But all the days in Kirklands were not sunny days. The pleasant harvest
time went over, and the days grew short and rainy. Not with the
pleasant summer rain, coming in sudden gusts to leave the earth more
fresh and beautiful when the sunshine came again, but with a dull,
continuous drizzle, dimming the window-panes, and hiding in close,
impenetrable mist the outline of the nearest summits. The pleasant
rambles among hills and glens, and the pleasanter restings by the
burn-side, were all at an end now. The swollen waters of the burn hid
the stone seat where the children had loved to sit, and the sere leaves
of the rowan-tree lay scattered in the glen. Even when a blink of
sunshine came, they could not venture out among the dripping heather,
but were fain to content themselves with sitting on the turf seat at the
house-end.
For all Aunt Janet's prophecy had not come true, thus far. There were
no roses blooming on Archie's cheeks yet; and sometimes, when Lilias
watched his pale face, as he sat gazing out into the mist, she was
painfully reminded of the time when he used to watch the shadow of the
spire coming slowly round to the yew-tree by the kirk-yard gate.
But there were no days now so long and sad as those days had been. The
memory of their last great grief was often present with them; but the
sense of orphanhood grew less bitter, day by day, as time went on.
Archie was not quite strong and well yet, but he was far better than he
had been for many a long month; and Lilias' feeling of anxiety on his
account began to wear away. Gradually they found for themselves new
employments and amusements, and their life fell into a quiet and
pleasant routine again.
A new source of interest and enjoyment was opened to them in the return
of Mrs Blair's scholars after the harvest-holidays were over. There
were between fifteen and twenty girls, and a few boys, whose ages varied
from six to twelve or fourteen. They were taught reading, writing, and
the catechism; and some of the elder girls were taught to knit and sew.
Archie used sometimes to be weary of the hum of voices and the unvaried
routine of the lessons; but Lilias never was. To her it was a constant
pleasure to assist her aunt. Indeed, after a time some of the classes
were entirely given up to her care. She had never been much with other
children, but her gentle tones and quiet womanly ways gave her a control
over them; and even the roughest and most unruly of the village children
learnt to yield her a ready obedience.
Mrs Blair had striven to do faithfully the work she had undertaken of
instructing these ignorant children; but at her age the formation of new
habits was by no means easy. The constant attention to trifles which
the occupation required was at times inexpressibly irksome to her; and
the relief which the assistance of Lilias gave her was proportionally
great.
"I'm sure I know not how I ever got on without my lassie," she said, one
day, after watching with wonder and delight the patience with which she
arranged the little girls' work,--a task for which patience was greatly
needed. "I shall grow to be a useless body if I let you do all that is
to be done in this way. Are you not weary with your day's work, Lilias,
my dear?"
"Weary!" said Lilias, laughing. "I don't need to be weary, for all I
have done. It's only play to hear the bairns read and spell. I like it
very much."
"But it's not play to take out and put into shape, and to sew as you
have been doing for the last hour. I fear I put too much upon you,
Lilias."
"Oh, now you are surely laughing at me. I wish I could do ten times as
much. Do I really help you, Aunt Janet?"
"Ay, more than you know, my darling. But put by your work for a night,
and run down the brae, and freshen the roses that are just beginning to
bloom on your cheeks. We mustn't let them grow white again, if we can
help it."
But the best time of all was when the children had gone home,--when,
with the door close shut against the wintry blast, they sat together
around the pleasant firelight, talking, or reading, or musing, as each
felt most inclined. From her father's well-chosen library Mrs Blair
had preserved a few books, that were books indeed,--books of which every
page contained more real material for thought than many a much-praised
modern volume. Read by themselves, the quaint diction of some of these
old writers must have been unintelligible to the children; but with the
grave and simple comments of their aunt to assist their understanding, a
new world of thought and feeling was opened to them. Many a grave
discussion did they have on subjects whose names would convey no idea to
the minds of most children of their age. There was often a mingling of
folly and wisdom in their opinions and theories, that amused and
surprised their aunt. Archie's lively imagination sometimes ventured on
flights from which the grave expostulations of Lilias could not always
draw him.
"To the law and to the testimony, Archie, lad," was his aunt's
never-failing suggestion; and then his eager, puzzled face would be bent
over the Bible, till his wild imaginings vanished of themselves, without
waiting to be reasoned away.
But the history of their country was the chief delight of those long
winter evenings. One read aloud; but the eyes of both rested on the
page with an eagerness that did not pass away after the first perusal.
The times and events that most interested them were gone over and over,
till they were ready to forget that they of whom they read had long
since passed away: Murray and Douglas, John Knox and Rutherford, and
Mary, lived and laboured, and sinned and suffered, still in their
excited feelings. It is true, their interest and sympathy vacillated
between the contending parties. They did not always abide by their
principles in the praise or blame awarded. Their feelings were
generally on the side of the sufferers, whoever they might be; and if
their eyes sparkled with delight at the triumphant energy of Knox, their
tears for poor Queen Mary were none the less sincere.
But it was the history of the later times that stirred their hearts to
their inmost depths,--the times...
"When in muirland and valley the standard of Zion,
All bloody and torn, 'mong the heather was lying."
...When Charles strove to put in shackles the Scottish mind, and quench
in the Scottish heart that love for the pure and simple truth for which
the best and noblest have died. About these times and these men they
were never weary of reading and speaking.
"There will never more be such times in Scotland," said Archie, as
Lilias shut the history, and took down the Bible and psalm-books for
their evening worship.
"Thank God, no!" said his aunt, hastily; "though one might think, from
your face, that it is no matter of thankfulness to you."
"I don't wish those times to come back," said the boy musingly; "but I
wish I had lived then. It must have been worth a man's while to live in
those days."
"And why is it not as much worth a man's while to live in the days that
are to come as in the days that are past?" asked his aunt, with a smile.
Archie looked up quickly.
"I know what you are thinking, aunt:--that a poor cripple lad could have
done as little then as he can do now." And Archie sighed.
"No: I was thinking that it needs as much courage and patience, and as
much of God's grace, for a poor cripple lad to bear (as He would have
him bear) the trouble He sends, as would have stood a man in good stead
before the face of Claverhouse himself. The heroes of history are not
always the greatest heroes, after all, Archie, my laddie."
"Maybe not, aunt; but, then, it's only a sore leg I have to bear; and
who is the better whether I bear it well or ill?"
"Archie, man, you are speaking foolishly," returned, his aunt, gravely.
"It matters much to yourself whether you bear your trouble well or ill.
It was sent to you for discipline, and that you might be better fitted
for the honouring of His name; and He who sent it can make it answer
these ends in you as well as though He had cast your lot in those
troublous times, and made you a buckler of strength against His foes and
the foes of His people."
"But, aunt," said Lilias, "it's surely not wrong to wish to be placed
where we can do much for Him? I don't wonder Archie should wish to have
lived in those days."
"No, love: such a wish is not wrong, provided it doesn't act as a
temptation to neglect present opportunities. We are all by nature
self-seekers, and in no small danger of giving ourselves credit for
wishing to serve the Lord, when, maybe, He sees it is ourselves we wish
to serve. The best evidence we can give that we would honour Him in a
larger sphere is, that we strive to honour Him in the sphere in which He
has placed us."
"But after all, aunt, it would be grand to be able to do as much for
God's cause as some of those men did. I can't think that any one, to
say nothing of a poor cripple lad, has an opportunity to do as much now
as those men had."
"To do is a great thing in the sight of men. But I am thinking that, in
His sight who sees further than men can see, _to suffer_ may be greater
than _to do_. But have patience, Archie, lad. He who has given you to
suffer now, may give you to do before you die. You may have to fight
the battles of the Lord in high places. Who knows?"
"That would be near as well as to fight with the dragoons: would it not,
Archie?" said Lilias, laughing. "I'm sure it would be far easier."
"Maybe not, my lassie," said her aunt, gravely. "There may be battles
fierce and sore that are bloodless battles; and Scotland may not be
through all her warfare yet. But take the books, bairns, and let us be
thankful that, whatever may befall us or our land, we have always the
same word to guide us."
There was one drawback to the happiness of the children, this winter;
and it was felt for a time to be no slight one. They could not go to
the kirk at Dunmoor, their father's kirk. The winter rains had made the
way over the hills impassable; and the distance by the high-road was too
great for them. They learnt in a little while to love the kindly voice
of the minister of Kirklands parish, and they soon got many a kindly
greeting from the neighbours at the kirk door. But it was not the same
to Lilias as sitting in her father's seat, and listening to the voice of
her father's friend; and the getting back to the dear old kirk at
Dunmoor was always told over as one of the pleasant things which the
spring would bring back again.
At Christmas-time there came a new scholar to the school, and no small
stir did her coming make there. For the first nine years of her life,
Elsie Ray had been the neglected child of a careless and indolent
mother. At her death, Elsie had come to the neighbourhood of Kirklands,
to live with her grandfather and her aunt. She thus passed from one
extreme of misfortune to the other. From roaming at large in whatever
place and in whatever company she chose, she became at once the in-door
drudge of her aunt and the out-door drudge of her grandfather. The
father and daughter agreed perfectly in one respect. Their ruling
passion was the same,--the love of money. It was believed in the
neighbourhood that they had laid by a considerable sum; but nothing
could be more wretched than their usual mode of life. Their business
was the keeping of cows and poultry; and they found an efficient
assistant in the strong and energetic Elsie. The life of constant
occupation which she was obliged to live with them was less dangerous to
an active-minded child than the idle, sauntering existence she had
passed with her mother. But it left her no time for improvement; and
she seemed likely to grow up in ignorance. The chance visit of an uncle
saved her from this sad fate. Her grandfather so far attended to his
remonstrances as to send her, during three or four of the least busy
months, to Mrs Blair's school.
It would be difficult to imagine a more unpromising pupil than Elsie
appeared to be when Lilias first took her in hand; for to Lilias'
special care was she committed. Wonder unspeakable to the children in
the school was the sight of a girl of Elsie's age who could not say the
catechism, which every Scotch child begins to learn almost in infancy.
But this was by no means the greatest defect in the education of the
new-comer; for it soon appeared that "great A" and "crooked S" were as
utter mysteries to her as any sentence in the catechism. And their
wonder was by no means silent wonder. More than once during the first
week was Elsie's ready hand raised to resent the mockery of her
tormentors. It needed constant watchfulness on the part of Lilias to
keep the peace; and nothing but her earnest and gentle encouragement
would have prevented the girl from giving up, in disgust, the attempt to
learn to read.
This was only for a short time, however. Her rapid improvement in
reading, as well as sewing, was a constant source of wonder and delight
to her young teacher; and soon the mocking of the children was silenced.
Nor was it in these things alone that improvement appeared. Incited
partly by the precept and partly by the example of Lilias, a great
change soon became visible in her appearance and manners. There was a
decided attempt at neatness in her rather shabby garments; and a look
from Lilias, or even the remembrance of her, had power to stay the
utterance of the rude or angry word ere it passed her lips. Her
naturally affectionate disposition had been chilled by the life she had
been leading for the last few years, and her heart opened gratefully to
the kindness of Lilias. Under her influence, her good qualities were
rapidly developed; and she soon became a great favourite with them all.
"It has made a great difference, Elsie's being here," Lilias often said;
and when one morning Elsie came with swollen eyes to say that she could
come no more, Lilias felt inclined to weep with her. She comforted her,
however, telling her she would often come with Archie to see her while
she was feeding her cows on the hills, and that when the winter came
again her grandfather would let her come back to the school. So Elsie
dried her eyes, and promised to let no day pass without trying to read
at least one whole chapter in the little Testament that Lilias gave her
at parting.
There was no lack of incidents to break the monotony of their life
during the winter. Among the most frequent and by no means the least
interesting of these were the visits of Mrs Stirling. She never passed
to or from Kirklands--where all her little purchases were made--without
calling; and a wonderful interest she seemed to take in all that
concerned the children, especially Lilias; and she always met with a
welcome. Not that her visits were usually very cheerful affairs. The
conversation generally turned upon the troubles of life--great and
small, and especially her own--those she had experienced and those she
dreaded.
Mrs Blair was often greatly amused by the earnest and grave attempts of
Lilias to make the world look brighter to poor Nancy. Sometimes these
attempts took the form of sympathy, sometimes of expostulation; and more
than once there was something like gentle rebuke in the child's words
and tones. She could not boast of success, however. If Mrs Stirling
could not reply in words, she never failed to enter a protest against
the cheerful philosophy of Lilias, by a groan, or a shake of the head,
expressive of utter incredulousness. She was never angry, however, as
Mrs Blair was sometimes afraid she might be. Indeed, she seemed
greatly to enjoy the little girl's conversation; and sometimes her
visits were rather unreasonably lengthened. Archie she never addressed
but in terms of the deepest commiseration. At every visit she saw, or
seemed to see, that he was changing for the worse; and "poor, helpless
bairn!" or "poor pining laddie!" were the most cheerful names she gave
him. Her melancholy anecdotes of similar cases, and her oft-repeated
fears that "he would never see the month of June," vexed and troubled
Lilias greatly. At first they troubled Archie too; but he soon came not
to heed them; and one day, when she was in a more than usually doleful
mood, wondering what Lilias would do without him, and whether it would
save his life if his leg were cut off, he quite offended her by laughing
in her face.
"To think of me wasting good breath sympathising with you!" she
exclaimed. "No, no! You're not so near heaven as I thought you.
You're none too good to bide in this world a while yet. To think of the
laddie laughing at me!"