Janet's Love and Service. Margaret M. Robertson
their fears for the future into words; but their thoughts were busy. The mother’s heart ached for the great wrench that must sever Janet from her child and her home, and Janet’s heart grew sick with the dread of long weary days and nights her mother might have to pass, with perhaps no daughter’s hand to close her eyes at last, till the thoughts of both changed to supplication, fervent though unuttered; and the burden of the prayer of each was, that the other might have strength and peace.
The mother spoke first. “When will it be?”
“It canna be long now. The sooner the better when once it’s really settled. There are folk in the parish no weel pleased at the minister, for thinking to go.”
“It’s for none to say what’s right, and what’s wrang, in the matter,” said the mother, gravely. “I hae nae doubt the Lord will go with him; but it will be a drear day for plenty besides me.”
“He’s bent on it. Go he will, and I trust it may be for the best,” but Janet sighed drearily.
“And how are the bairns pleased with the prospect?” asked her mother.
“Ah! they’re weel pleased, bairn-like, at any thought o’ a change. Miss Graeme has her doubts, I whiles think, but that shouldna count; there are few things that look joyful to her at the present time. She’s ower like her father with her ups and downs. She hasna her mother’s cheerful spirit.”
“Her mother’s death was an awfu’ loss to Miss Graeme, poor thing,” said the mother.
“Aye, that it was—her that had never kent a trouble but by readin’ o’ them in printed books. It was an awfu’ wakening to her. She has never been the same since, and I doubt it will be long till she has the same light heart again. She tries to fill her mother’s place to them all, and when she finds she canna do it, she loses heart and patience with herself. But I hae great hope o’ her. She has the ‘single eye,’ and God will guide her. I hae nae fear for Miss Graeme.”
And then they spoke of many things—settling their little matters of business, and arranging their plans as quietly as though they looked forward to doing the same thing every month during the future years as they had done during the past. Nothing was forgotten or omitted; for Janet well knew that all her time and strength would be needed for the preparations that must soon commence, and that no time so good as the present might be found for her own personal arrangements. Her little savings were to be lodged in safe hands for her mother’s use, and if anything were to happen to her they were to be taken to send Sandy over the sea. It was all done very quietly and calmly. I will not say that Janet’s voice did not falter sometimes, or that no mist came between the mother’s eyes and the grave face on the other side of the table. But there was no sign given. A strong sense of duty sustained them. A firm belief that however painful the future might be, they were doing right in this matter, gave them power to look calmly at the sacrifice that must cost them so much.
At length the children’s voices were heard, and at the sound, Janet’s heart leaped up with a throb of pain, but in words she gave no utterance to the pang.
“Weel, Sandy, lad, is this you,” said she, as with mingled shyness and pleasure the boy came forward at his grandmother’s bidding. He was a well-grown and healthy lad, with a frank face, and a thick shock of light curls. There was a happy look in his large blue eyes, and the smile came very naturally to his rather large mouth. To his mother, at the moment, he seemed altogether beautiful, and her heart cried out against the great trial that was before her. Sandy stood with his hand in hers, while his grandmother questioned him about the errand on which he had been sent, and she had time to quiet herself. But there was a look on her face as she sat there, gently stroking his fair hair with her hand, that was sad to see. Marian saw it with momentary wonder, and then coming up to her, she laid her arm gently over her neck and whispered—
“Sandy is going with us too, Janet. There will be plenty of room for us all.”
“I’ve been telling Menie that I canna leave grannie,” said Sandy, turning gravely to his mother. “You’ll hae Norman and Harry, and them a’, but grannie has none but me.”
“And wouldna you like to go with us too, Sandy, man?” asked his mother, with a pang.
“To yon fine country John Ferguson tells us about?” said Sandy, with sparkling eyes. “That I would, but it wouldna be right to leave grannie, and she says she’s ower old to go so far-away—and over the great sea too.”
“Nae, my lad, it wouldna be right to leave grannie by herself, and you’ll need to bide here. Think aye first of what is right, and there will be no fear of you.”
“And are you goin’ mother?” asked Sandy, gravely.
“I doubt I’ll need to go, Sandy lad, with the bairns. But I think less of it, that I can leave you to be a comfort to grannie. I’m sure I needna bid you be a good and obedient laddie to her, when—”
It needed a strong effort on her part to restrain the bitter cry of her heart.
“And will you never come back again, mother?”
“I dinna ken, Sandy. Maybe no. But that’s no’ for us to consider. It is present duty we maun think o’. The rest is in the Lord’s hands.”
What else could be said? That was the sum. It was duty and the Lord would take care of the rest. And so they parted with outward calm; and her mother never knew that that night, Janet, sending the children home before her, sat down in the lane, and “grat as if she would never greet mair.” And Janet never knew, till long years afterwards, how that night, and many a night, Sandy woke from the sound sleep of childhood to find his grandmother praying and weeping, to think of the parting that was drawing near. Each could be strong to help the other, but alone, in silence and darkness, the poor shrinking heart had no power to cheat itself into the belief that bitter suffering did not lie before it.
Chapter Four.
It was worship time, and the bairns had gathered round the table with their books, to wait for their father’s coming. It was a fair sight to see, but it was a sad one too, for they were motherless. It was all the more sad, that the bright faces and gay voices told how little they realised the greatness of the loss they had sustained. They were more gay than usual, for the elder brother had come home for the summer, perhaps for always; for the question was being eagerly discussed whether he would go back to the college again, or whether he was to go with the rest to America.
Arthur, a quiet, handsome lad of sixteen, said little. He was sitting with the sleepy Will upon his knee, and only put in a word now and then, when the others grew too loud and eager. He could have set them at rest about it; for he knew that his father had decided to leave him in Scotland till his studies were finished at the college.
“But there’s no use to vex the lads and Graeme to-night,” he said to himself; and he was right, as he had not quite made up his mind whether he was vexed himself or not. The thought of the great countries on the other side of the globe, and of the possible adventures that might await them there, had charms for him, as for every one of his age and spirit. But he was a sensible lad, and realised in some measure the advantage of such an education as could only be secured by remaining behind, and he knew in his heart that there was reason in what his father had said to him of the danger there was that the voyage and the new scenes in a strange land might unsettle his mind from his books. It cost him something to seem content, even while his father was speaking to him, and he knew well it would grieve the rest to know he was to be left behind, so he would say nothing about it, on this first night of his home-coming.
There was one sad face among them; for even Arthur’s home-coming could not quite chase the shadow that had fallen on Graeme since the night a year ago while she sat dreaming her dreams in the firelight. It was only a year or little more, but it might have been three, judging from the change in her. She