Chapter Twenty Three.
Whether Nelly lost her patience next morning or not, history does not record; but it is a fact that breakfast was late, and late as it was, Rosie did not make her appearance at it. Graeme had still a very pleasant remembrance of the evening; but it was not altogether unmixed. The late breakfast, the disarrangement of household matters, Rosie’s lassitude, and her own disinclination to engage in any serious occupation, was some drawback to the remembrance of her enjoyment. All were more or less out of sorts, some from one cause, some from another.
This did not last long, however. The drawback was forgotten, the pleasure was remembered, so that when a day or two afterward, a note came from Mrs Gridley, begging the presence of the brothers and sisters at a small party at her house, nothing was said about refusing. Mrs Gridley had promised some friends from Toronto, a treat of Scottish music, and she would be inconsolable should they disappoint her. But the consolation of Mrs Gridley was not the chief reason of the acceptance. Arthur was to be out of town, but Will was to go in his place. They went, and enjoyed it well; indeed, it was very enjoyable.
Mrs Gridley was a serious person, said her friends, and some, who had no claim to the title said the same—the tone and manner making all the difference in the sense of the declaration. She would not for much, have been guilty of giving dancing or card parties in her own house, though by some mysterious process of reasoning, she had convinced herself that she could quite innocently make one of such parties in the houses of other people. So there was only music and conversation, and a simple game or two for the very young people. Graeme and Rosie, and Will too, enjoyed it well. Harry professed to have been bored.
Out of these parties sprang others. Graeme hardly knew how it happened, but the number of their acquaintances greatly increased about this time. Perhaps it was partly owing to the new partnership entered into by Arthur, with the long-established firm of Black & Company. They certainly owed to this, the sight of several fine carriages at their door, and of several pretty cards in their receiver. Invitations came thick and fast, until an entire change came over their manner of life. Regular reading was interfered with or neglected. Household matters must have fallen into confusion, if Nelly had not proved herself equal to all emergencies. The long quiet evening at home became the exception. They went out, or some one came in, or there was a lecture or concert, or when the sleighing became good a drive by moonlight. There were skating parties, and snow-shoeing parties, enough to tire the strongest; and there was no leisure, no quiet time.
Graeme was not long in becoming dissatisfied with this changed, unsettled life. The novelty soon wore off for her, and she became painfully conscious of the attendant evils. Sadly disinclined herself to engage in any serious occupation, she could not but see that with her sister it was even worse. Rose enjoyed all these gay doings much more, and in a way quite different from her; and the succeeding lassitude and depression were proportionably greater. Indeed, lassitude and depression were quite too gentle terms to apply to the child’s sensations, and her disinclination to occupation sometimes manifested itself in an unmistakable approach to peevishness, unless, indeed, the party of the evening was to be followed by the excursion of the day. Then the evil effects were delayed, not averted. For a time, Graeme made excuses for her to herself and to her brothers; then she did what was much wiser. She determined to put a stop to the cause of so much discomfort. Several circumstances helped her to this decision, or rather to see the necessity for it. She only hesitated as to the manner in which she was to make her determination known; and while she hesitated, an opportunity to discuss their changed life occurred, and she did not permit it to pass unimproved.
Christmas and New Year’s Day had been past for some weeks, and there was a pause in the festivities of their circle, when a billet of the usual form and purport was left at the door by a servant in livery. Rose, who had seen him pass the window, had much to do to keep herself quiet, till Nelly had taken it from his hand. She just noticed that it was addressed to Graeme, in time to prevent her from opening it.
“What is it, Graeme?” asked she, eagerly, as she entered the room where her sister was writing. “I am almost sure it was left by Mrs Roxbury’s servant. See, there is their crest. What is it? An invitation?”
“Yes,” said Graeme, quietly, laying down the note. “For the twenty-seventh.”
“Such a long time! It will be a grand affair. We must have new dresses, Graeme.”
She took up the note and read:
“Mrs Roxbury’s compliments to Miss Elliott.”
“Miss Elliott!” she repeated. “Why, Graeme! I am not invited.”
“So it seems; but never mind, Rosie. I am not going to accept it.”
Rose was indeed crestfallen.
“Oh, you must go, of course. You must not stay at home on my account.”
“No; certainly. That is not the reason. Your being invited would have made no difference.”
“I could hardly have gone without you,” said Rose, doubtfully.
“Certainly not. Neither of us would have gone. If I don’t accept this invitation our acquaintance with the Roxburys will perhaps go no further. That would be a sufficient reason for my refusal, if there were no others.”
“A sufficient reason for not refusing, I should rather say,” said Rose.
“No. There is no good reason for keeping up an acquaintance with so many people. There is no pleasure in it; and it is a great waste of time and strength, and money too, for that matter.”
“But Arthur wishes it. He thinks it right.”
“Yes, to a certain extent, perhaps, but not at too great a cost. I don’t mean of money, though in our circumstances that is something, too. But so much going out has been at a great sacrifice of time and comfort to us all. I am tired of it. We won’t speak of it now, however; I must finish my letter.” For to tell the truth, Rosie’s face did not look promising.
“Don’t send a refusal till you have spoken to Arthur, Graeme. If he wishes you to go, you ought, you know.”
“I am by no means sure of that. Arthur does not very often go to these large parties himself. He does not enjoy them, and I see no reason why I should deny myself, in so bad a cause.”
“But Graeme, you have enjoyed some of them, at least. I am sure I have always enjoyed them.”
“Yes, I have enjoyed some of them, but I am not sure that it is a right kind of enjoyment. I mean, it may be too dearly bought. And besides, it is not the party, as a party, that I ever enjoy. I have had more real pleasure in some of our quiet evenings at home, with only—only one or two friends, than I ever had at a party, and—, but we won’t talk about it now,” and she bent over her letter again. She raised her head almost immediately, however.
“And yet, Rosie, I don’t know why this is not the best time to say what, for a long time, I have meant to say. We have not been living a good or wise life of late. Do you mind, love, what Janet said to us, the night before we came away? Do you mind the charge she gave us, to keep our garments unspotted till we meet our father and mother again? Do you think, dear, the life of pleasure we have been living, will make us more like what our mother was, more like what our father wished us to be—more fit to meet them where they are?”
Graeme spoke very earnestly. There were tears in her eyes.
“Graeme,” said Rose, “do you think it wrong to go to parties—to dance? Many good people do not.”
“I don’t know, love. I cannot tell. It might be right for some people, and yet quite wrong for us. Certainly, if it withdraws our minds from things of importance, or is the cause of our neglecting duty, it cannot be right for us. I am afraid it has been doing this for us all lately.”
Rosie looked grave, but did not reply. In a little, Graeme added,—
“I am afraid our last letters have not given much satisfaction to Mrs Snow, Rosie. She seems afraid for us; afraid, lest we may become too much engrossed with the pleasant things about us, and reminds us of the care and watchfulness needed to keep ourselves unspotted from the world.”
“But, Graeme, everything is so different in Merleville, Janet cannot know. And, besides—”
“I know, dear; and I would not like to say that we have been doing anything very wrong all this time, or that those who do the same are doing wrong. If we were wiser and stronger, and not so easily influenced for evil, I daresay it would do us no harm. But, Rosie, I am afraid for myself, that I may come to like this idle gay life too much, or, at least, that it may unfit me for a quiet useful life, as our father would have chosen for us, and I am afraid for you, too, dear Rose.”
“I enjoy parties very much, and I can’t see that there is any harm in it,” said Rosie, a little crossly.
“No, not in enjoying them, in a certain way, and to a certain extent. But, Rose, think how dreadful, to become ‘a lover of pleasure.’ Is there no danger do you think, love?”
Rose hung her head, and was silent. Graeme went on,—
“My darling, there is danger for you—for me—for us all. How can we ever hope to win Harry from the society of those who do him harm, when we are living only to please ourselves?”
“But, Graeme, it is better that we should all go together—I mean Harry is more with us than he used to be. It must be better.”
“I don’t know, dear. I fear it is only a change of evils. Harry’s temptation meets him even with us. And, oh! Rosie, if our example should make it easier for Harry to go astray! But we won’t speak about Harry. I trust God will keep him safe. I believe He will.”
Though Graeme tried to speak calmly, Rose saw that she trembled and grew very white.
“At any rate, Rose, we could not hope that God would hear our prayers for Harry, or for each other, if we were living in a way displeasing to Him. For it is not well with us, dear. We need not try to hide it from ourselves. We must forget the last few troubled months, and begin again. Yes, we must go farther back than that, Rosie,” said Graeme, suddenly rising, and putting her arms about her sister. “Do you mind that last night, beside the two graves? How little worth all seemed to us then, except to get safe home together. Rosie! I could not answer for it to our father and mother if we were to live this troubled life long. My darling! we must begin again.”
There were tears on Rose’s cheeks, as well as Graeme’s, by this time. But in a little Graeme sat down again.
“It is I who have been most to blame. These gay doings never should have commenced. I don’t think Arthur will object to our living much more quietly than we have done of late. And if he does, we must try and reconcile him to the change.”
It was not difficult to reconcile Arthur to the change. “Graeme must do as she thought right,” he said. “It must be rather a troublesome thing to keep up such a general acquaintance—a loss of time to little purpose,” and so it would have ended, as far as he was concerned, if Harry had not discovered Mrs Roxbury’s note.
“I declare Mrs Gridley is right,” said he. “We are a rising family. I hope you gave that lady a chance to peep into this note, when she was here to-day. But how is this? Miss Elliott. Have you one, Rosie?”
Rose shook her head.
“No. Have you, Harry?”
“Have I? What are you thinking of, Rose? Do you suppose those lofty portals would give admission to one who is only a humble clerk? It is only for such commercial successes as Mr Green, or Allan Ruthven, that that honour is reserved. But never mind, Rosie. We shall find something to amuse us that night, I have no doubt.”
“Graeme is not going,” said Rose.
“Not going! Oh! she’ll think better of it.”
“No, she has sent her refusal.”
“And why, pray?”
“Oh! one can’t go everywhere, as Mrs Gridley says,” replied Graeme, thus appealed to.
“Yes; but Mrs Gridley said that with regard to a gathering of our good friend, Willie Birnie, the tailor. I can understand how she should not find time to go there. But how you should find time to shine on that occasion, and have none to spare for Mrs Roxbury’s select affair, is more than I can comprehend.”
“Don’t be snobbish, Harry,” said Will.
“I think the reasons are obvious,” said Arthur.
“Yes,” said Graeme, “we knew Willie Birnie when we were children. He was at the school with you all. And I like his new wife very much, and our going gave them pleasure, and, besides, I enjoyed it well.”
“Oh! if you are going to take a sentimental view of the matter, I have nothing to say. And Willie is a fine fellow; I don’t object to Willie, or the new wife either—quite the contrary. But of the two, people generally would prefer to cultivate the acquaintance of Mrs Roxbury and her set.”
“Graeme is not like people generally,” said Rose.
“I hope not,” said Will. “And, Harry, what do you suppose Mrs Roxbury cares about any of us, after all?”
“She cares about Graeme going to her party, or she would not have asked her.”
“I am not sure of that,” said Graeme, smiling at the eagerness of the brothers. “I suppose she asked me for the same reason that she called here, because of the partnership. They are connected with the Blacks, in some way. Now, that it is off her conscience, having invited me, I daresay she will be just as well pleased that I should stay at home.”
“That is not the least bit uncharitable, is it Graeme?”
“No. I don’t think so. It certainly cannot make much difference to her, to have one more or less at her house on the occasion. I really think she asks me from a sense of duty—or rather, I ought to say, from a wish to be polite to her friends the Blacks. It is very well that she should do so, and if I cared to go, it would, of course, be agreeable to her, but it will not trouble her in the least though I stay away.”
“Well, I can’t but say you have chosen an unfortunate occasion to begin to be fastidious. I should think the Roxbury’s would be the very house you would like to go to.”
“Oh! one has to make a beginning. And I am tired of so much gaiety. It makes no difference about its being Mrs Roxbury.”
“Very well. Please yourself and you’ll please me,” said Harry, rising.
“Are you going out to-night, Harry?” said Graeme, trying not to look anxious.
“Yes; but pray don’t wait for me if I should not be in early,” said Harry, rather hastily.
There was nothing said for some time after Harry went out. Will went to his books, and Rose went to the piano. Graeme sewed busily, but she looked grave and anxious.
“What can make Harry so desirous that you should go to Mrs Roxbury’s?” said Arthur, at last. “Have you any particular reason for not wishing to go?”
“Do you think Harry really cared? No; I have no reason for not wishing to go there. But, Arthur, we have been going out too much lately. It is not good for Rosie, nor for me, either; and I refused this invitation chiefly because she was not invited, I might not have had the courage to refuse to go with her—as she would have been eager to go. But it is not good for her, all this party-going.”
“I dare say you are right. She is too young, and not by any means beyond being spoiled. She is a very pretty girl.”
“Pretty! Who can compare with her?” said Graeme. “But she must not be spoiled. She is best at home.”
“Proudfute tells me this is to be a reception in honour of your friend Ruthven, and Miss Elphinstone,” said Arthur. “It seems the wedding is to come off soon. Proudfute is a relation of theirs, you know.”
“No; I did not know it,” said Graeme; and in a little she added, “ought that to make any difference about my going? My note is written but not sent.”
“I should think not. You are not supposed to know anything about it. It is very likely not true. And it is nothing to us.”
“No; that is true,” said Graeme. “Rosie, my dear, you are playing too quickly. That should be quite otherwise at the close,” and rising, she went to the piano and sat down beside her sister. They played a long time together, and it was Rose who was tired first ‘for a wonder.’
“Graeme, why did you not tell Harry the true reason that you did not wish to go to Mrs Roxbury’s?” said Rose, when they went up-stairs together.
“The true reason?” repeated Graeme.
“I mean, why did you not speak to him as you spoke to me?”
“I don’t know, dear. Perhaps I ought to have done so. But it is not so easy to speak to others as it is to you. I am afraid Harry would have cared as little for the true reason as for the one I gave.”
“I don’t know, Graeme. He was not satisfied; and don’t you think it would have been better just to say you didn’t think it right to go out so much—to large parties, I mean.”
“Perhaps it would have been better,” said Graeme, but she said no more; and sat down in the shadow with her Bible in her hand for the nightly reading. Rose had finished her preparations for bed before she stirred, and coming up behind her she whispered softly,—
“Graeme, you are not afraid for Harry now? I mean not more afraid?”
Graeme started. Her thoughts were painful, as her face showed; but they were not of Harry.
“I don’t know, love. I hope not. I pray God, no harm may come to Harry. Oh! Rosie, Rosie, we have been all wrong this long, long time. We have been dreaming, I think. We must waken up, and begin again.”