Janet's Love and Service Part 82

"I understand Harry," said his friend.

"You don't understand yourself, nor what is good for you. Good-bye, dear, silly, little Rose."

"Good-bye, Harry. Don't be cross."

"Rose," said Graeme, when they were up-stairs alone for the night, "I think it is the big brother that put Harry out of temper to-night."

Rose laughed.

"He seems quite afraid of him," continued Graeme.

"And you are a little bit afraid of him, too, Graeme, or you never would have told me about Harry."

"No. But I am just a little afraid for him."

"You need not be. Harry thinks my desire for admiration insatiable, I know, but it is too bad of you, Graeme, to intimate as much. I have a great mind to tell you a secret, Graeme. But you must promise not to tell it again; at least, not yet."

"Well," said Graeme.

"If I should stay away longer than I mean to do at present, and Harry should get very unhappy about me, perhaps you might tell him. Harry thinks I cannot manage my own affairs," added Rose, a vivid colour rising on her cheeks. "And he has a mind to help me. He has not helped me much, yet. Ah! well, there is no use going over all that."

"What is the secret you are going to tell me?" asked Graeme.

"I don't know whether I ought to tell. But it will be safe with you.

Graeme, the big doctor is engaged."

"Well," said Graeme.

"It is not all smooth sailing, yet. I am afraid it may interfere somewhat with his success in retrieving the fortunes of the family, as Etta has always been hoping he might do. But she is quite pleased for all that, poor dear little thing. See that you don't tell Harry."

"Well, is that all you have to say on the subject?" asked her sister.

"Graeme! I do believe you are as bad as Harry. Do you fancy that it is I to whom Dr Goldsmith is engaged? By no means. I am afraid it is a foolish affair; but it may fall through yet. She is a young widow, and has two children, and a little money. No. It is very foolish of Harry to fancy things. He is very stupid, I think. But you are not to tell him, because, really, the secret is not mine, and besides, I have another reason. Good-night, dear."

And so they went away in the morning. Rose's visit to the country was quite as agreeable as had been Miss Goldsmith's to the town, judging from the time she stayed there, and from the letters she sent home. The country was lovely, and she wondered any one would live in the city who could leave it. She kept a journal for Graeme, and it was filled with accounts of rides, and drives, and sails; with, now and then, hints of work done, books read, of children's lessons, and torn frocks, of hay-making, and b.u.t.ter-making; and if Graeme had any misgiving as to the perfect enjoyment of her sister, it could not have been her letters that had anything to do with it.

At last there came word of an expedition to be undertaken to a lake far-away in the woods, where there were pond-lilies and lake trout in abundance. They were to carry a tent, and be out one night, perhaps two, and Mr and Mrs Goldsmith were going with them, and all the children as well. This was the last letter. Rose herself came soon after, to find a very quiet house, indeed. f.a.n.n.y and her son had gone to the seaside, whither Graeme and Rose, perhaps, might go, later. Mr Millar had gone, too, not by the first steamer, nor by the second, however. If Rose had been home two days sooner, she might have seen him before he went, Harry told her; and Rose said, "What a pity! If I had only known, I could so easily have come!" That was all.

How quiet the house was during those long summer days! It was like the coming again of the old time, when they and Nelly used to have the house in the garden to themselves, with only Will coming and going, till night brought the brothers home.

"What happy, happy days they were!" said Rose, with a sigh.

"They _were_ happy days," said Graeme. "Very happy days."

She did not seem to hear the regretful echo in her sister's voice, nor did she take her to task for the idle hands that lay folded on her lap, nor disturb by word or look the times of silent musing, that grew longer and more frequent as those uneventful days pa.s.sed on. What was to be said? The doubts and fears that had made her unhappy in the spring, and even before the spring, were coming back again. Rose was not at peace with herself, nothing was easier to be seen than that; but whether the struggle was with pride, or anger, or disappointment, or whether all these and something more had to do with it, she could only wait till time, or chance, or Rose of her own free will, should tell.

For Graeme could not bring herself to speak of the trouble which her sister, sad and preoccupied, in so many nameless ways betrayed. She would not even seem to see it, and so strove to make it appear that it was her own industry, her occupation with book, or pen, or needle, that made the silence between them, on those days when Rose sat listless or brooding, heedless of books, or work, or of whatever the day might bring. And when the fit of gloom wore over, or when, startled by some sudden fear of being observed, she roused herself, and came back with an effort to the things about her, Graeme was always ready, yet not too eager, to make the most of excuses. Either the heat made her languid, or the rain made her dull, or the yesterday's walk had been exhausting; and Graeme would a.s.sent, and warn or reprove, as the case seemed to require, never intimating, by word or look, how clearly she saw through it all, and how she grieved and suffered with her.

And, when seized upon by restlessness or impatience, she grew irritable and exacting, and "ill to do with," as Janet would have said, Graeme stood between her and the wonder and indignation, of her brothers, and, which was harder to do, shielded her from her own anger and self-contempt, when she came to herself again. She went out with her for long walks, and did what was kinder still, she let her go by herself, to rest her mind by tiring out her body, at times when the fever fit was on her, making her fret and chafe at trifles that would have made her laugh if all had been well with her.

It was an anxious time to Graeme. When their brothers were with them, Rose was little different from the Rose of old, as far as they could see; and, at such times, even Graeme would be beguiled into a momentary belief that she had been letting her fears speak, when there was little cause. But another day would come, bringing the old listlessness or restlessness, and Graeme could only watch and wait for the moment when a cheerful word, or a chiding one, might be spoken for her sister's good, or a movement of some kind made to beguile her into occupation or pleasure for a little while. But, through all her watching, and waiting, and anxiety, Graeme spoke no word that might betray to her sister her knowledge that something was amiss with her.

For, indeed, what could she say? Even in her secret thoughts she had shrunk from looking too closely on the cloud of trouble that had fallen on the life of her young sister. Was it misunderstanding, or wounded pride, or disappointment? Or was it something which time and change might not so easily or so surely dispel? There were no words to be spoken, however it might be. That was plain enough, Graeme said to herself, remembering some years of her own experience, and the silent life she had lived unsuspected among them all.

Not that any such trouble as had befallen her, had come upon Rose. That was never for a moment to be believed. Nothing that had happened to Rose, or was like to happen, could so change life to her as hers had been changed. Rose was wiser and stronger than she had been, and she was younger, too, and, perhaps, as Janet had said, "of a lighter nature." Graeme comforted herself thus, saying to herself that the cloud would pa.s.s away; and she waited and watched, and cared for her, and soothed or chided, or shielded her still. She did all this sorrowfully enough at times, yet hopefully, too, for she knew that whatever the trouble might be that, for the present, made the summer days a weariness to the desponding girl, it would pa.s.s away; and so she waited, and had patience, and prayed that, out of it all, she might come wiser and stronger, and more fitted for the work that was awaiting her somewhere in the world.

"Graeme," said her sister, one day when they had been sitting for a long time silent together, "suppose we were to go and see Norman and Hilda this fall, instead of in the spring, as they propose."

"Would you like it?" asked Graeme, a little surprised.

"Yes. For some things I would like it;" and Graeme fancied there was suppressed eagerness in her manner. "It is a better season to go, for one thing--a better season for health, I mean. One bears the change of climate better, they say."

"But you have been here so short a time. What would Arthur say, and f.a.n.n.y? It would look as if you only thought yourself a visitor here--as if your home was with Norman."

Rose shrugged her shoulders.

"Well! neither Arthur nor f.a.n.n.y would be inconsolable. The chances are it may be my home. It is worth taking into consideration. Indeed, I have been considering the matter for some time past."

"Nonsense! Don't talk foolishly, Rose. It is not long since you wished me to promise that we should always remain together, and I have no thought of going West to stay very long."

"And why not? I am sure Norman has a right to grumble at our being here so long."

"Not at you, Rosie."

"No. Not at me. And, besides, I was not thinking of Norman, altogether. I was thinking of making a home for myself out there. Why not?"

Graeme looked up, a little startled.

"I don't understand you, Rose."

Rose laughed.

"No, you don't. But you think you do. Of course, there is only one way in which a woman can have a home according, to the generally received opinion. It must be made for her. But one might fancy you should be beyond that by this time, Graeme," added Rose, a little scornfully.

Graeme said nothing, and Rose went on.

"It would not be easy here, I know; but out there you and I could make a home to ourselves, and be independent, and have a life of our own. It is so different there. You ought to go there just to understand how very different it is."

"If we needed a home," said Graeme. "But, Rose, I am content with the home we have."

"Content!" repeated Rose, impatiently. "There is surely something better than content to be looked for in the world;" and she rose and walked about the room.

"Content is a very good thing to have," said Graeme, quietly.

"Yes, if one could have it. But now, Graeme, do tell me what is the good of such a life as we are living now?--as I am living, I ought to say. Your life and work are worth a great deal to the rest of us; though you must let me say I often wonder it contents you. Think of it, Graeme! What does it all amount to, as far as I am concerned, I mean?

A little working, and reading, and music; a little visiting and housekeeping, if f.a.n.n.y be propitious--coming, and going, and smiling, and making believe enjoy it, when one feels ready to fly. I am sick of the thought of it all."

Graeme did not answer her. She was thinking of the time when she had been as impatient of her daily life as this, and of how powerless words, better than she could hope to speak, had been to help her; and though she smiled and shook her head at the young girl's impetuous protest against the uselessness of her life, her eyes, quite unconsciously, met her sister's with a look of wistful pity, that Rose, in her youthful impatience and jealousy, was quick to resent.

"Of course, the rest would make an outcry and raise obstacles--that is, if they were to be consulted at all," she went on. "But _you_ ought to know better, Graeme," added she, in a voice that she made sharp, so that her sister need not know that it was very near being tearful.