Читать книгу Janet's Love and Service - Margaret M. Robertson - Страница 5

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The time came when the decision could no longer be delayed. The minister was away from home, and before his return it would be made known formally to his people that he was to leave them, and after that the sooner his departure took place it would be the better for all concerned, and so Janet must brace herself for the task.

So out of the dimness of her spotless kitchen she came one day into the pleasant light of May, knowing that before she entered it again, she would have made her mother’s heart as sore as her own. All day, and for many days, she had been planning what she should say to her mother, for she felt that it must be farewell.

“If you know not of two ways which to choose, take that which is roughest and least pleasing to yourself, and the chances are it will be the right one,” said she to herself. “I read that in a book once, but it’s ill choosing when both are rough, and I know not what to do.”

Out into the brightness of the Spring day she came, with many misgivings as to how she was to speed in her errand.

“It’s a bonny day, bairns,” said she, and her eye wandered wistfully down the village street, and over the green fields, to the hills that rose dimly in the distance. The mild air softly fanned her cheek, pleasant sights were round her everywhere, and at the garden gate she lingered, vaguely striving under their influence to cast her burden from her.

“I mun hae it ower,” she muttered to herself as she went on. In each hand she held firmly the hand of a child. Marian and little Will were to go with her for safe keeping; the lads were at the school, and in her absence Graeme was to keep the house, and take care of little Rose.

“Oh, Janet!” she exclaimed, as she went down the lane a bit with them; “I wish I were going with you, it’s such a bonny day.”

But Janet knew that what she had to say, would be better said without her presence, so she shook her head.

“You know Miss Graeme, my dear, you mun keep the house, and we would weary carrying wee Rosie, and she could never go half the distance on her feet; and mind, if ony leddies call, the short bread is in the ben press, and gin they begin with questions, let your answers be short and ceevil, like a gude bairn, and take gude care o’ my bonny wee lily,” added she, kissing the pale little girl as she set her down. “But I needna tell you that, and we’ll soon be back again.”

The children chattered merrily all the way, and busy with her own thoughts, Janet answered them without knowing what she said. Down the lane, and over the burn, through green fields, till the burn crossed their path again they went, “the near way,” and soon the solitary cottage in the glen was in sight. It was a very humble home, but very pleasant in its loneliness, Janet thought, as her eye fell on it. The cat sat sunning herself on the step, and through the open door came the hum of the mother’s busy wheel. Drawing a long breath, Janet entered.

“Weel, mother,” said she.

“Weel, Janet, is this you, and the bairns? I doubt you hadna weel leavin’ hame the day,” said her mother.

“I had to come, and this day’s as good as another. It’s a bonny day, mother.”

“Ay, its a bonny day, and a seasonable, thank God. Come in by, bairns, I sent Sandy over to Fernie a while syne. It’s near time he were hame again. I’ll give you a piece, and you’ll go down the glen to meet him,” and, well pleased, away they went.

“I dare say you’ll be none the waur of your tea, Janet, woman,” said her mother, and she put aside her wheel, and entered with great zeal into her preparations. Janet strove to have patience with her burden a little longer, and sat still listening to her mother’s talk, asking and answering questions on indifferent subjects. There was no pause. Janet had seldom seen her mother so cheerful, and in a little she found herself wondering whether she had not been exaggerating to herself her mother’s need of her.

“The thought ought to give me pleasure,” she reasoned, but it did not, and she accused herself of perversity, in not being able to rejoice, that her mother could easily spare her to the duties she believed claimed her. In the earnestness of her thoughts, she grew silent at last, or answered her mother at random. Had she been less occupied, she might have perceived that her mother was not so cheerful as she seemed for many a look of wistful earnestness was fastened on her daughter’s face, and now and then a sigh escaped her.

They were very much alike in appearances, the mother and daughter. The mother had been “bonnier in her youth, than ever Janet had,” she used to say herself, and looking at her still ruddy cheeks, and clear grey eyes, it was not difficult to believe it. She was fresh-looking yet, at sixty, and though the hair drawn back under her cap was silvery white, her teeth for strength and beauty, might have been the envy of many a woman of half her years. She was smaller than Janet, and her whole appearance indicated the possession of more activity and less strength of body and mind than her daughter had, but the resemblance between them was still striking. She had seen many trials, as who that has lived for sixty years, has not? but she had borne them better than most, and was cheerful and hopeful still. When they were fairly seated, with the little table between them, she startled Janet, by coming to the point at once.

“And so they say the minister is for awa’ to America after all. Is that true?”

“Oh, ay! it is true, as ill news oftenest is,” said Janet, gravely. “He spoke to me about it before he went away. It’s all settled, or will be before he comes hame the morn.”

“Ay, as you say, it’s ill news to them that he’s leaving. But I hope it may be for the good o’ his young family. There’s many a one going that road now.”

“Ay, there’s more going than will better themselves by the change, I doubt. It’s no like that all the fine tales, we hear o’ yon country can be true.”

“As you say. But, it’s like the minister has some other dependence, than what’s ca’ed about the country for news. What’s this I hear about a friend o’ his that’s done weel there?”

Janet made a movement of impatience.

“Wha’ should he be, but some silly, book-learned body that bides in a college there awa’. I dare say there would be weel pleased in any country, where he could get plenty o’ books, and a house to hold them in. But what can the like o’ him ken o’ a young family and what’s needed for them. If he had but held his peace, and let the minister bide where he is, it would hae been a blessing, I’m sure.”

Janet suddenly paused in confusion, to find herself arguing on the wrong side of the question. Her mother said nothing, and in a minute she added—

“There’s one thing to be said for it, the mistress aye thought weel o’ the plan. Oh! if she had been but spared to them,” and she sighed heavily.

“You may weel say that,” said her mother, echoing her sigh. “But I’m no sure but they would miss her care as much to bide here, as to go there. And Janet, woman, there’s aye a kind Providence. He that said, ‘Leave thy fatherless children to me,’ winna forsake the motherless. There’s no fear but they’ll be brought through.”

“I hae been saying that to myself ilka hour of the day, and I believe it surely. But oh, mother,” Janet’s voice failed her. She could say no more.

“I ken weel, Janet,” continued her mother, gravely, “it will be a great charge and responsibility to you, and I dare say whiles you are ready to run away from it. But you’ll do better for them than any living woman could do. The love you bear them, will give you wisdom to guide them, and when strength is needed, there’s no fear but you’ll get it. The back is aye fitted for the burden. Let them gang or let them bide, you canna leave them now.”

She turned her face away from her mother, and for her life Janet could not have told whether the tears that were streaming down her cheeks, were falling for joy or for sorrow. There was to be no struggle between her and her mother. That was well; but with the feeling of relief the knowledge brought, there came a pang—a foretaste of the home-sickness, which comes once, at least, to every wanderer from his country. By a strong effort she controlled herself, and found voice to say—

“I shall never leave them while they need me. I could be content to toil for them always. But, ah! mother, the going awa’ over the sea—”

Her voice failed her for a minute, then she added—

“I hae wakened every mornin’ with this verse of Jeremiah on my mind: ‘Weep ye not for the dead, neither bemoan him, but weep sore for him that goeth away, for he shall return no more nor see his native country.’ ” Janet made no secret of her tears now.

“Hoot fie, Janet, woman,” said her mother, affecting anger to hide far other feelings. “You are misapplyin’ Scripture altogether. That was spoken o’ them that were to be carried away captive for their sins, and no’ o’ honest folk, followin’ the leadings o’ Providence. If there’s ony application it’s to me, I’m thinkin’. It’s them that bide at hame that are bidden weep sore;” and she seemed much inclined to follow the injunction. She recovered in a minute, however, and added—

“But I’m no’ going to add to your trouble. You dinna need me to tell you I’ll have little left when you’re awa’. But, if it’s your duty to go with them, it canna be your duty to bide with me. You winna lose your reward striving in behalf o’ these motherless bairns, and the Lord will hae me and Sandy in his keeping, I dinna doubt.”

There was a long silence after this. Each knew what the other suffered. There was no need to speak of it, and so they sat without a word; Janet, with the quiet tears falling now and then over her cheeks; her mother, grave and firm, giving no outward sign of emotion. Each shrunk, for the other’s sake, from putting their fears for the future into words; but their thoughts were busy. The mother’s heart ached for the great wrench that must sever Janet from her child and her home, and Janet’s heart grew sick with the dread of long weary days and nights her mother might have to pass, with perhaps no daughter’s hand to close her eyes at last, till the thoughts of both changed to supplication, fervent though unuttered; and the burden of the prayer of each was, that the other might have strength and peace.

The mother spoke first. “When will it be?”

“It canna be long now. The sooner the better when once it’s really settled. There are folk in the parish no weel pleased at the minister, for thinking to go.”

“It’s for none to say what’s right, and what’s wrang, in the matter,” said the mother, gravely. “I hae nae doubt the Lord will go with him; but it will be a drear day for plenty besides me.”

“He’s bent on it. Go he will, and I trust it may be for the best,” but Janet sighed drearily.

“And how are the bairns pleased with the prospect?” asked her mother.

“Ah! they’re weel pleased, bairn-like, at any thought o’ a change. Miss Graeme has her doubts, I whiles think, but that shouldna count; there are few things that look joyful to her at the present time. She’s ower like her father with her ups and downs. She hasna her mother’s cheerful spirit.”

“Her mother’s death was an awfu’ loss to Miss Graeme, poor thing,” said the mother.

“Aye, that it was—her that had never kent a trouble but by readin’ o’ them in printed books. It was an awfu’ wakening to her. She has never been the same since, and I doubt it will be long till she has the same light heart again. She tries to fill her mother’s place to them all, and when she finds she canna do it, she loses heart and patience with herself. But I hae great hope o’ her. She has the ‘single eye,’ and God will guide her. I hae nae fear for Miss Graeme.”

And then they spoke of many things—settling their little matters of business, and arranging their plans as quietly as though they looked forward to doing the same thing every month during the future years as they had done during the past. Nothing was forgotten or omitted; for Janet well knew that all her time and strength would be needed for the preparations that must soon commence, and that no time so good as the present might be found for her own personal arrangements. Her little savings were to be lodged in safe hands for her mother’s use, and if anything were to happen to her they were to be taken to send Sandy over the sea. It was all done very quietly and calmly. I will not say that Janet’s voice did not falter sometimes, or that no mist came between the mother’s eyes and the grave face on the other side of the table. But there was no sign given. A strong sense of duty sustained them. A firm belief that however painful the future might be, they were doing right in this matter, gave them power to look calmly at the sacrifice that must cost them so much.

At length the children’s voices were heard, and at the sound, Janet’s heart leaped up with a throb of pain, but in words she gave no utterance to the pang.

“Weel, Sandy, lad, is this you,” said she, as with mingled shyness and pleasure the boy came forward at his grandmother’s bidding. He was a well-grown and healthy lad, with a frank face, and a thick shock of light curls. There was a happy look in his large blue eyes, and the smile came very naturally to his rather large mouth. To his mother, at the moment, he seemed altogether beautiful, and her heart cried out against the great trial that was before her. Sandy stood with his hand in hers, while his grandmother questioned him about the errand on which he had been sent, and she had time to quiet herself. But there was a look on her face as she sat there, gently stroking his fair hair with her hand, that was sad to see. Marian saw it with momentary wonder, and then coming up to her, she laid her arm gently over her neck and whispered—

“Sandy is going with us too, Janet. There will be plenty of room for us all.”

“I’ve been telling Menie that I canna leave grannie,” said Sandy, turning gravely to his mother. “You’ll hae Norman and Harry, and them a’, but grannie has none but me.”

“And wouldna you like to go with us too, Sandy, man?” asked his mother, with a pang.

“To yon fine country John Ferguson tells us about?” said Sandy, with sparkling eyes. “That I would, but it wouldna be right to leave grannie, and she says she’s ower old to go so far-away—and over the great sea too.”

“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.