Janet's Love and Service Part 73

"Well, I daresay even I might teach you something. But you should see Hilda and her babies. Her eldest son is three years old, and her second will soon be two, and her daughter is four months. Suppose she had begun by walking all night with each of them, and by humouring every whim?"

And then Rose began her talk with the baby again, saying all sorts of things about the fond foolishness of his little mamma and his Aunt Graeme, that it would not have been at all pretty, she acknowledged, to say to themselves. Graeme listened, smiling, but f.a.n.n.y looked anxious.

"Rose," said she, "tell me about Hilda's way. I want to have the very best way with baby. I know I am not very wise, but I do wish to learn and to do right!"

Her words and her manner reminded Rose so forcibly, by contrast, of the f.a.n.n.y whose vanity and self-a.s.sertion had been such a vexation so often, that, in thinking of those old times, she forgot to answer her, and sat playing with the child's clasping fingers.

"She thinks I will never be like Hilda," said f.a.n.n.y, dolefully, to Graeme.

Rose shook her head.

"There are not many like Hilda; but I don't see any reason why you should not be as good a mother as she is, and have as obedient children.

You have as good a teacher. No, don't look at Graeme. I know what you mean. She has taught you all the good that is in you. There are more of us who could say the same--except for making her vain. It is this young gentleman, I mean, who is to teach you."

And she began her extraordinary confidences to the child, till Graeme and f.a.n.n.y were both laughing heartily at her nonsense.

"I'll tell you what, f.a.n.n.y," said she, looking up in a little. "It is the mother-love that makes one wise, and Solomon has something to do with it. You must take him into your confidence. But, dear me! Think of my venturing to give you good advice, I might be Janet herself."

"But, Rosie, dear," said Graeme, still laughing, "Solomon has nothing to say about such infants as this one."

"Has he not? Well, that is Hilda's mistake, then. She is responsible for my opinions. I know nothing. The wisdom I am dispensing so freely is entirely hers. You must go and see Hilda and her babies, and you will understand all about it."

"I mean to go and see her, not entirely for the sake of her wisdom, however, though it must be wonderful to have impressed you so deeply."

"Yes, it _is_ wonderful. But you will be in no hurry about going, will you? Two or three years hence will be time enough, I should think. I mean to content myself here for that time, and you are not going there, or anywhere, without me. That is quite decided, whatever arrangements Norman may have made."

"I don't think he will object to your going with me, if Arthur doesn't, and f.a.n.n.y," said Graeme, smiling.

"Possibly not. But I am not going yet. And no plan that is meant to separate you and me shall prosper," said Rose, with more heat than the occasion seemed to call for, as though the subject had been previously discussed in a manner not to her liking. Graeme looked grave and was silent a moment, then she said,--

"I remember saying almost these very words before we went to Merleville, to Emily's wedding. But you know how differently it turned out for you and me. We will keep together while we can, dear, but we must not set our hearts upon it, or upon any other earthly good, as though we knew best what is for our own happiness."

"Well, I suppose that is the right way to look at it. But I am to be your first consideration this winter, you must remember, and you are to be mine."

"Graeme," said f.a.n.n.y, earnestly, "I don't think Rose is spoiled in the least."

f.a.n.n.y made malapropos speeches sometimes still, but they were never unkindly meant now, and she looked with very loving eyes from one sister to the other.

"I hope you did not think Hilda was going to spoil me. Did you?" said Rose, laughing.

"No, not Hilda; and it was not I who thought so, nor Graeme. But Harry said you were admired more than was good for you, perhaps, and--"

Rose shrugged her shoulders.

"Oh! Harry is too wise for anything. I had a word or two with him on that subject myself, the last time he was out at Norman's. You must not mind what Harry says about me, f.a.n.n.y, dear."

"But, Rose, you are not to think that Harry said anything that was not nice. It was one night when Mr Millar was here, and there was something said about Mr Green. And he thought--one of them thought that you--that he--I have forgotten what was said. What was it, Graeme?

You were here as well as I."

"I am very sure there was nothing said that was not nice," said Graeme.

"I don't quite remember about it. There was nothing worth remembering or repeating."

"I daresay Harry told you I was a flirt. He told me so, myself, once,"

said Rose, tossing her head in a way Graeme did not like to see.

"Hush, dear. He said nothing unkind, you may be sure."

"And, now I remember, it was not Harry but Mr Millar who spoke about Mr Green," said f.a.n.n.y, "and about the 'palatial residence,' and how Rose, if she liked, might--"

Rose moved about impatiently.

"I must say I cannot admire the taste that would permit the discussion of anything of that sort with a stranger," said she, angrily.

"My dear, you are speaking foolishly. There was no such discussion.

And if you say anything more on the subject, I shall think that Harry was right when he said you were fond of admiration, and that your conscience is troubling you about something. Here comes nurse for baby.

I suppose it is time for his bath, is it mamma?"

f.a.n.n.y left the room with the child, and, after a few minutes' silence, Rose said, with an effort,--

"Now, Graeme, please tell me what all this is about."

"Dear, there is nothing to tell. I fancy Harry used to think that I was too anxious and eager about your coming home, and wanted to remind me that you were no longer a child, but a woman, who was admired, and who might, by and by, learn to care for some one else, more than for your sister and brothers. But he did not seriously say anything that you need care about. It would have been as well, perhaps, not to have said anything in Mr Millar's presence, since we seem to have fallen a little out of acquaintance with him lately. But Harry has not, and he did not consider, and, indeed, there was nothing said that he might not very well hear."

"It seems it was he who had most to say."

"No. You are mistaken. f.a.n.n.y did not remember correctly. It was either Arthur or Harry who had something to say about Mr Green. I don't think Charlie had anything to say about it. I am sure he would be the last one willingly to displease me or you. And, really, I don't see why you should be angry about it, dear Rosie."

"I am not angry. Why should I be angry?" But she reddened as she met Graeme's eye. Graeme looked at her in some surprise.

"Harry is--is unbearable sometimes," said Rose. "Fancy his taking me to task about--about his friend--Oh! there is no use talking about it.

Graeme, are you going out?"

"Yes, if you like. But, Rose, I think you are hard upon Harry. There must be some misunderstanding. Why! he is as fond and as proud of you as possible. You must not be vain when I say so."

"That does not prevent his being very unreasonable, all the same.

However, he seems to have got over it, or forgotten it. Don't let us speak any more about it, Graeme, or think about it either."

But Graeme did think about it, and at first had thoughts of questioning Harry with regard to Rose's cause of quarrel with him, but she thought better of it and did not. Nor did she ever speak about it again to Rose; but it came into her mind often when she saw the two together, and once, when she heard Harry say something to Rose about her distance and dignity, and how uncalled for all that sort of thing was, she would have liked to know to what he was referring to, but she did not ask, for, notwithstanding little disagreements of this kind, they were evidently excellent friends.

How exactly like the old time before Arthur's marriage, and before Will or Harry went away, some of the days were, that followed the coming home of Rose. They seemed like the days even longer ago, Graeme felt, with a sense of rest and peace at her heart unspeakable. For the old content, nay, something better and more abiding had come back to her. The peace that comes after a time of trouble, the content that grows out of sorrow sanctified, are best. Remembering what has gone before, we know how to estimate the depth, and strength, and sweetness--the sharpness of past pain being a measure for the present joy. And, besides, the content that comes to us from G.o.d, out of disappointment and sorrow, is ours beyond loss, because it is G.o.d-given, and we need fear no evil.

So these were truly peaceful days to Graeme, untroubled by regret for the past, or by anxious fears for the future. They were busy days, too, filled with the occupations that naturally sprung out of happy home life, and agreeable social relations. Rose had been honoured, beyond her deserts, she said, by visits since she came home. These had to be returned, and Graeme, who had fallen off from the performance of such duties, during Rose's absence, and f.a.n.n.y's illness, took pleasure in going with her. She took real pleasure in many of these visits, sometimes because of the renewal of friendly interest, sometimes for other reasons. The new way in which the character and manner of Rose came out never failed to amuse her. At home, and especially in her intercourse with her, Rose was just what she had been as a child, except the difference that a few added years must make. But it was by no means so in her intercourse with the rest of the world. She had ideas and opinions of her own, and she had her own way of making them known, or of defending them when attacked. There was not much opportunity for seeing this during brief formal visits, but now and then Graeme got a glimpse that greatly amused her. The quiet self-possession with which she met condescending advances, and accepted or declined compliments, the serene air with which she ignored or rebuked the little polite impertinences, not yet out of fashion in fine drawing-rooms, it was something to see.

And her perfect unconsciousness of her sister's amus.e.m.e.nt or its cause was best of all to Graeme. Arthur amused himself with this change in her, also, and had a better opportunity to do so. For Graeme seldom went to large parties, and it was under the chaperonage of Mrs Arthur that Rose, as a general thing, made her appearance in their large and agreeable circle, on occasions of more than usual ceremony. Not that there were very many of these. f.a.n.n.y was perfectly well now, and enjoyed these gay gatherings in moderation, but they were not so necessary to her happiness as they used to be, and Rose, though she made no secret of the pleasure she took in them, was not unreasonable in her devotion to society. So the winter was rather quiet than otherwise, and Graeme and Rose found themselves with a good deal of leisure time at their disposal.

For true to her first idea of what was for the happiness of her brother's household, Graeme, as f.a.n.n.y grew stronger, gradually withdrew from the bearing of responsibility where household matters were concerned, and suffered it to fall, as she felt it to be right, on Arthur's wife. Not that she refused to be helpful; either in word or in deed, but it was as much as possible at the bidding of the mistress of the house. It was not always very easy to do, often not by any means so easy as it would have been to go on in the old way, but she was very much in earnest about this thing. It was right that it should be so, for many reasons. The responsibilities, as well as the honour, due to the mistress of the house, were f.a.n.n.y's. These could not, she being in health and able to bear them, be a.s.sumed by her sister without mutual injury. The honour and responsibility could not be separated without danger and loss. All this Graeme tried to make f.a.n.n.y see without using many words, and she had a more docile pupil than she would have had during the first year of her married-life. For f.a.n.n.y had now entire confidence in the wisdom and love of her sister, and did her best to profit by her teaching:

It was the same where the child was concerned. While she watched over both with loving care, she hesitated to interfere or to give advice, even in small matters, lest she should lessen in the least degree the young mother's sense of responsibility, knowing this to be the best and surest guide to the wise and faithful performance of a mother's duties.

And every day she was growing happier in the a.s.surance that all was coming right with her sister, that she was learning the best of all wisdom, the wisdom of gentleness and self-forgetfulness, and of devotion to the welfare of others, and that all this was bearing fruit in the greater happiness of the household. And besides this, or rather as a result of this, she bade fair to be a notable little house-mother also; a little over-anxious, perhaps, and not very patient with her own failures, or with the failures of others, but still in earnest to attain success, and to be in all things what in the old times, she had only cared to seem.