Janet's Love and Service

by Margaret M. Robertson

Ruthven’s intercourse with his uncle’s family, though occurring at long intervals, had been of a very pleasant kind, for he was a great favourite with his aunt and his cousin Lilias, who was then a child. Indeed, she was only a child when her mother died; and when there fell into his hands a letter written by his aunt to his mother, during one of his first visits to M, in which half seriously, half playfully, was expressed a wish that the cousins might one day stand in a nearer and dearer relation to one another, he was greatly surprised and amused. I am afraid it was only the thought that the hand that had penned the wish was cold in death that kept him from shocking his mother by laughing outright at the idea. For what a child Lilias must have been when that was written, thought he! what a child she was still!

But the years went on, and the child grew into a beautiful woman, and the remembrance of his aunt’s wish was pleasant to Allan Ruthven, because of his love and admiration for his cousin, and because of other things. He could not be blind to the advantages that such a connection would ensure to him. The new partnership was anticipated and entered upon, on very different terms from those which might have been, but for the silent understanding with regard to Lilias that existed between the uncle and nephew. It was no small matter that the young merchant should find himself in a position to which the greater number attain only after half a lifetime of labour. He was at the head of a lucrative business, conscious of possessing skill and energy to conduct it well—conscious of youth and health and strength to enjoy the future opening before him. Nor was there anything wrong in this appreciation of the advantages of his position. He knew that this wealth had not bought him. He loved his cousin Lilias, or he thought he loved her; and though up to this time, and after this time their intercourse was only after a cousinly sort, he believed she loved him. The thought did come into his mind sometimes whether his cousin was all to him that a woman might be, but never painfully. He did not doubt that, as years went on, they would be very happy together after a quiet, rational fashion, and he smiled, now and then, at the fading remembrance of many a boyish dream as to how his wife was to be wooed and won.

He was happy—they were all happy; and the tide of events flowed quietly on the the night when Allan clasped the trembling hand of Graeme Elliott. Indeed, it flowed quietly on long after that, for in the charm that, night after night, drew him into the happy circle of the Elliotts, he recognised only the pleasure that the renewal of old friendships and the awakening of old associations gave him. The pleasure which his cousin took in the society of these young people was scarcely less than his own. Around the heiress and only child of Mr Elphinstone there soon gathered a brilliant circle of admirers, the greater part of whom would hardly have recognised the Elliotts as worthy of sharing the honour with them. But there was to the young girl, who had neither brother nor sister, something better than brilliancy or fashion in Graeme’s quiet parlour. The mutual love and confidence that made their home so happy, filled her with wonder and delight, and there were few days, for several pleasant months, in which they did not meet.

The pleasant intercourse was good for Lilias. She brightened under it wonderfully, and grew into a very different creature from the pale, quiet, little girl, who used to sit so gravely at her father’s side. Her father saw the change and rejoiced over it, and though at first he was not inclined to be pleased with the intimacy that had sprung up so suddenly, he could not but confess that the companionship of one like Rose Elliott must be good for her. Graeme he seldom saw. The long morning calls, and spending of days with her friend, which were Rosie’s delight, Graeme seldom shared. But she was quite as much the friend of Lilias as was her livelier sister, and never did his cousin seem so beautiful to Allan, never was she so dear, as when, with pretty willfulness; she hung about Graeme, claiming a right to share with Rose the caresses or gentle reproofs of the elder sister. He did not think of danger to himself in the intercourse which Lilias shared so happily. He was content with the present, and did not seek to look into the future.

But he was not quite free from troubled thoughts at this time. In the atmosphere in which he lived things wore a new aspect to him. Almost unconsciously to himself at first, he began to judge of men, and motives, and actions, by a new rule—or rather, he came back to the old rule, by which he had measured all things in his youthful days. These days did not seem so far removed from him now as they used to do, and sometimes he found himself looking back over the last ten years, with the clear truthful eyes of eighteen. It was not always a pleasant retrospect. There were some things covered up by that time, of which the review could not give unmingled pleasure. These were moments when he could not meet Graeme’s truthful eyes, as with “Don’t you remember?” she recalled his own words, spoken long ago. He knew, though she did not, how his thoughts of all things had changed since then; and though the intervening years had made him a man of wealth and note, there came to him, at such moments, a sense of failure and regret, as though his manhood had belied the promise of his youth—a strong desire to begin anew—a longing after a better life than these ten years had witnessed.

But these pleasant days came to an end. Business called Allan, for a time, to his old home in C, and to his uncongenial life there. It was not pleasant business. There was a cry, louder than usual, of “hard times” through the country, and the failure of several houses, in which he had placed implicit confidence, threatened, not, indeed, to endanger the safety, but greatly to embarrass the operations of the new firm. Great losses were sustained, and complicated as their affairs at the West had become, Allan began to fear that his own presence there would for some time be necessary. He was surprised and startled at the pain which the prospect gave him, and before he had time to question himself as to why it should be so, the reason was made plain to him.

A letter written by his uncle immediately after a partial recovery from an illness, a return of which, his physicians assured him, must prove fatal, set the matter before him in its true light. The letter was brief. Knowing little of the disorder into which recent events had thrown their affairs, he entreated Allan’s immediate return, for his sake, and for the sake of Lilias, whom it distressed him to think of leaving till he should see her safe with one who should have a husband’s right to protect and console her. It was simply and frankly said, as one might speak of a matter fully understood and approved of by all concerned. But the words smote on Allan’s heart with sharp and sudden pain, and he knew that something had come into his life, since the time when he had listened in complacent silence to Mr Elphinstone’s half-expressed ideas, concerning Lilias and her future. There was pleasure in the pain, sharp and sweet while it lasted, for with the knowledge that came to him, that he loved Graeme Elliott, there came also the hope, that there was something more than gentle friendliness in the feelings with which she regarded him. But the pleasure passed, and the pain remained, growing sharper and deeper as he looked the future in the face.

It was not a hopeful future. As for his cousin, there had passed between them no words or tokens of affection, that cousins might not very well exchange; at least, he was willing to believe so now; and judging her feelings, partly by his own, and partly by the remembrance of many a chance word and action of the last few months, he said to himself, the happiness of her life would not be marred though they might never be more than cousins to each other. But this did not end his doubts as to the course that lay before him, and every day that he lingered in miserable indecision, made more evident to him the difficulties of his position. He knew it was a son’s place that he had got in the firm. He could only claim it as a son. If his relations to Lilias and her father were changed, it seemed to him that he could not honourably claim a position which had been urged upon him, and which he had gladly accepted with a view to these relations. The past ten years must be as nothing to him, except for the experience they had given him, the good name they had won for him. He must begin life again a poor man.

But let me not be unjust to him. It was not this that made all the misery of his indecision. Had all this come in a time of prosperity, or when Mr Elphinstone had strength and courage to meet disaster unmoved, it would have been different. But now, when all things looked threatening, when certain loss—possible ruin—lay before them, when the misfortunes of some, and the treachery of others were making the very ground beneath their feet insecure, could he leave the feeble old man to struggle through these difficult and dangerous times alone? He knew his uncle too well to believe that he would willingly accept help from him, their relations being changed, and he knew that no skill and knowledge but his own could conduct to a successful issue, enterprises undertaken under more favourable circumstances.

He was very wretched. He could not put away the discomfort of his indecision by permitting time and circumstances to decide in the course which he must take. Whatever was done must be done by him, and at once. There was no respite of time or chance to fall back upon, in the strait in which he found himself. He did not hasten home. He had cause enough to excuse the delay to himself, and he threw himself into the increasingly painful details of business, with an energy that, for the time, left no room for painful thoughts. But it was only for the time. He knew that his lingering was useless, in view of what the end must be, and he despised himself for his indecision.