Janet's Love and Service. Margaret M. Robertson
Arthur is to bide in Scotland.”
“Well, it winna be for long. Just till he’s done at the college. I dare say it is the best thing that can happen him to bide. But who told you?”
“Arthur told me after we went up-stairs to-night. And, oh! Janet! what will I ever do without him?”
“Miss Graeme, my dear! You hae done without him these two years already mostly, and even if we all were to bide in Scotland, you would hae to do without him still. He could na’ be here and at the college too. And when he’s done with that he would hae to go elsewhere. Families canna aye bide together. Bairns maun part.”
“But, Janet, to go so far and leave him! It will seem almost like death.”
“But, lassie it’s no’ death. There’s a great difference. And as for seeing him again, that is as the Lord wills. Anyway, it doesna become you to cast a slight on your father’s judgment, as though he had decided unwisely in this matter. Do you no’ think it will cost him something to part from his first-born son?”
“But, Janet, why need he part from him? Think how much better it would be for him, and for us all, if Arthur should go with us. Arthur is almost a man.”
“Na, lass. He’ll no’ hae a man’s sense this while yet. And as for his goin’ or bidin’, it’s no’ for you or me to seek for the why and the wherefore o’ the matter. It might be better—more cheery—for you and us all if your elder brother were with us, but it wouldna be best for him to go, or your father would never leave him, you may be sure o’ that.”
There was a long silence. Graeme sat gazing into the dying embers. Janet threw on another peat, and a bright blaze sprang up again.
“Miss Graeme, my dear, if it’s a wise and right thing for your father to take you all over the sea, the going or the biding o’ your elder brother can make no real difference. You must seek to see the rights o’ this. If your father hasna him to help him with the bairns and—ither things, the more he’ll need you, and you maun hae patience, and strive no’ to disappoint him. You hae muckle to be thankful for—you that can write to ane anither like a printed book, to keep ane anither in mind. There’s nae fear o’ your growin’ out o’ acquaintance, and he’ll soon follow, you may be sure. Oh, lassie, lassie! if you could only ken!”
Graeme raised herself up, and leaned both her arms on Janet’s lap.
“Janet, what did your mother say?”
Janet gulped something down, and said, huskily—
“Oh! she said many a thing, but she made nae wark about it. I told your father I would go, and I will. My mother doesna object.”
“And Sandy?” said Graeme, softly, for there was something working in Janet’s face, which she did not like to see.
“Sandy will aye hae my mother, and she’ll hae Sandy. But, lassie, it winna bear speaking about to-night. Gang awa’ to your bed.”
Graeme rose; but did not go.
“But couldna Sandy go with us? It would only be one more. Surely, Janet—”
Janet made a movement of impatience, or entreaty, Graeme did not know which, but it stopped her.
“Na, na! Sandy couldna leave my mother, even if it would be wise for me to take him. There’s no more to be said about that.” And in spite of herself, Janet’s tears gushed forth, as mortal eyes had never seen them gush before, since she was a herd lassie on the hills. Graeme looked on, hushed and frightened, and in a little, Janet quieted herself and wiped her face with her apron.
“You see, dear, what with one thing and what with another, I’m weary, and vexed to-night, and no’ just myself. Matters will look more hopeful, both to you and to me, the morn. There’s one thing certain. Both you and me hae much to do that maun be done, before we see saut water, without losing time in grumblin’ at what canna be helped. What with the bairns’ clothes and ither things, we winna need to be idle; so let us awa’ to our beds that we may be up betimes the morn.”
Graeme still lingered.
“Oh, Janet! if my mother were only here! How easy it all would be.”
“Ay, lass! I hae said that to myself many a time this while. But He that took her canna do wrong. There was some need for it, or she would hae been here to-night. You maun aye strive to fill her place to them all.”
Graeme’s tears flowed forth afresh.
“Oh, Janet! I think you’re mocking me when you say that. How could I ever fill her place?”
“No’ by your ain strength and wisdom surely my lammie. But it would be limiting His grace to say He canna make you all you should be—all that she was, and that is saying muckle; for she was wise far by the common. But now gang awa’ to your bed, and dinna forget your good words. There’s no fear but you will be in God’s keeping wherever you go.”
Janet was right; they had need of all their strength and patience during the next two months. When Janet had confidence in herself, she did what was to be done with a will. But she had little skill in making purchases, and less experience, and Graeme was little better. Many things must be got, and money could not be spent lavishly, and there was no time to lose.
But, with the aid of Mrs. Smith and other kind friends, their preparations were got through at last. Purchases were made, mending and making of garments were accomplished, and the labour of packing was got through, to their entire satisfaction.
The minister said good-bye to each of his people separately, either in the kirk, or in his own home or theirs; but he shrunk from last words, and from the sight of all the sorrowful faces that were sure to gather to see them go; so he went away at night, and stayed with a friend, a few miles on their way. But it was the fairest of summer mornings—the mist just lifting from the hills—and the sweet air filled with the laverock’s song, when Janet and the bairns looked their last upon their home.
Chapter Five.
They found themselves on board the “Steadfast” at last. The day of sailing was bright and beautiful, a perfect day for the sea, or the land either; but the wind rose in the night and the rain came on, and a very dreary morning broke on them as the last glimpse of land was fading in the distance.
“Oh! how dismal!” murmured Graeme, as in utter discomfort she seated herself on the damp deck, with her little sister in her arms. All the rest, excepting her father, and not excepting Janet, were down with sea-sickness, and even Norman and Harry had lost heart under its depressing influence. Another hour in the close cabin, and Graeme felt she must yield too—and then what would become of Rose? So into a mist that was almost rain she came, as the day was breaking, and sat down with her little sister upon the deck. For a minute she closed her eyes on the dreariness around, and leaned her head on a hencoop at her side. Rose had been fretful and uneasy all night, but now well pleased with the new sights around her, she sat still on her sister’s lap. Soon the cheerful voice of the Captain, startled Graeme.
“Touch and go with you I see, Miss Elliott. I am afraid you will have to give in like the rest.”
Graeme looked up with a smile that was sickly enough.
“Not if I can help it,” said she.
“Well, you are a brave lass to think of helping it with a face like that. Come and take a quick walk up and down the deck with me. It will do you good. Set down the bairn,” for Graeme was rising with Rose in her arms. “No harm will come to her, and you don’t look fit to carry yourself. Sit you there, my wee fairy, till we come back again. Here, Ruthven,” he called to a young man who was walking up and down on the other side of the deck, “come and try your hand at baby tending. That may be among