care for him; but, if he had ever had any serious trouble on the subject, they vanished when the first touch of anger and disappointment had worn away, giving him time to acknowledge and rejoice over the “strength and wisdom” so unhesitatingly ascribed by Graeme to her friend. So that it was not at all in a desponding spirit that he turned to reply, when the minister addressed him.

They had scarcely settled down to one of their long, quiet talks, when they were summoned to tea by Graeme, and before tea was over, Janet and the bairns came home. The boys had found their way up the hill when school was over, and they all came home together in Mr. Snow’s sleigh. To escape from the noise and confusion which they brought with them, Mr. Greenleaf and the minister went into the study again.

During the silence that succeeded their entrance, there came into Mr. Greenleaf’s mind a thought that had been often there before. It was a source of wonder to him that a man of Mr. Elliott’s intellectual power and culture should content himself in so quiet a place as Merleville, and to-night he ventured to give expression to his thoughts. Mr. Elliott smiled.

“I don’t see that my being content to settle down here for life, is any more wonderful than that you should have done so. Indeed, I should say, far less wonderful. You are young and have the world before you.”

“But my case is quite different. I settle here to get a living, and I mean to get a good one too, and besides,” added he, laughing, “Merleville is as good a place as any other to go to Congress from; there is no American but may have that before him you know.”

“As for the living, I can get here such as will content me. For the rest, the souls in this quiet place are as precious as elsewhere. I am thankful for my field of labour.”

Mr. Greenleaf had heard such words before, and he had taken them “for what they were worth,” as a correct thing for a minister to say. But the quiet earnestness and simplicity of Mr. Elliott’s manner struck him as being not just a matter of course.

“He is in earnest about it, and does not need to use many words to prove it. There must be something in it.” He did not answer him, however.

“There is one thing which is worth consideration,” continued Mr. Elliott, “you may be disappointed, but I cannot be so, in the nature of things.”

“About getting a living?” said Mr. Greenleaf, and a vague remembrance of Deacons Fish and Slowcome made him move uneasily in his chair.

“That is not what I was thinking of, but I suppose I may be sure of that, too. ‘Your bread shall be given you, and your water sure.’ And there is no such thing as disappointment in that for which I really am labouring, the glory of God, and the good of souls.”

“Well,” said Mr. Greenleaf, gravely, “there must be something in it that I don’t see, or you will most assuredly be disappointed. It is by no means impossible that I may have my wish, men of humbler powers than mine—I may say it without vanity—have risen higher than to the Congress of our country. I don’t look upon mine as by any means a hopeless ambition. But the idea of your ever seeing all the crooked natures in Merleville made straight! Well, to say the least, I don’t see how you can be very sanguine about it.”

“Well, I don’t say that even that is beyond my ambition, or beyond the power of Him whom I serve to accomplish. But though I may never see this, or the half of this accomplished, it does not follow that I am to be disappointed, more than it follows that your happiness will be secured when you sit in the Congress of this great nation, or rule in the White House even, which is not beyond your ambition either, I suppose. You know how a promise may be ‘kept to the ear and broken to the heart,’ as somebody says.”

“I know it is the fashion to speak in that way. We learn, in our school books, all about the folly of ambition, and the unsatisfying nature of political greatness. But even if the attainment must disappoint, there is interest and excitement in the pursuit. And, if you will allow me to say so, it is not so in your case, and to me the disappointment seems even more certain.”

Mr. Elliott smiled.

“I suppose the converse of the poet’s sad declaration may be true. The promise may be broken to the eye and ear, and yet fulfilled divinely to the heart. I am not afraid.”

“And, certainly,” thought the young man, “he looks calm and hopeful enough.”

“And,” added Mr. Elliott, “as to the interest of the pursuit, if that is to be judged by the importance of the end to be attained, I think mine may well bear comparison to yours.”

“Yes, in one sense, I suppose—though I don’t understand it. I can imagine an interest most intense, an engagement—a happiness altogether absorbing in such a labour of love, but—I was not looking at the matter from your point of view.”

“But from no other point of view can the subject be fairly seen,” said Mr. Elliott, quietly.

“Well, I have known few, even among clergymen, who have not had their eyes turned pretty frequently to another side of the matter. One ought to be altogether above the necessity of thinking of earthly things, to be able to enjoy throwing himself wholly into such a work, and I fancy that can be said of few.”

“I don’t understand you,” said Mr. Elliott. “Do you mean that you doubt the sincerity of those to whom you refer.”

“By no means. My thoughts were altogether in another direction. In fact, I was thinking of the great ‘bread and butter’ struggle in which ninety-nine out of every hundred are for dear life engaged; and none more earnestly, and few with less success, than men of your profession.”

Mr. Elliott looked as though he did not yet quite understand. Mr. Greenleaf hesitated, slightly at a loss, but soon went on.

“Constituted as we are, I don’t see how a man can wholly devote himself to a work he thinks so great, and yet have patience to struggle with the thousand petty cares of life. The shifts and turnings to which insufficient means must reduce one, cannot but vex and hurt such a nature, if it does not change it at last. But I see I fail to make myself understood by you; let me try again. I don’t know how it may be in your country, but here, at least as far as my personal observation has extended, the remuneration received by ministers is insufficient, not to say paltry. I don’t mean that in many cases they and their families actually suffer, but there are few of them so situated as regards income, that economy need not be the very first consideration in all their arrangements. Comparing them with other professional men they may be called poor. Such a thing as the gratification of taste is not to be thought of in their case. There is nothing left after the bare necessaries are secured. It is a struggle to bring up their children, a struggle to educate them, a struggle to live. And what is worse than all, the pittance, which is rightly theirs, comes to them often in a way which, to say the least, is suggestive of charity given and received. No, really, I cannot look on the life of a minister as a very attractive one.”

“I should think not, certainly, if such are your views of it,” said Mr. Elliott.

“I wish I could have the comfort of doubting their justness, but I cannot, unless the majority of cases that have fallen under my observation are extreme ones. Why, there are college friends of mine who, in any other profession, might have distinguished themselves—might have become wealthy at least, who are now in some out of the way parish, with wives and little children, burdened with the cares of life. How they are to struggle on in the future it is sad to think of. They will either give up the profession or die, or degenerate into very commonplace men before many years.”

“Unless they have some charm against it—which may very well be,” said Mr. Elliott, quietly.

“I see you do not agree with me. Take yourself for instance, or rather, let us take your predecessor. He was a good man, all say who knew him well, and with time and study he might have proved himself a great man. But if ever a man’s life was a struggle for the bare necessaries of life, his was, and the culpable neglect of the people in the regular payment of his very small salary was the cause of his leaving them at last. He has since gone West, I hear, to a happier lot, let us hope. The circumstances of his predecessor were no better. He died here, and his wife broke down in a vain effort to maintain and educate his children. She was brought back to Merleville and laid beside her husband less than a year ago. There is something wrong in the matter somewhere.”

There was a pause, and then Mr. Greenleaf continued.

“It may seem an unkindly effort in me to try to change your views of your future in Merleville. Still, it is better that you should be in some measure prepared, for what I fear awaits you. Otherwise, you might be disgusted with us all.”

“I shall take refuge in the thought that you are showing me the dark side of the picture,” said Mr. Elliott.

“Pray do. And, indeed, I am. I may have said more than enough in my earnestness. I am sure when you really come to know our people, you will like them notwithstanding things that we might wish otherwise.”

“I like you already,” said Mr. Elliott, smiling. “I assure you I had a great respect for you as the children of the Puritans, before ever I saw you.”

“Yes, but I am afraid you will like us less; before you like us better. We are the children of the Puritans, but very little, I daresay, like the grave gentlemen up on your shelves yonder. Your countrymen are, at first, generally disappointed in us as a people. Mind, I don’t allow that we are in reality less worthy of respect than you kindly suppose us to be for our fathers’ sakes. But we are different. It is not so much that we do not reach so high a standard, as that we have a different standard of excellence—one that your education, habits, and prepossessions as a people, do not prepare you to appreciate us.”

“Well,” said Mr. Elliott, as his friend paused.

“Oh! I have little more to say, except, that what is generally the experience of your countrymen will probably be yours in Merleville. You have some disappointing discoveries to make among us, you who are an earnest man and a thinker.”

“I think a want of earnestness can hardly be called a sin of your countrymen,” said the minister.

“Earnestness!” said Mr. Greenleaf. “No, we are earnest enough here in Merleville. But the most of even the good men among us seem earnest, only in the pursuit of that, in comparison to which my political aspirations seem lofty and praiseworthy. It is wealth they seek. Not that wealth which will result in magnificent expenditure, and which, in a certain sense, may have a charm for even high-minded men, but money-making in its meanest form—the scraping together of copper coins for their own sakes. At least one might think so, for any good they ever seem to get of it.”

“You are severe,” said the minister, quietly.

“Not too severe. This seems to be the aim of all of us, whether we are willing to acknowledge it or not. And such a grovelling end will naturally make a man unscrupulous as to the means to attain it. There are not many men among us here—I don’t know more than two or three—who would not be surprised if you told them, being out of the pulpit, that they had not a perfect right to make the very most out of their friends—even by shaving closely in matters of business.”

“And yet you say their standard is a high one?”

“High or not, the religious people among us don’t seem to doubt their own Christianity on account of these things. And what is more, they don’t seem to lose faith in each other. But how it will all seem to you is another matter.”

“How does it seem to you?”

“Oh, I am but a spectator. Being not one of the initiated, I am not supposed to understand the change they profess to have undergone; and so, instead of being in doubt about particular cases, I am disposed to think little of the whole matter. With you it is different.”

“Yes, with me it is indeed different,” said the minister, gravely—so gravely, that Mr. Greenleaf almost regretted having spoken so freely, and when he spoke again it was to change the subject.

“It must have required a great wrench to break away from your people and country and old associations,” said he, in a little. Mr. Elliott started—

“No, the wrench came before. It would have cost me more to stay and grow old in my own land than it did to leave it, than it ever can do to live and die among strangers.”

Fearful that he had awakened painful thoughts, Mr. Greenleaf said no more. In a little Mr. Elliott went on—

“It was an old thought, this wishing to find a home for our children in this grand new world. We had always looked forward to it sometime. And when I was left alone, the thought of my children’s future, and the longing to get away—anywhere—brought me here.”

He paused, and when he spoke again it was more calmly.

“Perhaps it was cowardly in me to flee. There was help for me there, if my faith had not failed. I thought it would be better for my children when I left them to leave them here. But God knows it was no desire to enrich myself that brought me to America.”

“We can live on little. I trust you will be mistaken in your fears. But if these troubles do come, we must try, with God’s grace, and Mrs. Nasmyth’s help, to get through them as best we can. We might not better ourselves by a change, as you seem to think the evil a national one.”

“The love and pursuit of the ‘almighty dollar,’ is most certainly a national characteristic. As to the bearing it may have in church matters in other places, of course I have not the means of judging. Here I know it has been bad enough in the past.”

“Well, I can only say I have found the people most kind and liberal hitherto,” said Mr. Elliott.

“Have you had a settlement with them since you came?” asked the squire; the remembrance of various remarks he had heard of late coming unpleasantly to his mind.

“No, I have not yet. But as the half-year is nearly over, I suppose it will come soon. Still I have no fears—I think I need have none. It is not theirs but them I seek.”

“Do you remember the Sabbath I first came among you? I saw you there among the rest. If my heart rose up in thankfulness to God that day, it was with no thought of gold or gear. God is my witness that I saw not these people as possessors of houses and lands, but of precious souls—living souls to be encouraged—slumbering souls to be aroused—dead souls to be made alive in Christ, through His own Word, spoken by me and blessed by Him.

“No, I do not think I can possibly be disappointed in this matter. I may have to bear trial, and it may come to me as it oftenest comes to God’s people, in the very way that seems hardest to bear, but God will bless his Word. And even if I do not live to see it, I can rest in the assurance that afterward, ‘both he that soweth and he that reapeth shall rejoice together.’ ”

He paused. A momentary gleam of triumph passed over his face and left it peaceful.

“The peace that passeth understanding,” thought the young man, with a sigh. For he could not quite satisfy himself by saying, that Mr. Elliott was no man of business, an unworldly man. It came into his mind that even if the minister were chasing a shadow, it was a shadow more satisfying than his possible reality of political greatness. So he could not but sigh as he sat watching that peaceful face. The minister looked up and met his eye.

“And so, my friend, I think we must end where we begun. You may be disappointed even in the fulfilment of your hopes. But for me, all must end well—let the end be what it may.”