The Laurel Bush Part 12

"Both, I think. David is able to take care of himself; but poor little Janetta--my Janetta--what if he should bring her to poverty? He is a little reckless about money, and has only a very small certain income.

Worse; suppose being so young, he should by-and-by get tired of her, and neglect her, and break her heart?"

"Or twenty other things which may happen, or may not, and of which they must take the chance, like their neighbors. You do not believe very much in men, I see, and perhaps you are right. We are a bad lot--a bad lot.

But David Dalziel is as good as most of us, that I can a.s.sure you."

She could hardly tell whether he was in jest or earnest; but this was certain, he meant to cheer and comfort her, and she took the comfort, and was thankful.

"Now to the point," continued Mr. Roy. "You feel that, in a worldly point of view, these two have done a very foolish thing, and you have aided and abetted them in doing it?"

"Not so," she cried, laughing; "I had no idea of such a thing till David told me yesterday morning of his intentions."

"Yes, and he explained to me why he told you, and why he dared not wait any longer. He blurts out every thing, the foolish boy! But he has made friends with me now. They do seem such children, do they not, compared with old folks like you and me?"

What was it in the tone or the words which made her feel not in the least vexed, nor once attempt to rebut the charge of being "old?"

"I'll tell you what it is," said Robert Roy, with one of his sage smiles, "you must not go and vex yourself needlessly about trifles. We should not judge other people by ourselves. Every body is so different.

Dalziel may make his way all the better for having that pretty creature for a wife, not but what some other pretty creature might soon have done just as well. Very few men have tenacity of nature enough, if they can not get the one woman they love, to do without any other to the end of their days. But don't be disappointed yourself about your girl. David will make her a very good husband. They will be happy enough, even though not very rich."

"Does that matter much?"

"I used to think so. I had so sore a lesson of poverty in my youth, that it gave me an almost morbid terror of it, not for myself, but for any woman I cared for. Once I would not have done as Dalziel has for the world. Now I have changed my mind. At any rate, David will not have one misfortune to contend with. He has a thoroughly good opinion of himself, poor fellow! He will not suffer from that horrible self-distrust which makes some men let themselves drift on and on with the tide, instead of taking the rudder into their own hands and steering straight on--direct for the haven where they would be. Oh, that I had done it."

He spoke pa.s.sionately, and then sat silent. At last, muttering something about "begging her pardon," and "taking a liberty," he changed the conversation into another channel, by asking whether this marriage, when it happened--which, of course could not be just immediately--would make any difference to her circ.u.mstances.

Some difference, she explained, because the girls would receive their little fortunes whenever they came of age or married, and the sisters would not like to be parted; besides, Helen's money would help the establishment. Probably, whenever David married, he would take them both away; indeed, he had said as much.

"And then shall you stay on here?"

"I may, for I have a small income of my own; besides, there are your two little boys, and I might find two or three more. But I do not trouble myself much about the future. One thing is certain, I need never work as hard as I have done all my life."

"Have you worked so very hard, then, my poor--"

He left the sentence unfinished; his hand, half extended, was drawn back, for the three young people were seen coming down the garden, followed by the two boys, returning from their cla.s.ses. It was nearly dinner-time, and people must dine, even though in love; and boys must be kept to their school work, and all the daily duties of life must be done. Well, perhaps, for many of us, that such should be! I think it was as well for poor Fortune Williams.

The girls had come in wet through, with one of those sudden "haars" which are not uncommon at St. Andrews in spring, and it seemed likely to last all day. Mr. Roy looked out of the window at it with a slightly dolorous air.

"I suppose I am rather _de trop_ here, but really I wish you would not turn me out. In weather like this our hotel coffee-room is just a trifle dull, isn't it, Dalziel? And, Miss Williams, your parlor looks so comfortable. Will you let me stay?"

He made the request with a simplicity quite pathetic. One of the most lovable things about this man--is it not in all men?--was, that with all his shrewdness and cleverness, and his having been knocked up and down the world for so many years, he still kept a directness and simpleness of character almost child-like.

To refuse would have been unkind, impossible; so Miss Williams told him he should certainly stay if he could make himself comfortable. And to that end she soon succeeded in turning off her two turtle-doves into a room by themselves, for the use of which they had already bargained, in order to "read together, and improve their minds." Meanwhile she and Helen tried to help the two little boys to spend a dull holiday indoors--if they were ever dull beside Uncle Robert, who had not lost his old influence with boys, and to those boys was already a father in all but the name.

Often Fortune watched them, sitting upon his chair, hanging about him as he walked, coming to him for sympathy in every thing. Yes, every body loved him, for there was such an amount of love in him toward every mortal creature, except--

She looked at him and his boys, then turned away. What was to be had been, and always would be. That which we fight against in our youth as being human will, human error, in our age we take humbly, knowing it to be the will of G.o.d.

By-and-by in the little household the gas was lighted, the curtains drawn, and the two lovers fetched in for tea, to behave themselves as much as they could like ordinary mortals, in general society, for the rest of the evening. A very pleasant evening it was, spite of this new element; which was got rid of as much as possible by means of the window recess, where Janetta and David encamped composedly, a little aloof from the rest.

"I hope they don't mind me," said Mr. Roy, casting an amused glance in their direction, and then adroitly maneuvering with the back of his chair so as to interfere as little as possible with the young couple's felicity.

"Oh no, they don't mind you at all," answered Helen, always affectionate, if not always wise. "Besides, I dare say you yourself were young once, Mr. Roy."

Evidently Helen had no idea of the plans for her future which were being talked about in St. Andrews. Had he? No one could even speculate with such an exceedingly reserved person. He retired behind his newspaper, and said not a single word.

Nevertheless, there was no cloud in the atmosphere. Every body was used to Mr. Roy's silence in company. And he never troubled any body, not even the children, with either a gloomy look or a harsh word. He was so comfortable to live with, so unfailingly sweet and kind.

Although there was a strange atmosphere of peace in the cottage that evening, though n.o.body seemed to do any thing or say very much. Now and then Mr. Roy read aloud bits out of his endless newspapers--he had a truly masculine mania for newspapers, and used to draw one after another out of his pockets, as endless as a conjurer's pocket-handkerchiefs. And he liked to share their contents with any body that would listen; though I am afraid n.o.body did listen much to-night except Miss Williams, who sat beside him at her sewing, in order to get the benefit of the same lamp.

And between his readings he often turned and looked at her, her bent head, her smooth soft hair, her busy hands.

Especially after one sentence, out of the "Varieties" of some Fife newspaper. He had begun to read it, then stopped suddenly, but finished it. It consisted only of a few words: _"'Young love is pa.s.sionate, old love is faithful; but the very tenderest thing in all this world is a love revived.'_ That is true."

He said only those three words, in a very low, quiet voice, but Fortune heard. His look she did not see, but she felt it--even as a person long kept in darkness might feel a sunbeam strike along the wall, making it seem possible that there might be somewhere in the earth such a thing as day.

About nine P.M. the lovers in the window recess discovered that the haar was all gone, and that it was a most beautiful moonlight night; full moon, the very night they had planned to go in a body to the top of St.

Regulus tower.

"I suppose they must," said Mr. Roy to Miss Williams; adding, "Let the young folks make the most of their youth; it never will come again."

"No."

"And you and I must go too. It will be more _comme il faut_, as people say."

So, with a half-regretful look at the cozy fire, Mr. Roy marshaled the lively party, Janetta and David, Helen and the two boys; engaging to get them the key of that silent garden of graves over which St. Regulus tower keeps stately watch. How beautiful it looked, with the clear sky shining through its open arch, and the brilliant moonlight, bright as day almost, but softer, flooding every alley of that peaceful spot! It quieted even the noisy party who were bent on climbing the tower, to catch a view, such as is rarely equaled, of the picturesque old city and its beautiful bay.

"A 'comfortable place to sleep in,' as some one once said to me in a Melbourne church-yard. But 'east or west, home is best.--I think, Bob, I shall leave it in my will that you are to bury me at St. Andrews.'"

"Nonsense, Uncle Robert! You are not to talk of dying. And you are to come with us up to the top of the tower. Miss Williams, will you come too?"

"No, I think she had better not," said Uncle Robert, decisively. "She will stay here, and I will keep her company."

So the young people all vanished up the tower, and the two elders walked silently side by side the quiet graves--by the hearts which had ceased beating, the hands which, however close they lay, would never clasp one another any more.

"Yes, St. Andrews is a pleasant place," said Robert Roy at last. "I spoke in jest, but I meant in earnest; I have no wish to leave it again.

And you," he added, seeing that she answered nothing--"what plans have you? Shall you stay on at the cottage till these young people are married?"

"Most likely. We are all fond of the little house."

"No wonder. They say a wandering life after a certain number of years unsettles a man forever; he rests nowhere, but goes on wandering to the end. But I feel just the contrary. I think I shall stay permanently at St. Andrews. You will let me come about your cottage, 'like a tame cat,'

as that foolish fellow owned he had called me--will you not?"

"Certainly."

But at the same time she felt there was a strain beyond which she could not bear. To be so near, yet so far; so much to him, and yet so little.

She was conscious of a wild desire to run away somewhere--run away and escape it all; of a longing to be dead and buried, deep in the sea, up away among the stars.

"Will those young people be very long, do you think?"

At the sound of her voice he turned to look at her, and saw that she was deadly pale, and shivering from head to foot.