Janet's Love and Service Part 12

"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.

"La.s.sie, la.s.sie! 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 G.o.d 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, la.s.sie. 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. G.o.d help me."

"G.o.d 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 pa.s.s 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! la.s.sie, 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 pa.s.s 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 embarra.s.sment 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 pa.s.sed 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.

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

"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. n.o.body 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.