Janet's Love and Service. Margaret M. Robertson
There’s as muckle difference among folks here as elsewhere, whatever be your ticket. There are folk coming and going here, that in my country I would hate sent round to the back door; but naething short of the company of the minister himself will serve them. Gentlemen like the Judge, or like Mr. Greenleaf here, will sit and bide the minister’s time; but upsettin’ bodies such as I could name—”
“Well, I wouldn’t name them, I guess. General principles are best in such a case,” said Mr. Snow. “And I am willing to confess there is among us an aristocracy of merit. Your friend the Judge belongs to that and your father, Miss Graeme; and I expect Squire Greenleaf will, too, when he goes to Congress. But no man is great here just because his father was before him. Everybody has a chance. Now, on your side of the water, ‘a man must be just what his father was.’ Folks must stay just there. That’s a fact.”
“You seem to be weel informed,” said Janet drily.
“Ah! yes; I know all about it. Anybody may know anything and everything in this country. We’re a great people. Ain’t that so, Mr. Foster?”
“It must be granted by all unprejudiced minds, that Britain has produced some great men,” said Mr. Foster, breaking out in a new spot as Mr. Snow whispered to the Squire.
“Surely that would be granting too much,” said Norman.
“But,” pursued Mr. Foster, “Britons themselves confess that it is on this Western Continent that the Anglo-Saxon race is destined to triumph. Descended from Britons, a new element has entered into their blood, which shall—which must—which—”
“Sounds considerable like the glorious Fourth, don’t it?” whispered Mr. Snow.
“Which hasna put muckle flesh on their bones as yet,” said the literal Mrs. Nasmyth.
“I was about to say that—that—”
“That the British can lick all creation, and we can lick the British,” said Mr. Snow.
“Any crisis involving a trial of strength, would prove our superiority,” said Mr. Foster, taking a new start.
“That’s been proved already,” said Mr. Snow, watching the sparkle in Graeme’s eye. She laughed merrily.
“No, Mr. Snow. They may fight it out without me to-night.”
“I am glad you are growing prudent. Mrs. Nasmyth, you wouldn’t believe how angry she was with me one night.”
“Angry!” repeated Graeme. “Ask Celestia.”
“Well, I guess I shouldn’t have much chance between Celestia and you. But I said then, and I say now, you’ll make a first-rate Yankee girl yourself before seven years.”
“A Yankee!” repeated her brothers.
“A Yankee,” echoed Menie.
“Hush, Menie. Mr. Snow is laughing at us,” said Graeme.
“I would rather be just a little Scotch lassie, than a Yankee Queen,” said Menie, firmly.
There was a laugh, and Menie was indignant at her brothers for joining.
“You mean a president’s wife. We don’t allow queens here—in this free country,” said Mr. Snow.
“But it is dreadful that you should hate us so,” said the Squire.
“I like you, and the Judge. And I like Mrs. Merle.”
“And is that all?” asked Mr. Snow, solemnly.
“I like Emily. And I like you when you don’t vex Graeme.”
“And who else?” asked Mr. Greenleaf.
“I like Celestia. She’s nice, and doesna ask questions. And so does Graeme. And Janet says that Celestia is a lady. Don’t you like her?” asked Menie, thinking her friend unresponsive.
“You seem to be good at asking questions yourself, Menie, my woman,” interposed Mrs. Nasmyth. “I doubt you should be in your bed by this time.” But Mr. Snow caused a diversion from anything so melancholy.
“And don’t Cousin Celestia like me?” asked he.
“Yes; she said you were a good friend of hers; but is she your cousin?”
“Well, not exactly—we’re not very near cousins. But I see to her some, and mean to. I like her.”
The study-door opened, and there was no time for an answer from any one; but as Mr. Snow went up the hill he said to himself: “Yes, I shall see to her. She is smart enough and good enough for him if he does expect to go to Congress.”
Chapter Ten.
“I like the wood fires,” said Graeme. “They are far clearer than the peat fires at home.”
They were sitting, Graeme and Janet, according to their usual custom, a little after the others had all gone to bed. The study-door was closed, though the light still gleamed beneath it; but it was getting late, and the minister would not be out again.
Graeme might well admire such a wood fire as that before which they were sitting: The fore-stick had nearly burned through, and the brands had fallen over the andirons, but the great back-log glowed with light and heat, though only now and then a bright blaze leapt up. It was not very warm in the room, however, except for their faces, and Graeme shivered a little as she drew nearer to the fire, and hardly heeding that Janet did not answer her, fell to dreaming in the firelight.
Without, the rude March winds were roaring, and within, too, for that matter. For though carpets, and curtains, and listings nailed over seams might keep out the bitter frost when the air was still, the east winds of March swept in through every crack and crevice, chilling them to the bone. It roared wildly among the boughs of the great elms in the yard, and the tall well-sweep creaked, and the bucket swung to and fro with a noise that came through Graeme’s dream and disturbed it at last. Looking up suddenly she became aware that the gloom that had been gathering over Janet for many a day hung darkly round her now. She drew near to her, and laying her arms down on her lap in the old fashion, said softly:
“The winter’s near over now, Janet.”
“Ay, thank the Lord for that, any way,” said Janet. She knew that Graeme’s words and movement were an invitation to tell her thoughts, so she bent forward to collect the scattered brands and settle the fore-stick, for she felt that her thoughts were not of the kind to bear telling to Graeme or to any one. As she gathered them together between the andirons, she sighed a sigh of mingled sorrow and impatience. And the light that leapt suddenly up made the cloud on her brow more visible. For the winter that had been so full of enjoyment to all the rest had been a time of trial to Janet.
To the young people, the winter had brought numberless pleasures. The lads had gone to the school, where they were busy and happy, and the little ones had been busy and happy at home. None had enjoyed the winter more than Graeme. The change had been altogether beneficial to Rose; and never since their mother’s death had the elder sister been so much at ease about her. There was little to be done in the way of making or mending, and, with leisure at her disposal, she was falling into her old habits of reading and dreaming. She had been busy teaching the little ones, too, and at night worked with her brothers at their lessons, so that the winter had been profitable as well as pleasant to her. At all times in his study, amid the silent friends that had become so dear to him, Mr. Elliott could be content; and in his efforts to become acquainted with his people, their wants and tastes, he had been roused to something like the cheerfulness of former years.
But to Janet the winter had been a time of conflict, a long struggle with unseen enemies; and as she sat there in the dim firelight, she was telling herself sorrowfully