Rose Galbraith (20 page)

“Oh, yes,” said Rose. “It was only a small chapel, and they were plain people who attended it, but it's where my father used to go, and Mother and I loved it, and so did he.”

“That'll be the uncle whom Davie and I remember saw weel,” said Donald quietly. “I wes only a wee b'y, but I mind his prayers sae weel. It seemed like heaven was juist coom doon in oor ain hoose, an' God was standin' close beside him. When my Uncle Gilbert prayed a' cudna forget the sins a'd committed when a' thought naebuddy wes thinkin' o' me!”

“Yes,” said Rose softly. “He was like that. I remember his prayers, too.”

“Y wud!” said Donald.

They swept into a long lovely quiet street with thatched houses and trees lining the way, and high deep hedges.

“Oh, how lovely! What a sweet quiet place!” said Rose.

“This is home!” said David with a boyish ring of pride in his voice, and then they drove into the yard and helped their cousin out, and she felt as if she had reached a dear resting place.

They took her into the house, and they all gathered around her. Her new uncle and aunt were there, and Kirsty, just scurrying in from putting a clean white cap on Grandmother, who had roused and was eager to see her grandchild.

Rose was taken to kiss the soft lips and cheeks of the old lady whose skin was like warm velvet and whose soft tiny hands still had vigor to grasp the young hands of the girl. Such soft, vital little hands. And such kindly keen old eyes with the light of love in them! Rose felt that they were all just as her mother had described them. And they were taking her into their heart of hearts, every one of them, just as her mother had said they took her in when she first came among them, a stray and an outcast from her father's city mansion. And how they had loved her mother. Rose could see they were going to love her just the same way.

The grandmother wasn't satisfied now to stay in bed. She wanted to get up and be one among them. But they persuaded her at last to let them draw the bed to the open door, where she could watch them all as they ate supper. David sat beside her and fed her some supper too, only she was too excited to eat. At last it was Rose who had to come and coax her to take spoonfuls of the smooth delicious porridge they had fixed her.

Then supper over, Rose watched them from her quiet seat by Grandmother's bed, as they cleared away the dishes, each one helping, and finally gathered around the fire.

Rose, with her chair just inside the other door, her hand fast clasping the frail warm hand of Grandmother, watched the lovely service of family worship with joy in her heart. Her mother had told her of this, and she felt now as if her mother were kneeling there beside her as she knelt by her grandmother; as if Mother, too, felt the other frail old hand upon her head in blessing.

The boys came and wheeled their grandmother back, tucked her up with a trim hand, and bade her kiss Rose goodnight. They shut the door and left her to Kirsty's ministrations. Rose was taken to her own room and made at home, and then they all came back into the big room and got acquainted thoroughly.

Such an unusual family her father had had! Her dear precious father! No wonder he was so wonderful when he came from a home like this!

As she crept into her bed at last she felt, for the first time since her mother had left her, a real joy. This was home. As near to home as she could get until she could see her mother again and tell her all about it.

In the morning when she woke, there was the sun shining broadly through her window, and the song of a bird in a tree nearby. There was the tinkling of the brook down in the garden, and the clucking of the hens, the mooing of the cow over in the meadow nearby. It was all so homey and lovely. Her heart almost seemed bursting with the joy of it. Just to get home where people loved each other and were not dourly fenced inside great castle walls. Just to be where there was life and warm hearts and loving glances, and where she was welcome. Ah, that meant so much!

The work went slack that day, because they had so much to say to one another, until Rose began to notice and begged to be put to work also, and then it went better.

Every once in a while Rose would go in and talk to Grandmother, who was being forced to stay in bed at least till the doctor came, much against her fretting and fuming.

And then Kirsty took Rose out in the garden and down by the brook and over the meadow. Rose had never had time to have a girlfriend as well as cousin, and she was shy with her at first, but Kirsty looked at her with loving eyes, and it was easy to see that they would be warm companions.

When Rose came in she brought a lovely sweetbriar rose to Grandmother.

“Mother told me this was the first flower my father ever gave to her,” she said tenderly as she held it close for her grandmother to smell.

“Oh, I mind it weel,” said the old lady, with a glint of passing glory in her eyes. “My b'y luved thae roses weel. He used tae say they were God's fairest daisies. An' yir mither lookit a daisy hersel' wi' a bunch o' thae in her hair. She was a sweet thing, that Margaret, wi' her blue eyes like twa stars; my Gilbert luved her like his ain soul. An' yir a bit like her, though yir mair like my ain little Rose that's gane the no, sae lang, sae lang!”

So the day flashed on with a beauty days had not had for Rose since her dear mother had first been ailing. The evening and the morning were marked by worship, prayer, and scripture, and sometimes songs from glad hearts. Rose felt as if the home was blessed from morning till night. Once she thought about the castle, and she almost longed to go and tell those poor souls she had left behind what a difference it would make if they only knew the Lord well enough to talk to Him all through the day and at night. Could they ever be made to understand? Would they ever be willing to yield their proud selves to humility? Would there ever come a time when she would feel she could go to them and tell them, once at least, what they were missing? Would God let her do that some day? It seemed so pitiful for them to live on in the darkness and gloom of a castle that was only a tomb, when they could come out into the light.

But such a thought was too startling to stay with her long, and now that she had found her place in the home and could bring help to them all, and comfort to grandmother, the terrible ache that had come to her heart when her mother left her grew more bearable.

And then one day came Gordon's first letter!

T
hat letter from Gordon McCarroll, together with the book that arrived by the same mail, filled Rose's heart with a great, deep joy. It brought back all the memory of her parting when she sailed. She felt again the touch of his lips on hers, the look of deep friendliness in his pleasant eyes, the warmth of his voice as he spoke those last words, and somehow he seemed to be standing right there beside her as she read the letter. It was almost unbelievable that Gordon McCarroll had become her real friend and that though the sea now rolled between them, she felt nearer to him than she had ever done. When they were in school together and she had seen him every day, she had felt as if a great gulf were between them. It had never before seemed as if he belonged at all to the world in which she lived, and now he was acting as if she were just one of his world, and it was wonderful. She wished so much that her mother could have known that he was to be so friendly. How pleased she would have been!

She read the letter over several times and then went to humming a little tune while she made her bed and tidied up her room. And she remembered how her mother used to say, “It's nice to have my little bird singing around the house as if she were happy!” and how she always used to answer, “But I am, Mother dear! I have you, haven't I? And isn't that enough to make a girl happy?” And then her mother would slip up softly behind her and put loving arms about her, and a kiss on the back of her neck.

And now that mother was gone!

The tears came quickly into her eyes as she thought of it. And then as she brushed them away, she hugged her letter to her heart and touched her lips softly to the written words.

“Silly!” she told herself as she realized what she was doing, reminding herself over again that the kiss he had given her had been a mere touch of friendliness in parting because she had no one else to bid her farewell.

But the joy of the letter stayed with her all that day, as something so new and cheering. To think she had a friend in America who cared to write to her. Oh, he was probably only writing once or twice because he felt sorry for her, all alone in a strange land. But even that was nice. For she knew that he was going to be the kind of man to whom she could always appeal if she were in any sort of trouble, and that was a great comfort. Perhaps, she told herself firmly, someday she would know his wife if he got married, and maybe his mother, a little. That would be nice. He must have a nice mother. Perhaps something like Lady Campbell. Why, she might get to know them well enough to be bidden to the wedding, in case she ever went back to America.

But those thoughts brought a quiet little sadness into her eyes. It somehow seemed to put her so far from having anything to do with Gordon, to have to think about his wedding. But there! She must not think such things. And she must not make too much of his present kindliness. It probably wouldn't last. And why should she need other friends now that she had all these nice cousins, her own folk?

So she took the book he had sent and gave herself a little while of reading. It was a book so filled with delight that again the boy who had kissed her good-by at parting, who had sent her flowers and a radio message, seemed to stand beside her, pointing out phrases in the written page and calling her attention to certain paragraphs, till she felt right at home with him again.

So Rose sat down and wrote of her coming to Kilcreggan and of all the dear relatives she had found here. She talked to him as if he were a dear brother far away in whom she might confide and was very happy as she wrote, quoting a snatch from the book he had sent, telling him how she was going to enjoy it, describing the kirk, and even quoting a sentence from a sermon she had heard there.

There was a softness and a gentleness about her face when she came among the family a little later that made them remark to one another how lovely she was.

And when Kirsty told David and Donald about the letter that had come for Rose that afternoon, David remarked cannily, “She'll maye be havin' a sweetheart, Kirsty, my dear, an' the letter'll be frae him.”

“Oh, no,” said their grandmother quickly, “I think not, Davie. I hed a lang talk wi' her yestreen, an' she didna say onything aboot him.”

Davie chuckled.

“Mayhap she'll not ken it hersel' yet, but I'm thinkin' a daisy as sweet as oor Rose'll no stay onplucked for lang.”

“Well,” said the grandmother cannily, “a'd wish tae be oncommon sure of ony mon that took my Gilbert's bonnie lassie awa frae us.”

But of course Rose knew nothing about such thoughts and words and went her lighthearted way through the days, looking after her grandmother, doing any small tasks they would allow her, reading the book Gordon had sent, writing little letters now and then, bits of letters she would incorporate in one, in case Gordon wrote again and she had to answer; thoughts that came to her as she was about her tasks, as if he were around here and there with her and they were thinking their thoughts together. Now and again she would chide herself for having him always in mind that way, when he was only a friend in passing. She knew she had no right to make so much of him in her heart.

She had written her Aunt Janet, telling of her pleasant journey and of how she had found her grandmother quite ill, but she was better now and able to sit up for a little while each day. She had given a brief description of the lovely village in which they were living, a little description of the sweet house, “like the picture of Anne Hathaway's cottage in looks,” of the pleasant family life, not leaving out a glimpse of the family worship around the firelight. She told it as a matter of course, just as if Aunt Janet would enjoy the thought herself. And then she thanked her again for the brief hospitality she had enjoyed and said that she hoped she might see her again someday before she went back to her American home. That was all. And she had no reply from the irate Lord and Lady of Warloch Castle.

She had written also to Lady Campbell and given her the latest news from her beloved friend Rose, the Aunt Rose who was living in Australia. She told her that she was at Kilcreggan where the Galbraiths now lived, and sent her a message from the old grandmother that she would be so glad to see “her Rosie's friend” if she ever came that way.

They had been several times to the “kirk” as they called the big delightful stone house among the trees, and Rose was charmed with the whole atmosphere and with the marvelous messages that were given. There had been much the same spirit in the little chapel where she and her mother had gone for years, but not the same deep teaching. Here there was scholarship mingled with spirituality, and new wonders of the scripture were disclosed at every turn. How she would miss this when she went away! How she wished her mother could have had the comfort of such teaching. And then a new thought came to her. If Aunt Janet could hear something of this, wouldn't it make some difference in her? And Uncle Robert, too. Would he accept this wonderful Word? She didn't feel so sure about her uncle. He seemed so cut and dried and self sufficient, like one of the Pharisees.

Was it thinkable that sometime she might have opportunity to tell Aunt Janet, at least, how blessed it was to trust a God who cared supremely for you, who cared so much that He had given His own Son to die? Of course she must know those facts, but she did not give the impression that she ever took them into her heart and counted them true and dear. Yet there must have been a time when Rose's own mother had no more personal knowledge of the truth than Aunt Janet had now, for her mother had learned all the precious gospel from the Galbraiths. That night Rose spent time upon her knees asking the Lord to save Aunt Janet and to use her if possible to tell her someday about Him. For her dear mother's sake she wanted to do that.