Janet's Love and Service

by Margaret M. Robertson

In the mean time very quiet and pleasant days were passing over those who were at home. Fanny jingled her keys, and triumphed a little at the continued success of affairs in Mrs Tilman’s department. Graeme took no notice of her triumph, but worked away at odds and ends, remembering things forgotten, smoothing difficulties, removing obstacles, and making, more than she or any one knew, the happiness of them all. Rose sung and danced about the house as usual, and devoted some of her superfluous energy to the embellishment of a cobweb fabric, which was, under her skillful fingers, destined to assume, by and by, the form of a wedding pocket handkerchief for Emily. And through all, Mrs Snow was calmly and silently pursuing the object of her visit to Canada. Through the pleasant hours of work and leisure, in all their talk of old times, and of the present time, in all moods, grave and gay, she had but one thought, one desire, to assure herself by some unfailing token that her bairns were as good and happy as they ought to be.

The years that had passed since the bairns had been parted from her had made Janet older than they ought to have done, Graeme thought. It was because she was not so strong as she used to be, she said herself; but it was more than sickness, and more than the passing years that had changed her. The dreadful shock and disappointment of her mother’s death, followed so soon by the loss of Marian and the minister, had been too much for Janet. It might not have been, her strong patient nature might have withstood it, if the breaking up of the beloved family circle, the utter vanishing of her bairns from her sight, had not followed so close upon it. For weeks she had been utterly prostrate. The letters, which told the bairns, in their Canadian home, that their dear friend was ill, and “wearying” for them, told them little of the terrible suffering of that time. The misery that had darkened her first winter in Merleville came upon her again with two-fold power. Worse than the home-sickness of that sad time, was the never-ceasing pain, made up of sorrow for the dead, and inappeasable longing for the presence of the living. That she should have forsaken her darlings, to cast in her lot with others—that between her and them should lie miles and miles of mountain and forest, and barriers, harder to be passed than these, it sickened her heart to know. She knew it never could be otherwise now; from the sentence she had passed upon herself she knew there could be no appeal. She knew that unless some great sorrow should fall upon them, they could never have one home again; and that peace and happiness could ever come to her, being separated from them, she neither believed nor desired. Oh! the misery of that time! The fields and hills, and pleasant places she had learnt to love, shrouded themselves in gloom. The very light grew hateful to her. Her prayer, as she lay still, while the bitter waters rolled over her, was less the prayer of faith, than of despair.

And, through all the misery of that time, her husband waited and watched her with a tender patience, beautiful to see; never, by word or deed, giving token of aught but sympathy, and loving pity for the poor, sick, struggling heart. Often and often, during that dreary time, did she wake to hear, in the stillness of the night, or of the early morning, his whispered prayer of strong entreaty rising to Heaven, that the void might be filled, that in God’s good time and way, peace, and healing, and content, might come back to the sick and sorrowful heart.

And this came after long waiting. Slowly the bitter waters rolled away, never to return. Faith, that had seemed dead, looked up once more. The sick heart thrilled beneath the touch of the Healer. Again the light grew pleasant to her eyes, and Janet came back to her old household ways, seeing in the life before her God-given work, that might not be left undone. But she was never quite the same. There was never quite the old sharp ring in her kindly voice. She was not less cheerful, perhaps, in time, but her cheerfulness was of a far quieter kind, and her chidings were rare, and of the mildest, now. Indeed, she had none to chide but the motherless Emily, who needed little chiding, and much love. And much love did Janet give her, who had been dear to all the bairns, and the especial friend of Marian, now in Heaven. And so God’s peace fell on the deacon’s quiet household, and the gloom passed away from the fields and hills of Merleville, and its pleasant nooks and corners smiled once more with a look of home to Janet, as she grew content in the knowledge that her darlings were well and happy, though she might never make them her daily care again. But she never forgot them. Her remembrance of them never grew less loving, and tender, and true. And so, as the years passed, the old longing came back, and, day by day, grew stronger in her heart the wish to know assuredly that the children of her love were as good and happy as they ought to be.

Had her love been less deep and yearning she might have been more easily content with the tokens of an innocent and happy life visible in their home. If happiness had been, in her estimation, but the enjoyment of genial days and restful nights, with no cares to harass, and only pleasant duties to perform; if the interchange of kindly offices, the little acts of self-denial, the giving up of trifles, the taking cheerfully of the little disappointments, which even their pleasant life was subject to—if these had been to her sufficient tests of goodness, she might have been satisfied with all she saw.

But she was not satisfied, for she knew that there are few hearts so shallow as to be filled full with all that such a life of ease could give. She knew that the goodness, that might seem to suffice through these tranquil and pleasant days, could be no defence against the strong temptations that might beset them amid the cares of life. “For,” said she to herself, “the burn runs smoothly on over the pebbles in its bed without a break or eddy, till the pebbles change to rocks and stones, and then it brawls, and murmurs, and dashes itself to foam among them—and no help.” She was content with no such evidence of happiness or goodness as lay on the surface of their pleasant life, so she waited, and watched, seeing without seeming to see, many things that less loving eyes might have overlooked. She saw the unquiet light that gleamed at times in Graeme’s eyes, and the shadow of the cloud that now and then rested on her brow, even in their most mirthful moments. She smiled, as they all did, at the lively sallies, and pretty wilfulness of Rose, but she knew full well, that that which made mirth in the loving home circle, might make sorrow for the household darling, when the charm of love was no longer round her. And so she watched them all, seeing in trifles, in chance words and unconscious deeds, signs and tokens for good or for evil, that would never have revealed themselves to one who loved them less.

For Will she had no fear. He was his father’s own son, with his father’s work awaiting him. All would be well with Will. And for Arthur, too, the kind and thoughtful elder brother—the father and brother of the little household, both in one, her hopes were stronger than her doubts or fears. It would have given her a sore heart, indeed, to believe him far from the way in which his father walked.

“He has a leaven of worldliness in him, I’ll no deny,” said she to her husband one night, when they were alone in the privacy of their own apartment. “And there is more desire for wealth in his heart, and for the honour that comes from man, than he himself kens. He’ll maybe get them, and maybe no’. But if he gets them, they’ll no’ satisfy him, and if he gets them not, he’ll get something better. I have small fear for the lad. He minds his father’s ways and walk too well to be long content with his own halting pace. It’s a fine life just now, with folk looking up to him, and patting trust in him, but he’ll weary of it. There is nothing in it to fill, for long, the heart of his father’s son.”

And in her quiet waiting and watching, Janet grew assured for them all at last. Not that they were very wise or good, but her faith that they were kept of God grew stronger every day; and to be ever in God’s keeping, meant to this humble, trustful, Christian woman, to have all that even her yearning love could crave for her darlings. It left her nothing to fear for them, nothing to wish in their behalf; so she came to be at peace about them all; and gently checked the wilful words and ways of Rose, and waited patiently till Graeme, of her own accord, should show her the cloud in the shadow of which she sometimes sat.

As to Fanny, the new claimant for her love and interest, she was for from being overlooked all this time, and the pretty little creature proved a far greater mystery to the shrewd, right-judging friend of the family than seemed at all reasonable. There were times when, had she seen her elsewhere, she would not have hesitated to pronounce her frivolous, vain, overbearing. Even now, seeing her loved and cared for, in the midst of the bairns, there were moments when she found herself saying it in her heart. A duller sense, and weaker penetration could not have failed to say the same. But Fanny was Arthur’s wife, and Arthur was neither frivolous, nor vain, nor overbearing, but on the contrary, wise, and strong, and gentle, possessing all the virtues that ever had made his father a model in Janet’s admiring eyes, and it seemed a bold thing, indeed, to think lightly of his wife. So she mused, and pondered, and watched, and put Fanny’s beautiful face and winning manners, and pretty, affectionate ways, against her very evident defects, and said to herself, though Arthur’s wife was not like Arthur’s mother, nor even like his sisters, yet there were varieties of excellence, and surely the young man was better able to be trusted in the choice of a life-long friend than on old woman like her could be; and still she waited and pondered, and, as usual, the results of her musings were given to her attentive husband, and this time with a little impatient sigh.