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"A whispering throb did
witness bear
Of kindred sweet,
When, with an elder sister's air,
She did me greet."
—Burns.
DR. POWELL, had spoken to a
house agent about quarters for Jamie and family. On making inquiry the
agent learned that Lieut. Mel-drum, formerly of the Canadian Fencibles,
who had been at Perth a year or two in its early days, had recently been
ordered to Halifax, and would be very glad to lease his house, furnished,
to Mr. McAlpin. Therefore, the second day of their arrival found them
settled in the house that was to be their home for many months.
Margaret had borne the
journey as well as could be expected of an invalid; still, the changing
about and the novelty of the surroundings in the place she was to call
home, was all conducive to feverish-ness. Dr. Powell came to see her, the
morning after her arrival, and prescribed with a view to relieving this,
and also gave her a mild tonic; then left her to rest and get accustomed
to her surroundings before making an examination.
When he did make an
examination, he found, as Dr. Weekes in Perth had feared, that a tumorous
growth had begun. This he gave a Latin name of several syllables, which we
do not remember, so, if we thought it necessary—which we do not—to tell
our readers, we could not do so. This, however, has not slipped our mind.
When the proper time came it would be removed by an operation. With all
conditions just right, this could be successfully done. Should
complications set in—as might happen—the result would be serious; he would
carefully watch every phase and variation of the case himself, and what
medical skill could do should be done.
Then began for Jean duties
and responsibilities that would have told severely on a less buoyant
nature, and a less determined nature. The doctor had said it was possible,
unless certain unfavorable conditions arose, to save her mother; it was
his business and her business to see that these conditions did not arise:
it was, to use her own words, "something one could work for." Thus,
between watching her mother, as a cat would a mouse, lest the drooping of
an eyelid should escape her ; minding the house, and fixing up Scotch
dainties to tempt her father's appetite that his strength might not fail,
there was no fear of the days dragging.
In a few weeks Margaret was
able to sit in an * invalid's chair nearly all day, but there was nothing
she could do to amuse herself, and the extra burden' of finding
entertainment fell on Jean. The chair could be moved to a front window,
and, until her eyes tired, the passers-by afforded some occupation for the
mind. Jean brought books of plates and engravings from the library—to
which Dr. Powell had secured admission for her—and Jamie patiently turned
these over for her by the hour, and read to her until she would fall
asleep.
But the change from an
active to a sedentary life was telling on him, and soon Jean had to
manufacture all sorts of errands to get him out of doors. Then she must
write long weekly letters to Douglas; these were in great part written by
Margaret's chair, that she might dictate, and these one-sided chats with
Douglas were a great pleasure to Margaret. She gave minute descriptions of
the quaint panorama that moved steadily past her window: of the officers,
in their gay uniforms; the habitants, in blue or red tuques, sashed
jerkins, short culottes, parti-colored long hose, and moccasins; and of
monks and nuns, in the different habits of their orders. Each day she
watched diligently for something new to tell "the lad."
At home, Douglas was
pleased with these descriptions, because it pleased "mither" to give them.
He was best pleased, though, with the encouraging postscript which Jean
always added. He wanted his mother to get well again; although she had
never hinted it by word, he someway knew she was sorry for the irrevocable
past. He thought she must have spent some very sad months; he would like
to have all those months forgotten, and everything return to the status of
the old happy days, as might be—all but his past, and that did not matter.
When the boats started,
they had many familiar callers; merchants then went to Montreal for goods,
spring and fall, and it was quite usual for their wives to accompany them.
Jean was pleasantly surprised many times that spring, on opening the door,
to find a familiar face. Mr. and Mrs. Mei-ghen and Mr. and Mrs. Clark
called, Mr. Romaines and Mr. Milburn. They each knew of the cessation of
friendly relations between the McAlpin and McGregor families, and
thoughtfully avoided any mention of Phemie's journey. Douglas had, on a
private sheet, written Jean of this as soon as it had been announced, and
she was in dread lest her mother should someway learn of it, knowing it
would have a disturbing effect. But the callers were all discreet, and
nothing but good came of their visits. Mr. Milburn took Jamie on a long
jaunt up the mountain, which—tramp and visit together—livened him up
wonderfully.
Then the summer had set in,
and Margaret had begun to suffer a great deal of pain from the growing
tumor. She longed for her fields and woods, and wimplin' burn; she
struggled hard against irritability of temper, but stretched on a bed of
pain, with the thermometer at ninety, the most amiable disposition will
turn. The all-compelling disposition, which Margaret had made such bad use
of, stood Jean in good stead. She meant to take her mother back to Perth,
if not restored to perfect health, at least so far recovered that she
might hope for many years of useful life. Nothing discouraged her, nothing
caused her to abate for one half hour the close, careful, intelligent
watching of the case. They had changed places, Jean was the mother now and
Margaret the child, and no parent was ever looked up to with greater
reverence than both Jamie and Margaret had for Jean.
When September's mellow,
golden days came, —fulfilling the promise of the blossoming time,— Dr.
Powell told Jean that, so far, all was well, and they would begin now to
prepare themselves and patient for the ordeal.
Margaret took the
announcement quietly, in fact expressed her satisfaction that the long
anxious time was drawing near a close. When the doctor had gone she said
to Jean:
"Jean, lassie, whiles I'm
thinkin' o' Douglas 'n th' lass Phemie. I was ower quick tae speak till th'
bit lassie. I'll no kenned till he cam' frae Taranta, sic a quiet like
auld mon, 'at laddies 'll no' aye be bairns; tae hae the wee, sonsie weans
grow oop and gang awa' frae them 'll aye tear a mither's hairt; but I'll
hae learnt syne th' doonfa' I'll got that oor hairts 'r mad' t' be rended,
an' gin we juist tak' 't as the Laird's wull, an' no' fash oorsel's wi'
't, 't 'ill a' be richt. Gin I leeve, I'll tell this tae Douglas 'n th'
lass mysel'; gin it's th' Laird's wull that I dee, when they pit me tae
sleep ye maun tell them for me, tell them I'll no' hae kenned it a' till
I'm lyin' here awa' frae hame, and I'll thocht hoo lang my puir laddie was
awa', wi' no' ain o' kin to say aught to 'm, an' th' bonnie lassie whilk
was ae sae kind------"
"Hush, hush, mither, ye're
talking ower much; ye'll can tell them a' you like yoursel' when you'll
gang back tae Perth: ony this I'll ask, do you want a' th' auld times
back?"
"Ay, lassie, gin Elspeth
Douglas an' th' lassie 'll forgie me a', Douglas an' th' lass may hae th'
hoose 'n gear, an' I'll sit by th' fire an' knit for th' bairns."
"That's richt, mither,"
said Jean, stooping and kissing her; "keep oop a gude hairt; ye'll win
through, an' a' will be happy yet."
Now was no time to tell her
that her happy dreams of complete restoration could never be fulfilled,
and, as Elspeth said, she (Margaret) would be the keenest sufferer, in and
through just the sentiments which had caused so many months of sorrow to
them all, her mother love and her mother pride.
The dread day came and
passed and Margaret still lived. To Dr. Powell's manifest delight the
operation was successful; a week after, he told her " unless she fell in
the river and got drowned—in which case he could do nothing for her—she
would outlive many a younger woman, but she would have to remain very
quiet and under his charge for some months yet, that he might guard
against a recurrence of the growth."
Jean, relieved of anxiety,
was beginning to feel the physical strain, and the doctor insisted on her
ing for short walks. Margaret would sleep more, now the trouble was
removed, and might be safely left more to herself; and, fearful of being
laid up before she completed her work, Jean began short rambles round the
quaint old streets, enjoying it all, but feeling lost among so many
strange faces; sometimes she forgot her surroundings entirely, her "hairt
was in the Hielans." She smiled to herself when, in such a reverie one
day, she heard her name spoken. She was sauntering along, wholly absorbed
in her dreams of the past, and thought the voice part of the dream at
first; at a repetition she said to herself: "I'll no' be th' ony Jean in
Montreal, th'll be ither Scotch lassies here." At the third call she
looked around and found herself looking into Rob McGregor's eyes.
"Jean," he said again, "did
I frighten ye, lassie?"
"Rob," said Jean, holding
out her hand with her old saucy manner, "I'se be fine an' glad tae be
frichted thae fashion a dizen times a day," but the next minute there were
tears in her eyes, reaction had set in. All those long, weary months she
had been bearing others woes, there had been no one to whom she dare
breathe her own sorrows and fears.
Rob looked at her
compassionately; her face was thin, the color had left her cheeks, and her
eyes were big and hollow.
"Puir lassie, ye'll hae had
your ain times; coom awa' till thae bit pairk an' tell me a' aboot 't an'
hoo ye're mither is th' noo. I'll no hae had a letter frae hame these many
weeks, an' ken nae-thing aboot aebody."
Rob led her to a nice shady
seat, thinking all the time what a poor, pitiful chap Maxwell was to leave
the lassie he loved to bear all this trouble alone, but he finally said to
himself sternly that was not his business; Jean had shown by her eyes and
in her voice that she was glad to see him (Rob), as glad as Phemie would
have been; if in any way he could help her now he was going to do it. Who
had a better right, " weren't they bairns the-gither?"
"Noo, Jean, what'll be
th'maitter?" Rob asked, when he had seated himself beside her; "'ll yer
mither be waur?"
"Na, Rob, it's no' that, th'
doctor says she'll get weel, aiblins I'll hae feart sae lang I'll greet
noo for joy."
"Juist greet then, Jeanie,
happen it 'll dae ye gude."
With the contrariness of
her sex, Jean wouldn't cry when told to, but looked up at him archly and
moved to the other side of the seat.
"I'm no' sure that it's
you," she said; "still, ye look as ye micht be soom relation." She looked
at him intently, and Rob said nothing.
"Can ye tell me hoo far
doon th' burn is th' wee folk's aik? " she asked, her eyes twinkling.
"Ay," Rob said, as though
repeating a "task " in geography to the schoolmaster, "ye'll pass ane
beech-tree, twal' maples, a muckle stane wi' a loof on't, twa basswoods,
four-and-twenty muckle cedars, 'n ye'll see 't staunnin' alane."
Jean laughed merrily, "It 'll
be Rob, sure eneuch!" For a moment, in the joy and the suddenness of the
chance meeting, she had forgotten the miserable two years last
past—forgotten even that she had said to Philip Maxwell, " she had no
hairt to gie"—forgotten everything except here was the Rob McGregor of her
childhood, changed in looks, but still Rob. It was with the camaradarie of
old days that she had met him. This was piling the earth on his buried
hopes ; yet there was a crumb of comfort in being thus assured that she
had all the old sisterly feeling for him. He sat watching her until she
spoke again, fearful of the announcement he might have to listen to.
"Rob, I'll maist wunner 'at
you'll speak till me," she said, at last, "aifter a' that's gane."
"For why suld I nae speak
t' you, Jean? " Rob asked.
"Hae they at hame ne'er
tauld ye 'at mither flouted Phemie acause Douglas asked 'r? " said Jean,
in her direct way.
"They'll said summat aboot
't, aiblins I'll no' thocht 'twas aething t' pit you an' me frae speakin'
till ither," answered Rob.
"Mither 's sorra noo, an'
bid me tell yer mither 'n Phemie, gin she'll no get better, 'at she'll be
wullin' an' glad tae hae Phemie mairry Douglas 'n hae a' she'll laid by ;
but that canna be: Phemie 'll ne'er wanted Douglas, 'an noo Douglas is—oh!
Rob, you suld see 'm!—Douglas is an auld mon; his mind's no' gane, but
ye'd think he's aulder 'n faither!" now, without restraint, the tears did
flow.
Rob's own sorrow, just
then, was like a dagger piercing his heart. Many times, in her childhood
griefs, had he wiped Jean's tears away; now, to comfort her was the
province of another. There was little he could do, but this little he
offered, putting away his own sorrow.
"Jeanie, ye'll hae had
muckle sorra in th' years whilk I'll thocht brocht ye ony gladness, an' it
seems like ye'll had tae thole it alane. Gin mither 'd coom doon tae see
yer mither, wad it help ye? "
"Oh, Rob! wad she?" cried
Jean, "I'll thocht on 't, an' thocht on 't, an' I 'm wearyin' tae see 'r
mysel'."
"Ay she'll coom, Jeanie,
gin 'twill dae ye gude till hae 'r," Rob said. "Th'll be a boat gangin'
oop in an hooer: wull I tak 't and gae hame, 'n send mither richt awa,' 'r
wull I'll gang oop wi' ye tae see Jamie?"
"Gang awa oop 'n send yer
mither doon: tae see 'r agen would be maist like a taste o' Heeven," said
Jean, eagerly.
In spite of his better
judgment, Rob wanted an excuse to stay longer ('twas the old story of the
moth and the candle); but in Jean's sorrow he knew no law but Jean's
wishes; therefore, swallowing his disappointment and chagrin at having
everyone preferred before him, he quietly said:
"I'll leave ye hame first—th'll
be time."
By the time they reached
the door, Jean began to remember herself and what she had said to Philip
Maxwell. When Rob shook hands good-bye, if there had been leads attached
to her eyelids they wouldn't more persistently have remained down. And
foolish Rob augured ill from this, and went away very sorrowful. |
