Janet's Love and Service. Margaret M. Robertson
“Well, Janet?” said the rider, throwing the reins on the horse’s neck and pausing as he went in. The woman curtseyed with a very relieved face.
“They’ll be glad to see you up the stairs, sir. The minister’s no’ long home.”
She lighted the doctor up the stairs, and then turned briskly in another direction. In a minute she was kneeling before the kitchen hearth, and was stirring up the buried embers.
“Has my father come, Janet?” said a voice out of the darkness.
“Yes, he’s come. He’s gone up the stairs. I’ll put on the kettle. I dare say he’ll be none the worse of a cup of tea after his ride.”
Sitting on the high kitchen dresser, her cheek close against the darkening window, sat a young girl, of perhaps twelve or fourteen years of age. She had been reading by the light that lingered long at that western window, but the entrance of Janet’s candle darkened that, and the book, which at the first moment of surprise had dropped out of her hand, she now hastily put behind her out of Janet’s sight. But she need not have feared a rebuke for “blindin’ herself” this time, for Janet was intent on other matters, and pursued her work in silence. Soon the blaze sprung up, and the dishes and covers on the wall shone in the firelight. Then she went softly out and closed the door behind her.
The girl sat still on the high dresser, with her head leaning back on the window ledge, watching the shadows made by the firelight, and thinking her own pleasant thoughts the while. As the door closed, a murmur of wonder escaped her, that “Janet had’na sent her to her bed.”
“It’s quite time I dare say,” she added, in a little, “and I’m tired, too, with my long walk to the glen. I’ll go whenever papa comes down.”
She listened for a minute. Then her thoughts went away to other things—to her father, who had been away all day; to her mother, who was not quite well to-night, and had gone up-stairs, contrary to her usual custom, before her father came home. Then she thought of other things—of the book she had been reading, a story of one who had dared and done much in a righteous cause—and then she gradually lost sight of the tale and fell into fanciful musings about her own future, and to the building of pleasant castles, in which she and they whom she loved were to dwell. Sitting in the firelight, with eyes and lips that smiled, the pleasant fancies came and went. Not a shadow crossed her brow. Not a fear came to dim the light by which she gazed into the future that she planned. So she sat till her dream was dreamed out, and then, with a sigh, in which there was no echo of care or pain, she woke to the present, and turned to her book again.
“I might see by the fire,” she said, and in a minute she was seated on the floor, her head leaning on her hands, and her eye fastened on the open page.
“Miss Graeme,” said Janet, softly coming in with a child in her arms, “your mamma’s no’ weel, and here’s wee Rosie wakened, and wantin’ her. You’ll need to take her, for I maun awa’.”
The book fell from the girl’s hand, as she started up with a frightened face.
“What ails mamma, Janet? Is she very ill?”
“What should ail her but the one thing?” said Janet, impatiently. “She’ll be better the morn I hae nae doubt.”
Graeme made no attempt to take the child, who held out her hands toward her.
“I must go to her, Janet.”
“Indeed, Miss Graeme, you’ll do nothing o’ the kind. Mrs. Burns is with her, and the doctor, and it’s little good you could do her just now. Bide still where you are, and take care o’ wee Rosie, and hearken if you hear ony o’ the ither bairns, for none o’ you can see your mamma the night.”
Graeme took her little sister in her arms and seated herself on the floor again. Janet went out, and Graeme heard her father’s voice in the passage. She held her breath to listen, but he did not come in as she hoped he would. She heard them both go up-stairs again, and heedless of the prattle of her baby sister, she still listened eagerly. Now and then the sound of footsteps overhead reached her, and in a little Janet came into the kitchen again, but she did not stay to be questioned. Then the street door opened, and some one went out, and it seemed to Graeme a long time before she heard another sound. Then Janet came in again, and this time she seemed to have forgotten that there was any one to see her, for she was wringing her hands, and the tears were streaming down her cheeks. Graeme’s heart stood still, and her white lips could scarcely utter a sound.
“Janet!—tell me!—my mother.”
“Save us lassie! I had no mind of you. Bide still, Miss Graeme. You munna go there,” for Graeme with her little sister in her arms was hastening away. “Your mamma’s no waur than she’s been afore. It’s only me that doesna ken about the like o’ you. The minister keeps up a gude heart. Gude forgie him and a’ mankind.”
Graeme took a step toward the door, and the baby, frightened at Janet’s unwonted vehemence, sent up a shrill cry. But Janet put them both aside, and stood with her back against the door.
“No’ ae step, Miss Graeme. The auld fule that I am; ’gin the lassie had been but in her bed. No, I’ll no’ take the bairn, sit down there, you’ll be sent for if you’re needed. I’ll be back again soon; and you’ll promise me that you’ll no leave this till I bid you. Miss Graeme, I wouldna deceive you if I was afraid for your mamma. Promise me that you’ll bide still.”
Graeme promised, awed by the earnestness of Janet, and by her own vague terror as to her mother’s mysterious sorrow, that could claim from one usually so calm, sympathy so intense and painful. Then she sat down again to listen and to wait. How long the time seemed! The lids fell down over the baby’s wakeful eyes at last, and Graeme, gathering her own frock over the little limbs, and murmuring loving words to her darling, listened still.
The flames ceased to leap and glow on the hearth, the shadows no longer danced upon the wall, and gazing at the strange faces and forms that smiled and beckoned to her from the dying embers, still she listened. The red embers faded into white, the dark forest with its sunny glades and long retreating vistas, the hills, and rocks, and clouds, and waterfalls, that had risen among them at the watcher’s will, changed to dull grey ashes, and the dim dawn of the summer morning, gleamed in at last upon the weary sleeper. The baby still nestled in her arms, the golden hair of the child gleaming among the dark curls of the elder sister as their cheeks lay close together. Graeme moaned and murmured in her sleep, and clasped the baby closer, but she did not wake till Janet’s voice aroused her. There were no tears on her face now, but it was very white, and her voice was low and changed.
“Miss Graeme, you are to go to your mamma; she’s wantin’ you. But mind you are to be quiet, and think o’ your father.”
Taking the child in her arms, she turned her back upon the startled girl. Chilled and stiff from her uneasy posture, Graeme strove to rise, and stumbling, caught at Janet’s arm.
“Mamma is better Janet,” she asked eagerly. Janet kept her working face out of sight, and, in a little, answered hoarsely—
“Ay, she’ll soon be better, whatever becomes of the rest of us. But, mind, you are to be quiet, Miss Graeme.”
Chilled and trembling, Graeme crept up-stairs and through the dim passages to her mother’s room. The curtains had been drawn back, and the daylight streamed into the room. But the forgotten candles still glimmered on the table. There were several people in the room, standing sad and silent around the bed. They moved away as she drew near. Then Graeme saw her mother’s white face on the pillow, and her father bending over her. Even in the awe and dread that smote on her heart like death, she remembered that she must be quiet, and, coming close to the pillow, she said softly—
“Mother.”
The dying eyes came back from their wandering, and fastened on her darling’s face, and the white lips opened with a smile.
“Graeme—my own