But before April, bad news came from Will. They heard from himself first, that he had not been sometimes as well as usual, and then a letter came from Mr Ruthven to Graeme, telling her that her brother was ill with fever, quite unable to write himself; and though he did not say in so many words, that there was danger for him, this was only too easily inferred from his manner of writing.
The next letter and the next, brought no better news. It was a time of great anxiety. To Graeme it was worst of all. As the days went on, and nothing more hopeful came from him, she blamed herself that she had not at once gone to him when the tidings of his illness first reached them.
It was terrible to think of him, dying alone so far from them all; and she said to herself "she might, at least, have been with him at the last."
He would have been at home by this time, if he had been well, and this made their grief and anxiety all the harder to bear. If she could have done anything for him, or if she could have known from day to day how it was with him, even though she could not see him, or care for him, it would not have been so dreadful Graeme thought. Her heart failed her, and though she tried to interest herself still in the preparations and arrangements that had before given her so much pleasure, it was all that she could do, to go quietly and calmly about her duties, during some of these very anxious days.
She did not know how utterly despondent she was becoming, or how greatly in danger she was of forgetting for the time the lessons of hope and trust which her experience in life had taught her, till there came from Mrs Snow one of her rare, brief letters, written by her own hand, which only times of great trial had ever called forth from her.
"My bairn," she said, "are you not among those whom nothing can harm?
_Absolutely nothing_! Whether it be life or death that is before your brother, you hae surely nothing to fear for _him_, and nothing for yourself. I think he will be spared to do God's work for a while yet.
But dear, after all that has come and gone, neither you nor I would like to take it upon ourselves to say what would be wise and kind on our Father's part; and what is wise and kind will surely come to pass."
Their suspense did not last very long after this. Mr Ruthven's weekly letters became more hopeful after the third one, and soon Will wrote himself, a few feeble, irregular lines, telling how his friend had watched over him, and cared for him like a brother, during all those weeks in his dreary, city lodging; and how, at the first possible moment, he had taken him home to his own house, where Mrs Millar, his mother, was caring for him now; and where he was slowly, but surely, coming back to life and health again. There was no hope of his being able to be home to Harry's marriage, but unless something should happen to pull him sadly back again, he hoped to see the last of Rosie Elliott, and the first of his new brother Charlie.
There were a few words meant for Graeme alone, over which she shed happy, thankful tears, and wrote them down for the reading of their old friend, "Brought face to face with death, one learns the true meaning and value of life. I am glad to come back again, for your sake Graeme, and for the sake of the work that I trust I may be permitted to do."
After this they looked forward to the wedding with lightened hearts. It was a very grand and successful affair, altogether. Amy and her bridesmaids were worthy of all the admiration which they excited, and that is saying a great deal. There were many invited guests, and somehow, it had got about that this was to be a more than usually pretty wedding, and Saint Andrew's was crowded with lookers-on, who had only the right of kind and admiring sympathy to plead for being there. The breakfast was all that it ought to be, of course, and the bride's travelling-dress was pronounced by all to be as great a marvel of taste and skill, as the bridal robe itself.
Harry behaved very well through it all, as Arthur amused them not a little by gravely asserting. But Harry was, as an object of interest, a very secondary person on the occasion, as it is the usual fate of bridegrooms to be. As for the bride, she was as sweet and gentle, and unaffected, amid the guests, and grandeur, and glittering wedding gifts, as she had always been in the eyes of her new sisters, and when Graeme kissed her for good bye, she said to herself, that this dear little sister had come to them without a single drawback, and she thanked God in her heart, for the happiness of her brother Harry. Yes, and for the happiness of her brother Arthur, too, she added in her heart, and she greatly surprised Fanny by putting her arms round her and kissing her softly many times. They were in one of the bay windows of the great drawing-room, a little withdrawn from the company generally, so that they were unobserved by all but Arthur.
"Graeme's heart is overflowing with peace and good will to all on this auspicious occasion," said he, laughing, but he was greatly pleased.
After this they had a few happy weeks. Rosie's preparations were by this time, too far advanced to give any cause for anxiety or care, and they all enjoyed the quiet. Letters came weekly from Will, or his friend, sometimes from both, which set them quite at rest about the invalid. They were no longer mere reports of his health, but long, merry, rambling letters, filled with accounts of their daily life, bits of gossip, conversation, even jokes at one another's expense, generally given by Will, but sometimes, also, by the grave and dignified Mr Ruthven, whom, till lately, all but Charlie had come to consider almost a stranger. Still the end of May was come, and nothing was said as to the day when they expected to set sail. But before that time, great news had come from another quarter. Norman and his family were coming East. A succession of childish illnesses had visited his little ones, and had left both mother and children in need of more bracing air than their home could boast of in the summer-time, and they were all coming to take up their abode for a month or two, on the Gulf, up which health-bearing breezes from the ocean never cease to blow. Graeme was to go with them. As many more as could be persuaded were to go, too, but Graeme certainly; and then she was to go home with them, to the West, when their summer holiday should be over.
This was Norman's view of the matter. Graeme's plans were not sufficiently arranged as yet for her to say either yes or no, with regard to it. In the meantime, there were many preparations to be made for their coming, and Graeme wrote to hasten these arrangements, so that they might be in time for the wedding.
"And if only Will comes, we shall all be together again once more," said she, with a long breath.
"To say nothing of Norman's boys, and his wonderful daughter, and Fanny's young gentleman, who will compare with any of them now, I think," said Rose.
"We will have a house full and a merry wedding," said Arthur. "Though it won't be as grand as the other one, Rosie, I'm afraid. If we only could have Mrs Snow here, Graeme?"
Graeme shook her head.
"I am afraid that can hardly be in the present state of her health. Not that she is ill, but Mr Snow thinks the journey would be too much for her. I am afraid it is not to be thought of?"
"Never mind--Charlie and Rosie can go round that way and get her blessing. That will be the next best thing to having her here. And by the time you are ready for the altar, Graeme, Janet will come, you may be sure of that."
June had come, warm and beautiful. Harry and his bride had returned, and the important but exhausting ceremony of receiving bridal visits was nearly over. Graeme, at least, had found them rather exhausting, when she had taken her turn of sitting with the bride; and so, on one occasion, leaving Rose and some other gay young people to pass the evening at Harry's house, she set out on her way home, with the feeling of relief that all was over in which she was expected to assist, uppermost in her mind. It would all have to be gone over again in Rosie's case, she knew, but she put that out of her mind for the present, and turned her thoughts to the pleasant things that were sure to happen before that time--Norman's coming, and Will's. They might come any day now. She had indulged in a little impatient murmuring that Will's last letter had not named the day and the steamer by which he was to sail, but it could not be long now at the longest, and her heart gave a sudden throb as she thought that possibly he might not write as to the day, but might mean to take them by surprise. She quickened her footsteps unconsciously as the thought came into her mind; he might have arrived already. But in a minute she laughed at her foolishness and impatience, and then she sighed.
"There will be no more letters after Will comes home, at least there will be none for me," she said to herself, but added, impatiently, "What would I have? Surely that will be a small matter when I have him safe and well at home again."
But she was a little startled at the pain which the thought had given her; and then she denied to herself that the pain had been there. She laughed at the idea, and was a little scornful over it, and then she took herself to task for the scorn, as she had done for the pain. And then, frightened at herself and her discomfort; she turned her thoughts, with an efforts to a pleasanter theme--the coming of Norman and Hilda and their boys.
"I hope they will be in time. It would be quite too bad if they were to lose the wedding by only a day or two. And yet we could hardly blame Charlie were he to refuse to wait after Will comes. Oh, if he were only safe here! I should like a few quiet days with Will before the house is full. My boy!--who is really more mine than any of the others--all that I have, for my very own, now that Rosie is going from me. How happy we shall be when all the bustle and confusion are over! And as to my going home with Norman and Hilda--that must be decided later, as Will shall make his plans. My boy!--how can I ever wait for his coming?"
It was growing dark as she drew near the house. Although the lights were not yet in the drawing-room, she knew by the sound of voices coming through the open window that Arthur and Fanny were not alone.
"I hope I am not cross to-night, but I really don't feel as though I could make myself agreeable to visitors for another hour or two. I wish Sarah may let me quietly in; and I will go up-stairs at once. I wonder who they are!"
Sarah's face was illuminated.
"You have come at last, Miss Elliott," said she.
"Yes; was I expected sooner? Who is here? Is it you, Charlie? _You_ are expected elsewhere."
It was not Charlie, however. A voice not unlike his spoke in answer, and said,--
"Graeme, I have brought your brother home to you;" and her hand was clasped in that of Allan Ruthven.
CHAPTER FORTY FOUR.
The pleasant autumn days had come round again, and Mr and Mrs Snow were sitting, as they often sat now, alone in the south room together.
Mr Snow was hale and strong still, but he was growing old, and needed to rest, and partly because the affairs of the farm were safe in the hands of his "son," as he never failed to designate Sandy, and partly because those affairs were less to him than they used to be, he was able to enjoy the rest he took.
For that was happening to him which does not always happen, even to good people, as they grow old; his hold was loosening from the things which for more than half a lifetime he had sought so eagerly and held so firmly. With his eyes fixed on "the things which are before," other things were falling behind and out of sight, and from the leisure thus falling to him in these days, came the quiet hours in the south room so pleasant to them both.
But the deacon's face did not wear its usual placid look on this particular morning; and the doubt and anxiety showed all the more plainly, contrasting as they did with the brightness on the face of his wife. She was moved, too, but with no painful feeling, her husband could see, as he watched her, though there were tears in the eyes that rested on the scene without. But she was seeing other things, he knew, and not sorrowful things either, he said to himself, with a little surprise, as he fingered uneasily an open letter that lay on the table beside him.
"It ain't hard to see how all _that_ will end," said he, in a little.
"But," said his wife, turning toward him with a smile, "you say it as if it were an ending not to be desired."
"Ah, well!--in a general way, I suppose it _is_, or most folks, would say so. What do you think?"
"If _they_ are pleased, we needna be otherwise."
"Well!--no--but ain't it a little sudden? It don't seem but the other day since Mr Ruthven crossed the ocean."
"But that wasna the first time he crossed the ocean. The first time they crossed it together. Allan Ruthven is an old friend, and Miss Graeme is no' the one to give her faith lightly to any man."
"Well! no, she ain't. But, somehow, I had come to think that she never would change her state; and--"
"It's no' very long, then," said his wife, laughing. "You'll mind that it's no' long since you thought the minister likely to persuade her to it."
"And does it please you that Mr Ruthven has had better luck?"
"The minister never could have persuaded her. He never tried very much, I think. And if Allan Ruthven has persuaded her, it is because she cares for him as she never cared for any other man. And from all that Will says, we may believe that he is a good man, and true, and I am glad for her sake, glad and thankful. God bless her."
"Why, yes, if she must marry," said Mr Snow, discontentedly; "but somehow it don't seem as though she could fit in anywhere better than just the spot she is in now. I know it don't sound well to talk about old maids, because of the foolish notions folks have got to have; but Graeme did seem one that would 'adorn the doctrine' as an old maid, and redeem the name."
"That has been done by many a one already, in your sight and mine; and Miss Graeme will 'adorn the doctrine' anywhere. She has ay had a useful life, and this while she has had a happy one. But oh, man!" added Mrs Snow, growing earnest and Scotch, as old memories came over her with a sudden rush, "when I mind the life her father and her mother lived together--a life of very nearly perfect blessedness--I canna but be glad that Miss Graeme is to have a chance of the higher happiness that comes with a home of one's own, where true love bides and rules. I ay mind her father and her mother. They had their troubles. They were whiles poor enough, and whiles had thraward folk to deal with; but trouble never seemed to trouble them when they bore it together. And God's blessing was upon them through all. But I have told you all this many a time before, only it seems to come fresh and new to me to-day, thinking, as I am, of Miss Graeme."
Yes, Mr Snow had heard it all many a time, and doubtless would hear it many a time again, but he only smiled, and said,--
"And Graeme is like her mother?"