“No, Will. Don’t say that I don’t think that troubles me. It ought not; but it is not good for Fanny, to allow her to suppose she has the responsibility and care, when she has not really. And it is not fair to her. When the time comes that she must have them, she will feel the trouble all the more for her present delusion. And she is learning nothing. She is utterly careless about details, and complicates matters when she thinks she is doing most, though, I must say, Nelly is very tolerant of the ‘whims’ of her young mistress, and makes the best of everything. But Will, all this must sound to you like finding fault with Fanny, and indeed, I don’t wish to do anything so disagreeable.”
“I am sure you do not, Graeme. I think I can understand your troubles, but I am afraid I cannot tell you how to help them.”
“No, Will. The kind of life we are living is not good for any of us. What I want for myself is some kind of real work to do. And I want it for Rose.”
“But, Graeme, you would never surely think of going away,—I mean, to stay always?”
“Why not? We are not needed here, Rose and I. No, Will, I don’t think it is that I am growing tired of ‘woman’s work.’ It was very simple, humble work I used to do, trifles, odds and ends of the work of life; stitching and mending, sweeping and dusting, singing and playing, reading and talking, each a trifling matter, taken by itself. But of such trifles is made up the life’s work of thousands of women, far wiser and better than I am; and I was content with it. It helped to make a happy home, and that was much.”
“You have forgotten something in your list of trifles, Graeme,—your love and care for us all.”
“No, Will. These are implied. It is the love and care that made all these trifles really ‘woman’s work.’ A poor dreary work it would be without these.”
“And, Graeme, is there nothing still, to sanctify your daily labour, and make it work indeed?” said Will.
“There is, indeed, Will. If I were only sure that it is my work. But, I am not sure. And it seems as though—somewhere in the world, there must be something better worth the name of work, for me to do.” And letting her hands fall in her lap, she looked away over the numberless roofs of the city, to the grey line of the river beyond.
“Oh! Will,” she went on in a little, “you do not know. You who have your life’s work laid out before you, can never understand how it is with me. You know the work before you is your work—given you by God himself. You need have no misgivings, you can make no mistake. And look at the difference. Think of all the years I may have to spend, doing the forgotten ends of another’s duty, filling up the time with trifles, visits, frivolous talk, or fancy work, or other things which do good to no one. And all the time not knowing whether I ought to stay in the old round, or break away from it all—never sure but that elsewhere, I might find wholesome work for God and man.”