It was not without many tears that the two children bade farewell to the
little, dark room that had been their home so long. True, they had
suffered much in it. Many long, restless days and painful nights had
Archie passed there; but it was associated with the memory of their
mother, and it was like a second parting from her to leave it.
The morning was dark and dull. A heavy mist lay on the town, and for
the first few miles their journey was silent and sad. But, as the sun
rose higher, the clouds parted and the mist rolled away, revealing to
the unaccustomed eyes of the children pleasant glimpses of hill and
valley.
Their way, after they had fairly left the great city and its suburbs
behind them, lay through quiet and unfrequented roads. They crossed a
broad moor, and then for a time passed between low hills covered with
broom or heather. Afterwards they came upon cultivated land lying
around long, low farm-houses. Sometimes these dwellings were close by
the road, and then they caught, with delight, glimpses of barn-door
fowls and garden-flowers; and sometimes there were children playing on
the green slopes around their homes. But oftener the farm-houses were
far away on the hill-sides or in the quiet valleys. In some early
fields they saw the reapers busy with the harvest; but most of the way
was quiet,--even lonely. For miles and miles they saw no living thing
save a grey plover whistling over their heads, or now and then a flock
of sheep among the hills far away.
Much of the way Mrs Blair walked, and sometimes Lilias walked with her;
but she soon became weary. It was a day long to be remembered by the
children,--their first day among the hills. After so long in the close
streets of the town, it seemed as though they could never get enough of
the clear, fresh air and the pleasant country sights and sounds.
Everything seemed beautiful to them, moors, and hills, and golden
harvest-fields. They did not talk much, only now and then one would
point out to the other some new object of interest, a glimpse of blue
water caught between the hills, or a lark upspringing from some grassy
knoll, singing as it soared.
In the middle of the day they stopped near a little village to rest.
The carrier went with his horse to the inn; but they sat down in the
shadow of a tree by the wayside, and ate the simple food they had
brought with them.
It was sunset before they reached their aunt's home; and a pleasant
place it seemed to them, though so poor and small. It stood at a little
distance from the village of Kirklands. On one side was a plot of
garden-ground, which some former occupant of the cottage had redeemed
from the common beyond. It was sheltered on two sides by a hawthorn
hedge; and a low, whitewashed paling separated it from the highway.
There was little in it, except a few common vegetables, a border of
daisies and hearts-ease, and a rose-bush or two; but to Lilias it seemed
a charming place; and it was not without reluctance that she obeyed her
aunt's summons to come within when the dew began to fall.
It was, indeed, a new life that the brother and sister began at the
cottage. During the first few weeks, the greater part of the time, when
the days were fine, was passed out-of-doors. At first, Archie could not
get beyond the turf seat at the end of the cottage; but Lilias found her
way across the wide common and away to the hills and glens beyond.
After a time, Archie was able, by the help of his crutches, to go with
her; and many a pleasant path and quiet resting-place they found for
themselves.
Their favourite resort was at the most distant point to which Archie for
a while was able to go. A great grey rock, partly covered with heather
and wild creepers, jutted out into the dry bed of a mountain stream.
Passing round it, they found a low seat made by an abrupt rent in the
rock, over which hung a slender mountain-ash. In the winter, or after
heavy rains, this channel was filled with water; but now a tiny rivulet
only trickled down the middle of the bed, making a pleasant murmur among
the smooth, white pebbles over which it passed. Here the children spent
many a happy hour.
Their most common theme of conversation was their father and mother, and
the events of the past two years. The memory of the time before that
was more like a dream than like the recalling of events that had really
taken place. Of their mother they spoke oftenest,--sometimes with tears
and regret for their own loss, but sometimes, too, with joy at the
thought of her gain, and the blessed rest to which she had attained.
"Do you think she was glad to go?" asked Archie, one day, after they had
been talking a long time.
"Yes; I think she was very glad to go; but at first it grieved her
sorely to think of leaving us behind. I almost think she would have
gone sooner but for that. After Aunt Janet came, it was different.
After that she seemed willing to go at any time."
There was a pause, and then Archie said:
"It is a pity that she didn't know, before she went away, how we should
come here, and what a bonny place it is. Lily, do you think she sees us
now?"
"I don't know. She may. Anyway, after that night she was willing to
leave us. Indeed, she told me the night she died that she didn't fear
for us."
The remembrance of that night always made Lilias' cheek grow pale; and
she did not speak again for some time. At last she said:
"Yes, this is a bonny place, and we have been very happy here; but there
is one thing I am grieved for. You know, Archie, Aunt Janet is poor,
and I fear in this place I shall not be able to find anything to do to
help her. I fear I can't bide here long."
The thought of having to part from his sister had never come into
Archie's mind, and he looked at her in astonishment, as he said:
"But where would you go?"
"Oh, I don't know yet. Only I think it's not right to burden Aunt Janet
more than can be helped. I heard Mrs Stirling say that Mrs Graham, at
the manse, wanted some one to sew and help among the children; and maybe
I would do for her."
"Oh, Lily, surely you wouldn't go away. What should I ever do without
you?" said Archie, weeping.
"Whisht, Archie," said his sister, soothingly; "do you think I would
like to go away from you? But if it is right, we mustn't think whether
it is pleasant or not. We won't grieve before the time, however. Maybe
I'll never have to go. We'll speak to Aunt Janet."
And so that night, after Archie was asleep, Lilias spoke to her aunt.
"Are you weary of me, Lilias, that you wish to leave me so soon?" asked
her aunt, gravely.
"Oh, aunt, you cannot think that. If it were only not wrong for me to
bide here always!"
"And why do you not think it right to bide here always?" asked her aunt.
"Because I am young and strong, and I ought to be working for you,
rather than that you should be doing so much for me."
"But you have been working for me. You have helped me greatly since you
came here."
"Yes, a little, perhaps," said Lilias, thoughtfully. "But that's not
what I mean. Are you not very poor now, Aunt Janet?"
"Well, I cannot say that I am very rich," said her aunt, smiling. "But
I'm not so poor but that I can shelter my brother's orphan bairns for a
while at least." And then she added, gravely, "I have no doubt but you
could make yourself very useful, and I dare say Mrs Graham would like
to have you there; but there are many reasons why such a thing is not to
be thought of."
"Will you tell me some of them, aunt?"
"You have no need to go, my child; and, even if you had, you are not
strong enough. You are by no means fit for the work you would have to
do there; though you could have no better place than the manse. No, no,
my lassie, you must bide here among the hills, and gather health and
strength for the struggles that life must bring to you as well as to
others. All you could gain would but ill repay you for the loss of
health; and you are not very strong, dear."
"But I am stronger than one would think to see me; and I'll be getting
stronger, living in a country place. I think I might be strong enough
for Mrs Graham."
"But, even if you were strong enough, for all our sakes, it is not to be
thought of that you should go now. Archie would pine without you. And
unless you are weary of this quiet place, and wish for a change, you
must put away all thought of leaving us, for a time at least."
"Weary! Oh, no, aunt. And I know Archie would miss me; but he could
spare me; and I could go if it was right. I can do a great many things,
and I would try to learn."
"Yes, you can do a great many things; and that is one reason why I can't
spare you, Lily. I think I have the best right to my brother's
daughter." And she drew the little girl fondly towards her as she
spoke.
"Oh, aunt," exclaimed Lilias eagerly, "if I could really help you and be
a comfort to you, I would like nothing half so well."
"You can be useful to me. You are a comfort to me. I hardly know how I
could part from you now, dear. Our way of living must be very humble;
but that will not be so bad as being parted--will it, my Lily? You have
learnt to love me a little, my child?"
Lilias answered by putting her arms round her aunt's neck, and kissing
her again and again. Then in a low voice she said:
"You mind me of my father."
"And you mind me of the brother I loved and watched over as a child, and
honoured as a man. If it is God's will, we will not be parted, my
beloved child."
And so it was settled, and Lilias's heart was set at rest about the
matter; and in the morning her face told the tidings to Archie before
her lips could speak the words.
Mrs Blair's cottage lay at the distance of several miles from the kirk
of Dunmoor, which she had all her life attended. It was some time
before Archie was able to go so far, and Lilias had stayed at home with
him. At length, one fine, clear Sabbath in the end of September, Mrs
Blair yielded to their entreaties to be permitted to go with her; and
early in the morning they set out. Instead of going by the highway,
they took a pleasanter path over the hills, resting often, for Archie's
sake, on some grey stone or mossy bank. The length of the way was
beguiled by pleasant talk. Mrs Blair told them of the Sabbath journeys
to the kirk from Glen Elder when she and her little brother were all in
all to each other; and Lilias and Archie could never grow weary of
hearing of their father's youthful days. Many in the kirk that day
looked with interest on the children of Alexander Elder, as they sat by
his sister's side, in the very same seat where he used to sit so many
years ago; and many an earnest "God bless them!" went up to the Father
of the fatherless in their behalf. Yes, it was the very same seat in
which their father used to sit; and Lilias could hardly repress her
tears as she saw his initials, with a date many years back, carved in
the dark wood before her. The psalm-book, too, which he had used, had
never been removed; and his name, in a large schoolboy's hand, was
written many times on its blank leaves. Many of the Psalms were marked,
too, as having been learnt at such or such a time; and it was long
before Lilias could think of anything but the little lad like Archie
(only rosy and strong) who had sat there with his sister so many years
ago. The voice that spoke from the brown old pulpit was the same to
which he had listened; for the aged minister had been her grandfather's
friend, and her father had grown up beneath his eye, one of the dearest
of a well-beloved flock.
His face and voice were to Lilias like those of a dear, familiar friend;
and when he spoke of the things of which she loved to hear, she could no
longer restrain her tears: indeed, she never thought of trying.
"For my ways are not as your ways; neither are my thoughts as your
thoughts," were the words from which he spoke; and when he told them how
it was oftentimes the way of our good Father in heaven to lead His
chosen, worn and weary, fainting beneath heavy burdens, over rough
places, through darkness and gloom, but all safe home at last, the words
went to the child's heart as though they had been spoken to her alone of
all who were waiting for a portion there; and her heart made answer,
"What does it matter? It is only for a little while, and then all safe
home at last. Not one forgotten, not one left out, in that day."
Archie, too, listened intently, but not with tears. There was an
earnest look in his eyes, and a grave smile about his mouth, as though
he were hearing some glad tidings; and when the minister sat down, he
leaned over towards his sister, and whispered softly:
"I like that."
And Lilias smiled in reply.
When the service was over, and Mrs Blair and the children had passed
out into the kirk-yard, Mrs Graham, the minister's widowed daughter,
came and invited them into the manse till it should be time for the
service in the afternoon. Mrs Blair went with her; but Archie was shy,
and liked better to stay out in the pleasant kirk-yard; and Lilias
stayed with him. The place had a quiet Sabbath look about it, which
suited well the feelings of the children; and, as the resting-place of
many friends of their father, it was full of interest to them. Many of
the people who had come--from a distance stayed also, and seated
themselves, in small parties, here and there among the grave-stones; but
not a loud or discordant voice arose to break the silence that reigned
around.
The kirk itself was a quaint old building, around which many interesting
historical associations clustered. The large stones of which it was
built were dark with age; and the ivy that grew thickly over the western
wall gave it the appearance of an ancient ruin. Dark firs and yew-trees
grew around the kirk-yard, and here and there over the grave of a friend
the hand of affection had planted a weeping-willow. On a low slab
beneath one of these the brother and sister sat for a time in silence,
broken at last by Archie.
"Oh, Lily! this is a bonny quiet place. How I wish they were lying
here!"
"Yes," said Lilias, softly, "among their friends. But it makes no
difference. I never think of them as lying there."
"Oh, no! they are not there. I suppose it is all the same to them. But
yet, if I were going to die, I would like better to lie down here in
this quiet place than among the many, many graves yonder in the town.
Wouldn't you, Lily?"
"Yes; for some things I would. I should like to be where the friends I
love could often come. Look yonder how all the people are sitting
beside the graves of their own friends. That is Ellen Wilson and her
brother beside their father's grave. I read the name on the stone as I
came in this morning. And Mrs Stirling's husband and children are
buried there in the corner where she is sitting. She told me about them
the last time she was in. I think the folk here must mind their friends
better than they would if they never saw their graves."
"But we'll never forget our father and mother, though we can't see their
graves," said Archie, eagerly; "I do wish they were lying here beside my
grandfather and all the rest."
Lilias did not answer, for they were about to be interrupted. Only one
of the persons who were approaching them was known to her, and she did
not think her a very agreeable acquaintance, and a slight feeling of
impatience rose within her as she drew near.
Mrs Stirling was one of those unfortunate persons who constantly move
in an atmosphere of gloom. Her face seemed to express a desire to
banish all cheerfulness and silence all laughter wherever she came. She
had never, even in her best days, been blessed with a heavenly temper,
and much care and many sorrows had made it worse. Men had dealt hardly
with her, and God, she believed, had done the same. One short month had
made her a widow and childless, and then other troubles had followed.
From circumstances of comfort she had been reduced, by the carelessness
and dishonesty of those whom she had trusted, to a state of comparative
poverty. This last trouble had been, in a measure, removed, but the
bitterness it had stirred in her heart had never subsided.
If a subject had a dark side, she not only chose to look at it herself,
but held it up before the eyes of all concerned. Having once been
deceived, she never ceased to suspect, and, which was still worse, she
even strove (from the best of motives, as she believed) to excite
suspicion and discomfort in the minds of others; and, notwithstanding
her well-known character as a prophesier of evil things, she did
sometimes succeed in making people unhappy. She was, as the minister
said, a pitiable example of the effects of unsanctified affliction, and
a warning to all who felt inclined to murmur under the chastening hand
of God.
During one or two visits at Mrs Blair's cottage, Mrs Stirling had made
Lilias uncomfortable, she scarce knew why; and now, though she did not
say so to Archie, she heartily wished she would stay at the other end of
the kirk-yard.
"Weel, bairns," she said, as she drew near, "your aunt didna take you
with her into the manse. Are you not weary sitting so long on the
stones?"
"No," said Lilias. "Archie liked better to bide out here. This is a
bonny place."
"Oh, ay, it's a bonny place enow," said Mrs Stirling. Then, turning to
Archie, she said, "And so you liked better to bide out here than to go
in to your dinner at the manse? Well, it's a good bairn that likes to
do what it's bidden. I dare say Mrs Blair would have felt some
delicacy in taking you both into the manse parlour; though why she
should, is more than the like of me knows."
To this there was no reply to be made; and in a minute, turning again to
Lilias, she asked:
"And when are you going to the manse as nurse, my dear?"
Lilias said she was not going at all.
"No! Where then? To Pentlands? I told your aunt that Mrs Jones, the
housekeeper, wanted a lassie to help in the kitchen; but it's a place
full of temptations for a young thing like you. I wonder at Mrs
Blair."
Lilias replied, rather hastily, that she was not going anywhere just
now; she was going to bide at home with her aunt.
"Well, well, my dear, you needn't be angry at my asking; though there's
little wonder that the daughter of Alexander Elder shouldn't like to
have it said that she ought to go and gain her bread as a servant. We
can't always part with our pride when we part with our money. Nobody
knows that better than I do."
"It's not pride that keeps me at home," said Lilias, in a low voice. "I
would go gladly if my aunt thought it needful; but she says it is not."
"Oh, well, my dear, I dare say your aunt knows best. She may have money
that I didn't know of. Maybe you wasn't so ill off as is said."
"Whisht! do you not see that you are vexing the bairns? Never mind her,
my dear," said the pleasant-looking young woman whom Lilias had called
Ellen Wilson, sitting down on the stone beside her. "I think this part
of the country seems to agree with you both. Your brother looks much
better than he did when he came first."
Lilias smiled gratefully in answer to this, and looked with loving pride
at her brother. But Nancy Stirling had not yet said her say.
"Looks better, does he? I wonder how he could have looked before? Such
a whitefaced creature I have seldom seen. He reminds me of the laddie
that died at Pentlands, of a decline, a month since. I doubt he isn't
long for this world."
"Whisht!" again interrupted Ellen, "you don't know what you are saying,
I think."
"Archie is much better," said Lilias, eagerly. "He couldn't set his
foot to the ground when we first came here; and now he can walk miles."
"Oh, ay; change of air is ay thought good for the like of him. But it's
a deceitful complaint. We all ken that your father died of
consumption,--and your mother too, it's likely."
"No," said Lilias, in a low voice. "She died of fever."
"Mrs Stirling," exclaimed Ellen Wilson, "I canna but wonder that one
that has had the troubles you have had, should have so little
consideration for other folks. Do you not see that you are vexing the
bairns?"
"Weel, it's not my design nor my desire to vex them,--poor things! It
never harmed me to get a friend's sympathy; though it's little ever I
got. I'll not trouble them." And she went and seated herself at a
little distance from the children.
An old man, with very white hair, but a ruddy and healthy countenance,
had been walking up and down the path, his hands clasped behind his
back, and his staff beneath his arm. As he passed the place where Mrs
Stirling sat, he paused, saying in a cheerful, kindly voice:
"This is a bonny day, Mrs Stirling."
"Oh, ay," replied Nancy, drearily; "it's a bonny day."
"And a fine harvest we are getting," said the old man, again,--"if we
were only thankful to God for His undeserved goodness."
"Oh, ay; considering all things, the harvest's not so bad in some
places, and in others it's just middling. It's not got in yet. We must
wait awhile before we set ourselves up upon it."
"It would ill become us to set ourselves up on that, or any other good
gift of the Lord," said the old man, gravely; "but you and I, Nancy,
have seen many a different harvest from this in our day. We are ready
enough to murmur if the blessing be withheld, and to take it as our
right when it is sent. There's many a poor body in the countryside who
may thank God for the prospect of an easy winter. He has blessed us in
our basket and in our store."
"Oh, well, I dare say I'm as thankful as my neighbours, though I say
less about it," said Nancy, tartly. "I dare say there's many a poor
body will need all they have, and more, before the winter's over."
"You see you needn't mind what Mrs Stirling says," said Ellen, who with
the children had listened to the conversation thus far. "She's always
boding ill. It's her nature. She has had many things to make the world
look dreary to her,--poor woman! Yonder is James Muir, one of our
elders,--a good man, if ever there was one. He knew your father, and
your grandfather too."
Yes, he had known their father well; and the next time he turned down
the path he stopped to speak to them. Not in many words, but kindly and
gravely, as his large, kind heart prompted; and Lilias felt that he was
one that might be relied on in time of need.
"There's your aunt again, with Mrs Graham and the manse bairns," said
Ellen, as they approached. They rose, and went to meet them at the kirk
door; and while their aunt and Mrs Graham waited to speak a few words
to James Muir, they exchanged sly glances with the young people
designated by Ellen as "the manse bairns."
They were the grandchildren of the aged minister. Their father, his
only son,--a minister too,--had, within a year, died in the large town
where he had been settled, and his widow had come with her children to
the manse, which was now their home.
Too shy to speak to the strangers, they cast many a look of sympathy on
the lame boy and his sister who were both fatherless and motherless.
By-and-by the little Jessie ventured to put into Archie's hand a bunch
of brilliant garden-flowers that she had carried. Archie did not speak;
but his smile thanked her, and the flowers bloomed in the cottage-window
for many days.