I cannot remember exactly when it was that I made a discovery. Opposite to the library, of which I have already spoken, now a venerable old room, was my bed-room; and there was no other room until you had gone along a passage and crossed a hall. It was my custom to go to bed very early, and I did so here at Duncan's, long before the rest of the household. I suppose they thought I went fair off to sleep, too; for this part of the house was always deserted after I had gone into my room.
It was thus I made the discovery that every night, before retiring herself, Janet came to the library and stayed a few minutes; and I could hear her sometimes moving about books on the table.
For a considerable time I felt hopelessly puzzled. All at once it struck me—girls are the same all over the world and in all ages—that she must come there to look at the photograph of someone she cared for; to say good-night to it; perhaps to murmur a prayer over it. Girls are made so. Doubtless she would take it away with her altogether to some place more convenient for such oblations but that Duncan was much in the library, and had lynx-eyes.
I grew troubled, these nocturnal visits continuing, and wished that I could help her. I thought if I could only find out whose the photograph was, perhaps I might.
One night I could bear it no longer. I am aware that I must seem a most prying old woman; but somehow or other this library was fated to be mixed up with my life. I rose and just peeped round the library door to see what she was doing. She was standing in the clear moonlight—not, as I had expected, with an open photograph album, but holding a little miniature, taken from its place on the table. I went back to bed, my heart bounding. I knew now! I did not sleep much that night.
Perhaps I acted rashly—but I thought I should apply to Paul for help. I was sure, from various signs, that he did not hate my Janet's bairn now. I told him of these stolen visits to the library, and tried to persuade him to conceal himself and watch there—for the purpose of finding out whose the portrait was. I did not tell him, deceitful woman that I was, that I myself already knew. Old people like him and me, I said, should help the child out of her trouble. I must have startled him terribly: he grew, at first, so white. Then he looked at me long and intently; and by-and-by began to cross-examine me. We were canny Scots, both of us, and fenced.
"You say it was a photograph you saw her with?"
"I did not say I saw her."
"You have heard her open an album?"
"I have heard her move books."
I have seen the time when I could have broken a lance with the best; but I was growing old, and he finished by getting me into rather a hobble—when he abruptly left me, a great flush sweeping over his face. He came back by-and-by, and took me out into the garden. If he never had been the real old Paul before—he was so now. He cut the pansies from my best cap, and decorated Duncan's coat-of-arms—which had broken out about the walls now-a-days—with them. But he might have cut the cap in two for all I cared just then.
That night—I hoped he had not forgotten—I hoped he would come. Presently I heard a quiet step which I knew to be his. Then I sat down and listened again. Swish, swish—here she was at last. I had listened too often to the soft rustle of her trailing gown to make any mistake now. In my excitement—you see I was an old habitué at prying and peering about the library by this time—I put one eye round the door, at her very back. She had gone a few stepsinto the room—and now stood, rooted to the spot, startled. There, with his face—and all that he would have it say—fair and bright in the moonlight, stood Paul. He opened his arms.
"Janet," he said.
With a little cry, and a sob, the girl rushed into them.
I went away back to my own room. I am sure it is superfluous to explain my little plot: that it was not a photograph, but an old miniature of Paul I had seen Janet with—an old miniature which I had painted on ivory myself in the far-distant days. I am sure Paul never had a photograph taken. Of course it was because I had recognised this that I wanted Paul to wait in the library; but he was a better fencer than I, and made me admit more than I intended. I sat down now, a world of old memories whirling through my brain. I mixed this that I had just seen—with something very like it in the long, long past—with the crash of pots, and another figure that had thrown itself into Paul's arms. There was the old room:Janethad been said there, too; and the lips through which the word had trembled were the same: and the voice was the same also. Only the figure that had darted forward—was different.
I did not go to bed at all that night; but sat looking out over the quiet, moon-lit garden and over the fields beyond, where the corn-crake was calling, calling; the river slipping like a silver thread at the far-away end of them; and patter, patter out and into the back-garden at Glasgow went the little feet again; and to and fro ran the fair-haired little lassie in the dirty pink cotton, tugging me this way and that by the hand; and such a singing and swinging went on about the stairs. Oh, how I wondered whether Paul would ever tell Janet her mother's story.
I was not going placidly away norththistime, to wait to hear more about anything by-and-by. I did not leave that factory-like erection of Duncan's until I had seen them married.
Decorative
"We cannot," said the people, "stand these children,Always round us with their racketing and play;Yon Church-garden set right down among our housesIs really quite a nuisance in its way!"True, their homes are very dull, and bare, and dismal,And the narrow courts they live in dark and small,And we think they love that sparsely-planted acre—But we do not want to think of them at all!"There are surely parks enough to make a play-ground,And we might be spared these noisy little feet;But the parks, the Clergy say, are all too distant,And so they planned this garden in the street!"No doubt the seats are pleasanter than curb-stones,While the trees make quite a shelter from the sun,And the grass does nicely for the crawling babies—But somebody must think of Number One!"And the air the children get of course is purer;But then the noise they make is very great,With their laughter and their shouting to each other,And the everlasting banging of the gate!"And the wailing of the sickly, puny babiesIs enough to fret one's spirit through and through—No doubt they cry as much in those dark alleys—But then we never hear them if they do!"Half the Parish talks to us of self-denial,Of kindly duties lying at the door,And of One who says the Poor are always with us;But we can't be always thinking of the Poor!"We are older, we are richer, we are wiser;Why should we be vexed and troubled in our ease?Just because the children like the Vicar's garden,With its faded grass and smoky London trees!"Still we feel sometimes a little self-convicted,When we hear the hard-worked kindly Clergy sayThat it helps them often in their weary labours,Just to see the children happy at their play!"Yet we think they try to make the thing too solemn,When they put aside our protests with the plea:'Whatsoe'er ye did to such as these, my brethren,To the least—ye did it even unto Me.'"Thus the people murmured, but the children's AngelsSmiled rejoicing, and a richer blessing fallsOn the Church that made a shelter for the childrenUnderneath the holy shadow of her walls.
"We cannot," said the people, "stand these children,Always round us with their racketing and play;Yon Church-garden set right down among our housesIs really quite a nuisance in its way!
"True, their homes are very dull, and bare, and dismal,And the narrow courts they live in dark and small,And we think they love that sparsely-planted acre—But we do not want to think of them at all!
"There are surely parks enough to make a play-ground,And we might be spared these noisy little feet;But the parks, the Clergy say, are all too distant,And so they planned this garden in the street!
"No doubt the seats are pleasanter than curb-stones,While the trees make quite a shelter from the sun,And the grass does nicely for the crawling babies—But somebody must think of Number One!
"And the air the children get of course is purer;But then the noise they make is very great,With their laughter and their shouting to each other,And the everlasting banging of the gate!
"And the wailing of the sickly, puny babiesIs enough to fret one's spirit through and through—No doubt they cry as much in those dark alleys—But then we never hear them if they do!
"Half the Parish talks to us of self-denial,Of kindly duties lying at the door,And of One who says the Poor are always with us;But we can't be always thinking of the Poor!
"We are older, we are richer, we are wiser;Why should we be vexed and troubled in our ease?Just because the children like the Vicar's garden,With its faded grass and smoky London trees!
"Still we feel sometimes a little self-convicted,When we hear the hard-worked kindly Clergy sayThat it helps them often in their weary labours,Just to see the children happy at their play!
"Yet we think they try to make the thing too solemn,When they put aside our protests with the plea:'Whatsoe'er ye did to such as these, my brethren,To the least—ye did it even unto Me.'"
Thus the people murmured, but the children's AngelsSmiled rejoicing, and a richer blessing fallsOn the Church that made a shelter for the childrenUnderneath the holy shadow of her walls.
Christian Burke.