“Janet, I did consider. I considered so long that I came very near doing a wrong thing. Because he was Arthur’s friend, and because it seems to be woman’s lot, and in the common course of things, and because I was restless and discontented, and not at peace with myself, and nothing seemed to matter to me, I was very near saying ‘Yes,’ and going with him, though I cared no more for him than for half a dozen others whom you have seen here. What do you think of that for consideration?”
“That would have been a great wrong both to him and to yourself. I canna think you would ever be so sinful as to give the hand where the heart is withheld. But, my dear, you might mistake. There are more kinds of love than one; at least there are many manifestations of true love; and, at your age, you are no’ to expect to have your heart and fancy taken utterly captive by any man. You have too much sense for the like of that.”
“Have I?” said Graeme. “I ought to have at my age.”
It was growing quite dark—too dark for Mrs Snow to see Graeme’s troubled face; but she knew that it was troubled by the sound of her voice, by the weary posture into which she drooped, and by many another token.
“My dear,” said her friend, earnestly, “the wild carrying away of the fancy, that it is growing the fashion to call love, is not to be desired at any age. I am not denying that it comes in youth with great power and sweetness, as it came to your father and mother, as I mind well, and as you have heard yourself. But it doesna always bring happiness. The Lord is kind, and cares for those who rush blindly to their fate; but to many a one such wild captivity of heart is but the forerunner of bitter pain, for which there is no help but just to ‘thole it,’ as they say.”
She paused a moment, but Graeme did not, by the movement of a finger, indicate that she had anything to say in reply.
“Mutual respect, and the quiet esteem that one friend gives to another who is worthy, is a far surer foundation for a lifetime of happiness to those who have the fear of God before their eyes, and it is just possible, my dear, that you may have been mistaken.”
“It is just possible, and it is too late now, you see, Janet. But I’ll keep all you have been saying in mind, and it may stand me in stead for another time, you ken.”
She spoke lightly, but there was in her voice an echo of bitterness and pain that her friend could not bear to hear; and when she raised herself up to go away, as though there were nothing more to be said, Janet laid her hand lightly but firmly on her shoulder, and said,—
“My dear, you are not to be vexed with what I have said. Do you think I can have any wish but to see you useful and happy? You surely dinna doubt me, dear?”