Janet's Love and Service

by Margaret M. Robertson

For it was summer—the very prime of summer-time—and except for that little glimpse of garden, and the dusty maple boughs, and the ragged tops of the poplars, it might just as well have been winter. There was nothing to remind them of summer, but the air hanging over them hot and close, or sweeping in sudden dust-laden gusts down the narrow street. Yes; there was the long streak of blue, which Harry called the river, seen from the upper window; but it was only visible in sunny days, at least it only gleamed and sparkled then; it was but a dim, grey line at other times.

How changed their life was; how they drooped and pined for the sights and sounds and friends of Merleville.

“If there were but a green field in sight, or a single hill,” said Rosie; but she always added, “how nice it is to have the willow trees and the sight of the garden.”

For Rose was by no means sure that their longing for green fields and hills and woods was not wrong. It seemed like ingratitude to Arthur, this pining for the country and their old home; and these young girls from the very first made a firm stand against the home-sickness that came upon them. Not that home-sickness is a sickness that can be cured by struggling against it; but they tried hard to keep the knowledge of it from their brothers. Whatever happened during the long days, they had a pleasant breakfast-hour and a pleasant evening together. They seldom saw their brothers at other times during the first few months. Harry’s hours were long, and Arthur’s business was increasing so as to require close attention. This was a matter of much rejoicing to Graeme, who did not know that all Arthur’s business was not strictly professional—that it was business wearisome enough, and sometimes bringing in but little, but absolutely necessary for that little’s sake.

Graeme and Rosie were at home alone, and they found the days long and tedious often, though they conscientiously strove to look at all things from their best and brightest side. For a while they were too busy—too anxious for the success of their domestic plans, to have time for home-sickness. But when the first arrangements were made—when the taste and skill of Graeme, and the inexhaustible strength of their new maid, Nelly Anderson, had changed the dingy house into as bright and pleasant a place as might well be in a city street, then came the long days and the weariness. Then came upon Graeme that which Janet had predicted, when she so earnestly set her face against their going away from Merleville till the summer was over. Her fictitious strength failed her. The reaction from all the exertion and excitement of the winter and spring came upon her now, and she was utterly prostrate. She did not give up willingly. Indeed, she had no patience with herself in the miserable state into which she had fallen. She was ashamed and alarmed at her disinclination to exert herself—at her indifference to everything; but the exertion she made to overcome the evil only aggravated it, and soon was quite beyond her power. Her days were passed in utter helplessness on the sofa. She either denied herself to their few visitors, or left them to be entertained by Rose. All her strength and spirits were needed for the evening when her brothers were at home.

Some attention to household affairs was absolutely necessary, even when the time came, that for want of something else to do Nelly nodded for hours in the long afternoons over the knitting of a stocking. For though Nelly could do whatever could be accomplished by main strength, the skill necessary for the arrangement of the nicer matters of their little household was not in her, and Graeme was never left quite at rest as to the progress of events in her dominions. It was a very fortunate chance that had cast her lot with theirs soon after their arrival, Graeme knew and acknowledged; but after the handiness and immaculate neatness of Hannah Lovejoy, it was tiresome to have nothing to fall back upon but the help of the untaught Nelly. Her willingness and kind-heartedness made her, in many respects, invaluable to them; but her field of action had hitherto been a turnip-field, or a field in which cows were kept; and though she was, by her own account, “just wonderfu’ at the making of butter,” she had not much skill at anything else. If it would have brought colour to the cheek, or elasticity to the step of her young mistress, Nelly would gladly have carried her every morning in her arms to the top of the mountain; but nothing would have induced her, daring these first days, to undertake the responsibility of breakfast or dinner without Graeme’s special overlooking. She would walk miles to do her a kindness; but she could not step lightly or speak softly, or shut the door without a bang, and often caused her torture when doing her very best to help or cheer her.

But whatever happened through the day, for the evening Graeme exerted herself to seem well and cheerful. It was easy enough to do when Harry was at home, or when Arthur was not too busy to read to them. Then she could still have the arm-chair or the sofa, and hear, or not hear, as the case might be. But when any effort was necessary—when she must interest herself, or seem to interest herself in her work, or when Arthur brought any one home with him, making it necessary for Graeme to be hospitable and conversational, then it was very bad indeed. She might get through very well at the time with it all, but a miserable night was sure to follow, and she could only toss about through the slow hours exhausted yet sleepless.

Oh, how miserable some of these sultry August nights were, when she lay helpless, her sick fancy changing into dear familiar sounds the hum that rose from the city beneath. Now it was the swift spring-time rush of Carson’s brook, now the gentle ripple of the waters of the pond breaking on the white pebbles of the beach. The wind among the willow-boughs whispered to her of the pine grove and the garden at home, till her heart grew sick with longing to see them again. It was always the same. If the bitter sorrow that bereavement had brought made any part of what she suffered now; if the void which death had made deepened the loneliness of this dreary time, she did not know it. All this weariness of body and sinking of heart might have come though she had never left Merleville, but it did not seem so to her. It was always of home she thought. She rose up and lay down with longing for it fresh and sore. She started from troubled slumber to break into passionate weeping when there was no one to see her. She struggled against the misery that lay so heavily upon her, but not successfully. Health and courage failed.

Of course, this state of things could not continue long. They must get either better or worse, Graeme thought, and worse it was. Arthur and Harry coming home earlier than usual found her as she had never allowed them to find her before, lying listlessly, almost helplessly on the sofa. Her utmost effort to appear well and cheerful at the sight of them failed this once. She rose slowly and leaned back again almost immediately, closing her eyes with a sigh.

“Graeme!” exclaimed Harry, “what ails you! Such a face! Look here, I have something for you. Guess what.”