“Fanny does not mean—she does not know much about it. But that is one more reason why I ought to go. She ought to have the responsibility, as well as to fancy that she has it; and they would get used to being without us in time.”
“Miss Graeme, my dear, I think I must have told you what your father said to me after his first attack of illness, when he thought, maybe, the end wasna far-away.”
“About our all staying together while we could. Yes, you told me.”
“Yes, love, and how he trusted in you, that you would always be, to your brothers and Rose, all that your mother would have been if she had been spared; and how sure he was that you would ever think less of yourself than of them. My dear, it should not be a light thing that would make you give up the trust your father left to you.”
“But, Janet, it is so different now. When we first came here, the thought that my father wished us to keep together made me willing and glad to stay, even when Arthur had to struggle hard to make the ends meet. I knew it was better for him and for Harry, as well as for us. But it is different now. Arthur has no need of us, and would soon content himself without us, though he may think he would not; and it may be years before this can be Will’s home again. It may never be his home, nor Harry’s either.”
“My dear, it will be Harry’s home, and Will’s, too, while it is yours. Their hearts will ay turn to it as home, and they wouldna do so if you were only coming and going. And as for Mr Arthur, Miss Graeme, I put it to yourself, if he were left alone with that bonny, wee wife of his, would his home be to him what it is now? Would the companionship of yon bairn suffice for his happiness?”
“It ought to do so. A man’s wife ought to be to him more than all the rest of the world, when it is written, ‘A man shall leave all, and cleave to his wife.’ Married people ought to suffice for one another.”
“Well, it may be. And if you were leaving your brother’s house for a house of your own, or if you were coming with us, as my husband seems to have set his heart on, I would think it different. Not that I am sure of it myself, much as it would delight me to have you. For your brother needs you, and your bonny new sister needs you. Have patience with her, and with yourself, and you will make something of her in time. She loves you dearly, though she is not at all times very considerate of you.”
Graeme was silent. What could she say after this, to prove that she could not stay, that she must go away. Where could she turn now? She rose with a sigh.
“It is growing dark. I will get a light. But, Janet, you must let me say one thing. You are not to think it is because of Fanny that I want to go away. At first, I was unhappy—I may say so, now that it is all over. It was less for myself and Rose than for Arthur. I didn’t think Fanny good enough for him. And then, everything was so different, for a while it seemed impossible for me to stay. Fanny was not so considerate as she might have been, about our old friends, and about household affairs, and about Nelly, and all that. Arthur saw nothing, and Rosie got vexed sometimes. Will preached patience to us both; you know, gentlemen cannot understand many things that may be vexatious to us; and we were very uncomfortable for a while. I don’t think Fanny was so much to blame; but her mother seemed to fancy that the new mistress of the house was not to be allowed to have her place without a struggle. Arthur saw nothing wrong. It was laughable, and irritating, too, sometimes, to see how blind he was. But it was far better he did not. I can see that now.”