Janet's Love and Service Part 59

"But the flute," added he to Rose. "Well, for that agreeable fiction your brother is responsible. And a family party will be indeed charming."

Dining at Grove House was not to any of them the pleasantest of affairs, on those occasions when it was Mrs Grove's intention to distinguish herself, and astonish other people, by what she called a state dinner.

Graeme, who was not apt to shirk unpleasant duties, made no secret of her dislike to them, and caught at any excuse to absent herself with an eagerness which f.a.n.n.y declared to be anything but polite. But, sitting at table in full dress, among dull people, for an indefinite length of time, for no good purpose that she had been able to discover, was a sacrifice which neither Graeme nor any of the others felt inclined to make often.

A dinner _en famille_, however, with the dining-room windows open, and the prospect of a pleasant evening in the garden, was a very different matter. It was not merely endurable, it was delightful. So Rose arrayed herself in her pretty pink muslin, and then went to superintend the toilette of Mrs Snow--that is, she went to arrange the folds of her best black silk, and to insist on her wearing her prettiest cap--in a state of pleasurable excitement that was infectious, and the whole party set off in fine spirits. Graeme and Rose exchanged doubtful glances as they pa.s.sed the dining-room windows. There was an ominous display of silver on the sideboard, and the enlargement of the table had been on an extensive scale.

"If she has spoiled Janet's evening in the garden, by inviting a lot of stupids, it will be too bad," whispered Rose.

It was not so bad as that, however. Of the guests whose visits were to be "put over," on this occasion, only Mr Proudfute, a very pleasant, harmless gentleman, and f.a.n.n.y's old admirer, Captain Starr, came. As to making it a state affair, and sitting two or three hours at table, such a thing was not to be thought of. Mr Snow could eat his dinner even in the most unfavourable circ.u.mstances, in a tenth part of that time, and so could Mr Green, for that matter; so within a reasonable period, the ladies found themselves, not in the drawing-room, but on the lawn, and the gentlemen soon followed.

It was the perfection of a summer evening, with neither dust nor insects to be a drawback, with just wind enough to make tremulous the shadows on the lawn, and to waft, from the garden above the house, the odours of a thousand flowers. The garden itself did not surpa.s.s, or even equal, in beauty of arrangement, many of the gardens of the neighbourhood; but it was very beautiful in the unaccustomed eyes of Mr and Mrs Snow, and it was with their eyes that Graeme looked at it to-night. They left the others on the lawn, the gentlemen--some of them at least--smoking in the shade of the great cedar, and Rose and f.a.n.n.y making wreaths of the roses the children were gathering for them. The garden proper was behind the house, and thither they bent their steps, Graeme inwardly congratulating herself that she and Will were to have the pointing out of its beauties to the friends all to themselves. They did not need to be pointed out to the keen, admiring eyes of Mr Snow. Nothing escaped him, as he walked slowly before them, looking over his shoulder now and then, to remark on something that particularly interested him. Mrs Snow's gentle exclamations alone broke the silence for some time. She lingered with an interest, which to Graeme was quite pathetic, over flowers familiar in her childhood, but strangers to her for many a year.

"It minds me of the Ebba Gardens," said she, after a little. "Not that it is like them, except for the flowers. The Ebba Gardens were on a level, not in terraces like this. You winna mind the Ebba Gardens, Miss Graeme."

They had reached by this time a summer-house, which commanded a view of the whole garden, and of a beautiful stretch of country beyond, and here they sat down to wait the coming of the others, whose voices they heard below.

"No," said Graeme, "I was not at the Ebba often. But I remember the avenue, and the glimpse of the lake that comes so unexpectedly after the first turning from the gate. I am not sure whether I remember it, or whether it is only fancy; but it must have been very beautiful."

"It is only fancy to you, I doubt, for we turned many a time after going in at the gate, before the lake came in sight."

"Perhaps so. But I don't think it can all be fancy. I am sure I mind the lake, with the swans sailing, on it, and the wee green islets, and the branches of the birch trees drooping down into the water. Don't you mind?"

"Yes, I mind well. It was a bonny place," said Janet, with a sigh.

"But, what a tiny lake it must have been! I remember we could quite well see the flowers on the other side. It could not have been half so large as Merleville Pond."

"It wasn't hardly worth while calling it a lake, was it?" said Mr Snow.

"It did for want of a bigger, you know," said Graeme, laughing. "It made up in beauty what it wanted in size."

"It was a bonny spot," said Mrs Snow.

"And the birds! Whenever I want to imagine bird music in perfection, I shut my eyes, and think of the birches drooping over the water. I wonder what birds they were that sang there? I have never heard such singing of birds since then."

"No, there are no such singing birds here," said Mrs Snow. "I used to miss the lark's song in the morning, and the evening voices of the cushat and the blackbird. There are no birds like them here."

"Ain't it just possible that the music may be fancy, too, Miss Graeme,"

said Mr Snow, who did not like to hear the regretful echo in his wife's voice when she spoke of "home." Graeme laughed, and Mrs Snow smiled, for they both understood his feeling very well, and Mrs Snow said,--

"No, the music of the birds is no fancy, as you might know from Sandy.

There are no birds like them here; but I have learnt to distinguish many a pleasant note among the American birds--not like our own linties at home, but very sweet and cheerful notwithstanding."

"The birds were real birds, and the music was real music. Oh! I wonder if I ever shall hear it again!" said Graeme, with a sigh. "You will hear it, Will, and see the dear old place. Oh! how I wish you could take me too." Will smiled.

"I shall be glad to hear the birds and see the places again. But I don't remember the Ebba, or, indeed, any of the old places, except our own house and garden, and your mother's cottage, Mrs Snow. I mind the last time we were there well."

"I mind it, too," said Mrs Snow, gravely.

"And yet, I should be almost sorry to go back again, lest I should have my ideas disturbed by finding places and people different from what I have been fancying them all this time. All those old scenes are so many lovely pictures to me, and it would be sad to go and find them less lovely than they seem to me now. I have read of such things," said Graeme.

"I wouldna fear anything of that kind," said Mrs Snow; "I mind them all so well."

"Do you ever think you would like to go back again?" said Will. "Would not you like to see the old faces and the old places once more?"

"No, lad," said Mrs Snow, emphatically. "I have no wish ever to go back."

"You are afraid of the sea? But the steamers are very different from the old 'Steadfast'."

"I was not thinking of the sea, though I would dread that too. But why should I wish to go back? There are two or three places I would like to see the glen where my mother's cottage stood, and two or three graves.

And when I shut my eyes I can see them here. No, I have no wish to go back."

There was a moment's silence, and then Mrs Snow, turning her clear, kind eyes on her husband, over whose face a wistful, expostulating look was stealing, said,--

"I like to think about the dear faces, and the old places, sometimes, and to speak about them with the bairns; it is both sad and pleasant now and then. But I am quite content with all things as they are. I wouldna go back, and I wouldna change my lot if I might. I am quite content."

Mr Snow smiled and nodded in his own peculiar fashion for reply. There could be no doubt of _his_ content, or Mrs Snow's either, Graeme acknowledged, and then her thoughts went back to the time when Janet's lot had been so different. She thought of the husband of her youth, and how long the grave had closed over him; she remembered her long years of patient labour in the manse; the bitter home-sickness of the first months in Merleville, and all the changes that had come since then. And yet, Janet was not changed. She was the very same. The qualities that had made her invaluable to them all those years, made the happiness of her husband and her home still, and after all the changes that life had brought she was content. No one could doubt that. And Graeme asked herself, would it ever be so with her? Would she ever cease to regret the irrevocable past and learn to grow happy in a new way? She prayed that it might be so. She longed for the tranquil content of those old days before her heart was startled from its girlhood's quiet. How long it seemed since she had been quite at peace with herself! Would she ever be so again? It did not seem possible. She tried in vain to fancy herself among other scenes, with other hopes, and friends, and interests. And yet, here was Janet, not of a light or changeful nature; how she had loved, and lost, and suffered! And yet she had grown content?

"What are you thinking about, Graeme?" said Will, who, as well as Mr Snow, had been watching her troubled face, Graeme started.

"Oh! of a great many things. I don't know why it should have come to my mind just now, but I was thinking of a day in Merleville, long ago--an Indian-summer day. I remember walking about among the fallen leaves, and looking over the pond to the hills beyond, wondering foolishly, I suppose, about what the future might bring to us all. How lovely it was that day!"

"And then you came and stood within the gate, and hardly gave me a look as I pa.s.sed out. I mind it, very well," said Mr Snow.

"I was not friends with you that day. But how should you remember it?

How should you know it was that day, of which I was thinking?"

"I saw, by your face, you were thinking of old times, and of all the changes that had come to you and yours; and it was on that day you first heard of one of them. That is how I came to think of it."

"And then you came into the house, and called me from the foot of the stairs. You werena well pleased with me, either, that day," said Mrs Snow.

"Oh! I was afraid; and you spoke to me of aunt Marian, and of our own Menie, and how there might be sadder changes than even your going away.

Ah, me! I don't think I have been quite at peace with myself since that night."

"Miss Graeme! my dear," expostulated Mrs Snow.

"No, I have ay been afraid to find myself at peace. But I am glad of one thing, though I did not think that day it would ever make me glad.

Uncle Sampson, did I ever tell you--I am afraid I never did--how glad I am now, that you were stronger than I was, and prevailed--in taking Janet from us, I mean?"

She was standing behind him, so that he did not see her face. He did not turn round, or try to see it. He looked towards his wife, with a grave smile.

"I don't think you ever told me in words."

"No, because it is only a little while that I have been really glad; it is only since your coming has made me sure she is happier--far happier with you and Emily and Sandy, than ever we could make her now; almost as happy as she deserves to be."

"I reckon, the happiness ain't all on one side of the house, by a great deal," said Mr Snow, gravely.

"No, I know that--I am sure of that. And I am glad--so glad, that it reconciles me to the knowledge that we can never be quite the same to her as we used to be, and that is saying much."