"Up to the fifth landing, and then straight on. You canna miss the
door."
For a moment the person thus addressed stood gazing up into the darkness
of the narrow staircase, and then turned wearily to the steep ascent.
No wonder she was weary; for at the dawn of that long August day, now
closing so dimly over the smoky town, her feet had pressed the purple
heather on the hills that skirt the little village of Kirklands. A
neighbouring farmer had driven her part of the way, but she had walked
since then seven-and-twenty miles of the distance that lay between her
and her home.
But it was not weariness alone that deepened the shadow on her brow as
she passed slowly upwards. Uncertainty with regard to the welfare of
dear friends had long been taking the form of anxious fears; and now her
fears were rapidly changing into a certainty of evil. Her heart
sickened within her as she breathed the hot, stifling air; for she knew
that her only brother's orphan children had breathed no other air than
that during the long, hot weeks of summer.
At length she reached the door to which she had been directed; and, as
she stood for a moment before it, the prayer that had often risen in her
heart that day, burst, in strong, brief words, from her lips.
There was no sound in the room, and it was some time before her eyes
became accustomed to the dim light around her. Then the glimpse she
caught, through the half-open door, of one or two familiar objects,--the
desk which had been her father's, and the high-backed chair of carved
oak in which her mother used to sit so many, many years ago,--assured
her that she had reached her journey's end.
On a low bed, just opposite the door through which she gazed, lay a boy,
apparently about ten years of age. His face was pale and thin, and he
moved his head uneasily on his pillow, as though very weary or in pain.
For a time all sense of fatigue was forgotten by the traveller, so
occupied was she in tracing in that fair little face a resemblance to
one dearly beloved in former years--her only brother, and the father of
the child.
Suddenly he raised himself up; and, leaning his head upon his hand,
spoke to some one in another part of the room.
"Oh me! oh me!" he said faintly; "the time seems so long! Surely she
must be coming now."
"It's Saturday night, you ken," said a soft voice, in reply. "She can't
be home quite so soon to-night. But the shadow of the speir has got
round to the yew-tree at the gate, and it won't be long now."
The little head sank back on the pillow again, and there was a pause.
"Oh me!" he murmured again, "it seems so long! I wish it was all at an
end."
"What do you wish was at an end?" said the same low voice again.
"All these long days and my mother's going out when she's not able to
go, and you sewing so busy all the day, and me waiting, waiting, never
to be well again. Oh, Lily, I wish I was dead."
There was the sound of a light step on the floor, and a little girl's
grave, pale face bent over the boy.
"Whisht, Archie!" said she, gravely, as she smoothed the pillow and
placed his restless head in a more easy posture. "Do you not ken it's
wrong for you to say the like of that? It's an awful thing to die,
Archie."
"Well, if it's wrong to be weary of lying here, I can't help it," said
the child; "but it's surely not wrong to wish to die and go to heaven,
yon bonny place!"
"But it is wrong not to be willing to live, and suffer too, if it be
God's will," said his sister, earnestly. "And what would _we_ do if you
were to die, Archie, my mother and me?"
"I am sure you could do far better than you can do now. You wouldn't
need to bide here longer. You could go to Glen Elder to Aunt Janet, you
and my mother. But I'll never see Glen Elder, nor Aunt Janet, nor
anything but these dark walls and yon bit of the kirk-yard."
"Whisht, Archie," said his sister, soothingly. "Aunt Janet has gone
from Glen Elder, and she's maybe as ill off as any of us. I doubt none
of us will ever go there again. But we won't think of such sad things
now. Lie still, and I'll sing to you till my mother comes home."
She drew a low stool to the side of the bed, and, laying her head down
on the pillow beside him, she sang, in a voice low and soft but clear as
a skylark's, the sweetest of all the sweet Psalmist's holy songs. It
must have been a weary day for her too. She got through the first two
verses well; but as she began, "Yea, though I walk through death's dark
vale," her eyes closed, and her voice died away into a murmur, and then
ceased. Her brother lay quite still, too; nor did either of them move
when the traveller went forward into the room.
Many sad and some bitter thoughts were in her heart, as she stood gazing
upon them in the deepening twilight. She thought of the time when her
only brother, many years younger than herself, had been committed to her
care by her dying mother. She thought of the love they had borne each
other in the years that followed; how the boy had come to her for
sympathy in his childish joys and sorrows; how he had sought her
counsel, and guided himself by it, in riper years. She recalled with
sadness the untoward events which had interfered to separate him from
her and from his early home as he advanced to manhood. Things had not
gone well with him in the last years of his life, and he sank under a
burden of care too heavy to be borne by one of his sensitive nature.
Now he was dead, and she grieved to think that she, his sister, in her
old age of poverty, could not offer a home to his widow and orphan
children.
The youth and middle age of Mrs Blair had been more free from trial
than is the common lot; but the last few years had been years of great
vicissitude. She was now a widow and childless; for though it might be
that her youngest son was still alive, she did not know that he was; and
his life had been the cause of more sorrow than the death of all her
other children had been.
She had been involved in the pecuniary troubles that had borne so
heavily upon her brother, and when old age was drawing near she found
herself under the necessity of leaving Glen Elder, the home where her
life had been passed, to seek a humbler shelter. Since then she had
lived content with humble means, as far as she herself was concerned,
but anxious often for the sake of those whom she loved and longed to
befriend. She had known they must be poor, but she had not heard of
their poverty from themselves. They resided in a remote and thinly
peopled district in Scotland, where the means of communication were few
and difficult. Nothing but vague reports had reached her. She had
hoped against hope till the time came when she could set her fears at
rest, or know the worst, by seeing them herself. Now, standing in the
bare room, in the midst of many marks of want and sickness, it grieved
her bitterly to feel how little she could do to help them.
"God help them!" she said aloud; and her voice awoke the sleeper before
her. For an instant the startled girl stood gazing at the stranger;
then, advancing timidly, she held out both hands, exclaiming:
"Aunt Janet!"
"Yes, it is Aunt Janet," said Mrs Blair, clasping her in her arms; "if
indeed this can be the little Lily I used to like so well to see at Glen
Elder. You are taller than my little lassie was," she added, bending
back the fair little face and kissing it fondly. "But this is my wee
Lily's face; I should know it anywhere."
"Oh, Aunt Janet," cried the child, bursting into tears; "I am so glad
you are come! We have needed you so much!"
Mrs Blair sat down on the bed, still holding the child in her arms.
Poor Lilias! Tears must have been long kept back, her aunt thought, for
she seemed to have no power to check her sobs, now that they had found
way. Half chiding, half soothing her with tender words, she held her
firmly till she grew calm again.
In a little while the weary child raised herself up, and said:
"Don't be vexed with me, Aunt Janet. I don't often cry like that; but I
am so glad you have come. We have needed you sorely; and I was sure you
would come, if you only knew."
Mrs Blair would not grieve her by telling her how little she could do
for them now that she had come; but she still held her in her arms, as
she bent down to kiss the little lad, who was gazing, half in wonder,
half in fear, at the sight of his sister's tears; and as she got a
better view of his thin pale face, she resolved that, if it were
possible, he at least should be removed from the close, unhealthy
atmosphere of his present home.
"You must be weary, aunt," said Lilias, at last, withdrawing herself
from her arms, and untying the strings of her bonnet, which had not yet
been removed. "Come and rest here in the armchair till mother comes
home. Oh, she will be so glad!"
Mrs Blair suffered herself to be led to the chair which had been her
mother's; and, as she rested in it, she watched with much interest the
movements of the little girl. In a few minutes there was a fire on the
hearth, and warm water prepared, and then, kneeling down, she bathed the
hands and face and weary feet of her aunt. Mrs Blair felt a strange
sweet pleasure in thus being waited on by the child. Many months had
passed since she had looked on one united to her by the ties of blood;
and now her heart was full as she gazed on the children of her brother.
There was something inexpressibly grateful to her in the look of content
that was coming into the grave, wistful eyes of the little lad, and in
the caressing touch of Lily's hand. In the interest with which she
watched the little girl as she went about intent on household cares, she
well-nigh forgot her own weariness and her many causes of anxiety.
There was something so womanly, yet so childish, in her quiet ways,
something so winning in the grave smile that now and then played about
her mouth, that her aunt was quite beguiled from her sad thoughts. In a
little while Lily went to the door, and listened for her mother's
returning footsteps.
"I wonder what can be keeping her so late?" she said, as she returned.
"This is not a busy time, and she said that she would be early home.
Sometimes she is very late on Saturday night."
Once more she went to the head of the stairs to listen; and then,
returning, she sat herself on a stool at her aunt's feet.
"And so you are very glad to see me, Lily?" said Mrs Blair, smiling
upon the child's upturned face.
The bright smile with which the girl answered faded quickly as her aunt
continued:
"And you are very poor now, are you?"
"Yes, we are poor; and, yet, not so very poor, either. We have had some
work to do, my mother and I; and we have never been a whole day without
food. If Archie were only well again! That's our worst trouble, now.
And mother, too, though she won't own to being ill, often gets very
weary. But now that you are come, all will be well again."
"And maybe you'll take us all home to Glen Elder for a wee while, as you
used to do," said Archie, speaking for the first time since his aunt's
coming.
"Archie so pines for the country," said Lilias; "and we can hardly make
ourselves believe that you live anywhere but at Glen Elder."
"My home now is very unlike Glen Elder," said Mrs Blair, sadly. "But
there is fresh air there, and there are bonny heather hills; so cheer
up, Archie, laddie; it will go hard with me if I canna get you to
Kirklands for a while at least, and you'll be strong and well before
winter yet."
The boy smiled sadly enough, and the tears started in his eyes; but he
did not answer.
"Archie is thinking that, maybe, he'll never be well again," said his
sister. "The doctor says he may be a cripple all his life."
This was a new and unexpected sorrow to Mrs Blair; and her countenance
expressed the dismay she felt, as she questioned them about it.
"It was the fever. Archie was ill with the fever all the winter; and
when the spring came he didn't get strong again, as we had hoped, and
the disease settled in his knee. The doctor said if he could have got
away into the country he might have grown strong again. And maybe it's
not too late yet," added the little girl, eagerly. "I'm sure the very
sight of the hills, these bonny summer days, might make one strong and
well."
"Well, he'll get a sight of the hills before very long, I trust; and I
don't despair of seeing him strong and well yet," said Mrs Blair,
hopefully; and the children, reassured by her cheerful words, smiled
brightly to each other, as they thought of the happy days in store for
them.
Death had visited the homes of both since Mrs Blair and her
sister-in-law met last, and to both the meeting was a sad one. Lilias'
mother was scarcely more calm than Lilias had been, as she threw herself
into the arms of her long-tried friend. Her words of welcome were few;
but the earnest tearful gaze that she fixed upon her sister's face told
all that her quivering lips refused to utter.
When the first excitement of their meeting was over, Mrs Blair was
shocked to observe the change which grief and care had made in her
sister's face and form. She looked many years older than when she had
last seen her. There was not a trace of colour on her cheek or lip, and
her whole appearance indicated extreme weariness and languor. Little
was said of the exertions and privations of the last few months; but
that these must have been severe and many was to Mrs Blair only too
evident. The food placed upon the table was of the simplest and
cheapest kind, and of a quality little calculated to tempt the appetite
of an invalid; and she noticed with pain that it was scarcely tasted
either by the sick boy or his mother.
"You are not well to-night, mother," said Lilias, looking anxiously at
her as she put aside the untasted food.
"Yes, dear, I am as well as usual; but I am tired. The night is close
and sultry, and the walk has tired me more than usual. I have not hard
work now," she added, turning to Mrs Blair. "This is not a busy time,
and my employer is very considerate; but her place of business is quite
at the other end of the town, and it's not so easy walking two or three
miles on the pavements as it used to be among the hills at home."
"I fear you carry a heavier heart than you used to do in those days,"
said Mrs Blair, sadly. "But are you not trying your strength more than
you ought with these long walks?"
Mrs Elder might have replied that she had no choice between these long
walks and utter destitution for herself and her children; but she said,
cheerfully, that it was only since the weather had become so warm that
she had found the walk at all beyond her strength, and the hot weather
would soon be over now.
"It's the country air mother wants, as well as me," said Archie; and the
gaze which the weary mother turned upon her sister was as full of
wistful longing as the little lad's had been. After a little pause, she
said:
"Sometimes I think it would be great happiness to get away to some quiet
country place, where I might earn enough to support myself and them.
The din and dust of this noisy town are almost too much for me,
sometimes; and I am not so strong as I once was. I think it would give
me new life to breathe the air of the hills again. But if such is not
God's will, we must even be content to bide here till the end comes."
And she sighed heavily.
"Whisht, Ellen, woman," said her sister; "don't speak in such a hopeless
voice as that. Whatever comes, God sends; and what He sends to His own
He sends in love, not in anger. He has not left you to doubt that,
surely?"
"Oh, no; I am sure of that. I have seen that it has been in love that
He has dealt with us hitherto." And in a moment she added, a bright
smile lighting up her pale face as she spoke:
"And I think I can count on a place prepared for me at last by my
Saviour; but, for my children's sakes, I would like to wait a while. I
would like to take them with me when I go."
"It may be that one of them will get there before you," said her sister.
"He knows best, and will send what is best for His own."
"Yes, I know it," said Mrs Elder, in a startled voice, as she turned to
look at the pale face of her boy, now almost death-like in the quietness
of sleep. The silence was long and tearful; and then she added, as if
unconscious of the presence of another:
"So that we are all guided safely to His rest at last, it matters little
though the way be rough. `I will trust, and not be afraid.'"
Long after the tired children slept, the sisters sat conversing about
many things. Not about the future. Firm as was their trust in God, the
future seemed dark indeed, and each shrank from paining the other by
speaking her fears aloud. Of her husband Mrs Elder spoke with
thankfulness and joy, though with many tears. He had known and loved
the Saviour, and had died rejoicing in His salvation. She had prayed
that God would give her submission to His will as the end drew near;--
and He had given her not only submission, but blessed peace; and no
trouble, however heavy, should make her distrust His love again.
Had her husband been cut off in the midst of his days, without warning,
she must have believed that it was well with him now. But, in the
memory of the time before his death, the blessedness of his present
state seemed less a matter of faith than of sure and certain knowledge.
There could be no gloom, either in the past or the future, so thick but
the light of that blessed assurance might penetrate it. In the darkest
hours that had fallen on her since then (and some hours had been dark
indeed), it had cheered and comforted her to think of the last months of
his life. It was, in truth, the long abiding in the land of Beulah, the
valley and the shadow of death long past, and the towers and gates of
the celestial city full in sight.
"No; whatever may come upon us now," she added humbly, "nothing can take
away the knowledge that it is well with him."
Through the whole of the long history, given with many tears, Mrs Elder
never spoke of the poverty that had fallen upon them, or of her own
ill-remunerated toil. His last days had been days of comfort,
undisturbed by any apprehension with regard to the future of his wife
and children; for the stroke which deprived them of the last remnant of
their means did not fall till he was at rest.
The candle had long since sunk in the socket, and they were sitting in
the darkness, which the moonlight, streaming in through the small attic
window, only partially dispelled. Not a sound but the soft breathing of
the sleeping children, and the hum of voices from the city below, broke
the stillness of the pause which followed. Each was busy with her own
thoughts. The prevailing feeling in Mrs Blair's heart was gratitude,
both for her dead brother and her living sister's sake. That his last
days had been days of such peace and comfort, that his trust in Christ
had been so firm, and his hope of happiness so sure, was matter for
fervent thanksgiving. Nor were the humble resignation and patient faith
of his wife less a cause of rejoicing to her. She felt rebuked for her
own fears and faithlessness as the narrative went on, and she thanked
God for the love that had been so mercifully mingled in the bitter cup
that had been given them to drink.
Long after her sister was sleeping by her side did Mrs Blair lie awake,
revolving in her mind some possible plan for finding a home for the
widow and her children in the country, for that none of them could long
endure such a life as they had lately been living was only too evident.
It seemed to her that she had never felt her poverty till now. Bitterly
did she regret her inability to help them. From the abundance that had
blessed her youth and middle age a mere pittance had been saved,
scarcely enough to maintain herself, and altogether insufficient to
enable her to gratify her benevolent feelings by doing for them as she
wished. She had removed from her early home to a little hamlet among
the hills, and had taken up her abode in a cottage scarcely better than
a mountain shieling; and there the last few years had been passed. She
had opened a school for the children of the cottagers, happy in being
useful in this way to those whom she could now assist in no other.
To this home, poor as it was, she longed to take the widow and children
of her brother. Many a plan she considered for eking out her scanty
means that she might do so; and the grey dawn was beginning to break
before she closed her eyes in sleep. The future was still dark before
her. She saw no way to bring about what she so earnestly desired.
There was nothing to do but leave it all in the Hand which is strong to
help in time of need. And what better could she do than cling to the
promise which God has given?
"God of the widow! Father of the fatherless! interpose for them," she
prayed. And her prayer was heard and answered.