JANET BALFOUR had got the dishes washed
and the kitchen tidied up after tea;
her mother
was away to the Big House with the sewing they
had just
finished that afternoon, and would not
be back till late; and now the
evening was her
own for reading and knitting. After a long day's
sewing, knitting was a relief, if not something of a pastime, for
one
could read and knit at the same time. Leaving the door
ajar she made her
way down to the foot of the garden, where
there was a seat fashioned from
the root of a plane-tree.
Looking at her as she walked, one would have
noticed first
the sheen of her ruddy brown hair, and the sweet serenity of
expression that gave character, if not even beauty, to a homely
face. Perhaps it was this light of peaceful happiness that
made her look
older than her years, for it seemed to speak of
the sweetness that comes
through suffering, of joyousness that
had been tempered in patience and
pain. And this suggestion
a second look would certainly have confirmed.
There were
lines about the mouth and under the eyes, come before their
time, and in her walk, the slightest suspicion of a limp. 'A
bit
dink,' the neighbours called it, 'that ye'd hardly see onless
ye were
telled about it'
Sitting down, she unfolded her knitting across her knee, but
appeared to be in no hurry to begin. The book lay unopened
on
the eis-wool shawl, and her fingers merely trifled with the
needle and a
ball of wool.
It was an evening in June, and the slumbrous air was heavy
with the scent of roses and honeysuckle mingling with the smell
of
new-mown hay drying in the field beyond the garden. From
the beeches
rising high above the thatch-roofed cottage, and
almost hiding the hill
behind them, dame now and again the
flute-like notes of the mavis, while
birds hopped about the
berry bushes around her and twittered, talking to
one another
in whispers. On the village green girls were playing at
seemed but
to add to the restfulness of the evening.
It was a time when one would sit with hands folded and gaze
with wide-open
eyes seeing nothing. And so sat Janet. The
lazy smoke curled from the
ridge of thatch roofs where the
village straggled along the highway;
beyond, fields stretched
to the sleepy loch nestling to the side of the
distant hills. But
she felt rather than saw the beauty of all. What she
was
seeing was the summers and winters of her own life from that
day
twenty years ago when she had fallen over a fence and
hurt her spine. She
was only four years old then, but she
remembered it as it had been
yesterday. There indeed was
the selfsame fence, not the formidable fence
it once was, but
bowed and brought low with age and infirmity. Strange
that
a fall from such an insignificant height should have kept her
an invalid so long. Yet now she was thinking not of the many
years of
suffering that she had known, but of the love and
happiness that had been
hers all through.
She thought of James Bruce, good, kind man, who had come
to see her then, and had been a friend ever since. And James
Bruce
was the village grocer and draper, a well-to-do man, not
poor as her
mother was. He had brought her grapes and
oranges and nice things which
her mother could never have
provided ; and, better than all, he had
brought her books,
picture-books and story-books, from which she had
slowly, she
hardly knew how, taught herself to read and write. That was
all the schooling Janet had ever had, yet the book now lying
much of the kind-hearted old grocer, she thought much more
of his son. She opened the book and read her name on the
fly-leaf, 'Jan from Alex.' He always called
her 'Jan,' as he
had done that first day he came with his father to see
her,
bringing a great bag of sweeties and figs. He was only six
years old then, and how often he had come to see her since !
How he had
helped her with the difficult words in her books
till they had been able
to read together ! Then when at length
she had been allowed to get out it
was he who wheeled her to
the fields in the little carriage his father had
given her on her
twelfth birthday, and there sat reading to her, or
learning his
own lessons. Later still it was he who had taught her to walk
again, leading her, helping her over difficult places, laughing
at
her sometimes till she cried, and then carrying her home
and talking
nonsense till she laughed with him.
She laid aside the book and the
knitting, and began walking
up and down the garden path just for the
pleasure of walking
and assuring herself that she hardly limped at all
now. It was
all for his sake that she had taken such pains to walk without
limping, and how delighted he would be when no one could
speak of
her lameness.
When she sat down again she folded up her knitting. 'It's
ower warm for a shawl,' she explained to herself, 'an' ower
bonny
for readin'.' And she began dreaming again.
How happy those days had been
for both! She saw again the
old village wives nodding to them and smiling
when Alex
helped her out to the fields. 'It 's braw to hae a big brother,
Jenny,' they used to say.' 'Deed it 's no mony brothers would
be so
kind.' And she liked to hear them praise Alex; he had
always blushed when
they commended 'his thochtfu'ness.'
'She taks the place o' the little ane
he canna mind o',' she had
heard them moralise often enough. 'Nature has a
way o' her
ain for fillin' a' gaps.'
But the days of their childhood passed, and the time came
missed him
sorely. But he had never forgotten her. Letters
came regularly—
long, interesting letters— telling of town life she
did not know,
of his work, of the classes he attended, and of
a thousand and one things
she had only read of in books. In
her answers she told of all that was
doing in the village ; of the
church choir, of the sewing she did for the
Big House, of her
garden, of the fields, and in her last, with tears, of
the death of
the green linty he had given her in a cage. And better than
letters were the days looked forward to month by month when
he came
home and stayed from Saturday to Monday. But best
of all was the summer
holiday. That was the fortnight of the
year to Janet. Then the happy days
of childhood were renewed.
They walked, and talked, and read together just
as they had
done when they were boy and girl. Now he was coming home
again, and this time it was to be better than ever. She took
from her
pocket the letter she had got that very morning and
read it again.
'"My dear Jan."' She said the words over to herself, em-
phasising the
first, and blushing to hear them from her own
lips.'" I have been promoted
to be cashier now. Isn't that
good news? But better news still! My
holidays begin on
Wednesday, and I shall be home again on Thursday."
'To-morrow,' she whispered,' to-morrow.'
'"And now, Jan, I have a great
secret to tell you. I might
have told you by letter, but I should much
rather tell you when
I see you in the dear old garden with only the roses
to hear,
and the birds singing because they are happy with the happiness
that is mine."
'The mavises are singing now,' she said, 'and their
happiness
is the happiness of love.'
She folded the letter and hid
it in the bosom of her dress.' A
secret to tell me?' She laughed; a little
sob of laughter it
seemed.' And I have a secret to tell Alex.'
Picking up the book she turned the pages, rustling them from
full of
reverie. 'To-morrow,' she repeated, 'to-morrow.'
'To-night,' said a voice
almost at her ear, while a pair of hands
were placed over her eyes.
'Alex!' she cried. 'I know it— I know it.'
He came round and laid
himself down on the grass at her feet.
'I thought I 'd give you a
surprise, Jan ; so I climbed over the
dyke as quiet as pussy and caught
you. I got away a day
earlier than I expected. . . . Reading as usual, I
see. Am
wha's the favourite now?' he asked, dropping into his boyhood
Scots. 'Emerson nae less!'
She reached and took the book out of his
hand. 'Dinna begin
wi' books the nicht, Alex,' she said playfully. 'I
havena read a
word o't: I 'd better readin' than Emerson.'
'No, Jan;
I didna come to speak about books.' He leaned
back on his elbow and looked
up in her face. ' An' what better
had ye than Emerson, Jan ? '
'Only a letter, Alex.'
They sat quiet for a time. A lark rose from the hayfield
and
they watched it, listening till it ended its song slanting down
again to the earth.
'Sit down on the grass, Jan.' He spoke somewhat
nervously,
and was back again into English. 'It's perfectly dry and —
I 've something to tell you, you know.'
She came and sat down near
him, yet turning her head aside
that he should not see her listening eyes.
'Can you guess what I'm going to speak about, Jan?' he
asked ; and
then again, ' Can you not guess?'
Her hand played nervously with the long
silver grasses, and
without turning she answered in a whisper, 'Yes, Alex
; I think
I know.'
'I thought you would,' he hurried on ; 'and I
have been looking
forward to telling you. . . . O Jan, I can't tell you
how happy
I am! Look,' he said, reaching to place a photograph in her
lap.' Isn't she beautiful ? You must tell me what you think
know I never
had a sister but you. We have been like brother
and sister always, and so
— O Jan, tell me what you think of
her.'
'It is a sweet andpretty face, Alex.'
What a change was in the voice all at once ! But Alex was too
full of his own affairs to notice.
'I'm so glad you like her. She is—— But I can't tell you what
she is. I 'm sure you will like her.
I 've told her all about my
sister, and she is very eager to meet you. And
do you know
what she asked me, Jan ? How I had never fallen in love with
you ! How simple she is !' He smiled happily at the notion.
'As if
a brother and sister should fall in love! We only
got engaged a month
ago,' he rattled on; 'and now that I
have a good income, I think we should
get married as soon as
possible.'
There was silence for a time. Alex
had run himself out, and
Janet sat apparently studying the face of the
photograph in her
lap. Gloaming was stealing over them, and a soft wind
was
stealing across the fields and rustling the leaves of the berry
bushes. From the green came the girls' voices in their last
ring before
bedtime.
'You 're very quiet, Jan,' he began again.' And do you know
you have not congratulated me yet ? Come now, do wish me
happiness.'
She handed him the photograph, turning and smiling wistfully
in his face.
' Am I quiet, Alex ? I didn't know. But you do
know I wish you all
happiness.'
'How formal that is, Janet, and—— What's wrong, Jan?
You're as pale as death. Are you ill? What a fool I am, to be
sure
— here 's this grass thick with dew!'
He sprang to his feet and
lifted her up. 'Your hands are like
ice.'
'Yes,' she said with a shiver. 'It 's a little chilly, isn't it?'
'Take my arm,' he told her as
they walked away; 'I see you're
I 'm
certain. But we'll put all that right this fortnight. Eh ? '
At the gate
he bent to kiss her cheek in his old brotherly way,
but she gave him her
lips and kissed him instead. 'That's my
congratulation, Alex,' she said,
with a strange short laugh.
' Listen, listen ! Do you remember when you
used to wheel me
to hear the girls singing that? —