Janet's Love and Service

by Margaret M. Robertson

Instead of answering her directly, Graeme said, after a little while,—

“Did I ever tell you Rose, dear, about that night, and all that Janet said to me? I told her how I wished to get out of my useless, unsatisfactory life, just as you have been telling me. Did I ever tell you all she said to me? I don’t think I ever did. I felt then, just as you do now. I think I can understand your feeling, better than you suppose; and I opened my heart to Janet—I mean, I told her how sick I was of it all, and how good-for-nothing I felt myself to be, and how it all might be changed, if only I could find real work to do—”

And Graeme went on to tell much that had been said between them that night, about woman’s work, and about old maids, and a little about the propriety of not setting one’s face against the manifest lot of woman; and when she came to this part of it, she spoke with an attempt at playfulness, meant to cover, a little, the earnestness of all that went before. But neither in this nor in the rest, did she speak as though she meant Rose to take the lesson to herself, or as though it meant very much to either of them now; but rather implied by her words and manner, and by many a pathetic touch here and there, that she was dwelling on it as a pleasant reminiscence of the dear old friend, whose quaint sayings were household words among them, because of their wisdom, and because of the honour and the love they gave her. Her earnestness increased, as, by and by, she saw the impatience pass out of her sister’s face and manner; and it never came into her mind that she was turning back a page in her own experience, over which Rose had long ago pondered with wonder and sadness.

“I could not make Janet see the necessity that seemed so clear to me,” she went on. “I could not make her understand, or, at least, I thought she could not understand, for she spoke as though she thought that Fanny’s coming, and those old vexations, made me wish to get away, and it was not easy to answer her when she said that my impatience and restlessness would all pass away, and that I must fulfil papa’s last wish, and stay with the rest. I thought the time had come when the necessity for that was over, and that another way would be better for me, certainly; and I thought for Arthur and Fanny, too, and for you, Rosie. But, Oh! how much wiser Janet was than I, that night. But I did not think so at the time. I was wild to be set free from the present, and to have my own will and go away. It was well that circumstances were too strong for me. It has come true, as Janet said. I think it is better for us all that I have been at home all those years. Fanny and I have done each other good. It has been better for us all.”

She paused a moment, and then added,—

“Of course, if it had been necessary that I should go out into the world, and make my own way, I might have done as others have done, and won, at least, a measure of success. And so we might still, you and I together, Rose, if it were necessary, but that makes all the difference. There is no question of necessity for us, dear, at present, and as for God’s work, and work for our fellow creatures, we can find that at home. Without separating from the others, I mean.”

But Rose’s face clouded again.

“There need be no question of separating from the others, Graeme. Norman is out there, and there are hundreds of women who have their own place and work in the world, who have not been driven by necessity to look for them—the necessity of making a living, I mean. There are other necessities that a woman must feel—some more than others, I suppose. It is an idle, foolish, vain life that I am living. I know that I have not enough to fill my life, Graeme. I know it, though I don’t suppose I can make you understand it. I am past the age now to care for being petted, and amused, and made much of by the rest of you. I mean, I am too old now to feel that enough for my satisfaction. It is different with you, who really are good for something, and who have done so much, for Arthur and Fanny, and us all. And, besides, as you say, you are content; but as for me—oh! I know there is no use talking. I could never make you understand— There, I don’t want to be naughty, and vex you— and we will say no more to-night. Shall I get a light?”

She stooped over her sister, and kissed her, and Graeme, putting her arms round her, said softly,—

“Only one word more, Rosie. I think I can understand you better than you believe, as Janet understood me that night, though I did not see it then, and you must just let me say one thing. My darling, I believe all that is troubling you, now, will pass away; but, if I am wrong, and if it be best that you have your own way about this work of yours—I mean, if it is right—circumstances will arrange themselves to that end, and it will all come easy for you, and me, too. We shall keep together, at any rate, and I am not afraid. And, love, a year or two does make a difference in people’s feelings about things, though there is no good in my saying it to you, now, I know. But we will wait till Will comes home. We must be here to welcome him, even if his coming should be delayed longer than we hope now. I don’t like to think of any plan for you and me, out of which Will must be left. And so many things may happen before a year is over. I remember how restless and troubled I was at that time. I don’t like to think of it even now—and it is all past—quite past. And we will stay together, whatever happens, if we can, and, darling, you must have patience.”