Janet's Love and Service Part 84

"Not at all. I shall go, at any rate. But I want you to go, Rosie, for a reason I have. And I promise you won't regret it. I wish Graeme would go, too."

"It would be charming if we could all go together," said Rose. "But it would be hardly worth while, we could make so short a stay, now."

"I enjoyed it very much," said Harry. "One gets to know people so much better in such a place, and I am sure you would like the Roxburys, Rosie, if you would only take pains to know them."

"My dear Harry! think what you are saying! Would they take pains to know me? They are f.a.n.n.y's nice people, are they? Yes, I suppose so.

However, I don't believe Graeme will care to go."

Graeme uttered an exclamation over her letter.

"It is from. Mr Snow," said she, with a pale face.

"Bad news?" asked Harry.

It was bad news, indeed. It told, in Mr Snow's brief way, that, within a few days, the illness, from which his wife had been suffering for some time, had taken a dangerous turn, rendering an operation necessary; and the letter was sent to prepare them for a possible fatal result.

"It gives her a chance, and that is all the doctors will say. _She_ says it will be all right whichever way it turns. G.o.d bless you all.

Emily will tell you more."

"Harry," said Graeme, as he laid down the letter. "I must go to Janet."

"It would be a comfort to her if you could," said Harry, gravely.

"And to me," said Graeme. "I shall go early to-morrow."

There was not much more said about it. There was a little discussion about the trains, and the best way to take, and then Harry went away.

Rose had not spoken a word while he was there, but the moment the door closed after him, she said, softly,--

"Harry does not think that I am going; but, dear, you promised that, whatever happened, we should keep together. And, Graeme, the quiet time has been to prepare you for this; and we are sure it will all be right, as Janet says. You will let me go with you, Graeme?" she pleaded; "you will never go and leave me here?"

So whatever Harry thought, Graeme could do nothing but yield; and the next morning the sisters were speeding southward, with fear in their hearts, but with peace and hope in them, also; for they knew, and they said to one another many times that day, that the words of their dear old friend would come true, and that in whatever way the trouble that had fallen on her might end, it would be for her all well.

CHAPTER FORTY ONE.

September was nearly over; there were tokens of the coming Autumn on the hills and valleys of Merleville, but the day was like a day in the prime of summer, and the air that came in through the open windows of the south room fell on Mrs Snow's pale cheeks as mild and balmy as a breeze of June. The wood-covered hills were unfaded still, and beautiful, though here and there a crimson banner waved, or a pillar of gold rose up amid the greenness. Over among the valleys, were sudden, shifting sparkles from half-hidden brooks, and the pond gleamed in the sunshine without a cloud to dim its brightness. In the broken fields that sloped towards it, and in the narrow meadows that skirted that part of the Merle river which could be seen, there were tokens of life and busy labour--dark stretches of newly-turned mould alternating with the green of the pastures, or the bleached stubble of the recent harvest. There were glimpses of the white houses of the village through the trees, and, now and then, a traveller pa.s.sed slowly along the winding road, but there was nothing far or near to disturb the sweet quiet of the scene now so familiar and so dear, and Mrs Snow gazed out upon it with a sense of peace and rest at her heart which showed in her quiet face and in her folded hands.

It showed in Mr Snow's face, too, as he glanced now and then over the edge of the newspaper he was holding in his hand. He was reading, and she was supposed to be listening, to one of the excellent articles which weekly enriched the columns of _The Puritan_, but the look that was coming and going on his wife's face was not just the look with which she was wont to listen to the doings of the County a.s.sociation of ministers, Mr Snow thought, and, in a little, he let the paper drop from his hand.

"Well, and how did they come on with their discussions?" said Mrs Snow, her attention recalled by the silence.

Mr Snow smiled.

"Oh! pretty much so. Their discussions will keep a spell, I guess,"

said he, taking off his spectacles, and changing his seat so as to look out of the window.

"It is a bonny day," said Mrs Snow, softly.

"Yes, it is kind of pleasant."

There was nothing more said for a long time. Many words were not needed between these two by this time. They had been pa.s.sing through weeks of sore trial; the shadow of death had seemed to be darkening over them, and, worse to bear even than the prospect of death, had been the suffering which had brought it near. Worse for her, for she had drawn very near to the unseen world--so near that the glory had been visible, and it had cost her a struggle to be willing to come back again; and worse for him, too, whose heart had grown sick at the sight of the slow, wearing pain, growing sharper every day.

But that was past now. Very slowly, but still surely, health was coming back to the invalid, and the rest from long pain, and the consciousness of returning strength, were making the bright day and the fair scene more beautiful to her. As for him, he could only look at her with thankful joy.

"I never saw this bonny place bonnier than it is to-day, and so sweet, and quiet, and homelike. We live in a fair world, and, on a day like this, one is ready to forget that there is sin or trouble in it."

"It is good to see you sitting there," said Mr Snow, for answer.

"Well, I am content to be sitting here. I doubt I shall do little else for the rest of my life. I must be a useless body, I'm afraid," added she, with a sigh.

Mr Snow smiled.

"You know better than that," said he. "I don't suppose it seems much to you to get back again; but it is a great deal for the rest of us to have you, if it is only to look at."

"I am content to bide my time, useless or useful, as G.o.d wills," said his wife, gravely:

"I was willing you should go--yes, I do think I was willing you should go. It was the seeing you suffer that seemed to take the strength out of me," said he, with a shudder. "It makes me kind of sick to think about it," added he, rising and moving about. "I believe I was willing, but I am dreadful glad to see you sitting there."

"I am glad to be here, since it is G.o.d's will. It is a wonderful thing to stand on the very brink of the river of death, and then to turn back again. I think the world can never look quite the same to eyes that have looked beyond it to the other side. But I am content to be here, and to serve Him, whether it be by working or by waiting."

"On the very brink," repeated Mr Snow, musingly. "Well, it _did_ look like that, one while. I wonder if I was really willing to have you go.

It don't seem now as if I could have been--being so glad as I am that you did not go, and so thankful."

"I don't think the gladness contradicts the willingness; and knowing you as I do, and myself as well, I wonder less at the willingness than at the gladness."

This needed further consideration, it seemed, for Mr Snow did not answer, but sat musing, with his eyes fixed on the distant hills, till Mrs Snow spoke again.

"I thought at first, when the worst was over, it was only a respite from pain before the end; but, to-day, I feel as if my life was really coming back to me, and I am more glad to live than I have been any day yet."

Mr Snow cleared his throat, and nodded his head a great many times. It was not easy for him to speak at the moment.

"If it were only May, now, instead of September! You always did find our winters hard; and it is pretty tough being hived up so many months of the year. I do dread the winter for you."

"Maybe it winna be so hard on me. We must make the best of it anyway.

I am thankful for ease from pain. That is much."

"Yes," said Mr Snow, with the shudder that always came with the remembrance of his wife's sufferings, "thank G.o.d for that. I ain't a going to fret nor worry about the winter, if I can help it. I am going to live, if I can, from hour to hour, and from day to day, by the grace that is given me; but if I _could_ fix it so that Graeme would see it best to stop here a spell longer, I should find it considerable easier, I expect."

"But she has said nothing about going away yet," said Mrs Snow, smiling at his way of putting it. "You must take the grace of her presence, day by day, as you do the rest, at least till she shows signs of departure."

"We never can tell how things are going to turn," said Mr Snow, musingly. "There is that good come out of your sickness. They are both here, and, as far as I see, they are content to be here. If we could prevail on Will to see it his duty to look toward this field of labour, now, I don't doubt but we could fix it so that they should make their home, here always--right here in this house, I mean--only it would be 'most too good a thing to have in this world, I'm afraid."

"We must wait for the leadings of Providence," said his wife. "This field, as you call it, is no' at Will's taking yet. What would your friend, Mr Perry, think if he heard you? And as for the others, we must not be over-anxious to keep them beyond what their brothers would like. But, as you say, they seem content; and it is a pleasure to have them here, greater than I can put in words; and I know you are as pleased as I am, and that doubles the pleasure to me," added Mrs Snow, looking gratefully toward her husband. "It might have been so different."

"Oh! come, now. It ain't worth while, to put it in that way at this time of day. I don't know as you'd allow it exactly; but I do think they are about as nigh to me as they are to you. I really do."

"That's saying much, but I'll no' gainsay it," said Mrs Snow, smiling.

"They are good bairns, and a blessing wherever they may go. But I doubt we canna hope to keep them very long with us."